by Anthony Ryan
“His daughter?” I asked.
Fornella pulled her woollen shawl tighter about her shoulders, the sadness fading into fearful remembrance. “Yes, a daughter. I met her too, once. One meeting was more than sufficient.”
“Are they like you? The general and his daughter, do they still live?”
“The general’s madness grew with the centuries, his hunger for victory over the Alpirans becoming a madman’s obsession, birthing a calamitous defeat. The Council, by now all recipients of the Blessing and advised by the Ally’s other lieutenants that the general’s glorious career should reach a conclusion, employed their chief assassin to provide one. If what the queen says is true, however, she may well have met her end alongside King Malcius.”
“The general’s daughter? She killed her own father?”
“She’s taken countless lives the breadth of this world, my lord. If we’re fortunate, she’ll plague us no more. But I increasingly find fortune to be a rare commodity.”
“Does your mother still live? Did she also take the Ally’s Blessing?”
She shook her head, raising her gaze to meet mine, smiling fondly. “No. She grew old and she died, though I begged her to join me in this new age of limitless life. She alone knew the true nature of the bargain we had struck, though none would listen to her. She knew what drew the Ally, if not what had birthed it.”
“And what is it? What draws it?”
“Power. That’s how the first were chosen, not those with the greatest wealth, but those with the most influence, the greatest sway in Council. Because it happened over decades rather than years, only one being chosen to receive his bounteous gift in every dozen years, it seemed the choosing was random, the whim of a being as close to a god as any could be. But my mother lived long enough to see the pattern. Every bargain struck increased its hold on us, every gift bestowed made us more its servants.
“She said just one word the last time I was permitted near her, before she ordered me barred from her house. She was nearly ninety years in age, just a tiny collection of bone and skin in a very large bed. But her mind had never faded and her eyes were so very bright, and though she could only speak in whispers, I heard it, clear and true, though at the time I thought it just the final croak of a bitter old woman.”
She fell silent, gazing off towards the southern horizon where a heavy cloud bank could be seen, signalling an uncomfortable night, not that I expected to sleep much lying by her side. There was more grey in her hair now, I saw, watching it swirl in the wind.
“Just one word,” she said in a faint voice. “‘Slave.’”
As I had predicted, sleep proved elusive. The sea grew turbulent come nightfall, the wind rising to lash the clouded glass of the porthole with rain and howl through the myriad channels in the fabric of this ship. Fornella lay on her back, breathing slow and regular. I lay on my side, turned towards the hull. I had removed my shoes but was otherwise fully clad whilst she was naked, sloughing off her clothes without the slightest flicker of embarrassment, slipping into the bed beside me as I turned my back. We lay in silence for the better part of an hour, robbed of rest by the wind and the sheer oddness of our circumstance.
Finally, she said, “Do you hate me, my lord?”
“Hatred requires passion,” I replied.
“Ah, The Cantos of Gold and Dust, verse twenty. Don’t you think it a trifle conceited to constantly quote your own work?”
“The verse was drawn from an ancient ode sung by the tribes of the western mountains. As noted in my introduction.”
She gave a soft laugh. “So I do not stir your passion? Hardly surprising, given your preferences. Still, a woman accustomed to male admiration can’t help but feel somewhat slighted.” I felt her shift behind me, moving to lie on her side. “Who was he? The man you said you loved?”
“I will not discuss that with you.”
Something in my tone must have held sufficient warning because she gave a sigh of amused frustration before persisting. “I may have something to stir your passion, at least as far as it relates to your lust for knowledge. A small nugget of information concerning the Ally.”
I gritted my teeth, hard, wondering if I didn’t in fact hate her after all. I sat up, turning to find her regarding me with head tilted on her pillow, the gloom sufficient to hide all but the gleam of her eyes. “Then tell me,” I said.
“The name,” she insisted.
I rose, turning my back to swing my legs off the bed. “Seliesen Maxtor Aluran,” I said.
