by Den Patrick
‘Silverdust? I’m hurt. I’m …’ Streig thought back to the long journey from Vladibogdan where he’d befriended the enigmatic Exarch. The mirror-masked Vigilant never ate, didn’t sleep, and claimed to see the dead. Their journey together had revealed him as the rarest of beings in all of Vinterkveld: a cinderwraith with arcane gifts at his disposal. But even an undead cinderwraith with the considerable arcane powers of a learned Exarch could not hope to survive being consumed by a dragon.
‘You’re really gone,’ whispered Streig.
He cradled his bruised left hand in his right, holding it against his chest. Silverdust, his only friend, had finally gone to whatever rest awaited him, though who knew what Frejna would make of such a mortal fetching up on the shores of the dead.
‘You can’t be gone. I need you. Steiner needs you. And the Emperor still draws breath. Where are you?’
It had been Silverdust, in his former life as Serebryanyy Pyli, who had taught the Emperor the intricacies of the arcane. If anyone was capable of surviving the jaws of Bittervinge, the father of dragons, then surely it was the often cryptic, always powerful Silverdust.
‘Please, Silverdust.’ Streig didn’t merely need the Exarch to be alive, he needed his help. A jagged, stumbling memory returned to him of running through the library as it collapsed around him, falling through the floor and blindly staggering to a staircase leading down. The Great Library had been the largest repository of knowledge in all Vinterkveld, save the Emperor’s personal library, so people said. Bittervinge’s escape had heralded fire and destruction on a scale Streig had not dared to dream possible.
‘All those books,’ croaked Streig as he remembered the terrible heat of the inferno. It was not the Hel of folk stories, but it had been no less terrifying for all that. Now he was lost in the rubble and ashes of that once great edifice. He would die down here, a long suffering of starvation and thirst. Streig snorted a bitter laugh. To have come so far, to have crossed the continent, to have stood before the Emperor himself and witnessed the death of Father Orlov and Envoy de Vries, only to die alone of starvation.
A glow appeared in the pitch darkness and Streig blinked in breathless excitement, worried his eyes were playing tricks. ‘Silverdust?’ The glow became two lights, each no larger than a Shanisrond firefly. Streig blinked eyes that threatened tears of relief and reached out with a shaking hand.
‘Silverdust?’
It is I.
Silverdust had forgone speech long ago, using the arcane to communicate, for the dead had no lips to speak. The words appeared in Streig’s mind, no louder than a whisper.
‘I can barely see you.’
I am much reduced. Here, follow me. It is imperative you survive, Streig. You must survive.
Streig took a moment to pull himself to his feet, wincing as his ribs sang with pain. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d see you again after …’
Bittervinge. Yes, being consumed by the father of dragons was not the outcome I had hoped for.
‘Your talent for understatement survived the ordeal.’ Streig couldn’t help the slow smile that creased his lips.
So it would seem.
As the pair of dim orange lights drifted closer Streig realized he’d lost both his shield and his mace in the fighting, but somehow gained a two-handed sword. When had that happened?
‘I can’t see anything,’ he whispered, as if afraid to rouse the attention of the darkness itself. The orange lights performed a lazy dance, orbiting a torch held in a sconce for a handful of seconds. The torch was coaxed into life, the yellow light as bright as the midwinter sun on a clear day. Streig screwed his eyes shut a moment and winced.
Are you wounded? Hurt?
‘Just my eyes. The light. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here.’
We must get you to the surface. You need food, water, rest.
‘And you? Will you recover?’
Silverdust gave no answer, drifting further along the ash-strewn tunnels beneath the once Great Library of Arkiv Island.
Streig wasn’t sure how long he dragged himself through the darkness following the dancing lights. That mere embers were all that remained of the once great Silverdust troubled him greatly. The young soldier shucked off his armour as he went, relieved as the weight lessened, but no less exhausted. His arms ached from holding up the torch with his good hand, while his bruised hand gripped the great sword, resting on his shoulder.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ asked Streig after what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps they were in Hel after all, doomed to wander forever.
