by Stephen Deas
Zafir ignored him. 'Before I came here, I thought the Purple Spur was just another cluster of mountains, like the Worldspine only a bit smaller. It starts that way, over by the Spine. If you fly across the end of the Spur into the realms of the north, that's what it looks like. But here…' She gestured around her. 'It's as though some god reached down and pulled this part of the world up by the roots. There's nowhere else in the realms like it. No gentle foothills and valleys, just a sheer cliff all the way around. And then on the top… These aren't mountains. Anywhere else and we'd say they were hills. Canyons. Caves. Snow and waterfalls and gushing rivers. The Diamond Cascade here, the Emerald Cascade and the Sapphire Cascade. Cold forests. It's like a tiny realm all of its own, torn up out of the Hungry Mountain Plain. But not mountains, King Sirion. Sometimes, when you see something from a distance, you do not see it for what it truly is.' She leaned back, fractionally closer to Sirion. 'I would never have thought Shezira capable of such a murder either. That she might go to war, yes. I feared that, I admit it. But that she would kill Hyram with her own hands?' She tried to sound a little mournful, a faint tinge of wistful regret, but Sirion was having none of it.
'And very convenient for you that he should fall, eh? And I have known both the Purple Spur and Queen Shezira for many years and have found them both to be exactly what they seemed from a distance.'
'You are cruel, King Sirion.'
Sirion snorted. 'Don't pretend that your heart is broken, Speaker. You may have fooled Hyram but it is clear enough to me that you and Jehal were lovers before and are lovers still. I will not believe in illusions of any affection between you and my cousin. Say your piece, Speaker. Tell my why you have asked me here, alone and far away from prying eyes. I can think of only two things, so which is it to be? Do you plan to seduce me as you seduced my cousin? Or do you mean to murder me? Although I warn you, you will find neither easy.'
Zafir half turned, glancing over her shoulder, and met his eyes for a moment. 'Perhaps I mean to do both.' 'Then you will fail twice.'
'Very well, King Sirion. I will not trouble you with sentiment, but with cold pragmatism. Hyram and I had a simple trade.' She turned to face him. 'Am I young, King Sirion?'
'Very.'
'How many children have I carried?'
He took a step back. A frown shadowed his fair. He peered at her. 'None that are known. Why do you ask such a thing?' 'Do you suppose I am fertile?'
He looked distinctly uncomfortable now. Which, as far as Zafir was concerned, was perfectly fine. 'I do not know, Your Holiness.' 'Then guess.'
'I… I suppose there is no reason to think otherwise.'
She took a step towards him, closing the distance between them. 'Am I deformed?'
'I would not say so.' He stepped back, and so Zafir stepped forward again.
'Am I beautiful?'
'Of course.' He tried to step away, but as he did, Zafir caught his hand and pressed it against her breast. 'Am I desirable?'
He pulled his hand away, but for an instant he'd hesitated. Her heart was beating strong and fast. She knew he'd felt it. His face coloured. 'I am not to be had, harlot.'
Zafir brushed the insult aside. She smiled. 'I would not presume such a thing, King Sirion, not from you. But look at me. Look at me with Hyram's eyes. Imagine for a moment that you are him. Am I desirable?'
'You may well be, Your Holiness. Although I can't imagine why you would ask such a thing.'
'Hyram made me speaker. In return I shared his bed. I would have made him heirs if he'd lived. He would have kept much of the power that he had. That was the nature of our arrangement. A simple contract, bound by a marriage. Are not all weddings for the same reasons? Heirs and power?' She laughed. 'You think I brought you here to bend your ear about Queen Shezira? No. The Adamantine Men have accused her. I've heard their evidence and to me it's strong enough to make her hang, but you can all make up your own minds about that. The kings and queens of the realms will hear the case against her and each of you will make your own decision. I do not care, King Sirion, what fate awaits her. Frankly, I will have as little part of it as my duty allows. I care only that a decision is reached, and that whatever is decided is decided by the rulers of the nine realms and not by me. What I care about, King Sirion, is making sure there is no dragon-war. I care about peace.'
'Peace?' Sirion snorted. 'You?'
