So many years of labour and expense frittered on art, she mused as Keera fanned her wings to alight on a plaza adjacent to the structure’s monolithic doors. More energy expended on defence and they might have stood a chance.
The doors were open and the space inside cavernous. Painted murals flowed over walls and ceiling like a tide of colour frozen in time. These, she knew, were the epics, the part-mythic tales of Mara-vielle’s origin and rise to greatness; mighty heroes and learned scholars, self-sacrificing warriors and wise statesmen, and, naturally, kings of noble aspect. She found him towards the rear of the chamber, the mural painted high on a wall overlooking a raised dais where a vacant throne sat. The mural was more recent than the others, the paintwork more vivid though it depicted a man considerably younger than the warrior who now lay headless on a hill several miles away. He seemed troubled, his aspect one of sombre reflection as he stood regarding an empty ocean. Her eyes went to the inscription painted above the king’s head: Therumin, The Silver King.
Therumin. So now she knew his name at least, as he had known her face. She turned, surveying the opposite wall and pausing at the sight of a patch of ruined plaster, a jarring interruption to the finely worked beauty on either side. Moving closer she saw it to have been the work of vandalism, and not recently. The fragments of surviving paint were dim flecks of colour amid ruined plaster yellowed with age. Whatever had been depicted here had been wiped away, expunged with considerable violence, though she noted the inscription was partially intact: ...amond Que..n.
The Diamond Queen. She knew this name, her spies had spoken of it. Some tragedy to have befallen the ruling family years ago. The tale had little bearing on her plans so she paid it scant mind, concentrating instead on the reports regarding Mara-vielle’s copious wealth. They are strong, Harazil had cautioned but she just laughed. We are stronger, and we have the Voice.
A skitter of claws on stone drew her attention from the ruined mural. A Raptorile scout party had entered the hall, tails curling in alarm and forked tongues darting to taste the unfamiliar air as they crouched and squinted at the murals, exchanging puzzled profanity in their sibilant speech. They were greenbacks, hailing from the southern jungles and smaller than their red-backed desert cousins, but no less fierce and just as devoted to the acquisition of trinkets. Seeing her, their pack-chief issued a guttural, commanding snarl, and they all fell into an immediate servile posture, approaching in a crouch, claws outstretched to proffer their loot as was custom.
The pack-chief extended the clutch of pearl necklaces in her claws, seeking acknowledgement and forming the human words with uncanny precision, “By your leave, Sharrow-met.” For all their apparent savagery, these were intelligent creatures, possessed of memory and senses far beyond human understanding, though their superstitious lust for shiny things made them ever her slaves. When they die the treasure will buy them protection from eternal torment, the Voice had told her. For their prey awaits in the next world, hungry for vengeance.
She was about to raise her hand and issue the customary response, “The Voice grants rich reward, sister,” but paused at the sight of something amid their ranks, something in a tall silver frame. It caught the light with dazzling brightness before the angle changed slightly, revealing the sight of a tall woman in cobalt armour, the hilt of a scimitar jutting over her shoulder. This was a beautiful woman, Sharrow-met saw, perhaps a few years shy of thirty, pale of face with high cheekbones and a delicately curved chin, a face made porcelain in its flawlessness. Her hair was a silken jet cascade, tied back with a silver braid, and her eyes . . . blue eyes, blue like the sea . . .
“Get rid of that!” she grated, casting her hand at the mirror and turning away.
A rasping snarl, the multiple crack of whipping tails then the harsh clamour of shattering glass. When she turned back the mirror’s unfortunate owner lay dead amid its shards, her plentiful blood sufficient to conceal more hated reflection. It had always been this way, as long she had served the Voice, which was as long as she could remember; she could never abide the sight of her own image.
“She was newly hatched, Sharrow-met,” the pack-chief said, her words devoid of any inflection, as her kind could learn a human tongue with remarkable speed but never the emotions that coloured it. However, the floor-level crouch and rigid tail made her contrition clear. “I was remiss in not providing clear instruction.”
Sharrow-met gave an irritated wave and moved to the empty throne, running her hands over its finely carved back. “You bring me your spoils but no captives,” she told the pack-chief, sinking onto the throne and finding it more comfortable than expected.
“We found none, Sharrow-met,” the pack-chief replied, still lowered in the servile crouch.
Could they have fled? she wondered. Had the battle been no more than a desperate ploy to delay her advance and buy time for the people to flee? She quickly dismissed the notion as absurd. There is nowhere for them to flee to. Every kingdom, duchy, and city on this continent now belongs to the Voice.
“Carry my word to your sisters,” she told the pack-chief. “Search every inch of this city. Go deep, into the sewers, the catacombs. The war-packs are forbidden loot until this is done and I will execute one of my soldiers for every hour that sees no captives in my hands.”
* * * * *
She didn’t sleep; such things were lost to those so steeped in the Voice. The Shar-gur still slept, albeit fitfully, and the Tormented required at least some rest in between their many labours, but not her. As night claimed the city she ascended alone through the hall’s upper levels, finding only a succession of corridors and rooms, all furnished to varying degrees of finery and all empty. There were more mirrors of course; it was a continual point of puzzlement to her that the people she conquered were so addicted to their own image. She shattered every glass she found, suffering the brief glimpse of the porcelain-faced woman before her armoured fist broke it apart.
