The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Rhin snorted. A life of murder working to reach the Queen’s table, only to find the food was poisoned. He had indeed seen worse situations, but deep inside he knew how thin that comfort was. Sift would take her time with him. She would be patient and inventive, slow and painful. Rhin tried stoking determination instead.

  Time has the clever knack of suspending hope. The more minutes there are to a problem, there is always a greater chance of mistake; a slip-up like the drop of a key, or the swift pick of an unbuttoned pocket. Merion couldn’t reach him, Rhin knew that much. It was up to him, and he refused to die as Sift’s toy. He just had to wait, and endure.

  Hours passed before the clanking of Coil Guard boots could be heard tramping along the walkways above. Rhin roused himself from his shallow slumber and cupped his ears. Unmistakable. Light mail over mole-leather and Fae steel. Oh, it had been a while, but he recognised it alright. He had been a guard himself, for decades.

  Wincing with pain, Rhin got to his aching feet and brushed what mud he could from his scant sackcloth. He raised his chin and folded his hands behind his back, affixing an idle smirk onto his swollen face, hiding the desire to curl up into a ball and sleep for a year. He even flexed his wings for show.

  A dozen guards, bedecked in their dark grey armour and holding short spears and swords, crowded around his bars. Their eyes were full of the chill reserved just for traitors. One faerie stepped forward, bereft of helmet, a glint in his lavender eyes.

  Rhin spoke first. ‘Caol Cullog, what a pleasure.’

  ‘That’s Captain Cullog, and the feeling’s far from mutual, Rhin Rehn’ar.’

  ‘You’ve climbed high, indeed. You could barely wield a sword when I first met you. Precarious, at the top, isn’t it?’

  ‘I imagine it is when you’re a traitor to the Queen,’ said Caol.

  ‘A mad Queen.’ Rhin countered, and spat to the side. His views on royalty were plain: all royalty is mad, from the concept to the crown. No head is built to bear the burden of a city, of a people, of an empire. Royalty is one of the greatest cons Fae or man has ever known, but it is ferociously double-edged. Convince the people they need to be ruled, and you delude yourself you can rule them. If you weren’t mad when you ascended to a throne, the weight of it would send you there soon enough.

  Caol sneered. ‘Even now he can’t stop his treacherous mouth from spilling fnach,’ he swore in old Fae.

  His words echoed around the stern-faced guards behind him. Rhin smirked at them all. He’d had plenty of time to rehearse his words.

  ‘I imagine the streets above are no cleaner than when I left? No freer of miscreants and lowlifes? No safer? Thought not. And what about the border skirmishes? Have they stopped? Right again! Products of Sift’s merciless quest for power. She does what she pleases and murders whomever she can, just to get what she wants. Who pays the price? You do. Your families do.’

  ‘She’s a Fae Queen. That’s what they do,’ hissed another of the guards. Caol held up his hand for silence.

  Rhin stepped closer to the bars so they could see the anger on his face, between the cuts and bruises.

  ‘At the expense of our souls, our morals, and countless Fae lives. They are our brothers and sisters, not enemies. Not moles to be caught and slaughtered!’

  ‘Silence!’ Caol snapped. ‘Treason spills from you like vomit from a drunkard!’

  Rhin snorted. ‘It’s always funny, how those in power like to rename truth as treachery.’

  There was an uneasy shuffling from the guards. He had ruffled them. Caol pulled a thick key from his pocket and reached for the lock. Spears were lowered, swords drawn.

  ‘No need for that,’ said Rhin, holding out his open hands. ‘I do hope you’re escorting me to a dinner table. I’m starving.’

  Caol laughed sharply, as did a few of the others. ‘Of sorts.’

  Shackles were clamped around his wrists, uncomfortably tight against the swollen skin.

  Rhin shrugged. ‘A lunch table, then?’

  The captain shoved him hard in the back and sent him stumbling.

  ‘Let’s just say you won’t be the one doing the eating.’

  *

  The Hollow was aptly named; a deep bowl set into the rock of Shanarh’s great cavern. Whether it was a scoop of some ancient giant’s hand, or some gift of nature, it was perfect for filling with crowds and putting on a little entertainment.

