The deck suddenly descended, the angle of its pitch reversing, swinging her around so that she lay on the deck, gasping in the sudden lull. “My lady!” It was Arentes, running towards her across the deck, arms outstretched. She was reaching for him when the crash came.
The impact jarred her grip from the rail, the pitch of the deck too steep to allow any purchase as she and Arentes were carried towards the starboard side. She saw the guard commander hit the rail, shattering the wood with a bone-snapping crunch, and leaving a gap through which she descended into the roiling sea.
The storm’s fury disappeared in an instant, replaced by the silence of the world beneath the waves. She could see only varying swirls of grey as she descended, borne down by the weight of mail and weapons. She let go of her bow, knowing this time Master Arren’s wonder would be lost forever, then unclasped her sword belt, letting the blade fall away. She tore at the straps to her mail shirt, writhing in the cloying chill, bubbles spouting from her mouth in a torrent.
No! She forced calm into her thoughts as the straps resisted every desperate tug. Panic will kill you.
She formed herself into as still and straight a pose as possible, facing towards the surface to slow her descent, then drew her dagger and cut each of the straps in turn. The mail shirt came loose in an instant and she felt herself rise, but too slowly judging by the now-agonised burn in her chest. She kicked for the surface, forcing every ounce of strength into her lungs and sternly refusing the compulsion to draw breath.
She broke into the air with a shout, dragging in rain-clogged air and coughing, carried high and low by tall waves. There was no sign of Arentes, or anyone else. Then a sudden cacophony, loud enough to reach her through the storm, a great cracking sound, like a thousand trees splintered at one blow. The swirl of the storm shifted for a moment, lessening the darkness to afford a view of the Marshal Smolen, the great vessel’s hull shuddering as it scraped along some unseen barrier, her sails torn from her rigging and what seemed to be dark droplets cascading from her sides, droplets Reva soon realised were people, her people, casting themselves into the sea as the ship was torn apart beneath them.
The storm shifted again, taking the spectacle with it, but Reva continued to stare, as the cold rose to numb her limbs and she shuddered, knowing death was coming soon and she had no desire to fight it.
I killed them all, she thought as the waves covered her head. With a lie.
CHAPTER THREE
Frentis
The villa was the largest they had yet encountered, more a fortress than a home, its walls thick and tall, the gardens extending for several acres all around. It had clearly been home to a master of considerable wealth, enough in fact to maintain a garrison of two hundred Varitai. Despite the strength of the villa’s defences, however, the master had felt little compunction in abandoning it at the first sign of their approach. His Varitai were easily counted, lying in four neat rows in the inner courtyard, each bearing an identical ear?to?ear cut across the throat.
“All valuables gone,” Draker reported, “along with the horses. Found most of the slaves inside. Unlike this lot, looks like some put up a fight. Didn’t save them though.”
“Two hundred of their own men,” Illian said, shaking her head in bafflement. “I can make no sense of it.”
“They know what we’re about now.” Frentis nodded at a silent cluster of their own freed Varitai nearby. “Didn’t want us to have them.” He caught Master Rensial’s eye. “From the state of the bodies they can’t be more than a day’s ride north. See to it, please Master.”
Rensial nodded and moved to his horse, his mounted company following as he galloped through the villa’s gate. Frentis briefly pondered going with them, given the master’s erratic nature, but resisted the impulse. Recent days had seen a change in Rensial, his gaze not quite so blank, even occasionally given to unbidden speech requiring less deciphering than usual. Only in war does the madman become sane.
Not all the villa’s slaves had been slain before their master’s flight, some having been at work in the fields when the slaughter began. Many were seen fleeing in all directions, though a sizeable minority made their way to the villa, cautious and bemused by the welcome they received, some collapsing in grief at the sight of their murdered fellows, mostly men weeping over fallen women. Marriage was forbidden between slaves but everywhere they went there was evidence that people were capable of forging their own bonds regardless of whatever barriers or threats constrained their lives. It was to these bereaved souls that Frentis gave the villa’s owner when Rensial returned the following day, dragging the unfortunate black-clad along behind his horse, hands bound and mouth firmly gagged.
“He had a wife and children,” Rensial reported as the slaves closed in around their former master, knives and whips raised. “I let them go.”
“Of course, Master.” They always beg. Frentis watched the black-clad collapse to his knees, bound hands raised in appeal. He was a tall man, impressively built with the look of a soldier, attested to by the various military souvenirs found in the villa. An officer of renown? The villa, the family, the slaves. All fruits of an illustrious career. A hero’s reward. He was far from heroic now, just a terrified, piss-stained man begging for his life. They always beg.
He turned away as the torment began, going to where Illian was engaged in training the latest batch of recruits. There were fewer Realm folk now but their numbers had begun to swell since the victory over the Eskethian garrison, the Free Swords they had allowed to flee carrying word of the calamity with impressive speed. Within days a hundred more runaways had arrived in the mountains, the army’s numbers swelling to over four thousand in the space of a month. Feeding so many had forced Frentis to order a move to the north-west, into the rich farmlands that stretched towards New Kethia, this villa being the first to fall.
