by David Hair
The locals called the Imperial Bastion’s northern portal ‘Coldgate’, for it faced the snow-chilled northerlies that prevailed right through winter and into early spring. They were easing now, though winter lingered in the frosty shade and old ice clung to the stonework. The Coldgate guards stayed close to the watch-room fire and passed visitors through with perfunctory briskness.
When the priest reached the head of the line, the guard looked twice at his papers, puzzled that the grandness of the title the papers proclaimed didn’t match the man’s garb. ‘Er, good morrow, Comfateri,’ he said cautiously. ‘Where’s your retinue?’
‘There’s only me, I’m afraid,’ Ostevan replied. He pulled out his periapt and conjured a pulse of light in the gem to prove that he was indeed a mage. ‘I trust I’m expected?’
‘Of course – your name is on the lists . . . but we expected . . . a carriage?’
‘I am a humble rural priest, recalled to the city as Confessor after the loss of poor Grafien,’ Ostevan explained. ‘Are my papers in order?’
‘Yes, yes – please, pass on,’ the soldier exclaimed, keen to end the awkward conversation.
Ostevan entered the narrow corridor beyond the gate, designed for defenders to pour burning pitch and rain arrows and crossbow bolts down on any attackers, and walked swiftly into Valcet Square, the parade ground before the Imperial Palace.
I’m back . . .
Three colossal buildings faced him on the south side of the square: the barracks of the Imperial Guard at the east end and the offices of the Treasury and Imperocracy at the west. Between them, tallest and most beautiful, stood the Domus Imperium, the royal household, built in creamy gold and pink marble. Tall towers with lance-head roofs punctured the air and hundreds of banners, an elaborate heraldic code that revealed who was at court, flapped crisply in the cold breeze.
Ostevan scanned the banners cursorily as he sidestepped perambulating mage-nobles, scurrying functionaries and long-striding soldiers in Imperial purple and white. He took a side door into a small courtyard filled with life-size marble statues of every past emperor; the unlamented Constant had recently joined them.
How remarkable – they’ve managed to make the puny teatsucker look noble! He spat at the statue’s base as he passed, then rapped on a wooden door. He heard shuffling feet, then an old monk opened it, stepped back and bowed low. ‘My Lord,’ he croaked, ‘welcome back.’
‘Not “Lord”,’ Ostevan said genially, ‘simply Comfateri, Brother Junius.’
‘Of course, Lord . . . Comfateri. Let me show you to your rooms. They’re tucked in behind the vestry, and you have your own herb garden too. Old Grafien loved his herbs.’
Junius fussed over him for a while until, pleading tiredness from the road, he was shown the door. Unpacking took little time – there had been nothing in Ventia he’d wanted to bring back – but he lingered over one item: a copper Lantric mask lacquered with a diamond pattern of red and green.
Hail, Master, he said silently, studying Jest’s crafty visage. I have arrived.
He used Earth-gnosis to create a hidey-hole for the mask beneath the floor until he could find a more permanent place for it, then surveyed his new domain. His predecessor had few belongings, but he found himself rather taken with an ivory figurine of a bare-breasted winged woman, clearly Crusade plunder, so he placed it in front of his prayer-kneeler so that he’d at least have something to feast his eyes on while pretending to pray.
Then he went into the chapel, his new lair: a small, darksome place, the old stones black with age. A radiant porcelain statue of Corineus holding the dagger in his heart like a blessing from on high dominated the chamber. He made his unhurried way along the burial wall, examining the bronze plaques; behind them lay the decayed remains from centuries of Imperial rule: cousins and relatives, loyal generals and counsellors – anyone not worthy of a full sarcophagus in the catacombs below. Finally he found what he sought: a newer plaque, tucked into a low corner.
Radine Antaria Jandreux, Duchess of Coraine, d. 931.
The Soul of Coraine, beloved by all.
She dwells with Kore
To Ostevan’s knowledge, Radine had died alone, still railing bitterly at the loss of Solon Takwyth and her plans of revenge for 909. Something had broken inside her after the coronation and marriage in 930; her health and her mind had collapsed.
I hope you suffered before you passed, you sour old bitch.
