by Matthew Ward
For all that neither Tzal nor Astor hadn’t moved, Melanna had the sense that they loomed above the others, disapproval crowding out reason as night swallowed moonlight. She understood too that this wasn’t the first occasion, nor would it likely be the last. With that realisation came recognition of history repeated. Not Ashana’s, but her own.
How often had she stood before the Golden Court, but apart from it, ignored by old men proven in battle? They too had wielded tradition as weapon, a convention that forbade her a sword, and thus the right to challenge those who carried them. At last, Melanna understood why Ashana had supported her all these years. Why the struggle sometimes seemed more personal than it should.
And for all that Melanna felt lost in the place that was no place, her struggles with the Golden Court had taught her of tradition, and how it bound those who sought to wield it as a weapon.
“Tradition doesn’t care how she came to that throne, only that she’s there,” said Melanna.
Her knees buckled as Tzal’s baleful gaze fell upon her. “Your pet will hold her tongue, Ashana. Or I will compel her to do so.”
Ashana folded her arms. “My daughter speaks the truth.”
The deep rumble of Astor’s laughter swallowed Tzal’s disdainful hiss. “Let the others be called. Let them answer to the little moon, if only to spare us her disfavour.”
Tzal glowered, his flames darkening to match his mood, but he nodded. Across the island, braziers burst to brilliant life. The gods sank back on their thrones, all save Ashana, who paced restlessly about the pool.
Careful not to draw too close to the island’s extent, Melanna drifted away, her eyes touching again on the mist-gate and the path back to a world she understood.
“Tradition doesn’t care. I shall have to remember that.”
Melanna turned to find blue-green eyes boring into hers. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to address you.”
“I’m supposed to take my mother’s name as I did her throne. But I’m not her, so why should I? And I’ve never liked my own.” She smiled, her manner for the first time a match for her appearance. “So I remain a nameless lady until I choose a better. If the throne defines me, what’s the point to having it?”
A little of Melanna’s unease bled away. “Are they always so confrontational?”
The Nameless Lady shrugged. “They’re accustomed to getting their own way.”
“But not you?”
“I’m sure I’ll set like stone as I get older.” She glanced at Tzal, a wistful note creeping into her voice. “We all become our parents.”
Melanna wondered what it would be like to have such a creature as one’s sire. If only half the tales were true, Tzal was a disinterested deity at best, and a cruel one at worst. For all Ashana’s flaws, she’d been fortunate to have the Goddess’ guidance, and her love. What bitter soul would she have been with Tzal’s flames at her back?
Braziers flickered out across the island.
“That’s it,” said the Nameless Lady. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
She drifted away, skirts flowing over stone like the tide on a beach.
The Raven stepped out of the darkness – or, at least, what Melanna presumed was the Raven – a flock of birds cawing viciously about him as they fought for perch on brazier and throne. Not the old woman of legend, but a tall man of middle-age, feather-masked, goateed and clad in a crumpled suit. For all his unfamiliarity, she’d seen him before. In the crowds beneath Ravenscourt, watching ceremonies performed in his name.
“Can’t this wait?” he said, in peevish, gravelly tones. “I’m busy.”
{{Be grateful for the reprieve.}} Jack lurched into view opposite. {{You’re so… insubstantial. It’s a wonder you don’t fade away. Can it be you’re not in full command of your kingdom, dearest brother?}}
The Raven did look inconstant. Old memory worn thin with passing years. Not exactly translucent, but not entirely there. “Run out of halfwits to tempt?”
Thorns thrashed angrily beneath the tattered robes. {{What care I for the haggler’s wits, if his coin is firm?}}
“You’re pathetic.”
Jack crackled a mocking laugh. {{I’m winning. I will have my victory, and a queen to share my celebrations.}}
“Really?” The Raven replied languidly. “Does she know her fortune?”
{{Does it matter?}}
“What a question to ask.”
For the first time, the Raven acknowledged Melanna’s presence, his eyes touched briefly on hers before drifting away. Suddenly, she was back beneath Vrasdavora’s walls, and Jack standing before her. We will see one another again. Breath ran ragged as she recalled the reflection in the black river.
