Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “I pray Lumestra you’re right,” said Abitha, her eyes raised heavenward.

  Ebigail nodded. “I don’t think we need put this to a formal vote.”

  Malachi shook his head – as much at the rare display of unity as in agreement. Despite Hadon’s confidence, he doubted much lasting impact would be had. But it was a start.

  Little by little, he became aware of a soft, musical murmur, little louder than a whisper. Abitha sat with eyes closed, her fingers locked and her elbows braced on the table. Her lips worked feverishly. Now he listened closer, Malachi made out a few of the words. A prayer for the dead.

  “Must you sully our ears with that nonsense?” snapped Ebigail. “You’d have done better to pray while dear Anton was alive.”

  Abitha’s eyes flickered open. “But I didn’t, and now it’s too late. A lament is all I can offer.”

  “Still, you’ll oblige us by doing so in your own time.”

  “As it happens, I just finished.”

  The women fell silent, each wearing a victorious expression.

  Hadon cleared his throat. “I suppose we’d better make preparations for this grandson to take Anton’s seat. What’s his name, again?”

  “It hardly matters,” said Ebigail. “The boy’s not of the blood. Dear Anton tried to keep it quiet, but I’ve no doubt it’ll come out now. There’s no loyalty among the nobility. Not any more.”

  She paused, inviting the suggestion of scandal to blossom in the shocked silence.

  Despairing at the tawdriness of gossip, Malachi hurried to move the conversation on. “So what happens to his seat?”

  “There’s a cousin, I believe. On Selann. It will doubtless take time for word to reach her.”

  Malachi filed away the information and resolved to find out more. Anton’s death shifted council arithmetic yet again, but only into stalemate and not enough to overturn Ebigail’s machinations regarding the embattled southwealders. Viktor’s vote could have done so, but Viktor was leagues away. He might even be dead. But there was some hope. If Makrov brought the southwealder leaders north before the seat was filled, Viktor would come with them. A new vote could be called and won.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It might even be for the best if Anton’s successor didn’t arrive for some time. Perhaps Braxov could help with that – the steward had family in the Outer Isles. It wouldn’t take much. A small, harmless delay might make all the difference.

  It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t honourable, and it would likely cause more suffering before all was done. But perfection had ever been lacking in the Republic. If Ebigail was for ever outdancing him, as Lily had so forcefully said, perhaps it was time he learned some new steps of his own.

  Malachi rose, wincing as bruises reknitted into new and exciting configurations. “Then with your permission, I’ll return to my family. I haven’t seen them as much as I should – as recent events have reminded me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ebigail’s brow knotted in concern. “Please offer my sympathies to your wife. The Republic is fortunate that you’re both still with us.”

  To Marek’s understanding, the side table had been in the Kiradin family for at least four generations. A pinnacle of its creator’s art, the graceful, flowing curves of its legs combined masterfully with the slivers of semi-precious stones to grant the work a dazzling, iridescent quality. It was not only a treasured heirloom. It was irreplaceable. But when flung at a wall it shattered with much the same scraping crack as any slum-dweller’s table would have.

  “Idiots!” shouted Lady Ebigail. “I’m surrounded by idiots!”

  She aimed a kick at a forlorn table-leg. It skittered across the carpet, slid past Lady Sevaka and bounced off a chair.

  “I’ve always known that.” Lady Sevaka’s tone held a certain dry satisfaction. “But you’ll have to narrow the selection if I’m to feel any sympathy.”

  “That fool kernclaw for one!”

  Satisfaction slid into horror. “So now you’re dealing with the Crowmarket? Is nothing beneath you?”

  “Very little is beneath the powerful, when the need is there.”

  “And the fact that someone had them kill Kasamor doesn’t matter? Have you no feelings? I know you don’t think much of me, but you loved my brother.”

