The Immortal Throne (2016)

by Stella Gemmell

  At last they came to a carved door in a corridor lit by high windows. Sunlight lay on the floor and the still air was stifling with dust. Marcellus dismissed his guard. They backed away, reluctant at first, then turned and ran back towards the fighting. Marcellus pushed Rubin ahead of him into a circular room. The floor was an elaborate mosaic of stones – lapis lazuli, cerulean tile and blue slate – but otherwise the chamber was empty.

  ‘The emperor is dead,’ Marcellus grunted, pulling off his blood-red gauntlets and dropping them with a clatter to the floor.

  Rubin stared at him in shock. The Immortal dead? It seemed an impossible contradiction. For all his father had told him about Araeon, that the man was corrupt, perhaps insane, still he had been emperor for all Rubin’s life, the strong leader of a beleaguered City. And he remembered Reeve telling him Marcellus would succeed.

  ‘How did he die?’ he asked.

  Marcellus shook his head. ‘I only know that he is dead,’ he said. ‘I know it in my blood and my bones.’ He gestured at the straps holding his breastplate and Rubin sprang to help, unbuckling the thick leather fastenings and lowering the armour to the floor. It lay on the mosaic like a dead soldier, bloody and broken. Rubin stood, feeling hollow and helpless, as Marcellus knelt to remove his greaves.

  ‘Then you must withdraw, lord,’ he said at last.

  ‘I will fight to my last breath for this City,’ Marcellus murmured.

  ‘Please listen to me, lord. The palace is falling apart around us and there are already enemy troops inside it. We know there are more on the way. You must retreat now, while there is time.’ Rubin struggled to find a way to convince him. ‘Fighting on means certain death, or capture and torture and death. You once told me you have to choose your battles. This one is unwinnable.’

  Marcellus made no reply but walked over to the windows and looked down across his City. Rubin followed. He could see nothing amiss – no troops battling on the streets, no sign of the flood. If these streets had been flooded then they had dried since under the thin sunlight. But they were silent and empty.

  ‘You could go to the Salient,’ Rubin persevered. ‘My father will aid you. From there you can plan the recapture of the City. I will go with you.’

  Marcellus snorted. ‘Reeve and I are scarcely allies. And, like you, he is no fighter. The Guillaumes never were.’

  Then, miraculously, his face brightened. ‘Except your sister. She is a warrior born!’

  Rubin was astonished. ‘My sister? You’ve met Indaro?’

  ‘A short time ago.’

  ‘Today? She is in the palace now?’ Rubin’s spirits, which were in his boots, unexpectedly soared. Indaro was alive and defending her City. ‘That is wonderful news, lord! No enemy can prevail against Indaro.’

  A ghost of a smile lingered on Marcellus’ face, then he sighed and said, ‘Perhaps you are right.’ Frowning, Rubin watched him, concerned at his volatile emotions. Marcellus sounded exhausted, as if all his formidable energy had swiftly drained from him. ‘Perhaps I will quit the City. I’ll let others organize the clear-up. Then I will return.’ He turned to Rubin. ‘A great king, a warrior and strategist, once said, “I will withdraw so that, like a ram, I can butt the harder.”’

  In a flash of insight Rubin realized this was what Marcellus had intended all along. ‘I will go with you,’ he offered again.

  ‘No. I will travel alone.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  Marcellus stared east. The great mountain, the Shield of Freedom, dominated the view. He said nothing for a moment, then, ‘That is not for you to know.’

  ‘I meant,’ Rubin prevaricated, ‘how will you leave the City? There will be enemy soldiers everywhere. The Blues will have surrounded the palace before long, if they have not already.’

  Marcellus grunted and shook his head. ‘Hayden Weaver, the general of the Petrassi army, has no more than twenty thousand men. Twice that could not surround the palace.’

  ‘So few?’ Rubin was amazed.

