Mage's Blood

31

Lovers

Sorcery

Sorcery strikes to the very heart of the most perplexing and unsolved mysteries – that of the after-life and the soul. Whilst the gnosis appears to prove the existence of some form of life after death, it does not prove – or even hint at – whether that after-life has a purpose, is a reward, or is in fact little more than a protracted fading-away, the tail-end of dying. The existence of God is neither proven nor disproven. Nevertheless, with Sorcery, one can commune with spirits and enlist their aid (Wizardry); speculate upon the future (Divination); communicate over distance (Clairvoyance); or manipulate the dead (Necromancy). Whether any of these uses should be legal is a matter for the moralists.

ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Maicin 928

2 months until the Moontide

In the aftermath of the Revolt, the Rondian legions went from town to town throughout Noros, seeking out the more famous rebels and – despite many having been pardoned – executing them, as a warning to the populace. Elena recalled one in particular: the headsman had paused, nonchalantly, the axe poised above the victim’s head. The boy on the block – and he was only a boy, barely nineteen – had sobbed as he waited to die. There had been for no reason for that pause; it had been deliberate and cruel, the executioner enjoying his moment in the sun as he played to the crowd.

She knew now how that boy had felt. Gurvon’s axe is above us all. I can feel it.

Everyone was affected. Cera was distant, always busy; she never spoke of personal things any more, reminding Elena of a bad phase she had gone through a few years back, spying on people. She’d turned secretive and mean-spirited for a while, until Elena had managed to snap her out of it.

Timori was often tearful, and gave Borsa a horrid time. Elena wished she could spend more time with the boy, playing like they used to, but she was so busy and so tired. Even Lorenzo was awkward with her, his eyes full of longing and his usual smooth manner rumpled by uncertainty.

I wish I could just ride away – but where would I go? she wondered.

After another fruitless day searching the slums – Mara had struck again, this time at one of Mustaq’s kinsmen – she stumbled back to her chambers. Tarita ordered a pair of hefty servants to bring buckets of water to fill the old half-wine-barrel she used as a bath. She heated the water herself with the remains of her gnosis and sighed with relief as she immersed herself.

‘Are you hungry, mistress?’ Tarita asked her.

‘Not really,’ Elena admitted. She tipped more water over her head, enjoying the enveloping warm wetness. ‘I should be, but I’m too tired to eat. I’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow.’ She stood up and accepted a towel.

‘You have a fine body, mistress,’ Tarita told her. ‘Very strong and athletic.’

‘But not very feminine,’ Elena replied, rubbing herself down.

‘I think your form would please any man.’ Tarita said with her usual disconcerting frankness. ‘Does Lorenzo di Kestria like your body?’

‘Tarita!’ Elena rolled her eyes as she wrapped the towel about her and sat on the bed, wondering what to wear that evening. ‘You have no sense of propriety, do you? How old are you now?’

‘Ah, I don’t know precisely – fifteen, I think. I bleed.’ She sniffed. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’ A nagging thought surfaced in her mind. ‘Tarita, how did you come to be in that chest when the Gorgio began killing the Jhafi staff?’

‘You’ve asked me this before, mistress: I saw what was happening and I hid.’

‘Where? Surely not in that trunk for a whole day?’

‘Why not? The soldiers only came in once, and they were in a hurry. I was frightened they would find me, but an officer came and took them away with him. After that, everything went quiet.’

Elena finally remembered what it was that had been nagging her. ‘Who locked you in the chest, Tarita?’

The girl froze, and Elena instinctively walled herself with shields, in case Tarita did something aggressive. Her fears were misplaced; instead, Tarita whimpered and backed away.

‘I won’t hurt you, girl, but I must know,’ Elena said firmly.

Tarita slumped to her knees on the floor. ‘Please, mistress – I was going to tell you, once I knew it was safe, I promise.’ She took a deep breath and looked at Elena. Her face was pallid beneath the deep tan of her race. ‘It was Portia, mistress.’

‘Portia? Portia Tolidi? Fernando’s sister? Why would she do that?’

‘Because Fernando was my lover,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ Elena stood up, towering over the girl, who cowered on the floor. ‘He was what? But Solinde—?’ Whole new vistas of questions burst into being around her.

Tarita cowered on the floor, her eyes bruised with fear. ‘Fernando made Portia promise to keep me safe, mistress. Please – I was going to tell you, but if my people found out I’d lain with a Gorgio they would kill me.’

Elena sat down in the water again, thinking furiously. ‘Why didn’t Portia take you north?’

Tarita gave her the look she usually reserved for when Elena made a stupid tabula move. ‘Because the Gorgio were killing all the staff – if I’d been found in the north, I’d have ended up just as dead. Portia was kind to me, for her brother’s sake.’

Elena reached down, lifted the girl’s chin and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Your secret is safe with me, Tarita. I swear that.’ She was still thinking furiously. ‘So what happened to Fernando Tolidi?’

‘He was killed, about a week before you came and drove off the Gorgio.’

‘He was killed? By whom?’

‘Princessa Solinde killed him,’ Tarita replied unflinchingly.

‘Great Kore! Solinde? You’re serious?’

The girl lifted her head defiantly and repeated, ‘Princess Solinde killed him.’

Elena stared at her. ‘Surely you’re mistaken—’

Tarita looked back up at her, her dark eyes flashing. ‘You can disbelieve if you wish, mistress.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She pictured the bitter, vicious creature who had confronted her after they had pulled her from the wreckage of the Moon Tower and tried to match it to the happy, vivacious girl she had spent four years with. Great Kore!

She patted the mattress beside her. ‘Sit here, Tarita. Please, tell me what happened.’

Tarita rose gracefully to her feet and sat shyly next to Elena, careful not to touch her. ‘Mistress, Seir Fernando was aide to the Gorgio ambassador. He was courting Solinde, but the princessa was off-limits for —well, you know what.’ She preened slightly. ‘I was not a virgin and he took a liking to me, so when he came back to his rooms after dancing, with his passions aroused, he wanted a woman. He wanted me.’

Elena stared at the girl. She’d have been what, fourteen? Gracious, the lives we live.

‘Then you went to Forensa with the queen and Princessa Cera and Prince Timi. The palace was preparing for the arrival of the sultan’s emissaries. Then Magister Sordell killed good King Olfuss and the Gorgio entered the city. There were thousands of soldiers and they were forcing many of the women, but Fernando protected me.’ The girl stared at the floor. ‘He said he loved me.’

And maybe he did, Elena thought. He was only eighteen himself. He wouldn’t be the first to fall in love with a servant – or the first to pretend love if it enabled him to enjoy a naïve young girl’s body either. ‘Did you love him?’

Tarita squirmed uncomfortably. ‘I liked him. We really didn’t spend time together, mistress. We just rukked, then I would go back to my duties. Maybe we would have come to love each other.’

‘What happened between him and Solinde?’

‘The princessa was very distraught – her father was dead and she was a prisoner. I saw her after, and she was crying. Fernando was trying to console her, but she hit him – I saw the handprint.’

