Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  Set against that was the fear that earning Sidara’s forgiveness was now impossible. That even if she consented to see him, words exchanged would only worsen matters. If they fell to quarrelling, he’d have nothing but the bitterest of memories to sustain him. This way, at least, there was a chance at reconciliation. Better to have hope.

  Before he could change his mind, he clambered out of the window.

  Lunandas, 7th Day of Dawntithe

  Family is more than blood, though blood brings family together like little else.

  Thrakkian proverb

  Thirty-Seven

  Viktor hesitated, furled knuckles an inch from Calenne’s door. The morning had come too soon, as mornings often do, and the black mood of the night before had little abated. Anger provoked by argument with Josiri had formed unfair compact with self-doubt – often Viktor’s worst trait, and one he could scarcely afford.

  And so he hesitated, the desire to speak with Calenne held in the balance by the fear that he’d find only judgement beyond the door. She’d already proven her ability to wheedle out truths he’d prefer to keep hidden. He was proud neither of the bloodletting at the docks, nor the rusalka’s death, but accepted them as necessary. Calenne, he felt increasingly certain, would not, and he’d no time to sway her mind. Her disapproval would become his doubt, and a man riding into war could afford doubt less even than mercy. Better to face her with triumph under his belt, and a free Eastshires to justify his deeds.

  Strange how Calenne could be his greatest weakness, and his greatest strength.

  He let his hand fall and turned his attention across the hall to where Tzila stood motionless as a statue.

  “I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

  Tzila offered a slow, careful nod.

  She, at least, understood. Or so Viktor assumed. Did she resent how he’d plucked her from her prior existence? It might explain the flashes of anger from a woman who was otherwise never less than carefully composed.

  Viktor wished he believed resentment was truly the cause, but a lie practised on oneself was twice the falsehood. A tragedy, but Tzila remained an asset. Not the success he’d hoped for, but far from a failure.

  “Keep her safe,” he said. “Trust no one but Constans.”

  He turned on his heel and strode away. Calenne would wait.

  Even in cruel times, everything was ceremony. That uncharitable thought was uppermost in Josiri’s mind as he beheld the King’s Gate approach.

  The road was thick with assembled soldiery. The rich blue of the regular army, the last of the regiments bound for the Eastshires: halberdiers, shieldsmen and the humpback silhouettes of pavissionaires. The deeper tones of Drazina, though plenty would remain within the city walls. Perhaps fifty men and women in the grey cloaks of borderers, dispossessed by the Empire’s spread. A smattering of knights in bright raiment – a couple of whom wore Prydonis scarlet. Then there were the kraikons, tall enough that they’d have to stoop in order to pass the gate and their bronze hides polished to a mirror sheen. And, of course, the pride of simarka, their leonine expressions inscrutable as they awaited instruction from Sidara to send them forth. It made for a glorious sight beneath the fiery dawn. Even through his misgivings, Josiri felt a stirring.

  It helped that the morning’s lively Dusk Wind swept Archimandrite Jezek’s sermon out over the walls with nary a word of it troubling the ears of those inside. But for his gesticulations from the inner rampart of one of the new fortress towers, the casual observer might have been forgiven for remaining ignorant that he was speaking at all.

  And there were observers aplenty. Families, come to catch last glimpse of their kin before departure. The inevitable slew of traders and opportunists. Pickpockets too, for a certainty, though Josiri hoped his constables – themselves weary from the previous day – would hold them in check.

  His own possessions, at least, were safe enough. Kurkas had deployed the hearthguard to one of the wallward alleyways – a thin line of Phoenixes granting privacy for reluctant farewell.

  “Doesn’t he cut a fine, majestic figure?” said Anastacia of the distant Jezek. “Priests carry more authority when you can’t actually hear what they’re saying.”

  Sidara frowned away an inappropriate smile and ran fingers through her horse’s mane. A knight’s destrier, bred for battle. Tall though she was, when she stood beside it her head barely reached its shoulder. Josiri could see over it only by standing on tiptoes. At least she looked the part of a knight, arrayed in a Drazina’s armour, golden hair hidden beneath her helm.

