Queen of Fire
Page 43
“So now I will be your song, as the Mahlessa commands.”
“And what does she command?”
“I hear a voice calling to me from a great distance, far to the east. It’s a very old tune, and very lonely, sung by a man who cannot die, a man you have met.”
“His name?”
“I know not, but the music carries an image of a boy who once offered him shelter from a storm, and risked his life to save him and his charge.”
Erlin. It all tumbled into place in a rush, the rage Erlin had been shouting into the storm that night, his world-spanning travels, and his unchanged face when he came to share the truth about Davern’s father. Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names, Makril had said, though Vaelin now knew he had begun with only one. That day at the fair as he stared at the puppet show . . . “Kerlis,” he said in a whisper. “Kerlis the Faithless. Cursed to the ever death for denying the Departed.”
“A legend,” Kiral said. “My people have another story. They tell of a man who offended Mirshak, God of the Black Lands, and was cursed to craft a story without ending.”
“You know where to find him?”
She nodded. “And I know he is important. The song is bright with purpose when it touches him, and the Mahlessa believes he is key to defeating whatever commands the thing that stole my body.”
“Where?”
Her scar twisted as she gave an apologetic grimace. “Across the ice.”
CHAPTER THREE
Frentis
She pauses to survey the Council before taking her seat, twenty men in fine red robes seated around a perfectly circular table. The council chamber sits halfway up the tower, each member having been hauled to this height by the strength of a hundred slaves working the intricate pulleys that trace the length of this monolith. Blessed by endless life though they are, no Council-man relishes the prospect of climbing so many stairs.
She sits through the tedium of the opening formalities as Arklev intones the formal commencement of the fourth and final council meeting of this, the eight hundred and twenty-fifth year of the empire, the slave scribes scribbling away with their unnatural speed as he drones on, introducing each member in turn, until finally he comes to her.
“. . . and newly ascended to the Slaver’s Seat, Council, ah, Woman . . .”
“I am to be recorded as simply the Ally’s Voice,” she tells him, casting a meaningful glance at the scribes.
Arklev falters for a moment but recovers with admirable fortitude. “As you wish. Now, to our first order of business . . .”
“The only order of business,” she interrupts. “The war. This council has no other business until it is concluded.”
Another Council-man stirs, a silver-haired dullard whose name she can’t trouble herself to recall. “But, there are pressing matters from the south, reports of famine . . .”
“There was a drought,” she says. “Crops fail and people starve. Have any surplus slaves killed to husband supplies until it abates. All very sad but survivable, our current military situation may not be.”
“Admittedly,” Arklev begins, “the invasion has not progressed according to plan . . .”
“It’s been a miserable failure, Arklev,” she breaks in, smiling. “That preening dolt Tokrev orchestrated his own death and defeat with more efficiency than any of his victories. Sorry about your sister by the way.”
“My sister yet lives and I have no doubt as to her facility for continued survival. And we still hold their capital . . .”
“No.” She reaches out to pluck a grape from the bowl nearby, popping it into her mouth, savouring the sweetness. Although not entirely to her liking, this shell does possess an impressively sensitive palate. “As of three days ago, we don’t. Mirvek lies dead along with his command. The Unified Realm is lost to us.”
She enjoys the shocked silence almost as much as the grape. “A tragedy,” one of them says in cautious tone, a handsome fellow of misleadingly youthful appearance. She remembers killing a man at his request forty years ago, husband to some slattern he wanted to wed. She never thought to ask if the marriage was a success.
“But,” the handsome Council-man continues, “whilst the disgrace of defeat is hard to bear, surely this means the war is at an end. For now at least. We must gather strength, await a suitable opportunity to launch another attempt.”
“Whilst an entire nation with every reason to hate us gathers its own strength.”
“They are weakened by our invasion,” Arklev points out. “And an ocean stands between us.”