‘Was he angry?’

‘No, he was sad. He was a good man, mistress. He felt sorry for her – he said she was really just angry with his clan, not him. The princessa was kept locked up for a long time. Lady Vedya arrived, and she wouldn’t even allow any servants into Solinde’s rooms. Then after a few weeks, Alfredo Gorgio announced that Solinde and Fernando would marry, and they began courting again as if nothing had ever been wrong between them. We all saw them walking together, and she looked happy.’

Alone with Vedya, and then a change in behaviour. ‘Go on,’ Elena said grimly, thinking, I have to get Solinde recalled back here so I can question her.

‘The whisper went round that Solinde and Fernando would marry in secret on the next holy day, and Fernando told me that evening. He said I couldn’t be his maid any more and he made Portia promise to look after me.’ She scowled. ‘At least I wasn’t with child. But I was not pleased at all.’

Elena put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

Tarita pouted, then shrugged. ‘I suppose it had to happen sometime.’ She leaned towards Elena. ‘Then it all went horribly wrong. There were these awful noises, in the middle of the night – they woke the whole palace! The two of them were shouting really dreadful things at each other, horrible obscenities, then someone screamed and one of the knights broke the door down. Fernando’s chest was covered in blood and there was a knife in his heart!’

‘And Solinde?’

‘She had pulled a sheet over her face. They told us she was shouting in a strange voice—’

‘Strange? In what way strange?’

Tarita shrugged. ‘Just strange. She sounded – well, different, not like Princessa Solinde … she wasn’t speaking words, just wailing, like at a funeral.’ She shuddered. ‘She had stabbed Fernando many, many times. Then Magister Sordell arrived and threw everyone out.’

‘Not Gurvon?’

‘Magister Gyle was away – this was just before you came back and killed the evil ones,’ Tarita reminded her. ‘Magister Sordell put it about that Fernando had attacked the princessa and she had defended herself. Then he locked her in the Moon Tower – for her own protection, he said.’

Elena raised her eyebrows. ‘He protected Solinde? After she’d murdered a Gorgio?’

Tarita looked like she wanted to spit. ‘I suppose she had more value than Fernando,’ she said bitterly. ‘Anyway, a few days later you came and killed them all. But Lady Cera should bring back her sister and make her pay,’ she added in a low voice.

Elena took a deep breath. ‘I wish you had told me this before I sent Solinde south.’

Tarita hunched over a little. ‘I couldn’t tell anyone.’ She reached out and clutched Elena’s hand in hers. ‘The men – they wouldn’t understand. I slept with a Gorgio!’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I don’t want them to hurt me.’

‘I’ll keep your secret, Tarita, I promise you. Thank you for trusting me with it.’

‘You are a good mistress,’ the maid said in a small voice, and then, after a moment, ‘Will you ask Lady Cera to give Fernando justice?’

‘Yes, I will,’ Elena replied, squeezing Tarita’s hand.

First though, I’ll need to exhume his body and ask it a few questions, and hope to Hel I can make sense of all this.

Many aspects of Necromancy were illegal throughout the Rondian Empire, for good reasons. To create an undead by imprisoning a soul in their own or another body violated all human sensibilities, and not only was every instant a torment for those souls, but they were a danger to the living: their bodies were oblivious to pain and their need to feed on other spirits to continue their half-lives made them murderous.

Javon, having not previously been home to magi, had no specific laws against Necromancy, but, regardless, Elena had no intention of getting caught.

Fernando Tolidi had been hastily buried in one of the palace crypts beneath the now-ruined Moon Tower. As a nobleman, Fernando was owed a proper burial, but the expectation was that his body would be sent north at some point, once relations with the Gorgio normalised. So in the meantime, he’d been nailed into a coffin and interred without ceremony in the crypt of some long-extinct dynasty, where he’d been left to rot away unregarded.

The gnosis was Elena’s key and illumination. She checked Cera was asleep, Tarita silent and Borsa snoring in the next room before slipping down to Fernando’s current resting place. The padlock came open in her hand with little effort; the gnosis muffled the noise of the grating hinges as she opened and closed the door, then lit a torch. Alone in the cold chamber, Elena went grave-robbing. The graves of almost five hundred years of sheiks, emirs and Godspeakers lay beneath the palace, a maze of Jhafi dead that would take hours to fully explore. But Elena needed only the Rimoni crypts, easily recognisable by the angel-encrusted, Sol et Lune engravings on the rows of stone sarcophagi. She muttered a quick prayer for the dead as she navigated her way through them. It was easy to imagine ghosts peering after her, or shades stalking the shadows in her wake. At times the dead did sleep unquiet, when some poor soul’s transition did not go as it should, instead leaving it haunting its own remains. Sometimes they could be deadly dangerous. But here there was only the cold, rotting damp of the grave: unpleasant enough, but not perilous.

Fernando had been laid in a stone sarcophagus, his name etched hastily on the top. She placed her torch in a holder on the wall to free her hands and lifted the lid, wincing at the stench of death within. She paused to wrap a scarf over her nose and mouth, took a deep breath and prised open the coffin.

No effort had been made to prepare the body for burial. The corpse of Fernando Tolidi was in advanced decay, horribly swollen to twice its normal bulk by the gases trapped as the internal organs decayed. The fingernails, toenails and hair had continued to grow, but the face had fallen, the rotting flesh clinging to the shape of the skull beneath. His eyes were open, bulging white orbs staring sightlessly upward. His swollen tongue had forced the mouth apart and lines of dried blood ran from his eyes and mouth as if he had been weeping ichor. But all this was normal decomposition.

It’s no wonder there were legends of the living dead well before the gnosis made it possible, Elena thought. She quelled her nausea; what she was about to do was difficult and more than a little dangerous. She was going to use Fernando’s body as a link to his soul – a Necromantic summoning to bring the spirit back to its corpse. There was every chance it would be futile – Necromancy was not her forte, and his spirit might have already dissipated or passed on. Or worse, she might attract the attention of something more dangerous.

Purple light, the colour of Necromancy, oozed from her fingers onto Fernando’s gelid skin. There was nothing left of him here but a cadaver, but a residue of his essence remained for a time in the body. Using it, she began her call, soundless in the human world, but felt like a pulse by the spirits, like vibrations on a web, attracting the spiders. She tried not to think of it that way, though.

Fernando Tolidi … Fernando Tolidi …

She lost track of time while she called, feeling only the sheen on her brow, the beads of sweat, the light touches on her mind, until at last she felt stirrings, as if something large had swum near her in deep waters, a thing of shadow and distant hissing voices, and then …

I … am … was … Fernando … Tolidi …

She caught an image, a self-image of a well-made young man with an equine face. His semi-opaque form drifted towards her, a look of fear on his face. He reached the other side of the coffin.

Don’t look down, Fernando, look at me, she told him, but he looked down anyway, saw his own rotting body and cried out in sorrow and horror. His spectral form began to disintegrate.

She walked around the coffin as he backed away. Fernando, look only at me, she commanded.

