She moistened her full lips with a flick of her tongue. His thoughts were unguarded now and pulsed forth from him and into her mind. The kernel of truth was already there. The Old Ones gnawed at the back of his consciousness, insistent on bearing witness. He had to be told now that time was running out. Told something at least, if not the whole truth of the threat that Berithas posed to his soul and to her future happiness. She nodded gently.
His voice was soft, almost childlike. “It is not Elded whom you serve.”
She answered him even as her mind probed his. “No, it is not.”
His mouth opened but the words remained frozen in his throat. “Say it,” she urged. She felt his fingers tighten slightly.
The words came off his tongue in a whisper. “The ancient Ones. The old gods. Dread Andras and his brothers.”
“And He who leads their way,” she replied. “The Redeemer. Berithas.” He had known it in his heart for weeks, she could see that now, but not the price. That had not yet entered his mind.
“And it is to them I will do homage if I become king?”
She raised a delicate hand to stroke his lightly bearded cheek. “There will be a price, my love.”
“If it makes me king of Valdur then I shall pay it. I have put all my trust in you. Gambled with the loyalty of my troops to give you my trust. The power of command equal to them. You must not fail me.”
She nodded and he reached out to lightly touch the flaxen hair that framed her long face. “Then you must trust me further, my love, my prince. My beasts cannot fly over the walls. They may not even be able to burst the gates of Livorna, but they will not have to.”
He scowled. “What do you mean?”
“They will be but a diversion. For me. I will deliver you the city by the time the moon rises. I will deliver you the High Priest himself. Not just a captive but a willing partner in proclaiming you the rightful king of Valdur. The world will change!” And she knew there was no other course. She had to take Kodoris in order to save Ursino from paying the ultimate price to Berithas—his very soul. She had summoned Berithas to her hours before, telling him of her plan that he should possess the High Priest instead of Ursino, the faster to bring down the One Faith. With her true thoughts concealed, the Redeemer had agreed. Indeed he had praised her among all of her sex.
The Duke tilted his head, eyebrows knitting together. “You can do this thing? Make the High Priest surrender?”
“Berithas has given me the power to do many things. He has given me servants other than the beasts you perceive as royal griffons. A means to attain the Ara mount. All you must do is be ready when the gates open.”
“And what of the young Magister?”
Lucinda’s eyes flared. “He will be dead before the sun rises.”
Ursino stepped closer and enveloped her in his flowing robes, his lips upon her neck and ear. “Together, my queen. Together we shall reign.” He pulled away slightly. “The griffons. What do you mean by perceive?”
She smiled. “Berithas has many creatures at his command. Things that have slumbered an age.” She tilted his chin up and spoke like a mother to her child. “There are no more griffons in the world, my love.”
Twenty-Six
IT WAS AN odd council of war. Probably the oddest ever seen in Valdur. Acquel, Brother Volpe, Strykar and Poule plus half a dozen city constables and a drooling High Steward carried into the chamber on a litter. All were tired and dirty, the rank smell of stale sweat lying heavy in the small room of the palazzo in Low Town. Acquel had called the meeting at Volpe’s urging since no attack had come during the whole of the day. Exhausted, the men now gathered around a large oak table, taking the opportunity to feast on bread, cheese and roast fowl, while arguing about what should happen next.
Acquel stood and raised his hands to silence them. He had removed his helmet and the armour from shoulders and arms, but still wore his breastplate and tabard, the latter now stained with blood and streaks of green from the moss on the battlements. “We’ve held them off for nearly a week now. The beasts of the witch have not shown themselves. If we can hold on another week I know that Maresto—maybe even Saivona—will send a force to lift the siege. We must keep up our courage. Trust in the Saints and the wisdom of Elded and the Lord above.”
Bartolo Poule nodded his agreement. “You must tell all your men that we are winning this siege! Keep up their spirits! Liberate the acqua vitalis if you must to those deserving of it. The Magister is right—we have beaten back every assault upon the walls from east to west. If that is all they have then they will move on to easier prey.”
