by Rj Barker
She was never here.
Merela’s belly will never swell again.
The land bulges, the air becomes a lens and she sees movement. On the banks of the lake of life there is colour and change. Riders dart back and forth. Mettel chanters step forward, swinging their whistlers through the air. Pretty flags fly in the same breeze that whips her hair around her head. She hears shouts but not words. She hears the whoops of the chanters. Whipping up the troops, getting them ready. And she knows she watches giants. Men and women brought from the land of dances and stories to fight the terrible foe, the one who must be brought down or he will bring them all down with him. They are the heroes that will be spoken of for years to come.
This is the day Doran ap Mennix rode to end the Black Sorcerer.
“They are all going to die,” she says.
“I know,” says Adran, and her voice is husky, excited.
You were never here.
She was never here.
A horn blows. Or a voice shouts. Or a chanter shrieks. It is difficult to tell because of the way the wind plays about them on top of the great black battlements of Maniyadoc. But with the noise the lake of life convulses, as if some great beast moves underneath, throwing forward a bow wave of armoured men and women. It opens its mouths, gives out a furious, animal roar.
“They are all going to die,” says Adran.
“They know,” she says.
“And yet they go anyway.” Adran curls a length of brown hair around a dirty finger. “That is true power.”
The land bulges, the air becomes a lens and Adran fades away. It is as if she becomes the only person left in the entire Tired Lands who is not on the field. At the edge of the forest, above the curl of the escarpment, she can see a small group who stand around a man. He is nothing much, small but stocky, dressed in the black robes of a priest of Xus. Behind him are shadows in the forest. Words are exchanged and the black-clad figure lifts his arms, shouts “No!” and it is a cry of grief as much as anger.
A pause. A thought. A single second of utter and unreal silence. The only other time she has ever known a world so quiet was when—
When?
… a tiny, almost unformed hand is in hers …
She can feel what he does. Feel it as sharp as the knife that cut her womb from her. And if the armoured men were a great creature beneath a placid lake then this is a creature so many times greater as to be unmeasurable. It denudes the trees. It sucks life from the grass, from the earth. The armoured wave running towards them falls: every man and woman and mount dead in an eyeblink. From there the power runs on, ravening like a war hound off the leash, out of control and hungry until, with a cry of agony, the man who holds it loses control and it is released. And the release shudders through the earth Raising the land in jagged peaks Ripping the dried sod from the stone. Tearing Maniyadoc apart with a noise like a hundred thousand storms all at once. The wave of destructive power runs on. She is caught up in it. This wave of destruction, this crumbling of the world This unthinking, unreasoning and uncaring annihilation and, for the first time since the day the knife went home, she stops hurting.
The power is unmaking them all. Unmaking the cruelty. Unmaking the killers. Unmaking those who hurt her and all those who are like them.
As the castle below her falls apart, riven, block from block. As the sword falls on the Black Sorcerer, sending him to Xus’s black palace. As she falls into a place that is luminous, formless and void, she thinks: “No, Adran. This is power.”
And with power.
Comes revenge.
Revenge on them all.
This is a dream
This is her dream.
Chapter 23
“So, was he Boros or not?” whispered Aydor as we stood waiting for Rufra outside the Low Tower. Like the rest, Aydor was in a kilt, in blue and white stripes that he managed to wear well despite his bulk. He had told me he was—for the first time in his life—thankful for the kilt as he was sorely bruised from the kicking Barin’s guards had given him. A large part of the morning had been spent concocting excuses to tell Rufra when he saw Aydor’s black eye. As ever, I wore my Death’s Jester motley, make-up, and blades strapped to my thighs.
“That’s what I am saying, Aydor. I do not know, not for definite.”
“So Barin may actually be wandering about, and Boros may be about to burn?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I don’t know if I succeeded, not entirely.”
“But if you had to make a bet?” he said.
“Yes, I think I did it. I think it is Boros’s mind that walks in Barin’s body.”
“First burning I’ll ever enjoy then,” said Aydor. Then he grinned. “I walked past your sulking room last night, by the way. Didn’t sound like much sulking was going on.”
