by David Hair
Basia and Exilium left the other three to lay their plans. She’d been afraid Wurther might seek to detain them, but Wurther respected the Volsai enough to do no more than speed her on her way.
‘Gather your remaining knights and assemble them in the Chamber of the Holy Script behind the main dome,’ she told Exilium. ‘Call it a prayer meeting or something, but make sure they’re ready to travel – and to fight. There’s something I need to do before I join you.’
The Estellan looked curious, but there wasn’t time for explanations. She sent him off, then clipped along to the suite where Coramore was kept. The guards outside her doors were wary, but after consulting with a mage-priest, she was allowed inside.
The Sacrecour princess was sitting beside a heavily barred window, staring out across the river to the Bastion silhouetted against the northern sky. Her face was pale, her red-gold hair matted and her eyes red, but she managed a wan smile when Basia appeared.
‘Is there news?’ Coramore asked, as she always did. ‘Will they free him?’
Basia looked hard at the mage-nun who was the girl’s constant companion until the sister rose stiffly and went into the next room. Then Basia hugged the princess hard. She’d never felt maternal in her life, but increasingly, she wanted to keep the girl safe. ‘Coramore, are you ready?’ she said quietly, ‘It’s got to be tonight. Wurther’s going to cave to Takwyth’s demands and he’s told Exilium and me to leave.’
‘Tonight?’ the princess squeaked.
‘Aye. Are you ready for that?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘You have to be, dear.’ Basia gripped the girl’s hands, and added, ‘Be ready at dusk.’
She embraced the girl again, then stood and left, pausing at the door and looking meaningfully at the nun waiting outside, a pallid woman with a square, hard face. ‘Sister Lanyr, yes? Look after her.’
The nun gave her a narrow-eyed look, but said merely, ‘Of course.’
Basia slipped out the door and hurried away. There was a lot to be done.
The Bastion, Pallas
Solon was laying down the law with his legion commanders ahead of the following day’s action when a messenger sidled in and handed Roland de Farenbrette a snatch of parchment. The Blacksmith read, then gestured to Solon.
He clapped Rolven Sulpeter on the shoulder. ‘Take over here, Milord,’ he said grandly, then drew Roland aside and read the note. The church rats are growing wings, was all it said. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means that Wurther’s given his “guests” an ultimatum: get out, before he’s forced to arrest them.’
‘Then he’s about to capitulate?’
‘Aye,’ Roland said, with a satisfied glower. ‘Not like him not to just cash them all in, but perhaps the old hog’s turned sentimental.’
Solon decided it was a bet both ways by the Grand Prelate, which annoyed him, but Wurther had supported him in his bid to force Lyra into marriage and he was prepared to be magnanimous – in victory.
‘They’ll go tonight,’ he reasoned. ‘Strengthen the perimeter, but delay the assault until they move,’ he told Roland. ‘We might get everything we want without having to shed blood after all.’
Roland’s face creased in disappointment.
‘I only meant in terms of the common clergy,’ Solon chuckled. ‘We’re still going to storm the Celestium, my friend. I don’t just want de Sirou and her guttersnipes. I want Wurther, Dubrayle, Wilfort . . . the whole damn lot of them. There will be blood, I promise you. Let’s ready the men; I’ll take charge personally.’
Roland looked askance. ‘Should you risk yourself, Milord?’
‘Don’t be such a mother hen, Rollo,’ Solon told him. ‘A leader is not just a figurehead. I lead from the front, and as Emperor-elect, I will lead our march into the Celestium – the symbolism of that moment will define my rule.’
He turned, called ‘Carry on—’ to Sulpeter, then he and the Blacksmith hurried to the horses.
Tonight, I’ll take that Basia de Sirou and break her. She’ll tell me where Lyra’s gone and I’ll end that threat too. Either she marries me, or she dies. He contemplated that, then shrugged. Brunelda might just end up being Lyra for the rest of her life.
