Tower Lord

CHAPTER FIVE

Frentis

“You are a free man of little property and I am your recently acquired wife. We are travelling to the Alpiran border where you have secured employment as an apprentice slave breeder.” The woman had donned grey clothing of more loosely woven cloth than her previous attire, instructing Frentis to dress himself in similarly mean garb. “We have no children. My mother warned me against you but I didn’t listen. If this latest venture of yours is a failure, I’ll be seeking a decree of annulment, you mark my words.” She shook a finger at him with a shrewish scowl.

They were in her courtyard where a pony and cart had appeared that morning. Horvek had shown her the hidden panel above the axle where a variety of weapons and poisons were concealed. She inspected each dagger, short sword and vial before nodding in satisfaction. “It may be another year before my next visit,” she told the Kuritai as she climbed onto the cart. “Be sure to see the general is well cared for.”

“I shall, Mistress.”

“Let’s be off then, you worthless little man,” she told Frentis with a laugh. “I think I might enjoy this role.”

Frentis took the pony’s reins and walked ahead, guiding them from the courtyard and into the square. A group of slaves were busy cleaning the statue of the man on the horse, the woman’s gaze lingering on the great bronze until they turned a corner and made for the southern gate. “You want to know, don’t you?” she called to him as he tugged the pony onward through the throng. “About the man on the horse.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder but said nothing. She had an uncanny ability to read his unspoken moods, though he strove to keep any sign of curiosity or puzzlement from his face. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “It’s a long story but I don’t mind the telling. It’ll have to wait till we’re on the road though.”

The journey to the gate took an age of forcing their way through the bustle, the streets of Mirtesk were thick with slaves and free men all seemingly intent on getting to wherever they were going with as much inconvenience to others as possible.

“Out the way, you beggar!” a fat grey-clad shouted at Frentis, trying to force his way past, aiming a cuff at the nose of their pony. There was a momentary loosening of the binding and Frentis kneed the fat man in the groin, leaving him gasping on the cobbled street.

“I do so hate the ill-mannered,” he heard the woman say.

A few streets on his attention was captured by an odd scene. A man stood outside a well-appointed house dressed in the threadbare garb of a slave. He was perhaps forty years old and stood with his head bowed, a placard hung about his neck bearing a single word. Behind him slaves were carrying furniture and ornaments from the house under the eye of an overseer whilst a woman and two children sat and watched from the small courtyard. Frentis was struck by the glances of sheer hatred the woman directed at the man with the placard, matched by the glare of the elder child, a boy of about fifteen. As they trundled past Frentis saw the overseer hand the woman a scroll as one of his slaves fastened a chain with a heavy lock on the door. He picked up the word “annulment” amongst the babble before the scene was lost from view.

“A man with debts he can’t pay,” the woman said from the cart. “Deserves neither family, home nor freedom.”

They had to pay a gate toll of three circles to exit the city and another one to use the road. Frentis was finding the Volarians were very fond of tolls, although he had to admit the road was worth the price; a smooth-surfaced highway of close-packed bricks broad enough to accommodate two heavy wagons side by side, stretching off into the gathering haze. There were no roads in the Realm to match it and he marvelled at the speed with which an army could move along such a route.

“Impressive isn’t it?” the woman commented, once again reading his mood with maddening ease. “Built by the man on the horse, nearly three centuries ago.”

Frentis resisted the urge to glance back at her, although he did want to know more. “Savarek Avantir was his name,” she went on as they continued through the neatly ordered orange groves bordering the road on both sides. “Council-man and general, conqueror of the southern provinces and perhaps the greatest military mind the empire, or even the world has known. But even he knew defeat, husband dear. Like your mad king, he found himself humbled by the Alpirans. For ten years he fought to secure the final province, the last corner of this continent not in our hands. And for ten years the Alpirans spilled an ocean of blood to stop him. Defeat after defeat they suffered, army after army shattered by Avantir’s genius, but they always sent more. Numbers are their strength, not their pitiful, imaginary gods. It was a painful lesson to learn, one which in truth drove Avantir to insanity and the assassin’s blade when his demands for ever more men made the Council worry if their great military genius was in fact something of a liability. It’s always the way with great men, they can’t see the knives of those who live in their shadow.”

