by Matthew Ward
“Go,” Malachi whispered, and set a hand to the small of her back. “I’ll see you outside.”
Ebigail took Rosa’s arm and drew her towards the casket. She dipped her head to Rosa’s ear, whispered briefly, and withdrew.
After brief hesitation, Rosa stooped to the casket and delivered her kiss. Her expression remained no less granite than the elder Lady Kiradin’s. But Malachi had known her too long not to recognise the conflict swirling in her eyes.
Then the line shuffled forward once more, and Malachi with it. By the time he stood before the gold and black corpse, Ebigail, Rosa and Sevaka had moved on. Incense prickling at his nostrils, he stooped to kiss the golden brow.
“Goodbye, my friend,” he breathed.
As was now his habit, Malachi didn’t take a direct route to the surface. Where the black stone of the ancient city surrendered to granite colonnades of repurposed streets, he detoured into the unprepossessing chambers that bore the antlered crest of the Satanra family. There he stood for a time among the statues, head bowed, surrounded always by the shuddering, gnawing rumble as kraikons laboured below to open up new chambers for the never-ending bounty of dead.
He stared up at a familiar face immortalised in cold marble. “It’s been a while, Father. I’m sorry for that. Seems the faster I run, the further I fall behind.”
More and more, Malachi thought it important to pay homage to his parents and their kin while he still lived to do so. After all, when his last day came, he’d be interred a Reveque – such was the price of marrying into a family of the first rank. An honour, but one Malachi resented, for in his heart a Satanra he remained.
“Thought I’d find you here.” Hadon Akadra stepped between the spread-winged serathi statues guarding the threshold. “Funerals have a way of stirring up memories.”
Malachi regarded him warily. “True enough.”
Hadon gulped from a hip flask and proffered it to Malachi. “Here. Drowns the taste of that wretched incense.”
It made for a strange peace offering, but then fate had not been kind to the Akadra family. Hadon was the last and eldest of seven siblings, all of whom had been taken before their time. And then there was Viktor’s mother. She’d scarcely been Malachi’s age when the Raven had taken her. What was the saying? All stood equal before the grave.
“Thanks.”
Malachi took the flask and spluttered through a pine-bark and juniper mouthful of the fiery krask spirit. The older man regarded him with stony-faced amusement.
“A poor generation we’re raising if they can’t hold their drink. Your wife not with you?”
“We agreed not to burden the children with the interment. They’ll make hallowed farewells soon enough. Lilyana wants them to keep their innocence a while longer.”
Hadon harrumphed and slipped the flask away. “What are you and Abitha up to?”
Not a peace offering then, but a prelude to interrogation. “Why should we be up to anything?”
“I’m not yet so blind that you can seal me in down here and sing sad songs, boy. You’ve been making the rounds, speaking to members of the Grand Council. I want to know why.”
Malachi grimaced. The timing was unfortunate. Then again, it was in the nature of things that Hadon would have found out the truth sooner or later. He sifted through the possibilities. He could hedge, of course he could, but Hadon’s patience ran thin at the best of times. If the older man wasn’t already an enemy, that would surely make him so. Only truth would serve.
“We’re exploring the possibility of peace with the Empire.”
“You’re what?” Hadon scowled, and his voice dropped to a level more suited to the sombre environs. “You think we should beg?”
“That’s not what I’m proposing. The Hadari are fractured. They need chance to catch their breath as much as we do.”
“That’s how grovelling always starts. But that’s nothing new to you, is it? Lord Reveque? Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve thrown away your pride for power.” He rapped his knuckles on a plinth. “If you want to abase yourself before the Hadari, you go right ahead. But you do it alone.”
“And if I’m not alone?”
“Don’t test me on this, boy. Not with our ancestors watching.”
“I don’t seek to test you, Hadon.” With an effort, Malachi ignored the bluster. “But I’d remind you that peace – however brief – brings opportunities. In trade, for example.”
Ruddiness faded from Hadon’s expression as greed swamped outrage. Bellicose sentiment was one thing, but Hadon Akadra loved little so much as the chink of gold in his purse. Perhaps even loved it more than he hated the Hadari.
