‘Speak,’ said Valraven. ‘We must close ranks at this time.’
Varencienne thought of a suitable response. ‘Years ago, when my mother came to Caradore, and together we performed the ritual to the sea dragons, there was talk of you being given power again in Caradore. You know what my mother promised you. Are you sure you should go against her now?’
‘I’m not sure I regard her promises as lasting,’ Valraven said.
‘I will find out what I can,’ Varencienne said. ‘Come to me for breakfast.’
Valraven stood up. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
Some distance from Varencienne’s chambers, in a dank store room far below the women’s apartments, the empress Tatrini spoke with her augur, Lady Grisette Pimalder. The Pimalder family had served the imperial line for many generations. Their women were gifted with the faculty of second sight, while their menfolk were skilled in the art of perfumery. Lady Grisette’s own husband created the sensual aromas with which Tatrini dabbed her wrists and neck. Now, the two women were intent on a business of a less delicate nature.
‘Tell me what you see,’ said Tatrini.
Grisette stood over a table, her hands daubed to the wrists in blood. Before her lay the corpse of a beautiful young man, whose belly had been opened, flaps of skin held to either side with silver pins. His guts lay on the table beside him, a complicated story of twists and turns. Gore-spotted cutting instruments were arranged upon a silver dish beside the body’s head. Lady Pimalder wore a veil of shimmering silver voile over her head, tied at the neck to enclose her entire face. She glanced up at her mistress, who stood some feet away by the wall, a handkerchief held to her nose. Wan sunlight came in the through the webby panes of the small window high overhead, for the rain had passed. The air smelled of earth and rot and it was very cold. Grisette’s breath steamed before her. ‘There is much to see,’ she said. ‘Nothing is certain.’
‘This much I know. Speak to me, woman. Tell me what lies there.’
Grisette poked the entrails with a tortoiseshell pointer. ‘Prince Gastern will become emperor.’
Tatrini lowered the handkerchief and approached the table. ‘Is that all?’
Grisette shook her head. ‘Indeed not, your grace. Beneath your hand lies ingots of gold, of different value. You must choose. Royal blood will be spilled into the great rivers of Magravandias. The four shall become one and the elemental beasts reunite. Madragore may be consumed by the very beasts he put in chains to serve him. The fire drakes writhe in their nests of flame, and call to their brethren of the earth, sea and sky. The blood of ancient pacts seeps from the mountains and the heir to Caradore is in threat of bondage.’
‘What is this? What do you mean? Do you refer to my grandson?’
‘He is in danger,’ said Grisette. ‘It will come down from the mountains.’
‘Can it be stopped?’
‘Do not let him into the mountains. Keep him low.’
‘What mountains?’
‘Those of his home.’
‘Are you saying I must not let Rav return to Caradore?’
‘If you do, you will lose him.’
Tatrini turned away. Varencienne would never countenance that. Was it possible to keep both her and the children here in Magrast? It would not be easy. Varencienne had become a true woman of Caradore, as was right and needful, but she was a spirited young woman. She liked to believe she had autonomy. ‘You must tell me more of this danger,’ Tatrini said. ‘Look deeper, Grisette. Who threatens the Dragon Heir?’
‘Shrouded,’ replied Lady Pimalder. ‘Whoever it is hides themselves well. It is no one of your clan, nor are they affiliated to Madragore. It is an outside influence, slippery and swift.’
‘Then you must do more to strip them of their disguise.’
‘I will apply myself to it, but it cannot be read from the entrails.’
‘Make haste.’ Tatrini took a purse from her belt and held it out to the augur. ‘Take this for Lord Pimalder, Grisette. My late husband found great comfort in the sweet perfume that was made for him.’
Grisette bobbed a curtsey and took the purse with a swift bloody hand. ‘We are your servants, your grace,’ she said. ‘Our hearts are with you in your grief.’
