by Steven Poore
The woman took one step back and pointed to the wall. As Hetch approached he saw that another door stood there, this one reinforced with bands of iron. It looked much newer than anything else in this alleyway did.
“You want me to enter?” he asked the short woman.
She looked exasperated. “No, idiot Almoul. I want you to leave. But you want to enter.”
Certain that any charm was wasted upon her, he bowed his thanks anyway and turned to the door. The latch clicked effortlessly, and the door opened inwards at a touch. Beyond was a tiled antechamber, lit by thick candles on intricate stands of varying heights. Again, Hetch was struck by the impression that the tiles had been recently laid, and that the walls had also been replastered.
A narrow switch-back stairwell occupied one corner of the chamber, and beyond it was a small door that Hetch felt ought to seal away the house’s storerooms. Low stools and cushions decorated the floor, but he had the impression that any meeting he sought would not be held here. Instead he moved toward the small passageway on the opposite wall, from which he detected the scent of flowers and spices.
The garden was a revelation. Enclosed by pillared colonnades on all four sides, it managed to feel both open and secure. Gravel paths led between beds of colourful plants, all curving towards one central stone-paved area. Here there was a small fountain, a table, and a life-sized stone figure of a man.
Hetch turned to take in the shuttered windows of the living rooms. His practised eye took in the rebuilt balconies and the reconstructed pillarwork, and then he looked down at the garden and wondered just how much it had also been reworked. Everything looked as new as it was old.
The woman emerged from another door with a silver tray. Ignoring Hetch completely, she set two glasses and a jug upon the table before disappearing once again.
Hetch wondered what he was supposed to do. He circled the table once or twice, admiring the craftsmanship of the metalwork – traditional Galliarcan patterning, with a repeating motif that could be interpreted as a sword if one looked at it from a certain angle – and then turned his attention to the stone figure.
It was plainly intended as a centre-piece, he thought, but it had been ill-placed. Instead of becoming the focus-point of the garden, it was instead a jarring imperfection. And where all else reflected Galliarcan design, this was unmistakably Hellean. Hetch bent to examine the features of the statue and a niggling familiarity suddenly became clear.
Yes, he had only ever met the man once, but he would never forget him. And this . . .
Hetch sat at the table and poured a glass of wine from the chilled jug. After a moment’s thought, he filled the second glass as well. And then he waited.
Though it seemed an eternity, the garden had not become any darker when he heard footsteps on the gravel path behind him. He set down his glass and stood.
Of them all, he thought immediately, she had changed most. Norrow’s daughter, a girl who could slip unnoticed through a crowd to collect his coins during a performance, and who had lived on the fuel of stories and wishes, was gone forever. In her place was a woman who would turn heads even in the Hellean Court, such was the sharpness of her presence. And that was not all. They were of an age, yet Cassia looked older than her years even though her face was not lined. All her age was in her eyes.
Dressed in Galliarcan style, but in leggings rather than a dress, Cassia looked set for a journey. She placed a patchworked bundle underneath the table and welcomed him as a native would greet any visitor to this city, before seating herself opposite him.
“The Court suits you,” she noted.
“Rais said much the same,” Hetch told her. “Perhaps I should lose some weight.”
Her lips quirked upwards. The old Cassia was not completely dead.
He sipped his wine. Over the last season he had rehearsed all manner of speeches in his mind, but now he came to it, none of them seemed apt. He had no real gift with words. And this was Cassia’s ground, not his own.
“I sent letters to Rais,” he said, when it became apparent that Cassia was waiting for him to open the conversation. “I hoped you might be here.”
She nodded. “I saw the letters.”
“But you never replied,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral.
Cassia stared at him for a moment. “Not for the reasons you believe,” she said. “You have already talked to Rais: he told you the truth. I did not ask any of you to come with me, so I could never have demanded that you stay. You should not think of yourself as a coward. Remember what I said of your brother.”
