Энтони Райан: Queen of Fire

Grealin. Alucius kept all expression from his face as he asked, “Called forth, my lord?”

“Yes, with the Dark, if you can believe it. First the tale of the Dark-afflicted brother, now the ballad of the witchʼs shark. All very strange, wouldnʼt you agree?”

“I would, my lord. Most certainly.”

Darnel reclined in his throne, regarding Alucius with arch scrutiny. “Tell me, in all your dealings with our cherished surviving Aspects, did they ever make mention of this fat master and his Dark gifts?”

“Aspect Dendrish asks for books, and food. Aspect Elera asks for nothing. They make no mention of this master…”

Darnel glanced at Aluciusʼs father. “Grealin, my lord,” Lakrhil Al Hestian said.

“Yes, Grealin.” Darnel returned his gaze to Alucius. “Grealin.”

“I recall the name, my lord. I believe Lord Al Sorna made mention of him during our time together in the Usurperʼs Revolt. He minded the Sixth Orderʼs stores, I believe.”

Darnelʼs face lost all expression, draining of colour, as it often did at mention of the name Al Sorna, something Alucius knew well and counted on to provide suitable distraction from further astute questioning. Today, however, the Fief Lord was not so easily diverted.

“Store-minder or no,” he grated after a moment. “It now seems heʼs a pile of ash.” He pulled something from the pocket of his silk robe and tossed it to Alucius; a medallion on a chain of plain metal, charred but intact. The Blind Warrior. “Your fatherʼs scouts found this amongst the ashes in a pyre near Wendersʼs body. Itʼs either the fat masterʼs or the Red Brotherʼs, and I doubt weʼd ever get that lucky.”

No, Alucius agreed silently. You never would.

“Our Volarian allies are extremely interested in any whisper of the Dark,” Darnel told him. “Paying huge sums for slaves rumoured to be afflicted with it. Imagine what theyʼll do to your friends in the Blackhold if they suspect they have knowledge of more. The next time you visit them show them this medallion, tell them this tall tale, and report back to me every word they say.”

He got to his feet, walking towards Alucius with a slow gate, face quivering a little now, lips wet with spittle. They were roughly of equal height, but Darnel was considerably broader, and a seasoned killer. Somehow, though, Alucius still felt no fear as he loomed closer.

“This farce has dragged on long enough,” the Fief Lord rasped. “I ride forth tonight with every knight in my command to hunt down the Red Brother and secure my son. Whilst I am gone you will make sure those sanctimonious shits know Iʼll happily hand them over to our allies to see them flayed skinless if itʼll drag their secrets forth, Aspects or no.”

She wakes, her eyes finding a dim yellow glow in a world of shadow. The glow resolves into the flame of a single candle, not so clear as it should be. For a moment she wonders if she has been reborn into a half-blind body, the Allyʼs joke, or further punishment. But then she recalls that her sight, her first bodyʼs sight, had always been unusually sharp. “Keener than any hawk,” her father had said centuries ago, a rare compliment that had brought tears to her eyes then but brings nothing to these now. These weaker, stolen eyes.

She lies on hard stone, cold and rough on her naked skin. She sits and something moves in the gloom, a man stepping from the shadow into the meagre light. He wears the uniform of the Council Guard and the lean face of a veteran but she sees his true face in the leer of his shaded eyes. “How do you find it?” he asks her.

She raises her hands, flexing the fingers and wrists. Strong, good. Her arms are lean, well sculpted, similarly her legs, lithe and supple.

“A dancer?” she asks the Council Guard.

“No. She was found when young. The northern hill tribes, richer in Gifted than elsewhere in the empire. The gift is powerful, an uncanny way with the wind. Something Iʼm sure youʼll find a use for. She was trained with knife, sword and bow from the age of six. Security against your inevitable fall.”

She feels a faint anger at this. It was not inevitable. Any more than love is inevitable. She is tempted to let the anger build, fuel her new body with rage and test its abilities on the leering Messenger, but is given pause by another sensation… The music flows, the tune is fierce and strong. Her song is returned!

She finds a laugh bubbling in her breast and lets it out, her head thrown back, the sound exultant as another thought comes to her, no less fierce in its joyful realisation: I know you see me, beloved!

He came awake with a start, raising a curious whine from Slasher who had been sleeping at his feet. Next to him Master Rensial slept on, an oddly serene smile on his face; a man content in slumber. Apart from battle it was the only time he appeared sane. Frentis sat up with a groan, shaking his head to clear the dream. Dream? Do you really believe thatʼs what it was?

He pushed the thought away and pulled on his boots, hefting his sword and exiting the small tent he shared with the master. The sky was still dark and he judged it no more than two hours into the new day by the moonʼs height. Around him the company lay sleeping, the tents provided by Baron Banders a wondrous luxury after so many days of hardship. They were encamped on the southern slope of a tall hill, one of the downs that made the Renfaelin border country so distinct, campfires forbidden by the baron, who saw no reason to give Lord Darnel an indication of their numbers.

Six thousand men, Frentis thought, his eyes surveying the camp, recalling the intelligence provided by the unfortunate Lord Wenders. Enough to take a city held by Darnelʼs knights and a full division of Volarians?

A soft sound drew his attention back to the tents where his company slept, a soft giggle rising from the tent Arendil shared with Lady Illian. He heard faint but urgent whispers followed by more giggles. I should stop this, he decided, starting forward, then paused as the words Illian had spoken the day before came back to him. I am not a child…

They lost their youth in my bloody crusade, he thought. With worse to come at Varinshold. He sighed and moved away until the sounds grew faint.

It was a half-moon tonight, but the sky was clear, providing enough light for a good view of the low country beyond the downs, so far free of any enemy. Will he wait? Frentis wondered. When Darnel hears that Banders has raised his fief against him and now harbours his son, will he come? His hand ached as he gripped his sword hilt, the bloodlust surging again, calling her voice as it always did. Not so free of its delights, after all, beloved?

“Leave me be,” he whispered in Volarian, teeth gritted, forcing his hand to release the sword.

“Learned a new language then, brother?”

Frentis turned to find a brother about his own age approaching from the shadows, tall with a narrow handsome face and a lopsided grin. It was the grin that stirred his memory. “Ivern,” he said after a moment.

The young brother halted a few feet away, eyes tracking Frentis from head to foot in blank wonder. “I thought Brother Sollis was playing a joke when he told me,” he said. “But when does he joke about anything?” He came forward, arms encircling Frentis in a warm embrace.