Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford
The knights had passed them now, their horses shying and skittish, surrounded as they were by the huge crowd. Nobul could see the palanquin and the men that carried it. The knights on horseback had looked battered, but these men looked as though they had been to the hells and back. It wasn’t just the dishevelled state of their armour; Nobul could easily recognise the faces of men haunted by war.
But then who better to carry their king to his final interment? Who better than men who had fought beside him, suffered with him, bled with him. If Nobul was ever to be conveyed to his final rest he would hope it would be by men such as this.
As for the king, he looked more magnificent than ever, lying in his shining armour of office, the ancient sword, the fabled Helsbayn, clutched to his body, his steel crown firmly affixed to his head.
Suddenly one of the soldiers stumbled, fatigue taking his legs away, and he almost fell. The palanquin tipped, the king’s body almost toppling off as the crowd breathed out in horror. Before he could think, Nobul was moving, striding forward to take the palanquin’s weight from the man and righting it once more.
For a moment Nobul locked eyes with the young soldier and he saw something there he hadn’t seen for a long time. It was emptiness, a void that only the true horror of battle could bring, and they shared that look for just an instant.
Nobul nodded to him, taking the weight of the palanquin on his shoulder and allowing the man some respite. He deserved more, but it was all Nobul could give him. Before he knew it they were moving on once more, the relentless momentum of the procession urging the palanquin onwards. Nobul had no time to think, he just moved on, taking the weight on his shoulder and carrying the king to his final resting place, whether he was worthy of the honour or not.
Honour? Was it an honour to carry such a man? Nobul knew he wasn’t in a position to judge anyone. The deeds he’d done in his life were no better or worse than those of King Cael Mastragall. As for being worthy? He’d served under Cael’s command back in the day. Nobul reckoned he was as worthy as any.
As they moved forward, Nobul could smell the other men, their stink permeating the air. Any man who’d spent weeks on campaign started to smell all kinds of awful, but there was another smell beneath the dirt and grime and sweat. It was the stink of rot, of festering wounds gone too long untended, the hollow, putrid stench of teeth gone too long uncared for and feet with too many open sores.
It brought back memories Nobul would rather have left forgot. On the way back from Bakhaus Gate as many men had died from the cold and hunger as had died in battle and he’d almost been one of them. He knew what these men were going through, and it filled him with deep sadness. It wasn’t the death of the king people should have been mourning; it was the thousands of others left by the roadside to go unburied. It was the young lads, shivering in their own shit and crying for their mothers. Bright-faced young men who’d marched off to war with the promise of victory and glory only to find their end in a lonely field, far from home.
But then life wasn’t ever fair, was it?
The vast Sepulchre of Crowns came into view up ahead. Nobul could see the huge building just past the destriers trotting in front of him. It was an ancient mausoleum, housing the coffins of a hundred dead kings and queens. Since half the kings had worshipped the Old Gods and the other half Arlor and Vorena, it wasn’t seen as right that the funeral rites for Steelhaven’s rulers should take place in the Temple of Autumn. So the Sepulchre of Crowns was where they were all laid to rest, under the watchful eye of gods old and new. Nobul wondered whether Arlor and the Lord of Crows were even now arguing over who got to take the old bastard to the hells.
A vast stairway led up to the doors of the Sepulchre, and the lads carrying the front of the palanquin lowered it so as the king didn’t slide right off the back. In front, the horses took the stairs like they were practised, their footing sure on the wide stone steps. Nobul began to feel the strain as they made their way up, but if none of these lads was about to complain then he wasn’t neither. Waiting at the top were representatives from the Temple of Autumn: Shieldmaidens bearing their weapons and arms proudly, alongside white-clad priestesses whose heads were shrouded in respect. They led the way through vast double doors rising almost twenty feet.
Inside, the Sepulchre of Crowns was a magnificent sight. Vast columns rose up to a massive glass ceiling, covered in multicoloured panes that painted everything inside with a differing hue. Lining the walls were friezes hewn from marble and statues depicting every king and queen of Steelhaven, marking their final resting place. For a second Nobul almost forgot the reason he was there, almost forgot the burden he still carried on his shoulder.
As they reached the altar at the end of the long paved aisle, Nobul and the bearers heaved the palanquin from their shoulders, and laid their king before it. Nobul became aware of the rest of the congregation, ‘the great and the good’ of the Free States, and suddenly felt out of place.
