Legacy of Steel

by Matthew Ward

  Would Apara return his body to Abbeyfields, so that his family might at least have something to mourn? Or would he vanish, one more mystery? His heart quickened. He clenched fingers tight to slow its gallop. One life gambled against thousands was a worthy stake. Viktor would have stood his ground. Lily and Josiri too. How could he do less?

  Krastin stamped his cane twice on rock, turned, and strode away.

  “Think of your children, Lord Reveque. You’re a bureaucrat, not a hero.”

  The mists swallowed him up.

  Malachi stared after, unaware Apara was on her feet until her hand closed about his shoulder.

  “You should heed his advice,” she said softly.

  Think of your children. “I intend to.”

  Thirty-Two

  Night brought clear skies to Tarona Watch, crisp with rain to come. Calenne beheld it from the remnant of the upper floor, feet dangling out over the garden and thoughts lost to the stars. Though Tarona’s keep lacked the dizzying height of her grandfather’s observatory at Branghall – her old refuge after arguments with Josiri, before their ancestral home had burned – it made a passable replacement.

  Viktor’s silence proclaimed the coming argument as clearly as the sky promised rain. He’d spoken little since Valna, his affections distant and dutiful when offered at all. Calenne understood too well, for she was much the same, for ever putting off disagreement out of fear of seeming petty, and fuming all the while.

  She flung a pebble from the wall, a scowl chasing it along. That quirk of personality had driven her and Josiri apart. That and Josiri’s lies. The thought of it parting her and Viktor as well was too much to bear. Perhaps apology was owed.

  A scrape of stone on the broken stair. The sound of a large man attempting silent approach. Calenne hung her head, a soft smile about her lips. Yes, they were very much the same.

  “You’d make a terrible assassin.”

  “I settle my quarrels directly,” Viktor replied. “I thought you knew that by now.”

  “How can we be quarrelling? You’ve not spoken to me since the morning.”

  The footsteps halted a pace or two behind, his presence impossible to miss, even unseen. “Untrue.”

  “You’ve announced intent in my presence, Viktor. It’s not the same as speaking.” She strove to forget that she’d done much the same, and swore she wouldn’t be the first to apologise. “A wife is not a soldier to be ordered about.”

  “Even when she insists on behaving like one?” He sat heavily beside her and stared across the valley. “You shouldn’t have become involved.”

  There it was. The cause laid bare. The first flicker of anger rose to meet it. “How could I not? That boy—”

  “I don’t fault the thought, but the deed. You could have died.”

  “Did I not once tell you that I am not made of glass? It remains true.”

  “That was before your illness.”

  Calenne stared down at her fingers, recalling the instinctive casting of the pebble. A week before, the throw would have been feeble. Tonight, it had cleared the garden wall. As if in lifting the sword she’d recovered something long-abandoned.

  “Would you believe I’m feeling much more like myself?”

  Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? She felt stronger, certainly, but was unsettled by something new. An edge to her mood that went beyond annoyance at Viktor’s manner. Just weariness. It would pass.

  “I believe you’d tell me that were so, whether or not it truly was.” He sighed. “Your recklessness forced me to some of my own. I drew upon my shadow.”

  “I’m sorry.” Some things transcended pride. “Are you…?”

  “I remain myself in all ways I can measure. But the fear remains.”

  The fear that he wasn’t his shadow’s master, but its slave. That drawing upon it made him the heir of Dark that Malatriant had sought to shape him.

  She took his hand, her fingers childlike atop his. “Perhaps that fear, like my illness, belongs to the past. They define us only because we permit them to. This morning? Saving that boy? I felt more myself than I have in a long time.”

  “As did I. And I can’t for the life of me decide if that is good or bad.”

  “Then we’ll find out together, one day at a time.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “Peace?”

  He hesitated. “When I saw you imperilled, I called out your name.”

  “You did what?” Calenne pulled away. Grit crunched under her feet as she stood. “What if someone heard?”

  “What if someone recognised you?” he demanded. “It was your insistence the world think you dead. I called out to warn you. I will not apologise for it.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “Because I want no secrets between us.”

