Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

She laid a hand on the wall and drew strength from the roughness of cracked plaster and brick. Tangible. Real. A world away from raven-cloaks and elder cousins. From the path she had to tread. She wanted to turn back. Wanted it so badly she feared her heart might give out. But she was a kernclaw. She had duties to her cousins. If she left them unfulfilled . . .

  Apara took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the musty air, and roused the spark of magic that was the Raven’s gift. It rippled through her, ecstatic and foreboding. The wall fell away into a mist-wreathed arch.

  She snatched back her hand. The world beyond the archway was different: gone was the ornate tomb and the ominous black walls, replaced by a narrow street whose upper storeys vanished into skies dancing with viridian light.

  More importantly, there was no sign of him. She couldn’t have gone through with it otherwise – would sooner have made a daylight assault on the Essamere chapterhouse than tread the mists with the Raven at her side. Bad enough that the washed-out streets were thick with the spirits of the dead. The chill air of the place that was no place shortened her breath even from beyond the arch.

  Otherworld was no place for the living, not even for a kernclaw – much less a reluctant one. Time flowed strangely within, hours passing like minutes, or minutes like days. And the pathways were treacherous. Though the entrances to Otherworld were fixed – determined by where the walls between worlds ran thin – it was easy to run astray, lured from the path by temptation or fear. All vranakin knew that. It was the stuff of harrowing legend. But turning back meant failure. And the stark scrape of heels across the dusty floor laid bare those consequences.

  Drawing the raven-cloak close, Apara stepped through the arch.

  The Privy Council chamber stank of dwindling and dust. From the oversized map that proclaimed dominance of provinces long since lost, to the escutcheons of noble lines long since faded, it spoke of minds mired in a golden age more fantasy than historical fact. No wonder the Tressian Council clung so tight to tradition. It belonged more to the past than the present.

  The sword in the centre of the table struck a jarring note. Melanna Saran’s blade shone brilliantly even in the gloom.

  “I greet you, Josiri. But I do not welcome you.” If Ebigail Kiradin’s voice held any more warmth than her expression, it was by the barest margin. “Your mother tore this Republic in two. We need no more troublemakers at this table.”

  Josiri had known Kasamor well enough to like him, and saw little of the mother in the son. She seemed perfectly in place in that chamber, a flesh and blood relic surrounded by those of wood and stone.

  “I came here only to put the past behind us.” He chose his words with absolute care. “Why else would I embrace Viktor as a brother?”

  Hadon Akadra snorted. “To spare yourself a cage, I’ve no doubt.”

  Here at least the apple had not fallen so far from the tree. The elder Akadra was very much a greyer, worn version of the younger. He was no friendlier in manner than Ebigail, and made little attempt to conceal his dislike.

  “Not so, Father.” Josiri felt a surge of wild glee as Hadon’s eyes narrowed at the unwanted – but entirely proper – form of address. “I’m sure Viktor would confirm that, were he here.”

  “So I’m Father to you now, am I?” growled Hadon. “If you’d any inkling of that bond’s importance, you’d have presented yourself to me last night, and not left Sergeant Brass to bring tidings.”

  Malachi shot Josiri a warning look from across the table. Even before the meeting, he’d warned that Hadon might seek grounds to annul the adoption. Such efforts were seldom invoked, but not unheard of.

  “I did only as Viktor instructed, Father.” Again Josiri took silent revel in Hadon’s distaste. Being accounted an Akadra had become bearable knowing that Hadon hated the idea even more than he. “I thought it best to respect his wishes, but I’ll gladly forgo Malachi’s hospitality in favour of yours.”

  Hadon drew himself up, a stiffness of his shoulders betraying fresh discomfort. “That isn’t necessary. Though I’ll of course see you quartered at Swanholt, if you wish it.”

  Josiri decided not to dwell on the twin meanings of the word “quartered”. “I’d as soon not be a burden to you until I’m more familiar with my new home. Viktor assured me it wouldn’t take long.”

  Ebigail’s thin fingers drummed on the table top. “I’m afraid young Viktor’s word is not all it was. Accusations of treason, corruption – even complicity in the death of my beloved son.”

