by Matthew Ward
“No… It should have been me.” Rosa wanted to scream. To shout. To weep. All denied her by a body that refused response. They’d only just found each other. To lose her so soon? It wasn’t fair. Her heart burned; hot, cold and empty.
It wasn’t fair.
“It should have been me.”
He shook his head. “I warned about ephemeral smiles.”
Sympathy fell flat, undermined by the tone beneath. A being grasping at alien emotion.
Rosa tried to picture Sevaka’s face. She saw only darkness. “You could have helped her.”
“You told me to stay away. I have respected your wishes, as a suitor should.”
She’d all but screamed at him after Soraved. Had she not, Sevaka – and who could say how many more? – would still live. Selfishness of the grandest order.
“What of the Republic?”
He tutted. “Don’t mistake me for a messenger pigeon.” Then he shrugged. “Things are not going well. Yon fellow Izack intends to make a stand at the Rappadan. Alas that confidence alone does not win wars.”
The Rappadan River, and the shining spires of Tarvallion. Treasured memories beneath starlight. Ephemeral moments lost too soon.
Sevaka.
Sorrow kindled to anger. At the shadowthorns. At the Raven. At herself.
“You’re right,” gasped Rosa. “I told you to stay away. No more. Stand with us and I’m yours.”
He tapped the foot of his staff in time to the wagon’s creak. “I will give you all that you ask, but it’s not wise to frame it as a bargain.”
“I don’t care.” Rosa’s vision blurred as wrath and sorrow made feast of her body’s slim reserves. But breathing came easier, even as strength faded. “Win this war – make the Hadari suffer – and I’ll be your queen. I’ll serve you. I’ll be whatever you wish.”
The Raven’s lips parted, closed, and opened anew. “If that’s what you desire.”
The shadows bled away, and he was gone.
Thirty-Eight
An army gathered in the plaza beyond the broad palace balcony, constabulary blue joined by hearthguard from three-score noble houses. It stretched out to the scaffold-covered Vordal Tower on the square’s far side – almost to the tree-lined mouth of Sinner’s Mile beyond. The sight swept Malachi back to happier times, when the bells of Vordal had summoned citizens to hear the decrees of a united council or join the throng of the Guilds’ Fair. Honours had been proclaimed from that balcony. Recitals and performances by the greatest artists of the age, offered in tribute to populace and goddess. All in the past, before rebellion and war had divided the Council, and ambition festered to discord.
“I reckon this is all we’re getting.” To Malachi’s certain knowledge, Vona Darrow hadn’t slept, but he’d never have read it in her clear eyes and untroubled brow. “Unless you’re holding anything back?”
Malachi slipped his paper knife from his pocket and rapped it against his knuckles. Holding back? His only secrets were of shame. “No.”
“There’s no sense delaying, Malachi.” Messela joined him at the balcony’s edge. “Not unless you want to abandon hope of surprise.”
Lord Lamirov stirred by the door. Like Malachi, he was unshaven – testament to a night of twisted arms and favours collected. “There’ll be no surprise. The vranakin have eyes everywhere.”
But not on the balcony at that moment. Rika Tarev – or Apara, as Malachi still struggled to think of her – hadn’t shown. Nor had Konor Zarn or Lord Marest, who had by all accounts barricaded the doors of his mansion. Waiting to see whether the Dusk Wind carried the vranakin further into the city before pledging his fortunes.
Bracing against the impossible weight of unsought burdens, Malachi wondered what Viktor would have done in his place. “Captain Darrow? Drive the vranakin into the sea.”
She offered a salute as crisp as her smile was grim. “About damn time.”
Sidara waited at the riverside, gambeson buckled tight and singlestick resting against the birch. Altiris’ familiar trickle of nervousness roused to a torrent. Long, brutal years on Selann had instilled a lesson that the northwealder nobility were superior by blood and birth. He’d never believed, but Sidara’s surety made her seem his elder by years, though they were but months apart. Moreover, her magic had saved his life, and then set it in jeopardy. It was impossible not to feel diminished.
A shame she revelled in her superiority. Worse that he longed for her approval even so.
