by Anthony Ryan
“As in Warnsclave, more people arrive by the day,” Brother Hollun reported, seated on Lyrna’s left. “The civil population of Varinshold now stands at over fifty thousand. We can expect the figure to double within the month.”
“Can we feed so many?” Vaelin asked him.
“With careful rationing,” Brother Hollun said. “And continued supply from our Alpiran friends and Fief Lord Darvus’s provision of Nilsaelin produce. The winter months will be hard but none should starve.”
“How stands the army, my lord?” Lyrna asked Vaelin.
“With our new recruits, Baron Banders’s knights and common folk, we will have eighty thousand men and women under arms before the year’s end.”
“We need more.” Lyrna turned to Lord Marshal Travick. “Tomorrow I will draft an edict of conscription, all Realm subjects of fighting age will be inducted into the Realm Guard. Train them hard, my lord.” She switched her gaze to Lady Reva. “The edict will extend to all fiefs, my lady. I trust you have no objection.”
The Lady Governess maintained a neutral expression but Lyrna saw she was carefully phrasing her response. “For myself Highness, no,” she replied after a moment. “And for many of my people who suffered at Volarian hands. However, there are some corners of Cumbrael untouched by war where old resentments will linger.”
“To be dispelled by the Blessed Lady’s words, I should hope,” Lyrna told her. “Perhaps you should return home for a time, Lady Reva. Let your people see you, hear the tale of your deeds, for they are so inspiring.”
Reva’s nod of assent was immediate and her tone free of any rancour. “As Your Highness commands.” Never the slightest glimmer of disloyalty from this one, Lyrna mused. So why does she cause me such unease?
She set the question aside for further consideration and turned to the Shield. “Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra, please advise on the strength of your command.”
As was his wont these days, the Shield’s perpetual half grin disappeared as he addressed her, his eyes only briefly meeting hers. “Just over eight hundred ships of varying draughts, Highness. We’ve captured quite a few Volarian traders but the seas grow ever more empty as the winter storms descend.”
“A decent-sized force to repel any invasion,” Count Marven commented. “Crewed by the best sailors in the world. Plus, this time we are forewarned.”
“How many soldiers could your eight hundred ships carry?” Lyrna asked Ell-Nestra.
The Shield frowned in puzzlement, his tone cautious as he responded. “If we make full use of the Volarian vessels, perhaps forty thousand, Highness. And certainly not in any comfort.”
“Comfort is a long-forgotten luxury, my lord.” She calculated for a moment, feeling the silence thicken. They know what you’re about. And they fear it. “Your man is here?” she asked Vaelin who nodded and ordered the Realm Guard on the door to bring in the shipwright. Sergeant Davern marched to the centre of the chamber, giving a smart salute and a formal bow, seemingly completely untroubled by his august audience.
“My Battle Lord tells me you build ships, sergeant,” Lyrna said.
“Indeed, Highness.” He favoured her with a smile that would have shamed the Shield for its innate confidence. “I was inducted into the Shipwrights Guild at sixteen. The youngest ever, so I’m told.”
“Very impressive. I require a ship capable of carrying five hundred soldiers across the ocean to Volaria. You will design and build it in such a manner so as to be easily duplicated and constructed by unskilled hands.”
Davern blanched as the other captains at the table stirred in discomfort, apart, she noted, from Vaelin, who betrayed no surprise at all. “Such a task is … a mighty one, Highness,” the sergeant began. “Requiring much labour, not to say timber…”
“Brother Hollun has compiled a list of surviving subjects with suitable skills and experience,” she told him. “They will be placed at your disposal. As for timber, rest assured it will be provided. I name you…” She pondered for a moment. “Davern Al Jurahl, Master of the Queen’s Yard. Congratulations, my lord. I shall expect your designs on the morrow.”
Davern stood in dumb silence for a moment longer then gave a hesitant bow and walked from the chamber.
“I believe that concludes today’s business,” Lyrna said, rising.
