Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  Ribald voices chimed ahead, the soft mutter of bored men on lonely duty. Sevaka gathered her stolen cloak and clung deep to the shadows.

  Two constables appeared at the end of the alley, one chuckling at the other’s murmured witticism. She could go to them. Beg for protection. No. If she couldn’t trust the navy to offer sanctuary, what hope of salvation with Captain Horden’s constabulary?

  The patrol trudged past, their stride that curious mix of unhurried and urgent practised by purposeless lawkeepers everywhere. Sevaka lingered in the shadows, groping tiredly for options.

  Not the constabulary. Not the navy. Not family. Friends? That was a poor joke. She’d none in the city save Rosa, and she was compromised.

  That left only one possibility. Malachi Reveque. He’d no reason to help her, but perhaps that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t really about her, was it? Even in her own life, she was a bystander. But there was still time to change that.

  She sucked down a deep breath. It wasn’t far. Three streets, no more.

  Apara stumbled out of the mists, the portal to Otherworld already closing behind. As much as Otherworld sometimes resembled the mortal realm, it was all illusion. The slightest wavering of attention, and the mists delighted in steering you wrong. Caught between the dread of disappointing Lady Kiradin and the fear she was already too late, Apara’s attention had wavered like never before.

  Despite everything, she’d come true to her destination: the ruined bell tower amid the granite ribs of Strazyn Abbey. Not somewhere she’d have come by choice, even though she knew that the rumours of cyraeths and revenants owed more to the thinness of the boundary between the mortal realm and Otherworld than deathless malice lurking among the weeds.

  But the bell tower offered unparalleled vantage of the nearby streets. Of patrolling constables, and packs of ne’er-do-wells risking curfew for a dubious thrill. And there, in the alleyway to the west, a lone figure running with uneven gait, a Freemont hearthguard’s cloak flapping behind.

  Apara cast the raven-cloak wide, and gave herself to the wind.

  Sevaka clutched at the rough brick of the townhouse wall and whooped air into heaving lungs. Across the street, the railings of Abbeyfields glinted in the flicker of a firestone lantern. Almost there. One last effort, and she’d be safe.

  Pulling her hood low, she pushed away from the corner.

  A bell clanged out. “Hey! Halt and be recognised!”

  Sevaka threw a glance over her shoulder, gauging her chance of outpacing the pursuing constables. Not nearly good enough. She shuddered to a halt and turned about. The constables approached with hands on swords but faces devoid of hostility.

  “You’re in breach of curfew,” said the nearest, a matronly woman with more years behind than left ahead. “Let’s have your name.”

  “Please,” Sevaka gasped. “I must see Lord Reveque. He’ll vouch for me.”

  The last vestiges of friendliness slipped from the constable’s expression. “You not hear me, missy? Curfew. If you want to slip into his lordship’s bed, you do it before dusk or out of my sight.”

  “Listen to me, please . . .”

  “What’s the point? It’s the cells for you. Bind her up, Garsh. We’ll take her in.”

  Garsh eyed his colleague without enthusiasm and reached for the shackles on his belt.

  The night exploded with crow-voices. A torrent of black wings plucked at Sevaka’s cloak and swept over the constables.

  Garsh’s wild screech gurgled into nothing. His body hit the cobbles at Sevaka’s feet. Somewhere behind, steel scraped free of its scabbard, only to be drowned by a chorus of crow-shrieks and small, wet tearing sounds.

  Blinded by the storm, Sevaka wrapped her arms about her head and ran for the railings.

  Malachi rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. Even with the terrace’s gloom to confuse matters, Josiri suspected his lordship was close to losing his patience.

  “That’s your proof, Rosa? A pair of forbidden texts?”

  “It’s more than enough to involve the provosts.”

  Josiri was well accustomed to listening to gaps in conversation. Life with Calenne and Anastacia had taught him that what was not said was often as important as what was – especially when you could practically hear the evasion rushing like a river beneath the words.

  It seemed Malachi thought so as well. “But not for accusations of conspiracy,” he said, “let alone murder. You know better than most that an unusual gift is no proof of blackened character.”