  In Roma they had something very similar—or so Rhin had read in Karrigan’s library—but it wasn’t nearly as grand nor as old as the Hollow. The Fae of Shanarh and its vassals could fill it in their tens of thousands. Faeries travelled from all corners of Undering to enjoy the Hollow’s games and satisfy their thirst for blood. The Hollow did not dally with sports of the kind humans enjoy; games of balls and sticks, rackets and mallets. They were children’s games to the Fae. The Hollow provided true entertainment: raw fights and stacked odds; blood and guts and the thundering atmosphere of a roaring crowd. The Hollow was the beating heart of the city, not the Coil. It’s throbbing, incarnadined heart.

  A great sandy oval had been left clear at the centre of the great stadium. This was the Pit, as they called it, and emptier than a debtor’s purse. Around its edges mighty walls had been built. The sharp angle of the seats and balconies crowded at its edges, slanted back and rising up to the Hollow’s ragged heights. Lanterns in their countless hundreds lined the perimeter, making the sand sparkle and glow; a beacon in Undering’s constant gloom.

  Rhin had seen the Hollow many times from its seats, drowned by the press of bodies and the roar of buzzing wings. He had even seen it from Sift’s grand royal box, stood at her side, commentating on tactics or technique. He had never seen it from the perspective of the Pit before.

  ‘A fine crowd’s gathered today, you hear that?’ bellowed one of the pit-masters behind him, sandwiched between Cullog and his guards.

  Rhin swore under his breath. Of course he could hear it. The crowd was deafening in its eagerness. Word had spread of Sift’s attendance, and the citizens had come crawling in their hordes. Wherever he looked, he could see grey arms waving, yellow grins and humming wings, faces gripped in the midst of crazed anticipation. Sift hadn’t attended a game in the Hollow for decades. Rhin could see her detestable majesty languishing in her box once again, high above him and on the far end of the Pit.

  Rhin had to admit, he hadn’t quite expected Sift’s torture to be quite so public.

  ‘So what’s this all about? Has Sift declared a public holiday in my honour?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Caol.

  Rhin flashed a sly look over his shoulder. ‘So, favour for the queen is that low, then? She needs to curry support with a bit of blood and glory. Why aren’t you up there with her? Like I used to be?’

  Caol marched forward to thump him around the head. Rhin resisted the urge to turn and throttle him with the shackles. It would be quick and easy work. Cullog would be dead in a matter of moments. The others wouldn’t dare kill him without the Queen’s order. He swayed on the cusp of action for a moment before his better half resisted. He wanted to march out there and embarrass Sift on the grandest scale imaginable.

  ‘I’ll wipe that grin off your face!’ Caol shoved a fist under Rhin’s jawbone threateningly.

  ‘Sift won’t be pleased to see her catch all bloodied and bruised. The audience wants a fair fight, I’m sure.’

  Caol fumed for a moment. ‘Fair? Ha! You’ll soon see.’ With that he crossed his arms and began to laugh heartily, the others joining with him. Rhin just bared his sharp teeth and turned back to the thick bars, itching for them to open.

  ‘Her Majesty don’t want to give a speech,’ the pit-master yelled, ‘so he might as well go in now. We’re ready!’

  Caol clapped his hands. ‘Good news!’ He came forward to make sure Rhin cooperated, shoving him forward.

  ‘Not going to take these off?’ Rhin held up his shackles.

  The captain just shrugged. ‘Sift didn’t say a
nything about it.’

  Rhin tutted. ‘You really want to risk killing me? You might be the next one going through this gate.’

  ‘Just throw him in, she said. He won’t disappoint, she said. You’ll just have to work harder.’

  Great, Rhin thought.

  To the clanking of huge cogs, the gate before him began to rise. The roaring of the crowds surged. As soon as the gate was high enough for him to duck under, Caol moved to shove him forward. Rhin didn’t give him the satisfaction. He darted out into the bright lights, jogging from side to side in an effort to warm up his aching bones.

  A voice boomed out of the stands. ‘Rhin Rehn’ar! Deserter, traitor to the Queen, and befriender of humans!’

