Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘A great man died three days ago,’ she said, her voice gentler. ‘A man whom I loved. He was the only protection I had against those who sought to bring me down. It will be a long time before I can think seriously about trusting anyone else.’

  No sound for a while save the chirping of crickets and the slop of water against the gunwale.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said eventually. ‘You seem so strong, so self-possessed. It is hard putting myself in your place.’

  Stella did not feel inclined to answer him.

  After a while Robal spoke again. ‘You are right. He was a great king, a great man.’ He breathed out heavily. ‘My grandfather practically worshipped him. Do you know King Leith came out to Austrau and personally dealt with the maesters at the height of the grain wars? My gran said he had them looking for their arses in their earholes, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘I remember.’ She smiled wistfully to herself. ‘I told him to be more careful with his words, but he was right. The maesters needed setting down.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Of course. You must have…No, of course not, you had not yet been born. Oh, Most High, Robal, I can’t live with this, and I can’t die. I am going to go mad.’

  She had fought so hard for so long, she was not yet ready for this to overwhelm her, was certainly not ready to reveal so much to a stranger. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, resisting the urge to scream, to lash out, to throw herself into the river, or into the arms of the bluff guard opposite her.

  ‘You won’t go mad, my queen. But where are you going to go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A true answer, if not the whole truth. ‘Upriver somewhere. A place where I won’t be recognised.’ She snorted, thinking of the portraits depicting the royal couple, liberally scattered across the Sixteen Kingdoms. ‘It’ll be a long journey.’

  ‘The river’s a good place, your majesty. Upriver is even better. The guards will search downriver, along the coast and the roads leading west, back to Firanes and Loulea, thinking you will try to go home. It’s what I would have done.’ A pause. Stella could see no more than his shadowy outline, but could imagine the grimace on his normally cheeky face. ‘Why didn’t you, your majesty? Why didn’t you head for home?’

  ‘Home? I’ve just left home.’

  Home was most certainly not Loulea, the small Firanese village far to the west where she had been born and raised. Stella had left her village, her parents and her drunkard of a brother with few regrets. Newly crowned after the Falthan War, Leith had persuaded her to accompany him on a journey to Firanes—their duty, he told her—including the trek north to Loulea in the cool autumn. She had forgotten how cold the coastlands of Firanes could be, but was reminded by the early snowfall that delayed them a week. Eventually they had taken lodgings in Vapnatak, the nearest large town, left their entourage there and walked the last few miles alone to their small village.

  A mistake. The villagers turned out to cheer the king and queen, but were disappointed not to see the horses and the soldiers and the other trappings of glory. Leith tried to explain who they were, but had been met with incredulity and disbelief. Leith and Stella died years ago, they said. The same year the old village headman went missing. A bad year, that. But what were the affairs of Loulea to the King and Queen of Faltha? Why were they asking such questions, saying such things, stirring up such grief? The gulf between villager and royalty seemed too broad for their direct, practical minds to cross.

  The village council eventually gathered the gist of the tale, and were offered sufficient proofs by the king that they could no longer deny the true identity of their royal guests. They were shocked, but there were none of the celebrations Stella had expected. Instead, Leith and Stella were taken to her father’s grave, fresh-dug, next to that of her brother, who had apparently not lasted more than a few months after their supposed deaths. Stella’s mother, a broken figure, did not recognise them. Had recognised none but her husband for two years.

  That evening, during the festivities celebrating the visit of the king and queen, Stella begged Leith to take them home to Instruere. Their welcome had left Leith feeling uncomfortable, she could tell, but he was a man of duty and would not listen to her. After the feast the young village headman spoke quietly to them both, advising them to leave. ‘I know who you are, but many of the villagers do not. The way you talk of Loulea as if it was your home is confusing them. Please, your majesties, we have enjoyed and have been honoured by your visit, but we would respectfully ask you to depart at your earliest opportunity.’

  ‘But how could Loulea have forgotten us? It is less than ten years since we lived among them.’ The queen who asked that question had been young; despite all she had suffered during the Falthan War, she had yet to learn that indifference wounded deeper than hatred.