He watched the training for a short time, taking satisfaction from the accustomed ease with which Illian marshalled the recruits, displaying all the authority of a master on the Order House practice ground. She had them learning the staff, the basis for eventual use of the pole-axe or the spear, but also a sign that they still lacked sufficient weapons. He had set the former blacksmith to work in the villa’s forge with orders to remake the copious stocks of farming tools into as many axe blades as possible. It meant they would have to linger here for a time, weeks probably, and he chafed at the delay. Keen to maintain the impetus of their rebellion, he had sent Lekran and Ivelda in opposite directions with two hundred fighters each and orders to free as many slaves as possible.
Frentis turned as Thirty-Four approached. The former slave had taken to wearing kit stripped from the bodies of Free Sword officers and gave an impression of impeccable military neatness, every inch of armour scrupulously cleaned and all buckles polished to a gleaming shine.
“He’s ready then?” Frentis asked him.
“Healed and fully able to ride, brother. Still refusing to talk though.”
“Unusual. They normally can’t shut up when they realise what you are.”
“Who I am,” Thirty-Four corrected, an uncharacteristic hardness in his voice. “What I used to be.”
“Yes.” Frentis offered an apologetic smile. “Let’s set him on his way, shall we?”
The Volarian had refused to offer a name but they had gleaned it from the correspondence found among his battalion’s baggage train. “Honoured Citizen Varek,” Frentis greeted him brightly, crouching at his side in the shade of the acacia tree to which he had been shackled. “Feeling better I trust?”
Varek remained slumped against the tree-trunk, his face betraying no emotion beyond the simmering rage that had dominated his demeanour upon waking to find himself chained and his battalion destroyed.
“I have good news,” Frentis went on, gesturing for Thirty-Four to unlock the chain. “Freedom awaits.”
Varek’s expression became guarded, Frentis noting how he suppressed the faint glimmer of hope that rose in his eyes. “
No trick, I assure you.” Frentis took hold of the chain and gave an insistent tug, the Volarian slowly getting to his feet, wary eyes constantly moving in expectation of an attack. Frentis led him through the courtyard, knowing he would take full notice of the many former slaves at training. Draker waited at the villa’s arched entrance with a horse, saddled and laden with provisions for several days’ ride.
“This was your horse, wasn’t it?” Frentis asked, removing the shackles from Varek’s wrists.
The Volarian was marginally less wary now, rubbing at his reddened flesh as his gaze tracked from Frentis to the horse. “I will not betray my people,” he stated, the first words he had spoken since waking. “Whatever the reward.”
“This could hardly be called a reward,” Frentis said. “I imagine you know the kind of welcome you’ll receive in New Kethia, the defeated, disgraced son to an honoured father. The shame of it will be unbearable, but before you kill yourself please inform your tormentors that what happened to you will soon happen to them. Before the year is out their city will fall and every soul they keep in bondage will be free. But my queen is rich in compassion and willing to offer terms.”
The Volarian sighed, shaking his head. “You are mad.”
“The city gates to be opened and the walls cleared of defenders. All Free Swords to lay down their arms and all slaves, including Varitai and Kuritai, to be freed. The city will become the property of Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, who will decree a fair redistribution of lands and riches in due course.” He stepped closer to Varek, speaking softly, feeling his rage building anew. “Failure to agree to these most generous terms will result in the utter destruction of your city and the execution of every Volarian found in arms.”
Varek jerked his head towards the host of recruits. “You truly believe this rabble capable of taking New Kethia? You think the Ruling Council will sit idly by whilst you march? You will be crushed before you even catch sight of the city and every one of these dogs still alive will be flayed and left to rot in the sun, if they are lucky.”
Frentis merely smiled. “News travels slowly, it seems.” He leaned closer still. “There is no Ruling Council now. You are ruled by an empress and, trust my word on this, she will look on and laugh when I raze your city to the ground.”
“Whatever awaits me, I’ll bear it,” Varek said in a tone of complete certainty. “I’ll suffer every torment for a thousand years just for the slightest chance of getting this close to you again.”
“Then you had best invest in some sword lessons first.” Frentis turned to Draker. “Escort the honoured citizen until nightfall. If he takes one backward glance, kill him.”
Her new body is stronger than the one she left on the beach, leaping and whirling with all the speed and precision she could ask for, and yet …
“Feel it, don’t you?” the Messenger asks, lounging in a chair on the balcony. He wears the body of an Arisai, one of the few with Gifted blood, tall and lean. Behind him stand six more, also Gifted, and, although their faces are different, their expressions are identical. She has never met so much of him before and finds it trying, one was always more than sufficient.
She lowers the short sword and straightens from the fighting crouch, naked and sheened in sweat from the practice. If the Messenger finds the sight arousing, there is no sign of it on any of his faces. She is discomforted by the sight of the darkened sky that frames them, realising it was noon when she returned to the Council Tower. Since awakening in this new shell her ability to keep track of time has diminished yet further.
“Feel what?” she asks.
