Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  Too late, I realise that these were the wrong questions.

  from the Last Sermon of Konor Belenzo

  Twenty-Six

  The mists of Krayna Dell defied the light of dawn. Revekah wasn’t surprised. It was often thus in the Forbidden Places, where old magic wore thin the walls between the living realm and Otherworld. For those who didn’t heed the priesthood’s warnings about such places, a thousand tales counselled caution. Spirits lurked within the mists, or so it was said. Spirits, and worse. Revekah had never seen such peril for herself – nor spoken to anyone who had – but the fear remained.

  Mists or no, the Forbidden Places were different. As if the turnings of the world held little influence on what passed within, or distant seasons lingered jealously beneath the boughs.

  A time-worn statue projected from weed-choked waters. Remnants of a site of worship, cloaked in ancient power that held constructs at bay. It was also the subject of so many terrible stories that the phoenixes kept fires burning at the nearby cave mouths, just in case. Revekah rubbed her hands together to ward off the cold. Yes, too many tales. Of blood and malice, and foolish youngsters doing what foolish youngsters do. At that moment, with ethereal keening echoing through the mists, she was more inclined than ever to believe.

  “I still don’t see why you dragged me out here.” She kept one eye on young Tarn, and another on the mists.

  “Don’t you hear that?” he replied.

  “I hear a weeping woman. It’s hardly remarkable.” It was likely to become a whole lot less remarkable with armies on the march.

  Tousled curls shook insistently. “Could be a woman. Could also be a prizrak, or a cyraeth.”

  Revekah snorted. “Ghosts, is it? Your mother filled your head with too many folktales.”

  “Then what happened to Tornas?”

  “Tornas was a lecherous old bastard who tried things too hot and heavy with one of Gavamor’s lasses. No mystery. No ghosts. And no cyraeth.” She sighed. “I’ll take a look.”

  “No!” Tarn hissed. “It’s too dangerous!”

  “Then why did you want me here?”

  He stared mutely at his feet, confirming what Revekah already knew. Part of him believed that the woman was merely as she sounded and wanted her gone before she drew down a northwealder patrol. Another part – perhaps the larger part – feared she was indeed a cyraeth, the tattered hood concealing withered features and bloody fangs.

  “I’ll talk to her,” she said firmly. “You can head back.”

  He twitched. “No, I’ll stay.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Good lad. And if she rips me bloody, you’ll be able to tell everyone you were right, won’t you?”

  Tarn blanched. “I . . .”

  “A joke, lad. Nothing’ll happen to me.” She thumped her chest. “Too leathery to be worth eating.”

  Revekah waited for a little colour to return to Tarn’s cheeks before heading down the slope. Cool air sucked at her lungs and set her joints creaking. She swallowed and pressed on. It was too easy to feel the burden of lost years in the Forbidden Places, and the paucity of those ahead. She skirted the water’s edge, the sorrowful sound louder in her ears with every cautious step. Mud sucked at her boots. Skeins of mist clung to her arms like grasping fingers. The sunken statue, the feathers of its sole remaining wing streaked with weed-fronds, passed away to her right.

  There she was. Sitting on a rock where mud-sunk steps led away into still waters. That same mud clung to the hem of her black dress and the dangling threads of her hooded shawl. Her arms were clasped tight across a narrow chest.

  Revekah sighed her relief. Otherworld take Tarn and his jumpiness.

  Lost in her own private, mournful world, the woman rocked back and forth as Revekah approached. Now she was closer, Revekah noted an oddly hollow – almost metallic – note to the keening. But mist played merry hell with the ears. Wouldn’t be anything more than that.

  “Too nice a day for tears,” she said amiably. “Want to talk about it?”

  Revekah laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  [[Don’t touch me!]]

  A vicelike grip closed around her wrist. The mists spun. Her back struck the water, filthy spray fountaining around her. Revekah glimpsed black eyes, swirling like smoke beneath a mask of white and gold.

  Waters closed over her head.

  Calenne awoke to the tramp of boots on cobbles below her window. A claggy mouth and thin purplish pre-dawn light warned of insufficient sleep. With a groan, she pulled the pillow over her head and clutched it tight to her ears.