Somehow, I was sure Aydor knew I blushed, even though my face was covered in a thick skin of panstick.
“Aydor, I—”
He tapped my arm in warning, as Rufra’s priest, Benliu, approached.
“Enough chat. Benliu is here so the king must be coming,” he said. The priest stood by Aydor.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Aydor out of the corner of his mouth.
Even though he wore a mask and practised the emotionless voice of the priesthood, Benliu sounded deeply unhappy. “The king says I must come and speak for Boros to the dead gods while he burns.”
“I thought that was done in the buried chapels?”
“Aye,” said Benliu, “and Ceadoc is the Sepulchre of the Gods so every priest should be down there, but they are closed to all.”
“How can that still be? When Gamelon said they were closed I did not think it would be for long,” I said. “Surely access to the sepulchre is important?”
“Flooding,” said the priest. “With the plague killing so many there are no slaves to work the pumps, I imagine.”
“Pumps,” said Aydor, “what pumps?”
“I do not pretend to understand fully. I have never been here before,” said Benliu, “but the sepulchres are underground and pumps must be run or they flood. They are not being run, so the sepulchres are flooded. I had hoped to see the statues of Adallada and Dallad, but it is not to be. Instead I get to watch Boros burn.” He sounded so miserable I wanted to tell him it would not be Boros, but I could not. Just like I could not tell Rufra, and would have to stand here while he glowered at me, believing one of his men burned and I had done nothing to stop it.
“You would think the Landsmen would run the pumps, it is their job after all,” said Aydor.
“It is probably an insult to Rufra,” said Benliu, as more of Rufra’s troops left the tower and I heard the scratch-on-bark call of one of Xus’s birds. When I looked up at the battlements of the Low Tower, the walls around it were lined with black birds. “They sense death,” said Benliu, “they know when it is near.”
“That is just a myth,” said Aydor, staring up at them. “The black birds are everywhere in the Tired Lands,” he glanced about a little more before adding, “as is death.”
Rufra emerged from the Low Tower. He wore his king’s armour: the beautiful silvered enamel shirt and shining shoulder and elbow pieces that Nywulf, the man who had trained him, had given him. He rarely wore it any more, and when he did he wore it with a cloak, as down the back new lines of enamelling had been added to make it fit his wider body, although I was sure no one could tell Rufra felt they could and used the cloak to cover the repairs. By him was Neander.
Rufra shielded his eyes from the sun and in doing so his gaze alighted on me. He glared, as if what were to happen was my fault, and then he went back to talking to Neander. What they spoke of made the king no happier and he shook his head before walking my way. Then he stood by me, Neander on his other side. Behind them trailed Gusteffa.
“I asked for this not to happen,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth at me, then he glanced across at Aydor. “What happened to you?”
“Got a beati
ng,” he said, nonchalantly, “trying to get Girton in to Boros. Didn’t work.”
“Dead gods,” said Rufra. “I swear this place is as cursed as I am.”
“We should leave,” I said, as Vinwulf left the tower and came to join us. He was cutting slices off an apple with his knife and feeding them into his mouth.
“Father is angry because he has lost more Blessed,” said Vinwulf.
“And I am right to be angry about it.”
“How many?” said Aydor.
“Two,” said Neander.
“That is enough to put Marrel ahead,” I said.
“But that is what is curious,” said Neander, his voice sounding odd as the beak mask tumbled his voice around inside. “He is not. These blessed leave Rufra but they do not go to Marrel.”
“Where do they go then?”
“Nowhere,” said Rufra.
“When asked,” said Neander, “they give non-answers, say they have yet to make up their minds or that they are having second thoughts or that they are upset by the bad omens surrounding Rufra.” The king glared at him, but I was sure I caught a smile on Vinwulf’s face as he threw the remains of his apple to Gusteffa. She caught it and turned a pretty cartwheel.
“We should leave this place,” said Aydor.
“I would be glad to,” said Rufra. He sounded beaten, miserable.
“Can I stay if you do leave, Father?” said Vinwulf.
“What, so you can watch more burnings?”
