Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“We go to find them, Master.” Frentis gripped his arm in reassurance. “Far across the sea is a whole empire of horses.”

Rensial replied with a grave nod then wandered off towards the prow. Frentis decided to warn Captain Belorath to make sure his men gave the horse master as much space as possible. His gaze was drawn to the rail where an unfamiliar figure stood staring out to sea, a young well-built man with a thick head of curly blond hair.

“His nameʼs Weaver,” Draker said. “Doesnʼt talk much.”

Frentis knew the name of course. The Gifted who healed the queen. “He also comes at the queenʼs command?”

“Not really sure, brother. He was already aboard when we arrived.”

Frentis nodded, turning back to meet the weight of their collected gaze. “I thank you all,” he said. “But you offer me too much. Please go ashore and leave me to this mission.” They stared back in silence, expressions expectant rather than angry. None made a single step towards the gangplank. “This mission holds no return journey…” he began then stopped as Draker gave a broad grin.

“I think our captain is eager to be off, brother,” he said.

Lord Brahdorʼs house must have been a grand place once. Formerly a minor stronghold, successive generations had seen it moulded into a sprawling three-storey mansion, grown beyond the walls that once enclosed it, the defensive ditch long since filled in. The surrounding fields were dotted with stables, storehouses, and, Reva well knew, a large barn over the crest of a nearby hill. She had called there earlier, halting her horse a good distance short of the dilapidated pile of leaning timber, the roof now vanished and the doors lying on the weed-rich ground.

She was alone, having ordered her guards to proceed to Alltor without her some miles back. She found Kernmill ravaged and burnt as expected, all the people she had once spied on dead, taken by slavers or fled. The house of Lord Brahdor lay some two miles north and was in only marginally better repair. It seemed to have escaped the attentions of the Volarians, possibly because its evident ruin had been wrought before their arrival, the various rooftops stripped of slate, either by the elements or greedy villagers, the walls streaked with dirt and peeling daub, every door seemingly vanished.

What do you expect to find here? she asked herself with an inward sigh before dismounting and tethering her mount to a fence-post. It was a placid mare, much more amenable than poor old Snorter, who had been lost to the stewpot during the early days of the siege. She left her to nibble at the long grass as she approached the house, peering through glassless windows at the musty darkness within. Did they meet here? she wondered. Was this the seat of their plots? The Sons coming to huddle in front of the godly lord who spoke such wondrous truth, never knowing the true nature of the thing that lied to them, probably laughing to itself the whole while.

She went to a doorway and stepped into the chilled shadows inside. Despite the gloom she was impressed by the grandeur of the lobby, an elegant staircase sweeping down from the upper storey to a chequerboard floor of fine marble, a ringing echo rising from her boots. She scanned the walls seeking paintings or sigils, finding only bare plaster and no sign as to the character of the late occupant. A brief exploration of the other rooms on the ground floor was no more fruitful so she tentatively mounted the staircase, finding it surprisingly firm underfoot, sounding only the faintest creak as she went aloft.

The upper floor was colder, wind gusting through the ruined windows, stirring rags that had once been drapes. She went from room to room, finding only dust, shards of pottery and the sticks of ruined furniture. In one room she paused at the sight of a large stain on the floor, part obscured by a moulded carpet, a cobweb-shrouded bed standing against the wall. She knew the stain of blood well enough to make closer inspection unnecessary; someone had died here, but not recently.

She was turning away when she caught it, a slight acrid tint reaching her nostrils, the scent of a recently snuffed candle. She paused, closing her eyes, nose and ears alive to further clues. It was just the smallest creak to the beams above her head, only a few ounces too heavy for a rat. She opened her eyes, raising her gaze to the ceiling, picking out a hole no bigger than a copper coin, flickering light then dark as something covered it.

She went to the hallway and sought out the steps to the third storey, finding them much less well preserved than the grand staircase. The balustrade was gone and several steps were missing, forcing her to leap and grab her way up. This final level consisted of four attic rooms, only one of which held a door. She tried the handle and, finding it locked, kicked it open, drawing her sword before going inside. There was a small but neat pile of blankets near the window, the room shielded from the elements by a few planks of wood, tied in place with twine. The stub of a candle sat next to the blankets, a thin tendril of smoke rising from the wick.

Reva surveyed the rest of the room, finding a small stack of books and a pile of assorted vegetables in the corner, carrots and potatoes, mouldy and sprouting roots, small bite marks in some. It was the intake of breath that warned her, a sharp gasp just above her head.

Reva took a step forward and something landed behind her. She whirled, the sword coming round in a precise slash, connecting with a small knife, the blade skittering away into the shadows. Its owner stared up at her with wide eyes in a dirt-smeared face framed by a mass of matted curls.

“Who are you?” Reva demanded.

The girlʼs face held the same astonished gape for a second then transformed into a snarl. She hissed, launching herself at Reva, her hands like claws, long nails seeking to tear at the intruderʼs face. Reva dropped her sword, sidestepped the charge and caught the girl about the waist, pinning her arms as she thrashed, snarling and spitting. She held her in place as she continued to struggle, feeling the bone-thin form beneath her ragged clothes and wondering at the ferocity of one so near starvation. The girl subsided after a full two minutesʼ thrashing, slumping exhausted in Revaʼs arms, voicing a whimper of helpless rage.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Reva told her. “My name is Reva. Who might you be?”

“Did Ihlsa send you?”

Reva added more fuel to the fire and checked the contents of the pot, an old iron vessel found amidst the shattered remnants of the mansionʼs kitchen. The girl had followed her readily enough after Reva released her, although she had maintained a sullen silence until now, sitting opposite her in front of the fireplace as Reva stacked broken furniture for fuel. She had filled the pot with the oats from her saddlebags flavoured with a little honey and cinnamon, bought from a Nilsaelin soldier back in Varinshold for the price of a Volarian officerʼs short sword and dagger. Long weeks marching with the Queenʼs Crusade had told her much about the character of the Realmʼs various subjects, and Nilsaelins could usually be relied upon to supply a few luxuries for the right price.

“Whoʼs Ihlsa?” she asked, stirring the porridge.

The girl drew herself up a little, chin jutting as she attempted a dignified air. “My maid.”

“Making you the lady of this house?”

“Yes.” The girlʼs face clouded somewhat. “Since Mother died.”