Lady Trella shrugged. “Anyone can light a fire.”
“Also, to survive the assault on the city, and the flight southward. Quite an achievement.”
“I don’t know how much Fermin told you of our circumstances, Highness, but despite our name, we did not live a noble existence. Poverty makes one resourceful.”
“I’m sure. But still, a woman alone, surviving war and hunger for so long.” She watched Lady Trella sip more tea, seeing how she forced herself to swallow. “You may have heard,” she went on, “that I have lifted all strictures on use of the Dark in this Realm. The Gifted now occupy an honoured place in my army, and upon speaking to them, I have noticed that they share a common trait. In each case their mother also had a gift, but not always their father. Curious, don’t you think?”
Lady Trella met her gaze then slowly raised her hand, splaying the fingers. “A Volarian soldier kicked my door in that night, found me hiding in my bedroom closet, laughed as he took hold of my hair and made ready to cut my throat.” A small blue flame appeared on the tip of her index finger, dancing prettily. “He didn’t laugh for long.” The flame turned yellow and flared, engulfing Trella’s hand from fingers to wrist.
“Highness!” Iltis appeared at her side, sword half-drawn. Lyrna realised she had risen and backed away, staring at the flames.
“I know of your edict, Highness,” Trella said. “But mere words do not dispel centuries of fear. My mother made certain I knew well the danger of revealing my nature, the terror it aroused, and the unwelcome attention it drew from the Faithful.” She closed her hand and the flames died. Lyrna took a breath, forcing the tremble from her limbs. She gave a nod of reassurance to Iltis and resumed her seat, sipping some more tea until the memories faded. The smell of her own skin as the flames licked over it . . .
“The Seventh Order is bound by my word,” she said after a moment, when she was sure there would be no quaver to her voice. “I will not allow them to compel any subject to join it. There is a small company of Gifted from the Northern Reaches who stand apart from them, answering only to Lord Vaelin and myself. You would be welcome to join them.”
“I am an old woman, Highness.”
“Not so old, I think. And I feel your son’s soul would smile on your service, don’t you?”
Trella’s eyes went to the children standing nearby. “I have obligations here, Highness.”
“These children will be well cared for, you have my word on it. They have no more need of your fire, but I do.”
Something must have coloured her voice then because the wariness on Trella’s face deepened, her eyes taking on the guarded cast Lyrna was seeing more often on a few select faces. Nortah, Dahrena, Reva . . . Vaelin. Those not in awe see more clearly. “I make no command,” Lyrna added with a smile. “Merely a queen’s request. Think on it a while. Meet with Aspect Caenis or the folk from the Reaches. I am sure either would welcome you.”
“I will, Highness.” Trella bowed as Lyrna rose. “One more thing, if I may crave a boon.”
“Of course.”
“My son’s sigil.” The lady’s eyes were bright with tears now, the children coming to her side as they sensed her distress. “I should like it to be a weasel. Of all the little beasts that followed him home, they were his favourite.”
“As my lady wishes,” Lyrna assured her with a bow. Better a weasel than a shark.
• • •
Although much of Warnsclave had been destroyed down to its cobbled streets, the infrastructure below the town remained largely intact, numerous cellars providing useful additional shelter, and places of confinement. The Volarian woman had been secured in the coal cellar of what had once been a blacksmith’s shop, judging by the soot-covered anvil sitting amidst the rubble. Two Realm Guard stood outside the steps leading down to the cellar whilst Lord Verniers waited, resting on the anvil as she approached, scribbling away in a small notebook. He rose on seeing her, bowing with his usual fluency and greeting her in Realm Tongue uncoloured by even the trace of an accent. “Highness. My thanks on granting my request.”
“Not at all, my lord,” she replied. “However, I feel I have brought you here on a false premise.”
“Highness?”
Lyrna gestured for the guards to open the door to the cellar. “Yes, my lord. I know you are keen for my knowledge to add to your history, but I regret scholarship will have to wait upon the needs of diplomacy.”
