Queen of Fire

“I think our captain is eager to be off, brother,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Reva

Lord Brahdor’s house must have been a grand place once. Formerly a minor stronghold, successive generations had seen it moulded into a sprawling three-storey mansion, grown beyond the walls that once enclosed it, the defensive ditch long since filled in. The surrounding fields were dotted with stables, storehouses, and, Reva well knew, a large barn over the crest of a nearby hill. She had called there earlier, halting her horse a good distance short of the dilapidated pile of leaning timber, the roof now vanished and the doors lying on the weed-rich ground.

She was alone, having ordered her guards to proceed to Alltor without her some miles back. She found Kernmill ravaged and burnt as expected, all the people she had once spied on dead, taken by slavers or fled. The house of Lord Brahdor lay some two miles north and was in only marginally better repair. It seemed to have escaped the attentions of the Volarians, possibly because its evident ruin had been wrought before their arrival, the various rooftops stripped of slate, either by the elements or greedy villagers, the walls streaked with dirt and peeling daub, every door seemingly vanished.

What do you expect to find here? she asked herself with an inward sigh before dismounting and tethering her mount to a fence-post. It was a placid mare, much more amenable than poor old Snorter, who had been lost to the stewpot during the early days of the siege. She left her to nibble at the long grass as she approached the house, peering through glassless windows at the musty darkness within. Did they meet here? she wondered. Was this the seat of their plots? The Sons coming to huddle in front of the godly lord who spoke such wondrous truth, never knowing the true nature of the thing that lied to them, probably laughing to itself the whole while.

She went to a doorway and stepped into the chilled shadows inside. Despite the gloom she was impressed by the grandeur of the lobby, an elegant staircase sweeping down from the upper storey to a chequerboard floor of fine marble, a ringing echo rising from her boots. She scanned the walls seeking paintings or sigils, finding only bare plaster and no sign as to the character of the late occupant. A brief exploration of the other rooms on the ground floor was no more fruitful so she tentatively mounted the staircase, finding it surprisingly firm underfoot, sounding only the faintest creak as she went aloft.

The upper floor was colder, wind gusting through the ruined windows, stirring rags that had once been drapes. She went from room to room, finding only dust, shards of pottery and the sticks of ruined furniture. In one room she paused at the sight of a large stain on the floor, part obscured by a moulded carpet, a cobweb-shrouded bed standing against the wall. She knew the stain of blood well enough to make closer inspection unnecessary; someone had died here, but not recently.

She was turning away when she caught it, a slight acrid tint reaching her nostrils, the scent of a recently snuffed candle. She paused, closing her eyes, nose and ears alive to further clues. It was just the smallest creak to the beams above her head, only a few ounces too heavy for a rat. She opened her eyes, raising her gaze to the ceiling, picking out a hole no bigger than a copper coin, flickering light then dark as something covered it.

She went to the hallway and sought out the steps to the third storey, finding them much less well preserved than the grand staircase. The balustrade was gone and several steps were missing, forcing her to leap and grab her way up. This final level consisted of four attic rooms, only one of which held a door. She tried the handle and, finding it locked, kicked it open, drawing her sword before going inside. There was a small but neat pile of blankets near the window, the room shielded from the elements by a few planks of wood, tied in place with twine. The stub of a candle sat next to the blankets, a thin tendril of smoke rising from the wick.

Reva surveyed the rest of the room, finding a small stack of books and a pile of assorted vegetables in the corner, carrots and potatoes, mouldy and sprouting roots, small bite marks in some. It was the intake of breath that warned her, a sharp gasp just above her head.

Reva took a step forward and something landed behind her. She whirled, the sword coming round in a precise slash, connecting with a small knife, the blade skittering away into the shadows. Its owner stared up at her with wide eyes in a dirt-smeared face framed by a mass of matted curls.

“Who are you?” Reva demanded.