“I imagine King Malcius entertained the very same delusion up until the moment he felt his neck snap.” She gets to her feet, all humour vanishing from her face as she looks at each of them in turn. “Know, Honoured Council-men, that the Ally does not indulge in conjecture. I speak unalloyed fact. The Unified Realm now has itself a queen and she sees no more obstacle in an ocean than she would a shallow stream. When the seas calm she will be coming, whilst we have spent our best forces on an invasion commanded by a fool, one chosen by your vote, as I recall.”
“General Tokrev was a veteran of many campaigns,” the silver-haired Council-man begins, falling quiet at her glare. She lets the silence linger, feeling a familiar lust build in her breast as her song senses the burgeoning fear, clenching fists to keep it at bay. Not yet.
“It is the Ally’s wish,” she says, “that reserves be mustered to meet the threat. Former Free Swords will be recalled to their battalions and the conscription quotas for new recruits are to be tripled. The garrisons in Volar are to be reinforced by troops drawn from the provinces.”
She waits for dissent, but they all just sit and stare, these men who own millions, ancient cowards for the first time realising the depth of their folly. She considers leaving with a final veiled threat or humiliating barb, but finds herself possessed of a great desire to be away from them.
Was this how it was for you? she asks the uncaring ghost of her father as she turns and walks wordlessly from the chamber. Did they see how sickened you were by their stench? Is that why they had me kill you?
• • •
He was woken by the harsh clatter of the lock in his cell door. His principal gaoler, like all his guards, was drawn from the Queen’s Mounted Guard, a veteran sergeant with a distinct disinclination to conversation who glared at Frentis with unabashed detestation every time he opened the door. The queen had been punctilious in choosing guards unlikely to be swayed by the legend of the Red Brother. Today, however, the man’s hatred was slightly muted as he pulled the heavy door ajar and motioned for him to come out. To his continued surprise, Frentis had not been shackled, or in fact subject to any mistreatment. He was fed twice a day and provided with a fresh jug of water each morning when the sergeant came to fetch his waste bucket. Otherwise he was left to sit in darkness, absent any company or conversation . . . save her of course, waiting every time he succumbed to sleep.
The sergeant stood well back as he exited the cell, finding the queen standing in the chamber beyond flanked by Davoka and her two ennobled guards. “Highness,” Frentis said, dropping to one knee.
The queen gave no response, turning to the sergeant. “Leave us please. Give your keys to Lord Iltis.”
She waited until he had gone before speaking again. “The Blackhold has not been so empty since the day of its construction.” Frentis remained on one knee as she surveyed the chamber, eyes tracking over dark stone lit by meagre torchlight. “I find I prefer it that way. I intend to have it torn down at the conclusion of our current difficulties.”
Frentis lowered his head and took a breath, speaking in formal tones, “My Queen, I most humbly offer my life . . .”
“Be silent!” Her voice lashed like a whip as she advanced towards him, coming close enough to touch as she loomed over him, her breath harsh and ragged. “I killed you once before. So I already have your life.”
Her breathing slowed after a moment and she moved away. “Rise,” she ordered with an irritated wave and he stood, waiting as her flawless face regarded him, anger replaced by an icy calm. “Brother Sollis has related your account to me in full. Your actions were not your own, you are no more to blame for the King’s death than a sword is to blame for the blood it spills. I know this, brother. And yet I find I have no forgiveness for you. Do you understand?”
“I do, Highness.”
“Lord Vaelin also tells me you claim that Lord Al Telnar was complicit in the Volarian invasion.”
“He was, Highness, on the promise of power and . . . other rewards.”
“And what might they be?”
“He was at pains to extract promises that no harm should come to you during the attack.”
She sighed, giving a faint shake of her head. “And I thought he died a hero.”
Frentis drew breath, steeling himself before uttering his next words. “Might I crave a moment to speak in private, Highness? I have a message to convey.”
“Lady Davoka and these lords have seen me at my lowest state and still judge me deserving of their loyalty. Any words you say to me are worthy of their ears.”
“I speak for a Lord Marshal of the Mounted Guard, a man I saw slain when the palace fell. His name was Smolen.”
