Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  The sergeant stood well back as he exited the cell, finding the queen standing in the chamber beyond flanked by Davoka and her two ennobled guards. “Highness,” Frentis said, dropping to one knee.

  The queen gave no response, turning to the sergeant. “Leave us please. Give your keys to Lord Iltis.”

  She waited until he had gone before speaking again. “The Blackhold has not been so empty since the day of its construction.” Frentis remained on one knee as she surveyed the chamber, eyes tracking over dark stone lit by meagre torchlight. “I find I prefer it that way. I intend to have it torn down at the conclusion of our current difficulties.”

  Frentis lowered his head and took a breath, speaking in formal tones, “My Queen, I most humbly offer my life…”

  “Be silent!” Her voice lashed like a whip as she advanced towards him, coming close enough to touch as she loomed over him, her breath harsh and ragged. “I killed you once before. So I already have your life.”

  Her breathing slowed after a moment and she moved away. “Rise,” she ordered with an irritated wave and he stood, waiting as her flawless face regarded him, anger replaced by an icy calm. “Brother Sollis has related your account to me in full. Your actions were not your own, you are no more to blame for the King’s death than a sword is to blame for the blood it spills. I know this, brother. And yet I find I have no forgiveness for you. Do you understand?”

  “I do, Highness.”

  “Lord Vaelin also tells me you claim that Lord Al Telnar was complicit in the Volarian invasion.”

  “He was, Highness, on the promise of power and … other rewards.”

  “And what might they be?”

  “He was at pains to extract promises that no harm should come to you during the attack.”

  She sighed, giving a faint shake of her head. “And I thought he died a hero.”

  Frentis drew breath, steeling himself before uttering his next words. “Might I crave a moment to speak in private, Highness? I have a message to convey.”

  “Lady Davoka and these lords have seen me at my lowest state and still judge me deserving of their loyalty. Any words you say to me are worthy of their ears.”

  “I speak for a Lord Marshal of the Mounted Guard, a man I saw slain when the palace fell. His name was Smolen.”

  The queen’s face betrayed no emotion as she stared at him, but he saw how her hands shifted as if itching to reach for a hidden weapon. “Relate your message,” she ordered.

  “He said it was a great thing to travel so far with the woman he loved.”

  Her hands clenched, forming tight fists as she advanced towards him. He heard two swords scraping free of scabbards as her lords came to her side, steel poised to take his life. “How did he die?” she demanded.

  “Bravely. He fought well but the Kuritai are skillful, as you know.”

  He found himself unable to meet her gaze, the impassive perfection of her face a terrible contrast to the burnt screaming woman who had fled the throne room. “I make no plea for mercy,” he said, lowering his head. “And await your judgement.”

  “Do you hunger for death then? Do you imagine the Departed will make a welcome for one such as you?”

  “I doubt it, Highness. But hope is at the heart of the Faith.”

  “Then your hope is to be dashed, for now at least.” She gestured Iltis towards a locked cell, the Lord Protector working the keys and hauling the door wide, he and his fellow lord going inside to retrieve the occupant. Unlike Frentis this man had been festooned with chains, ankles, knees, wrists and neck all secured with newly forged shackles, forcing him to move in an inching shuffle as the two lords dragged him into the light. Despite his obvious discomfort his face was absent of any sign of distress, the features the familiar immobile mask of the slave-elite. His chest was bare and thick with well-honed muscle, a patchwork of scars covering the flesh from waist to neck.

  “Kuritai,” Frentis murmured.

  “The only one we have managed to capture in this entire war,” the queen said. “Found senseless at the docks the day the city fell. According to Lord Al Hestian he was set to guard Alucius, assurance of his father’s compliance. His name is Twenty-Seven.”

  She moved closer to the slave-elite, her eyes scanning him from head to toe in critical appraisal. “Brother Harlick tells me these creatures have no will of their own, it’s driven from them through torment, drugs and, according to Aspect Caenis, various Dark means that stink of the Ally’s influence. Much as your will was driven from you, I imagine. What would he do if we were to free him, I wonder?”