She fell to silence and said no more until evening. They made camp at a rest stop some thirty miles south of Mirtesk where she fell into her role of nagging wife with effortless aplomb, scolding him about the camp as she cooked their meal, demanding more firewood in between lecturing him on his obvious failings as a husband, drawing amused glances or looks of sympathy from the other free travellers. The slaves, of course, went about their chores with eyes averted and faces void of any expression.

“Eat it then, you ungrateful cur,” she said, handing him a bowl of goat stew.

His first mouthful convinced him that the woman’s skill with a blade was not matched by her ability with the stewpot. He forced it down, his years in the Order having left him with a stomach capable of accepting the most unappetising fare.

The woman kept up the charade until the sky grew dark and the other travellers had retired to their tents. “You’re wondering about my connection to him,” she said. Frentis sat unmoving on the far side of their fire, saying nothing.

The woman gave a small smile. “An illustrious forebear perhaps? My great-great-great-grandfather?” Her smile faded. “No. He was my father, dear husband. I am the last of the Avantir line, though I no longer have need of that name, or any other.”

She’s lying, he decided. Playing some trick. She liked to toy with him, as she had proved when she forced him to share her bath the first night in her house, pressing herself against him, hands reaching beneath the water, stroking, her lips soft against his ear, whispering, I can make you . . . He closed his eyes against the memory and the shame of his body’s betrayal.

“It’s true, I assure you,” she said. “Though I don’t expect you to believe it, mired as you are in your superstitions. But you will, dearest.” She leaned forward, eyes intent. “Before our journey is done you’ll have seen enough to make my story seem a dull tale indeed.” She smiled again and rose, moving to the half tent he had secured against the side of the cart. “Time for your husbandly duties, dearest,” she said, disappearing into the shadowed interior of the tent. He sat by the fire until she flared the binding with enough agony to make him follow.

They travelled the road for another ten days, orange and lemon groves gradually giving way to ever-thicker forest of unfamiliar trees, growing in height the further south they went. The heat deepened as well, baking the road and making each day a trial of sweaty trudging in front of the cart. He didn’t like this forest, it smelt like rot, birthed a million troublesome bugs and made a din like a madhouse in the night hours.

“It’s called a jungle,” the woman told him. “I expect they don’t have them in your land.”

The tenth night saw him staring into the jungle, his hand itching for a sword as something large crashed about in the trees, occasionally giving off a deafening crack that could only be a tree snapping in two.

“Ah, so there are still some left this far north,” the woman said in mild surprise. “Come on, dearest.” Her will tugged him along as she walked into the jungle. “It’s a rare sight, one you’ll cherish.”

His eyes darted about as he followed, searching the blackness for unimaginable horrors. Fear was an old friend, but terror was a stranger. “Look.” The woman came to a halt, crouching and pointing. The only light came from the half-moon above the tree canopy, painting the jungle floor a faint blue. It took him some time to fathom what he was seeing, the size and oddness of the thing defeating his comprehension. The beast stood at least ten feet tall, covered in long shaggy fur from tip to tail, moving about on great elongated limbs tipped with vicious-looking hooks. Its head was long and tubular, the narrow mouth giving off a faint hoot as it tore down a sapling, the crack echoing through the jungle.

“He’s an old one,” the woman said. “Probably been haunting this jungle longer than you’ve been alive, dearest.”

What’s it called? he wanted to ask, but didn’t. As ever she didn’t need to hear him say it. “The great sloth. It’s not dangerous, provided you don’t get too close. Only eats tree bark.”

The beast stopped suddenly, a strip of bark hanging from its mouth, two black eyes staring straight at them. It gave a low, sombre hoot and turned, lumbering away into the depths of the jungle on its impossible limbs.

“I doubt I’ll see another,” the woman commented as they returned to the road. “Every year the jungle grows smaller and the roads grow longer. Oh well.” She settled onto her bedroll. “Perhaps we’ll see a tiger tomorrow.”

