Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  Within the hour, Imperial Midwife Domara, a grey-haired woman with a face like a predatory bird, who didn’t appear to have a maternal bone in her body, swept into the Royal Apartment, confirmed that Lyra had another child inside her and promptly put her to bed. Lyra let her head fall back to the pillow as the mechanism of Imperial childbirth gripped her yet again. Domara reminded her of the strictures, all the things she was now forbidden, and all the rites and ceremonies, religious and familial, that they would perform to ensure that this would be a successful gestation.

  Lyra had hated it all both previous times, but if she rebelled, she would be trebly blamed for any failure. Dear Kore, please just let this child be born safe and well!

  She cast her eyes among her retinue of ladies. ‘Basia,’ she called, ‘I’m in good hands with Domara – could you do me a favour and find Ril? He needs to be here.’

  *

  Ril Endarion’s gaze locked on the shape of Lero Falquist as the young knight circled him warily. He moved onto the balls of his feet, letting the younger man expend his energy while he waited for Lero to move his feet into a lunge . . .

  ‘Ha!’ Lero bellowed, the buckler in his left hand dropping as he swung into the blow. His blade only grazed Ril’s gnostic shields, leaving a blur of sparks trailing in the air, as Ril darted right and thrust. The blunted tip of his weapon sliced through the shields and tapped Lero on the left shoulder. The men in the gallery boxes overlooking the small indoor arena applauded. Ril came here every day he could get away, to practise with the other mage-knights – and to remind them who was their commander. There were mage-knights from all over Rondelmar in his service, but he kept a core of Corani around him; and it was them he spent most time with.

  ‘You did it again,’ he told Lero now. ‘When you attack, you drop your buckler too low.’

  Lero spun away, cursing. ‘I can never reach you without over-stretching,’ he complained.

  ‘It’s the footwork: you’ve got to extend more when you strike, not this halfway blow you’ve got into your system. Commit to the blow!’

  Lero mopped at his brow and groaned. He was a Falquist, predisposed to believe himself the centre of the universe, but he was also a diligent student.

  They saluted each other, then Ril shouldered his practise blade and walked on. He watched another pair duel before calling a break and pointing out the flaws. ‘Don’t let the buckler creep too high – it’s there to protect your side, but if you let it block your vision, you’re weakening your defences, not strengthening them.’ The men he’d interrupted nodded sullenly, but obeyed.

  Four years he’d been doing this: training like a fiend, making damned sure he was still the best – and that the men knew it – but he was still at war with his own knights. He’d taken on all the senior men, Takwyth’s cronies, in bouts that were a hair’s-breadth from actual duels. Limbs had been broken, blood had been shed. Lessons had been taught.

  He’d made a particular point of beating Esvald Berlond, Jorden Falquist and Rolven Sulpeter first off, to make the point. They still hated him, of course, but the men beneath them had quickly realised that the half-Estellan outsider could beat every one of them.

  Taking down Takwyth’s cronies was the first part of his plans; the next was to befriend those who’d been like him, always on the outer, seeking out those good enough to promote and giving them opportunities. Today, he felt he could trust maybe two-thirds of the men he led – not bad, when four years ago it had been virtually none.

  He heard a tinkle of feminine laughter and glanced up at a small group of women in courtly finery. Jenet Brunlye’s merry, familiar laugh always pricked at his attention, bringing back memories. He saw her lively, intelligent face and rich red lips framed by long golden-brown tresses, her creamy skin amply displayed by a new low-cut red gown. Gold and diamonds glittered, no brighter than her eyes – somehow she always prospered. There was always another man who believed himself the only one. Their eyes met, and for a moment only he and she existed. Then he swallowed and looked away.

  There’s never a shortage of temptations here, old and new . . . The Book of Kore had much to say on the allure of sin, such as, ‘Temptation lies within, not in that we behold’.

  Doesn’t it ever?

  Then Basia was tottering up to him, calling, ‘Ril, you need to come.’

  Her anxious expression made him stiffen. ‘What’s happened?’

  She bent in close and whispered, ‘Lyra’s with child again.’