“And what does she command?”
“I hear a voice calling to me from a great distance, far to the east. It’s a very old tune, and very lonely, sung by a man who cannot die, a man you have met.”
“His name?”
“I know not, but the music carries an image of a boy who once offered him shelter from a storm, and risked his life to save him and his charge.”
Erlin. It all tumbled into place in a rush, the rage Erlin had been shouting into the storm that night, his world-spanning travels, and his unchanged face when he came to share the truth about Davern’s father. Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names, Makril had said, though Vaelin now knew he had begun with only one. That day at the fair as he stared at the puppet show . . . “Kerlis,” he said in a whisper. “Kerlis the Faithless. Cursed to the ever death for denying the Departed.”
“A legend,” Kiral said. “My people have another story. They tell of a man who offended Mirshak, God of the Black Lands, and was cursed to craft a story without ending.”
“You know where to find him?”
She nodded. “And I know he is important. The song is bright with purpose when it touches him, and the Mahlessa believes he is key to defeating whatever commands the thing that stole my body.”
“Where?”
Her scar twisted as she gave an apologetic grimace. “Across the ice.”
CHAPTER THREE
Frentis
She pauses to survey the Council before taking her seat, twenty men in fine red robes seated around a perfectly circular table. The council chamber sits halfway up the tower, each member having been hauled to this height by the strength of a hundred slaves working the intricate pulleys that trace the length of this monolith. Blessed by endless life though they are, no Council-man relishes the prospect of climbing so many stairs.
She sits through the tedium of the opening formalities as Arklev intones the formal commencement of the fourth and final council meeting of this, the eight hundred and twenty-fifth year of the empire, the slave scribes scribbling away with their unnatural speed as he drones on, introducing each member in turn, until finally he comes to her.
“. . . and newly ascended to the Slaver’s Seat, Council, ah, Woman . . .”
“I am to be recorded as simply the Ally’s Voice,” she tells him, casting a meaningful glance at the scribes.
Arklev falters for a moment but recovers with admirable fortitude. “As you wish. Now, to our first order of business . . .”
“The only order of business,” she interrupts. “The war. This council has no other business until it is concluded.”
Another Council-man stirs, a silver-haired dullard whose name she can’t trouble herself to recall. “But, there are pressing matters from the south, reports of famine . . .”
“There was a drought,” she says. “Crops fail and people starve. Have any surplus slaves killed to husband supplies until it abates. All very sad but survivable, our current military situation may not be.”
“Admittedly,” Arklev begins, “the invasion has not progressed according to plan . . .”
“It’s been a miserable failure, Arklev,” she breaks in, smiling. “That preening dolt Tokrev orchestrated his own death and defeat with more efficiency than any of his victories. Sorry about your sister by the way.”
“My sister yet lives and I have no doubt as to her facility for continued survival. And we still hold their capital . . .”
“No.” She reaches out to pluck a grape from the bowl nearby, popping it into her mouth, savouring the sweetness. Although not entirely to her liking, this shell does possess an impressively sensitive palate. “As of three days ago, we don’t. Mirvek lies dead along with his command. The Unified Realm is lost to us.”
She enjoys the shocked silence almost as much as the grape. “A tragedy,” one of them says in cautious tone, a handsome fellow of misleadingly youthful appearance. She remembers killing a man at his request forty years ago, husband to some slattern he wanted to wed. She never thought to ask if the marriage was a success.
“But,” the handsome Council-man continues, “whilst the disgrace of defeat is hard to bear, surely this means the war is at an end. For now at least. We must gather strength, await a suitable opportunity to launch another attempt.”
“Whilst an entire nation with every reason to hate us gathers its own strength.”
“They are weakened by our invasion,” Arklev points out. “And an ocean stands between us.”