She bade him follow her down the steps, Iltis preceding her into the darkness. Fornella Av Entril Av Tokrev sat at a small table, reading by the light of a single candle. She wore no chains and her face and hair were clean, Lyrna having allowed her a bowl of water each morning for ablutions. She had also been provided with parchment and ink, the table before her covered with a scroll inscribed from end to end in neat Volarian.
Fornella rose and bowed as Lyrna entered, her face impassive until she saw Lord Verniers whereupon she favoured him with a cautious smile. “Highness, my lord,” she said in her basic Realm Tongue. “Two visitors. I am honoured.”
“We’ll speak in your own tongue,” Lyrna told her, dropping into Volarian. “It is important there be no misunderstanding between us.” She told Iltis to wait outside and gestured for Fornella to sit, moving to the table and scanning the scroll she had written, finding it a list of names, places and goods, each name marked with a circular symbol Lyrna recognised. “A writ of manumission,” she said. “These are your slaves, I take it.”
“Yes, Highness. Though the document is in fact a will. The slaves are to be freed upon my death.”
“My understanding of Volarian law is limited,” Lyrna lied. “But I believe a slave, regardless of owner or importance, can only be freed by special edict of the Ruling Council.”
“Quite so, but my brother sits on the Council. I have little doubt he will accede to my wishes in this.”
By the time he hears of your death, Lyrna thought, I expect he’ll be too preoccupied with the imminence of his own demise to care about your final wish. “Am I to take it,” she asked instead, “that your liking for your empire’s principal institution has waned recently?”
Fornella glanced at Verniers, the scholar standing rigidly against the cellar wall and refusing to meet her gaze. “We have made many mistakes,” the Volarian woman said. “Slavery is perhaps the worst, only surpassed by our bargain with the Ally.”
“A bargain that, if Lord Verniers’ account is to be believed, has provided you with several centuries of life.”
“Not life, Highness. Merely existence.”
“And how is it achieved, all these additional years?”
Fornella lowered her gaze and for the first time Lyrna had a sense of her true age in the faint lines now visible around her shrouded eyes. “Blood,” Fornella said after a moment, her voice no more than a murmur. “The blood of the Gifted.”
Lyrna’s memory flashed to the ship, the overseer prowling the slave deck, whip coiled. All here, trade for one with magic. She moved closer to the table, her fists resting on the surface as she leaned towards Fornella, the Volarian woman’s face still lowered. “You drink the blood of the Gifted,” she grated. “That is where your years come from.”
“There is a place,” Fornella said in a whisper. “A great chamber beneath Volar, hundreds of cells filled with Gifted. Those who are party to the bargain go there once a year . . . to drink. And every year, there are more empty cells, and always more red-clads clamouring to share in the Ally’s blessing.”
“And so you need more, and the Ally promised you would find them in this Realm. That is why you came here.”
“And to secure a northern front for the Alpiran invasion, as I said. But yes, the Ally promised this land would be rich in Gifted blood.”
“And when that was all gone, and the Alpiran lands also stripped, what then? Send your armies forth to rape the whole world?”
Fornella’s head rose, her eyes steady though her voice was uneven, the voice of a woman facing her final moments. “Yes. In time, he promised the world would be ours.”
Is it shame I see in your eyes? Lyrna wondered. Or just disappointment?
“I assume it was the promise of endless life that seduced Lord Darnel to your cause?” she asked.
Fornella gave a rueful shrug. “The lure of immortality is hard to resist, especially for a man in love with himself.”
Lyrna moved back from the table, turning to Verniers. “My lord, do you find this woman’s words to be truthful?”
Verniers forced himself to look at Fornella in reluctant but close appraisal. “I doubt she has lied, Highness,” he said. “Even as her slave, I found honesty to be her only interesting quality.”
“And do you think your Emperor would find her believable?”
“The Emperor is wiser than I in all respects. If she speaks truly, he will hear it.”
“And, I hope, understand the value of forgetting past differences.”
Verniers’ face was grave as he met her gaze. “There is much to forget, Highness.”
