Mage's Blood

8

An Act of Betrayal

The Grey Foxes

The Grey Foxes were a group of magi who aided the Noros Revolt. Declared an irregular force by their enemies, they were branded spies and executed on capture. Post-war, many did not emerge until many years later, after amnesties had been granted by the governor. During the Revolt they were the most feared fighting force operating in the theatre of war, though there were probably fewer than thirty of them. Their commander, Gurvon Gyle, was not pardoned until 915, and then specifically on condition that he join the Second Crusade as a counter-insurgency advisor.

NILS MANNIUS, NOROS: A HISTORY, 921

Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Octen 927

9 months until the Moontide

Elena Anborn trotted beside the caravan of wagons and carriages that rumbled east to Forensa. A blue cotton wrap covered her head, and a gauze shawl over her eyes allowed her to look at the road ahead without becoming dazzled. Heat rose in waves from the baking earth and mirages played on the southern horizon. She thanked the heavens it was winter and the weather so mild – only half the temperature of Hel, may we be truly thankful.

They were making good time. It was normally two weeks to Forensa, but with the cooler days they might make it a day or two early; they were probably halfway already. Lorenzo di Kestria was some fifty yards ahead, with one of the scouts. The knight was sweltering in his leather armour. There were a dozen guards arrayed about the six wagons. Timori and Fadah were in the nearest carriage, with Cera following alone in the second carriage, which was festooned with red ribbons warning of a menstruating woman. Amteh men were forbidden to have contact with ‘tainted’ women. By rights, Elena should have been in there with her, but she had too much to do, so she made do with a red ribbon about her arm and stayed away from the men.

Unfortunately Samir Taguine didn’t share the Amteh’s superstitions. He jolted towards her, wincing visibly at each movement of his steed. His stirrups were too short; it looked like his knees had locked up, and he had little or no control over the horse. If I ever have to fight you, Samir, I hope it’s on horseback, she thought wryly.

Samir pulled up alongside her, his bald pate gleaming red in the sun. ‘Rukka mio, I hate riding,’ he moaned. ‘What do you say I sit in there with your pretty little princess?’

‘I’d say you should mind your tongue when talking about our royal patrons.’

Samir grunted and stroked his goatee. ‘She’s a little quiet, that one. I prefer the younger girl – more spunk. I’ve got my eye on her, I have.’

‘You’ll stay away from them both,’ Elena told him coldly.

He laughed maliciously. ‘Oooo, possessive? Why, do you fancy her yourself?’

‘You’re a sick cur, Samir. Piss off.’

‘Make me.’ Samir eyed her up insultingly. ‘You may think you’re in charge here, Elena, but without the boss to take your corner you’re just a snivelling little half-blood!’

‘Was there something you wanted?’ Elena asked stonily.

The mage glanced at her and dropped his voice. ‘Yes. Wearing your gems?’ He looked eager to burn his bridges and move on. He hated this place as much as Elena loved it.

‘Always. And now I’m going to check the northern ridge. Unless you’ve learnt to ride, it’ll be beyond you, so rukk off.’ The Rondian magus sniggered behind her as Elena coaxed her horse up the slope. She knew Samir was dangerous – she had never seen a mage with such a strong fire affinity as Samir the Inferno. Put up with him, she told herself. It’s not for much longer …

Later that night, with the new moon a vast crescent in the northern sky, she walked the perimeter, inhaling the clean desert air. From a small rise she overlooked their carriages and tents. A pavilion housed Fadah and Timori, and ordinarily Cera, except that she was menstruating. The men were bustling about the campfires, preparing food. Timori was duelling one of the younger of the guardsmen with a stick, while Lorenzo was erecting the blood-tent for Cera and Elena.

She hunched down and scooped out a small hollow and sealed with a touch of stone-shaping so it would hold water. She emptied her flask into it. Let’s see what Gurvon has to say … He’d been sending mental darts in her direction all day, demanding contact. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

She touched the water and let the cool liquid of her gnosis pour into it. The water glowed blue and vapours gave way to a familiar furtive visage.

<Elena, where are you? Sordell tells me you’ve been sent east with Samir.>

<We’re at Khodasha-wadi, about halfway to Forensa. Where are you?>

<North of Brochena. Wearing your gems?>

<Yes.> She bit her lip. <But …>

<Good. Be ready. Any day now.> His face was taut, careworn. He looked achingly familiar. She’d kissed that face many times – but she couldn’t remember what that had felt like now. The last time had been almost a year ago, on one of his infrequent visits. She suspected there was someone else. Vedya, almost certainly.

She pulled together her courage and began to speak. <Gurvon, Olfuss wants me to stay on – private hire. Just me, not the others.> There, she’d said it now.

Gurvon scowled. <Did you tell him you were leaving?>

<Of course not! He asked of his own volition.>

<Good. He suspects nothing then.> Then Gurvon frowned. <But why not the others? Are they pissing him off again? Anyway, that’s irrelevant now. When I give the word, you and Samir will need to travel northeast and—>

<Gurvon, you’re not listening. I’m going to say yes. I want to stay here.>

He froze, and as she watched his expression went from confusion and annoyance to an impassive, dangerous mask. <What do you mean, Elena?>

<I want to stay here. This is the place I want to live – to retire to. I want to leave the Company. I’ve made up my mind.>

He stared incredulously from the water. <Then you can damn well unmake it again! That dumb bastard Olfuss is about to make himself an enemy of the empire and you are not going to stay there—>

<I’ve decided—>

<You stupid bitch – who do you think you are? Remember, I hold every piece of gold you possess; I own you, woman!> His eyes flashed with fury and the water trembled. For an instant she thought he would launch a gnostic attack, then his face calmed, becoming apologetic … a calculated version of apologetic. <Sorry, Elena – I spoke in anger. Listen, you really need to think this through. What you’re proposing just isn’t possible. This isn’t a game, Elena; it’s an Imperial command that we withdraw.>

<An Imperial command? Since when do we work for the empire? Gurvon, I’m—>

<Hush! Listen, don’t talk. You must go away and think again, my dear. Don’t make a decision like this so quickly. Talk to me when you reach Forensa. Please, Elena, promise me you’ll reconsider – it’s for your own good.>

She sucked in her breath, then nodded mutely. What else could she do? She plunged a finger into the pool and it sizzled and evaporated in a flash of blue light. She shuddered slightly, then put her head in her hands and stewed in a mire of confusion.

