by David Hair
Now the column of mounted men wound through the streets, four tawny mountain lion pelts hanging from poles as prizes. The hunting had been good and Francis well-amused. He and his friends had hunted enthusiastically for ten days, and laughed and cavorted drunkenly every evening. Gyle had never been quite included – he was not of their lineage – but Francis openly sought his guidance, and he was treated with respect.
‘Gyle,’ King Francis boomed, trotting his horse up beside him and slapping his shoulder. ‘Excellent sport, my friend! We must do it again soon!’
‘There are other beasts also worthy of the chase, your Majesty,’ Gyle replied, and regaled Francis with descriptions of the local deer, wild tuskers, and carnobirds, the giant flightless eagles that lived in the mountains. A new expedition to the southeast was mooted.
‘There is always good meat to be had in Javon, if one knows where to hunt,’ he added, temptingly.
Francis glanced about him then leant closer. ‘My friend, getting out of this damned court lifts my spirits. I know I shouldn’t say so, but I do not feel wholly in control here still. My mother’s confidantes are constantly badgering me about this or that.’ He faked a yawn. ‘They bore me. Mother thinks I am still a child, and Fenys Rhodium and Terus Grandienne take their cues from her. I am a crowned king, and twice married, and still Mother tries to suffocate me. How can I get her to step back and give me room to breathe?’
Gyle smiled inwardly. Such conversations with Francis were becoming more frequent, and he was relying more and more on him for advice.
‘A king must trust his advisors,’ he said carefully, ‘and family is important, of course, but they are not the only source of wisdom.’
‘Marrying my sister Olivia would make you one of the family,’ Francis said slyly.
Good grief!
‘The affairs of the kingdom take all my energy, sire,’ Gyle replied hurriedly.
‘Ha! Not all of them, my friend! Don’t think I’m not aware of your clandestine relations with her.’ Francis didn’t sound disapproving, just amused. ‘I would not have thought you and she well matched, in truth.’
Gyle smiled in the matey way that Francis liked. I must be careful not to insult his sister, but the last thing I want is to be saddled with her. ‘It is just a sometime thing, sire.’ He dropped his own voice. ‘I believe she sees it as a rebellion against your mother.’
The king laughed briefly, then looked around again to ensure they were still out of earshot before asking seriously, ‘You would not accept if I offered you her hand, then?’
‘Milord, with all respect, I doubt I will ever marry. My work does not permit such arrangements.’
‘A shame,’ Francis mused. ‘I would like to formalise our alliance.’ He snickered softly. ‘And it would give Mother apoplexy.’ He glanced up at the fortress as it came into view and his face brightened. ‘And now my lady awaits.’
‘They both await,’ Gyle reminded him.
Francis looked across at him and as if sharing a confidence, admitted, ‘The Nesti girl does not move me. Her skin is too dark and she has no gaiety. No … spark.’ He sniffed. ‘I don’t like her smell – garlic and curry-leaf. But I do my duty, and she does hers.’
‘Get her with child, sire.’ Gyle made a crude gesture. ‘The Nesti are half-pacified already by your marriage to Cera. A mage-child will bind them to you.’
‘She comes on heat next week.’ He chuckled lewdly. ‘I shall plough her diligently, and name the child Gurvon.’ He clapped Gyle on the shoulder. ‘But meantime, I have a finer mount to ride. The Tolidi girl is besotted with me, you know – she’s insatiable.’ His eyes went up to the towers of the palace. ‘I tell you, Mother still talks of saddling me with some trollop from her circle, but I’ll not put Portia aside, no matter what. Whatever other wife my mother foists upon me can put up with that, or I’ll not have her. I’m king now: I make the rules!’
Portia Tolidi was harmless enough. Gyle said encouragingly, ‘Your lady mother has perhaps forgotten what it is like to be young. She will loosen her reins upon you in time,’ he added, twisting the knife subtly.
Francis scowled. ‘My mother doesn’t understand me.’
