by Matthew Ward
Yanda didn’t look like she had the matter well in hand. She stood beneath Katya Trelan’s portrait, about as far from Makrov as possible without implying disrespect.
“Enquiries have begun,” she said. “However, these weren’t disgruntled villagers, my lord, but self-made outcasts. And I need not remind you that there’s no shortage of hiding places out in the forests. I haven’t the soldiers to roust them all. Of course, if the Council were to strengthen the garrison . . .”
“The Council has greater concerns than reinforcing your failures, governor,” snapped Makrov. “Wolf’s-heads have family, friends. They rely on others for food, weapons and comfort. Choose a village. Make an example. Someone will talk. And as to what you can do, your grace? I expect you to denounce this assault in the strongest of terms as part of your noonday speech.”
Josiri suppressed a scowl. But at least Makrov had lost interest in Anastacia. There was always the possibility, however remote, that she might have let something unfortunate slip out. It wasn’t a question of loyalty, but of pride. Almost everything was.
“Are you certain that’s wise?” he asked.
“This was a provocation. A deliberate humiliation. I expect you to address it as such.”
This was safer ground, and a battle Josiri had prepared for. “Indeed. And the very best course of action is not to rise to the bait. I see no reason to drag your dignity through the mud.”
Makrov’s eyebrow curled in suspicion. “My dignity? I don’t follow.”
“At present, only a handful of people know of this. The patrol who found you. The outlaws themselves. Why change that? Why expose yourself to ridicule?”
“This is not about my pride.”
Anastacia’s black eyes gleamed. Josiri shot her a warning glance. For a mercy, she remained silent.
“Of course it isn’t,” he said. “It’s about that of those you represent: the Council, and Lumestra herself. But it’s your decision. I’ll abide by whatever course you think proper.”
Makrov folded his arms. “And the effigy on Gallows Hill?”
“A childish gesture. Ignore it.”
Rare uncertainty ghosted across Makrov’s brow. Josiri held his breath. This was it. The moment that would judge one of them for a fool. There was no containing Makrov’s humiliation, not now. By day’s end, it would have spread far and wide.
But truth mattered little when it came to pride. Josiri stared up at his mother’s portrait. If there was one lesson he’d learned from her death, it was that. And Makrov had sufficient pride to swell the delusions of a dozen men. He needed only to believe. It was Josiri’s fervent hope that he would. Otherwise his own pride would have consequences.
“There . . . There may be some wisdom in what you say,” Makrov said at last. “Perhaps it is better that your speech cleaves to broader topics.”
Josiri offered a shallow bow, more to conceal a relieved smile than to offer respect. “Of course, my lord archimandrite.”
Makrov’s lip trembled. He radiated unhappiness, but he was trapped by his own decision. “Governor Yanda? Under the circumstances, I think it better not to feed rumour. Proceed with discretion. We shan’t risk persecuting the innocent in order to expose the guilty.”
Yanda’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. “As you wish.”
A muscle twitched in Makrov’s cheek. “Not I. The Council. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your grace, I have prayers to lead in the town. But I’ll be sure to return at noon and hear your declaration.”
“I look forward to it,” Josiri lied.
Yanda at his side, Makrov withdrew. Halfway to the great oaken door he spun on his heel, hands clasped behind his back. “And, your grace? You’ve not forgotten my instruction about your mother’s portrait? I want its ashes by sundown.”
Josiri bit back a flash of anger. Like it or not, some wounds had to be borne. “I’ll see that it’s done.”
Makrov grunted, then he and Yanda were gone. Servants swung the door closed, cutting off the sound of footsteps beyond. Anastacia’s slow, deliberate handclap echoed off the walls.
“Oh, very well played.”
Josiri clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration. Did she not see how close that had run? “Don’t mock me. I’m not in the mood.”
“Yes, your grace.” She swung her legs off the arm of the chair. Dress swishing against polished flagstones, she glided gently towards him. “Whatever you say, your grace.”
