by Matthew Ward
Wrath gathered to Edgir’s expression. “You blaspheme against the living goddess.”
Thirava ripped his hand away, letting Rosa’s head fall. “Do I? Your scripture proclaims the divinity of Emperors. Men, and the sons of men. It makes no accommodation for upstart daughters. I share the blood of Hadar Saran every bit as much as she. Am I too a god?”
Edgir’s glower deepened. “She is divine. Chosen by Ashana herself.”
“Is she?” Thirava spread his hands. “Then why does she permit the Tressians to slaughter my people? Why did she hold back after Govanna, and in all the years since? My sires have served the Imperial throne for generations. Silsaria’s spears have defended that throne from those who would steal it. But she abandons us.”
Edgir stepped closer, thought better of it, and returned to stillness, arms folded behind his back. “What is it you want, Thirava?”
Thirava crooked a sad smile – for show, Rosa had no doubt – and set the goblet down beside the wagered purse. “Only what we of the Gwyraya Hadar have always had: the support of friends in trying times. Tressia cannot be appeased. It cannot be cowed. Only annihilation will serve. When I ride to war, I do so not for myself, but for us all.”
Faethran shook his head. “And the Imperial throne is, of course, no interest to you.”
“The fate of my people. The honour of the Empire. These are the spurs at my flank. Anything else is a matter for the Gwyraya Hadar, and my cousin Melanna’s shame – should she be capable of it.”
Edgir straightened, a mask of formality again in place. “I will convey your message to my father.”
“As will I,” Faethran’s eyes lingered on Rosa. “Of course, the message would travel smoother with proof in tow.”
“She stays with me,” said Thirava. “I trust your word will suffice?”
“Of course.” Disappointment slithered beneath the words. “I wish you the joy of her.”
Faethran bowed and left the courtyard. Edgir departed without word or gesture of respect. As soon as they were out of sight, drunken aspect slipped from Thirava’s thin face, his expression turning thoughtful.
“You owe me a kindness, Lady Orova. Even leering Tzal would turn godly sight from what Faethran would make of you.” He snorted. “There’s a reason Langdor keeps him far from home. A king must have maidservants, must he not? And he can hardly do so when young women are terrified of entering the palace in case the prince is in one of his… moods.”
She glared at him. “Shadowthorns talk so readily of honour. But words are cheap.”
Thirava twitched the fingers of an upraised hand. The rope went taut, hauling Rosa to her feet. He bore down, brief friendliness banished. “You’d talk to me of honour? The butcher of Govanna Field? The pale demon who swept out of the mist and cut down my brothers without a thought and licked their blood from her blade?” His eyes bored into hers. “And now I find you here, in my grasp. Demon no longer, but ephemeral flesh. The one will pay for the deeds of the other.”
Bitterness crowded Rosa’s throat. Not for the slaying of Thirava’s kith, but for all that deed had wrought. “Terevosk… You set that trap for me?”
Laughing, he shook his head. “Such pride you have. Can you hear yourself? No, Terevosk was simply politics. I needed a foray across the border – one large enough to spur my royal cousins to action. I was sorely disappointed that provocation had drawn so few… but then fate delivered you into my keeping. How many swords were you worth at Govanna? A hundred? A thousand? You were worth ten times that just now. You were worth a kingdom.”
Rosa stared past him. “You’re a murderer.”
He chuckled. “Murder is personal, and so little of current times is personal. My labours – my duty – is the elevation of Silsaria from a humiliated cur to the head of the hunt. If that calls for death, I shall not shirk the deed. Great men deal in death every day.”
Rosa spat. “I’ve known great men. You’re not even their shadow.”
“I will be.” He shrugged. “Melanna Saranal has had years to grow beyond mere novelty. She cringes from bloodshed and believes herself the better for it, but only bloodshed secures a throne.”
The words were different, but the sentiment was all too familiar. Death justified by duty and ambition – and what was glory, save a melding of the two? The Reaper of the Ravonn, the Council Champion – even the Queen of the Dead – they’d revelled in death, made claim of necessity and always to serve their pleasure. In that moment, Rosa was almost grateful to Thirava – a near-perfect mirror of what she might have become, but somehow had not.