Ugo Volpe rubbed his pudgy hand across his mouth and pushed away his wine goblet. “I would like nothing more than to believe that. But they are at our gates for a reason. They want something from us and Coronel Strykar flatters himself if he thinks it’s just his head.”
Strykar chuckled.
“Then tell me what it is that they want,” said Acquel.
“You, perhaps. Or the High Priest. The witch of Torinia is ambitious and this is about more than destroying the Decimali heresy they are railing against. Do not forget what lies dormant in the crypt of the Temple Majoris—the old Tree of Death. Remember what the High Priest has seen in his dreams. They seek the overthrow of the One Faith and the resurgence of the Old.”
“She will not prevail,” answered Acquel, the quietness of his voice betraying his lack of confidence.
“There is more,” said Volpe. “Kodoris has felt it. Lucinda della Rovera carries the spirit of Berithas within her. And Berithas seeks to take human form again, here in Livorna.”
No one knew what to say. Somebody guffawed and it was joined by one or two others among the less religious.
“Fools!” Volpe said, muttering. He leaned back and folded his arms.
Strykar pushed back his chair and noisily dropped his vambraces on the table as he leaned forward. “There’s something not right about all of this. Something stinks.”
“It’s us,” remarked Poule, rolling his eyes, making two of the constables snicker.
Strykar ignored them. “Consider that I have seen these monstrous beasts tear through an army like they were scattering so many chickens in a farmyard. Why have they gone quiet now? The Blue Boar and the Whites have just been pricking us—testing our mettle. But they’re waiting for something. Maybe it’s siege engines or a wooden tower on the way. More cannon. But we can’t fool ourselves. This isn’t over yet.”
“Are you suggesting a sally out, Coronel?” said Acquel. “Before they gain momentum?”
Strykar snorted. “I would, brother monk, under different circumstances. A sally might take them unawares. Such things have worked before. But not with untrained militia and holy men magicked into soldiers. No insult intended,” he added, raising his hand.
Acquel inclined his head, patient. “We are what we are.”
“I’ve been thinking about what Ursino’s mercenaries must be contemplating,” said Strykar, his eyes looking around the table, settling on Acquel. “And I would wager they are reluctant to lose men against walls as strong as these. That means they’re doing their damnedest to convince Ursino to either lift the siege and move on—before trouble arrives—or to try something we’re not expecting.”
“The canoness,” said Volpe, nodding. “Using her infernal skills.”
“Possibly,” replied Strykar. “But that does not explain why the griffons have disappeared.”
“Not so much as a squawk,” said Poule thrusting out his lower lip.
“So what would you counsel, Strykar?” said Acquel. “If not to open the gates in the dead of night and rush forth.”
“For now? Nothing we are not already doing. Keep rotating the militia up on the battlements, watching the scrub and tree line below the walls at the Ara mount. I say... if there is no great attack from the enemy in the next few days then we may have the edge. They will want to head south to attack Maresto, leaving us for the moment. Maybe leaving a token fo
rce outside the walls.”
“What are our stocks of arrows like?” asked Acquel. “We’ve loosed hundreds.”
Poule waved away his concern. “Not to worry, brother monk. We’re in no danger of running out. But the hackbut men are running low on gunpowder. For all the good it’s done them firing those things. Couldn’t even hit a griffon at fifty paces.”
Acquel turned and addressed Marsilius, lying propped up in his litter. “My lord, have you understood what has been discussed? Do you agree we must sit tight and wait things out?”
The High Steward’s eyes widened. “I have heard the counsel,” he said in a reedy voice, “and... you are in command of Livorna. It is your decision how we best defend.” He pulled his cioppa closer about his neck as if to ward a chill when there was none.
Acquel winced and turned back to the men around the table. “Well, my lords, we carry on and wait to see what the fates will bring. You constables will continue the rounds. Punish all who sleep on watch. And pray to the Saints.”
