Empress of the Fall Page 7

  ‘Sir Ril,’ she fumed, ‘what are you doing?’

  He bowed theatrically. ‘Your Grace, I was just leaving, before I embarrass myself – or maybe after.’ He bowed to her once again, then to the room, ignoring the bemused, contemptuous, disgusted or amused stares, and fled the room. No one followed him.

  Perfect. He’d escaped his little shadow, who was stuck in the crowded Great Hall.

  Ril picked up the pace as he took the back way through the infirmary, slipping through the apothecary’s aromatic herb garden, past the postern gate and into the Lady’s Bower, which was forbidden to men. A warm twilight glow lit the narrow paths; the heavy scents of the night-blooming flowers and the shimmer and hum of the nocturnal birds and their insect prey lent the evening a soft ease. The cooling air was refreshing after the smoky confines of the hall.

  He smiled at the memory of Radine’s outraged face, then sighed. Pretending to be drunk wasn’t clever, but he couldn’t think how else to escape the duchess’ constant scrutiny – she would be outraged if she knew what he was really about. He looked up at the balcony; the lamps had yet to be lit in the room behind, but he was in no hurry: the world was beautiful tonight, with the sky streaked pink and gold, and the pitted face of Mater Luna taking on a silvery lustre as she shouldered responsibility for giving light from the fleeing sun.

  Then a soft golden glow lit the windows overhead. Ril waited until he heard footsteps on the balcony twenty feet above, then used kinesis to spring over the railing, landing like a cat.

  Lyra Vereinen went rigid in fright – then her smile bloomed, the stress and fear on her face falling away. To his relief, she’d clearly been wanting to see him.

  ‘Good evening, Milady,’ he said softly. ‘My thanks for not screaming. Are you alone?’

  She looked over her shoulder, then asked, ‘Are you allowed to be here?’

  ‘Not for a second. Yet here I am.’

  She touched her hand to her mouth. ‘Aunty Radine warned me about you.’

  ‘She’s just jealous that I’m too young for her.’

  She giggled. ‘I’m glad you’re here. And surprised.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Radine said you’d have forgotten me by now.’

  She has no artifice, and that’s a beautiful thing. It also makes her so vulnerable . . . ‘How could I forget you? I’m sorry to just appear like this, but it’s the only way I could get to talk to you. I’ve asked to see you, many times, but Radine is guarding you closely.’

  Lyra glanced over her shoulder. ‘She’s chosen companions for me – Lady Hilta, Lady Sedina and Lady Jenet. They’re changing for dinner. I’m supposed to be doing the same.’

  Of course Jenet’s inveigled her way into the action, Ril thought ruefully. He studied Lyra’s face: she was clearly anxious at being alone with a man, and no doubt Radine had blackened his character as much as she could – but there was also longing in Lyra’s voice and eyes. From convent to throne, he thought. Could anyone survive that journey?

  ‘I’ll go, if you want, Milady,’ he offered, meaning to reassure her that she had control here. Already coming here was beginning to feel foolish, fraught with peril. Perhaps he was more inebriated than he thought. ‘I’m not here to make things hard for you.’

  ‘Then why are you here, Sir Knight?’ she asked with commendable directness.

  He wasn’t really sure himself any more. Most of his infatuations had begun something like this, following the lure of a pretty face, contriving a tryst. But this wasn’t just a game, he belatedly reflected; this was about Empires. ‘I’m just here to reassure myself that you’re being well-treated – and given your due.’

  ‘My due, sir?’

  So, she’s an innocent, but not silly. ‘Radine wants to make you queen and empress,’ he said. ‘It’s your birthright – not hers. She’ll give you good advice, I’m sure – but crowns come with inherent rights and dues.’

  ‘What sort of rights?’

  ‘Within the limits of sensibility, to do whatever you like.’

  She turned pink at the thought. ‘Anything I like?’ The gaze she turned his way was intense, and so transparent he was quite taken aback. What if what I want is you? that look asked. No doubt they’d told her she needed a protector, and clearly she had her own ideas about who that might be. Suddenly this little tryst had gone well past a momentary fascination, or even an idea of protecting her. It was about everything he might want in life. I’m thirty-two, thirteen years her senior – that’s not far off twice her age. And I’m penniless. I can wield a sword and a lance, but I have no followers, no soldiers, and my land is a debt-mill. My life has been frittered away on loss. By now he ought to be a senior knight, even one of Radine’s advisors, but she’d never wanted his advice or opinions, and small wonder.

