by Matthew Ward
[[Maybe I don’t want answers. Maybe I want the Raven to take me away.]]
Irritation burned away the last lingering fear. “Then you’re a fool. I buried my son fifteen years back. My husband, two years prior. I’d give anything for another day with them. Another hour, even. And that’s whether or not they could feel the warmth of my hand. Or if they were clad in white and gold, like a mummer dressed up for Reaptithe carnival.”
Anastacia turned. Baleful black eyes blazed within her perfect, beautiful face. [[You dare match your loss to mine?]]
Revekah held her ground. “No. Because however much you reckon you’ve lost – and I’m not saying it’s nothing – you’re still here, and you still feel. Folk who feel nothing don’t weep for their loss, not even when they think no one’s watching.”
She received no reply save for that ominous, unblinking stare. All told, Revekah preferred the old Anastacia to whatever she had become. Whatever Akadra had made her.
“All I know is that you’re a big part of what’s kept Josiri sane these past years. He could use a little of that now. So could you. Find Josiri. Let him decide. I don’t pretend to know what you were, or what you are now. But we’re stronger with those we care for than without them. Every last one of us.”
The perfect brow tilted, curiously birdlike in gesture. [[You’re trying to be kind. But you do not understand.]]
She chuckled. “Lassie, I’m an old woman. Time’s treated me better than most. But if you think these old bones offer up more than a fraction of what they used to, then you’re as big a fool as ever I met. Should have packed all this in years ago, ’cept some folk think there might be a bit of wisdom rattling around my head. But you do what you want. I can’t stop you.”
[[No,]] said Anastacia. [[You can’t.]]
She held the stare for what seemed for ever. Long enough for Revekah to wonder if Anastacia was considering hurling her back into the pool. Then without another word, the shawl came up anew. Water streaming from her clothes, Anastacia stalked away into the mists.
Cold, wet and fighting an odd mix of anger and ennui, Revekah let her go. Fifteen years. Fifteen years she’d watched and waited, helping Josiri become the man Katya would have wanted – the leader the Southshires needed. It was all coming apart, and one man lay at the heart of it all.
Viktor Akadra. She couldn’t stop Anastacia doing as she wished, but she could sure as sunrise put an end to him.
Newfound determination burning away the chill of sodden clothes, Revekah went in search of Tarn.
Calenne returned to the muster fields an hour before noon. Viktor emerged from his tent in full plate armour and surcoat, the great fennlander’s claymore strapped in place across his back.
“You promised to get some rest.”
“Your expectation is not my promise,” he replied, with only a hint of mockery. “For what it’s worth, I did sleep for several hours after you left.”
Calenne crossed her arms, uncertain if she believed him. “And if I asked Captain Kurkas?”
“He’d offer whatever reply granted him the quietest life. But it is the truth. My good intentions and arrogance both now have their second wind.” He hooked an eyebrow, the motion tugging on his scar. “Did you find him?”
She nodded. “You’re wasting your time. He won’t listen.”
In point of fact, Josiri had been halfway into a bottle when she’d left him. She hadn’t asked why. She hadn’t dared, for fear of the topic turning to Anastacia. And if that happened, everything would bubble to the surface – Josiri’s deceptions about their captivity at the fore.
More and more, Calenne wondered just how much she’d known of her brother had been the truth, concealed too long from the woman she was by the blinkered assumptions of the girl she’d once been. Her world had changed so much since she’d left Branghall. The brother she’d trusted stood revealed as a liar, and the man she’d feared was nobler than she could have believed. Trying to unpick it all only left her angry. Until that faded, Josiri was better off avoided. Selfish, perhaps, but wasn’t she entitled to be so, if only for a little while?
Viktor nodded. “I have to try. Without Josiri – without at least his backing – we’ll be hard-pressed in the days to come. The Raven will feast well.”
“Then leave us. Take your hearthguards, and that insolent captain of yours, and march home.”
“I cannot.”
“Why?” Calenne hadn’t known the frustration she harboured until the demand tore free. “If my brother won’t stand up – if my people won’t fight – why should you die in our defence?”
