by David Hair
‘I can think of many reasons,’ Radine replied. ‘Conflicting loyalties . . . The danger to his person such a claim would bring . . . Or maybe he’s already dead? Perhaps he doesn’t yet know? Maybe he plans to approach us once the girl is enthroned, to increase his reward? Perhaps he genuinely wants her to prosper . . . His silence would spare us many problems.’
‘For you, maybe. It would be simpler if we were dealing with Cordan: his parentage is indisputable, and he’s conveniently young.’
‘He’s also Constant rukking Sacrecour’s very image. We don’t need another weak-chinned dribble of spit on the throne. We need a strong hand.’
‘Solon Takwyth, in other words? Can you control him?’
‘Solon sees Natia in Lyra . . . he’ll put her before all else. I trust that.’
Wurther contemplated her words. At last he sighed heavily. ‘Very well. I’ll say nothing of what I know, and I’ll support the girl’s claims. Maybe someone will come forward, maybe they won’t. Let’s see, shall we? But my silence will be expensive, Radine. On that you can depend.’
*
By the end of her second week, Lyra was starting to feel that the convent had offered more freedom than Radine’s palace. The duchess, terrified of assassins getting to her prize, had her most trusted men guarding Lyra, so she had no privacy. The only place she could be alone was in Radine’s private chapel, although soldiers still guarded the doors. The rote of prayer brought some degree of comfort too.
But today, the chapel wasn’t empty. Someone had given Ril Endarion the keys.
‘Good morning, your Highness,’ he drawled as the door closed behind her, and she almost leaped out of her skin.
Then she burst into nervous, delighted laughter. ‘Good morning, your Rilness,’ she said playfully, torn between fright and exultation. All morning she’d been longing to be alone – but this was so much better than solitude.
He made a show of admiring her. Today she wore a long green velvet dress and a two-pronged hennin on her head that looked like bull horns; they made her feel strangely earthy and that mood was heightened at the sight of him. He looked gorgeous: freshly shaved, his black hair gleaming and his Southern skin wonderfully exotic amidst the pallor of the Corani.
‘What were you going to pray for today?’ he asked.
‘That I’d see you, and look – Kore has already answered.’ They walked towards each other and clasped hands, and she couldn’t be bothered trying to find a clever, courtier’s way to express all she wanted. She leaned into him, tilted her head and closed her eyes, praying he’d kiss her again.
He didn’t disappoint; at the touch of his warm lips she melted. Her skin flushed hot as that earth-woman feeling swept over her. She drank in the taste of him, trembling in a turmoil of sinful desires as his tongue penetrated her mouth, a sweet, sensual invasion that left her breathless.
‘Do we have long?’ he murmured.
‘Not enough.’ She put her arms about him, feeling every part of her that touched him was aflame. Her throat felt parched as her heart thudded, pumping all the blood in her body to her loins. She knew just enough to be both appalled and curious – the Abbess used to smell her fingers each morning and any scent of bodily juices meant immersion in icy water. All the young nuns got that treatment, though it wasn’t a complete deterrent, even for a pious girl like herself. When someone does it to you, it’s even better, one of the less saintly girls had told her once, between dunkings. But mostly, the shaming was enough to dissuade her from exploration.
Regardless, she’d be tested for virginity on the eve of her marriage, even had her desires taken her so far, and she feared to test her relationship with Radine – or jeopardise her ascension to the throne.
‘We shouldn’t,’ she murmured reluctantly. ‘This is a church.’
‘Then let’s go somewhere else,’ he said. ‘There are gardens behind the chapel – no one ever goes there.’
His words set her pulse racing. She looked back at the locked front doors, knowing her guards were just outside. ‘What if they come in and find me gone?’
‘Have they ever interrupted you before? Don’t worry.’
His hand on hers was reassuring, his eyes full of promises as he led her to a back door she’d not noticed. It led into a walled garden full of flowering bushes filling the air with their scent. They walked hand in hand, pausing every few steps to kiss again, until she was giddy in his strong arms, feeling hollowed out, as if he’d sucked the marrow from her bones. She felt light and unstable, her body a tangle of hot, tight aches and her mind spinning.
