by Matthew Ward
The channel lay full fathoms deep. Chance might wash the vranastone up on the shore, but a search of years would never uncover it. Even his shadow found no trace.
“No!” Lunging, he closed a flaking, charred hand about Anastacia’s throat and slammed her against the cliff. “What have you done?”
“It was never meant for this world,” she gasped. “The sea will keep it safe from you. It’ll keep the dead – and the living – safe from you.”
Viktor almost killed her in that moment. It would have taken almost no effort to snap Anastacia’s neck or cast her to the sea. The only thing that held him back was the certainty that for all her bravado, she was almost gone. A quick death – after all she’d stolen from him – was a gift undeserved. Robbed of the ability to grant life to the deserving, he could at least withhold mercy.
Stepping back, he dropped Anastacia to the path, and stalked back through the rain.
Altiris had barely taken a dozen steps down the coast path when a shadow loomed.
“Ana?”
He knew the answer even as he spoke. The shape was too tall, too bulky to mistake for Anastacia’s petite form. Hope had made him ask the question. Horror set him scrambling back as the rain parted and Viktor Droshna stood revealed.
Or what had once been Viktor Droshna.
All trace of the self-effacing man who’d joked at Midwintertide was gone, as too were the hero Altiris had sought to impress and the tyrant who’d loosed soldiers on Silverway Dock. His arms were charred to the elbow. Beyond that it was impossible to tell what was seared flesh and what was cloth. A cloak of living shadow writhed about his shoulders, its presence frosting the air even at a distance.
Altiris’ sword fell from his nerveless hand. He lost his footing as he scrambled away, and went the rest of the way on heels and palms as Droshna stalked closer. He yelped at the sudden shock of the cliff face at his back. Shadow flooded about him. Its cold lending bite to every breath, the emptiness of Droshna’s eyes tearing at fleeting sanity.
Altiris Trelan, who’d faced death so many times on Selann, in Dregmeet and in other places besides, knew with utter, heart-stopping certainty that the Raven hovered close.
Droshna walked on without a backward glance, shadows rippling and writhing behind.
Breath still stuttering with fear, Altiris somehow found his feet and pressed on through the rain. Droshna hadn’t had the vranastone, so perhaps Anastacia hadn’t come this way after all. Pinkish stains in the chalk told another story and he ran on, as much to put distance between him and the Dark-wreathed apparition as out of hope of finding Anastacia.
He found Anastacia at the path’s end, a limp bundle of flesh and cloth lying in the mud.
“Ana!”
He fell to his knees beside her and gathered her up in his arms. Cold to the touch. Almost as cold as the receding shadow. Bloodshot, sightless eyes blinked and found focus.
“Viktor…”
“I saw him,” he babbled. He’d been right to feel the Raven’s presence. But the Keeper of the Dead hadn’t come for him. “He walked right past me, as if I wasn’t worth the effort. I was too scared to follow.”
A bloodless lip twitched in approximation of a smile. Her fingers brushed his cheek. “Good boy. He’s always been a man on the edge. Not any more… but I’ve put the vranastone beyond his use. That will have to…” Her voice, already little more than a whisper, faded to nothing.
The panic of Droshna’s passing became something more urgent. “You should have waited.”
“Tell Josiri I’m sorry.” Her eyes fell closed. “Tell him there’ll always be a piece of me…”
Altiris took her hand. Squeezed it tight as if that alone could keep her from the mists. “Don’t go, Ana. Please.”
No answer came. Neither word, nor faltering breath.
Anastacia’s hand slipped from his, her body become shimmering golden dust before it fell. Its radiance drove out the cold, bathing grey cliffside in gentle sunlight.
Then a gust of wind bore it out to sea, and Altiris was alone.
Maladas, 17th Day of Dawntithe
What is tyranny, save unchallenged hubris?
from the sermons of Konor Belenzo
Fifty-Nine
Viktor’s spirits, already wandering dark places, sank further as he rode into the ruins of Castle Prangav. Like so many of the Republic’s bastions, Prangav’s heyday lay long in the past, its walls toppled during a ducal squabble, and its stones picked over by commoners seeking building materials. A fitting redoubt for a cause in disarray.