Viktor drew closer. A wry smile touched his lips. “All this concern. Would you truly weep if the Black Knight met his end?”
“I have no tears for the Black Knight,” said Calenne. “But for Viktor Akadra, I might manage a few.”
She glared at him, daring him to read more into a confession she barely understood herself. Was it because Viktor expected more of her than Josiri ever had? That he challenged her to be better?
He took her hands in his. “I’m a soldier. My duty is to fight for those who cannot. To stand the line when no one else will. Your mother understood that.”
“My mother . . .” Calenne chased the word from her thoughts. “Katya is dead.”
“Her people are not. I have a duty to them. So does your brother, even if he finds the price too painful.”
“Is it duty? Or is it pride?”
Calenne pulled free and turned away, overcome by contradictory emotion. Josiri had a duty. So did she. Viktor hadn’t spoken the words, but he must have thought them. Looking out across the muster field, she felt that duty more keenly than ever. Instead of flesh and blood soldiers, she saw grinning skeletons, caked in mud from upturned graves.
It had been easier at Branghall, when folk had been distant names and faces seldom seen. When Viktor Akadra had been the murderous Black Knight at the head of an anonymous, oppressive horde. But what good did it do if she hurled herself into this madness? She’d spent her life fleeing her mother’s . . . Katya’s . . . poisonous legacy. If she gave that up, if she abandoned her dreams of untetherment, she might as well be dead.
Viktor’s hand rested on her shoulder. She shook it away.
“Josiri is back at Branghall,” she snapped. “It’s the only home he knows, and he lacks the courage to seek another. I wish you the joy of getting him to listen. He’s certainly never paid me any heed. Not that anyone ever does.”
“Calenne, wait!”
She strode away without reply, and without a backward glance. But though she left Viktor behind, the conflicts he’d awoken remained with her at every step.
Twenty-Seven
The door slammed back with a boom that echoed to the rafters. A cold draught swirled wilted flower petals from the flagstones. Josiri glanced tiredly up from the table. He’d hoped wine’s embrace might make Branghall seem less empty, and his life less the punchline to a poor joke. It had only pushed the world behind filthy glass and left him a prisoner with his scalded pride.
“Josiri Trelan! It is past time we had words!”
Viktor Akadra bore down, his shoulders set and his face impassive. Fully armoured and surcoated from neck to boots, he was the spit of Josiri’s memories of that long-ago Ascension night.
Josiri reached for his glass. “I’ve said all I care to.”
“Then listen.”
Gripping the heavy oaken timbers in gauntleted hands, Akadra heaved the table first onto one end, and then tipped it aside. Bottles shattered on flagstones.
Josiri leapt to unsteady feet and swung a fist at Akadra’s face. Into that blow he poured every drop of self-loathing for driving Calenne away. Every ounce of disappointment that Anastacia was gone. Every scrap of worthlessness for having been so easily supplanted by Drakos Crovan.
It flailed to nothing in empty air.
Josiri had a drunken heartbeat to contemplate fresh failure. A hammer-blow struck his ribs. He doubled over, gas
ping. A heavy hand clamped about his collar and dragged the world sideways.
“Unhand me!”
Akadra dragged him backwards across the hall. Josiri battered at the Black Knight’s forearm and dug his heels against flagstones. He might as well have struck stone or sought purchase on Wintertide ice.
“Unhand me! Guards! Guards!”
Akadra ignored him. No guards came. Of course not. Their allegiance had never been his. Reaching the window, Akadra yanked Josiri to his feet and crushed his cheek against the glass.
“Do you see that?” demanded Akadra. “Do you?”
The streets of Eskavord fell away below. Through the twin filters of inebriation and glass, Josiri made out the pitiful army on the muster field.
“Five hundred souls, no more,” Akadra bit out. “I’ve others waiting on the Kreska road. But Kai Saran has at least six thousand. Six thousand veterans of the border wars, and I have an army of children and old men! It’s not enough.”
He released his grip. Josiri wriggled free.
