by Matthew Ward
He didn’t look up. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I didn’t know what to say,” Josiri replied stiffly. “I still don’t. Where would I even begin?”
Still Viktor’s eyes never left the spot where “Calenne” had breathed her last. “She told me this would happen.”
“Calenne?” asked Josiri, curious in spite of himself. “That thing?”
“Malatriant.” The name shivered Josiri’s spine, memories of fire and Dark rushing to the fore. “As we stood in the horrors of Eskavord, she warned me that I’d use my shadow, or would be used in return. I was so certain I could control it.”
Josiri swallowed and steeled himself. “What happened to my sister? The truth.”
“Everyone thought I’d lost my wits.” He laughed softly. “I didn’t care, because I knew I was sane. And all along—”
“Viktor!”
At last, he met Josiri’s gaze. “It was all as I told you. Malatriant devoured Calenne’s spirit, as she did so many others. What remained… I gave what kindness I could. The lie I told you of her death was the truth, and the truth that I believed was a lie.”
“Speak plainly, Viktor. Just this once.”
He grimaced. “I arrived in Eskavord thinking I could save Calenne, but even then her spirit was with the Raven, and what remained was a snare. Malatriant even boasted of as much, but I didn’t hear her. I slew the puppet she’d made of your sister and…” He drew in a deep breath. “Something within me broke. When I left you – when I made an exile of myself – I left with Calenne, or I thought I did. Over time, my shadow made truth of that madness.”
Sympathy rose unbidden. If ever Josiri had doubted Viktor’s strength of feeling for Calenne, he no longer did so. Could he have killed Ana, had their situations been reversed? What would have remained of him had he done so? It might have been easier to forgive, had others not paid the price.
“Armund has people out searching for Erashel. I don’t think they’ll find her.” Even without proof, inevitability hung heavy in Josiri’s gut. If he’d insisted Erashel accompany him to Kellevork, she’d still be alive. He’d been glad for her to stay behind, the awkwardness of their parting held at bay. “You killed her, Viktor. A piece of you did.”
Viktor went back to staring at the empty patch of floor. “She wasn’t me. I sketched her from memory, incomplete. I’ve never had a mind for music, and yet she sang, sweet and clear, every morning, whenever she’d the strength.” He shook his head. “She was real to me.”
A pang of remorse challenged Josiri’s anger. Viktor had believed Calenne Akadra his wife. What kind of hole did that leave in a man? Especially one so self-contained as Viktor.
Compassion faded. Viktor’s sorrows were of his own making. That he’d spoken the truth about Calenne’s death from the very first didn’t make what had followed any less the lie.
“I don’t know that I can forgive you for this,” he said softly. “But forgiveness will have to wait. You’re a terrible friend, but a good man, and the Republic needs all the good men it can find.”
“A good man.” Viktor rose and shook his head. “I’m of the Dark, Josiri. What if my good works are but consequences of the harm I inflict, and not the other way around?”
“Are you telling me that’s so?”
“Last year, I was so certain I’d made an end of things. Ebigail’s spiteful cabal broken. The Tyrant Queen returned to the Raven’s embrace.” He spread a hand in Josiri’s direction. “Old wrongs put right. A man could die content with any one of those deeds. Each morning I embraced the dawn at Tarona, I knew I’d found my place in the light.” He looked again at where Calenne Akadra had folded into shadow. “We know how that turned out.”
Josiri grunted. “Are we to have the conversation about duty once more, Viktor? Because nothing has changed.”
“Nothing has changed for you, but for me? I see the Dark clearer than ever.” He strode closer, eyes fixed on Josiri’s. “We fear the untrained blade for the damage it might do. This is so much more. It has been ever since Malatriant bequeathed the last of herself to me. The Dark will be used, whether I wish it or not. It will make truth of dreams and nightmares, and we might never know until it is too late. And so part of me says, let it be used! Let it serve as a weapon! One to be understood. One harnessed to the cause of light as it was when Lumestra set the stars ablaze with life and joy.”