  After dressing, she headed outside. Even the thought of breakfast so early made her nauseous. She followed the marching column of blue tabards through the winding streets and out towards the east gate. The streets were otherwise deserted. Too early for most, perhaps. Or were they staying inside to avoid being drawn into whatever was afoot?

  As she walked, Calenne became aware of other footfalls in the road behind. Kraikons loomed over houses in parallel streets. She knew that simarka wouldn’t be far away but decided that as long as she couldn’t see them, it wasn’t a problem.

  Beyond the gate, a desperately small army converged. A few hundred men and women gathered around campfires, playing cards or scraping whetstones across steel. Most were infantry, garbed in the familiar tabards and plate of Branghall’s guards. A few-score wayfarers stood vigil on unarmoured horses at the muster’s perimeter, spears aloft and their eyes on the eastern horizon. Wagons stood motionless. Draught horses champed restlessly in the chill morning air.

  “Morning, missy. Come to join up, have you?”

  Calenne spun around, swallowing a heart that had leapt into her throat. Captain Kurkas regarded her from the shadow of the gate with a mocking smile and customary dishevelment.

  “Is that how you address your betters?” The sought-for hauteur sputtered to nothing. It was too early.

  Kurkas shrugged. “My father was a soldier. My mother a crowmarketeer – in good and deep with the vranakin and their parliament, so I understand. Neither of ’em made their living doing anything you’d want to see first-hand. Makes everyone my better, but I can’t spend a life bowing and scraping. Bad for the back. You sure you don’t want to join up?”

  “You can’t be that desperate.”

  “Can’t I?” Another column of soldiers marched through the gate. He waited until they’d passed before pressing on. “Yanda took the best of what we had two days back. Most of ’em are probably dead by now. This is whatever Lord Akadra could scrounge up west of Eskavord. Don’t be fooled by the uniforms. There’re more toll-keepers here than soldiers.”

  He spat on the roadway. Calenne cast her eye anew over the muster fields. Kurkas’ dour appraisal changed little of what she saw. “They seem soldierly enough.”

  “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we? Offer’s still open. Don’t tell me you weren’t schooled in swordplay?”

  “I had duellist’s lessons, and I was never that good. It’s hardly preparation for battle.”

  Kurkas thrust his hand into a pocket and scuffed his boots against the cobbles. “No. I reckon not.”

  “Then why do you keep asking?”

  He sighed. “Last time I was in these parts, a woman who looked a lot like you roused half the populace. The fire she put in their bellies nearly burned us all to a crisp. Cost me an arm, but right now I’d give the other for that fire to catch again.”

  Truth gleamed beneath the put-upon attitude, even beneath the dry humour of his tone. Kurkas expected to lose. He expected to die.

  “No help’s coming?”

  “Not enough. Your lot don’t trust us, and they’re right not to. Lord Akadra reckons they’ll only follow your brother. Me, I’m a firm believer in the motivational power of a pretty face.”

  Calenne grimaced. She’d spent a lifetime dreaming herself free of Katya’s legacy. She’d not backtrack now it was finally within her grasp. The Southshires hadn’t needed her the whole
time she’d been a prisoner at Branghall. It’d manage without her now.

  “So you’re a hopeless romantic,” she said. “I’d never have guessed.”

  “Yeah, shines through all the time. Ask anyone. Why are you here?”

  A good question. Why was she still in Eskavord? Viktor’s concerns for her safety aside, there was nothing stopping her riding for Thrakkia. She could leave whenever she wanted, so why hadn’t she? Belatedly, she realised that Kurkas’ concerns were a mite more focused.

  “I’m looking for Viktor.”

  “’Course you are. Charms ’em wherever he goes.”

  “He does?” Calenne hated the involuntary note of alarm.

  “Don’t fret yourself.” He grinned wolfishly. “He has a way of talking folk ’round, that’s all. Why do you think I’m here in the path of Hadari spears instead of sitting safe at his father’s gate? Then again, there was this one lass up by the Ravonn – a reeve’s daughter, she was – went to great lengths to get his attention. The kind of carry-on you don’t want the neighbours to see. Barking up the wrong tree, she was. Nothing to offer him.”

