by Martin Ash
"But there are details," persisted Fectur. "Yesterday you openly consorted with known criminals, or the associates of known criminals. Why?"
‘'Openly!’'. You have said it, Lord Fectur. My movements have been within your full purview. They continue to be so."
"The purpose behind them nevertheless remains a mystery."
"I am the Queen, sir," said Issul firmly.
Lord Fectur momentarily lowered his gaze, but there was a sour twist to his mouth.
"I have consulted with the King," Issul continued. "You, my lord, are performing your duties admirably, in full accordance with your station. Should I or my husband deem it necessary to inform you more fully on any matter, we will summon you."
Lord Fectur compressed his lips, absorbing her pointed reminder that, for all his power, he remained her servant. "My position as Lord High Invigilate and Master of Security empowers me to act at all times in the interest of the Crown and State. Fearing for your safety I would be perfectly within my rights to prevent you leaving until I have better--
Issul flashed him a fiery glare. "Try it!"
She saw the satisfaction in his eyes, the barely visible twitch of a smile, and pushed back her anger. "Lord Fectur, any delay in my departure may result in significant and perhaps highly damaging consequences which I am not presently willing to discuss with you, largely because I am unclear myself. But the price could be high for anyone seen to contribute to those consequences, even inadvertently, no matter their station."
She pushed by him and climbed onto her mount, directly challenging him. Fectur stepped back a small pace: she noted this, an unwitting sign of acquiescence.
"You have consulted the King? I take it he is in favour of your journey?"
"The King trusts my judgement."
She jerked the rein, directing her horse towards the high arch leading from the court in which they waited. She kept her eyes dead ahead, seething and concerned yet that he might try something. Then she heard the clop of hooves at her side and knew that Lord Fectur had signalled his men forward. She exhaled a tense breath and allowed herself a small, stiff smile.
As she took her leave of the palace of Orbia Issul did not look back. She was afraid she might not bear it. The myriad towers soaring over her head, the coloured halls, the spacious apartments, magnificent gardens. . . this was her home. She was leaving it and its security, her family and friends, everything she held dear. For just a short time, yes, but the more she thought about the venture she was embarking upon the more she was aware of her growing uncertainty and fear.
It was a complete unknown, and one that threatened the very foundations of her world.
Issul realized, as her horse bore her slowly away, just how much she loved Orbia and all it represented. She was fortunate, blessed even. She had everything here, had never known poverty or need, had never had to face the privations that were the daily lot of so many. She worked diligently and hard for her people, but she was Queen, remote from the everyday harshnesses and sometimes cruel and unpredictable vagaries of life beyond the walls of Enchantment's Reach. That which dwelt virtually upon the doorsteps of common folk was, to her, barely known.
They passed through the chill streets of the city-castle, exciting little attention. Issul kept her hood up and her gaze low, not wanting to be recognized. They came to the massive barbican and the huge arched gate which let out from the city. Issul felt the wind suddenly stronger against her as they passed beneath the arch and stepped onto the wide causeway which ran for more than a league, almost straight along the ridge of the escarpment. She shivered slightly and gazed out across the far distance. Moving cloud still blanketed much of the great forest below and concealed the remote peaks of Enchantment, so that it seemed she rested upon an island floating in a billowing, endless grey nothing.
Eventually the causeway dipped and they began the long descent via gentle traverses towards the low forest lands. Though the chill cloud remained, visibility was good for fifty paces or more, and the further they descended the more it dispersed. At last they emerged beneath it and found the forest laid before them. Issul looked up and saw blue sky through breaks in the racing cloud.
The commander of her escort, a thickset young knight named Sir Bandullo, brought his horse to trot beside her. "I anticipate reaching Lastmeadow sometime tomorrow morning, Majesty. I propose resting tonight in the township of Crosswood, which we will reach well before dark."
