Beneath Starlight: The Risharri Empire, #1

By Karen de Lange

War rages across a continent, but one man lives in uneasy peace.
Liam Colley, officer of the Associated Sovereignties, has been stripped of citizenship and exiled for a crime he did not commit. Isolated and barely holding his conscience at bay, he is half a world away from everything he loves.
In the depths of a starlit forest he meets Aleysa Sirona. Orphan, outcast, and the most powerful mind mage for generations. If Liam can win her over then he might just earn his redemption and win the war for the Sovereignties - although he will be changed forever.
But Aleysa's magic makes her the most valuable person alive, and the warring factions will do anything to win her loyalty. It is up to Liam to keep her safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen de Lange
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909778016

Karen de Lange

Karen de Lange is a bookworm and fantasy geek. She lives in North East England with her husband, who is remarkably accepting of her talking about her characters as though they were real, and her two cats, who don’t care what’s real and what’s not so long as the treats keep on coming.

Book preview

For Peter, for being Himself.

The Nine Gods and Goddesses

Cadros - sky and light

Arandarta - death, war, fire and judgement

Damantia - earth, nature and all growing things

Navesh - the seas, rivers and oceans

Rosmenos - healing, fertility and youth

Sirona - age and wisdom

Sulerce - harvest, home and hearth

Ancellas - love, peace and friendship

Elwen - art, music and all created things

A Night of Smoke and Flame

It was not the light that woke her. The light, bright as it was, was still not bright enough to penetrate the thick drapes on the windows and the velvet curtains surrounding her four poster bed.

To the sound, however, curtains and drapes were a mere formality. It tore through them like thunder, like earthquake, like the world was falling apart.

The young woman sat bolt upright, the sheets falling away from her body to lie in folds across her lap. Gods, what a noise! The echoes still sounded outside, bouncing off the distant buildings. Closer by there were running footsteps, and closer still an insistent knocking on her door.

‘My lady! My lady, are you all right? My lady?’

The young woman fought free of the sheets and slipped through the gap in the velvet curtains. The relative chill of the bedchamber hit her immediately, but she gathered her nightgown up, ran light-footed to the window and pulled back the drapes.

Now the light hit her. Blinded her, almost. She shaded her eyes with her hand and blinked back tears until she adjusted to it. Fire, as blinding white as the sun reflected off polished glass, so bright it would be dazzling even in daytime. When her vision cleared she saw it blazed in three separate places. One in the ornamental gardens, no more than a hundred yards distant. One in the orange groves, a little further away. The third in the east wing, licking up around the clock tower. Small figures were already appearing, black against the light, spilling in panic out of the east wing. Some were appearing from other exits she could see, converging on the fires, ready to help where they could.

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she was so very tempted to cover her mouth with her hands in horror, but then the door behind her finally burst open. She whirled around as an older woman ran in, wearing a thick bed robe over her own nightgown.

‘My lady, the Cerans have attacked the palace! We must take you to safety! I have sent for a mage to escort you to...’

The young woman looked the intruder up and down. Acutely aware of her disarrayed hair and very un-regal attire, she enunciated her words carefully.

‘Her Blessed Highness does not flee from the Cerans, Miss Grace. Remove yourself from this chamber at once.’

Realising the severity of her error, the other woman immediately dropped to one knee on the carpet. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady.’ She backed out of the room almost as quickly as she had entered, closing the door as she went.

The young woman stared out of the window for a minute more. Someone had arrived who wielded a measure of authority, and the unceremoniously awakened palace staff were forming into lines, passing buckets between the courtyard fountain and the evacuated east wing. A water mage was there too, passing a steady stream of water straight through her hands and into the fire without any need for a bucket or hose.

She strode across to the door and pulled both halves open, framing herself against the light that blazed through the window behind her. In the room beyond, a few servants stood to attention. Miss Grace was nowhere to be seen.

‘Fetch me my maids,’ she announced. ‘And have the Ceran ambassadors brought to the throne room. I will see them in half an hour.’