  She glanced away and pressed a bunched handkerchief to her lips. The lines around her eyes softened. Then she rallied, the handkerchief tucked deftly away, and the patrician air back in full force. “I shall feel a keen sense of betrayal if it transpires that Kasamor died because Viktor was jealous of his good fortune with your sister.”

  Josiri bit back a flare of resurgent worry at Calenne’s fate, and wished he’d taken the opportunity on the journey north to pry information from Viktor. Take Kasamor. All Josiri knew of the man’s murder was what Ebigail had included in her perfunctory letter.

  Hadon thumped the table, setting porcelain teacups jingling in saucers. “Dammit, Ebigail! That’s my son you’re talking about.”

  Her lip curled. “He wouldn’t be the first traitor to drag his family into the gutter. And as for those other accusations . . .”

  Malachi cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I’d hoped we might prevail on the provosts to halt their enquiries until these other, criminal, matters are settled. If Viktor is a traitor – and I pray that he is not – then his offences against the Council must take precedence.”

  “I disagree,” said Ebigail. “Witchery is an affront to Lumestra, and this council is an instrument of her will.”

  What would she say, Josiri wondered, if she knew Lumestra had perished long ago, torn apart by her daughters? “I concur with Malachi’s assessment. If for no other reason than we shall all look foolish if we can’t hang Viktor for a traitor if the provosts have already burned him.”

  Malachi shot him a look only fractionally less sour than Ebigail’s. Josiri paid them both no heed. If gallows humour kept him from angry outburst, then he’d gladly indulge it.

  “Father?”

  Hadon shared a glance with Ebigail and stared down at his clasped hands. The elder Akadra resembled nothing so much as a greying wolfhound whose master had just yanked his leash.

  “I regret that I cannot agree,” he said. “I cannot open myself to accusations of using status to protect my son.”

  Malachi half-rose from his chair. “Hadon . . .”

  Hadon’s unhappy stare snapped. “Do not test me on this! I will not follow Viktor’s supposed corruption with the certainty of my own. Sometimes silence is the only acceptable course. You’re a father, Malachi. Pray you never find yourself in my position.”

  “Lord Reveque! A moment of your time.”

  A vision in scuffed leathers, Elzar hurried along the palace corridor at a pace seldom employed by a fellow of the high proctor’s rank.

  Malachi tapped Josiri on the shoulder and nodded towards the knot of hearthguard waiting nearby. “Go. I won’t be long. And, Josiri? Don’t be downhearted. You and I are going to change things. I promise.”

  Josiri withdrew with a weariness Malachi himself felt all too keenly after long hours in the company of Ebigail Kiradin.

  Malachi forced a smile and grasped Elzar’s proffered hand. “High Proctor. I’m afraid I’ve little progress to report on your . . . inventory issues.”

  Reports aired only hours before had made it clear that the joint patrols of constabulary and seconded hearthguard had turned up only the pettiest of criminals. No stolen kraikons, no crowmarketeers, and no consensus in council as to how to proceed. Hadon had been all for widening the search, but Ebigail debated the issue with scarcely contained boredom – a stance Malachi would have found more detestable if he’d not felt similar apathy. A man had only so much attention to invest.

  E
lzar took his arm and steered him to an alcove sporting a stern marble bust of Konor Belenzo.

  “I heard Viktor’s been taken by the provosts,” he muttered. “Is it true?”

  Relief and renewed disappointment mingled in Malachi’s veins. “Shouldn’t I be asking you, high proctor?”

  “We both know my colleagues are bound to a certain . . . secrecy of action. Just as we both know it’s poor manners to evade an honest question.”

  “My apologies. I’ve spent much of the day in council – some of it failing to secure Viktor’s release.”

  Salt and pepper brows knotted. Elzar’s face wrinkled. “You must find a way.”

  “I know. A provost’s inquisition never ends in acquittal. Innocence is only proven in death.”

  “You misunderstand.” Elzar dropped his voice another notch. “They’ll not kill him for what he is not, but for what he is.”

  Malachi glanced hurriedly about. “You can’t be serious. Elzar, do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Better than you, my lord.”

