Legacy of Steel

by Matthew Ward

  “Malachi?” He looked up to see Lily staring at him. “We need to leave.”

  Josiri set Altiris down before the entrance hall fire and bundled his coat beneath the boy’s head. Only the twitch of sightless eyes and the shallow, febrile flutter of the lad’s chest gave any clue he still lived.

  Heren, still lurking beside the outer door, winced. “I can ring for a maid to fetch blankets, but he doesn’t look like he’ll last that long.”

  Josiri glanced at Kurkas, who slung his arm about the sergeant’s shoulders. “Tell you what, why don’t we just leave them to it? Unless you reckon this is a ruse to make off with the family silver?”

  Heren frowned, but allowed Kurkas to lead him outside. The door slammed shut.

  Josiri ran for the stairs. “Stay with him.”

  Anastacia sank to a crouch. Josiri looked back from the first landing to see her regarding the dying boy as one might regard a hound struck by a runaway cart. Sadness without loss.

  “Sidara!” he shouted. “Sidara! Where are you?”

  A door opened onto the landing. A swirl of dark skirts and chestnut curls.

  “Josiri? Queen’s Ashes, but what’s all this noise?” Hawkin Darrow’s thin features creased. “Lord and Lady Reveque…”

  He held up a hand. “They’re fine. I didn’t expect you to be up.”

  “I’m the steward.” She hooked a lopsided grin. “And let me tell you, the power goes all the way to my head. So if you’re after an illicit rendezvous you’ll have to ask very nicely.”

  “Where’s Sidara?”

  “Probably in the chapel.”

  “Fetch her. Please. It’s important.”

  She stared over the banister, a hand at her mouth. “Blessed Lumestra.”

  Josiri took her by the shoulders and drew her back onto the landing proper. “Hawkin, listen to me. I need you to fetch Sidara. Right away.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll have to trust me.” The words soured as he spoke them. “Can you do that? Please?”

  Hawkin nodded and took the stairs two at a time. “Sidara!”

  As Josiri began his descent, a small voice hailed him from a half-open door. “Uncle Josiri? Are the vranakin coming for us again?”

  “No, Constans. No vranakin. I promise.”

  The boy nodded, though he looked more disappointed than reassured. It was always hard to be sure with Constans. Sidara wasn’t exactly an open book, but in the past year Josiri had at least learned enough of her mannerisms as to glean where to start reading. Constans remained a mystery. Ten years old, and possessed of Malachi’s inscrutability as well as his dark hair and hooded eyes. His temper came very much from his mother.

  Constans, guided by the ever-present instinct that drives children to seek things their elders wished they wouldn’t, ducked beneath Josiri’s restraining hand, rose up onto tiptoes, and peered over the banister.

  “Is he dead?” Excitement gave way to suspicion. “You said there were no vranakin.”

  “There aren’t. I think you should go to your room.”

  “I think I should stay,” he said airily. “I’m to be a knight. Dead bodies don’t bother me.”

  Limited reserves of patience exhausted, Josiri admitted defeat. “Then stay, but stay here. Agreed?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  Constans threw an unsteady salute. A small rose-hilted dagger no larger than a table knife gleamed in his hand. Josiri couldn’t imagine where he’d found it, nor Lilyana approving.

  “I need to borrow that,” Josiri lied.

  Constans narrowed his eyes, glanced guiltily at the dagger and reluctantly held it out. “I keep it under my pillow. In case—”

  “In case the vranakin return. I know.” Josiri took the weapon. “I’m here to do that now.”

  Leaving Constans peering over the balcony, he threw a worried – and unfruitful – glance after Hawkin and made his way to the ground floor.

  “How is he?”

  [[How should I know?]] said Anastacia. [[Have I ever struck you as one with a healer’s touch?]]

  “No. But it’s been a day for surprises.”

  Too many to credit. Enough that Josiri wished to write it off as a bad dream. The mists he was accustomed to. The kernclaws he’d come to accept. But the ghosts? The grey demon who’d withered living flesh and matched Anastacia without effort? And as for Anastacia herself…?

  [[Things are stirring, Josiri. Things that should be left sleeping.]]

