by Matthew Ward
Mirth slipped away. “What really happened last year? At Eskavord. With Viktor. Not the version Malachi peddles. The truth.”
Josiri hesitated, but either Viktor would join the battle for the Republic’s survival and his secrets would stand revealed, or he wouldn’t, and he deserved no discretion. Clambering to his feet, he leaned against a tree at the glade’s edge, his back to Erashel. “Eskavord burned at Viktor’s hand, as official record claims. But it was lost long before.”
“The Hadari?”
“Malatriant.”
“Malatriant? Be serious. She’s long dead.”
“So we thought. She seized Eskavord, made its people a part of her, my sister included. Nothing could be done, save the mercy of the fire. Viktor didn’t hesitate. He’s like an arrow in flight, no hesitation, no doubt. No matter the cost. The cost was Eskavord. The mists have held it ever since. The locals talk of ghosts roaming the desolation. I didn’t believe. Not until that day in Dregmeet.”
She shook her head in disbelief, eyes clouded by fear. “And that’s why the birds fall silent? Because they sense his resolve? It’s a pretty tale.”
“They fall silent because Viktor wields magic. Not the foundry’s light. Malatriant’s Dark. They’re afraid of it.”
Erashel’s sibilant curse vanished beneath the crackle of flame. “That’s not funny, Josiri.”
“No. But it is the truth.”
“Are you certain you want to find him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You and I… We spend our lives worrying about consequence and status. Viktor belongs to a broader canvas, and yet he’d die for me, for you – for anyone – if he thought it would make a difference.”
Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as Erashel drew closer. “I never thought to hear Katya Trelan’s son speak thus of her killer.”
Another lie, for Josiri’s mother had died at her own hand. Viktor was more myth than truth, even in his own lifetime. Josiri planted an elbow against the tree and forehead against his wrist.
“I’ve hated him most of my life. I still do, except for when I don’t. But for Viktor, Calenne would be alive, and yet I’ve no doubt he’d offer up his life to the Raven if it would bring her back. He tore me apart even while he showed me a better way to live. I’m trapped between admiration and rage so black it leaves me ashamed.” He snorted. “And then I think, if Viktor provokes these feelings in a man he embraces as brother, what hope can there possibly be for his enemies?”
“Then why not leave him to it, for better or worse?”
“I keep asking myself that question. There’s only ever one answer. It’s because, despite everything Viktor’s cost me, he and I are friends. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
Her fingers tightened about his shoulder. “We can’t choose those we love, Josiri, just as we can’t choose those we hate. We strive to do right by one, damn the other, and hope all transpires as it should.”
“Maybe you’re right. It’s not a lesson my parents ever taught. It seems yours did better.”
“Not really. Father pledged himself to the Phoenix only when he’d no other choice. I persuaded him he’d live longer as Katya’s ally than as her enemy.” Her voice faded. “My reward was a slaughtered family and a cell on an exodus scow bound for Selann.”
He turned without intending to, drawn by the heartbreak beneath the words. “I knew your father had changed his mind, of course, but not that you were responsible.”
“Why would you?” Erashel stared off into the darkness. “Your mother’s last days were full of stories. You and I were the barest of acquaintances, and you’d grief of your own.”
“But you hold me responsible?”
“Exodus brought me to Lord Yordon’s estate. He’d a fine opinion of his kindness, rooted little in truth. He’d set southwealders free on the fens, and hunt them with hounds for sport. He kept order through starvation, and worse. But I was lucky.” Sour emphasis belied the word. “Yordon was bitter, and easily flattered. I spent my days tutoring his children, and my nights entertaining their father. I slept on Itharocian silk while others slept on straw, and I learned how to drug his wine so that I could slip away beneath the moon. I stole food for the starving, and arranged ‘accidents’ for the cruellest of their overseers. I bartered pieces of myself away, one inch at a time, and clung to its necessity. And all the while, I heard how Katya Trelan’s children lived in luxury at Branghall. So yes, I hated you. Even after the Settlement Decree brought me home I beheld you as a spoilt child playing at statesman, ignorant of hardship and railing against shadows. It’s taken me a long time to see beyond that.”
