Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “Young Viktor. I thought it’d be you. Won’t you come in?”

  “Josiri! Please come in.”

  Hastened by Malachi’s greeting, Josiri stumbled into the Privy Council chamber. As he did, the other man wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”

  Josiri was aware more than ever that he stank like something three days dead, and possibly regurgitated. “That smell is what happens when you fight in full armour at Sommertide. I don’t recommend it.”

  Malachi took his place beside jumbled papers and quill. “I imagine not. You’re otherwise well?”

  “Nothing that won’t mend. You?”

  A wintery smile. “Time will tell.”

  “Lilyana was asking for you.”

  “I’m sure she was. And it’ll be longer still before I’ve a chance to see her. Ebigail is in hand, but she’s not without her supporters.” He rubbed at his brow with ink-stained fingers. “I’ve no choice but to draw up a few lists of my own.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “I think so. With Horden’s death, command of the constabulary passes to Vona Darrow. Given that her wife was part of Ebigail’s leverage, I’m less concerned with Vona letting fish slip through the net than I am her gutting, frying and devouring them whole. I’ve asked Krain to provide restraint. Between that and some very penitent knights patrolling the streets, well . . .”

  “Sartorov and Prydonis? Are you certain you can trust them?”

  “Reasonably so. After all, I have their families.”

  “That had better be a joke.”

  A small smile. “The last was escorted home just a few minutes ago. My apologies. Lily’s for ever warning me about my sense of humour, and I think it may have warped under the strain.”

  Josiri eased himself into a chair. His chair, although he still couldn’t bring himself to think of it as such. The wood dug into bruised muscles. “Mine’s taken a knock or two as well. As for the rest, it all seems so . . . I don’t know if easy’s the word.”

  Malachi nodded. “Ebigail had orders ready, drawing troops back to the city. Some, I’ve intercepted. Others? Well, I’ve sent heralds of my own. Those officers too deep in her pockets will be removed. What we’ve done here would have been impossible even two days later. Viktor was right. Again.”

  “Perhaps. But the triumph is yours.” Josiri planted an elbow on the table and propped a weary head on his hand. Stubble pricked at his knuckles. “How did you do it?”

  “I once asked Viktor much the same question. He and I were determined to help your people, but we needed one more vote to break the deadlock. Viktor went into a room with his father – who was not sympathetic. When they came out, we had our vote.” Malachi spread his hands like a conjurer at the close of a trick. “I asked Viktor how he’d managed it. Do you know what he said?”

  “Something gruff, I imagine.”

  “You’d be right. I got what we wanted. That’s all that matters. His words.”

  “And you let it go at that?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’d like me to do the same?”

  “Ideally.”

  “Letting things go isn’t really what I do.”

  Malachi sighed. “No, I suppose not. I entreated the Parliament of Crows. Pointed out to them that Ebigail was fixing to bring all manner of trouble down on their heads. They concurred.”

  “As easy as that?”

  “No, but I got what we wanted . . .”

  “. . . and that’s all that matters?”

  “See? Sometimes it really is that simple.”

  Simple. Hundreds dead, either in Ebigail’s purges or the skirmish at the Hayadra Grove, many of them simple folk who’d been caught up in something complicated. And as for Malachi? He looked five years older. Josiri himself felt a good ten years older. Viktor was indestructible. Mere mortals aged badly in his shadow.

  “All right,” said Josiri. “So what happens now?”

  At last, Malachi smiled. “I thought you’d never ask. Assuming this doesn’t all come crashing down around our ears, or Jack doesn’t come storming out of Fellhallow with a host of wood-demons at his back . . . Well, I thought we might take the chance to make things better. Ebigail wasn’t entirely wrong. My entire life, the Republic has been paralysed by squabbles at council.”

  Josiri cut him off. “Malachi, I’m tired, I stink. Above all I want to journey home with the express purpose of feeding Arzro Makrov to something ferocious. I’m glad that I was in a place to help, truly I am. But my people are suffering, my sister is missing, and my love is doubly a prisoner. I’ve no time for intrigues.”

  Malachi’s smile broadened to a grin. “You’ll want a part of this one, trust me.”

