by Matthew Ward
Sevaka stirred. “We needn’t fight the entire Empire. There’s little love lost between the Empress and Silsaria. Might be the Golden Court will stay out of things if we look strong enough.”
Josiri considered. The Golden Court constituted a council of sorts, the kings and princes – and it was nearly always men, despite changing times across the border – of the Empire’s myriad kingdoms playing twin roles of advisors and petitioners. Ambition lightly bound in exquisite silks and disguised by fine words. “What if they don’t?”
“Our ships still command the seas of Mar Karakeld,” Sevaka replied. “If the Empress sees enough sails on the northern horizon, she’ll bristle the coastline with spears. She’ll not sacrifice her own holdings to keep Thirava on a stolen throne.”
Keldrov murmured agreement. Izack gave no sign of being convinced. Josiri, who knew the Empress Melanna Saranal better than anyone present, found no fault with him for that. He’d never had a taste for gambling with the lives of others. Nor, or so he’d thought, did Sevaka. Then again, she’d more reason than most to hate the Hadari.
“How is it in the Eastshires?” he asked, careful to avoid reference to what was very much the Tressian/Hadari border, however much Viktor wished otherwise.
Sevaka hesitated, a scowl distorting a face normally so ready with a smile. “Prince Thirava is not a man to forgive defiance. I understand most of the villages are little more than prison camps. The towns are under curfew. A few get out, but it’s almost all meadowland and moor – simplicity itself to patrol. Those Thirava’s outriders can’t turn back, they shoot. Arrows do not respect borders. Master Tanor has Essamere on ceaseless watch, but they’re few and the border long.” The lines about her mouth grew tight. “His knights are accustomed to digging graves.”
Izack uttered a low, dangerous rumble. His left hand, level with his belt, clenched and unclenched about a sword that wasn’t there. It had taken every argument at Viktor’s disposal to have him leave Essamere behind and take responsibility for the army, but a knight he remained. Essamere’s frustrations and failures remained his own.
Josiri closed his eyes, but there was no banishing the image conjured by Sevaka’s words. He’d heard some of it through sources of his own, but had managed to stifle the horror of it with grim practicality. Whether or not the Golden Court marched to Thirava’s aid, reclaiming the Eastshires would mean war renewed, and it was anyone’s guess if the Republic would survive.
“And the Hadari claim to be honourable,” murmured Keldrov.
“It would be a mistake to confuse Thirava’s perception of honour with an entire people’s,” said Elzar. “It seems we need a miracle.”
He addressed this last to Anastacia, who propped herself against the balcony and returned his raised eyebrow with a baleful stare. [[What you need, Master Proctor, is to refrain from foolish comment.]]
Elzar rubbed thoughtfully at his white-stubbled chin. “I merely meant—”
[[There is nothing I can do that you cannot.]]
“Enough.” Turning, Viktor softened his command with a lopsided smile and spread his hands. “I didn’t call you here to debate. The shadowthorns have held the Eastshires six years. Much longer, and what remains of our people will be so broken that it would be kinder to leave them be.”
“The Southshires held out for fifteen years,” said Elzar.
“The Southshires had hope. They had the dream of a phoenix who would burn away their chains. What do the Eastshires have? They are forgotten. We are blinded by our wounds. We allowed the Hadari to humiliate us in the very place we thought ourselves safest. They have made us timid where we should be awash with rage for what they’ve taken.”
His voice shook with quiet passion, each word flowing from the next with the inevitability of a blacksmith striking steel. Too late, Josiri realised that there had been no coincidence in the meeting place, nor that each of them had marched past Mandalov’s painting.
“Years ago, I risked everything to rescue our kin from bondage.” Viktor shook his head. “I can’t ignore what’s happening in the east. How can you? You, most of all, Josiri? I understand that there are risks. Challenges. But we will find a way. Haven’t we always done that, you and I?”
Josiri met his gaze, and was all but lost. That was Viktor’s secret, one more dangerous than his shadow. He made you believe. No matter how dark the day, Viktor saw the future gleaming like sunlight. Only the roster of dead from the last war – from battles at Ahrad and Vrasdavora, at Tregga and Govanna, and a dozen more besides – kept Josiri from being swept along, and then just barely. Whole families obliterated at a stroke. Villages emptied, and farms fallen fallow for want of hands to tend their fields.