He went on into the Reliquary, a small side-chapel containing some supposed relics, the grave-goods of Corineus Himself, encased in a gold box surrounded by gleaming candles. Only the imperial family were permitted to pray here, so the small cloaked figure seated in the front row must be—
Empress Lyra Vereinen rose, smiling radiantly. ‘Ostevan!’
He swept forward, smiled warmly and knelt, kissing the signet ring on her right hand. ‘My Queen, my heart rejoices to see you.’ Dear Kore, he thought, she’s become more rukkable than a harem of Eastern virgins!
When he’d left Pallas, Lyra had been a thin, pallid girl, though possessed of a certain delicate prettiness. Nearly five years on, she’d lost her girlish naïveté, gained womanly dignity and filled out. His spies told him that her flashes of impetuous wilfulness had become tempered by sorrow and experience, that she’d tasted pain, encountered dashed hopes and suffered loss. It gave her a radiance that was positively regal. ‘You look every inch an empress,’ he said truthfully.
‘Ostevan, you flatterer!’ She took his hands, and her welcoming smile became sad. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long to recall you. I never knew when I made those rash promises that it would be so difficult.’
‘I understand,’ he replied. I understand that you were weak and distracted, and you needed to keep Wurther happy, he railed silently, keeping his face serene. If I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, I’d still be in damned Ventia.
But she noticed none of his inner rage as she sat and pulled him down beside her. ‘You’ve not changed even a little, Ostevan,’ she said. ‘I hope I look as good as you when I reach fifty!’
‘I’m not sure a beard would become you, Milady,’ he quipped, and she giggled delightedly. As a pure-blood, he’d been well-preserved anyway; since he’d taken the daemon’s embrace the real difficulty now was remembering to look his age.
‘I trust you’ve kept up with events here?’ she asked. ‘I shall so rely on your advice.’
‘Of course, your Majesty – you know how much I’ve hungered to return to your service.’
‘Was Ventia truly awful? I so wanted you back, but Fate conspired against us.’
Wurther conspired, and Fate did as She was told, Ostevan thought. I gave you the empire on a plate, and you sacrificed me to win Wurther’s support. For a time he’d thought she might find the wherewithal to recall him in defiance of Wurther, but as the months turned into years and his rage grew, he’d realised he’d have to do it all himself. His hatred for rural Ventia was matched only by his loathing for those who’d allowed him to be sent there. But that bitterness was a boil to be lanced another day. ‘How did our Grand Prelate react to my recall?’
‘Very unhappily,’ Lyra smiled, ‘but it’s time things didn’t go entirely his way. Ostevan, I’ve missed you: it would have been a great comfort to have you here when . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘You know what happened, don’t you?’
‘I do.’ Two miscarriages, no children, and the people whisper of ‘Radine’s Curse’ and calculate the years until young Cordan comes of age. It’s no more than you deserve. ‘My Queen, I wept when I heard. But I am sure you will be blessed in time. You must have patience.’
‘Patience,’ she echoed. ‘So many things seem to demand it.’ Then her face brightened. ‘But your own patience has been rewarded and here you are: my new confessor! Though I have no idea how you persuaded poor Grafien to name you as his successor!’
It was one of the quirks of the Church that the incumbent Comfateri could name his own successor.
Grafien had been an iron-willed tyrant; it had been a vast surprise to all that he’d named Ostevan as his successor, allowing him to return to Pallas.
Lyra leaned closer, unwittingly exposing her cleavage. ‘How did you persuade him?’
I bit him and flooded his system with daemonic ichor, Ostevan recalled, enjoying the view. Blood was racing to his loins; Lyra’s body had ripened delightfully but she was clearly still naïve in some ways. ‘With faith and good hospitality,’ he replied aloud.
‘You always were a charmer,’ Lyra twinkled. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. Is there anything I can do for you?’
Oh, the things you could do for me, he thought hungrily. Ever since the Master had changed him, Ostevan had been subject to increasingly lurid desires, fed to him by the daemon Abraxas. The urges could be almost overpowering when he was alone with a woman, but as Naxius had promised, he was still in control: Abraxas was a tap he could turn on or off. And though Lyra Vereinen might be in easy reach, she was the most scrutinised woman in Pallas. Giving in to such desires too soon was foolish. He would have to be . . . patient.
