Age of War

Chapter 58

The snows came soon after. It should have been spring, and even by the standards of Atlantis’s current climate, the weather should have been milder. Instead, a blizzard of ferocious intensity descended on the city of Atlas and lasted for two full days. When it at last abated, everything was covered in a blanket of purest white. It was as if the sins of the previous weeks had been expunged, for all signs of death and ruin were hidden. As the population emerged from the tunnels of the Cyclops stables into the startling brightness of their new world, there was a strange sense of calm, as if the layer of new fallen snow muffled all sound. Gradually, life restarted.

The Enclave was a place of haunting beauty in those days. The delicate white buildings blended into the snow so it was as if they grew directly from the ground. It reminded Aethlan of her home; Talos was beset by this kind of weather for three months of the year, at least in better times. She walked slowly through the wide, freezing halls of the palace, the skirt of her white robe swishing against the marble flagstones. She wore no jewels or any other symbol of rank and her clothes were cut simply. Her hair she braided in a traditional style of her homeland. She knew the colours did nothing to flatter her pale skin, but that was hardly the point. Even so far from the familiar, there were still traditions to observe. She passed through a high arch and onto a stepped terrace that led down to a garden, currently completely covered with snow. There was a trail of footsteps leading to a small stone table, at which a lone figure sat. In contrast to Aethlan, she was dressed wholly in black, matching the banners that flapped from the towers and walls all across the city. Aethlan made her way down the terrace and ploughed through the calf-deep snowdrifts to join her counterpart. The Empress looked up at her as she approached and a look of confusion crossed her beautiful face. Aethlan could guess why. “In Talos,” she explained, “the colour of mourning is white.” She took a seat opposite the other woman at the table.

“The whole city shares your grief then, it seems,” the Empress said softly.

Aethlan nodded. She often got lost in the palace, even now, but she knew this place: when she’d been here last, Lord Valcon, the traitor who’d stabbed her, had taught her about the game of queens on the board built into this table. She was surprised to see another game set out now. The Empress scrutinised it, but her eyes still had the same faraway look that Aethlan recognised from looking at her own reflection these past days.

“Who are you playing against?” she asked.

“No one,” the Empress said, “in fact, it’s not even me playing.” At Aethlan’s curious look she produced a folded sheet of parchment and passed it over to her. “This was found on Saffrey’s body, tucked into the inside of his jacket.”

Aethlan opened it up and read over the words. It was a letter, written with some affection, to Saffrey. Towards the end, it described what was evidently a queens move, and in another hand – Saffrey’s, most likely – was scrawled a rough diagram of the board in the space at the bottom. “He was playing a game by correspondence?”

“So it seems. It must have been going on for years.”

Aethlan studied the board. “So this is his game?”

“Yes. It seems it was the only thing he truly cared about. Even as he planned this campaign, even as he…as he…” her voice failed and she looked away, eyes bright with tears. After a moment she cleared her throat, composed herself and turned back to Aethlan. “This was with him, at the end,” she said, “it was that important to him. I was curious.”

“Who was his opponent?”

“No one I’ve ever heard of.”

Aethlan read the letter again. It felt intrusive, so intimate was the tone. The name at the bottom was a woman’s. “A lover?” she hazarded.