Issul nodded. "Very good. Sir Bandullo, are all your men aware of my identity?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"Then please, instruct them that I am to be addressed as M'am. At no time during this journey is my identity to be disclosed, nor discussed. This applies to you, too. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Ma'm."
They rode on, reaching the foot of the scarp and pushing on to the forest road. They passed travellers: an occasional peasant or labourer; traders or pilgrims making for the city-castle; a solitary wanderer or group of three or four, usually young men, probably bound for enlistment in Leth's army. Later there would be more, Issul knew, for folk were leaving the southern towns and villages, fearful of the Karai, heading for the security of the capital.
The forest grew dense around them. A little further on the leading trooper brought his mount to a halt and pointed skywards. Issul looked up. Far overhead, through a gap in the clouds, huge, ungainly birds could be seen plying northwestwards. They were twenty or so in number and flying too high for any detail to be descried. But their form was unfamiliar to Issul's eyes, and they seemed heavier than any bird she knew.
"What are they?" she asked Sir Bandullo.
The soldier shook his head, one hand shielding his eyes. "I can’t say. Can they be eagles?"
Issul thought not. The body appeared too long and bulky for any species of eagle she knew. And though it was difficult to see from so far below, the wings seemed of a different shape to those of eagles. They looked to be scalloped, more resembling the wings of huge bats than birds.
They vanished into a patch of cloud, then reappeared. Sir Bandullo spoke to one of his men. "Mordon, can you bring one down with a bolt?"
"At this distance?" The man shook his head. "Impossible. See how they are buffeted by the wind. They climb, they pitch, they roll, all involuntarily. I can assess no path, and my bolt would fly wild once it cleared the treetops."
The dark flyers laboured on against the unpredictable wind. Issul thought for a moment that she heard a faint harsh cry borne to her through the air. She shivered. The strange birds disappeared again into denser cloud.
"They’re going back along the way we came. Towards Enchantment's Reach."
"Aye." Sir Bandullo's face was set.
Issul watched the sky a few moments longer, but nothing more was seen.
"On!" Issul urged her mount into a trot. The others moved quickly to take up formation.
At the little market-township of Crosswood, set on an intersection of three ways, Issul and her troop took lodging at an inn called the Green Ram. Issul accepted a reasonably well-appointed chamber - the best the landlord had to offer - and ate alone. By Sir Bandullo's reckoning, Lastmeadow lay barely more than two hour's ride away. But darkness was closing in and Issul would not risk further travel before morning. She made arrangements for a dawn departure, and retired for the night.
In bed, sinking towards sleep, it came to her for the first time that, now she was so close, she had no clear idea of what she was going to do once she reached the village.
III
Whatever decision she made today would shape the future immutably.
Issul awoke suddenly, drenched in sweat. Morning light was squeezing in through the chinks in the shutters of her chamber window. Her dreams had been haunted; everywhere there was the image of her dead sister, always she was just out of reach.
Oh Ressa, Ressa. Why did this happen to you? To us? Why?
She dragged herself from her bed. Her limbs were trembling. She wanted to weep
for the sister she had lost and for the weight that lay upon her now. She began to wash. Remorselessly a single thought resounded in her head.
Ressa had given birth to the child of a god.
Issul could not doubt that now. But what did it mean? And what was she to do about it?
It is not yet proven, she reminded herself. She had that to clutch at, but it was, truly, only the slenderest of straws.
Grey Venger, speak up now! Tell us what we need to know, if you truly know it! If you fail us we are lost.
But how could she ask favours of her enemy, the man who had tried to murder her husband, whose sons Leth had executed? Venger's heart surely burned with insane rancour now, with a bitter and irreconcilable hatred for her and all she represented. Was the fact that she might be delivering to him the Legendary Child, whose birth the True Sept had predicted for so long, enough to bring him from hiding?
If it did, would it change anything?
Hate us or not, we need you now, Grey Venger. And if we can bring you the Child, surely you must reconsider?
But what did the True Sept really know?