The next day brought them to the great river forming the border with Alpiran territory where a small town of stilted structures waited on the near shore. The river was nearly a mile wide but unlike the lake crossing to Mirtesk, there was no ferry to be seen here. The stilt-town was a series of interlinked platforms at the end of a long jetty, dwellings clustered on each, uniform only in their ramshackle construction. A slave market was in full swing on the largest platform, the overseer’s voice a constant chorus of barely intelligible jargon as he took bids from the audience, mostly grey-clads, although a few black robes were also present, sweating in the sun as their slaves wafted stale air over them with palm leaves.

“Lot seventy-three!” the overseer called as a naked girl was dragged onto the platform by a brawny Varitai. Frentis judged her to be no more than thirteen years old. “Fresh from the Twelve Sisters. No skills, no Volarian. Too plain for the pleasure house but trainable as a house-slave or breeding stock. Four circles to start.”

Frentis felt his binding flare as he watched the girl stand trembling and weeping on the platform, a stream of urine covering her thigh. “Now, now, dearest,” the woman said, clasping his hand, the loving wife replacing the scolding nag. She leaned close to plant a kiss on his cheek, whispering, “Your heroic days are gone. But, if you want to spare this one all that awaits her, I’ll buy her and you can kill her. Would you like that?”

It was no empty threat, he knew. She meant to do it, possibly even in kindness rather than cruelty. He was beginning to suspect she barely understood the difference between the two. He shook his head, trembling.

“As you wish.”

The girl went for two squares and a circle. She began to scream as they dragged her away, choking into silence as an overseer clamped a gag in her mouth.

“Lot seventy-four,” the overseer on the platform intoned as a stocky, broad-shouldered man was brought forward, his back striped red with fresh whip-strokes. “Onetime pirate, this one. From some islands in the north. Speaks Alpiran but no Volarian. Bit too spirited for the fields but will make a good show in the spectacles or fetch a decent price if you care to take him to the pits. Six circles to start.”

“Come along,” the woman said, leading him away from the auction. “I think this is making you a little too nostalgic.”

They found a merchant on one of the smaller platforms who took the cart and pony in exchange for two squares. Frentis secured the contents of the hidden compartment in his pack and they made their way to a boardinghouse, renting a room at an exorbitant rate. “Slavers in town,” the owner said, spreading his hands. “Should’ve come tomorrow, citizens.”

“I told you, dullard!” the woman snarled at Frentis. “Oh why did I shun my mother’s wisdom?”

“This is on the house though, citizen,” the owner said, handing Frentis a bottle with an understanding wink. “Might help the night go quicker, eh?”

They waited in their small room until nightfall. This unnamed stilt-town falling to silence as the slavers took their purchases to the road and their various fates.

“You don’t have slaves in your realm, do you?” the woman asked.

He stared out of the window at the broad, fast-flowing river and said nothing.

“No, you’re all free,” she went on. “But still slaves to your various superstitions, of course. Something we divested ourselves of centuries ago. Tell me, do you really think you’re going to live forever in some paradise with your dead relatives when you die?”

She flared the binding again when he didn’t answer. Tonight, it seemed, she actually wanted a conversation. “‘What is death?’” he quoted. “‘Death is but a gateway to the Beyond and union with the Departed. It is both ending and beginning. Fear it and welcome it.’”

“What’s that? One of your prayers?”

“The Faithful don’t pray. Prayers are for god worshippers and Deniers. It’s from the Catechism of the Faith.”

“And this faith promises eternal life after death?”

“Not life, life is of the body. The Beyond is the realm of the soul.”

“The soul?” She shook her head and gave a small laugh. “Well, in that at least, your Faithful seem to know something. A childish conceit, but founded on a grain of truth.”

She reached into the pack and extracted a pair of narrow-bladed daggers. “We need a boat.” She handed him a dagger which he concealed in the leather sheath strapped to his forearm.

