Cry of the Newborn (13 page)

'Do not worry, Mirron Westfallen. This is a difficult lesson and you may not solve it today. It is why we brought you all here to the peace of Marshal Vasselis's garden. And it is why you will find that the whole Echelon are here to help you. I will move among you and there will be two of the Echelon watching over you always. You have the whole of the afternoon to think, to ask questions and to experiment. Expect frustration and enjoy every small success. Will you try for me?'

Mirron almost burst into tears. She managed to hold them back and nod instead, unable to find words.

'Good,' said Father Kessian. 'Then eat and take yourself away to wherever you need. Willem and Meera will be with you shortly.'

Mirron found that her hands were trembling. It was a mixture of excitement and fear of the unknown. Quietly, the whole of the Ascendancy Echelon had come into the garden and were gathered near the gate. She looked down at her plate of cold meat and sweetly spiced bread and tried to focus on it while she half-listened to Kessian outlining her brothers' tasks. She ate only because she knew she had to, not through any desire.

She put her plate down, got up and brushed crumbs from her simple blue tunic dress. She made to move off. There was a lone orange tree sitting in a patch of sunlight in the corner furthest from the gate. It would do perfectly.

'Hold on,' said Arducius. 'Before we split up.' He beckoned them all towards him. 'Link arms.'

He'd done this before when they'd been asked to do something difficult. It was so comforting.

'Remember who we are,' said Arducius. 'We are all here for each other and will support each other. None of us is ever alone.'

They split up and Mirron trotted over to her place. The sun was warm on her body and the garden walls sheltered her from the slight breeze. She sat on the grass outside the shade of the tree's branches. Footsteps behind her belonged to Willem Geste and Meera Naravny, the Echelon's Firewalkers. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at them. Meera smoothed her hair and Willem crouched carefully in front of her, wincing at some pain in his joints. Perhaps Ossacer would be able to identify it for him.

'Now remember, we are here to watch over you, to guide you and to support you. Father Kessian will be walking around slowly. All you need to do is take your time,' said Willem. 'Are you feeling all right?'

'Fine,' said Mirron. 'But a little nervous.'

'Of course you are, dear,' said Meera. 'It's nothing to worry about. It's a good thing.'

'Where do I start?' asked Mirron, aware quite suddenly that she had no idea.

'Well,' said Willem, 'what you might want to try is first look closely at the signature of this tree. And remember, we cannot help you with that. What we will do is bring you a small fire so you can compare signatures. And then, if you are comfortable, create one from the other and amplify it with yourself. We will be able to see the fire signature as it forms.'

Mirron nodded. 'I'll do my best.'

'You always do,' said Meera. 'Come on, Willem, leave her for a moment.'

Mirron placed her hands on the ground and reached out with her mind, her eyes open. Immediately, trails of energy were revealed to her. In the early days, even that had taken great effort but now she could do it indefinitely. She concentrated on the tree roots which pulsed with bright life all through the earth beneath her feet. This was a young and healthy tree and the trails ran bright green and yellow up into its trunk and through into its branches, only fading to grey at leaves that were beginning to pale with the imminent onset of dusas.

She frowned. The signature of lifelines in the tree was, well, tree-shaped. Was that what Father Kessian wanted her to see? She broke concentration and looked round. As if knowing she'd be confused, the Father was walking towards her, leaning hard on his sticks and taking each step gingerly. Shela was at his side, ready in case he stumbled.

'You look perplexed, my little one,' he said, wheezing slightly.

‘I
don't know what I'm looking for. The energy trails are just the same shape as the tree. What else can they be?'

'Nothing,' said Kessian. 'Not without help. But I see your confusion. What I want you to consider are the differences between a living signature like this tree, and that of fire which is a destructive, powerful but short lived energy. The density of energies at the heart of the structure is the biggest clue to the differences. In a tree, the heart is spread throughout the roots. In a fire, there is a very dense and violent core. If I read Gorian correctly, this is what you should be trying to make. Examine the fire Willem is bringing to you.'