The girl’s face held the same astonished gape for a second then transformed into a snarl. She hissed, launching herself at Reva, her hands like claws, long nails seeking to tear at the intruder’s face. Reva dropped her sword, sidestepped the charge and caught the girl about the waist, pinning her arms as she thrashed, snarling and spitting. She held her in place as she continued to struggle, feeling the bone-thin form beneath her ragged clothes and wondering at the ferocity of one so near starvation. The girl subsided after a full two minutes’ thrashing, slumping exhausted in Reva’s arms, voicing a whimper of helpless rage.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Reva told her. “My name is Reva. Who might you be?”

• • •

“Did Ihlsa send you?”

Reva added more fuel to the fire and checked the contents of the pot, an old iron vessel found amidst the shattered remnants of the mansion’s kitchen. The girl had followed her readily enough after Reva released her, although she had maintained a sullen silence until now, sitting opposite her in front of the fireplace as Reva stacked broken furniture for fuel. She had filled the pot with the oats from her saddlebags flavoured with a little honey and cinnamon, bought from a Nilsaelin soldier back in Varinshold for the price of a Volarian officer’s short sword and dagger. Long weeks marching with the Queen’s Crusade had told her much about the character of the Realm’s various subjects, and Nilsaelins could usually be relied upon to supply a few luxuries for the right price.

“Who’s Ihlsa?” she asked, stirring the porridge.

The girl drew herself up a little, chin jutting as she attempted a dignified air. “My maid.”

“Making you the lady of this house?”

“Yes.” The girl’s face clouded somewhat. “Since Mother died.”

“You are daughter to Lord Brahdor?”

The girl’s expression abruptly switched from sadness to outright fear. “You know my father? Is he coming back?”

Reva sat down, meeting the girl’s fearful eyes. “What is your name, girl?”

She took a few attempts before managing to form a reply, the word a hesitant whisper. “E-Ellese.”

“Ellese, I must tell you, your father is dead. Slain at Alltor, along with many others.”

There was no grief in the girl’s face, just sagging relief. She hugged herself, head lowered to her knees, the soft sound of weeping emerging from behind her mask of matted hair. Reva hadn’t appreciated just how young she was before, but now saw she couldn’t be more than ten, and so thin.

Reva scooped some porridge into a wooden bowl and held it out to the weeping girl. “Here. You need to eat.”

The sobs stopped after a moment, the smell of the porridge raising an audible groan from Ellese’s belly as she raised her head and reached for the bowl. “Thank you,” she said in a faint voice before commencing to attack the porridge with unladylike gusto.

“Slowly,” Reva cautioned. “Eat too quick on an empty belly and you’ll sicken.”

The girl’s gulps slowed a little and she nodded. “Did the Fief Lord kill him?” she asked when the bowl was almost empty.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Ihlsa said the Fief Lord would visit the Father’s justice upon one who was . . . cursed.”

“How was he cursed?”

“It happened when I was little. Before he was kind, as much as I can recall. But he fell ill, a brain-fever Mother said. I remember she took me into their room to say good-bye. He had fallen to a deep sleep and she said he would never wake up.” She looked down at her porridge, scraped the last few dregs from the bowl, and put it aside. “But he did.”

“And he was different?”

“Father wasn’t Father anymore. He . . . hurt Mother. Every night. I could hear . . . Through the walls. For years he hurt her.” Her face bunched and she began to weep again, tears streaking through the grime on her face.

“Did he ever . . . hurt you too?”

The girl’s head sagged again, her continued sobs all the answer Reva needed. After a while she spoke again, forcing the words out. “He would keep us locked up when he was away, the house going to ruin around us. The day before he left he . . . He killed her. He tried to kill me too but Ihlsa took my hand and we ran. We ran to the woods and hid, for such a long time. When we came back the house was empty . . . apart from Mother. We went to the village but there were soldiers there, not the Realm Guard or the Fief Lord’s men. They were doing terrible things. We ran back to the house and hid in the rafters. They came in and stole things, breaking what they didn’t want, but they didn’t find us. Ihlsa would go out and find food for us every few days. One day she didn’t come back.”

Reva watched her weep, head filled with images of a girl shivering in the dark as she huddled in a corner of a barn, clutching the carrot she had stolen the day before. She wouldn’t eat it right away because there might be none tomorrow.