by Matthew Ward
Her steel-grey hair and patrician profile perfectly matched the image of a Tressian matriarch, and if she didn’t care for overt displays of faith, she nonetheless clung to tradition with a granite grip. For all that Ebigail Kiradin was Kasamor’s mother, there was little to connect them. Where he was warm and generous, she was cold and calculating. It was said – though never in Lady Kiradin’s earshot – that her late husband had gone gladly into the mists, for they were surely warmer than his marriage bed.
“I see no flattery in simple truth, Ebigail,” replied Lady Marest.
Lady Kiradin’s sneer grew somehow drier. “So we’re all painfully aware.”
Malachi cleared his throat. Never a tall man, he seemed smaller than ever in this auspicious company – as if he wished to shrink from sight. “Forgive me, but we’re certain Ceredic’s gone? Our spies have been wrong before, and the borderers have never been reliable when it comes to tidings.”
“Not this time,” Viktor’s father replied. “We’ve three witnesses to his corpse getting carried into the mists. The Last Ride, they call it . . .”
“Heathen nonsense,” muttered Lady Marest.
Lord Akadra ignored the interruption. “And now every shadowthorn with a claim on the Imperial throne is looking to prove themselves in battle.”
Viktor’s lip twitched in distaste. Shadowthorn. An old insult, born from the myth that the Hadari had crawled forth from Fellhallow’s rich, Dark-tainted soil. That they were not given life by the heavenly sisters Lumestra and Ashana, but by twisted, root-woven Jack. Too many of the older generation, prophesying a day when the Republic would be forcibly absorbed into the Empire, took shelter in strange prejudice. Viktor, though a patriot, considered himself pragmatic enough to recognise that the history between the two realms was complicated at best.
“So let them batter at one another,” sniffed Lady Marest.
“I doubt they’ll oblige,” said Viktor’s father. “We’re a much more tempting target. Fifty years we held Ceredic at the border. What better way to prove worthiness of his throne than by doing what he could not?”
“This isn’t conjecture, is it?”
Malachi’s words echoed Viktor’s own reading of the situation. His father was a pragmatist. Guesswork he derided as sloppy; chance as a fit companion only for the gambler, or the fool. For him to offer up a hypothetical future was as uncharacteristic as for him to utter a word of praise.
“I wish it were.” Lord Tarev gave his beard an absent-minded tug. Viktor wondered if his dear daughter had yet informed him of her recent humiliation. “Their armies are marching on the shire lands.”
“So soon?” asked Malachi.
“Ceredic’s been a long time dying,” Lady Kiradin said. “If only our champion had finished the job at the Ravonn six months ago. Wounds and ambition alike wouldn’t have had chance to fester. If he’d died promptly, his son would be emperor and that would be that. As it is, all Ceredic’s done by lingering is give a pretender the chance to gather his forces and stake his own claim.”
“Nothing would have changed,” said Malachi. “We’d simply have faced this same situation all the sooner.”
Lady Kiradin sniffed. “We’ll never know, will we?”
Viktor bit his tongue. Near three hundred soldiers had perished getting him close enough to Ceredic’s bodyguard to strike him down. For their sacrifice to be so simply dismissed . . .
His temper quickened even as the room lost its warmth. The shadow in his soul uncoiled, seeking egress. Malachi shot him a concerned look. With an effort, Viktor brought his temper under control, and offered Malachi a slow nod. Lady Kiradin turned away, a sly smile at the corner of her mouth.
“How bad is it?” asked Malachi, scrambling to change the subject.
“They’re marching in their thousands.” Lord Tarev rose and tapped at the map. “Maggad’s spears are thick on the Ravonn’s eastern bank. We’re expecting his blow to fall at Krasta.”
“Maggad? Ceredic’s warleader?”
Lord Tarev nodded. “There are banners from across the Empire in his vanguard. I’d say he’s been planning this for some time. A victory against us would certainly improve his chances of claiming the emperor’s crown.”
