Cry of the Newborn

 

 

THE ASCENDANTS OF ESTOREA BOOK 1

 

 

 

James Barclay

 

 

Copyright © James Barclay 2005 All rights reserved

The right of James Barclay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Gollancz An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane London WC2H 9EA

This edition published in Great Britain in 2006 by Gollancz

3579 10 8642

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

 

ISBN-13: 9 780 57507 812 3

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

 

 

 

www.orionbooks.co.uk

For Clare, who is the centre of my life

This book is the result of a huge effort by many. From art-worker to copy editor, I have a lot of people to thank. Particularly though, Simon Spanton who gave me such unstinting support and advice during the whole of the writing process; Gillian Redfearn, a blessing in the guise of an editorial assistant; and to Graham Diss who came and saw me every month and who doesn't get the credit he deserves.

I also want to thank David Gemmell who is a constant source of inspiration; Howard Morhaim who brought me lasting confidence in the future; to Robert Kirby for always being there; to Ariel, ace webmaster; and to Pete, George, Dave and Dick . . . same old, same old but I couldn't do it without you.

And finally, to Dan Westfallen, who has lent his name to the heart of the book; to William Montanero who has worked so hard to help my website forum be a success; and to all the forumites - you've brought a smile to my face on the worst of days. Thank you.

 

 

 

www.jamesbarclay.com

 

 

Cast List

 

THE CITIZENS OF WESTFALLEN

 

 

Ardol Kessian father of the ascendancy,

wind harker

Willem Geste ascendancy echelon,

firewalker

Genna Kessian ascendancy echelon, pain

teller

Andreas Koll ascendancy echelon, land

warden

Hesther Naravny ascendancy echelon, land

warden

Gwythen Terol ascendancy echelon, herd

master

Meera Naravny ascendancy echelon,

firewalker

Jen Shalke ascendancy echelon, waterborn

Arducius ascendant

Gorian ascendant

Mirron ascendant

Ossacer ascendant

Elsa Gueran reader of westfallen

Bryn Marr a blacksmith

 

OFFICERS OF THE ESTOREAN CONQUORD

 

Herine Del Aglios advocate of the estorean

conquord

Paul Jhered exchequer of the gatherers Felice Koroyan chancellor, order of the omniscient

Arvan Vasselis marshal defender of caraduk

Thomal Turan marshal defender of

atreska

Katrin Mardov marshal defender of

gestern

Orin DAllinnius chief scientist to the

advocate

Harkov captain of the palace guard Erith Menus a gatherer

Harin a gatherer

 

NORTHERN FRONT LEGIONS

 

Roberto Del Aglios general of the army

Da.va.rov master of sword, 2ist ala

Elise Kastenas master of horse, 8th legion

Goran Shakarov master of sword, 15th ala

Dahnishev master surgeon

Rovan Neristus master engineer

Ellas Lennart order speaker

 

EASTERN FRONT LEGIONS

 

Gesteris general of the army

Pavel Nunan master of sword, 2nd legion

Dina Kell master of horse, 2nd legion

 

SOUTHERN FRONT LEGIONS

Jorganesh general of the army

Parnforst master of sword, 34TH ala

 

SAILORS OF THE CONQUORD

Gains Kortonius prime sea lord of the ocetanas

Karl Iliev squadron leader, ocenii squadron

Patonius captain of cirandon's pride

Anthus rigger, cirandon's pride

Gorres surgeon, cirandon's pride

 

CITIZENS AND OTHERS

Lena Pretal praetor of gull's ford,

atreska

Han Jesson a potter from gull's ford

Harban Qyist karku guide

lcenga Qyist gor-camas of the karku

Rensaark sentor, tsardon forces

Kreysun prosentor, tsardon forces

 

 

Chapter 1

834th cycle of God, 1st day of Genasrise 1st year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

And there they were, lying asleep and at peace. Newborn and helpless. Beautiful and fragile. And in that, no different from any other infants born to this world blessed by God.

Never though, had a quartet of newborns undergone such lengthy and mute observation; been examined with such anxiety, hope and wonder. The atmosphere was so deeply charged it should have made them fretful enough to wake and cry. They did not.

Crowded around the line of cribs and looking down on the tiny faces were those for whom these three boys and one girl, scant hours into life, represented the culmination of generations of dedication. Yet for all the accumulated wisdom brought to bear and the endless paper records of all that had gone before, they still did not know if these four would achieve their birthrights.

However long they stared there would be no sign. The infants would give no hint if they possessed everything, or anything, that the exhaustive calculations suggested they would. But still they stared, reverent. The Ascendancy's Echelon had gathered around the cribs in complete accord. They could all sense something. After countless disappointments and false dawns, this time it was different. It had to be.

Shela Hasi stood behind the cribs with seven of the Echelon's nine members in front of her. There would be the inevitable, interminable wait for signs of true talent. But until the frustration of those years set in, they would hope and dream for the realisation of a destiny whose genesis was lost in the mists of ancient religion and belief. She felt awed by their presence. The entire community of Westfallen was close for many good reasons, of centuries longstand­ing, yet the Echelon had an aura that set them apart. In them rested

lingering ability, extraordinary dedication and an all-consuming determination.

Shela couldn't deny the occasional spark of envy. She'd been a Waterborn herself until she was ten. Wonderful times that would live with her forever. The day the talent had deserted her she'd nearly drowned.

That had been almost forty years ago now and there were still times she felt the loss as she had at that first moment. A violation of her body. The robbery of something she had come to assume was hers by right. So she envied the Echelon their continued link with the Ascendancy, their taste of the potential that they all prayed these infants possessed.

Yet she also pitied them the daily anxiety. While those whose talents faded usually suffered their loss early in life, it was not unknown for one in more advanced years to be shorn of their link. That pain would be terribly hard to bear. Every night she, like every strand member, prayed that the Echelon remained undamaged. So far, God had answered their prayers.

She smiled at them. These most revered of Westfallen's people were held rapt by the new arrivals. From Ardol Kessian, one of only three survivors of the first strand, to Jen Shalke, barely into her teens and only just coming to terms with her destiny. Such a sweet man, Ardol Kessian. One hundred and thirty-two years old now, completely hairless and stooped but still robust. His smile took the chill from a cold day and his voice, deep and sonorous, had been a comfort to the Echelon across the generations. He was a peerless Wind Harker and indeed had told them all how warm it would be during the births and in the days after. His was a keen talent and one they would inevitably miss when he returned to the earth and God's embrace.

'They are beautiful, aren't they?' said Shela, her whisper carrying loud across the silence of the cosy, sun-bathed nursery. A light breeze blew fresh sea air through the open windows. Shela could hear the hot air channelling through the hypocaust beneath the flagstones under their feet, adding further gentle warmth for the delicate newborns.

Kessian's deep green eyes twinkled beneath his bald brows. 'Glori­ous. Treasured. Carrying all our hopes and desires, though they cannot know it.' He nodded. 'And I approve of the names, too. Fine choices all.'

He reached out a minutely trembling hand to smooth the brow of each child in turn, speaking quietly as he did so.

'Mirron, much will rest on your shoulders. You will bear the pressure of motherhood in addition to all else that will fall on you. Your strand-brothers lying beside you this day will support you always as you will them. Ossacer and Arducius, you carry the names of great warrior heroes but never should you be moved to strike another down. Your destiny is in peace. And Gorian. Blessed indeed by the name of our father. Keep it well. Be true to his memory. Fulfil your destiny and, with your brothers and sister, achieve that which we cannot. Use it for the benefit of us all under God the Omniscient.'

He turned to his friend of a hundred years, Willem Geste of the second strand. 'Willem, a prayer.'

The Echelon came together and each knelt on one knee. One hand touched the ground, the other held palm up and open to the sky. Shela rested her hands on the outer cribs, embracing them all.

'The Ascendancy stands before you, our God, to commend these newborn children to your care. Newborn who we pray will become your most powerful servants on this earth. We promise to nurture and train them, that they in turn will do your work while they are blessed by you with life; preserving the land and the sea and all those who depend upon them. We ask that you protect them, watch over them and love them as you do all your children. We ask this in the name of the true faith of the Omniscient. We of the pure strands of the Ascendancy beseech you, our God. So it will be.'

'As it always was,' they intoned as one.

'Thank you, Willem,' said Kessian, standing. 'Now, before Shela throws us all out of here, I think we should take our leave and let these little ones rest.'

'Can't I stay longer with them?' Jen Shalke's voice carried a whine.

Kessian put a finger to his lips. Shela smiled to herself.

'In a moment, young Jen,' he said. 'First of all, Gwythen, Meera, back to bed. I have no idea what possessed you to stand with us so soon after giving birth. You must be exhausted.'

'We are of the Ascendancy Echelon,' said Gwythen Terol, mother of Ossacer. 'It is our duty.' Her voice was proud but her face was drawn.

'Nevertheless, please rest now,' he said gently, the warmth never leaving his voice despite his chiding words. 'Willem, Genna, we have work to do and texts to study. There are answers we still need though I suspect much of our evidence lies sleeping in these cribs. Everything else will have to wait until we see what they become.

'And as for you, young Jen, I'm sure Shela will be happy to have your company in the days and seasons to come. However, today our nursemaid must introduce and accustom herself to her charges alone. Meanwhile, there are fish to be caught and fishers wanting to know where to cast their nets. It's a beautiful day and the sea is warm. Perhaps you could find us a shoal, eh? Or the feast tonight will be lessened, will it not?'

Jen's smile was adoring and Shela felt again that familiar moment of envy at the young Waterborn's ability. She had known the free­dom of the world beneath the waves until it had been wrenched from her. She dreamed often of what she had seen and the places she had gone. She relived her past through Jen's tales and, for her part, was the only one who really understood the young woman. It had brought them very close. Shela dropped her gaze. For all that they respected her as a strand member and for her skills as nursemaid, she could never be one of them and feel that bond the Ascendancy shared so effortlessly.

The door to the nursery opened. Hesther Naravny entered, closing it behind her. A Land Warden of the fifth strand, she was a passionate, fiery woman in her mid-sixties. Hesther looked around the Ascend­ancy, her expression darkening as her eyes travelled over them.

'Meera, what do you think you're doing here? You too, Gwythen, for that matter. You should not be out of bed.'

'The Echelon gathered to bless the newborns,' said Meera. 'So perhaps I should be asking you why you weren't here?'

'Always the petulant child,' muttered Hesther. 'Will I have to look out for you into your dotage, Meera?'

'If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. You are not my mother.'

Hesther's face softened and she stepped close to Meera, cupping the woman's cheeks in her hands. 'No, but I am your sister and I love you more than any living thing under God's sky. You are a mother of the ninth strand, the strand we all pray is the one to take us to ascendancy, and I would not see you risk yourself. Please Meera, the labour was difficult. You must rest.'

Meera sagged and nodded. 'I know. But this is just so . . . and look at my beautiful child.'

Hesther's face lit up. 'I am a proud aunt and a proud sister before I am part of the Echelon. You have a beautiful son, an important son. But come now. Gwythen, you as well. Help each other back to bed.'

The Echelon gave them room, Willem opening the door.

'Bless you both,' he said. 'Sleep well.'

'Right,' said Hesther when the door had closed once again. 'Ardol, the forum has been packed since first light. They are patient but surely it's time to give them some news.'

Kessian inclined his head. 'No sense in keeping them in suspense any longer. There is plenty to prepare.'

'So there is,' said Hesther. 'Shela, how are they?'

'Peaceful. But they can always have more peace.'

Hesther winked at her and walked to the door. 'I'll address the town. The rest of you, out.'

The nursery opened directly on to the marble-floored colonnade that enclosed the central courtyard gardens of the Ascendancy villa. Hesther walked quickly between two columns and out into the sun which warmed the flagstones under her sandaled feet and sparkled on the water trickling from the four fountains, each set in the centre of a quadrant of the courtyard. All around her, the scents and col­ours of flowers, grasses and small trees created a powerful sense of burgeoning life. Hesther breathed it in, feeling energised.

Behind her, she had left the best and brightest hopes of the Ascendancy. It filled her with a childlike excitement that hurried her to a trot across the beautiful gardens, down the long entrance vestibule, through the cool reception hall and out into the streets of Westfallen.

Westfallen nestled at the head of a steep-sided inlet which opened out, a hundred miles south, into the vastness of the ocean. Half a mile beyond the harbour walls the spectacular Genastro Falls cascaded over a thousand feet into the inlet, taking with them the run-off from Willows Lake, away to the east, two miles from the town.

The villa sat on a rise above the bulk of the town, overlooking the glorious golden bay with its stone- and concrete-built harbour. Scattered about the gentle slopes of the town sat larger villas sur­rounded by their farmland. Crops were ripening in the fields and animals grazed or basked in the tranquillity of the day. Down towards the forum, the narrower, tightly packed, streets were lined with low houses and a few tenements under which shops opened onto pavement or square.

The town was deserted. The fleet of thirty fishing boats was dragged up onto the beach. No one stirred beneath the lazily flapping shop awnings. Everyone was at the forum. Hesther could hear the hubbub of voices and see the crowd gathered in front of the oratory. Hundreds of people waiting for news. Approaching as quickly as she dared without getting out of breath, Hesther heard a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Someone was entertaining them at least.

She entered the forum at the rear of the oratory and climbed the few steps onto the stage. Surrounding the paved space, shops and stalls were empty. The sun reflected from polished columns, white painted walls and warm red-tiled roofs. Every voice quietened the moment Hesther was seen. The young tumblers and jugglers scattered away from her and back into the crowd.

She breathed deep to calm herself, smoothing the front of her simple sleeveless blue dress and adjusting the cinch at her waist. She arranged the long auburn curls on her head and surveyed the towns­folk, all of whom had waited all day just to hear her words. She felt the weight of her sixty-five years then, the expectations that she carried on everyone's behalf and what success would bring.

All anyone here wanted was a life free of change and the pressure for change. Yet what she was about to announce would signal change of a most fundamental nature. In all their faces she saw expectation. In those not touched by the strands, she saw excitement and naivety too. A craving for the news she brought and no notion that it would affect their lives so deeply should the newborn grow into their potential.

She felt no guilt, only exhilaration. Because every face told of a spirit that would stand with them forever. The hush was unbearable. She was compelled to speak.

'My friends. They are born and they are well.'

The roar all but knocked her from her feet.

 

Ardol Kessian rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. He shifted his backside against the hard bench, grunting at the discomfort. Someone really should have fetched him a cushion by now. Night was full. The stars spread to the horizon in every direction. The air was clear and still warm. There would be no rain for seven days though the scattered cloud in a couple of days would keep them a little cooler.

In front of him, the floor of the forum was awash with people, faces bright in the fire and lantern light. On the oratory, the band roused weary dancers again with another old favourite. Hand drum and tympani beat the rhythm, kithara and pipes provided the melody and a strong voice guided the moves.

It was a long time since he had dared take to the centre of the forum to dance. He missed it. The energy and the joy, the close touch of a woman, and the scent of her in the spin. Her eyes on him as they stepped and turned. Now he contented himself with watching the younger generations make all the same mistakes he had made in his youth. A long time ago now. He glanced to his right and laid his hand on Genna's.

'Remember how we met on the floor?'

'Yes, Ardol,' said Genna, resignation in her tone. 'You ask me every time we watch a dance.'

'Do I?' Kessian's mouth turned up at the corners. 'I forget.' 'When it suits you.'

He squeezed Genna's hand. He would go first. Genna was thirty years his junior. They'd been tilling the earth together this last eighty years. He wondered how she would bear up without him. She'd probably be glad of the peace and quiet.

'Jen did well today,' he said, refusing to slip into melancholy on a night of celebration like this.

'That she did,' agreed Genna.

The fresh smells of grilling fish mixed with woodsmoke, roasting meats and the yeasty odour of spilt ale. Jen had found seabass and sardines. The nets had bulged and there would be plenty on the market when the hangovers had cleared the next morning.

'Do you mind if I interrupt you?'

Kessian looked up and across the table. There stood Arvan Vasselis, Marshal Defender of Caraduk. He had ridden in with his wife and young son late in the afternoon, having received the message five days previously that the births were imminent. His flag, deep blue, trimmed with gold and displaying rearing twin bears, flew above his residence which commanded peerless views of bay and harbour.

'Impeccable timing as always,' said Kessian, making to rise. Vasselis gestured him not to.

'Never known to miss a Westfallen party. I even brought some wine with me.' Vasselis placed two ornately carved ceramic jugs of something no doubt old and expensive on the table. 'Mind if I sit down?'

'You hardly have to ask,' said Kessian.

'Rank is no excuse for rudeness,' Vasselis said, dragging the opposite bench back a little. He leaned over and kissed Genna's cheeks before he sat. 'Pour away.'

Genna poured the dregs out of their two goblets and snared another that someone had abandoned on their table. She wiped them all out with a cloth from her waist before filling them with Vasselis's wine.

'And where is our country's first lady?' she asked.

'Netta? Oh, settling Kovan, I expect. This would all be a little much for him. Best he sleeps through it.'

'Don't you have a retinue for that sort of thing?'

'I think you'll find we can cope as parents,' said Vasselis. 'Besides, we hardly need to worry, do we? Not here.'

'You're never quite going to get used to the trappings of your position, are you?'

Vasselis chuckled. 'Step out of line, Kessian and you'll find I understand certain of my trappings very well indeed.'

He raised his goblet and the three of them chinked and drank.

'Very good,' said Kessian, feeling the full red wine soothe its way down his throat, leaving the aftertaste of rich, ripe plums.

'You doubted it?' asked Vasselis.

The friends fell silent. Kessian studied Vasselis as he watched the dancing and celebration all around him. He felt proud, observing this man sitting among his citizens. So much at ease, feeling neither superior nor under any threat to his authority.

Kessian had seen him grow from a young lad fascinated with the sea to become the ruler of Caraduk. He was the Ascendancy's most powerful ally and fiercest protector of its secrets. Even with him on their side, maintaining the secrecy beyond Westfallen's borders was a constant battle and a dreadful anxiety. If what they hoped turned out to be true, they would need him more than ever in the years to come.

Abruptly, Vasselis stopped tapping his fingers on the table in time to the drums and turned his large brown eyes on Kessian. Vasselis had short dark hair and a soft, friendly face which an unfortunate few would always mistake for a sign of weakness. 'So,' he said. 'Is it them?'

Kessian shrugged. 'It depends how much you believe in omen and how much in science. Even for me, the coincidence is exciting. Mathematically though, we set no store by it.' His face cracked into a smile and he shook his head, trying in vain to dislodge the thrill that strained at every nerve the moment he thought about them. 'They were all born in the same hour to mothers from within and without the Echelon and after almost identical difficult labours. An hour where the rain passed, the clouds broke and the sun burst through. And if you believe people like Andreas Koll and Hesther Naravny, an hour where the birds fell silent and every cow, sheep and pig, every dog and cat, turned its head to the villa.'

'And do you believe it?' asked Vasselis.

Kessian's smile broadened and he drained his goblet. 'I believe there is something in the atmosphere that affected this whole com­munity around the time of the births. I also believe in the theory of mass empathetic outpouring of an emotion like hope or love. I don't believe in omens and portents. At least, I try not to.'

'Ardol, my old friend, you are avoiding my question. Is it them?'

Kessian chewed his lip. He looked out across the forum and the dancing, the crowds of animated talkers and drinkers. The noise of the music and laughter, the strong cooking smells and the harsh light of flame and lantern clamoured around his head. It was a clamour the wine amplified uncomfortably. He wondered when he had started feeling like this.

'I'm old, Marshal Vasselis. I cannot afford for it not to be them.'

 

Chapter 2

838th cycle of God, 25th day of Solasfall 5th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

'Advance in line.'

Captain Elise Kastenas, 2nd legion cavalry, the Bear Claws of Estorr, urged her company to the walk. On the opposite side of the forum, Captain Dina Kell mirrored her and between them, the hastati legionaries marched with shields up in well-spaced ranks, five deep. Rioters fell back ahead of them, all the way across the rubble-strewn space.

Hoofbeats rang out on stone cobbles. Elise looked over her small round shield. Beneath her, her horse was steady. Its armour blinkered it, keeping its focus ahead. The mob was densely packed and deter­mined. Their shouts, threats and taunts echoed from the surrounding buildings. At their backs was the basilica which they had occupied two days before, stoked by the anger of Dornosian rebels. They had refused to give the Gatherers access to the accounts and the revenue chests, triggering the appearance of the legion. And she had been informed by Roberto Del Aglios, son of the Advocate and Master of Sword for the Bear Claws, that there were Gatherers captive inside.

She shook her head. Tax riots. That they should occur here in Cabrius, the usually peaceful capital city of the northern state of Dornos, was symptomatic of problems occurring all too frequently throughout the Estorean Conquord. The Bear Claws were here fresh from the flood harvest massacre in Tundarra. She prayed that this situation would not descend into slaughter.

The front edge of the crowd backed away, compressing the whole. Ripples of anger spread out.

'Step up,' said Kastenas. She held out her sword arm

The company increased pace on its far right, curving out into a crescent formation designed to corral the rioters. On the left, Kell kept her line straight, giving the crowd a single exit in to the central gardens of the city where it could be better contained. In the centre, Del Aglios shouted for the crowd to drop any weapons and kneel with hands behind heads. No one did. There were several hundred rioters and they hooted and spat derision at the Conquord force.

The detachment from the 2nd legion moved on. Discipline was impeccable. Every piece of armour shone with fresh polish. Every glad-ius and spear tip had been honed in the hours before dawn. Elise had known armies break merely on seeing a Conquord advance. This mob of ordinary citizens backed off but refused to disintegrate. They didn't believe the Conquord would attack and they were right. Up to a point.

The stones started to fly when they were within twenty yards. The mood turned uglier. The plaintive shouts of citizens who believed their protest to be just, mingled with the anti-Conquord taunts of those hoping to incite more than just rhetoric.

'Shell!' roared Del Aglios.

Behind the front rank, his hastati raised their long, gold and green rectangular shields over their heads. Stone rattled on metal. There was the clash of ceramics shattering as brightly coloured pottery joined the rain of missiles.

'Steady,' came the powerful voice of the Master of Sword. 'Push in right.'

Horses stamped and snorted. Legionaries rattled swords and spears on the backs of their shields. The pace increased on the left flank. Kastenas ordered her company to the trot. In front of her, the crowd began to bunch towards the exit but it was a reluctant move. Unwilling to give up their blockade of the basilica, the ringleaders shouted for courage and strength. Still the missiles came, primarily from the head of the stairs where Kastenas could see piles of stones. She saw too, the flash of metal and the curve of a bow. She hoped for their sakes that no one in the crowd chose to use those weapons.

The noise in the forum was deafening now. She could see faces in the crowd. Uncertain and fearful. Beginning to waver. Most of these were just innocent citizens whipped into a frenzy by ringleaders who stood at the back and out of immediate danger. She glanced across at Del Aglios. He turned his head, feeling her gaze. He nodded. Time to end this. She drew her sword and raised her arm. Tension flashed through the forum.

'Claws! Move in.' Her arm swept down and the cavalry drove forwards. The infantry took the lead. 'Keep secure. Keep close.'

The front of the crowd began to break and move left. People fled along the line, looking for the way out that Kell and her company were only too pleased to show them. But still the hardcore centre was unmoved. They stood defiant in front of the Conquord flags hanging high from the grand marble columns at the entrance to the basilica. The stones kept coming, more pottery shattered on shields and sprayed shards across the forum.

Contact was made on the bottom step. Kastenas held her cavalry while the infantry shields thumped into those brave enough to con­tinue resistance. The taste of violence was in the air. A knot of men and women stood in front of the barred wooden doors of the basilica. It was a close-sided building, unusual for a Conquord basilica but necessary because of the hurricanes that periodically struck the region.

The crowd surged down the stairs, pushed from behind. Kastenas watched citizens flattened against the implacable shield wall. The legionaries reacted, punching forwards hard, bloodying noses and breaking bones. A spear flew out from the back of the crowd. Kastenas cursed. It fell into the midst of the infantry.

'Break them!' ordered Del Aglios.

Kastenas led her company up the steps. Citizens fell back ahead of her.

'Push, Claws, push.'

Using the butts of spears and the pommels of swords, they moved into the midst of the mob, striking down on those not fast enough to clear the way. The infantry stepped up hard with their shields, still keeping their weapons tucked away. Angry shouts turned to screams of pain and panic. The crowd's cohesion fragmented. People turned tail and ran left. Out in the gardens, the rest of the Bear Claws were waiting for them. Legionaries lashed out, keeping the momentum in their favour. Chanting, driving.

Kastenas rode behind them, seeing them away. Among the stones that still fell, an arrow thudded into her shield. It came from the columns surrounding the doors. She moved her shield to defend her and called her company to do the same. She turned to the tall man striding in the wake of the cavalry. He wore a green-plumed helmet above a heavy-featured face, his cloak streaming out behind him as he walked.

'Exchequer Jhered, arrows at the entrance.' Paul Jhered nodded his understanding. 'Levium,' he barked. 'Shields high. Move.'

He drew his gladius, held his shield in front of his body and led his thirty levium, elite Gatherer warriors, up the steps in the wake of the horses. Here and there, citizens lay on the ground, clutching their faces and bodies where they had been struck. He had no time or sympathy for them and stepped around or over them, not breaking his stride.

He trotted up the dozen marble steps and past the first line of columns decorating the entrance to the basilica. A group of over fifty people stood in front of the doors. The legion had cleared the mass of the crowd exactly as planned, leaving him the ringleaders too stub­born or stupid to run with those they had goaded to action.

Jhered saw spears, blades and bows. But none were armoured. Jhered and his levium had moulded breastplates, greaves and shields over their deep green tunics. Any contest would be uneven. Arrows flew. Three of them. One missed high and wide, two struck the shields of the men either side of him. Jhered moved faster, pausing no more than two yards from the tip of the nearest blade.

'I'll give you those because you're scared. Any further action and I will attack you,' he said.

'We will not yield, Gatherer. Not even to you,' said a man to the fore. He was tall, bearded and powerful.

'Be assured that you will,' said Jhered quietly.

He motioned the levium to the left to hem them in. He saw anxious faces tracking the movement and hoped this could be resolved peacefully. Further left, the cavalry and infantry had moved out of the forum. Soldiers guarded its perimeter.

'The levy is too steep,' said the man. 'I cannot afford to buy seed, I have too little livestock to trade for breeding stock. You take the food from our children's mouths and the citizens from our fields to fight for you. What tax will you collect next time? I already have nothing and no means to make more.'

Jhered stood his shield down. 'My citizens. The levy is set and agreed by your legislature and posted at the beginning of every collection period. Your avenue of complaint about your personal contribution is via your quaestors or your magistrates. But consider first if you are paying too much for feed, for your workers or whether perhaps you indulge too often in your luxuries. We are the Gatherers. We collect.'

'Tax man.' The man spat on the floor. 'You know nothing of our struggle.'

'I understand your concerns. But I will not react to threats. You must talk to your legislators.' He paused to take in the whole crowd. 'You are all law-abiding, hard-working citizens. Any man can see that. Don't let that change. Stand aside.'

The farmer shook his head. 'You leave us no choice.' The group tensed for action.

Jhered nodded his head sharply. Levium to his left and right ran at them, shields battering protesters back. Jhered stepped forward very quickly. His shield struck the farmer's sword arm, stalling his fledg­ling strike. His own gladius point touched the farmer's neck. The man stared at him, undone by the speed of movement and aware of his sudden isolation.

'One day,' said Jhered quietly, 'you will be glad I did not push my blade home. Who would feed your family then? The Conquord provides all that you see around you. And it takes what it must. Yield now and you will walk home from here.'

The farmer frowned and stared him in the eye. 'You will let us go without further action?'

Jhered removed his sword. 'I could add to your ill-feeling by seeing you in a cell for a year but what will that serve? Criminals sit in cells, honest men have no place there. I need you working for, and loyal to, the Conquord. Put up your sword, go back to your family and your farm. What is your name?'

'Jorge Kyinta, sir.'

'And I am Exchequer Paul Jhered. The Conquord will provide. I will come back and speak with you again. And should I find the struggle to meet your levy is genuine, I will pay it for you.'

Jhered watched the fight drain out of the big farmer. He motioned his levium aside and Kyinta led his people from the forum. Jhered smiled before turning his attention to the basilica. The doors were daubed in slogans demanding tax cuts, the end of the Conquord and the death of the Gatherers. It was not the first time.

'Inside,' he ordered the levium. 'Let's clear whoever's in there, get my people and the chests and get out of here. I expect when we're gone the Bear Claws will have an easier ride.'

'Did you mean what you said, sir? About paying the farmer's levy?'

Jhered stared at the young man. At the rank of Addos, he was fresh to the Advocate's prestigious force.

'You will discover, Addos Harin, that I mean everything I say.'

Jhered trotted down the steps of the basilica, handing his shield to an attendant and sheathing his sword. A man destined for greatness was walking in his direction, that destiny not merely a function of the family crest he carried.

'Roberto!' he called. He took off his helmet and tucked it under one arm.

The young Del Aglios waved a hand and came over. 'A satisfactory outcome, Paul?'

'Barely,' said Jhered. He gestured at the rubble covering the forum. 'I worry about these events. Too many of them to ignore.'

'It's an inevitable consequence of expansion.'

Jhered raised his eyebrows. 'It's an inevitable consequence of excessive taxation. You listen to your mother too closely, Roberto and she is starting to embarrass me. My Gatherers suffer resistance and refusal everywhere they travel. We are draining the lifeblood from the Conquord. One day we must pause for breath.'

'She's the Advocate.' Roberto shrugged. 'You know how she views the Advocacy and the future of the Conquord.'

'It is a mantra I repeat in my sleep,' grumbled Jhered. 'Security and wealth through conquest and expansion. The latest revenue chests are not for improvements in the sewers and water courses, I take it?'

Roberto chuckled. 'No, my Lord Exchequer.' The smile was brief. 'Much is happening back in Estorr. The revenue is only part of it. We are recruiting more legions from across the Conquord. My mother is planning on opening a front into Omari.'

Jhered gaped and felt a flash of irritation. 'Dornos is not secure enough to seat a campaign. And she will not risk opening the front from Gosland, will she? Not with the Tsardon border so difficult.' Jhered paused and frowned. 'Are you being groomed for command of this venture?'

Roberto shook his head. 'No, indeed not, though you are closer than you realise. This was my last action for the Bear Claws. And the last action for the 2nd legion in the north.'

A thrill warmed Jhered's heart. 'You are being given your own command.'

'Two legions, two alae. From raw recruit to trained legion. I won't see action for two years at least, but still.'

Jhered could see the delight and he gripped Roberto's shoulder hard. 'Congratulations. If I may say, it's about time.'

'Thank you. I'm sure my mother will be happy not to have to hear you go on about it any more. I am indebted to your support.'

'I wouldn't have spoken up if I didn't believe you capable. Gen­eral.' Both men laughed. 'Sounds good, doesn't it? We'll drink to it tonight. She has plans for you, I am sure.'

'Oh, yes,' said Roberto. 'She certainly does. It's the big one. She plans to open a triple front in Tsard in four years.'

Jhered stopped, stunned. He grabbed Roberto's arm and moved him to a quieter spot, away from prying eyes and cocked ears. Jhered felt his heart thumping and knew he had to speak.

'She must not do this,' he hissed. 'This is foolhardy. Gosland might be a jewel of Conquord stability but Atreska is too new. There will be civil war there, I stake my life upon it. Four years is too short a time. We do not have the strength to take on the kingdom for a decade at least. She will rip the heart from the citizenry. Roberto . . . you know I am right.'

'Then you must speak to her yourself, Paul,' said Del Aglios sharply. 'I have only so much influence over my mother and you are too often in the field. She will listen to you like no one else.'

Jhered blew out his cheeks and shook his head. 'Tsard. She thinks us greater than we are. She might as well attack Sirrane . . .' He paused, feeling suddenly hot. 'God-embrace-us-all. Sirrane will not stand silent if we go to war in Omari and Tsard simultaneously. She has diplomats speaking to them already, I trust?'

'Marshal Defender Vasselis is leading the team,' confirmed Roberto.

'Good,' said Jhered. 'At least we have the best chance of success. We cannot afford to lose the little we have gained from them.'

'I know,' said Roberto. 'Talk to my mother. There are other territories more vulnerable, smaller, that we should tackle first.'

'I will, young Del Aglios, I will. As soon as I can.'

Jhered turned to check on his levium at the basilica, feeling the sands already running short.

 

Chapter 3

838th cycle of God, 40th day of Dusasrise

5th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

A thick layer of frost carpeted the garden path of the Solastro Palace. An inappropriate name since the season of harvest and sun had given way to the freezing depths of a particularly bitter dusas. Built on the tripartite border between the countries of Estorea, Phaskar and Neratharn, the palace was the seat of the Conquord outside Estorr and a symbol of its scale and strength.

Herine Del Aglios, Advocate of the Estorean Conquord, walked as easily as she dared across the treacherous ground. Beside her, Paul Jhered and Arvan Vasselis were welcome support. And where her fur trimmed knee-highs slithered, their heavy metal-shod boots rendered the frost to crumbs. All three were wrapped in heavy woollen cloaks of Conquord green, edged with the white and gold fur of Tundarran mountain lions.

Above, the sky was slate grey and coming on to snow. It would be a heavy and prolonged fall. Herine shivered. The short walk back to the palace cloisters from the Prima Chamber in the dark of evening would be singularly unpleasant. Jhered seemed to be entertained by her discomfort. She looked up into his looming features. His ice-blue eyes sparkled with ill-suppressed humour. There was frost in the hairs of his prominent nose and thick eyebrows.

'You are about to tell me that back in Tundarra you would still be wearing sleeveless shirts beneath your togas,' she said, gripping his arm tight with her mittened hand.

Jhered laughed. 'Not quite,' he said. 'Just comment on the fragility of the average Estorean constitution. Or Caraducian, for that matter.'

On her other side, Vasselis snorted. 'I'd survive bare-chested in the

ice longer than you, Jhered. The south of my country is as bleak as any mountain top in yours when dusas calls.'

'Listen to you two,' said Herine, shaking her head. 'Posturing like schoolboys. Don't do that inside the Prima. I don't need your appointments questioned along with everything else.'

'You will listen to them, won't you, Herine?' said Jhered. 'Their pleas for caution and time are not mere bleatings.'

Herine blew twin clouds from her nostrils. 'Yes, and like the sheep in the fields we hear them every day and the sound never changes.' She relented. 'But yes, I will listen and of course I will do what I can. But I will not change my plans. The Conquord's future must be secured.'

'It is what we all desire,' said Vasselis. 'Well, almost all of us.'

Another chuckle from Jhered. 'Do I detect a barb aimed at our esteemed Order Chancellor?'

'You really shouldn't keep on upsetting her, you know, Arvan,' said Herine, feeling the warmth of mischief within her.

Vasselis sighed. 'With all due respect to your position as figurehead of the Order of Omniscience, my Advocate, Chancellor Koroyan is a sharp pain where I sit. And for you too, I have no doubt. Her desire for powers separate from the laws of state worries me. And we all know what her beloved Armour of God are capable of when our backs are turned.'

'Oh dear,' said Jhered. ‘I had heard she'd been worrying about certain parts of Caraduk again. What heresy is it she thinks you are hiding from her?'

‘I only wish I knew,' said Vasselis, missing the humour in Jhered's question. 'She has her Readers and Speakers over me like a bad nettle rash. They ask questions about ancient history while they should be tending to those many citizens who need the guidance of their ministry. I do not like her constant suspicion.'

'Oh, Arvan, stop being so stuffy. You are so exemplary in heading her off,' said Herine smiling up at him and seeing his face relax a little. 'And since you have nothing to hide, and my unswerving backing, please don't deny us our entertainment by making me stop her. She goes such a wonderful colour when she is embarrassed by her own actions in public'

Advocacy guards on the steps of the Prima Chamber snapped to attention. The three of them climbed the swept marble steps to the colonnaded entrance and walked through the entrance hall in which stood busts of every Advocate since the First Cycle of God and the establishment of the Estorean Conquord.

It was a bright hall, lit by enormous vaulted windows along both sides and warmed by huge fires in six grates. Nonetheless, Herine found it depressing rather than glorious.

'Don't let me end up here too soon,' she muttered.

Aides swarmed around them, taking cloaks, furs, gloves and hats and straightening their togas. They paused and sat to change into more formal sandals and each of them attended to their hair while mirrors were held in front of them.

'Would you like me to enter ahead of you?' asked Vasselis.

Herine shrugged. 'It really doesn't matter. The assembly believes I favour Caraduk, whatever you and I do. Come on. But let's not make a song and dance. Just keep on talking to me.'

Ahead of them, the doors to the Prima Chamber stood closed. They towered forty feet to the vaulted ceiling, their white-painted wooden panels carved with the crest of the Estorean Conquord. The doors were pulled open on their approach, giving them their first view of the chamber. Modelled on the senate building in Estorr, four stepped marble benches ran down its length, left and right of a car­peted path that led to the Advocate's seat. Behind her seat were six of her senior advisers, waiting with every scrap of information she might need and to record every word spoken. The chamber itself was beautifully warm from the hypocaust running beneath it. The bright painted walls and ranks of delegates in white and green togas made it feel as comfortable as a solastro afternoon.

There were upwards of three hundred delegates in the chamber awaiting the Advocate's arrival. Marshal Defenders of each territory were present, along with their delegations of aediles and propraetors. Further up the chamber, the Chancellor of the Order of Omniscience, Felice Koroyan, sat on the left with her inner circle of four High Speakers. On the right, the praetors and consuls of the Conquord were arranged in order of seniority. Jhered's twelve-strong Gatherer council was on the bottom bench below them.

Ranks of faces turned towards her. Herine Del Aglios strode along the deep green carpet with her head high, nodding left and right at the assembly. Once a year, they met like this, the leaders of the territories all in one place to set the agenda for the next cycle to be administered centrally from Estorr. And every year, the agenda was much the same. Herine suppressed a smile at the thought of sheep bleating.

Every voice had stilled by the time she reached her seat and sat down to look back at the assembly. Jhered and Vasselis took their places and she noted the envious looks cast by more than a few in their direction. Honour and service meant favour. So it had always been.

'My friends, welcome,' she said, her voice carrying clear across the chamber. 'It is a cold day outside but the glory of the Conquord warms us in here. And I would take such warmth beyond the Conquord's present borders.' She waited while the rumble of con­versation died. 'First, I will hear reports from you all concerning the state of your armies and navies, both standing and marching. I will then outline any increases necessary in those forces and finally will take questions before we get on to mundane matters of administration.

'Marshal Defender Katrin Mardov, please, the state of the Gesternan armed forces. The floor is yours.'

Herine leaned back and watched Katrin rise. A great woman. She settled in her cushions and prepared to listen.

Hesther Naravny blew on her hands and rested them on the tree trunk. The orchard's owner, Lucius Endrade, stood nearby, wrapped in furs against the wind that howled across the open plateau from the sea.

‘I wish you'd told me sooner,' said Hesther.

‘I didn't think it serious,' he said. 'Just frost burn.'

Hesther turned and looked around the orange and lemon grove. Every single tree was encased in a lumber box tied with burlap against the onset of the short chill season Westfallen always experi­enced around this time of the year. Three of them had been partially unboxed for Hesther to examine. Lucius said that thirty more were afflicted. All in the same area of the orchard.

'It was never likely to be that, was it?' she said rather tartly.

Snow began to fall and her mood cooled with every flake. She glanced at the young Ascendants grouped near her. She had brought them up here at the insistence of Ardol Kessian, who had thought it a good opportunity to see if any of them evidenced Land Warden abilities. All she wanted right now was to load them back on the cart and get them back to the villa. They'd begun by running around screeching and throwing snowballs but the cold had got into them quickly. Now, the four of them stood in a huddle, with hands in gloves and bodies covered in scarves, fur-lined leather coats and woollen hats. Blue noses protruded.

'So what is it?' asked Lucius. He had been a Land Warden himself in his early years, much to the delight of his father. The ability had gone before he was eight.

'In a moment.' She smiled at the Ascendants. They were getting on for five years old now and their core abilities were developing well. No sign of a crossover yet, though. 'Gorian, you're the most likely. Want to try?'

Gorian beamed at her, dropped a sneering look to his companions that Hesther didn't much like and walked over.

'It doesn't make you better than them,' said Hesther. 'But this is more like when you put your hands on a sick animal. Do you understand?'

Gorian nodded.

'Good. So I don't want to see that look again, do you understand?' 'Yes,' said Gorian, almost inaudibly.

It would have to do. 'All right. Now, put your hands on the tree trunk. You'll have to take your gloves off. Here, I'll hold them for you. Don't drop them in the snow. Tell me what you feel.'

'It's cold and rough, Hesther,' said Gorian.

There was a snorted giggle from behind. Gorian looked round.

'Shush, Ossacer or you'll be next.'

'He can't do it if I can't,' said Gorian.

Hesther raised her eyebrows. 'He might, you know. He is a Pain Teller and if he can sense where people hurt he might be able to find where the trees are hurt.'

'He can't.' Gorian was dismissive.

Hesther frowned. 'Concentrate. Try and feel below the bark. Like you would if a dog was hurt and you wanted to find out where so the surgeon could help it.'

Gorian was silent for a moment. His little hands, white with the cold, searched the bark. She saw him squeeze his eyes shut as they had been taught, to help their concentration. She smiled, love for her sister's child warming her. He, like all of them, was exhibiting a great deal of early promise. And even at such tender years, they understood so much. There was something special about them, everyone could feel it. How special was yet to be determined.

Eventually, Gorian turned back to her and took his hands from the bark. 'It must be dead. I can't feel it inside.'

Hesther kissed him on top of the head and handed him his gloves. 'Never mind, darling. But it's not dead, just sick.'

'It's dead,' Gorian was quite adamant.

Hesther stroked his cheek to turn his face to hers and knelt in front of him. 'You tried your hardest and that's all anyone can ask of you. Next time, I'm sure you'll feel what I feel.' He stared at her, furious. 'Don't be angry. It's all right. You did nothing wrong.'

She stood and looked at the other Ascendants. She could feel Gorian's anger and it made her decision for her. 'All right. It's too cold up here. Get yourselves back to the cart and we'll join you in a moment. Go on, Gorian. Find the mule an apple in the sack, why don't you?'

He brightened and trotted off towards the cart. The others went quickly in his wake, no doubt to argue about who would feed the animal and be first to burrow beneath the blankets for some warmth.

'Right,' she said and put her own frozen hands on the tree to make sure of her diagnosis.

It was never good to feel a sick plant or tree. She felt nausea through her own body but she had learned to accept it over the years. A healthy trunk would imbue her with a vibrancy. This one, though, was dull and the bleakness of its energy was shocking. Up in the branches there was still health but it was being poisoned from deep inside. She'd seen it before once or twice. She took her hands away and slid on her gloves gratefully. Lucius looked at her.

'Hopefully we aren't too late though the problem is embedded deep in this one. The soil must be too acidic in this area. You have to balance it out. Today.'

'You're sure? It's not a fungal infection?' He gestured at the bole of the tree where a cluster of tenacious mushrooms had managed to grow inside the box.

'That's why you brought me up here. It's acid, not fungus. Trust me.'

'You know I do,' said Lucius.

'You'll save them,' she said. 'And even if you don't, you need to balance the soil to stop it leaching elsewhere.'

Lucius made to reply but a loud and angry child's voice cut across the orchard. Hesther raised her eyebrows.

'Come on,' she said. 'Time to go before the children freeze to death.'

Hesther hurried back towards the cart. All the Ascendants were gathered near the mule's head. The animal looked on mournfully while they argued. But it wasn't about the apple. She heard snatches of accusation and taunt. Quite without warning, Gorian's hand, ungloved, whipped out. She heard the slap like a whip crack in the crisp air. Ossacer screamed and fell to the ground.

'Gorian!' she bellowed. 'Come here.'

'But—'

'Right now!'

He dragged himself over reluctantly, she speeding her pace to meet him. She grabbed the errant hand.

'He said I couldn't ever do it,' said Gorian, almost beside himself with infantile rage.

'Do what, exactly?'

'Feel the tree.'

'And what had you said to him already?' 'Nothing.'

'I don't believe you,' she said, exasperated and irritable with cold. 'He never starts it, does he? Now you listen to me, Gorian. You never, never hit your brothers or sister. You never, never hit anyone. And if I ever see or hear of you hitting someone again, I will stop you learning.'

He tried to retreat, his eyes suddenly frightened, his face crumbling towards tears. She held his hand firm.

'Do you understand me?' He nodded, his eyes welling up. 'Then learn to behave yourself. Now go and say sorry to Ossacer and get on the cart. I don't want to hear you until we get back to the villa.'

She let him go and stood, sighing.

'Little boy temper,' said Lucius. 'He's just cold.'

Hesther shook her head. 'I'm sure you're right.'

Herine had to keep her expression deliberately neutral and her body outwardly relaxed. From either side of the Prima Chamber, shouts were exchanged and papers waved. Men and women stood to point and accuse. Their ire was directed at Marshal Defender Thomal Yuran of Atreska. The Conquord's latest member was already a controversial figure with his country simmering on the edge of civil strife. And Herine's announcement of planning for future campaigns had brought him angrily to his feet.

She waited and watched while he shouted back at his abusers or looked to her for an order for silence. Something he should already have learned she would not give. It was his words that had provoked this brief outrage and it was he who was riding the tiger. Eventually, the din subsided enough for Herine to raise a languid hand. All bar Yuran took their seats. He stood proud, his large brown eyes blazing from beneath his greying hair. He looked uncomfortable in a formal toga, clothing not indigenous to Atreska.

'Marshal Yuran, it was lax of me not to welcome you officially to the Prima Chamber of the Estorean Conquord. My apologies. Welcome.'

Ironic cheers and applause. The atmosphere relaxed and a brief smile crossed the Marshal's face. Next to him, his Estorean consul spoke some encouraging words.

'Thank you, my Advocate,' he said.

'It was also perhaps lax of me not to brief you earlier of our intentions although I must say that the same information has not brought my esteemed Marshals of Gestern and Gosland to their feet in protest.'

'With all due respect, my Advocate, the positions of Gestern and Gosland are not as ours. We have just gained accession to the Conquord, following a bitter campaign against it. A campaign in which legions from all our former neighbours were sent against us. There are those in my country whose memories will be long and whose loyalty will be hard to gain.'

He paused as another ripple of chatter ran around the chamber.

'My honoured members of the Prima Chamber,' he continued. 'I apologise for the nature of my earlier outburst but not for its subject. Atreska and its citizens are only just beginning to accept the sight of the Conquord crest and its legions in every corner of their once independent kingdom. They are only just accepting me as a Marshal Defender of the Conquord in place of their king. Many are still loyal to him and would have gladly followed him into death.

'Our internal problems are unique in Conquord history. And put­ting aside my personal view on the sense of an invasion of Tsard, you must understand Atreska's close links to that kingdom.'

'Actually,' said Herine. 'I would be very much interested in your views on the invasion. From Exchequer Jhered's and Marshal Vasselis's words, it would seem you are not alone in your objections. Please, since you are on your feet, speak.'

Yuran bowed. 'Thank you, my Advocate.' He drew himself up a little taller and embraced the chamber with an open-armed gesture. 'Honoured delegates, there are none here with more knowledge of the Tsardon mind than myself. Tsardon warriors and the steppe cavalry fought with us against the Conquord. We share beliefs, faiths, familial histories and trade. We are friends. And they are naturally desperately concerned at the expansion of the Conquord to encompass Atreska.

'You are all aware of the constant strife along the Gosland border and it will inevitably filter south to ours. Currently, our assurances of peace and continued trade are accepted but when word reaches them of the recruiting and movement of Conquord forces then we will become the enemy. The border forts being erected are creating suspicion and limiting trade in their wake. It feeds tension in my country and affects our profits though not, I notice, our levy demands.

'The Kingdom of Tsard is huge and sprawling and shares borders with Kark and Sirrane, just as the Conquord does. But every empire has a finite size. They know they have reached theirs. I believe we have reached ours. Invading Tsard, or even threatening invasion would prove disastrous. The country is too big, the people too numerous and the terrain too difficult. They are proud and they are fierce and we in Atreska will be the first to fall victim. Because there is nothing more they hate than a friend who they feel has turned against them.

'Please, listen to me. Be satisfied. If you must expand, do so north where the primitive countries would benefit from the rule of the Conquord. Tsard will not, and neither will we prosper by attacking the kingdom. Indeed, developing trade with them is an infinitely more profitable way forward. I need help from you to stabilise my country. I do not need an invasion force marching across my land to a campaign that will inevitably end in defeat.'

The volume of comment had been growing steadily through his speech and as he sat the hoots of derision and the claims of his dishonour of Conquord strength grew to a clamorous level.

'Enough!' Herine stood. Silence fell quickly. ‘I will not sit while you bandy insults. Take it outside into the snow. There is not complete accord about the Advocacy plans to invade Tsard as there is for our campaign into Omari. You have heard the arguments. I am the Advocate of this Conquord. I speak for you but I do not dictate to you. We will vote as the law allows when a clear split is evident.' She waved one of her propraetors forward to conduct the vote and sat down.

There was a curious, almost childish excitement that accompanied a free vote. That hint of risk that the will of the Advocacy would not be carried. It was rare but not unheard of to experience defeat, though rarely over matters of expansion. Herine felt the vote would be close yet carry in her favour.

But the shows of hands and the quiet in the chamber turned her confidence to ash. She shifted in her seat and regarded the propraetor closely as the hands were shown again and recounted. She was presented with the results and her heart began to beat hard in her chest. Gosland, Atreska, Dornos, Gestern. All had come out against her. But so had Tundarra and Phaskar. She had to be grateful that Marshal Vasselis had eventually sided with her and brought his Caraduk delegation with him. It had saved her from embarrassment but had given her no certainty. And now she would have to rely on that most capricious of minds.

'We are split,' she said to a flurry of voices. 'Under God the Omniscient we are split. The majority in favour of Tsardon expan­sion is too small on which to proceed. And so as the law allows, there will be a decision made under God by those appointed by me to divine the word and rule of God. Felice, the floor is yours.'

She gestured at Chancellor Felice Koroyan, who rose gracefully to her feet. The Order did not vote on matters of state, holding an advisory brief until a split occurred. It was a position the Senate had always respected.

'My Advocate, I am surprised at the equality of this vote and really have no decision to make. The Order spreads through education of its wisdom throughout the Conquord and beyond. But it spreads more quickly through conquest. We do not demand others follow our faith—' Vasselis coughed loudly '—we do not demand that others follow our faith blindly but merely seek the opportunity to open the eyes of all peoples to the glory and mercy of the Omniscient god. The quickest way to ensure stability in Atreska is to accelerate the spread of the Omniscient through a people clinging on to allegiances with Tsardon faiths that are little more than false idol worship.

