by David Hair
The brazier lit and they dived again, dipping into the approaches, shrieking between the long stands, at eye-level with the highest seats, slightly slower this time, as he dug in his left heel and kicked up under the right wing.
The crowd ooo-ed as Pearl flicked onto her side, wings out straight: pegasus and rider now flying sideways. It was a high-risk move, pulling his head and lance into the epicentre of the impact point, while shifting his target out of alignment. In the middle of the manoeuvre, Ril engaged combat-divination, hoping for the same result as the bout with Brylion Fasterius . . .
His vision blurred and lines of force streamed through his skull, nearly blinding him, because Takwyth also changed tactics, altering his venator’s rhythm with a quick nudge of the knee, so that it lifted and then dipped before impact, bringing Takwyth into contact from above, not below, driving downwards with vicious force. Takwyth’s lance followed Ril’s target languidly, while Ril’s divination-gnosis showed him too much; his sight blurred and he almost lost his aim . . .
Then his blow smashed home, even as Takwyth’s lance pierced his shields, missed the target and crunched into his chest, almost punching through. Both lances broke, but the breastplate all but caved in, his lungs emptying as the world swirled and spun. Takwyth’s blow killed most of Pearl’s forward momentum and an instant later her hooves tangled in the nets and she spilled Ril from her back. He flew in a terrifying arc, the noise of the crowd buried beneath his beloved mount’s scream, then he heard a sickening crunch, a moment before his kinesis prevented the ground from breaking his back. He rolled over and over, then hung there, winded and gasping, tangled in the net. All he could see was Pearl below him, her right wing shattered, and two legs broken.
NO! NO NO NO!
Takwyth’s venator spread its wings as momentum took them over the Pallas end of the stalls, the Wronged Man already rising in his stirrups and punching the air.
*
Lyra whispered prayers to Kore as her husband was engulfed by marshals, animagi and other attendants. In the skies above, Takwyth’s venator was arcing gracefully into a turn and flying back across the arena, the rider saluting the baying crowd.
Please Kore, let Ril be whole!
Once she was assured he was unscathed, she looked about her, measuring the reactions. Most of the men were groaning, apart from a few whoops from those who’d bet against the Prince-Consort. Her ladies were wailing theatrically, calling support and consolation to her. Basia was hurrying to Ril’s side. Lyra wished etiquette permitted her to do the same. Beside her, Medelie Aventour was frozen, hand to mouth.
Then Takwyth’s venator landed and the victor leaped from its back and strode towards the fallen Ril. He acknowledged the crowd in an understated way before offering Ril – sitting in the dirt – a consoling handshake. Ril endeared himself to no one by slapping it away.
‘TAKWYTH!’ the legion men chanted, then the commons took up the name also. He accepted a handshake from a marshall and then turned back towards the Royal Box, and suddenly Lyra felt something like the sensation Ril had described when jousting, of being alone in a tunnel with a foe bearing down on you. The victorious knight ascended the stairs, pausing to accept every handshake, then cast himself on one knee, still officially anonymous. That meant the herald was obliged to announce the victor as the ‘Wronged Man’.
‘Wronged’, when you struck my husband.
But they’d not pressed charges, and she could hardly do so now. So she rose stiffly and let her voice ring out. ‘Congratulations, Sir Knight – you are a worthy victor of the Ludus Imperium! The purse is yours, and the freedom of the city, as warranted under the statutes of the tourney—’
Freedom of the City – what the Hel possessed us to include that in the declaration?
The crowd roared approval.
‘But an Incognito knight must reveal his name to claim the prize,’ she added in a loud voice.
‘You know my name, my Queen,’ the helmed knight replied, his eyes shining through the grilled visor. ‘I am your loyal knight.’ He removed his helmet . . . and yes, it was him, Solon Takwyth, his head half-turned away so she only saw the right-hand side of his face. At first she thought that he looked just the same: the dour, inflexible features, the close-cropped hair a little greyer – then he turned to face her fully.
The crowd flinched, and so did she.
