Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no “buts”, child. It’s sad – and I’m fond of him, believe me: House Jandreux raised him; we sponsored him through the Arcanum and we still administer his lands – but he’s made his own bed. He’ll never amount to anything. You must forget him.’

  ‘But surely you could cancel his debts, like the good king in—’

  ‘Spare me the Fables, girl!’ Radine snapped. ‘I could cancel his debts to my house and give him a king’s ransom in reward money and he’d still be underwater with a dozen other lenders. His well has run dry – all he sees in you is a chance for money.’

  ‘He’s not like that! He says—’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’ Radine asked sharply.

  Lyra stammered. ‘Just . . . recently . . .’

  ‘Stop. Tell me no more.’ Radine leaned in close, grabbed her hand and whispered, ‘Ril Endarion is not to come near you ever again, my dear. I’m sorry to be direct, but I must impress this upon you: do not go near him. Never again!’

  Lyra tried to pull her hand away, but the duchess wouldn’t let go. ‘This is important, Lyra: generations of Corani are ready to lay down their lives to ensure you sit on the Imperial Throne, as is your right. To risk that for an infatuation is selfish, immature and dangerous. I said you must have the greatest knight in Koredom at your side. I was being polite, but I will be clear now: you must have the greatest knight in Koredom in your bed. And that man is not Ril Endarion. Do you understand me, child?’

  Lyra hung her head, though she seethed inside. ‘Yes, Aunty Radine.’

  5

  The Clever People

  The Writings of Corineus

  Here’s the irony: Johan Corin was a disaffected young nobleman from the country in the time of the Rimoni Empire. He left his home and oppressive father to speak against the empire and its tyranny. He railed against the very concept of empire, and spoke passionately for local self-determination – and yet what did his own followers do on gaining the power of the gnosis? They founded a new empire! Poor Johan must be spinning in his grave. And the reason so few of his original speeches are in circulation? Because the first emperor – his close friend Sertain – burned most of them!

  THE BLACK HISTORIES (ANONYMOUS), 776

  The Sett, Coraine, Northern Rondelmar

  Julsep 930

  One month after the Moontide

  ‘There are four pillars of power,’ Radine droned, as she led Lyra up Windspree, the tallest tower in the Sett. ‘A ruler needs to exert control over all of them, or they’re doomed to fail.’

  While Lyra’s education had been scant preparation for her new life, the behaviour of the nuns at Saint Balphus was certainly pertinent: their greed and jealousy, lies and pettiness – these things were universal, and she’d seen them in the nobles of Coraine in plenty. Today’s meeting was, Radine pressed upon her, the most vital so far: she was to be presented via the gnosis to men hundreds of miles away: men whose opinions might very well decide her fate.

  As they climbed, Radine said, ‘You must control the military, that’s obvious, but most men forget about the others pillars: money, philosophy – which includes religion, but is broader than that – and, of course, society.’ She glanced at Lyra. ‘Military power is easy to define, as is monetary power: the richest will always have the advantage.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lyra agreed, remembering Sister Ulfinia, the abbey’s treasurer.

  ‘But even a rich tyrant can’t ignore the power of philosophy – of belief,’ Radine went on. ‘A ruler can’t buy or bully everyone, not for ever – a bigger bully or a bigger purse can steal those followers away. You’ve got to make believers of people: believers in you.’

  ‘In me?’ The notion seemed preposterous.

  ‘Oh, all you have to do is not be a gibbering idiot, child,’ Radine said, condescendingly. ‘It’s the strength of the Corani, of me, Solon and Dirklan – that’s what we need to make them believe in: If we can win over the clergy, all the better: the common muck believe that the sun rises and sets because Kore wills it – such are the cattle we rule, dear. They can be won over by a few pointed sermons. So tonight, child, we must win over both the money and the clergy.’

  Lyra wondered if Radine knew how contemptuous of ordinary people she sounded. She’s like Abbess Jaratia: she believes her own world is all that matters.

  At the top of the stairs, Radine fished out a key, still lecturing. ‘The other thing men are prone to forget is that those they rule must, to some degree, accept their ruler’s right to do so. Not everyone can be coerced; some must be befriended, even charmed. Social skills are vital for any successful ruler. Even in the vastest of empires, you’ll find only a few people at the very top, pulling the strings: they must also be won over.’

