by David Hair
That sounds typical, she thought bleakly. ‘And Coraine?’
‘Ah.’ Dirklan gave her an intent look. ‘Solon refused to let the royal heralds speak, so the people of Coraine know nothing about this. Remember that Solon has publicly announced that you’re virtually a prisoner and that he’s marching to free you and restore Corani rule. I doubt he has any idea how to tell them that you’re virtually abdicating.’
‘I’m not abdicating,’ she said sharply. ‘I have a veto on everything, and a hereditary crown. The monarchy part of this “constitutional monarchy” of yours is no less important than the constitutional part.’
‘I know that – but I doubt Solon understands the nuances,’ Dirklan said. ‘Our people will get word out swiftly enough, although I expect Solon will tell them the Mob have bullied you and only he can restore order.’
She thought about that. ‘Will people believe him?’
‘Undoubtedly – but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that there were thousands of men with legion experience in that crowd today and tomorrow we’ll be recruiting like mad. We have a chance.’
So long as Lumpy and the Corani inside Pallas don’t side with Solon, she thought grimly. ‘And what about the Pallacian mage-nobles and battle-magi?’ Lyra asked. They were her greatest worry right now.
Dirklan smiled again. ‘Do you mean your courtiers – who wholeheartedly believe it when the Book of Kore tells them their gnostic powers come directly from the hand of Kore Himself, making them divinely mandated to rule?’
‘Yes, them. If they’re against this, Solon may still arrive to find our heads on spikes.’
‘My people are watching them.’
With knives drawn. Lyra shuddered. They shared a taut look, then with an effort she put that to one side. ‘I’ve been neglecting the dwyma – I really should refresh myself in the garden. Have your grandson for a while.’ She handed Rildan to Dirklan, planted a kiss on each head, then took the stairs from the balcony to her garden. It had been days since she’d opened herself to the dwyma and she craved it, suddenly.
Forgive me, she murmured. I’ve had too much to deal with here.
As she trod the familiar path Pearl trotted over, nickering, and nuzzled Lyra amiably.
She’s eaten all the rose buds, she noted, more amused than annoyed. Ah well, more will grow. Somehow the pegasus-construct embodied her lost husband and his wayward charm and made her feel that he was still with her. She stroked Pearl’s head as they wandered together to the pool. Both drank, then the pegasus looked around with strangely wise eyes.
She’s drinking from a pool blessed by a genilocus, she thought. What’s that doing to her?
The pegasus looked down at her as if to say, What do you think it’s doing, silly? Then she gave a sprightly neigh and trotted off into the late afternoon gloom, her pearly coat swiftly lost among the foliage. An owl hooted and a squirrel darted onto a branch of her Winter Tree sapling and stole a berry.
Letting the dwyma bleed into her heart, she closed her eyes and listened . . .
In the moment it took her to wish it, she was sitting on a log beside him.
She felt surprisingly warmed by his closeness. I missed him, she realised, and he missed me. That made her heart thump and her throat tighten with nerves. She’d not thought she could feel warmly about any man, not so soon after Solon, but she and Valdyr had already shared a lot in a short time. Her breath quickened and she momentarily forgot what she meant to say.
Then she blurted,
Lyra shivered.
Valdyr was staring at her, imploringly, but she couldn’t face him. she blurted.
She tore herself away and opened her eyes, to find herself kneeling beside her pool, shaking and blinking back tears. No, she thought, it’s too much. My battles are here.
Bruinland, East Rondelmar
Cordan Sacrecour clung to his saddle as the column jolted down towards the banks of the Bruin. The river, a mile wide and gleaming like a strip of beaten steel under grey skies, dwarfed the fleet of barges clinging to the shores. It was late afternoon and his whole body was aching from the hours on horseback. He’d always thought riding was really just sitting down and letting the horse do the work, but it turned out, it used all his muscles, even ones he didn’t know he had, like in the small of his back, and every night he collapsed and slept like the dead, only to be roused at dawn, still exhausted and stiff as a corpse.
‘No snow and no storms,’ Uncle Garod crowed, a few feet away. ‘She’s lost whatever she had.’
‘Lyra can call a blizzard out of clear skies,’ Uncle Brylion growled, ‘and we’re still sixty miles from Pallas.’
‘Nonsense – those blizzards were already on their way. She’s too weak to do it again,’ Garod replied. ‘Kore’s sake, Brylion, perk up. The men need to see confidence.’
They had been having the same argument all the way from Dupenium and Cordan was sick of hearing it. The one thing that mattered was that Coramore was with Lyra. Messengers had told them that – and the incredible news that Ostevan Pontifex was dead.
She ran away . . . Ostevan went after her and died . . . It’s wonderful, Cordan thought to himself, although he’d never let his uncle know; he and Brylion hadn’t seen it that way. They were furious, mostly because the Kirkegarde legion in Dupenium had immediately shut themselves in their keep and refused to march, costing them vital men. But neither man was grieving; both had feared the priest.
I’m glad he’s dead – and I’m glad Cora’s safe with Lyra. Perhaps she can stop this war.