He brought a small iron cauldron over, carrying it by its handles with no covering. He didn't need it. One hundred and twenty-two years old and still impervious to heat. He set it down on the stone Meera was carrying. Inside, coal and wood was burning hot. Mirron took off her charm bracelet and pushed her hand into the fire, feeling its beautiful warmth spread along her arm. She focused on the energy within. She gasped.

'I can see it,' she said, wondering why it had not occurred to her before.

'Describe it for me,' said Father Kessian.

'It is bound, though it appears random. All the energy trails start in the same place. Where the coal and wood are hottest, the heart of the fire is the darkest red, like blood almost. The trails make other coals hot as they pass by and those coals in turn feed back some of their energy as well as passing the heat outwards.'

She turned to the Father. 'So there is a complete circuit. Even in a fire and even if the energy is always eventually wasted into the air.'

'So if you think about it, a fire grows even as it consumes its fuel, eventually dying and becoming cold and dead. That is not much different than a tree which grows even as the life energies in its roots are slowly consumed. And roots, branches, leaves and eventually whole trees die, becoming cold and dead. The cycle of a fire, without renewed fuel for energy, is faster than that of a tree. Does that help you in moulding earth energy into that of fire?'

Mirron considered for a moment. 'I suppose I should . . . isn't it about compressing the energies I draw from the tree?'

'Yes, but don't forget you need a target on which to place those energies. A fire cycle must have fuel mustn't it?'

Mirron bit her tongue before saying, "well, obviously". She suppressed a smile. 'I cannot even mould the energies without a source for them, can I?'

Father Kessian raised his eyebrows. 'Are you sure? If Gorian is correct, you can perhaps maintain the energy signature within you and then project it on to target fuel such that the signature can survive. Do you see?'

Mirron scratched her head and thought hard. It was not that much different from adapting fire energies from one work to another, she supposed. But there was never a break in the circuit of the energy. Father Kessian was saying she could hold fire within her body without there being the fuel for fire present.

'I'm not sure.'

'Well, try for me. And don't worry if nothing happens. We have all the time in the world.'

With Father Kessian there, Mirron felt she could achieve anything. She smiled up at him, saw the encouragement in his lovely, old wrinkled face and determined to try her very best. She moved her hands back to the ground and brought the energy signature of the tree back to her mind. Surrounding it in the earth, trails that signified other roots, worms and insects fled away in every direction, all identifiable to her if she looked hard enough.

She opened herself to the orange tree, feeling its lifelines link with hers. She knew its grace, the deliberation of its growth and the gentle pulsating of its life that were all so much at odds with the racing of her own body.

Mirron paused, letting the lifelines settle following her delicate interruption of them, before considering how to tap the strength of the tree to make fire. She felt a sense of disquiet. The violence of fire was directly at odds with the peaceful life of the tree and using the latter to create the former seemed wrong. But this was just experiment after all.

The solution was not too difficult to see. If Mirron wanted to force growth into the tree, all she would do was focus her bright, quick energies into the roots of the tree's lifelines, forcing the pools of latent growth potential at the base of the roots up through the structure. Her life force would amplify that growth. Tiring but efficient. And if she wanted to divert the tree's energy to give growth to a linked elemental life like a flower, she used herself as conduit and amplifier but the work was essentially the same.

For fire, then, it was akin to diverting energy but without a destination until the energy map of fire was drawn in her mind and held in her body. It seemed clear to Mirron that she had to compress the tree's gentle lifelines into the harsher, quicker model of fire using her own body as a temporary home. It wouldn't hurt her, after all, and she couldn't create it in the clear air or it would be whipped away by the devils in the wind, lost to God forever.

She held out her left hand, seeing her pink, smooth palm overlaid with bright lifelines, while her right stayed in contact with the cycle of the orange tree. Compared to her, the energy in the roots, branches and leaves was infinite. She picked at individual energy strands, seeing the deep green and brown diverting into her body where its relatively ancient power made her gasp as it always did.

Concentrating harder than she ever had before, aware that Father Kessian was watching her, she used the trails of her body to bind around the tree's energy, squeezing it hard, feeling it begin to race. In her mind's eye, the energy map of the fire grew in her palm. Dark thudding reds and sparkling yellows, released to the sky at their very tips but feeding back into her body at their base, keeping the circle complete.

