Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne 02 - The Providence of Fire:

by Brian Staveley

  It was a childish fantasy, of course, the opposite of what she had come to do, but then, despite her success, what she had come to do was looking harder each day. According to Nira, she should have been grateful that the devout were calling her Intarra’s second prophet, that the scene at the Well was being hailed as a miracle. In a single day, she’d won the loyalty of Intarra’s most faithful, and besides, it wasn’t as though she’d never had a title before.

  Princess. Malkeenian. Minister of Finance. She’d grown accustomed to the big names, but this newest honorific—prophet—hung on her heavily as an ill-fitting coat. She still couldn’t explain what had happened at the Well, couldn’t be sure why she had walked away unscathed from the lightning. That Intarra had answered her prayer, Adare was just willing to believe, especially when her mind filled, as it still did several times each day, with that boundless, brilliant light, a wash of peace and power so burning hot it felt cool as balm. She’d come to the city a skeptic, and was leaving with a reverence kindled in her heart—fine. But none of that made her a prophet.

  “It’s not even your lie,” Nira went on, stabbing a bony finger into the tabletop. “It’s the people saying it. All ya have to do is nod your dumb head and smile.”

  Adare sucked a long breath between her teeth. The old woman was right enough. Word of Adare’s miraculous survival was already spreading, of a Malkeenian princess who had forsaken her palace and throne to join a sacred band of pilgrims, to make her own sacrifice at the Well, who had been marked twice over by Intarra, once with the burning eyes, and a second time, to reaffirm her holiness, by a sacred web of bright scar laid into her skin. Most hagiography, of course, was bullshit. In some of the tales, people had Adare stepping into the Well itself, then borne up on a fountain of light. And yet, she had few enough advantages in the fight against il Tornja as it was.

  “Listen, ya priggish idiot,” Nira said, spreading her hands. “People don’t want men and women for leaders—they want saviors.”

  “And what if I don’t want to be a savior?”

  “Then you’re dumber than I took ya for. Which was pretty fuckin’ dumb.” She shook her head in frustration. “Let me lay it out, plain as cloth: a fisherman tells his own story—where he fished, whether his nets came back full or no. A tailor tells his own story. Even a whore tells her story, though there are plenty a’ crooked cocks who’ll try ta take it from her.

  “But a queen? An emperor?” She shook her head. “You can sit on the throne and talk till you’re outta air, but it’s them,” she said, stabbing her cane at the wall, at the Sons of Flame drilling in the courtyard beyond, at the citizens of Olon, at the entire empire. “It’s them who tell your story. And listen to this bit, girl, listen good: there aren’t but two tales to tell. You’re a savior, or a curse. An answered prayer or a ’Kent-kissing monster. So when people go tellin’ tales with the words blessed, and goddess, and prophet, ya thank your bright shiny goddess and ya nod and ya fuckin’ smile. It’s you who made me councillor, so I’m counselin’—take the worship and be glad for it.”

  Adare stared, taken aback by the tirade. “All right,” she said finally, “but they believe all this, all this business about prophets, because they haven’t met me. The people who know me know the truth.” In her mind she watched again as Birch met her eyes, shook his head, and turned away, one man, at least, who wanted nothing to do with her divinity. “When they come to know me, they will come to know it.”

  Nira nodded as though she’d been making that precise point all along. “Which is why ya don’t let people know you. Why ya can’t.”

  Adare shook her head wearily, staring out at the waves. The best wines in the world came from Sia, reds and whites both. She could go south, take a room in a tiny whitewashed house overlooking the lake, spend her days baking and fishing. . . . And then il Tornja would win. He would destroy her empire as he had murdered her father. She tore her eyes from the water, turning back to Nira.

  “All right,” she said. “Prophet. As long as I don’t have to push the story myself. As long as that’s it.”

  “It?” Nira asked, brows rising. “It?”

  “Yes. It. I’m doing this to see il Tornja captured, tried, and killed. Not so I can follow in the footsteps of Maayala.”

  “And if ya succeed?” the woman demanded. “What then?”

