Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “As a witch?”

  “As a fool. A muddled fool who lacks all sense of priority. Whose veneer of courage peels away at every sob-story.” His eyes narrowed. “I raised you to be strong. All your mother ever gave you was weakness.”

  Viktor shook his head. He’d wondered what he’d feel at this moment. Sorrow? Dread? Anger? But there was nothing. Just a yawning chasm filled with spent memories.

  “You lecture me about strength, Father? It’s been years since you found the courage to stand for more than self-interest.”

  Now there was anger. Not at his father, necessarily, but at the waste of everything his father could have been. Hadon Akadra, General of the Republic and Defender of the Ravonn. He’d seemed a giant when Viktor had been young. No. A god. How times changed.

  “But you’re right, Father. I’ve been weak. I’ve asked others to make hard choices – choices that have cost them everything. And all the while, I’ve shied away from my own. No more. You belong to the past. It’s time you took your place within it. You’ll not be found, and you’ll not be missed.”

  His father straightened. His manner, no longer furtive or afraid, belonged to the muster fields he’d not trod in decades. Perhaps just enough of the soldier remained to know that this last battle could not be won.

  “I’ll not beg.”

  Viktor rose. “I never thought you would.”

  His father sprang. They fell, rolling over and over across the cavern, hands locked about one another’s throats. A flailing boot struck the fire-stone lantern. Glass shattered on stone. The golden light died, replaced by the soft phosphorescence of the cavern walls.

  And all the while, Viktor’s father grunted and snarled, loosening his grip only to pummel his son about head and body, hammering at old wounds and opening new.

  Viktor let his shadow flow free.

  Darkness gathered his father up as it had at Freemont a lifetime ago. Heels bounced off stone and skittered back towards the river. Then Viktor was on him once more, his weight bearing them both down at the river’s edge.

  His father’s head slipped beneath the inky surface. His body jack-knifed, and he broke spluttering for air. Viktor planted a palm beneath his chin and forced him below once more.

  His father thrashed, clawing and punching. River water drenched them both. Through it all, Viktor had the strangest sensation. That the statues’ eyes watched with approval – almost with hunger. He held on as his father’s struggles faded, his own lungs aching in sympathy. Then Hadon Akadra’s desperate vibrancy turned limp and dark.

  Sodden garb clinging to his skin, Viktor slid away onto the stony bank and waited for the rush of guilt. It never came. There was only purpose, and a sense of freedom. For he was free. Free to ride south without fear of what would happen in his absence. Free of his father’s selfishness and scorn.

  “Goodbye, Father. May the Black River carry you to wherever you most deserve.”

  Closing his hand about his father’s belt, Viktor tipped the body into the water. The current dragged Hadon Akadra out of sight and into history.

  Sixty-Four

  Josiri read the letter for the third time in hope that its contents might somehow differ from readings one and two. They remained every inch as impossible.

  He let the paper fall and stared across the Council chamber. Weariness, held at bay by anticipation of homecoming for much of the night, returned as vengeful as a Thrakkian lost to a blood-debt. The only bright note was that Kurkas’ account made no mention of Calenne, though the omission was hardly grounds for hope. And Revekah . . . Gone, and by the cruellest road.

  “This isn’t real,” he muttered. “It can’t be.”

  Malachi stared at the letter much as one might regard an empty vial of poison beside one’s equally empty wine glass. Viktor’s expression gave no clue to his thoughts.

  “Beg your pardon, my lord, but it’s true. Every word.” The travel-stained soldier did his best to stand to attention as he spoke but wavered with exhaustion.

  “Every word?” Tiredness and worry added bite to Josiri’s tone. “You know this for certain? That my home – my people – are overtaken by the Tyrant Queen of myth?”

  He wanted to laugh, but too much of him believed. That was the fate of the Southshires, after all, for hope always to sour. With all mortal enemies exhausted, why should it seem strange that Immortal peril had descended?

  “I can’t speak to that, my lord. I only know what Captain Kurkas said. But the Dark? I’ve felt it. Like spiders creeping on the skin. I’m glad to be out of it.”