The dark-skinned regent, Odaka Du’ur, looked on, his face a stern mask. He had been the king’s adviser; they had shed blood together. Nobul knew well how that could bond one man to another. Beside Odaka Du’ur stood many others, dressed in their robes of state; most of them Nobul wouldn’t have recognised if he fell over them in the street. Only one stood out, and this despite her diminutive size and the modest black gown she wore.
Princess Janessa held herself erect with a grim expression that sat oddly on her pretty face. Nobul could see she was holding back tears, trying to do her duty as she watched them present her father.
Nobul suddenly felt guilty for all the things he’d thought about the old man. Yes he’d been a bastard and sent many a man to his grave, but who could say Nobul Jacks would have done any different if he’d been in Cael’s boots?
He began to feel he’d outstayed his welcome. People were here to mourn, to show their respects and send their king off to the hells or the Halls of Arlor or whatever it was they believed. Nobul was only here because he’d wanted to help some poor lad. Nobul shifted to the back of the Sepulchre, and before they could close the massive doors, he managed to slip outside.
Once the doors had slammed shut behind him, he could only feel relief, sucking in a big gulp of air as the first of the rainfall spattered down around him.
A while later, when the men and women of King Cael’s court had listened to the words of priests and mumbled their prayers, it was the turn of the common folk to say their goodbyes to their king. None of them seemed to mind queuing in the rain, and most of them were drenched by the time they got to enter the Sepulchre.
Nobul stood alongside the rest of the lads, watching as the king’s subjects filed past to see him in state, to lay a flower or two and shed a tear over him. It seemed the whole city had been moved to grief, but Nobul didn’t feel like joining in. If the Khurtas came there’d be plenty of tears to shed soon enough. Wasn’t worth shedding them now over one old man.
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ said Denny.
‘What does?’ Nobul replied.
‘All these people come to cry over one man. Makes you wonder what it might be like when you die.’
‘Not really.’
‘I mean, my old ma will probably come, if I die first. I haven’t got no kids, no wife. What if I never get married? I don’t fancy dying alone.’
‘We all die alone, Denny. Ain’t no one can do it for you.’
They stood for a while longer. As the day wore on the crowd thinned. Once the streets were nearly empty there was no need for Amber Watch to be standing around any longer.
As they made their way back to the barracks, Denny walked beside Nobul, and it was obvious something was troubling him.
‘You’re a veteran of Bakhaus Gate. You’ve killed people before, haven’t you?’ he said finally.
Nobul felt a stiffness in his neck. It was a question that he was not going to answer. If he told Denny ‘no’ it’d be an obvious lie, and if he said ‘yes’ it would only lead to more unwanted questions.
‘I killed someone once,’ Denny said, before Nobul could think of a reply. ‘Weren’t no criminal neither, just a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Now that Nobul had not been expecting.
He looked at Denny, and he could tell the lad was uncomfortable.
‘It were an accident … Kilgar and the lads know, but I haven’t told no one else. You won’t tell no one, will you, Lincon?’
Nobul shook his head. He’d killed enough times, and spoken to enough men who’d killed, to know what a bastard it could be to live with. Some handled it better than others, but he imagined Denny of all people wasn’t suited to it.
‘Thanks. I know I can rely on you, mate. I trust you.’
‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, lad,’ Nobul said. Gods knew he was testament to that.
‘Yeah … It lives with you though, doesn’t it? Stays with you. Nights are the worst.’ Isn’t that the truth. ‘I can still see him lying there, eyes all dead and glassy, covered in blood. I shot him, see. We was trying to catch a killer, thought we had him too, cornered on a rooftop, and then all the hells happened at once. My crossbow just went off, and when it had all calmed down there was this lad, lying on the roof, stuck with the bolt and bleeding to death.’
Nobul clenched his fists.
Denny had been the one that killed his fucking boy.
‘Anyway, I should shut up. Best not to dwell on things.’
With that Denny walked on, locked in his own thoughts.
Nobul’s fists were clenched so tight his nails almost broke the skin, but he just watched as Denny walked away. Watched as the bloke that killed his boy showed his back to him.
And Nobul didn’t do a thing.
THIRTY-SIX
They spoke at length of the peril the Free States faced.
