Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “I not a … fighter, like you.” Lieza hugged herself closer, resting her head on her knees.

  “Then what are you?” Reva asked.

  “Slave.” The girl spoke in a murmur, not raising her head. “Always just slave.”

  “You must have skills, abilities.”

  “Numbers, letters, language.” Lieza’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “My master taught me much. Won’t help here. I am Avielle, you Livella.”

  “And they are?”

  “Sisters. One weak, one strong.”

  Reva grunted in annoyance, going to the bed and grabbing the girl by the wrists, hauling her to her feet. “Look at me!” She took hold of her chin and raised it, shaking her until her eyes opened, wet and bright with alarm. “Enough of this. Whatever waits for us here will need all our strength, yours and mine, if we are to survive it.”

  The girl sagged, tears flowing once again. “I not like you…”

  Reva drew a hand back to slap her. Beat some spine into her, make her practice and beat her every time she falters. She’ll learn quick enough if I put some bruises on those perfect legs, the miserable, fatherless sinner …

  Her hands gave an involuntary spasm, allowing Lieza to sink back onto the bed, head slumped in misery. “I’m sorry,” Reva said, retreating from the weeping girl, her heart thumping.

  A jangle of keys came from outside the thick iron door. It swung open on squealing hinges to reveal Varulek with two Kuritai at his back. His eyes tracked from Reva to the still-weeping Lieza. “I have been instructed to punish this one if she fails to please you,” he said.

  “She pleases me well enough,” Reva told him. “What do you want?”

  He stood back from the door, inclining his head in a surprisingly polite gesture of respectful invitation. “The blond man fights today. The Empress thought you would like to see it.”

  Her initial thought was to refuse, having little desire to witness the Shield’s murder. But she would find no opportunity for escape here, and perhaps the pirate deserved his end to be witnessed by at least one ally. She tossed the wooden sword onto the bed next to Lieza. “At least try,” she said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Copy what you saw me do.”

  The girl’s head bobbed in what might have been agreement and Reva went to the door, noting how the Kuritai maintained no more than a six-inch gap between themselves and Varulek. He fears me, she decided, depressed by continual evidence the Master of the Arena was no fool. He remained unmoved by the insults she cast at him, was always just out of reach and ensured her wrists were shackled on the rare occasions she was permitted out of the chamber.

  She kept still as one of the Kuritai held a knife to her throat, the other snapping the manacles to her wrists. She calculated dispatching one would be relatively simple, hook the chains over his throat and snap his neck, but had yet to formulate a manoeuvre that would prevent the other killing her a heartbeat later. Also, she considered it unlikely Varulek would simply stand idle and watch her escape. Although he was of average proportions, she could tell from his bearing and the evident strength in his tattooed hands, he was no stranger to combat. Once a soldier, perhaps?

  “Your quarters are acceptable?” he asked, leading her along the passage. They were deep in the bowels of the arena, the passage leading to a long flight of stairs ascending in a curving arc in line with the giant oval of the arena.

  “A table and chair would be nice,” she said as they began the climb.

  “Also easily broken and the legs used for clubs,” he replied. “So, sadly, I must refuse.”

  She concealed a sigh of frustration, wondering again at the Father’s liking for placing obstacles in her path. Why not allow me a stupid gaoler? she asked him. If it is your object to punish me, attempting to escape this place will certainly achieve such an end in short order. There was no answer, of course, the Father as deaf to her entreaties as he had always been, though now at least she discerned a reason. I lied in your name. I cannot think I deserve to live.

  “Some books for the girl, then,” she said. “I think she would appreciate a distraction.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  They climbed in silence for a time, passing by several sentry platforms, each home to a pair of Kuritai standing with their typical blank-eyed immobility. The higher they went the more ornate the surrounding structure became, bare, unplastered brick giving way to smooth walls decorated with mosaics and the occasional relief sculpture. She was surprised to note that most of the decoration showed signs of unrepaired vandalism: unfamiliar script chiselled away or motifs subjected to shattering hammerblows. From the colour of the stone she deduced this to be ancient damage.