  “I will? Why?”

  The door slammed open. Hadon Akadra stormed into the chamber. “Gentlemen. I am not accustomed to being summoned at this hour, and certainly not by . . .”

  “By the men who likely saved you from a gallows jig?” Malachi’s gaze dropped to the pile of papers, the ink still wet. “Or were you bound so close to Ebigail that you’d no need of fear?”

  Hadon’s scowl deepened a notch. “I’d no part of her plans. Bring her before me and I’ll hoist the hag myself.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Malachi smoothly. “So let’s not discuss the past. We three are all that remains of the Council. The future is ours to shape. Let us see what can be done.”

  The grey world that passed for sleep peeled away. Murky lamplight granted shape to the sparse furnishings of her chapterhouse quarters. Limbs creaked as Rosa tested them against the weight of blankets. There wasn’t any pain, not as such – just the abiding soreness of old wounds.

  “So you are alive?”

  Muscles protested as Rosa pushed herself upright. Sevaka sat at the bedside, her face bruised and blonde hair almost grey with ash. But her eyes shone brighter than ever.

  “Ask me again in an hour.” Every breath carried the bitter taste of soot.

  “I don’t understand. You should be dead thrice over. When they said you didn’t bleed, I thought it was some trick to gull the masses. But it’s not, is it?”

  The words shaped accusation, but Rosa found only curiosity in Sevaka’s face.

  “Something happened to me when Kas was murdered.” She felt sick just thinking about it. “It’s kept me alive since.”

  “I see.” Sevaka stared down at her feet. “So the night we were attacked?”

  Beneath the blankets, Rosa clenched her fists. The night she’d beaten Aske Tarev to death. “She ran me through. I should have died.”

  “What are you?”

  There it was. The note of fear. The newfound distance.

  “I don’t know.” Rosa stared at Sevaka, willing her to listen – to understand. “I’ve made so many mistakes since Kas died. Sometimes, I feel so lost I want to scream. But I’m still who I was before. It’s just that I’m something else as well.”

  “You were named a demon.”

  Something withered in Rosa’s soul. She’d lost her. Sevaka, who’d anchored her enough that she’d found the strength to reject the Raven, now set her adrift once more. “Maybe it’s true.”

  Fingers gripped the rough weave of the blanket tight about hers.

  “I don’t care,” said Sevaka. “You’re my friend. Let the rest go hang.”

  It took a moment before Rosa heard the words for what they were. She felt a grin steal across her face. “Thank you.”

  “We can always burn you if I change my mind.”

  Rosa winced at a new concern. “Or if the physicians tell the provosts about me.”

  “The physicians haven’t seen you. They wanted to, but Josiri got involved, which meant that Captain Izack got involved.” She waved a lofty hand. “So I need you up and about. I expect to earn quite the reputation for your miraculous recovery, what with me nursing you back to health.”

  Relief bloomed to a fit of giggles. When had she last laughed? Truly laughed? Rosa couldn’t
recall, and didn’t care. Sevaka shook her head in mock disdain. Then infectious mirth swept her away alongside, until eyes ran and abused muscles ached anew.

  It passed too soon, as all happiness must, and Rosa’s thoughts were drawn to a familiar, grey world. “What of your mother?”

  Sevaka’s smile soured. “Lady Ebigail Kiradin has retreated to Freemont and burrowed in like a tick. Viktor’s gone to dig her out.”

  Rosa winced. “You didn’t want to be there?”

  “I don’t wish to set eyes on her again.” Sevaka’s eyes narrowed to match the venom in her voice. “I’ve already hurt her more than she’s ever hurt me. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will.”

  Rosa slid her hand free of the blankets and held Sevaka’s tight. “You’re free of her now.”

  “I know.” Sevaka shook her head as if clearing it of cobwebs. “So, ready to move about? I’ve a reputation at stake.”

  That meant facing Malachi, Viktor . . . even Josiri. So many amends to make. So many apologies.

  A new strain of laughter reached her ears, gravelly and sardonic. And beneath it, the harsh cry of bird voices. She bit her lip.

  Sevaka frowned. “Rosa? What is it?”