“Boros did break the law, Father,” he said, “and you always talk of justice.”
I felt Rufra’s disappointment in his son before it showed on his face.
“If justice is to be enacted, it should be swift and not torturous,” he said. “This is not justice, it is—”
“The Landsmen,” I said, before the two could start arguing in full view of Rufra’s soldiers. “It has to be the Landsmen people are going to.”
“You think everything is the Landsmen,” said Vinwulf with a sneer.
“They do not have the power and are not allowed it,” said Neander. “They do not even get a vote. Gamelon and the highguard keep them in check, and Gamelon does not get on with Fureth.”
“Maybe it is Gamelon then?”
“He’s hardly the likeable type, to draw the Blessed to him,” said Aydor. “And also, like the Landsmen, not allowed to rule.”
“True,” said Rufra, “but maybe I am no longer the only one making changes in the Tired Lands? I should have listened more closely to the story of Torelc’s Curse,” he added, barely audibly. “Change brings its own trouble.” He stood straighter. “But someone will slip up,” he said, “they will give us a clue. There are few among the other Blessed who have the military power to back up a bid for high king.”
“You always say being a king is not about military might, Father,” said Vinwulf.
“It is not, but a new high king will need some might to back up what he does at Ceadoc. The highguard do not leave it, the Landsmen are only interested in hunting sorcerers. He needs military support.”
“He would get that from other Blessed, surely?”
“Yes,” said Rufra with a sigh, as if he were bored of trying to explain politics to his son, “but if he does not have his own military then he will always be looking over his shoulder. Always afraid one who serves him may grow too strong.”
“But the highguard …”
“Are a guard, nothing more,” said Rufra. “There are no more than a few hundred of them.”
“Talking of who might make a play for power,” said Aydor. He pointed at the portcullis gate as it began to rise. Behind it were a black-clad mob.
“Danfoth and the Children,” said Rufra. “That is all we need.” The portcullis locked into place with a clang and the black birds of Xus took to the sky, momentarily stilling the day with the static whirr and creak of a thousand wings.
“Seems the god agrees with Rufra about the Children,” said Aydor cheerfully. He stared across the courtyard. “Want me to punch Danfoth for you?”
A smile crossed Rufra’s face.
“Sometimes I think it is a pity you were not king, Aydor,” he said. “Life would have been more amusing, if nothing else.”
“Nah,” said Aydor. “I’d be dead by now.” Danfoth walked across the courtyard to stand before us and I felt Rufra’s soldiers tensing. There was no love lost between him and the Children of Arnst. Many lives had been lost when Rufra drove them from Maniyadoc.
“King Rufra,” he said, then inclined his head toward me. “Chosen.”
“We were expecting a priest of Xus to lead us to the execution,” said Neander. “That is how all executions are done within Ceadoc.”
“And how it will be done, Neander,” said Danfoth innocently, “for my people are the priests of Xus now. Death needs no mask.”
“Could no priest of Xus be found?” said Aydor. “You’d think with all the deaths in the Tired Lands we wouldn’t be able to move for them.”
“They have all come to me,” said Danfoth, “and as you, Rufra, are the forerunner to be high king, I give you the honour of coming to guide you to the execution personally.”
“Is it really an honour?” said Neander. “It seems to me you gain more from this, as it looks like Rufra gives his support to you.”
“Does it?” said Danfoth. “It had not occurred to me.” He gave Neander a small bow of his head. “Are you ready to leave, King Rufra? Where is your wife and your young children?”
“They will remain here,” he said. “A burning is no place for Anareth, and Voniss has no wish to see it.”
“I pray Xus keeps them safe.” Danfoth bowed his head.
“Celot will keep them safe,” said Rufra, “and I trust him more than any god. Now, shall we go? I would have this over with as soon as possible.”
“No doubt,” said the Meredari, “your friend Boros feels the same.” Before we could reply he turned on his heels and nodded to the ragged crowd who accompanied him and they set up a wailing that made conversation almost impossible. A pot of burning herbs was handed to Danfoth and he hooked it on to a pole, lifting it high above us and leading us through the portcullis. The way had been lined by the unsmiling citizens of Ceadoc and at every five paces stood a Landsman. In some places there were almost crowds, but they were all the black-clad Children of Arnst, and they joined in the wailing of those leading our procession.
