Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

‘And if you grant him too much credit?’ Gelredida asked. ‘If you are over optimistic about his motives? What then?’

‘The decision has been made,’ said Crannock. ‘We cannot do anything.’

Gelredida balled her fists. ‘Cannot or will not? You are all fools! Blind fools!’ she bellowed. Waylian almost took a step back, such was her fury.

None of the Archmasters dared to speak after that.

The Magistra turned and left them behind their pulpits, and Waylian was quick to follow. He could hear his mistress muttering and cursing under her breath even as the Raven Knights removed the iron bracelets from her wrists, even as she made her way back through the corridors of the Tower.

He had so many questions, particularly about what they had meant when talking of Bakhaus Gate and the Sweet Canker and how those two things were linked, but despite his desire for answers, it was clear the Magistra was in no mood to enlighten him.

When she reached the staircase that led up to her private chamber, Waylian paused. It was her inner sanctum. Clearly she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

‘Grimm, with me!’ she ordered as she climbed the spiral stairs.

With not a little trepidation he followed her. She had been alone in his chamber and now he was to be alone in hers. These were uncharted waters, and Waylian could only see choppy seas ahead.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he entered, but it certainly hadn’t been such a plain and austere room. When he’d first come to the Tower, rumours of what the Red Witch kept in her chambers were rife. Familiars and homunculi were said to dwell in the rafters, taunting the caged boggits and hobs that lined the walls. Potions were said to bubble in their cauldrons day and night, waiting to be bottled in myriad vials and secreted on spider-webbed shelves.

The truth was very different.

Gelredida’s chamber was large and spacious, illuminated by a single round window. The furniture was crafted from a light wood, most likely elm, rather than the brooding dark oak found in the rest of the Tower. There was also a pleasant smell of lavender pervading the air.

Waylian had little time to admire the decor though, as Gelredida grasped a piece of parchment from a shelf and sat at her desk. As she continued to chunter to herself about ‘idiots’ and ‘short-sighted fools’ she went to work on the parchment with quill and ink. Waylian couldn’t see what she was writing but her delicate script was a wonder to behold. For the first time he noticed she was wearing cloth gloves that matched the colour of her robes and he found it curious, since she’d never worn gloves before.

‘Can you ride, Waylian?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the parchment.

‘Erm …’

‘You can or you can’t. Which is it?’

It was true he’d ridden a horse to Steelhaven from Ankavern, but it had been the first time, and one of the least pleasant experiences of his short life.

‘Yes, Magistra.’

‘Good. Gather what clothing you have suitable for the road. You’re going on a trip.’

‘Where are we going, Magistra?’

‘I said you’re going on a trip. I have things that require my attention here.’

Gelredida finished the letter with a flourish and stood, moving to a tall shelf. She knelt beside it, fishing at the bottom until a secret compartment popped open with a quiet click. Inside were wax and seal, and Gelredida proceeded to melt the edge of the black stick of wax on the fat, white candle that burned on her desk.

‘Roll the letter,’ she ordered, and Waylian obeyed, rolling the parchment as tightly as he could.

With one hand she sealed the letter shut with a blob of wax, then pressed the bronze seal down into it with the other.

With that done she fixed him with a grave expression. There was no admonishment there; her look was stern, but Waylian could sense no anger.

‘You will take this to Silverwall. There is a small academy there, mostly scribes and artisans. There you will find a tutor named Crozius Bowe. Show him this.’ She brandished the sealed parchment. ‘He will tell you where to go next.’

Waylian glanced down at the letter and at the seal pressed into the wax. It was in the shape of a wyvern rising, wings open, head rearing and ready to strike.

‘Magistra, I don’t understand.’

‘This city needs aid, Waylian. You are to deliver a message of entreaty to the only people we can rely on to deliver that aid.’

‘But what if they don’t come?’

She smiled, her eyes gazing towards her single, round window.

‘They will come, Waylian. They always do. Now, are you ready for your journey?’

‘Yes, Magistra,’ he said.

Waylian wasn’t ready, though. He felt scared and useless and ill prepared.

But he supposed only time would tell just how ill prepared he really was.

There had been one hundred and twenty-six coronations in Steelhaven’s history. Governess Nordaine had tutored Janessa in the significant kings and queens of old, from the days of the Sword Kings, when the Teutonians had been but a few disparate warring tribes, right up to the establishment of the Free States. Of course, until her father had united the provinces and the city states as one nation there had still been wars and pretenders to the Teutonian throne, but the city of Steelhaven had always had a ruling monarch — a king or queen who presided over the city and its people.

Now it was Janessa’s turn. Soon, she would become Queen of Steelhaven and the Free States, but right now all she wanted to do was stop shaking.

She wore a fabulous gown too, as gowns went. The Governess had helped her select the fabrics, one from each of the provinces — satin from Braega, silk from Dreldun, lace from Stelmorn, linen from Ankavern and fur from Valdor. There were also brooches sewn into the cloth from each of the city states — copper bracelets on the sleeves, iron lining the girdle, silver leaf in the skirts and steel chains about the neck. Despite the mishmash of colour and cloth it was still a beautiful design.

Nordaine fussed with the hem, as she had done a dozen times already. Janessa guessed it was more from nerves than a need to make the gown more presentable. She had fussed so much that whatever she was trying to adjust would be fixed by now or never at all.

‘Enough,’ Janessa said, instantly regretting it as she was forced to clamp her mouth shut lest the bile rise up from her throat.

Nordaine stopped her fussing and took a step back. Janessa could see tears in the governess’s eyes and felt instant regret. She had behaved badly towards this woman, who had been like a mother to her, teaching her the proper etiquette and trying to educate her in the ways of state. Now those lessons were over and Nordaine could teach her nothing more. From now, Janessa had to learn her own lessons, make her own mistakes.

She took Nordaine’s hand, and they looked at one another. The governess would have spoken, but only a single sob came out. Before Janessa could say any words of comfort, Odaka entered the vestibule.

He no longer wore the robes she was so used to seeing him in. Now he wore slate grey armour, a helm held in the crook of his arm, a curved sword at his side.

‘Your grace,’ he said, his features grim and unyielding as they always were. ‘They are ready.’

Janessa nodded, giving her governess one last glance before walking towards the door. Two Sentinels were waiting for her, Garret himself standing further on at the archway to the great hall. He offered Janessa a reassuring smile as she left the vestibule, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.

The knights surrounded her as she came out into the King’s Hall. When last she’d been here it was empty, but now the vast space was filled with people of rank from the Free States.