  That much, Josiri believed. The soldier was deathly pale, and the catch to his voice went beyond exhaustion.

  “What’s your name, lad?” asked Viktor.

  “Dastarov, my lord. Guardsman Dastarov of the 12th.”

  Viktor nodded. “The Council thanks you for your service. Get some food, and some rest. Your horse will be seen to.”

  Dastarov made an unsteady bow and withdrew. It seemed to Josiri that he took the last vigour with him, for the three men remaining looked suddenly old before their time. Three, not four as it should have been.

  “Where’s Hadon?” Josiri asked. Easier to dwell on mundanities than tackle the issue at hand.

  “My father hasn’t been seen since this evening,” rumbled Viktor. “I don’t doubt that with Ebigail Kiradin slumbering beneath stone he’s found a warmer bed. I’ve hearthguard out searching, but we’d be fools to expect him before dawn.”

  Malachi nodded wearily. “Viktor’s right. We can’t wait.”

  Josiri looked from one to the other. Neither of his companions looked wholly at ease, but that was hardly surprising. If even half of Kurkas’ letter was founded in fact, Hadon Akadra’s absence was the least of their concerns. But still, he had the sense of something unsaid – as if the two shared a truth they couldn’t bear to give voice. Under other circumstances, he’d have pursued it. As it was . . .

  “Kurkas is your man,” he said to Viktor. “Do you believe him?”

  “Yes.” The reply came without hesitation.

  Malachi flinched. “But Malatriant? She’s a myth. A name to curse by.”

  “And is Rosa a myth?” rumbled Viktor. He turned his gaze on Josiri. “Is Anastacia? The Crowmarket and their kernclaws? For that matter, am I? Or Sidara? Myth is merely a word for history half-forgotten, and our history is malleable as clay.”

  “Kurkas must be mistaken,” insisted Malachi.

  Josiri stared at the second signature – this one inked in a flowing, elegant hand. Its presence reduced myriad possibilities to a single, horrific certainty.

  “I can’t imagine Ana lending her name to a document against her will.”

  Malachi scowled. “It hardly matters. We can’t take the chance.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes gazing roofward, as if seeking guidance from his stony predecessors. “Is it wrong of me to wish that Ebigail were still here?”

  “Yes,” said Viktor. “Because she’d have gambled Eskavord’s fate. You won’t.”

  “You’re right, of course. You’re always right.” Malachi planted his elbows on the table. A little of his weariness fell away. “Under the circumstances, I think it best I assume the position of First Councillor . . . with your assent, Josiri.”

  “Hadon is sure to object,” Josiri replied.

  Malachi sighed. For a man on the brink of power unseen since the time of kings, he seemed inexpressibly unhappy, but also seized of purpose. Josiri knew the latter feeling well. Not all victories were happy ones. In fact, both Malachi and Viktor seemed uncomfortable, but then Josiri had despaired too much at his own reflection that morning to hold them to higher standards.

  “A problem for tomorrow, or the day after,” said Malachi. “Whether I like it or not, I have to deal with the situation before me, which is that my only two allies will ride south as soon as they leave this chamber. If I’m to spend the future arguing with the elder Lord Akadra, I’d sooner do so from a position of authority.” Ma
lachi offered a wan smile. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not already out the door.”

  The words, doubtlessly meant in support, only deepened Josiri’s despondency. “If Malatriant really has taken Eskavord, haste on my part will change nothing.”

  “But a little urgency on ours might change everything.” Malachi’s tone hardened. His posture set like steel. “My first declaration is that all accusations levied against the Trelan family are dismissed and all crimes pardoned. You may be Josiri Trelan again – and not Josiri Akadra – without fear of consequence. My second decree is that Lord Viktor Akadra, the Council’s champion, has full authority to requisition whatever forces he believes necessary to address the situation in Eskavord.”

  “Good,” said Viktor. “Saves me being declared traitor twice in one week.”

  Which meant, Josiri decided, that he’d already determined to take such a course. “Thank you.”