Odaka, Garret and Durket listened intently to General Hawke’s recounting of the Battle of Kelbur Fenn, to how the enemy had come at them in a massive wave, a single horde of screaming, painted warriors. At first these were easily cut down by the Knights of the Blood, but they were just bait – warriors sacrificed by Amon Tugha to lure the armies of the Free States into a trap.
The Khurtas were a rabble, a horde of savage killers, but it seemed the Elharim warlord had turned them into something more. While the king’s knights ploughed through their ranks on the field, thousands more were silently moving beyond the valley of Kelbur Fenn to flank the waiting armies of the Free States. They unleashed their beasts of war: fell hounds and armoured bears, quickly following with spear and axe to sack the supply wagons and hack down the reserve forces.
At the front, the Khurtas had been routed, or so it seemed, and the Knights of the Blood gave chase. What awaited them beyond the valley was no broken horde though, but the Elharim’s artillery – his war machines and his archers, waiting for the knights to ride within range. They were cut down almost to a man, and by the time the king led the few survivors back to his own lines, all he found was a decimated wagon train and his reserve levies slaughtered.
It was later, as they counted their dead, that they discovered the king had been murdered. No one saw the assassin and no mark was left on his body, but he was found in his tent, his sacred sword still sheathed at his side, his eyes shut as though he merely rested.
All this Janessa listened to without saying a word. She took little notice of General Hawke’s tales of war or even his account of her father’s assassination. Even when he went on to tell of the relentless horde’s movements, how they had passed Coppergate, all but ignoring the city and moving into Braega, she had barely registered his words. The men recognised her grief, and carried on their meeting as though she were not there, talking of troop movements, bolstering defences, auxiliary levies, mercenary companies, and a score of other things.
Janessa was glad of their consideration, but it was not just grief that occupied her mind. It was not just the fact that her father had been killed, his body brought back on a plain wooden pallet, unadorned and inglorious, that concerned her. It wasn’t even that she was now burdened with the responsibility of governing the Free States and seeing to the well-being of its peoples. She knew it was this that should have been foremost in her thoughts; that there were thousands relying on her and her council to make the right decision, to protect and defend them.
And yet, to her shame, all Janessa could think of was River.
‘… and we must speak to the Banker’s League,’ Odaka said.
It was as though his words suddenly brought her back to the meeting, the faces of the other men suddenly coming into sharp focus. Why this comment meant anything more to her than anything else that had been said she did not know, but there was something in it, something in Odaka’s tone, that made her think this was the most important thing of all.
‘Why is that?’ she asked.
The men all turned to her, as though noticing her for the first time. Odaka looked to Chancellor Durket, whose face contorted with a sickly smile before he began speaking.
‘Majesty, the conflicts your father has been involved in over the years, the strife that has afflicted the Free States, has taken a devastating toll on the Crown coffers. We are already indebted to the Banker’s League for just over ten million crowns. If we are to face the Khurtas and see them struck from our lands we will need further funds to pay for troops, equipment, supplies.’
Janessa had been little involved with the running of her father’s kingdom, but even she knew the Banker’s League was a consortium headed by rich and powerful figures from several foreign countries. Without their aid the Free States would be at the mercy of its enemies.
‘So what should we do?’
Durket looked to Odaka, who offered little help, forcing him to continue. ‘We have set up a meeting with one of their representatives. I’m sure we will be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
‘I will speak with him.’ She’d said it before she’d even thought about the words.
‘Majesty?’ Durket’s eyes seemed to bulge. ‘I think it best if I …’
‘I said I will speak with him, Chancellor.’
Durket nodded, but Odaka took up where Durket had left off.
‘I understand your eagerness to take up your father’s mantle, but perhaps we should begin with other, less testing, matters of state. The Banker’s League can be … tricky, at best.’
‘I will soon be responsible for all matters of state. My father did not hide behind his council, and neither will I.’ She stood, hoping it might give her a modicum of authority, but feared it made her look more like a petulant child. ‘General Hawke, we will discuss later what supplies our armies need to face the enemy. Chancellor, I will need to see all ledgers relating to the Crown’s expenditure. Odaka, you will make the arrangements for my coronation immediately. Our people cannot be left without a monarch, especially with the enemy at our gates.’
Each of the men nodded at her demands and Janessa, for the first time ever, almost felt up to her task. Her fists were clenched, if only to stop them shaking, but it still felt good. She felt in command.
Nevertheless, she had to leave before she crumbled. Before the veneer of control sloughed off and revealed what lay beneath – that she was scared and in pain.