But the others? Sevaka and Keldrov nodded thoughtfully, if for different reasons. Sevaka, as kind a soul as any Josiri had ever met, was surely heart-lorn at the Eastshires’ suffering. By contrast, Keldrov would consider the liberation of the east as another step towards atonement for the sins of youth – much as Viktor had once regarded the emancipation of the south. Izack would go wherever a soldier could stand between the defenceless and an enemy’s spears. Tzila, as was her wont, gave no indication of her thoughts. And Elzar…?
The aging proctor shook his head. “We’re not ready, my boy.”
“He’s right, Viktor,” said Josiri. “In lieu of troops, we need advantage. We don’t have one.”
Viktor glowered. “We will have every blade we require. Arlanne?”
Keldrov nodded. “I spoke with Thane Armund before I came north. He’s prepared to broker for thrydaxes’ services, if we can meet the price.”
Izack fixed a grim smile. Elzar’s brow creased in thought.
So Keldrov hadn’t been part of the summons, but the reason for them – a herald bearing word of alliances struck with the thanedoms of the south. At last, Josiri understood why Viktor had allowed the meeting to play out as it had. All obstacles had been aired openly, and rendered moot by the promise of Thrakkian axes.
But he found little comfort. Thrakkian intervention altered the wager’s odds, but a gamble it remained. Worse, a war of two nations would become one of three. Whatever betide, the dead of Govanna would not want for company.
“I agreed to serve as Lord Protector for five years,” said Viktor. “They are elapsed, but I remained because each one of you, at one time or another, begged me to stay – to hold the Republic together, as I promised. It is in that spirit that I ask you to trust me now. Because though we might pretend otherwise, I’ve not yet fulfilled that pledge. Not until all our kin are free.”
Elzar chewed his lip and nodded. “What do you propose?”
“That we begin moving regiments into the Marcher Lands – I defer to Izack’s judgement as to which are most suited – along with whatever chapterhouses agree to join the campaign. Our soldiers will bear the burden of the reconquest, as is proper. The Thrakkians will merely discourage the Hadari from foolishness, and punish any that occurs.”
“Then we’ll be neck-deep in our own blood before we reach Tregga,” said Izack.
“Not if we employ what constructs we have in the city alongside those already in the Marcher Lands.”
“I haven’t the proctors to command that many,” said Elzar. “Not with any degree of skill.”
Viktor shrugged. “Sidara has proved her worth within the city’s bounds. It’s time she did the same beyond.”
[[No,]] said Anastacia, flatly. [[She is not a soldier.]]
“She wears a Drazina’s uniform,” Viktor replied. “That brings responsibilities. She owes this to the Republic. She’s already agreed.”
[[You had no right to ask.]]
“Sidara’s no longer a child,” said Elzar. “She can make her own choices.”
[[Yes, and I imagine this choice suits you very well, doesn’t it?]] Anastacia rose to her feet, her body quivering with anger as she bore down upon him. [[Her mother kept her from your foundry for a reason. You’d pluck the sun from the sky if you could, an
d set it in a lantern to dispel the very darkness you birthed.]]
“Be reasonable, lady,” said Izack.
Anastacia took another trembling step, warning in her smoky eyes. [[This is me being reasonable. You’ll know when that changes.]]
Tzila set her hand on a sabre. The threat of steel was all but worthless against Anastacia’s porcelain flesh, but the motion marked an escalation no one needed. Josiri exchanged a worried glance with Sevaka and interposed himself between Anastacia and Viktor, arms outspread.
“Ana, please.”
After an agonising moment, Anastacia stepped back.
Releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, Josiri turned to Viktor and fought to quell a surge of annoyance at Viktor’s presumption. Sidara was as safe in the Panopticon as she could be anywhere. The battlefield was another matter. Selfish to fear for the life of one young woman while her peers fought and died, but that was a father’s privilege.
“When do you intend the campaign to begin?”