'A happy coincidence of duty and self-interest, Your Holiness. You may make your own judgement as to how securely I sit on the speaker's throne now that Hyram is gone.'
Sirion was frowning. Obviously he hadn't expected such blunt-ness. 'Then why…?'
'Why did I bring you here? To ask you a question, Your Holiness. To ask your advice as a great king of a great realm. I am a queen and I am the speaker. I have carried no children. I am, as you have agreed, young, fertile and desirable.' She took another step close to him. 'My husband is dead. I should have the pick of all the princes across the realms. There is certainly no shortage of them, and more and more arrive at my court with every week that passes. You see that for yourself and doubtless find many of them as tedious as I do. But they are all southern princes, from the courts of King Narghon or King Silvallan or King Tyan. The peace of the realms requires that I marry to the north, not the south. I do not seek a war with Shezira's daughters, but nor can I marry them.'
Sirion frowned again. He shook his head. 'I cannot offer you any advice. If Queen Shezira had a son, that would be your answer. There are others who carry her blood.'
'Plenty of them. But I cannot marry into her line if she murdered Hyram. If she were to be found innocent then perhaps so, but not if she's guilty.'
'Valgar has a son.'
'He's two years old.'
'He has brothers.'
Zafir looked down the sheer drop to the river below. 'That is true. Valgar's realm is small though.' And now, Sirion, the seed is planted. Although you might be too vain and think yourself too wise to answer me now, the seed is in there nonetheless. For if I cannot marry into Shezira's realm, and will not choose Valgar's, then only yours remains. But only if Shezira is found to be guilty…
'There is-' She held up a hand and he stopped. She glanced inside. There wasn't much to the lodge, only a single airy room with open arches instead of windows. At the back were two wide alcoves, both piled with luxurious furs and soft cushions. It wasn't hard to guess what the visiting speakers had used those lor. She'd lain in them, naked, with both Hyram and Jehal; flying here again with Sirion she'd wondered if she might lie there naked again. He reminded her of Hyram though, which was unfortunate.
No. She'd done as much as she could with him. As much as she'd hoped. Now all she could do was trust time and greed and doubt and pride.
He followed her eyes and must have guessed her thoughts, for his face went hard.
'I-'
She struck first, before he could finish. 'Don't flatter yourself, Sirion. You have an unmarried son, Dyalt.' 'Promised to Princess Jaslyn.'
'Promised but not yet given. And promises, as we have seen, can be broken.'
Sirion flushed with anger, but before he could say anything else, dragon shrieks ripped through the air – first one, then another, then several more, answering the first. Cries of warning.
He jumped away from her and half drew out a knife. 'What trickery is this?'
Zafir barely heard him. Her skin prickled with an acid mix of fear and fury. The cries were coming from her own dragons, circling overhead, but what they'd seen was flying down the valley, skimming the waters of the Diamond Cascade River. Three dragons were heading almost straight at them. They were hard to see at all against the backdrop of trees and water and broken stone, but they weren't hers. She squinted, paralysed with dread. Her lookouts were too high. These new dragons would get to her first, before any of her riders could stop them. If they were here to kill her, she was as good as dead…
As they rushed towards her, she recognised them. Two of them at least. Dragons that she'd
lost to the Red Riders only weeks ago. They could only be here for her. As they flew closer, she closed her eyes. They were huge. She was going to die in agony and fire… No! No no no!
The fire didn't come. When she opened her eyes again, the dragons were flying past right in front of her, nose to tail, their necks straining forward, their immense wings so wide and so close that they almost touched the stone at her feet. She still couldn't move, but then Sirion grabbed her and hurled her to the ground away from the edge an instant before the wind of the dragons' passing picked them both up and flung them around like a pair of dolls. The dragons dived over the falls towards the City of Dragons and the palace below. Zafir rose shakily to her feet and watched them go. She still could hardly move. She touched a finger to her brow where the skin was beginning to sting. She was bleeding. A scratch, that was all. If they'd seen me. If they'd known I was here…
'You're shaking, Your Holiness. You're very pale.' King Sirion touched her shoulder lightly, awkwardly. She flinched away, ignored him, frantically waving her arms at her own riders already swooping out of the sky. Within seconds, a hunter thundered awkwardly in to land nearby. Zafir ran, screamed at the rider to move aside and hauled herself up onto the dragon's back. Sirion was forgotten. Never mind that he might have saved her life only a moment ago – for all she knew or cared, the hunter might have crushed him or swept him over the cliff and into the river below. Before she'd even strapped herself into the rider's harness, she commanded the dragon to fly. What mattered was her palace.