Josiri tried to picture Yordon among the blur of faces that was the Grand Council. Memory found only a younger man, barely of age. “And Lord Yordon?”
“Died in his sleep the night of the Settlement Decree,” Erashel replied. “His heart, I’m told.”
She held his stare without blinking, without shame. Whatever mystery Yordon’s death offered officialdom, it had no secrets from Erashel Beral.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shot him a shrewd glance. “For what? Your mother’s failings in rebellion, or my father’s in heeding my counsel? The past is the past, Josiri. The future is all. And with that in mind…” She shook her head. “It will wait. We should get some sleep.”
He caught her hand as she turned away. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that too much goes unsaid too long. Tell me?”
“Very well.” Erashel laid her free hand over his. “We need to marry, you and I.”
Viktor approached the palisade gate, lingering distant enough from the fires upon its ramparts so as to not draw a sentry’s notice. Beyond the harbour town, Kellevork’s black stones clung to the cliffside, its forest of towers stark against the shimmering moonlit sea.
As with so much that sprang from Thrakkian hands, Kellevork was haphazard, ramshackle. Curtain walls overlapped one another in strange manner. Towers clustered too thick in some places, and too far apart in others. Worse, the upper storeys were of timber, not stone. Fire would humble long before swords breached its walls.
One regiment, supported by ballistae and mangonels, could have taken Kellevork. But then, the Thrakkians of the present preferred to settle their grievances on the open field. Kellevork belonged to the past, a bastion intended not for defence, but governance and suppression in the name of long-dead kings. That Ardothan chose to rule from Kellevork’s austerity rather than Indrig’s cheer reaffirmed Armund’s muttered accusations. Serendipity, of the kind granted to a man of righteous intent. While Viktor was no longer so idealistic as to believe that two evils combined ever amounted to anything more than a darker, blacker one, if two serpents could be crushed with a single stomp, then so be it.
“Last chance to turn back, lad,” said Armund.
“You gave me back to myself,” said Viktor. “Take pride in your work.”
“This isn’t some grotty brawl at the village gate,” he replied gloomily. “You might at least have brought an army.”
“I don’t have one.”
“No, but Trelan did. Wouldn’t have hurt to borrow it for a day or two.”
Viktor shook his head. “Two days are enough to remake the world. If Ahrad is gone, the Republic needs every sword. Besides, Tressians at the gate would be… provocative.”
“You’re Tressian.”
“I’m an outcast. Even if Ardothan claims otherwise, I doubt his peers will consider my part in this a worthy provocation. The Republic does not need war with the thanedoms.” Even Josiri’s presence would have given the air of official sanction. Better to keep him distant. And Josiri cultivated such a fine air of wounded indignance. A shame to waste talent like that through complicity. “And I doubt you can do this without me.”
“I’m not so sure we can do this at all.”
“Nor is anyone beyond that wall. Don’t you want to prove them wrong?”
“It’s a sickness, that’s wha
t it is.” Armund shook his head. “You’re a glutton for lost causes.”
“Then what are you accompanying me for?”
“What else am I going to do?” Sightless eyes gazed up at the gate. “I’ve been running from this too long. Can’t have you telling tales that Armund af Garna doesn’t live up to his responsibilities, can I? Anliss will never let me hear the end of it, here or in Skanandra.”
Viktor smiled at a tone less morose in the deeps than the shallows. “Shall we be about our business?”
Armund sighed and strode for the gate.
“Who goes?” A man in heavy cloak and drakonhelm stared down from the rampart, a torch blazing in his hand. “Declare yourself!”
“Armund af Garna, Thane of Indrigsval!”
A chorus of laughter shook the night sky. “Indrigsval has a thane. It’s not you, scunner!”
Armund unslung his axe and rested the haft on the roadway. “I seek the judgement of the Cindercourt. In my name, and my sister’s.”
The laughter died. “That matter is settled.”
“Not while my heart beats.”
