“Just one word,” she said in a faint voice. “‘Slave.’”
• • •
As I had predicted, sleep proved elusive. The sea grew turbulent come nightfall, the wind rising to lash the clouded glass of the porthole with rain and howl through the myriad channels in the fabric of this ship. Fornella lay on her back, breathing slow and regular. I lay on my side, turned towards the hull. I had removed my shoes but was otherwise fully clad whilst she was naked, sloughing off her clothes without the slightest flicker of embarrassment, slipping into the bed beside me as I turned my back. We lay in silence for the better part of an hour, robbed of rest by the wind and the sheer oddness of our circumstance.
Finally, she said, “Do you hate me, my lord?”
“Hatred requires passion,” I replied.
“Ah, The Cantos of Gold and Dust, verse twenty. Don’t you think it a trifle conceited to constantly quote your own work?”
“The verse was drawn from an ancient ode sung by the tribes of the western mountains. As noted in my introduction.”
She gave a soft laugh. “So I do not stir your passion? Hardly surprising, given your preferences. Still, a woman accustomed to male admiration can’t help but feel somewhat slighted.” I felt her shift behind me, moving to lie on her side. “Who was he? The man you said you loved?”
“I will not discuss that with you.”
Something in my tone must have held sufficient warning because she gave a sigh of amused frustration before persisting. “I may have something to stir your passion, at least as far as it relates to your lust for knowledge. A small nugget of information concerning the Ally.”
I gritted my teeth, hard, wondering if I didn’t in fact hate her after all. I sat up, turning to find her regarding me with head tilted on her pillow, the gloom sufficient to hide all but the gleam of her eyes. “Then tell me,” I said.
“The name,” she insisted.
I rose, turning my back to swing my legs off the bed. “Seliesen Maxtor Aluran,” I said.
I had expected laughter, cruel and mocking, but instead her tone was calmly reflective. “The Hope of the Alpiran Empire, slain by the very man who destroyed my darling husband’s army. My people do not hold to notions of fate, the concept of invisible forces moving to shape our destiny is anathema to a people cleansed of superstition. But there are times when I wonder . . .”
I felt her shift again, her warm nakedness pressing against my back, resting her head against my shoulder. There was no desire in the way she held to me, at least none I could sense, just a need for closeness. “My sorrow for your loss, honoured sir,” she said in formal Alpiran. “My brother is the longest serving member of the Volarian High Council, so he knows the Ally’s schemes better than most, and even he is blind to their true nature, their ultimate purpose. However, its servants have often spoken of a man, endless in years like us, but not in thrall to the blood of the Gifted. A man who has lived many lifetimes and walked around the world more than once. The Ally is drawn to power, as I said, and what greater power is there, than the defeat of death itself?”
“It seeks him?”
“Indeed, but never has it found him.”
“And he has a name, this endless man?”
“A thousand, changed with every lifetime as he passes from nation to nation. One of the Ally’s creatures, the one they call the Messenger, caught his scent some fifteen years ago in the Unified Realm. He was calling himself Erlin.”
CHAPTER ONE
Lyrna
It took some time to find her garden, the ruins having been cleared by Darnel’s slaves to make way for his architectural ambitions, leaving only an outline of stunted brick and bare earth where flowers had once grown. Strangely, her bench was still intact, if somewhat blackened. She sat surveying the wasted remnants of the vanished refuge she had cherished. It was here she had led Vaelin that night, winning his enmity with her clumsy intrigues but learning a lesson in the process; some eyes will always see through a mask. Here also she had spent those delightful hours with Sister Sherin after securing her release from the Blackhold, the healer’s innate kindness and sparkling intellect dispelling jealousy, for the most part. Lyrna remembered finding friendship an enjoyable if brief novelty and, when Sherin sailed away to Linesh, she had stopped coming here. The secluded courtyard no longer felt like a welcoming haven, just an empty corner of a palace where a lonely woman nursed flowers and schemes whilst she waited for her father to die.
“Ler-nah!”
