“It heard me,” Necalli said, his voice weak and tremulous. “It heard me.”
“YOU HAVE TAMED this sea monster?” asked the queen. “It does your bidding?”
Necalli dipped his head. “Your Majesty, it is not as simple as that. It has followed me across the Mare Meridies. I can summon it... but controlling it is sometimes a different matter.”
Cressida nodded, eyeing the merman with a look that contained more than just admiration. More like studied calculation, thought Danamis. He thought that Necalli’s colour was still a paler shade of grey after the kraken’s attack, not his normal hue, whatever normal was for a Xosian merman. Out on deck the sound of axe on wood and Gregorvero’s bellowing carried through to them in the great stern cabin. For two hours they had drifted, the returned Grace roped alongside as repairs were begun. Now that the terror had passed, sailor and soldier alike jabbered like washerwomen about what they had seen. Even now, the great Sinean ship lay floundering, half sunk and drifting a mile away. A ship of death.
Cressida turned on her cushions and looked out the diamond-paned glass. “If they make it back to Perusia, none can say that we were the cause, now can they? A convenient weapon, your kraken.” Behind him, Danamis could almost feel Citala’s eyes boring into him. Looking over his shoulder, he found he was right. A look of warning. Worry that Cressida was getting ideas.
“I wanted a battle,” chirped Sarant. “And a sword.”
“There will be others, my prince, rest assured,” replied Danamis. The boy was annoying after not even two days and Danamis now wondered how he ever thought the brat was his.
Sarant’s mouth rounded in a pout and he turned and climbed onto the bench near the windows to obtain what he hoped would be a better view of the Sineans’ final plunge beneath the waves.
“Captain,” said Cressida, “is it your intention now to continue to Maresto as planned? It would seem any obstacles have been fortuitously removed.”
“We get under way as soon as we hoist the new spar and sail. If the weather holds and the wind follows then we shall make Maresto in a few days.” She was either playing regal for the sake of the mer in front of her or else she was changing towards him. He wasn’t yet sure. As for Master Necalli, he was still furious that the merman had kept such a deadly secret from him, though he couldn’t deny that Necalli had made the difference between death and deliverance. And now he understood his father’s insistence that Necalli accompany him.
The Xosians are an ally of Palestro now. Some day you might find out why.
Twenty-Nine
HE WATCHED. WATCHED as he stood surrounded by his smug mercenary commanders, the captain of his ducal guard, and his noble knights. Watched as the griffons of Valdur paused their attack like pack hounds responding to the call of an unseen master. And he had watched as they bounded away for the tree line west of the walls of Livorna, leaving only the sound of cheering from high up on the battlements.
He felt his face flush even as his men, who were gathered behind the protection of straw and wicker bastions, looked one to another, bemused by a retreat in the face of near victory.
What has she done?
And but moments after, his darkness changed to sweet elation when a runner, breathless and wide-eyed, made his way to where he stood. “The canoness! The canoness has captured the High Priest!”
Minutes later he stood at her side in a ragged mud-stained field tent on the edge of the encampment, looking down upon the broken body of Lucius Kodoris. Coronel Aretini and Messere Claudio crammed in from behind, craning to get a view of the High Priest.
Ursino leaned forward cautiously in the miserly lamplight. “How is it that he yet lives?” The body of Kodoris was shattered. He had fallen a great height to end up in a twisted heap in the rough gravel, stones and wild lavender of the ditch below the wall. Torinian soldiers had dragged him out, thinking he was surely dead. But Lucinda had detected breathing—faint as a sleeping newborn’s—and Kodoris unconscious but alive was better fortune than she could have hoped for.
Lucinda’s gently restrained the Duke from getting too close to the cot. “He is stronger than most of his age. You have a victory my lord. You have the heretic High Priest of the One Faith.”
“I have half a victory.”