  So am I really just here to spite Takky and her?

  But looking at Lyra, he couldn’t deny the need to protect her – nor other, less selfless urges. But she was also the most dangerous person he could possibly set his sights upon.

  But why should that prick Takwyth have everything his own way? And if this ruins me, what have I actually lost?

  ‘Lyra, I swear that I am yours to command. I believe destiny guided me to your door in time to save you. I’m not some adventurer, following a passing fancy,’ he added, though until a few seconds ago that was exactly what he was. ‘What would you have of me?’

  That turned out to be the perfect answer – he could see it in her eyes as they welled up, could feel in the grip of her hands. And her surprising maturity came through again, because what she asked for wasn’t reassurances, but information: about the Sett and Coraine and Pallas, and about her family. Time flashed by as he told her about the Great Houses and their rivalries; the key players amongst the Corani, and what they might ask of her.

  ‘Mostly, they’ll want a figurehead who does as she’s told and won’t upset their plans.’

  ‘Their plans and mine align,’ she pointed out. ‘Radine wants me to be empress, which is my birthright. It’s perfect.’ She spoke with a maturity that belied her convent upbringing, but it was still shot through with an innocence that worried him.

  Do I have the right to ruin her fairy tale? He’d never seen himself as a trustworthy guide for innocent youth. But who else will tell her the uglier truths?

  ‘Radine’s plans won’t stop there,’ he said at last. ‘She’ll want you wed to a man of her choice and pregnant as quickly as possible. She’ll tell you the Imperial Council is no place for you – that it’s too boring, too complicated – and she’ll shut you out of running your own realm. And most of all, she’ll want blood. Has she told you about 909?’

  ‘Yes, she has. She hates the Sacrecours, and especially the Fasterius family.’

  ‘So does every Corani with a soul,’ Ril growled. ‘Kore knows, there are heads I would dearly love to see on spikes too, but war could ruin us – and put your own life at risk.’

  ‘I’m sure Radine only wants what’s best for the Corani,’ Lyra said dutifully.

  ‘Of course she does – she’s devoted to this duchy. But she’s old, Lyra, and she’s worried about her legacy. She’s likely cursing that her grandson Yannoch, her only heir, is too young for you to marry. She has to trust in people like Takwyth and Setallius to see her intentions through, and to do that, she must bind them to you.’

  ‘She’s as much as told me that I’m to marry Sir Solon,’ Lyra admitted, colouring.

  The notion repulsed him, though he’d seen it coming a mile off. ‘Is it what you want?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. Her eyes said: I want you.

  ‘No good ever came of a bad marriage,’ he quoted.

  ‘That’s from “The Tale of Chimaera”,’ she smiled. Then her intensity returned and she said, ‘This must sound dreadfully forward, but I know that I have no time for second choices. I want to choose my husband myself, but I don’t know how to tell Radine. She’s like Abbess Jaratia – she makes me feel he
lpless.’

  ‘You must learn the way things work here,’ he told her. ‘You’ll need patience – but I’m sure you’ve got plenty of that, after all you’ve been through. You keep surprising me – how mature you are, for someone who’s grown up in a convent.’

  She pulled a strangely knowing face. ‘Ril – can I call you Ril? A convent is a world in miniature. There is power, ambition, belief and doubt, betrayals, secrets, sin, love . . .’ Her face went scarlet. ‘I’ve seen a lot of things, and learned a lot about people there.’

  She squeezed his hand tighter and his heart began to pound. As protective as he might feel, she was also young and lovely, and she was looking at him with worship in her eyes. It was a long time since anyone had done that . . .

  Her face tilted to his, inviting, and he was halfway to her lips—

  —when a woman called her name.

  He kissed her anyway, because he was human, and for the moment she melted into him, her face all innocence and need and fear and filled with desires she barely understood.

  Then he stood, kissed her hand and relinquished it, leaping from the balcony and landing gracefully an instant before Lady Hilta’s voice said, ‘Lyra? Are you alone? Goodness, you’ve not even changed yet!’

