Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  The congregation fell silent – did everyone know what was coming? – as Sir Solon Takwyth, Coraine’s premier knight, climbed the stairs and knelt on the penultimate step. Red and white roses had been pinned to his breast above his gryphon-head heraldic blazon.

  His voice boomed out, filling the cathedral to the vaulted rafters. ‘Queen Lyra, as Knight-Commander of the Corani, I formally pledge allegiance to serve you as your Master-General! I will live and die for you! Obedience and Loyalty will be my watchwords, until I am dust and gone!’

  ‘I accept your vow and pledge, Master-General.’

  Takwyth kissed her signet ring, his big hands holding to hers, looking up at her. ‘Milady,’ he said, for her ears only, ‘I have a boon to ask you.’

  She stiffened and said, ‘I pray, do not. Not here.’

  His complexion coloured, but he set his jaw. ‘There is no place better,’ he muttered. She could sense Radine straining from her place on the bench to hear, and the weight of expectation. These people knew what was coming, and Takwyth knew they knew.

  ‘There’s no worse place, Solon.’

  His eyes narrowed, calculating, then he raised his voice, speaking for all of the cathedral to hear. ‘My Queen, I was a young knight of the Queen’s Guard when your mother dwelled in Pallas twenty years ago. I served her faithfully and with honour, as I will you.’

  The women in the congregation sighed audibly, and Lyra saw Radine’s eyes glittering.

  ‘All my life, I believed her line had endured. And here you sit, restored to us and her very image. You are Natia reborn!’ He lifted his hands, clasped together, as if in supplication, when to Lyra it felt as if she were being cornered, in public, herded by hunting dogs. ‘I cannot still my ardour, nor my tongue!’ he shouted. ‘Lyra, my Queen, will you consent to marry me?’

  In the following silence, Lyra thought her heartbeat would break the windows, and shards of coloured glass would rain down. Anger got her through, and gave her the strength to reply.

  ‘Sir Solon, I thank you – but I may not, for I am already married.’

  Every mouth in the congregation flew wide open, like holes opening up in the universe. The sudden intake of breath drained the air of substance, leaving her barely able to breathe. But inside her heart, she could hear music.

  ‘But you . . .’ Solon Takwyth stammered, his composure breaking.

  ‘My husband is here, alive and present.’

  ‘What?’ Radine was shuffling forward as swiftly as her tight ceremonial dress would permit. Her Imperial Councillors were staring, mystified. Only Dominius Wurther appeared to understand, for his lugubrious face had broken into a sly smile.

  ‘My people,’ Lyra shouted, ‘please welcome to my side my husband, Sir Ril Endarion.’

  Then she shut out the uproar and focused on Ril – my Ryneholt – as he sprang from the aisles, thrusting aside with easy grace those men who tried to confront him and bounding up the stairs. She rose, took his hands in hers and kissed him, the most wonderful kiss, and the perfect Rukka te! for Radine, Solon and all these manipulative bullies.

  ‘I love you,’ she breathed, drinking in his face.

  The cathedral was in uproar, torn between wonder and shock. Radine was frozen at the bottom of the stairs, trembling and red-faced, but harder to behold was Solon Takwyth. His face had crumpled like screwed-up parchment, his dignity and his prestige shredded in one cruel instant, but she didn’t feel more than fleeting pity.

  ‘A queen cannot be married except by a prelate or crozier!’ Radine shouted.

  Ril brandished papers at her with mischievous defiance. ‘Ostevan Prelatus married us last night, in sight of legal witnesses. The papers are legitimate, and the marriage consummated.’

  Wurther’s face became a whole lot less amicable, while Radine just gaped.

  Then Solon Takwyth’s right fist went smashing into Ril’s face.

  Ril went down in a heap, sprawled at the top of the stairs. He tried to get up, then sagged again, dazed. Lyra went to him, intent on shielding him from Takwyth’s fury; the knight looked like a mask had been torn aside, revealing the raging desires behind his stony visage.

  They both looked at the sword of office she’d presented him with only minutes before.

  She remembered a gauntleted hand and flames burning her up, in an image in a pool.

