Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“This is a foolish notion, Illian…”

“Why is it foolish?”

“Do you want to be like me?” He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers, suddenly angered by her naïvety. “Do you have any notion of what I have done?”

“Youʼre a great warrior, and the man who saved my life.”

Seeing her mystified, wide-eyed gaze, he sighed, his anger evaporating as he slumped back. “I have killed my way across half the world to return to this Realm, and when the queen comes to claim her throne sheʼll make sure I face a reckoning.”

“For what? Winning the war?”

He just shook his head. “I was once just like you, lost, seeking a home, begging the same favour from someone who came to hate himself for saying yes. And I find myself with a surfeit of hate, my lady. Approach Brother Sollis if you wish, he will say the same thing.”

“Weʼll see,” she muttered, falling into a sullen silence.

He watched her put the crossbow aside and pluck a bolt from her quiver, working the iron-headed barb on a small whetstone. No, he conceded. No longer made for dresses and balls. “Did you know,” he said, “in the southern jungles of the Volarian Empire, there lives a beast, fully twelve feet tall and covered all over with fur, that looks just like a man on stilts?”

She angled her head at him, raising an eyebrow. “Youʼre making it up.”

“No, itʼs true. I swear on the Faith. And in the oceans to the east are great sharks, as big as a whale and striped red from end to end.”

“Iʼve heard of those,” she admitted. “My tutor showed me a picture once.”

“Well, Iʼve seen them. There is more than war to find in this world, Illian. There is as much beauty as there is ugliness, as long as you have the eyes to see it.”

She gave a small laugh. “Perhaps Iʼll find a sea captain of my own one day, go looking for it.” The words were empty, he knew, the humour forced. Her mind was set on but one course.

“I hope so too.”

He saw her frown as she scanned his face, youthful beauty marred by concern. “You must sleep, brother. Please. Iʼll watch you. If you start to get… upset, Iʼll wake you.”

There are some dreams you canʼt wake from. But he was so tired now, and a battle waited no more than three hours hence. “Donʼt neglect your own rest,” he told her, settling onto his side, breathing deep, then closing his eyes.

She sits alone in a spacious chamber of marble floors and fine furnishings; it is midafternoon and a gentle breeze sways the lace curtains hanging over the arches leading to the balcony. The chamber belonged to Council-man Lorvek and is filled with artifacts bought or stolen from all corners of the world; Alpiran statuary of bronze and marble, fine paintings from the Unified Realm, exquisite ceramics from the Far West, garish war masks from the southern tribe lands. A priceless collection, the fruit of several lifetimesʼ labour. It is how they persist, these select few red-clad, filling their endless days with successive obsession, for art, wealth, flesh… or murder.

She casts a glance around Lorvekʼs collection and decides to have it all destroyed the following morning. The feeding two days ago has left her invigorated but with a sour edginess. The Gifted had been foul indeed, a nondescript man of middle years with the ability to hold a person in place, frozen, immobile, but awake. He had spent over two decades wandering the empire killing women, freezing them so they could only suffer in silence as he visited all manner of torments upon their flesh. He would have been a useful recruit for the Ally, given enough time, but his mind was far too fractured to justify the effort needed. He had tried to resist her, somehow sensing the threat despite the drugs, casting his gift at her like the flailing invisible hand of an addled drunk. She would have laughed at him once, even retreated for a while to allow the drug haze to fade before returning to enjoy his impotent rage as she made it last. But she hadnʼt, the stumbling wretch deserved little regard and certainly no pity, but the blood had tasted foul as she slashed his throat, fighting a reflexive gag as she forced herself to drink deep, wondering if all the death she had wrought would also taint her blood.

She forces the memory away and slows her breathing, calming her mind, focusing her thoughts. I feel you, beloved, she tells him. I know you feel me too.

She waits, mind open to a response, knowing he is there, but feeling only the depth of his enmity. Will you not talk to me? she implores. Are you not lonely too? And we have shared so much.

Anger swells, reaching across the great divide to lash at her, making her wince. I fear for you, she persists. We know she lives, beloved. We know she comes to take the city, and you know what she will do when she finds you.

The anger dims, replaced by grim acceptance and a great depth of guilt.

Forget all the nonsense they instilled in you, she begs. All the lies they told you. The Faith is a childʼs illusion, nobility a cowardʼs mask. They are not for such as us, my love. You felt it, when we were killing together. I know you did. We soared above them all, and we can do so again. Leave now. Run. Come back to me.

The sensation changes, emotion fading to be replaced by an image, a darkly beautiful young woman, half her face bathed in firelight, her brow creased in confusion and regret. Her lips move but the sound is lost to her, although she knows the words with absolute clarity. I made my bargain, beloved. I cannot make another.

I had no choice, she tells him now.

The image fades, swirling in her mind until it transforms into a voice, hard and cold but blessedly familiar. Neither do I.

They mustered two hours shy of dawn, gathering around Sollis as he unfurled a recently drawn map of the city, pointing to the north-east gate. “I suggest an attack in two directions, my lord,” he said to Banders. “Your knights to press a charge along Gate Lane, itʼs wide enough for ten men abreast and leads directly to the harbour. If successful, youʼll cut the city in two and sow confusion in the enemyʼs ranks. My brothers, Brother Frentisʼs company and the Renfaelin common folk will make for the Blackhold. Itʼs a stout fortress and will provide a place of retreat should the day go against us.”

Banders nodded his agreement and turned to address his assembled captains. “The odds do not favour us, as you know. But we are told Lord Vaelin comes to take this city and I intend to aid him in doing so. Tell every knight and man at arms that come the morning there will be no turning from the charge, no restraint is to be shown, and no mercy. The city stands infested, and we will cleanse it.” He glanced at Arendil, adding in a sombre tone, “Lord Darnel is not to be taken alive, regardless of any entreaties to knightly custom. He has forfeited life and knighthood long since.”

The four of them made their way to the city on foot, heading for the northern stretch of wall where the Brinewash emerged from the city through a great sluice gate. They crawled slowly for the final half mile, Draker grunting along behind and drawing an irritated kick from Davoka. The outlaw had become much stealthier over the months but often had need of a reminder. As expected, the sluice gate was too well guarded to allow entry, even if it had been possible to navigate the frothing current that slid over the barrier in a constant rush. Instead Frentis led them into the river and followed the wall north. They wore thin clothing of light fabric, boots having been abandoned before entering the chill waters, their weapons confined to daggers and swords.