People began to scream as blood ran freely from their noses, eyes and ears. Chaos broke out amongst the crowd and bloodied, mostly blinded bodies began to run in all directions. Orlac turned his calm attention towards one end of the square. It seemed a pity to ruin this dignified architecture, but he pushed again with his Colours and at this bidding the area of buildings began to cave in, collapsing swiftly under their own sudden shift in weight. The grinding and groaning of stone, as it bent to Orlac’s will, sounded even worse than the shrieking, panicking people it threatened, and it brought back all his memories of when he had begun the destruction of Caremboche all those centuries previous.
Good…good, my boy. Are you enjoying yourself?
Dorgryl asked, impressed
.
He was, and Dorgryl was disappointed when his
nephew pulled back the Colours, allowing them to soften to a glow within whilst he surveyed the damage. Dorgryl so badly wanted to touch that well of power, but this was not the time to reveal himself. He relished the day such power would be his. For now, though, he must be the ‘guest’ and learn more about his host.
The people who had been hurt were lying on the polished stone, crying and begging for help as their blood ran freely. Some had been crushed under the toppling stone of the buildings. Others, not many, had escaped the touch of his Colours but they were in shock, walking from person to person, trying to find their own and seeking help. Why was this happening? What could cause such a thing? they wondered. Orlac noticed a woman fleeing the square; her shapely ankles above jewelled sandals caught his eye. Obviously one he had spared, he thought carelessly, and felt smug that she had escaped his attentions. Perhaps she was pretty? She would certainly help spread the word.
Hela had picked up her long skirts, revealing her jewelled sandals and, not caring that her veils were askew, ran for her life. This was it. This is what Lys had warned her about. There was magic afoot in Cipres and it came accompanied by death. She had not missed the unaccountably tall, impressively handsome young man who had taken the stage and looked calmly around whilst two men died behind him for absolutely no reason. He had reminded her of someone, but that thought had gone the instant everyone about her had begun to bleed.
They must forgo the night’s grace she had promised Sarel. She must get the Queen away from Cipres now.
Hela’s voice was urgent; her terror causing her to forget whom she addressed. ‘Sarel!’ She shook the sleeping Queen. ‘Sarel! Wake up!’
The young woman opened her eyes, suddenly in shock, her body tensing. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No time. Get up. Move!’ commanded her maid and friend. ‘It’s begun. There is killing in the square. We must flee.’
Hela pulled the dazed woman from her bed, ripping off her nightgown not caring for the chill it caused to the pale, perfect skin. ‘Climb into these. Waste no time, Sarel. We leave immediately.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know—a golden man—but there are people dead in the square for no reason. I saw them with my own eyes, bleeding from their noses, bursting into flame…buildings which have stood for centuries, collapsing as one, killing all in their path.’
Hela had not realised she was weeping as she spoke. Now Sarel’s eyes were filled with tears and confusion as she tried to make sense of the babble.
‘I don’t understand,’ said the young Queen.
‘Neither do I,’ Hela admitted, her nervousness betraying her. ‘It is magic…beyond my comprehension, but you can be sure that the man who wields it is headed here. Now quickly! Put this veil on and we leave.’
Sarel made to open her jewel box by the bed.
‘Leave it! I have all we need. Come.’ She led the girl through two doors in her mother’s chamber to a short landing leading towards the stairs used by the servants.
Hela opened one of the many storage cupboards on the landing used to replenish stocks of Sylven’s favourite perfume, soaps, bath oils and linens, which Hela alone held the key to. From inside she pulled two dull brown cloth bags.
‘This is all we take,’ she said. ‘Here, Sarel, carry one.’
She ignored the question which she could see coming to the Queen’s lips and turned her back on her, taking her hand. Hela left no room for discussion or, indeed, argument. They moved swiftly—just short of running —down the stairs until they had reached the groundfloor, which led into a private courtyard.
‘Hela, the yard and the walls around it are guarded,’ Sarel voiced her thoughts aloud. But of course Hela would already know this.
‘I have taken care of it,’ Hela whispered. ‘The man on duty tonight is a friend. He is sweet on me, you could say,’ she added conspiratorially. ‘Mind me, Sarel. Say nothing, no matter what I say or you hear. Do you understand?’ It was said firmly, as mother to child. She was satisfied to see the young Queen nod behind her veils. ‘Come.’