When she eventually looked down at the campsite, Samir Taguine was peering into the bucket of water, his face illuminated by the light from the surface.

He’s talking to Gurvon … She saw a flicker of surprise cross Samir’s face and he looked up at her.

*

Elena positioned herself in the doorway of the blood-tent so she could see everything. Cera looked up and beamed at her. ‘Elena, look, Lorenzo has brought us broth, and he says there will be fried chicken soon.’ She looked a little disapproving. ‘He fancies you. He keeps looking at you all the time.’

‘He’s just being friendly. Like a brother.’

‘Huh! That’s not how it looks to me. Did you know his elder brother wants him to court me? And so does Father.’

‘The Kestrians are your family’s oldest allies,’ Elena remarked. ‘It would be a good match.’ And it might stop him flirting with me.

‘He is handsome, I suppose,’ Cera mused, ‘but I just don’t fancy him.’

‘But you just said he was handsome,’ Elena laughed.

‘If you like stubble,’ Cera sniffed.

‘That’s men for you! They’re all itchy and scratchy up close.’ She peered out of the tent-flap again, trying to keep Samir in her sight. He was over by the well, drinking from a hip-flask. Their eyes met, one hundred yards apart. She could just imagine him waiting until she was asleep and then incinerating her tent. But no … Gurvon wouldn’t permit him – surely he wouldn’t—

But Gurvon is a long way away, and what we had was a long time ago.

The desert suddenly looked bleak and empty. It was easy to imagine that the rest of the world had gone away, that there was only this place, these people.

Cera was oblivious to her mood. ‘You should ride with me in the carriage. You’re bleeding, like me, and I’m bored to death.’

There are worse ways to die than boredom. Now shut up, girl, let me think. ‘I’ve got to keep lookout,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway, I’ve nearly stopped. Older women don’t bleed so long.’

‘I like it when we’re in the blood-rooms together. We can really talk then. Like sisters.’

‘You’ve got a sister.’ Will Gurvon release my money if I quit? He’d better!

‘But Solinde and I are so different – all she ever wants to talk about are boys and dancing and clothes. It’s not like talking with you. And she’s the pretty one,’ she added with a touch of envy that made Elena pause.

‘You’re pretty too, Cera – everyone thinks so. Just a deeper kind of pretty.’

Cera’s lips were full, her eyes large, long-lashed. She was not a classic beauty, but she was certainly striking. ‘Do you really think so? I just feel plain – I’m too short, too wide. A little fat.’

Elena rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not fat, Cera. You’re just not skinny like Solinde, and don’t let her tell you otherwise.’ Elena was focusing entirely on Samir Taguine, his cocksure gaze staring back at her. ‘You’re beautiful where it counts, my princessa. I would die before I let anyone hurt you,’ she added, almost unthinking.

Cera blinked. ‘I know – I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it? To protect us, I mean.’

‘It’s more than a job, Cera.’ As she looked back at Samir she saw Lorenzo was walking over towards them. Shit, do I have to protect him too? ‘Hey, here’s Lori.’

Lorenzo grinned hesitantly. ‘Princess, was the broth pleasing? Pietro has nearly done with the chicken. You’ll get the best cuts.’

‘So we should, Seir Lorenzo. Our stomachs are screaming!’

Elena rose and met the knight’s eye. ‘Lorenzo.’ She beckoned him closer and whispered, ‘Be careful around Samir.’

He looked at her as if he doubted his ears. ‘Samir? Is he not loyal?’

‘He’s a Rondian mage, Lori. He’s loyal to his salary.’

Lorenzo looked a little wary. He knew the destruction Samir could wreak, for the mage had frequently shown off in front of the knights, blasting stone until it exploded, or torching a row of archery targets. ‘You are magi too,’ he said softly.

‘But I am Nesti, Lori: you know that.’

‘Si, you are Nesti. So what do you want me to do?’

‘For now, nothing, just be cautious; see to Fadah and Timi. There is no reason to suspect anything untoward will happen, but be on your guard.’ She gave him the easy explanation: ‘It’s the shihad, you know.’

‘You think if the Nesti declare for Salim, Samir might do something?’

‘It won’t hurt to be vigilant, Lorenzo.’

He grinned nervously. They both knew that if something broke out, Samir could toast him in an eye-blink – unless he was standing behind Elena. He still managed to look nonchalant as he walked away.

Cera was sitting up, her big eyes tinged with unease. ‘What was that you were saying to Lori, Ella?’

Elena gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Just asking him to keep his eyes open.’

Cera pulled a face. ‘I’m not a child any more, Ella. Is something wrong? Something about Samir? I don’t like him.’

Nor do I, my girl. She measured the space between her and the Fire-mage. ‘Don’t worry, Cera. Nothing’s going to happen.’

‘You look very fierce.’ Cera looked up at the little lantern. ‘Can you make us a magic light, like you used to on stormy nights?’ The ghost of a younger girl seemed to hover within the young princess’ eyes, seeking reassurance that all was well.

Elena looked at her indulgently. ‘Of course.’ She reached out to the water bottle, pulled out the stopper and tipped a little water into her hand. Cera leaned forward as she swirled the water, shaping it, and drew out of herself the gnosis light, gradually working it with the water until it became cohesive, bound together by the gnosis energy. She sealed it with the Rune of Binding and then tossed it, a glowing, rubbery ball of water and light, into Cera’s waiting hands. The girl flicked it back and they played a lightning game of catch for a few seconds until Cera dropped the tiny bundle of light onto her blanket and it broke apart.

