Queen of Fire

She gave a short laugh and turned her back on him, her gaze drawn to a candlelit alcove at the rear of the chamber where ten large tomes sat on lecterns. The books were ancient, the bindings flaking and cracked with age. The first to be bound in the land of Cumbrael, she knew, finding it odd that she felt no upswelling of awe at the sight. Just a collection of old books in a room of old men.

“I have in my possession,” she said, turning back to the table, “what I believe to be a complete list of adherents to the heretical sect known as the Sons of the Trueblade. In due course each and every name on this list will be captured and put to the question. I am sure you will join me in rejoicing at this news, given the wealth of intelligence they are sure to provide.”

She scanned each face in turn, finding confusion on most, but fear on others. They knew, she realised. Not all, but some. She saw how the Bishop of the Southern Parish avoided her gaze, a few beads of sweat forming on his wrinkled brow. Him in particular. She was right; there were no allies here.

She walked slowly around the table, watching each stooped back flinch as she passed by. She wore no weapons today, having returned her grandfather’s sword to its place in the library, but had little doubt she could snap every neck in this room should she choose. She halted behind the chair occupied by the Reader-elect and pointed at the ballots neatly piled at his side. “Give me those.” His spotted, bony hands trembled as he complied, dropping the ballots and scrambling to retrieve them before managing to fumble them into her palm.

“‘Deception is both sin and blessing,’” she quoted as she took the ballots from him, the Fifth Book, the Book of Reason, fast becoming her favourite. She turned and walked slowly back to the alcove, ballots in hand. “‘The paths set for us by the Father are many and their course is ever winding. At every turn the Loved find themselves presented with a plethora of choices as their paths fork, split by war or famine, love and betrayal. To walk the varied paths of life without deception is impossible.’” She stopped before the alcove, holding the ballots to one of the candles, letting the flame consume half their length before tossing them onto the stone floor where they continued to burn, soon no more than a swirl of black cinders.

“‘But,’” she told the bishops with a smile, now staring in outrage or horror, “‘the Father forgives the lie spoken in kindness, or service to a greater purpose.’”

She stood, the smile fading from her lips, waiting for a single voice to be raised in dissent. But they all just sat and stared, stoking her anger with their dumb inaction. This venal church collaborated with murderers, she knew. Allied themselves with the servants of an enemy that brought slaughter and slavery to this land. The people of this city would hang you all from the towers of this cathedral if I wished it. I won their love, whilst you cowered here and prayed for miracles that never came. With sword and bow I won their love.

One word to Arentes and it would be done, the bishops dragged outside, charges read as the people looked on and she fired their rage with a few well-chosen truths. They were all killers now, save the children and even they were hardened to the sight of death. There would be no protest, no hand raised to stop her, and she would have what the priest once made her lust for, a new church to be moulded into her father’s vision.

My mad father’s vision. The thought dispelled her anger, replacing it with a weary realisation. They had lost so much, but the church had endured for centuries and this land would not heal if she ripped open yet more wounds.

The sleeping ancient stirred, snuffling awake with a bleary-eyed glance around the room. “Lunch!” he demanded, thumping his walking stick on the table.

Reva moved to the ancient, smiling down at his reproving scowl. “And who might you be, good bishop?”

“I,” he began, drawing himself up, “am the Holy Bishop of . . .” He frowned in confusion, his shoulders slumping a little, licking his lips. “The Bishop of . . .”

“The Riverland Parish,” the bishop at his side supplied in a tense whisper.

“Yes!” The ancient bishop brightened, fixing Reva with an imperious glare. “I am the Bishop of the Riverland Parish and I demand my lunch.”