Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  She could feel an almighty collapse waiting inside her, but so far she’d managed to hold it at bay. There was too much at stake, too many urgent things to deal with, so right now, she had to keep moving. She could break down once she’d saved the empire . . .

  Pearl’s hooves struck the ground lightly and they went from gallop to canter to a gentle walk until Lyra, feeling battered, could slide off gratefully – her first successful dismount.

  I’ll never ride without a saddle again, she vowed. Never.

  Dirklan and Basia landed, gave their own beasts to the waiting attendants and joined her. She clung to her father as they walked towards the waiting carriages, Exilium following with Coramore in his arms.

  ‘Do not ever leave us like that again,’ her father was admonishing her.

  ‘I didn’t think I had time—’ she tried to say, but all she managed was ‘I didn’t think . . .’ which probably summed things up more accurately. ‘But we got Coramore back,’ she added.

  ‘A successful outcome doesn’t forgive the risks you took,’ her father growled. Then he fell silent as a bulky shape emerged from one of the carriages and Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther waddled towards them, his face anxious.

  ‘Your Majesty? You’re safe, thank Kore. Setallius tells me nothing.’ As he neared, he asked, ‘What happened?’

  She gestured to Coramore. ‘Somehow she escaped Dupenium and managed to call me through the dwyma.’

  Wurther’s eyes bulged as he made the sign of the dagger to absolve her heresy. ‘She shares your . . . er . . . gift?’

  ‘I think perhaps when Aradea cleansed her of the daemon ichor after Reeker Night, she marked her for the dwyma,’ Lyra told him. ‘She has the potential. Thankfully, Ostevan didn’t kill her when he had the chance.’

  Wurther’s face looked apoplectic and he stammered, ‘Ostevan was there? Then—?’

  Dirklan turned and called Brigeda, who was trailing them, lugging a large box in her arms. She caught up and flipped the lid, revealing Ostevan’s head, blackened and eyeless, but the hair and shape rendered it recognisable.

  ‘Kore’s Blood,’ the Grand Prelate blasphemed, his face swelling with pleasure. ‘How?’

  Lyra felt a sudden overwhelming sense of martial pride, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and she rather shocked herself at the ferocious satisfaction which filled her as she said, ‘I killed him – I stabbed the rukking bas—’

  Her voice broke and she had to turn away and hug her father until she regained composure. ‘I’m sorry, Grand Prelate, my language . . .’

  The stunned Dominius stepped in and engulfed her in stiff brocade and wine fumes. ‘You are truly the answer to all my prayers, my Queen.’

  For a moment, Lyra wondered what the watching soldiers and servants were making of queens and prelates and Volsai lords hugging each other, then decided she didn’t really care. Despite all the treacherous, self-serving things Dominius had done, he’d always been her favourite ‘Uncle’. She let him fuss over her, his care cleansing her just a little more, which gave her the strength to straighten her back and ask Brigeda to close the box.

  ‘Put it on a spike,’ Wurther said. ‘We want the whole world to know he’s dead.’

  ‘See to it, Briggy,’ Dirklan said. ‘Put it on the Traitor’s Nails above the main gates to the Place d’Accord and we’ll issue fresh proclamations of Imperial support for the rightful Head of the Church.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lyra agreed. ‘You must reunite your Church, Grand Prelate, behind our respective thrones.’

  Dominius inclined his head, his eyes were twinkling at the prospect. ‘By this evening, there won’t be a clergyman in the empire who does not cleave to you as our ruler, my Queen.’

  She gave his hand a squeeze, then Dirklan helped her into one of the carriages. A grey-clad healer with milky eyes and a kind smile wrapped a thick blanket around her and placed fingertips against her temple.

  The rest of the journey to the Bastion was a blur.

  *

  Lyra woke to a strange, hollowed out feeling inside. It took a long time to remember who she was, where she was, who the sweet-faced girl holding a tray of food was and what anything she’d just said meant.

  After a while she recognised that she’d been bathed and smelled of rosewater – and somehow the blood and violence of the night had been washed away as well.

  The strange-eyed healer-mage sat beside her on her bed. When she stroked her forehead, Lyra felt something like a finger inside her head, caressing her senses. ‘There, your Majesty,’ the healer said, not quite looking at her. ‘You may feel a certain emotional distance for a few days and the recollections of last night will be hazy for a while, but it won’t last. In time you’ll recall the events clearly, and you must deal with those memories – I can help you through that. What will matter is that you endured and triumphed. You’ve been through some harrowing times, Majesty, but you’ve endured.’