  A crescendo of booing rose and fell, to which he waved and grinned, twitching his wings to catch the light. He almost raised his fingers and showed them what he really thought, but he needed to keep this sweet. As the roaring died to catch a breath, he bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘And falsely accused!’

  There was a peal of laughter from the nearer seats. Confused cheering from the rest of the Hollow.

  Then, the thunder came. Slow at first, like the initial shudders of an earthquake. Rhin crossed his arms, defiantly staring at the Queen as the rumbling grew; countless feet stamping on stone. A multitude of droning wings. the Pit shook under Rhin’s feet. He was glad. It washed out the guilty thudding of his heart.

  All fell silent when Sift raised her hand. It was the breath before the plunge. Not a word was given to the crowd. Her hand dropped, and the barred gate at the far end of the Pit lurched open. The silence soared into an almighty cheer.

  A mole. A bloody mole. The cheapest sort of entertainment there was. It was a damn huge thing, twice the size of him, pink and hairless, blind from a life in the dark tunnels, and impossibly angry. No doubt starved for a week and poked into a frenzy before they’d unleashed it.

  Rhin winced. It was not that he hadn’t faced moles before. It was more the fact he’d usually had a spear or sword in his possession. Not a pair of manacles and nothing but sand for a weapon.

  As the crowd filled its ears with thunder, the mole began to snuffle for its prey. It snorted and snarled as it made its way forward, powerful claws digging at the earth with every stride, leaving great gashes in the sand. Its needlepoint teeth dripped with saliva.

  The crowd had begun to chant now.

  ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

  It drove the mole even madder. It began to charge about desperately, trying to find whatever meal had been served up for it. Rhin knew to stay still and quiet, much to the derision of the crowd. Moles have sharp ears as well as keen snouts. And with that, an idea blossomed.

  The mole was getting close now, zigzagging across the Pit, teeth gnashing at the air. Rhin dived to the side as the mole came charging at him. It caught his scent as he rolled, and skidded to a halt, scrabbling after him, claws flailing. Rhin was already up and running, charging for the nearest wall. He could feel the wind of the mole’s furious swipes on his wings. A flurry sent him flying forwards, out of its grasp.

  Just as he was about to collide into the wall, he threw himself sideways. It worked perfectly. The mole crashed into the wall at full pelt, pointy nose bending at a painful angle, momentarily stunning itself. Rhin was on it in a flash. To the crowd’s disbelief, he jumped over the reach of the thick claws and right onto its back. The air shook with their voices.

  Rhin stuffed the chain of his shackles into the mole’s mouth and wrenched upwards. When he had it snarling and retching, he drove his sharp thumbnails into its small ears. A horrific squeal erupted from beneath him, and Rhin had to use his wings to keep him steady while the mole bucked and reared. A lucky claw almost sliced open his shoulder, but he ducked just in time. The mole chewed on the chain. With every bite and deafening snarl, the faerie could feel it loosening.

  Clang! As the metal splintered in the mole’s mouth, the beast reared up, flicking its head back to close its jaws on the unfortunate faerie. But Rhin was already far out of reach; he’d anticipated the movement and jumped with it, using his wings to push him high up the wall. He yelled as he stretched out, willing himself higher. He felt the cold metal touch of a lantern, hanging at the Pit’s edge. Seizing it, he swung himself up to grasp the lip of the stone wall. A cacophony of booing and hissing filled the Hollow. Assorted rubbish began to rain down, pelting him from all sides. The edges of the wall were thankfully below where the crowd could reach, otherwise their boots would have been on his fingers, or worse.

  Rhin began to jump, feet stamping on the metal pole that held the lantern aloft. It had been bolted to the stone, but any fixing is as weak as its surroundings. Where metal won’t break, stone will crumble. Again and again he jumped, and each time he felt the metal lean. The glow-worm inside was wriggling in fear, shining brighter with every rattle of its cage.

  There was a crack as the stone gave way, sending him plummeting down. He snatched the lantern from its bolts as he fell. His wings saved him once more, breaking the speed of his fall.

  He landed heavily and rolled, biting sand but uninjured. Behind him, the lantern cracked on the mole’s skull, spraying glass over its head. It screeched in pain.

