by Anthony Ryan
“Thirty-one thousand, six hundred and twenty,” the brother replied with customary alacrity. “Thank the Departed for Lord Al Bera, or they’d all be starving.”
“Quite.” Lyrna decided not to add that, but for her newly acquired subjects, her army would have been on the march by now. Instead they were obliged to loiter in this ruin, ensuring the people were fed and training new recruits, fierce in their desire to get at the Volarians but lacking the strength to march more than a mile. The pickings provided by the Meldenean fleet had been less copious than she had hoped for, barely a ton of grain so far, though the pirates who came and went from the harbour seemed fairly well attired in silks and jewellery. The Shield had yet to make an appearance, though Ship Lord Ell-Nurin had arrived the previous day, the deck of the Red Falcon laden with captured arrows once destined for Varinshold.
There was a loud rap on the door and Orena went to open it, revealing Benten lowered to one knee. “Lord Al Sorna and Lady Al Myrna, my queen.”
She nodded, smiling again at Brother Hollun. “I look forward to tomorrow’s report, brother.”
He bowed and moved to the door, standing aside as Vaelin and the Lady Dahrena entered. “I would talk to the lord and lady in private,” Lyrna told her court, who duly bowed and withdrew, Iltis with obvious reluctance as he rarely let her out of his sight these days, but knowing better than to argue the point. Lyrna watched Vaelin and Dahrena rise in unison, their movements almost as synchronised as those empty-headed Nilsaelin twins. Looking at their matched, neutral expressions she wondered if they were aware of it, of how unnerving it was to see, or how painful.
A queen is above jealousy, she reminded herself. Though after today, they may be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
“Lady Dahrena,” she said, keeping her tone as light and brisk as she could. “I have been pondering your report on the rich gold deposits to be found in the Reaches. From what I can surmise from Brother Hollun’s estimates, the mines hold enough gold to pay our current and future debts to the Meldenean merchant class several times over.”
Dahrena gave a short nod. “I believe so, Highness.”
“Strange that I can recall no instance when King Malcius expressed an awareness of such riches within his Realm.”
The lady’s answer was swift and, Lyrna judged, well rehearsed. “The full survey of the deposits was not yet complete at the time of the King’s tragic demise, Highness. In truth, I suspect there are more seams yet to be found.”
“I am glad, my lady. Such wealth may well serve as the saviour of this Realm in years to come, for we have much work still to do. And yet, it is of scant use to us lying in the ground, hundreds of miles away, whilst the men with the skill to mine it are here, along with one best placed to organise their efforts.”
She saw them stiffen, once again with the same unnerving uniformity. “My queen?” Vaelin asked in a hard voice.
Lyrna took a breath, summoning her regretful smile. She had spent a while at the mirror practising this morning, for it had never been one of her best. “Lady Dahrena, it is my hard duty to order your immediate return to the Northern Reaches where you will exercise the Queen’s Word until such time as Lord Vaelin can resume his duties. Ship Lord Ell-Nurin’s vessel waits in the harbour to carry you there. With kindly weather you should reach the North Tower in three weeks, his ship being so uncommonly swift. I will also order sufficient vessels gathered to transport Captain Ultin’s miners home as soon as possible.”
“They want to fight,” Vaelin stated, Dahrena standing expressionless at his side. “Sending them away will cause trouble…”
“I’ll speak to them,” Lyrna told him. “Explain that every swing of a pick is worth a hundred strokes of a sword. Besides, they’ve done enough fighting to justify any claim to honour, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would, Highness,” Dahrena said before Vaelin could speak. “I … regret the necessity of your order.” She glanced briefly at Vaelin before lowering her gaze. “However, I can find no argument against it.”
How fortunate, since I will hear no argument from you. Lyrna chained the words behind another smile, rising and coming forward to clasp the small woman’s hands. “Your service in this war has been great and wondrous. It will never be forgotten, nor is it over. Bring me riches, my lady, so that I might buy justice.”
She released Dahrena’s hands and stepped back, forcing herself to meet Vaelin’s gaze, the glint in his narrow gaze hard to bear. This is not jealousy, she wanted to say. You know me better than that.