His face turned back towards her, unwilling, terrified. What have you done to me?

I need to know who killed you.

He looked at her in confusion, his eyes haunted. He clutched at his breast, as if touching an embedded blade. I can’t remember – why can’t I remember my own death?

Elena sought to soothe him. It’s normal. The mind erases pain and trauma. She felt a sudden prickling of her senses as other spirits crowded about them now, watching intently. She needed to get this over with. Be still, she told Fernando’s ghost, and she held out a hand, aglow with purple gnosis, and reached inside his spectral skull. A shudder ran through him and images flicked into her mind:

A young woman, Solinde, naked on top of him, his hands gripping her as she rode him, his pleasure mounting, ascending towards release … He looks up at her as she looks down …

It’s not her!

Shock, disbelief; he’s shouting, inchoate words of denial and horror, shoving her off him … a thin, white body sprawls, and then that face is shouting back at him and a dagger flashes …

There’s numbness as blow after blow hammers into his chest, and it’s so strange because he can’t feel a thing and yet there is blood everywhere. He can still see a bony face, blood all over the white skin, the acrid tang of blood. Darkness is rushing in like water, pulling him under …

Elena disengaged from the vision as it faded. ‘Thank you, Fernando,’ she said, aloud and into the spirit world. ‘Go in peace.’

The big face looked down at her and he tried to reach for her, whether in threat or gratitude she couldn’t tell, because some unseen wind shredded him and blew his soul into the void.

Elena held onto that indistinct image: a thin, boyish face with short red hair. No one she knew …

The mausoleum felt watchful now, sentient. Summoning one spirit invariably attracted others. She backed out, waving the torch about her, knowing her fears were not groundless: she knew of beings that could be lurking, and she whispered words of banishing. The echoing silence mocked her, but though there was nothing else here, she did not feel safe until she had regained her rooms.

She lay wakeful long into the night, wishing she could talk to someone – all right, with Lorenzo – but it was late, and she had too much to think about.

When eventually she slept, she dreamed the bloated body under the slab was her own.

‘Lady Elena, how are you faring?’ Pita Rosco sat himself beside her as the rest of the Regency Council filed in. The group was somewhat changed these days, with Seir Luigi Conti gone north, where he was penning in the Gorgio. Comte Piero Inveglio was still there, urbane, suave as ever, and still peddling his sons to Cera at every opportunity. It had become a good-natured joke, though with a serious undertone. Don Francesco Perdonello sat with the council now, the prime bureaucrat of the Grey Crows, to advise on Civil Service matters. He always brought a retinue of experts, and had become a major player. He and Pita Rosco were at constant loggerheads over finances.

‘Pita, I’ve never been better,’ Elena lied brightly.

Pita raised a dubious eyebrow, but didn’t challenge her words. Lorenzo came in and Elena found something important to do in the corner while the young knight joked with Pita about a wager.

Cera led in the remainder of the council: Luigi Ginovisi, still Master of Revenues, and still grumbling. Godspeaker Acmed al-Istan, trying to persuade the council to make positive steps towards the Amteh demands. The Sollan Faith was now represented by Josip Yannos, more senior than Ivan Prato. Yannos was a stern, grey presence who would argue the smallest point as if it were life and death. The Regency Council was thirty-strong now, and each councillor had his own retinue. It was too big, Elena kept telling Cera. She was working on getting Cera to adopt a smaller Upper Council instead; one more boring, divisive meeting should persuade her.

Cera sat, and everyone took their places. Elena slid into her customary position beside her, but the queen-regent didn’t even spare her a glance as she opened the meeting. ‘All of our time is precious, gentlemen, and I am sick of fixing gate tolls and salt quotas, then finding we’re out of time to debate the shihad. This is a decision, not an invitation to argue. Understood?’

They all knew her well enough by now to just bow and agree. Elena had heard a few of them hankering back to the old days, ‘when Olfuss at least let us talk’. But she had also heard them agree that Cera ran the council well, and by and large they were fiercely loyal to her. She felt a familiar surge of pride in her princessa. All those nights tutoring her on politics and leadership were bearing fruit, far beyond what she could ever have envisaged.

Though I miss the girl she used to be …

Cera recapped their position: their agents in Kesh reported massive columns of men winding their way west towards the Hebb Valley. A trader reported that Tomas Betillon had instituted a brutally enforced curfew in Hebusalim. The Rondians had sent Belonius Vult on some kind of diplomatic mission to the Ordo Costruo. In the north the Gorgio were quiescent, but they were building tall wooden gantries, the type used to dock windships. The Dorobon were coming, it was rumoured. Even if Javon ignored the Crusade, war would still come. But this was all days or weeks old; without Gurvon Gyle’s web of informants fresh news was precious.

They debated the shihad extensively, but no one could agree on anything. Sending their soldiers south if the Gorgio were about to be reinforced by the Dorobon would be madness – but rebuffing Sultan Salim’s demands would also be suicidal. In the end they voted narrowly in favour of the shihad, and only on Cera’s casting vote. Lorenzo had voted against, Elena noted, which had not pleased Cera.

It was a long meeting, and even the most argumentative councillor was ready to leave when Cera announced one last matter. ‘Elena has asked me to bring Solinde back from Krak di Conditiori,’ she said baldly.

This made everyone stop their end-of-meeting banter and stare. ‘For what purpose?’ Comte Inveglio asked at last. ‘She still faces charges of treason and has not yet been tried. Can we risk a public trial at so delicate a time?’

Pita Rosco raised a finger. ‘We should make an example of her – it will show the people that we are determined to confront this matter head-on—’

Cera raised a hand. ‘Elena wishes only to question her concerning events surrounding the death of Fernando Tolidi. The transfer will be low-key. Whether she is sent south again will depend on the answers we get.’

‘Then why does Donna Elena not go south herself and save us the trouble of a difficult and dangerous prisoner-transfer?’ Pita grumbled.

‘Because I cannot spare her,’ Cera responded flatly. ‘This is for your information; it is not a debate.’ Then she softened a little. ‘Solinde is still my sister, and I too want to see her again. I want to know whether she put the Gorgio ahead of us. If she did, I will have no pity.’ Cera’s voice had a hollow, haunted tone. ‘But that is for another time.’ She stood abruptly. ‘That is all, gentlemen.’

As the men dispersed, Cera plucked at Elena’s sleeve and bade her walk with her, a rarity of late. ‘Elena, part of me would be happy for Solinde to stay in the dungeons of the Krak for ever,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not sure how to deal with her any more.’

Elena said sympathetically, ‘I will question her as quickly as I can, then we will send her back. You don’t even have to see her.’

‘But I do, Ella – of course I have to see her.’ Cera straightened her back, her mind already moving on. ‘Next week the sultan’s emissaries are arriving. What do we tell them?’

‘That we’d love to dance, but we’ve got a full card?’

Cera suppressed a smile. ‘That might be about all we can say. I doubt Salim will be amused, though. Nor the Jhafi. If the Dorobon return, I can’t afford to have my armies in the Hebb Valley.’ She yawned bleakly. ‘Lorenzo di Kestria voted against us supporting the shihad,’ she noted. ‘I was surprised.’

