Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  “Wolf’s-heads,” Zephan replied. “Trying to do what we couldn’t.”

  Taradan leaned over in his saddle, examining the ground. “Wagon tracks in the mud. These were brought here so we’d find them. It’s a message.”

  “Or a reprisal.” Zephan halted, his gaze on a slender woman hanging in the centre of the grisly display. Snapped arrow shafts bristled from her torso. The spars of a shattered longbow hung from her shoulders, the bowstring wound tight about her neck. The face, he knew from bounty posters. “Silda Drenn.”

  Taradan gave a low whistle. “So the shadowthorns finally caught up with her?”

  Pressing a forearm to mouth and nose to stem the graveyard stench, Zephan dropped from the saddle. His pace quickened as he threaded the forest of corpses, searching for a face he hoped not to find. A hulking fellow, his beard plaited in Thrakkian style. An older woman, her face crosshatched with old scars. A grey-haired man, clad in a grubby phoenix tabard older than Zephan. A parade of strangers, forlorn and pitiable.

  No Rosa. Thank Lumestra and Lunastra both.

  He glanced back at Taradan. “She’s not here.”

  The other narrowed his eyes. “Who’s not here?”

  Belatedly, Zephan remembered that Rosa’s departure to Morten’s Rock was far from common knowledge. It wasn’t his secret to share, or his rumour to feed. Even if it did add another grim duty to the day.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Swallowing his worries, Zephan pulled himself into the saddle. “Take charge. I have to speak to Governor Orova.”

  “About this?” Taradan jerked his head back towards the column. “Send Resadov.”

  He could, of course. A herald would be easier than delivering tidings in person. And not just because Resadov was a swifter rider. Murdering refugees from the conquered Eastshires was one thing, but razing a village in the Marcher Lands marked a brutal escalation. And then there was Rosa, who Zephan’s instincts screamed was caught up in this. Better Sevaka heard that from a friend, even if all he could offer was uncertainty.

  Zephan shook his head. “Some things don’t fit in a letter. I’ll be back before noon. The 7th will be here before then.”

  Taradan clasped his good fist to his chest. “At your command. What would you have us do?”

  Zephan took in those the shield of Essamere had failed to shelter.

  “Take them down,” he bit out. “Bury them with their faces toward the dawn. And keep your swords close.”

  Twenty-Two

  The sun shone for Elzar Ilnarov’s interment. The alabaster trees of the Hayadra Grove gleamed silver, promising that death would last only until the Light of Third Dawn. Altiris supposed that was how most would read the morning. But Altiris had lived too long in Anastacia’s company. He knew the truth. Lumestra was dead, and nothing awaited Elzar save the worms and the Raven’s uncertain kindness.

  “He’s drawn a crowd.” Kurkas framed the words with rare respect. The high proctor had borne both rank and responsibility lightly, always ready to spare a kind word or a helping hand. “Terrible thing to pass and for no one to care.”

  The crowd beyond the ring of Drazina was vaster than any Altiris had seen in many a year. And it was uncharacteristically subdued. Few had actually met Elzar, and Altiris couldn’t quite free himself of regret at being intimidated by a man who’d touched the lives of others so carelessly. Of course, the presence of so many Drazina encouraged respect. As did the handful of battered kraikons and simarka – the closest Elzar had to family, though who knew if the constructs recognised their loss? Certainly, the simarka looked somehow mournful, but their leonine faces invariably did.

  Altiris glanced up at the nearest kraikon. Did Sidara see him? She’d insisted on watching the ceremony from the Panopticon, claiming the best way to honour Elzar was to ensure the constructs’ vigil didn’t waver. Altiris had forgone argument. Since Midwintertide, they’d spent every spare moment together. If things between them were to stay mended, compromise would be necessary.

  None of which helped Altiris feel any less out of place within the ring of Drazina, swan banners flying above, even as a leader of hearthguard. The space beneath the Shaddra – the eldest of the hayadra trees, situated at the centre of an ancient, ruined temple whose yawning catacombs stretched deep beneath the city – was thick with the great and the good. Karovs, Marests, Tarkans, Slendrovs and two-score other highblood lines. The abolished Grand Council reunited in memory of one who’d repeatedly refused admission to their ranks. Then there were the aspirant few who’d risen as the old bloodlines had fallen – raised up by the Lord Protector’s patronage, through military prowess or simple wealth.

