by Matthew Ward
“No! You’re lying! You have to be! If he can leave whenever he wishes, why would he stay?”
The demon hesitated. “Because his cage isn’t the same as yours. The walls and the enchantment are only part of what binds him.”
“And the rest?” Calenne waved her own question aside. Anger faded, replaced by a feeling of profound foolishness. “It’s me, isn’t it? He’s protecting me.”
“He knows that if he’s gone, you’ll have to take up his burdens.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
“Or he knows what you refuse to admit. That you’re more your mother’s daughter than you realise.”
Calenne felt sick. It was too much to take in, especially on top of everything else. “So I’m both a selfish child and a noble soul all at once, is that it?”
“We’re all selfish, Calenne. It’s how we survive. Some of us have learned to live with the consequences.” Anastacia took a deep breath. “If you wish to escape Branghall, I can show you how.”
Could she really be free of it all? Calenne stared at the demon, searching for a chink in expression that would reveal the lie. But if Anastacia wove deception, she did so without loose threads to snag.
“Where would I go? What would I do?”
She hated that nagging sense of reluctance. It reaffirmed the image of a spoilt child, demanding what others had to earn.
“That’s up to you,” Anastacia replied. “It’s a big world. Lose yourself in it. I’ve learnt that it’s always better to do something than nothing.”
“Even if it means you’re following the wrong course?”
“How else will you find out where the proper course lies?”
Calenne turned her back on the demon and stared out across the eastern valley.
How else indeed?
The dappled sunlight of Maiden’s Hollow was aroar with drunken laughter, fuelled by ale-stocks broached to toast Ascension. Someone had even fashioned a crude lumendoll from fallen branches and set it in the centre of the dancers’ ring. A queen surveying her court. Let folk of quality toast the goddess with prayer. The old ways fired the blood better by far.
Vorn watched the merriment from the clearing’s edge, but registered little. The humiliations of afternoon clung to his thoughts, and his wounds throbbed in a manner that bittered ale couldn’t lull.
The broken nose was the worst, for it was a badge of shame not easily concealed. No one could see the bruise from Crovan’s gut-punch. Just as no one had heard the whispered promise that the next such lesson would be delivered with a blade. Vorn didn’t resent that. A leader had to lead, didn’t he? And he had crossed a line by defying Crovan.
He just wished he could remember why.
Didn’t matter now, did it? The girl had far outpaced his own transgressions and made him a fool into the bargain. If not for Crovan . . .
Vorn growled and swallowed the rationalisation with another gulp from his ale skin.
Down in the hollow, pipes and fiddles raced into what would doubtless be the first of many drunken reels. Music to stir the spirit and rouse the soul. A pair of familiar figures came stomping down from the crest.
“Oho! Look who’s sulking all by his lonesome,” said Gregor.
“Leave it out,” replied Keera. “Didn’t you hear? Got beaten down by a lass half his size.”
Vorn drained the last drop from the ale skin and flung it away. “I’m not in the mood.”
Keera grinned, and slapped a hand against her not-insubstantial gut. “And I should listen? More meat on me than that shadowthorn princessa. You couldn’t take her. What hope have you with me?”
Vorn growled and lumbered to his feet. “You fixing to find out?”
“Be nice,” said Gregor. “We bring gifts.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like, we know which way she set off. Thought you might be interested.” He shrugged. “In case you want to . . . even things out.”
Vorn’s bruised pride rumbled at the prospect. It’d be different this time. She’d beg for forgiveness. He knew it wasn’t that simple, but the temptation remained. “Crovan’ll have my head.”
Keera snorted. “Who’ll tell him? Folk go missing in the forest all the time.”
She was right. No one need ever know. And if anyone could track the high and mighty Melanna Saranal through the wilderness, it was Gregor.
Down in the hollow, the music grew wilder. The first would-be couples took their turns at the dance. On the opposite crest, Drakos Crovan joined his followers in marking time with clap of hands and stomp of heel.
