Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I have a little coin, but Dubrayle’s taken most of it. I don’t care – I have no heirs. I’ll find a small farm somewhere, someone who needs a hand, and let the world forget me.’

  She gazed up at him with full eyes and blurted, ‘I won’t forget you.’

  ‘You should,’ he croaked. ‘Brunelda, I treated you abominably. I made you dress as another and never asked permission when I used you. And now I’ve left you with a child you likely don’t want. I’ve asked Dubrayle to look after you and he swears he will. All I can say is that I’m so terribly sorry – and I’ll soon be out of your life.’

  He turned to the horse again, but she pulled his arm. ‘Take me with you,’ she begged.

  He looked back at her, incredulous. ‘How can you—’

  ‘You were my hero,’ she said, fighting tears. ‘I worshipped you as a child – and even in the darkest moments I could see a better man inside you. I want to help you find him again. And I want our child to have a father.’

  A father . . . That was one thing he’d never been. But he still couldn’t comprehend.

  ‘I don’t deserve that,’ he whispered, as a vision of a kind of future opened up in his head, of a smallholding somewhere, a home, a child . . . a wife. Peace. He tried to speak, but somehow, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  At last he managed, ‘I’m not a hero, I never was, I just hurt people—’

  She glared up at him. ‘Self-pity doesn’t become you, Solon. I’ve known plenty of men and I know a good heart when I see one. You have that within you. I’m not saying marriage, not yet. We will be as brother and sister until you prove yourself to me, and you won’t touch me unless I permit it. Fuck up in any way and you won’t get a second chance. Power corrupts, the Book of Kore says – so put it aside and be the man you should be.’

  Faced with such determination, he could only yield. So he dismounted and carefully helped her onto the mare, then mounted behind her and clicked the horse into motion.

  Together, they rode out of history.

  *

  Confusion had reigned in Pallas for days, with rumours flying in all directions: Queen Lyra was dead – but no, it was Solon Takwyth who was dead . . . or fled, maybe, because someone had sworn they’d seen a man who looked exactly like Takwyth leaving by the western gate, with a woman riding double.

  But where was the queen – and why wouldn’t she speak to reassure her people?

  Duke Garod’s kin were advancing to claim the throne – no, they were retreating, and renouncing that claim. The Argundians were going to invade – but no, their barges had been destroyed when Lac Siberne froze for the first time in history. The republic was undone – ah, no, the republic was strong and flooded with capital, thanks to the new Bank of Rondelmar. The Corani were in revolt – no, the Duke of Coraine had re-pledged allegiance to Lyra. The Church was fragmenting – no, Grand Prelate Wurther had taken a leaf from some Eastern religion and called a Convocation, whatever that was, to renew Church unity. The Shihad was destroyed – no, a truce was now signed and the Easterners had agreed to withdraw to Verelon.

  All of it was true, a mass of contradictory events happening all at once.

  But sometimes a single symbolic gesture could change the mood of a nation – and that day came when Queen Lyra finally broke her silence.

  She had arrived after dark and barely slept, instead spending every moment since Pearl left her in her garden closeted with her advisors, being briefed and formulating plans.

  Now, at last, she walked out onto the Place d’Accord, Basia behind her, jittery as ever.

  We bodyguards breathe paranoia as others do air, Basia thought, quite unable to relax as Lyra paused to shake hands and exchange greetings with the people pressed hard against the barriers. Exilium, on her other side, was just as nervous: in his mind, he was now bodyguard to two women.

  Finally Lyra reached the raised dais, where the giant statue of Corineus towered over them, the gleaming dagger at his heart lit by gnostic light on this grey day. Dirklan Setallius, lurking nearby, watched the crowds, flanked by Mort, Patcheart and Brigeda, as did Basia, even though everywhere she looked, people were beaming.

  The war was over and the queen was among her people.

  Lyra ascended to the throne on the dais, to be joined a few moments later by Dominius Wurther. The symbolism of Church and Crown together was not lost on anyone. Lyra looked up from her notes as a mage-herald got ready to amplify her words so they would fill the vast square.

