by David Hair
‘No, I belong with you.’
‘But . . . it’s impossible. You said so . . . I’m too big and . . . uh . . .’
She fixed him with a look. ‘Do you really want that conversation, Ogre?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Excellent. Listen, Big Man, you’re what? – about a quarter taller than an average man, similarly wider across the shoulders and hips: that sounds manageable to two people with morphic-gnosis, don’t you think?’ He went utterly scarlet, as she pressed on, ‘No woman’s going to complain about a big lover, Ogre. We’ll manage just fine.’
‘Ah . . .’
She put her nose to his. ‘As soon as we can push the others out of the door, you and I are going to test that theory. We’re going to get naked.’
She didn’t wait for his reply – Ogre wasn’t managing much in the way of articulate speech – but pressed her mouth to his as his arms came round her and enveloped her in a way that made her feel both safe and deliciously endangered.
Suddenly, the night couldn’t come quickly enough.
*
Lyra woke suddenly, pulled from a harrowing dream of daemons and burning trees by Valdyr rolling against her. She studied his face in the half-light. In repose, freed of all his worries and bad memories, he looked his true age, which was more or less her own. This might be another romantic mistake, but so far it didn’t feel like that.
We’ve shared so much inside the dwyma, inside each other’s heads. This felt so natural, and I wanted it so much. She glowed at memories of the previous night, thinking, So did he.
He’d been tentative at first, but they’d eased their way past his traumas without fuss and the moment they’d joined had been truly beautiful: considerate, caring, loving, without the domineering conquering roughness of Solon or Ril’s want-away eyes. Perfect.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered, rolling on her side to face him. Rosy light was glowing through a roof-dome, setting the marble walls aglow. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, tickling her face with his ridiculous moustaches.
They basked in the moment for a while, as the light outside grew. She wished she could just halt time and live in this feeling for ever. But life didn’t work that way.
‘What happens now?’ he asked softly.
She’d been wondering that herself. ‘I must return to Pallas – I have no choice. My “constitutional republican monarchy” needs me. Someone has to hold the threat of ice-storms over the Dukes of Argundy and Dupenium and whoever else might try to invade. And my son is there. I have to arrange some kind of life for Cordan and Coramore, too.’ She met his eyes and cautiously added, ‘I may well adopt them.’
He didn’t flinch. ‘They’ll need you.’
Bless you, she thought. ‘So, my life is there, right now.’ Her voice faltering, she asked, ‘What about you?’
He grimaced. ‘My brother needs me. Mollachia has been devastated and he has two peoples to bring together as one. A failed harvest could destroy us all – I have to be there for him, help make sure that doesn’t happen.’
She swallowed, even though she’d expected the answer.
‘But after that . . .’ he went on, earnestly, ‘by the end of summer, I might be free, if things go well. If you . . .’ He hesitated, then blurted, ‘People say Pallas women go lightly from one bed to the next, but if you were to wait for me, I would come as soon as I may.’
Thank you, Kore, she breathed inside her mind.
She gave him a teasing smile. ‘Well, I’ve heard that Mollach men go from bed to bed like hunters, but if you were prepared to wait on me, I will certainly wait on you.’
‘There will never be anyone else for me. There is only you.’
She shifted against him, gripped his shoulders and encouraged him onto her, relishing the weight of him as he settled and the glorious feeling of wrapping herself around him. She nuzzled his neck, and whispered, ‘If this is our last chance for a time, give me something to remember.’
Norostein, Noros
Ramon stirred awake, sniffed the wine-laden, stuffy air and winced.
On his right, Amiza, Calipha of Ardijah, was snoring in gusts, her smooth copper back bare and her hair tangled in sweaty knots. On his left, Vania di Aelno lay on her back, breasts uncovered and her own snoring rasping and contented.
It was impossible to sleep through it all. He yawned, grinned, and then slithered away, found a gown – one of Vania’s – and headed for the balcony and some much needed fresh air. Got to clear my head, work out what on Urte I’m doing.
When Vania had shown up at the door, willing to fight for “her man”, Amiza had stunned them both by letting her in. The widowed calipha had apparently had to forgo men to ensure she remained the ruler of Ardijah – so she’d seduced women instead. ‘I like this one,’ she’d declared, then the two of them had dragged him to the bed. He hadn’t resisted much.
But now what?
Before he could think through his options, his senses tingled.
Calan nodded.
Ramon had, but he’d been considering Amiza’s too.
Calan’s face fell.
The look on his father’s face was priceless.
Calan looked disappointed – but Ramon hadn’t finished.
Gratifyingly, Calan’s jaw dropped.
So he went back to bed.
*
The devastation was horrific. All that Seth and Latif could see from the Copperleaf Gatehouse was destruction. No building in Lowertown remained intact, no roof unbroken, no wall complete. Water still pooled in the low-lying streets, smoke still rose and corpses remained unburied.
