Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  Then, quite unexpectedly, halfway through the tarantella, Medelie woke up. Perhaps some spirit of movement and music took possession of her, or maybe her true nature refused to hide. With a sudden and unexpected turn she spun away from her partner’s hand and into the centre of the square, coming to a perfectly balanced pause, and the mood of the whole room changed. Every eye was now on her as she spun about Takwyth as if he were as wooden-limbed as Basia di Sirou. Every move was one of elegance and restrained passion. As the men retreated from the dancefloor, Ril knew he was staring, but no one would notice; there’d been a collective sucking-in of breath, and then an almost grateful gasp as the music reached its crescendo.

  ‘Kore’s Blood, that was a surprise,’ Jenet muttered in Ril’s ear as he led her from the floor. ‘I wonder what other tricks she has up her sleeves?’

  ‘You’d be the one to find out,’ he muttered back.

  There was only one choice of Regna d’Amore possible now, and the whole room rose to acclaim Lady Medelie. Ril joined the applause in perfunctory fashion. His mind was already questing ahead as his eyes met Jenet’s. He already knew how good it was going to be, even though he could see that she was losing her battle with her cold. This close, even the candlelight couldn’t conceal her bloodshot eyes and way her pale gums drew back from her teeth, making them look elongated, even dangerous, for an odd second.

  Don’t be foolish, he chided himself. Jenet and I dreamed of being the stars of the court, and tonight we’ll consummate that dream – and maybe make other plans. If anyone can see me through this maze of failed pregnancies and petty intrigues, she can.

  Feeling Lyra’s eyes on him, he reached for the nearest goblet and drained it, then reached for another.

  *

  Midnight found Ril pacing his suite, unable to lie down, unable to sit and barely able to think. He felt feverish, flushed with too much wine, his pulse too fast, all his senses heightened. He knew he was caught up in the throes of lust and drunk, really drunk, for the first time in years. All his patient perseverance with Lyra felt tonight like a stupid, foolish waste of time.

  Jenet and I should have begun this years ago, when I knew that Lyra was never going to be enough for me . . . When will she come?

  The court had returned to Crofton Manor after the banquet, and he to his lonely suite. Lyra was at the far end of the floor, in Lady Crofton’s confinement rooms, guarded by Basia and Geni and attended by Hilta, Sedina and Jenet. Doubtless Jenet would have to wait until everyone was asleep before she could come to him – but surely they were all snoring by now?

  He’d washed and put on a clean tunic, and the gallon or more of water he’d downed to try and clear his head was beginning to work . . . so now all he could do was pace and fret. Will I do this? Clearly I shouldn’t . . . but will I?

  Then there was a faint knock and he almost tripped in his hurry to pull it open, reaching out to drag Jenet in and—

  ‘Lyra!’

  His wife looked at him quizzically, her hands on her swelling belly. She was clad in a red silk nightdress and slippers. Her blonde hair was unbound and she looked lovely in her unassuming way. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Yes – yes!’ He managed a courtly bow, his mind whirling. ‘I assumed you’d be asleep by now. Come in, come in!’ He walked to the drink stand. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she replied, looking around. ‘You have larger rooms than me.’

  ‘It’s Baron Crofton’s own room – are you unwell? I can summon Domara—’

  ‘No, please, not that draken-heart!’ Lyra turned and seized his hand. ‘I wanted to see my husband, but everyone seems to think that’s a crime. So I have to sneak about like a thief just to be with you.’

  He realised he was still looking at her vacantly, as if she might yet transform into the woman he had expected. Dear Kore, what if Jenet knocks on my door now? He went to the entrance and sealed it with a ward, then turned back to his wife. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, with a look of determination on her face that was usually reserved for the council table. He’d never been able to reconcile her intellectual and moral courage and spirit with her physical and emotional timidity – but none of that mousiness was evident right now. ‘There are all manner of things wrong, Ril. That man is here: Solon Takwyth. Setallius has his Volsai on high alert: they know where he’s sleeping, and at the first sign that he’s seeking to undermine us, we’ll throw him in the dungeons.’

