Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  An officer approached Radine with a message, which she read quickly, then turned to Lyra and flung her arms around her. ‘Child, it’s been confirmed: the Sacrecours have fled the city! There’ll be no battle – this, my dear, is your procession to power. Welcome to your new home, Lyra.’ Then she turned away, her eyes streaming and body shaking, and Lyra realised just how much tension Radine had been concealing. She got a glimpse of a younger woman, capable and ambitious and full of passion. ‘I could almost wish they’d stayed to fight us,’ the duchess breathed. ‘I so wanted to see them die . . . But there’s still time for that.’

  Lyra was momentarily chilled, as if a placid pet had suddenly bared its teeth.

  Radine must have caught something in her face. ‘There must be justice for 909,’ she said. ‘They can’t be allowed to just walk away.’ Then she pursed her lips and wiped her eyes, and the fierceness faded behind her patient, calculating gaze. ‘We’ll enter via Draken Gate.’ She stepped back, assessing Lyra. ‘You must wear your purple gown, as an empress would. First impressions matter.’

  They found a nearby house, owned by a gentleman farmer, and Lyra’s ladies put her in the gown in which she’d been presented to the Corani nobility. They worked fast, Hilta cajoling the two younger women as Jenet worked on her hair and Sedina powdered her face and painted her lips. Finally, when Lyra was so wound up with tension and dread she could have run screaming from the room, Radine declared herself satisfied.

  With venators circling overhead, their carriage followed the army into the city, through Draken Gate, under Actium’s Hill and through Nordale along Sertain’s Promenade, the northern passage into the heart of the city. The wide thoroughfare was jammed with Pallacian citizens waving flags in imperial purple, calling Lyra’s name as if she were the answer to all their prayers. The noise pummelled her brain, blows that went on and on; her escort could barely contain the exuberant crowds. The three miles from the gates to the Bastion took most of the afternoon, and when she entered the Place D’Accord, it felt like the heavens themselves shook with the adulation. Above them all, the massive statue of Corineus watched serenely, glowing white and gold in the late sun.

  So many nobles and dignitaries, bureaucrats and ambassadors of the vassal-states had come to greet her on this momentous occasion that her head was spinning: it was claustrophobic, dizzying and overwhelming – and when she waved to the presses of people jammed into the square, they wept as if Corineus himself had come again.

  ‘They’ve been in dread of civil war,’ Radine told her. ‘Not only that, but they’ve been living hand to mouth – the Sacrecours blockaded the food supply. They see you as their redemption.’

  It felt like a fearful responsibility, a great weight settling on her shoulders.

  At the doors of the Imperial Bastion, her Imperial Councillors waited with Dirklan Setallius; the Coraine spymaster had flown in some days before to oversee the transition of power. The first man to greet her was Calan Dubrayle; his face showed the stress he was under, but he looked genuinely pleased to see Radine. ‘Your Grace, you’re a welcome sight,’ he told her, a more fervent greeting than he’d given Lyra.

  Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther was there too, lording over everyone like a big fat uncle, but Lyra had seen his merry eyes go cold and she wasn’t fooled. The price for his cooperation had not been small; it included punishment for Ostevan Prelatus and the ceding of large tracts of land to the Church. More significantly, Church Law would henceforth overrule Civil Law within the Celestium, an unprecedented concession – and yet he still behaved as if he’d sacrificed everything to bring her here.

  ‘Pallas rejoices, my dear girl,’ he told her as she knelt and kissed his signet ring: he was the one person she must still kneel to, until she was crowned. ‘Their beloved daughter has come to reside among them.’

  The other two councillors were less fulsome in their welcome. Acting Master-General Dravis Ryburn, Knight-Princeps of the Inquisition, was well aware that he would shortly be ousted in favour of Solon Takwyth; he bowed with cold formality. And Arch-Legate Edreu Gestatium of the Imperocracy, grey-haired and fretting, was clearly worried that Radine would do as Mater-Imperia Lucia had and take his place; he relaxed only when Lyra assured him that he’d be keeping his place on her council.

  Then she was ushered into the intimidating Imperial Bastion, with maze-like corridors that twisted and turned bewilderingly, until they opened into cavernous halls.

