by James Abbott
Down below were about three dozen old women. Some wore yellow robes, indicating they were senior sisters close to the matriarch. Others wore grey robes with red sashes or hoods – the colours of those attached to a clan. All were seated on wooden benches looking towards where the matriarch, a white-haired lady wearing a shimmering white robe and cloak, stood before them on a raised platform. A handful of cressets had been lit, casting an eerie glow upon the sisters’ faces, and wafts of incense drifted upwards.
‘I still don’t understand why you’re not there with them?’ Elysia whispered.
‘Only the highest-ranking of the sisters are there – those with proper influence in the clans and in the wider world.’ Birgitta tugged her blue robe to indicate her exclusion. ‘Besides, they do not trust tutors like me.’
‘Why not?’
Birgitta paused for a moment. ‘They never do. I am not one of them. They frown upon my ways. To them, magic is all, the stones are all, the source is all, and to talk about training in other arts is a blasphemy of sorts.’
‘They let you teach, though. They let you teach me.’
‘They do, little sister, they do.’ Birgitta sighed. ‘In my darker moments, when I see them like this, I cannot help but think they view tutors merely as a means of looking after novices until the novices can be used in their games of power.’
‘What games? This looks serious to me.’
‘Can games not be serious too?’ Birgitta asked. ‘It is a game of strategy, whatever they play. The yellow-robed seniors play the game within these walls – they all compete for the matriarch’s favour, or manoeuvre to replace her at some stage. As for what game the matriarch herself plays? That, I do not know.’
There was the sound of heavy footsteps down below. A figure in armour appeared – silver chainmail, black robes and a silver helmet that covered the face, with two horns protruding to evoke the image of a bull. As soon as the warrior came forwards to approach the matriarch, the other sisters fell into silence.
‘Who’s that?’ Elysia asked.
‘One of King Mardonius’s soldiers.’
‘It’s a man?’
‘It likely is.’
‘I thought men weren’t allowed on Jarratox?’
‘It is rare,’ Birgitta said quietly. ‘But not unknown. Let us listen and find out why he’s here.’
For a moment Elysia thought she saw another figure far behind in the shadows. It looked like a man, but now and then its armour – if it wore armour at all – burned like the embers of a fire. Whoever it was stood at the back, away from the attention here.
‘Did you see that?’
‘I think so. Oh . . .’ Birgitta said.
‘Do you know who it is?’
Birgitta never got to answer. Down in the dimly lit chamber, the matriarch began to speak. Elysia had rarely heard the great woman talk, had only really seen her passing with her yellow-robed entourage. Her image of the grand head of the sisterhood had been formed largely by the awed whispers of the other sisters – of a noble, stern woman who put the sisterhood before all else.
‘Grave times befall us, my dear sisters,’ she began, her voice carrying loudly across the auditorium. Her tone was bold and rich, and commanded respect.
‘Challenging times,’ the matriarch continued, ‘times that have seen a great deal of unease in the world. Times that have also seen almost twenty of our own sisterhood vanish without a trace.’
The soldier made no response, aside from facing the other sisters. The figure in the shadows burned slowly.
‘And in such times, we must make difficult decisions. It has always been the way for our sisterhood. As the ebb and flow of the outside world changes, we must change too. Today is no different.’
The rest of the sisters remained silent, but there was a tension that even Elysia could feel from her hidden position.
‘We hold more sway outside than many of you know,’ the matriarch continued. ‘Our relationships with the clans are based on them adhering to the king’s codes. Those sisters among you who have been recalled have been so because your clan has rejected the codes. They have therefore forfeited their sister and lost their connection to the source.’
‘And what code would they have gone against, precisely?’ one woman demanded.
A hush fell across the other sisters. Birgitta leaned into Elysia and whispered, ‘That’s Galleya, a strong woman. I like her. At one time she was believed to be part of a faction to usurp the matriarch, though I do not believe it myself. Hence she was invited to spend time beyond the bridge.’
‘They have gone against King Mardonius’s wishes,’ the matriarch announced, ‘and it is he who binds together not merely Stravimon, but all the weaker nations who border it.’
‘But how have they gone against his wishes?’ Galleya repeated. It was clear from a few shakes of heads that some of the other sisters hoped she would remain silent. There was a strange inevitability about proceedings, and Galleya seemed to be just getting in the way.
‘There are ancient laws that exist to keep all nations in peace,’ the matriarch replied. ‘Laws where magics are to be committed for the greater good. There have been refusals to enact such laws, among other things, and direct challenges to the king’s authority. And so we are faced with a difficult decision. I cannot dither any longer. We have debated about the merits a dozen times, but parchment must be signed. Quite simply, we must commit to a formal allegiance to King Mardonius, not merely the seat of Stravimon. And by doing so, we will secure a more powerful and enduring future for the sisterhood. That is my purpose as your matriarch, and that is what I have done.’
Several sisters rose to speak at once, whilst the others whispered their disapproval to whoever was sitting next to them. The room was divided. After a few moments, once the matriarch had raised both her hands, the room fell into a relative calm.
‘This is not a decision we can make lightly. King Mardonius wishes to make our union more formal. Deeper, you might say.’
