Chapter 1
Moroz, June 658 B.C.
Some believe our lives are governed by the will of fates; that we are all subject to the whims of the ancient Gods, regardless of birth. This is wrong. Our futures are governed by something far cruder and crueller; the vanity of men. My father was one such man.
There was nothing even remarkable about the day my father sent for the Seer. A small clearing is enclosed entirely by a thick screen of oak and birch. The day is warm; the air is faintly scented with the blossom of a small grove of plum trees which garland the south of the clearing. A dilapidated cottage and barn stand in close proximity at the far west. The child, Daeka, now five years old, tatty-haired and painfully thin, fills an aged wooden pail from the well. She is immersed in thought, oblivious to the arrival of the unexpected visitors along the track from the east.
A horse whinnies. The girl startles. Six Royal Guards on horseback loom at the far entrance to the clearing. Daeka sets the down pail and races to the cottage, skipping up the steps to vanish inside. The lead rider is Kaitin, King Uhdakh’s trusted and faithful retainer. Tall, gruff, and thickly bearded, a youthful twenty-three, he is every inch the warrior, gloried on the battlefield against the hated Khryll. He climbs from his stallion and raises a hand to his companions. The Seer, Gaidi, gaunt and dishevelled, morphs in the doorway. She appears far older to the eye than her twenty-six years would belie, with piercing eyes of the palest blue.
Gaidi is a Daughter of the Blood Moon, a secretive sect of shamans and healers, who once held great sway among the peoples of the eastern Urals. Their power has long since waned in the far south, and what few remain are outcasts; figures of ridicule and contempt. As Gaidi steps out to greet the visitors, she seems neither surprised, nor alarmed, by their impromptu visit. Daeka and her elder brother, Nivuk, tall and pale, eye the soldiers warily from the doorway.
“You are the Seer, Gaidi?” Kaitin asked gruffly.
“King Uhdakh has need of my gifts?” the Seer replied tonelessly.
Kaitin turns and clicks his fingers. The nearest Guards dismount and step forward. “You ride with us to Lyvya” he gestured to a vacant steed. “These men will watch over your children.”
***
Lyvya, June 658 B.C.
The village of Lyvya lies on the south bank of the Reka Baitukh, adjacent to the great north road. Home to two hundred families, Lyvya is little different from many other settlements in the Duchy, at least in respect of the simplicity of its dwellings. These are circular, with thatched roofs and mud-brick walls, set in small individual plots. Most of the families earn their living in the service of King Uhdakh, working in the fields or the Royal Orchards, or within the walls of the Khyrg itself.
King Uhdakh’s Khyrg stands to the east of the village, enclosed by formidable defences, including an outer ditch and palisade wall in excess of fifteen feet. The entrance is barred by a heavy Outer Gate, with a single fortified tower, constructed from wood and mudbrick. The Inner Gate and interior defences are no less impressive, for war is no stranger to this world. The Royal Residence has two storeys, constructed of stone, mud-brick, and wood, with various outbuildings and ample stables at the rear.
Six riders canter across the plain to approach the gate. Kaitin is in the lead, closely followed by Gaidi, who has astonished the Royal Guards with her equestrian prowess.
***
The room is large and modestly furnished. An aged wooden dresser sits against the far wall, close to a single window. Queen Aiva is the same age as Gaidi, yet is effortlessly chic, with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and sharp, angular features. She sits on a cushioned chair, close to the window, with an enviable view out to the river and beyond, to the meadow and paddock on the far bank. A band of horses, including foals, graze leisurely or give chase in the lush pasture. As Gaidi is ushered through by her young Handmaiden, Katyna, the Queen rises to smile brightly at her visitor. The Seer bows respectfully and pads confidently toward her. “I was saddened by the passing of young Prince Vorin” Gaidi spoke softly.
Queen Aiva’s blue eyes betray nothing of her recent pain. It had been some three moons since the death of the young prince, aged only five months. “Thank you, Gaidi” she replied evenly, waving the Seer to a cushioned chair. Aiva turns to Katyna and clicks her fingers. “A cup of wine for our guest” the Queen commanded.