  Little separated the two, save the fact that the highbloods’ garb was notably behind fashion as wealth withered alongside influence. The two groups seldom mingled, the former despairing the elevation of the latter, and the latter in turn resenting that the former clung to fading status.

  Altiris and Kurkas formed a third lonely assemblage, cravated and coated – neither one wholly comfortable at being present. Captain Tzila might have felt the same. Certainly she stood apart as they stood apart. But Altiris, who felt a chill every time the blank gaze of her sallet helm fell upon him, was in no hurry to plumb her thoughts, even were she of the mind – or ability – to share.

  There was a fourth group, of course – those close enough to Elzar to serve in his cortège and offer the kiss of hallowed farewell to his golden death mask. Lord Droshna, Lord Trelan, Anastacia and Izack. Others were churchmen, or old friends from the humbled foundry. Lady Sevaka Orova and Governor Keldrov had made the journey from their respective shires especially.

  Commotion broke out at the Drazina cordon. Raised voices, and the low growl of warning used by lawkeepers as a prelude to trouble.

  “Is that Boronav?” murmured Kurkas.

  Altiris turned. It took a moment to recognise Viara in a sober gown of midnight silk and a silvered shawl, her blonde hair scraped back into severe plaits as befitted her family’s status. Outraged expression, jabbing finger and a cluster of black-tabarded Drazina gave shape to the quarrel, if not the detail.

  “Want me to have a word?” asked Kurkas.

  Altiris hesitated. Viara wasn’t representing Lord Trelan’s Phoenixes, so technically wasn’t his concern. And most Drazina guarded their responsibilities with vigour bordering on mania. Just a day before, a sergeant of the Karov hearthguard had spent a weary afternoon in the Oscastle cells for intervening in a clash between three Drazina and a street keelie. But Viara was a friend, and it wasn’t so very long ago he’d had his own scuffle with a cordon in the Hayadra Grove.

  “I’ll go.” With another glance up at the kraikon, he trudged off through the snow.

  Viara broke off from her argument. “Altiris? Lieutenant! Will you talk some sense into this… individual?” She gestured at the sergeant in command. “My carriage threw a wheel. Father expects me to represent the family.”

  Altiris turned his attention to the sergeant. “What’s the problem? This is the Lady Boronav. Let her through.”

  The other man, possessed of both brow and jawline Altiris thought more suited to a darkened alley, gave an unapologetic shrug. “No papers.”

  “They’re in the carriage.”

  Viara’s expression held only worry. A fading family like the Boronavs couldn’t afford to lose face, much less suffer direct humiliation at the hands of common soldiery.

  “That’s as maybe, lady.” The sergeant’s emphasis on lady was so slight as to escape notice… at least, unless you were a southwealder, and accustomed to hearing scorn beneath a smile. “Move along, or we’ll take you down to Oscastle and wait for the papers to show up together.”

  “This is absurd.” Fighting a growl born of his own past and Viara’s distress, Altiris dug into his inner pocket for his own tattered documentation. “I’m Lieutenant Altiris Czaron of Stonecrest. Lady Boronav is one of my hearthguards. I’ll vouch for her.”

  “And are those her p
apers, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t let her through.”

  It was the tone that did it. Like so many of the overseers on Selann. The casual, uncaring authority of a petty man granted power over others. Altiris took a half-step forward. “Now, listen to me—”

  The sergeant stepped back, hand on the hilt of his sword. “We don’t need trouble, southwealder.”

  A pair of Drazina loomed closer. Parallels with Selann grew more striking still. Altiris told himself no harm could befall him in broad daylight, in the Hayadra Grove – at a crowded funeral, no less – with Kurkas close by and Sidara seeing all from her Tower of Stars. But old fears weren’t easily dispelled.

  “This is exciting, isn’t it?” Constans appeared at Altiris’ shoulder. His Drazina uniform was immaculate, his voice breezy. But for once, Altiris wasn’t wholly certain of his habitual mockery. The boy looked pleased with himself – no surprise there – but Altiris swore he caught the briefest of sidelong winks. “Whatever is the commotion, Sergeant Goroda?”

  Goroda nodded at Viara and Altiris in turn. “One without papers, another making trouble.”

  “That’s not—” Altiris started.

