Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“No one will go hungry,” Reva assured her. “Any additional food required will be provided by House Mustor and the queen at no charge.”

“Heard promises from your house before,” the woman replied. “When my husband got dragged off to get his throat cut by those Asraelin bastards. Now you want us to fight for them.”

“This fief was saved by Asraelin hands,” Reva said. “And Nilsaelins, folk from the Northern Reaches, the Seordah and the Eorhil. At Varinshold I fought alongside Meldeneans and Renfaelins. The old age is dead, now we fight for each other.”

The woman pointed a finger at Reva, her voice rising to an angry growl. “You fight for them, girl. I donʼt know them, never seen these… Volarans you talk of, and any liar can claim to talk with the Fatherʼs voice.”

The guardsmen immediately snapped to attention, their sergeant stepping forward with sword half-drawn before Reva barked at him to halt. “She speaks blasphemy and treason, my lady,” the sergeant said, face rigid with fury as he glared at the woman in the crowd, now standing alone as her fellow villagers moved back, any former sympathy abruptly forgotten. Despite the lack of support the woman stood her ground, glaring at Reva with no sign of fear or regret on her weathered features as the sergeant spoke on, “You were not at Alltor. You did not see what the Blessed Lady did for us. But for her, you, your sons and this village would now be nothing but ash and bone. You owe her everything, as do we all.”

The womanʼs gaze didnʼt shift from Reva. “Then youʼd best hang me, lady. For my sons arenʼt yours to take, Fatherʼs word or no.”

Revaʼs eyes scanned the crowd, picking out three young men near the back, two of them clearly cowed by the circumstance, heads lowered and no doubt praying for the confrontation to end, but the tallest stood regarding the burly woman with a grim resentment.

“Can your sons not speak for themselves?” Reva asked he woman. “Both the Ten Books and Fief Law decree manhood at age seventeen. If your sons are of age, let them make the choice.”

“My sons know their duty…” the woman began but trailed off as the taller of the three young men held up his hand and pushed his way through the crowd.

“Allern Varesh, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I offer my service in accordance with the Queenʼs Edict.”

“Stop that!” the woman growled, stepping forward to aim a cuff at the young manʼs head before glowering at Reva once again. “Heʼs not yours to take!”

Reva was about to simply ignore her and thank the young man for his loyalty but paused as she saw the wetness in the womanʼs eyes, how she moved protectively in front of her son. Reva stepped down from the cart, coming forward to stand in front of the woman. “Your name?”

The woman clenched her teeth and wiped her eyes with thick fingers. “Realla Varesh.”

“You have lost much, Realla Varesh. And it pains me to ask for more.” She pointed at the still-kneeling Allern. “Therefore, in recognition of your sacrifice the quota for this village will be considered fully met by this manʼs service.”

The woman sagged, hands going to her face. From the shocked reaction of her son and the crowd Reva surmised it was probably the first time any living soul had seen her weep. “Lord Arentes,” Reva said.

“My lady!”

“This young man has sufficient height for a guardsman, wouldnʼt you say?”

Arentes gave Allern a brief look of appraisal. “Just about, my lady.”

“Very well. Allern Varesh, you are hereby inducted into the House Guard of Lady Governess Reva Mustor.” She glanced again at the manʼs sobbing mother. “You have an hour to say your farewells. Lord Arentes will find you a horse.”

She returned to Alltor with five hundred men and fifty women in tow, all volunteers willing to march at the Blessed Ladyʼs command. There could have been a thousand of them but they had neither the provisions or packhorses to supply so many. The lands south of Alltor had been richest in recruits and willing ears for her lie, having suffered much at the hands of Volarian raiding parties. They had fought a minor war of their own among the Cold Ironʼs forested banks and tributaries and were rich in captured weapons. According to Arentes the region had always been the heartland of Cumbraelin archery, the first longbows being hewn from the yews that proliferated in the thick forest. In the face of the Volarian threat long-defunct companies, once the backbone of Cumbraelin military strength, had re-formed under veteran captains, fighting a deadly game of chase among the trees for months until Alltorʼs relief.

Reva ordered the companies to stay in formation and gather more strength before mustering at Alltor in the spring. For all the fierceness of their commitment she found them a disconcerting lot, hard-eyed and grim of aspect, the many rotting bodies of captured Volarians hanging in the forest evidence of a lust for vengeance far from sated. What will they wreak when we sail the ocean? she wondered, searching her memory in vain for a passage in any of the Ten Books that gave succour to vengeful thoughts.

Ellese greeted her with a fierce joy, thin arms tight around her waist as she complained of Velissʼs endless lessons. “She makes me read every morning and every night. And write too.”

“Skills of great importance,” Reva told her, gently undoing her arms. “Still, I have a few to teach you too, in time.”

Elleseʼs small face frowned up at her, the gauntness now gone though she retained a slightly sunken look to her eyes. “What skills?”

“The bow and the knife. The sword too when you get older. Only if you want to.”

“I want to.” She gave an excited jump, taking Revaʼs hand and dragging her towards the mansion. “Teach me now!”

Reva caught the grave expression on Velissʼs face and hauled the girl to a halt. “Tomorrow,” she said. “I have another task today.”

“Still no name for me?”

The broken-nosed priest cast a single, tired glance at her and shook his head. They were lined up on the causeway, twelve men in threadbare clothing, besmirched from their captivity in the mansionʼs cellars, some swaying a little as the effects of Velissʼs various herbal concoctions could linger for days. The notes she had accrued during the interrogations were fulsome, near five hundred pages of names, dates, meetings, murders, enough to see the Church of the World Father revealed as a nest of traitors from Reader to Bishop, perhaps enough to shatter it completely.

“He really thought he could do it?” Reva asked the nameless priest. “Bring down House Mustor and rule the fief in the Fatherʼs name?”

The priest raised his head, swallowing as he mustered his courage. “A holy endeavour, blessed by the Father.”

“Blessings spoken by a wretch in service to a creature of the Dark.” Reva stepped back, raising her voice and casting her gaze across each face. “You are fools, so steeped in the Ten Books you canʼt even see the truth they hold. The Father does not bless deception and murder, the Father does not offer succour to those who would torment children to vile ends.”

She fell silent, feeling it build again, the same rage that had seized her during the siege, the fury that had seen her slit the throats of slavers and cut the heads from prisoners. The nameless priest shuddered, swallowing again as he fought down terror-born vomit. Arentes stood behind the shackled line with a full company of House Guard, swords drawn, each of them glaring at the traitors with an expression of grim hunger.

We are all killers now, she remembered. Bathed in blood with more to come. Her gaze lit upon a familiar figure at the end of the line, a wiry man, unlike the others in his willingness to meet her gaze, his visage oddly reverent. Shindall, she recalled. The innkeeper who had set her on the road to the High Keep. Seeing your face is the only thanks Iʼll ever need.