Thwarted desire billowed darkly about Vorn’s thoughts, reawoken by Keera’s jibes. The Ash Wind take it all, anyway. Ascension was a time for indulgence. And there was little more indulgent than insults repaid and humiliation soothed.
“Show me,” said Vorn.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Anastacia was but a hazy outline in the afternoon sunshine, little more than a ghost beneath the oak. The sight provoked an unfamiliar pang of sympathy in Calenne’s heart. Whatever the demon’s nature – however strained their relationship – she couldn’t imagine being reduced to an echo of herself, more memory than substance.
She stared at the bower passage beneath the tree, still struggling to comprehend what she saw. How had the roots parted at Anastacia’s command? She’d grown up with tales of such things, but to actually witness it for herself? How little she knew of the world.
“A fine time to ask me that. This was your idea.”
The demon shrugged, the motion almost invisible as she. “Then stay.”
Calenne glanced towards the house. No. She couldn’t go back to a house steeped in Josiri’s lies. Not with freedom so close. Katya’s old travelling clothes fitted her like a second skin. A raid on the kitchens had provided food for several days, and she’d no shortage of coin. Only the sword buckled at her waist felt out of place – a burden, where her heavy haversack was not. But she could use it well enough, if pressed. One advantage of the tutors Anastacia had earlier disdained.
All that remained was to actually leave. Assuming that the demon wasn’t playing a cruel joke. That was one reason to make the attempt in the afternoon, rather than waiting for night. If Anastacia was playing her false, better to find out sooner and cushion the disappointment. And Calenne was wise enough to recognise the folly of straying into unfamiliar territory by night.
“You’ll explain to Josiri?”
The demon nodded. “When it becomes necessary.”
“It shouldn’t be until morning. I left word with one of the maids that he shouldn’t expect me at Ascension. He won’t like it, but he’ll understand.”
She stared again at the passage. At the insectoid shapes skittering across the exposed roots, and the gentle curl of fibrous tendrils in the shadows. The overpowering scent of damp earth clung to every breath she took, sweet and cloying with decay.
“How do I know it won’t collapse?”
Anastacia shrugged. “It won’t.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The demon sighed. “If you don’t believe me – if you don’t trust me – then stay here. Join your brother at the Ascension table and waste your prayers on a goddess who cannot hear them.”
And wonder for ever at what might have been? No.
“I’m sorry,” said Calenne. “I suppose I don’t understand why you’re helping me. I’ve given you no reason to offer me kindness.”
Anastacia chuckled. “Perhaps that’s why I’m doing it – to prove that I’m your better. Or maybe it’s because the greatest gift you can offer is something you desire for yourself. Or it might be that I consider you a distraction your brother can no longer afford. Choose whichever explanation suits you best, but if you are to leave, it must be now. If one of the servants happens upon us, there will be consequences neither one of us will enjoy.”
The explanation left Calenne none the wiser, but it didn’t matter. It was enough that the
ir interests coincided. There was risk, of course. But life was risk.
She took her first hesitant step.
“Tell Josiri I’m sorry.”
Thirteen
It was somehow fitting, thought Malachi, how the skies wept for Kasamor Kiradin upon his homecoming.
The cobbled streets ran like rivers. Rain swept the detritus of the day into overburdened sewers. It had already driven most of the citizenry to the shelter of homes and taverns. Those who remained splashed through the streets with the hunched shoulders and hurried gait of folk wishing themselves already to their destination. They’d not soon return. Even with the sun lost behind the clouds, the bells would soon ring for Ascension.
A full company of the 7th lined the roadway. They stood at silent attention as the covered dray lurched towards the portcullis. No council edict had summoned them, but they had come all the same. A soldier’s bond Malachi understood, but would never share.
Beneath the arch, a gold-robed priest led a handful of veiled serenes in hymn. The holy women looked no more pleased to be present than their master. Their black robes hung drab and dark in the hissing rain; the golden thread of hem and sleeve barely glinted. Malachi strained to hear the serenes’ words. A wasted effort. It took rare voice to elevate traditional mourning-chant to beauty. These were otherwise.
