by Matthew Ward
Waving her escort from the cell, Melanna sat on the slatted bench opposite and eased her skirts into place. The window’s gentle breeze – the first sounds of the waking city borne upon its wings – softened the cell’s rank stench and prickled the skin on the back of her arms.
Her city. It called for retribution.
“It’s over.” She spoke softly, resentful at how little satisfaction she found in the words. “Your warriors are slain, captured or routed. I’ve decreed occupation of the Tressian Eastshires be ended. Your son flees for the Silsarian border as fast as his horse will bear him, but he’ll be taken.”
At last, Cardivan shifted his gaze from the window. “Then it will be war. Kerna and Novona will not sit by and watch you destroy my kingdom.”
“You might be surprised,” Melanna replied. “You bought your allies with cleverness. How clever do you suppose you seem at this moment? As masterplans go, this lacks… gravitas.”
“They will come,” he snapped. “They fear that their crowns will be next. So they will strike first, and the Empire will tear itself apart. Your doing, Melanna.”
Was he really so deluded? Or was he simply wielding the only weapon left – the only weapon Cardivan had ever cared for? The tongue left deep welts that seldom healed. Maybe it would have worked a year before. A month. Even a week. But for the first time in a long while, Melanna had no fear of words. Whatever secrets Kerna and Novona held, Cardivan’s were out in the open.
“They might,” she replied, her eyes ever on his. “Had I meant to unmake Silsaria, or even its royal line. I intend neither.”
His eyes crowded with suspicion. “Then you’re twice the fool.”
For the first time, Melanna glimpsed mania at work behind. However motionless Cardivan held his body, his mind was racing. She leaned closer. Close enough to use the dagger concealed beneath her skirts, had that been her wish. Temptation remained to do so. The walls resounded with the howls of forefathers demanding that course.
“I merely make distinction between your actions and those of your people. You’ve never done aught save that which would favour you, Cardivan. Did you really think I’d punish others for that?”
Melanna saw truth written in the shift of his brow and the curl of his lip. He’d believed she would, for he’d have done the same. For all that he loathed the differences between them, he didn’t truly perceive their scope. The realisation offered all the satisfaction that victory lacked.
“I’ll levy no further punishment against those who followed you to war, save those who owed loyalty to me,” she went on. “Those, I’ve ordered put to death, as their oaths demand. As for your throne, I’ve sent an envoy to Presarai. To your grand-niece Incalia, as it happens. With you a self-professed regicide and Thirava implicated in your conspiracy, she holds the succession. I have offered peace, a throne, and the friendship of Rhaled. Does she love you more than these?”
According to Haldrane’s detailed files, Incalia loved her great-uncle not at all. She knew little more freedom than a cask of tarakeet, hoarded against the possibility of attracting a wealthy buyer once blossomed to full vintage – and for much the same reason. Haldrane’s notes had also suggested that she was not the noblest of souls, but perhaps a crown would change her. Crowns had a way of doing that, if worn well.
“Women do not rule,” growled Cardivan.
“You made that argument yesterday, and lost it in bold fashion.” Melanna sat upright. “I’ve neither the desire nor the need to destroy Silsaria, much less the House of Tirane. But you, Cardivan? You who would have made my daughter a Bride of Brief Moonlight? I have the most ignoble urge to hurt you very badly indeed, and find I cannot resent myself for it.”
Anger retreated from his expression. “Then I am to die?”
Typical that he found solace in that. A good death forgave all, and for all that Cardivan had failed in his ambition, there’d be those in his court who for long years after would speak about how he’d died defiant; free, despite the chains. The martyred King of Silsaria, immortal and triumphant, even in death and defeat.
Melanna shook her head. “You will remain my guest. Indeed, I’m having a room made up for you as we speak. One that affords a grand view of the city. You will see me walk the Emperor’s Walk and watch as I ride out in full panoply on feast days. Should you live but a few more years, you will see my daughter’s procession to sanctum to be acclaimed my heir. Who knows? Perhaps you will even outlive me, and be privileged to witness her coronation.” Now she permitted herself a smile. “I condemn you not to death, Cardivan, but life.”
