by T. O. Munro
The first, a striking woman with hair as red as her own, was spare of form but had a grip of iron when she took Niarmit’s hand. “Your reigning Majesty, Queen Niarmit” Santos gushed, “may I present her emeritus Majesty, Queen Baltheza.”
“Your father is a man of a certain charm,” Baltheza said keeping a sharp eye on Niarmit’s face. “He knows how to entice a lady from her boudoir, or into it I dare say.”
Gregor’s skills of courtship within and without wedlock were not a matter Niarmit wished to dwell upon. She hurried for safer ground. “I learnt much of you, your Majesty, of your struggle to keep the Petred Isle free from dominion by any prince of the Eastern Lands. You are renowned as the saviour of Salicia and the guardian of the salved people’s independence.”
Baltheza smiled. “The trick with princes, my dear, is to be charming to all of them and to marry none of them; that is how a woman keeps her throne and her kingdom intact.”
“Historians remember you as the Maiden Queen,” Niarmit sought a compliment.
“Do they now? How sweet of them,” Baltheza arched an eyebrow and smirked most unregally. “However, let me just say, if there is anything you would know of the ways of princes you have only to ask. There are some things in the world that I am sure have not changed much in four hundred years, and without wanting to contradict the historians’ view of me, I am not entirely inexpert in that field.”
“You are too kind,” Niarmit bowed low, grateful for Santos’s impatience to make a second introduction. This one a rotund gentleman with a twinkling smile.
“His emeritus Majesty, King Gregor the Third.”
The man pumped her hand enthusiastically. “Tell me my dear, how does history remember me?”
The name triggered an instant association of ‘mad’ in Niarmit’s mind which she only just managed to rephrase. “You are known as Gregor the … troubled,” she said.
The substitute epithet seemed to disappoint him just as much as the truth would have. He shook his head sadly. “Oh dear, oh dear. It was never me you see, never me at all. They say I killed my servants, I know they said I was insane, but it was him, always him. He seized the Helm from me. It wasn’t me that did those awful things, it was Chirard.”
“I know,” Niarmit said grimly thinking of the murders Chirard had so nearly committed with her body.
“You must tell them, you must tell people. I wasn’t mad. I couldn’t tell them then. The Helm wouldn’t let me.”
“I will find a way,” Niarmit assured him.
“Excuse me, your Majesty,” her Thren murmured in Gregor’s ear. “May I have a moment to speak with my many times over great grand-daughter.”
“Of course,” the round Gregor bumbled his way to one side.
“How many does that make?” Niarmit asked.
“Nearly half of them. Your father has done well. The more he can persuade to come here, to hold the palace secure against Chirard, then the more we will be able to assist in your struggle against the Dark Lord.”
“I am not sure what use we will get from Gregor the Third,” Niarmit confessed as the portly monarch hovered uncomfortably on the edge of a conversation between three Bulvelds and a Thren.
Her Thren smiled, drawing out a long accented “well,” as he thought on her words. “The greatest powers in the Domain of the Helm do accrue to those who have existed here the longest. Add to that the fact that, thanks to my idiot son, no monarch after me has practiced the art of sorcery, and I grant you yes this Gregor and my grand-daughter Baltheza may have a more limited contribution to make. But still, they are here and the Kinslayer is not and so we can act at last.”
“Maybe Tordil was right,” Niarmit felt the beginnings of belief scratching at her scepticism. “Feyril too. The dragon is dead, maybe we can destroy Maelgrum as well.”
Thren nodded, “indeed my dear and when this is done, maybe before, you must let me show you something of this place. The Vanquisher’s gift is a curse, but there is still the scope for beauty and wonder within it. A place where anyone can create a flower merely by thinking it, is not entirely without pleasure.”
“Niarmit, my Queen.” A voice that did not belong to the Domain of the Helm broke in on her conversation. She shifted her focus to the receiving room in Quintala’s hall, where she had sat her body to rest while her mind reassured the monarchs of the helm of their collective success against the dragon.
