~Desmer~

Tarhanen fell quickly, once the first arrows fell among its citizens. The people of the Grasp had lived too long in ignorance, Desmer thought—too long hiding behind the falsehoods of peace. Their tactics were stale, uninspired, and even the dullest of commanders could outthink them with ease. Not that the ease of the battle made the city's defeat any less satisfying. It was a trick he'd been taught when he was a boy: a way to demoralise an entrenched opponent. Have the archers aim high, far over the heads of the defenders on the walls. At first, Tarhanen's defenders laughed at the missed shots—but it wasn't them that the arrows were aimed at. No matter how high an arrow is shot, it must eventually come down. The arrows of Desmer's archers came down not on the soldiers manning Tarhanen's stone parapets, protected by helmet and mail and greystone canopy, but the people cowering within the city. From the dell he'd chosen as his vantage point, Desmer couldn't see inside Tarhanen He didn't need to. The falling faces of the city's defenders, the once-arrogant Graspmen, bore to him the sweetest news: women and children had started to die.

Few in the homelands fell for it any more—as with any new strategy, it had been overused by less-inspired generals until it had become boring—but everyone knew that none in the Grasp save the Marcher armies had any tactical nous at all. They still lived on the battles of five hundred years ago, when two armies would meet in a field chosen before time, and swing swords at one another until one side was sufficiently bloodied. For them, to battle was to win honour. Little more than a dance. They had no conception of real warfare.

The city had opened its gates to Desmer's host within an hour.

A smirk crossed Desmer's lips. This was going to be easy.

He turned to Tauver, the grey-haired man with a scarred face that stood at his side. "And you doubted me, Tauver."

"Not at all, my king," Tauver replied, bowing his head just a touch.

"I'm not a king yet," said Desmer. Tarhanen was a prize, and it had cost him barely a scratch, but it was not the Grasp. Most of all, it was not the Seat of the Stars—and a king must have his throne. "Have the royal house of this city brought to me," he told Tauver. "All of them."

"At once, my king."

With Tauver gone, Desmer was temporarily alone. The men he'd brought with him from the south had spilled over the walls, and now they filled the city, dueling in twos or threes with the occasional still-resisting Tarhanen man. The air was thick with the smell of blood. It was a sickly smell. Some men, such as old Gadsen who'd raised Desmer or broad-chested Hamonet, craved it, found a sweetness in it. Desmer was not like them. The spilling of blood was one of those tasks that, while necessary, was far from pleasurable.

He wandered the streets of Tarhanen without fear. None would strike him down unseen. In the Grasp, they feared men with eyes of fire; certainly, it would take a madman to charge down such a man when he was fresh from conquering the city and surrounded by his own army. And anyway, Tarhanen had a bare few defenders. Most of their soldiers were on the Morsearn Field, the Frozen Field, and not in the city. Really, Desmer had won this siege a fortnight earlier, and without spilling so much as a drop of blood.

Tarhanen's high walls and great stone buildings were impressive, by the standards Desmer was used to. In the homelands, buildings rarely rose higher than two floors, and architecture tended towards the utilitarian. Things could scarcely be more different in Tarhanen. Huge whitewashed walls ceded to ornate, sloping roofs of blue tile. Arches and roundels were everywhere. The few locals Desmer passed—hollow-eyed civilians who had avoided the rain of arrows—seemed not to notice the wonder that enveloped them. That, to his mind, was perhaps the greatest tragedy of the Grasp. Surrounded by such magnificence, how could anybody just ignore it? It could only be the arrogance of the Graspmen.

One building dominated even this ornate skyline. The Beryl Palace. Few buildings in the Grasp were known by name in the homelands. The Octal Tower of the Magi, the Wending Tower of Taies Ern, the Gate of Semorel a hundred feet wide. Lost as it was, the ruined city of Bel Targath was only ever talked of in whispers around the late-night campfire. And none ever said the name of the Beryl Palace of Tarhanen in anything but hateful tones, followed always by a hocking spit into the ground. Homelanders never forgot the treachery that had borne their society. It was near enough seven hundred years since the deposition of Fariel, Fire-Eye, the man who united all the realms within his Grasp, when an ambitious and coal-hearted adjutant had struck a deal with the Elemental Lords. Those immortal beings craved nothing more than to touch the world, everyone knew that, and yet a foolish man had thought to bargain with them. The result was Fariel's exile, the exile of his people, and the slow descent of the world into ruin.