Katyna returns with a goblet and hands it to Gaidi. The Seer eyes her Queen searchingly. “You wish to implore the Gods for the health of your baby?” she asked.
“My husband desires a son” Aiva smiled tightly. “This was his idea, not mine.”
Gaidi sips her wine and smiles. “I require a sample of your water” she intimated.
“This has already been arranged. It is fresh, as you require” Aiva replied softly.
“Do you wish for a son, my Lady?” Gaidi whispered.
Aiva clicks her fingers. Katyna steps quickly to the dresser to retrieve a flagon from a locked cupboard. Queen Aiva raises an eyebrow challengingly. “What will you do with it?” she pressed.
“I must taste it, my Lady” the Seer replied. “The Gods will speak their truth to me.”
Queen Aiva nods. Katyna dutifully fills an aged ceramic cup and pads back across. She hands the cup to Gaidi, who raises it to her lips…
***
The Great Hall is spacious and grandiose, with a high-vaulted ceiling and elegant oak panelling on the walls. At the far end, King Uhdakh sits on an ornate High Chair, flanked on his right by his Chief Counsel, the slim and imperious, Vaedyn, aged in his late thirties, a loyal confidante since childhood. The Surgeon, Jaikhal, tall and handsome, appears far younger than his thirty years. The King is tall and muscular, reputed to be as fine with a sword as with a bow, a keen equestrian and hunter, born a few months after his childhood playmate. Unlike the venerable Vaedyn, Uhdakh is no scholar, yet he has ruled the Duchy wisely for the past twelve years, defeating the scourge of the Khryll twice in four years.
Gaidi stands, a few feet away, directly facing the King. Kaitin stands a few paces to her rear. “The Gods bless you with a son” the Seer intonated confidently.
Uhdakh glances quickly at Vaedyn, and then Jaikhal. He eyes the woman steadily. “You are quite certain, my Lady?” he pressed.
Gaidi nods. “The Gods assure me of it, my Lord.”
King Uhdakh stands and bows to the Seer. “You do me a great service” he spoke evenly. He locks eyes with the Seer, almost as if he were reading her soul. Gaidi suddenly felt cold, a brief frisson of fear. He could not read her, yet she could cast her light upon Him. “You may rest assured of my gratitude” the King added graciously.
Gaidi clasps her hands and bows reverentially. Kaitin steps to her side and escorts her to the entrance. Jaikhal watches the Seer’s departure with a sense of relief, for he had little sympathy with the dark mysticism of the Daughters of the Blood Moon. He turns to the King. “I will keep vigilant watch on the health of the Queen, Sire” he declared dutifully.
Vaedyn leans in close to whisper. “I will keep vigilance on our Seer” he said tonelessly.
***
Lyvya, November 658 B.C.
A sweating, bedraggled, and exhausted Aiva straddles an aged birthing stool. A Nurse stands to her right, clasping her hand, whispering gentle words of encouragement. The second Nurse kneels on the floor before her, watching patiently for the babe to emerge. The Queen wails piteously. Her cheeks flush an angry shade of rouge. The first Nurse gently squeezes Aiva’s right hand. “Everything is fine, my Lady” she whispered soothingly. “You just need to keep pushing.”
Aiva wails again. She gasps breathlessly. “Just remember to breathe, my Lady. It will soon be over” the first Nurse smiled sweetly.
The Queen grimaces and closes her eyes, steadying her breathing. She had sired three sons, and the late Prince Vorin had been comparably easy, at least compared with his elder brothers. She instinctively sensed that this was different. The Queen closes her eyes and opens her mouth to scream. The second Nurse reaches under her birthing robe and blinks. She gazes up and smiles brightly at Aiva. “We have his head, my Lady” she confided. “Steady your breathing. One final push” she added.
Aiva moans. She closes her eyes and pushes. “Nearly there! We have him!” the first Nurse chimed confidently.
The Queen opens her mouth and moans hoarsely. The first Nurse squeezes her hand firmly. Aiva opens her eyes and grits her teeth, panting and grunting. The second Nurse glances quickly up at the first and nods. Her eyes flash briefly. The babe slips into her hands, bloody and mottled. The woman blinks fast. “A girl!” she proclaimed joyously. “A beautiful baby girl!”