  Rhin staggered to his knees and ran past the mole as it writhed in pain. He skipped out of its reach and held the twisted lantern like an axe. Now, it was a fair game. The crowd was as fickle as any. Cheers had begun to interrupt the booing.

  With the mole now drenched in blood, it was having a hard time smelling anything. Rhin used that to his advantage, delivering heavy strikes to its head, beating it down into the sand. A pawful of claws cuffed him in the chest and he toppled backwards, wincing as he felt blood begin to drip. But he knew it was not the time for letting up. He circled the mole, using its size against it, flitting left and right, taking its legs from under it, breaking muscle and bone while he had the chance. The crowd was on its feet now, roaring, loyalties divided.

  With a yell, Rhin delivered his final blow. As the mole lay prostrate on the ground, the faerie brought the broken lantern down hard on its neck. There was a resounding crunch, and the beast fell still, twitching as it died.

  Rhin backed away cautiously, until he was standing at the centre of the Pit. He bowed and waved to the apoplectic crowd. He had turned them, altered their hearts, impressed them even, and in doing so, made them forget their Queen. Every blow of the fight, every bead of sweat on his forehead, every ooze of blood and scrape of sand; they saw it all and felt they had lived it with him.

  When the guards came pouring in to drag him back into the darkness, he went calmly and with a smile, hoping Sift had seen every last moment of her failure; the first, Rhin dearly hoped, of many to come.

  *

  Dizali was in a fine mood. Crushing the dissent of the Emerald Benches had that effect on him. He let the rumble of the carriage wheels lull him into a reflective trance as he replayed the events of the day’s parliament.

  Lord Felcher had led the line of attack, citing the strikes as a result of the Cobalts’ boldness. Bordering on governmental suicide, he had called it. Half the Cardinals had cheered at that.

  Dizali’s deep pockets had come to the rescue; first from his side of the Benches, then from the red party itself. Coin is like a strong wind when it comes to the fat ship of political opinion.

  He reminded them of the Hark deeds, brought them the new promise of the Serped estate. He branded them time-wasters and naysayers, doubters to the cause. He had given them freedom, and all they wanted to do was sit and squabble while there was work to be done, and a war to win. He had shamed all those who would raise their fists.

  All but Felcher, who remained standing for a long time after the applause had died. His hand hovered, half-raised, his lips a puckered seam in his raisin-like face.

  ‘Anything to add, Lord Felcher?’ Dizali had asked.

  It had taken a long time for him to spit it out. ‘Nothing, my Lord. Nothing at all.’

 
; His walk from the hall was escorted by boos and jeers. The word “traitor” screamed from the trained dogs in the front benches.

  They had taken Dizali’s side rather willingly after that, it had to be said. Perhaps they could already feel themselves teetering on the rickety bridge of indecision. Behind, an icy drop. Ahead, a difficult climb. All they needed was something solid to grab onto, and that was exactly what Dizali had sold them. (Felcher wasn’t exactly promising riches.) And so forward it was.

  Dizali smiled to himself as he heard the familiar whine of his gates. If the lords and ladies of the Emerald Benches continued to be so pliable, it was time to take the next step, and put an end to his royal troubles. Someone would be proud, he told himself. He would have to tell her.

  He strode up the sweeping stairs of the atrium and onto the mansion’s first floor. Hanister was waiting for him, lounging against a pillar of stone. Gavisham would have never lounged.

  ‘What is it?’ Dizali demanded, without breaking his stride. Hanister stepped quickly after him and they spoke as they walked.

  ‘I’ve had word from my Brothers. Their ship docked late this afternoon. They should be here within the hour.’

  ‘About time! Does the stock get worse over the years, or is it because you three are barely out of training?’

  Hanister almost tripped on the carpet. ‘My apologies—’

  ‘Better late than never is all I will say on the matter, Hanister!’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  Dizali slowed as he came to a door, deep in the northeast wing. ‘I am not to be disturbed until they arrive, you understand me?’ Hanister bowed and retreated down the hallway.

  When he was out of sight, Dizali plucked a key from beneath his shirt. It dangled on a golden chain. He jiggled it in the lock, smoothed by years of practice, and entered the gloom.