‘And the godlight will lead us all, to death and beyond.’
DURDIL
First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘You want how much?’ Rastoth asked. Questrel bowed low, strands of his long oiled hair unsticking from his bald pate to wave at the ground. I’ll have to be careful, Durdil thought. At my age if I slip in that shit, I’ll break a hip. Despite years of military discipline, the corner of his mouth twitched.
‘It really is very little, Your Majesty,’ Questrel said, straightening and smoothing his hair deliberately across his head. ‘Compared with the Crown’s income.’
‘Very little? It’s six hundred gold kings only days after Yule. I recall that cost me enough.’
‘Sire, that was a religious festival. This is the return of your sons from the west. An opportunity to show the heir to the people, for them to hear him speak.’
‘Let us say I agree to this mad scheme. What does it involve?’
‘There is little for you to do,’ Questrel said with a delicate twitch of his pale lips. ‘I have taken the liberty of designing the programme myself. You will simply receive your sons home with a little more pomp than normal.’ Durdil watched him pat his hair again. I’m not shaking that hand later.
‘Durdil?’ Rastoth snapped and Durdil dragged his thoughts together and stepped forward, boot heels ringing on the marble.
‘It is certainly an idea that will be met with approval from the citizens, Your Majesty. They always enjoy an opportunity to see the royal family.’
‘Prettily said, Commander,’ Rastoth said in a wash of sour breath, ‘but you’re not the one paying, are you?’
Durdil inclined his head. No, I’m not, and Questrel knows full well that money could be better spent on a thousand other things. Building works in the south. A new hospital in the fish quarter. Cheap housing in the slums so they’re not really slums any more. A pay rise for a hard-working Commander of the Ranks wouldn’t go amiss, now that I think about it. Questrel bowed again and produced a scroll from a table at his side. The king’s private study was overly hot and Questrel’s upper lip glistened. Like a slug crawled over your face in the night, Durdil’s inner voice noted.
‘The programme for the day, Your Majesty. The circle of praise led by our most senior priests, food and drink for the commoners, of course, a parade along the King’s Way, new uniforms for the Palace Rank officers and some palace dignitaries.’
‘New uniforms?’ Rastoth said, baffled. ‘Why do they need new uniforms?’
‘These will have a special badge sewn on to the arm to commemorate the princes’ mission to the west,’ Questrel said, venturing a small smile.
Durdil burst out laughing and Rastoth pressed his lips together. Questrel swallowed, his throat bobbing like an apple. ‘They have not been to war, chamberlain,’ Durdil said. ‘Their Highnesses have been to view the forts and check the supply lines. They have not bravely repelled an invasion nor saved the life of a plucky farm girl from the ravishings of the Mireces. They have inspected troops and read reports, patted some shoulders, perhaps. I’m not sure it merits a commemorative badge.’
‘Koridam’s right,’ Rastoth said, giving in to chuckles. ‘No uniforms.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty,’ the chamberlain squeaked, and Durdil suddenly realised that Questrel would probably have had his own court uniform remade at the same time. A nice shiny new jacket, Questrel, that’s what you wanted, eh? A few hundred silver royals spent just so you could have some new brass buttons?
‘The rest meets with your approval, though, I hope,’ he said and Rastoth grunted.
‘Do it,’ the king sighed and Questrel bowed and practically ran for the exit before they took anything else away from him and his big day. Don’t slip on your way out, Durdil thought. Please, slip on your way out. I haven’t had a laugh in weeks.
Rastoth passed a hand over his face and blew bad breath into his collar. When he beckoned, Durdil dropped into a stiff crouch, one hand on Rastoth’s chair for balance. ‘I’m tired, Koridam,’ he said. ‘In truth, I’ll be glad to have the boys back. The palace is empty without them and Marisa. She’ll sail with them, won’t she? She’ll come back home to me?’
Oh gods. ‘Queen Marisa is dead, Your Majesty. Over a year now. She died in her chambers, if you remember.’
‘What?’ Rastoth’s voice quavered. ‘My little nightingale, dead? But yes, yes she is. I remember now. It’s all so vague, Koridam, everything’s so distant these days. I need my boys. I need Janis. He’s nearly ready now, isn’t he?’