In truth, no. Perhaps these stairs will lead us to the surface.
Streig’s torch lit the way, revealing worn stone steps, with small drifts of ashes like so much grey snow.
‘Let me go ahead. It may not be safe for you in your current state.’
I am much reduced. There was a tired, faintly delirious tone to Silverdust’s words that Streig had not heard before. And this was not the outcome I had wished for.
Streig felt a pang of helplessness. A wounded soldier he could tend and feed and watch over, but a wounded cinderwraith? Who knew how to heal the undead? Was such a thing even possible?
The staircase was long and Streig stumbled twice before reaching the top, only to be greeted by a wooden door reinforced with iron studs and a lock that prevented them from venturing further.
‘Gods damn it,’ said Streig, shaking the door handle in desperation. He stepped back and kicked the door in disgust, jarring his fractured ribs.
I may yet have some small trick up my incorporeal sleeves.
Silverdust, the little of him that remained, disappeared into the keyhole, the motes of light shining brightly before they disappeared from view.
‘Silverdust?’ Streig felt a moment of panic. ‘Don’t leave me here.’ He dropped to his knees to look through the keyhole. Light flared brightly in the dark and the smell of scorched metal filled his senses.
Hold the torch a little closer. I need its strength.
Streig did as he was told and a tongue of fire from the torch curved into the lock. The flame joined with the cinderwraith, who bent his will to melting the metal. Streig started to sweat.
‘It’s taking long enough,’ he complained on aching knees.
You have somewhere else to be? Another way out of this infernal maze?
‘Sorry.’
Molten iron dribbled from the keyhole like filthy candle wax.
Try it now, but mind the handle – it may be hot.
Streig did as he was told and opened the door, using his shirt to protect his fingers from the heat. The sky was pleasantly vast, pale blue and scudded with wisps of white clouds so different to the black smoke that had billowed from the Great Library the day before. Streig sucked down breaths of fresh air and released sighs of relief as the wind darted around the door frame.
‘Come on,’ said Streig, grinning, but when he turned around he saw that Silverdust had remained in the darkness.
I cannot. I fear the wind will dissipate me. Even now I am struggling to hold myself together.
‘The wind?’ Streig looked back through the doorway to the courtyard that sat behind the Great Library. There was a tower on the far side, built into a sturdy wall. ‘How do I get you out of here when you’re like this?’
Silverdust retreated back along the corridor and the stone stairs that led to the dark netherworld beneath the library.
I have an idea.
Streig couldn’t say how long they searched, but the Great Library was home to more secrets than the ones inscribed on the many books. More moderate Vigilants had begun a fashion in decades past, a desire to have their ashes stored in the vaults beneath the library itself, so they might rest in peace with the knowledge of the Empire. The practice was frowned upon, of course, but simply being a moderate in an Empire built on fear and punishment was frowned on, and so the fashion continued. The librarians conspired with the members of the Holy Synod and secreted the urns o
f the Vigilants in the deep places beneath the library.
‘So what do we do with the Vigilant already in here?’ said Streig, gently lifting a dark grey urn from a small alcove in one of the many winding corridors.
The Great Library is nothing more than ashes. A few more will not go amiss.
‘You’re saying I should just … pour him out?’
I am saying my need is greater than his, or hers, right now. Besides, there is a good chance I knew the Vigilant in life, just as there is a good chance they owe me a favour.
Streig wrinkled his nose as he lifted the lid on the urn. He poured out the ashes, covering his nose and mouth with one sleeve.
‘Sorry,’ he said to the cloud of grey particulate, feeling foolish even as he said the words. Silverdust drifted into the vessel; the twin lights illuminated the inside.
Do not seal the lid too tightly. I still need air, much like a living flame.
Streig could see Silverdust more clearly in the confines of the urn. Little more than a small cloud of smoke and two amber candle flames.
‘We need to find someone to make you whole again,’ whispered Streig to the urn, though who such a person might be he had no idea.