  “He means well, Ana,” she said. “If he offers solace, then where’s the harm?”

  Josiri marked unease behind her eyes. That peculiar mixture of excitement and trepidation that infected soldiers old and new.

  He glanced down the alley. Kurkas had pulled the hearthguard back to guard against eavesdroppers. The quiet thoughtfulness Josiri had long taken for granted.

  Mentally girding himself, he turned back to Sidara, whose gaze was again on the soldiery. “You know I don’t want you to go. But someone recently told me – and at some volume – that it wasn’t for me to make your choices.”

  She embraced him. It would have been sweeter but for the bruising press of armour. “Was I very rude?”

  “‘Strident’ sounds more polite.” Josiri held her head against his and fought the temptation to keep her there, safe, while the army marched. He felt foolish for caring so for a child not his own, and yet the ache was impossible to deny. “You’re forgiven for both.”

  Sidara pulled back. Her eyes dipped to the cobbles, then touched on his. “Has there been news of Altiris?”

  He shook his head, frustration swamping any words he might have offered. Easy to see that the lad thought he was protecting others, but understanding wasn’t agreement. Was a father doomed to be ignored by his children, be they blood kin or no?

  “He’ll be found,” said Anastacia. “And then he and I will have a friendly talk.”

  Friendliness was not uppermost in her tone. Altiris would no doubt find the conversation bruising, but he’d probably survive.

  Sidara’s face fell. “I honestly thought we’d got it right this time.”

  “You’re young,” said Josiri. “You’ve years ahead to figure it out.”

  “Perhaps.” She drew up to her full, impressive height, a little of her mother Lilyana’s fire returning. “Tell him something for me, if you see him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him… I’m sorry. His actions were his own, but I forced them. I should have listened.”

  Josiri blinked in surprise. “You did as you thought best.”

  She shook her head. “That’s just it. I don’t know that I was thinking at all. I saw only the dead. I heard only the cries of the wounded. I was determined to bring the fighting to an end, and it blinded me.” Her throat bobbed. “When I came to, the harbour was choked with bodies. But for Altiris, it would have been worse. He probably hates me.”

  “He definitely doesn’t,” said Anastacia, drily.

  “But hold that lesson close. It’ll serve you well.” Josiri scowled, fearing his words sounded like a sermon. What did she need to hear? “You’ve a good heart, Sidara, and you have it in you to help so many. But you can’t help everyone, and your choices won’t always be easy, especially—”

  He stifled a yelp of pain as Anastacia drove an elbow into his ribs.

  “What Josiri means to say,” she said sweetly, “is that you should stay safe and remember that whatever happens, you’re loved, and we’re proud. As your mother and father would be proud.”

  Sidara’s eyes danced from Anastacia to Josiri and back again, storm clouds parting from her expression. “Mother always said I was meant for more than being a knight.”

  Anastacia sniffed. “On this, at least, she and I agree. But today you are a knight. You can be something else tomorrow. Live to see it.”

  Smiling at last, Sidara embraced Anastacia. Then she
nodded, bereft of words, and led her horse to join the muster. Anastacia slipped her arm about Josiri’s waist, and watched her every step of the way.

  Josiri gazed down at Anastacia. “That hurt.”

  “‘Your choices won’t always be easy’,” she muttered. “I don’t know what you were thinking.”

  “He thought to offer useful advice,” rumbled a voice. “Weighty decisions carry a cost.”

  Josiri turned to find Viktor looming behind, arrayed in full, flame-etched armour for the first time in recent memory and a claymore strapped to his back. A black velvet cloak drank in the alleyway’s shadows, making him twice the brooding presence. Something cold twitched at the base of Josiri’s spine. For the first time in years, Viktor again looked as he had at the Battle of Zanya – the day he’d harried Josiri’s mother into the grave. Older and greyer, certainly, but he was again the Black Knight of Calenne’s nightmares.

  Anastacia regarded him stonily. “Has the Lord Protector taken to eavesdropping?”