The jetty where the boats were moored was guarded by two Varitai, both armed with the standard-issue broad-bladed spears common to this lowest tier of Volarian soldiery. They were a poorly maintained pair, with badly repaired armour showing numerous gaps and too much dullness in their eyes, bespeaking an overseer with a meagre knowledge of the correct mix of drugs.

“No boats available,” the largest of them said, blocking their path, the butt of his spear thumping onto the planks. “Come back in the morning.”

Frentis stabbed him in the eye, the narrow blade piercing the orb and the brain beyond in a single thrust. The woman leapt past the falling corpse and ducked under the orthodox but too slow slash of the second soldier to thrust her dagger into a gap between his breastplate and armpit, stepping behind him as he collapsed to his knees, pushing his helmeted head forward and finishing him with a thrust to the base of the skull.

They slipped the bodies into the river feetfirst, slowly so as to avoid any telltale splash. The woman chose a medium-sized boat, a flat-hulled river craft propelled by a single oar in the stern. She undid the mooring rope and let the river take them downstream for a mile or more before instructing Frentis to begin rowing. The current was swift, too swift to allow a straight crossing and he could only keep the prow pointed at the opposite bank with strenuous hauling on the oar.

“Atethia,” the woman said as the far bank grew in size, a stretch of marshland peppered with small islets each covered in tall rushes. “Southernmost province of the great Alpiran Empire, where we have much to do, dearest.”

The dawn saw him guiding the boat through the marshes amidst an unceasing cloud of midges. The water was dulled brown with silt, the channels through the countless islets narrow and difficult to navigate.

“Awful place isn’t it?” the woman commented. “The graveyard of my father’s final invasion in fact. He spent three years building a fleet on the opposite bank. That wretched town was first constructed from wood salvaged from the wrecks. Four hundred warships and a thousand boats carried his great host across the river where they spent a full month slogging through this marsh, hundreds died of disease or drowning but on they went, only for them to die by the thousands in a great and mysterious fire that ravaged the marshes. Most Alpirans believe the gods intervened to destroy the invaders with their divine fury, but Volarian historians insist they simply soaked the fringes of the marsh with naphtha and set it alight with fire arrows. Fifty thousand Free Swords and slaves burned to cinders in the space of a single night. Not my father though. Mad as he was by then, he was still wise enough to remain on the other side of the river.” She glanced around at the rushes which grew so high as to obscure any view of the surrounding country. “Even today the Alpirans don’t bother to fortify this stretch of bank, for what general would be insane enough to try the same tactic?”

It took another two days before the marsh finally gave way to solid ground, the boat grounding on a silt bank where the rushes were less tall and they could see a stretch of open country beyond. After the monotony of the marsh and the fetid threat of the jungle the green fields ahead were a welcome and inviting reminder of the Realm.

“We’ll need new clothes,” the woman said, starting forward. “I am the daughter of a wealthy Alpiran merchant from the northern ports, sent to the Twelve Sisters to meet with a prospective husband. You are a runaway slave turned mercenary hired as my bodyguard.”

A half-day’s walk brought them to a midsize town hugging the banks of one of the tributaries to the great river. There were no defensive walls but from a distance they could see numerous Alpiran soldiers walking the streets. “A little too busy for us, dearest,” the woman decided. “There should be a plantation house or two further north.”

They stayed off the roads, avoiding occasional Alpiran cavalry patrols by trekking through the fields of cotton that seemed to be the main crop in the region. Before long a plantation house came into view, a wide two-storey complex of interlinked houses and farm buildings, busy with workers. They hid in an irrigation ditch until nightfall when the woman sent him to the house to seek out the laundry. “The finest you can find for me, dearest,” she told him. “I have appearances to maintain. Kill anyone who sees you. If it’s more than one, kill everyone in the house and burn it down.”

He approached from the west, the house having fewer windows on this side, moving from shadow to shadow, hugging the exterior wall. There were no guards, not even a dog to bark at the stranger appearing from the darkness. He made his way to the rear of the house where he assumed the servants’ quarters were situated. The house was quiet but for the faint sound of song coming from what he judged to be the kitchen from the rich, savoury aroma emanating from the window.

