Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  Viktor grimaced. The activities of the church’s provosts were mysterious even to him. Those who drew their eye had a tendency to end in flame.

  Anastacia eyed him uncertainly. “When I gave Karkosa what he wanted, he flew into a rage. I’m here because I told him the truth and he couldn’t bear it.”

  She spun around and stared into the east once more.

  If this was a lie, it was better than the first, the flat certainty all the more compelling because Anastacia made no effort to convince him. Viktor wasn’t sure if he believed her, but Karkosa had believed, and the tapestry of his life had unravelled. And then he’d locked Anastacia far, far away to keep her truth hidden.

  And, when it came down to it, how many explanations could there be to explain a creature like Anastacia?

  “Why didn’t Karkosa destroy you?”

  “Do you really think anyone could?”

  “Yes.”

  Bitter laughter returned. “You are no flatterer, Lord Akadra. As to why Karkosa acted as he did, I can offer no answers. From what you say it’s too late to demand any of him. And now you too are bound to the truth that drove him mad. Let us both hope you bear it better.”

  “You’ve never told Josiri the truth about yourself, have you?”

  “He has burdens enough. I’ve no desire to add to them.”

  “And what if I tell him?”

  “Then your secret would remain so no longer.”

  Viktor’s cheek twitched. “You can prove nothing.”

  “Nor can you.”

  “And nor do I wish to. We can help each other, you and I,” he replied. “I need to change Josiri’s mind, and I’m told you are the key to that. In turn, I’ll grant your freedom. Wherever fate leads him, you can be together, if that is your wish.”

  The hope returned to her eyes. “A brooch will not set me free of this place.”

  “I’m a man of many aspirations. I can always make room for another.”

  The distant strike of metal on stone set Calenne’s teeth on edge. It grew louder with every step, the chiming of some tortured, misshapen bell decrying her stupidity for returning to Branghall. She pressed a hand to her ward-brooch and reassured herself that this wasn’t some peculiar, heartless dream.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  The worst of it was, she wasn’t even sure why she’d returned. Yes, the letter had summoned her, but there was no compulsion to answer. Guilt again, she supposed. This time born of sitting idle while others strove to fulfil her family’s responsibilities.

  Anastacia met her at the manor gate. The demon seemed quiet, subdued.

  Reason enough to be concerned.

  Clang! Clang!

  “Where is he?” Calenne asked.

  “The chapel.”

  The one room Anastacia avoided like a noblewoman avoided a beggar’s nest? Stranger and stranger. “Do you know why he sent for me?”

  “I didn’t know he had.”

  Calenne left the demon behind. Servants shot her questioning looks. She ignored them. What answer could she give?

  Clang! Clang!

  At last, she rounded the corner and passed beneath the winged serathi of the chapel’s arched doorway. “Viktor!”

  The Black Knight froze in the act of swinging the two-handed workman’s mallet. He stood, naked to the waist and streaming with sweat, in a shallow, rough-edged pit ringed with cracked tile and broken stone. The shroud-covered altar lay perhaps six paces behind. Its statue of Lumestra regarded the sacrilege with lofty disapproval.

  “Ah, Calenne.” He let the hammer slide through his fingers until its haft struck the floor. “Thank you for coming.”

  “You appear to have dug a hole in the chapel floor.”

  “Not just the floor, but the foundations.” He shrugged. “And no one was using it.”

  “And if Lumestra takes offence?”

  “I’m assured she’ll take no action.” He spoke the words with a small smile, but the joke – if there was one – was lost on Calenne.

  Viktor took advantage of the brief silence to whirl the hammer anew.

  Crunch!

  Calenne flinched at the clamour. A fist-sized chunk of stone shattered to dust.

  “I swear, if you do that once more, I’m going back the way I came.” Had she just threatened the Black Knight? “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “To repay a favour owed?”

  “I did that yesterday when I spoke for you before my brother.”

  He set the hammer aside. “Then I suppose I’ll owe you a favour.”

  Interested despite herself, Calenne held her ground. “For what?”