The left side of the former knight-commander’s face was a dreadful sight, a horror-mask carved into flesh. Lyra couldn’t say if it had been done with a brand or a hot knife, but the effect was of a pentagram, the sigil used by wizards to bind a daemon, and it covered the entire left side of his face. The symbol was so deeply burned into Takwyth’s flesh that there were ridges covering his visage from the top of his skull to his jawline, permanently mottled in dark reds, purples and black, a stark contrast to the natural pallor of the right side. It reminded her chillingly of the mask of one of the more sinister characters of the Lantric Masques: Twoface, whose mask he’d worn to the ball the previous night. The flesh was clearly stiff and inflexible, but his left eye still shone amidst the darkened scar tissue as he looked up at her.
Dear Kore . . . Lyra contained her shock as best she could as she gasped, ‘Sir Solon?’
‘Yes, it is still me.’ The voice was the same. ‘I fell in with some bad men on my travels – when I called them “diabolos” they branded me with this sigil. They thought it a fine joke. Then they crucified me and left me to die. But I didn’t oblige them.’
Oh my . . . ‘Cannot the healers—?’
‘Too late – a mage enchanted the branding iron with gnostic energy. I’ll take this to the grave.’ He shrugged as if this were of no moment and replaced his helm.
Lyra had tears in her eyes, despite her antipathy for him. It happened in the exile I forced him into because I humiliated him . . . But he brought it on himself – dear Kore, did I do right?
Only those in the Royal Box had got a proper look at his disfigurement; most were oblivious as they fervently proclaimed their champion. Which he was, so Lyra took the gold-leaf crown from the Chief Marshall and placed it on Takwyth’s helmet. He kissed her hand and she flinched, then forced herself to stand firm.
Takwyth was permitted a brief speech, for which he kept his helmet on but his visor up, to minimise the impact of his disfigured face. Everyone fell quiet to hear the victor’s words.
‘I donate my purse to the veterans’ fund,’ Takwyth proclaimed first, and the veterans and legionaries and their families – almost half the commons – started screaming. The purse was probably less than a copper per family, but it was a grand gesture. ‘And I thank all who supported me this week for their good wishes: this is your victory!’
Praise the crowd, and they’ll love you for it, Lyra reflected; she’d done it herself at times these past years. It certainly worked for Takwyth today, for the noise redoubled.
Then, just as the tumult died down, he spun to face her, dropping to one knee again. ‘My Queen, I am an exile who longs to return! I am a Corani knight whose loyalty to your Majesty has never faltered! All have seen today what I have to offer! I beg a boon of you, Majesty!’
You damnable man, she thought wretchedly. ‘What boon, Sir Knight?’ she asked, although she already knew his answer.
‘Please, permit me to return to the Corani knights – in whatever capacity pleases you—’
The crowd took up his plea, deafening her, making the air throb with the pressure of their demand. This was politics as theatre and she felt trapped by it, for her refusal could turn things ugly. She glanced around, but there was no path out of his snare. Ril was still in the fields with Pearl and furious at his defeat; if she delegated this to him, she risked a decision made in anger.
‘What role do you envisage, Sir Knight?’ she asked, as the crowd hushed again.
It wasn’t a random question but a memory of the convent: she’d once seen Abbess Jaratia confront an ambitious young nun who’d demanded advancement. The gi
rl had overreached, and been cut down to size.
Overreach, Takky, she wished silently, so that I can easily refuse . . .
‘My Queen, to be the least of your knights is an honour all men aspire to.’ His words and gaze told her that he’d seen – and respected – the trap.
Damn you, she thought. Then you shall be the least of my knights.
Aloud, she said, ‘Surely a place can be made for so worthy a champion.’ It was the best she could salvage, she decided, as the Royal Box applauded and the more distant masses just assumed that all was well and started cheering again.
It was a relief to see Takwyth bow and back away. Her part in the proceedings was done; now it was time for the Regna d’Amore to fulfil her role, to walk the arena with the Victor, to unbuckle his armour and take charge of his comfort, then partner him for the Victory Ball. For a night, Medelie Aventour was queen. It was ceremonial, of course; servants would do the real work. But she and Takwyth would nevertheless be in close contact for many hours to come.
