But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He found a horse blanket under the seat and pulled it over his legs. He flexed his hand — still a touch numb. Karien’el would have to win out, after all. And if he did… then he would have his chance to put his stamp on the laws of the land.
And he most certainly intended to.
For some reason the city of Ring made Ivanr uneasy. He preferred to stay out in the field, occupying his tent in Martal’s fortress, with a view of the city walls. He and the wrapped bodies of Martal and the Priestess. Many flocked to him now, begging for his blessing, hounding him. Inside the city it would be ten times worse.
He was the inheritor of a polytheistic movement nurtured and prepared by Beneth, inflamed by the Priestess, directed by Martal, and now in control of over half of Jourilan — and it terrified him. He had no idea what to do, or how to proceed. What next? March on the capital, Jour? Already Orman was harassing him with intelligence from the Dourkan border: news of Imperial loyalists negotiating for an alliance against the Reformist movement. He was no politician! Orman could handle that; he seemed to relish it.
He rested a hand on the cloth-wrapped body of the Priestess, the head and body reverently brought together, packed in salt, and lovingly bound. Such a small frame to have brought about such enormous change! Yet, as the churgeon said, nothing happened. Why did you allow it? Did you see, in the end, that nothing short of your complete sacrifice to the cause could assure their complete devotion as well?
‘Deliverer!’ a young girl’s voice called from without. Ivanr stirred from what was perhaps the closest he’d come to prayer in many years. Gods! Not another one!
He tossed aside the flap to see a young girl lying prone, hands out before her. ‘Stand up!’ he grated, much more ferociously than he meant. She stood, quivering her fear. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. Worship as you wish. There are no proscriptions now. The paths to the Divine are infinite.’
She nodded, gulping. ‘Yes, Deliverer. My father sent me. He is too old to come. He believes in your message of forgiveness.’ The girl visibly gathered her nerve to plunge on: ‘My lord, with the death of the Black Queen there is such anger among the troops. They thirst for revenge… M’lord, in the city they are rounding people up. People accused of worshipping the Lady. They are killing them all.’
‘What!’
The girl flinched, falling prone once more. ‘No! Not you!’ He glanced about the tent, found his staff. ‘Show me.’
The streets were utterly deserted but for roving bands of Reformist troops, drunk, breaking into shops, looting. Along the narrow streets of two-storey shops and houses many gaped empty, ransacked from the rioting. Looted broken furniture and private belongings littered the street along with the burned remains of bonfires and street barricades.
After a few blocks, the girl leading, it became easy to find the source of the trouble as the echoing roar of shouting and cheering reached him. They came on to a market square. A great crowd of Reform troops mixed with Ring citizens, obvious victors in the bloody street-to-street civil clashes, choked the square. Some had even climbed broken statues and fountains for a better view, and everyone was peering across the way to where an informal archery range had been set up. Reform archers fired down the narrow cleared alleys between the crowds to targets of crossed lumber on which men and women hung limp, studded with arrows. A great cheer greeted every volley.
Enraged, Ivanr bulled his way forward. He slammed men and women aside and stepped out to where tables supported bows and quivers of arrows. Archers gaped at him, astonished, and most lowered their bows. All save one, a youth who deliberately ignored him to take his time firing one last shot into a woman hanging by her arms. The shot went true, though the woman’s body didn’t flinch, supporting as it did an entire forest of arrows.
Two quick strides brought Ivanr to the fellow and he slapped the bow from his hands. ‘How dare you, you evil bastard!’ he raged. The archer whipped round and he found himself staring straight into the scarred young face of the boy he’d rescued.
For Ivanr everything stopped.
The noise from the crowd faded to nothing. Even his vision darkened at its edges. He staggered backwards, his heart lurching as if impaled. Gods forgive me! No! The boy’s face was different now — a kind of habitual cruelty twisted it. The youth snatched up his bow and defiantly nocked another arrow. No! Please… Ivanr started forward, reaching out for him. Please don’t do this — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
…
The youth spun about and fired point-blank into Ivanr’s chest.
The answering roar of the crowd dazzled him. He stood confused. Hordes crowded in upon him. Hundreds of hands snatched the youth, tearing his clothes, his hair. The boy seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. All he could think of was that there was something he meant to do; he just couldn’t quite remember what it was. Someone was talking to him — the man’s mouth was moving but Ivanr couldn’t make out his words among all the roaring noise. He peered down at the palm’s breadth of shaft and fletching protruding from his chest. Something had to be done about this!
He asked the man if he could help him, or thought he did, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Hands guided him to a room, sat him on a straw pallet. Breathing was hard now — the arrow had taken a lung. But he was of Toblakai stock, and hardy. He stayed conscious, even when an army bonecutter leaned him forward to snip the shaft at his back, then, looking to him for permission, yanked the arrow out from his front. Ivanr convulsed in a great spewing mouthful of blood. The bonecutter bound his torso in muslin. Eventually Orman appeared, accompanied by Hegil.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Orman told him, actual tears in his eyes.
‘They’re saying it was an assassin sent by the Lady,’ Hegil said.
Ivanr shook his head. ‘Stop them,’ he said, his voice papery dry.
‘Stop?’ Hegil asked. ‘Stop what?’
‘The killing. No more.’
The two shared glances. ‘Yes,’ Orman told him. ‘Yes, Ivanr. Do not worry. Ease your mind.’
Bowing, they left. He heard speaking outside but couldn’t quite make out the words. He was alone, straining to draw breath. Orman may have given his word to stop the killing but outside, on the streets, if anything the noise was swelling. Ivanr feared the attack on him had shattered all restraint. He tried to stand, but tensing his chest stole his breath completely and he almost blacked out.
The door opened and a young woman crept in like a mouse. A mouse dragging a huge stick with it. She looked up to see him staring at her and choked off a yell. It was the girl who had summoned him into the city. ‘They are saying you are dead!’
Ivanr, who had been pressing a hand to his chest, let it fall. ‘Who is saying?’
‘Everyone! On the streets. They are emptying entire quarters. Dragging families on to the streets. There is no sense to it. It’s just bloodletting, nothing more than bloodlust.’
He gestured for his staff. ‘Give me that!’
Together with the support of the staff and the girl, he managed to stand. ‘My shirt — there.’
She dressed him and, one hand on her shoulder, the staff in the other, he limped outside. Guards turned, amazed. Two were his sworn bodyguards. These two looked at him, stricken with remorse.
Ivanr surveyed the gathered soldiers. ‘Attend me,’ he commanded simply, and they fell to their knees.
As he limped along within his circle of guards, Ivanr clenched back his pain and asked, breathless, ‘Where should I go — the centre of things?’
‘The Cathedral of Our Lady. Loyalists are fleeing there. The garrison of Stormguard on the Ring have come ashore. None dare attack them.’