  “This is a very old building,” she observed as they neared the arena’s ground level, the narrow passage echoing with a low-pitched hum, growing with every step. It was a sound she knew well enough, similar to the collective shouts of the archers on the walls of Alltor when they called for the Volarians to march into yet another arrow storm, the baying of many souls hungry for blood.

  “Indeed,” Varulek replied. “The oldest building in the city, in fact. Product of a less enlightened age.” She detected a new inflection to his normally uncoloured voice, a faint but clearly discernible note of contempt.

  “Less enlightened?” she pressed.

  “So the Imperial historians have it.” She saw how his eyes lingered on a statue as they crested the final step and emerged onto the broad arched walkway leading to the arena proper. It was a bronze figure typical of the many she had seen on her journey here, a man, as they usually were, holding a short sword aloft in a gesture of heroic defiance. She could tell from the lustre of the bronze the statue was relatively recent, but the plinth on which it stood was far older, a finely carved cylinder of red-gold marble, an iron plaque hammered onto its side with little regard for the stone, which was cracked and chipped in several places.

  “Someone else stood there once,” she said. “Who was it?”

  Varulek turned his gaze away from the plinth, lengthening his stride. “Savorek,” he said in a flat voice. “Greatest of the guardians.”

  “Guardians of what?”

  He led her to another staircase, this one leading to the upper tier. He remained silent until they had climbed the stairs, and the hum of the crowd became a ceaseless cacophony, almost drowning his reply, but she caught it, “All that was taken from us.”

  He led her through a series of hallways, their path lined with guards every ten paces. They were mostly Free Swords here, though their armour and weapons were of a less uniform appearance than the conscripts she had fought in the Realm. Despite their lack of uniformity, however, she noted they all shared the same expression: eyes wider than normal, faces pale and jaws bunching intermittently. They’re all terrified, she realised, her gaze going to the balcony ahead where a slender figure sat in silhouette on a cushioned bench.

  The Empress rose to greet her as she was led out onto the balcony, her smile disconcerting in its genuine warmth. She came close, leaning to press a fond kiss to her cheek. “Little sister, how nice of you to come.”

  Reva clenched her fists at the closeness, disliking the fact that the Empress’s perfume was a subtle delight to the senses. But any violent impulse was checked by the sight of the five Arisai on the balcony, each greeting Reva with a welcoming grin, infuriating in its familiarity. They think they see one of their own, she thought, sickened by the realisation.

  The Empress moved back, turning to Varulek and waving an impatient hand at the crowd. “Shut them up.”

  The black-clad moved to the balcony’s edge, raising a hand to unseen eyes below. Almost without pause there came the sound of many trumpets, the notes forming a strident tune rich in implacable authority. The crowd instantly fell to an absolute silence, unbroken by even the faintest cough or wayward call, as if every soul present had taken a breath in unison and feared letting it out.

  “Honoured Citizens and sundry scum!” the Empress
called to them, moving forward until her bare toes protruded over the edge of the balcony, her voice carrying with almost unnatural ease to the farthest reaches of the arena. “Before I delight your pestilent hearts with yet more blood, I should like to introduce a distinguished guest from across the ocean.” She gestured to Reva, her lips formed in the encouraging smile of an elder sibling. Reva remained still until one of the Arisai gave a pointed cough, stroking his chin with an apologetic grimace, his other hand resting on a dagger at his belt. She moved slowly to the Empress’s side, flinching as she took hold of her manacled wrist and raised it high.

  “I give you Lady Governess Reva Mustor of Cumbrael!” the Empress called again. “Many of your sons and husbands no doubt met their end at her hands, deservedly so I might add. Still, even though none of you are worthy to kiss this woman’s feet, I have still ordained that she will entertain you here in due course. Is not your Empress generous?”

