by Matthew Ward
She slapped him across the cheek, regretting the blow even before the whip-crack had faded. It spoke to a loss of control. Gave Crovan the power of satisfaction. Showed both her temperament and the inexperience of youth a little too plain. His grin reinforced the sense of failure. Still, the temptation remained to strike him again.
“Tell your father nothing has changed. When he comes, we’ll be ready.”
“And what of the duke?”
“He’ll learn to live with his disappointments.” He shrugged. “Or he won’t. Either way, I’ll deal with it.”
Seven
For the third time, Josiri slid the opal-tipped pin through silk. For the third time, the cravat sat defiantly askew in the mirror. With a growl of irritation, he tossed the pin on the dresser.
It seemed petty to be riled so, especially with the unwanted speech looming large. But perhaps that was part of it. Anastacia’s suggestion carried a good deal of risk, but it felt right. It felt like something his mother would have done. But what if it pushed Makrov’s fragile pride beyond breaking point? How many would pay the price? There was no predicting that, not with certainty. Better to be angry at a sliver of jewellery.
“Poor brother. Bad enough your hair always looks like a windblown hay bale. Now this.”
Josiri turned. The reflection in the mirror twisted to encompass the doorway and Calenne’s mocking smile. She drew closer, pale skirts of a formal dress swishing about her feet. A far cry from the practical garb she preferred.
“Joining me on the balcony?” he asked, with no small surprise.
She shrugged. “I’m having second thoughts at being seen with you in public. All these years, and still you can’t dress yourself. It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks. You should try for yourself.”
“And you should try lacing a corset.”
Josiri shook his head in silent amusement. She’d no more laced her own corset than she’d pinned and braided her own hair. Calenne was as content to prevail upon the servants as Josiri was loath to rely upon them.
“You should have a servant do it,” said Calenne.
“Some things a man has to do for himself.” He reached for the pin.
“Oh, very noble. Fair sends a shiver down my spine. Why can’t your demon do it?”
“Anastacia says it’s beneath her.”
Calenne sniffed. “I’m glad something is.”
Josiri shot her an irritated glance. The recalcitrant pin, freed from his attention, pricked at his flesh. “Ah!”
In the mirror, Calenne’s teeth flashed a grin. “Oh, for Lumestra’s sake . . .”
She held out an expectant hand. Josiri hesitated, then capitulated. Wearing an expression entirely too triumphant for his liking, she stepped around his shoulder and set to work.
“It’s not a glorious way for the Trelan line to end, is it?” said Calenne. “‘The last duke stabbed himself in the throat while dressing for a crowd.’ What would Katya say?”
“I hope she’d understand,” said Josiri, his thoughts more on the speech to come than the ephemera of raiment.
“Uh-uh.” Calenne unlooped the cravat, re-sited it, and set about knotting the silk anew. “Once she’d finished laughing. There. That looks better.”
She stepped aside, giving Josiri an unobstructed view. The cravat was straight, the pin centred. He buttoned his waistcoat and slid on his jacket. “Who’ll do this for me once you’re gone?”
“You should have considered that before giving your blessing.”
“I can always change my mind.”
The sudden darkening of Calenne’s expression told him the jest had passed her by. “Don’t you dare.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Plenty of cautionary tales about those who stand in the way of true love.”
“Yes,” said Calenne distantly. “True love. What a wonder.”
The wistfulness in her tone set Josiri on guard. “You do want to marry Kasamor?”
She crossed to the window and stared out across the tangled gardens. “I want the marriage more than anything.” She offered a lopsided shrug. “It’s the man I’m indifferent to.”
Josiri felt a sudden chill. “Pardon me?”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Oh, my dear brother. So perceptive, and yet so blind. It’s Kasamor’s name I want, not him. It’s the only way I can escape this cursed family.”
Frustration flooded back. Half-remembered lessons about dignity melted away.
“Does Kasamor know?”
