by Matthew Ward
An eastward glance showed gold and scarlet where blue shields should have held, routed militia and the Fellnore pennant raised high in a shadowthorn’s grasp.
Hadari trumpets blared. The anarchic mass to Rosa’s right dissolved into screams. The soldier at her side crumpled. An Immortal spurred his horse through the gap and hacked down.
Rosa rammed her shield forward. “On me! Form on—”
An outrider’s spear-point scraped across her shield’s rim and lodged deep in her shoulder.
“Shield ring!” Sevaka’s voice rose high above screams of flesh and steel.
Twisting about, Rosa hauled hard on the spear, tugging the tip free of her shoulder and the outrider from his saddle in one painful motion. She stamped on his throat and lunged for the emptied saddle. The rain glimmered gold.
Her desperate parry checked a cataphract’s blade, and then he was gone, borne through the wreckage that had been the shield wall’s centre and onwards to the pitiful ring Sevaka mustered at the gorge’s edge.
The cold mist of descending clouds gathered about the bloody ruin of the right flank. Shadowthorn riders hurtled through the veil, triumphant cries muffled as they hunted down the survivors.
The mists parted. Two Hadari, armour too finely wrought for mere Immortals, galloped into view. One held the captured Fellnore pennant aloft. The other’s helm bore a stylised silver halo above, and a golden mask beneath.
No time to reach the shield ring.
Nothing to do but fight.
A fanfare shook the hillside. Not the harsh cry of trumpets, nor the mellower note of buccinas, but a deep, fibrous roar born of days long sundered.
A cold wind parted the mists. Shadows gathered beneath the trees and at Soraved’s gate. Shadows with the barest likeness of men, their forms boiling like smoke as mist rushed back in. Only their helms offered substance – silver death masks of leering skulls. Silver too were the hilts of their swords. Their blades burned like dark fire.
The Hadari charge faltered. Cries rang out. Horses circled as riders stared hither and yon.
And Rosa felt… nothing. Not fear. Not confusion. Guided by sudden, pressing instinct, she glanced to her right and saw a thin figure watching the commotion with sardonic amusement.
“Oh, hello, Rosa,” said the Raven, as if he were surprised to see her there. “I’ve been thinking.”
The breathy fanfare sounded again. Shadows writhed.
The black sword passed through the outrider’s chest without finding hindrance in flesh or armour. There was only a murky hiss of rising smoke, and a scream that jolted Aeldran from his fug of terror.
He wheeled his horse. A shadow rippled out of the mist.
Steel drove black flame aside and lunged to the riposte. Living shadow parted before Aeldran’s blade, dissipating into the mist. Masterless, sword and silver helm tumbled to the ground.
With a cry of triumph, Aeldran rowelled his horse, only to turn as instinct prickled.
Behind, the silver helm rose from the ground, tendrils of shadow crawling from eye socket and rictus grin to weave a body beneath. A coalescent hand closed about the fallen sword.
Aeldran’s triumph died on an ashen tongue. His pulse quickened to deafening pace. Letting the Fellnore pennant fall, he spurred away.
“Naradna!”
Muffled screams sounded. Vapour danced with swirling shadow and parted beneath falling bodies. Trumpets blared for the retreat, and thundering hooves joined the cacophony.
There. A gleam of gold. A clash of steel.
Aeldran clung tight to his sword, and urged his horse on.
Naradna stood beside a dying horse, crowded close by three shadows, sword ablur in desperate parry.
Somehow, Aeldran found the steadiness of hand to hack one down before it turned. The others dissipated beneath Naradna’s quicksilver blade as the odds shifted.
Aeldran sheathed his sword and flung out a hand. “Climb up behind me!” Terror lent the words ragged pace. “We cannot fight this.”
Naradna levelled a cold, flat stare. “There is no glory in retreat.”
Already, tendrils of shadow reknitted beneath the silver helms.
“Please,” begged Aeldran. “Glory is no use to the dead. Bring word to the Emperor. Let that be your trophy.”
Naradna gave a curt nod but, instead of grasping Aeldran’s hand, snatched a sword from a shadow’s re-coalescing hand. That prize clutched close, Naradna at last joined Aeldran atop his restless steed.