  “And what about you? I’ve never seen you do that before.”

  [[A touch. That was all it took. A wall fell, and the light rushed through.]]

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  The char-smudged mask of her face regarded him without offering clue to thoughts beneath. [[Nor are you. Why does this boy matter so much?]]

  “Shouldn’t he?” Josiri knelt and took Altiris’ hand. “He was there because of me. He took wounds that should have been mine. If I can’t honour that, what am I?”

  Anastacia gazed past him to the stairs.

  “Uncle Josiri. You called for me?”

  Sidara stood halfway up the steps in her grey dress, golden hair gathered in a fraying ponytail. She shared nothing of her brother’s fascination with the dying Altiris, and held her gaze averted. Hawkin stood behind, hands on the girl’s shoulders and eyes alive with suspicion.

  “Sidara.” Josiri rose and held out a hand. “He’s dying. He needs your help, as Sevaka did last year.”

  She stared at her feet. “Mother says I mustn’t. She won’t even let me mend her scars.”

  “If you don’t, he’ll die. I know that’s a horrible burden to place on you, I do, but it’s the truth.”

  “Josiri!” Worry fled from Hawkin’s eyes, replaced by anger. “If the boy needed help, you should have taken him to a physician. Sidara can do nothing they cannot.”

  Josiri ignored her. “Sidara. Please. Your parents will understand.”

  Her blue eyes met his, crystal clear and piercing. “You know they won’t.”

  He winced, embarrassed to be caught in a deception by a girl less than half his age, and more so for having made the attempt. “You’re right, I’m sorry. But I still need your help. He needs your help.”

  Altiris shuddered. His lips parted in low, tremulous keening. Constans stood higher on his tiptoes, straining for a clearer view over the banister.

  “Sidara…” Josiri began.

  Anastacia glided past on filthy skirts, her black eyes locked on Sidara’s. [[The question is not whether or not your mother will disapprove, but whether or not she is correct to do so.]] With grace at odds to her tattered appearance, she knelt before the girl. [[Don’t listen to Josiri. Don’t dwell on your mother’s scolding. Look inside. Look into the light. What does it tell you?]]

  Sidara chewed her lower lip, eyes never leaving Anastacia’s immobile features.

  “Josiri!”

  Malachi flung open the front door and staggered back, arm upflung to shield against a rush of golden light. One hearthguard turned his back entirely. Another cried out. Lily shoved Kurkas aside and forged on, splayed hands braced against brilliance.

  Dark figures drowned in light. One knelt beside a huddled shape. Another stood behind, hands on the shoulders of the first, an echo of feathered wings spread wide. Dazzled, Malachi stumbled. His foot caught on the threshold.

  Light faded, and all that remained was fury. At Josiri’s broken promise. At his intrusion. At exposing Sidara to a world from which her parents had striven to keep her safe. But Malachi’s anger paled before that of his wife’s, who bore down on Sidara with all the fury of Lumestra banishing the Dark.

  “Sidara!”

  Lily dragged their daughter up and away from Anastacia. Away from the filthy, bloodstained huddle beside the hearth. Malachi’s anger ebbed, sapped by insidious guilt. Life and death were easier balanced in the abstract than the present.

  Sidara, never more gawky and willo
wy than at that moment, tottered and missed her footing. Malachi gathered her up as she fell, though not without effort – one more reminder that his little girl was growing beyond him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Eyes fluttered. “… tired,” she breathed. “Did it work?”

  Malachi glanced at the boy. He lay still, but with the peace of sleep, not death. “I think so.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The last of Malachi’s anger slipped away at Sidara’s proud declaration. Not yet grown, and she’d a clearer sense of things than he. The boy had found his wounds in Dregmeet. He was victim of Malachi’s own refusal as much as Josiri’s reckless endeavour. Sidara had balanced the scales.

  Lily jabbed an accusing finger at Anastacia. “Guards! Drag this abomination out of my house!”

  Three hearthguards crossed into the hallway, Sergeant Heren at their head. They lost all enthusiasm when Anastacia folded her arms.

  [[Do try.]]

  “Ana, please,” said Josiri. “Wait for me outside?”