He stopped at the sound of movement, lying prone beneath a large cart as two women emerged from a doorway to the courtyard. They chatted as they worked, hanging clothes on the lines strung across the yard. Frentis had picked up a little Alpiran during the war but this was an unfamiliar dialect, the accent harsher and more guttural than in the northern ports. He could pick out only one word in ten, but the term “Choosing” was voiced more than once, spoken in a kind of hushed reverence, as was the word “Emperor.”

He watched the women complete their task and go back inside, waited the space of a hundred heartbeats then stole from beneath the wagon, pulling clothes from the washing line and wrapping them in a tight bundle. He was no judge of fashion but decided the woman would be content with a finely made robe of cotton with silk sleeves, plus a long cloak of dark blue-he froze at the sound of shuffling feet.

The boy stood in the doorway, playing with a wooden spindle on a string. He was no more than seven years old with a tumble of unkempt dark hair, his eyes rapt on his toy as it spun on the string. Kill anyone who sees you . . .

Frentis stood as still as he ever had, more still than the time he brought down his first stag under Master Hutril’s guiding eyes, more still than when he hid from One Eye’s thugs during his Test of the Wild.

The top spun and spun on the string.

Kill anyone who sees you . . .

Slowly, the binding began to flare. She knows, he realised. How did she always know?

It would be easy. Snap his neck then take him to the well. A tragic accident.

The top spun and spun . . . and the binding burned with a new pitch of agony. The damp bundle of clothes in his hands dripped onto the courtyard, a slow steady patter sure to draw a boy’s curious eyes.

“Neries!” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen window, followed by an insistent string of verbiage carrying a tone of maternal authority. The boy huffed, spun his top a few more times then went back inside.

Frentis fled.

“It’ll do, I suppose.” The woman discarded her grey attire and dressed in the silk-sleeved robe he had brought her. Frentis had already donned the pale blue trews and shirt he had chosen for himself. “Little loose around the waist though. Do you think me fat, dearest?” She grinned at him. The sun was rising and lit her face with a golden hue. You would never know, he thought, studying her feline beauty, the grace with which she moved. A monster lives behind her face.

“It was a child, wasn’t it?” she said as he hefted the pack onto his shoulder and they made for the road. “Boy or girl?”

Frentis kept walking, saying nothing.

“Doesn’t matter,” she continued. “But you shouldn’t indulge in any delusions. Our list is long and your tiresome notions of morality will no doubt cast every name in the role of innocent victim. But we will strike them through, each and every one, and you will do what I require of you, child or no.”

They came to another town in late afternoon, the woman seeking out a dressmaker and purchasing something more to her liking, paying with an Alpiran gold from the supply sewn into the lining of the pack he carried. She posed for him in a simple but elegant ensemble of black-and-white silk, saying something in Alpiran, presumably seeking his opinion. The dressmaker had been kind enough to help with her hair, now bound up and braided in the Alpiran style, an ornate comb shining in the lustrous black mass. You would never know . . .

One day I will kill you, he thought, wishing he could voice the words. For everything you’ve done, everything you’re going to do and for everything you will make me do. I will kill you.

The dressmaker recommended an inn near the market square where they rented two rooms, her new role requiring the appearance of propriety. He had hoped this might give him some respite but she used him again before dismissing him, straddling his naked form on the bed, sweat sheening her skin as she took the pleasure she wanted. When it was done she collapsed against him, breath hot on his cheek, fingers teasing the hair on his chest, making him put his arms around her. She always did this, creating the tableaux of contented lovers, perhaps she even believed it.

“When this is done,” she breathed, “I’ll have you give me a child.” She nuzzled his neck, kissing, caressing. “Our blood will produce the most beautiful offspring, don’t you think? In three centuries I’ve not found a man worthy of the honour. And now I find him in you, a slave from a soon-to-be-conquered land. How strange the world is.”

