Herald of the Storm (58 page)

It seemed none of them wanted to give an answer. It was down to the venerable figure of Crannock Marghil to reply.

‘We cannot act against the Elharim. The power needed to withstand that invading army would come at too high a price. We all know the cost of Bakhaus Gate; a debt so large cannot be paid again.’

Bakhaus Gate? What did this have to do with Bakhaus Gate? What cost?

Gelredida took a step forward. Waylian could see the frustration in her face, her jaw working hard as her teeth ground together.

‘It has never been proved that the Sweet Canker was our price for Bakhaus Gate. There is no way we can know that. And if we do not act on this, the Free States will suffer more than a mere plague. We will suffer annihilation.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Lucen Kalvor, his sharp features looking more imperious than usual. ‘The Khurtas might be pillaging the north, but they are led by an Elharim. The people of the Riverlands are civilised. They can be bargained with. This Amon Tugha would not set the Free States afire just to watch it burn. It is clear he wants something more than to simply raze the city to the ground.’

‘And if you grant him too much credit?’ Gelredida asked. ‘If you are over optimistic about his motives? What then?’

‘The decision has been made,’ said Crannock. ‘We cannot do anything.’

Gelredida balled her fists. ‘Cannot or will not? You are all fools! Blind fools!’ she bellowed. Waylian almost took a step back, such was her fury.

None of the Archmasters dared to speak after that.

The Magistra turned and left them behind their pulpits, and Waylian was quick to follow. He could hear his mistress muttering and cursing under her breath even as the Raven Knights removed the iron bracelets from her wrists, even as she made her way back through the corridors of the Tower.

He had so many questions, particularly about what they had meant when talking of Bakhaus Gate and the Sweet Canker and how those two things were linked, but despite his desire for answers, it was clear the Magistra was in no mood to enlighten him.

When she reached the staircase that led up to her private chamber, Waylian paused. It was her inner sanctum. Clearly she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

‘Grimm, with me!’ she ordered as she climbed the spiral stairs.

With not a little trepidation he followed her. She had been alone in his chamber and now he was to be alone in hers. These were uncharted waters, and Waylian could only see choppy seas ahead.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he entered, but it certainly hadn’t been such a plain and austere room. When he’d first come to the Tower, rumours of what the Red Witch kept in her chambers were rife. Familiars and homunculi were said to dwell in the rafters, taunting the caged boggits and hobs that lined the walls. Potions were said to bubble in their cauldrons day and night, waiting to be bottled in myriad vials and secreted on spider-webbed shelves.

The truth was very different.

Gelredida’s chamber was large and spacious, illuminated by a single round window. The furniture was crafted from a light wood, most likely elm, rather than the brooding dark oak found in the rest of the Tower. There was also a pleasant smell of lavender pervading the air.

Waylian had little time to admire the décor though, as Gelredida grasped a piece of parchment from a shelf and sat at her desk. As she continued to chunter to herself about ‘idiots’ and ‘short-sighted fools’ she went to work on the parchment with quill and ink. Waylian couldn’t see what she was writing but her delicate script was a wonder to behold. For the first time he noticed she was wearing cloth gloves that matched the colour of her robes and he found it curious, since she’d never worn gloves before.

‘Can you ride, Waylian?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the parchment.

‘Erm …’

‘You can or you can’t. Which is it?’

It was true he’d ridden a horse to Steelhaven from Ankavern, but it had been the first time, and one of the least pleasant experiences of his short life.

‘Yes, Magistra.’

‘Good. Gather what clothing you have suitable for the road. You’re going on a trip.’

‘Where are we going, Magistra?’

‘I said
you’re
going on a trip. I have things that require my attention here.’

Gelredida finished the letter with a flourish and stood, moving to a tall shelf. She knelt beside it, fishing at the bottom until a secret compartment popped open with a quiet click. Inside were wax and seal, and Gelredida proceeded to melt the edge of the black stick of wax on the fat, white candle that burned on her desk.

‘Roll the letter,’ she ordered, and Waylian obeyed, rolling the parchment as tightly as he could.

