Queen of Fire

  “Tribute?” he asked.

  “A symbolic offering only,” Erlin explained. “If he allows you to stay without it he appears weak and one of the younger men will challenge him.”

  The chieftain spoke, pointing one of his axes at the assembled ranks of ice folk and voicing a guttural demand. Vaelin followed its course to find the axe pointed to where Dahrena stood holding Scar’s reins. “He wants my horse?”

  “Ah, no.” Erlin gave a tight smile. “He wants your woman.”

  “That is not acceptable.” Vaelin’s hand went to a pouch on his belt, loosing the ties to extract a stone, a finely cut ruby of medium weight given to him by Governor Aruan at the Linesh dockside barely two years ago, though it seemed like many more now. There had been times when he had been tempted to sell it, especially when on the road, Reva being so constantly hungry, but the blood-song had flared in warning whenever he considered it. He hoped this was why.

  The chieftain dropped one of his axes to catch the gem as Vaelin tossed it to him, eyes wide with instant fascination. The warriors on either side of him forgot their discipline to crowd round, every face lit with an enthralled greed. Pertak snarled something, raising his remaining axe in warning, and they shrank back, though their gaze returned continually to the ruby.

  Pertak spoke again, directing his question to Vaelin as he held the ruby up to the light. “He wants to know what power it holds,” Astorek translated, a faint note of contempt colouring his voice.

  “The mountains are rich in ore,” Erlin said, “but not gems. They have a certain irrational regard for them.”

  “Tell him it has the power to capture men’s souls,” Vaelin said. “He really shouldn’t stare at it for too long.”

  A brief gleam of fear shone in the chieftain’s eyes as Erlin related the warning, his fist closing over the stone in a fierce grip before he raised his gaze to Vaelin, squinting in contemplation. He grunted a short clipped sentence and, with considerable deliberation, turned his back and walked towards the settlement, his small host following close, all concern at the arrival of such a large body of intruders now apparently vanished.

  “You may stay one day and one night,” Erlin said. “A most generous concession, I must say.”

  “Is that enough?” Vaelin asked him. “For our purposes?”

  Erlin looked up at the mountain towering above the settlement, the flattened summit part obscured by a thin mist. “You’ll find time loses its meaning here, brother.”

  He forbade anyone but Vaelin from accompanying him, though Dahrena and the other Gifted protested loudly. “We have come so far,” Cara said. “To be denied knowledge now…”

  “I seek to preserve,” Erlin broke in, “not to deny. Trust me, you would not thank me for this knowledge.”

  He led Vaelin to a track that curved around the Laretha settlement to the base of the mountain, halting amidst a cluster of ruins. Vaelin scanned the granite blocks and part-tumbled walls, finding a familiarity in the way they had been shaped, the elegance of their line and the wind-blasted motifs carved into the stone. “The Fallen City,” he said. “This place was built by the same hands.”

  “Not quite,” Erlin replied. “Though they shared the same language.” He gestured to a stairwell rising from the ruins to join with the flank of the mountain, Vaelin’s eyes picking out more steps carved into the stone, ascending in a winding track all the way to the top. “And the same gods.”

  “So,” Erlin said as they climbed, the steps damp from the perennial mist and the air growing chill around them, “you no longer hold to the Faith.”

  “A man can’t hold to a lie.”

  “The Faith was never a lie. Confused in some regards, overly wedded to dogma in others. But having seen what the rest of the world has to offer in regards to the divine, I find it suits me well enough.”

  “When we first met you said you had no choice but to follow the Faith. When I came to understand who you were I thought you meant the legend was true, the Departed had cursed you for denying the Faith.”

  “Cursed? I thought so for a long time, when I was driven from the village of my birth, still seemingly a man in his thirties whilst those I had grown up with became ever more stooped and wrinkled. My wife was chief among my persecutors, grown bitter with envy at my continued youth, hating me for the grey in her hair and the absence of lust in my gaze. I had never been particularly observant of the Faith, mouthing the catechisms without real thought as to their meaning, occasionally muttering caustic words at the brothers and their tedious moralising. ‘Denier!’ my hating wife called me, desperate to find reason in this mystery. ‘The Departed have cursed you.’ I suppose that’s where it all began, a bitter old woman’s insult birthing a legend.”