  “I would strongly advise against it, Highness,” Frentis said.

  She turned to him with the same look of examination still in place, her eyes going to a particular spot on his chest. “Lady Davoka tells me the wound I gave you festered, that you have her to thank for your life.”

  Frentis glanced at Davoka, finding her more ill at ease than he could remember, her forehead beaded with sweat. He saw she held a small glass bottle, the contents seeming to shimmer a little and he noted her hand was actually trembling. “That is correct, Highness,” he said, his unease deepening. What’s in there that could scare her so? “Though I believe it was your knife that truly saved me. Somehow it … freed me.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze returned to the prisoner and she held out her hand to Davoka, speaking in Lonak. The queen accepted the bottle from her and held it up to the dim light, the dark liquid inside producing a foul odour as she removed the stopper. “The blade that freed you was coated with this,” she told Frentis. “A gift from our Lonak friends. One I suspect may prove highly useful to our purpose.” She moved closer to the Kuritai, speaking to him softly in Volarian, “I take no pleasure in this.”

  She lifted the bottle to a spot at the top of his chest, tipping it to allow a single drop of the liquid to fall onto the slave’s scars. The result was immediate, the scream that erupted from the Kuritai’s throat enough to pain the ears as he convulsed, collapsing in his chains to writhe on the stones. The queen stepped back from him, her face grim, eyes bright as she stoppered the bottle. Frentis saw how she stiffened her back and forced herself to watch the slave’s torment. After a few seconds his screams abated to agonised whimpers, his back-straining writhes diminishing to gasping shudders. Finally, he lay still, panting and bathed in sweat.

  Lyrna took a cautious step forward but Frentis raised a hand. “If I may, Highness?” She gave a nod of assent and he went to the Kuritai’s side, crouching to peer into his face, finding life returning to pain-dulled eyes.

  “Can you talk?” he asked in Volarian.

  The eyes blinked, finding focus, the response a croaking cough from a throat unused to speech. “Yesss.”

  “What is your name?”

  The eyes narrowed a fraction, the answer coming in rough, harshly accented Volarian. “I … began as Five Hundred. Now … I am Twenty … Seven.”

  “No.” Frentis leaned closer. “Your real name. Do you know it?”

  The eyes wandered a little, his brow creasing at a rush of memory. “Lekran,” he said, his voice faint then turning to a snarl. “Lekran … My father … was Hirkran, of the red axe.”

  “You are far from home, my friend.”

  Lekran jerked, his chains snapping tight. “Then … get this fucking metal off me … so I can go back there. For time on this earth is short, and I have many men to kill.”

  “It truly prevents dreams?” Frentis gave the contents of the flask a dubious sniff, finding the scent less than inviting, like mildew mixed with stewed tea.

  “It renders a sleep deep enough to prevent them,” Brother Kehlan replied. “I first concocted it in the aftermath of the Ice Horde. There were many in the Reaches troubled by nightmares when the killing was done, myself included. It will stop your dreams, brother. Though the aching head you’ll have come the morning may make you pine for the dreams.”

  They aren’t dreams, Frentis knew. But it might at least guard against wayward t
houghts when she touches my mind. The Fifth Order had established itself in the merchants’ houses near the docks, the many rooms and deep cellars providing space enough for most of the wounded and storage for their growing supply of bandages and curatives. It seemed Lady Al Bera had managed to persuade a few Alpiran merchants to risk a final supply run across the wintry Meldenean, bringing much needed medicines along with the food.

  He thanked the healer and made his way outside, walking along the wharf to where Vaelin stood regarding the huge Volarian warship. He was aware of the many glances he drew as he walked, and more than a few openly hostile glares, but mostly just fear or surprise. He might still be the Red Brother to some, but to most he was now the King’s Assassin, freed by virtue of their queen’s endless grace. She stirred no fear in them, only adulation, and they laboured tirelessly at her command. Everywhere he looked people were at work, rebuilding fallen walls, hammers ringing in makeshift forges and new recruits being drilled to unaccustomed discipline. He saw fatigue on many faces but no idleness, all moving to their allotted tasks with a singular determination. Her captains might fear her course, but these people would sail every ocean in the world at her word.