I had expected laughter, cruel and mocking, but instead her tone was calmly reflective. “The Hope of the Alpiran Empire, slain by the very man who destroyed my darling husband’s army. My people do not hold to notions of fate, the concept of invisible forces moving to shape our destiny is anathema to a people cleansed of superstition. But there are times when I wonder…”
I felt her shift again, her warm nakedness pressing against my back, resting her head against my shoulder. There was no desire in the way she held to me, at least none I could sense, just a need for closeness. “My sorrow for your loss, honoured sir,” she said in formal Alpiran. “My brother is the longest serving member of the Volarian High Council, so he knows the Ally’s schemes better than most, and even he is blind to their true nature, their ultimate purpose. However, its servants have often spoken of a man, endless in years like us, but not in thrall to the blood of the Gifted. A man who has lived many lifetimes and walked around the world more than once. The Ally is drawn to power, as I said, and what greater power is there, than the defeat of death itself?”
“It seeks him?”
“Indeed, but never has it found him.”
“And he has a name, this endless man?”
“A thousand, changed with every lifetime as he passes from nation to nation. One of the Ally’s creatures, the one they call the Messenger, caught his scent some fifteen years ago in the Unified Realm. He was calling himself Erlin.”
CHAPTER ONE
Lyrna
It took some time to find her garden, the ruins having been cleared by Darnel’s slaves to make way for his architectural ambitions, leaving only an outline of stunted brick and bare earth where flowers had once grown. Strangely, her bench was still intact, if somewhat blackened. She sat surveying the wasted remnants of the vanished refuge she had cherished. It was here she had led Vaelin that night, winning his enmity with her clumsy intrigues but learning a lesson in the process; some eyes will always see through a mask. Here also she had spent those delightful hours with Sister Sherin after securing her release from the Blackhold, the healer’s innate kindness and sparkling intellect dispelling jealousy, for the most part. Lyrna remembered finding friendship an enjoyable if brief novelty and, when Sherin sailed away to Linesh, she had stopped coming here. The secluded courtyard no longer felt like a welcoming haven, just an empty corner of a palace where a lonely woman nursed flowers and schemes whilst she waited for her father to die.
“Ler-nah!”
She raised her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of a tall figure striding towards her before Davoka’s embrace forced the air from her lungs and pulled her from the bench, her feet coming free of the ground as she was crushed into the Lonak woman’s chest. Lyrna heard the pounding of boots accompanied by swords scraping free of scabbards. “Unhand our Queen, savage!” Iltis snarled.
Davoka ignored him, releasing Lyrna after a final crushing squeeze, clasping her head in both hands. She was smiling, something Lyrna found she couldn’t remember her doing before. “I thought I had lost you, sister,” she said in Lonak, fingers tracing over her face, from her brow to the rapidly growing red-gold locks beyond. “He said you burned.”
“I did.” Lyrna clasped her hands and kissed them, nodding reassurance at Iltis and Benten, who sheathed their swords, retreating with bows and bemused expressions. “I still do, sister.”
Davoka stepped back, a certain tense reluctance showing in her gaze before she spoke again, slipping into Realm
Tongue with practised ease. “Brother Frentis…”
Lyrna turned away from her, Davoka falling silent at the sudden sharpness in her expression. Mention of the famed Red Brother had been frequent since her arrival the previous evening, amongst the first words spoken by her Battle Lord on disembarking at the docks, as well as a heartfelt entreaty from Aspect Elera and a clipped request for mercy from Brother Sollis. She had given the same answer to each of them, the same answer she gave Davoka now. “Judgement will be rendered in due course.”
“We fought together in the forest before it burned,” Davoka went on. “We are gorin. He is my brother as you are my sister.”
The Volarian woman’s red tears, the searing pain as her hair caught alight … Lyrna closed her eyes against the memories, feeling the breeze on her skin, her healed, unmarred skin. Healed? she asked herself. Is that what I am?
The night before she had watched Alucius on the fire. She had spoken briefly beforehand, formally naming him Sword of the Realm, his sigil to be a pen and a wine cup, for she knew it would have made him laugh. Lady Alornis stepped forward to add her voice, face pale and expressionless but with tears streaming from her eyes as her brother laid comforting hands on her shoulders.
