Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  They were about to leave when Lady Hilta announced Ostevan Prelatus.

  ‘Your Majesties, you were both magnificent yesterday,’ the clergyman gushed, but Lyra could sense his anxiety. Despite his role in the secret marriage, Wurther and Radine still ruled his fate, and their antipathy was deep. The grand prelate had made it abundantly clear to Lyra that his support for her would evaporate like steam if Ostevan was not punished for his breach of trust.

  ‘Dear Ostevan,’ Lyra said awkwardly. In the past couple of weeks she’d grown attached to him, and she felt guilty at her inability to have him forgiven. ‘I shall always be in your debt. But you know the circumstances—’

  ‘I do. But you promised you would seek to alleviate my punishment.’

  ‘And I have,’ Lyra told him. ‘The grand prelate has agreed you will not face the Ecclesiastic Court. Instead, you are to be demoted to mitranus and exiled to a parish in Ventia.’

  Ostevan’s face was initially relieved, then it fell. ‘But a mitranus is the lowest rank of mage-priest—’

  Lyra held up a hand. ‘But your gnosis remains yours,’ she reminded him. ‘Wurther sought to demote you to deacon so that your gnosis would be Chained, but I forbade that! Ostevan, please, know this: your exile will be brief, I swear. I believe we will be welcoming you back to the fold inside a few months.’

  Ostevan bowed his head, resignation joining disappointment on his face. ‘I shall suffer daily, until I am returned to your service, my Queen.’

  ‘I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us, my friend,’ she said fervently. ‘Neither of us will.’

  The former prelate kissed her hands, and as he slipped away, she turned to Ril. ‘We have to honour that promise. He’s given up everything for us.’

  Ril sniffed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You don’t like him.’

  ‘I don’t like the way he looks at you.’

  ‘You’re jealous of a priest?’

  ‘Ha! If I told you all I’ve heard about him . . .’

  Ostevan was quite handsome, Lyra supposed, but he was a priest – they took vows of chastity. ‘I’m sure it’s just malicious gossip,’ she said, ‘and anyway, he’s twice my age.’ She took Ril’s hand and placed it over her heart. ‘You have no reason for jealousy of anyone, heart of my heart. You are everything to me.’

  They were still kissing when the door opened again and Lady Hilta announced that their carriage was ready.

  After the parade they held court. Ril was installed as Master-General, giving him Takwyth’s place on the Imperial Council, and Dirklan Setallius was, unusually, elevated to the Council, in a special advisory role created for him. Lyra was pleased to see that neither Wurther, Dubrayle or Gestatium were happy about it; she hoped her new spymaster might see through their schemes better than she could.

  And in between such weighty matters of empire, the nobility busied themselves aligning to the new state of affairs. Fresh faces flooded in, younger people sent in by their families to charm rulers their own age. In a matter of days, the court had inflated like a glistening bubble – all Ril and Lyra had to do was wave from a balcony and the watching crowds went into rapture.

  There were endless banquets and lavish entertainments; Lyra’s favourite was a Lantric masque in their honour, featuring performers wearing masks, their symbolism steeped in tradition. She laughed at Jest’s droll advice, tsked wickedly at Beak’s vulgarities, hissed and booed at treacherous Twoface and clasped her hands in her lap in fear for the star-crossed lovers Ironhelm and Heartface, until – thankfully! – they triumphed and found love.

  They are Ril and me: Ironhelm and Heartface, eternal lovers. Our lives are in this masque.

  PART TWO

  Prologue:

  The Masquerade (Heartface)

  Ervyn Naxius

  Ervyn Naxius is the only mage ever expelled from the Ordo Costruo. There is much evil that can be laid at his door – I’ve never wished a man ill, but should the rumours of his demise be true, I would shed no tear.

  UNSUBSTANTIATED QUOTE OF ANTONIN MEIROS, HEBUSALIM, 909

  Veiterholt, Pontic Peninsula, Yuros

  Janune 935

  Four years and five months after the coronation of Empress Lyra

  A woman with a ruined face, a mess of ridged scars and raw abrasions, opened a velvet box and took out a copper mask lacquered in exquisite detail. She raised it to her face and turned to the mirror. In the glass, Heartface peered back at her.

