Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “Hail, Alten,” she said to Lasren.

  “Hail, Exalt,” he replied.

  Rylin felt the regard of the exalt and companions shift to each of them. One was a second-rank squire he’d help train, but the man didn’t recognize him through his disguise. He’d temporarily deactivated his ring as well.

  Lasren nodded at his companions. “This is Governor Feolia of The Fragments, and our assistants.”

  The exalt wasn’t interested in getting to know any of them. “Your passage was detected,” she said. “And the presence of two rings. Where’s the other alten?”

  “The other alten is dead,” Lasren said.

  “In the shifts?”

  “Killed in battle against the Naor,” Lasren said. “Decrin died defending Vedessus, and I’m bringing his ring back.”

  The exalt was unphased. “And you activated it?”

  Lasren edged his horse closer and looked down on the woman, using his bulk to his advantage. “If you sensed my rings then you sensed the storm, and know my reason for using both. And didn’t you hear me? A hero of the realm is dead. Decrin of the Shining Shield has fallen.” Lasren’s indignance certainly seemed genuine as he swung to take in the riders. “What’s wrong with you? Vedessus is saved but Alantris has fallen. You two—give over your horses.”

  The news had caused consternation among the squires, several of whom brought their hands to their hearts in salute.

  The exalt frowned. “I’m sorry, Alten. But I’m supposed to question all who come through the barrier. The fact that you didn’t come through on the usual path suggests you may have been attempting to cross through undetected.”

  “We lost our way in the storm and barely made it through.” Lasren’s anger was genuine. “We lost two of our horses and some thing came this close to eating us! Before that we risked our lives fighting Naor and you want to quiz us? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I am Exalt Narissa. And I take my duty seriously.”

  Feolia stepped forward. “Then do your duty and help us to Darassus, dear,” she said. “We must get word to the councilors and press for help. More of my people are dying every hour.”

  Narissa stared at her, fell silent.

  “We need fresh horses,” Lasren repeated.

  Finally, Narissa nodded and raised her hand, then pointed at four of her followers, calling them by name. “Trade them your mounts.”

  Rylin wanted to ask more information, but thought the less attention he drew to himself the better. He instead hung close to the governor, as though he were her personal guard. In moments, he was trading out saddlebags with the beak-nosed second-rank squire and assisting Feolia into the saddle. Lasren led them off in a canter.

  Soon enough they came to the Great Eastern Way. Like the Alantran Road, it stretched from the border to the capital, with convenient way stations even better supplied than those in The Fragments, for each maintained a small serving staff and a generous supply of extra mounts. None, though, had erected signal towers.

  They were still weary from the storm, but they pressed on through the evening, stopping finally at a small village. They didn’t interact beyond answering a few anxious inquiries about the “rumors” of Naor incursions—their answers excited greater concern. Up before dawn, they rode through the little farming communities of the Erymyran countryside, trading for fresh animals at way stations every few hours and leaving better informed disquiet in their wake. As evening fell they passed twisting Lake Dahrial, where fishing boats plied the placid waters. If they’d diverted a half day farther south, Rylin could have visited his brother and nieces.

  But there was no time for diversions. After nightfall, they grabbed sleep at a way station and then rose before sunrise to resume their trek. The old governor looked each morning little better after rest than before, but always insisted she was ready.

  By midday the golden domes of Darassus gleamed upon the horizon. Rylin’s heart lightened at sight of the great city, but for the first time his contemplation of the capital was bittersweet. Home to lawgivers, poets, sculptors, and playwrights, it was also site of a festering conspiracy that threatened to destroy the Allied Realms. Was he, then, a lance to the boil? Or were he and his companions merely bugs to be squashed beneath the boots of the more powerful?

  They passed the long stretches of fields where wheat and barley grew, and the riverfront fish farms. Closer in were the famed orchards with their apples, little more than buds now. In coming months they would grow to glistening yellow fruits that were perhaps the original reason the city was known as Golden Darassus.