  That sounded like the most daunting task of them all. Ever since she’d been rescued, Lyra had been immersed in nerve-wracking lessons in protocol, etiquette and social mores. They were never-ending. ‘I’m doing my best,’ she murmured.

  ‘You’re doing splendidly,’ Radine said, in a patronising voice. ‘And never forget: you have the advantage of legitimacy. Rondelmar has had hundreds of years of successful rule by the Sacrecours, which you now embody. A world without a Sacrecour on the throne is an unknown world, and the unknown scares people. Everyone fears civil war, but most – if not all, especially amongst the common herd – believe a Sacrecour ruler will prevent that suffering. But Lyra, remember: even legitimacy can be squandered by bad decisions. Follow my advice, and you will be empress. Say the simple things they want to hear tonight, defer to me if you get confused, and above all, be brave. These men are expecting to see a scared, unworldly girl. Show them that you’re strong: show them you’re a Sacrecour.’

  But not too strong, Lyra inferred as Radine finally unlocked the door and led her inside the small circular chamber. Stone seats carved into the wall faced the summoning circle of silver set into the stone-flagged floor. Four narrow windows allowed the moonlight in.

  The duchess made no effort to banish the darkness. ‘Come, child.’ She ushered Lyra into the circle, kindled the wards and then clasped Lyra’s hands in hers to link her to the spell and enable her to join the communication. Radine had been true to her word, removing Lyra’s Chain-rune, but so far she’d not experienced anything resembling the gnosis, though Radine had assured her that was normal for someone bound for so long. So she was completely in Radine’s hands. Light like a glowing fog banked around the outside of the circle. Chillingly, faces formed and fell apart, and Lyra began to hear whispers, not through her ears but directly into her mind.

  ‘What’s happening—?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Spirits of the aether, made visible through the spell,’ Radine replied, clearly unconcerned. ‘We use them as a bridge between us and those with whom we wish to communicate.’

  It was disconcerting to think these wraiths were once people. Lyra wondered if she would one day haunt a tower like this, a ghost drawn like a moth whenever one mage called another. Then a more substantial figure appeared on the far edge of the circle: the head and torso of a man sitting at a desk signing a parchment. He was dressed in drab colours, but his thinning brown hair was well cut and his cheeks newly clean-shaven: Imperial Treasurer Calan Dubrayle.

  He greeted them in a matter-of-fact voice; ‘Duchess Radine – I trust I’m on time?’

  ‘As ever, Calan. May I present my ward, Lyra Vereinen?’

  Dubrayle measured Lyra with a swift, searching glance. ‘An honour, Milady. I rejoiced when I learned that you’d been freed.’

  Whether he was being sincere or just polite, Lyra had no idea. ‘Thank you, Lord Treasurer. Aunty Radine speaks highly of you,’ she replied, as Radine had instructed. He and Radine seemed of a type: clever people, manipulators.

  Another glowing shape, much larger, formed to Dubrayle’s left and gradually resolved itself into a fat man in glittering clerical robes. Grand Prelate Wurther was a jowly man with stragglin
g grey hair. He looked genial enough, but Lyra hadn’t forgotten that but for Ril, his people would have executed her.

  He peered at Radine over a gold goblet. ‘Is that treacherous piece of shit with you, Radine?’

  Radine tsked. ‘Ostevan isn’t here, Holiness. It’s just Lyra and me.’

  ‘Good.’ Wurther turned to Lyra. ‘Greetings, Milady. Congratulations on eluding your fate.’

  Lyra was surprised at the sudden heat in her breast at the grand prelate’s casual words. It must have shown because Radine seized her hand. ‘It was a narrow escape, Dominius, and not yet a jesting matter.’

  It never will be, Lyra thought furiously.

  ‘My apologies,’ Wurther drawled. ‘Please understand, the orders were not of my choosing – but I was duty-bound to carry them out. It was nothing personal.’

