by Simon Brown
‘I’m not planning anything, Commander. I just need to know. In case. Say, for example, Kydan or Sayenna gathered together a huge armada with thousands of soldiers and invaded Rivald. How many could we put in the field after, say, a tenday.’
‘An armada from the New Land?’
‘Humour me,’ Paimer insisted, without any show of humour on his part.
‘Well, the ten thousand we already have, of course. And say another three or four thousand who had served as soldiers before. Perhaps another thousand militia who have had some military training, or at least held a firegon.’
‘So, optimistically, the best we could hope for would be around fifteen thousand.’
Montranto spread his hands as if to say, ‘Well, you asked.’
Paimer nodded, but there was something of resignation in the motion. ‘We are fortunate that no invasion is forthcoming, then.’
‘Hamilay would come to our aid, surely,’ Avenel said. ‘We are, after all, part of the empire now.’
Paimer sighed. ‘We are, and forever grateful for it, I’m sure.’
*
Chierma woke from one of his dreams of Englay and knew it was time. He got up immediately and went to his office. The first thing he did, because he was and always had been an efficient administrator, was ensure there were no vital papers in the room, just in case. The need for him to do this, considering the actions he was about to take, seemed so ludicrous when he thought about it that it made him giggle. He was grateful no one else shared the governor’s house with him; they would have thought him mad. Perhaps he was, at that. He carefully arranged the paraphernalia he had gathered over the last tenday or so, then he started a fire in the hearth. Everything was almost ready. Just one more thing. He left the house still in his nightrobe, startling the guards on duty outside, and went to the gardener’s shed. It was padlocked. He asked one of the guards to break it open for him. The guard used the butt of his firegon to break the lock. Chierma disappeared inside, scrummaged around a bit and emerged with an axe and a spade.
‘My lord?’ the guard said, looking at his master in his nightrobe with a spade in one hand and an axe in the other.
Chierma sighed, realising how ridiculous he must look, but it was all too complex to explain. He checked the sky. It would be dawn soon. No time to lose.
He went back inside the house, leaving the axe and spade at the front door, with explicit instructions to the guards to leave the tools where they were. By the time he returned to his bedroom to change, Englay was waiting for him.
‘I missed you,’ she said, feeling hurt.
Chierma ignored her, dressing quickly.
‘I came to wake you with a kiss,’ she laughed.
Chierma stood still, on the verge, knowing there was no point in hesitating but hesitating anyway. There was no longer a road back, only the one he was on, the one that went over the cliff. He had no intention of feeling sorry for himself, but he did wish he had led a different life, that he had never been chosen to be an Axkevleren, and that he had never been chosen by Englay as his Beloved.
‘Foolish regrets,’ Englay said.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Chierma said, facing her.
She seemed very pleased. ‘You’re not going to ignore me anymore?’
‘Indeed, no. Come to the office, I have something to show you.’
Englay almost purred. ‘I wonder what it is.’
Chierma did not want her to know yet, so he thought about road inspections, a tithe on stall owners selling hot food, on repairs for the roof of the house (which was after all government property, whether or not he lived under that roof), arranging with Paimer to institute a circuit judge to make up for the appalling lack of availability of courts in rural areas. And he was in the office. Englay had gone ahead and was waiting for him by his desk.
‘It’s cool this morning,’ he said.
‘Tish. It’s summer.’
‘I’m a lowlander.’ He went to the hearth and turned the ashes.
Then there was building regulation. Some of Hamewald’s residents were asking for a three-storey limit to new constructions so their view of the mountains could not be blocked.
‘I’m waiting,’ Englay reminded him.
‘Coming,’ he said. The fire was burning quite nicely.
He went to the bookshelves along one wall, got the volume he was looking for and brought it over to the desk, placing it on the corner closest to Englay.
‘I thought you might be interested in this,’ he said, nodding to it. ‘It was one of Englay’s volumes, originally.’