  ‘I . . . I . . . er . . . I got caught up in a daydream,’ he heard Lyra stammer, but he was stealing away before anyone thought to look down.

  He’d always wanted to be remembered. How about as the fool who kissed an empress? ‘Ril Endarion? Aye, that’s his head on the spike, son. Let it be a lesson to ye!’

  *

  Ril’s kiss – so unexpected, so heart-stopping – sustained Lyra through a maddening evening of prattle about dresses and jewels and coronations and how heroic and handsome and worthy Sir Solon Takwyth was. She barely listened. Only one man existed for her now; in truth, since he’d rescued her. I am the Stardancer and he is my Ryneholt. We are made for each other.

  That brief, wondrous embrace was like a sip of honeyed mead that left her craving more. His lips had tasted of sunlight and vigour; his breath was a caress on her skin. She felt lightheaded; she longed to see him again – but the world was refusing to heed her desires.

  The next day took aeons to arrive, after a never-ending sleepless night of wanting. She knew something happened between men and women, but she still didn’t understand what, exactly: it was only ever hinted at in the Fables, and not really explained by the nuns’ explanations for her monthly bleeding. Knowing roughly what a man and woman needed to do physically to procreate didn’t explain the needing, the aching . . .

  But all dawn brought was another day of Radine’s machinations. The duchess wanted to show Lyra the might of the Corani – but more importantly, she intended to reveal to the world the true identity of the girl she had rescued. The Northern nobles were all gathered below the ducal balcony, together with the city’s most richest and most influential burghers. Orders were shouted: trumpets blared, drums rattled and horses clattered below as a great mass of soldiers started parading before their duchess and her guest.

  Radine’s shapeless body was hidden by the resplendent silk dress of Jandreux red and green; a bejewelled circlet and headdress covered her thinning grey hair. She looked regal.

  But Lyra’s own dress was something else entirely: an alarmingly ostentatious construction that would leave no one in any doubt whatsoever that they were looking at someone of enormous importance. The best tailors in Coraine had been working night and day to complete Radine’s brief: it must be demure, but expensive, and unique in every way. She’d opened her own jewel case, providing ropes of creamy pearls, glittering diamonds and spinels and blood-red rubies. Thread of pure gold had been used to embroider the Sacred Heart into the bodice and cuffs of the high-necked, painfully narrow-waisted gown, which was practically impossible to breathe in. And most important of all was the heavy velvet fabric, of a rich purple – the hue forbidden to all but those of Sertain’s royal line.

  If Radine was regal, Lyra had been made to look imperial . . .

  ‘Look,’ said Radine proudly, ‘here come your knights.’

  Solon Takwyth, in open-faced helm and intricate gilded acid-etched armour, led the Corani knights. His strong, blockish face was staring fixedly up at her, filled with possessive pride.

  ‘Solon is the greatest knight in the North,’ Radine murmured. ‘He rebuilt the Corani knighthood in the wake of Lucia’s purges in 909.’ Radine didn’t add, ‘He’ll make a fine husband’, but presumably that was taken as read. ‘Solon’s men worship him for his leadership and prowess. His skill and strength have kept our lands free.’

  But he’s so old, Lyra thought bleakly. Ril was older than her too, of course; he was experienced, as a potential husband should be, but with the vigour of youth, not like Sir Solon, who was forty already.

  The knights rode in ranks according to seniority. She knew a few of the names now: Sir Oryn Levis’ pudgy face looked up at her worshipfully, Sir Esvald Berlond regarded her with cold distance, young Malthus Cayne with awe. But there was only one face she wanted to see, and finally Ril Endarion clipped past, dipping his lance slightly when he caught her eye, and her lips tingled. To hear his voice again, to taste his kiss . . . that was what fuelled her dreams. She was grateful to Radine and everything she was doing to put her on the throne, but she refused to become ‘The Queen of Icy Tears’, the princess in the Fables forced to marry the Snow Lord, whose heart slowly turned to ice. Solon Takwyth wasn’t the husband destiny wished her to have, she was certain of that.

  Ril saved my life. He is my life.

  The parade went on endlessly: after the knights came the legions, rank after rank of red-cloaked men with pale faces and narrow eyes, with their black-cloaked battle-magi riding beside them, all slamming fists to their hearts and saluting as they passed, while Radine burbled on about which legion came from where, and who had won what victories.