The wind continued to gust across the wide expanse of the courtyard as Streig made his way towards the tower. People were searching the ruins for survivors and Streig, stripped of his armour and covered in ash, looked like one more lost soul haunting the remains of the Great Library. He headed towards the stout wall that enclosed the courtyard, hoping the many towers along its length would offer a place to shelter.
Just a little further, Streig. You have done admirably. I will not forget this.
Streig clutched the urn in his wounded hand and pressed the great sword along the line of his body so as to not draw attention to himself. The tower, much like the wall, had been dressed in pale stone, intended to be elegant more than defensive. The door to the nearest tower was painted the colour of dried blood.
‘Hardly a good omen.’ Streig frowned and glanced down at the urn. ‘Are you still in there?’
For the moment. Are we in the tower?
‘Soon.’ Streig set down the sword carefully and tried the door, grateful to find it unlocked. He pushed against it with a shoulder, wincing as his ribs pained him once more.
‘Hello?’ he called into the gloom. The spiral staircase remained silent and Streig retrieved the great sword and closed the door with his foot, before ascending the many stairs.
You are in much pain.
‘I’ll heal,’ replied Streig, breathless with the effort and the pain in his chest. ‘I just need to get you somewhere safe first. Then I can rest.’
Streig climbed the stone steps to the very top of the tower. He entered a room with a rumpled bed that had been shoved into one corner. A desk littered with correspondence sat before the window, while a trio of bird cages stood nearby, covered in black velvet. Three chairs were drawn up in a loose semicircle before the fireplace, though it was stone-cold and home only to white ashes.
‘Not the most homely of places but it will have to do, I suppose.’ Streig set the urn on the fireplace and slipped the lid so it was halfway open. ‘I can barely believe we escaped from that place.’ He could see the ruins of the Great Library from the tower window. Smoke and dust hung over the scene in a vast and sombre pall. Streig slumped down on the bed and his thoughts turned to the many soldiers who had died in the fighting, men who would have fought side by side in previous years. Now the Solmindre Empire was divided by rebellion and mistrust.
Do not mourn for those still loyal to the Emperor.
Streig stared at the urn. ‘So you can still read minds then, even in this reduced state.’
So it would seem. Rest a while and then seek out some food. Bad enough that I have wasted away. No good will come of you doing the same.
Streig shucked off his boots and loosened his belt, too tired to remove his britches. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, bruised hand resting on his fractured ribs, the dull pain a now familiar companion.
CHAPTER SIX
Steiner
Accounts from the survivors of Khlystburg were harrowing. The city folk lived under the constant threat from the father of dragons. Those that didn’t find themselves eaten or immolated had to contend with rising food shortages due to the blockade at the port. This was perhaps the Emperor’s greatest mistake during the uprising and led to widespread misery and scores of avoidable deaths. The people, ever reliant on trade, soon found their warehouses empty of reserves. Despair reigned over the city of whips, and people who had spent decades carving out a tenuous existence were forced to withdraw, signalling one of the largest migrations of refugees in the continent’s history. Ultimately the blockade was ineffective at keeping out those the Emperor feared the most: the Lovers made landfall shortly after departing Arkiv Island.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
The Morskoy Volk cut through the waters under full canvas, though the waters were choppy now the wind was up; the ship heeled with every gust. Captain Sedey stood at the helm with a sour look on his face, stern gaze set on the horizon. Felgenhauer and her cadre of followers remained below decks so as not risk undue attention.
‘We should be down there with them,’ said Kristofine, her voice firm but quiet. The city, seen from afar, looked in poor repair. A pall of grey and black smoke hung over the rooftops and the stark, bright sunshine failed to gild the city in a favourable light. Tall buildings loomed amid the murk.
‘I’ve never been to Khlystburg before,’ replied Steiner. Behind the city lay the endless reaches of the Midtenjord Steppe, barren of anything and anyone save the scrubby grass and biting winds. ‘But I’d have to say it looks to be a lonely place. Never thought I’d say that about a city.’