  The whole gathering went utterly silent, but there was no one present who didn’t understand what had just happened here; Wurther’s words, spoken as he crowned Lyra, still hung in the air:

  Your body is now sacrosanct, and all who are joined in your body.

  She half-expected to die, right now, but Takwyth’s face cleared and the beast behind the mask receded. He tore the chain of the master-general from his neck and dropped it at her feet, unbuckled the sword of office and dropped it too, then tore off his family tabard and let it flutter; before simply turning and walking down the aisle. A few men tried to go to him, some to apprehend him, others perhaps to congratulate or even join him, but he growled something almost bestial and shoved them all aside, even his close comrade Esvald Berlond.

  Wurther stepped to Lyra’s side, whispering, ‘Exile or Execution: those are your options, my Queen. He just struck a member of the royal family.’

  She watched the knight walking away. ‘Exile. I never want to see him again.’ She looked down at Ril, who nodded in agreement, rubbing his chin ruefully, then they stood up.

  Lyra looked at Radine, who had collapsed back into her seat and was gazing hopelessly into space, tears running down her cheeks. Sympathy touched Lyra, but she reminded herself that Radine had wanted Takwyth to wage war, to be her avenging angel for 909.

  There’ll be a different vision henceforth, Aunty.

  Abruptly she felt stronger than ever before: these were the moments she’d been terrified of, and they were done, she was still standing, and through the warning she’d received through her vision in Coraine, war had been averted. The fires would not consume her.

  Instead, she could face a future of her own choosing. She looked up at Ril, remembering the breathtaking moment on a lowly cot in the priest’s room behind the chapel last night . . . the look on his face, the weight of him, the moment he pierced her, body and soul. The utter, absolute joy of feeling whole. It gave her the courage to turn to Wurther and lift her voice to fill the cathedral. ‘Grand Prelate Wurther, you are commanded to perform another coronation.’

  The clergyman looked at Setallius, then laughed hoarsely. ‘Well played, Majesty. Your reign promises to be memorable.’ He glanced at Radine, calculating, then turned to his aides. ‘Bring forth the Prince-Consort’s crown!’

  Lyra glanced at Ril. They both understood this: she was the heir, not him. He would never have the title of emperor – but their eldest son would. He smiled, to tell her that this was more than enough, and as that small fear vanished she fell in love with him all over again.

  *

  Lyra was sitting with Ril when Radine swept in, Dirklan Setallius hot on her heels. The new empress and her consort had managed barely a moment together since they’d been escorted to the Celestium’s royal suite for her next costume change, ready for the evening’s coronation banquet. Her ladies had worked miracles on Ril too, producing any number of princely garments, accrued over the years from who knew where.

  Radine glared, and the ladies-in-waiting fled, shutting the parlour doors – and no doubt immediately pressing their ears to it.

  Lyra looked at Setallius first, and the spymaster returned her gaze enquiringly. Yes, Lyra replied silently, I was already married when you came to take me to the Celestium.

  Setallius tilted his head in acknowledgement, a wry smile creasing his face, and she appreciated that.

  But Radine looked as if she’d aged a decade or more. ‘Lyra?’ she croaked.

  ‘Aunty Radine – how can I help?’

  The old woman searched Lyra’s face, then shrivelled up. Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘All my life, I labou
red to restore the Corani to Pallas and gain vengeance – justice – for 909. My own husband and I were captured that day – and then freed as an act of contempt.’ Her voice was shaking and tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘They made us walk out of the city while those good Pallacians pelted us with rotten fruit and worse, even piss and excrement! I have burned to answer the crimes of those days – that was all that sustained me! And now . . .’

  There was no point telling her of the vision, no point trying to explain. Nothing would make it better in Radine’s eyes. Lyra took her hands and let her weep, reminded of a discarded husk of an insect. She wondered if the old woman would even last a year without her lust for vengeance to animate her.

  Ril looked at Setallius. ‘Has Sir Solon gone?’

  ‘I’ve got my people watching him,’ Setallius replied. ‘If he tries to rally support, I will know in moments. The commander of the Imperial Guard has been informed and his men are on alert. Any attempted coup will be dealt with immediately.’ Then he raised a hand, clearly receiving a gnostic contact, and Lyra waited with bated breath.

  If we go to war with each other, the rest of the Great Houses will tear us down . . . Unconsciously, her hand sought Ril’s.

