Nightfall

by Den Patrick

  – From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province

  The journey from Vend Province had been as overcast as the skies they travelled under. Boyar Sokolov had dragged himself from his mansion with all the reluctance of an aged wolfhound. His red-rimmed eyes rarely settled on any one thing or any person. When he spoke, which was rarely, his voice was a fragile whisper, his words meandering. Ruslan had witnessed all of this with the patient watchfulness of his position. The Boyar’s aide waited on the broken man as best he could, restless in the knowledge he lacked the power to improve his master’s situation.

  They stood together at the stern of the ship and stared across frigid waters towards the capital city. They had crossed the northern reaches of the Ashen Gulf, past Arkiv Island and onwards, down to Khlystburg. The Boyar had grown gaunt during the journey, and the crew had carefully avoided him. Neither the captain nor the first mate had spoken to the nobleman, as if his disgrace might be contagious. Ruslan couldn’t shake the suspicion this would be the Boyar’s last voyage.

  ‘We’ll be at Khlystburg soon,’ said Ruslan, to break the silence, though their arrival was plainly evident. A smudge of smoke discoloured the horizon above the city, a thousand chimneys all coughing or defecating into the air. Khlystburg hunkered beneath the pall of smoke, promising an abundance of secrets and shadows.

  ‘This is where my son died,’ said the Boyar, though the words were almost lost in his drooping moustaches. Ruslan, who had always felt short compared to the towering, barrel-chested Boyar, wanted to wrap an arm about the old man’s rounded shoulders. ‘I should never have sent him to such a wretched place.’

  The news of Dimitri’s death had diminished the Boyar. His poise, once so upright and firm, had disappeared, leaving little more than an uncertain shadow of a once-proud man. Even his clothes, always pressed and pristine, were rumpled from the journey and spotted with food.

  ‘You could not have foreseen what befell Dimitri,’ said Ruslan. He’d said it many times before and it never helped, but what else could he say?

  ‘This is where the Emperor killed my son like a dog before the great and the good of the Solmindre Empire,’ whispered the Boyar. He locked his gaze on Ruslan, his dark eyes terrible with grief – and something worse. ‘The Sokolov line will not survive this scandal. That my son, my Dimitri, would spend our taxes on whores and give money to rebels and dissidents …’ Tears tracked down his face to be lost in the stubble on his jaw. ‘It is unthinkable.’

  It was not the first time the Boyar had expressed his fears for House Sokolov’s survival, though he was usually the worse for drink when he did. That he should repeat these words sober gave them an added weight that chilled Ruslan to his very bones.

  ‘But the Sokolovs have served the Emperor faithfully for four generations,’ said Ruslan quietly. All true of course. The sprawling dynasty had ruled the Vend Province; they had served as officers in the army and Vigilants in the Holy Synod. They had counted an Envoy among their number not so long ago. ‘Surely there has to be some mistake. Dimitri might have been fond of parties and women, but he had no passion for overthrowing the Emperor.’

  ‘My boy,’ whispered the Boyar. ‘My only boy.’

  ‘We will retrieve the body and take him home to Vend for a proper burial, my lord. We will make this right.’

  The Boyar snorted a bitter laugh and shook his head. Fresh tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. ‘The Emperor killed him with the Ashen Blade in the Imperial Court. How does one even begin to make such a thing right? To find justice or vengeance – or simply survival?’

  Ruslan wished he had an answer for the Boyar, but his mind remained blank. This was no mere footpad mugging in a backstreet: the Emperor himself had taken Dimitri’s life. The enormity was difficult to comprehend, let alone provide a solution to. The ship continued towards the docks of Khlystburg where all manner of stinking fish, surly porters, and sneering officials awaited them. All of this was watched over by Imperial soldiers, their blunt maces ready in hand, their black armour intimidating.

  ‘The Sokolov line will not survive this scandal,’ repeated the Boyar before heading back to his cramped and lonely cabin.

  Ruslan stood on the dock and directed two sailors to carry the Boyar’s sea chest ashore. The men struggled under the weight, muttering to each other about the ridiculous clothing nobles insisted on wearing, but it was coin not cloth that made up the greater part of the chest’s contents. Boyar Sokolov descended the boarding ramp and eyed the struggling porters.

