by Matthew Ward
Drenn laughed. “No, she says. The woman who ran headlong into a dozen shadowthorns.”
“The knight who marched into battle, knowing what she faced,” Rosa corrected. “You trawl the villages for every hothead with a sword, and we’ll fill Otherworld with more of our own than the enemy. We do this with who we have to hand. We have the numbers. We have surprise. Someone told me that was the way we did things.”
Drenn lapsed into silence, fingers toying with her sunburst pendant. “Athaga?”
Heavy shoulders shrugged. “We’ll need a plan.”
Rosa squinted up through the moss-choked hole in the roof. Noon was passing, and opportunity with it. “Then let’s make one.”
Nineteen
Melanna let the reports fall to the table. Despite the noonday sun streaming through the balcony door, the room seemed colder, the gilded splendour of her forebears muted.
“You’re supposed to be my spymaster, Haldrane.” She offered the rebuke softly, so that it wouldn’t carry to the Immortals standing vigil beyond the chamber.
“And so I am privileged to remain.” For all the smoothness in Haldrane’s voice, his dark features were troubled. “But I cannot see everything.”
“Human failing is one thing, but to miss armies on the march?”
“If you’d taken my advice and dealt with Cardivan as he deserves, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Have a care,” rumbled Aeldran. Like Haldrane, he stood. Whatever the informality of private moments, he hewed to strictest protocol in the presence of others – regardless of the discomfort it awoke in his bindwork leg. Melanna had long since abandoned hopes of convincing him otherwise. “Even a spymaster should choose his words with discretion.”
Haldrane gave a sharp nod of apology, setting silver threads shimmering in his midnight robes. “I lost many agents learning even this much. Nothing that leads back to Cardivan, of course. Disappearances on the road. Tavern brawls with curious timing. One by one, he is putting out my eyes.”
Aeldran snorted. “These are the icularis that drove my grandfather to paranoia?”
“Maggad was paranoid from birth,” Haldrane replied acidly. “As are so many Andwars.”
Melanna stilled Aeldran with a glance. “We’ve enemies enough without quarrelling among ourselves. I’ll have peace in my own chambers, if nowhere else.”
He offered a stiff bow. “My apologies, essavim. And to you, Haldrane.”
“I am but a humble servant. No apologies are required.”
Melanna crossed to the balcony and stared out across the gardens. The charred remains of the old wood were a dark stain against snow. What she’d intended as a gesture of strength now felt more like portent.
Melanna caught the faintest scent of spices, borne from the noonday market held at the palace gates, dusky and tantalising. She’d have given anything to unchain her hair, exchange golden dress for simple robes and walk the stalls. Almost anything. And the part she couldn’t give was the same as that which commanded her to stay.
Silsaria was gathering to war, with Novona and Kerna as its allies. Laxness hadn’t shielded the mustering forces from Haldrane’s sight. Marching armies sang out to be noticed. There were perhaps more warbands than was normal for the ailing winter, but not expressly so. Brigandage, repairs to crumbling fortifications, aid to beleaguered villages when snow-swollen rivers burst their banks… even without war, there was much to occupy strong arms.
Haldrane’s concern lay in warriors concealed. Pilgrims who weren’t truly pilgrims. Trade convoys that bought little and sold less. Refugees fleeing landslides and floods whose extent had been sorely exaggerated, if they’d happened at all. Roamer caravans with folk ignorant of their own traditions. All travelling westward over long weeks to Silsaria’s Rhalesh border. Singly, each was nothing to raise an eyebrow, but taken together…? Well, they boded ill, and not just for the Tressian Republic.
“What is he waiting for?” said Melanna.
Haldrane offered a minuscule shrug. “I understand Dotha Novona has no wish to antagonise you without cause. There’s at least one ambitious nephew who’d overthrow her in a heartbeat if he could claim loyalty to the Empress as his rallying cry. It’s why Agrana’s fleets, as yet, remain in port.”
Aeldran nodded. “But if the Tressians do anything provocative…?”
