by Matthew Ward
Was Calenne close enough to hear? Had the words brought laughter, or a smile? How strange that the closer he and Josiri came, the faster their orbits pulled them apart. Josiri had the right of it. Fate hated him. It hated them both.
“My answer must still be no.”
“I see.” Josiri clambered to his feet. “Malachi had to shame me into coming here. The city’s a mess – the city’s always a mess – and hundreds of my people are missing. Every moment I spend here makes me feel more a traitor for abandoning them! And if that weren’t enough? The last thing I wanted was to speak to you again. I just wanted this done so I could get back, but I can’t. Arlanne barely has a regiment, and their ears are buzzing with horrific tales of what’s happening to the east. So when they march, I’m marching with them. I have to, because I can’t cling to a hillside while the Republic burns.”
“Josiri—”
He strode closer, eyes taut. “I’m not done. You once called me a spoilt child. A coward clinging to a worthless throne. A man without the courage of his own convictions. You were right. You forced me to do better. To be better. And here I am, urging you to do the same.” He sighed. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
How to make him see? To make him understand? “What can I say?”
“Say ‘yes’. Say that you’ll be the Viktor Akadra I remember. The man who fights for his people. Who doesn’t know how to lose.”
“And if I’m not a man any longer, but his afterimage in the Dark?”
“Then I’ll stop you. Whatever it costs me.” Josiri shrugged. “For whatever that’s worth.”
So he did understand. Maybe Josiri was the better man, after all. A realisation that should have occasioned shame roused only pride. “More than words can convey.”
For the first time, Viktor allowed himself to consider the possibility Josiri was right. That it hadn’t been fortune that had kept the shadow at heel, but choice. And if he’d conquered one lapse – two, counting the wolves at Wintertide – then why not again?
And if he didn’t go – if he didn’t try – what then? How could he be worth a friendship that had somehow endured through deceit and heartbreak? How could he look Calenne in the eye – Calenne, who’d almost died defending a Republic that had only ever shown her scorn? How was he any different to his own father, who had lived his youth a hero, but his later years twisted by loss?
“You win, brother.”
Josiri narrowed his eyes. “What do I win?”
“Allow me one last night clinging to my hillside. I’ll join you at Ardva at dawn.”
“Truly?”
“Have my promises been so poor they now invite question?” Viktor forced a smile. “I will fight, so long as I have your word that you’ll stop me, should need arise.”
He held out his hand. After brief hesitation, Josiri took it. “You have it… brother.”
Viktor drew him into an embrace and sought solace in their moment of accord – doomed to briefness, as all such moments had ever been.
Because he knew he’d have to break Josiri’s trust yet again.
Thirty-Three
The rain continued as the sun fell below the horizon. Sodden funeral pyres refused to light without the help of stinking crestis-oil. Beyond the ring of Immortals, her stride stiff and her white robes still fouled by blood, Sera moved among the flames. At each pyre, she dipped her hand to the birchwood box clutched to her chest, and scattered silver dust to sanctify the dead.
Greasy smoke billowed through the trees and away across the northern valley, bearing their spirits to an Evermoon emptied of a goddess’ warmth. No songs accompanied their passing. Hearts were too full. Melanna’s more than most, for were the deaths not of her making? That of Elene, her sister in moonlight, most of all. That ache ran deeper than wounds from Melanna’s brawl, the pain eased and flesh knitted by the lunassera’s ministrations. In all ways, it refused to yield.
She lost track of how long she stood on the span of stump-dotted mud between sullen encampment and pyre-grounds. Death in battle was a warrior’s lot, but this? Orova had set a snare, and she, blinded by notions of honour, had blundered into it.
The hurt ran deeper than the tally of dead. Not least for the precision of the Tressian ambush. Fewer than a dozen handmaidens remained, and none unwounded. Too few to guarantee all but the bloodiest success at Vrasdavora’s inevitable siege. Melanna found her spirit divided. The warleader mourned the strategic loss. The woman mourned the dead. Each scorned the other for dwelling on irrelevance. Only in hatred for Orova were they united, and with every flicker of flame swore revenge.
