by David Hair
‘But I am Nesti, Lori: you know that.’
‘Si, you are Nesti. So what do you want me to do?’
‘For now, nothing, just be cautious; see to Fadah and Timi. There is no reason to suspect anything untoward will happen, but be on your guard.’ She gave him the easy explanation: ‘It’s the shihad, you know.’
‘You think if the Nesti declare for Salim, Samir might do something?’
‘It won’t hurt to be vigilant, Lorenzo.’
He grinned nervously. They both knew that if something broke out, Samir could toast him in an eye-blink – unless he was standing behind Elena. He still managed to look nonchalant as he walked away.
Cera was sitting up, her big eyes tinged with unease. ‘What was that you were saying to Lori, Ella?’
Elena gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Just asking him to keep his eyes open.’
Cera pulled a face. ‘I’m not a child any more, Ella. Is something wrong? Something about Samir? I don’t like him.’
Nor do I, my girl. She measured the space between her and the Fire-mage. ‘Don’t worry, Cera. Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘You look very fierce.’ Cera looked up at the little lantern. ‘Can you make us a magic light, like you used to on stormy nights?’ The ghost of a younger girl seemed to hover within the young princess’ eyes, seeking reassurance that all was well.
Elena looked at her indulgently. ‘Of course.’ She reached out to the water bottle, pulled out the stopper and tipped a little water into her hand. Cera leaned forward as she swirled the water, shaping it, and drew out of herself the gnosis light, gradually working it with the water until it became cohesive, bound together by the gnosis energy. She sealed it with the Rune of Binding and then tossed it, a glowing, rubbery ball of water and light, into Cera’s waiting hands. The girl flicked it back and they played a lightning game of catch for a few seconds until Cera dropped the tiny bundle of light onto her blanket and it broke apart.
‘You always win now,’ she complained. ‘You used to let us win when we were younger – you still let Timi win.’ She brushed at the water stain. ‘And now my blanket is wet.’
‘Now you see why I didn’t let you win!’ Elena waved a hand and caused the water to evaporate.
Cera laughed, then said wistfully, ‘I wish I could cast magic spells too.’
‘It’s not magic, it’s gnosis – that’s actually a Silacian word meaning “secret knowledge”,’ replied Elena, watching Samir as he strolled back to his tent. That’s right, Samir, time for sleep. ‘And we don’t “cast spells” – we don’t need words to direct the energy, just thoughts. Only learners and the less-gifted magi speak words aloud, and that’s to help focus their concentration and energy. I only use words if I’m trying something complex.’ She watched Samir disappear into his tent and exhaled. She pulled a little bundle of feathers from a pocket, a gift from Gurvon containing beast-gnosis energy. Reaching out, she caught the mind of a night-bird, a desert owl, and set it to watching over their tent. Beast-mastery wasn’t her strength, but she could manage something simple like that if a key was provided, even if that key was a gift from her estranged lover.
Are you still seeing Vedya, Gurvon? You promised me that was over, but I don’t believe that’s true.
Cera rolled onto her stomach and peered at her from behind a curtain of thick black hair. ‘What will Father decide, Ella? When he meets with the Keshi about the shihad?’
Elena looked across at her princess, her soft brown face illuminated by the blue light of the water-globe. Cera was asking more and more adult questions these days. She was becoming a woman, with interests that went far beyond childbearing. She wasn’t betrothed yet, and that decision was overdue – there had been enquiries from both Rimoni and Jhafi nobles. She was half-Rimoni, half-Jhafi, so she could marry either way without jeopardising the blood-criterion should her children seek the kingship. ‘I think your father will try to keep his options open as long as he can. The Jhafi and the Keshi were at war for many years before the Rimoni settled here, and the Keshi have tried to start revolts among the Jhafi before. Our defences are strong in the south, but our armies are small.’
‘But surely we won’t stay neutral,’ Cera said, screwing up her face. ‘What the Rondian emperor did was evil – all those poor people in Hebusalim who died! I wish all Rondians were like you, Ella – then there’d be peace like there used to be.’
