The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (135 page)

Let them choose a new path. Venn thought, adding his own blessing. Let them hope to be more than just entertainment, let them strive for something new. A king they will wish for, a new-born prince they will find.

‘It is done,’ Jackdaw said softly in his ear. Venn gave a fractional nod of the head and spoke the final words of the prayer. He rose and turned to discover the priestess standing close by with a proprietorial air.

Here is the reward you’ve been seeking all these years. Do you remember the tale of Amavoq’s Cup? How deeply will you drink of this poisoned chalice?

Venn looked past her as she glanced down at the basin as though expecting a miracle to be thrown into her lap. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where the holy words of his people had been carved in the rock. All eyes were on him and sudden silence reigned in the cavern, except for the faint hiss and pop of sap in the braziers. Keeping his movements unnatural and jerky, Venn made his way to the long stretch of wall that bore the holy words and sank to his knees before them, staring up.

‘Why are you here?’ croaked a voice on his right.

His face blank, Venn turned to look at the stooped figure addressing him. His guard dog, the priestess, stood behind him, almost as close as Jackdaw as she staked her claim. She said nothing, but Venn could feel her poised to strike. The old man was a windspeaker, one of the revered priests whose years of service had taken them beyond prayer to a place where they could hear their God’s voice on the wind. She would not challenge one so senior, but Venn knew she would pounce on anything she could to regain control of the situation. Ambition could tear down mountains.

He slowly focused upon the windspeaker. With both hands gripping a gnarled staff, the priest scowled and repeated his question.

Windspeaker, if you hear words in the rushing of air you’ll see the hand of Gods in my actions. Men such as you taught me to recite the tale of the Coward’s Mirror by heart. Before the end I will perform it for you, as a final chance to avoid your own foolishness.

‘I have been sent,’ Venn whispered eventually.

‘Sent by whom?’

‘The Master.’ Venn paused, giving them time enough to glance over at the chapel of Death where a dozen gold-leaf icons bearing His face shone in the firelight. ‘A bearer of tidings; of darkness past and a path to come.’

Lap it up, you old bastard. Time for you to choose; hesitate here and she’ll step around you. You’ll fall behind and another will be remembered as the one who attended at the moment in history.

A tiny sound behind Venn told him he was right. While the old fool dithered, the warrior-priestess had no such doubts. Deceived as she was, the priestess had no fear of the future and as she strode past, a soft sigh escaped the old man’s lips. Venn followed in her wake, leaving the windspeaker behind as an irrelevance.

He lowered his head in prayer, the holy words a powerful presence ahead of him. A king for his people was Rojak’s last order to him. They would not accept any king other than one they chose themselves, but Venn had learned much from the twisted minstrel. Jackdaw’s magic had opened the way, and a Harlequin’s skills would lead them through.

‘No king to rule you, no mortal lord to command you.’ The last line of the holy words made the clans think they were special, that they were blessed. His contempt tasted as bitter as the prayer had.

‘Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,’ he said in a cracked and raw voice, as though he had been silent all those years since last he had visited that place. It was the Harlequin’s traditional opening to their audiences.

He waited, sensing the priests gather. He felt a hand on his shoulder and Jackdaw channelling magic through him. A shudder ran through his body and continued down into the ground below. All around he heard whispers of fear and wonder as the priests felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.

‘I speak to you of peace - and of a child. Flawed is our Land; imbalanced and imperfect, yet perfection must exist for us to recognise the shadow it casts. Such perfection can be found in the face of a child, for a child knows nothing of fear. Armed only with the divine gift of life their souls are unstained, their hearts unburdened.

‘Let the penitent among us raise up a child to remind us of the innocence we once possessed. Let the penitent speak with the voice of a child and have no use for harsh words or boastful manner. Let the penitent see the tears of a perfect child as they repent of their sins, weeping for the loss of innocence. What greater service can there be than the service of innocence?’

In the forest, two figures shared a look, their breath cold against the snow. Shrouded against the last light of day they were nothing more than indistinct darkness, hunkered down by the broken stump of an ancient pine. One of the figures had a hand stretched out before her, a glassy, stylised skull resting in her bare palm. Her sapphire eyes flashed in the darkness.