  Alyssa Dulayne needed no one to explain the mask’s meaning: Lantric plays, though today mostly performed by Rimoni gypsies, dated from before even the Rimoni Empire, when Lantris was the epicentre of Yurosi learning and culture. The same cast of nine appeared in every play, but no two performances were ever the same. Wit and improvisation were their essence as they wrung truths of the human condition from the melodramas enacted by the masked players.

  Heartface was the Innocent, eternally seeking love and security in a perilous world. Liars and deceivers surrounded her, but if she remained virtuous and pious, she would find true love and redemption with faithful Ironhelm. For Alyssa, that meant only one man: Rashid Mubarak, Emir of Halli’kut. The man she’d failed, and who’d cast her aside.

  Hold true, the mask promised, and you will be redeemed.

  She needed that redemption. Once she’d been accounted the most beautiful woman in Ahmedhassa: tall and golden-haired, with a face that was indeed heart-shaped and flawless. Her body too had been perfect, and she’d taken that so much for granted – until Ramita Meiros ripped her apart in the final months of the Third Crusade.

  She’d been on a mission for Rashid, and had found Ramita and the artefact she bore in a Zain monastery in Lokistan. The Zains might be sworn to peace, but Ramita certainly wasn’t: somehow she’d transformed herself into a multi-armed horror from Lakh myth and gone into a berserk rage. She’d flayed Alyssa’s back and broken her spine, her legs and arms, even pulled her scalp from her skull – and for all Alyssa was a pure-blood mage, the wounds refused to completely heal. She’d been tended in the monastery infirmary, then later by the Ordo Costruo, but not even the most powerful healing-gnosis could reverse the damage. Finally she’d been permitted to have the Chain-rune removed so she could use her own power – but a necrotising rot had set in and now her spine was bent over like a hunchbacked crone, her entire backbone visible through the remains of her skin. Her shoulders were twisted, she could scarcely use her left arm, and she couldn’t walk without using kinesis and a stick to prop herself up. She was crippled, for all her years to come.

  Rashid Mubarak had once been proud to be with her: the Keshi prince with the loveliest white woman in Ahmedhassa on his arm. But when he’d seen the ruin she’d become, he’d turned away. In public, he’d condemned her failure to complete her mission, but she saw deeper: he was sickened by the sight of her. For four long years she’d not seen Rashid, and she wanted him back with a need that transcended love or hate.

  The desire to utterly destroy Ramita outweighed even that.

  One day I’ll stand straight and tall again. Men will worship me once more – and I’ll disembowel everyone who ever stood against me – including Rashid, if he won’t take me back.

  That dream had brought her to the Veiterholt, twin fortresses built either side of Gydan’s Cut, a giant gash in the land which ran a hundred miles across the Pontic Peninsula, making the tip of the peninsula an island. The Ordo Costruo had built a bridge across the Cut to link the two fortresses, testing their skills before they essayed the greater challenge of the Leviathan Bridge. It was accounted a wonder of the world.

  She examined the mask, thinking of all it symbolised. The Master would not have given it to her by chance. Wearing it was a reminder and a promise of what had been and what could be.

  Heartface will be redeemed, if she stays true.

  She lowered it reluctantly, but kept her gaze on the figure the mirror revealed. It still shocked her that the twisted, ugly reflection was tr
uly her. She swallowed a sob of loss, then turned away to begin the long, painful walk to join the gathering in the hall below.

  *

  Alyssa was last but one to arrive – no surprise, when a child could walk faster than her. Before she entered the gathering, she straightened her spine and carriage using kinesis and morphic-gnosis in a slow and agonising attempt to conceal her deformities – she’d be in excruciating pain and would burn through horrendous amounts of her energy, but it would hide her crooked shape for an hour or two.

  Lamps were dotted about the walls of the stark circular space. The floor, a geometric mosaic about a central motif of a compass, was faded and broken in places. There were two doors but no windows, and the air was stale.

  Seven masked faces turned to watch as she walked with grim stiffness into their midst, forcing herself not to moan with each step. The fortress was cold and they all wore thick dark robes, and their masks and cowls distorted height. They nodded mutely to each other, strangers, yet potential allies – if they agreed to the Master’s proposal, perhaps anonymity would be lifted.

  She instinctively looked for Ironhelm, wondering who he was, and found him walking towards her, equally interested. When he spoke, his voice was muffled; the glass in the eye-holes changed colour and shape. He could be anyone.