Her father’s bargain. Had he really done such a thing? Had he offered her to the Lord of Thorns?
No. He wouldn’t. Not out of choice.
But if the war was going poorly?
The possibility crowded out all else.
Ashana stepped between the two. “We didn’t summon you to endure your bickering.”
“Then why, pray, are we here?” The Raven wiggled an admonishing finger. “And I wasn’t summoned. I came willingly. Out of respect.”
Jack straightened, robes gathered close and briars falling still. {{As did I.}}
The Raven sneered. “Of course you did.”
“Enough!” Ashana’s voice, so hard and cold, caused both to shrink away. Each recovered in a heartbeat, the Raven to his swagger, and Jack to his hunched, grotesque glower. “This war must end.”
{{It will,}} crackled Jack. {{In glory.}}
“It ends now,” she replied. “Let the ephemerals settle their own grievances.”
“It’s very strange.” The Raven ambled closer, head tilted as if trying to catch a part of Ashana that otherwise remained hidden. “But you look like my little sister. You even sound like her. But your words… This is your war, isn’t it?”
Ashana scowled. “It is a mistake.”
“Piffle.” He locked gazes with Jack’s glowering mask. “This is an opportunity. I’m grateful to you, I am, but my answer must be ‘no’. Bargains have been struck and promises made. These things matter.”
{{Yessss,}} said Jack. {{This will play out as it must.}}
Bitterness crowded Melanna’s throat. Bargains had been struck, and she one of them.
“We could compel you,” said Ashana.
The Raven shrugged. “You were only ever half a goddess, and you’re worn thin. You’ve no leverage.”
“And if it’s not me alone?”
“But you are alone.” The Raven turned, hand stretching to each occupied throne in turn, a conductor and his orchestra. “Or do you concur with our sister’s demands? Astor? Tzal?”
It didn’t escape Melanna’s attention that he made no address to the Nameless Lady. Like the others, he considered her beneath him.
“You can’t allow this!” cried Ashana.
Astor leaned forward, a spill of rust and steam hissing away from rotting armour. “I’m tired, sister. Fire runs cold, Skanandra’s halls darken and my children pass into stone. If the Reckoning comes sooner, I welcome it.”
Ashana glanced at the empty throne, golden light seeping through its cracked stone. “The Reckoning cannot begin until Lumestra returns.”
“Then you’ve no cause for concern,” said Tzal. “Unless you doubt the Prophecy of Third Dawn.”
“Third Dawn. The Reckoning. Call it what you will. My concerns lie not in prophecy, but pragmatism. Without Lumestra, who will forge a new world from the ashes of the old when the Reckoning is done and Last Night falls?”
Tzal’s lips parted in a leer. “I suppose that will depend on who emerges as the victor.”
Though the words were Tzal’s alone, Melanna recognised shared sentiment. They all wanted this, to one degree or another. The chance to usurp the absent Lumestra and fashion a new creation. Her head spun with the scale of ambition, and the unanswerable realisation that it
was in its way no different to what she’d done – what her sire and grandsires had done throughout history. She’d been shaped by the throne even before it was hers. Sickening, but for the deeper horror that it soon wouldn’t matter at all.
“I won’t fight,” said the Nameless Lady. “Not until I have to. But if it is war? No world deserves my father for a liege, much less a creator.”
Ashana thrust her hands down at her side. “I won’t let this happen.”
{{It is already begun,}} said Jack.
Ashana stared into the inky void of the pool, lips pinched and brow set in the manner of one trying not to scream. She glanced up at Melanna, her eyes pleading.
Not knowing what else to do, Melanna nodded.
A little of Ashana’s tension faded. “Lumestra or no, the Reckoning only begins when one of us murders another in an ephemeral’s cause. That is prophecy. That is tradition. Are we agreed?”
Astor offered a weighty nod. The Raven looked on with suspicion; Jack from behind his impassive mask. The Nameless Lady flickered a smile.
Tzal waved a dismissive hand. “Why not? As you say, it is tradition.”
“Then I thank you for your kind indulgence.” She bobbed a curtsey, formality oozing bitter sarcasm.
