Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  “Then so are we.”

  Between the black dress, the snows and the uncertain light from the Birch Street lanterns, they lost the young woman with the blue-green eyes twice in the first hundred yards. Footprints helped, but falling snow rapidly blurred hers to the point they were little different to other spent trails. Both times, Constans spotted her a heartbeat before Altiris, a nudge of elbow and pointed finger setting them back on course.

  On she went, past the collapsed remnant of the portreeve’s manor and Fennmoor orphanage. Altiris grew ever more uneasy, alert for a trap. But hurried glances behind revealed no pursuit, nor the suggestion of ambush lurking in the dark. What sounds there were came only from houses shut tight. As for the woman, she never once looked back, as unconcerned by the prospect of being followed as she was the deepening cold.

  Then, just beyond the empty battlements of the abandoned Fellnore Vigil, she vanished beneath the shadow of a wood-framed warehouse clinging to the western side of Birch Street, picking a path across waterlogged flagstones and vanishing into a doorway.

  “Don’t tell me we’re blundering in behind her,” hissed Constans.

  “No. That’s our way in.” Altiris pointed to a second door a short way distant. The paintwork, like that of the wider warehouse, was flaked and peeling, but the padlock looked new, which it likely was. “Assuming you can open it.”

  A guess, but not much of one. Doors had never been much of an obstacle to Constans.

  Constans snorted, and without a word picked his way across to the door. After a few seconds with an array of thieves’ tools no upstanding citizen – much less a Drazina – should have possessed, he offered a sardonic bow and then eased the door open.

  They entered into a corridor split from the warehouse’s main bay by a wall of warped timber and smeared glass. In no place were the sloped and sagging floorboards less than three inches beneath the water. Thready black weed clung to the lower walls, filling every breath with a bitter, salt stench.

  Beckoning for Constans to follow, Altiris edged towards the inner wall, careful to keep his head below the level of the glass and lamenting the inescapable fact that his boots were not so waterproof as he’d believed. Notwithstanding a small stack of crates and strongboxes, the warehouse floor was empty of everything save debris.

  Three figures stood in the pool of light from a hanging lantern. The woman with the blue-green eyes, a much older man wrapped tight in thick wools and rich furs… and Hawkin Darrow.

  A hiss told Altiris that Constans had – unsurprisingly – recognised the woman who’d once held a blade to his throat. He set a hand on the lad’s shoulder and a warning finger to lips. Thankfully, Constans offered a taut nod, his hand slipping from a dagger concealed beneath his cloak.

  Satisfied, Altiris crept closer to the adjoining door and eased it open a fraction.

  “… told you not to come here.” The young woman drew closer to the man. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I had to see you. I had to—”

  He broke off as pale fingers found his cheek. A scowl marred Hawkin’s brow. The man had eyes only for the young woman.

  “I told you not to come here,” she repeated, voice hard. “I’m grateful for your support. But if you can’t keep to our agreement, then there is no agreement… and you will never see me again.”

  “I’m sorry.” The man looked to be on the brink of tears. Heart-wrenching, perhaps, but for his obvious, desperate desire for a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. Such things were hardly uncommon, but his tone was a little too pleading, and oddly slurred. “Promise you’ll come to me.”

  The woman smiled, the affection offered to a pet, not a lover. “If it pleases me.”

  Then Altiris noticed it. The familiar, whispering song echoing beneath her words, so soft to have gone unregarded beneath his quickened pulse. The blackout of the previous night took on fresh significance. More than ever, he wished he’d brought others to Sothvane.

  The man clasped her hand tight. His face fell further when she drew it free.

  “Go,” she said. “Before I change my mind.”

  He stumbled away, but his gaze never left her until the outer door closed between them.

  The young woman shuddered and shrank inwards. “You did right to send for me.”

  Hawkin made a disgusted noise. “He’s pathetic.”

  “His coin’s useful. Let him keep his dreams.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t let them touch you.”

  “It means nothing.” She kissed Hawkin on the cheek. “You needn’t be so protective.”

