by Matthew Ward
Alien unease rippled through Viktor’s thoughts. So she saw him as plainly as he saw her? A meeting of magics, open and unconcealed. The one consolation was that she seemed in no hurry to share that knowledge.
“I think I’d survive it,” he said.
She smiled without warmth. “Yes. Perhaps you would.”
“Hush, demon.” Calenne glared up at Anastacia, fists balled. “I’ve had my fill of your games.”
More proof, Viktor decided, that he alone was privy to Anastacia’s hidden might, and its danger. Or perhaps not. Whatever else Calenne Trelan lacked, she’d inherited her mother’s forthrightness. A fine waste of potential, keeping her locked up at Branghall. A modicum of honing would have made her invaluable to the Republic.
“Please, Miss Trelan . . .” he began.
“Please, nothing,” she snapped. “I’ve lived with this creature for half my life. In all that time, she’s only played at door warden after a quarrel with my brother. Let us through, demon.”
“So swiftly we change our tune.” Anastacia gave a bleak laugh. With a sudden flourish, she stepped aside. “Perhaps it will please Calenne to show you the Great Hall. It could be that she is right, I am wrong, and that you are welcome. I am not in favour just now, so I will bid you the joy of discovery.”
She sat again upon the steps and stared off into the distance. Calenne swept imperiously past, leaving Viktor and Kurkas to follow.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” Kurkas murmured, once the door had closed behind them.
“Who’s to say?” Viktor replied. “To hear my father tell it, she’s a witch locked up at the order of Makrov’s predecessor.”
He grunted. “I saw her eyes. But it’s a rare sort of witch that crosses a priest – much less old pointy-hat himself – and goes unburned.”
“Perhaps the fire wouldn’t take.”
“Lovely.” Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. “Witches. Headstrong noblewomen. Ain’t no life for an honest soldier. I’ll be glad when the Hadari march into view.”
Viktor chuckled at his friend’s mock-gloom. “That’s a dangerous wish at this hour.”
“When isn’t it?”
Calenne halted before a double-leaved door flanked by armoured statues. Viktor heard muffled voices beyond. Taking the briefest of moments to collect himself, he heaved the doors inwards.
“You’ll forgive me, governor, if I find your reassurances . . .”
Josiri Trelan broke off, his gaze settling on Viktor as one seeing a most unwelcome ghost. Viktor, for whom such reactions had become depressingly commonplace, clasped his hands behind his back, and offered a respectful bow.
His first glimpse of the duke in fifteen years, and the impression was not unfavourable. Josiri’s wiry frame proved confinement had not tempted him to turgidity, and his eyes held a quiet watchfulness. His sister’s opposite, fair where she was dark, and confident where she so far had shown only reserve.
Arzro Makrov seemed only a fraction less pleased than Josiri to see his old student. Only Governor Yanda gave a small steady nod of greeting . . . or was it satisfaction?
One ally at the table, then. One unknown, and . . .
“So it is true what they say. Misfortune seldom travels alone.” Josiri rose, his voice and expression hard as granite. “You are not welcome in this house, Lord Akadra.”
The echoing words would have been impressive if spoken before the hundreds the sun-dappled hall had once housed. Uttered for the benefit of the tiny war council, they struck Viktor as more petulant than powerful.
“I apologise for the intrusion, your grace, but . . .”
“Was I not clear? Leave. If you’ve a message, you may relay it through Governor Yanda.”
Viktor bit his tongue. It was doubtful Josiri had the authority to expel him from Branghall, much less the means. A gilded prison it might have been, but a prison it remained. But none of that mattered if the duke refused to listen.
“I’m not so foolish as to have expected a warm welcome,” he said. “But surely civility isn’t too much to expect? After all, I’ve gone to some trouble to bring your sister home.”
On cue, Calenne and Kurkas entered the chamber; the former guided by the latter’s hand, shoulders squared and head erect. But her eyes swam with apprehension. Doubtless this was not the “introduction” she’d anticipated.