Her last observance made, Sera made her way up the hillside, her steps faltering. Careless of the indignity, Melanna ran to steady her. Bright stains oozed through silken robes as blood thwarted bandages beneath.
“I do not need your aid, Ashanal.”
Sera pushed away. Beneath the silver half-mask, eyes welled with loss. Melanna let her go. How much of the defiance was born of heartache? How much from disdain for a princessa who’d led her sisters to disaster?
“I’m sorry, Sera.”
A sad smile. “I blame the archers for their arrows, Ashanal, not you.”
The words might have brought Melanna comfort, had she shared their sentiment.
“Melanna Saranal!”
Melanna turned her back on the pyre-grounds as Naradna’s cry echoed away. Bruises protested even that slight movement. The slope behind crowded with Icansae scarlet. Not the brothers Andwar alone, but a dozen Immortals, and a handful of others whose silver torcs at throat and wrist marked them as chieftains.
Melanna’s heart, already at low ebb, sank further still. “Prince Naradna.”
He halted a dozen paces away. The sword, drawn with a flourish, he thrust deep into the mud. Steel shone beneath the stars.
“It has been a day of needless death,” said Naradna. “The Goddess’ daughter, dead. Her handmaidens, dead. Our kinsmen, dead. All because familiarity blinded you. I say you are unfit to lead, and so does my sword.”
The formal challenge. Probable from the moment her father had given command of an army to a “mere” woman. Inevitable after the day’s sorrows.
“She does not answer to you, Naradna Andwar.” Sera’s breathy words lacked Naradna’s force, but none of their certainty. “She is Ashanal.”
“Then let the Goddess speak in her defence,” Naradna shouted. “And if the Goddess does not, let steel do so.”
Voices murmured agreement. Melanna gazed about tent and firepit, taking stock of faces not hidden by helm or distance. Aeldran, holding customary position at his brother’s side, seemed little enamoured of the prospect of bloodletting. In this, he was alone. Not just among the men of Icansae, but those in Rhalesh green as well. Too many old grievances at broken tradition now given chance of airing.
Or perhaps she made a convenient scapegoat. Orova had humiliated them all. Easier to seek blame without than within.
“I see the Andwar tradition of regicide flowers even in the dark.” Haldrane stood apart, as was his wont, arm propped over a wooden crutch. A face pale in the firelight reminded of how much blood he’d lost before an Icansae shieldsman had stemmed the flow. “If your pride’s hurting, Prince Naradna, you’ll find recompense to the west.”
Bitter laughter danced beneath the stars, proof that not all agreed with Naradna’s challenge. It made no matter. Refusing the challenge played to the resentment of those who believed a woman could not lead.
And besides, after enduring a beating at Orova’s hands, Melanna very much wanted to hear the arrogant, self-serving Icansae prince scream.
“Your sword lies, Naradna Andwar. As you lie. As your father and grandfather before you were liars. I will teach you the truth.”
Vrasdavora’s garrison quarters improved little with the cessation of rain and the fall of night. Darkness only added spite to the Ash Wind howling about the stones. The wind across the mountains held different character to that over t
he ocean. Even an open gale, its turbulent seas like plunging cliffs, lacked malice. Not here, where every gust carried keening spirits north from Darkmere’s haunted ruins. Sevaka closed the door, muffling the imagined voices.
Rosa’s features were unreadable in the lantern’s sparking glow. Like much of the adjutant’s quarters, long abandoned by a thinning garrison, “functional” was the most generous description of the lantern’s condition. Castellan Paradan – in reality, a lieutenant of the 1st on his maiden command, and desperately intimidated to have the Council Champion within his walls – had offered up his own quarters. Rosa had refused.
“How is it out there?”
“Cold. Wet. But the troops seem cheerful enough. You gave them a victory.”
“A victory? A few hundred dead?” Rosa stared back out the window. “The shadowthorns could lose that twenty times over and match us blade for blade.”
Sevaka winced. The walls were up, and she on the outside once again. “We slaughtered the pale-witches. You should be celebrating.”
“The last time we celebrated, Ahrad fell.”