  ‘It will not be enough,’ he said once he had drawn close to Ruslan.

  ‘You have emptied the family coffers,’ said Ruslan. ‘The Emperor can ask for no more reparation than that.’

  ‘You speak as if the Emperor were a reasonable man.’

  Ruslan turned away to hide his growing frustration. The Boyar’s despair was a weight greater than the sea chest and he feared it would crush them both before they reached the Emperor.

  ‘Boyar Sokolov!’ A male voice boomed out across the dock. ‘Welcome to Khlystburg.’ The Emperor had sent a Vigilant, of course, and Ruslan almost sneered. All these years they’d pretended to remove the taint of the arcane from the continent of Vinterkveld. Decades declaring children possessed of witchsign and abducting them to be destroyed. All these years using the very same power to further the Empire’s agenda. The Vigilant was attired in the customary cream padded leather jacket of the Synod, but it was the blood-red, sleeveless, long leather coat that drew eye, with geometric designs embossed from collar to hem.

  ‘You must be weary from the journey,’ added the Vigilant. He wore a hideous mask that resembled a wolverine, while one withered arm was bound up in a black leather sling.

  The Boyar grunted a reply or cleared his throat, Ruslan couldn’t be sure which. His attention had settled on the six soldiers waiting patiently behind the Vigilant.

  ‘I am Exarch Zima. I have instructions to escort you directly to the Imperial Court.’

  ‘Is it not usual for a visiting dignitary to be taken to his quarters so they may make themselves presentable?’ said Ruslan, failing to hide his irritation.

  ‘Usual? Yes.’ Ruslan thought the man might be smiling behind the mask. ‘But these are unusual times. Come.’

  They were led through the city on foot like petty criminals. No cart provided to give them passage, no water, no tea, no respite offered. The sailors continued to grumble and curse under the weight of the sea chest, and the city folk stopped to gawk and speculate.

  ‘You made good time,’ said the Exarch in an airy tone as if this were a meeting between friends.

  ‘I left the moment I heard the news,’ said the Boyar. His gaze was fixed on a point ten feet in front of his boots, never looking up from cobbled streets and the filth they contained.

  The Exarch kept up a steady stream of platitudes and small talk, and all the while Ruslan imagined a mocking smile behind the mask, that stoked his irritation to a smouldering anger.

  ‘It must be hard for the Synod now,’ said the Boyar.

  ‘How so?’ replied Exarch Zima. There was a pause and a note of surprise in the Vigilant’s voice; he had been caught off balance by the Boyar’s question.

  ‘It is common knowledge across the Empire that the Synod and her Vigilants use the arcane for their own ends.’

  ‘It is regrettable,’ agreed Exarch Zima, his tone begrudging. ‘We preferred to operate with a measure of secrecy.’

  ‘The entire Empire and all the Scorched Republics know the Synod has lied to them all this time,’ said the Boyar, pressing his point past the boundaries of polite conversation. ‘And that you are all hypocrites.’

  ‘That may be true.’ Exarch Zima snorted a laugh behind his bestial mask. ‘But the hypocrites are running the Empire, and there is no one to stop us.’

  ‘It seems someone nearly stopped you,’ said the Boyar. ‘Didn’t you have the use of both arms the last time we met?’

 
; The Exarch said nothing after that, leading them to the Emperor in furious silence.

  The Imperial Court was set in acres of gardens crisscrossed by gravel paths. Statues of fallen heroes surveyed all who passed by, from atop columns and plinths. Boyar Sokolov’s own father had been immortalized in stone and Ruslan reached out to touch the plinth hoping it might confer good luck on his master. The buildings themselves were dressed in pale stone and the towers were set with bulbous and tapering domes, painted in bright colours.

  ‘I had never thought I would set foot here,’ whispered Ruslan.

  The Boyar flashed him an angry look. ‘I had never thought I would set foot here in such disgrace.’

  The Semyonovsky Guard waited by every doorway, made taller and more imposing for the spears they carried. They wore a rope of black across their chests, and the red star that all soldiers wore at their brow had been recoloured in the same black enamel as their armour.