‘Mothers seldom do.’ Actually she reads you like a book, my dear Francis. As do we all. ‘I daresay she will tire of Javon soon enough. I am sure she will return to Yuros once she feels you are secure.’ He watched the young man deal with the implication that his kingship was still insecure.
‘Sooner rather than later, I hope,’ Francis growled. He glanced back at his coterie of young friends. ‘My friends are fine fellows, but they don’t understand politics like you and I, Gyle.’ He dropped his voice. ‘My mother fears you. She thinks that you have more influence over me than she does.’
‘Her jealousies are unfounded, my lord King,’ Gyle lied. ‘You are your own man.’
‘I am,’ King Francis agreed fervently, as if by saying so, he might make it true. ‘Mother’s friends think they rule me.’ He bit his lip. ‘I wish I was free of them. But Mother …’ He sniffed angrily. ‘I cannot just send them away.’
‘Lord King, you cannot send them away yet, but you can work around them. The Nesti used to have a council that effectively controlled the kingdom. Create your own council – then gradually exclude your mother’s people. Take control.’
Francis’ eyes lit up. ‘I could …’ Then, ‘Could I?’ Gyle could already see the young man’s mind jumping from the notion of freedom to a shirking of responsibility. ‘All those boring duties …’
He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. ‘My lord, rulership need not be a burden. Appoint a few trusted people to advise you, and then direct everything through Don Perdonello to implement your decisions.’ My good friend Francesco.
‘Him? I don’t like him.’
‘He’s the most capable administrator in the realm, your Majesty. You can rely on him to carry out your will and not to burden you with unnecessary matters.’
‘But if I alienate my mother, we will appear divided – the people may see weakness.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I have only ten thousand loyal men.’
You have far fewer than that, boy. ‘Then get the Nesti onside. Get Cera with child. Treat her well in public and the Nesti will come round. They are still powerful and free. Bind them to you.’
Francis considered. ‘I suppose she isn’t utterly unattractive, for a mudskin. I’ve had uglier women. And I’ll still have Portia.’ He smirked. ‘Your idea of having several wives was a good one. You really should try it yourself.’
*
Cera woke from a hazy mid-afternoon dream, a doze brought on by sheer boredom. Portia had been closeted with Francis Dorobon since the hunt had returned, leaving Cera neglected and lonely again. She hadn’t been summoned at all, and the thought of Francis and Portia together was sheer misery.
She rolled over and lay on her side staring at the wall. A pale angel sang silently upon the tapestry while a knight and lady knelt at her feet. The Amteh Scriptures held that angels had no gender, but this angel had always looked female to Cera: strong and pure and womanly, with a severe determination that reminded her of Elena. She wished gloomily that her former champion was with her, even if she probably hated her now.
I would kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness. Then together we would slaughter these Dorobon pigs.
A hand touched her shoulder and she started, opened her mouth, and—
—a knife of pain thrust through her mind and she stiffened, choked and tried to cry out. But an insidious lassitude filled her like venom and instead she found herself staring vacantly as she fell into a state of complete inertia.
A lugubrious female face with a gold Lantric nose-ring and two luminous deepset eyes rose over her. It was the woman she’d seen in her rooms – Gyle’s spy. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t remember how. Then an accented voice filled her skull and obliterated all possibility of thought or action.
‘Hel
lo little safian,’ the Lantric woman said aloud. ‘Did you have a sweet dream? Time to wake now, and do your duty.’
Cera tried to call for help, but the only thing that came from her mouth was one faint word: ‘… duty …’
The woman smiled brightly. ‘Yes, duty. You must do as I say, exactly as I say. The kingdom depends on it.’
‘… kingdom …’
‘Exactly. Cera, you must go to Gurvon Gyle’s room. Tell him that Francis neglects you. That he leaves you unfulfilled. Tell him how much you need him.’
There was no choice, no option. Cera felt a liquid warmth flow from the woman’s eyes, a pulse of heat that travelled down her spine and into her loins. She shivered with the longing to be taken and used. Her skin prickled and flushed with the heat, her nipples hardened painfully and she groaned. ‘… need him …’
‘Exactly. You want him in you – you want him so badly you would risk all. He feels the same way, my dear, I assure you. He feels exactly the way you do.’
