Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  Thunder gathered about Viktor’s brow. “I gave him discipline, which is more than you ever managed.”

  “You infected him with your shadow. That same shadow you claim sometimes acts beyond your control! What possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “It was the making of him!”

  “He tried to murder Kurkas! But for Altiris, he’d have succeeded.”

  Viktor frowned, subsided. “Altiris? I thought…” He shook his head, his voice thick with concern. “I didn’t know about Vladama, I swear. Will he live?”

  “I don’t know.” Josiri rubbed his brow. “He awoke for a time this morning, but… I don’t know.”

  Viktor slumped in his chair and stared at the floor. “You paint a damning portrait, brother.”

  Did the familial honorific suggest contrition? Did it matter? Josiri could no longer say for sure. The last of his anger bled away, leaving a hole at the core of his being. “It’s warranted. Personal betrayals aside, you’ve turned this city into what the Southshires once was. Checkpoints. Distrust. Steel to solve the problem of unrest. But that’s how you solve every challenge, isn’t it, Viktor? Only it looks a damn sight less heroic when you’re doing it to your own people.”

  “I’ve wept for the dead.” Even now he sounded affronted.

  “And what are tears worth to my mother? To Calenne Akadra? Revekah? To the dead of Silverway Dock? To those who died at Argatha Bridge? And everyone in between?” Josiri cast a frustrated hand towards him. “Bad enough that you leave a trail of bodies behind, but you never acknowledge that you’ve done so. You never learn. Everything you touch falls into ruin, but it’s always someone else’s fault. Some necessity provoked by another’s hand. And I have to wonder, is this pride or is this malice? Are you even Viktor Akadra any longer? Or the Dark wearing his shape? Or perhaps I just hope that, because it makes me less of a fool for ever trusting you.”

  He turned away, overcome by weariness.

  Viktor stared thoughtfully at Josiri’s back. Impressive, in its way, that he’d gleaned so much truth in so short a time. Indeed, the gaps in his knowledge were gaps in Viktor’s also, who even now couldn’t judge the rightness of Josiri’s claims about coercion and stolen memories. It awoke the possibility that his shadow – now cowering deep within his soul, away from the preponderance of silver – had cast its influence more widely than he’d known.

  Rosa, yes. Apara Rann, certainly – and both with good reason. Josiri? Others? Malatriant had warned of the possibility at Eskavord, years ago – that his shadow would bend others to his will, even without his guidance. He’d dismissed it then, and dared not do so now. It would explain Sevaka’s inconstant support. Had Elzar truly chosen to aid him against the Raven, or had his shadow forced this issue?

  Impossible. He was in control of his shadow. Had been so for a long time.

  But he’d thought that before. And all the while lived a lie. Was he doing so again? Worse, was he entertaining that possibility to forsake responsibility for choices made?

  There was no way to know.

  Had he become everything he’d sworn never to be? Malatriant’s heir in purpose as well as power? The mere possibility set something cold gnawing at his core. How easily one became a tyrant.

  And Constans? The boy had lied about Altiris’ death for no other reason than a cruel jest at Sidara’s expense. He’d trusted the boy too much. That was plain to see. And if wickedness yet remained in his shadow, what fate had he condemned Constans to? Even Sidara, with whom he’d lately shared another piece of himself?

  Ironic, that he’d returned home hoping that reason might prevail. And so it had, but in a manner wholly other to the one he’d expected. If he could no longer swear which actions belonged to his shadow and which belonged to him, then he’d lost his way, and Josiri was right to hold to his promise.

  Viktor swallowed to clear a throat suddenly dry. “I don’t know what you want from me, brother. You value my apologies even less than my tears, but I offer both, and in whatever quantities are required.” He hung his head. “I only ever wanted to protect this Republic. Whatever amends I can make, I will… if I am permitted.”

  He’d never intended to remain Lord Protector for ever. He’d done all he’d set out to achieve. Perhaps it was time to retire. Return to the simple life that had brought him such peace. And this time, if he was fortunate, with Calenne at his side.

  Josiri’s shoulders dipped. He nodded without turning, his relief palpable even in gloom. “I’ll talk to the Council, but I can make no promises.”

