Sovereign

CHAPTER 2

For the third day in a row Charion searched the eastern horizon for any sign of dust, puzzled and concerned she could not see any. She had been mentally preparing for an attack from Prince Lynan and his Chett army since the end of their first battle, but even her few remaining foot-scouts had found no trace of the enemy within five leagues. True, some of the scouts had not come back, but Lynan's own pickets would be out whether or not he intended to attack. She was puzzled because she had expected Lynan to use his army's greater mobility to surround her and try to finish what they had started, and concerned because she was afraid that instead he had manoeuvred around her to get to her capital, Daavis. Normally she would not have been worried; the Chetts were nomad warriors, and all their famed ferocity and courage would avail them nothing without a siege engine against the walls of Daavis. But after Salokan's siege, the poor city was in no state to resist a determined assault.

Galen appeared by her side. 'If Lynan was going to attack us, surely he would have been here by now,' he said.

Charion glanced at the Kendran noble and nodded. 'We have to get back to Daavis.' She looked at him warily, then. 'I have to get back to Daavis. I will not speak for you.'

Galen did not answer right away. He knew she was offering him a gift, and was surprised by it. The surviving knights of Kendra's Twenty Houses would follow his command, and Charion was letting him decide just how far her command extended in her own Kingdom. These are extraordinary times, he thought. He knew that half a year ago he could not have imagined that he would ever serve under an Amanite prince, let alone learn to respect him and mourn his passing. And now Queen Charion, perhaps the least respected of all the provincial rulers, was proving herself as much a diplomat as Sendarus. Maybe Usharna and Areava have been right all along. The Kingdom of Grenda Lear truly is more than just the city of Kendra.

'You have command here,' he said evenly. 'Unless Areava commands otherwise, I am at your service.'

'Did you send to her our messages about the battle and the death of her husband?'

'A pigeon went on the night.'

'I must protect my capital. From there I can regroup.'

'And the knights? They will fight behind the walls of Daavis if that is your wish, but they can be better employed.'

'For the moment I need a rearguard, one strong enough to dissuade any enemy scouts from following us but mobile enough to avoid serious trouble. Once we get to Daavis we'll have a better idea of our situation—and maybe news from Areava—and we can decide then how best to use your heavy cavalry.'

'When do we leave?'

'Tomorrow. First light, in case Lynan changes his mind about attacking us.'

'Your Majesty?'

The words echoed in the dark room. Orkid Gravespear, Chancellor of the Kingdom of Grenda Lear, felt foolish standing in the doorway of Queen Areava's private chambers. Behind him, Harnan Beresard, the queen's secretary, fidgeted with his writing equipment.

'Your Majesty? Your people have need of you—'

'Enough, old bear.'

Orkid sighed with relief. At least she was talking to him.

'The Kingdom needs its queen,' he persisted.

'My brother needs his sister,' she replied. 'The Key of the Heart has taken his mind, leaving nothing but a child behind.'

'I have correspondence,' Harnan said from the background in a hopeful voice. 'Urgent messages that need answers.'

'Orkid, you take care of it,' she said dismissively.

The two men looked at each other with something like resignation. 'I told you,' Harnan mouthed.

'Your Majesty, others can take care of his Highness,' Orkid said. 'But only you can run Grenda Lear.'

'Olio needs me.'

Orkid retreated from the doorway and a guard took his place. Harnan looked at him desperately. 'What can we do?' the secretary pleaded.

The chancellor shook his head. 'I'm not sure. If only there was some way to help her brother…' His voice drifted off for a moment, and then he said to Harnan: 'Find Edaytor Fanhow.'

'The prelate? All the magisters of the theurgia have said there is nothing they can do to help his Highness.

They say the Key of the Heart has stolen his mind. If the magisters themselves can do nothing, what can that fat bureaucrat—?'

'Just bring Fanhow to my office,' Orkid insisted and left before Harnan could argue any more.

Father Powl, Primate of the Church of the Righteous God, was leading the daily service for the soul of tiny, mutilated Usharna, the baby Areava had lost at the moment of birth at the same time she had lost her husband Sendarus at the hand of Lynan. The dead baby had been dressed and her body smeared with preserving lotions, the worst of her terrible wounds covered in scented wrapping. She would stay exposed on the altar of the royal chapel until Areava herself came to give her blessing for the child's cremation, and from all accounts Areava had not stirred from her rooms for over a day.

When the service was done, the other priests left to attend their duties, but Powl stayed behind, kneeling in front of the altar, his face contorted in concentration.