  Lyra bit her tongue. Grand Prelate Wurther was the living incarnation of Kore and Corineus on Urte; anyone who took sides against him risked driving the common people into the arms of their enemies. Radine had told her, ‘He considers himself above us, but he knows he must pick a side if this mess is to be resolved. We must impress him, win him over. He’s angry about Ostevan’s betrayal, and I must be prepared to make sacrifices to win him to our cause.’ By which she clearly meant to sacrifice the man who had risked his life to pass on the information that had resulted in Lyra’s rescue.

  ‘I understand duty,’ Lyra said to Wurther, as evenly as she could.

  Wurther gestured as if he was forgiving her.

  ‘Your Grace, let’s to business,’ Dubrayle interjected. ‘The situation is unstable here in Pallas. The Imperial Guard keep the peace, but the populace are unsettled. The Sacrecour-Fasterius faction control the city’s food supplies and Garod Sacrecour is threatening to cut that lifeline.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Wurther interjected, ‘the Church has much agricultural land in the south, and will supply the shortfall.’

  ‘At twice the price,’ Dubrayle noted.

  ‘Be thankful it’s not tenfold. We’re risking Garod’s wrath.’

  ‘He’d never move against the Church.’

  ‘Not openly, but he’s got patrols with blank shields riding the borders of our lands. The Kirkegarde are spread thinly, Calan, and our lands are widely spread.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite the landlord,’ Dubrayle observed.

  ‘We are bequeathed land by heirless landowners all the time,’ Wurther replied in a testy voice. ‘We’re not here to debate the Church’s legitimate wealth.’

  ‘We’ve much more to discuss than that,’ Radine agreed. ‘Gentlemen, take it as read that I know what Garod is doing. We also know that the Dukes of Klief, Canossi and Dupenium all fancy themselves as the next emperor – even the Aquilleans speak of uniting and marching north. But the reality is that two men will decide the fate of the empire: you two.’

  Dubrayle looked away as if in modesty, while Wurther chuckled. ‘At least you’re prepared to admit it. Garod just tells us it’s our duty to aid him.’

  ‘Which, wisely, you’ve been cautious to do,’ Radine acknowledged. ‘You know the Corani have the manpower: our legions weren’t depleted by the Crusade, and they are led by Solon Takwyth, whose reputation is unmatched. So we have wealth and power, and more importantly, our claimant has legitimacy: Natia Sacrecour was the daughter of Magnus and Alitia, the last rulers of the empire to be truly beloved of the people. Lyra is her daughter, raised in the bosom of the Church and freed into the hands of her kinfolk. This is a fable come true, the sort of thing commoners adore.’

  Wurther grunted and scratched his belly. ‘Lady Lyra, my faith rather forbids me from placing any store in “fables”. I’m more interested in whether you have all your wits – Constant’s children appear to.’

  ‘What would you have me do, your Holiness? Recite poetry?’ Lyra replied; Radine had suggested she display a little assertiveness, and a shy, winsome smile.

  Wurther and Dubrayle reacted as if to a witty line in a play.

  ‘Lyra is a young woman of intelligence,’ Radine said, ‘but she’s not worldly: she’ll need advisors, like yourselves. She is also, fortunately, a woman, so those who support her claim will have the opportunity to select the man she marries: the real ruler.’

  The real ruler . . . Lyra hid her annoyance as the two men nodded; this was a given.

  ‘How do you feel about a dynastic marriage?’ Dubrayle asked her.

  ‘I know my duty,’ Lyra replied, lowering her eyes demurely. ‘Which woman of substance ever married for love?’

  ‘I can name some,’ Wurther rumbled, ‘but few where it ended well. There are many consolations to a life of privilege, however.’ He drained his goblet with a satisfied sigh. ‘Do you harbour bitterness towards Mother Church, Lyra?’

  ‘No!’ Her reaction was instant, and genuine. ‘Aunty Radine tells me that when a tyrant rules, even good men can be cornered into doing ill.’

  Wurther didn’t look like he believed her, but perhaps hearing her parrot Radine’s words would emphasise the duchess’ control over her. He and Dubrayle shared a look, then the treasurer said to Radine, ‘If we did back you, your Grace, what would your next move be?’

  Lyra heart leapt: this was the sort of phrase Radine had told her to listen for, an indication that these two men were prepared to really talk.

