Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  The looks on everyone’s face, even Lyra’s, said that if he had truly been bitten, he couldn’t be trusted. Endarion was clearly unwilling to let him off the hook. ‘What about all this rubbish?’ he said, indicating the empty water-jug, the burnt-out candle and the shattered mirrors. ‘No one uses this shit for the gnosis, so what is it doing here?’

  Ostevan floundered, unable to find a rational explanation, cursing himself for leaving these trinkets here at all.

  Then inspiration struck. ‘Majesty, I have a confession,’ he said, fixing his gaze on Lyra. ‘I was curious about your Winter Garden. I went there uninvited and collected fallen feathers, a stone and some water. I know it was forbidden, but it seemed to me there was some power – some benevolent power – in the place. I wanted to understand it, the better to help you. I was examining these items when Junius attacked me.’

  Lyra stared, her eyes narrowing in recognition. She’d confessed about the dwyma just days before, after all. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged, while Endarion glared.

  ‘After Junius left, I was struggling, and my leg kicked the water-jug and it spilled on me.’ Just as water from your pool seems to have aided Coramore. His tale was solidifying. ‘I felt myself rallying so I seized the jug and drained the rest. Then I fell into darkness . . . until Prince Ril found me.’

  Ostevan risked a glance and saw that Lyra’s eyes were bright with excited wonder, while Endarion was rocking back on his heels, scowling. ‘I feel . . . somehow renewed,’ he told the young queen. ‘It’s a miracle.’

  When Lyra laid her hand on his, he knew he’d won. ‘Oh, Ostevan, it’s not a miracle, it’s something so much more – I have so much to tell you—’ She actually embraced him, and he basked in the scent of her, the brush of skin, a preview of how she would feel when he finally possessed her.

  But that would have to wait, for now.

  She straightened and turned to her knights. ‘Remove the Chain-rune and see to my Confessor’s comfort. He’s been through an ordeal, just as we all have. But he is my true and loyal servant – Grand Prelate Wurther was mistaken.’

  Ril Endarion made one last try. ‘Why would harmless old Junius do this?’

  Ostevan looked up, feigning sorrow. ‘Brother Junius was a troubled soul,’ he lied. ‘He came to me for Unburdening not long after I returned. He confessed to sordid things, Majesty, dreadful acts with children. But he swore he’d forsaken such crimes, and the confidentiality of the Unburdening prevented me from acting.’ He hung his head as if dismayed at himself and the dreadful machinations of Fate. ‘Clearly he found a patron willing to tolerate such vice and fell into their toils.’

  As he’d hoped, a wretched look crossed Lyra’s face. She took his hands. ‘What a dreadful position to be in. Ostevan, I know you’re exhausted now, as am I, but we must talk, as soon as possible.’ Her eyes poured out her soul.

  She’s desperate to believe well of me.

  ‘Milady, I am forever your servant,’ he told her, bowing his head to hide his relief and exultation.

  We failed tonight, he admitted silently, but perhaps we’ve also sown the seeds of victory.

  43

  The Broken Tower

  The Leviathan Bridge

  The Ordo Costruo, dissident magi, were the first men of Yuros to ‘discover’ Ahmedhassa, a land whose splendour far exceeds the barbarism of their own homeland. Presenting a fair face, these agents of Shaitan caused a Bridge to be made, linking East and West. Only hatred, greed, deceit and sorrow has ever journeyed across it. All the world longs for this travesty to be unmade.

  ALI BEYRAMI, MAULA OF SAGOSTABAD, 934

  Midpoint Tower, Pontic Sea

  Junesse 935

  Waqar and his friends stared open-mouthed, trying to take in what they’d just seen.

  ‘I think something hit the tower . . .’ Fatima managed to say.

  ‘A meteor?’ Tamir guessed.

  Waqar scryed his mother, but there was nothing. He looked at Tarita but she was standing motionless, uncomprehending.

  ‘The Bridge is damaged,’ Lukadin – more than any of them a Shihadi – cried out, waving a triumphant fist. ‘May it be swept away!’

  ‘There were people in that tower,’ Fatima gasped.

  Lukadin snorted. ‘Ordo Costruo heathens.’

  ‘The people who rebuilt Hebusalim,’ Tamir replied, his clever face slack with disbelief. ‘Ahm on High! It was a meteor, wasn’t it? A meteor?’

