Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘We’re going to the palace now!’ exclaimed Malaki, his voice an octave higher than normal.

  ‘The Queen likes to greet cadets on their arrival,’ said the emissary and Falco smiled at Malaki’s sudden show of nerves.

  ‘That includes you too, Master Danté.’

  The smile died on Falco’s lips.

  ‘You may not have won a place during the trials,’ said the emissary. ‘But battle mages also train at the Academy of War. Besides, it is my job to decide who is presented to the Queen. You will come with us.’ His expression made it clear there would be no debate.

  Falco was about to protest further when Morgan Saker drew up alongside them.

  ‘We will leave you here,’ said the senior mage as the rest of the magi continued towards the main gate.

  ‘You are not coming to the palace?’

  ‘Our duty is to the Grand Veneratu. It is to him that we should first report.’

  The emissary was clearly not impressed by this show of disrespect but he maintained his dignity and bade them farewell as the magi filed past. He directed the cadets down towards the harbour and was about to join them when he noticed that Meredith had paused, looking at Falco as if there were something he wanted to say. For a moment the apprentice mage hesitated but then he bowed his head, urged his horse forward and followed his father up into the city.

  The emissary watched him leave, his eyes narrowed in thought. Watching Meredith disappear among the crowds he gave the smallest of nods then he turned away, leading the cadets down towards the harbour where ships and boats of all sizes were moored up against the wharf or anchored in the calm lagoon behind the breakwater.

  Falco found the harbour a dizzying place of sights and sounds. There was the keening of gulls and the creaking of timbers, the tolling of ships’ bells and the shouts of harbour hands and market traders, all against the slap and boom of breakers beyond the harbour wall. And then there was the smell, the overwhelming smell of fish mingled with tar and sweat, with the occasional waft of exotic spices that Falco could not identify. He did not find it unpleasant and yet he was grateful when they slipped through the gate and left the harbour behind.

  Now they entered a quiet quarter of the city where gardens led down to the coast and green lawns spread up towards the rocky hillside on which sat the citadel and the palace itself. There were people around but it was not crowded. Some swept leaves or tended the gardens. Others were gathered in groups as if this were just a pleasant place to meet.

  They heard the steely ring of combat and were surprised to find a number of groups engaged in training. Some were obviously formal training sessions with an instructor and students but others seemed to be informal sessions between small groups of individuals sparring with sword and shield and spear.

  ‘The desire for martial excellence spreads well beyond the academy walls,’ said the emissary.

  Continuing on their way they passed through a second gate beyond which the gardens changed again. The trees on these southern slopes were planted more closely and Falco noticed that most of them were fruit trees. Here and there he could see people on ladders, gathering the last of the autumn pears and packing them into boxes.

  As they moved more deeply into the orchard they heard the clack and retort of wood on wood and suddenly they came upon a clearing where another couple were engaged in a sparring contest. One was a woman of perhaps thirty years, wearing leather breeches and a white blouse, over which she wore a green dress which was split to the silver cord at her waist. Her blue eyes flashed with concentration and her chestnut hair flew wild about her shoulders, sticking in damp strands to her sweat-soaked skin. The other was a man with a lithe but powerful build. His dark hair was sleek and silky and although he was out of breath he moved with the strength and deliberation of a seasoned warrior.

  They fought with wooden sword and metal shield and Falco was impressed by the ferocity of their exchanges. This was no pretence at swordplay. This was an exercise in mortal combat. The combatants’ fight brought them a little closer to the path and suddenly the woman noticed their presence. Her eyes swept across them as she continued to attack and parry but then she caught sight of the emissary and for just a moment her concentration was broken. Her shield dipped and the man’s wooden sword struck her cheek with a whack that made them all wince.

  The woman gave a cry and spun away. When she turned back her face was livid and a bead of blood ran down her flushed cheek. She shot a quick look at her opponent, cast a fleeting glance over the people in the travelling party, then fixed the emissary with an indignant glare.