‘You always win now,’ she complained. ‘You used to let us win when we were younger – you still let Timi win.’ She brushed at the water stain. ‘And now my blanket is wet.’

‘Now you see why I didn’t let you win!’ Elena waved a hand and caused the water to evaporate.

Cera laughed, then said wistfully, ‘I wish I could cast magic spells too.’

‘It’s not magic, it’s gnosis – that’s actually a Silacian word meaning “secret knowledge”,’ replied Elena, watching Samir as he strolled back to his tent. That’s right, Samir, time for sleep. ‘And we don’t “cast spells” – we don’t need words to direct the energy, just thoughts. Only learners and the less-gifted magi speak words aloud, and that’s to help focus their concentration and energy. I only use words if I’m trying something complex.’ She watched Samir disappear into his tent and exhaled. She pulled a little bundle of feathers from a pocket, a gift from Gurvon containing beast-gnosis energy. Reaching out, she caught the mind of a night-bird, a desert owl, and set it to watching over their tent. Beast-mastery wasn’t her strength, but she could manage something simple like that if a key was provided, even if that key was a gift from her estranged lover.

Are you still seeing Vedya, Gurvon? You promised me that was over, but I don’t believe that’s true.

Cera rolled onto her stomach and peered at her from behind a curtain of thick black hair. ‘What will Father decide, Ella? When he meets with the Keshi about the shihad?’

Elena looked across at her princess, her soft brown face illuminated by the blue light of the water-globe. Cera was asking more and more adult questions these days. She was becoming a woman, with interests that went far beyond childbearing. She wasn’t betrothed yet, and that decision was overdue – there had been enquiries from both Rimoni and Jhafi nobles. She was half-Rimoni, half-Jhafi, so she could marry either way without jeopardising the blood-criterion should her children seek the kingship. ‘I think your father will try to keep his options open as long as he can. The Jhafi and the Keshi were at war for many years before the Rimoni settled here, and the Keshi have tried to start revolts among the Jhafi before. Our defences are strong in the south, but our armies are small.’

‘But surely we won’t stay neutral,’ Cera said, screwing up her face. ‘What the Rondian emperor did was evil – all those poor people in Hebusalim who died! I wish all Rondians were like you, Ella – then there’d be peace like there used to be.’

‘Ah, but I’m not a Rondian,’ grinned Elena. ‘I’m from Noros, and we don’t like Rondians any more than you do. We even had a war against them, but we lost.’ Faces from the past swelled up in her memory: dead faces, living ones … Gurvon …

‘Is Samir Rondian? And Master Sordell?’

‘Samir is. He’s pretty typical, except that he’s bald – usually they like to have their hair long and curly and wear lacy clothes. Sordell is Argundian, and they’re more plain-spoken and earthy. They’re stubborn bastards.’

‘Rondians, Argy-thingies, Noros … they’re all the same.’

‘So is a Nesti the same as a Gorgio?’ Elena said, an eyebrow raised.

‘Ugh, no!’ Cera cried, ‘the Gorgio are disgusting.’

‘There, you see? You’re both Rimoni! Noromen and Rondians aren’t even the same nation.’

‘Gorgio are a bunch of inbred fellators – we aren’t even the same species. Can you believe Solinde actually fancies Fernando Tolidi? Yuck!’ She rolled her eyes, then went serious again. ‘Is Magister Gyle a Rondian? I only met him once. He made me nervous. It was like he was memorising everyone and putting them into little boxes so he could pull them out later and study them.’

How perceptive. He was probably doing exactly that. ‘No, he’s a Noroman, like me.’

‘Was he your, um …’ Cera’s voice became a little uncertain.

‘My lover? That’s none of your business, my girl.’

‘You keep telling me a ruler has to make everything their business, so I’m right to want to know.’

‘And when you’re ruler, I might even tell you!’

Cera looked at her with calculating eyes. ‘You used to speak of him often. You don’t any more.’

Elena schooled her face. Sometimes Cera really was just too observant. ‘Don’t I?’

‘No. And Samir said something to Master Sordell, about someone called Vedya? About her being close to Master Gyle.’

Elena felt her heart sink. ‘You shouldn’t be listening to the men talk.’

‘You always tell me to keep my eyes and ears open, Ella!’

‘So I do – but for now, I’d like you to close them and get some sleep.’

Cera lay back, staring into space. ‘I wish I could be like you and go where I want and do what I want. I’ll just end up being married to someone and have to live all my life being told what to do.’

‘Oh, my life is nowhere like as romantic as you think, Cera. Mostly I just do what I’m told too, which mostly turns out to be dangerous or boring or both.’

‘If I’d been born a man, I would have so much more freedom. Men get to do all the fun things.’

Elena remembered making the same arguments to others, years ago. She looked at the princess fondly. She really is like a little sister. ‘You know I don’t disagree, but you should get some sleep.’

‘Is it true that Rondian women can marry who they please?’

Elena shook her head. ‘No, they have much the same lives as you: no sooner does a girl begin to bleed than her marriage is arranged, even for magi – maybe even more so because the mage’s blood is so important. I’m different there too.’ She grimaced.

Cera smiled mischievously. ‘Will you marry one day?’

Elena blinked. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Was Master Gyle your only lover?’ she teased.

‘Cera!’

The princess giggled. ‘You can tell me, we’re practically sisters.’

Elena gave her an exasperated look. ‘Go to sleep!’ She turned away while Cera burst out laughing. Little minx! I bet Solinde put her up to that.

When Cera spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘I’ll stop now, Ella. Have you set the wards?’

‘Si, Cera, all is well. Have you finished the tea I gave you? It’ll help the cramps.’

‘All drunk. Buona notte, Ella-amica. I wish I was your real sister and we could travel the world.’

‘What do you think we’re doing, silly? Sleep well.’

‘I love you, Tante Ella.’

‘I love you too, princessa. Now for Kore’s sake: Go. To. Sleep!’