'Without your name the Kingdom cannot be protected from evil, my Lord,' he whispered fiercely. 'Please have mercy on your people. Please have mercy on Queen Areava, who has suffered mightily. Please accept this child's soul into your keeping. And please, Lord, please let me know your name so that Grenda Lear may be saved from all that is wrong with this world.'

He waited for God to answer him, hoping that he had been forgiven for murdering his predecessor—Giros Northam; without the name of God, Powl was primate in name only. But God, as always, remained silent.

Shaking with the effort spent praying, Powl rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned and saw Father Rown waiting for him at the end of the chapel. Powl swallowed, and wondered if his second-in-command had heard any part of his prayer. There was nothing in the priest's expression that showed he did, and Powl let himself relax.

'Father? Is there something I can do for you?'

'I am concerned for her Majesty,' Rown said.

'As we all are, my son.'

'I thought she might see me, being her confessor, but…' the priest shrugged '… but she will see no one, not even the chancellor.' He looked pleadingly at Powl. 'Your Grace, you were her confessor for many years before me. You may know her better than any living man. Maybe you can get through to her?'

Powl lowered his gaze. He, the primate of the Kingdom's church, could not even get through to God. What chance did he have with Areava? He sighed deeply then nodded. 'I will try.'

'What exactly did you and Prince Olio do with the sick?' Orkid asked.

'Healed them,' Magiker Prelate Edaytor Fanhow answered.

The two men were sitting either side of Orkid's large, plain desk.

'Through the Key of the Heart?'

'Yes. At first his Highness needed a magiker to help channel the power of the Key, but the more he used it the more attuned the Key became to Olio's own presence. In the end he could use it by himself.'

'And what happened on the day of the fire?'

'He was being escorted back to the palace from the docks where he'd been helping those fleeing the fire in the old quarter of the city; on the way he came across the ruins of an inn where the worst of the injured were being cared for. He told his guards to wait outside. We're not sure what happened afterwards. That he healed many people there is no doubt, but how long it took for the Key to completely use him up is not known. By the time I got there he was as he is now.'

'The Key damaged his brain?'

Edaytor shrugged. 'No one knows. The theurgia know less about the Keys of Power than the Rosethemes themselves. I don't think any of the Keys have ever been used as extensively as Olio used his in the last year.'

'The theurgia know no way to reach him,' Orkid said; a statement, not a question.

'That's right.'

'Do you?'

Edaytor looked up sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'You were closest to the prince during this time. Is there anything you can think of that might help bring him back?'

The prelate shook his head. 'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'What do you think I've been doing these last three days!' Edaytor snapped. Orkid recoiled in surprise, and Edaytor gasped at what he had done. 'Chancellor, I'm sorry—'

Orkid waved him quiet. 'No, I am sorry. You answered my question the first time.' There is more in this man than Harnan knows; perhaps more than any of us know. And then he understood that among all at court, only Olio himself had truly seen the prelate for the man he was. That explained a great deal about the relationship between the two. 'I need your help.'

'My help?'

'More accurately, the queen and the Kingdom need your help.'

'Anything.' .

'Stay with Olio. Try and find a way to heal him. Use whatever resources you need.'

'Me? But surely Dr Trion, or one of the more powerful magikers, would be better suited. I can recommend a number—'

'No. I do not think any within the theurgia will be able to help, or maybe it's that they are afraid to dabble with any of the Keys; you yourself just told me their power lay beyond any magiker's ken. And this problem is certainly beyond Dr Trion's experience. You were closest to Olio. You knew him better than anyone, except perhaps the queen herself.'

'Then the queen, surely, should have the task.'

'The queen has other duties. The Kingdom needs her. Her responsibility to all her people outweighs her responsibility to her brother.'

'But she has lost so much in the last three days,' Edaytor said reasonably. 'Her husband and child as well as Olio. Surely the Kingdom can give her some time to herself.'

'She might yet lose the Kingdom,' Orkid said sombrely.

Edaytor stared at the chancellor in amazement. 'Surely not!'

'Our army is still in the north, victorious—if we can believe what Queen Charion wrote us—but battered. The outlaw Prince Lynan has crossed from the Oceans of Grass to the east with a Chett army, and his next move will no doubt be to organise support against Areava.' He pursed his lips. 'And of course against Olio, being Areava's brother.'

Edaytor was lost for words. He knew the situation in the north was troublesome, but the Kingdom had been secure for so long under Usharna it was hard to believe anything could seriously threaten it, even her renegade son Lynan who had never been anyone of significance within the court while Usharna was alive. There were many things that mystified Edaytor, but one of the most troubling was why Usharna, on her deathbed, had given Lynan one of the Keys of Power.