  Falco saw anger in her deep blue eyes but there was embarrassment too. Without a word she threw down her sword and shield and ran through the trees to a black horse that was calmly cropping the grass at the base of an apple tree. She swung lightly up into the saddle and, with a kick of her heels, she was gone.

  All eyes turned back to the man with the silky black hair. His face was proud with the dark cast of Acheron or Thraece. There was no apology or embarrassment in his expression but there was a certain nervousness as he looked up into the grey eyes of the emissary.

  ‘Why did you strike the lady?’ asked the emissary in a dangerous voice.

  ‘Because she lost concentration and dropped her guard, my Lord,’ said the man.

  ‘Do you think she will forgive you?’

  ‘Quicker than she forgives you, I think,’ said the man with the hint of a smile.

  ‘I fear you are right, my friend,’ said the emissary with a sudden laugh.

  The cadets looked from one to the other, while in the distance they could just see a black horse climbing up the hillside path.

  ‘Do you know that woman?’ asked Falco.

  That,’ said the emissary, staring after the now distant figure. ‘Is the Queen of Wrath.’

  Ten minutes later an even more nervous group of cadets followed the emissary through the high archway and into the central courtyard of the palace. Their horses had been ushered away by stable hands and each of the travellers had been offered a towel and a bowl of rose scented water to wash before their introduction to the Queen. Malaki gazed at the bowl in despair. It would take more than a little sweet smelling water to make him presentable.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ said the emissary with a laugh. ‘You have come to swear your lives to the Queen. Do you think she’ll worry about a little dirt and grime?’

  Malaki did not look particularly reassured.

  With hands and faces duly washed, they proceeded across the courtyard where they were met by a tall man in an impeccably tailored doublet of black chenille with a faint sheen of silver brocade. He wore a short cloak of turquoise silk, draped from one shoulder to denote a servant of the court. And on his head he wore a black velvet cap with a blue trim as a mark of his authority. Beneath the cap his short-cropped hair was white, while his well trimmed beard and heavy eyebrows were surprisingly dark. His hawkish eyes were a deep brown and they swept across the youngsters with a keen intelligence.

  ‘Sir William,’ he said, in a tone that conveyed a wealth of meaning, and not all of it good.

  ‘Master Cyrano,’ replied the emissary with a respectful bow of his head.

  ‘Another boyish prank?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ said the emissary with a laugh. ‘I did not expect to find her outside the palace.’

  ‘Not that you ever discouraged that,’ said the Queen’s advisor with a disapproving glance.

  The emissary’s smile was writ with guilt.

  Cyrano turned to the cadets.

  ‘Welcome to Wrath. In a few minutes time you will be escorted to the barracks at the Academy of War.’ He nodded to a squire standing to one side of the courtyard. ‘However, the Queen likes to greet all cadets upon their arrival in the city.’ His eyes swept over them and, just for a moment, it seemed as if his keen gaze lingered on Falco but then he gave a satisfied nod as if everything was in order.

  ‘The Queen will meet you on the we
stern terrace. The Chevalier knows the way.’ And with that he turned and climbed the short flight of steps into the palace.

  The cadets breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘Not the friendliest of men, is he?’ said Malaki.

  ‘No,’ said the emissary. ‘But he is perhaps the truest.’

  With that he led the cadets through a short tunnel in the west wall of the courtyard. This led to a lawned terrace with a gravel path running down its length. To the right loomed the palace while to the left the walls followed the line of the cliffs, looking out over the sea where the sun had disappeared into a bank of cloud on the horizon. It was cold but the evening sky was clear and bright.

  As they continued along the terrace they saw the lawn rise up to a low mound. The mound was crowned by a bower cast in bronze and fashioned in the shape of three trees coming together to form a roof of interlacing branches. The weathered metal was bright with verdigris and standing beneath it was a tall woman with long chestnut hair.

  The cadets gazed up in awe as they followed the emissary.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ whispered Bryna and Malaki nodded but Falco gave no answer.