When she woke in the morning, a dead owl was lying beside the tent-flap, a hole the size of a large coin burnt through its chest where its heart would have been. Samir gazed at her from beside the well, a grim smile on his lips.

Four days later they spotted a party of men on camels approaching from the east. They were clad in white, and their long lances were cradled at rest. A violet banner was unfurled when they spotted the royal party: the king’s messengers warning Forensa to expect them had obviously arrived. She glanced across at Lorenzo, who was riding point with her, and gave a relieved sigh. The more men, the safer she would feel. The last four days had been tense and trying, as everyone was aware of the growing rift between the two magi. She could feel their fear that violence would explode and trap them between forces they couldn’t possibly survive. Even Fadah had noticed, and asked anxiously if she and Samir had fallen out. Elena had reassured her that it was just a disagreement over politics, while wishing desperately that were true.

The landscape had changed as they travelled, the bracken giving way to tall, sharp piles of rock. The sand was softer underfoot, and at times the horses floundered. The nights were getting colder, the days hotter, and so still that some wind would have been a blessing. But the air didn’t move much this far inland except for the occasional massive sandstorm, and they most definitely didn’t want one of those.

Elena looked at Lorenzo. The Kestrian knight had been good company on the journey: he was confident and he’d travelled widely before coming to Brochena, which made him an interesting conversationalist. I will miss these people if I leave, she thought.

‘Wait here,’ she told him, and trotted towards the column of majestic camels gaudily festooned in ribbons and bells, their faces imperturbable and disinterested. The lead rider raised a hand in greeting and unwrapped his headscarf, revealing the solemn, hairless skull of Harshal ali-Assam, brother of the Emir of Forensa. His face split into a white-toothed smile. ‘Donna Elena! I thank Ahm for your safe arrival.’

‘And I, Harshal.’ She glanced back. ‘We’ve not arrived safely yet, though.’

Harshal blinked once, like a basking reptile. ‘There is a problem, Donna Ella?’

‘La, Harshal, don’t worry. We’re all a little tense, that’s all. It is good to see you.’ Harshal ali-Assam would be a suitor for Solinde, when she came of age, though the princess wasn’t enthusiastic: he was in his late twenties, which was ancient by Solinde’s standards. But he was a decent man, and Elena thought he’d make a fine husband for a wayward girl. ‘What news, Harsh? How does Fadah’s sister fare?’

‘Homeirah is not well. Ahm’s will be done.’ He sighed. ‘Had the Keshi envoys arrived before you left Brochena?’

Elena shook her head. She checked behind her and, in a low, confidential voice, said, ‘Samir is unsettled by the Keshi embassy. He is Rondian, and King Olfuss’ decision affects him more than a Noroman like me.’ Simple and plausible; Gurvon would have approved. She bit her lip. I must stop judging my actions by his standards.

Harsh nodded quietly. ‘We will take care. No problem.’

They made good time after that, though Cera insisted she be allowed to ride a camel, and of course Timori immediately wanted to do the same. Elena rode behind Cera and they sang Javonesi folksongs about princes and love affairs and starlit oases. Lorenzo joined in sometimes with his pleasing tenor, until it felt like they were a travelling troupe of musicians riding to their next engagement.

The only black cloud was Samir, brooding and snide, like a vulture waiting for a dying beast to finally expire so he could feed. He goaded Elena whenever she came within earshot, until she had to give him wide birth, lest she explode.

The column entered Forensa from the west, just after midday, three days after meeting Harshal’s men. The sun was a distant glowing ball in the sky. The horses and camels became difficult to restrain as they sensed home. They rode more briskly through the reek of endless garbage heaps at the edge of town. Impoverished Jhafi stared at them as they passed and ragged children ran alongside, begging money and food as the party wound through the crowded streets outside the old yellow walls that rose in the middle distance. The children crowded around every wagon and every rider except Elena. They were frightened of her, the foreign witch. It made her feel sad, still.

She was an accomplished healer and had often used her skills in Brochena, healing wounds or cysts or broken bones, but it was exhausting, exacting work and she could never do enough. She asked nothing in return but some new vocabulary. She thought it was appreciated: a tiny victory for communication and understanding. In Yuros people believed a magi’s powers were beneficial, gifts of the Kore, but here in Antiopia everyone, even the Rimoni, started with the assumption that she wielded demonic powers.

She sighed and combed her fingers through her filthy hair. Waiting for something to explode was wearing her down: she needed to wash and sleep. What is Gurvon doing now, she wondered. What has he told Samir? What’s happening back in Brochena? The not-knowing gnawed at her.

They wound through the streets to the old market and circled the emir’s palace before climbing the hills to the Nesti fortress. Krak al-Farada’s tumbledown dome turrets had been replaced with crenelated fighting platforms holding spear-hurling ballistae, and the walls had been thickened and renewed. Armoured men peered down between the violet banners as trumpets greeted the caravan.

Paolo Castellini was awaiting them in the courtyard. He was reckoned the tallest man in Javon. He had broad shoulders, and a lank, grey-streaked moustache and hair framed his mournful face. He opened the carriage doors for the royal family himself, and Fadah, emerging first, accepted Paolo’s obeisance graciously before hurrying her children up the stairs, anxious to see her sister Homeirah.

Paolo turned to Elena and nodded formally. He still doesn’t trust me. She dismounted, her legs aching abominably. Lorenzo was already directing his men towards the stables. Everyone looked pleased to have arrived, even Samir, who tossed his reins to a servant and followed the royal family into the keep. As he vanished, she felt a sudden tremor of apprehension. Time to move. She waved at Paolo and hurried up the steps herself, glancing back as she heard someone follow her: Lorenzo, as anxious as she was. Always have a plan, Gurvon said. Well, she had a plan. Magi with a strong Affinity were less versatile than other magi, and she had been observing Samir for four years. Certainly he was formidable in Fire-gnosis, and very capable with Earth and Air, but that was a narrow repertoire. He relied on incinerating his enemies with irresistible flames. If he caught her with a full blast, she would spend her last seconds screaming in agony as the flesh on her bones crisped, even if she presented her strongest shields. If she could avoid that, she might have a chance.

