by Jude Fisher
The Rosa Eldi beckoned him. ‘Come with me.’
He put his hand out to take hers, but she withdrew it quickly. Up the main staircase she led him, till it spiralled around to the front of the castle. There, through the arrowslits she bade him look.
Outside, moonlight gleamed silver on the lake and the sward, lending a glamour to the wreckage of battle. Nothing stirred; or so it seemed. Then the Rose of the World spoke two words and a lucent glow illuminated the great tree. In the darkness, using their axes to make one step after another, a hundred men were scaling the ash’s knotty trunk.
‘Give up your castle to them,’ she said, ‘and let us go. It is the only way to avoid further bloodshed.’
Tycho Issian staggered backwards. ‘Give it up? Let you go?’ he echoed. He felt the compulsion she laid on the words nagging at his skull, and knew then that had he been sober he would have been lost to whatever trickery this was. ‘Never!’ he roared, wine and fury rising in a bloody haze to obliterate whatever cursed magic she was using on him. Before she could step away, he grabbed her by the arms, pulled her towards him and engulfed her lips with his own.
The Rose of the World gasped for breath, taken unawares by this vile assault. Death was upon her, rancid and rampant. She spat out his tongue, wrenched her head away from him, but he was too strong for her, and too drunk to care that he offended her sensibilities; too ignorant to know he held a goddess in his arms.
‘You are mine,’ he told her thickly. ‘I shall never let you go.’
He turned to find the sorcerer appear at the turn in the stairs, his pale face harrowed.
‘We must go now,’ Virelai cried, quailing at the sight of his mother fainting in this monster’s grasp. ‘At once, before he comes . . .’
‘He?’ An image of Ravn Asharson formed in the Lord of Cantara’s mind: a young man, strong and virile and darkly handsome. What had she said of their union – it was no invasion? Women were sluts for a handsome face: they’d open their legs in an instant given half a chance. Which was why they must be robed and sequestered and kept well guarded, girded about by scripture and ritual. Well, he would not let this one out of his sight again.
‘The Master,’ Virelai said hoarsely. ‘We must be away before the Master finds us.’
The Lord of Cantara froze. Then, with the Goddess held hard against him with one arm, he struck out with his free hand and caught Virelai an eye-watering blow across the face.
‘I am the only master here!’ he hissed. Then: ‘Fetch three robes from the slaves’ tiring room—’ He indicated a doorway down the corridor.
The Rose of the World twisted out of the Istrian’s grasp. She put out a hand to her son’s face where the skin showed the livid mark of his assailant’s fist. Coolness flowed from her fingertips: when she withdrew it, the cheek was smooth and white once more and there was no pain. ‘Do as he says,’ she said softly.
Moments later, three figures slipped out of the castle’s postern gate, cloaked in black sabatkas, chill darkness and the sorcerer’s best attempt at a veiling spell.
Forty-one
Escape
‘You said they’d be here!’
Ravn Asharson turned on the mage with fury in his eyes.
Rahe glared around the deserted chamber, sniffing the air like a dog. ‘They were, I tell you; I saw them. I even stole up the tree again at sundown to make certain. The door was bound by spellcraft: they had imprisoned themselves against him: I can still smell the magic they used. They cannot have been gone for long.’
Ravn sneered. ‘You lie, old man. You forget that I have just watched you scale this tree with utmost difficulty, and you’re still wheezing like an old hound from the effort of it. My mother always said that a man who never takes another at his word is rarely surprised: now I am beginning to wish I paid better attention to her bitter counsel. But I shall not be surprised again.’ He eased Trollbiter from its scabbard at his hip.
At this, Rahe put out his hand, and it seemed to all present that the sword in the King’s hand became a supple, living thing. It writhed in his grip so that he let go of it in horror. None but Aran Aranson, who knew better by now than to fall for the old man’s illusions, heard the clang as metal reverberated off flagstones.
‘It pains me to waste my magic,’ Rahe snarled. He had exhausted himself by the transition from man to mouse and back again; so much so that he knew he could not risk it again for another ascent: now exhaustion made him furious. He made a fist, and the snake became a sword again. Without even a glance at Ravn Asharson, he marched to the door and ran his hands over it, muttering. A few seconds later he stood back, wiping his palms on his robe as if to rid them of another’s dirty spellcraft. The door creaked open.