The wounds inflicted by Anastacia’s treachery were the least of Viktor’s worries. With his shadow knitted to his flesh, the pain from his burns was at distant ebb, and easily suppressed – save for when he peeled away his gloves and beheld the full horror beneath. But to pass among the campfires and tents of his surviving Drazina – men and women who’d stood by him first in defeat and now in exile? All looking to him for leadership and hope where he’d little of the one, and nothing at all of the other.
Tzila kept pace through the mud, her thoughts unreadable. Viktor envied her. For all his shadow’s talents, its embrace couldn’t numb him to mistakes made, and the bitter harvest yet to come.
“Watch the road,” he murmured. “If we’ve drawn curious eyes, put them out.”
[[Yes, lord. May I ask you something first?]]
Still strange to hear her speak. Could it be that the Raven was losing his grip? And was that to the good, or the bad? “Whatever you wish.”
[[I keep seeing things that aren’t there. A phoenix banner, bright beneath the sun. Faces I should know, but don’t recognise. Why?]]
Another new development, and worrying by its timing. Though prior discussions had perforce been one-sided, Tzila had never shown any awareness of her past. Should he tell her of the woman she’d been? He’d always sworn he would, if memories returned. The goal had been to welcome Revekah Halvor back to the living world; Tzila had been the necessary compromise. But now, with matters growing ever more dire? He was more reliant on her than ever.
“Pay them no mind,” he replied. “It’s weariness. It will pass.”
The sallet helm bobbed a nod. [[Yes, lord.]]
A tug on the reins and she rode away. Tireless. Unflinching. A reminder of the army that might have been, but for Anastacia’s interference.
“Viktor!”
Sidara met him at the overgrown steps of what had once been the keep, wisps of shadow trailing behind as she ran to greet him. Did that speak to control, or its lack? Constans hung back, arms folded, his expression a study in disinterest while his sister’s held only concern. Dismounting, Viktor surrendered to her embrace, their shadows bleeding together. He winced as cloth rubbed charred and blistered skin.
Blue eyes peered up at him. “What is it?”
If only she knew the complications tied to that question. Weary from the long ride, Viktor lacked the heart to tell her. “Nothing that cannot wait.”
Sidara nodded, contrite but unconvinced. “Of course.” She pursed her lips. “And the city? What did you find?”
He closed his eyes, drained by the act of recollection. “It is all as Constans warned. Josiri has betrayed us. The Republic is returning to old ways. Corruption and suspicion. Weakness celebrated as strength. Faithlessness as virtue.”
“Josiri really is a traitor?” Sidara’s disbelief echoed about their shared shadow.
“Yes.” Even now, it took effort not to weep. “He has abandoned everything for which he once stood. I was fortunate to escape with my life.”
The truth went deeper, of course. The explanation didn’t touch on the pursuit through Tressia’s streets. Of stolen horses ridden hard through the rain.
“And Ana?” She grew more urgent. “What of her?”
Opening his eyes, Viktor laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” His heart aching at Sidara’s crestfallen expression, he chose his next words with uttermost care lest their bond of shadow
undermine him. The lie was necessary. The truth – and any confrontation – would wait until she saw for herself how far the Republic had fallen. Then, she’d understand how Anastacia had forced his hand. “The Republic of laws I forged is gone. Now, superstition rules callow hearts. That superstition killed Anastacia.”
Her eyes rushed black, a glint of gold brief and barely seen. She stood to attention, expression hard and voice raw with loss. “What are your orders?”
Viktor took in the courtyard. The keep approach, empty on his arrival, was crowded with Drazina. Distant enough for privacy, but expectant, waiting. Even Constans yearned for something to cling to, for all he strove to conceal it. Viktor nodded to himself. Whatever losses he’d borne, responsibility remained. To those who followed him. To a stolen Republic. He couldn’t give up and remain the man he held himself to be.