***

The doors to the throne room were already flung wide as Her Blessed Highness Empress Cassaya strode down the hallway towards them. In her wake trotted a plethora of personal attendants and she wore a gown of cobalt blue—the colour of the royal house, the colour that—within the palace—only she was permitted to wear. She saw no reason to down-play her majesty for this particular audience. Her maids, Ila and Rayeni, had certainly enjoyed lacing her into one of her most impressive outfits.

Two men guarding the doorway, dressed in the black uniform of the Royal Guard, snapped to attention as she approached. She swept straight past them and on into the throne room.

The Ceran ambassadors were already on their knees in the middle of the room, their hands roped behind their backs. Half a dozen alert Royal Guards surrounded them.

Cassaya’s servants took up positions stationed around the walls of the room; two of them climbed the steps to the Sapphire Throne ahead of her, ready to help her seat herself. Cassaya did not head in that direction. Stepping in front of one of the kneeling men, she backhanded him across the face. He rocked back but did not fall, nor did he look up. That pleased her; dressing in haste had not left her time to ensure that her appearance was as intimidatingly regal as she might have wanted. Best to leave that to his imagination.

On the other hand, if he did not look at her he would not see the incandescent wrath boiling in her eyes.

She backhanded the other man too, for good measure, then turned and stalked up to her throne. She ignored the servants waiting for her, arranging her gown around her feet and taking her time in settling down. When she was comfortable she waved one hand behind her, beckoning. The servant who waited there knew immediately what she wanted and stepped forward, settling a heavy gold torc around her neck. The metal was cold but she did not flinch as it made contact with her skin. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and drew a slow breath, centring herself. When she was ready, she spoke.

‘Do you know why you are here?’ Her voice was icily sweet.

They at least had the good sense not to answer, knowing a rhetorical question when they heard one. And, perhaps, perceiving that the sound of a Ceran accent would be enough to drive her over the edge of her self-control into wild rage.

Cassaya leaned forward, forcing down the scream of hatred which rose inside her and drawing on the silence of the room to calm her. ‘What do you know of tonight’s events, ambassadors?’

The man she had hit first shuffled on his knees a little. ‘Your Blessed Highness, I swear by all the gods we know nothing. We have been your prisoners for over a year and...’

‘I know that, imbecile!’ she shrieked. He cringed away from her, but a Royal Guard’s boot between his shoulder blades sent him sprawling on his face. Cassaya took a deep breath and continued in a more measured tone. ‘Your presence in my palace was my surety of your government’s commitment to abide by the Fourth Treaty. Commander Salastrelle knows this. She has broken the treaty. Your own Commander has forfeited your lives.’ She flicked her fingers at the guards.

Both men gasped, but neither managed to summon the wherewithal to protest before they were dragged out of the room.

One of the Royal Guards remained. He approached the throne and dropped to one knee, awaiting orders.

‘How many of our people were killed this night, guardsman?’ asked Cassaya.

‘Five, Blessed Highness.’

‘Kill them.’

‘Highness.’

As he exited the room, Cassaya idly wondered where she might find three more Cerans to level the score. Not anywhere in Lyvain, that was certain.

She beckoned to one of her servants, a girl wearing the red belt which denoted her status as a fire witch among the palace staff. The girl took two steps away from the wall and dropped into a curtsy.

‘Summon Councillor Fairweather,’ commanded Cassaya. ‘I will see him in person, not through the flame.’

The girl nodded. Raising one hand before her eyes, she clicked her fingers. A flame sprang up in her palm, and she cradled it without appearing to feel any heat. ‘Councillor Fairweather. Your immediate presence is required at the palace, by imperial command.’

A male voice replied out of the flame, muffled enough that Cassaya could not make out the words from her seat on the throne, but the tone of annoyance came across clearly enough. When he had finished speaking, the servant nodded again and clenched her fist, extinguishing the flame.

She made another curtsy to the Empress. ‘He is already on his way, Blessed Highness. Miss Grace sent for him.’ Maybe Miss Grace would redeem herself, it seemed. It was her job, after all, to anticipate Cassaya’s wishes and ensure the Empress never need wait for anything. ‘I will meet him outside.’

