by Matthew Ward
“She is a familiar for Lord Droshna’s influence,” Zephan replied stiffly.
“Nonsense. Viktor never needed that. It’s what makes him so dangerous.”
“The archimandrite says otherwise.”
“Why of course he does.” Standing upright, she began a graceful descent. “Calenne’s no more a demon than I am. Perhaps you should take me too… if you think you can.”
Josiri gaped, horrified. “Ana—”
“Quiet, dear. We’re learning so much.” Daylight blazed into being about Anastacia’s bunched fist. It flickered, scattering almost at once. She held Zephan’s gaze, defiant, as though it had only been a warning. But the slight sag of her shoulders didn’t escape Josiri, nor did the fact that the knuckles of her other hand were white where it gripped the banister. As in her duel with Tzila, what magic she’d possessed as a serathi spirit refused to heed a mortal woman’s call. “How far do you want to take this, Master Tanor?”
Zephan met her gaze head on. “It’s already gone too far. But I know my duty.”
Josiri wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. “She’s not a demon. Why won’t you listen?”
“You know how this city works,” Zephan bit out. “If I leave in failure, it won’t be the end of the matter. Your stubbornness will damn you. Others will come, and they’ll not be gentle. How many more would you have die to save a demon’s life?”
Arms thrust at his sides and voice breaking, Josiri advanced once more. “If you want my sister, you’ll have to take me also.”
“And me,” said Anastacia, the words as solemn as they were unexpected. “And I will not go quietly.”
“Lady Orova,” Zephan said tersely. “Do you stand with the Council, or with them?”
Sevaka hung her head. “What you’re doing is no different to what Viktor did to my sister. Can’t you see that? How quickly this city makes us into those we abhor.” Sighing, she raised her eyes to meet his. “I’m with them. As you should be. A shield, not a sword. Isn’t that the Essamere way?”
“I’m trying to be a shield. Can’t you see that?”
[[Is no one to ask my opinion?]]
Intent chimed loud beneath Calenne’s question. She stood motionless at the heart of the sword-ring, eyes downcast and hands looped at her waist.
[[When the time comes, don’t fight it,]] she murmured. [[He knew.]]
“Who knew?” asked Josiri. “Viktor?”
[[The Raven. He told me that if I insisted on staying here, I’d put others at risk.]] She met Josiri’s gaze, smoky eyes blazing with emotion in a cold, expressionless face. [[I can’t allow that.]]
The Raven? Josiri glanced about, for a moment believing he might catch a glimpse of the Keeper of the Dead. “No!”
[[I won’t let you die for me. Not when I’m already dead.]]
Eyes filling with tears, he stepped closer. “Don’t do this. We’ll find a way.”
[[Ever since I returned, I’ve had visions of fire. I thought they belonged to the past, but perhaps they were prophecy.]] She laid a hand on his arm. [[You need to let me go. Viktor never could, and it’s led him into wickedness. Don’t make the same mistake.]]
Heart aching, Josiri flung his arms about her. The doll’s body seemed colder and smaller than ever. “I won’t let them take you.” The words scraped at a ragged, ashen throat.
Calenne returned the embrace with fearsome strength. [[These last few days have been a gift – a chance to see who you’ve become. I love you. I’m proud of you. Never forget that.]] She glanced up at the stairs. [[Look after him… demon.]] The last was spoken with wry inflection.
Anastacia nodded. “To my last breath.”
“Take her!” said Tanor.
Knights pressed forward. Hands dragged them apart.
“Calenne!”
Josiri’s struggles earned him a cuff about the head. When his vision cleared, Calenne stood on Stonecrest’s threshold, silver shackles about her wrists and two knights to either side. Others shepherded Brass, Sevaka and Anastacia towards the drawing room.
“Don’t let them leave. I’ll send word when it’s done.” Zephan donned his helm. “I’m sorry, Lord Trelan. This has to happen. It’s—”
“Necessary?” What Josiri had intended as bleak laughter stuttered to a raw, rattling moan. “Sevaka’s right. You’ve more in common with Viktor than you think. At least take me with you. She shouldn’t face this alone.”