  “So you never heard their voice? You were not denied the Beyond?”

  Erlin paused, breath misting as his face became sombre. “Oh I heard them, but not until many years later. Despite appearances, brother, I am not in fact immune to death. I do not age and I do not sicken. But without food I starve, and if cut, I bleed the same as any man. I can die, and once, long ago, I did. Or at least came so close it makes scant difference.

  “I travelled far after the villagers drove me away, the length and breadth of the four fiefs, for there was no Realm in those days. I suppose I was searching for something, an answer to the enigma of my unending life, but had little notion of how to find it. Mystics and charlatans were not hard to find, all promising wisdom in return for gold, and all proving themselves mad or dishonest in time. One day I paused in a Nilsaelin tavern and heard a minstrel sing of the strange ways of the Seordah, how they preserved their forest home with Dark enchantments. It seemed a good place to seek answers, I was just one man after all, and certainly no warrior. What threat would they see in me? I think I walked for half a day beneath the trees before a Seordah put an arrow in my belly.

  “He came to watch me bleed, a tall fellow with a hawk face that betrayed little reaction as I begged for aid. In time his face faded and the chill blackness of death came for me. It was then I heard them, the voices, whispering, shouting, pleading … There were so many. ‘This is the Beyond?’ I thought. ‘Just a void echoing with the voices of the dead?’ No endless serenity and wisdom. No eternity of calm. I must say, it was quite the disappointment.

  “I realised the voices had faded, taking a collective breath as if suddenly muted in fearful expectation. Then one spoke, it was not like the others. They were thin, like the last echoes of a whispered song. This was the full, strong voice of a complete soul, but old, so very old.”

  “The Ally,” Vaelin said, recalling the ancient chill in the voice he had heard as Dahrena dragged him from the Beyond.

  “A name I didn’t hear until much later. But yes, it was he. And he had an offer to make. ‘I will return you,’ he said, ‘if you will be my vessel.’ I was awash in terror, not only of him but also of the prospect of eternity in this terrible void. The fear was such I might have agreed in an instant, but for something I heard in his voice: a boundless, desperate hunger, a need for what he sensed in me. It was overpowering, sickening, and I knew then there were worse fates than death.

  “He felt my refusal, my repulsion, and I felt his will. The Beyond is a place that is not a place, a place of souls, but a place also of pain, if you know how to inflict it, and he did. I could feel him tearing at me, stripping away shreds of my being as his will lashed at me, not in hate but in precise, agonising flares. ‘Serve me,’ he said again, ‘Whilst you still have a soul capable of service.’ There was no hate in that voice, for I think he was beyond hate by then, formed by the ages into a being of purest purpose.

  “I thrashed, I screamed, I wept … I begged. But still, I refused. It was then I felt another surge of will, but not his. This was something else, something not so old, but in its own way just as powerful, powerful enough to rend me from his grip. I could feel my soul re?forming then, though still much had been stripped away, memories of childhood and friendship
lost forever. Even today I cannot recall my mother’s face, or the name of the wife who grew to hate me.

  “My rescuer spoke to me, a woman’s voice, her will so different from his. Soothing where he hurt, banishing the terror he sought to instill. ‘You are not done,’ she told me. ‘I have seen your end, man of many lives, and this is not it. Seek out those like you, preserve all you can, for when you return, it is their strength that will sustain you, and bring the end you will come to crave.’ Then she said just three more words before casting me from the void and back into my body. The Seordah was still there, starting in surprise as my eyes flew open. From the blood seeping through my fingers I judged I had been gone for only a few seconds. The Seordah said something, sounding faintly annoyed, and drew a knife from his belt … then dropped it when I spoke the three words I had last heard in the Beyond, ‘Nersus Sil Nin.’”

  “The blind woman sent you back,” Vaelin murmured. “She’s there, in the Beyond. She fights him.”

  “She fought him then, but now…” Erlin shook his head. “Now it seems his power grows unchecked.”