Composure dissolved beneath an animal growl. Hands hooked to claws, Cardivan sprang. The chains went taut, his face inches from Melanna’s and his teeth bared in a rictus of impotent wrath.
The cell door crashed open, an Immortal halfway across the threshold with sword drawn.
“Empress!”
Melanna, who had not otherwise moved the merest fraction of an inch, waved him to stillness. Her eyes never left the prisoner’s. “Goodbye, Cardivan. I don’t expect we will speak again.”
Rising, she departed the cell, and never once looked back.
Melanna couldn’t face the throne room. Not with bodies still in the streets, and wounded facing an uncertain future in the lunassera’s hands. Come evening, she’d again don the finery of Empire to lavish leadership and gratitude on strangers. But for the moment, she welcomed the relative peace of her outer chambers… even if some of those gathered therein were little more than strangers themselves.
“The city is secure.” Elim Jorcari stood at crisp attention by the door, wary of intruding on an Empress’ privacy, despite invitation. Or perhaps he was nervous to be alone in a company of women. Brave men cultivated strange terrors. “What warriors we have stand ready vigil, savim.”
Melanna took a sip of honeyed tea. Sweetness washed away the last of the dungeon’s sourness. “Your lodge-mates?”
“Among others. I sent word to Kinholt and Vescarin in your name. Their chieftains provided warriors and apologies in equal measure. Others will follow. Between those, the lodges, the retired and the survivors of Cardivan’s treachery, we have enough to hold the walls until Prince Aeldran returns.”
Apara, restored to gowned splendour and hair woven with jewelled chains almost certainly not hers – and her eyes for the first time smoky with courtly makeup – offered an amused snort from her station by the window. A frown touched Sera’s lips, the rest of her expression concealed beneath her silvered mask. The room’s fifth occupant – and other than Melanna, the only one seated – offered no reaction at all. Roslava Orova had said almost nothing since Melanna had dismissed the guards, and bore Sera’s suspicious glances with sullen dignity and a bloodless face that offered reminder she was yet far from hale.
A warrior of the old tradition, a thief, a priestess and a Tressian knight. Strange counsel for an Empress to seek, but somehow fit for the times.
Melanna set the cup aside. “It’s a dangerous thing to speak for the Empress without her leave, jasaldar.”
Not content with navigating the previous day’s strife without so much as a scratch, Jorcari conspired to appear clear-eyed and alert despite having taken only three hours’ sleep. “You bade me secure the city, my Empress. If I have overstepped, my life is yours to take.”
It was just about possible to hear apology in his words, but Melanna found none in his tone. “That would be poor reward for all you’ve done. But make no habit of such things. I must be able to trust my champion.”
Impossibly, he stood straighter. “Savim, I cannot—”
“Refuse? Absolutely correct. The Empress’ word is law, is it not?” She smiled to soften an arch tone. “Not all traditions are without value. I hope recent events will serve as a lesson for the royal guard, not a reason for dissolution. I can think of no better tutor. Chakdra will command my Immortals, but will answer to you in all things. Until you’re satisfied the lesson has taken, this palace belongs to th
e lunassera, and the royal guard are merely guests.”
Tavar Rasha would have died anew to hear those words, but he’d have understood. Melanna only hoped Kaila warmed to Jorcari as much as she had Shar Rasha, whose Last Ride she’d officiate beneath the moon that very night. When the grim gates of Ravencourt Temple creaked open, six Immortals – volunteers all – would bear their captain into the mists. Melanna could barely afford to lose them, but there were few enough honours she could offer the dead. One last battle in the Raven’s own land would have to suffice.
Jorcari offered a low bow. “I would be honoured… essavim.”
Stiffness receded from Melanna’s shoulders, though in truth she’d entertained few doubts about his acceptance. Warrior’s pride was ever a dependable motivator. Besides, she’d already fought a similar, fiercer battle that morning, and won despite all odds. Speaking of which…
“What of my icularis?” she asked.
