The cynical voice buzzed angrily in the back of Duon"s head. Duon ignored it.
"You are a strange colour for a Jasweyan."
"That I am, Majestic One," said Duon, thinking quickly; the cynical voice had gone silent. "My parents came from a land far to the south, or so they said, though I never believed much of what they told me. There all men were dark of skin like me."
"Enough," the Neherian said. "You would have been more convincing had you confined yourself to the truth. Still, all families mask their true origins with deceit. This one, for example," he said, gesturing towards Noetos, who struggled to rise from the floor, "claimed to be descended from the most ancient line of southern kings. The only problem was that after his grandsire"s traitorous actions, it was a claim best forgotten." He sighed, as if genuinely regretful. "And now this man returns to recover the Sword of Roudhos he"d so carelessly left lying on the street. Did he think we would not have noticed it? Or that he could sneak into our city unseen? All we had to do was watch and wait. He would do well to look upon that blade, for it will be by this sword his life ends."
"And me, Majestic One?" Duon could not help asking. "How will my life end?"
"Who knows? At the end of a blade like this one perhaps, or lying screaming in bed, the victim of some wh.o.r.e"s pox. What I do know is that you have volunteered for the Army of Peace. Neherius thanks you, soldier. Galter here will give you the necessary equipment-though not a blade, not yet."
With a roar, Noetos exploded into life. Duon had no time to contemplate his intended fate, no time to summon outrage or to generate fear. He turned just in time to see the bear-man break his bonds with a twitch of his wrists-bonds Duon would have sworn were unbreakable. Blood from his wrists spattered the floor.
A blade flashed. It should have taken Noetos"s head, but the man darted forward with impossible speed. Behind him the sword bit air. The sound turned Duon"s head, an instinctive reaction; he turned back to see Noetos already in possession of his father"s sword. He held it to the neck of the man on the throne.
Apart from the one soldier who had loosed his sword, no one else had done more than begin to move. The echoes from the bear"s roar still reverberated around the stone chamber.
Duon realised the back of his head was uncannily warm.
A thought came to him: what if the Neherians decided to use him as a bargaining piece, his life to be traded against that of their Majestic One? He tried to move, but his wrists were held firmly by the soldiers behind him. His head grew hotter still, to the point where he wondered if his hair had caught fire.
"Now, Noetos-" the man on the throne began.
"Those were your last words," the bear growled. "I grant you no final speeches, no chance to deny what you are or what you have done. I want to hear none of it."
Before anyone could react he slid his blade across the man"s neck.
"Die like a dog," he said as the man"s hands sprang towards his opened throat.
Neherians from all sides leapt at Noetos, but before they could reach him he...wasn"t there. Duon had caught a flicker of movement, no more. Shouting erupted across the chamber. Steel clashed with steel. Duon waited to be cut down.
Go!
The pain at the back of his head had become agonising. He raised his hands to his hair, then stopped, frozen with surprise that he had been able to do so. His hands were unbound, though the marks of the rope were visible as he examined them.
Did I do that? he asked stupidly.
The cynical voice sighed, a sound like the collapse of a furnace.
A hand on his shoulder. "Take this." The bear stood beside him, pressing a blade into his hand. "Follow me," he said. "I"ll protect you."
Three of the Neherians were down, but the rest-at least twenty, with more coming judging by the shouts and sounds of slapping feet-had them surrounded.
Duon wondered what would kill him first: the blade of a Neherian or the fire in his brain.
Noetos stepped forward, then blurred. A soldier to their right fell, his head exploding with redness. He had not reached the flagstones before two more fell back, clutching at their chests.
He"ll not be able to keep this up. Help him!
Duon turned and raised his sword, barely meeting the unseen curved blade descending towards his head. Absurdly, he had time enough to notice the exquisite scroll pattern adorning the leading edge of the man"s sword. Were those winged fish flying amongst the scrolls? He knocked the blade out of the way with surprising ease, then stepped sideways and inside the guard of another Neherian.
Too slow. Everyone was too slow! He knew he ought to have been dead by now. Why are they not faster?
He was in and out of the Neherian"s guard before the man could react, leaving a deep red rose blooming on the man"s chest. He turned to his right, expecting another man to be on top of him, but saw with astonishment that the first man with the curved blade had not yet finished falling. The man"s hands had spread out to brace his fall. Yes, those were fish, interwoven with birds in the sort of fanciful design his first commander had loved. If that man wasn"t careful, he"d land on top of his beautiful blade.