‘I could do this all day,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘I think I would explode,’ he muttered, and kissed her again.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ she dared to ask.
‘I’ve been infatuated,’ Ril answered, ‘but looking back, I wasn’t really ever in love. Love takes time, I think, and maybe I’ve always been too impatient to wait for it.’
‘Were they prettier than me?’
‘That wouldn’t be possible,’ he replied.
Love lends beauty: that was the moral of one of the stories in the Fables, and it must be right, because she felt beautiful when she was with him.
But in a few days she would have Solon Takwyth forced upon her. That thought was sobering enough to make her pull away.
‘We should just walk,’ she sighed.
Ril sucked in a gulp of the heavy air. ‘Walk, yes, walk.’ He led her down a narrow path, damp with rotting leaves, even though it was high summer. The hum of insects filled the air, and somewhere through the thick ivy that was consuming the trees, she heard a gurgle of running water. Though she knew there were high walls hemming them in, the foliage made the garden feel more like a vast forest.
Suddenly she saw a face peering through the trees and went rigid in fright – then she realised it was only a statue, of a severe-looking priest. They both laughed nervously, and went closer. The statue was grey and old, with dark lichen in the crevices giving it a strangely life-like appearance. It stood before a small pool that was slowly overflowing into the wet soil around it. In the midst of the pool was a small, gnarled tree. It looked dead to Lyra, and she wondered why it hadn’t been cut down.
Ril read the inscription at the base of the statue. ‘Eloysius Sanctus. Never heard of him.’
Then Lyra heard a footstep behind them and she swallowed anxiously.
Ril patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten: our benefactor asked to speak with you.’ He flashed the keys. ‘Who did you think gave me these?’
A priest walked through the trees, a lean, smooth-looking man with liquid eyes and a sweeping of dark wavy hair who looked more like a courtier than a clergyman. ‘Lady Lyra, Sir Ril,’ he greeted them, without any hint of condemnation at their illicit tryst, ‘I am Ostevan Prelatus. Welcome to Saint Eloy’s Garden.’ He kissed Lyra’s hand flamboyantly. His voice was a melodious baritone. ‘Milady, I wondered if I could have a private word?’
This was clearly his price for aiding them; Ril gave her a nod and drifted out of earshot. She felt a little annoyed at him, for the first time ever, for dropping this encounter on her, but she curtseyed her acquiescence.
Ostevan led her to the stone bench beside the pool and sat beside her, just out of reach, and his intense gaze made her uncomfortable. He’s going to ask something impossible of me, she thought. Buying time to compose herself, she asked, ‘Why is there a dead tree here?’
The prelate looked taken aback. ‘It’s a cutting grown from the Winter Tree and sacred to Saint Eloy, one of the forefathers of the Church of Kore. He gave up magic to serve Kore.’
She noticed he’d put special emphasis on the word ‘magic’ – that wasn’t a word magi used much; they always spoke of gnosis.
When she asked what he meant, he frowned impatiently but explained, ‘There was an early form of power called dwyma – the magic of life, they called it, and any practitioner was a “dwyma
ncer”. It was quite different to the gnosis. Saint Eloy had a vision that all dwymancers must renounce their sins and seek forgiveness in Kore, and he led them in doing so. The Celestium – the Holy City south of the river in Pallas – was built on the site of his abode, and this tree is a cutting from that very Winter Tree which sheltered his cave.’
‘Dwyma? I’ve never hear of it—’
‘It was declared heretical, Milady. The Church calls it “Pandaemancy”, or literally, “the power of daemons”. A pandaemancer’s life is forfeit unless they take sanctuary in the name of Saint Eloy and renounce his gift. Otherwise they’re executed.’
She shuddered, looking at the stark and somehow unnerving tree. ‘Why do we keep it, when it’s dead?’
‘It’s not – for reasons no one understands, the Winter Tree blooms in winter and dies back in summer.’ Abruptly Ostevan dropped to his knees and seized her right hand. ‘Lady, please, grant me a boon.’
