Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  Rag wasn’t even sure how she felt about it. There certainly weren’t no guilt. The emptiness inside at learning she’d done for a couple of fellas gave her a bit of a fright.

  Can’t do anything about it now though, can you? May as well just get on with things – play the hand you’re dealt.

  She turned to head back into the bar and stopped. Harkas was just standing there. It was just the two of them, alone in that back room. She looked up, trying to give him that same smile she’d given him a few days ago. This time she couldn’t muster it.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said.

  She’d never heard him speak before. His voice was pretty normal for someone so big.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, playing all innocent, though it was clear there was no point in that now.

  ‘No one else sees it,’ he replied. ‘But I do. They’re all too busy talking, too busy with their own thoughts and words to look. But I stand there all quiet and I listen. And I watch.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Rag, as panic welled up inside. The door was right behind her. Should she try to run? But she’d never make it before he grabbed her.

  ‘I could tell you were trouble right from that first day. I don’t know what Friedrik was thinking, but it’s too late now.’

  ‘Look,’ she said feigning annoyance in the hope it would put him off. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about and I don’t really care. Bastian just told me to make sure you lot stayed in line and that’s what I’m gonna do. If you’ve got a problem with it, see him.’

  She hoped that would put him off; that the mention of Bastian’s name might bring him to heel a bit. It didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, I bet he did,’ said Harkas, bending low so he was at eye level. ‘People like you, don’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rag, not too sure where this was going. ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘I like you,’ said Harkas, and Rag almost sighed with relief. ‘You look out for your mates. What you did for Shirl … well … I won’t forget that. And you’re clever – more clever than Friedrik was. But then I suppose that’s why you’re alive and he’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rag said, feeling more uncomfortable now than when she thought he was going to kill her. ‘I suppose it could be.’

  With that Harkas turned and walked back into the bar.

  He left the door open, and Rag could see in to the rest of the lads sitting by the fire. Would they accept her as leader? Would they do as she said?

  Only one way to find out, she supposed, and walked back into the warmth of the tavern.

  FIFTY

  Waylian made his way up the tight winding staircase to Gelredida’s chamber. He was still aching from the explosion in the amphitheatre, his eyes still gritty from the dust that had got in them.

  The door to the Magistra’s chamber was slightly ajar and as Waylian reached out to push it wide he paused. There was noise from within, as though someone were in pain.

  Waylian’s memory flashed back to that chamber deep beneath the Tower of Magisters, to Nero Laius screaming in pain, crying for mercy, and he wondered if Gelredida had yet another victim in her clutches. As he peered through the crack in the door he saw it was only her, alone, her sleeves rolled up, her hands submerged in a bowl.

  Though he knew he shouldn’t, Waylian just waited and watched. He was taking a risk – chances were she already knew he was there – but he needed to know. Wanted to see.

  Up on the highest point of the amphitheatre he had seen her remove those gloves and lay her hands on the Sentinel Knight’s chest, bringing him back from the brink of death. Just as seeing such a feat of magick had struck him with awe, seeing the hands of his mistress, all blackened and cankerous, had filled him with horror.

  He watched as she gently washed those hands, allowing the soothing waters to run over her tarnished flesh. With every gesture she breathed a sigh of discomfort until finally she finished.

  ‘You can come in now,’ she said without turning around.

  I knew it! What an idiot to try to hide from the Red Witch.

  Waylian slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. He thought about speaking, to make an excuse, to tell her he hadn’t seen anything, but why make things worse? Best just stand and take whatever rebuke she threw his way. But it never came.

  Gelredida merely dried her hands gently and then carefully drew on her red gloves. She winced in pain as she did so, the livid flesh clearly tender to the touch.

  ‘What is it, Magistra?’ Waylian asked.

  She glanced up at him, silently admonishing him for his question. Then, with a sigh, she answered.