“Then leave!” he growled. “Run away north and leave us be!”
“Your sister gave the same advice. I’m glad to see you’ve something in common.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“That she has fire,” sneered Akadra. “You’re a spoilt child clinging to a worthless throne.”
The words hit home with the force of Viktor’s fist. “Why do you care?”
“Because I’ve no other recourse. I can save your lands, your subjects. But I need your help.”
Josiri laughed. “I’ve no help to give! I played the part of puppet too well. The ‘allies’ you’d have me deliver despise me for your catspaw!”
“And you yielded to their distrust.” Akadra snorted. “You are your mother’s son, even to the end.”
Anger solidified to cold fury. Akadra didn’t see the punch coming. His head snapped aside. He steadied himself against the window frame.
“You don’t get to speak of her,” snarled Josiri. “Not here.”
He struck Akadra again. The giant staggered. Blood showed at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away. “What will you do otherwise? Plunge a knife into your heart, as she did?”
His words caught Josiri short. “That’s not how it happened! You murdered her!”
“With Lumestra as my witness, I did not. I offered her protection. But dying for a lost cause is easy. Living for one, with all the disappointments and hardships it brings? She hadn’t the stomach.” Akadra straightened and looked him up and down. “You’ve learnt her lessons well. I hope she’s proud.”
Again, Josiri swung. Akadra’s open palm took him across the face before the blow landed. Teeth rattled in Josiri’s jaw, and he dropped to one knee. Akadra’s hand clamped around his throat. His skin prickled with sudden cold. The windows darkened and the room passed into shadow.
“I sought to be your friend,” growled Akadra, “to mend the wounds between us for the good of your people. I no longer have that luxury. You will give me all that you have, or I will take it from you.”
Josiri clawed at the hand around his throat.
“You already have,” he gasped. “Where is Anastacia? What have you done to her?”
Akadra lurched back, his hand falling from Josiri’s throat. The darkness cleared, and warmth returned to the room.
“I gave her freedom, as I did you,” he said, his words stilted. “What she has done with it is no matter for me.”
Josiri strove for breath and wondered at Akadra’s defensive tone. Something had shifted, but he knew not what or why. Nor could he shake the presence of a yawning precipice.
“If that’s true, then thank you,” he gasped. “She deserves better than to be trapped in Branghall.”
Akadra sat on the windowsill and wiped a fresh rivulet of blood from his lips. He looked every bit as weary as Josiri felt.
“That’s for her to judge. But of your mother, I do not lie. I would have saved her. She wouldn’t allow it. Then my father used my ‘victory’ to further my position, and the truth slipped away.” He straightened. “Out of respect for her, I ask you one more time. Join with me. Let us be as brothers. Let us save your people.”
Josiri sank back, mired in a sea of regrets and lost opportunities. If he’d accepted Akadra’s offer on the first day, he could have presented it as a victory. Maybe even wrested the Vagabond Council from Crovan’s influence. But it was too late. And there was still that wall between them, mortared in old blood. Even if Akadra spoke the truth about his mother’s death, the thought of scaling that wall hurt like losing her all over again.
“What you ask, I cannot give.”
Akadra rose. There was no trace of his earlier fury, nor even disappointment. Just the flat, grey bleakness of a winter sky, forlorn of life and hope.
“Then you and I have something in common,” he said. “Today, we both had opportunity to alter how the future unfolds. We neither of us had the strength for what had to be done. Let us hope we can live with the consequences.”
He stalked from the great hall, leaving Josiri to dwell on decisions past. And on what opportunity Viktor had lacked the strength to seize.
Viktor’s return trip across Eskavord passed in a blur of seething anger and might-have-beens. So much hung on Josiri’s cooperation. Still the duke had refused to see reason. Too much pride. The curse of the Trelans.
But was he himself any less complicit? Viktor knew his shadow could have bent Josiri to his will, had he possessed the courage to set it free. And it had wanted to slip its leash – wanted it so badly he could still feel its frustration at being denied. But he couldn’t have risked it, not after his failure with Anastacia. He’d been so certain of that, too, and now another – a daughter of Lumestra, no less – paid the price for his hubris.
