Helliconia: Helliconia Spring, Helliconia Summer, Helliconia Winter (140 page)

With a sudden shout of rage, he jumped up and hurled the timepiece away, out through the north-facing window. He stood there naked, glaring, as if daring the thing to return to his hand.

After a moment of fright, Milua Tal joined him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Without words, they leaned out of the window to breathe cooler air.

An eerie white light shone to the north, outlining horizon and trees. Lightning danced noiselessly in the middle of it.

‘By the beholder, what’s happening?’ JandolAnganol asked, clutching the slender shoulders of his bride.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Jan. It’s the earthquake lights – they soon die. We often see them after a particularly bad quake. It’s a kind of night-rainbow.’

‘Isn’t it quiet?’ He realised that there was no sound of the First Phagorian moving about nearby, and was suddenly alarmed.

‘I can hear something.’ Suddenly she ran to the opposite window, and screamed. ‘Jandol! Look! The palace!’

He ran to her and looked out. On the far side of Loylbryden Square, the palace was alight. The entire wooden facade was ablaze, with clouds of smoke rolling up towards the stars.

‘The quake must have caused a fire. Let’s go and see if we can help – fast, fast, my poor moth!’ Her pigeon voice shrilled.

Aghast, the two dressed and ran out. There were no phagors in the park but, as they crossed the square, they saw them.

The First Phagorian stood armed, staring at the blazing palace, guarding it. They watched without movement as the flames took ever firmer hold. Townspeople stood at a distance, gazing helplessly, kept at bay by the phagors.

JandolAnganol went to break through the phagorian ranks, but
a spear was thrust out and his way barred. Phagor-Major Ghht Mlark Chzarn saluted her leader and spoke.

‘You may not make a coming to more nearness, sir, because danger. We have made a bringing of flames to all Sons of Freyr in that church-place below the ground. Knowledge reaches our harneys that the evil king and the church-king would bring killing to your all servants of this Guard.’

‘You had no orders.’ He could scarcely speak. ‘You’ve slain Akhanaba – the god made in your image.’

The creature before him with its deep scarlet eyes brought a three-fingered hand to its skull. ‘Orders have formed in our harneys. Make arrival from long time. Once, this place izz ancient Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk … Further sayance …’

‘You’ve slain the C’Sarr, Akhanaba … everything … everything …’ He could scarcely hear what the ancipital was saying, for Milua Tal was holding his hand and screaming at the top of her voice, ‘My moth, my moth, my poor mother!’

‘Hmn-Bhhrd Ydohk once ancient place of ancipital kind. Not give to Sons of Freyr.’

He failed to understand. He pushed against her spear, then drew his own sword. ‘Let me through, Major Chzarn, or I shall kill you.’

He knew how useless threats were. Chzarn merely said, without emotion, ‘Not go through, sir,’

‘You’re the fire god, Jan – command it die!’ As she parrot-screamed, she raked his flesh, but he did not move. Chzarn was intent on explaining something and wrestled with words before managing to say, ‘Ancient Hrrm-Bhhrd Ydohk good place, sir. Air-octaves make a song. Before Sons of Freyr any on Hrl-Ichor Yhar. In ancient time of T’Sehn-Hrr.’

‘It’s the present, the present! We live and die in present time, gillot!’ He tried to wind himself up to strike but was unable to do so, despite the screaming girl at his side. His will failed. The flames burned in the pupils of his narrowed eyes.

The phagor obstinately continued her explanation, as if she were an automaton.

‘Ancipitals here, sir, before Sons of Freyr. Before Freyr make bad light. Before T’Sehn-Hrr goance, sir. Old sins, sir.’

Or perhaps she just said ‘old things’. In the fury of the blaze, it was impossible to hear. With a roar, part of the palace roof collapsed and a column of fire rolled up into the night sky. Pillars crashed forward into the square.

The crowd cried in unison and stumbled back. Among the watchers was AbathVasidol; she clung to the arm of a gentleman from the Sibornalese embassy as everyone shrank from the heat.

