by Matthew Ward
“With the Council’s reluctant backing,” said Lady Ebigail. “The Southshires have always been . . . problematic. I think it’s something about the soil. It grows rebellion as readily as crops.”
“Then you agree nothing good comes of letting them off the leash?”
“Oh, of course. It has been my guiding light that orderliness arises from strength. Better a Republic unhappy at the boot on its throat than one lost to anarchy. If we cannot keep the darkness of the soul in check, we must trammel the flesh with steel and the mind with law.”
“You’re talking about tyranny,” objected Lord Akadra. “It goes against everything the Republic was founded upon.”
“The Republic was founded on tyranny, or have you become so addled with advancing years that you pay the Grand Council any heed? A crowd is no cleverer than the meanest dolt in its midst. No. Strong leadership is key.”
“And you believe that Viktor can restore order to the Southshires?” Makrov threw a glance at Lord Akadra. “He was always a capable student, but altogether too . . . forthright.”
Lord Akadra snorted. “You mean ‘rebellious’. We shall have to hope that he will rise to the occasion, and not pile kindling on a rising flame.”
“Or a phoenix?” said Makrov. “You’ll forgive me if that’s not enough. Katya Trelan tore this Republic in two . . .”
“Always this fascination with Katya Trelan, Arzro.” Lady Ebigail shook her head in weary disdain. “It’s not good to harbour obsession. Remember your predecessor. Years fretting over the lost sermons of Konor Belenzo sent poor Karkosa out of his wits.”
“Emil was a righteous soul,” Makrov said stiffly.
“An addled one,” rumbled Lord Akadra. “He saw Malatriant’s spirit in every shadow.”
Lady Ebigail chuckled to herself. “You remember how he prayed for Lumestra to send a serathi to shield him from the Dark? Madness.”
Makrov’s jowls tightened in irritation. “Be that as it may, Katya Trelan’s son . . .”
Lady Ebigail arched a perfect eyebrow. “Did I misread your reports, Arzro? You led me to believe that Josiri was a model puppet, eager to do as the Council instructed.”
He shifted in his chair. “I . . . regret that I may have been mistaken.”
“Well. That is unfortunate. Your assurances as to Josiri’s good character went a long way to easing our minds when permitting Viktor’s . . . escapade. Isn’t that right, Hadon?”
“Absolutely.” Lord Akadra uttered the lie deadpan. “You see how this is a situation of your own making, Arzro?”
“I have made penance for my misjudgements,” said Makrov stiffly. “But the fact remains that the situation must be rectified. Lumestra demands it.”
“Oh don’t go on so,” snapped Lady Ebigail. “You’ll burst something important, and that rug has been in my family for five generations. Lumestra demands nothing. The voice echoing about that thick skull of yours is your own pride, no more, no less. First the mother makes a fool of you, and then the son.”
To Marek’s surprise, the archimandrite didn’t back down. “And what of order? What of anarchy? Those who are unprepared for necessary deeds are soon replaced by those who are.”
Lord Akadra leaned forward, his features stony. “Is that a threat, Arzro?”
“Not one of my making. That son of yours . . .”
“Enough!” Lady Ebigail stood abruptly, her beauty stern in the glow of firestone lanterns. “This bickering gets us nowhere. There is opportunity here, if we have but the wit to seek it.”
Lord Akadra’s unblinking gaze didn’t waver from Makrov. “We’re listening, Ebigail.”
“There is, at heart, very little wrong with the common folk of the South-shires. True, they are lazy and tend towards the dull-witted, but they need only a firm hand at the tiller. Alas, simple folk are easily led astray. By troublemakers we have singularly failed to capture, much less eliminate.”
“It’s not the fault of our soldiers,” said Lord Akadra. “There are too many Forbidden Places in the Southshires. Without kraikons . . .”
“But if your son is successful, the scoundrels will no longer be in hiding. They’ll be ours for the taking.”
Lord Akadra grimaced. “The Council promised clemency. Viktor bears documentation with our signatures, and our seal.”
Makrov snorted. “Promises to traitors have no validity. There will be few tears shed at Council, save by the likes of Lord Reveque. But we don’t have the soldiers.”
