by Anthony Ryan
“Yes. I must confess I have misled you somewhat, Lord Marshal. My mission here tonight was not to show you my ship.”
She saw him tense, glancing at Iltis and Benten who stood a little way off on either side, eyes hard and hands resting on their sword hilts. “It was not, Highness?”
“No.” Lyrna turned as Orena approached, meeting her gaze and tipping her wine onto the grass. “It was to show you the face of our enemy.”
Orena froze, all expression draining from her features, but her eyes flicked across them all with an unnatural speed.
“Lord Vaelin noticed,” Lyrna told her. “You saw the boy who can’t be seen, unless by another Gifted. That was foolish.”
Orena didn’t move, her eyes settling on Lyrna as Benten and Iltis closed in on either side, swords drawn and levelled, Davoka moving behind her with spear poised.
“Orena Vardrian,” Lyrna continued. “Family names follow the female line among the farming folk of Asrael. Brother Harlick has memorised every census ever taken in this Realm so it was an easy task to discern that you and Lord Vaelin are cousins, sharing a grandmother, one who no doubt passed her Gifted blood to both daughters. Maternal blood carries the Dark but the nature of the gifts can vary between generations. What is hers?”
Orena’s features spasmed, a variety of expression marring her mask-like visage, malice, fear and amusement all flickering across her face before settling on the most unexpected; sadness, her brow softening and mouth forming a slight grimace. When she spoke her voice was flat, though Lyrna found the cadence horribly familiar. “She can place her thoughts in the heads of others. A difficult gift to master and one she rarely used, being so terrified of discovery, knowing her own people would deliver her to the Fourth Order should it become known. Little wonder she determined to escape the farm and marry a rich husband, she made great use of her gift during the courtship.”
“And to tell your fellow creature and his pet priest where to find me that night at Alltor.”
Iltis bared his teeth, sword quivering a little as he fought his rage, though she was gratified by the discipline he displayed in not surrendering to it.
“A task I was forced to,” Orena said. “Like countless others.”
“More than once, no doubt. I assume our enemies are fully aware of our preparations.”
“They know all I know.”
“So why risk discovery tonight? Lady Davoka has kept careful watch on you since Lord Vaelin imparted his suspicions. Why choose tonight to poison my wine?”
Orena said nothing though Lyrna saw her eyes flick in Al Hestian’s direction.
“It seems our enemy fears you also, my lord,” Lyrna told the Lord Marshal. “I find myself suddenly glad I didn’t execute you.” She levelled her gaze at Orena once more. “Why does the Ally want his death?”
“He has a genius for command. One that will be of great use when you reach Volaria.”
“We have met before, have we not? In the mountains.”
“It matters not.” The woman’s voice grew yet more devoid of emotion, her gaze losing focus, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Nothing matters. Build your fleet, gather your army, sail them to their deaths. We are all but pieces on his board and if the game goes awry, he’ll start another. I have died a hundred times and woken in shell after shell, each time praying that this time he will leave me be. When I first awoke in this one I heard no whisper of his voice and I thought…” She fell silent, head lowering as she hugged herself.
“You had ample opportunity to kill me on the Sea Sabre,” Lyrna said. “During the battle, it would have been an easy matter with so many arrows flying, so much smoke to conceal the deed. Why didn’t you?”
Orena issued a wistful laugh, soft and soon lost to the wind. “You made me a lady. You were … my queen. And…” She paused to smile. “And there was Harvin. To live so long without ever touching another heart is a terrible thing. To think I should find it with him, a common outlaw with no more wit than a scavenging fox.”
“You expect me to believe this?” Lyrna felt her anger quicken and fought to keep it in check. This thing’s attempt to manipulate her was dangerous, provoking her to hasty revenge. “A creature such as you is immune to love.”
“You think yourself so wise, my queen, but you are still a child. I have seen much done in the name of love, the wondrous and the horrifying, always finding it so amusing. There is a corner of my soul that wishes you were right, that I had remained immune to its touch, for then my grief would not have been so great. I think that’s how he found me again, hearing my despair as it seeped into the void, calling me back to his service.”
