by James Stone
‘I didn’t want to bloody kill him, Siedous.’ She frowned.
‘It was an act of mercy, I understand.’ He nodded. ‘But if anyone finds out, they’ll twist the truth. They would have you tried, Magmaya—hanged, even.’
‘You haven’t told anyone else, have you?’
‘Not a soul!’
Magmaya nodded and threw herself back onto the mattress. The wind howled, and the night began to draw in like the most sudden of storms; she was pulling her hair out for another way—a way to escape this all and soar far, far away.
‘Rest, my chancellor,’ Siedous said at last. ‘On the morrow, you’re to meet with Lord Rallun of the Tyla and apologise for your discourtesy. You must plea it was Dew of the Honey that made you act so impulsively.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And when the sun rises, whatever happened in that boardroom shall be forgotten.’
‘It already has been.’ Siedous nodded and started over to the door. She noticed a limp in his step as he did, and at last, she saw him in the light of the setting sun. Perhaps the old knight is not so strong, she realised with a heavy heart. Perhaps the old knight is fragile after all.
Seven
Rallun Black was as cold as he was tall. Charcoal hair fell upon his forehead, and blazing nostrils shadowed his wrinkled lip. His eyes were red like a bloody storm, and they wept into his cheekbones and dripped from his pale lips. The way he and his men frequented the boardroom unnerved Magmaya as Vargul had as if they shouldn’t have been there; as if they weren’t quite welcome.
There were glimmers of Kharon Vorr in him too that she couldn’t shake. She found herself scraping her feet against her heels in an effort to free herself from the corpses that had once surrounded her, but all she could see was the blood and the unwatching eyes. She traced their outlines against the floor before a snapping of fingers sounded through the room, and she turned back to Rallun, glowering.
‘My chancellor,’ he said, and Magmaya found his voice to be deeper than she’d expected from such a spindly man. She turned to Siedous who stood tall by her side, prompting him to nod, before she turned back to the Tyla.
She’d assembled her council out of the survivors of the siege: Siedous, of course, as well as Sir Locheart, Knight of the Deadfields, Castellan Vuan of the Northern Banks and Iglis Purturn, a local lord. She hadn’t an inkling of what the new additions would help her with or even say, but Siedous had promised she wouldn’t lack counsel; she just hoped none of them would double-cross her.
‘My lord.’ Magmaya bowed, snapping out of her trance. ‘I owe you my thanks for holding Orianne. And I apologise for my improper nature yesterday. I have been feeling quite unwell, you see—’
‘It’s no matter.’ Rallun waved his hand as if to dismiss it, although whether he believed her was something else to be considered. ‘I bid your people warmth and friendship. It is forgotten.’
She nodded. ‘We’re in great debt.’
‘If the north fell, there would be no coin left to fight over. There is no debt,’ he said. ‘Besides, if we hadn’t halted the Mansel today, we would’ve had to tomorrow. But still, I request your aid.’
‘Of course.’ She perked up. ‘Where are my manners? Pray sit, Lord Black. Your men too.’
Servants came forward to pull out the chairs from beneath the table before retreating to their corners. The Tyla sat, followed by Magmaya and then her council.
Her head was low as she watched Rallun’s reflection move in the shimmering wood. And then he spoke, and she looked up, dazed. ‘Am I correct in understanding you were the one to kill Vargul Tul? At first, I heard it was some crazed swordsman…’
Crazed swordsman? That’s a good start.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, but it hurt to speak. She could still smell the blood and sweat, the mud and piss. It hurt to remember. ‘In this very room, it was…’
Siedous coughed loudly and tapped Magmaya’s heel. She scowled and straightened herself.
The Tyla looked around, curt. ‘Well, I’m glad you were able to rid him from this world. He was a terrible man.’
Before she hazarded a reply, Siedous nodded, motioned to a servant and asked, ‘May we drink?’
A moment later, the servant returned heaving a bottle dwarfing herself and poured its oily-black contents into a number of clear glasses. Forgetting herself, Magmaya stole for one and pressed her lips to the wine, letting it tickle her gums. But the Tyla weren’t far behind her.
