Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  She followed Hilta’s outstretched hand, and saw Ril and Pearl soaring over one end of the course, where the crowds were in pandemonium. Parqueton and his hippogryph were both tangled in separate parts of the safety nets, one roaring, the other shrieking. The air was full of thrown hats, twirling scarves and the thunderous roar of the people.

  ‘ENDARION! ENDARION! PRINCE OF THE SPEAR! PRINCE OF THE SPEAR!’

  ‘I don’t know how much more I can take,’ she whispered to Hilta as she rose to acclaim Ril. Pearl was flapping back towards the Royal Box. ‘Thank Kore there’s only one more day!’

  Beside her, Duke Garod slumped in his seat. Then he turned to Lyra and said grudgingly, ‘Congratulations, Majesty. Your prince lives to fight another day.’

  That’s all very well for him, she thought, but I die and am reborn here every time he fights . . .

  *

  Ril strode into the victors’ arena, shoulder to shoulder with the other three remaining contenders. He’d barely had time to throw a bucket of water over his head after the bout, towel down and change. The others looked better groomed – or at least Brylion Fasterius and Elvero Salinas of Canossi did; like Ril, they were bareheaded. The fourth champion, the Incognito ‘Wronged Man’, still wore his helmet and visor, and he reeked of steel and sweat. By now many in the crowd had picked up the buzz of gossip about his identity.

  The Royal Box filled Ril’s eyes, and for a moment he just basked in the adulation, surely a measure of his rising popularity. Competing had been a risk, not just to life and limb, but more importantly, to his reputation – but by reaching the semi-finals, he’d sealed his position as the preeminent knight of Coraine. Rolven Sulpeter and Jorden Falquist had both fallen in the earlier round. Esvald Berlond’s duties – he was in charge of security in Pallas in Ril’s absence – had prevented him from competing, but in any event, he was no jouster.

  Ril took the applause gratefully, drinking in the sea of faces, the waving hands, the dignified applause of the older folk and the rapturous fervour of the young. The lesser nobility and well-to-do had been permitted to leave the stands to surround the Royal Box, the better to view the Paramour ceremony. Guards strained to keep them contained as cheering filled the air.

  ‘ENDARION!’

  ‘FASTERIUS!’

  ‘SALINAS!’

  But here and there among the cacophony was an insidious call, mischievous, perhaps even seditious: ‘Takwyth . . . Takwyth—!’

  The Wronged Man gave no sign he heard as the four men came before the queen and went down on one knee.

  A fanfare blew, and Lyra raised a hand, signalling quiet. The silence spread back through the crowd as everyone strained to hear how she would deal with this. Her voice was clear; she’d been well-tutored in how to be heard in large gatherings. ‘Dear People,’ she started, ‘it’s now time for the four champions to choose a Paramour, their choice for the Regna d’Amore. Our forefathers believed a man’s worth to be embodied in martial prowess and a woman’s in beauty. Who are we to question such time-honoured traditions?’

  Ril smiled at Lyra’s implicit criticism, and wondered who else noticed.

  ‘So,’ Lyra went on, ‘I now call upon our four brave champions to come forward, take the coronets and pass them on to the Lady who is their chosen Paramour.’

  The first victor that day, the handsome, southern-dark knight Elvero Salinas, son of the Duke of Canossi, strode forth and climbed the steps to kneel before Lyra and accept a gold filigree coronet. Brylion Fasterius followed, a hulking beast of a man with a scarred face. It gave Ril immense satisfaction that he’d put that scar there. The crowd strained to hear what Lyra said to the third man, the Incognito, but she stuck to formulaic words, and the anonymous knight’s response was muffled. Then Ril accepted his coronet from his wife.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Husband,’ she said softly, though she looked tense and exhausted.

  ‘You are of course my Paramour,’ he said, meaning only to compliment her.

  ‘Don’t you dare pick me,’ she said, her quiet voice firm.

  ‘But—’

  She dropped her voice lower, almost snarling. ‘I am Empress – I will not be put in front of this crowd to be judged like some piece of horsemeat, especially not when I’m with child!’