“A call you could have refused.”
“He bound me to him long ago, welded my soul to his, cutting away any will to resist. It’s how he chooses us, those souls best suited to his purpose, those with malice sufficient to match his own and weakness enough to be moulded.”
She sank to her knees, glancing over her shoulder where Davoka now stood, a small glass bottle in hand. “You should know,” Orena said, turning back to Lyrna, “that the mind of this shell is fractured. Broken by rape and near strangulation the night the city fell, saved only by her gift, which shattered the mind of her assailant, but left her spent and easily claimed.”
“She will have the best care,” Lyrna said. “And I promised Lord Vaelin I would return his cousin.”
Orena nodded and drew back her sleeve, raising her hand, palm extended. “This time there will be no forgiveness, my failures become too frequent, my soul too sullied by feeling. This time he will rend me to nothing, stripping away even the memory I was once alive. A fate I believe will suit me very well.” Her face was set, determined, her fear well controlled, a stark contrast to the girl who had begged and wailed beneath the Mountain. “I am ready, my queen.”
In later years there would be few among the Dead Company left alive to recall the scream that pealed across the headland that night. But those that did, although calloused by many horrors, would still manage a shudder at the memory of the sound, recalling it as an omen of what lay ahead.
The full fury of winter came early that year, heavy rain giving way to snow with unwelcome speed, the tent roofs of Varinshold sagging under its weight. Lyrna had ordered fuel stockpiled but the depth of the cold took many by surprise and there were some who perished in its grasp, mainly the old and the sick. Others were found outside the city walls, shorn of warm clothing, their frozen faces often serene, accepting. The invasion had left many bereft of all family and vulnerable to despair, precious hands lost to grief that wouldn’t heal.
Despite the cold and the privation the work continued, the Forge produced weapons at a furious rate and Davern’s wrights had given her three more ships in less than a month, the pace of construction quickening as they grew accustomed to the new techniques. “You should forget the gold from the Reaches, Highness,” Davern advised one day with his customary grin. “When the war’s won this land will be made rich on shipbuilding alone.”
In truth she often wished she could forget the gold. Acting Tower Lord Ultin was a frequent correspondent with his demands for more miners and Fief Lord Darvus’s scribes were scrupulous in counting and weighing every ingot to reach Frostport, even to the point of delaying onward shipment to the Alpiran merchants. If Your Highness were to send more scribes, the old man had written in response to her gently worded rebuke, I feel sure the flow of gold would resume with all alacrity. She had resisted the urge to dispatch Lord Adal with a formal edict dissolving Darvus’s agreement with Vaelin and placing the gold trade under Crown control. However, as her Minister of Justice was ever keen to remind her, she had already exercised the Queen’s Word with a frequency that made her father appear the paragon of light-handed rule and was loath to earn a reputation for setting aside inconvenient laws.
Aspect Dendrish had taken on the unenviable task of hearing petitions, troubling her with only the cases of greatest import or complexity. He also had been obliged
to reconstitute a system of courts in a land now severely denuded of lawyers or magistrates, obtaining her permission for a complete reorganisation of the Realm’s machinery of justice.
“Three Senior Judges?” she asked him on reading his plan. “Should the role of highest judge not fall to you, Aspect?”
“Too much power vested in a single office is often a recipe for corruption, Highness.”
She gave him an amused frown. Although possibly the least personable man she had met besides the blessedly deceased Darnel, the Aspect had quickly earned a reputation for sound judgement and rigid impartiality, reporting every attempted bribe and decreeing swift punishment on the transgressor. “You feel corrupted by your duties?” she asked.
“I will not hold this office forever.” There was a weight to his words that gave her pause, taking in the paleness of his skin and rapidly disappearing girth. She had noticed before how his words were often coloured by a faint wheeze and he would pause to cough with a disconcerting frequency.
