Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  “Go on, you stubborn sod,” breathed Kurkas. “Let it out.”

  Anastacia leaned close to Lord Trelan. “He wasn’t made for this. You should rescue him.”

  Lord Trelan scowled, nodded and started toward the podium. He halted as Lord Droshna at last found his voice.

  “In all the ways that count, Elzar Ilnarov was my father.” Lord Droshna spoke slowly, picking his way through a thorn-choked path. “He taught me to trust myself. To stand for those in need where others thought only of what they might lose in the striving. Without his kindness, I’d be dead. Without his wisdom, the Hadari would have claimed the Southshires. Elzar understood, better than anyone, that a divided Republic is one doomed to fall. Some of you know the strain he placed on himself as he strove to restore the foundry. He died as he lived, putting others before himself. It is time we did the same.”

  He paused, the silence broken only by the moan and patter of windblown branches. Lord Droshna rose to his full intimidating height, support forsaken, and booming voice bereft of doubt.

  “You will have heard, as I have heard, the horrors the shadowthorns heap on our kin. You will know also that we are not yet recovered from the last war. Any attempt to reclaim the Eastshires will cost us greatly. But as I stand here, in mourning for the man who made me, I find my thoughts with those we have abandoned. You’ve followed me for six years, and I have kept my promises as best I could. Now I make another: follow me one last time, and the Eastshires will be free! The Republic will be divided no more!”

  “Death and honour!”

  Altiris didn’t see who voiced the oath, but gained volume and speed as new voices took up the cry. The hilltop, sombre moments before, embraced the challenge and roared with one voice.

  “Death and honour! Death and honour! Death and honour!”

  And through it all, Lord Trelan watched without words, lips pinched thin.

  Twenty-Three

  Maladas morn sparring was a Stonecrest tradition, and not to be set aside even for a wake. Even with brandy taken. In the preceding half hour, Josiri had watched the gambesoned Kurkas demolish Brass, Jaridav and Stalder. Now Altiris fought for the younger generation’s honour in the snowy strip of lawn marked by four red pennants.

  Cheers marked allegiance offered and wagers placed, the hearthguard – all save Viara Boronav, who with family duties complete held the gate watch – split evenly between support of their present lieutenant and their old captain. Sidara, lately arrived from the Panopticon and a simarka watching mutely at her side, cheered for Altiris. Anastacia, arms folded and mourning garb exchanged for a red velvet gown, exhorted whoever seemed in greatest danger of losing. Sevaka, her threadbare naval greatcoat most unbecoming for a regional governor, beheld the contest with wry expression. At the opposite end of the sparring ground, deep within the formal path’s statued colonnade, Tzila held immobile vigil.

  “He’s not bad, that steward of yours.” Izack set his glass on the terrace’s stone balustrade and offered hearty applause. “Can’t imagine why Viktor let you steal him away.”

  Viktor’s grunt did little to disguise an old friend’s fondness. “He’s not as good as he was.”

  “True. A dozen crowns says Altiris will carry the bout. Any takers?”

  Altiris’ riposte drew cheers from the lawn below. Sensing victory, he pursued the retreating Kurkas across the lawn.

  “Gambling is best confined to battlefields,” said Viktor.

  “Suit yourself.” Izack shrugged. “Josiri? Care to pledge allegiance with coin?”

  Josiri dragged his eyes from the contest. “I’m sorry?”

  “What’s the matter? You’ve been off with the feylings ever since we got back.”

  He shook his head. “It’ll keep.”

  “Hah! Bloody won’t. Gloom is for funerals. Bad manners to drag it along to a wake.” Izack emptied his glass and plucked the brandy bottle from the table. “Talk, or I’ll hoist you by the ankles and dangle you from the terrace.”

  Josiri turned his attention back to the duel to hide a scowl. Not at Izack’s threat, delivered without any real promise of follow-through, but the prospect of broaching a topic he’d hoped to air before Viktor alone.

  He glanced at Viktor – at a face still marred from the tragedy of Midwintertide. Viktor had offered account of events with utmost reluctance, the shame of failure palpable. The clocktower window had shattered beneath Elzar’s falling body, and Viktor had lunged through the shards to save him from the plunge. Wasted effort, if any selfless act could ever be truly wasted. At first appraisal, Viktor seemed collected, grief’s claim broken by time and ritual. But his eyes were troubled. Loss, or because he saw the coming quarrel as plainly as Josiri himself?