  Again, the breathy song bloomed beneath her words, an insistent, scratching pressure against Altiris’ thoughts. But Hawkin seemed not to notice, or at least so he thought at first. Then he noted the slight twitch of her eye, the expression of one who knows something to be amiss, but not what. The song grew insistent. The twitch faded, and Hawkin’s expression smoothed. For all Hawkin’s treacheries past, Altiris wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  “What is it?” hissed Constans.

  “You don’t hear that?” murmured Altiris.

  “Hear what?”

  “Singing. Like whispers at the back of your thoughts?”

  “No.” He scowled. “Let’s take them. I see one of Father’s boxes in that pile, and Hawkin—”

  Altiris tightened his grip on the lad’s shoulder. “We wait.”

  Constans sneered. “You’re scared of the other one?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s barely older than me.”

  “I know.”

  Constans subsided, wariness in his eyes. Altiris withdrew his hand and turned his attention to the warehouse bay. The young woman picked through an opened crate, brushing appreciative fingers across a bolt of ruby silk. “Itharoci. This will fetch a good price.”

  Hawkin nodded. “I’ve a buyer lined up.”

  “It came from the Moonchaser?”

  Hawkin nodded. “Brannin’s wreckers wanted to keep it, but I persuaded them otherwise.”

  “Politely, I hope? The Merrow doesn’t want to lose their services.”

  “They’ll have the lanterns out tonight along Torda Crag, as promised. I offered first pick of the cargo.”

  The young woman smiled. “The river provides… or the sea.”

  Hawkin didn’t quite return it. “As you say. You’ll be away to see him now, I suppose?”

  She nodded, already starting towards the door. “I’m already late.”

  Altiris’ suspicions hardened to certainty. Definitely not the Crowmarket. Whatever Hawkin had embroiled herself in, it was something else. And if the other woman was reporting to her employer? Well, finding out the who and where of that was worth a little extra risk.

  “Back outside,” he murmured. “But carefully. We’ll see where she goes next.”

  Constans offered no response, for he was no longer there.

  The warehouse’s outer door swung shut, the woman lost to the night.

  Altiris swore bitterly under his breath and cast about. The boy had gone, and without so much as a whisper of sound. No mystery as to the why, not with Hawkin left alone and unawares. For all he silently cursed the lad, Altiris knew he’d only himself to blame for withholding her return. Constans would likely have done something rash regardless, but surprise made it a guarantee.

  Where was he?

  A moment later, he saw him. On the far side of the warehouse bay, advancing soundlessly on Hawkin with daggers drawn. To slip away was one thing, but to cover so much ground? Impossible, save that it plainly wasn’t.

  Hawkin turned in the same moment Constans lunged. A knife whispered from her belt and struck his dagger aside. He pitched forward with a yell as her boot thumped into his knee.

  “You forget, boy, I always could play your games better.”

  Constans scrambled, the knife hissing over his head. Altiris ripped the door open and charged out into the warehouse, sword drawn. “Hawkin!”

 
; Startled, she made a half-circle away from Constans, knife point darting back and forth and eyes wary. “So it’s a reunion, is it?” she shouted. “Anyone else out there? Sidara? Apara Rann, perhaps? Why don’t you all join us?”

  Constans regained his feet, lips locked in a snarl. “We’re enough.”

  “Hah! Always did have fine opinion of yourself.” She let the knife fall and raised her hands. “So which of you’s to do the deed?”

  Shifting his grip on his dagger, Constans started forward.

  “Neither,” snapped Altiris, his gaze on the lad. “We give her to the constabulary. That’s our duty. You want her life, petition the Lord Protector to play at hangman.”

  The warehouse trembled to running feet on the stairs and walkways above. Lantern lights spilled between slatted stairs. Altiris’ heart sank as the first shiver of fear took hold. Why don’t you all join us? A warning cry more than a jibe.

  Hawkin shook her head. “Maybe you should have checked I was alone first, my bonnies?”

  Three dark shapes upon the stairs became six. Steel gleamed.

  “Go!” said Altiris. “We’ll lose them in the streets.”