They’d at least made a start on the burials. He and Latif had set the example, walking out together with shovels in hands, pitching in with the labourers to clear the main roads, before assuming command, giving directions and solving problems. Now the construct-army of the Lord of Rym had dissipated, its members no longer possessed, carts were taking the dead to the mass burial pits
being dug outside the walls. Wild construct-men might be a problem in the future, but that would be a matter for another day.
Rani, the last elephant of the Shihad, had been set to work hauling lumps of masonry. Sanjeep, her mahout, told anyone who stopped to watch that she was a heroine of the siege. Seth remembered Latif atop the elephant, guiding the Shihadi soldiers inside the gates, and thought Sanjeep was right.
The magi were doing whatever they could. Overworked healers from both armies laboured together. Earth-magi cleared debris, Water-magi cleared the canals and purified water and Fire-magi tended the conflagrations still springing up all over the place. Miracles were being performed and the greatest of those were the men and women of East and West working together in harmony.
‘My friend, may I ask you something?’ he said to Latif. For once they were alone, their retinues relaxing below. ‘What will you do next?’
At first he’d thought this charade of impersonator assuming the mantle of a dead ruler was a short-term measure, something bound to unravel at any moment, but it was as if no one wanted to know the truth. Latif was Salim, returned from hiding, or captivity, or death . . . any manner of tales were circulating.
People believe what they want to believe.
Latif pulled a face. ‘Here, everyone wants Salim, but in the north, Teileman is claiming the throne and at home, who knows what power-hungry caliph or emir is already pulling together an army. Kesh is not like Rondelmar, my friend: we’re not an empire, more like a collection of emirates and caliphates, sometimes united, more often not. If I return, it will be to conquer or die.’
Seth considered that, then made the offer he’d been preparing. ‘Then stay here, with me. I’m the Earl of Bricia, and if this res publica movement spreads, maybe more. I’ve got a manor house near Bres and a castle in the hills and so many wings and rooms I could house half your army and not notice. You’d have anything you wanted.’
‘Your wife would accept this?’
‘My wife would barely notice. Camilla’s life is full up with our children and her soirées and projects and lady-friends. We occasionally bump into each other, but it’s a big house.’
Latif went silent, looking away. ‘What would I do in your big house?’
‘Whatever you wished, my friend! Write, play music, charm all the locals with your wit. Live a life free of the threat of murder and the stress of pretence. Surely you deserve as much?’
Latif remained looking away, blinking big, moist eyes. ‘Thank you. I will consider it.’
‘Please do. Latif, I’ve missed you, and friends should be together, not continents apart. Believe me, with all that’s happening, you won’t be bored.’
They fell silent again for a long time, until Seth became convinced that Latif would tell him that the call of his homeland was too great. He could barely breathe.
Then the impersonator turned and smiled. ‘I think Sultan Salim has had his time. The dead should not return. And Latif . . . well, I think he would like to see your big house.’
Seth’s face almost split in two from the smile that burst across his whole being.
Hegikaro, Mollachia
Aprafor 936
The people of Mollachia were becoming used to strange sights, but half the town still came to gawk when a giant reptile swept down from the skies to land in the fields outside the walls. Frightened militia joined wide-eyed Sydian riders in surrounding the beast, but when they saw who rode it, their fear turned to cheering and they sent for their Kirol Kyrik at once.
Kyrik and his queen grabbed horses and pelted out from the walls. Dismounting in a rush, Kyrik snagged his foot in the stirrup and spent three seconds hopping madly, trying not to fall flat on his face as he unhooked himself, then hurled himself at his brother while everyone laughed. He barely noticed, lost in the joy of reunion, pounding Valdyr’s back in pure happiness.
At last he gripped his brother’s shoulders and drank in his face, noting how different Valdyr had been when they were first reunited a year ago.
Was it just a year? He’s so much calmer, so much more composed . . . even happy.
Hajya appeared beside them, murmuring, ‘Nice dismount, husband!’ before embracing his brother.
The old Valdyr would have flinched from any woman, let alone one of darker skin, but this Valdyr swept her into a bear-hug, exclaiming, ‘It’s so good to see you whole.’
Hajya beamed, then cuffed his cheek gently and said, ‘Tell me of your new woman.’
Valdyr’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I never said—’
‘You don’t have to,’ Hajya scoffed, her moon face lighting up. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Uh, Nara.’
Ah, Kyrik thought, a grin spreading across his face. ‘The famous Nara of Misencourt? Where is she?’
‘She, erm . . . she has some matters to attend to in, um . . . Pallas,’ Valdyr stammered, his expression caught between pride and embarrassment.
‘Pallas, oh-la,’ Kyrik laughed. ‘Too fancy to come here, eh?’
‘No, no, she’s just . . . ah,’ Valdyr’s eyes flashing around the crowd of people watching them, hanging on every word. ‘She’s . . . um . . .’