“We won’t need many,” said Lady Ebigail. “One regiment would do. We’ll wait for this Hadari nonsense to run its course. I’ve no doubt Viktor will have his triumph – he is singularly determined – but even triumph will leave the dissidents weary and vulnerable. We’ll take the ringleaders, Josiri Trelan included, before they even know their danger. The common folk will fall into line. They did fifteen years ago.”
“Much good it did us in the long run.”
“History is a bloodstain,” sniffed Lady Ebigail. “One that must be re-inked ere it fades from memory.”
“We don’t have a regiment,” said Lord Akadra. “They’re committed to reinforcing the border.”
“We have a few companies of the 7th, and the 12th are only a day away – they’re nearer the Southshires than we are. There was some confusion surrounding their orders and they made a late march.” Lady Ebigail offered a thin smile. “And we hardly need them on the border any longer. I understand Warleader Maggad woefully underestimated the task ahead of him and was bloodied accordingly. The Ravonn will hold.”
Makrov rubbed his chin and nodded. “And if the Hadari take the Southshires?”
“Then the 12th will fight to reverse the situation.” A note of sorrow crept into her voice. “And to avenge those poor, patriotic souls who perished for the good of the Republic.”
Lord Akadra gripped the arm of his chair. “Raven’s Eyes, Ebigail. That’s my son you’re talking about!”
“A parent can make no greater sacrifice than their child.” She shrugged. “Viktor’s a survivor. I don’t imagine the Hadari will end his tale.”
“And the Council,” said Makrov. “They will support this . . . endeavour?”
“Anton will stand with us,” she replied. “He would have been here, but had to bury that fool of a daughter. Loss will make him . . . tractable. We’ll have his support.”
“You won’t have mine,” growled Lord Akadra. “Do you forget, Ebigail? Viktor has my full backing. And I don’t fancy your chances of getting Abitha or Malachi to agree with this betrayal. Yes, betrayal, for that’s what it is.”
“I forget nothing. And you assume that I don’t know why you voted with Viktor.”
Lord Akadra blanched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She turned on him. “I’m delighted to hear it. And shall feel comfortable giving the matter free rein the next time I’m present at the Grand Council.”
Marek was no stranger to watching Lady Ebigail dismantle resistance. But even by her standards, she’d performed a masterpiece on Lord Akadra, whose face fell. Marek didn’t know the secret to which she alluded, nor did he know if Lady Ebigail even knew the truth of the matter. But it was clear that Lord Akadra, who had spent more recent nights in her bed than his own, now understood how little influence those intimacies granted in other endeavours.
Makrov looked on with sly interest. Curiosity vied with grim delight for command of his expression.
“Ebigail . . .” Lord Akadra swallowed. “What of Viktor? If he . . .”
“Viktor will fall into line, as my own dear Sevaka is falling into line. We’ve been too lax with our children, Hadon. We’ve given them freedom without wisdom. Clipping their wings will serve them every bit as well as it serves the Republic.”
Lord Akadra nodded and hung his head. “And Malachi? Abitha?”
“Will make the usual fuss and display. But the vote is the vote. Dear Arzro will have the 12th, the hangman will have Josiri Trelan.
The Republic will have the unity of a single voice once more.”
Eyes shining with delight, Makrov pushed off from his chair and offered her a deep bow. “Lumestra thanks you, my lady.”
“I need no thanks,” said Lady Ebigail serenely. “I do merely what this great Republic of ours demands.”
Rosa jolted bolt-upright, heart pounding and fingers grasping at a sword that wasn’t there. A dozen hurried breaths rasped through her lungs before she realised that the gloom was not so unrecognisable as she’d feared. It was merely unfamiliar. The Abbeyfields guest chamber. Lit in soft, dappled greys by strands of moonlight that cheated the drapes.
Then she heard it. The soft, whispering creak of a floorboard yielding beneath carpet. A noise that was barely a noise at all. Once heard, it was unmistakeable. Too heavy for a sneaking child. Too furtive to be anyone with honest business in mind. Expression hardening to match a suddenly flint-edged heart, Rosa bunched her borrowed cotton nightgown about her knees, and ghosted from the room.