The servant looked up, her eyes wide. ‘Your Blessed Highness, it’s not safe.’

Cassaya fixed the girl with a stare, and nodded in satisfaction as she scurried back in fright. The Empress rose to her feet, realising as she did so that she could not have remained seated for a second longer. Tonight was not a night for repose. She descended from the throne with her head held high.

***

The air outside held the crisp cold of the autumn night, threatening frost; Cassaya felt the last traces of sleep leave her body as she breathed it in. The Witch Star had already set, leaving the sky dark and deep. A waft of smoke made her eyes water and she had to resist the urge to cough. On a whim she walked towards the east wing, taking care not to get in the way of the lines of men still passing buckets. A couple of them stopped and bowed when they saw her, but she waved them on with their task. Most of the fire there seemed to be out but the building still smouldered, and the fires in the gardens and the orange groves still burned. Proper etiquette be damned; she wanted to see those men working and the flames gone. Her palace and her people would be safe.

Alexander Fairweather found her there, lit by the flickering fires, her hands clasped behind her back. He sketched a hasty bow to her, tidying his thinning hair with his hands as he did so. ‘Highness.’

Cassaya was on the verge of chiding him for his informality when she stopped herself. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his heavy jowls were sagging even more than usual. He deserved better than to be dragged from his bed in the middle of the night.

Still. Some things could not wait.

‘Fairweather,’ she greeted him. ‘I am sure that you can help me. I require the text of the Fourth Treaty.’

The older man frowned and thought for a moment. ‘Approximate, or precise?’

‘Approximate will be perfectly adequate.’

‘The Fourth Treaty between the Associated Sovereignties and Cera, signed the tenth day in the moon of—I forget precisely when—in the Temple of Cadros in Azeira, by avowed representatives of the Associated Sovereignties and Cera, in the presence of all the gods.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘We hereby do agree and swear before all the gods that—what does it say? Ah, yes—that the centres of civilian government shall be protected from all acts of violence and war between our countries, for the good of all the people. Does that sound right, Highness?’

‘Yes. Please go on.’

‘The treaty then goes on to list—not exhaustively—some of these places. The Kuin Palace in Dema is listed. The Governor’s Quarters, both in Arban and Allevasse. The Royal Quarter in Lyvain, including the imperial palace...’

‘Stop.’

Fairweather obediently lapsed into silence.

The Empress let a long moment go past before speaking again. ‘Did the Cerans do this, Fairweather?’

He squinted around at the smoke still drifting up from the three fire sites. ‘They would seem most likely, Highness. We should question the Ceran ambassadors.’

‘It has already been done.’ She glared at him, but he did not back down.

‘And?’

‘They claimed ignorance. They lied.’

‘We should question them further. With a mind mage in attendance. Debora Paveni, perhaps?’

‘Ah, your pet mind mage.’ Cassaya allowed a macabre smile to hide her anger. ‘You doubt my word?’

He bowed his head. ‘Not for an instant, Highness. Merely making a suggestion. Forgive me for any unintended offence I may have given.’

‘In any case, they are dead now.’

Fairweather stared at her. ‘Your Blessed Highness,’ he ventured. ‘May I speak freely?’

‘If I say no, will that stop you?’

‘With all due respect, Highness—no.’

‘I suppose you had better get on with it, then.’

Fairweather clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Highness, it is not as though we enjoy a spotless reputation as regards the treatment of hostages. I am aware that we acted quickly to remedy the situation last time, but it was still not enough to appease Commander Salastrelle. Understandably.’ He saw her raised eyebrow and spoke quickly to make his point. ‘What I am trying to say, is—won’t the Cerans view such an act as a declaration of intent to escalate hostilities?’

She gestured around them. ‘And how should we view this, then?’

He fell silent.

Cassaya let him mull over the question for a few moments before asking her next one. ‘How was this done, Fairweather? The technology is beyond anything we possess.’

He shook his head. ‘It is beyond my knowledge, Highness. Ask the mages. They may know.’