“You ever get the feeling,” shouted Aydor into my ear, “you’re being given a show of power?” A Landsman glared at us as we passed.
“Aye, but whose? Danfoth’s or the Landsmen?”
“Maybe if one does not have enough power, it is both?”
I glanced along our route, thought about the quickest way to the main gate, and estimated there were upwards of two hundred Landsmen along the processional route. As we neared Ceadoc’s gate they became twice as thick. Every Landsman in the Tired Lands must have been brought back to the capital. As our column wound through the town we were joined by others: snaking columns of men and women. Most roads looked to be guarded by highguard, but the one that brought Marrel ap Marrel to join us was also lined by Landsmen. All the columns were led by wailing groups of the Children of Arnst.
We passed through the main portcullis and came into the clearing before the main castle, it had been set up as if for a show with tiers of seating. Tables had been set out for feasts. In the centre was the pyre—the fool’s castle—a mound of dried mount dung under a skin of wood: the dung would be soaked with fragrant oils to make it burn better and sweeter. On top of it was a flat platform for the fool’s throne. Behind the fool’s castle was the crane, from which the condemned would be lowered on to the pyre. From where we entered I saw only the point where two pieces of wood were joined. A rope ran over it which dangled down to touch the platform. Some of Gamelon’s people, in rags of yellow, came forward to take us to our seats. We were given the front row, nearest the fool’s castle. From there I could see the throne, a
human-shaped chair of metal bands that was at once a seat and a cage. It was a hideous thing. Where the sitter’s thighs would go were barbed spikes, in case the pain of burning was not enough, I imagined. Similar spikes were mounted where the sitter’s biceps would go.
“Girton,” said Rufra into my ear. “After this, they will ask you to dance.”
“Dance?”
“You are Death’s Jester and this is an execution. It will be expected.”
“You did not tell me about this!”
“No, because you would not have come.” Before I could rage at him he lifted his hand. “But, if there is something particularly insulting you have been saving up? Dance that one today.” He stared into my eyes. “Let them know what we think of them for this.”
I nodded slowly and thought about my repertoire. What could be insulting enough for this? As I thought I watched those around us. The final blessed were coming in, though not all had been invited to the burning. I saw Marrel ap Marrel, he would not look at us but he clearly shared Rufra’s lack of enthusiasm for the burning. Sat to his left was Leckan ap Syridd and his people. They were laughing and joking, some had already taken out large cloths and were setting up picnics, as if this were a simple day out. By the fool’s throne stood Torvir ap Genyyth, head of the highguard. He also looked like he would rather be somewhere else. Behind him stood twenty or so of the highguard in polished and burnished armour. To our left was Dons ap Tririg of Two Rivers. He was an ardent supporter of Rufra, but he looked excited by the idea of a burning: only when he glanced over and saw how stony Rufra’s face was did he stop smiling and quieten his people a little. Just past him, no doubt as a calculated insult, sat Suvander ap Vthyr, who chose to pretend his nephew did not exist.
To our right, separated from us by a wooden rail and a line of highguard along it—another insult, as if to say Rufra could not be trusted—was Barin ap Borlad, or Boros, but only Aydor and I knew that. He sat on one of the tiered benches, his whole body bent forward, perfect chin on perfect hand. His eyes were locked on the high doors to Ceadoc, carved with a relief of Adallada accepting the surrender of the warrior Dallad, who would then become her consort. The same doors through which his brother would be brought to burn. Behind Boros was Barin’s Heartblade, the man who made me feel queasy in the same way the Landsmen I had fought did. His life a fusion of gold and red that I could feel without trying, despite the souring beneath me. And then there were his soldiers, hard men. No doubt most had been Nonmen and I wondered how it was for Boros, to be surrounded by people he had spent his life despising. I could not tell from looking at him, all he did was stare at the gates. Occasionally, his gaze would stray to the fool’s castle and he would wet his lips with his tongue.