Queen of Fire

“Then why?”

 

 

“He . . . raised me . . . taught me to read . . . gave me a name.”

 

“Really? What is it?”

 

“L-Lieza.”

 

“Naming a slave is a capital offence in itself, and your former owner was guilty of much more besides.” She waved the Arisai away and gestured for the girl to remove the breakfast. “Bring me fresh gruel, Lieza. Then you can read me the morning’s correspondence.”

 

Lieza stands at her side now, ready to pour wine into the Imperial cup. She is pale of face but manages not to tremble. Every morning since her failed assassination she brings breakfast and reads the Imperial correspondence whilst the Empress eats. Afterwards she sits and writes as the Empress dictates a list of names for execution. Her calligraphy is quite excellent.

 

I don’t know why I spared her, she replies, feeling bafflement mixing amongst his disgust. I think she reminds me of someone, but can’t quite recall who. Perhaps I’ll kill her tomorrow. Give her to the spectacles, the dagger-teeth are always hungry.

 

But today there are no dagger-teeth. Today it is the Sword Races. She recalls her father once telling her the origins of this, the most popular event in any spectacle. In primitive times one of the more enlightened gods, or one of his more enlightened priests, decreed that there should be no more warfare between the tribes that paid him homage. Instead, every year they would send their best warriors to compete in the Sword Races where all disputes would be settled. The rules have been refined over the succeeding centuries but the essence of the contest remains the same: a single sword is thrust into the centre of the arena and the two contesting teams stand at opposite ends, an equal distance away. At a given signal they race for the sword, combat beginning when one team member takes hold of the hilt, the winner being the team with the most men standing at the turn of a ten-minute glass. Logic would suppose that the team to claim the sword would enjoy an advantage, but expert players are still capable of turning the tide, usually by sacrificing a less-skilled team member in order to seize the sword from their opponents.

 

Today it is the Greens and the Blues, two of the six teams representing the six provinces of the empire. The Blues tend to attract the most favourable odds but the Greens have the most experienced players, evidenced by their tactic of forming a tight defensive bunch around their sword-bearer, forcing the Blues to mount a series of costly assaults. Within minutes ten men, four Blues and six Greens, lie dead or crippled on the sands. Sword Racers rarely have long careers though the substantial rewards afforded those who survive to retirement ensure there is never a lack of willing recruits, for these are not slaves but free men. Poor and desperate enough to risk death in front of a baying mob, but still free.

 

You wonder at finding me here? she asks him, bored with the contest. Why am I not in New Kethia raising an army? She notices how Lieza flinches and realises she has spoken aloud. Judging by the rigidity of the slave girl’s posture this is not the first time she has heard her Empress address a question to thin air.

 

His answer is faint, though more controlled than before; he has grown accustomed to taking command of his dreams. There is still time. I will wait for you.

 

Touching, beloved, but unnecessary. That bitch you bow to was clever, sending you in advance of her mighty fleet. Not so mighty now, I’m afraid. Just driftwood and corpses.

 

His thoughts shift, from uncertainty to denial, though she knows he senses the truth in her thoughts.

 

How do you find Viratesk? she continues, taking satisfaction from the resultant surge of alarm. Your scouts were careful but we saw them. The townspeople didn’t want to leave so I let them stay. You did think to check the sewers didn’t you?

 

? ? ?

 

He came awake with a shout, his hand reaching for the sword propped against the bed, finding nothing. His eyes scanned the darkness, seeing only shadows. He felt Lemera’s weight in the bed next to him, her visits a nightly ritual now, though they never did more than lie together. He nudged her gently, ready to clamp a hand over her mouth as she woke, pausing at the familiar chill to her skin. Her eyes were half-open, the lips drawn back from bared teeth in an agonised grimace. A single, neat cut stretched the width of her throat.

 

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