With one hand she sealed the letter shut with a blob of wax, then pressed the bronze seal down into it with the other.

With that done she fixed him with a grave expression. There was no admonishment there; her look was stern, but Waylian could sense no anger.

‘You will take this to Silverwall. There is a small academy there, mostly scribes and artisans. There you will find a tutor named Crozius Bowe. Show him this.’ She brandished the sealed parchment. ‘He will tell you where to go next.’

Waylian glanced down at the letter and at the seal pressed into the wax. It was in the shape of a wyvern rising, wings open, head rearing and ready to strike.

‘Magistra, I don’t understand.’

‘This city needs aid, Waylian. You are to deliver a message of entreaty to the only people we can rely on to deliver that aid.’

‘But what if they don’t come?’

She smiled, her eyes gazing towards her single, round window.

‘They will come, Waylian. They always do. Now, are you ready for your journey?’

‘Yes, Magistra,’ he said.

Waylian wasn’t ready, though. He felt scared and useless and ill prepared.

But he supposed only time would tell just how ill prepared he really was.

T
here had been one hundred and twenty-six coronations in Steelhaven’s history. Governess Nordaine had tutored Janessa in the significant kings and queens of old, from the days of the Sword Kings, when the Teutonians had been but a few disparate warring tribes, right up to the establishment of the Free States. Of course, until her father had united the provinces and the city states as one nation there had still been wars and pretenders to the Teutonian throne, but the city of Steelhaven had always had a ruling monarch – a king or queen who presided over the city and its people.

Now it was Janessa’s turn. Soon, she would become Queen of Steelhaven and the Free States, but right now all she wanted to do was stop shaking.

She wore a fabulous gown too, as gowns went. The Governess had helped her select the fabrics, one from each of the provinces – satin from Braega, silk from Dreldun, lace from Stelmorn, linen from Ankavern and fur from Valdor. There were also brooches sewn into the cloth from each of the city states – copper bracelets on the sleeves, iron lining the girdle, silver leaf in the skirts and steel chains about the neck. Despite the mishmash of colour and cloth it was still a beautiful design.

Nordaine fussed with the hem, as she had done a dozen times already. Janessa guessed it was more from nerves than a need to make the gown more presentable. She had fussed so much that whatever she was trying to adjust would be fixed by now or never at all.

‘Enough,’ Janessa said, instantly regretting it as she was forced to clamp her mouth shut lest the bile rise up from her throat.

Nordaine stopped her fussing and took a step back. Janessa could see tears in the governess’s eyes and felt instant regret. She had behaved badly towards this woman, who had been like a mother to her, teaching her the proper etiquette and trying to educate her in the ways of state. Now those lessons were over and Nordaine could teach her nothing more. From now, Janessa had to learn her own lessons, make her own mistakes.

She took Nordaine’s hand, and they looked at one another. The governess would have spoken, but only a single sob came out. Before Janessa could say any words of comfort, Odaka entered the vestibule.

He no longer wore the robes she was so used to seeing him in. Now he wore slate grey armour, a helm held in the crook of his arm, a curved sword at his side.

‘Your grace,’ he said, his features grim and unyielding as they always were. ‘They are ready.’

Janessa nodded, giving her governess one last glance before walking towards the door. Two Sentinels were waiting for her, Garret himself standing further on at the archway to the great hall. He offered Janessa a reassuring smile as she left the vestibule, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.

The knights surrounded her as she came out into the King’s Hall. When last she’d been here it was empty, but now the vast space was filled with people of rank from the Free States.

Janessa could see all eyes turn towards her as she made her way through the crowd. Duke Guido Kreeler of Ankavern was the first to offer her a bow as she entered. His son Bartolomeo was absent, clearly not interested in the coronation now she had declared her intention to take the crown without need of a husband.

Young Lord Cadran of Braega was next, smiling his innocent smile, surrounded by his aunts known as the Black Roses: a gaggle of haughty-looking women who coveted the boy’s power and smothered him with their insincere affections.

