Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  “He should.” Josiri forced the useless anger down. For all that Viktor had sealed Anastacia’s spirit in the porcelain body, it had been years ago. Nothing good came of dwelling on yesterday’s mistakes. “Did he have any suggestions?”

  “Only that he fears his shadow would make matters worse.” She snatched a tear from her cheek. “He’s probably right. Dark mixes poorly with the Light. But if it comes to it…”

  Josiri nodded, his eyes on Anastacia’s. “I’ll give it until morning, then I’ll speak to Viktor.”

  “What if he won’t try?”

  Seeing his knuckles whiten about Anastacia’s, Josiri relaxed his grip. “He will. Get some rest. I’ll sit with her awhile.”

  She shook her head, no effort now to abate her tears. “I’d rather stay.”

  Josiri held out his free hand. Sidara took it with both of hers and offered a watery smile.

  “I keep thinking there should be something I can do. If it were you lying there, I could bind you with light. I did for Altiris. For Sevaka. But it doesn’t work on Ana.”

  “You can’t save everyone.”

  “Right now I don’t want to save everyone. Just her.”

  “I know.” Josiri didn’t know what else to say. It was all too similar to the aftermath of his mother’s death, wrestling with his own grief while trying to ease his sister’s. Calenne. What would she think to see him now? She’d been barely older than Sidara when Malatriant had parted them for ever.

  A polite knock on the door, and Kurkas slipped into the room. Sevaka had claimed him to be on the brink of tears, but there was none of that now. His eye touched on Josiri, on Sidara; on fixtures and furnishings – anything but the still, dark figure in the bed.

  “Sorry, sah, but if you don’t leave now, you’ll be late for your meeting.”

  Josiri stared blearily up, wracking his brains for a glimmer of what Kurkas meant. He came up dry. “If it’s constabulary business, Lieutenant Raldan can handle it.”

  “Not that kind of meeting, sir. Found this on the doorstep.”

  A gleam of silver arced towards the bed. Josiri let Anastacia’s hand fall back onto the blankets and caught the pendant. A spread-winged owl, set in silver. His weary heart sank further. Beneath the gazebo, the last thing he’d wanted was to return to the bedside. Now all he wanted to do was stay. But maybe this was for the best.

  “Josiri?” said Sidara. “What is it?”

  “I have to go out again. I’m sorry.” He leaned over the bed and kissed Anastacia’s brow. “I’ll be back soon. Make sure you’re still here.”

  “She will be, sah,” said Kurkas. “The Raven comes for her, he’ll have a fight on his hands.”

  There it was. The sorrow Sevaka had spoken of, hidden in the crow’s feet about his eye. The old soldier who resented leaving friends on the battlefield.

  “I’m sure he will.”

  Rising, Josiri kissed Sidara on the cheek and went to seek a different battlefield altogether.

  Ten

  Josiri bit back a frisson of uncertainty as slipped through the aged, iron gate. Local rumour insisted that the house beyond the trees was haunted – or worse yet, cursed. Believers pointed to a previous owner who’d embraced the Raven in the bloodiest way possible; to an inheritor who’d vanished without trace. Other stories, most of them dating back to the day Dregmeet’s mists had swallowed Silvane House, concerned depravity beyond words. These weren’t true, but served to keep the curious away from a mansion long since boarded up. And yet still Josiri felt the clutch of old ghosts as he walked the overgrown path to a front door set ajar for his arrival.

  The hallway was warm, the proof of a fire crackling away somewhere deeper. In fact, Silvane House looked more lived in than he’d seen it in years. Portraits stood sentry over the silent hallway, their dust sheets – like those of the furniture many decades older than Josiri himself – banished out of sight and mind. There was even a modest bronze statuette on the entrance hall table – the pouncing likeness of a beast as much flame as flesh, its hound’s maw wide anticipating the kill.

  Picking up the statuette, Josiri turned it over in his hands, admiring the craftsman’s work and the intricate sapphires gleaming beneath the brow.

  “It’s a zaifîr,” said Apara, arriving in the hallway without otherwise making a sound. “The Ithna’jîm use the real thing as guardians at their sacred sites.”