Rosa walked beside the dray, one hand on the bridle. Her features were pale, her blonde hair plastered across her scalp. A forlorn cyraeth spirit come clawing its way from a shallow grave.
Ebigail Kiradin’s carriage sat beneath the archway. Coachmen shivered and sought shelter beneath the ancient stones. Malachi caught no glimpse of their mistress through the veil-draped windows. He supposed even Lady Kiradin was entitled to privacy at a time such as this.
There’d be no tears, Malachi felt certain. She’d offered none in the Council chamber when the herald brought news. But then, nor had he. Public grief was frowned upon. Whether the departed was the oldest of friends or a dearest child, decorum was inviolable.
Yes, the skies wept for Kasamor Kiradin, and the skies alone.
As the dray began the final approach to the parapeted bridge, Malachi could bear it no longer. Drawing his cloak tight, he broke from cover and strode out into the rain. He was soaked through in seconds. Undeterred, he bore down on Rosa and embraced her.
The mists take decorum, anyway.
It was like hugging a statue. Cold, hard and unflinching. Malachi drew back and searched for a hint of recognition in Rosa’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t sure why he whispered. No one would hear a thing over the rattle of rain upon cobbles. “What happened? The herald brought your letter, but it said so little.”
Somehow, Rosa’s expression grew bleaker. “What happened? I failed him. When he needed me, I failed him.”
Malachi already regretted asking. Rosa’s expression was too close a match for the one he strove to hide. Kasamor would have known what to say. He’d have made a terrible joke to lighten the mood, to force a smile. Anything.
“I’m sure you did everything you could,” Malachi said.
“Where’s Viktor?”
“On the road, to . . .” Malachi cut himself off. That too could wait. “I’ve sent word, but I don’t know when it’ll reach him. May I walk with you the rest of the way?”
The draught horse stamped, no more comfortable in the rain than Malachi. Rosa’s expression twitched with what might have been gratitude, or what might equally have been pain. She nodded.
Malachi took up station on the horse’s opposite flank, and they set off anew. Soldiers fell into step behind the dray. The procession grew with every pace.
King’s Gate was no longer empty when they arrived. Ebigail Kiradin stood beneath the archway, swathed in furs and head high. A Tressian matron greeting tragedy with resolve.
The blonde young woman at her side couldn’t quite match the display. Sevaka Kiradin – arrived fresh off the galleon Triumphal – had much to learn of the concealment of sorrows. That, or she felt Kasamor’s loss more keenly. She was certainly better prepared for the weather than anyone else. The high-collared and long-skirted naval coat would have laughed off a gale’s sodden bounty.
It didn’t escape Malachi’s notice that mother and daughter’s station beneath the arch kept both dray and escort out in the deluge.
“Captain Orova,” Ebigail’s tone held the proper amount of warmth. “You have my thanks for bringing my son home.”
“As was my duty, lady.”
“Now you may set that duty aside. You’ve come a long way, on the hardest of roads. Others can take the burden from here.”
She beckoned, and the nearest soldiers drew near.
Rosa stiffened. “Forgive me, lady, but I’d rather see this through to the end.”
Ebigail frowned. “And I’d have it no other way, Roslava. But I’m told you’ve not slept these past two days. See out the last miles from my carriage. I’m certain Kasamor would not begrudge a grateful mother’s hospitality.”
Malachi couldn’t help but be surprised. Generosity was expected under the circumstances, but for Ebigail to invite the rain-sodden, travel-stained Rosa into her sanctum? Then again, loss did strange things to people. It might even spur a miser to generosity.
“Respectfully, lady, it’s no longer for Kasamor to begrudge or allow me anything, if it ever was.” Rosa’s voice crackled like ice. “He was my comrade, my . . . dearest friend. I’ll gladly accept whatever hospitality you offer, but first I’ll see him home.”
Malachi caught Ebigail’s flicker of annoyance. Grieving or not, she didn’t care to be gainsaid. But she nodded. And she was not done with surprises.