“Of course not.” She spoke without turning. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with him!” His anger always burned brighter when Calenne drew it forth. Even Makrov couldn’t rile him so. “I won’t let you do this.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I can tell him the truth!”
Calenne turned from the window, arms folded across her chest and fire blazing in her eyes. “Then the next time I climb the tower, I’ll give myself to the Raven.”
Josiri froze, overcome by the image of his sister plunging from the ruined balcony. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I want my freedom, Josiri. If I can’t have it one way, I’ll find it another.”
He willed himself to calm. If the last fifteen years had taught him anything, it was that nothing good came of butting heads with Calenne. “Kasamor deserves the truth.”
“He has his truth. That’s all most of us want. You’ll only break his heart.”
“And that matters to you?”
Calenne’s expression softened. “More than it should. He’s a good man, and he’s kind. I saw as much when he first stood his turn as the Council’s emissary. He’s the only one who’s ever treated you as an equal.”
At Ascension, just last year. “You pestered me for an introduction.”
“And you teased me. You were merciless.”
“I was pleased. You deserve a better life than one cooped . . .”
Calenne tilted her head and threw him the too-familiar “I told you so” glance.
“All right.” The last of Josiri’s anger seeped away into resignation. “You’ve made your point.”
She took his hands in hers. “I promise not to make Kasamor miserable. And it’s not as though arranged marriages aren’t common.”
“It’s only an arranged marriage if both parties believe it so.” Josiri rubbed at his forehead. “You could have wed years ago, if marriage was all you wanted.”
“But not to a family of the first rank.”
So that was it. Despite censure by the Council, the Trelan bloodline retained its status. If Calenne married beneath her station, the luckless husband would take her name. More than that, the sins of kith would cling to him as well. He’d be sealed behind the manor’s wards, as much a prisoner as his bride. But by marrying Kasamor, Calenne could take his name. She’d become an adopted daughter of the Kiradin line, and censure had no claim on a Kiradin.
Josiri sighed. His mother had fled an arranged marriage for love. Now his sister conspired at a loveless marriage in order to flee. But family came first. Even before poor, love-struck Kasamor Kiradin. Who was a northerner, after all, and therefore had his own sins of the kith to bear.
“If that’s what you want,” he said at last, “then of course I’ll support you. I’m sorry I overreacted.”
She offered a half-smile. “And I’m sorry for behaving like a child. I have such dark thoughts sometimes. I swear I don’t recognise myself.”
“Why did you tell me?” he asked. “You must have known how I’d take it.”
She pulled away. “I should tell someone, don’t you think? And who else is there? You’re my brother, Josiri. You’re the only person who’s real. The rest of the world? It’s behind glass. Emissaries call on us. Servants come and they go. They all enter our lives like dreams and leave the same way.”
“And you’d abandon me?”
&n
bsp; “You could come. Kasamor would adopt you if I asked, I’m sure of it.” Her voice quickened. “We’d both be free of this.”
Josiri tried to picture Ebigail Kiradin’s face at the news she’d be welcoming not one, but two hated Trelans into her precious family.
“I can’t,” he said. “This is where I belong.”
“Katya wouldn’t want you to live like this.”
“You know that’s not true. I gave our mother two promises the night she died. At Eskavord, I swore to protect you. And at Zanya, I swore to finish what she started.”
Calenne’s fingers brushed his cheek. “My poor, foolish brother. Katya’s gone. Find a purpose of your own, while you still can.”
He hadn’t the heart to tell her how far that particular ship had sailed over the horizon. “And you?”
She grinned. “I shall be Lady Calenne Kiradin, adored by my husband, abhorred by my mother-in-law, and all the happier for both. But though I’ll no longer be a Trelan in name, I’ll always be your sister. After all, Trelans must stick together, mustn’t they?”
He sighed. “Always.”
The sonorous chimes of Branghall’s ancient clock rang out, signalling the approach of noon. Time to address the crowds.