Barefoot, she crossed the landing and descended to the first floor. She heard no more footfalls, but a gentle draught brought further warning that something was amiss. The front door hung ajar.
Gooseflesh no longer anything to do with the cold-that-was-not-cold, Rosa crept down the final flight. She peered outside. Two shapes lay huddled at the foot of the sandstone steps. Glass from the shattered lantern lay scattered about them. The hearthguards’ throats were open to the sky, torn in the bloody fashion that Rosa remembered so well. The talons of the kernclaw.
She crouched beside the nearest, careless of the blood soiling her gown. Had the kernclaw come to finish what he’d started that night on the Tevar Flood? No. He couldn’t have come for her, or she’d be dead already, throat slit while in the grip of the first true sleep she’d had since that awful night.
And if he wasn’t there for her . . . ?
Rosa slid the hearthguard’s sword free of its sheath – that it needed to be drawn at all spoke to the suddenness of his death – and turned back towards the door.
. . . and found herself staring into a young, worried face and golden tresses lit by a hand-lantern’s light.
“Sidara?” Rosa stepped aside, blocking the girl’s view of the bodies with her own.
“Something woke me.” Sidara tilted her head, trying to see out onto the steps. She too was barefoot, and wore a nightgown a good three sizes too large. “Are they dead?”
Rosa pursed her lips. “Yes. Someone’s in the house. Someone who shouldn’t be. I need you to go back to your room and hide.”
Sidara took the news with remarkable aplomb. Though a furrowed brow betrayed her worry, it fell some way short of fear. “Why? What are you going to do?”
“I’m a Knight of Essamere. I’m going to find him and stop him.”
If I can. She recalled the kernclaw’s speed. The agony of his claws. And Kas’ scream ripping through her own red haze of agony. She gripped the sword tight.
“I’m going to stop him,” she said, firmer this time.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Sidara’s face rippled with competing emotions. “I’d rather stay with you.”
Rosa decided she’d be happier if the girl was with her, rather than wandering alone with a murderer loose in the house. “All right. But stay behind me, and put that lantern out.”
Sidara nodded mutely and set the lantern down. Its white light flickered to nothing. Rosa pinched her eyes shut and willed her night vision to return.
“Which way to your parents’ room?” she breathed.
Already moving, Sidara pointed towards the west wing. “This way.”
She jerked to a halt as Rosa seized her wrist.
“Me first, remember?”
The girl nodded and slunk back. Her fingers found Rosa’s free hand and squeezed it tight.
The jarring crash of furniture and a woman’s scream sounded only a heartbeat apart.
“Mother!”
Sidara ran for the stairs. Rosa overtook her before the first landing. Moments after that, she stood in an open doorway. A torn curtain hung limp. Lilyana lay sprawled before the window, a dresser overturned at her side. Blood masked her face, but she was still breathing.
“Stay away from my wife!”
Malachi stood between Lilyana and a man-shaped shadow. His nightclothes were in disarray. His sword-point dipped and wove. Rosa saw more fear in his eyes than fury.
“I’m not here for her.”
The kernclaw’s voice was a rumbling echo. Harsh bird-cries sounded beneath, scratching at Rosa’s ears and hollowing out her heart. Her legs shook. She was in the Reveque mansion no longer, nor even in Tressia, but lost among the trees of the Tevar Flood. Unable to breathe. Unable even to think.
“You’ve been poking around in Crowmarket business, Lord Reveque,” said the kernclaw. “Make no fight, and your line will outlive you. Fight me, and they . . .”
Rosa lunged. She hadn’t known she meant to attack until she was already in motion. The woman might have been crippled with fear, but the knight knew her duty.
The shadow parted in a storm of feathers, and her blade kissed only empty air. Rosa back-swung, chasing the wisps of darkness. They danced ever ahead, reforming only when out of reach.
Steel talons raked her wrist. She cried out, her sword falling from nerveless fingers.
“Rosa!” Malachi’s blade hacked down. The shadow pulsed, hurling him away.
Talons closed tight about Rosa’s throat. The blades sliced at her skin. The kernclaw’s weight drove Rosa to her knees. The kernclaw bent low over her, eyes dark and thoughtful beneath the hood. On the fourth finger, inches back from the blade, sapphires glinted on a golden ring.