  “For nothing,” said Malachi. “If this is Malatriant, what has begun in Eskavord will cross the Tevar Flood soon enough. Besides, you’ve stood with us twice, though Lumestra knows we’ve given you every reason not to. We stand with you now. Isn’t that so, Viktor?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Malachi nodded, his gaze falling upon Josiri. It was a curious stare, laden with hidden intent. As if he’d more he wished to impart but could not find the words. “Whatever comes next, Josiri, you are my friend. You’ll always be welcome in this city. I hope to see you again, without need of armed men to drag you north.”

  A wry smile coloured his last words – one Viktor mirrored, if darkly.

  Finding no words to match the burden of his heart, Josiri rose and embraced Malachi. How strange to find a brother – an equal – in a place he’d hated so long. How gratifying to do so. If only his mother had lived to see it.

  “Goodbye, First Councillor Reveque,” he said at last. “Don’t let the power go to your head. Ebigail was enough.”

  “I doubt Lily will let that happen.”

  With a final bow – a bow no duke or duchess of Eskavord had offered a northwealder in five generations – Josiri left the Council chamber.

  Rosa took the last flight two stairs at a time and tugged her surcoat back into place. Unsteady with wine taken and yawning wide, Sevaka had left at midnight, bound for the Triumphal and the hope of a naval career renewed. For her part, Rosa felt neither aftermath of drink nor the burden of sleeplessness. The blessings of an eternal’s constitution.

  The bruised sky promised at least an hour until dawn. Izack’s summons suggested her duties would begin sooner. Rosa was glad. It meant she was still a knight, and not some curiosity to be studied, or an abomination to be tested. More than she deserved, given how readily she’d allowed Ebigail Kiradin to lead her astray.

  Returning the sentry’s salute, she passed beneath the escutcheoned arch and into the master’s quarters. Izack glanced up from the desk – soon to be his desk – and clambered to his feet. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of sleep lightly taken. It wasn’t a feeling Rosa missed.

  He cracked a dour smile. “Well, well, well. Don’t you look disgustingly cheerful, sister?”

  “Just glad to be alive.” And for the first time in weeks, it was true. She’d mistakes to atone for, but she’d all the time in the world in which to do so. “You’ve orders for me?”

  “Not me.” He hooked a thumb towards the far end of the room. “Him.”

  The shadows shifted, reforming around a battered man garbed in black and silver. A scarred face Rosa knew as well as her own. A friend she’d betrayed.

  Viktor.

  Her cheer, so carefully husbanded, slipped away. “Izack, I don’t . . .”

  “Well, that’s me off,” Izack interrupted. “Apparently the Council reckons we’re not stretched thin enough as it is, so I’m away to drag that treacherous bastard Rother out of his bed and share the joy about a bit. She’s all yours.”

  Retrieving his helmet from the desk he struck out for the door, a jaunty whistle trailing in his wake. The door slammed, cutting off both whistle and boot-treads.

  Viktor neither moved, nor spoke. In a flash, Rosa was transported back a decade, a lowly squire called to account for recklessness. She still felt an echo of that fear. But she wasn’t that callow young woman any longer. She’d own her mistakes. Even if that meant losing her spurs, and the brotherhood of Essamere.

  “Lord Akadra, I owe you an apology.” Realising her eyes had dropped to the floor, she forced her head back to meet his gaze. “I let grief colour my actions. I allowed myself to be deceived. And I betrayed your trust. If you’ve come to bring me to account for that, I understand. I’ll offer no resistance.”

  He stepped out of the shadow and into the dancing lantern light. “Viktor. To you, Rosa, I’ll always be Viktor. We’ve been friends too long. As to the rest? Kasamor wouldn’t wish us to fall out over his mother’s actions.”

  Forgiveness gleamed, bright as sunlight and sweet as honey. But she couldn’t accept it. “I let Ebigail use me. I knew what she was, and still I let her use me. I should have known better.”

  He gave a lopsided shrug. “All any of us can hope for is to do what seems right at the time, no matter how hard.”

  “And if we choose the wrong path?”

  “Then we should not make the same mistake again.”

  Rosa had the sense that the words were no longer meant for her. “You sound as though you’ve learnt that the hard way yourself.”

  “Perhaps. There’s something you can do for me, if you’re willing.”

