by L. L. MacRae
And if Fenn’s headaches were worsening, he could well be on a time limit.
The elthian had been terrified, beside herself screaming. The pain had been too much for her body. How long until the same would be true of Fenn? It didn’t warrant thinking about.
Something cold crept down her spine and along her arms as the seriousness of events became clear. Even the Olmese were sending warning messages. War griffins and warriors.
The Myrish threat had to be real.
‘Fenn?’ Calidra called, grabbing his attention.
He looked up and grinned. With his bright blue eyes and dark brown hair, he didn’t stand out, but there was something that had changed about the set of his jaw, the determination in his gaze. Even though it had only been a handful of days since Calidra had last seen him in Ballowtown, the young man seemed older, more world-weary.
‘Thank you, Fenn. For keeping Jisyel safe.’ Calidra looped her arm around Jisyel’s waist, as if to emphasise her point. ‘I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy.’
‘Cal!’ Jisyel playfully pushed her.
‘I’m glad I could help. Thank you.’ Fenn began to walk the short distance across the manicured grass towards them. His knee buckled and his eyes rolled back.
Selys, closer to him, reacted immediately—darting forward to grab him before he could collapse to the ground—but Fenn was already unconscious. The priestess pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. ‘He’s burning up.’
‘Get him inside,’ Calidra said, releasing Jisyel to lead the way. Worry gripped her.
What if it was already too late?
What if Fenn’s time had run out?
14
The Queen
torsten
Eastbrook, as capitals went, was less a fortress, more a sprawling, overgrown city that spread down a gentle hill to touch the sea. Full of native Porsenthians and those who’d emigrated from other parts of the world, eager for the safety of the Iron Crown, it was a melting pot of different races and cultures.
All perfectly acceptable as far as Torsten was concerned—as long as they paid their dues and had the right to live there. He didn’t see the point in protecting anyone who didn’t—or wouldn’t—earn their keep.
The city itself was far from beautiful. There were certainly other places in Porsenthia that were more breathtaking, with more dramatic scenery, but Eastbrook had swelled over the years, and it was certainly a force to be reckoned with. It sat under the cool sun, against the backdrop of the Nethal Mountains, the vast Lasseen Ocean to the east. A simmering power, always ready.
Built primarily of stone ored from the mountains, Eastbrook was a swathe of narrow grey buildings, punctuated here and there with splashes of white. Crooked streets and narrow alleys linked sections of the city together, and even though most buildings were several storeys high, the palace itself dwarfed everything. A castle of iron sat atop the city’s highest peak, towers haphazardly bursting from its inner and outer walls, wide balconies open to the air above, snaking around the main building to offer Toriaken multiple landing points. Queen Surayo and the Porsenthian rulers of old called it their home. Although much of it had been built with the same stone, Toriaken had fortified it with iron over the centuries, creating towering peaks and jagged turrets that glinted dully. Toriaken had shaped the iron in ways no human hand could; it flowed in curves and waves that would only be possible with glass.
The sword and shield of Porsenthia, Eastbrook, was the only place where the people could catch a glimpse of the dragon spirit bonded to their queen. Where Toriaken himself flew.
It had taken another two days of hard traveling to reach Eastbrook from Tonmouth, during which time Torsten weighed up Miroth’s information. He didn’t know the level of danger the Myr presented, but it had to be more than he’d ever have considered before if they were sending out death spirits.
Perhaps Surayo’s concerns weren’t foolhardy after all.
The carriage rattled over the wide stone bridge leading to Eastbrook’s south gate, the Lasseen Ocean at his back. Even though Eastbrook had been his home for a number of years, the dark iron shadow above it was foreboding.
They made their way along the wider streets of Eastbrook, horses’ hooves clomping loudly on the stone roads. People stepped to the side to let the Inquisitor caravan pass, eyes drawn to each carriage in a mix of curiosity and fear.
