by Matthew Ward
Josiri scowled. Secrets everywhere, and no answers worth the name. He smoothed a hand across his brow to ease troubled thoughts. As he let it fall, he jostled his jacket’s breast pocket and the eyeglasses within. Shalamoh’s eyeglasses. Shalamoh – a man deep in Viktor’s counsel.
You’re no use to anyone if you’re not seeing things clearly.
Shalamoh’s parting words now sounded less like advice, and more like the cleverness of a man who delighted in concealed knowledge.
Something gleamed amid murk-drowned thoughts. Not a solution, but a way forward. The mere possibility of understanding.
It would do.
The makeshift cell offered little room for pacing. Altiris managed barely three strides between bars and the gentle curve of the cellar’s brick wall. But it was better than sitting there waiting for fate to unfold.
[[Will you stop that?]] said Calenne, sitting cross-legged on the floor. [[It’s annoying.]]
Altiris halted and threw up his hands in frustration. “It helps me stay calm.”
[[It’s still annoying.]]
He gazed across the weapon racks and barrels half-hidden in the shadows of the Merrow’s Lair. Hawkin and Zarn stared back with dead eyes. His fault, for all that both had earned death. Too busy drawing contingencies against Zarn being untrustworthy, he’d not thought to worry about Constans. Recklessness at work again, this time not the bravado of the blade, or the desire for status, but the wayward pride of thinking he’d seen something in Constans that the boy’s own sister had missed.
He slammed a fist against the bars.
Calenne stared at Zarn, his body – and the precious key – out of reach. [[It wasn’t your fault.]]
“Then whose was it?”
[[You’re not responsible for the boy’s actions.]]
How could she be so sanguine? Constans would return with Tzila, and Calenne would be a prisoner again. Altiris’ own fate was all the murkier. Evading it relied on a troublesome series of ifs. If the dregrat had delivered the letter. If Kurkas believed him. If he acted in time. If. If. If. Slim hopes to hang on… or to avoid a hanging.
“You’re very calm,” he said at last. “Want to let me in on the secret?”
Calenne cocked her head, the dark swirl of her eyes dancing with amusement. [[I’m waiting for my moment. A friend once told me that’s all you can do. Wait for your moment, and seize it with both hands.]]
For the first time, Altiris perceived not a doll in tattered finery, but the Phoenix of Davenwood who’d destroyed an Emperor’s dreams. “This friend… Lord Droshna?”
[[Lord Akadra, he was then. He was so strange. Proud, but humble. Cruel when he needed to be, but capable of such kindness.]] She shook her head angrily. [[And now I wonder if I beheld only what I wanted to see – maybe even what he wanted me to see.]]
Altiris tensed as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Moment of truth, one way or another. Hopefully Calenne was right, and it was a moment worth seizing.
A drawn sword preceded a battered uniform upon whose tabard the outline of a golden phoenix could be faintly seen. Kurkas gazed around the cellar, expression blank and yet still managing to be judgemental.
“What a pretty picture,” he drawled. “Want to paint in the colours for me?”
Altiris grinned, his breathing easier. “Zarn’s jacket, there’s a key. We might not have a lot of time.”
“There’s a key, he says, as if that’s the only thing on my mind.” Kurkas stuck his head around the stairway door. “Down here!”
He stepped towards the cage and went utterly still as Calenne rose to her feet and made play of dusting down her dress.
[[Captain Kurkas, is it? You got old.]]
He took a half-step back, eye narrowing in suspicion. His face was otherwise immobile – a shield, Altiris knew only too well, for racing thoughts. “Yeah, I daresay I did. Lady Trelan? Or is it Lady Akadra?”
[[Trelan,]] she replied firmly. [[Definitely Trelan.]]
“Yeah. Thought the voice was familiar.” He shifted his glare to Altiris. “Your letter might have said something about this. Is it for real?”
Altiris hesitated. Kurkas’ reaction was precisely why he’d said nothing of Calenne, asking only that he and Ana come to Woldensend to hear something important, but to come prepared for unpleasantness. “Lord Droshna stole her from the Raven and put her in a body like Ana’s.”
“Did he now?” Kurkas’ voice was calm. Too calm. A shield for unseen emotion. “The great and sublime Lady Plant Pot is nursing a sore head. Living life a little too full, if you take my meaning.”