  Viktor stifled a growl. Josiri had accused him of not learning from the past and now revealed himself to be every bit as bad. First Councillor, and he was still trying to forge consensus, rather than impose it. But to say as much was to shatter the brittle accord just struck.

  “Is Calenne safe?” he said instead.

  “Yes. And always will be, so long as I live.”

  Viktor nodded. That pledge, at least, he could trust. “I’d like to speak with her.”

  Josiri halted at the door. “I’ll see what can be done.”

  Sevaka reached the council chamber in the early hours to find that she was the last to arrive. Or so she thought. As she took her seat at the table – not her mother’s old seat, as a point of principle – she realised that neither Josiri nor Anastacia were in attendance.

  A second sweep of the room confirmed they were the only absentees. Zephan Tanor, the brooding scowl of recent days still clinging to his chiselled features. Captain Raldan, still very much resembling a man who thought himself an intruder. The grey-haired Jeska Soren, speaking for the trader’s guild after Konor Zarn’s death. And at the table’s head – in the chair that would otherwise have been Josiri’s – Avriel Jezek.

  “Governor Orova.” The archimandrite’s haggard, sleep-lorn expression made him look a good decade older than his middle-years. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, but some things cannot wait. I trust we’re not distracting you from something important?”

  “Not at all.”

  Sevaka had been with Apara when the herald had found her. They’d shared the day together, though they’d spoken little. For all that her sister seemed mostly in command of her wits, she flinched in terror at the smallest of noises. That night, as for the two preceding it, Silvane House blazed with lantern light fit to banish every scrap of shadow.

  “Good.” Jezek nodded. “Then we can begin.”

  Sevaka frowned. “Without the First Councillor? Without Lady Psanneque?”

  “I fear so.” Grimacing, he steepled his fingers. “There’s no delicate way to put this, so I’ll be blunt. Josiri visited Lord Droshna today, in direct contravention of this council’s orders.”

  “They’ve a lot to discuss,” Sevaka replied. “Josiri has suffered from Viktor’s actions more than anyone.”

  “That’s the crux of our concern,” said Jeska Soren, speaking with the precision for which she was known. “Our worry is that Lord Droshna retains unhealthy influence over him. Such things cannot be discounted when dealing with witchery.”

  Sevaka glanced from one to the next, and found only expressions set in unflinching accord. “This is ridiculous. Josiri was the first to denounce Viktor.”

  “Did you know he also gave the shadowthorns warning of our army’s approach?” asked Zephan. “He told Lord Droshna as much today, according to the shieldbearers keeping watch.”

  She had, of course. Not in advance, but after Josiri and Apara had returned. Instinct warned her against admitting as much. “That’s hardly proof that Viktor holds sway over him. Quite the reverse.”

  “But it does speak to erratic judgement and divided loyalties,” said Jezek. “If we’re to put this lamentable mess behind us, we must do so quickly and boldly. Steps must be taken that we cannot expect Josiri to approve. For his good and for ours, we need to be rid of Viktor Droshna, and every trace of his heresy… including that abomination Josiri claims is his sister.”

  W
hat? “Calenne is an innocent in all this. She’s a victim.”

  “Calenne Trelan may be,” said Soren. “But she’s been dead for years. Who knows what influence Lord Droshna wields over Josiri through that demon?”

  Again Sevaka cast about the table, seeking support. It would have been easier if any of them looked like they were enjoying the matter. Some pettiness to leverage in Calenne’s defence. But if any of her peers took glee in the moment, it was well concealed. All looked as weary as she felt. Weary, and scared. “She’s no demon. You can’t punish her for Viktor’s mistakes.”

  Jezek’s face fell. “I was afraid you’d be resistant. Perhaps there’s some truth in Master Shalamoh’s claims, after all.”

  Sevaka’s blood turned to ice. “What claims?”

  “That you’re as much an abomination as she.”

  He continued speaking, joined in debate by Raldan and Soren. Lost in private torment, Sevaka didn’t hear a word. It was even true, wasn’t it? They’d both returned from the mists. That the Raven had given her up willingly didn’t matter, even if she’d means of proving it.