Viktor told himself the situations were different. Anastacia had at least offered help. Josiri had wallowed in anger and self-pity. He deserved neither respect, nor regard for his well-being. The claim rang hollow. Josiri may have struck the first blow, but Viktor had provided all the provocation he’d ever have needed. Calenne had been correct. He should have slept. And because he’d been too proud to take her advice, only a fool’s hope remained.
Vladama Kurkas met him at eastern gate, his usual carelessness in wary abeyance.
“His grace see the wisdom of things, my lord?”
“His grace did not,” said Viktor, “so we proceed as planned. Get everyone ready to march.”
“I’ll see to it.” Kurkas made a doomed attempt to straighten his battered uniform. “Always knew this blessed province would be the death of me. But you never know . . . something might turn up.”
He struck out across the muster field, orders already booming from his lips. Viktor watched him go. A shame Josiri Trelan didn’t have a tenth of Kurkas’ courage. If only Viktor Akadra had half his wariness for lost causes.
And lost causes weighed on Viktor’s mind as he parted the flaps of his tent. He’d burned so many bridges back in Tressia to come this far – with his father, most of all. To go back without a victory to show for it was impossible. There was only the road ahead. A road that might see him, and all those who trusted him – Kurkas among them – buried in the same pit.
It spoke to Viktor’s distraction that it wasn’t until he was fully inside the tent that he realised he wasn’t alone.
“Calenne?”
She sat opposite the entrance but rose as he spoke. The dress was darker than the one she’d worn that morning, closer-fitting and recently pressed. Her black hair, then free of comb or band, was bound in tight plaits and trimmed with king’s blue ribbons. The formality of her appearance made her seem older. Yet it somehow highlighted the gulf of years that lay between them.
“I never loved Kasamor Kiradin.” She met his gaze as she spoke, a slight tremor beneath the words. “It’s important you understand that. I’m not proud of it, for I know how he thought of me.”
Viktor frow
ned. The words themselves were no surprise, for she’d grieved little in his company, but the timing . . . “Calenne. What is this?”
“Let me finish.” Seeing how her hands worked against one another, she hid them behind her back. “I let Kasamor see his love reflected because I wanted to be free of this place, and of my mother’s legend. If I hadn’t, he might still be alive.”
Poor Kasamor. A good soldier, but a poor judge of a woman’s heart. Perhaps it was better he’d never know. “You are not responsible for Kasamor’s actions.”
“But I am responsible for my own. I’m not a fool, Viktor. I know my brother. I know he refused you. And I know the consequences of that refusal.”
Viktor’s pulse quickened with new hope. “Then do what he will not.”
She shook her head. “I cannot live my life as Katya Trelan’s daughter. I can’t. She’d smother me, or else devour me from within until Calenne was gone, and only an echo of a stranger remained. That’s what you ask, and I cannot give it to you.”
Bitterness crowded Viktor’s throat as hope turned ashen. “I’ve no time for games, Calenne. Speak your piece and be on your way.”
“I didn’t love Kasamor. I didn’t even respect him, as I have come to respect you. But he was prepared to welcome me into his family, and thus free me of mine.” She took a deep breath. The last tremor vanished from her voice. “I do not love you. What you think of me I can only guess, though I find myself hoping my guesses are not wide of the mark. Whatever we are – whatever is between us – it’s not love. At least, not yet. But if you bind me to your family, I will play the part of Katya Trelan’s daughter until the bells chime to mark our wedding.”
Objections buzzed about Viktor’s head like flies. They slipped through his fingers even as he reached for them. He swore he heard Kurkas’ riotous laughter, for he suspected the captain had seen this coming just as plainly as he had not.
Was it such a terrible idea? Viktor, disdaining the nonsense of courtship and more at home on a battlefield than among polite company, had long ago resigned himself to a marriage of convenience. After all, the continuation of the family name too was duty. It was an overdue prospect that grew nearer with every greying hair.