‘Not so different to Cinderfell,’ said Kristofine, ‘just larger. I still think we should get below decks.’
‘I just want to see it,’ said Steiner. ‘Get the measure of it. My father is hidden somewhere in all this …’ He gestured, unable to find a word for the sprawling capital.
‘You don’t get the measure of Khlystburg,’ muttered Captain Sedey as he changed course slightly. ‘You pay taxes, you pay bribes, you stay out of trouble, and if you’re lucky, you get to walk out again and hope you never have to come back.’
‘Why come here at all?’ said Kristofine.
‘They pay well for just about everything.’ The captain released a sigh. ‘Everything is imported to Khlystburg. It’s a gaping maw that will swallow up anything. Timber, meat, and grain. Vodka and mead. Taxes and people. It swallows up people most of all.’ The captain shook his head and looked as if he might spit in disgust. ‘And it’s always hungry.’
Steiner and Kristofine looked at one another with dampened spirits. Neither said anything until a pilot and tax inspector from Khlystburg came aboard from a small boat.
‘This could take a while,’ warned the captain. ‘And prove expensive. Best to make yourself scarce.’
The Morskoy Volk finally came to rest a short way off one of the many stone piers that reached into the sea like a giant’s fingers. Theirs was not the only vessel visiting Khlystburg that day. All manner of ships were idling at anchor in the steel-grey waters. The few captains that had unfurled their sails were heading out to open water; the Morskoy Volk was the only arrival.
‘Something’s off,’ said Steiner as he climbed down a rope ladder. Felgenhauer and Kristofine were waiting for him in a small boat to make the short journey to shore along with Reka.
‘A blockade is coming.’ Felgenhauer gestured south, where three Imperial galleons edged north against unfavourable winds. ‘Just like Arkiv.’
‘We only just arrived in time,’ said Reka. They set off, Steiner and Reka pulling at the oars. No one said a word until they were almost ashore.
‘I still say we should have left you aboard the ship,’ said Felgenhauer to Kristofine, almost under
her breath. Steiner heard her all the same.
‘And I still say where he goes I go,’ replied Kristofine.
The former Vigilant turned an annoyed glare on Reka, who chuckled as he rowed, which only served to annoy her more.
‘We split up,’ said Steiner once they were ashore. They all knew the plan. Best to remain in small groups of threes and fours than go marching down the street like a full squad.
‘I’ll see you at the inn tonight,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘Remember what we’re here to do. Finding your father comes second.’
‘Rebellion first, Marek second,’ he managed through gritted teeth.
‘Be careful, Steiner,’ added his aunt, summoning a pang of regret for the way things were between them, but there was no time to bandage the wounds; their arrival at Khlystburg ushered in more pressing concerns.
‘That woman is a pain in my arse,’ muttered Kristofine once Felgenhauer was out of earshot.
‘I dare say she is,’ replied Reka, frowning at the retreating form of Felgenhauer. ‘But she loves Steiner. That much is obvious. And she’ll do anything to spare him pain.’
Steiner clasped Kristofine’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ he said. ‘Not like Father.’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ she replied with a frown. ‘I came to look after you.’
‘Come on, my Lovers,’ chided Reka. ‘No time for sentiment.’
The docks were alive with hisses and whispers of rumour and speculation. All eyes turned south to the oncoming galleons and the blockade they promised.
‘They’ll be here by evening,’ said Kristofine.
‘Perhaps,’ said Reka, ‘and they almost certainly have Vigilants aboard, so let’s be sure to avoid the docks in the coming days.’ They set off through the city, which was busier and dirtier than both Virag and Vostochnyye Lisy. Kristofine wrinkled her nose at the filth on the cobbled streets. Steiner found his anger rising as the city folk pushed past him, hard looks on their faces as Steiner shoved back.
‘Keep your head,’ warned Reka. ‘We don’t need a street brawl just because these fools don’t look where they’re walking.’