  “Is there a sculptor in Eskavord? One who works with clay?”

  “I imagine so . . . Elda will know.”

  Viktor squatted. He scooped a handful of dust from the pit and trickled it carefully into a small leather pouch. He did so twice more, and tugged the drawstring closed.

  “Take that to the sculptor and have him fold it into fresh clay. A lot of fresh clay.” He stepped out of the pit and dropped the pouch into Calenne’s hand. “And have him clear his workload for the day. He’ll be well compensated.”

  She lifted the pouch and glowered at it. “Get one of your soldiers to do it.”

  “My soldiers, few as they are, have labours of their own. You do not.”

  Calenne grimaced. It would be nice, just once, to have a conversation where she didn’t end up feeling like a spoilt child. But she supposed the key to that was not behaving like one in the first place.

  “All right. For a favour yet owed.”

  Twenty-Two

  The guest-bell chimed early at the Kiradin mansion. Earlier than respectable sorts were about their business. But Marek would never have considered himself a respectable sort. Lady Ebigail’s wishes were paramount. Chief among them was that any business that presented itself before the hour of eight without benefit of the Council seal was business safely left in Marek’s hands.

  And if the caller disagreed? Well, then there were always the dogs. Few guests rode their fortunes hard with hounds sniffing at their heels.

  It was therefore with surprise, disappointment and no small measure of horror that Marek opened the door to behold a bedraggled, torn and bandaged Lady Sevaka.

  “My lady . . . What has become of you?”

  “Marek.” Bloodshot eyes met his. “I need to speak with my mother. At once.”

  “I’ll see if she’s prepared to receive you,” he said. “It is still early.”

  Lady Sevaka pushed past into the hallway. The stale smell of exertions past lingered behind. “We both know she’s been up for hours. I need to speak with her.”

  Marek flinched and set the door to. He hated being caught between mother and daughter. This was how corsairs felt, chained to the harbour wall as the tide rushed in. Generally, he arranged matters so another of the staff bore the brunt. No chance of that here.

  “She’ll want to know what this is about.”

  Lady Sevaka sighed in angry resignation. “Very well, tell her . . .”

  “You may tell me yourself, now your caterwauling has disturbed half the household.”

  Lady Ebigail peered unfavourably down from the bannister. Marek winced at his implied failure but said nothing. It was not his place to answer. For a time, the only sounds were the muted tick of the hallway clock, birdsong from the gardens and the soft swish of Lady Ebigail’s pleated black skirts as she descended. Marek withdrew, taking up position beside the front door.

  “Been brawling again, I see,” Lady Ebigail sniffed. “I keep hoping you’ll learn decorum. I should never have allowed you to join the fleet. It’s no life for a noblewoman.”

  “We were attacked,” Sevaka bit out. “Rosa and I.”

  One eye narrowed in suspicion. “By whom? If this is another tale that begins and ends with one of your romantic misjudgements, you may save us both the trouble. I’ve had my fill of outraged husbands seeking recompense.”

&n
bsp; “Aske Tarev,” Lady Sevaka replied. “Something about repaying one of Kasamor’s insults.”

  “Such fragile pride, and so much to be fragile about. Tell me you gave her nothing to brag about?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Lady Ebigail didn’t miss a beat. “And you’d like the body attended to before it draws notice? Tell Marek where she can be found, and he’ll see to it, won’t you, Marek?”

  He offered a stiff bow. “Of course, lady.”

  How to do so with the streets already growing busy with the morning’s trade, he wasn’t certain. Still, he’d manage. After all, it wasn’t the first time.

  “Anton will miss his daughter, of course,” Lady Ebigail went on. “But no one else will. No one who matters, anyway.”

  “I didn’t kill her!” Sevaka snapped. “Rosa did. The constabulary took us soon after. They released me after Rosa confessed.”

  “And you abandoned her?”

  “You think I wanted to? They wouldn’t listen to me. They intend to bring her before council this morning.”