  Her grip on Reva’s wrists tightened as she stood there, face set in a mask of profound malice. She stood regarding the crowd for what seemed an age, eyes scanning every silent row, darting about as if in search of the slightest expression of disloyalty. Finally she grunted and released Reva, moving back to her bench and gesturing irritably at Varulek. “Get on with it. Little sister, come sit by me.”

  The trumpets pealed forth once more, a less strident tune this time, almost joyful. The crowd’s murmur rose again as Reva slumped next to the Empress, hearing no cheers amongst the tense babble of thousands exchanging fearful whispers.

  A slave brought tea in small glass cups, along with a selection of finely crafted cakes, each a perfect cube of variously coloured icing topped with a tiny gold-leaf motif of some kind. “My crest,” the Empress said, holding up one of the cakes for Reva’s inspection, the crest revealed as a tiny dagger within a chain circle. “Death and servitude, my two gifts.” She laughed and popped the cake in her mouth, frowning in consternation as she chewed, her face betraying no more enjoyment than if she were eating plain bread.

  Reva turned her attention to the arena, finding the balcony offered a near-complete view of a great sand oval. She judged it perhaps two hundred and fifty paces wide and near four hundred long. The sand was tended by a number of slaves, busily raking over numerous dark patches, no doubt evidence of some earlier slaughter. Her gaze tracked over the crowd, noting how the pitch of their mingled voices had changed, the fear giving way to a collective buzz of anticipation. They fear her but can’t resist what she offers here, she decided with a surge of contempt.

  “Yes, horrible aren’t they?” the Empress commented, sipping tea.

  Reva swallowed a sigh. Feel nothing. Think nothing.

  “Do you hate your people as I hate this lot?” the Empress went on. “Their gullibility must be trying at times.”

  Reva knew she was being baited, this thing attempting to stoke an anger that might reveal some new insight. But she found her thoughts free of rage as they turned to her people, her trusting, believing people. “They fought off your finest army for months,” she said. “Starved and shorn of hope, they gave blood and life to save each other. Your people rejoice in cruelty and make murder an entertainment. I’ll reserve my hate for them.”

  “And your guilt for yourself.” The Empress took a bite from another cake, raising her eyebrows in faint disappointment. “All tastes like ash,” she muttered, tossing the cake aside.

  Reva tried to ignore the weight of the Empress’s gaze as she concentrated on a new commotion in the arena. Two groups of men were emerging from doors at opposite ends of the oval, the initial upsurge in cheers from the crowd soon fading as their condition became clear. They were all naked, most of middle or advanced years, pale and trembling under the scrutiny of the crowd, some with hands clasped protectively over their genitals, others standing in apparent bafflement or shock.

  “Pardon me a moment, little sister,” the Empress said, getting to her feet once more. She moved to the balcony’s edge where an Arisai waited, bowed to one knee as he proffered a short sword. “As yet more proof of your Empress’s boundless largess!” she called, her arm sweeping in a grandiloquent gesture from one end of the arena to the other. “I add another two teams to the venerable Sword Races. To my right the Honourable Company of Traitors, to my left the Exalted Order of Corrupt Officials. Both have earned my displeasure with their disloyalty and greed, but my compassionate, womanly soul compels me to mercy. There will be only one victor of today’s contest, permitted to live out his days in slavery and his family spared the three deaths.”

  She took the sword from the kneeling Arisai and threw it into the centre of the arena. Reva couldn’t help but be impressed by the skill of the throw, the sword sinking into the sand up to the hilt. The Empress turned away as the trumpets blasted a short note, the crowd’s murmur now a mingling of dismay and confusion.