Sound had a strange broken quality about it. Cries from those wounded and dying came to his ears as small packets of sound interspersed with silence, as though someone had made the sounds visible, diced them up with a carving knife and removed half of the slices.
The cynical voice spoke. How do you ever get anything done? Keep your mind on living.
I"m an explorer, Duon replied tartly. I am expected to observe things closely.
Hurry up; I do not have much more to give you.
The bear had carved a way out for himself, and Duon followed. Ahead was the door through which they had entered the room. Behind lay chaos.
As they reached the door it filled with armour-clad men. And, at that moment, the heat faded from the back of Duon"s head.
"Arathe!" the bear-man beside him called. "Arathe! Where have you gone?"
By the slump of his shoulders, the man had apparently received no answer.
QUEEN.
CHAPTER 6.
THE ETERNAL CITY.
THE LEAGUE-LONG ROAD that led Stella Pellwen and her companions to the eternal city of Dhauria also seemed to lead them back into the distant past. For Stella, Queen of the Falthans-former queen, she reminded herself, and was pleased to note she still cared little for the loss-the calendar seemed to run backwards as the tireless donkey drew their cart forwards past stately poplars and flower-lined verges. So many small things combined to make this so. There were no obvious tools in use by those working the fields either side of the gra.s.sy road, and Stella guessed they would see few mechanical devices in this land. A layer of moss and lichen covered every wooden surface. Fence, barn, bridge, rail-all looked a thousand years old. The stonework of every house, while scrupulously clean, had a patina of age about it, a hint of greyness no amount of scrubbing could erase. She thought she could smell the age of the very air.
Likely her imagination. For seventy years Phemanderac had been telling her of this city, of its legends and place in the lore of Faltha. From here, so Falthans believed, their race had sprung, the First Men who colonised the great lands to the north. A thousand years the Dhaurians had lived in the narrow confines of this valley-of course, it hadn"t been flooded then-until their rebellion had seen the Most High drive out everyone but the members of the loyal House of Sthane. An article of faith to ordinary Falthans, and believed with fervour by the Halites, the dispersal into Faltha of those who had once lived in this valley had taken place a full two thousand years ago. Phemanderac had told her that, apart from the rebuilding of the drowned city further up the slope, little had changed in the valley since then.
Looking about her, Stella could believe him.
The lowering sun coated the buildings ahead with a faintly rosy glaze. There it stood: Dhauria, formerly Dona Mihst, City of the Fountain. Stella knew that she and her friends would soon be numbered among the privileged ones who had set foot in a city in which all Falthans believed, but few had ever seen.
It was glorious.
The houses began on the flat, using a small area of what otherwise would have been arable land, then stretched up the side of a hill that became part of the enormous ochre cliffs surrounding this deep valley. Whitewashed, with a faint pink blush from the lowering sun, there was something innocent about the houses, something naive, counterpointed by their ubiquitous red-tile roofs. They seemed to have been built in cl.u.s.ters, a dozen or so buildings to a group, separated by open s.p.a.ces: cobbled courtyards, gra.s.sy lawns, glittering blue pools. Sprinkled between all this stood stately cypresses and spreading oaks, under which a few small white figures sat alone, shaded from the still-fierce sun.
Despite all that had happened to her, of which the death of her husband Leith, King of Faltha, was but the most distressing of many harrowing events, Stella found herself becoming excited.
"Looks dull," a voice said.
She turned her head to where her guard, Robal, strode beside the cart, one hand resting on Lindha the donkey"s neck. He"d become fond of the animal during their desert journey. "A pale shadow of Instruere," he added provocatively.
"Dull?" came the expected rejoinder from the other side of the cart. Conal the Halite priest walked there, two steps to every one of the guard"s, his round face lit up with antic.i.p.ation. "You won"t find midden heaps to match those in Instruere, nor, I imagine, will you have your pocket picked within minutes of your arrival. This place has much of interest for the scholar."
Stella frowned. The infuriating priest had as much as accused Robal of a lack of intelligence. What ails these two men? she wondered. They fought over the most trivial of things, constantly seeking inventive new ways to insult each other, despite both having pledged themselves to her. As for that, both had rendered her invaluable service: in fact, both men had saved her life. Robal, albeit unwittingly at first, had delivered her from the Halite Archpriest in the hours after Leith had died; while Conal-she still could not credit this, but Robal insisted it was true, and he of anyone would not lie to make the priest look better-had attacked and slain the Lord of Fear who had tried to take her life.
