Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

“Good qualities in a kenarang .”

“You and I both know he is more than the kenarang. The true question is how much more he hopes to be.”

Fulton narrowed his eyes. “I understood you had him in check, that your Mizran Councillor had … thwarted him.”

Adare leaned close. “You saw exactly what I saw: a collar of flame. It was there for a few heartbeats, then it disappeared. Nira says she can keep il Tornja in check, but what do I know about a leach’s kenning? What do you know?”

The Aedolian started to respond, but she cut him off.

“And even if it’s true, even if we have il Tornja controlled, he’s not the only danger. I’m new to the throne, Fulton. In fact, I’ve never even sat on the fucking thing. I’m young. I’m a woman. The Sons of Flame follow me because of what happened at the Everburning Well, but the legions follow il Tornja. If I’m going to win their support and loyalty, I need to prove myself something more than a callow young princess with more ambition than spine.”

“Wading into a battle is no way to demonstrate your bravery.”

“Unfortunately,” Adare replied, “it is.”

She gestured to the small town. Smoke rose over the far shore, but the nearest island appeared relatively untouched by the violence. At least, she hoped it was untouched. According to her scouts, il Tornja was in the tall stone tower that seemed to grow straight out of the cliffs on the island’s southern coast. It looked close enough for her to reach.

“I have to go,” she said again, willing Fulton to see the wisdom of her words, hoping desperately that they were, in fact, wise. “I have to go.”

Fulton grimaced, flexed and unflexed his sword hand, then nodded curtly. “But once we cross the river, you obey me. If I tell you to move, you move. If I tell you to drop, you drop.” He fixed her with a glare. “Do you understand? Your Radiance?”

Adare nodded. “I understand.”

Despite the chaos raging in the streets, they reached the tower without any of the Aedolians being forced to bloody their blades. Il Tornja’s own men stood at the base. Their eyes widened at the sight of the Emperor and her guard, but they bowed and moved aside. Only when Adare had stepped out of the light and madness into the cool, sepulchral dark of the tower did she realize she was trembling, her hands balled into aching fists at her side. She uncurled them slowly while Fulton ordered the other Aedolians to join the kenarang ’s men at the entrance, then started climbing the spiral stair before he could notice her fear.

The stone of the tower dampened the worst of the sound-the clash of steel on steel, the screaming of men and horses-and Adare found herself climbing more slowly as she reached the top. When they approached the trapdoor at the top of the spiral, she paused, allowing Fulton to step past her, then followed him into the blinding light and battering noise of the battle.

She had expected a square room, something with windows to let out the light of Andt-Kyl’s beacon, but there were no windows. She realized, as she blinked against the sun, that there weren’t even walls. The top floor was open to the elements on all sides, a round stone pit six paces across at the center, blackened from the signal fires. Half a dozen stone pillars ringed the circumference, supporting a conical roof clearly intended to keep the worst of the rain and snow off the signal fire. Between the stone floor and the ceiling above, there was nothing but air, air opening onto a sheer drop in every direction.

Adare’s stomach twisted. She wanted nothing more than to shrink back through the trapdoor into the relative silence and safety below. She, however, was the one who had insisted on coming, on being brave, being seen being brave, and after a moment she forced herself to take a step forward, to look at the full panorama of blood and suffering spread out below.

The bridges were gone, but the Urghul still crossed on felled logs, lashing their panicked mounts forward into the churning mass of gore and struggling bodies that had overtaken the two small islands. Adare stared. Every street and small square, every tiny alley, was packed with men, steel, and horseflesh. There was no way to make sense of the slaughter, no way to organize it. Two women, one in black, one in what looked like a fur coat slung over tattered red silk, fought back to back, ringed by a dozen riders. Adare stared. The black-clad one looked like little more than a girl, but she was holding the Urghul at bay somehow, twin blades spinning in her hands. As Adare watched, the horsemen forced them out of sight behind a burning building.

Fully half the town’s houses were burning, bright and indifferent flame shimmering the air. A two-story log structure groaned as fire lapped the beams, then collapsed into the street, crushing a score of legionaries. Down by the river, the press forced soldiers into the turgid current where they flailed for a desperate moment before their armor dragged them under. Two streets over, a pair of Annurians hacked at the legs of a rearing horse while the rider plunged his spear downward over and over. The full fury of the struggle had not yet engulfed the tower, but men fought and died just a hundred paces distant.

This is battle, Adare told herself angrily. Look at it.

It didn’t look like battle. It looked like mutual slaughter. She wanted to vomit.

“Your Radiance,” Fulton said, extending an armored arm. “Please keep back from the edge. This is a dangerous place.”

“I am not going to fall off the tower,” she told him, trying to keep her voice firm, confident, turning her attention from the dead and dying to her immediate surroundings. Il Tornja sat at the very edge of the stone floor, just a few paces away. He had left all his guards below, but a dozen young men, battle messengers judging from their light armor, stood at attention, eyes moving nervously from il Tornja to the battle, then back. As Adare watched, two more runners burst up through the trapdoor, sweat streaming down their faces, chests heaving as they took their places at the end of the line. Blood dripped from the hand of the closest man, his blood or someone else’s. Adare couldn’t tell.

The kenarang himself might have been carved from stone. Unlike the famous generals whose paintings hung in halls of the Dawn Palace-men standing high in their stirrups or brandishing a sword from a rocky escarpment-il Tornja sat on the stone floor with his legs crossed beneath him, hands in his lap. He wore a sword buckled at his belt, but it remained sheathed. Adare couldn’t see his face, but there was something about the man’s absolute stillness that made her pause.

No, she reminded herself. Not a man. A Csestriim.

“The battle?” she asked, choosing her words carefully. “Is it going as planned?”

Il Tornja didn’t turn, didn’t speak. The wind shifted his hair, tugged at the collar of his cloak, but the general himself remained motionless. Adare glanced at the line of runners and signalmen. The nearest, a black-haired, wide-eyed youth, met her gaze, shook his head slightly, then pursed his lips. It took her a moment to realize he was mouthing the word “No.” He looked almost as frightened of il Tornja as he did of the battle below.

Adare hesitated, then pushed her way forward. She hadn’t risked the trip into town only to be cowed by her own kenarang . Csestriim or no, he still had Nira’s collar around his neck, a deadly, invisible noose. One word from Adare and the old woman would kill him. Not that Nira was there. Even spry as she was, she couldn’t have managed the forced march north. Adare tried to ignore the fact.

“General,” she said, stepping forward, taking il Tornja by the shoulder.