‘If that will be all, gentlemen?’
She rose to leave, and the four men stood and bowed their heads as she passed.
The corridors of Skyhelm housed more Sentinels than Janessa had ever seen. Some of her father’s Knights of the Blood also stood vigil taking some respite before their return to the war in the north, though Janessa guessed they were no longer her father’s – they were now hers.
As surrounded as she was by men who would gladly give their lives for her, Janessa still felt vulnerable. She made her way to her chamber as fast as she could. When she reached it she took from her gown the only key that would open her door, and unlocked it.
It was dark inside, as it always was. Years ago, in
a different life, Janessa had hated it when her room was plunged into darkness. Now she didn’t care, for she knew he would be waiting in the shadow.
She locked the door behind her and, within a moment, felt his breath on her neck, his arms moving to envelop her. She closed her eyes and let herself succumb to him.
Over the past days he had stayed in her chamber and she had nursed him back to health. During that time she had told him everything, as he had told her his own fears and dreams days before in the tiny square. They had found solace in one another, a union of thought and spirit. Raelan and Leon and thoughts of any other suitor were forgotten. Only one man owned her heart.
She wanted him more than anything, wanted to feel his kiss, his arms around her, the weight of him on her. Yet she had resisted, as had he. Now though, after her father’s funeral, after endless council meetings, she was tired; she could resist no longer and she would not allow River to either.
They fell on the bed, and he kissed her lips. She kissed him back greedily, sharing his breath, running her fingers over his back, feeling the scars and the taut muscle beneath. One hand ran down his hard chest, brushing over the bandage that protected the now healed wound at his side. There was a livid scar – just one more to join his score of others. As her hand moved down towards his groin he stopped her.
‘We should not,’ he said, words she had heard him say so many times, but she was in no mood to stop now. She would be queen soon enough, servant and master to thousands, responsible for the lives and souls of her subjects. Surely she deserved this … this one respite from duty and obligation?
‘We should,’ she replied, moving her hand further down.
He was strong enough to stop her if he truly wished, but it was clear his desire was as deep as hers and he allowed her to fumble at the drawstring of his trews as he kissed her neck, her breath coming in rapid gasps.
Frantically she pulled up her skirts then pulled him inside her, their lips locked together, her tongue darting forward. She gasped as he pushed inside, her mouth still locked to his, losing herself in the sensation and taste of him.
But then who better to carry their king to his final interment? Who better than men who had fought beside him, suffered with him, bled with him. If Nobul was ever to be conveyed to his final rest he would hope it would be by men such as this.
As for the king, he looked more magnificent than ever, lying in his shining armour of office, the ancient sword, the fabled Helsbayn, clutched to his body, his steel crown firmly affixed to his head.
Suddenly one of the soldiers stumbled, fatigue taking his legs away, and he almost fell. The palanquin tipped, the king’s body almost toppling off as the crowd breathed out in horror. Before he could think, Nobul was moving, striding forward to take the palanquin’s weight from the man and righting it once more.
For a moment Nobul locked eyes with the young soldier and he saw something there he hadn’t seen for a long time. It was emptiness, a void that only the true horror of battle could bring, and they shared that look for just an instant.
Nobul nodded to him, taking the weight of the palanquin on his shoulder and allowing the man some respite. He deserved more, but it was all Nobul could give him. Before he knew it they were moving on once more, the relentless momentum of the procession urging the palanquin onwards. Nobul had no time to think, he just moved on, taking the weight on his shoulder and carrying the king to his final resting place, whether he was worthy of the honour or not.
Honour? Was it an honour to carry such a man? Nobul knew he wasn’t in a position to judge anyone. The deeds he’d done in his life were no better or worse than those of King Cael Mastragall. As for being worthy? He’d served under Cael’s command back in the day. Nobul reckoned he was as worthy as any.
As they moved forward, Nobul could smell the other men, their stink permeating the air. Any man who’d spent weeks on campaign started to smell all kinds of awful, but there was another smell beneath the dirt and grime and sweat. It was the stink of rot, of festering wounds gone too long untended, the hollow, putrid stench of teeth gone too long uncared for and feet with too many open sores.