Kimbolt was there, Jolander too. “The half-breed witch is at the gatehouse again,” the seneschal said. “She is insisting she speak with you, with you alone.”
“Do not trust her, your Majesty.” Jolander’s moustache twitched his indignation. “Let my men send a score of arrows at her impudent hide. That is no more than she deserves.”
“I will speak with Quintala.” Niarmit rose from the chair. “Alone.” She tapped the Helm. “This is all the protection I need against her evil.”
***
The mile distance between the half-elf and the queen was shrunk to a half-dozen yards by the oval opening through the planes. Niarmit and Quintala faced each other in silence. The half-elf brooding behind a conjured shield of shimmering rainbow colours, the queen inscrutable beneath the Helm.
“You didn’t need a magical shield, Quintala.” The queen spoke first. “We observe the proprieties of a parley.”
“Says the bitch wearing a shiny helm of invulnerability,” Quintala shot back.
“Your honour is not to be trusted.” Niarmit’s voice was level, unshaken by the half-elf’s jibe. “Mine is, and always has been.”
Quintala scowled, unsettled by the way the Helm’s visor masked the upper half of the queen’s face. The half-elf was used to reading secrets and fears shining through the fabric of a human expression. It was the Helm’s obstruction of this insight, more than the protection it afforded Niarmit, which was most frustrating.
“What is it you had to say?” The queen demanded. “I was told you had words for me, say them swiftly and begone. Your plans, like your tower are in ruins. I would guess you have some running to do before Maelgrum hears of your failure.”
Quintala chewed her lip. “They will still die, you do know that don’t you?”
“Who?”
“Everyone you’ve ever loved. Maelgrum will destroy them all.”
“On the contrary, your master is the one who should be afraid. Today we killed a dragon, tomorrow it will be Maelgrum’s turn.”
“We?” Quintala pursed her lips and peered sideways at the Queen. “Yes, I guess you are never alone with the Helm on your head.” The half-elf gave Niarmit a grin of wicked knowingness. “If I could speak to Gregor, I would ask what he makes of all this. His sons both dead and now just you left - his bastard daughter - the cause of all this, of the destruction of the salved people.”
Niarmit was struggling to say something, to shape some words but her lips worked soundlessly for a moment longer until she abandoned whatever effort she had been attempting. She removed the Helm, tucking it under her arm and wearily observed, “It is you not I, Quintala who stands as the architect of this treachery.”
“We are both bastard born and equally culpable, Niarmit. Your birth, your entire twisted abortion of a life, was the trigger for this. Without you none of it would have happened, none of it could have happened.”
“You’re raving again, Quintala.”
“Am I? Think. If Gregor had kept his dick in his breeches rather than your mother, then there would have been no bastard daughter of a crown prince to be found a living and a future. Matteus would never have been chosen by Bulveld as Prince of Undersalve, instead he would have lived out a happy and honourable retirement.
“In his place Xander would have been an automatic selection as an incompetent but happy Prince of Undersalve. That arrogant arse would never have given a half-breed sorceress like me so much as the skin on his shit, still less allowed me to suck him into a conspiracy on this magnitude. Instead, your birth, your existence ensured he was the embittere
d and overlooked second son ripe for the plucking, ready to listen to any poison whispered in his ear, no matter how much he despised the whisperer.
“Where else, how else, when else in two centuries was I going to find one of Eadran’s blood willing to betray his entire people?
“You did it, Niarmit.” Quintala gave a broad sweep of her arm. “All this is your achievement as much as it is mine.”
“I was a child when Bulveld’s decision was made. I had no part in it.” There was a brittleness to Niarmit’s insistence.
“You were and are a bastard, just like me, Niarmit. We are the same and no good ever came from a bastard birth. You should embrace the evil you have caused, I know I have.”
“I have not caused evil, I have fought it.” There was a tension in the queen’s voice and Quintala smiled to see her barbs strike home.
