Page 77 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘No, but the fact of it will protect you. There are more and more of them arriving by the day. Securing their respect will keep you safe and allow you to maintain control of Cárscaro. And if you appear loyal to the cause, Fýredel may not see any need to make you his puppet by force.’
Her gloved hand resting on his scales. His eyes searing into hers, as if he recognised her.
‘This is about surviving long enough for help to come, as our ancestors did. The Grief of Ages was not won by the sword, but through endurance,’ Priessa said. ‘The Saint will forgive us.’
Marosa set her jaw. Even if the idea of such a performance was repulsive, she saw the wisdom in it.
‘Find out as much as you can about the Cult of the Iron King,’ she concluded, ‘and I will attempt to mirror its followers. Let them bow to the heir of Oderica.’
****
The candles were burning, red and intense, when her guard disturbed her three nights later. Once a member of the Knights Defendant, he was now a nameless cultist of the Iron King. Marosa had never seen his face, for he covered it with a mask, like all the others.
‘Lord Gastaldo is here,’ he informed Marosa. ‘With your permission, Your Radiance.’
Marosa gave him a nod. Once the guard had retreated from the Privy Chamber, Lord Gastaldo strode into it, wearing a black cape that rode on one shoulder.
‘Your Radiance,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘Fýredel will speak with you again this night.’
‘At the Fell Door?’ Priessa stood at once. ‘If so, let me go in her stead.’
‘No,’ Marosa said to her. ‘Fýredel would realise the deception, Essa.’
‘Perhaps not if I wear your clothes and carry a vial of your blood, so I smell of you. We can ask the Royal Physician to—’
‘The Donmata is right, daughter. The Iron King sees all,’ Lord Gastaldo said. ‘It is time to give up our thoughts of resistance. All of it has come to naught. There is no Saint to keep us safe, no Halgalant to receive us. That much has become apparent.’
He walked to stand beside the hearth, gazing into the flames that danced there.
‘It is clear that our ancestors, the early Yscals, had it right. They saw a god in Mount Fruma,’ he said. ‘Now that god has revealed himself to us, just as he did to Oderica the Smith.’
As he spoke, Marosa took in his fine garments again. His black cloak had a red lining. Priessa tensed as she, too,grasped the danger. She had known about the cultists, but not that her own father had joined their ranks.
‘Yscalin should always have rejected the Saint, Donmata. He is an Inysh god, not ours,’ Lord Gastaldo said. ‘Galian Berethnet was forced on us by your ancestor, Isalarico the Betrayer. But you are not justhisdescendant. You are the scion of Oderica, with eyes lit by a holy fire.’
Marosa maintained her composure as Priessa sent her a glance.
‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that we understand each other, my lord.’ She rose from her settle. ‘You are right. If there was indeed a Saint, he has abandoned us in our hour of need. He is unworthy of devotion.’ She forced a smile. ‘Let us embrace our roots as Yscals, and our independence from Virtudom, by worshipping the Iron King.’
Lord Gastaldo listened in rapt silence. So did the cultist by the door.
‘Too long have we been chained to the Queendom of Inys. Oderica drove out the Gulthaganians; let us do the same to the usurping Saint,’ Marosa said, her tone commanding. ‘If we are loyal – if we aid him – then Fýredel will spare us when fire rages from shore to shore.’
His face relaxed. Some part of him must have needed her approval, so he could persuade himself that succumbing was the right decision. In the absence of the Saint, Gastaldo Yelarigas needed to believe in something else. He needed to be reassured that he was not a monster.
‘Radiance,’ he said, raising a gloved hand to his chest. ‘We are ready to serve.’ He nodded to the doors. ‘Fýredel does not ask you to come to him in person. He will speak through His Majesty.’
She expected to be escorted upstairs. Instead, the Flesh King entered the Privy Chamber, out of bed for the first time in weeks. Two masked Vardya stood on either sideofhim, close enough that they would catch him if he fell. His eyes had the piercing embers in them.
‘Donmata of Yscalin. Glassbearer,’ he ground out. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, my liege.’ Marosa sank into a low curtsey, her skirts fanning around her. ‘I hear.’
It was easy to act in front of her father.
‘The Queen of Inys sends envoys to my kingdom. Perhaps she wishes to treat with me,’ Fýredel said. His puppet coughed, blood and spittle leaking from the corners of his mouth. ‘I will grant her desire, for I owe the seed of Shieldheart a death.’
His loathing of Glorian Shieldheart had not waned in five hundred years. Marosa went over his words again.
