Chapter 98

A Surprise Visit

I stand atop the icy ruins of Fairhaven and gaze out at my kingdom. My kingdom. It is mine now, in name as well as in spirit. It is not much to look at, to be fair, Janvier left behind a great mess. Of course, wars are always messy, but the city of Fairhaven has been well and truly trashed. It will take some time to restore to its former glory, not to mention repopulate. Most of the buildings are still being dug out, and while the ice continues to melt the process is slow.

My ermine cloak snaps in the wind behind me. A stiff breeze is coming off the sea. The air is still cold, but it carries with it the promise of spring.

So far I have discovered that being queen is overrated. Holding court is not as much fun as it sounds. Everyone keeps looking at me. Everyone expects me to solve their problems. The only part of the process that excites me are the wardrobe opportunities, and so far I have had precious little time to indulge myself. Before I can go on a sewing spree I must resurrect my capital city from its icy tomb.

Alas, for responsibilities.

Fortunately my fallen adversary (who is currently decorating my home castle throne room as a most elegant bone and silver undead chandelier) left behind him a great fortune. I am putting his stolen treasures to good use, funding the birth of my new kingdom. This feels fitting. I will make sure to tell Janvier about it next time I am home, I’m sure he will enjoy listening in great detail to how I spent his gold and jewels on brick layers and seed, and the odd bit of lace.

So far progress has been slow but steady.

My people have been focusing on making parts habitable for the humans who want to return to their homes, but it has been gruelling work. It always seems to me greatly unfair that it takes demonstrably longer to build than it does to destroy. A seamstress or carpenter is of infinitely more use than a trained killer, but what does society value more? The killer, every time. Once I have the realm firmly under my control I will teach people how to properly view life.

It is gratifying to see how many people are returning. So far the humans seem to have accepted me as monarch. The tale of how I saved the city and defeated Janvier has spread far and wide. The fact that I am dead seems not to matter much. The peasants fall to their feet when I pass by, muttering prayers to the Whisperer, or their own petty gods, and the remaining aristocracy are gratifyingly servile. For now anyway.

I do wonder if the clerics will feel the same way? Obsequence might be too much to ask for there, the temples and I have long had our differences. However, I am prepared to extend our truce, if they leave me alone and accept my rule. I have no interest in a prolonged holy war. Playing with Janvier was nice enough, I suppose, but now I have more important things to be getting on with. Like gardening and looking after Jenkins. My cat in particular is well overdue for some attention, the poor furball has been patched a dozen times by now.

It seems I am destined to discover the feelings of the kingdom’s clerics soon enough.

“Lady Maud,” says Roland, jolting me from my reverie.

My head foreman sticks his freshly mended head around a ruined pillar. I am standing at the very top of the ruin of Castle Rock, where I have a good view of the devastation below. The old king’s seat of power at the top of the city bore the brunt of the violence and Janvier’s initial attack. It is now a sorry pile of stones, with blown out walls and wind whistling through its extremities. The lower half of the castle, and the interior rooms are quite functional, with the exception of the eastern flank, where a wight dragon clawed its way up to the parapet, taking half the stones with it. The burial chambers in the hill are untouched. The gardens and greenhouses are destroyed although I am in the process of liberating the souls of many of the plants whose remains still lay encased in the ice.

“Yes, Roland, what is it?”

“A messenger came from the Temple at Barrowmere. The clerics request a meeting.”

“What? The Archon? And Friar Julian?” I ask, naming the clerics I have had dealings with before. The clerics with whom I have come to an understanding of sorts.

The little well mended draugr looks solemn. “All of them, your ladyship.”

“Ahh. Thank you Roland.” Pausing, I examine the slender bones of my feet for a few moments. “If they want to meet,” I say. “I shall tell them they can come here to Fairhaven, and do it in my throne room, as is proper.”

“Your throne room, my Lady?”

He looks around, at the ruin of the old castle. What was once throneroom is now more sky than castle. Still, it has a certain majesty to it.

“Your Majesty,” I correct gently. “If I am to be queen, I had better start right away.” I know one thing. This queen will not be wearing shoes. “We can fix it up.”

Roland nods, a little uncertainly.