True enough, as they stepped outside, a guard immediately confronted them and then relaxed when he heard Hela’s voice.
‘Are we safe?’ she asked.
‘There’s some trouble in the square, or so I hear. I know nothing more but if you follow the old road, it should be clear,’ he said, grinning wolfishly at the veiled face of Hela. ‘Who knocked her up, then?’ he added, turning to Sarel.
His blood would have frozen in his veins if he could
have seen the chilled expression his new Queen wore beneath her veils. Sarel felt Hela’s hand tighten on her arm with reassurance as the maid answered him, a casual tone to her voice belying the tension she surely felt.
‘Stupid girl! She’s three months gone and showing—no idea who the father is. I fear she is simple in her head and so lies with anyone,’ she answered, playfully knocking Sarel’s shoulder with her own. ‘But her mother is a good friend of my mother’s and I feel obliged to do the right thing and get her home before anyone of rank finds out. You know how they are?’ Hela winked at him which he caught even behind those dark veils of hers.
He turned again to Sarel. ‘You wouldn’t give me a quick one, would you?’ he asked, tugging at his breeches, ‘…as it doesn’t seem to matter much to you.’
This time, it was Hela’s turn to freeze. If only he knew to whom he spoke.
‘Garth—leave it will you,’ she said, forcing her voice to remain light and playful. ‘I need to get going with her before it goes completely black out there.’
‘You owe me one, Hela. You can pay me in kind on your return.’
‘I’ll happily pay, Garth. I’ve always enjoyed you.’
She kissed him lightly on the cheek; a promise of real payment yet to come. Then she grabbed Sarel’s arm and pulled her to follow. Sarel was seething.
‘Garth, is it? I’ll have him hung when this is over!’ she hissed.
‘Ssh!’ Hela cautioned. ‘It’s because of him we’re safe. He changed three guards over so he could be the one on watch at this gate today. He has no rank, no money, so won their places by fighting them. He knows no fear—
he’s too young. All that matters to him is the feel of a woman’s body against his own.’
Sarel did not respond. She felt a bit foolish for reacting so pompously as she realised just what sort of chance Hela was taking: bribing guards with her body, smuggling her Queen from the palace and no doubt prepared to lay down her own life to protect Sarel’s. She remained silent. Once they had left the palace behind, walking briskly, Hela stopped and looked around. She made a soft hooting sound, like an owl, with cupped hands. A similar sound answered back and a few moments later a dark shadow emerged. Another man.
‘We must follow him, Sarel. You must trust me now and do exactly as I say.’
They approached the man.
‘Who is he?’ Sarel whispered.
‘No friend, that’s for sure, but he can be trusted so long as I still owe him a purse.’
‘Are we safe?’
‘As we can be, hush now,’ Hela cautioned. They arrived before him.
‘I am Hela,’ she said.
He did not so much as flinch. ‘The money?’ His voice was gravelly. Sarel could read no expression on his face.
‘Half now, as agreed,’ Hela said firmly, digging into her pocket and producing a purse which she held out. The man took it.
‘Follow,’ he said, and led them down the side of a hill, not caring if they stumbled. He knew the terrain well and strode ahead, the women trailing at a tentative pace.
‘It would be easier without the veils,’ Sarel said, hating to state the obvious.
‘Until I feel it’s safe, I can’t reveal you.’ She was surprised to hear Sarel laugh.
‘Hela. The Cipreans hardly know who I am anyway. My last trip to the capital was two years ago when I was a child, and you saw to it that no one witnessed my arrival this time.’
‘All true. But I am taking precautions,’ Hela said in a tone which forbade further discussion.
The man of no name or conversation led them to a horse and cart and with no further ceremony, not even a helping hand to climb aboard, he wordlessly took the Queen of Cipres and her brave maidservant to the docks, carefully avoiding the city’s centre. If he knew of the wild scenes unfolding therein, he did not share his knowledge. Hela was just glad to know the palace was far enough away that their most dangerous moments had passed. Now it was simply a matter of putting as much distance between Cipres and themselves as possible. She hoped Sarel had a strong constitution—a voyage during this season was destined to be rough.