  Ril blinked – this was as far from his tolerant wife as he’d ever seen. ‘But Takwyth’s the finest knight in Koredom – he says so himself,’ he replied, trying for mirth he didn’t feel.

  ‘Dirklan says that “finest knight” doesn’t mean “deadliest killer”. He’s got people who can pierce wardings without a trace and turn sleepers into dead men. I’ll not sit idly by and let another man take my child’s future away.’

  She’s like a cornered vixen, Ril thought, almost unnerved by her intensity. But he approved; he’d come to think of her as passionless, but she clearly wasn’t. ‘No one will touch you, I swear.’

  She looked up at him with a hint of her old hero-worship. She seemed to be wrestling with something, then she caught his hands in hers and pulled him to the sofa. ‘Do you want to see something?’ she asked shyly, and when he nodded, perplexed, she unknotted her dressing gown. The red silk nightgown was fitted, emphasising her tummy. ‘Look! I’m having a baby.’

  The abrupt change in the tone and subject threw him, but to his surprise, he found that it intrigued him too. He’d not been intrigued by his wife in a long time, so he didn’t have to feign interest as he sat beside her, looking at her properly for the first time in quite a while. If anything, her face was thinner – but her breasts were growing larger and her belly was tight and firm as a melon. ‘Is it . . . um . . . progressing well?’

  She stroked the tight silk over her tummy and nodded. ‘Domara the Draken says she can hear a heartbeat and that all signs point to healthy.’ Her face was full of heightened hope and fear. ‘The other two miscarriages happened earlier than this. And I feel . . . good, really good. Healthy and strong.’ She sat up a little, gripped the hem of her nightgown and drew it up over her belly, then sank into the back of the sofa. ‘See if you can feel him move. Sometimes I think I can.’

  He stared at her stretched stomach, very white, with blue veins and silvery stretch marks. The tang of her body filled his nostrils too, an earthy, fecund aroma he found unexpectedly stirring – he’d been lusting all night, after all, even if not for her.

  Did Kore send her here to keep me on the path of the righteous?

  But Jenet’s face still shone in his mind. ‘Lyra, shouldn’t you—?’

  ‘Domara gave me an unguent for my belly,’ she interrupted, ‘but I still have stretchmarks. The skin’s so tight it hurts. But the healers can magick them away afterwards.’

  ‘Um, that’s good, but should you be here? Didn’t Domara say—?’

  ‘Hush! Don’t mention her again.’ She took his hands and held them against her belly. ‘Feel it – that’s our baby, growing inside me. I’m so scared and happy, all at once.’

  He stroked her skin as she leaned back, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of unexpected invitation. To his surprise he found his mouth going dry as she pulled the nightdress the rest of the way up, over her breasts. They looked . . . majestic, the aureoles large and crimson, the nipples engorged. She looked up at him in a way he’d not seen since their first night together, and pulled his hand to her right nipple, purring deep in her throat, ‘Pinch it, yes, like that . . .’ She sighed, leaned into him and whispered, ‘Use your mouth, if you want to.’

  She was as far from self-conscious, awkward Lyra as he’d ever seen her, and he had no inclination to do anything but explore this new person. He put his mouth to her breast as his fingers slid down her belly and between her thighs as they opened to him . . .

  *

  They�
�d been drowsing in and out of sleep for some time. Lyra felt tired, but affirmed, in a way she’d never before felt. She’d followed an instinct tonight, somehow certain it would be dangerous to leave Ril alone when he’d spent the whole evening with his former lover. She’d been willing to risk the pain of rejection, and it had been worthwhile: tonight, the spiderwebs that kept them apart had been completely brushed away.

  She hoped Kore understood, or had looked away – tonight had been all about pleasure, for maybe the first time in her life. His fingers inside her had been a guilty joy, and she’d wallowed in it as he took his time, enjoying each moment, this one, then the next, his mouth on her nipples so wickedly good, until a rare burst of pure release left her gasping. Then they’d left the sofa for the bed, and lying on her side, spooning with him as they were now, he’d entered her in a slow rush of silent tumult. He’d been gentle, yet strong, pliant yet dominant, and she’d adored it. She couldn’t manage guilt in the aftermath of something so beautiful.