  ‘The Sacrecour family fled Pallas as soon as news came that we’d marched,’ Solon Takwyth told her as he escorted her through dusty corridors hung with torn tapestries and slashed paintings, past empty rooms or piles of broken furniture. ‘They might have lost their nerve, but they took everything they could carry.’

  ‘How can we ever live here?’ Lyra wondered, looking around at the chaos.

  ‘Don’t worry; this was anticipated,’ Radine reassured her. ‘Half the contents of the Sett and a dozen other Corani castles are on their way south, and the carpenters and woodworkers are already busy at work. Dirklan tells me that Garod was afraid to take many of the imperial treasures lest they antagonise the Keepers. In a few weeks, you’ll be amazed.’ She took Lyra’s arm possessively. ‘Our first priority is to hold court daily, accepting pledges of support. This Holy Day you must attend a Service of Thanks and Praise in the royal chapel. You must be seen to be the pious and dutiful woman you are.’

  Lyra swallowed and nodded dutifully. To her, this vast edifice of marble and stone pressed on her soul. Her mother Natia had been born here, but it was also where Natia’s father and husband had been killed, and it was from here that her mother had been taken to exile and death.

  It felt like she was walking into a vast family mausoleum.

  *

  The next few days passed in a strange state of limbo. Lyra was uncrowned queen and empress, head of state – and yet not. She was exhausted, on the go all day, surrounded by the enforced company of her ever-growing coterie of ladies-in-waiting, assertive young magi noblewomen with hard, calculating eyes set like jewels in sculpted faces. Radine crammed her head with names and lineages and complicated kinships of magi and merchants, clergy and nobles. Every meeting she spoke the words Radine put in her mouth, then rushed off to the next costume change, with yet more perfume to cover her sweat and staleness; by the time she staggered to her bed, towards the middle of the night, she stank of tuberose and was too shattered to sleep.

  She quickly realised she had none of the skills she needed, and that terrified her: she was awkward in public, lost without the prompts of the ever-vigilant duchess. Crowds made her claustrophobic and the guardsmen entrusted with her safety scared her: her mother had been torn down by such people. ‘How did Constant ever deal with this?’ she complained to Radine.

  ‘He enjoyed it – you must learn to do the same,’ the duchess replied, then her eyes would fall on someone else Lyra simply must meet, and off they went again.

  Every morning, just before her first public event, and every evening before retiring to her rooms, Dirklan Setallius or Basia de Sirou would examine her mind for gnostic traces, evidence that someone had tried to beguile her with the gnosis. But they stressed that she was responsible for guarding her own mind – wards could protect her physically, because those could be affixed to something, but mental protections had to be rooted in her own aura, and would fall apart if not constantly adjusted. But they taught her simple mantras to protect her own mind – apparently simply silently chanting a factual, incontrovertible phrase like ‘I am Lyra, I am Lyra’ would leave someone attempting to manipulate her mind with nothing to grasp onto.

  ‘Someone very powerful or very skilled can defeat any defence,’ Dirklan told her, not very encouragingly, ‘but I’m a pure-blood, and Basia’s a half-blood: it would take an Ascendant to slip something past us – and all of those are either Keepers and sworn to serve the gnosis, or Merozains and they live in Ahmedhassa and are sworn to peace.’

  Not once did Lyra
lay eyes on Ril. Foolish or not, she was desperate to write to him, but scared Radine would find out. It was Ostevan Prelatus, unexpectedly, who was her saviour. When she asked for a confessor, it was he who arrived – until the grand prelate formally deposed him, he retained his rank and privileges – and despite the awkwardness of their encounter in Coraine, she found him perceptive and willing to help her. As a confessor, he won her over with his receptiveness, understanding and charm, and he passed her letters on to Ril, returning with professions of love and loyalty; sometimes that was the only thing keeping her going. But Radine wouldn’t risk alienating Wurther by allowing Ostevan to stay. It was clear that the best she could do was soften his punishment.

  Meanwhile, decisions about dress and jewellery were given as much weight and consideration as decisions of royal appointments. Solon Takwyth was formally raised to the Imperial Council and Dravis Ryburn was thanked for his service and returned to the Inquisition.

  On the eve of the coronation, Lyra’s dress was still being finished by an army of seamstresses, but she was fitted into a gown only marginally less ostentatious and taken by her suitor to promenade in the gardens to formalise the ‘surprise’ that would be announced after her coronation.

