by David Hair
*
The knights of Pallas spent weeks training with their winged steeds, practising for the Grand Tourney. There were all manner of flying beasts filling the skies: gryphons and hippogryphs, wyverns and giant birds, and even one or two perytons, although the winged deer were rare. And many pegasi of course, the heraldic steed of the Corani knights. Half the city clambered to the rooftops to watch the spectacle.
While the knights flew and the ladies of court gossiped, the appointed hour for the first phase of the Master’s plan approached. Ostevan Comfateri’s campaign began in his own chapel, where potential victims came daily, utterly oblivious to their peril.
‘You must build up a network of enslaved souls to do your will,’ the Master had told them. ‘Blood-slaves, infected through your ichor, shed directly from your body to theirs. I leave the “how” to you, use morphic-gnosis to grow fangs, then pump ichor like venom – or use your cock if you are a man – but do remember: those you enslave will lose some of what makes them human: intellect will be suppressed and their baser instincts will rise to the surface, and they will exhibit signs of illness. So move carefully, lest you are detected through your slaves.’
Ostevan had selected his first victims some time ago, and could sense them outside his Unburdening Chancel, waiting their turn to see him. A steady stream of the pious had come in and out all afternoon, confessing pathetic sins that said more about their sanctimony than their spirituality. Finally, the second-last supplicant, a fat dowager seeking atonement for some pathetic misdemeanour, waddled out of the booth. Ostevan took a moment alone to rearrange his physiognomy. The daemon’s ichor ran in his veins, but the purest ichor was stored in a reservoir next to his heart, from where it could be pumped into semen or into hollow canines in his mouth, for a purer form of infection.
Once his body was ready, he touched the lamp, signalling readiness for his next Unburdening. His chosen victim entered the chancel, a curtained room off the main chapel, screened not just with cloth but gnostic wards, to ensure privacy. She entered in a wash of perfume, her shapely form swaying. She’d been coming daily, confessing lurid sins of sensuous desire, all the time her eyes suggesting . . .
‘Lady Jenet, how lovely to see you again – but surely it was only yesterday you were last here?’ And then, the time wasn’t right . . . but it is now.
He extended his senses, confirming that no one else lingered outside, then gave his full attention to the woman kneeling before him. Jenet Brunlye was a shrewd, attractive woman in her thirties. She fancied herself an intriguer, and had once been Ril Endarion’s lover. He’d been dropping hints for some time that he liked what he saw in her.
‘I rather think that I’m addicted to being with you, Comfateri,’ Jenet replied, with a sly wink. ‘You provide such comfort.’
‘I’m flattered, Milady – but it’s hardly proper to say such a thing.’
‘Being “proper” bores me – I’m something of a rebel,’ she answered, fluttering her eyelids.
No, you aren’t, Ostevan thought. You’re exactly the opposite of a rebel, because everything you do reinforces the servitude of women. Not that he cared. ‘Really, Lady Jenet?’
‘Most women are so conservative. I feel free to do whatever I want, with whomever I want.’
‘Is this something for which you seek absolution? You don’t seem terribly contrite.’
She leaned closer, her rich perfume wafting over him. ‘Honestly, Comfateri? I’m not contrite. I’ve seen your intelligence, your wit, your charm . . . I’m not immune to desire, Ostevan.’ She put a hand on his thigh. ‘I don’t think you are either. I’m sure we can work together, in all sorts of ways.’ She slipped from her kneeler, shuffled between his legs and unlaced his breeches.
Sink in your hooks, then play the line. He’d seen the game many times, played in many ways. This was far from subtle, but Jenet certainly knew her trade, teasing him cleverly, then taking his thickening cock in her mouth, looking up at him as if in worship as she sucked and licked, fingers working on the lower shaft while her lips and tongue tormented the head. Very soon he was gasping as he felt the inevitable begin. With a convulsive jerk, he went rigid and ejaculated in her mouth, the rawness of the sensation exquisite.
She licked her lips, and tittered, ‘There, Comfateri – that’s just a taster . . . for both of us.’