'And the quickest way to break them from their Tsardon past is to make Tsard a member of the Conquord and bring them all under the embrace of God. Expansion is not just a desire of the Conquord. Surely it is our duty. We move in favour of the Advocacy.'

As the cheers and boos rose to a crescendo, Herine saw Yuran place his head in his hands. He would see the path soon enough. She turned to nod her thanks to Chancellor Koroyan, expecting to see her waiting for this acknowledgement. She was not. Instead she was glaring with undisguised disgust at Marshal Defender Vasselis.

Herine shook her head. One day. One day, when she could pause for breath, she resolved to find out what on God's earth was going on. Until then, she had new armies to build and a war to plan.

And Tsard would be a most challenging enemy.

Chapter 4

842nd cycle of God, 10th day of Solasrise

9th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Master Dina Kell's cavalry company were riding hard through sparse woodland to the eastern end of the valley while Pavel Nunan led three hundred of the 2nd legion light infantry at a dead run to the nearer west end. Triarii were moving to scale the steep southern slope to block off any agile escapees.

Atreskan rebels were attacking a small fort just ten miles from the Tsardon border. The fort was a messenger post, security barracks and dormitory for the road gangs building the Conquord highway to the border. It was also isolated, tucked into the head of a densely wooded valley. The 2nd legion, the Bear Claws of Estorr, had been marching to join the muster, prior to the launch of the Tsardon campaign the following genasrise. There they were to secure the borders, train for the campaign and oversee the building of the army's artillery through the cold dusas season. Around them, the army would build to its initial fighting strength of almost thirty thousand.

General Gesteris had warned them all about the rise in rebel activity in this region as civil war spread through Atreska. The legions themselves were hardly vulnerable but their supply lines were. And when they had seen the smoke rise from two miles away, the General had given vent to his fury. His decisions had been made without hesitation.

'These are not citizens loyal to the Conquord.' Nunan reminded them as they ran. 'These are traitors to Estorea and to God. Their smiles are false, their words are traps. They will cower when they see us, and it is right they should be afraid. We are the Bear Claws. And we will crush them.'

Nunan breasted the wide valley mouth. Woodland hemmed them in on both sides as they descended the sharp gradient. His leading hundred had bows, his remaining two hundred, javelins. Each had a gladius and a light round shield in addition to their scale armour. Ahead, the valley floor was wide and rock-strewn. At the bottom, the river rose from its underground course and it was along this river that the road was being built. The fort lay a mile away towards the valley's eastern end, on a natural plateau. It was burning, the black smoke spiralling high into a cloudy sky.

Down by the fort, he could see a mass of people moving. Hundreds. On the apron that ran down to the road, bodies littered the ground. Here and there, pockets of Conquord troops fought in the burning buildings, but they wouldn't last long. Wagons and materials lay scattered across the valley. The river was stained red and carried the bodies of men, oxen and horses. This had been a devastating attack by a large rebel force.

'Advance!' yelled Nunan.

He ran down the road, hoping he had timed it right for Kell and her cavalry to pen them in from the other end of the valley. Before too long, the thunder of his infantry at his heels was heard, the flash of their armour in the sunlight seen. Shouts echoed up into the sky. Soldiers, archers and riders gathered back on the road, streaming away from their attacks on the fort.

A rugged fighting line emerged from the smoke and dust. Riders formed up against Nunan's left flank. At a rough estimate, he faced around four hundred. Not ideal odds but around him were battle-hardened citizens. Ahead of him were disorganised irregulars, tired at the end of a long, hard action they had thought won. But the Conquord would prevail.

'Fighting spread,' called Nunan as they closed to a quarter of a mile. 'Archers, target the riders.'

His orders were relayed across the infantry. Soon, the archers had overtaken him and were working up to slightly higher ground. Around him, his infantry formed a running line over thirty yards wide, spanning the road and the rough ground either side. At two hundred yards he saw enemy archers preparing to stretch their bows. At a hundred and fifty, a little too early, they began to fire. At a hundred, the enemy riders moved to their attack.

'Keep pace.'

Nunan held his shield in front of his face and hefted a javelin in his hand. Arrows whipped by overhead. He heard them thump into wood and flesh. To his left, the enemy cavalry were riding hard. His archers stopped. They fired. The volley crossed the gap and fell among the enemy horsemen. Man and beast fell in their midst but they did not break. Another volley fell. And another. The charge faltered and reformed. On they came again, closing.

Nunan was forty yards from the standing line of rebels. He saw stolen Conquord armour, Atreskan crests and a mess of weapons and helmets. He saw fear in their eyes.

'Javelins.'

Nunan opened his stance and threw. Short spears thronged the air. In front of him, shields moved above heads. The missiles fell, boun­cing, piercing, the sound like hail on an iron roof. Men and women screamed. Arrows flew in reply. Nunan closed his shield, a shaft thumping hard into the Conquord crest in front of him. The tip came through, grazing his forearm. He took his second javelin from behind his shield.

'Javelins.'

Again the short powerful weapons crashed into the enemy ranks. And this time, the 2nd legion crashed in right after them. The noise was extraordinary, the pressure suddenly immense. Nunan leaned all his weight into his shield and ran straight through his first man, trampling his body. The protruding shaft snapped away. Left and right, his infantry were with him, roaring the Conquord on.

Slowed now, he found himself deep in the heart of the enemy ranks. He battered his shield ahead and left, feeling it slap against his enemy's. In front, an open flank. He buried his gladius in it to the hilt and kicked out at the falling body even as he dragged his shield back to the guard. He stood for a heartbeat. Right, he lost a man to a downward strike that drove hard into the citizen's neck. It was the rebel's last blow. Nunan's blade struck over his shield and took the defenceless man through the throat.

'Claws, drive on!'

His cry was taken up along the short line. He heard the neigh of horses and the stamp of hooves. There was another surge of noise and the multiple thud of sword on shield. Nunan glanced left. The remnants of the rebel cavalry had hit the side of the Conquord line.

Infantry was streaming in from the back to attack. Archers were charging down the slope, bows discarded, blades ready.

A sword came at him, high and carving down. He took the blow on his shield. The impact sent pins and needles along his arm. He stepped back a pace. Nunan wasn't a small man but the rebel was huge. His blade was an ancient longsword held in two hands. He was crisscrossed with scars, heavily bearded and wore a rusting hauberk, broken in a dozen places. Others clustered around him.

'To me,' ordered Nunan.

The man struck again. He was quick. It was a battering blow on to the top of his shield, trying to drive his guard down. Nunan had to trust he'd been heard. That second blow had badly jolted his shoul­der. The rebel raised his sword over his head a third time. Nunan thrust his shield forward hard and fast, catching the man in his chest. He hardly moved but had no room to strike down, sweeping his sword around instead to block Nunan's blade, stabbing through waist-high.

He was a careless fighter and his blade gouged a rent in another rebel's side but his power kept it moving fast enough to stop his enemy. Nunan angled his gladius to deflect and jabbed his shield in again. Higher this time, bloodying the rebel's nose. The man stepped back, winding his sword up behind him, missing another rebel by a breath. Nunan brought gladius and shield together, catching the blade and forcing it down and left.

Nunan stepped up, cracking his shield into the rebel's ribs, keeping him off balance. The man leant briefly on his sword to avoid stum­bling. Nunan saw the gap and punched his gladius up under the man's ribcage and into his heart. The rebel gasped and swayed backward, a tree falling on saplings.

'Come on!' roared Nunan. A horn blared across the valley. Kell. Right on time. 'Push, Bear Claws, push.'

Nunan drove on, heedless of the pain in his shoulder and the numbness spreading down his arm. In a few blows he could barely lift his shield but the infantry around him kept him safe. The rebels were wavering. Already he could hear the shouts of alarm, and through the tangle of limb and steel he could see a few breaking away from the back.

The chaos slowly resolved. Captains dragged their citizens into line and the shield wall formed. Men stepped in front of him and pushed him gently back. The 2nd legion closed ranks and moved relentlessly forward in close formation, opening their shields to stab out, closing again to punch ahead. The survivors among the rebel horsemen had already put heel to flank and were racing away behind him. His archers returned to their bows and the thunder of Kell's cavalry was loud in his ears. He looked over the heads of his people. 'Hold!' he bellowed.

They stopped. The rebels paused, uncertain and trapped, hoping for the chance to surrender. But for them there would be no mercy. His infantry paced backwards in perfect order. He heard Dina Kell's voice loud and a hundred lances were levelled. Realisation ran through the remaining rebels like disease. They panicked. Ahead an implacable shield formation. Behind, galloping cavalry.

Nunan spat on the ground and turned away, finding he had no desire to look.

 

Praetor Lena Gorsal wiped her hands down her tunic and walked to the open west face of the basilica. It was a glorious day in Gull's Ford, a small Atreskan town a hundred miles west of the Tsardon border. The air was filled with endeavour. Tucked away from the new highway being built to the south, it was sometimes difficult to believe that her country of Atreska had descended into civil conflict or that the Conquord was mustering for war. They had healthy trade from east and west and found the whole idea of a new campaign simply bad for business.

Neither she nor any citizen in Gull's Ford wanted any part in it. Whoever held sway in Haroq City was of complete indifference to most of them, people who had not even seen the realities of battle during Atreska's fall to the Conquord five years back. They had welcomed the Reader of the Order of Omniscience easily enough and for his part he had proved a sound counsellor and a fine teacher. Many had converted. Those that didn't found their differences respected.

The calls that had brought her to the forum had an edge of urgency. There were riders, about twenty of them at first count. Tsardon from the Tarit Plain, where the steppe cavalry kept up a strong presence in the face of the Conquord's fortifications along the Atreskan and Goslander borders. They all dismounted at her approach and she smiled as she recognised their leader.

'Sentor Rensaark,' she said in an Atreskan dialect they both spoke fluently. 'It's a long way for a ride on a hot solas day.'

'We are camping not far from here,' said the sentor, a gruff man with cold eyes.

He and all his men were garbed in light wools. Scale armour was bound to their saddles. Swords were strapped to their sides. 'Trading?' she asked.

Rensaark shook his head. 'Speaking,' he said.

'I understood the border to be closed to those not trading,' she said. 'How did you get past?'

'A little money can make men blind,' he said.

'So speak,' she said. 'May I offer you a drink? Or at least shelter from the heat for your men and horses while we talk.'

'Thank you. Very gracious.'

'It is the only way to treat friends,' she said.

'Yes,' said the sentor stiffly.

They moved back into the relative cool of the basilica. Gorsal showed him to her office and had watered wine brought in, along with oranges and rare beef. Rensaark was uncomfortable. He licked his lips often and a frown was stamped on his face as if he was remembering something unpleasant. Gorsal didn't know what to expect but found herself a little nervous as she invited him to say what he had come to say.

'These are difficult times,' said Rensaark. 'We have seen old allies turn against us and the Conquord reach out its fist to swat others. But even in the midst of conquest, Atreska has remained our friend. Marshal Yuran is a great man, keen to maintain his allegiance with our king but his eye is drawn by the promise of Conquord riches.'

'There are many in Atreska who share his view but take more direct action than mere verbal protest,' said Gorsal.

'I know. And we are grateful. For five years we have hoped for rebellion. We have helped where we can but have had to look to our own security and armies. Gosland is like a stranger to us now. Their rulers may as well have been born in togas, sitting on columns, so lost are they to the Conquord. But Atreska, we thought, was not. Now we are not so sure.'

'The civil war still thrives,' said Gorsal. 'We do not want war with Tsard. We've had peace for too long.'

Rensaark nodded. 'But you do not wish to dismiss the Conquord either.'

'Trade is good,' admitted Gorsal.

'The time has come to make a choice.' Rensaark's tone was as cold as his eyes. 'Estorea is building armies along the Gosland and Atreskan borders, the like of which they have never assembled before. Their best generals are in command. Their finest legions lead the muster. Not thirty miles from here, the Bear Claws have slaugh­tered true Atreskans who got in their way. You cannot have failed to see the smoke on your horizon. In the face of their own faith they are burning the bodies of those who oppose them.

'They are coming to war with Tsard, and Atreska must chose its allegiance and its loyalty. There can be no split. Not any more.'

Gorsal swallowed, feeling prickly with anxiety. 'What do you mean? We deny you nothing. We are your friends and always will be. But Haroq City is where our rulers make their laws. I am a loyal Atreskan. I will abide by them.'

'It is a respectful position and one I understand,' said Rensaark. He rose. 'It is in friendship that I give you this warning, praetor. The moment any Conquord soldier places his foot on our soil, we are at war. And that war will include Atreska. None of you will be safe, despite their promises. All will suffer in this pointless conflict. And I will do what I am ordered.'

'I don't understand,' said Gorsal.

Rensaark was at the door. 'It is not too late. Atreska must rise up against the folly marching across its lands. You must turn from the Conquord. They have not the strength to beat us. Stop them from trying. We cannot talk to Yuran; we cannot gain access to him. You can. You are his subjects and he must hear you. Please, Lena, make him see. Before war makes evil out of us all.'

Gorsal stared at the door for an age after he was gone, trying to calm her heart and the shaking in her hands.

 

Ardol Kessian sat on a grassy slope with Arducius, the vista of Westfallen laid out below them. It was impossible to feel old on a day like today. Golden corn swaying in a light sea-breeze. The orchards packed with ripe citrus and rich colour. The herds of sheep and cattle grazing contentedly or pigs slumbering in the shade. And the vibrant sounds of children's laughter mingled with the distant wash of waves on the shore, the clank of hammer on steel and nail, the sawing of blade on wood.

The young Ascendant was sitting with Kessian under a parasol which shielded them from the worst of the sun's blanket heat. A pitcher of water was at their feet and a half-eaten plate of fruit lay between them. School was over for the day, but for the Ascendants learning was not.

'What do you feel when you test the sky, Arducius?' asked Kessian.

Arducius was a supreme Wind Harker already and not yet nine. Almost as accurate as Kessian himself, he had shown the aptitude from a very early age. Kessian would always remember the first moments fondly. Arducius had not known how to communicate what he felt in the weather and the climate as it modulated around him. It caused him to react in absurdly practical ways. Walking out in his rain leathers on a hot solas day. That was before he worked out the difference in time between his sensing of a weather front and its arrival. Kessian chuckled.

'What's funny?' asked Arducius.

‘I was just thinking about you strolling the streets, sweating in your leather cape and staring at the sky, wondering why it was blue.'

Arducius laughed too, a peal that made heads rise to see. 'They used to say to me, "rain tomorrow, is it?"'

'And you'd get angry and claim it would be today. At five you could look so furious.'

'And you all laughed at me,' said Arducius.

Kessian ruffled his hair. 'Still, they don't laugh now, do they?'

'No,' agreed Arducius. 'Most of them look at me, at all of us, like they are expecting something.'

'Well, they are. We all are.'

And there it was. Eight years old and brilliant in their individual talents. But of the rest . . . the multiple abilities, the elemental manipulation. Not a sign. The Echelon had studied and dissected every one of the elder Gorian's writings, looking for cracks in his theories. They could find none. But the weight was growing in his mind that they were just theories. No concrete evidence existed anywhere.

The questions were beginning to be asked. Whether these four of the ninth strand of the Ascendancy were really the first. Whether the waiting was set to go on. Every day, Kessian prayed to be allowed to live to see it happen and every day he could feel God tugging him harder towards a return to the earth. He had no belief that the recent births into the potential tenth strand would amount to anything. Others were carrying children now. He would not live to see any of them grow to maturity. He was one hundred and forty now and he felt it with every creak of his bones and every missed beat of his heart.

'Are you all right, Father Kessian?' asked Arducius.

Kessian forced a smile. 'Yes, of course. Now, back to your lesson. What do you feel? Tell me.'

'I feel the wind as if it is passing through my head and body,' said Arducius. 'I can smell a drop of rain that has fallen three hundred miles away, carried here on the breeze. I can feel high into the air to see when the temperature will fall or rise. I can feel the thickness of cloud and tell you how much rain will fall from it. I can look at the surface of the sea and know a storm is coming.' Arducius shrugged. 'Like always. Just like you.'

There was a note of despondency in Arducius's voice and Kessian couldn't blame him. The weight of expectation was growing on their young shoulders. And it would be nothing when compared to the wave of disappointment that would sweep over them if they did not meet those expectations.

'I'm sorry, Arducius,' said Kessian.

'What for?'

'That this has proved to be your fate.'

Arducius frowned. 'Yes but loads of us in Westfallen have had abilities.'

'But none so well attuned from such an early age. And none on whom have been pinned such hopes.' Kessian sighed. 'It was unfair of us to expect and assume. Though of course, there is still time. Much time.'

Arducius stared at him, his expression revealing his uncertainty before he spoke. 'But we are better than all the others at our age. Even you, right?'

Kessian nodded. 'Oh yes, yes, you are.'

A child will always give you hope and Kessian clung gratefully to this tendril. Down below them, Gorian was sitting with Gwythen Terol, two Herd Masters together. Gorian was learning the biology of a cow in minute detail. As ever, the animal calmed when he approached. And like always with him, and only him, the rest of the herd were gathered like an audience, chewing and staring. The animals knew.

But what did they know and why on God's earth was it that he couldn't make his charges take the next step? It had to be soon. It had to be.

 

 

Chapter 5

843rd cycle of God, 35th day of Solasrise

10th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

The pall of smoke was thickening over Gull's Ford. Flames from two dozen fires intensified the heat of the day. A heat haze shimmered across the south of the town and through it more raiders were riding in hard, their figures silhouetted against burning crops.

In the centre of the main street, the garrison commander was trying to organise terrified volunteer militia into some semblance of order. They were hopelessly outnumbered, poorly equipped and barely trained. But still they formed into a four-deep defensive rank with their few pikes bristling to the front. Behind them, a handful of archers stood with hunting bows ready.

Han Jesson shook his head. Pitiful. Almost pointless. He had half a mind to urge them to run and hide, save themselves if they could. But they represented just a little more time for others to spare themselves and his urge for self-preservation overcame his pity.

The north side of the town was lost. Houses were burning all the way down to the river. He could still hear the sounds of fighting but the raiders were cleaning up there, driving farm animals back to the north-east. Now they were turning their attentions to the centre of the settlement. He had two choices. He could either stay hidden in his house and risk it being burned around him or run south with his family, hoping to be ignored until he reached the stables where they kept their cart and horses.

He stepped from the window and looked into the gloom of his house and shop. His heart was thrashing in his chest. He couldn't focus his mind beyond his fears. He didn't know what to do for the best.

In the corner of the shop, his wife comforted their young son. The

attack had come without warning, the raiders bursting from the woods a half mile distant as the sun reached its zenith. The noise of the screaming and panic had chilled his heart and sent his boy into a shivering fit. Poor Hanson was only five. He shouldn't have to face this terror.

He stared into his wife's eyes. Kari was imploring him to do something. Stacked all around him were the trappings of his busi­ness. Amphorae, pots, plates, vases, goblets, artworks. All designed, fired and hand-painted on the premises. To abandon it was the ruin of a life's work. To stay was to risk being burned alive.

There was more noise out in the street. He could hear the sound of approaching horses. People were running blindly away towards the south. How could this be? They were over three days from the border with Tsard. He assumed that was where the raiders were coming from. He rubbed his fingers in his eyes and pressed himself against the cracked open shutter to get a view of the end of the street. He'd waited too long. It was too late to run now.

'We'll be all right here,' he said. 'We'll be fine. Just stay back there and keep your heads down.'

'Han, what is happening?' Kari's voice was pleading.

'The militia can't stop them. People are running. We'll be safe here, I promise.'

His words sounded hollow in his head. He felt a dry, bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach and his eyes kept on misting over with tears.

The raiders attacked the fragile line of pikes. He saw them wheel broadside on. There had to be over fifty of them. Arrows thudded into the defending line. Men fell. Some writhed and screamed. A few arrows answered. Maybe two horsemen were hit on the move. The enemy horse archers turned again and fired another volley. This time, the pike line broke at its left-hand edge. Other riders drove into the fracture, swords carving downwards. Blood misted into the air. The defending archers turned and ran.

The sound of hoofs on the cobbles rang out loud against the buildings either side of the street. Jesson ducked away as the first of the riders clattered past. Right in front of his house, a man he knew was cut down, body thudding into the wall. Blood sprayed onto the cobbles and sightless eyes bored into his.

He staggered back, a hand across his mouth. Nausea swept through him. He gagged, breathing in huge gasps.

'Oh dear God the Omniscient, preserve us your servants,' he muttered. 'We throw ourselves on your mercy.'

'He has turned away from us,' hissed Kari. 'Don't waste your time talking to God. Bend your mind to saving your family.'

Jesson felt the shame cascade through him. He moved towards them, mind starting to clear. Outside, the sound of horses was diminished for the moment though he could still hear running feet, shouts of fear and alarm and the shattering of thin timber further up the street to the north.

'We're in the right place,' he said, crouching in front of them and stroking his son's hair. 'If they pass by, we are safe from prying eyes. If they set a fire, we can escape back or front from here, out through the stock room and studio if we have to. We have our valuables with us. God will watch over us.' This last said staring into Kari's eyes, needing her to believe him.

'So all we can do is wait, is that it?'

'I am no fighter,' said Han. 'This is where we belong.'

There was a heavy thud from the adjoining shop. Through the wall, they could hear foreign voices and a dragging as of wood on stone. And unmistakeably, there was the crackle of flame.

'We will burn in here,' said Kari, desperate. 'Why didn't we run when the first attack came?'

He couldn't face her gaze. He straightened and backed away. 'We have to defend what is ours.'

'What with? You didn't take us out because you were too scared to move. And now we are trapped. Will your God save us from flame and blade?'

The shutters burst inwards, showering wood into the shop. The face of a raider was framed in the light, ringed by smoke and flame from across the street. He nodded in satisfaction, called behind him and hauled himself up and through the opening. Another two raiders beat down the wide front doors. Kari screamed and hugged Hanson to her. Han stepped in front of her. It was all he had left to do.

He raised his hands to fend them off.

'Leave them alone,' he said, voice trembling.

They didn't even pause. Dressed in light armour and riding cloaks they tramped across the short distance. One backhanded him across the side of the head and he fell into another's grip. He felt faint, the stench of sweat and oiled leather in his nostrils. He struggled but he was caught solid. The point of a blade in his side stilled him.

A raider leant down and barked an order into Kari's face. She was still screaming. He shouted the same words again and when she made no move, dragged the boy from her grasp and into the waiting arms of another.

'It'll be all right,' managed Han. 'Keep calm.' He felt tears on his cheeks. 'Please don't hurt my family,' he said. 'Please.'

The raider only dug the swordpoint in a little harder. His comrade slapped Kari once across the cheek to stop her screaming for her son. He took her face in one gauntleted hand and turned it left and right, grunting appreciatively.

'Let her go,' said Han, struggling anew. 'Take your hands off her, Tsardon bastard.'

The swordpoint broke his skin and edged in just a little way. The pain was extraordinary. Hot blood coursed down his side.

The raider grabbed Kari's dress at the neck, surely meaning to tear it away but instead he stood up, dragging her with him. He pushed her in front of him.

'Han help me!' she began to scream again. 'Help us!'

But Han couldn't move against the sword point. He watched helpless as his son and wife were herded from the shop and out into the street. Abruptly, the sword point was gone from his side. He spun in the raider's grasp, the Tsardon pushing him back. He glared into the trail-hardened face, bunched his fists and charged, yelling for his family.

The raider laughed and the pommel of his sword collided with Han's temple.

 

It was a full day's ride to Gull's Ford from Haroq City, the capital of Atreska. He had left his team poring over Atreska's books in fine detail before confirming the tax levy for the half-year. He should be with them. Atreska had been a member of the Estorean Conquord for less than six years and remained a difficult province.

The tax reporting system was inefficient and in the remote north and along the Gosland and Tsardon borders, significant resistance remained. The Atreskan collectors were happy to hinder where they could and as a result, Jhered had over five hundred Gatherers setting up and enforcing the admittedly complex system amidst the simmering civil war.

Incursions and raids from Tsard made his job all the more difficult and so he understood why he was being taken to Gull's Ford. But he'd seen it all before and he expected to neither hear nor see anything new this time around.

Jhered was riding with six of his people and fifty of Atreska's soldiers. The cavalry detachment was heavily armed and armoured and surely uncomfortable in the heat of the day. Lances were held upright with pennants fluttering from their tips. Bows were across backs and swords in scabbards. Polished greaves, vambraces, helms and cuirasses shone in the sun. Wagons were with them, bringing emergency supplies, a mobile forge and tent canvas for those rendered homeless. It was a show of support, strength and intent for any that cared to see. Thomal Yuran, Marshal Defender of Atreska, was a proud national and Jhered would have expected nothing less from him.

The two men rode at the head of the column, along the main highway from Haroq City to Tsard. Built for the armies of the Conquord, it ran close to Gull's Ford. Parched dense shrub land rolled away on both sides and the land rose gently ahead of them towards a shimmering horizon that was smudged with smoke to the left of the road. They were close to the small settlement now.

'It's a very peaceful place,' said Yuran abruptly, following a long period of silence. His voice, gruff and deep, was a little muffled by his helmet, which was tied too tightly under his chin, restricting his jaw movement.

Jhered looked across at him, riding bolt upright, brown eyes fixed ahead, and with sweat running down from underneath his plumed helmet. He respected Yuran for his loyalty to his people but was endlessly frustrated by his refusal to understand the effects Atreska's civil disturbance had on the wider Conquord. He had questioned Yuran's appointment exactly because of this introspection, this desire to remain apart from the empire. His fears had been overruled by the senate in Estorea, though he was certain the Advocate herself had her doubts. Shame.

'I am sure it is,' responded Jhered evenly. 'I still doubt the wisdom of bringing me here, Marshal Yuran. My visit is for three days only, during which time you have my ear for all your concerns. We will be spending two days on the road and throughout this one, you have barely spoken with me. Am I to understand this unfortunate town­ship is your sole concern?'

Yuran turned to him, eyes narrowed.

'As always, I fear your puffed-up image of your own importance will stop you listening to the problems Atreska faces.'

Jhered kept his face impassive, letting Yuran give vent to his anxiety.

'I am bringing you to Gull's Ford because I believe that seeing how the Conquord is failing us will open your mind. Words you can ignore. Images you cannot.'

'I have seen the effects of raids and bandits more times than I care to, Thomal. I have fought more battles than you have seen years on God's earth. Like me, you must learn to accept such events as unfortunate steps on the difficult road to peace and stability.'

Yuran barked a short, bitter laugh. 'I would respect you if you were in any way an individual. Let your heart feel what we feel. Let your mouth respond with honesty, not with trite statements scratched by the quills of Advocacy clerks and politicians. Those people have never seen destruction. They have never seen war. They cannot understand our troubles. You have the capacity to help. It pains me that in the years I have known you, you have never exercised it.'

'Everything I say, I believe,' replied Jhered. 'And I work for what I believe. I am an agent of the Estorean Conquord and its Advocate. My work is unpopular with everyone but I have to live with that.' He shrugged. 'I'm a tax collector and so no one likes me. But it is nevertheless to the benefit of everyone that I do my work. Even those citizens of Gull's Ford. Even at a time like this.'

'You ask why I chose not to speak to you today? Perhaps you have your answer.'

'In that case, Marshal, I shall respect your desire for silence.'

Gull's Ford straddled the flat bottom and gentle slopes of a valley through which the River Gull ran north to south. It rose in the lakes region in the south of Gosland and emptied into the Tirronean Sea. The ford around which the township grew up was at the southern end of the settlement and had taken the principal trading route across the Gull east and west. With the arrival of the Estorean Conquord and the campaigns in Tsard, the river had been bridged with stone further downstream, providing surer and more direct access to the base of operations in enemy territory.

Gull's Ford had still managed to prosper in recent years, as Con­quord armies bought supplies wholesale and traded booty from Tsard on a regular basis. Gull's Ford traders were linked to the markets in Haroq and were able to provide competitive pricing or trade goods that sold at a premium in the capital. But its good name had surely led to its targeting by the Tsardon.

Two days after the raid, responding to a messenger who had ridden an exhausted horse into Yuran's castle courtyard, the Atreskans and Jhered's people looked down on a ruined township. The destruction in Gull's Ford was widespread. Across the valley sides and beyond, cropland was blackened and destroyed. Villas stood in smouldering ruins, smoke rising into the clear blue sky. In the town itself, the path of the raiders was picked out by burned buildings, dark stains on the cobbles and a scattering of broken possessions: clothing, pottery, furniture. Some houses and streets had been completely ignored, the raiders concentrating on the main thoroughfares and the farmland. Barely an animal grazed. The air stank of ash and damp.

The town was quiet. Jhered could see people moving about the settlement, engaged in clearing up where they could. Any bodies had already been removed and presumably buried. There were a host of new flags outside the House of Masks, testament to the death that had visited so recently and so violently. He made a mental note to pray and turn earth at the House before he left.

Jhered rode into the township, acutely aware of his appearance. In contrast to the sparkling armour of the Atreskan cavalry, he and his people rode in clothes fitting for long periods on the road. His light chainmail shirt was worn over a leather undershirt, his trousers were in-sewn with leather and his cloak designed only to keep out the chill of clear nights. In his saddle bags he carried his seal and orders of office. At his waist was strapped a scabbarded Estorean gladius.

None of that would necessarily identify him but embroidered on the back of his cloak, on the sash he wore across his torso, and embossed on the round shields of his people was the sign of the Gatherers; arms encircling the crest of the Estorean Conquord and the family Del Aglios. The crest on its own was enough to engender mistrust in Atreska. For it to be encircled turned that mistrust to hostility in places like this.

Clear-up work was ceasing as the sight and sound of the column deflected attention from grim tasks. People started to gather. Yuran led them into the town's forum, dismounting and ordering his men do the same. Jhered and his charges followed suit. The Gatherers were cautious, grouping around their commander to protect him should that prove necessary. Jhered watched the citizens gather. There was no aggressive intent behind the move. They wanted to hear news. They wanted help and Marshal Defender Yuran was there to offer it. But there were no smiles of greeting and no gratitude on any of the grimy, exhausted faces. All they displayed with any clarity were loss, confusion and shock.

A middle-aged woman came forward. She rubbed ash-stained hands on a dress that had once been a deep green but which was now streaked and stained black. Her grey hair was tied back with a red and white headscarf. The lines on her face were mired with soot and her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. She took Yuran's outstretched hand and linked fingers in the traditional Atreskan greeting.

'Marshal Defender Yuran, your presence is welcome.' She spared a disgusted glance for Jhered.

'Yet two days late. I salute your dead, Praetor Gorsal and will pray with your Reader at the House of Masks later. For now, tell me what you need of me.'

Gorsal's shoulders slumped. 'Where do I begin? We have had our houses, crops and businesses burned. We have had our people taken and our livestock driven off. We had no capacity to defend ourselves against the Tsardon. We were overwhelmed. Grown men and women were forced to turn and run from their homes. Our bravest have been slaughtered. Marshal, some of them have been burned to ashes and their cycles are finished. No more will they walk God's earth. There is such anger here. These were not murderers. They were innocents under the supposed protection of the Conquord.'

A murmur ran around the crowd. Jhered estimated over a hundred people had gathered. He made a small hand gesture, encouraging his people to relax. The mood was bitter and angry. It was a display Yuran seemed happy to encourage.

'I understand your frustrations, Lena,' said Yuran. 'I too was assured our borders were secure. All the forces I can spare are in our border forts. I am doing absolutely everything in my power to ensure the safety of all Atreskan people. But you understand the pressures I am under financially. Most of our standing legions are gone. You know how many Atreskans are even now on campaign deep inside Tsard. We debated it at council just ten days ago.'

'So what am I supposed to tell my people? That we must rise every day and hope the raiders don't return because if they do we are helpless to stop them? That the Conquord will not protect us? That our own rulers in Haroq City sit by, unable to provide us with the means to defend ourselves?'

The praetor's voice was rising and cracking, her desperation showing through. Behind her, the crowd shifted, muttering unhap­pily. Jhered caught the odd shouted insult. He cleared his throat. Yuran turned briefly.

'Are you certain you are achieving what you wish?' asked Jhered quietly. He clasped his hands across his chest.

‘I am hearing my people,' said Yuran. 'Have respect.'

Jhered moved closer to Yuran pitching his voice to ensure the crowd could not hear him ‘I mean no disrespect but to stir up anger is counterproductive. Better to inspect the damage with the praetor. Assess what must be done and then hear the town governors in the basilica. In accordance with protocol. Night will soon fall and I will not answer questions in front of a mob.'

'It is your ruinous taxation that has left us open to this attack,' hissed Gorsal. 'You are directly responsible for the deaths here.'

Jhered raised his chin, aware he loomed over both Yuran and the praetor. He raised one black-gloved finger and ticked it once at Gorsal.

'Such allegations will require substantiation. Fortunately, I have here experts to examine your books and point out errors and inefficiencies in your local economy. You may have had more opportunity for profit than you thought. But first things first, I am on a tour of your town and would see the damage first-hand and the effects it will have on the level of taxation we expect from you next half year.

'Should you wish to accuse me and the wider Conquord of any impropriety, do so within the confines of the basilica. We are at war. All must provide for its success. Now, I suggest we set our respective workforces to tasks more constructive than listening to our tiresome voices.'

He knew they would not defy him. You could only push the Gatherers so far, particularly their leader. Somewhere within their anger, they were impressed by his presence. Few enough people got to see Paul Jhered in the flesh, much less speak to him one to one. He had been the leader of the Gatherers for seventeen years now and at forty-seven was still a young man in the job. He had heard all the rumours about him and the one he played to most, his towering height, was also the one most given to outrageous exaggeration. One thing he wasn't was taller than a house. Sometimes, he wished he were.

He turned to his people, four men and two women. Five at the junior rank of addos, one recently promoted to appros. All relatively new to journeying to outlying settlements and suitably nervous.

'I will walk the town alone,' he said. 'All of you, begin examining the accounts and books. Undoubtedly you will hear tales of woe and hardship. Keep yourselves to the facts. Maintain vigilance and look for embellishment in the ledgers. Note down anything you suspect. What I want from you is an honest assessment of the level of taxation levied here and whether it really left them without the means to purchase defence.

'I will bring back my thoughts on the cost of rebuilding Gull's Ford, replanting and restocking. We can at least leave them with some supportive news about their levy for this half year, can we not?

'Any questions?' Heads shook. 'Good. Appros Harin, you know where my seal and orders are. Make sure you present them before asking for information. Do not bear arms. Go.'

'Sir.'

He watched them for a moment. Decent students, all of them. Harin was a man with the potential for high office should he last the exhausting pace of the Gatherer's life. Swinging away, Jhered took in the town from the viewpoint of the forum. He would need to tour the two central streets, both of which led into the forum. A visit to a villa on the valley side and the House of Masks would also be necessary. The work of two hours, no more. Then a long night listening to the wailings of people with no idea how the Conquord operated.

Jhered set off across the forum, gesturing people from his path and assuming Yuran and Gorsal would fall into step with him. Never a bad thing to have the local leaders trot to catch up. The good people of Gull's Ford might respect them but it was right they understood who was the real voice of authority. Atreska was a proud and powerful nation but it was foremost a servant of the Estorean Conquord.

He walked down the centre of a once neat cobbled street. Pave­ments and gutter were choked with debris, drains were clogged and the stains where blood had dried were cloaked by flies. Left and right, dark holes where windows had been were framed by smoke-blackened walls. Roofing tiles had cracked and tumbled in the heat of the fires that had ravaged building upon building along the terrace of shops and businesses.

The smells were as acrid and bitter as the mood of the citizenry. Pacing deliberately along the street, his metal-shod boots ringing on the cobbles, Jhered could call to mind the terror that had blown through Gull's Ford. These people were not soldiers. A most unfor­tunate event. By no means the first that had afflicted Atreska during the Tsardon campaign and certainly not the last.

'We are almost a hundred miles from the Tsardon border,' said Gorsal, reading his thoughts. 'We are only a day from Haroq. Yet they attacked us in broad daylight. The Tsardon were our friends. Your war has made them unnecessary enemies. I had people killed by those with whom they used to trade and drink. You know why they do it, don't you? And you know why they have said they will return.'

'Because they are desperate. It is a common enough tactic among those losing a war. Atreska employed it too. You are relatively new members of the Conquord. The scars of the wars that led to your annexation by Estorea are fresh in the minds of many. And they feel that they can undermine your faith in the Conquord by such actions.'

'With some success,' said Gorsal shortly, glancing up at Jhered and meeting his firm gaze. 'You felt the mood. What are we supposed to think? What are we supposed to do? Your hawks will find that the tax levied on us left us with no proper funds to maintain our militia. We relied on volunteers and rusting weapons. The results are all around you.'

Jhered was silent for a short time. ‘I expect you to agree that you have never been more prosperous. That the Conquord has given you economic stability and a better potential to improve yourselves should that be your desire. And I expect you to believe that the Conquord will bring you peace and security.'

'When? I see no prosperity. And what good is it anyway to those burned to ashes?' Gorsal gestured at the ruins of the street. 'How many more times will we be chased from our homes, helpless to defend ourselves?'

Jhered stopped walking and faced her.

'I was brought up in a border state. I lived in a village that suffered raids. And like you, nobody asked me or my people whether we wanted to be a member of the Conquord. We were defeated in war, just as you and all the provinces of Atreska have been. Like me, you have to live with the reality and know that your futures are assured under the Conquord in a way they would never be with your haphazard trade and treaties with Tsard.

'The Conquord will provide. Until then, I regret your losses and those you may still suffer. Staffing border forts is not the only way to ensure safety. Mind that your ruler is genuinely giving you all the protection he can. That is his responsibility.'

Yuran choked, or sounded like it. Jhered gazed down at him, unwavering.

'You have something to say, Marshal?'

'Exchequer Jhered, I find your implication offensive.' Yuran's face was red in sunlight that was beginning to fade towards evening. 'My people know I do everything I can. I grieve for every one of them that dies on behalf of the Conquord while those that would defend them are pressed into campaign service in Tsard. Your attempts to sow suspicion are beneath contempt.'

Jhered smiled, a bleak expression. 'I merely want to ensure every­one receives that to which they are entitled. The Exchequer is an easy target for blame. I have simply asked that all angles be considered.'

They walked on, Jhered's experienced eye assessing damage and cost, his mind calculating, storing information. Perhaps this visit wasn't such a waste after all. This town had been hit hard, very hard for one so far from the border. It would suffer in the short term.

Yuran stalked just behind him, the waves of outrage washing from him. Praetor Gorsal walked to his left, a distance between them. She was tight-lipped, clearly not trusting herself to speak further.

A few yards ahead of them, a man shambled out into the street from a broken doorway. He was unshaven, filthy. His hair was lank and his face held a despair that touched Jhered's heart. He saw them, took them all in. His eyes settled on Jhered. His expression changed, darkened. He grabbed a piece of broken pottery and rushed at the Gatherer.

Gorsal froze, a cry stifled on her lips. Jhered swayed inside the intended blow and blocked hard with his left arm. The pottery shard flew away to shatter against the far wall. Jhered grabbed the man by his upper arms, holding him away. Phlegm sprayed into Jhered's face with every wailing word.

'She's gone because of you, you bastard. They're both gone. We only wanted to live in peace and because of you they've taken everything. All I loved is gone.' He relaxed just a little, the cords in his neck fading. 'Back. I just want them back. Where are they? They've taken my wife and son. You have to help me. You have to.'

The man sagged. Jhered hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him close. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, his body heavy with his pain. Jhered felt each shudder and clutched him tighter.

'Tsard will fall,' he said, his breath ruffling the man's hair. 'The Conquord will bring it to order and everything that has been taken will be returned. God will protect your loved ones. Believe in what I say. Trust the Advocate. Trust the Conquord.

'What is your name?'

'Jesson.' His voice was muffled in Jhered's chest. 'Han Jesson.'

'Be strong, Han Jesson. I am Paul Jhered. I am the Exchequer of the Gatherers and I speak for the Conquord. We will return your wife and son.'

He released Jesson into the arms of Praetor Gorsal. She was regarding him with an expression bordering on disbelief.

'This man should not be alone,' said Jhered. 'Listen to me. The only way to stop the raids is to conquer Tsard. That is where your taxes go, it is where your citizens are drafted. There will be peace and Atreska will bloom, its people taken to the heart of the Conquord. We are all in this battle. And we will prevail.

'Now, to the House of Masks. I must pray for the continuing cycles of those who have fallen.'

 

 

Chapter 6

844th cycle of God, 40th day of Solasrise

11th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

'Settle down now, come on,' said Shela Hasi, clapping her hands.

Three of them had dissolved into laughter again and a smile even tugged at the corner of Gorian's mouth. Rare and welcome. Ten years old and so serious. It seemed he was coming to terms perhaps too early with what he was. Kessian didn't want the moment to end. But end it must and nerves were already picking away at his mind, though he would never let the children see them. Soon. It had to be soon. Today, God, please.

The four of them had walked with Shela and Kessian up the long slope to the orchard plateau above the harbour. It was, without doubt, the most glorious day of the year so far. The sun radiated down from an unbroken blue sky, a breeze off the bay keeping the temperature bearable.

From their peerless vantage point, they could see the sunlight dancing on the water between the fishing boats in the bay and reflecting from the bright painted sides of the clutch of merchantmen anchored a little way off shore. Up on the slopes behind Westfallen, sheep and cattle grazed or idled in the heat. On the terraces, crops swayed, lazy and almost ripe. It would be a fine harvest, just as Hesther had said it would be way back in the chill of early genasrise.

Kessian leaned back against the orange tree under which he sat, its shade welcome, its leaves rustling against ripening fruit. They were all sat out of the glare of the sun for the moment; even tanned skins could burn on a day like today. He looked at the young Ascendants while they gathered themselves under Shela's gentle chiding. All were dressed in light pastel-shaded tunics slashed with the red of the Ascendancy. They wore open sandals and wide-brimmed straw hats.

Gorian had stopped smiling now and a frown was deepening on his handsome young face. His pale blue eyes speared into his peers from beneath his mass of curled fair hair and his arms were crossed tight. Next to him, Mirron noticed his change of mood and sobered herself in impersonation. Kessian smiled.

'See that?' he said to Shela.

'I see it,' she said. 'Sweet, isn't it?'

'Very,' agreed Kessian. 'Come on now, you two. Arducius, Ossacer. Come on. Much to learn and I am an old man.'

The two boys tried to pay attention but the giggles were right behind their first words.

'Gorian. Our Father . . .' mimicked Ossacer in as deep a voice as he could muster. They two of them looked across at Gorian and submitted to another fit.

'They shouldn't laugh at me,' said Gorian.

'Oh, they aren't,' said Shela soothingly. 'It's just a silly joke about fathers, isn't it?'

'They are laughing at my name’ said Gorian, his voice suddenly chill. 'They are laughing at our history.'

Kessian looked hard at Gorian, searching for any sign he was mocking them.

'Well, perhaps they are, though they do not realise it,' said Kessian gently. He spared them a sharp glance which quelled their mirth. 'And perhaps they should have more regard for your feelings. But they mean no harm, do they?'

Gorian didn't react to the question. 'Gorian died a hero, and made us all possible. Arducius and Ossacer were both mere warriors. Both died in their sleep. Hardly heroic. Shall we laugh at them?'

'You do not have to die a hero's death to be a hero,' said Kessian. 'Your deeds throughout life determine the regard in which you are held.'

'Two old men,' said Gorian. 'Wetting the bed like newborns. Dying helpless like babies. That is worthy of laughter.'

And he did, clutching himself in imitation of Arducius and Ossacer earlier but stopping abruptly. Not because he knew he'd gone too far but to gauge their reactions. Kessian felt a cold anger settle on him. His hand tensed on the stick at his side.

Mirron's support had given way to confusion and the two boys looked to Kessian for justice. Any others would surely have pounced on Gorian. Not these two. Both so peaceable. Ossacer so frail and sickly and Arducius brittle, delicate of bone. And both woefully weak in comparison to their taunter's bold physique.

Kessian turned to Gorian. The boy gazed back, defiant. Too much.

'You do not insult the memories of the Ascendancy's heroes,' he allowed his voice, always powerful, to ring out across the orchard. The quartet in front of him flinched.

'But—' began Gorian, pointing to his right.

'Their poor joke was spoken with warmth and love. Your jibes sought to hurt and lessened the memories of our finest defenders. Learn the difference before you speak again.'

'I—'

'Do you think me such a feeble old man that you can talk back at will?' Kessian's eyes blazed. He could feel his limbs quivering. His voice boomed out. Echoes would be heard down in Genastro Bay. 'Do you consider yourself learned enough to challenge me? You are but ten and a sapling. I am one hundred and forty. I am the Father of the Echelon. The only member of the first strand still alive.' His voice dropped low. 'And I can assure you I have full control of my bladder.'

Mirron had a hand over her mouth. Gorian was swallowing tears, desperate to uphold his image.

'Now,' said Kessian, once more the gentle tutor. 'Let us never be unclear again. All of your names resound with glory through the history of the Ascendancy. Without all of your namesakes, none of us would be here. Instead our ancestors would be ashes, scattered by the Order of Omniscience to deny the continuance of their cycles under God.

'You are right, Gorian, that your ancestor was the Father of all the Ascendants. He was the one man who understood the pattern and committed everything he saw, heard and learned to parchment so that those who came after him could continue his work. He placed himself knowingly in the way of great threat. He effectively ranged himself against the Order, believing the Ascendancy to be the rightful evolution of people.

'But he was not a man alone. Mirron laid more false trails for those seeking to capture Gorian than you have had hot suppers. She loved and supported Gorian. She was his strength, the rock to which he tied his life. She drew the charts and diagrams that we use today. She took the huge risk of hiding all they had learned from prying, thieving eyes when Gorian was forced to flee and, ultimately, caught and murdered. If Gorian was the Father of the Ascendancy, Mirron was our Mother.'

He had their attention so utterly that it drew a smile to his lips. All of them, cross-legged and leaning forwards, sucking in all the information he gave to them. Once again, they were just children. In a moment, they would be something far, far more. He recognised the difficulty of the balance they had to strike every day. It would get no easier.

'But it is equally clear through all our writings, and the stories passed down through the generations, that none of the work would have been possible had it not been for the tireless efforts of Arducius and Ossacer. It was they who built the network of loyal men and women who reported on the movements of the Order. They who rode to the assistance of fledgling strand members under threat. They who stood side by side with Gorian in the Battle of Carao and they who facilitated his escape from the dungeons of Cirandon on the day before a supposed execution. And that at a time long before he came upon the most crucial knowledge that we now possess.

'Yes, Arducius and Ossacer died old men. But they died tended by those who loved them and in the knowledge that their lives had been spent making possible everything that has since come to pass. Most recently, the four of you. Though as you have seen, more have been born and five strand mothers are pregnant. We have high hopes.

'Heroes all. And you sit here because of their combined efforts. Do not forget that, and I will hear no more jibes, and no more jokes, however innocent you think them to be.' His smile broadened. 'You do understand me, don't you?'

'Yes, Father Kessian,' they chimed.

'Good. Now, to work.'

He saw the eagerness in their expressions and nodded his pleasure. They, like all strand members, had accepted their abilities without question. The problem had been explaining that not everyone had such talents and that they were valuable beyond measure. In gen­erations to come, all should have some talent by right of birth. Surely, this was what God intended for His people on His earth. Until then . . .

'Today, I want you to try and think beyond that which comes naturally to you.' Groans rang around the orchard. He held up his hands. 'I know, I know, it is as we have tried a hundred times, as you are so fond of telling me, but I felt we were close last time. Now, I know this tries your patience but remember, we are new at it too.' He threw up his hands. 'Who knows, in a few generations, this teaching should be as second nature to those who come to practise it. People like you, perhaps.'

Mirron raised her hand.

'Yes, my little one.'

'We don't understand. You won't tell us. Why must we seek other talents?'

'It is part of the learning for all of us. Mirron, you are a Firewalker the like of whom has never been seen before in the Ascendancy. Likewise, your brothers display their talents better than any.' He winked at Arducius. 'And we need another great Wind Harker, young man. The present one is getting very tired. But the teachings of Gorian say that a true Ascendant will display more. And that when they do, they will be able to manipulate their talents and the world around them. That will be the start.'

Kessian wasn't sure they understood but it seemed to placate them anyway.

'So, Mirron, why don't you begin. You needn't move. Here we are in the orange grove for a reason. These trees burst with life as does the grass around them. You can smell it, can't you? But can you really feel it? Place your hands on the ground. Lose yourself in what you feel beneath your fingertips. Tell me everything. But be honest. Guesswork will get us nowhere.'

'Why isn't Hesther here?' asked Ossacer. 'She could tell us what we are supposed to be searching for.'

'For precisely that reason, my young warrior,' said Kessian. 'If you have no clue you cannot be led. Everything you sense will be from your heart. Mirron, continue, please.'

Mirron looked quickly at Gorian before dropping her head, feeling herself blush under his intense gaze. She could sense them all as she placed her hands on the grass, its warmth pleasant on her fingertips. Father Kessian was speaking softly to her, encouraging her. As she had been taught, she cleared her mind of cluttering thoughts and tried to focus on the space immediately around her.

It was easy with fire. It had always been so. She felt a natural closeness to it and with her eyes closed saw images of flames wrap­ping around her, caressing her, keeping her safe. She could see pathways through fire and could sense where fire was causing critical damage just as she could see cool spots in a fire or in new forged steel. The blacksmith loved her.

So it should be with the earth beneath her feet and fingers. Mirron calmed herself, slowed and deepened her breathing. She spread her fingers across the grass, focusing on them, trying to feel the earth below them and the individual blades beneath her skin.

'Now,' said Kessian. 'Seek downwards to the energy that lies under the surface of the earth. That which binds everything and gives life to every plant that waves in the wind and grows under the guiding hand of the sun. What can you feel, Mirron, my child? Speak to us.'

Mirron tried. She wanted to know a worm was burrowing through the dirt. She wanted to feel the minute movement of roots as they sought new purchase, thickened and grew. She wanted to detect the tiniest drops of water feeding life into the soil. She wanted to know it was healthy, or that it was not.

She opened herself as she would to a fire, to let the energies flow through her. She poured herself into the land beneath her fingers. Nothing. Not a murmur, not a flicker. Her brow creased.

‘I can't feel anything. Just the grass. It isn't working. I don't know what I should be feeling.'

It was pointless. She must look stupid. How could she be expected to sense what was going on down there. She was a Firewalker, not a Land Warden. She opened her eyes.

'Perhaps we aren't what you think we are,' said Arducius, the one always able to put her thoughts into words.

'You're just doing it wrong,' said Gorian, his tone dismissive.

'Then you try it,' snapped Mirron, feeling his words like a scratch on her heart.

