Dark Heart (42 page)

This announcement occasioned varied reactions. Heredrew smiled widely at the girl, a crocodile preparing to eat a helpless, unsuspecting victim. At the rear of the gathering, Conal the priest hissed in surprise. The majority of the crowd applauded, though none gave any hint they recognised the title.

The most unusual reaction, though, came from Phemanderac. He had frozen in place, his long face a sculpture, the only movement coming from his lips, which repeatedly mouthed one word. To Stella it seemed like ‘Arotapa’.

The woman pulled up her dress, exposing a generous amount of leg and occasioning a murmur of approval from the men present. She sat on the boardwalk and positioned the harp between her legs, then ran her fingers across the strings.

The clear liquid notes drew Stella back to the day she had finally returned to Instruere, free at last from the Destroyer’s grasp, on the very day Leith had been crowned King of Faltha. She had pushed open the huge wooden doors to the Hall of Meeting and entered just as Leith ascended the throne to the stirring sounds of Phemanderac’s harp.

The girl began to sing in a husky contralto:

Born in a bitter house,

Last of a line of sons,

Conal Greatheart lived his life amid the curséd ones.

Trained to wait on tables,

To serve the Lord of lies,

Conal Greatheart forged a fate beyond the greatest prize.

The words were simple, written not by a poet but by a musician, intended to be memorised easily both by travelling players and their audiences. But the tune, by contrast, was memorable. Stella knew she would be humming it tomorrow.

The lay continued, describing Conal’s disgust at the habits of his family’s oppressor, the Usurper of Instruere. Stella knew the story well—it was a staple all over Faltha—but, oddly, had not thought of it since Conal of Yosse had entered her orbit. The Usurper of Instruere, she reminded herself, was none other than the Destroyer, who had taken Instruere by force for the first time a thousand years ago, until driven out by Conal Greatheart and the Knights of Fealty.

Oh, it was all suddenly so clear. She cursed herself for being so obtuse. How could she not have seen it? The priest, curse his foolish mind, saw himself as a modern-day Greatheart.

How did it go? She racked her memory. Conal Greatheart had found his mother dead, killed by one of the Destroyer’s henchmen, and vowed revenge. Uncanny, that, given what they themselves had found just after leaving Foulwater.

The three groups—Falthan, Bhrudwan and Elamaq—had met briefly early on the morning following the cataclysm that destroyed the Yacoppica Tea House. They agreed to separate, to journey northward independently of each other, to avoid drawing the concentrated attention of the gods, as seemed to have happened both at Yacoppica and Lake Woe. Enough people had died. Each group would try to solve their problems as they saw them. Perhaps one or more of the groups would find a solution they could all use, or at least assist in.

The three remaining Amaqi had actually gone southward, along with a few of the villagers, to continue searching the ruins for Lenares’ body. The Bhrudwans went north on a minor road, vowing to reach Malayu before the end of summer. And the Falthans, the largest group, went east, back to the road by the sea.

About half an hour’s walk from the town, they came across a gruesome scene: a myriad of carrion birds fighting over something in a gully beside the road.

Robal had slithered down the muddy slope, staining his Dhaurian robes, and driven the birds away, revealing a body. It had been cut, bruised, beaten and bled to death. Robal said he recognised her from the tea house. One of the hosts, he said.

They had taken the woman’s body back to the town, and Stella was reminded of other times of sorrow when she had borne bad news. This news, however, was received with anger rather than sorrow, given the condition of the body. And then someone in the village remembered seeing one of the Amaqi with similar red mud stains on his breeches. The black, curly-haired fellow.

A swift exodus had followed, the men of the village arming themselves and leaving in search of the three Amaqi. There was no doubt an explanation for what they had found, but Stella had wondered if the Amaqi would be given an opportunity to offer it.

The girl’s sweet voice continued the song. She told how Conal escaped his master, fleeing the servants quarters and living wild in the forest, gathering disaffected men to him, the beginnings of an army. Fierce and fanatical, Conal Greatheart demanded and received total loyalty.