There was barely a murmur as they all looked from one to another, rose, and shuffled out of the chamber. Each took their leave of the High Steward, giving awkward bows to the invalid who, if he was recovering of his poisoning, was taking his time of it. The sun was hanging low in the sky as Strykar and Acquel began the descent down to the market square, Poule and the rest out in front. Strykar glanced over at the Magister walking by his side. The gormless youth he had known one year ago had become a grim-faced soldier and a leader, if not yet a confident one. And it seemed he himself had aged half a lifetime in just months. For that is what facing an unwelcome truth can do.
“I judged you unfairly,” he said, stopping at the bottom of the winding stone steps.
Half a pace ahead, Acquel halted and turned. “Strykar?”
“I should not have blamed you for Timandra’s death. That was not right. I was hurt, and prideful.” He broke into a wistful smile. “No one could ever tell her what to do. Not even me.”
“You put me on my feet a year ago. Trusted me. But when I needed your help these past months you practically washed your hands of me. And you—better than most—knowing what it is I carry around my neck.”
Strykar found he could not look Acquel in the eye. “If I could roll back the months I would have listened to you then... Tasting defeat makes you think differently. I know that I have grown very arrogant these past days.”
“So how am I supposed to believe that you won’t give up on the Templars of the Ara? There really isn’t anything holding you here since you know the way out is the same way you came in. Maresto and the Black Rose is where you would rather be.”
Strykar hung his great bear-like head, one he knew he was lucky to still have sitting on his shoulders. “Yes, I’ll give you that I warrant your doubt. But my reply to you is that I will help you defend this place. Come what may. The world has been turned upside down, brother monk. I know my path back to the Black Rose goes first through Livorna.”
Acquel placed his hand on Strykar’s forearm. “Then let us work together to save it from destruction.”
Strykar again looked at the young Magister of the Ara. “You have changed much in the past year. I did not see that until now.”
Acquel smiled. “We may not have all of the Black Rose with us on the walls but we have the best of it. I must go now to the Temple to see how Kodoris fares. Tonight I man the walls at the Ara while Poule will command the gate.”
“Then I pray a peaceful evening’s watch for you and the brethren,” said Strykar. He cleared his throat, gave a respectful nod to Acquel, and then turned, hand on his sword hilt, to descend the remaining steps. It was time to look after someone he had rashly roped into defending the walls. Someone who was no soldier and more used to shooting than being shot at. Demerise.
THE BARBICAN OF the west gate of Livorna, built by the good Count of Polzano five hundred years earlier, had taken many a hammering over the years. Betrayed twice, cracked by earthquake once, but never breached by force of arms, the gate had seen off every ingenious attempt to take it: ram, tower, mine, and catapult. Those who kept an eye to the future foretold that gunpowder would soon spell its end but that day had yet to come. But as the sun flared huge against the horizon that early evening, the main gate of Livorna came under attack once again, and by an enemy the like of which it had never faced before.
Acquel was nearly at the confines of the Temple Majoris and well past the west gate when he heard the shouts and cries behind him. These were rapidly followed by the sound he had come to dread: the deafening screech of the griffons. He pulled up abruptly at the sickening shriek before spotting Ugo Volpe waddling towards him from the Ara, where the wall met the broad green of the Temple mount. As the griffons shrieked again Volpe hastened his pace. When he reached Acquel he grabbed him with both hands.
“We’re under attack again! I saw the beasts from the wall. It looks like half the enemy is following in their wake.”
“The gate,” said Acquel. “They are after the gate.”