'So you see,' Orkid continued, 'it is vital that Areava's attention be diverted entirely to the welfare of the Kingdom as a whole.'

'Yes. Yes, I see.'

'Shall we go, then?'

'Go?'

Orkid stood up. 'To Areava's chambers. She is looking after Olio there.'

Edaytor realised then he had surrendered already and there was no point in arguing any further. In something of a daze he followed the chancellor, feeling a mixture of dread and anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, a part of his mind was saying, I can do something. He wished he felt more convinced.

They reached the royal chambers the same time as Father Powl; Edaytor thought the priest looked on the edge of nervous exhaustion, and wondered if he looked the same way. Between the three of them, only Orkid gave the impression he was still in control of something, even if it was just his own destiny.

'I can come back later,' Father Powl said, and seemed glad to have the excuse to leave. Orkid quickly reached out to hold him.

'Please, Father, stay. Perhaps all three of us together can turn the queen away from her grief.'

Powl looked uncertain but nodded. Orkid signalled for the guard at Areava's door to leave them alone, and when he was gone called out: 'Your Majesty, there is someone here to see Prince Olio.'

'Who would want to see my poor imbecile brother?'

Orkid looked at Edaytor. The prelate took a deep breath. 'Your Majesty, it is Prelate Fanhow. Your brother and I were close—'

He was interrupted by a low wail. 'You! It is your fault my brother is lost!'

Edaytor visibly wilted, and his skin paled to the colour of chalk. He opened his mouth but no words came out. How could he answer such an accusation? Deep in his heart he knew there was some truth in her charge. If he had not supported Olio's crusade to heal the sick and dying children of the city of Kendra, he would not have succumbed to the magik of the Key of the Heart. When he and the prince had started their crusade to help the poor and the ill in Kendra, their hopes had been so high. And now all was brought low.

'He was your brother's closest friend!' Orkid said quickly. 'If anyone can help him it is the prelate.'

'I can help him,' the queen countered. 'No one knew him as well as I.'

'But your Majesty, your Kingdom has need of you!' Orkid pleaded.

'My Kingdom can do without me—' Areava began.

'Enough!' Father Powl shouted, and both Orkid and Edaytor jumped.

For a shocked moment there was complete silence. The guard reappeared but Orkid waved him off furiously.

'How dare you!' Areava returned, her voice round with anger. 'I am your queen, Primate!' She made his title sound like an insult.

'And I was your confessor!' Powl said quickly. 'As you know Olio, I know you. I know that the one thing that has remained constant in your whole life has been your sense of duty!'

'You know nothing about me!'

'I know that ever since you were a child your greatest wish has been to serve the Kingdom as well as your mother did.'

Orkid and Edaytor tensed, expecting another blistering reply, but there was only silence. Father Powl was making signs at Edaytor, and the prelate finally caught on: it was his turn to add to the pressure on her.

'Your Majesty, I know you blame me for your brother's illness, but as I love him as a friend I will strive all I can to marshal the combined theurgia to find a cure for whatever ails him.'

Again silence reigned, and then, from the darkness, came the almost ghostly figure of Areava. She was dressed in nothing but an undershirt. Her hair was dishevelled, her skin blotched, her eyes red-rimmed. She stared at Edaytor for a long time, and the prelate made sure his own gaze did not waver from hers. Then she glanced at Orkid and Powl, but did not even try to match with them. Edaytor thought there was something of shame about her expression.

'If you can help Olio, I would be forever in your debt,' she said.

'I will help Olio,' Edaytor said simply.

Orkid stepped forward. 'And you, your Majesty, will you now help your Kingdom?'

She took a deep breath and said: 'For all my life.' Then she smiled wearily at him. 'As you already knew.'

The mountains around Pila were hidden behind a heavy grey sky. Marin, king of Aman, stood alone in the old watchtower that was the oldest part of his royal castle.

Gusting wind lashed at his hair and blew away his tears. In his right hand he held the small slip of paper that had come by carrier pigeon only an hour before. The message was from his brother, Orkid, and told him of the events of three days ago. He had read with disbelief of the terrible death of his granddaughter in miscarriage. And then he had read of the death of Sendarus, his only child. He had felt the whole universe hold still. He had tried to read the words a second time, but had been unable to make sense of them.

Then the universe had started again.