  The two groups of naked men stood immobile as the note faded, exchanging wary glances or looking up at the crowd with tear-stained faces, bereft of all but the faintest hope. For a time it seemed as if they would just continue to stand there, anchored by terror, until a group of Varitai archers positioned on the upper tiers sank a volley of arrows into the sand around their feet. One of the naked men immediately broke from the group, sprinting towards the sword in a surprising turn of speed for a fellow with such an extensive belly. Several men began running in his wake, provoking their opponents into belated motion. Soon both groups were pelting towards each other in a stampede of flabby, sweat-soaked flesh, voices raised in desperate challenge. The plump man was first to the sword, scooping it up and flailing at the onrushing team as they closed, a bright plume of blood appearing in the mass of colliding flesh. The plump man was soon lost to sight, sinking under a forest of flailing limbs as the combatants thrashed at each other with inexpert ferocity. The sword appeared again, held aloft in the hand of a stick-thin old man with straggly grey hair. He stabbed down at the surrounding throng again and again, eyes wide with madness, before he was dragged from view.

  “Don’t waste your pity,” the Empress cautioned Reva, taking her seat once more. “Black-clads all, and not a man among them without blood on his hands.” She moved closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if they were two girls exchanging gossip. “So, are you enjoying Lieza? Don’t you find her the sweetest thing?”

  Reva determined not to answer, keeping her gaze on the now-diminished throng of battling unfortunates. Many were lying on the sands, too injured or exhausted to fight on, but a dense knot of them were still struggling in the centre of the arena, a tight revolving scrum of reddened flesh with the sword at the centre.

  “I can provide a replacement,” the Empress went on. “If she’s proving not to your … taste.”

  Think nothing. Feel nothing. “She … is acceptable to me.”

  “I am glad. You are the Most Honoured Garisai after all. The quarters you were given have traditionally been reserved for the most exalted of champions. In ages past the Garisai were not slaves you see, but free men and women, come to honour the gods with blood and courage. The undefeated would be raised to great status, lavished with all comfort and pleasures, for the gods favoured those who could slake their endless thirst.”

  “What happened to them?” Reva asked, watching as a group of five survivors surrounded the man who now held the sword, edging closer as he attempted to ward them off with clumsy jabs, face grey with exhaustion. “Your gods.”

  “We killed them,” the Empress replied, returning her attention to the arena as the contest neared its conclusion. The man with the sword hacked down a tall but aged opponent before the others closed in and bore him to the ground, fists rising and falling in a frenzy until one broke free with the sword, immediately turning to hack at his former allies, voicing a feral scream with every blow. The crowd had fallen silent once again and the man’s rhythmic fury reverberated across the ascending tiers, coming to a ragged stop as he finished his last victim and slumped to the sands, wee
ping, his sagging, barely muscled torso red from neck to waist.

  The Empress squinted at the slumped figure for a moment. “One of the corrupt,” she mused, before turning to Varulek. “Make sure he finishes the wounded, then send him to the mint. Hauling sacks of gold and silver for the rest of his days might educate him in the true value of money.”

  She reclined, reaching out to trace her fingers through the tresses of Reva’s hair that had escaped her long braid. “The gods,” she said in a reflective tone, “were of no more use to a people willing to embrace a great future, a destiny that could only be fulfilled by unity and unclouded reason. Or so my father once told me.”

  “They weren’t real,” Reva said. “Your gods died whilst the World Father endured.” She watched as a pair of Arisai dragged the lone survivor to his feet, pushing him towards the prostrate form of a man with a gaping stomach wound, one hand clutched to his spilling guts whilst he raised the other in a vain plea for mercy. “You built a nation of horrors.”

  “And what is your nation, little sister? A perfection of civilisation? I’ve seen it, and I think not. You grovel to a dream scribbled down centuries ago, pursuing your endless quarrel with those who in turn grovel to the imagined souls of the dead.”

  “A quarrel now ended, thanks to you.”

  “And to you, Blessed Lady. She who speaks with the Father’s voice.” She issued a soft laugh as Reva’s unease deepened. “Oh yes, I can see it. You lied. Thousands followed you here to their deaths, all because of the words you spoke on behalf of a deaf-mute god. And though you have never truly heard his voice, still you fear his judgement.”

  She leaned closer, Reva keeping her gaze fixed on the arena and the final man, tottering like an infant as he went from one maimed figure to another. “Let it go, little sister,” the Empress whispered, her tone urgent with honest entreaty. “I can show you so much.”