Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (19 page)

Some twenty paces ahead, engulfed in weeping women, Cera Nesti was being led through the press. Her white supplicant robes were now a rainbow of colour, her hair caked in the dyes, her face like a weeping jester. Every so often there was a ripple through the crowd like a wave on the ocean, mashing people together and sending dozens to their knees. There had been broken bones already, and Elena prayed there would be no deaths.

Timori was visibly overwhelmed, but somehow all the training of his childhood was keeping him upright, calm and smiling. If they didn’t get a respite soon though, she was afraid he’d collapse. She sought among the soldiers for a face she knew, finding the young knight leading Cera’s horse. She shouted aloud and into his mind, pitching her mental voice so that the man would think he’d simply heard her normally through the press.

The knight gave an obedient nod and thankfully the pace picked up. It was still another half an hour before they finally got through the gates of the Nesti palace. It was here that Cera had first addressed the people, in the wake of the murder of her family: just over two years ago, Elena realised with a shock. Two tumultuous years. As she swung from her saddle and darted through the press to Cera’s side she saw Nesti retainers she’d not set eyes on for a long time; noticing how they looked at her, uncertain but wanting to believe she could be trusted as before. That hurt, for it was not her loyalty that had ever wavered.

Nevertheless, when Pita Rosco was the first to embrace her in welcome, tears of relief stung her eyes.

‘Donna Elena!’ The portly Keeper of the Purse beamed, kissing her cheeks as if she were a badly missed daughter. ‘Welcome! Welcome home!’

Her throat seized up as she let him crush her against him.
Home. Yes, this is home
.

He touched her wet cheeks. ‘Si, si! It is good to cry.’ He winked at her. ‘Let them all see your tears. Let them all see how much you care.’

Then it was the turn of Luigi Ginovisi, the House Nesti Master of Revenues and Pita Rosco’s dour shadow, less fulsome in his welcome, suspending judgement. So too Comte Piero Inveglio.

They were all cautiously fascinated by Kazim, though. All the Nesti knew that Elena had been enamoured of Lorenzo di Kestria; despite the stigma, a mage in the family would have been a potent addition to the Kestrian line. The Rimoni looked more than a little put out that she now had a Keshi lover, and what it said about her loyalties, even though Lorenzo was long-dead.

Apart from those three old friends, the rest of the noblemen were comparative strangers, newcomers to the Nesti ruling council, which hammered home to her that Luca Conte and Emir Ilan Tamadhi were dead. Paolo Castellini was a Gorgio captive, along with half the Nesti army.
So many to avenge
.

‘Where is Harshal ali-Assam?’ she asked Inveglio.

‘Who knows?’ he responded. ‘He goes here and there, returns with information when it suits him. Some trust him, others . . .’ He spread his hands doubtfully.

‘Harshal may appear to play both sides, but he is Javonesi,’ Elena replied confidently. ‘He and I have been in contact and shared information. We can trust him.’

Comte Inveglio took that in without undue enthusiasm. He took Elena to meet some of the new men, including the Sollan drui and Amteh Scriptualist assigned to the royal family.

‘Although their influence isn’t what it was here,’ he confided. ‘The people know that both the Sollan and Amteh clergy condemned Cera to die; and that men who had shared table with us were part of that. They know that the clergy fought her will when she held her Beggars’ Court.’ He paused. ‘They want a similar court here. Do you think that wise?’

Elena didn’t, not right now. ‘We’ve a war to fight, Piero. Let us tend to that first.’

The Comte’s eyes warmed a little. ‘It is good to have you back, Donna Elena.’

‘So long as I agree with you on all matters?’

Inveglio laughed. ‘Si, of course. But even so, for I don’t trust that to last.’

*

Love: that was what Cera Nesti felt as she listened to the Jhafi prayer, the Mantra of Family, naming all present as family and therefore able to speak freely. Once it was completed, she and Elena, the only women present, were permitted to lower the hoods of their bekira-shrouds and debate freely with the men.

This is what I loved so much: not just being part of these meetings but making the decisions that guide this land.

For years she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her: women were supposed to think only of men and babies and jewellery and clothes and making a perfect home. Her mother had been like that, and so had her sister Solinde.

But I desire women, and I like to rule kingdoms.

