Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “You’re mad.”

  Rosa had to give her that one. Breaking into the home of a dear friend because of hearsay. But it wasn’t hearsay, was it? It was Kas’ word, delivered by a grieving mother to whom he’d been the only source of joy. And now Kas was dead. If she found nothing, she’d live with the stain on her honour for the hope it offered that Kas had been mistaken about Viktor, or that Ebigail had misrepresented his words for reasons of her own. But if she uncovered anything that even hinted at a connection with the vranakin . . .

  She fished the ring from her pocket and held it out. “Do you recognise this?”

  Sevaka’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My grandmother’s ring. Where did you get it?”

  “I was with Malachi during last night’s attack. I took it from the kern-claw’s hand . . . after I severed it.”

  Sevaka’s brow knitted in suspicion. “And where did he get it?”

  “When he killed Kasamor.”

  “No.” Her face, already pale in the shadows, lost the last of its colour. She gagged, and grasped at the wall for support. “No. No. No. You must be mistaken. You must.”

  “I’m not. I was there. It was the same man. He remembered me – and I’ll never forget him.”

  Sevaka twisted away, her face contorted in anguish. A part of Rosa wondered why the revelation had hit her so hard. But then she recalled Ebigail’s insistence she not involve Sevaka. Perhaps the sister simply lacked the brother’s strength, though Rosa couldn’t find it in her heart to disdain her for it. Some losses should never be easily borne.

  “You think Viktor ordered both deaths?” said Sevaka.

  Her incredulity brought swirling emotions to the surface once more. But that was the thing about Viktor, wasn’t it? He left an impression. He made you believe in him. Rosa wondered briefly how Sevaka knew him, but it would have been more remarkable had she not, given their parents’ close association.

  “I also thought him above such things,” she replied. “But the more time passes, the more I wonder.”

  “Very little is beneath the powerful, when the need is there.” Sevaka spoke softly. “Especially when status and pride are at stake. No, this is a mistake. A horrible mistake. It has to be.”

  Her insistent words wrestled with an unpleasant truth. Her eyes mirrored Rosa’s own heartsick mood.

  Rosa laid a hand on her arm. “No more arguments. I have to do this.”

  Sevaka’s head snapped about, eyes red-ringed. “No. You don’t. Go home.”

  Rosa shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve thought about this all day. The ring proves the connection between Kas’ death and the attempt on Malachi’s life. It doesn’t prove Viktor gave the order . . .”

  “No.” Sevaka spoke in barely a whisper. “No, it doesn’t. Rosa . . . What if it wasn’t Viktor?”

  “I still have to look. I have to know for certain.”

  “If I ever doubted how much you loved my brother, I do so no longer. Walk away. Please.”

  “This was your idea.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So you won’t help?”

  Sevaka took a deep breath. A little colour returned to her cheeks. “No. I’ll help. Because if I don’t, and you’re caught . . . and with all the fun that entails . . . I don’t know how I’ll live with that.” She sighed. “And because you asked. Everyone else demands.”

  Apara drew the cloak of ravens close about her body and stepped off the rooftop. The wind swept her away. Cobbles blurred far beneath her feet. Then the iron-tipped stone and trees of the mansion’s boundary wall. She could have touched the sky, save for the clouds. She was above everything. A god among ephemerals.

  So why did she feel so wretched?

  The cloak shifted as Apara descended, its manifold voices croaking their delight. Still consumed by the giddiness of flight, she landed heavily. Knees buckled and her boots gouged the sod. The ravens croaked one last time, and dispersed, and the cloak was simple wool-cloth again. But the cold remained. Apara suspected she’d never be free of it.

  Voices broke the cool air. Apara’s pulse quickened. Crouching low, she stared off through the trees at the firestone-lit paths leading to the mansion’s drive. She marked at least a dozen uniforms in the gloom. Another consequence of Nikros’ failure.

  Still, the lady had been insistent, and the consequences of failure unthinkable.

  Keeping close to the trees, Apara wended her way to the mansion’s rear. Twice, she fell prone as a patrol drew near. Twice, the hearthguards tromped on along the gravel without backward glance.

