by Jude Fisher
‘You’ll get your chance, believe me, Tycho,’ Rui had assured him as the skiff was lowered. ‘When we take the Rose, Bardson will raise the alarum at the due time and they’ll pursue us out of the harbour and slam right into your tender embrace. It’ll be a slaughter: we’ll grapple their ships and fire them: then you can kill as many of the heretical bastards as you want.’
It was not enough; nothing could ever be enough, and the waiting was just too hard.
He fell to his knees in anguish. ‘Falla, hear my plea. Give me my enemy so I may exact retribution from him. Grant me the grace to put out those eyes which have feasted on her naked form; let me rip out at the root the sacrilegious member which has dared to penetrate her mysteries.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘O, Falla, look kindly on your chief advocate and defender: deliver my love to me and I shall be your slave for the rest of my life.’
The candles guttered. Then it was as if a soft breeze caressed his face. Deep inside his skull he thought he caught the whisper of a reply. It told him what to do and moments later he strode out onto the deck, half-dressed and radiant with knowledge.
The first of the two men wore her husband’s face; but she could see his own beneath, as if floating beneath a scummy pool. He was not dissimilar to Ravn, she thought, with his high cheekbones, his angularity and dark eyes; but there was no beard beneath the illusion, and he was older by far, his cheeks etched by years of dissatisfaction, dissolution and cynicism. Here was a man who believed in nothing, loved nothing, cherished nothing; was nothing, for all his confidence and his daring, and not worth her husband’s shadow.
She looked through him to the second intruder.
Waves of terror emanated off this man, interfering with the fine trickery he had woven to hide himself from view. He had, she saw at once, tried to throw a glamour in front of any onlooker, so that their gaze would slide harmlessly away from him to alight on some other thing. The shimmer which surrounded him was annoying, hard to focus on. She could feel the essence of him more than see his true appearance; but what she felt evoked something nameless in her: a kind of painful yearning.
The first man strode forward, and she transferred her scrutiny to him. His gaze was lambent, the pupils as wide and black as an owl’s. She felt his desire like a heat and smiled, her coral mouth twisting upwards contemptuously.
‘You are not my husband,’ she said softly and watched the dismay settle over the blur of his features. She put out her hand, fingers splayed, and time itself slowed, the man halting in mid-stride; his accomplice shimmering at his shoulder.
It was hard to think: there was a distant background hum of folk calling out in desperation to her – people starving, dying, their land dying with them, far away, far away; then other voices came leaping out at her from the sea much closer at hand; men invoking her name in curse, in prayer, or in casual, careless reference. One, more intense than all the rest, snagged her attention. She felt his vitriol, his murderous spirit questing out, seeking justification, divine reinforcement.
I know you, she thought. The signature of his mind was unmistakable, vile. I remember you. He had come for her, driven a thousand miles and more by the depths of his obsession. All this way, she marvelled. A mortal woman might have been flattered by such devotion; but even at her weakest and most disempowered, the Rose of the World had never been mortal.
Thoughts crowded in on her.
They have come from the south.
They lie in wait. For Ravn . . .
They will mutilate his beautiful body.
They will kill him.
But then they will sail south.
Across the whole wide ocean . . . home . . .
She lifted her hand and time came flooding back. She felt the disruption to the natural world she had caused by even this tiny holding back of the inexorable. There are so many disruptions out there, she thought distractedly. Yet all will be chaos if I make the wrong choice.
It was an impossible decision. The woman in her warred with the goddess for fleeting, eternal moments.
A tiny boat rocked on a dark sea. Inside were two figures. Sailing out of the west, the moonlight limned them in ice, picking out the haggard face of one and the eager craftiness of his older companion. The haggard one was rowing, but the vessel seemed to skim the waves faster than any man-powered boat should move, and despite the light wind – which elsewhere blew from an entirely different direction – the vessel’s sail was full and taut. The blizzard swirled around and above them, but kept its distance.