  It was also her cue to leave. She rose to her feet. ‘It isn’t seemly for me to be involved in all these complicated negotiations – Aunty Radine tells me that a monarch shouldn’t haggle, so if you will excuse me, I’ll leave that up to you clever people.’

  You clever people, she fumed as she left the tower alone. How wonderful to be your puppet.

  *

  Calan Dubrayle was the first to take his leave, an hour later. Radine Jandreux had been confident that the Imperial Treasurer would be her best chance of finding a supporter; he didn’t give much away, but they’d always been like-minded.

  Dominius Wurther was a different matter. The image of the treasurer faded, but the grand prelate remained. ‘So, Radine,’ he rumbled, ‘you’ve done well out of Ostevan’s treachery.’

  ‘Not his treachery, Dominius, but his loyalty to the Corani,’ Radine replied, ‘and it’s done now. I know you’re angry at him, but I can’t pretend that I don’t celebrate his courage. But I also value our friendship, Dominius.’

  They shared a look of understanding.

  ‘All right,’ Wurther growled. ‘But that’s not why I’m still here, Radine. You claim Lyra is Natia’s daughter, and seeing her tonight removes any nagging doubt: she is undoubtedly her mother’s daughter.’

  Radine stiffened. Wurther would know, if anyone did, the rest of Lyra’s provenance. ‘You have questions, clearly.’

  ‘Just one: who’s her Father? Because it wasn’t Ainar Borodium – he died more than a year before she was born.’

  ‘Then you know who it is?’

  Wurther studied her taut face. ‘You do not?’

  Impasse. Radine calculated fast. ‘Dominius, it’s important for Rondelmar that she is seen to be the son of Ainar and Natia – surely you see that?’

  ‘I see it as a fiction . . . but not one that is widely known.’ He busied himself refilling his goblet, then admitted, ‘The nuns of Saint Balphus know nothing, and nor did those at Saint Agnetta’s, where Natia birthed Lyra, then died. Someone went to some considerable trouble to bury the truth.’

  ‘Then I pray they did a thorough job,’ Radine replied. ‘Honestly, Dominius, even Lyra doesn’t know. If you throw in with us, as I pray you will, then please tell me what you know.’

  Wurther ruminated, then admitted, ‘In truth, I don’t know who her father is. Natia was held by the Sacrecours at Saint Agnetta’s. She was reported dead, then the first whisper of a child reached our ears. Lyra was moved to Saint Balphus’, which is administered through a Sacrecour bequest – I barely knew what went on in there. Who could have got to her? A Sacrecour knight? A sympathetic confessor? A gaoler?’
<
br />   ‘I wish I knew,’ Radine replied. ‘I don’t even know why Lucia Fasterius – never a great one for leniency, I think you’d agree – let Natia and then Lyra live?’

  ‘The Gnostic Keepers intervened,’ Wurther replied.

  ‘Really? How do you know that?’ Radine knew only what anyone else knew of the Gnostic Keepers: that they were Ascendant magi, charged with protecting the gnosis and guiding its use. There were only a few dozen, according to rumour.

  ‘As Grand Prelate, I have a seat in their Inner Circle,’ Wurther admitted. ‘Natia and Lyra were direct descendants of the sacred Imperial line, so they were deemed sacrosanct.’

  ‘So was Magnus,’ Radine noted.

  ‘Magnus broke one of the Gnostic Creeds.’

  ‘What Creed?’ Radine gasped. If that was true, it threw a whole new light on the events of 909. Does this mean the Keepers sanctioned his death? And that they’ll support Garod?

  Wurther sensed her fright and shook his head. ‘I know the crime Magnus committed, but I’m forbidden to divulge it – it doesn’t mean the Keepers favour Cordan over Lyra; they stood aside when Lucia struck, but they didn’t aid her.’

  Radine sought to work through the wider implications. ‘The Keepers are sworn to uphold the gnosis, not the emperor. All I ask of them is that they remain neutral now.’

  ‘And I’m sure they will,’ Wurther told her. ‘I’ll remind them of that duty.’ He smiled in satisfaction at this additional opportunity to put Radine in his debt. ‘But I do wonder why Lyra’s father hasn’t come forward – if he’s a Sacrecour, surely he’d want to discredit Lyra’s claim?’