‘Very well. Whoever you see fit, from the university. Tomorrow morning. Arrange it.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘And send word to the Council of Nine. Command them to make war offerings to the gods on our behalf.’

‘Highness.’

‘Now go back to bed. You look tired.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

The Empress looked sorrowfully after him as he walked away, his head bowed. The Fourth Treaty was broken. No doubt about that. The Cerans had attacked her palace—exactly how was a question she hoped to have answered very soon—and she had killed two of their ambassadors in retaliation. They had lied to her. Fools.

***

The smoke from the fires had risen high; its thin screen across the otherwise clear sky made the stars twinkle and lent the moon a ghostly halo. The fires were almost out now, and the courtyard fountain nearly dry. The water mage sat on the paved edge, her head bowed almost to her lap in exhaustion. A single line of men continued to pass the last buckets of water to the orange groves; Cassaya walked to them. For each man, a nod and a word of thanks; a touch on the arm. Their Empress was grateful; she let them know that she was. Tomorrow she would have Miss Grace draw up a list of every person who had helped extinguish the fires. All would have recognition.

Cassaya looked mournfully at the black and bare trees. There would be no oranges next year, or the year after. She did like oranges. She fancied that she could smell them now, through the acrid smoke that clung to her hair, and she imagined that the stinging in her eyes was from a spray of tart juice as she dug her thumbnail through stiff, waxy peel to reach the sweet fruit inside.

She turned to walk back to the palace. Miss Grace was there at the main door to meet her. The maids Ila and Rayeni had returned to their beds, and Cassaya did not blame them in the slightest. Her chatelaine made no mistake of speaking out of place this time, but escorted the Empress up to her rooms in silence and helped her to undress. Her gentle hands removed the golden torc, and Cassaya enjoyed the lightness its absence brought. Cassaya’s bed had cooled, but she made no complaint as Miss Grace pulled the velvet curtains closed around her. Her mind had finished turning over Fairweather’s words; considering them carefully—it is not as though we enjoy a spotless reputation as regards the treatment of hostages. And the old man was right. The Cerans would respond to her actions, and they would respond by bringing death to her people.

She needed to be prepared. She had to be ready. She must meet the Cerans, and end this. And she needed someone with a proper hands-on grasp of the military to help her do it. Alexander Fairweather, for all he had been with her all her life, was not that man. He had been a good adviser, as good as a father to her at times, but it was time and past that he took a step back from things. Age was catching up to him quickly and he knew it, as did she. It was time she had an adviser who could help her to make war, not one who still viewed her as the little girl he once used to carry on his shoulders.

But there was one man. A genius tactician. One of the best officers in her army, being groomed by the Lord Marshal himself as a potential successor. The victor in countless clashes against the Cerans; somehow he knew how they thought, how they fought. Cassaya could picture him now; tall and slim, with a nose that had been broken at least once, and blue eyes. Her sleepy mind refused to recall his name, but she set that aside for the moment.

What had happened to him, she would never forget. Exile, for the crime which had led to the drawing up of the Fourth Treaty; at the time the only way to prevent bloodshed and fire from spreading across the continent. How and why he had committed it, she did not quite understand, but without doubt he had. One thing Cassaya always knew, and knew for sure, was when she was being lied to. A mage had once told her that the ability she possessed bordered on magic, but the mages could name it whatever they wished; it made no difference to her. He had knelt before her and protested his innocence, and he had lied. For the damage he had done to her realm, for the treason he had committed, she had exiled him.

Times change, she thought. Now it was time that this man—surely Miss Grace would remember his name, Cassaya would ask her tomorrow—came home. The Lord Marshal would be able to track him down; if anybody had kept a track on where the man had run to it would be the commander of her army. Oh, the Cerans would hate it, and there would doubtless be some sort of scandal, but lying in her bed in the dark while outside her orchards smouldered, Cassaya could hardly bring herself to care. Commander Salastrelle could stamp and scream all she pleased; she lost her right to question Cassaya’s actions when she practised her despicable art.