  Constans waved him to silence. “You are a brute, sergeant. Maybe he thought it the only language you understood. Let her through.”

  Goroda’s face flushed, his brow knotting. “Standing orders—”

  “Are issued by my father.” Constans cocked his head, innocent in voice and expression. “Which of us do you suppose knows his mind better?”

  Goroda froze. On the one hand, he faced the immediate humiliation of submitting to orders issued by a boy twenty years his junior. On the other lay the sterner prospect of the Lord Protector’s disfavour. Without another word, he rejoined the cordon, the other Drazina melting away alongside.

  Constans offered a low bow, the familiar smirk in place one more. “Better?”

  Viara beamed. “Very much, thank you.”

  Altiris nodded, uneasy. He’d no sympathy for Goroda, but Constans’ solution sat ill. No objections to a bully put in his place, but were Constans’ nebulous authority and motivations any better? “Why?”

  The boy shrugged. “Last week, you relied on me and I wasn’t there. Today I was. And I’ve not had my sister or Josiri bending my ear about how it was I came to not be there, so that means you’ve not told them, so I owe you for that too.”

  The words provoked a flush of guilt. Altiris had certainly meant to discuss Constans’ magic with Sidara, but had not yet conjured means of doing so that wouldn’t risk renewing old distance. Mumbled explanations about why he’d asked her to leave Seacaller’s at Midwintertide had come close enough, but had, at the last, been forgiven in exchange for a kiss. Likewise he’d said nothing to Lord Trelan, whose focus had understandably been on Anastacia’s recovery.

  Still, Constans’ words, spoken simply and with obvious artifice, went some way to allaying concerns. Good deeds and ill were defined by intent, and for the first time in recent memory, Constans’ motivation had been sound. Perhaps that lad was learning, after all.

  “Thank you.”

  Constans grinned and started uphill. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve duties. Innocents to save. That manner of thing.”

  Soon after, Viara was safely among her kind, and Altiris at Kurkas’ side once more.

  “That looked interesting,” said Kurkas.

  “Drazina throwing their weight around. It’s handled.”

  Kurkas grunted.

  “Altiris Czaron!” An aquiline man with long, oiled black hair wove his way through the press, the metal flask in his hand a match for stumbling gait. “The very gallant lieutenant I’d hoped to see.”

  Altiris glanced at Kurkas, who returned it stonily. “Lord Zarn.”

  “Konor.” He offered the correction with a wobbly flourish. Lord Konor Zarn, once member of the Privy Council and one of the richest men in the city, had either started drinking early, hadn’t yet finished from the previous night… or, as unkind rumour had it, hadn’t stopped since the day Kai Saran had slaughtered the Privy Council, leaving Zarn the sole survivor. “Always Konor to my friends, and I do so like having friends.”

  Altiris stifled a scowl. Zarn’s speech, louder than was proper for a funeral, had already drawn disapproving eyes.

  “That’s very kind,” he replied, hoping the other would take the hint.

  “Not at all. Not at all. Without your efforts, we’d never have recovered the Moonchaser’s cargo… even if someone promptly stole it from the stockyard all over again.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust anyone these days.”

  Altiris thought back to the flooded warehouse. To Kasvin and Hawkin’s discussion of the wreckers’ trade. “The Moonchaser was yours?”

  “Alas, no more. She belongs to Endala’s drowned garden.” Zarn tapped him unsteadily on the cravat. “But that doesn’t diminish my gratitude.”

  Altiris borrowed a page from Kurkas’ book and stared at a point past Zarn’s shoulder. “Just doing my duty, Konor.”

  “I hope you were commended. I’ve a feeling you’re meant for better things.”

  Kurkas’ stony expression adopted a hint of malice. Altiris stifled a sigh. First Izack, now Zarn. Hard to steer clear of recklessness when it brought such renown.

  “A terrible shame about poor Elzar, of course,” said Zarn. “Incorruptible, though I shan’t hold that against him. His heart, I understand?”

  “So I’m told,” Altiris replied. “The Lord Protector was with him when he passed.”

  “I suppose that’s something, though I’d prefer softer arms about me when my time comes.” He tottered and patted the pocket of his brocade jacket. “I’m hosting a select gathering at Woldensend Manor tomorrow night. Might you put in an appearance?” He tapped the side of his nose. “Perhaps even persuade Lady Reveque to grace us with her presence?”