'Patience, patience,' said Kessian, his voice soothing. 'Arducius, please, don't let a small setback upset you. Remember that you are all already the best in your fields and at such a tender age. You are special. But to learn more will take time. I'm afraid Gorian, the first Gorian, didn't say how long it would take for true Ascendancy to display itself.' His eyes settled on Gorian. 'There is no wrong way because we do not know the right way. But if you can show us, we would all be very, very happy. Please.'

Gorian smiled that smile attended by a sneer and began. But he could not do it either. Neither could Arducius, nor Ossacer. And though Father Kessian cajoled and encouraged them, told them again that they would succeed, today was not that day. So Mirron led them from the plateau, dispirited as the sun dipped below the cliff tops and the heat fell from the day.

That evening, Kessian ate with Genna, Hesther, Willem Geste and Andreas Koll. It was a sombre gathering, not helped by the constant bickering of the children in the courtyard gardens beyond the dining room windows.

Kessian looked out through the open frames, past the colonnades, and felt real doubt creep through him for the first time since they had been born. On a bench by one of the fountains, Shela sat and watched her charges. They had begun with a bragging match based on whose talent was of the greatest use. Harmless enough and debated for the thousandth time. Indeed, some of the reasons and statements they made had lightened the mood, such was their ludicrous nature.

'At least they demonstrate imaginations far beyond those of non-strand ten-year-olds,' said Genna.

‘I particularly enjoyed the early warning of a tidal wave as counter­point to the saving of Westfallen from cattle plague,' agreed Willem Geste.

'Yes, catastrophes indeed,' said Kessian. 'And one to rival the hurricanes we also never see here. Still, Arducius is confident he can detect their development. We should all sleep more soundly as a result.'

The chuckles that had followed rang hollow now, cooling to memory with the night air, while the candles fluttered in a breeze that blew in the bickering voices ever louder. Kessian knew what they were thinking. It was inevitable.

'Is there any progress at all?' asked Andreas.

'On the face of it, I'd have to say not but we do not know what is truly developing in their minds and bodies,' said Kessian. 'Do any of you see signs of advancement?'

'We are of one mind,' said Hesther. 'We know their obvious talents but in terms of their ability to manipulate, not really.' She shrugged. 'How can we know but by demonstration?'

Kessian sagged. 'I work with them so hard, so carefully. But tell me, any of you. How on God's earth do we teach that which we do not know?'

There was a silence. Deep. Contemplative. Broken by a shout from Gorian, harsh and resonant. Kessian boiled.

'For God's sake, Shela, still those babbling children,' he bellowed, instantly regretting his words and volume. 'Please, a little peace.'

A hiatus. Silence for a moment followed by Shela's strong words. No complaint from the children. Kessian calmed himself before continuing.

Tm sorry,' he said. 'Old man, little patience.' Their words of comfort fell unheard.

'The question is, how long do we continue to try?' Willem sounded weary. Kessian knew how he felt.

'We have no choice but to continue trying until the Omniscient calls us back to the earth,' said Kessian. 'There is no written time limit after which Ascendancy cannot be reached. We have no precedent. What else can we do?'

Hesther rubbed her chin. 'Then we have to ask ourselves if our teaching methods are to blame?'

Willem laughed and spread his hands. 'How can we possibly know?' He refilled his wine goblet and passed the jug to his right. Hesther accepted it gratefully. 'I'd rather question whether we have missed something in Gorian's writings. Or indeed, whether he has made mistakes in his conclusions.'

'We must question everything we think we know,' said Kessian. 'And we must continue to adapt our teaching methods. But I have to give voice to that which we are all thinking. Are we simply wasting our time here? We are honour-bound to continue, but is it folly? Is there a future for the Ascendancy?'

This time the silence signified a shattering of illusion. A rude intrusion of reality. Kessian moved his hand to his wine goblet but it was shaking too much and he withdrew it. The mutton on his plate looked tainted, the sauce covering it sickly, the vegetable leaves curled and bitter. He looked into Genna's age-lined face. She tried to smile but it crumbled. She placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed.

'They are but young,' she said. 'Their minds are not formed. They are just children, Ardol. Give them time.'

'Every piece of evidence we have points to them being able to display genuine multiple talents by this time,' he said, his tired mind flashing with a thousand thoughts and none of them positive. 'We have been trying to tease them into it for three years now, ever since their primary talents matured.' He smiled. 'Remember the joy we felt then? How their understanding of their talents was so complete, so natural that we knew without any shadow of doubt that they were the first true Ascendants? Wonderful days.'

'And that's why you are right and we must not give up,' said Willem. 'Not ever. Ardol, your energy has sustained us all for decades and has burned so bright these last ten years it puts to shame people forty years your junior. I'm glad you have voiced your doubts and fears here tonight. And there is not one among us who hasn't felt as you feel now. But it must stop here, my very old friend. We cannot afford to let our doubts infect what we do. We have lived and worked too long to be beaten now. I speak for us all, Ardol. We stand behind you. We will bring these children to their destiny.

'And I know what you are thinking, and yes, we will do it before you return to the earth.'

Kessian felt his eyes fill with tears. He nodded his gratitude, unable to speak the words of thanks Willem deserved. These people, this Echelon, were stronger than he had ever imagined. He let their spirits lift his.

The sharp cry of a child cut through his thoughts and brought him back to himself. Kessian turned to the window. He could still see them in the courtyard, lit by candles floating in traps at the edges of the fountain pools. They were silhouettes against the light.

'Let go of him!' shouted Mirron, her voice high and trembling.

Arducius yelped in sudden pain. 'Please,' he said.

'You'll break his arm, you know you will,' said Mirron.

'Gorian, let him go right now,' ordered Shela.

'Make him say sorry,' said Gorian. 'Make him.'

‘I will not,' said Arducius through tight lips, pain in his every word. ‘I have nothing to be sorry for.'

'Then I will squeeze harder until you do.' Gorian's voice carried awful promise.

'Put him down right now.' Shela's tone was low and angry. Kessian dragged himself to his feet. Willem thrust his stick into his hand. Andreas was leading them out into the courtyard.

'You're breaking it, you're breaking it!' yelled Mirron. 'Stop, Gorian, stop.'

Arducius howled in agony but still Gorian clung on.

'Gorian!' thundered Kessian, standing at the window.

There was a flash, a sudden tongue of flame leaping from the candles in the fountain behind Shela. Every one was extinguished. Gorian screamed and fell backwards, clutching at his hand. Arducius ran to Shela, his right arm held across his chest, broken no doubt. Ossacer was pointing at Mirron, mumbling something incoherent. Mirron was slumped on the lawn, shivering.

Kessian stepped over the sill and hurried into the garden. Hesther had run to Mirron, Willem and Andreas to Gorian.

'What happened,' demanded Kessian. 'What happened here?' He bent and placed a hand on Ossacer's shoulder.

'Ossacer,' he said. 'What happened. Did you see?'

The boy looked up at him, face blank with his shock, his eyes huge in the half-light, blinking rapidly. His lips were quivering.

'Dear God,' he whispered. 'Genna, come and see to Ossacer. Warm blankets, hot drink. Quickly. Try and get him to talk.'

Kessian turned. Gorian was sitting up in Andreas's arms, breathing hard and staring at Mirron who was crying in Hesther's embrace. Willem was examining Gorian's hand.

'It's burned,' he said, his voice carrying a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

'She did it,' said Gorian, sniffing. 'Mirron did it. She burned me.'

He was badly frightened and when Mirron moved her head to look at him, he tried to back away into Andreas's body.

'You wouldn't let go,' sobbed Mirron. 'I only wanted you to stop. I'm sorry, Gorian.'

'You burned me,' said Gorian. 'How can that be?'

Kessian caught Willem's gaze and had to fight hard to keep the smile from his face. This was a most unfortunate incident but what it represented could not be understated. Decisions. Decisions.

'Shela, take Ossacer. Genna, take Arducius to the physician. His arm will need setting and splinting. You can direct him to the centre of the pain. Try and speak to him, find out what he saw or felt. Andreas, let's get a dressing on Gorian's wound. I have some burn salve in the cabinet by my wash bowl. All these children sleep apart from each other tonight.'

He knelt by Mirron and Hesther, feeling his old bones creaking and protesting. Someone would have to help him up.

'Now, Mirron, do you know what happened? Try and tell me what you did.'

Mirron turned her tearstained face to his. It was very pale, very scared. He smoothed her hair and she snuggled a little tighter to Hesther.

'It's all right, my little one,' he whispered. 'No one is angry with you.'

'Gorian is,' she said in a tiny cracked whisper.

Kessian smiled. 'Yes, perhaps he is. But he will forgive you. Now, can you tell me what happened?'

She sniffed and dragged a hand across her nose and mouth. 'He wouldn't let Arducius go. He knew he was hurting him but he wouldn't stop. All I wanted him to do was stop.'

'I know, Mirron, and you should always protect your brothers. Can you tell me what happened in your mind?'

She was silent for a while, trying to unravel her thoughts. Kessian felt his heart burgeoning with hope.

'The flames spoke to me,' she said eventually. 'I could feel them warm me.'

Kessian glanced back to the fountain and its smoking dead candles. It was a good ten feet away. 'And what happened next?' She frowned. 'It was bad.' 'What was?'

'I knew the flame would hurt Gorian. He isn't a Firewalker yet. But the candles were too far away and Arducius was crying. Gorian was breaking his arm.' She began to sob again and Hesther hugged her close.

'Shhh,' she said. 'Shhh. It's all right.'

'You had to stop him, didn't you?' said Kessian. Mirron managed a nod. 'And you thought that if he felt a flame, he would let go?' Another nod. 'Well, what could you do, eh?' He smiled down at her and she looked at him as if he was stupid, her face clear now, certainty in her eyes.

'I gathered all the candle flames up and threw them at him,' she said.

Kessian leaned back. It had begun.

 

 

Chapter 7

844th cycle of God, 41st day of Solasrise

11th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Mirron awoke from a sleep plagued by nightmares to a bitter feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. Beyond her shutters she could hear the sounds of gulls. Strong, hot sunlight forced its way through the gaps in the slats. Westfallen was alive and perfect once again.

Yesterday, she would have sprung from her bed, pausing only to belt on her tunic before rushing out to glory in the day. But that was yesterday. Today her head pounded, her stomach writhed with sickness and in her mind she replayed the events of last night over and over again.

She felt as if something had been taken from her and that today she was different. She felt altered somehow and it confused her. She fought to be who she had been but it would not come. Instead, she saw the lance of flame spring from the fountain candles and burn into Gorian's wrist. She saw it all,-the wreathing of the fire and the damage it had done, in the most minute detail. She could still smell the stink of burned hair and skin and she was horribly aware of the damage the flame had done. Gorian would be scarred forever. He would never forgive her and she would never forgive herself.

There were tears on her cheeks again. They had all lied to her. Father Kessian, Willem, Hesther. Even her own mother. They had told her that the Ascendancy was something wonderful, that it was the future of everyone and would bring all closer to God. But it was not. She knew what she had done was to do with her birthright but it had not been beautiful or peaceful. It had caused harm.

The first time anyone had been able to use their talent in the way she had and someone had got hurt. And not just anyone. Gorian. The last person in the whole world she would see hurt, and she had done

it. And at the time, she had meant it too. What she had done scared her. What would happen the next time?

There shouldn't ever be a next time. She turned her head into her pillow and began to cry. There was a soft knock on her door.

'Go away!' she wailed.

She heard the handle turn and the door open. Fresh air flooded in. She turned.

‘I told you to go a—' It was Father Kessian. ‘I thought you were my mother.'

'And is that how you speak to your mother, my child? She loves you and only wants the very best for you. You know that, don't you?'

She shook her head. 'Why did she lie to me? Why did all of you lie?'

Kessian frowned and came into the room, pulling up her bedside chair and sitting on it. He looked very old in the half-light, his skin all folded and wrinkled. But his eyes were warm and he melted her with his smile as he always had done.

'Why do you think we lied?' he asked. He placed a hand over his heart. ‘I would be hurt if I thought that was what I had done.'

'You told me I would be a person who was good because I am a true Ascendant. But I have burned Gorian and made him hate me forever. I don't want to be an Ascendant any more.'

Kessian leaned forward and smoothed away her tears with his thumb. 'Oh, my child, I know you must be feeling very upset this morning. None of us wish harm on those we love but sometimes our frustration leads us to hurt them anyway, through words or actions.

'You must try to think that you acted with the best thoughts in your heart. You wanted to stop Gorian hurting Arducius and you did that. But in doing so you did something you wish you hadn't. You can't change that but you must not hate yourself because it happened.'

'It won't happen again, I promise. I will never touch the fire again.'

Kessian leaned back. 'And that would sadden me more than anything else. Mirron, you are a treasured daughter of the Ascend­ancy. And in your action last night, something truly momentous and wonderful happened.'

‘I hurt him!' Mirron shouted. Gorian's blistered, red wrist was large in her mind's eye again.

'And he will heal. He is strong. But you cannot turn your back on what you are. It's difficult, I know. You are so young, so innocent. But you must help us to understand how you did what you did so that we can help you control it and help your brothers make it happen. Do you not see?'

'No one should have it,' she said, confused by his tone and the sense of what he was saying. Her heart was beating fast. He couldn't really want her to try again, could he? Not after what she had done. 'It's dangerous.'

'Yes, it is,' said Kessian. 'Unless it is controlled. And when we all understand it, you and your brothers can make it work to help and to heal. To do all those things people want and need. And then you will be happy with what you are. It will happen, I promise.'

She shook her head again. 'I can't, Father Kessian. I'm scared.' She felt tears welling up again.

'I know, little one. And if I'm honest, we are all a bit scared. You gave us quite a fright.' He smiled. 'Tell you what, I've brought someone who wants to see you. Perhaps he can help you. Come in, Gorian.'

And in he came. Tall and handsome though he looked very tired. A smile was on his lips, his bright blue tunic was clean and freshly pressed, and his hair clean and shining. She wished she had hair like that. Curls were lovely. Her eyes fell to his arm and she felt herself crumple. A bandage ran from the centre of his palm all the way up to his elbow. She realised she had still been clinging to the hope that it hadn't been as bad as she remembered in her nightmares. But it was.

'Hello, Mirron, how are you feeling?'

She burst into tears. Gorian looked at Kessian who ushered him forward. He moved to the bed and put his hand on her arm. She felt the bandage against her skin. She looked at him.

'I'm sorry, Gorian,' she managed, through her sobs.

Kessian had found a handkerchief and passed it to Gorian who handed it on to her. 'Thank you,' she said.

'I know you're sorry,' said Gorian. 'I know you didn't really mean to hurt me. I know you just wanted to help Arducius. I've said sorry to him.' He dropped his gaze. 'His arm is broken.'

'You shouldn't have done that,' said Mirron, wiping at her eyes.

Gorian's head snapped back up. 'And you . . . We were both wrong last night. Arducius says he forgives me. I forgive you.'

Relief cascaded through Mirron then, as if she were standing under a fall of pure water. She felt refreshed where she had felt dirty. 'I prayed you would say that.'

'We all want to be able to do what you did . . . no, I don't mean that. I mean, to be able to use our talents. Perhaps it might help us to discover new ones. I can help you to understand. We all can. Please, Mirron. Come out and play. Father Kessian says we don't have to learn today.'

Mirron smiled and this time her tears were of happiness. He really did forgive her. She breathed deeply, the fresh air making her feel alive.

'Yes, all right. Let me get dressed. I'm hungry too.'

Gorian stood and she caught the look in his eye. It was strange, not warm and happy. Relieved, perhaps. 'I'm glad. I'll see you in the courtyard. Perhaps we can go swimming.'

'If Jen comes with us.'

'I'll go and ask her.'

He ran out of her bedroom and Mirron heard his footsteps echoing away on the marble floor of the villa. Kessian pushed himself to his feet and bent to kiss her forehead.

'Thank you, Mirron. You know you're very grown up for one so young.'

She giggled and squirmed.

'And remember, we will always be with you to help you and support you. You and your brothers are such treasures. We won't let anything happen to you.'

Mirron beamed at him. Perhaps today would be like yesterday after all.

Over the next few days, while Westfallen worked and traded under a beautiful, cloudless sky, Kessian and the Echelon began to under­stand the workings of the true Ascendant mind. Kessian had sent a message to Marshal Defender Vasselis the morning after the incident in the courtyard and their ruler was on his way from Cirandon even now, to see the progress for himself. He was bringing his wife and son with him, having decided to take a short holiday in the tranquillity of the village.

It added an element of pressure as Kessian had no real certainty that Mirron would be able to communicate her experience effectively or indeed repeat it. But, having consulted Gorian's papers extensively throughout that first night, he was convinced that once a break­through was made, as Gorian had written; "There can be no denial of the awakening ability by practitioner or witnesses. It will become as natural as the act of breathing. All that is needed is time for expression."

As it happened, not a great deal of time was needed. After the day's rest, where they had witnessed something of a transformation in Gorian's attitude to his siblings, Kessian had taken them all to the main forge just to the north of the forum. There was a little risk involved, given the numbers of traders in for the solastro high festival, but they could close themselves off effectively enough for it to be no real problem. Only Ossacer had stayed at home. His shock at what he had seen had run deeper than that of his peers and his deeply flawed constitution had let him down again. Subsequently, he was running a worrying fever.

Bryn Marr, Westfallen's blacksmith, was a burly, powerful man, moving into his middle years, with a habitual scowl. A Firewalker himself in his early years, he had fathered children of the seventh and eighth strands and was to be a father again in the eleventh.

His family roots lay deep in the Ascendancy. He was a trusted and dedicated servant but embittered that his seed had yielded nothing but fleeting talent. Even so, he and Willem had schooled Mirron as her talent had burgeoned. At ten years old, she was far beyond him. Kessian wondered what he would make of her now.

Bryn was ready for them, the Echelon and the three young Ascend­ants. He had cleared as much space as he could from around the stone-clad forge fire. Tools were stacked in boxes. Pieces of iron and steel work were gathered in the fenced yard. Despite its open sides, the forge was extremely hot and choked with the heady scents of charcoal and peat. Kessian was forced to admit he would need a chair, Willem and Genna likewise.

'We'd better get this done,' said Bryn testily, wiping his filthy hands on an equally filthy cloth. 'We'll be drawing a crowd before long.'

Kessian leaned forwards in his chair, hands on the pommel of the stick held under his chin. 'Mirron, are you ready to try?'

Mirron was standing next to Gorian and Arducius, both boys bandaged around their damaged arms. She looked nervous, pale around the eyes. Although she had agreed she would try to help them understand how she had performed her manipulation of the candle flames, she had shied from it. Her normally bubbly personality had been submerged beneath anxiety and a growing sense of shock. Kessian understood she felt out of control of her own actions and it had taken a full day for him to persuade her to come here; that what she had done was a natural progression. He was not at all sure she really believed them.

She looked at him and her nod of assent was tiny and frightened.

'Step forward, then, come close to the fire. After all, you know it won't hurt you.' His comment was rewarded with a brief small smile.

She stepped up to the forge. The charcoals glowed orange. Occa­sional flame licked over them, their smoke funnelled out of the forge and into the clear sky. Bryn held out a huge hand and she took it.

'So, my pretty student, what is it you've come to show me?' he asked, voice soft but still gruff.

She glanced again at Kessian. 'What should I do, Father?'

'Try to tease flame from the charcoals. Hold it in your hands if you can. Direct it if you feel strong enough. But do nothing that makes you feel you can't control it.'

'It all feels like that,' she said.

'You know what I mean.'

Bryn had raised his eyebrows, sceptical. His expression was shared by those of the Echelon who had not been present in the courtyard gardens.

'I'll try,' said Mirron.

'Good girl,' said Kessian. 'Take your time.'

He found his heart beating fast as Mirron faced the forge. She stood on a stool to allow her to look down on the fire, Bryn standing close behind her, protective though he needn't be. She was standing side-on to Kessian, wearing a sleeveless dress and with her hair tied back out of her eyes. She moved her hands towards the fire. Kessian lost sight of them at the lip of the forge, just as they entered the charcoals.

A calm expression settled on Mirron's face while she prepared. Genna clutched Kessian's hands on top of his stick.' Hesther was behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He ignored the sweat forming on his face and body, praying Mirron could repeat her display.

'I am one with the fire,' she said. 'I understand its strength. The charcoals are of high standard, Bryn, but your peat is spread a little thick left centre of the forge. There is a cool spot there. Let me just . . .' She moved her hands. Kessian heard the grate of charcoals. 'There. Fit for steel.'

'Thank you,' said Bryn. He smiled, a little embarrassed.

'The heat map is even,' continued Mirron.

She withdrew her hands and the mask of calm slipped. She was thinking about what she must next attempt. She scratched at her upper lip with her teeth and breathed deep. Kessian saw the shudder through her body. She swayed slightly. Bryn placed a hand on her back to steady her.

Mirron closed her eyes, snapping them open almost immediately. The fire glowed hotter, reflecting bright across the roof of the forge. Everyone took an unconscious pace away and Kessian leaned back in his chair. He watched Mirron's face intently. He saw fear flash across it followed by a curious serenity. Her eyes widened and her body relaxed.

Mirron drew her hands slowly away from the charcoals, palms downwards. The temperature rose in the forge. Tongues of flame followed her hands, wreathing them, caressing them it seemed, bath­ing them in a warm orange light. Kessian leaned forward again, breath stopped on his lips. The heat in him now had little to do with the forge and everything to do with the sense of wonder that swept through him. The swiftest of glances revealed a breadth of emotions among the Echelon and sheer joy on the faces of Gorian and Arducius.

The flame licked up Mirron's forearms, tracing the pathways of her nerves or veins perhaps. She appeared completely in control. She turned her palms to face each other. Flame spanned the gap of perhaps two feet between them. It steadied, thickened into a tubular shape, fed by the fire beneath it. Mirron moved her hands delicately, causing the tube to distend then curve upwards. The young Ascendant licked her lips.

'Can you tell us how you are feeling and what you can see?' asked Kessian.

Mirron rocked on the stool. The flame guttered and fell away. She sagged back into Bryn's arms.

'Oh, my child, I am sorry,' said Kessian. ‘I disturbed your concentration.'

Mirron gazed at him, her expression a little detached but intensely satisfied.

‘I tried to talk but the flame wouldn't stay,' she said. 'It was beautiful.'

'It was indeed,' said Kessian. 'No,' she said. 'Inside.' 'What do you mean?'

'In my body and in my head. I could see paths in the air and through the ground.'

Kessian's throat dried. It was a direct quote from Gorian's writings. His theory about what an Ascendant would see. Hesther's hands tightened on his shoulders.

'Are you sure?' he whispered, voice almost lost in the roar of the forge.

Mirron nodded. 'Am I all right?' she asked, voice trembling. Kessian chuckled. 'Oh, my dear I think you are very much more than that.'

Bryn placed Mirron back on the floor and pushed her gently but firmly towards Kessian. The blacksmith cupped his hands together at his chest in the traditional Order of Omniscience encompassing sign. The Father frowned. 'Bryn, that's a little

He stopped when he saw Bryn's face. He'd seen that expression on Ossacer's face just a couple of nights before.

Dread fear.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

844th cycle of God, 42nd day of Solasrise

11th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Every day for Han Jesson had been dark. The chill of loneliness engulfing him every time he awoke and taunting him every time he tried to close his eyes. The memories of that hideous day in Gull's Ford a year ago would not go away. The terror in his wife's eyes, her mute shock and screaming helplessness. The wails of his son. The blood across his street, and the bodies of people he had known for thirty years. The choking smell of burning. It was everywhere he walked, in every face he saw and in the dark scars on buildings that would never be repainted.

Those first days were vague. A despair so deep he barely registered living. He could recall but two things from them. The word 'gone' thundering through his muddled mind; and the tall man. The Gatherer.

The man who had promised him he would return his family to him. And though Jhered wrote to him at each levy time, he had no real news. Gave him no particular hope to cling onto. The letters were like reading reports on the war. They were disassociated from his pain.

Every day, Han walked to the east of the village and up to the crest of the valley where he would sit. Through the blistering heat of solastro, the shocking cold of dusas and the freshness of genastro, he made his short pilgrimage. And while he sat, the world passed him by.

Crops grew, were harvested and stored. New livestock was driven into the settlement. The sound of hammer and saw echoed up the valley, mixed with the shouts of men and the excitable chatter of children. Traders came and went. The legion wagons rattled through the streets, buying supplies on their way to the Tsardon front and selling spoils on the way back. The Gatherers came back too. Not the tall man this time but others. Assessing their progress, demanding a rise in the levy based on what they saw. And the civil war came ever closer to them.

But no sign of his family. No news but that the campaigns pro­gressed and one day the Tsardon ruling dynasty would fall and reparations would begin. 'One day' was no good to Han Jesson. It was meaningless. And for every day that it did not come, his hope leached away.

It was late evening and the day had been searing hot with barely a puff of breeze to move the air. Han had been sitting in the shade of rock and tree for the larger part of the day, watching the hills to the east, the shimmer over the road to the south and the scattered river traffic. He'd seen riders moving in the distance in the late morning, impossible to say how many. Almost certainly Conquord cavalry though whenever he saw and heard bands of riders now, he shivered, his memories surfacing sharp and painful.

When the sunlight was gone, Han made his way back down the well-trodden path. In the early days he had lit fires for beacons and sat by them all night. But he had to live and maintain his business if his family were to have anything to return home to enjoy. So he lit the lanterns outside his repaired shop front and walked inside. Those lights would burn until dawn, just in case.

He shuffled about his workshop, lighting candles and more lanterns. He'd kept the shutters closed all day and the shop was relatively cool though the heat of solas had permeated his tiles and whitewashed walls. It was a small house with the workspaces dominating the ground floor while up the single flight of stairs were living and sleeping areas and a roof terrace. But it felt cavernous and his every movement echoed sadly from the stained walls.

He rubbed his hands over his face, the action reminding him he needed to shave. Just one more thing, like enjoying food, that seemed so unimportant. Most days he had to remind himself to keep going, to try to live as normal a life as he was able so that he was ready when they came home. Though when even bathing and washing his clothes were chores all but beyond him, it was a difficult reminder to fulfil.

Out in his back yard he could feel the heat from the kiln that he fired every night. Scattered about its base was the wreckage of too many cracked pots and vases. He unhooked the kiln door and opened it, feeling the wash of hot air over his face and arms.

He picked the two sets of tongs up from their rack and dragged the stone tray towards him, hooking its iron handles and laying it on the ground to cool. He cast his eyes briefly over the assortment of plates and mugs he had been asked to make, sighing at the breakages that told of the lack of attention to his clay mix and the variation in the thickness of the work he was trying to fire. He could see bubbles in the clay too. Nothing seemed to work any more, not how it should.

Han worked the same routine into the early hours of every morn­ing, knowing he had to be exhausted to stop the voices keeping him from sleep. Take out last night's work; refire the kiln; sit at the wheel to make new orders; and decorate the fired work, what was left of it.

It was that last that drew tears from him more often than not. Kari had been the artist, he the potter. Without her, the vases, plates, jugs and mugs that were his stock in trade were plain and clumsy-looking. He couldn't be proud of anything he made now and he was dimly aware that the orders he was getting had more to do with the desire of Gull's Ford to look after its own than for any thought of selling on for profit in Haroq.

But as God-around-them-all was his witness, he could do nothing else. He hoped they understood that. He fell asleep at the paints and glaze that night. He'd eaten nothing all day, drunk a little too much wine and the heat eventually took its toll.

He awoke with a start, unsure what had awakened him. The night was warm and humid. He looked up at the stars, guessing it was a couple of hours before dawn. He had a slight headache and a thirst but neither of these was sufficient to have brought him round. It had been a dead, deep sleep, sprawled across the table. His paint brush was still in his hands, its tip red in the bright light from the lanterns set at the back corners.

He sat up and stretched his back. There was a glow in the sky to the north, a fire of some sort. Then the screams repeated and he knew why he had woken and the reason for the fire. He had heard that sort of fear before and remembered it like it was yesterday.

Dread crushed his gut and chest, left him fighting for breath. He was frozen to his chair while the sound of feet and hoofs gained in volume, matching that of the panicked voices and the wails of terror.

It couldn't be happening again. They'd already taken everything in Gull's Ford once. Not again, he whispered, God have mercy, please not again.

Han fought himself to a standing position. His body was shaking and his mind was blank, numb. His breathing shallow and very quick. He tried to calm himself, leaning hard on the back of the chair. He swallowed on a dry throat and blinked away the tears that had welled up. He had no idea what to do. Nothing suggested itself.

From out in the road, he heard the clatter of horses and the harsh shouts of the Tsardon. The yells and cries of the citizens of Gull's Ford grew louder still, more and more of them on the streets outside. The glow in the northern sky grew brighter and in a moment's lull, he heard the crackle of flames and a ragged cheer.

Han turned from the painting table. There was quiet in the street outside his front door and he moved towards it gingerly. There was something very different in the tenor of this raid. Before, in the glare of daylight, the Tsardon had attacked at random. Whole areas of the town had been totally ignored that time, while some houses in other streets had been destroyed, others passed by and others, like his own, damaged only enough to take the prize of his wife and son before attention went elsewhere.

He stopped and pressed his ear to the shutters, confused at what he was hearing. There was still a hubbub but it was passing away towards the north, leaving something surrounding him that he couldn't place. He cracked the shutters as quietly as he could to see out. He looked first to his left and his breath caught in the back of his throat. He switched sides and looked right and south. The same. He closed and hooked the shutters, backing away.

Tsardon. Approaching from both directions and riding down the centre of the street with swordsmen to either side, kicking in every door. Jesson shrank away, vision blurring. His lanterns were a welcome for his enemies. His door would burst in like it had before and they'd drag him away like they had his wife and child. He couldn't let that happen. He had to be here when she returned.

The thought cleared his head of the fog which had encased it. There was no time to grab anything. He was dressed and that would have to do. He ran back through the shop, out into the yard, past the kiln and to the wooden shelving attached to the back wall. It used to be filled with works awaiting decoration. Now it stood empty but it might just save his life.

Han scrambled up the racks, feeling the timbers give under his weight, hearing them protest their treatment, the sound awfully loud in his ears. Reaching the top shelf, he jumped with hands out­stretched to grasp the lip of the roof terrace above him. Praetor Gorsal's house. She wouldn't begrudge him this chance to escape.

Behind him, his door was beaten in. Shouts ran through his shop and the noise from the street was much louder. Using it as a spur, he pulled and scrabbled, dragging his body onto Gorsal's terrace. He rolled once, gathered his breath and ran to the stairs underneath the sun porch. The quickest of glances behind him told him they had not seen him; there was no one in the yard.

Gorsal's house was dark and empty. His sandals whispered on the stone and his hand brushed the wall to give him balance. Below, a wan light washed the small hallway. He knew he shouldn't but he felt relief that the Tsardon had already been here and taken any they had found inside.

The door had been forced and Gorsal's collection of amphorae and vases from across the Conquord was smashed and scattered across the floor, clubbed from the alcove stands where they had stood so proudly. One of his own was among the debris, the fragments crushing under his feet on his way to the door.

His heart was hammering loud enough for the Tsardon to hear; it was painful in his chest. The quake in his limbs was back. He stopped. Surely he should hide here. The house had been cleared, there was no reason to risk running outside. He'd be safe. New hope flooded through his body.

He backed up a pace. He could hear the drone of noise that indicated where the citizens had been taken. Away north towards the fire and the House of Masks. He turned, thinking to hide up the stairs, perhaps under a bed. Two Tsardon stood at the head of the short stairway, hard eyes boring through him. Han closed his eyes and sagged to the floor. There was no escape.

They didn't kill him. Instead they pushed him into the street and herded him to the north of the town with others who had so nearly slipped the net. The fire resolved itself as the Reader's house, adjacent to the House of Masks. The two-storey building was engulfed. Stone glowed red, the last of the timbers were cracking in the intense heat and the roof tiles had long since collapsed into the body of the house.

In front of the blaze, the Reader stared mute at the destruction. He was flanked by Tsardon who held his arms at his sides though he made no attempt to resist. And assembled on the prayer grass in front of the House of Masks was the entire citizenry of Gull's Ford.

Jesson was pushed into the silent mass. He could feel the anxiety deepening as it swept through them. He caught sight of frightened eyes, wringing hands and quivering lips, ghastly in the light of the fire. People clung to each other for support and searched each other's faces for comfort and comprehension. Quiet sobbing surrounded him. He was sweating; the fire and the night unbearably hot. His mouth was dry and his throat tight. He didn't think he could have spoken even if he had found words. Whatever was going to happen to them, he just wanted it to be over quickly.

Tsardon horsemen with torches surrounded them on three sides. Ahead, the view of the blaze and those before it were unobstructed. The Reader had been moved and now stood adjacent to the offerings table where so recently, gifts of fruit, fish and meat had decorated its surface for the solasrise festival. Now it was cleared, its polished white marble surface, black-veined, reflecting the firelight, garish and mesmerising.

Three Tsardon moved to stand in front of the table. All were tall men, shaven-headed and bearded. Their leather jerkins were studded with steel and each wore a long, curved sword on the right hip. They studied the citizens of Gull's Ford dispassionately.

'You were warned,' said the man in the centre, his voice heavily accented. 'You were told to renounce the Conquord and its false God. You were told to take our words to your Marshal. Either you did not speak or he did not listen and now you must accept the consequences of the choice you have made.'

A shifting in the crowd.

'The Conquord is a blight on our world and its peoples are our enemies. Its faith is weak. It has prosecuted an unjust war against Tsard and we will not fall before its legions. Look at where we stand now. Estorea cannot protect you. Its God cannot protect you.'

He turned and spat on the table.

'Tell your Marshal Yuran what you see and hear in Gull's Ford tonight. Make him understand that you will not remain in the

Conquord, that you want your independence back. We are the power here. We are your neighbours and we were your friends. Ask yourselves, did we raid and kill before the Conquord came? Yet you betrayed us and your Gods to join them.' He shook his head.

'And where are your protectors now? They sit in their great palaces counting the money they have taken from you and make themselves blind to your vulnerability. What the eye does not see does not weigh on the conscience. They promise you everything and they give you nothing. I do not understand why you remain faithful to them. Why you don't resist them like more and more of your countrymen are doing. It would save you from this.'

'Please.' Lena Gorsal raised her voice above the fear. 'I know you. We have taken bread and wine together, Sentor Rensaark. You are not an evil man. Don't do this. You mustn't.'

'It's too late, Lena,' said Rensaark. 'I warned you. I have begged you in years gone by. But you have proved deaf to my words. Now, I do what I must.'

'The Conquord will provide!' shouted the Reader, voice clear and unwavering. 'God will protect you all. His—'

A Tsardon fist thumped into his gut and he doubled over. He was forced to his knees, his head pushed forward to face the ground.

'You cannot silence me.' The Reader's voice was choked with pain and dust. 'Join me in prayer: Under the skies and above the soil; across the waves and on the mountain's peak, we bask in the glory of your creation . . .'

A few muttered voices joined the prayer. Rensaark strode to the kneeling man and lashed a kick into his face. A spray of blood flew and the prayer was halted. At a nod the Reader was hauled back to his feet. The Tsardon grabbed his bloodied mouth in one gloved hand.

'Let your God save you. If he is able.'

Another nod. Four raiders carrying torches ran into the House of Masks. Han froze. Quickly, the flames sprang up, feasting on the drapes, tapestries and wooden racks that held the masks of the recent dead. The raiders retreated. Fire spread upwards into the rafters. Smoke began to billow from the top of the doorway. Han saw the Reader mouthing a silent prayer against the desecration.

A third nod. The Reader was bundled towards the gathering inferno. He made no attempt to struggle and his words once again rang out across the prayer grass.

'Forgive those who destroy because they are blind to your light and mercy. Save those who stand in your presence. Though I go to the devils in the wind, my ashes denying me the warmth of your return­ing embrace, I go knowing your strength will guide those who yet live.'

He was shoved inside and the door pulled shut. A spear was pushed through the handle and braced against the door frame. People were screaming and shouting in the crowd. Gorsal led a movement forward but the riders pressed in from the sides, forcing the citizens back hard.

The roar of the flames was muted within the windowless building. Han could hear the Reader shouting his prayers through the coughs that racked his body. There was no attempt to escape. The door didn't thud in its frame, there was no beating on the walls.

Han joined with other citizens, praying for the Reader who was being stolen from God, never to return to the earth. With their tears staining their cheeks, they prayed until the Reader's shouts became choking screams torn from his lips and, mercifully soon, stopped altogether.

There was silence among the citizenry, against the backdrop of crackling flames and the shifting of horses.

'That was unforgivable, Senior,' said Gorsal when the Tsardon faced them once more. 'That man was not your enemy. We are not your enemies.' Her voice was thick with emotion.

Jesson nodded his agreement, helpless anger boiling through him.

'Any who live by choice under the banner of the Estorean Con­quord are our enemies,' said Rensaark. 'All of your lives are forfeit. It is fortunate that we are more merciful than your own rulers who even now are butchering their way through settlements just like this. Settlements full of my people who want nothing but peace and the freedom to live in the Kingdom of Tsard.'

Rensaark turned and made a circling movement with his finger. A dozen Tsardon ran into the citizens, curved swords drawn and held before them. The crowd fell back. The raiders moved through, pushing them into rough ranks, daring them to move further than demanded.

'Your Reader has discovered the price of worshipping a false God.

Now you will discover the price of bowing to Estorea. The price you pay for not heeding my words, Lena.'

It happened so quickly. From back and front they came, Tsardon walking among the ranks, counting. At every tenth they touched a citizen on the forehead and he or she was dragged from the crowd to stand in a ring of swordsmen. A sick sensation gripped Jesson. The counting neared him. The woman next to him was the tenth, dragged screaming from her husband, who begged to be taken in her place. He took a sword pommel on the back of the neck and fell to the ground, unmoving.

Jesson felt no relief. His head was full of the shouting of those taken from their loved ones, the exhortations for mercy and the pressure of the raiders in their midst, dealing out violent order. Twenty-nine citizens were corralled, fate in the hands of God, ob­scured by horseflesh, leather and steel.

'And though we hate the Conquord, that doesn't mean we cannot learn anything from it,' said Rensaark. He laughed, a chill sound that cut straight through Jesson to his heart.

Realisation was swift. Decimation. Jesson wanted to close his eyes but found he could not. One of those corralled was picked up bodily by six Tsardon. She bucked and screamed in their arms, her terror echoed by those that remained and those helpless but to witness.

They pinned her face down to the table, muscled arms clamped on her limbs, hips and back. Her head and neck protruded from the end of the table. Rensaark drew his sword, measured quickly and swung. The woman's head was cut clean away, her screams silenced, the blood sluicing. Her head rolled to lie in the grass, eyes open in the moment of death, staring at them, disbelieving.

Again the horses pressed in, denying the citizens space. The twenty-eight captured citizens pleaded and pushed but there were so many Tsardon, all armed and strong. More than a hundred must have been in the raiding party.

Jesson dropped his head and stared at his sandals while his body trembled and shook to the sound of every scream. The awful sounds of those knowing they were going to die. Calling on God, calling on their families, begging to be spared, cursing the Tsardon, cursing the Conquord, howling out words of love. He clenched his fists at the whisper of the sword, the sick whip of the cut and the dead thud of head on dry earth and grass.

He counted each one. Praying for them to find peace in the embrace of God and a return to a life spared of fear and blessed with peace and light. The count was tortuously slow. He found he was rocking back and forth on his feet, breathing in short gasps. All that kept him upright were the words he sent to God while the shivers ran the length of his body.

By the time it was done, he could barely think at all and the words of the Tsardon only just registered.

'You have had two warnings,' Rensaark said. 'There will not be a third.'

And with scarcely a sound, his men melted back into the night beyond the fires, leaving the survivors of Gull's Ford with nothing but the bodies that defiled their place of prayer; and the gruesome task of gathering and honouring the slaughtered.

Jesson dropped to his knees and found his hope had deserted him.

 

 

Chapter 9

844th cycle of God, 43rd day of Solasrise

 11th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Kessian had organised a discreet watch kept on Bryn Marr since his reaction in the forge two days before and had decided to visit him to try and right his mind. Bryn had closed the forge after the Ascendants and the Echelon had left and hadn't opened it since. Instead, he'd spent the time in solitary, drunken introspection, either inside his house or, more worryingly, in one of the bars that bordered the forum. He hadn't said anything injudicious so far but a slip was inevitable. And there were too many merchants in town.

With Kessian came a woman destined to fulfil a pivotal role in the years to come if the Ascendants were to develop unhindered. Elsa Gueran was a Reader of the Order of Omniscience. She was its sole representative in Westfallen and the Echelon was eternally grateful for her posting and the influence of her predecessor in that posting.

Kessian had called for her at her simple, single-storey house next to the House of Masks at the western end of the bay. He was feeling the heat today. Solastro was in full glorious cry, and the wind was still. Without the mitigating breeze off the sea the temperature was high and stifling. In the town, business was sluggish, with people sitting under shades to discuss deals or working bare-backed in the open. On the slopes above the town, animals sought tree and shrub cover where they could and farmers moved slowly across the shimmering landscape.

Elsa provided a shoulder on which to lean while Kessian's stick took the rest of his weight. He had worn his loosest tunic and sported a huge straw hat to guard his scalp and neck but was immediately damp with sweat.

‘I am feeling very old this morning,' he said as they walked through the forum, acknowledging the many greetings that came their way.

'That's because you are, Ardol,' replied Elsa, smiling at him. 'It's God's way of telling you that time's almost up.'

Elsa was forty-seven and beautiful. Like many of those dedicated to the service of the Order she had chosen celibacy, believing that she was already mother to every one of Westfallen's citizens through God. Black hair cascaded down her back, decorated with the occa­sional beaded braid. Her athletic figure was the envy of women half her age and her face, smiling and welcoming, held features sculpted almost to perfection by nature.

She was also deeply irreverent which, in her very difficult position, was a blessing and an enormous strength.

'There are some would have you burned for that stating of unpalatable reality,' Kessian said, chuckling.

'There are many things many would have me burned for if they knew what was going on here, Ardol. Telling you that you're not far from death is the least of my concerns, believe me.'

Her expression had sobered. Kessian patted the shoulder on which he leant.

'Not in your lifetime, eh?' he said.

Elsa shrugged. 'What's hard to take in is the reality. I've seen Mirron and now Arducius and I'm still not sure I really believe it.'

‘I suspect that's what lies at the heart of Bryn's problem,' said Kessian.

'Undoubtedly. It's hard to express for those of us who had no lasting talent. Or in my case, no talent at all.' She fell silent, trying to organise her thoughts.

Kessian noticed some particularly fine Tundarran weave on a nearby stall. Deep green and threaded in red and gold. Genna would love a yard or two of it.

'Special price for a poor old man?' suggested Kessian, pointing at the material.

'You have been using that line on me for a decade, Ardol,' said the stallholder, a tall, thin man approaching old age.

'And it becomes more true every time I speak it.'

'As do the threats of my contacts wondering why a cloth that comes so far is sold on for so little. For you as for everyone, it's a denarius a yard. Discount if you buy ten.'

Kessian blew out his cheeks, catching Elsa's mildly anxious gaze at the same time. 'I'll think about it. Maybe come back later when you're feeling more generous.'

'Will your good lady ever forgive you if she finds I sold out before you decided to treat her?'

'Will I ever forgive you if she finds I was even enquiring?' Kessian winked. He turned and rested his hand back on Elsa's shoulder. The two moved off slowly. 'I'm sorry, Elsa, you were about to say.'

'I believe in the true path of the Order. That's why I'm here. Because I can help keep the Chancellor's inquisitors clear of Westfallen. But like our belief in the cycle of life, the true Ascendant's path is just that, a belief. Or it was. There was no proof, not really. And now I'm confronted with it. It's like being in the presence of God. It scares me. I'm sure it scared Bryn too.'

'Don't let the Ascendants hear you say that. At least one of them already has enough delusions of his own impending greatness.' Kessian was only half-joking.

'Yes, it's something you'll have to watch,' agreed Elsa, not raising a smile. 'Look, Ardol, we're sitting on the best-kept secret in the Conquord, probably on the whole of God's earth. The Order still think they put an end to it all when they killed Gorian. You know better than all of us how hard it's been to keep it that way.

'What I've seen . . . dear God-of-the-world, there are others preg­nant even now, with the same potential. It cannot remain a secret forever.'

'I know,' said Kessian. 'It's the main reason Marshal Vasselis is here.'

'I mean, these people are what we believe we should all be in generations to come.' Elsa paused, stared at him as they exited the forum on a quiet street heading towards the blacksmith's. 'Can you imagine what this is going to do to the Order? To the Conquord, for that matter?

'There will be no flags to herald their arrival. No ready acceptance. Dear Ardol, these people you've created, their fight has only just begun. You can't contain them here. What they are, real or imagined, will out. I am preparing for that. I suggest the Echelon does the same.'

'We are, Elsa. That's why I'm going to talk to Bryn now,' he said, though he felt his words woefully inadequate. 'But at the back of all our minds is the knowledge that we have been rather naive. All of us. You included. It's only now that we've truly started to appreciate the potential consequences of what we've done. Everything has been geared towards creation, precious little towards education. The Con­quord is big and the Order is powerful and paranoid. It isn't going to be easy.'

'Ardol Kessian, your gift for understatement is undimmed by age.'

The forge was cold, the house quiet and shuttered. Disgruntled customers had tacked notes to his door and there was evidence that pieces had been removed from the yard. Theft or recovery of property, it was impossible to say.

Kessian rapped sharply on the heavy door with his stick, not expecting nor getting a response. The streets in this part of Westfallen were quiet but narrow, the forge being on a crossroads. Terraced houses, most atop businesses of one kind or another, meandered away in curving cobbled streets. In the heat of the morn­ing, most of those doing business were inside but in a small town it was easy to draw attention.

He looked at Elsa who shrugged. 'What choice do we really have? The whole town knows he's involved in the Ascendancy programme. We were bound to come. But remember why we're here, Ardol. We have to stop him making a mistake while the festival is on or news will reach the Conquord uncontrolled.'

Kessian nodded. 'You know we're going to have to tell the town very soon, don't you? They must suspect already that there's been a breakthrough.'

'Yes but in the way we always said we would. One thing at a time, Ardol.'

Elsa thumped her fist on the door, Kessian with his stick again.

'Bryn!' shouted Kessian. 'Open the door. We're here to help you. It's Ardol and Elsa. Come on now.'

He glanced around him. Faces were already appearing at doorways. He waved them away and struck the door again.

'Bryn, come on out. We don't want to have to call the militia to break in to check you're still alive.'

'You're sure he's in there?' asked Elsa.

'Unless he dug a tunnel last night,' said Kessian.

'Or his own grave,' said Elsa.

'That isn't funny.'

'It wasn't meant to be.'

Kessian put his stick to the door once more. 'Bryn! Last chance.' He waited, and eventually shook his head. 'I don't think . . .'

The sound of a bolt being slid back stopped his words. The door opened a crack.

'Can't a man have a little solitude if he wants?' growled Bryn.

They heard him walk away back into his house. Kessian pushed open the door into the gloom. Every shutter was closed. Stale air drifted out along with a sour smell. He shrugged and walked in and up the short hallway that led to Bryn's reception and dining room. Empty wine jugs, goblets and plates were scattered about the floor, side tables and couches.

Beyond the dining room, the kitchen was off a short passageway to the right. To the left, stairs led up to a bedroom. The forge and yard were through the kitchen but they didn't have to go that far. Bryn was sitting at the work table, his back to his cold stove, staring into space. He was carrying the dirt of three days. He was unwashed, unshaven and his hair was lank on his head. His eyes were red from alcohol and lack of sleep and his hands were shaking the goblet he held in front of him. More jugs stood or lay in a rough arc in front of him. Bryn had always enjoyed his wine. It looked like he had consumed the better part of his cellar.

'Do you mind if I sit down?' asked Kessian already pulling back a chair.

Bryn made a small gesture of acquiescence. Kessian sat hard and puffed out his cheeks, leaning his stick against the edge of the table. Elsa stood at his side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Close to, Bryn stank of sweat, vomit and stale alcohol.

'We just want to talk to you,' said Elsa. 'See if you're all right.'

'Well, now you've seen me you can go,' said Bryn. 'Don't worry, I won't give away your precious secret.'

He didn't look at them but had fixed his gaze instead on the goblet that he rolled between his filthy fingers.

'It's your secret too, Bryn. It's all of ours. Everyone in Westfallen,' said Kessian.

'Look, we know you're scared,' said Elsa.

'Scared?' Now he faced them, red eyes wide and wild in his deeply tanned, weathered face. 'No, I'm not scared. I have too much regret and despair to be scared. No point in being frightened now we've produced this unconscionable evil.'

Kessian felt sadness tumble through him like a fall of ice. He shook his head, his heart reaching out to his troubled friend.

'Bryn, no. Can it be evil to bring new life into the world that is more closely bonded to all God's creations than any before it?'

'It cannot be right,' said Bryn, his voice a hoarse whisper. 'What have we done?'

'We have brought new understanding to the world,' said Kessian. 'We have taken human beings to the next plane. Closer to God. Better able to do the Omniscient's work. It is a natural progression.'

Bryn snorted. 'Natural. That girl held flame in her hands. It did her bidding.'

'There would be those who say all strand talents, innate or other­wise, are unnatural. You were a Firewalker in your youth, after all. Are you unnatural?'

'God bestows such talents,' said Bryn icily. 'And God removes them too. They are the natural order of things. But this? We have bred for this. It is not nature's course. It is against God.'

'You are confused, Bryn,' said Kessian sharply. 'All of our talents, brief or otherwise, are bred for. Yours included.'

Elsa squeezed Kessian's shoulder and straightened. 'I stand here before you, a Reader for the Order of Omniscience. I spend my life in the service of God. What we have achieved here is wonderful. A miracle. God put us here to develop his world during the cycles of life. That is what we have done. We have developed. Progressed.'

Bryn barked a short laugh and turned his growing ire on her. 'And, esteemed Reader, is that the belief of your peers and superiors? Is that what the Chancellor believes? Do you think me so stupid I would swallow your pronouncements as gospel? When they caught Gorian, the Order denounced him as heretic. And if they had any inkling his work was being continued here, the armies would come. You do not represent either the Order or the Conquord, Elsa Gueran. You are the puppet of the Echelon.'

Kessian could feel Elsa tense. She took a long, considered breath, then sat on the edge of the table.

'I understand your point of view, Bryn, and I understand your fears. But you are wrong to think me a puppet. I am a believer in the true path of the Order. Today's Order is strong and all-pervasive but here in Westfallen and in pockets across the Conquord, we hold beliefs on which the Order was founded. That the people shall move ever closer to God. Should ascend to be one with God.'

Kessian could see Bryn wasn't listening. Rational statements falling mute on an irrational mind.