“A detail easily resolved.”
Archers appeared at the wall, arrows nocked and bowstrings drawn.
Viktor scowled. From the outset, he’d suspected he’d have need of his shadow before the matter was settled. But to draw upon it so soon? How quickly the last resort became the first. Still, nothing was gained if they were shot down like rabid dogs…
“Enough!” A grey-headed woman stared down from the gate. Inkari. Sole survivor of the fight at Valna. “He has a claim, Jagraval. Let him pass.”
“Ardothan won’t thank you for this, Inkari.”
“He’s invoked Astor’s law. Let him pass.”
The archers withdrew at Jagraval’s angry gesture. The gate creaked open.
Inkari met them in the muddy streets beyond, a vanaguard’s yellow and green cloak swathed tight against the cold, and six watchful bonds-axes at her back. “You’ll die here, Armund.”
“Is that concern?” he replied. “Or have you found your honour at last?”
She spat. “I won’t have Jagraval calling down Astor’s wrath just so he can impress your brother. If Ardothan wants you dead outside of the Cindercourt, he can do it himself. Come.”
Calenne’s vantage among the trees afforded a splendid view as Josiri’s expression slid from numb surprise to outright shock. She empathised completely, her misgivings at eavesdropping falling by the wayside at Erashel’s outrageous demand.
She’d followed ever since Tarona, unseen and unremarked, trusting her brother to reunite her with Viktor. What she’d say in that event, Calenne had no notion. Even thinking on the horrors of her existence drenched her in panic. Easy enough to seek distraction on the road, but after nightfall, with sleep a distant comfort…? She’d followed their conversation – and Erashel’s calculated display of vulnerability – with morbid fascination.
Morbid. Her every action now was morbid.
At last, Josiri recovered his voice. “I think I must have misheard you.”
“Offering to spare my blushes?” Erashel drew closer, hands clasped about his. “This isn’t a romantic proposition, but a practical one.”
“I am very much spoken for.”
“As Anastacia’s pet?”
He stepped back. “As her equal.”
Josiri’s tone didn’t quite match the words’ resolve. Much as Calenne disliked Anastacia, she’d have given a great deal for the demon to find herself present. An education for all parties, but Erashel in particular. Alas, the demon was far away, and Josiri abandoned to calculated assault.
“Even if that’s true, you’re the last of your family. Anastacia doesn’t strike me as willing or able to provide an heir.”
“Adoption is tradition older than the Republic. It serves others well enough.”
“You’ve a duty to continue your bloodline, Josiri. As do I.”
His expression darkened. “Then do so elsewhere, and leave me out of it.”
Erashel’s brow creased. “I don’t want us to be rivals, as our parents were.”
“We won’t be.”
“The Council won’t let us be anything else!”
“You’re exaggerating.”
The first anger bloomed. “Lamirov will keep playing us off against one another. And our people will suffer. Or are you so naïve you believe the difficulties between north and south are done with?”
“Wedding vows won’t stop that, or do you suppose they’ll magically make us of one mind?”
“They send a message of unity. Our people need that more than ever. Whatever they hear, they’ll see that the Trelans and Berals are one. You saw Ardva. The coastal villages – what’s left of them. Even if the Hadari are repelled, it will take generations to undo what the Council did to us. We have to stand together. There’s no better way than this, and no better time.” She stepped back and held up her hands. “I knew this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything. Not yet.”
Josiri curled his lip and stared up at Calenne, his expression so fixed, so certain, that for a moment she was convinced he saw her. She held her breath. If indeed she any longer had breath to hold. He dipped his head without a flicker of recognition.
“And am I to remain Josiri Trelan in this future of yours?”
Erashel cocked her head. “I love my people more than my name. If that’s your price, I’ll pay it.”
“I see.”
Josiri ran his hands across his face and sat down on a fallen tree.
Calenne snorted her disgust. He was considering it. He was actually considering it. But then, Erashel had crafted a plea perfect to exploit Josiri’s weaknesses.
