Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

We halted as we came to the ship, a broad-beamed Meldenean trader, her planking still scorched from the Battle of the Teeth, rails bearing the scars of blades and arrowheads, patches on the sails furled to the rigging. My eyes were also drawn to the serpentine figurehead which, despite having lost much of its lower jaw, retained a certain familiarity. My gaze found the captain at the head of the gangplank, thick arms crossed, his face set in a glower, a face I recalled all too well.

“Did you, perhaps, have a hand in choosing this vessel, my lord?” I asked Al Sorna.

There was a faint glimmer of amusement in his gaze as he shrugged. “Merely a coincidence, I assure you.”

I sighed, finding I had scant room in my heart for yet more resentment, turning to Fornella and extending a hand to the ship. “Honoured Citizen. Iʼll join you in a moment.”

I saw Al Sornaʼs eyes track her as she walked the plank to the ship, moving with her customary grace born of centuries-long practice. “Despite what the truth-teller said,” he told me, “I caution you, donʼt trust her.”

“I was her slave long enough to learn that lesson myself.” I hefted my bag once again and nodded a farewell. “By your leave, my lord. I look forward to hearing the tale of your campaign…”

“You were right,” he broke in, his wary smile returned once more. “The story I told you. There were some… omissions.”

“I think you mean lies.”

“Yes.” His smile faded. “But I believe you have earned the truth. I have scant notion of how this war will end, or even if either of us will live to see its end. But if we do, find me again and I promise youʼll have nothing but truth from me.”

I should have been grateful, I know. For what scholar does not hunger for truth from one such as he? But there was no gratitude as I looked into his gaze, no thought save a name. Seliesen.

“I used to wonder,” I said, “how a man who had taken so many lives could walk the earth unburdened by guilt. How does a killer bear the weight of killing and still call himself human? But we are both killers now, and I find it burdens my soul not at all. But then, I killed an evil man, and you a good one.”

I turned away and strode up the gangplank without a backward glance.

She was woken by the snow. Soft, icy caresses on her skin, tingling and not unpleasant, calling her from the darkness. It took a moment for memory to return and when it did she found it a fractured thing, fear and confusion reigning amidst a welter of image and sensation. Iltis roaring as he charged, sword bared… The ring of steel… A hard fist across her mouth… And the man… The man who burned her.

She opened her mouth to scream but could issue no more than a whimper, her subsequent gasp dragging chilled air into her lungs. It seemed as if she would freeze from the inside out and she felt it strange she should die from cold after being burned so fiercely.

Iltis! The name was a sudden shout in her mind. Iltis is wounded! Perhaps dead!

She willed herself to move, to get up, call for a healer with all the power her queenʼs voice could muster. Instead she barely managed to groan and flutter her hands a little as the snow continued its frosty caress. Rage burned in her, banishing the chill from her lungs. I need to move! I will not die in the snow like a forgotten dog! Drawing jagged air into her lungs again she screamed, putting every ounce of strength and rage into the sound. A fierce scream, a queenʼs scream… but no more than a rattle of air through teeth when it reached her ears, along with something else.

“… better be a good reason for this, Sergeant,” a hard voice was saying, strong, clipped and precise. A soldierʼs voice, accompanied by the crunch of boots in snow.

“Tower Lord said he was to be minded well, Captain,” another voice, coloured by a Nilsaelin accent, older and not quite so strong. “Treated with respect, he said. Like the other folk from the Point. And he seems fairly insistent, much as I can gather from a fellow that donʼt talk above two words at a time.”

“Folk from the Point,” the captain said in a softer tone. “To whom we have to thank for a snowfall at summerʼs end…” His voice faded and the crunch of boots became the tumult of running men.

“Highness!” Hands on her shoulders, soft but insistent. “Highness! Are you hurt? Do you hear me?”

Lyrna could only groan, feeling her hands flutter once more.

“Captain Adal,” the sergeantʼs voice, choked and broken by fear. “Her face…”

“I have eyes, Sergeant! Fetch the Tower Lord to Brother Kehlanʼs tent! And bring men to carry his lordship. Say nothing of the queen. You understand me?”

More boots on the snow then she felt something warm and soft cover her from head to foot, her benumbed back and legs tingling as hands lifted her. She fell into darkness, untroubled by the jolting run of the captain as he bore her away.

He was there when she awoke the second time, her eyes tracking over a canvas roof to find him sitting beside the cot where they had placed her. Although his eyes were tinged with the same red haze she had seen the day before, his gaze was brighter now, focused, the black eyes seeming to bore into the skin of her face as he leaned forward. He burned me… She closed her eyes and turned away from him, stilling the sob in her chest, swallowing and composing herself before she turned back, finding him kneeling beside the cot, head lowered.

“Highness,” he said.

She swallowed and tried to speak, expecting only a faint croak to emerge but surprising herself with a somewhat strident response. “My lord Al Sorna. I trust the morning finds you well.”

His head came up, the expression sharp, the black eyes still fierce. She wanted to tell him it was rude to stare, at a queen no less, but knew it would sound churlish. Every word must be chosen, her father had said once. Each word spoken by the one who wears the crown will be remembered, often misremembered. So, my daughter, if ever you find this band of gold weighing upon your brow, never utter a single word that should not be heard from the mouth of a queen.

“Quite… well, Highness,” Vaelin responded, remaining on one knee as she stirred herself. To her surprise she found she could move easily. Someone had removed the dress and cloak she wore the night before, replacing the finery with a simple cotton shift that covered her from neck to ankle, the fabric pleasing on her skin as she sat and swung her legs off the cot to sit up. “Please rise,” she told Vaelin. “I find ceremony tedious at the best of times, and of scant use when weʼre alone.”

He stood, eyes never leaving her face. There was a hesitancy to his movements, a slight tremble to his hands as he reached for his chair, pulling it closer to sit opposite her, his face no more than an armʼs length away, the closest they had been since that day at the Summertide Fair.

“Lord Iltis?” she asked.

“Wounded but alive,” he said. “Also frostbitten in the small finger of his left hand. Brother Kehlan was obliged to take it off. He barely seemed to notice and it was quite the struggle to stop him charging forth to look for you.”

“I was fortunate in the friends fate contrived to place in my path.” She paused, drawing breath and courage for what she had to say next. “We had little chance to talk yesterday. I know you must have many questions.”