  ‘Resources on both sides have dwindled. A century ago we could field an army – just one army of many – of half a million. Now we can scrape together no more than a tenth of that in all. The destruction of the Maritime in the summer was a greater defeat than most people realize. It probably doomed the City.’ Rubin had heard the surviving generals of the Maritime Army of the West had been crucified on Marcellus’ orders. ‘But in answer to your question,’ the First Lord said, with something like relish, ‘I will ride across the East Lake. Caravaggio will enjoy a swim.’

  ‘It will be his last adventure,’ Rubin said, echoing his lord’s words on the Crags of Corenna.

  ‘Indeed it will. And I could not leave the old boy here to be chopped up as food for the enemy.’

  Rubin guessed now why they had come so far through the palace to this place – Caravaggio was no doubt saddled and waiting somewhere nearby. Though he had been urging his lord to flee the City he felt a pang of regret that he was about to do so.

  Marcellus walked towards the door, idly kicking the discarded pile of blood-red armour as he passed, as if contemptuous of those who carried on fighting, and dying, for a lost cause.

  ‘There is one thing you can do for me, Rubin,’ he said.

  ‘Name it, lord.’

  ‘Do you know the lady Fiorentina?’

  Rafael’s wife was called Fiorentina, Rubin recalled. ‘She is wed to your brother.’

  ‘Yes, and she was sister to my lady Petalina.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Rubin replied, puzzled by the turn in the conversation.

  ‘My brother also died today, defending the City. Fiorentina will have no one to protect her now all our troops are fighting for the palace. They have apartments in the Redoubt, in the north wing. Go, find her and conduct her to safety.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Rubin replied automatically. Rafael dead? He was finding it hard to take in the enormity of the day’s disasters.

  Marcellus added, ‘Perhaps your father will give her sanctuary.’ He smiled slightly.

  ‘I’m sure he will, if you wish it, lord.’ Rubin had no idea how he would find one woman, whom he had never met, in the immensity of the collapsing palace.

  Marcellus’ face became grave again and he gazed into Rubin’s eyes. ‘You will probably be told I am dead, that I was beheaded by a soldier of the City, but do not believe it.’ He waited until Rubin nodded. ‘There are many who want me dead, but I am hard to kill and I will return when the time is right. Believe it, boy.’

  ‘I do, lord!’

  ‘Stay safe, Rubin. Keep your head down and your opinions to yourself until I return. And above all …’ he paused.

  ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Do not trust Archange.’

  ‘Lord?’ Rubin frowned. He had only heard that name on his father’s lips. She was once the emperor’s wife, he recalled, and she wanted him dead. Could she be behind today’s catastrophes? An old woman?

  ‘Stay away from her and, if you cannot do that, do not trust her. Do not trust her words or her actions. She is more dangerous than you can possibly imagine.’

  With that Marcellus pulled open the door and stepped outside. Rubin hesitated, looking at the pile of armour. For one wild moment he thought of putting it on, pretending to be Marcellus, rallying the troops, saving the City. He chuckled at his foolishness, then followed his lord to the door. He looked out into the long corridor. He looked both ways.

  Marcellus had gone.

  Valla was drowning. Someone had a knee in her back and a hand on her head, holding her down in the muddy, bloody water on the floor of the chamber. She tried frantically to get her good arm under her, but she was held in an iron grip. Just as she felt life slipping away, her enemy grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head up – then rammed it back under the water again. Then the weight on her back suddenly vanished and she rolled over and sat up, expecting to see Leona. Instead she saw another familiar warrior slice the enemy’s throat then nod to her, his face im
passive. It was Loomis, Leona’s aide. She managed to smile to him gratefully before he limped back into the melee.

  It was a bloodbath in there, the last remaining warriors hacking and slashing at each other, most bearing wounds, all exhausted. A grey mist of blood and mud and water covered everyone and hung in the air, tangible, to be breathed in with gasping, desperate breaths. Valla looked among the fighters for Leona but it was hard to make out individuals. Then her gaze wandered to the piles of dead and dying. Her breathing shallowed and her heart stopped.