  Altiris took care not to meet Kurkas’ eye, uncertain what rankled more: the fact that his private life was apparently now the stuff of common rumour, or that Zarn’s fine words had all been in pursuit of luring Sidara into his orbit. Closeness with the Reveque line, however implied, would only be to Zarn’s benefit.

  “Sadly, I’m on the duty roster,” he replied. “Isn’t that right, Vladama?”

  Out of Zarn’s sight, Kurkas grinned. “Must be, if you say so. You’re the lieutenant, lieutenant. I’m merely a humble steward.”

  Zarn swigged from his flask. “A shame, but the invitation remains open.” He scowled at the Shaddra as if seeing the tree for the first time. Eyes lingered on the black stain across her alabaster trunk, a blemish born from the blood of the Crowmarket’s last pontiff. It had spread, year on year. Her branches no longer blossomed, and come spring there’d be black leaves among the gold. “Poor thing. Better to uproot her and have done.”

  Altiris winced. The Shaddra was holy, a gift from Lunastra to Lumestra. You didn’t say such things, and certainly not at a high proctor’s interment. “The sickness hasn’t reached the other trees. The grove wardens believe it’ll pass, in time.”

  Zarn’s lip twisted. “But how deep go the roots? Rot’s persistent. You never know how far it’ll spread.” He shrugged. “Until tomorrow, lieutenant.”

  “Wait, I didn’t…” But Zarn was already out of earshot.

  Kurkas offered the ghost of a smile. “I think he likes you.”

  “He’s more your type than mine.”

  “I prefer ’em sober.” Kurkas gave a lopsided shrug. “Well, most of the time.”

  Altiris scowled. “Would you believe that’s the first time we’ve spoken?”

  “Hah! You’ve been at Woldensend at least a dozen times.”

  “The uniform was invited. I happened to be in it. Just like he’s really inviting Sidara, not me.”

  “Cynicism’s a terrible thing.”

  “But?”

  “But you might be right. He’ll want to watch himself around Lady Reveque.”


  “Afraid I’ll challenge him to a duel?” Not that it’d be much of a contest, the state Zarn was so often in.

  “You’d have to reach him before the plant pot.” Kurkas shook his head. “Don’t seem right, calling her that any longer. But it’s good? You and her ladyship?”

  Altiris fought a grin. “Better than good.”

  Kurkas clapped him on the back. “Make sure it stays that way. If the plant pot sees fit to chastise, you’re on your own.”

  For once, the threat of Anastacia’s ire held no fear. Were Altiris to find himself in need of chastisement, Sidara would likely not leave enough of him for her adoptive mother to menace. “Understood.”

  They stood without speaking as a distant hymnal echoed up from the subterranea, a sign that the private part of the ceremony was almost done. Altiris caught low, murmured snatches as Kurkas sang along, though the steward contrived to silence whenever Altiris looked at him.

  As the hymn ended, the leading edge of the funerary procession emerged from the catacombs. Gold-frocked priests and black-robed serenes flanked the podium raised before the Shaddra. Archimandrite Jezek, crimson robes almost invisible behind plumes of scented smoke, ascended the short stair to the summit. Altiris’ small group swelled to five with the arrival of Lord Trelan, Lady Sevaka and Anastacia. Only Lord Droshna, arrayed again in simple black garb, stood apart. Though this too was swiftly rectified as Tzila strode to join her master.

  “Elzar Ilnarov has returned to the Dark.” The crisp, clear pronunciation of the city fought Jezek’s rougher Treggan accent as he addressed the crowd, arms spread wide. “But do not mourn overmuch. One day, ephemeral corruption will leave us, and all shall walk together in the Light of Third Dawn. Such was Lumestra’s promise. So shall it be. Lumestra wake us from darkness…”

  “And lead us into the Light,” the crowd answered with one breath.

  Anastacia snorted and fell silent as Lord Trelan jabbed her in the ribs. Jezek withdrew from the podium, offering Lord Droshna a bow as they exchanged places.

  The Lord Protector seemed in no hurry to speak. He simply stood at the podium’s fore, head bowed, and hands tight about the rail. Lost in thought, or perhaps prayer. Murmurs of consternation broke out across the grove.