by Ian Irvine
The Faellem had lost only a quarter of their three hundred and fifty, but both Galgilliel and Lainor were among them, and, being a small and slight people, many more had been badly injured.
The Whelm had also suffered grievously; of their original eighty, only seven remained and none were unscathed for, though they were doughty and tireless fighters, they were slow and awkward compared to their opponents.
‘More than two hundred of my people have fallen,’ said Ryll, who was haggard and bloodstained. His armoured skin flickered white and grey, the colours of unbearable grief. ‘Almost half. And Liett …’ His deep voice cracked. ‘My one, my only Liett will soon join her ancestors.’
Nish had been afraid of that. It seemed impossible that Liett, who had always been so magnificent, so brave and bold and full of life, could be dying. And yet the lyrinx, for all their toughness, were as mortal as any other species. ‘Is there nothing that can be done for her?’
‘Our healers have been working on her since I brought her down,’ said Ryll, ‘and I was by her side the whole time, but her belly wounds are too many and too deep. The mancer who speared her must also have damaged her inside. I have little hope now.’ He bowed and withdrew.
After the toll of battle had been completed, everyone stood in silence for ten minutes, remembering their dead. Nish tried to count his own, from the time when Fyllis had taken him out of Mazurhize, but the number was too great.
The faces flashed through his inner eye: hundreds of the Defiance killed in that fruitless battle with his father’s army; faithful Zham, that gentle giant at the top of Mistmurk; more than three hundred men and women of the militia he’d fought beside at Blisterbone Pass, Taranta, the monastery, and since; and half of Yulla’s hundred; not to mention wild, rebellious, beautiful, brave and loving Liett. He remembered all the faces, but he could not always put a name to them, and that was the worst of all.
‘Nish, you’d better get on with it,’ said Flydd abruptly.
Nish roused, with an effort. ‘Er, what?’
‘Take command of the survivors, before they get restless.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. How many are left?’
‘Hackel’s mercenaries have fled but some three thousand of Vomix’s and Lidgeon’s troops remain, plus their injured, and they’ll swear to you if you demand it.’
‘All right,’ said Nish, ‘but I’ll not take their oaths as God-Emperor, only as commander-in-chief of the empire’s forces.’
‘Whatever!’ snapped Flydd. ‘Just get on with it.’
Nish took their oaths, then distributed Vomix’s enormous war chest equally to every surviving man and woman, excepting himself and his allies. The coin was tainted in his eyes and he wanted none of it.
‘I’d advise you to put your troops to work at once,’ said Flydd. ‘Idleness will allow them to brood upon their terrible losses, and we can’t afford that.’
There were thousands of dead soldiers, far too many to be buried in the thin, stony soil, so Nish ordered that they be carried to the cracked and crumbling sump that had once been Mazurhize Prison and placed in a pit there. When it had finished settling, the pit would be filled with rubble and the huge slabs that had roofed the prison would be placed on top, a permanent memorial to the slain.
The lyrinx gathered their own fallen, then dragged up dozens of dead trees and built a pyre on the far side of the plain, near the forest. The bodies were carefully arranged on the pyre and the sacred rites said over them, after which Ryll sent a runner for Flydd, Nish, Yggur, Malien, Tiaan and Maelys, plus those surviving members of the militia who had fought beside Liett.
‘Is it the worst?’ Nish asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the lyrinx messenger, a big, heavily armoured female with a battered green crest. ‘Our beloved Matriarch has fallen; Liett is dead.’
They stood by the pyre, at a respectful distance to one side of the mourning lyrinx, while Ryll carried Liett’s limp body to the top of the pyre and gently folded her beautiful wings for the last time. He kissed her brow and her crest, knelt beside her for several minutes, gazing at her, then backed down.
‘Thank you for coming, my friends,’ he said when he reached the bottom. He embraced them one by one. ‘Liett would have been proud to see such a gathering.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Nish, so choked up that he could barely speak. ‘She was one of the greatest of all the lyrinx, and I’ll never forget her. I’ll miss her more than I can say.’
