Queen of Fire

“You had ample opportunity to kill me on the Sea Sabre,” Lyrna said. “During the battle, it would have been an easy matter with so many arrows flying, so much smoke to conceal the deed. Why didn’t you?”

Orena issued a wistful laugh, soft and soon lost to the wind. “You made me a lady. You were . . . my queen. And . . .” She paused to smile. “And there was Harvin. To live so long without ever touching another heart is a terrible thing. To think I should find it with him, a common outlaw with no more wit than a scavenging fox.”

“You expect me to believe this?” Lyrna felt her anger quicken and fought to keep it in check. This thing’s attempt to manipulate her was dangerous, provoking her to hasty revenge. “A creature such as you is immune to love.”

“You think yourself so wise, my queen, but you are still a child. I have seen much done in the name of love, the wondrous and the horrifying, always finding it so amusing. There is a corner of my soul that wishes you were right, that I had remained immune to its touch, for then my grief would not have been so great. I think that’s how he found me again, hearing my despair as it seeped into the void, calling me back to his service.”

“A call you could have refused.”

“He bound me to him long ago, welded my soul to his, cutting away any will to resist. It’s how he chooses us, those souls best suited to his purpose, those with malice sufficient to match his own and weakness enough to be moulded.”

She sank to her knees, glancing over her shoulder where Davoka now stood, a small glass bottle in hand. “You should know,” Orena said, turning back to Lyrna, “that the mind of this shell is fractured. Broken by rape and near strangulation the night the city fell, saved only by her gift, which shattered the mind of her assailant, but left her spent and easily claimed.”

“She will have the best care,” Lyrna said. “And I promised Lord Vaelin I would return his cousin.”

Orena nodded and drew back her sleeve, raising her hand, palm extended. “This time there will be no forgiveness, my failures become too frequent, my soul too sullied by feeling. This time he will rend me to nothing, stripping away even the memory I was once alive. A fate I believe will suit me very well.” Her face was set, determined, her fear well controlled, a stark contrast to the girl who had begged and wailed beneath the Mountain. “I am ready, my queen.”

In later years there would be few among the Dead Company left alive to recall the scream that pealed across the headland that night. But those that did, although calloused by many horrors, would still manage a shudder at the memory of the sound, recalling it as an omen of what lay ahead.

• • •

The full fury of winter came early that year, heavy rain giving way to snow with unwelcome speed, the tent roofs of Varinshold sagging under its weight. Lyrna had ordered fuel stockpiled but the depth of the cold took many by surprise and there were some who perished in its grasp, mainly the old and the sick. Others were found outside the city walls, shorn of warm clothing, their frozen faces often serene, accepting. The invasion had left many bereft of all family and vulnerable to despair, precious hands lost to grief that wouldn’t heal.

Despite the cold and the privation the work continued, the Forge produced weapons at a furious rate and Davern’s wrights had given her three more ships in less than a month, the pace of construction quickening as they grew accustomed to the new techniques. “You should forget the gold from the Reaches, Highness,” Davern advised one day with his customary grin. “When the war’s won this land will be made rich on shipbuilding alone.”

In truth she often wished she could forget the gold. Acting Tower Lord Ultin was a frequent correspondent with his demands for more miners and Fief Lord Darvus’s scribes were scrupulous in counting and weighing every ingot to reach Frostport, even to the point of delaying onward shipment to the Alpiran merchants. If Your Highness were to send more scribes, the old man had written in response to her gently worded rebuke, I feel sure the flow of gold would resume with all alacrity. She had resisted the urge to dispatch Lord Adal with a formal edict dissolving Darvus’s agreement with Vaelin and placing the gold trade under Crown control. However, as her Minister of Justice was ever keen to remind her, she had already exercised the Queen’s Word with a frequency that made her father appear the paragon of light-handed rule and was loath to earn a reputation for setting aside inconvenient laws.

Aspect Dendrish had taken on the unenviable task of hearing petitions, troubling her with only the cases of greatest import or complexity. He also had been obliged to reconstitute a system of courts in a land now severely denuded of lawyers or magistrates, obtaining her permission for a complete reorganisation of the Realm’s machinery of justice.