Now she could consider where the fire should be directed. Willem had already thought of that. She saw him place a triangle of dead branches on a stone slab, their grey and black signatures clear. She reached out her hand towards the fuel, meaning to touch the wood to transfer the energy.

But the lifelines of the tree flowing through her were far more powerful than she was ready to accept. Without an instant destination, she was having trouble regulating their volume now she had teased a break in the cycle. The tree pulsed too strong and the fire energy map she was building sought purchase. Her hand was not close enough to the dead wood and there was other fuel far closer.

Mirron shrieked and flew to her feet, stumbling backwards. Her clothes and hair were ablaze, the smoke and crackling covering her. She could see flame reaching past her eyes and the stink clogged her nose. Dimly, she could hear shouting around her. The fire was hot. Hotter than the forge. It was pure at its centre, corrupted only when it reached the fuel of her clothes and hair.

The shock wore off quickly and she breathed the power in. That was a mistake. Smoke from her clothes made her cough. But she felt invigorated, clean. And when the water was poured over her head she felt a short sensation of loss. She stood for a moment, looking down at her feet, unashamed by her nakedness. The Echelon and the Ascendants were standing in a loose circle around her.

She raised her head, and scratched at her skull. Her hair was gone. She smiled, almost laughed. She knew she should be upset but she felt so alive. She understood what had happened. She knew that she should have closed the circle of the tree's energy before attempting to direct the fire energy map she had made to its ultimate destination. How, she didn't know. She had made a small, pure fire map but the drain on the tree was disproportionately large. So much had been wasted by her inability to keep it all within her. There had to be a better way.

Mirron sighed and nodded reassuringly at them all, seeing the anxiety leaving their faces and the eagerness to know building in its place.

'So,' she said, voice a little rough from the smoke. 'It can be done.' 'Well, obviously,' said Father Kessian. Laughter rang around the walled garden.

Chapter 12

847th
cycle
of
God,
10th
day
of
Dusasrise

14th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

Estorr. Capital of the Estorean Conquord. A magnificent city of white and red splendour, sparkling in the dawn sun. It dominated the horizon for the last hours of a voyage to Estorea across the Tirronean Sea. A sight to lift the heart and swell the body with pride.

Paul Jhered stood in the prow of the
Hark's Arrow,
his cloak wrapped about him, hood over his head against the freezing temperatures. Above him, the main sail was full in the strong wind, driving them across their last miles, the Gatherers' crest proud at its centre.

The massive fortified harbour of concrete and stone speared half a mile into the sea, its dual walls shaped like a crab's claws with a fortress at the pincer of each. Trebuchets adorned their flat roofs and stone-projecting ballistae occupied positions on three levels towards the sea and the harbour, presenting a withering fire for any enemy and a warning to those seeking to flee the harbour carrying contraband or fugitives. The harbour walls provided deep water berths for large merchant and naval vessels while in the shallows and at the shoreline, fishing smacks clustered in the mill-pond calm.

From the harbour, the great walled city spread out north and south along the coast and up a series of slopes to a hilltop, its peak flattened centuries before to build the first of the Conquord palaces. Jhered had often said that every citizen should be afforded the opportunity to see the city from the sea. There really was no sight like it in the entire Conquord, and he was uniquely placed to make such a judgement.

Estorr was laid out before him in almost map-like order. He could see the wide main avenues, tree-lined and hung with flags, angling up towards the hills and palace like the spokes of a cartwheel. In between them, houses and businesses were packed in a maze of tight streets and alleys. Concrete and stone were whitewashed and decorated in a kaleidoscope of colour for individual identity and advertisement.

As the city rose to its peaks, so the wealth and space increased. Parkland studded the cityscape. Villas rose from behind manicured gardens and curtains of tall, shaped evergreens. To the south, the principal arena towered five storeys into the sky, its processional road to the palace complex wide and bannered along its length. The Gardens of the Advocates stood by the arena, beautiful and reverent. Marble statues of Advocates going back to the earliest days of the Conquord stood on proud fluted columns lining the paths of the park or grouped around stone seats and fountains.

