by Matthew Ward
Colour returned to Sidara’s cheeks. “I couldn’t control it. Freed, it did precisely as it wished and carried me alongside. I was everywhere, a piece of me in every tongue of flame. I felt the forest-demons wither and burn in my grasp. The dying slipped into Otherworld at my caress.” She spoke faster and faster, maudlin tone yielding to reflected exhilaration. “So perfect. So beautiful.”
Breathless, she shuddered and shrank inwards.
“I felt myself slipping away, and Lumestra help me, I wanted to. I longed to run for ever across the hillside, and live within the light. I’ve never felt such desire, and dared not trust it. So I sought reprieve in a phrase Altiris clung to in the dark times on Selann. They bound me back to him, and through him to the world.” She splayed her hands between them, light glimmering from fingertip. “I’ve felt empty ever since.”
Stifling discomfort awoken by her light, Viktor closed his hands about hers. Had he misread her mood as he had her words? She’d sent the mortally wounded on their way. A necessary kindness, though doubtless burdensome in aftermath. And if that were so, was she seeking absolution, or permission? Viktor more than any knew the lure of glimpsing a secret one unwittingly concealed from oneself… the temptation of learning more.
“What would you have me say?” he murmured.
“Tell me how to control the magic,” she pleaded. “How you control it.”
He winced. “You’d do better to ask Anastacia.”
“Ana isn’t here.” She gazed up. “I wear this uniform to save lives. I want folk to look to me for safety.”
“And you brought it when I could not.”
“I killed our own!”
“You brought them mercy.”
“I should have brought them life!” Breath rattling in her throat, she broke off. “For that, I have to learn what is possible, and what is not. Even if I risk losing myself to the light.”
Her words struck a chord, the resonance of a kindred spirit. Sidara teetered on the brink of the same despair he’d felt many times. Kinship demanded he do all he could.
“I cannot teach you to control the light,” he said. “It and I are too different. But I have it within me to share a portion of my shadow. That I could teach you to control, and through those lessons offer insight elsewhere.”
Sidara drew her hands free, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know… I don’t… Your shadow?”
Reticence was to be expected. His shadow was of the Dark, and the Dark’s reputation was less than savoury. “It’s a weapon, as your light is a weapon. One to be bent to purpose, and sorely needed.” Seeing that his words found little purchase, he sought another tack. “It has been the making of your brother.”
“Constans?” She gaped. “Constans has magic?”
Was that anger? Surprise? Jealousy? Perhaps a little of all. Having no blood siblings of his own, Viktor poorly understood the paradoxes of love and envy that bound them. “A piece only. The mastering of it taught him discipline.” He offered a thin smile. “You must admit, it was a lesson sorely needed. I was glad to offer it.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I asked him to keep it hidden.”
“Another lesson in discipline?”
“In part. But you know the power of superstition. It distorts perception, and your brother is already perceived unfavourably enough.”
“That’s true…” Sidara shook her head. “I can’t, Viktor. I’m sorry.”
“You came to me for help. This is all I can offer.”
“And I’m grateful, but the light writhes in your shadow’s presence. Carrying a piece of it within me – I fear the two would tear me apart in quarrel.”
So she was sometimes as discomfited in his company as he was hers? But sought his company and counsel regardless? Malachi would have been proud of her. “I’ve faith that you’d master them.”
She offered a wan smile. “I don’t. So it seems I must find another way.”
Viktor was struck by temptation to make the decision for her, or else smother her objections in shadow and seek forgiveness after. There was so much at stake. Not just Sidara’s sanity, but an Eastshires whose liberation would mean nothing if it could not be defended against Fellhallow’s malice. Sidara’s light was a weapon, and one that had proved itself more apt to the task than shadow. With the Republic in the balance, how could he even hesitate? Especially with that particular, peculiar note in her voice. One that betrayed curiosity… perhaps even yearning.
But hesitate Viktor did, weighed down by the lesson of Izack’s death. He’d erred too much and others had paid the price. Trust was a mirror: unoffered, it could never be returned. Sidara’s choices had to remain her own.