‘I think Lorenzo believes we can only deal with one problem at a time. He believes the Gorgio–Dorobon alliance is the issue we must confront.’

Cera scowled. ‘Usually the Kestrians vote with me,’ she growled. She glanced at Elena. ‘I thought you had him better trained than that.’

‘If that was a jest, it wasn’t funny, Cera.’ She thinks I’m sleeping with him. Who else does?

Cera said coldly, ‘I merely meant that you and he usually agree on most matters. There was no need to take offence.’

Elena flinched. ‘I apologise, your Majesty. I’m tired.’ Deathly tired. Tired enough to make mistakes. She bowed, conscious that the exchange had been overheard by several of the council. ‘Please excuse me.’ She hurried away, thinking, What’s got into my princessa? Where’s the girl I used to know?

She climbed the stairs wearily, considered another bath, but chose meditation instead. She went to her tower-room and bowed apologetically to Bastido, whom she’d been neglecting of late, before casting off her cloak and weapons. She pulled open the shutters and bathed in the crimson light of the falling sun for a while before pulling off her breeches and outer tunic, unrolling the thin mat she kept in the corner and beginning her routine. The art of yoga had come originally from Lakh, but after the Leviathan Bridge had opened it had been learned by many magi of Yuros, deemed useful as both physical and mental training.

She had been working for half an hour and was beginning to sweat when the sound of her door opening pulled her mind back to the present. Her eyes went to her sword. She relaxed slightly when she saw that the intruder was Lorenzo di Kestria, though her skin prickled at being alone with him.

‘Donna Ella, may I interrupt?’

She looked down at herself, clad only in perspiration-soaked undergarments, then up at him. ‘Lori, if you walked in on another woman like this she would have every right to scream.’

He glided past her to the window. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I presume upon your goodwill.’ He turned, his face gilded by the sunset, and extended a hand. ‘We said we would talk again after you had returned from the blood-tower. You have returned, and I wish to have that conversation.’

Oh my …

She allowed him to draw her up. Her knees had lost all strength, and all of the wet heat in her body began to flow to her belly. And below. ‘I should dress,’ she muttered distractedly.

He prevented her by simply enclosing his arms about her from behind. They were firm and warm; they felt as strong as castle walls. She sank into his grasp almost involuntarily.

‘I enjoy watching you. You move with such grace,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Like water.’ He gently turned her so that they faced out the window. ‘Here in these dry lands, water is precious.’

Together they stared out over the sea of mud-brick houses to the desert horizon and the stark shapes of the mountains to the west. She tried to remember what forests looked like, and couldn’t. She couldn’t rightly think of anything, except how good his arms felt wrapped about her.

‘Tell me of Indrania,’ she said hastily, trying to give herself time to think.

He smiled fondly. ‘Ah. The people there say Lakh, not Indrania. It’s the strangest land in the world, perhaps. The red dirt, the dusty green of the trees, the minarets rising white above the red roofs. The vibrancy of the people and the colour. You have never seen colour until you have been in a Lakh market. The women wear such dazzling, beautiful fabrics, the richest reds and greens, the brightest yellows and oranges, all glinting with gold embroidery and studded with gems. The patterns are intricate, the detail incredible.’ He stroked her arms. ‘One day I will take you there, if you wish it.’

A vision of freedom and movement: a hope to pin her colours to. ‘I do wish it, Lori. It sounds wonderful.’

‘There is freedom in movement. The road calls and you leave all cares behind and allow it to take you away, to where dreams await.’ She sighed and sank into his enfolding arms. He kissed her left ear, then her right, and she squirmed pleasantly. He nuzzled her neck. ‘May I claim that kiss now, Ella?’

She turned in his arms and faced him, his eyes inches from hers. She exhaled gently, hopelessly. ‘You may.’ She pressed her mouth to his and drank in his kiss. His mouth tasted of coffee. She felt her defences crumble as she let him guide her to the yoga mat, gently lowering her onto her back, kissing her throat, feeling his stubble rough on her neck and cheeks. His hand slid inside her sweaty tunic and stroked her left nipple, then unbuttoned the shirt. The decision taken, she was filled with urgency to get it over with, but he was in no mood to hurry and his movements became slower, more languid, his kisses gentler, less urgent, his touch more playful and teasing.

He bared her carefully, praising her with whispered murmurs as he slid down her body. ‘There is a Lakh text, a guide on the art of love. The first book describes the non-penetrative pleasuring of a woman,’ he told her and then he kissed her mound and ran his tongue down her cleft, his touch so exquisite it froze her. She clutched his curling hair and held him there as he tormented her with his mouth for what felt like hours, licking, sucking, until she came apart in a flurry of explosive climaxes, her whimpered cries hanging damp in the air.

Only when she had recovered did he slowly climb her body. ‘The second book concerns the penetration of the woman,’ he told her as he filled her. She squirmed beneath him, tried to rock her hips, but he stilled her. ‘Slower, amora, always slower.’ He felt huge inside her, and when at last he began to move, it took all the breath from her body. They wrapped about each other, every movement building on the last, her senses filling with him: the way he sounded, felt, smelled, moved, all-pervasive and glorious. Her native reserve vanished and she found herself crying out, panting for breath as at last he pounded into her, bellowing like a bull as he came inside her convulsing body. It felt like aeons before she could think again. Her loins were slick with fluids, her skin with sweat.

‘That was wonderful,’ she whispered.

‘Thank you.’ He gave a slow smile, strangely serious, almost appraising.

‘What are you thinking?’ she wondered suddenly.

‘That you are a wondrous being. A magi, capable of all manner of miracles.’ He eased himself out of her and lay half-astride, his face pressed to hers. ‘But you are a woman, before all else.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m the queen-regent’s Champion – that, above all.’

He looked into her eyes. ‘You are a woman first to me.’ And he kissed her reply away before wrapping her in his arms possessively.

She kissed his cheek, suddenly shy now that the urgency of her need had been sated. For now. She felt a confused mess of hopes and fears churning inside her. Though her instincts were to draw away and gauge what this meant, it had been wonderful – better than she had dreamed.

‘So?’ she asked him playfully, ‘what did you wish to talk about?’

He grunted. ‘Women! Always in bed they talk talk talk.’ He laughed, but it was he who filled the silence, speaking of places he’d seen. The room filled with shadows as the night came on, but Elena barely noticed, her mind following his words, envisaging what he described.

‘The road sounds good,’ she murmured when Lorenzo paused at last.

‘It is a good life,’ he agreed. ‘But it can be lonely too. You’re never certain of your welcome, wherever you go. A misunderstanding, a loose word and you find yourself on your own and having to move on. Some towns can be very unwelcoming. Others open their arms to you.’

I bet they do, she thought, eyeing his handsome face. ‘I’m sure you were able to charm your way out of anything dangerous, sirrah.’

