by Matthew Ward
“. . . but through his sacrifice, he ushered Malatriant into the Raven’s embrace.” Elzar nodded. “I can quote scripture too. But you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?” asked Malachi.
Elzar extended a hand. Golden light crackled from fingertip to fingertip. “Scripture tells that Belenzo’s blessing revealed itself in his blood, for it shone with light. The same golden light that was essence to the serathi. Now, I wield Lumestra’s light, but my blood is as red as yours – begging your pardon, Lady Orova – though I’ll be thankful if you don’t ask me to prove it.”
“A point, high proctor,” said Lilyana, her tone now distinctly unfriendly. “You promised a point.”
He snapped his fingers. Light leapt towards the ceiling and dissipated into nothingness. “It’s simply this. If Konor Belenzo bled light, can we be certain he any longer bled as ordinary folk do?”
“You’re saying Rosa is as Belenzo was? Blessed by Lumestra?” asked Malachi.
“Not quite. I’m sure you’d have mentioned if she bled light. But if Lumestra’s favour revealed itself in the blood, and if Belenzo had comrades similarly blessed, but by other divinities . . .”
“. . . then I am cursed,” said Rosa through a throat thick with despair. “The kernclaw gave me to the Raven, and he has marked me for his own. I deserve the pyre.”
She took a deep breath to steady herself. It didn’t help, it only made the room spin, so she closed her eyes. Her heart hammered at her ribs. Why did it labour so without blood to send coursing through her veins? Rosa could have wept, but for the shame of the tears – and out of uncertainty whether even tears were now denied her.
“What I don’t understand,” Sidara piped up, “is why it matters which god blessed you, so long as you wear the gift well?”
Rosa opened her eyes onto a room of comedically similar expressions. Malachi, Lilyana and Elzar twisted towards the drawing room’s rear door, their lips parted, but their tongues bereft of words. Sidara stood frozen in place, fingers still on the door handle. Her face showed the first signs of understanding that she’d made an error of no small magnitude.
“Sidara! That is a wicked thing to say! Truly wicked!” Lilyana, her voice thunderous and her face flushed, jerked a hand towards the hallway. “Go to your room!”
“But, Mother, this is interesting.”
“I will not tell you again!”
She grabbed the child by the arm and bundled her out of the door. Before crossing the threshold herself, Lilyana glowered at Elzar. “Thank you for your time, high proctor, and your . . . opinions. But I think it would be better if you left my home.”
The door slammed.
Malachi winced. “Elzar, I can only echo my wife’s thanks, and apologise for her rudeness.”
He waved both away and rose. “I spoke of my own volition; the fault is mine. And she’s right, you know. Your daughter, I mean.”
Rosa looked up to see him staring down at her.
“Though I shouldn’t say so,” Elzar went on, “the gods too are like stories. They may grant us power, but like Malatriant they have no power over us that we do not grant them. We so often claim the soul is a single, indivisible entity, when really it is three together. When we die, a part of us goes to the mists, and a part remains with the body to await Third Dawn. The gods have claim only on that third which remains. It’s the only piece of ourselves we have to offer, and the only part they can take. Konor Belenzo chose to embrace Lumestra, as do I, and as does Lady Reveque. Even if the Raven has laid claim to that piece, Lady Orova, you need not embrace him unless it is your desire. What you do otherwise is your own affair.”
He bowed and withdrew in a swish of golden robes. Malachi followed, leaving Rosa alone in sunlight that did nothing to warm her skin.
Twenty-Four
“Halt, ’less you want a bellyful of steel!”
Josiri hauled the horse to a standstill. Unfriendly eyes watched from the undergrowth. A thin line of wolf-fur clad men and women blocked the roadway. Swords glinted in the moonlight. Careful not to make any move that would set bowstrings humming, he drew back his hood.
“I want to speak to Drakos Crovan.”
A scruffy individual pushed his way to the front of the thin blockade. He alone had yet to draw a blade. “Duke Trelan? Well, ain’t this something. Thought you were trussed up at Branghall, supping from silver chalices.”
Rough laughter rippled beneath the trees. Josiri, burdened by both restless soul and sleepless night – and sore from a journey made at the gallop – couldn’t conceal his vexation.
