Kirven Ban-Ruhn sat back on her throne, uncomfortable, no matter how many cushions she added. Its woodwork was carved in the northern style that she did not care for, no adornment apart from geometric shapes. Brutal and cold, like the people here.
She was the first High Leoric of Harnspire in generations that was not Rai and, of course, the Rai hated her for it.
She hated them back.
She hated them more.
Not that long ago, Kirven had been glad to make it through a day alive. Now those who had once oppressed her danced to her tune. They might mutter and hiss behind her back. They might spread rumours and plot, but they would not move against her because she had been chosen by the Skua-Rai of Tiltspire, voice of Tarl-an-Gig and the one who bathed in the light of the Cowl-Rai.
She sat in splendour on the bottom level of the central and largest of the city crown’s spires. The great banners of the blue, mixed with the green of Harnspire falling from the snaking ribs of the vaulted ceiling. Huge wooden figures of Tarl-an-Gig, the balancing man, lined the walls. Between each one hung the star of Iftal. Lining the great hall were her guards – hers – in burnished wooden armour. Fires burned in each of the forty fireplaces, keeping away the chill of the north. A thousand servants ran to do her bidding. Here she sat and received the report of her soldiers and her Rai.
“We cast out old ways,” she said under her breath, “we burn out the old gods, so that the one may thrive.”
The last of her trunk commanders had reported on the search for more trion and left. Now only a small group of Rai were left, splendid in their expensive armour. Resentful in every look and movement.
They wanted her to be scared but they did not know her. Madrine, her firstwife and a Rai of Chyi, had once left Kirven and her child alone in Wyrdwood. One of the many lessons Kirven had been forced to endure. Less violent than the others maybe, but more terrifying. Wyrdwood was no place for a woman with a babe. But Kirven had survived Wyrdwood. She had survived Madrine where a firsthusband, secondhusband, thirdwife and two trion had not.
She was strong.
It took a lot to scare Kirven now and she ruled simply; cross her and die. It would not be a drawn-out and tortuous death the way the Rai preferred. Die swiftly, die quietly and be replaced by someone who was not as foolish.
No fools survived the first months of her reign.
Kirven had spent the day receiving reports to the throne of Harnspire; it was taking so long that the light above had moved through three of the great windows at the far end of the hall. It was her duty to hear how the hunt for followers of the old gods of Wyrdwood went. Despite her physical discomfort the destruction of every shrine felt like a small victory. So she sat upright and wished they would hurry. The soldiers were done, now was the turn of her more specialised hunters.
Falnist, her trion major-domo, stepped forward, holding a staff topped with the star of Iftal, their clothes were stiff and angular, bleached to the purest white.
“Rai Harden Van-Gurat and Rai Galderin Mat-Brumar, approach and speak.” The two Rai came forward, confidence in their walk, arrogance in it, but Kirven did not waver or show her distaste.
“Tell me of your successes, Rai,” she said. Falnist took the papers held out by Rai Van-Gurat, gave her a small bow and presented Kirven with three hand-sketched portraits. She unrolled them and looked at the pictures. A thin woman with hair that looked like it had been hacked off with a knife. A sour-looking man with hollow cheeks. Another man who looked beaten, small and squashed, his hair patchy.
Van-Gurat watched her with pale eyes. The other Rai, Mat-Brumar, stayed where he was. He was the more powerful of the two; it showed in his ornate and beautifully painted armour. No doubt he did not want to enter the influence of the duller beneath her throne that cut him off from his cowl. The Rai found the experience unpleasant. Van-Gurat was about to speak when Kirven raised a hand to silence her.
“All should leave, now, except my Rai.” She watched and waited as her soldiers and servants turned and left the long room. It took a long time. Falnist remained by her throne and she turned to them.
“And you.” Their eyes widened in annoyance, then they bowed and followed the rest.
She did not need to send them away, but enjoyed annoying Falnist and making Van-Gurat wait within the duller’s field. The Rai stared at her, their dislike of her plain as Falnist walked past them.
Kirven tried not to smile as she watched the trion walk away down the hall and out of a door.
“High Leoric,” said Van-Gurat as the last guards left. The discomfort of the dulling field plain on the woman’s face. “The woman in the portrait is named Tamis Du-Carack, brought into being as false Cowl-Rai by the monks of Hast-Who-Walks-For-Death. Their Harnwood Shrine is destroyed. She is captured and in your dungeon. As is the first man, Urdan Mac-Varsa, who was raised as false Cowl-Rai for Gadir Made-of-Blood. His monastery is burned along with those monks who would not bow to Tarl-an-Gig.”
