by Phil Tucker
"Bloody fool," he rasped. But when he slid his sword back into his scabbard, he felt a modicum of comfort, a soft glow of purpose, like a torch detected by its corona of light from around a corner.
He walked back to the weathered stone, picked up his dagger, and turned it over in his hands. The idea of opening his wrist seemed hollow now, devoid of its promise of release and peace.
He sheathed the small blade and stared down at his ruined home. He had no desire to sleep under its sagging roof. The stable, then. If his horse could stand his company.
Tiron began walking back down the hill. His body was still aching, and his soul was still throbbing with regret, but he held his head up as he descended into the gloom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Iskra stood in the castle bailey, a burning brand held out to one side, her gaze on her son's pyre. The bailey was filled with people, all silent, their faces grave, their eyes drawn in the dawn light.
Iskra stared at the pyre. It rose three yards high and was built of rowan and ash and oak. It would burn furiously when lit. Her son was draped in a thick white cloth the corners of which were adorned with the Ascendant's silver triangle. She'd sat by his side all night. Had sent the faltering Father Simeon from her sight, and ordered the pyre built an hour ago.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. A spell lay upon the bailey, cast perhaps by her, perhaps by the sight of the forlorn corpse. Iskra looked up, past the castle walls, at the clouds that hung in the dark sky. Gray masses whose eastern edges were lightening to rose and salmon, cinnamon and umber. Whose highest edges were already being limned in buttery gold.
Tears came to her eyes. Such beauty in this world. Such thoughtless grandeur. A dawn that Roddick would never see, and for some reason, by some ineffable logic she couldn't grasp, that only made her more appreciative of the sky's raw beauty.
The time had come to say goodbye to her youngest. The brand weighed more than the world, the flames licking up its length. Iskra stared at the pyre, searching for strength, rooting for it in the wreckage of her soul. She found it, stepped forward, and lifted the brand. She'd spent all night studying his waxen visage, had etched his death mask into her mind, but even now, at this very last, she could only think of him laughing, hear his eager cries echoing through the castle's halls, of the patter of his small feet as he chased after Kethe.
Grief threatened to crash down upon her again, to break her. Prevent her from accomplishing this final task.
"Goodbye, my son." Her words were soft, for him alone. No ritual, no Mourning, no speeches. Nothing was fitting but the irrevocable goodbye of flames. Eyes raw and dry, she thrust the brand into the matrix of logs, plunging it into the kindling hidden at the center of the pyre. Shavings curled as they caught fire and filled the air with the smell of cedar, then crackled and spat and raced up the oiled logs.
Iskra didn't retreat. She watched as the white cloth darkened then caught fire, thick smoke like soft gray wool rising in eddying plumes around her son's body. The heat quickly became oppressive. She felt it baking her face, searing the backs of her arms, but she didn't mind, not truly.
She welcomed the pain – and understood for the first time the appeal of following a loved one into death. The madness of that devotion, the ending of grief, the enervating bliss of becoming undone.
"My lady?" It was Orishin, a half-step to one side, voice pitched low.
Iskra stared through the flames, the pyre, the smoke, into her future. A life lived without Roddick, without Kethe, without a husband, without a home. It was a dark and joyless path. Was it worth walking?
The flames were burnishing her skin.
"My lady?"
That dark and crooked path faded away. Iskra glanced back at Orishin, nodded, and stepped back. She had thought to watch the pyre be reduced to cinders, but couldn't remember why. She felt no compunction to do so now. Her son was gone, his body soon to follow.
The urge to act seized her by the throat.
She was surrounded by an ocean of strange faces. Tiron. Wyland. Asho. Kethe. Brocuff. Audsley. Kolgrimr. Maeve. They were all gone. The Hrethings were standing to one side, a somber contingent. She walked up to the man standing at their fore, an imposing Hrething who looked more bear than human, massively shouldered, his arms as thick as most men's thighs, a beard as black as perdition reaching down nearly to his belt.
"Who leads the Hrethings?"
The man nodded his head respectfully. "I do, my lady, though not by choice." His voice was harsh, almost a growl. "I am Tóki."