It brought back memories Nobul would rather have left forgot. On the way back from Bakhaus Gate as many men had died from the cold and hunger as had died in battle and he’d almost been one of them. He knew what these men were going through, and it filled him with deep sadness. It wasn’t the death of the king people should have been mourning; it was the thousands of others left by the roadside to go unburied. It was the young lads, shivering in their own shit and crying for their mothers. Bright-faced young men who’d marched off to war with the promise of victory and glory only to find their end in a lonely field, far from home.
But then life wasn’t ever fair, was it?
The vast Sepulchre of Crowns came into view up ahead. Nobul could see the huge building just past the destriers trotting in front of him. It was an ancient mausoleum, housing the coffins of a hundred dead kings and queens. Since half the kings had worshipped the Old Gods and the other half Arlor and Vorena, it wasn’t seen as right that the funeral rites for Steelhaven’s rulers should take place in the Temple of Autumn. So the Sepulchre of Crowns was where they were all laid to rest, under the watchful eye of gods old and new. Nobul wondered whether Arlor and the Lord of Crows were even now arguing over who got to take the old bastard to the hells.
A vast stairway led up to the doors of the Sepulchre, and the lads carrying the front of the palanquin lowered it so as the king didn’t slide right off the back. In front, the horses took the stairs like they were practised, their footing sure on the wide stone steps. Nobul began to feel the strain as they made their way up, but if none of these lads was about to complain then he wasn’t neither. Waiting at the top were representatives from the Temple of Autumn: Shieldmaidens bearing their weapons and arms proudly, alongside white-clad priestesses whose heads were shrouded in respect. They led the way through vast double doors rising almost twenty feet.
Inside, the Sepulchre of Crowns was a magnificent sight. Vast columns rose up to a massive glass ceiling, covered in multicoloured panes that painted everything inside with a differing hue. Lining the walls were friezes hewn from marble and statues depicting every king and queen of Steelhaven, marking their final resting place. For a second Nobul almost forgot the reason he was there, almost forgot the burden he still carried on his shoulder.
As they reached the altar at the end of the long paved aisle, Nobul and the bearers heaved the palanquin from their shoulders, and laid their king before it. Nobul became aware of the rest of the congregation, ‘the great and the good’ of the Free States, and suddenly felt out of place.
The dark-skinned regent, Odaka Du’ur, looked on, his face a stern mask. He had been the king’s adviser; they had shed blood together. Nobul knew well how that could bond one man to another. Beside Odaka Du’ur stood many others, dressed in their robes of state; most of them Nobul wouldn’t have recognised if he fell over them in the street. Only one stood out, and this despite her diminutive size and the modest black gown she wore.
Princess Janessa held herself erect with a grim expression that sat oddly on her pretty face. Nobul could see she was holding back tears, trying to do her duty as she watched them present her father.
Nobul suddenly felt guilty for all the things he’d thought about the old man. Yes he’d been a bastard and sent many a man to his grave, but who could say Nobul Jacks would have done any different if he’d been in Cael’s boots?
He began to feel he’d outstayed his welcome. People were here to mourn, to show their respects and send their king off to the hells or the Halls of Arlor or whatever it was they believed. Nobul was only here because he’d wanted to help some poor lad. Nobul shifted to the back of the Sepulchre, and before they could close the massive doors, he managed to slip outside.
Once the doors had slammed shut behind him, he could only feel relief, sucking in a big gulp of air as the first of the rainfall spattered down around him.
A while later, when the men and women of King Cael’s court had listened to the words of priests and mumbled their prayers, it was the turn of the common folk to say their goodbyes to their king. None of them seemed to mind queuing in the rain, and most of them were drenched by the time they got to enter the Sepulchre.
Nobul stood alongside the rest of the lads, watching as the king’s subjects filed past to see him in state, to lay a flower or two and shed a tear over him. It seemed the whole city had been moved to grief, but Nobul didn’t feel like joining in. If the Khurtas came there’d be plenty of tears to shed soon enough. Wasn’t worth shedding them now over one old man.
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ said Denny.
‘What does?’ Nobul replied.
‘All these people come to cry over one man. Makes you wonder what it might be like when you die.’
‘Not really.’
‘I mean, my old ma will probably come, if I die first. I haven’t got no kids, no wife. What if I never get married? I don’t fancy dying alone.’
‘We all die alone, Denny. Ain’t no one can do it for you.’
They stood for a while longer. As the day wore on the crowd thinned. Once the streets were nearly empty there was no need for Amber Watch to be standing around any longer.