  ‘Meteors don’t hit the one inhabited place in an ocean,’ Waqar said, thinking of that last glimpse of his mother’s mind. ‘Mother was inside that blast – she caused it . . . just before it, I sensed her—’ He slammed his fist down on the railing. ‘It has to be the same people who killed Salim: these masked people – but who are they?’

  No one had any answers.

  The air was clearing swiftly now, the rain and clouds for miles gone and the wind was dropping by the second as the storm simply faded to nothing. The waves were still gigantic, but that was probably normal. Then Tamir pointed. ‘Look, there – there’s a skiff, going to the tower.’

  ‘I think I saw it earlier,’ Waqar remembered. ‘Follow it in – there may be survivors!’

  Their captain and crew, operating in a kind of fatalistic daze, navigated their craft towards the stump of the tower. As they got closer, the swathe of stars in the rapidly clearing skies above illuminated the scene faintly. Midpoint was just a broken cylinder, the top only just above the largest waves. It was about three hundred feet across, stairs and rooms built into the outer walls and a hollow core where the solarus energy had flowed from the beacon down to the sea-floor far below. They pulled alongside the wrecked stump, seeking a place to moor. Their crew no longer feared for their lives from the storm, but they were clearly still terrified to be here.

  Lukadin guided them into the top of the tower, only a few dozen feet above the waves when they swelled up. The skiff they’d seen was already there, moored to the wrecked pinnacle. It was empty.

  Lukadin brought them in alongside. ‘Sal’Ahm!’ he called.

  Fatima smacked his shoulder. ‘Hush, idiot – we don’t know who they are.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Baneet asked.

  Waqar glanced at Tarita, who was pale as a ghost. He’d become used to leaning on her in the past month, but now she looked like the young maid she used to be, stunned and out of her depth. It was up to him to take charge. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s go inside, and see if anyone can be saved. We’ll all go in – the captain and his crew can’t leave without Lukadin to pilot the dhou. Our goal is to find survivors – but be on guard: we don’t know who the skiff-rider is, and the survivors may be hostile. And the energy from the tower might still be dangerous.’

  ‘Then we get out,’ Tamir added. ‘The Ordo Costruo will send people and anyone they find around here will be blamed.’

  Waqar was first to leap to the rim of the broken tower, shining gnosis-light to illuminate the way, followed by Baneet, Fatima, Tamir and, after a pause, Tarita. He wished he had time to ask what she was thinking, but people could be dying below.

  The stairs descended in a spiral inside the outer wall of the cylinder. Sea-water was running through cracks in the walls whenever a wave crested, cascading down into the structure. There was no light – all the gnostic-lamps on the walls were dead, and collapsed interior walls revealed smashed offices and a guardroom. There were bodies lying against the inner walls, but none moved.

  ‘Watch out!’ Tarita called as another wave topped the stump and a bitterly cold wall of water swept down the stairs. They clung to each other until the water had passed, gurgling downwards and out of sight.

  ‘The bottom’s going to fill eventually,’ Tamir observed, ‘assuming the whole thing doesn’t collapse on top of us. Can we hurry, O Prince?’

  Waqar sped up, descending as fast as he dared, leading them through a section of stairs where the inner wall had fallen against the outer, choking the stairwell – but there w
as room to get through, and on the other side the stairs were drier – the next wave to flood down was diverted by the blockage into an inner room, through a broken wall and into the tower’s core. Waqar couldn’t guess if that was a good or bad thing; he just knew the stairs were drier and unblocked, so he picked up speed until he found a landing where a pasty-faced middle-aged woman in pale blue Ordo Costruo robes was lying in a pool of her own blood. Her throat was cut, the flesh still warm.

  They looked at each other grimly and drew their weapons.

  The next inner door revealed an office and the iron reek of fresh blood was heavy in the air. Three more Builder-magi lay charred and motionless amidst smouldering parchments and collapsed bookcases.

  Waqar was not alone in going rigid at the slightest sound. An inner room opened onto a library and a back stair leading downwards.

  Then a discharge of strong gnostic-energy from below shivered through the aether.

  If my mother truly did this at the behest of the masked ones, then odds are it’s another masked assassin down there. Tarita might be a match for them, but the rest of us aren’t . . .