  ‘People of Pallas,’ she began, her voice clear and confident, ‘I have been told that many have been speaking of the “Last Days” – but here we are, the sun is shining and the war is over. Only the bad days have ended; better ones are on the way, I promise you all.’

  Basia smiled as the crowd lapped it up, cheering lustily. People loved good news.

  They’ll never know how close we came.

  ‘This is the first day of our new republic,’ Lyra went on. ‘Today I sign the constitution.’ She gestured and Ari Frankel came forward and waved, receiving a hearty cheer, especially from those of Tockburn and the docklands.

  ‘Master Frankel’s fine document encapsulates the vision he inspired in me,’ Lyra went on, ‘the vision he has championed fearlessly for years: that leadership must be at the consent of the ruled, that it must be for the ruled. No voice should go unheard, no person be barred from participation – and merit matters more than wealth or birth.’

  The huge plaza fell increasingly silent as she went on, most still not quite understanding what they were seeing.

  Basia glanced at Exilium, who was watching the queen in reverence.

  Between his love for Kore and his adoration of Lyra, I’m going to have to fight my corner, she thought wryly. But I’m up for it – they don’t stand a chance. The last few nights had been testament to that.

  ‘It is to that last, the matter of birth, that my thoughts are increasingly drawn,’ Lyra continued. ‘My advisors tell me that periods of great change require continuity; that trusted institutions must remain strong so that we may all feel secure. There may come a day when a hereditary monarch is no longer needed as figurehead of this nation,’ Lyra declared, ‘but for now I remain in your service as Queen of Rondelmar, until the republic has set down roots.’

  The cheering was muted; the people had only ever known monarchy.

  ‘But that day will come,’ Lyra went on. ‘You all know I wasn’t raised to rule: I fell into it, and I would be just as happy to fall out again. I have done my best, but I have made mistakes. The weight of this kingdom will always be too great for a single pair of shoulders to bear, so I happily pass it on, and I will sleep the better knowing my son need never put his heart on trial as I have had to.’ She raised her voice and concluded, ‘When this republic is secure, when the first Assembly gathers and passes their first laws; when no one needs to wonder what I might think, then it will be time for me to step aside.’

  A hushed mutter rippled through the crowd and some, mostly women, called, ‘Milady, never leave – we love you!’

  Same biddies who hurled rotten fruit at her, Basia sniffed.

  But Lyra sailed on, ‘My closest advisor once told me that empires always fall in bloodshed and destruction, so it is my greatest pride that this one is ending gently. I have been called “Empress of the Fall” – and I embrace that name, for we are falling not into calamity but into grace. Who are one people to rule another? What gives us the right? I renounce conquest and rejoice in the newfound freedom of Argundy, of Ventia, of Estellayne and Bricia and Hollenia and Midrea and Noros. May they use it well.’

  The hubbub grew until she raised her hand again. ‘Thank you all, for your belief in me. Now you must learn to believe in yourselves. You, the people, are the Republic of Rondelmar. Never forget that. Bid farewell to kings and queens, emperors and empresses. Choose new rulers, and do so wisely: make them accountable to you, to the law and to Kore.’ She smiled a
nd added, ‘And, for a while longer, to me.’

  Basia could see the ambassadors of the newly independent kingdoms and the two new republics, Noros and Bricia, taking that in. They all knew she had frozen Lac Siberne, destroying the Argundian fleet. She was sure they hadn’t missed the point.

  Lyra rose and before most of those in the plaza had realised, she was gone.

  *

  An hour later, Lyra knelt beside her pool, communing with the dwyma, Coramore beside her like a young disciple. Cordan was watching from a few feet behind them. She withdrew reluctantly from that peace; she’d been hoping to reach Valdyr before she went to bed, but so far he was absent.

  Becoming aware of another presence, she called over her shoulder, ‘Father?’

  Dirklan ghosted from the shadows, holding a sleeping Rildan in his arms. ‘Most people don’t know when I’m around,’ he noted, a little ruefully.

  ‘This is my garden – I know everything here.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s better than thinking I’m too old to sneak about.’