  When they had moved beyond the eastern bluffs and their ancient fortifications, they spotted the great bronze statue of Darassa herself overtopping the walls, head downcast, the very image of a weary soldier. The old fortifications that defined the city limits were made of fine-cut gray stone with rounded parapets rising at hundred-foot intervals. Here in the east and at the south the walls looked a formidable barrier. Out of sight to the north, though, much of the wall had long since been removed and, despite some efforts in the last war, it had never been fully reconstructed. It would be hard to come upon the north wall unseen, it was true, for there was no easy access to the city save from the south. But Darassus would not long hold out against a siege-sized army.

  The south gate was open, as usual, and the first- and second-rank squires who manned it gamboled almost like puppies at sight of an alten. One of them called out in delight: “Welcome back, Alten Lasren!”

  “What news from the outer realms, Alten?” a helmed guard officer called down from above.

  “Vedessus repelled the Naor,” Lasren replied. “But Alantris has fallen. Our forces fight now to free it.”

  The soldiers and squires called for more information, question piling on question without waiting for answer, but Lasren shook his head. “I’m sorry. We bear urgent news, but must share it with the council first.” He urged his horse into the city, and the rest of them followed.

  Beyond the gate lay the wide cobblestone streets and the stone buildings of the old city, with the six-story statue of Darassa at least partly visible most anywhere. Some named her the weeping warrior, for she stood with shoulders slumped, head bowed, one hand over her eyes. A sword dangled limply from one hand, balanced against a rock where she rested one sandaled foot.

  Never before had Rylin understood just how ably the sculptor had captured that terrible sorrow and fatigue after combat.

  There was no other statue in all the realms quite like it, and Darassans liked to claim it had been modeled after the goddess herself, rather than from distant memory. Rylin wasn’t as sure, but it was demonstrable proof that Erymyr had outshone all other realms in artistry from the days of the Grandmothers.

  They passed the great square where the colossus loomed, riding past merchants selling spring tunics and restaurants doing a brisk lunchtime trade. A woman with harp engaged a crowd, including many children, singing the age-old tale of M’gahn and his ride down the river Idris, and the listeners clapped along. They were the only folk who didn’t look up nervously or quiet their conversations when they caught sight of Lasren’s uniform.

  As their group made their way through the streets of the old city, they passed a town crier reminding folk to gather at the stadium by three bells for an announcement from the queen. Lasren looked as though he wished to stop and ask for more details, but Rylin urged him forward. They could lean what that was about when they reached the Hall of Ancestors. A large gathering would likely distract the attention of exalts and aspirants and might well prove advantageous. He just hoped the event itself wasn’t something to worry over.

  Eventually, they crossed the Idris, flowing through the city in its stone channel, and arrived before the second great square of the city, around which almost all the important government buildings sat, including the Hall of Ancestors, where the judges and counselors held court. The palace was a few blocks farther on. Leaving their weary horses with stable gi
rls outside the square, they started up the worn black granite stairs and under embellished mosaic archways. More vendors waited beneath the portico, their goods uniquely tailored to suit visitors and travelers. The scent of sizzling lamb set Rylin’s stomach growling, and Lasren grinned at him as they passed a young woman with a dazzling smile working the cook pot.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little of either,” Lasren remarked as they passed.

  Other merchants offered bottled wine, wineskins, and even garments and jewelry for visitors who thought they needed to improve their appearance before presenting themselves to the council. Rylin saw the governor’s eyes track past some lovely cloaks and was afraid for a moment she might stop to haggle. Her own garments were threadbare and soiled, apart from her scarf. Before they reached the outskirts of Darassus she’d traded her nondescript traveling scarf for a new embroidered blue one, now wound about her head and concealing her hair.

