Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  Why then did he feel so ill at ease? It wasn’t because the utilitarian proposal offended him. Indeed, he’d a certain stark admiration for Calenne’s cleverness. Pride and duty. This satisfied all, and for them both.

  Was it then the disparity in their ages? But again, a fifteen-year span was hardly unusual. Especially when marriage between families of the upper rank was wielded as a tool of alliance more than love.

  No, Viktor decided, it was more that Calenne’s forthrightness had taken him off-guard. It was not in his nature to react well to surprise. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that a portion of his reserve was grounded in the inexplicable feeling of having crossed a finish line while having been cheated of the race.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said.

  “But I do. If it is within my power to deliver you an army as dowry, then I shall do so. But after the battle is done, win or lose, I will be a Trelan no longer.” She gazed up at him with a smile more knowing than nervous. “Well, Lord Akadra? How do you answer?”

  Twenty-Eight

  “Father, I’m bored.”

  Constans’ pronouncement startled a handful of doves from the church steps, scattering them to flight across a marketplace still hung with the wreaths and garlands woven for Ascension. Malachi’s enthusiasm for an afternoon with his son scattered alongside. With every step, the nagging sensation that he should have been doing something – anything – else grew stronger. Which at least gave him something in common with Constans. The boy had been no more impressed by the statues in the church than the changing of the guard. Worse, the boy had twice wandered off into the crowds, ever-curious about the brightly painted roamer wagons of the travelling fair, and seemingly oblivious to his father’s galloping heart.

  A procession of serenes ascended the church steps, bearing candles and birch offerings for the evening service. Malachi put a hand to his son’s shoulder and steered him away.

  “More or less bored than if you were at your lessons?” he asked.

  Constans cocked his head, considering the weighty proposition. “Less. But my lessons don’t last long. Ada isn’t very good at hide-and-seek.”

  Which meant that his son spent more time fleeing responsibilities than fulfilling them. Malachi supposed he should have scolded the boy, but felt oddly proud. Were his own life any proof, there’d be years of duty and rote ahead of Constans. Perhaps the boy should run free while he could.

  Lily would not approve.

  “So what would you like to do?”

  Constans stared out across the bustling street. Beyond the striped canopies of the marketplace – beyond the close-set, crooked townhouses – the greensward and breeze-harried branches of the Hayadra Grove shone in the sunshine. “Climb a hayadra tree.”

  Malachi blinked away his surprise, then rallied. “You do that, and the serenes will lock you away without food or water for three days. The white trees are sacred, and not for climbing.”

  Constans harrumphed. “Mother would never allow it.”

  “You’ve much to learn about your mother, young man. She tended those trees when she was your age. If you so much as scuff an inch of bark, we’ll both of us be in deep trouble.”

  “Perhaps we could just take a look?”

  Malachi had no doubt that once in the holy grove, his son would escape his guardianship as easily as he did Ada’s. Soon after, there would be a shout, a triumphant wave, and a proud child among the branches.

  What Lumestra would think was anyone’s guess. Nor her heavenly sister, from whom the trees had been a peace offering. But Lily? That reaction was easily judged.

  “I don’t think so, Constans.”

  “You asked what I wanted to do. It’s not . . .” He broke off as a shadow fell across him.

  “So strident a tone, young Master Reveque.” Makrov emerged from the market’s throng. His plummy tones walked the line between chastisement and kindness – a wise proctor handing down advice to a soul in torment. “You should have more respect for your father.”

  Constans lapsed into downcast silence. Makrov offered Malachi a stiff bow.

  “My Lord Reveque. It feels like for ever since we last spoke.”

  Malachi smiled without pleasure. “I thought you were in the Southshires, excellency.”

  “Lumestra called me home on sable wings.” He lowered his voice. “The Goddess believes I can serve better as a witness to Council than to war.”

  “Is that so?”