“There’s celebrating, and there’s celebrating.” Sevaka shrugged. “Borderers are watching the road. Thaldvar talked of causing the shadowthorn pickets discomfort. We’ll have warning.”
“Thaldvar takes too many risks.”
“This from you?” Sevaka’s fingertips brushed the covers of a bed not yet slept in. She looped her arms over Rosa’s shoulders. Muscles tensed beneath her forearms and gradually eased. “You ask how it is out there? I’m more concerned with how things are in here.”
Rosa’s hand found hers and held it tight. “They’re fine, truly.”
“Try again. With conviction.”
The room went still. Only the sound of breathing – Rosa’s deeper and more ponderous – gave challenge to the angry winds.
“She told me she saved my life.”
Sevaka frowned. “What?”
“The princessa. It was her at Tevar Flood. She made me this way. When she told me… I lost control. The world drowned in red. I wanted to break her apart.”
Sevaka doubted the words of a shadowthorn princessa held much truth. However, it wasn’t what the Saranal had said, but what Rosa believed. “Would that have been so bad? She’s the Emperor’s heir.”
“Perhaps not, had I chosen it. But I didn’t. The decision chose me, and I was trapped in the saddle, along for the ride.” She punched the wall. Dust tricked across bunched fingers. Her voice cracked, the hurt resonating in Sevaka’s heart. “I’m never at my best when acting on instinct. Too arrogant, Viktor once told me, and never enough thought to consequence. I’ve been worse this past year. I’m drowning in anger and darkness. No wonder the Raven wants me for his queen.”
Chill fingers danced along Sevaka’s spine. “How can I help?”
Rosa unwound from the embrace and kissed her. “You already have. You keep me in the light.”
“All being equal, I’d rather we were both elsewhere.” She sighed. “I wish you saw yourself as I see you.”
“I’m glad the reverse isn’t true.”
“Enough.” Indulgence having done nothing to disperse bleak mood, Sevaka moved to the door. “I’d hoped we might take advantage of the rare moment of peace and privacy. But you need to see yourself reflected in the eyes of others, rather than your own thoughts – dark, bright or otherwise.”
A duel beneath moonlight. As a girl, Melanna had thought the idea romantic. The clash of blades, honour satisfied and worth proven. Not now. Standing in the mud, with the tarnished moon a reminder of losses borne, and the air still sour with pyre-smoke.
Naradna offered no comment as the circle of Immortals and shieldsmen closed, forging an arena of flesh and bone fifteen strides across. An arena in which steel would prove truth.
Melanna gripped her sword, and wished she still bore the Goddess’ blade. That a piece of Ashana would be with her in victory or defeat. But it was far to the north with her father.
Her father. What would he say? He’d certainly chide her for not nominating a champion in her stead. But then he’d gone without a champion for over a year, choosing that his own blade should speak for his honour. Beyond that? He’d urge her to win, or to die well.
“The challenge is issued and accepted.” At the arena’s centre, Aeldran’s morose expression betrayed unhappiness. “Let the matter be decided, and Ashana show mercy upon the defeated.”
He bowed and stepped clear, a gap opening up in the arena wall to accommodate him. Naradna advanced, sword held at guard. Melanna strode to meet him. The day’s doubts slipped away.
Naradna sprang with a cry, sword slashing at Melanna’s head. She caught the strike a span above her crossguard and drove it aside. Too easily. A test of her speed.
His second blow arrived in realisation’s shadow. A low thrust, aimed to cheat the decoyed blade and pierce the scales at her waist. Melanna jerked aside and back-cut at Naradna’s shoulder. Steel scraped across golden scale. The prince retreated, and the first cheers split the night sky.
Mud shifting under her feet, Melanna pressed her advantage. Her sword flashed out to left and right, seeking to lure Naradna’s blade aside as she herself had been lured. He gave ground, parries smooth and measured, never once offering opening worthy of the risk, nor taking a chance of his own. He was faster than she could have believed, his blade reaching its destination before hers arrived.
Only when his back was a pace distant from the arena wall did Naradna again go on the offensive. To kinsmen’s rousing cheers, he took Melanna’s sword on his armoured forearm, chancing that the thick scales would hold, and lunged.