‘What is it about?’ She smiled mischievously, leaning towards it. ‘I can’t remember.’
Chierma moved slightly the tall twin lantern holders with their wooden footings and swivelled iron grips. They did not have to go far. They had been there for some days now, so Englay would not question their presence. ‘It’s about the Sefid.’
‘Ah,’ Englay said. ‘By one of my ancestors?’ She tentatively touched the cover.
‘Not exactly,’ Chierma said tightly, now paying attention to the position of a bookstand he had taken from Hamewald’s library, a heavy ornate wooden base with a heavy ornate iron plate for resting heavy ornate books on. He moved it behind Englay, not too close. ‘I remember my mistress telling me it was written by a grammarian. She said grammarians knew nothing about everything.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Or was that everything about nothing?’
‘You want me to read it?’ Englay seemed uncertain.
‘You can’t read?’
‘I can.’
‘But you don’t understand what you read.’
Englay did not answer, which was as close to an affirmation as he expected to get.
‘It has pictures,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you open it?’
Englay smiled thinly. ‘It looks too heavy.’
Chierma extended the wings of the bookstand’s iron plate. They touched Englay’s dress. The dress shimmered, stretched.
‘I’ll open it for you,’ he said, and flipped it open as he walked to the other side of the desk. He moved the iron grip of one of the lantern holders. More of Englay lost shape. The borders of the dress were becoming diffuse.
Englay was staring at the picture. ‘That’s Ember, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘The first Kevleren to descend to Hamilay.’
‘The founder of our enemy’s empire,’ he grunted, and moved the grip on the second lantern. This one touched her arm, but she was staring so hard at the picture that she hardly noticed her elbow had mostly disappeared.
‘It’s not actually a good likeness,’ she said. ‘He was uglier than that. His nose was smaller, for one thing; every time he sneezed it sounded like a little mouse squeaking.’
Chierma was genuinely fascinated that the thing pretending to be Englay actually had a memory of Ember. His curiosity urged him to ask more questions, but he would not allow himself to be put off.
‘And he was the most arrogant human I –’ She saw Chierma taking his dress sword from under the desk.
‘Even more arrogant than Lerena?’ he asked vaguely, obviously not really interested in the answer. He unsheathed the hanger, placed it on top of the desk and without any hesitation pushed it straight into Englay’s stomach. The blade went straight in, but those parts of Englay around it retreated so that it seemed to occupy a new sheath.
‘What are you doing?’ Englay asked. There was the hint of irritation in her voice.
Chierma breathed deeply, watching her with fascination. She did not yet realise her predicament. At least, he hoped fervently it was a predicament. ‘I’m putting into practice something which up to now has only been theory.’
‘Whose theory? What theory?’
‘My theory. My theory about the Sefid. Do you know that when a Kevleren Wields, almost everything made of metal glows?’
Englay shrugged as if it was unimportant.
‘I . . . and most everyone else . . . assumed it was because the Sefid was at
tracted to metal. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if the glow was a sign that the Sefid avoided metal, and the glow was just the Sefid flowing around it, the way a river in flood flows around sandbanks?’
Englay tried to move away from the blade. She could not. Without actually turning, she faced the bookstand and its iron plate. Then she was facing one of the lantern holders, and then the other. And then back to the sword and Chierma.
‘You had better disappear,’ Chierma said.
‘Foolish, foolish Chierma,’ Englay said. But did not disappear.
‘I thought as much.’ He pursed his lips. ‘No. I lie. I hoped as much. I was not sure. Just desperate enough to find out. You are trapped, Lady Englay. Trapped by a cage of iron, iron that has no direct contact with the ground.’
‘I will get out. Something will come to release me.’
‘I have no doubt. In time.’
‘I can wait,’ she said smugly.