  He was utterly taken aback by her anger, but he bowed his head and re-joined the other champions as they lined up facing the crowd, supposedly so they could assess the beauty of the women in the stalls. The crowd fell silent . . . and then dissolved into laughter as a lowborn woman ripped open her bodice and screeched, ‘I’m yours, Prince Ril – just ten pfennig a poke!’ She jiggled her full breasts, then fled back into the depth of the press.

  Ril opted for amused disdain.

  ‘I believe in earlier days, the chosen Paramours were ours for the night,’ Elvero Salinas remarked. ‘There are tales of men sleeping through the finals, so worn out were they from their night-time exertions.’

  Brylion guffawed and gave Ril a sly glance. ‘Then it’s a shame our empress is confined, eh? If I asked, would she refuse, do you think?’

  ‘She’d spit in your face,’ Ril growled.

  Brylion snorted. ‘I bet she’d like a real man to—’

  The Wronged Man tapped the giant knight in the chest. ‘You will not defame the queen.’

  Brylion stared into the visor-slit. ‘Don’t overreach yourself, Takwyth,’ he muttered.

  It’s not your place to defend my wife’s honour, Takky, Ril thought, but before he could speak, Elvero Salinas was called forth to select his Paramour and the moment was lost. He watched as the Canossi heir walked back and forth, playing up to the drama, while turning his own mind to the choice he must make . . .

  Jenet? But she looks unwell, and a lot of people know that before Lyra, Jenet and I used to be lovers. Sedina would be next choice for most . . . Lady Emali is pretty and untainted . . . Then his eyes were drawn to the new girl, from near Fauvion – Medelie Aventour, that was her name. She was laughing with Sedina, and her smile was beautiful as sunset. She would make a good, neutral choice . . . yes, her.

  As tradition demanded, Elvero used his scabbarded sword, the coronet dangling from the hilt, to select a blushing Lady Emali Kuipper. She looked overwhelmed. The women beside her helped settle the coronet, then she made her way to the front of the Royal Box and took Elvero’s arm; the Estellan clasped his gauntlet over her small hand possessively and the crowd cheered approvingly.

  Brylion Fasterius swaggered forward, and Ril noticed the women in the Royal Box visibly shrinking from him. The hulking knight didn’t hesitate, though, extending his coronet to Sedina Waycross. Tradition forbade refusal, unless there was some grave issue – a great age difference or a gulf in station – so Sedina had no grounds to decline. She ignored the pitying looks, feigning pleasure as she contrived to take Brylion’s arm while maintaining a distance between them. Ril hoped she had the sense to make sure she and Brylion were never alone – the man was a brute, with a string of rape claims, as yet unproven, against him, but the Great Houses were notoriously untouchable.

  ‘Let the Knight-Incognito come forth,’ the herald called, ‘and select his Paramour!’

  The crowd went into a hush as the armoured man strode forward, his visored gaze turning left and right as he prowled once back and forth along the front of the stage. Then with a decisive gesture, he proffered his coronet . . .

  . . . to Medelie Aventour.

  You prick, Ril thought.

  He watched the young woman’s lively smile brighten as the crowds gushed approval and the ladies about her feigned pleasure. She rose to her feet gracefully and placed the coronet on her dark tresses, then made her way down to the unnamed knight’s side. Garod Sacrecour was frowning: the Aventour lands bordered his, no doubt he was uneasy that she was at court in Pallas. Lyra’s face was unreadable.

  Then it was Ril’s turn. He stepped forth, his mind still unmade, gazing along the line . . .

  . . . and Jene
t caught his eye, and for a moment all he could think was how damned good it had been, she and him. Two young aspirants in a treacherous court, practising the arts of love on each other while planning their campaigns, her to snare a duke or an earl, he to become knight-commander. And why shouldn’t we still be friends . . .?

  It would be so easy, effortless . . . Lyra’s confined, and I’ve got a suite to myself . . .

  Without knowing how he’d got there, he was halfway up the stairs, his hand extended, and Jenet was rising and accepting the coronet with a satisfied little smile, one he knew so well . . .

  *

  When Ril entered the ballroom that evening, it was already full and throbbing with sound. Jenet was on his arm, her presence so familiar it was as if the years since their relationship ended were a dream – yet here he was, Prince-Consort, the highest knight of the realm, and it felt inevitable that she was at his side.