  ‘That night in the Chapel of Ghouls, I drew out a dark power from that dead girl. If I hadn’t done so, the rite enacted by Rembram Thule would have been completed. Regrettably, that power is still within me, held in check, though eventually it will be my demise.’

  ‘It’s killing you?’ Waylian asked, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. The thought of losing Gelredida filled him with dread. He hadn’t realised before how much his teacher meant to him. ‘There must be some way to stop it?’

  Gelredida shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. But we all die in the end, Waylian. And I have lived more than my share of years. With luck I’ll be around long enough to see the Khurtas off.’

  He stared at her as she busied herself tidying parchments on her desk. She spoke about her impending demise like she was planning a summer jaunt, like she was looking forward to the journey. Waylian wouldn’t be so matter of fact about his own death. No wonder she had been so nonchalant about putting him in peril when her own life meant so little to her.

  ‘Now, if that’s all,’ she said, stuffing scrolls onto a shelf, ‘we have a meeting to attend.’

  ‘There is one more thing, Magistra.’

  She glanced at him expectantly. ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘In the amphitheatre? Up on the roof, the injured knight? Why did you change your mind and help him?’

  Gelredida smiled. ‘Many things hold power in this land, Waylian. Swords, crowns, banners. Even stones dug deep in the earth. Such objects can decide futures and mould fates. More powerful than any of them is blood. The man I saved carries the blood of an ancient line – the blood of a king. We can’t just have a line of kings expire, now can we?’

  ‘I suppose not, Magistra. Though it doesn’t seem very fair that some are sacrificed while others are saved.’ He looked down at his feet, wondering if that had been the right thing to say. It bothered him, though: why one man got to live because of luck of birth, where so many others died. No doubt he’d have been one of the ones left to die, if it had come to it.

  ‘You will learn soon enough about sacrifices, Waylian, and why they must be made,’ Gelredida said. ‘One person cannot put themselves above the greater good. Above nation or religion. We are all part of the earth, some of us destined to be great tributaries, guiding the waters through the land, feeding it, making it grow. Some of us mountains, guarding the borders of nations, protecting its innocents from the machinations of invaders. And some of us are just flowers, given a short time to bloom under the light of the sun before we die.’ She gave him an almost sympathetic look. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Magistra,’ he replied.

  ‘No, you probably don’t. But one day you will, Waylian. Shall we be off?’

  Waylian nodded. He had no idea where they were going or why, but he’d long ago learned not to argue over such matters.

  They made their way down through the tower to the Great Library, where the door was opened for them by two Raven Knights. Waylian had never known those doors to be closed, day or night, but as he entered he understood why. The three remaining Archmasters were waiting within. Other than the Archmasters, the library was empty of students or scholars. It seemed a much larger and more imposing place when it was empty.

  Drennan Folds and old Crannock Marghil sat at separate, but adjacent desks. Drennan was clearly none too pleased
to be kept waiting. Lucen Kalvor leaned against a bookshelf, his face impassive, though he watched Waylian and Gelredida as they entered and never took his eyes from them. Waylian suddenly thought back to his part in Lucen’s recent blackmail, and wondered whether the young Archmaster might hold a grudge. Only time would tell, but he’d be sure to refuse any food or drink Lucen ever offered him.

  Magistra Gelredida stopped before the desks, standing and regarding them all as though she were about to start one of her lessons. For his part, Waylian hung back and listened.

  ‘Well?’ asked Drennan, his mismatched eyes glaring in annoyance. ‘Why have you called us? And to here of all places?’

  ‘Oh, I like it here,’ answered Gelredida, and she glanced around the huge library as though she had built it with her own withered hands. ‘The Crucible Chamber can be so … stuffy, don’t you find? I also thought it was fitting since Archmaster Crabbe was Keeper of the Books, and his tragic death means he can’t be with us.’

  Waylian doubted any of that was true. It was more likely Gelredida wanted to meet somewhere she would have all her powers of magick available to hand. Meeting in the Crucible Chamber where her power was nulled had almost cost all their lives.