  The outer door burst inward with a rush of chill air. Another pair of heavies stood framed against the snow. Eight now – nine, including Hawkin. Far too many to fight and win. But what else was there?

  “Constans?” Altiris spun on his heel in a failed attempt to keep their opponents in sight. “Back to back. It’s our only chance.”

  The boy stumbled into the lantern’s shadow, his expression wholly bereft of its usual sly swagger. “There are too many.”

  “Constans!”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Altiris’ angry glare fell on a calm, unrepentant face, pale in the darkness. Then the shadows surged, and Constans was gone, without footfall or motion to betray his passing.

  “Where’d he go?” barked one of the heavies.

  “Raven’s Eyes,” spat another. “A bloody witch.”

  Altiris threw down his sword, fear entangled by anger and confusion. Anger, for the lad’s cowardice; confusion for the realisation that Constans Droshna, once Constans Reveque, had magic of his own.

  Hawkin drew closer, her knife once again gleaming in a steady hand.

  “Well then, my bonny,” she said. “What shall we talk about?”

  Josiri stared across the snow-stolen gardens without seeing them. Part of him knew the latticework gazebo made for poor shelter. That his gloved hands were as numb as his thoughts, and the rest of him soon to follow. Yet still he couldn’t bring himself to rouse shivering bones. And so he sat upon the stone bench, watched the falling snow and damned himself for a coward.

  “Josiri?” Sevaka’s thin shadow darkened the gazebo’s arch. “Kurkas said I’d find you here. I hope I’m not intruding?”

  He shook his head, clearing numbed thoughts. “No. Of course not.”

  She drew closer, her cheeks flushed with cold and her grey eyes careful. “Is there any news?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t…” Black clouds crowded in. “We put her to bed. It seemed best.”

  He’d forbidden the servants and all but a handful of others to enter the bedroom. Anastacia would hate to be seen as she was now. Her body split and shattered; limbs intact but golden light hissing from the cracks. Bad enough that all could hear her low, pained moans, but short of emptying the house there was nothing to be done.

  The year was dying, and his love with it.

  “I called a physician. He just stared until Kurkas dragged him away. I don’t know what I expected him to achieve. She’s always mended before. Elzar’s tried. Sidara’s tried. Kurkas suggested we send for a claysmith, and maybe we should.” A sigh tore free, taking with it strength he couldn’t spare. “Sidara’s sitting with her now. I couldn’t… I… She can’t hear me. She can’t see me. She can’t feel my hand about hers. And every time she cries out, a piece of me dies. I’m sorry. I know how selfish that sounds.”

  Sevaka gathered the tails of her coat and sat beside him. An ungloved hand, sapphire ring glinting on a finger, snaked across his. “She’d understand.”

  “Are you sure?” He offered a wintery smile. “I keep thinking it’s a dream. That I’ll wake up, and she’ll be stood there, scolding me for idleness. A collapsing mansion once buried her alive, for Lumestra’s sake. What’s a fall from a balcony compared to that?”

  He paused, breathless, but the words wanted to come.

  “I should have known something was wrong. She wasn’t right at the palace. And before?” He stared at outspread fingers, remembering the clay dust of the morning. “Something was amiss even then. You know the worst part?”

  Sevaka squeezed his hand.

  Josiri let his eyes fall closed. “With everything she is – everything we’ve been through – I never expected it to be this way around. I thought she’d go on for ever. She even talked about it this morning. But this? I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sometimes…” Sevaka paused. “Sometimes it’s enough just to be there.”

  “I know. I’ll go back inside soon, but first I needed to… Well, to stare. Recover a bit of that stony fortitude us nobles cultivate.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been much good at it.”

  He opened his eyes. “Me neither.”

  Sevaka withdrew her hand. “I was due in Tarvallion tomorrow, but I’ll stay as long as you need.”

  “I won’t hear of it.”

  “Josiri…”

  He shook his head. “This place is enough of a tangle at Midwintertide as it is, even without Ana. I don’t need you under my feet.” Knowing that she’d not believe that reason, he reached for another. “You’ve your own life, and if things on the border are as bad as you say, you shouldn’t be away long. Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate the offer.”