‘Responsibility is a great burden,’ Tatrini said. ‘I am hagridden by needful actions that hang heavily upon the heart.’ She glided past the augur and spoke to a man clad in black who stood just beyond the door. ‘Dispose of the remains, Master Dark.’
The man came into the room, sweeping a bow. He did not speak, but then he rarely did. He was like a shadow creature of earth, mould clinging to his clothes.
‘Wait!’ Grisette said. She poked about in the pile of guts once more. ‘The crown has been found.’
Tatrini paused at the threshold. ‘What crown?’
‘I don’t know. The splay of the viscera suggests a crown, that’s all. A hidden crown. I can tell you no more at present.’
Tatrini sighed impatiently. Sometimes, the augur’s predictions created more confusion than they cleared. ‘If it is of importance to us, then discover more,’ Tatrini said. ‘I must go now. My daughter has arrived in Magrast.’
Lady Pimalder nodded and unwrapped the veil from her face, then cast the shimmering fabric over the opened belly of the body on the table. She went to a water pipe sticking out from the wall to wash her hands. Business was concluded.
Chapter Four: Funeral Games
On the day of the funeral, at ten o’clock in the morning, a dozen fire mages went in procession to the roof of the palace, where the flags of many nations flapped heavily in the soaked air. Far below, in the wide rectangle of the Imperial Parade Ground, thousands of mourners had gathered, all of them titled or noble, huddled together in the fine rain that fell from a colourless sky. Awnings had been set up for the benefit of foreign visitors, to many of whom the cold late winter of Magravandias was anathema if not life-threatening. Among them were Queen Neferishu of Mewt and King Ashalan of Cos, perhaps the two most intriguing of dignitaries.
The fire mages spoke prayers, which were carried away soundlessly on the wind. Their ceremonial robes of black and purple were blown about their gaunt bodies, their tall conical caps in danger of being taken captive by the elements. From wicker cages, they released a host of black doves, which despite the weather fluttered up with spirit into the sky.
Varencienne, standing with her family upon the Balcony of Viewing, thought the wings of the doves sounded mechanical, like clockwork. Surely she was not really here, but at home in Caradore, dreaming? Valraven was not beside her, because presently he would lead the Splendifers, the Holy Knights of Madragore, out of the palace with the emperor’s body, but at least her children were with her. At one time, they would not have been allowed to attend any state events, not even weddings, but Tatrini had done much to change this custom. Varencienne’s son, Rav, was straining against the balcony, trying to peer over the balustrade, full of curiosity. Ellony, his sister, shrank against the front of her mother’s stiff black coat. Varencienne knew the child would be discomforted by the conflicting emotions raging about her. She was named for Khaster and Merlan’s dead sister, who had been Valraven’s first wife. Varencienne had chosen the name herself, perhaps rather an odd choice for a second wife to make, but she felt that Ellony and Rav were, in some ways, the children Val’s first wife had never had. Her daughter was not related in blood to Ellony Leckery, yet it seemed as if she’d somehow managed to inherit her namesake’s rather fey nature. Pharinet, Valraven’s sister, insisted young Ellony was far stronger, braver and more robust than the original, but there was no doubt she was highly sensitive, and sometimes this affected her badly. Varencienne squeezed the girl’s shoulder lightly with a gloved hand. Ellony glanced round at her, eyes full of messages. Varencienne blinked mildly at her: a signal. Be patient. We’ll soon be indoors again.
