by David Hair
Ramon stiffened, staring. All carried staffs with ribbons knotted near one end, had long hair tied in top-knots, and clean-shaven faces. And all were Lakh – which was perplexing as well, especially as they all bore periapts and had managed to conceal their presence from him with Illusion. He’d always considered himself skilled enough that no one except perhaps a Keeper could do that to him.
He checked: their wards were impressive, not showy but very strong. The only badge they displayed was of a stylised winged man. It wasn’t an insignia he knew.
Then another figure stepped from the shadows, taller, but dressed in the same grey robes, nothing ornate. He too had a staff, but his skin was white. Ramon peered, perplexed, as the newcomer dropped the hood.
‘ALARON?’
A second later he was pounding on Alaron’s back and hugging him until they were both breathless. ‘Sol et Lune, it’s really you! What in Hel, amici? What in Hel—?’
Ramon barely recognised his best friend – though he was still no more than average height, and leaner than most, everything else was different. His reddish-brown hair was in a topknot like the monks, and he’d filled out with strongly sculpted muscle. His face was different too: the puppy-fat had been winnowed away, along with his usual jumpiness and uncertainty. He had the look of someone who’d seen deadly combat, and the measured assurance of someone who’d prevailed. There was something balanced about Alaron, a grace that had never been there before.
Is it really two years since we hunted the Scytale together? Two years!
There was also that ineffable look on Alaron’s face of someone in love, so it was no great surprise when a diminutive woman approached deferentially. She too was Lakh, very dark about the face, with trim, pleasantly determined features. Despite her size, she walked as if she were as solid as the stone beneath her feet. She had a gem-stone pasted to her forehead and long black hair in a tight ponytail, and wore one of the graceful saris he’d seen on some of the Lakh women in Khotri.
Alaron put a possessive arm about her – she just about came up to his ribcage – and beamed. ‘This is my wife, Ramita,’ he announced proudly.
‘Your wife?’ Ramon yelped.
Judging from Seth Korion’s startled exclamation, this was news to him too.
‘Congratulations, amici!’ Ramon looked at her wide-eyed then spread his arms. ‘May I greet the bride?’
While Ramon hugged Ramita, Alaron greeted Seth warmly; this was their first meeting too since their gnostic-contact a few days back.
‘I’d heard Seth was still alive and hoped that meant you were too,’ he told Ramon, ‘but I didn’t know, and I feared trying to scry you might put you in danger. But when Seth said you were with him, I was overjoyed.’
‘But not so overjoyed you contacted me immediately,’ Ramon said archly.
‘And miss the chance to shock you?’ Alaron laughed.
Ramon suddenly realised something. ‘You used an illusion . . .’ Alaron winked, and indicated the satchel on his shoulder.
Ramon stared.
Alaron’s smile broadened, and suddenly the monks and their gnosis became explicable. Ramon’s mind froze at the need to ask a thousand things and not knowing where to start.
*
There was so much to explain, on both sides. Ramon let Alaron guide the Lost Legions magi to a vast palace, damaged but in reasonable state for all that: the abandoned Domus Costruo. ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Alaron said. ‘We’re supposed to fly south tomorrow – Ramita’s son is waiting for us at the monastery.’ That required more explanations, as everything did. He was still amazed at the confident maturity of his friend: clearly he’d been through immense changes.
The other monks – who Alaron called ‘Merozain brothers’ – were introduced to the Lost Legion magi, and after some initial tension, a cautious bonhomie broke out, aided by the wine Alaron’s people had found behind gnostic locks in an unlooted cellar. They all settled down to a simple meal Ramita cooked, which the legion magi survived thanks to having their taste buds tempered by their time at Ardijah, and they all spoke of their travels, skirting the hard questions.
There was an old woman, clearly a mage, with Alaron’s party. She was introduced as Lillea, an ill-omened name, and she had an unnerving manner, but she drifted, inevitably, towards Jelaska, and soon the two older women were deep in conversation in one corner with a bottle of passable merlo.