Saved her life? She snorted to herself. Was that possible? Could her life in fact be taken? Here she was, nearing her ninetieth year and still as hale as she had been sixty or more years ago. Better, in fact. The Lord of Fear had done enough to kill her not two months past, but the scar where he had opened her throat had already disappeared. She was, it seemed, immortal. She knew whom she had to thank for that.
Curse, not thank, she thought as they approached the gate. More a ceremonial arch than a gate, as there was no wall either side of it. A tall, thin edifice so narrow that it would admit only two people at a time, though one could easily walk around it and enter the city just the same. Her thoughts returned to their own narrow gate. Yes, she was immortal, whatever that meant, as a result of the Undying Man and his desperate attempt to keep her alive. At the start of the Falthan War he had taken her captive, and made her witness the defeat of the Falthan army at the hands of his Bhrudwan soldiers and Maghdi Dasht. She had resisted him, mocked him, and he had struck her, causing her grave injuries. But he had drawn her back from death, infusing her with his own blood, blood cursed by the Most High himself, punishment for his rebellion at the fall of Dhauria. Here. Here is the origin of my curse. Something she had almost forgotten.
She wondered if proximity to the source of her suffering would make it worse. Not yet. The dull ache remained as it had been these last years: not the agony of the first years after her "healing", but still constant enough a companion that it defined her. She wondered what it would be like to feel nothing. Even for a moment. She wondered how much she would pay for a brief cessation of her pain.
Ahead of them Phemanderac disembarked from his wagon. With careful but steady steps-After all, he is even older than me, Stella thought wryly-he approached the gate.
A child came forward from the shadow of the arch. She wore a white robe and a garland of flowers in her hair. Stella almost laughed at the triteness of the image, then remembered the Dhaurians maintained virtually no contact with the outside world. What seemed hackneyed and false to outsiders, the sort of thing done on feast days in Firanes, might be genuine here. She resolved to keep her cynicism in check.
"How many return to the city?" the child asked in a high, sweet voice.
"Twenty," Phemanderac replied. "And five."
"Five?" came a voice from the shadows. "Five strangers? Are the rules of this place of no account at all to you, Wanderer?"
A young man stepped forward, a scroll in his hands. "Do I have to read you the statutes yet again?"
Phemanderac laughed, though Stella could tell it was forced. "Again?" he said, his thin voice billowing in the sudden cold as the sun disappeared behind the cliff. "This would be the first time with you, Sinan, though I do remember the occasional time your father and I discussed protocol at this gate."
The boy, also clad in white and bearing a close resemblance to the girl-brother and sister?-did not smile, but his eyes sparkled. He made a show of checking a list he drew from a fold in his robe. "Indeed," he said. "Seventeen occasional times."
"Then let us make the eighteenth short and to the point," Phemanderac said. "The sun is gone and my friends are footsore. You have records of the twenty Dhaurians; let me now introduce the leader of the five outsiders I will sponsor. Step forward, Stella of Loulea, Queen of Faltha, and meet Ena and Sinan, children of the clan who keep the Gate of Mist."
No one else moved, so Stella walked towards the arch. Phemanderac bent down and whispered in her ear as she pa.s.sed: "Take this seriously. These people have the right to refuse you admission. Remember, we do not see the division between child and adult as you do." She nodded.
"Why do you wish to enter our city?" asked the boy.
Stella had thought about this. Not so much about her real reasons for coming here-she remained unsure as to what they were-but about those that would sound most plausible to the Dhaurians. Phemanderac had counselled her to keep her justification short, and as close to the truth as possible. So she told the truth; just not all of it.
"I wish to learn," she said.
The boy waited for her to say more, but when it became clear she had finished, he asked: "What might the Dhaurians be able to teach you?"
Stella was ready for this question too. "How to make the best of a long life."
"That is a subject many Dhaurians could a.s.sist you with," said the young boy, seemingly unaware of the irony. "How long do you intend to stay?"
"As long as we are welcome," Stella said. "I have proved to be a slow learner. However, given the reputation of Dhaurians as teachers, I am hopeful I might learn my lessons more quickly this time."
There was a story embedded in those last two words, but if the child noticed he chose to ignore it.
"Come forward," he said.