Turning about, he stood as tall as injuries allowed and raised his voice to a shout. “All is as we feared! But we will fight on. This isn’t over!”
Quiet nods answered his declaration. Not the outpouring of defiance for which Viktor had hoped, but he supposed it was all he deserved. A foundation to build on, and he was thankful for it. But what next? His mind, numb with weariness, held no answer. No vranastone. A few hundred Drazina against a fortified city. An impossible campaign, some would have said. But not for Viktor Droshna, the man who couldn’t lose.
“I need to rest,” he told Sidara. “But we cannot stay here. Have everyone ready to march. Wake me when it’s done.”
She nodded, a tremor in her cheeks the only sign of the loss echoing beneath. “Where are we bound?”
Viktor grunted softly. In this, at least, only unvarnished truth would serve. “I don’t know. Perhaps to Indrigsval. Armund af Garna will give us shelter. Maybe even an army, if he sees profit in it.” And if tidings of Argatha Bridge had not already rusted Thrakkian mettle. “But I’ll need you more than ever in coming days…” He caught Constans looking at him. “… both of you.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Sidara replied. “I won’t let you down.”
She saluted and strode away into the encampment proper.
“Why do you favour her over me?” asked Constans, his voice thick with hurt.
“Because she needs to hear it more,” Viktor replied, careful that his words wouldn’t carry. “She lacks your certainty.”
“That’s not all she lacks. There was a fight yesterday. A petty quarrel over guard duty, of all things.” He sniffed. “Steel was drawn. Sidara used her shadow to break it up. Almost killed everyone involved.”
Did he disdain his sister’s lack of control, or her lack of resolve? It’d do no good to ask, and Viktor found he’d little patience for playing Constans’ games. “Tell me again how Altiris died.”
Constans dipped his head, a wry smile playing across his lips. “So I lied to her. What does it matter if we both got what we wanted? She’s properly part of our family now. A Droshna.” The smile became a grin. “And you lied about Anastacia. A knave knoweth falsehood’s chime, rung softly though it be.”
Viktor hoisted Constans off his feet by a fistful of shirt. “Anastacia is dead. She made the mistake of standing against me. Remember that.”
Constans nodded, his face pale. Already regretting the flash of temper, Viktor let him drop and went to find his tent.
Calenne wandered beneath a green-black sky. What colourless landmarks Otherworld offered dissolved and reshaped around her with every step. Cobbled streets gave way to flagstoned promenades or wooded dells without rhyme or reason, the old mingling and melding with the new or falling away into the green-white mists almost before they’d formed. Nor was there aught to indicate the passage of time, save the swirl of ghostly etravia spirits drifting endlessly about, forging onwards to unknown destinations. She might have walked for hours, days or barely at all; traversed untold miles, or a few hundred steps.
Recollection was less memory than dream… or nightmare. Sight and sound lacked definition. Reality, unquestioned in life and palpable even in the muted existence of clay – felt more like a lie woven for oneself. Even Calenne’s body – if a vaporous, translucent approximation could be called such – felt indistinct, diffuse. Her flesh, skin and bone no more real than her gown, and all of it bleeding steadily into mist.
Sighing frustration, she halted. Small tendrils of her being drifted onwards, borne by currents she couldn’t feel. “Where am I even trying to go?”
Nearby etravia offered no reply. They never spoke, nor registered her presence. If she blocked their path, they simply drifted through her. Did she appear any different to them? Was her own perception at fault? Had she even spoken, or merely thought she had? Was even now another adrift soul speaking to her, trying to elicit response? A crowd of strangers, all alone, unable to see or hear another’s efforts to reach them? Trapped until Third Dawn.
Calenne shuddered. Pure reflex, for she’d no skin to prickle, nor awareness of cold or heat. The motion sent more of her bleeding into the mists, her hands growing diffuse, her fingers streaming away like smoke in the wind.
