by Matthew Ward
Ebigail loosed a wretched sigh. “So it’s true. I’d hoped he was wrong. Why didn’t I believe him?”
Rosa glanced up. “Didn’t believe him about what?”
“It’s better you don’t know.”
“I can’t accept that.”
A wintery smile. “No, that was foolish of me, wasn’t it?”
Rosa knew better than that. Grieving or not, the thought of Ebigail speaking out of turn – much less letting something slip by mistake – was the stuff of fancy. Everything she did and said was to a purpose, even now. But that didn’t mean that purpose was to be distrusted. Kas linked them in death. “Tell me. Please.”
“On one condition: that my words do not leave this room. They do not reach the ears of your friends, and most certainly not Sevaka’s. I will not have them endangered.”
“You have my word as a Knight of Essamere.”
For a long moment, Rosa wasn’t certain the pledge would be enough. Then the older woman nodded.
“Last week, before he died, Kasamor came to me with . . . suspicions . . . They concerned a senior member of the Grand Council. Someone in whom the Republic has invested much of its trust. Allegations of bribery and blackmail. Of influence squandered and sold in the name of the Crowmarket. Of constructs stolen from the foundry to who knows what purpose.” She shook her head. “Even now, with everything that has happened, I find it so difficult to believe.”
“Who? Who did Kasamor name?”
“Are you certain you wish to know?”
Know the name of the traitor who’d wanted her beloved dead? “More than anything.”
“Viktor. It was Viktor Akadra.”
Rosa swallowed to clear a sudden tightness in her throat. “No! That’s impossible. You must be mistaken.”
“These are not my words, child. They are Kasamor’s. Viktor approached him several months ago. He wanted to know if Kasamor retained any of his father’s contacts within the Crowmarket. Of course, Kasamor didn’t. He told Viktor as much, and warned him off getting involved with those scum.” She sighed. “Viktor prevailed upon their friendship, and begged he reveal nothing. It was only when Kasamor discovered the extent of Viktor’s corruption that he broke his confidence. If only he’d done so sooner!”
“Kasamor would have told me!”
But even as she spoke, doubt trickled beneath the words. Kasamor had said something to her about the vranakin, hadn’t he? He’d known the kernclaw for what it was, and what its arrival denoted. And his manner in the moments before his death . . . like he’d expected it.
“I can only assume he sought to protect you,” said Ebigail.
“But Viktor? He’s the best of us! Kasamor must have been mistaken.” Rosa clung to the words, drawing strength from them. “Viktor’s my friend.”
“And he was Kasamor’s too, for all the good that did him. How well do you truly know him?”
Rosa glowered at her. She’d known Viktor nearly a decade, ever since she’d been a lowly squire and he the commander of the 7th. In all that time, she’d learned few intimacies. Yes, she counted him among her closest friends, but Viktor had always stood apart, his life shrouded from her sight. No. Viktor had saved Kas, hadn’t he? From Aske Tarev’s soured pride. Why do that, only to kill him later? Because he’d known Aske wouldn’t have finished things? Because he wanted to be sure?
Or had something changed? She hated that she even considered the possibility.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Kasamor did,” said Ebigail. “He told me he had proof. And where is Kasamor now?”
More doubt trickled in, cold and insidious. Kas. She’d failed him on the road. Could she fail him now? “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you demanded I do so.”
Rosa closed her eyes. She had, hadn’t she? “What is to happen?”
Ebigail grimaced and set her cup and saucer aside. “I don’t know. Not for certain. I cannot let this matter rest, but whatever proof Kasamor had is lost. Poor Hadon will not readily believe unfounded claims.”
Queen’s Ashes, could it be true? Rosa exhaled. Yes, Viktor was her friend and Ebigail a creature of uncertain motive. But there were duties beyond friendship. To the Council. To the precepts of Essamere. And to Kasamor most of all. If there were truth to be found, it was for her to seek it out. However painful the answers.
“What would you have me do?”
