The smoke rose to the high beams of the nursery, revealing Elena standing before him, between two mirrors, a dagger held in her right hand. She jabbed her left at him and an impotent blue gnosis-bolt dissipated unfelt against his shields. She looked ragged; she must be at the end of her tether.
He smiled, raised his hand and gave her everything he had, crying out in utter bliss as he made the air throb with gushing fire so hot
the flames were translucent, warping his vision as they washed over her, through her, and billowed unobstructed to blast the far wall.
She reappeared, right where she had been, twirling two thin blades.
Untouched. How?
He sensed someone behind him, but too late: two numbing blows struck beneath his armpits and jolted through him. There was a metallic grinding noise as the blades rasped against each other, somewhere deep in his chest. He stared, bewildered, as the Elena standing before him winked out.
Numbness flooded through him, and when he reached for his power there was just a void. He tried to speak, but his legs gave way and he felt his own heart stop.
‘I’m not left-handed. You should have noticed that,’ she whispered in his ear.
Rukka! Mirrors
…
Illusion
…
The floor pitched up to meet him.
Elena slumped to the floor beside the dead mage. After a moment she pulled herself together and extracted her blades, trembling in relief. He had fallen for her mirror-projected illusion. The analytical part of her brain smirked: she’d targeted his weak spot and scored a direct hit. But damn, it had been close … and Fadah was dead.
‘Cut off his head,’ she whispered to Lorenzo. He looked back at her blank horror. ‘I mean it. There are spells that could revive him, even now! We have to make sure he’s dead.’ She sucked in a rasping, smoke-filled breath and crawled towards the windows. ‘Cera? Timi?’
The Nesti children poked their heads above the broken windows. Behind her she heard Lorenzo heft his sword and swing. The
thump
echoed around the room, making Cera cry out. Then she and Timi were clambering over the broken teeth of the shattered window and throwing themselves into Elena’s arms. She crushed them to her, and Lorenzo crawled to join them, his face puffy and scalded. Samir Taguine’s head lay in a spreading pool of blood, an expression of stunned surprise still on his face.
In seconds violet-clad guardsmen were storming into the room, Paolo Castellini at their head, his craggy face grim and furious. They
gently prised the children away, checking they were whole, but Cera wouldn’t let Elena go, and Timi clung to Lori, soundlessly wailing.
Elena let the soldiers draw them to their feet, and then she slowly let them lead her away from the destruction, and the headless corpse of the man who had wrought it.
‘Is Mother—? And Tante Homeirah?’ Cera was in a bed in a room beside the chapel. There were four guards at the door, and physicians and their assistants everywhere. She and Elena were both still in their torn and burnt nightwear. Elena’s feet were a mess, though the pain was only now registering.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Cera stared out across the room, oblivious to the servants binding her cuts, washing her limbs, numb to everything but the pain inside. Then she put her hand to her mouth as a fresh thought occurred to her. ‘Father!’
Elena felt hollow inside. ‘I don’t know – I’ve tried to find out, but I can’t reach him. I’m so, so sorry.’
This is my fault
, she thought.
I should have killed Samir in his sleep. I should have known that Gurvon would never just pull out, not when there was the chance to make even more money by leaving a pile of corpses behind him. Olfuss, Solinde – who else? The whole Nesti clan? There aren’t enough men in Brochena Palace to stop Gurvon Gyle and Rutt Sordell – and who knows if the rest of the gang are there too? I’m an idiot! And now this poor, sweet girl is going to have every blade in the kingdom turned on her. I’ve failed them all
…
The day passed in a hazy mist, faces coming and going to a constant wailing outside the walls. Elena woke from uneasy, nightmares to find she’d fallen asleep on the chair beside Cera’s bed, her head on the blankets. A hand was stroking her shoulder.
‘Ella,’ whispered Cera.
She sat up and bowed her head. ‘Cera – I’ve failed you all.’
‘Never! You
saved
us, Ella. We’d
all
be dead without you.’ She put a finger to Elena’s lips. ‘Shhh: you saved us all – me and Timi, Lori, everyone. You are Nesti. You’re one of us.’ She reached out and pulled
Elena to her, stroking her hair as if she were the child and Cera the elder sister. ‘I will give you a medal, and a title, and land. And a new stallion, from our stables. You’ll have the freedom of Forensa.’ Her face grave and serious, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking. I need to be seen. The people need to know that I am alive. There will be all sorts of rumours until they see me. They need to know there are still Nesti alive here.’ She patted Elena’s cheek, looking just like her mother. ‘You should sleep, Ella. You look terrible.’