  ‘We will be happy together,’ Takwyth told her as they walked slowly through the Imperial Gardens. ‘I adored your mother, and I see all her virtues in you.’

  I’m a proxy for my mother, she realised. It’s her he thinks he’s marrying.

  Half an hour with him felt like an eternity.

  There was much more that had to happen: the virginity examination by a healer-mage nun included a search for gnostic traces, just to ensure no one had employed healing or morphic-gnosis to reinstate her virtue; Lyra had no idea that could even be done. Then, finally, she was permitted to spend the evening in prayer or to retire early to sleep.

  She chose prayer. ‘It’ll be my last chance for solitude for some time,’ she explained to Radine. ‘I need to pray for strength to be a good empress . . .’

  Lyra’s ladies followed her to the chapel; Hilta, Sedina and Jenet looked resigned – they weren’t the sort to enjoy long prayer sessions – and clearly expected to follow her into the dimly lit chapel.

  ‘No,’ she told them, ‘thank you, dear friends, but I wish to pray alone tonight.’ Each day she was becoming more accustomed to exerting authority.

  ‘We’re supposed to be with you at all times tonight,’ Hilta argued.

  ‘As I recall, you’re supposed to ensure that I am given peace,’ Lyra replied, ‘and behold, I wish to be alone with my God.’ She gestured into the empty chapel, aglow with many candles. ‘This is the only entrance to the Royal Chapel.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Hilta, thank you. You may wait out here.’ She stepped through the doors closed it firmly in the face of the three women and turned the key.

  The peace of the chapel settled over her as she made her way down the small central aisle and knelt in the front row, her view of the altar unobstructed. The Sacred Heart icon above the altar shone gold and scarlet. The serene face of Corineus, lovingly rendered in stained glass behind the altar, seemed to search her soul as she gazed up at Him. Night settled into the stones as the familiar words spilled from her devout lips.

  ‘Father Kore, I beg Thee to lift my heart.

  May Your loving Son Corineus take my soul,

  Protect me from the wiles of the Accursed

  And lead me to Paradise.’

  She bowed her head, reflecting on all that had happened to her. She found it impossible not to see Destiny taking a hand: Kore had a plan for the world, as attested in the Book of Kore. How could she, a lowly nun, not only be raised to empress, but also find a knight-protector whom she adored, were it not destined? Surely it must be His plan?

  It is recompense from Kore for all that was taken from my mother. That is why Father Kore is known as the Almighty Judge: it’s why He bears the Scales of Justice in His right hand.

  The third bell of night rang out, and as the echoes faded away, the vestry door opened and a priest emerged into the chapel. ‘Milady,’ he said, ‘I’m told you desire a blessing?’

  She rose to her feet, joy welling up inside her. ‘Yes, I desire it very much.’

  Thank Kore, for blessing this woman who loves You.

  *

  Three hours later, Dirklan Setallius took Lyra across the Aerflus by windsloop to keep her vigil in the Celestium. She’d emerged from the chapel to find her ladies asleep; they roused themselves to help her bathe and change into the traditional simple linen gown, to which they added a heavy blue velvet cloak; the midnight-till-dawn vigil would be chilly.

  Setallius subjected her to a stern appraisal as the two-masted sloop turned in the winds for the approach to the far shore. ‘Are you ready for this, Milady?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she confessed, ‘but I want to live, Spymaster. I want more than just endless locked doors. If you think you’re getting meek and obedient, though, you’re wrong.’

  He studied her intently, then the ghost of a smile touched his lips. ‘Bravo. You are your mother’s daughter.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘For a time, and mostly from afar.’ He looked up at the moon, his face wistful. ‘Your mother was vivacious, charming and very determined. Lucia feared her: she was the new belle of the court and the Mater-Imperia looked carping and dowdy beside her. You’re not Natia – she grew up in the public eye and was confident in it – but I think you have her strength.’

  ‘Her strength? She killed herself and left me with no one to protect me.’ Lyra was surprised how much bitterness welled up in giving voice to long-harboured thoughts.

  ‘Imprisonment would have destroyed Natia,’ Setallius replied. He sounded more sympathetic than she’d expected. ‘She was a social person; she thrived on company. To be locked up would have driven her to desperation. We can only guess what she went through before that.’