  If that’s a sin, no wonder Shaitan has so many slaves . . .

  He was sleeping now, cradling her, his body heat a soft furnace that soothed her aching back. When she began to overheat, she edged away and rolled over to watch him; his body, lit by the remaining candle stubs, that of a Lantric demi-god caught in dark marble. Perhaps he’d had wilder nights with Jenet Brunlye in the past, but she couldn’t imagine they’d been more loving.

  Kore made us, she reflected, and it can’t have been just to suffer. She also thanked Kore for sending her Ostevan Comfateri – she still marvelled, blushing, at what he’d done, but she couldn’t recall feeling uncomfortable, not after her initial surprise. He’d relieved her physical distress, but he’d also inspired her to this night. Yes, it was daring, but nothing untoward really happened, she told herself.

  Then she heard bells chime midnight; she ought to go back to her own room before she was missed. The coming day was an important one and she needed some sleep. Setallius didn’t think there was any impending threat, but it was possible her reign rested on the day to come – perhaps even on the outcome of a joust.

  She managed to leave the bed without waking Ril. Donning her nightgown and backing away, she whispered, ‘I pray I strengthened you, my love.’ She crept towards the door – just as the handle turned in a faint glitter of sparks: Ril’s wards were resisting someone’s hand.

  Lyra swallowed, then called softly, ‘Who’s there?’

  The handle stopped moving. There was no other sound, but for a moment, Lyra felt a presence, ephemeral, and most definitely not benign. A cold malignancy enveloped her, a tentacle of thought that touched her with a smear of vileness.

  Without conscious thought, she found herself gripping the door handle and trying to open it – but the wards held, and the challenge to them made Ril stir and then come suddenly awake. ‘Lyra? What’re you doing?’

  She stared at the door. The presence was gone, so completely she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t imagined it. She looked at the door in confusion, then back at him. ‘I was just going back to my rooms, but the door wards . . .’

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Just give me a moment and I’ll—’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, frightened of the darkness outside, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay.’

  *

  ‘Who are the four finalists?’ Cordan wondered. Finostarre was just four tantalising miles away, but he had to rely on others for news of the day’s results.

  Cordan talked of nothing else, which Coramore found irritating. ‘Who cares?’ she snapped. ‘I hope they all killed each other. Where’s Lady Brown-Nose?’ While the Arcanum was on a break, the pair had been reunited in their usual suite in the Bastion, locked in and forgotten by the world – except for Lady Jenet, who’d visited every night of the tourney, always late at night.

  Coramore yawned, but Cordan was fidgety. ‘So: four champions left now,’ he remarked. ‘I hope Sir Brylion made it through,’ he added, but not with the enthusiasm he might have shown before hearing Basia de Sirou’s tale.

  ‘Shut up about the stupid tournament. It’s more important that Lady Brown-Nose comes.’

  They were both tired and bored; their lessons had been suspended so even their tutors could attend the tourney. Cordan’s gnosis had been Chained again – he told Coramore it was like someone had carved a void in his soul.

  I wish I had my gnosis, Coramore brooded. Then we wouldn’t need rescuing.

  Then came the discreet knock on the door they’d been bursting for. The Mutthead unlocked the portal door and admitted Lady Jenet; both knight and lady had a similar sickly caste to their faces, the same unnatural pallor and bloodshot eyes. Jenet’s black and white dress was wine-stained and she smelled of men when she swept up Cordan and Coramore in a hug.

  Coramore disentangled herself. ‘Ugh – don’t touch me!’

  Jenet’s eyes slithered over her. ‘You think it is easy for me to escape the lewd festivities of the usurper’s court?’ She looked frustrated, and cross. ‘I serve as I can – I trust you’ll remember my help once you are freed.’

  ‘We will,’ Cordan exclaimed, in a way Coramore profoundly disliked.

  ‘What kept you?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Duties. Arrangements.’ Jenet bent closer. Her breath smelled like rotten plums. ‘You have only one more day of captivity to endure – the next time I come, it will be to free you.’