‘What do we get that secures our future?’ someone asked.
The matriarch hesitated until a deep quiet settled on the chamber. ‘Our ways of creating new novices are archaic and unreliable. Our stock of seed progenitors is as weak as ever. The traits we seek – or those traits we wish to remove from our stock – are often beyond our control. Mardonius has access to incredible techniques he has in turn gained from an alliance with that race that comes from beyond our shores. These techniques will permit us much more control over the newer novices. There will be no weak sisters in the future.’
During the resulting commotion at the declaration, Elysia turned sharply to Birgitta with a hundred questions she wanted to ask. She had heard rumours about how the novices were the results of unions between selected stock of men from the outside world and specific sisters. Novice weren’t just born – they were bred.
‘In addition,’ the matriarch declared, ‘in return for this formal arrangement, he has discovered large deposits of witchstones in several location across the nation, and he is willing to cede us these lands and offers the industry with which to mine these stones and deliver them to us. All the colours you can imagine have been found within the deposits.’
‘He wants to buy our support,’ someone said.
‘Bribery!’ shouted another.
‘It is an offer,’ the matriarch snapped, ‘like any other. This is how the world beyond our bridges operates.’
‘And ours too, by the sounds of it,’ a sister said.
‘This is a partnership, no more, no less,’ the matriarch said, glancing to the soldier. ‘He has promised our safety in these uncertain times.’
The warrior made no movement. The figure behind him burned again. Elysia thought she could see two red eyes.
‘In return, all he asks is that if he needs our help then we will send some of our sisters to his aid. Our black-robed sisters have already journeyed to him and he gives us thanks for that.’
‘He wants us
to help kill innocents,’ Galleya shouted, ‘to butcher good people.’
The soldier to the left of the matriarch shifted threateningly. For a moment no one said anything. They were too shocked at the gesture. The burning figure in the shadows was no longer to be seen.
Eventually, the matriarch gave an awkward laugh. ‘You insult our guests,’ she began. ‘They are no butchers. They bring stability. They are defenders of the freedoms of innocent people. Besides, these are all concerns of the world beyond the bridges.’
‘Are we not a part of that same world?’
‘What do you ask of us?’ another asked. ‘It sounds as if a decision has been made.’
‘No, it has not been made. That is what you are all here for. We stand today at a crossroads. We can turn towards Mardonius. In exchange for this, we will stabilize how we breed new novices in a manner never before known, and be given an unlimited resource of witchstones, which would allow our skills to reach new heights. This is an incredible opportunity that we cannot ignore. All that is required of us is that those of you who are now unaffiliated with a clan help Mardonius’s own territories out when needed, and that we withdraw any support from those clans who stand against him.’
‘What is the other option?’ came a voice from the back, almost directly underneath Elysia. ‘What if we decline?’
‘We can of course decline the deeper union with the king. Bear in mind that we are already aligned due to pacts that were formed at the beginning of this Ninth Era. To decline would put a centuries-old relationship in jeopardy. It would mean weakening our resources, letting our stock of novices become weaker and it would cause instability elsewhere – for those of you who remain concerned with the outside world.’
A murmur of discontent spread across the group and the matriarch held up her hand once again.
‘For two days and two nights, Mardonius’s messengers will wait here. We have no urgency to decide. I realize this is a difficult decision for some of you, but we are a democratic sisterhood and protocol will be followed. Go back to your quarters or the courtyard or the library, but please do not discuss this with anyone outside the room.’
During the ensuing hubbub, the matriarch turned to escort the soldier out of sight.
Birgitta and Elysia withdrew from the grille.
‘What was all that about?’ Elysia asked.
‘Two days and two nights,’ Birgitta muttered. ‘The matriarch will lobby each and every one of the sisters during that time and the decision will be inevitable.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means Mardonius will own the sisterhood in the long term.’
‘Own us?’
‘More or less, little sister.’ Birgitta gave a sigh and closed her eyes. ‘Do you know what he is doing across his lands?’
‘I have heard rumours.’
‘They are likely true. Now imagine if there were none of our sisters in the way. No, imagine more of our sisters were helping him. Can you imagine what that would mean?’
‘I suppose it isn’t good.’
‘No. By the source, it is not good at all.’
‘What about this breeding thing that the matriarch said?’
Birgitta’s gaze softened. ‘For now you should push such thoughts to the back of your mind. It matters not where you come from, but where you go.’
Elysia shrugged. ‘I still don’t like the sound of any of that.’
‘Your instincts are reliable. And the presence of soldiers here is somewhat concerning as well. Violence and intimidation – there is no place for them here. No place for them anywhere.’
‘I have never seen anyone like either of them. One of them seemed to be on fire.’
‘There are plenty of warriors across this continent, little sister, but I cannot ever recall one crossing the bridge to Jarratox. Messengers, so the matriarch said, but when has a messenger ever needed full armour? No. This is Mardonius’s cadre. I’ve heard tell that those closest to him are possessed by daemons, that they have sold their souls in awful pacts to enhance their skills. One cannot know what lies behind that horned helmet. And the figure that seemed as if it was born of fire . . .’