“As you wish.”
The palace throne room, so austere and seemly in the cold light of day, was entirely other when furnished for banquet. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat wafted between tables already stained with grease and scraps. Goblets chimed a hundred toasts. Drunken cries from men and women gave voice to a hundred more. A time for warriors to indulge – a celebration mirrored in every street.
Melanna had witnessed it first as a girl, sneaking glimpses through door-cracks and spyholes, marvelling at the transformation of stone-faced warriors to wild rogues. Later she’d done so as a princessa at her father’s side, unwanted and ill-regarded by so many. As Empress, she’d held aloof, indulging sparingly and comporting herself as a ruler should.
Not that night.
As soon as Kaila was banished to their private quarters, she left High Table – and the empty seat that should have been Aeldran’s; the place that had been set for Orova as manners demanded, but remained unfilled as expectation allowed – and gave herself to the merriment. Jorcari an ever-present shadow, she moved from table to table, joining warriors and chieftains in mirth and toast. Most welcomed her with wary eyes, fearing a joke at their expense. They relaxed readily, her soft smiles and softer words aided by wine and mead partaken. As it had been for her father, so it was for Melanna. Welcome it was, for it banished the day’s lingering fears.
And perhaps she’d indulged wine more than intended. For as midnight approached and tables were dragged away to clear a dancer’s ring about the central fire, Melanna found herself among the blur of faces and wine-soured air, breathless as the reel quickened pace. She welcomed the ache and the giddiness. And if there were those who saw the woman first, and Empress but regretfully, she welcomed that too.
The great door boomed beneath a fist’s strike. A blare of trumpets silenced fiddle and pipe. The double leaves swung inwards. Golden gleamed in the gloom, betraying warriors not in the soft silks of banquet, but the battlefield’s scales. They strode into the firelight, befuddled souls clearing a space before them. Low murmur rose to a growl.
“I’ve ridden hard for this?” Aeldran’s voice boomed through the sudden silence. “I thought to find Tregard besieged or ablaze, and instead I find my Empress cavorting with our warriors!”
Melanna’s dance partner – a minor prince of Illacar whose smile had been rather more pleasing than his club-footed steps – shrank away. Freed, Melanna faced Aeldran square on across the thinning crowd. “And this troubles you, essavir?”
Frown gave way to a smile. “Only if I’m unwelcome.”
She extended her left hand, twitching as the banished itch returned full force. “Your place is here. Will you not claim it?”
The growl became a cheer. Aeldran strode forward, the warriors at his back claiming seats and goblets forsaken. Others readily made room, at last marking what Melanna had seen from the start – that not one carried a blade.
Aeldran took Melanna’s hand and made to kneel. Raising him up, she kissed him full on the lips and grinned at his surprise. The fondness of the absent heart or of wine taken? She knew not, and cared little. Only that his return had restored a piece of her also.
The music began anew, the revels of the dancers offering the strange privacy of the crowd.
Aeldran’
s fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tracing a fading scar earned during the battle for Tregard. “You are well, essavim? I have news from Incalia Tiranal, should you wish to hear it.”
Cardivan’s niece? “Is it good?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Then it will wait.”
As servants fetched vittles for the newcomers, Melanna led her consort away through the dancers, and left the throne room behind.
The newcomer arrived as dusk fell, passing through Commander Tallar’s picket lines and reaching Viktor’s tent without voice raised or challenge given. That alone would have been cause for concern. Viktor tolerated circumvention of military protocol poorly at the best of times, and with his mood growing steadily darker as reports tallied the full cost of the disaster at Argatha Bridge, gave no quarter in remonstration.
Or rather, such had been his intent. Horrific news all but erased his distaste for the bearer’s conduct. Sending a herald for Sidara, Viktor lost himself in contemplation of a world shifting into a new and decidedly unwelcome configuration. He barely noticed her arrival, aspect neater than at their previous meeting, but expression guarded.
“You sent for me, Uncle?”