  Rosa smoothed the scowl from her face. “Nothing. Will you leave me to hoist myself out of bed? If I’m to fall flat on my face, I’d as soon as not do it with an audience.”

  “Of course.”

  She waited until the door was closed and Sevaka’s footsteps echoed on the stairs beyond. “You might as well show yourself. I know you’re here.”

  The shadows twisted and the Raven stood in the far corner of the room, his shoulders pressed against the wall. “I’m not accustomed to ephemerals addressing me with such irreverence.”

  “You had me. I was ready to give up, and you gave me reason to fight. Why?”

  He ran a gloved finger along the top of the footboard and stared at it with disdain. “Does no one ever dust in this place?”

  “Does the Raven ever answer a question?”

  “You’re very bold.”

  “I’ve reason to be.”

  He gave a dry, gravelly laugh. “Do you know how many unwilling servants I have at my beck and call? Thousands. Desperate sorts who’ll do anything for a little hope.” He sighed. “Ah, hope. Where would we be without it?”

  “Serving the Tyrant Queen.”

  “You should be careful whose name you take in vain.” The Raven straightened. “But to answer your question, I don’t need another woebegone lickspittle. When you come to me – and you will – you’ll be willing, even glad. Otherwise, you’ll not really be you any longer, and what’s the point in that?”

  Rosa grimaced. “It’ll never happen.”

  He tugged at his goatee. “Never is a very long time. And you and I are here for all of it. Take my advice: don’t over-invest in ephemerals, no matter how sweetly they smile or how readily they laugh. Eternity is better unsoured by grief.”

  “I’ll do as I choose.”

  “Why of course you will. Haven’t you been listening?”

  The lamplight flickered, and he was gone.

  Viktor stepped into the room. A glance confirmed that Lady Kiradin was indeed as alone as she appeared. Heavy drapes and scattered furnishings offered little scope for concealment.

  “Ebigail.”

  “Can I offer you a drink, young Viktor?” She waved a lazy hand at a decanter on the mantelpiece. “The Rothlin ’78. There’s so little of it left. But greatness has ever been finite.”

  He inclined his head. “I must refuse.”

  “Hah.” She arched an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll poison you?”

  “The thought is unthinkable. But then, you’ve laboured hard to re-define that word.”

  She took a sip. Maudlin eyes gave way to close-lipped bitterness, and thence to furrowed anger. “You really are nothing like your father. His fire faded so long ago. Yours, I think, will burn as long as you draw breath. Maybe longer. The desire to change the world, and the will to see it through. If only you hadn’t chosen the wrong cause.”

  “I might say the same to you.”

  She brushed his words aside. “We are lions, you and I. Lions among bleating sheep. I wish I’d realised that long ago. A wasted opportunity.”

  “To have me killed?”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Not so foolish, are you? Tell me, do you suppose the bleating masses would cheer for you if they knew you’ve one foot in the Dark? Oh yes, I know your secret. Tailinn whispered it to me months ago. She’d have made it public herself, but for the price it would have cost that foolish old proctor.”

  Viktor forced a studiously neutral expression. So his father hadn’t given him up? It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Betrayal took courage. How had he wronged Tailinn that she’d found that courage? How had she known? Perhaps Elzar had spoken more freely than was wise, or had she simply seen or heard more than she should. It was easy enough to imagine – in hindsight, he and Elzar aught to have been more circumspect. Viktor supposed it was pointless to speculate, and even more so to distress Elzar by speaking of it with him. Tailinn was dead, and the matter done.

  “Secrets don’t make one evil, Ebigail. Only the cause to which they are harnessed.”

  “Hah.” She shook her head in derision. “Have you come to kill me?”

  “You’d deserve it. No trial. No podium from which to spit your venom.”

  “So you haven’t come to kill me?” She snorted. “You should.”

  Viktor couldn’t help but feel grudging admiration. Even now, her back to the wall and the howls of the hunt all about her, Ebigail was immovable.

  “Fifteen years ago, the Council had me crush a woman for her dreams. I offered mercy. When she refused, her death opened a doorway onto all manner of suffering. I make you that same offer.”

  “Mercy?” she sneered. “What use is mercy?”