‘Wait,’ the man said, leaving them standing on a deserted wharf. Nearby a small galleon creaked as it rocked gently at its moorings. They could see the ship’s name,
The Raven
, painted in gold on her side.
‘Time to dispense with the veils now, Sarel. Soon we must become women of Tallinor.’ She watched the Queen dutifully obey as she did the same, then bundled up the black veils and pushed them behind some crates.
‘There now,’ she said, brightly, wondering yet again where and towards what she was taking this precious young woman.
The man had returned. ‘Follow.’
They stepped cautiously behind him up the steep gangplank, trying to steady one another. A few men stared at them as they arrived and Hela was pleased to see Sarel hold her head high, her expression blank. Her haughtiness was gone; a Queen fleeing her own city had nothing to be arrogant about. They needed these men to help them now and attitude was all important. Hela chanced a brief smile towards one of them but he looked away immediately. Pirates…they knew how to keep secrets, not make relationships with anyone unnecessary to their needs. Good, this suited the pair. They would travel in the obscurity she desired.
The man knocked on a door, opened it and gestured for them to go in. He did not join them. Hela nodded at Sarel and they stepped inside. What they saw surprised them. Whatever both had anticipated for a pirate captain’s chambers, this was not it. A man stepped out from behind a satin screen, water dripping from his beard. Sarel recoiled slightly at the sight of his destroyed eye.
‘Ah, do forgive me ladies.’ He pulled a patch down over the offending wound but stepped no closer. ‘I was just neatening myself for your arrival.’ He smiled and warmth immediately flooded a battle-scarred face.
Now he did take a few steps towards them. ‘Allow me to welcome you aboard
The Raven
. I am her captain and your host, Janus Quist.’ He bowed carefully.
‘You are too kind, Captain Quist,’ Hela replied on their behalf, relief coursing through her.
Quist turned to Sarel. ‘Your highness,’ he said, this time with genuine awe. He bowed once again, deeply.
It was a shocked Hela who responded. ‘But…how could you know?’
The captain tried to conceal his amusement but it was clearly there on his wind-burnt face. ‘Madam, it is my business to know who comes aboard my ship.’
‘But I have shielded all knowledge of our identities from everyone. Even the guard back at the palace did not know about her,’ she said, looking quickly at her Queen.
‘No, but then I have eyes and ears throughout Cipres, through the palace in fact,’ he said, without guile. ‘Please, sit with me, let us speak over a glass of Neame’s finest.’
Hela felt rattled but the pirate was behaving in a most gracious manner towards them. Sarel sat first and then nodded. Suddenly there was a Queen in this chamber.
The captain bowed again. ‘We are honoured to help, your majesty. Your mother, Queen Sylven—may the gods guide her to the Light— was a great sovereign and once did me a rare kindness. In helping you, highness, I perhaps can return that gesture.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarel said. ‘Please sit.’
Hela and Quist finally joined her. There was a knock at the door and a willowy young man stepped in with a tray. Quist nodded.
‘May I offer you wine, your highness?’
Hela was about to answer out of habit but felt her mouth close at the look from Sarel. The child had grown up. Here now sat a Queen.
‘I would be delighted to share a cup with you, Captain Quist,’ she said, her tone measured, her words well chosen.
The server stepped forward. Quist gestured for Sarel to take a cup. ‘Your majesty, may I introduce my brother-by-marriage, Locklyn…Locky. He will be
ensuring your safety and comfort aboard
The Raven
for our voyage.’
Sarel’s eyes immediately flicked to the dark pair staring down at her. She felt her breath catch but quickly composed herself. ‘Are you the same Locklyn who risked the Kiss of the Silver Maiden?’
He blushed. ‘I am, your highness.’
‘You are brave indeed. I wished very much to have been there to share in your courage,’ she said demurely.
Hela was surprised that Sarel even knew of this event.
Quist cleared his throat. ‘Locky was fortunate, your highness, to escape with his life.’
‘My grievance was validated,’ Locky added softly, stepping quickly to offer Hela a cup of the wine.