‘There was no lyrinx like her,’ said Ryll. ‘I may remain as Patriarch, for a while, but I will never take another mate.’ His eyes shed thick tears. ‘And yet, if she had to die young, Liett would have wanted to go this way, in battle defending her friends and everything she cared about, and this beautiful world. She loved Santhenar more than any of us.’
The sacred rites were spoken, then Ryll carried fire to the four sides of the pyre and within minutes it had enveloped all the bodies, the flames roaring higher than the treetops as if to carry their spirits away to their own special corner of the shadow realm.
When the bodies had become ash, Nish and his friends trudged silently back to Morrelune. The Aachim and Faellem had gathered their dead to be taken through the portals to their own lands, while the Whelm were bearing theirs into the forest, though they would not permit anyone to help them, or to witness their rites.
‘What are you going to do about your father?’ Flydd said quietly, for Jal-Nish’s body remained in the crumbling palace.
‘I plan to bury him myself, when it’s safe to go into Morrelune. Despite all that he did, I owe Father that much.’
But not today. Nish could not face it.
He went looking for Maelys and found her in one of the healers’ tents, sitting beside Aunt Haga, who was confined to a stretcher and cursing everyone in sight, though she broke off the moment he entered.
‘Prince Cryl-Nish,’ she said, pasting on a sickeningly obsequious smile and trying to rise and bow at the same time. ‘Or should it be Emperor?’
He grimaced. Last autumn, Haga and her two sisters had required Maelys, as a family duty, to lead Nish away from Mazurhize and try to become pregnant by him, so as to save Clan Nifferlin and restore it to its rightful position. Though he understood why they had imposed that duty on Maelys, he had not forgiven Haga for it. And yet, she was Maelys’s only surviving adult relative, so he could not spurn Haga either.
‘Call me Nish,’ he said. ‘I’m no prince nor emperor, and never will be; I’m just an ordinary man.’
‘Of course, Prince Cryl-Nish,’ said Haga.
Fyllis was on Maelys’s other side. She took after her mother and aunts and looked nothing like Maelys, being tall for her age, slim, blonde and blue-eyed. Fyllis had recovered more quickly than anyone had expected and now, though as pallid as a long-term prisoner, and with a hacking cough, she was sitting up, smiling as she played with a little wooden toy.
Nish knew nothing about her save that she was an obedient, somewhat simple child with an astonishing gift – she could hide people from the God-Emperor’s scriers and wisp-watchers. Last autumn, when she had only been eight, the aunts had sent her into the horrors of Mazurhize to get Nish out and, incredibly, Fyllis had done so. He would never forget it, nor forgive the dried-up old women who had put such a burden on her.
‘Hello, Fyllis,’ he said, shaking her pale hand. ‘I’m Nish. Do you remember me?’
‘Of course,’ she said softly. ‘I rescued you from Mazurhize. You were very smelly.’
Aunt Haga choked. ‘Fyllis, how dare you speak –’
Nish cut her off with a gesture. ‘Yes, I stank, and I’m sorry. You saved my life that day, and I want to thank you with all my heart.’
‘And you and Maelys saved mine,’ said Fyllis. A shadow crossed her face. ‘But not poor Mummy, or Aunt Bugi.’
‘We didn’t get here in time; I’m sorry.’
‘Aunt Bugi was tired; she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. And Mummy just cried
and cried. She was always crying, ever since Daddy had to run away. Mummy is at peace now.’
‘Yes, she is. Are you hungry?’
‘I’m starving. The food in your prison was horrible. I couldn’t eat it.’
‘Neither could I,’ said Nish. ‘But that’s all over now, and as soon as you’re better we’re going to have a feast.’
‘A feast!’ Fyllis clapped her hands. ‘I’m better already.’ Nish smiled and stood up. ‘Rest a while. I’ll come for you when it’s ready.’
‘The last feast I remember was at the end of the war,’ said Maelys, going with him to the flap of the tent. ‘I was only her age.’
‘What are you going to feast on?’ said Flydd, walking slowly by with Yggur, whose arms and chest were swathed in bandages, and his face and hands shiny with balm.
Tulitine had not been able to heal his burns completely and he was still in great pain, and yet, he looked more at peace than Nish had ever known him. Yggur’s carbonised hair had been shaven, revealing a long, bony skull, which made him look rather severe even though he was smiling.