  She could have used the cloak again, of course. But she didn’t like the way it whispered in her thoughts. Nor the creeping sensation that not all those thoughts were her own. She still heard the Raven’s dour, sardonic voice. His promise of further “gifts” if she proved herself mistress of those already given. Apara didn’t want the ones she had.

  At last, the raised terrace came into sight, its vine-wreathed trellises concealing what passed within. Apara let the nearest patrol amble deeper into the darkness and eased the latch clear.

  No firestone lanterns blazed beyond the gate. There was only the gentle glow of moonlight, and the soft murmur of water trickling away into the pond. Apara took a deep breath. The cool, moist air drove back the raven-cloak’s chill . . .

  “I asked to meet with your cousin, not you.”

  The lady emerged from the shadow of a rose bower, her expression the familiar mask of disappointment and watchfulness. Apara could have sworn she’d been alone but was not surprised to discover otherwise. A lady who knew as much of the Crowmarket as this one did likely had many hidden talents.

  “My cousin now serves the Raven in Otherworld,” Apara replied. She drew back her hood. “Whatever business you had with him, is now with me.”

  The lady’s eyes widened in surprise. Then the stony expression recovered itself. “I see. The Parliament were ever wasteful. Too much pride, and not enough heart. Was this your choice?”

  Apara stared down at her moon-cast reflection in the pond. At the single white streak of hair that marred the black. “My cousins chose for me.”

  “I’m sure it’s not what your mother would have wanted.” Was that a note of pity in the lady’s voice? “But I’m also sure you’ll acquit yourself with excellence. You always have.”

  Apara hung her head to hide her woeful expression. “Yes, lady.”

  She’d loved the thief’s art since her earliest days. The game was played for high stakes, but it was a game nonetheless, and put only her own life at risk. She’d broken bones and left bruises, of course. That was a cost the game sometimes demanded. But murder? That wasn’t a game, no matter how much her younger cousins might brag. You were changed by every dying breath.

  The lady’s lips parted, then closed again as if she’d thought better of words she’d intended to speak. “As it happens, the task will benefit from your skills. We cannot afford another blundering display. This must be quiet, precise and elegant. Am I understood?”

  Apara hesitated. She could refuse the commission – flee far from Tressia and the lady’s reach. But flight would solve nothing. Her life was now forfeit. Only the deaths of others could keep her from the Raven’s grasp.

  “You are, lady,” she said at last. “What must I do?”

  “Stay back! I mean it!”

  Even knowing something was coming, Rosa had to fight the instinct to investigate. The words had just the right pitch of terror, of pleading. Never mind the navy, Sevaka had missed her turn on the stage.

  Or she had a surfeit of raw emotion to excise. Rosa knew how that went.

  “No! Lumestra! I . . .” The scream trailed off into a jagged, stuttering sob.

  Shouts rose to fill the silence – within the Swanholt wall, and beyond it. Running feet came close behind.

  Rosa pulled her half-mask into place, counted to three, and broke cover for the iron-topped wall. Three paces distant, she hurled herself into the air. Fingers strai
ned for the railing’s crossbar. She’d just enough time to reconsider the wisdom of her actions before her fingers brushed the gilded metal. A sharp tug, a soft scuff of boot against stone, and she was over the spikes and in among the trees.

  She lingered at the foot of the wall, eyes adjusting to the gloom-laden grounds. Commotion echoed from the east. The clamour of bells rose above voices as pursuit quickened.

  “I hope you’re running, Sevaka,” Rosa breathed.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t worry about that now. The Swanholt hearthguards wouldn’t trouble themselves with affray beyond their walls. Even now, those lured away would be returning.

  She broke cover for the west wing, and the servant’s door hidden behind the terrace. What she hadn’t known was that the door would be guarded. But the guard clung too close to the lantern-post and its comforting circle of light. He was blind to everything beyond. By the time he saw Rosa coming, he was within reach.

  Her fist struck home. The cry of alarm dissipated alongside its utterer’s wits. Rosa caught him as he fell. Pausing only to slip his keys from his belt, she dragged him into the shadow of the terrace wall and made her way inside.