  And how inevitable the coming night felt, too . . .

  Jenet wore a full-length emerald gown with a high-peaked collar lined with ermine that set off her long golden-brown hair beautifully. She’d always had a business-like aspect to her face, a way of watching the world through narrowed eyes, but tonight she radiated triumph. Only he was close enough to see traces of a cold or some other ailment, but she was clearly determined to seize this chance to shine. The coronet glinted on her forehead and she looked cool and composed as they made their way through the press.

  In another world, we would have wed long ago . . . ‘Are you pleased?’ he murmured.

  ‘Ril, dear boy, I’ve never stopped missing you. You’ve always been the best. It was just a shame: you know how it was – one must have more on one’s plate than wine and love.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Did I treat you terribly badly?’

  ‘You did,’ he said, ‘but maybe I’ll let you make it up to me?’

  They shared a secret look that tore years from his life.

  As they approached the high table, Sir Oryn Levis intercepted them, stammering something complimentary to Jenet – she’d clearly given him a ride at some point in the past – then bent to Ril’s ear. ‘You know that the Incognito is Takwyth, Prince?’

  ‘I’ve known for days,’ Ril replied, seeking an escape; Lumpy was a bore at the best of times.

  ‘The knights are saying, “Our Captain’s back”,’ Levis rumbled, oblivious to Ril’s inattention. He didn’t look entirely unhappy; Levis was a born follower, and a Takwyth man to the core.

  ‘Takky is yesterday’s hero,’ he told the knight, patted his arm and pulled Jenet with him through a crowd of well-wishers, accepting congratulations as he headed for the ordeal that would be the high table. Brylion Fasterius was already there with Sedina Waycross; Ril complimented Sedina – she was an attractive woman, if self-regarding and imprudent and currently rather pale – and ignored Brylion. He accepted a faint bow from Garod Sacrecour, kissed the hand of the duke’s timid wife and greeted a group of ambassadors from the vassal-states, some of whom he actually liked. Jenet was perfect throughout – she’d mastered the arts of the courtier, especially when it came to witty small-talk. Ril contented himself with playing the triumphant champion, the man of action, confident of success. He laughed off the Canossi nobles’ veiled comments about Elvero’s renown and ignored the bellicose remarks about Brylion’s might from the Sacrecour-Fasterius coterie.

  ‘Hail, Prince of the Spear!’ Avreu Bakti, Duke of Klief, greeted him. ‘How do you fancy going head-to-head with the “Incognito”?’ He winked at the last word.

  All those in earshot hushed to hear Ril’s reply, but the question was hardly a surprise and he was ready for it. ‘An exile can always be exiled again – but why bother? I don’t fear Yesterday’s Man. Your health, Milords! I trust Pallas has made you feel welcome.’

  ‘Like a well-paid whore,’ put in Garod Sacrecour, already wine-soaked, loudly. Ril noticed that the other dukes had begun to distance themselves.

  ‘We Corani have never had to pay for the favours of a lady, so I’m not sure what you mean,’ Ril replied, watching to see who smiled: everyone but Garod, as it turned out. ‘To Pallas, our loving Mother,’ he added, lifting his goblet and meeting Garod’s eye, daring him to drink.

  Garod scowled and joined the toast, then found an excuse to be elsewhere. Alexan Salinas, Duke of Canossi, a swarthy man with a distinctly southern caste to his face, inclined his head slyly. ‘Lord Garod still smarts at the disrespect the Pallas mob showed when the news of Constant’s death broke.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard for the lowborn to conceal their true feelings the way we noblemen can,’ Ril replied, and Salinas snorted. ‘I wish your son Elvero good fortune in the lists tomorrow,’ Ril said, adding with a grin, ‘Unless he faces me.’

  Duke Salinas raised his cup. ‘Elvero does the House of Canossi proud. As you do yours.’

  And that, Lord Garod, is how to make friends – not snarking about the city you wish to rule.

  Then the meal-chimes sounded and Ril led Jenet to the high table. He’d been placed opposite a big man in a green jacket and white tunic – Corani colours, but unadorned with a sigil. His head was covered by a lightly made helm blended with a Lantric mask: Twoface; half the face benign, the other sinister.