He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Of course – exotic strangers always hold a certain charm, don’t you think? Like yourself, Donna: all the men here are fascinated by you.’

She looked sceptical. ‘Appalled, horrified, maybe. When I first arrived the knights were outraged that a foreigner – and a woman at that! – could be considered more capable of protecting the royal children than they. They have taken every opportunity to criticise me, to disparage me and outdo me – and some of them still had the cheek to try and woo me as well!’

‘It must be difficult for you here, unable to give anyone a hold over you by showing them favour and affection.’

‘Exactly: when a man takes a woman, he has conquered. He is victorious, he has triumphed, while the woman is ruined, sullied by that same act. A man beds a little court-bint and everyone thinks the better of him; his prowess is established. But those young girls are left tainted by their succumbing.’

‘So other men here have also tried to seduce you?’ he asked, deflecting that line of conversation.

She decided to let it go. ‘Some of them – the cocky ones. But most think I’m a freak: a female warrior-mage. I could not be more alien to them. If they could beat me in a duel or bed me, they could place me somewhere in their little pecking orders. I spent my first year here under siege.’

‘It sounds exhausting, being you,’ Lorenzo observed after a few moments.

Elena looked back at him, trying to sort through her feelings. He was charming and he was honest. That he was not a mage meant he could never know her fully, but she could relax with him as she never could with another mage. And the sex had been truly magical. It felt as if he were some kind of lodestone, pulling her flesh towards him. His voice was low and throaty, just the sort she liked. Carnal images were filling her mind again.

‘So, do you have a copy of this Indranian sex-manual?’ she asked slyly.

He grinned, leaning back. ‘Of course! It can be good inspiration to liven things up on a slow night. It is based upon the four principles of pleasure.’ He raised a finger. ‘One: That all bodies can give and receive pleasure. Second, that until we understand our own desires, we are closed to full enjoyment of pleasure. Third, that pleasure may be transitory, but it is a glimpse of the eternal bliss of God’s house. Fourth, that the key to pleasure lies not in the body, but in the mind. The book is fond of the number four; it groups the myriad couplings it depicts into four primal acts. It devises four phases of love-making and associates them with the cycles of the moon. It’s also rather picturesque. The Amteh have banned the book, but it is easily available, even in supposed Amteh towns. I know of one scriptualist who adapted it to Amteh customs. Here in Ahmedhassa, the people enjoy their pleasures, whereas Rondians are reserved and prissy about them, in my experience.’ He raised a teasing eyebrow.

She ducked her head, recalling the brief couplings that she and Gurvon had used to indulge in, more a purging of need than a celebration of it. ‘So I become yet another of your conquests,’ she observed.

‘I have, well, much experience of women,’ he replied, not quite apologetically.

The idea didn’t repel her as she thought it might. ‘Then I’m in good hands.’ She smiled.

‘You are,’ he replied confidently. ‘And speaking of hands—’ He slid his hand down her belly, cupped her mound and began to tease her again.

She moaned softly and surrendered once more.

Stealth was something Cera Nesti had learned from an early age, in hide-and-seek games with her siblings. She knew how to move soundlessly, to know when to pause and when to go, or to stop, utterly still, and remain so for minutes on end. By now it was second nature. And she’d seen enough.

There was a tiny viewing space high on the wall overlooking Lorenzo di Kestria’s bed. She had taken to watching it when he courted her to see if he was faithful. After she’d rejected him, he’d become promiscuous for a few weeks. It had been queasily entertaining to watch him coupling with a different girl each night.

But this time it was Elena she saw slip into the knight’s chamber, and some part of her soul turned to ash. It was evident that this was not their first time from their easy familiarity. As the grunting, gasping frenzy of their coupling burned her ears, she crawled away, tears stinging her eyes.

Gyle will say this proves they plot against me …

Her bedroom adjoined her father’s old reading room, the nexus from which the spider-web of passages and tunnels over Brochena Palace radiated. She stumbled into the room, collapsed on the divan and sobbed soundlessly, her shoulder heaving violently with the effort of keeping her grief silent. She twisted in a paroxysm that began as sorrow and finished as rage.

There was a shadow perched outside her window. She staggered to it and threw it open. ‘You were right!’ she gasped hoarsely. ‘You were right about them!’

The projected form of Gurvon Gyle bowed its head. ‘I grieve for you, Cera,’ he said simply. ‘Elena has no loyalty but to herself. Her support for you was only ever a ploy, to gain independence from me and a new pension plan for herself.’

She wanted to smash something. She wanted to scream. A dark future opened before her: of awakening to find Elena crushing a pillow over her face while Lorenzo knifed Timori and seized the throne; the massacre of all the Nesti as the Kestrians swept into power. Of Elena and Lorenzo, coupling in her own bed, King and Queen of Javon.

‘How can I save myself?’ she heard herself ask.

Gurvon met her eyes. ‘You must proceed with caution, Cera. Try to arrest them and you will bring everything to a head. Your position is precarious, but not hopeless.’

She swallowed. I’m doing this for my family.

‘The issue will be forced when Solinde is brought back. You will note that Elena has invented some pretext to have her returned? This is so she can be slain at the same time as Timi and you. If they left her in the Krak, where the Ordo Costruo have sovereignty, she’d be a rallying point. By bringing her back, they make ready their coup.’

She shuddered. ‘I never thought of that. I’ll countermand the order—’

‘No, let it happen. It will be the catalyst to freeing you.’ He raised a hand to her, palm out. ‘Cera, I have a plan – but you must trust me.’

She sucked in her breath. He is Gurvon Gyle. He killed my father and mother. How did it ever come to this? Then the image of Elena’s enraptured face as she rutted with Lorenzo di Kestria obliterated her doubts. Rukka Hel, I hate these magi! She met Gyle’s eyes. But it seems I must trust one of them …

‘What must I do?’

‘Firstly, send Lorenzo di Kestria to retrieve Solinde from the Krak – it must be him. And then summon Harshal ali-Assam in secret and—’

‘Harshal! You mean—’

‘No, I don’t mean he is my agent – he is not. But he has contacts among the Jhafi, including a man called Ghujad iz’Kho, who—’

‘That’s a Harkun name!’

Gyle sighed slightly. ‘Yes, Princessa, it is. Are you going to interrupt everything I say?’

Cera clasped her arms about herself and shook her head.

‘Excellent. Now, here is what you must tell Harshal …’

Everyone knew the participation of Javon in the shihad would be decided today, so it was with sinking heart that Elena watched the way they arrayed themselves about the council table. Emir Ilan Tamadhi, Harshal ali Assam and Scriptualist Acmed al-Istan sat on one side, with Comte Piero Inveglio, Seir Luca Conti and Pita Rosco lined up opposite. Conti was standing in for Lorenzo, who was travelling to retrieve Solinde. Josip Yannos was sitting at the foot of the table.

I wish you were here, Lori. At least you know how to find compromise. But Lorenzo was riding south to fetch back Solinde. She missed him with both body and soul.