“You will wish to say your farewells,” she told them. “I have business with our new arrivals.”
The newcomers were unusual in that, unlike most of the other groups to make their way to Warnsclave over the past week, they were rich in children. One of the most frequent and difficult sights on the march had been the plethora of small corpses, often herded into houses and burnt to tiny remnants, others just slaughtered like unwanted livestock and left to rot in the open. Seeing so many still living gave a lift to Lyrna’s spirits, though they were mostly gaunt and silent, staring at her as she moved among their mean accommodations.
“Brother Innis,” Brother Hollun introduced a thin man in a grey robe. “Master of the Orphanage at Rhansmill. He hid his charges in the woods for weeks.”
“Brother.” Lyrna returned the man’s bow with grave respect. “I thank you, with all my heart. Your deeds credit the Faith.”
Brother Innis, clearly unused to royalty and ill from lack of food, staggered a little but managed to remain upright. The children clustered around him, clutching at his robe, some glaring at Lyrna as if she had done him harm. “I had a great deal of help, Highness,” the brother said, gesturing at the comparatively few adults in the group. “These people starved so the children could eat, led the Volarians away so that they might remain undiscovered. Some paid dearly for their courage.”
“They will receive full justice for their sacrifice,” she assured him. “If you require anything, speak to Brother Hollun and it will be provided.”
He gave another unsteady bow. “Thank you, Highness.”
“Now. I seek a woman named Trella Al Oren.”
Innis blanched at the name, shooting a guarded glance at a shelter nearby, a roof of thin planking over what had been a woodshed. “She … gave much to keep these children warm,” he stammered. “Forgive me, Highness. But I beg that no punishment be visited upon her.”
“Punishment?” Lyrna asked.
“How may I serve, Highness?”
Lyrna turned to find a tall woman standing outside the shelter, arms crossed. She was somewhere past her fiftieth year, handsome features set in a wary frown and white streaking her black hair. “My lady”—Lyrna bowed to her—“I bring news of your son.”
Lady Al Oren had contrived to preserve a china tea-set throughout her ordeal, two small cups and a spherical pot, finely decorated with an orchid motif inlaid with gold. “Alpiran,” she said, pouring the tea as they sat outside her shelter. “A gift from my aunt on the occasion of my wedding.”
Lyrna sipped her tea, finding the taste surprisingly rich. “My lady is resourceful,” she offered, hoping to ease the woman’s obvious tension. “To keep such treasures safe, and procure tea of such quality.”
“We found a merchant’s cart a few weeks ago. The owner killed, of course. They took everything but the tea, though a single sack of grain would have been more welcome.” She sipped her own tea and sighed, steeling herself to ask the obvious question. “How did he die?”
“Saving my life, and the lives of those who now make up my court.”
“But not his own.”
“My lady, if there had been any way…”
Lady Trella shook her head, eyes closed and face downcast. “I kept hold of my hopes, throughout it all, during the flight from Varinshold, the long days on the road, finding Brother Innis and the children … I held to my hope. Fermin was always so clever, if never wise. If there was a way to survive the
city’s fall and escape the dungeons, he would have found it.”
Lyrna thought of the shark and the battle, wondering if she should share her suspicions, her belief that Fermin had found at least some form of escape, and vengeance. But the words were beyond her, the enigma of it all so great. Was he a man living in a shark? Or a shark with a memory of once being a man? In either case, she felt sure this brave woman had no need to be burdened by further mystery.
“It is my wish,” she said, “to make Fermin a posthumous Sword of the Realm. In honour of his sacrifice.”
Lady Trella’s lips formed the faintest smile. “Thank you. I think he would have found the notion … amusing.”
Lyrna glanced around at the onlooking people, the adults busying themselves with the chores of cooking or building, but Brother Innis and his clutch of children continuing to view their meeting with deep concern. “Brother Innis said you kept them warm,” she said.
Lady Trella shrugged. “Anyone can light a fire.”
“Also, to survive the assault on the city, and the flight southward. Quite an achievement.”