“Three judges,” she said, turning back to the document. “To ensure their decisions are not deadlocked, I assume?”
“Indeed, Highness. All rulings to be subject to your approval, naturally.”
“Also, I note there is no mention of the Faith in your amended code of criminal transgressions.”
“The Faith pertains to the soul and the Beyond. The law pertains only to the Realm and its subjects.”
“Very well. I shall need time to fully consider this.”
“My thanks, Highness.” He hunched over, trying to suppress a cough and failing, a lace handkerchief held to his mouth, coming away spotted with red. “Forgive me.”
“I will. I’ll also order you to see Brother Kehlan immediately and abide by whatever instruction he gives you.”
He gave a reluctant nod as she set down the document, musing, “Neither my brother nor father ever attempted such radical change to the Realm’s laws.”
Aspect Dendrish drew a wheezing breath, his eyes slightly moist as he replied, “All in this Realm is changed, more than I would ever wish it to be. But wishes do not make a land fit to live in.”
“It’s based on a Volarian engine,” Alornis said, her slender arm working the windlass at the rear of the contraption, gears clanking and diagonally crossed arms drawing back. It did indeed resemble one of the ballistae with which the Volarians festooned their ships, but was substantially larger with a heavy iron box fixed over the central body. It stood on a wide base also of iron, but with a bowl-shaped aperture through which a supporting rod was thrust, allowing the entire engine to be swivelled about with surprising swiftness despite its size.
Lyrna had joined her Battle Lord on the Realm Guard’s main practice ground to witness the trial of her Lady Artificer’s first invention. The broad plain that played host to the Summertide Fair was mostly covered in snow now, troops of conscripts labouring through the drifts a good way beyond the row of targets placed at varying distances from the device. Each target consisted of four Volarian breastplates arranged in a square, Alornis having assured them the device had enough power to pierce their armour.
“The range, my lady?” Count Marven enquired.
“A Volarian ballista can manage about two hundred yards,” Alornis replied, locking the engine’s thick string in place and stepping back. “I’m hopeful we’ll better it. They use wood for their bow staves, we have used steel.” She took a moment to align the contraption then thumped her palm onto a lever. The bow arms snapped forward in a blur, the bolt flying free too fast for Lyrna to track its flight, though the tinny clunk from one of the farthest targets indicated it had found its mark.
“Close to three hundred yards,” Count Marven said with a laugh, bowing to Alornis. “Well done, my lady. A remarkable feat.”
“Thank you, my lord. But I am not yet done. The original Volarian design was slow to load, taking over a minute to loose two bolts. However, I recalled seeing a grain seeder, which gave me an odd notion.” She reached for the windlass again and began to work it, the arms drawing back as the gears rattled anew. “It’s all a matter of aligning the cogs,” she explained, grunting a little with the effort. “The gears draw the string back to a certain point whereupon the box on the top releases a new bolt.” A faint clatter came from the engine as she continued to work the windlass. “And the next gear releases the string.”
The bow arms snapped again, scoring another hit on the farthest target. “All one need do is continue to turn the windlass,” Alornis went on, adjusting the engine’s aim so the next bolt flew towards a different target. “Until the bolts are exhausted, whereupon a new box can be hauled up to replace it.”
She continued to work the engine, loosing bolts at varying trajectories until all targets had sustained a hit. When the last bolt had flown she stood back, perspiring a little despite the cold. “Still some details to work out,” she said, chest heaving a little. “It tends to seize up if it’s not oiled frequently, and I think I can improve on the design of the bolt-heads.”
“Give me a hundred of those, Highness,” Count Marven said, his tone now entirely serious. “And I’ll match us against any army the Volarians can field.”
Lyrna went forward to favour Alornis with a soft embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead. “What else can you show me, my lady?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Frentis
Illian ducked under the arc of his wooden blade and countered with a jab at his eyes, easily turned before stepping close to trap her arm under his shoulder, pulling her close. “Now what will you do, sister?” he asked in a light tone.