  “It won’t have been anything personal on their part. Just one more commission. I doubt it was even the same kernclaw, and I see no reason not to put them to good use over something that cannot be altered, whatever we might wish.” Lady Ebigail waved a dismissive hand. “Malachi’s death would have kept the Council under my control until well after this business with the Southshires is done. Long enough for everything else to fall into place. Instead, he’s still scheming. Worse, that feckless coward Anton’s slit his wrists over his harlot daughter.” She spun around, eyes ablaze. “Well if he thinks her bastard’s getting a chair at my table, he’s very much mistaken.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Why does it matter? You’re as bad as the rest.”

  “I’ve always known that, too. Perhaps I’d be less useless if I understood the game you’re playing.”

  “The game?” Lady Ebigail’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Malachi Reveque aims to drag the Republic into soft-bellied anarchy, and you think this is a game?”

  “When did you become obsessed with Malachi?”

  “When he grew a spine. If only my daughter would do the same.”

  “Then have the kernclaw make a second attempt.”

  “The Crowmarket won’t risk another failure. They’ve a lot of pride for a den of thieves.”

  Lady Sevaka shrugged. “Then I don’t know what to suggest. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “And where are you going this night,” asked Lady Ebigail. “Another dalliance, I suppose?”

  Her daughter halted, her hand on the door. “As it happens, Rosa asked for my help.”

  “Oh, so you’re friends now, are you?”

  Her back still to her mother, Lady Sevaka’s expression soured. A bleakness settled in Marek’s heart to see it. She’d smiled so little since coming home.

  “That’s what she thinks. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. See that you remain mindful of how things really are.”

  “How could I forget?”

  The door slammed. Lady Ebigail stared in silence for a long moment. Then she collapsed in an armchair, palm braced against her brow. “Never have children, Marek.”

  “No, lady.”

  “Only those you cannot claim have any worth, and the rest . . .” She leaned forward, her expression clearing and dry enthusiasm crowding her tone. “But Sevaka was right, wasn’t she? I have allowed my gaze to wander. Malachi is only part of the problem. But I cannot leave the house. After last night’s failure, that would draw too much notice. I must be seen to cower behind my guards.”

  Her head snapped up. Marek straightened as her gaze touched on him. “Lady?”

  “I need you to deliver a message.”

  Thirty-Four

  Sunlight shone down on the Southshires. The free Southshires. Victory had been a long time coming, its cost measured in widows and orphans. But this one glorious moment – the hour of the Council’s long awaited surrender . . . ? Josiri was determined to enjoy it. It was a new dawn.

  “Are you coming, brother?” Calenne stood at the balcony doorway, her gloved hand extended. “It’s time.”

  He nodded. “Past time and true.”

  “Mother would be proud. I am proud.”

  “We both are.” Anastacia’s impish smile belied her statement. “Enough stalling. Your people are waiting.”

  Josiri frowned. A crowd gathered below. Men, women and children, waiting for his word. Problem was, he was certain they hadn’t been there before.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  Calenne led him to the balcony’s edge. Her sapphire eyes turned dark. Jagged black lines crept across her cheeks. “Say a few wo
rds, that’s all. After all, you led us here.”

  Josiri stared out across the terrace. Lifeless eyes shifted in sockets of withered flesh and rose to meet his. A field of corpses in ragged clothes. Behind them, Eskavord burned against a darkening sky. The first wisps of green-white mist curled across withered grass.

  He gagged. The world spun beneath his feet. Gloved hands caught his, holding him upright.

  “You cannot leave, brother.” Beneath Calenne’s funeral veil, maggots burrowed free of scorched and blistered flesh. “You belong with us. We will all be one in the Dark.”

  He screamed and pulled away. Brittle fingers snapped and fell into the dust.

  “Josiri?” Anastacia’s voice came everywhere at once, and yet nowhere. “Josiri?”

  “Go away!” he bellowed. “Leave me alone!”

  He spun about, lost his balance and fell into the mists.

  Josiri opened his eyes into morning sunlight. The cold stone was rough under his left temple. Sourness crowded the back of his mouth. The pounding in his head matched the sullen thump of his heart.