It made him angry that this campaign was being waged in his name when the only person in Dupenium who didn’t want it was him. But young princes didn’t get a say.
Is this what it’ll be like being emperor? If they even let me rule . . .
He had no idea what to make of the other news from Pallas, although Uncle Garod just called it ‘arrant nonsense’. He said the idea of a res publica was a travesty, but Cordan didn’t know enough to decide, though increasingly, if his uncle was for something, he was against.
Once he was crowned, his uncle would rule as regent until Cordan was eighteen – but a little voice kept whispering in his ear that he’d never get that old. No one gives up power, he’d read that in the book by Makelli he’d been given. It’s always taken from them at sword-point.
He followed his uncle down to the river bank, the cavalcade of nobles and mage-knights at their heels, to where a barge was being unloaded so the rankers could camp for the night. When the soldiers saw them they raised their swords, shouting, ‘Hail! Hail to the Sacrecour!’ in booming voices.
It sounded ugly, like the trumpets and the drums, but he had to play this game; to do less would ‘betray his lineage’, as Uncl
e Garod kept saying. His uncle had vowed to get Coramore back and to put Lyra’s head on a spike – that was what emperors did – so he saluted the soldiers, shivering, as the drums began to hammer yet again and the hymns of death rolled out across the river and all the way downstream to Pallas.
Coraine Road, Northern Rondelmar
The road is a river, Solon Takwyth mused as he watched the columns tramp past, singing Corani marching songs to the beat of the drums. It was rare for a poetic notion to enter his prosaic mind, but he enjoyed turning it over in his head – although inevitably thinking of rivers led his mind back to logistics: the Dupeni were on the Bruin and making better time than he was.
We’re forty miles from Pallas, but they’ll arrive in better shape, and sooner.
That didn’t trouble him overly: he was confident of his military prowess, certainly compared with men like Garod and Brylion, who only knew one way to fight.
Steam rose like fog from the marching columns and went snaking through the cold landscape – the snow was heavy here in the uplands, but not so bad it required his weather-magi to intervene. Best of all, Duke Torun had decided to stay in Coraine, leaving Solon unequivocally in charge. And Endus Rykjard was proving an amiable enough companion on the road, although right now the mercenary was pensive.
‘What’s on your mind, my friend?’ Solon asked him.
Rykjard glanced over his shoulder, looking northwards towards his homeland, somewhere behind the mass of distant snowy peaks. ‘It’s this news out of Pallas – the break-up of the empire? My agents in Hollenia tell me that the Imperial Governor has already left Damstadt, and there’s an almighty fracas brewing as every mercenary captain and noble – mind you, in Hollenia that’s mostly the same thing – are grabbing what they can. But I’m here . . .’
‘And set to be a power in the restored empire,’ Solon said firmly. ‘Help me win this battle, Endus, and I’ll see you raised high.’ He meant it, too. Rykjard was clearly an able legion commander and men like that were gold dust.
‘If we can get it done swiftly, I can perhaps do both,’ Rykjard mused.
‘We’ll do it all at my pace,’ Solon insisted. ‘We don’t rush things and we don’t go charging in with our armour half-strapped. But it’ll be resolved quickly, I assure you.’
The Hollenian didn’t argue the point, but he fell silent as they trotted onwards.
Solon returned his thoughts to the scarcely believable news from Pallas. She gave power to the Mob in exchange for some kind of honorary status? Incredible . . . An elected Assembly will dominate her Royal Council and govern the country – and Wurther and Dubrayle let her do this? What the fuck were they thinking?
No doubt it was all a sham. Afterwards they’ll renege on everything, he sniffed. Even the fool woman’s father wouldn’t let her carry this idiocy through.
Comforted by his reasoning, he turned his mind to how he would conduct this battle. He had to move fast, clearly, or he’d be stuck outside the walls with Garod Sacrecour inside.
It all comes down to my people inside Pallas, he reflected anxiously; he’d always hated being in the power of others. If they come through, I shall yet be emperor.
Failure was not an option.
Rykjard said something, startling Solon out of his reverie. ‘What was that?’
The Hollenian indicated Solon’s own carriage, which was trundling past. ‘You brought a woman with you,’ he observed. ‘I thought your prize was the queen?’
Solon smiled awkwardly. In truth, he’d intended to leave Brunelda behind him – after all, she’d fulfilled her purpose, giving him someone to ease his nights until he had Lyra in his possession. But on the morning of departure, he’d not wanted to let her go.
She rukks better than Lyra ever did, he’d told himself, and she doesn’t complain afterwards. She might be a whore, but she was better company than Lyra too: she didn’t argue or harbour stupid dreams. I’ll put her aside once Lyra’s in my hands, he’d decided, and so here she was, part of the army streaming south.
‘This road’s too damned cold for an empty bed,’ he told Rykjard.
‘The Crusades ruined my resistance to cold too.’ The Hollenian laughed. ‘That’s why I keep four wives.’
‘You heathen prick.’ Solon guffawed. ‘I might follow your lead.’