This was the man Josiri remembered. The man who’d stand alone against an army to save one life. The man whose principles challenged all around him to be more than they were. Without intending to, Josiri stood taller, straighter, and felt more the man for doing so… until the day’s tragedies took hold once more.
“You sound as though you’ve already decided,” said Josiri.
“No. I haven’t. I can’t. I no longer trust myself to make that choice. How can I, after today? I reshaped a piece of the world to deceive my troubled soul, and never knew I’d done so. What if this is merely another delusion? The Dark shaping my thoughts as I shaped it?” He closed his eyes. “Even now I might be Viktor Akadra without, and the Dark within.”
Josiri wished Ana were there to advise him. “You can’t mean that.”
Viktor sighed. “I can’t be sure what I mean. All I know is that not using the Dark is no longer an option. Not while I live.” He halted on the brink of collapse, and snatched Josiri’s sword from its scabbard. He held it up, eyes flickering disgust at a scrap of rust. Then he reversed it, the blade in his hands and the grip extended to Josiri. “So this is the choice. I can ride north, the throng of Indrigsval at my back, and wield Dark in the cause of light. Or I can die. Here and now.”
Josiri blinked. “You want me to kill you?”
“If that’s what you deem the right course. There can be no middle ground in this, Josiri. I’ve sought it a year, and succeeded only in lying to myself. The Dark will be used as long as I live. There’s no avoiding that.”
Josiri examined words and tone for a hint of jest, and found none. Perhaps Viktor was mad. “I had it right before. You’re a terrible friend.”
“And you must be a better, for the sake of everyone.”
“How dare you lay this burden on me!”
“Who else is there? I cannot trust myself, and you alone understand what’s at stake.” He shrugged. “If anyone is owed my life, it’s you. Revenge is here, if you want it.”
Josiri’s hand closed around the hilt. He’d dreamed of this moment so often, or something similar enough to make no matter. Viktor Akadra, the Council Champion, the vanquisher of the Southshires, the doom of his mother, and his sister. At his mercy. His life to take. For all their conciliation, the debt of history and the sins of kith remained. They begged for the thrust that would still Viktor’s heart. Lumestran edict too was brutally clear. Witches were of the Dark, and witches burned.
But what of the rest? The Republic needed Viktor. As for the Dark… The church derided Ana as a demon, and a witch. They’d have burned her, had fire any hope of the feast. Lumestran scorn was poor guide to truth. The wisdom of the Goddess chained tight by hierarchy and politics. And for all his failings, Viktor had never sought to do anything other than good. He’d striven for friendship, even when Josiri had offered nothing but hate in return.
“At Tarona you said you’d stop me, were it necessary,” said Viktor.
Josiri shifted his grip on the sword. A promise made in part payment of an old debt. For all that he told others he hadn’t earned the vanished dukedom of Eskavord, the title had been worn by a version of himself he’d sooner forget. A brittle man, defined by mistakes more than successes, who’d responded to the cage the Council had closed around him by fashioning a smaller one inside. Viktor had freed him from that. He’d helped him behold a wider world, and his place within it. How could he do less?
“I will stop you, if I must.” He let the sword-point droop. “But that day isn’t today. As for my revenge, I take it by making you redeem your mistakes.”
&
nbsp; “Then so it shall be.” Viktor’s lips twisted to a rueful, not-quite smile. “I barely recognise the sullen soul I found on Branghall’s throne.”
“Sometimes I miss those days,” Josiri replied. “Life was simpler.”
“Hatred is always simpler than trust. That’s why love hurts so.”
“Where do we go from here, you and I?”
Viktor gripped his shoulder, manner and voice restored to solidity. “North. And with all speed. We have a Republic to save.”
Josiri offered a meaningful look at Viktor’s tattered shirt and scuffed trews. “I sought Viktor Akadra the warrior, not the vagabond farmer of Tarona. If he’s truly back, he should dress the part.”
“He will.”
Viktor withdrew, his stride purposeful as he stomped away. Left alone, Josiri found himself staring at the patch of floor where Calenne Akadra had perished.