‘Milady, being restored to your service is all I need at present,’ he replied humbly.
‘It’s probably selfish of me to be so pleased that you’re here, instead of in the Celestium where you belong,’ Lyra said apologetically, utterly oblivious to how much he wanted to ram himself into her. ‘But having you all to myself as my confessor will be wonderful, Ostevan.’
My dear girl, he thought, you have no idea what you’re wishing upon yourself . . .
*
From her vantage facing south, Lyra could see all three parts of her capital: Pallas-Nord, Argundian-dominated Emtori on the west bank of the confluence, and the Celestium, glittering across the Bruin River to the south. The wealthy held the high ground, and the burghers, more than a million souls, were crammed into the lower slopes, vales and riversides. She knew there were places the City Watch were afraid to enter, like Kenside and Tockburn, but from her balcony, it was all a distant haze of grey stone buildings and red-brick tiled roofs, streets packed with carts and people, the blue-green rivers shimmering. Mansions encrusted the hills like gemstones and the Celestium stood stark and elegant above the squalor of Southside and Fenreach. This was Pallas the Mighty, heart of Yuros.
Her mind wasn’t on the splendour of her realm, though, but the question of whether a missed bleeding meant she’d conceived again, which brought all the usual array of hopes and fears. If she was with child, it ended one domestic crisis and began another one. She and Ril had nothing to show for nearly five years of marriage except two traumatic miscarriages.
The first had almost destroyed her, because she’d been so full of hope and belief that Kore had given her the child they needed to seal their reign. That loss had sucked the joy from her marriage. Ril was still her hero, but his flaws were much more evident after that first setback. Even magi-healers didn’t fully understand how bodies functioned; they blamed the miscarriage on him, at least to her face, but she suspected they really blamed her.
One miscarriage could be put down as misfortune. The second broke her heart. All of the court had advice, but when she finally conceived again, she was plagued with illness and the loss of that unborn child felt like the fulfilment of an long-known prophecy.
Must I go through all that again? She’d been procrastinating, knowing what she was in for once the pregnancy was announced. But this morning, during Unburdening, she’d told Ostevan – and how wonderful to have him back; it was three weeks now and it felt like he’d never left – and the Comfateri had advised her to tell the healers promptly, and place herself in their care. He’s right, she decided, returning to her room and calling her maid. ‘Geni!’
‘Majesty?’ Geni was a robust country girl with a cheerful, freckled face, a healer-mage born out of wedlock to a Jandreux grandee, chosen for the royal household for her attentiveness and good nature. ‘Geni, I need to see the healers . . . my bleeding is a few days late.’
Geni gave a cautious smile. ‘That’s not unusual for you, Majesty.’
Lyra bowed her head in embarrassment. ‘To be honest, I didn’t actually bleed during these last two months. I think I’m in my third month of pregnancy.’
Geni’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You must see Domara!’ she squeaked.
Lyra bit her lip. The moment she told her tyrannical royal midwife, her choices would be taken away; that was why she’d concealed her condition for so long – but her waist was visibly thickening now, had she permitted anyone to see her unclothed. She was running out of options. She would be placed into confinement, made to eat and drink what they told her, forbidden further congress with Ril lest it disturb the unborn, and even worse, forced to relinquish the reins of her realm. The constant scrutiny would intensify, and she hated that worst of all.
But if I don’t tell them, they’ll blame me if this pregnancy fails as well.
‘I’m not sure I’m ready to face Domara,’ she confessed, then she heard voices. ‘Is that my next visitor? Lord Setallius, yes?’ She’d come to rely upon her sessions with the spymaster, but he made Geni jittery. ‘Show him in, then you can take the laundry down – and not a word to anyone yet, Geni.’
Geni curtseyed obediently and bustled away, avoiding even looking at Setallius.
There were deeper lines in the spymaster’s face, and the curtain of hair that concealed the ruined left side of his face was paler – he would turn sixty this year, and even a mage wasn’t immune to ageing. He was talking quietly to Basia as he entered; he’d appointed her Lyra’s personal bodyguard, for she could accompany Lyra where it wasn’t seemly for a man to go. They bowed, then Basia left and Setallius got down to business.
