by David Hair
‘House Sacrecour will protect me,’ Cordan replied. ‘My father’s men—’
‘They all went east, my Prince. There has been a terrible tragedy. Your father and grandmother are dead. I’m sorry to be the one to bring this news—’
Cordan flinched, and his sister gave a small gasp. ‘Dead?’ Both began to weep whilst standing stiff and formal, trying to be royal. It was somewhat touching, Solon supposed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wondering, What would happen if I just took a sword to these little rodents right now?
War. That was the answer.
Then Ostevan Prelatus entered the nursery and the opportunity evaporated. The prelate had an odd expression on his face and he threw Takwyth a pitying look before going to Cordan and Coramore and kneeling before them. ‘Prince, Princess,’ he said in his mellifluous voice, ‘will you accept the sanctuary we offer?’
‘Osti!’ Coramore exclaimed, and went to embrace him, but Cordan held her back.
‘Cora – we’re the emperor and empress now – be dignified.’
Takwyth repressed a grim smile. Emperor and empress indeed . . .
Ostevan drew the children to him, and they both burst into tears. ‘What’ll happen, Osti?’ Cordan sobbed.
‘A short journey, to a safe place. Then we’ll see.’
The prelate bundled the royal children away while Takwyth’s men hurried to return to their windcraft. He’d feared a counterblow, but none came; the skies were still clear as their craft rose into the air and caught the wind in their sails. By reflex he looked south, towards Pallas, some twenty miles down the Bruin River. He hated the place, but seeing it in the distance always set off a hunger inside him. To really matter, one had to matter there.
Ostevan joined Takwyth at the windship’s rail as they pointed their prow north towards home. ‘Well done, Takky. Mission accomplished.’
Takwyth kept his temper. Ostevan was a serpent who could bite in the blink of an eye. ‘So, we have the heirs. A handpicked Regency Council might tilt things our way, but the Sacrecours still have teeth, priest. Many will flock to us, but many more will take up the arms of our enemies. Have we just given birth to a civil war?’
The prelate stroked his goatee. ‘Perhaps . . . but I have fresh tidings, from our other sorties. The tabula board has revealed pieces in play that we didn’t suspect.’
Takwyth didn’t play tabula; too many traps and tricks for his liking. ‘What tidings?’
Ostevan arched an eyebrow. ‘Have you ever been in love, Solon?’
‘Talk plain, man,’ he growled.
‘I speak of love: a milky-soft mix of infatuation and lust – curable, but it can be deadly.’
‘I’ve been married twice.’
‘And you loved neither woman.’
Takwyth balled a fist. ‘If you know so much, then you know my answer.’
‘Indeed: you were in love with Natia Sacrecour. You were nineteen; she was fourteen and betrothed to another. You sent her poetry and dreamed of audacious rescues, but she still married Ainar. Weren’t you in the honour guard which took her to her Argundian prince’s bed?’
‘What of it, you silken arse-rag?’ Takwyth spat over the rail of the windship and watched the tiny white globule vanish into the gloom.
Ostevan smirked. ‘You’re still very touchy on the subject, Solon.’
‘So? Natia’s dead – long dead!’
‘Yes, indeed. But it appears she had a daughter, who’s very much alive.’
3
Ryneholt and the Stardancer
The Church of Kore
Corineus was sent by Kore to bring his people back to the one true religion. He gave unto his followers the gnosis, then conquered death itself and ascended into Heaven, to a seat at the right hand of the Father.
BOOK OF KORE
The Rondian cult of Kore, suppressed but never eradicated by the Rimoni, was used as the vehicle to justify the ‘Blessed’ Three Hundred’s ruthless conquest of Yuros.
THE BLACK HISTORIES (ANONYMOUS), 776
Saint Balphus Abbey, Northern Rondelmar
Julsep 930
One month after the Moontide
Lyra Vereinen’s life had been confined to the chapel, the refectory, the scullery, and on very rare occasions, the gardens behind Saint Balphus Abbey – and this cell, where she’d so nearly died. That didn’t mean farewelling it was easy. It was all she knew: twenty years in a safe kind of Hel. Now the open world beckoned and all she could think of was how unprepared she was to face it.