Hollow-eyed and hollow-souled, the other was easier to control now. Something had gone out of him at Rockfall: he was a defeated man, a shadow of himself: he had, as the old women of Eyra would say ‘had the stuffing knocked out of him’. What was it Ilyina had called him? A luckless man. That was it. A man whom Fate had marked out for special attention, sorting through the tangled threads of his dreams with her wicked fingers, allowing him the privilege of choosing which coloured string he would pull – gold, for greed? blue, for ambition? red, for passion? – and see what part of the careful tapestry of his life would unravel fastest.
His current walking death should surely prove a perfect foil to the Rosa Eldi’s peculiar persuasiveness: his grief for the predicament of his wife and daughter and his own part in leaving them defenceless rendered him a perfect, empty vessel for the Master’s use. Rahay had the necessary spell ready to return the goddess to her prior compliance. Now all he had to do was to slip into Halbo in the guises he had prepared for them and let the fool do his work . . .
Twenty-eight
The Rose of Elda
The Rose of the World felt the weight of his gaze on her once more, like the brush of a dirty rag. So she reached out and touched him, letting loose the full force of her seductive power, and watched as he was buffeted by it, as by a great wind.
For a long moment, all volition fell away from him. He could not remember what he was here to do, even who he truly was: for in those mesmeric sea-green eyes all he saw reflected was the image of Ravn Asharson, King of the North. When she touched his arm, his whole skin felt inflamed with passion. He wanted nothing now other than to shed not only his clothing, but that sheath of skin as well, to meld himself with her astonishing presence as wholly as he could. He found he was trembling from top to toe.
Again, the Rose of Elda smiled. The glamour was too strong for such a weak man to withstand. She called some of its power back into herself and waited for the intruder to make clear his purpose.
Rui Finco shook his head, blinked. He felt as though he had just wakened from the most blissful dream. He dreamt he had stood before the Goddess, that she had smiled upon him and taken him into her fires. Never a religious man, the ecstasy he experienced in the wake of this vision stunned him. Perhaps Tycho Issian is right, he thought. Perhaps we are here on a sacred mission. His own reason for leading the invasion force north had been entirely venal: now he felt abruptly ashamed.
This precious lady must be rescued from the barbarians and returned to the land of faith and righteousness: that was the key. It was all that mattered.
‘Take me, then,’ the Rose of the World said simply. ‘Now.’ She turned to pick up from the bed the hooded ermine-lined cloak her husband had given her to keep the Eyran winter out of her bones, and felt hot tears burning her eyes: and that in itself was some kind of miracle. I do not understand, she thought desperately. I am the Goddess, so this parting should not touch me; but leaving this mortal man makes my heart feel as if it will break. Yet the people of my world cry out for me, they need the Three to be together once more, so their lives may be cradled in our care. Who can I turn to for aid and direction? It seems there is no one to listen to my prayers.
She had never felt so alone.
As if sensing the turmoil in the room beyond, Ulf twisted suddenly in Leta Gullwing’s arms, evading her muffling hand. A monstrous bellow of outrage emanated from behind the panelled door to the nursery.
The shimmeri
ng man moved before anyone else had time to react. He wrenched open the door, revealing the occupants to his companion. His gaze distracted from the mazing power of the Rosa Eldi, Rui Finco smiled delightedly. ‘Ah, the son and heir,’ he breathed. He walked past Virelai into the hidden room. Still lustful from the nomad woman’s magic, his eyes roved appreciatively across the girl in whose arms the howling child writhed. ‘And his very lovely nurse . . . It seems your ladyship will have company on our voyage back to the motherland,’ he declared cheerfully over his shoulder.
Leta stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘I need no company,’ the Rosa Eldi said from behind him, but the man was not listening.
The Lord of Forent reached out now and traced the line of the girl’s cheek. Her dark skin was velvet-soft and she was colouring now, embarrassed by his unambiguous attention. ‘You have the appearance of an Istrian,’ he said softly. ‘How well you would look in my seraglio. Where are you from?’
‘My l-lord,’ she stuttered. ‘You know me. I am Leta Gullwing . . .’
‘A pretty name for a pretty girl. I look forward to better making your acquaintance, though I cannot offer you the most luxurious of bedchambers on my ship.’