  ‘I have become immune to its charm,’ said Exarch Zima. ‘Though I confess it is magnificent compared to the low buildings of Vend. Such a shame the country is a swamp.’

  ‘Some of the country is swamp,’ replied the Boyar in irritation. Ruslan, who had never visited Khlystburg before, much less the Imperial Court, could only stare and try and keep his mouth closed. He had no wish to resemble the dumbstruck peasant Exarch Zima no doubt thought he was. The party drew to halt in a large antechamber and Exarch Zima conferred with the guard at the doors.

  ‘What will happen now?’ whispered Ruslan.

  ‘I will present myself before the Emperor,’ said the Boyar, his tone cold and gaze unfocused. ‘I will offer the money we have and more to come.’ The Boyar laid one hand on Ruslan’s shoulder and gripped him tightly, then drew him closer. ‘I do not expect to return from the court. You have enough money to return to Vend. I suggest you do so and forget you ever attended the Sokolov line. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I would never renounce you, my lord.’

  ‘Then you are a fool. What has befallen Dimitri will cost all of us, even you. Not a single soul will employ you after this. No one!’

  Ruslan nodded, feeling something close to panic rise in his chest. Exarch Zima gestured to the Boyar as if he were little more than a serving wench, and the doors to the court opened. Ruslan watched his master march away, crossing the polished floor at a brisk pace so as not to trail after the Exarch. The doors closed and Ruslan stood, feeling more alone than he could remember. He’d been orphaned twenty-five years ago, and while the Sokolovs were never family to him, they were all he had. Ruslan had been jealous of Dimitri in his less charitable moments. The Boyar’s son had been a spoiled layabout as a child and little had changed as he grew older.

  ‘You should move on,’ said one of the Semyonovsky guards at the vast doors. He made a shooing gesture that looked ridiculous in the heavy armour he wore, but was no less patronizing for that.

  ‘I am aide to Augustine Sokolov, Boyar of Vend Province,’ Ruslan replied, forcing as much authority and pride into his voice as he could muster.

  ‘You should move on,’ repeated the guard, though it was sadness, not insistence that Ruslan heard in the man’s words. ‘It’s a bad business you’re wrapped up in, and no one will emerge from it well.’

  Ruslan nodded, and swallowed in a throat thick with emotion. He departed the antechamber in a daze.

  When Ruslan became aware of his surroundings again he found himself standing before the statue of the previous Boyar, Vladislav Vend Sokolov III, in the Imperial Gardens.

  ‘You may well be dead,’ said Ruslan in a voice like rust. ‘But if you have any sway on the world of the living, I implore you to look out for your son. He needs you now more than he ever did before.’

  ‘Are you lost?’ The question came from behind him, the voice as sumptuous as a brocade gown, the accent different to the people of Vend, yet still recognisably Solska. Ruslan turned to find himself face to face with three noblewomen. One was trying hard not to giggle behind a fan; she was no older than Ruslan but he would not have been able to afford her riding boots even if he had saved all year for them. Why she should need a fan eluded Ruslan; the sun was only conspicuous for its absence.

  ‘He’s not lost; he’s simple.’ Another of the noblewomen looked down her nose at him with her lips pursed – in contemplation or disapproval, Ruslan wasn’t sure which. He was used to nobles conversing as if he were not there, he’d grown used to the idea he was below their notice, but he’d never been the topic at hand.

  ‘Well, I think he looks lost.’ The sumptuous voice again. She was an elegant brunette woman in her forties, adorned with make-up and gold jewellery, bundled up in a handsome riding cloak of verdant green.

  ‘I’m not lost, thank you.’ Ruslan bowed his head, painfully aware he knew not whom he spoke to.

  ‘Are you the gardener?’ asked the fan-bearer, a note of mocking in her words. ‘Shouldn’t you have tools or a shovel?’

  ‘Of course he’s the gardener,’ said the disapproving noblewoman. She brushed a speck of dirt, real or imagined, from her dark purple dress. ‘Look at the state of him,’ she added, not giving him a moment’s notice.

