chore forgotten, and brawls between soldiers over a spilt tankard.
Brynd looked back towards the ships, deciding after his recent encounters that he wanted as many vessels as possible to escort them on the return voyage. If nothing else, it would provide a positive statement: Here she comes, the new Empress, and she's well protected.
*
Two hours later, they boarded the Black Frieter, the largest of the longships docked at Gish. An old boat, once thought to house souls of the damned, it had been recovered from pirates decades ago, and now took its place in the Empire's fleet. Sea Captain Sang greeted them, if it could be called a greeting, then made sure the carriage would be well protected on the adjoining shore by several women of the Wolf Brigade. These quieter moments of travel always forced Apium to analyse the current status of the military.
Apium was always suspicious of the Dragoon Marines, despite them being a focal component of most military campaigns. They were a crucial force across the entire Archipelago, having developed effective techniques for short raids, and larger-scale invasions. A formidable reputation preceded them, even though it hadn't been put to good use in recent years. An air of arrogance surrounded them; they assumed nothing could be done without their participation. Sang herself was the embodiment of this, a low-born, in cultural terms, who had achieved great things. And even Apium was certain she was more vulgar in her manner than most male soldiers he'd known. She'd boasted to him once about all the islands she'd visited – travels around the entire Archipelago that no one else had managed. Said she'd even circumnavigated the Varltung islands, but he wasn't so sure, since there was no proof of such a voyage. She would customarily employ mainly women sailors, using the few men simply for raw physical chores. And he could make a good guess as to what services these might include.
Apium had joined Brynd, Lupus and Nelum on deck. Brynd was commenting on the salt refinery recently built, and that as yet stood as nothing more than a precarious shack on the quayside. He was clearly unimpressed.
Gish was altogether a decrepit place. No major division of the army had been deployed from here for a good while, so many soldiers were rotting away here – their time taken up with gambling, brawls, casual sex. That, he reflected, was what you got from doing nothing more rigorous than training exercises.
Brynd was exceptional in taking the opportunity of using cultists to develop training strategies on Kullrun, an islet off the opposite coast of Jokull. Cultist technology was normally used to scare men senseless, to drive back arrows, form illusions of troop movements, create phantoms that followed them long into their dreams at night. Any threatening scenario could thus be recreated, played out again and again, until the soldiers learned how to kill their enemy in the most efficient manner. A time-consuming business, but essential for producing the best soldiers. When it came down to it, when a soldier aimed an arrow at another man's face for the very first time, releasing it could prove difficult. And many of the soldiers currently in the Dragoons, Marines or Regiment of Foot were fresh recruits who had signed up to avoid the hardships of the ice age since the military provided a guaranteed wage.
Boys and girls from the poorest parts of the Empire fighting for the richest.
Was that how all armies had been recruited throughout history?
*
A few hours later, Brynd was the first to step down off the Black Frieter and onto the main island of Southfjords, under a massive sky filled with fast-moving cumulus, looming over a landscape littered with small wind-ravaged trees tilting at an angle. Terns arced over their heads, heading off towards their high cliff colonies further along the shore.
The four guards set off along a gravel track that cut up through a green hill, and Brynd suspected that those black-clad strangers, carrying swords and axes, would be an intimidating spectacle for a young woman who had been told nothing of why she was summoned home.
Even in decay the temple was an imposingly beautiful building, with its limestone arches and soaring spire flanked by two smaller ones. As Jorsalir structures went, this was certainly one of the more extravagant temples, more sizeable than the churches Brynd had seen back in Villjamur. Maybe several hundred years old, so not remotely ancient by the Archipelago's standards, obviously it had been constructed in a period when the Jorsalir had commanded phenomenal power and wealth, unlike now, when the Council even levied tax upon them.
As they approached the building, three women stepped out, their green gowns whipping around their bodies in the wind like banners of war. The looks on their faces were just as grim, and Brynd asked his companions to remain still while he moved ahead alone.
Two of the women were ageing slightly, greying hair framing their delicate features. The third was younger, but the graceful way she walked and her general demeanour made her appear ageless. He noticed a white dryas attached to her breast.
'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd greeted them. 'Commander Brynd Lathraea of the Night Guard.'
There it was: that shocked look on their faces as they took in his skin, his eyes – always the same reaction.
'Ah, the albino? Sele of Jamur, commander,' said the youngest of the three. 'My name is Ardune, and I'm a priestess here. These two are my clerics.'
'You received notification of our arrival?'
'Indeed,' Ardune said. She blinked several times in the wind, as she looked back over his shoulder towards the other three men.
Brynd tactfully drew his cloak over his sword. 'And does the Lady Rika know what has been happening?'
'She's been told very little, but has been waiting inside the temple for some time now.'
'Right,' Brynd said. 'Well, I'm here to return her to Villjamur. We must leave as soon as possible.'
'You're taking her away then,' Ardune said. 'Just like that?'
'She has a role to fulfil, priestess,' Brynd explained. 'We can't always choose what we want to do in life.' And I myself know all about that.
'Indeed not, commander, but you cannot simply take her. She has a life here, you understand?'
'Yes, I do,' Brynd continued, trying to be sensitive to the priestess's feelings. 'However, she's been enjoying a quiet life here because of who she is. If she was a native, or simply a peasant, she'd never have been able to live in such a privileged position. Well, now the time's come for who she is to really matter. You understand, it's not just a few priestesses that this matters to – it's an entire Empire?'
Something faded in her eyes then, conceding defeat. 'Quite. Well, please be sensitive. She's a person, not just a title.'
'Of course I will. Remember, I'm the one who has to tell her about her father. I promise I'll not crush her.'
Ardune appeared to have a genuine affection for Rika. Still, Brynd didn't know what to make of her, since he wasn't one to trust the mind of a Jorsalir. Not that they were untrustworthy in themselves, more that they had conditioned their minds to think on a different level, to question the world in a way no one else did. It gave them an air of superiority that he felt was unjustified.
Ardune led him inside the temple.
Rika's room contained minimal furniture, a few parchments on the wall, faded through exposure to sunlight, fabrics smelling of dried lavender, darkened limestone, a small burning fire in the corner. If there was indeed Bohr or Astrid up there, Brynd assumed they didn't much care for elaborate furnishings.
She was sitting on a chest, Rika, staring out of a narrow arched window, a book forgotten on her lap. This was clearly Eir's sister, although her face was more slender, making her cheekbones jut out unattractively. Her black hair was tied back plainly – no style in her appearance, no finesse.
'Jamur Rika, Sele of Jamur, I am Commander Brynd Lathraea and I have some… bad news for you, I fear.' He hesitated. 'Your father, Emperor Johynn – I'm afraid he passed away some few days ago.'
'Oh,' Rika replied. No emotion in her voice, nothing whatsoever. 'Why, thank you for telling me this. It really is very kind of you to journey all this way.'
Brynd held her gaze as if to work out what was happening in her mind. She appeared to be barely disturbed by the bad news. He may as well have just told her it was going to rain today. He knew she had problems with her father, which was why she had spent the last few years in exile here. Was that her anger forcing out any other emotions? Or was it her religious training, her perfectly controlled mind making her emotionally dead?
'The Council of Villjamur have nominated you as the one to inherit all that was your father's, since you're his eldest blood relative. You realize what this means?'
She met his gaze with silence, with a cold stare – no, a neutral stare, nothing in it. This girl seemed the