He beckoned her inside the tent and gestured for her to sit opposite the table that served as his desk. “I’ve had word from Tressia. It appears I have been deposed.”
Even now, it took every scrap of self-control to pretend reason when every instinct called him to rage. Every scrap, and still not enough.
Sidara flinched as the shadows deepened around her. “I don’t understand.”
The corner’s gloom shifted as Constans at last deigned to reveal himself. Sidara started in alarm, then returned his flowery bow with a scowl.
“Is that all? I expected at least a little panic.” Constans shot Viktor a knowing look. “Oh, I see how it is. Someone’s been giving away my secrets.”
Viktor ignored him. “Josiri’s new council is remaking the city in its image – which explains the orders we received yesterday morn. The Drazina I charged with keeping order have been detained or killed by the traitors of Essamere. Tzila is missing. I expect to be summoned to account for my actions before dawn rises, if an assassin’s blade doesn’t find me first… We know all too well the company Governor Orova keeps,” he finished bitterly.
Sidara sprang to her feet, her face taut. “What about Ana? Josiri…?” She swallowed, an edge creeping into her voice. “Altiris?”
“Ana and Josiri are well enough, I imagine,” said Constans. “Josiri is after all the architect of these woes.”
“No!” Viktor shook his head and fought again for calm. “I cannot accept that. He is used, perhaps. A figurehead for others. We’ve quarrelled much of late, and I’ve given him little reason to trust me. His part in this arises from misunderstanding, nothing more.”
Constans offered a disbelieving sigh. “Open your eyes, Father! He’s at the very heart of it. He—”
“Enough!” Viktor bellowed.
He upended the table, spilling candles and papers across the floor. Ice crackled across timber uprights and the surviving candelabra. His shadow’s cold stole the air from his lungs.
Constans stumbled away, face pale.
Sidara sprang to her feet, her composure badly shaken. “Altiris! What has become of him?”
Viktor returned Constans’ enquiring glance with a heavy-hearted nod. The news would only fester with delay.
“I’m sorry, dear sister,” said Constans, his brow furrowed in sympathy. “He died when Essamere stormed the palace. His last words were that I should flee the city before it was too late. He stayed true to Tressia – to the Lord Protector – to the last. It was humbling to see.”
Her face fell. “What…? No.” Sidara stumbled, hand grasping blindly for the chair’s support. She missed her footing, but Constans darted forward and steadied her, one hand at her shoulder and another at her elbow. “You’re lying. You always lie to me…”
Pulling away, she collapsed in the chair, head in her hands and straggled golden hair streaming past her fingers.
Viktor’s wrath shrank in abeyance at sorrow so close to his own. Constans had offered no word of Calenne, save that she’d been taken to Josiri’s keeping. It was Viktor’s most fervent hope that she’d find no harm there, but guarantees were fast becoming a thing of wild imagining. What a fool he’d been to hold silent of her return.
Kneeling, he struggled for words to salve Sidara’s pain, and his own fears. None came.
“He was example to us all,” murmured Constans. “I’d just come around to liking him, too.”
Something in his tone struck Viktor as amiss. But then neither solemnity nor loss came readily to the lad. To hear both at once was sure to carry strangely.
Sidara’s head snapped up. Red-rimmed, golden eyes held no tears. Only a fury that turned Viktor’s blood to ice. “This can’t go unanswered.”
“It won’t,” rumbled Viktor. “I’d intended to oversee Ahrad’s capture and refortification, but what use is it looking to the Republic’s armour if its heart is rotten?”
She blinked. “You mean to march on the city?”
“With what? The army is gone and I’ve spent five years making Tressia impregnable. Even if I strip Ahrad’s siege lines of every soldier, I’d not have a tenth of what I needed. But I must see for myself what has been done. Perhaps this is all a tragic misunderstanding, and the situation recoverable without bloodshed.”
“And if not?” asked Constans.
“It will not be the first time I’ve stepped alone into the enemy’s maw.”
“I’m coming with you.” Golden eyes brooked no argument. “I’ll see Altiris’ killers brought to account.”