  “You’re telling me Viktor deserves this!”

  Wrinkles reknitted into a scowl. “Do you believe that?”

  Malachi’s thoughts raced. Yes. No. Viktor. A witch. An abomination in Lumestra’s sight. His friend. It was too much to take in. He felt dizzy with it. “I don’t know.”

  “I told you before. A gift is a gift. It’s the use that separates wicked from divine. Darkness. Light. They’re excuses. Or do you hold all proctors to be paragons of virtue simply because we wield the light?” He gave a sharp smile. “The archimandrite, perhaps, for his unwavering faith?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Malachi hissed. “I can’t storm into the vaults and demand his release, not without the backing of the Council. And even Viktor’s own father won’t lend his support.”

  “No, I suppose not. Forgive me, my lord. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Malachi lied. “At least now I know the truth of things.”

  So why did he feel hollow to his very marrow?

  Even bloodied and blind, the knight battered at Apara with a gauntleted fist. Tightening her grip about his head, she rammed a knee into his back and drove his throat onto her claws. The lightest of pressures, the softest of tugs. His defiant bellow gasped into a stuttering gurgle.

  She let the twitching body fall and slumped to one knee in the thinning mists, barely able to breathe for the hot scent of fresh blood. Her cloak, her garb – even her skin was thick with it. Her stomach spasmed, held in check only by the tatters of her fading will.

  She stared at Kaleo Tassandra’s corpse, lying in a dark pool strewn with papers scattered from the office desk. She didn’t even remember killing the Mistress of Essamere. There was only the rush of wings, the exhilaration of slaughter. She recalled scant else of the others. Five knights, trained warriors all, and she – Apara Rann, who’d never taken a life until a week prior – had slain them all as naturally as drawing breath.

  They’d not even landed a blow.

  The younger her, the one who’d struggled to thrive mired in Dregmeet’s myriad rivalries, would have rejoiced. The older, more seasoned woman knew better. What was she becoming? What was the cloak making of her?

  Urgent voices stirred her from misery. The cloak whispered hungrily, urging her to stay. Worse, a piece of her wanted to.

  Apara reached trembling fingers to the wall. A bloody hand-print smeared across whitewashed plaster and fell away into Otherworld’s mists.

  As she stumbled into the ghost-crowded streets beyond, she felt a presence at her shoulder.

  “Impressive, my dear,” whispered the Raven. “Very impressive. You might have a knack for this.”

  Apara yelped and spun around, ghosts parting before her. But the Raven – if indeed he’d ever been more than a figment conjured from a mind sick with terror and disgust – had gone.

  Head swimming with nausea, she fled into the mists.

  Fifty-One

  “Halvor!”

  Kurkas shot bolt upright, hand flailing for support at the bedside. He bided a moment, feeling ridiculous at his outburst. Fortunately, the room was empty. And what a room it was. Faded grandeur was grandeur nonetheless, and Kurkas reckoned the furniture alone had cost more than he’d earned in thirty years.

  Branghall. He had to be in Branghall. But where was Halvor? What in Queen’s Ashes had gotten into her? And that voice . . . Like the spaces between the slivers of the soul.

  He prised himself out of bed and found his clothes – dry, but still dusty with mud – slung over the back of a chair. Dressing swiftly as injuries permitted, he stalked into the hallway. His wounded leg bore weight better than he’d expected. Still, he propped himself against the wall every few paces, leaving dusty smears against the faded paintwork.

  A soldier in the king’s blue of the 12th intercepted him halfway down the corridor.

  “Captain Kurkas, you’re awake?”

  Kurkas didn’t recognise the youth, though clearly his own appearance hadn’t drifted so far into vagabondage that he’d gone unrecognised. Then again, he was somewhat distinctive. “So it’d seem, lad.”

  “Lieutenant Brask would like to speak with you.”

  He nodded. The head of Branghall’s garrison lay roughly third in line of Kurkas’ priorities, after Halvor and Anastacia, but you took matters as you found them. “I’m sure he . . .”

  “She, sir.”

  “. . . she does. Lead on.”