  He heard raised voices on the ship as he neared, his eyes picking out two figures on the deck, one short, the other tall. The shorter of the two seemed to have the loudest voice. “Your sister has a surprisingly waspish tongue, brother,” Frentis observed to Vaelin.

  “Our new Lord of the Queen’s Yard brings out the worst in her,” he replied, watching Alornis angrily bunch up a sheaf of parchment and throw it in Davern’s face before stomping off the gangplank. “He asked her to make drawings of the ship. Something I suspect he now regrets.”

  “Arrogant numb-head!” Alornis fumed, having made her way to the quay, her stern visage unmoved by her brother’s comforting hug.

  “He didn’t like the drawings?” Vaelin asked.

  “It wasn’t the drawings.” She raised her voice, casting it back at the ship. “It’s his pigheaded refusal to listen to reasonable advice!”

  “I’m sure he knows his business,” Vaelin said, earning a reproving scowl.

  “This monstrosity,” she said pointing at the Queen Lyrna’s hull. “Is massively over-engineered, yet he wants to copy it, expending vast amounts of labour and timber in the process.”

  “Your own design being more elegant, no doubt?”

  “Actually, yes, dear brother, it is.” She drew herself up, clutching her satchel to her chest. “I shall take this to the queen.” She gave Frentis a stiff bow and walked off with a determined gait.

  “When last I met her,” Frentis said, “she was more softly spoken.”

  “We are all much changed, brother.” Vaelin turned away from the ship, walking towards the mole with Frentis falling in alongside. “The queen’s design for you,” he said, halting a good distance from other ears. “You can refuse.”

  “Hardly, brother. Nor would I wish to.”

  Vaelin gazed out to sea, grey waters chopped by the wind under a turbulent sky. “The woman who haunts your dreams, do you think she will sense your coming?”

  “Possibly. Though I’m hoping Brother Kehlan’s physic will mask my thoughts. In any case, her interest in me might work to our advantage, my mission being diversionary.”

  “It seems we both have hard roads ahead of us.”

  “It would be best if you don’t share your course with me. If she found me and somehow took me alive, I … doubt I could keep secrets from her should she bind me again.”

  Vaelin nodded, turning back from the sea, sorrow plain on his brow. “I searched for you for such a long time, casting my song out far and wide, but I never caught more than the vaguest glimpse. Now, it seems I am bound to send you away again and have no song to find you in any case.”

  “I have much to balance, brother. And an assassin shouldn’t linger in sight of his victim’s sister.” He extended his hand and Vaelin gripped it tight. “We’ll find each other in Volar, of that I’ve no doubt.”

  The headache was everything Brother Kehlan promised, the pain alleviated somewhat by the welcome realisation that the concoction worked. His sleep had been free of dreams, absent any further horrors or entreaties to surrender to her will. He had continued to sleep at the Blackhold in the days since his release, he and Lekran now more comfortably accommodated in the guard room. It was a strange feeling to reside in such a large building now stripped of all but two occupants, the queen having quickly redeployed her guardsmen to training duties. He found the former Kuritai at practice in the courtyard, moving with all the speed and precision instilled by years of conditioning and battle. Instead of the usual twin swords today he wielded an axe, whirling as he fought an army of imaginary opponents.

  “Redbrother,” he greeted Frentis, coming to a halt, panting a little from the exertion. He had forsaken the razor since his liberation and a dark stubble had formed on his face and head. “Your chief-woman sent a slave with this. She makes a mighty gift.” He hefted the axe, grinning broadly. It was a double-bladed weapon of Renfaelin design, the flat steel of the inner blades inlaid with an intricate pattern of gilded gold. Probably one of Darnel’s toys, Frentis decided, once again feeling a pang of regret that he hadn’t been the one to kill the Fief Lord.