All the royal princes were present, standing in a line behind their moth
er, the empress. Gastern’s wife, Rinata, stood at his shoulder, with their sulky-faced son, Linnard, beside her. Rinata and Gastern might have been cut from the same bolt of cloth. Varencienne could not image how two such rigid prudish creatures had steeled themselves for the act that had produced Linnard. Perhaps the child’s dour nature reflected the lack of pleasure involved. Two of the lesser princes, Pormitre and Celetian also had wives; polite little countesses who stood dutifully behind their husbands. Almorante had never taken a wife, but had two high-ranking mistresses, neither of whom Tatrini would allow upon the balcony. Bayard’s mistresses and male lovers were all too disreputable even to be mentioned in polite company. Bayard and Almorante stood at either end of the line of brothers, unable to produce a façade of fraternal affection even at their father’s funeral. Between them, with the others, were Eremore, Roarke and Wymer, and also the younger brothers, who were little more than children, Leonid, Parrish and Osmar. But for Almorante, who was untypically dark-haired, all the princes shared the same fair Malagash appearance. Many people called them the Lions of Magrast, but Varencienne had heard her husband refer to them as wolves, and this description seemed more apt: pale wolves, with gem stone eyes, tongues lolling in the dark, panting, waiting, claws clicking along the bare passages of the palace.
Who are these people? Varencienne wondered. The only brother she’d ever really known was Bayard, and she’d discovered so many unpleasant things about him since she’d left home, she’d had to conclude her previous knowledge of his character had been misguided. During her childhood, she’d never been truly close to any of her family. Only Caradore had given her a feeling of belonging. She was anxious to return there. She wouldn’t feel safe until Magrast was behind her. But what are you afraid of? To your brothers, you’re “only a woman”. You have nothing to fear from them. But your motherc The inner voice faded. Tatrini was interested in Valraven. She would soon remind him of the service she had done him four years before and demand he help her now. What would Valraven do then? Varencienne had not seen the empress since she’d dined with her mother, two days before.
The dinner itself had been frighteningly devoid of tense moments. Tatrini had acted well the role of doting grandmother, asking only about domestic life in Caradore. Varencienne had been suspicious, taut as steel, waiting for the blades to emerge. But Tatrini had merely played with her, chatting mildly about the foreign visitors filling the palace and even stooping to reminiscences about her late husband, which considering the lack of closeness in their marriage, had seemed indelicate at best. Tatrini had deliberately kept away from tender topics. But it would come eventually, Varencienne had no doubt of that.
Varencienne shivered and pulled the neck of her coat closer to her throat. Closing her eyes, she uttered a prayer to Madragore in her mind, a god to whom she had never paid fealty. But this was his territory, his responsibility. Make Gastern emperor, mighty lord. Keep him safe. It was the least of many evils.
At each end of the balcony, a flight of steps led down to the Parade Ground below. Between the sweep of these steps, at ground level, a stand had been erected, where members of the Fire Chamber and various other Magravandian dignitaries were arranged. Varencienne wondered whether Merlan Leckery was there. She had heard from the ladies in waiting who had been appointed to her that officials from the governmental office in Mewt were expected, but had felt it imprudent to make direct enquiries. Surely, if Merlan was in Magrast, he’d have attempted to contact her.
The main doors to the palace opened, and a company of Splendifers came slowly through, carrying the glossy black sarcophagus, which was draped with flags and official sashes. Valraven walked behind them, dressed like they were, in a black ceremonial tunic, emblazoned with the crimson dragon of Madragore, and a fine chain mail that glistened like oil in the rain. His hair was plaited tightly, tucked into the hood of mail that lay in a supple pool over his shoulders. The imperial band began to play a dirge and the mourners on the Parade Ground all bowed their heads. Varencienne stared down at them. The fine rain had gathered on her lashes, so that when she blinked it was as if she were weeping. Some of the duchesses and countesses down there were openly shedding tears. Leonid had been held in affection. Perhaps some of those women had been his mistresses.