  Then Setallius opened his good eye and even his deadpan voice hinted at relief. ‘He’s left the Bastion, on horseback, alone.’

  They sat in tense silence, sweating. Through the windows came the ordinary sounds of the palace and the city beyond, minutes crawling by, until Setallius announced, ‘Sir Solon has taken a ferry, heading south on the Siber. Apparently certain knights offered to go with him, but Sir Solon reminded them that they were first and foremost Corani. He told them to give their loyalty to their queen. There will be no insurrection.’

  ‘Solon Takwyth is a byword for honour,’ Radine mumbled in a desolate voice. ‘I never believed he would turn on us. It’s not in him. He always put Coraine first.’

  ‘Lyra has still wed a Corani,’ Ril reminded her, ‘and someone you yourself raised—’

  ‘Aye, as a son: the sort of son who rips his mother’s heart out!’ Radine snarled. She turned to Lyra. ‘You lied to me, and you went behind my back! I’m beyond angry – and I am beyond frightened, too. This empire is in crisis, child: it needs strong leadership. You will rue this day when the blades come for you.’

  ‘I’ll protect her,’ Ril said, in a strong and certain voice.

  ‘You?’ she spat. ‘You! How can I trust anything you say?’ Radine turned back to Lyra. ‘And you, child? How can you rule without a strong man like Solon to guide you?’

  ‘Ril and I will rule together,’ Lyra answered firmly, ‘with my councillors to guide me – just as you wanted. But Ril is the only man I could ever marry. He saved my life, and he is prepared to let me live it, something no one else was prepared to do. He is my love and now my husband, and we will rule as one.’

  ‘But he has no more experience of leadership than you—!’

  ‘But you do, Aunty, and Dirklan does. Wurther and Dubrayle do. And I will learn – I’m not a puppet: I have a mind and a heart of my own.’

  Radine bared her yellowed teeth. ‘And what about a sword-hand, girl: do you have one of those? The Sacrecour-Fasterius axis stands isolated! This is our chance, girl: let us march on Dupenium and Fauvion and do as they did in 909! You must command it!’

  ‘No, Aunty! I will not!’

  Lyra faced down Radine’s blazing eyes until the old woman crumpled, shaking and weeping in rage for never-forgotten crimes and losses. Lyra felt so much sympathy – but she couldn’t permit vengeance, not after she’d seen the relief on the faces of the ordinary Pallacians when they welcomed her, truly believing that the danger was over.

  If it’s between leaving one old lady heartbroken and destroying millions of lives, the choice is simple. ‘There’ll be no war, Aunty Radine. The empire can’t survive it. You said so yourself.’

  ‘If the empire survives by allowing murderers like Garod Sacrecour to profit from their crimes and laugh at us, it’s not worth fighting for,’ Radine rasped. ‘If you knew the men and women who died that day, you’d know what you’re really saying, Lyra – but you never even knew your mother and father. If they were watching you now, they’d die all over again.’ She made one last appeal. ‘Please, recall Solon – in a less senior role, if you must! But let him prosecute our righteous war on the Fasterius clan—’

  ‘No,’ Ril said firmly, ‘no war, and Takwyth can go to Hel, the two-faced bastard. And I say this as one who was there in 909. I went through as much as anyone, and I’m telling you that you’re wrong.’

  His voice hinted at the personal cost of those words, and Lyra swallowed. He’s sacrificing revenge for love – for me . . . Her heart chimed inside her.

  Radine looked at Setallius, but seeing no signs of support, she sagged in defeat. It was like watching a soul leave a body. ‘Must our pain be for ever?’ she whispered. ‘Will there never be justice for what they did? You need Solon, child – no one else in the north has his abilities in the field. Please, I beg you – recall him. He’s far worthier of it than that lying snitch Ostevan, and you’re willing enough to champion him!’

  To Lyra’s surprise, Setallius spoke against his duchess. ‘Takwyth is like a man whose only tool is a hammer, and sees all problems as nails – only his tool is a sword. I believe the queen has done well to not marry him.’