"Tóki." Iskra didn't want to concern herself with details. She wanted movement, wanted speed, but the man's tone arrested her attention. "What do you mean, not by choice?"
Tóki turned to look at the fifteen Hrethings gathered behind him and grimaced. "They look to me for commands, whether I give them or not."
The wind shifted and brought with it smoke from the pyre and the smell of her burning son. All desire to learn more was clawed from her mind. "Gather your people. We ride forth. Now."
An Agerastian officer stepped forward. "Lady Iskra. We are commanded to escort you."
"No," she said, and the man clenched his jaw. "No," she said again, softer. "No."
The Agerastian nodded, bowed, and stepped back.
Tóki rounded on his contingent. Iskra strode into the crowd, which parted for her. The castle's steward – Bertchold – pressed forward, mouth opening to address her, then paled and stepped back.
The sight of the steward prompted thoughts. Iskra's mind whirled. There was so much to address, too much to do, but she couldn't focus on any of it. Couldn't bring herself to care. "Orishin," she said. The Agerastian was one step behind her. "You are the new steward. Appoint an Agerastian commander as constable."
"Yes, my lady," said Orishin.
"I will return. Until then, nobody is to leave the castle unless it is to return to Mythgraefen."
"Yes, my lady."
Iskra stopped. Closed her eyes. "And... collect my son's ashes in an urn. Please."
Orishin pressed his hands together and bowed once more.
The stables were nearly bursting with mounts, the horses shying and stirring as the smell of smoke reached them. Someone familiar stepped forth, his beard now more white than black.
"My lady," said Thiemo, the marshal. He bowed low.
Questions of loyalty assailed her and were brushed aside. "Prepare seventeen horses."
"At once, my lady." He hesitated, like Bertchold clearly wanting to speak, then bowed his head and hurried away.
Ten minutes later, Iskra galloped through the main gate, the Hrethings behind her, some clinging roughly to their mounts.
She galloped down the castle's hill to the main road. The speed was a blessing. She almost thought she could outrun herself, her thoughts, her grief. The horse lengthened its stride, and she was a wisp clinging to its back. She closed her eyes, felt the horse surging beneath her, wanted to release the reins, to press her face to its neck.
Tóki rode up alongside her after she'd slowed to a trot, making the great destrier between his legs look like a palfrey. "Where are we going?"
She welcomed his directness. "A half-day's ride. I seek Ser Tiron."
"And you know where he is?"
"I do."
Tóki hesitated. "Will there be a fight?"
Iskra shook her head. "No."
"Good," Tóki grunted, and fell back. A few moments later she heard him give a gruff command, and two young Hrethings who looked more comfortable in the saddle galloped past her, only slowing down when they were several hundred yards ahead. Outriders.
Iskra wanted to gallop, but held their pace to a trot. A warhorse, Enderl had told her once, would be blown after covering three miles at a gallop, but could trot five times as far without undue strain.
Enderl. How would he have taken Roddick's death? He'd have reacted in the only way he knew: with violence. He would have buried his grief in blood. And was that so wrong? For the first tim
e she missed having him by her side, wished he were here, astride his old warhorse, riding with her to seek vengeance.
It was midafternoon by the time they reached the Tiron estate. Iskra had visited once, ten years ago, to attend the Mourning of Tiron's father. The old man had once been one of Enderl's father's prized knights. The evening had been solemn, and she recalled being impressed by how neatly kept the estate had been. How handsome Tiron had been, dressed in a suit of black, and how lovely his wife had seemed as she stood by his side. It was then that her feelings for Tiron had begun, that night when she'd seen how, even in the depths of his grief, Tiron had treated Sarah with such tenderness.
She crested the final rise, rode through the copse of birch trees, and emerged beside the outriders to gaze down upon the ruin of Tiron's home. She halted her horse and looked upon the fallow fields, the tumbledown estate, the weeds and vines and destruction.