  ‘Well, gardener or not’ – the elegant brunette stepped forward and smoothed Ruslan’s fringe back from his forehead. Her fingers were chilly but her touch was pleasant all the same – ‘he’s rather handsome in a rustic sort of way.’

  ‘Rugged even!’ The fan-bearer tittered and rolled her eyes as if scandalized by her companion’s forwardness.

  ‘Oh, not again,’ muttered the sour-faced noble. ‘Didn’t you just set aside one of your peasant playthings last week?’

  The elegant noble shushed her friend before turning her attention back to Ruslan and favouring him with smile. ‘I’m sure I could find a few duties for you if you grow tired of tending to the garden.’

  Ruslan felt himself blush, which brought a peal of laughter from the fan-bearer. Even the sour-faced noble couldn’t suppress a smirk.

  ‘I’m not a gardener for the Emperor—’

  The brunette noble pressed an index finger against his lips gently. ‘Do you have any idea how tiresome it is for us at court? Our husbands constantly haunting this dour place, hoping for some favour or leverage to increase their influence, while we are left to fend for ourselves.’ She removed her finger and lowered her hand until it rested on his chest, over his heart.

  ‘I …’

  ‘We might have a use for a man like you,’ she purred.

  ‘You there! Aide!’ A man’s voice, hard and impatient. Ruslan turned towards its source, surprised to find one of the Semyonovsky guards approaching. ‘Your master requires you at once!’

  ‘The gardener has a master,’ sneered the sour-faced noble.

  ‘What’s going here?’ asked the guard, his black cloak snapping in the wind behind him.

  ‘I was just offering this young man some employment.’ The brunette noble smiled and lowered her gaze submissively.

  ‘His master isn’t dead yet and has need of him,’ replied the guard peevishly. ‘Right now.’

  ‘Not dead,’ croaked Ruslan, hardly believing it. For the second time that day Ruslan marched towards the Imperial Court, struggling to comprehend the terrible events unfolding all around him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Streig

  The Great Library of Arkiv was considered one of the treasures of the Solmindre Empire. Rumours persisted that the Emperor had a copy of every book stored on the island. It was feared the destruction of the Great Library by the father of dragons, Bittervinge, would herald a new dark age of ignorance and unknowing. So much knowledge and history had slept in neat rows on countless shelves, but Bittervinge’s escape from his black iron prison had reduced everything to ashes. The fate of the Great Library was a prelude to what was to come to Vinterkveld in the following weeks.

  – From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province

  The darkness was total. Not me
rely an absence of light, but the deep darkness of being underground. Had it not been for the sound of his laboured breathing Streig might have thought he was already dead. Folk tales told of a Hel that resembled an endless range of cliffs where the damned fell to their deaths, only to endure the same fate the next day and every day for all of eternity. Streig’s father, ever a contrary sort, had told cautionary tales of a Hel deep underground, a series of caverns and tunnels. The dead lingered as ghosts in the lonely darkness, struggling to remember the joy of their brief lives, while the shades of dragons prowled the caverns breathing ghostly fire.

  ‘Frøya save me,’ Streig whispered in desperation. It had been many years since he’d dared to whisper the names of the goddesses. His mouth was dry save for the taste of ashes and despair. ‘Silverdust?

  Every breath brought a stab of pain from ribs that must surely be fractured, and with the pain came terrible memories. They returned to him, alighting like dark birds, one or two at first, then more and more details forming a flock, until there was no escape from the truth.

  ‘Oh gods,’ groaned Streig in the darkness. They had been in the Great Library searching for the renegade Felgenhauer on the Emperor’s orders, though Silverdust had long followed his own agenda. Loyalties, once so steadfast in the Empire, were now fickle and changing. At the height of the fighting they’d allied themselves with former Matriarch-Commissar and her nephew, the infamous Steiner Vartiainen. Steiner the Unbroken. Steiner the dragon rider. Though in truth he bore the appearance of a heavily scarred and somewhat scrawny peasant. Somehow, along with his love, Kristofine, he’d captured the imagination of peasants with yet another title, the Lovers. Yet there was no love in the ruins of the Great Library, only pain and darkness.