She raised her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of a tall figure striding towards her before Davoka’s embrace forced the air from her lungs and pulled her from the bench, her feet coming free of the ground as she was crushed into the Lonak woman’s chest. Lyrna heard the pounding of boots accompanied by swords scraping free of scabbards. “Unhand our Queen, savage!” Iltis snarled.
Davoka ignored him, releasing Lyrna after a final crushing squeeze, clasping her head in both hands. She was smiling, something Lyrna found she couldn’t remember her doing before. “I thought I had lost you, sister,” she said in Lonak, fingers tracing over her face, from her brow to the rapidly growing red-gold locks beyond. “He said you burned.”
“I did.” Lyrna clasped her hands and kissed them, nodding reassurance at Iltis and Benten, who sheathed their swords, retreating with bows and bemused expressions. “I still do, sister.”
Davoka stepped back, a certain tense reluctance showing in her gaze before she spoke again, slipping into Realm Tongue with practised ease. “Brother Frentis . . .”
Lyrna turned away from her, Davoka falling silent at the sudden sharpness in her expression. Mention of the famed Red Brother had been frequent since her arrival the previous evening, amongst the first words spoken by her Battle Lord on disembarking at the docks, as well as a heartfelt entreaty from Aspect Elera and a clipped request for mercy from Brother Sollis. She had given the same answer to each of them, the same answer she gave Davoka now. “Judgement will be rendered in due course.”
“We fought together in the forest before it burned,” Davoka went on. “We are gorin. He is my brother as you are my sister.”
The Volarian woman’s red tears, the searing pain as her hair caught alight . . . Lyrna closed her eyes against the memories, feeling the breeze on her skin, her healed, unmarred skin. Healed? she asked herself. Is that what I am?
The night before she had watched Alucius on the fire. She had spoken briefly beforehand, formally naming him Sword of the Realm, his sigil to be a pen and a wine cup, for she knew it would have made him laugh. Lady Alornis stepped forward to add her voice, face pale and expressionless but with tears streaming from her eyes as her brother laid comforting hands on her shoulders.
“Alucius Al Hestian . . .” she began, faltered then continued in a broken voice, “. . . will be called a . . . hero by many. A poet by others, and . . .” she paused to form a faint smile, “overfond of wine by some. I will always call him . . . simply, my friend.”
Lakrhil Al Hestian had been permitted to attend, standing by, hollow-eyed and silent in his chains. He made no speech and stared at the rising flames with dry eyes. Lyrna allowed him to remain until the fire burned down to embers then ordered him returned to the dungeons, now crowded with other traitors awaiting the queen’s justice.
Justice. She had watched the smoke blossom on the pyre, concealing Alucius’s face and sparing her the sight of the flames consuming his flesh. What justice would I have shown you, old friend? Spy, traitor to the Realm, and now hero of Varinshold’s liberation. My father would have made show of forgiveness, lauded you with titles and gold, then, after a decent interval, had one of his hidden talents ensure a suitably accidental end. I would have been far crueler, Alucius. I would have made you follow me, stand witness as I administered full justice to our enemies, and for that, I know you would have hated me.
The clouds above must have parted for she felt a blush of warmth on her head, her new-grown hair no doubt making a fine sight as it shimmered, the sensation pleasant and free of the tear-inducing agony she recalled from her days on the Sea Sabre. Healed? she wondered again. You can remake a mask but the face beneath still lingers.
She opened her eyes and her gaze lit on something, a small yellow flower emerging from between two shattered flagstones. Lyrna crouched, reaching out to touch a finger to the petals. “Winter-bloom,” she said. “Always the clearest signal of changing seasons. Ice and snow come, sister, bringing hardship but also respite, for no fleet will sail the ocean whilst winter storms rage.”
“You think they will come again?” Davoka asked. “When the ocean calms?”
“I’m certain of it. This war is far from over.”
“Then you will need every sword, every ally.”
Lyrna looked at the winter-bloom again, resisting the urge to pluck it and resolving to plant a new garden here in time, one without walls. She rose, meeting Davoka’s gaze and speaking in formal Lonak. “Servant of the Mountain, I have need of your spear. Will you wield it in service to my purpose? Think well before you answer for our road is long and I offer no promise of a return to the Mountain.”