She gathered her skirts and bobbed a curtsey. All with that same impish inflection at the corner of her smile. Impish, and infectious. Enough so that Josiri found his own lips twitching in echo.
With an effort, he stifled the smile. “Antagonising Makrov didn’t help.”
Anastacia looped her hands about the back of his neck. “Of course it did. He’s stuffed full of self-importance and looking for sympathy as much as justice. I nudged him, and he sailed straight into your harbour. You can thank me later, when you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind.”
Josiri closed his eyes and lost himself in the comfort of Anastacia’s embrace – the rich, delicate scent of her. She had an answer for everything.
“You put lives at risk.”
“So did you, the moment you asked Revekah for that favour.”
He frowned. “That’s different.”
She giggled, the bright notes spilling across him like rain. Warm lips pressed to his, then withdrew. “Of course it isn’t. There’s no victory without risk. Taking the archimandrite down a rung or two is a victory worth savouring. It won’t last. He’ll seek ministration with his choir, and the serenes will smooth away his hurts . . . in one manner or another.”
Josiri sighed. Some prejudices, Anastacia would never let go. Chief among them was that holy cloisters were neither so chaste nor respectable as scripture decreed. Perhaps she was right. Some very peculiar things went on behind closed doors, as he knew all too well himself.
“It’s time you did more,” said Anastacia.
Josiri opened his eyes and examined her expression for mockery. He found none. Anastacia was as close to earnest as she ever came.
“I meant what I said before,” she went on. “That was very well played, but it’s a small gesture. You need something larger. A flame that burns so bright no one will mistake its import.”
Josiri glanced at the door, even though he knew it was closed. “I told you last night, we’re not ready.”
“That might be what you said, but I know your heart.” A long, pale forefinger brushed Josiri’s chest and tapped at his breastbone. “It’s your readiness you doubt. And your time is running out.”
He sighed. “You mean the Hadari?”
“The Hadari. Makrov’s second exodus. Increased quotas from the fields. Invasion, suppression or starvation, what does it matter? Your people will still suffer. They’ll still perish.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, my poor, dear misguided heart, it’s precisely that simple. History turns on simplicity. It’s those who survive it who seek deeper meaning.”
She had a point. Josiri didn’t like it, but she had a point. “What would you have me do?”
“Symbols are important.” Anastacia pulled away and stared up at Katya’s portrait. “Give your people something to hate.”
Maiden’s Hollow lay cold and dark, even with the sun blazing above. The thick canopy of thorn-tangled branches played its part, but there was something more – something that made Revekah Halvor’s skin crawl.
There were rumours, of course. There were always rumours about such places. That the ring of headless statues were not statues at all. Rather that they were flesh-and-blood dancers petrified by ancient spite, their outflung hands frozen in gay abandon and their skirts lifted by a wind long since dead. A peasant’s tale, and easily dismissed as superstition . . . if not for the fact that neither simarka nor kraikon could cross the dell’s bounds.
Cursed or blessed, Maiden’s Hollow was priceless to wol
f’s-heads. Revekah wondered at the cost, one levied in nightmares of black roses and scratching, crackling whispers. She couldn’t have stood watch among the black trees. How others tolerated doing so, she couldn’t imagine.
Revekah skirted the centre of the circle – and its toppled statue of a robed man – and descended the rain-smoothed steps to the cavern. Two men pored over a map at a rough wooden table. Other pelts screened off entrances to the warren of tunnels and caves below.
Drakos Crovan’s neatly trimmed hairline and hawkish features were more suited to a courtier than an outlaw. He’d have been a sensation in the staged parades back in Tressia. The dashing young officer, striving for victory – which was what he’d been, before he’d embraced his heritage, and thrown in with the southwealders who’d been his grandparents’ neighbours. Revekah didn’t recognise the other man. A new recruit? Crovan had a knack for rousing the disaffected.
