‘Nobody wants you to step down,’ Kylen said. ‘We’ve been through too much and suffered too long to stop now.’
‘Kylen’s right,’ Polina said, after a pause. ‘I’ve been hard on you, Zastra. Unfairly so. I forgot what a heavy burden you bear. What do you intend?’
‘We need to counterstrike while Rastran’s position is weak. We cannot let him rebuild his fleet and army. Kylen, I need you to take your people and join up with Alboraz in Sendor. Strike out from Finistron and work your way north.’
Kylen raised an eyebrow. ‘My people have been asking permission to do exactly that for years, yet you’ve always refused. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing. Without help, your chances are as non-existent as ever.’
‘What aren’t you telling us? Why march north?’
‘I hope to persuade the Kyrgs to switch sides.’
‘You expect us to ally with those brutes?’
Ithgol grunted.
‘No offence Ithgol but apart from you, every Kyrg I ever met wanted to stick a scythal in my gullet.’
‘I cannot think why,’ said Ithgol drily.
‘What makes you think they’d agree to help?’ asked Polina.
‘I’ve been thinking about what Urbek told us. How Rastran boasted about Jelgar being weak-minded. That makes me wonder if Thorlberd placed a mindlock on him. The Kyrginite culture of obedience would do the rest.’
‘No one could be so dishonourable,’ Ithgol protested.
‘We’re talking about a man who murdered his own brother to get power. Why else would Kyrgs ally with Thorlberd? They are a proud race. Why would they serve another?’
There was a moment of silence while everyone pondered the question. Zastra continued.
‘While Kylen offers a distraction, I will take Findar and Kastara to the Northern Wastes to remove Jelgar’s mindlock.’
‘You’re taking us with you?’ Kastara bounced up and down in excitement.
‘I won’t leave you behind again. Besides, you’ve proved you can handle yourselves.’
Even so, Zastra’s stomach churned at the thought of putting the twins at risk.
‘When do we leave?’ Findar asked.
‘My people do not like strangers,’ said Ithgol. ‘They are likely to kill you on sight.’
‘Which is why I need you to be our guide.’ Ithgol’s face drained of colour. Zastra reached out and clasped his hand.
‘I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way. I hope to persuade Jelgar not to kill either of us.’ Ithgol had broken one of the most sacred laws of his people in a failed attempt to save his sister. He was Mordaka; outcast and under sentence of death. ‘We cannot hide what we are about,’ she added, ‘but as we have a traitor among us, let’s spread word that the Sendorans decided on this attack without my agreement. With any luck, Rastran will believe we’re fighting amongst ourselves.’
‘Shouldn’t be hard to convince people of that,’ Kylen said with a wry expression.
‘While you are away, we should try and stir up support in Golmeira,’ suggested Polina. ‘Rastran’s ascension may challenge the loyalty of the marls. Some may be open to an alternative.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Pol,’ said Zastra. ‘Will you see to it?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll get our mindweavers organised.’
‘We should also talk to our prisoners,’ Nerika offered. ‘See if any of them want to change sides now that Grand Marl Rastran is in charge. One of them may know who the traitor is.’
‘Thank you Nerika,’ Zastra said gratefully.
‘Justyn would want us to finish what we have started,’ Nerika admitted. ‘But I will hold you to your word, Zastra. If we defeat Rastran, the new Golmeira must serve everyone, not just the rich.’
‘You have my word on it.’ All eyes turned to Kylen.
‘Do I have your support?’ Zastra asked.
‘Always.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Rastran’s mood had vastly improved. Now that he was in charge, he could do whatever he wanted without interference or criticism. He ordered the most extravagant celebrations Golmeira had ever seen as a mark of his ascension. No expense would be spared. He invited sculptors to bid for the honour of creating a statue of himself, mounted on his favourite stallion. It was to be of gilded bronze and placed on a plinth in the centre of the castle courtyard. His people needed to know his face. How else could they fear and worship him? He invited orators to his table, determined that his victories would become as familiar and celebrated as the Legends of the Warriors. As for his enemies, he found the perfect way to demonstrate their complete defeat. The remains of Mendoraz of Sendor and the dead leaders of the Far Isles were brought to Golmer Castle and their bones formed into an elaborate throne. He would have included Leodra’s if it had been possible, but Thorlberd had foolishly given his brother a burning ceremony all those years ago. Thorlberd, however, was represented. Rastran had cut off one of his father’s fingers, stripped it of flesh and had it inserted into the back panel. His new throne was placed in a dais at one end of the great hall and Rastran took great pleasure in seeing the shock on the faces of those brought before him.