'It is now we need your strength, my friend,' said Kessian. 'You have worked so hard, given so much. Now we must stand together. There are testing times to come, dangerous times. We need you.'

Bryn dropped his head. 'The Order will sweep you aside. I have been complicit for too long. All I can do is throw myself upon the mercy of the Omniscient.'

Kessian looked at Elsa. She was shaking her head. The two of them rose to leave.

'Get some rest, Bryn,' said Kessian. 'We'll send someone in. Pre­pare you some food to go with that fine wine of yours. Maybe clean up a little.'

Bryn didn't raise his head. 'I am already sullied enough. I will see no one that you send, Father Kessian.'

Andreas Koll was outside waiting for them. He smiled a little sadly.

'Not good?' he asked.

'Not at all,' said Kessian. 'I want him watched. Day and night. He is not to speak of what he saw to anyone save Elsa and the Echelon. We need trusted people on this, Andreas. Talk to his friends. See he is kept away from outsiders.'

'Aren't you overreacting?' asked Elsa. 'He is not a danger. Just confused and scared.'

Kessian frowned. 'You contradict yourself. He wants God's mercy. Who do you think he will ask for it. Not you, Elsa. One careless word now and everything we have striven for could be lost. I will not let him risk that. Anyway, it has to be done. He will be kept silent.'

And Kessian knew with a calm certainty that he meant every word he said. No weakness. They could not afford it. Not now.

'When does the solastro festival end?' he asked.

'Five days,' said Andreas.

'A critical time. When the festival is over and outsiders gone, we will address the town. We must know the scale of what we face within our own compass before we decide what must be done in the wider world.' Kessian passed a hand over his face. Bryn had shaken him to the core. His fear was palpable. And this in a man dedicated to the cause until so recently.

'Elsa, I need you to consult your scriptures. Anything that supports us. Think of anything you can say that will calm people.'

'We're going to have to show them what our Ascendants can do, aren't we?' she said.

‘I can see no way around it. Bryn's reaction has started the ques­tions and we have no credible answers now. We have kept the Ascendants away from the people for long enough. We have to trust our own. If we cannot, we are lost.'

'Then perhaps Bryn is a blessing for us,' said Andreas.

Kessian smiled at the fourth strand Land Warden. Such a strong man. 'Your optimism is a lesson to us all.'

'He's right, though,' said Elsa. 'Here we are in danger of wallow­ing in self pity and all that has happened is that one man has been badly frightened. Let's not lose sight of the miracle that Mirron and Arducius have shown us. Everything we prayed for has come to pass.'

Kessian nodded. 'But can you not feel the passing of innocence?' He turned to walk back towards the docks. ‘I should go to the lake, see the Marshal. We need to accelerate our security plans.'

 

 

Chapter 10

844th cycle of God, 43rd day of Solasrise

11th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Willows Lake was two miles to the south-east of Westfallen and provided the town with all its fresh water, piped downhill to the town fountains and directly into the houses of the wealthy. It was over three miles long, had several fine shingle beaches and was bordered on three sides by its namesake trees, which offered shade at the water's edge. Fed by underground streams and rivers running in from the north and west, its surplus ran off to Genastro Falls via Garret's River, which could be dammed in times of drought.

The lake was popular with Westfallen's people for fishing and for sail and oar training; and it was where the Ascendants had gone for the day to try and build on Mirron's progress. It was a place of peace to rival the plateau orchard. Marshal Vasselis, his wife and son had gone with them to learn what they could while Father Kessian went to talk to Bryn Marr.

Gorian had watched Mirron and now Arducius make the first true link to the earth and they had both begun to blossom. Just two days and they were new people. Mirron was still afraid because she did not fully understand what it was she did. Arducius likewise though he had a more analytical mind. What fascinated Gorian was that both of them now had other talents at their fingertips.

Arducius had developed a gentle breeze from a still sky when he broke through yesterday. Today, he had caused a small column of water to stand on the lake surface. Mirron could water-breathe now and had also brought worms to the surface, merely by placing her hands on the land. Small victories but it was as if doors had been opened in their minds.

Gorian knew he was not far behind them. At least he was further

advanced than the sickly Ossacer. Pathetic. Even Arducius was strong in mind despite his brittle bones. Ossacer was weak in mind and body and still in bed, shivering and moaning.

Gorian had never had a day's sickness in his life. He might be behind now but he could feel his breakthrough coming. Today would be the perfect day. Marshal Vasselis was here and had stared speechless at the small tricks the other two had performed. And his son, Kovan, had been hanging around Mirron all day, overexuberant in his congratulations. A demonstration from Gorian better than the others put together would only be right. It would show who was destined to be the best of them.

It was early afternoon and a perfect day, still and hot with the lake so calm your reflection hardly wavered in it. And so clear that the fish that had chased Mirron and Jen Shalke through the water were ribbons of flashing silver beneath the surface. It was an amazing sight and Gorian wanted a part of it.

He had been sitting alone under the shade of a willow tree, watching the other two intently. Both were tired from their exertions now but talking to Willem, Genna and Hesther, who logged every­thing they said. Shela, Jen and his mother served a salad lunch at the tables permanently set up on the lakeside. Marshal Vasselis and his wife were holding court while Kovan sported in the water near the jetty, showing off for Mirron.

Gorian pushed himself to his feet, feeling suddenly hungry. He wandered the short distance around the lakeside and crunched across the beach to the tables. From behind the big boathouse, he could hear the sound of an approaching horse and cart. Father Kessian was being driven to the lake by one of his servants. Now everyone was here. Perfect.

The carriage rolled to a stop and the servant helped Father Kessian down. He walked slowly over to the lunch tables, relying heavily on his walking stick. Marshal Vasselis jumped up from his bench seat to embrace the Father. Mirron and Arducius broke from their mentors to do the same. Gorian didn't hurry, content to hear the Father's deep-voiced laughter carry over the water's surface.

'Go steady on an old man,' he said. 'One at a time, one at a time.'

Mirron and Arducius were babbling loud, recounting their tri­umphs. Gorian left them to it, standing by the jetty. He saw Kovan had stopped his swimming and diving now he was ignored. He was hanging on to a jetty stay, looking unhappy. Gorian smiled.

'You'll never be one of us, will you? However hard you try. And that makes you unimportant. She knows that. You are wasting your time.'

'You should watch what you say,' said Kovan. 'When my father dies, I will be Marshal Defender of Caraduk. I will be the one who rules you. All of you.'

Gorian stared at him, wanting to laugh at his stupidity. 'No one will rule me.'

'Gorian?' Kessian's voice beckoned him.

He trotted over to the Father, who was taking a seat by Marshal Vasselis for lunch. 'Yes, Father?'

'Come and sit down. Tell me what you've done this morning.' 'I've been waiting for you,' he replied, realising it was the absolute truth.

'Oh? And why is that?'

'I have something to show you. All of you. But I wanted to wait until you were here.'

Kessian frowned and glanced aside to Genna who shrugged. 'I see. I heard you had been quiet, working by yourself over there. Have you discovered something?'

'No.'

'So what can you have to show me?'

Gorian felt a stab of anger at his doubt. Vasselis saw it and laid a hand on Kessian's arm.

'Come on, Ardol, just let the lad show you want he wants. You never know, he might surprise and delight you.'

Kessian smiled, but the doubt remained. 'Go on, Gorian.'

Gorian walked away a couple of paces to make sure they could all see him. Around him, on the edge of the beech, the grass was a healthy deep green, fed by the water and warmed by the sun. He checked to make sure they were all looking at him. Father Kessian, the Echelon, the Ascendants, and Marshal Vasselis. Then he knelt down.

With his hands almost lost in the grass, he could feel what his eyes had already told him. The vegetation here was strong and vibrant, the conditions ideal for growth. The grass was thick, the stems tough.

Beneath the grass he could sense tree roots seeking fertile ground and moisture from the lake. The tiny movements of mites, insects, spiders and worms filtered up through his fingers, taking a place in the organisation of his mind. He was a Herd Master of extraordinary skill and had already played his part in the saving of many an animal on Westfallen's farms. Yet that had been his only ability so far.

But today, the world of the Land Warden was his, too. Strange. He had never doubted that this would be the moment. Not since they had walked up here this morning, laughing and joking, playing and swimming together. He had felt a lightness of spirit, a closeness to Mirron in particular, but to Arducius too. It was not something he was used to but he found he liked it. It was something he could use to gain advantage. And what he felt today made all those years of endless learning and effort worthwhile.

Around him, all voices were silent. Perhaps his face was giving away that he could truly feel the land. But he wasn't finished yet. He focused hard on the grass that surrounded him. While he gazed at the green on which he knelt, he delved deep into the structure of the stems themselves. He applied the understandings of his Herd-Mastership. The methods of looking past that which the naked eye can see, sensing the trails of energy that bound cells together and promoted growth and life.

In a cow or a horse, if there was damage or disease, it appeared as a break in the trails with the centre of the problem an indistinct area. If it had a colour, it would be grey, vaguely shifting and formless. That's how it appeared to Gorian's mind's eye.

No such damage here, though. He traced the trails that surged through the earth. He could tell where they branched to feed into each individual strand. It was like a map laid out in intricate detail, all available through his touch and decoded by his mind.

It was truly wonderful. He felt a surge of joy, of power potential. And of greatness. So he searched for the way to change what he could sense. The area was small; little more than that cast by his shadow before the trails and sensations began to fade.

He tried to remember what Mirron had said. About letting your muscles relax and directing the free energy all around into the trails you wanted. She had said it was like making your mind a net and then just pointing your finger to make the trails swell with energy and life.

But it was vague. She couldn't put her feelings and senses into words. And she was talking about directing fire and water. His task was to alter living matter. Looking deep into the structure of the grass, he could see what he had to do. In the heart of the stalk, down at the base where the root thickened to burst above ground, there was a pulsing. It was different in every strand. There bright and dominant, there faint and weak, with the energy trails leading to each and every one. He sought deeper, tried to channel his focus on the pulsing.

He paused, his heart suddenly beating hard. How was it that it felt this natural . . . this intuitive? These feelings, these extraordinary sensations, had been concealed for so long. Always at the edge of his comprehension but never close enough for him to savour. Until now. Exhilaration flooded him. It could have broken his concentration. Instead, he channelled it into the pulsing of the stems. He diverted his excitement into forcing energy hard and fast into the life-force of hundreds of blades of grass surrounding him. It had to be the right course of action for the result he desired.

And in the moment he did so, every pulse flared in his mind's eye. Some quickly guttered like dying candle flames and snuffed out. Others roared with health, growth and energy. Immediately, he felt his concentration begin to wane. Like he was standing holding two ends of ropes, each pulling him hard in opposite directions. And he desperate to cling on to both, fearing what might happen if he let go of either. Yet the more he tried, the more he was unable to maintain his focus.

It was over abruptly. No longer could he force the lines of energy into the flaring and fading pulses. He withdrew into himself, know­ing he was spent. In his mind, both ends of the rope were let go. He felt himself falling sideways but there, in his sudden fatigue, was the thrill of triumph.

 

Kessian watched Gorian emerge in awed silence. They all did. He was ashamed that he had mistaken the boy's bearing for arrogance and bravado like so often before. Fortunately, Vasselis had seen it for what it was.

He knew he shouldn't have been as impressed with the display as with the understanding of the processes behind it but he couldn't help it. None of the first Gorian's writings had prepared them for the sights they had seen these past few days. Of course, he had only been able to theorise, having witnessed nothing like it himself. Yet in the midst of his amazement, Kessian found the time to marvel at Gorian's vision.

So to his namesake. A boy surely destined for similar mythical status. But at this moment hidden inside a thick curtain of grass stems three feet tall and more. Kessian had watched them grow from a tenth of that height in less time than he could count thirty. And all the while, Gorian's face had begun to wrinkle. Not much, and it could have been with the effort but Kessian didn't think so. The boy had developed tiny crow's feet around his eyes before the grass had obscured him.

Now he lay still and his mother, Meera Naravny, was running to his side. The rest of them were not far behind. Mirron and Arducius were first to jump on him and hug him, Mirron fiercely, Arducius gently, both delirious at his achievement. And the others trailing their hands through the lustrous long grass, all smiles and satisfaction.

It was as the Echelon had planned. Kessian felt that warmth within him again that had nothing to do with the heat from above. His walk was more stately, more knowing than before. He could not deny the joy in his heart that suffused his aching, aged, tired body.

Like the others, he let his hand brush the tall new-grown grass. He looked down at it and frowned, curious. In amongst the vibrant green thicket of stems were scattered the brown and brittle of the long dead and dried out. Perhaps Gorian could explain it later. An oddity, though.

Meera had Gorian cradled in her arms now, kneeling by the exhausted Ascendant, having shooed away his friends. She was stroking his hair and speaking soothing, proud words. He clung to her, needing her closeness and warmth.

'Well, will you look at that,' she said. 'Ardol, over here.'

Kessian moved to her. Meera pointed to Gorian's temple. He didn't see what bothered her for a moment but soon it became very obvious. His hair. Among all the richness of youth there was grey.

Kessian shrugged at Vasselis's question. The two men were dining alone in a small private room in the villa. In the main dining room, Netta and Kovan Vasselis hosted the rest of the Echelon.

It had been a true day of contrasts. From his despair at Bryn's condition to the joy of Gorian's emergence and now the flat weight of reality that was becoming twined about them as a consequence.

'There are undoubtedly many effects of ascendancy that we are yet to witness. We'll watch young Gorian, though I am sure he'll recover very quickly.'

The boy had been supported to the wagon with no strength in his legs. As well as the grey in his hair there had been the tiny wrinkles around his eyes that Kessian had seen form. These had remained even when Gorian's broad smile had faded. There was a great deal to document. Genna and Meera had begun before dinner was served.

Kessian breathed out and sat up from his reclining position on his couch. Between him and Vasselis, a low table held the remains of their food and drink. Bread, mutton and roasted vegetables. Rich sauces still steamed gently in beautifully crafted and decorated jugs from the potteries of Atreska. A half-full jug of spiced, heated red wine was at Vasselis's right hand. Kessian waved his empty goblet at the Marshal while examining the food and concluding he had eaten enough.

Vasselis filled the proffered goblet and his own. He allowed him­self an indulgent smile, Kessian seeing the care in his early middle-aged face.

'And are you pleased you lived to see it?' he asked.

'Damn fool question,' replied Kessian. 'Remember how I didn't ever ask if you were happy to see the birth of your son?'

'You know precisely what I am talking about, Ardol. You are hardly beside yourself with delight as we sit here. The same is true of the entire Echelon.'

'I can't help thinking ahead,' said Kessian.

'And your blacksmith's reaction has worried you.'

'It has shaken me deeply,' admitted Kessian, finding comfort in Vasselis's understanding. 'It's why we're sitting here and not in there with everyone else, after all. Funny. Although we'd always known we would have to face this, that we couldn't keep them hidden forever -didn't want to - I didn't think it would be beginning now. They are so young.' He sighed and shook his head, an uncomfortable feeling in his gut.

Vasselis put down his wine glass and sat up himself, leaning across the table to touch Kessian's hands, which had begun to shake.

'Ardol, the first thing is not to panic. Not to let the tasks ahead appear so large they are impossible to achieve. That's why I'm here.' He smiled in that self-deprecating way that Kessian had grown to love. 'Hey, I run this country. I'm good at this sort of thing.'

Kessian felt the tightness in his throat ease. He kneaded his forehead with his thumb and forefinger.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Silly old man.'

'Not at all,' said Vasselis softly. 'As God-stands-by-me you are the only one of the Echelon who truly understands the scale of what we face now the Ascendants have started to emerge. We cannot under­estimate the problems that are to come. We have to be realistic. We have to ignore nothing, however small, and we have to be single-minded in our efforts. Bryn has merely brought our task into sharper focus.'

Kessian nodded, his relief palpable. Thank God for delivering Arvan Vasselis to the world. Thank God for the Vasselis family of the last four generations, come to that. Taking the then new Marshal Defender dynasty into their confidence had proved a masterstroke.

A family with centuries-old roots in Caraduk and a history of open-minded religious attitudes, the Echelon had been persuaded to speak to them at a time when the Order was becoming suspicious about the rumours surrounding Westfallen. The incumbent Marshal had revealed herself to be a believer in the ascendant strand of the Order of Omniscience and so the partnership was sealed.

Soon, her choice of Reader was installed in Westfallen, informa­tion was being passed to the Echelon concerning military, religious and merchant traffic that might pose a threat, and the ascendancy experiments, research and developments could continue free of the suffocating veil of secrecy within the town.

Three generations later, every citizen of Westfallen knew what was being attempted and all played their part in ensuring secrecy was maintained. To this day, Caraducian ships patrolled beyond the inlet, soldiers manned guard posts on every route from the town, and Vasselis and the Echelon used the Advocacy messenger service to keep up the vital flow of communications.

No one who presented any potential threat got out and, indeed, the various Marshal Defenders Vasselis had made some hard choices. Innocent people were dead, their only crime having been to see or hear something they should not. Unpalatable though it was, Kessian found his guilt did not interfere with his sleep. His belief in the greater good they served was unshakeable.

He looked at his benefactor, a man who provided money, security and above everything else, friendship undimmed.

'So,' said Kessian. 'Where do we begin?'

'Right,' said Vasselis, adjusting his formal toga, deep blue and gold trim on cream. 'Your timetable for talking to Westfallen's citizens is sound. Usual practice will surround those merchants leaving at the end of the festival. What we must do though is seal off the town in the aftermath of your announcement, in whatever form that takes. I'll organise that. You'll see nothing here, don't worry. No point in scaring people. As far as my soldiers are concerned it'll be an exercise. I'll dream up some plausible pretext.'

'I'm intrigued to know what.'

'How about quarantine for containment of a bovine flu outbreak? It'll allow us to keep any of your citizens in, should there be any, well, sudden desire for departure. And of course, we can stop anyone getting in by land or sea.'

Kessian chuckled. 'Too easy, isn't it?'

'Like I say, I'm good at this.' Vasselis's expression hardened. 'Unfortunately, that is the easy part. I cannot keep my soldiers on exercise indefinitely and you cannot survive without trade. Where we must get to, and quickly, is a state where we have your borders as secure as they can be without arousing suspicion. I will review my plans for that and confirm them with you at the earliest opportunity.

'It's only at that point when we can begin to consider moves to introduce the Ascendants to anyone, and I mean anyone, on the outside. It's very difficult to assess what the reaction of others will be but we would be naive to assume mass acceptance, I am sure you will agree. Fear and misunderstanding are likely to dominate, I suspect.'

'But if only people knew what it could mean for us all,' said Kessian, before he could stop himself.

'You can't afford to think like that,' said Vasselis sharply. 'And you know it as well as I do. We have to put a cap on information getting into the public arena for as long as we can. But one thing is certain. This will leak out. As the Ascendants get older and more come through, people will see things and they will talk. Before that happens, we have to have the backing of other, powerful individuals. I have to think when to talk to the Advocate and the Gatherers. She and they would be particularly useful allies. Other Marshal Defender dynasties too and those we know in the Order who believe as we do.'

Vasselis paused and sipped his wine. Kessian could see worry in the set of his mouth and eyes.

'What is it, Arvan?' he asked gently. The Marshal smiled as he spoke.

'I've known this town for forty years. Since I was a small boy, playing at Willows Lake and swimming in the sea under Genastro Falls. I love every street, every tenement and villa. I love the smell of the fishing nets on the harbour walkways and the sound of ships bumping against the deep water docks when the tide is on the turn. I count you and Genna among my dearest and closest friends, never mind you are ninety years my senior. I used to badger my father to move here and I haven't changed at all. By God-who-walks-beside-us, if I was not Marshal Defender I would settle here permanently, such is the love I have for Westfallen and its people. It is the most beautiful, warm place in the entire Conquord, and you know I have seen a good deal of our beloved empire.'

'There is a major "but" coming, isn't there?' said Kessian, feeling his pride in the town swell as Vasselis enunciated so succinctly why so many who came here fell in love with the place and why those born here were so reluctant ever to leave.

'I am terrified of all that being destroyed,' Vasselis said. 'You have to know this, Ardol, and rightly you will be scared too. You, the Echelon, Westfallen, you have been of necessity cocooned from the real face of the Order of Omniscience for generations. And of necessity, I have not. They are powerful and they are as determined as they are zealous. The Chancellor is a woman blinded by her own faith, unable to see beyond the sanctity of that over which she presides.

'I know you have heard about them through Elsa Gueran but she does not tell you everything. If one of the Chancellor's people, just one, gets wind of what we have done here before we are ready, the armies of the Order will descend. After all, they are not interested in anyone coming closer to God except through their own good offices, are they? And their justice will see Westfallen burned to its last timber and the ashes of its people dispersed into the air to be tormented at the hands of the wind demons.

'If we do not have our allies around us, they will instead stand behind the Chancellor, ignorant of the crime they commit against all the people of this world.'

Kessian stared at Vasselis, unable to take his eyes from the Mar­shal's face as the words poured out. He could all but smell the timbers burning in his villa, see the citizens run but with nowhere to hide while the flames from their houses reared at their backs. He felt a surge of hopelessness and a despair at what they had done to so many innocents. Abruptly, he could understand where the path of Bryn's thoughts had taken him.

'Tell me what we must do,' Kessian said, keeping his voice firm and calm.

Vasselis nodded. 'You are a strong man, Ardol. And the good news is that our plans are sound. But don't ever forget that your friends are in constant danger from this day on, Elsa first among them. Have faith in the security I can bring you. Remain vigilant as the import of what has happened dawns on your citizens. Relearn again and again, all your plans for escape.

'Remember this and pass it down to those who will shepherd the Echelon after you are returned to the earth: the Ascendancy and its Echelon are the single critical link to our future. Should the worst come, never look back, never feel the guilt for those left in your wake who fall to obstruct those who would kill you. We have all chosen our paths and will live or die as a result.

'You must never, never hesitate to sacrifice any of us if it means you save yourselves.'

'Pray God it never comes to that,' said Kessian.

'Every day,' said Vasselis. 'Yet be prepared lest it does.'

 

Next morning, the preparations began. And Kessian had been right; Gorian was fully recovered and none the worse for his exertions. His grey had gone as had the wrinkles on his face. Looking at Gorian, it was difficult to believe the age he had displayed the day before. Indeed, Kessian would have doubted his memory but for the weight of witnesses. His ability to renew himself was one more wonder at a most extraordinary time.

A time tempered by a terribly sad reminder of why they had to be so careful how word of the Ascendancy came into the public domain. That same morning, they found Bryn hanging above his forge.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

846th cycle of God, 45th day of Solasfall

13th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Jen Shalke was out in the deeps, seeking shoals of white fish for the fleet bobbing on the surface. She'd brought the Ascendants to the safe haven where they loved to play above and below the waves, and had then left them, trailing her drift line and flag behind her to alert the skiffs to her position.

Mirron had watched her go through the clear calm waters, her arms by her sides, her strong legs propelling her away. They'd all learned the underwater techniques from Jen these last two years. From the first moments of drawing water into the lungs, when the fear was terrible and the reflex to choke unstoppable, to the under­standing of pressure effects on the body and how to breathe and rise slowly to combat them, to the sheer joy of swimming beneath the surface, spotting fish and discovering the wonders and dangers of the sea floor.

She turned away, glancing up quickly to see the brightness of the sun on the surface about forty feet above her and swam towards the others who were already nearing their favourite place, cavorting under the waters of Genastro Falls where they plunged into the sea. It was a great place for underwater hide and seek. She worked her legs harder to catch them up, feeling a pang of isolation as she did so. Ever more, these three whom she considered her brothers were the only real friends she had.

Jen tried her best but she was too old and it just felt awkward. Mirron had friends from the school but less and less often did their parents want her in their homes, or their daughters in hers. Mirron didn't really understand. She knew she was different because her abilities were active. But most of her friends used to have one ability

or another in their early years. Perhaps they were jealous, though if they were they didn't show it.

The others were already into a game by the time she arrived. Gorian was hovering in the water, almost lost in the air bubbles that stormed around the plunge pool. They felt soft on the skin and the roar of the falls in their ears was like muted thunder. It sent tingles through Mirron's body every time. He saw her and beckoned her towards him. She felt a small thrill and did as he asked, aware they were alone for the moment.

Gorian was beautiful. So moody but so alive. His hair eddied around his head and his eyes shone in the water, the muscles in his arms, chest and legs stood proud. She swam up close to him and hung there while the bubbles coursed in front of their faces. She had the powerful urge to kiss him then and it frightened her a little because she saw the same thing in his eyes as well. There was peace for them here. She didn't want the moment to end and fought to resist the desire to touch him lest that should spoil it. Gorian opened his mouth, sucked in bubbles and blew them out towards her. She laughed, the sound alien in her ears.

Who seeks? she asked, using the signs of upraised palms and a hand on her brow, hooding her eyes.

Ossacer, he replied, holding up four fingers to indicate his sign. She was two, Arducius three. Gorian of course, was one. It was hardly fair but it was the reason why Gorian was hiding in the water and air bubble streams. Ossacer's sight was fading rapidly. The illness he'd contracted following the shock of Mirron's emergence two years before had begun the process and nothing the doctors did would halt or reverse the problem. He would be blind before the coming dusas reached its height. But until then, he enjoyed what little sight he had, making his work and play ferocious and determined.

Where Arducius? She used the seek and three signs.

Gorian shrugged then pointed downwards.

Ossacer?

Gorian smiled and pointed down again repeatedly, indicating a long distance. He moved a hand towards her and let it drift through her hair, some of which had escaped its band to wisp about her eyes in the swirling warm water. She had no desire to pull away. There was a hot lump low in her stomach. She trembled. A shoal of tiny silver grey fish flowed past them, enveloping them for a few moments before moving on across the bay. Gorian leant in, his face coming closer to hers. She imagined feeling his breath on her face, his lips large in her vision.

A dull clang echoed through the water. Once, twice, three times. It was Hesther or Shela, summoning them back to the shore. Mirron backed away from Gorian who frowned and beckoned her. She shook her head and pointed up and away towards the beach, raising her eyebrows in the 'now' sign. Gorian nodded. The moment was gone. He held out his hand. She took it and the two of them led the way back to Westfallen, the others swimming to join them from below.

 

'When can we start developing our Waterborn ability?' asked Gorian. 'Jen says we're already as good as her. We should be trying to be better.'

'Fancy controlling the fish, do you?' asked Mirron, head emerging from her towel to see Gorian's skin glistening in the sunlight.

'Dolphins and sharks, more like,' said Gorian.

'All in good time,' said Hesther. 'I don't think we've worked out a method just yet. I think you'd be better trying that sort of trick on sheep.'

Ossacer chuckled. 'You can see it, can't you? Gorian controlling the mind of a sheep and ordering it to attack.' They all laughed at the joke. All but Gorian. 'Well you won't be able to because you'll be blind,' he said. 'Gorian, you will apologise for that right now,' ordered Shela. 'Well, he will be.'

'And he does not need reminding by that nasty mouth of yours, does he?' Shela said. 'Apologise.'

Gorian gazed defiance at Shela for a moment. 'Sorry,' he muttered.

Mirron had been trying to see Ossacer's reaction. He'd been staring at the ground and fiddling with the sand at his feet. Now he looked up.

'Anyway, I won't need my eyes,' he said. 'One day, the animals will see for me.'

Hesther was frowning at that, eyes locked on Ossacer. After a moment, her expression cleared and she clapped her hands together.

'Right. If you're all rested and mostly dry, grab your things because it's time for something to eat and a surprise.'

Mirron and the others got to their feet and followed Hesther and Shela away from the beach towards the slopes leading up to the orchard. They passed the Marshal Defender's house on the way. Mirron looked at its shuttered windows and wondered when the family would be back. It was more fun when Kovan came to stay. He always joined in whenever he could and didn't seem worried by them like some of the others in the town. He never strayed far from her side either, unless they were playing Waterborn of course, and that was a comforting feeling. Pity he and Gorian didn't get on very well.

The Marshal's villa boasted a beautiful private garden that stretched for fifty yards on each side. Its walls were whitewashed and high, capped with red slate. At each corner and in the middle of each wall, statues of previous Marshals stood in heroic or philo­sophical poses. The wooden side door into the gardens stood open and Hesther ushered them inside.

Mirron loved these gardens with their marble paths crisscrossing the lawns; the fruit trees offering them apples, oranges and lemons; and the ornamental fish pond and fountains in which great golden carp swam lazily. The centrepiece was a raised marble plinth, open-sided and with a domed roof held up by four columns. It had a ring of benches and on one of them sat Father Kessian. She yelped in delight and ran forward, leading the Ascendants in an excited babble.

They were taught by Hesther more and more these days. Father Kessian was old and always seemed to have a cold or an ache or something. But when he did come to teach them, it swelled her heart and not just because it would be something important. She loved him. They all did. There was silence when he spoke and warmth when he smiled. And every word he spoke struck to their hearts and showed them things they had not understood. Made them better.

'Hello, my young Ascendants,' he said, his voice soft and soothing. ‘I trust the water was warm and the fish friendly.'

'It was lovely,' gushed Mirron, planting a kiss on his cheek and hugging him around the neck. She was joined by the others.

'Steady, steady,' said Kessian, chuckling and struggling to keep upright under the weight of them all. 'Give an old man the space to breathe.'

They let him go.

'Gorian wants to control the sharks,' said Arducius.

'Does he indeed?' Kessian raised his eyebrows. 'Ambitious, aren't you? Well nothing wrong with that. Now then, sit down. Shela will bring you food and I will take your teaching this afternoon.'

Mirron clapped her hands together and sat down right next to the Father. She gazed up into his knowing eyes, half-hooded by the folds of skin on his old face. One day he wouldn't be here to teach them or encourage them. He was reaching the end of his cycle and would be embraced by God. She didn't want that day ever to come.

'Are you feeling better?' she asked.

Kessian smiled. 'Yes, my child, and thank you for asking. My chest is clear and Genna says I no longer snore.' Tm glad,' she said.

'Right then. All comfortable? Then let's learn something new,' said Kessian.

Mirron felt her heart beat faster. She shared a smile with Gorian. Nothing was better than new skills. It meant the Echelon thought they were improving.

'Now, during all that I am about to say and the experiment I want you all to do, bear in mind the heart of your learning since your emergence. Almost two years ago now . . . time passes so quickly doesn't it? What can you tell me about elemental energy cores? Arducius?'

'They are the most concentrated sources of life energy that we can use.'

'Good,' Father Kessian stretched the word. 'But what more is there than mere use that you have found so surprising?'

'We can make more energy with it,' said Ossacer.

'Yes, you can amplify it. But I know you've all found it difficult even when the source is steady and strong. We've all seen the temporary ageing effects you suffer when you have used your abil­ities. And we have noted also that there is only so much work you can do with your abilities before you are both exhausted and grey, do you agree? Yes, Gorian.'

'But we are much better than we were even a year ago,' he said. 'We can already do so much more than we could then.'

Kessian nodded enthusiastically. 'Oh indeed, and I'm delighted you are all developing so well. That will undoubtedly continue. But I want you all to bear in mind that there will always be limits and that you must make yourselves aware of how far your bodies and minds can go. Particularly when you are causing growth in living things. Yes? Good.

'Now, the reason I've reminded you about that is that I want to begin your understanding of other ways to use the energies that you have all proved so adept at finding and directing into your work.' Father Kessian picked up a sheet of paper that was on the seat to his left. 'Gorian wrote that—'

'The first Gorian?' asked Arducius.

Kessian looked at him with a slight frown. 'Well, obviously.'

The three boys dissolved into laughter, clutching at each other helplessly, trying to speak and doing little more than spitting half words.

'AH right, all right,' said Kessian with a broad smile on his face. Mirron shook her head, happy that she had a little more control. She looked up at the Father and shrugged. 'Boys,' she said, echoing her mother's tone.

Kessian chuckled. 'Indeed. All right boys,' he said. ‘I think it's time you told us why my words are so funny to you.'

They looked to each other, threatened to lose control again but sobered enough to explain themselves. Gorian was the spokesman.

'Sorry, Father, but it's what you always say. You and all the Echelon.'

'What, exactly?' asked Kessian.

'You always say, "well, obviously", Father. All the time.'

'Do we,' said Kessian. 'Well, the way to stop us is to stop asking dim questions, isn't it? Eh?' He smiled and reached forward to ruffle Gorian's hair. 'Now, if I may be allowed to continue?'

'Well, obviously,' managed Ossacer before roaring with laughter and taking the other two with him.

Even Mirron couldn't quite contain herself. They were right as well, now it had been pointed out. Father Kessian waited for it all to subside, taking the chance to lean back and let Shela serve them some lunch before calling for order once more.

'Gorian - the original Gorian - wrote this: "We accept the exist­ence of energies within all things, living and silent, and that shapes and densities of energies are moulded to particular tasks. For instance, the specific signature of energy trails typical in an orange tree versus that in a farm animal. This is as much learned from ancient scriptures discussing the veins and blood of God through his earth as it is from my own observations and those of the Ascendancy with the vision to see.

' "We also believe and accept that when the first true Ascendant is born, he or she will be able, once emerged, to divert and determine uses for these energies other than that which is their current purpose; though that determination will likely be kin to the current purpose."' Kessian paused and smiled. 'He was at times rather long-winded. All he means is, fire for fire work, earth for root and branch. And I can see what you are about to say, young Gorian, so don't. The joke will quickly wear thin.

'Gorian said this last too, which is important as well as brief: "There is no reason, however, that energies moulded for one purpose by God should not be adjusted by an Ascendant for an entirely different purpose. After all, all energy is essentially the same at its core and guides the overall cycle of life that is the glory of God and to which we all of us are bound." '

Kessian put down the parchment and looked around the Ascend­ants. Mirron felt excitement growing. If she'd guessed right what they were going to try today, it was a big step forward. A difficult one, too.

'Now, I'm not going to push any of you into this but let me say this first. You have all mastered, and mastered quickly, the basic rules of adapting the life energies to produce the effect you want. It means you understand how the lifelines work and how you can augment them with your bodies to amplify your effect. You are all capable of doing what I am about to ask.

'Now, what I want you to consider this afternoon is this. By example . . . Mirron, you are a peerless Firewalker. We have seen you manufacture a blaze from smouldering kindling that could heat a forge. Your challenge is to use the life energies of any tree in this garden and use them to create fire. Can you remember the signature of energy that is present in fire? Can you mould that of a lemon tree and bring flame where there was none? And, if you can do that, do you have the strength within yourself to fuel that fire, to amplify what you have built?'

Father Kessian placed a hand on her knee. He favoured her with a warm smile, seeing the anxiety that must have crossed her face as it passed through her mind. This was a bigger step than she had imagined. She looked to Gorian. Even he seemed a little worried, while the other two appeared lost in thought.

'Do not worry, Mirron Westfallen. This is a difficult lesson and you may not solve it today. It is why we brought you all here to the peace of Marshal Vasselis's garden. And it is why you will find that the whole Echelon are here to help you. I will move among you and there will be two of the Echelon watching over you always. You have the whole of the afternoon to think, to ask questions and to experi­ment. Expect frustration and enjoy every small success. Will you try for me?'

Mirron almost burst into tears. She managed to hold them back and nod instead, unable to find words.

'Good,' said Father Kessian. 'Then eat and take yourself away to wherever you need. Willem and Meera will be with you shortly.'

Mirron found that her hands were trembling. It was a mixture of excitement and fear of the unknown. Quietly, the whole of the Ascendancy Echelon had come into the garden and were gathered near the gate. She looked down at her plate of cold meat and sweetly spiced bread and tried to focus on it while she half-listened to Kessian outlining her brothers' tasks. She ate only because she knew she had to, not through any desire.

She put her plate down, got up and brushed crumbs from her simple blue tunic dress. She made to move off. There was a lone orange tree sitting in a patch of sunlight in the corner furthest from the gate. It would do perfectly.

'Hold on,' said Arducius. 'Before we split up.' He beckoned them all towards him. 'Link arms.'

He'd done this before when they'd been asked to do something difficult. It was so comforting.

'Remember who we are,' said Arducius. 'We are all here for each other and will support each other. None of us is ever alone.'

They split up and Mirron trotted over to her place. The sun was warm on her body and the garden walls sheltered her from the slight breeze. She sat on the grass outside the shade of the tree's branches. Footsteps behind her belonged to Willem Geste and Meera Naravny, the Echelon's Firewalkers. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at them. Meera smoothed her hair and Willem crouched carefully in front of her, wincing at some pain in his joints. Perhaps Ossacer would be able to identify it for him.

'Now remember, we are here to watch over you, to guide you and to support you. Father Kessian will be walking around slowly. All you need to do is take your time,' said Willem. 'Are you feeling all right?'

'Fine,' said Mirron. 'But a little nervous.'

'Of course you are, dear,' said Meera. 'It's nothing to worry about. It's a good thing.'

'Where do I start?' asked Mirron, aware quite suddenly that she had no idea.

'Well,' said Willem, 'what you might want to try is first look closely at the signature of this tree. And remember, we cannot help you with that. What we will do is bring you a small fire so you can compare signatures. And then, if you are comfortable, create one from the other and amplify it with yourself. We will be able to see the fire signature as it forms.'

Mirron nodded. 'I'll do my best.'

'You always do,' said Meera. 'Come on, Willem, leave her for a moment.'

Mirron placed her hands on the ground and reached out with her mind, her eyes open. Immediately, trails of energy were revealed to her. In the early days, even that had taken great effort but now she could do it indefinitely. She concentrated on the tree roots which pulsed with bright life all through the earth beneath her feet. This was a young and healthy tree and the trails ran bright green and yellow up into its trunk and through into its branches, only fading to grey at leaves that were beginning to pale with the imminent onset of dusas.

She frowned. The signature of lifelines in the tree was, well, tree-shaped. Was that what Father Kessian wanted her to see? She broke concentration and looked round. As if knowing she'd be confused, the Father was walking towards her, leaning hard on his sticks and taking each step gingerly. Shela was at his side, ready in case he stumbled.

'You look perplexed, my little one,' he said, wheezing slightly.

‘I don't know what I'm looking for. The energy trails are just the same shape as the tree. What else can they be?'

'Nothing,' said Kessian. 'Not without help. But I see your con­fusion. What I want you to consider are the differences between a living signature like this tree, and that of fire which is a destructive, powerful but short lived energy. The density of energies at the heart of the structure is the biggest clue to the differences. In a tree, the heart is spread throughout the roots. In a fire, there is a very dense and violent core. If I read Gorian correctly, this is what you should be trying to make. Examine the fire Willem is bringing to you.'

He brought a small iron cauldron over, carrying it by its handles with no covering. He didn't need it. One hundred and twenty-two years old and still impervious to heat. He set it down on the stone Meera was carrying. Inside, coal and wood was burning hot. Mirron took off her charm bracelet and pushed her hand into the fire, feeling its beautiful warmth spread along her arm. She focused on the energy within. She gasped.

'I can see it,' she said, wondering why it had not occurred to her before.

'Describe it for me,' said Father Kessian.

'It is bound, though it appears random. All the energy trails start in the same place. Where the coal and wood are hottest, the heart of the fire is the darkest red, like blood almost. The trails make other coals hot as they pass by and those coals in turn feed back some of their energy as well as passing the heat outwards.'

She turned to the Father. 'So there is a complete circuit. Even in a fire and even if the energy is always eventually wasted into the air.'

'So if you think about it, a fire grows even as it consumes its fuel, eventually dying and becoming cold and dead. That is not much different than a tree which grows even as the life energies in its roots are slowly consumed. And roots, branches, leaves and eventually whole trees die, becoming cold and dead. The cycle of a fire, without renewed fuel for energy, is faster than that of a tree. Does that help you in moulding earth energy into that of fire?'

Mirron considered for a moment. 'I suppose I should . . . isn't it about compressing the energies I draw from the tree?'

'Yes, but don't forget you need a target on which to place those energies. A fire cycle must have fuel mustn't it?'

Mirron bit her tongue before saying, "well, obviously". She suppressed a smile. 'I cannot even mould the energies without a source for them, can I?'

Father Kessian raised his eyebrows. 'Are you sure? If Gorian is correct, you can perhaps maintain the energy signature within you and then project it on to target fuel such that the signature can survive. Do you see?'

Mirron scratched her head and thought hard. It was not that much different from adapting fire energies from one work to another, she supposed. But there was never a break in the circuit of the energy. Father Kessian was saying she could hold fire within her body without there being the fuel for fire present.

'I'm not sure.'

'Well, try for me. And don't worry if nothing happens. We have all the time in the world.'

With Father Kessian there, Mirron felt she could achieve anything. She smiled up at him, saw the encouragement in his lovely, old wrinkled face and determined to try her very best. She moved her hands back to the ground and brought the energy signature of the tree back to her mind. Surrounding it in the earth, trails that signified other roots, worms and insects fled away in every direction, all identifiable to her if she looked hard enough.

She opened herself to the orange tree, feeling its lifelines link with hers. She knew its grace, the deliberation of its growth and the gentle pulsating of its life that were all so much at odds with the racing of her own body.

Mirron paused, letting the lifelines settle following her delicate interruption of them, before considering how to tap the strength of the tree to make fire. She felt a sense of disquiet. The violence of fire was directly at odds with the peaceful life of the tree and using the latter to create the former seemed wrong. But this was just experi­ment after all.

The solution was not too difficult to see. If Mirron wanted to force growth into the tree, all she would do was focus her bright, quick energies into the roots of the tree's lifelines, forcing the pools of latent growth potential at the base of the roots up through the structure. Her life force would amplify that growth. Tiring but efficient. And if she wanted to divert the tree's energy to give growth to a linked elemental life like a flower, she used herself as conduit and amplifier but the work was essentially the same.

For fire, then, it was akin to diverting energy but without a destination until the energy map of fire was drawn in her mind and held in her body. It seemed clear to Mirron that she had to compress the tree's gentle lifelines into the harsher, quicker model of fire using her own body as a temporary home. It wouldn't hurt her, after all, and she couldn't create it in the clear air or it would be whipped away by the devils in the wind, lost to God forever.

She held out her left hand, seeing her pink, smooth palm overlaid with bright lifelines, while her right stayed in contact with the cycle of the orange tree. Compared to her, the energy in the roots, branches and leaves was infinite. She picked at individual energy strands, seeing the deep green and brown diverting into her body where its relatively ancient power made her gasp as it always did.

Concentrating harder than she ever had before, aware that Father Kessian was watching her, she used the trails of her body to bind around the tree's energy, squeezing it hard, feeling it begin to race. In her mind's eye, the energy map of the fire grew in her palm. Dark thudding reds and sparkling yellows, released to the sky at their very tips but feeding back into her body at their base, keeping the circle complete.

Now she could consider where the fire should be directed. Willem had already thought of that. She saw him place a triangle of dead branches on a stone slab, their grey and black signatures clear. She reached out her hand towards the fuel, meaning to touch the wood to transfer the energy.

But the lifelines of the tree flowing through her were far more powerful than she was ready to accept. Without an instant destin­ation, she was having trouble regulating their volume now she had teased a break in the cycle. The tree pulsed too strong and the fire energy map she was building sought purchase. Her hand was not close enough to the dead wood and there was other fuel far closer.

Mirron shrieked and flew to her feet, stumbling backwards. Her clothes and hair were ablaze, the smoke and crackling covering her. She could see flame reaching past her eyes and the stink clogged her nose. Dimly, she could hear shouting around her. The fire was hot. Hotter than the forge. It was pure at its centre, corrupted only when it reached the fuel of her clothes and hair.

The shock wore off quickly and she breathed the power in. That was a mistake. Smoke from her clothes made her cough. But she felt invigorated, clean. And when the water was poured over her head she felt a short sensation of loss. She stood for a moment, looking down at her feet, unashamed by her nakedness. The Echelon and the Ascendants were standing in a loose circle around her.

She raised her head, and scratched at her skull. Her hair was gone. She smiled, almost laughed. She knew she should be upset but she felt so alive. She understood what had happened. She knew that she should have closed the circle of the tree's energy before attempting to direct the fire energy map she had made to its ultimate destination. How, she didn't know. She had made a small, pure fire map but the drain on the tree was disproportionately large. So much had been wasted by her inability to keep it all within her. There had to be a better way.

Mirron sighed and nodded reassuringly at them all, seeing the anxiety leaving their faces and the eagerness to know building in its place.

'So,' she said, voice a little rough from the smoke. 'It can be done.' 'Well, obviously,' said Father Kessian. Laughter rang around the walled garden.

 

 

Chapter 12

847th cycle of God, 10th day of Dusasrise

14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Estorr. Capital of the Estorean Conquord. A magnificent city of white and red splendour, sparkling in the dawn sun. It dominated the horizon for the last hours of a voyage to Estorea across the Tirronean Sea. A sight to lift the heart and swell the body with pride.

Paul Jhered stood in the prow of the Hark's Arrow, his cloak wrapped about him, hood over his head against the freezing tem­peratures. Above him, the main sail was full in the strong wind, driving them across their last miles, the Gatherers' crest proud at its centre.

The massive fortified harbour of concrete and stone speared half a mile into the sea, its dual walls shaped like a crab's claws with a fortress at the pincer of each. Trebuchets adorned their flat roofs and stone-projecting ballistae occupied positions on three levels towards the sea and the harbour, presenting a withering fire for any enemy and a warning to those seeking to flee the harbour carrying contra­band or fugitives. The harbour walls provided deep water berths for large merchant and naval vessels while in the shallows and at the shoreline, fishing smacks clustered in the mill-pond calm.

From the harbour, the great walled city spread out north and south along the coast and up a series of slopes to a hilltop, its peak flattened centuries before to build the first of the Conquord palaces. Jhered had often said that every citizen should be afforded the opportunity to see the city from the sea. There really was no sight like it in the entire Conquord, and he was uniquely placed to make such a judgement.

Estorr was laid out before him in almost map-like order. He could see the wide main avenues, tree-lined and hung with flags, angling up towards the hills and palace like the spokes of a cartwheel. In between them, houses and businesses were packed in a maze of tight streets and alleys. Concrete and stone were whitewashed and decorated in a kaleidoscope of colour for individual identity and advertisement.

As the city rose to its peaks, so the wealth and space increased. Parkland studded the cityscape. Villas rose from behind manicured gardens and curtains of tall, shaped evergreens. To the south, the principal arena towered five storeys into the sky, its processional road to the palace complex wide and bannered along its length. The Gardens of the Advocates stood by the arena, beautiful and reverent. Marble statues of Advocates going back to the earliest days of the Conquord stood on proud fluted columns lining the paths of the park or grouped around stone seats and fountains.

Jhered could see the central forum, thick with activity, set in the centre of the city. Colonnaded on all four sides, it was the single largest open space in Estorr, with an amphitheatre to its north, an oratory to its south and a flood of stalls and people teeming at its centre. City life pulsed here like nowhere else.

And if the forum was the heart of the city, then the three aqueducts were its arteries. Staggering structures of double arches carrying water to the fountains and pipes, city ponds and small lakes, they dominated the higher reaches behind the city. But his eye as ever was inevitably drawn to the palace complex itself, gazing down on all it possessed. He could already imagine the sights that would greet him when he entered it a few hours from now.

Passing through the ceremonial gates the visitor was awed by the grandeur before his eyes. Inside the walls, at the centre of the grand courtyard was the Victory Fountain; four cavalrymen raising the flag of the Conquord, with horses rearing triumphant to the points of the compass. South and east lay the senate administrative buildings and the military and Gatherer headquarters. They presented a blank, colonnaded facade, their imposing doors leading into vaulted cham­bers and a myriad rooms from where the Conquord was organised, taxed, secured and expanded.

West, the basilica. Delicately carved columns, over a hundred feet tall, standing in eight rows of twelve facing the courtyard, supported a stone roof adorned with carvings of the great battles of the early Conquord as it expanded through Gestern, Avarn, Caraduk and

Easthale. Inside, laws were passed, justice dispensed and pleas heard by the Advocate and her inner circle of propraetors, praetors, aediles and magistrates.

And north, the palace itself. Forty steps, each two hundred feet wide, led up to a dramatic colonnaded entrance. A flag was draped from the ceremonial balcony, shading the huge, gilt inlaid and steel bound doors that led into the grand hallway. This in turn opened into the mighty atrium, at a fountain its centre cascading water over lilies and goldfish.

The atrium was bordered by columns on all four sides and from it the throne room, dining halls, private chambers and gardens were reached. Tapestries and works of art hung from every wall. Statues stood proudly in every alcove and the weight of glory and history pressed on even the strongest man, rendering him weak and humble.

Jhered drew in a deep breath, feeling the cold air sear his lungs and fill him with vitality. The palace, too, should be a place all citizens saw. It was an edifice that spoke so eloquently of the majesty and power of the Conquord. A reminder of what the Conquord had brought the world. It was its absolute shining centre but some of those who walked its corridors were becoming its rotten, decadent core.

It was why Jhered felt compelled to journey back from his current duties in Gestern, leaving the bulk of the Gatherers in the field and bringing only his honour guard with him. Too many problems, too many rumours and too many raids in this peaceful country with the misfortune of sharing a border with Atreska. Generally speaking, Jhered felt uncomfortable when he had sympathy for the ruler of a province where tax concerns were raised. But the Marshal Defender of Gestern was a woman for whom he had enormous respect. And following his meetings with Katrin Mardov, he had taken the deci­sion to travel home with the revenue chests and approved accounts.

With the pale sun at its zenith, the Hark's Arrow moved serenely between the guardian fortresses. Her three banks of oars were in the water now and her sail furled. The arrival of the Gatherers' flagship was announced by a sounding of the quadruple horns in their flag towers. The sound split the day, echoing across the water and rolling up the hills on which Estorr stood. Activity ceased on the dockside for a moment, people turning to stare at the vessel rowing in close control towards her permanent berth at the portside wall. From the harbour garrison, whistles were sounded and a detachment of riders came to meet the ship, flying the flag of the Advocate and shadowing an armoured carriage.

The master of the Hark barked out a series of orders as the ship manoeuvred towards the berth. Crewmen ran forward and aft to ready the hawsers. Twelve spread along the port rail with poles to fend the ship off the dock wall as it came to rest. The ship angled in, port oars shipped, starboard oars driving the vessel slowly round. With the slightest grating, the Hark nudged the dock wall. A wide gangplank slapped into place.

'Exchequer Jhered, welcome back to Estorr,' said the master.

Jhered turned and nodded his acknowledgement, striding down the deck to the gangplank, where the master was standing.

'Thank you. It was a fine voyage. Tell me, how long are you due to stay in port?'

'Ten days, my Lord. We have some minor repairs, stores to take on and my crew will rest. Then we head north to Neratharn.'

'Ah yes, you'll be taking Appros Derizan and team. A challenging brief for them. South-western Atreska is not an easy place.'