  Malachi felt little surprise at the revelation. Most priests stood a turn on the border, offering spiritual succour to the garrisons along the Ravonn. To his knowledge, Makrov had never willingly come within a league of a Hadari – save for the occasional prisoners paraded through the streets.

  “There are . . . developments in the Southshires that she finds most concerning, my lord. Viktor Akadra has set the Trelans loose. He has spoken of restoring them to Council!”

  “I take it you don’t approve?” asked Malachi.

  “Did I not say so?” Irritation crept into Makrov’s voice. “I cannot believe the Council . . .”

  “Viktor has the Council’s full support.”

  Makrov’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So you are as responsible for this lamentable state as he?”

  “I’m proud to be so. The shadowthorns must be contained, by any means.”

  Makrov’s jaw tightened. “A lax view, Lord Reveque, and one we all may yet regret.”

  He waddled away up the steps and into the church. Malachi took no small satisfaction from a rolling, lurching gait that spoke to too many leagues travelled on horseback in too short a time. An irritation well-paired with its victim.

  “Father, what’s a shadowthorn?”

  Malachi cursed silently. “It’s a word that your mother should on no account hear you use, nor learn that I’ve been using. Do you understand?”

  Constans grinned, but only briefly. “Yes, Father.”

  A bribe was called for, Malachi decided. “How would you like to see the foundry?”

  Constans had ambled and dragged his heels all afternoon. Now he was a blur of excited activity and wide-eyed wonder among sparking magic and rivers of sun-bright ore.

  Malachi, who could hardly breathe in the smoke-bittered air of the observation gantries, was as grateful for having finally hit upon something to hold his son’s interest. He was also increasingly concerned at what Lily would say at his having brought him there. Still, some rules were made to be broken. And Constans had respected the dangers . . . so far.

  “Thank you for this, Elzar.”

  The old man heaved his shoulders. “It’s good to see the young taking interest. Too many boys his age think only of battle. They don’t consider how its tools are made. A knight is more than his sword, yes. But the sword helps.”

  “Kraikons are a little more complicated than swords.”

  Another shrug. “I’m a proctor. You should expect metaphor. It’s why so few of us marry. Hard to find someone who’ll tolerate tangential replies.”

  Far below, rattling chains lowered a glowing metal skeleton into a cooling vat. The hiss of steam almost drowned out Constans’ awed sigh, but only almost.

  “If I’d an army of kraikons,” said the boy, “I’d conquer Fellhallow and wipe the Empire off the map.”

  “I thought you were the King of Fellhallow?” asked Malachi.

  “That was yesterday.” The boy spoke as one addressing a halfwit. “Today, I am Constans Reveque, Saviour of the Republic.”

  Elzar chuckled. “And we shall be very glad to have you as such. But perhaps I might have a moment alone with your father?” He beckoned down the gantry to a young woman in apprentice’s robes, her tight curls the same rich red as the slow-flowing bronze. “Tailinn will look after you. She was about to name the new forging of simarka. You could help.”

  “They have names?”

  He nodded sagely. “Of course.”

  Constans rounded on Malachi, eyes agleam. �
�May I, Father?”

  “You may.” Malachi hesitated. “But only if you do exactly as Tailinn tells you.”

  Tailinn’s freckles twitched in mirth. “He’ll be safe with me, my lord.”

  “Ah, but will you be safe with him?”

  She inclined her head and led Constans away.

  “He’s a fine boy,” said Elzar. “You should be proud.”

  Malachi grunted, not wanting to admit how little he had to do with his son’s raising, or his character. Besides, he’d been a politician too long not to hear an ambush coming. Elzar wanted something. “What you said last night, about expecting to talk about foundry business . . . ?”

  “Ah. I grow transparent in my old age.”

  “Don’t apologise. In many ways, it’s a relief,” Malachi replied. “What can the Council do for you, high proctor?”

  Elzar glanced back and forth along the gantry. “Someone is stealing kraikons.”

  Malachi didn’t respond at first. He scrutinised Elzar’s expression for a clue to what seemed a poor joke. The dull backwash from the molten metal revealed nothing but shadow and sober concern.