She sometimes wondered if the two things were linked, but that didn’t ring true to her: if men were supposed to be hunters, she knew herself to be different: she wanted to be hunted, couldn’t imagine doing the hunting herself. And history did speak of women rulers, strong rulers, who were nevertheless wives and mothers of renown
.

I’m different to them all.
I’m unique
.

‘Welcome, dearest brothers and sisters,’ she greeted her fellow council members. As head of the Nesti family, senior member of the family of the Crown Prince, she was entitled to lead this group, and these men had welcomed her back on that basis, which made her proud. ‘Twice welcome and thrice welcome, my friends, to this first reconvening of the Regency Council of Javon. It is with great joy that I greet you.’

The men chorused greetings, she thanked them and they sat. She was immensely aware that Elena was back at her right hand, completing her dreams.

Please Ella, trust me as you used to – I swear I’ll never let you down again!

There were a dozen men around the table, not all of them familiar, but Comte Inveglio was beside her, with Pita Rosco and Luigi Ginovisi, and Harshal ali-Assam had just returned from spying in Brochena itself. Beside him was the Keshi, Kazim Makani, whose slightly intimidating presence Elena had insisted upon. The young man was huge, and quietly sure of himself, even among the nobles of Javon.

She tapped the pile of papers before her. ‘We’ve much to discuss, my friends. But first, I have some things to report.’

They all went still, and their eyes bored into her.

‘As you know, I was condemned to death for the murder of King Francis Dorobon, and acts of immorality. I state here and now, categorically, that I was not guilty on either count. Another murdered Francis, and made it appear that it was me.’ That caused a murmur, but she raised her hand for silence. ‘Furthermore, nothing immoral has ever occurred between myself and any other woman.’

There was love, and pleasure, and I hold neither to be immoral, but natural and beautiful, and if it wasn’t suicidal to do so, I’d say it aloud.

‘I am a woman, like any other, desirous of marriage and children,’ she said emphatically. ‘Furthermore, I have heard rumours that I now have an overweening taste for power, that I am plotting to seize the throne in my own name and push my beloved brother aside! I hear that I am a new Mater-Imperia Lucia in the making! I refute this entirely, and you will see my words proven when, at the end of this war, I wed Sultan Salim and retire to his harem, as I have pledged.’

This reminder of her betrothal to Salim of Kesh, sealed before the Dorobon invasion and unpopular among her advisors, caused an unhappy mutter on all sides, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

‘Further, it is said by some that my marriage to Francis Dorobon was an act of betrayal. I accepted that marriage to protect my brother and enable me to work for Javon from within the Dorobon court. I give you the Beggars’ Court as evidence of this.’

This was greeted with grimaces and small nods of approval. Her marriage had severely tested her friends, she knew; it might not have been as purely motivated as she pretended – fear had played a big part – but she’d survived.

‘Finally, I have a confession. I fell into doubt, in the days prior to the Dorobon invasion, and I turned my back on that one person whom I should have trusted implicitly. I ignored the advice of Elena Anborn, and left us vulnerable.’

In fact I did far, far worse than that . . . But I pray that no one here will ever know the full extent of my betrayal.

Cera turned to Elena. ‘I therefore beg her full forgiveness.’ She fell to her knees on the cold marble before the Rondian mage, knowing that she was leaving Elena no dignified way of refusing her apology, but she could see no other way of lancing this boil, not when Elena continued to refuse to see her privately.

The silence in the room was total, and remained frozen for a long, awkward moment, while Elena whispered into her mind.

Aloud, Elena said, in a voice that was pitched perfectly between relief and regret, ‘That’s gone, Princessa. There is nothing to forgive.’ She reached down and pulled Cera to her feet.

The men looked on, excluded suddenly, wanting to react in appreciation but unsure why the tension remained. Cera bridged the moment by kissing Elena’s cheeks. Elena’s lips on her own cheek were cold, but she feigned a smile.

‘Let us work together as we used to, dearest Ella,’ Cera said solemnly.

‘For Javon,’ Elena replied, forcing warmth into her voice.

Someone clapped, and then all the men applauded, and the smell of relief was tangible. Cera carefully avoided looking at Elena again, peering down the table where Kazim was smiling fixedly, as if he’d sensed what passed and liked none of it.