Apara’s left eyelid flickered, but her voice was confident enough. “Those I’ve been able to contact – and convince of my authority – are torn between guilt and fury. If traitors remain within their ranks, I don’t imagine we’ll hear from them ever again this side of the mists.” She shrugged. “I’ve sent riders south bearing variants of the letter to Prince Aeldran. Which copies arrive, and when, will prove instructive.”
Melanna struggled to hide her surprise. She’d never have considered that particular opportunity. “Haldrane would have approved.”
That much she was certain of, even if her own feelings towards the dead spymaster were less clear. His loyalty had never been in question, but his objectivity? He’d run out of road long before he’d stopped walking, and paid with his life.
“I doubt it,” Apara replied. “He’d little good to say about me.”
“And now he’s dead, through his own error,” said Sera. “This tells us something about the value of his opinions.”
Jorcari grunted his amusement.
Melanna nodded to herself. Yes, she’d chosen well. Sera to safeguard her life and that of her daughter, Apara to be her eyes and ears, and Jorcari to rebuild that which Cardivan – and her own laxness – had broken.
Aeldran was a jarring absence, but would return. Aware that eyes other than his might read her letter, Melanna had spoken guardedly, assuring him all was well, and that his presence was requested as soon as he was able. But she’d striven to emphasise that it was not merely her consort whom she missed, but also her husband. She’d kept too many at a distance these past years – her daughter’s father should not be among them.
That left one other matter undone before crowns and courts called the Empress to face a people who had fought and died for her.
“And what of you, Lady Orova?” Melanna fought to keep level tone. Despite all that had happened, it took effort not to think of the Tressian as an oathbreaker and an enemy. She had, in fact, been the most monstrous of foes, though Melanna herself had not beheld her thus. But even an Empress could not always choose her allies, nor those to whom she was indebted. “These others, I reward with service. But what can I offer the woman who saved my daughter’s life?”
“You can set me free,” she replied in accented Rhalesh, “so I can return home.”
Jorcari scowled at words as rigid as their appearance.
Melanna took some small relief in the fact that the past clung as heavily to Orova as to herself. “You’re not my prisoner, but my guest… one who is not yet fully recovered.” Rising, she spread her hands. “You and I share an unhappy history. Maybe it’s our fate to be enemies. But I swear on my daughter’s life that when the lunassera declare you fit, I will grant you a horse and escort – whatever you demand. I’ve already set your Eastshires free. One knight, however formidable, is of little concern.”
Orova scowled. “If I agree, I will make one demand of you now.”
“Which is?”
“By now, my wife likely fears I’m dead or captured. Let her know otherwise, and I shall abide. With the Eastshires free, who knows? If the message is delivered correctly – and it is truly understood that I’m a guest, not a prisoner – perhaps we need not be enemies at all.”
Peace. Her father had entertained it, then employed its promise as a ruse. Melanna herself had scorned it as impossible. But the world was changing. Old ways were breaking down. With Cardivan’s belligerence unmade, could the enmity between Republic and Empire truly belong to the past? As much as her head warned otherwise, Melanna’s heart stirred at the notion.
“Can you write a letter?” she asked. “Something your wife will know comes only from you, and without duress?”
“I can.”
Melanna turned her attention to Apara, who scowled, but offered a slow, pensive nod. “Then she’ll have it before the day is out.”
Forty-Seven
Noon brought brooding skies – a promise that while the snows had receded, winter’s grasp was far from broken. Beyond Tarvallion’s makeshift wall, tents and campfires lay thick upon the Silverway’s banks. Viktor was grateful for the Ice Wind, whose gusts swept away the worst of the host’s bellicose song and overripe stench.
Thrydaxes. Tattooed Thrakkian mercenaries whose lacquered armour and black garb owed no allegiance save to coin. Whose plaited beards and boisterous manner were thought uncouth in the Republic, but whose valour was ever dependable. Viktor gripped the rampart and stifled a scowl. Shameful it had come to this – that Tressia could no longer fight its own wars. But circumstance, like the men who endured it, prospered where it would.