Elena looked wonderingly at her young charge. It was as if an adult had overnight supplanted the child. ‘How can I sleep when my princessa is working?’ she whispered.
‘If Father is dead by violence, then no election is required: Timi is his heir, and that makes me regent,’ Cera said in a low, astoundingly composed voice. ‘I need to take charge.’
‘Are you ready for that?’ Elena asked her gently. ‘The men will try and sideline you – they may not mean to, but they will see you as – well, you know.’
‘Yes: “just a girl”.’ Cera straightened, setting her jaw. ‘If I am regent by law, then I intend to be regent in fact. The shihad is coming, and Javon needs a leader, not squabbling factions. I will lead, until Timi is old enough.’
Look at you, child – no, not a child any more
. Elena swallowed.
I am proud of you. And I am utterly terrified for you
.
They got up and helped each other dress. Elena belted her sword-belt around her loose-fitting smock. Cera wore regal purple and gold, and her princess-crown, normally only worn for important dinners, was placed on her head. Then Elena followed her out of the castle, through the charred ruins of the reception hall, still littered with blackened timbers and the ruin of the chandelier.
Outside, on the main steps, the sun beat down and the heat rolled in waves off the confined space. The smell of human sweat assailed them as they took in the hundreds crammed into that small area. A ragged cheer broke from the lips of the people, a mix of Jhafi and Rimoni, and Harshal ali-Assam, busy marshalling some workmen, came over. The mourning of the womenfolk gave way to
cheers as the crowd realised who had emerged and they surged forward.
Elena hovered beside her charge, nervous of such a crowd, but there was nothing but sorrow and sympathy in the faces of those who pressed close. One girl reverently kissed the hem of Cera’s skirts. Elena scanned the walls in case Gurvon had some back-up assassin lurking, but she sensed no one. Would he have even considered that Samir could fail?
Cera raised a hand for silence and everyone pulled back and kneeled. When she spoke, the princess’ voice was thin but firm. ‘People of Forensa, you know me,’ she started. ‘I am your princess: I am Cera Nesti, and I have terrible tidings for you. My mother, Fadah Lukidh-Nesti, your queen, the Queen of all Javon, is dead, and so too is her sister, my aunt, Homeirah Lukidh-Ashil. These are bitter losses. But my brother Timori, the heir to the throne of Ja’afar-Javon, is unharmed and well. The casualties were, in the end, minimal. An assassin has struck, his apparent purpose was to slay—’ She stopped and swallowed, the first clue to the effort this display was costing her. But she rallied, and went on, ‘His purpose was to slay my family, and he would have done so but for the heroism of our valiant guards.’
There was a low cheer, particularly from the Rimoni.
‘Foremost in valour and resolution was this woman beside me, Elena Anborn, my bodyguard – my champion. Though injured herself, she fought and slew the assassin, and protected my brother and me. She is my dear friend, and I commend her to you all.’
Elena was suddenly the focus of everyone’s attention, and she felt the blood rush to her face as she wrestled with her guilt. Her trembling legs gave way and she slipped wordlessly to her knees and dizzily touched her forehead to Cera’s feet. She hadn’t meant to, but this public obeisance, the deepest of self-humbling gestures, won a great murmur of approval, and it suddenly struck her that to these people her Noros manner, treating all as equals, was considered arrogance; they saw this accidental homage as a belated acknowledgment of her true station. When Cera raised her to her feet and kissed her cheeks, the affection and trust between them was obvious to all,
and first one woman and then many approached Elena and bowed, touching their right hands to their foreheads:
Praise and thanks
, they murmured.
Sal’Ahm. Peace be upon you
.
Even as she accepted this unprecedented acknowledgment, she felt Gurvon Gyle’s first attempt to scry her. She forbade the contact.
Gurvon, you murdering bastard: I will make you pay for this
.
That night was full of hideous dreams, when she was eventually able to ignore the pain of her scabbed and blistered feet and calves. The next morning was Minasdai – 13 Octen, she calculated. Cautiously, she checked her wardings, unbroken but tampered with, definitely. She repaired the fraying, ‘sniffing’ with her gnosis-powers to confirm: Gurvon Gyle had been trying to force contact with her.