“Yah!”
Aeldran flicked his reins. His horse sprang away downhill, leaving horror far behind.
The screams faded. The mists ebbed, rolling gracefully back across the hilltop – a retreating tide leaving grim bounty upon the shore.
“Queen’s Ashes,” murmured Thaldvar, “but what just happened?”
Sevaka swallowed to clear a dry throat, and willed fingers to slacken about her sword. They refused. All had been a shadow play within the mists, dark shapes and screams. Now, where the village approach had been full of blades and charging steeds, there were only bodies.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t think I want to.”
The mists continued their retreat, revealing Rosa riding tall on a Hadari steed. For a moment, Sevaka glimpsed a dark stranger beside her, head shaking softly as one enjoying a rare and splendid joke.
The last of the mists pulled away. The stranger went with them. And Sevaka, whose blood was already awash with ice, felt a cold hand about her heart.
Twenty
“I’m sorry. Lord and Lady Reveque aren’t home.”
Aided by the fading dusk and shadows cast by his outstretched lantern, Sergeant Heren made a masterful job of concealing his suspicion. But after a year’s practice with Kurkas – undisputed master of letting an expression say only as much as he wished – Josiri knew better. What hearthguard would greet such a sight with equanimity? A Privy Councillor, his mistress and captain of his hearthguard – all filthy, one of them charred – and with what increasingly resembled a corpse clutched tight across the saddle. Elzar’s makeshift bindings were already sodden through. Minutes remained, their passage marked by Altiris’ stuttering breaths.
Josiri grasped for patience. “This boy needs help. He’ll find it nowhere else.”
Heren’s lip twitched. “I can’t let strangers have the run of the house, my lord.”
[[Let me persuade him.]]
Josiri winced. There’d be trouble enough to come without borrowing more via Ana’s notions of diplomacy. “Do you really think Lady Reveque will be pleased if you send us away and the boy dies?”
Giving the low exhalation of a man recognising the impossibility of his position, Heren nodded. “This way.”
Malachi had always known Konor Zarn’s ascension party would be extravagant, but expectation paled before opulent truth. The gardens blazed with firepits and lanterns, setting elusive shadows fleeing across the lawns to escape their brilliance. Canopies filled the space between the brooding silhouette of Woldensend Manor and the sculpted woodlands that hid the city streets, a dizzying array of shapes and colours with some small semblance to a market – fitting, perhaps, given Zarn’s beginnings. Beneath, guests reclined upon chaises and armchairs, surrounded by gilded statues and easel-set paintings fetched from the house. The indoors, outdoors.
I shall not forget my friends. Judging by attendance that evening, Zarn had a great many friends to remember. A sea of tailored suits, flattering dresses and plaited hair. So many, that Malachi was hoarse from greetings neither delivered nor received as warmly as they pretended. All of them dancing, gossiping and conspiring beneath the darkening skies, surrounded by enough food and drink to feed the city’s empty bellies.
Gluttony and waste, pride and preening. Everything Malachi hated about the Republic.
“Father would have loathed this.” Lily steered him adroitly away from a merchant whose eyes gleamed with hopes of patronage. “Barbarians at the gates, he’d have
called it. Look at them. They lust for the trappings of responsibility, but care nothing for its burdens.”
Such had been the case Malachi’s whole life, and for much longer besides, but he’d never said as much to his father-in-law, and knew better than to say so to his wife.
“It’s expected that we at least show our faces. Konor is my equal at council…”
“Equal? He’s nothing. From nowhere.”
“So was I to your father.” Then again, Andor Reveque had judged all Lily’s suitors so, regardless of rank or character. “We can manage a little grace.”
She shook her head, setting her veil dancing. “Even when he’s a vranakin?”
Malachi froze. Fortunately, the nearest guests were lost in laughter at a pair of harlequins in black and green motley fighting over a branch carved in grotesque likeness of a woman. One wore a cloak of leaves and a smooth, blank mask; the other a coat of black feathers and a crooked hat. Jack and the Raven, at war even in theatre.
“You mustn’t say that,” Malachi hissed. “Not here. Not ever.”
