Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  ‘Gurvon,’ Coin said in Olivia’s sing-song voice, ‘they’re looking for you downstairs.’

  Sighing, he joined her in the entrance hall to his suite. The last thing he wanted was another stupid banquet. ‘Then I suppose that is where I must be.’

  She put a hand on his arm. ‘We could be a little late,’ she said slyly.

  ‘No.’ He removed it gently. ‘That fiction is over. I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Francis liked that you were bedding his sister.’

  ‘I don’t care what that child prefers. He is my puppet, and he’ll think what I tell him to.’

  ‘Then what good do I serve pretending to be this gross cow?’ Coin whined. She clutched her Olivia-sized stomach. ‘You think I like waddling around like this? I feel like a pig in a trough.’

  ‘You’re doing important work,’ Gurvon said, trying to keep his temper. I’m getting utterly sick of women who don’t know their place. ‘He’s only getting through this because he thinks you’re with him – he’s lost everyone else he cares about—’

  ‘Hogshit! He spends most nights carousing with his knights – he doesn’t even summon Portia to his bed any more, not now he thinks she might be pregnant. He certainly doesn’t give a shit about his sister.’ Abruptly, Coin altered herself, flowing smoothly from shape to shape in a way that only an absolute master of the art could manage. This was her magic: she was the most perfect shapeshifter of mage history, capable of becoming either gender, flawlessly and with perfect control.

  She’d put on Elena’s face and form and he flinched as she sashayed towards him, her small Elena-breasts revealed as the dress, too large for the smaller body, slipped off her shoulders. ‘Would you rather I looked like this?’

  ‘Yvette!’ he snapped, hoping her given name would focus her erratic mind. Her instability made it too easy to forget that she was a pure-blood mage capable of ripping him apart. Her devotion had been hard-won and right now it – and his safety – were at risk here.

  ‘Or maybe you’d prefer this?’ she added maliciously, as with a twist of meat and bone, Coin became Portia, radiantly beautiful, the dress slipping to her hips, the breasts growing into perfect orbs. Coin had evidently been creeping about at night as well, studying the shapes of the palace women. She seized his limp hand and placed it over her right breast. ‘Want to be king for a night?’ she purred.

  ‘No, Yvette,’ he said, though his mouth had gone dry.

  ‘Or maybe Cera is more your preference: you were crawling all over her when Octa found you both.’ Now her voice had dropped to a bitter whine.

  He grimaced and looked away as Coin became the Nesti queen, perfectly rendered.

  ‘Yvette, I have a role to play, and so do you. Please. We will resolve these … personal matters … another time.’

  She met his eyes and he recognised madness and desire.

  For six months he had tended her devotedly while she had lain at the very threshold of death. He had seen it as an investment; if he succeeded, he would have a powerful – and unsuspected – agent at the court, one who owed him everything. He wasn’t entirely heartless, no matter what Cera Nesti might think, and he could not deny feeling a smidgeon of pity for the hermaphrodite. But he didn’t want her adoration, just her obedience. He took on the persona of a father gently upbraiding a beloved child: ‘Yvette, I do not respect neediness. I admire intelligence and capability. I know you feel you owe me, that you are looking for ways to repay that debt. I know you’re lonely and desire solace. But I can’t give you that until you have earned it, by showing the qualities I admire. Wearing another person’s face won’t achieve that.’

  For one horrible second he thought he might have to fight for his life. Her eyes hooded and her face became another, seldom seen: her own. She was thin to the point of emaciation, her features bland and indeterminate, her thin ginger cut close to her scalp. Her teeth seemed to grow as her lips parted.

  Then she … he … it … calmed. ‘You resurrected me!’ she bleated. ‘You saved my life! How can you be so indifferent?’

  ‘Yvette, I do care about you – and I know you know that, deep down. But what you want can’t happen. Did Octa’s strike teach you nothing? We are on a knife’s edge here. Play your part, be Olivia a while longer, and everything we want will come about, I promise.’

  He’d made such vague promises all his life, words that seemed to say one thing but in reality said little at all. Coin was still naïve enough to be placated by such baseless promises, though.