  Twoface? Damned good choice for a two-faced prick, Takky!

  Seated beside the masked knight, wearing a dowdy cream dress that did little justice to her beauty, was Medelie Aventour. Ril made a show of kissing her hand, then helped Jenet sit, before settling into his own chair. He remembered an altercation, five years ago . . . ‘It seems I made the high table after all,’ he told the masked man.

  The Incognito considered him through the eye-slits, but said nothing.

  ‘Oh, come on, sir,’ Ril teased, ‘we know who you are – won’t the mask just get in the way of a good meal? Take it off: you’re among friends.’

  ‘I’ll keep it on,’ the knight rumbled, his voice muffled and distorted. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we can have the left-overs sent to your room afterwards, so you can keep your strength up.’

  Jenet whispered, into his mind, in an amused voice.

 

 

  He ignored that and turned to Medelie. ‘You look lovely, Mistress Aventour. I trust you’re enjoying life at court? Does it compare favourably with Fauvion?’

  ‘Fauvion has always been rather provincial,’ she replied smoothly. He found her hard to read; she had a formality and maturity that was hard to reconcile with the vivacity he’d admired earlier. ‘My father believes our fortunes lie with Pallas.’

  ‘Your family lands border the lands of the Earl of Fauvion, yes?’

  ‘Yes, but Father also has estates in Tergatland, south of the Bruin.’

  ‘Close to Saint Balphus Abbey?’ he asked, suddenly a little more interested.

  ‘Father once owned the monastery – it was bequeathed to the Church by my family.’

  Ahh . . . I wonder what your father knew of the ‘guest’ there . . . He glanced at the masked man beside her, wondering if there was some message in Takwyth’s selection. ‘Did your family have any Corani connections?’

  She glanced at Takwyth. ‘Father had friends at court, prior to 909,’ she answered carefully.

  He was becoming intrigued, but then trumpets blared and Lyra entered the ballroom, resplendent in a golden gown fringed in purple, her train carried by four of her younger ladies. The room rose for her, even the large, sullen Sacrecour contingent. She read a short speech about consolidation of friendships among the elite of Rondelmar. ‘We live in testing times,’ she concluded. ‘Only through unity can we prevail, and keep the empire strong.’ It was simple stuff, easy to agree upon and therefore perfect for the event.

  Everyone sat, and servants bearing heaped platters began to pour in. Here was all the
bounty of the north: huge haunches of roasted pork and venison, game-birds drenched in honey or wine, mountains of root vegetables. Bread confections as tall as a man followed, and giant pitchers of wine. The gathering eagerly settled into the business of gorging on favourite dishes, getting drunk, groping serving girls and shouting across the tables at each other in disjointed conversations.

  The high table was the only silent spot in the room; few of them were managing to keep up any kind of conversation. The awkwardness became pervasive, and it was a relief when the platters were finally taken away. Takwyth ate nothing, though he sipped wine by tilting his mask back an inch or so. Medelie looked nervous of speaking to him. Brylion, further down the table, was an uncouth presence, and Sedina was drinking steadily. Ril and Jenet were able to converse amiably with Elvero Salinas, who was a regular on the tourney circuit and full of wild anecdotes of derring-do in the skies, as well as tales of bad luck – lances that went astray, saddlery that broke on impact and flying mounts that died mid-flight. Lady Emali listened with bated breath, and Ril recognised all the signs of burgeoning infatuation.

  Then it was time for the Acclamation of the Paramours. The four champions led them into the middle of the room as the musicians began an Estellan tarantella, a dance designed to show off the grace and beauty of the women, to better allow the crowd to select their Regna d’Amore.

  To Ril, everything had an air of inevitability . . . Sedina was clearly drunk, and stumbled across the dancefloor, while Medelie looked overawed by the occasion and underwhelmed by her partner – for all his prowess, Takwyth was no dancer. Emali initially looked to be the favourite, combining natural grace with a youthful sweetness, and Elvero was, inevitably, a masterful dancer. But Ril and Jenet had danced together many times – and in so many ways – that he knew they would triumph.