Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Vaelin turned to find Astorek standing nearby, watching the scene with faint amusement. Two of his wolves sat a short distance away, a male and a female of disconcerting size, their scent provoking Scar to a fearful shudder.

“Theyʼre too close,” he told the Volarian, nodding at the wolves.

Astorek inclined his head and the wolves rose in unison to trot towards the ice, their usual placidity evaporating as they began to leap and nip at one another in a playful dance.

“Heʼs for riding,” Vaelin said, turning back to the boy as Astorek translated. “Not eating.”

This seemed to puzzle the child even more, his small features creasing into a scrunch of bafflement, so Vaelin lifted him onto Scarʼs back, taking the reins and leading him on a slow walk towards the shoreline. The boy laughed and clapped his hands as he bounced along, the other children following in a clamour that didnʼt need much translation; they all wanted a turn. After an hour or so of entertainment Astorek finally shooed the children away with a few short words. Although the Wolf Peopleʼs discipline of their young folk seemed lax, the instant silence that descended on the children told of an underlying authority that brooked no dissent and they had soon scampered off to find other amusements.

“His description of you was not wholly accurate,” Astorek said when the children had gone. “He said you would be fierce.”

“Your prophetʼs words? You talk as if you knew him.”

“Sometimes I feel as if I did, Iʼve heard his words so many times. Our people write nothing down but all shaman are taught to recite his message without fault.”

Vaelin led Scar back to the stable, fixing a feed-bag over his snout. The islands were poor in grain but rich in root vegetables and berries, harvested in the summer months and preserved through the winter. From his contented snorts and noticeably less denuded frame, it seemed Scar found the mix just as appetising as any bag of corn.

“My mother and father,” Astorek said, “bade me ask as to your intentions.”

“Intentions?”

“The Wolf People have awaited your arrival for as long as they can remember, knowing it would herald a time of great danger. And yet you spend every day tending your horse, whilst your companions play and the big man drinks his way through our stocks of pine ale.”

“Alturk is a… troubled man. And we have lingered here because Wise Bear advised venturing forth during the Long Night meant death. We are, of course, grateful for your hospitality.”

“You talk as if you intend to leave us.”

“We came in search of a particular man. Kiralʼs song will guide us to him. When she hears a clear tune we will move on.”

“Leaving us to our fate, whatever it may be?”

“You put great stock in ancient paintings and long-told stories, especially since you cannot have been born to this life.”

Astorek gave a bitter laugh. “Is that it? You deny my people aid because you still distrust me?”

“Your people require no aid, as far as I can tell. As for you.” Vaelin took the bag from Scarʼs snout, scratching his nose. “Iʼve yet to learn how you came to be here, at this time, speaking our language without fault.”

“If I were an enemy, would not the huntressʼs song warn you?”

Barkus, that night on the beach, the mask slipping away in an instant. All those years and the song had told him nothing. “It should, but I know to my cost how well the servants of our enemy can evade detection.”

He put the feed-bag aside and hefted a seal fur over Scarʼs back, the warhorse voicing a rumbling snort of welcome at the increased warmth, then turned to Astorek, eyebrows raised in expectation. The Volarianʼs gaze became downcast, his response a reluctant murmur, “I was guided here… by a wolf.”

“My father was a wealthy man.” Astorekʼs face was bathed yellow in the firelight, his gaze fixed on the flames. Vaelin had called the others to the great dwelling they shared to hear his story, the Lonak sitting with their customary attentiveness when promised an interesting tale. The Gifted sat on either side of Vaelin, Orven and his guardsmen arrayed in neat rows behind. Only Alturk was absent, something that provoked a sharp exchange between Kiral and one of the Sentar, a veteran warrior who shifted uncomfortably at her terse enquiry. From her disgusted expression Vaelin divined she found his answer less than satisfactory.

“A merchant to trade,” Astorek went on. “Like his father before him. The great port city of Varral was our home, where I grew up in my grandfatherʼs fine house surrounded by fine slaves and fine toys. Most of grandfatherʼs trade came from the Unified Realm and we often played host to merchants and captains from across the sea. Keen to ensure his legacy, my grandfather insisted I be taught all the principal languages of commerce, so by the age of twelve I was fluent in Realm Tongue and Alpiran, and could even converse adequately in the two main dialects of the Far West. I remember being a happy child, and why not? As long as I remained attentive at lessons for a few hours a day, every whim would be indulged, and my grandfather did like to spoil me so.”

Astorekʼs smile of fond remembrance faded as he continued, “It all changed when Grandfather died. My father, it seemed, had once nurtured youthful aspirations to be a soldier, quickly discounted by Grandfather of course, who had little interest in things military beyond trade in weapons. All Volarian males are supposed to serve a minimum of two years in the Free Swords but Grandfather knew whom to bribe to deny his son a chance at military glory. And so, as the years passed, my father nursed his grievance and fed his secret ambition, an ambition given free rein with Grandfatherʼs passing.

“Volaria tends to frown on amateur soldiers, the sons of the wealthy can purchase commission to junior officer status but thereafter promotion is granted strictly on merit. However, my father also knew whom to bribe and soon after securing his commission, and providing funds to equip and recruit a full battalion of Free Sword cavalry, found himself quickly elevated to the rank of commander. But rank wasnʼt enough, his thirst for glory hadnʼt abated. Varral, like all Volarian cities, is rich in statues, long rows of bronzes commemorating heroes, ancient and new, and Father badly wanted a plinth for himself. A sudden upsurge in campaigning against the northern savages provided him his opportunity, and, as is custom for the wealthy in Volaria, sons of sufficient age are required to follow their fathers to war. I was thirteen years old.”

“Your mother raised no objection?” Vaelin asked.

“Perhaps she would have, had I ever known her. Grandfather told me she had been cast out after revealing herself a faithless whore and Father never said a single word about her. But there was a slave, an old woman who worked in the kitchens, so old she was losing her mind. She caught sight of me once, stealing cakes as I often did, and started screaming, ‘Elverahʼs spawn. Elverahʼs spawn.ʼ The other slaves quickly dragged her away and I never saw her again. That was the only time my grandfather ever punished me, thirty strokes of the cane, and after every stroke he made me promise never to speak of my mother again.”

“She was Gifted,” Dahrena said. “Like you.”

“I expect so. Itʼs the same among the Wolf People, only mothers with power pass it on to their children. As I journeyed north with my fatherʼs battalion the soldiers would sometimes exchange stories of strange folk spirited away by Council agents, never to be seen again. Though they always spoke softly of such matters, for Father was zealous in enforcing discipline, flogging several men in the first week of the march. I suppose he was trying to compensate for a complete absence of any military talent.