Her mother had been fifteen years old in 909, when Lucia Fasterius had moved against her. Emperor Magnus had fathered a son on Lucia, but he’d continued to favour his elder daughter Natia over Constant as heir. None of them had suspected the peril they were in. When Magnus died, Lucia publicly blamed Prince Ainar of Argundy and had him executed, though she contented herself with imprisoning Natia, who’d given birth to Lyra in her cell. Natia had killed herself a few months later, leaving her daughter no memory of her face.
I’ve always wanted to leave, but now the door’s open and I’m scared to go.
She clutched her most beloved possession to her: her leather-bound edition of The Fables of Aradea, tales of crafty witches, gallant knights and beautiful princesses, their fates in the capricious hands of Aradea, the Queen of the Fey. The sacred Book of Kore gave her comfort, of course, but it was always to the Fables she turned when the loneliness and despair became too much. Tucked inside it was the one letter her mother had left. Brief, now blurred and faded, it said only who she was, and that her mother was sorry.
The only other token she had of her lineage was the ring on the chain around her neck.
Ril Endarion had left her alone for a few minutes to gather her possessions while he saw to his companions. Even this momentary separation frightened her. When he reappeared at the doorway, she was utterly relieved – and entranced.
She’d met men before: priests who came to inspect her once a year, wrinkled old men with tonsured grey hair, rheumy voices and cold, disdainful eyes. But Ril glowed with vitality, shining in her eyes with capability – and a hint of peril. He’d killed to save her. He was clearly older than her – much older, in his thirties, maybe, but that didn’t deter her; rather, it felt like an antidote to her own innocence.
He called from the doorway, ‘Milady, we’ve found a carriage and horses. Our flying steeds can’t bear more than one person for any distance, and you’ve no experience of flight. But we have to go now. We’re not safe if your enemies realise that we’re here.’
‘I understand.’ She couldn’t help staring: he had a wonderful exotic beauty to him. Surely he has Southern blood. His presence made her feel safe, but still the thought of leaving her room was overwhelming. ‘I just need a moment. I’ve never left this convent in all my life.’ She clutched the Fables in one hand and held out her other to him. ‘Please, help me.’
His long-fingered, strong hand enclosed hers, giving her the strength to stand. ‘Have you got everything?’ he asked, eyeing her small leather bag doubtfully.
‘All I have are three old dresses, a comb, an icon, two books and my signet ring.’ She pointed to her Book of Kore. ‘This was a gift to my mother from her father, Emperor Magnus.’ Beside it lay her bronze Sacred Heart icon. ‘And this faithful piece has been my object of worship all my life.’ She put them into her bag.
Ril touched The Fables of Aradea. ‘I’ve always preferred this to the holy book,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘I always wanted to be Sir Ryneholt and slay the draken.’
‘And rescue the Stardancer,’ she enthused. They shared a moment of connection unlike any she’d ever felt, and her heart swelled. ‘Ryneholt was my hero! Until I met you,’ she added, the words popping out of her mouth unchecked. She blushed instantly as something tightened about her heart. ‘I’m only alive because of you.’
He looked a little uncomfortable at her earnest praise. ‘I did what anyone would have done—’
‘But it was you who broke through the door when Taddea tried to . . .’ She clutched her breast, suddenly frightened again. ‘What’s waiting for me out there?’
‘Safety, Milady.’
‘But they’ll try and kill me again, won’t they?’
‘I’ll protect you.’
‘Like Ryneholt?’ she said, hopefully.
He licked his lips, then said lightly, ‘Aye, I’ll be your Ryneholt.’ He hefted her leather bag containing her scanty possessions and led her to the door.
It was growing darker and more forbidding with each second. The fear was almost overwhelming – until she took his hand again. Her heart was thudding, but one thought filled her mind: Ryneholt married the Stardancer.
*
Ril doubted Lyra Vereinen was even aware of what she was doing, playing up to the protector in him, but it didn’t diminish the effect she had on him. Part of it was due to her palpable naïveté – her fear and her hero-worship might just be momentary emotions, but he still couldn’t help but shield her. If someone else came to kill her, they’d have to slay him first.
She lives in a fable. Coraine will be the death of her.
