Queen of Fire

The Ally now rode at the rear of the column, his bruised and partially remoulded features bland and cheerful as ever. Orven’s guards had been given stern instructions to gag him if he attempted to speak again, but he had maintained a continual silence since waking from the beating. Kiral stared at him constantly, hands often bunching on her reins and Vaelin knew she was resisting the impulse to reach for her bow. The song’s guidance is rarely mistaken, he knew, missing his lost gift more keenly than ever. But Dahrena’s vision had held no desire for the Ally’s immediate death, and no inclination he was on the wrong path.

A line of red appeared on the horizon five days later, growing as they drew closer until they paused amidst a vast array of redflower fields and, in the hazy distance, the tall towers of a marble city.

“Volar,” Lorkan breathed at Vaelin’s side, shaking his head in unabashed wonder. “I truly never thought to see it.”

Vaelin called for Lord Orven and pointed to the west and east. “Send out your scouts, we need word of the queen’s whereabouts. We’ll make camp here . . .”

“You don’t have time!”

Vaelin turned to see the Ally regarding him with cold intent, all vestige of humour vanished from his still misshapen features. The guards on either side moved closer to fulfil their orders but Vaelin waved them back, trotting Scar closer, meeting the Ally’s glare. “Why?”

“My servant plays with your sister in the arena as we speak. Or rather, that perverted bitch you call your sister. Delay further, and I suspect she’ll be dead before long, after a suitable period of well-deserved punishment. She did always irk me so.”

Vaelin looked at Kiral, who gritted her teeth and nodded. Reva! His creature has Reva.

“She holds no gift,” the Ally went on. “No place in the Beyond for her . . .”

Vaelin wheeled away from him, spurring to the head of the column and barking an order at Orven to follow, making for Volar at the gallop.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lyrna

It seems I have come far to visit justice on a people intent on their own destruction. The city seemed to be ruled by the dead; there was not an avenue, doorway or garden free of corpses. They also hung from the many towers like ragged, long-forgotten dolls. It was clear to her this had been a wealthy district, the opulence of the houses and the extensive walled gardens rich in cherry blossoms and statuary told of great privilege and high status, but whatever had swept through here had little regard for rank; copious enslaved dead told her this was not the product of revolt.

“Arisai, Highness,” Brother Sollis reported, his horse’s iron-shod hooves a jarring intrusion into the silence covering this place. He clattered to a halt nearby, pausing to offer Aspect Arlyn a respectful nod before addressing her. “We found twenty or so in the neighbouring district, killing all they could find. We dealt with them but I’ve little doubt there are more.”

He shifted in his saddle as his fellow brothers reined in a short way off, clearly impatient to be off. “The route to the arena?” she asked him.

“Clear, Highness. There appear to be no other Volarian soldiery in the city. I believe you have sufficient protection to proceed there.”

Whilst you ride off to save the people we came to destroy, no doubt. She was about to order him to form up his company in escort when Murel abruptly leapt down from her horse and ran towards a pile of bodies lying near the arched entrance to one of the larger houses. She pulled the topmost corpse away, a slender woman in a red robe with a gaping wound to her neck, and reached into the bloody mess beneath, emerging with a small, half naked figure. She clutched it in a tight embrace as Lyrna trotted Jet closer, dismounting at Murel’s side as she wiped fresh blood from the face of a girl perhaps eight years in age, alive but oddly still, staring about with wide, dark eyes. Murel was weeping, the first time Lyrna had seen her do so since the day of her ennoblement at the Wensel Isle.

The girl blinked at the lady then looked up at Lyrna with a curious frown. “I know you,” she said in a somewhat prim voice.

“You do?” Lyrna moved closer, going to her haunches and reaching out to tease back a stiff strand of matted hair from the girl’s forehead.

“My father told me,” the girl went on, pouting a little in defiance. “You’ve come to burn everything down. You’re the queen of fire.”