by Simon Brown
‘I’m cold,’ he said, getting up and going over the fireplace. He picked up a poker and moved around one of the logs in the flames. Englay kept her distance.
‘In some way, my love for the original Lady Englay Kevleren – the real Lady Englay Kevleren – made it possible for you to appear.’ He ambled back to his desk and sat on its edge, his feet off the floor, tapping one boot with the poker. He concentrated on remembering the original Englay.
‘You are obsessed,’ Englay said, sounding pleased. She regarded him coyly. ‘This is one of the very interesting things about you.’
As casually as possible he touched her dress with the end of the poker. It shimmered, thinned, and when he pulled the poker back solidified again. He thought of a summer mirage. With his other hand he reached out and touched her arm. Real flesh, he was sure. Warm, pliable. Now that he was paying such close attention he could see blue veins just under the skin. She did not pull back, so he held her wrist, and that part of her touched by the iron ring on his little finger wavered ever so slightly. He thought of mercury. A little crease appeared on her forehead. He put one foot on the floor, and the wavering stopped.
‘What are you playing at?’ she asked.
He thought of how untidy the room looked. He moved a bronze bust of Queen Sarra on his desk so that the shoulder skimmed Englay, making sure not to touch the metal himself. The outline blurred slightly, but not nearly so much as with iron. That was interesting.
Before the thought lodged in his brain he said, ‘But of course you did not appear, you had no effect, until Lerena approached.’
‘Your curiosity will be your undoing,’ she said lightly, but Chierma could not help wondering if there was a real threat underneath the words.
‘There is Idalgo and there is you,’ he said. ‘So love is a common theme. Love is an opportunity. A window.’
‘This is getting boring,’ Englay said.
Chierma smiled without humour. ‘Then perhaps you had better go. I have work to do.’
He thought then of the mountain of work he really did have, and she disappeared.
But how far? He understood the connection between him and Englay, or whatever she was, could not ever entirely break because she reappeared whenever his thoughts dwelled on her or the real Englay. But she was not all-knowing. She needed him to direct her own attention, to make her aware of things, but not instantly. There was a lag between him thinking about something and her picking up on it, and the more disassociated with the Kevlerens the subject, the longer it took for her to . . . what? See? Realise? Comprehend?
He had to train his thoughts to move quickly from subject to subject, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. He must not allow her time to settle.
Work. He did not want her to reappear just yet. He went behind his desk and started reading the pile of papers demanding his attention.
*
Montranto caught a reflection of himself in one of the large windows on the second floor and thought he was fitting the uniform better these days than he had for a long, long time. It had happened so gradually he had not noticed. Then it occurred to him he had not noticed because it had been a long time since he had bothered to look. He stopped in mid-stride. When was the last time? He looked in a mirror every morning to make sure he was dressed appropriately, but that was not about him, it was about his work. The implication, he realised, was that he did not care so much any more about what people thought he looked like; it was the uniform they had to respect, not him personally.
He remembered that he had thought like that when he had first become an officer all those years ago. When had his conscience returned? Not before Duke Paimer Kevleren arrived as lord protector. He easily recalled, with guilt, how venal he had become, how concerned for his own safety and position. But then he had been put to work rebuilding Beferen. He had seen first-hand how the city had slowly transformed under Paimer’s guidance, how the common people had started taking pride in their home. And how he had taken pride in his duty and his contribution to that effort. Three years had changed more than Beferen, obviously.
A gaggle of Axkevlerens passed him, not sparing him a glance. They had been a poor mob when they first arrived at the estate, without any spirit or morale. In only a few days that had changed, and there were times when Montranto thought they actually looked almost lively.
Axkevlerens. And with them, always, you found Kevlerens.
Except for Paimer, of course. He never had any Axkevlerens. Only now he did, Montranto corrected himself. His entire estate had moved to Rivald. The duke had seemed bewildered by having his old retinue with him again, and often rode out by himself to get away from the house. But less than before. Perhaps he was getting used to having them around him once more.