  “You set us on the path to war this morning, Viktor.”

  “About bloody time, too,” muttered Izack.

  Viktor set aside his glass. “I did only as the times demand.”

  Reasonable tone only made matters worse. Viktor was master of framing disagreement as consequence of another’s misplaced sensibilities. For years, Josiri hadn’t noticed. Lately, there was little more likely to rouse his temper.

  “There’s danger to enflaming the mob,” Josiri replied. “And what if the Empress’ spies heard your decree? We talked over moving regiments into the Marcher Lands, of securing Thrakkian aid, but that hasn’t yet been done. Surprise was the highest card in our hand, and you’ve thrown it away.”

  Izack and Viktor shared a frown. Izack opened his mouth and closed it again at Viktor’s gesture.

  “Three regiments have reached Tarvallion this morning,” said Viktor. “Another two arrive before dusk. That gives us seven, including the 7th and 12th already on border watch. The thrydaxe host is camped in the eastern Heartweald, beyond reach of prying eyes. Two days, perhaps three, and we’ll be prepared. Melanna Saranal cannot conjure spears out of the air.”

  “Or the grave?”

  Viktor flinched at the reminder of the distasteful deed by which he’d won the Avitra Briganda. Josiri fell silent, the urge to apologise battling with the determination not to do so. So Izack had known about the gathering forces? Had Keldrov? Sevaka? Was he the only one in the dark?

  He leaned on the balustrade and stared across the duelling ground. Kurkas was on the attack once again, Altiris’ swordwork rushed and desperate. Kurkas went for the lunge… only to halt, mouth agape and indignant, as a snowball cast from Sidara’s hand broke across his temple. Anastacia’s musical laughter washed over the terrace. Altiris rallied to a fresh assault.

  “I wish we’d discussed this, that’s all.” Josiri hated how the words made prudence sound like ego. “I thought we’d no secrets.”

  Silence was his only answer, but consternation was palpable. A chill wriggled along Josiri’s spine, instinct warning that his perception of events lay badly astray, though for the life of him he couldn’t think why.

  “We did discuss it,” said Viktor. “Just yesterday.”

  Josiri blinked, surprised at the lie’s smoothness. “I spent yesterday with Lieutenant Raldan, assessing constabulary reports and tightening patrols. He’s convinced someone’s settling old scores against the nobility. Lots of aging, wealthy men turning up dead – most of them with a reputation for less than chivalrous behaviour. You and I haven’t spoken for days.”

  Again, the shared frown – this time tinged with concern.

  “Begging your pardon, Josiri, but that’s not so.” Izack’s tone mirrored his expression. A man who passed through life with all the delicacy of a cattle stampede now choosing his words with utmost care. “We met in the palace, the three of us, and thrashed it out. If this is an attempt to wind back the clock, it’s not very bloody funny.”

  “I…” The corners of Josiri’s memory offered up nothing to match Izack’s claim. “That didn’t happen.”

  Viktor grimaced and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps… perhaps this was inevitable. Your responsibilities with the constabulary. The late nights
and early mornings. Everything that’s happened with Anastacia. The pressure—”

  Josiri twisted free. “You think I’m coming apart, is that it?”

  “I’m concerned,” rumbled Viktor. “Examine the possibilities. Either Izack and I are both lying to you, you’re lying to us, or… Perhaps you should leave the constabulary in Lieutenant Raldan’s care for a few days. Spend some time with Ana.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Certainty wavered. Viktor, Josiri might have believed capable of the deception. But Izack? Falsehoods were alien to his nature.

  “Please.” Viktor drew closer, his voice thick with concern. “I buried a father today. Permit me concern for a brother. I need you whole. The Republic needs you whole. Whatever bedevils you, I’m certain a little rest will see it pass.”

  So like Viktor to wield loss as a weapon. But there was worry in his voice. Enough to offer a moment of pause. If Viktor and Izack were right…?

  Josiri swallowed a piece of his pride. “I make no promises.”