  No one challenged her as she made her way to the upper floor. Rosa hoped the guard remembered only the mask. One stint in the constabulary cells was sufficient. Either way, time was short. Another alarm would soon be raised.

  Rosa’s search of Viktor’s chambers was efficient as it was fuelled by belief that there was no one to note her ransack. She upended drawers and emptied cupboards. She opened the curtains a crack to read correspondence beneath moonlight, and tipped mattress and cushions aside. Each tick of the grandfather clock drove her to greater recklessness.

  Clothes and trinkets. Mementoes of past battles. The assorted ephemera of a man with an eye for curiosities, and the wealth to indulge it. Letters revealed nothing but friendships sustained by penmanship, or favours sought by nobles. But of the Crowmarket, there was nothing. Not even the merest trace. No correspondence. No tally of goods. No coded papers. No suggestion of influence peddled to the Parliament’s benefit.

  Rosa screamed silently and set the last of the letters aside. She’d been a fool. There’d never been anything to find. Either Kas had been wrong . . . or Viktor was too canny to keep anything incriminating so close to hand. There she stood, in the scattered remnants of his possessions, and he’d needed to take only the simplest of precautions to protect himself. Queen’s Ashes, but he’d surely have burned any . . .

  The fire. There might be some trace.

  Rosa knelt at the grate, but the fire had seen no use in recent weeks. The fragments of charred but readable paper retreated back into her imagination.

  She sank onto her haunches and stared at the firebox.

  And she saw the fold of oilcloth, black against dark stone.

  Questing fingers traced the material back to its source: a heavy bundle on the smoke shelf. She tugged it free. Spluttering as the soot clogged her throat, Rosa peeled back the cloth. Two leather-bound books, their spines cracked with age, stood revealed in the gloom. Her heart leapt. Was this what she’d searched for all this time? She didn’t know whether to cheer or to weep.

  With trembling fingers, she eased back the cover of the first. Silver letters shone upon a jet-black page. No, Rosa realised. This wasn’t what she’d sought. This was much worse.

  The bells chimed for midnight by the time Apara stood before the clifftop mansion. Jagged walls and paths that jutted into nowhere spoke to the sea’s timeless hunger. For now, Windchine mansion remained hale – even if its position grew more tenuous with each passing year.

  A practical owner might have buttressed the cliffs, or else rebuilt the imposing towers further inland. No such precaution had been taken. The only stonework were remnants of burial alcoves, jutting from the windswept grass – outriggers of the sepulchres that riddled Tressia’s bedrock.

  Apara wondered how many caskets the waves had swallowed. What had become of their occupants? Would Lumestra know to seek the faithful amid the waves as well as in stone’s cold embrace? Would those souls for ever wander the paths of Otherworld, never seeing their loved ones come the light of Third Dawn?

  She wondered also why it bothered her so, for her blood family had forgotten her, and she them. The Crowmarket were now her only kin.

  The raven-cloak saw Apara safe past the thin patrols. Each use came easier, the giddiness ever lesser than before. She passed within reach of one guard with him never the wiser. She could have slit his throat without ever leaving the shadow. The thought excited almost as much as it appalled. She wondered whether the notion had even been her own, or one dreamed up by the cloak?

  Another shadowed embrace, and she alighted upon a balcony. A scrape of lock-picks, and she was inside. She trod chambers drowned in dust sheets, and where faded paint marked the extent of portraits removed. The house was as much a tomb as the shattered mausolea lining the cliff face below. It was sad, threatening and eerie all at once.

  The chapel. The lady had said to seek the chapel.

  Apara slipped out into the hallway. A measure of light and life crept up the central stair to greet her. She turned aside from the rich furnishings of the entrance hall and began the ascent to the upper floors.

  The chapel nestled at the eastern end of the uppermost floor. Such was often the way. If one were to make dawn observance to Lumestra, better to do so in such a way as to lift your prayers above those of the common people. Even omniscience needed a helping hand. Gentle song crept along the passageway. One voice alone. An old voice.

