Mother of Daemons Read online

  If I proclaimed myself Duke right now, no one would protest.

  But Solon needed Torun, at least for a while, and when he was emperor, he’d need a loyal man in Coraine, one with the right lineage. So he made a show of going down on one knee and kissing the ducal ring, as befitted a loyal Corani returning home. There were grown men weeping as they watched, older families who felt that Lyra had forgotten both Coraine and the need for revenge on the Sacrecours.

  ‘It’s I who should bow to you,’ murmured Torun, a distinctly unimpressive bald man tending towards portliness, a pale shadow of his illustrious forebears, not least his formidable mother Radine.

  Solon shivered at the memory of her, then quickly regained his poise. It appeared only women could unman him.

  ‘No, you are Coraine,’ he told Torun loudly. ‘I am but a loyal Corani.’ He rose, turned and faced the room, effortlessly upstaging the Duke, giving voice to the speech already ringing in his mind. ‘Lords and Ladies of my beloved Coraine, thank you for this welcome. My heart swells and my eyes mist to see you all. I have travelled far and wide, but this is ever my home. I will never forget: I am Corani . . .’

  They loved that, of course: praise for them and the land that united them. But the next message was not so easy to frame: that last sentence was no throwaway platitude but the bridge into his next passage.

  ‘. . . so it grieves me that so many of our people have forgotten who they are,’ he told them.

  That brought an intake of breath among the packed throne hall, although most of them must surely have been aware that he’d broken with Lyra. Hearing it from him made it real.

  ‘Five years ago,’ he went on, ‘House Corani marched south to take Pallas. We did so, but at a cost we had not expected: because in the case of certain individuals, Pallas took them. You know who I mean: people we thought loyal, have been corrupted by wealth and power and opportunity.’

  The murmurs started, some of anger, some of consternation. He raised his hand for silence and got it.

  ‘I do not blame our queen,’ he told them: because she was legitimacy, the piece you took to win the tabula game. ‘She was seduced, my friends: by Ril Endarion, that son of an Estellan whore, who seized his chance to elevate himself and to Hel with us!’

  Blame the dead – they can’t answer back. His fellow Northerners had never taken to Ril, the only bronze-skinned, black-haired man in a sea of pallor, and no one looked offended hearing him defamed.

  ‘Even so, they were babes in a dark wood, he and Lyra: caught up in the coils of snakes like Dominius Wurther and Calan Dubrayle. They’ve been blinded to the truth. Kore knows I tried to be the strong arm and true heart our queen could rely upon.’ He touched his heart, bowing his head as if caught up in sorrow. Most of them had heard the rumours, that for a time he’d been Lyra’s lover, but he needed them to see that as the only true love she’d ever experienced. ‘I know she longs for reconciliation – but they tore us apart, those heartless bastards: Wurther, Dubrayle, Relantine – and worst of all, one of us – yes, Dirklan rukking Setallius. Dear Kore, I could tell you all some things—’ he shouted, then he silenced himself as if fighting his emotions.

  The room simmered with his anger – and all it had taken was to feed them some ill-liked names and feign a broken heart.

  ‘And now, Lyra is a virtual prisoner in the Bastion,’ he raged, his voice hoarse with raw emotion. ‘Fearing for her life, she parrots the words they feed her. Those who should know better – like Oryn Levis and the knights who remain loyal to her – aren’t allowed close. They’ve been duped, my friends, as have the good lads in the legions we sent south. They don’t know what’s being done to the woman they were sent to protect – they don’t see the danger. But I see – I know – and I must act!’

  ‘Aye—’ a few shouted.

  ‘What will you do, Lord Takky?’ someone shouted.

  ‘What will I do? What I’ve always done: my duty to Coraine. Our queen is a prisoner in her own keep and I will tear down the walls if I must, to free her.’

  ‘And marry her?’ a young woman blurted, her eyes shining like swollen stars.

  ‘Aye,’ others chorused, ‘become our emperor, Lord Takky.’

  He feigned modesty, although inside he was roaring in agreement. ‘I don’t think so far ahead,’ he told them. ‘Such thoughts are for gentler times, when this crisis is over. For now, all I know is that our queen needs me and I must go to her aid.’ He looked up in appeal, the humble knight who wouldn’t presume to lead such an august gathering. ‘I only hope I’ll not go alone.’