Thirava shook his head, a man dispelling pleasures deferred for present need. “As for you? Your passing is to be personal.”
So there it was. “I’m not afraid of death.”
“No, I imagine not. At least, not your own.” Clicking upraised fingers, he strode away. “Bring her.”
The marketplace, once empty, was now thick with crowds. Most were Hadari warriors in the gleaming scale of Immortals or the drab guard of tithed clansmen, but there were robed civilians too, and even a few dozen Tressian townsfolk – the latter regarded askance by their unwelcome masters.
A short, grubby line of shackled captives led to the scaffolded shrine, Jonas and Mirada at the fore. Two golden-armoured drummers stood atop the scaffold itself, one either side of a woman in silver half-mask and flowing white robes: a lunassera, a pale-witch. A shallow cart waited behind.
Rosa closed her eyes and sought solace in the knowledge that she’d die alongside comrades and they alongside her. But when the rope jerked again, it did so not towards the execution scaffold, nor to the line of wolf’s-heads, but to the marketplace’s upper terrace. An iron crow’s cage rested on the cobbles, its pulley rope stretching away to a loading hook in the eaves high above.
“No!”
Rosa flung herself backwards at her leash-holder. Her shoulder struck his chest and both went down, her atop and he below. As he struggled to rise, she brought her head down. Cartilage crunched, earning blood and a scream of pain. She sprang away.
Something heavy slammed against the back of her head.
The world blurred drunkenly. Cobbles cracked against her knees.
“Gag her!” snapped Thirava.
Rosa’s mouth filled with the bitter taste of cured leather. Hands hauled her backwards into the cage and drew ropes tight, binding her limbs to the iron bars, forcing her to stand. A leather strip across her brow forced her to stare straight ahead.
Golden armour retreated as vision regained its focus, replaced by Thirava’s thin, expressionless features.
“You’re a warrior,” he said, “and I know the strength of a warrior’s bond. You draw strength from those you fight beside, and they from you.”
He slammed the cage door. Furious screams muffled by the leather gag, Rosa strained against her bonds. Anger gave way to panicked foreboding.
Thirava leaned close, nose inches from the cage. “I could tell you that this too is merely the great deed of a great man, but we both know it would be a lie. I could tell you that you’re simply a lesson for your countrymen, but that too would be untrue. This is murder. My brothers cry out for vengeance. They shall have it. You will bear witness as your comrades get the knife. And then you will rot.”
At his gesture, unseen hands busied themselves with the pulley. Creaking, the crow’s cage lurched skyward. The marketplace reverberated to the thunder of drums. They rose in crescendo as swords goaded Jonas up the scaffold’s steps.
“I’m sorry!” Her own fate forgotten and her heart raw, Rosa howled the words. The gag muffled them beyond recognition, and what remained was lost beneath the drumbeats.
Jonas halted before the lunassera. The drums faded, leaving uneasy silence behind. In that last moment, he stood tall, burdens gone from thin shoulders. He stared up at the crow’s cage. No accusation in his streaming eyes, only pride. “Until Death!”
The lunassera’s knife flashed. The drums began anew.
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Twenty-Five
Josiri stared through his office’s leaded window and out across the gardens. A mistake, as it offered a fine view of the duelling ground’s flags and the dark stain of Anastacia’s blood on snow. Too much had already gone badly that day. “You’re certain there’s no mistake?”
Arkadin Zaldov, master of Saint Selna’s hospice, frowned. “The decree was very… direct. With the government ration withdrawn we’ll struggle to feed our residents, let alone the countless others who rely on us for bread and a hot meal. Last year’s harvest was poor. There are already shortages. Without access to the tithe-houses…?”
He fell silent, his words eaten up by the hearth’s soft crackle.
Josiri’s mood sank further. The tithe-houses weren’t meant to feed Thrakkian mercenaries. Their creation had been one of Viktor’s first acts, though for more pragmatic reasons than mere charity. The Crowmarket had survived by winning the allegiance of the poor. Removing that leverage had finished the vranakin as surely as the trials and executions.