*
Brunelda gazed out of the curtained window of the carriage as it rattled and shook its way over the rutted, ice-encrusted road, jolting fit to shake her teeth out. But her eyes were on the hillside, where her lord rode alongside the Hollenian.
What’s happened to my life? she wondered.
Like every other man, woman or child of Coraine, she’d idolised Solon Takwyth, the Saviour of Coraine, the pinnacle of manhood, without ever expecting to meet him. She’d not even been born when he’d resurrected House Corani after the massacres of 909; all her life he’d been a living legend. She’d screamed his name from the cheap stalls at jousting tournaments, worshipping him for his victories, for his handsome manliness and his utter mastery of the art of war. More than even the ducal house, Solon was Coraine.
She’d been sixteen when he went into exile in 930; like most of the duchy she’d hated the queen for choosing that southern rake Ril Endarion over her hero. She’d bought tapers to pray for Solon’s return and wept for joy when he had.
And now here she was, in his bed: a dream beyond imagining – but caught up in something far more complicated than she could fathom. That he’d made her pretend to be Lyra, well, she could understand that: he loved his queen, but he couldn’t be with her, so he needed someone like her. There were times when she saw the great man inside him – when he showed her kindness, or encouraged someone to be better than they were; that was the man she loved.
But more often he was a bully who exhausted her and left her humiliated and wondering why she didn’t run.
All her life she’d been told she was stupid. No one had ever bothered to teach her much more than how to speak and how to count the coin she earned – but she was good at reading customers, and good at giving them what they needed. ‘You’re not much,’ her mother told her every holy day, when Brunelda visited to drop off whatever she could spare, ‘but you’re a good whore, may Kore have mercy on your soul.’
I am a good whore, she breathed, gazing up the slope, so good that the invincible Lord Takwyth chose me, and now he owns me.
But he frightened her sometimes, especially when he took her by surprise, pinning her down and using her violently, all the while roaring the queen’s name. Or when he tossed in his sleep, sweating at some nightmare, clutching at the marred side of his face: even though the scars had been all but magicked away, his wounds ran deeper than skin.
I want to love him. I want him to love me . . . but me, not Lyra. Me.
She was also terrified about this war: her own brothers were in the queen’s army, in Oryn Levis’ legion, and she was frightened for them. Every night she prayed they would see sense and desert, for Solon would destroy anyone who stood in his way, she knew that.
But what happens to me when this is done? she wondered. He’ll have his queen – but what will I have? And more chillingly: I don’t know if I can live without him any more . . .
Pallas
The throne hall wasn’t full and that worried Lyra – and her paranoid father – more than the armies of Dupenium and Coraine right now, because the pure-blood mage-nobles of Pallas all believed that but for a quirk of history, they could have been emperor.
Now I’m asking them to give up that dream.
Thankfully, Dirklan, Calan and Dominius had been working the Great Houses with their trademark blend of negotiation, cajoling and threat.
‘Do you really think Takwyth or Garod will favour you when you haven’t done a thing for them in six years?’
‘The Dupeni don’t see you as a potential ally: they see you as a treasure hoard.’
‘The Church has blessed this new regime; do you really want to be on the wrong s
ide of them?’
‘There’s a Mob out there: do you want explain your objections to them? We have only to give them your name.’
And perhaps most tellingly, although Lyra didn’t like it, ‘You’ve got every advantage, Milord: mage-blood, wealth and education. Play your pieces right and you’ll own every seat on this new elected Assembly.’
Lyra ignored the gaps and focused on those before her: old mage-knights sporting dated finery; dowagers of centuries-old dynasties; brooding lords with plump wives, their figures ruined by pregnancies and indolence. These Houses had ruled for hundreds of years. They were here to renew their fealty to her – but mostly to find out what she’d given away.
The next family was led by a florid knight with a pregnant wife half his age, trailed by a lanky bastard son, a mage-knight with intense eyes. Her herald whispered their names in her ear.
‘Do you, the Blessed of House Misen, swear to serve the Republic of Rondelmar?’ she asked them.
Simplifying Res Publica to ‘Republic’ had been Calan’s idea; the new word rolled off the tongue much better than the clumsy Rimoni term. Frankel wasn’t happy – of course he was a linguistic purist as well – but Calan had pulled rank, enjoying his petty victory during this ‘surrender’.
The moody Lord Misen, positively simmering with resentment, went down on one knee, followed by his kin behind him. He placed his hand on the Book of Kore and in a surly voice intoned, ‘I, Tybor Misen, Lord of Misencourt, do pledge the allegiance of House Misen to the Republic of Rondelmar.’ He kissed the giant sceptre with a sour expression, as if it was coated in vinegar.
‘Thank you, Lord Misen,’ Lyra said, smiling at the thought that she’d inadvertently masqueraded as this man’s kin when she’d chosen the pseudonym Nara of Misencourt. ‘Rondelmar sees and hears.’
Behind her right shoulder, Grand Prelate Wurther recited, ‘Kore sees and hears. May he bless your loyalty with riches and curse infidelity with eternal loss.’ He made the sign of the Sacred Heart over the kneeling family. ‘Go forth to serve and protect.’