  ‘Why tomorrow?’ Cordan whined. ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Because tomorrow, everyone here and in Finostarre will be blind-drunk,’ Jenet whispered. ‘It’s the last evening of the tourney – no one will be vigilant. So give your captors no clues. Trust only those with this password: “Abraxas”.’

  ‘“Abraxas”?’ Coramore wrinkled her nose. ‘All right. But when tomorrow?’

  ‘Two hours before dusk, as the final bouts begin. The palace will be virtually empty. I’ll take you to a place of safety until the hue and cry dies down.’

  ‘I thought we’d be going straight to Dupenium,’ Cordan complained.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ Jenet answered, looking irked at the ceaseless questions. ‘That’s the first place the Wraith will send his assassins. We must keep you hidden while we rally support – many people won’t march until we give them proof that you are free and ready to take the throne. If we move too soon, it could still fail.’

  ‘I’d rather die than kneel to that simpering Corani cow again,’ Coramore declared. ‘You better not let us down, Lady Jenet.’ She saw the flash of anger on Jenet’s face and thought, Ha – my brother might be fooled by you, but I’m not.

  Cordan’s face was shining at the prospect of escape, but his questions were all of the tourney. ‘Who triumphed today? Who are the four champions – who meets tomorrow?’

  ‘Brylion Fasterius, Ril Endarion, Elvero Salinas and an Incognito calling himself “The Wronged Man”.’

  ‘“The Wronged Man”,’ Cordan echoed. ‘Do you know who he is? Tell me – or at least, tell me the draw?’

  Jenet laughed and ruffled Cordan’s hair. ‘The Prince-Consort faces Brylion and the Incognito jousts against Sir Elvero tomorrow morning. The winners clash in the afternoon.’

  Cordan’s chest swelled. ‘Uncle Brylion will smash Endarion.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Jenet said, straightening and smoothing her bodice. ‘Rest well, my Lord, my Lady. Tomorrow, you’ll be free.’

  *

  Ril rode into the arena with his head full of distractions. Last night had been unexpected, both that it happened at all, and that it had been so tender. Somehow, as if sensing their marriage was endangered, Lyra had come to him and – yes, she’d seduced him. Not with worldly wiles like Jenet; she’d been brave enough to risk refusal and trust in love. That touched him and warmed him still – but it didn’t stop him being a basket of nerves as the carriage shuddered to a halt and he dismounted – but there were Larik and Gryff to greet him, and cheering hordes of Corani. Younger knights who’d not long
served under Takwyth came forward to wish him luck. ‘Smash that Fasterius arsehole,’ was the prevailing message.

  And so I must. I can’t worry about Takky until I’ve dealt with Brylion.

  Being enveloped by the tourney helped clear his mind, and as he allowed his retainers to arm him, he turned his thoughts to his foe: Sir Brylion Fasterius was taller and heavier than him, and didn’t have the imagination to flinch on impact.

  ‘Velocity by weight by angle equals impact force,’ Gryff said. ‘That’s the riddle you must solve.’

  Meaning: he thinks Brylion’s going to flatten me.

  By the time all was ready, though, so was he. Nothing else mattered now except the bout. The throb of expectation was palpable as the four champions rode beneath the safety nets into the arena and out into the parade ground. The four Paramours were seated in special thrones, with the Regna d’Amore highest, only a little below Lyra herself.

  Ril barely glanced at them – then he noticed Jenet was missing. She must have known that Lyra came to me . . . did it wound her feelings? That was a strange thought – Jenet had always been careless and carefree in her relationships. But it was odd that she wasn’t present today.

  The four knights paused and dipped their lances for the empress, and Ril met his wife’s eyes. Lyra looked tired, nervous and vulnerable, and her hands constantly returned to her belly, to their child, but she smiled with heart-warming courage, and his affection for her surged. He felt desperately afraid for her, and shame at what he so nearly did last night ran through him. Jenet’s empty throne felt like an accusation. Does Lyra guess what it means?

  ‘Well, who had a good night?’ Brylion Fasterius rumbled. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, that Sedina Waycross knows how to suck cock. The perfect Corani slut.’

  Ril couldn’t tell if his boast was true or not. It was entirely possible that Sedina had been trapped, and forced to barter lesser humiliations to greater abuses.