Samir had been gone half a minute, that was all. She hurried past the guards on the front doors with Lorenzo clanking behind her, emerging into the foyer, where twin stairs descended four storeys on either side of a well of space. Walls of carved teak were hung with tapestries and paintings and lined with statues in marble and stone. Opposite, the doors to the great hall were open, the room filled with supplicants and well-wishers, at least one hundred people. She looked around, frightened: she could see neither the Nesti children nor Samir.

A low chuckle sounded above her. Samir was leaning against the balustrade, flexing his fingers, smirking at her. There will be no warning, his laughter told her. No warning at all.

There was no warning.

Elena rose before dawn, worn out from anxious dreams. She crept softly down through the keep from her small room outside the nursery area, clad only in her nightshift. Her best tunic and breeches were over her arm, but her weapons in the bundle also, something she wouldn’t have done back in Brochena. She still felt stiff and battered from the journey, and the thought of a bath before having to get the children ready for morning services was enticing.

She was tiptoeing along the corridor to the bath-house, when she heard Queen Fadah’s voice, carrying from the sickroom. Elena had checked on Homeirah last night; she looked nearer to ninety than her actual forty-eight years. She was riddled with cancers, could scarcely breathe, and no longer kept down anything but fluids. She would die soon, nothing was surer.

As Elena glanced down the corridor, a voice, quite distinctly, said <Begin>. It was not in her ears, but in her head, like something overheard in a dream: a mental call. Spoken by Gurvon Gyle.

Begin …

Fadah stepped from the sickroom, still talking to someone within. She turned as Elena shrieked a warning. Then the queen was thrown backwards and clamped against the wall by unseen forces. Elena dropped the towel and clothes and grasped her sword and dagger. Her mouth was forming a call for help when a burst of flame blossomed about the queen with lurid, horrible beauty. For a second all Elena could see in the brilliant flash of the explosion were Fadah’s bones, visible through translucent flesh, then the concussion of the fire-blast blanketed the entire corridor. A wave of hot force threw her onto her back and her head hammered against the wooden floor. Her vision swam as she fought for purchase on the smooth floor. A liquid rush of flame scorched the air above her and when she looked up, all that remained of the queen was a pile of burning bones.

Samir the Inferno stepped from the sickroom. Behind him, women were crying out in shock, and their cries became agonised screams as he pointed and another gout of flames filled the room. But his eyes were already on Elena. He walked slowly towards her, drawing his sword. He was fully dressed in robes of scarlet, the ruby at his throat gleaming like an ember. She choked back a cry as scarlet gnosis-light gathered in Samir’s hands.

‘Gurvon said I could screw you before I kill you if I want, but I really can’t see the point.’ He stabbed a finger at her and flames gushed down the corridor. They were deflected by her shields, but the heat washed through, crisping her feet and singeing her hair and nightclothes. ‘You’re not my type. I’d rather just watch you burn.’ He drew himself erect, gathering a full-powered blast, as she flung up renewed shielding, downward-sloped and anchored to the walls. She could see her feet blistering; they felt like a thousand needles had been rammed into them. She crawled backwards, away from the advancing mage, until her head and shoulders hit the wall: she’d reached the T-junction of the corridor behind her. She had one instant to take in the immensity of the fires playing about Samir’s hand, then she dived sideways. A wave of white-hot energy washed over the place where she had stood, but the flames swirled against her shields and were channelled downwards, turning the wooden floor to ash. For a second, she glimpsed Samir’s bemused face as his own fires backwashed, disintegrating the floor at his feet, then he was gone, tumbling through the space where the floor had been. She leapt up, wincing with pain as the seared soles of her feet touched the ground, and tore towards the stairs she had just descended, screaming warnings to whoever could hear.

The castle came to panicked life, Rimoni voices calling questions, answered by a roar from below and screaming. With a crash the floor in front of her burst upwards, a geyser of fire blasting through the timbers to incinerate the staircase she was making for. Samir was firing blind through the wooden floor from below.

Her mind raced as he bellowed, ‘You can’t escape me, Elena!’

She had to get between him and the children: that was her only function. She threw herself off the ground like a diver, and flew the length of the burning corridor on Air-gnosis as another blast shattered the timbers of the floor where she had been standing a second before. Then she heard Paolo Castellini’s voice below, calling the guards to him.

‘Paolo! The children!’ she called as she powered down the smoke-filled corridor, shot like a hawk into the foyer, three flights up, and poised in mid-air to see Samir, below her, facing Paolo Castellini and a guardsman standing beside the main doors. She fired a bolt of blue gnosis-light at Samir and watched it crackle against his shields even as she began her next working. He roared, and his fires flew amiss, blasting apart a stag’s head mounted above the door instead of incinerating Paolo as he’d intended. She rolled in the air and conjured images of herself heading in three different directions, each firing a bolt of gnosis-energy.

Samir chose wrong; smoke and flame roared behind her and extinguished one of the images. The Fire-mage laughed mockingly as she soared up to the top level.

Lorenzo di Kestria emerged from a corridor, clad only in breeches, with a buckler over his left arm and holding his broadsword in his right hand. He gaped at Elena, hovering before him in mid-air, but she ignored him as she made a slicing gesture – and severed the ropes holding the chandelier beside her. The glass-and-metal monstrosity plummeted, and she saw Samir’s upturned eyes widen as the whole weight smashed against his shields and flew apart. But it left him untouched, shattering around him in a cascade of flying glass and shards of iron. Rukka mio! How can he be that strong?

‘Lori, the children!’ she cried, darting towards the nursery even as Cera emerged, clad only in a white shift, with a pale-faced Timori clinging to her. They took in the burning ceiling and the great plume of smoke pouring upwards.