“Not caused it?” The half-elf spread her arms in feigned amazement. “Your mother? Dead. Matteus? Dead. Feyril? Driven before his time to refuge in the Blessed Land. Udecht? Dead. And how many others, ones whose names you never even knew have died just because your mother couldn’t keep her legs closed when a crown prince happened to be passing. By the Goddess how many of those poor fools on their way out of this world, if they but knew your place at the keystone of this puzzle, would have said it were better the bitch had never been born.”
“The blame is yours Quintala, all yours. I have fought to protect those people from what you have unleashed.”
Quintala nodded. “Aye, you have fought, fought and failed.” Her eyes flicked right as she plucked a face from her memory. “What happened to that manservant of Sorenson’s the one who was to be your guide, until the harpies came that is?”
“Fenwell,” Niarmit said sourly. “His name was Fenwell.”
“I’m sure he’d be touched that you remember him. Whatever happened to him?”
The queen was silent, her mouth flat.
“What happened to him?” Quintala snorted. “Not everyone can fall from a great height and survive can they. Remember I saw what the Harpies did to your brother Eadran, quite ruined his good looks. Eadran, remember him the brother you never knew you had until suddenly you didn’t.”
“Those were your treacheries, Quintala, not my doing.”
“But you couldn’t protect them, Niarmit. You can’t protect anybody, not for ever. That sluttish cousin of yours, another bastard. I could have killed her anytime, I nearly did a dozen times.”
“But you didn’t. I stopped you.”
“You think she is safe, you think I was the only spy in Maelgrum’s employment. People in this island live only as long as Maelgrum lets them and he takes a special interest in those his enemies love and be sure he knows just who they are. Did you hear what he did to the mayor of this town? Did you?”
“No.”
“You should ask, it’s a great story. It’ll give you a little insight into what awaits you.”
“We will destroy Maelgrum.”
“You can’t,” Quintala laughed. “That which does not live cannot be killed. Sadly the same cannot be said for all those fools who follow you. Come Niarmit, let’s play a little game.”
“I’ve no time for your games.”
“It’s a game Maelgrum played with Mayor Hiral, you’ll like it. You just have to decide from all those fools who think the sun shines out of your arse, just pick one of them to die.”
“I’ll not play your games Quintala.”
“Just one. Is it Hepdida? Is it that idiot illusionist? Or what about my lethargic brother, where is he?”
“I’ll not play your games.” The queen’s voice and actions were at odds with each other, her tone firm and resilient, while her hands fretted with the holy crescent symbol about her neck.
“The Goddess can’t help you Niarmit, the Goddess can’t help anyone,” Quintala laughed. “If you can’t pick then I’ll pick for you, one of your followers to die before next sunset. Just to prove Niarmit, just to prove that you can protect no-one, that you can save no-one, that everyone who cares for you will burn.”
“Threats, Quintala, empty threats. You have no power here, the dragon is dead. If you could have done what you say, you would have done it already.”
“The pleasure, like the pain, Niarmit, is all in the anticipation.”
***
It was dark when Niarmit descended from the gatehouse and Kimbolt could not see her face. “What did the witch say?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the queen replied dully. “A lot of nothing.”
He essayed a companionable pat on her shoulder; she shrugged the gesture off.
“You did well today, we did well today,” he said as lightly as he dared.
“You took a risk. I told you to wait. You could have been killed.”
He hesitated, his mind filled with the image of the queen stretched across the rubble at the mercy of the beast until the moment he had shot a steel spear at its eye. “You could have been killed too,” he kept his tone as reasonable as he could, making a factual observation rather than a pejorative criticism.
“A lot of people have risked their lives for me, Kimbolt, and most of them have lost. I never wanted you to be one of those people.”
“I make my own decisions, Niarmit.” He chose his words carefully, tiptoeing around the queen’s morose mood. “I am not Hepdida.”
“Well thank the Goddess for that; two of you would have been unbearable.”
He laughed uncertainly, hoping she was attempting a joke, then let his mirth die away as it became clear he laughed alone. “You should rest, Niarmit,” he said.
“I intend to,” she replied. He reached for her arm again, but stopped short when she added, “alone.”