'Indeed, my Lord. We have been requested to stand offshore until their investigation is complete.'

Jhered nodded. 'Do so. I may be travelling back with you. I'll send word. Have my bags sent to my quarters on the hill.'

Jhered thumped down the gangplank, his honour guard of eight soldiers at his back. Approaching the cavalry and wagon that were halted waiting for the chests, he smiled at the surprise on the captain's face. The man dismounted in a hurry and slapped his left hand to his right shoulder.

'We had not expected you, Exchequer Jhered.'

'Then you must be glad you had your guards polish their greaves this morning, Captain Harkov,' said Jhered, smiling. He nodded at the cavalry, a ripple of laughter running through them. But it was true. Not just greaves but breastplates, scabbards, plumed helmets, bits and bridles. All gleaming and beautifully prepared. Jhered was impressed.

'It would not do for the Advocate's cavalry to appear anything less than perfect, my Lord.' 'You do her credit.'

'Where are you headed? Our horses are at your disposal.'

'Straight to the hill for an audience with the Advocate,' replied Jhered. 'And thank you for your offer but your duty is to the revenue chests. It is a bracing day. We will walk the harbour wall to your offices. I expect you have horses enough there.'

'Naturally, my Lord. I'll see sufficient are readied for you.' He pointed at a cavalrywoman who wheeled and galloped away. 'It's a popular destination at the moment.'

'Oh, really?' Jhered smoothed his cloak over his breastplate and skirts. The wind whipped inside, chilling his legs.

‘I escorted the Marshal Defender of Atreska there myself two days ago, my Lord. And I understand delegations from Gosland and Dornos have been in residence for seven days. I should also tell you that the Chancellor's banner flies above the Principal House too.'

'Hasn't she got heretics to burn elsewhere?' muttered Jhered for Harkov's ears only.

'Apparently there are problems in some far-flung areas,' said Harkov. He raised his eyebrows under his helmet. 'She is suing for more enforcement strength, I understand.'

'It is a common theme,' said Jhered, irked by the competition he would have for the Advocate's ear. 'I'm grateful for the information.' He nodded. 'Good to see you, Captain Harkov. You really should reconsider my offer.'

'Perhaps when my children are a little older, my Lord.' He saluted again.

'Your family are more fortunate than they know.' He turned to his guard. 'Let's go. Two by four behind me, eyes front. March.'

From the palace guard barracks, Jhered took horses through the city to the palace on the hill. Once there, Jhered led his honour guard on foot to the Gatherer barracks where he dismissed them for the day before walking in under the Victory Gates. The gates had been built to celebrate the life of the first Advocate of the Conquord, Jennin Havessel. They were a dominating and towering monument, the highest ramparts reaching three hundred feet into the sky.

Nevertheless, it was easy to walk through the grand arch, eyes fixed on the glories inside the courtyard and ignore the intricate carvings that covered every face of the marble and sandstone struc­ture, depicting Havessel's battles and the return of spoils to Estorr. On a dull day, the gold inlay did not sparkle. Nor did the sentinels, statues of four warrior heroes, each a hundred and fifty feet high, seem to intimidate so much, drawing instead into the shadows. But Jhered always paused to run his hands over the centuries-old stone­work to remind himself of the legacy he had sworn to protect and to develop.

Jhered emerged from the lantern-light inside the arch, took the salute of the palace guard and swept across the marble courtyard, with its mosaic depictions of battles won and glories long consigned to myth and legend. He ignored the temptation to freshen up in his private offices, instead making directly for the basilica. He could see the multiple colours of togas and the flash of polished armour inside the matrix of columns. The Advocate's banner was hanging down in front of the main entrance to the open structure, marking it as an official day of petition, debate and statement.

A drift of voices carried on the breeze, one dominating the others on his approach: Felice Koroyan, Chancellor of the Order of Omni­science. Nominally, the second most powerful person in the Con­quord and a woman whom Jhered would die to protect but with whom he would not choose to share the same air. Still, he enjoyed the sparring that inevitably accompanied an open meeting between her and the Advocate. Today, the heat appeared to be high.

Jhered took the dozen polished marble steps two at a time and marched quickly through the entrance hallway, past banners flying from every column and guards snapping spears to attention as he passed. The sound of his steel-shod road boots echoed from the cavernous ceiling, sounding through the basilica. He was aware of voices falling silent.

He swung left into the audience chamber. It was crowded with the great, the good and the degenerate of the Advocate's sanctum. The Advocate herself sat on a throne placed on a stage two steps above her subjects. It was a wide seat, made for a far larger body, and boasted carved and gilded wood upholstered in the deep green of the Conquord.

She was dressed in flowing robes of state. Finest Tundarran spun wool, dazzling white and edged in green and gold with a sash of office from right shoulder to left hip. Her short dark and greying hair was threaded with gold and fronted by a tiara. She had been half-slouched on her throne, elbow on one plush arm and hand supporting her chin but she was sitting upright now, a smile creeping across her face.

Every eye was on him. He strode through the benches filled with courtiers and petitioners and into the space between the stage and the two arcs of five, high-backed chairs closest to the throne. He stopped on coming level with the Chancellor who was standing by her chair, to his right, and glaring at him. All conversation had long since ceased.

He bowed, the last ricochets of his steps fading in the timber rafters.

'My apologies, my Advocate, for my unannounced arrival.' He turned fractionally towards the Chancellor. 'Please, don't let me interrupt you.'

In front of him, the Advocate stifled a laugh, putting a hand quickly across her mouth. The Chancellor was silent for a moment.

'Then sit, Exchequer Jhered,' she said. 'I have the floor and your appearance is not further prioritised by its volume.'

'Nevertheless, it is a welcome surprise,' said the Advocate, her smooth authoritative voice a stark counterpoint to the Chancellor's heavy south-eastern accent. Jhered bowed again and took his seat to the left. He reached out a hand and squeezed that of Marshal Defender Vasselis of Caraduk whom he had not realised would be present. Finally, he nodded curtly at Marshal Defender Yuran of Atreska whom he was far less pleased to see. The man had become a serial complainer concerning a civil war he had done little to quell but which affected all the legions marching to Tsard.

However, his presence on this occasion might just be beneficial. At least he had a separate perspective on the campaigns in Tsard and might, just might if he could be persuaded to look beyond his own petty troubles for a moment, add useful insight into the problems facing Gosland and Gestern.

Chancellor Koroyan had resumed speaking. She took a rolled parchment from one of her advisers. Jhered craned his neck and saw it was the Speaker of the Earth. A heady delegation indeed.

'The fact is that in all seven of our newest outlying territories, we do not have enough strength to carry the message of the Order. Native religions flourish while my Readers, Pastors and Speakers are at best ignored, or driven from their Houses of Masks. Some have been even less fortunate and I will leave you this list for the Conquordian records of those murdered for their beliefs.'

She snapped her fingers and was handed another parchment which she unrolled.

'A few more details for you—'

The Advocate glanced briefly at Jhered who rolled his eyes.

'—Gosland's bemusing animal icon religion has resurfaced throughout the territory; Atreska's well-known allegiance to the multifarious and heretical faiths of Tsard shows no sign of diminish­ing; and in north-eastern Gestern, the mountain idols, statues and carvings favoured by the Kark are gathering worshippers and pilgrims by the thousand.

'Now, before all those here present protest that our Tsardon borders are bound to foster discontent and drive the misguided to seek solace in their old faiths, let me tell you that I understand that. I also understand that it strengthens my petition. And if these terri­tories were my only challenges, I would not be standing here. Rather, I would be diverting my missionaries and few legions to the Tsardon border states myself.

'However, it seems this insurgency of bewilderingly loose and groundless faiths is growing in strength rather closer to home.' She spared Vasselis a meaningful look, which he returned unflinching. 'Among your closest allies, my Readers are ignored and obstructed in their God-given duties. And in the heartlands of the Conquord, in Avarn, Neratharn, Phaskar . . . countries steeped in centuries of Conquord glory, still there are significant numbers of citizens openly flouting the teachings of the Order.

'Only in Estorea, it seems, is God truly worshipped and respected. That is undoubtedly why here we are spared retribution and the citizens enjoy long, peaceful and productive lives before returning to the bosom of the Omniscient in triumph.'

Koroyan paused, letting her words hang in the light air of the basilica.

'My Advocate, the Conquord population expands at a rate that none of us could have foreseen even fifteen years ago. The accessions of Gosland and Atreska have stretched Order resources beyond our capacity to control as we must. And that was before the border and insurgency troubles began taking their combined tolls.

'The Conquord needs its religion to be a dominant force or all the good work of our legions will ultimately come to nothing, a result none of us desire. You are the Prime Speaker of the Order, you know this to be true. I must have more funding because I must have more people to carry the word and to bear arms against those who would strike against God and everything we hold close to our hearts.

'My papers and calculations are at your disposal for scrutiny.'

The Chancellor bowed slightly and took a single pace backwards. A ripple of conversation broke out in the public benches behind while the Advocate considered her response. Jhered frowned, con­cerned at what he had heard despite the Chancellor's tendency for exaggeration. Unfortunate echoes were sounding in his mind.

'Are you in Estorr for a long stay?' It was Vasselis.

Jhered turned. Vasselis regarded him with those deep, intelligent eyes, a smile welcoming his friend.

'Ten days, no more. I had not thought to see you.'

'Nor I you. You're a rare visitor these last few years.'

'There's a great deal of work to do in the east.'

Vasselis's smile broadened. 'The work of the Exchequer is ever distant and lonely.'

Jhered chuckled. 'It was me said that to you, wasn't it?'

Vasselis nodded. 'Indeed. And I would welcome the chance to hear more pearls over dinner before we both leave.'

'I wouldn't miss it.'

'Chancellor Koroyan.' The Advocate leaned forward in her throne, one hand rubbing her chin. Immediately, conversation ceased. Jhered relaxed into his chair to listen. 'I'll keep this short because I will of course study your papers at length. But I find making a judgement in your favour very difficult, your writings notwithstanding. The reasons are these.

'As the Prime Speaker of the Order, I of course want to see the word of God the Omniscient spread to the furthest corners of the Conquord. We worship the one true God and all other faiths, with their false idols and false Gods, promote false promises. So we all believe. But, as I grow rather tired of explaining, the path to enlightenment of those following rogue religions is one of education and demonstration, not of force and control.

'Surely, if you find you have to force a populace to follow the Omniscient then you have lost the argument on theological grounds, no?'

She held up a hand to cut off the Chancellor's protests. 'I have no doubt in the desire of all of the Order to preach and convert every heathen they encounter. But resistance is natural. You cannot hope to over throw centuries of faith with a few ancient words backed by sword and bow. It takes time and in the outlying territories, wounds are still fresh. They will come round. Faster when Tsard comes under the rule of the Conquord. But even then, some will never convert and we have to respect them. Chancellor Koroyan, we have to respect them. They are simply non-believers and theirs will be a short, single cycle on God's earth where we renew to deliver more glories.

'Seek to understand them, not suppress them or you will create those you hate with your own hand. I find it almost impossible to see that I will release funds from the treasury to help you build your already considerable armies. Surely they are enough to police the word of God among those who swear by it and to protect those missionaries beyond our borders.

'If, and I say if, I was to agree to more funding, it could only be to recruit and educate more Readers, Pastors and Speakers. For the building of more Houses of Masks. There is where your true strength should lie. Perhaps you should consider how your budget is currently allocated. Or perhaps you would like an independent audit, to see what, if anything, is being wasted in your name.'

She gestured at Jhered then, and the Gatherer's Exchequer could not hide his smile. The Chancellor's face was stone while the Advo­cate's remained deliberately neutral.

'I believe that the word of God must come from the mouths of believers, not the weapons of its defenders. I will read your entreaty and my final decision will be with you tomorrow by nightfall.'

The Chancellor shook her head, bowed and spun to leave the basilica, her cohort at her back. The Advocate watched her go, worry in her expression and the chewing of her teeth at her top lip.

'Now, on to other matters,' she said. 'There is a petition list as long as my daughter's hair and evening approaches.'

 

Chapter 13

847th cycle of God, 10th day of Dusasrise

14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Herine Del Aglios, Advocate, Prime Speaker and mother of four, linked her arm through Paul Jhered's once the palace doors had closed behind them. At sixty-seven she was moving gracefully into middle age and presided over a Conquord she was determined to settle before handing the reins to Roberto, her eldest.

She slowed the pace of the tall soldier to little more than an amble, determining to enjoy a private stroll with him through her gardens and courtyards, columns and statues. Her guards, advisers and current consort had all been dismissed.

'If we go any slower we'll grind to a halt,' grumbled Jhered.

'You would march me to an early return to the earth,' said Herine. 'Relax. Enjoy my house. Look.'

She stopped him and gestured with her free hand. The garden might have been cold and lacking in the glorious colours of a late genasfall day, but even in its stark dusas livery it was stunning amid the hundreds of lantern-lights that pushed away the night. They nestled in the crooks of the arms of statues, shone through glass panes set into the bases of fountains, littered the flower beds and swung gently from poles set at head height.

It gave the colonnaded open space a dreamlike quality, turned it into a sanctuary from the noise and confusion of state. A day in the basilica left Herine shattered, however much she enjoyed the cut and thrust of debate, and despite the value she gained from hearing both the ordinary citizen and the senior statesperson.

Jhered's arrival that afternoon had been a genuine blessing, offering her intelligent company and conversation in addition to first-hand, unbiased news from the outer territories. Sometimes she felt as if she existed in a cocoon. Jhered was a breath of fresh air.

'It is one of my favourite places in the entirety of the Conquord, my Advocate,' conceded Jhered.

'Oh, listen to you, Paul,' said Herine. 'Ever the formal soldier. We're on our own here.'

Jhered smiled. 'Authority and respect are cornerstones of our government, Herine. Sorry. Sometimes I find it difficult to revert even when I'm with friends.'

'And am I your friend?' asked Herine.

Jhered looked down at her, frowning. He really was a tall man, very imposing. Striking rather than handsome. But at a full sixteen inches taller than her, he quite literally towered above her.

'Never doubt it,' he said. 'You are one of the few I would term such. So few really have the Conquord scored into their hearts, even some of those you hold dear.'

Herine felt the gentle stab and whistled breath in over her teeth. 'Do I detect a rebuke?'

'You know how I view those who close around you, day by day, and in that, if in nothing else, I am in agreement with the Chancellor. They do not see what we see, merely the riches that your position brings. If I were one of them, I would not seek to ripple the water either.'

Herine tugged at his arm. 'You'd have been unafraid. I still say you should have agreed to be a consort. Father a child of mine.' ‘I value my balls far too much for that.' They both laughed aloud.

'You think it would have affected your career in later years?' she asked mischievously.

'The perfect physical specimen you see before you would be a slothful, overweight buffoon wearing gay coloured clothes and trapped in the backwater palace in Phaskar, as you well know. It is as well none of your children will ever know their fathers.'

‘I might have taken you as my husband. I have always preferred younger men.' She knew she shouldn't feel a thrill at the flirting but she couldn't help it. How wonderful to shed the shackles of state and be a woman for a moment.

'You know why you can never do that,' said Jhered, not catching her mood.

'It does no harm to dream,' she said.

'Is it something you wish for?' asked Jhered.

'Would it be a sign of weakness if I said yes?' she countered, a well of loneliness threatening to open up.

'It is never weakness to yearn for love and companionship. It is human to desire one person to share your life.'

'But we have both chosen paths that deny us fulfilment of that desire.'

'Until we retire at least. And all we can do until then is protect the right for every citizen of the Conquord.'

She tugged his arm again. 'You should be at the oratory, saying things like that. Come on. It may be beautiful out here but it's also cold and you haven't come here merely to swap pleasantries and explain the value of avoiding castration. Take wine with me.'

They strolled through the colonnades, Herine glancing up to see the fine ionic scrollwork lit by lantern as they passed. She often wondered who had taken the chisel and hammer to these great pieces of stone. She loved the artistry and the imagination that had resulted in these columns, so often taken for granted, merely seen as the masonry that supported the roof above their heads.

It was a short walk to a warm private dining room, luxuriously furnished, hung with tapestries and with rugs covering the mosaic floor under which the hot air thrummed gently through the founda­tions. Herine pointed Jhered to a long leather recliner, studded in bronze and with green and gold feather cushions scattered along it. She took one at right angles to him such that their heads were close together. When the servant had poured the first glasses of warm, spiced wine, she indicated that the girl withdraw. The door closed behind her. Herine wafted a hand at the table.

'Meats, breads and a particularly good honey and herb sauce. My eldest brought back the recipe from campaign ten years ago. Such a young boy then in so many ways, my Roberto.'

'And a very capable general now,' said Jhered. ‘I hear fine reports of him from Tsard.'

'A difficult campaign,' said Herine.

'It was always going to be so,' said Jhered. 'A large and proud country. Very fierce, very independent.'

'And they will make a fine addition to the Conquord in the years to come. Fantastic wealth there. Extraordinary resources and a hard-working citizenry. Just think. Taking Tsard will open up the entire east to us by land and sea. What an opportunity.'

'Have you given thought to your consuls for the area?' asked Jhered. 'It will be a challenge unlike any other.'

'And one where the Tsardon must know our respect for them. I had thought members of the family would be the right candidates.'

'Wise as always, as long as you can keep the jealousies of your more senior generals under control. And the Order.'

Herine bridled a little. 'That's my job, Paul. Now, tell me about yours. What's taxing you, if you'll pardon the expression.'

Jhered took a long sip of his wine and raised his eyebrows, pleased at the taste.

'Do you mind if I ask one question before I begin?'

'Of course not.' Herine settled back, cradling her warm glass and letting the scent float into her nostrils.

'What is the detail of the reports you receive from the Tsardon campaigns?'

Herine blew out her cheeks and tried quickly to recall some figures. 'I have twenty legions and sixteen alae in Tsard, operating on three separate fronts. Almost a hundred and twenty thousand men and women fighting for the Conquord over two thousand miles away. With the campaigns suspended for the cold season, and I understand dusas to be harsh in Tsard this year, I am getting the reports I need to assess requirements for more forces and equipment. I seldom feel the need to ask for more and the distance makes that difficult anyway. During the campaign season reports can be a little more fragmentary.'

She frowned suddenly, a frission of anxiety across her body. 'Why do you ask?'

'And what about from behind the forward legions. From the supply chain and the border fortifications?' Jhered was pressing her for information and she didn't like the way it felt.

'Is there something I'm not hearing? I take a dim view of being kept in the dark.'

Herine saw Jhered regarding her carefully, weighing up her mood. He knew her quick and dangerous temper. It was a testament to him that he was unafraid. Nor should he be. She needed a hundred Jhereds. A thousand. God-embrace-her but she had missed him.

'My Advocate, Herine. I hear things and I see things. Indeed, people are very keen for me to see anything that might reduce their tax burden. But of late I've been feeling uneasy. Not everything I see and hear can be ignored as the bleatings of the greedy wishing to keep their wealth from being used for the good of the Conquord.'

‘I hear these things too, Paul. I've been hearing them for forty-two years, ever since I achieved the Advocacy. Why are you uneasy now? We are wealthier and more successful than we have ever been. The Conquord remains a triumph.'

'Now who should be at the oratory?' Jhered smiled.

Herine felt some of the heat leave her face. She drank her wine, feeling a slight shake in her hands.

‘I believe in what we achieve.'

'It is why you are Advocate and I love you and serve you. Please, Herine, if I didn't share your determination and belief I could not do the job you have asked me to do.'

‘I am not questioning you.'

Jhered raised a hand. ‘I know, I know. And I know you hear pleas and hard-luck stories every day you are in the basilica. I appreciate you're sick to the stomach of it all. But if I may, I think perhaps you never hear an account that might link apparently independent incidents together.'

'You mean yours.' Jhered inclined his head. 'You know I'll listen to you, Paul. But please, let's eat first and talk about something a little lighter. I'm famished and that sauce is cooling. It would be a shame to let it spoil.'

'So it would. And Herine, what I have to say does include some conjecture of course but it is honestly given - and more important, we do not face a crisis. Not yet. So long as we act soon.'

They ate largely in silence as it happened. Jhered admitted the sauce was excellent. It was only towards the end of the meal, when again the servants had been told to withdraw, that Jhered opened up just a little. He was holding the same goblet of wine when the briefest of smiles touched his lips.

'Oh, I have a new candidate for most ridiculous attempt to avoid tax levy. This is a good one, I promise.'

'You know I need new stories for banquets,' she said, gesturing for him to continue and relaxing back into her recliner.

'As you know I've just returned with the revenue chests from Gosland via Atreska and Gestern. One of my people got suspicious about the reasons for a very low returned levy from a farming community on the south-eastern border with Tsard. Menas, her name is. Very capable. She'll end up in Atreska or some other trouble spot, I expect. I sent her and a team of six out there, it was only a two-day ride and good experience. It goes like this.' He sat up, swinging his feet on to the floor so he could use both arms for emphasis.

'It's a settlement called Ruthirin. Small place, about two hundred people. All farmers, mostly goat and cattle. The team arrive there, the snow is six inches deep and there's an icy gale blowing through the valley. They are shown damage to properties, some smashed pottery and largely empty fields. The story is, they've suffered a Tsardon raid for livestock. But it just doesn't feel right. They see a few half-hearted bandages but no one looks hurt. No one looks shocked. But the fact is that the livestock is gone and we know from connecting settlements that there has been no sudden surge in trade. So . . .'

'They've hidden them of course. Forest or next-door valley, right?' Herine was warming to the tale. Jhered never embellished these stories but he painted a vivid enough picture nonetheless. Herine could see the citizens shifting uncomfortably and looking at their feet under questioning.

'Almost,' said Jhered, holding up a finger. 'But it's far more stupid than that. Beggars belief.' He paused to shake his head, apparently having to remind himself that what he said was true. 'The team rode out to any likely holding place. They found caves, valleys and forest land but no sign at all - and there would have been. There should have been a mess of hoof prints in the snow but there was nothing.'

'And of course, that was their downfall.'

'Absolutely. They said it proved the livestock had been taken but when the team asked to see the exit trails, it all started falling apart. They'd made some small effort but a one-day trained tracker could have seen through it.' He smiled. 'Want to know what they'd done?'

'Immediately.'

'They've slaughtered the bloody lot, barring breeding stock of course. Then jointed it and buried it in the snow to preserve it before selling it on after we'd gone, tax-free.'

Herine spat wine back into her glass to allow herself to laugh, coughing as she sucked a little into her lungs.

'Oh Paul, no. How did they think it would be worth it?'

'I don't know,' said Jhered, shoulders shaking. 'We did some calculations and reckon that given that butchered meat will fetch a lower price on an open market, given no guarantee of freshness, they might have saved themselves in total perhaps twenty-five denarii, no more.'

'So what did you do?'

Jhered sobered. 'Had this been a protest I would have been far more sympathetic as I will explain later. But for these criminals I did exactly what I had to. We are the justice and I will not have anyone defrauding the Conquord and attempting to cheat the Gatherers. We have a reputation hard earned. So, the ringleaders were executed and every other able-bodied man and woman is now serving with the fourth ala, the Gosland Spear, in Tsard. Anyone else has been ship­ped back to the capital for resettlement and the village itself has been destroyed.'

Herine composed herself. Correct punishment undoubtedly but shocking to hear it related so dispassionately in the heart of the Conquord.

'We should place all these in a book and make sure every citizen reads it,' she said. 'Pointless for those people. Misguided, you think?'

'I have ordered the sentence be nailed to every announcement board in every basilica in Gosland. Misguided? No I don't think so. I think they felt beyond the reach of the Gatherers out there near the border. Now everyone in Gosland knows different. What worries me is why they felt that way. That's what we need to talk about before you retire for the night.'

'I've diverted you for long enough, eh?'

'Yes, my Advocate.'

Herine sighed and refilled her glass. Jhered refused any more, pouring water into a goblet instead. She felt she'd heard enough problems today and no doubt Jhered's would be the most pressing.

'So, why should I be worried?'

'Because a great deal I have seen or heard through solas and into this dusas tells me that the Conquord is struggling to maintain cohesion at its outer markers.'

Herine jerked back, feeling as if she'd been slapped. She felt a flush across her face and a familiar anger began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

'You're serious, aren't you?'

'I wouldn't have travelled here otherwise. There are challenges out in the wilds that I should be overseeing.'

'I don't understand this. The campaigns are progressing well.'

'Well enough but you aren't getting complete information from the borders. Problems are growing that, if the Chancellor is right, are beginning to spread deeper into the Conquord. Your reports shouldn't be so erratic during the campaigning season. We have an Advocacy messenger service after all and the roads and seaways to Tsard are well-trodden and of good quality, even through Atreska.'

'Paul, you are in danger of patronising me. I do see more than these four walls.' Herine cleared her throat and sighed. 'Just tell me. Stop prevaricating.'

Jhered's eyes went a little cold and Herine caught a glimpse of why he was so feared. An enemy would not want to face that expression.

'Four years ago, very early in the Tsardon campaigns, you'll recall that the report I sent back from Atreska with the revenue chests mentioned Tsardon raids deep into Atreskan territory. I witnessed the aftermath of one myself. At the time, I concluded that these were the price of expansion and that they would cease as the Tsardon campaign gathered momentum. This has not happened.

'Raids into Atreska have continued and by the accounts of my teams there, backed up by anecdotal evidence, are increasing in ferocity and probe ever deeper. The result is that vulnerable settle­ments are abandoned as more and more people seek the security of larger settlements. There is an inevitable knock-on effect for revenue and trade. And, more seriously, as border settlements are destroyed, our supply lines to the legions in Tsard are put under increasing pressure. I have no doubt that Marshal Yuran is here to tell you exactly the same things, and to ask for a reduction in levy and a reduction in the number of citizens taken to the alae in Tsard so he can defend his own lands.'

Herine thought to speak but a small hand gesture from Jhered stopped her. Her ire blossomed. Undermining of her conquest of Tsard was not an option.

'Now, we both know that Yuran is given to gross exaggeration and that many of his people still resent their accession to the Con­quord. But I am getting the same stories from Gosland and, more significantly, from Gestern.

'You know I opposed the Tsardon campaign at the Prima

Chamber when it was proposed. This is why we are struggling. We don't have the back-up, we don't have the men in the fields and we don't have the militias we should have. And Gestern's problems are not to be shrugged off.'

Herine didn't like this at all. Gestern. Governing the trade with Kark without whose metals and minerals, the Conquord would suffer catastrophically. Jhered continued.

'I spent several days with Marshal Mardov before returning here. She has had to raise a new Gesternan legion to defend her northern borders. Tsardon raiders are travelling Atreska's border with Kark to attack them. Amazing I know but I also know better than to question Katrin Mardov.'

Herine shook her head. 'This is very difficult to take in. Is Gestern actually under threat?'

'Let's not get too far ahead. The raids have been repulsed and so far they are sporadic but the fact they are happening at all is a significant concern.'

'That is an understatement, Paul. This is very serious.'

'Only should we ignore it.'

'And is there more?'

'Yes, but this is where I start to use conjecture so please bear with me. Something is wrong in our organisation of the Tsardon cam­paigns that allows them to undertake what I believe to be organised raids. There's a pattern emerging here. It began with Gosland and Atreska and it is clearly designed to unsettle citizenries relatively recently taken into the Conquord. Remember that both those coun­tries were Tsardon trading partners, if not allies, less than fifteen years ago.

'But it isn't just the trade that is being disrupted. The Tsardon are targeting settlements that have embraced Omniscience. When they attack, their first raid will normally be one of abduction, livestock theft and cursory damage. A second raid will destroy the House of Masks and involve the execution of citizens, often mimicking Con­quord decimation. A third will see the settlement destroyed if it has not already been abandoned or fortified.

'Think of the effect this has on ordinary Atreskans or Goslanders. Survivors take tales of raids back to towns and cities. There is fear and anxiety. People stop believing that the Conquord has the capability or the will to protect them. They return to their old religions because they see that the Order cannot save them - so the Chancellor is right, but as usual she doesn't see the whole picture.

'They begin to lose faith in their Marshal Defenders, who in turn seek to prop up their support by refusing to send citizens to Tsard and instead use them for defence. Territories begin to lose cohesion. I don't have to explain further. We are stretched to the east and also to the north. Dornos is still an uneasy partner in the Conquord and its Marshal has close ties with Atreska. The Omari campaign is a desperate slog. Should someone like Yuran take matters into his own hands, we will struggle to find the strength to force him back to the Conquord or replace him.

'And now the Tsardon are making a statement by raiding Gestern. They are strong, mobile and determined.'

Herine dragged her tiara from her head and rubbed a hand through her hair, removing some of the gold thread as she did so. Jhered's words had pierced deep into her heart, sending her pulse high and clouding her thoughts temporarily.

'You are talking of outright rebellion,' she whispered, not wanting to hear the words herself. 'Not just civil disobedience.'

'Eventually, yes. But it is eminently avoidable, Herine. So I'm urging you to listen to Yuran when he has his audience with you. Hear the messages beneath his whines. I think he is feeling under immense pressure from his citizens and he feels trapped by the level of taxation we have to impose. He doesn't know where to turn and he is a weak man, unable to force his authority on his citizens. Gosland will be the next knocking on your door asking for help.

‘I am sorry to have to present you with this but it is something we cannot afford to dismiss as transitory. Our supply lines to the legions will be under real threat in the near future, and in the last two years, the Gatherers have seen revenues decrease for genuine reasons, all Tsardon-induced. The treasury has the deficit reports. Yuran won't want me involved in his talks with you. I'm afraid we don't see eye to eye. But I'm here to help you with your response if you want me.'

Herine nodded, organising herself. She felt calm return to her body and poise to her thoughts. There were solutions. She'd been finding them for forty years.

'The Conquord is a powerful entity,' she said. 'It is inconceivable that we can't nip this in the bud. Whether it's more legions, more

Readers, new Marshals, reinstatement of prefects and consuls from Estorr, we will find a way.'

'In that I have every confidence,' said Jhered.

'I'll listen and I'll consult. When do you leave?'

'Ten days or so.'

'Excellent.' Herine refilled her glass and now Jhered consented to a second glass himself. 'You'll be taking messages and plans back with you for the Advocacy messenger service. Some you'll deliver personally.'

'Whatever you need me to do.'

'Thank you, Paul.'

Jhered rose to take his leave. 'You should sleep on this. I'm not trying to panic you but the situation is more dangerous out there than most in the palace appreciate.'

'I know.' She smiled though it didn't relax her body. 'Well, I do now.'

'What brings Arvan Vasselis here, by the way?' he asked at the door to the dining room.

Herine shrugged. 'I don't know. He wants to talk to me on some matter or other but it's largely a social call, I think. And he upsets Felice, which is always fun.'

'Good night, my Advocate,' said Jhered, bowing his head.

'Good night, Paul.'

Herine kissed his cheeks and closed the door behind him, his footsteps fading like the last echoes of a comforting dream, leaving her awake and alone.

 

Chapter 14

847th cycle of God, 14th day of Dusasrise

14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

It was four days since her troubling dinner with Paul Jhered and Herine had not been slow to act. She had ordered a report from the Treasury on inconsistencies and reductions in tax levies from the Tsardon border states as well as trade figures from Sirrane and Kark. She had ordered volumes of minerals and metals to be assessed and a report drawn up on shortages should Kark be cut off as a trading partner. Timber they could source from countries other than Sirrane but it would be of lesser quality.

She had sent messengers to every country in the Conquord on her seal, requesting information. Some asked merely for projected rev­enues against levy target and explanations of any shortfalls. Some required additional information on citizenry available for cavalry and foot duty, supply and transport. But of the legions in Tsard and of the Marshal Defenders of Gosland and Gestern, she demanded complete information on incursions, security of borders, state of the armies and morale of the citizens. She had advised that she would consider all requests for reinforcement but reminded people that the Treasury was not bottomless and the landed citizenry could not supply endless horses with the men and women to ride them to battle.

Herine had time right now. Dusas had only just begun and in the north-east it was a harsh, freezing season. Campaigns were halted until the genastro sun warmed the earth. The Tsardon had with­drawn to strongholds and fastnesses to repair and resupply. But dusas would last only around ninety days and then the campaigns would begin again. She couldn't afford to delay and she couldn't afford tardy responses to her demands for information. It was a point on which she had been particularly forceful.

Marshal Defender Thomal Yuran of Atreska sat before her. The welcome had been warm enough and he had been happy to talk about more mundane matters for a time. But he had never relaxed, despite her best efforts. She couldn't blame him. He felt he had severe problems and it was beginning to appear that not everything he complained about was fabrication or even exaggeration.

Herine had done as Jhered had, easing back on the wine to keep a clear head. She had chosen a setting not too sumptuous, a private reception chamber in the administrative offices of the basilica, and had worn a formal toga. The pair of them sat facing each other opposite a grand open fire, the heavy stone floor of the basilica unsuited to a hypocaust. She wore a woollen shawl around her shoulders against the embedded chill in the high-ceilinged room. Yuran wore a toga slashed with the yellow and green of Atreska and Estorea and his shoulders were draped in furs.

'It is a trade I am keen to encourage,' continued Herine. 'Your ceramic artistry is the finest in the Conquord, as your gift this visit so amply demonstrates. I'm sure there are ways I can help facilitate better distribution to the north-west and south-west. Tundarra and Bahkir have no idea what their dining tables are missing.'

'And we regularly lose our potters and artists to Tsardon raids,' said Yuran bluntly.

Herine sensed the atmosphere that settled over the room. He had been waiting his opportunity and Herine felt ready to let him exploit it.

‘I am aware of your concerns, Thomal.'

'Yet, my Advocate, you determine to discuss trade with countries who struggle to afford what we must charge because we and they are so heavily taxed at the behest of your Treasury. And to what end? The Tsardon appear to have free run of my borders and my citizens are clamouring for more security that I literally cannot afford to give them. I am compelled to ask what the legions are actually achieving in Tsard that so many raiders, apparently not needed in the front line against the Conquord, are able to circumvent them.'

'You will recall the agreement you and I signed on Atreska's accession to the Conquord.'

'It was a time I will never forget, my Advocate,' said Yuran, his voice thickly accented, his words sometimes difficult to understand.

'As I will not forget my apparently misplaced belief in the security and sanctity of the Conquord.'

Herine chose to ignore the slight against all that she ruled.

'Then you will recall that levies would be assessed twice in each year and that Atreska would at all times be responsible for her own domestic defence.'

'It is a defence we cannot afford to train, let alone arm and maintain.'

'Come, come,' said Herine indulgently, allowing herself a smile. 'Surely it is not beyond you or your citizens to organise individual citizen militia to protect their own properties.'

Yuran gaped, a reaction that took Herine a little by surprise. 'I am not the Marshal Defender of Phaskar or Caraduk. Law officers and trusted citizens bearing arms are completely inadequate. I am dealing with trained Tsardon horse archers, steppe cavalry and veteran foot soldiers. I have to fight fire with fire and I do not have the funds to do so. You must reduce the burdens placed upon Atreska in terms of both men and tax. Just temporarily, until the burden of training and deployment is over.'

'Let me assure you, Marshal Defender Yuran, that there is nothing that I must do. I will, as always, listen to your petitions but I must satisfy myself that you have already done everything in your power to solve your problems before you approach me. That, after all, is the price of local autonomy, is it not?'

Yuran's face reddened. 'I do not deserve to be patronised, my Advocate. I deserve to be treated seriously and with sympathy and objectivity. During my tenure as Marshal Defender I have struggled with endless civil strife and rebel action. And I have suffered constant raids from Tsard as a direct result of the Conquord's ill-judged desire for further conquest in a kingdom too strong to take on. The border fortresses are clearly inadequate as a first line of defence, not least because so many of them stand empty as to make a mockery of their construction.

'The alae attached to the legions in Tsard are full of my men and women, robbing me of people to plant and harvest and to fire and paint the ceramics you value so highly. I can barely match your treasury's assessment as it is. If I remove more to train as domestic defence, they will not produce revenue, hence squeezing my finances still further and your treasury will lose out. And then of course, Exchequer Jhered will be knocking on my door, demanding reasons.

'Tell me, my Advocate, where I am going to find the men and the money to do what my citizens demand? I am asking you to reduce the burden on my country at the least, and preferably to provide me with more troops. Bahkir, Neratharn, your own country of Estorea, they do not suffer the raids and plunder of Atreska, Gosland and now Gestern. Give each border state the means to protect itself. Admit you have underestimated the strength of the Tsardon.

'The Conquord must act as one if it is to be as glorious as it deserves to be. Now, in Atreska's hour of need, do not turn your back and pretend nothing is wrong. Even your man Jhered knows I speak the truth, as does your Chancellor.'

Herine didn't reply at once. She pushed her tongue into her cheek and replayed Yuran's words. Brief. Briefer than his usual meandering entreaties and for that she was grateful. She felt tired today, weighed down by her responsibilities, and for the first time a little anxious about the security of the Conquord. Hard to believe there could be any discontent from her position on the hill. And that was exactly what Jhered always worried about. The whispered words in her ears from her advisers clashed with what she was hearing now.

But she had to be sure. It was natural to feel jealous about the luxuries of the palace when travelling from the outlying provinces. What people like Yuran failed to understand was that she wanted them all to have such riches as of right. But it had to be earned. Pain was inevitable before gain.

'Marshal Yuran,' she said, excited about the reaction she was likely to provoke. ‘I am sorry you feel your tax burden is too high. So it's fortunate that I have the Exchequer visiting. I will ask him to organise a complete review of Atreska's accounts for the last five years and the proposed levy his Gatherers are planning to collect when genastro warms the earth. Perhaps they will find an error in your favour. Perhaps not.'

'My Advocate, that isn't—'

Herine raised a hand, irritation flooding her. 'You are now listening to me,' she said. 'Remember your place. You have asked me to reduce your levy. I shall investigate whether there is any justification for that. And I support your thought to employ soldiers from Conquord countries. It is exactly what our structure allows, although I don't know why you've come to me first. It isn't necessary.'

Yuran was shaking his head delicately as if he wasn't sure he was hearing correctly. 'Because I cannot afford to pay Conquord soldiers just as I cannot afford to train my own.' He spoke quietly, as if to someone slow to learn.

'Then you must make economies to free funds. Gestern has raised a defensive legion by doing just that.'

Yuran slapped his hands on the table and stood up. A glass wobbled, fell and shattered on the marble top.

'Damn you but you tie both hands behind my back and order me to climb mountains! Will you not listen, woman? I have no money, I have no defence and your legions leave me exposed. I am trying to maintain the cohesion of the Conquord against Tsard and at every turn you place obstacles in my path. It is as if you want me to fail and Atreska to be overrun.' Then, as if remembering where he was and to whom he was speaking, he breathed deep, made the Omniscience encompassing symbol and sat back down, face red, eyes down.

Behind Herine, the door to the chamber had been thrust open and two guards were already halfway across the room. She waved them back without looking round, waiting until the door closed. She looked across at Yuran, whose embarrassment forbade him to look up at her. She felt a short stab of guilt at provoking his outburst now it had happened and decided against a formal rebuke, though she was disappointed at his lack of self-control. His desperation was more acute than she had anticipated. She supposed that was what she had been trying to ascertain.

She spoke quietly and deliberately, seeing his head come up at her first words. 'I will do everything I can,' she said. 'And believe me when I say I worry about every citizen who dies on a Tsardon sword. But over this dusas, you have to learn to help yourself. Work with the legions in Tsard. Put faces on the battlements of the border forts, trained or not. Encourage your citizens to prepare their own defences if they are all you have. Deterrents are powerful, even in the face of Tsardon raiders.

'Before you go, and you will go without saying another word, let me remind you of three facts. First, the Conquord works because its member states provide their own backbone to aid the cause of the whole. All have gone through what you experience now. All succeeded because they believed and were prepared to stand up when faced with enemies they once thought of as partners in trade, if not friends.

'Second, short-term austerity is often the price of long-term prosperity. I note that you wear enough wealth on your fingers and around your neck to fund much of the trained defence you so crave. Perhaps you should consider personal sacrifice above that of your citizens.

'Third, I am not a woman. I am Marshal Defender of Estorea, Prime Speaker of the Order of Omniscience and Advocate of the Estorean Conquord. You should take care who it is you choose to damn.

'The breeze is harsh. Be sure to close the door firmly on your way out.'

Exchequer Paul Jhered strode along the magnificent colonnaded road that led away from the palace complex, feeling the deep chill of a dusas night slice into his body despite his leggings, the wool he wore beneath his moulded leather breastplate and the fur-lined cloak wrapped close about him.

It was a walk he had so often enjoyed. The cold invigorated him. The lanterns suspended from columns and trees shed pools of light on cobbles that rang beneath his steel toecaps and heels. Taverna Alcarin, where he was meeting Vasselis, was easily the finest in Estorr and that was up against significant competition. Glorious cuts of meat, the freshest catches from the Tirronean Sea and rich sauces, the mere thought of which caused him to salivate in anticipation.

Yet on this quiet mid-evening, with stars scattered thickly across the skies and barely another citizen on the street, Jhered felt at odds with himself. It had all stemmed from his summoning to an audience with the Advocate. It had been a particularly one-sided conversation. Herine had meandered through a series of requests, from opening new investigations into Atreskan levies, through an assessment of the troop levels in Tsard and on the conflict borders, and to an unusual demand on him to seek the detailed views of the Chancellor of the Order with regard to Conquord-wide loyalty, morale and religious education.

None of these, unwelcome though at least one of them was, had led to his mood tonight. It was the fact that Herine had been distracted throughout the meeting; and it wasn't that her mind was wandering to the new lover that awaited her. Another pretty young man destined for castration and guarded banishment to the Advocate palace in Phaskar, should he prove fertile enough within her womb.

Something she had learned from her meeting with Vasselis had disturbed her deeply. Indeed, Jhered had never seen her so unfocused on the matters in hand. Matters of great importance to the Con­quord. One of the many reasons Jhered had such respect for the Advocate was the sharpness of her mind and her determination that the Conquord should prosper above all personal goals.

She would not be drawn on what Vasselis had revealed to her but the trouble it had caused had been inscribed in her every word and movement. Herine had locked eyes with him just once to say:

'You are his friend are you not? You respect and love him like a brother, don't you?'

And it had seemed almost an accusation. And his reply, that indeed he was meeting Vasselis for dinner that night drew tears to her eyes.

'He trusts so completely and he might have need of those he trusts. You are one. I am another. Why do I wonder if he is mistaken in that trust?'

She would say nothing more on the subject and had left Jhered confused and ill-at-ease. When he had taken his leave, her enigmatic words had hastened his steps to his rooms and thence to the taverna, the door handle of which was now in his gloved grip. He opened the door on to a wash of heat, light, noise and beautiful cooking scents.

The taverna was crowded. Packed tables lit by candles sat amongst narrow black marble columns that supported a low wooden roof. There was another equally busy room on the floor above. Jhered was well used to the reaction of the appearance of his imposing frame and famous face in a place such as this. Stooping under the lintel, he was seen by one diner and, quick as a brushflre, conversation dipped and faces turned to and away from him, nervous for no reason he cared to consider.

It alerted the taverna's owner who hurried over, his delicate-looking hands outstretched and his face bearing a wide smile below his bald pate. He crushed Jhered's left hand in his surprisingly strong grip-

'Exchequer Jhered, it is too long since you graced our modest tables. Welcome. Welcome.'

Jhered forced a smile on to his face while the conversation picked up once more. 'And I have missed the God-blessed taste of your dishes, Master Alcarin.'

'There are new ideas for you to sample,' said Alcarin, letting go his hand and beginning to weave through the tables. 'I'll bring some to you. Marshal Defender Vasselis is this way.'

He clucked happily as he led Jhered through the taverna. Jhered was acutely aware of how he dominated the room. How chairs moved automatically for him, how heads nodded respect and recognition and how all eyes followed his progress. The taverna had two private rooms and it was to one of these that Jhered was happy to be taken.

The door opened on a richly decorated room. Timbered walls were painted in deep red. Two green and gold recliners were at right-angles to each other with a table inside them covered in food and wine. A fire roared in a grate surrounded by a sculpted marble mantle. Vasselis was standing by the fire in a cream and yellow toga, looking out of the single window on to the cold street beyond, hands clenched behind him.

Alcarin withdrew and Jhered ducked his head and walked in. The atmosphere was anxious and nervous, leaving him unable to smile as Vasselis turned. Instead he frowned, unsure. Vasselis looked more than nervous, scared even. His eyes were pinched and the corners of his mouth tugged up unconvincingly. He wasn't much older than Jhered but tonight, he looked haggard. What had happened in that meeting with the Advocate?

'I hope you don't mind, I ordered for both of us and Alcarin says he has some treats for us to try.'

Vasselis gestured to a recliner and took the other himself. He sat upright, too fidgety to lie back. Jhered felt like a stranger and he had little appetite though the food on the table looked sumptuous. He poured himself a goblet of wine, mimicked Vasselis's position and drank deeply.

'I'm sure you've chosen wisely as always,' he said.

'I'm not sure I am always wise,' said Vasselis, his voice barely above a whisper.

'Right,' said Jhered, pushing both hands through his hair. 'I am not about to play cat and mouse with you like I tried to with the Advocate. What has gone on today? And if you refuse to tell me, I am leaving now and I am taking this meal with me.'

Vasselis stared at him, Jhered seeing him weigh up whether he should trust his old friend with whatever it was he had to say. Jhered found it hard to believe it could be so serious that the question was being posed. The Marshal Defender took a sip of wine. His hand was shaking.

'Paul, I have either taken the bravest decision of my life, or have made the biggest mistake of it. And on it rest the lives of almost everyone I hold dear.'

'That is some statement,' said Jhered, finally, after a chasm of a pause. 'Care to elucidate?'

'It's curious,' said Vasselis after a moment's contemplation. ‘I travelled from Caraduk knowing I was doing the right thing, absolutely the right thing. But equally, I knew that I might never leave Estorr. It made "goodbye" a hard word to speak to Netta and Kovan.

'I had courage though, and pride in the virtue of my mission. I had rehearsed speeches and the answers to every question. And I was happy that I was pursuing the best interests of my citizens and - God-take-me-to-rest-in-his-embrace - I was and am prepared to burn for them.

'But the day I breasted Gorn's Rise and I saw the pennants flying from the Hill, I felt my courage begin to ebb. And now I sit before you little more than a child forced to confess a guilty secret.'

Jhered blew out his cheeks, completely intrigued to discover the source of Vasselis's troubles. But he was never above empathy with this man.

'It is easy to be courageous five miles from the fog of battle,' he said. 'Less so to hurl yourself at the pikes ranged against you when you can see the fervour in the eyes of your enemy. Surely the fact that you are here speaks all that needs be spoken about your bravery.'

'You say that without knowing what it is I have to tell you.'

'I have faced enemies across the lines of a battlefield that I respect for their bravery,' said Jhered. 'Now, enough prevarication. Remember, I am your friend. Tell me what you must.'

Vasselis nodded and rubbed a hand across his chin. Jhered could see him struggling with how to begin. Eventually, he nodded again and clapped his hands lightly on his thighs. His voice remained so quiet that Jhered had to lean in to hear him. The smells of the food assaulted his nostrils.

'Paul, what I'm going to tell you goes to the very heart of who we are and who we want to be. It goes against teachings thought inviolate by most but demonstrates that there is so much more that people can be. All we need do is open our eyes, accept evolution and not be afraid.

'Fourteen years ago, four children were born in a small fishing town in Caraduk. They are special, very special. They are the future of man and the Conquord. And they are proof that those persecuted by the Order over the centuries were right all along. We are more than farmers and guardians of God's earth. God has given us the ability to bring ourselves closer to him. To heal the earth and all his creatures, to purify the water and engender growth. To bring rain where there was drought and banish cloud so the sun can warm the crops. All using the power of their bodies and minds. To make us one with the world God has created for us so we can better do his work.

'Others have been born since but we know nothing of their potential as yet. These four have the talents I describe and so much more. They are a glory to see and a joy to entertain. But they are a danger as well. I am not naive. I understand what they represent to the eyes of the Order as I understand the reactions of those who fear change and the unknown thrust into their midst.

'It is why I have to come to the Advocate and to you. I trust you. And the Conquord must trust me now and protect them from those who would have them killed. You must believe me, Paul, they are the Conquord's greatest triumph. Incalculable treasures. The Ascendancy lives.'

Jhered sank back into his recliner, his hands covering his nose and mouth. All thoughts of food were banished by a roiling nausea that reached up into his throat. Vasselis's words sank into his mind, the import of them causing palpitations in his chest. For sometime, he was unable to respond, only able to consider that the reason for the Advocate's distraction was all too clear.

He forced himself to focus on his friend, seeing the anxious, earnest face and those honest brown eyes searching his for a sign of support or comfort. Jhered fought the desire to ridicule Vasselis for his claims. There was no doubting he believed utterly in what he was saying. But how to react to such blasphemy? He opened his mouth to speak three times before finding the words he knew were as much for his benefit as for Vasselis.

'Even to claim such notions is a crime against the core of our faith,' he said, mimicking Vasselis's whisper. 'But for them to be true and for you to be complicit goes beyond even that.'

'But only if you hold up discredited thinking, assumptions and dogma as evidence against me. I have living proof.'

Jhered found it almost impossible to take in. 'I have to ask you as a friend if you understand the consequences of what you are saying. As an official of the Estorean Conquord and an upholder of the scriptures of the Order of Omniscience, I have to ask whether you are prepared to set seal on your statements.'

Vasselis chuckled. 'You will do as you must. And yes, I know what I am saying and I would set my seal. I have seen and you have not. I trust you to do the right thing. You know me. You know I am no heretic, nor am I a traitor.'

Jhered threw up his hands and battled to keep his voice quiet.

'The right thing? And what is that? Loyalty to a friend or to the faith I have followed since a child and in which I have unflinching belief? God-speak-for-me, Vasselis, what you have told me flies in the face of all reason and of God. It is the propagation of evil on this earth. It is the placing of man above God. How are you not heretic?'

'And yet you sit there and wonder why you do not strike me down, don't you, Paul?' Vasselis was quite calm now.

Jhered paused. He was right. And the gladius would stay scabbarded at his side.

'Because it's you, damn you,' he growled. 'Because of what I believe you to be . . . who I know you to be.'

Vasselis nodded his thanks. 'I know this is difficult for you. As-God-warms-the-earth it is difficult enough for me and I have known of this potential all my life. Caraduk is steeped in the lore of the Ascendancy and was the centre of protest and demonstration against the rule of the Order when the Ascendancy belief was outlawed.'

'I have read my history,' said Jhered. 'And it's all ancient. It has no bearing.'

'Of course it does,' said Vasselis a little sharply. 'It leaves a mark in the heart of everyone born in Caraduk. We respect and revere the Order if not all of its officers and methods. We believe in the sanctity of God and the holiness of the Advocate. But ancient or not, faith never dies merely because it is repressed.'