  She clasped her fist to her chest in salute. “Anything.”

  “There’s trouble in the Southshires.”

  “When isn’t there?”

  Viktor attempted a smile but fell short. “This is different. Malachi’s scraping together as much of an army as he can. He wants me to lead it, but I’m asking you to go in my stead. I can’t leave it to Josiri. He’s a good man, but he’s a southwealder and we can’t afford old suspicions. I need you.”

  So that was what Izack had meant. Rosa nodded, heart too full almost for words. Now she could accept forgiveness. Now, she’d prove herself worthy of it.

  “You have me. Body, soul and sword.” She paused, at last unpicking the detail hidden in his words. “And you? Where will you be?”

  “Riding a swifter road.”

  Lunandas, 14th day of Radiance

  The Dark is always with us.

  from the sermons of Konor Belenzo

  Sixty-Five

  The roadway shifted beneath Viktor’s feet. Faces leered out of dancing vapour, only to dissipate as stumbling steps drew him on. Cobbles gave way to stark black soil and desiccated vines. Buildings crumbled to ruin as he drew near, stones cracked to rubble and woven through with the pale fronds and withered leaves. And always that piercing cackle of birds, and the thrum of beating wings.

  The passage of the mists, though terrifying, might have been bearable but for his shadow, which reeled drunkenly about his soul. Even when the road ran clear through the green-white skeins, Viktor was beset with such nausea that it was all he could manage not to lurch headlong into the shifting tides of spectres long dead.

  Viktor clung to the memory of Calenne. As within the provosts’ cells, she offered anchorage where mortal senses offered none. At times, Viktor thought he saw her beside him, her being as pallid as all else in that accursed realm – her face pleading as she reached for him with insubstantial fingers. But only a fool trusted to his senses in the Raven’s kingdom.

  At last, he could bear it no more. Legs buckled, and then gave. Viktor fell to his knees beside a shallow pond of water that was not water. A face pale as parchment gazed back from the reflection. His face, or a bleak approximation thereof, with hollow cheeks and cruel demeanour. More like his dead father than himself.

  A hand closed around Viktor’s collar. His bellowed challenge died beneath a smother of bird-voices. Dredging up his last strength, Viktor thrust a hand int
o the mist and pivoted about cold stone.

  The weight on his collar vanished. Off-balance, Viktor sprawled into mud. Darkness rushed in. Not of sleep, but something deeper and more pervasive. But even that vile, discomfiting sensation was as the sweetest wine after the numbing mists.

  Mud oozing between his fingers, Viktor rose on unsteady legs. Already the mist-wreathed portal was fading into the brick of the farmhouse wall. Apara stood beside it, shoulders propped against a crumbling buttress, the white streak in her hair vivid in the oppressive dark. Her expression fell a hair short of sullen superiority.

  “Why?” Viktor wiped a clump of mud from his chin. “You could have abandoned me. You’d have been free.”

  “And if you’d found your own way out? Would you have forgiven that betrayal?”

  Viktor spat the last of the sourness from his mouth and nodded. “You may yet live to pay your debts.”

  Her lips tightened. “And when does that happen?”

  “When I consider them settled.”

  Apara pushed away from the wall. Sullenness gave way to worry. “If the Parliament of Crows learns I’ve taken an outsider into Otherworld, I’ll not live to eat another meal, let alone pay my way clear of you. Perhaps I should have left you there.”

  Viktor hauled hard on her hidden tether. She fell to her knees, hands splayed for support.

  “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness,” he said.

  Her defiance beneath his shadow burned like a hot coal under his hand. It would be so easy to smother it, to snuff out the last vestige of the woman. Viktor wasn’t certain what that would leave behind. Something biddable, certainly, but he sensed a precipice, and an abyss beneath. That one, simple step would be a step too far.

  What good of reunification with Calenne if he’d made himself the monster she’d once feared? He stooped and raised Apara from the mud.

  She shied away. “So who have you brought me here to kill? I assume that’s what you want.”

  Viktor unhooked the lantern from his belt and coaxed it to life. Light rippled across the flooded courtyard, picking out the farmhouse’s hunched eaves.