  The strike of Zephan’s fist on the table dragged her back to horrific reality.

  “Enough!” Centuries of Essamere resonated in his voice. “Witch hunts and wild accusations belong to the past. Leave them there.”

  Sevaka pinched her lips tight and nodded, glad that her trembling hands were out of sight beneath the table.

  “You’re correct, of course,” said Jezek. “I’m sorry, governor. I fear I’m not fashioned for such horrible times.”

  Zephan offered Jezek a less than friendly glance. “Be that as it may, we do this cleanly, or we don’t do it at all.”

  Soren leaned forward. “Then we have your support, and the support of Essamere?”

  “You do.”

  “Then I call the matter to a vote.” She scowled. “And may Lumestra help us all.”

  Jeradas, 16th Day of Dawntithe

  Malatriant’s chief evil lay not in the deeds she bade others perform, but in those deeds others performed in her name without ever once being asked.

  Fear is the death of decency.

  from Eldor Shalamoh’s “Historica”

  Fifty-Seven

  The Hayadra Grove always looked splendid in dawn’s first light, and that winter morning was no exception. The alabaster trees shone, their crowns no less majestic for the dearth of leaves. The Shaddra, marred and blackened though she was, seemed twice the presence at that hour, her broad branches spread in welcome across the temple ruins. Even the air seemed crisper, lighter – separate from the sour, earthy stench of surrounding streets. Beautiful in all ways; inspiration for poet and preacher alike, and yet Altiris’ heart remained at low ebb.

  Too many losses. Too many betrayals. And no justice for anyone. Kurkas with one foot in the mists. Anastacia withdrawn and furious with guilt. Izack – whom Altiris had liked, for all that he’d found him intimidating – dead on the border.

  But there were moments of gladness amid the sorrow. Lord Trelan’s reunion with Calenne had been a joy to behold, as if each held a piece of the other that had been missing too long. Effusive thanks had dispelled Altiris’ fears that his master – his father – harboured any ill will. Indeed, even caught up in all that occurred, Lord Trelan had insisted on having the adoption notarised without delay – though both agreed that formal declaration would wait for a happier time, if one ever arrived.

  The Eastshires were free. Tressia itself was already so different. With the Drazina gone and checkpoints empty, the mood of the streets seemed lighter. The Hayadra Grove was more crowded with celebrants and idlers than in days past, a few of whom offered curious glances at the pair of Phoenixes in their midst, but no hostility. Kasvin had been right, at least in part, and Altiris found himself hoping it brought her soul a measure of peace.

  And more important than all of that, Sidara was alive.

  Even so, no one seemed to know where she was, and for all Lord Trelan’s assurances of her forgiveness, Altiris dared not believe them until he heard it for himself. But at least there was a dream of the future to cling to. Constans was another matter.

  “You’re miles away.” Receiving no response, Viara nudged his shoulder. “Farthing for your thoughts?”

  Altiris scowled. “They’re not worth it.”

  She glanced at the base of the Shaddra’s trunk and shrugged. “He’s not here.”

  “I know.” Just like Constans hadn’t been there yesterday, or the day before that, at dawn or at dusk. A slim hope that he’d be creature of habit enough to return to the grove, despite everything. But it had to be tried. At least at dawn Altiris could be certain of the lad’s absence. No shadows in which to hide. Dusk was another matter. “We should head back.”

  “We could take the long way? It’s a beautiful morning. We should enjoy it.”

  Translation: he should enjoy it.

  Altiris supposed Viara was right. A week before, he’d been a fugitive. Now he was reinstated, all sins forgiven and a Trelan, no less. The last part still seemed unreal. Better to take pleasure in what moments he could.

  Turning his back on the Shaddra, Altiris struck out for Sinner’s Mile.

  Halfway there, he slowed to a halt. The crowd’s mood shifted as its numbers swelled. A covered wagon appeared at the crest of Sinner’s Mile. Instinct roused, anticipation all too familiar from his time on Selann. Trapped in compounds and hovels, the slaves had never known what was brewing, only that it was.