  The answer spurred flagging memory. He’d known that. Too tired, that was the trouble. “And this?”

  “A burial token. It binds a zaifîr to the dead, to protect them in Otherworld.”

  Josiri shivered and set the statue down. “So you’re stealing from tombs now?”

  Apara smiled. “Only from those who do. How are you, Josiri?”

  “I’ve had better days. But I saw your sister.”

  Stiffness crept into her expression. “Sevaka? She’s well?”

  Josiri nodded. “Troubled, but aren’t we all? You should see for yourself.”

  “I’m not ready. Maybe next year.”

  He sighed. The polite refusal had become ritual, and harder to bear that night than on past occasions. “There’s going to come a time when there won’t be a next year.”

  Her smile faded.

  “I take it she’s already here?” Josiri asked.

  Apara aside, only one other was present in the drawing room. She stood at the hearth as one unable to feel its warmth, arrayed in green silks and her hair bereft of chain or jewel. Like Josiri, she bore the travails of a long and difficult day in the set of her shoulders, but offered a polite nod of greeting all the same.

  “Josiri,” said Melanna Saranal.

  “Melanna.”

  As ever, he offered a shallow nod, though such was insufficient greeting for an Empress. She turned from the fire, dark eyes taking his measure. “You’re troubled.”

  “Ana’s dying.”

  The words, studiously avoided at Stonecrest, hung heavy between them, demanding challenge, pleading to be dismissed. But there could be only truth in that room. That, they’d agreed from their first meeting, seeking a way forward after the slaughter at Govanna. A meeting as secret from Viktor – and from the Golden Court – as those that had followed. Better to leave to imagination what would befall if Tressia’s populace discovered she was within the city’s bounds two or three nights out of every year.

  “Is there nothing to be done?” Compassion blossomed beneath Melanna’s accented words.

  “One thing, perhaps,” he replied, striving vainly for even tenor. “But it carries risk.”

  “Perhaps Apara should bring her to Tregard?” Melanna suggested. Over by the window, curtains drawn to hide the boards nailed to its outer face, Apara nodded. “It might be the lunassera can do for her what physicians cannot.”

  “Would Ashana approve?” Too late, he remembered that Melanna and her goddess no longer spoke, though the Empress had never explained why.

  A glimmer of sorrow touched Melanna’s eyes. “The Goddess’ hatred for Lumestra’s daughters is not as priests proclaim.”

  Josiri swallowed, touched by the offer for all he couldn’t accept. It wasn’t simply that to do so would place them both at risk – though it surely would – but because moving Anastacia from Silvane House to the Imperial Palace could be done only via Otherworld’s shifting paths. For all that Apara had long since mastered the route between the two, reducing a journey of days down to a matter of minutes, Josiri dared not risk laying Anastacia’s febrile soul before the Raven.

  “She’d not survive the journey, not as she is,” he said. “I can’t be away long. If she… Well, I should be there.”

  “I understand, and I wish I’d no need to add to your burdens.”

  “The Eastshires?” The walk from Stonecrest had winnowed the likely from the impossible and left only one.

  “I need you to control your people.”

  “I might say the same to you,” he snapped. “Thirava’s drowning the Eastshires
in misery.”

  “He says he is provoked,” Melanna replied, her eyes darkening.

  “And you believe him?”

  She stared down at the fire, gripping the mantelpiece as if she wished it to crack asunder beneath her fingers. “I’ve no doubt there are troublemakers, within and without, who provide excuse.”

  “A man like Thirava needs no excuse.” Josiri’s thoughts lingered on Viktor’s decree that the Eastshires be reclaimed, no matter the cost. “If you cannot bring him to heel, it will be war.”

  “I know,” she replied, voice rigid. “I’ve no wish to see another. But Thirava is ambitious and impatient—”

  “And you are Empress.”

  Melanna looked sharply up from the flames, her voice bitter. “I am an Empress with sprawling borders, and not enough spears to defend them should the Golden Court tire of seeing me upon the throne. And even if I did? A woman who rules at spearpoint is a tyrant, not an Empress, and a tyrant’s power is brittle, with only the appearance of strength.” She sighed, anger fading. “I have not come seeking permission to do what I know to be best, Lord Trelan, but to warn you.”

