by James Stone
‘Four.’
‘Then there are five lives you can save.’
‘What?’ Magmaya exclaimed, miserable. ‘I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.’
‘Because it’s not what you want to hear,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let her go!’
‘Neither would those captives.’
He was infuriating her. If she hadn’t known any better, and if she’d had Moonbeam in hand, she would’ve lashed out. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she persisted. ‘I couldn’t stay and face the fact that across the Deadfields, the woman who defaced my family still lives. I’d never be able to show my face in the north again.’ Magmaya paused, frustrated. ‘Where’s the furthest place south? The Silver City?’
‘I wouldn’t advise going there.’
‘No, of course, you wouldn’t,’ she spat. ‘You southerners wouldn’t see me do anything that makes this a little easier.’
‘Fine then,’ he said. ‘Kill the girl. Go south. But when you get there, don’t expect to want to stay.’
‘Oh, and why’s that?’ She cocked her head.
‘Because your precious Silver City is no more,’ he said like poison, and with that, it seemed as if the world had indeed ended.
Rallun had arranged a great feast to hail the coming of the angels that evening, with twelve courses each and a dining hall lit with the pyromancer’s magnificent green fires. There were only two courses in the end (both under-cooked) after the famine the Mansel had brought about, and it had immediately become clear to Magmaya that the whole event was just another way for the Tyla to investigate the Divinicus more.
She speared her meat again and again and thrust it down her throat; she wasn’t sure what animal it once had been, but she didn’t care—it was sour and dry and made her gag, but that was the least of her worries.
Magmaya had been placed at the top of the table, as the chancellor always was, and on her left was Rallun, Siedous and the rest of her court, and on the other, Fabius and his cohort of angels sat. Beyond them, flocks of other dignitaries carried on until oblivion, like an endless stream of mirrors devouring their food.
‘My chancellor, my chancellor, my chancellor!’ they all chanted, and her wine started to taste like water. Whenever she took the knife to her meat, and it bled a little, she could only think of the scars that flocked Nurcia’s face as she sat alone, rotting like a corpse in that dungeon, her words chiming in her ears: He had his breeches down, I had to shoo him away. He said he wanted to fuck me.
‘In Inamorata, we have feasts like this often,’ Fabius said, cutting into her thoughts. ‘A hundred courses which last all day, until we’re merry and can’t drink anymore.’
‘What happens if you get full after two courses?’ she asked.
‘We learn to stick our fingers down our throats,’ he laughed and downed a glass of wine, gesturing to the servitor for another.
‘Are things much different in the south?’ she asked.
‘Different, yes,’ Fabius answered, setting his glass down, ‘but I’m surprised by how many intricacies remind me of home.’
‘Like what?’
‘Your board meetings, your courtesies; even some of your architecture reminds me of the shanty towns in the Ash Wastes,’ he finished. ‘Oh—I meant no offence, my chancellor.’
‘It’s quite alright,’ she said dryly. It wasn’t the first insult he’d spoken of her home. Nor would it be the last, she was sure of that. ‘We’ve recently been under siege. We’re not quite what we used to be.’
‘You should come to see our palace cities,’ he remarked. ‘They span on for dozens of miles. Towers are made from glass and ivory. Spires and arches plaster the skyline. I do think you might appreciate it.’
‘Everyone dreams of going south,’ she laughed, remembering that girl who’d prayed all those years ago for an angel to take her away. Her life was becoming stranger than her dreams. ‘It’s a long walk.’
Magmaya looked across the room, and for a moment, she thought she saw him again—the shadowed-eyed man—standing in an archway. When she looked back, though, he was gone.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ she asked, feeling a chill catch the air.
‘Of course, my chancellor.’
Magmaya stood, feeling all the chatter stop and each pair of eyes turn to her. She saw Kurulian’s stricken face and Siedous’ confused expression; she saw Rallun gesturing her to sit down and Fabius sitting back with a smile. She stole a breath and clanged her knife against a platter of greens, reached into her pocket and took out a small note; they were words she had prepared, intricate and precise—words that as soon as she spoke, would turn a thousand tongues against her.