Although such arrangements took up much of Rastran’s time, he did not neglect more strategic matters. The Far Isles were turned into a shipbuilding hub. When one of his generals remarked that the well-known idleness of the Far Islanders could be a problem, Rastran had a solution. At the end of each day, a family member of the worker who achieved least was put to death. It was like training a recalcitrant hunting dog. A firm hand, and his subjects would soon learn obedience.
He had ordered his father’s body wrapped in dark silk and placed in state on a funeral pyre laid out in the courtyard. Thorlberd’s personal healer, a weak-minded fool, had been persuaded to proclaim death by heart attack. The man even thought he was speaking the truth. Once Rastran had taken his trophy, the body had been burned, destroying any evidence to the contrary.
He had his father’s scientists brought to him and demanded a demonstration of their yellowsap weapon. They proved eager to oblige. The experiment took place in a cell deep within the dungeons. The test subject was Thorlberd’s former fleet captain, stripped of her rank after the battle of Uden’s Teeth. The scientists placed a metal canister in the centre of her cell. A layer of foul smelling black liquid swirled round the bottom. Ignoring the pleadings of the prisoner, one of the scientists opened a pouch of yellow powder and dropped it into the liquid below, before retreating quickly out of the cell and closing the door. Rastran watched through the grate. A dense cloud of yellow smoke bloomed from the bucket. The prisoner began to cough. Pustules bubbled on her skin and she tried to scream, but her cries were choked off. She collapsed to the ground, clawing at her throat. Blood seeped out of the corner of her eyes and mouth. Moments later, she was dead.
‘I’m going to need more,’ Rastran said, delighted with the demonstration. ‘Much more.’
Others from his father’s retinue proved equally eager to prove their loyalty. Strinverl told him about the spy he had placed among the rebels, whose latest report informed him that the Sendorans had split with Zastra and were pursuing a typically reckless mission to retake Sendor. Rastran briefly considered sending reinforcements, but according to Strinverl’s spy, the Sendoran force was too small to have any chance of success. Ixendred, the man charged with keeping Sendor subdued, should deal with them easily. If not, then Rastran would have the glory of retaking Sendor and an excuse to execute Ixendred. The man had never given Rastran the respect he deserved. Either way, Rastran would win.
The biggest of Thorlberd’s secrets, however, came as a complete surprise. On hearing of his ascension, Rastran’s mother summoned him to her chamber in the royal tower, where she had lived for many years in a self-imposed exile. Rastran did not respond. Jintara needed to learn her son was no longer someone to be summoned. He waited three days before he sent a servant to command her presence. He had already made hi
s mark on the grand marl’s chambers. The heavy, practical furnishings his father had preferred had been replaced by elegant pieces plundered from the palace at Mynganard and the vaults of Sendor. Colourful silks embroidered with scenes of battle were draped around the walls and the stone-flagged floor was covered in a thick carpet, woven into a map of Sendor. Each time he walked across it, he savoured the notion that he was trampling over his defeated enemy. Ornate chandeliers adorned with delicate lamps hung from the ceiling. He liked the way they cast overlapping circles of light around the room, and instructed that they were always to be lit. He cared not how expensive Jula oil was, or how often the servants needed to refill the tiny lamps.
There was a knock at the door. Rastran stretched out languidly in his chair and placed the heels of his polished boots on a footstool. He took pleasure in not answering. The thought of his mother waiting to be granted entrance amused him. To his annoyance, the door was thrust open and his mother glided into the room, her red hair swirled into immaculate curls.
