by Anthony Ryan
“I had expected you to request a different explanation,” she said, keen to draw him back from whatever memories clouded his mind. “For the way you were treated at Linesh.”
“No, Highness.” He shook his head. “I assure you I require no explanation at all.”
“The war was a grievous error. They had Malcius … My father’s judgement was … impaired.”
“I doubt King Janus’s judgement was capable of impairment, Highness. And as for the war, you did try to warn me, as I recall.”
She nodded, pausing to quiet her racing heart. I was so sure he would hate me. “That man…” she said. “The man with the rope.”
“His name is Weaver, Highness.”
“Weaver,” she repeated. “I assume he was an agent of whatever malignancy is behind our current difficulties. Hidden in your army, awaiting the time to strike.”
Vaelin moved back a little, puzzlement replacing his grief. “Strike, Highness?”
“He saved me,” she said. “From that thing. Then he burned me. I confess I find it curious. Though I’m learning these creatures have very strange ways.” She faltered over a catch in her throat, recalling the fire that raged as the muscular young man pulled her close, the heat of it more intense even than that dreadful day in the throne room. She raised her head, forcing herself to meet his unwavering gaze. “Is it … Is it worse?”
A faint sigh escaped him and he reached across the divide to grasp her hands, rough callused palms against hers. She had expected some comforting clasp before he voiced the inevitable and terrible news, but instead he gripped her wrists and raised her hands, spreading the fingers to touch them to her face.
“Don’t!” she said, trying to jerk away.
“Trust me, Lyrna,” he breathed, pressing her fingers to the flesh … the smooth, undamaged flesh. Her fingers began to explore of their own volition as he took his hands away, touching every inch of skin, from her brow to her chin, her neck. Where is it? she thought wildly, finding no rough, mottled scarring, provoking none of the searing pain that had continued to plague her despite the healing balms her ladies applied to the burns every day. Where is my face?
“I knew Weaver had a great gift,” Vaelin said. “But this…”
Lyrna sat clutching her face, caging the sobs in her breast. Every word must be chosen. “I…” she began, faltered then tried again. “I should … like you to convene a council of captains as soon … as soon as…”
Then there was only the tears and the feel of his arms around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest and wept like a child.
The woman in the mirror ran a hand over the pale stubble covering her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. It’ll grow back, she knew. Maybe not keep it so long this time. Lyrna turned her attention to the skin where the burns had been most severe, finding the healing hadn’t left her completely unmarked after all. There were faint pale lines visible in the flesh around her eyes, thin and irregular tracks from her brow into her hairline. She recalled something the Mahlessa’s poor, confused vessel had said that day beneath the mountain. Not there yet … The marks of your greatness.
Lyrna stood back from the mirror a little, angling her head to study how the marks looked in the light from the tent opening, finding they faded somewhat in direct sunlight. Something shifted in the mirror and she noticed Iltis over her shoulder, quickly averting his gaze, clutching the bandaged hand that protruded from the sleeve of his sling. He had shambled into the tent an hour ago, pushing Benten aside and collapsing to his knees before her. He had been stumbling through a plea for forgiveness when he glanced up and saw her face, falling to instant silence.
“You should be abed, my lord,” she told him.
“I…” Iltis had blinked, tears shining in his eyes. “I will never leave your side, Highness. I gave my word.”
Am I his new Faith? she wondered now, watching him in the mirror as he swayed a little, shaking his head and stiffening his back. The old one proved a disappointment, so now he finds devotion in me.
The tent opening parted and Vaelin entered with a bow. “The army stands ready, Highness.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She held out a hand to Orena, who stood holding the hooded fox-trimmed cloak she had chosen from the mountain of clothing Lady Reva had been overly pleased to provide. Orena came forward and draped the cloak over her shoulders whilst Murel knelt to proffer the impractical but elegant shoes for her royal feet. “Well,” she said, stepping into the shoes and pulling the hood over her face. “Let’s be about it.”
Vaelin had placed a tall uncovered wagon outside the tent, moving to it and holding out a hand as she approached. She clasped the hand and climbed onto the wagon, the cloak bunched in her free hand so as to prevent her tripping over it. The prospect of falling flat on her face at such a moment provoked a girlish giggle, suppressed before it could reach her lips. Every word must be chosen.
