by Matthew Ward
“So why are you here?”
“Hnh.” Melanna’s father grinned, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “In case I’m wrong, of course. And because the Golden Court sneers at complacency. Even if Maggad fails, I can expect another challenge within the year. I need a victory to cement my claim.”
“Then we will give you one, savir.” Devren’s lips twisted in thought, then smoothed. Thin fingers danced across the map. “Our outriders estimate no more than a few hundred soldiers between us and Kreska. Konor Belenzo may be long dead, but his tomb and the cathedral remain places of pilgrimage. Whatever else the Tressians abandon, they’ll fight for Kreska, and fight hard.”
“The walls at Kreska are thick,” said Melanna. “It will mean months of siege.”
Devren covered his surprise with an unfriendly glance. “Six weeks, no more.”
“Six weeks of dwindling supplies and blades in the night. We’d wake one dawn to find half the Republic outside our tents! And for what? A squalid brawl against warriors driven to madness by starvation? What glory is there in that?”
“With the mountain passes secured, our supply lines are clear. And with the eastern reaches abandoned, our foragers can seize whatever else we require.”
Melanna stepped closer, careful not to look away. No weakness. Certainly not to a man like Devren, who’d married off his own daughters for dowry at barely respectable age. “Seize? You mean steal. My father has a mind to rule these people, warleader. Not destroy them.”
“A fine goal that will not be achieved through the whimsical fancies of a girl. Even one so noble and well-meaning as yourself, savim.”
A girl’s fancies. He couldn’t even acknowledge her as a woman. And as for “well-meaning” . . . The phrase fair dripped with scorn. Melanna’s temper rose to match warming cheeks. She fought it, recognising it to be unwise.
“I’ve spent six weeks here. I’ve walked Kreska’s streets. I’ve spoken with its people. I don’t speak with fancy, but with fact.”
“You’re too easily deceived.” He shrugged. “It’s no fault of your own. You lack judgement.”
The steed of Melanna’s temper threw off its harness and galloped loose. “And you lack . . .”
Her father’s irritated wave gestured her to silence. “Melanna. Enough.”
Cheeks stinging, she obeyed. “Yes, Father.”
“I will not have my daughter behave like a gutterling. Nor speak like one. Don’t give me cause to regret the liberties I’ve allowed you.”
The rebuke hurt more than Devren’s insults. That, and the reminder that her life was not her own, only what her father granted. “No, Father.”
Her father nodded and beckoned her over to the map. “And if not Kreska, then where?”
The answer came swiftly. “Eskavord.”
“Eskavord?” Devren snorted. “How deep into their territory would you have us march?”
She ignored him, as she should have done before. “Kreska is old. It’s a lair of priests who bow and scrape to Lumestra . . .”
“Astarra. You’ve been too long away,” muttered Devren. “Referring to the witch-goddess like one of those sun-worshipping heathens.”
“. . . it’s not where power rests. The Southshires are governed from Eskavord. Better still, the town’s walls are thin. And the region is infested with outlaws who dream of seeing their overlords humbled. Strike at Kreska, and you unite the Southshires against you. March on Eskavord, and the wolf’s-heads will stand with us.”
“And you’re sure of this?”
Melanna hesitated. “There’s no surety in war, Father. You taught me that. But Drakos Crovan is more honourable than he is not, and his people have much to gain in siding with us.”
Her father chuckled. “Ah. The Wolf King. Here am I, unable to claim a title mine by right. Perhaps I should simply invent one to my liking.” He shook his head in voiceless amusement. “But I also taught you not to equivocate. Let’s have it.”
“It has come to my notice that Josiri Trelan is not the collaborator our spies believed. Indeed, he may be preparing an uprising of his own.”
“And the Wolf King would choose his favour over ours.”
“He says not.”
“Do you believe him?”
Melanna recalled Crovan’s manner as he spoke of Josiri Trelan. Not deference, not even real respect – just the echo of such. “I do, Father.”
