Stop that! she commanded herself. A queen is above envy.
But it was hard to watch the way the young woman kept close to him, eyes on him constantly, brows furrowed in concern. She recognised some faces amongst them; Brother Caenis, stern-faced and standing slightly apart from the others. Al Melna, the young captain from the Mounted Guard, holding the hand of a woman with long dark braids and a fresh scar above her eye. Also, the late Tower Lord’s adopted daughter, another who seemed keen to stay close to Vaelin.
The keel scraped through the reeds at the bank’s edge and Ell-Nestra stepped ashore, offering a typically accomplished bow to the assembly. “Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles,” he said, straightening to offer a humourless smile to the tall man. “Although, I believe I know one of you, at least . . .”
Vaelin barely glanced at him, moving forward with an expression of blank amazement as Lyrna stepped from the boat flanked by Iltis and Benten. He halted a few feet away, staring in unabashed wonder as she tried not to shrink from his gaze.
After a moment he blinked and sank to both knees. “Highness,” he said in a voice so thin and strained she wondered if it was truly his, the expression on his face one of overwhelming relief. “Welcome home.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The Fief Lord’s manor seemed to be the only building in Alltor to have escaped the siege untouched. Lyrna’s passage through the city had been marked by the destruction she saw at every turn. Most of the bodies had been cleared away and numerous fires were burning outside the walls alongside the many graves dug by the Cumbraelins. The Volarian dead were being carted a few miles to the south and heaped into a quarry to be covered with earth and no words spoken to mark their passing. It seems the Volarian general’s wife was one of only five hundred survivors from their entire army.
She stood before her now, face tensed with suppressed pain, hands clasped in front of the belly where her unmourned husband had kicked her. The assembled captains of the army stood behind her along with Lady Reva’s court. They were a disparate bunch: a bewhiskered old guardsman who had somehow contrived to survive the siege, a veteran archer apparently of Vaelin’s prior acquaintance and an Asraelin woman with a falsely cultured accent who seemed keen not to meet Lyrna’s gaze for any longer than necessary. Whatever their differences, their fervent loyalty to their new Lady Governess matched the sentiment of the entire city. I’ll have to watch her, Lyrna decided with a note of regret, smiling at the young woman standing to her left. A realm can’t have two queens.
She was seated in an ornate chair on the dais in the Lord’s chamber. Lady Reva had offered the use of the Lord’s Chair but Lyrna wouldn’t hear of it. “That belongs to you, my Lady Governess.”
On her right stood Vaelin, arms crossed and his too-pale face drawn with a weariness that made her worry he might collapse at any moment. But throughout the petitions and judgements that had occupied the preceding hours he stood straight and still with no word of complaint or request for a chair.
“We’ll speak in Realm Tongue,” Lyrna told the general’s wife. “For the benefit of all present.”
The Volarian woman inclined her head. “As you wish.”
Iltis stepped forward with a fierce glower. “The prisoner will address the queen as Highness,” he stated.
The woman winced in discomfort, hand spasming over her midriff. “As you wish, Highness.”
“State your name,” Lyrna told her.
“Fornella Av Tokrev Av Entril . . . Highness.”
“You are hereby judged as an aggressor to this Realm, having made war upon us without just cause, employing such means as to befoul the very name of humanity. The sentence is death.” She watched the woman’s face carefully, finding some fear, but less than she’d hoped for. Could it be true? she wondered, recalling Verniers’ tale. Has she really lived so long death holds little threat?
“However,” Lyrna went on, “Lord Verniers has spoken in your favour. He tells me you are a woman of considerable practicality and, whilst you were happy to profit from the many horrors visited upon this Realm, you took no direct part in it. For this reason I am minded to be merciful, but only on the condition that you answer all questions put to you without hesitation or deceit.” She leaned forward, her gaze boring into the woman’s eyes as she added in Volarian, “And believe me, honoured lady, we have those amongst us who can hear a lie as if it were a scream, and pull the secrets from your head after we hack it from your shoulders.”