After dinner Ramon drew Alaron aside and found somewhere where they could really talk. There was so much to tell each other it was overwhelming, and characteristically, they both interrupted each other wildly, jumping from subject to subject. There were tears over Cymbellea di Regia; they’d both been in love with her, in their own ways. There were toasts for Julietta, and Alaron’s stepsons, Dasra and Nasatya. They whispered grimly about the death-camps and the other atrocities they’d seen, and shared a satisfied look over the demise of Malevorn Andevarion. They shook their heads over the Scytale, and the new way to harness the gnosis that Master Puravai had shown Alaron.
‘You should keep that to yourselves, amici,’ Ramon advised. ‘You’re going to need an edge if you plan to face down the empire and keep the Scytale.’
Alaron rolled his eyes. ‘Listen to us! Here we are, barely out of college and talking about facing down the empire!’ He dropped his voice. ‘But that’s exactly what we’ve begun doing. The Scytale and Master Puravai’s methods – both of these things are world-changing, in the right hands or the wrong ones.’
‘Then all the more reason to be careful, amici,’ Ramon told him.
The night vanished as they skipped from topic to topic without feeling they’d done any of it justice. But what was best was just being together: for six years they’d shared a room at Turm Zauberin, and talked about everything. Just seeing Alaron lifted Ramon’s heart in ways he could barely express.
It was dawn before they even thought about yawning, and they realised they were both a little drunk. Everyone else had drifted off to sleep, except the mysterious Lillea and Jelaska who were still continuing their cool, detached discussion in the only unbroken cupola on the roof.
‘Oh yeah,’ Alaron threw in as if it were a minor oversight, ‘Lillea? She’s really Corinea, the Queen of Evil.’
Ramon fell off his seat, clambered back on and stared at him blearily. Then he refilled their cups, and the conversation began again.
Near Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 930
23rd month of the Moontide
Cera Nesti was under siege. Every moment, someone wanted something from her. The triumphal journey to Brochena felt like a funerary procession as she mourned her brother, and indeed her whole family. She was the last of her line, and the family name would die when she took a husband, as it was inevitable she must.
All week since the battle at Jekuar, Stefan di Aranio and Emilio Gorgio had been parading energetically before the commoners who lined the road home, but she was tired of the attention. Even more irksome was watching Theo Vernio-Nesti and Massimo di Kestria milking the crowds, when they’d not even been at the battles. Anger and resentment led her to vie with them, to show them what real popularity looked like – they might have earned praise for deeds they’d not even done, but she’d won the people’s hearts, in the Beggars’ Court, at the canals in Forensa, by being at Jekuar, and in cheating death by stoning. The adulation that came her way was frighteningly intense. Mater-Javonesi, they called her, and Ja’afar-mata chanting so loudly that it echoed from the buildings.
When Elena heard them, her nose wrinkled. ‘It sounds far too much like Mater-Imperia, don’t you think?’ she said in an acid voice. Elena wasn’t at her best, though: Kazim Makani was unconscious in the healers’ wagon, utterly unchanged. It was tearing her apart, ageing her like a life-raining spell.
Cera’s champion wasn’t riding with her for this part of the journey, but there was no danger; instead, she had the Ordo Costruo
protectors, soaking up the rare acclaim of the people, and showing solidarity with her: Mater-Javonesi . . .
There is no king. The enemy are in flight and we are marching back to take Brochena once more. The Moontide is ending and the Crusade has failed.
In such a world, anything seemed possible. Anything at all.
She felt as if she were tiptoeing on the very edge of a giant sword. A slip in either direction and she would fall – but right now she was balancing, and if she could only take the last few steps, she would be safe . . .
All these men wish to go back to ruling the world. They can’t imagine the unimaginable: a woman ruling in her own right, not as a proxy for a man. In a crisis they could manage ninety days under a female Autarch, but now the crisis has passed, they’re chaffing for Salim to send his ambassadors to claim me and take me away.
How dare they?
‘MATER-JAVONESI! MATER-JAVONESI!’ The words broke about her in rising crescendos as she passed and she waved her hand absently as she wondered what really was possible in this new world.
Her attention was called back to the present as Rene Cardien nudged his placid horse alongside hers. ‘Milady Cera, a moment if you will? I have been contacted by someone I thought long dead: Lady Ramita Meiros, Lord Antonin’s widow, has scryed me, through mountains and across five hundred miles.’ He sounded awestruck. ‘She wishes to meet with the surviving Ordo Costruo.’