  ‘How could they have forgotten?’ the headman repeated. ‘Stella, take a good look at me and answer your own question.’

  Druin. The boy she had almost been betrothed to, whose boorish behaviour had driven her to leave Loulea. A boy grown into a young man, a changed man, with a responsibility taken no less seriously than that of the man she had married. Surely too young to be a village leader, though, as Stella reminded herself, older than his queen.

  ‘You did not recognise Hermesa either, your majesty.’ The epithet sounded like a curse from his lips. ‘Or if you did, you chose not to acknowledge her.’ He presented his wife to the royal pair, and patiently answered their awkward, embarrassed questions about the fortunes of their other childhood friends.

  It seemed that Druin had not been the village’s first choice for their leader, but Malos and Rauth had moved to the south, down Oln way, to farm together, leaving Loulea needing new blood. He’d fought in the rebellion to oust the corrupt Firanese regent, one of those who had betrayed Faltha to the Destroyer, and won renown for himself and his village. Now Druin and Hermesa ran their village with at least as much integrity and common sense as Leith and Stella ruled Faltha, and with a great deal less bureaucratic interference.

  The King and Queen of Faltha left Loulea early the next morning. Only a few children lined the Westway to see them go. It had been a valuable, if hard, lesson for them both.

  ‘I will not go back to that village,’ Stella told the guardsman sitting quietly in the dark. ‘If the Halites waste their effort searching the West, it will be because they never bothered to learn anything of me. I find this a pleasing thought.’

  ‘They will check upriver, too,’ Robal said. ‘My role in your escape will already be known. This will mean the Instruian Guard will offer every assistance to the Koinobia. Nowhere in Faltha will be safe.’

  ‘Nowhere? Faltha is a very large place.’

  ‘Not large enough, with respect, your majesty.’

  ‘You may be right.’ She sighed. ‘As it happens, I do not intend to hide anywhere in Faltha.’

  ‘Ah then, you will be wanting to go further east.’

  ‘Am I to be forever cursed with clever men?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘If my plans and motives are so transparent, why are the agents of the Koinobia not upon us even now?’

  ‘Because no one wants to travel the Maremma,’ said a young voice from near the rail to their left. Gren, the youngest of the Wodrani boys, called Mite by his brothers. ‘Three weeks of stink and bugs, following the river through the swamps. Takes a deal of experience not to get lost. They’ll be waitin’ for you at Vindicare on the far side.’

  ‘You’re taking a risk having us as passengers,’ Stella commented.

  ‘Part of our life on the river,’ Gren said airily. ‘’Tis risky just travellin’ through the Maremma. People die here all the time. Washed away by floods, taken by diseases and simply gettin’ lost in all the dead-end waterpaths. Not so bad during autumn, though. Especially not with Ma at the tiller.’

  ‘You should address the queen more formally,’ Robal said testily. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to say “your majesty”.’


  ‘Ain’t my queen,’ Gren answered. ‘Queen of Faltha, not Queen of the Wodrani. We’re not one of the Sixteen. We were here long before the First Men came traipsin’ over the desert. I’m not sayin’ we ain’t grateful, though,’ he added swiftly, as the guardsman made to stand. ‘The Falthan army did keep the Bhrudwans away from the Wodranian Mountains, and King Leith hasn’t interfered with us since.’

  ‘As to that, why didn’t the Wodrani send troops to help the Falthan army?’

  ‘Peace, Robal; these are old questions, and we are beholden to these people.’

  ‘It’s all right, your majesty,’ said the boy, and grinned his mischievous grin. ‘I don’t rightly know what the answer is to that. Ma might know, being as how she’s what we call a scalla, nobility in your language. Don’t know how you’ll ask her, though, without making her suspicious of you. She’s sharp, is Ma.’

  Involuntarily Stella turned her head to the stern, where Ma no doubt sat hunched over the tiller, muttering to herself. Nobility?