The result was everything Viktor could have wished. Josiri paled. The certainty of moments before washed away. “Calenne? What is this? What have you done to her?”
“She met with some trouble on the road. I was glad to offer assistance.”
Suspicion clouded Josiri’s eyes. “What sort of trouble?”
“I was attacked.” Calenne scowled her embarrassment and glanced sidelong at Viktor. “He saved my life.”
“Saved your life?” Makrov interrupted. “You’d no business being anywhere other than Branghall! You should have informed us she’d escaped, your grace!”
“I am not my sister’s keeper,” snapped Josiri.
Viktor read more evasion than truth in those words, but it hardly mattered. With Josiri disoriented, fresh battle lines opened up. The flow of the conflict was his to control.
“Captain Kurkas?”
“Sah?”
Kurkas, as was his wont when mischief abounded, let his accent blossom to drill sergeant’s drawl. The bluff soldier, obeying orders. A habit Viktor had long since despaired of smothering.
“Kindly escort the archimandrite back to Eskavord.”
“Escort me?” Makrov glowered at Viktor. “I’ve business here, and you lack authority.”
Viktor had once feared that tone, so often the precursor to a birch rod’s stinging chastisement. But the days of Makrov’s tutelage were long past, even if his tyrannies would never be forgotten.
“Not so.”
Viktor flicked aside the heavy velvet of his cloak and retrieved the first of two precious letters. The blue wax seal of the Council was as yet unbroken. He strode past Josiri and handed it to Yanda, who had thus far watched proceedings with wary interest.
“Governor Yanda. I hereby take command of the Southshires and all forces stationed within its bounds.”
Yanda didn’t even split the seal. “I’m glad to have you here, my lord.”
“You’ll return to Cragwatch and prepare a report on the readiness of our forces.”
“That won’t take long,” she said drily. “We need all the help the Council can send.”
“You’ll have to make do with me for now,” Viktor replied. “And two companies of my hearthguard, who’ve spent days on the road, without opportunity to make observance of Ascension. Which is why, Excellency, I’d be grateful if you’d return to Eskavord and lead them in prayer.”
“I’ll do no such thing! You will not shut me out! I speak with the Council’s voice!”
“Not any longer. So far as the Southshires are concerned, I am the Council,” Viktor rumbled. “If you wish to challenge my authority, you have only to ride north. Doubtless you will find a sympathetic ear. But until then, you will fulfil the duties of your station. Am I understood?”
Makrov scowled but had the wit to recognise both the inevitability of defeat, and the face-saving retreat on offer. “Very well, I shall bring what solace Lumestra permits.”
Viktor offered a slight bow. “Thank you. Captain Kurkas won’t mind if I say that he, in particular, has been troubled by wavering faith. I’m sure he’ll welcome your guidance.”
Captain Kurkas didn’t look particularly welcoming at that moment. As Viktor retreated across the chamber, he drew near. “I’ll get you for this,” he whispered.
“Hush, captain, that’s just your inner torment speaking.”
Viktor patted Kurkas’ shoulder and halted before Calenne. “You’re free to go with him, if you wish. But with the Hadari on the march I’d ask you stay in Eskavord for now.”
She regarded him through narrowed eyes, wary of promises revoked. “Just ask?”
&nb
sp; “I promised you freedom, and you have it. However, freedom sometimes brings the burden of doing not what we wish, but what is necessary.”
Calenne gave a slow nod. “I can stay with my mother. I hope so, at least. It’s been a long time since we last spoke.”
Viktor belatedly recalled that Calenne had been fostered and dispersed his puzzled frown before it had fully formed. “And should I need to speak with you?”
“I don’t think you’re welcome anywhere in Eskavord. But I’ll ask Elda to forgo emptying the slops bucket over your head if you come calling.” She offered a slight, lopsided smile. “I owe you that much.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” growled Josiri.
Viktor rounded on him. “I thought you weren’t your sister’s keeper? And I am staying here. We’ve matters to discuss.”