  Josiri had thought Rosa’s stare couldn’t get any colder. He’d been wrong.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Malachi . . .” growled Rosa.

  Malachi set his glass down on a planter. “It means dear Rosa here is what legend once called an eternal. She doesn’t bleed. She can’t die. Sadly, it also seems to have rotted her brain.”

  Rosa sprang. One hand about Malachi’s throat, she slammed him against a trellis.

  “How dare you!” She drew Malachi in and slammed him forward again. The trellis rattled in its moorings. “That’s not your secret to tell!”

  Malachi spluttered and clawed at Rosa’s forearm. Josiri flung his arms about her shoulders and heaved. He might as well have striven against a tree. A thrust of her elbow sent him sprawling, gasping for breath.

  “The provosts . . . are killing my friend,” gasped Malachi. “There’s . . . nothing I don’t . . . dare.”

  Rosa snarled and flung him away. He thumped into the balustrade and scrabbled for purchase on the stone. Braxov hurried out of the night, a pair of wooden-faced hearthguards looming to either side.

  “Is there a problem, my lord?”

  The steward’s tone made it damn clear that he knew there was a problem, but Malachi waved him away. “High spirits, nothing more. Brandy’s a mocker of dignity.”

  Braxov’s expression did nothing to hide his scepticism, but he withdrew all the same, the hearthguards on his heels.

  Malachi rubbed his throat. “I’m sorry, Rosa. I spoke out of turn.”

  She stared off into the night. “I’m sorry too.”

  To Josiri’s way of thinking, she didn’t sound any sorrier than Braxov had looked convinced. After a brief check that his ribs were still where they should have been, he clambered to his feet.

  “If it helps, you’ve my word I’ll tell no one.”

  “As if a southwealder’s word is worth anything.”

  Josiri gritted his teeth. The anger in Rosa’s voice was sickeningly familiar. He’d been the same back when Viktor had arrived in Eskavord. She’d made a choice, and now events were galloping away with her in the saddle. Better to hang on for dear life than risk the fall.

  “Tell us the rest,” he said. “What harm can it do?”

  She grimaced. “You won’t—”

  A woman’s scream echoed up from the grounds. It lingered in the night air, then faded to nothing.

  Malachi went deathly pale. “Braxov! Braxov! Where are you, man?”

  The steward entered the terrace at a flat run, the hearthguards in his wake. “My lord?”

  “Lady Reveque? Where is she?”

  “Inside. I spoke to her not five minutes ago.”

  Malachi nodded tersely and jabbed a finger at the nearest hearth-guard. “Back inside. You stay with my wife until I say otherwise, do you understand me? Braxov, see to my children. The rest of you are with me. Rosa . . .”

  Josiri turned. Rosa had already gone.

  Apara let the constable’s body fall and vaulted the railings, raven-cloak squalling at her heels. Two more deaths. Two more cyraeths waiting for vengeance in the mists. How many more?

  She glanced up just as Sevaka vanished into the trees.

  One more. At least one more.

  Apara cast the raven-cloak wide. She dove through the trees as fragments of fluttering shadow, each one more than a piece but less than the whole. Her quarry’s fear was sharp on the breeze, intoxicating and sicken
ing in equal measure.

  The trees thinned. Sevaka lurched to a halt on the sheer riverbank. Arms spread wide, she steadied herself. Soil scattered away into the waters twelve feet below. Apara drew in the cloak. Her fragments coalesced and landed lightly a half-dozen paces from the cliff.

  A hammer-blow cracked against her skull. Her head snapped back, vision drowned in black and red splotches.

  Sevaka let another stone fly. Apara twisted away, and it crashed into the trees.

  “You won’t take me back!” shouted Sevaka.

  Apara shook her head to clear it. “No. I won’t.”

  She closed the distance in a single leap. Her left hand closed around Sevaka’s throat. The right drove steel claws deep into her belly.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I truly am.”

  Sevaka shuddered. Her heels scrabbled on the edge of the cliff. Her hood fell back . . .

  . . . and Apara found herself staring into a mirror.

  No, not quite a mirror, she realised through creeping numbness. Sevaka Kiradin was fair where Apara was dark, and younger by a good many years. But the snub nose, the grey eyes – the arc of her brow. Close enough for kin.