Crovan glanced up, a wary look in his sea-grey eyes. “Captain Halvor. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Might be I’d say the same. Thought you’d gone south with wayfarers on your heels.”
“Changed my mind when the northwealders changed theirs.” Crovan ran a hand over his two-day stubble. “Abandoned the pursuit halfway to the border. We both know why.”
Revekah peered down at the map. Scribbled notes spoke to garrison estimates across the Grelyt Valley. “The Hadari?”
Crovan shared a brief glance with his companion and stabbed a finger down at the map. “That’s what I’m hearing. Council are already stripping the Trelszon border forts. Border raids are one thing, but they won’t hold against an army.”
Revekah snorted. “They’ve been crumbling for decades.”
She’d stood her first watch in one such fort, up at Celdon Pike. Seventeen years old and jumping at every shadow. It felt like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. And look at how little had changed for the Southshires . . .
Crovan grinned. “It’s only pride keeps them manned at all. Good for us. More room to operate.”
Revekah winced. “Until the Hadari come.”
“Maybe even then.”
Revekah lowered her creaking bones into an empty chair. “So tell me. How many did you lose?”
The grin bled from Crovan’s expression. “That’s none of your damn business.”
“Was it worth it?”
He sat back in his chair, fingers drumming against the table top. “It’s always worth it.”
“And what of the dead?”
“They knew the risks.”
“You had no right.”
“I had every right!” Crovan slammed his fist on the table. When he spoke again it was with a voice taut as a fiddle string. “They burned Vallora yesterday, did you know that?”
“I heard.”
She’d more than heard. She’d seen the column of smoke, and the monstrous silhouettes of kraikons towering over the crops. All from too far away to help.
“Fields were thick with blight, but the overseer saw only missed quotas. When old Geshra tried to explain, he was arrested. Vorn was there.”
The younger man scowled. “A fight broke out. Blood spilled. Then they sent in the kraikons. Some fought. Simarka got most of those who fled. A few of us got away. Holed up in Skazit Maze.”
“Not a good place to seek refuge,” said Revekah.
She’d scouted the place, years back, in the hopes of using Konor Belenzo’s old tunnels as a stronghold. Something about the sunken passageways had set her nerves on edge. Most of the Forbidden Places did, of course. The legacy of old magic, and the touch of gods. But Skazit was colder, somehow – worse even than the brooding treeline of Maiden’s Hollow. The whispers were louder there, closer to the surface of Revekah’s dreams. Shadows cast without light. But for all that, what had worried Revekah more was how the tunnels had felt like home – welcoming in a way she couldn’t describe. When she’d left, she’d never looked back, and warned all who’d listen to give Skazit a wide berth. No surprise to learn some hadn’t heeded her words.
Vorn rubbed at his eyes. Revekah recognised an echo of her own sleepless nights in his expression. “Didn’t have much choice, not with those cursed lions at my heel.”
Crovan met Revekah’s gaze. “A dozen farmers dead, their families homeless, and you think I hadn’t the right to act? Should I have let them drag the survivors to Cragwatch?”
“You should have asked for help,” she replied. “From me. From the others. We’re stronger together.”
“There was no time. I scarcely had opportunity to get my people organised, let alone beg your permission.”
“Really? Because I’d have had twenty of my phoenixes here within an hour.” Revekah leaned forward. She’d been fairly sure before, but now she was certain. “Do you know what I think?”
“I know you’re going to tell me.”
“I think this was about you. Like it’s always about you. About Drakos Crovan, the Wolf King, liberator of the Southshires and his reputation. Boldness is not the same as recklessness.”
“And cowardice is too often passed off as caution,” he snapped.
Revekah stifled a grimace. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“Ha!” Crovan crooked a half-smile, his temper fading as swift as it had flared. “You always say that.”
“It’s always true.” Enough, Revekah decided. She’d delivered her rebuke, he’d ignored it and no amount of quarrelling would change that. “Your heart’s in the right place, Crovan. I’m not denying that. And you’ve a gift for getting folk to follow you. But reckless deeds should be our last resort, not our first.”