“Three Senior Judges?” she asked him on reading his plan. “Should the role of highest judge not fall to you, Aspect?”

“Too much power vested in a single office is often a recipe for corruption, Highness.”

She gave him an amused frown. Although possibly the least personable man she had met besides the blessedly deceased Darnel, the Aspect had quickly earned a reputation for sound judgement and rigid impartiality, reporting every attempted bribe and decreeing swift punishment on the transgressor. “You feel corrupted by your duties?” she asked.

“I will not hold this office forever.” There was a weight to his words that gave her pause, taking in the paleness of his skin and rapidly disappearing girth. She had noticed before how his words were often coloured by a faint wheeze and he would pause to cough with a disconcerting frequency.

“Three judges,” she said, turning back to the document. “To ensure their decisions are not deadlocked, I assume?”

“Indeed, Highness. All rulings to be subject to your approval, naturally.”

“Also, I note there is no mention of the Faith in your amended code of criminal transgressions.”

“The Faith pertains to the soul and the Beyond. The law pertains only to the Realm and its subjects.”

“Very well. I shall need time to fully consider this.”

“My thanks, Highness.” He hunched over, trying to suppress a cough and failing, a lace handkerchief held to his mouth, coming away spotted with red. “Forgive me.”

“I will. I’ll also order you to see Brother Kehlan immediately and abide by whatever instruction he gives you.”

He gave a reluctant nod as she set down the document, musing, “Neither my brother nor father ever attempted such radical change to the Realm’s laws.”

Aspect Dendrish drew a wheezing breath, his eyes slightly moist as he replied, “All in this Realm is changed, more than I would ever wish it to be. But wishes do not make a land fit to live in.”

• • •

“It’s based on a Volarian engine,” Alornis said, her slender arm working the windlass at the rear of the contraption, gears clanking and diagonally crossed arms drawing back. It did indeed resemble one of the ballistae with which the Volarians festooned their ships, but was substantially larger with a heavy iron box fixed over the central body. It stood on a wide base also of iron, but with a bowl-shaped aperture through which a supporting rod was thrust, allowing the entire engine to be swivelled about with surprising swiftness despite its size.

Lyrna had joined her Battle Lord on the Realm Guard’s main practice ground to witness the trial of her Lady Artificer’s first invention. The broad plain that played host to the Summertide Fair was mostly covered in snow now, troops of conscripts labouring through the drifts a good way beyond the row of targets placed at varying distances from the device. Each target consisted of four Volarian breastplates arranged in a square, Alornis having assured them the device had enough power to pierce their armour.

“The range, my lady?” Count Marven enquired.

“A Volarian ballista can manage about two hundred yards,” Alornis replied, locking the engine’s thick string in place and stepping back. “I’m hopeful we’ll better it. They use wood for their bow staves, we have used steel.” She took a moment to align the contraption then thumped her palm onto a lever. The bow arms snapped forward in a blur, the bolt flying free too fast for Lyrna to track its flight, though the tinny clunk from one of the farthest targets indicated it had found its mark.

“Close to three hundred yards,” Count Marven said with a laugh, bowing to Alornis. “Well done, my lady. A remarkable feat.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I am not yet done. The original Volarian design was slow to load, taking over a minute to loose two bolts. However, I recalled seeing a grain seeder, which gave me an odd notion.” She reached for the windlass again and began to work it, the arms drawing back as the gears rattled anew. “It’s all a matter of aligning the cogs,” she explained, grunting a little with the effort. “The gears draw the string back to a certain point whereupon the box on the top releases a new bolt.” A faint clatter came from the engine as she continued to work the windlass. “And the next gear releases the string.”

The bow arms snapped again, scoring another hit on the farthest target. “All one need do is continue to turn the windlass,” Alornis went on, adjusting the engine’s aim so the next bolt flew towards a different target. “Until the bolts are exhausted, whereupon a new box can be hauled up to replace it.”