  Close enough for a family Apara had never known.

  As for her face, you’ll know it when you see it.

  “No!”

  Sevaka’s flailing hand grabbed Apara’s collar. Her head slammed forward.

  For the second time in as many minutes, Apara’s sight danced black and red. When it cleared, she was on her knees, and Sevaka was lost to the river.

  Lanterns gleamed on the lower bank, the sound of voices close behind. Apara tore her gaze from the waters and vanished into the night.

  Rosa plunged into the river as the body struck. Waters surging about her waist and the soft mud of the riverbed sucking at her boots, she half-walked, half-swam to where the woman drifted like a macabre lily blossom.

  Bracing against the current, Rosa hoisted her clear. Blood gushed across a torn jacket. Grey eyes fluttered open. A pale, weed-strewn hand brushed Rosa’s cheek.

  “Rosa?” Greenish water spilled from her lips. “Always . . . saving me.”

  “Sevaka?” Surprise and horror fought for command. Anger triumphed over all. It drove her back through the rushing water towards the riverbank. “I’ve got you.”

  “. . .’m sorry.”

  “Don’t speak. I’ll get help.”

  “Help . . . I helped her lie to you.” Sevaka gripped Rosa’s shoulder. “She killed him . . . She killed her own son . . .”

  She fell back, pale and still but for a fluttering chest.

  “Sevaka!”

  Water streaming through her armour, Rosa stalked through the rushes and into the gathering circle of lantern-light. Cold, hard faces stared back. She laid Sevaka on the grass.

  Malachi knelt, his eyes darting. “Is she alive?”

  Rosa barely heard. She killed her own son. There was no mistaking Sevaka’s meaning. Anger faded and left behind a cold void where her heart should have been.

  “Look after her.” She backed away.

  Josiri grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

  She shrugged him off. “To put things right.”

  Fifty-Four

  Malachi swept the contents of the kitchen table onto the floor. “There. Set her down.”

  Water trickling across the tiles, the hearthguards bore Sevaka to the now-empty table and laid her down. The room already stank of blood, and of the riverbed. She moaned as her head came to rest. She’d not stirred to wakefulness in the trek across the garden.

  He gestured blindly at the hearthguard. “One of you, fetch Lady Reveque. Quickly!”

  “Lady Reveque is already here.”

  Lily strode into the kitchen in nightgown and housecoat, a golden halo of disarrayed hair trailing behind. She caught sight of Sevaka and her purposeful expression wavered.

  “Malachi? What happened?”

  “Rosa pulled her out of the river.”

  Lily offered a crisp nod. “No time for a physician, curfew or not. I’ll do what I can. Braxov? You know what I need: hot water, clean linen . . . whatever salve hasn’t lost its colour. You two, get out. I need room.”

  Braxov, who’d entered a pace behind his mistress, vanished into the hall once again. The hearthguards followed.

  “Malachi. You have a handkerchief?” asked Lily. “A clean one?”

  He fished the folded cloth from his pocket and handed it over. Lily shook it open, gave cursory examination, then pressed it against the wound. Sevaka’s eyelids twitched. A thin moan escaped her lips.

  Lily brushed a weed-caked fringe from her patient’s forehead. “Where’s Rosa?”

  “I don’t know.” Malachi shook his head. “How can I help?”

  “You can stay out of the way. I don’t need you fainting on the poor woman.”

  “What about Sidara?”

  “Patching up her battered father’s one thing. Death creeping in under your hands? She’s too young for that.”

  Braxov returned, arms laden with cloth and vials. “Water’s coming, my lady.”

  “Good. Keep pressure here while I get this coat off her.”

  Lily set a knife to Sevaka’s coat. Malachi turned away, isolated and useless in his own house. He blotted out Lily’s terse instructions and Sevaka’s soft, breathy cries. Instead, he stared out into the garden, and lost himself in unanswered questions. Why was Sevaka out after curfew? Who had attacked her? Was it chance that had brought her to his door?

  Only Sevaka knew the answers. Sevaka, and perhaps Rosa.

  The kitchen door burst open to admit a harried and breathless Josiri.