‘Do you think the king was threatening anyone?’
‘If Mardonius wanted any of us killed he would have sent an assassin.’ Birgitta’s posture stiffened. She swayed from foot to foot while she thought. ‘No, I would wager these fellows, these messengers, were a kindly reminder of the king’s power.’
‘So what should we do?’ Elysia asked.
‘Let me think on it, but I fear there is nothing that we can do. I’ll take you out for a lesson tomorrow. We’ll go beyond the bridge and into the forests. We can be at peace there.’
‘Archery?’ Elysia was excited at the prospect.
‘Perhaps, little sister. Yes. I need to be connected with the earth. It will help my mind.’
Landril’s Mask
Three days passed without event. Although, now that the spymaster had stirred up old memories and quiet anger, three days felt like an eternity to Xavir. He felt alive for the first time in years.
To prepare for their escape, Xavir led his men through harder exercise regimes: lifting each other over their shoulders and moving back and forth across the dark cells until they were out of breath and their muscles burned in agony.
On the third day, fifty-two inmates, including those from Xavir and Landril’s cells, milled about under the open air, flecks of sleet spiralling around them, with just as many guards watching them from a battlement ten feet above. A few soldiers were in the courtyard itself, keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble. Xavir and Landril sized up the guards, searching for one on his own and of around the spymaster’s own height, which was no simple task given that the soldiers mostly patrolled in pairs.
Eventually they found a suitable victim and set about their ploy. The two prisoners began an argument that was loud enough to attract the interest of the soldier.
‘I’ll kill you if you say that again!’ Xavir bellowed.
‘Just try me,’ Landril screamed theatrically.
As Xavir pushed Landril’s shoulder, raising the ire and sword of the guard, a full fight began to break out on the far side of the courtyard.
As the guard’s attention was distracted by this new commotion, Xavir moved with lightning speed, smashing his victim’s sword hand against the wall, taking the weapon from him and slipping it into his windpipe with surgical precision. There wasn’t a sound as the guard dropped and blood pooled at Xavir’s feet.
‘Well, that made a mess.’ Landril winced.
‘Just get changed,’ Xavir hissed.
This exchange was concealed by a group of Xavir’s calm-looking gang members obscuring them from the view of anyone in the courtyard or on the walls. As they removed the armour from the corpse piece by piece, Landril dressed in it – shuddering in distaste at the blood.
Clothes exchanged, bronze helmet in place, Landril assumed the role of the guard whilst the man’s heavy form was shunted over the wall. The body tumbled down into the mists. The gang members who had been concealing the act dispersed with the suddenness of a flock of birds.
The violence across the way was broken up and Landril made his way over to the group of guards herding the prisoners back inside. He walked differently now, with the steady, purposeful steps of a soldier.
You had better be good at your job, spymaster . . .
*
Despite having dwelt for many years in Hell’s Keep, these final few hours felt the longest.
Xavir contemplated, for a brief moment, the earlier act of killing. It had been the first time in years Xavir had taken a man’s life, and the first time since the event that led to his incarceration in Hell’s Keep, but he was surprised at how little the deed affected him. Those mental barriers he had put up long ago still held firm. How many thousands had he killed? If he thought about it for too long, no good would come of it. As for the guard, the poor fool may have had
a wife and children somewhere, but Xavir reasoned that no one joined the military if they had not contemplated an early death. It was unfortunate, but that was war for you.
Xavir lay in his cell quietly. As the sun waned and the shadows grew longer, his gang nervously paced, or bickered with one another. They were eager for developments, anxious for news, but Xavir knew as much as they did and told them to relax and save their energy.
Eventually there was the sound of heavy-booted footsteps approaching down the corridor – one pair, slow and with a tired gait. Xavir pushed himself up as a faceless bronze helm looked through the barred view-hole on the door. A heavy clank, and the door was unlocked.
Xavir was outside in a heartbeat.
‘What news?’ he whispered.
Landril responded, his voice muffled by the bronze helmet. ‘No one has noticed me, thank the Goddess. They change the watch here often, too often, so that half the men do not know one another. I have unlocked our way back to the inside of the main front entrance, but it’s too heavily guarded on the inside for a simple key to suffice.’
‘We can handle that when we get to it,’ Xavir said. ‘Have you freed Valderon and his men?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Do that immediately. Do you know where it is?’
‘More or less.’ Landril replied.
‘I will count to three hundred,’ Xavir hissed. ‘Then we will walk out and wait in the inner quadrangle. We must not leave without Valderon.’
Xavir watched Landril walk towards the quadrangle. Five men were at Xavir’s back, itching to get going, but he waved them back.
‘We go with Valderon’s men,’ Xavir cautioned, and began the process of counting in his head.
‘Why the fuck should we?’ Jedral ran a hand over his bald head in agitation. He had always claimed his hair had been burned off by magic. Probably another tall tale.
‘Because it’s no longer prisoner against prisoner,’ Xavir replied. ‘It’s prisoner against soldier. Our enemy is different now.’
‘Fine, so long as I get to kill someone at the end of this.’ Jedral grunted a laugh.