Lyra turned to the woman at her side and eyed her coldly. I expect you’ll enjoy it, you ambitious little chit.
Medelie rose to her feet, her gaze trailing across the field to where Ril stood, then back to Solon. She looked a little unsteady after seeing her champion’s ruined face, but then her expression became triumphant; she gave Lyra an almost vindictive look as she stepped to Takwyth’s side and took his arm.
He is the Coming Man, her gesture said, and he’s mine.
Then they waved to the crowds, and as the sun fell to the horizon, fresh cheers sent the birds streaming skywards in fright and the celebrations began. From now, the evening belonged to the Victor and his Regna, who descended to the ground and made their way before the crowd, winning hearts.
Lyra felt chilled by the sight of them, but at least it meant she was finally free to attend upon her husband. She hurried down the steps amidst her ladies and guards and started towards Ril and Basia, but Commander Barius of the Imperial Guard intercepted her, proffering a note. ‘My Queen, Lord Setallius bid me give you this.’
The note read: Incident at Imperial Palace: Sacrecour children gone. Get to safety. DS
Interlude:
The Masquerade (Jest)
Strigoi
Mollachia is one of many places where the folklore includes the Unquiet Dead. In the tales, such beings rise from the grave to feed upon the living, reducing their victims to their own morbid state. Such tales predate the gnosis and therefore the Study of necromancy, which can make such legends real.
Can ‘Unquiet Dead’ occur spontaneously, or are these tales simply based on a misunderstanding of the process of post-mortem decay?
ARN HEDIS, KORE MISSIONARY, MOLLACHIA, 704
The Bastion, Pallas, Yuros
Maicin 935
Ostevan Comfateri, confessor to the Empress of Yuros, locked himself inside the Royal Chapel, then made his way down the aisles. The chapel had been the place of prayer for more than five hundred years of Rondian emperors, although given the longevity of the pure-blood magi, that meant only twelve men.
And one woman, Ostevan reflected: the thirteenth to wear the crown was the first of her gender: Lyra Vereinen, a convent-raised princess thrust onto the throne by House Corani, a highly unsuitable pretender with a disputed claim. But she’d been the compromise candidate in a unique time, the aftermath of the disastrous Third Crusade into Ahmedhassa. Emperor Constant Sacrecour had been slain, along with most of his court and almost half their legions; the remnants of the Sacrecour family had fled the capital, leaving Pallas open for those who dared to seize the moment.
House Corani had dared.
And my reward, Ostevan snarled inwardly, was to be demoted and cast aside. Four years in an obscure rural parish when I’d been a prelate – all for the sin of divulging the information that got Lyra found and crowned!
But he was back now, thanks to Master Naxius, his secret patron, and his master had called for a secret meeting. He left the main chapel and slipped into the alcove containing the centuries-old sarcophagus of Prince Vertonius, who’d drowned whilst drunk – he’d achieved nothing in his life, but he’d been royal, so obviously he merited a memorial in this holy place.
Outside, it was night-time and the Imperial Bastion was half-empty, the court and most of the servants still in Finostarre at the royal jousting tourney. The Bastion felt like a ghost-castle haunted by forgotten souls. Ostevan went to a small panel in the wall of the Vertonius shrine, unlocked it with a gesture and removed a bronze lacquered mask, the type used in the traditional plays from the southern city-states of Lantris. This mask represented ‘Jest’, the witty prankster whose tricks often propelled the narrative. It covered his face from forehead to chin with colourful diamond patterning; the Master had chosen it for him personally and it felt apt. He placed it over his face and it adhered to his skin without need of lacing. Without further ado, he sent his awareness out into the aether, seeking the Master.
To any observer, he would just be standing immobile, but his own experience was of a rush of movement, and then he was in a darkened room, standing in a circle of people, each, like him, robed anonymously, only their masks distinguishing them. He nodded vague greetings. Despite all he shared with these people, he had no more idea of who they were than they did his own identity.