‘Ah, but I’m not a Rondian,’ grinned Elena. ‘I’m from Noros, and we don’t like Rondians any more than you do. We even had a war against them, but we lost.’ Faces from the past swelled up in her memory: dead faces, living ones … Gurvon …
‘Is Samir Rondian? And Master Sordell?’
‘Samir is. He’s pretty typical, except that he’s bald – usually they like to have their hair long and curly and wear lacy clothes. Sordell is Argundian, and they’re more plain-spoken and earthy. They’re stubborn bastards.’
‘Rondians, Argy-thingies, Noros … they’re all the same.’
‘So is a Nesti the same as a Gorgio?’ Elena said, an eyebrow raised.
‘Ugh, no!’ Cera cried, ‘the Gorgio are disgusting.’
‘There, you see? You’re both Rimoni! Noromen and Rondians aren’t even the same nation.’
‘Gorgio are a bunch of inbred fellators – we aren’t even the same species. Can you believe Solinde actually fancies Fernando Tolidi? Yuck!’ She rolled her eyes, then went serious again. ‘Is Magister Gyle a Rondian? I only met him once. He made me nervous. It was like he was memorising everyone and putting them into little boxes so he could pull them out later and study them.’
How perceptive. He was probably doing exactly that. ‘No, he’s a Noroman, like me.’
‘Was he your, um …’ Cera’s voice became a little uncertain.
‘My lover? That’s none of your business, my girl.’
‘You keep telling me a ruler has to make everything their business, so I’m right to want to know.’
‘And when you’re ruler, I might even tell you!’
Cera looked at her with calculating eyes. ‘You used to speak of him often. You don’t any more.’
Elena schooled her face. Sometimes Cera really was just too observant. ‘Don’t I?’
‘No. And Samir said something to Master Sordell, about someone called Vedya? About her being close to Master Gyle.’
Elena felt her heart sink. ‘You shouldn’t be listening to the men talk.’
‘You always tell me to keep my eyes and ears open, Ella!’
‘So I do – but for now, I’d like you to close them and get some sleep.’
Cera lay back, staring into space. ‘I wish I could be like you and go where I want and do what I want. I’ll just end up being married to someone and have to live all my life being told what to do.’
‘Oh, my life is nowhere like as romantic as you think, Cera. Mostly I just do what I’m told too, which mostly turns out to be dangerous or boring or both.’
‘If I’d been born a man, I would have so much more freedom. Men get to do all the fun things.’
Elena remembered making the same arguments to others, years ago. She looked at the princess fondly. She really is like a little sister. ‘You know I don’t disagree, but you should get some sleep.’
‘Is it true that Rondian women can marry who they please?’
Elena shook her head. ‘No, they have much the same lives as you: no sooner does a girl begin to bleed than her marriage is arranged, even for magi – maybe even more so because the mage’s blood is so important. I’m different there too.’ She grimaced.
Cera smiled mischievously. ‘Will you marry one day?’
Elena blinked. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Was Master Gyle your only lover?’ she teased.
‘Cera!’
The princess giggled. ‘You can tell me, we’re practically sisters.’
Elena gave her an exasperated look. ‘Go to sleep!’ She turned away while Cera bur
st out laughing. Little minx! I bet Solinde put her up to that.
When Cera spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘I’ll stop now, Ella. Have you set the wards?’
‘Si, Cera, all is well. Have you finished the tea I gave you? It’ll help the cramps.’
‘All drunk. Buona notte, Ella-amica. I wish I was your real sister and we could travel the world.’
‘What do you think we’re doing, silly? Sleep well.’
‘I love you, Tante Ella.’
‘I love you too, princessa. Now for Kore’s sake: Go. To. Sleep!’
When she woke in the morning, a dead owl was lying beside the tent-flap, a hole the size of a large coin burnt through its chest where its heart would have been. Samir gazed at her from beside the well, a grim smile on his lips.
