Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Frentis came awake with a shout, despair and grief doubling him over. He felt tears flowing and covered his face with his hands, sobs tearing from his throat.

“Boy?” Master Rensial reached out to touch him, hand tentative on his shoulder, bafflement in his voice. “Boy?”

Frentis continued to weep as the mad master patted his shoulder, aware that the others had stirred from their tents, that they stood outside looking on in amazement, but he found he couldnʼt stop. Not until the morning sun rose and all chance of sleep had safely faded.

“My blood grandmother had many dreams.” Davokaʼs eyes were intent on his face as she rode alongside, though her tone was light, her usual growl absent this morning.

Frentis gave a tired nod and didnʼt reply. Breakfast had been a mostly silent affair, Thirty-Four passing him a bowl of porridge with a troubled frown, Illian and Arendil unable to meet his gaze, and Draker staring, bushy brows narrowed in concern.

Tears from the Red Brother, Frentis thought. They forgot I was a just a man… Perhaps I did too.

“She saw stars falling from the sky to shatter the land,” Davoka went on. “And floods high enough to drown the mountains. One day she gave away her pony and all her goods because a dream told her the sun would explode at twilight. It didnʼt and people saw just a mad old woman with dreams, and dreams mean nothing.”

They are not dreams, he wanted to tell her, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples as fatigue swept through him. “You think I am not fit to lead?”

“Our clan would follow you into the Mouth of Nishak if you asked. They fear for you, that is all.”

He opened his eyes and forced himself to scan the horizon. West of the Spur the ground was mostly pasture, though now devoid of cattle, the grass grown long through lack of grazing. Master Sollis had acceded to his request to scout the southern approach, though his pale eyes spoke of harsher judgement than that offered by the people who had followed him from the Urlish. He thinks me damaged, Frentis knew. Destroyed by the burden of so much guilt. He hadnʼt told Sollis of the wolfʼs blessing, the liberation from guilt it had brought, for it seemed empty now. What use was there in being freed from guilt if he was condemned to see through her eyes every night?

Davoka stiffened at his side and pointed. Frentis shook away the doubts clouding his head and followed her finger, finding two figures on the horizon, both mounted and moving at a steady canter through the long grass. He knew they couldnʼt be Volarian — they never patrolled in small numbers — and he doubted Darnel had many more hunters to send forth, especially without dogs. Besides, it was plain they had already seen the two riders to the north and came on regardless. Not the actions of an enemy. Nevertheless he unhitched his bow and notched an arrow as the riders came closer, Davoka edging her horse away and angling it so her spear was concealed, held low on its right flank.

Frentis frowned as the ridersʼ features came into view, finding one a woman and the other a man. The woman had long hair tied back in a tight braid, mounted on a tall piebald mare. Her clothes were unfamiliar, a mix of leather and Volarian gear, including a short sword tied to her saddle though she also carried a lance adorned with feathers and what seemed to be talismans of carved bone.

He heard Davoka give a surprised grunt. “Eorhil.”

The man was dressed in the garb of Realm Guard infantry, his somewhat gaunt features set in a permanent frown, somewhere between bafflement and pain, his mouth open and lips free of expression. They reined to a halt some ten yards away, the womanʼs gaze shifting between them, faintly amused by Frentis and his bow, stern and guarded when she turned to Davoka, the Realm Guard at her side sparing them only a tired glance.

Davoka said something in an unfamiliar tongue, the words hesitant and formed with difficulty. The Eorhil woman barked a laugh before speaking in heavily accented Realm Tongue, “Lonakhim sound like a birthing ape.”

Davoka bridled, taking a firm grip on her reins and hefting her spear though the Eorhil woman just grinned, turning to Frentis. “My… husband teach me… you tongue. You a… brother?”

“Yes,” he said. “Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. This is Lady Davoka, Lonak Ambassadress to the Unified Realm.”

The Eorhil blinked in bafflement at the unfamiliar words and shook her head, patting her chest. “Insha ka Forna, I am Eorhil.”

“We know,” Davoka said evenly. “What do you do here?”

“This Brother Lernial.” The Eorhil gestured at the Realm Guard who was now staring silently at the ground. “Kwin sent us.”

“Kwin?” Frentis asked.

Insha ka Forna grunted in frustration and turned, pointing towards the south, speaking with slow deliberation. “Queen.”

The name was halfway down todayʼs list, clearly legible in Brother Hollunʼs neat script. It had become her daily habit to read the list after breakfast, the brother waiting patiently as she scanned every name. She had been gratified to find that he had already compiled a complete list of every subject in her army, apart from the Seordah and Eorhil, who reacted to his approaches with baffled disdain. Since arriving at Warnsclave she had asked him to expand it to include the refugees who continued to trail into the wasted city. The portly brother undertook the task with his usual diligent care, though he had been obliged to expand his staff of scribes to over thirty, mostly older folk skilled in letters and poorly suited to soldiering.

“These people all arrived yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes, Highness. We put them in the western quarter, shelter is sparse but Captain Ultinʼs miners have been busy, bringing in timber to repair roofs and such. Theyʼve even begun raising some stone houses from the rubble.”

“Good. Assign more men to help them.” She looked again at the name on the list, recalling the final words of a drowning man. Donʼt forget your promise, Highness.

She put the list aside and smiled at Hollun. She had taken to receiving her subjects in a large room on the second floor of the harbour-masterʼs house, a comfortable but somewhat scorched chair standing in for a throne, Iltis and her ladies at her back with a dutiful stillness she found quite irksome even though she recognised the necessity for it. A queen must have a court.

“This takes us up to some thirty thousand new mouths to feed, does it not, brother?” she asked her Lord of the Queenʼs Purse.

“Thirty-one thousand, six hundred and twenty,” the brother replied with customary alacrity. “Thank the Departed for Lord Al Bera, or theyʼd all be starving.”

“Quite.” Lyrna decided not to add that, but for her newly acquired subjects, her army would have been on the march by now. Instead they were obliged to loiter in this ruin, ensuring the people were fed and training new recruits, fierce in their desire to get at the Volarians but lacking the strength to march more than a mile. The pickings provided by the Meldenean fleet had been less copious than she had hoped for, barely a ton of grain so far, though the pirates who came and went from the harbour seemed fairly well attired in silks and jewellery. The Shield had yet to make an appearance, though Ship Lord Ell-Nurin had arrived the previous day, the deck of the Red Falcon laden with captured arrows once destined for Varinshold.