The Raven snorted and departed the circle, birds cawing in his wake. Jack followed suit, the scrape of thorns on stone setting Melanna’s weary nerves on edge. Tzal rose cleanly and stalked away without a word, Astor with hesitation. Only the Nameless Lady halted to offer a nod of farewell. Then even she was gone into the starlit darkness, leaving Melanna and Ashana alone.
Much to Melanna’s surprise, the Goddess laughed.
“I like to tell myself it’s experience that counts. That their manner would be wholly different if Lumestra were still here. But I know it’s not so. Boys remain boys, even when cloaked in divine power.”
“You find this amusing?” asked Melanna, too sick inside even to snarl.
“I don’t, honestly I don’t, but it’s better to laugh than cry.” Ashana perched on the edge of the silver throne, unwilling to give the whole of herself to it. “And now we at least have hope.”
“They ignored you! Nothing has changed!”
“Yes, they ignored me. I always knew they would, but this had to be tried.” Ashana let her head fall forward. Propping her elbows on her knees, she steepled her hands to her chin. “But something has changed. We know where everyone stands. If the war begins, they will fight. Whoever wins the Reckoning gets to rebuild afterwards, and none of us trust the others to do it right. Thus neither Endala’s daughter nor Astor want to fight, but will if there’s no other way. Tzal won’t risk being the inciting murder. So this is about Jack and the Raven. Stop them, and there’s no Reckoning. The clock keeps ticking.”
And through it all, she a briar queen in Fellhallow. “I think…” Melanna swallowed, not wanting to make her fears real by giving them voice. “My father has promised me to Jack.”
“So you caught that? He won’t have meant to. Jack’s bargains always run crooked.”
“Does that matter?” Melanna replied dully.
Ashana sat up straight, her gaze piercing. “Has he ever put his throne before you?”
“Never.”
“There we are.” She stared off into the distance. “There’s still a way through this. I can see it, shining like silver, but it won’t be easy. And we’ll need help.”
Fifty-One
“I should be furious,” said Josiri. “So why is it I’m relieved to find you breathing?”
Viktor sat naked to the waist on a bench at the foot of the great hall’s dais. His back and shoulders were slathered with bitter-scented salve, applied liberally by a grey-bearded thrall whose filigree wreath and white robes marked him as a healer of the antaya lodges. Greyish paste stood pale against livid burns and bruises earned less than an hour before. How Viktor smiled, Josiri couldn’t conjure. But he did, a man basking in rare satisfaction amid the chamber’s quiet.
“Because you’re in awe,” Viktor replied. “I’m told I was quite impressive.”
Armund stirred on the throne, the brandished tankard odd companion for a leg splinted and bound from ankle to knee. The fragments of a charred axe hung on iron brackets behind the chair’s upright. “You were, lad. A tale to rival Arkynar af Vardin. I’d offer you the throne…” He wiped mead-sodden lips on the back of his hand and belched. “… but it’s taken.”
Josiri shook his head. “Erashel thought you were fleeing.”
Viktor’s head dipped. “And you?”
“Viktor Akadra has never been a coward. Reckless, despite his claims otherwise, but no coward. And he keeps secrets, also despite his claims otherwise.”
Viktor winced. He beckoned to the antaya. “Vaest dralla, ikna. Brenæ ist dan.”
The old man bowed. Gathering vials and unguents, he departed the hall, leaving the three of them alone.
“I didn’t know you spoke Thrakkian,” said Josiri.
“That at least, is no secret. It’s merely something you didn’t know.” Viktor clambered to his feet and drew on his shirt, wincing as cotton brushed abused flesh. “There’s no great difference between Thrakkian language and the formal tongue, just as both hold common heritage with most Hadari dialects. The legacy of the Age of Kings, when all were one. Uncle Carid served as ambassador in Brinnorhill for a time, and brought back all manner of tales. Heroes, monsters, tales of doomed love and riches beyond compare. They painted the world in far brighter colours than anything to be found in the city. The chord they struck has rung through me ever since. Is that such a surprise?”
“I suppose not.”