He turned back to the map, eyes sweeping from Kreska, to Eskavord and thence out to the distant western coast. As it always did when difficult decisions threatened, his right hand touched the golden locket at his throat, as if communing with the spirit of the woman whose portrait lay within. But if her mother spoke from beyond the mists, Melanna didn’t hear her words.
“Warleader? I want reports on these roads . . .” His finger tapped the map three times to the north of Kreska, and once to the south. “. . . I want to know about fortifications, patrols. Whether they’ll take wagons, the strength of the bridges – the usual.”
Melanna could have told him all that but, wary of further disapproval, said nothing.
Her father pressed on. “And send three warbands of hunters north-east, towards Venka. They’re not to bloody their spears unless challenged, and the populace are to be left unmolested. They’re to make noise and draw the eye, nothing more.”
The lines on Devren’s face creased in concern. “My prince, you’re not proposing that we act upon a girl’s guesses?”
Melanna stiffened.
Her father lifted his head from the table and regarded Devren with unconcern. “No, that would be folly. I place our fate in the hands of my daughter, for whom girlhood is but a memory. I’m sure you see the difference.”
Devren swallowed and nodded. “Of course, savir.”
“Whichever banner the Wolf King howls beneath, the advantage is ours. If he fights with us, I shall embrace him as a subject, and reward his deeds. If he draws steel alongside the duke and joins his uprising, the Republic faces a war on two fronts. But we must be ready. So get me those reports.”
“As you command.” Devren bowed and withdrew.
“Father . . .”
An upraised hand cut her short. “Drannic? Leave us. I am quite safe from my daughter, and she from me.”
Drannic’s departing bow held greater respect than Devren’s. When he had gone, Melanna’s father gathered her up in a bruising embrace. At once, she was a child again: warm, safe – and stifled – in the presence of her sire.
“Six weeks,” he breathed. “Six weeks and not a night passed by when I did not pray for you.”
Melanna softened to the embrace, and at last returned it. “Ashana walked with me, Father.”
“She always paid you more heed than I.”
She stifled a smile. She’d been five winters old the first time the goddess had spoken to her. Proud and terrified in equal measure, she’d run straight to her father and confessed all. He’d laughed, chided her for prideful dreams and returned her to bed. He’d taken similar confessions no more seriously in the following years. Eventually, she’d stopped telling him.
He released her and stepped back. “You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”
Melanna’s heart swelled a size larger. “Thank you, Father.”
“And you had no trouble? No . . . individuals needing a visit from my icularis?”
For all the lightness in his tone, Melanna knew full well she was being invited to deliver sentence of death. The icularis – her father’s “Eyes” – delivered warnings in only the starkest terms. So much like the creature of Ravenscourt she’d fought on the road to Tevar Flood.
“There was . . . one. A man of shadow and crow-feathers. I put an arrow in his shoulder.”
Her father frowned in approval. “The icularis will watch for such a creature. And no others?”
Vorn’s face floated up from memory. Melanna shook her head. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Then why do you seem so i
ll at ease?”
Should she tell him about the shadow behind Vorn’s eyes before she’d broken his spirit? About the feeling she’d been watched most of the way to Trelszon? She couldn’t have done so with Devren present, but even her father was likely to misread her fears as foolish worry.
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Or you’ve heard too many farmers’ tales of darkness and ash.”
Melanna snorted. “Certainly not. In fact, they don’t even talk about what happened on their own land. It’s like they don’t know about the Sceadotha.”
She suppressed a shudder. The long dead Sceadotha – Malatriant, as the Tressians named her – cast a long shadow, even in the warmth and light of her father’s tent.
Her father scowled. “Most may not. Your grandfather always used to say that Tressians bury their past alongside their dead. I hope you’ve not grown afraid of the dark.”
She smiled. “Not while there’s a moon in the sky.”
His eyes searched hers for a lie. Finding none, he shrugged. “Good. You’ll let me have your reports on the roads?”
“So you knew?”