“Didn’t I kill you already?”
She tried to speak. No breath came. Darkness blotched the corners of her vision. Her right wrist blazed with fire. She grabbed at the kernclaw with her left hand. His form parted beneath hooked fingers, dribbling away like smoke.
“No matter.” The shadow heaved a shrug. “A mistake easily mended.”
Bright pain flared in Rosa’s throat to match the ripping, tearing sound. Gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, she fell. Darkness took her before she hit the floor.
It bled away in a series of rapid, desperate tugs at her shoulder. Muffled words assailed her ears. Shadows burned bright, resolving into white and gold.
“Aunt Rosa!” Sidara’s words broke across Rosa’s thoughts like waves on the shore. “You can’t be dead. You can’t bleed. I heard you say it. You can’t bleed, so you can’t die!”
But I am dying, she whispered without words. I can’t breathe.
The world turned grey and cold. Shadows coalesced at Rosa’s side. A tall, thin fellow peered out from beneath a feathered domino mask. She’d seen him before but couldn’t place where. He crouched beside her, a gloved hand extended. Tendrils of greenish-white mists brushed at Rosa’s skin.
“Are you ready to come with me now?” he asked.
Something dark and heavy hit the floor behind Sidara. A sword shone as it skidded away. A man’s cry of pain split the air.
“Leave them to it,” breathed the masked fellow. His fingers brushed her cheek. Soft. Caring. “Take my hand.”
“Aunt Rosa! Please! He’s going to kill Father.” Sidara’s tug on Rosa’s shoulder grew more insistent. She stared right through the masked fellow without reaction. “You said you’d stop him. You promised.”
Promised. The word quickened Rosa’s soul. There was no pain in her throat now, just wet, icy heaviness. Starved lungs spasmed, forcing a baying, hollow croak. It hurt. Lumestra, how it hurt. She didn’t care.
She could breathe again. She could breathe.
And she had a promise to keep.
The masked fellow hung his head. With a sigh, he faded from sight and memory. The mists went with him.
Rosa grasped at the bedpost for support and clambered upright on trembling legs.
>
Three paces away, a squirming Malachi lay facedown on the floor. The kernclaw had a knee braced against the small of his back, and the fingers of one hand wound through his hair. Some whisper of movement must have warned him, for he turned, eyes widening in pleasing alarm.
“Raven’s Eyes, what are you?”
Rosa barely had time to register the irony before she was on him. The kernclaw’s cloak screeched and scattered. Her hands closed around his throat.
Talons ripped at her forearms as she dragged the kernclaw clear of Malachi. It hurt, but that hurt was nothing compared to the dredging, raking breath of moments before. She ignored it and slammed him against the wall. A vase shuddered from a shelf and shattered at her feet.
“Let me go! Release me!”
The kernclaw’s nose crumpled beneath Rosa’s forehead. His fearful demand vanished in a screech of pain. Blood gushed over her nightdress. He sagged. She let him fall.
Instead of hitting the floor, he lunged. Talons ripped clean through her nightgown, deep into the flesh beneath. But pain was nothing to a knight’s promise. Rosa bore him to the ground once more, kicking and punching in blind, desperate flurry.
Her hand closed around the grips of a sword. Hers or Malachi’s, she didn’t know. She hacked down. The world turned red. The kernclaw howled. A severed hand thudded onto ruined carpet. The sapphire ring’s brilliance drowned in blood. Bird voices screeched and wailed, the beating of spectral wings like thunder in Rosa’s ears.
Then the bedroom’s leaded window burst outwards in a glittering spray, and the kernclaw was gone into moon-shadow. The night air rushed in, setting the ruined curtains dancing. Beside Rosa, Malachi groaned.
Sidara cried with relief and rushed over. But it was not her father she embraced, nor even her prone mother. Careless of the blood, she threw her arms about Rosa and muttered incoherent thanks through tears of relief.
Suddenly weary, Rosa let the sword drop. She held the child tight and drank in the sweetest air she’d ever tasted.
Maladas, 5th day of Radiance
The irony of order is that it foments indiscipline.
In seeking to control all we survey, we invite anarchy.