Having an older man – especially one as lordly and charismatic as this one – begging at her knees had Lyra burning with embarrassment. ‘What is it? I can’t—’
‘Lady Radine has reached some kind of accommodation with Wurther, hasn’t she?’
‘I suppose – um, yes, she spoke to him a few days ago.’
‘Then I’ll be dragged before the Church judiciary and stripped of my prelature,’ he said. ‘I know Radine’s well and truly rukked me.’
Lyra was shocked, but before she could respond, Ril called, ‘Mind your tongue, priest!’
Ostevan scowled, but didn’t let go of her hand. ‘Milady, my information saved your life – you’re here because of me. Please, you must protect me—’
‘I can’t—’
‘Of course you can,’ he all but shouted. ‘I risked my life for the Corani – and this is my thanks? I’m Radine’s kinsman and she’s double-dealing me with that hog Wurther! If they strip me of the prelature, they have the right to place me under a Chain-rune, and then I’ll be helpless – it’s akin to murder.’
Lyra felt for him, but he was alarming her. ‘I don’t know what I can do,’ she started, but Ostevan was shaking his head.
‘They’re going to make you empress! Your voice matters – she’ll listen to you!’ His grip became painful but as she cried out, Ril was there to pull his hand away.
‘Don’t touch Milady again, Ostevan,’ he warned.
‘Get your hands off me, you lecher!’ Ostevan hissed. Then he stopped himself and bowed his head, his face full of contrition. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. I’m just upset. Damned upset!’
Lyra squirmed, but she started thinking. Perhaps, sometime in the future, something could be done? ‘I’ll fight for you,’ she promised. ‘I’ll see you restored, Ostevan, I promise you. I know I owe you! I’ll champion your return, I swear.’
The man was near to tears and she had to endure him kneeling at her feet and kissing her hem before he finally allowed Ril to lead him away. It was a relief to be alone: between Ostevan’s wretchedness and her wanting of Ril, she could barely think straight.
While Ril and Ostevan were, she assumed, arguing in the chapel, she turned back to the pool, wondering if the water was drinkable. She bent and touched the surface with her fingertips . . . and weirdly, something noticed her, which made no sense. Nothing had moved, but she felt as if the knots in the tree trunk were eyes, on the verge of opening. She was transfixed . . .
Then the tree did open its eyes and she almost screamed – until she realised that it was just a big moth on the trunk, its papery wings fully six inches across, with big black eye-like markings that skewered her gaze. For a few moments, she couldn’t breathe – and another one opened its wings, and another, and she realised there were dozens of them clinging to the bare branches.
Then in a waft of dry rustling, the moths all took to the air and fluttered around her. She spun about, spreading her arms, fear turning to delight as they settled on her dress – one even landed on her forehead, the hooked legs like a pin-prick on her skin, but she was too astounded to brush it off.
She looked down at the pool and saw a reflected face – at first she thought it was herself, but the angles were wrong, and the face had skin like bark and eyes like an owl.
Child, the air whispered. Welcome.
She stared as the pool changed. There was an image of a thin, pale hand – her hand – putting on a steel gauntlet with an eagle’s-head motif on the back, then it burst into flame and she could feel the heat and smell the burning. She screamed aloud as the moths leaped into the air and swirled around her, but when she raised her hand to her face, expecting to see blackened skin, it was whole – and then the pain vanished, and she was reeling.
Ril sprinted back into the garden, shouting her name. He pulled her against his chest and she realised she was shaking. The moths had vanished into the shadows.
‘What on Urte was that?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the gnosis? Have you gained it at last?’ His eyes were full of alarm and hope, and she so wanted it to be true, but . . .
‘No, no,’ she said, the vision of the eagle’s head, the gauntlet and the fire swirling around her head, then she wondered . . . was it? ‘I don’t know.’ She clung to him, drawing courage.
Was it the gnosis? Was that what I felt? She’d been warned that disorienting things might happen to her when her mage-blood finally manifested, and that sometimes it could be quite complex, especially if her affinities were to Sorcery or Theurgy – but this felt different, not what had been described: there were no residual extra senses, no feeling that it had come from inside her – instead, she felt as if something had touched her, like a wind brushing her skin.