  “Then Kaden will take his place on the Unhewn Throne—”

  “Kaden!” Nira hooted. “Your poor bastard of a brother’s feeding the crows by now. Ya think the ’Kent-kissing kenarang went t’all the trouble ta gut your father just so Kaden could dance back home and plant his bony, ignorant ass on the throne?”

  Adare held up a hand. “I realize he may have gone after Kaden. The delegation sent north, the one with Adiv and Ut, they could have been part of the plot.” She shook her head at the magnitude of the suggestion. “But could il Tornja really win over both the Mizran Councillor and the First Shield of the Aedolian Guard? And if he wants Kaden dead so badly, why didn’t he kill me? I would have been the easiest target of all.”

  Nira looked her up and down, then snorted. “You were worth more to him bedded than dead. And there was no threat that you’d take the throne.” She pursed her withered lips. “Is there?”

  Adare let out a long, slow breath. “Annur would never accept me on the throne. And Kaden . . .”

  The old woman waved the name aside. “I’ve heard about enough a’ Kaden. He’s dead, girl. Dead as meat.”

  Adare glanced down at her hands and realized she’d torn a nail right down to the quick. Blood pooled in the nail bed, then, when she tried to wipe it away, smeared across her hand. In all the long march south, she hadn’t allowed herself to think beyond the need to win over the Sons, and now that she had them, all she could consider was il Tornja’s destruction. Nira was right, though. If they did succeed, if the kenarang didn’t plant all of their heads on spikes over the Godsgate, someone would need to rule Annur.

  “I could do it,” she said slowly.

  Nira smiled, a tight, grim expression. “You’re a thickheaded bitch, Adare, but when you’re in the shit deep enough, at least ya know ta start swimmin’.”

  Despite her reservations, after several more days, Adare was forced to admit that the events at the Everburning Well, divinely ordained or not, had worked a small miracle for her cause. Not only were the Sons of Flame flocking to Lehav’s call, but the common people of Olon, sons and daughters both, came in scores, then hundreds, then thousands, some begging to join the holy army, others bearing baskets of food, or even, in one strange case, a dozen iron rakes.

  Can strip the skin from some legionary bastard with a rake as well as a sword, the giver proudly proclaimed.

  The words made Adare sick. She needed to see il Tornja unseated—that much she had never doubted—but now that her own army was gathering, she was starting to tally up the true cost for the first time. She wasn’t just preparing to fight a war, she was putting together a military force that would kill Annurians, loyal soldiers doing their best to hold their posts and defend the empire. It was a grim thought, one that refused to leave her as she worked with Lehav to make the force ready to march.

  As it turned out, rallying an army wasn’t simply a matter of running a flag up the pole, making a few stirring speeches, and passing out swords. Not even for a princess. Not even for a prophet. Adare had thought she understood something of military logistics from her reading, but the books made everything seem tidy, manageable, as though the main work were lining up wagons and procuring rations, meting out rank and enforcing discipline. Whoever wrote the books, however, had evidently authored them from a comfortable chair far from the mess of actual mobilization.

  It took Lehav almost a full week just to assemble a respectable force out of the disbanded Sons of Flame. Most of the soldiers had quit Annur, traveling south partly to escape the capital, partly to chase the whispers they’d heard of a force coalescing secretly in Olon. Coalesce it certainly had—ther
e were thousands upon thousands of Sons in and around the city—but the secret part meant that, for all but a few hundred, Lehav’s innermost circle, there was no clear hierarchy, no established muster point, no protocol for the dissemination and verification of orders, nothing beyond a shared desire to defend Intarra with the force of their arms and a tenacious hatred of the Malkeenians.

  The miracle at the Well had rehabilitated Adare in the eyes of many, but Lehav had been laying on anti-imperial propaganda with a trowel for a long time—it was the chief reason so many citizens were so ready to take up arms in the first place—and it took a concerted effort to reverse the message, to explain to scores, then hundreds, then thousands, that Adare was, in fact, a victim of the same vile treachery that had taken down the Intarran Church. Every morning and every night Lehav and Adare appeared in a small plaza before a new group of hardened faces, explaining that the conflict between them had been a misunderstanding, that both longed fervently for a strong empire in which the worship of Intarra would play a central part, that Ran il Tornja, kenarang turned regent, was their common foe.

