by David Hair
Then he looked up and met Dranid’s cold eyes. ‘Commandant Dranid, ready your Fist. We have heretics to hunt.’
25
Sacred Vows
Safia
Safia was a poetess of the ancient world during the reign of Fustius II, the 7th Rimoni Emperor. She was renowned for her beauty and her talent, and was the first woman to be appointed as Poeta di Laurelae to the Imperial Court. However, her residence there ended in scandal when she was found in the bed of the empress. The term ‘safian’ has been applied ever since to women who desire other women. Though Safia was banished, it is said that the empress visited her often in her luxurious ‘prison’, a villa near Taphe, only ten miles from the Summer Court in Pallas.
ANNALS OF PALLAS
Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) to Zulhijja (Decore) 928
5th and 6th months of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle waited in the bell tower of the Sollan chapel that overlooked Piazza Giannini, the place where the Dorobon made their public pronouncements. The piazza had been the city’s olive oil market, but now it was hung with blue and white Dorobon flags and pennants. Soldiers paraded in formation before the steps of the chapel, keeping away any but those Dorobon and Gorgio adherents invited for the occasion. Trumpeters and drummers were standing at attention, awaiting the signal to proclaim the coronation of the king.
Gyle glanced at Hesta Mafagliou, who was gazing down at the piazza, her eyes unfocused, her lips moving constantly, in communion with a dozen or so spirits stationed about the surrounding buildings. She’d spent all night conjuring daemons and placing them into the bodies of birds to be her eyes and ears.
So far, nothing untoward had happened. The Jhafi were simply ignoring the ceremony, not rioting, as Octa Dorobon had feared.
Gyle went back inside the chapel, to the little balcony overlooking the inner sanctum. Bronze Sol et Lune faces still gazed out from the walls, but the Sacred Heart of the Kore had been placed upon the altar and a Kore Crozier now presided over the chapel. The man had been sent by Pallas to convert the Javonesi to the Kore. Good luck with that, he thought drily. Others had tried before him; they had all failed utterly.
‘By the holy power of Corineus, who intercedes on our behalf with almighty Kore, I invoke the Sacred Heart,’ cried the Crozier, whose chosen name was Eternalus. ‘I call upon the Blessed Three Hundred to witness this great moment. I convey the sanction and approval of Emperor Constant Sacrecour and his Sainted Mother to this coronation.’
His words echoed about the small chapel. Gyle could see Octa Dorobon, her face displaying every feeling as she watched, torn between distaste at the humble setting and grim satisfaction at the importance of the moment. This was her triumph: the coronation of her son to replace the husband she’d lost on the throne her family had won and lost and won again. Of course, it was also the moment when legally she gave up control of her son, and her conflicted feelings were also writ large across her visage.
Poor bastard, to have to call her ‘Mother’, Gyle thought, turning his attention to the son.
Francis Dorobon was clad all in gold, gold thread embroidered onto gold silk, with only a blue and white quartered shield on his breast interrupting the radiance of his garb. His hair was immaculate, his face composed and filled with pride. His sword glowed with gnosis-light. In the darkened chapel, he shone like one of Kore’s own Angels.
‘Behold, the symbol of royal supremacy in this kingdom,’ Eternalus Crozier intoned, displaying the Javon crown. He then swept into a recitation of Francis’ lineage. Gyle ignored Olivia Dorobon’s discreet wave and focused on Cera Nesti instead. Something in the girl’s demeanour had been troubling him these past few days. There was a lightness in her step that had not been there since her father the king was murdered.
Her skin looks healthier. Her eyes have a new radiance. She treads lightly where before she trudged.
There was no news from the outside world that might have lifted the girl’s spirits. So he was left with one thing. Fool, he told himself scornfully as he studied the way her lips were parted in a secret smile.
Fool is too mild a description for what I am.
She had let him kiss her.
*
He hadn’t meant any such thing to occur. He had meant only to brief her about the coronation and the ceremony that would follow. ‘They will use your presence to show their power over you,’ he warned. ‘Do not be provoked, no matter what they do or say. It’s not worth it.’
‘I’m not stupid, Magister,’ she’d reminded him, flashing a faint smile that confused him. He’d been puzzled why she was so cheery about all this.
‘Cera, this is important. Octa wants you dead. She does not want Francis to proceed with his marriage to you or Portia Tolidi. She’s afraid she’s losing control of her son, and she will lash out at you.’
‘You’ll look after me,’ she’d said, cocking her head just so, in the way that showed her to best advantage. Had she been practising in a mirror? Somehow it had made his throat catch. ‘I know you will.’
He’d not often been truly lonely in his life. Normally he dealt with solitude easily, but very occasionally, it bit him hard. The first time that had happened had been during the Noros Revolt, in the months before the massacre at Knebb. That loneliness had been born of the war and the loss of his lover, a period of utter desolation that had ended the night Elena Anborn had come to his tent.
His second period of aching emptiness – that was right now.
