City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (48 page)

The kahr’s first thoughts turned to vengeance. “King Acher will pay.” And the king would pay for the crime he had committed. The dark river of anger began to boil inside Morghiad. He fought to smooth the uneven surface down; Artemi did not deserve to feel that. But a swift dispatch with the sword would be too kind, and would draw the entire country into conflict. Provincial nobles would vie for The Marble Throne and neighbouring countries would strike to claim portions of Calidell as their own. Thousands would die as a result of his reprisal. Morghiad would then become hunted, he and all those he cared for.

...Never to destroy what you hate...

No, Acher could be made to suffer in other ways. The disinherited kahr would fill the entire city of Cadra with wielders! Of course, he would have to resign his command of the army. His men could hardly follow the son of their one-time enemy. But he could still find ways of making life extremely difficult for the king, and he would have time to build a good replacement government. Once he killed Acher, as he would eventually, he would have to submit himself for arrest and trial. Morghiad could never be king. He needed to find someone strong, someone with experience... someone whom people respected. The former kahr of Gialdin looked down at the locks of dark golden-red hair that cascaded over the arms of his lover. Artemi had been a legendary queen, and the men had already adopted her as such. The only problem would be convincing her that she could do it.

The ragged clouds pressed down heavily as the exhausted and hungry Calidellian army exited the Orsenid Pass, snaking into the green lands that marked the edge of their kingdom. The men were tired but buoyed by the scale of their adventure; it would surely become a story of legend, and they had been part of it. Artemi was troubled by the inconsistent mood of her captain. Violent, frightening anger would sometimes surge in him and, though he gave no signal of it in his features, he battled hard to suppress it. How he controlled it, she had no idea. The man was like a long-silent volcano, simmering beneath the surface in a prelude to the destruction it would one day unleash. Artemi fully expected him to assassinate King Acher; it only seemed reasonable, after all. But the kahr had told her of his desire to postpone it, and she thought she partially understood.

In seven hours they would reach the city of Larkena, one of the victims of the rogue army’s attacks. Morghiad wanted the army to stop there for a day while he travelled to the ruined city of Gialdin with her, and then they would all rendezvous at Jesundh in the north. The plan concerned Artemi. Though the reason for his desire to visit the ruins was clear, it would not be so clear to his soldiers. Silar rode up beside them. Since the morning he’d been hanging around them both like a fly that had found a chicken carcass. “Will you tell me why you both have faces as grim as the caves we just escaped from? You two ought to be grinning like the fools you are. Tell me. We are far away enough from the others now,” he said. His blond hair was a touch more ruffled than usual, and stubble had begun to roughen his jaw. Artemi still appreciated his prettiness, and was surprised at how Morghiad tolerated it. But then he knew the relative depths of her feelings for them both.

The kahr remained placid, but Artemi felt the gentle trickle of tension that preceded his words. “King Acher is not my father. My parents were the one-time rulers of Gialdin.” He took a breath. “I must resign my command, Silar, when we get back. Would you look into the problem for me, in your usual way?”

Silar’s face was a picture of shock. He stared for a minute, as if waiting to hear it was all a joke. “I’ll do my best, Morghiad,” he said. And he trotted back to the column.

Artemi hoped her father had not caught sight of their moods in the last few days. Silar was a little more understanding, but she knew her father would think it was the kahr’s fault. She had no idea what the reaction of a man of little money might be; her love completely blinded her from thinking any less of Morghiad. And, if anything, she was more honoured to have earned the fondness of a kahr who was not Acher’s progeny. But she feared what hopes her father had built for her. He almost certainly would not want her with an outcast, potentially an outlaw. And now that the former soldier had re-enlisted he would be forced to stay, forced to oust her lover from his post. And if Morghiad had to leave Cadra then so would she. Her father could not afford to be arrested for desertion a second time. Artemi was torn by the prospect of leaving either man alone. “We have to deal with Aval,” Morghiad said, disrupting her reflections. The thought of the woman made Artemi want to dispense with her lunch in an unconventional manner. It was bad enough that the noblewoman was so handsome, worse that she admired the kahr and deeply troubling that she now knew several of Artemi’s secrets; the army’s secrets. Aval had only to speak a word of it to the king, and Morghiad would be the noblewoman’s to do with as she wished. Artemi chewed on her lip to stop herself from spitting on the ground like a horse thief.

“What do you propose?” she asked calmly.

Morghiad was mulling over an idea in his head. “I will talk to her. She will not be permitted to return to Cadra. I will make sure of that.” He looked at her intently. “I would not allow her to endanger you, Artemi.”

She found it amusing that he had allowed her to fight in a messy battle against hardened warriors, and yet seemed more concerned about a noblewoman with poor sword skills. The kahr was a curious man at the best of times, and in many ways he was now more of a puzzle to her than when they’d first met. That current of anger was worrying. Had it always been there? “That hummingbird of a woman doesn’t scare me. Just don’t let her seduce you with her looks.”

Morghiad frowned at her. Was that mirth she could feel in amongst his emotions? Artemi had no idea what that meant. She hoped it was in her favour.

