12
Philomena’s Decision

The noise of fighting had died away, and cries had given way to groans and weeping. The little rise covered with thornbushes looked as if it had been ploughed up. But neither wheat nor barley had been sown there. Only the dead and wounded lay in the deep furrows, their weapons broken, their oryak-skin coats torn.

The Amoyeds had ridden away, abandoning those Baighurs who were still alive to their fate. Not a single horse was left on its feet. And over in the dip in the ground, a man was on his knees in front of a new bonfire, with his face in his hands: Uzmir the Supreme Khansha, weeping and chanting over the disaster.

Philomena came back to her senses when she heard those strange sounds. She had fallen down the slope, rolled into the thorns, and hit her head against a stone before fainting.

‘Uzmir …’ she murmured, trying to get up. ‘Holy Tranquillity – he’s alive!’

Although it cost her an enormous effort, she managed to stand up. And then, seeing the dead all around her, she took in the magnitude of the catastrophe. Her head was spinning, and her blood suddenly drained towards her heart.

‘Malva,’ she said. ‘Where’s Malva?’

She climbed the slope, ignoring the thorns that dug into her knees and the palms of her hands when she fell. Once at the top, she saw the upturned carts, the trampled crates and chibuks, the tents torn to shreds, and had a dreadful presentiment.

‘Malva!’ she shouted.

Her voice was carried away by the gusts of wind from the steppes. In the midst of the chaos, a Baighur woman and her little girl were wandering about in tears, disorientated, their faces smeared with mud. Philomena went over to them. In the Baighur language, she asked if they had seen Malva.

The dazed woman shook her head, but the little girl clinging to her skirt pointed to the way the Amoyeds had gone. She told Philomena that she had seen one of the warriors carry the Princess away on his enlil.

‘Are you sure?’ breathed Philomena, on the verge of fainting.

The little girl nodded, and searched her pocket. She brought out the Archont’s medallion, which she had just picked up from the wreckage. Her mother looked despairingly at Philomena. Everyone who travelled the steppes knew that the Amoyeds sold young girls to the Emperor of Cispazia.

‘Cispazia …’ Philomena repeated. ‘Malva … sold!’

She took the medallion and burst into tears.

‘By all the Divinities of the Known World!’ she cried. ‘If anything happens to my Princess, may the Archont die on the spot!’

She collapsed in the mud. All the hard times they had known together went through her mind. The Archont’s medallion burned like a hot coal in her hand. A memento of his villainy, Malva had called it. Philomena raised her eyes to the vast sky of the steppes. Who in the world could help her save Malva now? It would take an army to snatch her from the hands of the Amoyeds or this Emperor. The Baighurs were decimated. Where could Philomena turn?

She pounded the ground with her fist. If only the Coronador and the Coronada had felt a little compassion for their daughter! If only they hadn’t been so cruel, so set in their ways! If they’d listened to their child none of this would have happened!

Philomena sobbed for some time. She thought that back in Galnicia, everyone must believe them dead. She imagined the country plunged, as it surely was, into mourning. The Galnician people had always loved Malva. They would be lamenting the loss of their Princess. In the face of this tragedy, perhaps the Coronador was beginning to realise that he had done the wrong thing? Perhaps he felt remorseful? Perhaps, after all, he’d be glad and relieved to know that Malva was alive? Suppose he knew how the Archont had worked on his young pupil’s mind until she made her rash bid to escape?

Perhaps, yes … and anyway, what other choice did she, Philomena, have?

‘Holy Harmony!’ she murmured. ‘Forgive me, Malva … forgive me, my all-but-sister.’

Before she lost consciousness again, she knew exactly what she must now do.