“I’m surprised the guards let a dangerous southwealder roam the grounds.”
Her smile did nothing to soften the words, meant as it was for herself, and not for him. The chasm between them yawned wider.
“I have a name, Lady Reveque.”
The smile broadened. “I know you do, southwealder.”
“And it so happens they almost didn’t,” he said stiffly. “This uniform doesn’t count for much if you were born south of Margard.”
Sidara paused, lips parted, then scowled away whatever she’d meant to say. “Where is Captain Kurkas?”
No apology in the words, however much Altiris read one in her expression. “I’ve not seen him since yesterday. Sergeant Brass reckons he’s drunk, and will turn up in his own good time.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know.” Altiris shook his head. “No. I’m worried.”
“Did you ask Ana? They seem close.”
“Honestly? I avoid her where I can.” He glanced about. “Tell me she’s not here.”
“No. She said she’d make infrequent visits, so as not to offend Mother.”
So as not to be caught, more like. “I see.”
Sidara cocked her head. “Perhaps the captain’s caught up in this business with Dregmeet. I scarcely managed two words out of Father, but Hawkin tells me he’s scrounged up hearthguard from half the city.”
Altiris frowned. There’d been only two sentries at the Abbeyfields gate, where on previous days there’d been no fewer than four. “We’ve heard nothing at Stonecrest.”
“Perhaps Father thought there wasn’t anyone to be spared.”
“You know what’s going on?”
“Enough to know the vranakin are causing trouble, but that’s hardly new. Father’s worried.” She scowled. “Father’s always worried.”
“He should be. The mists have swallowed half the city.”
She paled. “I don’t believe you.”
“You must have seen. They end not three streets away.”
“I’m not even allowed to go as far as one.” Her shrug little disguised frustration, nor the longing glance towards a boundary hidden by trees. “Mother fears for me.”
What little Altiris had seen of the elder Lady Reveque tended more towards anger than fear. Nonetheless, the softening of Sidara’s manner did its wicked work, tempting him to undeserved sympathy.
“I’m not lying to you, lady. And it’s not just the mists. Prizraks and worse. Grey men who wither with a touch.”
A flicker of irritation. “I’ve not led so sheltered a life I’ve not heard the nursery rhymes.”
“They’re more than that, lady. I saw one. Back before I was…” Realising his hand was pressed against his wound, Altiris hurriedly withdrew it. “I think Captain Kurkas is right in the middle of it.”
Her gaze snapped back from the unseen boundary. “What do you mean?”
Altiris winced, but with the promise half-broken found little to hold him back. “Yesterday, we – he and I – were to head into Dregmeet.”
“Whatever for?” A touch of asperity returned, the words not quite learned by rote. “There’s nothing there but thieves and squalor.”
He glared. “They’re not all vranakin. Not even most of them. Just folk trying to survive. We can’t all live in mansions, spending our days at swordplay and…” He cast about for an example of how a young woman of Sidara’s lineage might while away the day, but came up dry. “… discussing opera.”
She hooked an
eyebrow, more amused than annoyed. “We were talking about Captain Kurkas.”
He pressed on, glad to have escaped. “You know the vranakin had been taking southwealders?”
“Father spoke of it a few nights ago. Mother changed the subject.”
“Captain Kurkas grew up in Dregmeet. He reckoned to find out where others were being held. I was meant to go with him. But—”
“But I threw you in the river. You think something’s happened to him?”
“With everything that’s going on?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Sidara stared away, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t spend much time outside the grounds, but I’ve endured any number of Father’s parties. I know how a lie sounds. Tell me the truth, Altiris.”
Altiris. Not “southwealder”. “Yes, lady. I fear he’s come to harm.”
Silence reigned, broken only by the twitter of birds in the trees and the ripple of the river.
Abbeyfields’ bell chimed for eleven. Sidara straightened, features setting firm. “Let’s find him.”
He blinked. “Wait… what?”
“I said, let’s find him.”
Go tromping into the mists? Much less in the company of a sheltered noble like Sidara? “You said you’re not allowed to leave the grounds.”