“Forgive me, but I’m still not certain why you’ve come to me, rather than speaking directly with Lord Droshna.”
“Gaining audience with Lord Droshna is lately a challenge.”
Ever a private soul, Viktor had been a recluse since Elzar’s death, seldom seen beyond the palace walls. Grief did strange things even to the strongest men. “The Lord Protector sees the world in stark tones.” Josiri forced a smile. “Sometimes he needs reminding of its subtleties. I’ll discuss the matter with him.”
Zaldov stood. “I’m in your debt, Lord Trelan.”
A final bow and he departed, leaving Josiri alone with his thoughts. Changing Viktor’s course was never an easy task, and with war uppermost in his mind, it would likely prove more difficult even than usual. “Fortunately,” he murmured, “Trelans are stubborn.”
“They are certainly that.”
Anastacia stood in the space lately occupied by Arkadin Zaldov, book in hand, a new gown in place and her bound shoulder hidden beneath a shawl. Sidara’s magic had mended the worst of her wounds, but there was no hiding a worn face, paler than was healthy. Nor the stiffness with which she carried herself.
Skirting the desk’s edge, he kissed her brow. Wonderful to feel warm skin beneath his lips, rather than clay. A reminder that not all Viktor’s misjudgements abided eternally.
“You’ve no right to judge me,” he said, “not when you promised to rest.”
“I am resting.” She ran her fingers across his cheek. “Or else I’d be drowning Tzila in the Silverway as we speak. I’ve not been hurt like that in a long time.”
Humiliation vexed her more than hurt. Viktor’s apologies – effusive though they’d been – couldn’t soothe that away. Only time stood a fighting chance. “And now?”
She laid the book down on Josiri’s desk, pages spread. He winced at the creak of an antique spine. “I’m angry.”
“You’re always angry.”
“Tzila meant to kill me.”
“Viktor claims things simply got out of hand.” Josiri wasn’t certain he believed that. Sparring so often stirred blood to foolishness. “He assured me she’ll be disciplined.”
“Viktor always has an explanation handy after the fact.” Anastacia scowled. “You didn’t see her fight. Cold and calculating the whole time. What she did to me was no more a flash of pique than her humiliation of Vladama. The cruelty was the point.”
“Altiris told me you recognised her.”
Anastacia shook her head, her voice thick with frustration. “I said I felt like I should recognise her, but who knows if that’s even true? I’m only a piece of what I was, Josiri. The rest was lost. First, when my mother cast me upon this world. Again, when I tore free of Branghall’s stones. And once more when I escaped the clay. I’m scattered far and wide.” She raised a hand level with her face. Golden light shuddered across fingertips and guttered out. “Is this what it is to be ephemeral? Seeing pieces of yourself peel away as the days pass?”
She fell silent, small and vulnerable. Careful of her injured shoulder, Josiri took her hands. “What can I do?”
“You can tell me what you and Viktor argued about.”
He blinked. “I—”
“Don’t deny it. I’d a fine view before you retreated from the terrace, and you’ve been distant all afternoon. I can read you like a book.” She pursed her lips. “A short, moody book of uncertain wit.”
“So we’re not talking about you any longer?”
“No, we’re not talking about you, apparently.” She rolled her eyes, vulnerability gone. “Don’t make me beat it out of you. Someone told me I’m supposed to be resting.”
He stepped back, irritated to be so transparent. “I challenged Viktor’s decision to lead us into war. He swore we’d discussed it yesterday, and that I’d agreed the course.”
Anastacia’s brow twitched. “And you hadn’t?”
“I didn’t see Viktor yesterday.” Certainty had crystallised, the explanations of fatigue discarded alongside Izack’s confirmation. The Lord Marshal, after all, was a soldier and Viktor his commander. Military bonds were hard-broken. “He lied to me, and now I find he’s raiding the tithe-houses to feed his soldiers.”
