Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Diversion from what?”

“This city will stand or fall on my fatherʼs judgement. Without it, Darnel and his allies are doomed.”

“A hard thing for a son to kill a father,” Rehlkin observed.

“If you doubt my ability to do this,” Alucius replied, “you should kill me now and keep skulking here until Queen Lyrna arrives.” He saw the manʼs dislike in his cold glare and found himself beyond caring. “Iʼll need you and Sister Cresia to secure the Aspects.”

“Breaking into the Blackhold is no easy task,” Cresia said.

“But within your abilities, Iʼm sure. Iʼve little doubt their guards have orders to kill them should the city fall, and itʼs better to risk death than blindly accept it.”

He saw them exchanging glances, reaching agreement in silent nods, Cresiaʼs the most reluctant. “Weʼll do this,” she said. “But when itʼs done, poet, you will not be spared an accounting.”

“No.” He got up and turned away, walking back to the tunnel with Twenty-Seven falling in behind. “I donʼt imagine I will.”

“I must say, Aspect,” he said, sitting on the bunk beside her. “I found the wine rather bitter.”

“But you did find it?” she asked, her gaze intent.

“Indeed I did. Only three bottles, though.”

Her mouth twitched in suppressed disappointment. “Pity.”

“Disappointment was ever my lot, Aspect. I do, however, have news. It seems we have a new queen.”

“Lyrna? She lives?”

“Hale, whole and leading an army to our salvation as we speak, an army commanded by Lord Al Sorna himself, having crushed General Tokrev at Alltor.”

Aspect Elera sat straight, closing her eyes, her shoulders pulled back as she breathed a series of controlled breaths. He had seen her do this before, when her usual composure slipped and the faint sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. After a few seconds she reopened her eyes and smiled, the same calm, open smile he knew he would miss a great deal.

“Excellent news, Alucius,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. And when can we expect our queenʼs arrival?”

Alucius flicked his eyes at the Free Sword outside. The man might appear dumb as a stump and capable of no more than a few words of Realm Tongue, but Aluciusʼs short spying career had taught him the value of seeing beyond appearances. “Such intelligence is far beyond my reach, Aspect.” He folded his arms and extended three fingers towards his elbow, seeing understanding in her gaze as she resisted the impulse to nod.

“It is my belief you should not save the wine,” she said in a brisk tone. “These are troubled times, and wine always offers an escape from worry, donʼt you think?”

“You are kind to think of my comfort, Aspect. But, if ever a man has drunk his fill, itʼs me.”

The Free Sword gave an impatient jangle of his keys and Alucius stood. “Though, I am able to share two bottles with you,” Alucius told her. “Your own comfort being of paramount importance to me.”

Her smile faltered a little, a stern glint appearing in her gaze. “Wine should not be wasted, Alucius.”

“And it wonʼt be.” He knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing how she fought tears. Instead of raising her hand for him to kiss, as was their habit, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, “I beg you, go.”

He clasped her hands and kissed them, standing and moving from the cell. He was careful in his scrutiny of the Free Sword as he locked the door, seeing only the dull eyes of a brutal fool. Nevertheless, he was glad he had told Cresia to kill him the instant she entered this chamber.

It was the one house he had never visited since the cityʼs fall, a part-tumbled-down, once-impressive mansion near Watcherʼs Bend, shaded by the branches of a great old oak. The roof was even more threadbare than he remembered and the windows were all gone, stirring memories of how hard Alornis had worked to keep them clean and intact. The house had been spared burning by some happy chance, perhaps because of its size or the barren rooms within, void of any useful loot, at least to those unskilled in spotting concealment.

The door was half-off its hinges, the hallway beyond all peeling paint and bare floorboards. He remembered his first visit here, the falsely confident knock she took so long to answer. “Alucius Al Hestian, my lady,” he had greeted her, bowing low. “Former comrade to your noble brother.”

“I know who you are,” she replied with a puzzled frown, opening the door only wide enough to look him up and down. “What do you want?”

It had taken several visits before she let him in, and only then because it had been raining, pointing him to a stool in the kitchen with a stern warning against dripping on her drawings. It had been duty that made him persist, the appearance of adherence to a royal command, but it was the drawings that made him come back the next night, suffering her puzzled indifference and occasional barbs. He had never seen anything like them, the clarity and feeling rendered with such economy, as irresistible as he came to find their creator.

He made his way to the kitchen where she had spent most of her time, the floor tiles liberally adorned with broken crockery, the table where she prepared the meagre meals they shared tipped over and lacking a leg.

“Protect me?” she had laughed when he explained his reason for coming here every night. Her eyes went to the short sword at his belt, twinkling a little. “Iʼm sorry, but that really doesnʼt suit you.”

“No,” he admitted. “It never did. But, thanks to your brother, I do know how to use it.”

In truth, he always knew she needed little protection. Those few Faithful sufficiently deluded to imagine her some kind of substitute for her brother were sent away with implacable and waspish refusal, whilst the King never had reason to suspect her loyalty. She worked every day under Master Benrilʼs less-than-pleasant tutelage and spent her nights in this empty house, her charcoal and silverpoint crafting wonders from the parchment she starved herself to buy. It was parchment that bought her toleration, for he always had an ample supply and would bring some when he came, content to sit and watch as she worked, a bottle of Wolfʼs Blood never far away despite her obvious disapproval.

“Every word she speaks regarding her brother and her father is to be recorded,” Malcius had told him that day he had been called to the palace, ostensibly to receive the queenʼs endorsement of his latest collection of poems, but in reality to press him to a new duty. Malciusʼs face had been grave as they walked together in the gardens, a king forced to reluctant necessity. “The identity of any and all visitors also. Lord Vaelinʼs shadow was ever far too long, Alucius. Best if sheʼs not caught in it, donʼt you think?”

He thought he was making me a spy, Alucius mused, glancing at the wall where she had pinned her sketches, bare now, save for the outline of parchment on whitewash. Little knowing the Meldeneans had got there first. Poor old Malcius, Janus would have known in an instant.

He climbed the creaking and partly missing stairs to the upper floor, Twenty-Seven following, hopping the gaps with nimble swiftness. He paused only a little at the door to Alornisʼs room, as he had done at the end of many a drunken night, just to catch the soft whisper of her breath as she slept. Why did I never tell her? he wondered. Words spoken so easily to so many others, but I could never say them to her, the one time they would have been true.

The room where he had slept was mostly intact, his narrow bed still sitting against the wall complete with mattress, though the sheets were gone. He pulled it away from the wall and knelt, dislodging a fragment of plaster to reveal a small hiding place, missed by the Volarians who had come looting. He sighed in relief at finding the narrow leather bundle intact.