Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

She led her to the stern where Alornis was rigging a tarpaulin over one of the shipʼs four ballistae. The constant rain and spume were a source of great consternation as she sought to keep her precious engines free of rust and the salt that played havoc with her various mechanical novelties. “Lady Alornis,” Lyrna called to her, gesturing at Furelah. “I am appointing this guardswoman as your assistant. Please instruct her in the operation of your engine.”

Alornis greeted Furelah with a bemused smile. “Thank you, Highness, but I need no assistance.”

“Battle will be upon us soon, my lady,” Lyrna replied. “And it plays no favourites. Should you fall it is important your knowledge not perish with you.”

Alornis winced a little at the harshness of her tone then offered her hand to Furelah who, despite her evident nausea, stood regarding the ballista with deep fascination. “You built this, my lady?”

“I had help.” Alornis took her hand and led her towards the contraption. “Come, best if we start with the gearing.”

The evening of the tenth day brought the first storm, a howling northerly gale slamming a series of ever-taller waves against the Queen Lyrna ʼs port side, eventually forcing the Shield to order a turn to the south. Lyrna had expected some expression of reproach as she watched him take the tiller, his hands moving with expert efficiency to steady the great vessel, but instead he seemed oddly content, casting occasional glances at the sky and frowning in apparent satisfaction.

“It seems my calculations may have been optimistic,” Lyrna offered, having to shout above the wind as she moved to his side.

“You mean this?” A spectre of his once-continual grin played over his lips as he jerked his head at the roiling sky overhead. “This is a gentle breeze compared to the Boraelinʼs usual winter fury. Itʼll have blown itself out come the morning.”

She lingered, seeing his reluctance to look at her, the stiffness of his shoulders. “Why did you stay?” she asked. “I know you wanted no part of this.”

“Despite my misgivings I canʼt deny the wisdom in your words. If we donʼt finish them, theyʼll come again. Better one long war than a dozen short ones, bleeding the Isles white with every generation called to fight them. Besides, I made a commitment, as you may recall.”

She remembered that night after the Teeth, his offer of another life and the promise made beneath the stars. “If itʼs any comfort,” she told him, “we would never have sailed the western ocean together. Regardless of any other… developments.”

He didnʼt turn but she saw his shoulders slump a little. “No,” he replied, his tone sombre rather than bitter. “That day at Alltor, the way you looked at Al Sorna… And I thought there was nothing else he could take from me. And your face. The face of a stranger.”

“I had hoped you might see the face of a friend.”

She heard him utter a faint laugh above the wind. “Is that what you imagine the future holds for us? Friendship? When this war is won you think Iʼll still command your fleet? Stay at your side for all the long years of your reign? Your faithful former pirate? Your muzzled dog?” He glanced over his shoulder at her, rain coursing down his face, all vestige of his smile gone. “I let you put me in a cage, Lyrna. Donʼt ask me to live in it forever.”

Lyrna turned as Murel tugged insistently on her arm, gesturing at the door to her cabin where Iltis stood, drenched from head to toe and wearing an expression of pointed impatience.

“I strongly suggest you take shelter, Highness,” the Shield said, hauling on the tiller anew as another wave lifted the prow towards the sky. “Storms have no respect for rank.”

As he had predicted the weather calmed over the succeeding days, allowing Lady Alornis an opportunity to demonstrate her new device. “Brother Harlick was kind enough to provide a few inspiring examples from history,” she said, fitting a large set of bellows onto a copper tube protruding from the contraptionʼs underside. The engine had been placed on the Queen Lyrna ʼs port bow and was even odder in appearance than the ballista; a brass-and-iron tube some twelve feet long, bulbous at one end tapering to a narrow spout. A large barrel sat atop it halfway along its length and it rested on an identical base to the ballista, meaning even someone of Alornisʼs diminutive proportions had little difficulty adjusting its angle. Furelah stood at the thingʼs narrow end, fixing what appeared to be an elongated oil lamp to the spout. From the way she stood, working with arms fully extended and eyes continually straying to the barrel fixed to the device, Lyrna divined her Lady Artificerʼs latest novelty harboured considerable potential.

“There were no images to work from,” Alornis went on, running a cloth over some kind of circular lever on the contraptionʼs bulbous end. “But an Alpiran text from some six hundred years ago did provide a fulsome description of the machinery. The greatest difficulty was in establishing the correct mix for the fuel.”

“This is an Alpiran device?” Lyrna asked her.

“Indeed, Highness. Used in a sea battle during one of their civil wars. It seems the emperor of the day witnessed its first use and promptly outlawed it, fearing the gods might judge him needlessly cruel. They called it Rhevenaʼs Lance.”

Rhevena, Lyrna knew, was a principal goddess in the Alpiran pantheon, guardian of the dark paths that must be traversed by every soul upon death. But Rhevena was a kindly goddess and lit the paths with fire so that no good souls lost their way. However, the fire was a living thing, possessed of wisdom and insight, and would flare to engulf an unworthy soul. Lyrnaʼs heart began to beat faster as she noted the way Furelah completed her task and moved back from the engine with ill-concealed haste, the lamp she had fitted to the spout now lit with a bright yellow flame.

“Lamp oil is too thin,” Alornis continued, working a spigot on the side of the barrel, “and burns away too quickly. So I was obliged to use base oil. Even then it required thickening with pine resin.” She stood back, giving her invention a final look of appraisal before turning to Iltis and Benten. “My lords, the bellows if you would.”

The two lords moved to the bellows, standing side by side to grip the large iron rod fixed to it, both raising a questioning glance at Lyrna. She tried to still the rising pitch of her heartbeat and inclined her head to set them to work. It took several heaves before anything happened but when it did Lyrna was grateful for the shout of alarm that sounded the length of the ship as it concealed her own fearful gasp. A stream of bright yellow fire erupted from the machineʼs spout, arcing fully thirty feet from the ship to cascade into the sea amidst a cloud of steam. The becalmed seas had allowed much of the fleet to resume their formation and a chorus of excited shouting could be heard from the nearby ships as the arc of fire continued to flow.

“Aiming is fairly straightforward,” Alornis said, manoeuvring the lance about so the arc wafted the air like a flaming fan. She signalled for Benten and Iltis to stop and turned to Lyrna, the last dregs of burning oil falling behind her, smiling in expectation of royal praise.

Lyrna resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow and kept her hands clasped together beneath her cloak, fearing so many eyes witnessing how badly they trembled. The smell of her hair burning… The searing lick of the flames as they ate her flesh… The tremble in her hands increased, threatening to spread to her arms as she continued to stare at Alornisʼs prideful visage. What have I made in you?