Thick weeds wedged through the gaps in the broken, grey brick road. It hadn’t been maintained in years, and Morghiad doubted many people had travelled it in as long. The uneven nature of the paving made for slow-going; anything faster would break a horse’s leg. Artemi’s mount stepped lightly a few yards ahead of him. She had grown morose in light of the revelations of his parentage and he despised himself for infecting her fires with his unhappiness. The flame haired warrior also appeared despondent at being made to wear dresses once more, though Morghiad found her equally as desirable in tight-fitted trousers. There could be a good future ahead for her and for Calidell, and he would do his best to ensure it came to pass. His surge of optimism caused her to turn and smile at him. He had missed that smile for all of the four days it had been absent. Morghiad caught up with her and pulled her onto Tyshar’s saddle with him. The smell of her hair alone was enough to warm his heart. They walked on for several hours before the tall, bare birch and alder trees started to thin.

Fallen red brick structures poked through the undergrowth here and there, indicating the abandoned farmsteads that had once been occupied. Rotten wood beams jutted from some of the debris, covered in ivy and pale green moss. No one worked these lands now, though the soil looked as good as any Morghiad had seen. He kicked the horses on eagerly through the low scrub. Brilliant white fragments shone from beneath the leaves, breaking up the green of the foliage ahead. The trees had now cleared completely: this was the edge of the city proper, and it had been vast. The kahr pulled the horses to a halt. The area was almost entirely flat, save for the route of a silted river which etched across the middle. Shards of white wall jutted out of the ground closer to the core of the city; those must have been the castle fortifications. The surrounding birdsong was almost deafening, even in the heart of winter.

“This place is alive like a still-beating heart. Can you feel it?” Artemi said.

Morghiad could feel it, The Blazes seemed to resonate here. A muddied and ivy-laden white road led to the centre, but it was too covered in fallen masonry to take the horses down. “Let’s dismount here.”

Artemi jumped off with appreciable agility and Morghiad followed in a heavy fashion. He’d begun to feel rather clumsy next to her lately. She’d always been graceful, but recently she’d assumed an ethereal elegance in every action she performed. It was as if she’d become a part of the leaves that waved in the breeze or the currents that ran through The Blazes themselves. Perhaps it was a resonance of her still-absent memories.

With the horses tethered, they picked their way carefully over the shattered masonry. Morghiad had been careful to approach the city from the southernmost gate, or what remained of it. In his memory Artemi had been running to the northern gate shortly before her death, and he didn’t want her walking over her own body again. He needn’t have worried though, there were no bones visible amongst the debris. Either the Gialdins had taken pains to bury their dead or the animals of the forest had done it for them. Morghiad wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for here; perhaps some kind of reconciliation with his memories or a chance to ask forgiveness from his parents. He needed to set at least one thing right and whatever it was began here, where all wrongs had been committed. The white fabric of the city buildings was still sharp-edged and piled high across the road in places, and Artemi seemed to glide over it as if it were simply a twig in her path. He scrambled over a particularly high and razor-like splinter gingerly. It was no wonder the wreckage of Gialdin city still remained as it had fallen nineteen years earlier; the crystalline structures would have been lethal to clear, and the smallest pieces were improbably heavy too. Morghiad placed his hand on the surface of one piece; it whirled with the sensation of Blaze echoes in a similar way to Artemi’s sword. But the form of it had been disrupted; the energy was not locked-in as it should have been. It would have taken a powerful wielder and kanaala to disrupt such a complex form and shatter these white walls, not to mention years of study. The kahr wondered where and how King Acher had found such a person.

When they reached the castle walls, Morghiad’s clothing had been cut in numerous places. Artemi, naturally, looked utterly unscathed by the journey. If anything, she looked more enlivened by the exercise; her eyes were bright and her lips deep red. He suppressed his amorous thoughts; those were really not appropriate here. Though looking at her still made his breath catch at times, and she was beginning to react to his feelings. Artemi smiled, stood on tiptoes and kissed the kahr, but did not take it any further. He was grateful for her reticence, for he would not have been able to stop himself if she had pursued those feelings. It was all very well being in love with one of the most beautiful women who had ever lived, but it had a tendency to get in the way of even the simplest of tasks. He tore his gaze away from her and looked to the walls. They were unbelievably thin for castle fortifications. Had they really stood for several-thousand years? He took Artemi’s hand and led her deeper into the rubble. White shards of the construction were piled metres thick here, making the area into a slightly raised platform that was hundreds of metres across. Morghiad found a smooth piece and sat on top of it, drawing her down next to him, and surveyed his kingdom.

“At last I take my throne,” he whispered.

Artemi looked and felt horrified at what he’d said. “You could rebuild. Take back what is yours.”

“With what? The people of Gialdin are all dead or scattered to the winds. I’d have to raise my own army to protect this city and from where would I raise it? Then I’d have to fight against the men who promised their loyalty to me. I would start a war over a grave. And that is what this place is: a burial site. It is a thing of history now.” He turned a small piece of white crystal over in his hand.

“And what are we if we are not products of our history? History is not in our past but forms us in the present. And how histories are written or interpreted depends on what we do today. You seem to think that being a kahr of a city in history makes you a kahr in history. But you are not yet. You are a kahr of the present, and being a kahr without a castle makes you no less of a kahr.” She looked at the rubble fiercely. “And you do not need to start a war. You already have the army you require.”