Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘But won’t the Sacrecours dispute it?’

  ‘Perhaps. The emperor’s uncle, Garod Sacrecour, is now head of his House and wishes very badly to be First Regent until Cordan turns sixteen.’ Radine’s face hardened. ‘But the Sacrecours have lost most of their legions in the East: Pallas lies open, for those prepared to dare.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘We’ll act. Cordan and Coramore’s claims have a further weakness: just as we snatched you to safety, so we have also captured them: we’ll ensure they’re no threat to you.’

  ‘But they’re just children—’

  ‘And more dangerous than anyone else who draws breath,’ Radine replied. ‘Our people in the Celestium revealed just in time that the grand prelate despatched urgent messages to a number of sites within hours of learning of Constant’s demise: it appears he’d been entrusted with orders to slay you if Constant died, as well as half a dozen well-connected political prisoners. We recovered most of them at the same time we rescued you.’

  Lyra shuddered, once again feeling Sister Taddea’s fingers around her throat. ‘What will you do with the children?’

  ‘That rather depends, my dear,’ Radine replied. ‘The empire is in shock. The Third Crusade has been defeated, a great many legions lost. There’s a power void in Pallas, and unless someone can quickly restore unity, the empire will fragment: every man with a sword will think they can seize power, and the world we know will descend into a morass of treachery and murder. The people will suffer and thousands, maybe millions, will perish. But you can prevent that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes: by being an empress everyone can rally around: the unifying claimant who preserves the whole by being brave enough to step forth!’

  Lyra was remembering her mother’s fate. ‘I am the rightful heir,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve always known that, ever since I was old enough to read Mother’s letter.’

  ‘Of course you are. But is it something you want?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lyra said, a little surprised at her own vehemence, but her lineage was one of the few truths of her life. ‘The Sacrecours murdered my father and caused my mother’s death: I owe it to them to be what you want.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Radine replied. ‘I did wonder if you would need some persuasion,’ she admitted, ‘but you’ve been locked away for a long time, dear, and a convent education cannot replace that which life provides. Without good counsel, any ruler struggles, but one not raised in the role . . .’

  Lyra got Radine’s message loud and clear. I’m sure she’s right, but she’s also telling me who will really be in charge. It reminded her of the little power struggles that had riddled the abbey: the petty rivalries and vicious gossip, the stigmatising and the self-aggrandisement. If this is a tabula board, then I have seen it played after all. The board will be bigger, and there will be many more pieces, but it’s the same game. She took a deep breath. ‘I will learn, from you.’

  But not for long, she sensed. Radine was old, and she smelled of death.

  ‘Good!’ The duchess squeezed her hands, then searched her face. ‘But I worry about who your father is. How could Natia get pregnant in a convent?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mother’s letter never said, and no one told me.’

  ‘Someone out there knows, and if they come forward—’

  ‘If they are my father, won’t they want me to be happy?’

  ‘Possibly, but remember: your mother was in enemy hands. Your father is likely to be one of the Sacrecour cabal. If he reveals himself to Garod Sacrecour, it could destroy you.’

  ‘I’m still of Natia’s blood—’

  ‘Of course, but it complicates matters.’ Radine frowned, then asked, ‘Would you be willing to state under a sacred oath that you’re older than you really are, and the true daughter of Ainar and Natia?’

  Lyra felt ill at the thought. Kore punished such falsehoods – the holy book was quite clear on that. ‘But my real father will know I’m lying. And so will Kore.’

  ‘Kore supports your cause, child – and unless your father can prove his claim, assuming he’s still alive, he matters naught. He’d have to admit seducing or raping an imprisoned royal woman; that’s not a crime many would willingly admit to. And once we’re in Pallas, the machinery of state reverts to us. Imperial Legions, loyal to the Crown, become ours to command. Other Great Houses are eager to see the back of the Sacrecours. We’ll have powerful friends, as well as enemies. We could silence anyone who besmirches your good name.’

  ‘But my soul . . .’

  Radine raised an eyebrow. ‘Dear girl, fear not for your soul: you will have many years as empress to gain absolution. House Corani can put you on the throne: we just require your conviction that you should be there.’

