by Matthew Ward
Nor would Dregmeet.
For the first time in Apara’s life, the labyrinthine alleyways were laid bare between Drag Hill and the harbour wall. For all that she knew each step, each turning – every decaying rooftop and graffitied wall – Dregmeet was different. Reshaped by returning light. Or perhaps she was different, and Dregmeet no longer her home.
It wouldn’t be anyone’s home much longer. The Raven’s patronage had held back the ravages of time from more than Krastin and his siblings. To the west, glimpsed through a cage of jettied eaves, the Church of Tithes crumbled inexorably inwards. One tower was gone already. The other canted as venerable buttresses crumbled. Tzalcourt was no longer a plaza, but a growing lake, fed by a dozen breaches in the neglected sea wall. Engineers scurried like ants to dam the flow, but rising waters in the sunken streets spoke to a battle lost.
Rumour claimed this as the Council’s revenge, sabotage of ancient defences in the malice of victory. But it was nothing more than the passage of years reawoken to vigour.
Perhaps something would be saved. Westernport, maybe. Perhaps the Sothvane slums to the south. Apara didn’t care. Already, it was hard to think of the place with any fondness. Let the sea reclaim it. Let all sink into the mud. It didn’t matter. Apara Rann, the Silver Owl, would fly free.
Offering one last glance to the Church of Tithes, she did so.
The archimandrite’s muttered blessing, a joining of hands – a kiss that made truth of all – and a bright chime of bells swept the Hayadra Grove. Essamere steel rippled skyward, the locked swords forming a tunnel of blades beneath bright ribbons and falling leaves. Squires barely out of childhood led the way, scattering a carpet of petals. As the brides crossed the tunnel’s threshold – Rosa in hunter’s green, and Sevaka in a simple white gown that dazzled like ice beneath cold morning sun – buccinas and trumpets joined the riot of carillon and cheer.
Josiri readily lent his voice to the celebration, and prayed the rain would hold off.
“A bit showy.” Izack shifted against his crutch, the movement doubly awkward because the adjacent arm was bound tight in a sling. Josiri, whose head sometimes still rang with the strike of a Hadari mace, wondered how the master of Essamere could stand, much less joke. “Still, long as they’ve not scrimped on food and drink, you’ll not be hearing me complain.”
“Rosa insisted,” Josiri replied. “She wanted to give folk something to celebrate. Light amid the gloom. Proof that life goes on, despite the scars.”
And scars there were aplenty. Beneath the strewn petals and Fade-fallen leaves, the Hayadra Grove remained rutted and muddied. The Shaddra – under whose branches the Ladies Orova had been wed – showed no sign of recovering from the taint of Krastin’s blood, her alabaster bark turning black as the stain spread.
More than that, there was the thinness of the crowd. Though invitations had delved far deeper into the Republic’s social strata than was customary, nothing concealed the gaps. Between the Crowmarket and the Hadari, it was a rare and fortunate bloodline that had gone unscathed. Some families were gone entirely, their heraldry banished to history. Others hung by a thread.
Institutions had suffered deeper wounds still. The foundry was all but gone, its proctors slaughtered by vranakin and the vast majority of its constructs shattered by war. For all of Elzar’s optimism, it would be years before things were set right. The constabulary and the chapterhouses had fared little better. And while most of those stolen away into Dregmeet had been freed without harm, no priest had emerged from the mists alive.
The Grand Council was depleted. The Privy Council as good as gone – beyond Josiri and Izack, only Konor Zarn still lived, and he’d sent a herald from Woldensend Manor with a letter pleading resignation.
Succession could close some gaps. Others were problematic. There were no shortage of Lamirovs and Marests to fill their forebears’ empty seats. Rika Tarev had been the last official progeny of her line, though of course the Crowmarket had replaced her with an imposter long before she’d claimed her councillor’s seat. Likewise, there were no more Berals. The Reveque seat now passed to Sidara, but she was too young. The Akadra reverted to Viktor… which brought complications of its own. Not least because Viktor had been an evasive figure since Malachi’s death, and was even now absent from the wedding of his oldest surviving friend.