Josiri glowered but said nothing as Calenne and the others departed. A wise course. There was no victory for him in that moment, just as Viktor had intended. He’d come a long way in fifteen years. It could only be hoped that age had brought wisdom.
The doors swung closed.
“Alone at last,” said Viktor.
That wasn’t entirely true. He felt Anastacia’s presence in the passageway beyond. He’d have laid long odds against her eavesdropping. But the room was empty of challenge, and of witness. He could speak freely – as could Josiri, if he chose. If he could see beyond the past.
Josiri stared out through the eastern window and across the town. “Did you save Calenne’s life?”
“I had that honour, yes. Though I didn’t know who she was until after.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because there was no one else.”
“A dangerous philosophy, Lord Akadra. It killed my mother. It may yet kill you.” Josiri snorted and turned his back on the window. “Why are you here? Now, after all these years? Come to finish what you started?”
“Because of the Hadari. And to undo the damage of the past. I need your help with both.”
Viktor retrieved the second letter from his pocket. Josiri broke the seal, unfolded the paper and began to read. His face remained as impassive as ever. But not his eyes.
“What is this?” He extended the letter at arm’s length, as one might a pet of uncertain domestication.
“What it purports to be,” Viktor replied. “Lead your people against the Hadari, and the Council will restore everything you have lost.”
Josiri’s expression darkened. “Bad enough that the Council have made us slaves. Now we are to be its sellswords?”
“Mercenaries fight for coin. You’d fight for your homes. For your future.”
“We tried that once before, did we not?” He paused. “And this has full backing?”
“It has enough. Though it took some . . . persuasion.”
“Your persuasion?”
“As I said, I would undo the harms I have visited upon you, and upon your people.”
“I cannot help you.” Josiri’s tone would have curdled fresh milk. “Your kind have spent years beating the spirit out of mine. You’ve come to a desert seeking relief from thirst.”
Viktor’s temper twitched. “And you insult me by taking me for a fool. Your domain is lousy with defiance. Or do you think I’ve not marked the tally of death and torment meted out on our soldiers? And if you, your grace, are not at the heart of it, then you are not your mother’s son.”
Josiri flung a hand towards the window, and the wall beyond. “And does my bloodline grant me the knack for passing through solid stone, unseen and unhindered by enchantment? I am a prisoner granted the illusion of agency. A man goaded to provide leadership, but who learns his lands are besieged only when the horizon is aflame! We Trelans are many things, but we are not workers of miracles.”
They were the right words. The expected words. But more than ever, Viktor knew them to be lies. “And your sister? Is she a worker of miracles? She passed beyond the wall. She . . .”
He broke off, aware that his temper was quickening. He’d come too far now to surrender to pique.
“You would have to ask Calenne.”
“And I shall . . . Or I would, if it mattered.” Viktor plucked a ward-brooch from his pocket and set it on the windowsill. “I did not come here to trap you, Josiri, but to set you free. You, and those you choose to take with you.”
Josiri’s eyes flickered to the door – to where Anastacia waited out of sight. Viktor marked the nature of the glance, its longing and its regret, and drew the only conclusion he could. An interesting development. And not without its uses.
A sigh, and Josiri stared down at the brooch’s tangle of silver thread-work. His eyes brimmed with suspicion and yearning. His desire for the brooch, and all it represented, was an almost physical force, matched only by the reluctance of pride. Viktor willed the former to win out. It would have been easy enough to order the enchantment quelled and the gates opened, but this? This was more than a symbol – it was freedom to be held in one’s hand.
Fingers reached for the brooch, and then withdrew.
“No,” said Josiri. “I cannot give you what you want.”
Fury gorged on disappointment, goading forth a dangerous, brittle reply. “Reconsider.”
“Or else what?” Bleak laughter swelled beneath the words. “You’ll cage me? Divide my people and ship them overseas? You’ve no threats left to make, and your promises are worth less than nothing. I will never be your ally, Lord Akadra. Not in this, nor anything else. If I link arms with my mother’s slayer, how would I face her in the mists of Otherworld?”