Footsteps heralded Jaridav’s entrance to the cellar. A friendly nod at Altiris, a puzzled stare at Calenne, and then her attention darted to settle on Kurkas.
“Stalder keeping watch?” asked Kurkas.
She grinned. “Mostly he’s complaining about the cold.”
Kurkas nodded at Zarn’s body. “Apparently that corpse is guarding the key. See to it, would you?”
Jaridav offered a suspicious glance at Calenne, a friendlier one at Altiris, and set about her search.
“Gotta admit, you sound like her, more or less,” said Kurkas. “But better folk than me or the lad here have been fooled before. Care to set my mind at ease?”
She shook her head. [[If all Viktor told me of the other Calenne was true, there’s nothing I can say that will convince you these memories are mine, and not his.]]
Altiris nodded. Calenne Akadra – the mad doppelganger a mourning Lord Droshna had woven from the Dark – had known only what he had of Calenne Trelan’s life. “Lord Trelan needs to hear what she has to say.”
“You reckon?” said Kurkas, eye still on Calenne. “Got the key yet?”
“Sir.” Jaridav sprang to her feet, slipped the key into the padlock… but stopped short of turning it. “You sure about this?”
“No.” He shrugged. “Do it anyway.”
Altiris swung open the door and embraced Kurkas. “Thank you for coming.”
“Any time.” Stepping back, he shook his head. “But this? Her? This is no end of trouble.”
[[You’ve no idea how much. Viktor—]]
A scream echoed down the stairs, the sound of a falling body close behind.
“Stalder!” Kurkas started towards the stairs.
“No! Stay together! It’s Tzila. Maybe Constans too. They’re here for Calenne.” Altiris crossed to the nearest weapon rack. He tossed a longsword to Calenne and drew another for himself. “Tzila’s like her.”
“Is she now?” said Kurkas.
“Only… I don’t think she’s quite right.”
They formed a line opposite the doorway, Kurkas and Altiris in the centre, Jaridav to the left, and Calenne on the right.
Long shadows tugged at Tzila’s cloak and bases, her swords already drawn. Jaridav crooked her fingers in the sign of the sun and tapped them to her brow. Altiris shuddered as the blank-eyed sallet helm turned towards him, the gaze worse for knowing what lay beneath.
“Might as well head out.” Slovenliness gone from his manner, Kurkas fixed Tzila with an unblinking stare. “You’re outnumbered, lass, and we’re none of us playfighting this time.”
[[Calenne comes with me.]]
Kurkas closed his eye. His shoulders slumped. When he next spoke, it was with the voice of an old, disappointed man. “Oh, Viktor. You stupid bloody bastard.”
A crack showed between leaf and jamb. Josiri put his shoulder to the timbers and it sprang open. A muffled cry retreated behind. The bright streets of Highvale gave way to an entrance hall’s gloom, Shalamoh little more than a shadow as he scrambled away.
Josiri caught him on the drawing room threshold. Hands about Shalamoh’s shirt collar, he bore the thin, grey man past the low table with its lonely, flickering firestone lantern, and slammed him up against the shelves. A book, jarred loose, struck Josiri’s shoulder a glancing blow and fell open on the floor.
“Have you gone mad?” Shalamoh’s toes skidded as they sough
t purchase on the floor.
“Maybe,” growled Josiri.
Anastacia swept into the room. Viara Boronav was a pace behind, her face troubled.
“We’re drawing a crowd, lord.”
“Keep them back,” snapped Josiri, his eyes on Shalamoh’s. “No one else comes in. Not even if they’re with the constabulary.”
“I… I don’t have authority to do that.”
“Do you have a sword?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve all the authority and purpose anyone in this damn city ever cares about.”
An audible swallow and she was gone. Anastacia stooped to reclaim the fallen book. “The Ninth Book of Astarria. Provocative. I thought my sister Azyra had destroyed all of these.”
“There seems to be some misunderstanding,” gasped Shalamoh. “Surely we can discuss it equably?”
“What was Viktor doing at Darkmere?”
Shalamoh blinked. “I really cannot stress how little I’m at liberty to speak on the matter. Discretion, remember?”
Josiri slammed him again against the shelves. “And if I insist?”
“Only a fool welcomes pain.” The knowing glint was back in his eye, the panic of Josiri’s sudden arrival fading. “But I suspect my tolerance for receiving is far higher than yours for doling it out.”