Outside, all was chaos. Word had spread quickly through the Istrian castle, and although none had yet seen hide nor hair of the enemy, panic was rife.
Men ran hither and thither, some armed, most not; many in their best robes, bleary-eyed and stumbling with drink. Women who had not even stopped to don their veils shepherded children bearing great bundles of household goods before them, though where they thought to find safe quarter in a besieged castle, who could say? Servants and slaves scurried amongst them, trying doors, fleeing down stairways. Some sank down onto the ground and prayed to the Goddess, tripping up others who weren’t looking where they were going. Of the soldiery there seemed little sign.
Aran Aranson followed his king down corridor after corridor, and wherever they ran, the inhabitants of Cera fled before them, terrified. At last, however, they came upon one unfortunate member of the city guard who had foolishly got turned around on himself in the maze of passageways and been separated from the rest of his troop. Ravn grabbed him and held him up against the wall by his throat.
‘Where is she, my queen, the Rose of the World?’ he rasped in Eyran, and the man’s eyes went wide with fear. He gibbered something unintelligible, until Ravn repeated his question in the Old Tongue.
‘She – she came into the gr-great h-hall,’ the man stammered. His legs were trembling so hard that if Ravn had let go, he would surely have crumpled. In moments he would wet himself. Aran had seen terror like this before. He looked away, embarrassed for the man.
‘When?’ Ravn let go the man’s throat so he could at least speak.
‘O-only minutes ag-go. It was the end of the f-feast. I was on the door, but B-Brina took p-pity on me and brought me some ale. Ev-everyone else was drunk,’ he added defensively.
‘Brina?’ Aran Aranson pushed forward.‘Did you say Brina?’
Ravn turned on the Rockfaller furiously. ‘Do not interrupt your king! What care I about this Brina, when I’m looking for my wife?’
‘She might be Egg’s wife, sire, stolen away in the last war. It’s an unusual name—’
Ravn barely paused. He shoved Aran away, then turned back to the guard, who had watched this interplay with apprehension. ‘And then?’
‘Ah . . . and then . . . ah . . . she and the p-pale man, the s-sorcerer, came in and she said to the Lord of C-Cantara, the enemy are upon us, or s-suchlike, and though she said it only to him, we all h-heard, and after that it was m-mayhem.’
‘And where is she now?’ Ravn’s clipped tone suggested he was barely keeping violence in check.
‘I . . . I d-don’t know. She and the L-Lord Issian left the hall t-together.’
‘Damnation!’ Ravn let the man go so suddenly that he lost his footing. Then he ran on down the corridor, shouting for his men to fan out, search all rooms, secure all exits.
Aran dawdled till the rest had gone. Too absorbed in getting to his feet and straightening his uniform, the guard was shocked to find the Rockfaller looming over him. He went paler still.
‘Peace,’ said Aran. ‘This Brina, tell me, is she an Eyran woman?’
The guard – barely more than a boy, Aran realised belatedly – looked startled. ‘I . . . I couldn’t s-say. She has an odd accent.’
‘And her age? Could she be
fifty or so?’
The lad grimaced. He looked aside, concentrating. ‘That would be hard to say. Her hands are . . . veined and a little spotted. And her lips are thin, the skin around them pale and a bit puckered.’
‘You are very observant,’ Aran said approvingly.
The young man blushed. ‘I like to draw, sir. I’m not really a soldier. Well, no one is here, not really. We never drill or anything . . .’ His hand shot to his mouth. ‘I also talk too much.’
Aran’s lips twitched as he fought down a smile. ‘Well, talk some more, then,’ he urged. ‘And then go and cast off your uniform and make yourself scarce. Where might I find this Brina?’
The lad shrugged. ‘In this?’ he waved his hand in a gesture which took in the whole castle and all the chaos it contained. ‘She could be anywhere. But you might try the kitchens, sir. That’s where she works . . .’