He saw her bite back a retort, features red with frustration, detecting the decision in her eyes a fraction of a second too late. Her forehead connected painfully with his nose, leaving him stunned for the brief moment it took her to wrestle free, her ash sword coming round in a clumsy but fast swipe at his midriff. His wooden blade connected with hers an inch from his chest, deflecting it with a loud crack, then sweeping it aside to thrust into her belly. She grunted from the blow and lowered her sword, chest heaving and eyes dark with resentment.
“Anger is your enemy,” he reminded her, wiping blood from his nose. “A little better this time, but still not fast enough. Practice your scales until midday then feed the dogs.”
She took a deep calming breath before nodding, her tone carefully modulated. “Yes, brother.”
He left her to it and strode across the deck where his company were engaged in their own practice, Draker teaching a trio of their younger members the basics of cutting a man’s throat. “Gotta get it done in one stroke,” he advised, a beefy arm around the chest of a lanky youth named Dallin, a Renfaelin farmhand rescued from slavers shortly before their time in the Urlish reached its disastrous conclusion. “Forget about finding the veins.” Draker demonstrated the technique with a sheathed dagger. “Just cut deep and draw it all the way around. Then get hold of his hair and pull the head back to open the cut as wide as you can.”
Frentis passed Weaver on the way to the stern, Slasher and Blacktooth at his side as they often were these days, seemingly fascinated by his work. Halfway through the voyage he had abruptly stopped plaiting rope and begun working strips of leather into a tight arrangement fixed onto a circular frame, replying with only a vague smile when asked what he was about. The creation had initially resembled a shallow basket but its purpose had gradually become clear as Weaver fixed straps to the concave side and borrowed pitch from the crew to cover the curving outer surface.
“A fine shield, sir,” Frentis offered, pausing at his side and raising a hand for Slasher to lick.
“A Lonak design,” Weaver replied, an oddly familiar cadence to his voice as he used a large bone needle to thread twine along the edge of the shield. “Though rarely used, since their martial culture is essentially aggressive in nature.”
He continued to work, not looking up as Frentis moved on. Captain Belorath was at the stern, standing as still as the shifting dec
k would allow, his sextant trained on the horizon. Frentis had no notion of how the device worked or the meaning of the numbers the captain paused to scribble on parchment, but knew it was how he fixed their position on this ocean.
“Seas are calmer today,” he offered. In fact it was the first calm day for over a week; the stories he had heard of the Boraelin’s tempestuous wintry nature had not been exaggerated.
Belorath replied with a customary grunt, raising his sextant once more. “But the clouds aren’t. Promises another storm by tomorrow.” He squinted, keeping the sextant level, his eyes tracking to a brief glimpse of the sun through the cloud. “I believe, brother,” he said, consulting the numbers on his parchment. “We are less than two weeks from Volarian shores. It’s time a decision was made.”
“Eskethia.” Thirty-Four’s finger tapped the chart where a two-hundred-mile-long stretch of Volarian coastline traced from north to south. “One of the last provinces to fall to Volarian rule. The free people there may be less inclined to fight for the empire. Also, New Kethia is home to the largest slave market in the western provinces. Many of the slaves seized in your homeland will still be there, awaiting the winter auctions.”
“Well garrisoned?” Frentis asked him, although it was Lekran who replied.
“At least a division,” he said. “As our friend says, Eskethians are ever resentful at the loss of their sovereignty, though it happened centuries ago.”
Frentis eyed the chart closely, gauging the distance from Eskethia to Volar. Close enough to threaten the capital, but sufficiently distant to ensure any forces sent against us won’t have time to return when the queen lands. He raised his gaze to Belorath. “Captain?”
“It’s not a shore I’m familiar with, may take a while to find a suitable landing site. Luckily the coming storm should mask our approach from their patrol ships.”
Frentis nodded. “Eskethia then,” he said, hating himself for the dread that clutched at his chest, knowing the decision meant his weeks of dreamless sleep would soon have to be abandoned. Just one night, he told himself. What can she do in just one night?