  [[This is not the reunion I envisaged.]]

  “Anastacia?”

  He rolled over. Anastacia stood at the balcony’s edge, her back to him and hands crossed lightly at her waist. The hooded shawl and black velvet dress seemed too humble for her tastes. Beyond, the roofs and spires of Eskavord revelled in Lumestra’s light.

  “Where have you been?” he croaked. He unsteadily hoisted himself to a sitting position. “I was worried.”

  [[Were you?]] Her voice wasn’t right, though he couldn’t say why. [[I’ve been beyond the wall.]]

  “What? How?”

  [[Akadra made it possible.]]

  “That’s not an answer.”

  So it had been Akadra’s doing. Just another means of tormenting him. Of isolating him. But it had failed. Or had it? Anastacia didn’t sound herself, and it was more than the catch in her voice.

  “But you’re back?” He hated how pathetic the question sounded.

  [[I don’t know. It’s not wholly my choice.]]

  Slowly, with one hand pressed against the manor wall, Josiri rose to his feet. He was used to Anastacia’s evasions, so why did this one send a shiver down his spine?

  “Whose choice is it?”

  Her head dipped. [[Freedom came with a price, extracted from us both.]]

  He shook his head and cursed softly as the motion set the world spinning. “I don’t understand.”

  [[You will.]]

  She turned, fingers brushing the hood from her brow. Dark eyes swirled in a face of smooth, white porcelain chased with gold and framed by black tresses.

  Josiri’s heart leapt into his throat. His shaking fingers clutched at the wall. He felt sick, as if all the festering ills of the past days had settled deep within his gut, and now sought to spill free.

  “That’s . . . That’s not a mask, is it?”

  [[No.]]

  An eternity passed as he struggled to find his voice. Another crawled by while he sought words beyond his straining grasp. He felt smothered by ice, the warmth sucked from his bones even as his lungs cracked.

  “How?” He gasped the word from a raw throat. “How did Akadra do this?”

  Anastacia’s gloved fingers clinked against her face. [[He made this body. He promised it would carry me beyond the walls, and it has. But it is also my prison. I cannot leave, and the world is dust, for all the sensation it offers.]]

  “No!” Josiri ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “This isn’t real! What you’re talking about . . . it’s not possible.”

  [[You know I was never flesh as you are flesh . . . and many things are possible with magic that are otherwise not.]]

  “Magic? Your magic?”

  [[And his. I thought together . . .]] A hint of panic touched her voice. [[This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.]]

  The note of dismay, of loss, finally cracked a chink in the ice around him. Josiri’s hands slipped from his face and looked again at the horror Akadra had wrought. The thing he had made of the beautiful, effervescent creature with whom he had shared so many years.

  Ice melted before a raging flame.

  “I’ll kill him!”

  A gloved hand closed around his arm, the grip tighter than it had any right to be.

  [[No! If I’d wanted that, he’d be dead already. And I did want it, for a time. I have wanted so many things this past day. I have dreamed forth enough woe on others to drown an ocean. But in the end, I have one need alone. Even if he can no longer bear to look upon what I’ve become.]]

  Josiri caught the fearful expectation in her voice. That was what she’d meant about it not being her choice whether or not she remained. If he asked – if he even spoke the wrong words or let his revulsion show – she’d leave. And then there was the unspoken question. How did he answer? How could he?

  Easier to focus on hate. “Akadra must pay.”

  [[He made an honest mistake. I compounded it through greed. Revenge offers no solace. Only . . .]] The grip on his arm slackened. She turned away. [[I have used my life poorly. I have sought only gratification. I have not stood beside those I loved when I should, and I have not fought when it was my time to do so.]]

  “Anastacia . . .”

  [[Let me finish. I once said you had it in you to be a great man.]] She held out her hands and stared bitterly at them. [[In seeking to spur you to that greatness, have I poisoned you with my own selfishness? If that is so, then whatever becomes of us, I beg you: be better than me.]]