  ‘Nah, Philla has taken over the tiller.’ The boy clicked his tongue. ‘Always meant to make a song about that. Sounds much better in your language, o’course. Anyway, Ma caught some flatfish, and she wants a hand gettin’ ’em ready for cooking, she says. Would your majesty and her handsome guard like to help her with supper?’

  He ducked Robal’s genial clip about the ear and ran away towards the stern, cackling like a demented hen. ‘Philla has the tiller,’ he sang. ‘Ain’t that a killer!’ Various other improvisations floated back to them on the breeze.

  ‘Flatfish.’ Robal sounded disgusted.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be nicer than the flatfish we had last night.’

  ‘Ah, but will they compare to the flatfish of the night before?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Stella said with a theatrical sigh. ‘On your feet, guard, you have a fish to gut.’

  The guard squeezed past her, taking a fraction longer than necessary, and preceded her into the barge’s small cabin.

  A near-full moon rose above the Maremma, silvering the night mist and bringing the giant kingfrogs out in search of caddis flies, swamp snakes or anything else foolish enough to come within leaping range. The early autumn heat lay heavy on the many winding branches of the Aleinus River, on the hundreds of oxbow lakes, old loops of the river abandoned as the Aleinus tried in vain to find a less puzzling way through the mire; on the thousands of animals hiding from the kingfrogs; on the millions of insects flitting back and forth across the stagnant water; and on the rowboat making its way stealthily towards the barge moored to one of countless islands.

  Cloth wrapped around the oars dampened the worst of the splashes, and helped mitigate against the formation of blisters. Even after two weeks manning the oars of this rowboat, Conal remained uncomfortable with every aspect of watercraft, and as a consequence Dribna the guard manoeuvred the boat as they tried to get close to the barge without being discovered. The cacophony generated by the frightening kingfrogs helped, but to the young Halite priest the noises Dribna made sounded absurdly loud.

  ‘Take the oars,’ Dribna whispered.

  ‘What?’ They had spent an hour working out a plan, and this wasn’t part of it.

  ‘Just take the oars, priest. Hold the boat steady.’

  Conal took them with reluctance, easing his sore muscles back into the hated position. The guard released them, eased himself forward and carefully raised himself to a standing position in the bow.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Conal tried to pitch his voice not to carry, and obviously succeeded too well as Dribna made no reply.

  They drew close to the barge. A small dark shape sat in the stern, gnawing on something. The priest thought of his own empty belly. They’d taken on provisions at Barathea, when it became clear that the Wodrani were taking the Destroyer’s Consort into the Maremma, but Conal’s coin had not stretched as far as his normally well-fed belly demanded. It was so hard to concentrate on one’s task when hunger ate away at one’s mind.

  What was the guardsman doing now? He reached down into the boat, setting the craft slopping in the turbid water, and seized one of the oars from the priest’s hand. ‘What?’ Conal repeated, more forcefully.

  With one vigorous movement Dribna raised the oar above his head and brought it down—hard—on top of the dark shape. ‘Dribna! No!’ the priest whispered, much too late. The shape slumped to one side, then dropped like a rock into the river.

  ‘What have you done?’ Conal said. ‘Get in there and rescue him!’

  ‘Couldn’t have him alerting the others,’ the guard said, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Now, let’s board the barge and get what we came for.’

  ‘I can’t swim,’ said the priest, more to himself than to Dribna. ‘And I’m not letting whoever it is drown. How do you know it’s not the queen herself?’

  ‘Too small, I think,’ came the reply, but his tone was uncertain. ‘Ah, you’re right, I should have checked.’

  Conal could wait no longer. He stood up with a jerk, his unexpected motion tipping the guard into the water on the other side. An inexpert jump landed him belly-first in the river, and he was immediately swallowed by an impossible inky blackness. Opening his mouth to call for help proved as foolish as his initial leap. The small shape was forgotten as his mouth filled with water and panic froze his veins.

  Down, down like a stone. Weeds wrapped themselves around his flailing arms. Spots grew before his eyes. The man of light, drowning in the darkness.

  Something jerked his legs. A fish, a big fish! he thought, overcome with fear. The fish dragged his legs upwards: he would be eaten while he drowned. A small part of his mind prepared to give an account of his deeds to the Most High.