  Viktor sighed. “Of course not. But I suppose it will do.” He chased away a shiver. “Perhaps we could continue this inside, where there’s a fire?”

  A chime of swords. A second. A third. Altiris retreated. Ignoring complaining muscles and burning lungs, Kurkas pursued, his attention split between his official opponent and one lurking beyond the boundary flags, a second snowball not-quite concealed between gloved fingers.

  A repeated stumble confirmed the lad was tiring. Served him right for flamboyance. Age didn’t so much bring wisdom as an appreciation for husbanding resources. A dashing blade flattered like nothing else, but terse, efficient swordplay lasted long after showiness was spent. Not that Altiris ever listened. Then again, nor had Kurkas. Losing arm and eye on the battlefield had been a lesson for the ages.

  “Finish him!” Anastacia shouted, mercurial allegiance shifting once again.

  Sidara made to shove her. Anastacia twisted away in a swirl of skirts and hooked an elegantly shod foot about Sidara’s ankle, leaving her face-down in the snow and her improvised missile forgotten. Sidara’s simarka escort tilted its head, curious at its mistress’ misfortune. Kurkas tore his attention back to Altiris.

  “D’you yield?”

  Altiris brought his sword up to high guard, blade held two-handed and levelled like a spear. Showy. “A Phoenix never surrenders.”

  His challenge drew fresh adulation from the assembled hearthguards. All save Brass, who shook his head in despair.

  “You ain’t the first to say it,” said Kurkas.

  Kurkas feinted left and thrust. The blades barely kissed, making contact just long enough to tease Altiris’ aside. A blur of steel, and it was over. Altiris froze with the point of Kurkas’ sword resting an inch or two from his throat.

  The cheers faded. Anastacia’s slow, mocking applause echoed through their empty wake.

  “Plenty of dead, defiant Phoenixes,” said Kurkas. “Not so many still living.”

  Altiris’ scowl faded to ruefulness. He dropped his sword into the snow and held out his hand. “I swear you cheat.”

  Sheathing his own blade, Kurkas clasped the lad’s hand. “That’s me. Bloody magic, I am.” He shot Sidara – now on her feet once more, but her uniform still speckled with snow – an old-fashioned look of betrayal. “Even when it’s two against one.”

  She smiled, pure innocence. “Just helping you stay sharp, Vladama.” She ran her fingers over the simarka’s sculpted mane. “Aren’t we, Fredrik?”

  Unable to resist, he returned her smile in kind as Altiris withdrew. Planting himself at the midpoint between the flags, Kurkas gazed about the duelling ground. “Any more takers? Maybe I’m tiring. Gives you a chance.”

  One by one, hearthguards shook their heads. Jaridav – a woman little older than Altiris, and far closer than he to learning economy of conflict – looked tempted to go a second round, but she too shook her head. Not that Kurkas minded.

  “Want another go, Brass?”

  He grunted. “If we make it a contest of arrows, sure.”

  Kurkas shook his head. Even with two good eyes and two arms to draw the bow, he’d never have outshot Brass, whose days as a poacher on the Akadra estate weren’t as far behind as he liked to pretend.

  “Lady Sevaka?” he called. “Care to show these dryfoots how it’s done?”

  She laughed. “Not seemly for a governor to be brawling with an old man, is it?”

  “Afraid the old man will knock you on your arse?” The accusation came from Beckon, a lapse in decorum worsened by his own avoidance of the duelling ground.

  Lady Sevaka straightened. The ragamuffin in the naval coat fell away, replaced by a woman of sharp-edged authority. “I’ll gladly cross swords with you, young man. Do you accept?”

  Beckon shook his head with enough force to set his cloak twitching, and scowled as his comrades guffawed at his expense. Lady Sevaka, her back again to Beckon and friendliness of aspect restored, offered Kurkas a wink. “What about Anastacia?”

  The plant pot shot her an unfriendly look and plucked at her skirts. “I’m hardly dressed for it.”

  Kurkas shrugged, relieved and disappointed. True, Anastacia’s scars were healing. She remained irrepressible and vital in manner. But she displayed marked reluctance to admit that her human body had limitations that ones of porcelain did not. Her revealing, bare-shouldered gown made no concession to the temperature; her shivering suggested she felt the cold keenly. On the other hand, he’d never won a bout against the old Anastacia. Could be they’d both learn a lot.