  She rounded on Lily. [[Your daughter bears the greatest of gifts. It is not yours to cage.]]

  Sidara rose unsteadily. “Mother… it was my choice.”

  “Demons always have you believe it so,” snapped Lily.

  “Should I have let him die?”

  “Mistress Darrow.” Lily seized Sidara’s hand and bundled her towards the stairs. “Take my children to their rooms. We will discuss your part in this later.”

  Hawkin nodded, her face pale. “Sidara, come along. Quickly now.”

  Sidara stumbled. Hawkin slipped an arm about her waist and led her away up the stairs. For a wonder, Constans fell into step without whisper of protest. He, at least, knew better than to argue with his mother.

  “Now.” Lily crossed to the hearth and took up a poker. “Will someone rid my house of this demon, or must I do it myself?”

  [[A demon?]] Anastacia drew closer, joyless laughter spilling from her frozen lips. [[You should be careful hurling such names about, lest you make them true.]]

  “Ana…” Josiri stepped between them, arms outstretched. “Altiris’ wounds are closed. He’s breathing steadily. We’ve done all we came to do.”

  [[Step aside, Josiri. She wants a demon, she can have one.]]

  The hearthguards closed in, swords drawn.

  “Back away!” shouted Heren. “Now!”

  “Enough!” said Malachi. “What is done is done. Are we really to compound our errors by brawling like Thrakkians over coin?”

  The hearthguards froze. So did Anastacia. Lily glared, though he suspected more in surprise than anger. Josiri looked on with approval. That might have meant something at another place, or another time. But not there. Not then.

  “Lily, our daughter needs you,” said Malachi. “Trust me to attend to this.”

  Even through the veil, he recognised the struggle between worry and wrath, a mother’s instincts torn between shelter and retribution. Retribution lost. The poker clanged to the floor and Lily stalked away up the stairs.

  “Sergeant Heren,” Malachi continued, the words low and soft out of fear that speaking any louder would be to lose all control. “You and your men will take the boy to my carriage.”

  Heren glanced at Anastacia. “My lord, I—”

  “Do as I ask, sergeant.”

  “Sir.”

  With one last glance at Anastacia, Heren gestured to the other hearthguards. Swords were sheathed, and Altiris borne out into the gathering night.

  “Anastacia Psanneque,” said Malachi. “You are no longer welcome in this house, or in the company of my kin. You will depart, now.”

  Her dark, hollow stare met his, no less threatening for the lack of accompanying words. Cold sweat curled across the base of Malachi’s spine. Somehow, he held his gaze unblinking until she turned and left.

  Josiri grimaced. “Malachi, I—”

  “You broke my trust, Josiri. You swore on your sister’s soul that you’d not speak of Sidara’s gift, and now—?”

  “Ana already knew. I don’t know how, but she knew.”

  “And now so do Hawkin, Constans and a number of my hearthguards.”

  Constans had likely known already, of course. As for the hearthguards, their presence could not reasonably be laid at Josiri’s door. But reason was poor company at that moment.

  Josiri’s grimace tightened. “You’d rather Altiris was dead?”

  “It isn’t that simple.”

  “Of course it is.” He sighed. “As simple as a broken promise. Don’t you even want to know what happened in Dregmeet?”

  No. At least, Malachi didn’t want to ask. Not with the possibility of hearthguards or servants listening at the doors. Not when at least one was likely reporting his every move to the Parliament of Crows. Not when Josiri’s actions were sure to have consequences long after a new dawn.

  “Elzar told me.”

  Josiri shook his head. “Not all, because I didn’t tell him. What the vranakin are doing… it’s worse than we thought. We need to–”

  “No!” snapped Malachi. “I will not entertain another word. Not now. You have dominated the Council’s precious time with this obsession for weeks on end. I will at least have refuge from it within my own walls!”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  Suddenly weary, Malachi turned away. He picked up the poker so recently abandoned by Lily and returned it to its rightful place beside the scuttle. “Go home, Josiri. I’ll see Elzar’s horses are returned. Things will be different in the morning.”

