by Matthew Ward
She found bitter, inescapable irony in her situation. Almost all her life, she’d belonged in but one place and yearned to be free of it. Now she ached for the familiarity of Branghall and belonged nowhere at all. A jest only the wicked or the divine might find amusing.
[[I suppose you think this is funny?]] she murmured.
But if the Raven heard, he offered no sign.
Calenne turned her attention to the window once more. No guards. That at least was different. She could run. Leave Stonecrest behind and seek some other place. Some solitude. But hadn’t flight been her existence’s other constant? She had to stop running sometime, otherwise it wasn’t really a life at all.
She stared down at the smooth, unfeeling porcelain of spread hands. Life. Whatever she had, it wasn’t that.
The door creaked. With guilty start, Calenne gathered herself, hands looped at her waist, shoulders rounded. The very image of respectability, were one inclined to overlook the torn and filthy dress – the unfinished, alien aspect of her being.
Josiri set the door to, lips torn between thoughtful frown and a deeper, angrier scowl. He looked so much older than intervening years should have demanded, lined and greying, the weight of burdens unseen and unknown. But still the brother who’d raised her from girlhood to womanhood. With whom she’d laughed and quarrelled over everything and nothing.
Sorrow and joy mingling where her heart should have lain, Calenne started towards him. He stumbled back, revulsion soon hidden, but unmistakeable. Forgotten heart overborne, Calenne stumbled to a halt, for the first time glad that tears were denied her.
“I’m told you claim to be my sister.” He didn’t meet her gaze. “But I’ve had this trick played on me before. And by Viktor, no less.”
[[And you fear I’m another?]]
“I hope not.” His throat bobbed. “Altiris thinks you’re not, and I’ve doubted him too much of late. But I’m learning hope counts for little in Viktor’s shadow, save where it serves him.”
Strange to hear such heartbroken regret in Josiri’s voice. His rock, Viktor had named him. [[He’s not the man I remember.]]
“I imagine few of us are… if you truly remember anything at all.”
Calenne’s temper, never at its most level around Josiri, began to slip. [[It’s not kind to speak of me as if I’m not real. I didn’t have to come here.]]
He started forward, then checked his step just as she’d earlier checked hers. “I want to believe. You’ve no idea how much.”
[[Then tell me what it would take.]]
Josiri shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He turned to leave and halted, fingers on the door handle. For all that he said nothing, stuttered breaths told their own tale.
[[I know there’s nothing I can say that you can trust – that you might fear I once told Viktor and he since conjured into some imposter.]] Calenne heard her voice tremble, and pressed on for fear it might fail entirely. [[If you send me away, I will go. You’ll never see me again. But don’t let us part as we did before. That, I couldn’t bear.]]
“Do you remember, after Mother died?” He spoke without turning. “You slept so poorly. I’d wake to find you curled up in the chapel, one of her old cloaks swaddled around you, tears streaming down your face.”
[[And you’d hold me until first light, never once with a word of complaint. A champion to protect me against the coming of the Black Knight.]] She chanced a step closer. [[Only it wasn’t the chapel, but the library. And it wasn’t Mother’s cloak, but yours. The one you wore when you tried to bring me safe out of Eskavord. The sword was Mother’s. You’d set it in my lap, and promised I’d never be helpless. That Trelans were never helpless. Because Trelans were stubborn.]]
“We are that.” He turned, his eyes bright with tears. “You understand this proves nothing?”
Calenne nodded, her hopes ashen. [[Yes.]]
“You know I’d be a fool to trust you? Especially now?”
[[Yes.]]
Josiri drew down a deep breath and straightened. For the first time since he’d entered the room, he was a stranger to her, older and sturdier. The rock Viktor had claimed him to be.
Closing the distance between them, he took her hands. “I’d sooner die a thousand times a fool than risk you believing I don’t love you, Enna.”