Morning saw them on the road again, riding now, the woman having spent another gold on two horses, a dappled grey mare for herself and a russet-coloured stallion for her bodyguard. They were sturdy enough animals and docile of nature, making him pine for his old warhorse. Master Rensial had chosen the stallion for him, black from head to tail save for a flash of white on his forehead. “Loyal but spirited,” the mad master had said handing him the reins. Frentis had named him Sabre and in time came to understand he was probably the finest mount ever ridden by a brother of the Sixth Order, an obvious sign of Rensial’s favour. He had last seen Sabre in the stables at the Governor’s mansion in Untesh, treating him to a final grooming before going to take his place on the wall, fully expecting death to come within the hour. Where is he now? he wondered. Taken as booty by some Alpiran highborn, probably. Hope he gave him a good life.

They rode north for another week, sleeping in the many way-stations to be found on this road. It was a poor thing in comparison to the Volarian wonder stretching away from Mirtesk, just a loose gravel track raising dust every time they spurred to a canter. They saw numerous soldiers on the road, all heading south in well-ordered but dusty columns. The basic kit of the Alpiran infantryman hadn’t changed since Frentis last faced them in battle, mail shirts reaching down to the knee, a conical helm and a seven-foot spear resting on every shoulder. He recognised these as regulars, with plenty of veterans in the ranks, judging from the scars and age visible on some dusty faces. The Alpirans may not have fortified the bank but the Emperor was clearly diligent in ensuring the security of this province.

“Were they good soldiers?” the woman asked. They had dismounted by the side of the road to allow a column to pass by, a cohort of about a thousand men marching under a green banner emblazoned with a red star. “The Alpirans, did they fight well in that little war of yours?”

The insistent throb of the binding told him she expected an answer. “It was their land,” he said. “They fought for it. And they won.”

“But I expect you killed quite a few in the process, yes?”

The binding continued to throb. The battle of the dunes, the arrows loosed at the Bloody Hill, the frantic struggle on the wall . . . “Yes.”

“No guilty feelings, my love? All those sons and fathers taken by your sword for the crime of defending their own land? No twinges of conscience?”

At Untesh he had cut down an Alpiran officer with a slash to the leg as he clambered over the wall. After the assault had been repulsed a Realm Guard healer bent down to staunch the wound and received a dagger through the neck as a reward. The officer was still spitting hatred at them as a half-dozen pole-axes pinned him to the stones. “It was war,” he told the woman.

The throb abated and she remounted as the last of the Alpiran column trooped by. “Well, now you have another,” she said. “Except this time you get to win.”

The evening of the seventh day on the road brought them within sight of a port city and the shimmering blue of an ocean beyond. “Hervellis,” the woman said. “Provincial capital of Atethia and home to the first name on our list, an old friend in fact. I’m very keen for you to meet him.”

The architecture of Hervellis bore some similarities to the winding streets and tree-garnered squares of Linesh and Untesh, but held considerably more grandeur. They passed several temples as they made their way from the gate towards the main square, impressive marble buildings of pillars and relief carvings, each festooned with numerous statues to the uncountable gods of the empire. The woman maintained an affable mask as they trotted through the streets, but he could see contempt in her eyes as she surveyed the temples. I pity them their delusion, he thought. But she hates them for it.

They took rooms in a boardinghouse on the north side of the square, more expensive than the others but also considerably more comfortable. She didn’t use him this night, instead telling him to get some rest, taking the pack and going to her room. He lay on the voluminous bed until darkness, unable to sleep despite the luxuriant softness that engulfed him. She’ll make me kill tonight.

The binding flared a few hours later and he went to her room, finding her dressed in black silk from head to toe, hair tied back from her face into a tight bun. She wore a dagger on each forearm and a short sword on her back. She nodded at the weapons set out on the bed alongside a silk shirt and trews, black like her own.

“Make no mistake, my love,” she said, smearing coal dust on her face. “You are unlikely to meet a being more vile and dangerous as the man you’ll meet tonight. I can afford no more nostalgia.”

The binding flared, the pain severe but just below the level when it became unbearable. Her control was absolute now, forbidding any hesitation or even thought. She would will it and he would act. He was completely her creature.