Malachi frowned. “Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“The reports reached us last night, when you were . . . unavailable,” said Lady Kiradin. “Or were you not out carousing with my son? Sober times call for sober judgements.”
Viktor cleared his throat. “I was in the palace until almost midnight, reviewing proposals for the new fortifications. I heard nothing of this.”
“And do you think it proper that you should learn of this before us?” asked Lady Marest. “We all appreciate your contributions, but you are not a full member of this council.”
How could he forget? They found a way to remind him at every meeting. “I’d like to think the Republic’s defence supersedes protocol.”
“We are quite capable of managing the Republic’s defence without you, Viktor,” his father interjected. “At least for a few hours. The 8th and 20th regiments are already marching east. They’ll be in the Marcher Lands by nightfall, and in the Eastshires two dawns after. The 12th will set out before the day’s end. The chapterhouses of Essamere, Prydonis and Sartorov have pledged full support. The proctors have roused four entire cohorts of kraikons. Three days, no more, and the crossings of the Ravonn will have a wall of shields as well as stone.”
Three regiments marching east, to join the four already on permanent garrison on that expanse of windswept grassland between Fellhallow’s southern eaves and the northern foothills of the Greyridge Mountains. The contested borderland between the Eastshires and the Hadari Empire. It would serve, assuming Maggad didn’t launch his attack before everything was in place.
“Now I do know,” said Viktor, “I have a few recommendations.”
His father nodded. “I’m sure you do. Let’s hear them.”
“Reinforce the garrisons along the northern coast. If we can spare any ships from the western fleet, send those too. Maggad isn’t a fool. Holding the river does us no good if there’s a landing on the coast. He’ll bypass the Eastshires entirely, and we’ll have Hadari loose as far west as Royal Tressia – and all without a single immortal dipping his feet in the Ravonn’s waters.”
Lady Kiradin snorted. “And where are these soldiers to come from?”
“The muster fields.”
“They’re not ready. Why, I saw one of their drills this Tzadas gone. Running behind their colours like a pack of wolves chasing a sheep. Not an ounce of discipline.”
Again the disdain. Viktor supposed he should have become inured to it by now. For Lady Kiradin, soldiers were like servants, and disposed of as readily.
“Then they’ll learn fast,” said Viktor. “And if the Hadari do land in the north, we’ll need eyes more than swords. We have leagues of coastline to watch. I’d rather the task fell to inexperienced soldiers than excitable farmers.”
“I agree with Viktor,” said Malachi.
“Why, of course you do.” Lady Kiradin sat forward and steepled her fingers. “So do I. Any objections?”
Unexpected. Especially after her earlier insults. But Viktor was prepared to take his triumphs where he could find them. And Hadari loose in the shire lands were as little to Lady Kiradin’s benefit as anyone else’s. Much of the Kiradin wealth came from rents in the Eastshires, and dead tenants didn’t pay up.
Lord Tarev shook his head. After a moment, Lady Marest did the same.
The sharp crack of the gavel brought the matter to a close.
Viktor’s father set the hammer aside. “Then it’s agreed. I trust you’ll make the arrangements, Viktor?”
He nodded. “With the proper authorisation.”
“You’ll have it. I only pray that your fears prove unfounded.”
“As do we all,” said Lady Marest.
Lord Tarev shrugged. “At least Maggad doesn’t have
the Golden Court’s full backing. Most of the other princes are waiting to see what happens next before deciding where to commit their spears.”
“That’ll change if Maggad starts winning,” Viktor rejoined.
“If either of them start winning,” said Tarev.
“Either of them?” Malachi straightened, forcing a pained creak from his chair’s time-worn timber. “What do you mean?”
“Maggad isn’t the only one with an army at his back . . .”
“This council is no place for speculation,” snapped Lady Kiradin.
Lord Tarev’s lip curled in irritation. “With respect, Ebigail, this is not speculation.”
“Fanciful nonsense. One wayfarer catches a glimpse of an owl banner, and now they’re all busy spreading stories. It’s what soldiers do best, after all. Apart from dying.”