  A wry smile tugged at Viktor’s scarred cheek. “The Lord Protector came to apologise. Difficult times lie ahead, and I’ve quarrels enough without weathering those of my friends.” He spread his hands. “I will allow nothing to happen to her.”

  “See that you don’t,” said Anastacia. “It would only bring to mind everything I owe you.”

  Viktor’s account lay heavily in the red, but that detail seemed to trouble him little. “That you feel so strongly does you credit, but she’s glimpsed a wider world. It’s not for us to hold her back.”

  As with all Viktor’s apologies, the conversation held little in the way of actual contrition. Josiri had long since abandoned expecting anything different. Though Viktor’s temper cooled readily enough, admission of wrongdoing was seldom confessed.

  “And Altiris?” asked Josiri.

  “I’ve given orders no harm is to be offered. If he’s found, he’ll be held for trial.”

  Anastacia started towards him. “That’s not good enough.”

  She subsided as Josiri laid a hand on her shoulder. The scars of her transformation shifted under his fingers, little concealed by the dress’ thin fabric. “She’s right, Viktor.”

  Viktor spread his hands. “Without a trial there can be no exoneration. The law must bind our friends as well as our enemies, must it not? A family name cannot be a shield.” He sighed. “If he hadn’t fled, it would be easier. But I promise you, it will all be gone into on my return.”

  Josiri held his gaze. “Maybe all of this should wait. After what happened yesterday—”

  “The city is quiet.”

  “It’s quiet because we’ve doubled patrols. Because we’ve checkpoints on every major street. The city’s holding its breath, waiting to see what comes next. If there’s another revolt—”

  “There won’t be,” Viktor replied. “That’s why I drew all this out, so it could be dealt with at an hour of our choosing.”

  The words, delivered so matter-of-factly, sent a chill down Josiri’s spine. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “I’m not blind, Josiri. I know what’s been building. Folk are resentful. Sometimes with reason – often without – though it matters little when the end result’s the same. The Eastshires call me, but I could hardly answer if I left an uprising at my back. That’s why I cut the ration. Why I authorised wider powers for the Drazina.” He shrugged. “It’s strategy, nothing more.”

  Josiri glared, appalled. Though the admission wasn’t quite kin to Altiris’ accusations, it was far too close for comfort. “It’s monstrous.”

  “The necessary often is. But now the city’s humours have been bled. The architect of unrest has died of her wounds. I’m free to act. The Eastshires will be saved.”

  “I can’t believe you did this,” snapped Josiri.

  “Someone had to,” Viktor replied, unrepentant. “If you feel you can do better, brother, you’ll have no better time to prove it. The city – the Republic – is yours, until my return.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course.” Viktor frowned. “Who else could I trust? Folk tempted to look on me as a monster will find relief in the fact that a gentler soul guides their fate. I’ve already given orders for the ration to be restored – in your name, mark you. As to the rest, you may do as you think proper. Commander Hollov is instructed to follow your orders… short of burning down the city or opening the gates to the Hadari. Though I advise against stripping back the checkpoints too far. Gratitude can be fleeting.”

  “So I’m yet again to tidy up after your mess?”

  “I prefer to see it as you rebuilding what was broken. Such deeds have always suited your talents more than mine.” He offered a grim smile. “I am called upon to break things elsewhere.”

  Josiri nodded, uneasy at Viktor’s callousness. But his own advice to Sidara echoed through the empty spaces between his thoughts. Few choices were easy, and a Lord Protector’s hardest of all. The city was a puzzle, and Viktor’s solution a tidy one, for all its amorality. More than that – and unthinkable though it was – Sidara wasn’t the only member of his strange family riding into the Empire’s maw. Though Viktor was no more Josiri’s blood than she, still they were brothers, and what led them to quarrel bound them all the tighter.

  “We’ll continue this discussion on your return.” He held out his hand. “Be sure you live to endure it.”

  Viktor’s smile broadened. Seizing Josiri’s hand, he dragged him into a bear hug. “I fear death may seem too tempting when faced with the prospect… but I will try. Stay safe, brother. Rebuild our city. I shall do the same for the Republic.”

