Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Norostein, Noros

  Martrois 936

  Lyra sighed in frustration, too tense to sleep, and rolled over again, trying to get comfortable. The unfamiliar guestroom creaked as the wind moaned through the eaves and hidden draughts chilled her skin and made the candles dance. They’d been housed away from the Governor’s Mansion to limit prying eyes.

  She was exhausted, wanting desperately to sleep, but rest wouldn’t come. Her mind kept churning over the dwymancy she and Valdyr had exerted that evening, a subtle drawing of energy quite unlike the tumultuous storm-riding they’d done previously. Did we get it right? Would it be detected? And she was anxious about the day to come, when they would fly south to set themselves against a madman of unknown powers to prevent an event prophesied in the Book of Kore itself.

  Dirklan says the holy book was written by men, but surely Kore Himself guided them?

  If that was so, their mission was already doomed.

  Outside, it was still night, and deathly quiet. Occasionally, she heard soldiers assemble and tramp away, doubtless to relieve the watches along the walls. Messengers came and went, briefing General Korion and Sultan Salim – who turned out to be an impersonator . . . Seth Korion had told her the full story, which was weirdly ironic, given what she’d done; it set her to worrying about Nita and events at home.

  The Sacrecours will have reached Pallas – they might even have fought by now . . .

  Part of the price of their secrecy was no news: the aether was never perfectly safe from listening minds, so Dirklan had decreed no contact at all with the north.

  This is hopeless, she thought at last. She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, then crept to the door and slipped into the lounge, where she found Rhune and Valdyr, lying beside the dying fire. The Ventian was snuffling softly, but Valdyr saw her and sat up. She gave him a tentative smile, then headed for the servants’ door, opened it quietly and slipped through to a smaller room. She sat on the window’s padded seat and looked down at the square below.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she yawned to Valdyr, who slipped in behind her. His breath was steaming too.

  ‘Neither can I.’ They sat together, peering out at the moon lowering towards the southwest, silhouetting the peaks of the Veronese Alps which towered over the city. ‘It’s nearly dawn anyway.’

  He turned to face her and for a while they just gazed at each other. From a distance, he looked grim and forbidding, the touch of frost at his temples and drooping moustaches making him look at least forty, but this close, it was clear he was much younger, around her own age.

  He’s had a hard, hard life, she thought. He’s been through Hel.

  She reached out shyly and stroked the moustache: it was softer than she’d expected. ‘These are awfully out of fashion in Pallas,’ she teased. ‘No one wears just a moustache. It’s either clean-shaven or a full beard.’

  ‘In Mollachia, moustaches have always been a sign of masculinity – and beards are for married men.’ He smoothed his facial hair self-consciously. ‘You don’t like them?’

  ‘Well, maybe they take some getting used to,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m not criticising.’

  ‘Good, because they’re not going away.’

  She pushed aside the urge to kiss him; she knew so little about him, so here was her opportunity. She asked him about his homeland and family, drinking in what he told her.

  Then it was her turn, and this time she held nothing back, talking first about Rildan and his father and her infatuation with Ril, her handsome, heroic rescuer. Then, despite feeling deep embarrassment, she confessed how close she’d come to letting Ostevan seduce her, and then her ill-fated lurch into Solon’s arms.

  ‘It’s hard to trust my feelings,’ she confessed. ‘Ostevan played me like a harp . . . and Solon was overpowering: a bully, emotionally, physically . . . sexually. At first I thought I was proving something, you know? Becoming the sort of woman that men demand . . . but I hated him in the end.’

  He looked down at his hands for a moment, gathering strength for his own soul-baring. ‘Lyra, I was a child when I was sent to the breeding-houses . . . I’ve lain with hundreds of women, maybe even thousands, but I’ve never made love. I have never been with someone who wanted me for myself . . .’ He paused before adding, ‘And nor do I expect to, until we’ve dealt with Ervyn Naxius.’

  ‘After that,’ she agreed, relieved not to be pressed.

  Valdyr took her smooth hands in his callused fingers. ‘You are still queen of a mighty nation. I have no expectations.’ He hesitated, then smiled. ‘But I’m not discouraged. Asiv is dead and you cannot imagine how this lifts my soul.’