“As soon as the snows recede. A week. Perhaps two. Kraikons can clear the roads. Sunstaves can melt ice and grant firm ground.”
Two weeks. How quickly the world turned. “I’ll speak with Sidara. I want to be sure she comprehends what you’re asking. You and I, Viktor, were shaped by decisions whose consequences we didn’t understand. Whatever Sidara owes to the Republic, we owe this to her. And to ourselves.”
He met the other’s basilisk stare unblinking. Most crumpled beneath that gaze, but Trelans were stubborn, and Josiri’s fear of Viktor was long dead.
“I agree with Josiri,” said Sevaka, who owed more to Sidara than any other present. “We can set the rest in motion. There’s no harm.”
Viktor’s gaze burned. “And if Sidara does, in fact, know her own mind?”
For all that he’d spoken in reply to Sevaka, Josiri had no doubt the question was for him. “If she can satisfy me of that, then I withdraw my objection.”
[[Josiri?]]
He ignored Anastacia, his whole will bent on Viktor. “I will not be swayed on this, brother.”
“Very well.” Viktor gave curt nod, but his voice softened. “I would die myself before harm befell Sidara. You must understand that.”
[[Josiri…]]
This time he turned, alarmed by the note of frailty in her voice. That alarm redoubled as she staggered backwards, one hand pressed against her brow, and another grasping weakly at the balcony’s balustrade. Her whole being, usually so forthright and seldom uncertain, seemed shrunken.
“Ana? What’s wrong?”
[[I don’t… I don’t feel…]]
Another stumble. The small of her back struck stone. Balance shattered, she fell across the balustrade.
Josiri lunged. “Ana!”
His fingers closed on empty air. Viktor swore, his own desperate grab broken by Anastacia’s not insubstantial weight. With a hollow cry, she plunged from sight.
As Josiri scrambled for the balcony’s edge, the chime of stone striking stone cut through the crisp whumph of flattened snow. And beneath it another sound. One that stole the last of Josiri’s breath and set worms writhing in his gut: the sharp, brittle report of shattering ceramic.
Voices rang out, though he didn’t truly hear them. Just as he didn’t truly see the dark figures forging to the balcony through the plaza’s snows, or feel Viktor’s hand on his shoulder. The world had shrunk almost to nothing, bounded wholly by Anastacia’s motionless, spreadeagled body, and the golden light hissing from cracks in her once-flawless skin.
Five
Ignoring the ache in her shoulder, Rosa hefted the mallet and tapped the chisel. Friction between metal and seasoned wood flared as rich, smoky scent. Slivers of birch drifted to join the spoil at the half-carved statue’s feet. She let the mallet drop and stepped back, examining her handiwork in the light of the basement’s high-set windows and its single flickering lantern.
Still not right. The curve of statue’s brow was too sharp, for one. Her left shoulder was definitely larger than the right. And the expression? Well, the less said about that, the better. But a noticeable improvement over the one that had come before, and leagues beyond than her first attempt.
Setting tools down on a hogshead, Rosa wiped her brow on a shirtsleeve and swung her right arm back and forth, the heel of her left hand massaging the knot of scarred flesh at her shoulder. It didn’t hurt as such, not any longer, but the stiffness persisted.
A polite knock sounded at the basement door. The newcomer’s nose wrinkled at toil-laden air, though he forbore comment. Ravan Eckorov, Reeve of Tarvallion, fancied himself a man of refinement. He strove to comport himself thus, from pencil moustache and black hair oiled into place, to sombre raiment seldom in anything save perfect array.
“I hope I’m not interrupting?” As ever, his clipped pronunciation was impeccable.
Rosa shook her head. “I was just about finished.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been down here.” Arms looped behind his back, he gazed into the eyes of the unfinished statue, taking in the snarl of lip, the murderous, imperfect scowl and hair that transcended imperfect chisel-work to offer the appearance of writhing snakes. “Repulsive fiend, isn’t she? Anyone in particular?”
“Me.”
“Ah.” Eckorov cast a silk-gloved hand to the basement’s rear, where shadows concealed other works standing watch among wine barrels and crates. Half a dozen more life-size pieces. Twice as many again reached no higher than knee or waist. “And these?”