“And risk you fomenting the crowds to mischief?”
Josiri stared towards the door. Calenne was mere paces away, but beyond reach of anything save words. Speech came haltingly, overwhelmed by the racing emotions that sucked away his breath, and set the world shuddering. Exhausted from sleepless nights and the horror of the present, Josiri felt words disintegrate even as he sought them, crushed by the invisible fist closing about his heart. But if ever there was a time for stubbornness, it was now.
“I love you, little sister,” he gasped. “I’ll look for you come Third Dawn.”
For a moment, she stood framed in the morning sunlight, no longer the creature of cold clay and falsehood who’d re-entered his life, but Calenne as Josiri remembered her, with unruly black hair and sparkling sapphire eyes.
Then the door slammed, and she was gone.
“… and only by casting out the Dark in our midst can we move forward into light.”
Archimandrite Jezek had a long way to go before being remembered fondly as a public speaker, Altiris decided. The reedy, uncertain voice and tediousness of the sermon were only part of it. The man looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, which was atop a small scaffold hurriedly erected at the crest of Sinner’s Mile, well beyond the hayadra trees, but close enough to draw association from the holy site.
But for all that, Jezek had the crowd’s rapt attention. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe, like Altiris, their eyes were drawn to the ghoulish presence of the wagon within the ring of King’s Blue shields. No longer covered, the wagon’s bounty of kindling and timber lay revealed beneath the morning sun. Even from fifty yards back, its purpose stood plain. To erase all doubt, a lone serene stood beside a lit brazier, unlit torch in hand.
“It’s the Lord Protector,” he muttered. “They’re really going to burn him.”
He’d not witnessed a burning since leaving Selann. Indeed, there hadn’t been one in the city for many years – decades, if those attempted by Ebigail Kiradin were discounted. And yet Altiris felt no stirring of sympathy. After Silverway Dock, Calenne and the revelations of what he’d done to Lord Trelan, Lord Droshna deserved his fate.
Viara shuddered. “I don’t believe it.”
He nodded at the wagon, and the lone, upright stake at its heart. “You think they’ve gathered all that for nothing?”
Toward the crest, the crowd shrank back, voices raised to the heckle and jeer. A column of Essamere knights marched into sight, their grandmaster at their fore. And at their heart, head held high and unflinching before the crowd’s disdain…?
“No…” breathed Altiris. “This isn’t right.”
“A demon stands in our midst,” shouted Jezek, the words cutting above the tramp of boots and the crowd’s tumult. “To spare its victims, we send it to the fire.”
Calenne, a demon? Altiris didn’t believe it for a moment. She was a Trelan. A Phoenix. As he was a Phoenix. And where was Lord Trelan? Did he even know what was happening?
“Out of my way!” Leaving Viara behind, Altiris threaded his way through the crowd, picking up speed with every step. “In the First Councillor’s name, clear the way!”
“Altiris!” Viara grabbed at him. He pulled free and kept moving. “Lieutenant!”
He was halfway to the ring of shields when Calenne reached the wagon. Jezek at last fell silent. A choir of serenes struck up a dirge, beautiful voices raised in mournful song.
“Let her go!” bellowed Altiris.
A constabulary sergeant blocked his path. “You’ve no authority here, Phoenix.”
Altiris swung. The sergeant dropped, his helmet bouncing across the cobbles. Ignoring the crowd’s sudden outrage, Altiris lowered his shoulder to a join between two shields. A bone-jarring impact, and he was through, the dirge faltering as serenes scattered. He ran for the wagon.
Fresh shields barred his path. Not the King’s Blue of the conscript army, but Essamere green.
“Give it up!” bellowed Grandmaster Tanor. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Shields rushed in, not as a line, but a noose. Wherever Altiris turned, another barred his path. In moments, they had him pinned in a circle of steel – unable to move, let alone draw his sword. He punched and kicked. Shields shuddered, but held.
Throat thick with despair, he looked up at the wagon, where Calenne was now bound to the stake, the skirts of her dress pooled across kindling. “I’m sorry!”