‘Your Majesty, Prince Janis is ready. But you have many years left in you yet,’ he added with forced good cheer.
Rastoth patted his hand. ‘You’re a loyal soldier and an excellent commander, Durdil my friend,’ he said. ‘But you’re a terrible liar. The Dancer’s waiting and so is my Marisa. Don’t think I should make them wait too much longer.’ He leant forward until his face was nearly touching Durdil’s. ‘You’ll serve Janis as well as you’ve served me?’
‘It will be my honour, Your Majesty. I will give such aid as I can for as long as Prince Janis requires it.’
Rastoth gripped Durdil’s hand tightly. ‘And you’ll find Marisa’s killers?’
‘Of course, Sire,’ he said. When the princes return, Galtas Morellis will be with them. And I have some questions for that slimy little one-eyed bastard.
Rastoth grunted and let go of his hand, sinking back into the chair, staring moodily into the fire. Durdil rose and winced as his knees popped, rubbing a hand over his brow. He bowed low and signalled the guards at the door. ‘His Majesty will rest now,’ he said absently, his mind occupied with Galtas and his unexpected knowledge of the queen’s demise.
Durdil watched him go and then limped to the window, stared out at the mud and slush of a typical Rilporin winter’s day. Hard to believe Yule is over and we’re turning towards the Light, he thought. Hard to believe I still can’t prove who killed the queen. He focused on the scene below, grabbed the latch and swung open the window.
‘Oi,’ he yelled, ‘Hallos! Leave my bloody recruits alone, you old buzzard.’
Hallos looked up and so did the soldiers, two lying in the mud, two more kneeling on their chests. They slid off and on to their feet and even from here Durdil could see their guilt.
‘I’m not doing—’ Hallos tried.
‘Just bloody don’t,’ Durdil yelled and slammed the window. ‘Gods alive, that man will be the death of me,’ he muttered. His eye fell on the report Rastoth hadn’t read yet and he picked it back up, leafing through the pages. Durdil puffed out his cheeks, snatched up the quill and crossed out ‘persons unknown’. He hesitated a second longer, then scratched ‘query Lord Galtas Morellis’ in the space above.
‘It’s just a theory,’ he muttered. ‘What’s Galtas going to do? Kill me?’
Durdil put the report carefully back on Rastoth’s desk, checked the fire was banked, and left the king’s study, heart and step suddenly lighter.
THE BLESSED ONE
First moon, year 995 since the Exile of the Red Gods
Longhouse, Eagle Height, Gilgoras Mountains
‘Gull did his work well,’ Lanta said as she sat with her priests in the corner of the longhouse she had taken for her own. ‘Most of the men pledged themselves and took part, as Rivil had promised. The gods have their souls now.’ She took the cup Pask offered and sipped, chasing out the chill from the long trek home.
‘And you think this Rivil will honour his alliance with Corvus?’ Pask asked. As Lanta’s senior priest, he’d had charge of ensuring the faith was not neglected in her absence. Lanta glanced around the longhouse before she replied. She’d been away too long, but Pask had kept their interests alive. The warriors had turned to him in the absence of herself and Corvus, and that pleased her. The warmth of their reception had pleased her more.
‘For a time. Corvus and Rivil will use the
drop caches in the foothills to co-ordinate the attack and Rivil left a basket of carrier pigeons with us. If we need to send a swift message, we can.’
‘And if he needs to send a swift message to us?’ Pask pressed.
‘That is not so simple. It seems he believes we are the only ones who might make a mistake.’ Pask and her other priests frowned and she held up a hand. ‘His terms: worship of the Gods of Light will be outlawed in Rilpor. Only the true faith will rule there. In addition, we will be given the Western Plain, from the foothills all the way to the Krike border. Everything south of the River Gil will be ours in return for giving Rivil the throne.’
Pask tapped his fingertips on his knee. ‘Then he is a true son of the Red Gods. I had doubted it.’
I doubt it still, but the Dark Lady has Her plans and will take Her revenge when She sees fit.