  “Did anyone hear?”

  “No one living, save Armund. I doubt he understood. Certainly he said nothing after.”

  She snorted. “Too busy drowning his wits in mead, I imagine.”

  He rose, a twitching cheek shifting the old scar. “The truth is we must both of us be more careful. Especially after today.”

  Calenne held her breath, knowing it irrational to blame Viktor for a situation she’d provoked. With uttermost reluctance, the storm of her anger passed. “So I’m not the only one feeling more like myself?”

  Viktor’s eyes were no longer on hers, but cast north along the valley road and the soft glow of firestone lanterns.

  Calenne glared. “You said Armund wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “A blind man has no need of a lantern, much less three. Stay out of sight. I’ll attend to this.”

  What would once have been an unremarkable hike set Josiri’s lungs heaving – a reminder that the indolence of city life was a poor inheritor of his wolf’s-head days, hidden though they’d been. Worse, neither companion seemed troubled by the ascent, making it impossible to ask for a pause. So instead he trudged on until the forest gave way to the open crest, and ruined walls.

  “Halt and be recognised!”

  Josiri ignored Erashel’s soft hiss of caution. Even in starlit gloom, Viktor’s outsize frame was unmistakeable, as was the claymore resting at his shoulder. Conquered emotion made fresh assault, urging Josiri back the way he’d come. Malachi’s chastisement drove him on.

  “We come as friends, Lord Akadra.” Formality made the greeting easier, as formality should.

  “Josiri?” Viktor set the claymore aside and strode to greet them. “I thought never to see you again, brother.”

  Lantern light gave shape to a face Josiri remembered well. A touch leaner, black hair perhaps a touch more unkempt, but undeniably Viktor. Confident. Calm. If only he’d had the sense not to so quickly offer reminder of Calenne, and the ties of betrothal that bound them both.

  “You know my companions? Arlanne Keldrov, Reeve of Ardva, and Lady Erashel Beral.”

  “Yes and no,” Viktor offered Keldrov a clasped-fist salute and Erashel a bow. “Commander Keldrov and I speak from time to time. Lady Beral I know by reputation.”

  Struck by the strangest feeling that there were more eyes upon him than Viktor’s, Josiri gazed up at the ruined tower. He saw nothing but vines and crumbling stonework.

  “Dare I ask what brings you all to my humble home?” said Viktor. “And at such an hour?”

  Josiri had intended to broach the matter softly, but for all his friendliness, Viktor exuded suspicion. Moreover, every delay now cost lives. “The Republic needs you.”

  “So Malachi sought to convince me. You are wrong, as he was wrong.”

  “Ahrad has fallen.” Erashel’s precision carried more authority than any decree.

  Viktor’s expression darkened, the familiar scowl creeping into place. “Impossible.”

  Josiri shook his head. “The fortress is lost, the Ravonn overrun.”

  “When?”

  “Three days. We lost two to travel, and most of another while Erashel’s contacts chased you down. You’re a hard man to fin
d.”

  “I was meant to be.” Viktor closed his eyes and offered a short, reluctant nod. “You can tell me everything inside.”

  Josiri.

  Calenne didn’t believe at first, but the lantern light didn’t lie. It was her brother. Heavier, perhaps. His face more lined than at last sight. Blond hair cut shorter than she remembered, but more in keeping with fashion.

  He’d found her.

  A flutter of panic drove her deeper into imperfect concealment, chagrined at her foolishness. If only she’d done as Viktor had suggested and kept out of sight. Now it was too late. Josiri had looked straight at her. He knew.

  The hum of conversation heading for the open door. Rational thought returned. A clutch of steady breaths helped it settle. Yes, Josiri had looked straight at her, but looking wasn’t the same as seeing. Could he truly have recognised her without giving some sign, even if he meant otherwise?

  Her secret remained safe.

  And yet… Would it truly be so bad were matters otherwise? It had seemed so important to vanish into the confusion of Eskavord’s burning. To be free of the responsibilities and legacies of the Trelan name. But though she hated herself for it, Calenne couldn’t deny a pang of loss at seeing Josiri. However his dishonesty and his unwelcome attempts to shelter her had driven them apart, he was still her brother.