‘Army rations, for the most part,’ said Nish. ‘Supplemented by delicacies from Hackel’s personal supply wagons. Call it a victory dinner, if you prefer, in recognition of all that our friends and followers have done … especially those who gave their lives on the way. And to serve as a marker between the past and the future – between the God-Emperor’s brutal reign and … whatever comes next.’
Flydd gave him a keen glance from under his single, snake-like eyebrow.
‘But also,’ said Nish, ‘thinking about the last victory feast we had ten years ago, and – and the way it ended so abruptly, so terribly, I wanted to do it properly this time.’
‘We all wish we could have that day over again,’ said Yggur.
The tables were set up on the other side of Morrelune, away from the battlefield, in the triangular space between the edge of the plain, the pit surrounding the palace, and the Sacred Lake. The head table was placed closest to the jumbled rock at the edge of the pit and had a pleasant view, for those facing away from Morrelune, across the lake to the mountains beyond.
Nish had set it up so the ten survivors of his militia could be seated together. Clech and Aimee were to his left and the rest of the militia occupied that end of the table. Having no happy memories of Morrelune, he had seated himself so his back was to the palace.
Maelys was on his right, with Fyllis beside her, playing with some little wooden figures she’d brought from Mazurhize. Haga sat next to her, and Nish noticed her secreting a basketful of large golden fish under the table. She must have caught them in the Sacred Lake, and good luck to her. Clan Nifferlin had lived on the verge of starvation for years and the fierce old bird never missed an opportunity to feed her family. She would always survive.
Opposite Nish sat Flydd and Persia, who was laughing at something Flydd had said, then Flangers and Chissmoul, Yggur and Tulitine. She looked much better since the caduceus had been destroyed and did not seem to be in such pain. Further down sat M’lainte, Yulla and Lilis, who wore a feather in her hat and a brown patch over her left eye and looked more piratical than ever, though she had been subdued for some time after Maelys told her of Nadiril’s fate.
Malien, Tiaan and Ryll were at the end. Ryll’s huge figure would ordinarily have dominated the table but he was slumped on his bench, silent and lost in his grief. Clearly, he did not want to be here.
‘Well done, Nish,’ said Flydd, raising his goblet so that the wine glowed in the afternoon sunshine. ‘After last night, this is just what we needed.’
‘I wanted our “feast” to be as close to the one we shared at Ashmode, at the end of the lyrinx war, as I could manage,’ said Nish. ‘And the food is on that low par, though the wine …’ he took a deep sniff, ‘is surprisingly good.’
‘I confiscated Vomix’s private stores before they could be looted,’ said Flydd.
‘How come you didn’t share it out among the troops?’ Nish said with a sly grin.
‘That would have been like washing my filthy feet in it. There are limits!’ Flydd took a sip and said quietly, ‘I know why you’ve organised the feast this way.’
‘I hoped, if we could have it again, that it might lay one of my demons to rest,’ said Nish, thinking of Irisis’s death.
‘I hope it does.’
‘And what does the future hold for Xervish Flydd, ex-scrutator?’ said Nish, changing to a more cheerful subject. ‘Are you going to write your Histories of the war again?’
‘They were the great work of my life, when I had nothing else to do for nine years in my amber-wood hut, but I’m not planning to write them a second time.’
‘Then it must be the little cottage and the flower garden,’ Nish said teasingly.
‘Nope,’ said Flydd. ‘Had a garden for a while at the top of Mistmurk Mountain. Wasn’t as interesting as I’d imagined. Plants don’t do anything; they just sit there.’
‘Then what?’ said Nish. ‘I can’t believe you’re going to fade away like some decrepit old pensioner.’
‘You’ve got a damned hide,’ cried Flydd. ‘We’re going on a long holiday. I’m planning to catch up on all I missed in my years on the mountain, and since that time at Fiz Gorgo when Ghorr’s torturers … you know.’
Nish did know. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Roros, of course, the centre of the civilised world. The weather is warm, the people friendly, and the food and wine are magnificent. We’re leaving on Three Reckless Old Ladies as soon as things are sorted out here. Tomorrow, I hope.’
‘Tomorrow?’ cried Nish, feeling abandoned to a task that he had never wanted and which he felt was way beyond him. ‘But … what about the empire?’