“Trying to bribe me, Malachi?” The words held an accusation, but the tone remained thoughtful.
“I’m merely ensuring you’ve considered the wider possibilities.”
Hadon snorted, but Malachi saw the wheels turning behind his eyes. Hadon knew, as Malachi did, that no peace between the realms ever lasted long. He lost nothing by allowing Malachi to stick his neck out, and a tidy profit to gain.
“I’ll think on it. But no promises.”
Brow furrowed in thought, Hadon reclaimed his flask and strode away.
Malachi waited until he was lost from sight, and let out a long, slow breath. That had gone far better than he’d expected. So much so, that he scarcely believed it. But the cat was now well and truly out of the bag.
Whatever side Hadon came down on, he’d be sure to discuss the matter with Ebigail and Lord Tarev, which meant it was now a race. Malachi stared up at his father’s graven image and cursed to himself. He’d planned an afternoon loosening Rosa’s tongue and sorrows through libation. Now he’d be twisting arms before others could do the same. Two steps forward, one step back. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut after all.
“Always my own worst enemy, Father,” he muttered to the silent statue. “Always.”
The alabaster trunks of the hayadra trees blazed white in the sun. Marek’s father had always believed that an omen of good times to come. He’d adored the Hayadra Grove. The concentric circles of slender trees had for generations served as the site of celebration and remembrance; a meeting place for friends, colleagues and lovers alike. Where rivals settled their differences in the sight of the Goddess, just as Lumestra had made generous peace with faithless Ashana back in the mists of time.
Not that there was any such commotion within the centremost ring that day, not with a family of the first rank mourning its loss. Vigilant constables held the masses at bay, ensuring that Lady Kiradin’s grief was respected. But beyond, in the outer rings where stones of the old temple still stood, the crowds remained. Most sought simple pleasures under the open sky. A few had arms uplifted and eyes closed in prayer, seeking in the holy sunlight a sign of things to come, as Marek’s father had so many times.
For himself, Marek had never believed the future revealed itself so readily, within the grove, or without. For all his father’s endless study of signs and portents – of pentassa cards read by gifted eyes, or the shape of the stars – it hadn’t stopped him losing his head at Teldagand, had it? The Nomar family had never possessed much luck.
No, Marek believed in the evidence of his eyes, and in people, not portents. And at the moment, the evidence of his eyes told him that Lord Akadra’s conversation had not gone well.
“Well?”
Lady Ebigail stepped from beneath the shade of the hayadra tree. Marek followed, careful that the parasol kept the brilliance of the noonday sun from his mistress’ fashionably pale skin.
“He and Abitha plan to sue for peace,” rumbled Lord Akadra.
“They plan to humiliate us, you mean.”
Even faced with ruinous news, she kept her composure. But to Marek’s thinking, that was how it should have been. Some bloodlines were born to rule. One of the many reasons he served Lady Ebigail so gladly.
“Worthless, all of them, this younger generation.” There was no anger in Lady Ebigail’s to
ne, just weary disappointment. “Driven by their fears and their pleasures, and never a thought for the Republic’s needs. For the duty that we bear.”
“Not Viktor,” Lord Akadra interjected. “Whatever his choices, he holds the Republic close to his heart.”
“Really? Then why has he never married? The bloodlines are withering. The Republic needs more than merchants suffering pretensions of nobility. We’ve let matters slide too far.”
“I’m sure our forebears believed the same of us.”
“Nonsense. This is different . . .” She broke off, her eyes narrowing. “Please don’t tell me you’ve sympathy with Malachi’s nonsense.”
Lord Akadra winced. “I confess to seeing some small benefit to the cessation of hostilities.”
Lady Kiradin sniffed. “Benefit to yourself, you mean. What use is gold if the Republic crumbles around us? But I wouldn’t expect you to see that. You’re weak in the middle.” She drew closer. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how you crumpled before your beloved son?”
Lord Akadra’s scowl hardened into something cold, almost fearful. “I had no choice.”