There were the Lord Governors Tyran and Argus of Silverwall and Coppergate, standing beside one another as their city states did, no doubt using this rare meeting to plot their plots and fuel their greed.

And then there was the Baroness Isabelle and her son Leon. Of course they bowed in deference, but Leon barely made an attempt to hide the look of scorn on his face. Clearly the Magridas did not take well to being spurned.

Janessa focused ahead, not deigning to acknowledge any of them. Garret led the way and she was surrounded by her Sentinels, yet she did not feel entirely safe. She was exposed, under the scrutiny of strangers and a slave to events beyond her control. Everything she had strived to resist had come about, and there was no way back. The image of River’s face, that scarred beautiful face, briefly appeared in her mind’s eye but she quickly shut it out. If she thought of him, of the life they’d promised one another and would now never have, she would burst into tears. There were many gathered here who would love to see that, and there was no way she would grant them the satisfaction.

At the stone throne stood the High Abbot and the Matron Mother – the holy representatives of Arlor and Vorena. It was they who would preside over the ceremony. They who would crown her queen and defender of Arlor’s faith.

As she neared the throne, the Sentinels ahead of her stopped, turning to face one another and creating a corridor of steel for her to march through. Janessa paused at the edge of it. She knew that once she walked through that guard of honour there would be no turning back: she would have to forget her past, forget her former lover. From this day on, what she would cherish would be the Free States and its people.

She glanced back for a moment. She knew she should have retained her regal air, but she couldn’t help herself.

Odaka was standing behind her, blocking her escape and the way to freedom.

Did she want to take it, anyway? Did she want to run? She had almost run only days before, when River had offered her a way out.

Odaka looked at her impassively, but despite the emotionless look on his face Janessa felt that if she decided to change her mind, to turn and flee the great hall, he would do nothing to stop her.

Just the thought of that was enough to give her strength. To know that she really did have a choice made her decision that much simpler.

Janessa turned and walked the rest of the way to the throne, mounting the stairs to stand before the High Abbot and the Matron Mother. They in turn took a step towards her, he holding the sword of office, the Helsbayn, and she the crown her father had worn for thirty-two years.

Janessa knelt before the High Abbot, bowing her head as Odaka and Nordaine had instructed her.

‘Janessa of the Mastragalls,’ spoke the High Abbot, his voice loud and clear in the packed chamber. ‘You are here to claim the crown of Steelhaven. To take your place on the throne of the Free States, to rule its lands and its people?’

‘I am,’ she replied, trying to express some degree of authority.

‘You will be the embodiment of Arlor?’ said the Matron Mother. ‘Be his divine hand on earth, defend his faith and speak his word for as long as you have breath with which to utter it?’

‘I will,’ she said.

‘You promise to keep the Crown’s Peace, keeping safe the people and their lands and properties, seeking to start no wars, invade no principalities and usurp no titles under pain of Arlor’s divine retribution?’

‘I do,’ she said.

The Matron Mother placed the steel crown on Janessa’s head, its edge cold against her skin. ‘Then I give you the crown, that you might rule your kingdom,’ she said.

‘I give you the sword, that you might defend it,’ said the High Abbot, offering the sword as he and the Matron Mother both knelt before her.

Janessa stood, taking Helsbayn from his hands. It was heavy in her grip, its hilt worked with intricate gilding, the blade acid-etched with ancient runes from the days of the Sword Kings. The last time she had seen it, it had been in her father’s hands as he lay on the altar awaiting interment. The memory snapped at her with cold teeth, but she bit back. This was no time to think on such things. No time to brood on the past.

This was the day she would start her reign.

She turned and held the sword aloft, seeing all eyes upon her, eyes of scorn, eyes of admiration, eyes of doubt.

Garret turned to that crowd, his Sentinels doing likewise, and bellowed, ‘Queen Janessa Mastragall, Sovereign of Steelhaven and the Free States, Protector of Teutonia and Keeper of the Faith of Arlor.’

As one the assembled crowd bent its knee, repeating Garret’s words in a solemn mantra. Janessa thought that many of them would find those words bitter to the taste, but that only made it that much sweeter for her.