“Let me through!”
The man ambled closer and spread his hands wide, playing to his audience. “Doesn’t he know we’re wolf’s-heads? We don’t take orders.”
Josiri slid from his saddle. “You do today.”
The man glowered at him from a face full of bruises. “Reckon so, do you?”
He went for his sword. Josiri caught his wrist.
The fellow was strong but unsteady – the sour note of ale told why. Despair gripped Josiri anew. The Southshires were invaded by both the Hadari and Viktor Akadra, and Crovan’s wolf’s-heads were drinking?
“Hands off!”
The drunk balled his free hand and swung. But Josiri had spent years sparring with Anastacia, and she was faster than the wolf’s-head would ever be.
Tugging on the captive wrist, Josiri spun the fellow around. His boot connected with a fleshy rump, and the drunk went sprawling. The man’s sword, claimed in the confusion, gleamed in Josiri’s hand. He cast it into the dirt.
“I want to speak to Drakos Crovan.” Time for reason. “He’ll see me.”
“Then he can do it with you bound and gagged!” roared the drunk. “Or do you need an arrow to make you cooperative?”
“Pack it in, Vorn!”
A familiar face appeared among the trees. Revekah.
“Stay out of this, crone!”
She sauntered towards the road, time-worn face unconcerned. “Fixing to be bested by an old woman, as well as a pampered noble? And that’s without going into whatever happened to you the other night.” She shrugged and nodded at Josiri. “You mustn’t mind Vorn. Reckon he still hasn’t learned that some maids back up the word ‘no’ with actions.”
Vorn growled but held his tongue. The atmosphere shifted. The eyes were no friendlier than before, but Revekah’s arrival had the ambushers unsettled.
Josiri bowed. “Captain Halvor.”
“So formal, your grace.” She flashed a mischievous smile, then rounded on Vorn. “And as for you! Who do you suppose has been feeding us word on the northwealders’ intentions for years? How we learned they were moving on Vallora? Weren’t for him, none of you would’ve gotten out.”
“He’s a traitor!” The objection came from the anonymity of the undergrowth. “He burned the duchess’ portrait!”
“And how do you feel about that? Angry? Angry enough to fight? Good! Now put your weapons away and give his grace the escort he deserves.”
Vorn at last found his tongue. “We take orders from the Wolf King, not you.”
Revekah rolled her eyes. “Then let’s go and see him. All of us.”
He grimaced, then stalked off down the road. The other wolf’s-heads hesitated, then dribbled away to a respectful distance. Watchful, but not threatening. At least for now.
Josiri let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Here’s a thought. Why don’t I cede the duchy to you? You’re much better at this.”
She shook her head. “No one needs to see my withered old face staring down at them from on high. What in Lumestra’s name are you doing, riding about like that? Never mind what Makrov’ll do if he gets word – Viktor Akadra’s back in the Southshires . . .”
The name soured Josiri’s mood still further. “I know. It’s why I’ve come to find Crovan.”
She grunted. “Picked a hell of a time. The Wolf King’s holding court to every member of the Vagabo
nd Council he could reach.”
For the first time that day, Josiri allowed himself to smile. Lumestra was with him. If Crovan had assembled everyone, there was still a chance to send both Akadra and the Hadari packing.
“Then lead the way, captain,” he said. “It’s time for everything to change.”
“Can’t be done, not in the time you want.”
Bran Yorvin scratched at his greying hair and gazed at Viktor with the expression of a master craftsman well-used to holding his ground in the face of strident clients. But Viktor had spent too long around soldiers. He’d learned that what was said to be possible was merely the start of the bargaining process.
“I need it tonight.”
“It’s samite porcelain, you can’t rush it. Three days, firing to cooling. Anything less, and it’ll crack.” Yorvin glanced at his labouring apprentices. “Look, the lads have the bulk of the commission underway, and I’ll manage the rest myself. It’ll be a beauty, but beauty takes time.”
Viktor said nothing. Sometimes, silence was a weapon more formidable than any. Yorvin’s brow twitched. Not much. Just enough to confirm Viktor’s suspicions, awoken by the pieces on display. Vases and figurines finer than anything a provincial potter could fashion.