It was his turn to nod. “Can you believe that only makes it worse?”
“Yes,” Cassia said. She regarded him solemnly. “Yes, indeed.”
In the silence that followed Hetch looked around at the garden, but the time he had spent in Hellea had taught him to watch other people from the corner of his vision. He used that skill now. Yes, Cassia was much changed from the girl who had been bartered and sold over his father’s table, but she had also changed from the woman who had turned an entire legion back towards the North. There was an odd sensation of strength surrounding her, he thought. She looked weary, and every movement she made was measured as though she had to rein herself in, yet she also looked like she belonged here.
This would not be easy, he thought.
“I think I like this far better than the gardens at the palace,” he said. It was not far from the truth; there was a peace within these walls that he had not found during the last few days. Despite the overwhelming size of Jianir’s gardens, he knew the King’s spies were watching the Hellean delegation all the time. There was no privacy there.
Cassia smiled again, as though she had read his thoughts. “And now you know why you have not seen me there. Besides, I would not be welcome. I think the King still blames me for maiming his son.”
It could have been me, Hetch thought. He shuddered. “And Rais himself?”
A cloud passed over the garden with the words. Cassia shrugged. “We will speak of it, in time. When it is right to do so. Hetch, one face of Aliciana was the Mistress of Blades – when I drew my sword, I did not think of what I had to do, or of the consequences. I merely did it. Malessar told me there was once a figurine of Aliciana that represented her as the Mistress of Blades. The more I think of it, the harder it is to envisage it; I cannot imagine any sculptor capturing the sheer immediacy of movement and action that would be required to make that representation. I did not think when I took my sword to his wrist. But I can remember what it was like to feel like that – to be the Mistress of Blades.”
“I think you may fault yourself more than Rais does,” Hetch said.
“Perhaps.”
She kept glancing across at the kneeling stone figure, as if she expected it to move. For a moment he considered asking her about it, but then he decided to pursue a different avenue.
“Is this the warlock’s house?”
“Dhar,” Cassia corrected him absently. “Yes, it is. Don’t worry, though. He is not here.”
Hetch bristled. “Why, should I be frightened of him?”
“A man who has lived through centuries of hurt, anger and regret after committing the kingdom of Caenthell to demonic torment? A man who summons dragons upon a whim and changes the winds for his own purposes?” Cassia nodded slowly. “Yes, I think you probably should.”
“But you live here?”
“Because I understand him,” she said. “And also because I believe he understands me.”
Hetch blinked, and then shook his head. “Well, I don’t. Truly, I don’t. What do you mean, that he understands you?”
“Not in the manner you are thinking of,” Cassia told him sharply, and he felt a flush of embarrassment darken his cheeks. “Look, Hetch. What I did – what we did – was like something from the stories of the Age of Talons. If you look back upon it, does it seem real to you, or does it feel like a half-forgotten dream? You fought your way into Caenthell with me; you canno
t say that it did not change you. But I had the drums of the North in my head. I summoned shieldmen to march alongside me, I made pacts with dragons. I used the magic of Karakhel to hold back the enemy long enough that we could drive into the heart of the kingdom. And I was betrayed and used, just as Malessar was. I think it will take much longer than a short year or two for me to understand how or why all that happened, even with Malessar’s help.”
He shook his head again, this time in apology. “I remember it. But I still do not understand. Does this mean that you are a sorcerer too?”
“I hope not,” Cassia said. She looked troubled by the thought.
“And the dragons? You mentioned them . . .”
Cassia glanced up at the sky. A reflexive action, Hetch decided. “The less said of them, the better. I was naive. Craw never said what he would require of me. I hope he never does. But until then . . .”
Hetch reached across the table and refilled both the glasses. “I came to ask a question,” he said.
Cassia took her glass, but she did not drink. “I know.”