She glared. “Because they’ll come for me?”
“Because they’ll come for our children.”
Something broke behind her eyes. “We can’t allow this to go on, Malachi.”
“I know.”
Malachi’s gaze fell on a simarka sitting at silent attention – one of fifty fetched from the foundry to lend official sanction to the celebration. What had become of Josiri? Was he even now a “guest” of the Crowmarket? Or maybe he was dead, sacrificed in place of Constans and Sidara. Or maybe – just maybe – Elzar had intervened.
“Jack” struck his opponent’s hat away. As the Raven stooped to reclaim it, Jack snatched the birchwood stick and made capering flight across the lawns, chased on by laughter and the Raven’s shaking fist.
Lily was right. Something had to be done, but try as he might, Malachi saw no path beyond the bars of a cage he’d set so neatly about himself.
“Malachi! So delightful that you could join us.”
Konor Zarn made stately procession along the path, his smile too broad to be genuine, and his tone unsteady with drink. In one hand, he held a glass of sparkling wine. His other rested about the waist of the snow-blonde woman at his side, her inky gown perfect accompaniment to his suit of black velvet. Laughing eyes glimmered a vivid shade of blue-green. She looked barely older than Sidara, and scarcely of decent age.
Was she bought and paid for, as were so many of those present? The line between arranged marriage and transactional liaisons of a briefer sort was subjective. And it wasn’t as though Malachi counted himself any less a hireling, bought as he was by hope and fear. Thus the question became whether or not she wore the gown and sparkling smile out of choice.
Malachi offered a slight bow, one equal to another. “I never thought to be elsewhere. May I introduce my wife, Lilyana?”
Lily bobbed a stiff curtsey. “Lord Zarn.”
“Konor, please.” He gathered Lily’s gloved hand and pressed it to his lips. “I abhor formality.”
Lily’s gaze rested on his companion. “So I see.”
Again, Zarn seemed wholly ignorant of her veiled hostility.
“Of course, where are my manners? Kasvin, may I present Lord and Lady Reveque?”
Kasvin’s curtsey was more fluid than Lily’s had been, but her apparent lack of family name went a long way to confirming Malachi’s earlier suspicions. Seemliness held no more sway with Zarn than formality.
“She cleans up well, don’t you think?” said Zarn. The hand that had so lately held Lily’s now brushed Kasvin’s jaw and tipped her chin a fraction higher. “Such a waste to leave her in the gutter. And so eager to please. After all, we none of us wish to go back to how we were, do we?”
Through it all, Kasvin’s smile remained steady. Malachi wondered what it cost her. A better man would have called out Zarn’s boorishness, but Malachi was fast losing illusions about himself.
He offered Kasvin the same bow he had Zarn. “A pleasure to meet you, Kasvin.”
The smile flickered, gaining warmth and perhaps gratitude. “Thank you, Lord Reveque.”
Malachi straightened and cast about for something – anything – to distract from his galloping discomfort. “I must say, Konor, I’m impressed. This must have cost you a fortune.”
Zarn drained his glass and stared out across the crowds. “Coin is for spending, and if one can’t lavish wealth on one’s friends, why bother chasing it?”
“Perhaps to help others less fortunate than ourselves?” said Lily.
“Ah yes, the poor. I know your work with the hospices, of course. It must be exhausting.”
“It’s a duty privilege demands.”
He nodded equably. “Privilege demands so much, doesn’t it? Still, we soldier on.” A twist of the lips, and his attention returned to Malachi. “My thanks for your gesture, by the way. The simarka are splendid.”
In point of fact, the verdigrised bronze lions looked tawdry alongside the luxuries fetched from within Woldensend’s walls.
“My husband has always been generous,” said Lily. “It’s one of his faults.”
Zarn smiled. “But what a fault to have. What we give to others is always more valuable than that which we keep for ourselves, don’t you think?”
“Such as service?”
“I was speaking of friendship, but I suppose friendship is a kind of service.”
At last, Malachi realised what was unusual about Zarn’s manner. It wasn’t the slur of intoxication, or the threat so easily read into his words. Rather, it was that whenever he spoke to Lily, he displayed none of the awkwardness her veil provoked in others.