Cera arrived, looking red-eyed and nervous. She had become even less communicative in recent weeks, colder and harder and more distant; there was obviously some internal dialogue going on inside her that she would not share with Elena.

No one else appeared to have noticed the change; they no longer treated Cera as if she was either young or female; instead, they argued with her, joked with her and deferred to her as readily as they ever had with Olfuss.

But that did not mean they always agreed with her, and the shihad was the most divisive topic of all. They had run out of time: the ambassadors for Salim, Sultan of Kesh, were due in Brochena within the week, at which point either they agreed to join the shihad, or they became its target.

Scriptualist Acmed made the case for the shihad. ‘You must understand that only one body can speak for the whole of the Amteh, and that is the Convocation. The shihad is a sacred obligation to make war. It has not been decreed against the Kore before. The First Crusade took us by surprise, and the feuding of Kesh and Lakh meant no Convocation could be possible for the Second Crusade. Once it is confirmed that the Third Crusade has begun, every able-bodied man in Kesh and Dhassa and Gatioch and beyond will take up arms and march to join Salim’s armies. This includes my people, the Jhafi. The obedience they owe to the throne is one thing, Queen-Regent, but this is an obligation to Ahm Himself!’

Ilan Tamadhi nodded quickly in agreement. ‘The fact that you Rimoni are Sollan is recognised, your Majesty. The Jhafi will not take up arms against you and your people, but you cannot stand in the way of this call to arms. Already many young men have gone south of their own volition.’

It was so: reports from the Krak di Conditiori, the gateway out of Javon, spoke of young Jhafi streaming out of the country to join the armies mustering in the Zhassi Valley.

‘But the true danger is here,’ Piero Inveglio replied with a measure of exasperation. ‘It is almost certain that the Dorobon will arrive in Hytel with at least one legion. Are we to let them ravage Javon unchecked?’

Acmed spread his hands. ‘My people believe the Gorgio to be finished. They do not think the Dorobon will return. The queen-regent has defeated them.’

‘But is that what you believe?’ Luca Conti growled. ‘What are you telling your people in the Dom-al’Ahms?’

‘That the Convocation has spoken and we have no choice but to respond,’ Acmed replied sharply, with a hint of challenge to his voice.

Elena frowned. What he was really saying was, ‘I control the people, not you.’

‘In 904 the Dorobon conquered Javon with a single legion,’ Comte Inveglio reminded the room. ‘We overthrew them only when they grew complacent and we managed to poison Louis Dorobon and half the magi. They will not be so lax again. Do you want to see your homeland destroyed while your people are off being slaughtered in Hebusalim, Godspeaker?’

‘It is God’s will that we march to Hebusalim,’ Acmed replied obstinately.

The four Rimoni slapped the table in frustration. ‘What is it you want?’ Pita Rosco demanded. ‘What concession? Lay your cards on the table, damn it!’

‘There is no bargaining with Ahm!’

‘Ha! There is no bargaining with you,’ Luca Conti drawled disgustedly.

‘Do not impugn a holy man,’ Ilan Tamadhi snapped. He eyed the Rimoni lords firmly. ‘Listen, you know me: I have supported the guru’s strictures, and I love this land. We are not fools: we know that answering the shihad will cost Javon dearly. We know the risks – but to speak against the Convocation will rouse the common people against us, and that will destroy us even sooner.’

‘And still you put your precious faith ahead of the wellbeing of your people,’ Pita Rosco complained.

‘Yes, my faith is “precious” to me,’ Acmed thundered back. ‘It is the centre of every man’s life, or should be—’

‘I agree on that point, if no other,’ growled Josip Yannos.

‘Gentlemen,’ Cera snapped, slapping the table, ‘this is unseemly. I want a solution.’

‘Apparently there is no solution,’ Comte Inveglio rasped. ‘They would march off to death or glory, leaving the Rimoni to face the Dorobon alone.’ He looked at Ilan Tamadhi. ‘Or is there a solution?’

‘Those who speak against the Convocation are inviting death,’ Ilan replied, his expression neutral.

‘Are you threatening our queen-regent?’ Luca Conti snarled, and Elena wished once again that Lorenzo were here.

‘No,’ Acmed put in, ‘no, we are not. The queen-regent is beloved by us all. You Rimoni are not threatened by the shihad, not unless you align against it. But the Gorgio must be your problem.’

The argument went round for hours, a storm-tossed sea of words that crashed against the will of the Convocation and broke apart. Elena feared a breakdown, but Cera kept stepping in. At last she asked Elena to speak about the capabilities of a Rondian legion.

‘The Dorobon are Rondians from the north,’ Elena told the council. ‘They are wealthy beyond your reckoning, with all the arrogance that brings. They are closely aligned to the emperor, and highly favoured – the Dowager, the wife of Louis, who you poisoned, has the ear of the Empress-Mother Lucia Fasterius herself. They will invade by windship before the year is out. That is not a guess.

‘The Dorobon legion is extremely well-equipped. Though five thousand men does not sound like a lot, these will be mostly mounted, many on gnosis-creatures designed for the battlefield. They will bring winged steeds, and at least a dozen battle-magi. They will be of many levels of blood-purity, but many will be stronger than me. A force like that could destroy an army ten times its size.’

While they were still taking this in, Cera asked, ‘What of an army twenty times their size?’

Elena blinked. They all did. ‘Well,’ she started, ‘if they held together, if they were not panicked by the awful losses they would incur – even pure-bloods tire; even a construct-beast can be brought down … but there is no such army, not here in Javon.’

Cera stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Yes there is.’

Everyone looked at her blankly.

‘The Harkun,’ she answered their silent enquiry.

Every man in the room except Harshal ali Assam rose to their feet, the expressions on their faces ranging from shock to scorn to outrage, but Cera did not flinch.

Finally they fell silent to allow Comte Inveglio to lead the protests. ‘Queen-Regent, the Harkun and the Jhafi have been at war for centuries. Their atrocities are legendary – even in my time we’ve had to fight them on our southern borders. Those memories still haunt me. They torture captives to death and enslave our women. Even the Keshi will not deal with them – they are animals, Queen-Regent!’

Cera turned to Harshal ali-Assam, and Elena watched with interest. Harshal had obviously known Cera’s suggestion was coming; she wondered what had already been negotiated. And why was I not included in this discussion?

‘Harshal, I believe you have contacts among the Harkun?’ Cera asked. ‘Tell us of them.’

Harshal stroked his shaven skull. ‘I have made contact with the Harkun through a man of mixed blood. His name is Ghujad iz’Kho and he is known in all the major nomad camps. The Harkun enter our southern marches through mountain passes hundreds of miles east of the Krak. They are impassable in winter so they summer here, in the cooler north, then winter in Kesh. They are devoutly Amteh, but do not acknowledge the Convocation, nor do they swear allegiance to Kesh or Gatioch. They are fiercely independent, and very warlike.’

‘Precisely,’ exclaimed Pita Rosco. ‘Warlike and lawless and owing no allegiance to anyone – let them into our lands and they will run amok!’

