Энтони Райан: Queen of Fire

“One in particular. There are many wild tales abroad regarding your… injuries. They say it happened when Malcius died.”

“Malcius was murdered, by Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. I killed him for it.”

She saw the shock hit home as if she had slashed him with an ice-cold blade. His gaze became distant as he slumped forward, speaking in a whisper. “Wanna be a brother… Wanna be like you.”

“There was a woman with him,” Lyrna went on. “Like your brother, playing the role of an escaped slave, come all the way across the ocean with a grand tale of adventure. From her reaction when I killed him, I suspect their bond was close. Love can drive us to extremes.”

He closed his eyes, controlling his grief with a shudder. “Killing him would not have been easy.”

“My time with the Lonak left me skilled in certain areas. I saw him fall. After that…” The fire raked across her skin like the claws of a wildcat, filling her throat with the stench of her own flesh burning… “It seems my memory has some limits after all.”

Vaelin sat in silence for what seemed an age, lost in thought, his face even more gaunt than before. “It told me he was coming back,” he murmured finally. “But not for this.”

“I had expected you to request a different explanation,” she said, keen to draw him back from whatever memories clouded his mind. “For the way you were treated at Linesh.”

“No, Highness.” He shook his head. “I assure you I require no explanation at all.”

“The war was a grievous error. They had Malcius… My fatherʼs judgement was… impaired.”

“I doubt King Janusʼs judgement was capable of impairment, Highness. And as for the war, you did try to warn me, as I recall.”

She nodded, pausing to quiet her racing heart. I was so sure he would hate me. “That man…” she said. “The man with the rope.”

“His name is Weaver, Highness.”

“Weaver,” she repeated. “I assume he was an agent of whatever malignancy is behind our current difficulties. Hidden in your army, awaiting the time to strike.”

Vaelin moved back a little, puzzlement replacing his grief. “Strike, Highness?”

“He saved me,” she said. “From that thing . Then he burned me. I confess I find it curious. Though Iʼm learning these creatures have very strange ways.” She faltered over a catch in her throat, recalling the fire that raged as the muscular young man pulled her close, the heat of it more intense even than that dreadful day in the throne room. She raised her head, forcing herself to meet his unwavering gaze. “Is it… Is it worse?”

A faint sigh escaped him and he reached across the divide to grasp her hands, rough callused palms against hers. She had expected some comforting clasp before he voiced the inevitable and terrible news, but instead he gripped her wrists and raised her hands, spreading the fingers to touch them to her face.

“Donʼt!” she said, trying to jerk away.

“Trust me, Lyrna,” he breathed, pressing her fingers to the flesh… the smooth, undamaged flesh. Her fingers began to explore of their own volition as he took his hands away, touching every inch of skin, from her brow to her chin, her neck. Where is it? she thought wildly, finding no rough, mottled scarring, provoking none of the searing pain that had continued to plague her despite the healing balms her ladies applied to the burns every day. Where is my face?

“I knew Weaver had a great gift,” Vaelin said. “But this…”

Lyrna sat clutching her face, caging the sobs in her breast. Every word must be chosen. “I…” she began, faltered then tried again. “I should… like you to convene a council of captains as soon… as soon as…”

Then there was only the tears and the feel of his arms around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest and wept like a child.

The woman in the mirror ran a hand over the pale stubble covering her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. Itʼll grow back, she knew. Maybe not keep it so long this time. Lyrna turned her attention to the skin where the burns had been most severe, finding the healing hadnʼt left her completely unmarked after all. There were faint pale lines visible in the flesh around her eyes, thin and irregular tracks from her brow into her hairline. She recalled something the Mahlessaʼs poor, confused vessel had said that day beneath the mountain. Not there yet… The marks of your greatness.

Lyrna stood back from the mirror a little, angling her head to study how the marks looked in the light from the tent opening, finding they faded somewhat in direct sunlight. Something shifted in the mirror and she noticed Iltis over her shoulder, quickly averting his gaze, clutching the bandaged hand that protruded from the sleeve of his sling. He had shambled into the tent an hour ago, pushing Benten aside and collapsing to his knees before her. He had been stumbling through a plea for forgiveness when he glanced up and saw her face, falling to instant silence.

“You should be abed, my lord,” she told him.

“I…” Iltis had blinked, tears shining in his eyes. “I will never leave your side, Highness. I gave my word.”

Am I his new Faith? she wondered now, watching him in the mirror as he swayed a little, shaking his head and stiffening his back. The old one proved a disappointment, so now he finds devotion in me.

The tent opening parted and Vaelin entered with a bow. “The army stands ready, Highness.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She held out a hand to Orena, who stood holding the hooded fox-trimmed cloak she had chosen from the mountain of clothing Lady Reva had been overly pleased to provide. Orena came forward and draped the cloak over her shoulders whilst Murel knelt to proffer the impractical but elegant shoes for her royal feet. “Well,” she said, stepping into the shoes and pulling the hood over her face. “Letʼs be about it.”

Vaelin had placed a tall uncovered wagon outside the tent, moving to it and holding out a hand as she approached. She clasped the hand and climbed onto the wagon, the cloak bunched in her free hand so as to prevent her tripping over it. The prospect of falling flat on her face at such a moment provoked a girlish giggle, suppressed before it could reach her lips. Every word must be chosen.

She kept hold of Vaelinʼs hand as she stood surveying her new army. The plump brother from the Reaches had informed her, between stealing wide-eyed glances at her face, that the current complement of the Army of the North consisted of sixty thousand men and women, plus somewhere in the region of thirty thousand Seordah and Eorhil warriors. The regiments were arrayed in ranks, mostly untidy and lacking the polished cohesion displayed by the Realm Guard during those interminable parades in Varinshold. In truth the few Realm Guard present made a distinct contrast to their comrades, a tight, disciplined knot of denuded companies arrayed behind Brother Caenis in the centre of the line. But the majority of her new army consisted of Count Marvenʼs Nilsaelins, the conscripts Vaelin had marched from the Reaches, and the recruits gathered along the way. She saw little uniformity in their ranks; mismatched armour and weapons, much of it looted from the copious Volarian dead, makeshift flags lacking the colour and clarity of the Realm Guardʼs regimental banners.

The Seordah had placed themselves on the right flank, a great throng of warriors standing in silence, curiosity the only apparent emotion. Behind them the Eorhil waited, most mounted on their fine tall horses, equally silent. Lady Reva had responded to Lyrnaʼs polite request for attendance with the full complement of her House Guard, reduced to no more than thirty men, and seemingly all of her surviving archers. They stood in two long rows behind their Lady Governess, stocky hard-eyed men with longbows slung across their backs. Lady Reva herself was flanked by her Lady Counsellor, Lord Archer Antesh and the old bewhiskered guard commander, none of whom betrayed the slightest awe at Lyrnaʼs presence. Off to the left, the Shield had brought the captains of the Meldenean Fleet, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin deliberately standing a few feet in front of the Shield, who stood with his arms crossed, inclining his head at her, habitual smile blazing as bright as ever. It was a pity, as she expected it to fade before long.