As expected it was Count Marven who spoke; the Nilsaelin commander was brave by all accounts, but also unabashed in counselling caution. “Highness, if I may?”
She paused, raising an eyebrow as he faltered then forced himself to continue. “So there is no misunderstanding, it is Your Highness’s intention to invade the Volarian Empire?”
“It is my intention to win this war, my lord. By the most expeditious means.”
“To sail across the ocean with so many. I must voice my doubts as to the practicality of such a thing.”
“Why? The Volarians managed it.”
“With years of preparation,” the Shield pointed out. “And not borne from a Realm so damaged as this one.”
“A Realm that has already performed wonders.” She scanned their faces, finding doubt on most though once again Vaelin alone gave no sign of unease. “My lords, this council is not a debating chamber. I ask for counsel as I see fit and issue commands accordingly. And I command a fleet be built to carry our justice to the Volarian Empire, for when our business there is complete they will never again dream of returning to this land save in their nightmares.”
She paused, awaiting further dissent, but finding only wary acceptance. “I thank you for your counsel and set you to your duties.”
Lakrhil Al Hestian failed to rise when she entered his cell, merely glancing up at her with dull eyes, slumped in a corner on bare stone, shackles on his wrists and ankles. Iltis gave an angry grunt at the discourtesy but Lyrna restrained him with a wave. “Guard the door, my lord, if you would.”
Iltis bared his teeth at Al Hestian in a disgusted snarl before exiting the cell, leaving the heavy door ajar and standing with his back turned.
“They call this the Traitor’s Nook,” Lyrna told Al Hestian, moving to the only window, a narrow gap in the thick stone wall through which a patch of sky could be glimpsed. There were faint marks on the stone, some ancient inscription scratched by desperate hands long ago.
“Last occupied by Artis Al Sendahl on the eve of his execution,” she went on, turning back to Al Hestian. “It speaks much for our enemies that, for all the destruction wrought on this city, they left our dungeons intact.”
Al Hestian gave the faintest of shrugs, his shackles sounding a dull clink. “Artis Al Sendahl was given no trial,” she continued. “Simply waking one morning to find a brace of guards at his door holding a King’s Warrant. A week later he was dead.”
“Whilst I am afforded only two days,” Al Hestian said, his voice a toneless croak. “And also no trial.”
“Then let this be your trial, my lord.” She raised her hands, gesturing at the surrounding walls. “And I witness and judge both, eager for your testimony.”
“My testimony is redundant. My reasons plain.” He turned his gaze from her, resting his head against the wall. “I make no defence or appeal for clemency, save that the matter be settled with all dispatch.”
She had known this man since childhood and never with any fondness, finding perhaps too clear a reflection in his naked ambition. But the sons with whom she had played as a child had never faltered in loving him, for all his flaws. “Alucius will be honoured for all time in this Realm,” she said. “Your house is partially cleansed of dishonour by his sacrifice.”
“A dead son has no need of honour. And I have two to face in the Beyond if you would do me the favour of sending me there.”
Her gaze went back to the scratches on the wall, finding two words legible in the scrawl sufficient to divine the meaning of the rest. Death is but gateway to the Beyond … The Catechism of Faith, upon which so much had been built, and also destroyed. To her it had always been empty words, devoid of interest
when there was so much genuine wisdom to be read.
“I have no mercy for you, my lord,” she told him. “Only more punishment. Lord Iltis!”
The Lord Protector returned, standing at stiff readiness as she pointed to the shackles on Al Hestian’s ankles. “Remove those and bring him.”
Darnel’s former knights and huntsmen stood blinking in the courtyard outside the cavernous vaults that served as the city’s dungeons. They numbered perhaps three dozen men, stripped of all armour and possessions save for threadbare clothing, surrounded on all sides by Lord Adal’s North Guard, chosen for the strength of their discipline; the Realm Guard were likely to commit massacre when faced with those who had betrayed them at the first fateful clash with the Volarians. Lyrna led Al Hestian to a walkway looking down on the assembled prisoners, finding most too cowed to meet her gaze, though some stared up in silent entreaty.