  Even if I must lie . . . Lyra swallowed, feeling sick, then nodded in assent.

  ‘Excellent!’ Radine radiated approval. ‘Bravely done, child. But we must never speak of this question over your father again, you understand? Everything may depend on it.’ Radine waited until she nodded again, then went on, ‘Garod Sacrecour holds the Imperial Bastion in Pallas, but when the full news of Constant and Lucia’s fall becomes widely known, his support will evaporate. Sixty legions marched East, and half of those were raised by the Sacrecours and their allies. Those are losses no faction can replace – but many of the Sacrecours’ greatest rivals, like us, were banned from joining the Crusade and so are at full strength. Only we have a legitimate claimant to the throne, though, and there is enormous power in legitimacy: the God-given right to rule. Without it, any claimant must rule by fear, and that takes great will, comes at huge expense and causes immense suffering.’

  ‘You said my involvement will prevent civil war?’

  ‘Indeed – in truth, I think only you can avert such conflict.’ Radine frowned, then added, ‘Child, whenever someone plays Imperial Tabula, there are always casualties – there is no such thing in this world as a bloodless change of regime.’

  Agree, Lyra realised, and I’ll be set on a path that ends either in a throne or an executioner’s block. And if she succeeded, others would fail, and pay the price. But she was her mother’s daughter: this was her destiny. ‘I’ll do it,’ she repeated.

  ‘Bravo, my dear. Then we are agreed: you’ll be our banner, and the North will march on Pallas. If we hesitate, others will unite against us.’ Radine paused, and then asked quietly, ‘What do you wish to do with the royal children?’

  Lyra went to answer then stopped. Radine clearly wanted her to say, ‘I’ll leave that up to you, Aunty.’ And then they’ll vanish, and their fate will be on my conscience.

  To murder children was an immense sin – what would Corineus, looking down from Paradise, make of such an action? The Sacrecour children were also of the Royal Dynasty. In the Fables, killing princes and princesses was something only the wicked did, and such murders invariably had dire consequences.

  ‘They are children, my niece and nephew – my kin. We can’t kill them.’ She searched for a solution. ‘We’ll make them swear fealty before the whole court.’

  ‘Lyra . . .’ Radine began, ‘such promises will mean nothing if—’

  ‘I won’t murder children.’

  ‘They wouldn’t hesitate to do away with you.’

  ‘Surely not? They’re only nine and seven, yes? Are they killers already?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Lyra. Garod’s not one to be squeamish; he would have taken that decision. Even Wurther didn’t hesitate, and he’s Kore’s representative on Urte.’

  ‘Then I must be better than them. I’m a stranger to the people: if I’m to win their affection, it must be through acts of goodness and mercy, like Sasca of Rym—’

  ‘Life is no book of Fables, girl,’ Radine scolded. ‘Making enemies fear you is far more important than having subjects love you—’

  ‘Then we’ll teach them respect – but not by murdering innocents,’ Lyra said firmly. She fancied Radine was a little taken aback
by her display of will – she was herself. It’s my mother, speaking through me, she thought.

  ‘Very well, Lyra. But they’ll be compelled to fealty, and kept secure at all times.’

  Kept secure . . . in other words, imprisoned, as I was. ‘If that’s the best we can do.’

  ‘It’s more than they deserve,’ Radine muttered. She looked up, her expression inquisitorial. ‘Did your gaolers ever mistreat you, Lyra?’

  ‘Well, the food was dull, and I couldn’t leave—’

  ‘No, dear, that’s not what I meant. Did they bodily mistreat you?’

  ‘They were nuns!’ Lyra protested.

  ‘If you knew the complaints I receive of nuns and their ilk . . . Did they beat you, ill-use you physically? Are you still a virgin? You do know what I mean, yes?’

  Lyra squirmed. ‘Aunty, the nuns lived in fear of what would befall them if I was harmed. The only man I ever saw was one old priest who inspected me once a year. The Abbess told me that Lucia had ordered that I was to be “left to shrivel on the vine”.’