The expressionless face gazed down, dark eyes swirling.
[[This isn’t your fault. This isn’t your moment.]] She tilted her head in what might have been amusement, though Altiris couldn’t see how. [[And what else can one expect from northwealders, anyway?]]
So saying, Calenne twisted as much as her bindings would allow and glared at Jezek. Startled, the archimandrite lost his grip on his sceptre of office, which tumbled into the crowd.
[[Well?]] she snapped. [[Get it over with!]]
The lone serene thrust her torch into the brazier. The fire lit at once, the thick, bitter aroma of oils and alchemist’s powder dancing on the breeze. Step by solemn step, she advanced on the wagon.
Viktor didn’t recognise the fire’s significance at first. Just another flicker of light, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. Only as it grew did it claim his attention – the hungry, leaping tongues at the top of Sinner’s Mile clearly visible from the clocktower’s newly barred window. Shoulders pricking, he rose from the chair and drew as close to the window as the chain permitted. Close enough to see the speck of darkness at the flames’ distant heart.
A burning. The fate Josiri had warned would be his, now delivered upon another.
“No!”
He turned his attention to the door, to the knights waiting beyond. “Set me free! I beg you! I can’t let her die! Not again!”
No response came.
Overcome by fury, Viktor hauled at the chain. He kicked and hammered at the eyebolt. He braced his feet against the floor and heaved until the shackles dug into his flesh and blood slicked his wrists. He heard himself howling, keening, and fought all the harder, letting the pain feed his frenzy.
Again and again, he strained, until muscles ached and mangled wrists screamed. The madness of methodicality, all the time pleading silently to any deity who’d listen that the chain might shatter. That his shadow might tear free of silver. That he might yet save Calenne from her tormentors.
His world shrank almost to nothing, bounded only by the fire on the hill, and the hollow, hammering wrath that strove against the chain.
And somewhere along the line, the tiniest of pressures in his thoughts – one so small Viktor had never before paid it any heed – winked out, and left only darkness.
Its vanishing did what pain and weariness could not, sent his madness howling away and left cold, trembling clarity. Shaking head to foot, he collapsed into the chair, tearful gaze fixed on the crest of Sinner’s Mile and its dying flames.
Calenne was gone. The one person he’d sworn never to fail, dragged to the flames. Despite Josiri’s claims of fairness. Despite his promise of protection. And for what? To punish him? The cruelty of petty men and women, unable to grasp what truly mattered, consumed by jealousy of those who could. The eastern border was threatened anew by an alliance between the shadowthorns and the forest demons of Fellhallow, and how did they respond? By snarling and howling like rabid dogs, snapping at any who might save them. Preying upon one another because they knew no other way.
And now Calenne was dead. Calenne, who’d feared him for a monster, but loved him for the man. Calenne, to whom he’d long ago given the best part of himself, and had perished anew with it in her keeping.
The man had tried to play game of whispers and bargains that ruled Tressia – ruled the world entire. But the other players hadn’t heeded the man, not even those who claimed kinship. They’d lied to him. Betrayed him. And before the end – perhaps even that very day – they’d render him as ash on the wind.
Josiri had accused him of never learning from the past. In that, at least, he’d been right. He’d been a fool to expect better from his peers. The Republic had only ever grown weeds and treachery.
Viktor started as something heavy fell against the door. A wet scream followed close behind. A scrape of steel on steel, and the dull rush of a dying breath.
He scrambled to his feet as the door opened. A knight’s corpse toppled across the threshold. Others lay unmoving on the stairs. With a whisper of steel, Tzila returned her sabres to their scabbards and offered a low bow.
Viktor pinched his eyes shut at the grim humour of the rescue’s timing. Too late to save Calenne, but perhaps not too late for everything. “Free me.”
So swollen was his throat, he barely recognised his own words, but Tzila nodded and set about searching the bodies. The key swiftly found, she twisted his shackles open and hurled them away. Freed of the silver, Viktor’s shadow came howling back, the flaring of pain as it overcame Anastacia’s runework sharp, but brief. With it came fresh sense of purpose. Josiri and the others… They’d sought to break him. They’d failed. They’d always fail.