Montranto remembered where he was going, then. He hurried to the last room on the south side of the house and knocked. He heard Paimer telling him to enter.
Inside Paimer finished writing a list of instructions and handed them to Dayof, his chamberlain. Dayof bowed to Paimer, acknowledged Montranto’s existence by nodding curtly to him and left.
‘I like it here,’ Paimer said expansively. ‘Queen Sarra had good taste.’ She could afford to indulge it, Montranto thought. ‘Well, you wanted to see me?’
‘My work here is done, your Grace,’ Montranto said. ‘The guards are in place and organised. They know the estate thoroughly.’
‘And you have work back in Beferen to attend to, I know,’ Paimer said. ‘I have been negligent. It has been a long time since I have felt so relaxed, however, despite the news from Omeralt.’
Montranto said nothing. The stories told Paimer by his cousins were the same told by the Axkevlerens to the servants who told the guards who then reported to Montranto. He knew, but was not sure he believed, what was supposed to be happening in the capital of the empire. He had never met or even seen Lerena, and hoped he never would, but did not think it entirely likely that her officials and Axkevlerens and servants and generals would let even her get away with half the things she was supposed to have done.
Paimer’s expression became more solemn, and Montranto guessed Paimer put more credence in the stories than he did. The fact worried him, since he had learned to respect the duke’s instincts and insights over the three years he had worked for him.
‘How many do we have in uniform, Commander?’
‘In Beferen? The equivalent to three regiments in the old days. With these guards, which I have put on the Beferen payroll, slightly more.’
‘And in the province as a whole?’
‘Close to ten thousand. That includes the regiment based in Hamewald, under Governor Chierma Axkevleren.’
‘How quickly can they be centralised?’
‘Your Grace?’
‘How quickly can they be brought together under one banner?’
‘In a tenday, with luck and good weather.’
Paimer nodded. ‘Very well, return to Beferen tomorrow. It is too late now to get there before nightfall.’
*
At night, in bed, Chierma sometimes thought about making love to the Lady Englay. It was his oldest dream, and he remembered having it from the age of seven when he first met her, when they were first bonded together as Kevleren and Beloved. He had to be half asleep for it to start; awake he knew it was impossible and the dream evaporated like snow in the sun. It was utterly physical, and yet the union never gave him any satisfaction, just a deeper longing, for Englay’s heart remained as far away as the moon and just as untouchable.
When the dream was over he would wake completely and find it impossible to go back to sleep. Lately he had half expected to find the other Englay in his room when he woke, drawn by his memories of the original, drawn to such emotional bleeding, but she never came, as if his feelings at those times were too raw, too visceral, too physical, for whatever it was she happened to be.
Chierma wondered how many more times he would dream of Englay, half hoping the dreams would go on
for as long as he lived, half hoping he never dreamed of her again.
*
Paimer watched Montranto ride off early the next day. He fingered the birth chain around his neck.
‘You are full of surprises,’ Idalgo said. ‘I didn’t know you still had that old thing.’
‘I’ve always worn it,’ Paimer said dully. He was staring at a particularly beautiful blue stone, flat and cool to the touch.
‘Once, you always wore your red wig.’
Paimer’s head jerked up. He patted his head for the wig, but it was not there. Now where had he put it?
‘You left it in Beferen,’ Idalgo told him.
Paimer smiled to himself. ‘So I did. And without thinking. That was clever of me.’
Idalgo reached out to touch the birth chain, but withdrew his hand.
‘You can if you like,’ Paimer said, taking it off and holding it out for Idalgo.
Idalgo shook his hand. ‘No, no.’
‘Do you remember the last time I used it?’
‘Why, yes. At Somah harbour, just after Maddyn left for the New Land. You sent a message to Yunara.’ Idalgo laughed lightly. ‘I remember you got a sliver of stone in your thumb. The duchess never thanked you for the trouble, either.’
