Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Not, I assume, if they stood outside the Faith?”

“The Seventh Order is of the Faith, Highness. That cannot change.”

Do I have another Tendris here? she pondered, seeing the implacable belief in his gaze. She had often wondered why her father didnʼt have the ever-troublesome Aspect of the Fourth Order quietly poisoned by one of his many hidden agents. But even the old schemer hadnʼt been immune to the Faith, or ignorant of the power it wielded.

“This is a free Realm,” she told Caenis. “That also cannot change. You may speak to the Gifted from the Reaches and offer them a place in your Order. However, if they refuse, you will let the matter drop and I will not hear it raised again during my reign, which I expect to be of considerable duration. Unless your Sister”—she consulted the list again, for show since she had memorised the contents at the first glance—“Verlia scries a different future, of course.”

“My sisterʼs visions are… infrequent,” he replied. “And require considerable interpretation. When it comes to Your Highness, so far she sees little.”

“And what little does she see?”

He straightened, once more seemingly a warrior rather than an Aspect in waiting, face set in the knowledge of coming battle. “Fire,” he said. “She sees only fire.”

She travelled with the Seordah the next day, choosing to walk as they did. Lady Dahrena accompanied her to act as interpreter, a somewhat redundant role since few of the forest folk seemed inclined to speak to them, most in fact keen to avoid looking in their direction. She could see the ladyʼs grief at this, the way her smile faltered as the hawk-faced warriors looked away or grunted clipped responses to her approaches. In contrast, their attitude to Lyrna seemed more one of curious bafflement rather than fear.

“Healing touch very rare in the forest,” Hera Drakil told her, the only one of his people to stay at Dahrenaʼs side for more than a few steps, and even then she sensed a tense reluctance in the war chief, as if every step was a test of courage. “Not known for many generations.”

“Do your people have books?” Lyrna asked, her thoughts straying to the Mahlessaʼs vast library under the Mountain. “Records of the time before the Marelim Sil?”

“Books?” the war chief frowned.

“Virosra san elosra dural,” Dahrena told him. Lyrnaʼs Seordah was markedly less accomplished than her Lonak, but she had enough for a rough translation. The words that cage the spirit.

“No,” the Seordah told Lyrna. “No books for the Seordah. Not now, not in the before times. All is spoken and remembered. Only the spoken word is true.”

Lyrna saw Dahrena hesitate then say something in the Seordah tongue, too fast to easily translate and rich in words beyond Lyrnaʼs knowledge. Whatever their meaning, the words were enough to darken Hera Drakilʼs expression and he turned away, striding off through the disordered ranks of his people.

“Is he offended?” Lyrna asked Dahrena.

The ladyʼs face was drawn in sadness as she watched the war chief walk away. “Only the spoken word is true,” she said. “I told him the truth. He didnʼt like it.”

The army swelled as it moved east, hidden bands of fugitives and escaped slaves emerging from forest and cave to join them or beg food. Lyrna made sure all were provided for, even those reluctant to join their ranks, though these were few in number. There were numerous Realm Guard stragglers among the new recruits, eager for a return to regiments that were now mostly extinct. At her request Brother Caenis had stepped down as Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard contingent, though his decision had caused some discord in the ranks. Regardless of any Dark affliction, many still saw him as a saviour, the fearless commander who led them to deliverance after calamitous defeat. Others were less accepting, mainly the men who had served under Lady Reva at Cumbrael and the fugitives found on the march, leading to a fair amount of loud quarrelling and even a few fist-fights. A formal delegation of sergeants had gone to Vaelin requesting Caenisʼs reinstatement and the Battle Lord had been obliged to calm their anger by elevating one of their own in the brotherʼs place, a veteran sergeant of stocky build with a face like scarred leather.

“Sergeant Travick, Highness,” he said, going to one knee before her the day she joined them on the march. “Late of the Sixteenth Regiment of Foot.”

“Ah, the Black Bears as I recall,” Lyrna said, gesturing for Benten to bring her the item he had procured from Brother Hollunʼs travelling armoury.

Travick blinked at her in surprise. “Yes, Highness. Your memory does you credit.”

“Thank you. However, I must advise you that your etiquette, by contrast, is sadly lacking.”

The veteran lowered his head, frowning in embarrassment. “Forgive me, Highness. Not used to such things.”

“Hardly an excuse,” Lyrna said, holding out her hand as Benten handed her the sword, an Asraelin blade, as befit the occasion. “For a Sword of the Realm to refer to himself as a sergeant. I profess myself shocked.”

His head snapped up in alarm, eyes widening at the sight of the sword. “Lord Marshal Al Travick,” she said, reversing the weapon to lay it across her forearm, handle first, “do you accept this sword offered by your queen?”

Behind Travick the Realm Guard were stirring in their ranks, less neat and well shaved as she remembered, but all uniformly hardened and possessed of the air of dangerous men. Dangerous I can use, she decided. Let them fight each other if they must, as long as they fight harder against the Volarians.

“I–I do, Highness,” Travick stammered.

“Then take it, my lord, and do get up.” His meaty, scarred hand closed on the sword-handle and he rose, holding it up with an expression of blank astonishment.

“It is my wish that the Realm Guard be reordered, Lord Marshal,” she went on, recapturing his attention and making him snap back into a soldierly posture, spine straight and eyes averted.

“Whatever my Queen commands.”

“A respect for the past is a good thing, but we cannot allow it to obstruct our purpose. Many proud regiments now retain mere fragments of their former complement or were wiped out completely. If I calculate correctly, there are little over six thousand Realm Guard under your command, many of them holding to regimental ties that no longer have meaning. Of those regiments still remaining only three can truly be called such, and even they are greatly reduced in number. You will bring these up to full complement and divide the remaining men into three new regiments, their names and banners to be determined by the men, subject to my approval. Also you will add Lord Nortahʼs company to the Realm Guard roster as the Sixtieth Regiment of Foot.”

She turned her gaze on the ranks of the Realm Guard. The regimental loyalty of the Realmʼs soldiery was legendary and she saw open dismay on many faces. “When this war is won,” she told them, raising her voice, “I give you my word the Realm Guard will be rebuilt and any wishing to rejoin their former regiments will be granted leave to do so. For now, we have a war to win and sentiment will not aid us in that endeavour.”

Lord Travick barked a command, his sergeantʼs voice a thunderclap, sending every soldier to one knee, heads bowed. “The Realm Guard is yours, Highness,” he said. “To forge as you will, and,” he added, his voice loud and carrying to every soldier in his command, “if I hear any man say differently, Iʼll flog him down to the bone.”

The walls of Warnsclave had been neglected for many years, the long period of peace heralded by her fatherʼs ascension making them an expensive irrelevance to successive town factors. Vaelin opined they had been strong enough to repel one Volarian assault, but ultimately proved too weak to withstand another. They were rent in several places, great gashes torn into the stone from ground to parapet, offering an all-too-clear view of what lay beyond as Arrow brought Lyrna closer.