And then there was the matter of choosing a First Councillor…
After generations of sterility, change was coming to Tressia. It would have to, were the Republic to survive. The Parliament of Crows was gone, but their cousins clung to Dregmeet’s flooding ruins. There was peace with the Hadari, but when had such peace ever lasted?
Generous of Rosa to offer distraction from uncertainty, if only for a day. All the more so, given her famous dislike of putting the personal on display. That the wedding’s largesse stretched far beyond the Hayadra Grove, to every barracks, church and tavern within the city walls? That had been Sevaka’s doing, financed by a tainted Kiradin fortune she’d otherwise refused to touch. One glorious day of feasting and remembrance, commemorating the victory that was no victory at all, and promising better times to come.
Tell that to the dead, and to those driven from their homes or abandoned to Hadari rule. Tarvallion lost beneath the roots of Jack’s children. A quarter of the Republic lost. The greater part of its soldiers dead or wounded. Tressia didn’t have swords enough to defend its holdings, let alone retake the ceded Eastshires.
The wedding procession emerged from the tunnel of swords, Sevaka beaming and Rosa wearing the rather more restrained half-smile of one striving to contain unaccustomed delight.
Embraces were shared with the foremost guests, most of whom were strangers to Josiri. In truth, he knew neither Rosa nor Sevaka well, but recognised that neither woman was entirely as he’d seen her last. Rosa’s hair, once straw-blonde, was white as Sevaka’s dress. Sevaka evinced subtler difference; one of manner, rather than body. Her movements held a confidence that had otherwise been absent and that couldn’t wholly be ascribed to the joy of the day.
There were rumours, of course, shifting and contradictory as all soldiers’ tales. But Josiri, who shared his life with a serathi and had recently walked Otherworld at a goddess’ behest, was content for the world to hold some secrets, so long as they offered no harm.
“I understand you’re a father now,” said Izack.
“After a fashion,” Josiri replied. “Constans and Sidara don’t have much family, and what remains is scattered far and wide. This seemed kinder. Besides, Ana insisted.”
“Did she indeed? The world must be ending.”
“She’s trying to be better. We all are. We’ll have to be.”
Poor Malachi. He’d tried and tried to be better, but had never quite outrun the past. If only he’d said something. But Josiri knew the power of pride more than most.
He stared across the crowd to where Kurkas held watch over a glum Constans and a brighter Sidara. Tears had been shed. More would follow – he’d walked too similar a path to believe otherwise. To lose both parents so young, and in such circumstance…? But tears would pass, in time, and he’d ease their passing, if he could. Sidara would make the transition soonest – she and Ana seemed closer than ever. Constans, he suspected, would be another story. The boy had many times demanded to be returned to Abbeyfields, even though he knew it was gone.
A still visibly battered Altiris stood close by. The lad had been lucky. More than that, he’d refused Sidara’s attempts to ease his wounds, claiming that he owed her enough already. They hadn’t spoken for two days after that, but seemed friendly enough now.
Izack grunted. “Do yourself a favour. Pack the boy off to earn his spurs as soon as you can. May the Light shine on them both, but Lilyana coddled him and Malachi ignored him. It’s a bad combination.”
Such was the wisdom of Stantin Izack who, if he’d any children of his own, kept that information hidden. Still, the advice held the ring of truth. “You’re not the first
to tell me that. I think we might give it a while. He deserves the chance to decide what he wants to be. They both do.”
“Does that extend to their names?”
“It does. Let them be Reveques as long as they wish.”
“Another man would have gobbled Sidara up as his own for the prestige of it, if not the boy. The lass has a fine future ahead of her, I reckon. And then there’s the wealth to be had from claiming their inheritance. You’re a peculiar one, Josiri.”
“You’re not the first to tell me that, either.”
Josiri thought back to the Indrigsval cliffside. He’d told Erashel Beral that family was about more than shared blood, but it was also about more than a shared name. Home was what you fought for. Family were those with whom you shared your life, for good or ill, in wisdom and in folly. And you didn’t always get to choose them.