“Of course, your majesty. You think they wish to continue the truce?”

I smooth my skirts carefully. “I certainly hope so. I will write them a letter.”

The meeting is arranged. Word is sent forth in a flurry of jasmine scented, pinecone and sparrow skull wrapped scrolls, emblazoned with ebony black velvet ribbons. Somewhat to my surprise the delegation agrees to meet me in the capital. An auspicious move.

I rush to prepare a suitable audience chamber.

It is important to create the right impression, how else can I negotiate from a position of power? My wights dig Janvier’s obsidian throne out of the wreckage, and hauled it up to the top of the castle. The throne room roof is long gone, but that is not really a problem. Some draugr trees and flowers improve the ambiance mightily and make the whole set up bearable. Despite the devastation, I think there is a certain majesty and drama to holding the audience atop the windswept spire.

I hold court from the black throne, my legs neatly crossed at the ankles, with the great curved skeleton of the wight dragon framing me from behind. The throne is a little large, dwarfing me within its arms, but with a discreet cushion or two, and my largest pauldrons I still manage to cut an imposing figure.

The clerics arrive.

They file in, rows upon rows of clanking paladins, shivering, blue robed Wave Walkers, and a handful of the Blind Queen’s Acolytes. The latter all look as if they have been sucking lemons all the way from their abbey to my front door, probably because they were compelled to leave their donkeys at the base of the mount.

Eyes dart here and there, to the onyx pattern of the floor that I have let radiate out from the throne, to the enormous dragon skull behind the throne. I spot Friar Julian and the buttercup yellow-robed Sister Lorelei in the crowd, and nod in greeting. The Sister has her usual inane grin plastered across her face, while the Friar’s eyes are solemn. The Archon is there too. I wink. She does not respond. The line of her mouth could curdle milk.

What a fun bunch, and there are so many of them. Alarm bells ring in my head, but being of a suspicious mind myself, I have prepared thoroughly for any acts of duplicity. There are wights and draugr hidden in every airy alcove, and a row of my void knights line the broken dias behind me. I couldn’t decide whether having my corrupted knights on display was too insolent, but decided if this arrangement is to work the clerics must accept me for who I am: a lich. An undead queen. I will not hide who I am.

The living breathing leaders of my city stand on either side of my throne, all of them in their finest (if hastily made) attire, and all of them armed to the teeth. As a united front, dead and undead, we face the god’s representatives of this plane.

The Friar, an Acolyte, and a resplendent sun paladin step forward.

The silver bell around the Acolyte’s head tinkles, and I wince at the sound. The sound goes straight through my skull. She appears to be wearing a crown of brambles. It is an interesting conceit of the Blind Queen’s Acolytes, the higher the rank, the more they abase themselves. This one is barefoot and appears to be wearing a sack.

The clerics incline their heads respectfully enough. I incline mine likewise but do not get up.

“Well?” I say. “Shall we be at each other’s throats or can we continue the truce? I would prefer the latter. I have better things to do.”

Diplomacy has never been my strong point.

To my relief the Friar smiles.

“Peace,” he says. “We would prefer peace.”

“Good.”

“Not so fast,” says the Acolyte. “We do not absolve you of your sins, lich. Of your evil.”

“I did not ask you too.”

“This is a truce only. A pact to heal the land.”

“If you do not attack me and mine,” I say, evenly. “I will not attack yours. Simple. I have always wished to live peacefully.”

“Uneasy are the Bright One’s servants,” booms the paladin. His sheen of golden hair ripples as he throws it over his shoulder. His eyes turn to Rachel, standing tall in her fire-mage robes, despite the stick she needs to lean on, to the witches and alchemists behind her, to King Dunwiddy on my left. “But we note that you are honest in your ability to tolerate the living. This speaks in your favour.”

As if I need his favour. Pah. The paladin continues to waffle, waving his arms dramatically, his voice rolling off the stones in booming cadence. He talks about gods, about family, about peace and accords. I am listening, I really am. But my eyes are fixed on the ruined wall behind the group of clerics.

They cannot see it, only those of us on the dais can see it.

Grains of sand are trickling from between the cracks in the walls.