“I see.” She stepped halfway through the doorway, glanced left and right along the passageway and re-entered the room, closing the door behind. “Josiri… you and I walked to the palace yesterday morning. I went on to the Panopticon to see Sidara and you—”
He glared, sudden uncertainty gnawing at his stomach. “No. That’s not true.”
Annoyance crowded her expression. “You spent most of the walk complaining about that book you’ve been reading. It’s not something I’d forget.”
He did recall something of the sort, but as Josiri paced the memory to its extent found only shifting blackness akin to the tail end of a dream. “I didn’t see Viktor.”
“What was your uncle’s name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your uncle. What was his name?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Only that you won’t tell me. Or that you can’t.”
“Ana, I’m in no mood for one of your jokes.”
She glanced at the floor, lip twisting in discomfort. “Week before last, you got properly furious with yourself because you couldn’t remember it. Ask Vladama. He was there.”
“Ana…” growled Josiri.
She folded her arms. “Are you going to tell me? Or shall I ring for Vladama?”
Simplicity itself to end this nonsense, except… the name he sought lay behind the same shifting black as the day prior. Uncertainty rushed red, cold creeping behind.
Josiri’s first thought was that Anastacia too was in on the game. Scowl deepening, he banished the unworthy suspicion. What malice Anastacia possessed, she wore without veil. How many friends was he prepared to believe engaged in deception? What if he was losing pieces of his past?
The red faded to nothing. A cold fist gripped his stomach.
“Taymor,” said Anastacia softly. “Your uncle’s name was Taymor.”
Revelation brought no relief, only shame. “What else?”
She reached out. Frustrated, he twisted away.
“Little things,” she said. “Unremarkable things. An appointment missed. A name forgotten. I thought nothing of it at first – ephemerals are such fragile creatures. But it’s getting worse. It has been for a year or more.”
Josiri closed his eyes. Ailing memory was hardly uncommon in the old, but he’d yet to see his fortieth summer. To be so beset so young made for a grim portent. And it wasn’t as though he could look to his parents for comfort of lucidity. Both had died before their time, killed by the feud between north and south. Neither had lived beyond forty. Grandparents were dim memories. Calenne had always cursed the Trelan luck. What if she’d been righter than she’d known?
“A week ago… your little encounter with the cart. That
wasn’t about the loneliness of you living for ever, was it? That was about me, leaving you.”
She nodded tersely. “I’m worried you’re slipping away. I don’t like it.”
Her eyes dared him to mock the admission. Her voice simply sounded old, and sad. It convinced where words had not.
“I don’t care for it myself.” Better to hide behind levity. Better not to wonder how much of this moment would be lost in coming days. “Viktor told me I’m working too hard. Maybe he’s right.”
“That would be a first.”
Holding her close, Josiri re-examined the previous morning. A walk beneath grey skies. The conversation – he preferred critique to complaint – about Ugo Genarin’s meandering novel. Even a salute from a pair of Knights Fellnore at the mouth of Sinner’s Mile. But nothing of the palace, or of Viktor.
The more he pushed, the more adjoining memories crumbled, as if those he’d lost sought to drag them into the void for company. There had been knights, hadn’t there? At the foot of Sinner’s Mile. Which chapterhouse?
His heart quickened.
Fellnore. They’d been Knights Fellnore.
Trembling with relief, Josiri drew back from the missing memories, lest he provoke total collapse. Too much like the sensation that took him when he ascended a tower, or stood on a cliff’s edge. The fear of the precipice, and the macabre longing to hurl oneself off, despite that fear.
“I’ll see a physician,” he said. “Maybe there’s something to be done.”
“You know there isn’t.” Anastacia looped her arms around his waist. “Perhaps Sidara—”
“No.” Josiri shook his head. “I don’t want her to know.”
“But if she can help you?”
“What if she can’t? I won’t have her bear that failure.”
She sighed. “Then perhaps we should leave the city. Return to the Southshires. Live on the coast with the sea ahead and the hills behind. Maybe it is nothing more than fatigue.” Her attempt at a suggestive smile fell flat, undermined by sorrowful eyes. “I could nurse you back to health.”