Stella laughed inside: the song made virtue out of bitterness and anger. Conal Greatheart had been a necessary man, a great man, but not a good one. He had put to death dozens of his followers with his own hand—those who showed signs of questioning his leadership, even some he accused of harbouring rebellious thoughts. Quite the madman, Conal Greatheart, according to the records in Instruere’s Hall of Meeting. Not that you’d know it from the song; the sweet voice of the singer made him sound holy.

Funny how the best leaders were hard-edged. Leith had never been a great leader, for all his admirable qualities. Too soft, too ready to see all sides of a dispute, never willing to make an example of anyone. She’d loved him for it, but under his rule the continent had not prospered as it might have done, and latterly the individual kingdoms and the Koinobia had been given latitude to strengthen their own power bases.

The Undying Man had been a great leader by any external measurement. Bhrudwo had not had more than a handful of rebellions in the two thousand years he had ruled them, and Stella had seen no abject poverty of the sort many Falthans experienced. But external measurement could sometimes be misleading, and never told the whole story. Fear might keep citizens in line, but surely it affected their quality of life. Look at this woman singing for them: she had been in terror of the man from Andratan, and would no doubt have soiled her drawers had she known whom she had been speaking to.

Like his historical namesake, Conal of Yosse was not cowed, however. Conal Greatheart had openly questioned the Bhrudwan overlord’s right to rule, and Conal of Yosse had challenged Heredrew’s right to lead the Falthan group. It had been a fierce discussion, and all around them water fled before the sorcerer’s magic. But nothing Heredrew said or threatened could bend the stubborn priest, and Conal offered no apology or explanation at the time. Later he told them about the voice in his head, and openly admitted that its advice had been in line with his own wishes.

The Lay of Conal Greatheart moved to its intense climax. He and his band of heroes returned to the city under the cover of darkness and set about sabotaging the Bhrudwan chain of command, ruthlessly slaying any Falthan who worked for the Undying Man. Of course the song did not mention that Conal had ordered his own brothers killed, and that his eldest brother died on Conal’s own sword point.

Ah
, Stella thought, as the final stanza began.
This version has omitted the gratuitous and wholly imaginary swordfight between Conal Greatheart and the Destroyer.
In fact, most scholars of Falthan history believed Conal and the Destroyer never actually met.

Nevertheless, Conal Greatheart had driven the Destroyer from Instruere by making his rule untenable. The cost had been in thousands of lives, almost all of them Falthan. After a year of the campaign no Falthan would work for the Destroyer, and his own army began deserting him. Five bitter years the so-called War of Tears lasted, until, as the last line of the song so eloquently put it, the Instruians awoke one morn to an empty throne.

Polite applause rippled around the tea house as the patrons wondered how they ought to receive a song with such a blatant anti-Andratan message.

Did Conal of Yosse have something similar planned? Would he work to undermine Heredrew’s leadership? She had better warn him…

Listen to yourself, woman.
Anyone would think you were his protector. That you wished him well in whatever scheme he was running to increase his power at the expense of Faltha. That you loved him and wanted him to succeed.

‘I asked the girl to sing that song,’ Heredrew said quietly beside Stella’s ear.

‘Trying to measure the level of sedition in your backwater provinces?’

‘Not at all. I’m trying to bring the thoughts of our friend the priest out into the open. I need to learn what is behind his actions, whether, as he says, there is a magician in his head. And if there is, who, and what he intends.’

‘Why don’t you ask?’

Heredrew laughed. ‘Have you ever received a straight answer from the man? If it weren’t for our agreement I’d strip his mind, such as it is, and expose this magician. I’m concerned he could do us great harm.’

‘Our agreement stands. You touch his mind, you lose my support.’

‘As you say. But be aware that this is folly. The man is a murderer. He needs to be drained and slain, not cosseted.’

‘Oh?’ Stella turned and nearly brushed his face with her lips.
His illusory face.
‘Is that the standard punishment for all murderers? Are you prepared to apply it to yourself?’