‘Your ship, my king?’
Rui blinked. Of course, he still wore Ravn Asharson’s likeness. No wonder the girl was so uncomfortable – the King of the Northern Isles making a frank sexual advance to her right in front of his wife! He laughed. ‘No matter. You will know soon enough.’
He stared with some distaste at the bawling baby in her arms and for just a moment Ulf stopped crying and scrutinised him in return. Then he reached up to tug at the beard he so loved to play with, and his fingers slipped right through the illusion. There was a moment when little Ulf glared in fury at this deception, then he set to howling with a vengeance. The noise rang out around the chamber, echoed off the stonework, the pillars and the beams.
The heir to the northern throne had certainly inherited a powerful set of lungs. And if it continued to wail so, it would surely attract unwanted attention.
Rui glared at Virelai. ‘Make it be quiet!’
Virelai looked alarmed. ‘It’s a baby. What do I know about babies?’
Little Ulf was reaching tantrum pitch now, his chubby face livid.
The Lord of Forent reached for his dagger. ‘Then I will have to shut it up myself—’
‘No!’ Leta Gullwing wrapped herself around the child, muffling its cries in her bosom.
‘Lucky boy,’ Rui grinned as the baby subsided at long last into choking sobs. ‘You can show me how you do that later. But now we must leave. Bring what you need for the child’s comfort.’ He watched as she frowned in consternation, then gathered bedclothes, linens, and a well-chewed wooden teething-ring into already full arms. ‘But why, sire . . . ?’ she started to ask.
The shimmering man hastened across the royal chamber, opened the outer door and consulted a figure standing outside.
‘Hurry, my lord,’ he called back.
It was as if the proximity of the magic which created the shimmer had also somehow disguised the man’s voice from her. Now that he was at a distance, it came into abrupt focus. The Rose of the World knew that voice well. Betrayal vied for a moment with a terrible upswelling of joy.
‘Come along, now, Leta,’ she said distractedly, overwhelmed by these unfamiliar emotions. ‘All shall be well, all manner of things shall be well . . .’
Down dark corridors they walked at a determined pace: a goddess, a mother with babe in arms, a sorcerer, a usurper and a traitor. They passed knots of folk in court dress, who bowed; they passed retainers and servants and others who did not appear to see them at all.
Virelai felt lightheaded. He thought it was probably the use of so much magic, which was working far better than he had ever expected. Rui Finco still looked a perfect match for Ravn Asharson: a remarkable achievement given the state of terror he had been in at the Allfair when he had last set eyes on the man. And Erol Bardson: well, all he had done there was make him dark and change the cast of his face. He could not help but congratulate himself when they passed two richly arrayed women on the stairs and they carried on chattering without surcease; but when they had passed around the corner he found himself frowning. He had not cast an invisibility glamour: so why was it they had not been seen? The faces of others they passed went suddenly blank. People stopped moving. It was most bizarre. Perhaps, he thought with a desperate need to rationalise, I am doing it without even realising in my wish to be out of here as fast and as safely as possible. That must be the reason.
But he knew it wasn’t.
Even if he had not known her to be the Goddess, he would have recognised that the Rose of the World was a different woman to the one he had brought to the Allfair last year; for that woman had been all temptation and compliance, a creature who could be manipulated and gained from, whose power was easily tapped and stolen. A woman who had no idea of who she was. The woman with them now was another matter. He could feel the power emanating from her in waves. It was diffuse and golden; unchannelled, benevolent; now he knew her for who and what she was, he felt terror and awe grip him whenever he looked at her. And so he made every effort not to look at her.
They were about to cross the courtyard outside the west gate when there came a cry of warning. Men with torches appeared suddenly along the castle walls. A great flurry of activity was occurring in their wake: orders were shouted, though the words were carried on winds above their heads, and so they ran, Rui Finco, hauling the pale woman with him, the others keeping pace – through the courtyard, along the wall, between the trees dotting the snow-covered sward leading down from the castle towards the harbour. As they cleared the last of the great oaks, a contingent of armed soldiers came up from the Sentinel Towers to meet them.