Josiri took to the balcony on the last stroke of noon, hands clasped to disguise their nervous tremor. Beyond the balustrade, hundreds of men, women and children stood crammed between the garden’s apple trees and the low brick walls of the courtyard terrace. Rare guests to Branghall, permitted entry for this most special of occasions. There were no cheers, not that he expected any. Just a quiet, expectant murmur carried on the gentle breeze.
The temptation to change his plans returned, stronger than ever.
“You’re popular today, brother,” whispered Calenne.
“So it would seem.”
He knew why. This was part of Makrov’s triumph. Another point scored against the long dead woman who’d spurned his heart.
Makrov and Yanda waited on the balcony. A quartet of soldiers accompanied them, one of whom had a silvered buccina looped over his right shoulder. Yanda looked uncomfortable. Makrov radiated delight. He strode to greet them, diamonds glittering across his narrow crown. The polished black wood of his sceptre shone like serpent-scale in the sun.
“Your grace.” The merest ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Your people await.”
Josiri noted familiar faces in the crowd. Some had stood their turn as servants of the manor. Others had crossed his path in darker and more clandestine hours. Makrov had roused half of Eskavord, and half of the villages beyond.
Blue tabards and plate armour lined the terrace. A few soldiers bore halberds, the bas relief of Lumestra’s radiant flames blazing where the backswept blade gathered to a billhook. The rest had scabbarded swords. Heavy oblong shields sat grounded at booted feet, the blazing sunburst bright upon a king’s blue field. A pair of kraikons stood to the terrace’s rear, flanking the knot of soldiery serving as escort to Captain Sark. The nearest was a particularly battered specimen. It bore a jagged scar where its left eye had been. Golden magic spattered and hissed from a rent in its breastplate. Its handler – a proctor with a flickering sun-stave held tight – waited close by.
“So many people,” said Calenne. “I hope they’re not expecting anything interesting. Josiri tends to ramble.”
She extended her hand. Makrov’s brow creased, then with visible effort he put aside old ghosts. Expression clearing, he stooped and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m certain his grace knows what is required.”
“I’m sure he does,” Calenne said warmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you yesterday. I wasn’t feeling altogether myself.”
“Please, think nothing of it. I’m sure we’ll see more of one another once you’re wed. Lady Kiradin appreciates the value of spiritual advice.”
To her credit, Calenne’s smile didn’t waver. Josiri felt a rush of admiration for his sister, who was a better actor than he’d ever be. “And won’t that be something to look forward to?”
Josiri peered over the balcony’s edge. The canvas-draped bundle was in position. Anastacia waited close by, her back to the balcony and her hands looped below her waist. Good.
“Could we begin?” asked Yanda. “I don’t want to keep the enchantment quelled any longer than necessary.”
Josiri fancied he heard real worry in her voice. Of course they’d had a proctor quell the enchantment. There weren’t enough ward-brooches to admit even a fraction of the enormous crowd.
Makrov offered a thin smile. “You worry too much, governor. I doubt his grace is about to flee through the gardens . . .” The smile faded as he turned his attention to Josiri. “. . . are you, your grace?”
Josiri let his gaze linger on the undergrowth of the outer grounds. Sunlight gleamed on the bronze of a simarka’s stylised fur. “I’d not make it halfway to the gate, would I?”
The smile grew frosty. “No, you wouldn’t.”
At Yanda’s nod, the buccinator set his lips to the instrument’s mouthpiece. The brash clarion swept away the murmurs of the crowd.
All morning, Josiri had wondered how he’d feel at that moment. Now he knew. To his surprise, there was no hesitation. None.
“Sons and daughters of the Southshires,” he began. “Our honoured archimandrite requested I speak with you. And I’m heartened to see that so many have come to hear my words.”
At his side, Makrov nodded his approval.
Josiri gripped the balustrade. He took a deep breath, savouring the scents of the garden. The duskhazel was coming into bloom, lending sweetness to the air. “At Ascension, three days hence, I offer the hand of my own dear sister to Lord Kasamor Kiradin. It’s no secret to me, as I’m sure it’s no secret to you, that he’s not worthy of her.”