The Celestium, Pallas
Fear, that ever-present beast, was gnawing at Coramore’s stomach as she rolled over in the small bed and sat up. The chamber was austere, meant for nuns, not princesses. She’d glimpsed the prelates’ suites: they had been real luxury. She trusted Dominius Wurther about as far as she could push him, but it was better than being in Takwyth’s hands.
Dusk, she reminded herself. Basia’s coming at dusk . . .
Then Sister Lanyr entered, holding a piece of parchment that she thrust into Coramore’s hands. ‘Dress, Highness,’ the nun said urgently. ‘We have to leave, now.’
The note was from Basia . . .
Coramore caught her breath, staring up at the nun. ‘But you . . .’
Lanyr’s not a nun, she’s a Volsai, she suddenly realised. She didn’t look like a Volsai, but that was probably the point. Swallowing her questions, she stripped and dressed while Lanyr threw clothes into a bag.
Fat Wurther doesn’t want us, and bloody-handed Solon is coming . . .
She wished there was something monumental she could do, something Lyra might have done, like freezing the city into a block of ice. Right now, killing a million people meant less to her than rescuing her brother. But she hadn’t the skill or the power . . . in fact she had less than the merest novice mage. That helplessness nearly drove her to tears again.
Sister Lanyr gripped the bag and took her hand. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked, with calm assurance.
‘I am,’ Coramore pretended, gathering her courage.
Lanyr took her to the locked and warded door and used thin metal rods and the gnosis to open it. Outside, they found a maid slumped against the wall. Coramore sucked in her breath. ‘Is she—?’
‘One of Wurther’s spies, pretending to be a servant,’ Lanyr told her, adding drily, ‘She’ll live.’
They tiptoed past and descended several levels, traversed a dusty old corridor and emerged in a small chapel, where Exilium Excelsior was kneeling in prayer before an icon to the Sacred Heart. He rose when Coramore entered and bowed.
Lanyr caught her sleeve. ‘Be safe,’ she whispered.
‘Is Lanyr your real name?’ Coramore asked. ‘Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t ask.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ the woman said tartly. She walked to the door and was gone.
‘She’ll maintain the illusion that you’re still asleep in your suite,’ Exilium told her, looking awkward at the thought of even such a small subterfuge. ‘Come, please.’
He took her bag and led her through another wing of the maze-like building, then broke the wards on a locked door, revealing stairs going upwards. Exilium handed her the bag and when she’d put the strap over her shoulder, handed her a coin lit with a gnostic light. ‘Upwards, Princess,’ he told her, ‘right to the top, force the hatch and wait on the roof.’
It was frightening to be left alone, but Coramore had managed before, so she took the coin and used it to light the way up the dusty, cobwebby spiral stair. She went round and round, losing count of the steps, until she finally reached the hatch Exilium had described. Pocketing the coin so that it wouldn’t betray her, she emerged onto the moonlit open-roofed turret, which was some fifteen feet square. She stayed low, shivering as she muttered prayers and complaints. Princesses shouldn’t have to go through such things.
But she’d had Abraxas crawling through her brain and that really had been Hel, so she decided she could endure it.
*
Wurther came to see them off. Probably to make sure we leave, Basia thought sourly.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ she said, with a touch of sarcasm.
The Grand Prelate winced. ‘I do wish things had worked out differently,’ he claimed. ‘I’d rather deal with your
mistress than a bull-headed thug like Takwyth.’
‘I’m sure,’ Basia drawled. ‘Women are so much easier to push around.’
She didn’t give him time to retort and the doors slammed behind her: apparently Wurther didn’t want to be seen waving them off.
She walked to Exilium’s side and pecked his cheek for luck – and because it confused him horribly – then went to Vasingex. The wyvern was busy scolding the venators towering over her. ‘Don’t worry, girl,’ she told the construct, ‘we’ll be flying in a moment, leaving these lumps behind.’