“Viktor?” Calenne stepped between them. “I agreed to help, but that doesn’t extend to watching you lose your temper over the impossible.”
“You’ve never seen me lose my temper. It’s not something you forget.”
She shuddered. “I’m sure. But if Master Yorvin says it can’t be done . . . Not everything succumbs to council demands, or generous coin.”
Yorvin cleared his throat. “I can have it finished for the day after tomorrow.”
“Tonight.” Viktor took Calenne by the shoulder and eased her aside. “Tonight, and I’ll tell no one of your secret. Including the archimandrite.”
“Hark at you.” Yorvin snorted and turned away. “Keep my secrets indeed. Look around all you like, but you’ll find nothing.”
“Viktor . . .” said Calenne.
He ignored her. Time among soldiers had taught him how to gauge possibility. The company of councillors had taught him how to read truth in lies. “Have it your way, Master Proctor.”
Yorvin froze in the act of patting down his apron. Then he shrank inwards, just a little. “I don’t know what that means.”
“But you do. There’s no way the Proctor’s College would let you wander off into the Southshires, which means you fled. Which means . . .”
“Viktor! Leave the man alone.”
Again, he turned his gaze on Calenne. It was a stare that had shamed battle-hardened veterans into silence. Somehow, she met him measure for measure. Remarkable, considering she’d fainted at the sight of him barely two days prior. Viktor would have wagered a fair portion of his inheritance that poor Kasamor had never seen the steel at his betrothed’s core.
Or perhaps he had, and that had been part of the attraction. An odd thought, but not unappealing.
“Our friend the potter is a fugitive,” he said. “He has the gift of magic and should be wielding it in the foundry.”
“Making more of those monsters, you mean,” said Calenne.
“Kraikons and simarka are not monsters. They are weapons, and no more evil than a sword.”
“A sword can be evil. It depends on the wielder. And constructs are wielded by council lackeys.”
Her expression left Viktor in no doubt at all that the final venomous word referred to him.
“I am no one’s lackey.” He strove for patience. “Nor am I proposing to drag our friend back to Tressia in chains. I seek to remind him of his place in things.”
“Blackmail him, you mean.”
“Please,” said Yorvin. “I’ve lived here thirty years. I have a family.”
There was no resistance in him now. Just fear. Viktor felt a twinge of regret, but sometimes the breaking of a man was necessary. A gesture was needed.
He went down on one knee before the old man and bowed his head. Calenne’s eyes widened in surprise, occasioning an unfamiliar glow of satisfaction. Viktor put it from his mind and focused on Yorvin.
“And I mean only to see them protected. I apologise for my directness, but the Southshires is invaded. Your work may save lives . . . but only if it is completed tonight.”
Yorvin frowned and glanced again across the workshop. “I don’t see how. It’s just a toy.”
“That’s my concern. Will you help me protect your family?”
“And if I don’t, I suppose you’ll tell Makrov about me?”
Viktor wouldn’t, of course. Or at least, he didn’t believe he would. After all, he and Yorvin were the same, in a way. Except if Yorvin were taken he’d be pressed to service in the foundry as an indentured crafts-man. If Makrov learnt about Viktor’s shadow . . . ? Well, that would end far worse, for someone. But the truth had no place in this conversation. Yorvin had to believe.
“I’ll take you to him myself.”
Viktor took no joy in the old man’s crestfallen expression. Less still in Calenne’s glower. The first was of no consequence . . . And as for the second? If she was truly her mother’s daughter, she’d understand, sooner or later.
Yorvin drew himself up. “Damn you, but I’ll do it. But you’d better keep your end of the bargain.”
“I’ll hold my tongue, never fear.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Yorvin. “I’ll die before I let the shadowthorns have my family. I expect you to do the same.”
That would prove the harder promise to keep. But it was also a challenge already set. “You have my word that I’ll do all I can. I’m not accustomed to failure.”
Calenne snorted. Yorvin nodded.
“I guess that’ll have to do, Lord Akadra.” He sighed. “It’ll be ready for midnight. I can’t do better.”
Viktor nodded. “Then that must do. Have it sent to Branghall.”