With a flash of horror, Calenne reeled herself in, though without being at all aware of how she did so. Fading flesh regained wan colour and fingers their shape. She flexed them, and wondered how long she might keep herself whole. Or even if she wanted to. What point to such a dreadful, washed-out existence? She almost longed for the clay.
Almost.
At least here she was free, for whatever that freedom was worth. And at least her sacrifice had spared Josiri, Altiris… even Anastacia.
She glanced up, eyes drawn to a darkness she’d missed before. A black, spiralling stain reaching beyond skeletal branches and tiled rooftops, into a lurid sky. Unpleasant, perhaps, but difference – any difference – was good.
Calenne set off, the trees and buildings sinking back into mist as they always had. The stain remained. She strode on through fields and moorland, along winding streets and across the stones of a ruined wall, urgency growing with every step.
Until at last, in a formal garden, overgrown with black weeds, she reached the darkness’ source.
A pyre of furniture and fallen timber stood in the garden’s centre, ramshackle and uneven. So similar to the one that Calenne had lately occupied, and yet different. Lurid green flames graced its kindling, sending a rush of thick, black smoke spiralling above. And at the heart, a woman’s ghostly echo, wreathed in smoke, her face blackened and contorted in voiceless agony.
Calenne advanced through inattentive etravia, close enough now for recognition.
“Revekah,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?”
“They?” sniffed the Raven. “This isn’t my doing. This is your beloved Viktor’s work. The form of it, though? That’s all her. We see what her soul feels.”
He stood beside the pyre – though Calenne was certain he hadn’t before – hatted, coated and masked.
“He tried to bring her back to the living world,” she said. “You’re the one holding her here.”
He shrugged. “This is where she belongs. I’m well within my rights.”
Calenne stared at Revekah. She’d never known the other woman well, but to see her like this? Worse, that this would have been her own fate, had Viktor sought her first. She’d not felt the pyre’s heat, but read in Revekah’s torment every searing caress the clay had spared her.
“Does Viktor know?”
The Raven tapped his cane on the flagstones and tutted. “The question is, does he care?”
“Let her go. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Life is seldom about what we deserve. Why should death be different?” He stalked closer, scant friendliness falling away. “I am the wronged party, not her.”
“She’s the one suffering!” snapped Calenne.
“I wouldn’t let it bother you. You’ll be beyond such cares soon enough.” He seized Calenne’s hand and raised it between them, gloved fingers splayed against hers… only hers were scarcely recognisable
as such – pale traceries of downy mist, more memory than form. “Viktor gave you a reprieve, but you’re long overdue to move on.”
Horrified, Calenne drew herself back together. The Raven tilted his head, the corner of his goatee twitching. “Interesting.”
Snatching her hand away, Calenne sought leverage in half-forgotten stories. “What if I offer a trade? The gods love to bargain, don’t they?”
The Raven stepped away, his back to the pyre’s emerald flames. “Love is a word much overused.”
“So it’s pride?” said Calenne, voice thick with disgust. “For all your fine words, all your friendliness, you’re torturing her out of pride?”
The mists darkened to match the Raven’s sudden scowl. For all that he retained mortal guise, Calenne had the impression of a vast, bird-headed shape stretched against the skies.
“Don’t think to understand my motives!” he shouted. “Otherworld is my realm. It follows my rules. I will not be lectured by some scrap of upstart soul!”
Instinct demanded Calenne back away. Cower. Apologise. She overruled it all. Instinct belongs to the living, and she’d not been that for some time. And Trelans were stubborn. In the face of needless cruelty, doubly so. For the first time, she understood how her mother’s fire had burned so hot.
“You’re as bad as Viktor!”
The ground shook. Closing the distance between them, the Raven seized Calenne by the throat. Tendrils of her being rippled away as he tightened his grip.
“Maybe I am,” he snapped, the domino mask’s beak inches from her nose. “And if not, maybe I should be. But one thing is for certain, Miss Trelan: I need not answer to you.”
A shove, and Calenne fell, unravelling into the mists, ice beneath the sun. She tried to cry out, but found no voice. Sight and sound followed the words into the abyss, and memory, last of all.