  ‘It is a pleasant change,’ said Crannock, his weak voice cracking as he spoke. ‘But why the insistence on summoning us here?’

  ‘Why?’ There was scorn in Gelredida’s voice. ‘The Khurtas are almost at our door. There is no time to waste and much needs to be done.’

  ‘Agreed. We had best seek out candidates to stand as Archmasters,’ said Drennan. ‘Two places need to be filled.’

  ‘There is no time,’ she replied. ‘Preparations for the siege must begin immediately. We cannot squander what days remain on needless protocols.’ Drennan made to argue but she held up a gloved finger. It was enough to silence him, and Waylian wondered if his illegitimate son was still squirrelled away in that cellar, the threat of murder still hanging over him like a dangling blade.

  ‘What, might we ask, needs to be done?’ said Crannock, his ancient jowls quivering in annoyance.

  Gelredida looked up to Lucen who stood silently in the shadow of the bookcase. ‘Archmaster Kalvor, you shall be the new Keeper of Ravens. When the war begins the magisters of this tower will be key to us winning it. In turn they must be protected by our Raven Knights. You will take command of them, make sure they understand the importance of their charges’ survival. There may still be elements unsympathetic to our aims; Ferenz and Nero’s betrayal could run deep. I trust you can root out any disloyalty?’

  Lucen Kalvor raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure I can manage that,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent,’ smiled Gelredida. ‘Then we must begin to muster the Caste. Crannock, you will take charge of all current magisters – tutors, scholars, retired veterans. They respect you. They will follow you.’

  ‘Er … I …’ said Crannock, but before he could argue she’d moved on.

  ‘Drennan, you will take charge of all apprentices and neophytes. As of now they have full Caste privileges and will be allowed to practise magicks within the walls of the tower.’

  Surprisingly, Drennan nodded his assent. ‘Very well. Although many of them have already left the city. Most of our current intake are from wealthy families; on hearing the city was under threat those families did all they could to convey their young back home.’

  ‘Then you will have to make do, Drennan,’ chided the Red Witch. ‘You’re a resourceful man, I’m sure you’ll manage.’

  ‘I’m sure I will, as long as I have every apprentice available.’ He glanced at Waylian, who had been unable to drag his gaze away from Drennan’s scarred and milky eye. ‘Will I be taking charge of yours?’

  Gelredida smiled faintly, as though Drennan had made a poor joke. ‘I’m afraid I will require Master Grimm at my side at all times. But he’s not the most gifted of students, so it’s doubtful you’ll miss him.’

  ‘Not the most gifted?’ said Drennan, looking at Waylian once more. ‘We all saw what he did to Marshal Ferenz. They’re still scrubbing the floor clean in the Crucible Chamber.’

  ‘An accident,’ said Gelredida, as though they were talking about a minor mishap. ‘Grimm tapped into the Veil by mistake. It happens.’ Drennan opened his mouth to speak, but Gelredida raised that finger once more. The Archmaster was cowed like a browbeaten husband. ‘If that’s everything, I’m sure we all have much work to do.’

  None of the Archmasters spoke, and Waylian began to wonder just how much power his mistress had over them. It took all his will to stifle a smile as the three men made their way from the library as though dismissed from one of Gelredida’s classes.

  ‘What would you like me to do, Magistra?’ Waylian asked when they were finally alone.

  She looked at him and offered a smile. The expression was almost motherly. Waylian wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or horrified by that.

  ‘Get some rest for now. There will be much to do in the coming days and sleep may be something you’ll grow to miss.’ With that, she walked away.

  Waylian took a moment to glance around the huge library. He wondered if there might be some hidden tome somewhere that could be of use; that hid the secret to their victory over Amon Tugha. For a fleeting moment he thought he might look for it, as though he could make a hero of himself, as though he might single-handedly turn back the tide.