“Yes, my lord. And have you given thought to the other matter? I can bind the joints with steel pins, but clay doesn’t flex. It’ll look a mite odd with gaps showing everywhere. And that’s before we’ve made a covering.”
“Bind the gaps with leather.” Viktor unclasped his velvet cloak and shrugged it free. “Use this for the rest.”
Yorvin hesitated, but took the cloak anyway. “You’re sure? Good cloth to waste on a toy.”
“It’s not a toy.” Viktor shot a glance at Calenne, who was back to regarding him with suspicion. “Besides, I’m told it makes me look like an executioner. With it gone, perhaps folk will find it easier to see that I’m not.”
“I’m sorry, your grace, but it can’t be done.”
Drakos Crovan didn’t sound sorry. He delivered every word with an orator’s precision as he paced about the crackling bonfire at the heart of Maiden’s Hollow, addressing them not to Josiri, but to members of the Vagabond Council seated in the circle of headless dancers. Them, and the scores upon scores of wolf’s-heads, rogues and outcasts on the slopes above.
Most wore the wolf-cloaks of Crovan’s followers, a few the tattered phoenix of Revekah’s band. The loyalties of the remainder were shown less by raiment and more by the knots they formed in the broader throng, islands of battered battle-gear and worn leather in a sea of silver fur and phoenix blue.
Josiri couldn’t help but be impressed by Crovan’s reach. He himself knew the burly Nikolos Korsov – merchant turned (reasonably) honest brigand – well. Nials Gavamor was as close to a friend as Josiri had outside of Revekah. But the other Vagabond Councillors? Those he knew only by reputation.
The heavyset Thrakkian twins, Anliss and Armund, stood alone. The crowds on the slopes would never have hidden them. Chainmail, plaited red hair and flame tattoos covering half of their faces – the left for Anliss, and the right for Armund – guaranteed as much. They were supposedly fleeing the wrath of a brother who’d stolen their inheritance, but who knew the truth? Thrakkian honour was complicated, and their wanderlust legenda
ry.
The grim-featured Jesver Merrik controlled the lands to the north-east of Eskavord. Northwealders didn’t enter the Kellin Valley any longer – not without a pack of simarka to flush Merrik’s keen-eyed wolf’s-heads from the rock-strewn fields. “Free Kellin”, they called it.
Then there was Silda Drenn. Like Merrik, her reputation spoke for itself. She was a wolf’s-head of the more traditional kind, little better than a bandit. Josiri knew for certain fact that Revekah would have cheerfully slit the woman’s throat, save that Drenn controlled much of the land between Eskavord and Thrakkia.
Josiri rose, more aware than ever of the eyes on him. Years of preparation could turn on the next few minutes. Especially with Crovan’s unexpected resistance.
“We’ve prepared for this moment for years. We’re ready.”
“To fight one enemy, not two.” Crovan laced the words with polite laughter, as would a man explaining the realities of the world to a wayward child. “Trelszon is burning. How can we keep the Hadari at bay and throw the northwealders from our lands?”
A murmur of agreement rippled across the dell. Heads nodded around the fire, Merrik’s and Korskov’s included. Gavamor toyed with the simarka amulet at his neck, his lip twisting in thought. Josiri wished Anastacia were there.
“Because it’s your duty, you jumped up little worm,” growled Revekah.
Brief laughter overtook the murmurs, then faded. There were more wolf-cloaks than phoenix tabards among the onlookers.
“Rank buys you nothing down here beneath trees,” said Crovan. “Here, we are all one in the Dark.”
“We all have a duty,” said Josiri.
Drenn snorted. “Duty’s for soldiers. It’s nothing out here. Out here, all we’ve got is survival.”
“Not all of us.” Chain rings scraped as Anliss folded her arms. “Some of us fight for honour.”
“Can’t eat your honour, can you, thrakker?”
Josiri marked the subtle shift in Anliss’s posture, and its mirror in her brother. Quarrelling with a Thrakkian over honour seldom ended well.
“Some things are worth going hungry for,” said Armund. “My sister and I cannot unmake the wrongs done us, but nor need we sit idle. Not while we’ve strong arms and sharp axes. Destiny is forged through deeds, not stolen like table-scraps.”