  ‘Lady Heartface,’ he said, speaking Rondian, as they’d been commanded to do. ‘I suspect you and I are destined to become acquainted.’ Clearly he too knew the Lantric tales.

  ‘Heartface and Ironhelm don’t always find the love they crave,’ she replied, straining to sound calm when her broken body was murdering her.

  ‘True,’ tinkled a woman disguised as Tear, a sad, androgynous face with glistening ruby-tears flowing from the corner of one eye. ‘I once saw a performance in which Heartface rebuffed Ironhelm and fell into vice. Beak rukked her up the arse on stage. Crassly entertaining for the peasants, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve only even seen High Theatre versions of the Lantric plays,’ Alyssa replied haughtily.

  Of the nine traditional roles, Ironhelm and Heartface were the lovers, Jest contributed humour and wisdom, Angelstar – a forbiddingly blank mask of white and gold – was the force of divine retribution, and Tear was the tragic one, his or her plight always miserable.

  The dual-faced mask of treacherous Twoface stood alone; the man currently wearing it had already mastered the trick of standing so that whoever he was speaking to saw only half his face – either the kindly side, or the cruel one. Beak, the vulgar gossip and philanderer who was most often the cause of misery in the masques, was next to him – if Ironhelm failed to win Heartface, it was usually because Beak had led one or the other astray.

  The eighth mask was Felix, the feline spirit of Luck, both good and bad, worn here by a plump man who reeked of perfume. He glided to Alyssa’s side. ‘They say these personae were the gods of a people who preceded the Lantric pantheon, Lady Heartface,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard that. But tonight, they are merely to protect our identities,’ Alyssa replied. ‘If one falls, they must not drag down the others. The Master told me this,’ she added, to convey her intimacy with the Master’s plans.

  Oh yes, you might think you are insiders, but I’m at the heart of this cabal . . .

  ‘Quite so, Heartface,’ said a new voice. ‘But there are other reasons for the masks.’

  The Master had entered without fanfare. His voice, old and thin, had a hint of humour. He wore the ninth mask: that of the Puppeteer, who narrated the story and set the tone.

  The eight masked men and women dropped to one knee in his honour, but the Puppeteer scolded merrily, ‘My friends, that’s not necessary.’ He lifted his mask and smiled: his name was Ervyn Naxius and he was a piece of living history. Five hundred years ago, he’d been one of the first group of magi to gain the gnosis; he was likely the last original Ascendant mage still alive, with power beyond even a pure-blood.

  Naxius fell out with the Ordo Costruo because of his research into the full possibilities of the gnosis – they’d charged him under the Gnostic Codes, claiming he’d breached every law they had, from deliberately infecting human subjects with daemons to pioneering the creation of reanimated corpses as slaves. He retaliated by betraying the Ordo Costruo to the empire, giving the Rondian Emperor control of the Leviathan Bridge and opening the way for the Crusades. Since then, he’d dropped from view, but his work had never ceased.

  If he could deliver on his promises, no matter the price, he would become Alyssa’s personal saviour. Nothing could be worse than living as she did now.

  When Naxius met Alyssa’s eyes, she felt her heart lighten. You are my truest disciple, his look said. Then he greeted the rest of the room. ‘Welcome, my friends – welcome to the New Age.’

  A faint, noncommittal murmur ran round the circle. Naxius laughed again. ‘I know, I know, an outrageous claim, especially in the wake of the epoch-changing events of the Third Crusade. But in truth, that was just the beginning. History will say that the Third Crusade heralded us: it was just the fanfare before the play.’

  Alyssa wished with every fibre that it be so.

  ‘You’ll be wondering who each other is,’ Naxius continued, ‘but for now, all you need know is that each of you is a powerful person in your own right. What unites you is this: you reached out for greatness, only to be thwarted – sometimes by a rival, and sometimes, Master Felix, by pure bad luck,’ he chuckled, glancing at the man in the cat-mask.

  ‘Acknowledged,’ Felix responded. ‘In my case, fortune certainly didn’t smile.’

  ‘Nor on me,’ Beak put in, ‘although in retrospect, I admit to making some unnecessary enemies – perhaps I put my beak in places it should not have gone.’

  I came so close to grasping a prize beyond reckoning, Alyssa thought angrily. Rashid blamed me, but it wasn’t my fault.