  Dear Kore. He looked skywards, a thousand hopes and fears thudding through his brain, then he tossed the blade to an attendant and strode back to the Domus Imperium, until he remembered himself and slowed his pace. ‘Sorry Fantoche,’ he murmured, softening the old nickname with a fond smile, ‘I’ll slow down.’

  She hadn’t changed all that much since Lyra’s coronation, other than the crows’ feet about her eyes and dark circles beneath them: being Lyra’s bodyguard was a prestigious role, but always stressful. Thankfully, her vigilance had yet to be fully tested.

  For himself, despite being in his late thirties now, with a few grey hairs about the temples of his black mane, he was probably in his physical prime. The demands of being the best knight of the realm had honed his natural strength and athleticism; he was lean and formidably muscular, the legacy of four years of sobriety and damned hard work.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘another child. Do we know when it was conceived?’

  ‘She’s three months in.’

  Ril stared. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you know? She’s your wife!’

  Ril flushed. ‘Woman’s business.’ He ran fingers through his hair. ‘Three months? I guess she wanted to be sure. I don’t think she could bear another miscarriage,’ he confessed. ‘And if it does happen, I’m done for.’ Maybe not a written law, but infertility was grounds for putting him aside.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Basia forced a smile. ‘This time, all may be well. She needs you, Ril.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. He met Basia’s eyes and knew she knew. Five years was a long time to live a lie – maybe if there’d been children, it would be different, but in the wake of the second miscarriage, something in him had rolled over and died. But despite this, he’d kept his promise to Setallius: he’d given up all his vices and thrown himself into being what Lyra needed, feigning love and desire – but despite all his fidelity and Lyra’s adoration, he didn’t love her.

  Admire, yes, and more than ever. Her growth in maturity and judgement and her suitability as ruler was there for all to see. She still made mistakes, but her grasp of leadership improved with every law she debated, every issue she grappled with. Intellectually, she’d left him far behind. And her beauty was still waxing . . .

  But in all other ways they’d disappointed each other. She had no interest in physical pursuits and feared exposing her lack of the gnosis, so she shunned riding or flying, pastimes he loved. Her passion was mental stimulus, but he couldn’t keep up. There was little room for play and laughter, and increasingly they’d been throwing themselves into their separate domains; Lyra at court, he among the fighting men. They barely talked now.

  Her prissy disapproval when he swore or blasphemed or criticised the Church rankled – she was too devout, too reliant on priests to tell her whether she did right or wrong. And now that snake Ostevan was back, and that troubled him too. And in the bedroom . . . they hadn’t drifted apart, because they’d never really found each other.

  Ril had been introduced to lovemaking by women who used their bodies with freedom, and they’d left him with desires that Lyra blanched at. She found his attempts to pleasure her with fingers or tongue degrading. Kisses and penetration were acceptable, but little else – and never vigorous and always beneath the covers. Lovemaking had become all about procreation, something they did in the phase of the moon when she was fertile. To her, it was still sinful. If there was some well of passion in her, he’d never found a way to uncap it.

  With
Jenet, he remembered hungrily, it was all about the pleasure. It was never dull.

  ‘Boredom is a marriage-killer,’ he used to tell Gryff and Larik, when he thought he’d never get married himself, and now he knew that was true. The biggest test came after the miscarriages, when the whispers began – It’s Endarion’s fault – he’s never fathered a bastard in all his years of whoring – his seed is thin, malformed. He must be put aside! – and Larik and Gryff had reappeared, bottles in hand. His discipline slipped, just a little, as they laughed and joked about the old times, old flames and escapades. Temptations ‘appeared’ . . . But this was Pallas, and there were eyes everywhere.

  Kore help me, I’ve been strong . . . To his shame, he realised that he wouldn’t be unhappy if Lyra were forced to put him aside as infertile. At least then I could live again . . .

  ‘Ril,’ Basia said gently, interrupting his gloomy reverie, ‘I really believe that this time, everything will work out.’

  He forced a grin. ‘Of course it will! Third time is the charm, right?’ But all the way up the stairs, his thoughts were of Jenet, and all that he’d given up for Lyra and House Corani.