  Was this the same woman they had just seen, flustered and sweating in the gardens below?

  Now she stood tall and slim. Her gown a single fall of turquoise silk, edged with gold thread and tied at the waist with a slender golden chain. About her shoulders she wore a pale blue cloak with a wolf fur mantle to guard against the evening chill, and at her neck a black velvet choker, threadbare and rustic beside the refinement of her other clothes.

  The emissary led them round the foot of the mound until they were lined up against the wall and then they watched as he climbed to kneel before the Queen. The contrast between the slender woman and the rugged knight could not have been more stark but when it came to presence Falco could not have said which had the stronger of the two.

  The Queen looked down at the man kneeling before her. Her gaze was imperious and something of her earlier anger still remained in the set of her jaw and the narrowing of her deep blue eyes. But then her expression softened as if she could not sustain her ire in the face of such humility. Finally she extended her hand and the emissary raised his head to kiss it.

  ‘You,’ she said as the emissary came to his feet. ‘Are a day early.’

  Although spoken quietly the wind carried the Queen’s words towards the cadets and they smiled at the guilty look on the emissary’s face.

  ‘An entirely innocent mistake, Your Majesty,’ he said.

  The Queen’s gentle snort suggested this was not the first time she had been required to forgive her emissary an ‘innocent mistake’. They looked at each other for a moment and something unspoken passed between them then the emissary turned to the waiting youngsters.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘May I present the academy recruits from the Valentian town of Caer Dour.’

  The Queen turned to face them and any trace of anger faded from her eyes.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice richer and deeper than they might have expected from one so slight of frame. ‘I have heard something of the trials you have endured but now you are safe. The city of Wrath is your city, the people of Clemoncé your people.’

  The youngsters of Caer Dour were deeply affected by the compassion in the Queen’s voice and some of them lowered their faces to hide a sudden swell of tears.

  The Queen turned to the emissary and, stepping outside the bower, he called the name of the first Cadet.

  ‘Allyster Mollé.’

  Almost in a dream the young archer ascended the mound to meet the Queen. She shook his hand and exchanged a few softly spoken words before he descended the other side to wait beside the palace wall.

  When it came to Bryna she climbed the gentle slope with her chin held high and her face set like stone. Falco did not catch what the Queen said to her but Bryna’s shoulders suddenly sagged. Her head drooped and the Queen reached out to gently raise her face. Again the words were carried away on the breeze but Falco saw the warmth of the Queen’s smile and the tears on Bryna’s cheek.

  When Malaki was called he climbed the mound with the easy movement that marked him as a natural fighter but when he bowed to the Queen he dropped his right foot back in something resembling a curtsy. When he straightened up his entire face was as crimson as the birthmark on his cheek. The Queen smiled kindly but there was no mistaking the amusement in her eyes.

  ‘My Lady,’ mumbled Malaki, completely forgetting the correct way to greet the Queen.

  She extended her hand and Malaki raised it gently to his lips.

  ‘So you’re the one who broke my emissary’s nose?’

  ‘Er, yes, Your Majesty,’ said Malaki, his face growing an even deeper shade of red.

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d been there to see that!’

  Malaki glanced up, surprised that the Queen would make such a jest. Her eyes flicked in the emissary’s direction and suddenly Malaki did not feel quite so much the fool as he made his way down to join the others beside the palace wall. The remaining cadets were introduced until only Falco was left. There was such a contrast between the hale young people introduced thus far and the tall waif-like figure of Falco.

  He was painfully aware of the eyes watching him as he ascended the low mound. When he glanced up, the friendly warmth had gone from the Queen’s gaze, replaced, not by hostility, but by a keen and searching interest. He bowed low, kissed her hand then straightened up to look her straight in the eye.

  The Queen raised an eyebrow as if she were surprised by the directness of his gaze.

  ‘And why have you come to Wrath, Master Danté?’ she asked.

  Falco paused. He had not expected to be challenged in this way.