Jhered shook his head. ‘I had no idea you harboured such ideologies.'

'Oh, Paul, so many times I have wanted to take you into my confidence. You and the Advocate. The people who should stand behind us. But all the time, just one slip and . . .'

'The Order,' said Jhered. Vasselis nodded and spread his hands. 'So why now?'

'Because before, even these four only exhibited potential. Now they are emerged, they are true Ascendants. They can manipulate the elements. Word will get out one day and when it does, I need all the power I can muster on my side against what the Order will try to do.'

Jhered sighed. Vasselis had appeared so reasonable. 'And you went to Herine, the living embodiment of God on earth to ask for that power? Come on, Arvan, what do you expect me, or Herine, to do with this?'

'Just try to view it with an open mind. Trust me that this is good and not evil.'

'It goes against every teaching I have ever learned,' snapped Jhered and he couldn't help but raise his voice a notch.

Vasselis held out his hands in a calming gesture. 'I know. I know. Sleep on it, talk about it with the Advocate. Whatever you decide, of course I will abide by, and will give myself up to you if you so demand it. But don't make a snap decision based on fears propagated through the Order's doctrine.'

'You mean, don't tell the Chancellor what you have told me.'

'That rather goes without saying, Paul, don't you think? One hint and we are lost before we have begun.'

'We?' Jhered raised a finger. 'I am not with you, Marshal Vasselis.'

Jhered growled in his throat. He felt utterly at a loss. His faith screamed at him to denounce Vasselis but the soldier in him knew that the Marshal deserved more respect than the justice that would undoubtedly be meted out by the Chancellor's court.

'Come to Caraduk,' urged Vasselis. 'You are long overdue a visit anyway. See for yourself before you decide whether I am on the side of the future or of destruction.'

'I cannot, Arvan,' replied Jhered. 'In case it has escaped your attention these past few days, we have significant problems on our borders with Tsard and my presence is required there by the

Advocate for the remainder of dusas. Meantime, you expect me to carry this knowledge with me in secret, I suppose?'

Vasselis spread his hands. 'It'll give you time to think.'

Jhered shook his head, feeling an anger growing. 'You have placed me in an invidious position. Merely by not reporting you to the Order, I am committing an offence that would see me burn next to you.' He paused, noting that Vasselis was clearly all too aware what he had done. 'Yet I know you believed you had no choice and I respect what you felt you had to do.

'Any other man, I would arrest here and now as my duty dictates . . . damn but this is not what I, the Advocate nor the Conquord needs. Internal strife among the closest of allies would be so dangerous and we cannot allow the Chancellor reason to enact her more repressive plans. Reason that you, you fool, have given her, should she discover what you have done.'

He sighed again. 'Here's what I will do. I will talk with the Advocate before I take ship back to Gestern. We will decide on a course of action and notify you of it, so I suggest you don't leave Estorr before you are summoned back to the palace. That is all I can do and if you experience sleepless nights in the interim, good. Consider it a fraction of the price you are asking us to pay on your behalf.'

Vasselis breathed deep and relaxed, leaning back again on the recliner.

'It is all I could ask of you, Paul. Thank you.'

'You are lucky it is you,' said Jhered, feeling the edges of a smile on his face. He leaned forward to grip Vasselis's arm briefly. 'Mean­while, be sure your people are defended. You must be prepared for everything.' He clapped his hands once, feeling a desperate need to change the mood and calm his thumping heart.

'Now, let's try and eat. You can tell me how that son of yours is getting on. I heard great reports of his swordsmanship from the academy masters. And still so young. You must be very proud.'

He thought for a moment that Vasselis was going to burst into tears.

 

Chapter 15

847th cycle of God, 34th day of Dusasfall

14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

'Duck!'

The snowball caught Arducius full in the face. He cried out at the shock of the impact and the sudden cold across his already chilled and red face. Remembering himself, he pirouetted and collapsed dramatically to the ground, feeling the fresh soft snow puff around him.

'Yes!' Mirron's voice was loud in triumph. 'I told you we'd win. I told you you'd do it.'

Arducius pushed himself up on his elbows. He could see around the snow barricades he and Gorian had built in the walled gardens behind the Ascendancy villa. Mirron was laughing, her arms around Ossacer's neck. A rare smile split his face too. Ossacer had said he'd worked something out but this was amazing. Arducius caught the mood and began to laugh himself.

He loved dusas. Most particularly, he loved the fall of fresh snow. It was like spreading feathers across the land for him and he could run and fall and play like all of them with hardly a fear of bruising or breaking his brittle bones. He felt strong when dusas came and the land became cold. Like Gorian did all year round. In dusas, he could compete just like all the others.

'Why didn't you duck?' Gorian's voice was sulky and unhappy.

Arducius looked round and a familiar vague fear settled on him. He stopped laughing. Gorian was staring down at him, snowball still in his gloved hand, ready to throw at the others. No point now; the game was lost. But Gorian hated to lose. Even a snowball fight was treated with all the seriousness of his Ascendancy studies.

Arducius didn't know whether to feel contempt or admiration for Gorian sometimes. Mostly, he just wished the boy he so wanted to be his friend would learn to enjoy himself once in a while, not treat everything like it was a struggle to save the world. But Gorian was so often aloof. Only Mirron seemed to be able to get through to him. It was obvious why that was. She had always liked him, wanted to be with him. He responded to that. Arducius guessed he was flattered by the attention.

‘I didn't believe he could get it anywhere near me, let alone hit me, did you?'

‘I told you to duck.' Gorian shrugged. ‘I could see it coming and you weren't even looking.'

Arducius got up and brushed snow from his cloak. Mirron and Ossacer were walking towards them.

'Still, never mind,' he said. 'It was only a game.'

'We lost,' said Gorian. 'And we shouldn't have.'

'What do you think Ossacer has worked out, then?' asked Arducius, keen to change the subject. Gorian had an angry look in his eye but the moment he mentioned the other boy that expression changed.

‘I wonder,' he said.

The defeat forgotten, he turned his attention to Ossacer, whose arm rested gently on Mirron's while the two of them walked slowly across the white carpet. Above, the sky was dark grey and the wind was picking up beneath the clouds. There would be more snow soon. A fall that would go on through the night before the clouds broke in the late morning. It was probably just as well the game had ended when it did. Gorian trotted quietly around to Ossacer's left-hand side.

'Gorian,' whispered Arducius. 'Don't.'

'Hey Ossacer,' said Gorian, voice loud just by the boy's ear.

Ossacer jumped and stopped, turning his head towards the sound, frowning. His eyes searched in vain as they always did. He could tell the difference between light and dark and he said that sometimes vague shapes would be there, but that was all. The infection that had robbed him of his sight had robbed him of his joy too for a long time. His bitterness at his misfortune was fading but it would never truly be gone.

'Why do you have to do that?' snapped Mirron. 'It's all right,' said Ossacer, his voice deep, broken early. 'It's a pity I didn't hit you, Gorian.'

'I'm too clever for you,' said Gorian. He was smiling at Mirron, happy at her infuriated reaction. 'Don't treat him like a baby. You'll make him weaker than he is already.'

‘I am not weak,' said Ossacer. 'Only blind.'

'But how long is it until you catch something else? And what will go wrong then? Your ears, your mouth?'

'Stop it, stop it!' shouted Mirron. 'Leave him alone.' ‘I can look after myself,' said Ossacer.

He let go of Mirron's arm and turned to face Gorian full on. Gorian laughed and danced around him.

'You'll never be able to catch me, blind man.'

He stopped on Ossacer's left and reached out an arm slowly, meaning to push. Ossacer frowned deeply and then, quite deliber­ately, moved his hand to grab Gorian's palm.

‘I am blind but it does not mean I cannot see,' he said quietly.

Gorian's expression cleared of mischief and returned to one of fascination. 'How did you do that?'

'Why would you want to know?' asked Ossacer, releasing his hand. 'After all, you aren't blind.'

'Just tell me.' Gorian's tone was immediately threatening.

'Not quite so weak now, am I?' Ossacer was taunting Gorian now and Arducius felt his heart rate increase. 'Don't know it all, do you? And you don't like it.'

'Don't tease him,' warned Mirron.

'You know what happens when you do,' said Gorian. 'Make it easy on yourself, Ossacer . . . Ossicker—' He chuckled at his own poor joke '—tell me.'

'No,' said Ossacer, and he stood straight and defiant, his eyes fixed on nowhere, his body turned to face Gorian. ‘I won't.'

'Oh, big man are we now?' Gorian advanced the pace and pushed Ossacer in the chest. He staggered back, barely keeping his balance, his hands flailing.'

'Leave him,' said Arducius.

'And what will you do? Punch me and you'll break your own hand. You are weaker than he is.' Gorian turned his attention back to Ossacer. 'No one to save you, blind man and you won't even know where I'm coming from next. Tell me what you have learned.'

'No,' said Ossacer, though there was a quiver in his voice.

'Stop it, Gorian,' said Mirron, taking a pace towards him.

'Make me,' he replied. He stepped forwards again and slapped Ossacer very lightly on the cheek. 'Harder next time.'

Ossacer took a pace back and stumbled. Gorian's hand shot out and grabbed his arm, holding him upright.

'Only me here to save you, Ossacer.' He held his grip firmly, strong hand biting into the flesh of Ossacer's upper arm. He looked round at Arducius and Mirron. Arducius felt his heart hammering and a sick feeling in his stomach. He was powerless to do anything. 'I'm better than you. I'm better than all of you put together.'

Gorian stilled and almost immediately, the air froze around them. Arducius saw the skin on his bare forearm paling and frost form on his glove. Ossacer cried out and tried to fall back. He thrashed his arm in Gorian's grip of ice but couldn't break it. Arducius made a move towards them, knowing he had to do something but fearing he would get badly hurt. He could see Mirron standing stock still, her mouth moving soundlessly.

'Tell me,' grated Gorian, voice full of menace.

Arducius had to do something. Gritting his teeth against the pain he knew would come, he ran headlong at Gorian. His ears were full of the screams of Ossacer, his eyes of Gorian's expression, one almost of glee at the pain he was causing.

'Leave him alone!' yelled Arducius.

Gorian looked round, his face registering his surprise at what was coming at him. He had precious little time to react. And as Arducius collided with him, trying to fend off the bigger boy with his hands to keep him from his rib-cage, he heard Mirron's voice once more and at the last, Father Kessian bellowing Gorian's name.

 

Kessian put his head in trembling hands. This would get round like every tiny aberration had. And the citizens of Westfallen would have one more reason to keep their sons and daughters from the Ascendants. Deny them the interaction that was so vital to their development as young people. The isolation was affecting them in subtle ways at the moment but eventually would drag its nails through every aspect of their lives.

It was precisely the opposite of the reaction Kessian wanted and represented a serious blow to the integration of Ascendants into the wider world. If they couldn't be accepted into the community that understood them the most there was surely little hope.

It was a paradox for them all. To stop behaviour like Gorian's required more integration with normal young people. It would give him and the other Ascendants more boundaries based on experience and an understanding of the huge responsibility on them to control themselves and the power they harboured. And yet Kessian could not blame any parent in Westfallen for their actions. They were scared and so were their children.

Two years since their announcement to the citizens of Westfallen had been greeted with triumphant celebration, the mood of the town had reversed almost completely. And while the Ascendancy Echelon was still respected and citizens still participated in the programme, volunteering for fatherhood or motherhood, there was a growing anxiety about the apparent results.

Kessian shook his head. The abilities were exactly as had always been predicted. It was an unfortunate fact that reality was far harder to accept than theory. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Genna, recently recovered from an illness which had almost claimed her life. She was still weak but had it not been for Ossacer's identification of the infection sites, she would not have survived at all. It was the glory of the Ascendants.

Kessian removed his hands and smiled at her.

'You're going to tell me to stop seeing things so bleakly aren't you?'

'I'm still here because of them, aren't I?' she said.

The Echelon was gathered in the central reception room of the villa. Behind Kessian's chair, a hypocaust flue roared. It gave him a measure of comfort. Simple normality. And there seemed very little of that these days. He found every day such a struggle. Not just because it was dusas. His legs were so painful and his breath was cruelly short. And he could barely write because of the shake in his hands. He was old and he was dying. He should have felt reassured by his imminent return to the embrace of God but he wasn't. He couldn't leave the Echelon and Westfallen without solutions to their current problems.

'Ardol?' It was Genna.

Kessian started. 'Eh? Oh, sorry. Old mind meandering I'm afraid.' 'We don't have to do this tonight,' said Hesther Naravny. 'It's been a long day.'

'There's no purpose in us going to our beds, only to lie awake,'

said Meera, sitting next to her sister. She was pregnant and looked far more tired and strained than Kessian felt. Hopes were high that she, Jen Shalke and Gwythen Terol were all carrying one of the twelfth strand. But there was a question mark over whether West-fallen would welcome the new arrivals. 'He's my son. I need your help with how to deal with him.'

'Absolutely,' said Kessian, noting the nods from around the room. 'So how is he now?'

'How are all of them,' said Willem Geste dryly.

'Indeed. But one at a time. Meera?'

'Oh, Ardol, I just don't understand it,' she replied, suddenly on the verge of tears. Hesther laid a hand on her arm. 'I've spent hours with him, when I haven't been apologising to Ossacer's mother, poor woman. He's impenetrable.'

'What do you mean?' asked Andreas Koll.

'He doesn't think he's done anything wrong,' whispered Meera.

There was a hush in the room. All that could be heard were the hypocaust and the rasp of Kessian's breathing. They waited for Meera to continue. Kessian watched while she gathered her thoughts under their sympathetic gaze.

'He believes that he had the right to know immediately what Ossacer had learned and when Ossacer wouldn't tell him, he had to make him speak. He's not showing any guilt or remorse. If anything, he thinks Ossacer is to blame.'

'And what about Arducius? Surely Gorian saw in what he did that he must have been doing wrong?' said Genna into the deepening shock.

Meera shook her head. 'He has no sense of it at all. He said that in life, the strong succeed because they take what they want when they need it. The weak might fight bravely but they will always fail. Arducius is broken by his own hand.'

'He said all that?' Willem gaped.

'Almost word for word.'

'He's not even fourteen,' hissed Willem. 'How can he be saying such things.'

'He's always had a temper,' said Jen.

'This isn't temper,' said Hesther. 'This is cold calculation. Willem's right. He's too young to be like this. Isn't he?'

Every time the Echelon was unsure, it turned as one to Kessian.

This time was no exception. What would they do when he had returned to the earth? He had been listening to the exchange with a growing sense of gloom. They wanted him to explain Gorian's behaviour, make it seem not so deplorable. Kessian was not about to mitigate the indefensible.

'Let us make no mistake. The timing of this incident could hardly have been worse. Arvan Vasselis is in Estorr telling the Advocate what we have here. No doubt he is explaining to her the glories we can achieve for the whole of the Conquord if the programme is allowed to flourish now it has achieved its first emergences. And today, we have demonstrated to any that cared to see that for all the good we want to do, the Ascendants' abilities can be used to perpetrate harm and evil.

'We are certain to come under scrutiny from the Advocacy. There will be pressure from the Order too once the knowledge that some­thing is happening here is known. And if the murmur in the town is that what we have bred are dangerous and violent freaks then inevitably, someone in Westfallen will ask the Order to investigate. Let us not forget that so far as the Order is concerned, we are heretic and face the flames when found guilty. And while the town remains with us at present, people are nervous about our four Ascendants. I don't blame them. It will not take much more for some to start to turn against us. Generations of trust stand for nothing when individuals feel threatened by those they are asked to believe in.

'We have always known we would be at risk from the world outside our borders. We now have to accept that we are at risk from those closest to us as well unless we can change Gorian's behaviour.'

He stopped to look around the Echelon. None of the faces gazing back at him registered any surprise at what he had said. He nodded and forced himself to smile.

'We are pioneers,' he said, tone gentle and encouraging. 'And we face problems that those who come after us will not. It is up to us to find solutions and to keep the belief in the Ascendancy strong and unwavering. I know it's hard. God-embrace-me but I have had black moments this day as I'm sure you all have. I doubt any of us will sleep too well, will we? So let's do what we can. We are practical, resourceful and determined.

'So. First things first. Genna, how are Ossacer and Arducius faring?'

The Echelon's Pain Teller blew out her cheeks and pushed her hands back through her hair. 'Shela is sitting with them. We've moved them into one room to be together. Ossacer is silent. He won't talk. We've bathed and bandaged his arm. Fortunately the burns weren't too deep. Frostbite takes fingers and toes. Had Arducius not intervened, it might have taken Ossacer's arm.

'He's fortunate he has a protector but that protector is in a sorry state. He has fractured both wrists. One shoulder has dislocated again and his left elbow has blown up like a diseased bladder. I've splinted the breaks and reset the shoulder. The elbow is in ice every hour. But I worry about his dexterity long-term. He's so fragile.'

'But this time they will recover from their physical wounds,' said Hesther. 'Which means we can turn to their emotional and mental ones. Far more difficult to gauge and treat.'

'You took the words right out of my mouth,' said Kessian. ‘I will speak with Gorian in the morning. We have to get to the bottom of his thinking and I flatter myself that he is still in awe of me if not a little scared at times which is no bad thing, I'm sure you'll agree. He has exhibited such tendencies before. Remember when he was grow­ing up? How serious he has always been and how easy to provoke? And remember when Mirron emerged, it was a violent episode. The difference here is premeditated use of his ability to do harm. Something we have expressly forbidden.

‘I will get through to him. I have to. In the meantime, Gwythen, please continue talking with your daughter. You know how she'll react, I feel sure.'

Gwythen shrugged. 'She's done what she always has when Gorian has caused trouble. She starts by expressing her disgust and ends up defending his actions. We all know why that is.' A dry chuckle ran around the room. ‘I don't think that will ever change.'

'No, indeed,' said Willem. 'But it is something we might use. Gorian will listen to her, won't he? After all, the feelings are not merely one way.'

'I'm not so sure,' said Meera. ‘I don't like to say this but he is manipulative. He'll be lovely with her when it suits him. Don't be surprised to find him the soul of charm in a couple of days when he believes his shame has lifted. We've seen it before.'

'And the other two?' asked Kessian.

'Give them the night to rest, see how they wake up,' said Genna.

'Ossacer has shown no signs of ailing as a result of this incident which is a blessing. And from what Arducius said to me, he was standing proud against Gorian which is something new. Arducius . . . well, Arducius is Arducius.' Another chuckle. 'He'll be privately furious with Gorian for the rest of dusas, I expect, but he's a born diplomat. He'll bring them back together pretty soon. He sees the strength of the four of them learning as one. I think most of his anger will be frustration at Gorian's attitude rather than his physical pain and why it was inflicted.'

Kessian felt lifted by what he was hearing. The Echelon was closing ranks and moving forwards.

'Good,' he said. 'One last thing. Hesther, I know I always turn to you but assuming word, if not detail, of this trouble leaks out through the servants, we need to have a response. You and Elsa Gueran should work together. We need the Order to stand with us, even if it is through a Reader we all know believes as we do and needs to fear the Chancellor as we do.'

'Of course, Ardol,' said Hesther.

'Only when we have the Ascendants settled will we talk to Ossacer about his learning. I have the distinct feeling it will be quite a breakthrough but we need the right atmosphere. Agreed?'

Nods all around. Kessian pushed himself painfully up on his sticks.

'Then let us all get to bed. God keep you all in bliss until he wakes you with the light of dawn.'

 

It was night and it was very quiet but for the breathing of Shela Hasi and Arducius. Ossacer listened to the patterns they made while the lids on his eyes blinked away the phantom shapes that swam across his blindness. Shela's breath was deep and regular, her body was still. Arducius snuffled and sighed. Ossacer smiled in the dark, his gratitude for his friend swelling again in his chest.

'You are awake, Arducius,' he said softly.

'I am,' he replied. 'I can't sleep. It hurts. How is your arm?'

'It's all right,' said Ossacer, scratching at his bandages absently, the throbbing ache not dimmed by the cooling balm Genna had spread on the wound. 'Shela is asleep, isn't she?'

'Until Genna comes in to do the ice thing again in the morning. Ugh, it's horrible.'

'Doesn't it help?' asked Ossacer, imagining Arducius's shudder.

'It just makes it numb. It still aches and everything. And my fingers tingle all the time.' 'Do you trust me?'

Arducius was silent for a while. 'I. Well, yes, of course. What sort of question is that in the middle of the night?'

'I can help you,' said Ossacer. His heart tapped quickly in his chest. 'If you'll let me.'

'Help me with what?'

'I think I can fix you.' Ossacer shifted and pushed himself up on his good elbow so he was looking in Arducius's direction. 'If you'll let me try.'

There was another silence. Ossacer could feel Arducius weighing it all up. He'd survived so many breaks from his brittle bones because Genna Kessian was so expert at locating the exact fracture point and Westfallen's doctors and surgeons could set the limb or digit under her instruction. Yet now here was an Ascendant, not two years emerged, offering him something untried and absolutely new. And they all knew the risks of trying out new abilities from embarrassing and painful experience.

'Is this what you wouldn't tell Gorian about?'

'It's the reason you're lying there,' agreed Ossacer.

'Will it hurt me? Will it hurt you?'

'I don't think so,' said Ossacer. 'Not if I get it right.'

Arducius managed a chuckle at that and the slight tension broke. 'Well, obviously.'

Ossacer smiled as well. He moved nearer his friend, shifting across his bed. They were separated by a gap of a couple of feet. Shela was by the door, sleeping in a chair with her feet up on a padded stool.

'Well?'

'Are you sure you can do this?' 'I'll let you know,' said Ossacer.

'Very funny,' said Arducius. 'Just take the pain away, that's enough. And tell me what you're doing.'

Ossacer felt a wash of pride. Trust in him. It was a wonderful feeling.

'I won't let you down.'

Ossacer closed his eyes and concentrated hard. He breathed deeply and carefully. He held his hands out from his body, his fingers spread and moving gently as if playing an invisible kithara. His ears pricked, listening for the creaking of timbers in the roof above him, in the marble supports and the beds on which they lay.

Slowly, colour and light swam into his mind, warming his whole body, reminders of a time when all he had to do to experience colour was open his eyes. But this was far more breathtaking than mem­ories; this was his window on the world and no one would ever be able to take it from him.

Behind the curtain of his eyes, the bedroom dripped into view. He could have wished it was clear like sight but for Ossacer, it was as if God had blessed him personally with a second chance and it was up to him to make of it what he could. The others and the Echelon had thought he'd been unusually quiet and reserved throughout this dusas and he was happy to let them think that way. They left him to it when they understood he was all right, just feeling low.

But what he had discovered was in the process of changing his life from one of reliance to one of renewed independence. It had been almost by chance, even though Ossacer understood that it was because he'd been forced to develop his other senses. He'd learned to listen to the minutest of sounds to build up a mental picture of what surrounded him. He habitually held out his hands, not just to feel ahead and to the sides but to gather information on the currents of air passing his body. His fingertips had developed great sensitivity, allowing him to gauge the distance and complexity of solid shapes near him.

His nose was equally sensitive, able to sort scents in fine detail. He used it to give him direction. He could smell the villa from up on the hillside; he could navigate from the villa to the forum. And he could walk unaided to the orchard up above Genastro Falls. No one was scared he would pitch over the cliff any more. To him these were small victories in a life of struggle against his disability. However, in his few meetings with other blind people, he had become aware that his senses were far more acutely tuned than were those of others.

It led him to think. The only benefit of his blindness, and it had a bitter edge, was that it gave him time to think free of the distractions of the world of light. But this time the reward had been great. Their training had focused so much on harnessing the energies of God and the earth to achieve their goals, whether it be growing plants, bring­ing fruit to trees out of season or identifying the seat of infections in farm animals.

They still had so much to learn, particularly about efficiency. A single use of ability left them tired and wrinkled, sometimes for days. But what they had all worked out was that, while the particular energies most closely related to the ability they were employing aided their efficiency greatly, other energies drawn from unconnected places could be used, though they drained the Ascendant more quickly.

Father Kessian had likened it to carrying water from place to place in a sponge rather than a skin. It worked but was more tiring, because more trips would be needed for the same volume of water as so much got wasted on the way.

So Ossacer had worked on, as he liked to think of it, blocking the holes in the sponge. And he had linked the effort with the knowledge that there was something more to his acutely tuned senses than effort and fortune. It was because of who he was. There was energy all around him. It fed through his fingertips, his nostrils, his ears and his tongue direct into his mind. And there he used it.

He had always been a natural Pain Teller, able to map an infection, fever, strain or break in the body of a man and to a lesser extent, a beast. But what he hadn't been able to do, what none of them had got even close to, was healing. Gorian, the first Gorian, had written about joining energies to heal but that had proved impossible because all maladies appeared as grey shades that masked energy flows and there was no way to break through. Until now.

It had come to Ossacer quite suddenly that because there were energies everywhere that could be harnessed, if inefficiently, to heal, it wasn't necessary to go through the grey shades; you could go around them. Lacking in the confidence to test his theory on an animal, or even to talk to Father Kessian or Genna about it, he had first applied it to the energies he picked up through his remaining senses. And what he found was that he could draw an energy map in his head of the immediate area around him.

Solid objects like walls, cabinets, columns and beds appeared as deep grey shapes on the bright canvas. But people appeared as moving hues of red, green and yellow, shot with deeper blues and, when they were damaged, grey shades and black. Their outlines were blurred but distinct enough to make out individuals. It was how he had hit Arducius with the snowball. In an open space, background was difficult to discern, particularly after snowfall, and so people stood out like fires in the night.

It was tiring though, because none of the energies were directly-applicable. So he had to work hard to keep the map in his head. He couldn't do it for long yet but hopefully long enough to help Arducius.

He stepped out of his bed, seeing his hands in front of him, his fingers deep red and bordered in pale yellow, his legs similar but less intense and the rest of his body dulled a fraction by his nightshirt. Below his feet, the rug was a pale shadow on the cool blue of the stone and ahead of him, Arducius's head and arms were visible above his covers.

He sat on the bed.

'Are you ready?' he whispered.

'How did you do that? I was watching you. You moved like you could see.'

'I can,' said Ossacer, feeling his excitement grow. 'Sort of. I'll explain it to you all. I just need to try one more thing.' 'And I am your subject, is that right?' 'Well, obviously.'

Both boys laughed quietly, energised by the thought of doing something in secret and not wishing to wake Shela.

'What do you want me to do?' asked Arducius.

'Nothing. Just lie there. It shouldn't hurt but tell me if it does and I'll stop whenever you want me to.'

'I'll be all right.'

Ossacer let the energy map fade in his mind, satisfied he was in control of his senses. He placed his hands on Arducius's left arm. 'That's cold,' hissed Arducius. 'Sorry.'

He drew back into himself, letting the energy from his own body channel through his mind, down his arms and across Arducius. Immediately, he could see the other boy's outline in his mind and he used a little energy from Arducius to bolster his own. He traced the bright pulses that were arteries and veins, following their flow through Arducius's body. The outlines of bones appeared dull green, his heart blazed red, lungs a cooler red tint and stomach a calm yellow.

Surrounding the bright strong trails of Arducius's body were the free motes of energy. They appeared as faint trails or twinkling dull lights to his mind. He was sure he could drive them to link the two areas of broken energy either side of breaks like those in Arducius's wrists. He moved his hands down towards the damaged left wrist, letting just the tips of his fingers brush his skin.

'Don't move,' he said, feeling a twitch from his friend. 'Sorry if it tickles.'

'It's warm,' said Arducius.

'Good.'

Arducius's wrist was a mess. Ossacer almost withdrew his fingers from the splinted bandage. He'd been used to sensing bruising, typified by a wash of clouded grey, damaged lines but this was something far worse. His mind displayed to him a deep, impenetrable grey shot through with a dead blackness where the fractures were complex and the energy of life absent. Splints weren't going to help.

'What's wrong?' asked Arducius.

'These are bad breaks,' he replied.

‘I hadn't realised,' said Arducius dryly.

‘I don't mean that, I mean they go so deep. Your bones are set but there is nothing running through them to heal them. No lifelines.' 'Well then . . .'

'It's all right,' said Ossacer, feeling Arducius tense. ‘I can bring them back.'

Ossacer knew he couldn't draw from Arducius to link the broken lines around his wrists. It was the same with most injured or sick people and animals. They were inherently weaker for obvious reasons. And while the trails in the air and carried through the hypocaust and on the slight breeze from under the door provided raw material, he had not plugged enough holes in the sponge and Arducius needed major help. Ossacer was going to have to use himself. This was going to be far more tiring than he first thought.

He gripped Arducius's wrist very gently, rippling his fingers across the bandage. He felt the depth and breadth of the damage, noted the dark lines indicating hairline fractures and the trapping or piercing of nerves and veins. Satisfied he understood the scale of the task, he placed his hands with his fingers splayed across the bandage with thumb touching thumb.

In Arducius's hands and fingers, the energy trails were hap­hazard, directionless, probably contributing to the aches and tingling sensations he was feeling. Ossacer felt joy wash over him, quite unexpectedly. It was exactly as Father Kessian and Genna said it should be. Exactly as the writings of Gorian and the scriptures of God described. The circle of life was interrupted. It was the flows of energy, the circuits great and small, that gave health and life. And it was their disruption that took them away. Now he knew with no doubt that his idea was right. And that God had placed him and his friends on this earth to heal and to cure. To be a force of wonder and to do God's work. The Order was wrong.

‘I am going to join the broken lifelines around your wrists. Try to be still.'

'Using what?'

'Anything I can get from this room. But mainly myself.' 'Ossacer, that's—'

'Don't argue. God will return my strength to me.'

He tried to bring in the slight energies from the breeze and the warmth of the stones under his feet, opening his mind as he had been urged, like he would open his mouth to accept food. But so little came in. He could just feel it helping his focus though it was nowhere near enough to help Arducius. What he had hoped, he couldn't quite do and now wasn't the time to be experimenting. He just prayed he had enough within him to do what had to be done.

Ossacer poured himself into his task. He channelled his body's energy into Arducius's arm, feeling the boy tense beneath his fingers and hearing a grunt of surprise. In his mind, he could see lifelines from his fingers intertwining with those either side of the broken wrist. Arducius gasped as the circuit was completed, feeling the life flowing around and edging into his injury.

That was the easy part. He could stay here, relieving Arducius of his pain for as long as he could stay awake and concentrated but it wouldn't heal him. Now he had to drive the lifelines back through the damaged wrist, providing the linkage that signified healing had taken place.

Ossacer could see like none of the others could, the disruption caused by the break. Where the bone was not set correctly, where fragments still sat in his flesh and where the blood flow was interrupted.

'Here we go, Arducius. Please try to be calm. The energy needs to flow into your wrist now. I hope you aren't hurt.' 'Get on with it.'

Ossacer nodded and breathed in very deeply. He began where the lifelines were strongest in Arducius, in his forearm. He could see the energy map in his head, could see the exact points where the lines turned away from Arducius's wrist to join with his own. He con­centrated and pushed down, beginning to tease the lines back to where they belonged. Fraction by fraction he went, using the artificially completed circuit to force passage through the physical damage. He moved bone fragments back into place, opened up veins again, dragged nerve endings into position. It was a terribly slow and delicate process.

He had to fight every strand of energy every minute step of the way. Like steering multiple eels through a maze that shifted and changed around them; each one only too happy to fall back if his attention wavered.

He could feel the sweat form then drip from his brow. It dampened his armpits and back. His whole body heated as he used more of himself in the effort. He had abandoned all thought of channelling the room's random energies now. It was a step too far for a young mind needing purity of focus.

And at the same time, he had to fight to contain his excitement. Because underneath his fingers with their red and yellow outlines bright with the density of energy, the black and grey were lightening; fading away.

'How do you feel?' he managed to ask through his own gulping breath.

'It burns,' said Arducius, sounding calm. 'But it doesn't hurt.' 'Good,' said Ossacer. 'I think.'

The centre of the break slowed him even further. So many hairline cracks and displacements. Arducius said it ached. It must have been agonising. Ossacer quashed the guilt that sprang into his conscience. He poured more of his energy into his work. He could feel himself weakening. And where the sweat ran down his cheeks, he could feel the dryness that came with age.

All this and more again, he reminded himself, if he was to fix both wrists. The elbow, not broken but swollen, would have to wait.

Shela Hasi awoke stiff and tired when the dawn, bright and white, found its way through the louvered shutters. She massaged her neck with one hand and blinked the room into focus. The yawn died in her throat.

Arducius, his wrist splints discarded, was sitting on Ossacer's bed holding the boy's hand in his. Ossacer's head was just visible. His face was cracked and lined, his head covered in grey hair. He barely moved but Arducius was smiling from ear to ear. The pained pallor in his cheeks was almost gone and his eyes shone with new health.

'Look what he's done,' he said. 'Look what he's done.'

Shela stared, confused, not knowing whether to cry with joy or scream in fear.

Chapter 16

847th cycle of God, 35th day of Dusasfall 14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

When Kessian pushed open Gorian's bedroom door that morning, the dazzling dusas sun was reflecting harsh white off the snow and blazing in through open shutters.

Gorian was sitting at his small desk, reading the Ascendancy text on the scope of the Land Warden discipline, its potential develop­ment and applications. Kessian had written it himself over four decades before. That Gorian should appear so engrossed in what he now considered inane meanderings, gave some small pleasure on a troubled day.

Gorian's tunic was slashed with the red of the Ascendancy, match­ing his own. His feet were bare, toes tapping idly on the warm stone under his feet. He didn't look round until Kessian had lowered himself slowly on to the end of the boy's bed.

'How did you know so long ago that we would ever exist?' Gorian asked, his voice clogged with emotion.

He looked terrible. His eyes were red and puffed where he had rubbed the tears away and the dark smudges beneath them told of a restless night. Kessian was comforted that in the quiet and dark, Gorian had found guilt and remorse. But he was concerned at the lack of either sentiment the boy had chosen to display to his mother the previous evening.

'Because your namesake saw the patterns and didn't let a single incident pass unnoted. And from such a wealth of observation, we were able eventually to trace where the potential was strongest and the logic most compelling. That is the way of discovery and advancement in science.'

Gorian frowned. 'Is this science? Or is it a blessing from God?'

'The two are inextricably linked. God shows us where to place our feet, he opens our eyes. We accept that our doctors develop their science through knowledge of the human body. But they would be nowhere without God's hand to guide them. So it is with us. We are shown the path; it is up to us to understand.'

Gorian was silent for a moment. He swallowed.

'How are Ossacer and Arducius?'

'Now that should really have been your first question, shouldn't it?'

No response. Gorian's lower lip was trembling and tears filled his eyes.

'They are both fine, fortunately for you,' said Kessian after a while. 'Ossacer has demonstrated remarkable new understanding.'

'What?' Light and desire blazed in Gorian's eyes.

'Ah well, had you waited and encouraged him, no doubt you would have found out. Gorian, why did you do it?'

The weight of Kessian's disappointment registered like blows on Gorian; every word striking a little harder than the last. The tears fell down his cheeks. Kessian made no move to comfort him though it was surely what he craved.

'Why didn't he tell me?'

'We are not talking about Ossacer, we are talking about you,' said Kessian sharply. 'He had every right to do what he did. You had none. And from the words you spoke to your mother last night, you do not understand that.'

'I do,' he wailed. 'I didn't mean to hurt him.'

'Gorian, look at me,' ordered Kessian. Gorian did so. No one defied Father Kessian. 'Do not shy away. You took Ossacer's wrist and you burned it with frost, using your Ascendant ability. He will carry the scars to his grave. I can see the regret in you now but it was not there after the event, was it? And it did not occur to you before you acted in the first place, did it?'

'I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want Arducius to be hurt.' Gorian cut a pathetic figure sitting slouched in his desk chair, one hand over his eyes now, the tears still dripping down his cheeks. It was all Kessian could do to keep from hugging him close. He looked broken.

Kessian moderated his tone a little. 'But how can we believe that? You did what you did. And when your mother questioned you about it, you said that the strong took what they wanted and that in effect the other two were to blame for what happened and not you. Gorian? Help us to understand. To help you. You cannot let your control go like this. Not with the power you have.'

Gorian didn't know what to say, that much was plain. Kessian wasn't surprised. He waited a while. Gorian composed himself just a little but clearly wasn't going to say anything.

'Gorian, look at me.' Kessian waited until he was obeyed. 'Let's try one thing at a time. Why did you say what you said to your mother?'

A pause. 'Because I was angry, I suppose. I wanted to be right. I thought I was right.'

'Did you really? But presumably you think a little differently now.' Gorian nodded. 'But I still don't understand. Meera was quite specif­ic about how lacking in remorse you were. Do you remember how you felt to be like that?' Gorian shook his head. 'All right then, why the sleepless night and all the tears of guilt this morning? Do you know what changed your mind? You've had enough time to think. Try for me.'

Gorian's face looked about to crumple again. 'Because I knew you would be coming in here to see me this morning,' he said. 'And I knew you would be angry and I hate it when I make you angry.'

Kessian met Gorian's gaze levelly. 'I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted,' he said, knowing the comment would pass the boy by. 'The trouble is, if what you say is true, that doesn't make you sorry for what you have done, only sorry for the reaction it would provoke in me. Are you truly sorry for what you have done?'

Gorian nodded. 'I know it was wrong.'

'You know now or you knew at the time?'

'I know now.'

'Well, that's honest at least,' said Kessian, though the response was not the one he wanted. 'Tell me this. Was it only the fact I would come here that made you think and realise you had done wrong?'

Gorian frowned and then nodded. 'I think so.'

'And what will happen when I am not here to make you think?'

'You'll always be here, Father Kessian,' said Gorian, his tone a little desperate. 'We need you. I need you.'

Kessian fought the urge to put his head in his hands and forced a half-smile on to his face instead. 'Oh Gorian, you and I both know how old I am. I cannot be here forever. One day, and perhaps soon,

God will open his arms to welcome me back to his embrace. Who will you turn to then, I wonder?'

Who will you respect enough to maintain your discipline . . . Kessian shook his head and stood up.

'You're leaving me?'

'For the time being.'

'What's going to happen?'

Kessian looked at Gorian, every inch the frightened boy awaiting inevitable punishment. So much at odds with the arrogance of the night before. He sighed.

‘I still don't think you fully realise what you have done,' he said. 'Before you can come out of this room, much has to happen but it will happen quickly. I will talk with the other Ascendants and they will help me decide whether you should be taught with them or apart from them for the time being. And they alone will decide if they ever want to play with you again.

'And while we are talking, I need you to think about this: the works of the Ascendancy are only ever destined for help and peace. Never to inflict pain, for evil or to enforce authority. The Ascendancy is a tool of God whose mercy and benevolence know no end. What you have done is demonstrate how all that is good can be used for evil. The scalpel of a doctor can slit the throat and the hoe can be used to strike down an innocent man. And our works can be diverted to cause death and damage. They must never be allowed to do so again.

'Ask yourself, Gorian, if you want to be loved and revered as a bringer of miracles and a man who spreads life and health about him. Or whether you want to be hated and feared, and forever live in the knowledge that there are those who desire nothing more than your death, and that ever an arrow or a blade will be coming at you but you know not from where.' He nodded at Gorian's reaction. ‘I hope that scares you. It is supposed to. You have within you a great potential for power, as do your brothers and sister. And if you believe in me as you say you do, you will do me one great service and swear to use that power only for the purposes your namesake gave his life for. The purposes I would give my life for too.

'We will speak again before you leave this room. But in the meantime, if you are hungry, I can ask Shela to bring you some breakfast.'

Gorian nodded and Kessian smiled in response.

'Good. Think hard, Gorian. We all love you and want you to be inside our embrace forever. But you must learn to curb your temper or you risk being a very lonely young man. Don't let me down.'

‘I won't, Father. I am sorry.'

Kessian let himself out of the room and closed the door behind him. Genna, Meera and Shela were waiting for him.

'So many contradictions in that young man. I wonder about the state of his mind, I really do,' he whispered. 'We must watch him very closely indeed, even at play. There is a battle going on in that head of his and I have no idea which side will win. Shela, he can have his breakfast now.' He leant in and kissed Genna's cheek. 'This is an unexpected pleasure, my love.'

'And there's another for you in the main dining room. Arvan Vasselis is returned from Estorr. He's waiting for you.'

Kessian felt a release of anxiety he barely knew he'd been hoard­ing. 'Now that is good news. Vasselis alive rather than executed for heresy is surely a step in the right direction.'

Genna chuckled. ‘I feel sure he agrees with you. Come on, I'll leave you there and go down to make sure Netta and Kovan are settled in at their villa.'

‘I expect you'll find Kovan wherever Mirron is,' said Kessian. 'He'll be happy Gorian is out of the way just for a moment.' 'Hush yourself, Ardol Kessian.'

Kessian beamed at her. ‘I still remember what it was like to be that age and smitten. Joy and pain the two sides of the coin and a whole sheaf of clumsy thoughts and emotions to battle. I don't envy him.'

'Yes, you do,' said Genna.

'Yes, I do.'

One of the two ornate marble fireplaces in the dining room contained a peat and wood blaze that sent powerful warmth into the room to augment the over-worked hypocaust. Marshal Vasselis had ridden in with a howling wind at his back that was creeping round the compass and would soon be sweeping up the bay from the sea.

He had taken off his gauntlets and was warming his hands over the fire. His fur-lined cloak was still close about his shoulders and his eyes were on the portrait of Gorian above the elegant, carved mantle. He turned when the door opened. Ardol Kessian walked in, his movement slow and heavily reliant on the sticks in his hands. His hips caused him constant pain by all accounts and the arthritis was present in every joint. Genna gave a small wave and closed the door behind her husband.

Kessian looked frail. Vasselis had been away a long time and the Father of the Echelon had moved rapidly towards death. At least he had seen the genesis of everything he had worked for all his life. Vasselis considered that he might be blessed by not living through much of what was to come.

'I've got old, haven't I?' said Kessian, easing himself into one of the chairs that had been set in front of the fireplace.

Vasselis nodded and came across to his old friend, kneeling to cover his cold hands. 'Reading my mind again, Ardol?'

'Just your face,' replied Kessian.

'I never was good at hiding my thoughts from you,' said Vasselis. He stood up and turned to the table nearby. 'They've delivered tea. Would you like some? I suppose it's a little early for wine.'

'Thank you, Arvan. And welcome back.'

Vasselis passed him his tea, a rich herb pressing, warming and sweet. 'There were a couple of days when I seriously doubted that I would ever hear you say that. These have been difficult times and I fear they are merely a prelude.'

'We had to expect that. But the fact of your presence here means that at least the Advocate is prepared to listen to us. Tell me what she said.'

Vasselis summarised his conversations with both the Advocate and Paul Jhered, concluding with his summoning to the palace to hear their conclusions.

‘I went there not knowing whether I would be taking ship that evening or facing the last days of my life in a cell beneath my own offices in the basilica,' he said, remembering vividly the nerves he had experienced and the dark expressions of his friends as they faced him across a formal meeting table. Only time would tell whether he had lost them as friends even as he gained them as temporary allies.

'Why did you speak to Jhered?' Kessian interrupted for the first time.

'He represents the highest order of security in the Conquord,' said Vasselis. 'He is also a very old friend of mine whom I would trust with all of our lives. And that is what we have to do. The time for difficult choices and difficult times is with us now.

'The only reasons I was not denounced by the Advocate and handed over to the Chancellor - the only reasons the Order is not already riding here - are Caraduk's unblemished record of alliance to the Conquord; the history of the Vasselis line in ensuring that record has always been maintained; and the personal regard and trust in which I am held. I am not trying to sound arrogant, just give you the bare facts.'

'Arrogance is not a trait that taints you, Arvan.'

Vasselis nodded his thanks. 'I needed to speak them because all three have now been put at grievous risk. I care little about my personal standing but I care deeply about the reputation of my family and the close relationship between Caraduk and Estorea. I believe in what you do here, but you and your townspeople must play their part.

'Westfallen will soon become a focus of the Conquord as keen as the eastern front of Tsard or the treaty negotiations with Sirrane. We are going to be investigated very thoroughly by the highest echelons of the Conquord. We have to trust that those who come here share the mind of the Advocate and the Exchequer. We have to trust that the Order will be excluded as I have been assured. And the people of Westfallen must be one in their belief.

'The Ascendancy cannot afford to be marginalised. Not now. And I have to say that the reports of my border security are not encourag­ing. Word is being passed though it has not yet escaped. When the Advocate's investigators get here, that must still be the case because only their approval can give us security.'

'When will they get here?' asked Kessian, his hands wringing together.

'That I can't tell you. At least not yet. They will give us as little warning as possible because they want neither us, nor the Order, to have word what they are doing. Tell me I have not just made the biggest mistake of my life.'

Kessian sipped his tea. His hands were quivering and not just as a consequence of his age.

'We are increasingly experiencing trouble with sections of the citizens. Never mind that many of them have fathered or mothered Ascendancy strand children. Never mind that most of them have experienced fleeting or long-lasting passive ability. Our Ascendants are new, powerful and frightening. And at heart, no one really wants change and they are only too aware that we are bringing them change that will affect them all. No one speaks out against us but my welcome in the forum is not as warm as once it was.'

Vasselis nodded. He wasn't surprised. The courage of most normal people was at best transitory. But it was a problem he could do without.

'Then I will speak to them. Tomorrow midday at the oratory.' 'I'll make the arrangements.'

'It's time to let this sleepy town know what is going on beyond its fields and its fishing grounds. Time they know the Advocacy is focusing on their very lives. Now, is there anything else I need to know about?'

With great care, Ardol Kessian told him about Gorian and his heart beat chill in his breast.

'You can keep him under control?'

'For now,' said Kessian. 'He's just a child, after all. But I fear what he will feel, think and do when he is older and stronger and I am gone to God's embrace.'

'Then his behaviour must be altered now,' said Vasselis, letting his face harden and his tone become that of the Marshal issuing edicts. 'You must not let him become a maverick. It is too dangerous to us, our families and to the citizens of Caraduk. There are four Ascend­ants. Gorian is but one and for all the power he almost certainly will have, he is just a boy and will be just a man. Four, Ardol, can very easily become three.'

 

Chapter 17

847th cycle of God, 36th day of Dusasfall 14th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

They saw Gorian in the winter garden shortly before they were all to go to the oratory to sit while Marshal Vasselis spoke. Kovan Vasselis had wanted to stay to protect Mirron but she had assured him of her safety and he had, with some reluctance, left to be with his father.

'Will he never leave you alone?' asked Arducius, flexing his elbow which was still stiff despite the efforts of Genna Kessian and West-fallen's doctors. Ossacer had not been able to do his work upon it. He only just had the strength to get out of bed after his exertions on Arducius's wrists.

'Leave him alone, Ardu,' said Mirron. 'He only wants to help.'

'I think it's a little more than that,' said Ossacer.

All three of them were sitting on the same bench, in front of a fountain turned off until genastro warmed its pipes. Mercifully not too far away now. A brazier of coals sat on a stand in front of them, its heat welcome on their outstretched hands. All had cloaks pulled tightly around them and leggings bound them from ankle to hip. Still, it was freezing though Mirron enjoyed the clouding of the breath in front of her face and the sheer vitality of the cold. If she concentrated, she could trace its signature, deep and dark.

'Oh, and how would you know?' she asked him, already knowing the answer but desiring his confirmation.

'There are few good things about being blind but one thing I do is hear better than you. And Kovan always speaks more softly and earnestly to you than he does to the rest of us, particularly you-know-who. I think you have rivals for your affections, dear Mirron.'

Mirron looked at Ossacer who was staring in her direction, no doubt seeing her through her lifelines. She smiled.

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Then you are the only one who doesn't,' said Arducius, siding with Ossacer as so often. 'They both fancy you in their own way. Who will you choose, I wonder?'

Mirron felt herself blush and the thrill of excitement rush through her. 'Neither,' she said, images of Gorian's face crowding her mind. 'I have better things to think of than boys.' Her smile widened. 'Any­way, Ardu, haven't you been bumping into Livvy by accident rather a lot recently?'

Arducius blushed as deeply as she did and rubbed a chin that was beginning to sprout traces of soft hair.

'It would be more but her parents aren't exactly encouraging our friendship.'

'She cannot be a mother of the Ascendancy,' said Ossacer. 'You are wasting your time.'

His words died harsh in the garden. Arducius turned sharply to him.

'What do you mean?'

Ossacer tapped his ear. 'You should listen harder. You know we're not here by chance. Every child born to the Ascendancy now is by design, to be like us. Livvy's parents have no abilities. Neither does she. You will not be allowed to fall in love with her.'

'I don't . . . What are you talking about? I just like her that's all.'

'And that is all it will ever be. List the parents of the tenth strand and tell me I am wrong. Gorian or Kovan on the other hand . . .' He folded his arms under his cloak and leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face. 'Both have strengths the Ascendancy needs.'

'Stop it, Ossacer,' said Mirron suddenly uncomfortable. The whole idea was ridiculous to her. They were only thirteen, all of them. Yet she yearned for the closeness of Gorian's skin. The smell of his hair and the sheer strength of his gaze.

The door to their right beneath the colonnaded passageway opened then and out he came. He was wearing a plain black cloak. The hood was thrown back and his glorious shoulder-length blond hair lit up his face. But it was a face broken and sad. Mirron wanted to run to him. To embrace him and tell him it was all right, that they had all forgiven him. But she could not. The damage he had inflicted on her brothers was still too fresh.

She felt the tension in the air like a sharp frost on a mid-dusas morning. Arducius had drawn himself up to stare at Gorian from as high as he could and Ossacer's face was blank with contempt. She didn't want it to be this way. She so loved them all. She wished none of it had ever happened but it had.

Gorian's eyes flickered from one to another as he approached. He stopped by the brazier, making no attempt to sit with them. Behind him, in the doorway, Hesther and Meera stood with Father Kessian, watching. There was a hush on the garden. No one knew what to say. No one knew if they were supposed to say anything. She focused on Gorian who now stared at the ground. It was down to him.

'Th-thank you all for agreeing to see me,' he said, the words struggling to get past his lips. He glanced back towards the door. 'I know nothing can change what I did but I am truly sorry for what happened and I promise it will never happen again.'

'Until when?' snapped Ossacer, hand stroking the bandages covering his burns. 'You never mean it but you always do it.'

Mirron saw Gorian's eyes flash but he nodded his understanding anyway. 'I can change,' he said. 'I will change.'

All their words hung in clouds of breath on the still air. Mirron couldn't find anything to say. Nor, it seemed, could Arducius though she could feel his mind working, seeking a solution.

'I am so sorry for the hurt I caused you, Ossacer,' said Gorian. 'And I never meant for you to have to break yourself protecting him, Arducius.'

'I would have done the same to protect you, Gorian,' said Arducius quietly; and Mirron felt tears pricking at her eyes.

'And I would have told you what you wanted to know,' said Ossacer. 'All you had to do was wait until I was ready. But you couldn't.'