‘Actually, no you can’t.’ Chierma left the desk and went to the fireplace. ‘Because there is one thing about the Sefid almost every Axkevleren knows. Something possessed by the Sefid can only be destroyed . . .’ He picked up the long iron tongs and used them to pull a burning log from the fire. ‘. . . by flame.’
As he approached her, she started screaming. The sound was so loud, so inhuman, it stabbed into his brain. Then, strangely, although the image of Englay was still screaming, he could no longer hear it, although he was sure someone, something, a long way away, was hearing it as clearly as the ringing of a bell.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, surprised how mild his voice sounded, and thrust the burning log straight into her heart.
Then he heard the screaming again.
*
Paimer was strolling through the palace when he came to a gallery that looked over an internal courtyard. He had never stopped to consider it before, but Idalgo was there, looking down. Paimer, more out of curiosity than desire, joined him. The courtyard had been neglected of late, but the bones of the place were still apparent. The hedge near him would have been better trimmed, but essentially it still held its shape, and the white stone path was still obviously a path despite the weeds growing up between the stones. And there, under the moss, surely, had been a seat.
And Paimer remembered.
‘It was you on the seat,’ Paimer said. ‘I mean, Idalgo. And one other. Many years ago.’
‘Yes. One of the Safety Committee. In fact, one of the Beloveds.’
Paimer was very still. In a way he resented having the new Idalgo here, sharing his memory of that time. But then, perhaps that was all it could ever have, Paimer’s memories, or rather Paimer’s version of Idalgo, or his interpretation of what he thought Idalgo’s memories would have been like.
Stop it, you old fool, he told himself. You don’t know what the new Idalgo is. For that matter, you barely knew the old Idalgo, at least not the way you should have.
‘Lord Protector?’
Paimer turned around. Avenel Kendy was standing there, looking at him with concern.
‘What is it, Avenel?’
‘Are you all right, your Grace? You seem . . . apprehensive.’
‘I’m fine. I was just looking at the courtyard. I’ve never really looked at it before. Could do with some work.’
‘We’ve spent so much time repairing the rest of Beferen and the province, we’ve scarce spared a thought for the palace.’
Before he could reply he heard a sound that was so deep and so resonant Paimer felt it through his feet. His first, panicky thought was that it was an earthquake, but then he realised Avenel did not hear or feel anything. In fact, the secretary came forward and took the duke by the elbow.
‘Your Grace? Are you sure you are all right? Let me call a physic.’
‘No, I –’
‘Or at least take you to your chambers so you can lie down.’
But Paimer was not listening to Avenel. Idalgo’s mouth was open so wide his jaw looked dislocated, and his throat was red, perfectly circular and smooth as satin. The sight was so disturbingly macabre that Paimer did not notice at first that the sound had gone away. And then, in an unexpected flash of blue, so had Idalgo.
‘Did you hear something?’ Avenel asked, frowning, his neck stretching as if trying to catch a whisper.
Paimer shook his head. ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ he said. He needed time to think. ‘Perhaps you had better take me to my room, thank you.’
*
Lerena had been hunting in the forest. There were three of her lovelies loose among the woods, hiding, teeth-chattering, knee-knocking, fleeing, pleading warm warm warm sacrifices, and she was running as fast as she could through the trails with the wet leaves slapping her face and her toes claws things digging into the loam and speeding her along and crashing through bushes with yellow bells and blue sickles and white stars and finding
the first one in the hollow bole of a dying silver ash with its feet sticking out and she pecked at those first and the blood flowed and the Sefid welled up around her like music and eating the whole thing hair and nails and clothes and then
the second one hiding up a tree and she leaped into the air and brought it down and landed on top of it breaking all its bones and
Yunara screaming.
Lerena stopped.
She heard her own panting. The last, wispy breaths of her second sacrifice. Echoes. Bouncing off tree trunks and clumps of vines and far above the dome which was not really there and yet somehow was.
And Yunara screamed again.