“This really is a fascinating book.” Anastacia riffled through the pages. “Very valuable. Irreplaceable, in fact.”
She brought her free hand down on the firestone lantern. Glass shattered under the blow, blood welling up from a dozen small cuts. The crystal darkened, its brilliant firelight gathering instead about her fingers. Without looking, she brought her hand up to caress the book’s lower corner. Smoke coiled away as paper blackened, the bitter stink of it filling the room.
Shalamoh’s eyes went wide. “No, I beg you! There’s no other copy. Please!”
Anastacia withdrew her hand. A careless breath extinguished a tongue of flame clinging to the pages. A click of her fingers banished the rest. “Talk.”
“You almost told me last time I was here,” said Josiri. “Men like you love to show your cleverness, so show me now.”
“You think you know me?” Shalamoh offered him a baleful stare. “Hah!”
“Then prove me wrong.” He eased Shalamoh to the ground and let him loose. “Or do I send Ana to find a tinderbox?”
The other rubbed at his throat, eyes resentful. “He wanted to reach the spirits of the dead.”
Anastacia made a small, disgusted noise. “Ephemerals. I give up. I really do.”
“He came to me, and I told him of something I’d read about in The Undawning Deep – a relic Malatriant used to breach the Otherworld’s mists for her own… eccentric purposes. That fool Orova ruined everything and we recovered only a fragment, but it was enough to make an attempt.”
Josiri touched his eyes closed. On the journey over, he’d almost – almost – convinced himself he’d overreacted. “An attempt at what?”
“Cheating the Raven’s grasp, of course. With the foundry gone, Lord Droshna was convinced the Republic would only survive if it found new warriors. Soldiers that never tire and never question – who’d no fear of death, for they could always be reborn into new bodies of bronze, or of clay.” Shalamoh shook his head. “Only it didn’t work, not entirely. The fragment wasn’t enough. He snatched but a single soul. The Raven fought him, leaving nothing but shreds of who she’d been. She was quite mad, poor thing, even after he’d papered over the cracks with his own shadow.”
“He doesn’t learn, does he?” murmured Anastacia. “He doesn’t listen.”
Josiri nodded, sickness gnawing at his stomach. “Who was she?”
“Some old comrade he admired. I didn’t ask. Discretion, remember? But you’ve met her.”
“Tzila.”
Shalamoh sniffed. “So there is some small intellect behind those eyes?”
Tzila hadn’t arrived on the scene until months after Darkmere. And then there was her brutal duelling performance the day of Elzar’s funeral. “But it ended there?”
“That’s when Lord Droshna ceased consulting me.” He shrugged. “But he roused my interest. I heard whispers that Governor Orova had died, but returned from the mists hale and whole. I thought if I could learn more, Lord Droshna might welcome me back into his confidence. That together we might unlock death’s secrets and forge the army he desired.”
“Why?” Anastacia wiped her bloody hand clean on Shalamoh’s shirt. “Why are you helping him?”
“Because he is of the Dark.”
Josiri glared at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“Oh, but it is,” said Shalamoh, voice thick with urgency. “The Dark shapes us. We shape it. We shape him. He wants to be a hero. A champion. But the more we perceive him as something else, the more he becomes that instead. I decided it was better to help him be a hero. The Republic’s saviour.”
Was it possible? The Dark may have been malleable – it was the firmament of all existence – but Viktor? Josiri had seldom met anyone more single-minded. No, this was sophistry. A philosophical game by which Shalamoh justified his actions. “By enslaving the dead?”
“Better them than us, don’t you think?”
“Should’ve known when we crossed swords back at Stonecrest,” said Kurkas. “Pointing out my arm. My eye. The ones you took. Trying to tell me, weren’t you, Halvor?”
Altiris glanced from one to the other. Revekah Halvor? Lord Trelan’s mentor? The woman who’d given herself to the pyre, spitting defiance even as Malatriant possessed her?
She cocked her head. [[My name is Tzila.]]
Altiris marked the southwealder accent. The hint of Thrakkian. Was it possible?
“No it ain’t.” Kurkas’ words crackled with anger, his body shaking. “No it ain’t! I hear it in your voice. It’s in how you move, now I’m looking for it. Raven take me for not seeing it. And Droshna for doing this to you!”
Calenne’s fingers glinked against her porcelain cheek. [[It’s true, isn’t it? You used to visit me when I was very little, bringing messages from mother. If I cried, you’d take my hand and stroke my cheek, just as you did in the clocktower.]]
