Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (68 page)

Stefan stared at her as he realised what she was saying. ‘The Autarch can only be a man, Lady. It says “He”, as you’ve just read.’

‘The term “He” in this context is genderless: I have the required legal opinion on that point from the Grey Crows.’ She gestured to the bureaucrats waiting beside the walls.

‘One of your paid toadies,’ Aranio sneered.

‘A man loyal to Don Perdonello in Brochena,’ Cera countered, while the official went puce. Insulting the integrity of any Grey Crow was never a good idea – every ruler inevitably leaned on them for support at times.

Aranio scowled, realising his misstep, then spun back to the table. ‘An Autarch must be able to deal with the emergency at hand! We face battle! Can you lead an army, girl? Can you swing a sword?’

‘I think none will deny that I have the loyalty of our fighting men,’ she countered, earning nods from Justiano di Kestria, Saarif Jelmud and others who’d fought at Brochena. ‘And I was in the front lines beside the canals of my city as the Harkun poured through the breach, while you cowered in Riban, my Lord!’

Aranio turned white. ‘I’d challenge you for that calumny, were you not a weakling girl!’

‘Then try me,’ Elena rasped. ‘I’m still her champion.’

He started to retort, then closed his mouth, not looking at the Noros woman. His entourage also found other things to gaze at as silence fell on the room. Then he barked, ‘I nominate myself as Autarch.’

The rest of the room looked at each other while Cera calculated the odds. Each city had a Ruling House – one Rimoni and one Jhafi – who functioned as electors for the kingship, or in this case, for the role of Autarch. Only the Ruling Houses of Riban, Loctis and Forensa were represented here today, and as Theo Vernio-Nesti was still en route and not formally appointed, she retained the Forensa vote. Aranio’s Jhafi counterpart, Marid Tamadhi, could vote here, but the late Harshal ali-Assam’s family, who would likely have supported her as the Ruling Jhafi House in Forensa, had been coordinating the transfer of the government records into the hinterlands and so weren’t present.
Only four of us here can vote, and two of those are likely to support Stefan . . .

‘I nominate Justiano di Kestria,’ one of Justiano’s own knights said.

Cera glanced at Justiano, who wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.

His elder brother Lorenzo died protecting me and he’s never been satisfied with the explanation.
She glanced at Elena.
Especially not Elena’s role in his loss . . .

Pita Rosco responded, ‘I nominate Cera Nesti.’

Stefan di Aranio grunted sourly, but the Grey Crows had given their opinion and the nomination stood. ‘Anyone else?’ he asked coldly. No other hands were raised. ‘Then shall we?’

There was a delay while the Crows produced the four voting tokens and the voting plates, silver platters for receiving the tokens, with the emblems of each house beaten into the metal. The voting tokens were numbered; they were handed out randomly, with the numbers hidden. As soon as they were issued to those four eligible to vote, Stefan Aranio grunted in satisfaction; he held token Number One, and voting first had advantages. He tossed his token into the Aranio platter, then glared around the table.

Cera’s heart sank as Marid Tamadhi produced the second token; he too voted for Aranio. Already, Stefan could not lose the vote.

It also meant that whoever had the third token – whether it was she or Justiano – would effectively eliminate the other. Heart beating, she opened her hand as he did.

She held token three.

She exhaled, and placed it in her own platter. Justiano’s head dropped – he couldn’t vote for himself without conceding the victory to Aranio – then placed his token reluctantly in Cera’s platter.

Two each.

‘What is the tie-breaker?’ Aranio asked rhetorically; he clearly knew already.

‘Combat,’ one of the Grey Crows announced, and Aranio smiled, then his face stiffened as the man continued, ‘However, a champion can be nominated.’

‘You mean her?’ Aranio spat, eyeing Elena. ‘She is magi.’

Elena just stared at him. Her leg might be useless, but both knew there would be only one outcome to such a fight.

The Crow coughed. ‘If combat is not selected, then the selection is by ordeal.’

‘What?’ Aranio grabbed the
lex regalus
notes
that Cera had brought. ‘Where does it say that?’

‘Clause thirty-three,’ Cera replied. ‘The candidates must hold burning coals until one concedes.’