‘And Corvus has agreed to this tithe of farmland as our reward?’ Pask continued. ‘Will we have slaves to tend this paradise for us or will that remain outlawed too? It does not seem such a decent bargain.’
Lanta clapped softly. ‘Well done. Rivil thinks we are so desperate to leave the mountains that a swathe of poor grassland will satisfy us. But of course, once the country is subjugated under the rightful rule of the Red Gods, Corvus will take the throne. Rivil’s a fool; he has no idea of our intentions. We will rule Rilpor first, and then all Gilgoras, for the gods.’
Pask watched her quietly as the other priests murmured their approval. ‘And you would be happy for Corvus to be King of Rilpor?’
‘Do you have an alternative?’ Lanta asked.
Pask leant in to speak into her ear. ‘A new land could require new rules, new traditions. Corvus’s focus is power in this world, where yours is to bring about the gods’ return and ensure Their dominion. Your position could be strengthened.’
Lanta looked at him out of the corner of her eye, silent.
‘Why a king in Rilporin?’ Pask breathed. ‘Why not a queen?’ He leant back and gestured to the other priests. ‘My brothers and I have spoken. We would support the claim. It would be to the gods’ glory.’
Lanta kept her face neutral. Seeds planted years before were beginning to bear fruit. Corvus has brought this on himself. He seized the throne with little thought for what comes next.
‘I seek no power over men and women,’ she said. ‘My purpose is simply to be the humble vessel of the gods.’
‘And you would remain so,’ Pask murmured. ‘But by taking the throne, you could ensure that every soul in Rilpor was dedicated to the gods. As queen you could ensure ritual and sacrifice were conducted properly, that the Gods of Light were truly dead.’ He spread his hands. ‘But perhaps it is something to think about?’
Lanta pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘For now, with Edwin and Valan still hunting Rillirin, the king is all alone. He has no seconds in whom to confide. He may require the gods’ guidance. I shall go to him.’
Pask and the others bowed. ‘Of course, Blessed One. We will prepare the sacrifices to honour your return and the king’s.’
‘Thank you, Pask. Thank you all for your efforts here in my absence. The gods have been well tended.’
Pask swelled with pride as Lanta rose to her feet, suppressing a groan at the pain in her feet. She would bathe, choose a gown carefully, unbind her hair. She’d seen how Corvus looked at her.
She paced the length of the longhouse, Mireces nodding in respect, slaves cowering from her path. No Blessed One ever became consort, but these were different times. If Lanta could stand Corvus’s touch for long enough to bind him to her, it might be an easy way to share the throne. And after that … well, being king was such a dangerous business.
MACE
First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Watchtown, Western Plain
‘Elder Rachelle, Chief, thank you for receiving me. Captain Carter related the intelligence gathered from Captain Tailorson. I am here to verify its truth.’
I am here to have repeated to me the worst thing I can possibly imagine, and then try and work out what to do next.
They sat around Rachelle’s kitchen table, the fire in the corner baking Mace’s legs and back: Lim, Tara, Rachelle, Captain Crys Tailorson pale but composed, a clutch of amulets around his neck as if he’d decided to join the priesthood all of a sudden. Or his faith’s been shaken. His uniform jacket had been washed and repaired, but it was shabby and he looked uncomfortable in it, the shoulder with the insignia stitched on it pressed into the chair back.
Well, it is the uniform of the heir’s personal guard. If what he claims is true, and I cannot imagine any scenario where fabricating such a tale could do any possible good, then I imagine wearing that is similar to having a target painted on your chest.
Rachelle gestured at Crys. ‘The captain told his story to the Wolf chief, and he has told it to me. He has told it while standing beside the godpool, and we do not doubt it. But of course, such a claim should be heard first-hand.’ She reached over and touched Crys’s sleeve. ‘Would you like us to stay?’
Crys’s face softened. ‘No, thank you, Elder. The offer is appreciated, but if we could beg the use of your kitchen for an hour, it would be appreciated.’
Mace grunted. He still had his charm, even if he did look haunted. Rachelle and Lim stood, Lim inclining his head to Mace. Mace nodded back. ‘Thank you both. The West extends its gratitude and friendship, as always.’