The dragon felt her need and threw itself over the edge of the Diamond Cascade, soaring out into the immensity of the void below, into the skies above the City of Dragons.
Streaks of flame flashed across the ground far below. What mattered was her palace, and her palace was burning.
13
Justice and Vengeance
Rider Semian shot out of the mouth of the Diamond Cascade and into the void beyond. Vengeance, the dragon he'd stolen from the Usurper, tucked in his wings and fell out of the sky like a stone towards the city below. The wind roared and screamed in Semian's ears and tore at his clothes. The wound in his leg hurt; there was a fever in his blood and when he closed his eyes all he saw was fire and endless burning plains. He whispered a prayer to the Great Flame. Drotan's Top and three other eyries ringed the speaker's domain and a fifth stood close to her palace gates. Today they would all burn. Let the kings and queens of the realms answer the speaker's call and find only ash and embers. The Red Riders, his riders, had dispersed. They'd flown north and south and east to strike at all the speaker's eyries at once. And while they do, I will find the heart and cut it out. Hyrkallan, when you hear of our deed, I wish you could know how I pitied you as I sent you away.
He opened his eyes. The City of Dragons had grown enormous. Vengeance stretched his wings and opened his mouth wide. Scorching winds blasted Semian's face even through his visor; the glorious smell of scorched air filled his nose and the city burned. He could feel the raw strength and power of Vengeance ripple through him and he knew the dragon felt the same. They were as one, burning bright with righteous fury. See how your ruler protects you. See how powerless she is? Three or four dragons were in pursuit of him now, guardians loitering up on the edge of the Purple Spur, but they were behind him. Too far away to reach him before he himself reached the palace. Fate and destiny had flown here with him and slipped him between the Usurper's patrols. They were his shield and his armour and they would protect him from the scorpions of the Adamantine Men too, he was sure. As the walls of the palace came up meet them, Shanzir and Nthandra peeled away to either side, striking at the eyrie and the barracks around it. He alone would have the glory. Vengeance smashed at the walls with his tail as they crossed, lashed a scar of cracked stone into the greens and blues of the Tower of Water and then let loose, spraying fire in all directions, cleansing the walls, the earth, the towers, everything within his reach. Men and women and horses all screamed and burned; servants and beasts, kings and lords, all were the same when they were made into ash.
Something hit Vengeance and the dragon shuddered and gave an angry snort. From the walls, soldiers were firing at him, shooting their handful of scorpions. In front of him, a company of Adamantine Men had formed up with their shields, turning the fire away. Vengeance lashed them with his tail as he flew overhead, but as Semian raced towards the Tower of Air and the Speaker's Tower beyond, more and more Guardsmen emerged. A second scorpion bolt hit Vengeance, and then a third. The dragon shrieked and veered, straining to turn and strike back. Only Semian's iron desire held him in check.
There! There in front of him were the open doors to the great Chamber of Audience. If the speaker was anywhere, she should be there. Guards were closing them though, and now hundreds of soldiers were spilling onto the walls and into the yards, raising their shields, dragging their scorpions.
It wasn't to be. Another scorpion struck Vengeance in the back of the shoulders, barely a yard away from where Semian sat, and this time the dragon would not be denied. Flames washed across the soldiers closing the door and then Vengeance pivoted his head and sprayed the walls, veering towards them. A few scorpion bolts would never take a dragon out of the air but they still hurt, and by the time Semian had Vengeance under control again, the moment was gone. The doors flashed past, still half open, inviting him in, mocking him. With a howl of rage he urged Vengeance onward, upward. He pulled away from the palace, jaw clenched with frustration, and finally glanced over his shoulder to see how many of the speaker's dragons were chasing him.