An open hearse drawn by black horses powdered with ash stood ready to receive the sarcophagus. The Splendifers moved carefully with their great burden, manoeuvring it slowly onto the carriage. Valraven stood to attention, his eyes gazing out above the heads of the mourners. He barked a command and the Splendifers dropped to one knee, their arms crossed over their chests. Then Archimage Mordryn emerged from another doorway in the palace wall, leading a company of fire mages and their young novices. The novices sang an obsequy, voices sweet and melancholy. Thick clouds of incense drifted down from the great golden censers in their hands. Mordryn reached the hearse, and the novices fell silent. The Archimage spoke a prayer and then the Splendifers rose to their feet, each standing beside one of the six horses yoked to the hearse. Valraven called out another order and the Splendifers turned to face the Balcony of Viewing. Prince Gastern inclined his head to them and began to lead his family down a flight of steps to the Parade Ground, where they were joined by Senefex and the Fire Chamber. Varencienne glanced around herself discretely and was sure she caught sight of Lord Maycarpe in the crowd behind her, but it was impossible to see whether Merlan was with him.
The Army in Residence filed out from an adjoining yard: first the cavalry and the rest of the Splendifers, their horses’ hooves muffled by socks of purple linen, and then the infantry, followed by cannon. Valraven raised one arm and cried out another almost wordless order. The procession began to move, heading for the ceremonial arch that led to the cathedral and the pyre that had been built in the ambustiary behind it. The hearse went first, followed by Valraven on foot, and the royal family. Then came the mages, the Fire Council and the army. Other mourners fell in behind them. All the mages raised their voices in a hymn; deep baritones mingling with the higher tones of the novices. Beyond the ceremonial arch, servants and officials lined the main driveway. As the hearse passed them, they cast branches of evergreen onto it, which were presently ground up beneath the feet of the procession, releasing a strong tart scent.
Out in the city proper, the streets were thronged with citizens. Funerals and weddings were the only time they would catch a glimpse of royalty at such close quarters. Prudently, the mounted personal guard of the family had moved forward to form a barrier between them and the crowds, while other divisions of the army provided protection for the foreign dignitaries. Many women called out to the empress, ‘Bless me, my lady’, because she had done much to improve the female role in Magravandian society over the past couple of years. From being invisible, a voiceless presence at the emperor’s side at state functions, Tatrini had manoeuvred herself into prominence with a loud voice of her own. Leonid had supported her, his liberality perhaps the result of encroaching sickness and death, which had mellowed him. It was as if Tatrini had been waiting for the right moment to show her claws, and her image to the people now seemed part of a carefully contrived plan. ‘My lady’ was hardly an appropriate title for an empress, but entirely so for a saint or a goddess. The implications of this were not lost on Varencienne. Surrounded by people, she felt slightly faint. She could not help but be reminded of the last time she’d visited the cathedral: on the day of her wedding, when she’d sat beside her father in an open carriage. Life moved so quickly. You didn’t realise it until you paused to reflect.
Ellony kept close to her mother, discreetly holding her hand, while Rav marched slightly ahead of them, head high. It was clear he was conscious of his elevated status among the population of Magrast. A pang of anxiety stabbed through Varencienne’s heart. She didn’t want her son to like Magrast, or the life there, too much.
It took nearly an hour to reach the cathedral and once there, half an hour more for everyone to be seated in the stands around
the ambustiary. Varencienne took her seat, with her children to either side of her. It was then that she saw Merlan Leckery sitting in the stand opposite. For a second, she could not breathe. He did not appear to have noticed her, but was conversing with Lord Maycarpe, who was seated beside him. It was difficult to believe she had once been intimate with Merlan. The face was familiar, but the memories of him no longer felt real. Her old fantasies of Khaster had more substance. Where Valraven’s male beauty was direct, even aggressive, Merlan’s was subtler. He had the soft brown Leckery hair, so similar to Khaster’s in the portraits Varencienne had seen, and the artfully sculpted face, devoid of the dashing planes and angles of the typical Palindrake countenance. He did not raise his eyes or glance around the crowd, which to Varencienne seemed unnatural. Could he be avoiding her eye? Perhaps he regretted sending the letter and had thought better of re-establishing contact. Telling herself it was for the best, Varencienne sought to ignore the pang of disappointment.