Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Do you think Iʼm pretty?”

The young woman elected to speak for the freed slaves was in truth possessed of a certain delicate beauty, her features smooth with skin a pleasing olive hue, marred somewhat by the bandage that covered her partly severed left ear. She wore a mismatched variety of captured armour and weapons, standing with arms crossed, glowering at Lyrna in open defiance, the lack of any bow or honorific rousing Iltis to issue a threatening rumble as he started forward. Lyrna calmed him with a touch to the arm and gestured for the woman to continue.

“My back is not so pretty,” she went on. “My first night in the pleasure house I cried, greatly displeasing the red-clad who had paid a handsome sum to take my virginity. My master had me flogged every day for a week then sold me to a pig farmer. The pigs ate better than I did and the farmer didnʼt care if I cried when he pawed me. Would you like to see my back, Great Queen?”

“I grieve for all youʼve suffered,” Lyrna told her. “My wrists were once bound by chains so do not imagine your pain is unknown to me. Nor should you imagine that I care for the enemies we kill. However, if your people are to march with us, they must regard themselves as soldiers, bound by the orders of those who command them.”

“We have no intention of trading one master for another,” the woman returned, though her tone was more cautious. “And we are grateful for your coming. But there is much to account for, and we have only just begun.”

“Youʼll have your accounting. When this war is won give me the name of the master who flogged you and Iʼll see the same done to him, and the pig farmer. Have your people make lists of the wrongs done to them and Iʼll ensure every soul receives justice. But until then I must ask that your people conduct themselves as soldiers and not a mob. You will be paid the same as any soldier in my Realm Guard, but service requires discipline. Lord Nortah is a fine commander who will not waste your lives, you would do well to heed him.”

“And if we do not want to serve you?”

Lyrna spread her hands. “You are free people and may go where you wish, taking with you payment for service already rendered plus my thanks and friendship.”

The woman thought for a moment, her stance marginally less closed. “Some will leave, some will stay,” she said. “Many, like me, were stolen from their homelands years ago and will wish to return.”

“I will make no effort to prevent them, even provide ships to carry them home when our task is complete.”

“Youʼll make an oath to this, in front of all of them?”

“I will.”

The woman nodded. “Come to us this night, I will ensure they listen.” She gave an awkward half bow and went to the tent flap.

“You didnʼt give me your name,” Lyrna said.

“Sixty-Three,” the woman replied, a faint grin playing over her lips. “Iʼll resume my own when I go home. And donʼt worry about the pig farmer, his hogs ate better than ever the day I left.”

Itʼs beautiful. She had reined Jet to halt beside Aspect Arlyn and Brother Sollis, waiting with the Sixth Order atop a low hill, all sitting in silent regard of the sprawling city in the distance. The sky was clear today and the unconstrained sun played over the panoply of marble, making it gleam before painting a glittering shine on the waters of the Cut of Lokar to the south. The absurdity of her mission became clear as she took in the myriad towers and countless streets; the destruction of such a city would be the work of years and she doubted even Alornis could conceive of a device capable of birthing a conflagration great enough to bring it down.

“No enemies to report, Highness,” Brother Sollis said. “No sign of any defensive works in the suburbs either. There are some fires raging farther in, large numbers of free folk seen fleeing to the north. The slaves flee in our direction.”

Lyrna nodded. She had ordered the release of the few hundred prisoners captured two days before, having been provided with fulsome descriptions of the dread queenʼs intentions. It seems sufficient numbers had fled back to Volar to bring about the desired effect.

“Highness!” It was Brother Ivern, raised up in his saddle and pointing to the south. It took a moment for her to recognise the dark shapes dotting the waters of the Cut. She used the spyglass to pick out the Meldenean battle flags flying from the thicket of masts, all clustered in an arc around the harbour, dozens more visible farther downriver, the unmistakable sleek shape of the Red Falcon among them.

She beckoned to one of the Queenʼs Daggers. “Ride to the Battle Lord. He is to proceed to the centre of the city forthwith, destroying any opposing forces he should encounter. Tell him I believe our newly freed subjects would be best kept in reserve.” She turned to Aspect Arlyn. “Aspect. I trust you recall the route to the arena.”

“I do, Highness.”

“So then.” She spurred Jet into a gallop, descending the eastern slope amidst a flurry of crimson petals. “Courtesy requires I greet the Empress, and I should not like to keep her waiting.”

“Where did you get that?”

Reva found herself reaching involuntarily for the bow. The design was unfamiliar, axes and swords in place of the stag and the wolf, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable. A bow of Arren.

“You know this weapon?” Varulek asked her, his eyes shining with the same intensity.

“I once owned its twin, which now rests at the bottom of the ocean. They are heirlooms of my family. Fashioned for my grandfather by the finest bowsmith in Cumbraelin history, lost in the wars that built the Realm.” She met Varulekʼs gaze, tightening her grip on the bow. “Where did you get it?”

“It is my familyʼs charge to serve the gods, and the scripture they left us. As masters of the arena our reach has always been long, and our pockets deep. Volaria is rich in merchants and traders who appreciate the virtues of discretion. Twenty years ago one of them brought this bow to my father. He was well paid for his trouble.”

Revaʼs fingers traced over the carvings, recalling the feel of her own bow, the way it had always seemed to fit her so well. Antesh had told her each one had been decorated to reflect the varied interests of her great grandfather. The one she had carried through Alltor had provided evidence of his passion for hunting. This one, it appeared, showed a keen interest in war.

“What would you have me do with this?” she asked Varulek.

“Your spectacle will be a great trial. Jarvek and Livella. I will not lie to you, the chances you might survive it are slender, but should you do so, I can hide this bow in the arena at a place within range of the Empressʼs balcony.”

“There are archers on the upper tiers. Iʼll be dead before I draw the string.”

“The arena has its own Kuritai, they answer to me. Plus there are some Free Sword mercenaries with grudges to settle, the Empressʼs purges have left few families in this city untouched.”

“If I kill her, I will only be loosing whatʼs inside, and it will surely find a new shell.”

“Your queen approaches. The Empressʼs latest scheme to defeat her failed. I was witness to her reaction to the news, and it was a bloody sight. Sheʼs now scraping together what strength she can, but the best troops are off in the north, facing a new threat, and the empire seethes with rebellion. No help will come from the provinces. Your spectacle will take place three weeks from now, and your queen marches closer every day. Should you kill the Empress in front of thousands, she could find a new body but it will not matter. Who would follow her? Your queen may well find a city in chaos, ripe for the taking.”