As they made their way back to the barracks, Denny walked beside Nobul, and it was obvious something was troubling him.
‘You’re a veteran of Bakhaus Gate. You’ve killed people before, haven’t you?’ he said finally.
Nobul felt a stiffness in his neck. It was a question that he was not going to answer. If he told Denny ‘no’ it’d be an obvious lie, and if he said ‘yes’ it would only lead to more unwanted questions.
‘I killed someone once,’ Denny said, before Nobul could think of a reply. ‘Weren’t no criminal neither, just a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Now that Nobul had not been expecting.
He looked at Denny, and he could tell the lad was uncomfortable.
‘It were an accident … Kilgar and the lads know, but I haven’t told no one else. You won’t tell no one, will you, Lincon?’
Nobul shook his head. He’d killed enough times, and spoken to enough men who’d killed, to know what a bastard it could be to live with. Some handled it better than others, but he imagined Denny of all people wasn’t suited to it.
‘Thanks. I know I can rely on you, mate. I trust you.’
‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, lad,’ Nobul said. Gods knew he was testament to that.
‘Yeah … It lives with you though, doesn’t it? Stays with you. Nights are the worst.’ Isn’t that the truth. ‘I can still see him lying there, eyes all dead and glassy, covered in blood. I shot him, see. We was trying to catch a killer, thought we had him too, cornered on a rooftop, and then all the hells happened at once. My crossbow just went off, and when it had all calmed down there was this lad, lying on the roof, stuck with the bolt and bleeding to death.’
Nobul clenched his fists.
Denny had been the one that killed his fucking boy.
‘Anyway, I should shut up. Best not to dwell on things.’
With that Denny walked on, locked in his own thoughts.
Nobul’s fists were clenched so tight his nails almost broke the skin, but he just watched as Denny walked away. Watched as the bloke that killed his boy showed his back to him.
And Nobul didn’t do a thing.
THIRTY-SIX
They spoke at length of the peril the Free States faced.
Odaka, Garret and Durket listened intently to General Hawke’s recounting of the Battle of Kelbur Fenn, to how the enemy had come at them in a massive wave, a single horde of screaming, painted warriors. At first these were easily cut down by the Knights of the Blood, but they were just bait – warriors sacrificed by Amon Tugha to lure the armies of the Free States into a trap.
The Khurtas were a rabble, a horde of savage killers, but it seemed the Elharim warlord had turned them into something more. While the king’s knights ploughed through their ranks on the field, thousands more were silently moving beyond the valley of Kelbur Fenn to flank the waiting armies of the Free States. They unleashed their beasts of war: fell hounds and armoured bears, quickly following with spear and axe to sack the supply wagons and hack down the reserve forces.
At the front, the Khurtas had been routed, or so it seemed, and the Knights of the Blood gave chase. What awaited them beyond the valley was no broken horde though, but the Elharim’s artillery – his war machines and his archers, waiting for the knights to ride within range. They were cut down almost to a man, and by the time the king led the few survivors back to his own lines, all he found was a decimated wagon train and his reserve levies slaughtered.
It was later, as they counted their dead, that they discovered the king had been murdered. No one saw the assassin and no mark was left on his body, but he was found in his tent, his sacred sword still sheathed at his side, his eyes shut as though he merely rested.
All this Janessa listened to without saying a word. She took little notice of General Hawke’s tales of war or even his account of her father’s assassination. Even when he went on to tell of the relentless horde’s movements, how they had passed Coppergate, all but ignoring the city and moving into Braega, she had barely registered his words. The men recognised her grief, and carried on their meeting as though she were not there, talking of troop movements, bolstering defences, auxiliary levies, mercenary companies, and a score of other things.
Janessa was glad of their consideration, but it was not just grief that occupied her mind. It was not just the fact that her father had been killed, his body brought back on a plain wooden pallet, unadorned and inglorious, that concerned her. It wasn’t even that she was now burdened with the responsibility of governing the Free States and seeing to the well-being of its peoples. She knew it was this that should have been foremost in her thoughts; that there were thousands relying on her and her council to make the right decision, to protect and defend them.
And yet, to her shame, all Janessa could think of was River.
‘… and we must speak to the Banker’s League,’ Odaka said.
It was as though his words suddenly brought her back to the meeting, the faces of the other men suddenly coming into sharp focus. Why this comment meant anything more to her than anything else that had been said she did not know, but there was something in it, something in Odaka’s tone, that made her think this was the most important thing of all.