“You know these men, I believe?” Lyrna asked him.
Al Hestian looked down at the captives, his impassive mask unchanged. “Not well enough to grieve their passing, if it is Your Highness’s intention to have me witness their murder.”
She moved away from him and stepped closer to the edge of the walkway, raising her voice. “You all stand guilty of treason and worthy of immediate execution. Many of you will no doubt make a defence of loyalty, service to an oath binding for life. I tell you now this is no defence, an oath sworn to a traitorous madman is worthless, to be set aside by men of reason or true knightly honour. You have shown yourselves possessed of neither.” She paused to glance at Al Hestian, finding him meeting her gaze with grim understanding.
“However,” she spoke on, “the Faith teaches us the value of forgiveness for acts truly regretted. And this Realm stands in need of all hands fit to hold a sword. For these reasons alone I offer you the chance to swear another oath, an oath to your queen. Swear your service to me and I will spare your lives. But know that your sentence is not commuted, condemned you stand and condemned you remain until the day battle claims you. You will be the Dead Company. Any who do not wish to swear this oath, speak now.”
She waited, watching them tremble and sag in relief. One man, a great broad-chested fellow of knightly bearing, wept openly whilst beside him a scrawny man, probably a hunter, stood shuddering, with urine flowing down both legs. She waited for a full minute but no voices were raised.
“My lord,” she turned to Al Hestian, gesturing at the men below. “Your new command awaits, if you’ll accept it.”
Lakrhil Al Hestian stood expressionless for some time before replying with the smallest of bows.
“Very well,” she said. “In addition to these wretches, our patrols find the country to be depressingly rich in outlaws, scum preying on those fleeing the Volarians. Rapists and murderers will be executed of course, but the remainder I’ll send to you.” She moved to his side, speaking softly. “You have your sons to thank for your life. And know well, I will not prove as kind as my father should you betray this Realm once more.”
She returned to the palace in the evening having spent the day amongst the newly arrived refugees, finding the usual mix of beggared nobles and dispossessed commoners each with their own epic of woe and survival. As in Warnsclave, however, there were precious few children and those mostly orphans. She had them gathered and conveyed to the palace rooms set aside for Brother Innis’s charges where she spent the rest of the evening.
It was amazing to see how quickly the children’s spirits returned as they raced around her, loud with laughter and play, though there were a few who sat apart from the others, eyes haunted by lingering horrors. She spent most time with the silent ones, speaking in soft tones and trying to draw them out, usually with only marginal success though one little boy climbed into her lap and fell into an immediate sleep the moment she opened her arms to him. She stayed and sat with him as night fell and the others went to their beds, waking somewhere past midnight at Murel’s gentle nudge.
“Lady Davoka begs your attendance in the courtyard, Highness.”
Lyrna gently laid the boy in one of the many empty beds. “Where is Orena?” she asked as they made their way through the corridors.
“She craves pardon, Highness. The sight of the children always upsets her so I took her duty.”
Gentle hearts are often well hidden, Lyrna thought.
In the courtyard she found Davoka embracing a slight figure beside a stout, bare-backed pony flanked by two Eorhil warriors looking on with obvious suspicion. “Lerhnah!” Davoka called to her. “My other sister comes with the Mahlessa’s word.”
Kiral displayed none of the confusion left by the Mahlessa’s healing beneath the Mountain, smiling shyly as Lyrna approached. Her scar had healed well but still made a grim sight, a deep line from chin to brow provoking unpleasant memories of the night Lyrna had given it to her. “Servant of the Mountain,” Lyrna greeted her in Lonak.
“Queen.” Kiral surprised her with a warm embrace. “And sister, also.”
“What word from the Mahlessa?”
“She sends no word, Queen, save two gifts.” She held up a small glass vial containing a dark viscous liquid. “She believes you will have use of this, and has provided me the knowledge of crafting more.”
Lyrna hesitated before taking the vial, recalling the screams of the thing that had possessed this girl as a single drop touched her flesh. “How is it to be used?” she asked.