Viktor focused his attention on his father. The elder Akadra had sat uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. Throughout the whole meeting. Whatever facts Lady Kiradin wished suppressed, he already knew. “I’d like to hear this speculation.”
His father sighed. “It has been suggested – and I stress, suggested – that Kai Saran means to make passage of the mountains at Trelszon.”
“He’s after the Southshires?”
“We’ve no proof of that.”
“There never is,” growled Viktor. “Not until the dying begins. By then, it’s too late.”
Lady Kiradin waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a distraction.”
“Is it?” said Malachi. “A Saran has sat on the Imperial throne for generations. Do we believe Prince Kai will do nothing while another man steals his father’s crown?”
“Who can say how a shadowthorn thinks?” said Lady Marest. “Perhaps he knows, as we do, that Maggad is doomed to humiliating defeat, and intends to distance himself from it.”
“Which he’d do far better in Tregard, building his standing with the Golden Court.”
“Enough.” Viktor’s father laid a hand on Malachi’s shoulder. “Our time is too valuable to waste on guessing at Kai’s motives.”
“Agreed,” rumbled Viktor. “I’d rather we spent it discussing how we defend the Southshires from invasion – real, or imagined.”
Lady Kiradin’s lips thinned to a bloodless slash. Lord Tarev turned away, his attention suddenly and irrevocably focused on the map. Viktor’s father stared down at his hands. Only Lady Marest met Viktor’s gaze, her wizened features twisted in a scowl of resignation.
“What they won’t tell you, Viktor, is that they intend to do nothing.”
“Nothing?” he growled.
Malachi shot another warning glance. This time, Viktor ignored it.
“So that’s the way of it?” he demanded. “We’ve soldiers enough to act as their jailers, but when the real enemy threatens, there’s nothing to be done?”
His father looked up from the table. When he spoke, it was in flat and level tones that Viktor knew all too well. Father and son were too much alike. Neither had a firm grasp on their temper. Neither cared to be challenged in private, much less in the company of their peers.
“I don’t care for your tone, Viktor.”
“And I don’t care for your attitude.”
The room darkened, as if a passing cloud blocked the light. Ice frosted upon the lower panes of glass. Too late, Viktor realised that his shadow had slithered free, set loose by rising frustration. He rose and braced his knuckles against the table. His shadow dissipated as he bent his will upon it and receded reluctantly into the depths. The light returned to its murky glory, its significance unremarked – if indeed any had noticed.
“Katya Trelan led the Southshires in revolt fifteen years ago. Fifteen. Years. There are boys on the muster fields who weren’t born when we won the Battle of Zanya. And you’re still holding a grudge? They are our people. They deserve our protection.”
“They deserve nothing,” said Lady Kiradin. “Zanya might be fifteen years in the past, but you know the losses we incur keeping order. You consider the southwealders our people. They do not.”
“So they are our people when we wish to exploit their territory, and seize their grain? And they are not when they’re endangered?”
She gave a curt nod. “Yes. A fine summation.”
“That’s not how your son would see it.” Was Kasamor riding into danger even now? At Viktor’s own urging?
Lady Kiradin flinched as if he’d struck her about the face. “How dare you!”
Malachi shaded his eyes and hunched his shoulders. It was as though he believed he could make himself less a part of the unfolding quarrel if he bore no witness.
“Viktor.” Reason oozed from Lord Tarev’s words. “The southwealders aren’t your concern.”
“They became my concern when you gave me Katya Trelan’s seat on this council.”
His father clenched a fist. “So that you might learn the principles of good governance. Not so you could make demands like a spoiled child.”
“Someone should speak for the southwealders,” Viktor replied flatly. “If no other can put aside the past long enough to do so, then I shall.”
“What a noble soul your son has, Hadon,” sneered Lady Kiradin. “Such compassion for a people he humbled, and a land he hasn’t set foot in since. If you’d any feelings for the southwealders, young Viktor, you’d spend your time teaching them to behave like proper Tressians, rather than flinging insults at those whom you wish to treat you as a peer.”