‘Why is that?’ she asked.
The men all turned to her, as though noticing her for the first time. Odaka looked to Chancellor Durket, whose face contorted with a sickly smile before he began speaking.
‘Majesty, the conflicts your father has been involved in over the years, the strife that has afflicted the Free States, has taken a devastating toll on the Crown coffers. We are already indebted to the Banker’s League for just over ten million crowns. If we are to face the Khurtas and see them struck from our lands we will need further funds to pay for troops, equipment, supplies.’
Janessa had been little involved with the running of her father’s kingdom, but even she knew the Banker’s League was a consortium headed by rich and powerful figures from several foreign countries. Without their aid the Free States would be at the mercy of its enemies.
‘So what should we do?’
Durket looked to Odaka, who offered little help, forcing him to continue. ‘We have set up a meeting with one of their representatives. I’m sure we will be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
‘I will speak with him.’ She’d said it before she’d even thought about the words.
‘Majesty?’ Durket’s eyes seemed to bulge. ‘I think it best if I …’
‘I said I will speak with him, Chancellor.’
Durket nodded, but Odaka took up where Durket had left off.
‘I understand your eagerness to take up your father’s mantle, but perhaps we should begin with other, less testing, matters of state. The Banker’s League can be … tricky, at best.’
‘I will soon be responsible for all matters of state. My father did not hide behind his council, and neither will I.’ She stood, hoping it might give her a modicum of authority, but feared it made her look more like a petulant child. ‘General Hawke, we will discuss later what supplies our armies need to face the enemy. Chancellor, I will need to see all ledgers relating to the Crown’s expenditure. Odaka, you will make the arrangements for my coronation immediately. Our people cannot be left without a monarch, especially with the enemy at our gates.’
Each of the men nodded at her demands and Janessa, for the first time ever, almost felt up to her task. Her fists were clenched, if only to stop them shaking, but it still felt good. She felt in command.
Nevertheless, she had to leave before she crumbled. Before the veneer of control sloughed off and revealed what lay beneath – that she was scared and in pain.
‘If that will be all, gentlemen?’
She rose to leave, and the four men stood and bowed their heads as she passed.
The corridors of Skyhelm housed more Sentinels than Janessa had ever seen. Some of her father’s Knights of the Blood also stood vigil taking some respite before their return to the war in the north, though Janessa guessed they were no longer her father’s – they were now hers.
As surrounded as she was by men who would gladly give their lives for her, Janessa still felt vulnerable. She made her way to her chamber as fast as she could. When she reached it she took from her gown the only key that would open her door, and unlocked it.
It was dark inside, as it always was. Years ago, in
She locked the door behind her and, within a moment, felt his breath on her neck, his arms moving to envelop her. She closed her eyes and let herself succumb to him.
Over the past days he had stayed in her chamber and she had nursed him back to health. During that time she had told him everything, as he had told her his own fears and dreams days before in the tiny square. They had found solace in one another, a union of thought and spirit. Raelan and Leon and thoughts of any other suitor were forgotten. Only one man owned her heart.
She wanted him more than anything, wanted to feel his kiss, his arms around her, the weight of him on her. Yet she had resisted, as had he. Now though, after her father’s funeral, after endless council meetings, she was tired; she could resist no longer and she would not allow River to either.
They fell on the bed, and he kissed her lips. She kissed him back greedily, sharing his breath, running her fingers over his back, feeling the scars and the taut muscle beneath. One hand ran down his hard chest, brushing over the bandage that protected the now healed wound at his side. There was a livid scar – just one more to join his score of others. As her hand moved down towards his groin he stopped her.
‘We should not,’ he said, words she had heard him say so many times, but she was in no mood to stop now. She would be queen soon enough, servant and master to thousands, responsible for the lives and souls of her subjects. Surely she deserved this … this one respite from duty and obligation?
‘We should,’ she replied, moving her hand further down.
He was strong enough to stop her if he truly wished, but it was clear his desire was as deep as hers and he allowed her to fumble at the drawstring of his trews as he kissed her neck, her breath coming in rapid gasps.
Frantically she pulled up her skirts then pulled him inside her, their lips locked together, her tongue darting forward. She gasped as he pushed inside, her mouth still locked to his, losing herself in the sensation and taste of him.