‘The Holy C’Sarr … all destroyed,’ cried JandolAnganol in pain. Milua Tal hid her face in JandolAnganol’s side and wept. ‘All destroyed … all destroyed.’

He made no attempt to comfort the girl or to push her away. She was nothing to him. The flames devoured his spirit. In that holocaust were consumed his ambitions – the very ambitions the fire would fulfil. He could be master of Oldorando as well as Borlien, but in that ceaseless changing of things into their opposites, that chastising enantiodromia which made a god into a phagor, he no longer wished for that mastery.

His phagors had brought him a triumph, in which he saw clearly his defeat. His thoughts flew to MyrdemInggala: but his and her summer was over, and this great bonfire of his enemies was his autumn beacon.

‘All destroyed,’ he said aloud.

But a figure approached them, moving elegantly through the ranks of the First Phagorian, arriving almost at a saunter in time to remark, ‘Not quite all, I’m glad to say.’

Despite his attempt at customary nonchalance, Esomberr’s face was pale and he trembled visibly.

‘Since I’ve never worshipped the All-Powerful with any great degree of fervour, whether he’s man or phagor, I thought I would excuse myself from the C’Sarr’s lecture on the subject. Terribly fortunate as it proved. Let this be a lesson to you, Your Majesty, to go to church less frequently in future.’

Milua Tal looked up angrily to say, ‘Why don’t you run away? Both my parents are in there.’

Esomberr wagged a finger at her. ‘You must learn to ride with circumstances as your new husband claims to do. If your parents are perished – and there I suspect you have hit upon a profound
truth – then may I be the first to congratulate you on becoming Queen of both Borlien and Oldorando.

‘I hope for some advancement from you, as the chief instrument in your clandestine marriage. I may never make C’Sarr, but you both know my council is good. I’m cheerful, even in times of adversity like the present.’

JandolAnganol shook his head. He took Milua Tal by the shoulders and began to coax her away from the conflagration.

‘We can do nothing. Slaying a phagor or two will solve nothing. We will wait for morning. In Esomberr’s cynicism there is some truth.’

‘Cynicism?’ asked Esomberr quietly. ‘Are not your brutes merely imitating what you did to the Myrdolators? Is there no cynicism in your taking advantage of that? Your brutes have crowned you King of Oldorando.’

Written in the king’s face was something Esomberr could not bear to see. ‘If the entire court is wiped out, then what is there for me but to stay, to do my duty, to see that the succession is legally continued in Milua Tal’s name? Will I find joy in that task, Esomberr?’

‘You will go with the circumstances, I expect. As I would. What’s joy?’

They walked on, the princess shambling and needing support.

At length the king said, ‘Otherwise there will be anarchy – or Pannoval will step in. Whether it calls for rejoicing or weeping, it seems that we do indeed have a chance to make our two kingdoms one, strong against enemies.’

‘Always enemies!’ wailed Milua Tal to her failed god.

JandolAnganol turned to Esomberr, his expression one of blank disbelief. ‘The C’Sarr himself will have perished. The C’Sarr …’

‘Failing divine intervention, yes. But one piece of better news for you. King Sayren Stund may not go down in history as its wisest monarch, but he experienced a generous impulse before he perished. He was probably prompted by your new queen’s mother. His majesty could not quite stomach hanging his new son-in-law’s son, and had him released an hour or so ago. Perhaps as a sort of wedding gift …’

‘He released Robayday?’ His frown left him momentarily.

Another section of the palace collapsed. The tall wooden columns burned like candles. More and more of the inhabitants of Oldorando crept forth silently to stare at the blaze, knowing they would never look on such a night again. Many, in their superstitious hearts, saw this as the long-prophesied end of the world.

‘I saw the lad go free. Wild as ever. Wilder. An arrow from a bow would be a fair comparison.’

A groan escaped JandolAnganol’s lips. ‘Poor boy, why did he not come to me? I hoped that at last he had lost his hatred of me …’

‘By now he’s probably in the queue to kiss the wounds of the dead SartoriIrvrash – an unhygienic form of amusement if ever I saw one.’

‘Why did Rob not come to me … ?’