The woman’s fear deepened slightly and she gave a nod, making Iltis stamp his foot. “I agree to your terms, Highness,” she said quickly.
“Very well.” Lyrna reclined in the chair, fingers gripping the sides for a moment. “There will be a more detailed questioning in private later. However, Lord Verniers tells me your husband spoke of returning to Varinshold to await the next wave. What did he mean?”
“The next wave of reinforcements, Highness,” Fornella replied with a gratifying lack of hesitation. “The forces that were to occupy this land and prepare for the next stage.”
“Stage?” Lyrna frowned. “If your invasion was complete, what next stage could there be?”
The Volarian woman shifted, suppressing a shudder of pain. “The seizure of this realm was but a first step in a larger design, Highness. This land offered certain geographical advantages for the fulfilment of the ultimate objective.”
Lyrna sensed Vaelin straighten beside her, turning to find him frowning at the woman in intense concentration before breathing a sigh of frustration.
“My lord?” Lyrna asked him in concern.
“Forgive me, Highness.” He offered a wan smile. “I am . . . very tired.”
She surveyed his face, taking in the reddened eyes, the hollow cheeks and the great sadness that clouded his gaze. She knew what he had done the day before, in time she expected the whole world would know, and wondered if it was the killing that brought this malaise. She had always thought of him as immune to such pettiness as guilt or despair, his actions always being so far above reproach. But now . . . Can he really be just a man after all?
“Speak plainly,” she said, turning back to the prisoner. “What exactly is this ultimate objective?”
“The Alpiran Empire, Highness.” Fornella seemed puzzled she hadn’t already divined such an obvious answer. “The invasion of this realm was a precursor to the seizure of the Alpiran Empire. By the summer of the next year an army will be launched from this realm’s ports to land on the empire’s northern coast. A second force of similar strength will launch a simultaneous attack across the southern border. And so the long-held dream of the Volarian people will be fulfilled.” The woman’s smile was barely noticeable. “Your pardon, Highness, but I must tell you this invasion was never more than an opening move in a much larger game.”
“Yes,” Lyrna replied after a moment’s consideration. “A game I’ll finish when I watch Volar burn.”
◆ ◆ ◆
That evening there was a banquet of sorts. Despite the siege the Cumbraelin capital seemed to be well stocked with supplies and the manse’s long dining table was piled high with food as well as numerous wine bottles of impressive vintage. “My uncle’s collection,” Lady Reva explained. “I’ve already given most of it away to the townsfolk.”
They stood together in the grounds of the manor a short distance from the open dining-room windows, Iltis and Benten standing no more than a dozen paces away on either side. The Asraelin woman, apparently Honoured Counsel to the former and current holder of the Lord’s Chair, stood just outside the windows, her stance and expression rigidly neutral but her gaze bright and unwavering as she surveyed their meeting.
“My lady does not like wine?” Lyrna asked the Lady Governess, turning her back on the counsellor’s scrutiny.
“Can’t stand the stuff.” Reva smiled in discomfort, hands clasped together and head slightly lowered. It w
as plain she had only a scant knowledge of etiquette and kept forgetting the necessary honorifics, something Lyrna found irked her royal person not at all.
“Your uncle was something of an expert, as I recall,” she said. “I remember he could take a single sniff of a glass and tell the year of bottling, the vineyard and even the direction of the slope on which the grapes had been grown.”
“He was a drunk. But he was my uncle and I miss him greatly.”
“Especially tonight, I’d guess.”
Reva gave a short laugh. “It’s . . . not what I’m used to.” She frowned in annoyance before adding, “Erm, Highness. Sorry.”