Torsten had instructed their curtains be drawn for their entrance into the city. There was no need to provide the people with ammunition for gossip and rumour to fester. He pulled at the corner of his own curtain, peeking out of the gap to gather his bearings.
They were already at the south end of Queen’s Parade, the main path to the palace itself. It wouldn’t be long now. Although the angle of the carriage didn’t allow him to see their final destination, he could already feel the shadow of iron across him.
He was back in Toriaken’s domain.
A horn, low and keening, played as they passed through the outer gates to the palace grounds, signalling the Inquisitors’ return. The call was taken up by another horn along the wall, and another, and another, at regular intervals, until the palace sang with news of their arrival.
It wasn’t needed, really. Toriaken—and therefore Surayo—would know they were back, but those elsewhere in Eastbrook, who hadn’t seen the carriages, would know Torsten had returned to the city. He wondered what secrets would be hidden, hurriedly squirreled away and out of sight, now that he was back.
Several soldiers met them outside the iron palace, and the more junior ranked among them saw to their horses, leading them away and to the stables. An enormous statue of Toriaken dominated the courtyard, built atop a fountain in the centre. With his wings spread, Torsten had often wondered whether the spirit could make the statue come to life.
‘Well met, Inquisitors.’ The captain on duty offered Torsten and Nadja a short bow.
‘How is Eastbrook? Any news?’ Nadja asked, stepping out of the carriage and stretching her arms above her with a long sigh.
‘The city is well. Queen Surayo eagerly awaits your report.’
Torsten nodded. ‘We’ll attend her now. Nadja?’
They left the other soldiers to deal with their captured prisoners—Torsten was looking forward to returning to them later to begin his investigations. He wanted to know what connected them all, what would drive so many to such deceit. But first, Queen Surayo awaited.
He and Nadja followed the captain up the enormous grey stone stairs leading to the palace entrance, glad to get moving again after so long in the cramped carriage. They’d not gone up ten steps when Torsten heard beating wings. Pausing, he whirled around to look for the cause of the noise. It wasn’t the strong, stiff wing beats of Toriaken, but the beat of feathers. Feathers that did not belong to any bird.
‘Griffins, sir?’ asked the guard captain, squinting up into the sky.
Nadja frowned. ‘We weren’t expecting any Olmese dignitaries.’
‘No,’ Torsten assented. ‘But they wait for no-one. Captain, get a welcome party assembled at once. Nadja and I will stall them.’
‘Yes, Inquisitor.’ The man darted off without hesitation, racing up the stone steps and into the castle itself, barking orders as he went.
‘I don’t like unannounced arrivals.’ Nadja caressed the hilt of her sword, then placed her hands behind her back, her eyes never leaving the sky.
‘Nor I.’ Torsten didn’t care for the Olmese, either. Their griffins were powerful creatures, and deadly even half-grown. They were instrumental in the rise of the Olmese dynasties, and were not to be underestimated. Torsten himself bore the scar from one creature across his midriff that often pained him in cold weather.
A high-pitched shriek accompanied the wing beats as the enormous creature flew into view, flanked by two others.
The same horn that had announced the Inquisitors’ return sounded again, a higher, shrill tone that played twice in quick succession. Not quite a warning, b
ut it made him straighten his back. He would be ready for whatever the Olmese wanted.
From what he could tell, the griffin in front was a third bigger than the other two, with glossy brown feathers streaked with cherry red. It swept low, circling the castle once in a wide arc, leading the others.
Even from such a distance, Torsten could see its intelligent eyes taking in the sight below.
As they descended, the carriages moved off, clearing space in front of the stone steps for the griffins to land. Several soldiers led the chained prisoners away, hoods covering their heads, and into the depths of the palace itself.
Torsten kept his eyes on the three griffins as they touched down. The two smaller ones were a mix of grey and cream feathers, but all three had vicious talons that could crush bone. Torsten absentmindedly scratched his old scar before heading down the steps.
Before he’d even reached them, the griffin riders had dismounted; a young woman and two men, both of whom were older than their female companion by a decade or two. Glancing around and adjusting their clothes, they peered curiously at the line of prisoners taken away.