Makrov stiffened, but the crowd roared with laughter. Josiri let the mirth subside before pressing on. “But I am content. Calenne is the only family I have, and she is in love. I cannot find it in me to deny her heart’s wish.”
Turning his back on the crowd, he offered Calenne a formal bow, one hand tucked behind his back, the other across his waist. The first cheers rang out. A little of the tension faded from Makrov’s jowls. For her part, Calenne regarded Josiri with narrowed eyes, suspicious of a joke yet to be played. But Josiri had none in the offing. He simply straightened, kissed his blushing sister on the cheek, and waved for silence.
“She is the best of us.” He spread his hands wide. “And haven’t the Southshires always given the Republic our best? At one time, our warriors guarded its borders. It was said that one southwealder’s blade was worth six from the north. And now? Now we feed their armies, their citizens, their councillors. Six? We’re worth a dozen! More! That’s why the Council sends so many soldiers to our lands. So they can witness our labours and see how things should be done.”
Laughter rose anew at those words. Josiri hesitated. He knew what had to follow. But didn’t know if he had the nerve.
Makrov leaned close. “Have a care, your grace,” he breathed. “We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?”
“As you say, my lord archimandrite.” Josiri raised his voice, addressing the crowd once more. “But we cling to the past too tightly. We neglect the challenges before us in favour of old grudges. My mother, Lumestra guard her spirit, never learned that lesson. She fought for a Southshires that never was. Many of you sympathise with her views, as I once did. Today, we stop looking to her shadow for answers.”
Below, Anastacia whipped the canvas aside. The portrait of Katya Trelan stood revealed upon a bed of kindling. A brilliant, blinding flash of light and the first flames licked the oils. The last dregs of laughter died, replaced by gasps and a low, ominous rumble.
“No more divided loyalties!” shouted Josiri. “We pick a side, and we remain true to it until the fight is done! And Lumestra help those who choose the wrong cause!”
Anastacia retreated before the flames. Josiri glanced do
wn as his mother’s face blackened to ash. He clung to the balustrade so tightly his knuckles ached. Had he done the right thing? The rising growl of the crowd told him he had, but that didn’t fill the emptiness in his heart, or silence the accusation of a painted stare charring to ash. It was like losing her all over again. But even in the uproar, he fancied he heard Anastacia’s mirth rippling like a mountain stream.
“Katya Trelan – my mother – is dead, but we will go on! In unity! With purpose!”
“Traitor!”
A hunk of soil caromed off the balcony to Josiri’s left, spattering the buccinator with dirt.
The crowd’s growl blossomed into a roar. “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”
A barrage of missiles – rocks and unripe apples from the terrace orchard – whipped at the balcony. A window shattered beneath a stone. Soldiers lifted their shields to shelter Makrov. Josiri set his back to the crowd and stepped in front of Calenne. Her eyes . . . He’d expected horror, or perhaps worry. Instead, they gleamed with excitement – and more than that, with understanding. For the first time, Josiri wondered just how successfully he’d kept his secrets.
“Out of my way!” Yanda shoved the buccinator aside and braced a boot against the balustrade. “Captain Sark! Bring this thrice-cursed crowd to order!”
Her words were wasted. Sark stared slack-jawed across the burgeoning riot, oblivious to all.
“Captain Sark!”
Abandoning her attempt to jolt Sark to attention, Yanda put a hand to the small of Makrov’s back and propelled him towards the balcony door. Josiri ushered Calenne after them and risked a last glance across the terrace. A Tressian sergeant had rallied a knot of soldiers into a rough shield wall. Enough to keep the crowd from the remains of the bonfire, but little more. Josiri caught no sight of Anastacia, but that provoked no concern. She could take care of herself.
“Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”
The chant should have hurt, but instead it awoke determination. Give your people something to hate, Anastacia had said. He’d done that. Let them hate him, if it gave them the strength to fight.