'I understand that now,' said Gorian. 'I need you to forgive me.'

Another silence with no one prepared to say the words. Gorian looked at Mirron and she averted her gaze, staring instead at Ossacer who's anger burned bright.

'We have no reason to trust you,' said Ossacer.

Gorian breathed hard like he was about to cry. 'I know, I know. But you have to give me another chance. We have to stand together.'

'You didn't think that when you burned me,' said Ossacer.

Gorian said nothing for a while. His eyes shone wet and he shivered with more than the cold of the morning. 'Thank you for being able to fix Arducius,' he said.

'I had little choice,' said Ossacer. 'He broke his wrists so badly he would have lost his hands.'

Mirron saw Gorian react as if slapped. The shock on his face paled it more than the cold ever could. Again, she held herself in check. She could comfort him later.

'I had ... I wouldn't have—'

'But you did,' said Ossacer. 'And look what might have happened. Then where would we be? The Ascendancy quartet. One blind, one with no hands, one with no control over his temper and one who isn't sure what she is. Pretty poor for all the love Father Kessian has shown us.'

'Enough,' said Arducius and he stood up, looking powerful and so determined. 'We cannot live if we snipe at each other forever. We were born to be together and so we must be.' He stepped forward and grabbed Gorian's collars. 'I know you are sorry for what you did and I know you would change it if you could. And we will forgive you now even if we don't trust you just yet. But we have to believe in each other like we always have or we're lost. I can't do any of this without all of you.' He beckoned Mirron and Ossacer to stand up. The gesture was too quick for Ossacer to follow in the trails and Mirron whispered in his ear and helped him.

'From now on what we do, we do together. Always. And we will never hide anything from each other however small. Swear it and join with me.'

They did and joined in the embrace. Mirron gripped Gorian hard and he responded. To her left, Arducius clung on to her, his fingers biting her flesh, demanding she agree. But across the circle, Ossacer's hand on Gorian was tentative and his face clouded. For him, forgiveness would take its long, slow time.

 

Though it was barely past midday, the lanterns that bordered the forum shone under the cold grey sky. From his position on the oratory, Marshal Arvan Vasselis looked out over the gathering of the citizens of his most beloved town. The Ascendants sat looking small and fearful to his right. The Echelon, with Reader Elsa Gueran, stood proudly to his left. The borders had been closed for the duration of the meeting though there was no traffic expected; the cold discouraging all but the very hardiest of traders.

There were a couple of visitors in Westfallen and they were being kept away with the reason simply that the Marshal Defender was addressing the citizens of Westfallen on a private and personal matter. True enough.

Most of those citizens knew the subject of the address. None of them knew the detail and Vasselis was going to have to be at his best to bring them to stand behind him and the Ascendancy for what was to come. He glanced up at the heavy clouds and hoped the snow would hold off long enough. Kessian said it would not snow until evening. Arducius reckoned it would be a little earlier than that. Above his head, the feeble glow of the sun was just visible as a lightening of the grey. It was time.

Vasselis stood up, took off his fur-lined gauntlets, swept back the hood of his cloak and walked to the dais. The cold bit deep into his face and hands but he could hide neither and remain honest. The murmur of the crowd, bunched tight together for warmth, died to a whisper and then away altogether. The wind whistled around the columns bordering the forum, bringing in the sound of waves grabbing at the fleet hauled high and safe on the beach.

The oratory was well-lit and coal braziers stood in eight places on the stage. They offered Vasselis precious little in the way of warmth where he stood underneath the vaulted open-fronted oratory, be­tween the two intricately carved columns supporting the cross-beam.

'My friends, thank you for coming to listen to me at what is a critical time for Westfallen, Caraduk and indeed the whole of the Estorean Conquord. I could have wished you'd brought me warmer weather. I don't know about you down there but it is perishing cold up here.'

He waited for the ripple of laughter to subside. The faces turned to him were expectant and welcoming. He knew how much they loved him. Guilt gripped him over what he was going to have to say. It would be like the end of innocence; a rude welcome to the rest of the world.

'You know, every time I come here, I fall in love with this beautiful town a little more. My family wish we could live here and I enjoy nothing more than to walk among you, drinking in your health, strength and kindness. There really is nowhere else like this in the Conquord and I salute you for what you have built here.'

The cheers were louder this time and the applause took some time to die down.

'But it's not just what you have built that sets you apart, it is what you have nurtured here over the decades and the centuries. The great work to which so many of you have been a crucial support. A great work that is blessed by God. A work that has seen most of you enjoy abilities that will one day be enjoyed by the many, not the few. How wonderful that you have been part of it. And in a thousand years, your names and name of the Westfallen will be written large in history and legend. You will never be forgotten.'

They were with him now. Silent.

'And why is this? It is because right now, the potential Gorian wrote so much about has finally been realised. And these four young citizens to my right represent everything that all of us and our fathers before us have worked for so long to achieve. You will all have read about the trials that our ancestors faced. Keeping the Ascendancy secret from the Order; constant disappointment; deformation of mind and body in those born into high expectation. Maintaining the Ascendancy strands through illness, through war and through suspi­cion. Such enormous problems that it would so often have been easier to give up and consign it all to myth.

'But the belief shown then was too strong and with the support of this fine town, the Echelon have continued to the success we now enjoy. And now is the time when we must be stronger and more as one than ever before.'

His tone had hardened and as he paused for breath, he scanned the citizens. His reminder of history had worked and the pride of achievement was shining from hundreds of faces. But it was mixed with anxiety. There were too many out there who knew very well that following the building of ego and pride, came the need for belief in the face of adversity.

'Because with our success comes change. And with change comes fear of the unknown and fear of the reality with which we are faced. I have heard of your reactions to our young Ascendants and I under­stand them, I do. Of course you must do what you believe is right for yourselves and your children. But you must not overreact and you must always remember that you are deeply imbued with what is happening here. You cannot ignore it.

'So I am disappointed that many of you are so anxious that it has led you to remove yourselves from the Ascendants and so isolate them, shun them even. They may have extraordinary abilities but they are still just ordinary children in their hearts. And they need your help to remain ordinary. They are your friends, as are the Echelon. Do not turn away at the moment they need you most. You all know that my son is a great friend of theirs. He doesn't fear them, he loves them.'

He held up his hands, noting the guilty shifting of feet.

'But enough. I am not here to lecture you on how to bring up your children, though I would like you to examine how you think today. What I am here to tell you has far-reaching ramifications for us all.

'We have reached a crossroads. The young Ascendants have emerged and they are learning their talents very quickly. And many of you are surprised, I am sure, how fearful you have sometimes been about what that means. We have all had our moments of anxiety. But what you have to understand now is that change is upon you and your lives will never be quite the same again.

'The nature of the Ascendancy is that one day it will be announced to the outside world. That time is now.'

Consternation swept the gathering like wind across fields of corn. Vasselis held up his hands for quiet.

'Citizens of Westfallen. My friends. We none of us knew if this would happen in our lifetimes and we should celebrate our triumph though danger comes as its bedfellow. I have recently returned from Estorr where I met with the Advocate herself. I have told her what we achieved here and have begged for her acceptance.'

Shock stilled every body and every voice. Vasselis smiled as best he could though his heart was pounding in his throat. Only now did the risk he had taken with the lives of all those before him register. He fought a quaver from his voice.

'The fact that I stand here today demonstrates that she has given that acceptance. But it is conditional. To calm your fears, I can also confirm that the Order knows nothing, and for now at least, I can keep them from here as I have done for twenty years. But the Advocacy will come here to investigate and we can do nothing but answer all their questions with complete honesty. The eyes of the Advocate are on Westfallen and we must not fail now. Nothing must be hidden and none of us must speak ill of the Ascendancy in which we are all so steeped.'

Vasselis waited while the citizens digested what was going to descend on them.

'This town and all its people have been a haven of peace and tranquillity for those lucky enough to live and visit, for hundreds of years. But for now at least, that peace will be shattered. I know many of you will go back to your homes and be saddened, thinking the life you love is gone. And perhaps it has. But the measure of the truly great, the truly courageous, is the ability to grow in the face of adversity and change. To make a life better than the one left behind.

'And as I look about me today, I see greatness and courage in every single one of you. I am proud to count you among my people. I am proud to call you my friends.' The cheers began. 'Stand with me. Stand with the Ascendancy. Together we will become legend!'

Chapter 18

848th cycle of God, 30th day of Genasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

Genastro had been late on the ground in Tsard. And, following a deep, harsh dusas, where hypothermia had been the biggest killer in the legions camping in the occupied territories, the fresh season of growth was most welcome when it eventually arrived.

Roberto Del Aglios and the two legions and two alae under his command had been more fortunate than most. Making up half of the north-eastern front, they had been given leave to camp in the outer reaches of Sirrane, the great kingdom of wood and mountains that swept along the north of Tsard.

For Roberto, it had been a double benefit over the hundred and fifty days since the conditions dictated an end to hostilities. His mother was desperate to secure a formal alliance with Sirrane. Even now, Conquord diplomats ventured deep into the closed forest lands. Roberto played his part, maintaining a disciplined camp, foraging only in the area of forest granted to him and burning the minimum of timber.

As a result, food was sufficient and his armies were content enough. Desertion rates were low and morale reasonable. No one was happy to be marooned for dusas on campaign and there was no doubt that in Roberto's experience, Tsard was the bleakest terrain he had ever seen once the snow and ice came.

He had his discipline problems through the quiet days. Boredom was a dangerous demon and in an army of over sixteen thousand men and women, spread like disease. Drills and organised inter-manipular and inter-legion games were his most successful weapons, in addition to ensuring he rotated the foraging teams to give everyone a taste of the hunt. But arguments between lovers, over the Sirranean

whores that walked the camp, shares of food and drink, card games . . . anything on a cold night sparked fights and insubordination.

And while Roberto had the reputation of an understanding gen­eral, he would not tolerate indiscipline. He had executed three men and two women for serious breaches and those deaths weighed heavily on him. But in a campaigning army of this size, he had to make an example or face mutiny. In years gone by, loyalty to a general was enough. But the Tsardon campaigns had been going on for five years and patience among those who had left their families to farm in their stead was growing thin.

This last dusas had been a busy one for the administrators. Roberto had been visited by a senior delegation of the Gatherers to assess manpower, morale and discuss planning for the genastro campaign. Paul Jhered himself had visited the huge legion encampments some two hundred miles inside Tsard from the eastern border of Atreska. It was where the Tsardon armies had been particularly aggressive during the last campaigning season and where progress remained tortuously slow. The southern front legions camped by the borders of Kark had also suffered, but more at the hands of raiders from the steppes who targeted supply lines and ambushed marching columns.

Roberto was of the opinion that he and his fellow generals needed no reinforcement. Rather, they needed to be utterly certain the eastern front would remain firm so that the northern and southern armies could advance far enough into Tsard to close the pincers.

His aim was to secure the southern border of Sirrane far enough east to stand directly above the Bay of Harryn, which lay the best part of a thousand miles south. Ambitious but achievable and one brick in a year's campaign that ought to see the Tsardon broken and pushed back into their heartlands, fastnesses and strongholds. Sur­render would then be a realistic outcome and they could all go home.

It was the message he had been giving his soldiers and cavalry ever since the Gatherers had left him. They took back his thoughts about doubling the guard on all supply lines and manning every one of the nearly two hundred border forts that were the defence against Tsardon incursion into Atreska and Gosland. He had been disturbed to hear that one in three were no more than empty shells. And one thing guaranteed to sap morale, particularly among the Atreskan alae under his command, was word from their countrymen that the raids were unabated and the civil war still simmering.

Communication between the fronts had gathered pace the moment the snows began to melt. The massive campaigning force, twenty Conquord legions and sixteen alae numbering in total close on one hundred and twenty thousand citizens, had begun drilling into fight­ing order and fitness at the same time. Roberto loved this time of the year. Energy and belief surged through his soldiers and cavalry. Each man and woman believed that this year would see their last on campaign. Each dreamt of a return to the lives the Conquord offered them in return for their service in the legions.

For Roberto, he would swap his armour and gladius for the toga and rod of high political office. He wasn't sure how much he was looking forward to it but such was the destiny of the Advocate's eldest son. She wanted him home. Perhaps that was why he was reluctant to give up the soldier's life. Thirty-eight he might be but she would mother him like he was ten, schooling him in the vagaries of political life. She meant well but it could be so patronising.

Roberto shook his head and blew out his cheeks. He ran a hand through his close-cropped black hair and pushed himself up from his desk, taking the paper the Conquord messenger had delivered to him. He turned to look into the mirror set up in the right-hand corner of his command tent, which sat in the middle of the camp. One valuable piece of advice his mother had given him was to be aware of his appearance at all times. Five years on campaign in Tsard made no difference to that advice. Legion commanders had to be in control, had to set the standard for discipline and that began with his personal bearing.

The man who stared back at him was clean-shaven and heavy-framed. Deep blue eyes shone out of a face red from the battering of wind, snow and ice. He wore a white knee-length tunic slashed Advocacy green and cinched at the waist with a leather belt buckled with the Del Aglios crest - a rearing white horse with crossed spears beneath its front legs. His dark green leggings ended in hobnail boots, capped in shining steel.

He nodded, satisfied. Undress uniform was acceptable enough for the orders of the day. He unhooked his fur-lined and hooded black cloak from the stand on which his beautifully polished and pressed dress uniform hung, and slung it around his neck, fastening it with a Del Aglios brooch.

Roberto smoothed his hair, spun on his heel and strode out of his tent, pausing to take in the fresh, cool air of an early genastro morning in Tsard. Before him was a sight he would never have tired of seeing.

To his left, the staggering forest of Sirrane. With evergreen and new growth thrusting through the canopy, it rolled away higher and higher, up slopes still hung heavy with snow. No one really knew the full scale of the forests or mountains. Conquord agents had been two thousand miles along its southern edge and had not reached its end. Could it really be as deep north to south. Its heart was the dominating peak of Gor Nassos, at best estimate in excess of thirty thousand feet high. On a clear day the snow-capped and awesome peak could be seen from hundreds of miles distant, thrusting above the tree line.

The rumour was that the Sirranean capital city was at its feet, on the banks of a crystal blue lake but no one still alive had travelled that far. Sirrane was a nation of secrets that would be kept so long as the forest stood. No thought had ever been given by the Conquord to wage conquest war against it. Legions would be swallowed up in the dense depths of the forest, never to be seen again.

And for their part, the Sirraneans had never shown any desire to expand beyond the outer boughs. They were born, lived and died in the forest, and were rarely seen more than a few miles from their homes. None had ever visited the Conquord. Roberto found them fascinating. Accepting of other countries, trading with them, but diplomacy was as far as it went. As to their culture, it remained like their political and economic systems, an enigma. If he had his way, his first job as a Conquord politician would be as emissary to Sirrane.

Roberto let his gaze travel left to right over their intended destin­ation for this campaigning season. It was a beautiful but worrying landscape for a general. Beyond the plateau on which they had camped, the land fell away quickly before racing away across an undulating plain that had been the scene of their last battle the previous season. A victory that had gladdened their hearts for dusas.

Beyond the plain, the Tsardon hinterland reverted to its character­istic features. Sharp inclines, steep-sided valleys and river courses winding through treacherous rock-faced gorges, all carved out by the hand of God. Crags and rock towers studded the landscape like sentinels, daring invaders to continue.

Hard terrain for marching, let alone fighting. Roberto knew he would have to work hard to gain the ground advantage when they made fresh contact with the ferocious and worthy Tsardon armies.

Looking out over Tsard, its predominant green washed with the purple and blue of early heather flowers, he felt a pang of regret that this stunning landscape would soon be stained red with the blood of thousands of men and women. It would be littered with bodies too numerous to bury and scattered with broken leather and steel for local scavengers to dart out and take once the armies had moved on. All because the King of Tsard would not hear the wisdom of Con­quord unity under the Advocate. How many more lives were still to be lost before they surrendered?

Roberto acknowledged the salutes of his tent guards and strode out into the camp. It was a larger, more permanent version of a marching camp. Inside the tall, quadruple-gated wooden stockades, paved roads divided the camp into its constituent parts.

His engineers had done a sound job. Guttering and drainage had been a primary concern, with raised wooden platforms a few inches above ground on which all the tents were pitched. Only the paddocks stood on the thawing earth and the churned mud beneath the horses' hoofs testified to the master engineer's wisdom.

His cavalry, elite of the legions, were billeted close to him, along with his command staff. Legionaries and engineers circled him in order of age and experience; the triarii nearest to him, the hastati on the outer edge by the fortifications and in between them, the principes. Textbook. But then with the Conquord legions, it always was. There was no other way. Discipline, order, victory.

He walked past the legion and alae standards planted outside the command quarters, snapping in the fresh breeze. Emotive banners of veteran fighting forces. The 8th and 10th Estorean regulars, known by their legionaries as the Screaming Hawks and the Hammer Fists respectively. And the 21st and 25th Atreskan alae, cavalry-dominated and going by the names of God's Arrows and Haroq's Blades.

Ducking under the loose tent flap, he was greeted with the multiple scrape of chairs, shouts for attention and the thumps of left fist striking right shoulder.

'At ease,' he acknowledged. 'Sit, sit.' Roberto made for the angled table on which were pinned the quartermaster's numbers, the best maps they had of the surrounding area and details of the path already travelled. He brandished his messenger papers.

'Dusas is officially over.' There was a short cheer, though the twenty assembled in front of him already knew it. 'We strike camp at the earliest opportunity, which I have deemed will be in seven days. You all know what you and your centurions must do to get your citizens into battle trim. Here are your additional orders.

'The Arrows and Blades, I want your mounted scouts in the field from today onwards. I want settlements visited, provisions secured and best routes plotted. We are all aware of the potential for ambush. Get as much information from the locals as you can. Pay them well; my mother's war chest is deep indeed.' A chuckle. 'I want scouts four days ahead of us at all times on the march and I want messages daily. I will not be surprised by encounter with the enemy. I trust that is clear.' He waited for the relevant masters of horse to confirm.

'Good. Hawks, your scouts will travel the eaves of Sirrane. I will not be flanked. Distance and messaging as with my alae. Fists, your scouts will mark our rear and maintain communications with the eastern front. Supply will be difficult and I will not tolerate inter­ruptions due to information negligence on your part. Agreed? Excellent.

'Master of Engineers, Rovan Neristus. We're rolling. We have just spent dusas next to the best source of timber in the world. I trust our supply contracts are in place. If not, you have seven days. Don't come to me on the march telling me a scorpion or wagon must be abandoned due to lack of raw materials or you will find yourself fighting with the hastati.'

The pigeon-framed engineer scowled at him. 'I am sure the hastati would be proud to have me with them, Roberto.'

'Let's pray we don't have to find out. Again, you have leave to pay. Quartermasters have my accounts. Remember, all of you, that we are not at war with Sirrane and our aim is never to be so. You will not take liberties. Except perhaps with their whores.'

Another chuckle. He held up his hands.

'Two pieces of news for you. One good, one not so. While we are not receiving reinforcements, the eastern front will benefit from four new legions. They are going to be raised from Avarn, Neratharn, Morasia and Bahkir who are all underrepresented on this campaign.

Conscription is already underway but we cannot expect them into the fight until solasfall at best. That, my Atreskan friends, means that your country is not suffering any more drain from its fields and businesses.

'But before you get too happy, I have to tell you that while the messenger service and the supply lines from Gosland and Atreska are being strengthened, both by late genasfall, the border forts will not be. I have been given no reason but I suspect it is money and available bodies.'

There was a single voice of dissent and Roberto nodded.

'I know, Goran, I know. But this is the reality. We must use it as a spur to win decisive victories early in the campaign to force raiders at our backs to join the armies in front of us.

'Make no mistake, we will win this campaign this year. We all want to see our homes again. Mind your discipline, mind your troop morale. I will not hesitate to remove command from those who demonstrate their inability to perform in the field. In the last five years, none of you have failed me. See that it remains that way. Dismissed.'

Thomal Yuran, Marshal Defender of Atreska, sat in the throne room of the principal castle in Haroq City, now called the basilica since their accession to the Estorean Conquord. The former King of Atreska was long dead, preferring to be executed rather than bend knee to the Advocate. Yuran had thought himself the rightful if fortunate successor and he had been honoured to be the first unfet­tered Marshal Defender of the province. Now he was not so sure.

Genastro had brought precious little in the way of warmth to his heart and bones and a brooding anger had settled on him since his frustrating visit to the Advocate the previous dusas. The freezing temperatures that had swept across the Conquord and into Tsard had matched his mood and the wait for a reaction to his demands and the investigation into his province's finances had been interminable.

But it was done now and the papers awaited him once his audience with Praetor Gorsal from Gull's Ford was at an end. She waited for him to respond to her latest plea even now. He took a moment. The throne room bore Estorean marks. White columns had been raised on which to mount busts of great Atreskan rulers and they managed to look completely out of place in the tapestry-filled room with its vaulted stone roof.

The original throne had been destroyed, a symbol of a government dismantled, to be replaced by a wide, low uncomfortable seat of office. And the uniforms of his guards all bore deep green trim, as did the Atreskan crest of a crenellated tower crossed by swords. Right now it all stood for very little. Genastro had come and the raids would begin again in earnest.

He looked across at Gorsal whom he had bade sit though it was against protocol. She was shivering from her journey, sick with fever and fear for her people whom he had been so unable to protect from the Tsardon.

'I wish I could promise more than I already have. Already, I am dragging too many away from their lives and damaging our economy to fight a war we do not want and to protect borders we should not have to protect. Unless the Gatherers outside my door now have news which surprises me, I can offer you no security barring that within the walls of this city.'

'We will not leave Gull's Ford,' rasped Gorsal, coughing violently enough to double over with the effort. 'So we will burn when they return and the deaths will be on your head. The end of the cycles of so many under God. Can you live with that?'

Yuran bit back his retort. He thought nothing of the Conquord religion, only agreeing to his Marshal Defendership when it was clear Atreskan religions, which had more in common with the Tsardon than Estorean, would be allowed to continue. The civil strife over which he presided made him wonder if that too had been a mistake. No wonder he returned to his shrine every night to beg for direction from the lords of sky and stars.

'What would you have me do? There are fifty villages in your position. I cannot defend them all, or one above another. We must hope for an end to the Tsardon campaign. Pray for that at your House of Masks.'

Yuran cursed himself for the look of contempt that crossed Gorsal's sick, pale face.

'I have hope,' he said. 'Really I do. Though I can give no more, I feel the Advocate will agree to staff the border forts with Conquord legions.'

'Another empty promise from the luxury and decadence of Estorr,' sniffed Gorsal. 'As empty as Jhered's.'

'Then come here to Haroq until the trouble is over. Rebuild when our soldiers return to the countryside,' he said.

He felt so torn. Estorea still held his respect though it diminished by the day. Its officers and politicians haunted his corridors. What choice did he have but to remain in step? Yet, at the same time, he tasted the emptiness in the words he spoke. Platitudes, no more.

Gorsal shook her head. 'We are strong in the outlands,' she said. 'We have pride in our way of life. All we ask is that the Conquord returns the loyalty we have shown in it. Defend us. Defend your people. Or one day we too will listen to the rebels and be lost to the Conquord.' She stood up. 'And we will not be alone. Bring us hope, Marshal. It is all we have ever wanted.'

Yuran sighed as he watched her go. He smacked his palm on the arm of the throne and leant forwards, wiping the stinging hand across his brow. Around him, his advisers were silent. He suspected them all of being Estorean spies. He had appointed none of them, after all. At least they could report back on his continued loyalty.

Footsteps echoed through the throne room. Three walked towards him, two men flanking a woman. Gatherers. He waved them forwards, examining their expressions. Unreadable.

'So,' he said. 'What of my books? And what of the decision of the Advocacy to grant my desires.'

The woman, a Gatherer Appros, a senior accountant and soldier, handed him a single sheet of parchment sealed with the Del Aglios crest.

'This is word from the Advocate,' she said. 'Meanwhile, our report on your books is being studied by your own accountants. It reveals little that can be construed as negligence.'

He spread his palms before accepting the parchment. 'I told you that you wasted your time, Appros Menas. I give all I can. Pre­sumably, therefore, I will not be asked to raise more soldiers or pay more taxes.'

'Indeed not,' said Menas, her tone neutral, her face severe, scarred from an attack years before. 'Though you will also not be surprised to learn that a country that cannot give in taxes, cannot expect defence raised by the taxes of others, particularly when the Tsardon campaign is such a drain on the exchequer.'

Yuran sagged. 'What? Surely that is precisely the reason for the Conquord. Central taxation for the good of all. Neratharn is not under attack. Its people can defend mine while we need it. Are we not a family?'

'Yes, Marshal Yuran, we are. But it is the decision of the Advocacy that the remaining military budget to be spent on raising further legions to assure us of victory in Tsard. That is where the Neratharnese will go, among others.'

'Then I am back exactly where I started,' he said. 'My people will die at the whim of the Tsardon raiders.'

'Your country's defence is not my concern,' said Menas.

Yuran didn't respond. He feared arrest for what he was liable to say when his temper broke. He cleared his throat and dragged open the parchment. It was a short message. Actually it was an invitation, one of those where there was no option to decline. He read it as if from over his own shoulder, such was the disbelief and the thunder­ing in his head. He let it drop from his hands and fixed his eyes on Menas, who flinched visibly.

'Is this some kind of a joke?'

Chapter 19

848th cycle of God, 1st day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

The palace was busy, far busier than the Advocate would normally allow. The halls bustled with civil servants and local specialist businesspeople going about tasks handed down to them by the organisers. The hum of activity in the wide corridors and public audience rooms only served to deepen Jhered's anger.

He had meant to bathe, having just stepped off ship from Gosland, but the banners on the streets, the air of fervour in the city and the industry on the Hill had given him a sick feeling. Instead, having discovered the reason for it all he slapped his gladius on to his desk, threw his filthy cloak across the office and strode into the palace, looking for the Advocate.

Decorations adorned every column and insulted the statue of every general who had ever brought victory to the Conquord. Worse, they insulted every legionary and cavalryman out in the hinterland of Tsard facing the enemy. His boots echoed darkly off the marble floors of the great entrance hall, which had been converted into a makeshift project office. Heads turned towards him, people so drunk with their own importance they looked on him with something bordering on condescension.

Nodding curtly at palace guards, he swept along the central gardens, down the colonnaded passage to its left and up the stairs leading to the private levels, where the Advocate and her inner sanctum lived their lives away from public gaze.

His expression as much as his rank granted him access up the huge sweeping white marble staircase with its balustrades carrying busts of former Advocates and its walls a mosaic of the defining battle of Karthack Gorge. A stunning victory where the Avarnese were finally

defeated, to give the Conquord total dominion over the south of the continent and opening up the northwest to the legions. Jhered had had ancestors in that battle. One was a decorated general who had died for the Conquord in the gorge.

It was a magnificent sight but Jhered had no time for it now. He took the stairs three at a time, all but flattening two people on their way down. All fine weave togas, bright colours and garish headwear. He pulled up just in time, recognising them. Rich landowners, grown fat off the efforts of others and with no sense of the world beyond their luxurious, cosseted existence. Poison in the Advocate's ear.

'You'd better not have any part in this stupidity,' spat Jhered.

They smiled at him indulgently as one might a miscreant child. 'Ah, the magnificent Exchequer Jhered,' said one, voice affected by wine. 'Box up your temper. We are saving the Conquord from implosion, reminding ourselves of our glories.'

'You and your kind will bring us to our knees, turning a blind eye even while you burn.'

He stalked past them, shoulder connecting heavily with the speaker who stumbled against his friend.

'Beware, Jhered, lest your star should wane. Your friends may be powerful but they are few.'

Jhered stopped and turned. He was a step above them and used his height to glower down at them, pleased by the paling of their stuffed cheeks.

'Go ahead and threaten,' he said, voice cool and soft. 'It is a long while since I exercised my right to examine the finances of named individuals. Perhaps I should take time to enjoy that pleasure once more.' He leaned over them. 'Go.'

He shook his head as they hurried down the stairs, no doubt to scribe letters to the Advocate about his brutish ways. At the top of the stairway, a galleried landing made up three sides of a square. Passages and rooms led off each. Guards stood at every corner, armour bright in the multiple lanternlights, spears held at ease, eyes front.

'At least some here are still capable,' he muttered to himself. 'Where is the Advocate?' he asked of the nearest guard. He hardly need have bothered. From an open door halfway up the first mosaic-laid corridor, laughter spilled through an open door on a gentle tide of stringed music. He recognised Herine's voice.

The guard nodded in that direction. 'She is entertaining the sponsors, Lord Jhered,' he said.

'Then my face will bring welcome relief,' he said.

'I have no orders to keep people away, sir,' agreed the guard.

'Lucky for you.'

Jhered smoothed his hair and rubbed at his face while he walked the short distance to the reception room. Guards moved to attention, spears snapping in front of their faces. He stood in the doorway for a moment. Herine was lounging on a banked pile of cushions in the centre of the room. Men and women, eight at a quick count, were spread around her. Some were standing and others were too close to her feet for his liking. Sycophants.

One, a young man barely out of his teens, was draped in front of her. Her fingers traced a course over his finely muscled torso while in her other hand, a goblet of wine hovered near her mouth. Servants stood around the walls, stepping in to offer fruit and more wine. Musicians were seated to the right of him playing delicate melodies on kitharas and lutes.

Jhered shook his head, something he seemed to do a lot in the palace these days. He felt like spitting on the stone between his feet. Instead, he walked in slowly, letting his presence fill the room and silence the twittering conversation as gradually as it might. He came to rest a few paces from the scatter of stools and cushions. Those standing moved reflexively away. He didn't fit. His trail clothes clashed with their finery, the dirt and dust of the real world an affront to their fantasy.

The Advocate swivelled her head to him and smiled. She raised her goblet, spilling a little wine down the chest of her consort. Her fingers trailed in it and she sucked the end of each one in turn.

'My Lord Jhered, arrived from the wilds. What news of our far flung territories?'

She was drunk, her words a better fit for the heroic stage than to address her most senior soldier. He ignored the question.

'Games?' he said, the word like a mouthful of rotten meat. 'Which of these cretins persuaded you of that? Or was it one of those bloated mannikins I met on the stairs?'

Herine's face fell in mock distress. 'You mean you don't like the idea?'

'Don't like it? My Advocate, this is a folly more grand in the making and damaging in the execution than the building of the new arena during the rule of your grandfather. And we have all read of the lingering effects of that decision.'

A ripple of dissention ran around the sponsors. He spared them a contemptuous glance. All middle-aged, all sodden in the mind and puffed up by their closeness to the Advocate. Herine caught their mood and her expression sobered. She made to speak but Jhered got there first.

'Party's over,' he said. 'Time to go and lay heavy on someone else's hospitality.'

It upset them, as he knew it would. The self-appointed great and good of Estorr, and thereby the Conquord, spluttered and made protest to the Advocate. The wash of wine through her head had apparently cleared and she was glaring at Jhered, embarrassment mixed with annoyance. He met her gaze squarely.

'Unless you want this conversation to be more public than it should, clear the room, my Advocate,' he said into the mounting furore.

‘I don't remember granting you an audience, Exchequer Jhered.'

'And I don't remember my Advocate being prey to such blind recklessness. Please,' he said. 'Now.'

Herine weighed him up. He saw the most delicate of nods.

‘I will recall you all in the morning,' she said. 'My apologies for the ill-tutored interruption of my Exchequer.'

A relieved titter ran around the sponsors. Jhered bit down hard on his temper, holding Herine's gaze instead. The consort moved reluctantly from the playful embrace of the Advocate and stood up, petulant expression fixed on Jhered as he passed.

'The Advocate makes no decisions but for the benefit of the Conquord. It is right we celebrate our triumphs,' he said, voice wavering and lighter than his frame suggested. 'You should think abou—'

Jhered grabbed him under the lower jaw, pushing his mouth shut. He drove the consort backwards towards the door, speaking as he went.

'There will never come a time when I take advice from a half-man destined only to lose his balls should he surprise us all and prove fertile. I wonder if she has not made a mistake choosing you. It sounds as if yours have already been taken. Out!' He thrust the consort through the door to sprawl against the wall opposite. 'Out!'

He swung away and slammed the door, catching a poorly dis­guised smile on the face of a guard. The look of the consort was murderous. Let him try. He marched back towards the Advocate, expecting vitriol but seeing instead an amused expression. He knew this tactic of old and steeled himself to retain his mood.

'Oh Paul, you really shouldn't treat my new love like that. So delicate of mind.'

'He demonstrates no mind at all,' growled Jhered. 'And I will treat those morons with whom you surround yourself exactly as they deserve.'

'You'll make more enemies,' she said, a smile across her face, the wine glass by her mouth again. Jhered shrugged. ‘I know, I know. Add them to the list, eh? Now, have you calmed down at all, or must I call in the guards?'

‘I am not as much a danger to you as you are to yourself with this ridiculous decision. Celebratory games? What possessed you? Has that coven of empty-headed flab put something in your wine?'

'Paul, I would—'

'And as God-embraces-us-all, celebrating what?' Herine took a deep breath. 'Sit down, Paul.' 'No, I think I'll stand.'

'You will do as ordered by your Advocate, Exchequer Jhered.'

Jhered cleared his throat. 'Aren't we past such displays, you and I?'

'You can seriously pose that question after your grand entrance?'

Jhered paused, taking a deliberate deep breath. This was why he would never settle down with a woman. Something in them burned his fuse painfully short painfully quickly. He held up his hands and sat down.

'Wine?'

'No, thank you,' he said. 'Herine, I have not come here to argue with you or to have you pull rank on me. I just want to know what on God's great earth makes you think that celebratory games will do anything for your position or the position of the Conquord in the wider world.'

'During the deeps of dusas, while you were gone, we—' 'We?'

Herine gestured at the empty cushions. 'We. It was not just the chill of the weather but the chill of the people. Spirits are low. We have been fighting Tsard for five years and have not yet struck the decisive blow. It was decided that ten days of games as solastro dawns would lift sagging hearts and remind our citizens of the glory of the Estorean Conquord.' Jhered frowned. It was clear she believed it, or thought she did.

'Paul, the battle for the Conquord must be fought in our own streets first. What use is there if our own closest citizens do not love and respect us? They need something to cheer and they shall have it. These games will be a triumph.'

Jhered nodded, fighting in vain for the words to describe how he felt. He scratched the bridge of his nose and wiped at the corner of one eye with a dusty finger.

'I disagree. In time of major campaign, austerity must hit everyone to make them feel they are sharing in the effort. And how will the treasury pay for all this? Games are a dreadful expense. Your sponsors cannot hope to raise all the funds for the scale of events I assume you are suggesting.'

Herine laughed, a light sound as if he had asked the simplest of questions.

'Oh, Paul, the treasury is deep. We have the funds.'

'No, dammit, we do not!' he thundered, temper snapping at last. He crashed a fist down on to a salver, catapulting its remnants of fruit into the air, and surged to his feet. 'I and my Gatherers have just spent dusas dragging ourselves from one frozen province to the next to wring any small levy we could to fund the raising of more legions. And small was our return. Nothing could be taken from Atreska or Gosland, nothing from Tundarra, Easthale or Gestern. And you will not ask Vasselis for more though he would probably find it. The money is not there. You and I both know it.'

'Then find it for me, Paul,' Herine shouted back. 'You're my Exchequer. It's your job.'

Jhered paused. 'You don't really expect me to respond to that, do you? You know what I'm getting at.'

'You've become blinkered by the war, Paul. The treasury has budgets for every part of Conquord business. Others can spare funds for this.'

'With respect, my Advocate, you are missing the point.' He saw Herine bristle but ploughed on. 'If you can afford to divert money for the games, you can afford to divert it for the war in Tsard or the security of Atreska. It is that simple in the minds of every general, including your own son, and I am amazed that you cannot see it.

'Admit it. You are pandering to the whims of a dozen bored rich citizens who need something new to play with. And all the while, your legions fight and die in your name. Every coin you waste on these games could have gone to helping them win. This money could secure Atreska's and Gosland's borders.'

'I'm sure Marshal Yuran will see the value of the games once he is here.'

Jhered gaped. 'You are inviting him?' 'Every Marshal Defender is summoned.'

'Dear God, that is like showing the condemned the forging of the sword that beheads them. Are you trying to start a rebellion?' 'He will not rebel.'

'No? You have not seen the look in his eyes recently. The Atreskan civil war haunts him daily. He knows how thinly we are stretched on the Tsardon frontier. One reverse and their armies will march unopposed to Haroq City.'

'Paul I—'

'And when they get there, who will stop them marching all the way to Estorr?'

'Lord Jhered, you will be silent!' roared Herine. 'I do not care who you are, I will not be spoken to like this in the heart of my own palace.'

Jhered made to respond but the look in her eyes stalled him. He settled for folding his arms across his chest and giving a curt nod.

'Oh, thank you so much for your agreement,' said Herine. 'Now you listen to me. I will not have such wild talk in my palace or in my streets. You speak as if the Conquord is under threat. It is not. You speak as if we are on the verge of bankruptcy. We are not. I have sixteen legions and fourteen alae in Tsard and I am reinforcing them with more, as you well know. This is an army larger than any the Conquord has sent on campaign and one that every right-minded citizen knows will be victorious.

'And even should the impossible happen, and Tsard threaten our borders, the weight of citizenry and standing legions we have throughout the Conquord are simply overwhelming. The Tsardon know this. They will defend as they must until forced to surrender, but they will never break us.

'You speak of joint austerity. Paul, please. It has always been that the border states face the new enemy while those at the expanding heart of the Conquord enjoy the life for which their mothers and fathers fought through history. It is the way. We are a meritocracy. We earn the right to our luxuries. When Tsard joins the Conquord, Atreska will reap those benefits too. The games we are staging are a celebration of the glory of all we have built and all we have still to build. They will go ahead and you will not undermine them.'

'And neither will I have any part in them. Nor will I or any member of the Gatherers attend. I have listened to you and I hope you are right, I really do. But it is my people who have to travel to provinces under threat and I will not have them accused of being party to wasting revenue that could have been better spent. Their job is dangerous enough as it is.'

They knew each other well, Herine and Jhered. And he knew he had pushed her as far as she would go. They glared at each other for a time. He was aware she needed his support to give the games final credibility. She was aware she had to find a compelling reason for him to be absent. Fortunately, there were plenty.

'Paul, I respect you and everything you say but you still have the capacity to surprise and disappoint me.'

'It's why you keep me around,' he growled.

She nodded. 'Perhaps you're right. But sometimes your particular brand of reality is as tainted as you believe mine to be.' She took a sip of wine and Jhered saw her reach a conclusion. 'I'm busy here as you can see and, frankly, I don't want you around here muddying the fountains and spreading your ill-humour. But neither do I want you too far away.

'We've delayed too long investigating Arvan Vasselis and West-fallen. It's plagued me throughout dusas. Where does it leave the Order? Where does it leave me as Prime Speaker? I need answers, Paul and to be honest there's no one I trust to get them except you, though I'm scared at the prospect of what you'll find down there.' She let her voice drop to a whisper. 'I've had nightmares about signing his execution order.'

'I've suffered similar anxieties,' said Jhered.

'No doubt. So go to Caraduk. Find out what's going on. And see you don't get back until the games are over. And tell Arvan he need not attend. I expect he will have other things on his mind when you arrive.'

Jhered smiled, satisfied. 'And on a more or less linked matter, how has the Chancellor taken the news of the games.'

'She's delighted, as you might expect,' said Herine. 'Games have always been stages for the Order to educate, have they not? And with so many Marshals in attendance from provinces whose native religions still flourish, she is practically drooling at the opportunity.'

'A less than pleasant image,' said Jhered. 'I'd best get moving.'

Jhered saluted, right arm to left shoulder, and turned for the door.

'Paul.' He stopped and swung back. Herine was standing. 'You are my most trusted friend. But even you are not above the law. Go carefully and mind your words. These games have already been approved by the Senate. Defamation of them is an offence.'

He sighed. 'Everything I do, everything I say, I do for my love of you and the Conquord. You should ask yourself what really drives your decisions.' He reached the door. 'Your inner circle is your only flaw. Don't let them blind you. The Conquord needs you too much.'

He left her frowning, not knowing whether she would take his words as insult or compliment.

Chapter 20

848th cycle of God, 8th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

The scouts attached to the Haroq's Blades had sighted Tsardon forces seven days before and immediately, Roberto had upped the marching pace, meaning to close to within a day's march. They had moved easily deep into the Tsardon hinterland, travelling along made paths and roads where they could, and in a straight line where they couldn't. The landscape had become cluttered with valleys and clefts and more scouts had been sent out to guard against ambush. There had been three skirmishes away from the columns, all of which Estorea had won, but the chance of larger encounters was growing.

Local settlements had already been scouted and armoured foraging parties were sent out to secure supplies, under orders not to use force unless they encountered reluctance. Roberto had no doubt that some of his foragers would concoct such problems in order to swing their blades. It was the way of things and perhaps the odd demonstration of Conquord determination was not so bad.

Three day's fast march and the dust cloud that signified the Tsardon army was clearly visible at the top of every rise. Scouts reported the enemy army slowing, apparently seeking advantageous ground on which to take a stand. Meanwhile, messengers from the south and east reported both Estorean armies closing with large Tsardon forces. So soon into the fall of the season.

Roberto had returned messages indicating concern at the apparent high level of organisation and intelligence of the enemy; and more importantly, at the scale of the forces that had been raised against them. He faced numbers estimated at two-thirds his own and that was reflected across the three fronts. He urged care in picking

battlefields, patience in the face of provocation and resistance of the urge to fall into the small divisive skirmishes preferred by the enemy.

Two days later and the army was moving through difficult rocky terrain, seriously impairing the movement of the wagons. Scouts had reported the Tsardon stopped and camped. Roberto decided to take his time, ordering half pace and moving four maniples back to help the wagons across the treacherous ground.

It was a tense time. The Tsardon had been here before them and the way was littered with totems and shrines. Roberto's scholars interpreted most as curses on enemy feet to bring broken bones, blisters and disease down from their Gods. But some were exhort­ations to withdraw, allied with threats of death should the army breast the next rise, ford the next river or traverse the next valley.

The Atreskan alae were superstitious, steeped in religious history linked to Tsard. Their concern fed back through the legions and Roberto did not hesitate to act. Leaving his extraordinarii in pos­ition, he rode through to the head of the column and halfway up a valley with sheer rock faces either side of him and a shallow tributary at his feet. There he turned and addressed the Blade's light-horse archers and any others who could hear him.

'Are we seasoned campaigners or raw recruits frightened at the scattered idols of a people who fall back ahead of us? Are we one under a God who embraces us all under sky and over stone or a fractured mass that follows every sign as if it was gospel? No one will die at the head of this valley. No one will die as a result of any of these trinkets littering our path. I will prove it to you.'

He dismounted and walked to the totem which had brought the cavalry to a temporary halt. It was a low stone tower built around a wooden stake. The stake held the single, twisted horn of a mountain ram in its cleft and the whole was splashed with its blood. It was the second they had passed but was of a larger scale, a greater warning. It read that the beast of the mountains would fall on those who attained their peak, that the rocks would tumble and the blood would run.

Roberto lashed a boot at it, scattering pebble, stone and stake. The horn bounced from the wall behind it and skittered down the slope.

'It is as fragile in construction as it is in invested threat,' he shouted. 'Blades. At my shoulder. March!'

He led them to the head of the valley, spreading his arms at the emptiness he found there and smiling down at the thousands who followed him. He heard cheers way back from those who could see little but his silhouette. He inclined his head and turned back to look out at the vista afforded him.

Conflict was close. To the north, the forest of Sirrane ran up the foothills of a low mountain range. South, the head of the valley on which he stood revealed itself as a long, unbroken ridge towering hundreds, thousand of feet in places above the floor of the narrow, tree-studded and river-run plain laid out below him. Across that plain, perhaps six miles away, the Tsardon camp rested on the lower slopes of a range of snow capped peaks. The range was cracked by passes and eventually fell away south at the farthest reaches of his vision to be replaced by gentler hills and rises. North, the line was unbroken up to and through the border of Sirrane.

Behind him, the army was coming to a halt. He was happy to stand there, alive and unmolested while he made his admittedly simple decisions. The Tsardon camp was well placed. They knew he would not attempt to march through Sirrane, hence the northern route was closed. The camp guarded all three of the easily visible passes and overlooked an army marching for the southern hills.

Up in the sky, clouds obscured the early afternoon sun. There was no sense in marching much further today. He walked back down to the cavalry and took the reins of his horse from an aide. He mounted up and spoke to the Blade's Master of Horse.

'Down slope and hard right. Three miles south and break for camp. Have a colour party and engineers ahead with you for mark­ing the boundaries. Delay only means empty stomachs.'

'Yes sir.'

'Go,' he said and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse, goading it into a trot down the mud and rock slope to where the tributary burst from below ground. 'Blade's Master of Sword!' He roared. 'Where are you, Davarov?'

'Sir,' came back the reply from the mass of men and women crammed into the narrowing valley sides.

'Deploy your light infantry between us and the enemy during camp build. There will be cavalry with you. You won't be troubled but showing intent never hurts.' A smile touched his lips. 'And you could use the practice, eh?'

'Might I remind my General that in the last games, the Blades infantry were the swiftest at the exercise you give us tonight?' Around him, citizens cheered. 'And if we need practice, what does that say about the infantries of the Arrows, Fists and Hawks!'

The cheering got louder, mixed with laughter.

'It means you are all slack after a dusas where you exercised only your hips and wrists,' said Roberto, clapping his hands. 'Now march. The cavalry escapes you.'

He rode back up the path and took his horse to one side to watch his army pass, encouraging every citizen that caught his eye, assuring them that each pace brought them closer to honour.

His head buzzed with excitement. Battle was close.

 

The camp was complete before nightfall and fires scratched at the twilight sky. Smells of cooking came from a dozen directions. The engineers had found a slightly raised plateau almost directly opposite the Tsardon. A stream ran at its base and the ground was firm for pitching tents and hammering in the stockade panels.

While the bulk of legionaries and cavalry saw to equipment and horses, carpenters and smiths worked under the direction of engin­eers to repair the damage to wagons resulting from a tough day's march. The surgeons too were doing brisk business on bites, blisters, sprains, twists and the odd break. The camp felt confident, loud with chatter, song and activity.

Across the plain, the Tsardon had chosen not to attack, exactly as Roberto expected. He'd long ordered the Blades back into camp and now just a few riders prowled the open spaces between the picket lines, ready to give early warning of any raid or full blown attack. Roberto was sure they would suffer neither.

He dined in his tent along with all his senior commanders that evening. Scouts weren't expected through the camp gates until the early hours and he was in the mood for a little relaxation and speculation in advance of any concrete information they brought him.

He raised his silver goblet, embossed with the Del Aglios crest and etched with the family prayer. They were almost the first words he had learned as a boy.

When the world is dark, there is always light for us

When the flood waters rise, there is always ground for us

When the mountain falls, there is always shelter for us

When the enemy strikes, there is always a shield for us

When God's embrace surrounds us, we need never be afraid.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your new home. For the next few days, at least.'

They drank and the army's Order Speaker, Ellas Lennart, led the prayer.

'May the arms of God be forever around this army as it performs His work in His name. May each of us be kept safe in His embrace.' 'So it shall be as dawn lightens the sky,' they responded. 'Thank you, Ellas,' said Roberto. 'Eat, eat.'

The low table around which they lounged was stocked with smoked meats, bread and sweet sauces, hot and cold. Flagons of wine and water stood in three places. Plates were filled in silence, all of them waiting for him to begin the debate. He was happy to oblige.

'We have options,' he said. 'You know them, I know them. So tell me the mind of a Tsardon commander this evening.'

'We are the invading force,' said Elise Kastenas, the 8th legion Master of Horse. She was a Caraducian from the heart of the northern plains, and born to ride. Short and powerful, she was a career soldier and bore the scars of her battles proudly on her long, striking face. 'They should want to keep us at arm's length indefin­itely. But they are a curious enemy in some regards and we have been able to draw them out on a regular basis these past five years. A march towards them will prove too much temptation.'

'I agree,' said Goran Shakarov, Master of Sword for the God's Arrows. He was a great barrel-chested Atreskan with heavy features and black hair that hung almost to his waist. 'They are a proud people and our presence here on their land as invaders is an insult. I've lived next to them all my life. They aren't waiting for us to tire of war and melt away like ice under the solastro sun. They want to drive us out of their country.' He smiled, showing off broken teeth. 'I know how they feel.'

Tomas Engaard was shaking his head. The ioth's Tundarran Master of Horse was tall, blond and imposing. He was a fine archer from the saddle, the best Roberto had ever seen.

'I don't see how you can say that. It might have been the case three years ago but we've seen them cede ground to us on a regular basis over the last four or five seasons. There's two possible reasons for that and both should worry us. First, they are learning from us and we're going to find it increasingly difficult to draw them out on our own terms. Second, they might be deliberately bringing us in. What concerns me is that the eastern front is facing a stone wall again this year if our intelligence is correct. And that means we have significant Tsardon forces behind us. We are more reliant than ever on General Gesteris keeping them busy.'

'I don't think we can afford to worry about being cut off, Tomas,' said Roberto. 'I hear what you say but our enemy is ahead of us. Gesteris is not going to fold, let's be realistic. If we can defeat those before us, we can circle round and deliver the decisive blow.'

'What I'm saying is that if they continue to fall deeper back into the hinterland, chasing will leave us ever more isolated.'

'Which is why I want to know the mind of their commander,' said Roberto. 'They have camped and let us catch them. For what it's worth I don't think they'll be packing up and falling any further back. They want to fight us now. The question is, will they meet us on the plain and if they won't, where will they line up and can we force their hand? Should we, for instance, break camp and false march south?'

'Not as first play,' said Davarov of the Blades. His voice was hoarse from habitual shouting on top of a heavy cold. 'We have a sound position here. Excellent all-round vision and no chance of a surprise at our backs. Let's get across there and see if they'll join us on the flat.'

'Would you?' Ben Rekeros, a native Estorean, was well into his fifties and would retire from his position as the 10th legion's Master of Sword at the end of this campaign. He was a man of few but weighted words and Roberto respected him enormously for his brain as well as his leadership and muscle. 'Think I'd just draw up on the slopes below their camp if I was them and see if we'll break on their phalanxes or wait down range of their archers.'

'But this is where it doesn't work like we expect,' said Elise. 'I don't agree they're drawing us in, and I don't think they have the patience to match march with us to gain best tactical advantage. They've never shown that sort of will before. They need a victory early in the season and they've stopped here because they can deploy against us. It may not happen tomorrow but I bet a day's pay we'll be at them on this field and nowhere else.'

'Mind what I say,' said Tomas. 'Even if they don't move, they can hold us up here for as long as their patience holds out. That's maybe all they want to do.'