Cera looked at her desperately. ‘Where’s Mamma?’ Her face was stricken. Elena flashed towards her as Samir flung Paolo aside like a toy and turned his face upwards again.

Timori, his eyes uncomprehending, asked ‘What’s happening?’ and stepped forward to peer through the wooden railings at the scene below, where the echoes of the fallen chandelier were still reverberating.

‘Timi!’ they all yelled, but Lorenzo was fastest, slamming into the bewildered boy, his buckler interposed an instant before fire engulfed them. The knight howled in agony as the flames washed over him, catching everywhere the balustrade and buckler were not covering: his shoulder, his left leg, the left side of his face.

But Timori had escaped the blast, and now Cera grabbed the boy and dragged him away from the convulsing knight. Elena threw herself towards them, vaulting the burning railing. Crossbows sang below, then two guards roared in agony amidst Samir’s laughter.

Cera clutched Timori to her, pouring all her hope and terror into one word: ‘Ella!’

Elena shoved Cera towards the nursery. ‘Inside – now!’

She checked over the railing and quailed: Samir was a devil unleashed. He was walking horizontally up the stone wall, his feet sinking effortlessly into the brickwork. His face looked carved from lava, glowing ember-red; his beard was a tongue of flame. She pulled Lorenzo to his feet. ‘Come on, Lori, we need you,’ she cried as he gasped for breath.

The main nursery bedroom, Cera’s room, was large, with a bed against the far wall and views through windows north and south. She blasted away the glass from both sets of windows, then wrenched a mirror from the wall and set it on a chair. ‘Climb through the window, onto the ledge,’ she ordered, then shouted, ‘Go!’ as Cera, still holding Timori, froze. ‘Go,’ she screamed again, and thrust the girl towards the windows. ‘Lorenzo, get them out of here—’

She spun and slapped her hands together and gnosis-strands gripped the doors, slammed them shut and locked them.

‘What the rukking Hel is happening, Ella?’ the knight shouted at her.

‘It’s Samir – he’s after the children!’ I never thought … damn you, Gurvon— She pulled another mirror from the wall, setting it opposite the other one, facing the door. Smoke rolled under the cracks. She looked at herself in both mirrors at once, moved them with subtle finger-movements, aligning them, marked her position, then darted to one side as the door rattled.

Lorenzo pushed the children out onto the window-ledge, then turned, his face resolute: the look of a man who expected the next minute to be his last. She had no time to do anything but scream, ‘Hide, Lori!’

There was no calling out this time, no gloating or threats, just a coal-like fist punching a hole in the door just as Elena placed herself on one side. She could only see the door through one of the mirrors, but in the reflection she saw it burst open, then smoke billowed into the room, obscuring everything. She stepped into the shadows and began her next working.

Samir grimaced. Gurvon had warned him that the bitch was quick, and so she was, but she was only a half-blood, and a dried-up prune to boot. I have absolute Fire-Affinity, he thought gleefully.

Few on Urte could survive even a single taste of his power, and he’d been preparing all night, building up his powers with meditation. Just before dawn, be ready, Gurvon had said. We’re going to kill them all.

That was an unexpected bonus! So not just running out on them, Gurvon?

No, we’re killing them all: Sordell and I will do the king; you kill the queen and the children.

What about Elena?

She can’t be trusted on this, Samir. She’s gone native. Do whatever you need to.

Everyone knew Gurvon was screwing Vedya these days; Elena was nothing to him now. It’ll be my pleasure, Gurvon – and he’d meant it. He’d been hovering close to that fat dumpling Fadah when the order came. That first burst, the one that crisped the queen to dust, had been orgasmic. Then Elena had shown up, and Gurvon had been right: she was damned quick, and cunning – the way she’d angled her shields so that he’d destroyed the floor at his own feet? That’d been clever; he’d remember that trick.

He smashed open the nursery door. Time to finish this. He let the first rush of smoke pour into the nursery and held his shields ready, but nothing came at him. She was quick, yes, but she had no firepower, and she was running out of places to hide. Somewhere in the dark he heard Lorenzo di Kestria gasping in pain and he grinned widely. That was the great thing about fire – it didn’t just damage, it also left mind-scrambling pain, the sort that made master torturers wet with envy. The sort of pain he was going to visit on that prunefaced Anborn bitch before he started on the children …

The smoke rose to the high beams of the nursery, revealing Elena standing before him, between two mirrors, a dagger held in her right hand. She jabbed her left at him and an impotent blue gnosis-bolt dissipated unfelt against his shields. She looked ragged; she must be at the end of her tether.

He smiled, raised his hand and gave her everything he had, crying out in utter bliss as he made the air throb with gushing fire so hot the flames were translucent, warping his vision as they washed over her, through her, and billowed unobstructed to blast the far wall.

She reappeared, right where she had been, twirling two thin blades. Untouched. How? He sensed someone behind him, but too late: two numbing blows struck beneath his armpits and jolted through him. There was a metallic grinding noise as the blades rasped against each other, somewhere deep in his chest. He stared, bewildered, as the Elena standing before him winked out.

Numbness flooded through him, and when he reached for his power there was just a void. He tried to speak, but his legs gave way and he felt his own heart stop.

‘I’m not left-handed. You should have noticed that,’ she whispered in his ear.

Rukka! Mirrors … Illusion …

The floor pitched up to meet him.

Elena slumped to the floor beside the dead mage. After a moment she pulled herself together and extracted her blades, trembling in relief. He had fallen for her mirror-projected illusion. The analytical part of her brain smirked: she’d targeted his weak spot and scored a direct hit. But damn, it had been close … and Fadah was dead.

‘Cut off his head,’ she whispered to Lorenzo. He looked back at her blank horror. ‘I mean it. There are spells that could revive him, even now! We have to make sure he’s dead.’ She sucked in a rasping, smoke-filled breath and crawled towards the windows. ‘Cera? Timi?’