  “Why else have friends?” Rising, she stared out at the Ocranza statue standing untiring sentry amid the garden’s skeletal trees. Anastacia hated it, claiming it too worn away to be decorous. Josiri only kept it in place to annoy her. “Tarvallion it is, though if you don’t send a herald with news twice daily, I shall be back in a flash, and with Rosa in tow. You wouldn’t like…” The grin dissolved into a frown. “Queen’s Ashes, I forgot about Shalamoh.”

  “Shalamoh?” The name was familiar, though Josiri couldn’t place it.

  “Some scribbler up in Highvale. Claims to be writing a history of the Republic. The real history.”

  “Then he’ll be a man accustomed to disappointment, if he’s not already.”

  Tressian history was a farrago of distortions and outright lies, as Sevaka knew better than most. For all that her blood family had once owned much of the city, they no longer existed, their pages torn from the annals.

  Sevaka shook her head. “That may be, but he’s pestering me about Vrasdavora. Worse, he’s gotten it into his head that I died there.” Understandable, given that she had. “Endless questions. What was it like? Is the Raven real? Does Otherworld match the passages from Kendrial’s Vitsimar? As if I’ve read the bloody thing. I keep hiding the letters – it won’t go well for Master Shalamoh if Rosa sees them. But I can’t very well go banging his door down at this hour.”

  Josiri rose, a small avalanche of snow cascading from his shoulders. A few minutes’ conversation had rallied him more than an hour of staring. “Leave it with me.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that, not as things are.”

  “Trust me, I might need the distraction.” He forced a smile. “Or I can send Vladama. He has a way with words, and I think he could use the distraction as much as I.”

  “He looked to be on the brink of tears when I spoke to him.”

  “He and Ana are close, Lumestra knows why. But while we can’t always choose our friends, we should always be grateful for them.” Josiri embraced her. “Thank you.”

  “A herald by dusk tomorrow, Lord Trelan,” she said, her cheek warm against his. “Or you’ll see Ro
sa the next dawn.”

  Sevaka pulled away, halting at the gazebo’s edge as if wanting to say more. Then she was gone into the night, and Josiri began the long walk back up to the house.

  It was quieter than he remembered, the lanterns lowered and the servants withdrawn to their own chambers. That the hollow, mournful cries too had fallen silent added pace to Josiri’s ascent of the stairs, tumultuous emotions again fighting for mastery. The last dozen paces to the bedroom he took almost at a run, but willed himself to calm before opening the door.

  The room lay dark and silent, the hearth at a low smoulder and a single lantern lit in the bay window. Sidara rose from the adjoining chaise, her golden hair tied loosely back, her dress and shawl on the brink of disarray. Red-rimmed eyes spoke of a heart as ragged as his own.

  “How is she?”

  Sidara’s cheeks twitched. “The cracks are spreading.”

  Josiri pulled a chair up to the bedside and took a cold, porcelain hand in his.

  Anastacia offered neither word nor motion as response. No sign that she’d heard – or that she was even alive. With anyone else, the stillness would have meant the very worst, but Anastacia’s clay body had ever lacked the small, unconscious motions of life. Josiri clung to that, and to the small shred of hope, for there was little else hopeful in her aspect.

  What was visible of her porcelain flesh above the blankets was darker, somehow, than when he’d seen it last, its lustre faded alongside her spirit. The spiderweb cracks, limited to her back and shoulders in the aftermath of the fall, now crazed every inch of her once perfect alabaster skin. They too were cold and dark, the daylight fire characterising the magic Anastacia and Sidara shared barely a writhing flicker. Only the dark swirl of her eyes offered hope that some piece of her remained.

  But for how long?

  Josiri drew down a stuttering breath and raised Anastacia’s hand to his lips. “Hello, Ana. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  Sidara drew closer. “Viktor visited not long ago. He spoke a lot, but he didn’t say much. I think he feels responsible.”