Ebigail’s eyes widened. “Nothing! My dear child, until you told me of the kernclaw, all I had were suspicions and a mother’s regrets. My thoughts are a maelstrom. When they’ve settled I can perhaps find some way through this thicket of tears. Until then, you must promise me you’ll do nothing foolish. Viktor may be in the Southshires, but the vranakin are everywhere. One hint – one whisper – could be enough to doom you.”
Rosa flexed her fingers and stared down at her forearm. The wound from Malachi’s paper knife had left no scar and was hidden by her sleeve. It served as a reminder nonetheless.
“Let them come. I’m hard to kill.”
She glanced up. Ebigail’s face was twisted with an emotion she’d never seen before.
Fear. For her? How things had changed. Determination burned away confusion, leaving purpose in its stead.
“I promise you, I’ll do nothing foolish. But if Viktor is responsible for Kasamor’s death . . .” She jerked to her feet and offered Ebigail a formal bow. “My thanks for the tea and your kindness both, Lady Kiradin. I’ll keep your warnings close to my heart.”
Ebigail rose and embraced her. “See that you do. I do not want to lose you as I lost my son.”
Marek set the front door to.
“Is she gone?” Lady Ebigail asked from further down the hall.
“Yes, lady.”
“And you’re certain she didn’t see Tailinn depart?”
Marek bristled. As if he’d let a foundry proctor use the front door frequented by guests of quality. “Quite certain, lady.”
She nodded her contentment, her thoughts plainly far afield. “Good. It would be a shame for so timely a convergence to be spoiled by untimely departure.”
By contrast, Lady Sevaka’s expression was full of storm clouds. “Kasamor would hate you for using Rosa like this.”
“If your brother had any wits worth respecting, he’d have married her long ago and we’d none of us be in this situation. He was fool enough to get himself killed, but he serves his family still. And so will Roslava. Young Viktor will bring this Republic low. He must be removed, but I cannot be seen to act in this – my dislike is too well known. Those who would disbelieve an accusation from me will experience no such reluctance should it come from one known to be his friend, and a hero of the Republic, no less. Yes. She’ll do very well indeed.”
“What if Viktor’s innocent?”
“I’m sure he is.” Lady Ebigail’s lip twitched. “But if the accusation doesn’t stick, I’m sure I’ll find something else that will.”
The daughter glanced away. “And Kasamor? Don’t you care who ordered his death?”
“I doubt the truth will ever come out. Your brother had a gift for cultivating enemies, and you know how this city of ours can be. However, I see no sense in letting events, however regrettable, go to waste.”
Lady Sevaka folded her arms tight across her chest, the action part self-comfort and part shield. “There are times when I weep to know that you are my mother.”
Lady Ebigail closed the distance with a single stride. She seized her daughter by the chin and forced her head back against the wall. “Yes, your tears ever come easily, don’t they? Especially when they flow for you, and you alone.”
Marek looked away, unable to bear witness to the acrimony between his beloved mistresses.
“If my methods appal you so, follow her!” snapped Lady Ebigail. “Follow and confess all! But know it’s not just my future you throw away, but yours too. Now is not the time for weakness.”
“No,” said
Sevaka. “It’s a time for strength. But as you said, Kasamor was worth ten of me. I’ve everything but strength. Just as you’ve always wanted.”
Lady Ebigail released her grip and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I know this is hard, but it will all be worth it in the end. For us, and for the Republic. You need only have faith.”
Twenty-Nine
The second Hadari assault died much the same as the first. The jutting faces of the gorge funnelled them along the narrow roadway, straight into a wall of Tressian shields. Kraikons anchored the line at either end and stiffened resolve across its centre. Magic crackled as they swept the shadowthorns into the Raven’s embrace.
Heavy cavalry could have broken that wall, with lances striking at the gallop. But no horse could maintain momentum across the steep and broken ground for that one unstoppable punch. Swift-hooved outriders could have skirted the flanks, but the gorge’s sides were too steep and too thickly forested.
And so the shadowthorn infantry died in the valley. They turned the waters of the Greshmar red with blood, and gold with lifeless armour. Steel clashed. Men and women spat and swore as shield ground against shield. Then the drums fell silent, and horns bellowed for the retreat. The Hadari fled, leaving a tidemark of dead.