‘No. Think again.’ He held out the chain a second time. ‘Maybe holding it will jog your memory.’
Idalgo retreated a step. ‘Thank you, but I won’t. Are you sure I’m not right? I have a very good memory.’
‘Certainly, you have a very convenient memory. Ah, but I forgot, didn’t I? I forgot that you are not Idalgo, after all.’
Idalgo tried to look surprised. ‘Then what do you think I am?’
‘I’ve been pondering that ever since I reached Beferen as Lord Protector of Rivald. The answer was there all the time, of course, and was the only possible explanation considering all the evidence. You are the Sefid. Or from the Sefid. Or once part of it.’ Paimer shook his head in frustration. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I do know that the Sefid has to be involved, and I know that you are not the real Idalgo.’
‘Sometimes, your Grace, you are so petty.’
Paimer put a hand around Idalgo’s shoulders and tugged him closer so when he spoke he was breathing on the Beloved’s face. ‘When I slew you. A cold, bloody night in the highlands. I used one of the stones to open the Sefid, to start the sacrifice, and then I pierced your jugular . . .’ Paimer used his little finger to show Idalgo where ‘. . . and as your blood sluiced out of your neck, for the first time in my life I felt I might be able to Wield like any other Kevleren.’
Idalgo struggled out of Paimer’s grasp.
‘But I didn’t. I didn’t really sacrifice you. I had no intention of Wielding. I murdered you because you were a Beloved.’
Idalgo rubbed his neck as if the jugular still pricked with pain. ‘Because the Beloveds were a danger.’
Paimer sighed heavily and tears welled in his eyes. ‘But you weren’t, were you? Not really.’ Idalgo opened his mouth to answer but Paimer put his hand over his lips and said, ‘Don’t answer. Not you. Not this false, deceptive, cruel simulacrum. If I believed for one moment you were really my Beloved I would fall to your feet and beg your forgiveness. I’ve changed, you see. I am not the duke of old. And you know, sometimes I wonder how much I have changed.’
Idalgo’s face went blank, then looked pugnacious and cross like a small boy who had been found out doing the wrong thing. He sniffed haughtily and disappeared.
Paimer turned back to the birth chain. The blue stone slid between his fingers again. If all my relatives are unable to Wield, perhaps it is because Lerena is stopping them. In that case, perhaps she had not considered even trying to stop me. After all, the most I could ever do with the Sefid was send little messages. ‘Yes, your Majesty’ and ‘No, your Majesty’ and ‘Of course, your Majesty’.
He would not try now, though. He would wait. A time would come when he might have to Wield, and he did not want Lerena to be forewarned.
*
‘His estate is filled with Kevlerens,’ Montranto said to Avenel the day after he arrived back in Beferen.
Avenel did not lift his eyes from his paperwork. ‘I assumed as much. The Lord Protector did say he was bringing his whole estate across from Hamilay.’
‘Since when did his estate include a dozen of his own family, together with their Axkevlerens?’
‘Since Lerena slaughtered the Beloveds. Apparently many in the family were finding it difficult to recover, and some of those were sent to find solace in the country.’ He looked up, watched Montranto pacing up and down the office. ‘Did they? Find solace, I mean.’
Montranto shrugged. ‘One of them seemed entirely out of it. The rest seemed normal, whatever normal may be for a Kevleren.’
‘Good,’ Avenel said, and returned to his work.
Montranto came to his desk and put his hands either side of Avenel’s papers. ‘Doesn’t it worry you? Disturb you? Make you anxious?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘That all of a sudden Rivald is host to so many of the empress’s family?’
‘Do you distrust the duke?’
‘No!’ Montranto said firmly, but then less firmly, ‘No. But . . . it’s like we’re being colonised.’
Avenel snorted through his nose. ‘Colonised? By a dozen Kevlerens? You’re imagining things.’