Tzila stepped forward, at last coming free of the shadows and into the cellar’s uncertain light. [[You’ll come with me. The others may leave.]]
Her curved blades whirled a circle about her wrists and came up at guard.
“She’s going nowhere with you,” said Kurkas.
Tzila pivoted flawlessly towards him.
Kurkas edged back, never breaking contact with her blank stare. “You remember our final chat, in Branghall’s gardens? Fine wine and fine words.” For all that he spoke softly, the words were brittle. “Said I’d look for you on that last bastion, when all other walls have fallen, yeah?”
[[You said…]] She froze. [[You said we’d hold it together.]]
“Yeah, that’s right.” Kurkas nodded, a tear shining on his cheek and his throat taut. Altiris’ heart ached in sympathy. “So how about we put down our swords, and let Calenne go back to her brother, like she wants? That is what you want?”
[[More than anything.]] Calenne’s sword drooped. [[Revekah, please. You were never anyone’s servant. Just let us go.]]
“Come on, Halvor,” said Kurkas. “Show me some of that pig-headed stubbornness! I don’t pretend to know half of what’s gone on here, but you tried to kill Droshna, back in the day! You really going to do his deeds now?”
[[Kurkas… I don’t…]] Tzila’s voice shook. [[What’s happened to me?]]
Altiris caught the blur of shadow too late. The gathering of light and dark as Constans lunged free of the wall behind Kurkas.
“No!” shouted Altiris.
Even as Altiris dived to intercept, Constans’ dagger plunged between Kurkas’ shoulders. Once. Twice.
An age too late, Altiris tackled Constans before the third fell, shoulder pinning him against brick. The boy cried out as his ribs fle
xed. Eyes red-rimmed and murderous, Constans aimed a wild slash at Altiris’ face. As Altiris ducked away from the wicked blade, the boy dived across a barrel and vanished into shadow once more.
Tzila started forward across Kurkas’ body, the spell of camaraderie broken with his fall. The curved swords whirled to the attack. Jaridav screamed and reeled away in a spray of blood. Turning, Altiris fumbled a desperate parry and paid the price in balance lost. As he fell, Tzila bore down, swords whirling to the kill.
Suddenly Calenne was between them. Tzila’s left-hand blade screeched against Calenne’s longsword; her right bit deep into a porcelain forearm in a golden blaze. Daylight flared as Tzila rammed her helm into Calenne’s face. The longsword dropped. Tzila’s booted foot set Calenne staggering.
Tzila closed the distance, swords whirling.
Altiris scrambled away. A memory clicked. “For the Phoenix!”
As in the clocktower, Tzila froze at the old battle cry that had so defined Revekah Halvor.
Calenne – the light from her wounds scattering the cellar’s shadows – shoved Tzila from behind, sending her stumbling through the cell doorway.
Heart pounding, Altiris scrambled upright, snapped the padlock into place and backed away as Tzila hurled herself at the bars. Again and again, the door rattled in its hinges, but it held.
Altiris spun around, scouring the shadows for a sign of Constans. The howling, furious Tzila aside, there was only himself, Calenne and four motionless bodies.
Or not quite. Though Jaridav lay every bit as still as Zarn and Hawkin, breath bubbled and rasped across Kurkas’ lips, the lid of his good eye fluttering as Altiris knelt beside him and squeezed his hand tight.
Behind, iron bars clanged with Tzila’s renewed attempts at freedom. In hindsight it was obvious why Constans had gone for Kurkas first – he’d almost gotten through to Tzila. Revekah Halvor was gone again, subsumed by the creature Lord Droshna had created.
“Don’t you dare die, Vladama,” he breathed, the words ragged. “Don’t you dare.”
“… sah.” Kurkas’ eye fluttered closed.
Fifty
Calenne waited in the drawing room’s silence, the light from the window vying with the fading luminescence of healing wounds. Alone again. Was this ever to be her fate? It had been thus at Branghall, where she’d watched the business of the town from the ruined observatory. Not that she’d much to observe. The windows opened onto a garden far tidier than the one she’d been inconstant mistress of at Branghall, but there was no one in sight. Indeed, but for the muffled voices in the adjoining room – sometimes quiet, sometimes raging, she might have been entirely alone, dreaming in the mists of brighter days to come.