A thread of weary melancholy wormed itself through the wall of her pain. Her husband had brought this ruin upon Tiron's head, had destroyed his estate and family in a jealous rage. Jealous because she had thrown Tiron's love for Sarah in his face one night, had lashed out at him for being a hollow excuse for a man compared to Tiron's goodness.
A man stepped out from a dark doorway. There was no mistaking him, and Iskra felt a powerful surge of emotion pass through her. Relief, fury, a resurgence of her grief and pain.
The man stood in his courtyard, arms hanging at his sides, watching her.
Iskra clucked her horse forward.
Tiron was dressed in black, an old suit of clothing that was gray at the creases and loose at the shoulders. His face was ashen and lined with weariness. His eyes, so familiar, looked sunken, the crow's feet stark at their corners. He'd cut his hair, had hacked it down close to the skull. He was apprehensive, she realized, but not broken. Far from it. There was a new solidity to him that she'd not sensed before.
"My lady," he said, and in his voice she heard his matching grief.
"Ser Tiron." She was a dry river bed, a scorched hearth, a bleak horse skull on a field of war.
Tiron stepped forward and lowered himself to one knee. "Iskra. I'm so sorry."
"Why, Tiron?" She stared down at him. "Why did you run?"
He looked down at the dirt-covered flagstones. "I was afraid, Iskra." He spoke plainly, his voice hoarse, hiding nothing. "I was afraid of your loss. Of the pain brought on by my failure. So I ran."
Iskra studied him. Her control, her dry eyes, her febrile calm – it was all a lie. Her grief loomed massively just beyond her tenuous self-possession. Watching. Waiting. Ready to overwhelm her at a moment's notice. But for now, in this moment, she felt almost indifferent. "Tell me what happened."
Tiron took her through the attack, the surprise, Brocuff's death, the melee in the keep, right up to his confrontation with Wyland, in sparse detail that conveyed all she needed to know.
"He demanded that I call off the attack." His voice was a rasp. "But it was too late. The keep had all but fallen. I couldn't have obeyed if I'd wanted to. When he realized that, he – he took Roddick's life." Tiron shuddered. "He said that in breaking your spirit, he was protecting the Empire."
"He's dead," said Iskra. Why did it feel like a confession? Tiron looked up, shocked. "Wyland is dead. I killed him."
"You had him killed?"
"No, Tiron." She felt callous, almost cruel. She could still feel the initial resistance of Wyland's skin, the sliding punch between his muscles, the scrape against bone. No one had ever told her how intimate violence was. How infinitely ghastly. "I killed him myself."
Tiron rose to his feet, wincing as he did so, and nearly staggered. Something was wrong with his knee, apparently. He caught himself, grimaced, and then mastered his pain. "Iskra."
"Don't. I don't want your pity." She remembered Wyland's eyes as the light in them had dimmed and felt her insides quiver. "It was wrong. He was defenseless. But so was Roddick." Tears threatened, and she remembered Roddick's body lying beneath the shroud. Had she left because she was too weak to watch him burn?
She half-expected Tiron to move to her side, to reach for her. Would she rebuff him or break and fall into his arms?
He didn't move. "I understand."
In that moment, to her surprise, she realized that she didn't fault him for fleeing. His steadfast manner now, his quiet resolve, and his complete lack of desire to excuse his actions made further recriminations unnecessary.
Where had this calmness come from? What had happened here during the long night he'd spent with his dead and his memories?
A wave of weariness passed over her, carrying the weight of everything she'd done to save her son. Her rebellion. Her resistance. The battles, the strategies, the alliances. Each and every desperate moment. All so that she could save her child.
And now he was gone.
Why fight on?
Iskra felt new grief come crashing down upon her. Roddick. This one she couldn't surmount. It swamped her; it crushed her throat even as she felt a heart-wrenching sob fight its way up from her core.
Instantly, Tiron was there by her side. He reached up and eased her off the saddle, then guided her to a plain wooden chair set against the stable wall. She sank onto it and covered her face. All pretense at control, calculation, and calm broke, was torn asunder, and the tears poured out.
Tiron remained crouched by her side. He didn't reach out to hold her, but instead kept one hand on her knee. He was simply there, giving her room, waiting.