  Vaelin pushed the myriad questions aside, long accustomed to the realisation that any answers would be slow in coming. “The Seordah healed you,” he said.

  “Yes. He brought others and they took me to their camp. My wound was grievous and it took many months before I could travel again. I learned their language, their legends, the truth of how our people had taken their land from them. I also learned there are no Dark enchantments protecting their forest, just great skill and fierce courage birthing enough fear to keep us at bay. In time, I said my farewells and went forth to fulfil the mission she gave me. I have not always been assiduous in my duties, given to distraction and sometimes wearied by the often-repeated mistakes and cruelties that beset humanity. But, I think I did what I could”—he glanced up at the misted steps above—“in the end.”

  The mountain top lay under a vast silence as thick as the mist that covered it, only vague shapes visible in the swirling haze as they crested the final step. Erlin sagged a little from the effort of the climb, leaning hard on his walking stick and eyeing the shadowy forms ahead with naked trepidation. “I hate this place,” he breathed, voice soft as he straightened and started forward. “But then, so did those who built it, I imagine.”

  They started forward into the mist, the shadows resolving into a cluster of buildings, all showing signs of having been crafted by the same hands that had built the ruins at the base of the mountain. They were mostly one-storey dwellings and smaller structures Vaelin took to be storehouses, forming a miniature echo of the Fallen City. But these were not ruined. The silence became ever more oppressive as they moved through the buildings, each empty doorway and window an uncaring witness to their passage. Despite the lack of damage Vaelin knew this to be an ancient place, the corners of the buildings smoothed and rounded by the elements. Also, in contrast to the Fallen City there were no statues here, the only decoration the faded motifs carved above doorways or windows, robbed of meaning by centuries of wind and rain. Whoever had built this place seemingly had scant time or inclination towards art.

  It took only moments to clear the buildings, leaving them standing at the edge of a wide flat circle, in the centre of which stood a single flat-topped plinth. “Memory stone,” Vaelin said.

  Erlin nodded and Vaelin heard the faint tremor in his voice as he replied, “The last to be carved, by the hand of a god no less.”

  Vaelin’s mouth twitched in unwanted amusement and he turned to Erlin with a grin. “A god is a lie.”

  They shared a laugh, only for a moment, the sound of their mirth soon lost amidst the mist and ancient stone. “Well.” Erlin took a firmer grip on his walking stick and started forward. “Shall we?”

  Like the surrounding buildings the plinth’s edges had been softened by ages of exposure, though the flat top was smooth and unmarked, the indentation in the centre a perfect circle. “You’ve touched this before?” Vaelin asked Erlin.

  “Four times now. I often seek out the ancient places, guided by the myths and legends I hear in my travels. One told of a forgotten city of towering majesty hidden in the mountains and guarded by savage tribes. I wasn’t overly surprised to find the reality didn’t match the legend, it rarely does.”

  He extended his hand so it hovered over the stone, meeting Vaelin’s gaze. “Ready, brother?”

  “I have touched these stones twice before,” Vaelin said, seeing the tremble in Erlin’s fingers. “They hold knowledge but no threat.”

  Erlin gave another laugh, harsher this time. “All knowledge is a threat to someone.”

  Vaelin extended his hand and Erlin took it, entwining the fingers. Closing his eyes, he took a breath and lowered their hands to the stone.

  PART IV

  By Alpiran reckoning King Janus Al Nieren was born in the tenth year of the New Sun, under a configuration of stars known to Alpiran astrologers as “The Rearing Lion,” a fact that would provide portents aplenty for admirers and detractors alike over the succeeding decades. His daughter, by contrast, was born under the comparatively mundane constellation of “The Hay Bale,” named for its resemblance to recently harvested wheat. The fact that the Loyal Guild of Imperial Astrologers recently voted to rename this constellation “The Vengeful Flame” says much for the subsequent course of Realm history, not to mention the essential vacuity of the astrologer’s art.

  —VERNIERS ALISHE SOMEREN, A HISTORY OF THE UNIFIED REALM: INTRODUCTION, GREAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM

  VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT

  “Did she know?”