She kept hold of Vaelin’s hand as she stood surveying her new army. The plump brother from the Reaches had informed her, between stealing wide-eyed glances at her face, that the current complement of the Army of the North consisted of sixty thousand men and women, plus somewhere in the region of thirty thousand Seordah and Eorhil warriors. The regiments were arrayed in ranks, mostly untidy and lacking the polished cohesion displayed by the Realm Guard during those interminable parades in Varinshold. In truth the few Realm Guard present made a distinct contrast to their comrades, a tight, disciplined knot of denuded companies arrayed behind Brother Caenis in the centre of the line. But the majority of her new army consisted of Count Marven’s Nilsaelins, the conscripts Vaelin had marched from the Reaches, and the recruits gathered along the way. She saw little uniformity in their ranks; mismatched armour and weapons, much of it looted from the copious Volarian dead, makeshift flags lacking the colour and clarity of the Realm Guard’s regimental banners.
The Seordah had placed themselves on the right flank, a great throng of warriors standing in silence, curiosity the only apparent emotion. Behind them the Eorhil waited, most mounted on their fine tall horses, equally silent. Lady Reva had responded to Lyrna’s polite request for attendance with the full complement of her House Guard, reduced to no more than thirty men, and seemingly all of her surviving archers. They stood in two long rows behind their Lady Governess, stocky hard-eyed men with longbows slung across their backs. Lady Reva herself was flanked by her Lady Counsellor, Lord Archer Antesh and the old bewhiskered guard commander, none of whom betrayed the slightest awe at Lyrna’s presence. Off to the left, the Shield had brought the captains of the Meldenean Fleet, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin deliberately standing a few feet in front of the Shield, who stood with his arms crossed, inclining his head at her, habitual smile blazing as bright as ever. It was a pity, as she expected it to fade before long.
Behind them all the still-smoking city of Alltor rose from its island, the twin spires of the cathedral partly obscured by the dusty snow that continued to fall.
Lyrna paused atop the wagon, her eyes picking out the diminutive but distinct form of Lady Dahrena, standing in the front rank alongside Captain Adal and the North Guard. Unlike every other pair of eyes on this field, Lady Dahrena’s were fixed not on Lyrna, but Vaelin. Her gaze unblinking and unnerving in its intensity, making Lyrna conscious of the warmth of his hand in hers. She released it and faced the army, reaching up to draw back her hood.
It rippled through them like a cresting wave, a mingling of awed gasps, oaths, prayers, and outright shock, the already untidy ranks losing yet more cohesion as soldiers turned to their comrades in disbelief or amazement. However, she noted that the Seordah and the Eorhil remained silent, although their stance was now profoundly more alert. Lyrna allowed the army’s babble to build into a cacophony before holding up her hand. For a moment it continued unabated and she worried she might have to ask Vaelin to quiet them, but Captain Adal barked a command to his men which was soon taken up by the officers and sergeants, silence descending on the ranks on sw
ift wings.
Lyrna surveyed them, picking out faces, meeting their eyes, finding some unable to match her gaze, stirring in discomfort and lowering their heads, others staring back in blank astonishment.
“I have not yet had chance to address you,” she called to them, her voice strong and carrying well in the cold air. “For those that may be ignorant of my name, my list of titles is long and I’ll not bore you with it. Suffice to say that I am your queen, hailed as such by Tower Lord Al Sorna and Lady Governess Reva of Cumbrael. Many of you saw me yesterday, and you will have seen a woman with a burnt face. Now you see a woman healed. I make you this promise as your queen, I will never lie to you. And so I tell you honestly that my face was healed by use of the Dark. I claim no blessing from the Departed, no favour from any god. I stand before you restored by the hand of a man with a gift I do not pretend to understand. This was done without my bidding or contrivance. However, I see no cause to regret it or punish the man who did me this service. Many of you will no doubt be aware that there are others within the ranks of this army with similar abilities, good and brave people who, by the strictures of our laws, are condemned to death for the gifts bestowed upon them by nature alone. Accordingly, all laws prohibiting use of the gifts once known as the Dark are hereby rescinded under the Queen’s Word.”