Sarel’s gaze followed him and none of it was lost on the sharp eyes of Hela.
‘To close escapes, then,’ Quist said raising his cup, humour playing around his far from handsome mouth.
‘To close escapes,’ they replied, and Sarel smiled over her wine at Locky.
Far away from the Exotic Isles, in Tallinor’s south east, a Queen finally grieved over her King. She had carried herself with grace through this most difficult of all days, holding in her tears, fighting back her bitterness, keeping her emotion entirely in check until it was appropriate to loose it. Gyl had wasted no time and already half a dozen messengers were galloping across Tallinor towards the north, south, east and west of the Kingdom, stopping only to pick up fresh horses and ride through the night to their destinations, delivering news of the death of King Lorys. She anticipated all the neighbouring monarchs would be in attendance at the funeral and extra time had been allowed for the Ciprean Queen to respond as she was the furthest afield, yet Alyssa believed the famous Queen Sylven would pay her respects to Lorys and the people of Tallinor. In the meantime, despite his fatigue, Herek had sent out messengers to all the nobles. News of the death was still to filter into the furthest parts of the
city but it would spread fast now, spilling into the countryside. She needed the nobility gathered by morning so succession could be decided without delay.
Alyssa had done all that she could. Now the time was hers to be with Lorys, and she was glad that Gyl and Saxon had cleared the chapel to provide that peace for her. Tomorrow this place would be a hive of activity—the King’s body would be cleansed and prepared for viewing and the palace would be dressed in full mourning. Poor old Cook would already be stoking up her fires to prepare the funeral feast which Gyl was also masterminding.
Having ticked everything off in her tidy mind, Alyssa finally allowed herself to pull back the purple satin sheet which covered the near-naked body of a man she loved very much. His face was untouched…in death it seemed he had found serenity at last, reflected in his peaceful expression. His body, however, told a different story. It was charred and burnt. One particular area on his chest was a ghastly black and shrivelled; all the hair on his strong arms was singed. ‘Dead before he hit the ground.’ She recalled Herek’s powerfully descriptive words. ‘He did not suffer. But he knew he would die. Knew he was a marked man.’
Now she understood part of the first messenger’s words; a personal communication from the King for her ears only. She recalled how the little man had arrived wet and exhausted having outrun the storm to reach Tal. Alyssa had folded his cold fingers around a cup of steaming broth and urged him to give her his private message from the King.
‘Your majesty. His exact words to you are: Forgive
me, my love, for leaving you. Find your own people. Free them. Save Tallinor.’
She had looked at the man with curiosity, not comprehending any of it. He too had shrugged, forgetting himself momentarily in the presence of his sovereign.
Her expression had creased in puzzlement. ‘That’s all he said?’
The messenger nodded. ‘He commented to me, your majesty, just before he chose those words, that he had begun to dream. Then he gave me that message; said you would understand.’
‘I see, thank you, Hawse. You’d better away to your rest now…and thank you, for reaching here under such circumstances. King Lorys will reward you, I’m sure.’
The man had nodded and then left her with her thoughts. What had Lorys meant? It was cryptic. The first part she understood better now. It was as though Lorys had foreseen his own death. But finding her people? That was such an odd thing to say, for her people were of Tal, like his. Free them? None of that made sense to her. Mind you, saving Tallinor was very much on her mind after the heartbreaking arrival of Tor Gynt back into her life. Could Lorys have foreseen Orlac? Unlikely. But then with the mention that he had begun to dream, anything was possible, if that wretched Lys was involved.
Alyssa lifted the purple sheet to his neck so she could gaze on his fine face and no longer look at his damaged chest—the chest she loved to lay her cheek against. The first tear rolled down that same cheek now; it was the start of a torrent she would cry that night as the impact of his death began to penetrate and shatter the shield she had built around herself that day.
She wept hard, silently wiping her tears away until her own linen was as wet as the cheeks she vainly tried to dry.
As her sobs finally eased, she noticed the candles had burned down and several hours had passed while she had clung to her dead husband’s body. During this time of intense grief, her thoughts had crystallised —Alyssa was convinced the gods were punishing her. The death of a husband and a child, both of whom had returned from the dark. Then the man she had learned to love deeply and with whom she had begun to build a life now lay before her, dead. It was too much grief for one person to bear. Still, her resolve hardened and she now knew what it was she had to do.