The girl child lifted her right hand as though to wave, and held it there. Stella walked up to her, wondering how to respond; years of protocol coaching offered no guide beyond matching the gesture. This she did-though with her left arm; her right ached in the cooling air-and her action pleased the girl, who took a pace forward and placed her forearm against Stella"s. The girl had to lift her arm high to do so, and Stella lowered hers to make it easier.
"Arm in arm, to serve each other, as long as you remain here," the boy said, and brought out a gauze-like pink fabric.
"Must it be done this way?" Phemanderac asked.
What way? Something formal was happening, but Stella could not make it out.
"After eighteen infractions of Dhaurian law, dominie, any one of which was serious enough to warrant exile, do you need to ask?" the boy said, smiling as he began wrapping the gauze around the forearms of his sister and the Falthan queen.
"Phemanderac," Stella said quietly, "what does this mean?"
"I am sorry, Stella, but this means Ena must stay bound to you while you remain in Dhauria. Thus we ensure the good behaviour of anyone the gatekeepers deem a risk."
"A risk?" Robal growled. "This is an insult." He stared at the two young gatekeepers. "What is Dhauria but a backwater? Had Falthans not resisted the Destroyer"s army, with the cost of thousands of lives, this place would now be under the Undying Man"s rule. Dhaurians are ignorant. How can they treat her this way?"
"Truly, I am sorry," the Dhaurian scholar replied. "It is my fault; a legacy of my disobedience all those years ago when I left this place to search the world for the Right Hand of the Most High. Despite since honouring me as dominie, the clans of Dhauria have never really trusted me since I set out."
"Surely there is someone in charge who will see reason?" Conal asked, hands on his hips. "This is blasphemous."
Blasphemous? Stella repeated in her mind. Only if you consider me a G.o.d. A shadow fell across her mind, chilling her. Did she have two servants who competed in their worship of her? Surely not.
"There is no central authority here to tell any of the clans what to do," Phemanderac said to the priest and the guard. Kilfor of Chardzou and Sauxa, his father, came forward also to listen to the explanation. "If Sinan and Ena decide this must be done, no one here will challenge it. Not their parents, nor their clan chief, nor any of the Council of Scholars."
"So there is a council we can appeal to?" Conal asked.
"There will be no appeal," Stella said. "I will abide by the restrictions placed upon me. Let us discuss this no further."
At her word the remaining outsiders in their party presented themselves. Robal and Conal gave their own names, one perfunctorily, the other breathlessly. Kilfor and Sauxa had remained silent throughout the exchange, but it had clearly unsettled them.
"So much for a place of beauty and refuge," Kilfor muttered as he was introduced to the young gatekeepers.
His father smiled widely, his answer to seemingly every situation. "We are the first Falthans to visit in some time, yes?" he asked Sinan as he pressed forearms with the boy. "You do not have many visitors?"
The boy"s expression did not change. "No, we do not," he replied. "And those who seek admittance are usually denied it. But those of us with responsibility for the gates know of the queen of the Falthans, from the words of the dominie Phemanderac, who is not as unregarded as he might think."
Phemanderac nodded, acknowledging the compliment. Fenacia, the leader of the Dhaurian caravan, joined him, and began to organise the disposition of the caravan. After taking them to their accommodation, Lindha would be stabled down by the waterfront, where their trap would be stored. Stella rubbed the donkey"s neck affectionately. Smelly old thing, but pleasant enough in her way.
"There is another Falthan here in Dhauria," the boy Sinan added, "a man seeking knowledge from our Hall of Scrolls. You will meet him, should your business take you there."
"Another Falthan?" Stella said. "How often did you say you have visits from outsiders?"
"Almost never," Phemanderac said, his brow furrowed. "In fact, despite the desert trail, it is almost impossible for an outsider to make it to Dhauria without guidance. There is something about the approaches to this place that daunts those seeking us out. We are occasionally stumbled upon, but almost never deliberately found." He scratched his grey stubble, the product of weeks without shaving. "I would like to meet the man who has penetrated our subtle defences for the sake of scholarly knowledge."
"I would like to meet him too," Stella said, lowering her arm awkwardly. She glanced at the young girl, who returned her gaze serenely. The gauze bonds did not hurt, but would likely be something of an irritation. Of more importance, however, was the ident.i.ty of the other outsider currently within Dhauria.
She had a feeling she knew who it would be.
The gatekeepers had clearly decided that restraining one of their number was enough. Robal offered to exchange places with his queen, but the children simply shook their heads at his suggestion.