She paused, expecting some upsurge of murmuring, some voices raised in discontent. Instead there was only silence, each and every face now rapt, those that had shunned her gaze seemingly unable to look away. Something stirs here, she realised. Something … useful.
“There are none here who have not suffered,” she spoke on. “There are none here who cannot lay claim to a murdered wife, husband, child, friend, or parent. Many of you have tasted the whip, as I have. Many of you have suffered the mauling of filthy hands, as I have. Many of you have burned, as I have.”
There was a growl building in the ranks now, a low rumble of stoked fury. She saw one woman in the middle of Captain Nortah’s company of freed slaves, slight and small but festooned with multiple daggers, her teeth bared in a burgeoning grimace of rage. “This land was named in honour of its unity,” Lyrna continued. “But only a fool would claim we have ever been truly united, always we have shed our own blood in senseless feud after senseless feud. As of now that ends. Our enemy came to these shores bringing slavery, torment, and death, but they also brought us a gift, one they’ll regret for an eternity. They forged us into the unity that has eluded us for so long. They made us a single blade of unbreakable steel aimed straight for their black heart and with you at my side I’ll see it bleed!”
The growl erupted into a fierce shout, faces distorted in hate and anger, fists, swords, and halberds raised, the tumult washing over her, intoxicating in its power … Power. You have to hate it as much as you love it.
She raised a hand and they fell quiet once more, though there remained the low hum of simmering heat. “I promise no easy victories,” she told them. “Our enemy is fierce and full of cunning. They will not die easily. So I can promise only three things: toil, blood and justice. None who follow me on this path should imagine there will be any other reward.”
It was the small woman with the daggers who began the chant, stabbing the air with a blade in each hand, head thrown back. “Toil, blood and justice!” It spread in an instant, the shout rising from one end of the army to the other. “Toil, blood and justice! Toil, blood and justice!”
“In five days we march for Varinshold!” Lyrna called as the chant continued, the pitch of its volume increasing yet further. She pointed towards the north. Never be afraid of a little theatre, the old schemer had said during one of the ceremonies where he handed out swords to ever-less-deserving recipients. Royalty is always a performance, daughter. The tumult doubled as she called again, her words lost in the rage-filled cheers. “TO VARINSHOLD!”
She stood for a few moments, arms spread wide in the centre of their adoring rage. Did you ever have this, Father? Did they ever love you?
The noise continued as she descended from the wagon, reaching for Vaelin’s hand again, but pausing at the sight of the Shield. As expected his smile was gone, replaced by a sombre frown making her wonder if he still intended to follow her anywhere.
“Varinshold lies over two hundred miles distant, Highness,” Count Marven told her. “And we have barely enough grain to sustain the horses for fifty. Our Cumbraelin friends were most efficient in denuding this land of supplies.”
“Better burnt than in the belly of our enemies,” Lady Reva pointed out from across the table.
They were arrayed around a large map table in Vaelin’s tent, all the principal captains of the army along with Lady Reva and the war chiefs from the Eorhil and Seordah. The Eorhil was a wiry rider somewhere past his fiftieth year by her reckoning. The Seordah was slightly younger, taller than most of his people, lean as a wolf with a hawk face. They seemed to understand every word spoken but said little themselves, and she noted how their gaze flitted constantly between her and Vaelin. Is it suspicion? she thought. Or just wonder?
Count Marven had spent the better part of an hour explaining their strategic situation. Never having had much use for the tedium of military history she was obliged to pick out the pertinent details from the morass of jargon. From what she could gather it seemed their position was not as favourable as a queen might expect after winning so great a victory.
“Quite so, my lady,” the count told Reva. “But it does leave us perilously short of supplies, with winter only two months away into the bargain.”
“Am I to understand, my lord,” Lyrna said. “We have a mighty army but no means to move it anywhere?”
The count ran a hand over his shaven head, the stitched scar on his cheek seeming to glow a little more red as he sighed his frustration and sought to formulate the correct response.
“Yes,” Vaelin told her from the opposite end of the table. “And it’s not just a matter of moving it. If we don’t find sufficient forage for the winter, this army could well starve.”