  ‘Somehow . . .’ Lyra conceded, ‘although some days it feels like everything I do is a mistake.’

  ‘We all have those days, Majesty.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Lyra asked, unthinkingly.

  ‘I was born blind,’ the healer replied tolerantly. ‘The damage was irreparable, but the gnosis is versatile, so I manage. There have been bad times, but I too endure.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Selea, Majesty. I was House Fasterius until I took my vows as a Sister of Healing.’

  The Imperial Healers take vows to heal any person, regardless of who they are, Lyra remembered. But nevertheless, I’ve just been healed by an ‘enemy’. How wonderful.

  ‘Thank you, Selea.’ She smiled, feeling further cleansed knowing that she was not alone in believing political allegiances meant less than bettering lives.

  But the day wouldn’t wait: Selea was replaced by Nita with Rildan, giving Lyra a few precious moments salving her emotions with her son’s cherubic face. She could have spent all day that way, but she returned him to Nita and dressed, then joined Dirklan and Basia on the balcony, where they were watching the smoke hanging over the city like a shroud.

  ‘The riots are getting worse,’ Dirklan told her. ‘They’re not even bothering with speeches to incite the mob any more. It’s virtually open war. Our soldiers are chaffing at not being permitted to strike back.’

  ‘Then convene the Royal Council, Lord Setallius. The Dupeni and the Corani renegades will reach us very soon, the city is ablaze and the Pontifex is dead. We have a lot to do.’

  Dirklan hesitated. ‘Lyra, if you can’t face—’

  She tried not to let her annoyance show. ‘I’ll be fine, Father, as long as I’m active.’

  ‘Of course.’

  While he instructed an aide, Lyra asked Basia, ‘How is Coramore? And Exilium . . . and you? How did you even survive?’

  ‘The girl’s sleeping and Exilium’s already on his feet. And I’m fine,’ Basia replied, despite the fact that she looked battered. Healing-gnosis had at least faded her bruises to yellow-purple. ‘Dirk’s lads broke in seconds after you and Exilium got out, so I was never alone.’ She handed Lyra an envelope. ‘This was handed to the guards at Greengate. I don’t know if it’s genuine.’

  The name on the envelope read ‘Lyra Vereinen’ with no titles. It was still sealed, for whatever that was worth. She opened it and read aloud.

  ‘Lady, I must speak with you. I swear the attack at the church was not my doing. I beg you, please meet with me. Leave a note with the guard at the place I left this. Ari F.’

  Lyra looked at Dirklan, feeling both surprise and vindication. ‘I told you Frankel only wanted to talk.’

  ‘That may be, but this could still be a trap. I counsel you to ignore it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ She pocketed the note. ‘Allow me an hour, then we’ll sit down and prepare for the council meeting.’

  *

  When Lyra entered the council chamber, she found her counsellors alrea
dy gathered. Dominius Wurther was gnawing on a roasted pig’s trotter with an expression of smug contentment. Calan Dubrayle, in contrast, looked pale, tense and harassed. Oryn Levis was drained, and her spymaster was yawning.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ She smoothed her favourite green Corani gown and settled on the throne. ‘I think you all know that this morning, I was assailed by Ostevan Pontifex while protecting Princess Coramore Sacrecour at an abbey in Bruinland. With the aid of my bodyguards and the Volsai, we were able to rescue Coramore – she’s resting now, after her terrible ordeal. And most of all, we slew the false Pontifex.’

  ‘All Koredom praises your name for that,’ Dominius said boisterously. ‘Heaven praises your name.’

  ‘Indeed, we all give thanks,’ Calan added.

  ‘A great victory,’ Oryn agreed. ‘Though the risk—’

  ‘Yes, it was a rash adventure,’ Dirklan put in sharply. ‘One we should not repeat.’

  ‘If I hadn’t heeded Coramore’s call, you would never have allowed me to go to her,’ Lyra said, unrepentant. ‘Why should others always take risks on my behalf?’ Knowing there to be a welter of valid arguments against that stance, she moved straight on. ‘Tell me what’s happening in the city.’