  He wavered, torn between fear and duty, then Tarita pointed to the back stair and indicated that he take the main stair. He saw in her a fierce resolve to strike back, and found a kindred emotion inside himself.

  These people didn’t just kill my mother, they corrupted her corpse into a tool for their plans . . . I’m going to kill one of them, or die trying.

  He touched Lukadin’s arm. ‘Go with Tarita.’

  Without a backwards look, he led the others to the outer stair, Baneet behind him, Fatima and Tamir, the weaker fighters, in their wake. They descended another turn of the stairs and found another landing, and a door. The steps continued, but the door was ajar, revealing a large circular chamber. He crept to the doorway and peered in.

  Another body was lying in the middle of the floor, crushed beneath a massive chandelier, the tiles shattered around it, the air still murky with discharged spells. Around it were three stone plinths with glass tops. The whole room still had some residual energy, because the gnostic-lamps were still working.

  A grey-robed man was standing beside the fallen chandelier, facing away from Waqar, intent upon one of the glass-topped plinths. Energy sparked from his fingertips and fizzed around the edges of the casing: an opening spell against locking-wards. Usually there was only one winner: the opening-spell – unless the lock was cast by someone of far greater power than the opener. The glass casing reflected the man’s face: a copper mask of a cat. Since Salim’s assassination, Waqar had been reading a lot about Lantric masks, so he recognised this one: Felix, the spirit of luck.

  The glass shattered, and Felix reached in and pulled out a spearhead mounted on a broken wooden shaft only about two feet long. He held it up, examining it, then put it aside and walked to the next plinth. More sparks flew.

  This must be some kind of Ordo Costruo treasure-house.

  A previously concealed hatch on the far side opened and Tarita slipped through. Felix was concentrating on his task, but Waqar’s heart went to his mouth, especially when Lukadin followed the Jhafi girl through. There was nowhere for either to hide, and any second now, Felix would become aware . . .

  Waqar didn’t think so much as react, stepping inside and calling, ‘Who are you?’

  It was gratifying to see Felix stiffen and look up – so they’re not omniscient! – but when that metal face fixed on him, his bones drained of marrow.

  Felix completed opening the second glass and pulled out a gleaming scimitar, made in an ancient style but glistening as if newly forged. He flourished it and said, ‘Prince Waqar, I hoped you would come.’

  His voice was distorted, but Waqar realised it was also familiar. Dear Ahm, I think I know this man—

  ‘You’re one of those who murdered the sultan,’ Waqar said through gritted teeth, clinging to his courage. Baneet, Tamir and Fatima also stepped into the room and fanned out, weapons raised.

  Felix snorted. ‘Wrong, dear boy.’ When he spoke, his mask moved as if it were a second skin. ‘My business that night was with your mother.’

  Waqar felt his heart skip a beat. ‘You . . .’ Almost, he raised his blade and charged, but he knew that the moment he took that step, there was every chance he and his friends would die. ‘What did you do to her?’

  Felix waved a dismissive hand. ‘I think you know what we did, Prince Waqar. The better question is: why her?’

  Behind the masked man, Tarita was ghosting in from one side and Lukadin the other, but neither were yet close enough to strike. So Waqar swallowed and asked, ‘Why, then?’

  Felix drew himself up like an orator. ‘Because she had a power unlike any other mage. You know, surely, that she was considered the greatest weather-mage of all, yes? But do you know why? I’ll tell you – and not just because I enjoy talking, but because you are her son.’

  Waqar felt his throat close as the implications of Felix’s words hit him. He’s completely confident he can kill us all and then do to me whatever he did to Mother . . . But he thinks he can persuade me, and forego the killing. He actually thinks I’ll join them . . . Mother said that I have a power . . . and so does Jehana . . .

  He swallowed again, and motioned all his friends to remain still. I want to them all hear this . . . in case any of us escape . . . Those at his side complied, and behind Felix, Tarita and Lukadin froze as well.

  ‘The Ordo Costruo have researched many things,’ Felix said smugly. ‘One of those research projects concerned a branch of magic unlike the gnosis, useless for combat and small tasks, but able to be employed to massive effect – like manipulating vast weather patterns. Your mother was the foremost of those the order bred or created.’