‘Grand Marl Rastran,’ she said formally, with only the tiniest inclination of her head. Her skin was as white as marble. She made no reference to being kept waiting, or the fact she had barged in uninvited.
‘Mother,’ he replied, equally formal, although he did not get up. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you. I know how busy you must be.’ He too, could pretend. Jintara didn’t rise to his bait. She perched herself on the front edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room, a carved blackwood antique that had somehow survived Rastran’s redecoration. He made a mental note to have it removed.
‘What do you intend to do with your brother?’
Jintara never wasted time with small talk. She spoke as if each word was worth a hundred tocrins.
‘Oh dear, isn’t the little runt happy? There should be lots of mice in the dungeons to keep him company. We all know how much Yldred likes his animal friends.’
‘He’s no threat to you. Imprisoning him makes you appear cowardly.’
‘I disagree. It shows that no one is above the law. No one.’ He repeated with a pointed look. Jintara did not so much as blink.
‘Which law has your brother broken?’
‘I’m sure I’ll think of one.’
‘Your father had his faults, but he stood by his family. How many of your mistakes did he forgive? How many unpleasant incidents did he cover up?’
Had Jintara really come to plead on behalf of Yldred? Rastran had never observed her display any maternal emotion, unless disappointment counted. Yet she could only be here because she cared for his pathetic little brother.
‘Rare to find you speaking well of Father. You were as frigid a wife as you were a mother.’
Above the tight collar of her gown, Jintara’s neck turned pink. He’d struck a nerve. Rastran darted out a probe, but his mother’s protective barrier was up. It came as no surprise that it manifested as a wall of ice.
‘Rastran, don’t be impertinent,’ she snapped.
‘Why did you hate my father so much? Tell me and I may reconsider my brother’s accommodations.’
Jintara tilted her head a fraction.
‘Rastran, you are what you are. Your father spoiled you when you were young and overcompensated when you began behaving as you do. I accept some of the blame. Perhaps I wasn’t the most interested mother.’
‘No? Really?’ He opened his mouth in a mockery of surprise.
‘You were a difficult child to love.’
‘But you love poor little Yldred, don’t you?’ His mother made no answer. Rastran ejected himself from his chair. ‘Let me be clear. I can make Yldred’s life much less comfortable unless you explain what Father did to turn you into…’ he snaked his hand up and down in front of her ‘…into this.’
The pink bloom spread up Jintara’s neck and reached her chin.
‘He betrayed me,’ she said at last. Extracting each word was like chipping at an ice block. ‘He loved another.’
‘Who?’ Rastran asked eagerly. She pinched her thin lips together. ‘Come now,’ he urged, ‘don’t keep me in suspense. Think of Yldred.’
Jintara’s pale eyes glinted like crystals.
‘Anara. He was infatuated with her.’
‘Pah! I don’t believe it. He had her killed alongside his brother.’
‘I’m not so sure. There were plenty of witnesses to Leodra’s death, but with Anara, all anyone saw was a body wrapped in silk. As if there was something to hide. I believe you know what I mean.’
Rastran froze beneath her glacial stare. Had his mother figured out what he had done?
‘And then there was that hideous woman,’ Jintara added. ‘The one with the scar.’
‘You mean Brutila? Wasn’t she banished to the Northern Wastes after letting Zastra escape yet again?’
‘Banished, yes but he gave her wine and sweetmeats. Furs too, but not in her size. They were for someone much smaller. You don’t give such presents to one who has failed you.’
‘How do you know this?’
He was rewarded with another flinty glare. To be fair, it had been a stupid question. Jintara was a mindweaver after all.
‘Are you saying that he’s been hiding Anara with the Kyrgs all this time? That she is his mistress?’ It was hard to believe, but then he remembered the rumours; Thorlberd kept something hidden in the Northern Wastes, something so precious it was protected by mindweavers. Rastran’s fingertips tingled at the implications. Jintara snorted.
‘Mistress? No. The woman was proud for one of such low origins. She always repelled my husband’s pathetic attempts to please her.’
‘But he couldn’t bring himself to kill her.’
Jintara rose.
‘You will release Yldred?’