‘In token of Elena’s service,’ Cera announced, ‘the king has given me leave to gift her a piece of land – a monastery on the slopes of Mount Tigrat where she made her home for a time.’ The men frowned a little at this, but none raised any objection, probably because the land wasn’t productive.

Then it was down to business.

They began with the status of the military. Seir Ionus Mardium, the new knight-commander, spoke first. ‘We lost thousands when the Dorobon ambushed us at Fishil Wadi,’ he reminded them. ‘A thousand in battle, four thousand to the Gorgio slave-mines – that was half our strength, in terms of regular soldiers. But we’ve recruited heavily and replaced our losses with reserves. Also, sixteen thousand men of Loctis have marched south, mostly Jhafi, but many Kestrian Rimoni; and eighteen thousand men are under arms in Riban, also mostly Jhafi.’

‘We have more men to send,’ young Justiano di Kestria reported. He was representing his elder brother, the Lord of Loctis. ‘But we must also ensure our home is safe.’

‘So too with House Aranio,’ Stefan di Aranio put in. ‘Don’t doubt our commitment, my Lady, but you must realise that it is Riban where the first blow will come.’

‘Gurvon could just as easily approach Forensa from the south, leaving Riban untouched,’ Elena noted, her voice brittle. ‘They have two legions at the Rift Forts already.’

Piero Inveglio unrolled a large map. ‘Where are the enemy?’ he asked, looking at Harshal ali-Assam.

The shaven-skulled Jhafi lord stood, his silks rustling. ‘I have just returned from Brochena and I have current word on all enemy deployments.’ He placed a marker on the Rift Forts, to the south of Forensa. ‘The Estellan legions, commanded by the woman Staria Canestos, are here.’

‘The perverted ones,’ Scriptualist Nehlan interrupted.

‘Staria’s men are capable soldiers, regardless of their other inclinations,’ Elena pointed out.

‘I’m told they fight like buggery,’ Piero Inveglio joked, though no one laughed.

Cera guessed their hesitancy meant some still half-believed she was safian.

‘Well, I thought it was funny,’ Inveglio said diffidently.

Harshal put other markers on the map. ‘In the Krak di Condotiori we have Adi Paavus’ Rondian mercenaries. Near Riban, Argundians under Hans Frikter. In Baroz, the Hollenians of Endus Rykjard. Those are all loyal to Gurvon Gyle, of course.’ Harshal chose different markers and placed two in Brochena. ‘Two legions of Dorobon, at least, for they are recruiting among the settlers, and another of Kirkegarde loyal to Tomas Betillon. A total of eight legions – each with fifteen magi and five thousand men.’

‘You can ignore Adi Paavus,’ Elena said. ‘He won’t budge from the Krak di Condotiori unless it’s an emergency. The real question is whether Gurvon and Betillon can work together.’

‘Can they?’ Pita Rosco asked.

‘I’m damned if I know, Pita. The two have history: Gurvon fought for Noros in the Revolt, and Betillon was the commander of one of the Rondian armies. Betillon sent his men into the town of Knebb, which had already surrendered – he was new to the conflict, as was Kaltus Korion, after the previous Rondian generals were sacked for their failures. Betillon decided to make an example of Knebb, so he had every man, woman and child put to death. The women were raped first. We all swore we’d kill the bastard for that, but he won. That crime, and those he and his army of thugs committed afterwards, turned the war against us. He is still known as the Butcher of Knebb.’

‘But both are pragmatists,’ Pita noted.

‘We were the first into Knebb afterwards, Gurvon and I. We were so angry . . .’ Elena looked down at her clenched fists. ‘But Gurvon’s changed. I believe he would ally with Shaitan himself if it profited.’

‘So the possibility of them acting in concert remains,’ Cera concluded grimly. She placed a marker on Hytel. ‘There are also the Gorgio.’
Portia, how do you fare?

Harshal ali-Assam brightened. ‘Let me tell you a tale of Hytel,’ he drawled. ‘You will recall that the lovely Portia Tolidi was also married to Francis Dorobon, only being a Gorgio, she threw herself into the rukking with enthusiasm.’ The men snickered, and Cera had to control her irritation at this defamation of her former lover. ‘Well, she got what she wanted – a child in her belly – and was sent north, where, surprise, surprise, she gained more than she had imagined. Donna Elena will tell us how a woman who becomes pregnant to a powerful mage can gain the gnosis herself.’