  Radine’s face softened. ‘Dear girl, what a Hel they made you endure! Isolation can drive a lesser soul to madness. That you remain so lucid, so normal, does you great credit.’

  ‘I did have books and tutors, Aunty. I was taught from the Histories and the Annals of Pallas – and I was permitted to keep my mother’s copy of the Fables. But it was lonely sometimes.’

  ‘Were you taught the gnosis?’

  ‘No. I suppose I must have it, but I’ve been under a Rune of the Chain from birth, to prevent anyone scrying me. So I’ve never used the gnosis, much less been taught it.’

  ‘Dear Kore! We’ll lift that Chain-rune as soon as you’re safely in Coraine.’

  And thus was the princess’ magic restored . . . I’m actually living The Fables of Aradea . . . That thought emboldened Lyra to say, ‘In the Annals, I read that all emperors have a champion. I’d like mine to be the knight who rescued me.’

  ‘Ril Endarion?’ Radine sounded very displeased. ‘You’d best forget him.’

  ‘Sir Ril saved my life—’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But he’s penniless.’

  ‘But if he were in my service he wouldn’t want for money—’

  ‘No,’ Radine said forcefully. ‘You said you wanted my advice, well here is some: you must remain conspicuously chaste until you are wed, and that must be to a powerful and worthy man. There are Great Houses we must bind to us and some will demand the highest price: your virgin hand in marriage. Having any unmarried knight near you will damage your reputation, but most especially that one—’

  ‘He saved my life—’

  ‘For which he will be well rewarded, I promise you. I am proud that an orphan boy I took in and raised as my own has rescued you, but I know Ril’s reputation. You must keep your distance, dear child.’

  4

  Suitors

  The Imperial Dynasty

  It is Kore who granted the Blessed Three Hundred dominion over Urte, and from their number, willingly and according to Kore’s plan, did they elevate Mikal Sertain (who took the name Sertain Sacrecour) and his descendants to realise His will. Thus are we Sacrecours ordained to rule.

  LUCIA SACRECOUR, PALLAS, 903

  Coraine, Northern Rondelmar

  Julsep 930

  One month after the Moontide

  Like many Northern cities, Coraine had once been a Frandian hill fort: the local chieftain protected the farmers and foresters and in return, extracted goods and coin for the privilege. The Rimoni and their legions defeated then ‘civilised’ the Frandian ‘barbarians’, beginning the inevitable gentrification of the region, a gradual and uneven process involving whips and other physical coercions as much as gentler means. The Rimoni Empire fell, to be immediately supplanted by the Rondians, with their magi and sense of destiny, which accelerated the process of installing better roads, more focused agriculture and more people.

  The Jandreux were one of several pure-blood magi families who settled in Coraine and claimed legal title – the Blessed Three Hundred usurped other people’s land-rights all over the empire. The legion camp became the Jandreux fortress, the outer walls expanding to encompass strategic streams and wells. Archery fields, stables, a Beastarium and an Arcanum were added in due course, and the Jandreux and their related families became House Corani. This was the haven Lyra Vereinen was being taken to: the Corani stronghold known as the Sett.

  Ril Endarion had visited his dead mother’s rural estates only once, and never wanted to return. The peasants had viewed his southern skin with blatant hostility and the run-down property administered in his name by Radine’s people had been depressing. The Sett was his true home.

  Within hours of the return of the duchess and her knights, the castle was rife with speculation about the mystery woman they’d rescued, and the rumour mill started running even faster when Takwyth ordered the legions to prepare to march. Something big was definitely afoot.

  Those in the know were forbidden to speak of it. Radine’s people had closed ranks around Lyra, making it clear to Ril that his involvement, while ‘appreciated’, was over. The last time he’d seen Lyra, she’d looked like a doe surrounded by wolves: proud, but scared and friendless. Her face filled his thoughts, day and night. One of Radine’s lackeys was tailing him, presumably to ensure he didn’t flout her order to ‘Stay away from the snowbud, boy. She’s not for the likes of you’. At first it had made him smile, but now it rankled.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Gryff asked. They were all drinking too much – or at least the brothers were; Ril and the drink had a long and troubled relationship, right now he was too busy brooding.