‘Orianne, Tyla…’ she stuttered, feeling sweat amass under her arms. ‘Inamorata…’
‘Sit down!’ she heard Rallun plea, but she turned away instead, stole and breath and opened her mouth to speak.
He had his breeches down, I had to shoo him away. He said he wanted to fuck me.
‘After some long deliberation about Nurcia Vyce’s fate, and in light of her recent confession, I have decided that she shall not be ransomed back to Mansel,’ the chancellor explained. ‘Instead, she shall be executed.’
Cries rang out about the room. She could almost feel Siedous and Rallun’s scorn lash against her back. They didn’t concern her, though. Instead, she glanced at Kurulian, only to watch him scowl. Disappointed, she turned back to her papers.
‘In her place—’ she continued, the crowd’s shouts eclipsing her, ‘the Mansel prisoners will be exchanged for our men. If I were given another choice, I would take it—but I will not stand for a traitor going unpunished.’
The table erupted into screams, cursing her every breath, and her head began to swim. Nurcia had been right—they would hate her more than they did her father.
‘Tomorrow—tomorrow noon,’ she spluttered, taking a short drink. ‘That is when Nurcia Vyce will be executed. I want this matter finished with.’
Magmaya brushed her hand against the table, and with it, plates fell to the floor and shattered across her feet. She was growing dizzy. The walls were caving in. Her ears were burning.
‘My chancellor!’ she heard as Siedous jumped to steady her. ‘My chancellor…’
Magmaya’s head was pounding. Her palms had broken her fall, but they were weeping with blood. Grit pressed into her cuts. Silverware skewered her knee.
And then, another tower of plates collapsed on top of her, and the room turned black as pitch.
The next she knew, the morning sun was shimmering through her window. And so, she rose and faced the day once more.
Eleven
It felt as if years had passed by the time Magmaya faced the angels again. She had hoped the hours apart might’ve lessened the blow, but all her council and the Divinicus did was stare at her, vacant. It seemed her decision had managed to make everyone in the palace her enemy.
Fabius shuffled in his seat, still wearing his signature smile, as Siedous and Rallun sat, spilling seas of tattered papers across the table. The Lord Commander clawed a few to himself and began to pour over them, searching for something.
‘I apologise for the clutter.’ Siedous frowned. ‘Our late chancellor made quite the habit of trying to forget these times.’
She and the old knight hadn’t spoken since Magmaya readjusted Nurcia’s fate, but she couldn’t back down anymore. She had made a declaration of the execution’s time—midday after their talks were finished. Then at least, she could get Nurcia out of her head.
‘I see,’ Fabius said. ‘You truly did keep everything, no?’
‘It appears so,’ Siedous replied. ‘But I couldn’t tell you a thing about them. When the Kytherans came, I was nothing to our chancellor but a lowly spearman of the realm. Chancellor Magmaya was a child, and Lord Black was far away. I’m afraid you’re speaking to men on behalf of the dead.’
/>
‘It is very satisfactory,’ Kurulian said, but his manner suggested otherwise.
The chatter droned on for a while before Siedous began to sort through the papers, reading them aloud and covering them in such detail Magmaya could scarcely stay awake. The old knight passed up speaking about the chiming trees and the height of the mountainside, but instead, an empire of handshakes and bows, pleas and smirks. In none of the texts was there an account of the woman who had mothered Albany; there were only tales of high lords and aristocrats with smoking pipes, knives and cloaks.
In one the transcripts, the Kytherans had spoken briefly of the Silver City and of a woman with scales of pure gold. It was said she had a mask of cloth that shielded her white eyes from the world and had brought peace to the south. They had referred to her as the Golden Woman, and from then on it seemed neither of the angels were willing to speak.
‘There is a final clause,’ Siedous finished, showing the wad of papers to the board. Although the writing was in black, Magmaya spied a smothering of red in each signature—blood no doubt. The old ways had never been kind to wrists and palms. ‘Upon the declarations of today, we find Kythera and Orianne to be one, united in conquest,’ he read with a shrill murmur and sat himself down. Magmaya just thanked the heavens she didn’t have to listen to another word.