The woman deftly loosened the laces at the front of Cera’s nightgown, then pulled out a little vial and dabbed something clear onto each nipple. ‘He wants to suckle you. He wants you.’
‘… wants …’ The word filled her head, imparted meaning to all that was happening. She tried to kiss the Lantric woman, desperately needing to be held and loved. ‘… wants …’
The Lantric woman caught her hands, laughing huskily. ‘No, no, my sweet. Save your passion for Gurvon. Think how sweet it will feel.’
The woman stood her up and smoothed down her hair. ‘Go to him like this, with the smell of the bedroom on your skin and your hair tangled. Now hold still.’ She smeared something over Cera’s lips. ‘Don’t lick your lips, whatever you do. Let him kiss them first.’
‘… kiss …’
‘Look, little safian. Here is your maid. She’s going to help you find your lover.’
Cera turned her head as Tarita walked stiffly into the chamber and took her hand. Her eyes were vacant.
‘… lover …’ Cera went to kiss the girl, but the Lantric woman caught her.
‘No, no. Save your kisses for Gurvon, my dear. Then all of Paradise will be yours.’
*
A kiss.
All the long days of Francis’ hunt, Gyle had thought long and hard about that one kiss, the one he’d stolen from Cera Nesti’s lips. Or had she offered it? His memories were oddly blurred about that moment. It had felt like both.
He was still in his travelling clothes, just unbuckling his sword-belt, when there was a soft rap upon his door. He called a challenge, then his heart double-skipped at the sound of her voice.
‘My lord Gyle?’
He was across the room and had disabled his wards and opened the door before his mind could engage. He looked past her at the corridor, where Tarita, her maid, waited attentively.
‘What?’ He looked down, at Cera and caught his breath. She was a dishevelled vision of young womanhood, plucked from his fancies. ‘My queen?’
She looked dazed, and fresh from the bedchamber. Her hair was a bird’s nest and she was clad only in a thin nightgown. He could see the shape of her body through the flimsy fabric, could see the line of her cleavage down the poorly tied front. ‘Cera? You cannot walk the castle like this.’ All his instincts screamed warnings of entrapment.
I should call for servants, I can’t be seen with her like this …
‘Gurvon,’ she breathed, and her eyes bored into his. ‘I’ve been longing for you to return.’
Great Kore …
He looked at Tarita, who smiled, and made a small hand-gesture, one he would not have thought she knew. It meant ‘All is well’ in the hand-speech of the Lantric Silent Tongue. Mustaq al’Madhi’s gang used that tongue.
Tarita must be his spy … Is this a gift to me? A peace offering?
Tarita winked, and walked stiffly away.
He stared after her as Cera’s hands slowly reached for his face. For a second he stalled, then he pulled her inside and locked and warded the door again. ‘Cera? You shouldn’t be here! You belong to Francis and—’
She kissed him, and the words died in his mouth and in his brain. As his lips locked onto hers, she ground herself against him. Her dusky musk filled his nostrils and the sweetness of her mouth filled his, her saliva faintly bitter and utterly intoxicating. He gripped her shoulders, then her waist, and almost overbalanced as he lifted her awkwardly and carried her to his bed. The rational part of his mind clamoured warnings, but all the blood in his body was pumping to his groin. His mouth was fizzing with her taste, then a weird sense of dislocation began. He lowered her to the covers, wrenched dizzily at his own clothing as she looked up at him with desperate eyes and tugged her nightdress open, baring herself to him.
His eyes went from her face to her breasts.
He fell on her, caught her right nipple in his mouth and suckled hard, and she moaned and writhed as the room dipped and weaved about them. It was dizzying – and suddenly frightening—
His mind caught up with him, and with it the familiarity of that taste on her lips and breasts. His tongue was fizzing. The sensations of swirling and falling intensified. And her eyes were unnaturally glazed over.
How the Hel would Tarita really know the Silent Tongue?
By then it was too late.