“I see my son was fortunate in at least some of his friends.” She exchanged a glance with Sevaka. On receiving a small nod, she raised her voice. “Marek? We shan’t need the carriage any longer.”
Without another word, Ebigail took up position at Rosa’s side and Sevaka at Malachi’s. And so, on a rainswept evening – heralded by church bells ringing out for Ascension and surrounded by those who had loved him – Kasamor Kiradin at last came home.
Fourteen
Vorn followed the narrow boot prints, bruised vegetation and muddied stone for five miles through Davenwood. Long enough for the evening sky to fade to black. Long enough for the last ale skin to empty, and ill-fitting boots to chafe. Gregor’s abashed confession was therefore not warmly welcomed.
“What d’you mean, you’ve lost the trail?” hissed Vorn. “Never had it to begin with, more like.”
“You read the signs clear as I did,” Gregor growled. “And now, they’ve . . . stopped. It’s like she’s stepped off into thin air.”
Vorn stared across the wooded hillside, failure joining the day’s bleak harvest. Gregor was right. To all appearances, nothing larger than a fox had passed that way in hours. Nor was there any clue upon the wind. There was only the burble of water from the stream, and the hundred small sounds of the forest at night.
“She’s a witch,” whispered Keera. “A shadowthorn shouting prayers at the moon.”
“More likely she’s Raven-sworn,” Gregor spat. “Drifted off into the mists.”
Vorn stomped away uphill, growling to himself. Could have been back at Maiden’s Hollow, full of ale and curled up with something warm and pliant. But no. Instead, he had to go harking at his pride.
Ahead, down in the hillside dell, a campfire smouldered.
Calenne drew her blankets tight and hunched closer to the flames. Thus far, freedom had brought blisters, cold bones that the fire seemed powerless to warm, and isolation.
She loved every minute.
Her plan was simple, forged in the afternoon as she gathered possessions for travel. Head east, away from Eskavord and the possibility of pursuit. Then veer south towards the forge-fires of Thrakkia, shadowing the roads. She’d be across the border before anyone knew she was free. No one in Thrakkia would care. The thanes were too busy fighting among thems
elves.
In truth, Calenne didn’t know wholly what to expect from Thrakkia, based as her knowledge was on the exaggerations and hearsay of Branghall’s servants. But all stories agreed that it was a more, well, bombastic nation than the one from which she hailed, full of colour and life. For good or ill, she could use a little of that. Flames lit in feast and celebration of the living, the dead and everything in between. The markets thick with treasures claimed from distant Athreos, and lands stranger still. The bright colours of unfurled sails as drakonships slipped into the open seas, making voyage of trade or war as their masters decreed. Thrakkia was dangerous, certainly, but peril had strange vigour of its own. Too much of Calenne’s life was drowned in grey, overcast by a shadow whose source she couldn’t see, and she’d longed to be free of it.
Even so, Calenne was aware that her plan was less than it first appeared. A starting point without definite conclusion. Food and coin wouldn’t last for ever. If work of a menial sort was required, then she’d do it. Whatever it took. Education had bequeathed a skill for facts and figures, and she possessed a winning manner when roused to it. She’d work her way south and east. See realms her ancestors had never trod.
Anything was possible, if she was prepared to do anything.
Rustling leaves stirred Calenne from dreams of the future. She twisted, her hand closing about the short sword’s grips. Left to her own devices, she’d have borne a dagger alone. Unfortunately, such weapons seldom intimidated unless they were already at the throat.
Not that the broken-nosed man looked the sort to be intimidated by anything. Scuffed travelling leathers and bruised features spoke to a dangerous life, or one marred by violent disappointment.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The man’s features creased into a scowl. “It’s not her.”
Calenne frowned, then realised he’d not been talking to her, but to someone behind her. She rose, one hand on her sword, and the other on the scabbard. A thin man and a heavyset woman stood on the hillside’s gentle slopes, the latter with a rusty sword drawn.