  ‘I think the death of Ostevan left me feeling something like that,’ she told him. Although my violence scared me . . . ‘Dirklan believes we can reach Rym in two days, so this may all soon be over, one way or the other. If . . . if we live, who knows what might be possible?’ She considered. ‘Under the new constitution, I will be sharing the responsibilities – I will have more time for myself. That’s not a luxury I’ve ever had – Kore is a demanding Master too – you have no idea how much praying a nun’s expected to do.’

  ‘My brother will need me in Mollachia for some time,’ he replied, ‘but not for ever. And once I’ve done what I need . . .’ His voice trailed off and they shared the silence again.

  Lyra could not stop herself from leaning in, or touching her lips to his . . . and sinking into him, until she was lost in his taste, his warmth, and the solid bulk of him that promised real dependability.

  *

  Ogre stared at the wall of the chamber he’d been allotted. For all it was small, it was still the most luxurious room he’d ever slept in, although his mind was not on the softness of the mattress or the smoothness of the linens but on the journey to come.

  We’re hunting the Master, yet even the Ordo Costruo failed to find him. He couldn’t escape the fear that he was going to die – but his life, begun as an animagery experiment, had disproven the view that someone like him could only ever be miserable. Since his great adventure began, there had been many memories he would cherish: victories of body and mind, times of connection and laughter. But most of his best moments had come when Tarita had burst into his life and immediately offered friendship; the times they’d rescued each other; the shared joy and relief of companionship – even the gift of watching her sleep, pressed to his side and utterly trusting.

  It’s of these things I will be thinking as I die, he told himself.

  He was a half-blood mage: he had no illusions about how he’d fare against the Master’s mightiest servants. Once periapts were kindled and blades drawn, he’d not last long.

  He gave up on sleep and crept into the corridor, ignoring the staring guard outside as he tried to orientate himself and work out where he wanted to go. Somewhere with a view, he decided. He finally found a narrow spiralling staircase and, peering up, caught a glimpse of a faint glow above suggesting he might find a view of the sunrise.

  He had to bend double as he clambered carefully up steps too small for his feet, but his reward was to emerge through a half-open door into a chamber beneath a dome of chequered panels of red and blue glass. Cobwebs clung in the corners, but it looked like someone had brushed the worst away. The wooden floor barely creaked as he walked out into the chamber and gazed upwards, to see the moon refracted through the glass dome in scintillations of colour.

  He smiled slowly in appreciation.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Tarita commented.

  Ogre spun, his heart thudding, a rush of embarrassment washing over him that she’d taken him by surprise – and that she might think he’d been looking for her.

  Weren’t you? the dry voice in his head asked.

  She was sitting up against a wall in the darkest part of the chamber, wrapped in blankets. Her clothes, boots and weapons were piled beside her.

  ‘Didn’t they give you a room?’ he asked indignantly.

  ‘They did – w
ith Waqar,’ she answered, her voice indifferent.

  ‘Oh.’ He floundered, then settled for, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I got bored being a concubine – and now he’s sick. I hate sickrooms – and anyway, we’ve got a job to do.’ She patted the floor beside her. ‘Sit here. The sunrise paints the walls all colours. It’s quite lovely.’

  He hesitated, then settled a foot away. She ruined his attempt to keep his distance by scooting across and worming into the crook of his arm.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, looking up. ‘Something’s up.’

  ‘We might all die,’ he mumbled, because that was easier than, I love you and it’s killing me. ‘Or we may be possessed and enslaved by the Master.’

  ‘That all?’ she teased, patting his forearm. ‘Come on Ogre, you’re not usually put off by a little pain and death. And if we don’t do this, who will?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ He groaned heavily. ‘I’ve lived for twenty-one years, but only this year under open skies. This has been the best year ever.’

  ‘Apart from all the people trying to kill you.’ Tarita giggled. She wrapped her blanket tighter against the chill, then squirmed against him.

  ‘Even that. At least I felt alive. Before this, there were just tasks, books, people who hated me, people who treated me like an exhibit or an experiment gone wrong . . . and the Master.’ He hung his head. ‘I don’t want it to end. I’ve got too much to do.’