Fire blazed anew beneath the ash. An unbidden cry – half sob, half heartfelt joy – spilling free, Calenne flung her arms about her brother and held him in embrace fit to last out all the turnings of the world. Perhaps she yet had a place where she belonged.
[[I hate that name,]] she breathed.
“I know.”
Sevaka returned to Stonecrest as dusk fell, steadier for a solid five hours of sleep behind her, and steadier still for deeds performed since waking. Receiving direction from Sergeant Brass, she found Josiri on the stone bench beneath the latticework gazebo, staring across the gardens. She knew the brittleness in his eyes well enough from brief glimpses of her own in the mirror.
“The palace is ours.”
He nodded. “Hollov give any trouble?”
“She tried, but having Essamere at my back did wonders for my confidence. She led her ruffians off as meekly as a lamb.” Zephan had come readily enough at Josiri’s call, and Viktor had left few enough Drazina in the city to make trouble. “They’re holed up in the Meldagate barracks for now. Jezek’s picking over Viktor’s quarters. Lots of muttered prayers punctuated by very unpriestly oaths. He’d like to consult with Ana over some of the things he’s found.”
“A churchman seeking her advice?” Josiri laughed mirthlessly. “She’d love that on any other day.”
Sevaka nodded, not wanting to tread on private grief. “What about you? Any success?”
“Hardly any. If Constans is still in the city, he’s staying clear of the constabulary. Tzila was gone by the time Captain Raldan got to Woldensend…” He rubbed at his brow. “Or maybe I should call her Revekah. I don’t know any longer.”
“You believe all that?”
“Kurkas does. That’s good enough for me.” He grimaced. “I’ve seen too much to doubt something just because it’s impossible. There’s no coming back from this. There can’t be. Thank Lumestra the city’s quiet.”
There was a calm about Josiri now, a man badly bowed but far from beaten. Sevaka was glad of that. She’d been drowning ever since leaving Tarvallion. It perhaps helped that Josiri was an old hand at insurrection.
“And your sister? If that’s who she is?”
“It’s Calenne.” Firm words lacked firm tone.
“You’re certain?”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to learn from my mistakes.”
“And if this is another?”
“Calenne or not, she deserves our protection until she proves unworthy. But it’s her. I won’t let her down again.”
Sevaka nodded, humbled. Where Viktor’s certainty had appalled, Josiri’s offered up only quiet dignity. “What do we do now?” she murmured.
“What we always do: everything we can. Even if we don’t want to.” He shook his head. “I’ve sent heralds on swift horses. I doubt he’ll listen, but it had to be tried… if only to salve my conscience.”
“Maybe he’ll turn back.”
“Which will still leave us with the problem of what to do with him. Viktor’s gone too far, and we’ve no choice but to go further.” He rose. “Thank you for all you’ve done. We’ll discuss the next stage on my return.”
“Where are you going?”
“It’s better you don’t know.”
Sevaka frowned. “You sound like Viktor.”
“And isn’t that something? The more I try to be my own man, the more alike we become.”
Wreathed in bitter laughter, he walked away.
When no one answered Altiris’ diffident knock, he eased open the door and slipped into the gloom. He’d expected sparseness of furnishings and possession, and in this wasn’t disappointed. But what was there were far finer than
he’d ever have imagined. A row of unblemished books sat atop a hatchwork-veneered dresser. The wardrobe was the same, the swirling golds and silvers set in the dark timber more delicate than anything else in the house. Even in the thin glow of a hooded lantern, the mirror gleamed.
And one last detail, a statuette of Lumestra and Lunastra entwined in embrace, spoke to a spirituality unsuspected, and certainly never given voice. Vladama Kurkas, born to the vranakin and reared in the gutter, held hidden treasures close. Altiris felt like an intruder, uninvited and unwanted.
Not that Kurkas was in any position to offer invitation. He wasn’t in a position to offer much of anything. Shallow, fitful breaths barely stirred the sheets nor parted his lips.