“The same.”
Venturing deeper into shadow, he peered at the nearest. The one it pleased Sevaka to call The Queen of Disappointment. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but have you considered getting a little more light down here? Or perhaps a better mirror? I’d be delighted to lend you one.” Turning, he offered a polite smile. “Then again, that’s not going to help with the horns, or the teeth, or the… Blessed Lumestra, is that a tail?”
“It was Master Tanor’s idea.” Rosa propped herself against the hogshead. “There’s a Lunastran ritual, practised by those who wrestle with the temptation of the Dark. They call it soul sculpting. You close yourself to all else and focus solely on the work. As the likeness takes shape, your flaw flows into the statue. Sealed away where it can’t bother you or anyone else. The more statues, the freer you become. At least, that’s the theory.”
“And then you burn the statues, I suppose?”
“That would only free the flaw and leave me back where I started. You’re supposed to work in clay, but it didn’t feel right.” She shrugged. “It’s just as well Lumestra had more patience, or who knows what we’d have looked like?”
Of course, Lumestra hadn’t imprisoned temptation in clay, but the souls of what had become humanity, temptation and all. Perhaps that made a difference.
“And you… chose these delightful forms?”
“The flaw chooses its own shape.” Rosa looked from one to the other, to the next. For all that they were monstrous, she always recognised her own face. But whether that was truly the flaw she chose to drive out – or her own subconscious sending unsubtle messages – she couldn’t be certain. “You surrender yourself to the work, and what happens, happens.”
“So that’s why Lunastran chapels have such horrific statues,” said Eckorov. “I did wonder. But I never saw you as a woman ruled by lust.”
She caught the joke a fraction too late to prevent a scowl. “Anger.”
“Surely not?” A courtier’s politeness. He’d seen enough of her at her worst. “Is it having the desired effect?”
Rosa returned his easy smile with something tighter. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all, Roslava? Aren’t we all.” He straightened, all business. “I came in search of a favour.”
She’d known as much, of course. Eckorov was a busy man, and an infrequent guest at Brackenpike Manor. For all that little more than a quarter of Tarvallion had been recla
imed – the rest lay tumbled and ruined beneath the roots of Starik Wood – the population was large enough to fill the reeve’s days with squabbles. Add to that the closeness of the uneasy border with the contested Eastshires, and Rosa wasn’t wholly sure how he found time to sleep. With Sevaka called back to Tressia, his duties had redoubled. Though war had left Tarvallion – once the jewel of the Republic – in a sorry state, the villages of the Marcher Lands still looked to its reeve for leadership and redress.
Agreeing a favour, sight unseen, carried risk. But though Rosa no longer wore a uniform or bore a title, duty remained. “What do you need?”
“Those recent rumours have made the populace restless.”
Rumours. Servants’ whispers had furnished her with some details. Zephan Tanor had spoken of others at his last visit, the day before Viktor’s summons. By no means a weak man – a grandmaster of Essamere could only ever be other – he’d shaken as he’d given account. Lost and weary souls, weeping for kin who’d not survived the journey from the Eastshires. Tales of houses burned, their tenants within. Of sons and daughters dragged away for slaves. And all of it behind a wall of Silsarian spears and the threat of war renewed.
Even thinking on it set the old fire smouldering in Rosa’s gut – the desire to pick up a sword and march. She breathed deep and glanced at the unfinished statue. Still so far to go. The gap separating justice and vengeance was narrower than most thought, but still you could lose yourself between.
“Thirava’s treating our people worse than animals,” she said. “I’d say they’ve reason to be restless.”
Eckorov scowled and tapped a knuckle against his lips. “No one’s denying that. I’ve wearied Lumestra’s ears with prayer. I’ve worn heralds ragged carrying reports to Lord Droshna, begging for more soldiers. To Grandmaster Rother, in the hope that Sartorov might consider standing with old friends.” He scowled, but there was no taking back the criticism, even if there were few safer ears on which it could fall than Rosa’s. “I understand that times are challenging all over. Already there’s too much talk of taking up arms and marching east, whether or not the army chooses to follow.”