Captain Sark cheered with his soldiers. He shared their exhilaration as he had shared their striving. Or nearly so. An officer led. He didn’t brawl in the mud with the common ranks. He’d witnessed both assaults in the company of his Prydonis castellans – the only heavy knights in his sparse command.
The last of the Hadari banners went back. Sark swept his unblooded sword skyward so Lumestra would better see the victory he had wrought.
“Release the simarka!”
Shields parted. Bronze lions loped away and bowled fleeing men to the ground. A handful of shadowthorns fought, facing death with the bravado of the doomed. One even split a simarka’s brow with a desperate stroke of his war hammer. He perished even as golden magic arced free, borne away by another of the lions as he readied another blow. The simarka pounced anew, maws bloody.
“Call them back!” Sark cried. “Their work’s done.”
The simarka halted as if at a thrown lever and prowled back down the hill. Survivors scrambled for the safety of the crest.
“Fine work, my lads and lasses,” Sark bellowed. “No shadowthorn’s a match for Tressian steel!”
Two-score weary voices joined his cheer. Silence reigned elsewhere, broken only by the moans of the wounded.
“They’ll come again! We’ll send them all into the mists before they’re done!”
Again, murmur-broken silence was his only reply. Fine. Let them be as sullen as they wished, so long as they fought. And Queen’s Ashes, they fought well. No finer soldier than a Tressian. The gorge could be held through Third Dawn, if need be.
The able-bodied dragged wounded comrades away to the physicians. The dead were hauled to the gorge-side, the ceremony halted only long enough for their quivers to be rifled for precious quarrels, and pockets emptied of coin.
Sark gulped from his water skin and eyed the sun. Evening was drawing in. Would the Hadari come again? Or would they recognise their folly? A novice of war fresh from the chapterhouses could have held that road with a hundred men. Sark still had more than two hundred and fifty blades who could stand the line. The Hadari had lost near twice that number since day’s dawning. A heroic trade, all told. Not bad for a younger son of a lesser bloodline.
Lesser for the moment. Victory elevated a man.
Screams rang out from the north-eastern heights where the running battle between Sark’s pavissionaires and shadowthorn huntsmen yet raged.
An enquiring glance sought the turtle-like silhouettes of the former among the trees by the heavy steel-rimmed shields on their backs. The nearest pavissionaire turned, setting the faded lion-insignia of his shield to the foe as he reloaded his crossbow. Timber splintered beneath an arrow’s strike. The pavissionaire staggered and lurched about. A second arrow took him in the throat before he could loose a shot.
“Sergeant?” Sark beckoned to Sergeant Kalvet. “Take a dozen men and three simarka. I want the slope cleared before the next attack.”
“Yes, sir.” Kalvet threw an unhappy salute and strode away. Hooves clattered on the road behind, marking the arrival of a young woman with a herald’s eagle at her collar. She was filthy with the dirt of the road, and her uniform damp with sweat. Not a good look for a soldier, to Sark’s way of thinking.
“Captain Sark, sir?” She threw a weary salute. “I’ve a message from Governor Yanda.”
“Very well, let’s have it.” He held out his hand. The herald made no move to present the expected envelope. “Well, where is it?”
The herald drew back in her saddle, eyes wary. “The rest of the army has withdrawn to Kreska. She requests you begin your retreat.”
Sark frowned. Any missive of worth was delivered by letter, not a herald’s uncertain memory. As for the implied criticism . . .
“We have the shadowthorns at a disadvantage. One I do not intend to yield.”
The herald’s gaze took in the wounded. “The Governor was insistent. Very insistent.”
“Now look here, Herald . . . ?”
“Morvinna, sir.”
“. . . Herald Morvinna. If we break cover, the shadowthorns will run us down.”
“The Governor has two companies of wayfarers ready to cover your retreat.”
“Then she can send them to bolster our line. I can end this. Send the whole damned lot of them running back to the border!”
Drumbeats crashed back. The shield wall tensed. Taut gazes scoured the empty, arrow-studded slope searching for the first banner, the first spear tip.