Montranto stood up, straightened his jacket. ‘Maybe. By the way, his grace is asking questions about the number of soldiers we have.’
‘That’s his job. He is lord protector.’
‘And how quickly they can be gathered in one spot.’
Avenel stopped working again, but kept his gaze down. ‘Well, I’m sure he has a reason. I’m sure it’s nothing to concern us.’
‘Well, don’t blame me if things around here start going awry.’
20
‘I do not like this,’ Poloma told Galys. ‘I think your solution is too dangerous.’ He forced himself to smile and wave at fellow councillors as they made their way into the Assembly.
‘You have another solution?’ Galys asked.
Poloma breathed through his nose. ‘You know I do not. But the danger to you will be extreme.’
‘I will be in no more danger than if I did nothing. You know what will happen if we don’t take action. Lerena will find a way. She did once before.’
‘You are settled on this,’ Poloma said, a statement not a question.
‘I am.’ There was no indecision in her voice.
‘Very well,’ Poloma said without enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’
They entered the Assembly together, Poloma going to the council table and Galys joining Kadburn and Gos on the advisors’ bench.
While waiting for the Assembly to fill, Poloma took time to assess the mood of the gathering citizens. Very quickly he realised there was a feeling he was experiencing for the first time. There was none of the smug comfort of the olden days, before the Rivald came with their terrible leader Numoya Kevleren, and there was none of the panic that was felt during the first year of the return of the council to Kydan hands when the city had to fight off two concerted attacks. If Poloma had to describe it, it would be as a calm resolution. Kydan had experienced invasion, revolution and civil war, and had come through stronger and more determined than ever before. Too, with the mixture of new blood from the old world, together with all its knowledge, Kydan had developed into the New Land’s premier military force, and the only state in the known world that was truly independent of the empire. The Kydans took pride in all of this, but with it came a seriousness, a gravity the people had not possessed before.
Poloma remembered how he had once thought of himself and his fellow councillors as a parliament of bright and colourful birds. That was in the past. Parliament now was a solemn gathering, hopeful and optimistic, but fully aware of the cost of failure in the coming conflict with Hamilay. He studied the face of every councillor who sat around the tabl
e, and every face of those sitting in the gallery, and thought there were no children there, no one who underestimated the task ahead, and no one who would retreat from hard reality. If he never did anything else in his life that was honourable or worthwhile, he would always be proud that he was prefect of this council at this time.
When the Assembly was finally full he stood up, waited for the hubbub to fade, and said, ‘Everyone here understands the situation. Everyone here understands that the empire will be back eventually, with more ships and probably with soldiers. Everyone here also understands how much Kydan has improved its defences over the last three years. That we can stand against the full might of the empire seems unlikely, but equally we have no way of knowing if the empire would risk sending its main strength against us, a single city; not only would the cost be prohibitive, even for great Hamilay, but without heavy military occupation it would increase the likelihood of a rebellion in the newly conquered province of Rivald. That does not mean we are safe. It certainly does not mean we are invulnerable. We will continue to produce new armaments as quickly as we can, and the pace of training for the militia will be picked up. The dragoons will be increased in number. We will confirm our alliances with neighbouring towns. We will cement our relationship with Sayenna, a process already begun with our gift to that city of three warships, a gift to be presented by Councillor Heriot Fleetwood.
‘In all of this, there are two great uncertainties. The first is when the next attack will come. It seems unlikely before another year is out if the empire is to properly plan and prepare for an invasion, which gives us some time. The second great uncertainty against which there is little we can do to prepare ourselves is the use of the Sefid.’
Poloma expected a reaction, at least from the gallery. The last time the Sefid had played a significant part in Kydan had led to the death of Maddyn Kevleren and Kitayra Albyn, but many alive today still remembered vividly the destruction through the Sefid of the original Kydan militia by Numoya Kevleren. However, no one spoke, everyone waited. ‘Strategos Galys Valera has a possible solution.’