  Josiri rubbed his temples. Telling Melanna of Viktor’s resolve might force her to contain Thirava, but would more likely provoke pre-emptive war. Her people would come first, as would his own, were positions reversed. Though Josiri had not always loved the Republic, he remained Tressian, with a Tressian’s duties. More than that, it would be a dangerous step over a line already muddied. One thing to negotiate the return of prisoners, or settle details of the uncertain border without risking the pride and pomp of official discussion. Quite another to betray the closest of counsel. Viktor might understand the former, but he’d never forgive the latter.

  “I’ll see what can be done,” he said at last. “But I can make no promises.”

  “Nor would I trust those offered.” Melanna’s lips softened to a smile. “It would be improper to place my faith in a heathen. Go home, Lord Trelan. Be with your love. These woes will keep until the year is reborn. Maybe longer, if we deserve it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Stepping closer to the fire, he placed a small, velvet-lined box in Melanna’s hand.

  Her eyes crowded with suspicion. “What is this?”

  “A gift. For your daughter. Most of my mother’s jewellery burned with Eskavord, but a few pieces remained at Stonecrest.” He shrugged. “The man who took possession of my family’s estate auctioned off most of that, but this survived. It seems he couldn’t bear to part with it.”

  Melanna tipped back the lid and drew out the silver chain, with its sole, perfect pendant of sun and moon entwined. The heavenly sisters in accord long-lost. “It’s beautiful. But why?”

  “Because Midwintertide used to be a time for gifts,” he said. “And for all that our nations are different, they are both sticklers for tradition, so why not revive this one above all? A new year is upon us. Enemies make the finest friends. If that can be true for us, maybe it can for our peoples.”

  “You’re a strange man, Josiri Trelan. Even for a Tressian.” Melanna wound the chain back into its box, and set it shut. “But I thank you, all the same. May Ashana watch over you, and those you love.”

  Altiris stared at the grimy, uneven wall, and wondered why he wasn’t dead. Not that he was ungrateful, though he remained mindful that bad things seldom happened to the dead, while being alive offered an infinite range of potential horrors. Location was another concern. Hawkin – no novice at skulduggery – had taken few chances. Between blindfold and hessian sack, since removed, he’d seen nothing as she’d marched him through the streets. Worse, she’d twisted him this way and that at every junction, foiling attempts to map the route by strides alone. He could have been anywhere.

  The cell offered up few clues. The ever-present sea-tang narrowed things down little – the cool, damp air that spoke to being underground even less. Tressia existed as much below ground as above, and the Dusk Wind carried the scent of the waves far inland.

  No. Where mattered little more than why. Escape rendered both moot – though Altiris was far from confident such a feat lay within his grasp. The timber door was solid, his hands were bound tight behind his back and an unknown number of enemies waited beyond. But what was the alternative? Sit quietly and wait for rescue?

  Southwealders didn’t do such things, and Phoenixes less so. And it wasn’t as though there’d be help coming. Even if Constans deigned to fetch help – which seemed unlikely, given the lad’s cowardice – how would anyone know where to find him?

  Hunching into a sitting position on the rusting metal bench, Altiris turned attention to his bindings. Hawkin’s experience showed here too, in wrists bound back-to-back and so tightly that even straining fingers barely brushed the rough strands. But perhaps the strands could be worn away…?

  Offering up the rope to the bench’s upright meant adopting a contorted half-sitting, half-lying position on the floor, one shoulder braced against the wall and the other jammed beneath the seat.

  Footsteps beyond the door sent Altiris scrambling back to his feet before he’d made even a dozen awkward passes.

  A bolt clacked back. The door creaked open.

  Blue-green eyes glinted amusement. “Should I ask what you were doing?”

  Hawkin, though dangerous enough, was a known quantity. This woman was not. A head shorter than he and barely more than a girl, and she terrified him.

  Altiris forced bravado into his voice. “On balance, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  She shook her head in amusement and crooked a slender finger. “Come.”

  “Why should I?”