  Which meant she’d be dead by afternoon, Marek judged. Justice flowed all the swifter when a councillor’s family had been wronged. Doubly so for a family of the first rank.

  “You should have made them listen!” Ice crackled beneath Lady Ebigail’s words. “You are a Kiradin, not some jumped-up dockworker with a badge. You’re such a disappointment. Your brother was worth ten of you.”

  Lady Sevaka’s face fell. “No one’s disputing that.”

  Marek averted his gaze. He knew the chastisement sprang from love. The elder Lady Kiradin sought to shape her daughter as a sculptor shaped clay, smoothing away the unnecessary and the unlovely to reveal the hard, beautiful form beneath. But he doubted he could have spoken to his own daughter thus, had Lumestra blessed him with one.

  “The Republic needs strong blood, and strong leadership,” said Lady Ebigail. “It does not need callow young women who let others fight their battles and abandon them thereafter.”

  “Fight their own battles?” Lady Sevaka ripped back her sleeve to reveal a stained bandage. “How do you think I got this?” Her spread hand encompassed the cuts and bruises and her face, her voice growing ragged. “Or these? Do you think I came here for sympathy? For maternal concern? Lumestra knows I wouldn’t expect that from you. I can’t help Rosa, but I know you can.”

  She stopped, breathless.

  The corner of Lady Ebigail’s mouth twitched. She gave a sharp nod. “Then I have not entirely failed to instil you with good sense. We will see what can be done. Marek? Prepare the carriage. We leave as soon as my daughter has scraped away the gutter.”

  He bowed, glad that the rift between mother and daughter was, if not sealed, then at least bridged. “At once, lady.”

  The turnkey slammed the swollen door closed. The cell stank of salt, mould and the worst kind of filth. A green tidemark halfway up the plasterwork showed the levels to which the chamber had last flooded. Pooled water beneath Malachi’s boots spoke to drains long since clogged.

  He could have coped with all that. Filth could be swept away, clothes cleaned and skin scrubbed free of blemish. But the sight of Rosa, sitting hunched on the rusted chain bunk with her arms wrapped about her knees? That tested him.

  The constabulary had shown little concession to rank. She still wore the once-expensive dress – ripped to the thigh and stained with blood and gutter-muck though it was. There was also blood beneath her nails, though Rosa had assured him it wasn’t hers.

  “How is it out there?” Rosa asked without looking up.

  Malachi sighed. “It’s bad. Captain Horden’s so deep in Tarev’s pocket that I’m surprised he can see the sun. I’ve pulled all the authority I have and some I don’t. But he won’t release you into my custody. I’ve tried. Your uncles have tried. No one’s listening. They’re talking about bringing you to trial before noon.”

  “So soon?”

  “You confessed.” Malachi choked back frustration. “Why did you have to confess?”

  Rosa turned her gaze upon him. “Because it’s true. And I deserve this.”

  “Deserve it?” Malachi splashed across the cell. The bunk-chains scraped as he sat beside her. “Aske attacked you. Raven’s Eyes, but it’s barely a week since she was ready to murder us all.”

  “I got caught. She didn’t.” She didn’t sound sad, or angry. Just resigned.

  Malachi shook his head. How could he make her see? If she withdrew the confession it might muddy the waters. He re-examined her words. And I deserve this. Guilt separate from the act. Rosa never misspoke.

  “Why do you deserve it?”

  “Because I couldn’t save him. I loved him, and I couldn’t save him.”

  Malachi sank back. The words made sense of much, not least the depth of Rosa’s grief. Why hadn’t he seen it?

  “Did Kasamor know?”

  She shook her head. “Nor anyone else. You can consider this my last confession.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “We both know I’ll be dancing the gallows jig at sundown.” She sighed. “And when that doesn’t work, they’ll burn me alive.”

  Malachi frowned at the sudden twist of logic, nonsensical as it was. He decided against challenging the point – Rosa didn’t look like a woman with full command of her wits. Confinement broke people in odd ways. It would keep. “You’re tired. You need to sleep.”