“As you wish.” He kept the hurt from his voice, just.
***
The orcs and the outlanders gave Quintala a wide berth as the half-elf stormed to her tent in the midst of the encampment. For all the fierce scowls and gestures of crude threat which she gave to any unwise enough to meet her gaze, her temper was comparatively in check until she reached the privacy of her own pavilion. Once the canvas flap had fallen shut behind her, she hurled herself at the furnishings. A broad stroke of her arm, swept the table clear of its maps and tokens. Her hands shredded a silk sheet wrenched from her camp bed. Her teeth pulled pillows apart. It was a fury of physical coldness, the half-elf shivering despite herself as she dismantled her command tent from the inside out. At first she thought a fever had gripped her, but as the cold slunk into her bones, and the mist pooled around her feet, realisation dawned.
“What hasss driven you to sssuch pointlessss violencsse againssst objectsss that can feel no pain, Quintala?”
She spun to face the dark corner of her tent where two glowing red pits of light pierced the darkness. Maelgrum sat upon a simple folding chair. He was as still as death, but for the trails of mist which flowed from the ragged sleeves and blackened hands resting on the arms of his temporary throne.
The half-elf spat out a mouthful of feathers. “Well,” she said. “You’re back.”
“Much hasss happened sssince I went away, it ssseemsss.”
“I trust your visit to the other plane was attended with success.”
“My plansss are alwaysss attended by sssuccessss.” Maelgrum pushed himself upright. “Yoursss, it appearsss are not.”
“A setback, that is all.”
“A disssassster.” He corrected her with a flash of red eyes. “The dragon dead, your fortressss captured, thossse partsss of it that isss which are not dessstroyed, half the sssorcerersss dead.”
“She has worn the Helm, the bitch. She has worked out how to use it. That is how she killed the dragon.”
“There hasss never been a ssservant who hasss failed me ssso utterly.” Maelgrum’s voice was thick with menace as he walked slowly towards the half-elf. Quintala stood paralysed before him. He bent his head to whisper in her ear, her skin both shivering and crawling as an icy dread enveloped her.
“There hass never been a ssservant who hasss even had the opportunity to fail me ssso utterly.”
“Master!” desperation dragged humility from her lips. “We can still win, we can still triumph. There is a victory to be claimed.”
“My victory hasss alwaysss been certain,” Maelgrum assured her. “Yoursss I am not ssso sssure of anymore.”
“I know this bitch, she is tortured by self-doubt and guilt…”
“Thessse are failingsss that would never be laid at your door, Quintala,” his lipless mouth opened in a display of mirth.
She smiled and laughed, grateful for a glimpse of amusement through the justifiable darkness of Maelgrum’s mood.
“Indeed,” she licked her lips and dared another obsequious, “Master.” A slight warming of the chill in the air gave her hope that all favour was not yet lost. “I have sown a seed of despair in her. All it needs is one death, one person close to her to meet an end she cannot prevent and the hollow transience of her achievements will be laid bare to haunt her.”
A slight flaring of the light in Maelgrum’s eye pits betrayed his curiosity. “Then you ssshould do it. Ssstrike your chosssen victim down.”
Quintala looked away, a rare uncertainty leaving her short of words, until at last she confessed. “I can’t.”
“Can’t!” Tendrils of vapour fell from Maelgrum’s shoulders.
“My brother, he is there. He has cast some enchantment to bar my way, he has done the same at his palace. I cannot open a passage to strike within the fortress or spy within Lavisevre.”
“Your brother isss behind thossse wallsss?”
She ignored the question resorting to servility to press her cause. “You could though, Master. You could reach inside the fortress and pluck a life, one that will hurt her most. You could even destroy her.”
There was a long long silence in which the undead wizard’s eye sockets dimmed to that near dormancy which passed for sleep. Quintala waited motionless. She gave a start when the abrupt flaring of red and the trail of mist announced Maelgrum’s awakening. The sudden movement flexed a sore stiffness from her shoulder which made her wonder how long she had waited.