  Oryn answered. ‘Majesty, we have only seven legions left: two Corani and four imperial and one Kirkegarde. Garod has nine and Takwyth seven, including four of Hollenian mercenaries. At seven against sixteen, that’s less than one to two odds, which might still be considered sufficient if we held the city properly. But the Kirkegarde are in the Celestium—’

  ‘Where they belong,’ Dominius put in. ‘I am just as much a prize for our enemies as you, Majesty, and Garod could assail either side of the river.’

  ‘We’ve also got one of the imperial legions on the Southside,’ Oryn interjected, ‘which leaves just five to protect Pallas-Nord, except that right now two of our legions are trying to keep the rebels penned in Tockburn and Kenside. If we are to free them up, we must crush this rebellion. Please, give me leave to treat these arsonists and vandals as enemy soldiers.’

  ‘They are our citizens,’ Lyra shot back. ‘No, we continue to contain them.’

  ‘They’re wearing red roses, Milady, signifying that they are willing to bleed for their cause; and they’re being armed by smugglers. My men are beside themselves with frustration at this policy of restraint.’

  ‘No.’

  Oryn looked skywards, the most open dissent the usually placid knight had ever shown, but he went on doggedly, ‘We have only three units to defend Pallas-Nord – and most of our Corani don’t wish to fight against Takwyth’s men – their kinsmen and comrades, Majesty. They are begging us to find common cause with him.’

  ‘Common cause?’ Lyra asked sharply.

  Oryn looked away. ‘They wish you to repair relations with Lord Takwyth and Duke Torun, Majesty.’

  ‘Marry him, you mean?’

  ‘Some are saying that, yes. Others just want you to bury your differences.’ He looked down miserably.

  It’s what he wants too . . . Her hackles rose. ‘I will never, ever marry that man. I will never look at him again, unless it’s at his head on a spike beside Ostevan’s. Never, you hear me?’

  When Oryn nodded sullenly, she pointed out, ‘I thought we agreed you were to bring your men to my way of thinking, not you to theirs.’

  ‘But Corani shouldn’t fight Corani, Milady,’ he tried. ‘Surely some compromise can be found?’

  ‘That man tried to enslave me – and he still wishes to do so. Why is that so hard to understand?’ She sighed, and changed the subject. ‘What of Argundy?’

  ‘The ambassador has prepared a proposal, Majesty,’ Dirklan told her, his voice flat. ‘Prince Andreas has flown to Delph in anticipation and the Argundians have their barges ready on the Siber River. They could have their legions here before the Sacrecours if we come to an agreement today.’

  Andreas. The thought of yet another man left her cold. ‘I need to think,’ she told them. ‘Tell the ambassador I will give him a firm answer tomorrow.’

  ‘But tomorrow—’ Oryn began.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she snapped. ‘Last night I had other things on my mind, gentlemen. You must give me time.’

  They all looked at the spymaster as if to say, She’s your daughter, you talk to her.

  ‘With respect,’ Dirklan started unwillingly, ‘tomorrow may be too late.’

  ‘Dear Kore, it’s midday and I’ve just killed a man who violated my brain and was about to destroy my soul! When have I even had a chance to think of a rukking marriage?’

  She put her hand to her mouth, appalled with herself, because she never used to swear. ‘I’m sorry – I’m so sorry. I’m not myself.’

  ‘We’re all under pressure, Majesty,’ Dominius rumbled, bless him, ‘and indeed, we hear your anguish. Let the world await your pleasure. A decision such as this must be correct, as well as timely.’

  Correct . . . meaning Andreas . . . ‘Do we have a choice?’ she asked plaintively.

  ‘Only an alliance with Argundy will truly alter the equations, Majesty,’ Calan replied.

  ‘Unless you are able to once more unleash the force of nature upon Garod’s men?’ Oryn put in quietly.

  She flinched. ‘No, I . . . I just can’t. I still have nightmares about that night.’

  ‘Milady, if you are unwilling to fight them your way, we must fight our way – and men will die, including those loyal to you.’

  ‘I know.’ She bowed her head. ‘Tomorrow. Give me tonight to think and tomorrow I will decide everything.’

  Abruptly, she felt exhausted, unable to go on. The next most pressing matter was the banking proposal, and only Calan and Dirklan were privy to that line of action. ‘Gentlemen, I know there’s other business: I give you leave to discuss it and report to me later. I must rest.’