He closed his eyes. Had he made the right choice? Light and Dark, black and white, necessity and sophistry. All blurred grey by failures past. The great hall stank of despair. Better to seek fresh air.
Josiri opened his eyes into a hall dancing with greenish-white mist.
“Josiri Trelan.” The voice came from behind, maddening in near recognition. “We must talk, you and I.”
He spun about, sword up. Features hardening, he strode forward, malice cold in blue eyes. The dry rumble of the Huntsman’s growl rippled out. Mist parted before the heavy thump of his footstep. Melanna interposed herself between the two, sword scabbarded and hands held out in caution.
“Josiri, you must listen.” She scoured the unfamiliar Tressian tongue for words that might convince. “For the sake of your people, you must.”
He didn’t slow. Didn’t spare more than a glance for the antlered presence of the Huntsman at her shoulder. Courage born of anger, yes, but something more. Melanna would have expected nothing less from the man who’d broken the stockade at Davenwood, sparing her father Tressian justice.
“When have my people ever mattered to you?” he growled.
The Huntsman started forward, no less a terrifying presence for his limp. Melanna splayed a hand to his chest, offered a warning shake of the head. As he subsided, she turned her attention to Josiri once more.
How little he understood her. But then, history cast them as enemies. History, and her own deeds. Their last parting had been in friendship, but that friendship was another casualty of war, and one weightier than Melanna had realised until that moment. The honour that so many princes of the Golden Court aped without ever earning, Josiri had twice worn without effort. Kindness to a vanquished foe. Sacrifice for others. Courage in the bleakest times. Glory in victory, fortitude in defeat and honour always. He’d lived those precepts better than she.
“More than you’d ever believe,” she said. “I don’t want to be here. My presence will cost my people dearly. But I have no other choice.”
Josiri slowed, the anger in his eyes fading. “You’re not the first to stand before me today and claim paucity of choice.”
“Mind your tongue,” rumbled the Huntsman.
Josiri’s cheek twitched. The tick betrayed that his fear of the Huntsman wasn’t as controlled as he would wish, but the speed of its fading showed fear alone did not command his actions. “I don’t really do that. Any respect the princessa earned, she’s long since washed away with blood.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Beyond those doors, there’s an army of Thrakkians eager to pay a debt. I’m already wondering why I haven’t called them.”
“This war was a mistake,” said Melanna. “If it continues, we all lose.”
“Then tell your father.”
“I have.” She touched closed her eyes, the memory the sorest wound of recent days. “I know you’ve no reason to trust me, Josiri. But understand… Even by being here I make myself a traitor to my people.”
He halted, eyes watchful more than angry. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because this is no longer a war of ephemerals.”
Ashana, concealed thus far by the mists, ghosted past Melanna to stand less than a hand’s breadth from Josiri’s sword.
“The Raven takes your side,” said Ashana. “Fellhallow flocks to Emperor Saran’s banner. But the sides are not matched. The Raven is weakened. Old bargains grant the Crowmarket command of Otherworld’s mists. Tressia will be overrun, the Raven will die, and the pillars of creation will come crashing down. My divine siblings will tear this world apart in hope of rebuilding it anew.”
“The Crowmarket?” Josiri’s eyes flickered from one to the other. “Why should I believe you any more than her?”
“Do you know me?”
“No.”
“We both know that’s not true. It’s faint, but I feel the serathiel’s embrace upon you.” Ashana set her head to one side, eyes never leaving contact with his. “Say my name.”
“Ashana.” Josiri blinked, a man surprised by his own utterance.
She offered the faintest smile. “You see? You perceive a wider world than most. You understand divine pride. You’ve witnessed its full spate. It cares nothing for others. It does not crack. It does not relent. And it most certainly does not kneel.” So saying, she knelt, head bowed and arms crossed with her hands at her shoulders. “I beg you, Josiri Trelan: help us end this war.”
