by Matthew Ward
“Your mother’s wisdom?”
“Viktor’s. He was trying to push my head through a plate glass window at the time, but I’ll spare you that.”
Altiris blinked. “The Lord Protector did that? To you?”
“Some years ago I was in the throes of a terrible mistake. Wallowing in errors past. Viktor took it upon himself to enlighten me. Not my finest hour.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Almost no one does. I’d rather that didn’t change.”
Altiris stood a little straighter, and for the first time truly met his gaze. “Of course, lord.”
“Now, is there anything more you left out of the report?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll consider the matter closed.” Josiri tapped the phoenix on Altiris’ tabard. “As for Sidara? For all the sorrows she’s borne, she’ll never understand the burden we southwealders carry, will she?”
The phoenix, after all, was more than just a family emblem. It spoke to destiny, and to the delusion of prophecy. A phoenix shall blaze from the darkness. A beacon to the shackled; a pyre to the keepers of their chains. That delusion had killed Josiri’s mother. It had claimed his sister. And in the end, it had been Viktor who’d freed the south – not from Tressia’s Council, but from the Tyrant Queen Malatriant’s lingering evil. For Altiris, who had not witnessed those events, the phoenix remained a symbol of hope, and of fate’s kindness in dark times. But fate made landfall on strange shores once wind was in its sails. Josiri retained the emblem as his family crest to remind himself of that, and of what he owed to Viktor, good and bad.
“No, lord,” said Altiris, the last shame falling from his expression.
“Good.” Josiri glanced up towards the distant guildhall as scattered chimes rang out. Quarter to the hour. So much for arriving early. “Did you happen to see what has become of Anastacia?”
He peered past Josiri’s shoulder, into the crowd. “Over there.”
Josiri didn’t see her at first, for he was looking at head height – itself an error, as his love’s doll-like physique made her shorter than the common run of humanity. Instead, Anastacia knelt where the steep incline of Stanner Hill emptied onto the main thoroughfare, skirts puddled in the snow. Before her stood a wailing girl of no more than six or seven, her tatter betraying lean times, her tear-stained cheeks desperate sorrow.
The girl shied away as Anastacia reached out, and clutched her hands tight to her chest. To all evidence, no other paid them any heed, the passersby reflowing indifferently about them.
“Looks like she’s made a friend,” said Altiris.
Josiri threaded his way through the crowd, trying hard not to smile. For all that Anastacia delighted at playing the distant observer, the facade had worn thin with time.
He’d reached the middle of the street when a bellow of warning split the air.
“Look out! It’s going!”
A dull rumble blossomed into rapid crescendo. The crowd’s indifference dissipated, lost beneath the thunder of running feet as men and women ran for safety. A dark shape appeared further up Stanner Hill. An unhorsed wagon rushed backwards down the icy cobbles, bucking and lurching. Each jolt dislodged bottles into the street, the crash of breaking glass bright against the rolling boom of steel-shod wheels. The metal tip of its bridle-spar striking sparks behind, it demolished a lamp post and careened onwards to the hill’s foot, headlong towards the girl.
“Ana!”
She looked up and shoved the girl clear. Then the wagon struck her trailing shoulder with a dull crack. Anastacia vanished beneath its wheels.
The wagon made it another dozen yards before the leading wheel struck a pothole. With a juddering groan, it slewed about, teetered and tipped sideways against a bollard, spilling what remained of its cargo into the road. Wine stained the churned slush red, its sweet smell sharper for the cold.
Josiri picked up his pace, boots skidding on the treacherous ground. “Ana? Are you all right?”
Wig dishevelled, her dress soaked through, but otherwise apparently none the worse for wear, Anastacia picked herself up from between the wagon’s twin furrows. Waving aside Altiris’ attempt to help, she made unsteady play of brushing herself down.
[[Of course I am.]] She staggered a pace, and stared forlornly at her torn and sodden dress. [[Such a waste. Wait! No! Don’t even think about it.]]
Quick as a snake, she grabbed the retreating girl – who traded tears for an open-mouthed stare. The wailing began anew as Anastacia’s fingers closed about her wrist. The emptied street refilled as opportunists sought plunder in the wagon’s wine-soaked wake. No one gave Anastacia a second look.