Four days later they spotted a party of men on camels approaching from the east. They were clad in white, and their long lances were cradled at rest. A violet banner was unfurled when they spotted the royal party: the king’s messengers warning Forensa to expect them had obviously arrived. She glanced across at Lorenzo, who was riding point with her, and gave a relieved sigh. The more men, the safer she would feel. The last four days had been tense and trying, as everyone was aware of the growing rift between the two magi. She could feel their fear that violence would explode and trap them between forces they couldn’t possibly survive. Even Fadah had noticed, and asked anxiously if she and Samir had fallen out. Elena had reassured her that it was just a disagreement over politics, while wishing desperately that were true.
The landscape had changed as they travelled, the bracken giving way to tall, sharp piles of rock. The sand was softer underfoot, and at times the horses floundered. The nights were getting colder, the days hotter, and so still that some wind would have been a blessing. But the air didn’t move much this far inland except for the occasional massive sandstorm, and they most definitely didn’t want one of those.
Elena looked at Lorenzo. The Kestrian knight had been good company on the journey: he was confident and he’d travelled widely before coming to Brochena, which made him an interesting conversationalist. I will miss these people if I leave, she thought.
‘Wait here,’ she told him, and trotted towards the column of majestic camels gaudily festooned in ribbons and bells, their faces imperturbable and disinterested. The lead rider raised a hand in greeting and unwrapped his headscarf, revealing the solemn, hairless skull of Harshal ali-Assam, brother of the Emir of Forensa. His face split into a white-toothed smile. ‘Donna Elena! I thank Ahm for your safe arrival.’
‘And I, Harshal.’ She glanced back. ‘We’ve not arrived safely yet, though.’
Harshal blinked once, like a basking reptile. ‘There is a problem, Donna Ella?’
‘La, Harshal, don’t worry. We’re all a little tense, that’s all. It is good to see you.’ Harshal ali-Assam would be a suitor for Solinde, when she came of age, though the princess wasn’t enthusiastic: he was in his late twenties, which was ancient by Solinde’s standards. But he was a decent man, and Elena thought he’d make a fine husband for a wayward girl. ‘What news, Harsh? How does Fadah’s sister fare?’
‘Homeirah is not well. Ahm’s will be done.’ He sighed. ‘Had the Keshi envoys arrived before you left Brochena?’
Elena shook her head. She checked behind her and, in a low, confidential voice, said, ‘Samir is unsettled by the Keshi embassy. He is Rondian, and King Olfuss’ decision affects him more than a Noroman like me.’ Simple and plausible; Gurvon would have approved. She bit her lip. I must stop judging my actions by his standards.
Harsh nodded quietly. ‘We will take care. No problem.’
They made good time after that, though Cera insisted she be allowed to ride a camel, and of course Timori immediately wanted to do the same. Elena rode behind Cera and they sang Javonesi folksongs about princes and love affairs and starlit oases. Lorenzo joined in sometimes with his pleasing tenor, until it felt like they were a travelling troupe of musicians riding to their next engagement.
The only black cloud was Samir, brooding and snide, like a vulture waiting for a dying beast to finally expire so he could feed. He goaded Elena whenever she came within earshot, until she had to give him wide birth, lest she explode.
The column entered Forensa from the west, just after midday, three days after meeting Harshal’s men. The sun was a distant glowing ball in the sky. The horses and camels became difficult to restrain as they sensed home. They rode more briskly through the reek of endless garbage heaps at the edge of town. Impoverished Jhafi stared at them as they passed and ragged children ran alongside, begging money and food as the party wound through the crowded streets outside the old yellow walls that rose in the middle distance. The children crowded around every wagon and every rider except Elena. They were frightened of her, the foreign witch. It made her feel sad, still.
She was an accomplished healer and had often used her skills in Brochena, healing wounds or cysts or broken bones, but it was exhausting, exacting work and she could never do enough. She asked nothing in return but some new vocabulary. She thought it was appreciated: a tiny victory for communication and understanding. In Yuros people believed a magi’s powers were beneficial, gifts of the Kore, but here in Antiopia everyone, even the Rimoni, started with the assumption that she wielded demonic powers.
She sighed and combed her fingers through her filthy hair. Waiting for something to explode was wearing her down: she needed to wash and sleep. What is Gurvon doing now, she wondered. What has he told Samir? What’s happening back in Brochena? The not-knowing gnawed at her.