For his part in the bargain, the grasping adjutant had been given Tarhanen to call his seat. The Beryl Palace, its gleaming capstone conjured from the earth by the Elemental Lords as payment for services rendered, was a monument to an ancient betrayal. And it was the first portent of the dooms to come. Desmer was no fool. He had been south, where the land was increasingly twisted; he'd been further than any man, so far that the poisoned air scalded his lungs and did not heal for months after he returned to the homeland. He had no desire to see that same fate befall the yet-clean lands. Soon, even with the resistance of Fariel's descendants—Desmer and his kin—in the south, the Elemental Lords would be able to enter the world bodily. By then, the realms had to be united once more, and Desmer had to be the one to do it. Maybe he wasn't the one spoken of by the old Prophecy—maybe he was—but nobody else was stepping forward.

You could not miss the Beryl Palace, even if you tried to. Not only did it tower high above every other building, a mess of spires and offshoots, but its roof was red instead of blue, and seeming to sparkle in the sun. An old woman Desmer once knew said that the Palace had been carved whole cloth out of a single lump of beryl. That seemed, frankly, implausible—but it was easy to see why the story had spread.

The Beryl Palace would be where the royals were hiding. Gathering his pace, Desmer headed onward towards it.

By the time he got there, it had long been secured by his soldiers. His favourite adjutant, gravelly-voiced Gillabin, whose shrewd grey eyes saw everything, bowed his head when Desmer arrived, and fell in behind him when he passed. Gillabin spoke slowly as they moved into the Palace.

"The city is yours, my king," he said. "No resistance yet remains."

"There wouldn't be," said Desmer. "I have conquered this city."

"And there will doubtless be more to come," said Gillabin.

"Doubtless. I intend to hold all that Fariel once held, and more besides."

"There's nothing in Prophecy that says you have to conquer so much," Gillabin muttered. "If you would instead negotiate—"

"There's nothing that says I don't have to conquer," Desmer said, forcefully. "But I do, because I can. And I will, because none shall stop me. Now, I do believe I have an appointment with a queen." He pushed open the nearest door and stepped into the room beyond. Gillabin followed, and several of the soldiers.

It was small, for a room in a great palace. Perhaps it had been built as a receiving room, or somewhere to store coats. There was a luxurious carpet of deep green on the floor, and the walls were lined with varnished panels of dark wood, but there was no furniture to speak of save a single chair. Desmer caught the eye of one of the soldiers who had followed him in. "Remove this," he said. "When two monarchs speak, either both sit or neither do. I am a king. I will not insult even the Berylblood." The soldier did as commanded, and Desmer stood in silence to wait. Tauver would find him soon enough.

Five minutes, as it happened. The sound of booted feet on the wooden floor outside grew louder, and the door opened. Tauver led the Tarhanen royals into the room as if he were an attendant showing them their seats at a banquet. A fresh-faced youth in a soldier's dolman—a prince, perhaps—had a wound on his left arm. It wouldn't have come from Tauver; he'd no sooner harm a man of noble blood than prick his own eyes out with a hot needle, even if that noble blood did stand in opposition to him. The battle was over now. It was not proper to wound defeated enemies, and when Tauver did battle he did it as proper as it could be done. Best he didn't stand witness to this. Desmer thanked Tauver and dismissed him, and the grey man left with another gentle bow.

When he was gone, Desmer turned his attention to the new captives. The wounded prince was the eldest of three youngsters. There was a younger boy, not yet tall enough to wield even a shortsword. Desmer had seen greatswords taller than the boy—and indeed, taller than the girl who stood next to him, trembling slightly, yet still scowling. All three shared yellow-blonde hair that was a match for Desmer's own. Perhaps they were his brothers and sister. Gadsen had never told Desmer where he came from, before he was brought to the homelands; somewhere in the Grasp, certainly. And the Prophecy's chosen one was the rightful heir to a great royal line. What greater than this one?