He liked to portray himself as a man who walked alone, a man who needed no one else – but that wasn’t true, and he wasn’t one to lie to himself. He needed someone, not so much to bed – though that was certainly part of it – but to talk to. That had been Elena’s magic, the thing that bound them so close together. Sex was like eating, he did it because at times he needed to, but it was that meeting of minds he really craved.
And right now, the only person with the wit, intelligence and perception he needed was this young woman, Elena’s protégé. The irony was part of the allure, he was sure of it, but that didn’t make it less real. Only a fool did not acknowledge his own needs and desires.
His manipulations meant Cera still mistrusted him, but over recent week he thought the barriers had been coming down, as much on her side as his. She was drawn to him, by their kindred souls, he knew it – and he wanted her. If that meant betraying Francis Dorobon, he would do it: to protect her, and bind her to him. He could feel his body beginning to yearn for hers. It didn’t matter that she was not as beautiful as Vedya or Portia; her mind was the stairway to her soul.
‘I will look after you,’ he’d promised her. ‘We are both under threat here. We need each other.’
She’d shivered when she met his eyes. Had that been fear, or the acknowledgment of desire?
‘Magister—’
Her voice had brought him back in the room. ‘Call me Gurvon, Cera.’
She’d smiled shyly and slowly flicked a tress of hair from her face in a motion so graceful it froze him. ‘Why do you risk yourself to protect me?’ she’d asked – and that she spoke of state affairs and not of passion only enflamed him further. She was truly a woman with a heart and mind like his own.
‘One must always keep options open,’ he’d told her seriously.
‘So I am just a long-odds bet, in case the leading horse falls?’
‘No. I find the Dorobon repulsive,’ he had said, his voice a whisper that would not carry to where Hesta might be watching. ‘It is only politics that has me aiding them at all. There are far worthier causes.’
She’d taken his cue. ‘Alliances can change,’ she’d breathed. ‘Gurvon.’
He’d thrilled at the sound of his name on her lips, and it had encouraged him to continue, ‘How can I go back to Yuros after this? The emperor does not welcome those he owes. Far better if I had a sanctuary here.’
She’d stared up at him, so close to him he could smell the flowery, musky
scent of her body. ‘Would you truly betray the Dorobon? For me?’
I could betray anyone, but the reasons would always be dictated by logic. ‘For you, perhaps.’ He’d reached out, caught her chin, tilted her face upwards, and covered her mouth with his.
Her lips were achingly sweet, and she hadn’t pulled away. Only iron discipline and the nagging suspicion that Hesta might be watching had kept him from more – that, and the fact that she still must go to Francis’ bed as a virgin.
*
‘All is well,’ Hesta whispered in his ear, bringing him back to the coronation. He hid his surprise that she’d got so close to him without his knowledge.
She is dangerous in her own way. I should be more wary of her.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgement. Mara and Sordell were with Endus Rykjard, laying plans. Hesta was his only experienced back-up here in Brochena. Young Mathieu Fillon was strong, but he was young and as yet unblooded, and Madeline Parlow was useless in a fight. He had to rely on Hesta more than he liked, but so far she’d risen well to the task. She shouldn’t be here, though, and she shouldn’t be speaking aloud. Gyle thought she looked tired from the constant drain on her gnosis caused by so many active spirit-bindings – but that’s what he was paying her to do.
He answered her mentally, letting his irritation show,
The Lantrian pulled a sly face.
Gyle scowled.
As Gyle silently fumed, his eyes went back to Cera. It certainly rankled to see the girl wed to another, but marriages weren’t for ever, whatever the vows said. And he still had several cards to play, including Timori, whose whereabouts he’d been careful to keep from anyone else in his team.
Francis was now kneeling before Eternalus Crozier, who was raising the crown over his head. ‘Francis Louis Dorobon, rightful Marquis of Sendon and Verussy, by the power vested in me, I crown you King of Javon.’ He lowered the crown, newly remade to fit snugly, onto the head of the young man.
Nineteen. That’s ludicrously young for such a delicate role.
Francis was the same age as Cera, of course – but she had been twice the ruler Dorobon would ever be. His eyes strayed back to her: standing alone at the end of the third pew, isolated, vulnerable, her eyes glassing over. She would be remembering her father and mother, thinking of her sister and brother. He found himself wanting to shield her from this, for nothing more than the gratitude in her eyes.
If the Dorobon turn on me, I could raise this whole land against them, if it was in her name.
He watched only her as those present cheered their new king, then filed forward to kiss his ring. They made her do it too, in her plain violet dress that made her look more like a servant than a princess. They hadn’t let her wear her coronet, nor any jewellery; nothing but a bridal veil. Portia Tolidi was similarly attired. They awaited the second ceremony to come; the wedding, which would be conducted in private because of Octa’s fury that it was to happen at all.
Now the moment was come, he wasn’t truly sure he wanted it either.
Only a fool did not acknowledge his own desires.
*
It was raining …
Travellers had told her it rained all the time in Yuros, but Cera had only ever lived in Javon, where it rained just twice a year, in Noveleve and Febreux: once going into winter and again coming out. At those times torrential downpours filled the lakes and flooded the plains. The Keshi called it the Yagmur; in Lakh it was the Monsoon.