Cera asked, ‘Why?’ Are the Ordo Costruo to be tempted away from us?
‘I don’t know. But she’s remarried, to one Alaron Mercer.’
The name was vaguely familiar. ‘Wasn’t Elena’s sister married to a Mercer?’
‘Indeed: this Alaron is her nephew.’ Cardien pulled a grim face. ‘Cera, Kazim Makani slew Antonin Meiros when he served the Hadishah. Prior to that, it appears he was betrothed to this same Ramita Ankesharan.’
Sol et Lune . . .
‘What did you tell her?’ she asked.
‘We urged her to come as soon as possible.’
Hebusalim, Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 930
23rd month of the Moontide
Seth Korion’s Lost Legions stayed at the Ordo Costruo palace grounds for another four days after Alaron’s monks left – Ramita had apparently scryed all the way to Javon and located Elena Anborn, Alaron’s aunt, and they had changed plans abruptly and gone to see her. Ramon was clearly disappointed to lose his friend again so quickly. Seth envied their bond: he wished he had old friends like that.
So Malevorn’s dead, and Francis too, from what the couriers out of Javon say . . . Good riddance.
He’d liked Mercer’s pert little wife, who was an odd mix of deference and boldness. Mercer wasn’t yet fluent in Lakh, but she spoke Rondian well, and they clearly doted on each other. Another twinge of jealousy.
And then there was Lillea. I bet she’d have been interesting to talk to. But Jelaska had monopolised her, and now she was gone too. Afterwards, Ramon had retreated into a re-opened smithy with Storn and a clutch of the wagons and was doing something mysterious. Seth was curious, but decided he’d get nowhere barging in – and anyway, he had bigger tasks. There was another march to plan.
What will I do when this is over? he wondered briefly, before deciding that was a luxury he didn’t have time to speculate on. The present was too complex without worrying about the future: like how to get his ‘deserters’ safely to Pontus. Their ranks were swollen daily by small units from the Zhassi Valley or garrison units coming in, often led by a solitary pilus or serjant, seeking someone to look after them. The Lost Legions were now sheltering hundreds of men seeking safety from an increasingly bold and hostile Dhassan populace.
He sought out Ramon and raised the matter. ‘Listen, I think we have to speak with the empire to negotiate safe passage over the Bridge.’
Ramon gave him a knowing smile and produced a relay-stave. ‘I wondered when you’d think of that. Alaron and I talked about it before he left – he found a bundle of these in a wrecked windship on Ebensar Ridge and he left me a few.’
‘A wrecked windship?’ Seth whistled. ‘Are the Keshi destroying our warbirds now?’ He tapped his fingers nervously against his lip, then took the stave. It had Imperial Seals – not just standard bureaucracy or army, but real, actual House Sacrecour seals. ‘This is attuned to the Imperial household!’
‘Si. Apparently it’s attuned to Big Lulu herself,’ Ramon said blithely.
‘Lucia? Kore’s Blood! We can’t just contact Mater-Imperia—’
‘Sure we can! Let’s give the old tart a shout.’ Ramon winked, then his face became somewhat more serious. ‘I’m not joking now: if we want to cross the Bridge, we’ve got to convince Pallas to let us – otherwise there will be legions blocking our way.’
Seth stared, then said slowly, ‘I suppose we have to.’ Before he could change his mind, he held the stave aloft and kindled gnostic energy on the seal.
A woman’s face appeared in the smoke of the cook-fire and Seth’s heart double-thumped. Mater-Imperia Lucia Sacrecour herself was standing there, the wind whipping through her hair. ‘Who is this?’ her cool matronly voice asked, while she peered doubtfully at him.
Every relay-stave is unique: she’ll know this one came from the First Army, which surrendered . . .
‘Mater-Imperia,’ he said, managing to make his voice sound resolute, ‘my name is Seth . . . Korion. I’m the commander of the Second Army. I’m in Hebusalim, and I wish to bring my men home.’
The sick look on the woman’s face told its own tale, as did the hurried glances, left and right, and the sudden retreat into the shadow of what looked like a windship’s bowsprit. ‘You’re the disowned son . . .’