His courtiers, sensing that something was awry, had asked him what the message contained. He told them, his voice low and cold, and they had joined him in uncomprehending shock. Then he had left his throne, ordered no one to follow him, not even his bodyguard, and climbed the watchtower from where his grief poured from him like a torrent.

He cried for his son, for his unknown granddaughter, for his long-dead wife and the love they had shared for Sendarus, and finally he cried for himself, his self-pity overwhelming him. It was this that finally brought him back from the black sea he had fallen in. He hated himself for it, he hated himself for being alive when his beloved son was dead. And there was more. Where before he had never thought of Lynan as anything but another tool in his ambition to make Aman great, the outlaw prince was now the murderer of Sendarus, and he hated him with a white rage that settled in his chest like a second heart, pumping new life into him.

He descended the tower, already planning what he must do to destroy Lynan. He realised with grim satisfaction that part of it was already being put in place by Amemun. The thought stopped him in his tracks.

Amemun loved Sendarus almost as much as Marin, and he would have to be told. Grief suddenly rose in him again, but he held onto his new hate and his mind cleared like a dry old forest swept with a summer fire.

The old Amanite gave his most polite smile and graciously accepted the small morsel of food in his left hand. He blessed it in the name of the god of the desert, placed it into his right hand and put the morsel in his mouth. He pretended to chew and enjoy the food, then swallowed it whole, forcing down the bile that surged up his gullet. The heat inside the tent was oppressive, and he was feeling nauseous.

'Good!' Amemun declared, and his host, the headman of the Southern Chett tribe he found himself with, smiled appreciatively.

'As our honoured guest, you must by tradition have the best portion of the feast.'

'It was delicious,' Amemun said. Please, Lord of the Mountain, let me hold down my heaving stomach.

'As headman I would normally have it,' the host said, his tone suggesting another meaning.

It was Amemun's turn to smile appreciatively; he was on firmer ground now. After spending gruelling weeks on the hot, arid plains that filled the south of the continent of Theare he had finally found his way to this man, rumoured by shepherds living on the border lands between Aman and the desert to be one of the grand chiefs of the Southern Chetts. His name was Dekelon, and he looked to be a hundred years old. His head was bald, his skin the colour of sun-baked mud, and his eyes brown, rheumy circles.

'Your hospitality will have its rewards,' Amemun said.

'That is the way of things,' Dekelon said. He motioned for his son and whispered something in his ear. The son nodded and left the tent, taking with him the rest of his father's relations and retainers. 'Now we can talk. You have come a long way to see me.'

'Is that so strange? Your reputation as the strongest and wisest of all the Southern Chetts is known even as far as Pila.'

'There are two things you should know, Amemun of Aman,' Dekelon said, his voice changing from the singsong tone he had used in greeting to something colder and flatter. 'The first is that when we are alone there is no need for flattery; it does not help your cause, whatever that cause may be.'

'Ah. And the second?'

'We do not call ourselves the Southern Chetts as if we were nothing but a twig off a nobler and greater tree.'

'I understand. By what name should I call your people?'

'We call ourselves the Saranah.'

'Saranah? I do not know that word.'

'It is from an ancient tongue, and is the name of a bird that soars above the oceans, rarely touching the ground,' Dekelon said. 'Just as my people touch the ground here very lightly. We live on an old country, and poor, so we protect it and nurture it where we can, and scratch what living we are able from our goats and sheep and scattered plots of land.'

'What ancient tongue?' Amemun asked, curious.

'Very few of our people know it any more, and none at all in the east.'

'Is it a tongue we all spoke once?'

Dekelon shrugged. 'Perhaps.' His tone suggested they were here to discuss matters more weighty than a dead and largely forgotten language.

Amemun sighed deeply. He had travelled long and far to deliver this message. 'As you say, the Saranah live on an old and poor land. Perhaps it is time you found richer pasture?'

Dekelon glanced sharply at him. 'Are you suggesting we move east, into Aman?'

Amemun blinked. He had not expected discussions to be so direct. 'No.'

'Then what are you suggesting?'

'That you move north.'

For a moment Dekelon did not understand, but when he realised what Amemun was in fact suggesting he wheezed in laughter. 'Oh, that is a fine joke. We Saranah are scattered all over this land in our small tribes, and you want us to march north and occupy the Oceans of Grass. Our distant cousins, the hated Chetts, live there in huge clans. What will they say about it, do you think?'

'They are currently occupied with another matter,' Amemun said lightly. 'And who knows what is possible for the Saranah if they have rich friends behind them?'

Dekelon's face broke into a wide grin. 'How rich?'

Amemun grinned in return. 'Very,' he said.