Traditionally, the Yagmur was a cause of celebration. Even under Dorobon occupation and after the loss of so many men, those celebrations went ahead.
She could hear the drums pulsing through the city where the Jhafi thronged, white-clad men in some of the squares, brightly clad women in others. It was one of only two festivals where the women could shed their bekira-shrouds in public, and only then as long as no men were present. She remembered her mother taking her and Solinde dancing some years, whenever duty permitted. Those had been some of the happiest times of her life.
This year, she could only listen from her darkened room and yearn.
She stifled a yawn and stared down at the rain-lashed city, wishing she could take Portia and dance with her amidst all the other women. She had risen at dawn to pray in the little masjid attached to the palace, the same one her mother used to take them to, to pray to Ahm. The palace was silent, in contrast to the streets outside. The dreary Rondians cannot compete with our vitality, she thought with a smile.
There would be no official duties until evening; there was nowhere she needed to be. She missed the meetings, the intense discussions that shaped the kingdom. Now she was nothing, just a bargaining chip – or a broodmare. She pulled her left hand from under the covers and stared at the heavy, uncomfortable ring on her left hand. The Dorobon crest marked her as Francis’ possession. Immediately after the Dorobon’s coronation, she and Portia had been taken to a small Sollan chapel where drui Prato had married them both to Francis under the Javon protocols. She’d pretended in her mind that she was marrying Portia instead.
Then Francis had taken them both to his suite, and while Portia watched, he had taken her maidenhood. Portia’s presence had made it bearable, despite the pain and humiliation of being made to kneel and be taken from behind like a cow. But at least she hadn’t had to look at him, his repulsive face and pallid, fleshy skin. It had hurt, but not so much, and he’d apparently mistaken her grunts of discomfort for pleasure. He’d been pleased with her bloodied loins and had taken the stained sheet to the door to show those waiting. Then he’d banished her, so that he could have his way with Portia. There’d be no bloodied sheets there.
I am a woman and a wife. It was odd, but the thought meant nothing to her. Nothing did, except Portia.
Their stolen moments were all the sweeter for the danger, and the difficulties in contriving them, slipping at midnight into Portia’s bedroom, trusting Gyle’s word that no one now watched them. Most nights Portia wanted only to sleep or to simply be held – they had made love on only three occasions – and those little rejections hurt when Cera wanted her so badly. Her days were full of desperate desire, a need that burned inside so intensely she thought she would immolate. She’d always scorned love-struck girls, but now she was one, and she could scarcely bear it. Knowing her passion was only partially returned was another torture – but when they were together, nothing else mattered.
She could not believe a being so lovely would consent to lie with her; she could not believe that another’s mouth and tongue could elicit such pleasure from her. And to let her do the same, to taste the spicy hollows of her skin? That was beyond price …
And afterwards they talked so freely, shared things she’d never told another soul, whispering softly in each other’s ears until all the time had slipped through their fingers and the charade must begin again.
I love her. I want to be with her forever. Suspected Portia lay with her only out of pity and friendship was a pang she could bear, for now. She will come to love me fully in time, she told herself; she would even have prayed for it, if she had thought that there was any god who might grant such a wish.
Today King Francis was off with his friends, Gyle included, hunting lions. She was pleased Gyle was away, for playing with his affec
tions felt deadly dangerous. He wanted her, she knew that, even if that meant cuckolding the king. So far she’d managed to hide her utter loathing of him, let him think she was being won round, but she knew she could not do that forever.
No doubt Octa and Olivia were indulging in yet another bout of gluttony and excess in the royal suite. They would doubtless already be on the way to intoxicated – they would drink all day until they finally collapsed insensible sometime around dusk. There was no one living here on the top levels except Portia and her. Marriage hadn’t changed the arrangement of the bedrooms, and that was absolutely fine by Cera.
Finally! The moment she’d been waiting for arrived: Tarita gave a discreet rap on her door, then pattered away. Of course her little maid knew – but if she judged, she didn’t condemn. Cera erupted from her bed and scurried from her room to the next in the blink of an eye. The parlour door was open, affording a view of an unmade bed and a long, lithe body sprawled naked among the sheets, a tangle of russet hair vivid against white skin.
Cera lost her breath momentarily.
Portia looked up with hooded eyes. ‘You are insatiable,’ she complained, wriggling to make room in the bed.
*
Francis Dorobon’s entourage wound its way slowly back into Brochena, through the kenars, the Jhafi slums, at the edge of the city. The column was large enough to dissuade attack, something that was becoming a greater threat of late. Two patrols had been ambushed and murdered last month. Fenys Rhodium and Sir Teris Grandienne’s response had been brutal: they’d sealed off the area where the attacks had taken place and burned it to the ground with gnosis-fuelled fires, slaying hundreds of men, women and children who’d almost certainly had nothing to do with the attacks.
I could have taken you straight to the men who did it, Gyle mused. But he was more than happy for the Dorobon to engender more hatred for themselves.