Claudio piped up from the corner of the tent. “Finish him now, my lord. That we may put his head on a spear to show the Decimali on the walls. Then they shall know their game is finished.”
Lucinda slowly turned and fixed Claudio with a look that would wither corn. “The prisoner is in my charge and I shall decide, with the Duke, what shall befall him. And when. He still has uses.”
Claudio scowled and disappeared outside, thrashing the tent flap in anger. Aretini seemed unfazed by the prisoner. “Well, without their High Priest Livorna does not matter,” he said, throwing up his hand. “And what happens to this old man isn’t important anymore. All the more reason to head south, your Grace.”
Lucinda looked up at Ursino and gave him a glance that wordlessly gainsaid Aretini’s pronouncement. Ursino turned to Aretini. “The canoness decides Kodoris’s fate. If nature doesn’t in the meantime.”
Lucinda studied Kodoris’s face, covered in dried blood, nose and lips swollen black and purple. “See that the High Priest is not touched or moved from here. No one is to get near him. And set a strong guard on this tent.” She knew that the man who was Kodoris was gone, his soul flown. What lay before her was a vessel for Berithas, and he was now trapped inside it like a wasp in a bottle. So long as the body took breath he would remain there and Ursino would be safe from possession. It was the power of Berithas alone that gave this broken old mortal shell the flicker of life.
After all had left, Lucinda watched the old man as his chest rose and fell with shallow irregular breaths. How long he could remain this way she did not know. He might die that night or even wake come the morning. But he would never walk out on his own. For all her devotion, the Redeemer was her prisoner now and she did not regret it. When she joined the Duke in the private chambers of his field pavilion, she found Ursino in a reflective mood, dining in silence. Lucinda tore off the leg from a roasted pheasant, dropped it into her trencher, and wiped her delicate fingers with her napkin. “What is it that vexes you, my love? Have I not delivered to you what I promised? The city’s resolve will crumble. It is only a matter of time. Aretini is partly right. Livorna doesn’t matter—for now.”
Ursino’s reply was measured, his voice quiet. “Why does he live still? It is not natural. And more to the point, why do you wish it to be so?”
Lucinda took up her goblet and put it to her lips, sipping the sweet wine. “Because Berithas is there, it is not Kodoris anymore. Do you understand me?”
“I find such a thing difficult to believe, that I will tell you. But what of your desire for Berithas to take form again so that he can... help us. Help me.”
“My love, fate has been kind to us with this turn. We do not need Berithas if I have his power to summon and raise servants of Andras. For the moment, Berithas is trapped. If he awakens I do not know what he would do. To me... or to you.”
Ursino’s hand splayed upon the table. “Did you push him off the wall?”
“I did not. It was Kodoris who jumped and took his own life. But now you are safe for the moment.”
Ursino studied his plate, still piled with meat. “For the moment, you say. If he wakes, what then? Or if the body dies. Are you saying that your Redeemer will come for me?”
She fixed him with a look of dark determination. “I will not let that happen. We will find another vessel.”
Ursino had the look of a man who had just discovered he had bought a lame horse. He exhaled deeply and scratched his temple. “And what of the Magister? The young monk who has caused you great worry. Did you slay him?”
Lucinda shook her head, irritated. “His will is broken. He is no threat to us anymore.”
Ursino slowly pulled his wine towards him. “Let us hop
e so. I care little for prattling monks that play at war. That is for you to deal with.” He raised his goblet but then changed his mind, his fingers playing on the silver base instead. “But, I tell you, Aretini’s counsel is indeed sound. I received new intelligence even as the griffons were attacking the gates.”
Her hand stretched across the table to touch his. “What news?”
“The Duchy of Saivona marches east. There is a new alliance between them, Maresto and Palestro. The city of Ivrea too, the message says. Calling themselves the Western League. We must march south tomorrow. Engage Duke Alonso’s army before any aid can come his way to worsen our odds. And I will need your help. All of your help, infernal or otherwise.”