His first duty was to examine her aura for traces of hostile gnosis. Her own gnosis had never come, though she was assured her magical aura was fully formed. She’d learned the mental techniques anyone could use, but they were her only defence . . . except for the dwyma, the secret only Setallius, Ril and Basia knew.
‘All clear,’ the spymaster told her, and she felt her usual tingle of relief – although he’d once told her that a more powerful mind than this could escape such detections. Fortunately, Dirklan Setallius was one of the most skilled pure-blood magi in all of Yuros.
‘Now, I have a report from Sir Esvald Berlond. The peasants’ revolt in rural Midrea has been suppressed and the ringleaders arrested,’ he began.
Another revolt. The thought that there were people so desperate that they’d take up arms against the legions sickened her – but people were starving in the hinterlands; there just wasn’t enough to go round. ‘Who’s being blamed?’ she wondered, hating herself for asking.
‘Your Council. Fate. Some rave about curses. Nothing coherent, Milady.’ Setallius shrugged. ‘The important thing is that there was nothing ideological or united in the unrest.’
‘Nothing that comes back to Garod Sacrecour, then?’
‘Nothing provable, Milady. In fact, I see different patterns.’
She sat up. ‘What patterns?’
‘It’s rural lands, and the uprisings happen after the tax farmers have gone through.’
The tax farmers again. She pursed her lips unhappily. Two years ago, Calan Dubrayle and Edreu Gestatium had proposed a plan to collect tax by proxy, letting regional lords bid for the right to collect imperial tax in their lands. Dubrayle claimed it had saved her Treasury from penury – saved her reign, in other words – by alleviating some of the crippling debts the Crown owed the bankers. The cost so far was a score of minor insurrections.
‘Have we done wrong in passing those laws?’ she asked.
Setallius wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s not so straightforward, Milady. Dubrayle and Gestatium’s purpose is to accumulate wealth for you, and they claim the tax-farming laws have been a success. Perhaps they have, but they don’t include human suffering and increased threats to your security in their calculations.’
The laws had been passed w
hen she’d been bedridden with the second miscarriage. Ril had been at the Council sessions, of course, but she knew her husband. He had many qualities, but legal intricacies were not his strength. ‘Should we repeal them?’
‘It’s worth the discussion,’ Setallius answered. ‘Other places are teetering on the edge of rebellion: parts of Brevis and Hollenia, rural Ventia, even Mollachia . . . It wouldn’t take much to tip them over the edge at the moment.’
‘How did Constant deal with these stresses?’
Setallius snorted. ‘These matters weren’t stressful to him – the late emperor saw a peasants’ revolt as just another opportunity for his legions to drill.’
Dear Kore, may I never become so callous, Lyra prayed. ‘What else is happening, Dirklan?’
Much, it turned out: continued lawlessness in Rimoni and Silacia, which had fragmented into a confusion of baronies and city-states; the mercenaries alone appeared to be profiting from the current situation. Argundy continued to demand preferential concessions from her, playing on their ‘kinship’. At least the secret of my parentage remains unknown, she reflected. No one had yet come forward claiming to be her real father.
‘Meanwhile,’ Setallius went on, ‘Estellayne is in religious ferment – yet another person has apparently had a prophetic vision – and Noros and Bricia are rebuilding their military strength at speed. Nothing immediately alarming, but a stew of potential issues coming to the boil.’
‘Thank you, Dirklan. It’s good to have this understanding of what is transpiring before we go into full Council.’ Lyra hesitated, wondering if she should say more . . .
‘My Queen, are you well?’ Setallius enquired, his one eye filled with knowing. ‘You keep touching your midriff,’ he added apologetically.
She pulled a face. ‘Yes. I think I’m with child again.’ She coughed. ‘Erm, three months.’
He surprised her by giving her a warm, gentle look, full of sympathy, and – she was certain – genuine pleasure. ‘Are you telling me, or telling the world?’ he asked.
‘Worse.’ She smiled wanly. ‘I’m about to tell Domara.’