Lyrna just smiled and glanced back at the banquet. It was a subdued affair, the conversation muted, the guests preoccupied with the horrors they had witnessed or the friends they had lost. However, the wine was going down well, especially with Nortah Al Sendahl who sat on the manor steps, arm draped over Brother Caenis’s shoulders as he held forth, wine sloshing from his glass with every expansive gesture. “Iss beautiful, brother. Big open spaces, fine view of the sea and”—he nudged the Lord Marshal with a wink—“I go to bed with a beautiful woman every night. Every night, brother! And you’d still rather stay in the Order.”
“That man is very annoying,” Lady Reva said. “Even when sober.”
“He’s certainly talkative for a corpse,” Lyrna replied. She looked at the other guests, noting one significant absence. He had taken himself off to his army’s camp after the first hour of the banquet, pleading tiredness which certainly could not be questioned. Lady Dahrena had left with him, causing Lyrna to realise her unwelcome pang of jealousy towards the Lady Governess may well have been misdirected.
“What happened to Lord Vaelin?” she asked her.
There was an evident reluctance in Lady Reva’s expression, a tenseness to the porcelain mask of her face. “He saved us.”
“I know. But I can’t help but recognise the manner of saving has left its mark. My lady, please tell me what happened to him.”
A thin hiss of breath came from Reva’s lips, her mouth twitching at an unwelcome memory. “He led the forest folk into the city and they killed the Volarians. All of them, in the space of a few moments. By the Father, I wish we’d had them with us during the siege. I found him when it was done. He . . . was bleeding, a lot. We spoke and he fell. It seemed . . .” She trailed off, raising her gaze to meet Lyrna’s. “It seemed that he’d died. Then the Lady Dahrena came. The way she moved was very strange, her eyes were closed but she walked straight to him without a stumble. Her skin was so pale . . . She fell onto him and I thought they had both perished. I prayed, Highness. I prayed to the Father in a scream, for it was so unfair. And then . . .” She shivered, hugging herself tight. “Then they were alive again.”
“Did anyone else see this?”
“Only the forest people. I could tell they didn’t like it at all.”
“It would be best if it was kept between us, for now.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
Lyrna touched her on the arm and started back to the manor. “Did you mean it?” Reva asked. “About burning their city?”
Lyrna paused and nodded. “Every word.”
“Before all of this I was so certain, so convinced of the rightness of my course. I had a mission, a holy quest blessed by the World Father himself. Now . . .” The young Lady Governess frowned in consternation, suddenly seeming so much older than her years. “I have . . . done things here. In defending this city I have done things . . . I thought them right and just as I did them, now I don’t know. Now I wonder if I mistook rage for right and murder for justice.”
“In war they are the same thing, my lady.” She returned and clasped Reva’s hand. “I have done things too and every one I would do again.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“I should like to take a stroll, my lords,” she told Benten and Iltis a short while later. “To view my new army.”
Iltis gave a typically prompt bow whilst Benten was preoccupied with stifling a yawn. “Feeling the lateness of the hour, my lord?” she asked him.
“Apologies, Highness,” he stammered, straightening up. “I am at your . . .”
She waved him to silence. “Go to bed, Benten.”
Like many of the other guests, Orena seemed to appreciate the late Fief Lord’s taste in wine. “We’ll come too, Highness,” she said, slurring a little, her eyes somewhat unfocused. “I like soldiers.”
“I’ll put her to bed, Highness,” Murel said, taking the lady’s hand and tugging her towards the manor despite her plaintive whine, “Wanna see the soldiers.”
“Her mourning period didn’t last long,” Iltis noted, watching them go.
“We all grieve in different ways, my lord. Shall we?”
“I believe there is something I have to tell you, Highness,” the big man said after they had traversed the causeway. “Concerning Lord Al Sorna.”
“Really? And what is that?”
“I’ve made his acquaintance before. Twice in fact. Once at Linesh where he gave me this”—he touched his misshapen nose—“and once some months ago when I . . .”
Lyrna stopped, regarding him with a raised eyebrow.
“I tried to kill him,” her Lord Protector finished. “With a crossbow.”