‘I’m sure it’s in good hands.’
‘After all the months of trying to manipulate me to become God-Emperor, you’re just going to walk away?’
‘Learned the error of my ways,’ said Flydd airily. ‘It’s time for a new generation to take over.’
Nish did not believe Flydd could let go that easily, but he let the absurd statement lie. ‘You keep saying we. Who are you going with?’ How could he have met someone so quickly? But then, women had always been drawn to the ugly old scoundrel.
‘He’s going with me,’ said Persia, taking Flydd’s battered hand in her smooth brown one and looking extremely satisfied with the arrangement. ‘My seven years with Yulla are up, and my indenture has been fulfilled. And, now that you’ve seen to Vomix, Nish, I’m free at last.’
Flydd will give you the security you crave so desperately, Nish thought. He won’t let you down. ‘I wish you the very best,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Yggur, I don’t need to ask what you and Tulitine will be doing in your retirement.’
‘My Art will be gone within days – maybe hours. I’m just an ordinary man with not long to live, and I can’t say that I’m sorry about it.’
‘All things must pass,’ said Tulitine. ‘But not for a few years yet, I hope.’
‘What will happen to the Regression Spell now?’ said Maelys.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tulitine. ‘The pain in my bones began to fade when the chthonic fire disappeared and the caduceus died, though the spell could still harm me in other ways. But whatever happens, Yggur and I are going to live our lives as though each day were our last.’
‘What about you, Maelys?’ said Flydd.
She was sitting back with her arms wrapped around her stomach. She glanced at Nish, who realised that he was staring at her and looked away.
‘Aunt Haga, Fyllis and I are going home,’ said Maelys. ‘We’re taking Mother’s body with us, and Aunt Bugi’s, and Father’s bones if I can discover where he was buried. Once they’ve all been laid to rest I’m calling home the surviving cousins of Clan Nifferlin, and we’re going to rebuild Nifferlin Manor just as it was before – only better.’
‘The best way to heal the empire,’ said Tulitine, ‘is for everyone to get on with
their ordinary lives.’
‘And so to you, Nish,’ said Flydd. ‘At our last feast, you didn’t say what you wanted for your future, but the heir to the empire can’t get off so lightly.’
‘Don’t dare say that you’re going to tear it down,’ said Yulla from the end of the table. ‘That would only set off worse violence, and it would last a lot longer.’
A piece of rock broke away from the pit wall behind Nish and went tumbling down the slope, making a small splash as it landed in the water. How long before the whole palace crumbled? How long before he had to face the grim task of burying his father? He clung to the hope that the collapsing palace would entomb the body for him.
‘I think you should be God-Empress, Yulla,’ Nish said irritably, for people never stopped telling him what to do. ‘I’m sure you’d be a lot better at it than I would.’
Yulla’s little eyes gleamed with greed, but she shook her head. ‘Every realm requires an able administrator, and few were better than I was, when I was Governor of Crandor. But that was long ago and my time has passed. The empire needs youth, and vigour – and heirs. The stability of the realm must be maintained.’
Gravel crunched behind Nish, the song of the tears rose and fell, and he smelt a foul, decaying odour. Someone gasped; opposite him, Tulitine’s eyes widened, and Yggur cursed. Flydd thrust himself to his feet, his mouth agape. Finally, reluctantly, Nish rose, already knowing, though it was quite impossible, what he was going to see.
‘Indeed it must,’ said his father, Jal-Nish, emerging from between the rocks at the edge of the pit, ‘and clearly, since you’ve all underestimated me yet again, none of you have what it takes to maintain my empire.’
‘But … we saw your body,’ said Nish. ‘You’re – you’re not …?’
‘I’m not reanimated, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Jal-Nish, ‘for I was never completely dead.’
He looked it, though. His skin still had that hideous green-purple tinge, like a long-dead corpse; his flesh was bloated and shiny; slimy, stinking muck was oozing down his chin and he was limping badly on both feet. The God-Emperor’s imperial robes were draggled with dust and mud, yet the mask was back over his face and the Profane Tears hung from his neck, and Nish knew that all the agony of the past half year had been for nothing.