Softly, softly they fall. Softly. What omen is this? The grains bounce on the ruined stones and settle in the crevices, falling dreamily as if time has slowed, as if we have all the time in the world. I wrench my eyes away, trying to concentrate on the words spoken by the pompous cleric, but I cannot.

The trickle becomes a rustling torrent, a dry waterfall heaping itself on my floor, the noise more and more insistent, why can’t they see it?

An oppressive weight settles itself on the chamber, at long last drowning out the paladin’s words. His booming baritone becomes a murmurous whisper. He clutches his throat in alarm, choking, but softly, the wrenching noise muted.

The Acolyte turns, eyes wild, but this time her bell does not ring.

She sees the sand.

“Treachery!” she cries, or rather she tries to cry but the words come out hoarse and quiet.

“It is not my doing,” I say, rising to my feet. And it is not.

The clerics lurch for their weapons, but they are frozen in place.

A bitter scent of grave and rot caresses my cheek with deathly fingers. At the back of the ruined throne room a tear opens in the fabric of reality, an eye, a narrow, unblinking eye, and through it hisses a noxious wind as cold as the dead.

Through it, I catch glimpses of a bleak, dark desert. Sand continues to pour out of the portal, like it is being displaced from the other side. Shuddering steps. Quiet, a vibration but he is coming. More sand, more sand, and then an enormous onyx boot, followed by the giant figure of a man.

The Whisperer bends to step into my throne room and straightens to his full height, dark hooded face scraping the heavens.

I fall to my knees.

His presence is crushing. Soft like torrential rain is soft, battering me from every side. Soft like the weight of the stars. It is hard to think. My thoughts are moths in a midnight hurricane, their wings ripped to shreds before I can even finish thinking them.

I stare up at the darkness radiating from him in suffocating waves, dampening all sound, suppressing all colour, leeching the light away. Wings flare at his back. There are images in those wings. Images of madness. To look is to despair. I tear my eyes away.

I look instead at the rusted silver hammer the size of a tree trunk, held casually over one gargantuan shoulder. There are runes there, creeping and crawling like insects over the tarnished metal. They swarm like fat, black carrion flies.

“I am displeased.”

The Whisperer squeezes an enormous fist. The clerics closest to him burst, crimson founts of fragments, the walls sprayed and splattered the walls with chunks of flesh. The flies stream through the air, cascading in buzzing torrents, making it hard to see.

A single, desperate silver eye bursts into being, blazing across the bramble haired Acolyte’s forehead. Light pours from it, a tiny light straining to pierce the swirl of darkness.

“The goddess protects us!” she cries. “In absentia lucis! Tenebrae vincunt!”

Her words pierce the spell.

More eyes appear, unfolding from smooth skin, gleaming atop each Acolyte’s forehead. The paladins glow through the joints of their armour, golden light flaring, but still, they struggle to break the god’s grip. The Acolyte stretches her arms, I can see the muscles straining, her teeth grinding, she manages to spread her hands wide.

More eyes bloom on her palms, reminding me uncomfortably of the grimoire.

The Whisperer turns to her.

The Acolyte opens her mouth, to shout a spell, to shout- something- and vomits sand, doubling over to wretch the grains onto the ground.

The Whisperer swings his hammer once, and she is gone.

Again, another cleric dies. Again. Again.

The floor runs thick with blood and bile.

Friar Julian’s sea blue eyes stare up at the tarnished silver hammer, the whites of his eyes showing the whole way around. A bead of sweat coats his tattooed brow.

“No!” I scream, starting forward. Not the friar! High minded fool though he is, his my friend. My ally. Then I too am held immobile.

The hammer pauses.

I fight to get free, fight to reach for my axe but it is futile. I am bound by bruising steel.

The susurrus of nightmares swirling in my direction, myriad wings beating like insanity in my ears.

“No?” he says. “No? Maud. Heed my words. You have served me well. You have sent many souls to my desert to wander for all eternity. Together we have feasted on the dead. You have spread my influence. I have been pleased with you, my scion. But this is too much. Too much. I do not share.”

The hammer descends.

The friar’s life is snuffed out, his remains a lurid smear.

“Heed the warning,” says the Whisperer. “Do not test me again.”

And then he is gone.