Like a cruel tide, the grief receded. Only for a time, she knew. It would return, again and again.
She turned to Tiron, not bothering to wipe away the tears. "You failed me when you fled," she said. "But I still have faith in you. I still want your sword by my side."
"Then it is yours, my lady. As long as your cause is just."
"Just? What could be more just than avenging Roddick?"
"Wyland is dead."
"But not his lord. Mertyn Laur must answer for this murder."
"Iskra," said Tiron softly. "Wyland acted alone."
"No," she said. "Mertyn may not have wielded the knife, but none of this would have happened without his machinations. He is the one who held Roddick hostage, who forced us to defend ourselves when he sent his knights to kill us. He is the one who has set me on this path, this path that has ended with Roddick's death! There must be an accounting."
She searched Tiron's weary face but didn't see the affirmation she'd hoped for, had needed.
"How do you think to achieve this revenge?" he asked.
"We must move quickly," said Iskra. "I've learned from those we captured that the Ascendant's Grace is visiting Mertyn. It's the perfect opportunity to bring justice to their door."
Tiron stilled. "Assault Castle Laur?"
Iskra smiled bleakly. "Nothing so grand. We don't have time for a siege. I've set upon a simple plan that will allow us inside the walls."
"And how will we do that?"
"Audsley can help us. I must speak to him. If he agrees, we should be able to enter Castle Laur without much difficulty."
Tiron mulled that over. "His newfound abilities."
Iskra nodded. "If he can fly over the walls and open a gate from within, then we should be able to slip inside while the castle sleeps."
"Getting soldiers close would be difficult." Tiron rubbed at his chin with his thumb. "It would have to be a small force, fifty to a hundred men at most."
"That's fine. I don't seek to hold Laur Castle, merely confront Mertyn and the Grace."
"Iskra..."
She knew from his tone, his expression, that he was going to seek to dissuade her.
"This plan. It's incredibly dangerous. The Grace will have a Virtue with him, and an honor guard. Laur Castle itself will be packed with knights and militia. You risk everything on this assault."
"I would risk everything and more if it avenges Roddick's death!"
Tiron shook his head. "The greatest revenge y
ou can take is to capture Aletheia and end the Empire. Then you can take your revenge on Mertyn for his deeds. Take him to court, try him and convict him. But this? Iskra, this isn't justice. This isn't even revenge. It's madness."
"Call it what you will. I would have thought you'd have more sympathy for madness, given your past." Iskra felt a raw need arise within her chest. Her body seemed too frail to contain her fury. "None of this would have happened without Mertyn's betrayal. I swear to you by the body of my dead son that I will make him pay. His time has come. Now, I am asking you, Ser Tiron, once and for all: are you my knight? Will you aid me in my time of greatest need?"
Sadness was all she saw in his eyes, and it tore at her, inflamed her anger further.
"No, my lady," he replied. "Forgive me, but I find no justice here. Ask me to storm the walls of Aletheia, and I will charge them alone if need be. But lead a hundred good men and women to their doom to kill a man for a crime he didn't commit? I am sorry. I can't do that."
Iskra stilled. A rushing roar filled her ears, and all her fury sluiced away. She stared at Tiron, and saw him as if from a great distance, her mind and body left cold and numb. "Very well. Then I discharge you from my service. Take your notions of justice and honor where you will. If they do not compel you to avenge Roddick, then I have no use for them or for you."
Tiron's face paled. "Iskra. Don't do this. Strike at Aletheia!"
"Goodbye, Ser Tiron."
Iskra strode past him toward her horse. The Hrethings were standing there, arrayed around Tóki, their hands resting lightly on the pommels of their swords. Tóki took the reins of her horse and led it forward.
Tiron didn't follow her out into the yard. He stood in the shadow of the stable, looking old and worn and stricken. She swung smoothly up into her saddle and turned her horse away from him. Iskra shuddered, clenched her reins tightly, and fixed her eyes on the distant trees at the top of the hill. So be it, she thought in a chill voice that was barely her own. I shall go it alone.