‘This is what we have come to observe?’ asked the man. His voice betrayed no anger, but from his sister there was no hiding the note of scepticism.

‘Every tapestry begins with a single thread. I would know the pattern he weaves while there is still time to act.’

‘Our time is best served unpicking threads?’

‘Our time is limitless, Koezh,’ she replied, cocking her head as though straining to catch the last of the Harlequin’s words before returning the Crystal Skull to a pouch at her waist, ‘and the purpose has perhaps already revealed itself.’

‘The child.’

She inclined her head. ‘The fall of Scree showed Gods could be driven off, evicted from a place and a population, however temporarily that was. If the temples are emptied and the congregation turned against their Gods, those Gods are left weak and exposed.’

Koezh understood. ‘In times of trouble folk turn to the past for comfort, and the Harlequins are the keepers of history. If those keepers begin to tell stories of a child of peace when the horns of war have sounded across the Land, the faith of the people will be not destroyed, but diverted.’

Zhia smiled, and her elongated teeth shone in the twilight. ‘Perhaps our time has at last come.’

The corridor leading to her private study was draughty and dark, illuminated only by the lamp she’d brought with her. Queen Oterness felt like a thief, creeping through her own palace under cover of night while sensible folk slept. It was the very early hours, not a time she was used to seeing, but ever since she had conceived, true sleep had eluded her.

And now I jump at shadows, she thought wearily, and I fear to close my eyes no matter how many guards I have. I have become as paranoid as my husband.

She pulled her shawl tighter and paused at the corner of the corridor where she could see in both directions. She could hear only the rain battering the shutters and spattering down the stonework onto a balcony somewhere above. The White Palace of Narkang was cold now; at last autumn had turned to winter and the chill night air coming in from the ocean made her glad of the thick shawl King Emin had given her years before.

Oterness forced a smile; the shawl was so typical of the man. It was long enough to wrap around and keep her warm, and it bore a beautiful pattern - she’d not seen the style before, but according to Emin it was typical of Aroth, from where her mother’s family had originated two or three centuries ago. What made it such a typically Emin gift was not the moonstones and topazes that decorated the lilies and humming-birds, but the fact that the design continued on the hidden knife that nudged her distended belly whenever she adjusted the shawl.

Still, it was a comforting touch, there in case someone tried to catch her when she was most vulnerable. Oterness shivered at the thought as her hand closed protectively over her belly, over the scars there. In case it happened again.

Her value to Emin had at first been only in her ability to influence the nation’s high society, and that she had done with grace for decades. She smiled grimly to herself. The twittering matrons of Narkang’s elite would be astonished at the result of any man assaulting their aristocratic queen now, since Ilumene’s betrayal, for the name carved into her belly had given Oterness a terrible focus and she had learned quickly from the best of the Brotherhood.

Her stomach gave another lurch and banished all thoughts of combat, reminding her why she was up and about in the middle of the night. Every night a stomach ache assailed her as soon as she lay down to sleep, and once that had settled down, then her bladder started to complain. She was trying not to let it drive her to distraction, remembering that the morning sickness she thought would never end was now just a faint memory. A stomach ache she could handle - she had herbs to calm it, and the solitude of her nightly walk was becoming something she quite enjoyed. Jorinn, her maid, had opened her eyes and waited for a request for aid as Oterness struggled out of bed, then snuggled back down in her cot when none had come.

Dear Gods, I never expected to be waddling like this, Oterness thought with a wry smile. I feel like a hippo. And when I’m not lurching about like a drunken sailor, I’m sweating up a storm, just like Emin’s uncle - and Oh, Kitar’s gnashing teeth! Where is all this wind coming from? Now that I could out-fart any soldier of the Kingsguard it’s a bit unfair I don’t find it as amusing as they do. Not that a queen ever farts, of course…

She was just a few yards from the door of her study when she heard a distant sound over the unremitting rain: the crash of the main gate and the thunder of hooves. A low tolling punctuated the night: the sound of returning royalty.

‘Well, I’m here, so that must be my dear husband at last,’ she murmured, and maneuvered herself around to start back towards her bedchamber. Emin would come to check on her as soon as he was off his horse. So much for trying to get back to sleep tonight.