“Surely we have captured Volarian supplies,” Lyrna said.
“Indeed, Highness,” plump Brother Hollun spoke up. Like most present he seemed to have difficulty in not staring at her face. “Twelve tons of grain, four of corn and six of beef.”
“Without which my people will starve this winter,” Lady Reva stated. “I’ve had to start rationing again already … Highness,” she added, clearly still having trouble with etiquette.
Lyrna looked at the map, tracing the route to Varinshold, finding many towns and villages along the way but knowing most would now be little more than scorched ruins, devoid of any supplies. Two hundred miles to Varinshold, she mused, studying the map more closely. Half that to the coast … and the sea.
She looked up, finding the Shield standing outside the circle of captains towards the rear of the tent, his face half in shadow. “My lord Ell-Nestra,” she said. “Your counsel please.”
He came forward after a moment’s hesitation, Fief Lord Dravus’s twin grandsons making room for him with courteous bows he failed to acknowledge. “Highness,” he said in a neutral tone.
“There are many ships in your fleet,” she said. “Enough to carry an army to Varinshold?”
He shook his head. “Half the fleet was obliged to return to the Isles for repairs after the Teeth. We could perhaps carry a third of the number gathered here, and even then we would have to leave the horses behind.”
“Varinshold won’t fall to so few,” Count Marven said. “Not if the Volarian woman is to be believed. They are well garrisoned and supplied from across the sea and from Renfael.”
Lyrna switched her gaze to Varinshold. The capital and principal port of the entire realm, much of its wealth in fact drawn from trade with Volaria. She pointed to the sea-lanes off Varinshold and looked up at the Shield. “Ever take a ship in these waters, my lord?”
He considered the map for a moment then nodded. “A few. Not such easy pickings as in the southern
trade routes. The King’s fleet was always a watchful shepherd for Varinshold’s trade.”
“Now there is no fleet,” Lyrna pointed out. “And the pickings are likely to be rich, are they not, given the enemy’s losses at the Teeth?”
He nodded again. “Rich indeed, Highness.”
“You gave me a ship yesterday. Today I give her back to you with a request you take your fleet and seize or burn any Volarian ship you find journeying to or from Varinshold. Will you do this for me?”
She felt the other captains stirring, hard gazes turning on the pirate. Don’t like to see a queen bargain, she decided. I’ll speak to him in private in future.
“My men may take some persuasion,” he responded after a moment. “We sailed to defend the Isles. And that task is done.”
Ship Lord Ell-Nurin stepped forward, bowing to her with accomplished grace. “I can’t speak for the Shield’s men, Highness. But my men are ready to follow you to Udonor’s Halls if you ask. As I’m sure will many more. After the Battle of the Teeth and … your healing, many wouldn’t dare refuse.” He turned to the Shield with an expectant expression.
“As the Ship Lord says,” the Shield grated after a moment. “How could we refuse?”
“Very well.” Lyrna scanned the map once more. “Preparations must be complete within the week. Whereupon the army will march not north but east, to the coast. We will proceed to Varinshold via the coastal ports where our Meldenean allies will resupply us with whatever riches the Volarian Ruling Council deems fit to send its garrison. Also, ports mean fishing folk, who I’m sure will be glad of the custom.”
“If there are any left,” Reva said softly.
“I hereby make the following appointments,” Lyrna went on, choosing to ignore the Lady Governess. “Please forgive the lack of ceremony but we have no time for such pettiness now. I name Lord Vaelin Al Sorna as Battle Lord of the Queen’s Host. Count Marven is named Sword of the Realm and Adjutant General. Brother Hollun, I name you Keeper of the Queen’s Purse. Captains Adal, Orven and Nortah are hereby made Swords of the Realm and elevated to the rank of Lord Marshal. Lord Atheran Ell-Nestra.” She met the Shield’s gaze once more. “I name you Fleet Lord of the Unified Realm and captain of its flagship.” She cast her gaze around the assembly. “These appointments include all due rights and privileges set down by Realm Law with grants and lands to be allotted at the close of hostilities. I ask you formally, do you accept these honours?”