She whispered to the spirit of Lorys, wherever it was. She hoped it had lingered long enough to hear her words.
‘You can join Nyria now, my beloved. She awaits you. I am pleased that your hearts can be joined once more. I have loved you deeply—I hope you know this.’
The Queen bent and kissed the cold, already hardened lips of her King.
‘May the Light speed and guide you safely,’ she said, shrouding his lovely face with purple, the colour of death.
Gyl could remember a similar awful silence around the palace at the time of Queen Nyria’s passing. He had been able to escape it all those years ago, following Herek and some of the Shield into the foothills, but not on this occasion. He had responsibilities this time and he would not let his mother down. She was depending on him to
bear the burden of almost all the official duties surrounding the King’s funeral; thank the Light he had Rolynd to assist him. The man’s calm, measured style was a boon when most of the other minds in the palace seemed messy and confused, including his own.
He had loved the King deeply. Somehow Gyl had always wanted to find a way to tell him, explain to him that it was not just the blind love of loyalty. No, he truly loved Lorys for the man he was. Often he had caught the King watching him; sometimes the Sovereign would attend training sessions in the courtyard and applaud him loudly as he regularly beat all the other soldiers. It was—he knew from what his mother had told him —the King’s idea to create the new position of Under Prime. Alyssa had explained it was the King’s intention for Herek to groom Gyl for the top job.
At this Gyl’s chest and sense of pride had swollen immeasurably —he would not let his King down. And following his mother’s marriage to the Sovereign he had felt incredibly close to Lorys, loving every opportunity to accompany him on the morning ride across the moors which had been his preference. There had been many occasions when they rode alone; Gyl acting as sole protector. These were his favourite times because he had had the King to himself and they would talk—almost as father and son. Lorys would encourage him to speak of his early childhood and his true mother, Marrien, promising whatever they discussed would be kept between themselves. At other times they had talked about kingship: how to run a realm effectively and to earn the respect and loyalty of a nation’s people. Gyl enjoyed the tales of old King Mort and the King’s father,
Orkyd, and how they had finally won Tallinor through bloody battle.
These rides together had become habit, with Alyssa encouraging Gyl to spend as much time with the King as possible. It had not been hard to do; he had genuinely loved the King’s company and their many private moments of shared laughter. He would miss that companionship greatly. All the other subjects had lost a King but Gyl felt the keen loss of a friend —someone he looked up to as one would a father…the father he had never had. He had often thought about what it would be like to have a real father and secretly he had decided it would feel very similar to the relationship he enjoyed with Lorys. He would never air such a thought openly, of course…not even to the Queen.
Who would he ride with now? Gyl knew he was popular with the soldiers under his command and that he had their loyalty; he also knew he was just as popular with the ladies of the court and he had already manoeuvred his way around a couched marriage proposal from one of the wealthy nobles who could appreciate the benefit of marrying off his daughter to the Under Prime. But Gyl also knew he had no real friend other than the King. He was close to Saxon, but the Kloek had curious ways and there was a remoteness about him which it seemed only his mother could touch. He loved Saxon but in all truth, he had been far closer to Lorys. There was no young woman to call friend either; no one he had ever felt excited enough about, or even close enough to, to consider calling it a loving relationship. If he looked at his life objectively, Gyl had to admit he was something of a loner. Which is why he
felt so removed from everyone now; he had no one to turn to other than his mother, and she was deep in her own grief.
Gyl found himself strolling into the private royal gardens. This was a pretty walled garden which the King had built for Alyssa as his marriage gift. She could always count on it as a haven for absolute privacy; whenever he could not find his mother, he would always come to this place and sure enough, the Queen would be reading within the fragrance of her favourite magnolia tree, or writing at her bench amongst the lavenders and herbs she loved so much. He appreciated, perhaps for the first time, the privilege of having access to his mother’s place, which no person bar himself, Saxon, Sallementro and the King had permission to enter without royal assent. Gyl had not yet shed a tear over his King…this might be the quiet spot where he could sit and think about life without Lorys.