Melanna’s evasion came too late. Steel pierced scale and scraped hot across her flank. As she staggered back, Naradna held the bloodied sword high, and cheers redoubled.
“Do you yield, princessa?” he sneered.
Melanna straightened, undershirt already hot and clammy about her waist. To yield was impossible, but their brief exchange had laid bare unwelcome truths. Naradna was faster. He hadn’t endured a beating at Orova’s hands. The longer the duel went on, the likelier her loss. Whether it ended in death or defeat, the life she’d striven for would be gone.
She sprang, the frustrations of the day spilling free as wordless cry. Naradna’s sword shuddered, the force of the blow driving him back a pace. Grim delight blazed. Faster he may have been, but she was stronger. And she’d endured more to stand in that muddy circle than Naradna would ever know.
Abandoning finesse, Melanna gripped her sword in both hands and hammered at him. Naradna gave ground before the overhand first blow. A metallic hiss accompanied the second, the surprise of a man who’d seen only her slightness, and missed the strength of her roots.
The third drove him to his knees.
On the fourth, he repeated his earlier gambit, seeking to sweep the blade aside with his scaled forearm. Melanna twisted her sword as it descended. Instead of skittering across scales, her steel sliced beneath and came away red.
Naradna screamed. His counter-thrust faltered as pain scattered his balance. Before it faded, Melanna had her sword-point at the join of gorget and mask. She seized the crossguard of his sword. Resistance faded as she slid her own forward through padded silk until it met the resistance of flesh. She flung Naradna’s sword away.
Cheers went silent. Others redoubled. Melanna let all fade before speaking. “Yield!”
Naradna met her gaze, eyes alive with hatred beneath the mask. “Not to you.”
“Then you choose death.”
“Gladly.”
Reluctance boiled away. Naradna had brought this on himself. “By your deeds in the circle, you are proven a liar. May the Goddess treat you—”
“Wait!”
Aeldran broke the circle. “Spare my brother, Ashanal.”
A growl of displeasure erupted about the arena.
Naradna’s eyes came alive with humiliation. “No!”
Aeldran knelt before Mel
anna, head bowed. “You owe me your life, Ashanal. Your life, or at least your freedom. Spare my brother, and I will consider the debt paid.”
Temptation remained to ram the sword home, to remove Naradna Andwar from her ever-lengthening list of woes. But… Aeldran had spoken true. Accepting his offer brought no shame. At least, not on her. The only thing worse than to be beaten by a woman was to be spared by one. But that wasn’t enough. Naradna’s humiliation had to run deeper. Melanna stared at the beatific mask, the mask that spared a scarred, bitter soul from the scrutiny of his fellows.
“You may have your brother’s life.” Melanna let her sword fall and drew her dagger from her belt. “But his face belongs to me. I give it as a gift to the world.”
Naradna made to back away. “No!”
Melanna tugged away his helm. She slit leather straps, and the golden mask came cleanly into her hands. Naradna hunched, fingers splayed in a vain attempt to conceal his scars. Except there were no scars. The mask had been a shield not against vanity, but against truth.
Naradna – who had resented her from the first – wasn’t a man, but a fine-featured woman, her dark hair cropped close.
Hushed silence overtook the crowd. Melanna let the mask fall. She saw her own outrage reflected around the circle, and never stronger than upon the faces of those who’d supported Naradna’s challenge. Bad enough to be a woman with pretensions to war. Worse still to wend a trail of deceit. Death would have shamed Naradna alone. Revelation tarnished Icansae entire.
Melanna despised the bigotry, but her own outrage remained. Not because of Naradna’s sex, but because of her deception, and the endless lies that had made it possible. When this day was but a memory, none would recall that the Empress-to-be had vanquished unworthy challenge. They would recall only that a woman had lied.
She glared at Aeldran. “Did you know?”
He hung his head.
Melanna turned her gaze on each chieftain in turn. None returned it. She beckoned to Sera. “Take her away. Treat her with respect, see that her needs are met, but give her no opportunity to take her own life.”