Rui broke out into a sweat. He drew his sword, but the man at the front of the group merely saluted. ‘We’ve come to escort the Queen and the Prince to safety my lord, as you ordered. Been looking everywhere for them, but it seems you found them first.’
The Lord of Forent stared at him, trying to concentrate on the cadence of the Eyran language. ‘Ah . . . yes.’ He paused. ‘I’ll come with you.’
The soldier looked anxious. ‘Won’t you be leading the men to battle, sire?’
Something had gone badly wrong. Rui Finco assimilated what little information there was available to him and tried not to panic. He nodded furiously. ‘Of course, man, of course. But I must make sure my wife and child are safe first of all. Future of the kingdom, and all . . . You . . . ah . . . muster the troops . . . all of them . . . up in the . . .’ he searched for the correct vocabulary ‘the . . . ah . . . courtyard there.’ He waved vaguely back up the slope towards the open ground they had crossed some minutes before.
Now the man looked thoroughly alarmed. ‘Me, sire? I’m just a sergeant. They won’t follow me.’
‘You’re a general now,’ Rui declared, clapping the man on the shoulder. He raised his voice.‘You hear me?’ he addressed the rest of the contingent. ‘This good soldier – ’ he broke off, looked the bewildered man in the eye – ‘what’s your name?’ he hissed.
‘Guthrun, sire,’ the man said slowly, ‘Guthrun Hart. Navigator on the Sur’s Raven, sire, you remember?’
Rui winked.‘Got you there!’ He grinned, Ravn Asharson’s grin in perfect replica. Then he shouted aloud once more, ‘Guthrun Hart is your general now: I’ve promoted him. Do what he says and pass the word!’
‘Up in the West Square, my lord?’ Guthrun sounded dubious. ‘Not on the quays?’
‘I need to address the troops,’ Rui returned. ‘Put some . . . backbone into them.’
Guthrun absorbed this. Then, ‘Aye, sire,’ he said at last and gave his king the open-handed salute used by generals. It felt strange to do so, but also satisfying. Bela would never believe it. ‘Perhaps if I were to take a token from your highness?’ he suggested suddenly. ‘So that there’s no question—’
Now Rui Finco was irritated. ‘Oh, for Falla’s sake, man—’
‘Falla?’
Shit. He winked. ‘Your ears must be deceiving you, Guthrun. Here.’ He fiddled at his swordbelt. ‘Give me your . . . weapon, and take mine.’
A massive smile wreathed the soldier’s face. ‘Yes, sir!’
A moment later Rui found himself carrying a worn but serviceable Eyran sword, while Guthrun examined his new weapon. It was not as richly worked as he had hoped: there was no pattern welding, no silver on it at all. And it felt a bit light: not much heft. All in all, it was rather disappointing. Still, he considered, Ravn was a fighting man with a reputation for fast footwork: and this was probably not his finest sword.
And so he raised it aloft and led the soldiers away from where any invading force was most likely to land.
Out of sight, they started to run now, their feet crunching in the new snow; but as they emerged into a cobbled alley with a view down the hill between the ramshackle dwellings and warehouses, the Lord of Forent skidded to a halt.
The Istrian fleet, which he had left anchored well out of sight around the headland, with clear orders to await his signal for ambush, was invisible no longer. Just beyond the mouth of the harbour a flotilla of ships was limned in silver by a fickle moon, with one vessel well ahead of the rest.
Rui Finco groaned. ‘That bloody hothead Tycho Issian—’
Erol Bardson paled, his ambitious dreams burning away like morning mist. ‘They’ll raise the chainwall and trap them. It’ll be a massacre.’ When he turned to the Lord of Forent, the whites showed all around his eyes.‘We should flee inland,’ he said suddenly. ‘Take horses to Broadfell and bribe a shipman to take us off down the east coast.’
‘Cross a hundred miles of hard country in a blizzard with the Queen of Eyra and a bawling child?’ Rui Finco grimaced. Then he turned to the sorcerer. ‘Can you transform her?’ He indicated the Rosa Eldi, whose lambent eyes were fixed on the dark waters of the harbour below them.