“The numbness. Cold isn’t so cold, heat isn’t so hot. Gets worse with every one you take. These days I can barely feel a thing.” He angles his head, studying her, a small predatory smile on his lips. “Can you hear it this time? You can, can’t you?”
She suppresses a flash of anger, resenting his effortless intuition. The shell’s owner had been older than the first, and not born to slavery, leaving a deep pool of memory that flares into aggravating clarity all too often: … playing with her brother on the shore of some mountain lake … laughing when her father showed her his tricks …
She initially thought the woman’s gift so small it couldn’t be discerned but has come to understand that memory was her gift. Every thought, action and word residing in her head, unchanging and always so bright.
“You said to prepare eight,” she says, pushing the images away. “Yet I only count seven.”
She takes some satisfaction from the sight of them clenching jaws in unison, knowing the Messenger was suppressing his own anger. “Al Sorna has a facility for acquiring useful friends,” he says after a short pause.
She sees it then. Although the shells are all youthful and athletic his evident wounding still marks them, colours their eyes with pain, weariness … and fear. “You’re certain you know where to find him?” she asks.
“He seeks the endless man. I need only journey north and I’ll find his trail. You’ll have to make me a general, and some sort of grandiose title seems appropriate. Overlord of the North, or something.”
“The Northern Armies are commanded by the General Governor of Latethia. I’ll give you an execution order. When he’s dead call yourself what you like.”
“You don’t seem to like these governors much, I must say. Does this leave any alive?”
“Only the Governor of Eskethia. I was going to execute him too but I’m becoming more inclined to leave him to his fate.”
The faces shift again, all vestige of humour fading and she knows his next words are not his. “You cannot afford indulgence now. This distraction of yours had its uses, but now obstructs our purpose. He requires that you see to the matter without delay.”
“The Council is dead and the bitch’s fleet wrecked. All at my hand. I have earned indulgence.”
“The previous three centuries have been your indulgence. Decades of murder and malice, his gift to you. And now he requires payment.”
Her hand flexes on the sword, the true depth of the antipathy she has always felt for this creature becoming apparent for the first time. She sees them tense, the seated speaker rising. “He knows what you planned,” he says. “Your cherished scheme, the dream of ruling with that boy at your side, eternal and terrible with the whole world as your playground. Did you really think it would work?”
“If he has no more use for me,” she says, smiling, “kill me. If you can.”
As one their hands reach for the swords at their side. She knows the odds are hopeless, she knows she is choosing death. Watch me, my love, she thinks, knowing he sees her. Watch me make you proud.
But the Messenger stops, all seven releasing their swords and filing towards the door in silence. The speaker lingers a moment, his face now that of a weary soldier called to inescapable duty. “He will always find more use for us. You can keep the boy, if you take him alive. But the matter must be settled.”
Alone once more she closes her eyes, seeking his presence, embracing the steely resolve she finds, joy threatening to burst her new heart. She sees something, a swirl of mist in the darkness, coalescing into a form she knows so well. His words mean nothing, beloved, she says, reaching out to caress his face. The world can still be ours.
He snatched the hand from his face, snarling in fury, his knife coming up to press into her throat. “Never!” he hissed into her face, pressing the blade deeper.
Lemera whimpered, eyes wide with horror, her face quivering with terror, her head drawn back by the fist that grasped her hair, the smooth flesh of her throat exposed and vulnerable.
The air rushed from his lungs as he dropped the knife, twisting away from her to slump on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “What … what is it?” he said when the shaking had faded from his limbs.
Her reply was barely more than a whisper. “I heard shouting … You were dreaming…”
He glanced over his shoulder, taking note of the thin cotton shift that barely covered her, an
d the depth of fear lingering in her gaze. He turned away, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He had taken over the master’s bedchamber, a spacious display of wealth and luxury, the walls liberally adorned with various paintings, most depicting battles of implausible orderliness. The master himself featured in several, a more youthful version standing tall and proud, sword in hand as he commanded his men with stern-eyed courage, a singular contrast to the bloodied, begging ruin that had been left to expire in the courtyard when the slaves tired of him.
“I … have nightmares sometimes,” he told Lemera. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“I’ve been hurt worse.” He felt her weight shift on the bed then a hesitant touch to his back, her fingers spreading to explore the flesh. “You have fought so much, and yet no scars.”
“I had scars, they healed.”
“Weaver?”
“No.” The seed will grow. “No, it was something else. Something I doubt I’ll ever understand.” He turned again, her hand shifting to rest on his shoulder until he gently removed it. “You should go.”
She drew back a little but made no effort to leave. Her face was shadowed but he had a sense she was smiling. “The sister said you were forbidden the touch of a woman. I thought she must be joking.”
“The Faith requires all we have.”
She shifted again, drawing her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, her head angled as she studied him, now more curious than amused. “And you are so willing to give it?”
“The Order is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“So the world beyond your Order offers no enticements?”
“I’ve seen the world, with all its enticements. I find myself content with the Order.”
“After training yesterday, Draker punched a man for telling a story. A strange tale of how you were taken to the palace, along with a woman possessed of vile magics. And together you killed your king. Was he lying?”