  She patted his thigh. ‘Listen to you talk: you say “I” now. It used to be, “Ogre says” and now it’s “I say”. You’ve come so far – I’m very proud of you.’ She punched his arm. ‘The Ordo Costruo really wasted you, hiding you away like that.’

  ‘They were kind—’

  ‘They were cruel. I think they were ashamed that they’d been taken in by Ervyn Naxius, and scared people would hear of you. They should have found a better place for you.’

  He didn’t like to think about that: to his mind, the Ordo Costruo had been merciful. ‘But anyway,’ he mumbled, ‘I’ve not done enough with my life.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ She sounded indignant. ‘You unravelled Naxius’ plans and because of that, you’ve given us a chance to thwart him. That’s not nothing.’ She wriggled around to face him and kneeling in front of him, face upturned, said firmly, ‘You’re a warrior, my hero and my very good friend.’

  Just looking into her eyes made his throat seize up. ‘The last thing is the best thing,’ he croaked.

  She came to her feet with easy grace. ‘Oh no, she said, a little throatily, ‘being a warrior is important too: you’re big and strong and bold, like Kip’s men.’ She reached out and playfully grabbed a handful of his long straggling dark hair. ‘You need warrior braids, like a Schlessen Bullhead.’

  Ignoring his protests, she combed through his tangled hair, ignoring the fact that he’d gone rigid at the touch of her fingers. After a while he relaxed enough to savour her nearness, while trying to ignore that she was only wearing a blanket and probably a nightshirt. She was completely unselfconscious, humming to herself as she worked deftly, gathering his lank tresses and weaving them into braids.

  Another memory to take to my grave . . .

  ‘There,’ she said, pulling the new braids into a loose topknot. Giggling, she ordered, ‘Pull a fierce face, Ogre.’

  He growled, she squealed, then exclaimed, ‘Pull another—’

  And suddenly he was all right again: they were the two teasing friends, sparking off each other, and he put aside vain wishes and enjoyed what was.

  ‘Look,’ Tarita said after a moment. ‘The sun’s rising.’

  She sat in his lap, careless – or ignorant – of the fact that he was completely besotted, and tentatively he slid his arms around her. Together, they watched the brightening dome until shards of coloured light speared through the room, each filled with dancing dust motes.

  He blinked and looked down at her, lit by the ethereal light and timeless, like a pixie from the Fey Tales, delicate and unearthly. He imagined that he looked like an old troll. ‘I still love you,’ he whispered, unable not to.

  ‘I know – but you’ll get over it.’ Abruptly she rose and he cursed himself, for breaking the spell. ‘Come on, Ogre,’ she said, ‘best we gird our loins.’

  He felt himself go red. ‘We what . . .?’

  ‘It’s a Rondian phrase: it means “prepare for battle” or some such. There’s nothing wicked involved, damn it.’ She grinned and skipped across the chamber to pull on her clothes. ‘Let’s get breakfast – I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. Or even a pegasus? Do you think they taste better than horse?’

  ‘Mmm, yes. the queen’s mount looked very tasty,’ Ogre observed solemnly, averting his eyes from her bare legs and arms and slipping back into their routine. ‘I bet the wings taste like chicken.’

  ‘You pluck, I’ll cook.’

  She pulled on her tunic and leggings, belted on her weapons and piled the bedding in a heap, then turned, ready to go. But Ogre noticed something glinting in the blankets and reached in to pluck it out. His eyes went wide as he saw it was a skull mask, akin to the ones he’d seen in Mollachia worn by the Master’s servants. This one was green, with a red snake protruding from the mouth like a tongue: a visage he’d seen in the Book of Kore.

  ‘Cadearvo,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Waqar killed him,’ Tarita replied. ‘You shouldn’t touch it – I think there are enchantments—’

  ‘It’s the Master’s work,’ Ogre interrupted, turning it over in his hands. He closed his eyes and listened to the way the artefact resonated. ‘It’s part of a set – can you feel how it calls, each to the others? But there’s no response . . . No, wait . . .’