  ‘To do what I can,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing more?’

  Falco found himself wondering just how much the Queen knew about his father. For a second his eyes narrowed as he became more guarded. Yes, a part of him was hoping to find some answers, some kind of purpose. But the real reason for him coming to Wrath was far simpler than that.

  ‘To be honest, Your Majesty, I just wanted to be with my friend.’

  The Queen let out a gentle sigh as if she had been holding her breath.

  ‘I can think of no better reason,’ she said and finally she smiled.

  Falco lowered his gaze and bowed once more. He did not see the Queen glance to one side and give the emissary the slightest of nods. In something of a daze he ambled down the slope to stand beside Malaki and Bryna.

  ‘I can’t believe she was so nice,’ whispered Bryna, still dabbing her eyes.

  ‘A curtsey,’ muttered Malaki. ‘I don’t believe it. A fecking curtsey!’

  Bryna laughed and took Malaki’s arm but Falco barely heard them. All he could hear were the words of the Queen echoing in his mind.

  And why have you come to Wrath, Master Danté?

  Looking up he saw the emissary move back into the bower to stand before the beautiful woman that was the Queen of Wrath. They could no longer hear what was being said but Falco saw something in the emissary’s bearing that he had never thought to see... nerves.

  They spoke quietly for a while and Falco noticed the way their eyes never made contact for long and yet despite a certain awkwardness there was no doubting the intimacy between them. The cadets were now gathered close, all staring up at the man and the woman framed against the brightness of the westering sky.

  ‘They love each other,’ said Bryna quietly.

  ‘Yes they do,’ said a deep voice and the cadets turned to see the Queen’s advisor standing behind them.

  ‘Then why don’t they marry?’ asked Bryna, emboldened by the advisor’s candour.

  ‘They can’t,’ said Cyrano. ‘Politics and the line of accession dictates that the Queen should marry Prince Ludovico of King Michael’s Mount. To refuse him would divide the nobles and weaken the Queen’s standing with the magi.’

  �
�Is that why she is still in mourning?’

  Cyrano nodded.

  ‘As long as she wears a token of black she can avoid giving the Prince an answer, and they,’ he nodded towards the emissary and the Queen, ‘can keep alive an illusion of hope.’

  They watched as the couple spoke quietly together. Just once the Queen extended her arm as if to find the emissary’s hand but he drew back and reached into his tunic to reveal a bundle wrapped in plain white cloth. The cadets edged forward as the emissary drew back the wrapping.

  ‘The belt,’ whispered Malaki.

  Up on the mound the Queen looked at the object lying in the emissary’s large rough hands. A belt of interlacing leather thongs with a silver buckle formed in the likeness of a horse’s head, the same design that fluttered on the flags above the palace. But it was not the design that caused the breath to catch in her throat. It was the fact that the leather thongs were black.

  She reached out a hand to touch it.

  ‘I can’t believe you found the time,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion.

  ‘I picked it up at a market stall down by the harbour.’

  ‘You did not!’ scolded the Queen and here she actually shoved him in the shoulder.

  ‘No,’ said the emissary. ‘I did not.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said the Queen and for a moment they held each other’s gaze before the Queen turned and drew her long hair back from the nape of her neck.

  The emissary paused and took a breath as if to steel his nerves before reaching up to unclasp the worn velvet choker from around the Queen’s throat, the velvet choker that he had made for her more than a year ago. He folded it and slipped it into the same pocket from which he had drawn the belt. And then, reaching beneath her cloak he slipped the belt around the Queen’s slender waist. He did not linger in fastening the clasp but to the cadets, watching from the base of the mound, it seemed like an embrace.

  ‘Time for a little privacy, I think,’ said Cyrano, breaking the spell that held the cadets entranced.

  He led them back down the path and through the tunnel in the palace wall. In the courtyard he passed them into the care of the squire who took them back to the stables before leading them through the busy streets of the capital towards the gates in the northern walls where a path climbed up to the plateau and the Academy of War.