With Volpe struggling behind, Acquel jogged across the cobbled pathway, his armour giving noisy complaint. By the time they had reached the barbican, all was chaos. Militia were hurling large stones over the battlements, crossbowmen were struggling to angle their bows down while others fumbled at their winding mechanisms to reload. A rain of arrows came arcing overhead, clattering against stone and tile. Acquel felt his heart skip as a tremendous thumping sound echoed up from below, followed by the rattle of ironmongery. And then the griffon’s screech came again. He carefully mounted the stone step of the battlements and placed his cheek against the stone of the embrasure. Daring to look out and down he saw them. Their fur was glistening golden brown, almost as if it were wet, the feathers of their skulls and neck bristled and shook, pure white. And then he leapt back as one of the beasts reared up, its huge yellow talons scraping the barbican no more than a few feet below where he stood. Before he fell back, he had seen the glare of its huge, bulging jet black eye and a purple tongue flicking from its beak.
He swore he felt the whole barbican tower shake beneath him. Frantic militiamen were yelling for more stones, for hot sand, for anything to throw down over the walls. Acquel saw two of his brethren turn and run, dropping their weapons as they headed down the stairs. Brother Ugo had jumped up to take Acquel’s place at the embrasure. He quickly slid back down and turned to Acquel.
“Why don’t they fly?” he said. “They possess wings but do not use them.”
Acquel seized him by the shoulders. “They will break down the gates better than any ram! How do we stop them?”
Volpe shook his head then muttered, “Myrra.”
“We don’t have any! What charms do you have in your book?”
The look Volpe returned nearly staggered him. A look of utter helplessness. Another crash sounded below them mixed with the loud creaking of wood. One of the griffons was putting head and shoulder into the gate again. Then the rasping of talons on the gates carried up and the looks of abject terror from man to man made Acquel begin to turn in on himself, paralyzed with indecision. His ears seemed to ring louder and louder. Acquel took a few steps back and saw Strykar moving towards him, sword in hand.
“Magister, get below and see to more pitch! We must burn these things back to hell!”
Acquel nodded and mumbled agreement, looking slightly lost in the mad scramble of cursing men around him. But Strykar was there now, gathering the militia, his booming voice restoring order. He felt a hand shaking him.
“Brother Acquel, we must go!” It was Volpe, tugging at him. “Coronel Strykar will lead them. We must do as he orders. The pitch!”
Acquel took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
They moved to the archway and the spiral stone stairs, bouncing like skittles off the rough-hewn walls as they flew down the staircase. By the time they had reached the bottom, Acquel had found his wits again, embarrassed that he had panicked on the battlements. They moved across t
he inner court and towards the forge where the huge copper vat of bubbling pitch was propped up over the brick fireplace. He yelled for men to come to him, Volpe following his lead, ordering them to retrieve iron cauldrons to start carrying the tarry liquid up to the barbican parapet. Another crash sounded and he turned to see the portcullis rattling upon its moorings, its chains shaking. Through it he could just glimpse a jagged strip of blonde wood on the black oak doors; it was slowly being sundered. Only the portcullis would stand between them and the Torinian army and Acquel could already imagine the giant horny beaks of the griffons twisting it into a ruin and tearing it from the stonework track.
For a moment he thought he had taken a crossbow bolt to his chest. His knees buckled as the agony of the burning sensation throbbed under his steel breastplate.
“Brother Acquel!” Volpe was at his side, pulling him up from under his armpits.
“The amulet!” gasped Acquel. “It’s on fire!”
He frantically dug his hand under his breastplate to pull the amulet up by its golden chain. And then his head was spinning as a wave of dizziness overcame him. Despite the old monk hauling on him, he was quickly upon his knees. His vision went black for a moment and then came back into a blurred swirling view of the world.
He could see the soaring stone columns of the Temple Majoris, the burning torches in the sconces. He could glimpse a robed figure near the dais. Kodoris. And then his head was filled with her—Lucinda. He could feel her power, smell her hair, her skin. He saw Kodoris turn at the approach of someone or something. Acquel felt his mouth gape as Kodoris’s face twisted in horror at what his eyes were drinking in. Then Acquel saw her face: beautiful and angelic, lapis eyes blazing, her full lips parting as some dark power filled her from within. The vision pulled back and behind her he saw two tall winged figures, masked in shadow. A wave of the blackest despair filled his head and chest like something had passed right through him.
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