The Nesti children poked their heads above the broken windows. Behind her she heard Lorenzo heft his sword and swing. The thump echoed around the room, making Cera cry out. Then she and Timi were clambering over the broken teeth of the shattered window and throwing themselves into Elena’s arms. She crushed them to her, and Lorenzo crawled to join them, his face puffy and scalded. Samir Taguine’s head lay in a spreading pool of blood, an expression of stunned surprise still on his face.

In seconds violet-clad guardsmen were storming into the room, Paolo Castellini at their head, his craggy face grim and furious. They gently prised the children away, checking they were whole, but Cera wouldn’t let Elena go, and Timi clung to Lori, soundlessly wailing.

Elena let the soldiers draw them to their feet, and then she slowly let them lead her away from the destruction, and the headless corpse of the man who had wrought it.

‘Is Mother—? And Tante Homeirah?’ Cera was in a bed in a room beside the chapel. There were four guards at the door, and physicians and their assistants everywhere. She and Elena were both still in their torn and burnt nightwear. Elena’s feet were a mess, though the pain was only now registering.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Cera stared out across the room, oblivious to the servants binding her cuts, washing her limbs, numb to everything but the pain inside. Then she put her hand to her mouth as a fresh thought occurred to her. ‘Father!’

Elena felt hollow inside. ‘I don’t know – I’ve tried to find out, but I can’t reach him. I’m so, so sorry.’ This is my fault, she thought. I should have killed Samir in his sleep. I should have known that Gurvon would never just pull out, not when there was the chance to make even more money by leaving a pile of corpses behind him. Olfuss, Solinde – who else? The whole Nesti clan? There aren’t enough men in Brochena Palace to stop Gurvon Gyle and Rutt Sordell – and who knows if the rest of the gang are there too? I’m an idiot! And now this poor, sweet girl is going to have every blade in the kingdom turned on her. I’ve failed them all …

The day passed in a hazy mist, faces coming and going to a constant wailing outside the walls. Elena woke from uneasy, nightmares to find she’d fallen asleep on the chair beside Cera’s bed, her head on the blankets. A hand was stroking her shoulder.

‘Ella,’ whispered Cera.

She sat up and bowed her head. ‘Cera – I’ve failed you all.’

‘Never! You saved us, Ella. We’d all be dead without you.’ She put a finger to Elena’s lips. ‘Shhh: you saved us all – me and Timi, Lori, everyone. You are Nesti. You’re one of us.’ She reached out and pulled Elena to her, stroking her hair as if she were the child and Cera the elder sister. ‘I will give you a medal, and a title, and land. And a new stallion, from our stables. You’ll have the freedom of Forensa.’ Her face grave and serious, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking. I need to be seen. The people need to know that I am alive. There will be all sorts of rumours until they see me. They need to know there are still Nesti alive here.’ She patted Elena’s cheek, looking just like her mother. ‘You should sleep, Ella. You look terrible.’

Elena looked wonderingly at her young charge. It was as if an adult had overnight supplanted the child. ‘How can I sleep when my princessa is working?’ she whispered.

‘If Father is dead by violence, then no election is required: Timi is his heir, and that makes me regent,’ Cera said in a low, astoundingly composed voice. ‘I need to take charge.’

‘Are you ready for that?’ Elena asked her gently. ‘The men will try and sideline you – they may not mean to, but they will see you as – well, you know.’

‘Yes: “just a girl”.’ Cera straightened, setting her jaw. ‘If I am regent by law, then I intend to be regent in fact. The shihad is coming, and Javon needs a leader, not squabbling factions. I will lead, until Timi is old enough.’

Look at you, child – no, not a child any more. Elena swallowed. I am proud of you. And I am utterly terrified for you.

They got up and helped each other dress. Elena belted her sword-belt around her loose-fitting smock. Cera wore regal purple and gold, and her princess-crown, normally only worn for important dinners, was placed on her head. Then Elena followed her out of the castle, through the charred ruins of the reception hall, still littered with blackened timbers and the ruin of the chandelier.

Outside, on the main steps, the sun beat down and the heat rolled in waves off the confined space. The smell of human sweat assailed them as they took in the hundreds crammed into that small area. A ragged cheer broke from the lips of the people, a mix of Jhafi and Rimoni, and Harshal ali-Assam, busy marshalling some workmen, came over. The mourning of the womenfolk gave way to cheers as the crowd realised who had emerged and they surged forward.

Elena hovered beside her charge, nervous of such a crowd, but there was nothing but sorrow and sympathy in the faces of those who pressed close. One girl reverently kissed the hem of Cera’s skirts. Elena scanned the walls in case Gurvon had some back-up assassin lurking, but she sensed no one. Would he have even considered that Samir could fail?

Cera raised a hand for silence and everyone pulled back and kneeled. When she spoke, the princess’ voice was thin but firm. ‘People of Forensa, you know me,’ she started. ‘I am your princess: I am Cera Nesti, and I have terrible tidings for you. My mother, Fadah Lukidh-Nesti, your queen, the Queen of all Javon, is dead, and so too is her sister, my aunt, Homeirah Lukidh-Ashil. These are bitter losses. But my brother Timori, the heir to the throne of Ja’afar-Javon, is unharmed and well. The casualties were, in the end, minimal. An assassin has struck, his apparent purpose was to slay—’ She stopped and swallowed, the first clue to the effort this display was costing her. But she rallied, and went on, ‘His purpose was to slay my family, and he would have done so but for the heroism of our valiant guards.’

There was a low cheer, particularly from the Rimoni.

‘Foremost in valour and resolution was this woman beside me, Elena Anborn, my bodyguard – my champion. Though injured herself, she fought and slew the assassin, and protected my brother and me. She is my dear friend, and I commend her to you all.’