She found what she assumed to be the king’s rooms on the highest tier of the white marble spire, sparsely furnished with few comforts, though he had maintained an extensive library, all now destined for the fire, as the Voice had no tolerance for books. The adjoining chamber was more interesting, a suite of spacious apartments shrouded in cobwebs. Every surface was thick with dust, the drapes on the windows ragged with filth, the mouldings and cornices turned yellow with decades of neglect.
She judged this a woman’s chamber, a woman of some importance given the finery of the dresses hanging in the cupboards and the contents of the jewellery box on her dresser, adorned with a large oval mirror thankfully so thickly webbed it betrayed only the most shadowy reflection. Diamonds, Sharrow-met saw, plucking a necklace from the box. No rubies, no sapphires. Only diamonds. Her gaze went to the bed; large, luxurious and, if not caked in dust, surely fit for a queen. The rooms of the Diamond Queen, left untouched for many a year.
The amulet around her neck gave off a sudden heat, issuing the faint thrum that told of the Voice’s imminent blessing. Her heart began to pump faster in anticipation; it was only at these moments that this happened. Not in battle, not when exacting just punishment on the Abominate, only now when the Voice chose to bless her was she reminded that, for the many gifts that had changed her, she still retained a human heart.
I sense you are troubled, my Sharrow-met, it said, the amulet thrumming with every wondrous word, her flesh tingling as the sound washed through her. It was a more subtle reward than the Dark Glory, but no less appreciated.
“The city conceals its citizens somehow,” she replied, a slight quaver to her voice. “I would have them hear you, know your rewards as I do.”
There is sorcery at work here, I can feel it. A great spell, woven with skill, but still just an illusion, a glamour, to be shattered like the mirrors you hate so much.
“How? How do I shatter it?”
How is any illusion shattered? The trickster relies on the ignorance of his audience when dealing his cards. But those with ey
es to see the trick are never fooled. Truth, my wonderful, terrible child. Shatter it with truth.
The amulet gave a sudden deeper thrum, and she convulsed as the pulse of pleasure cut through her, so pure and unrestrained it was almost an agony, leaving her crouched and gasping, gauntlets gripping the edge of the dresser tight enough to splinter the wood.
“I deserve no reward,” she groaned, shuddering. “Not until the Abominate are secured.”
This war is won by your hand, Sharrow-met. I reward as I see fit. Finish our business here quickly, for we have an ocean to cross and much work to do.
Then it was gone, the absence making her gasp once more, blinking away grateful tears as she raised her gaze, finding it momentarily captured by the gleam of the vanished queen’s diamonds.
A flicker in the mirror, something moving behind the cobweb veil.
She came to her feet in a whirl, the scimitar scraping free of the scabbard. Nothing. Just dust and rotting luxury. But she had seen something in the glass, and her eyes never betrayed her.
A sound, no more than a breath, or a faint gust of wind, and her eyes snapped to a tiny plume of dust rising next to the door beyond the bed.
“Come out!” Sharrow-met commanded, striding forward. “Your king is fallen. This city belongs to the Voice. Come out and know his blessing!”
The door slammed aside, hinges broken by the power of her kick . . . and she froze at the sight that greeted her.
Mirrors . . . A hall of mirrors.
The hall was perhaps thirty feet long, narrow with a tiled chequerboard floor, and its walls were covered in mirrors. Like the other rooms the floor was thick with dust, but not the mirrors. Oval mirrors, square mirrors, tiny disc-like mirrors, all gleaming clean and bright as if just polished that morning. Sharrow-met’s eyes darted around the hall, finding no one, and no other door. The rooms ended here in this hall of hateful glass. Fortunately the dark prevented clear reflection, but she knew if she took just one more step into the hall the image of the porcelain-faced woman would surround her, bouncing from one glass to the next, inescapable and implacable; she would never be able to shatter them all fast enough.
Another sound, another soft breath, the dust on the chequerboard floor rising to swirl briefly before drifting down with a soft hiss. Sharrow-met took a slow, deliberate backward step and turned around, her heart once again doubling its rhythm though there was no Voice to stir it.
She heard no other sound as she strode away, iron-shod boots drawing a dull echo from the dusty floor, but she felt it, as clear as if it had been shouted: an invitation from whatever waited in that hall. Come in . . . come in and see . . .
* * * * *
The wiry captive writhed in her grasp, chains rattling as she lifted him off the floor, face reddening as her steel fingers tightened on his neck. “Captain Harazil tells me you were Mage-Ascendant to King Therumin,” she said, angling her head to scrutinise his face, seeing little sign of wisdom, and less fear than she would have liked. “Your spells held back my Raptorile for a time, as I recall. Five hundred redbacks burned and blasted to ash. Their pack-chief would very much like to know how you taste. Shall I feed you to her?”
The mage grunted, mottled features bunching, a vestige of a snarl visible on his lips and defiance shining in his eyes. She relaxed her grip, pulling him close enough to smell the stench of unwashed flesh and dried blood. Harazil had plucked him from a pile of bodies on the battlefield, a senseless near dead wreck of a man, but somehow the spark of resistance still lingered.