  ‘You are.’ She rose, pulling Coramore up beside her, noting the princess still looked apprehensive around Dirklan. ‘It’s time you retired, Father.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Write a memoir, then blackmail everyone not to print it.’ Lyra laughed, winking at Coramore. ‘That should keep you in plenty.’ She squeezed the girl’s hand and sent her off with Cordan, hand in hand. She was negotiating their return to Dupenium, once she had ensured that a loyal Regency Council was in place. Cordan would be the first King of Dupenium – if he renounced any claim to Rondelmar. He claimed to be willing, and she believed him.

  ‘Who says I want to retire?’ Dirklan asked, a little huffily.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, but I’d like you to be a father, not always away on some secret mission from which you mightn’t return. You’ve earned some peace.’

  He gave her a testy look, but sighed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  That’s progress. She took Rildan, cradling him as they settled on her favourite bench overlooking the pool. A new Winter Tree sapling now grew here, like its predecessor, stubbornly out of synch with the rest of nature and withering as the summer blossomed. The dwyma was regaining strength here too, despite the damage Solon had wrought.

  ‘I think the speech went well,’ she said, breaking the companionable silence.

  ‘The people are confused,’ her father said, ‘but they trust you and Frankel.’

  ‘They’ll get to grips with it when Ari’s elections start.’

  ‘I understand all manner of chancers and crooks are planning to stand for office.’

  ‘Like Jean Benoit? I heard that too,’ Lyra laughed. ‘He won’t win, as long as the officials are vigilant against corruption.’

  ‘I’ll make damn sure of that,’ Dirklan growled. ‘So do you really mean to abdicate?’

  ‘I do, eventually. Maybe in a few years, if the republic is working properly. But I will remarry before that. I’m not getting any younger, Father.’

  ‘You’re twenty-seven. That’s hardly ancient.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘To Valdyr Sarkany?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘He’s a good man. I’m sure you’ll be well-matched.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  She looked up at the sky. The sun was setting and the night’s chill was coming on, but for now a brief, beautiful twilight held sway in Pallas – the heart of empire no more, but still a glittering jewel, the greatest city in Yuros.

  She kissed her sleeping child, then handed him back to his grandfather, thinking, It’s dusk already in Mollachia – surely Valdyr’s waiting for me by now.

  Once she was alone, she went back to the pool, opened her mind and found him . . .

  Epilogue II

  Four Years Later: An Eastern Dawn

  The Leviathan Bridge

  Where this Bridge stands, once there was an isthmus, joining East and West. Let me tell you this: the monuments of the Elder Races of Antiopia predate any constructions in Yuros. The West was colonised by man via that isthmus. Therefore it is as brothers that the men of the West should greet those of the East, not as enemies. Please, call off this invasion: we came here in peace, and beg that you honour that legacy.

  ANTONIN MEIROS, LETTER TO EMPEROR MAGNUS DURING

  FIRST CRUSADE, HEBUSALIM 904

  The Dhassan Coast, Ahmedhassa

  Julsep 940 (4 years after the Sunsurge’s end)

  It had been a long journey from Noros, through the Kedron Valley and the Brekaellen, over the mighty Silas River into Verelon. The merchant caravans travelled in the wake of the departing Shihad armies, all the way to Pontus and onto the great Bridge, past the newly repaired Midpoint Tower, while the waves lapped at the giant span. It was the Moontide, the seas were low and the weather calm and finally the end came into view: a dark wall of land lit with bonfires. The drivers and their passengers cheered, eager to reach land and begin the trading season. For the first time in many Moontides, no legions marched, set on conquer and plunder. There were only traders, hoping to make a different sort of killing.

  Vann Mercer was tired and travel-worn, but incredibly proud of his son Alaron and Ramita, Alaron’s wife. With the rest of the Merozain Bhaicara, wielding forces he couldn’t begin to imagine, they had saved this Bridge.

  Kore bless you and all who worked with you.

  Once he’d been a trader himself, much of his livelihood depending on this twelve-yearly journey, but this time Vann’s wagon was small and barely stocked. I’m really just here to mark the moment in time, he thought, smiling to himself.