  Maybe none of this deception was necessary. Maybe she was free to see his smile up close. To hold him and be held in return.

  No. At least, not yet. Once revealed, the truth would fly out of her control. Josiri would be angry, and neither of them were at their best when tempers were strained. Better to wait, to see if this wasn’t desire, but fleeting fancy.

  Still, Calenne wondered at the reason for Josiri’s arrival, for nothing of his words had reached her perch. Keldrov she knew, for they’d fought as allies at Davenwood – though the nervous woman of memory matched little the confident reeve of today. But the other woman, with chestnut hair cropped closer than Calenne’s own? She was a stranger, if one who’d stood closer to Josiri than a stranger should. A lover? Perhaps. Then what had become of Anastacia?

  Calenne shook the puzzle away. The demon’s fate was hardly her concern. And if she weren’t ready to reveal herself to Josiri, a chill night beckoned. If only Viktor had sent them away!

  Recognising that sentiment as entirely at odds with temptation, she picked her way quietly across stone to the shelter of the southwest corner, and drew her cloak tight against the cold.

  Viktor cleared space about the dim hearth and gathered chairs from the kitchen table. Keldrov hung back by the door, arms folded across her smoke-grey tabard. A bottle of wine was fetched from the pantry as a nod towards a host’s duties, and decanted to goblets. With each guest thus furnished, Viktor raised his own high.

  “To old friends.”

  The others made murmured rejoinder, though without enthusiasm. For all Josiri’s masterful attempt to conceal distaste, it was impossible to forget how they’d parted, and why. Lady Beral’s gaze held little friendliness, her opinion doubtless coloured by rumours concerning Eskavord’s demise. As for Keldrov, her posture belonged to a woman who’d sooner be anywhere else. But a good soldier would hardly be comfortable drinking wine while the Republic shook to the tramp of Hadari boots.

  “Tell me about Ahrad,” said Viktor.

  Josiri looked up from his goblet. “There’s not much to tell. The Hadari brought a demon against the walls. The survivors are scattered across the Eastshires. Kai Saran has emptied the Empire against us. Rhaled. Icansae. Silsaria. Corvant. Probably more.”

  Viktor gazed at Josiri searching for any sign that he believed Saran’s demon another fragment of Malatriant’s legacy. He found none, and wasn’t sure whether or not to be relieved. “You should have let me kill him,” he rumbled. “His daughter too.”

  “Well I didn’t, and the moment is lost.”

  “Who leads the defence? Rosa?”

  Lady Beral shared a glance with Josiri. “Lady Orova was at Ahrad when it fell. She’s among the missing. Malachi placed Izack in command.”

  Rosa. Another friend lost to war. A heavy blow for a man with few worthy of the name. Viktor grimaced sorrow away. Rosa was a survivor. Missing was not the same as dead.

  “Malachi. Not the Council?”

  Josiri’s lips twisted a wry smile. “Malachi took the decision alone, and about time too.”

  Sour sentiment lingered. Viktor drove back temptation to enquire. He’d left the city for a reason. “Why are you here, brother?”

  Josiri stared again into his wine.

  “First Councillor Reveque believes it is time for you to come home, Lord Akadra,” said Lady Beral. “The Republic needs a champion.”

  He addressed her without blinking. “It has one in Lady Orova.”

  She met his stare full force, without reserve. “And if she’s dead?”

  “I’m flattered you think one man can make a difference.”

  Viktor drained his goblet, wearier than words. It wasn’t that the prospect of Ahrad’s fall left him cold. Far from it. The first mantra he’d been taught as a squire was that while the Eskagard stood, so did the Republic. He’d shed blood to defend it, and stacked pyres high with the bodies of those who’d challenged that duty.

  Moreover, he knew the lamentable state of the Republic’s deeper defences, castles and watch posts left to decay out of penny-pinching and the belief Ahrad could never fall. Tressia itself was well-fortified. His father had recognised the danger. A rare example of Hadon Akadra thinking of others save himself. The city wall he’d laid down had long been completed. But elsewhere?