He looked around again – at the rebuilt house, at the stone figure that had once, perhaps, been a man. The more he looked, the more he felt a foreigner. An interloper, and he wished he could just leave the conversation here, with the question unasked. But with everything that had happened, everything Cassia had achieved . . . it seemed senseless to let everything fall unresolved by the side of the road. He was not the only one to feel that way, either.
Cassia sighed. “Ask then, but you must already know my answer.”
Hetch stood and straightened his spine. “Please, Cassia, come with us back to Hellea. Back to the North. We need you there. Havinal and Tarves would rally behind you. You would bring us out of the Emperor’s shadow. We could demand parity with the rest of Hellea. You would bring new life back to Keskor, and even to Caenthell.”
She turned away in silence and massaged her forehead with one hand. “Oh Hetch, have you learned nothing at all from this? There is nothing for me now in the North. No reason for me to return.”
“Then I must be stupid,” Hetch said, anger shading his voice. “Because I don’t understand you. The North is yours by right. You told me that yourself. There is nothing to stop you taking the throne of the High Kings and ensuring safety and prosperity for us all.”
“No, there isn’t,” Cassia agreed. Hetch blinked. “No, there isn’t. And so I cannot. I will not.”
“You must be mad,” Hetch muttered. The words came out before he had a chance to think about them.
Cassia swung about again and glared at him. This time there was no disguising her anger and Hetch took an involuntary step back as she stood to confront him.
“Mad? After all I have gone through? Most definitely, Hetch. I loosed Jedrell’s spirit upon the world, in case you had forgotten. And I returned to Caenthell to make amends, with the weight of the North – and Hellea itself! – on my shoulders. I watched my companions die, one by one, those who did not flee. I ran through my own father when he stood as the High King triumphant. Sweet stars above, Hetch, I think I killed a god. And my grandfather, who I thought would at least have some measure of safety behind the walls of Karakhel . . . to find his bones on the fire I had set – to know that his life was the source of the power I had to use to finish it all . . .”
She shook her head. Hetch realised Cassia had unsheathed her sword as she spoke, and now she laid it on the ground and kicked the hilt away from her. He wondered in shock just how close she had come to taking the blade to his neck.
“You see? I am mad. Mad enough to draw steel. And where would it stop? You’re right, Hetch, the throne is mine. I am the High Queen of the North. Caenthell is mine if I choose to take it. But your High Queen would be mad. Dangerous. I saw how Caenthell warped Jedrell, how it warped my father. How it warped Pyraete. I could not stand against that. I would be a tyrant, Hetch, worse than any dragon. I would command your fealty, and I could command your deaths. And you would oblige me gladly. Without hesitation.”
He was shaking his own head now, to deny what she said, but Hetch already knew Cassia spoke the truth.
“I can’t do that,” she said, in a softer voice. “Not again. Once was more than enough.”
“But . . . what, then? What do we do? What do I tell them?”
Cassia shrugged. “Whatever you wish. But I will not come back to the North. Especially not if the likes of your brother think they can use me as some sort of figurehead to improve his own position.”
Hetch opened his mouth to protest, and then thought for a moment. Tarves had never said anything of the sort, but he was his father’s son. As was Hetch himself. “I did not think of that,” he said, chagrined.
“You did,” Cassia argued. “You thought that by returning to Hellea with the High Queen of the North in tow your own star would rise high in the firmament.” She shrugged again. “You see? I will not do it. If the North is to rise again – truly rise, mind – it must do so by its own merit. And maybe that is the greatest gift I can give it.”
She retrieved her sword and sheathed it again, then dragged the rolled bundle from beneath the table and shook it out. It was a patchwork cloak, Hetch realised, new-made, but incorporating several patches that looked weathered and moth-eaten. A storyteller’s robe.
“You may stay here for a while if you wish,” she said. “Leili will not mind too much, though she pretends otherwise. But once you leave, you will not find this dhar again.”
Hetch fought back his dismay at being dismissed in such a manner. “What of you, then? What will you do?”
Cassia shrugged again. “Live,” she said.