  He hummed an old legion marching song, remembering the First Crusade and that dreadful day he’d crossed over in an imperial windship, personal guard to Tesla Anborn, a beautiful, brittle battle-mage, with no idea what Hel they were about to encounter, but duty-bound and proud to serve.

  It broke her, but it bound us as well: it culminated in a marriage and a son.

  Nothing could compensate for the terrible things he and his fellow Crusaders had done, but perhaps this new peace would hold? The Queen of Rondelmar had abdicated last year and a council of representatives elected by the people now ruled Pallas, as similar councils did elsewhere, including his native Noros. Bad things were still happening, but fresh energy was sweeping Yuros. New men were arising, interested in progress, not just the preservation of the status quo. The role of the magi was subtly changing too: they no longer set the agenda but served the people.

  These are good things, he thought. They pointed to a better world, where superhuman, rich and divinely appointed egotists no longer made all the decisions. So long as they all watched each other – and someone watched the watchers – perhaps a brighter future awaited all of Urte?

  His small wagon was well down in the order of march and by the time he arrived at the instant market town of tents and pavilions a mile inland – and safely away from Southpoint Tower – the bartering was well under way. He nudged his horses into the clamour, seeking a berth amid the colour and clamour of East and West colliding in the long-neglected form of combat called commerce. Goods were being inspected, carpets and spices and furs and leathers and steel and jewellery and so much more. No one paid him much notice, but he soaked it up in a reverie of nostalgia.

  ‘Vann? Vannaton Mercer?’

  He looked up as a plump Lakh man with thick white moustaches and thinning grey hair came waddling towards him, arms outstretched. ‘Vann, is it you?’

  ‘Ispal Ankesharan—’ Vann exclaimed, pulling his wagon from the queue and leaping down, to be swept into the embrace of his son’s father-in-law. ‘You came—’

  ‘Of course I came,’ Ispal hollered above the din. ‘Who could stay away from this?’

  They had to pause as horns blared, heralding an old female elephant coming though the crowds, festooned in coloured prayer ribbons. An old Lakh man in the howdah was raising his hand, acknowledging the cheers.

&nbs
p; Ispal raised an eyebrow, but Vann just laughed. ‘It’s Sanjeep, with Rani the elephant,’ he explained. ‘They are heroes of the Siege of Norostein. There’s not a tavern in the city where Sanjeep can’t drink for free. I’m surprised he left.’

  ‘I’m surprised he survived,’ Ispal laughed, ‘but a Lakh will always dream of home.’

  Shihad soldiers were marching past and here and there someone would wail a greeting and a returning warrior would break from the ranks to be engulfed in a weeping throng. Rashid’s great windfleet had been all but destroyed by the time peace broke out, stranding most of the Shihad for four years, so this Moontide was a time of long-awaited reunions.

  ‘So, my friend,’ Ispal said, ‘you must show me your wares. I am in the market for anything you have – and I’m prepared to overpay extravagantly.’

  ‘I’m really just here to see Alaron and Ramita,’ Vann replied, then he grinned. ‘However, I have secured from Lord Korion the sole rights to distribute his Brician Red. I have samples, and a need for local distributors.’

  Ispal beamed. ‘Then look no further, my friend, for I am your man.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Vann laughed.

  This Moontide was going to be the most beneficial ever.

  Acknowledgements

  Another series ends, and it’s a strange feeling. The characters become a big part of your inner life, so saying farewell to them appropriately, without clouding the vision of the story, is a fraught process. And the story world becomes a tangible place, one you’re reluctant to leave.

  I’ve not been alone in this maze though, and owe huge thanks to the team behind the stories. The test readers (Kerry Greig, Heather Adams, Paul Linton and Cath Mayo) have been fabulous and told me the things I needed to know about the early drafts, filtering the good from the not-so-good decisions in those drafts, and enhancing the stories immensely. Heather, with her husband Mike Bryan, is my agent and I reiterate my thanks to them for getting my work out into the world.