  The room erupted, chanting support, while Duke Torun, also overcome with emotion, rose and embraced him.

  ‘We’ll win her back,’ Torun sobbed. ‘It’s our Kore-given duty.’

  Dupenium, Northern Rondelmar

  Brylion Fasterius was knocking back a very fine Brevian whiskey after an evening spent with his cousin Duke Garod Sacrecour and their legion commanders, plotting their reclamation of Pallas. Scions of pure-blood families who’d ruled the empire for centuries, they hated their diminished status with a savage vengeance. The meeting had simmered with fury against the queen and those traitors who were siding with her, but still they’d failed to reach consensus.

  That was down to fear: the same dread that kept Brylion up at all hours, drinking hard liquor like it was water, rooted in a wild night only a few months past, when that bitch Lyra had destroyed five of his legions and almost taken his own life as well. She’d sent blizzards into the face of his exposed men as they’d marched north – no wonder some of their most loyal supporters still baulked at open war.

  It was mass murder. She slaughtered my boys from the safety of some tower in Pallas. I’ll never rest until she pays for that. I’ll make her scream for the rest of eternity.

  Outside, it was raining – natural rain. But the queen could turn that to howling gales and ice with a click of her fingers, Brylion knew, and so did all Garod’s people. Fear overrode hatred, paralysing them.

  We need a dwymancer of our own, or some other power that overmatches it.

  He pushed the whiskey aside as his sour gut clenched. This stuff is no cure for despair, he reflected, uncharacteristically thoughtful as the weight of night settled on him. But what is?

  Then the door opened to admit a cowled priest – through doors that were warded, a subtle, chilling display of mastery. Brylion’s eyes narrowed and his customary belligerence rose to mask a flare of fear. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he growled.

  The newcomer merely sat and said calmly, ‘Good evening – or rather, good morning, Sir Brylion.’ Then he flicked back his cowl, revealing his face.

  Brylion scowled at the smooth, impeccably groomed clergyman – the holiest man in Koredom, in theory, but a slimy, backsliding, womanising snake for all that. ‘Ostevan,’ he barked, ‘You can—’

  ‘Brylion,’ the Pontifex interrupted, reclining in the opposite chair and gesturing towards the whiskey jar, which rose and tipped amber fluid into a clean tumbler that floated to the clergyman’s hand. ‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve—’

  ‘You need one in my line,’ Ostevan drawled. ‘Fear not, I mean you no harm. But really, you need to look to your security. Do you think Dirklan Setallius’ Volsai will have any trouble if a mere priest can get in?’

  ‘You’re more than a priest.’

  ‘True,’ Ostevan agreed, ‘much more. And that’s what brings me here . . .’ He pulled a musing face. ‘I’m here on behalf of a powerful man who is always seeking like-minded individuals.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘In good time,’ Ostevan said. ‘Suffice it to say that even I, Pontifex, rightful ruler of the Church of Kore, call him “Master”. He’s sworn to end the dwymancer-queen through a secret power, one which allows a way to wield every facet of the gnosis, tirelessly and at will.’

  Brylion stared suspiciously, while his mind made connections. It was true that someone ha
d been seeking to bring down Lyra Vereinen for the past year: a Masked Cabal whose powers were said to be extraordinary – and Ostevan had been accused of being one of them. Publicly, the Pontifex had laughed them off, but this sounded suspiciously like an admission.

  He leaned forward. ‘Was this Master of yours behind Reeker Night and all those mad fuckers, rampaging round killing whomever they encountered?’ The rumours of that night had grown in the telling and the reality had never been adequately explained here in Dupenium.

  Ostevan’s face twisted into a smirk. ‘The Pallas mob are mindless animals to begin with. Does it matter how they’re controlled, as long as they serve one’s needs?’

  ‘People say they were possessed?’

  ‘So? Lyra controls the mob by smiling winsomely and giving alms; Solon Takwyth by promising them victory. Even common street-speakers can start a riot by ranting about freedom. They’re a herd, Brylion, shitting in their own pastures. Tell me you think any different.’

  Brylion’s nostrils flared, not at the words, but the arrogant tone. Ostevan had always set his teeth on edge, but he did have a knack of getting what he wanted, most of the time. ‘Lyra still cast you from the Celestium, “Pontifex”. That tells me that this secret Master of yours isn’t as powerful as you pretend.’