There was no answer, but JandolAnganol could guess it: he had been hidden in the pavilion with Milua Tal. It would take many a tenner before the consequences of this day’s work were fully borne out, and he would have to live them through.

As if echoing his thoughts, Alam Esomberr said, ‘And may I enquire what you intend to do with your famous Phagorian Guard, who have committed this atrocity?’

The king threw him a hard glance and continued to walk away from the blaze.

‘Perhaps you will tell me how mankind is ever to solve its phagor problem,’ he said.

The soldiery from the
Good Hope
and the
Union
landed on the Borlienese coast and marched westwards on Gravabagalinien under the leadership of Io Pasharatid.

As the force progressed, Pasharatid gleaned news of the turmoil about to overwhelm Matrassyl. The conscience of the people had been slowly roused as they digested the news of the massacre of the Myrdolators; the king would be unwelcome when he returned.

In Pasharatid’s harneys a scheme burned with such conviction that it already seemed actual. He would take the queen of queens; Gravabagalinien would fall to him, and she also. Matrassyl would willingly accept her as queen. He would rule as consort; politically he was not ambitious, not greatly. His past, its evasions, disappointments, disgraces, would be over. One minor military engagement, and all he desired would be his.

His advance scouts reported breastworks about the wooden palace. He attacked at Batalix-dawn, when haze stretched across the land. His gunners advanced two-by-two, wheel locks at the ready, protected by pikemen.

A white flag waved from behind the defences. A stocky figure cautiously emerged into the open. Pasharatid signalled to his soldiery to halt, and walked forward alone. He was conscious of how brave he was, how upright. He felt every inch the conqueror.

The stocky man approached. They halted when no more than a pike’s length apart.

Bardol CaraBansity spoke. He asked why soldiers were advancing on an almost undefended palace.

To which Io Pasharatid responded haughtily that he was an
honourable man. He required only the surrender of Queen MyrdemInggala, after which he would leave the palace in peace.

CaraBansity made the sacred circle on his forehead and sniffed a resounding sniff. Alas, he said, the queen of queens was dead, slain by an arrow fired by an agent of her ex-husband, King JandolAnganol.

Pasharatid responded with angry disbelief.

‘Look for yourself,’ said CaraBansity.

He gestured towards the sea, lacklustre in the dawn light. Men were launching a funeral barque upon the waters.

In truth, Pasharatid could see it for himself. He left his force and ran to the beach. Four men with heads bowed were carrying a bier on which a body lay beneath layers of white muslin. The hem of the muslin fluttered in a growing breeze. A wreath of flowers lay on top of the body. An old woman with hair growing from a mole in her cheek stood weeping at the water’s edge.

The four men carried the bier reverently aboard the white caravel, the
Vajabhar Prayer
; the ship’s battered sides had been repaired well enough for a voyage which did not involve the living. They laid the bier under the mast and retired.

ScufBar, the queen’s old majordomo dressed in black, stepped aboard the ship carrying a lighted torch. He bowed deeply to the shrouded body. Then he set light to the brushwood piled high on the deck.

As fire took the ship, it began with the favouring wind to sail slowly out from the bay. The smoke billowed out across the water like lank hair.

Pasharatid cast down his helmet into the sand, crying wildly to his men.

‘On your knees, you hrattocks! Down and pray to the Azoiaxic for this beautiful lady’s soul. The queen is dead, oh, the queen of queens is dead!’

CaraBansity smiled occasionally as he rode a brown hoxney back to his wife in Ottassol. He was a clever fellow and his ruse had succeeded; Pasharatid’s pursuit had been deflected. On the little finger of his right hand, he wore the queen’s gift to him, a ring with a sea-blue stone.

The queen had left Gravabagalinien only a few hours before Pasharatid’s arrival. With her went her general, his sister, the princess Tatro, and a handful of followers. They made their way northeastwards, across the fertile loess lands of Borlien, towards Matrassyl.

Wherever they went, peasants came from their huts, men, women, and children, and called blessing upon MyrdemInggala. The poorest of people ran to feed her party and help her in any way possible.