  What on earth are you thinking, Grimm? Don’t you remember what she said about mountains and rivers? And flowers? You’re definitely one of the flowers. Maybe even a bloody weed. Best do as you’re bid and get some rest.

  He turned to leave through the huge doors and stopped. Something in the corner of his eye had caught his attention. Waylian made his way to the massive window, its panes covered in myriad coloured patterns.

  Through a frame of clear glass he could see far to the north.

  All along the horizon rose a black pall of smoke.

  It was as if the world burned.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The palace gardens of Skyhelm were empty but for Janessa, Kaira and the priest. No one else had wanted to attend, but Janessa didn’t mind. No one else needed to be here, and it was doubtful he would have cared anyway.

  Odaka Du’ur lay in the ground, his body wrapped in a sheet of silk. The Father of Killers had managed to do her harm after all, though not in the manner he had intended. Odaka had died trying to give Janessa a chance to escape.

  There had been little time to study the proper burial rituals of Equ’un. So, this had seemed the only suitable way. Odaka had served her father for many years and it was only fitting that the funerary rites of the Free States were observed at his burial.

  She had picked the gardens for his interment to always have him close, at least in spirit. Now Odaka was gone who would advise her? Chancellor Durket? It was unlikely he could muster an opinion on anything other than what to have for dinner. Seneschal Rogan? The more Janessa learned about that man, the less she trusted him.

  As the Priest of Arlor recited his litanies Janessa looked down at Odaka’s body. He had given his life for her, like so many others in the arena. How many more would lose their lives in the days to come? How many of them would do it in her name? She had to be worthy of such sacrifice, had to be strong.

  Surely she had proven that strength already when she took a broken sword and ended the Father of Killers. Was it enough? Would she need to dig deeper?

  She had certainly begun in the right way – two of her foes were dead by her own hand. Only days ago she could never have dreamed of such a thing, but now it was as though she yearned to face her enemies, her hand itching to hold the Helsbayn and wield it in a real battle. In the next few days she might well have her chance.

  As she listened to the priest’s words, she laid a hand on her stomach. How much longer would she be able to hide the fact she was with child? Should she even try? And how could she justify fighting, leading her people to battle, putting herself in harm’s way, wit
h a life growing inside her?

  No use thinking on it now. Should Amon Tugha smash the walls of Steelhaven it wouldn’t matter anyway. She would be dead.

  The priest had finished now. He stood with his head bowed, waiting for Janessa. Should she say any words? But what use were words now? Odaka would not hear them. He must have known how much he meant to her. Her only sorrow was that she could not thank him for his sacrifice.

  ‘Majesty,’ someone called from behind her.

  She turned to see a young man, his livery denoting him a palace servant, trotting towards her across the gardens.

  Kaira moved to block his path. Since the arena, she had been more vigilant, more protective, than ever.

  The young man dropped to his knee several steps away from Janessa.

  ‘Speak,’ she said, annoyed that Odaka’s burial had been interrupted.

  ‘Apologies, Majesty,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘but you have been summoned to the War Chamber. The armies have retreated from the front. Duke Bannon Logar is here.’

  ‘Very well,’ Janessa replied. ‘Tell them I am on my way.’

  She looked back at Odaka in his grave. She had wanted to stay while it was filled, to see him properly interred, but it seemed there was no time. But he of all people would have understood.

  ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ she whispered, as she and Kaira made their way inside.

  She did not change for her meeting. She wore a plain gown, a fur cloak about her shoulders. Perhaps something more regal might have been appropriate, but she was not about to keep her generals waiting.

  Kaira led the way, opening the door to the War Chamber then moving aside to allow Janessa to enter. As she did so, the four men inside stood. They had been sat about the table of oak and iron in silence, none of them speaking until she was there to hear their words and advice, and decide what action to take.

  The cloak about Janessa’s shoulder suddenly felt too heavy. Nausea gripped her, but she bit it back. She was stronger than this.