‘Adoration comes and goes,’ said Jianna. ‘The people threw flowers at the Ventrians and garlanded Bokram’s horse. They are fickle.’
They came at last to the new gates and the high walls of Jianna’s private quarters. The two guards, both handpicked by Askelus, saluted and bowed. ‘Who is within?’ Askelus asked one of them.
‘Four of the Queen’s councillors, five royal handmaidens, the blind harpist, and a rider from Mellicane. The Ventrian ambassador has requested an audience. His messenger is waiting outside the gallery.’
The guards pushed open the gates and Jianna walked through. ‘Shall I send them all away?’ asked Malanek.
‘Ask Emparo to stay. I would like to hear his harp later. The Ventrian ambassador I will see tomorrow morning, before the council meeting.
Have him brought here. We will breakfast together.’ She arrived at the door to her chambers. ‘I’ll see the rider from Mellicane now. Askelus, you will stay with me.’
The tall warrior nodded, and opened the doors to the Queen’s apartments. Lanterns had been lit within, the light shimmering on silk-covered couches and ornately fashioned chairs. The five handmaidens, all dressed in gowns of white silk, stepped forward and curtsied as the Queen entered. ‘You may all go to your beds,’ said Jianna, with a wave of her hand. The women curtsied once more, and departed. Malanek strode off after them, returning with a round-shouldered officer. Jianna looked at the man. He had tired eyes. He bowed to her and waited.
‘You have ridden far, sir?’ she asked.
‘I have, Majesty. Eight hundred miles in fifteen days. Mellicane is on the verge of collapse.’
‘What else did you discover?’
‘I have brought back all my papers, Majesty; reports on those loyal to your cause, and those we must… deal with. I have given them all to Malanek.’
‘I shall read them and call for you again,’ she said, unable to remember the man’s name. ‘But why have you waited for me this evening?’
‘News of Skilgannon, Majesty.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, Majesty. He had left the church before the riders arrived. He is heading, we think, for Mellicane.’
‘Does he have the swords?’
‘He killed some men who were seeking to attack the church, Majesty.
Our information is that he took sabres from the attackers.’
‘He will have them,’ she said.
‘Hard to believe he became a priest,’ said Askelus.
‘Why?’ countered Malanek. ‘Skilgannon brought passion to everything he tackled. And passion is a gift of the Source.’
Askelus shrugged. ‘He is a fighting man. Hard to see him mouthing spiritual inanities. Love will conquer all. Forgive those who torment you.
Nonsense. Soldiers conquer all, and if you kill those who torment you then you are free of torment.’
‘Be silent, the pair of you,’ said Jianna, returning her attention to the messenger. ‘Who do we have following him?’
‘I have sent word to our embassy in Mellicane to watch out for him, Majesty. We also have the original twenty riders in Skepthia, and one skilled assassin we can contact. What orders shall I send?’
‘I will think on it tonight,’ she told him. ‘Come to me in the morning.’
With that she waved the man away. When he had gone Jianna sat down on one of the silk-covered couches, lost in thought.
Askelus and Malanek waited silently. At last she glanced up at them.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Speak your minds.’ Neither man said a word. Jianna’s heart sank. ‘Am I so terrifying, even to old friends?’ she asked. ‘Come, Malanek, speak.’
The old swordsman sighed, then took a deep breath. ‘You are rather hard on those who speak their minds, Majesty.’
‘Peshel Bar was a traitor. I did not have him killed because he spoke his mind. I had him killed because he tried to turn others against me.’
‘Aye, by speaking his mind,’ said Malanek. ‘He thought you were wrong, and he said so to your face. Now no-one with any sense will tell you what they really think. They will just mouth the words they think you want to hear. But maybe I’m too old to care. So I
‘He murdered Damalon. Have you forgotten that?’
Malanek glanced at Askelus. The tall warrior said nothing. Malanek gave a wry laugh and shook his head. ‘I had not forgotten, Majesty.
Forgive me if I do not grieve for him. I never liked him.’
Jianna rose from her couch, her expression tense, her grey eyes angry.
When she spoke, however, her voice was controlled, almost soft.
‘Skilgannon betrayed me. He left without the permission of the Queen. He deserted my army. He stole a priceless artefact. You believe he should escape punishment for those crimes?’
‘I have said my piece, Majesty,’ said Malanek.
‘And what of you, Askelus?’ she asked.
‘You are the Queen, Majesty. Those who obey your orders are loyal, those who do not are traitors. It is simple. Skilgannon did not obey your orders. It is for you to judge him — or forgive him. It is not for me to offer advice. I am merely a soldier.’
‘You would kill him if I ordered it?’
‘In a heartbeat.’
‘Would it sadden you?’
‘Yes, Majesty. It would sadden me greatly.’
Dismissing both men, Jianna saw the councillors who had been waiting, listened to their advice, made judgements, signed royal decrees, then called for Emparo, the blind harpist.
He was an old man, but if she closed her eyes and listened to his music, his soft singing voice, she could imagine what he must have been in his youth, golden-haired and sweetly handsome. She wished he could be young now, and that she could take him to her bed, and banish for a while all thoughts of the man whose face filled her mind, and whose form walked through her dreams.
Lying back on her couch, the sweet music filling the room, she remembered Skilgannon’s look as she left the house that day to walk to the market. He had been so young then — a few weeks from sixteen. His handsome features were serious, his expression stern. She had wanted to lean in close and plant a kiss on that grim mouth. Instead she had walked away down the avenue, knowing that his eyes would not leave her until she turned the corner.
Jianna sighed. Tomorrow she would order him killed. Perhaps, when he was dead, she would stop dreaming of him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN SKILGANNON RETURNED TO
THE Crimson Stag. The tavern was almost empty. Druss was still sitting at his table, Diagoras stretched out on the floor beside him, fast asleep. Two Vagrian officers with braided blond hair were drinking quietly some distance away, and an old wolfhound was nosing around beneath the empty tables, looking for scraps.
‘Hello, laddie,’ said Druss, his speech slurring mildly.
Skilgannon looked down at the unconscious Diagoras. ‘The curse of the young,’ said Druss. ‘Can’t hold their liquor. Damn, but I need some air.’