“I don’t know how much Fermin told you of our circumstances, Highness, but despite our name, we did not live a noble existence. Poverty makes one resourceful.”
“I’m sure. But still, a woman alone, surviving war and hunger for so long.” She watched Lady Trella sip more tea, seeing how she forced herself to swallow. “You may have heard,” she went on, “that I have lifted all strictures on use of the Dark in this Realm. The Gifted now occupy an honoured place in my army, and upon speaking to them, I have noticed that they share a common trait. In each case their mother also had a gift, but not always their father. Curious, don’t you think?”
Lady Trella met her gaze then slowly raised her hand, splaying the fingers. “A Volarian soldier kicked my door in that night, found me hiding in my bedroom closet, laughed as he took hold of my hair and made ready to cut my throat.” A small blue flame appeared on the tip of her index finger, dancing prettily. “He didn’t laugh for long.” The flame turned yellow and flared, engulfing Trella’s hand from fingers to wrist.
“Highness!” Iltis appeared at her side, sword half-drawn. Lyrna realised she had risen and backed away, staring at the flames.
“I know of your edict, Highness,” Trella said. “But mere words do not dispel centuries of fear. My mother made certain I knew well the danger of revealing my nature, the terror it aroused, and the unwelcome attention it drew from the Faithful.” She closed her hand and the flames died. Lyrna took a breath, forcing the tremble from her limbs. She gave a nod of reassurance to Iltis and resumed her seat, sipping some more tea until the memories faded. The smell of her own skin as the flames licked over it …
“The Seventh Order is bound by my word,” she said after a moment, when she was sure there would be no quaver to her voice. “I will not allow them to compel any subject to join it. There is a small company of Gifted from the Northern Reaches who stand apart from them, answering only to Lord Vaelin and myself. You would be welcome to join them.”
“I am an old woman, Highness.”
“Not so old, I think. And I feel your son’s soul would smile on your service, don’t you?”
Trella’s eyes went to the children standing nearby. “I have obligations here, Highness.”
“These children will be well cared for, you have my word on it. They have no more need of your fire, but I do.”
Something must have coloured her voice then because the wariness on Trella’s face deepened, her eyes taking on the guarded cast Lyrna was seeing more often on a few select faces. Nortah, Dahrena, Reva … Vaelin. Those not in awe see more clearly. “I make no command,” Lyrna added with a smile. “Merely a queen’s request. Think on it a while. Meet with Aspect Caenis or the folk from the Reaches. I am sure either would welcome you.”
“I will, Highness.” Trella bowed as Lyrna rose. “One more thing, if I may crave a boon.”
“Of course.”
“My son’s sigil.” The lady’s eyes were bright with tears now, the children coming to her side as they sensed her distress. “I should like it to be a weasel. Of all the little beasts that followed him home, they were his favourite.”
“As my lady wishes,” Lyrna assured her with a bow. Better a weasel than a shark.
Although much of Warnsclave had been destroyed down to its cobbled streets, the infrastructure below the town remained largely intact, numerous cellars providing useful additional shelter, and places of confinement. The Volarian woman had been secured in the coal cellar of what had once been a blacksmith’s shop, judging by the soot-covered anvil sitting amidst the rubble. Two Realm Guard stood outside the steps leading down to the cellar whilst Lord Verniers waited, resting on the anvil as she approached, scribbling away in a small notebook. He rose on seeing her, bowing with his usual fluency and greeting her in Realm Tongue uncoloured by even the trace of an accent. “Highness. My thanks on granting my request.”
“Not at all, my lord,” she replied. “However, I feel I have brought you here on a false premise.”
“Highness?”
Lyrna gestured for the guards to open the door to the cellar. “Yes, my lord. I know you are keen for my knowledge to add to your history, but I regret scholarship will have to wait upon the needs of diplomacy.”
She bade him follow her down the steps, Iltis preceding her into the darkness. Fornella Av Entril Av Tokrev sat at a small table, reading by the light of a single candle. She wore no chains and her face and hair were clean, Lyrna having allowed her a bowl of water each morning for ablutions. She had also been provided with parchment and ink, the table before her covered with a scroll inscribed from end to end in neat Volarian.