'So you're saying you're wrong?' Roberto was smiling.

'No, General, I'm saying that while I concede that they may not want to draw us any deeper into their lands, they may still be planning on isolating us from help. We are already far further advanced than the eastern front. I say again, they are learning from us. They won't just charge down the hill at us.'

Roberto drained his wine and refilled his goblet with water to wash down the rather dry bread and tough meat.

'Do we have a contract to hunt Sirrane for game?' he said.

'Quartermaster says so,' said Shakarov.

'Then I wish he would shoot us something fresh. This animal is way past its best.' A light laugh greeted his words. 'Right, thank you for your thoughts. Unless our scouts bring me very surprising news, I suggest you all assume the camp stays for tomorrow at least. We will march in battle formation all the way and see how close we can get before I order triplex acies deployment. I will not provoke assault at this stage. Tomas, I don't quite agree with you. I don't think delay is in their thoughts. Neither, Elise, do I think they'll rush out at us the moment we get within taunting distance.

'So, a nice easy day.' He chewed on a mouthful of bread, his teeth cracking a seed. 'By the way, now is the time to bring up any problems. I don't want to hear them at dawn.'

None of them had the chance to say anything. The sound of spears being snapped to attention was followed by a soldier ducking inside the tent and sweeping off his helmet.

'Yes, centurion,' said Roberto.

'Conquord rider from General Gesteris and the eastern front, my Lord,' said the centurion, a man of the 10th legion by his insignia. 'He assures me it is important.' He was holding a satchel.

'I have no doubt,' said Roberto. 'Bring it here.'

The centurion hurried across the tent, handed over the satchel and departed with a smart salute.

'One of yours, Ben Rekeros,' said Roberto, nodding at the centur­ion's receding figure even as he broke the Conquord seal on the satchel.

'Yes, General, and a fine one, if a little nervous in the face of his seniors. He'll do well, should he live past the hastati.'

Roberto retrieved a sheaf of papers from the satchel. They were tied with string and on top of them was a content and summary sheet written in Gesteris's flowing hand. He scanned the top sheet and felt a warmth spreading through him.

'This message was sent from the approach to the fords at Scintarit. How far away is that, do you think?'

Davarov scratched his head. 'Messenger service could get here in six days with river passage, riding at night and fresh horses for onward transport the whole way. It's the best part of four hundred miles, I'd say.'

'Then they have been as quick delivering this as they can,' said Roberto, impressed despite himself having checked the date of the message. 'It seems we are behind the game, growing fat where others' sword-arm muscle is toned. General Gesteris engaged the Tsardon seven days ago. Let's hope he is already victorious.'

'Does that change anything?' asked Tomas.

'Only in my heart,' said Roberto, 'I hate not being first into conflict. Makes me want to rip the head off the nearest Tsardon. Lucky there are so many about, isn't it?'

Chapter 21

848th cycle of God, 9th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

The horns sounding at dawn were all but drowned out by the rain drumming on the tents. A weather front had swept over the ridge behind them in the middle of the night and while the winds died quickly, the cloud remained and the camp had taken a soaking for four hours straight.

Shouts rang around the camp, driving citizens from their beds. Rain set discordant music on thousands of helmets, shields and breastplates. Roberto was already up, his aide strapping on his armour. It shone in the lanternlight and he nodded approval. Beneath the polished metal covering head, chest, forearms and shins, his Conquord green clothes had been pressed and stitched with the prayer of victory first uttered at the Battle of Reeth's Pass two hundred years before. A battle that had been decisive in the fall of Tundarra to the Conquord and one in which the Del Aglios family had risen to prominence.

He raised his arms while his gladius, in its scrollwork scabbard, was belted on. His cloak, black and slashed green and carrying the Conquord crest, was fastened at his right shoulder.

'Thank you, Garrelites,' he said.

The young hastati inclined his head and slapped his left fist to his right shoulder.

'Will we fight today, General?' he asked.

Roberto smiled at him. 'How many times have you asked me that? And what do I always reply?' He clapped Garrelites on the shoulder and pointed to his bow, which stood in its protective leather in a stand.

'That if you were a betting man, you'd say that we wouldn't be fighting, just standing and shouting, sir.'

'Well, there you go,' said Roberto. He took the bow and strode out of the tent. 'Get to your maniple, Garrelites and remember not to get yourself killed. I need someone to buckle on my breastplate of a morning.'

'You always say that, too, General.'

Roberto laughed. 'Get going.'

The noise of the army coming to order was deafening close to, a wave breaking around him, harsh under the rain and lowering dark cloud. Roberto added his voice to the tumult.

'15th horse, why are you not mounted!' he bellowed. 'Where is my marching order? Hawks and Fists, you are slack this morning. It is a lovely day for a fight. And why is it that my armour is the only one from which the rain shies? Did we all run out of polish last night? Let's have you. Archers, keep those bows stowed. Conquord, we are marching. This will be an ordered deployment. I want those Tsardon pissing down their legs at our very advance!'

The wide streets of the camp were designed with formation in mind. The site of each tent meant that the maniples formed up in precise marching order. Quickly, the streets filled. Spears and pikes bristled in the air. The thrumming of rain on metal helmets increased in volume. From the paddocks, cavalry were mounting up. Horses, sensing the anxiety and tension in the air, stamped and snorted. Roberto's horse was brought to him and he stowed his bow behind the saddle before swinging smoothly aboard, giving himself a more elevated view of his fighting force.

The mass of voices was quietening now, leaving the air clear for centurions and masters to drag their citizens into tight formation. Roberto nodded. Their work over dusas had been most worthwhile. Over sixteen thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry, cease­lessly drilled in marching and deployment. Legions in competition with each other, cavalry detachments engaged in races and flanking games.

Roberto trotted to a mound of earth built for him by the principal gate. His flagmen stood on it, waiting for him. Turning his horse, he could see the army ready. It had been a decent assembly, given the torrential rain.

'Right, let's have them. Signal the gates.'

'Yes, sir.'

Flags, green and red quartered, swept up to the vertical, moved out thirty degrees, paused and swept down. On all four gates, the signal had been awaited. Orders were given. The hinged gates were dragged aside. Reinforced bridging was laid across the ditch and the army began to move. It would be the first sight the Tsardon had had this genastro of a Conquord force in battle order.

Roberto loved this moment. Fear and excitement in the faces of his hastati, weary experience in those of his triarii. The overwhelming feeling of energy of an army primed to fight. And the sound. It would always send shivers through his body. The rhythm of feet on the march, the rumble of thousands of hoofs on solid ground. Sound that spoke of unstoppable power.

The three infantry columns marched out of their respective gates, principal centre, right and left while the cavalry exited via the tenth gate at the rear of the camp, wheeling left or right depending on their flank position. From above, it would look like four great, dark snakes issuing from the belly of a scaled beast. He trusted the image was no less unsettling from across the plain.

Shouting encouragement, luck and God's protection to the principes who passed by him through the principal gate centre, Roberto let the thrill of the march rattle through him. He rode out behind them with his extraordinarii, a bodyguard made up of Atreskan and Estorean cavalry. Left and right, outside their tents and wagons, the camp followers watched them go. The traders and the whores, wondering how business would be at the end of the day.

Outside the camp, the columns formed up. Hastati left, principes centre and triarii right. Further right, the engineers led mule-drawn wagons in a line of forty, each carrying a mounted scorpion bolt-thrower. Estorean cavalry trotted on the left flank, Atreskan on the right and ahead, guarding against any sudden moves by the enemy though none looked likely. The rain and gloom cut visibility but it seemed as if they were just standing and watching, if the dark smudge in front of their camp was anything to go by.

The legions marched through the rain and mud and on down to the banks of the river that flowed across the centre of the plain. The ground was easy enough on the way down a very gentle slippery decline of rich grasses and tussocks of shrub. Roberto's scouts had identified a crossing point where rocks poked above the water course.

Fording the river, they forged on. Two miles to the enemy.

Roberto rode at the head of the army, gauging distance and the time to give the order to deploy. Ahead, the Tsardon were rushing into formation and moving down the slopes to give them distance ahead of their camp without giving up the advantage of higher ground. It was a less disciplined assembly than Roberto would have accepted but was effective enough.

Roberto ordered the wheel to deploy at just under half a mile distance. A long way out of arrow range and giving him room to advance at direct provocation. Latest estimates gave his archers a little less range than their Tsardon counterparts though in rain like this, any bowman was at a great disadvantage. The scorpions would be in play before the archers anyway, sending their bolts over a range just short of three hundred yards.

Roberto rode away to the right past cavalry who had broken into archer, sword and cataphract companies for the skirmish and charge. Behind him, maniples marched into place, their centurions keeping them in close order. Wagons rattled into position, covers left on the weapons for now with the rain unwelcome on hinge and rope unless battle demanded it.

He waited at the end of the formation. It took almost an hour to build, each maniple spaced precisely from the next in classic quincunx formation. Careful positioning defended by cavalry who had eyes only for the enemy. Once complete, he rode down the line. Past archers and light infantry ready to respond in a skirmish. Past his phalanx and heavy infantry, their shields front and centre stand­ing on the floor and their sarissas, twenty feet in length, tips almost lost in the rain. The Atreskan alae infantry made up the left and right, his Estorean regulars in the centre.

'We are the Conquord's army!' He knew his speech would be heard by relatively few, particularly given the rain thumping on ground and helmet, but its content would be passed on quickly enough. 'We are the vanguard. Virgin territory is before us. And I understand none of you have left any virgins behind you.'

A coarse cheer and a ripple of laughter spread out as his words passed through the army, maniple by maniple. Roberto walked his horse to the centre of the line and stopped, looking back over his three ranks of legionaries.

'We have our orders. This is the year when we strike the decisive blows that will bring Tsard to its knees before God and the

Advocate. And there is a greater prize on offer than the booty we already carry. This time, victory means we can all go home.'

A second cheer, louder. Spears and pikes rattled against the backs of shields.

'But you have to earn it. Respect your enemy and fight hard. Protect your friends. Discipline. Honour. Victory.'

They were ready. All they could do now was wait.

And wait they did. Through a rain-soaked day in which all their taunting, fake moves and small advances drew not a single man or arrow from the Tsardon on the slopes before them. Roberto kept them in the field until late in the afternoon and as the clouds finally began to disperse, they marched back to camp and into the setting, red sun.

It was the same for four days. The Conquord army's shows of strength, skill and determination to fight were watched by a Tsardon army content to jeer, hoot and even sing from the safety of the slopes up which they knew Roberto would not take his legions. The range advantage of the enemy bows was a problem and he would not have it multiplied by attacking uphill. He had already considered moving his scorpions ahead of the infantry. It was not a tactic he liked. They interfered with the advance of the infantry and damage or loss was a significant risk. But, ultimately, it might be the only move certain to bring out the enemy.

He had even tried a false march south and it had been immediately clear the enemy would let them go. A scout reporting back that night had given him the reason why. More Tsardon forces were building seventy miles distant. All a march would give him was enemy to his front and rear. Not a prospect he was prepared to entertain.

On the evening of the fourth day of the stand-off, Roberto had walked through the army, pausing at cook-fires, joining in songs and story-telling and leading prayers at the Order table and lawn. They might not be able to have a House of Masks on campaign but there was no reason to abandon all their traditions. The lawn grew in the bed of three wagons, transferred to the ground in front of the Speaker's tent when the marching camp was built. In these last days of sun and rain, it had grown very well and his horse had grazed on it. A good sign of things to come.

He was eating alone in his tent later on, surrounded by reports from his centurions, the quartermaster, the surgeons and veterinaries.

The army was in rude health and he was preparing a message for Gesteris on the eastern front, asking for news and reporting on his first contact. A mug of sweet tea stood steaming at his left hand and a bowl of rabbit broth was on his right on the crowded desk. 'A moment, General?'

He looked up; his Master of Engineers stood in the doorway. Rovan Neristus was a timid, balding man with a feeble physique wholly unsuited to life on campaign. How he had survived so long Roberto wasn't sure but every day was a blessing. He had a brilliant mind and a sharp wit. The army loved him. Roberto had often mentioned that even though he was the general, the last man to die in his army would be Neristus. He beckoned him in.

'What can I do for you, Rovan?'

While it was traditional for each legion and ala to have its own company of engineers, Roberto had decided to create a dedicated unit. It was two hundred strong. While each man and woman was nominally attached to a legion maniple, they were too vital to waste in combat. Farmers and potters can fight, Roberto always said, the best carpenters, smiths, scientists and masons have better things to do. Unless I'm about to take a sword in the gut, of course. Then they can fight.

Neristus swept the cap from his head and came in. His hands were filthy with grease which was smeared on his face and clothes too. He was well into his sixties and middle age beckoned him. Roberto wondered if he had ever worried about his appearance. Doubtful.

'Thanks for smartening yourself up before coming to see your commanding officer. I'm glad you hold me in such high regard.'

'It hardly seems worth it, Roberto,' said Neristus. He never had been very good at military protocol. Certainly not in private. 'I'm not finished working yet.'

'So . . . ?'

'Well, the way I see it, we'll be here 'til dusas trying to get these Tsardon off the slope unless you put the scorpions up front,' he said.

'Ah, a tactician now as well? Your powers grow.'

Neristus pointed at his eyes. 'These work,' he said. 'And I know we don't have the numbers to waste attacking upslope. Not with what's waiting for us further on.'

'Correct,' said Roberto. Something was coming. Something good or Neristus would not be standing here. He felt a surge of anticipation.

'So we need to persuade the enemy off the slope and on to the flat soon or we risk them being reinforced.'

He was a meticulous man, Neristus. A fine quality though it did lead him to state the blindingly obvious sometimes. Roberto chose not to interrupt. Otherwise they might be all night getting to the point.

'My carpenters have been working with some of the different woods the Sirraneans are selling to us. Very interesting qualities in some of the beech wood. It has great strength combined with flexi­bility. It means we can . . .' He paused. 'Do you have the time to come and see?'

Roberto shrugged. 'Is it worth it?' he asked a little mischievously.

Neristus stared at him. 'I never waste anyone's time,' he said.

The engineers' workshops were set up at the tenth gate and as far from Roberto as possible to keep him from the noise. The place was ablaze with light and baking hot from the forges. Hammer on metal rang out into the night sky, mixed with the sounds of saw, lathe and file.

'Don't you let your citizens sleep?' asked Roberto as they walked into the open front of the workshop.

'The body needs less sleep than we think it does. Anyway, we enjoy our work,' said Neristus. 'Over here.'

The scrawny little man led him to the right-hand corner where two scorpions sat on the ground. The teams around them hurried to their feet to salute. Roberto acknowledged them with a curt nod.

'Carry on.' He turned to Neristus. 'So, what am I looking at?'

Neristus clicked his fingers. 'Tension these two,' he ordered his team. 'Watch, General.'

Roberto watched. Two men wound each windlass at the rear of the pieces. The single iron-clad wooden arms, for all the world like oversize bows, bent as the cord wound and tightened. Wood and rope creaked, the slider dragged the bow string back along the bolt groove. One clicked into its trigger mechanism. A short time later, the other did the same. The teams stepped away. Roberto frowned. He had to look twice but there was no doubting the difference.

'You've set this trigger further back along the shaft than the other. Why?'

There was a gleam in Neristus's eyes. 'The Sirranean beech is wonderful,' he said, patting the scorpion in question. 'Look at its extra tensile capability. It is over fifteen per cent.'

Roberto smiled. 'And how much further will it fire?'

'Sixty yards easily. I have made all the new arms, General,' he said. 'With your permission, I can have them all fitted by march tomorrow.'

'Are they accurate?'

'We can experiment on the Tsardon if you like,' said Neristus.

It would make all the difference in the world as far as this combat was concerned. Roberto nodded, delighted.

'Rovan, you are a genius and your engineers a credit to the Conquord. Get it done,' he said. 'Tomorrow will be a great day.'

 

Tactical changes had been communicated through the chain of com­mand before a dry and gloomy dawn broke. The army marched as it had done the previous four days but this time, unlike any other, there was the genuine belief that blood would be spilled. Neristus had walked with his wagons this morning and the sight had given Roberto even greater confidence. The scorpions were all uncovered, the fresh oil glistening on the new beech arms.

They deployed as before, but this time there was no pause. Immediately, they were in position, the advance began. It was slow and steady. Roberto put his magnifier to his eye to see if the Tsardon were reacting any differently to this change but there was no signifi­cant movement. Their infantry held its long deep single line with central phalanx. Behind, archers stood ready, with cavalry to the flanks.

Roberto's own cavalry stood back a short distance. Sixty yards meant his scorpions could fire over the heads of his infantry and into the Tsardon ranks before the hastati were in range of enemy arrows. It would expose the flaw in the enemy position. While they held tactical advantage of the upslope, they had little ground to play with in retreat before breaking on their own camp. There was only one way to go should they want the scorpions to stop firing once they had begun.

Neristus was an excellent judge of distance and it was his signal that Roberto took to halt the army. They were closer than they had been before. The hastati were within two hundred and fifty yards of the enemy, still standing defiant and tall above their shields. There was no movement in the Tsardon lines except perhaps a slight uneasy shifting at this new move. But they knew that they were still safely out of reach.

'Hold!' shouted Roberto, his orders signalled by flags and echoed through the army by his masters and centurions. 'Ready to defend. Shield wall on enemy advance, pikes front and proud.' He swung in his saddle from his position on the right flank with the Estorean cavalry. 'Engineers. Cock and load. First on my signal, then by the Master's command.'

Forty scorpion windlasses turned, operated by their two-man teams, creaking and grinding. Bolts were slotted into position, fluted pyramid steel heads on ash shafts, heavy and deadly. The ready was signalled. Roberto held up his arm, flags mimicking him. A silence spread across the plain. On the slopes the Tsardon waited. Below them. The Conquord readied.

'Do me proud, Neristus,' he whispered.

He swept his arm down and the flags came with him. Almost as one, the scorpion strings snapped forwards, dull thuds breaking the silence. The missiles whistled over the heads of the infantry. Roberto could just about track the mass of them but lost them in the back­ground of the mountains and green when they pointed earthwards again.

The breath of every Conquord soldier and cavalryman was held. He imagined Garrelites standing with the infantry, peering out from over his shield at the bolts racing towards the enemy. The boy was anxious to fight. Today, he would have his wish.

The Tsardon moved, a violent ripple over a calm sea. Shouts of alarm echoed out and the bolts struck home. Roberto scanned the lines through his magnifier. Men were scattering from the points of impact. Some of the bolts had fallen short a good ten yards, plough­ing up the earth or bouncing to fall with little force. The best of them had struck directly into the front line. Men lay dead. One, impaled on a bolt, twitched and jerked, blood spouting from his mouth. The Conquord legions were cheering.

Behind Roberto, the windlasses wound again. 'More elevation,' he roared. 'Five degrees.' The order was passed to the engineers. Handles cranked and the points of the new bolts canted upwards.

They fired again. Another brief quiet then the death whistle. This time the bolts all struck into the front three ranks. Shields had been placed in a linked defensive formation but were of no use against the heavy projectiles. Wood and hide splintered, chainmail and scale armour sheared. Roberto thought every bolt found its target and through his magnifier saw one drive straight through the body of one man into that of another, the pair of corpses cast into the comrades behind them. Conquord legionaries taunted and laughed, bade the enemy come and fight.

A third time the windlasses were wound. There was action in the Tsardon camp. The only question was, which way they would go. Again, shields were placed as a barrier, Tsardon cowering behind them, packing tight to get as many layers to the front as they could. It was an error. Neristus's scorpions spat again, strings thrumming. More Tsardons died, swept back by the harpoon-like bolts, limbs torn from sockets by glancing blows.

This time, though, the Tsardon charged the moment the missiles struck. Infantry and cavalry swept down the slopes at them. The change in the noise and atmosphere was stunning. Tens of thousands of men hurtling over the ground, baying for the heads of their enemies. The rumble of feet and the drumming hooves shook the ground. For the raw hastati in the forward maniples it would be terrifying.

In response, centurions began trotting along the backs of their maniples, all looking to Roberto and the flags. He moved quickly to a position where his standard could best be seen, feeling a thrill course through him and his heart start to pump. He dragged his gladius from its sheath.

The windlasses creaked again. Roberto had a short amount of time to assess the enemy charge. It was ordered and disciplined, its pace designed to disrupt and force back. The Tsardon would want to trigger a retreat knowing that the scorpions were slow to turn around and could easily be lost.

Their units were wider than Roberto's maniples but overall, the line was not as broad making the chance of flanking by their cavalry small. His, on the other hand, could make the attempt. But not yet. Flags and messengers were set along the battle line which was in the order of half a mile wide. Too long for him to have close control. Messengers and flagmen could relay his intent, his masters and centurions made the local decisions and he had to trust them to make the right ones. They waited for him to signal how they would begin the fight.

Tsardon cavalry were fast and skilled at firing from the saddle at pace. Ranks of foot archers were also advancing just behind the front lines which carried their trademark shields and mid-length slightly curved swords. Strong for cutting in open skirmish, not so useful in close ordered combat. Roberto's decision was simple.

'Signal tactical plan one. Infantry to hold close, cavalry to break and harry. Close on thirty yards separation. Do not let them stop and pepper us.'

The flags waved the prearranged communication. Runners spaced along the back of the hastati repeated the orders. Over the advancing noise of the Tsardon, Roberto heard centurions and masters roaring commands. In the centre of the Estorean lines, eight maniples armed with the sarissa made up the phalanx. They moved up a few yards for the front ranks to kneel and give themselves room to bring their weapons to the horizontal. A forest of spikes was presented to the enemy; three ranks of them before the first hastati would be at risk from a sword thrust. Shields were planted in front of them, leaving tiny targets for arrow and javelin.

Right across the battlefront, the infantry maniples prepared for the assault, shields of the front ranks right forward, those behind them holding theirs above their heads, creating an armoured shell. Left and right, allied and Estorean cavalry broke into attack and reserve units, ready for the orders to move. And in the principes and triarii, com­posite bows were brought to bear, arrows stuck into the ground at the feet of hundreds of calm, experienced Conquord soldiers.

The scorpions fired again, bolts clearing the front of the Tsardon army, falling into rear lines, causing consternation and a temporary break in the advance. The whole had slowed to little above walking pace now, keeping close in response to the order ahead of them. They banged swords and spears on shields as they marched, roared insults and war cries, their volume making up for their relative lack of numbers. They needed to break the Conquord legions quickly.

'Archers!' called Roberto. 'Ready volley.'

More flags, more runners. Bows bent. A heartbeat before he gave his order, the Tsardon bowmen fired. Thousands of shafts arced over the enemy front lines rattling into shields of the hastati maniples, a rain of barb-tipped ash, dense enough to find every chink in the shield wall. Roberto saw gaps appear, shields fall on top of the bodies of the men who carried them.

'Damn, that's a lot of arrows,' muttered Roberto, already debating signalling the advance though he knew he should not.

'Hold firm!' The shout carried along the line. The wall reformed, gaps plugged as completely as possible.

The Conquord legions answered back. A volley soared out, whispering through the air to fall among the first ranks of the marching Tsardon, clattering over shields, striking through helmets and burying in legs and arms. Men fell. There were screams but the taunts and songs didn't falter. The marching pace increased and Roberto could see shields held closer and above heads in mimic of his legions. More arrows. Shafts every count of ten from either side, the sky clouded with them, falling deeper and deeper into the Con­quord ranks. His citizens were falling while the armies closed though the enemy was suffering greater loss.

'Keep your discipline,' he said under his breath. 'Don't shift, don't show any fear.'

 

'Ward!' barked the centurion.

Garrelites set his shield at an angle above his head and braced himself. Through the tiniest gap in the shield wall, he saw the arrows coming. A terrifying, withering rain flashing towards his eyes, whip­ping just overhead or thudding into shield and armour. They fell like hail on tin, the rattling scrabble of deadly claws. They skipped and bounced off the defence, found every gap and punched through any weak point.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Every legionary stood firm. For Garrelites, it was the worst moment of any battle. The only moment when he felt genuinely helpless. His heart thrashed in his chest and he prayed to the Omniscient that this was not his day to die under a barbed shaft. He had promised the General he would be back to help him from his armour when victory was won.

The Conquord archers responded. He watched the arrows fall among the enemy, unfortunate Tsardon slain before they could strike. The hastati cheered. Another volley came at them. More prayers, more muttered luck. The metal rain fell. Arrows thumped on to his shield, the noise and vibration hideous. One slammed straight through, its point splintering the wood just under his arm.

Three ranks ahead of him on the front line, a citizen took a shaft through the eye. He fell dead. Life snatched away. Nothing anyone could do but move forward one rank and help the body back and away.

Garrelites breathed deep and moved up, desperate to hear the order to advance and the sound of sword on sword.

Three more volleys and the Tsardon were within thirty yards. Flags circled and flattened to the horizontal. Roberto's hastati moved. Kept in order by the centurions at their backs, they held shields high or overhead and paced forwards, the flanks faster than the centre. Their taunts ripped through the air, insulting the accuracy of the enemy archers, doubting the skill of their swordsmen and speaking the certainty of Conquord victory.

The Tsardon responded. Arrows still flew. Right and left, the cavalry shadowed his own. But they'd strayed just that bit too close. Roberto kept a close eye on it, an idea hatching. He turned in time to see the scorpions fire again, bolts striking into the heart of the archers, slamming men from their feet, scattering earth and blood into the air. He beckoned the nearest runner.

'Have the scorpions target the cavalry. One volley only,' he said.

'Yes, General.' The woman sprinted away to the rear of the lines, Roberto watching her for a moment and hoping his cavalry would take the hint. Any message wouldn't reach the left flank in time. Behind him, he could and did issue orders quickly.

Watching the two infantry armies march to collision always excited him. He spent so much time drilling his commanders about the work they did for themselves, their families and the Conquord. He expected every citizen to take his or her full strength and belief into the combat. He expected them to give absolutely everything, even if that meant their lives.

With barely a pause and with the weight of their fellow citizens behind them, the Conquord legions and the Tsardon army moved together at walking pace. Infantry javelins whipped across the short­ening space, tipping down into the front few ranks of enemy. Swords came to ready, shields up and soldiers into fighting stance. In the centre it was phalanx against phalanx, a grinding attritional conflict. On the flanks it was the thrust and hack of the Estorean gladius against the chop and block of the longer Tsardon blade.

The first clash of weapons signalled a concerted and massive increase in the noise from every throat. Here was where it began for them. Here was where their lives would be judged.

Roberto watched, waiting for the scorpions to be moved and primed. Arrows still fell but the armies had spaced now, making targeting more difficult and with the cavalries still out of effective range too much fell in between first line and reserves.

Down on the battle front, there was no indication of either side making any headway. Perhaps the Conquord were marginally forward on the flanks but this early, the exchanges were neither ferocious, nor prolonged, with no man or woman wanting to make the mistake that led to a real gap. As he watched, the sides began to disengage, enemies pushing each other away, slashing at empty space or butting out with shields. A few bodies lay on the ground. Each side taunted and beckoned the other on while more Conquord javelins were launched from behind the front ranks.

Roberto frowned. There was no pace to the conflict, as if both sides were merely fencing in practice for some real event in the future. The scorpion strings thudded again. Practice was over. His engineers had not let him down. Bolts flashed into the enemy cavalry on both flanks, skewering horses, impaling riders through their saddles or taking them clean off to collide with comrades. Panic was instant. Horses scattered from the impact areas, riders fighting to control rearing animals. Close on the right, a whole section of cavalry stampeded away towards the Tsardon camp, riders helpless, some even choosing to dive off and roll. It was better than he could possibly have hoped.

He ordered the attack signal but hardly need have bothered. His cataphracts charged, horse archers giving support and they in turn defended by lighter sword-wielding cavalry units. In all, two thirds of his mounted force rode at the enemy, the rest defending the infantry flanks who had responded equally quickly and engaged once again.

A great wall of noise rolled around the plain. The roars of Con­quord soldiers sensing victory in the stunning turn of events; the thundering rumble of hoofs on sodden ground; the snorting and neighing of horses; and the harsh sounds of metal impacting on shield and armour.

Roberto watched the first cataphracts go in. Drawn from the landed nobility, the heavily armoured riders carried the two-handed kontos lance and were trained to break up enemy cavalry units by charge, wheel and withdraw. They drove into the Tsardon horsemen, punching rents in their lines, adding to the disarray caused by the scorpion attack and engendering more panic. Scores of riders were downed in an instant.

Hard in their wake, archers rode in, releasing three volleys as they traversed the fractured line before following the cataphracts out to reform and charge again, passing the light cavalry on their way in.

As early as the second charge, Roberto saw the enemy began to buckle. A few riders had already detached and were heading for the camp and beyond. Time to push it all home. With the scorpions dumping bolts in the gap between the enemy front and reserve lines, and nervous about the coverage of their flanks, the Tsardon infantry was vulnerable.

The din was incredible. No order would be heard and none had been given beyond that to attack. Garrelites stood in the second rank now, roaring on his comrades ahead of him. In the press of shields and citizens, the heat was intensifying and the stink of blood, shit and bile was a nauseating mix. Up close, the Tsardon were a fearsome force. Curved swords slashed dripping with Conquord blood. Oval shields presented stiff defence.

He glanced at those standing to his left and right. Their faces mirrored the stress he felt. Sick with anticipation, desperate to fight but equally desperate to escape with their lives. Garrelites gripped his sword tighter and bounced his shield on his arm for the hundredth time. In front of him, the fighting was fierce. The violence unremit­ting. The rhyme ran round his head again and again . . . 'Put armour on a farmer and fall hard on all the Tsardon.'

Blades clashed and thrust. Sparks flew, men grunted, shouted and cursed. They fought for a better stance, the killing angle and the mental edge. Weapons cracked on to shields. The thudding impacts echoed in the confined space. Louder and louder. The hastati ahead of him screamed. His helmet flew from his head, bouncing off Garrelites's shoulder guard. He spun, showing Garrelites the rake across his throat, and fell dying.

Garrelites met the eyes of the Tsardon and leaped into the hole, denying him the chance to strike at the opened flanks of the legionaries to his left and right. The enemy carved his sword downwards. Garrelites deflected the blow aside and followed up, stabbing out with his gladius, feeling the point graze scale armour. The pair of them squared up again.

Garrelites's head cleared. This man was not his equal. This man was not worthy of life. Garrelites felt the closeness of the hastati around him. He could not let them down. He punched out with the boss of his shield, finding the enemy blade thumping into it. He hacked around with his gladius, struck the Tsardon defence.

The enemy blade came back at him, glancing from his left shoulder and sending a sheet of pain down his shield arm. Garrelites gasped. The Tsardon sensed a chance, he could see it in the man's eyes. His shield was thrust forwards. Garrelites gambled. He swayed back and left. The enemy came on, expecting the block but not getting it. His sword clashed into Garrelites's shield but it was an unbalanced strike. Garrelites saw the gap, thrust his gladius inside the enemy defence and felt the blade slide through armour and into gut.

The Tsardon's eyes widened in shock and pain. He coughed. Blood spurted from his mouth and splashed over Garrelites's face, shield and helmet. He began to fall. Garrelites kicked him backwards and shouted in relief. He heard a concerted roar from all around him and saw the Tsardon line flicker and ripple. Something had happened. Somewhere on the battlefield a major blow had been struck.

Next to him, a distracted Conquord legionary was cut across the legs and collapsed. A new gap, a new threat. Garrelites could not pause while his shield arm recovered. He shook his head to move blood and sweat from his eyes, breathed deep and moved back to the attack, praying victory was coming soon.

 

'Principes to the front line!' ordered Roberto. The flags signalled the advance.

The Conquord's second line trotted in, adding weight to the press that was forcing the enemy back step by step. Volleys of arrows were swapped again but the power was with him. Roberto could feel it. God-embrace-them, he could see it. On the left, a critical break­through had been made. He could see hundreds of horses fleeing back up the slope. Simultaneously, he could just make out the far left maniples of the God's Arrows pushing in at pace.

The call for more effort fed along his infantry. The taunts became louder, the thrusts of sword and shield harder, backed by the knowledge of impending victory. To Roberto's right, the cataphracts had gathered for a mass charge. Already weakened, the Tsardon cavalry were driven to tatters. And while the lighter cavalry chased the remnants away from the flank, the cataphracts ploughed into unguarded archers and infantry. The enemy scattered in front of them or were trampled beneath hoofs, battered by shield and lance.

 

Garrelites knew the principes had joined the battle. Hastati fell back to allow them in but he stood his ground. His gladius dripped with the blood of three victims now and he felt empowered, indestructible. The principes struck the Tsardon hard, driving their thinning line back a little. Garrelites went with them, shoving with his shield, hacking and slashing ahead of it.

He heard horses and felt the thrumming of hooves. Enclosed where he was he didn't know whose they were or how close. But the arrival of the principes surely meant the battle was turning. Surely it was Master Kastenas who rode into the heart of the enemy.

The sweat was pouring off him. His arms ached and his legs were on fire. Right ahead, the Tsardon line compressed across his vision, as if God had shoved them with one mighty hand. They began to panic. Behind him, hastati were clamouring to join the push. Garrelites looked over his shield. The Tsardon weren't looking ahead any more. He stabbed his sword deep into an enemy soldier's side and ripped it clear, moving up even as the man fell. They were breaking. The Tsardon were breaking. Through the crush of bodies ahead he could see a thinning as they began to turn and run.

Another huge roar split the air around him and the legions surged forwards, led by the solid line of principes. To his right, the infantry was curving in, snapping the jaws of the pincer shut, rotating around the phalanx which stood as anchor to the fight. Garrelites waved his sword above his head and joined the charge. Everywhere was the confusion of feet and bodies. He skidded and slithered over Tsardon bodies, using his shield as a support.

The joy of victory infused him. In front, a Tsardon slipped and fell. Garrelites crashed the edge of his shield into the unprotected back and his sword into the enemy's helmet. Blood splattered the churned earth. It was incredible. The battle should have ground out all day. He had been into the front line so quickly that it was only now he realised he hadn't really thought to live through it. He laughed, caught the excitement of the hastati crowding around him and ran on up towards the Tsardon camp.

Garrelites didn't see the blade that slid high into his thigh and up into his groin. He hadn't been looking down at the dead, only ahead at the running, routed Tsardon. He'd run on a pace before the pain hit him and dropped him to his knees. He fell on top of his shield, arm beneath him. The shock rolled over him. He struggled on to his back. Hastati ran past him.

He saw the man who had struck him. A Tsardon lying with head slathered in a sheet of blood. The sword just dropping from his hand. He fell back, exhausted.

'Bastard,' said Garrelites. 'God take you to the devils on the wind.'

He shuddered and shook off his shield. He grabbed at his leg and groin, feeling the soaking of blood. The blade had sliced through his flesh so easily, right where he had no armour. The blood sluiced out so fast. He grasped at the wound, trying to stem the flow. But it burst around his fingers.

He called for help but the noise was so loud around him. Tramping feet and thundering hooves. He held out a dripping hand.

'Please,' he said.

Someone was coming. Someone had caught his eye and seen his predicament. The world swam in front of him. There was a roaring in his ears. He was lying on his side now, his hands back groping at his wound. So much blood.

He wondered if he could wash it off before he had to help the general with his armour.

 

Roberto could not just sit and watch. He shouted his pleasure and turned to his extraordinarii, all of them staring in delight and triumph.

'What a victory,' he said. 'What an unbelievable victory. God love Rovan Neristus. God love the Conquord.' He raised his sword above his head.

'Estorea!' he called. 'Let's chase these bastards down.' He kicked his heels to his horse's sides, the extraordinarii all around him. 'I want their commander's head in a bag and on its way back to the King of Tsard by nightfall.'

Whooping, he galloped away after his victorious arm

 

Chapter 22

848th cycle of God, 40th day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

 

 

 

The road to Westfallen had not only a fine surface, excellent lodging facilities and sound security, it also afforded its travellers peaceful and beautiful scenery. It was in every way the perfect antidote for Jhered's foul temper since his falling-out with the Advocate.

Her decision to absent him from Estorr for the lead up to, and performance of, what had been infuriatingly entitled the 'Glory of the Conquord' games was a slight in the mind of every titled citizen of the Conquord. But they had no idea of the real reasons for his absence or its potential ramifications for their faith.

The journey to Port Roulent, Caraduk's principal port on the Tirronean Sea, had been terrible. He'd been laid low with a stomach infection that had robbed him of strength, appetite and his sea legs. He had never been so sick in his life and stepping off the Hark's Arrow was blessed relief.

He'd been weak and had travelled to Cirandon by carriage, a herb-scented kerchief to his nose most of the way. Vasselis had been his typical honourable self and had insisted he stay at the Marshal Defender's grand three-storey villa, with its stunning gardens and luxuriously appointed private baths.

Jhered's condition had improved quickly with the added help of Vasselis's skilled doctors and their herbal and vegetable drink prep­arations. But his mood had not. He had found himself suspicious of Vasselis's motives and had spoken to him very little throughout his brief stay. It was not until now, with the sun warming his body as he and his friend rode a pair of excellent horses, that he felt himself begin to relax.

The road to Westfallen ran bedside long stretches of the River Weste. It was as well-prepared and surfaced as any in the inner Conquord outside of the highways. Plenty of trade came through Westfallen on the route between Easthale and Cirandon and there were few times when they were alone for more than a couple of hours at a time.

The vegetation running along the banks of the wide, slow-moving and shallow river was a riot of colour and clogged with new life. The road ran along the south bank of the river, leaving the north bank to nature.

Marshland was the dominating feature, running almost a hundred miles wide in some places and finishing at the towering Dukan Mountains. The marshes were peerless for the student of wildlife but hopeless for much else. It was a flat, featureless area, striking for its bleakness. Jhered enjoyed its hostility, the haunting calls of hunt­ing birds and the mournful cries of animals strayed in too far, never to escape. They were a fitting reminder that the land must always be respected. God held unshakeable dominion and not even the most peaceful of countries was safe everywhere.

To the south was where the real beauty lay, to Jhered's eyes. Plains of heather and long grass blown by the prevailing east winds giving way to gentle, tree-covered hillsides dotted with small settlements, isolated farmsteads and the villas of the rich, retired Advocacy hierarchy.

He knew the countryside well. Easy to lose yourself in the hunting and fishing, or just walking through the glades and along lakesides that rippled with light. He was planning on building a villa there himself in the next decade or so, to be completed when his days as a Gatherer were over. He was supposed to enter the Advocacy political system but the idea repelled him. He liked neither crowds nor syco­phants. Retirement and silence were infinitely more attractive. Assuming there was a Conquord to retire from when the time came.

'Have you staked out your land yet?' asked Vasselis, reading his thoughts.

Jhered pointed along the line of a valley that he knew ended in a broad expanse of prime fishing ground.

'On the north ridge above Lake Phristos,' said Jhered. 'Good pasture land for my horses and the best view in Caraduk.'

'And you can have the marble quarried and brought upstream from Glenhale. A lovely spot, though I take issue with you about the view. Second-best perhaps.'

'Assuming it hasn't been sacked and burned by the time I get there to rest my old bones,' said Jhered, surprising himself with the meaning in his tone.

Vasselis looked at across at him, a frown forming under his broad-brimmed hat.

'You're being over-dramatic,' he said.

'Really?' said Jhered sharply. Since that night in Estorr his respect for Vasselis had been so much lessened and the disappointment still pained him. 'You base that assumption on what, exactly?'

'I do travel to Estorr regularly, Paul.'

'But you don't see what the Gatherers see.'

'So enlighten me.'

Damn the man but he was so understanding.

'We are under pressure. Victory in Tsard is by no means certain, despite the presence of some fine generals and veteran legions. The front on the Omari-Dornos border has stalled completely. Add that to the naval presence we must maintain in the Tirronean Sea, Gorneon's Bay and the Great North Ocean, and we are stretched far too thin. The raids in Atreska and Gosland are serious drains on morale and loyalty and Gestern is coming under more and more pressure. And if that wasn't all, Yuran still cannot cure his own internal struggles. One day we will get a real bloody nose, or worse. What then? One thing is certain, games are not the answer.'

'We agree there.'

'Tsard is strong and determined and we have little meaningful defence,' said Jhered, relieved that he was getting the sort of hearing he didn't get in Estorr.

'Against what?'

'Against serious defeat.'

'That's a bold and rather worrying statement coming from you,' said Vasselis, his expression severe.

'You haven't been to Atreska or Tsard.' There was a pause. 'This is serious, isn't it?' Jhered almost laughed. 'See me smiling, Marshal?' 'No,' said Vasselis. 'No, I don't.'

Jhered hadn't meant it that way. The mood had cooled just as he was cheering up. He let the silence rest for a while.

'How long before we can see it, then?' 'What?'

'Westfallen, of course.'

'Sorry,' said Vasselis. 'I was thinking of something else.' He scratched at his head under his hat. 'Not long at all now. Just up this last rise and it'll be laid out below us, looking the perfect picture of peace it undoubtedly is.'

Jhered saw the glitter in Vasselis's eyes and felt a welcome smile warm his face.

'Is there anything you care about more than this apparently peerless town?'

'Apart from my wife and son? Not really.' He chuckled, relaxing. 'You've never actually been there, have you? Always sending minions to do your gathering despite my best advice.'

'Perhaps I always harboured anxieties about what was hidden beneath the surface,' said Jhered, wondering if he actually believed what he'd just said.

'You have no need to,' said Vasselis.

'That is yet to be seen.' Jhered rubbed dust from his eye. It was becoming a very hot day. The sky was a startling blue, the air hot and still in the shallow valley they were climbing. 'How long since I was in Cirandon?'

'A couple of years, something like that,' said Vasselis.

'I swear your son has doubled in height in that time,' said Jhered.

He glanced back at Kovan, who was riding and chatting with his investigation team while Netta rode in a covered carriage out of the heat of the sun. Kovan wasn't just here for the break. He was a useful witness and, Jhered was aware, a potential conspirator. His mother, too.

'Promise me you'll find the time to spar with him,' said Vasselis. 'And don't take him too lightly. He's top-ten ranked in Cirandon these days and only just seventeen.'

'I'll be glad to. I could do with the practice.'

'How do you rank these days?'

Jhered growled. 'Well, after the games, I'll be nowhere but right now I'm third. I don't get much time to challenge these days. Much to do outside Estorr.'

''Third? Perhaps you shouldn't spar after all. Don't want you hurting him.'

'I'll be gentle, I promise.' 'That would be a first.'

The two men fell silent while their horses climbed the last of the rise. Jhered felt the breeze growing and could smell the coast on the air. Vasselis reined in and stopped.

'Well, there you are,' he said. 'Tell me I've been exaggerating.'

He had not been. Westfallen was beautiful. From the fishing boats in the bay, to the stunning waterfall. From the golden sanded beach to the clean white of the houses built around the forum and fountains. From the fields swaying with wheat and vegetables to the water mill whose gentle slapping wheel set the slow pace of life. It was an absolute picture. Hard to believe that the heresy Vasselis admitted it harboured really ran through its cobbled streets leaching into every brick.

Jhered looked to the right as his team drew up beside him. He had been granted just two but they were of the highest quality. Captain Harkov of the Advocate's personal guard whom he had managed to prise away from his family and duties. He would cast a sceptical eye over the affair, uncluttered by religious beliefs. And the Advocate's Master Engineer, the anxious ageing genius that was Orin D'Allinnius. He wanted the view of a scientist and engineer and there was none better in the Conquord. Barring Rovan Neristus who Roberto kept with him in Tsard.

Behind them, the wagon had stopped. Vasselis's twenty guardsmen and Jhered's own unit of levium, the Gatherer's elite, waited for the order to move on.

‘I expected something darker,' said D'Allinnius, his small eyes almost buried in his scowl. 'You painted this place as some evil stronghold. I think I might retire here rather than recommend it be razed to the ground.'

Jhered shook his head and spoke for Vasselis's benefit more than his own. ‘I think you might recall that what I actually said was that heresy can paint the view white while inside the heart beats black and determined.'

'Very poetic,' muttered Vasselis, unimpressed.

‘I just don't want people's view changed because everything looks pretty, all right?' He stared squarely at D'Allinnius. 'Clear?'

The engineer shrugged. 'Science is not confused by appearances.'

'Captain Harkov, anything to add?' Jhered had noted the captain was frowning down on Westfallen.

‘I was wondering where that cloud came from,' he said, pointing to the far side of the town where, in the otherwise pure blue sky, a dark grey smudge appeared to be growing over a field of wheat.

'Steam or smoke, I would presume,' said Jhered.

'No,' said D'Allinnius. 'It has none of the properties of either.' He paused and cleared his throat. 'More likely it's an illusion brought on by the heat and proximity to the sea. Nothing heretic in that, I suspect, Exchequer Jhered. Now.' He paused. 'Hold on. Isn't that . . . ?'

Vasselis was laughing. 'Yes it is. Amazing, isn't it? And a miracle after twenty days of unbroken sunshine, wouldn't you agree?'

Jhered felt his heart racing and he muttered a prayer to God to keep them safe within his embrace. It was a solitary cloud, it was not moving across the sky and it was disgorging rain.

 

'You have it, you have it,' said Kessian from his chair.

Mirron could just about hear him and drew huge confidence from his words. She pushed her fingers that little bit harder into their positions around the back of Arducius's head. He was kneeling on the ground outside the villa on the hill, where the irrigation had failed and crops were at risk from the dry spell. One of his hands was in a bucket of water, the other palm upwards towards the sky.

Their abilities had opened up this past season, like the mist parting to give the first view of a new land. They had learned to contain themselves while using the energies of the elements around them, amplifying them and shaping them before delivering results that had been both wonderful and terrifying.

Mirron had been scared by what she had been able to do. They all had, she thought, except perhaps Gorian though even he seemed changed. Quieter and more studious, less quick to anger. She pushed the thought of him away; it made her pulse beat faster and a heat build deep in her gut. Concentrate, she said to herself in the Father's voice.

She could feel Arducius channelling the natural energies of the water through their bodies, he as Wind Harker and lead in the work, she as added amplification. It was something they had tried in the stillness of the villa but now it was needed by Westfallen farmers.

The chance to further rehabilitate them in the eyes of the citizens excited her.

Arducius tensed and gasped. 'Keep still, Mirron,' he said. 'We're doing it, can you see?'

Mirron looked up. Her body was alive with the rush of water energy, smooth and constant. Like earth energy but cooler. She let it fill her and grow within her, then directed it through her fingers into Arducius. She could see the lines streaming out of his splayed fingers, high into the sky above them. The cool energy hit the hot air and became instantly visible as a rapidly forming cloud. Arducius used the new energy to contain the cloud, stop it dispersing to nothing but mist and be burned away.

She was amazed at his skill. While the cloud wasn't huge, it was the fact that he could read the energies in the sky like any great Wind Harker but then use them to his advantage too. She wondered if she could adapt his ideas for her experiments with fire.

Above them, the cloud bubbled and filled. It darkened and spread a shadow across the ground that covered them, the villa and the fields around them. It was hundreds of feet above them, lower than a cloud should be, and the size of half the hillside.

'It's beautiful, Ardu. Keep building.'

'As long as you're with me.'

They were both tiring. The drain on her energies was giving her a tremble in her legs and she could feel Arducius wobbling under her hands.

'Care now,' came Kessian's voice. 'Don't push too hard. You've already done so much.'

'Time to release, Mirron,' said Arducius. 'The bucket is empty. Ready?'

'Yes.'

Mirron saw his hands clap together and then drag apart claw-like as if he was tearing through cobweb. She felt a drop of water on her forehead, another and another and then it was pouring from the cloud, soaking the ground. And she was hugging Arducius and they were laughing and dancing in the downpour despite their tiredness.

She saw Father Kessian staring in delight up into the sky, the rain making him blink hard. Standing nearby, the farmer, his wife and two of his workers all had their hands out, watching the water hit their palms and believing neither what they were seeing nor feeling. But they couldn't keep the smiles from their faces.

'All right you two, a little calm now,' said Kessian, pushing himself from his chair with the aid of his sticks. 'You should go and rest, you must be tired.'

Mirron beamed at him and both of them ran across to hug him.

'Look what we can do,' said Arducius, a little breathless.

'You make a very old man very happy indeed,' said Kessian.

'And next year, I'll be able to cover the whole sky from a single bucket, just watch me.'

Kessian laughed and Mirron watched him glance up at the cloud that was thinning quickly now though the rain still fell hard and dense, drenching the fields and bouncing from the limp stems of wheat.

‘I don't know what to say,' said the farmer, coming over to them. 'You might have saved my crop. It's . . . well it's, I don't know.' He gestured at his fields and wiped a hand through his sodden hair.

'I'm glad we can help you, Farius,' said Arducius.

He nodded and ruffled Arducius's hair. 'I'm glad you can too. We've all learned a lot this past season or so, haven't we?'

'So we have,' said Kessian. ‘I hope you can get your irrigation going. Just a broken pipe somewhere I expect. Hmmm.'

Mirron knew that sound. It was the Father having an idea.

‘I wonder if young Ossacer could help find such a break,' he said.

'Like he does in a bone?' said Mirron, seeing the thought quickly. 'He might be able to sense the water flowing out of a break, mightn't he? Because it would leave relative darkness because the water energy would soak into the earth around it.'

'Clever girl,' said Kessian. 'We'll talk to him later. If that's all right with you, Farius?'

'Your help is more than welcome,' he said. ‘I just wish you'd let me pay or do something in return.'

'When the investigation arrives from Estorr, speak well of us, that's all I ask,' said Kessian. 'Remember we are not to be feared and that God has not forsaken Westfallen. He has given us gifts and miracles.'

Farius nodded. 'You know I was one that thought otherwise. I'm sorry I doubted you.'

Kessian put a hand on his shoulder. 'There is no need to be. We have all been scared of what we have seen and we have all searched our hearts to learn if we act against God. Trust in us. Trust in Elsa Gueran. We only want the best for Westfallen, for God and for the Conquord.'

Mirron sighed. She hadn't let go of Father Kessian and she was glad. The belief in what he said ran through him and gave her such comfort. He would see that only good came of the Ascendancy. He could do anything.

'Look,' said Arducius.

Everyone turned where he pointed. Riders had appeared on the rise at the edge of town on the road in from Cirandon. They began walking down into the town at a gentle pace. Behind them came a carriage and at least thirty or forty more people on horseback. They had all known the investigation was on its way but to see it sent a shiver through her, the Father and Arducius.

'It looks like I'll get the chance to repay you very soon now,' said Farius.

'Indeed it does,' said Kessian. 'Come on children, time to go home and prepare.'

'God will protect you,' said Farius. 'Good luck.' 'Thank you,' said Kessian.

Mirron smiled at Farius. 'Thank you for letting us help.' 'Anything for the Ascendancy,' said Farius. And she could see in his eyes that he meant it.