Torsten quickened his step and cleared his throat.
Immediately, the largest of the griffins, the red-brown creature who towered over them, stared at Torsten with its beady, orange eyes. ‘Do not approach, Inquisitor. That is close enough.’
Unsurprised by the creature’s speech, Torsten halted several generous paces from the Olmese riders and inclined his head. ‘Your arrival in Eastbrook is unscheduled.’
‘War is rarely scheduled,’ the female rider replied curtly. She unbuckled the thick leather gloves that reached her elbows and pulled them off. She was shorter than Nadja, with hair dark as pitch and a slim, athletic build. Her body was draped in the hardy travelling silks of Olmir—brown and red to match her griffin. With the addition of a golden torc around her wrist, revealed when she took off her left glove, Torsten assumed her to be one of their military caste; a fighter whose skills matched the strength of her war griffin. But he didn’t know who she was—his role concerned Porsenthia more than anywhere else—and they’d had few dealings with Olmir in recent years. She said, ‘We must speak with Queen Surayo at once, by order of King Orlen.’
Torsten bristled at the demand.
‘The danger must be great if Lady Arbora has travelled here personally.’ Nadja silently appeared next to him and evidently recognised the woman. ‘It is an honour to receive such an esteemed warrior.’
At Nadja’s words, Lady Arbora’s expression softened. ‘Inquisitors. I cannot speak of my king’s message to any but the Iron Crown. If you would take me to Queen Surayo swiftly, it would be better for all of us.’
Torsten caught Nadja’s gaze, and he gave her the smallest of nods.
Nadja beckoned her forward, and Lady Arbora’s two companions followed—gently patting their griffins and unloading a large bag from each. The bags were heavy, from the way they staggered under them, but neither complained as they followed their Arbora up the stairs and into the castle.
Figures already lingered at the entranceway—a welcoming retinue.
Torsten watched as the three griffins took to the air again, sending feathers flying, then he marched after the Olmese. Whatever they had to say to his queen, as a Master Inquisitor, he ought to be there. It could well be an extra piece to the Myrish puzzle.
And if Lady Arbora was correct, and war had come, it meant they were all out of time.
Leafy trees and plants filled many of the wide, open spaces inside the palace, and enormous windows brought in plenty of sunlight as well as a cool sea breeze. Queen Surayo had tried to make her home more comfortable, adorning the iron walls with greenery and flowering plants.
Torsten wrinkled his nose at the peppery scents, but was used to it within a handful of breaths.
A serving girl swept up dead pine needles from under the branches of one of the fir trees Surayo had brought in. She crouched down, then sank to her knees as she reached under the branches to sweep the needles with a stiff brush. Her bare arms were red where the leaf litter touched her.
Without their spirit, the trees died quickly, and were constantly being replaced.
He’d never understood why the palace needed such plant life, with all the effort and constant maintenance it needed, but it was one rule that Surayo refused to accede.
Although Toriaken’s shrine was built into the base of the Nethal Mountains, a magnificent building twice the size of most shrines, and five times the size of Miroth’s, the Spirit of Iron also had a cathedral within the palace for those wishing to show the spirit and the Iron Crown homage. Even now, a large group of people gathered at the door which led to the cathedral, waiting to be admitted by palace staff and priests.
Not for the first time, Torsten was pulled two ways. The fire in his chest belonged to Miroth, the spirit to whom he was bound. But for the past thirty years, he’d served the Iron Crown; Queen Surayo, and by extension, Toriaken.
He carried swords imbued with both spirits, and had spent decades learning to push one to the side while listening to the other, then swapping again. It was a delicate balance that had often shortened his temper and patience. For now, he turned away from the door to the cathedral. Nadja and the rest of the welcoming committee kept the Olmese dignitaries marching at a quick pace, and Torsten followed, unwilling to let them out of his sight.
Every step brought him deeper into Toriaken’s domain.