“Who’d blame Cardivan for supporting his poor, embattled son or others for supporting him? You’ll forgive me for saying so, Empress, but family ever offers the finest excuse.”
And the Tressians would offer provocation, sooner or later. Josiri had warned as much.
“Cardivan will still have to cross your lands, essavim,” said Aeldran. “You can refuse permission.”
Silsaria’s western border was shared between Rhaled and Icansae. Even if Mergadir was bypassed, reaching Redsigor meant marching dozens of leagues across one or both neighbouring kingdoms.
“We haven’t the spears to hold them.” Melanna saw options no better now than at Midwintertide, when Cardivan’s ambitions had lain revealed. “If I withhold consent, and they march anyway? Cardivan will proclaim my weakness from the mountaintops. It won’t just be Kerna and Novona, but Britonis and Demestae too. And it won’t be the Tressian Republic as the prize, but my throne.”
“We could call up the Veteran’s Lodges?” said Aeldran.
“The old and the broken?” Melanna shook her head. “After Govanna they’d be as likely to fight for Cardivan as against him.”
Haldrane tugged at his goatee. “Then perhaps it might be best to wish Cardivan good fortune, and let him do as he wishes. Tragedy though it would be, the Tressians might even kill him.”
Little hope of that. Neither Cardivan nor Thirava made habit of venturing near the front lines.
“And how many others will die alongside?” said Melanna.
“Does it even matter?” rumbled Aeldran.
She glared, temper’s reins slipping from her grasp. “Silsaria is a province of Empire. They are all my subjects, and rely on me for wisdom when it is lacking in their own king. Or is it your judgement, husband, that I should concern myself with the well-being only of the Rhalesh?”
Aeldran Andwar, Rhalesh by marriage but Icansae by blood, bit his tongue.
Melanna rounded on Haldrane. “And what happens if Cardivan rouses the Republic to fury? Who will face their wrath when the last Silsarian stag flees the field? Or do you suppose Droshna will content himself with the border restored? He’ll see only that the Hadari Empire again offered nothing but blood and steel, and will repay it in kind. I did not assume the throne to preside over needless death!”
Hypocrite.
Neither said it, but Melanna read the sentiment in their eyes. She’d seized the throne with blood-slicked hands – the altar of her ambition lay lost beneath the bodies of friend and foe. Those who’d followed her, and those who’d barred her way. The princessa who would be Empress, no matter the obstacle. For all that tradition had forced her to that path – for all that hers was the story of Empire, played out generation after generation – the burden of the dead grew with each passing year.
Haldrane shrugged. “Then I suggest we address the problem at its source. Cardivan winters at your great-uncle’s villa. Well within the city’s bounds and in easy reach. Such a terrible shame if he met with an accident.”
“And why do you suppose he’s still here?” said Aeldran. “If we remove him while he’s under our hospitality – Ashana preserve us, if we fail – it will be civil war.”
“No door can bar a Raven’s herald, or so I understand.”
Melanna scowled away the veiled suggestion. “If I resort to such methods, even once, I’ve already lost sight of what’s important.”
Haldrane crooked a lopsided smile, never more the tempter of wayward souls than at that moment. “I know. But I found the image of Cardivan’s mottled body floating in a sewer rather soothing. It seemed cruel to withhold it.” The smile faded. “I wish I could offer more, bu
t there is death in the coming days. Even an Empress cannot prevent it. She can only choose where it falls.”
Apara had always been a creature of the city. Rooftops and alleyways were her stalking ground. Ledges and gutters were handholds for a housebreaker with an eye for a bargain. Yet for all that – for all Tregard had been her home since she’d fled Tressia – the city didn’t feel right.
It wasn’t just that its walls held a fraction of Tressia’s sprawl. Even beneath overcast skies it was brighter, more vibrant. Not just the streets themselves, with their brilliant canopies and painted shutters – the vines trailing from rooftop gardens that were never less than splendid come the spring – but the populace’s mood. Folk held heads high in Tregard where her countrymen shuffled, downcast. Under winter sun, as it was at that moment, it bordered on the divine.