But no. They were stood in the Beryl Palace. These were the Berylblood, and they were an affront to all that was good in the world. The other realms of the Grasp were merely misguided, petty kings and soldiers existing in a world beyond their understanding. They could be brought over to Desmer's side once the right of things was explained to them—but the Berylblood were beyond saving.

He turned away from the three children, to the woman who was their mother. Queen Jelestal's husband had been on the Frozen Field, as a good husband should be, and was now counted amongst Desmer's future army. But she was Queen in her own right. Just about into her forties, she showed her age only in the lightest of crow's-feet around her eyes. Her hair was as golden-yellow as ever, her eyes fierce and blue, her willowy body covered up by a lavish gown of purple and white. For a moment Desmer froze just looking at her—was she the woman who had given him life?—before he forced himself to sanity. This was no time to get caught in the looks of a woman. There were things that needed doing.

As if to make it easier on him, Queen Jelestal picked this moment to spit. It landed on the stone floor an inch from Desmer's toe. "Outlander bastard," she hissed. "I see your eyes. The world will never accept you, no matter how many cities you ravage. Your mother was a fool for not dashing your head on a rock when first you opened those fire-kissed eyes of yours."

He didn't rise to the bait. He kept his voice steady, cold. "You are Jelestal of the house Egéna?"

"I am," she said, drawing herself up proudly, "and I am the Queen of Dael." If nothing else, Jelestal had the comportment of a queen. When paired with the fineries she clothed herself in, it almost painted a picture of a woman Desmer could respect. Almost. Nothing could hide the truth of her blood. Even now, defeated, she looked at him as though he was the worm. As though she still expected to crush him underfoot. Was she the chimney to which all of the arrogance in the Grasp was funnelled?

"You are the Berylblood," he told her. "Descended from the man who made peace with the Elemental Realms and slew Fariel the Fair. It was your ancestors who ruined this world, Berylblood. Your ancestors who cast out those they disliked, and blighted the lands they were exiled to. I charge you with the crimes of your Blood."

Jelestal stared at him. "Who are you to judge me, outlander?"

Desmer smiled. This was the part he'd looked forward to the most. "I am the Son of Prophecy," he told her, in a voice not far above a reverent whisper. "And I am the man to whom you yielded your city. You are a queen no longer, Jelestal Egéna. You will not die with that title."

"Die?" Her voice cracked. The first sign of fear. Good—she wasn't completely insane. No matter how justified, you did not escape the stigma of killing a madwoman. Not even a madwoman of the Berylblood.

Desmer turned to the man stood behind him. "Gillabine, my sword, if you would?"

Gillabine hurried forward with Desmer's sheathed sword, the starforged blade he'd won by slaying Gadsen. Desmer pulled it from the sheath and clasped his fingers tight around the hilt. It was good to touch the steel every now and then. It helped him remember who he was, who he was meant to be.

"On this day," he said, loud enough for any in the room to hear clearly, "the debts of the Berylblood are repaid, and the blood eradicated. Such is justice." He spoke then to the Berylblood daughter. "I would have your name, daughter. None should die nameless."

The girl scowled. Jelestal screamed. "No! Not the children! Monster!"

Desmer ignored the once-queen. "Your name, girl."

"Edesa," said the girl, still scowling.

Desmer nodded. "Edesa Egéna, today you die, for the sins of your blood." The swing of his sword was true, and one blow took Edesa's head from her shoulders. The girl never flinched. He respected her for that, despite her blood. Her scowl remained firm in death.

Her siblings did not share her composure, though, and nor did her mother. They became a wailing mass, wriggling to get free, vainly screaming for mercy. Had the people of the Grasp really forgotten the old truths? This was mercy. Desmer moved next to the youngest boy. His eyes were leaking tears, and his breeches were wet with piss. He was so short that Desmer had to kneel down to meet his gaze. "I would have your name, son," he said.