  When he entered the Royal Suite, though, he showed nothing but delight. He brushed through the congratulations and into the bedchamber, past that reptile Ostevan, to his wife’s side. ‘Lyra, my darling,’ he said, kneeling and taking her hand. ‘Well done.’

  ‘All I did was lie there,’ she said shyly.

  Yes, and that’s part of the problem. But he laughed dutifully. ‘This time all will be well.’

  ‘This time,’ she agreed, her voice a mixture of hope and dread.

  ‘It’ll be a new start for us.’ He kissed her belly, in accordance with tradition, and loudly said, ‘May Kore bless us with a son!’

  There was a resounding, ‘KORE VENDEI!’, the traditional plea for Kore’s blessing.

  After that they accepted congratulations and well-wishes, until the crowd parted to allow two golden-haired figures, faces still plump with puppy-fat, to approach. Ril disliked both of them: Cordan Sacrecour was sly, with a way of asking apparently childish questions that were designed to draw out unpleasant truths, while Coramore had a tongue snide beyond her years. Neither had gained the gnosis yet, but that couldn’t be far away, especially in Cordan’s case. They were Lyra’s wards, and he knew people were speculating about what might transpire if Cordan attained manhood without Lyra producing an heir. He was almost fourteen now, with spots on his cheeks and the first hint of whiskers. His twelve-year-old sister had a puckered little mouth and piercing green eyes. They always left Ril feeling profoundly uneasy.

  The royal children entered the bedchamber and made the correct obeisance. ‘Congratulations, Aunty Lyra,’ Cordan said, his voice high, piping. He was a fine singer, apparently.

  Perhaps we should take his balls before they drop, like a Lantric castrato.

  ‘We hope everything goes well this time,’ Coramore added, making Lyra flinch.

  ‘Thank you for your kind wishes,’ she replied, extending her right hand so the children had to kiss it. ‘It’s so nice that we can be a family,’ she added, with a hint of assertiveness.

  Constant’s children smiled fixedly.

  ‘Let’s have a portrait painted of the four of us,’ Lyra suggested. ‘That will give me something to do while I’m in confinement. Something lovely to hang on the wall, for the ages.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Cordan echoed while Coramore eyed Ril, clearly not wanting her image preserved with his for posterity.

  ‘Won’t we all be too busy?’ Ril asked, no keener on the idea than the Sacrecour children. Then servants bearing platters of wine and food swept in, a goblet was pressed into his hand and by the time Ril turned back, the children had wandered off.

  ‘Milady, I’m so pleased for you,’ Jenet Brunlye said, gliding into the room, a gaggle of young women in her train. Ril caught his breath at the sight of her in her new red dress, and he wasn’t the only one. He caught a whispered conversation between two young fops behind him.

  ‘Sweet Kore’s codpiece, I like the look of her!’

  ‘She’s Jenet Brunlye – the court slut. Play your cards right and you’ll get to enjoy every inch of her – but I warn you, she’s damned expensive. Worth the cost though – you’ve never met a woman so enraptured with fornication—’

  Ril closed his ears as her eyes brushed over him, and for the tiniest moment, they were alone in the universe once again. Jenet, remember when . . .?

  They’d been of an age, ambitious, fresh from the Arcanum. He was still traumatised from the ordeals of 909 and she’d healed a part of his soul. He’d fallen for her totally, until he’d discovered that he wasn’t the only one, just someone for her to practise her charms upon. As his star waned, so too did her interest in him – but somehow they’d gone through hatred and back to liking, coming to respect each other’s ability to survive at court, without ever losing the cynicism their affair had engendered in each other. Most nights, his last thoughts were still of her.

  Then Basia plucked at his sleeve. ‘It’s better if you keep your eyes on your wife alone, Ril dear. Don’t give this rabble yet another chance to gossip.’

  *

  ‘He’s a buffoon,’ Cordan noted, watching Ril Endarion. ‘He wasn’t bred to this and it shows.’

  Coramore sniggered. ‘They’re like the Fate-Cards: he’s the Fool and Lyra’s the Innocent. Lucia would’ve eaten them for breakfast.’ They’d both been terrified of their grandmother, but enormously proud of her too.