They wound through the streets to the old market and circled the emir’s palace before climbing the hills to the Nesti fortress. Krak al-Farada’s tumbledown dome turrets had been replaced with crenelated fighting platforms holding spear-hurling ballistae, and the walls had been thickened and renewed. Armoured men peered down between the violet banners as trumpets greeted the caravan.
Paolo Castellini was awaiting them in the courtyard. He was reckoned the tallest man in Javon. He had broad shoulders, and a lank, grey-streaked moustache and hair framed his mournful face. He opened the carriage doors for the royal family himself, and Fadah, emerging first, accepted Paolo’s obeisance graciously before hurrying her children up the stairs, anxious to see her sister Homeirah.
Paolo turned to Elena and nodded formally. He still doesn’t trust me. She dismounted, her legs aching abominably. Lorenzo was already directing his men towards the stables. Everyone looked pleased to have arrived, even Samir, who tossed his reins to a servant and followed the royal family into the keep. As he vanished, she felt a sudden tremor of apprehension. Time to move. She waved at Paolo and hurried up the steps herself, glancing back as she heard someone follow her: Lorenzo, as anxious as she was. Always have a plan, Gurvon said. Well, she had a plan. Magi with a strong Affinity were less versatile than other magi, and she had been observing Samir for four years. Certainly he was formidable in Fire-gnosis, and very capable with Earth and Air, but that was a narrow repertoire. He relied on incinerating his enemies with irresistible flames. If he caught her with a full blast, she would spend her last seconds screaming in agony as the flesh on her bones crisped, even if she presented her strongest shields. If she could avoid that, she might have a chance.
Samir had been gone half a minute, that was all. She hurried past the guards on the front doors with Lorenzo clanking behind her, emerging into the foyer, where twin stairs descended four storeys on either side of a well of space. Walls of carved teak were hung with tapestries and paintings and lined with statues in marble and stone. Opposite, the doors to the great hall were open, the room filled with supplicants and well-wishers, at least one hundred people. She looked around, frightened: she could see neither the Nesti children nor Samir.
A low chuckle sounded above her. Samir was leaning against the balustrade, flexing his fingers, smirking at her. There will be no warning, his laughter told her. No warning at all.
There was no warning.
Elena rose before dawn, worn out from anxious dreams. She crept softly down through the keep from her small room outside the nursery area, clad only in her nightshift. Her best tunic and breeches were over her arm, but her weapons in the bundle also, something she wouldn’t have done back in Brochena. She still felt stiff and battered from the journey, and the thought of a bath before having to get the children ready for morning services was enticing.
She was tiptoeing along the corridor to the bath-house, when she heard Queen Fadah’s voice, carrying from the sickroom. Elena had checked on Homeirah last night; she looked nearer to ninety than her actual forty-eight years. She was riddled with cancers, could scarcely breathe, and no longer kept down anything but fluids. She would die soon, nothing was surer.
As Elena glanced down the corridor, a voice, quite distinctly, said
Begin …
Fadah stepped from the sickroom, still talking to someone within. She turned as Elena shrieked a warning. Then the queen was thrown backwards and clamped against the wall by unseen forces. Elena dropped the towel and clothes and grasped her sword and dagger. Her mouth was forming a call for help when a burst of flame blossomed about the queen with lurid, horrible beauty. For a second all Elena could see in the brilliant flash of the explosion were Fadah’s bones, visible through translucent flesh, then the concussion of the fire-blast blanketed the entire corridor. A wave of hot force threw her onto her back and her head hammered against the wooden floor. Her vision swam as she fought for purchase on the smooth floor. A liquid rush of flame scorched the air above her and when she looked up, all that remained of the queen was a pile of burning bones.
Samir the Inferno stepped from the sickroom. Behind him, women were crying out in shock, and their cries became agonised screams as he pointed and another gout of flames filled the room. But his eyes were already on Elena. He walked slowly towards her, drawing his sword. He was fully dressed in robes of scarlet, the ruby at his throat gleaming like an ember. She choked back a cry as scarlet gnosis-light gathered in Samir’s hands.