  ‘You might be wondering if there’s a message in the mask you’ve been given,’ Naxius went on. ‘The answer is yes, but not always the obvious one. You will all understand in time.’

  More nods. More sideways glances. Alyssa looked at Ironhelm again, wondering.

  ‘So,’ Naxius went on, ‘I have brought you here for several reasons. Hitherto you’ve had only my word; now you know you’re not alone. The masks, as Heartface correctly deduced, are to preserve anonymity in case of misfortune, and we will continue to use them – but henceforth, should you agree to join me, we will act in concert.

  ‘Second, you’re here to hear my vision first-hand. You all know my broad philosophy: I am a researcher and explorer of the human condition and the nature of the world, most especially, the nature of power. In particular, I have come to appreciate the power of conflict: for this world is an arena of struggle. Species compete for habitat and the right to outbreed their competitors. The pretty song of a bird is really a boast about territory and strength. All species fight for food. Predators hunt prey. Even trees and plants compete, throttling each other as they seek a monopoly on sunlight and moisture. Nature itself is a battlefield.

  ‘Conflict is beautiful, my brethren. In war we are revealed, our truths laid bare. In our struggle to master our homes, our places of commerce, our courts of justice and our battlefields, we become truly alive.’

  ‘A world at war is a chancy place,’ the obese man in the Felix mask put in.

  ‘I agree,’ Naxius replied. ‘Open war is a means – not an end. That end is a beginning for us: a world where opposition to our agenda has been destroyed. You, my friends, are all but masters of your chosen fields; you were so close to ultimate mastery. My purpose is to give you the key, the final weapon you require to crush your enemies and cast them down so low that rising again is inconceivable. We may then remake the world to serve ourselves and those we deem worthy. I see a world where I am free to improve on nature without the trammels of so-called “morality” hindering me. Eggs must be broken to bake, my friends, and so too must society be broken, to be re-made anew. Once the war is over, we will
rule in a peace of our choosing – one that is specifically of our choosing.’

  Yes, thought Alyssa, let it be so.

  ‘Since the Third Crusade, Lyra Vereinen’s people have stabilised the West, and Sultan Salim has done the same in the East,’ he went on. ‘The Ordo Costruo have renewed control of the Bridge, and in so doing, they have all suppressed your opportunities to shine. They are your enemies, as they are mine – cast them down, and suddenly opportunities abound: we will each of us be free to do as nature intends: to predate upon the herd.’

  Alyssa sensed approval around her, but also misgivings.

  Angelstar spoke first, his voice melodic yet strong. ‘Will we not come into conflict ourselves? My ambitions are not small: all of Yuros is my hunting ground.’

  ‘Then already our Ahmedhassan friends are spared your wrath,’ Naxius said with a smile. ‘My friend, the Lantric philosophers spoke of four spheres in which a man may seek influence: the four pillars of power – the Warrior, the Philosopher, the Coiner and the Orator. A warrior seeks to dominate physically, but his understanding of the world of money or of ideas or loyalties is imperfect. Likewise, a philosopher caught up in the world of ideas is seldom either warrior or man of the people. Some can master two or more of these roles, but very few can master them all – Emperor Sertain, in Yuros and the Prophet Aluq-Ahmed, in Ahmedhassa, did, and perhaps a very few others. So, Friend Angelstar, your territory does not overlap with others here: it will bring you into contact with them, but not conflict.’

  Angelstar bowed. ‘Well argued, Master. I understand your reasoning.’

  ‘Excellent. All discovery is preceded by a question.’

  ‘Then I have another,’ Jest said in his clever, urbane voice. ‘A simple one to ask, if not to answer: why?’

  Naxius’ eyes narrowed. ‘In terms you can all understand, Friend Jest? A simple answer: because Antonin Meiros and the Ordo Costruo restrained me, and I do not accept their right to do so.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘But it’s deeper than that, of course: I am centuries old; my motivations are not those of a common man. Comfort, security, love, legacy – I’ve outgrown those. I have fought through the existential dread of facing eternity and made my peace with it: in fact, I intend to go on for ever, no matter the cost. I am purpose, and purpose only, my friends. I see a future ruled by an elite, and of course I wish to be one of them. It is natural evolution, that the mightiest accrue more and more to themselves, and I will not be left behind. When we are done, the world will belong to us, or we will have perished and failed. Evolve or die: that is the lesson of life, and I will not be another’s prey!’