He sat beneath an apple tree and laid his head in his hands. Tears came easily.
‘I…I’m sorry, I should leave,’ came a soft voice he recognised as Lauryn’s.
Looking up, towards his mother’s favourite rose arbor, he saw Lauryn’s pretty face—so similar to Alyssa’s —staring back at him, concern written all over it.
She stood and walked around. ‘I felt so awkward in the palace. I thought to escape here but this is a private place for you and I’ll leave.’
Gyl said nothing but drank in the large grey-green eyes which regarded him.
Lauryn felt uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her. ‘Gyl, I’m so very, very sorry about the King. Were you close? I mean…I’m guessing that you
probably knew him very well with our mother being married to him and all that.’ She stopped. She realised she was gabbling; he truly was disarmingly handsome, particularly when the haughty air was dropped and she could see some of his vulnerability. ‘Forgive me, Gyl, for interrupting your quiet time.’ Lauryn smiled briefly and began to walk away quickly.
‘Lauryn,’ he called and was glad she turned. ‘I could use the company in truth.’
‘Are you sure?’ She looked doubtful.
He nodded and patted the ground next to him. ‘I’d be grateful if you joined me for a while. Where’s your brother?’
Lauryn tentatively sat down on a bench nearby, ignoring his tempting offer to seat herself next to him. ‘I’ll stay for a few minutes if you wish.’ She smiled and he recalled from the first time he met her how delicious she looked when she allowed her smile to sparkle in her eyes. ‘Gidyon’s gone for a walk. He wishes he could have gone with our father, but I think he already feels great affection for the Queen and wants to comfort her but does not really know how. He’s so sensitive.’
‘Not like you?’
‘I hardly know Gidyon yet we both feel so close to one another. Yes, I think in all honesty I’m probably hardier than him emotionally. I think Gidyon shows his emotions whereas I’ve learned how to hide them, probably…I don’t really know.’ She shrugged.
Gyl was surprised to feel himself grin. ‘Oh, I think you’re as tough as one of the wild boars of the forest.’
Lauryn threw a grimace at him. ‘Charmed.’
‘Well, I only have our first meeting to go on.’
‘I was scared, Gyl. You’ve heard our story—as impossible as it must sound to you, it’s all true. I hardly understand it myself.’
He shook his head. ‘No one will ever believe it.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t make it any less true.’
‘Tell me your story, Lauryn.’
‘No. You know plenty about me already. How about you tell me about you?’
‘All right,’ Gyl said, straightening up and closing his eyes to plan where he should begin.
Lauryn felt her throat tighten. What a beautiful man he is, she thought as Gyl began to tell his own story. Not as tall as Gidyon or her father but they both seemed taller than any man she could remember. He had strong shoulders and his body tapered to slim hips. He wore simple clothes and she liked him for that. Even in her short time in the palace she had seen quite a number of people who favoured bright, decorated garments. She wondered whether the King had been one of those. Saxon, and indeed her mother, she was glad to see, favoured simplicity, but then looking like Alyssa one would need no other adornment. Gyl obviously preferred the garb of a simple soldier even though he was Queen’s Champion. Nevertheless, for all their simplicity she noticed his clothes were well cut and hung from his body superbly.
‘…and they found me chained like that the next morning. If it wasn’t for Queen Nyria, I’d have probably got myself a boot up the arse for being such a nuisance. Instead, I was put in the care of our mother, Alyssa, who was just a palace servant at that time.’
She nodded, did not want to interrupt him. Lauryn liked hearing his voice. There was a certain wistfulness in it she often felt herself. Gyl was talking about growing up at the palace now and as he did so, she turned her attentions to his face.
He had a square jaw, a straight nose and dark green eyes. It was a symmetrical face framed by dark, slightly curly hair which he chose to wear short—rather than longer and tied back as seemed the fashion in Tal. His most arresting feature was the long lashes outlining his eyes and she wondered how often he had been teased about those by the other soldiers. Small neat teeth could be glimpsed when he laughed, which Lauryn thought must not be all that often any more. It seemed the weight of his title might have pressed down the young, carefree lad he might have been and required him to be more serious.