  Leona lay on her side on a pile of bodies, eyes open, staring at the battle. Keeping her mind empty, Valla staggered over to her. As she came into her sight, her friend blinked. Valla cried out with relief. Then she saw the gaping wound in Leona’s neck. It was gushing blood still, but she knew that wouldn’t last. Leona moaned, then tried to say something. Valla bent down to listen. She felt a whisper of breath on her cheek.

  ‘Go,’ her commander breathed. ‘Fight a new day.’

  Careless of the fighting all around them, Valla sat back, taking her friend’s hand and kissing it.

  ‘I don’t even know who I’m fighting for,’ she said. Tears poured down her face, misting her sight.

  Leona tried to swallow but blood spilled from her mouth. ‘Marcellus,’ she managed, ‘is our … lodestar.’

  Valla looked around at the chamber of death. Everyone was moving so slowly.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

  It was a foolish question. Marcellus was fighting elsewhere. Who knew what was going on in other parts of the palace? But Valla was sure only Marcellus could save them this day.

  ‘Valla,’ Leona breathed, ‘go.’

  Valla brought her face to Leona’s.

  ‘But …’ she said.

  ‘Go.’

  Then as Valla watched, the light and the life died in Leona’s eyes.

  Sobbing, she sat back, holding tightly to her friend’s hand. There was no point running. She was wounded, though she had no idea where, for her whole body was in agony. Just give me one more moment, she thought, and I’ll— She closed her eyes.

  Something made her open them again. She looked across the blood-soaked chamber, past the slow-moving soldiers. Framed in the Crystal Gateway was the gulon. It sat neatly on its haunches and regarded the carnage, then it turned its glittering gaze on Valla and she felt the strength of its will. The two blood-covered creatures stared at one another, unblinking.

  Valla kissed Leona goodbye then struggled to her feet and, limping and hurting, made her way across the chamber of death and followed the path of the gulon.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  RUBIN RAN DOWN his quarry eventually. Weary beyond words after half a day wandering the haunted palace, he had found his way to the Redoubt and stumbled through yet another doorway into a strange chamber. He stopped and looked around, unsure what he was seeing. The room was large, rectangular and very high. The lower half was tiled and the upper half boasted tall windows on three sides. Rubin was standing on a wide ledge dividing the two halves. He looked down. The floor was covered with metal artefacts: small statues, jewellery, pots and pans and a few weapons; some seemed new, most old and corrupted. And there were coins, thousands of coins. Over everything, water lay knee-deep. The atmosphere in the chamber was warm and damp, and the windows were misted and rimmed with creeping plant life.

  So fascinated was he that it was a while before Rubin noticed the woman sitting motionless on the other side of the chamber, staring down into the water. He walked towards her but she seemed unaware of him. He stopped a few paces away. She did not look up so he cleared his throat, unwilling to startle her.

  Slowly she turned her head. He had no doubt it was Fiorentina. She had a dark beauty which caught the breath, and her eyes were deep blue, the same colour as the rich gown she wore. Her feet were bare and dirty.

  ‘Have you come to execute me?’ she asked. Her face showed no fear. It showed nothing.

  ‘No!’ Rubin said. ‘If you are the lady Fiorentina I have come to aid you.’

  ‘You can barely stand,’ she commented, looking him up and down as if he had just crawled out of a drain. ‘How can you help me?’

  He frowned. The conversation was not going the way he’d foreseen. ‘Marcellus,’ he said, once more wielding the name like a weapon, ‘asked me to see you to safety.’

  ‘Marcellus? What of my husband?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rubin lied.

  She shook her head forlornly. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘You know that, lady?’

  ‘I feel it in my bones,’ she replied, unknowingly echoing Marcellus.

  Rubin had no words to reassure her. He looked around. ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

  ‘It is called the Calderium,’ she told him with a sigh. ‘Until a while ago it was a deep pool of warm water. Then the water started leaking away. I’ve been watching it go down. There must be a crack in the floor.’

  ‘What is it for?’

  ‘For bathing. My husband would bathe here each day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was fed by a hot spring. The water was warm and was said to have healing powers.’