  Radine scowled. ‘You actually endorse her farcical marriage, Dirklan? How dare you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Setallius replied. ‘Takwyth isn’t the right man to rule an empire. To prosecute a war, yes – but that war isn’t needed. We need to consolidate power and bind this empire together, not tear it down for vengeance.’

  ‘If that’s your belief, Dirklan Setallius, then you are no longer a man in whom I can place my faith. Consider your service at an end.’ With a shuddering lurch, Radine stood and fixed Lyra with a piercing glare. ‘As for you, I curse your marriage! I curse your womb! I curse your husband and I curse your happiness.’

  She turned and shuffled away.

  Lyra put her hand to her mouth, looking at Ril uncertainly.

  ‘Don’t fear,’ he breathed. ‘Curses are a fiction. There is no gnostic power that can do any of what she just said. She’s just a bitter old woman.’

  Lyra watched Radine vanish through the door, then looked at Setallius. ‘I didn’t expect your support, Spymaster. If you must leave Corani service, will you at least enter mine?’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘I have great need of you.’

  The spymaster bowed. ‘I am yours to command.’ Lyra accepted a kiss on the hand, then Setallius asked, ‘Might I have a word in private with your new husband?’

  She swallowed, but saw no option than to acquiesce.

  *

  Ril could guess what was coming. He followed Setallius into a side-chamber filled with shoe-boxes – presumably preparing for the appropriate occasions of state – and closed the door. ‘So, are you here to warn me or chastise me?’ he asked.

  Setallius didn’t return his smile. His face was as grim as Ril had ever seen it. ‘That depends, my Prince, on whether you’re an opportunist who has snared a glittering prize, or a knight who has finally grown into a man, fit for the responsibilities he has usurped?’

  Ril met the spymaster’s one-eyed gaze, any flippant response dying on his lips. ‘Fair enough,’ he conceded. ‘Of course I was aware of the benefits – but I didn’t marry Lyra for those.’ He turned to the window and stared out blindly at the night. ‘When you see her, don’t you just want to encase her in your strongest wards and keep her safe?’

  ‘You’ve always been susceptible to vulnerable girls, Ril – my pardon, “Prince”. But you also have a history of tiring of them swiftly once they’ve been “saved”.’

  ‘I know my faults, Dirk – but this is different.’

  ‘How so? Because there’s a crown involved?’

  ‘No! A bloody crown is the last thing I want! But I saw th
e way Radine and Takwyth and the rest pushed her around – and you too, Spymaster. You all saw a tool for your ambitions, none of you saw her. She’s young and bright and she sees the best in people; and she loves me, whether I deserve it or not. She deserves a chance to love.’

  Setallius arched an eyebrow. ‘And to be loved?’

  Ril looked away. ‘Do I love her? Honestly, I don’t know. I always feel like this when a new romance begins – as if nothing could possibly go wrong. Will that become something more enduring? I don’t know! But I swear this: Lyra will never not feel loved and protected and safe. I promise you that.’

  Setallius sighed. ‘I hope you’re capable of keeping that promise.’ He rubbed his chin, then added, ‘What about the household knights? Because I tell you, you’re hated in the barracks right now. Those men belong to Takwyth.’

  ‘I’m every inch the fighting man Takwyth is,’ Ril growled, ‘and I should have been one of his commanders years ago. I’ll not let this chance pass. And if Berlond thinks he’ll be leading them, he can go to Hel. I’ll not have Takky’s lapdog guarding my back.’

  ‘Very well, you’ll get your chance,’ Setallius conceded, then he added, ‘For your ears only: I’m not entirely unhappy at what has come to pass, Ril. I’ve always believed there was a better man inside you. Prove me right, and I’ll watch your back.’

  Slowly, cautiously, they clasped hands.

  When Ril returned to the chamber, Lyra looked up at him anxiously, but he bent over and whispered in her ear, ‘I love you. You’ll never know how much.’

  She lit up like a candle, and shone through the remainder of the evening.

  *

  The next morning, the royal couple were still aglow in the aftermath of their first official night together. First order of the day was the parade through the streets of Pallas-Nord to the Bastion. They had bathed and been dressed in gorgeous fabrics so stiff with brocade and gems that Lyra felt as if she were wearing armour. Sustained by the warmth of his lovemaking, she took her husband by the hand and prepared to face the world.