He steeled himself, ready to face his queen and whatever news the Olmese brought.
They walked down corridors and across halls, garnering curious looks from the other staff on duty. With three Olmese, two Inquisitors, four soldiers, and a herald in the welcoming party, they were a strange sight strolling through the palace corridors.
None of the visitors spoke while they walked, which was uncommon. Most people were compelled to comment on the splendor of the castle or its strength as Porsenthia’s armour—figuring out some way to barter favour with the queen or her Inquisitors.
But the Olmese offered no such flattery.
Perhaps they were less than impressed?
Or perhaps their reasons for being here were genuine, and would not permit time for commenting on Porsenthian architecture.
He dwelled on it as they ascended a final flight of stairs, to the suites where Queen Surayo met guests. Armed soldiers stood at attention on either side of the stairway and in the hallway beyond. Though a few glanced at them as they walked past, most remained stoic, awaiting orders.
In other palaces across the world, gold, silver, and gemstones would lavishly decorate the rooms and corridors in a blatant display of wealth. Here, iron ruled. It was everywhere, from the swords the soldiers carried, to ornamental trinkets dotted in every room. Each and every piece could be imbued with Toriaken’s strength in a heartbeat. While some people might see the grey of iron as bland, even distasteful, they were walking down the literal jaws of the dragon.
The herald requested everyone wait in a comfortable antechamber before he scuttled off through a side door. After deliberating for a moment, Torsten followed him into the small connecting room which led to the queen’s audience chamber. Here, there were no more living guards. Instead, there were several humanoid shapes standing motionless against the wall, covered in shadow. Each one had been created from a slab of solid iron, and each wore two iron swords across their back.
The Iron Guard, Queen Surayo’s final defence against threats.
None of them had eyes, they didn’t even have faces, which unsettled Torsten every time he saw them. They remained motionless as Torsten passed, and it meant that when they opened the final door to Surayo’s chamber, the queen was already waiting, expectant.
Queen Surayo Fasse-Ferren, the thirty-eighth monarch of the Porsenthian Empire, stood in the middle of her audience chamber atop an enormous, plush rug which covered the flagstone floor. It had been stitched with intricate colours showcasing Toriaken’s magnificence—every scale
gleamed, just like the real spirit. A fire burned in the large hearth behind the queen, and sconces along the walls had been lit. The room was comfortable and warm against the chill of northern Porsenthia.
She wore a simple gown of maroon with a loose bodice—which complemented her dark brunette hair and lightly tanned skin—and fine threads of silver detailed Toriaken’s form across the skirt and sleeves. Instead of gold, silver, or gemstones, her jewellery was simple, functional, and made of iron, much like the rest of her palace. Long earrings reached her shoulders, slender rings crossed several fingers, a thick necklace that protected her throat more than provided beauty, and the ensemble was finished with a diadem atop her head, a ruby pressed into its centre.
Mages were rare enough in their own right, let alone one who had been blessed by a spirit.
Toriaken himself lay in the chamber, mist wreathing his body, blurring his edges as if he wasn’t quite there. He was nowhere near his full size—even semi-corporeal, he’d have filled the entire castle—and Torsten realised Toriaken had withheld the majority of his power for the sake of Surayo. He could stand with her, watch and listen with her, as befitted the dual rulers of the Porsenthian Empire.
Another three of the Iron Guard stood beside the hearth, their left sides glowing red from the roaring flames. They leaned on their swords, as silent as the iron they’d been created from.
Even if the palace of Eastbrook wasn’t a fortress in the traditional sense, the queen herself certainly was invulnerable through her link with the Spirit of Iron.
The dragon eyed Torsten and the herald, saying nothing as smoke plumed from his nostrils.
Torsten sank to one knee, ensuring his head was not as low as his companion.
The herald said in a lilting voice, ‘My Queen, we have an envoy from Olmir to see you. Lady Arbora and two of her retinue. She has said it concerns…war. They request an immediate audience.’