To his left were Ironhelm, the Knight-Errant, and Heartface, the beautiful Innocenta. Many of the Lantric plays explored love through the pair, but he had no inkling from their demeanour whether the mask-wearers had such a relationship in real life. Beyond them was Felix, the cat-faced Spirit of Luck, and Beak, the Meddler.
To his right was tragic Tear, worn by a woman, and Angelstar, the force of Divine Retribution; and Twoface, sometimes benign, but more often treacherous. Only the Master wasn’t present . . .
. . . and then he was, manifesting like a ghost between Felix and Tear. He wore the narrator’s mask, the Puppeteer who steered the play. He was the only one they all knew: Ervyn Naxius, last of the original Ascendant magi: six hundred years old, and supremely powerful.
‘Greetings, Master,’ the eight masked men and women chorused.
‘Welcome,’ Naxius replied, his mask moving with his words as if it were his face, ‘and well-met. It’s five months now since we gathered in person at the Veiterholt and pledged ourselves to our shared purpose: to destroy the unwanted equilibrium in East and West and renew the conflicts that we have in the past found so beneficial. The plans we agreed that day are now in motion. East and West are plunged into crisis.’
The masked figures glanced at each other. They’d been working together, four in the East and four in the West.
Ostevan’s own role had been crucial. And it won’t be over until I sit on the Pontifex’s Curule in the Celestium.
Naxius looked about the circle. ‘Brethren of the West: report.’
Angelstar, Twoface and Tear gestured at Ostevan. ‘Jest speaks for us,’ Tear told the Master, and Ostevan inclined his head, accepting the charge, before addressing the circle. ‘This very night, while the court of Pallas were at a tourney in nearby Finostarre, the royal children Cordan and Coramore, the rightful rulers of Yuros, were freed from imprisonment. Empress Lyra Vereinen is fearful: she dreads a palace coup, and quite rightly. We have agents placed in her palace and our position is strengthened by the return of the exiled knight Sir Solon Takwyth, which will divide her support, especially among the military. Meanwhile, we are spreading the riverreek disease, which mimics the symptoms of those we possess. Lyra’s people think they’re dealing with a growing health crisis; they have no idea of the true danger they’re facing.’
‘Excellent progress,’ Naxius congratulated them. ‘What happens next?’
‘We will circulate the children’s signet rings among the nobility of House Sacrecour and House Fasterius, proof that they are now free. When Duke Garod Sacrecour has mobilised his legions in Dupenium and Fauvion we will move on to central Rondelmar, Canossi and Kli
ef, to rally support there. On the appointed day in the last week of Junesse – that’s two months’ time – we will strike.’
‘I still think we must move more swiftly,’ Tear put in, to Ostevan’s irritation. ‘Every day increases the likelihood of the empress recovering the royal children.’
‘We’ve discussed this already, Lady Tear,’ Angelstar rasped irritably. ‘Armies can’t mobilise overnight. The preparation time is too short already – and we need the riverreek outbreak to spread to fully mask our activities, and for Takwyth’s return to split the Corani knights and leave the queen exposed.’
Tear bowed her head in acquiescence and Twoface took up the narrative. ‘When we strike, it will be at both Bastion and Celestium. Cordan will be swept into the city by Garod’s legions.’
‘And Grand Prelate Wurther will be deposed and a better candidate will take his place,’ Ostevan finished. A much better candidate.
‘And the queen will be brought to me,’ Naxius said firmly.
The four western Masks bowed, though Ostevan felt a touch of vexation. He had Lyra Vereinen wrapped around his little finger, and if she really was a pandaemancer, the first known wielder of that heretical magic in centuries, then it would be such a waste to give her to Naxius. I could make far better use of her . . .
Naxius had turned to the four Easterners. ‘There you have it, my friends. Two months. Is that sufficient time for your own plans? I want the hammers to fall on the same day on both continents. I want those who oppose us thrown into confusion, truly believing the world is coming to an end.’
Ironhelm stepped forward. ‘Ai, we too have made great progress, even more than our Western brethren. They might not be aware, being ignorant of all beyond their own lands; but we have slain the pacifist Sultan Salim of Kesh and a new ruler is being selected: our candidate, one who will plunge the continent into a great war.’