Rastran’s mind was racing. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. ‘Now, off you pop, Mother dear. Next time, wait until I give you permission to enter.’
He watched her walk stiffly out of the door and then, unable to contain his glee, he skipped around the room whilst digging his hands into his pockets. This is perfect. I reunite Zastra with her long-lost mother, only to kill her in front of her, this time for real. How delightfully cruel. Or better still, I can use Anara as bait. Zastra will surrender to me or see her mother die. Either way, I win.
Rastran rang the bell. It was time to send his two most trusted lieutenants to the Northern Wastes.
Chapter Forty-eight
Brutila was bored. The Northern Wastes were grey and dreary, and with winter approaching things were only going to get worse. The only recent event of interest had been the annual return of those Kyrginite soldiers not actively needed for the defence of Golmeira and Sendor. Brutila had probed their minds eagerly, her interest piqued by their bedraggled appearance, and was soon privy to the sorry tale of Uden’s Teeth. So, Zastra escaped death yet again. Leodra’s daughter led a charmed life. Yet Brutila found some delight at Thorlberd’s failure. Serve him right. Three years she had been exiled in the Northern Wastes. Death would have been less cruel. She tugged her cloak around her body to try and keep herself warm. It was not yet late enough in the year for the Kyrgs to light fires for anything other than cooking. Fuel was scarce and needed to be husbanded, like everything else in this barren valley. The buckthorn pellets would be saved until it was cold enough to turn breath into ice and that would not be long. The meltwater from the high mountains had already stopped flowing, leaving the river in the valley almost dry.
In previous years, the drying of the river had triggered an event that provided the only relief from the tedium of Brutila’s existence. The Culling, a ritual where all the Kyrgs gathered in this, the largest of the upland valleys, and judged the strength of everyone in the colony. Brutila appreciated the clean brutality of it. Winters in the Wastes were so harsh that hunting was impossible, and the Kyrgs needed to survive on what they had stored. Too many people meant the food would run out and all would starve. Culling the weakest before winter allowed for the survival of t
he race. Yet even that pleasure had been ruined, thanks to Anara. She had taught the Kyrgs how to grow their own crops instead of relying solely on forage and hunting. The woman had even worked the fields herself, planting buckthorn cuttings to widen the narrow strip of fertile land next to the meltwater river, thereby transforming barren land into productive fields. With enough food for everyone, the ceremony had been suspended.
One of the most infuriating conditions of Brutila’s exile was that she wasn’t allowed to let any harm come to Anara. Arranging an accident would have been easy. The Kyrgs had no resistance to Brutila’s mindweaving. It would be easy to nudge one of them into pushing Anara off a cliff, or to leave her to die in a winter storm. But Thorlberd had made it clear that if Anara was harmed in any way, even by accident, Brutila’s life would be forfeit. Higina, another mindweaver, was stationed with her, doubtless to keep an eye on Brutila, as much as to help ensure Jelgar’s mindlock stayed intact.
Here they come now. That fat lump and Thorlberd’s precious Anara. The two women dragged armfuls of buckthorn branches, ready to be turned into pellets. Despite the chilly air, Higina was perspiring.
‘Hello, Brutila.’ Anara greeted her warmly. ‘Feeling the cold?’
Brutila couldn’t help shivering as an icy gust of wind whistled around her, the old scar on her face tightening as she grimaced.
‘You should join us tomorrow. The exercise is a good way to keep warm, isn’t it, Higina?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Higina replied. What a toady. They laid the buckthorn on the ground around their rondavel so that the woody stems could dry out before they were chopped and pelleted. Not for the first time, Brutila wondered what Anara hoped to achieve with her fake pleasantries. She ingratiated herself with everyone. Every year, Thorlberd sent sufficient gifts to make his prisoner comfortable for the winter. Wines from the Far Isles, syrup and grains from the western basin, barrels of jula oil and boxes upon boxes of dried fruits. But Anara gave it all away, insisting on partaking only of the rough diet of her captors. Last year, she’d given Brutila a case of spiced wine. It was still unopened at the back of the rondavel they shared. She would never accept gifts from Leodra’s wife.
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