The Nurse turns the babe over and slaps her back. The room resonates with the shrill cries of a newborn, a high-pitched cacophony of undignified outrage. Queen Aiva blinks back tears of joy, which course down her cheeks. A daughter was no failure, regardless of her husband’s desires. She pants tiredly. Her eyes suddenly widen; a brief flash of bewilderment, tinged with mortified terror. Aiva gasps and then wails in torment. Blood pools on the floor beneath the birthing stool. The second Nurse gapes in dumbstruck horror. Her colleague turns to bellow at the uncomprehending Katyna, standing a few feet away, gazing out of the window. “Fetch a Surgeon, you stupid girl!” she roared.
Katyna turns and races to the door. Aiva faints and falls, to be caught by the first Nurse. Her birthing gown is stained crimson.
***
It is now night. The darkened room glows with candles. Queen Aiva lies on a table in the centre, shrouded in dun linen. Only her face is visible; pale and chiselled, eyes closed to the world forever. King Uhdakh leads his sons, the seven-year-old Prince Mykhali, solemn and troubled, and the uncomprehending two-year-old Vyrtan, across to their mother. On the near side wall, a brazier burns hotly. A crib stands a safe distance to the left. The newborn Princess, yet without a name, sleeps peacefully. King Uhdakh does not even glance at her. Silent tears stream down his cheeks. The little Prince’s weep openly as they gaze down on the lifeless form of their mother.
Uhdakh reaches out to caress Aiva’s right cheek. His left hand clenches tightly with undignified rage. “What Gods can strike such light as yours from this world…?” he mused bitterly.
Vaedyn enters. He coughs lightly. Uhdakh turns and frowns. Vaedyn nods to the crib. “Have you named the child, my Lord?” he asked softly.
“With luck, she will not darken our world long enough to need a name” the King remarked acidly.
Vaedyn furrows his brow. He glances quickly at the tearful princes. “Jaikhal assures me she is strong” he corrected the King. “The omens are good, my King” he added encouragingly.
The King’s pale eyes flash dangerously. “My wife is dead!” he snorted hotly. “You stand before me and tell me the omens are good?”
Uhdakh turns to Mykhali and nods. The older boy takes his brother’s hand and leads him away, heading past Vaedyn to the far door. Mykhali suddenly breaks stride, and, without an approving glance from his father, he pads across to the crib. The boy gazes solemnly at the sleeping form of his infant sister, swathed in swaddling clothes. He reaches to clasp her hand and turns defiantly to his father. “She is Y’Strii” he declared. “The tamer of Gods.”
Mykhali steps away to join the Prince Vyrtan who loiters silently near the door. Without a further glance at his father, he clasps the toddler’s hand to leads him out. Vaedyn shakes his head sadly and closes the door firmly behind them. He turns to the King, who glowers at him malevolently. “Gaidi foresaw a son” Uhdakh hissed malevolently. “The Gods mock me with tragedy” he seethed with fury. “Kill her!”
Vaedyn nods solemnly and pads to the door.
***
The sky is dark and sullen; the air thick with fog that clings as death itself. The ground is carpeted by a blanket of fresh snow, stretching as far as the eye can see. Smoke trails from the chimneys of the roundhouses in the village of Lyvya, now in mourning at the death of their beloved Queen. The gates of King Uhdakh’s Khyrg open to disgorge ten riders, who kick their heels to spur down the frozen track, to join the great north road.
The lead rider is Kaitin.
***
Moroz, November 658 B.C.
Ten horses stand tethered to bare trees at the far east of the clearing. The barn and cottage are aflame. A plume of smoke, thick and choking, trails to the sky, as the flames roar and crackle to engulf the thatched roof of the cottage. We hear the pitiful screams of Gaidi and her children. The main roof collapses; the screams are silenced forever.
Kaitin stands aloof, gazing silently at the conflagration, as the grim-faced Guards file past him. A thin smile plays at his lips.