  The soldier led Kurkas along the hallway, down a narrow set of servants’ stairs and thence into a small library with high windows. A young woman glanced up from the desk as Kurkas entered, then scrambled to her feet.

  “Captain Kurkas. Glad to see you up and about. Given your injuries, I wasn’t sure . . .”

  Kurkas sank gratefully into a fraying armchair, its leather cool where it touched his skin. “Thought I was soft, just because I’m a hearthguard, and not a ‘proper’ soldier?”

  Brask’s lips pinched tight. “Not at all. I meant no offence.”

  But nor did she see fit to offer the honorific that went with superior rank. Too young to realise that the differences between hearthguard and regular army were of little account, and too arrogant to offer proper deference.

  Brask stared past Kurkas to the doorway, where his escort still waited. “Dastarov? I’m sure our guest’s hungry.”

  “Sir.” Dastarov bowed and withdrew.

  Brask rounded the desk and perched on its outer edge. “What were you doing climbing the wall?”

  “Trying to get in.”

  “We’ve a gate for that.”

  Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. Brask didn’t sound suspicious, though you never could tell. “Weren’t possible, given the circumstances . . . The woman. Where is she?”

  Brask snorted. “The southwealder? We’ve turned a wine cellar into a jail, just for her. Two of my lot had to drag her off you.”

  “Did they now?” Kurkas stared at his feet. His last hope that he’d somehow misremembered events crumbled to dust. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. “She seem normal to you?”

  “By whose standards?” Brask shook her head. “Southwealders aren’t like the rest of us. They’re barbarians, little better than the Hadari.”

  Should he ask about the eyes? No. Better to see for himself. Just because his memory wasn’t playing tricks with the broader canvas didn’t mean the details were true. “I’d like to see her.”

  Brask folded her arms. “When we’re done.”

  “You’ve something you want to say to me, lieutenant? An accusation, perhaps?”

  “I just wonder why one of our own was caught breaking into a prison, and in the company of a southwealder. Especially when he’s on a roster of missing. The archimandrite’s had folk searching for you.”

  “Nice of him.”

  Kurkas met Brask’s stare. Now there was suspicion. A pity she was so close to the truth. It left him only
one resort. Under other circumstances, he’d have felt guilty. As it was, it’d hardly make Halvor’s life more difficult.

  “Her and me, we were comrades at Davenwood. Fought the shad-owthorns back-to-back.” He filled a scowl with chagrin. “Took me captive after. Hid me away in one of their rat-holes to use as leverage against Lord Akadra, but I escaped. The rest you know.”

  “She had a ward-brooch.”

  “Of course she did. One of the duke’s confidants, isn’t she? Helped win him round.”

  Brask gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I suppose treachery is all we can expect from her sort.”

  With grand effort, Kurkas kept his face immobile. Brask was a little too convinced for his tastes. “Close to the archimandrite, are you?”

  “I’d the good fortune to study beneath him before joining the army.”

  “I thought it’d be something like that. Don’t suppose he’s here?”

  “His eminence prefers to be among the people, though he visits the prisoner each day.”

  “She giving you any trouble? Anastacia Psanneque, I mean.”

  A small, sly smile. “Oh no. We’ve been quite thorough.”

  A shiver darted along Kurkas’ spine. “She up to a conversation?”

  “She’s in confinement. Contact is forbidden save with the archiman-drite’s personal approval.”

  “I’ve Lord Akadra’s authority,” he lied.

  “Which I’m sure his eminence will be delighted to discuss,” Brask said smoothly. “Anyway, she’s hardly worth listening to. Just sneers and heretical doggerel. What else can one expect from a demon?”

  Kurkas rated his odds of swaying Makrov as rather dimmer than the sun over Eskavord, but it had to be attempted. Strange times demanded the insight of strange folk, and Anastacia was the oddest person he’d met in years.

  “He’ll be here later, did I hear you say?”

  A frown touched Brask’s face. “As it happens, he’s overdue.”

  Bloody typical. Some poor wretch was suffering for that, Kurkas was sure.

  The door creaked open. Dastarov entered.

  “Ah,” said Kurkas. “Is that breakfast?”