  She stood, making them all do the same, then wearily shuffled out.

  ‘They’ll manage without me,’ she muttered to Basia, standing guard at the door. ‘I need rest.’ But Rildan would be asleep and she was loathe to disturb him – then she realised what she really needed. ‘Let’s go to my garden.’

  Lyra went ahead, wanting space to think alone, and Basia was content to clip along behind as she wound through the keep to her garden, then drifted through the twisted roses. They were stark and bare, but birds were twittering avidly, and once a fox appeared, tossed its head then flitted away silently.

  Beside the pool at the heart of the garden, they found Pearl, grazing placidly. Lyra stroked her head and flanks, then turned back to Basia. ‘Could I have a moment, please?’ When Basia hesitated, she added, ‘I won’t fly off again, I promise.’

  The bodyguard reluctantly returned to the seat in the roses, while Lyra knelt, cupped water and drank, which helped as much as any mystic healing to make her feel whole again. After communing a while with the dwyma, feeling Aradea in the wind and water, she opened herself to the dwyma, and distantly sensed Valdyr of Mollachia, but she didn’t want to see him just yet, not so soon after the horrors of the night. So she soaked up the weak sunlight, breathing deeply as calmness stole over her.

  I endured. I will endure.

  *

  When Lyra rose stiffly, she found herself shivering. Clouds now hemmed in the remaining blue and Pearl had flapped away, hopefully to the stables. Basia had dozed off and Lyra had to shake her awake, which made her smile and embarrassed Basia hugely.

  ‘Thanks for keeping watch,’ Lyra teased. ‘Go and rest – Exilium will be waiting upstairs for his shift.’

  Basia gave her a grateful look and hurried off. Lyra was making her way to the stairs to her balcony above when a muffled voice called out from Greengate, ‘Milady?’

  She looked around and saw the two guards had a man with them. He was heavily wrapped against the cold, most of his face hidden by a scarf.

  ‘Yes?’

  The man went to call again, but one of the guards cuffed him around the ear. ‘Oi, shut
it,’ he growled. ‘Her Majesty don’ talk to the likes o’ you.’

  Lyra peered at him curiously, then stared. Dear Kore . . . She knew she should be shouting, It’s him – arrest him—

  Instead, she croaked, ‘Admit him.’

  The guards looked at her in surprise. ‘Majesty?’

  ‘Test him with silver, take any weapons, then admit him.’

  The two men shared an uneasy look. ‘Lord Setallius, ’e’ll ’ave our guts if’n we let a fella in ’ere, Milady.’

  ‘I think I was still queen, last time I checked?’

  The two men swallowed. One pulled out a large silver coin and pressed it to Ari Frankel’s face, but there was no physical reaction. The other patted him down thoroughly before reluctantly – very reluctantly – letting him in.

  Lyra greeted him in a low voice, for his ears alone. ‘So, Master Frankel: you wish to talk?’

  *

  Ari followed the queen up the wrought-iron spiral stair that led from Greengate to a balcony two or three storeys above. This is the Royal Suite, he realised.

  He hadn’t truly believed she would see him; instead expecting to be locked up, especially as he was right now, unwashed and whiskery and jumping at shadows. But he’d had to try. Being admitted to her private rooms, warm, sweet-smelling and full of beautiful things, was surreal. He felt like a wild animal that’d somehow wandered inside.

  A serving girl carrying a grizzling child in her arms came in. She looked at him with disapproving surprise but no recognition as the queen indicated a chair, then accepted the baby. ‘Tea, please, Nita,’ Lyra said.

  ‘Shall I tell Exilium that you’ve . . . um . . .’

  ‘Got company? Yes, please.’

  ‘I’ll let him know. Lord Setallius has repaired Basia’s legs and Exilium is seeing to her.’

  Lyra laughed. ‘Exilium is seeing to Basia?’

  Nita went scarlet. ‘I m-mean, helping her, um, adjust them,’ she stammered.

  ‘I’m teasing,’ Lyra told the maid. ‘Tell him I’m in no danger.’ She waited until Nita had gone, jiggling and comforting her child until he settled, then she looked at Ari. ‘I’m not in any danger am I, Master Frankel?’