Coming to a decision, he tapped Izack on the shoulder. “I have to go. Please offer my congratulations.”
“Gladly. Kick him up the arse for me, would you?”
Josiri wondered how long Izack had foreseen that moment. Then he shook his head and threaded his way through the crowd. As he did so, he glimpsed Apara Rann, a smile playing on her lips at her estranged sister’s obvious joy, but when he looked again, she was gone.
Good luck to her. Everyone deserved a second chance.
The chime of bells was barely a whisper in the crypt, lost beneath the echo of spent memories. Stern Reveques long-dead gazed down from plinth and sepulchre, the old and the young, the cherished and the despised.
Only one tomb remained unadorned, the statue weeks from completion. Until then, only a simple inscription marked the final resting place of Malachi Reveque.
Annalor malda ani te stel. Not all strength is the sword.
Malachi slept alone, for nothing identifiable as his beloved Lilyana had been recovered from the ashes of their home. Even so, Viktor hoped that they might find one another in spirit. That would only be fair, and the return of Sevaka Psanneque – by now Sevaka Orova – to life and happiness offered a gleam of hope. And that Sevaka had returned from the mists, Viktor did not doubt, despite Rosa’s claims of mistaken mourning and remarkable survival. He’d kept secrets of his own too long not to recognise them in others.
And if Sevaka had returned, what of others? Viktor strove to dwell on other matters, fearful where his hopes might lead. But there in the tunnels beneath the Hayadra Grove, surrounded by the legacy of fading families, death and hope were inextricably intertwined. Especially with the piece of the Raven he’d taken from Rosa still buried deep in his shadow. The dead. He’d raised the dead, if only in body, not soul. What the Raven took did not have to belong to him for ever. And if that were true…?
“I thought you’d be at the wedding. Sidara asked after you.”
Josiri stood on the cusp of lantern light, more shadow than substance. Anastacia waited at his shoulder, her doll’s aspect a match for the mausoleum statuary.
“I meant to be. I wanted to pay my respects here first, and somehow… Somehow I never left. Perhaps that’s as it should be. I find my mood better company for the dead than the living.”
“Izack says I’m to kick you up the arse.”
“How colourful.”
“He’s seldom anything but.”
Viktor folded his arms. “You think I’m hiding.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. What you did at Govanna can be blamed on the Raven. But the palace? Too many saw that. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think anyone cares.”
“They don’t care that a monster walks their midst?”
“The only monster was the one who slaughtered the Council. He would have murdered Malachi’s children too, before he was done. If the church provosts want you, they’ll have to fight their way through half the city. Especially as those same provosts did nothing to contain the Parliament of Crows.”
“And what do you think?”
“Me?” Josiri drew closer. Touching his eyes closed, he ran his fingers along the slab of Malachi’s tomb. “Council business has been frantic of late, but there are still those who insist on adding to the pile. Would you believe the rector of the Hayadra Grove wanted my permission to cut down the Shaddra? He claimed the tree is poisoned beyond recovery, all because her bark is stained.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That though the Shaddra is no longer as perfect as we might wish, she remains a symbol of hope, and that the Republic needs hope more than anything in coming days.” He opened his eyes, gaze unswerving as it met Viktor’s. “It needs you… brother. That much has not changed.”
Viktor turned away. “It doesn’t need the man I’ve been.”
[[May I offer some advice?]] said Anastacia.
“I don’t recall it being in your nature to ask permission for anything.”
[[I’m just being polite. Ephemerals appreciate the illusion of choice.]]
“Indeed we do.” He gave a wry shake of the head. “Say what you must.”
[[If you’re to skulk down here, moping over old days and lost opportunity, you might as well go back to the border and make-believe yourself another wife.]]
Even with his back to Josiri, Viktor felt him wince. “Ana, please—”
“She’s right,” said Viktor.
[[I’m always right. Eventually. It’s one of immortality’s many benefits.]]