  “It grants opportunity to atone. You said it yourself, Ebigail. You’re a formidable force. One that could still serve the Republic.”

  She gave a low, mocking laugh. “You dare compare me to Katya Trelan?”

  “Not lightly. Katya Trelan was loved.”

  “And I am a Kiradin. We raised this Republic out of Malatriant’s ashes. Parade me through the streets or throttle me here and now. But spare me your weakness.” She glared at him. The old, familiar stare that stripped flesh from bone to reveal the thoughts beneath.

  Viktor shrugged. “Malachi said you’d refuse.”

  “Oh yes? And did the high and mighty Lord Reveque have anything else to say for himself?”

  “Only this.” Viktor stepped closer. “That if you refuse, the Privy Council will remove all trace of the Kiradin family from governance, and from history. You and your forebears will be forgotten. When your spirit looks onto Tressia from Otherworld’s mists you’ll see a Republic devoid of your reflection. You’ll no longer exist, not even as a cautionary tale.”

  She drew back with a sharp intake of breath. “You wouldn’t dare . . .”

  “Why not? History isn’t fact, Ebigail. It’s what we choose to remember . . . and what we choose to forget.”

  “My line will go on,” she snapped. “My name will go on. Or do you intend to erase Sevaka?”

  “Sevaka took the name Psanneque earlier tonight. Whatever betide, the Kiradin line is ended. Whether it is remembered, and how it is remembered, falls to you.”

  Ebigail’s brandy glass shattered. Shards scattered onto the carpet. Shoulders quivering, she stabbed a bloody finger at the air between them.

  “You made my daughter an exile?”

  “She chose it for herself.” In his mind’s eye, Viktor still saw Sevaka’s earnest, smoke-blackened face as she made the declaration. “She hates you more than anyone.”

  Ebigail grasped the mantelpiece. Ragged breaths slowed as she fought for control. “The way of guarded smiles and watchful tears. She’s learned more than I thought.”

  She laughed, though V
iktor heard little humour within.

  “She’s made her choice,” he said. “Yours remains. I must have your answer, Ebigail.”

  She straightened. When she spoke, her voice was again steady as stone. “And you shall.”

  The wall dissolved into writhing mist. A dark shape sprang clear, steel flashing in the firelight.

  Viktor flung himself aside. The lunge meant for his belly thudded into an armchair and tore free in a spray of goose-down. His shadow wailed. He staggered back, one hand clasped to his head to blot out its distress.

  Melanna Saranal’s sword. The kernclaw from the foundry. A dangerous combination. So much for the Crowmarket having wholly abandoned her cause.

  “You’ll not have my mother!” shrieked the kernclaw.

  Mother? That explained part of it. Now he saw her in the light, the resemblance to Sevaka was undeniable.

  Viktor hurled another armchair by the headrest. The kernclaw dived back and it shattered against the wall with a crash. But it had bought time. Viktor dragged his claymore free of its slings.

  The kernclaw darted in, sword flashing. Viktor’s shadow screamed fit to wake the dead. What should have been a simple parry became a desperate, scraping block. The kernclaw’s shoulder took Viktor in the chest and sent them both crashing across a table. Already off-balance from his shadow’s scream, Viktor sprawled across the floor, claymore abandoned.

  The kernclaw landed atop him, knees on his chest and silvered blade at his throat.

  “I’m glad it was you.” Viktor barely heard Ebigail’s words over his shadow’s distress. “Malachi wouldn’t have come alone, but you’ve always been proud, young Viktor. Always so certain of yourself. But even the strongest man has a weakness.”

  Viktor strove to blot out his shadow’s wail. One last miscalculation in a day filled with them. Only this time there’d be no one to rescue him from arrogance.

  “I will be remembered.” Ebigail stooped over him, eyes alive with amusement. “But not by you. Apara? Stop toying with him. It’s time to go.”

  Viktor pinched his eyes shut and wrestled with his shadow. It spat and seethed, coiling away. But something else answered. Something the same and yet not – a piece of himself he’d forgotten in the tumult of the day. Viktor gripped it tight, his command more unvoiced instinct than intent.