  My mother was ‘bred or created’? Waqar’s mouth dried up completely.

  ‘She had three apprentices,’ Felix went on. ‘I think you know they left her to fight against the Third Crusade – it was their storm that ravaged the Rondian army at Shaliyah. Tonight they rode the other three windships – those that were sacrificed to weaken the tower’s defences and enable your mother’s ice-bolt to strike.’

  ‘You killed my mother so you could resurrect and use her?’

  ‘No, no, Prince Waqar,’ Felix responded smoothly, ‘that she died was regrettable. It was a potion she took – a mix of silver and other elements to fight what she saw as an infection – that killed her. She killed herself – or rather, the person who fed her that potion did . . .’

  Waqar swallowed. The elixir she made me bring . . . and Tarita . . .

  Felix took a step towards him, spreading his hands as if in invitation. ‘Waqar, your mother wasn’t slain by us – we gave her a gift. Only when she died were we forced to do the unthinkable, to utilise her as we did. Had she but understood, she would have received a great awakening – as you will, if you join us.’

  He calls the venom he put inside Mother a ‘gift’? ‘Why would I ever join you?’

  ‘Because war is not just coming, Waqar, it’s here. The world is about to be plunged into chaos, beyond even what the Crusades wrought. No one thought you’d inherited your mother’s powers, but in her final days, she revealed that the potential is still inside you – which is why I awaited you here.’ Felix stretched a hand towards him. ‘Join us, and you’ll be embraced as a brother. You’ll become one of a small elite group, shaping a better world. We are gods among men, Waqar, shaping the destiny of nations – join us!’ His voice became sly. ‘Your sister already has . . .’

  Felix’s voice had become more and more persuasive, more resonant, more melodic, soaring as he spoke, and Waqar felt his friends’ eyes swivel towards him. They were actually worried that he was tempted.

  But the last lie was one too many; it had snapped the spell.

  ‘My sister would never join the people who killed our mother.’

  Felix laughed. ‘Think you not?’

  ‘And I will never join you – you destroyed her, then
turned her against everything she loved!’

  ‘“Loved”?’ Felix snorted. ‘You think she loved the Ordo Costruo? A prissy order of men with quills for cocks who used her for their own gratification? She loved power – and that’s what we gave her. She died laughing—’

  Waqar lifted his blade as rage all but swallowed him. Beside him, his friends took the cue and kindled gnosis-fire. Then he stopped. If I attack, he’ll kill everyone in this room . . . except me.

  ‘Still can’t decide, little Prince?’ Felix purred. ‘You think too much.’ The silver scimitar in his hands came alive with gnosis-light. He bared his teeth – thin, pointed cat-teeth with incisors that dripped a dirty amber fluid. ‘You’ll join us, willing or no.’

  Tarita moved, darting in with a dagger held double-handed, intending to drive it into Felix’s side.

  But the moment she broke cover, the masked man half-turned and an explosion of power surged from him in all directions; Tarita and Lukadin went spinning away and struck the far wall, Waqar was thrown backwards, hammering his back against the stone, Fatima pinned beside him, and Tamir vanished head-first out of the door.

  Felix’s second assault was directed at Tarita, as if he recognised her as his main threat. A torrent of fire swept at her, but she recovered in time to shield, and the fire-burst splashed around a body-length translucent disc. Felix followed her, slashing at her with the silver scimitar; his first blow shattered her blade and the second almost took her head off – it was as if her gnostic shields didn’t exist.

  Fatima managed to break free and charged, closely followed by Baneet, but Felix whirled and slammed a mage-bolt into Fatima’s chest, sending her reeling backwards, her shields fused and fading. Waqar put himself between Felix and Fatima as Felix hurled Baneet away again. Tamir tried to re-enter the room, and was almost engulfed in fire.

  Waqar launched himself at the cat-masked man in desperation at seeing his friends struck down with such contemptuous ease, but his sword snapped in half on the silver blade Felix wielded. The masked assassin made a gripping motion with his left hand and something like an invisible hand gripped him, bent him backwards and held him immobile. Felix leered at him, and as Tarita tried to reach him, he launched a torrent of mage-bolts at her. Waqar thought she’d go under, but her shields held – just – and for an instant, all of Felix’s attention was on the tiny Jhafi girl.