  Setting Josiri free, he bowed to Anastacia, who consented to Viktor raising her hand to his lips. Then he too strode from the alley, greeted by uproarious cheer as the citizenry marked his presence. Whatever malice Viktor had borne elsewhere, that morning he was again a saviour.

  Anastacia watched him go, a pensive expression tugging at her cheek.

  “Was he right?” asked Josiri. “Was this necessary?”

  “I don’t know. But if he disposes of his city thus, what hopes for the army he leads?” She shrugged, the moment forgotten. “I need a drink.”

  Buccinas blared and the army began its long, slow departure. First, a morning’s march to Govanna, and from there upriver aboard transport hulks to Tarvallion. Cloaked and hooded at the rear of the crowd, Altiris caught brief glimpse of Sidara among the Drazina. Then she was gone, and he more alone than ever. It wasn’t much of a farewell, but to stay away had been unthinkable.

  The crowd dispersed, chivvied along by constables. Altiris went with them, careful not to draw attention. The constabulary might have let him be, but there were plenty of Drazina, many of them wounded from the day before. Better a wide berth – especially with his wits numbed by a sleepless night.

  Too used to the luxuries of a warm bed, he’d managed only a few brief, shivering hours beneath the arches of Vrazdagate Bridge, and they’d been full of nightmare. He’d need something better, and soon. But what? He might find shelter at a hospice, or perhaps at Seacaller’s. Both carried risks. Serenes wouldn’t protect him from Drazina, and he could hardly count on a warm welcome from the merrowkin.

  Lost in thought, he’d no warning at all when hands closed about his mouth and waist, dragging him into an alley. He spun around as the arms retreated, fist raised to strike…

  “Constans?”

  The boy held up his hands in mock surrender. “Stay thy wrath, a friend am I.” He topped the overwrought greeting with a modest bow.

  Altiris let his fist drop. “Shouldn’t you be with the army?”

  He gave a lopsided shrug. “Father wants me in the city. I’m to track down a dangerous fugitive.”

  No guesses as to who he meant. Altiris sank against the wall, more disappointed than he could easily credit. Constans wasn’t so foolish as to try to take him without help. There’d be others nearby. The price of carelessness. “Do what you have to.”r />
  Constans frowned, perplexed and affronted. “Don’t look so glum. I was joking.”

  “It’s hard to tell with you.”

  He grinned and clasped both hands to his tabard. “Good. I’ve always wanted to be a mystery.” Artlessly insouciant, he leaned against the opposite wall. “Do you need money? I’d offer you lodgings at the palace, but that might be counterproductive. Then again, it’s probably the last place they’ll look…”

  Altiris brushed a strand of red hair back from his eyes and stared at Constans as if truly seeing him for the first time. He just about believed Constans was prepared to forget having crossed his path, but such generosity of spirit left him speechless. Estranged from one Reveque, he’d somehow grown closer to the other. An inequitable trade, but only a fool shunned fortune.

  “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  That wasn’t entirely honest. Good required a plan, but Altiris knew he was a hot meal and at least five hours’ sleep from even having the beginnings of one.

  Constans nodded earnestly. “If that changes, tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll give you some coin.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as one burdened with an idiot. “You can then take that ‘coin’ to a place we call the ‘market’ – or perhaps a ‘tavern’ – and buy ‘food’.”

  “I meant, why are you helping me?”

  “You thumped my sister.” The grin returned. “I’ve not been able to do that for years.”

  Altiris winced, sour memories rushing back. “That’s not funny.”

  “Of course not. I’m not a jester.” Shoulders still propped against the wall. “But I am your friend. Or I think so. I confess, I’m not very good at it. I’ve not had a lot of practice.”

  Breathing easier than he had in hours, Altiris offered Constans a smile. “You’re doing fine.”

  “Just stay low, all right?” For the first time, Constans struck a serious tone. “Hollov has a bounty on your head.”

  “And your father?”