“These are our allies?” Sidara murmured at his shoulder.
Her tone wasn’t quite disgusted – she’d been raised better than that – but certainly held reluctance. Certainly, the rough Thrakkian wool-claith and mismatched chain and lamellar lent a brigandish aspect, one well earned by deeds past – the folk of the south had ever been reivers and corsairs.
“You’ll find no better, so long as there’s coin,” he replied.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Sidara’s awe carried through into her expression. “There are so many.”
“The tragedy of peace is that it is never given, only seized.”
“Josiri says otherwise.”
He snorted. “Josiri sometimes beholds not the world, but his wish of what the world could be. I envy his vision, however flawed.”
“Will they be enough?”
“Let us hope so.”
Coin had lured near eight thousand thrydaxe horsemen north. Axes, bows and spears ready to fight for a foreign land. In number alone, they almost doubled the thin army Viktor had dredged up from the benighted Republic. In experience, they far surpassed it.
Of the seven regiments Izack had deemed fit to march, fewer than one in ten soldiers had survived the sight and smell of a real battlefield. The two thousands of Drazina were little better – scarcely an echo of the chapterhouses of old. Viktor regretted the absence of the veteran 14th – Arlanne Keldrov’s old command – but Izack had argued that the Southshires needed one steady regiment on hand in case of trouble at the Thrakkian border.
As for the rest? Essamere, Fellnore, Lancras and obliterated Prydonis marshalled barely three hundred between them. Most were billeted in a city whose streets remained too empty. Others were still on the road. Add to that the sixty or so kraikons and near two hundred simarka directed by Sidara’s will? It made for a host greater than any Viktor had accompanied to the field, much less led. Enough to overcome the Silsarian veterans who held the Eastshires, that much was certain. But if the Empress fanned the flames of overdue justice to outright war, the future grew far less certain.
Aware his countenance offered little comfort to a young woman weighed down by her own fears, Viktor offered a smile. “We shall prevail.”
“Easy for you to say, Uncle.” Use of the familial term betrayed unease. “You don’t lose.”
“So folk say.”
“So you say.”
“You sound like your fathe
r.” Viktor’s smile broadened unbidden. “I suppose it must seem the highest arrogance.”
“I’d never question a man who can’t lose.”
“And now you sound like your mother.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and felt twice the giant – even in full armour, Sidara seemed like a child beside him. “Yes, I allow folk to speak of me thus, but only because it gives them confidence. May I tell you something I’ve told no other?”
Her eyes shone with curiosity. “If you wish, Uncle.”
He hesitated. Speaking from the soul had never been comfortable. “I am at my best when others believe in me, and my worst when they do not. Perhaps we all are. That, more than anything, is the power of duty, and of love. It drives us to be more. To be better. So let those who follow me believe I cannot lose. That faith is a weapon as sure as any steel. And we will need all the weapons we can marshal in coming days. Including your light.”
“And if light alone isn’t enough?”
He stooped, bringing his eyes level with hers. “Make it so. The daughter of Malachi and Lilyana Reveque could do no less.”
Doubt faded from her expression. “I won’t let you down, Uncle.”
He nodded. Josiri had indeed been wrong to keep Sidara from battle. Had he been so driven at her age? Viktor had been little older when Katya Trelan’s death had altered the course of his life. Simpler days, before he’d mastered his shadow. Memory offered the vaguest recollection, and what Viktor glimpsed he scarcely reconciled with the man he’d become. Perhaps it would be so for Sidara.
“I know.”
He rose at footsteps on the stairs, loath to betray emotion to any other. Sidara needed to see beneath his certainty in order to find her own. Others needed to see the man who couldn’t lose.
Not that Viktor doubted the newcomers’ commitment. Zephan Tanor, master of Essamere, in hunter’s green. Sevaka Orova, her eyes clouded with a loss Viktor understood too well. And of course, the indestructible, indefatigable Izack. Yes, there were others Viktor would have wished at his side – Elzar and Calenne foremost among them – but there were few companions better for the road ahead.