He stroked her hair, waiting – then the ichor struck. Her eyes bulged as her body tried frantically to reject his seed; verdant darkness blossomed in her throat and spread like a stain beneath her skin, tendrils following her veins as she choked and coughed. He clamped his hands over her jaw to stop her from screaming, and with his mind he shut down any attempt to call for help with her gnosis. Her eyes were filled with betrayal—
—and then the daemon’s mind latched onto hers, crushing Jenet Brunlye and sweeping her aside. In her place another intellect entered, full of hatred and barely restrained violence. The struggle was brief, then her eyes darkened and bled thin red tears.
‘Master’ – her voice was low, intense – ‘how may I serve you?’
*
‘Concentrate, Cordan,’ Basia de Sirou admonished. Trying to teach the young Sacrecour heir was a trial, but for some reason Dirk Setallius had asked her to help the boy to attune his first periapt. Ordinary gems, amber and even some woods were used to enhance the efficacy of a mage’s gnosis, sometimes even doubling the power, so getting a periapt right was no small thing. But Cordan had all the concentration of a kitten: he frowned and stared at the gem, and for a few moments, its light simmered – but he heard a bird at the window and looked away, and the light died. Basia had been with him for an hour now, but he’d not managed to keep it going for more than a few minutes.
‘You need to keep it alight for at least six hours,’ Basia told him again, ignoring his angry glare. ‘It’s not going to happen by itself, and no one else is going to do it.’
Cordan sighed and looked back towards the window. ‘When does the tourney begin?’
‘Properly, the day after tomorrow,’ Basia replied. ‘The commons have begun their archery and the like, but it’s the jousting everyone’s come to see, of course.’
‘My Uncle Brylion Fasterius will win,’ he declared confidently. ‘He’s a great and noble knight. I’ve seen him ride – he’s unstoppable.’
Brylion Fasterius: ‘great and noble’? she thought sourly. She pushed the gem in front of Cordan again. ‘Come on. You’re expected to have this attuned when classes resume next week.’
Cordan wrinkled his nose. ‘If you weren’t such a useless teacher, it’d be easy.’ He glanced at Coramore, perched on a sofa reading a book of poetry, then down at Basia’s artificial legs. ‘Don’t Northerners expose imperfect babies?’ he jeered, thinking himself oh-so-clever.
‘They leave them out to feed the wolves is what I heard,’ Coramore tittered, looking up.
‘I’m so glad that I’m physically perfect,’ Cordan said, preening. ‘A king must be, or he’s denied the throne.’ He gave Basia’s legs a cruel look. ‘Must be horrible, to be a cripple and know you’ll never amount to anything.’
Basia felt her face harden. ‘Actually, I was born with two legs.’
Coramore giggled. ‘Did they fall off?’
‘Did they sin, so you had to cut them off?’ Cordan sniggered.
Basia straightened. ‘Since you’ve asked, I was beside a well with three other girls, all normal, like me. I was thirteen, and had been at the Arcanum for just nine months. It was night time, and we’d slipped out to drink some wine we’d stolen.’
‘You shouldn’t have been drinking wine,’ Coramore said primly. ‘Did you fall and break your legs off?’ She snapped her fingers vindictively. ‘Snap! Snap!’
‘It was your own fault,’ Cordan agreed.
Basia’s eyes glazed over. ‘Being outside when it started saved my life. We heard the first screams, and later I found that the knights – big brave Sacrecour mage-knights – had already begun c
utting the throats of the sleeping students. We four girls were wondering what the screams meant when a horde of knights and students – senior Sacrecour students, forewarned and forearmed – burst in. They surrounded us, then raped us, several times. Then they held us over the rim of the well, cut our throats and dropped us in. I managed to arch away from the knife enough that it only opened my skin, and the man cutting me lost his grip – my blood was slippery, you see. I fell in, then Jenna was dropped on top and that almost killed me. I was floating down there and they could see I wasn’t dead so they threw stones and mage-bolts, but I had just enough shielding to protect myself – though part of me wanted to die anyway.’
She looked up to find the two Sacrecour children staring, periapt and poetry forgotten.
‘Then a very big knight came and shoved the students and lesser knights away. He saw me and laughed, made jokes I can’t remember, and began a spell of some sort. I guessed this was the end, that all I’d done in escaping the knife was to give myself a few extra minutes of Hel. But then someone slammed into that giant brute above and slashed a blade across his face, then he whirled about and started hacking at anyone in reach, and two more bodies tumbled in – Sacrecour knights, slain by this mad Corani boy. Then they closed in on him, and he did the only thing he could – he leaped into the well too.’