Her laugh pealed out across the river as Iltis stood in stoic silence. “That’s why you were in the vaults with Fermin,” she said.
“It was a singular misjudgement. One I assure you I’ll not make again. My attachment to the Faith was fierce, unquestioning. I . . . have different loyalties now.”
“I should hope you do.” They resumed walking, following the bank where some corpses still floated in the reeds, bloated and rich with the odour of rotting flesh. In the aftermath of the rains, the air had taken on an unseasonal chill, misting her breath as she walked, even forming a thin layer of ice around the bodies in the river.
“Ice in summer,” she said, pausing to peer closer. “Late summer, granted. But still, very strange.”
“Never seen the like, Highness,” Iltis agreed, stooping to get a better view. “Not in all my d—”
The arrow took him in the shoulder, spinning him to the ground with a shout. Lyrna dropped as battle-won instinct seized her, the second arrow streaking overhead to punch through the thin ice on the river. They’re close, she surmised, judging the angle of the arrow’s flight. Iltis was lying a few feet away, teeth gritted as he fumbled for his sword. Lyrna shook her head, holding up a hand, eyes scanning the long grass. Iltis stopped moving, biting the cloth of his cloak to keep from voicing his pain.
Never be without it. She had strapped the dagger to her calf before the banquet, unseemly for a queen to carry a weapon. She drew it and reversed the blade, hiding the moonlit gleam under her forearm. Waiting.
Two figures rose from the grass a little over twenty paces away, one tall the other stocky. The tall man carried a longbow, arrow notched and half-drawn, the stocky man an axe. They advanced slowly, the stocky man issuing a laugh. “You should trust my word more, my holy friend. I told you the Father would guide us to her.” She could see him now, broad-bearded features and a bald head, teeth bared as he raised his voice, the tone rich with mirth. “Show yourself, Highness. We only want to offer our respects.”
A little closer. She lowered her arm, letting the blade fall into her palm.
“Oh, don’t be difficult,” the bearded man groaned. “We’re doing you a service. Do you really want to go through life with a face like that?”
Iltis sprang to his feet with a roar, sword scraping free of his scabbard, the tall man swivelling towards him, bow fully drawn. Lyrna glimpsed a narrow handsome face, drawn in hate.
It was her finest throw, the knife tumbling in a perfect arc to take him in the throat, the bowstring snapping as he fell, the arrow lost to the grass. Iltis charg
ed towards the stocky man but could only manage a few steps before stumbling to the ground with a yell of agonised frustration. Lyrna rushed towards him as the stocky man closed, taking the sword from his limp grasp and swinging it two-handed. The steel rang against the axe blade and something smacked across her face, sending her sprawling.
“What a hard head you have, Highness,” the stocky man observed, flexing his fingers and stepping closer. “Perhaps I’ll have it mounted.”
He grinned as he hefted his axe, then blanched as something looped over his head and tightened about his neck. His shout choked to a crack as he was jerked from his feet, eyes bulging, the axe falling from his grasp as he clutched at the rope. Lyrna got to her feet, spitting blood, seeing a muscular, curly-haired young man dragging the stocky assassin away. The young man gathered the rope with quick, skilful jerks of his brawny arms, the stocky man’s feet drumming the earth as he was drawn backwards. When he had the assassin at his feet the young man placed a boot on his neck and tightened the rope further, his face like a mask the whole while. The stocky man’s choking rasps faded after a few seconds.
Lyrna went to Iltis, finding him pale from blood loss and barely conscious. “My thanks, soldier,” she told the muscular young man as he approached. “Please, my lord needs a healer . . .”
She frowned when he didn’t respond, moving towards her without pause, his face still absent any expression. “What . . . ?”
He moved too fast for her to dodge away, large powerful hands gripping her shoulders and drawing her close. She stared into his eyes as they roamed over her scars, seeing only a blank sense of purpose. “Hurt,” he said and enfolded her in his arms, crushing her against the hard muscle of his chest.