  “If that’s what you want, First Councillor.” Josiri growled out the reply. “But I have one last gift before I leave… on the topic of refuges and safety.”

  Malachi turned to find a small dagger in Josiri’s hand, the pommel extended in offering. Taking it, he turned it over but found no hint to the workings of Josiri’s mind.

  “I don’t understand. You took this off a vranakin?”

  “I took it off Constans. He sleeps with it under his pillow in case the vranakin come for him in the night. You may see this house as a refuge. Your children see it otherwise.”

  Twenty-One

  Drunken song hammered out beneath the funeral pyres, stark contrast to the solemn observances as Ashana’s priests ushered the dead into the Raven’s care. A Last Ride made glorious by triumph, for they would walk the mists of Otherworld attended by those their efforts had conquered – and of the Tressian dead there was no shortage. It should have been a night for celebration, and yet Melanna’s unease held her apart.

  She found little to cheer. A goddess she knew not how to mourn. A sister in moonlight for whom she conjured no affection. A just and necessary cause founded on slaughter to glut ravens both ephemeral and divine. And to underpin it all, the slighted moon, its light somehow colder and darker than it had been in all the years before.

  “Saranal.”

  A man approached out of the crowd, his swagger born of ale not yet taken to excess. Midnight blue silks marked him as a son of Corvant, the golden trim as a man of rank and the dark chiselled features perhaps as a man used to taking women for granted. Melanna eased her hand to her sword. Princessa or no, a woman alone in a field of drunken men brought hazards.

  “My heart grieves to see you wander without joy, savim,” he continued. “Please, share the poor comforts of our fire. Compliments of Prince Haralda Jardur, offered one warrior to another.”

  Instinct warned her to refuse. That the invitation concealed hopes of more intimate entertainments to follow. “And Prince Haralda? You are he?”

  He bowed. “For good and ill, savim.”

  Still hesitation prickled. But how could an Empress rule such men if she’d only ever been a stranger?

  “Then lead on,” she replied.

  Haralda led her through raucous clamour to a firepit ringed with Immortals. There, at least, existed watchful sobriety to guard against rivalry goaded to violence by demon drink. Deeper, where dancing flames cra
ckled with dripping fat and tantalised the tongue with the rich scent of roasting meat, sat a gathering of silks and scale armour, some tarnished and stained by the business of the day, others gleaming in the firelight.

  Melanna recognised a few among the dozen, though names escaped her. Young and old. The inheritors of thrones not yet emptied, and others whose sprawling families denied them elevation. Men whose houses had clawed and gouged at one another for generations; others whose alliances were the bedrock upon which the Empire was built. Brought together by her father. By her.

  And by a dead goddess.

  “Brothers!” Haralda spread his arms. One by one, the princes fell silent. “I welcome Princessa Melanna of Rhaled to our circle.”

  “About time,” grumbled a grey-haired man beyond the flames. “I was starting to think her a myth. Does she have a tail? A myth should have a tail.”

  He raised a tankard to bearded lips, only to have it dashed from his hand by the younger man. “Hush, cousin.” The speaker shifted his attention to Melanna. “You’ll have to excuse Maradan. No manners. It’s why I speak for Britonis at the Golden Court, and he doesn’t.”

  Laughter rippled about the flames, much to Maradan’s scowling disgust.

  A space cleared beside the fire. Still not wholly at ease, Melanna sat atop the bundled blankets, expecting someone to pass comment at the novelty of a woman in armour, or issue guarded slight. None came.

  In fact, once the blur of introductions ended – few of which held lasting purchase – no one spared Melanna even a curious glance. Instead, the night wore on as it presumably had before her arrival, with stories of battles old and new, coarse banter and jokes that would never again be as funny as when eased along by ale.

  Thus when Melanna at last felt stiffness slip from her shoulders and burdens from her heart, it was little to do with drink taken – of which she’d indulged only sparingly – but owed to a stranger sensation. That of being unremarked and unremarkable. Accepted without concern for tradition, rather than shunned for her aspirations. A curious sensation in which to revel, especially in the company of men whose lives were dedicated to standing tall among their peers. But to Melanna it was an unlooked-for delight, and she held it close.