What else did Gurvon have planned? She had to presume that Olfuss was dead, and surely Gurvon would have followed that up with a military strike. The Gorgio of Hytel, without a doubt; they alone among the Rimoni had stuck by the Dorobon kings, so they must surely have marched back into Brochena. Gurvon would have informants here in Forensa: she knew how he worked. He built a network, everywhere he went. He had always told her to do the same, but she had grown slack here in Javon: she was a bodyguard, she had reasoned, so why would she need spies?
Wrong again, idiot!
Now she was blind to what was going on elsewhere. She was on her own.
She placed the bowl of water beside the bed into her lap and stared into it, pale light kindling inside it as she sought to scry Olfuss or Solinde. But there was nothing. She replaced the bowl, then hugged her arms about herself and let her grief pour out.
Afterward, she went to the infirmary. Lorenzo was lying there alone. The whole left side of his body was seared red, even his left eye bandaged over, but his right fixed on her as she entered. ‘Ella,’ he croaked.
‘Lori. Did they give you something for the pain?’
He winced. ‘Some. More would be good,’ he admitted unwillingly.
She looked around her but the physicians were busy elsewhere, so she gently removed the bandages and tended him herself with
gnosis-healing; performed in a semi-trance. She let her senses enter the wound and cleanse it, dulling his pain and kindling healing energies: a long gentle outpouring of gnostic balm, and as exhausting as any battle-spell. It took some time, and throughout it all, his handsome-sad face watched her, his big eye soft. Finally she peeled back the covering over his face.
‘How bad is it?’ he whispered. ‘Will it scare the girls away?’
‘No more than usual,’ she told him, forcing a smile. ‘You half-turned at the last instant. Give it a few months and no one will even know.’
‘How did you do that? That mirror-trick?’
‘Easy: I projected my reflection out from the mirror into the room and let it draw his fire while I came up behind him.’
‘A miracle.’
‘No, just gnosis. He was a thaumaturge, not good at spotting illusions.’ She shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it.
‘Do your powers really come from your god?’ he asked, his eyes serious.
She shook her head. ‘No. They come from me.’
He lifted his hands to her face, grasped her chin and pulled her mouth down onto his. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t. His mouth was sweet and tangy, his lips both firm and gentle as they moved on hers. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment for a second, and then gently eased away. ‘Then you are an angel.’ He smiled in beatific triumph, the first of the knights to steal a kiss from the witch, and she scowled, regretting the moment already. Then his face clouded. ‘Why did he do it, Ella? Was he acting alone? Or was he under orders?’
Elena shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied, ‘not yet – I’m trying to find out.’ He nodded doubtfully and she stood slowly. It was harder than she had thought, to tear herself away. For just an instant, his warm strong arms had felt like a haven, a refuge from the storm that pressed about her.
No. I can’t afford this weakness
…
‘Get some sleep, Lori.’ She backed out of the room.
*
Cera and Timori sat at the great table, Timori on a cushion. Elena stood behind Cera, her right hand on her sword-hilt. Her lower legs no longer hurt, but they were scarred. She felt haggard and tired and wracked with guilt. The reverence with which they were treating her was just making the guilt worse.
Harshal ali-Assam and Paolo Castellini were there with a dozen others of both races, local nobles and bureaucrats, holy men and chief citizens. She knew most, though not well. She could see Cera trembling slightly, afraid but determined. She was her father’s daughter; he would be proud to see her today. If he were alive.
Who knows, maybe he is? But I doubt that very much
A young Amteh scriptualist spoke a blessing, followed by a bushy-bearded Sollan drui, then they prayed together for strength and fortitude, asking for God’s peace on the fallen and his blessing on the prince and princess. Elena looked at Cera and smiled encouragement. They had laid their plans that morning, then cornered a few of the key men, the opinion leaders, and explained how things would be. The men had all assumed that Cera would step aside and let them deal with the situation, but to Elena’s surprise they had readily agreed to Cera taking this stronger role. It was as if they needed someone to plant a banner they could rally to. ‘You were the men Olfuss Nesti, my father, trusted above all,’ Cera had told them, ‘so trust me. I am my father’s daughter.’ Elena had expected more resistance, but perhaps her presence intimidated them.