Rachelle swung the big kettle back over the fire before she left. ‘Help yourselves to tea.’
When the door had closed, Mace rose from his chair, leant on his knuckles on the table and stared Crys out. ‘Tell me this is a lie,’ he said softly.
Crys picked up a sheathed sword from beside his chair and put it on the table. ‘I can’t do that, sir. I wish I could.’
Mace stared at the weapon and his breakfast tried to fight its way back up his throat. ‘Janis’s sword?’
‘Janis’s sword, General. I took it from his corpse when I made my escape. It was the only weapon in the wagon, laid in honour upon his chest in case we were stopped.’ Crys coughed and wiped his mouth. ‘I can take you to the place it happened if you need further verification. He was sacrificed in the most brutal manner I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some things in the North, things the Dead Legion has done. But there should still be some evidence at the site.’
‘Evidence? Such as?’
‘They nailed Janis to a scaffold and … well, they couldn’t take him back like that, so they cut his legs off to hide the evidence. Left them attached to the scaffold. Far as I know, they’re still there. Animals will have been at them, but there should be something.’
Tara made a noise as though she was swallowing a mouthful of puke. Deep breaths, Mace. Deep bloody breaths. ‘Explain your escape.’
‘They kept me tied in the back of the wagon with Janis’s body. We were on the way to Dancer’s Lake when it started snowing so hard we were forced to stop. Then the wind got up and it was a full-on winter storm. The wagon, the tents, the sentries were all being lashed with snow. I cut the rope on the sword, took it and ran. My sentries came after me, as I knew they would, and I doubled back, got halfway up Trickster’s Mount before they caught up with me. I killed them, dragged them to a crevasse and arranged the bodies to look like we’d fought there, then tore my cloak and left it hanging half in the crevasse, threw my gloves and scarf in there. Anything to make it look like I’d fallen in. Then I ran.’
He paused and Mace straightened up, folded his arms and studied Crys’s face. It’s clever, but is it too clever? Is this an elaborate double bluff? Crys met his eyes steadily, and Mace was struck again with their oddness. The brown one sucked in the light and gave nothing away; the blue one blazed with emotion. ‘Then what?’
‘Headed here.’ He gestured. ‘Captain Carter found me near Watch Ford and, well, I’m afraid I threatened her when she insisted I return to give you my report in person. I knew Rivil would check t
he forts if he suspected I was still alive. I thought getting my news to someone they wouldn’t think of was safest.’
Mace clicked his tongue and looked from Crys to Tara. Tara’s face was stony, and Crys’s story matched hers. They cut his legs off. That’s something I can use in my report. It’ll verify Crys was there, if nothing else.
‘Tell me what Rivil and Corvus are planning.’
‘Drop cache communications both ways and carrier pigeons from the Mireces to Rivil if they need it; a spring invasion; Mireces get the Western Plain in return for aid. The outlawing of the worship of the Gods of Light. The fall of Rilpor. The return of the Red Gods.’
The words were so blunt they shocked Mace all over again. ‘And how do you propose we stop it?’ he found himself asking.
‘Their high priestess said that the more blood spilt, the easier it’ll be for the Red Gods to return. If it’s true, then the more we fight, the more we invite Them back. So instead, we arrest Prince Rivil and execute him for treason. That’s one death, nowhere near enough to tear the veil. If we do that before the Mireces invade – if we can prove to them their ally is dead – they might not try anything. They’ll know they’d be wiped out if they did.’
Mace pulled the kettle off the fire and poured hot water into three cups of ground mint leaves. He passed them around.
‘And if they come anyway?’ Tara asked.
‘Then we exterminate them and pray the veil holds.’
They sat in silence and Mace stared out through the window. Watchtown was awash in pre-storm grey light, clouds the colour of lead sweeping in from the mountains. A sky weeping for Janis Evendoom.
‘You’ve never served in the West, Captain. Why not?’ Mace asked eventually.
Crys blinked at the change in subject but answered readily enough. ‘Never deemed suitable, sir. Bit of a reputation. Earned a couple of promotions, lost them, spent a little time in the cells. Not a model soldier, sir.’
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