“Of course.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Do I need Devren to make the same study? You’d have me force him to accept your word twice in as many minutes?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Devren’s pride needs easing more than it requires hammering into shape.”
“And what of my pride?”
“I think you’ve a great deal yet to learn of pride, and of leadership. Or is the prize you seek not worth a little humility?”
The prize. To one day be Empress in all the ways that mattered, not merely as a titled consort to the true ruler. Her father always spoke of it as “the prize”, and Melanna hated it. Her birthright was not a spoil of war to be seized. It was an entitlement she had to fight for where generations of her forefathers had not. The mere suggestion that the throne would one day pass to her had provoked Maggad into issuing challenge.
Melanna stared down at her feet. “Only the dead have nothing to learn.”
He grunted. “Good. Let me have your reports by midday, so that I’ve something to compare to those Devren brings me.”
“You’re testing me?”
“I’m testing you both. Anything else would be unwise.”
Which meant the icularis would also be examining the lay of the land. Let them. She’d nothing to conceal. “I understand.”
He smiled. “I know you do. And after, you’ll join me at the banquet to celebrate our victories at Trelszon. I’ve had one of your dresses brought up from Tregard, so you can dazzle.”
Melanna suppressed a frown. She could care less about dazzling a field of drunks. Especially as eyes had a tendency to wander when drink was imbibed. But there was a part to be played, and that meant silk and softness as much as steel.
“And my armour? It’s time I took my place with the Immortals.”
She didn’t care for the silence that followed the question. Far less for the heaviness with which her father lowered himself to the fur-draped chair. “You are not to take the field with the Immortals.”
“What? It’s my right! My duty as your daughter!”
“Both right and duty belong to a son alone.”
“We agreed!”
“No. When you left Tregard, I said I’d think on it. I have.” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You will remain with the camp, in the company of the lunassera.”
“Where I can wring my tresses and await word of victory or defeat? If my father lives or dies? No!” She knew her voice carried beyond the tent. She didn’t care. “Do you trust me so little around your mighty warriors? Is that why you’d cage me among the chaste?”
“I would have you shelter where I know you are safe!” he snapped. “You are my only child. I will not lose you to a Tressian blade!”
“You could have lost me a dozen times over these past six weeks. Why is it safe for me to wander enemy territory, but not stand the line? To fight at my father’s side, as he did beside my grandfather?”
Melanna broke off, shaking with anger.
“Not all dangers are equal.” Her father spoke without anger, but equally devoid of regret. “And I will not risk your life when strangers stand ready to serve me.”
“And if I were instead your son?”
“A woman has no place in battle.”
So that was it. It didn’t matter what she did. Even her father saw her as something to be protected. Cherished, but also pitied for a weakness that owed more to perception than to truth.
“The Tressians don’t believe so.”
“What the Tressians believe, or do not, is of no concern to me.”
Melanna took a deep, shuddering breath. Anger never prevailed upon her father, only reason. “And how am I to earn the respect of those I must lead if they never see me in battle?”
“They will see you. But not here, and not now.” He rose and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I know you burn for this. You would not be my daughter otherwise. But now is not the time. Tradition bends unwillingly.” He sighed. “And so do I. It’s selfish, but I do not wish to see you scarred by war.”
“Afraid I’ll no longer dazzle?” she asked sourly.
He tapped her lightly on the breastbone. “War leaves its mark upon more than flesh. I don’t ask you to embrace my decision, for I know you won’t, but I require you to respect it. And when this campaign is done, and the throne secured, I will give you everything you wish. Even the scars.”
“And if you die because I’m not there to protect you?”
And it would be more than his death, devastating though that would be. His death would be the death of Melanna’s dreams. The Golden Court would never back an unblooded woman over Maggad. If her father died, the throne would go to the old warleader – as would she, were she too slow in embracing the Raven. Nothing like a marriage to cement a fickle claim. And so the line of Saran would end with a slit throat on her wedding night.