“Ana…” Josiri began.
She crouched in front of the girl. [[I told you before. If you keep making that horrible noise, I shall eat you, and you’ll never see your mother again.]]
The wailing ebbed. “You won’t.”
[[Oh, shan’t I? And how do you know?]]
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Your mouth doesn’t open.”
[[Better. Maybe I shan’t eat you after all.]]
She stood unsteadily, leaving the girl staring up at her with a mix of trepidation and curiosity.
“Oi! What have you done to my wagon?”
A florid-faced man half-ran, half-skidded down the hill, gloved finger jabbing accusingly.
Altiris strode to bar the newcomer’s path, hand near enough to his sword to offer caution. Fingers still tight about the girl’s arm, Anastacia whirled, the tangle of her disarrayed wig no longer hiding her otherworldly features.
[[It’s more what your wagon did to me, and what I’m going to do to you, don’t you think?]]
The man skidded to a halt, mouth half-open in a wary scowl. He shrank back from her black, witch’s eyes. “Wasn’t my fault. The chocks didn’t hold.”
[[And who set them?]]
He flinched as she took a step towards him.
Josiri cleared his throat. Anastacia could go from threat to action murderously fast. “Were I you, I’d concern myself with salvaging what’s left of your wares.”
Impossibly, the man’s face fell further as he beheld the ruin with fresh eyes. Stood proud atop the wreckage, a cheering woman brandished an intact bottle. Glass shattered as eager hands made reckless search of what remained.
“Thieves!” Anastacia forgotten, the wagoner lurched along the trail of destruction, fist shaking. “Let it alone, dregrats!”
The girl laughed, then remembered she was supposed to be upset and fell silent.
“Ana, please tell me you’re not stealing that child,” said Josiri.
She cocked her head. [[I should leave her in the middle of the street, crying her eyes out and calling for her mother?]]
Survey of the street confirmed that if a distraught mother were close to hand, she kept a low profile. Beyond the growing scrum around the capsized wagon, there was no great concern on display elsewhere. Then again, stray children were hardly uncommon. The war had left far too many orphans. Not all had the good fortune of family.
With one last glance at the wagon – and electing not to get further involved unless bloodshed beckoned – Josiri offered the girl a smile. “What’s your name, miss?”
She stared at him, weighing his integrity in that way only small children attempt. “Ella.”
“And where do you live?”
“Near the church.” She paused, then made proud proclamation. “Number 3.”
Josiri knew of at least five churches within as many minutes’ walk, and that was without counting the Lunastran chapel on Warren Gate, whose congregation claimed it a church even if the Lumestran majority did not. “Can you show me?”
A frown, a shake of the head. A wobble of lip and cheek promised fresh tears.
[[Don’t do that. Or I’ll do something appalling to you.]]
How the threat didn’t set tears flowing again, Josiri couldn’t conjure, but again the girl lapsed into silence. “Altiris, the Alder Street checkp
oint is just around the corner. Would you mind?” He jerked his head towards the growing hubbub where the wagoner fought his losing battle against the tenets of finders, keepers. “And make mention of this mess, assuming word’s not already travelled. You can catch us up.”
The lad hesitated, concern written plain on furrowed brow.
“Lord, I—”
“I’m sure Ana will keep me safe.”
Altiris nodded, squatted and held out his hand. “Why don’t you come with me, Ella? Someone will find your mother.”
Ella readily transferred her allegiance – and her grip – from Anastacia to Altiris. She stared back at her saviour until the crowd swallowed them up, eyes still red but no longer afraid. Delivered from a dark and fearful day by a serathi, though she wouldn’t remember once terror faded. A good deed in the callous murk of an unthinking crowd.
Josiri set his back to Anastacia to hide his smile. In the distance, past the unhappy wagon and visible where the streets fell away towards the sea, a square-rigged merchantman furled sail on final approach to the docks.
[[Wipe that ridiculous expression off your face, or I’ll eat you.]]