“We shall defeat them all, my love. Each in turn.”
Ursino looked into her cornflower blue eyes. “I’ve given you more than my love, Lucinda. I’ve handed you my future.”
ACQUEL LOOKED AT each of the six wizened men seated before him in the chapter room, the rump of the Grand Curia. He felt ashamed. Ashamed and no better than a mountebank who peddled potions and relics in the market square of Low Town. Bad enough he had not saved the High Priest but what he was about to tell them would go down hard, that he knew full well. Brother Volpe stood at his side. Not especially a great help as the Curia thought little of him or his suspect beliefs. But it made Acquel feel better to have at least one of the brethren who believed in what had to be done.
“Your war has cost the Faith much, Magister,” said the First Principal, Brother Dromo. “Brachus, then Magister Lodi, now Kodoris. Do you expect one of us to step up now to be the next sacrifice? Is this the price of our accepting the revelations you have brought forth?”
The words stung him. Volpe had managed to find his belt under the roll of belly at his waist and dug his thumbs in. “This war is all of ours, my brothers,” he said, before Acquel could defend himself. “Born of human avarice and lust for power but fostered and spurred by infernal powers. Whether we wish it or not this war is laid at our door and we must act.”
Dromo scowled. “So what would you have us do? Elect another High Priest in the midst of this turmoil?”
“No,” said Acquel. “I expect that the Curia do nothing until this threat is defeated. That is why I must leave Livorna. You all know what it is that I carry—Saint Elded’s will. I must find and destroy the witch of Torinia before she succeeds in destroying the One Faith, and that I cannot do behind these walls.”
Dromo laughed. “So now we are without a Magister as well? To be abandoned?”
“The war is moving south,” said Acquel. “The Torinians have left but a token force outside the walls and Livorna is in no longer under imminent threat. Lieutenant Poule will stay to lead the defence of the city.”
One of the other principals shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re leaving a mercenary to run things?”
Why had he even bothered to brief the council when he could have just left them to their own pointless deliberations? “The Count is recovering his health as we speak. You may rule the Ara as you see fit. I suggest that you brethren continue...” His mind raced for the right word, his hands flailing. “Continue arguing,” he blurted. Volpe sniggered while the principals exploded into righteous anger, fingers wagging and bearded heads bobbling to one another in shared outrage.
“Let’s go,” said Acquel, tugging at Volpe’s robe. “We need to speak to the people that matter.”
“I AM LEAVING Livorna, Strykar, and I need you with me.” Acquel stood on the barbican battlements, the splintered gate below them trussed with beams and reinforced by cart, bedstead and cupboard dragged from the houses of protesting merchants.
Strykar did not look too surprised. “So who will lead the Ara? You wanted my help in defending this place, and looking out over these walls I still see the camp of the Blue Boar.”
Strykar was right—to a point. But the many tents of the enemy, like whitecaps on an imaginary sea on the plain below, had now diminished to just a few. Curls of smoke from a handful of cooking fires coiled lazily up into the sky. “Their siege is all but done,” said Acquel. “They are moving south, to Maresto. You know that.”
“If those griffons return, what then? That pile of kindling underneath us won’t hold them for long.”
Brother Volpe stretched out his legs from his seat on the steps of the tower. “They are not griffons, Coronel Strykar. Any beast with wings as prodigious as theirs ought to fly. By which means they ought to have wiped us from these parapets. They did not.”
Strykar turned to Volpe, mildly amused. “So what are they then, a figment of our imaginations? The end result of a jug of bad wine?”
“They are viverna—great worms that have slumbered for countless years under the earth. And they lie under an enchantment that gives them the shape of griffons. But these are fell beasts, long banished by Elded. The canoness must have summoned them from the stagnant holes in which they slept. Plenty of those in the forest hills around Rovera, where she’s from. Did you not see how their fur seemed to shimmer?”