  Does he know I’m not Ainar’s? she wondered. Probably – he’s the Spymaster. She didn’t ask though; instead, she watched the Celestium draw closer. The white marble dome of the cathedral, set beneath a full moon that covered fully a fifth of the sky and lit from within through some feat of the gnosis, gleamed across the water. It was beautiful.

  ‘The first Grand Prelate of Kore wanted his Holy City to outshine the Imperial Bastion,’ Setallius commented. ‘In the early days, priests were itinerant, speaking what was in their own heart, with no standard text to guide them. The first mage-priests, realising they could channel the superstitious fear the people felt towards the magi, wished to overawe the populace, so they corrected that. They built up their wealth and their own army – the Kirkegarde – and now the Church has more land and gold than anyone in Rondelmar, except perhaps the emperor. And of course, they wrote the Book of Kore to make sure everyone spoke as they wished.’

  ‘Kore dictated the Book of Kore to Saint Balefeo Himself! And people give tithes to the Church so that we can give glory to Kore,’ Lyra replied defensively. The nuns of Saint Balphus had lived in absolute poverty – and what would a spy know?

  ‘You’re not a prisoner of the Church any more, Lyra. Dominius Wurther is no friend to you – worse, he is a dangerous rival, and his prelates are every bit as cunning, venal and ruthless as any courtier. But here’s the thing: in the minds of the people, Kore anointed the magi. While emperor and grand prelate see each other as rivals, the people demand that they stand together. So we dance around each other, keeping up appearances of unity whilst ruling different spheres.’

  ‘The Book of Kore says “there must be separation of spiritual and secular power”,’ she quoted, ‘and that “spiritual power is the greater, because it is eternal”.’

  Setallius grunted noncommittally. ‘They would say that, wouldn’t they?’

  He’s a cynic, she thought sadly. All at once she missed Ostevan’s kindly reassurances, which were always rooted in faith. ‘What happens tonight?
’ she asked. ‘Will I be . . . safe?’

  ‘I believe so. I’ll be close by. Don’t be afraid – but do be alert.’

  She bowed her head, then asked, ‘Why can’t I reach my gnosis?’

  Setallius turned to face her and she realised that he’d removed his eyepatch. She was shocked to find that his sightless eye was a silver metal ball glittering with a faint blue light – but it seemed far from blind as it bored into her. ‘You have an aura, Lyra: the potential of gnostic energy. It can take time to manifest itself actively. For a mage to be Chained before even gaining the gnosis is almost unheard of – there’s no doubt it would result in difficulties in gaining power.’

  ‘But how can I rule without it?’

  ‘A ruler seldom needs to lift a finger. You’re not a battle-mage. Your intellect and judgement are far more useful to you than a little gnosis.’ He touched her shoulder gently. ‘Lyra, I know you feel manipulated, and controlled, but we want you to be happy, as well as to prosper.’

  She met his uncanny gaze, and for all he was a man who dealt in secrets and lies, she felt she could trust his loyalty. She clung to that as the sloop descended towards the Celestium and landed in a well-lit square where a small cluster of men in deep crimson cassocks awaited them. Setallius escorted her down the steps to Grand Prelate Wurther, awaiting her. She sank to her knees, as she still must, until her coronation.

  ‘Welcome, child,’ Wurther rumbled. ‘Thank you, Dirklan, I’ll take it from here.’

  Setallius bowed, gave Lyra a reassuring look and retreated to the sloop. Wurther took Lyra’s arm and introduced her to the prelates, chief among them his new heir-apparent, Rodrigo Prelatus, an Estellan with narrow, cunning eyes, who kissed her hand obsequiously. ‘You are fair, dear lady. The people will love you.’

  The next attendant to kiss Lyra’s hand was a young woman, Lyra was startled to realise. ‘My daughter Valetta, Abbess of Sancta Varina in Estellayne,’ Rodrigo explained. ‘In Estellayne a priest may wed.’

  ‘An honour to meet you, my Empress,’ Valetta said in a deep, resonant voice. She had a well-formed face, with the sort of full-lipped mouth that men seemed to drool over. Lyra found her oddly threatening, and was grateful when Wurther swept her onwards, leaving the rest of the welcoming committee behind.