He’d outgrown such innocence years ago. Coraine might be just a provincial court, but it was big and ugly enough to strip away anyone’s ideals. People thought of royal courts as places of honour and nobility, but in truth, they were more like dogfighting pits: noblemen prancing about in the newest fashions to show their status, gambling fortunes to bankrupt rivals, screwing each other’s wives and sisters out of spite and seducing virginal debutantes to destroy their marital prospects, just for fun. They duelled and backstabbed, plotted and connived, lied and cheated – all to be one of the privileged few at the very top, feeding from the richest trenchers. He’d fought a long defeat in that arena all his adult life. He’d seen the worst in everyone – including himself.
Once he’d thought he was Ryneholt. Now he felt more like Ratsnipe, who stole Aradea’s necklace and was turned into a blind vole for the crime. But finding Lyra was like finding the last fey princess. She’d somehow given him a glimpse of another world, somewhere inside Aradea’s Mirror where life wasn’t a sordid tangle of sleazy taverns and duelling circles, living hand to mouth while pretending he belonged or cared.
She’s going to be eaten alive. Nothing in Aradea’s Mirror is ever real. Radine and Takwyth would likely castrate him with blunt knives just for holding her hand, but he didn’t want to let her go. She needs me, and I need to be needed.
‘About bloody time!’ Basia called as they arrived in the courtyard. She, Malthus, Larik and Gryff were all on their feet now, and they’d bound Clef’s body to his pegasus. They couldn’t fly home, not with Lyra among them, but pegasi could still gallop, and they’d found horses to pull the carriage. Basia held out Pearl’s reins to Ril – then she finally noticed Lyra.
She glared pointedly at their clasped hands. ‘Who the Hel is she?’
Excellent question, Ril thought dizzily. ‘Basia, lads, gather round. You’re not going to believe this, but I swear it’s true. This is Lyra, and she’s the reason we’re here. She’s Natia Vereinen’s daughter . . .’
They clearly didn’t wholly believe him, and he couldn’t blame them for that – but time was pressing, so they fled the abbey as if the dogs of Hel were after them. Basia rode in the carriage with Lyra, while Ril sent messages arrowing through the aether, calling for aid.
*
A maniple of Corani cavalry – five hundred men on lathered, steaming horses – was waiting at a crossroad east of Coraine. Lyra Vereinen saw the relief on Ril Endarion’s face and surmised that despite their assurances, they’d been scared. Then she saw a dozen winged creatures flash overhead, and soon after, everyone relaxed.
Her companion in the carriage was a strange woman: Basia de Sirou, who was like a character from a fable herself. She wore weird leather leggings and walked like a wading bird – but when Lyra asked, Basia told her she’d lost her legs in 909, when the Sacrecours had turned on the Corani. Her artificial limbs were empowered by the gnosis – Lyra had no idea it could even do things like that. She’d been mortified, but Basia had been kindness itself. ‘Everyone asks, sooner or later. Dirklan Setallius made my legs himself.’ The worship in her voice when she spoke of the Corani spymaster reminded Lyra of the way the nuns spoke of Kore.
It was amazing just to meet a woman who wasn’t a nun. She told Basia all about herself, partly to convince the sceptical woman that she was truly Natia’s daughter, but mostly because she’d been locked up alone so long that conversation was an opportunity not to be missed. She’d been born into captivity and raised knowing that she lived at all only through the intervention of the Gnostic Keepers. That circle of ancient and powerful magi had told Lucia Fasterius that she couldn’t execute her, and the Mater-Imperia had respected – or feared – the Keepers enough to obey. Lyra had still been kept under a Chain-rune all her life, denied access to the gnosis. She supposed Lucia had wanted her kept ignorant and weak.
When the carriage drew to a halt and she saw so many knights arrayed to meet her, she couldn’t help sucking in her breath in fear. Behind the armoured ranks was a large, ornate carriage with curtained windows. An old woman dressed in a fantasia of lace and autumn colours was alighting, wearing a tall conical headdress with a gauzy veil: a noblewoman’s hennin.
‘Look,’ Basia said, ‘Duchess Radine herself has come to greet you.’
This is where it all begins, Lyra realised as Basia helped her dismount. She looked at Ril, who nodded encouragingly, though his own expression was now grim, as if he were preparing to go into combat again.