Viktor could smell bridges burning behind him. One did not address one’s fellow councillors as he had. But it was too late. Even had he been of the mind to issue an apology, no one would have accepted it.
“Then with the Council’s permission,” he bit out, “I’ll set foot there now. And I’ll take the 2nd with me. If Saran invades, we’ll hold him until reinforcements muster. If not, I’ll gladly pass the time teaching the southwealders whatever you wish.”
“The 2nd have duties,” said his father. “As do the other regiments.”
“Then I’ll take recruits from the muster fields.”
Lady Kiradin wagged a finger. “Ah, but we’ve already agreed your strategy of sending them north. I suppose there might be a handful left, but not enough to make any real difference.”
“And if the Hadari overrun the Southshires?”
“In that unlikely circumstance, I’m sure we can count on you to conduct a vigorous defence of the Tevar Flood, and exact recompense for harms wrought.” She tilted her head. Her serpentine smile widened. “After all, you are so very good at killing, aren’t you?”
Viktor gazed back. Yes, he was good at killing. Better even than she knew, for he’d been careful to keep his other talents hidden. But on this battlefield, one contested with words and steeped in old prejudice? He was weaponless. Worse than that, he was alone, for even Malachi wouldn’t stand with him – not now he’d lost his composure and his dignity both. In that, if in nothing else, his father was right. He had a lot to learn about Tressia’s governance. How to keep his temper at council, for one.
He took a deep breath. Musty air quenched a measure of his rage. “And if I call for a vote?”
Lady Kiradin shrugged. “Why bother? You already know which way it will go.”
Why bother indeed? Lady Marest might side with him. The Lumestran precepts she held so close were founded in forgiveness and of the shielding of the weak. And of course Malachi would offer his support. But two wasn’t enough, not with his own half-vote discounted in the event of a tie.
“Then if there’s no other business, I suggest we adjourn.”
So saying, Viktor’s father rose to his feet. Even now, Viktor noted, he wouldn’t look him in the eye. He was an embarrassment. Again. It was little consolation that he felt much the same about his sire.
Six
“An outrage!” bellowed Makrov. “I want the perpetrators seized!”
Josiri kept his back to the pacing archimandrite and his attention firmly on the v
ista beyond the window. In the middle distance, a knot of soldiery wrestled with a body atop Gallows Hill. Muddied scarlet robes – an exact match for those Makrov now wore – shone like blood in the morning sunshine. Even at that distance, straw showed at collar and cuffs.
It seemed Revekah had strayed from her instructions.
Anastacia set her empty wine glass down beside an equally empty bottle. “You mean the Council wants the perpetrators seized, Excellency?”
Josiri winced at the insolence of the words. That would hardly make matters easier.
Makrov halted his pacing. Ice crackled in his tone. “I am not only the Council’s representative; I am Lumestra’s herald. An assault on my person . . .”
“Perhaps your attackers were more interested in the latter than the former?” said Anastacia. “We’ve all heard the stories about how Lumestra’s light shines out of your . . .”
Enough was enough, Josiri decided. He turned his back on the window. “Please. This helps no one.”
He might as well have remained silent. Makrov’s stony gaze remained locked on Anastacia, and hers on him. Her black dress, trimmed with white lace at collar and cuffs, was a perfect match for her straight-backed and cross-legged posture. The very image of a demure young woman, attending her betters. Only the slight turn at the corner of her mouth gave the impression of a cat, biding its time.
“You take a great deal of joy from this matter, demon,” said Makrov. “So much, in fact, that I can’t help but wonder at your involvement.”
“Oh yes.” With a sigh, Anastacia swung her legs up over the arm of the chair, dispelling the ladylike illusion. “I ripped myself free of these stones, tripped merrily through your enchanted wall, evaded the small army at the gates and trotted back here. All without being seen.”
“My lord archimandrite,” Josiri interjected. “You’ve suffered deplorably. I’m only glad that your assailants stopped short of injury. But I can hardly step beyond the walls to investigate, even had I the knack for doing so. And I’ve no doubt Governor Yanda has the matter well in hand.”