‘I don’t care about any of this,’ Cordan muttered, but he didn’t look away. Coramore had looked slightly ill since the word ‘raped’ was spoken out loud.
Basia ignored Cordan and carried on, ‘This Corani boy landed beside me with a splash and I grabbed onto him, and we both looked up, seeing the ring of silhouetted faces. They were howling abuse at my new comrade, and he yelled right back. Then the big knight reappeared and cast his spell, and collapsed the well on top of us.’
She swallowed a lump in her throat. So many years on, and the memory was still raw. ‘My knees and shins were crushed, and I should have died – but that amazing boy, no older than I was, kept me alive for three days without food, heat and sometimes even air – he had just gained Air-affinity and I swear he found pockets of it where there were none. He kept me talking when I drifted at Death’s door. He got me free of the rocks and pulled me through the drains and out to freedom. 909, that was. That big, ugly brute still has the scar on his face – your hero, Brylion Fasterius, raper of students and slayer of sleeping children.’
Cordan and Coramore stared wide-eyed. Then the prince said, ‘909 was a glorious victory.’
But Coramore asked, ‘Who was the boy? Did he live?’
‘He did,’ Basia said, and for the first time a tear ran down her cheek. ‘His name is Ril Endarion.’ Then she rose stiffly and quietly walked away.
*
The prince and princess sat quietly for a few minutes. Coramore studied her older brother, looking for a reaction. That he’d been affected by the crippled freak’s tale was clear, and that wouldn’t do. ‘That was all made-up,’ she declared. ‘I know for a fact that she was born with no legs. None of that happened.’
‘But in 909—’
‘In 909 Father led our armies through the gates of Pallas and the Corani ran away. That’s all that happened – that’s the truth of it.’ She took her brother’s hand. ‘These people are our enemies, brother. One day we will banish them all, except those we behead. Then you’ll be emperor – and I’ll be empress.’
He met her eyes and nodded sullenly. He picked up the gem, looked at it, then threw it across the room. ‘I wish I was riding in the tourney,’ he complained. ‘I bet I’d win.’
Coramore looked up at him avidly. ‘You’re growing taller all the time. One day you’ll be as tall as Brylion!’ Though in truth, even she knew in her heart that her brother was small for his age – but their father had been too, and he’d been emperor. And Cordan had changed: before the gnosis he’d been listless, but now he burned with energy.
That will be me soon, too, she thought enviously.
Their door opened again and they caught a glimpse of their watch-dog, Sir Bruss Lamgren, who admitted Jenet Brunlye. Cordan leaped eagerly to his feet. Coramore wasn’t so pleased. Lady Jenet might be helping them, but she didn’t have to like her.
‘Good morrow, Highnesses,’ the noblewoman purred, focusing her smile on Cordan. ‘I trust you’re well?’
‘Very!’ Cordan declared. ‘I scored top in my last test.’ He was looking at Lady Jenet with devotion, which made Coramore’s mouth go sour.
‘How wonderful,’ Lady Jenet said, clapping her hands. ‘You’ll be graduating in record time, I’m sure.’
Coramore thought she looked wretched: her eyes were all bloodshot and her skin, beneath her powder, dry and flaking. Though Cordan hadn’t appeared to have noticed such ugliness. ‘Do you have news from Uncle Garod?’ she asked bluntly, trying to forestall all the usual fawning.
‘I do,’ Jenet replied. ‘He’s coming to Pallas to free you and restore you to your rightful throne.’ She bent closer, and Coramore winced: her breath was like rotting meat. ‘The tourney will bring people from everywhere and all eyes will be upon it. No one will be watching you, except’ – she glanced towards the door and smirked – ‘the Mutthead.’
‘Why can’t you rescue us now?’ Coramore demanded.
‘Because this is about more than a rescue – this is a restoration, Princess. You wouldn’t want the Imbecile Queen to escape, would you?’
‘I want to see her head roll,’ Cordan declared, ‘along with all these Corani liars!’