“Of course you did. You simply lack the stomach to make it.”
“And you know no such restraint, I suppose?”
“What a question to ask a mother at her son’s graveside.”
“Lady!” Marek hurried to offer an arm for support as Lady Ebigail’s knees buckled. She clung to it with an iron grip as she steadied.
“Thank you, Marek. At least someone knows their duties.”
“Mother? Is anything wrong?”
The day grew brighter still at Lady Sevaka’s approach. Lady Ebigail was a handsome woman, no question. Marek had broken the jaw of the last man to suggest otherwise. But her daughter? She shone like the sun. When Lady Sevaka had departed for service in the navy, Marek had feared the ocean wind would wither her golden hair and turn her cheeks gaunt. But such a fate had not come to pass. Lady Sevaka remained as radiant as when a child, even in the drab grey garb of a lieutenant of sail.
“A passing weakness, my dear, nothing more. Indeed, I was discussing such with Lord Akadra, was I not?”
Lord Akadra nodded but said nothing.
Lady Sevaka’s grey eyes narrowed. “There’s no shame in admitting grief, Mother. And I’m sure you’ve been working yourself too hard. Hasn’t she, Marek?”
“And we should all be grateful for that.”
“Perhaps. But you must allow yourself time to grieve, Mother.”
“She’s right, Ebigail,” said Lord Akadra. “The Republic will endure without your guidance until tomorrow.”
Lady Ebigail eyed him with suspicion. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.” She turned her attention to Sevaka once more. “You’ll join me in the carriage, my dear?”
“Actually, I’d agreed to spend the afternoon with Rosa. We’d a mind to toast my brother’s memory . . . once or twice.”
Marek peered across the hilltop through the alabaster trunks of the hayadra trees. Lady Orova stood alone, hair and dress streaming in the wind as she stared out across the bay. A frequent guest at Freemont, but one he’d never taken a shine to. Wore her heritage too lightly, as if that made her the better for it.
“One or two toasts.” Lady Ebigail smiled wryly. “And more besides, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“But if you need me, then of course . . .”
Lady Ebigail waved a dismissive hand. “No. I won’t hear of it. The young must have their rituals, and I’ll not have you abandon Roslava.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she was a good friend to your brother, and we should repay that in kind. Marek will take care of me. Won’t you, Marek?”
“To my last breath, lady.”
Lady Ebigail lowered her cheek to her daughter’s kiss. “Now be off with you. But have care not to fall into too much mischief. The burden of our name falls heavier on your shoulders than ever.”
“Of course, Mother.”
With a brilliant smile, Lady Sevaka withdrew.
“Do you mind telling me why you’ve sudden interest in Captain Orova?” asked Lord Akadra. “It was only last week you deplored her for a bad influence on Kasamor.”
“Yes, I do mind,” snapped Lady Ebigail. She sighed. “It occurs to me that we have invested poorly in those who are to follow us.”
“A disrespectful child who shouldn’t waste time grubbing around in the mud and playing at soldier. Your words, Ebigail.”
“Much has changed this past week, and it is my business where I spend my affections.”
Lord Akadra scowled at the sidelong threat. “Then I’ll leave you to your grief. I’ve much to do this afternoon.”
“Don’t we all?” Lady Ebigail murmured. “Don’t we all.”
Eighteen
The proctor bowed low, the hem of his ceremonial scarf brushing the driveway’s gravel. He set aside his sun-stave and extended the velvet cushion in offering. Viktor’s shadow seethed in discomfort as he plucked a ward-brooch from its velvet nest. The magic locked within hummed beneath his fingers, but it was as likely that the silvery metal – and not the enchantment – had offended his gift.
Fortunately, neither was enough to spur the shadow to full wakefulness. Just as happily, the proctor gave no sign of recognising his inner conflict. But it had always been the smallest of risks. Those who bore the gift of magic in the Council’s service did so under the strictest discipline. It left them blind to much.
Viktor gave a last glance at the brooch’s woven filaments and pinned it to his coat. Kurkas followed suit. Calenne did not. She regarded the proctor’s leonine simarka with apprehension – a wild animal frozen in the act of bolting for safety.