‘Your question has no meaning. I cannot be slain—and neither can you. And that, Stella, is something we need to talk about. You told me you journeyed east to seek answers from the Undying Man. You have been travelling with him for a month or more and there have been no questions. Did you lie, or are you afraid?’

‘I told you that because I believed you were Heredrew,’ she whispered.

‘Afraid then. Yet it must be faced, Immortal One, because it is at the heart of what we need to do. Of what the Most High wants of us.’ He paused, then pinned her with a penetrating stare. ‘You loathe me. I understand that. Yet we must talk.’

They sat together in a small alcove, away from the revellers. They would not be overheard: the nearest customer, a blonde-haired girl, was bent over her drink, paying them no attention. The other Falthans sat some distance away, heads together, intent on some discussion or other. Or perhaps debating the merits of the pit-cooked meal, which had been the best food Stella had tasted since leaving Instruere.

She forced her mind to return to Heredrew’s comments.

‘I refuse to believe it,’ she said. ‘You are playing us all. It’s a clever plan to seize control of Faltha and Elamaq all in one go.’

He spread his elongated hands wide. ‘No plan,’ he said.

‘So you expect me to believe you are a reformed character. The evil Emperor has seen his flaws, and now he does the bidding of the one he hates the most, the one who cursed him and drove him out of paradise.’

‘No.’ Simple answers, almost hypnotic in their repetition. ‘I am not reformed.’

‘Then why, Heredrew? Or should that be Kannwar? Why are you risking everything to do what the Most High told you to do?’

‘What risk is there? Compared to the certainty of failure should we do nothing, how can this be considered a risk?’

‘Doesn’t answer my question. You’re good at not answering my questions.’

‘Because I’m trying to let you do the talking. The more I say, the more you will feel I have steered you. And how likely are you to do my bidding?’

‘As likely as you are to follow the Most High.’

‘And yet, here we are. I lead your group. Who, Stella, leads me?’

‘No, curse you, no. You are not a willing game piece of the Most High.’

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, you are right, I am not. I will never be his counter. I am many of the things you say. I have killed and do not regret it. I have tortured and maimed people, always for a purpose, but have come to enjoy it. I lie whenever it suits me. But I have amassed two thousand years of wisdom, the kind earned through two thousand years of mistakes. I have learned, Stella, to listen to the truth, no matter whose lips it comes from.

‘Let me summarise. The Most High told me his two rebellious children were going to destroy the world. Yet we get a slightly different story from the people of the Fisher Coast and the Amaqi. Lenares—such an intriguing girl, such a loss—told us of the Elamaq legends. The Son and Daughter drove out the Father, Stella. The Most High never told us that his glorious journey north from beyond Jangela, as described in the ancient scrolls, was in fact a rout, a remnant fleeing a rebellion. You and I, Stella, we are descendants of those the Amaqi defeated.

‘Worse, our God, our mighty Most High, was overpowered by his own children. How does that work? Is he not as powerful as our theologians tell us? Or has he chosen weakness in some vast balancing act, so that by his weakness we might have freedom of will? I know well that the stronger the leader, the fewer choices are afforded his followers. Or perhaps his children have become stronger? Not just the Son and Daughter, but…his other immortals?’

He reached out for her, and she let him take her hand. The touch of his skin made her nauseous, despite knowing he had no real hand.

‘And you?’ she said. ‘Have you become stronger?’

‘You know the answer, Queen of Faltha,’ he breathed. ‘For seventy years we have been connected. You could sense me, and I you. I actively cultivated that sense, using my arts to magnify the connection, so I could feel what you felt. I suffered your pain along with my own, and rejoiced as the agony gradually faded. So much more quickly than did mine.’

‘Then you are a fool,’ she snarled. ‘Nobody should have to experience pain like that, and no one in their right mind would embrace it voluntarily.’

‘I learned that you never gave your heart in love,’ Heredrew said.

Stella jerked back her hand.

‘You were grateful, you sought to please him, you admired and respected him, but you never loved him.’

Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘You spied on me. I could feel you there, but I didn’t try to find out what you thought or felt, even though the knowledge might have served Faltha. What right did you have to invade my heart?’