A chill overcame Viktor as his shadow roused. It sang in dark melody, urged him to smother Josiri’s objections and bind him to the challenges to come, willing or no.
Viktor drowned in temptation. With so much at stake, would it be such a sin? One act of selfishness to smother another? He didn’t question whether his shadow could be pressed to that purpose. Nor did he wonder why the certainty that it could had arisen. All that held him back was equal certainty that to act thus would be at odds with the atonement he desired.
“Then you are not your mother’s son,” he growled. “I will fight without your blessing, and without your help.”
His throat tight with defeat, Viktor left the brooch where it lay and stalked from the hall.
Nineteen
This time, the lady came to the ruined chapel while the sun still graced Tressia’s time-worn stones and the marketplace bustled with evening trade. A bold choice, even cloaked and veiled. It spoke to urgency. Even desperation.
Apara had mixed feelings about desperation. It brought profit, but danger too often lurked in its shadow. It brought excitement, but there was much to be said for a quiet life.
“My condolences for your son, lady,” she said. “I can only guess your burdens.”
The interplay of light and shadow shifted as the woman took up position beyond the wooden screen. “I shall live with my regrets. And my disappointments.”
Apara winced. “Disappointments, lady?”
“I made special mention of a ring. It remains lost, where my son does not.”
“I can only apologise, lady. Many things go unnoticed in the wilds.” Yes, many things went unnoticed, but Kasamor Kiradin’s ring had not been among them. Nikros had kept it, confident the client wouldn’t make trouble. “If we can make amends . . .”
“You can. I have two further tasks. One more suited to your own skills than to your cousin’s.” The lady set an oilcloth bundle atop the altar. An oblong package, with a folded sheet of paper tucked beneath the string. “The note holds the location where these books are to be concealed. They must not be found without a determined search.”
Apara frowned. The words were plain enough, but not the intent. That was the problem with speaking so obliquely, but that was often the way when accepting commissions from the nobility. The ritualistic approach brought distance, as if it left the petitioner’s hands unsullied by the crimes undertaken on their b
ehalf. The rich could afford their pretensions. Apara could not.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You don’t need to understand, only obey.”
“Of course, lady. It shall be done. And the other task?”
“I fear for an acquaintance.”
“As you feared for your son?”
A pause. “Indeed. These are dangerous times. Have your cousin stand ready.”
“Of course, lady. And the payment?”
She chuckled. “Your task is your generous gift, to assuage my disappointment at the loss of the ring. Your cousin’s work will attract the usual fee upon completion.”
That wasn’t good. Payment in arrears invited no payment at all. “But the Parliament of Crows . . .”
“. . . will understand my reluctance, should I make your cousin’s lapse known. I would prefer it not come to that.”
Apara’s brow pricked with sweat. The Parliament had a reputation to uphold. She’d warned Nikros against keeping the ring.
“It shall be as you wish, lady.”
“I know you won’t let me down again, Apara.” The lady rose. “Keep your curiosity in check. The secrets within those pages lead only to the pyre. It would break my heart if you lost your way.”
The afternoon had passed in a slow but steady ramble beneath creaking tavern signs. With the sun long beneath the horizon, Rosa left the last behind. Her heart ebbed. Her shoulders were burdened by the arm of a decidedly unsteady Sevaka Kiradin.
“Jus’ one last toast.”
Sevaka stumbled sideways. The motion began with her arm slipping from Rosa’s shoulders. It ended with her sitting in the gutter, wearing a bemused frown.
Rosa sighed and helped her upright. There had been plenty of toasts already. To Lumestra, to the Republic . . . and of course, to Kasamor. To Kasamor most of all.
“One more and I’ll be carrying you home.”
“’m fine.” Sevaka waved the concern away. “Jus’ getting my second wind. And it’s not my fault you’ve not kept up.”
“I’ve matched you drink for drink.”
“Oh? Then why are you still so . . . so . . . you know.”
Rosa wondered herself. Had done for the last hour and more. Likely she was more drunk than she felt. It took her that way sometimes. It wasn’t as if Sevaka made much of a witness.