  “Where’s Rosa?” asked Malachi.

  “Gone. I lost her when she hit the streets.”

  Malachi scowled. “You should have followed!”

  “Yes. I, a southwealder, should have traipsed my way through the curfew-laden streets. What could have gone wrong?”

  Malachi winced, embarrassed. It had barely been a day, but already Josiri was so intertwined with Malachi’s world that it had become easy to forget the weight of history and intrigue that had made it necessary. Even now, protected by the Akadra name, Josiri’s freedom was more illusion than truth. Even the small transgression of a broken curfew could doom him.

  “Josiri . . .”

  “Bicker elsewhere,” snapped Lily. “I’m trying to save a life. Go!”

  Knowing better than to argue, Malachi gestured to the passageway door.

  Josiri hesitated. “I’d rather help.”

  “This is no time for well-meaning bumblers,” said Lily.

  Josiri’s expression cleared. His tone took on aristocratic hauteur Malachi had not yet heard him use. “Don’t mistake me for a fool, lady.”

  Lily held his stare for a moment, then nodded. “Take over from Braxov. He has water to fetch.”

  By the time Apara arrived at Freemont, confusion and sorrow had given way to howling rage. Otherwise she’d never have dared take the tone she did.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Lady Kiradin offered no reply. She had her back to the door, lost in conversation with a slight, red-haired young woman. Only the slightest tensing of her shoulders betrayed that she’d heard.

  “I don’t care what you have to do, Tailinn. Events are coming to a head. I need them mobile. As many as can be managed.” She lifted an upturned hand to Tailinn’s chin, forcing the younger woman to meet her gaze. “I’ve suffered too many disappointments of late. Do not find yourself among them.”

  Tailinn stared over Lady Kiradin’s shoulder, her hazel eyes widening as she caught sight of Apara. She gave a small, hurried nod and withdrew from the sitting room.

  Still Lady Kiradin didn’t turn.

  “Another life you’re tearing apart?” demanded Apara.

  At last, she turned. “That’s twice you’ve addressed me thus. Do not make the mistake of a third.”

  Apara froze mid-stride. L
ady Kiradin’s posture hadn’t changed. Not so much as a wrinkle had shifted on her face. So why did she have the sudden sense of having crossed into a wolf’s lair? Anger turned cold, uncertain.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” she asked.

  “I didn’t mean for you to learn of it this way. But events . . . events make a mockery of intent. A mother cannot love all her children as she wishes, especially those whose existence invites scandal.”

  Apara pinched her eyes shut. Sevaka stared accusingly out of memory. “You sent me to murder my sister!”

  “Sevaka wasn’t your sister,” snapped Lady Kiradin, “any more than I am your mother. Whatever you were before, you are now vranakin, a cousin to the Raven. That was the bargain I struck for you. And how you’ve prospered.”

  “And my father?”

  “Were you not listening? The Crowmarket is your only family.”

  Apara flicked her eyes open, rage rekindling. “Answer me!”

  Lady Kiradin shrank back. “Gone, and good riddance. A charming man, but he’d a soul scraped from the gutter. He thought I’d be content to live with him in the shadows.” She rallied, her tone crackling with satisfaction. “I was always meant for the light.”

  She stepped closer, her voice softening with remorse. “I would never have given you up, but I needed to remarry, and Samias Kiradin would never have adopted some vranakin whelp as his own. Don’t you see? I protected you. Kept you safe the only way I could. Surely you believe me?”

  Apara shook with anger and . . . yearning? She hated herself for a fool. More than thirty years behind her – old enough to have raised a family of her own, had life and desire coincided – and yet she trembled like a child.

  “I might,” she breathed. “If you’d said something these past years.”

  “I know.” Lady Kiradin’s fingers brushed the bloody steel of Apara’s claws and closed about her wrist. “Oh my dear, I know. But I was afraid. Not of my reputation – that fades with age, whatever others might say – but of your judgement. That you wouldn’t forgive me the mistakes of youth. And so the years slipped by. It has been torment.”

  Tears spilled unbidden across Apara’s cheeks. Sorrow mingled with the bitter mirth of disbelief. “A woman who orders the deaths of her children should know torment.”