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas.’ Ril lifted the cup of ale, but barely wet his lips.

  Ril had quickly learned that being the best swordsman at the Coraine Arcanum meant nothing when your skin was swarthy and your hair black, your purse empty and you had enemies in every major House in the North. Young noblemen wanted sycophants, not stroppy, truculent outsiders with neither gold, connections nor prospects. His legion stint brought out his inner rebel, and no family was going to let their daughter marry a young man so deep in debt. His prospects had evaporated before his eyes.

  I should have gone South to Becchio and joined the mercenary legions years ago. The words were almost a mantra now, but the truth was, he’d been too proud to run away – and there was always another tournament, and prizes to alleviate his debts, for a time at least. It was hard to give up on dreams, or to turn away from the few people in his life, especially Basia, who’d endured and survived 909 with him. And somehow he was always falling in love with women as emotionally damaged as he: brief, tangled liaisons that always ended in recriminations.

  He couldn’t remember exactly when he met Larik and Gryff Joyce, just that he’d planned on getting stinking drunk that night but he’d run out of coin. The brothers knew who he was, and they’d stood him enough ale to float him all the way out to the gutter. Veterans of 909 always propped each other up, perhaps because few knew how to stand on their own two feet.

  Gryff and Larik had been battle-magi with the Second Corani; the legion had to fight its way out of Pallas after seeing comrades slain or maimed by supposed allies, people they’d trained with, drunk with, begun to trust. Like many who survived that Hel-ish night, the Joyce brothers had never recovered. Most people just saw a pair of drunks – or three drunks, because after that meeting, Ril was almost always with them. He knew they were a bad influence, but he didn’t care. They were friends.

  It was only thanks to Basia that he could now stop after one beer these days. She’d saved his life – although drying out Fantoche’s way hadn’t been fun! – but he still had a reputation as a sot.

  He put the cup down and looked around the Great Hall, which was filling up with high-spirited Corani; they had all been rejuvenated by the events of the past couple of days and speculation was rife: when and where would they march? What was happening in P
allas? And most of all: who was the young woman in Radine’s guest chamber?

  Ril sensed the atmosphere change as all eyes turned his way – because he was sitting in Solon Takwyth’s chair. Larik and Gryff, who were really drunk, went on prattling away as a heavy hand fell on Ril’s shoulder.

  ‘Get up, Endarion,’ said Takwyth. ‘This is the high table.’

  Ril brushed his hand away and stood. They were of a height, but Takwyth was heavier-built. It had been years since they’d last sparred, and they’d both taken a battering that day.

  ‘Hey, Takky!’ Ril slurred, ‘I took it first – seems I get everywhere first these days.’

  Takwyth scowled. ‘Drunk, Endarion? Again?’

  Esvald Berlond, at his side as always, glowered menacingly.

  ‘Not too drunk to dance, Takky.’ Ril winked.

  Takwyth’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you challenging me?’

  Ril pulled a startled face. ‘Good grief, no,’ he exclaimed, with a broad hint of mockery, ‘I just wish to dance, for the joy in my soul – for you see, I met the most wonderful maiden and she fills my heart with music!’

  Takwyth ground his teeth and rumbled, ‘Careful, Endarion.’

  Ril spun around and grabbed the nearest woman – Basia, who was hurrying in to defuse whatever was going on – just as the musicians struck up the entrance march for Lady Radine. Ril let loose a mad guffaw and spun Basia into a furious two-step. ‘Let’s dance, Fantoche!’

  She flung him off, crying, ‘What’s wrong with you, idiot?’ and cracked him across the face with her right hand – she wasn’t about to surrender her hard-won respect from the male magi, even for Ril. Around them, young knights hurled barbed comments. ‘Piss off, before I smash your teeth out,’ she growled more loudly.

  He rubbed his cheek ruefully. ‘Good point . . . well argued,’ he slurred, and snatched up a full pitcher of red as he staggered towards the doors, spilling it all around him. He lurched forward, buffeted by snide backslaps and shoves, just as Duchess Radine made her entrance.