  The impromptu celebration of the Queen’s conception was becoming increasingly loud and flirtatious. Cordan still didn’t quite understand why men chased women, though he was beginning to find something interesting in Lady Jenet Brunlye’s laughter. He always felt a little breathless when she was near.

  ‘I don’t dislike Lyra,’ he commented. ‘She’d make a perfectly serviceable nun. But we’re doomed to grow up watching her and her children rule while we die forgotten.’

  ‘Just led out occasionally, like old horses, to show how benevolent and generous she is.’ Coramore scowled. ‘We have to escape somehow.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cordan scowled back. ‘When will Uncle Garod come for us?’

  That question had been on their lips for nearly five years, but it remained unanswered. At first they’d been kept hidden, but since Duchess Radine of Coraine had died, they’d been permitted to attend court, under strong guard and confined to certain areas of the Bastion. Thanks to the miscarriages, Cordan was still next in line for the throne, and Lyra had begun summoning them for awkward conversations about how they were really all the same family.

  No, Cordan thought viciously, you’re just a Corani-Argundian mongrel, and we’ll see your head on a spike one day.

  Coramore nudged him and pointed out Ostevan Comfateri. ‘Look who’s back: the lizard who betrayed us. We’d be emperor and empress if not for him.’

  Coramore’s misunderstanding of her own place in the succession amused Cordan. When he took the throne, he wanted someone else entirely beside him. Someone pretty, like Lady Jenet . . .

  Abruptly Cordan was sick of watching people celebrating a pregnancy that was going to ruin his life. ‘Come on, let’s go. Where’s Mutthead?’ ‘Mutthead’ was Sir Bruss Lamgren, a bald, bushy-bearded mage-knight whose job it was to follow the pair of them around. They cornered him and told him, ‘We’re bored now. We want to go.’

  Lamgren grunted, put down his goblet and followed them out the door. He was, Cordan was convinced, stupid as cowshit, but he suspected he reported all their conversations to the one man he truly feared here: the Wraith, Dirklan Setallius.

  They were halfway up the stairs when the dizziness struck him. All at once, Cordan was seeing triple and his bones seemed to be draining marrow. He gasped and clutched the railing to stop himself falling. In an instant Coramore was there, supporting him. ‘Cordi? Cordi—!’

  ‘Uh,’ he moaned, bile rising up his throat like
a flooding drain, then suddenly he was vomiting red wine and half-digested pastries over the stairs.

  Mutthead grunted, ‘You drunk, boy?’

  ‘No!’ he gasped, humiliated, ‘I only had one cup. But I feel . . . really strange.’

  ‘Help us!’ Coramore demanded, cradling her brother against her, wiping his face with her sleeve and whispering, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  A pair of boot heels clicked on the stairs, then the Wraith himself was standing over him, his one cold eye staring into his face while he gripped Cordan’s chin in his gauntleted left hand. ‘Hold still, boy! Let me see—’

  ‘What is it?’ Coramore demanded, a note of hysteria in her voice. ‘Have you poisoned him?’

  ‘No, he’s perfectly fine,’ Setallius drawled. ‘Congratulations, Cordan. You’ve just gained the gnosis.’

  The gnosis . . . I’ve come into my powers! If he hadn’t been passing out, Cordan would have swooned in joy.

  Setallius summoned servants to help him to his room. ‘Just keep drinking water and you’ll come right in a few hours,’ he told him. ‘I’ll notify the Keepers and they’ll send someone to assess you. Then it’ll be off to the Arcanum with you.’

  Cordan couldn’t tell if the Wraith was angry or pleased at this momentous change in his life.

  When they were alone, he shared a look with Coramore, who was fighting to hold back tears; she dreaded being parted. They’d lived their entire lives together. ‘You’ll gain yours too, any day,’ he told her, though she likely wouldn’t for years.

  ‘You’ll go off to the Arcanum and leave me here to die,’ she whimpered.

  He tried to argue, but the nausea and an onrushing migraine put paid to that; instead he collapsed back into his pillow, the room swimming about him.

  When he woke, Coramore was asleep in a chair, her thumb in her mouth and her hair a mess, and there was a woman sitting in the armchair beside the bed. His sudden thrill of fear was blended with confused wanting.