  “One or two go missing every year,” he said. “The metal’s valuable, and not every proctor is as noble as yourself . . .”

  “To my certain knowledge, we’ve lost a dozen this past year,” said Elzar. “And a similar number the year before. That’s a sizeable portion of our output. They leave here, bound for border garrisons or the Outer Isles – at least, that’s what the records show – but they aren’t reaching their destinations.”

  “Why haven’t you reported this before?”

  “I have. Many times. That you remain – begging your pardon – ignorant of the situation tells me a great deal. I shouldn’t even be telling you this now. Protocol is very clear. But someone should know.”

  “You think it’s the Crowmarket?”

  “No one else has the resources to do this so quietly.” Elzar shook his head. “The sheer amount of bribery and blackmail it must take. Whether at warehouse, fleet or convoy, that’s a lot of eyes that need to be looking the other way. More than ever, I’m glad we don’t wake them until they reach their destination.”

  Malachi grimaced. “So long as no one in the Crowmarket has learned the knack.”

  “We’d notice if they had. Not that a kraikon meshes well with the Crowmarket’s activities. They have a way of drawing notice.”

  “It is hard to imagine one shinning up a drainpipe or slitting a purse,” Malachi allowed. “I’ll order the constabulary to sweep the dockside. Most of the stolen kraikons will likely have been melted down or gone into Dregmeet, but we might recover one or two. At worst, it’ll send a message.”

  Elzar nodded, a wary look in his eye. “And if anyone asks what prompted this action?”

  “I’m a privy councillor. We’re known for our whimsy.” He shrugged. “To be honest, Elzar, the reputation I’m getting with my peers they’ll see nothing more than upstart meddling. None of this will come back on you.”

  “My thanks, my lord.”

  “For what? I haven’t heard anything. Now, let’s find that son of mine before he falls into a cooling tank.”

  As it transpired, Constans had engineered no dreadful fate and waited with Tailinn in one of the brick-lined storage vaults. Rank after rank of simarka sat on their haunches in silent contemplation, forelegs straight and tails curled about bunched feet.

  “That one’s Thekas,” said Constans. “And these are Jaspyr, Fredrik, Ozcor, Parzlai, Londo and Shade.”

  Malachi followed his enthusiastic gestures but couldn’t tell the seven apart. Nor indeed could he do so from the dozen or so other simarka in the chamber.

  “Good names,” said Elzar. “They’ll bear them well.”

  Constans nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like a pet cat, Father.”

  “I’m not sure your mother would approve,” said Malachi. “Nor will she be pleased if we’re late for dinner. Say your farewells.”

  Rosa rang the bell at Freemont with no small apprehension. In all the years she and Kasamor had been friends, Lady Kiradin had spoken to her only out of politeness. Never – so far as Rosa knew – from friendliness, except where demanded by tradition, as at the funeral.

  But the invitation had come to Abbeyfields, and so now Rosa waited while hounds barked at the bell’s chime. Lilyana had all but chased her out of the door, insisting she not hide away. Easy for her to say. Lilyana wasn’t cursed. Even if she were, Rosa suspected her faith would scarcely have buckled.

  The door opened. Marek offered a stiff bow and ushered her inside.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Orova. Lady Kiradin will be with you shortly.”

  Rosa nodded, somewhat relieved at the delay. “Of course. Council business must come first.”

  In the event, Rosa was left waiting scarcely a few seconds before Marek reappeared. He ushered her into a generously appointed sitting room at the mansion’s rear. The granite mantelpiece dominated a chamber of soft, tastefully upholstered armchairs. The gentle curves of the plaster cornice complemented perfectly the soft waves of the carpet’s weave.

  “Roslava.” Ebigail rose in greeting, her arms extended in the formal greeting-clasp. “I’m glad you could make it. It’s not often I’ve cause to entertain a hero of the Republic. What is it they call you?”