Jhered could see the central forum, thick with activity, set in the centre of the city. Colonnaded on all four sides, it was the single largest open space in Estorr, with an amphitheatre to its north, an oratory to its south and a flood of stalls and people teeming at its centre. City life pulsed here like nowhere else.

And if the forum was the heart of the city, then the three aqueducts were its arteries. Staggering structures of double arches carrying water to the fountains and pipes, city ponds and small lakes, they dominated the higher reaches behind the city. But his eye as ever was inevitably drawn to the palace complex itself, gazing down on all it possessed. He could already imagine the sights that would greet him when he entered it a few hours from now.

Passing through the ceremonial gates the visitor was awed by the grandeur before his eyes. Inside the walls, at the centre of the grand courtyard was the Victory Fountain; four cavalrymen raising the flag of the Conquord, with horses rearing triumphant to the points of the compass. South and east lay the senate administrative buildings and the military and Gatherer headquarters. They presented a blank, colonnaded facade, their imposing doors leading into vaulted chambers and a myriad rooms from where the Conquord was organised, taxed, secured and expanded.

West, the basilica. Delicately carved columns, over a hundred feet tall, standing in eight rows of twelve facing the courtyard, supported a stone roof adorned with carvings of the great battles of the early Conquord as it expanded through Gestern, Avarn, Caraduk and

Easthale. Inside, laws were passed, justice dispensed and pleas heard by the Advocate and her inner circle of propraetors, praetors, aediles and magistrates.

And north, the palace itself. Forty steps, each two hundred feet wide, led up to a dramatic colonnaded entrance. A flag was draped from the ceremonial balcony, shading the huge, gilt inlaid and steel bound doors that led into the grand hallway. This in turn opened into the mighty atrium, at a fountain its centre cascading water over lilies and goldfish.

The atrium was bordered by columns on all four sides and from it the throne room, dining halls, private chambers and gardens were reached. Tapestries and works of art hung from every wall. Statues stood proudly in every alcove and the weight of glory and history pressed on even the strongest man, rendering him weak and humble.

Jhered drew in a deep breath, feeling the cold air sear his lungs and fill him with vitality. The palace, too, should be a place all citizens saw. It was an edifice that spoke so eloquently of the majesty and power of the Conquord. A reminder of what the Conquord had brought the world. It was its absolute shining centre but some of those who walked its corridors were becoming its rotten, decadent core.

It was why Jhered felt compelled to journey back from his current duties in Gestern, leaving the bulk of the Gatherers in the field and bringing only his honour guard with him. Too many problems, too many rumours and too many raids in this peaceful country with the misfortune of sharing a border with Atreska. Generally speaking, Jhered felt uncomfortable when he had sympathy for the ruler of a province where tax concerns were raised. But the Marshal Defender of Gestern was a woman for whom he had enormous respect. And following his meetings with Katrin Mardov, he had taken the decision to travel home with the revenue chests and approved accounts.

With the pale sun at its zenith, the
Hark's Arrow
moved serenely between the guardian fortresses. Her three banks of oars were in the water now and her sail furled. The arrival of the Gatherers' flagship was announced by a sounding of the quadruple horns in their flag towers. The sound split the day, echoing across the water and rolling up the hills on which Estorr stood. Activity ceased on the dockside for a moment, people turning to stare at the vessel rowing in close control towards her permanent berth
at the portside wall. From the
harbour garrison, whistles were sounded and a detachment of riders came to meet the ship, flying the flag of the Advocate and shadowing an armoured carriage.

The master of the
Hark
barked out a series of orders as the ship manoeuvred towards the berth. Crewmen ran forward and aft to ready the hawsers. Twelve spread along the port rail with poles to fend the ship off the dock wall as it came to rest. The ship angled in, port oars shipped, starboard oars driving the vessel slowly round. With the slightest grating, the
Hark
nudged the dock wall. A wide gangplank slapped into place.

'Exchequer Jhered, welcome back to Estorr,' said the master.

Jhered turned and nodded his acknowledgement, striding down the deck to the gangplank, where the master was standing.

'Thank you. It was a fine voyage. Tell me, how long are you due to stay in port?'

'Ten days, my Lord. We have some minor repairs, stores to take on and my crew will rest. Then we head north to Neratharn.'