“What of the other?” asked Kirven. Her voice echoed through the long room.
“We have not yet found the false Cowl-Rai Virag Par-Behian, brought into being for Loun the Wet Blade, High Leoric. The monastery in Stor was empty, no sign it has been occupied for many years.” She looked up. Her skin sickly looking, more like paste than flesh. “We will find him. We have interrogators and searchers looking.”
Kirven wondered if they hated this. Crua had always been riven by war. Cowl-Rai would rise, the world would tilt and either north or south would become prosperous until the process was repeated. Tarl-an-Gig would stop that, they were eradicating every cult, monastery and forest shrine they could find.
There would be no new Cowl-Rai rising. Ever. But the strife of war was when the Rai rose, when they could swap allegiances and become strong by betraying those they had once called friend.
All that would be gone, the Cowl-Rai brooked no threat. Kirven smiled. Maybe the Rai would be next to fall.
“Well,” said Kirven, “what are you standing there for, Rai Van-Gurat? The Cowl-Rai has demanded you capture these pretenders, burn the monasteries and shrines of their gods. You have not yet completed your work.” The Rai stood, gave a short bow of her head and then turned and marched from the throne room. Galderin Mat-Brumar stared at Kirven for a moment. He gave her a nod and an unpleasant smile before following his companion, though he would not leave Harnspire with her, Kirven needed him for something else.
A third Rai waited, watching. Her wooden armour scarred and scratched. Her face not quite as harsh as the others.
“What of you, Sorha Mac-Hean?” This one did not bow. It was not in her to bend the knee unless forced. She took off her helmet, letting red hair fall free. Uncommonly beautiful, you are, thought Kirven as the Rai approached. But it was a cold beauty, more like a statue than one of the people. Sorha twitched as she walked into the influence of the duller and the connection between her and her cowl was severed. A brief pause, then she ascended the three steps that led up to the throne and held out a rolled-up portrait. She held it just out of reach. Making Kirven lean forward to take it. The picture was a man, bearded, long hair. Deep-set eyes marked as brown. Tired looking.
“Cahan Du-Nahere,” said Sorha, backing away with a sneer. “False Cowl-Rai brought into being for Zorir-Who-Walks-in-Fire. The monastery long ago destroyed, when the Cowl-Rai first rose. Found at a farm in the far north.”
“And he is in my dungeon?”
Sorha shook her head. “He is dead, and his family with him.”
Kirven did not speak, not at first.
“The Cowl-Rai bids you bring them back to me.”
Sorha shrugged. “It saves a lot of time and effort if I kill them, rather than waiting for you to do it.”
“That is not your decision to make,” said Kirven softly, staring at the picture and wondering what this man had been like. Few prospective Cowl-Rai had family and put down roots.
“Do you think this duller could save you, if I decided to kill you?” asked Sorha conversationally, staring up at the ceiling. Kirven rarely looked up, the ceilings of the spires were strange, like the corridors of the upper reaches. They made her head ache if she looked at them for too long.
“No, the duller would not save me,” said Kirven. It was true. The Rai were trained to fight from the moment they could walk, well before they took on their cowl. She met Sorha’s stare. “But I know you would only survive my passing by moments.”
Sorha’s eyes narrowed, then she looked around. Saw the holes in the walls, knew something that endangered her must wait behind them. Smiled to herself, nodded and took a step back.
“To own a bow is punishable by death,” she said.
Kirven ignored her, looked at the picture.
“You made sure it was him?”
“I killed the man who was where you sent me.” That shrug again. “He had shaved the beard, cut the hair. Those pictures are mostly useless anyway.” She was staring at Kirven, intent on her. “They are made from rumours and the ravings monks of old gods spit out under torture.” Kirven did not dispute that. Still, she could not let Sorha be so openly insolent whether she spoke the truth or not. Kirven Ban-Ruhn ruled here, not the Rai. Not any of them.
“I think, Rai Mac-Hean, we may need to find you a new assignment.” Sorha only continued to stare. “You can leave now.”
The Rai walked away, so sure of herself. Of them all she thought that one was the most likely to make trouble. She was ruthless and impetuous, a bad combination.
Kirven would deal with Rai Sorha Mac-Hean another time. She had other business to attend to now. The dead man she could forget, the prisoners she would deal with later. She scratched at her head. In her previous life she had worn her long, dark hair loose, but the position of High Leoric demanded a set of elaborate braids that made her head itch.
So much here needed her attention, such was power.
And in Crua, power always came at a cost.