She is momentarily troubled by this. Usually the song chooses an innocent, some pale-faced youth stolen from a slaughtered hill tribe or identified by the overseers in the training dens. She had liked to play the benefactor, the kindly mistress come to offer them deliverance from this place of endless fear, enjoying the desperate hope in their eyes, even granting them the mercy of a swift death by way of reward.
Now it is different. The song speaks of a loathsome soul and it’s this that stirs her hunger. Was this you, beloved? she asks him. Did you change me so much? Despite her unease she knows this shell must be sustained, the Messenger having related how quickly a stolen shell can sicken, the demands of multiple gifts drain them so. She starts for the nearby stairwell but pauses as two Kuritai approach, dragging a red-clad figure between them and providing a welcome distraction.
“Council-man Lorvek,” she greets the red-clad. “It’s been so very long. I’m glad to see the years have not withered you one bit.”
The red-clad appears to be a man in his mid-thirties, though she first met him some eighty years ago when he first rose to Council, in this very chamber in fact. He had been triumphant then, she recalls, preening with satisfaction at having secured fabled immortality. Now he just seems to be what he is, a scared man, cowed by torture and expectant of death.
“I . . .” he begins, swallows, a faint trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. “I . . . humbly regret any offence caused to the Ally or his servants . . .”
“Oh, there you go again, Lorvek,” she says, shaking her head with a sad smile. “Always saying the wrong thing. What was it you called me that day in Council, oh, twenty years ago? You remember, the day I came back from my excursion to the realm of the slant-eyed pig?”
Lorvek hangs his head, summoning the will to plead further. “I . . . I said . . . unwise words . . .”
“Murderous whore to a pestilent phantom.” She takes hold of his hair and pulls his head up. “Yes, that was unwise. And now you call me a servant. I do wonder how you ever rose so high with such poor judgement. After everything the Ally has given you.”
A wave of weariness sweeps through him and his eyes grow dim for a second. She assumes he has exhausted his ability to beg, but then he draws breath, a light coming back into his eyes as he spits blood into her face. “The Council will not stand for this, you vile bitch!” he hisses.
“Evidence of corruption is hard to ignore,” she tells him, finding a glimmer of admiration for this final flare of courage. “I’m afraid the vote was unanimous. Besides . . .” She moves closer, whispering, “Just between the two of us, the Council won’t have to stand for anything soon.” She presses a kiss to his cheek and steps back.
“Back there,” she tells the Kuritai, jerking her head at the tunnel leading to the pits. “Give him a sword and throw him in. Tell the overseer I want to know how long he lasts.”
He screams as they drag him away, more defiance, dwindling again into contrite pleas as they enter the tunnel and his voice fades. She summons the song once more, seeking out the cell with the dark note and making for the stairs.
• • •
Frentis came awake with a shout, despair and grief doubling him over. He felt tears flowing and covered his face with his hands, sobs tearing from his throat.
“Boy?” Master Rensial reached out to touch him, hand tentative on his shoulder, bafflement in his voice. “Boy?”
Frentis continued to weep as the mad master patted his shoulder, aware that the others had stirred from their tents, that they stood outside looking on in amazement, but he found he couldn’t stop. Not until the morning sun rose and all chance of sleep had safely faded.
• • •
“My blood grandmother had many dreams.” Davoka’s eyes were intent on his face as she rode alongside, though her tone was light, her usual growl absent this morning.
Frentis gave a tired nod and didn’t reply. Breakfast had been a mostly silent affair, Thirty-Four passing him a bowl of porridge with a troubled frown, Illian and Arendil unable to meet his gaze, and Draker staring, bushy brows narrowed in concern.
Tears from the Red Brother, Frentis thought. They forgot I was a just a man . . . Perhaps I did too.
“She saw stars falling from the sky to shatter the land,” Davoka went on. “And floods high enough to drown the mountains. One day she gave away her pony and all her goods because a dream told her the sun would explode at twilight. It didn’t and people saw just a mad old woman with dreams, and dreams mean nothing.”
They are not dreams, he wanted to tell her, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples as fatigue swept through him. “You think I am not fit to lead?”
“Our clan would follow you into the Mouth of Nishak if you asked. They fear for you, that is all.”