“I’m told you can’t do that,” he replied, deadpan. “When did you become a shepherd of lost children?”
[[I have been nothing else as long as I’ve known you. Some children are older and taller than others, that’s all.]] Intrigued by the whimsy in her singsong voice, he was surprised to find her staring off to where Altiris had led the girl away. She swayed ever so slightly as she spoke. [[She was terrified, and everyone kept walking, even though all she really needed was someone who’d acknowledge her pain. I think I hate people.]]
“You couldn’t have kept her.”
[[The two you dragged into our lives are trouble enough.]]
Josiri forbore mention that adopting Sidara had been her idea. Constans too, though that had ended poorly. He’d many times considered formally adopting Altiris, but had always held back.
Sidara remained Sidara Reveque, out of respect for her wishes, and in memory of her father, whom Josiri had counted as a friend. But even before enslavement, the Czarons had not been of the first rank – nor the second, third or even the sixth. Adopting Altiris would make him a Trelan, and the name brought burdens to outweigh any benefits. Josiri had known one truth his whole life: Trelans were stubborn. But over the years, he’d reason to suspect another: Trelans also ended badly.
“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Branghall.”
[[Part of me never did,]] she murmured. [[Things were certainly simpler.]]
“You should have heard them this morning. A blind man could see how they feel about one another, but something keeps getting in the way.”
[[It’s not for you to solve. They’ll figure it out. We did.]]
He winced. He’d hated Anastacia when Emil Karkosa had first bound her to Branghall, resenting being forced to share confinement behind enchanted walls with a creature who delighted in playing the demon. All so long ago that Josiri barely recalled her old appearance, let alone what it had been like to embrace the woman of divine flesh she’d once been, rather than the clay she’d become. “And wasn’t that fun?”
[[Eventually. As to what’s getting in the way? Memories hang heavier than they’ll admit.]]
“Not like us, eh?”
[[We are our memories, Josiri. A walking record of triumphs and failures.]] She sighed, a whistling, musical sound. [[What we’ve gained, and what we stand to lose.]]
Josiri drew closer, brow furrowed in concern. Melancholy was as rare to Anastacia’s nature as kindness unleavened by sarcasm. “Is something troubling you?”
[[Nothing at all,]] she said sharply.
“You’ll never win a starring role with delivery like that,” he replied. “Needs more conviction.”
Fingers glinked together as she clenched a fist. [[You’ll think me foolish.]]
“I’d not dare.” He took her arm, wishing that the pale mask of her face offered some expression – some clue to the thoughts beyond inky black eyes. “Tell me. Please?”
She glanced away. [[You’re all going to die. All of you. And I’ll still be here. Alone.]]
Her tone took him aback. She’d passed similar comment over the years, riven with anger. On this occasion, he heard only sorrow. “I’ve no plans to go anywhere.”
[[But you will. Look at Vladama. He’s faded so much these past years. Not that he’s ever been anything more than passably domesticated.]] Asperity couldn’t hide genuine affection. [[Some days, I’m almost afraid to blink, for fear he’ll be gone. How many more blinks before it’s you? Before it’s Altiris… or Sidara?]]
The last was spoken with particular melancholy. A mother’s dread for a daughter, undiminished by the lateness of their bond.
Josiri saw the shape of things now. After Calenne’s passing, he’d assumed his family ended. Instead, it had grown, because family was more than blood alone. It was those one loved, and who would carry legacy and memory when life faded. For all the sorrow that brought, there was consolation alongside. But for Anastacia, who’d been immortal long before she’d been robbed of flesh? Family was regret waiting to happen. And she’d never been comfortable expressing weakness.
Holding her bunched hand, he slid his other atop the leather-joined fingers and squeezed, hoping as he ever did that some small measure of sensation would cheat the clay. “I don’t think it sounds foolish at all.”
[[And what does a fool know of foolishness?]]
“Everything and nothing. It’s his gift, and his curse. But I understand. I do.” Fury, he was used to. Disdain? Sardonicism? Glee? They were the cornerstones of Anastacia’s being, all the more expansive for being loosed from divine spirit. But sorrow? He’d no map to chart a safe path, and no experience to serve as guide. “Maybe you’re more human than you think.”