His name was Wilstan, and Wilstan Egéna died a mewling quim. His brother, Benifold, died painfully, refusing to stay still even as the sword swung, and needing three blows to finally be silenced. By the time the older boy was dead, Jelestal Egéna had lost the voice to scream. She watched Desmer with hollow eyes, her mouth open but silent. Her foul bloodline had died in front of her. She was all that remained of it.

"Wait," she said, as Desmer raised his sword. "Remove my necklace. It would be a shame to sully it with blood."

Desmer hadn't even noticed a necklace. It was hidden beneath the collar of Jelestal's dress. He gestured to Asceline, his firm-jawed shieldmaiden, to fetch it. Berylblood or not, Jelestal Egéna was a woman, and no man would find his hands reaching beneath a woman's dress under Desmer's command. Asceline had no such compunctions. She shoved her hand roughly down there, and pulled the necklace free, not even taking care to undo it first. Jelestal groaned in feeble protest, but did not say a word. When Asceline had moved away, Jelestal nodded in readiness. She could die well, at least.

"Jelestal Egéna," Desmer said, raising his sword, "today you die, for the sins of your blood." And die she did.

When the bodies of the purged Berylblood had been removed from the hall, Desmer turned to Asceline. She clutched Jelestal's necklace in one hand, and her dirk in the other. Asceline was stubborn as anybody. Nothing and nobody had made her part with her dirk, not even for a more useful weapon. She met Desmer's eyes and opened her fist out, so he could see the necklace. It was a gaudy stone, far too big for Desmer's taste; blood-red, with sharp angles, it reflected the light from the torches in their sconces. To the touch, when Desmer ran a finger over it, it was icy cold. The beryl that gave the Palace and the Blood their names. It was a useful addition to his treasury, even if he'd never lower himself to wearing something so ugly. And with the right extravagance, it might even add to the mystique of his eventual rule.

Most of the soldiers had left the room by now. Only Gillabin and Asceline remained with Desmer; with battle now done, both would stay by his side until he dismissed them.

"Today was a great victory," said Gillabin, "and now we are rid of the scourge of the Berylblood."

"The trueborn Berylblood, maybe," Asceline snorted. "What of the bastardry?"

"Bastards in Dael share the names of their trueborn siblings. Natural and bastard alike, they died here today. Perhaps you ought to have read some of the histories before we came north."

"Perhaps you both should leave me," said Desmer, raising his voice a touch, "if you plan only to squabble."

Gillabin shook his head. "Pardon, my king. I will take my leave. Now would be a wonderful opportunity to secure the city, and raise recruits from the displaced. Doubtless the peasantry harboured no love for their Berylblood queens. We have few enough men with knowledge of even the southern realms. The further north we go, the less we understand, and if you intend to conquer all of Fariel's Grasp—"

"I do."

"You'll need people who know the terrain. The strongest army might come unstuck in unpleasant land. As it is, we're forced to delay at Tarhanen a time, so perhaps it would be good to make use of the time."

Desmer fixed Gillabin with a stare, his brow slightly furrowed. "Why are we forced to delay at Tarhanen? There is much yet to conquer."

Gillabin hemmed. "Yes, but you brought only a small army north, and even a conquest as easy as this is not without loss of life. You have twenty thousand men on their way to join you. They march as fast as they can, but they can only march so fast."

"They will come when they come," said Desmer. "But I have no need of them, for now at least. The Grasp is not united, nor will they be so long as they are forced into retreat. I will not forego this advantage. I do not need to. You forget, Gillabin, that I am the Son of Prophecy. Whatever I want to do, I can; I need only a few loyal men at my side. And women," he added, earning a grateful nod from Asceline.

"Prophecy or not, there's no need to be foolish," said Gillabin.

Desmer raised a hand. Gillabin, mercifully, fell silent. "You will leave me now, Gillabin," he said. "You too, Asceline. Rest. Find me here at first light. We ride north, then, for Carhaval."