Duty. Responsibility. The desire to compensate for their mother’s failures, and unmake her mistakes. Erashel’s charms – and Calenne granted she wasn’t without them – would always play distant second. And that offer to take the Trelan name – and the accompanying reminder that fidelity to Anastacia would see the bloodline die with Josiri himself? Though her brother had never spoken of a yearning for children, he’d embraced the Trelan name as fervently as Calenne herself battled to reject it. Fatherhood would be part of that.
Still, Calenne couldn’t escape attendant irony. Hadn’t she conspired at arranged marriage to further her own desires not once, but twice? Moreover, though she’d long held the view that Anastacia was a blight on Josiri’s life, she couldn’t deny the happiness the demon granted.
Was that why she felt so aggrieved? Because being so adrift in her own existence was bad enough without watching Josiri come unmoored from certainty? Because Josiri was foundering out of his depth, a neophyte in an arena for which a cloistered life had not prepared him? Or was it disgust at how methodically Erashel tempted him to betrayal, all the while claiming service to a higher duty?
Disgust boiled into anger. Calenne’s hand closed about a stone. Without ever really making the decision, she let fly.
Ardothan af Garna was lighter in frame and feature than his younger brother, his hair and beard prematurely faded from flame’s wrath to a mountain’s snows. Alone of the Thrakkians gathered to Kellevork’s great hall, he wore no armour, favouring an overcoat and tunic into which metal thread was woven at collar and cuffs.
He projected calm as Inkari made introduction. A noble ruler setting aside rancour in hospitality’s name. His manner made lie of banditry and extortion, and elevated him to close company with the golden statues set in semicircle about the throne. Fidelity. Rigour. Fortitude. Generosity. Justice. Courage. Six virtues without which no thane could rule. Viktor allowed that he might even have been deceived, but for the eyes.
It wasn’t just the infrequency with which Ardothan blinked, nor the fact that his eyes seldom shared common cause with his frequent smiles. Rather, it was that his gaze never lingered long in one place, darting from Armund to Inkari, to the claymore and charred axe in her keeping, to one or other of the vanaguard standing close attendance in
an otherwise empty hall. Not the drift of the bored or inattentive, but the mania of a mind ever in search of threat and opportunity.
More than that, Viktor deemed something amiss about the chamber itself. In his younger years, he’d accompanied his father when then elder Lord Akadra had sought treaty with one thanedom or another. Those throne rooms had been nothing less than opulent, and yet had resembled armouries as much as meeting halls. Axes had adorned every wall, gold inlay shining in blade and haft, the swirling knotwork fine beyond anything practised in Tressia. A portion of the soul lived on through the steel, or so some held, and Thrakkians liked to keep their family close, where they could. Here, the walls were bare save for tapestries, and for a soot-stained mirror above the hearth – by tradition a gateway to Skanandra, through which ancestors might view a descendant’s deeds.
“You choose a late hour to seek redress, Armund,” said Ardothan.
“There’s never a good time to mend old mistakes.”
“So it is as I’ve been told?” Ardothan sighed. “I’d hoped you’d find wisdom in exile. So much for the fruits of mercy.”
“Mercy?” Armund snorted. “Exile forced Anliss to live with her shame. Death would have spared her.”
“A kinslayer should feel shame, even when her axe falls astray.”
“Maybe. But she died well. Her sin is absolved. Ours remain.”
“I bear no sin. Our father faced the Cindercourt to answer for crimes.”
“His only crimes were to be old and ailing, and to not recognise your ambition. He could barely hold an axe when he entered the circle.”
Ardothan sprang to his feet, the veneer of nobility cracking as temper roiled. “He’d have sold us all to Scawmede! Our family – our history – swallowed up by a nation of churls and spendthrifts. Indrigsval would be a name on a map, remembered only in song.”
“Better that than what you’ve made of it. Preying on the helpless? Stripping temples of their offerings? Seizing our ancestors’ weapons and smelting them for your thrydaxes’ blood-gold? Dress this rabble in our claith all you like, you can’t conceal that mercenary stench.”