  “There are no slaves here,” Frentis told him, a fact he had been obliged to repeat several times. Lekran seemed to have difficulty conceiving of a land free of slavery. He was fulsome in his description of his homelands, apparently lying somewhere among the wild mountain country beyond the northern provinces, his tribe’s principal occupations seemingly digging for ore and waging constant war on their neighbours.

  “Good stuff.” Lekran said after a hearty gulp of wine. “You have any more?”

  Frentis gestured to a stack of bottles nearby, found beneath the bed of the Free Sword officer who had command of this place. The city had turned out to be rich in hidden stashes of wine and assorted loot. The Volarian army permitted looting on a formalised basis, as long as all booty was declared and subject to a one-tenth tax, but clearly many had felt disinclined to abide by this policy.

  “Your chief-woman,” Lekran said, sitting down again with bottle in hand. “She has a man?”

  “She’s called a queen, and no.”

  “Good. I’ll claim her.” He took a long drink and burped extravagantly. “How many heads will it take, do you think?”

  Apparently it was the custom of Lekran’s tribe to offer the heads of fallen enemies to prospective brides as proof of husbandly worthiness. “A thousand should do,” Frentis advised.

  Lekran frowned and gave an annoyed huff. “So many?”

  “She’s a queen. They’re expensive.” He watched the former slave exhaust the bottle in a few gulps and knew, for all his bluster, this was a man attempting to drown the many horrors in his head. “How long were you Kuritai?” he asked him.

  “I had nineteen years when they took me. Now I see my father’s face when I look in the mirror. Time is lost to the binding.” Lekran grimaced at the empty bottle and threw it against the flagstones.

  “You don’t remember it?” Frentis pressed. “I recall every instance of mine.”

  “Then you are greatly unfortunate.” Lekran sat fidgeting for a moment, muscular arms bulging as he clasped his hands together, casting a hungry glance at the wine. “I remember … enough.”

  “Alucius Al Hestian, you remember you were set to guard him?”

  A very faint smile played over Lekran’s lips. “Yes. He wanted a drink too.”

  “He died a hero, trying to kill a much-hated enemy of mine.”

  “That fuck-brain on the big chair?” Lekran gave an amused grunt. “Well, good for him. Let’s drink to his memory.” He rose to fetch another bottle.

  “You know our course?” Frentis asked him as he rummaged through the wine, unstoppering a bottle to sniff the contents before grimacing and tossing it aside. “You are content to follow me?”

  �
�My father was the only man I ever followed willingly.” Lekran sniffed another bottle, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “But I’ll lend my axe to your cause on the way home.” He sat back down, grinning as he took another drink. “Your queen is owed a thousand heads, after all.”

  “Belorath,” the captain introduced himself, regarding Frentis with obvious suspicion, deepening even further at the sight of Lekran stepping off the gangplank complete with twin swords on his back and axe in hand. “Welcome to the Sea Sabre. Your comrades are here already.”

  The morning air was bracing, the sea-borne wind adding a cutting edge as they came aboard, the cluster of familiar figures on the deck huddling in their cloaks as Frentis advanced on them, his chill banished by a sudden anger. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Come to follow the queen’s command, brother,” Draker said, getting to his feet, the others rising at his back. “In truth, brother. She was kind enough to grant our request, since none of us relished the thought of life in the Realm Guard.”

  Frentis’s gaze swept over the thirty survivors of his company from the Urlish, hard-faced men and women garbed in muted colours and bristling with a variety of favoured weapons. Although there was one exception. Illian made a striking figure in her dark blue cloak, seeming to have grown somewhat in the few days since their last meeting. On either side of her sat Blacktooth and Slasher, both gazing up at him with wide eyes and heads lowered as they licked their lips; pups greeting the pack leader. Frentis knelt to run a hand over their heads, provoking a welcoming whine.