“Alucius Al Hestian…” she began, faltered then continued in a broken voice, “…will be called a … hero by many. A poet by others, and…” she paused to form a faint smile, “overfond of wine by some. I will always call him … simply, my friend.”
Lakrhil Al Hestian had been permitted to attend, standing by, hollow-eyed and silent in his chains. He made no speech and stared at the rising flames with dry eyes. Lyrna allowed him to remain until the fire burned down to embers then ordered him returned to the dungeons, now crowded with other traitors awaiting the queen’s justice.
Justice. She had watched the smoke blossom on the pyre, concealing Alucius’s face and sparing her the sight of the flames consuming his flesh. What justice would I have shown you, old friend? Spy, traitor to the Realm, and now hero of Varinshold’s liberation. My father would have made show of forgiveness, lauded you with titles and gold, then, after a decent interval, had one of his hidden talents ensure a suitably accidental end. I would have been far crueler, Alucius. I would have made you follow me, stand witness as I administered full justice to our enemies, and for that, I know you would have hated me.
The clouds above must have parted for she felt a blush of warmth on her head, her new-grown hair no doubt making a fine sight as it shimmered, the sensation pleasant and free of the tear-inducing agony she recalled from her days on the Sea Sabre. Healed? she wondered again. You can remake a mask but the face beneath still lingers.
She opened her eyes and her gaze lit on something, a small yellow flower emerging from between two shattered flagstones. Lyrna crouched, reaching out to touch a finger to the petals. “Winter-bloom,” she said. “Always the clearest signal of changing seasons. Ice and snow come, sister, bringing hardship but also respite, for no fleet will sail the ocean whilst winter storms rage.”
“You think they will come again?” Davoka asked. “When the ocean calms?”
“I’m certain of it. This war is far from over.”
“Then you will need every sword, every ally.”
Lyrna looked at the winter-bloom again, resisting the urge to pluck it and resolving to plant a new garden here in time, one without walls. She rose, meeting Davoka’s gaze and speaking in formal Lonak. “Servant of the Mountain, I have need of your spear. Will you wield it in service to my purpose? Think well before you answer for our road is long and I offer no promise of a return to the Mountain.”
Davoka’s reply betrayed no hint of hesitation. “My spear is yours, sister. For now and always.”
Lyrna nodded her thanks, beckoning to Iltis and Benten. “Then you had best meet your brothers. Try not to kill Lord Iltis, his manner can be somewhat provoking.”
Karlin Al Jervin stood as straight as his somewhat bent back would allow. Lyrna remembered him as a cheerful, pot-bellied fellow with a shiny bald head, less inclined to obsequiousness than many of his fellow nobles and not one to linger at court longer than his business required. Slavery and hard labour, however, seemed to have robbed him of humour and belly alike. His cheeks were hollowed and his eyes sunken, though he met Lyrna’s gaze with admirable composure. His daughter, however, was less well attuned to royalty and fidgeted as she stood before the throne, an appreciable gap between her and her father. Lady Illian wore a hunter’s garb, buckskin trews, and a light cotton blouse, stained brown and green to hide her in the forest, her hair cropped so it wouldn’t encumber her eyes. A dagger sat in a sheath strapped to her ankle with another at her wrist. Despite her martial accoutrements she still seemed very young as she squirmed under the scrutiny of those present and avoided her father’s glares. Behind her stood Brother Commander Sollis and Davoka, whilst Lord Al Jervin stood alone.
Lyrna had been quick to discard the garish monstrosity Darnel called a throne in favour of a comfortable straight-backed chair retrieved from one of the abandoned merchants’ houses, and found herself grateful for the depth of the cushion beneath the royal posterior. She had been hearing petitions for some four hours now and could only marvel at the lingering pettiness of people fortunate enough to survive such a savage occupation. They came with complaints of theft against vanished neighbours, claims of inheritance for property now naught but ash, appeals for restitution of lordly status, and a plethora of other trivia that shortened her patience by the hour. However, not all claims were petty, or easily resolved.
“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said. “You must admit, Lord Al Jervin makes several valid points. This is all very unusual.”
“Forgive me, Highness,” the Brother Commander replied in his customary rasp, “but I doubt anything in this Realm could now be termed as ‘usual.’”