Aranio’s eyes bulged, then he turned pale as Cera started to unwrap her bandaged right hand. It was a ghastly mess of wet tissue and white new skin, and incredibly painful to move. They all knew how she’d got it: holding Rutt Sordell’s scarab in the flames until it perished.

Stefan di Aranio looked at his own hands and shuddered.

‘I would have gnostic healing afterwards?’ he asked, his voice now uncertain.

‘Of course,’ Rene Cardien said. ‘I’ll have Clematia do it. Your hand will be ready to hold a sword again in . . . oh, about four to six weeks, I’d guess.’

Aranio swallowed, and looked at Cera’s right hand again. In some places, the bone was still visible though the translucent flesh. They all knew the scarring would be permanent, that she would have to learn to write left-handed.

Cera met his eyes.
Well, my lord. How badly do you want this? What’s ninety days in charge worth to you? Especially if you believe you’ll be king eventually anyway?

Aranio looked away. ‘Anyone determined enough to go through that deserves their moment,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Let the Nesti be named Autarch.’ He glanced at Tamadhi, then leaned away from the table, disengaging from the group. ‘I will of course provide men for the struggle.’

No doubt,
but fewer than we need, and with orders to preserve themselves,
Cera thought, watching his face. But now wasn’t the moment to call him out; there were oaths and ceremonies, and this was in itself a historic moment: the first woman ever to be voted into such a role in Javon. She could see pride in the eyes of Pita Rosco, Piero Inveglio, and others too, as she met their gaze. Even in Elena’s eyes, perhaps.

‘Then let us do what is necessary, then reconvene,’ she told them all. ‘We have much to do.’

Riban, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Awwal (Martrois) 930

21
^st
month of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle had to wait until almost midnight for his quarry to be finally alone. Night in the unlovely trading-post city of Riban was never quiet; the streets were filled with the homeless, refugees and indigents, seeking one last drink or morsel of food before they wrapped themselves in their threadbare cloaks and huddled in a doorway to try and sleep. Since the Dorobon invasion, the city had been filled with refugees from Brochena, all fleeing east. Public order was breaking down, the Rimoni and Jhafi soldiery maintaining the peace were at each other’s throats more often than not, and feeding the masses was becoming impossible as stores were exhausted.

Occupying Riban would have been more trouble than it was worth, so for now at least, it remained the seat of Stefan di Aranio, a Rimoni of senatorial stock from the old empire whose forebears had grudgingly married into Jhafi nobility to ensure candidacy for the Javon throne. Stefan barely acknowledged his Jhafi blood, saw himself as the natural alternative to the Nesti, had a flock of heirs already and was a staunchly conservative Sollan. But Aranio’s attempt to be elected Autarch had failed, ending any hopes for a negotiated settlement.

Aranio had just returned to his home city, ostensibly to prepare his forces to support the Nesti in their march west, unaware that Gurvon was waiting in his office – not in person, but as a spiratus; his body was in his own bed in Brochena, a hundred miles away. Traversing the distance in spirit-form was quick, but it wasn’t instantaneous; he’d arrived two hours ago after an hour’s travel, using kinesis to move the doors to allow himself ingress. Then he’d settled down to wait, conserving his energies.

Now he stepped forth and allowed himself to be seen. ‘Greetings, Lord Aranio.’

Stefan di Aranio choked, sprayed wine over his desk and clutched at his chest. For a few seconds Gurvon was worried the man was actually having a heart attack, which would have been an unfortunate complication. Aranio was a stolid, almost plump, man, with brownish hair from his northern Rimoni blood and a drinker’s mottled complexion. Now his florid face was distinctly pale as he gazed at Gurvon in some consternation.

‘If you call for your guards I’ll be forced to act,’ Gurvon warned, before holding his hand in front of a flame, making it obvious that he was not physically present.

Aranio sagged into his chair. ‘What do you want?’

This wasn’t Gurvon’s first visit; he’d started by terrorising Stefan’s youngest son, just to make a point – Aranio had many flaws, including overweening ambition, greed and bigotry, but his biggest weakness was his love of his family. Gurvon had spent quite some time working on the man’s fears – he’d been far easier than Cera Nesti to twist and break.