  ‘Very well. I won’t let you down,’ she swore, solemn as a child.

  ‘I know you won’t,’ he replied, straightening her dress for her, a pretence of intimacy. ‘Now, be Olivia for me, and attend upon her brother.’

  Her body reformed once more, back into the voluptuous shape of the king’s sister, and she smiled winningly at him before waddling off with new purpose.

  Gurvon watched her go while adding her to his growing list of worries. For now, she’s still useful. He sighed. But I’m going to have to kill her eventually.

  *

  Cera waited until the door was shut behind them, before she turned and gave Portia the welcome she had wanted to give the moment she’d stepped into the room. She kissed her lips, pressed herself to her, trembling in the warmth and feel of her. ‘Amora,’ she breathed.

  Portia pulled away. ‘That man Gyle frightens me,’ she whispered. ‘At any moment he could drag us down. I was so frightened when they locked you away. I begged and pleaded but Francis did nothing.’

  ‘I won’t let Gyle hurt us,’ Cera swore, rashly and against all reason.

  Portia’s lovely face was clouded with doubt and fear. ‘What can we do against him?’

  ‘We are queens. We’re not helpless.’

  ‘Queens married to a stupid lustful boy,’ Portia said, her lips curling, ‘who thinks only with his dildus.’

  ‘I know.’ Cera stroked her lustrous hair, kissed her perfect ear lobe. ‘But who controls that, my darling? You do.’

  Portia’s face became clouded. ‘He knows that my bleeding is late. In a few days he will announce that I am with child.’

  They both knew what that meant: Portia would be sent to Hytel until she came to term.

  ‘Perhaps when I am also with child, he will send me to my family in Forensa,’ Cera joked bitterly. Hytel was a Dorobon-controlled territory while Forensa remained free. ‘I wish I could go with you.’

  ‘I wish Mater Lune would kill the child in my belly,’ Portia cursed. Her hands crept over her still-flat stomach. ‘I can feel it in there, like a serpent.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Cera whispered, ignoring the blasphemy. She didn’t blame Portia for feeling that way. ‘You won’t feel anything for ages.’ She hugged her sister-queen and tried to kiss her, but Portia pulled her face away.

  ‘Don’t, Cera. I don’t feel loving right now.’ Her voice was sour. Then she looked at Cera properly. ‘You look pretty tonight.’

  Cera put her head against Portia’s breast, leaned into her, desperately wanting to be held, to be touched with a loving hand, but she could feel the mood slipping away. ‘I don’t feel pretty, just tired. I was in the Beggars’ Court all day.’

  ‘Why did you put yourself through that?’ Portia asked.

  She adored Portia, but Cera couldn’t understand her lover’s total disinterest towards what was happening outside the palace walls. ‘They’re suffering, amora mia. Someone needs to hear them. Francis won’t.’

  ‘The poor are always complaining, darling.’

  ‘They have much to complain about. You should hear their stories.’

  Portia shook her head, making her ringlets ripple like liquid gold. ‘Let the Crows deal with them.’

  ‘Perdonello’s Crows are too busy and the clergy are botching it. Someone has to listen.’

  Portia stroked her shoulders. ‘But not you, amora. All that time outside is bad for your skin – and your clothes smell of smoke from the street. You real
ly must look after yourself better.’

  Cera smiled up at her sadly. She really doesn’t understand – or care. But I know she’s a good person. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed her mouth, but again Portia pulled away. ‘Cera, please. I’m too scared. You know what was going to happen when they found you and Gyle together – imagine what they would do to us.’

  Cera didn’t have to imagine anything. Safians were always stoned to death publically, and sometimes no one even produced any proof; the mere suspicion of perversion was enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Portia whispered. ‘I’m so afraid when we’re together, ever since that awful night.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘And now I have a child … perhaps it is for the best that I’m to be sent away …’

  Cera felt her eyes sting suddenly. ‘What are you saying?’

  Portia stroked her cheek. ‘Darling, you knew this couldn’t last. It was something you – we – needed, at a terrible time in our lives. But now … it’s just too dangerous.’