“How is he?” Altiris whispered.
Anastacia sat still as a statue at the bedside, head bowed and Kurkas’ hand in hers. “Too much blood lost and too many years behind, the physicians say. Sidara could help him. I could help him, had I ever bothered to learn how.”
Altiris swallowed a rush of sorrow. “If I ever see Constans again, I’ll break his neck.”
“You might as well snap mine alongside,” murmured Anastacia. “I should have been there.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” The old Anastacia – the plant pot in body as well as name – might well have done so, but not the mortal creature she’d become. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it? The whole time I was bound to the clay, I prayed to my mother, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. I begged to be restored to flesh. To live among those I love, not as some distant, deathless observer, but as one of you. And perhaps she did hear me, after all. Perhaps she’s not as dead as I believed, for my dearest wish was granted. But ever since, I’ve wallowed in selfishness and sensation. Revelling in what was once forbidden and thinking of nothing but my own delight. Now this irritating, irreverent, bewildering…” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, stared at it and scowled. “Don’t tell me I couldn’t have made a difference. I should have found a way.”
Altiris moved to stand behind Anastacia and laid a hesitant hand on her shoulder. So hard to imagine the unshakeable Lady Plant Pot begging for anything, much less of a deceased mother she so often claimed to hate. It made the confession poignant, and impossible to answer.
Warm fingers found his and held them tight. “I was better as a creature of stone.”
Ghosts hung heavy as ever to the walls of Silvane House, the brooding facade lent portent by slivers of moonlight as much as Josiri’s grim mood. Apara waited beyond the gate, her eyes clear but restless, and her face weary. She clung to the rambler’s staff as if it were her only support.
“She’s here. I’ve told her only that it’s urgent.”
Josiri sighed. Easier had the answer been otherwise. Or difficult in a different way. “And you?”
“I don’t know.” Her face creased. “I think… I think pieces of me are still missing.”
Josiri understood all too well. Knowing the cause of his broken memory had done nothing to restore that which he’d lost – which Viktor had taken. Even now, he tried not to think on it. The shame. The violation. He couldn’t afford anger, not tonight. “Are you coming in?”
“I need to be alone with the moon for a time. Call for me when you’re done.”
Josiri found the mansion door open in welcome, the treasures and trinkets within bereft of dust. The drawing room blazed with light and life where all else was cold and dark.
Melanna Saranal waited beside the fire. “Every time I see you, Josiri, you look worse.”
“Today I learned that my closest friend has betrayed me. A second has one foot in the mists, with the other soon to follow. Much of what I believed or have known is under siege. However I look, I feel far worse.”
“It’s the way of rule,” said Melanna. “Our triumphs are louder, but failures echo further. I’ve had reminder myself of late, and I’m determined to do better. Apara will have told you of the Eastshires?”
“After a fashion.”
Melanna stared at him strangely. “I ask no thanks, but I would have expected a little joy.”
She knew why he’d asked to speak with her. Not the whole of it, maybe not even some of it, but only a fool would have answered urgent summons and not conjured suspicions. Josiri, confronted again by the enormity of what he had to do, felt the words he’d intended to speak slip from his grasp.
“Better them than us,” he said instead. “That’s what someone told me today. As if an evil blow can be forgiven so long as it falls somewhere beyond sight.”
Melanna drew closer, her face crowded with concern. Fingertips brushed his arm, the lacquered nails shining in the firelight. “Josiri… What is it?”
There was no longer any choice. No escape from what he’d determined to do – what he had to do in order to live with himself. If he, like Apara, was to take back a piece of his soul.
“In his pursuit of victory, the Lord Protector has gone mad.”
Josiri spoke slowly, gaze averted. Easier to stare into the fire than Melanna’s eyes.
“Victory?” said Melanna. “He has no need. The Gwyraya Hadar offers you peace.”