  Rubin felt time at his back, urging him on. ‘We must leave, lady. If the enemy takes the Red Palace you will be in peril.’ He did not mention that the palace was collapsing and they were probably in more danger from that.

  She held out her hand; he took it and she stood. She was as tall as him, even with bare feet. She stared at him, her face immobile, yet far from serene. He wondered what it would be like when she smiled.

  ‘Do you know which way to go?’ she asked.

  ‘No, lady. I have never been in this part of the palace before.’

  She resisted commenting on his abilities as a rescuer, but said, ‘The Redoubt is only accessible through the palace or via the northern barracks gate.’

  ‘The gate it is, then,’ he said.

  They walked through darkened halls, down corridors lit only by occasional torches. Fiorentina told him the Redoubt was once a fortress, thus there were no windows in the lower storeys. Far off they could hear discordant noise, the rhythmic stomp of marching soldiers, running feet and cries of fear and panic. Occasionally there would be a rumble deep below as if the earth was about to give way, and they would pause fearfully, not knowing which way to flee, until it quietened again. They passed small groups of frightened servants all heading the other way, towards the heart of the palace. Many of them eyed Fiorentina sideways, but none spoke and they neither sought nor offered aid. Rubin guessed she knew them all but the links between them of lady and servant had been severed. They were strangers now, and strangers always brought the risk of danger.

  When they came to the north barracks gate there was no one there, the guards long gone. They both stared up at it, discouraged, and Rubin realized why everyone they had seen had been going the other way. The double gates, ancient and carved with cryptic runes, were wide and high and could only be shifted by the strength of many men.

  ‘I have only ever seen them standing open,’ Fiorentina said. ‘We cannot move them.’

  Rubin was gazing at them with interest, walking back and forth.

  ‘They are counterbalanced,’ he said at last. ‘They are designed to be opened by just one or two men, once the bar is raised.’ But the locking bar was a tree-trunk, stripped and polished, which spanned the entire width of the doors and rested in great brackets on massive stone posts. Rubin shoved his shoulder under one end and heaved with all his strength. The bar was unmoved.

  ‘It would take twenty men to shift this,’ he said. ‘So,’ he added with a cheerfulness he did not feel, ‘we can either wait for twenty men to come along and hope they’re friendly. Or we can go back.’

  Without a word she turned and started back towards the palace, and he followed.

  Inside, her soul was howling.

  While her lips and teeth and breath, and a small part of
her mind, occupied themselves with speaking with this strange young man – of the difficulty they were in, of the obstacles they might find, and the violence they might encounter – the rest of Fiorentina was shrivelling, dying, with loss and pain for her beloved.

  She had no doubt Rafe was dead. She knew it as certainly as she knew that new life was nestled inside her. She did not hope; hope was unknown to her. There was not even the tiniest part of her consciousness that thought they might turn a corner, walk through a doorway, and he would come striding towards her, battered, bloody, but alive.

  He had often told her she was prescient, and that belief was confirmed for him when she had avoided the gathering at the Little Opera House which turned into a bloodbath and killed her only sister. In fact she had been tired that evening, and a bit nauseous, not knowing then that she was with child. Her so-called prescience was just the ability to watch and listen and observe human beings and to weigh their actions in the past to judge their possible moves in the future. To her it was simple, laughably so. For all their lives together, more than forty years, she had watched and smiled as her sister Petalina was constantly startled by events, never expecting what to Fiorentina was as obvious as if it were written in black words on white paper.

  She smiled, in loving memory. She saw Rubin was looking at her. He flushed a little. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  She looked at him, pausing under the flickering light of a torch in a bracket, and she found her practical mind trying to reassert itself over the sorrow.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked him. ‘You are not a soldier though you have clearly suffered serious injury; you speak like a lord yet I have never met you before. You claim to know Marcellus but you are not one of his aides, or senior soldiers, or counsellors, for I know them all.’

  ‘I have been away.’ His eyes flicked away from her.