His doors disintegrated in a blast of energy, his wards obliterated by pure-blooded gnosis, the backlash blasting his synapses. He tried to pull himself from Cera’s arms even as she groaned beneath him. But his limbs were like jelly, his cock the only rigid part of his body. His mouth was so numb he couldn’t feel his tongue.
Poison … on her skin …
A cloud of barely discernible figures burst into the room, and between one heartbeat and the next, there was a dagger resting over his heart. He looked up into the eyes of his betrayer.
Hesta Mafagliou’s long, razor-edged stiletto pricked his skin. The steel was aglow with mage-fire. ‘Don’t move, boss,’ she said quietly, radiating calm. Her nose-ring glittered in the flames of the torches as half a dozen magi from Octa Dorobon’s contingent swarmed inside. ‘We all have our price,’ she added softly.
He managed to push himself off Cera, who looked dazedly about her, then her hands went to her mouth and she rolled into a ball to cover herself. She began to shake.
He sought desperately for a way out of this, to preserve himself, but Hesta’s blade pricked a little deeper and she shook her head.
‘An Imperial pardon. Lucia wanted you removed with minimal disruption, so she sought me out. I have a pardon, and they will return my estates in Lantris. My disgrace never happened. I am clean again.’
She shook her head. ‘I am too old for love and lust now, Gurvon. I won’t fall again.’ She cut his periapt-cord and pocketed the gem deftly. ‘They stone adulterous women here, do you know that? Men they just berate and send on their way … unless they rukk the queen. In that case …’ She made a lopping gesture towards his neck.
‘You said it yourself, boss. Lucia gives no gifts. She gave Octa the orders herself.’ Hesta tutted smugly. ‘I know where Mara hides, and which of the Dorobon magi is housing Sordell. I’ve already gutted Fillon. I’ve told them where to find Timori – thought you’d kept that secret, didn’t you? You’ve no cards left to play.’
Damn damn damn …
He lifted his eyes to meet hers, barely clinging to consciousness as the poisons spread through his body.
‘Money buys everything, Gurvon. You know that. This is making me very rich.’ Hesta licked her lips. ‘I’m going to be known fo
rever as the one who brought you down.’
26
Uneasy Peace
Affinity
The mage can be known by his affinities for certain studies or crafts. The other aspects of the gnosis are relatively uniform, but it is in the ability – or inability – to master aspects of the studies that a mage’s distinctive style becomes apparent, and in which their greatest power and vulnerability lie. Even the most powerful magi have studies they are unable to wield, as no man is perfectly in balance with all aspects of his world.
HUW BLUND, ANDRESSEA, 627
Mount Tigrat, Javon, Antiopia
Zulquda (Noveleve) to Zulhijja (Decore) 928
5th and 6th months of the Moontide
‘I have a present for you,’ Elena said as they ate one night in early Noveleve. She produced a pouch and tossed it to Kazim, who eyed it warily before opening it hesitantly. She realised that she was holding her breath, wanting him to be pleased with the gift.
Things were not the same between them – how could they be? Gnosis-training mind-to-mind was too great an intimacy; secrets neither would have willingly shared with another were given involuntarily. The Gnostic Colleges maintained distance between teachers and pupils, but that couldn’t be the case working at the accelerated speed she and Kazim were. Mind-to-mind learning was more intimate than sex; the bonds and ties it left were sticky and persistent, like trailing spiderwebs.
An observer would have thought them less close, not more. Kazim had moved to a different floor, taking a smaller cell where an initiate monk had slept. They washed their own clothing, trained physically separately once more, in case the constant proximity became even more claustrophobic. They only shared meals, and then all their conversation was of the gnosis – but despite their efforts to keep some degree of space between them, internally, the training was wrapping cords around their two souls.
This had only been possible because Kazim had truly consented to learn. He opened his mind, and filled it with all she taught. There were basic gaps she had to fill in swiftly so a chance encounter with a low-blooded mage wouldn’t destroy him. Then she moved on, developing his repertoire: shields and wards; ways to lock down doors and windows; spells for hiding from normal sight and from mages’ sight; how to communicate mentally over distance; exploring his affinities.