He shook his head. “What have I done to deserve a daughter who has so little faith in me? I have no plans to die, essavim.”
The curtain at the tent’s entrance swished. Melanna turned around, knowing what she’d see. No wonder Drannic had abandoned his post so readily. He’d not been dismissed, but sent to fetch her escort.
Two lunassera stood in silence before her. They were curiously alike, as were all the goddess’s handmaidens. Between the silver-traced wooden half-masks that concealed all but the eyes and the olive skin of the lower jaw – and the close-fitting white robes that covered the women head to foot – there was little room for individuality.
As indeed was the point. The lunassera were perfection – as separate from desire as sea from sky. They were ephemeral daughters of the maiden goddess, as blessed in sanctity as their spiritual mother, and the pinnacle of Hadari womanhood. Melanna had once asked Ashana as to the truth of that. A soft, despairing laugh and a slow shake of the head had been the goddess’s only answer.
Melanna hadn’t found the courage to enquire further. She had there-after wondered to whose benefit the lunassera wore such figure-hugging raiment. But she hadn’t wondered long. The robes were both pedestal and cage. In that way, the lunassera were indeed the purest expression of Hadari womanhood. Admired, but seldom on their own terms.
And now, it seemed, they were to be her jailers.
“You’ll have my reports by noon, my prince,” said Melanna, unwilling to address her father as kin. She offered a stiff bow. “Let’s hope you don’t regret your decision.”
Twenty-One
Dawn found Josiri where dusk had left him: staring at the silver filigreed ward-brooch and infused with that bewildering, jangling energy that has ever been the enemy of those who seek sleep.
All these years spent yearning to fulfil his mother’s charge; to free the Southshires and its people. Some he’d spent in nights like the one just passed, worrying over con
sequences and detail, of lives lost, and others sacrificed. And now? Everything he’d ever wanted was his to claim.
If Akadra spoke the truth. If Akadra could be trusted.
Was that even a concern? Akadra had murdered his mother. Did granting her last wish even matter if it arose from her slayer’s largesse? And in truth, the equality Akadra promised fell short of the freedom for which Katya Trelan had striven. Was accepting the lesser prize a betrayal all its own? Josiri glanced up at the wall, remembering too late that the portrait was ashes.
He rubbed at his face. The prickle of stubble beneath his palms served as a reminder of how long he’d sat in that chair.
Two choices lay before him. Just two. He could embrace the brooch and Akadra’s offer, or he could leave his plans unaltered. Both were selfish. Both fulfilled his duty to his people. Both tempted peril. If the resistance perished, did it matter if it did so out of Josiri’s misguided leadership, or from northwealder treachery? If the Southshires was freed of its bonds, was it of any consequence if that freedom sprang from Josiri’s efforts, or Akadra’s generosity?
Aware he was again embarking on a journey with no clear destination, Josiri clambered to his feet. The chair toppled back and crashed against flagstones. A week ago, arrayed for Ascension, the great hall’s grandness had been unmatched. Now the air smelt stale, and Josiri saw wilted flowers more than he did the blooms. Even the statues seemed to judge him.
He was trapped. Lost in a maze of his own fears. He needed counsel. But to whom could he turn? Not Calenne, who was no longer at Branghall. Besides, he’d lied to her too long. He’d find more well-deserved acrimony than wisdom. And as for Anastacia? The memory of their last argument was still too near.
That left Revekah, but without Anastacia to open the hallowgate, Revekah was denied him.
Josiri’s gaze fell on the ward-brooch. No. That wasn’t true.
After all, taking the brooch didn’t mean agreeing to Akadra’s terms, did it?
His fingers closed around the silver.
Calenne awoke from the first good night’s sleep she’d had in years. The bed was soft, the blankets warm and the scents of the old loft room unchanged in years away. That curious combination of rose petals and wood smoke drifted up from the hearth downstairs. The fragrance of childhood. Of bedclothes clutched tight to ward off the chill of Wanetithe nights and rain rattling at the windowpane.