Issul dressed and readied herself for the journey ahead. She had little appetite but she forced down some warm ryebread and posset, keeping to herself again in the bedchamber. And all the time, without mercy, the soul-numbing thought came around and around:
My sister gave birth to the child of a god!
*
A blustering wind had persisted during the night, sweeping away the remaining cloud so that the day dawned sunny cool and bright. The dense trees swayed and shivered, then grew still, then whispered, then roared as Issul and the eight members of the Spectre's elite rode out of Crosswood.
The road, hardly more than a rutted grass track laid in places with brash and wood chips, climbed and dipped through the deep forest. The wind whipped and died, whipped and died, flinging leaves from the trees, hammering grass and bushes near flat. The daylight dimmed as they progressed further, the trees more ancient and vast, overshadowing the way. Presently they came upon a fork in the track, a barely noticeable path leading off to one side. This they took. In due course, rounding the shoulder of a high limestone bluff, Issul found herself looking down into a large clearing in a shallow depression. Rude cottages, farmhouses and outbuildings huddled at its centre, small meadows, orchards and paddocks behind. This was the village of Lastmeadow.
They descended, and in the village came across a peasant girl drawing water from a well. Sir Bandullo asked directions to the home of Ohirbe and Arrin, to which the girl replied in awed tones. They doubled back, following her instructions. A scattering of folk appeared nervously at doors and windows to watch them as they passed. They arrived at a small thatched cottage beside an orchard of apple trees. As they drew up at its little garden gate a man emerged from within, clad in padded leather, a sword at his belt, one of the guards Issul had instructed the Lord High Invigilate to have accompany and keep watch over Ohirbe and her family. Seeing Sir Bandullo he stiffened and saluted. Bandullo acknowledged him with a nod. "Has there been anything to report?"
"Some talk of an old woman hanging about the village, sir. She was seen a couple of days ago. We've seen nothing."
Sir Bandullo turned to the Queen. "Do you wish to enter, m'am."
Issul climbed from her horse and strode up the little path to the front door of the cottage. The soldier pushed open the door for her. She stepped into a dim smoky parlour with an old grey table and chairs to one side. Cedar beams crossed the ceiling. A fire burned in a small hearth and the smell of stew came from an iron pot suspended over the flames. Beside a window stood another of Fectur's men, a crossbow dangling loosely in one hand.
Ohirbe came tentatively from behind a partition formed of faded and threadbare green linen thrown across a piece of cord which was nailed at either end to beams on each side of the room. Seeing Issul her hands began to dart and dive about herself like frightened rabbits.
"Oh Mistress, I didn't know you was comin' so soon. I 'aven't 'ad time to be--Oh, I'm so sorry." Her cheeks flushed and tears started suddenly to her eyes.
"Relax, Ohirbe. You have nothing to apologise for. I was not expecting any kind of reception. Moscul is here, isn't he?"
"Oh yes, Mistress. ‘e's here all right." Ohirbe stepped back and gestured nervously behind the linen screen.
Issul's eyes passed around the room. The floor she stood on was straw-strewn dirt; the walls were decaying mortar and stone. Furniture was the simplest imaginable. Everything in sight served a basic function, a basic need; there was neither embellishment nor ornamentation.
She could have eased the harshness of these people's lives many times over, she realized. She had passed money to Ohirbe from time to time, but the amount had been purposefully minimal. It had been purely to ensure they did not starve and were able to attend to the welfare of their young charge.
I should have done more!
But she could not have. Anything more, the least indication, would have singled them out in the village. And from the first day that Ohirbe had taken charge of the baby she had named Moscul, the imperative had been to preserve his anonymity. He was to be raised like any other child in the village, giving no one any reason to enquire into his origins.
But Issul was taken aback as she faced the scope of their poverty. She had known they were peasants, but she saw now that she had no true understanding of what that meant. She had not expected this.
Ohirbe nervously twisted her apron in chapped, calloused hands. "It's not much, Mistress, but we've always done the best we can for the little one. ‘e never went wantin', truly."