As she made her way back towards the bed Oterness saw Jorinn looking up at her, cat-like, from her cot. She had made it very clear that she wasn’t going to be fussed over, and Jorinn would not have expected her mistress back for half an hour at least.

‘Come on, my girl, up and about,’ the queen said briskly. ‘Our lord and master returns. Breathe some life back into that fire and light a lamp, then alert the kitchen staff - it sounds like the whole of the Brotherhood has just arrived back.’

Jorinn hopped up and slipped her dress on over her sleeping clothes, tying her hair back with a green ribbon as she advanced on the fireplace. With practised deftness she brought the embers back to life with a small pair of brass bellows and used a twig from the kindling pile to light the lamp at the foot of the spiral stair that led up to the king’s tiny private study. As she hurried towards the door she remembered herself just in time, skidded to a halt and offered Queen Oterness a brisk curtsey. The queen waved her away with a smile and eased herself into an armchair by the fire, pulling a blanket over her legs.

Jorinn jerked open the door and gave a squawk of surprise as the king stormed in. The handmaid only just managed to avoid being knocked over. Taking one look at his face, she didn’t bother waiting to be dismissed but fled, quickly pulling the door shut behind her.

Oterness tried to make out her husband’s expression, but his hat was still pulled low over his face to keep off the rain. Water dripped from him as he stopped abruptly in the centre of the room. He hadn’t said a word.

‘Gods of the dawnlight!’ Oterness cried, ‘Emin, what has happened?’

The king hardly seemed aware of Oterness. His eyes were focused on the floor at her feet, as if he was unable to meet hers. She threw off her blanket, panicked by his behaviour, and forced herself upright. Emin flinched and shied away when Oterness reached out to take his hand. When she wrapped her fingers about his, she realised he was bone-cold, and trembling.

‘I have… I have - ‘ The king’s words were awkward and jagged, quite unlike his usual mode of speech, and the effort of saying those four words appeared to have exhausted him.

‘Emin, come and sit by the fire,’ Oterness said, pulling him towards the armchair. ‘You’re chilled to the marrow.’

Emin didn’t sit, but clasped her fingers tightly within his own and stared into the flames for a few moments, until a sudden shiver ran through his body.

‘You’re frightening me now, whatever has happened? There have been some awful rumours flying round the city - ‘

‘They’re true,’ he interjected sharply, ‘they’re all true.’ With a sigh Emin sank down to his knees before the fire, letting his wife’s hand slip from his grasp.

‘All of them?’ Oterness gasped. ‘Scree is gone? The Gods destroyed the entire city in punishment? Opess Antern told me every priest in Narkang has been acting strangely, and even the moderates are preaching that a time of punishment has come.’

‘The Gods took no hand in the fall of Scree,’ Emin whispered in a soft, tentative voice, as though he could hardly believe what he was saying. ‘They came too late to help anyone; too late to punish anyone - but that didn’t stop their vengeance.’

He took a deep breath, as if summoning his strength to speak of the terrible events. ‘The day after the firestorm that destroyed Scree, we spent the day recovering from the fighting and tending to the wounded. The people had gone mad; almost the whole population had become blood-crazed monsters. It was like Thistledell all over again - that village where the survivors destroyed all trace of the village’s existence? - but on a city-wide scale.’

He ignored her gasp of horror and went on. ‘The next day, Lord Isak led his troops to a new encampment north of the city, abandoning his Devoted allies of the previous night. They had defended the Temple District from the mobs; a foolish last stand, and they only survived when he summoned the Gods to their aid. Somehow that boy invoked the Reapers, and their cruel claws were indiscriminate in their slaughter.

‘Afterwards, Isak refused even to meet envoys from the surviving Devoted troops. They had lost all their high-ranking officers; the man in charge, Ortof-Greyl, I think he was called, was a major, their only surviving commander. He wasn’t up to the task - he was like a boy alone on his father’s boat and lost at sea. I think he kept expecting the Farlan to send him orders, but they never came. We sat there for a whole day, in rain that didn’t stop until well into the night, doing nothing, saying nothing. No one bothered to set watches, or pray, or even to cook.’