  I watched the harbour as we drew near, its vastness testimony to Alpira’s origins as the greatest trading hub of the lower Boraelin. It stretched in a broad curve some three miles long, piers and moorings beyond counting, and many ships, more than was usual in fact. As we drew closer I noted most were warships, an army of labourers at work on every vessel, steel plating hammered onto hulls and mangonels hauled into place.

  Empress Emeren calls her fleet to the capital, I deduced. For what purpose?

  “My lord?” Fornella prompted. Her rapidly greying hair was tied up today, drawn back from her features, which remained handsome despite the growing number of lines. With her plain dress and tightly wrapped shawl she conveyed the appearance of a comely matron, those ashore perhaps mistaking her for the captain’s wife. The thought provoked me to a short laugh.

  Fornella frowned in annoyance but refused to be diverted. “She did, didn’t she? She knew about you and the Hope.”

  I shrugged, giving a slight nod. She glanced at the captain and edged closer. “Pay the pirate to take us away from here.”

  “We have a mission to perform, Honoured Citizen.”

  “Not at the expense of your life.”

  “I gave my life to the Emperor. The law decrees I now offer it to his successor, along with my wise counsel.”

  “You really imagine she’ll listen?”

  “I know she will. What she does afterwards is more of a mystery.”

  We docked at one of the minor berths near the northern edge of the harbour, the captain being obliged to pay double the normal mooring fee to a harassed junior port official.

  “I’m on official business from the Unified Realm and the Meldenean Isles,” the captain growled. “That’s got to be worth a discount at least.”

  “You’ve also got a hold full of spice,” the young official replied. “And space is at a premium.” He handed the captain a chit for the berth then held up his hand in expectation.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked, moving to the captain’s side.

  The young man stared at me for a long moment, retreating a step with rapidly paling features. “You are Lord Verniers,” he breathed.

  I was accustomed to a certain notoriety in the better-educated corners of the empire, but it was usually confined to politely spoken compliments or requests for attendance at various learned functions. So the sight of the pale-faced bu
reaucrat stumbling backwards along the gangplank before turning and running along the wharf was somewhat unnerving, his return a short time later even more so, since he was accompanied by a squad of soldiers. They proceeded towards the ship at a run, the young official trotting in their wake and gesticulating wildly as he called to the surrounding stevedores. “The traitor! The traitor returns!”

  “I think, Captain,” I said, hefting my bag of books and making for the gangplank. “You had best be on your way.”

  “Ship Lords told me to keep you safe,” he said, though his shrewd eyes betrayed a deep concern at the commotion unfolding on the wharf.

  “And I am grateful for your efforts.” I extended a hand, expecting him to ignore it. Instead he gripped it tight, grimacing in regret.

  “Luck to you, honoured sir,” he said in surprisingly good Alpiran.

  “And you, honoured sir.” I glanced at Fornella, seeing how fearfully she eyed the approaching soldiers. “I should be grateful if you would take her back to the Realm.”

  “No.” Fornella took a deep breath and moved to my side, forcing a smile. “We have a mission, after all.”

  We waited on the wharf, watching the captain hound his crew into frantic motion as they hauled oars to push them back from the quay. The sailors soon set to work rowing themselves towards open water in accordance with the bosun’s urgent drumbeat.

  “What was its name?” Fornella asked. “The ship.”

  “I never thought to ask.” I turned as the soldiers came to a halt a short distance away. They were conscript infantry judging by their armour, half a dozen youths under the command of a less-than-youthful sergeant.

  “Your name?” he demanded, striding forward, hard eyes intent on my face.

  “Lord Verniers Alishe Someren,” I replied. “Imperial Chronicler…”

  “No,” he growled, moving closer with his hand on his sword. “Not now you aren’t.”

  They took us to the harbour-master’s station, a sturdy building equipped with a few cells for sundry smugglers or excessively boisterous sailors. Thanks to the excitable port official a crowd had begun to form on the wharf by the time the soldiers closed in around us. “If I am liable to arrest,” I said to the sergeant, “I have a right to hear the charge.”