The Empress Lerena, returned to herself again, knelt down and used the stylus under her little finger to bring surcease to her poor lovely sacrifice, and the creature’s dying made the Sefid flow all around the aviary. Then she stood and walked as quickly as she could back to the clearing and there was Yunara, her mouth open, screaming without making a sound. Except in the Sefid. Lerena could hear the scream throughout the Sefid, like a shout underwater.
‘What is it?’ she asked her sister.
‘I am burned!’ Yunara said. ‘She is burned! And Idalgo! And me! The pain was dreadful. Like a sword of fire thrust into our belly. Like lightning striking our brains. Like hands on hot iron.’
‘Who is she? Do you mean Englay? Our cousin Englay?’
‘She is gone. The memory of her is gone entirely. She cannot ever be again. We have lost her. The Sefid has lost her!’
‘This is terrible! Who? Who did this?’
Yunara’s face filled with rage and she shouted in Lerena’s face, ‘He did it! She loved him and he burned her!’
*
Feruna could hear the screams from as far away as the next street. For a terrified moment he thought it was Chierma Axkevleren and he rushed into the governor’s house and upstairs. There, outside his office, blocking the way in front of closed doors, was Chierma himself, making no sound at all but as white as milk, sweat pouring down his face. The screaming was coming from inside the office, and Feruna knew he had heard that sound once before, when Lady Englay Kevleren had died in her own rooms nearly four years ago. The guards were begging the governor to let them in so they could help whoever was in trouble, but he was resolute.
Chierma saw Feruna. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘I will not let you in. I will not let anyone get past me.’
‘Sir, who is it? Who is in such pain?’
Chierma looked at him with wild eyes. ‘Don’t you know?’
Feruna stepped back in shock. ‘No. Sir, it cannot be!’
The guards, perplexed, anxious, glanced between the two men.
The screaming stopped. For a long time no one moved or dared to breathe. Then Chierma seemed to fall in on himself. As if unsure he was doing the right thing, he turned and unlocked the doors, pushing them open. The guards rushed past him, then stopped suddenly, looking around frantically. Chierma did not enter at first, and Feruna, too, edged past him.
The room was empty. Everything seemed normal. A happy fire sparked away in the
fireplace. There was no body. No blood. Nothing.
Then Feruna noticed the strange arrangements of the lantern holders and bookstand. And on the desk was Chierma’s dress sword. He moved towards the desk.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Chierma ordered, behind him.
‘Governor?’
Chierma smiled sadly. ‘It is too hard to explain, but perhaps I can show you.’ He went to the desk and gingerly picked up the sword by the hilt. Then he pressed the blade against the table and a great hiss of smoke streamed into the air.
*
Chierma did not wait to see what effect his demonstration had on Feruna or the guards. He left the house, taking the axe and spade he had placed near the entrance, and crossed the road to the park where Englay was buried.
He quickly gathered together as much dry wood as possible, using the axe to take dead branches off trees when he came across them. He started building a bonfire. Feruna appeared, staring at him as if he was insane.
‘One day I might tell you why all of this is happening,’ Chierma said. ‘But for the moment, for the sake of all the years you have known me, help me.’
Then, while his secretary continued constructing the bonfire, Chierma swapped the axe for the spade.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said, and dug into the mound that marked Englay’s grave. After a long while he asked Feruna to take over, then, when Feruna was almost collapsing with exhaustion, and a small crowd had gathered to see what was going on, took his turn again. Eventually he came to Englay’s bones, and these he passed up to his secretary.
‘Put them in the bonfire,’ Chierma ordered.
Feruna did as asked.
At last Chierma thought he had got all that remained of his mistress. Slowly, and with Feruna’s help, he got out of the grave and went to the bonfire. And looked at it. At no stage during his preparations had he thought about putting a flint and stone in his pocket.
‘Do you have something with which to start a fire?’ he asked Feruna.
His secretary shook his head. ‘I will get something.’ A short while later he returned with a taper. ‘From the fireplace in your office.’