She swung into the saddle and strapped herself in as the knights did the same. She was pleased to see Exilium was still scarlet from her kiss. Then she gripped the saddle-horn as the wyvern leaped into the air, flapping gracelessly but climbing quickly. In moments they were level with the walls, then moving higher, the venators rising behind her. She circled, staying low, until all were aloft and Exilium sent a command through everyone’s heads. They swung south –
– except for Basia, who sent Vasingex winging towards the old tower. She came in hard, stalled steeply and dropped onto the crenulations, and a moment later Princess Coramore was pulled onto the wyvern and settling onto the saddle behind her. She strapped in, just as they’d practised, then clung to her back as Basia touched her heels to Vasingex’s flanks and a few seconds later they were airborne.
She heard angry shouts, but no blasts of gnosis or searing ballista shafts came at them. Exilium’s men closed around her and in moments she was in the middle of the formation as they swung south.
‘Cora, are you all right?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Never better,’ the princess chirruped, her face alive at the intrigue and danger.
Basia threw her an encouraging smile as they all rose on the stiff breeze.
Then Exilium barked,
Twenty winged shapes had appeared above and before them, blocking their flight path, and shrill cries resounded through the darkness. Basia didn’t need to hear the war-cries to know who they faced; she’d already recognised the Corani pegasi hurtling towards them with levelled lances. Solon Takwyth, resplendent in a crowned helm that glinted in the moonlight, headed them on a griffon.
Velocity, elevation and the ideal weaponry: Takwyth had every advantage.
Exilium read it before she did, and shouted, ‘Scatter!’ aloud and through the aether.
Coramore squealed in terror as Basia took Vasingex into a tight turn and tore away from their attackers.
*
Dominius Wurther had returned to his office after seeing off his unwelcome guests and was in the midst of ordering his evening meal while reflecting that the fortunes of his long reign as Grand Prelate could be read in the quality of the cooking. It was surely no illusion that everything had tasted better a decade ago, before the Third Crusade, when the Sacrecours’ grip on power had been unshakable, as had his.
Emperor Constant was a moron and his mother was the bitch to end all bitches, but we knew where we stood. All this bloody stress gives me acid reflux . . .
He’d given express orders to be left alone – he didn’t want to know what happened when Basia de Sirou and her band tried to escape Takwyth’s blockade – but inevitably the door crashed open.
‘What the fu—’ he began, as Lann Wilfort stormed in.
‘Language, Grand Prelate,’ the Kirkegarde grandmaster admonished reflexively as the noise from outside – running feet, shouted orders and frightened responses – flooded into the room behind him. ‘The attack’s begun.’
Dominius’ stomach lurched. He swilled the red wine – who knew if it would be his last drop? – and stumbled to his feet. ‘Is my windship ready? Can we empty the strong-room? What about—?’
‘No point flying; they’ll just bring us down,’ Wilfort answered. He grabbed Wurther’s arm. ‘Dignity, Dom. This is the invasion of a sacred place. The people will see that.’
‘They’ll see my head on a spike,’ Dominius moaned.
But Wilfort was right: running was for thieves and pretenders. ‘Very well.’ He raised his voice to his major domo, lurking outside. ‘Connswater, my best robes!’ he roared. ‘Bring me the pontifical sceptre. I will not be the worst dressed man in the room when that arsehole Takwyth arrives.’
*
The twelve Misencourt venators did precisely the right thing, veering away from suicidal head-on contact. Solon snarled under his breath as the knights shot away in all directions, but he kept his focus on the one who mattered: Basia de Sirou’s wyvern, with two figures in the saddle . . .
Instantly his guard fanned out, picking their targets, while Solon spurred his griffin after the wyvern, pouring additional strength into his beast to augment its speed. Griffins were unwieldy beasts, but they were aggressive and capable of frighteningly fast bursts; they’d always been his favourite beast in the jousts. He levelled his lance.
Speed, elevation and aim – the old jousting mantra.
His knights tore after their foes with the advantage of speed and elevation . . . but the Misencourt men evaded skilfully, most of them spiralling out of reach with only two losses from the initial contact, then both sides began circling for height. Solon’s guardsmen shielded his flanks and he shot through the chaos unchallenged, his eyes set on the wyvern. Around him, his men collided again with Exilium’s.