‘As I said,’ Fabius began, ‘the Kytherans never came here for warmth. They came here to make use of you.’
‘Well, what does the chancellor have to say?’ Kurulian asked her.
Magmaya stuttered, ‘I don’t think there’s a verdict to be made.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘We pledged ourselves to Kythera, whether they came here for warmth or not.’
‘Ranvirus has been long enough without claim,’ Fabius said. ‘The Kytherans abandoned you. You’re free to pledge yourselves again.’
‘What if my people are not to pick a side?’ Magmaya asked, forcing her thoughts back to the angels. They’re beautiful, yes, but we were warned not to trust them.
Fabius giggled as if he was sharing a joke with himself. ‘My dear chancellor, to not ally with the south is a death sentence in the wars to come.’
‘The wars to come?’ Rallun asked.
‘You have been isolated,’ Kurulian remarked. ‘Before that vessel arrived here, Kythera pled severance from us, and we granted it until they chose a wicked emperor to rule over—’
‘In mercy,’ Fabius interrupted, ‘we killed their emperor. But in return, they sent the Golden Woman. Some thought her a goddess.’
‘A goddess?’ Magmaya asked.
‘She started a religion,’ Kurulian said. ‘Is that justification enough?’
‘So, what happened to her?’ Siedous asked with a smirk. ‘Gods don’t just fade away. Gods do not die.’
‘This one did,’ Fabius said, and silence took the boardroom like a cold knife. ‘They still worship the corpse as if it were anything more than a dead woman with a halo. And ever since she died, Kythera and Inamorata have been on the verge of war.’
‘I don’t want to hear about her.’ It was a lie, but Magmaya was growing frustrated with the angel’s lack of transparency. ‘I don’t know what to make of any of this.’
‘If I may,’ Siedous interrupted, ‘we don’t even know who we’re allying with.’
Fabius nodded, stole a piece of paper from the table’s centre and began scratching away at it with a small quill. The sketch looked awfully familiar; Magmaya had seen something like it before when a small falling star had struck a far-off bay and left a near-perfect ring behind. In the centre, Fabius drew another string of land, isolated against the concaving mouth of the earth.
‘This is Halo Blue,’ the Divinicus explained. ‘And this is Astralica, where the high lords rule from. If one was to stare out from the highest point, they would see for miles across the waves.’ He paused. ‘When the winter comes, the seas freeze over, and many pilgrim across from the Free Islands to my lands, just to revel in it all. Inamorata is made of a thousand shining cities, a hundred beautiful lands and countless loyal men. But far away, all alone and lost in the snow, there stands Orianne.’
‘Don’t be fooled by my Lord Commander’s poetry,’ Kurulian spoke up. ‘Inamorata isn’t a land of aristocrats. It’s a beacon.’
‘I’m not fooled,’ Magmaya said. ‘I want to know what would happen if war is to come.’
‘The Divinicus would take levies,’ Fabius explained. ‘The Custodians of the Reaches are already marching farther south on outlying cities, but given enough time, they will come north. We hold a fragile balance in the continent, and Ranvirus isn’t exempt from that.’ He smiled.
‘We already have our own war to fight,’ Rallun remarked.
‘If you do not ally with us in due course, the Reaches or the Kytherans will take the north with force,’ Fabius asserted. ‘In return for your loyalty, we will serve as a barrier against any further invasion.’
‘We’ve got a barrier,’ Siedous said. ‘Hundreds of miles of mountains and ice lie between you and me. Why do you think we were never able to travel south?’
‘Have you forgotten the seas?’ Fabius asked.
‘I don’t care. I won’t be forced to fight in someone else’s war,’ Magmaya protested. ‘We can scarcely hold our own ground here.’
‘So be it,’ Fabius purred. ‘Sit alone in the cold—it’s no matter to me. The fire will take you all in the end.’