“What glamouring web have you spun here?” she asked in a whisper. “By what means do you hide the Abominate from my eyes?”
She saw a frown flicker across his brow, genuine puzzlement in his gaze before his resolve returned and he stared back, unblinking and silent.
“Not your work then,” she said, dropping him to the floor where he lay gasping. She put his age at somewhere near forty, if not a little younger. Most mages were far older, wizened mystics feeble in body but rich in knowledge, though never accruing enough to thwart her. “You have a name?” she asked him.
She expected him not to answer, maintain his silence regardless of consequence as was often the way with these dutiful types. So it came as a surprise when he coughed and rasped out a reply, “Dralgen.”
“That is not a noble name,” she observed, moving to sit on the throne, appreciating once more the feel of it, as if it had been made for her. She had called Harazil to the Hall of the Twelve Gods that morning, the Shar-gur arriving with his elite guard of Tormented and his prize captive. The Raptorile were still scouring the city, hunting through every dark place with tireless efficiency, finding only rats and abandoned pets. True to her word she had ordered the deaths of six Raptorile and six Tormented so far and had begun to toy with the idea of executing one of the Shar-gur as the ultimate example of their queen’s will.
“You were born to the gutter, were you not?” she enquired of Dralgen, hoping to fire his temper. She had always found anger more effective than pain in stirring a reluctant tongue.
The mage, however, seemed to find no cause for resentment in the question, barely glancing up as he voiced his reply. “I was raised in an orphanage . . . the king’s orphanage.”
“Where, no doubt, his servants were quick to spot your talents. How powerful you must be to have risen so high.”
She watched his muscles bunching under the besmirched skin, chains tightening. She could feel him searching for his power, reaching inside himself to summon the fuel his words would shape. “Don’t waste your time,” she told him. “You are bound by chains of iron, forged by my own fire and quenched in the blood of mages. As long as they touch your skin, your power is quelled, as I think you know.”
She felt his power recede, seeing his muscles relax though his gaze retained an aggravating heat. “I know nothing of any glamour,” he grated. “You had best kill me and have done, for I have nothing else to say to so pestilent a soul.”
Harazil stepped forward, three-tongued whip raised high, halting as Sharrow-met raised a hand to wave him back. “So keen to earn a noble end,” she said. “Fitting for one so steeped in failure. But sadly I am unable to oblige. Harazil, how many captives did we take yesterday?”
The Shar-gur’s answer was immediate, “Six thousand two hundred and twenty, Greatness.”
“How many for the cull?”
“Five thousand three hundred and eighteen.”
She returned her gaze to the prostrate mage. “An unusually high number, but not untypical among my more stubborn enemies. Still, it leaves me near a thousand Tormented to swell my ranks.” She beckoned one of Harazil’s guards forward, a tall, powerful man, his head shaved down to a bone-white scalp. He was bare-chested save the iron chains criss-crossing the hard muscle of his bleached flesh. He strode to within a dozen feet of her—Tormented were allowed no closer to their queen—and dropped to both knees, head bowed.
“Tell this man your name,” she commanded, keeping her eyes on Dralgen.
“I need no name,” the Tormented replied in an automatic monotone. “I need only the Voice.”
“Where were you born?” she continued.
“I need no past,” came the toneless reply. “I need only the Voice.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Pain is the gift of the Voice. Through pain I know the truth of his words and the wonder of his reward.”
She smiled at Dralgen. “Wonderful, isn’t he? The product of years of conditioning, a being of absolute servitude, freed from the burden of memory, pride, or identity. In time he may become formidable enough to warrant elevation to Shar-gur and become a great captain in service to the Voice. Are you not jealous?”
She expected more defiance but Dralgen wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was fixed on the kneeling Tormented, features drawn in a mix of fear and sympathy.
“I’ll spare you his fate,” she went on. “You and all the other captives. A merciful death for every
soul, if you will . . .”
“You saw her,” he said, turning to her, expression defiant once again, but also displaying a certain amused twist to his lips.
“What did you say?”
“You went to her rooms, didn’t you? I can sense the taint of her touch. Did she speak to you?”
Sharrow-met stared at him in silence as his smile broadened further. “Why do you imagine those rooms are left untouched?” he asked. “Not even King Therumin could stand to take one step inside. She has been waiting a very long time for a visitor, and now she has you.”
“And who is she?”
His smile transformed into a laugh, his mirth echoing about the cavernous hall. “A blessing who became a curse,” he said, laughter subsiding as she loomed above him, scimitar in hand. She couldn’t remember rising from the throne or drawing the blade, her heart once again thumping hard with no whisper from the Voice.
Who is this to stir my fury? she wondered, placing the tip of her scimitar under his chin, watching the humour transform into grim but unrepentant acceptance. No more than another broken spell-weaver. And yet he makes me so very angry . . .
“Take a look in one of her mirrors, great queen,” Dralgen said as she raised the scimitar. “You’ll find all the truth you need.”
Truth . . . Shatter it with truth.
* * * * *
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