‘Now,’ Rallun started after they were finished, ‘whatever is spoken here today shall not be discussed again once we leave.’ He gestured to the woman beside him, who in turn, produced a small, bronze container from beneath the table. It was an ornate piece, Magmaya observed; vines constricted its surface, and torn wings beat at its flanks. Although it looked dull, she felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch it.
‘What that?’ she asked, inquisitive.
‘The Promised Papers.’ Siedous cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me.’
Rallun made poor work of masking his smirk. ‘Your knight is correct. And familiar with them?’
‘I saw them when I was a boy of few suns,’ he explained. ‘Orianne was in possession of them before Kharon came to power.’
‘They were entrusted with the Tyla shortly before he did,’ Black said, embarrassment flashing across his face. ‘Anyway, petty grievances.’
The Tyla know my home far better than I, Magmaya realised. I shouldn’t even be here. Though she’d heard tales of boy kings, not even yet men, who ruled from thrones and broken battlements, it had been their advisors who’d suffered the clockwork of politics while they sat back and toyed with their dominion. Magmaya couldn’t misguide the city if she wasn’t guiding it at all; she was no impetuous boy king. All the same, she didn’t exactly have a heart of gold to guide her either.
Rallun put his hand to the container and span a small brass key in its lock, and Magmaya watched as her advisors practically threw themselves forward for a glimpse. Moments later, she felt herself reaching forward too, peering in to see its contents that were oh so revered.
They were underwhelming, to say the least; just several tattered brown papers piled upon one another. She reached out to touch them, but one of the Tyla whisked the container from beneath her fingers.
‘I apologise, my lady,’ he said, ‘but the Promised Papers are sacred. They’re only to be handled by their owner. It’s tradition.’
‘I see.’ Magmaya was taken back. The old men always seemed to know what was best.
Rallun fingered the papers out of the box and laid them out across the table. As Magmaya studied them, she noticed a myriad of writings she couldn’t quite decipher; teachings of the south, ritual circles and drooling signatures scrawled down the pages. For what felt like an age, she couldn’t tear her eyes off the mesmerising patterns that shifted across them: grey sketches of feathery monsters that swallowed fire, and priests that hailed the heavens.
Something in the drawings looked alive, though, whispering secrets of a time everyone collectively agreed to forget. They were moving, shifting about the pages—she was sure of it!
‘Star charts.’ Siedous pointed to a well of blackness on another paper, speckled with white. Between the stars, there were lines labelled in a language that certainly wasn’t the common tongue. The closer Magmaya looked, the more she saw; there were outlines of running deer and dancing fish-women lost in the blackness of the heavens.
What was farther south than south? she asked herself, and suddenly, she knew.
‘Some southern cults still use these to perform rituals for their Maiden Gods,’ Rallun explained. ‘When they first travelled north after the Age of Transmutany, the Promised Papers were forged detailing agreements of its founding. Though that’s beside the point.’
‘So, what is the point?’ There was a tap against her ankle again.
‘The Papers order that if a northern power threatens another, then the rest
of the north must ally against their oppression,’ Rallun continued. ‘And so, the Tyla declare themselves for Orianne to starve out the Mansel’s strongholds by the year’s end.’
‘Is that even time enough?’ Siedous asked.
Spring’s here, she remembered. That wouldn’t give them long.
‘The Promised Papers suggest so.’
‘I don’t care what some paper dictates,’ Magmaya heard herself snap. ‘Because of the Mansel, my family suffered. I suffered. It doesn’t bother me whether this is all arranged by me or some paper, so long it is.’
The Tyla nodded. ‘Are we decided, then?’
A murmuring of agreement came from the boardroom, and Magmaya smiled. No matter how much she thought Rallun was suffocating her words, she let herself fall into his embrace.
‘As for the hostages,’ he said at last.
Magmaya froze. ‘Yes, we have a number,’ she stuttered. ‘And the traitor.’