Aran was not familiar with the layout of castles; but he followed his nose. The kitchens were deserted, which was not entirely surprising, but in the pantry beyond he heard voices. Half a dozen women were in there, all unveiled. One of them was a big woman with short red hair, bright blue eyes and freckled arms: no Istrian, she. ‘Are you Brina, Egg Forstson’s wife?’ he hazarded in Eyran, and watched the woman’s jaw drop.
‘Egg? Did you say Egg . . . Forstson?’
Aran nodded.
She gaped. Then, ‘Who are you? Are you with King Ravn?’
Aran grinned. It seemed there were still miracles in the world. He answered all her questions, including the one which made her hands fly to her mouth and tears of joy prick her eyes; then he asked: ‘Have you seen a woman called Bera Rolfsen? A beautiful woman, about forty years of age, with a proud face and long auburn hair, very fine skin, small hands, a fierce temper?’ He realised by her gentle expression he was letting his tongue run away with him and reined himself in. ‘She was taken recently, only a few months ago, from the island of Rockfall. Or Katla Aransen, a girl with flame-red hair?’
Slowly, Brina shook her head.
‘Did you say Katla Aran-sen?’ This other voice was foreign, her Old Tongue sharply accented. Aran craned his neck to see beyond Brina a young woman with sallow skin and long dark hair coiled in braids around her ears. ‘I have met a Katla. In Forent, it was, at the seraglio there.’
Aran felt his heart thump.
‘And her mother, too,’ the woman went on, a crease appearing between her brows. ‘But she was not called Aransen, I think.’
‘In my country, we are named for our fathers,’ Aran said quickly. ‘Tell me, were they used as whores?’
The woman regarded him oddly. ‘Not houris, no: Katla she fight like a cat and the lord there like his women softer.’
‘And Bera? Where are they now?’
The woman spread her hands apologetically. ‘I do not know, I am sorry.’
As abruptly as it had shone, hope died again. He bade Brina wait where she was, to bolt the door and open it only to him or Egg. It had been a long while since Ravn’s army had been near women.
On a hill to the south of Cera, the Lord of Cantara cast off his sabatka. ‘May the Goddess forgive me for impersonating a woman,’ he muttered. ‘It was for the best cause.’
The Rosa Eldi inclined her head. ‘I forgive you,’ she said tonelessly.
He gave her an odd look. Then he glared at Virelai. ‘Well now, can you prove yourself truly useful and magic us up some horses?’
Virelai looked panicked. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Well, you can leave us, then, if this is the extent of your abilities.’
‘I think not.’ The Rose of the World placed a restraining hand on Virelai’s arm. ‘He will stay with me.’
‘I do not want him here.’
‘Now that I have found my son, I will go nowhere without him.’
Virelai felt a warm glow suffuse him. He did not know what it meant, only that he felt happier than he could ever remember feeling, other than those times in the back of Alisha Skylark’s wagon.
Alisha: the deathstone. Panic reared up again, displacing the momentary sense of wellbeing. He must somehow tell the Goddess about her stone, about Saro Vingo and his quest to find it and save the world . . . But how could he do so in the presence of the very man he was most terrified of?
The Lord of Cantara was stomping about now, his face thunderous. ‘I have saved you from the barbarians,’ he stormed. ‘And for what? To play nursemaid to your whelp? I want my own son out of you; not one from whatever bizarre union spawned him.’
‘He is my brother’s son,’ she said softly. ‘My most beloved brother–husband.’ It was all coming back to her now, her memory. Over the past few days it had come flowing like a river in spate: it filled her head till she thought she would burst with sorrow.
Tycho Issian screwed his face up in disgust. ‘Your brother? What revolting perversion is this?’ He stared from one to the other.‘No wonder he emerged as this pale streak of life. He looks more like a fish than a man. Where I come from, they would have put such a freak of nature out on the hills and let the wolves take him.’
The Rosa Eldi raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said softly. ‘You have been incarnated this time as a hillman. How interesting. You have hidden your origins well from the people around you, but you cannot hide your essence from me. I know one of my own, though it pains me to lay claim to you.’