[[We should go,]] said Tzila. [[Someone might have heard.]]
Viktor stared at the featureless sallet helm. She’d never spoken before. He even caught a hint of Revekah Halvor’s southwealder accent. A sign that her creation was not as flawed as he’d feared? A slim hope when set against all else, but a hope it remained… and perhaps a promise that matters could yet be set right, if he had the strength.
“We’ll leave the city. At least for now.” Viktor glanced again towards the spent pyre, resolve burning in his broken heart. The man had failed. If it took the monster to save Tressia from itself, so be it. “But first, I need to find something.”
Calenne awoke into mist, at once lighter and heavier. But even that recollection was distant, dreamlike. An after-image of fire and a jeering crowd. Fragmented just enough to tantalise and frustrate.
She stared down at outspread hands. No longer cold clay, but not quite flesh. Pallid, translucent, their small motions trailing vapour into mist. It all felt so familiar, though she couldn’t say why. Nor why it troubled her so. A part of her felt at ease, even while the rest screamed.
The mists receded. A cobbled street faded into view. Jettied eaves and narrow cottages. Like Eskavord, before the flames consumed it. As the flames had twice consumed her. Pale figures drifted beneath a green-grey sky, their bodies rippling to mist below the waist, all of them unaware or uncaring of her presence. All save one. He was dark where the others were pale, a feathered domino mask worn above a trimmed goatee, and a slender cane perfect accompaniment to tailcoat and high-crowned hat.
“Welcome home, Miss Trelan,” said the Raven.
Fifty-Eight
Altiris returned to Stonecrest heartsick and weary, the failures of the morning exacerbated by time held in custody at the Sinner’s Mile watch house and the long walk back. The morning sunshine was but a memory, lost behind black skies and torrential rain driven nearly horizontal by a ferocious Dawn Wind. Streets emptied of people were already full of broken branches and shattered tiles. If Calenne’s burning had been intended to please Lumestra, it had surely failed.
Run-off pattered on the tiles as he peeled off the rain-sodden cloak, the warmth from the hallway hearth prickling welcome across his skin.
Anastacia rushed to greet him, subdued tone as rare as her embrace. “Altiris?”
“I tried to save her,” he stuttered. “You have to believe me.”
“Viara told me everything.” Green e
yes met his, the compassion welling behind rarer even than the embrace. “It’s not your fault.”
Altiris almost believed her. The benefit, he supposed, of seeking solace from a serathi, however transformed. It was no consolation at all that Calenne wouldn’t have felt the flames. “Lord Trelan, is he—”
“Josiri’s sleeping. I asked Adbert’s wife to mix something to keep him that way.” No one but Anastacia used Brass’ loathed first name. No one else dared. “After everything that’s happened, he needs time away from the world.”
Scowling, she turned away and stared into the hearth.
“It never gets any easier,” she said. “Ephemerals are so stupid. So ready to lash out at what they don’t understand… Present company excepted. And I’m no better.”
Altiris stepped closer, wincing as water trickled down his neck. “That’s not true.”
She glanced back to offer full benefit of an eye roll. “Save the flattery for Sidara. I know what I am. All the time we were together at Branghall, I treated Calenne like a child, and in the end she went to her death so nobly. I don’t know that I could do that. Calenne. Revekah. Izack. Malachi. That shrew Lilyana. Maybe even Vladama, if his fever returns. Everyone around me dies, Altiris, and my first thought is always for myself. I’m supposed to be better than that.”
“Has there been any word of Sidara?”
“She’s not at Ahrad. Sevaka sent a herald. None of the Drazina are. But an army can’t hide for ever. Someone will send word.” She offered a small smile. “She’s alive.”
“Assuming Lord Droshna’s word can be trusted.”
“Now, more than ever, Viktor’s promises are nothing to me. But I’d know if it were otherwise. So would you. The piece of herself she left with you would tell you.”
The echo of the magic with which she’d once saved his life. That had shielded him from Kasvin’s domination. “I hope you’re right.”