  “He’s not interested in women?”

  “Not interested in anyone, not that I’ve seen. No flags flying on those battlements, if you take my meaning.” Kurkas straightened. “Come on, I’ll take you to Viktor.”

  They threaded the muster fields towards the handful of pavilion tents. Calenne gave wide berth to the gold-robed proctors, lest they marked the presence of nearby simarka.

  Now closer to the troops, she saw what Kurkas meant. Most were lads and lasses with barely sixteen years behind them. Those who remained fell on the spectrum’s distant end. Men and women who’d been in their prime at Zanya, but on whom the passing years had levied a great toll. Only those in the black cloth and silver swan of the Akadra hearthguard truly resembled soldiers as Calenne imagined them. They made up perhaps a third of those assembled.

  They found Viktor outside the largest tent, stripped to shirtsleeves and britches. He glowered at an unfortunate young man in a herald’s tabard.

  “I didn’t ask why the Rivelan garrison isn’t here,” he growled. “I ordered you to impress the need for haste upon Lieutenant Garran. Will you do this for me, or must I do it myself?”

  The herald blanched, saluted and scurried away. Viktor spun on his heel. Calenne glimpsed an expression that matched the Black Knight of her nightmares far better than the man she’d known over the last few days. As he caught sight of her, his expression cleared.

  “Ah, Calenne. I was about to send for you.”

  Kurkas, now standing to Viktor’s rear, winced.

  “Send for me?” she replied icily. “Does everyone think me a soldier in the making?”

  Viktor raised a hand in objection and opened his mouth to speak. Then he plainly thought better of both and let the hand fall. Kurkas grinned.

  “My apologies. A poor turn of phrase. I didn’t manage much sleep.”

  Calenne noted the circles beneath bloodshot eyes. The reason for his malaise was hardly mysterious. Even if it arose from misplaced concern.

  “Can I assume that you didn’t retire after escorting me home?”

  He nodded. “You can indeed. Captain? I hope you’re not smirking just because I can’t see you.”

  “No, sah!” Kurkas roared. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

  The grin remained firmly in place. Calenne would have told Viktor, save for her certainty that he already knew.

  Viktor shook his head. “Then kindly attend to your duties. I want to be underway by evening.”

  “Right away, sir!” Kurkas threw Calenne a sloppy salute. He thrust his hand in his pocket and withdrew.

  Viktor rubbed his brow. “I can’t find her. I rode for miles, and walked for many more, but she’s gone and I know not where.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was. I promised Anastacia she’d be free. Instead I changed only the nature of her prison. Better that I’d done nothing at all.”

  “You did what you thought was right.”

  “As I always do. My father claims I’m arrogant. It may be he isn’t wrong.” He stared past her towards Branghall. “This time my arrogance has cost another dearly.”

  “Out of the best intentions,” said Calenne, wondering why she bothered. Anastacia was a demon, and demons deserved whatever fate delivered. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say as much. “And intentions always matter.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Viktor. “Because I must speak to your brother again, and now my good intentions are all I have to offer. Would you find him for me? I have wayfarers watching the roads, but a sister’s instincts might prove keener than their eyes.”

  Calenne doubted her instincts were much use to anyone – especially where Josiri was concerned – but found herself nodding. “On one condition: get some rest, Viktor. Good intentions and arrogance are no substitute for a few hours’ sleep.”

  He bowed. “As you wish, Lady Trelan.”

  She winced at the hated name, though she recognised that Viktor meant only respect. She could leave the Southshires at any time, but the Trelan name would remain with her . . .

  “I’ll return before noon,” she said. “Successful or otherwise, I expect to find you sleeping.”

  Revekah came to propped against a tree; cold, weary and soaked to the skin. Mist curled around her. Memories crashed back. The weeping woman with the hollow voice. The face. Not a cyraeth, but nothing good.

  She reached for her sword. Fingers closed around the grips before she remembered to be surprised it was even there. What manner of assailant left her victim armed? Then again, what manner of assailant saved their victim from drowning, as hers had?