“Viktor doesn’t want peace.” He forced the words out, faster and faster, for fear he’d lose the courage to speak. “He knows Tregard is undefended. He means to have an army of some seventeen thousand soldiers and mercenaries at your walls in two days. He seeks nothing less than Rhaled’s destruction.”
Melanna withdrew her hand, clenching her fingers to still their tremor. “Why are you telling me this, Josiri? What do you expect me to do?”
“As of this afternoon, I speak for a reconvened Privy Council. Viktor Droshna acts without our authority and without our protection. I urge you to safeguard your people.”
Even if those steps meant Viktor’s death. Or Izack’s. Or Sidara’s. Or any one of the thousands of men and women who marched beneath the Lord Protector’s banner.
She drew in a sharp breath, colour returning to her cheeks. “You still haven’t told me why.”
“Because I find I cannot sit idle while an evil blow falls elsewhere. Because you once made yourself a traitor to your people to save mine, and that debt cannot go unanswered.” He sighed. “Perhaps even because we might have been friends, had paths run but a little different.”
Exhausted, he turned away. A hand at his shoulder held him back.
“We are friends, Josiri. I think perhaps we always were. And as ever, you shame me with your generosity. In Ashana’s light, I swear I will not forget.”
Fifty-One
Melanna stared into her bedchamber’s fire and felt little of its warmth.
Two thousand warriors. That was all Cardivan’s treason had left her. Two thousand spears, salvaged from garrisons and Veteran’s Lodges, supplemented by old soldiers quartered in the city. Oh, there were others. Boys and girls old enough to lift a sword. But to hold Tregard’s wall against Tressian soldiers? To keep to their courage when the air screamed with stone and fire, and blood’s sour tang tainted every breath?
Melanna bit back a flash of anger at Apara, without whom Droshna would not have known Tregard’s weakness until it had passed. It wasn’t her fault, though what words of consolation Apara had tolerated had little eased her torment. Melanna could scarcely conceive having another pick apart her thoughts. The most complete of degradations, and all the worse for being a long-held nightmare made real. Better that Apara had returned to Tressia with her sister and Josiri. She was safer from Droshna there than in Tregard.
Two thousands to meet Droshna’s seventeen. The city walls worked in her favour, of course. But only until they were breached, and Melanna had respect enough for Tressian siege-craft to know that was a matter of days at most. And they’d be hard days indeed.
Had Aeldran already returned, it might have been different. He’d ridden south with three thousand spears, and headed home with many of those freed from watching the border at Mergadir. Perhaps
five in all. Combined with those already in Tregard, it was enough to match Droshna’s Thrakkian rabble and unblooded conscripts – certainly enough to make any siege a grim prospect for the attacker. But Aeldran remained at least two days distant. If Josiri’s estimate was correct, Droshna would round Fellhallow’s southern extent and cross the western border no later than the coming noon.
How quickly joy turned to dust. Two days to rejoice in a throne secured, and now imperilled worse than before. Two days since Tregard had risen to save its Empress, and now that same Empress was powerless to save them in return. She’d overcome the troubles of the past with a drawn sword and the defiance of her forefathers. Neither would serve here, save to salve aching pride.
Should she then surrender? Offer generous terms and yield holdings? Melanna shook her head in angry dismissal. To capitulate was to invite disaster as certain as the one offered by siege. No Empire could prosper beneath a rule so chastened.
Then what?
Leaving the bedchamber’s warmth behind, Melanna exited onto the balcony and gazed up at the moon. The sight offered scant comfort, its light as distant as Ashana’s aid. Would the Goddess come if she called? If she did, what then? In offering aid, Ashana broke her bargain with Jack, leaving Melanna his to claim. Did a Bride of Fellhallow offer more salvation than a dead Empress?
But something more held Melanna back from offering prayer. On the one hand, a nation saved and an adopted daughter lost to Jack. On the other, that same daughter dead, and thousands with her. How could Melanna ask Ashana to make that choice and yet claim to love her as a daughter should?