Fornella rose and bowed as Lyrna entered, her face impassive until she saw Lord Verniers whereupon she favoured him with a cautious smile. “Highness, my lord,” she said in her basic Realm Tongue. “Two visitors. I am honoured.”
“We’ll speak in your own tongue,” Lyrna told her, dropping into Volarian. “It is important there be no misunderstanding between us.” She told Iltis to wait outside and gestured for Fornella to sit, moving to the table and scanning the scroll she had written, finding it a list of names, places and goods, each name marked with a circular symbol Lyrna recognised. “A writ of manumission,” she said. “These are your slaves, I take it.”
“Yes, Highness. Though the document is in fact a will. The slaves are to be freed upon my death.”
“My understanding of Volarian law is limited,” Lyrna lied. “But I believe a slave, regardless of owner or importance, can only be freed by special edict of the Ruling Council.”
“Quite so, but my brother sits on the Council. I have little doubt he will accede to my wishes in this.”
By the time he hears of your death, Lyrna thought, I expect he’ll be too preoccupied with the imminence of his own demise to care about your final wish. “Am I to take it,” she asked instead, “that your liking for your empire’s principal institution has waned recently?”
Fornella glanced at Verniers, the scholar standing rigidly against the cellar wall and refusing to meet her gaze. “We have made many mistakes,” the Volarian woman said. “Slavery is perhaps the worst, only surpassed by our bargain with the Ally.”
“A bargain that, if Lord Verniers’ account is to be believed, has provided you with several centuries of life.”
“Not life, Highness. Merely existence.”
“And how is it achieved, all these additional years?”
Fornella lowered her gaze and for the first time Lyrna had a sense of her true age in the faint lines now visible around her shrouded eyes. “Blood,” Fornella said after a moment, her voice no more than a murmur. “The blood of the Gifted.”
Lyrna’s memory flashed to the ship, the overseer prowling the slave deck, whip coiled. All here, trade for one with magic. She moved closer to the table, her fists resting on the surface as she leaned towards Fornella, the Volarian woman’
s face still lowered. “You drink the blood of the Gifted,” she grated. “That is where your years come from.”
“There is a place,” Fornella said in a whisper. “A great chamber beneath Volar, hundreds of cells filled with Gifted. Those who are party to the bargain go there once a year … to drink. And every year, there are more empty cells, and always more red-clads clamouring to share in the Ally’s blessing.”
“And so you need more, and the Ally promised you would find them in this Realm. That is why you came here.”
“And to secure a northern front for the Alpiran invasion, as I said. But yes, the Ally promised this land would be rich in Gifted blood.”
“And when that was all gone, and the Alpiran lands also stripped, what then? Send your armies forth to rape the whole world?”
Fornella’s head rose, her eyes steady though her voice was uneven, the voice of a woman facing her final moments. “Yes. In time, he promised the world would be ours.”
Is it shame I see in your eyes? Lyrna wondered. Or just disappointment?
“I assume it was the promise of endless life that seduced Lord Darnel to your cause?” she asked.
Fornella gave a rueful shrug. “The lure of immortality is hard to resist, especially for a man in love with himself.”
Lyrna moved back from the table, turning to Verniers. “My lord, do you find this woman’s words to be truthful?”
Verniers forced himself to look at Fornella in reluctant but close appraisal. “I doubt she has lied, Highness,” he said. “Even as her slave, I found honesty to be her only interesting quality.”
“And do you think your Emperor would find her believable?”
“The Emperor is wiser than I in all respects. If she speaks truly, he will hear it.”
“And, I hope, understand the value of forgetting past differences.”
Verniers’ face was grave as he met her gaze. “There is much to forget, Highness.”
“And a world to fall if we cannot forge common purpose.” She turned back to Fornella. “There is a man in Brother Caenis’s Order who can hear lies. You will state to him your willingness to travel to Alpira with Lord Verniers where you will tell the Emperor all you have told me. If he hears a lie, Honoured Citizen…”