  It was Ostevan’s turn to snarl. ‘There are many kinds of power, including this!’ He snapped his fingers and with blinding speed, a kinesis-binding flared, slamming into Brylion from all sides – even as a pure-blood mage, he found himself utterly helpless against it. His clothing flattened to his skin, his hair and beard pushed flat, and he could feel cold unseen fingers around his throat as the Pontifex rose and stalked towards him.

  ‘My Master’s servants are the greatest magi in Yuros,’ Ostevan told him. ‘There is no individual man or woman alive who can match us – but we are few, because who the fuck wants to share power? Not I – and not you, Brylion Fasterius.’ He leaned over the paralysed knight. ‘Don’t pretend you care about “common people” and don’t pretend you’ve got a conscience. There’s a new age coming and my Master will rule it. Join us, serve him and be a part of it.’

  For all Brylion strained, sweat streaming down his face, soaking his underarms and crotch, he couldn’t move so much as a muscle.

  If I don’t accept, he’s going to murder me . . . but if I accept, then I can kill the bastard. ‘Very well,’ he managed through clenched teeth. ‘Now release me.’

  Ostevan gave him a knowing look, clearly anticipating Brylion’s duplicity, but he still reached inside his robes and brought out a mask of copper and bone: a skull, drenched in lacquered blood so real and fresh-looking it almost dripped. Brylion knew the image from the only part of the Book of Kore he’d ever found interesting: ‘The Prophecies of the Last Days’.

  ‘Macharo?’ he said, as the kinesis spell faded; but Brylion made no move against Ostevan. Revenge could wait: he was intrigued.

  ‘Aye, Brylion,’ the Pontifex purred. ‘The Master wants you to be his Angel of War. He’s been waiting for the right moment and the right man. That’s now, and you, Brylion. Take it, and gain all you desire – or refuse, and fade into obscurity.’

  Brylion didn’t hesitate, sweeping up the mask and feeling the power of it tingling through his fingers. ‘The queen’s heralds say the Masked Cabal are all daemon-possessed,’ he noted, daring to look up at Ostevan.

  The Pontifex’s eyes turned black. ‘So we are – but we control the power. I am still me – but I am so much more.’

  The enormity of what he was agreeing to struck Brylion’s whiskey-blurred mind. ‘If I take it, I’ll be eternally damned,’ he breathed, wavering.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Ostevan said, with a chuckle. ‘There’s no Kore, no Halls of Paradise, you know that. Just the long damnation of darkness when we die. Why not embrace a daemon? You gain far more than you lose, I can assure you.’

  Brylion stared at the mask and it stared back. ‘What else is involved?’

  ‘Well, there is also this,’ Ostevan said. He made a choking sound, something writhed in his throat and a giant white millipede coated in viscous black, bloody ichor crawled out of his mouth. He held it on the palm of his hand. ‘It will rest beside your heart, allowing the daemon into your soul and opening up the infinite.’

  I will truly be damned, Brylion thought, but still he stretched out his hand. I’ll take it – I’ll take the power . . . and then I will kill him for the snake he is.

  But by the time he’d swallowed that hideous thing and the ichor had worked its magic upon him, he no longer wished to take back control. Instead, his eyes gleaming black, he fell to his knees and kissed Ostevan’s hand.

  ‘How may I serve?’ he asked, without a trace of rebellion. Nothing the daemon had screamed into his skull wasn’t already there.

  The Pontifex smiled down at him. ‘By killing whomsoever I charge you to slay.’ He handed him a list of names. ‘Let’s start with the dissenters in your own ranks. Garod must march, so any who gainsay him have to die.’

  1

  At War With Ourselves

  The Heroic Lie

  Ancient tales of deposed princes trampling over mountains of corpses on their ‘heroic’ quests to claim thrones that are ‘rightfully theirs’ are the worst lies of all. Such stories sanction violence in the name of personal gain, perpetuating the lie that certain ranks are divinely allotted and only a true-born king can rule. One day, instead of taking sides in these contests, the people will take power for themselves.

  THE BLACK HISTORIES, ANONYMOUS, 776

  Pallas, Rondelmar

  Febreux 936

  Empress Lyra Vereinen, ruler of the Rondian Empire, sat in her garden and frowned over the words of Vico Makelli, a three-hundred-years-dead Rimoni philosopher both revered and reviled for a pragmatic realism bordering on cynicism.

