Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“This region is rich in farmland,” Lyrna said. “No doubt weʼll find replacements soon enough. Until then Iʼm afraid any unhorsed knight will have to fight on foot, my lord.”

“Thatʼll give ʼem something else to gripe about,” Banders muttered, soft enough for Lyrna to safely ignore.

“The Volarian fleet?” she asked Ship Lord Ell-Nurin.

“Still no sign, Highness. But I doubt theyʼve gone far. Probably licking their wounds and awaiting reinforcements.”

“Then letʼs not allow them the leisure to do so. I hereby name you Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin. The freighters and troop-ships will sail back to the Realm with all dispatch to gather supplies and reinforcements. You will take every warship we have and harry the enemy without respite.”

“I shall, Highness. It would assist our efforts if Lady Alornis were to accompany us. We require more fuel for her engines and my fellows canʼt quite get the mix right.”

“The Lady Artificer is indisposed. Make do as best you can.” She paused, making a point of meeting the gaze of everyone present, ensuring they saw no uncertainty in her eyes. “The army must be fully mustered by tomorrow. When it is, we march for Volar. Their Empress will no doubt be revelling in her imagined victory. I intend to disabuse her of this notion in short order.”

“Revaʼs dead, isnʼt she?”

Alornis wouldnʼt meet her gaze, sitting listlessly on the bunk in Brother Kehlanʼs tent. If the moans and occasional cries from the wounded troubled her, she gave no sign, her expression as unmoved as it had been during the battle.

“Her ship was wrecked in the storm,” Lyrna told her. “We found some survivors, but none have any word of her. I know you were close to the Lady Governess, and I too grieve for her loss. Her spirit, and her sword, will be greatly missed.”

“I always wanted to ask her about the siege, what she did. But I couldnʼt, I saw how it pained her. I used to wonder how a soul so kind could do what they say she did at Alltor, for that was not the Reva I knew. Now…” She looked down at her hands, the thin, dexterous fingers moving like pale spiders. “Now I doubt she would know me.”

Lyrna reached out to smooth a wayward lock of hair from Alornisʼs forehead, finding herself perturbed by the chill of her skin. “My lady, there are thousands of people now alive because of you.”

“And thousands dead.”

Brother Kehlan came to Alornisʼs side, holding out a cup of something hot and sweet-smelling. “A sleeping draught, my lady.”

“I donʼt want to sleep,” she told him. “I might dream.”

“There will be no dreams.” He smiled, placing the cup in her hands. “I promise.”

Lyrna joined the healer as he moved away. Despite many hoursʼ ceaseless work he remained alert, seemingly indifferent to the foul stenches that clouded the tent, and the blood that stained his robe. “Can you help her?” she asked.

“I can help her sleep, Highness. I can give her various remedies to calm a troubled mind. It may return her to some kind of normalcy, for a time. But I have seen this before, the malady of the spirit that arises in those pushed beyond their limits. Once it takes hold, it never really fades. I advise she be returned to the Realm as soon as possible.”

“No!” Alornis had risen from her bunk, advancing towards them, formerly placid features now rigid with determined refusal. “No. I am staying here.” Her words were a little slurred and she stumbled, Lyrna rushing forward to catch her.

“We have more fires to light together, Highness,” she whispered to Lyrna as the queen laid her on the bunk, watching as she slid into slumber, still murmuring, “so many beautiful fires.”

The Wolf People unveiled their canoes when the solid plane of white surrounding the island thinned then fragmented under the weight of the new sun. Within days all that remained were a few stubborn ice-blocks drifting in the fast-flowing current separating the isles. Like the boats fashioned by the Bear People at the Mirror Sound, the canoes of the Wolf People were all constructed from hollowed-out tree-trunks, varying widely in size. Most were capable of carrying no more than four people at once, others were of sufficient size to accommodate up to ten, but there were three of such dimensions it seemed incredible they could float at all.

“Hewn from the great red trees that grow to the south,” Astorek explained as one of the huge craft was manhandled towards a slipway in preparation for launching. “Trees that grow tall as mountains over the life-span of twenty men. Only once in a generation do the Wolf People permit themselves to take a red tree. Itʼs a cause for great celebration when a new big boat is made.”

The purpose of the huge craft soon became clear as Astorek led his wolves on board along with the other packs. There was a definite tension in each of the shaman as they stood amidst their wolves, faces set in concentration. The wolves all sat in placid obedience, though every once in a while one would turn towards a different pack, a low growl building in its throat before snapping back to instant placidity at an insistent gesture from its shaman. Without the shamanʼs command they become wolves again, Vaelin realised, once again wondering at the fortitude of the Gifted found among these people. They use their gifts for hours yet never tire.

“Itʼs not strength,” Kiral said, appearing at his side with her cat in tow. In accordance with Lonak custom she hadnʼt named the beast, though the other Gifted had predictably dubbed it One Ear. It was the least well behaved of the cats, prone to voicing a nightly chorus of forlorn wails and a hissing disinclination towards any human company save Kiralʼs. It greeted Vaelin now with a brief snarl and kept close to Kiralʼs side with a low-backed wariness.

“Itʼs skill,” the huntress went on, nodding at Astorek. “Born of centuries-old necessity. Our gifts are useful, but we can still survive without them. These people need their power or the ice will kill them. So they learned to control it, share it, use only as much as they need.” She smiled faintly, eyes still lingering on the Volarian. “We must seem like clumsy children to them.”

Vaelin and the Gifted were given places on one of the huge boats, whilst Orvenʼs guardsmen and the Sentar were obliged to crowd into the smaller craft, some newly constructed to accommodate the increased number taking part in this yearly migration. Scar trembled a little as he was led onto the canoe, pacified only slightly by a handful of berries. The warhorse had grown partly accustomed to the presence of the wolves but the proximity of so many in a confined space was clearly trying his patience.

“Calm now, old fellow,” Vaelin said, trying to soothe him with a scratch to the nose. Today, however, Scar was in little mood for reassurance, eyes wide and fixed on the silent mass of wolves as he tossed his head, teeth bared in alarm.

“Let me try,” Dahrena said, moving closer to press a hand to the warhorseʼs neck. She closed her eyes, a small line appearing in her forehead as she concentrated. Scar calmed almost immediately, his head lowering, eyes blinking in placid contentment.

“I showed him the stables back home,” Dahrena said. “He thinks heʼs there now.”

“Your skills grow, my lady,” Vaelin said, inclining his head.

“A little.” She turned to the nearest shaman, a lean-faced veteran standing with five wolves arranged in an unmoving circle. “Though I doubt any of us will ever match them. Some skills require a lifetimeʼs teaching.”