Close up, the woman in the hennin was old and frail, with curling grey locks and a wrinkled, homely face. Basia whispered, ‘Her Grace Radine Jandreux, widow of the Duke of Coraine and regent for her grandson Yannoch, who’s still a child.’ Lyra knew the name; it was Radine who had brokered the marriage between her grandmother, Alitia Jandreux, and Prince Magnus.
The Jandreux matriarch curtseyed, then seized her hand and kissed it. ‘Lyra – Natia’s child! What a miracle this is . . . you are the image of your mother, dear girl—’
‘Hello, your Grace – er, Duchess Radine . . .’ Lyra responded uncertainly, vague on the protocols and how she should act – she’d never been treated as anything but a prisoner until now. She went to curtsey, and Radine caught her by the hands.
‘You bend the knee to no one, dearest!’ She looked Lyra over intently, still gripping her hands. ‘Dear Kore, I’ve waited all my life for this moment – even your voice has Natia’s music! I knew in my heart that our dearest Natia could not be wholly lost to us – and here you are, her very image. Praise unto Kore – Rondelmar trembles at your advent!’
That didn’t sound reassuring. ‘What’s to become of me?’ Lyra whispered.
‘Freedom, child: I promise you, you will walk free the rest of your days.’ Radine studied her. ‘Though of course, on the eternal tabula board of power, you are now a powerful piece.’
Perhaps Radine was trying to please her with such words, but they frightened Lyra. Her throat still bore the imprints of Sister Taddea’s fingers. ‘I’m not powerful. I can’t imagine anyone weaker than me.’
‘Dear girl, in tabula, the weakest piece is the queen – but to lose her is to lose the game. So conversely, she is the most powerful piece of all.’
Is that how she sees me? As her ‘queen’ in an endless game? ‘But my mother’s enemies . . .?’
‘Are in chaos,’ Radine declared. ‘Though the Sacrecours are like a Lantric haedra – lop off its head and a dozen new ones sprout. These are dangerous days, my dear, but we will ensure that you secure your birthright.’
My birthright. Her mouth was suddenly dry – but with that fear came anger too: for all the damage caused by Mater-Imperia Lucia and her ambitions. My birthright is a throne, she thought, realising for the first time what that actually meant. It really was like one of The Fables of Aradea.
Even that thought was frightening; all those tales of stolen thrones and perilous birthrights seldom ended well – even Ryneholt and the Stardancer was a tragedy.
‘Lyra, my princess, pray join me in my carriage,’ Radine invited. ‘There is much to discuss.’
That discussion sounded daunting, but what choice was there? ‘Of course, your Grace.’
‘Call me Aunty, child. That’s close enough to the truth.’ Radine took her arm. Lyra sought a glimpse of Ril’s face and took strength from that as she followed the duchess to her carriage. In seconds they were moving again.
Lyra endured Radine’s silent regard, feeling skewered by the duchess’ perceptive eyes. Finally Radine said, ‘Well, your looks are entirely your mother’s, dear. No one will doubt that you’re Natia’s child. We’ve known your mother to be dead for a long time, though no one formally admitted it – but we never suspected a child. How old are you, my dear? You must be twenty, but you look younger.’
Lyra swallowed. It was tempting to lie, but she feared Duchess Radine would see through any falsehood she tried to weave, so she whispered the truth. ‘No, I’m nineteen.’
Radine’s jaw dropped. ‘But . . . Oh, Kore’s bollocks . . . you’re not Ainar’s child?’ She looked skywards as if chiding Kore Himself. ‘Then who’s your father?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lyra admitted. ‘No one said, and I never knew to ask – it was years and years before someone told me that a man was required to beget children. I never saw any man who wasn’t an old priest until today.’
‘Sweet Kore in Heaven! Did they teach you nothing?’
‘Of course not – I learned my numbers and letters, Scripture and histories – but not about begetting until I first bled.’ Lyra felt herself blushing and changed the subject: ‘Sir Ril said I was the rightful empress – he said that Emperor Constant is dead?’
‘The emperor has indeed perished, along with his mother. His children, Cordan and Coramore, still live, however: a snivelling pair of spit-dribblers aged nine and seven. Regardless, yours is the rightful claim: Magnus named Natia as his heir, not Constant, and you are the heir of that claim.’