[[What a horrible thing to say.]] She pulled away and stalked off across the crowded street. [[Come along. Viktor’s waiting, and he’s never been a patient soul.]]
Viktor. A man upon whom the past hung as heavy as the future apparently did Anastacia. Josiri stood still for a moment, staring down at the fine, white powder stark against his glove – aftermath of a porcelain fist clenched so tight as to wear the immutable away. Then he dusted his hands and set out anew, before she was lost to sight.
Four
“What bloody time do you call this?” The booming voice set the chandelier’s crystals dancing. “Still, shouldn’t expect military precision from a soft-bellied highblood, should I? I’ve a good mind to demand your resignation.”
It wasn’t exactly the tone with which one was normally greeted at the palace, not even when that greeting was delivered by black-tabarded Drazina, rather than a servant. Then again, Stantin Izack, Marshal of the Republic’s armies – though he still wore a hunter’s green sash proclaiming old loyalties to Essamere – was by no means ordinary. Despite the furrows in his tanned features and the remorseless recession of his sandy-blond hair, Izack remained a man to stand foursquare in a river’s path and demand it choose another course.
“We were delayed,” Josiri replied. “A mission of mercy. You wouldn’t resent me that?”
Izack marched closer, footfalls hammering on the hallway’s polished tile. Stern expression melted into a grin. “I’d only end up with your bloody job. I’ve enough on my hands with our illustrious ‘army’. Sooner have a herd of sheep under arms.”
[[Perhaps you should recruit some?]] said Anastacia.
“Don’t think I’m not tempted, lady.” He nodded greeting, then returned Altiris’ clasped-fist salute. “All hands to the ramparts today, is it? Should be just like old times.”
[[I’m sure the gallant lieutenant and I can take a turn in the gardens instead.]]
Izack shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry. Like I said, old times. But I’d keep hold of your coats. He wants us on the balcony.”
Odd, but hardly unheard of. The old council chamber held poor memories. “You a
re joining us at Stonecrest tomorrow?” asked Josiri.
Izack regarded him with veiled amusement. “That’s the third time you’ve asked. Try to keep me away. That steward of yours has a nose for good brandy. Can’t let him drink it all, can I?”
Josiri couldn’t recall asking even once prior to that morning, but smiled anyway. “Vladama will survive the hardship, I’m sure.”
Midwintertide was a time for friends, and for family. With so many of both dead or scattered, the ritual of a hearty meal in good company had become steadily more important to Josiri with passing years. Not that he’d ever convinced Viktor to attend.
There was no concession to Midwintertide within the palace. Neither bauble nor lantern decked the walls, no evergreen holly upon architrave or mantelpiece. The west wing, its offices and storerooms long since given over to the Drazina barracks, fell away behind. The iron gate barring passage to the east, and the suite of rooms comprising Viktor’s living quarters, loomed ahead.
The clocktower belonged to the east, though no bell had chimed from the palace since the day Emperor Kai Saran had wrought murder within its bounds. Viktor had made the tower his private vantage, beholding the fragile city much as Sidara did from the Panopticon. A reassuring shadow glimpsed against the clockface lanterns when night fell, watching over his people as a protector should.
At least, that was what strangers perceived. Josiri knew Viktor too well. Whatever gaze he cast from the tower would be directed inwards. For all that he demanded much of those around him, Viktor ever saved his harshest judgement for himself.
The rest of the palace remained hidden behind locked doors and swathed in dustsheets, awaiting rising fortunes. Even Josiri, who’d seldom harboured love for the business of Council, experienced a pang to see the cold echo of empty corridors.
Ascending the grand stairway, they passed into the old Privy Council chamber. It stank of history; dust and thwarted ambitions brewed strong. It was impossible not to read disfavour in the stony frowns of councillors past, their likenesses rendered in granite and marble for posterity. The great gilded map showing Tressia’s ancient domains still dominated the north wall, ever more a lie with the advancing years. Three counties remaining from a dominion that had once spanned a continent and challenged the territory of distant kings.