“There is a problem, Miss Trelan?” asked Viktor.
“No,” she replied, with tremulous defiance.
Annoyance flickered. “Is my word not enough for you?”
She hesitated, straightened and looked him dead in the eye. “No.”
Kurkas chuckled. “So much for the famed Akadra charm.”
Viktor sighed. If there was such a thing as the “famed Akadra charm”, this was the first he’d heard of it. Then again, Kurkas’ sense of humour was seldom bothered by fact. And the poor joke at least elicited a thin smile from Calenne.
Her manner had otherwise been cheerless and withdrawn all morning. He’d thought it provoked by the smoke curling up from the eastern mountains. Or perhaps the bustling military presence in Eskavord as Governor Yanda set her scant forces moving. But no. This was the fearfulness of a prisoner donning shackles recently split. Understandable, but irritating.
“That brooch is your guarantee,” he said. “Wear it, and this cage cannot claim you.”
Calenne narrowed her eyes. She nodded at the proctor, and at the trio of hawk-tabarded soldiers who stood silently in the lodge-turned-guardhouse. “And what about them? What if they try to stop me?”
“You are under my protection. I’m sure deeper wisdom would prevail.”
The proctor flinched. Calenne snatched up the remaining brooch.
“You see?” said Kurkas airily. “The famous Akadra charm. Works every time.”
On the long walk up the driveway, Viktor bent his attention on the meeting to come. Whether he liked it or not, the southwealders had every reason to fear and distrust him, Josiri Trelan most of all. Perhaps Calenne’s reluctance had less to do with returning to her prison, and more to do with the man who brought her beneath its walls.
The thought bothered Viktor. More than it should. But the smoke on the eastern horizon bothered him more. The Hadari were but two days’ march from Eskavord, even with the poor roads of the Trelszon borderlands to slow them. Calenne Trelan’s battered feelings would heal, and time was running out.
Lost to downcast introspection, Viktor scarcely realised his shadow was rising. With a scowl, he hauled it back. He glanced at Calenne. Had she noted anything untoward? He’d had one near-miss already, back when he’d learned of Kasamor’s death. It was a topic he still dare
d not think on without further information. Kasamor would understand if need outweighed justice.
Viktor raised his eyes to the manor stairs – and the slender white-haired woman in the seneschal’s uniform – and realised he’d badly misread his shadow’s unease. The challenge didn’t lie in the woman’s manner. That was of a cat basking rapturously in sunshine. It lay in her very being.
“His grace, the Duke of Eskavord, is in discussion. He has no time for chance callers.” Her gaze shifted to Calenne. “Even those who come slinking back to the warmth of his hearth.”
Viktor noted the flash of animosity that briefly marred Calenne’s features and filed it away for the future. The bulk of his attention belonged to the seneschal, and the aura of power cloaking her like woven mist. His shadow hissed and uncurled, jealous and . . . fearful?
“Anastacia Psanneque, I presume,” he said evenly.
Black eyes bored into his, awakening a frisson of disquiet. Not quite fear, but a sensation born of instinctive understanding that the woman before him was not so ephemeral as she appeared. He’d known Josiri and Calenne shared their confinement, but official documentation had made no reference to Anastacia’s nature – whatever that truly was – and rumour was ever a poor guide.
“Just Anastacia. The rest is someone’s little joke. One that I don’t find amusing.”
Viktor nodded. He’d never met anyone born with the name “Psanneque”. It hailed from a dead language, itself sprung from half-forgotten stories – “exile”, denoting one without family and without a home. It hinted at failure and darkness; the disapproval of kin, or society as a whole. At least Psanneque held more sorrow than malice. Such was not always the case.
He inclined his head. “Then Anastacia it shall be. But I must see the duke. I’ve travelled a long way to do so.”
“Then you won’t mind waiting a while longer.”
Viktor’s temper slipped a notch. “And if I insist?”
“I might take offence.” Her aura darkened, golden light seeping into alabaster. “You wouldn’t like that, for all your . . . advantages.”