Or perhaps it just seemed so. The arched, covered roadway of Emperor’s Walk had been designed to elevate royalty above the rabble as much as offer a private route to the mirrored temples of Ravencourt and Mooncourt. By rights, Apara should have felt out of place. A Tressian and a dregrat, trespassing on the territory of her betters. But wasn’t that a thief’s purview?
Besides, she was there by invitation, delivered to her house on the marketplace. Others in the small procession wished it otherwise. Not Melanna, of course, who’d issued the invitation and spoken at length of her quandary. Nor Kaila, who trailed behind with awed expression. But the lunassera?
Even with silver half-masks to guard their expressions, the handmaidens made it plain Apara was unwelcome, more likely for her sundered ties to the Raven than the country of her birth. Disapproving glances from the Immortals guarding the roadway felt more justified – even if there was little chance they knew the woman in expensive emerald silks was also liberator of so many fine things from so many unworthy owners.
But for the dreams, Apara might have been happy. They didn’t come every night, but left her heart hammering and her skin slick with sweat. Last night had been the worst, details previously shrouded by formless horror stark upon waking. The past reawoken. Her mind and body not her own, urged to kill at Viktor Droshna’s command. And then, as the blow fell, it was no longer Apara’s mother beneath, but her sister Sevaka. A meld of old memories she’d hoped to forget.
“Haldrane thinks I should ask you to persuade Cardivan,” said Melanna.
And just like that, Apara was back in Dregmeet. Another piece of her unhappy past. The ruined church, and the stream of petitioners seeking grim favours. She’d not taken a life since coming to Tregard. “Are you asking me?”
The ripper’s life was behind her, and good riddance, but friendship was friendship.
“I don’t want to. It’ll only make it easier next time. Before long, it’ll come so softly I won’t even stop to think.”
Apara’s shoulders eased. “What will you do?”
“Something I don’t want to. It seems that’s what it means to be Empress.”
“You could always persuade him yourself.”
A wan smile. “That really would make things worse.”
“What would it make worse, Madda?” Kaila piped up, proving once again that a child’s hearing scaled proportionately to the awkwardness of what could be heard.
Apara crouched, mock-stern. “It’s unbecoming of a princessa to eavesdrop on her elders’ conversation, essavim.”
Kaila narrowed her eyes and promptly ignored the rebuke. “You don’t make any sound when you walk, do you know that?”
Melanna stifled a burst of laughter. Apara regarded Kaila with rather more wariness. Most folk didn’t notice that. “I’ve learned to be very careful where I tread, little one.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Whatever you like, as soon as your mother thinks you old enough.”
Too late, Apara recognised the insult in offering to teach thief’s skills to the Imperial heir, but Melanna merely smiled and continued on.
By turns, they arrived at Mooncourt Temple, the arches of Emperor’s Walk bearing them far above the snow-crowded gardens. Folk of all ages roamed beneath the bare-limbed birch trees, or sat in silent contemplation at the edge of the fast-flowing stream. Ashana’s voice was louder in the bounds of her temple, or so it was said, her blessings unwavering. That was why so many of its cloisters were given over not to worship, but healing for those who would recover, and respite for those who would not.
Another archway – another pair of Immortals at stiff attention – and they passed into the temple itself. Beyond a broad balcony, the birch trees of the sanctum mound reached for the open sky. There were no celebrants in sight, only the white-robed temple guards. Warned of the Empress’ coming, the priests offered privacy by clearing the cloister.
“I’ll go the rest of the way alone,” said Melanna. “You’ll watch Kaila?”
Apara nodded. There should have been no need of her presence, watchful or otherwise. Not with sanctum guards and lunassera close by, and Immortals within cry. But not all Melanna Saranal’s memories of Mooncourt Temple were happy ones. “Of course.”
The smile returned. “You might even teach her a little of your careful tread. But nothing of persuasion, if you please.”
“Blessed Ashana, I beseech you. Guide your ephemeral daughter.”
The old prayer came easily enough, for all that Melanna loathed to speak it. Bargains had been struck and promises made, and she knew so little of the rules governing either. Eyes clasped shut, she breathed deep of the root-woven temple mound’s musty, bitter air. Listened for some sign that the goddess had heard, and half-hoped that she had not.