No, it chimed too well with what Josiri knew of Viktor’s early life. A murdered mother and an absent father. Secret magic held close. All the reasons in the world to seek escape, if only in stories. And for all that Viktor wore the sober guise of a Tressian knight, flamboyance shone through at odd moments.
“But as to secrets. Did you have anything particular in mind?”
For all the nonchalance in Viktor’s voice, there was reserve beneath. What Josiri had come to recognise as the other girding himself against unwelcome truth.
“Only the conspiracy that led you here.”
Armund grunted. “Conspiracies are for feckless caenir. This was a noble quest, worthy of mead, and song… and mead!”
The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t want it to appear that the Council was meddling in Thrakkian affairs. And you nearly spoilt that, hammering at the gates even as Armund was tossed into the Cindercourt. But it’s all worked out for the best, so I forgive you.”
Josiri shook his head at the outrageous reply, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something else lurked just behind the truth he saw. Another secret? Or simply a morsel of fact he didn’t know? “So what happens now?”
“Now, lad, you marvel at the gratitude of Armund af Garna, and the world shakes before his wrath.” Armund leaned forward on his throne, the pall of drunkenness yielding to piercing sincerity. “Ardothan’s pride is our providence. Normally, it’d take a day or two to gather my ceorlas, but they’re all here. I’ve thralls stripping this mouldering ruin for whatever horses and provisions can be found. Two thousand axes. More, if you can wait while I raise the lething.”
“We can’t,” said Viktor. “If this is to matter, we’ll have to ride this afternoon. And it serves little purpose to save Tressian farmers by driving yours into battle. Two thousand will serve.”
Josiri couldn’t believe his ears. Two thousand must have constituted at least half of Indrigsval’s warriors. “And you’ll have no need of them?”
Armund grinned. “Astor himself proved me worthy. Smite Kellevork with a thunderbolt, crack its foundations, and I’ll be left standing.” The smile faded. “I only wish I’d be riding with you. That shadowthorn princessa owes me a pair of eyes. But Anliss is gone, and I’m a blind fool with a broken ankle. Better for us all if I’m not bouncing about in the
saddle like a sack. I’ll go back to Indrig, start putting things right. Better to be a thane in plain sight than behind stone walls. Inkari will pay my debts.”
“You trust her?” said Viktor.
“I’m her thane,” Armund replied. “To a woman like Inkari, that’s worth more than all the gold in the vaults of High King Bryken.”
“Then you’d better gather Lady Beral,” Viktor told Josiri. “Unless you want to leave her behind.”
Armund waved a dismissive hand. “Stay. Eat. Drink. I’ll send a thrall.”
Josiri glanced at his own tankard – like Viktor’s, all but untouched. “No. It had better be me. She’s not… Well, she doesn’t have a lot of trust for your people. Let’s not spoil things with avoidable tragedy. But I’ll borrow a horse, if I may?”
The woman who was not Calenne passed easily through the commotion of Kellevork’s outer bounds – a riot of cross-hatched claith and gruff, angular voices. She revelled in those looks that were sent her way. That most were couched in friendliness or veiled desire helped, but simply to be acknowledged was the greatest compliment of all. Like the stink of sweat and nightsoil – the bitter woodsmoke still clinging to the breeze – they confirmed she was part of the world, and not a ghost rushing beneath it.
Guilt at Erashel’s murder faded in the press of the crowds. Calenne – for so she still considered herself, in spite of all – made no attempt to rationalise the death. That she should was a dim concept. Guilt belonged to an ephemeral woman, and whatever she was, she wasn’t that. For all their closeness, the teeming crowds felt distant, different. They didn’t matter. Specks of clamour and warmth she’d outlive. Only Viktor mattered. Viktor and Josiri.
And so she passed through the brightly coloured market stalls, smiled at children already dust in her mind’s eye, and let instinct guide her deeper into Kellevork.
A wagon rumbled past the inner keep’s gate, and she followed behind. An argument broke out beneath the keystone, a trio of guards in Indrigsval’s sea-blown colours falling to blows with a woman in black and red. Calenne allowed herself a smile, and passed on, her breath stolen by the intricate stonework and bold canopies of the inner courtyard.