“He’s right.” It was Demerise, who had been standing just beyond them, leaning on the far wall of the barbican. “I watched my arrows bounce from their hides, as if they were hard. Not pelts of flesh and fur.”
“Scales,” said Volpe, nodding.
“And they are now heading for Maresto with the witch that commands them,” said Acquel. “And God knows what else she has summoned to aid Ursino. We cannot stop her from here. Maresto must be warned what is coming.”
Strykar scratched his cheek, salt and pepper stubble now prominent after a week on the walls. “Aye. Never expected to hear military sense from a monk but I cannot argue with you. You want me to lead you back then? Somehow outflank them back to Maresto?”
“I need more than that. I need the myrra leaf you still hold there.”
Strykar’s chin fell. “Myrra?”
“It is poison to these creatures, maybe our only means of destroying them.”
Strykar laughed. “And how are we to convince them to eat myrra? Stuff a dead goat and present it to them?”
“I don’t know,” said Acquel, discouraged. “I only know we must try. We can do them little hurt otherwise. And you have not seen the harpies she can invoke. Or the wasps. This myrra gives us a means to fight back. That, and a few tricks that Brother Ugo has up his sleeve.”
Strykar rubbed his right eye with the heel of his palm. “Elded’s bollocks... even if myrra is the wonder weapon of the saints, well... I do not know if my stash even survives in Maresto.”
Volpe turned to look at Acquel.
Acquel stuttered. “It’s... it’s gone?”
“Well, most of it was... distilled. Makes a very good acqua vitalis. But far more potent.”
Acquel turned to Volpe who in turn shrugged. “Distillation? Could make it stronger against them,” said the old monk.
“Look,” said Strykar. “I will give you the myrra, or the acqua miracula if the apothecary hasn’t drunk or sold it all. But we have to cover a hundred miles to get there with the Blue Boar, White Company, the Sables—God knows what else—between us and Maresto.”
Acquel nodded. “I know that. We will have to travel light and fast. Find horses, maybe change them along the way.”
Strykar smiled and shook his head. “Sweet Aloysius. I’ve seen you ride before. And who’s carrying the venerable Volpe?”
“You’re a Coronel of the Black Rose,” said Acquel quietly. “You’ll get us there.”
“Shit, you reckon that, do you?” He paused. “That still leaves the question of who will stay on to defend this place?” Strykar saw Lieutenant Poule making his way towards them along the walkway from the western side of the walls. He joined them, harness a-jangle and a half-eaten brown fig in his right hand. “Coronel! All quiet on the wall. Most of the Boar has well and truly buggered off. No more than a few hundred left.”
“Poule. You’re promoted to captain. And as of tomorrow you’re leadin
g the defence of Livorna.” Poule stopped, jaw slack, and looked around at the others not knowing what to say. “Hell, if you succeed at that they might even make you the next High Priest,” added Strykar.
Poule stuck out his lower lip as he contemplated the possibilities. “If there’s pay in it then count me in.”
“Can we leave in the morning? Or do we travel by night?” asked Acquel.
“We’ll be doing both, Magister. If you want to get there at all.”
Acquel gave a weak smile. “Thank you, Strykar.” He gestured to Volpe whose knees cracked audibly as he rose, dusting off his bottom. “Let me know what you need of me, Strykar. We’ll be ready.”
Volpe looked behind as he reached the barbican steps with Acquel. “And I do know how to ride, Coronel Strykar.”
“Not worried about you riding, Brother Ugo,” said Strykar. “Just worried about you falling off.”
Poule watched the monks depart and took another bite of his fig. “You’re leading them back to Maresto? Now? Holy hell!”
Strykar didn’t answer. He shuffled over to the wall and rested his elbows on the ledge of the embrasure, looking out onto what remained of the enemy camp. Demerise moved beside him.
“You’re afraid to go back, aren’t you? To face the Black Rose after what’s happened. And your brother.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 35