Hajya came to his rescue. ‘You can tell us later – we want to know everything about her.’
‘Er, everything . . . right.’
Kyrik threw an arm round Val’s shoulders. ‘Kore’s Blood, it’s good to see you.’
Those watching took that as the right time to cheer and press in, offering their own greetings. Kyrik watched his brother being passed round, while people spoke of how he’d appeared like a sorcerer of old to slay Asiv, and his other deeds during this harrowing time. It was some time before they could respectfully back away and walk up to the castle together.
‘How are you doing?’ Valdyr asked Kyrik, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, with Hajya holding Kyrik’s other hand.
‘Well enough, for now,’ Kyrik told him. ‘There was a storm a few nights ago in which those awake swear they saw giant monsters in the skies, but most of us were in bed . . .?’ He glanced questioningly at his brother.
‘It was the Last Day,’ Valdyr said wryly. ‘I hope you enjoyed it?’
Kyrik glanced sideways at Hajya. ‘We . . . um . . . slept through it.’
Hajya snorted.
‘Anyway, we don’t appear to have run out of days,’ Kyrik went on. ‘I won’t lie – we’re in for a Hel of a summer, Val. We’ve lost so many people, the granaries are virtually empty and we’ve had to ask the Vlpa to cull their herds again, just to avoid starvation.’
‘Kyrik will turn my people into farmers at this rate,’ Hajya noted, not entirely in jest.
‘Kip’s brought his people out of Freihaafen to help us rebuild, and the Mantauri are incredible, but we need the thaw to come early and a perfect summer or we’ll starve.’
‘Early thaw, lots of sunlight,’ Valdyr repeated, like a shopping order. ‘You’ll have it.’
Kyrik blinked. ‘You can do that?’
‘I can now,’ his brother said quietly. ‘I’m at your service, for as long as you need me.’
‘And Nara will wait?’
Valdyr coloured a little. ‘Well, until autumn, I think.’
Kyrik slapped his back. ‘I won’t let you keep her waiting, brother.’
Valdyr threw him a grateful look as they paused before the gates of Hegikaro and looked around them. Mollachs and Sydian riders were working side by side with Schlessen Bullheads. Women of both races laboured over laundry in the lake while their menfolk hammered and sawed the timber lugged in handcarts by the Mantauri. Children of all races scampered around getting underfoot in never-ending games of chase and hide ’n’ seek, singing songs with elements of Schlessen, Sydian and Mollach, and a new mishmash language seemed to be growing up around them.
We’ve lost so much, Kyrik thought. But this is exactly what I hoped for, that day I left here to find allies. We’ve beaten them all: the Rondian tax-farmers, the Imperial Legion, eve
n the Masks. Most of all, we’ve beaten hate . . . for now.
It was going to be a hard spring and an exhausting summer; but he didn’t feel daunted. Valdyr was back and anything was possible.
Pallas, Rondelmar
The promised horse was waiting at the rear of the Bastion in the hour before dawn. Unarmoured, his cowl up and no blazon showing, just another traveller with a few saddlebags and some coin, Solon limped towards it, not caring if arrows feathered his back. The mount was a mare, ageing and placid with just a hint of old fire in its eye.
A bit like me, Solon mused, automatically checking the cinch and stirrups. In reflex, he went to kindle gnostic light, but nothing happened, of course.
The Chain-rune weighed on his soul.
He looked up at the castle which, for a brief time, had been his: the fulfilment of a dream that had become a nightmare. It was too much for me. I did atrocious things and broke under the strain. That was so easy to see now. How does Lyra manage it with such grace?
They were letting him leave, the interim rulers, thanks only to his final act, his one moment of clarity and truth. The mercy had surprised him, and he knew many still disagreed, but apparently Lyra, wherever she was, had decreed it.
And my estates are going to Nita’s family . . . that is apt.
In time, Basia had promised, they’d release his Chain-rune, once they were sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid. And they’d woven bindings into his gnostic aura, too. ‘We’ll always know where to find you,’ she’d told him, with cool disdain. ‘Now go, and never come back. This exile is forever.’
South? West? East? North had been forbidden to him. He hung his head, trying to think, then just sighed. He’d let the horse decide. He put his foot in the stirrup and was about to mount when the postern-gate behind him opened and a woman called, ‘Solon?’
He flinched as Brunelda hurried across the courtyard, her cheeks wet. ‘You’re really going?’ His throat choked up and for a moment he couldn’t speak, just nodded roughly. He tried to turn away, but she caught his sleeve. ‘Where will you go?’
Reluctantly, he turned to face her. With her inch-long brunette hair wrapped in a scarf, a plain smock and a thin cloak, she looked nothing at all like Lyra. She was shivering, and not just from the cold dawn. Her hands were clasped over the small bulge in her belly, the one thing he’d left her.