"No, Ohirbe, please, do not misinterpret my look. I merely, I mean, I did not know--" she stopped, deeply ashamed, aware that she was insulting these people.
"We're dignified folk, no matter that we lack finery," said Ohirbe with sudden boldness. "That's worth more than gold, that is."
Issul's cheeks burned. She stumbled over her words. "Ohirbe, you have done a greater service than you know. For that I am very grateful. I always shall be."
"Did you want to see the little one now, Mistress?"
Issul gave a tense nod. She turned to the two soldiers. "Wait outside. Is there another of you?"
"Out back, M'am," replied the man who had shown her in.
"Have him remain there until I give further instructions."
The two bowed their heads and smartly withdrew. Ohirbe, though still too nervous to look Issul in the face, nevertheless could not keep her eyes off her. Clearly she wondered at the status of this young woman who commanded palace troops with such assurance. She took a step back and gestured again to the other side of the screen. "'ere 'e is, Mistress. 'ere's the little one."
Issul swallowed, her throat dry. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a long breath, then slowly stepped around the screen.
The child sat alone upon the floor, cross-legged, his spine quite erect, small hands resting limply in his lap. He wore a short grey smock and breeches, notably in better repair than anything Ohirbe wore. He was of solid build with fine, intelligent, though not particularly attractive features. His skin was fair and blemish free, his hair also fair, falling in loose clusters beside his face. His eyes, an unusual dark violet in hue, met Issul's as she approached. His gaze was unchildlike and strangely confident, as was his general demeanour.
"Hello Moscul," said Issul, smiling. She lowered herself to her knees before him. "It is good to see you. How are you? I have brought something for you."
From within her cloak she produced a small package wrapped in cloth. She handed it to Moscul, who ignored it. His eyes never left her face.
"Take it, sweetie," urged Ohirbe from behind Issul. "Moscul, say thank you now. You know ‘ow to say thank you."
Still the child ignored the gift, and his gaze was unwavering. Still smiling, Issul unwrapped the little package to reveal a wooden figurine, the image of a soldier, with jointed, moveable arms and legs. She held it up, marched it in
the air before the child.
"This is for you."
Still Moscul showed no interest. Issul gently laid the toy soldier upon his lap.
"Moscul!" Ohirbe scolded. "That's no way to behave!"
"It's all right," said Issul softly. "He’s bound to be unsure of me. He has never seen me before - at least, not since he was a tiny babe." She settled back on her haunches. "Moscul, I am--"
"I know who you are," the child said quite suddenly. His words were clear and perfectly formed.
"You do?" Issul felt a nervous quiver low in her gut.
"Of course. I knew the moment you entered the room. You are my aunt. Issul. Aunt Issul."
"That's right," replied Issul, disquieted. His manner was challenging and more than precocious. His violet gaze still held her, his features remaining set. He spoke unnaturally well for a three-year-old. "And how did you know that?"
The child gave a mocking shrug. "I am not stupid, you know."
"Moscul!" Ohirbe was beside herself with embarrassment. "Don't you speak so! Oh Mistress, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's come over 'im. 'e's never spoken like that before, not to anyone."
"Don't worry," said Issul lifting a hand to calm her. She was in little doubt now; there was something about this child. Moscul returned her gaze. His eyes had never left her face. He had not blinked once.
"What's more, you are the Queen," he said. "Queen Issul, fair spouse of Leth, King of Enchantment's Reach."
There was a great stuttering gasp from Ohirbe.
"It's true, isn't it?" declared Moscul. "Tell her."
Issul looked up at Ohirbe. The poor woman was white-faced and trembling, her hands to her mouth and pure terror in her eyes. Issul slowly stood. "Yes, it is."
At that Ohirbe gave a loud moan and fell to her knees, sobbing, her head bent almost to the floor. "Oh Mistress, my lady, your 'ighness! Oh forgive me please! I didn't know! I didn't know! Oh, oh, oh!"