“She said it is a key to unseen chains and you would know best how to use it.”
Lyrna handed the vial to Murel with stern instructions to keep it safe and on no account open it. “And the other gift?” she asked Kiral.
“Only myself.” She cast a questing gaze around the courtyard. “I seek one who lost his song, so that he might hear mine.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vaelin
The conclave was held in the House of the Sixth Order, the only intact building remaining to the Faith in the vicinity of Varinshold. The place had been abandoned in the aftermath of Frentis’s visit, the courtyard, halls and corridors shouting their silence at Vaelin as he toured them, awash in memory as his eyes lit on the landmarks of his childhood. The corner of the yard where they used to play toss-board, the chipped cornice near the Aspect’s chamber where Barkus had made an over-enthusiastic swipe with his sword. He spent a few moments staring at the steep stairwell in the north tower, his eyes picking out the copious dark stains on the stone where an unfortunate brother or Volarian had met his end, but made no move to ascend to the room above. Some memories are best left to wither.
He had only agreed to come thanks to Aspect Elera’s insistent note and purposely delayed his arrival, having no wish to be drawn into discussion or decision regarding the Faith’s many challenges. However, as the brothers on the door permitted him entry to the dining hall, he found them still engaged in fervent argument. There were perhaps twenty people in attendance, all that remained of the senior servants of the Faith. A quick survey revealed more blue cloaks than others, though the Seventh, represented by Caenis and a handful of his more mature subordinates, wore no formal robes. Aspect Dendrish was accompanied only by Master Benril, apparently the sole surviving members of the Third Order in the city. The Aspect was holding forth in typically loud voice, the words “mad enterprise,” fading from his lips as Vaelin entered.
“Do I interrupt, Aspect?” Vaelin enquired. “Please continue.”
“Vaelin.” Aspect Elera rose to greet him with hands outstretched, limping a little as she approached. Her touch was as warm as ever though he detected a faint tremble in it and found himself disconcerted by the paleness of her complexion.
“Aspect,” he said. “You are well?”
“Quite well. Come.” She turned, leading him forward. “Your counsel is welcome here.”
Aspect Dendrish gave a conspicuous snort whilst he noticed Caenis stiffen a little in his seat, his expression more grimly accepting than welcoming. “I confess I know not what counsel I can offer,” Vaelin
said. “This proceeding being of the Faith, whilst I am not.”
“The Faith still holds to you, brother,” Sollis said. He was flanked by Brother Commander Artin from Cardurin and Master Rensial, who sat with his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the floor, arms tight across his chest. “Regardless of whether you hold to it.”
“We believe your insight will be valuable,” Aspect Elera went on. “Especially as regards the queen’s intent.”
Vaelin nodded at Brother Hollun, the only representative of the Fourth Order in attendance. “Brother Hollun is at the queen’s side every morning. I’m sure he can provide ample clarity as to her intent.”
“She wants to invade the Volarian Empire,” Aspect Dendrish said, his voice coloured by an unhealthy rasp. “With this Realm in ruins, she intends to spend our remaining strength on a…” He paused, jowls quivering a little as he struggled to formulate the least offensive phrase. “A questionable course.”
“The queen’s course is not yours to question,” Vaelin told him.
“You surely understand our concerns, Vaelin,” Elera said. “We are charged with protecting the Faithful.”
“Forgive me, Aspect, but the current state of this Realm is ample evidence of your failure in that regard.” He moved away from her, his gaze roaming over them, the remnants of something he once thought immutable, eternal. “You kept secrets for centuries, and spilled blood in the keeping. Knowledge, strength and wisdom that might have aided us when the Ally’s blow fell. All in the name of preserving a Faith built on a lie.”
“One man’s lie is another man’s truth.” The voice was frail, tremulous, but strong in conviction, spoken by an old man in a stained white robe. He sat alone, kept erect by a gnarled staff formed from an old tree branch, regarding Vaelin with a single bright blue eye, his other milky white.