  [[I apologise for how I reacted.]]

  Revekah’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes scoured the mists. There. Waist-deep in the pool, her back to Revekah once again, as if communing with the lonely statue at the water’s heart.

  [[I am not at my best.]] She flexed gloved fingers, then clenched the fist and let it fall. [[You surprised me.]]

  There was something familiar about the voice. Revekah let her sword fall. “Do I know you?”

  [[You know who I was. I don’t know who I am.]]

  “Anastacia?” Revekah clambered to her feet, wincing as damp clothing found dry flesh. “Is that you?”

  [[What’s left of me. No matter how much is stripped away, there’s always more to lose.]]

  Anastacia turned. Hesitant fingers brushed the shawl from her brow. She peeled away her glove and set pale white fingers to her cheek. They didn’t flex as they should, and met her “skin” with a soft, scraping glink. Revekah stifled a gasp.

  [[This is who I am now.]] Self-pity swelled beneath the words.

  Revekah shook her head, uncertain how to respond. So many questions. “What happened to Tarn? The lad who was with me?”

  [[He ran as soon as I saw him. I didn’t mean to scare him.]] She paused. [[No. That’s a lie. I did. I very much wanted to scare him.]]

  “Wouldn’t have taken much.” Revekah circled towards her, alert for danger. “Big one for stories, is Tarn. You’ve given him one to treasure, but . . . I thought you couldn’t leave Branghall?”

  Anastacia faced the statue once more. [[They worshipped me here, long ago. No service was too great, no offering too generous. That adoration sated my every whim. Your realm is so much more . . . immediate . . . than my home. The notes sweeter, the flavours sharper. My mother thought me wicked. Selfish. She told me I’d come to a poor end. She was right.]]

  Revekah frowned at the evasion, the details of which she poorly understood. She took a faltering step closer. She’d never truly known what to make of Anastacia, save that she lay some way short of both the demonhood Calenne ascribed and the perfection Josiri perceived. She shot a glance at the statue in the pool, raised long ago in a serathi’s likeness, and considered that she might well have been wrong on both counts.

  “What
happened to you?”

  [[A deceiver slithered into my cage. He offered freedom, as I once offered to cure the sick and quicken life within the barren. Like my promises, his were worthless. I am free, but trapped within this . . . this . . .]]

  The words choked off in a scream. Anastacia slammed her fist into the statue. Dust exploded into the mists. Thick spider-web cracks jagged out across the slime-ridden stone.

  Revekah stepped back, her hand once again at her sword. Tarn had been right about leaving well alone. Soon as she’d stepped into Krayna Dell, she’d left the real world behind. This was the stuff of folktale and drunken imagining.

  “The deceiver. Does he have a name?”

  [[Akadra.]] She spat the word. [[Viktor Akadra.]]

  Revekah nodded, relieved that there was to be no further intrusion of myth. There was, after all, already a superfluity to hand.

  “A busy bugger, that one,” she said. “Calenne’s trailing him like a lost kitten. Josiri’s knotted up with frustration because most folk think Akadra’s bought his loyalty. And then there’s you.”

  [[Josiri?]] Pity fell away into concern. The new tone was no better a fit. [[How is he?]]

  “Raging inside and out. Looks like you must know something about that.”

  [[Whatever pain he feels is nothing to mine.]]

  Now that sounded like Anastacia. “I don’t know. I rode back with him from Maiden’s Hollow. Reckon the only thing kept him from screaming is pride. He doesn’t know where to turn. But don’t take my word for it. He’s at Branghall. See for yourself.”

  Anastacia hung her head. [[I can’t. Look at me. We were barely the same before. Now . . . Now, I can offer no respite. I feel neither the chill of the mist nor the warmth of the sun. Not the fall of a hand on my shoulder or fingers on my cheek. My embrace would as likely crush him as bring comfort. Why would he want me now?]]

  “Because he loves you. Never understood why, but he does.”

  Anastacia stiffened. [[And what use is that now? To him or to me?]]

  “Nothing? Everything? But you’ll not find answers skulking out here in the mists.”