She settled the robe upon her shoulders and walked towards the antechamber that led to the alleyway outside. Hetch followed her.
“I made promises to those who followed me as we went into the North,” she continued. “Men and women who died so that you could be here. So that Hellea, and Galliarca, and Kalakhadze and all the rest – so that they might all survive.”
She opened the door and then paused to look back over her shoulder. Caught in candle-light and the red-clay glow of dusk she looked like a character from one of her father’s own tales.
“I am a storyteller,” she said. “I will tell their stories.”
And she drew the door closed behind her.
About the Author
Steven Poore writes epic fantasies, ripping space adventures, and other shaggy dog tales. He has been onstage with Jane Horrocks and the RSC, and co-produced the Sheffield theatre premiere of Terry Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters. Steven is a founder member of the Sheffield SF&F Writers’ Group, where much of Malessar’s Curse was drafted and workshopped, and also runs the semi-regular SFSF Social readings. He lives in Sheffield with a crafty partner, a three-legged cat, and a critical mass of books and vinyl records.
Follow him:
Twitter: @stevenjpoore
Facebook: thestevenpoore
Acknowledgements
First up again, Sammy, Zoë, Joanne, and everybody in the KI/Grimbold house: you all rock like muthafrakkers.
Jorge Luis Torres and Ken Dawson for the outstanding art and design. You can find Jorge at uttotor.deviantart.com and Ken at www.ccovers.co.uk
The ever-expanding Team Chopper: Rachel Rose, Judith Poore, Michael & Claire, Karen & Sean, JB Rockwell, Andy Angel, Sara Smith, Diana Croft, Nathan Hystad, Ian Sales, Daniel Godfrey, Darren & Jo Johnson-Smith, Dave Lee, Jo Zebedee, Juliana Spink Mills, Marc Turner, Marc Aplin, AFE Smith, Rob Adams, Alex Davis, Alistair Sims, and Jo Thomas for pretty much throttling the panic out of me on launch day last year. And not forgetting the Inkbots, the Sheffield Writers, the Fox Spirit Skulk, and everybody who has helped make the SFSF events such great fun.
And of course, the readers and reviewers. You. Without an audience, the storytellers are just talking to themselves. If I could, I’d buy you all a drink.
The North Will Rise Again!
A Selection of Other Title
s from Kristell Ink
The Summer Goddess by Joanne Hall
When Asta’s nephew is taken by slavers, she pledges to her brother that she will find him, or die trying. Her search takes her from the fading islands of the Scattering, a nation in thrall to a powerful enemy, to the port city of Abonnae. There she finds a people dominated by a sinister cult, thirsty for blood to feed their hungry god.
Haunted by the spirit of her brother, forced into an uncertain alliance with a pair of assassins, Asta faces a deadly choice – save the people of two nations, or save her brother’s only son.
Fear the Reaper by Tom Lloyd
All Shell has ever wanted was a home, a place to belong. But now an angel of the God has tracked her down, intent on using her to hunt the demon that once saved her. The journey will take her into the dead place beyond the borders of the world, there to face her past and witness the coming of a new age.
A stand-alone novella from the author of The Twilight Reign series and Moon’s Artifice.
Fight Like A Girl – ed. Joanne Hall & Roz Clarke
What do you get when some of the best women writers of genre fiction come together to tell tales of female strength? A powerful collection of science fiction and fantasy ranging from space operas and near-future factional conflict to medieval warfare and urban fantasy. These are not pinup girls fighting in heels; these warriors mean business. Whether keen combatants or reluctant fighters, each and every one of these characters was born and bred to Fight Like A Girl. Featuring stories by Roz Clarke, Kelda Crich, K T Davies, Dolly Garland, K R Green, Joanne Hall, Julia Knight, Kim Lakin-Smith, Juliet McKenna, Lou Morgan, Gaie Sebold, Sophie E Tallis, Fran Terminiello Danie Ware, Nadine West.