“Deliver my words, Morvinna, or join the line.” Sark swept his sword down and shouted to be heard over the din. “Stand firm, lads and lasses! Third time’s the charm!”
The line rippled. The second and third ranks braced against a new swarm of arrows.
None came.
A banner-pole broke the crest. A silken flag followed, the silver moon at its centre shining even at a distance. A woman in emerald robes and delicate golden scale bore it aloft from the back of a caparisoned rowan horse. Sark was more used to the sight of cataphracts. Tall, broad-shouldered men in heavy scale, their horses as armoured as they.
“It’s a woman,” muttered Morvinna.
“Shadowthorn slatterns don’t fight,” said Sark. “Unless it’s over coin changing hands.”
More figures appeared on the crest. More women. Close-fitting white robes and half-masks, and not a sword between them. Sark wracked his brain for lessons long-forgotten. Holy women, weren’t they? Lunassera. Like serenes, but immodest in their mode of dress. Just as Ashana, the goddess they worshipped, was less modest in all manners than radiant Lumestra.
The banner-woman’s horse began its descent. The others followed behind like mourners behind a funeral procession. Song drifted into the gorge. The words were sharp-accented and heathen. The notes bound to close-harmonies that were mournful, and yet somehow thick with joy.
“The men are too scared to face us,” Sark crowed. “So they’ve sent their wives and daughters.”
If the shadowthorns thought he shared their quaint belief in the sanctity of womanhood, they were destined for an unwelcome surprise.
“Down shields!” he roared. “Take aim!”
Heavy crossbows readied in the rear ranks and were set upon the shoulders of those in front. Sark eyed the oncoming lunassera. They were right on the edge of killing range, but a little blood would cool their ardour. And there’d been plenty of time to reload.
“Loose!”
Triggers slapped against stocks. Death hissed through the air.
No lunassera fell. If any staggered, Sark did not see it.
“Reload!”
Still the women came on. Not at a run, but at that same, purposeful walk. The crest behind filled with the emerald robes and golden scale of s
hadowthorn warriors. Not in formation, but in the manner of an expectant crowd. Sark’s unease fanned to fear.
“Loose!” The word almost caught in his throat.
Again, the air filled with quarrels. Again, they passed through the lunassera like wind through a meadow.
The banner-woman hauled her horse to a halt. She let the reins fall to her saddle. Her hand found the grips of her sword.
“Reload!” bellowed Sark. “Release the simarka!”
The nearest proctor jerked about, his golden scarf trailing. “Captain, I don’t think . . .”
“Do it! Bring them down!”
Shields parted. Bronze blurs sprang away up the hillside, gaining speed as they closed. And then they simply . . . stopped. As one, the simarka downed haunches and sat amid the carnage of the roadway.
Morvinna touched her brow in the sign of the sun. “They can’t see them.”
Sark spurred his horse towards the proctor who’d voiced objection. Leaning low in the saddle, he seized the man by his collar and dragged him off his feet.
“What are they doing?” he bellowed. “Have them tear those holy drabs apart!”
The proctor cuffed at Sark’s wrist. “They can’t. You said it yourself! They’re holy! Blessed by Ashana!”
Like the Forbidden Places were blessed by Ashana, or by Jack, or by another of Lumestra’s cursed siblings. And if the simarka couldn’t see the lunassera, neither could the kraikons.
“Loose! Loose, damn you all!”
Crossbows rattled a third time, shooting far over the heads of the frozen simarka. This time the rank of women shuddered and left bodies behind on the slope.
The banner-woman drew her sword. Moonlight spiralled skywards as a perfect white flame. “Ashanael Brigantim!”
“Ashanael Brigantim!” sang the lunassera. The words spilled from the rhythm of their bleak, beautiful hymn with the inevitability of moonrise.
As one, they charged.
“Loose!” bellowed Sark. “Loose!”
Too late, he realised that not all in the shield wall had reloaded. What should have been a rush of quarrels sounded as a ragged stutter. A volley that should have sucked the heart from the charge felled barely a dozen lunassera. The rear ranks of the shield wall, whose halberds should have been levelled to greet the charge, were still tangled in the business of reload.