“I am not, in fact, hiding. I’ve been thinking.” He drew up to his full height. “The Council has failed this Republic time and again. I can’t be part of that any longer. Watching selfishness and deceit win out over necessity for no better reason than pretence of democracy. Another round of that, and we might as well slit our own throats and have done.”
“What are you proposing?”
“That we stop pretending to speak with one voice, and actually do so.” Passion lent the words vigour. “Last year, you sought to install me as First Councillor. It wouldn’t have worked, even had I accepted. Lamirov and his ilk would have worn me away as they did Malachi. They’d have bled me by a thousand petty cuts and left me impotent. The Republic doesn’t need a First Councillor. It needs a Protector.”
“You?”
Viktor turned around. “Me.”
“And what’s to stop you becoming everything Ebigail Kiradin sought to be?” said Josiri. “A monarch in all but name?”
“Because it won’t be for ever. And because I know you’ll stop me, should need arise. Just as you promised.”
The anger came, as he’d known it would. “You’re asking me to help you destroy the very foundation of the Republic!”
“And does that really seem so bad to you? The son of Katya Trelan? She who sought to do precisely that?”
“She didn’t seek to remake the Age of Kings!”
“This is an opportunity that comes but once in ten generations. If the Council is to continue at all, it will have to be rebuilt. Why bother, when all it will bring is equivocation and pain?” Viktor spread his hands, rising anger under tight control. “We have a chance to make a Republic that serves all its people, not just the families of noble rank. We owe that to the living, you and I. The dead demand it of us.”
Viktor held Josiri’s gaze throughout, imploring him to listen, to understand. Could he not see what needed to be done? Especially now?
Josiri’s lip twisted. “Ana?”
[[Oh no. I’m not touching this one.]]
His eyes shifted to Malachi’s tomb. Dwelling, perhaps, on what was owed to the dead.
It wouldn’t be enough. Viktor saw it plainly in his features. The reluctance he’d marked in their first meeting. Lives hung in the balance, and yet Josiri was afraid. Fear would beget refusal, and refusal, disaster. A reaffirmation of the status quo that had twice brought the Republic to the brink. The cycle would begin again.
It would take only the merest caress of shadow. Nothing so crude as the means by which Apara Rann had been dominated a year before. A nudge. A suggestion to smooth away r
eluctance and let necessity speak for itself. If Josiri would not act on the debt, then it fell to others to make him do so. Viktor glanced down at the tomb. Not all strength is the sword. How many times had he sworn to no longer hold back when lives lay in the balance and his sword was insufficient?
Fed by anger and frustration, the shadow slithered free. A presence so slight that even Anastacia saw nothing, or else missed its significance in the gloom. It burrowed deep and coiled tight about Josiri’s reluctance. A soul in the balance, torn between principle and pragmatism. The slightest caress, and the matter would be settled. It was necessary. It was inevitable.
It was precisely what Malatriant would have done.
A chasm loomed. On one side, what Viktor had always been. On the other, what he’d sought always to reject. Frantic, he withdrew his shadow. But in the desperation of the moment, he couldn’t be sure whether it was already too late.
Josiri sighed. “I’ve trusted you this far. I’ll do so a little further. But only if you leave the dead to their dreams and walk among the living.”
His decision, or one made for him? Did it even matter why Josiri had chosen, so long as he’d made the proper choice? Conscience commanded a heavy price, and one the Republic could ill afford. Maybe this had been necessary, as other deeds would be necessary in the months and years to come. That was a Protector’s burden, and his duty.
Did it matter?
Viktor forced a smile. “Of course, brother.”
No. It didn’t matter at all.
The story continues in…
Legacy of Light
Book Three of the Legacy Trilogy
Acknowledgements
Congratulations! You made it through Book 2 as well. I mean, I assume “as well”, but if you borrowed Legacy of Steel from your local library, and your local library’s anything like the one where I grew up, there’s not a single first volume of a fantasy series in sight. Just one more reason for libraries to get more funding.