The thing with Aranio, Gurvon had found, was that you could only push him to a certain point: he wouldn’t do
anything
to protect his line, but he would do a lot. Coercion made him antagonistic, but bending his loyalty, that was another thing. He was ambitious, and he’d disliked the Nestis for a very long time, which gave Gurvon plenty of hooks for the man to swallow.

You should be king, not some mere boy. These times are too dangerous for boy-kings.

Cera Nesti . . . you should believe those whispers about her: look at her new friends, Staria Canestos and her degenerates . . .

Elena Anborn is in the thrall of a Keshi Souldrinker . . . Do you know what they are? The whisper is that she’s turned into one herself.

You can’t be expected to defend Riban
and
send all your soldiers to aid the Nesti.

What if the Nesti lose? Where are you left, then? Surely adults like you and I can find common ground? We’re not idealistic girls, are we?

Many a general has been tardy in battle, haven’t they? Late to advance, early to withdraw . . . and who will be left to blame you if you ‘misjudge the situation’ by a few crucial minutes?

He bent over the shaken Rimoni lord and used kinesis to force his chin up until he met his eye.

‘She’s going to lose anyway, Stefan: why should she drag you down with her? And your cooperation will ensure that your line continues afterwards. I’ll need men like you to pacify the natives. Someone strong.’

The ‘strong’ man nodded in mute and frightened acquiescence.

*

Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Awwal (Martrois) 930

21
^st
month of the Moontide

The Nesti army was ready to march at Darkmoon, the last week of Martrois. Cera had to fight for the right to accompany it: her counsellors wanted her to stay ‘safe’ in Forensa. But she knew she had to be there, though explaining her reasons to her allies was a little awkward: this had to be a Nesti victory, not a Kestrian or Aranio victory that might give someone too many ideas. Allies could become enemies all too quickly: history was very clear on that lesson.

Before her were ranks of bright-eyed men filled with frightened bravado, waiting to take their first steps on the road to Brochena and battle.

There’ll be no fortress to retreat to; no walls and canals to shelter behind, nowhere to take cover. There will be nothing between us and our enemy except for our shields and our courage.

The past weeks had been a blur of activity. Justiano di Kestria was coordinating the Rimoni, two legions of men supported by a dozen Ordo Costruo acting as battle-magi. Saarif Jelmud would coordinate the Jhafi contingent, supported by the rest of the Ordo Costruo. And Stefan di Aranio’s men – if he actually sent them – would join them west of Riban.

Word had come that Staria Canestos had been assailed by the Harkun survivors of the Battle of Forensa, who were trying to take the Rift Forts so they could bring their kin up from below; as yet, that battle was still in the balance. The thought that at any moment thousands more Harkun could join the fray was almost paralysing Cera’s counsellors – but at least it meant that the alliance with Staria’s Sacro Arcoyris Estellan was now out in the open, and her people were learning to appreciate the fact that Staria’s people were both on their side, and invaluable.

Elena arrived on horseback, her movement strained and awkward. She’d had to tease her leg into a bent position to ride at all, and from the look on her face she was in constant pain. Cera couldn’t begin to know what being apart from Kazim was doing to her. Elena clutched at Cera’s reins, then had the gall to try and warn her against going to war, when she looked equally useless. ‘You don’t need to march with the army, Cera. No one would think the less of you.’

‘I’d be no safer here.’

Their eyes met, and Cera saw Elena’s face alter, ever so subtly – not a sudden change of heart, but the realisation of one that had already happened. ‘I forgive you for what you did,’ Elena whispered.

Cera swallowed. Tears stung her eyes, but she was already cried-out from saying goodbye to Tarita in the infirmary. She waved to the trumpeter, then turned back to Elena and said, ‘Well, let’s go.’

The trumpeter blasted out a lively call to arms, then she shouted into the resounding silence that followed, ‘Free People of Ja’afar! Today we march into history! Today we go to reclaim what is ours: our own land! Today we take up arms against the invader! All the gods are watching, and all smile upon us, for our cause is just! Our cause is freedom!
Freedom!
’

Simple and easy shouty words always work best, her father used to joke. She could picture him now, his shaggy face alight with determination, as the people’s response set the ground shaking.