  Rosa winced. “The Reaper of the Ravonn. It’s a foolish name.”

  “But one that speaks to heroism, I’m sure.”

  Rosa took her host’s hands – palms down, as was customary for a guest – only to be surprised when the older woman leaned in to kiss her cheek. Either she’d misjudged Ebigail for a good many years, or she was now making an effort to compensate for earlier chilly receptions. She wasn’t sure what to believe – or even whether or not she wanted to believe.

  “I was pleased to come. I haven’t spoken to Sevaka since . . . the day of the funeral. Malachi assures me she’s well, but it’s not the same as seeing for yourself.”

  Ebigail gestured for her to sit. “I’m afraid my daughter will not be joining us. Her departure from the navy requires a certain amount of tedious protocol.”

  “She’s resigning her commission?” This time, Rosa couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. “I thought the life suited her.”

  “It did,” Ebigail replied. “Perhaps a little too well. We decided it was time she came home.”

  Rosa nodded her understanding. With Kasamor gone, Sevaka had Kiradin duties to uphold. Ebigail would insist.

  “You will accept my word that Sevaka is in good health and spirits?” asked Ebigail.

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must also accept my thanks for delivering her from harm. It occurs to me that you have been a better friend to my family than I have deserved. It saddens me that I never thought to chide Kasamor for his blindness. Who can say how things might have worked out otherwise?”

  Rosa blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “A mother sees much that is hidden from her son. I can only imagine the burden you’ve borne. When Kasamor’s father died – traitor though he was – it was days before I could face the world.”

  Rosa closed her eyes. It made the renewed swirl of loss and resentment easier to bear. “There’s no replacing him.”

  “No,” said Ebigail. “Kasamor was a man alone, as his father before him. Would you care for tea?”

  “Very much.”

  Ebigail tugged a bell-cord and seated herself opposite Rosa. Moments later, Marek bore refreshments into the room and left as silently as he had arrived. Ebigail poured, filling both butterfly-handled cups to the brim, and the room with the scent of bark and jasmine.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, it’s a shame to see you in uniform again,” said Ebigail. “That dress suited you. Even a soldier should embrace her softer side.”

  Rosa noted that no amount of lace and silk had ever made Ebigail Kiradin appear “soft”. Even now, with grief still near and making an effort to frie
ndliness, she’d edges that could slice steel. As indeed did Rosa herself. Strange to find that they had something in common beyond Kasamor.

  “I’m due to ride for the border the day after tomorrow,” she said instead.

  “My dear, I won’t hear of it. You’re in the 7th, aren’t you? Under Lord Karev’s command?”

  “I have that honour.”

  “He’s a friend. I’ll send word that you’ll be staying in the city for a time.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that!”

  “You’re not.” She wagged a cautioning finger. “I’ll accept no protests. You said you wished to see Sevaka for yourself; this will give you opportunity. And it will give you a chance to put recent events behind you. A burdened soul is an unfit companion for a dangerous road.”

  Rosa grimaced, but saw some appeal in Ebigail’s suggestion. With all that had happened since Kasamor’s death, her thoughts and emotions were awhirl. Returning to the 7th without him would stir everything up anew. Maybe it was better to let things settle.

  “Thank you.”

  “There has to be some small benefit to serving on the Privy Council.” Ebigail took a sip of tea and flashed a small, conspiratorial smile. “What use is influence if it cannot serve one’s friends? It pains me that I must ask a favour in return.”

  “What sort of favour?”

  “I would know the truth about my son’s death. Not the version you told the constabulary.”

  Cold fingers brushed Rosa’s back. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “Then why were there marks of witchery on his body?”

  The fingers closed tight about her lungs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The cup was set aside, and the old Ebigail Kiradin – the one whose stare could level mountains – returned. “I know what I saw. And I want to know why I saw them. This was no ordinary brigand, was it?”

  The stare won out. Rosa stared down at her tea as her resistance crumbled. “Kas called him a kernclaw. An assassin for the Crowmarket.”