Elena was suddenly the focus of everyone’s attention, and she felt the blood rush to her face as she wrestled with her guilt. Her trembling legs gave way and she slipped wordlessly to her knees and dizzily touched her forehead to Cera’s feet. She hadn’t meant to, but this public obeisance, the deepest of self-humbling gestures, won a great murmur of approval, and it suddenly struck her that to these people her Noros manner, treating all as equals, was considered arrogance; they saw this accidental homage as a belated acknowledgment of her true station. When Cera raised her to her feet and kissed her cheeks, the affection and trust between them was obvious to all, and first one woman and then many approached Elena and bowed, touching their right hands to their foreheads: Praise and thanks, they murmured. Sal’Ahm. Peace be upon you.

Even as she accepted this unprecedented acknowledgment, she felt Gurvon Gyle’s first attempt to scry her. She forbade the contact. Gurvon, you murdering bastard: I will make you pay for this.

That night was full of hideous dreams, when she was eventually able to ignore the pain of her scabbed and blistered feet and calves. The next morning was Minasdai – 13 Octen, she calculated. Cautiously, she checked her wardings, unbroken but tampered with, definitely. She repaired the fraying, ‘sniffing’ with her gnosis-powers to confirm: Gurvon Gyle had been trying to force contact with her.

What else did Gurvon have planned? She had to presume that Olfuss was dead, and surely Gurvon would have followed that up with a military strike. The Gorgio of Hytel, without a doubt; they alone among the Rimoni had stuck by the Dorobon kings, so they must surely have marched back into Brochena. Gurvon would have informants here in Forensa: she knew how he worked. He built a network, everywhere he went. He had always told her to do the same, but she had grown slack here in Javon: she was a bodyguard, she had reasoned, so why would she need spies? Wrong again, idiot! Now she was blind to what was going on elsewhere. She was on her own.

She placed the bowl of water beside the bed into her lap and stared into it, pale light kindling inside it as she sought to scry Olfuss or Solinde. But there was nothing. She replaced the bowl, then hugged her arms about herself and let her grief pour out.

Afterward, she went to the infirmary. Lorenzo was lying there alone. The whole left side of his body was seared red, even his left eye bandaged over, but his right fixed on her as she entered. ‘Ella,’ he croaked.

‘Lori. Did they give you something for the pain?’

He winced. ‘Some. More would be good,’ he admitted unwillingly.

She looked around her but the physicians were busy elsewhere, so she gently removed the bandages and tended him herself with gnosis-healing; performed in a semi-trance. She let her senses enter the wound and cleanse it, dulling his pain and kindling healing energies: a long gentle outpouring of gnostic balm, and as exhausting as any battle-spell. It took some time, and throughout it all, his handsome-sad face watched her, his big eye soft. Finally she peeled back the covering over his face.

‘How bad is it?’ he whispered. ‘Will it scare the girls away?’

‘No more than usual,’ she told him, forcing a smile. ‘You half-turned at the last instant. Give it a few months and no one will even know.’

‘How did you do that? That mirror-trick?’

‘Easy: I projected my reflection out from the mirror into the room and let it draw his fire while I came up behind him.’

‘A miracle.’

‘No, just gnosis. He was a thaumaturge, not good at spotting illusions.’ She shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it.

‘Do your powers really come from your god?’ he asked, his eyes serious.

She shook her head. ‘No. They come from me.’

He lifted his hands to her face, grasped her chin and pulled her mouth down onto his. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t. His mouth was sweet and tangy, his lips both firm and gentle as they moved on hers. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment for a second, and then gently eased away. ‘Then you are an angel.’ He smiled in beatific triumph, the first of the knights to steal a kiss from the witch, and she scowled, regretting the moment already. Then his face clouded. ‘Why did he do it, Ella? Was he acting alone? Or was he under orders?’

Elena shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied, ‘not yet – I’m trying to find out.’ He nodded doubtfully and she stood slowly. It was harder than she had thought, to tear herself away. For just an instant, his warm strong arms had felt like a haven, a refuge from the storm that pressed about her. No. I can’t afford this weakness …

‘Get some sleep, Lori.’ She backed out of the room.

*

Cera and Timori sat at the great table, Timori on a cushion. Elena stood behind Cera, her right hand on her sword-hilt. Her lower legs no longer hurt, but they were scarred. She felt haggard and tired and wracked with guilt. The reverence with which they were treating her was just making the guilt worse.

Harshal ali-Assam and Paolo Castellini were there with a dozen others of both races, local nobles and bureaucrats, holy men and chief citizens. She knew most, though not well. She could see Cera trembling slightly, afraid but determined. She was her father’s daughter; he would be proud to see her today. If he were alive. Who knows, maybe he is? But I doubt that very much

A young Amteh scriptualist spoke a blessing, followed by a bushy-bearded Sollan drui, then they prayed together for strength and fortitude, asking for God’s peace on the fallen and his blessing on the prince and princess. Elena looked at Cera and smiled encouragement. They had laid their plans that morning, then cornered a few of the key men, the opinion leaders, and explained how things would be. The men had all assumed that Cera would step aside and let them deal with the situation, but to Elena’s surprise they had readily agreed to Cera taking this stronger role. It was as if they needed someone to plant a banner they could rally to. ‘You were the men Olfuss Nesti, my father, trusted above all,’ Cera had told them, ‘so trust me. I am my father’s daughter.’ Elena had expected more resistance, but perhaps her presence intimidated them.

Cera addressed the meeting as if she had been doing so all her life: ‘My lords, we are gathered here to convene an Emergency Council. I have sent riders to Brochena to ascertain the situation there, but we can expect no word for some time. My champion Elena has used her skills too, but she has been unable to determine whether my father the king is alive. Or my younger sister.’

Several mouths burst open with questions, but she raised a hand to forestall them. How like a queen she already looks, Elena thought. How proud Olfuss would be.

‘I pray the attack here was an isolated act,’ Cera went on, ‘but I fear that will not be the case. There is strong reason to believe this act was planned for some time, to overthrow Nesti rule and precipitate a coup. I also surmise that this blow has been struck in direct response to my father’s decision about the shihad. For now, my hope is that we will soon have word of my father’s safety, but in my heart I fear we are alone here, and that we are already at war.’