What had he said? Why had he told her something that might get him burned under the very laws he had himself instigated and enforced? And what did she mean by ‘this time’ and ‘one of her own’? The woman was mad, her wits turned by her experiences amongst the barbarians: that would explain it all. But mad or no, he wanted her so badly that it hurt. The touch of her on the castle stairs inflamed him still.
‘Claim me as your own, then,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Take me here, and now.’ He began to untie his breeches.
She turned her sea-green gaze upon him and his hand froze in its frenzied unbuttoning. ‘Falla’s Rock,’ she said. ‘I shall claim you on Falla’s Rock.’
He regarded her in horror. ‘We are nowhere near the Moonfell Plain.’
‘It is my sacred place.’
That stopped him. It was a sacred place, certainly, but women were forbidden it: only the Goddess might set foot on such a holy site. It was the law, the law of sacrilege. However, he considered, laws were made by men; men could revise them, particularly in such a special case. Perhaps her wits were not entirely fled if she wished to unburden herself of her sins by seeking absolution. As the current head of the Istrian state he could repeal the law, if he wished to; issue an exception for the Rosa Eldi alone. Besides, it would surely bless their union, wipe away all trace of taint from her congress with the northern king. He gritted his teeth. Could he wait that long? A sea passage was the fastest way to the Moonfell Plain from here: but the coast was held by Eyran raiders. By horse, then. Across the Skarn Mountains? He shivered.
‘We could, I am sure, find a temple near Ixta; and most villages keep their own shrine to the Lady,’ he offered hopefully.
‘Falla’s Rock,’ she repeated obstinately. She had her own reasons.
He bowed his head. ‘How we will get there, I do not know; but if we make it to Falla’s Rock you promise you will take me there and then?’
She smiled. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I swear on all that is holy that I shall take you then.’
Terror spread through Cera quicker than plague. With the lord holding a celebratory feast, the last thing anyone had expected was this sudden, violent incursion. Those who weren’t too drunk to pick up their weapons in the first place took one look at the rampaging northerners and surrendered. The city fell to the Eyrans with barely a fight.
Once it became clear that the Rosa Eldi, the Lord of Cantara and the sorcerer Virelai had somehow escaped, Ravn Asharson’s temper was terrible to behold. Even the tender sight of Egg Forstson being reunited with the wife he had never thought to see again did nothing to mollify him: if an
ything, it enraged him further. He stormed around the corridors like a tornado – an arbitrary force of nature which might pass you by with barely a ruffling of the hair on your head, or strike out your life if you got in its way. Even his own men avoided him, crowding in behind him at a distance, scattering if he turned, running like rabbits to his every shouted command.
Aran Aranson took himself off quietly in the opposite direction, left the castle and went out into the surrounding streets. No invaded town tended to offer pleasant sights, and Cera was no exception. For many, this was their first taste of war: it went to their heads faster than stallion’s blood. Everywhere he looked, there was misrule: looting, rapine, fear. He dragged a pair of Fair Islanders off a girl barely old enough to have her courses and berated them soundly: they sloped off like beaten dogs, but he knew they would wait until he was gone and find another woman to hound. Around every corner, another atrocity, another crying child, another pleading man or woman. By the time he came to the streets near the market, he was sick of war, of being Eyran, and a man.
Here, the shutters were up and the place was deserted. But he could feel eyes upon him as he walked across the very square where less than a year before Tycho Issian had stood beside the pale man and his harnessed cat and whipped the crowd to a ferment and cries of holy war. It was a dangerous thing to do: in any town less cowed than this one, he might well feel the sudden impact of an arrow in his back. He walked with his hand on the hilt of his sword and his gaze darting everywhere at once, but no one showed themselves. He was about to turn back and retrace his steps to the castle when he heard someone call his name.
His head shot up to meet the sound. The hairs rose down his spine.
It was a woman’s voice, and for a second his heart rose into his mouth, thinking it might by some miracle be Bera or Katla, but when he turned to find the window whence it had issued, the face he glimpsed was at that moment unrecognisable to him. Without conscious thought, he found himself running, till the face resolved itself into one he knew well.
It was Kitten Soronsen.