He scowled and nodded – though Revekah knew better than to take it as agreement. “If you didn’t come to argue, why are you here? To bask in my praise for humiliating the archimandrite? Don’t deny that was your work. Surprised you didn’t kill him.”
“Makrov’s more trouble dead than alive.”
“Now there we can agree. It’s an escalation we don’t need. So what do you want?”
“I spoke to the duke last night. We’re to have nothing to do with the Hadari. Whatever their business in the Southshires, they pursue it without our help.”
“Oh really? And is that his opinion, or yours?”
“I’m sure he’ll readily repeat it for you.”
“The Hadari offer an opportunity.”
“They offer nothing we can’t take for ourselves.”
“Wake up, Revekah!” Crovan leapt to his feet, an arm outflung towards Eskavord. “Josiri Trelan would have us wrapped in endless preparations for a day that will never arrive! He’s soft where it counts.”
“Not so soft that you’ve told him so to his face.”
“What’d be the point? He’d not listen. Nobles are all the same, whether they’re our own people or the Council’s lackeys. He’s serving a purpose. He’s bringing us together. Let him be content with that.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Let those of us who shoulder the real burdens make the real decisions.”
“My decision is to let him lead. And to honour his wishes about the Hadari.”
“We’ve more in common with the Hadari than the northwealders.”
“The duke doesn’t agree. He wants your promise. Which means that I want your promise.”
“And if it isn’t forthcoming?”
Revekah set her shoulders and laid her hand on her sword’s hilt. “Then you and I will fall out.”
Crovan chuckled and hung his head. “Old habits break hard, don’t they? Look at you. Fifteen years your mistress has been dead, and you’re still cracking heads in her family’s name.”
“It’s called loyalty.”
“So you say. Very well, tell the duke that I will attempt no contact with the Hadari. But tell him also that his people are growing impatient. I can’t make promises for them.”
“But you’ll discourage his people from doing anything foolish?”
“For you, Captain Halvor, of course.
I wouldn’t want us to fall out.”
Revekah clambered to her feet, holding his gaze the whole time. She’d no illusions about how long the promise would hold. Crovan would do as he pleased, whenever he wished.
That was the problem with the younger generation. Values were focused inward, rather than to the betterment of others. Katya would have hated Crovan. But she’d also have found a way to make him useful. Maybe Josiri would yet do the same. Either way, there was nothing more Revekah could do.
Melanna twitched aside the wolf-pelt curtain as the footsteps faded. Crovan sat sprawled in his chair, fingers drumming against the knife-gouged table top.
“You heard?” he asked.
She nodded. “Every word.”
“She’s a fool, that one, chasing a dream.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He rose and drew nearer. A thoughtful expression tugged at his lips. “I’m not a dreamer. I believe in what I can see, what I can kill . . . and what I can touch.”
Crovan reached out. Melanna caught his wrist and narrowed her eyes to slits. “You forget yourself.”
His grinned. “So formal, my dear princessa.”
“Consider yourself fortunate. If one of my father’s Immortals were here, you’d have lost that hand.”
“And perhaps it would have been worth it.”
Melanna squeezed his wrist until she felt the bones shift, then let his hand fall. She knew Crovan’s desire stemmed as much from what she represented as an attraction to body or soul. And she hadn’t fought to escape arranged marriage only to become a notch on a wolf’s-head’s grubby bedpost.
“And what of the promise you made?” she asked.
“I gave my word not to attempt contact. Fortunate for us all that I don’t have to.”
Melanna kept her face immobile. Crovan could garb his actions in whatever cloth he wished, but a lie was still a lie. Even when it served her cause. “You should not trade honour so lightly.”
Crovan snorted. “Honour is a sop to conscience. It doesn’t break chains or feed the hungry. It doesn’t bring freedom . . .”
“Or make legends?”
“Are you speaking of me, or your father?” His eyes widened in amusement. “Or yourself?”