There was only the skitter of insects and the echo of her own breaths returned.
“Blessed Ashana, I beseech you. Guide your ephemeral daughter.”
Jack had forsaken his claim upon her – a claim born of a father’s folly – so long as Ashana did the same. Would speaking with the goddess also void that promise? That fear had held Melanna back ever since her coronation. Her heart quickened, the cool air of the chamber no longer soothing.
“Blessed Ashana, I beseech you. Guide your ephemeral daughter.”
Were the roots already straining to claim her? To whisk her through the soil to the circle of Glandotha, and an eternity of madness as Jack’s reluctant bride? Or would she not be reluctant at all when the curse claimed her? Would it be worse to revel in its clutches, as others did?
She pinched her eyes tight. “Blessed Ashana, I beseech you. Guide your ephemeral daughter.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Melanna opened her eyes. A stranger in white priestess’ robes stood before her, head cocked. A disapproving frown flickered in the alabaster light of root-set crystals. No. Not a stranger. It was more that the newcomer was somehow younger than at their last parting. Straw-blonde hair spilled past shoulders not yet filled out by passing years. A young woman yet slender with girlhood, rather than the heavenly mother she’d known. “Ash—”
“The Goddess Ashana lounges about on Evermoon in the company of her daughters while the valiant dead carouse – loudly – in Eventide. She can’t be anywhere else.” Even her voice was younger, its pitch a fraction higher and her speech less formal. “Don’t say the name – don’t even think it – and we can have a chat.”
Melanna’s heart eased. “What do I call you?”
“Madelyn. That’s the name that goes with this.” She spread her hands and gestured absent-mindedly at herself, as if surprised to see it. “Kind of. That other one goes with the… rest.”
Melanna thought she understood. The Goddess had spoken of a life before apotheosis. Had the woman remained young while the Goddess had aged? Had she set aside the piece of her that was divine, so as not to draw Jack’s notice? Or was it all illusion?
The fear returned.
“Why did you call to me, Melanna?” Ashana… Madelyn… sat beside her on the stone bench, elbows propped on her knees and chin in her hands. “You know the risk.”
Mela
nna swallowed. “Whichever turn I take, the road is knee-deep in blood. I’ve long since lost my taste for it.”
“And you want the Goddess’ help?”
Yes. “I know she can’t, not without…” Melanna’s mouth fell ashen, her thoughts full of the bitter, broken creatures Jack had claimed as his wives. Not human any longer. Not even alive in any manner Melanna understood. Cursed testament to the Lord of Fellhallow’s desire, bound for ever to the wooden circle at Glandotha. “My father once warned me of the scars battle leaves on the mind. I thought I understood. I didn’t.”
“You want to know things’ll get easier?” Madelyn’s hand found hers and held it tight. “They always do, sooner or later. But maybe not for you.”
“An Empress’ burden?”
“If she’s wise.” She shrugged. “It’s way harder to be a good ruler than a bad one.”
“And what would a good ruler do?”
“Do you need me to say? Or are you after my permission for a choice you’ve already made? Because I’ve nothing to tell you, in any case. This one’s yours to bear.”
Melanna scowled. This was her answer, after the risk she’d taken? Had it all been a waste of time and courage?
Anger faded to chagrin. Of course not. These moments, brief though they were, could only ever be a gift. Truth told, they were all she’d sought, though she’d not known until that moment. There had only ever been one way forward were she to remain herself.
“I just needed to see you.” But there was a question, even so. “Why didn’t you tell me that my mother offered herself to Jack?”
“Would that knowledge have changed anything?” asked Madelyn.
“It might have stopped my father trading me for advantage in battle,” she replied sourly, even though the claim was unfair. Kai Saran hadn’t known the consequence of his bargain with Jack… and if he had? He’d been desperate for victory, almost a stranger at their last parting. His final lesson, if one unintended.
They sat in silence for a time, its pleasure diminished by the knowledge that it couldn’t last.