Where a Tressian muster was a thing of silent discipline, the one that filled Kellevork’s outer ward was mismatched and anarchic, thick with the buzz of conversation and throaty song. Ceorlas mingled freely with the vanaguard and thrydaxes under their command, leaving little to tell them apart. The richness of armour was no guide. Most suits were heirlooms handed down the generations, the lacquer and chain repaired according to the taste of the inheritor.
The horses seemed little tamer than their masters, undocked tails and plaited manes unkempt beside the groomed perfection practised further north. Alien to a man tutored by Chapterhouse Sartorov, but Viktor didn’t care. Every rider bore an axe, every quiver was filled with arrows, and despite unkempt appearance, a Thrakkian steed would outpace anything in the Republic.
And it wasn’t as though Viktor himself would have passed muster on a Sartorov parade ground, not with two days’ worth of stubble, and certainly not in the suit of Thrakkian armour Armund had pressed upon him. Swirling sea-gold patterns etched into the steel mimicked leaping flame. Glorious, but for the scarecrow’s surcoat, but Viktor wouldn’t have abandoned the Akadra swan for anything.
He descended the stairs and found Armund waiting at the foot, a young page in Indrigsval claith close by. “Does it fit?”
“Remarkably so,” Viktor replied.
“It was my father’s. Seems Ardothan couldn’t bring himself to sell it.”
Viktor frowned. “Then I can’t accept the gift. It should be yours, father to son.”
“Armour belongs in battle, lad, not hung as trophy.” Armund tapped the puckered flesh of his burned eye socket. “My days of war are done, but if you wear that? Well, a piece of me stands with you still.”
“Then all I need is a sword. Can’t go showing myself up with sloppy axe-work.”
“That you can’t.” Armund clicked his fingers. The page scurried away. “Can’t rightly imagine what’s in your head, lad.”
“Nothing but the road ahead,” Viktor lied.
Calenne – both Calennes, real and imagined – were millstones around his heart. And still he doubted his shadow. He worried that even when loosed it would control him, and not the other way around. That it was quiescent was little consolation. It had been quiet before.
“I’m blind, lad,” said Armund. “Not stupid. But I’m grateful to you.”
Viktor gazed out across the muster. “I had reached that conclusion.”
Armund chuckled. “My gratitude only brings them together. They’ll want gold in their pouches when this is done.”
“They’ll have it, even if I have to sell every scrap of the family estate.” How Messela was to be convinced of that w
as another matter, but the circumstance would be unlikely to arise. The Council would pay… if there were a Council left to offer redress.
“Then I’ve two gifts left to share.”
The page returned, a scabbarded sword taller than he clutched to his chest. At Armund’s gesture, he knelt. Viktor took the scabbard and slid the blade free. It was perhaps an inch or two shorter than his own claymore, lost in the collapse of the Cindercourt wall, the blade a fraction wider. Golden wire bound the grips, and a stylised Lumestran sun gleamed at pommel and hilt. Flowing script chased the blade, the delicate runes Thrakkian, but the language formal Tressian. A vo keldinel, verasalna rariath cala serathi.
“‘He who wields me shines with a serathi’s radiance?’” Viktor shook his head. “I know at least one who’d contest that claim. Where did you find this?”
Armund grinned. “A weaponsmith forged it on commission for one of your knights, ten years back. Bugger died on the border, so he never paid up. The smith owed me, I owe you, we all profit from the trade. Not really a rider’s weapon, but I’ve a feeling you’ll manage.” He rapped Viktor’s vambrace. “Leave the past behind, lad. Forge a bright future.”
Viktor smiled, the millstones a little lighter. “And is that wisdom your second gift?”
“I may have oversold the whole ‘two gifts’ thing.” Armund patted his pocket and produced a folded scrap of paper. “Trelan asked me to give this to you.”
The millstones sank deeper. Viktor took the letter.
I cannot ride with you.
This war runs wider than we thought, and it seems my deeds must be even more unconventional than yours. Forgive me my secrets, but I can’t risk the consequences of your involvement.
I know it’s no use asking you not to be angry, and I’m sorry if this strains the bond between us.
I’m sure we’ll discuss the matter upon my return.