Jenet stroked his cheek. ‘What a wonderful king and emperor you will make, dear.’
Cordan gazed at Jenet Brunlye with his tongue almost hanging out. Coramore decided that she hated her. ‘You look sick,’ she said, to make sure Cordan noticed.
The noblewoman stared at her and for a moment, Coramore felt an intense sense of malice. ‘Apologies, Highness. I’m battling a cold.’ Jenet dropped her voice as footsteps approached. ‘Be ready. The day is coming.’ She whispered something in Cordan’s ear, and he blushed.
‘What did she say?’ Coramore asked, when she was gone.
‘Nothing,’ Cordan replied, flushing hard. ‘Nothing at all.’
13
Finostarre
Jousting
Jousting – the noble art of two men trying to knock each other off a horse with a stick – arose from the drills of the cavalry units maintained by the Rondian legions. Like all things frivolous, it was adopted by the royal courts and made into a spectacle. Over the years it’s likely cost us more noble sons than real warfare.
LIVUS LIVIDIUS, KORE SCHOLAR, 823
Finostarre, near Pallas, Yuros
Aprafor 935
In the last weeks of Aprafor, the most renowned mage-knights in the Rondian Empire converged on the site of the Imperial Ludus: the village of Finostarre, four miles northeast of Pallas. The tourney was to be held on fields behind the Convent of Sainte-Lucia, named for the dead Mater-Imperia. On a bright and warm afternoon the royal household arrived in a caravan of carriages and wagons, and after the Imperial Guard swept the premises and surroundings for danger, Lyra and her ladies went for a walk in the manor gardens while servants unloaded the baggage.
‘Wurther offered me rooms in the local convent,’ Lyra was telling Hilta Pollanou. ‘I think he was making a point – either way, I couldn’t bear the thought – thank goodness Lord Crofton offered his manor!’
‘How long was my Queen in the convent?’ asked Medelie Aventour, a new lady-in-waiting; her family’s strategically important estates bordered the Duchy of Fauvion.
‘I was a Daughter of Kore for my first nineteen years.’
‘That’s almost as long as I’ve been alive,’ Medelie noted, sounding faintly bored.
‘Me too,’ Lyra replied coolly, ‘but they do say that youth isn’t an accomplishment.’ The subtle put-down got a titter of appreciation from the group, but Lyra regretted the cruelty immediately. Her family sent her here, but they used to favour the Fasterius cour
t. I should be making her welcome. She sought to soften her words. ‘But you wear it well, Mistress Medelie.’ They shared a hollow smile and Medelie curtseyed, but there was little warmth in her eyes. More and more young men and women were being sent to Pallas now, hoping to progress in her court, which brought with it a whole new set of problems. And Medelie Aventour was wearing red, a colour Lyra mistrusted since her vision.
She turned her ear to the main conversation: the upcoming tourney, of course. Her ladies had lost the ability to speak of aught else.
‘We’ll prove that the greatest knights are the Corani,’ young Lady Emali Kuipper exclaimed.
‘Is the ability to knock people off their mounts with big sticks a sign of greatness?’ Lyra asked, though secretly she was just as excited. ‘It’s a little barbaric, don’t you think?’
‘No, no, Milady,’ Hilta replied, ‘there’s great skill involved—’
‘—a knight must be brave, first and foremost,’ Jenet put in, dabbing at her nose – she looked a little unwell, but was gamely carrying on. ‘With a strong sword arm, proven in battle.’
‘And wielding a mighty lance!’ Medelie tittered. ‘A natural rider, good in the saddle.’
That’s all a little too risqué, Lyra thought. ‘The best knights are also masters of the gentler arts, as I recall,’ she said reprovingly.
‘Indeed,’ Hilta agreed. ‘Mariat said that a knight was more than just a man on a horse: he must be a courtier, accomplished in dancing, verse and song, conversant with philosophy and the teachings of Kore and Corineus – and, of course, of unimpeachable honour.’
‘There,’ willowy Sedina Waycross exclaimed, ‘you define the very soul of a Corani knight.’
‘Do the knights of other Houses not have these qualities?’ Emali asked innocently.
‘I think it’s well-known that the Sacrecours favoured knights of lesser quality,’ Hilta declared.