“My knowledge of your Order’s history is hardly copious, but I believe there has never been a sister of the Sixth Order. And are not recruits normally inducted at a much younger age? Circumstance may have forced us to forget some custom in the face of necessity, but this is a radical step indeed.”
“There is provision in the Order’s tenets to allow for older recruits, Highness. Master Rensial, for example, came to us as a former captain in the Realm Guard cavalry. As for Lady Illian’s gender, war has provided ample evidence that our custom in this regard may require modification.”
“Are our laws to be cast aside now, Highness?” Al Jervin spoke up, once again glaring at Illian. “The Sixth Order cannot just take a man’s daughter.”
“They aren’t taking me!” Illian responded hotly, then flushed and lowered her gaze as Lyrna turned to her. “Your pardon, Highness.”
“Lady Illian,” Lyrna said, “is it truly your wish to join the Sixth Order?”
The girl drew breath and raised her head, speaking in a clear and certain tone. “It is, Highness.”
“Despite your father’s objections? His well-founded fears for your safety?”
Illian glanced at Al Jervin, her expression sorrowful and her voice low. “I love my father, Highness. I thought him dead for so long, finding him alive when the city fell was wondrous. But I am not the daughter he lost, nor can I be. I am fashioned by war into something else, a role I believe ordained for me by the Departed.”
“She is a child!” Al Jervin stated, his face reddening. “By the laws of this Realm her status and condition are mine to decide until her majority.” He quailed a little as Lyrna met his gaze, refusing to look away but adding “Highness,” in a strained whisper.
“Lady Davoka has told me much of your daughter, my lord,” Lyrna said. “By all accounts she has served with great distinction in the struggle to free this Realm. She stands before me now the author of many well-deserved ends suffered by our enemies. According to the Sixth Order’s tenets she is vouched for by a subject of good character and Brother Sollis is willing to accept her, setting aside ancient custom and the usual tests in recognition o
f her evident skill and courage. As a Sister she will no doubt provide even greater service to the Realm and the Faith. Whilst you, my lord, apparently spent the entire war carving fatuous art for the traitor Darnel.”
Al Jervin flinched but managed to control his tone as he responded, “I hear rumour Your Highness was also made a slave by our enemies. If so, I’m sure you know well the shame of performing a hated act in pursuit of survival.”
Iltis bridled, stepping forward and speaking in ominous tones. “Caution your tongue, my lord.”
Al Jervin gritted his teeth, pausing before speaking on, his voice coarse and fighting a choke. “Highness, I have no house, no wealth, no pride left. My daughter is all that remains to me. I ask you to cleave to our laws and prevent her taking this mad course.”
This is not injured pride, Lyrna decided. He simply wants to keep her alive. A good man, and a builder with skills much needed when peace comes. She looked again at Illian, watching her reveal a set of perfect white teeth as she smiled at an encouraging nod from Davoka. Beautiful, but so is a hawk, and for now I have more need of hawks than builders.
“Lady Illian,” she said, gesturing for one of the three scribes present to formally record a Royal Pronouncement, “Under the Queen’s Word I hereby strip you of all rank and set aside your father’s authority. As a free subject of this Realm you may choose any path open to you by law.”
She had been surprised to find the council chamber mostly intact, though there was a sizeable gap in the west-facing wall, the tapestry that covered it flapping in the breeze. In a break with custom Lyrna had requested the two surviving Aspects attend the Council, formally appointing Aspect Elera as Minister of Royal Works and Dendrish as Minister of Justice. Neither her father nor her brother had ever appointed an Aspect to an official position and there had been some notable apprehension among the other council members.
Never give them an inch more than you have to, her father had once said of the Faith. I tied the Crown to them to win the Realm, but if I could, I’d sever them from me like a diseased limb. Lyrna however, felt time had taught a different lesson. Aspect Tendris’s diatribes against her brother’s toleration of Denier beliefs had done much to weaken the Realm, but his power had been limited by the closeness of the other Orders to the Crown. Your mistake wasn’t in binding to them, Father. It was in not binding them tight enough.