  They made their way to the central fountain and halted before it. By ancient decree all visitors there drank free, although it was customary to tip the waterboys a few small coins. The boys saw both to the maintenance of the water and the cleaning of the tin cups into which they poured, drawn with a ceremonial pitcher. A sheltered building to one side offered toilet facilities they each gratefully visited. After Elik refreshed himself, Rylin sent him into the colonnaded, three-story building beyond to learn the whereabouts of the high counselor.

  This stop would be their last respite, and Rylin drew out the moment, savoring the stone sculpture of the ancient lawgiver, said to be a grand daughter of Darassa herself, immortalized in stone at the fountain’s center. He found himself cherishing the care with which the forgotten sculptor had lavished on the lawgiver’s face, so that the matron seemed both intelligent and gentle, suggested by the lines of care about her mouth.

  Against one hip she rested a tablet onto which were inscribed the laws of passage. In her other hand she held a pitcher by its graceful, curving arm, identical in appearance to that used by the waterboys, and from it poured a constant clear, sparkling stream into the oval pool beneath, then immediately taking on a deep blue aspect, owing to the lapis tiles lining the basin. Rylin breathed in the pure, clean, moist air and smiled wistfully that this joy was so fleeting.

  He felt Lasren at his side, along with his impatience, but swung his attention to the fretted arches above the second-story windows of the Hall of Ancestors, admiring the tiny heroic images there. How is it he had never paid them any heed before? Lasren, he knew, wished to confer, and yet he delayed. When he acknowledged him, the rest of their lives would launch forward. Lasren took the cue and went to speak with Feolia, who’d just emerged from the bathrooms.

  Rylin lingered in the shade of an enormous plane tree until Elik stepped around the side of the fountain and stopped before him.

  He saw the younger man’s hand rise automatically to salute before Elik remembered Rylin was in disguise. Elik’s blue eyes sought his self consciously as he stepped closer. “I’ve found the High Advisor,” he said. There was an unvoiced “sir” in the announcement. “He was with the defense council, but I’ve told him an urgent report’s come in from the field and an alten wants to speak to him alone.”

  Lasren spoke up from just behind, Feolia at his side. “Excellent.”

  “Maybe, sir,” Elik said, turning to include them all. “But Exalt Thelar’s with him and extremely curious.”

  Rylin bit back a curse.

  “Comm … Exalt Thelar demanded answers from me,” Elik went on. “I told him I was under orders only to report to the counselor, and he wasn’t very happy about it.”

  “He’s liable to be unhappy about a lot of things, going forward,” Rylin said. He sat the cup on the fountain’s side. “Did you find out what the queen’s calling everyone together for?”

  “No one’s entirely certain,” Elik confessed. “But rumor has it she’s going to reveal some big secret to the populace, and the exalts are closely involved. They’ve overseen the transportation of boxes to the stadium for the last few days.”

  Rylin frowned, then decided that was a mystery for another time. Right now they needed to get Feolia into the counselors. He faced Lasren directly at last. “Thelar’s going to try to pull rank on you.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t let him. And don’t tell him anything about Commander N’lahr or the political situation—”

  “I know,” Lasren said pointedly. He dropped his voice and stepped closer. “Trust me, all right? I can handle this. If we have to, I’ll take him down.”

  Rylin nodded, hoping Lasren could actually best the mage in a fight.

  Lasren clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck to you, whatever it is you’re off for.”

  “You too.” Rylin wanted to say more, deciding against further advice or anything mawkish, then clasped his old friend tightly about the forearm as Lasren returned the gesture. He saw something fragile and unfamiliar in his friend’s gaze and almost told him that he would make the right choices, when the moment came. Instead, he simply squeezed his arm reassuringly and nodded, once. A thin smile touched Lasren’s lips.

  On impulse Rylin clasped Elik’s arm as well, and the squire returned the grip with sincere affection.

  “Good luck,” Elik said, his eyes level, and Rylin saw that the younger man was more worried for him even than Lasren. Perhaps he guessed Rylin’s mission might be the more dangerous.

  “And to you,” Rylin said, and then turned to Feolia, bowing her scarf wrapped head to him.