  ‘How many more?’ Lyra sighed.

  ‘Not long now,’ Radine said, with a hint of sympathy. ‘We’ll go to Corani Hall soon, and I’ll introduce you to the most prominent families. We need them with us when we march on Pallas.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘An excellent question! First, we must talk to the Imperial Council. They are currently governing, until a new emperor is named. Garod Sacrecour is trying to bully them into naming Cordan, but the council refuses while we hold the boy.’

  ‘Who are the councillors?’ Lyra asked, keen to learn more while Radine was being talkative.

  ‘The Imperial Council is traditionally made up of the emperor, the treasurer, the grand prelate, the master-general and the arch-legate – Mater-Imperia Lucia usurped that latter role so that she could impose her will. The current Imperial Councillors are Calan Dubrayle, the Treasurer, Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther and Dravis Ryburn – he’s a Sacrecour ally, and Knight-Princeps of the Inquisition – Constant made him Acting Master-General while Kaltus Korion was away leading the Third Crusade. And Arch-Legate Edreu Gestatium, Head of the Imperocracy – the empire’s bureaucrats – has now reclaimed his seat.’

  ‘Do they support us?’

  ‘They are Sacrecour appointees to a man.’

  ‘Then how can we hope for their help?’

  Radine looked thoughtful. ‘Because Sacrecour appointees or not, each man has risen to his position because he is a powerful person in his own right. None of them are entirely beholden to the Sacrecours, nor would it be easy to unseat them. It’s far better to change their loyalties.’

  ‘Do men change their loyalties so easily?’

  ‘These do,’ Radine purred. ‘I know the key players quite well: Dubrayle and Wurther are both pragmatic – Wurther might be miffed that we stole Constant’s children from under his nose, but he’ll get over it. Dubrayle thinks only of money, and right now, thanks to the débâcle that was the Third Crusade, the Corani may well be wealthier than our rivals. Ryburn’s only a temporary factor. We’ll be seeking a more acceptable Maste
r-General’ – she clearly meant Solon Takwyth – ‘and as for Gestatium, well, I’ve always maintained good relations with the imperocrats.’

  ‘Won’t the Sacrecours be courting them too?’

  ‘Of course, child: Garod is desperate for their help. Civil war is a distinct possibility, but no one really wants that. For one thing, we’ve got Cordan and Coramore, for another, Lucia and her idiot son bled the Treasury dry, and for the third: a Rondian civil war would allow vassal-states like Argundy and Noros the perfect opportunity to cede. We can’t allow that.’

  ‘Then what will happen?’

  ‘Have you ever seen a pack of wild dogs, Lyra?’

  Lyra wanted to shout, I was locked up in a nunnery for nineteen years – I’ve seen nothing! Instead, she just shook her head.

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of barking, but not much biting: most animals in the wild are far more scared of getting hurt than being dominated. They know instinctively that wounds turn septic and kill, so only the most determined will risk injury. Most often, it’s not the biggest dog that wins, but the most determined.’

  ‘So you’re saying we must be the most determined dog?’

  ‘Precisely. The throne is your right and we mustn’t waver. We’ve got the only other legitimate contenders in captivity. Anyone standing against you will be an outsider – a mad dog – and that, the pack will not accept, so they will submit to us.’

  ‘Then all we actually have to do is go to Pallas?’

  The duchess laughed. ‘Well, basically, yes. But we must get you there safely, and we must arrive looking like the only viable choice. We must create a spectacle that says: This is your rightful ruler! You must look like an empress, and you must be endorsed by Church and State. You must have the greatest knight in Koredom at your side. You must appear so saintly that Corineus Himself would polish your halo, and so rich that you could bathe in liquid gold.’

  ‘I see.’

  Radine noticed that the parade below was finally ending and led her inside, still lecturing: ‘Then you understand why you must stop asking after Ril Endarion.’ Lyra went crimson, but Radine didn’t stop. ‘I know that he saved your life – and no one denies his prowess in battle. In 909, when he was only twelve and had barely gained the gnosis, with courage and skill beyond his years he got Basia de Sirou and himself out of the Arcanum slaughter. But he’s a drunkard now. He frequents whorehouses. He fights duels. He’s penniless – no, he’s worse than penniless – he owes hundreds of auros.’