  “But I don’t. I haven’t slept since Kasamor died. I don’t sleep. I eat, though I never feel hungry. I don’t bleed. Liquor has no claim on my wits. I’m cursed, Malachi. That’s why I didn’t die last night. That’s why they’ll have to burn me.” Her voice grew distant. “I wonder if even that’ll work. Or whether they’ll hew me with axes and feed me to the dogs.”

  Malachi shuddered at a conversation that had taken a turn for the macabre. “You’re not cursed. You’re tired, you’re grieving and your wits are scattered . . .”

  Her exasperated sigh cut him off. “Don’t interrupt. A last confession is sacred.”

  She pushed clear of the wall and swung to her feet. Fabric tore and stitches popped as she tugged at the torn panel on the front of her dress. Malachi, concerned that she was about to disrobe, looked hurriedly away.

  “Rosa . . .”

  “Don’t be such a child, and look.”

  After a brief hesitation, Malachi did as instructed. To his relief, Rosa had merely ripped a jagged oblong of material from the front of her dress. Roughly halfway between hip and ribs, he glimpsed a thin, puckered scar the width of a sword blade. Dangerous, probably. Agonising, for certain. But it was also from a wound long in the past.

  “So it’s a scar. You’re a soldier. You have scars.”

  “I took this wound last night. One of Aske’s hearthguards.”

  He stared at the scar for a long moment and shook his head. “Impossible.”

  She shot him a pitying look. “Then why does it match the tear in the dress?”

  She held the flap of fabric back in place. The match sent doubt shivering along Malachi’s spine.

  “Let me see.”

  Rosa stepped closer. “Be my guest. But watch your hands. I dread to imagine what Lilyana would say.”

  Malachi supposed he should have welcomed the flippancy in Rosa’s speech. Growing unease made that impossible. Up close, there could be no doubt that the wounds to flesh and fabric were a pair. Unless Rosa had cut the latter to match the former. Even in her current madness that seemed unlikely.

  Especially if she weren’t mad at all.

  He traced his fingers along the scar. Her skin was warm to the touch, though perhaps not as warm as it should have been. And now he examined all the closer, he realised that the hairline at the scar’s heart was not pinkish-red, but black.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. There should be a matching one on my back. But I can’t reach there.”

  Malachi shook his head. This wasn’t possible, was it? If Rosa had take
n a wound like that mere hours ago she shouldn’t even be standing. She’d be dying. She was sucking him into her grief-born madness. And he, so heartsick at the prospect of losing another friend, was letting her do so.

  “You’re not well, Rosa. You’re imagining things.”

  She flicked at the flap of cloth, put one hand on her hip and held out the other. “Give me your dagger.”

  “I’m not carrying a dagger. I’m a councilman visiting a prisoner.”

  “Then give me your paper knife. You never go anywhere without it.”

  Malachi slipped the thin, blunted blade from his pocket and reversed it. Rosa snatched it up and brought it down on her left forearm.

  “Rosa!” Malachi leapt to his feet. His shout swallowed up the wet, tearing sound.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. A fist hammered on the door. “Everything all right in there, my lord?”

  No, thought Malachi. Everything was far from all right. His eyes slipped from Rosa’s face to her left forearm, and he realised they were worse even than he’d thought. The wooden haft was flush with the upper side of her arm. The blunted tip projected an inch or two below. There was no blood.

  Keys jangled beyond the door. “My lord?”

  Malachi swallowed. “No problem here. Be about your business.”

  The rattle of keys fell silent. The footsteps tracked away.

  “Doesn’t . . . Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Not as much as it should. Believe me now?”

  He threw a hand against the wall to steady himself. Rosa slid the knife free of her flesh and tossed it to him. Malachi made the catch with a shudder of revulsion. A thin, glistening layer of silvery-black fluid evaporated from the blade.

  “What happened to you?” he whispered.

  “I told you. I’m cursed. The kernclaw cursed me.”

  Malachi’s ears pricked up at the new information. “Kernclaw?”