Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

The chilled stiffness of the wind grew with every rhythmic heave on the gondolaʼs ropes, the hundred slaves below moving with well-drilled uniformity as they hauled her towards the towerʼs summit. She was flanked by two of the red-armoured men but they seemed content to allow her to turn about and take in the view, the majesty of the city revealed in full, a true wonder that made Alltor and Varinshold seem like no more than a mean clutch of stunted hovels.

Viewing the pristine orderliness of the vast conurbation laid out before her, she was forced to concede it was the most impressive example of human creativity she would ever witness, every street, park, avenue, and tower arranged according to precise rules of form and function, with hardly a curve to be seen. But the small, dark specks that covered the smooth flanks of every tower in sight told a different story. Volar was a lie, a facade of precision and beauty covering a vile truth.

The gondola halted at a balcony perhaps twenty feet short of the towerʼs pinnacle. A female slave of distracting beauty greeted Reva with a formal bow, turning to lead her inside, the guards following close behind. The interior was dimly lit with a scattering of oil lamps, silk drapes of various hues covering the windows and painting the decor a colourful melange that swayed as the wind swirled around the tower. Despite the gloom and the confusion of colour, it took Reva only a second to find the Empress, her eyes long attuned to seeking out the greatest threat in any room.

She sat on a stool before a small table, wearing a plain gown of white, her bare feet poised on the marble floor, toes flat and heels elevated, like a dancer. In one hand she held a length of fabric constrained in a circular frame of some kind, her other hand wielding a needle and thread. Her face was shadowed, the elegant profile drawn in intense concentration as her hands worked the thread through the fabric. Revaʼs gaze took in the sight of a dozen or more frames scattered about the floor, each adorned with a mass of irregular, clumsy stitches. Some were ripped and the frames that held them shattered. Reva wondered why the slave girl hadnʼt cleared them away.

“You have been using my name,” the sewing woman said, not glancing up from her task.

Reva said nothing. Hearing the slave girlʼs suppressed whimper, she turned to find her face tense with warning and barely suppressed tears. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, eyes bright with a silent plea. Iʼll find no mercy here, in any case, Reva wanted to tell her. But thank you for your concern.

“So, Lieza likes you.”

Reva turned to see the woman now addressing her directly. Her hands were enfolded in the fabric, a bright spot of blood spreading out from the needle embedded in the womanʼs finger. If she felt it, she gave no sign, offering Reva a smile of apparently genuine warmth as she rose and came closer.

“I can sense her very deep regard,” she said, halting just beyond the reach allowed by Revaʼs chains. She was taller than Reva by a few inches, her form toned and athletic. She appeared little more than twenty years in age but one glance at her eyes and Reva knew she was in the presence of something far older. Something, she knew with grim certainty, that possessed a gift Vaelin had lost at Alltor.

“But is it returned, I wonder?” The woman angled her head, eyes closed as if listening to something, her smile becoming faint, wistful. “Ah. So sorry Lieza dear, but her heart is taken by another. She does feel a flicker of lust for you though, if itʼs any consolation. Love may claim our hearts but lust will always claim our bodies. It is the traitor that lurks in every soul.” She opened her eyes again, smile gone as she frowned in sudden confusion. “Did I say that? Or did I read it somewhere?”

She stood in apparent bafflement for some time, unmoving but for a spasming tension to her face, eyes shifting from side to side in rapid jerks, mouth moving in an unheard dialogue until, as abruptly as it had begun, the confusion faded.

“Embroidery,” she said, holding up the frame with its inexpert needlework, Reva noting the multiple brownish stains on the material and the dried blood on the Empressʼs fingertips. “The wealthy women of Mirtesk were renowned for it. My father thought it the most productive use of time for a young lady of good birth.” The Empress looked at the fabric, sighing in frustration. “But not in my case. It was the first of Fatherʼs many disappointments. Still I am improving, donʼt you think?”

She held out the frame for Revaʼs inspection. Amongst the bloodstains Reva made out some green and red thread tightly bunched into what might have been a rough approximation of a flower.

She said, “A blind ape could do better.”

The slave girl, Lieza, gave another involuntary gasp, eyelids blinking rapidly as she lowered her gaze, unwilling to witness what came next. “Oh stop mewling,” the Empress told her, rolling her eyes. “Donʼt worry, the object of your fascination has many lively days ahead of her, Iʼm sure. Just how many is up to her of course.”

Her gaze swivelled back to Reva, a new focus lighting her eyes. “A few of my soldiers survived Alltor, did you know that? Suffering great travails and privation to make it to Varinshold before it fell. General Mirvek, always a punctilious fellow, was assiduous in compiling their accounts before having them executed. Such wild talk would only unnerve his men after all. You see, these men spoke of a witch at Alltor, a witch made invincible by the power of her god, wielding a sword that could cut through steel and a charmed bow that never missed. One even claimed to have met her and, half-mad though he was, he did provide a fulsome description.”

Reva recalled the prisoner they had hauled from the riverbank the morning after the first major assault was driven back, a twitching, wide-eyed wreck of a man. It was strange, but she found herself regretting his death. The Volarians had been monstrous, but that scared, wasted soul had no more threat to offer than a starved dog.

“Elverah,” the Empress went on. “They stole my name and gave it to you. I should be angry. You know its meaning?”

“Witch,” Reva said. “Or sorceress.”

“‘Sorceressʼ is a silly word, meaningless really since sorcery is just fable. Incantations scribbled in ancient books, foul-smelling concoctions that do nothing but churn the stomach. No, I always preferred ‘witch,ʼ though the meaning changes a little in the dialect of the people who named me Elverah. You see, they afforded authority to those with the greatest power, regardless of its source. Be it skill in arms or what your people call the Dark. Power is power, so the name Elverah could also be translated as ‘queen.ʼ” She gave a soft laugh. “When my soldiers called you a witch, they were also calling you a queen.”

“I have a queen.”

“No, dearest little sister, you had a queen. I expect to receive her head shortly, should my admiral recover her body from the sea.”

Reva fought to contain the upsurge of rage and uncertainty. Everything you feel tells her more, she admonished herself. Feel nothing. But it proved a hopeless cause, for thoughts of Queen Lyrnaʼs demise inevitably led to images of one who had not been with her.

“Ah.” The Empress said with a weary sigh. “And so he comes to plague us yet again.” She regarded Reva with a raised eyebrow, her mouth slightly twisted in faint annoyance. “I hear he marched an army the length of your Realm in less than a month just to save you. What will he do now, I wonder?”

Feel nothing! Reva filled her mind with calming images, joyfully coiling in the dark with Veliss… Ellese stumbling about the gardens with her wooden sword… But it all faded in the light cast by a single thought, bright with certainty: He will come here, free me and kill you.