'Ah yes, you'll be taking Appros Derizan and team. A challenging brief for them. South-western Atreska is not an easy place.'

'Indeed, my Lord. We have been requested to stand offshore until their investigation is complete.'

Jhered nodded. 'Do so. I may be travelling back with you. I'll send word. Have my bags sent to my quarters on the hill.'

Jhered thumped down the gangplank, his honour guard of eight soldiers at his back. Approaching the cavalry and wagon that were halted waiting for the chests, he smiled at the surprise on the captain's face. The man dismounted in a hurry and slapped his left hand to his right shoulder.

'We had not expected you, Exchequer Jhered.'

'Then you must be glad you had your guards polish their greaves this morning, Captain Harkov,' said Jhered, smiling. He nodded at the cavalry, a ripple of laughter running through them. But it was true. Not just greaves but breastplates, scabbards, plumed helmets, bits and bridles. All gleaming and beautifully prepared. Jhered was impressed.

'It would not do for the Advocate's cavalry to appear anything less than perfect, my Lord.' 'You do her credit.'

'Where are you headed? Our horses are at your disposal.'

'Straight to the hill for an audience with the Advocate,' replied Jhered. 'And thank you for your offer but your duty is to the revenue chests. It is a bracing day. We will walk the harbour wall to your offices. I expect you have horses enough there.'

'Naturally, my Lord. I'll see sufficient are readied for you.' He pointed at a cavalrywoman who wheeled and galloped away. 'It's a popular destination at the moment.'

'Oh, really?' Jhered smoothed his cloak over his breastplate and skirts. The wind whipped inside, chilling his legs.

‘I
escorted the Marshal Defender of Atreska there myself two days ago, my Lord. And I understand delegations from Gosland and Dornos have been in residence for seven days. I should also tell you that the Chancellor's banner flies above the Principal House too.'

'Hasn't she got heretics to burn elsewhere?' muttered Jhered for Harkov's ears only.

'Apparently there are problems in some far
-
flung areas,' said Harkov. He raised his eyebrows under his helmet. 'She is suing for more enforcement strength, I understand.'

'It is a common theme,' said Jhered, irked by the competition he would have for the Advocate's ear. 'I'm grateful for the information.' He nodded. 'Good to see you, Captain Harkov. You really should reconsider my offer.'

'Perhaps when my children are a little older, my Lord.' He saluted again.

'Your family are more fortunate than they know.' He turned to his guard. 'Let's go. Two by four behind me, eyes front. March.'

From the palace guard barracks, Jhered took horses through the city to the palace on the hill. Once there, Jhered led his honour guard on foot to the Gatherer barracks where he dismissed them for the day before walking in under the Victory Gates. The gates had been built to celebrate the life of the first Advocate of the Conquord, Jennin Havessel. They were a dominating and towering monument, the highest ramparts reaching three hundred feet into the sky.

Nevertheless, it was easy to walk through the grand arch, eyes fixed on the glories inside the courtyard and ignore the intricate carvings that covered every face of the marble and sandstone structure, depicting Havessel's battles and the return of spoils to Estorr. On a dull day, the gold inlay did not sparkle. Nor did the sentinels, statues of four warrior heroes, each a hundred and fifty feet high, seem to intimidate so much, drawing instead into the shadows. But Jhered always paused to run his hands over the centuries-old stonework to remind himself of the legacy he had sworn to protect and to develop.

Jhered emerged from the lantern-light inside the arch, took the salute of the palace guard and swept across the marble courtyard, with its mosaic depictions of battles won and glories long consigned to myth and legend. He ignored the temptation to freshen up in his private offices, instead making directly for the basilica. He could see the multiple colours of togas and the flash of polished armour inside the matrix of columns. The Advocate's banner was hanging down in front of the main entrance to the open structure, marking it as an official day of petition, debate and statement.

A drift of voices carried on the breeze, one dominating the others on his approach: Felice Koroyan, Chancellor of the Order of Omniscience. Nominally, the second most powerful person in the Conquord and a woman whom Jhered would die to protect but with whom he would not choose to share the same air. Still, he enjoyed the sparring that inevitably accompanied an open meeting between her and the Advocate. Today, the heat appeared to be high.