‘I’m here too,’ Ramon chipped in. ‘Ramon Sensini-Dubrayle.’
Lucia clutched at a railing. ‘General Kaltus . . .’ It was two weeks since the slaughter at the crossroads at Bassaz; she must know of that disaster – but clearly she’d still hoped to hear from her invincible general.
‘My father is missing, presumed dead,’ Seth said, amazed at how calm his voice sounded when his heart was trying to burst through his ribs. ‘His whole army perished, except for those few who ran.’
‘Kore’s Blood!’ Clearly her worst fears were confirmed. ‘What do you want?’
‘To come home, of course. And to be absolved of the unjust charges of desertion made against us. It is the least we are owed, for all we’ve been through.’
‘And that’s all?’ Lucia asked slowly. ‘What is it you really want?’
‘I swear: all I want is justice for my men,’ Seth maintained. He noted that Ramon was frowning and scratching his head. He wished suddenly that they’d sat down and scripted this discussion a little, but it was too late now.
‘Where are you flying to, Lady?’ Ramon asked.
Lucia paused, then looked at them carefully. ‘I’m flying to Pontus, with my court, to greet the heroes of the Third Crusade as they return.’
‘One broken army, limping home,’ Ramon jeered. ‘That’s what you’ve achieved this time, your Holiness.’
Lucia’s face went stony, her voice defensive. ‘You are angry, I see that. Perhaps with some justification. But I assure you, Kaltus Korion managed the war, not me. If there were . . . bad decisions . . . they were made by him and his staff.’ She dropped her voice even lower. ‘Tell me . . . there are rumours of gold . . . ?’
‘All true,’ Ramon drawled. ‘I’m richer than your whole damned empire right now: though that isn’t hard, because you’re so bankrupt I expect you’re melting down your plates for coppers.’
Lucia’s mouth became a thin line. ‘Then you are thrice welcome,’ she spat between gritted teeth. ‘Listen, if this is some plot between you and your father, young Dubrayle, I congratulate you. You’ll earn a place at the highest table if you bring it to me. Both of you. Anyway, the Imperial Council needs new blood.’
‘Then we’ll see you at Pontus, my Lady,’ S
eth said, feeling surprisingly calm now. ‘Do you guarantee my men a safe crossing?’
They watched her calculating . . . her hooded eyes were manifestly untrustworthy, but she exhaled heavily and said, ‘Very well. Yes, I guarantee your crossing.’
39
The Crossing
The Great Flood
The legend of a Great Flood inundating lands and swallowing up cities is, unsurprisingly, part of the mythology of both Yuros and Ahmedhassa. Most philosophers explain it in terms of folklore explaining the Sunsurge, the twelve-yearly wet season affecting both lands. However, we believe it has deeper roots, concerning the drowning of an isthmus that once linked the two continents.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, HEBUSALIM, 678
The Leviathan Bridge
Akhira (Junesse) 930
24th and final month of the Moontide
The Lost Legions reached Southpoint on the first day of Junesse, which, by conventional wisdom, meant they were cutting it pretty damned fine if they were to clamber up the ramp at Northpoint before the waves came crashing over the barriers and the Bridge disappeared under the seas again. Seth Korion was a worried general.
‘Can’t we get these damned wagons moving faster?’ he muttered to Jelaska Lyndrethuse as they hunched over the pommels of their saddles. ‘We’re an army, not a migration.’
‘I think we stopped being just an army some time ago,’ Jelaska replied drily. ‘We’re more of a refugee column.’
The Argundian sorceress wasn’t wrong; over the last three weeks the march of the Lost Legions had become something quite different. More of the rankers had taken wives among the widowed Dhassan women, and destitute natives whose homes were ruined and livelihoods destroyed had started following them, and it looked like they intended to do so all the way to Yuros. There were deserters from the First Army too, and survivors of Kaltus Korion’s forces who’d followed them from Bassaz. A lot of them were garrison troops who’d seen little action until after Shaliyah, when the populace had turned on them with ferocity. All had harrowing tales of murder at night and treacherous servants, but Seth couldn’t help feeling most had brought their misfortunes on themselves. Keeping the groups from turning on each other was a full-time mission, but they had the food to feed them, and he couldn’t turn them away.