‘The others are mere Mansel cavalrymen, no?’
She nodded.
‘And the traitor? Who is he?’
‘She turned to Tul long ago,’ Magmaya said. ‘She was a member of the board, and she let the Mansel into the city.’
‘Is she valuable?’
‘She was to Vargul Tul.’ Magmaya remembered how his face had contorted when she’d told him Nurcia was dead. The pair had an interest in one another—that much was certain.
‘Then we ransom her off to the Mansel,’ he said and shot Magmaya an unctuous smile. ‘After this woman is exchanged, hang the others.’
Magmaya felt a sickness wash over her. She wanted to scream. ‘She has yet to be interrogated,’ she whimpered. ‘We’re not to be hasty.’
Rallun nodded. ‘Of course not, my chancellor,’ he said, though he seemed to do anything but care.
He chattered on long after with terms Magmaya could barely fathom and complex agreements beyond count, while she just sat in a daze, following the lines across the papers in her mind’s eye.
Magmaya moved from scroll to scroll, scanning the inky trees that crawled between the blotched script. Circles and triangles led from one to the next by thin trails—oh how she wished she could’ve held them for herself and plotted her own trek through the stars. She only awoke from her haze once Rallun reached his hand out to hers after what may have been days of conversation for all she cared.
Magmaya looked up and took it with a gracious smile, but only before Siedous ushered her up.
‘You’re a pleasant woman, Magmaya.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I do hope we can speak again soon.’
Gods, I hope not. She curtsied, feeling a wetness on her knuckle, and the Tyla and her own council flooded out of the room, the Promised Papers with them.
And finally, when they’d all left, Magmaya was able to breathe.
‘You scarcely listened to a word, my chancellor.’ Siedous wandered back over, smiling sympathetically.
She looked to the window and watched the Tyla rush out of the halls to their own camps in the city, before she turned back, sighing.
‘Some things are not made for girls like me,’ she said at last.
Siedous giggled to himself. ‘I’ll admit, you were engrossed in those papers.’
‘I suppose I was,’ Magmaya said. ‘Rallun is—oh,’ she stammered, flustered. ‘I had a question for you, Siedous.’ She paused. ‘Did you ever go to the Cold Seas?’
‘Kharon Vorr had me travel there once,’ he replied. ‘And I have seen no water duller, I’m afraid.’
‘Duller?’ Magmaya exclaimed. ‘I shan’t tell my brother that.’
‘He talks about the fish-women, I presume?’ Siedous smiled. ‘Many men I knew spoke of things they would’ve done if they’d seen such a girl. Vile things, in truth. Your brother doesn’t want any of that.’
‘I suppose you didn’t see them, then?’ Magmaya asked.
‘Me? No,’ he admitted. ‘But my comrades did. Then again, they were starved for girls and would’ve shagged the icebergs, had I not pulled them away.’
Magmaya half laughed. ‘Do you remember how to sail there?’
‘South.’ Siedous smiled. ‘And then south. And south again, until the water gets cold. But not too far south, otherwise you’ll reach the south.’
‘It’s always cold.’ Magmaya shivered. ‘Siedous, can I ask a favour of you?’
‘Of course, my lady.’
‘If there comes a day when Rache can find the strength,’ Magmaya started, ‘sail him to the Cold Seas and let him see the fish-women. No matter how real you find them to be.’
‘If that’s what my chancellor requests.’ Siedous looked grim. ‘And as for you, my chancellor? Would you travel the Seas too?’
‘Of course.’ Magmaya smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
The days passed as quickly as they came, and Magmaya span the wheel of Orianne all while the shadow of Rallun loomed over her; he smiled when they met at the boardroom—that snake’s smile that made her cold. And when he spoke of finances, he spoke of blood, and when he talked of reform, he talked of ruin. She found herself passing laws she scarcely understood, all while Siedous turned to her with warm eyes. She sat through hours of folly as lesser men came to the palace, begging for money or some other common matter.