“You might say so,” said Lily. “I consider friendship second only to love, and love should never be given in service, or else can it ever truly be love?”
Kasvin’s smile flickered. Zarn’s handsome features darkened. “Kasvin, my dear, can I trouble you to find me another glass? This one seems to be empty.”
She nodded and withdrew, empty glass in hand.
“I’m surprised you let her go so easily,” said Lily. “Those I care about, I fight for.”
Appalled, Malachi turned his back to Zarn and set his hand on Lily’s shoulder. Beneath the silk, her muscles were taut. “Enough,” he breathed.
She gave a small, curt nod. Malachi turned about, thoughts racing as he considered how best to soften his wife’s rudeness. That he’d little desire to do so made the search harder.
“Konor—”
Zarn waved a dismissive hand. “It’s forgotten. A man shouldn’t be held accountable for a wife’s overindulgence, and the wine is splendid. I joke, of course. But Lilyana. You leave me with the distinct impression we’ve been talking at cross purposes. I seek only prosperity for all, especially those without the good fortune of noble birth. I like to see folk get what they deserve. Kasvin deserves better than your scorn. And your assumptions.”
Malachi didn’t have to see Lily’s face to know there was a scowl beneath the veil.
“Then if you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ll tender my apology in person.”
“Of course.”
Malachi didn’t know that he believed her – Lily’s apologies tended towards the infrequent – but was nonetheless glad when she strode away. Affairs were bleak enough without offering insult to the vranakin’s chosen representative on the Privy Council. Or rather, their willing representative. “Speaking of apologies—”
“Do I seem a man given to thin skin, Malachi? Your wife has a reputation, and doesn’t disappoint. So few people in this city wear their true faces, save in private.” He spread his arms wide as if to encompass the grounds and everyone within. “Look at them. All busy pretending to be something they’re not.”
“Does that include us?”
“That remains to be seen. But you might counsel your wife to caution. Not everyone has my forgiving nature.”
“Lord Reveque. Lord Zarn.”
> Malachi was spared the need to respond to that not-so-guarded threat by Elzar’s arrival. The high proctor looked as one worn away by a busy day, spurring brief regret at having set the man to so much trouble. But what did that mean for Josiri? He could hardly enquire, not with Zarn standing right there.
“High Proctor Ilnarov,” he said. “The simarka look splendid tonight.”
Zarn nodded. “Very majestic.”
“Kind of you to say,” Elzar replied. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t bring the final cohort here on time. We got caught up in this afternoon’s nastiness.”
Malachi’s pulse quickened. “Nastiness?”
Elzar blinked. “Why yes. Lord Trelan and Lady Beral brought dozens of southwealders out of Dregmeet. Had half the district on their heels. The simarka settled things down.” He shrugged. “I’d have been here sooner, but Lord Trelan asked me to ensure the southwealders were looked after.”
“Why am I only just hearing about this?” Malachi saw none of his own surprise mirrored on Zarn’s face. But then, of course Zarn already knew.
“Lord Trelan said he’d bring the matter to your attention,” Elzar replied.
Then why hadn’t he? Did Josiri suspect the cause of Malachi’s reticence? Suddenly, the ground beneath Malachi’s feet felt less than firm. “I’ve heard nothing.”
“To be honest, there’s little to tell,” said Elzar. “Apart from that lad, of course.”
“What lad?” asked Zarn.
“One of Lord Trelan’s hearthguard, I think. Ripped open. Nothing to do for him but pray, but Lord Trelan wouldn’t hear of it. Took my horse and rode off.” He rubbed at his bristled chin. “I admire determination, but that boy… Take a miracle to keep him from the Raven’s clutches.”
Zarn clapped Elzar on the shoulder. “It’s done with now. You’ve had a busy day, master proctor. Let’s see if we can ease its passage into night.”
Malachi scarcely noticed their departure. The puzzle pieces were coming together, and not in a manner he liked. Not the skirmish at Westernport, of course. By the sound, that had gone better than he’d dared hope. But the rest? Josiri needed a miracle. Of course he’d break a promise to find it. Especially with the bond between them so frayed.