  “Don’t tell me you’re scared, plant pot?”

  She blew him a kiss. “Only for you, dear Vladama.”

  The response provoked another round of mirth from onlookers. It faded almost at once. Taking his cue from gazes directed past his shoulder, Kurkas turned about.

  Tzila stood a half-dozen paces distant, within the duelling ground’s boundary. Shrugging back her cloak, she drew her sabres and let the tips of the curved blades touch the snow in perfect symmetry.

  Kurkas looked her up and down, drew his sword and nodded. Tzila was an infrequent presence at Stonecrest, but he’d heard enough – not least from Altiris’ misadventures – to wonder how good she truly was.

  “All right, captain. You’re on. But one sword only, if you please. Go easy on these old bones.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Tzila flourished her left-hand sabre back into the scabbard with a whisper of oiled steel. Kurkas rolled his stiffening shoulder and took position across from the midline. A low growl of anticipation rose into the bright morning.

  The duel began slowly, as they so often did with unfamiliar opponents. Kurkas made little attempt to probe Tzila’s defences, giving ground and contenting himself with brisk, efficient parries while attempting to read her style.

  The parries came easily enough, though he recognised that she’d not yet begun her assault in earnest. But identifying her style? Another matter. Pieces were familiar. The textbook stances and guards drilled into any luckless sod who joined the army. A goodly bit of fencer’s deportment too – more like dancer’s steps than anything belonging to a battlefield. And on top of all that, he caught elements of the heavy, bombastic strokes favoured by Thrakkian thrydaxes. But none of it was quite right. Like his own swordwork, it reflected its origins, while separate from them. A technique personalised and honed to fluidity across decades.

  Or ordinarily so. Tzila’s grace and suppleness belied long years. The blank enigma of her helm concealed her eyes, and thus her intent. Each blow was swifter than the last, and her parries without flaw, always using the flat of her blade to check the edge.

  By the time Kurkas had retreated halfway along the duelling ground, he was breathing hard, sweat prickling at his brow. Three paces more, and he abandoned all attempts to breach Tzila’s guard, every scrap of vigour given over to cheat her blurring sabre.

  “Come on, Vladama!” shouted Altiris. “Can’t lose to
a Drazina!”

  Sidara elbowed him in the ribs.

  Painfully aware he was running out of manoeuvring room, Kurkas bellowed and threw his weight behind the next clash of blades. His sword scraped along Tzila’s until his plain crossguard locked with her sabre’s ornate spiral hilt. Muscles screaming, he forced the trapped blades high and twisted beneath, using the turn’s momentum to wrest Tzila’s sword from her grasp.

  Or rather, that’s what should have happened.

  Tzila’s sword barely twitched. The flat of her empty hand struck Kurkas’ back, tearing the sword from his grasp and sending him sprawling into the snow.

  Spitting out a mouthful of mud and snow, Kurkas rolled over and found the point of Tzila’s sabre at his throat. She stood immobile as applause and cheers rippled across the lawns, Kurkas’ longsword at her shoulder.

  “Not bad, lass,” Kurkas breathed. “You win.”

  Tzila stood immobile, looking for all the world as if she’d not heard. Heartbeats thumped by, pace quickening as the moment of defeat shaded towards something disturbing.

  Applause and cheers faltered.

  Altiris’ expression shifted from awe to concern. “He yielded. It’s done.”

  Tzila swept the longsword off her shoulder. Kurkas dug his elbow into the ground as prelude to wriggling free. The sabre at his throat gave a warning twitch, and he froze.

  With a shriek of injured cloth, the longsword sliced through the pinned, empty sleeve of his gambeson and drifted upward until the point drew level with his eyepatch.

  She tilted her head, the blank stare of the sallet helm unreadable.

  The first uncertainty trickled along Kurkas’ spine. He resolved to chat with Lord Droshna about the good sense – or lack thereof – of employing what was almost certainly a kernclaw in his entourage. Sometimes it took a friend to make the obvious, obvious.

  “You’ve made your point,” he bit out, the words sour with humiliation. “Let me up.”