  ‘Amora, I—’

  ‘We shouldn’t use that word,’ Portia said sadly. ‘It’s too dangerous for us to be lovers.’

  Cera clutched her arms. ‘Dearest Portia – making love is the least important thing we do together. It’s your company I need. Your support. Your insights. Your smile. Your hugs. All of these things matter far more to me than anything we might do in bed.’ She felt her voice crack, but she pressed on, ‘I can live without lovemaking, but I can’t live without your love.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Portia looked away. ‘I’m not brave like you, Cera.’

  ‘You are brave!’ she said fiercely. ‘You have to go to that pig every night and pretend you enjoy it – I couldn’t do that.’

  Portia laughed humourlessly. ‘Rukking is just rukking – it doesn’t matter what man it is with. But I don’t want to die. Pater Sol and Mater Lune have seen my sins – will they be merciful? Will they know that I had no choice?’

  ‘They’ll know,’ Cera replied firmly. ‘How could they not?’ She took a deep breath and stepped slowly, painfully, away from her lover’s arms. ‘Portia, will you come to the Beggars’ Court tomorrow? It would mean so much for you to be there too. Please? For me?’

  Portia’s eyelids fluttered rapidly. Her eyes were moist. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered, and fled.

  *

  The next day, twice as many women filled the Beggars’ Court and the Dorobon palace guard were deployed in the zenana to ensure there was no breach of security. Cera heard about every crime she could imagine, and some she couldn’t. Some of the women were clearly lying, or just attention-seekers, but the crowd itself seemed to know who they were, and if their story didn’t ring true they were shouted down. Gyle watched from above from time to time, his eyes narrowed. Neither Francis nor Portia came near at all.

  By the end of the week there were thousands awaiting Cera in the plaza outside. By the end of the month, the Godspeakers were sending Scriptualists to warn her to cease what she was doing or risk open conflict.

  Cera took that as a sign that she was making progress.

  *

 

  Gurvon Gyle opened up his mind as he felt the contact. He used a mind-cleansing spell that would give him a few minutes of clear thought, though the price would be the redoubling of his headache later. It had been a long and trying month, and one of the things hanging over his head had been the question of if and when he might receive this contact.

 

  < We are at the Winter Court in Bres. It is near dusk and the snow has settled. The torch-dancers are lovely.> Lucia Fasterius, Living Saint and Mother of the Empire, sounded like a sentimental aunt tonight, but Gurvon wasn’t fooled.

 

 

  He stiffened nervously, though she was thousands of miles away.

  Lucia’s voice dropped into a hard, matter-of-fact tone.

  She’s backing down, letting me have my win. He smiled warily.

  She paused, then added,

  That sobered him up.

 

  He scarcely heard his own reply, for his mind was still flip-flopping over what she had just said: Those supplies concern me far more than who is nominally in charge. That was tantamount to handing him control of the kingdom, should he be brave enough to reach out and grasp it.

  There’s a logic in that, he mused. She knows as well as anyone that a conflict between my people and the Dorobon would effectively hand the kingdom back to the locals. She also knows by now that I have mercenaries on the way, so if she was going to intervene, it would require substantial resources, and she can’t spare them from the Crusade. He smiled again, more deeply this time.

  she asked.

  Gurvon doubted Lucia had any idea what ‘primitive’ even looked like.

 

 

  Lucia’s voice took on an edge.

  He chose his words carefully, to begin mending bridges.

  Lucia’s mental voice became sharp. – her voice pierced Gurvon’s aching head –

  He didn’t hesitate, not for an instant. , as I was ordered to do.>

  Her laugh was brittle. He could hear the sound of her fingers drumming.

  He was pretty sure he managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  She fell silent again, and Gurvon pictured her pleasant, matronly face silently fuming.

  This was it. If he couldn’t persuade her now, he could measure his lifespan in hours.

  Her mental voice could have frozen birds in midair.

 

  Lucia tsked angrily. It felt like she was about to lose her temper – but then she recovered herself.