“I imagine King Malcius entertained the very same delusion up until the moment he felt his neck snap.” She gets to her feet, all humour vanishing from her face as she looks at each of them in turn. “Know, Honoured Council-men, that the Ally does not indulge in conjecture. I speak unalloyed fact. The Unified Realm now has itself a queen and she sees no more obstacle in an ocean than she would a shallow stream. When the seas calm she will be coming, whilst we have spent our best forces on an invasion commanded by a fool, one chosen by your vote, as I recall.”
“General Tokrev was a veteran of many campaigns,” the silver-haired Council-man begins, falling quiet at her glare. She lets the silence linger, feeling a familiar lust build in her breast as her song senses the burgeoning fear, clenching fists to keep it at bay. Not yet.
“It is the Ally’s wish,” she says, “that reserves be mustered to meet the threat. Former Free Swords will be recalled to their battalions and the conscription quotas for new recruits are to be tripled. The garrisons in Volar are to be reinforced by troops drawn from the provinces.”
She waits for dissent, but they all just sit and stare, these men who own millions, ancient cowards for the first time realising the depth of their folly. She considers leaving with a final veiled threat or humiliating barb, but finds herself possessed of a great desire to be away from them.
Was this how it was for you? she asks the uncaring ghost of her father as she turns and walks wordlessly from the chamber. Did they see how sickened you were by their stench? Is that why they had me kill you?
• • •
He was woken by the harsh clatter of the lock in his cell door. His principal gaoler, like all his guards, was drawn from the Queen’s Mounted Guard, a veteran sergeant with a distinct disinclination to conversation who glared at Frentis with unabashed detestation every time he opened the door. The queen had been punctilious in choosing guards unlikely to be swayed by the legend of the Red Brother. Today, however, the man’s hatred was slightly muted as he pulled the heavy door ajar and motioned for him to come out. To his continued surprise, Frentis had not been shackled, or in fact subject to any mistreatment. He was fed twice a day and provided with a fresh jug of water each morning when the sergeant came to fetch his waste bucket. Otherwise he was left to sit in darkness, absent any company or conversation . . . save her of course, waiting every time he succumbed to sleep.
The sergeant stood well back as he exited the cell, finding the queen standing in the chamber beyond flanked by Davoka and her two ennobled guards. “Highness,” Frentis said, dropping to one knee.
The queen gave no response, turning to the sergeant. “Leave us please. Give your keys to Lord Iltis.”
She waited until he had gone before speaking again. “The Blackhold has not been so empty since the day of its construction.” Frentis remained on one knee as she surveyed the chamber, eyes tracking over dark stone lit by meagre torchlight. “I find I prefer it that way. I intend to have it torn down at the conclusion of our current difficulties.”
Frentis lowered his head and took a breath, speaking in formal tones, “My Queen, I most humbly offer my life . . .”
“Be silent!” Her voice lashed like a whip as she advanced towards him, coming close enough to touch as she loomed over him, her breath harsh and ragged. “I killed you once before. So I already have your life.”
Her breathing slowed after a moment and she moved away. “Rise,” she ordered with an irritated wave and he stood, waiting as her flawless face regarded him, anger replaced by an icy calm. “Brother Sollis has related your account to me in full. Your actions were not your own, you are no more to blame for the King’s death than a sword is to blame for the blood it spills. I know this, brother. And yet I find I have no forgiveness for you. Do you understand?”
“I do, Highness.”
“Lord Vaelin also tells me you claim that Lord Al Telnar was complicit in the Volarian invasion.”
“He was, Highness, on the promise of power and . . . other rewards.”
“And what might they be?”
“He was at pains to extract promises that no harm should come to you during the attack.”
She sighed, giving a faint shake of her head. “And I thought he died a hero.”
Frentis drew breath, steeling himself before uttering his next words. “Might I crave a moment to speak in private, Highness? I have a message to convey.”
“Lady Davoka and these lords have seen me at my lowest state and still judge me deserving of their loyalty. Any words you say to me are worthy of their ears.”
“I speak for a Lord Marshal of the Mounted Guard, a man I saw slain when the palace fell. His name was Smolen.”