Then bells began chiming and she realised that they were out of time. They kissed hurriedly and she re-entered the chapel a few seconds before the doors swung open and her ladies, Hilta, Sedina and Jenet, swept in to take her to her next round of duties.
6
Heart of Empire
Gold and Wealth
What none of you seem to understand is that at any given time, the wealth of the empire is not simply the coins currently in the treasury vaults. The wealth of the empire is whatever we think it is. The price of gold is a function of our faith in the empire as an institution. In this sense, I am the ‘High Priest of Money’.
CALAN DUBRAYLE, IMPERIAL TREASURER, PALLAS, 929
Hollenian Way, Northern Rondelmar
Augeite 930
Second month after the Moontide
The carriage rumbled south along the Hollenian Way, which was clogged not just with traders but soldiers too, as the Corani made their push for power. Lyra watched the passing crowds from her window, occasionally waving to those lining the road to catch a glimpse of her, as her procession passed by on the road to Pallas.
The fable she was living was nearing a climax: I’m going to be Empress of Yuros. Or I’m going to be beheaded for daring to reach so high.
She slept away as much of the interminable journey as she could. Their noble supporters offered hospitality, so each night Lyra was forced to exude happiness, confidence and gratitude, when really she just wanted to curl up in a soft bed and pine for Ril. She’d not even glimpsed him since that magical day in the chapel gardens; moths and kisses still haunted her dreams. The days passed and became weeks as they crawled south – until suddenly the carriage lurched to a halt and she heard joyous shouting.
It was just after midday. Radine was asleep opposite Lyra, her wizened face slack as she softly snored. Lyra shook her awake. ‘We’ve stopped, Aunty.’
Tiredness made Radine look even older than she was, and twice as frail. But she brightened when she peered out the door. ‘Come, let’s stretch our legs,’ she suggested.
When they disembarked, Lyra saw cheering soldiers and people lining the road. She waved to them as Radine led her to a small rise and then she caught her breath. The entire valley below was filled with buildings – roofs and walls and giant towers: Pallas, Jewel of the Empire, spread
out before her eyes.
The Imperial capital was built around a confluence – the Aerflus – where two great rivers met: the Bruin, flowing from the east; and the Siber from the south. Radine pointed out the major sights: the Imperial Bastion dominated Pallas-Nord, the largest part of the city, sitting on top of Roidan Heights and housing the royal palace, the Imperocracy and the wealthiest noble families. The immense Place D’Accord at the eastern end of the Heights was dominated by a giant statue of Corineus the Saviour, visible even from here. Three-quarters of the populace lived on the north bank, in well-heeled areas like Nordale and Gravenhurst, at the various legion barracks in Esdale, or in the rough and lawless docklands like Tockburn-on-Water and Kenside.
On the west bank of the Aerflus was Emtori, founded by Argundian and Hollenian refugees, those who’d sided with the empire against their own people. ‘There’s money over there,’ Radine sniffed, ‘and Emtori docks service the river-trade from Lac Siberne and the south.’
‘What’s that?’ Lyra pointed to a vast bulk on the south bank, adorned with golden domes and gleaming roof-tiles, reflected in the glimmering waters.
‘That, child, is the Celestium, the Holy City, home of the Grand Prelate. And in its shadow you can see the Rymfort: it houses the senior Kirkegarde and the Inquisition. And outside’ – her wave encompassed a sprawl of shanty housing outside the Holy City – ‘that’s Southside, the filthiest and most dangerous part of the whole city. Not that you’ll ever have cause to go there.’
A hazy fog hung over the roofs and even from their knoll they couldn’t avoid the stench of sewers and cooking smoke. The sight and stink of the city filled Lyra with foreboding: it looked alien, its own universe, too vast for a convent girl to rule.
Each cohort of legionaries marched to the top of the rise, cheering. Some had been in the Corani forces in Pallas when Magnus and Alitia were still alive; for others, this was their long-awaited chance for revenge on behalf of parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, cousins and friends.