He opened his eyes and forced himself to scan the horizon. West of the Spur the ground was mostly pasture, though now devoid of cattle, the grass grown long through lack of grazing. Master Sollis had acceded to his request to scout the southern approach, though his pale eyes spoke of harsher judgement than that offered by the people who had followed him from the Urlish. He thinks me damaged, Frentis knew. Destroyed by the burden of so much guilt. He hadn’t told Sollis of the wolf’s blessing, the liberation from guilt it had brought, for it seemed empty now. What use was there in being freed from guilt if he was condemned to see through her eyes every night?
Davoka stiffened at his side and pointed. Frentis shook away the doubts clouding his head and followed her finger, finding two figures on the horizon, both mounted and moving at a steady canter through the long grass. He knew they couldn’t be Volarian—they never patrolled in small numbers—and he doubted Darnel had many more hunters to send forth, especially without dogs. Besides, it was plain they had already seen the two riders to the north and came on regardless. Not the actions of an enemy. Nevertheless he unhitched his bow and notched an arrow as the riders came closer, Davoka edging her horse away and angling it so her spear was concealed, held low on its right flank.
Frentis frowned as the riders’ features came into view, finding one a woman and the other a man. The woman had long hair tied back in a tight braid, mounted on a tall piebald mare. Her clothes were unfamiliar, a mix of leather and Volarian gear, including a short sword tied to her saddle though she also carried a lance adorned with feathers and what seemed to be talismans of carved bone.
He heard Davoka give a surprised grunt. “Eorhil.”
The man was dressed in the garb of Realm Guard infantry, his somewhat gaunt features set in a permanent frown, somewhere between bafflement and pain, his mouth open and lips free of expression. They reined to a halt some ten yards away, the woman’s gaze shifting between them, faintly amused by Frentis and his bow, stern and guarded when she turned to Davoka, the Realm Guard at her side sparing them only a tired glance.
Davoka said something in an unfamiliar tongue, the words hesitant and formed with difficulty. The Eorhil woman barked a laugh before speaking in heavily accented Realm Tongue, “Lonakhim sound like a birthing ape.”
Davoka bridled, taking a firm grip on her reins and hefting her spear though the Eorhil woman just grinned, turning to Frentis. “My . . . husband teach me . . . you tongue. You a . . . brother?”
“Yes,” he said. “Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. This is Lady Davoka, Lonak Ambassadress to the Unified Realm.”
The Eorhil blinked in bafflement at the unfamiliar words and shook her head, patting her chest. “Insha ka Forna, I am Eorhil.”
“We know,” Davoka said evenly. “What do you do here?”
“This Brother Lernial.” The Eorhil gestured at the Realm Guard who was now staring silently at the ground. “Kwin sent us.”
“Kwin?” Frentis asked.
Insha ka Forna grunted in frustration and turned, pointing towards the south, speaking with slow deliberation. “Queen.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lyrna
The name was halfway down today’s list, clearly legible in Brother Hollun’s neat script. It had become her daily habit to read the list after breakfast, the brother waiting patiently as she scanned every name. She had been gratified to find that he had already compiled a complete list of every subject in her army, apart from the Seordah and Eorhil, who reacted to his approaches with baffled disdain. Since arriving at Warnsclave she had asked him to expand it to include the refugees who continued to trail into the wasted city. The portly brother undertook the task with his usual diligent care, though he had been obliged to expand his staff of scribes to over thirty, mostly older folk skilled in letters and poorly suited to soldiering.
“These people all arrived yesterday?” she asked.
“Yes, Highness. We put them in the western quarter, shelter is sparse but Captain Ultin’s miners have been busy, bringing in timber to repair roofs and such. They’ve even begun raising some stone houses from the rubble.”
“Good. Assign more men to help them.” She looked again at the name on the list, recalling the final words of a drowning man. Don’t forget your promise, Highness.
She put the list aside and smiled at Hollun. She had taken to receiving her subjects in a large room on the second floor of the harbour-master’s house, a comfortable but somewhat scorched chair standing in for a throne, Iltis and her ladies at her back with a dutiful stillness she found quite irksome even though she recognised the necessity for it. A queen must have a court.