Her tone left nothing of the nature of that accounting to Viktor’s imagination. “No. I’ll not place us all in the noose. The siege remains in Commander Tallar’s care. Leave the surviving kraikons and simarka to ensure it remains so, but take what Drazina remain and head to Castle Prangav, in the Heartweald. Both of you.” Viktor glanced up at Constans and received a reluctant nod in reply. “Wait there until I send word.”
“And if no word comes?” asked Constans.
“Then I am likely dead, or a prisoner, and the Republic will need you free.”
“I won’t let you do this,” Sidara bit out.
Viktor let friendliness fall away. “You will, because it is not your uncle who asks, but the Lord Protector to whom you swore an oath who commands.”
She stood, rigid and unflinching. “Yes, my lord.”
Viktor nodded, proud. Josiri had wanted to keep her from war? He’d been a fool. Or perhaps that too had been part of so far-reaching scheme only now revealed? “I won’t lie. There may yet be the darkest of days ahead. They might ask of us that which we do not wish to give. But I promise you that this will pass, and we shall see justice done.”
Sidara made to leave but halted at the tent flaps, the tears in her heart at last present in her eyes. “Your offer… Would you share your shadow with me?”
He regarded her, pleased and wary at the change of heart. “What of your concern it would make poor companion for your light?”
The corner of her mouth twisted. Her gaze left his to contemplate unseen eternities. “The world is different now. I have to be different too. More than ever, I need to be in control.”
Viktor waved at Constans. “Leave us.”
The boy scowled, but obeyed, leaving them alone in flickering candlelight.
“You’re certain of this?” Viktor scried Sidara’s face for a trace of doubt, but her expression was a mask. “There may be pain, if it works at all.”
“Then better now, when I’m numb to so much.”
He nodded. “Take my hands.”
After brief hesitation, she obeyed, her thin fingers smooth against his calloused palms. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes and let his shadow flow between them.
Sidara whimpered, but snarled the weakness away. Viktor’s sh
adow hissed reluctance, but he drove it on, deeper – down through the radiant glory of her soul, aiming ever for her heart.
Drowning in sunlight, his shadow howled displeasure. So different to when he’d done the same for Constans, for whom it had been more like the tether with which he’d once bound Apara Rann. Painless. Immediate. Irreversible.
This was more akin to exorcism of Rosa upon Govanna Field, where he’d cast out the Raven’s blight and restored her to sanity. But even that was poor comparison. The Raven’s mists had parted readily, but not Sidara’s light. It fought, searing his shadow, the skin of his palms rising to blisters in sympathy. She’d been right, there could be no parity between the two. There could be only master and servant.
Again Sidara cried out. Her hands shifted against Viktor’s and tried to pull away. Fearing the shock of separation might doom the attempt for ever, he held her close and sent his shadow again to the fray.
The light retreated before his onslaught. On the brink of collapse, he wove a cage about it, as he had many times for his own shadow. Raging brilliance faded with freedom. One last flaring, and it was done.
Viktor opened his eyes as Sidara sank against him and lowered her gently to her knees.
“Can you hear me?” Worry set in when no answer came. The fear that he’d done more than he’d intended, and thus inflicted harm. “Sidara?”
Her hand tightened on his arm. Eyes fluttered open, golden irises fading to piercing blue, to inky, smoky black. “I can… feel it,” she gasped. “Moving around my soul. Talking to me.”
“And what does it say?”
“That I should listen to you, Uncle.”
Viktor’s shoulders sank in relief. Perhaps this would work, after all. “Good. Because you’ve much to learn, and little time in which to do so.”
The balcony was about as different from the throne room as it was possible to be. There, Melanna’s skin had sweltered in the close, fire-laden air. Here, the cold night rippled it to gooseflesh beneath her robes. Aeldran, now clad as simply as she, held the worst at bay through embrace, her disarrayed hair against his shoulder and his arms looped about her waist. Together they beheld the distant lights and laughter of the city proper, unremarked and unobserved.