  “May I say something?” said Keldrov.

  Viktor nodded. “Of course.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m marching north with every blade I can spare, and some I can’t. I’ve told my soldiers all I know, but rumours are spreading fast, and what truth I have pales by comparison. Demons. Witches. Some are saying that the Goddess Ashana marches with the shadowthorns, beguiling honest souls to treachery.” She set her empty goblet on the kitchen table and stood to attention, shoulders back and gaze level. “I’ve Davenwood veterans among them. A few of Captain Halvor’s phoenixes, too – those who escaped the purges. One man would make a difference to them, if he’s the right man. And to me.”

  How far she’d come since Davenwood where Viktor had placed her under Kurkas’ command for fear she’d flee at the first sight of an Immortal’s golden scales. “The problem is not that we won that battle, but how it was won.”

  “I don’t follow.” The first anger gleamed in her eyes. “If I’m honest, I don’t much care. A year ago, you came to the Southshires and asked a beaten people to take up arms, because no one else could. They gave everything. This is how you’d honour that sacrifice? Skulking on a hill as the Republic drowns? I don’t—”

  “Arlanne. Erashel.” Josiri spoke without looking up from his goblet. “Might I speak with Lord Akadra alone?”

  The women shared glances united in suspicion.

  Lady Beral nodded. “If that’s what you want. We’ll be outside.”

  Josiri didn’t speak while they withdrew. Nor did he for some time thereafter, but sat and swirled the wine about his goblet.

  Eventually, Viktor tired of the game. “It’s poor manners to request a meeting, then fall asleep.”

  Josiri looked up. “I was just thinking how much fate hates me.”

  “It’s kind to few.”

  “After all,” Josiri continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Bad enough that you hounded my mother to her death. That you took my sister from me. That you burned my home. Little by little you broke me, Viktor. And now I’m to beg you to do what we both know you must? Perhaps it’s not fate that hates me, but you.”

  Viktor winced. “That isn’t true.”

  “And yet you make me beg.”

  “This isn’t about you, Josiri.”

  “Then what is this about? You never told Rosa, and you never told me.”
<
br />   “I tried to tell you, after Eskavord. You refused to hear me.”

  “I was angry. I’m still angry. But I’ll listen, if you’ll speak.”

  Viktor rose and stared out the kitchen window. “My magic. It’s of the Dark, as Malatriant was of the Dark. At Eskavord, she offered me her legacy. I was to be her heir. Lumestra forgive me, but I almost accepted. But for you…” He shook his head, striving for sundered memory. Too much of that dark day had become jumbled by distance, and from no small want of forgetting. Fire in the darkness, and a gleam of dagger’s steel. “A piece of her magic resides alongside my own, and I cannot decide whether I am its jailer, or its captive. I know only that it wants to be free. I dare not let that happen.”

  Josiri sat back in his chair and shook his head in scorn. “Why not?”

  You are to be my heir. For a heartbeat, Viktor was back in the charnel of Eskavord, Malatriant crowing her triumph.

  “Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” he snapped. “It comes from the Tyrant Queen.”

  “If I stood with my loved ones behind me and spears ahead, do you suppose I’d pass up a sword out of loathing for its previous master? For that’s where we’re placed. All of us.”

  “This isn’t a sword. It’s the Dark. No good can come of its use.”

  “Then don’t use it.”

  “As easy as that?”

  “I imagine not. But you once lectured me that living for a lost cause was sometimes necessary, no matter how difficult. I’d hate to think you’d forgotten your own lesson.”

  “I am living with my lost cause.”

  Josiri cast theatrically about the kitchen’s confines. “Living? Clinging to a hillside, playing at farmer? This isn’t you, Viktor. This isn’t what you’re for. You’re a soldier, and your people need you. Not your magic, not the Dark, but you.”

  A moving argument. Powerful, but for the fact that Armund af Garna had recently wielded similar and tempted disaster. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Maybe. But despite everything, I trust you. After all, you’re the only family I have left.”