She went to the window, pushing open the blinds and clambering out onto the rooftop. She lingered, surveying the street below then ran along the tiles to leap to the rooftop opposite. He followed as she continued to make her way across the city from roof to roof, wall to wall, in a tireless display of athleticism that would have earned his grudging admiration, although the continuous flare of the binding left him incapable of any such feeling.

She led him north, away from the dense streets clustered around the main square, to the broader avenues near the docks. She stopped atop a wall overlooking a square where a small temple sat surrounded by trees. The temple was a rectangle of pillars supporting a flat-topped pyramidal roof crowned with a statue of a woman, her face hidden in her marble cowl. Unlike the other temples Frentis had seen this one was guarded, two armoured men with spears flanking the entrance. The door was closed but outlined by the glow of a fire within.

The woman rose, sprinting along the wall to launch herself into the nearest tree, catching a branch and hauling herself up with barely a leaf falling as she did so. He watched her crawl along the underside of the branch then drop onto the roof of the temple. Had the binding left any room for consideration, he would have concluded this was a feat he couldn’t match, despite all his training and years in the pits. But her will left no room for doubt and he followed without demur, running, leaping, catching the branch and crawling to the roof all as if he had done it a thousand times before.

She led him to the rear of the temple, past the statue, even this close, he could see only shadow in the cowl. The woman peered over the edge of the temple roof, withdrew a dagger from her wrist sheath and stepped out into space, turning in midair. There was a faint sound, only the softest thud. Frentis looked over the edge seeing her sheathing her dagger, standing astride the body of a third guard. He dropped down next to her as she tested the door in the rear wall of the temple. It swung open, smooth and quiet on oiled hinges. He saw her hesitate. This was unexpected.

The interior of the temple was austere, bare walls devoid of mosaics or reliefs, a narrow bed in the corner next to a table holding pen, ink and a few sheets of parchment. The space was dominated by the large fire burning in the centre, a marble basin filled with coals burning hot and bright, the smoke escaping through holes in the ceiling. A man sat in a chair facing the fire, his back to them. Frentis could see only the crown of his grey head and his hands on the armrests, gnarled and spotted with age. The woman stepped into the temple, forsaking stealth with a loud clatter as she shoved the door fully open. Frentis saw the hand on the armrest twitch, but the man in the chair didn’t rise.

“A temple to the Nameless Seer,” she said in Volarian, striding forward to stand in front of the old man, regarding him with an arched eyebrow. She kept Frentis where he was, dagger drawn, ready to stab through the chair-back at the slightest command. “This is where you choose to seclude yourself these days?”

There was a faint sound from the man in the chair that might have been a laugh. The voice was frail, the words unaccented. “Forgive an old man a small conceit.” A pause as the grey head shifted to regard her. “Still clinging to the same shell I see.”

“Whilst you have allowed yours to wither.” She examined the old man’s form with obvious disgust.

“What better protection from the Ally’s servile dogs? Why bother taking the body of a man who can’t walk more than ten feet without falling to his knees?”

“Why indeed.” She glanced around at the temple’s unvarnished interior. “I would have thought the Emperor might provide more salubrious accommodation for your dotage. Given the great service you did his forebear.”

“Oh he offered me great rewards, fine houses, servants and a sizeable pension. I asked only for this. People come seeking wisdom from the servant of the Nameless Seer and leave happy for the cost of a few coppers. A fitting diversion for a lonely old man.”

The woman’s lips curled into a small sneer. “I am supposed to believe you have mellowed with age? Don’t forget what I’ve seen, what we did.”

“What we were made to do.”

“I recall no reluctance on your part.”

“Reluctance? Oh there was that, when it was time to leave you, then I was truly reluctant. When your father’s army came slogging out of the marshes, even more so. I had changed by then you see, wanting only a quiet life, but the Emperor asked for my aid, asked. No commands, no threats . . . No torture. He just asked. It was the last time I used my gift.”

The woman stared at him in silence for a moment. “Why was the door unlocked?”

“It’s been unlocked for twenty years now. The guards are here at the Emperor’s insistence, not mine. In truth, I expected you and your young friend sooner, but my scrying is not what it was. It’s the way with stolen gifts, don’t you find? They tend to dull with age.”