  The gathering, maintenance and exercise of power – the ability to exert one’s will over one’s subjects and rivals – is the Ruler’s only concern. Without his authority there is no kingdom and his lands and people will be swallowed by rivals amid the chaos of war and all the suffering that brings. A Ruler must be untroubled by scruples or conscience, for his rule will never be so ruinous as the conflagration that will be unleashed if he loses control of his territories. The military, the church, the bureaucracy, the mythology of kingship: these are his greatest weapons, and he must use them all. There can be no dissent. Weakness is evil; strength is virtue.

  ‘Is that so?’ she whispered, thinking of the streets in Pallas that even now were barricaded against her soldiers by common people fighting to be free of both her and the dukes who wanted to crush her and drive the Corani back to the north. Perceiving her very real weakness, they demanded autonomy, recognising that even her own councillors had conspired against her, to force her into marriage to a man she’d made the mistake of favouring.

  Not of favouring – of bedding, she corrected herself, wincing at the thought. She couldn’t think of Solon Takwyth, even now marshalling his forces in Coraine, without remembering the weight of his body on hers, the smell and feel and taste and sound of him. The memories made her cringe. I fell so low, and so stupidly.

  She pushed the Makelli text aside – What heartless, self-serving bile! – and looked up as a shrill cry somewhere between a bird’s shriek and a horse’s whinny echoed above her long, narrow garden. White wings gleaming like snow glinted in the winter sunlight, a shadow flashed overhead, then a winged creature swooped in and landed at a run: a brilliant white pegasus with eagle-wings twelve feet from shoulder to pinion tip. Hooves thudded into the turf as she snorted in exhilaration, her breath turning to clouds of steam as she trotted up.

  ‘There, Pearl,’ Lyra said, rising and pulling back her hood to reveal severely tied-back blonde hair and a tired face. She was only in her late twenties, but her brow was increasingly lined with worry and dark rings bruised her eyes. The stresses of the crown weighed heavily. She smiled though, as she rested her
face against the winged horse’s soft muzzle. ‘Did you have a good fly, Pooty-girl? Did you have fun?’

  Even as she spoke, she flinched inside: ‘Pooty-girl’ had been Ril’s nickname for the pegasus he’d raised from a nestling. His blood had been on Pearl’s back when she’d arrived home from the battle at Collistein Junction, four months ago. For a moment the familiar, choking feeling of grief threatened to undo Lyra all over again. She’d thought she’d cried herself out over Ril when she buried him, but it appeared not. They’d not been truly happy together, but sometimes his absence made her whole existence stall.

  Her eyes went up to the window of her apartments, where their son Rildan was sleeping: her last link to her dead husband. She suddenly ached to hold the child against her chest, as a wave of loneliness struck her.

  Loneliness can destroy you.

  Solon Takwyth had told her that. She’d thought to hold that isolation at bay by letting him bed her, pretending that having the wrong someone was better than having no one at all.

  Another disastrous mistake . . .

  Now Takwyth was in Coraine, raising an army against her; and he wasn’t her only foe. Garod Sacrecour, the Duke of Dupenium, wanted the previous regime returned to power; the Duke of Argundy, Kurt Borodium, and the other secessionists wanted the empire dissolved; Sultan Xoredh Mubarak of Kesh and his Shihadi wanted to destroy all of Yurosi civilisation in his so-called ‘holy war’ – and the Pallas Mob were demanding the downfall of all of them.

  She clung to the neck of the pegasus, her cheek against the silky mane, letting the beast’s unconditional love ground her.

  Eventually, she raised her head and looked around her garden, which filled the narrow space between the inner walls of the Bastion and the fortress atop Roidan Heights. The city, caught in the toils of late winter, was coated in ice that slowly melted in afternoon sun that did little to warm the air, then hardened in the twilight until by midnight, everything was frozen again. The bushes were still encrusted in snow, except for one sapling: the cutting from the Winter Tree, her link to the immense powers of the dwyma, had both blossom and scarlet berries clinging to its spindly branches. All afternoon she’d been seeking her fellow dwymancer, Valdyr of Mollachia. Although she had never met him in person, speaking to him had become a lifeline – but she’d not heard from him for days. She worried that he was dead as well.