“I’m not. But Constans gets out all the time. Ana got in.” She shot him a withering glance. “I can climb a fence.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Nor am I. If yesterday taught you anything, it should be that.”
“Your mother…”
“Wants me wrapped up in wool.” Bite returned to her tone, for the first time directed at elsewhere. “I should be a squire already. Father promised I could join Essamere, but Mother gainsaid him. She’ll keep me here for ever.”
“There’s a world of difference between spreading your wings and flying into Dregmeet! We don’t even know the captain’s there. Even if he is, this is something for the constabulary.”
“Who are never less than stretched to the limit. If all you’ve told me is true, do you imagine they’ve time for one lost soul?”
“Then send your hearthguard.”
“They don’t take orders from me. At best, I can make a request of Mother. I know what she’ll say.” She shot him a shrewd look, gold flecks among the blue. “I can’t tell if you’re afraid for me, or yourself.”
Fair, as neither could Altiris. “I can be both.”
She spread her hands in frustration then subsided to stillness. “When they brought you to me… I didn’t want to help. Uncle Josiri pleaded, but I was afraid. Of my mother’s anger. Of what I’m becoming. Then Ana said to look inside myself. At the light. It told me that I’ve not earned the right to do nothing, not when doing something might save a life. Captain Kurkas is one of the few people who comes to Abbeyfields and treats me as a person, rather than a prize. I’m not asking your permission. I’m not asking you to come. I’m telling you that I’m going into Dregmeet.” She twitched a shoulder. “But I’d rather not go alone.”
Habitual confidence fell away. For the first time, Altiris saw not the daughter of a noble line, but a girl his age determined to do something that terrified her.
Of course, there was a third option. He could go to the hearthguard. Even to the elder Lady Reveque. Tell them what Sidara intended. She’d be kept safe. Furious, but safe. Strange to hold the balance of power for the first time in their brief association. Stranger still to feel no temptation to use it. Or maybe not. He owed her his life. Loyalty was a small enough token of exchange.
And Kurkas had treated him well.
“You win.”
Sidara’s frown blossomed into perfect joy. “You’ll come? You know I wasn’t sure…” Her eyes widened, gaze slipping past his shoulder. “Hawkin, we were just—”
“Hush. I heard everything.” The steward drew closer through the trees. Chestnut curls and long skirts worn alongside troubled expression. “Even a city girl can tread quietly when the moment calls. I thought you might need a chaperone. Turns out you need a dose of sense.”
Sidara started, aghast. “Please, Hawkin. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Your mother trusts me. Even after my lapse. Do you know what that’s worth?” Hawkin’s eyes touched briefly on Altiris’. “No offence, my bonny. I’m glad you’re not sitting at the Raven’s hand.”
Altiris nodded, knowing he could say nothing that wouldn’t make matters worse.
Sidara folded her arms. She was the picture of defiance, but Altiris – who had learned a great deal that morning about reading her mood– caught the flicker of worry in her eyes. “And you’ll give me away?”
“I should. Vona would in a heartbeat. Not an ounce of trust in her soul, that wife of mine.” Hawkin shook her head. “I don’t want you to get hurt. But I know enough of this city to know that hurt will find you, sooner or later. Just make sure it’s not today. I couldn’t bear that.”
“Then… you’re letting us go?”
Hawkin shook her head. “I haven’t seen you, so I can’t. One sniff of the mists and you’ll be back, I imagine. Just make sure you don’t return without her, young man. Or I’ll make sure whatever Lady Lilyana does to you as punishment seems like sunshine and kittens, do you understand me?”
Despite the framing, Altiris read more challenge than threat. Better that way. Something to rise to, rather than cower beneath. “Yes, Mistress Darrow.”
Thirty-Nine
The killing weight of Essamere crashed home with a thunder of galloping hooves. Zephan Tanor’s arm shuddered as his lance pierced a shadowthorn’s shield. The brute slumped against his fellows, guttural cry fading. A spear skittered off Zephan’s armour. Another shattered against his shield. Letting the lance drop, Zephan dragged free his sword and stabbed down. A face sheeted in blood and fell away.
“Until Death!”