  “He knows we’re coming,” Lehav said one night, as the two of them sat picking over the bones of a fried carp. Despite his burns, Fulton had resumed his duties, but he waited just outside the door, leaving Adare and the soldier alone for the meal. “The palace has spies here, same as everywhere else, and there’s no way to disguise what we’re doing.”

  Adare nodded wearily. “Not that we have much of a choice.”

  “There are always choices.”

  She looked up from the fish, studying the man. Despite their common cause, despite Fulton’s pardon and Adare’s own sudden rise in stature among the Sons of Flame, Lehav still made her uneasy. He accepted her, worked with her, but she had no feeling at all for how he felt about her, and she had not forgotten that day in the Perfumed Quarter when he almost left her to the canal rats. She didn’t question his devotion to the goddess, and Adare hoped that devotion might be enough to keep their paths running parallel, but there was no way to be sure. Unlike the others, Lehav referred to her as a princess still, not a prophet.

  “Are you having doubts?” Adare asked.

  Intarra knew she was having plenty of her own, but that didn’t mean she was ready to lose the Sons of Flame. Without them, her defiance was dead, as she would be, when il Tornja finally caught up with her.

  “I have questions,” he said, setting his knife down, the blade disappearing into the thick sauce in the bottom of the platter.

  “All right then,” Adare said. “Ask them.”

  For a moment, he remained silent, studying the carcass of the fish. After a few heartbeats, he pulled off one of the ribs, sucked on it a moment, then tossed it back onto the tray.

  “What is he like?” he asked finally. “The kenarang? What kind of man is he? What kind of soldier?”

  “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one who served under him.”

  “I was in the south, in the jungles. At that point, il Tornja was still a regional commander all the way up in Raalte. I’ve never even met the man.”

  Adare frowned, then shook her head. “I’ve read all the classic treatises, but I don’t know the first thing about soldiering. Men say he’s brilliant, that he wins battles no one else could win. His soldiers would follow him around the earth if he asked it, which I suppose makes him dangerous enough.”

  She paused. Her memories of il Tornja were like knives; bright and sharp, cutting.

  “As for the man,” she went on, trying to find the right words, “he seems flippant, dashing, insouciant . . . but it’s not real. Not all of it, at least. I thought I was smart, but he used me, used me like a fine tool that he had chosen and polished for his purpose, used me without my even knowing it.”

  Lehav watched her, the reflected flame of the candle alive in his narrowed eyes. “You escaped,” he pointed out.

  She nodded bleakly. “And now we’re going back.”

  Over the following days, the fear and uncertainty gnawed at her like a rat trapped in her guts. Still, speech by speech, day by day, the force grew. Men polished their armor, honed their blades, and joined the growing camp just north of the city. Just as importantly, the citizens of Olon and her hinterland gathered as well, some to gawk at the unexpected force, some from genuine devotion to either Adare or Intarra, some because they had something to sell—wagons, horses, grain. Offerings to Intarra’s prophet were all well and good, but people needed to make a living, and there was good money to be made outfitting an army.

  Where the money came from was a different question and one that, to Adare’s surprise and satisfaction, she proved uniquely able to answer. Olon, for all its poverty and dilapidation, still acted as a funnel for most of the trade between central Eridroa and the capital itself. Significant trade meant significant taxes, and Adare, leveraging her twin roles as Malkeenian princess and the Minister of Finance, insisted on access to the imperial coffers, coffers packed with coin. Enough coin, as it turned out, to back an army.

  A week after the lightning at the Well, the Sons of Flame had most of the supplies necessary to reach Annur. On the following day, they marched, leaving the city while a baffled population looked on, some cheering, some wary, wondering what effect that war would have on them, on their homes and families.