‘It’s only the height of the Pedrani Rift and the forts atop it that keep them out of Javon proper,’ Inveglio added. ‘Without that natural border we would be overrun.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Harshal quickly, ‘we all know this. But the Harkun are not mindless barbarians. They are Amteh, and they adhere to the codes of the Prophet. They also live in the real world. Our commerce with them remains valuable. I have met one of their chieftains, and he can read and write and speak articulately.’

Comte Inveglio grunted, unimpressed. ‘Regardless of that, why should they fight alongside us? Would they restrain themselves from plundering whilst in our lands? And how would we make them leave afterwards?’

‘By giving them what they want,’ Cera responded levelly.

‘Which is what? Our lands to graze and our children as slaves?’

‘We can promise them all of that, for all that it will matter,’ Cera replied. ‘They will cease to be a problem after we send them in first against the Dorobon.’

Her words hung in the suddenly silent air. Elena stole a stunned glance at the girl, her heart a lump of ice in her breast. Great Kore, did my little girl just say that?

Even Acmed was lost for words, though he recovered quickly. ‘You would send the men of an entire people to their deaths just to soften up the Dorobon for the kill?’ He blinked thrice, his eyes glazed.

‘These are desperate times, my lords,’ Cera replied, her voice devoid of emotion.

‘They would never agree,’ Pita Rosco said in a shaken voice. ‘If they are as intelligent as Harshal says, they will know that a pitched battle against a Rondian legion is tantamount to suicide.’

Harshal shook his head. ‘They have heard tales of the Rondians, but they do not credit them. They think they are stories made up by the Keshi to explain their defeats.’

‘Then all the more will they panic when they confront the reality,’ Elena put in. ‘When winged gnosis-beasts soar upon them and the battle-magi bring fire and lightning they’ll run like devils.’

‘Not so: the Harkun are raised to the blade from childhood. They are utterly fearless in battle,’ Cera replied, stubbornly backing Harshal.

‘But they’ve not faced magi!’ Elena retorted. ‘Remember your own men, when the Dorobon came last time? Believe me, in the Noros Revolt we took on the Rondians head-to-head, with our own magi. The battlefields were wastelands, for years after! This will be beyond the ken of the nomads; they’ll think themselves facing all of Heaven and Hel, and they will flee and not even be shamed in doing so. They will believe themselves caught in the end of all times.’

‘They will fight,’ Harshal responded. He looked at Cera. ‘Ghujad iz’Kho claims they have more than one hundred thousand warriors.’

‘And we Javonesi can almost equal that number,’ Cera added. ‘That’s enough men to finish the job when the Dorobon battle-magi have expended their powers against the Harkun.’ She looked about the table. ‘It does not matter what we promise the Harkun; we will never have to deliver. And we will be freed of two problems with one blow.’

So cold and calculating – it’s a plan such as Gurvon might concoct. Elena hung her head. Yet these were the lessons I taught her myself.

‘Even if we can do this, what do we tell the sultan’s ambassadors?’ Ilan Tamadhi asked, frowning. ‘Will the shihad be appeased?’

Cera shrugged. ‘I believe so. I have a plan for that too …’

Two days before the end of Maicin, Queen-Regent Cera Nesti sat upon her throne with her Regency Council and court gathered about her to receive the emissaries of Salim, Sultan of Kesh. The portly Faroukh of Maal, an uncle of the sultan, was here, and with him was the renowned Amteh scholar, Godspeaker Barra Xuok. They took turns at beseeching her to aid the shihad.

‘Join us in this righteous quest to rid the world of the invaders, Majesty – surely all the blood in your veins cries vengeance, for you are of the Rimoni, alone of the folk of Yuros you do not bow the knee to the Rondian emperor. You are also Jhafi: you have felt the heel of their oppression, right here in Javon. You have felt the scourge of their magi – your spirit is with us already, Queen-Regent, so let your body join it, united in one purpose.’

Faroukh unfurled the white banner of the shihad, the crescent and star foremost, framed by the four scimitars representing the four corners of the world. At the centre of it was embroidered a castle and a word: Hebusalim, the goal of this shihad. ‘The Lakh are with us; all of Antiopia rises as one. Let not the Jhafi be denied their place in this holy brotherhood.’

Elena watched from a hidden alcove, as her open presence would be inflammatory. She did not wish to be present, in any case; she felt shut out of this matter. After the last meeting she had told Cera her plan was manipulative, deceitful and destructive, but Cera now believed herself above being criticised by her bodyguard. ‘You’re an outsider, and you offered no solutions of your own,’ she had said, her voice harsh, dismissive. ‘You gave me no support, just scary stories about the might of your own people. Perhaps you’d be happier back among them.’ She had stormed out, and had not spoken a word since to Elena that was not a direct order.

To be estranged from Cera’s affection was horrid, and with Lorenzo away, Elena felt isolated and afraid. Borsa was busy with Timori, preparing him for his ceremonial role greeting the ambassadors. There was only Tarita’s company to console her.

If only it didn’t all feel so suicidal. She remembered the devastation battle-magi could wreak: the ruined bodies, burnt beyond recognition; the bulging faces of men drowned on dry land; the corpses of men torn apart by construct-creatures with hideous powers. What hope did Javon have, even if Cera sold her soul to gain Harkun aid?

Finally, the Keshi finished their appeal, a beautifully choreographed finale that found Faroukh on one knee, holding the banner of the shihad, while the Godspeaker clutched the Amteh Book with his right hand pointing up to the heavens. Elena, like the whole court, held her breath, their eyes on the eighteen-year old-girl who held the fate of their land in her youthful grasp.

When Cera spoke, her voice rang out clearly. ‘Lord Faroukh, Godspeaker Barra, I have heard your words. I have heard also the words of the people of Javon, from northern Hytel, where the Gorgio hold out against the just rulers of Ja’afar, to the fortresses on the Rift, warding us from the Harkun; from Lybis, whose farmers just want peace, to Baroz, which hungers for war.

‘All men speak of the justice of the shihad – none would have their lands sullied by the ferang. I hear this, and I echo it, but just as in battle, you cannot take your eye from the man before you to face the distant threat. Nor can we Javonesi turn our backs upon the Gorgio. We must crush them, to be one people once more.

‘Nor can we allow our borders to be violated. We know that our southern fortresses have stood between independence and slavery to the Keshi in the past. I cannot blindly say to Sultan Salim, “Send me your warriors that we may crush the Gorgio.” Even in the days of the shihad, that much trust is not permissible, though it aches my heart. But I ask you this: allow me to raise the banner of the shihad, here in Javon: a special banner, blessed by the Godspeaker, bearing the legend “Hytel”. Let us raise shihad upon the Gorgio and Dorobon and then, once purged, we will take up the banner of the Hebusalim shihad.’

Elena observed the murmuring of the court, listening to Cera’s plan, an attempt to convince the Keshi that Javon resisting the Gorgio and the Dorobon was sufficient call to arms to appease the Convocation. The secret negotiations prior to this reception had been inconclusive.

She held her breath as they all did, waiting to hear the ambassador’s response.