  He turned slowly, then opened his eyes and pointed. ‘That way. The Master is that way.’

  Tarita tilted her head, a grin creasing her face. ‘South, towards the big mountains,’ she exclaimed. ‘Bring it with you. That Dirklan only had a rough idea where to find Naxius, but with that, you can lead us to his doorstep.’

  They looked at each other in growing realisation that this quest might just be possible after all.

  ‘Dear Ahm, it’s good to have you back, my friend,’ Tarita exclaimed. ‘Ogre and Tarita, still trying to save that damned princess.’

  *

  Waqar was woken by a wet nose snuffling around his face. He opened his eyes drowsily – and went rigid.

  An immense wolf almost as large as a horse was standing beside his bed. The reek of wet fur and rancid meat filled the room, but it sniffed at Waqar and wrinkled its nose as if he was the one that smelled.

  ‘Gricoama?’ Waqar said uncertainly. How in Hel did this beast get here? The wolf looked up at him with big, mesmerising eyes. ‘By the Prophet, you’re magnificent, aren’t you?’ He reached out to stroke an ear—

  —as the beast’s jaws opened and crunched shut, teeth punching through the back of his hand and he convulsed in anger, gnostic energy flaring . . . and collapsing . . .

  The beast released his now bloody hand, still staring at him with those impassive, searching eyes.

  Waqar started to speak when something inside smote him and the world fell away.

  *

  Valdyr and Lyra slipped out of a side door, followed by Dirklan, Ogre, Tarita, Rhune and Sarunia. He was looking round for Gricoama when the wolf materialised from the shadows and bounded toward him.

  He yelped and ran to greet the wolf. ‘How fast you got here,’ he exclaimed, but the wolf just looked at him loftily.

  Gricoama walked the Elétfa with me and probably got more out of that than I did. He’s probably more spirit than wolf now. But when Valdyr hugged him, he still felt as warm, shaggy and, well, doggy as ever. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he told the wolf.

  Those big, wise eyes said, Of course you are. Now feed me.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he promised, and followed Lyra and the others into a small square behind the administrative building where their cons
tructs were being readied. The venators were grumbling and squalling and the queen’s pegasus neighing restlessly until Lyra went to her. He found an aide who promised to feed the wolf, then went to his own venator and helped rub him down.

  Then he noticed Ogre, tending the mount beside his, and peered quizzically. ‘Ogre, what have you done with your hair?’

  ‘Warrior braids,’ he said proudly. ‘Schlessen warriors wear them.’

  ‘And Mollach virgins,’ Valdyr said drily, making Tarita shake with silent laughter.

  Dirklan left his wyvern and called them together. ‘All right, pay attention. The sun’s high enough and shining at a good angle: it’ll blind anyone in the old Shihad camp who might be looking our way. We’re going to fly right under the cliffs to the south, then go westwards seeking the southern passes. It’s a tough route – no one lives up there, and there can be sudden storms – but all being well, by evening we’ll be in northern Silacia.’

  ‘What then?’ Lyra asked.

  ‘We’ll scry, using Waqar’s blood, and the mask. Without the Alps to block us, it should work.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Then we have a problem,’ Dirklan admitted. ‘But what other choices do we have?’

  ‘Ysh,’ Valdyr growled, ‘let’s get on with this.’ He looked at Lyra as he said, ‘Sooner it’s done the better.’

  ‘We are ready,’ Ogre announced. ‘We have girded our loins.’

  Tarita shrieked with laughter and the big construct joined in until they were both shaking with mirth.

  What’s that all about? Valdyr wondered, but their laughter lifted the group and everyone was exchanging grins as they mounted up.

  Dirklan’s wyvern bounded into the air first, followed by the queen’s pegasus; Tarita, sitting in front of Ogre, took off next, then the two Ventians. Valdyr rose last, shouting to Gricoama to meet him in the south. The wolf looked up, seemed to nod, then went back to the bloody haunch of meat he’d been provided with. Valdyr took that as agreement.

  After a few nervy seconds when he was sure the sluggish venator wouldn’t clear the roofs, they were all spiralling upwards, the cold air seeking bare skin to sting and then numb as they left the beleaguered city behind.