Three hundred years ago her ancestors had ruled over the entire continent. The Risharri Empire, it had been then; until the rebellion of Cera, the woman who had discovered dragon magic, declared herself to be a queen and then had the temerity to name her newly-formed country after herself. Then the Associated Sovereignties had been born. Cassaya wanted her empire back. The Risharri Empire. Her birthright.

This would be the first step to that. Fairweather could retire, with imperial favour. It was a pity, yes, to lose the old man, but the time for wise words was gone. The smell of smoke still lingering in her hair was the proof of that.

It was time to kill.

Under a Full Moon

The moonlight stalked across the land, a white cat leaving silver paw prints in its wake. It prowled down the deserted village streets and slipped between the high stalks of maize in the fields beyond. When it reached the forest it leaped from tree to tree, as smooth and silent as spilled quicksilver. It sketched the outlines of broad leaves and sent little streams of light trickling down the tall tree trunks to the forest floor below, where it lit the way for a few nocturnal animals to go about their nightly business. In this way it climbed a long ridge of ground and cascaded down the other side to the lake beyond. It glittered off the ripples on the water and gave every rock along the shoreline a ghostly shadow.

When it found an east-facing window, it nosed its way through a gap in the drapes and crept into the room beyond. Inside, it gave a deathly cast to the features of a sleeping man and sent a single line of silver shooting up the opposite wall.

He murmured quietly in his sleep and turned over, away from the window, returning his face to shadow.

Outside, a squirrel scurried along the wooden verandah, nose twitching and claws clicking on the wood. It sprang on to the windowsill and paused, then scritch scratch, on the glass. Food is kept in houses. It knows this. Scritch scratch, scritch scratch.

***

Scritch scratch, trying to get in, scritch scratch. The sound penetrated some level of the sleeping man’s mind. Trying to get in. In less than a second he was sitting upright, a sleek pistol in his hand pointing unwaveringly at the curtained window. Scritch scratch, scritch scratch. He slid out of bed, heedless of his nudity, and stalked across the threadbare carpet.

The sudden movement of cloth as the man ripped the curtain aside startled the squirrel to flight. He saw a glimpse of its tail whisking away, and then nothing more. Just the moonlit verandah, looking out into the deep forest with gilded leaves.

‘Bloody hell!’ Liam Colley pounded one fist on the window frame, then bent forward to rest his forehead on the cool glass. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’

He hated being woken by surprise, just hated it. It woke every paranoid instinct in him, every corner of his mind that whispered they’re coming to get you. Who they might be was something he had no care to probe very deeply.

Liam sighed and straightened up, pulling the curtains closed again. The dark shapes of furniture loomed at him from around the room; the only source of light came from the slit where the curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle. He would never get back to sleep now.

He walked back to the bed and replaced the gun under his pillow. A crumpled pair of shorts lay on the floor by his feet. He pulled them on, then grabbed an equally creased vest and put that on too. Ineffectually trying to tug them into better order, he padded bare-footed out of the door.

The old house made strange noises at night, but Liam was used to that. He went through to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water from a jug that stood on the counter, and drank it in one draught. Tepid as it was, it was still better than nothing.

He left the kitchen but didn’t go back into his bedroom, heading instead to the old ballroom. He opened one of the grand double doors leading outside, wincing at the loud creak that echoed into the otherwise tranquil night, and stepped out on to the verandah. The smooth wooden boards were cool beneath his feet, and the night breeze blowing off the lake rippled the fabric of his vest, drying the sweat on his skin, but the humidity was still oppressive. Taking care to avoid the worst of the splinters, he leaned his forearms on the railing of the verandah and took a few deep breaths. The last of the adrenaline in his bloodstream slowly dissipated, leaving numbness in its place. He waited for the small nag of tiredness that would tell him his body was ready to go back to bed.

It was so hot here, all the time. Sometimes he could swear that it was even warmer at night than during the day, and there wasn’t even anywhere he could go to get a cool drink. That was most of the point, he supposed. To be in a place so far away from anywhere that could be called somewhere that—to all intents and purposes—he ceased to exist. That this meant he was also a long way from the nearest cold beer was something he would just have to deal with.