  Whatever becomes of us. Josiri knew what she wanted to hear, but didn’t know if he could utter the words. And what did that say of him? Of the love he’d sought so many times to profess? Was it truly as shallow as the skin she’d worn? Was he so shallow, for his feelings to sour when lissom flesh was replaced by clay? Surely Anastacia was no less real, her being no less an illusion?

  But it was different. She was different. And so would they be, if his touch was no longer comfort to her, or hers to him. If Akadra had desired to drive them apart – to remind Josiri of the gulf separating his ephemeral yearnings from Anastacia’s deathless being – he could have found no better way. And yet she, who recalled every mouth of soured wine, every unseasonal chill and every last slight – bore him no ill will?

  This was too much to bear. It would have been too much if he’d been well-rested, and no aftermath of drink taken fogging his thoughts. But this wasn’t about him, was it? If he felt thus, how must Anastacia feel, trapped in a body not her own? Numb to the sensations in which she’d revelled.

  Calenne. Revekah. Even Crovan, after a fashion. He’d pushed them all away, and in the process lost pieces of his own being. If he rejected Anastacia also – now, when she needed him most, what remained of Josiri Trelan save his name?

  And he needed her too. Now, more than ever.

  “Anastacia?”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. After a moment’s resistance, she turned about, eyes brimming with wary expectation. Strange how they were more expressive now they were trapped within an immobile face. Josiri raised a faltering hand and cupped her cheek.

  Warm. The porcelain was warm beneath his fingers. He hadn’t expected that.

  He drew her into an embrace. “Stay. Please.”

  Calenne hauled her horse to a standstill. She stared out past the hastily raised redoubt and towards the forest of silken banners. The first Hadari outriders had entered the plain in late morning. The first infantry by early afternoon. Their tents spilled across the fields like a stain. Two farms had already fallen within the spreading cordon. Kai Saran’s owl-banner flew free above. Crackling flames framed a third. Despite her eagerness to leave, Calenne couldn’t bear the thought of Branghall burning thus.

  “There are so many,” she breathed.

  Viktor wheeled his horse back around to join her. “And more to come.”

  More to come. It seemed impossible. But then, she’d no experience of war.
No experience of so many things. “Is there any chance at all?”

  He grunted. “If luck is with us.”

  “I thought soldiers didn’t believe in luck.”

  “I’ll believe in anything that brings victory.”

  She chuckled, more to hold back the feeling of despair than from any humour. “So you’ll be praying tonight?”

  He gave a wry shake of the head. “Almost anything.”

  She wanted to look away, but there was something hypnotic about the sun-glimmered green of the Hadari banners. So much more vibrant than the stark king’s blue standards of the Tressian companies. And they were a world away from the patchwork militia. Most were Eskavord’s citizens, but some had come from as far afield as the coast, or the Tevar Flood. Drawn by the promise of the Phoenix.

  The promise that would get them killed.

  “It’s not too late,” murmured Viktor. “You don’t have to be here.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no place else I belong. Not now. Can we win?”

  “Yes.”

  She searched for the tick or flinch that would betray the lie. “You wouldn’t deceive me on this, would you, Lord Akadra?”

  “Not on this, nor anything else, Lady Trelan. I’d not dare.”

  Try as she might, Calenne sensed no lie in his words. “Then how can we win, when the numbers lie so heavy in their favour?”

  “Because I do not intend to lose.”

  The simple arrogance ripped wild laughter from her lips. “And the weight of history turns on your wishes?”

  He shook his head. “History is the sum of our deeds and our failures. How many men and women long for a chance to make a difference? How many act upon that chance when the moment comes? Those moments are Lumestra’s greatest gift. I will seize all that present themselves. If others do the same, victory will be ours.”

  “And how will I know when my moment arrives?”

  “I’ve no advice to give you. Not in this.”

  She smiled. “Then I suppose I’ll have to trust my instincts.”

  “In the end, our instinct is all we have. That, and our duty.”