Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Frentis turned as Thirty-Four approached. The former slave had taken to wearing kit stripped from the bodies of Free Sword officers and gave an impression of impeccable military neatness, every inch of armour scrupulously cleaned and all buckles polished to a gleaming shine.

“Heʼs ready then?” Frentis asked him.

“Healed and fully able to ride, brother. Still refusing to talk though.”

“Unusual. They normally canʼt shut up when they realise what you are.”

“Who I am,” Thirty-Four corrected, an uncharacteristic hardness in his voice. “What I used to be.”

“Yes.” Frentis offered an apologetic smile. “Letʼs set him on his way, shall we?”

The Volarian had refused to offer a name but they had gleaned it from the correspondence found among his battalionʼs baggage train. “Honoured Citizen Varek,” Frentis greeted him brightly, crouching at his side in the shade of the acacia tree to which he had been shackled. “Feeling better I trust?”

Varek remained slumped against the tree-trunk, his face betraying no emotion beyond the simmering rage that had dominated his demeanour upon waking to find himself chained and his battalion destroyed.

“I have good news,” Frentis went on, gesturing for Thirty-Four to unlock the chain. “Freedom awaits.”

Varekʼs expression became guarded, Frentis noting how he suppressed the faint glimmer of hope that rose in his eyes. “No trick, I assure you.” Frentis took hold of the chain and gave an insistent tug, the Volarian slowly getting to his feet, wary eyes constantly moving in expectation of an attack. Frentis led him through the courtyard, knowing he would take full notice of the many former slaves at training. Draker waited at the villaʼs arched entrance with a horse, saddled and laden with provisions for several daysʼ ride.

“This was your horse, wasnʼt it?” Frentis asked, removing the shackles from Varekʼs wrists.

The Volarian was marginally less wary now, rubbing at his reddened flesh as his gaze tracked from Frentis to the horse. “I will not betray my people,” he stated, the first words he had spoken since waking. “Whatever the reward.”

“This could hardly be called a reward,” Frentis said. “I imagine you know the kind of welcome youʼll receive in New Kethia, the defeated, disgraced son to an honoured father. The shame of it will be unbearable, but before you kill yourself please inform your tormentors that what happened to you will soon happen to them. Before the year is out their city will fall and every soul they keep in bondage will be free. But my queen is rich in compassion and willing to offer terms.”

The Volarian sighed, shaking his head. “You are mad.”

“The city gates to be opened and the walls cleared of defenders. All Free Swords to lay down their arms and all slaves, including Varitai and Kuritai, to be freed. The city will become the property of Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, who will decree a fair redistribution of lands and riches in due course.” He stepped closer to Varek, speaking softly, feeling his rage building anew. “Failure to agree to these most generous terms will result in the utter destruction of your city and the execution of every Volarian found in arms.”

Varek jerked his head towards the host of recruits. “You truly believe this rabble capable of taking New Kethia? You think the Ruling Council will sit idly by whilst you march? You will be crushed before you even catch sight of the city and every one of these dogs still alive will be flayed and left to rot in the sun, if they are lucky.”

Frentis merely smiled. “News travels slowly, it seems.” He leaned closer still. “There is no Ruling Council now. You are ruled by an empress and, trust my word on this, she will look on and laugh when I raze your city to the ground.”

“Whatever awaits me, Iʼll bear it,” Varek said in a tone of complete certainty. “Iʼll suffer every torment for a thousand years just for the slightest chance of getting this close to you again.”

“Then you had best invest in some sword lessons first.” Frentis turned to Draker. “Escort the honoured citizen until nightfall. If he takes one backward glance, kill him.”

Her new body is stronger than the one she left on the beach, leaping and whirling with all the speed and precision she could ask for, and yet…

“Feel it, donʼt you?” the Messenger asks, lounging in a chair on the balcony. He wears the body of an Arisai, one of the few with Gifted blood, tall and lean. Behind him stand six more, also Gifted, and, although their faces are different, their expressions are identical. She has never met so much of him before and finds it trying, one was always more than sufficient.

She lowers the short sword and straightens from the fighting crouch, naked and sheened in sweat from the practice. If the Messenger finds the sight arousing, there is no sign of it on any of his faces. She is discomforted by the sight of the darkened sky that frames them, realising it was noon when she returned to the Council Tower. Since awakening in this new shell her ability to keep track of time has diminished yet further.

“Feel what?” she asks.

“The numbness. Cold isnʼt so cold, heat isnʼt so hot. Gets worse with every one you take. These days I can barely feel a thing.” He angles his head, studying her, a small predatory smile on his lips. “Can you hear it this time? You can, canʼt you?”

She suppresses a flash of anger, resenting his effortless intuition. The shellʼs owner had been older than the first, and not born to slavery, leaving a deep pool of memory that flares into aggravating clarity all too often:… playing with her brother on the shore of some mountain lake… laughing when her father showed her his tricks…

She initially thought the womanʼs gift so small it couldnʼt be discerned but has come to understand that memory was her gift. Every thought, action and word residing in her head, unchanging and always so bright.

“You said to prepare eight,” she says, pushing the images away. “Yet I only count seven.”

She takes some satisfaction from the sight of them clenching jaws in unison, knowing the Messenger was suppressing his own anger. “Al Sorna has a facility for acquiring useful friends,” he says after a short pause.

She sees it then. Although the shells are all youthful and athletic his evident wounding still marks them, colours their eyes with pain, weariness… and fear. “Youʼre certain you know where to find him?” she asks.

“He seeks the endless man. I need only journey north and Iʼll find his trail. Youʼll have to make me a general, and some sort of grandiose title seems appropriate. Overlord of the North, or something.”

“The Northern Armies are commanded by the General Governor of Latethia. Iʼll give you an execution order. When heʼs dead call yourself what you like.”

“You donʼt seem to like these governors much, I must say. Does this leave any alive?”

“Only the Governor of Eskethia. I was going to execute him too but Iʼm becoming more inclined to leave him to his fate.”

The faces shift again, all vestige of humour fading and she knows his next words are not his. “You cannot afford indulgence now. This distraction of yours had its uses, but now obstructs our purpose. He requires that you see to the matter without delay.”

“The Council is dead and the bitchʼs fleet wrecked. All at my hand. I have earned indulgence.”

“The previous three centuries have been your indulgence. Decades of murder and malice, his gift to you. And now he requires payment.”