He glimpsed horrific impacts – lances impaling men and beast; two constructs colliding in mid-air; a Corani pegasus with broken wings plummeting – but the Misencourt venator was also falling in a dazed glide, the rider reeling. The air was streaked with vivid bursts of energy, flames and lightning, men and beasts howling in fury and agony, and a third of those aloft went spinning away.
But Solon was on Basia’s tail, riding her slipstream as the wyvern weaved frantically. He could see Princess Coramore clinging to Basia’s back and heard the girl’s childish squeals as she saw who was pursuing her.
Then a warning flashed into his mind and he reacted instantly, making his griffin corkscrew left just as a lance grazed the shields around his right shoulder, jarring off in a burst of red sparks. A moment later a venator’s bulbous head reared over him, its jaws opening wide enough to rip him from the saddle. He slammed a kinesis push upwards, causing the teeth to crunch shut on thin air, but for the next few seconds he and his griffin were spinning groundwards.
He caught a glimpse of the knight riding the venator: Exilium Excelsior – who else?
One of his men flashed in on the knight’s flank, making Excelsior almost stall in the air, but somehow the bastard hauled his beast aside, leaned out and let the guard’s pegasus impale itself on his lance. The Corani knight and beast fell into the shadows below, ripping away the weapon, but Excelsior had kicked his mount back into motion and was wrenching out a longsword, his moonlit face focused to the point of serenity.
Damned fanatic, Solon thought, his own battle-fever rising. Slamming his spurs into the griffin’s flanks, he righted its flight and got his bearings. They were south of the gleaming Celestium over marshland, moonlight catching in the icy pools below. Duelling flyers swooped across the moon’s face and more gnosis-fire flashed.
Two more of his men went down, caught in their saddle-straps while their flying beasts plummeted, but another Misencourt knight was dead in the saddle too; he could hear the man’s mount bleating with loss. The fight remained in the balance, but his men still had the numeric advantage.
Solon stayed focused on Basia de Sirou’s wyvern as she ducked and weaved with creditable grace and speed, coaxing the best from her beast. Every time he closed in, she somehow managed to wheel away, and his griffin was tiring – but so was her wyvern . . .
Abruptly, Basia flashed around and headed back towards the Celestium.
Wurther won’t take you back, and anyway, you’re too late: Rollo’s got the lads moving in even now . . .
Then
the rukking Estellan caught him up, so he had to haul his poor griffin about yet again to avoid getting taken in the back, sending him spiralling into an uneven hopping climb. Excelsior circled in front, between him and the fleeing Basia.
Fine. I want to go through you anyway . . .
But his two guards, who had been striving to catch up, finally arrived and streaked past him to close in on the Estellan, their lances aimed.
When the Estellan levelled his blade and shot forward to meet them, Solon could see his men would converge on a trajectory that would see them strike a good six seconds before he would.
But I may still get the killing blow, he thought with a fierce grin, and lowering his lance, he jabbed his spurs and all four beasts raced into the same airspace.
The Estellan’s venator turned sluggishly to confront the first guard to reach them; the guard’s lance plunged towards the mount, but the construct banked and the leading edge of the lizard’s wing crunched into the guardsman, breaking his neck and ripping him from the back of his pegasus, while the venator took the winged horse’s throat – a second before it took the second guard’s lance in the chest. Excelsior’s beast croaked out a despairing cry as it went plunging downwards.
The second guard flashed by, punching the air.
Solon was about to follow, to finish off the Estellan for good, when he caught a glimpse of something below and his heart thudded – so after blazing a command at his guardsman to finish Excelsior, he sent his griffon streaking after Basia and Coramore.
They’re heading for the Winter Tree Garden . . .
Lyra had once told him that old tree was the heart of the dwyma in the North – and now a golden radiance was emanating from the mound where the unnatural tree had grown, as if that mysterious power was coming to life.
Is Lyra there?
There was no way to know, but suddenly he was afraid of what might be unleashed, from ice to gales to lightning from above . . . But what was clear was that it was Basia and Coramore’s destination, which meant he needed to stop them.
He raked the griffin’s flanks viciously and they dived, faster and faster, in the wake of the fleeing wyvern.