She was alone when she filled the pockets of beggars, but whenever they left empty-handed, Rallun was standing by her side, insisting it was for the best. A man with dark wavy hair and eyes like shadows had come to her once, not pleading or begging but standing stoically as he described the scene of a butchering he had witnessed at the square. The way he spoke of the warmth of the blood made Magmaya near sick. Soon enough, she found herself visiting the forest daily.
In time, the leaves began to change, and at last, spring was truly upon her. And with spring came the clear skies, where she could watch the moon hum overhead with a monolithic dreariness and feel the warmth lash down upon her back. Occasionally, she swore she could spot another (as she always did) nestled amongst the clouds in the pale sunlight. Yet when she looked away, there would only ever be a whimper.
And when the sun beat down, she stripped and swam in the pond, holding her breath tight until she touched the muddy base with her toes, rose petals fluttering around her body. But when she surfaced, no matter how long she was down there for, the world was much the same.
On other days, she scoured the markets in guise, shopping for fruit and lemon-water. She passed stalls with gaunt old things waving talismans, and down darker streets where strange creatures sold their own flesh. Once, she found a queer leather book hidden among some other rusted devices and took it home to Rache. Its pages were battered and broken, and yet, the scripture was unmistakable—it told of the Cold Seas and the terrible women who dwelled there.
Magmaya spent not a second in the boardroom more than she had to, for each time she passed its entrance she feared she’d spot Vargul Tul standing tall in the light of the window. She remembered the times Kharon had sat there, muttering to the heavens and drinking himself to an early grave, and she began to detest the memories that the daylight brought with it. But when night came, the bed felt cold and empty, and as she stretched her hands across the sheets, she felt a thousand roses pressing against her back.
When Magmaya slept, it was an ill affair too. She had the same temple dream from time to time—but the worst dreams were the good ones. She’d be kissing a perfumed lover or travelling far, far away, only to wake up and feel cold again. She began longing for the nights when she didn’t dream at all.
Although Magmaya could hardly call it a summer heat, there was at least something reassuring about the haze that enveloped her while she lay alone. Leering faces hung above as she looked to the ceiling for an answer, but by dawn, none had come. Instead, there came a day she had dreaded more and more with each one that had passed.
It wasn’t even snowing, so she didn’t have an excuse to be late, but she found a way to be anyway. It was
a short journey from her quarters down to the dungeons, where she passed all manner of Mansel captives, stripped down and screaming, or sipping on rat piss.
When she arrived at Nurcia’s cell, the interrogators were already there, holding their brass balls and chains, wafting incense around the room that they swore would bring out the truth. And between them stood the arch-confessor, reading prayers from his holy book and moving the procedure along. It was the same procedure there always was, and there was almost always a confession, but Magmaya needed to see it; she needed to hear it.
People always talked about how vile the cells looked, and how they’d either starve a man to death or have him eaten by hound-sized rats, but no one ever mentioned the stench. It was as if something terrible had washed over her—a sickness of sweat and faeces. She flared her nostrils and turned back to the confessor.
At a glance, he might have been less human than even the Mansel. But that thought quickly abandoned her when she caught a glimpse of Nurcia behind him.
Despite the abundance of wooden benches, she chose to huddle, nude in the corner save for the brown sheet she clung to. Her face was near unrecognisable. It had become a mutilated mess of scars and red incisions. She had once been stunning—Magmaya had idolised her beauty, but her looks had abandoned her. Her skin was stained with the dirt of the cell, and she was groping her stricken back, writhing about the floor.
‘Nurcia Vyce of Orianne,’ the arch-confessor began, reciting off his scrolls. ‘You stand accused of a number of treasons and murders. Are you to confess?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was dry, and her words were broken and weary.
‘Nurcia Vyce, you stand accused of the murder of Albany Moore. Do you confess?’
‘I confess,’ she said.
‘Nurcia Vyce, you stand accused of the murder of Kaladeous Garneth. Do you confess?’
‘I confess.’
‘Nurcia Vyce, you stand accused of collusion with Mansel against the interests of Orianne. Do you confess?’