She took a firmer grip on her dagger and he saw her hesitate before forcing out a final question. “Why did you leave . . . me?”

“You know why. You were cruel and fierce and beautiful, but the Ally made you monstrous. It broke my heart.”

“You don’t know what the Ally made me, Revek. But you’ll discover it soon enough.”

The binding seared Frentis with an implacable command, spurring him forward, dagger drawn back. The old man surged to his feet, quicker than any old man should, raising his arms, fingers splayed, turning, revealed a face of great age but also profound sadness as he regarded Frentis. His fingers spasmed and fire engulfed his hands, but this was not the illusion conjured by One Eye all those years ago. The blast of heat on his face told him this old man had just brought forth true fire from his hands. He raised them, two flaming fists aimed at Frentis as he charged.

The woman moved in a blur, looping her arm over the old man’s head to draw her dagger across his throat, releasing a red rush of blood. The old man’s fire died as he stumbled, uncharred hands clutching at his throat.

There was a crash as the front door thrust open, the two guards rushing in, eyes wide in horror as they viewed the scene. The woman killed the one nearest her with a dagger throw to the neck, drawing her short sword and rushing the other. He was quick and well trained, parrying her thrust with his spear blade then jabbing at her face and neck, keeping her at bay. Frentis started forward then stopped as the old man’s hand snared his ankle. He tried to pull away but couldn’t. The binding was gone.

Frentis staggered with the sudden rush of freedom, the pain vanishing in an instant. The old man’s mouth was moving in a welter of red spray, his other hand clamped around the gaping wound in his neck. Frentis crouched to hear his words, spoken in Realm Tongue, the faintest whisper, “The seed will grow.” Too quick to catch it the old man’s hand came away from his neck, clamping onto Frentis’s face, smearing, the blood staining his skin, clouding his eyes, seeping into his mouth. He reeled away, the old man’s hand coming free of his ankle, the binding returning instantly.

He looked up to see the woman side-step a thrust of the guard’s spear, catch hold of the haft and use it to swing a kick into his face. He staggered back, the spear coming loose from his hands, fumbling for the sabre in his belt. He was too slow, her short sword thrusting easily through the mail on his chest, plunging deep to find the heart.

She dragged her blade from the corpse and looked up at Frentis, striding forward, eyes searching his face. “He touched you.” She took a wine jug from a nearby table and splashed it onto his face, washing the blood away, then stood back in a fighting stance, sword poised and ready. The binding surged to its greatest severity yet, making him tremble from head to foot, his mind filled with the scream his lips couldn’t voice. She held him for what seemed an age, wary eyes searching his face the whole time. Finally she grunted and loosened her grip, letting him fall to the temple floor, gasping and writhing in pain.

Through the shuddering aftermath he saw her move to the old man’s body, kicking his lifeless chest, breaking frail ribs with an audible crack. She grasped his grey head in a tight fist, hauling the corpse upright, the short sword coming down once then twice to sever the neck. She lifted the head high, tilting her own back, mouth wide, the rain of blood falling into it as she drank.

The binding was loose enough to allow Frentis to vomit.

“Now,” the woman said, tossing the old man’s head aside and dragging a sleeve across her mouth, blood and coal dust smearing together in a black paste. “You’ll see what the Ally made me, Revek.”

She sheathed her sword and raised her hands, eyes closed in concentration, teeth clenched. For a moment it seemed nothing would happen then fire engulfed her hands and she screamed, both in pain and triumph. She laughed as she sent fire in a stream towards the old man’s corpse, leaving it in an instant shroud of flame, then cast fiery whips about the temple, setting light to anything that could burn. Soon the whole place was wreathed in flame and the heat fast becoming unbearable.

She let her arms drop, the fire vanishing from her hands. Her gaze settled on Frentis as the binding forced him to his feet, making him come closer. Great pain dominated her features and fresh blood streamed from her nose and eyes, but still she smiled, fierce and exultant, the flames gleaming red in her eyes. “There’s always a price to pay, my love.”