  Only when Adare finally saw the army moving, marching, rank upon rank of men headed north, did she realize just how crucial the Sons of Flame were to her goals. She had known it in her head, of course—it was her whole reason for coming—but she could see it now, hear it, feel it in the trembling dirt beneath her boots. Despite their dislocation and the partial collapse of their Church, most of the Sons had served their order for years, and found little difficulty falling back into the old structures of command, the lifelong habits of discipline that distinguished a professional fighting force from a rabble of angry men with steel in their hands. Adare could have seized the Olonian treasury and tried to raise her own army, but the men would have had no cohesion, no training, no experience working in units, probably no idea how to walk in a line without stepping on one another’s heels. As she marched north with the Sons, however, recapitulating in reverse her long miles along the canal, things went so smoothly that it was easy to forget that at the end of it, they would have to fight a battle. That at the end of it, prophets or not, they might all be dead.

  25

  Kaden could remember slaughtering his first goat, sliding his carefully honed knife along the neck as he held the warm, trembling creature beneath one arm. He remembered the way the hair parted, then the skin beneath, the pink flesh fresh and unblemished for half a heartbeat before the blood welled in a hot, wet gush and the legs went abruptly slack.

  He was only ten years old at the time, but he remembered Chalmer Oleki standing at his shoulder, instructing him to lay down the knife, to take up the large crock for the blood, to hold it beneath the wound. “Blood and meat,” Oleki had pointed out. “A little bone. A little hair. But no soul.” He chuckled gently at the notion, a soft sound, like a stream running over smoothed rocks. He had shown Kaden how to gut the animal, lifting each organ in turn: “The heart. The brain. The belly. A creature is no more than this. You are no more than this.”

  So, too, this man that Kaden was readying himself to kill.

  It was surprising how easy it had been to create the opportunity. He stood in the darkness of the door across from his own cell, knife at the ready, and waited, counting down the final heartbeats, until the man came, carrying the trencher in one hand, the storm lantern in the other. When Kaden heard the door at the end of the hallway open, he closed his lids over his flaming irises and waited, listening, until the footfalls paused. When he opened his eyes, the guard was setting down the lantern, back turned to him.

  It was a simple thing. One cut across the throat and it was done: brutal, but simple. As Kaden stood in the darkness, however, parsing the guard’s breaths, trying to measure the empty space between knife
and neck, the most basic elements of the action suddenly seemed implausible, impossible. How would he cross the corridor? How would he pivot to bring that knife to bear? Should he move slowly, to avoid suspicion, or lash out all at once, murdering the man in one quick slice?

  No, he reminded himself. Not murdering. “Murder” was a sloppy term, imprecise, laden with judgment and emotion. Killing. Killing described the action, nothing more. I’ve killed goats, Kaden reminded himself. I thought I’d killed that leach back at the saddle. Still, it was one thing to discharge a flatbow at Balendin from the still depths of the vaniate: a twitch of the finger, the reverberation of the spent bow, the brief whistle of the bolt in the air, and the man was gone, vanished off the side of the cliff. It hadn’t felt like killing. It hadn’t felt like anything. Cutting the guard’s throat would be harder, messier.

  He considered the exposed flesh below the jaw. Here is the knife. Here is the neck.

  In the end, it was a simple matter of three steps followed by an extension of the arm. The blade bit immediately, snagged for a moment on the tough cartilage of the trachea, then pulled through, slick and hot and wet. The guard managed to half turn, reaching a hand toward Kaden’s shoulder as if in friendship. Then the life fled his limbs and his head caved forward into the wreckage of his neck. Blood drenched Kaden’s face and chest, slicking the hand that held the knife, pumping in stubborn dark sheets down the front of the dead man’s sealskin cloak to puddle in the pits of the floor. The body slumped forward, then fell.

  For a moment, Kaden didn’t move. He stood, gory knife at his side, blood soaking his fetid clothes. Some feeling, delicate-pawed and silent as a mouse, prowled the edges of his brain, slipping away each time he tried to look at it directly. Guilt? Kaden glanced at the slumped form, the mound of bone and flesh that had, until moments before, been a man, then closed his eyes, trying to corner the elusive sensation. Regret? Doubt? It glared at him a moment, tiny, feral, then darted farther into darkness.