Faroukh conferred with his Godspeaker, then he turned back to Cera. ‘Queen-Regent, we have heard your request. We acknowledge its wisdom and the love it shows for both of your peoples, and for peace, and for Ahm in Paradise. Sultan Salim has given me some discretion to reach accommodation with you. Your proposal has many points in its favour.’

The court went utterly silent, hanging on the ambassador’s words.

‘Lady, Salim the Great will look upon your request with favour. But he would urge me to note that it runs counter to the will of the Convocation, which summons all warriors of the shihad to the conflict in Hebusalim.’ He paused significantly, as the court took this in. ‘However, Mighty Salim also notes that the Convocation gave the leadership of the shihad to him alone. It does not remove the right for him to protect what is his.’

What is his? Elena leaned forward from her vantage. What does that mean?

Faroukh bowed to Cera. ‘Salim is a great admirer of your courage and intellect, lady. He has heard of your valiant and victorious struggles against the treacherous Gorgio and evil Dorobon. He has heard the reports of your gentleness and beauty. He humbly asks for your hand in marriage.’

Cera’s mouth fell open.

‘Were you his bride, dear lady, he would acquire the right to protect you, even as he protects his own household. Then he could grant your request without impugning the shihad.’

Cera’s hand went to her heart. ‘Emir Faroukh, I am overcome. So lowly a person as I, a mere regent with no right to the throne once my brother comes of age, is unworthy of Salim the Great’s notice.’

Oh, well said! Elena almost clapped her hands, aching to be beside the girl. You remind him that he cannot have Javon just by marrying you.

The emir bowed, his composure unruffled. ‘Lady, Salim does not wish to claim the throne of Ja’afar. He wishes only to secure his northern frontier. He would expect nothing more than the right to have an observer at your council table until your brother attains his majority. He would not even require your presence in his court until after this war is fought.’

‘My lord Sultan Salim is generous,’ Cera whispered, her voice husky.

‘Then you accept his proposal?’ Faroukh asked warmly.

Cera looked around.

Elena urged her silently.

Cera heard; she turned her head and met Elena’s eyes. Then she turned away. ‘I accept the sultan’s magnanimous proposal,’ she murmured.

The Jhafi at court burst into raptures, while the Rimoni looked stunned.

When finally there was silence, Faroukh bowed again. ‘We are overjoyed, dear lady. Let me be first to give you obeisance as my future queen.’ He fell to his knees, placing his forehead on the floor. His fellow ambassador, a holy man, bowed. The Jhafi all prostrated themselves, while the Rimoni looked increasingly discomforted.

When Faroukh rose, he cried, ‘I show you the wisdom of great Salim,’ and made a resplendent gesture. One of his aides unfurled another banner and a murmur ran through the court.

It was a shihad banner, like the first, but bearing the name of Hytel, the stronghold of the Gorgio, in its centre. The sultan had anticipated Cera’s acceptance. ‘Let this banner go before you as you conquer the north, and thereafter may you ride to war in Hebusalim. And after the victory: a wedding!’

Cera stood. ‘Thank you, my lords. But I must hear the will of my people before I commit to this path. My acceptance is not enough; I must have the agreement of those I rule.’

Their self-congratulatory smiles froze on their faces as Cera addressed the court. ‘My people, if there is any person present who wishes to speak against the Hytel shihad, or my acceptance of this marriage proposal, I invite you forward now, without fear of censure.’

There was a pause which stretched uneasily as Elena wrung her hands, unable to work out whether this had been a victory or a great defeat. Gurvon would know … Damn this! She could not read all the nuances; she could only watch as the silence stretched and people shuffled awkwardly.

At last Comte Inveglio stepped forth. ‘I have only this to say,’ he shouted. ‘Long live the Queen-Regent and death to the Gorgio!’ He went on his knees before Cera, and suddenly the whole court was doing the same. Cera stood in the middle of all of this, apparently lost for words.

‘Long live the Nesti! Long live Javon! Death to the Gorgio!’

Elena picked at her food, watching Cera from her alcove on the balcony above the feast-hall, where the queen-regent was hosting a celebratory banquet. She looked ill-at-ease seated beside Godspeaker Barra Xuok, who seldom smiled. Elena was also uncomfortable; she had not lost her fear that this evening would end in blood. She wanted nothing more than to pack Cera back into her warded tower again, away from potential assassins.

A tall robed figure stepped into her alcove. ‘Sal’Ahm.’

Elena rose quickly. ‘Sal’Ahm, Lord Faroukh. Are you permitted to address one of Shaitan’s spawn?’ she added wryly.

‘My faith is strong. I’m sure I can resist your wiles,’ the sultan’s uncle answered with a faintly ironic smile. ‘How may I address you?’

‘“Donna Elena” is fine. I expect you think I have some evil influence over the queen-regent and are wondering therefore how I have let the events of this afternoon happen,’ she observed, gesturing to the chair beside her.

Faroukh sat and held out his goblet to a servant for refilling. The Godspeaker might not drink alcohol, but evidently Faroukh did. ‘I admit it has crossed my mind, Donna Elena.’

‘A plan never looks so good when your enemy approves of it, eh?’ She met his eye. ‘You’re very casual about talking to the likes of me.’

‘Donna Elena, I have met several magi of the Ordo Costruo. They are men and women who laboured for the people, turning Hebusalim into a garden. I have also met men like Tomas Betillon, who have betrayed agreements and done evil. Thinking men like me wonder how the magi can be servants of Shaitan and yet act in so many different ways.’

Elena gave a tight smile. ‘Your thinking does you credit, at least in my eyes.’

‘Were you expecting Salim’s offer? Do you approve of your queen-regent’s acceptance?’ he asked.

‘I think you would have given us that banner anyway,’ Elena replied carefully.

Faroukh shook his head. ‘Having made the offer publicly, a refusal would have ended all negotiations, and all hope of friendship. A sultan cannot be publicly refused, Donna Elena.’

Oh, Cera. You knew that, didn’t you? And they trapped you. She held her tongue prudently.

‘Will you go to war under the shihad banner, Donna Elena?’ he enquired.

Elena met his eye. ‘If the queen-regent goes to war, I will be there, under the Nesti banner.’

‘Why is that, Donna Elena? You are ferang. You do not belong here.’

Elena suspected her reply would be reported all the way up to Salim himself. ‘Because I love this people, this land and my princessa. I have made holy vows to serve the Nesti, and I will fulfil them. This is my home now, and anyone who wants to get to Queen-Regent Cera must come through me.’

Faroukh inclined his head. ‘Heard and understood, Donna Elena.’ He raised his goblet to her, then finished it in one swallow. ‘Thank you for your time. It has been a pleasure. Sal’Ahm on high.’

‘Sal’Ahm,’ Elena replied, and the sultan’s uncle rose, bowed and was gone.

Tomorrow there would be public announcements, displays of the banners of shihad, celebrations. But tonight stretched cold and lonely before her. Cera would doubtless continue to ignore her, and Lorenzo was far away.