  ‘I gottim, Ma!’ he heard someone call, just as he emerged from the water. He wriggled his body in a desultory effort to break free of the grip on his ankles, but his mind had already given up. He hung in the air a moment, then landed with a thump on a wooden floor of some kind. The grip relented; he found himself on his side, retching, bringing up muddy water in a series of explosive convulsions.

  ‘Lookit,’ said another voice. ‘Is this what banged Philla?’

  ‘Musta been.’ The first voice. ‘I’ll bang him.’

  Actions were suited to the angry words: Conal received a series of thumps on his back, loosening the remaining water in his lungs which he puked weakly onto the floor in front of him.

  ‘Is the…is the boy, whoever, all right?’ the priest got out before being overcome by another convulsive retch.

  ‘Yeh, perfec’ly fine, being smacked on the head an’ all, nearly drowned, thanks for askin’. Finer than you will be if he don’t get better.’ A second, younger voice.

  ‘I’m a priest. I mean you no harm.’ Conal tried to reassure them.

  ‘Well, we mean you some harm, so shut yer whinin’.’

  ‘Look, lady, we fished a priest out of the swamp. Wonder what he tastes like?’

  A finely crafted shoe slid into his vision, working its way under his chin.

  ‘A priest?’ said the shoe’s owner. A woman. A voice he knew. ‘He would be right at home in the swamp, I would have thought. Let’s see if we know him.’ The foot jerked upwards, encouraging him to turn onto his back. He lay there gasping, looking up into the angry eyes of his queen.

  ‘Oh yes, we know this one, all right. The Archpriest’s favourite little boy. I’m accustomed to seeing him dressed in more finery than this, though. Dear oh dear, look what’s happened to your cloak! So he sent his catamite to do his distasteful work, did he? Afraid of getting his hands dirty? Or are the guards waiting for your signal to attack? You had best find your tongue, sir, or you might have another chance to perfect your swimming technique.’

  ‘Did you get—’ he coughed ‘—did you find the guard? He might still be in the boat, but I think I tipped him in the water. His was the blow that knocked the boy from your boat.’

  ‘No one else gone swimmin’ tonig
ht, my lady,’ a small boy said. ‘Not that I seen.’

  ‘There was another with you?’ the queen asked sharply. ‘You’re not trying to deflect blame?’

  ‘I tell you the truth. There are only the two of us. He told me we wouldn’t hurt anyone. Your majesty, he changed the plan without any discussion, and knocked the boy into the river. I jumped in to rescue the boy, and I suppose I tipped the guard out of the boat. Or perhaps he swam to safety. Please believe me.’

  ‘Jarner?’ The queen addressed an older boy.

  ‘Nuh. No sign of nobody else.’

  Something thumped onto the deck behind them. Frightened and somewhat disorientated, Conal raised himself onto his hands and turned his head. He could make out a dark bundle, soaking wet, an arm’s length away. It was covered by what looked like the guard’s cloak. He reached towards it.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ growled a new voice, and a booted foot came down hard on his fingers. He yelped and jerked his hand back.

  ‘Found this knocking against the side of the barge,’ the new voice said. ‘The kingfrogs hadn’t got to it yet. Can’t tell how long it’s been in the water.’ The man, wearing the uniform of an Instruian Guardsman, peeled the cloak away from the shape.

  ‘The guard?’ the queen asked Conal.

  Conal had to draw close in the faint light. ‘Yes,’ he said, moments before heaving himself to the side of the barge and vomiting into the river.

  ‘Now what?’ he heard the queen say. ‘What do we do with a dead guard and a live priest?’

  ‘Better if it had been a live guard and a dead priest,’ Robal said, poking Conal in the ribs with his foot. ‘We could have used another guard.’

  ‘Not this one, I think,’ said the queen, eyeing the body with distaste spread across her handsome face. ‘If the priest is telling the truth we might as well have kept swamp snakes in our cloaks.’

  ‘All I’m saying is it would be easier if we had two bundles to throw into the river instead of one.’

  ‘No killing.’