  “The alternative’s staying in here.” The smile faded. “And I’ll only make you otherwise. Dignity’s so important, don’t you think?”

  “That trick with the singing?” He struck what he hoped was a convincing glare. “I’m ready this time. It won’t work.”

  She drew closer. “You can hear it? Most can’t.”

  Altiris fought the urge to back away. Her eyes met his. Vision blurred beneath the ghostly, babbling chorus. The confines of the cell fell away into vivid blue-green. He drowned alongside, thoughts treacly and lungs aching.

  He pinched his eyes shut. There was daylight in the darkness, and he clung to it. The song faded beyond a whisper. Thought came easier. Salt-tinged air flooded starved lungs. When he opened his eyes, he found her watching him, lips pursed in thought.

  “Perhaps you might resist, at that,” she said. “But I can still have you hauled outside. Dignity?”

  He hesitated, aware he’d won a victory – perhaps even a substantial one – but not how to use it. “All right. In the name of dignity.”

  He followed her beyond the cell and up a steep flight of stairs. Conversation stilled in the room beyond. From beneath a boarded-up window, eyes glanced suspiciously from behind hands of pentassa cards and the pitiful pile of coins set as stake. Further along, a woman in a tattered naval coat leaned against cracked paintwork and folded her arms, her appraisal ending in a sneer. All were of the same cast as the ruffians from the warehouse. Men and women not to be crossed without a sword in hand and superior numbers at your back.

  Only when the room was left behind in favour of another flight of stairs – this one edged by a banister long since fallen on hard times – did the buzz of conversation resume.

  “Friendly bunch, aren’t they?” asked Altiris.

  “Here.” The young woman opened a door. “And keep a civil tongue. I can hide your body where it’ll never be found.”

  Altiris stepped into what had once been a well-to-do study, at least before a leaking roof had tarnished metal fittings and set wallpaper peeling. Curling papers crowded a filthy, warped desk. A cracked mirror faced empty bookshelves. At the room’s far end, a man stood silhouetted before a blazing lantern, his features hidden deep in shadow.

  “This is him?” asked the man.

  “It is.” The young woman stepped inside the room and c
losed the door. “I know he doesn’t look like much, but he’s persistent. Hawkin thinks we should kill him.”

  “I fancy she does.”

  Robbed of visual clues, Altiris focused on the man’s voice. Ageless, with a city-dweller’s languid accent. Wry. Confident. Gruff, also, but with a fuzzing burr that suggested he was speaking outside his normal register. All told, as worthless as a face he couldn’t see.

  “Who are you?” Altiris started forward. “What—?”

  “Kasvin?”

  The young woman grabbed Altiris’ arm and dragged him back without obvious effort. Kasvin was stronger than she appeared.

  “Forgive my manners.” The man spread his hands in apology. “You’ll understand I must maintain a degree of privacy. As for who I am? You can call me the Merrow.”

  Altiris frowned, recalling the name from the previous night. “So you’re in charge?” He threw a disdainful look about the room. “I don’t think much of your lair. It’s a new low, even for the Crowmarket.”

  The man chuckled. “The Crowmarket is dead, as you well know. Though I confess we share some of the same concerns. As for the house? It’s nothing. A meeting place.”

  “Meeting who?”

  “Tonight? You. Tomorrow. Who can say? I’ve learned to accept what washes ashore.”

  “The river provides?” said Altiris sourly.

  “Precisely. Tonight, it provided you.” He shrugged, the pattern of lantern light shifting. “You were at Seacaller’s, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t—”

  An upraised hand cut him off. “Don’t waste my time with denials. Some puzzles only ever have a single answer. You were at Seacaller’s. What did you see?”

  “Folk groomed for exploitation,” said Altiris. “Food for favours yet to come.”

  “Cynical.” The Merrow shook his head. “I suppose that’s to be expected. This city sours everyone, and those who wear the rose-brand sooner than most. Is it really too much to believe that we feed the hungry simply because they are hungry?”

  That the Merrow knew he was a southwealder meant nothing. It was one of the first things anyone learned about him, whether Altiris wished them to or not. “Yes.”