  Viara glanced about. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” The first uniforms showed beneath the crowded terraces of Sinner’s Mile. Not Drazina, thankfully. Constables. Regular army. A smattering of Essamere. Tabards Altiris had come to trust. So why did he feel so ill at ease? “Nothing good.”

  Stonecrest would wait.

  Stonecrest’s door sprang open as soon as Josiri turned the key, the knocker forcing her way into the entrance hall when it was barely more than ajar.

  “You have to leave, now.” Sevaka doubled over, fighting for breath. “Take Calenne and get out of the city.”

  Josiri frowned, expectations realigning. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Council are afraid Calenne’s a demon. They’re going to burn her.”

  Josiri reeled, throat dry. The Council? But he was First Councillor…“You’re mistaken.”

  “I got away as soon as I could.” She straightened, grey eyes brimming with urgency. “Essamere are on their way to take her. They’ll be here any moment.”

  Your allies will turn on you, as you turned on me.

  Josiri swallowed, Viktor’s warning starker in the daylight than the clocktower’s gloom.

  “He was right,” he murmured. “He’s always right.”

  [[Josiri?]] Calenne emerged from the drawing room, the expressionless mask of her face tilted in enquiry. [[I heard the commotion. What’s wrong?]]

  Stricken, he faced her. No time for explanations, much less to wake Anastacia. “We have to get you out of here. Can you ride?”

  [[I think so. I mean, I haven’t tried since—]]

  The door crashed open. Brass crossed the threshold and slammed it shut behind, his not-inconsiderable weight braced against the timber. “Beg your pardon, sir.” His normally lugubrious tone held urgency. “Just saw a dozen Essamere knights breach the gate without so much as a warning or a by-your-leave. They took Beckon and Jarrock at sword point.”

  Two hearthguards down already. With Altiris and Viara out in the city, Jaridav and Stalder dead at Tzila’s hands, that left what? Three, Brass included? Not enough to contest Essamere, even if he could gather them in time.

  “The kitchens,” snapped Josiri. “The servants’ door to the stables. Move!”

  He shoved Calenne on her way and made to follow.

  The kitchen door crashed open. Hunter’s green and drawn steel crowded the doorway. In the same heartbeat, the front door bucked and sent Brass flying. Zephan Tanor entered
, his sword scabbarded. Six helmed and cloaked knights came behind. The first planted a foot on Brass’ chest. The others, joined by those from the kitchen, fanned out in encirclement, weapons levelled.

  “Don’t make this more difficult.” Zephan stepped into the circle and removed his helm. The silver grandmaster’s circlet gleamed in the lantern light. “There’s no need for bloodshed.”

  Furious, Josiri bore down, careless of the naked swords. “No need? You break into my home to drag my sister to the pyre, and you say there’s no need?”

  His expression set like stone. “That’s not your sister, Josiri, but a demon. Only you can’t see it.”

  Calenne hung her head. Her hollow, bitter laughter echoed across the hallway.

  “Is the grandmaster of Essamere now an authority in matters divine?” growled Josiri. “She is Calenne Trelan. My sister. The Saviour of Davenwood, returned to us by a miracle.”

  “It’s a demon, birthed by witchcraft. It must burn.”

  “No!”

  Josiri lunged, his fingers closing on Zephan’s scabbarded sword. Before he had it even halfway drawn, the grandmaster’s gauntleted fist struck him reeling. Stars exploded behind Josiri’s splotchy eyes. His mouth crowded with the taste of blood. Calenne’s hands found his shoulders, steadying him as the dizziness passed.

  “There’s no need for this!” shouted Sevaka.

  “This is what you voted for,” Zephan rejoined.

  “Jezek would have put me on the pyre alongside if I hadn’t!”

  The circle closed in.

  “Are we debating demons and I wasn’t invited?” said Anastacia. “I think I’m offended.”

  Josiri looked up to see her standing halfway along the stairs, immaculately gowned and her arms folded over the banister.

  She peered down with rank disfavour. “I’ve been named a demon more times than I can count, often by men in archimandrite’s robes. Those who profess faith see demons everywhere but their own tawdry souls.” She smiled throughout, but there was ice in her tone. “Goodness knows Calenne and I have never exactly been close, but tell me, what has she done?”