And saw something wonderful. A miracle of the Great Flame. No dragons were after him; they were all converging on another. For a moment he thought it might be Shanzir, but no. Nthandra.
Nthandra of the Vale had set fire to the speaker's eyrie as he'd told her, but now, instead of flying away, she'd turned back into the palace. Semian felt a strange pang of jealousy and joy. He saw her dragon almost crash into the doors he'd so narrowly missed, landing among the soldiers, crushing and scattering them. He saw its head lunge through the doors, smashing them to splinters, and then he saw fire fill the tower, exploding out of every door and window.
And he saw her die, shattered in her harness by three scorpion bolts at once and burned by her own fire, erupting back out of the tower. He closed his eyes and prayed for her, offering her soul to the oblivion of the Great Flame. The first martyr in two hundred years. Saint Nthandra of the Vale.
He flew south and then west along the Fury Gorge. No one came after him. Kithyr had promised him that he would be invisible, and so it seemed he was.
His head sang for the rest of that day, even as the other Red Riders returned with failure after failure. Samir's Crossing north of the Purple Spur was filled with the speaker's dragons and they'd turned away. Drotan's Top – they'd found to their cost – had been much the same, and four riders and their dragons were lost. But none of that mattered, and when he told them what Nthandra of the Vale had done, the other riders all seemed to understand. So they should. The riders not fit to follow the Flame had returned to the north, or else, like poor Jostan, gone some other way, willing or not. The ones that were left were the ones that would serve the Flame to their deaths.
The speaker is dead! The Usurper is slain, and by my command! Was that too much to think, too much to hope? When he turned to his tent as the sun sank below the hills, he lay in his bed and stared into the emptiness and prayed. Let her be gone. Let the victory be mine. Let the standard of the Great Flame burn across the realms! He closed his eyes and tried to think of the world as he would make it. Where the dragon-priests wielded the power that had once been theirs, with Semian at their head, the Knight of Fire of myth and legend. Justice and Vengeance. The visions filled his head as he drifted away.
You cannot rest, whispered the blame as he slept. You cannot rest.
All of it must burn. He tossed and turned in restless dreams and the sun was already high in the sky when he awoke. He'd missed daw
n by hours. In his tent beside him sat the blood-mage, Kithyr.
'You did well, prophet,' said the mage solemnly. He laid cool fingers on Semian's brow.
Semian gripped Kithyr's hand. 'It's just the start. Just the beginning. We have to…' He tried to rise but Kithyr forced him to be still.
'You have a fever again. I have told the others to rest for today and so will you.'
Semian lay back on his bed. 'You were right. Everything happened as you promised us it would. No one saw us until we reached the palace. The Adamantine Men were slow and half asleep. It was as though they didn't see us until we were already past them.'
Kithyr nodded. 'Blood has power.'
Blood-magic was wrong. Wicked and evil. Or at least so he'd always thought. Before the Great Flame had spoken to him, Semian wouldn't have suffered a blood-mage to live. Queen Shezira had outlawed them, as had many other kings. He'd even seen blood-magic once, wielded by an alchemist. Watching had made him queasy and uncomfortable. Yet that alchemist had been a servant of the Order, and the Order in its own way served the Great Flame. He knew better now. Kithyr had shown him. The men who'd first tamed the dragons, the very first alchemists, they had been blood-mages too. Blood and fire ran together.
'Let me dress your wound again.' Kithyr helped him to sit up and started to unwrap the bandages on Semian's leg. Semian almost pushed him away but relented at the last moment. The magician, it seemed, knew a great deal about dressing wounds.
'It's painful this morning.'
The mage nodded. 'It is festering and needs to bleed. I will suck out the corruption and dress it again.'
Semian rubbed his eyes. He felt weary and lethargic. 'It's getting worse. I don't even remember how I got it.'
'It is not a deep wound but it is long and ragged and the flesh is torn. It was a sell-sword's blade that cut you – a fool, coming to a fight with a dull edge on his blade.'
'I don't remember it.'
'You fought with fury. We won. They died. Yours was the only wound we took. What else is there to remember?'