  “Thank you for seeing us through,” she said. “Do take care of yourself, young man.”

  “Thank you, Governor. I hope to see you soon.”

  “May the Gods light your way.” She made the sign of the four in the air above her chest before turning from him. Rylin watched them for only a moment and then returned to the stable for his horse.

  Though his disguise was fairly convincing, a kaneshi cavalry soldier wasn’t exactly the best character for seeking admittance into the inner city. Rylin had only managed to restore a little power to his semblance in N’lahr’s camp. He’d watched Varama charge one only once, and he’d apparently missed something. By his own estimate, he had somewhere between a half hour and a quarter hour of power within the stone, and it was likely the lesser amount.

  And so he kept to his current disguise until he was very close to the palace grounds. He stopped in at a tiny roadside chapel to Darassa, erected beside a rock where she had blessed the masons laying the foundation of the inner wall. No pilgrims worshiped within, so he slipped out of the Kaneshi robe he’d been wearing and into the Altenerai khalat he’d carried in a saddlebag. He felt a momentary contentment as he tightened the belt, then centered himself and activated the semblance stone.

  When he left the building he wore Thelar’s image, and soon presented himself to a lowly first ranker standing sentry at a sally gate.

  His first inclination had been to return to the exalt archive to search for information, but he’d had long days to reconsider his plan of action. And so he headed first for the Altenerai wing of the palace.

  He was dismayed to find a lowly first ranker on duty on the front steps as well, something that would never have happened before the current crisis. First rankers might get posted to watch from walls, but they were never assigned to protect buildings. Though Elik had reported the scarcity of squires, seeing the evidence of their low numbers came as an unwelcome surprise.

  He returned the squire’s salute and passed into the building without a word, striding for the commander’s offices. A third ranker sat at the outer desk, idly scribbling on a parchment. The young man looked up, startled, and struggled to his feet to snap a salute.

  Rylin pretended not to see the artistic doodles decorating the paper. “At ease. I’m not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  It still needled him that Thelar, of all people, had been appointed commanding officer of the Altenerai. Inside, he cl
osed the door and deactivated the semblance.

  There was only one change to the room since he’d used it while overseeing Altenerai funeral arrangements—a bust of Asrahn sat on a plinth to the left of the door. That was new, and he wondered who had authorized its placement. It certainly hadn’t been here when he’d been working from the office after Denaven left to hunt Kyrkenall.

  This was almost certainly Thelar’s doing. Strange that someone so clearly at odds with what the Altenerai stood for should still harbor affection for the old Master of Squires. Unless Thelar was putting on appearances. But no, if Thelar was capable of putting on appearances he wouldn’t always look as if he’d been tricked into drinking vinegar. Back in their squire days, Thelar hadn’t even permitted a joke about Asrahn to take place behind the old man’s back, and there were certainly some to make, as there were with any stern instructor. Upon reflection, he grudgingly gave young Thelar credit for that, at least.

  Rylin put aside any further ruminations, stepped to the wall, and put his ring to the little concave pattern beneath the relief of Queen Altenera with raised sword. He heard a click, and then the entire two-foot-square panel swung wide.

  A variety of treasures lay upon the shelves within, among them the original editions of the corps commandments, the most recent strategic analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of the realms, and an ancient copy of Altenera’s memoirs, lovingly illustrated by Herahn himself. But on a lower shelf sat a wooden box covered with stunning scrollwork and carvings. Its front piece depicted the founding Altenerai, all eleven. Rylin breathed out once, in contemplation of those noble figures in their old-fashioned cloaks, then gently removed the lid.

  Inside were the three remaining spare rings. According to the logs, one had belonged to Asrahn, and had been found in the Idris. Was Denaven suggesting Asrahn’s ring had been separated from his body? He supposed listing the ring as being discovered in the water was technically true even if it had still graced the dead finger of the Master of Squires, but this was an unusual way to note it.