Magmaya wasn’t quite sure who fired the first blow, but a moment later, it seemed as if all hells had broken loose. Shouts and roars were lurched across the boardroom, as Siedous and Rallun began to call profanity at the angels. In response, Fabius’ eyes blazed, all while Kurulian sat back and watched as if he were bored.
She turned away, sparing glances at the scribes who looked frightened and intrigued all at once, desperately trying to scratch away the happenings before them. She looked back to the stoic knight beside her, not so stoic any longer, as his face burned deep red. And then she glanced at Fabius, the fiery angel, clawing at the very paper which he had so delicately drawn upon. The voices had begun to twist into something malign. The room became alight. The hail outside turned to rain.
‘Enough!’ Magmaya called, louder than any of them, something primal rising up inside of her. The room fell silent and, in that moment, she was above them all; she was the scared little girl turned snake. ‘I’ve made my damned decision.’
The rain hammered down on the palace grounds and washed the freshly fallen snow into the gutters. It was just outside the forest where Albany had been found, where the earth was a mess of broken copper artefacts and muddied grass. Crooked stones encircled them, growing darker in the rain, all while the Orianne and Tyla banners snapped in the wind above.
All the palace had come to watch, but Magmaya hadn’t allowed any of the common folk in—Nurcia had threatened to spill her secrets to the crowds, so the least she could’ve done was control who heard them. But there were still more than enough people present to ruin her, each unkempt and wet as if the wind was going to toss them aside at a moment’s notice. The angels had taken their leave, but the rest of the palace just stood and stared, sombre faces paving a clearing through the overgrowth of weed.
Magmaya watched the rain fall as she stood under the shelter of the tent, her podium outside beneath the wrath of the storm. And in the puddles, the headsman stood in black, save for a mask of golden roses that covered his eyes, ears and mess of red hair.
There was an undeniable quietness about the air too, despite the hammering rain. Even the birds had fallen silent. That was until the screeching of geese turned the heads of several scribes as they looked about the grounds.
‘Wouldn’t it be unfortunate if one of them shat on her head?’ She heard someone laugh a little too loudly. What her they were referring to, Magmaya didn’t know, but the day was growing grimmer by the moment, that much was certain. None of her men were talking, and Rallun’s men had withdrawn themselves, l
urking away in the corners of the field.
‘We’ll all be drowned by the time this is done with,’ someone else grumbled. ‘The least I could ask for is the headsman to miss once or twice.’
‘She’s here,’ she saw a warden mouth from across the yard. He nudged the sleeping Ceremonia beside him, who stirred and stood.
‘Orianne and, uh… others,’ he said. ‘We bring forth the traitor.’
There was a squelching amid the mud and grass as the palace guard’s armour shimmered through the treetops. There were three of them, Magmaya noted; three holding one chained prisoner, bruised and carrying that face she had taken so much pleasure in scarring.
Nurcia still looked beautiful, though; that’s what bothered Magmaya the most. She was wearing a silk and white dress. Its hem was already wet with mud, and her shoes were blackened with soil. She had a silky blindfold across her eyes as well, as she stammered through the swathes of sodden earth where the milky-brown puddles swallowed her.
Slowly, they led the traitor to the centre of the field where the stone circle stood. Executions had taken place there for as long as Magmaya remembered—they had once been tombstones, weathered and forgotten by time. Now they were just remembrancers of all the widows they had made.
The scribes began to chatter among themselves; the scratching of their inks on their unwritten tomes filled the silence as they recorded each uneasy breath and each cough about the crowd.
A priest stepped forward and cupped Nurcia’s back, making a short prayer to the nameless gods before deciding it was time. The traitor’s handmaidens were crying, throwing themselves at whatever they could lash their tears upon, and though Nurcia seemed calm, as the headsman lowered her neck onto one of the stones, her lips were undoubtedly quivering.
‘Vargul Tul was right to have come here,’ Nurcia began, voice trembling. ‘Look at yourselves—public execution? You know nothing of honour.’
‘Your honour didn’t save Albany,’ Magmaya said as she stepped up to the podium, stomach fluttering. ‘Nor Kaladeous, nor any of the others.’ She paused. ‘Bow your head, Miss Vyce.’