The Essamere battle cry echoed beneath grey skies, more howl than words. Zephan spurred his destrier into the widening gap. A shieldsman vanished screaming under a neighbour’s hooves. Blood flecked the newcomer’s gold and green cloak.
“Drive them into the bloody river!” bellowed Izack. “For Tregga!”
Tregga, gutted from within when traitors had opened its gates.
Zephan thrust back his spurs. He forgot the stench of sweat and blood, and the fear that had ridden beside him on the charge. The field filled with bodies and routed men.
Knights thundered past, plumes and cloaks streaming behind. Zephan spurred to the pursuit, deaf to all save the rush of hooves and the wails of the dying.
The cry of a buccina dragged him back. The falling three-note octave that called for order.
“Show some bloody discipline!” Izack stood tall in his stirrups, the order’s banner streaming behind him. The sword and the eagle, gold against hunter’s green. “You’re Essamere, not a band of drunken thrakkers!”
Instinct drove Zephan to the second rank, among the squires yet to earn their plumes. With friends made in ten long years since taking the Vigil Oath. But that life lay behind. Instead, he walked his steed into the gap beside the chapterhouse banner. His first charge as a full knight. Against a shadowthorn shield wall bearing the stag of Silsaria, no less.
That the stag shields had come forward too soon and unsupported was no matter. Battles turned on error more than valour. The Silsarians had paid for theirs. Survivors streamed back to the golden line stretching between the eaves of Sharnweald to the east and the reed-strewn Rappadan marshlands in the west.
To the east, the battle had barely begun. Wayfarers peppered the shadowthorn advance with arrows before wheeling away. Behind, overlapping lines of pavissionaires threaded the gentle rise, their hawk shields planted to form muddy walls of king’s blue. Blocks of halberdiers, Prydonis foot knights and towering kraikons anchored each line. Hundreds more waited behind, ready to stiffen the defence when the shadowthorns came too close for quarrels.
Further south, great, windi
ng serpents of the shadowthorn advance wended their way across the lowlands. Shields glittered like scales. Bodies marked where those shields had failed. Even as Zephan took his place, a ballista shot reduced a dozen men to a bloody smear. Pale-witches kept pace upon steeds of shimmering moonlight, their threat holding at bay the simarka lurking in Sharnweald’s undergrowth. And behind them, grunda wagons, the calloused, leathery beasts caparisoned in silk. Shields wouldn’t hold before a charging grunda, but the beasts were yet out of crossbow-shot, and so the shadowthorn shieldsmen suffered in their stead.
In the western marshes, king’s blue banners of the 3rd thickened in an abandoned farm. The companies had held position since the night before – their major refusing to retreat. The emerald silks of Rhaled drew closer to the walls, driven on by ceaseless drums. And at their head, golden cataphracts, a silver crown and a sword blazing with moonfire. The Emperor himself.
“Brother.” Shalan walked his steed between Zephan and his immediate neighbour. “Your lance is lost. Take mine.”
Zephan sheathed his sword and he accepted the lance. The dutiful gift was echoed up and down the Essamere line as squires gave of their own arms so that knights would strike true.
Buccinas flared. Squires withdrew to the second rank.
“The Emperor’s coming.” Izack, still a dozen paces in front of the reforming line, wheeled his horse to make the address. Grim glee shone beneath his morose tone. “Looks like he’s bringing us plenty of sport. Pale-witches, too. Remember, you can’t kill their steeds except under moonlight, so aim for the doxy in the saddle!”
At least two thousand spears matched against a thousand knights and squires. Numbers alone didn’t tell the tale. Heavy destriers and the folded plate of Essamere beat golden scale. Still, it would be a hard fight. And that made no account of the pale-witches riding close by. About the campfire, it was easy enough to discount rumour that their moonlight steeds were proof against ephemeral steel. Another thing entirely to see them flickering on a grey morning. Just as it was harder to forget that Saran wielded Ashana’s fire. Ashana. Lunastra. A goddess loathed by many, but worshipped by Zephan’s family for generations. The Lumestran church might have driven the other gods from the city of Tressia, but the Lunastran faith clung on in the provinces. More or less.