  Apara slipped her stiletto from her belt and eased open the chapel door. The light within reflected off the door’s stained-glass panels. Fragments of orange-white light danced along the wall. Not the light of firestone lanterns, but the flickering flames of votive candles set along the altar’s rim.

  The chapel itself was all but empty. A lone figure knelt before an altar laden with dry, withered scrolls. A nightgown pooled about her knees, and her hands were clasped in prayer. The song ceased.

  “So you’ve come,” said Lady Marest. “I knew you would.”

  Apara froze, expecting at any moment to hear the ringing of bells and shouts of alarm. But she heard nothing. She eased the door closed. “You couldn’t. I didn’t know myself until an hour ago.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you specifically, young lady. But someone like you.” A thin chuckle echoed around the room. “In a way, I’m surprised it’s taken this long. Have you harmed my servants? My hearthguards?”

  “No. I’d no need.”

  “I’m grateful. They’ve served me well. I suppose Ebigail sent you?”

  Apara drew closer over chequerboard tiles. The stiletto hung heavy in her hand. Quiet, precise and elegant. By the lady’s instructions, she’d hoped that meant Lady Marest could be taken unawares, or even asleep. That would have been easier.

  “I cannot say.”

  Her withered legs shaking with effort, Lady Marest rose. She had no weapon. Her lined face held neither hatred nor fear. There was only calm. Her serenity was a close match for the serathi caryatids whose wings supported the chapel’s roof.

  “Oh come,” said the old woman. “You’re here to kill me. Do me this small courtesy. I won’t fight. I won’t make a fuss. You’ll find my soul slips free with ease. Did Ebigail send you?”

  Apara took a half-step back. The old woman’s calm was terrifying, in its way. “Yes.”

  Lady Marest hung her head. “I thought so. Hadon, Malachi, everyone else . . . she has them so entangled in games of status and pride that they don’t see the web she’s weaving. But I do. I am not a fool, young lady . . .”

  “I’m not a young anything. Not for years.”

  “These things are relative.” She shook her head. “When you reach my age, when friends and family have gone to dust, everyone seems young. But kindly don’t interrupt. I’m not a fool, though many think me foolish. I’ve had one foot in the mists for ye
ars and am not easily blinded by pride. Ebigail believes herself a growing shadow that will eclipse us all. But even a shadow has no purchase in the Dark. Your patron knows that better than any.”

  Apara shook her head. She wanted to discount the old woman’s words as babble. However, her proud demeanour demanded otherwise. And she definitely didn’t want to be reminded that the Raven had his talons deep in her soul.

  “I’m in no mood for a sermon.”

  “I imagine not. But the Dark always returns. It whispers in our souls. It gorges on our quarrels. And it breaks us apart so that tyranny can flourish – until there is no voice save its own. Konor Belenzo knew that, but the first council hid the truth. They thought it enough to bury Malatriant and forget her. Make her physical fact into deepest myth. Arrogance.”

  Perhaps she was mad, thought Apara. But if so, it was a quiet madness borne by many whose faith outshone their reason. “You’re fortunate I’ve come. The church’s provosts would burn you as a heretic for those words.”

  Lady Marest ran a hand along the nearest scroll. “Not my words. Belenzo’s. It took Karkosa and I a lifetime to find them all. Longer to understand their meaning. So many lessons we should have heeded. Now it’s too late.”

  Apara frowned. If the scrolls truly contained the last sermons of Konor Belenzo, they’d be worth a fortune. As she started forward, Lady Marest toppled a candle. Fire crackled across dry brittle paper.

  “No!” Apara cried out. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because we deserve what’s coming. We deserve her.” A tear glistened on her cheek. “I’ve heard Malatriant’s voice in my dreams so often in recent days. And Lumestra is no longer here to save us.”

  She was mad, Apara decided. A wandering mind lost in a world of prophecy and scripture. “I thought Lumestra was eternal.”

  “Only the Dark lasts for ever,” said Lady Marest. “And I’ve no desire to feel it settle in my heart. I’d go to the Raven with my soul still radiant with a reflection of Lumestra’s light . . . So you see how in serving one, you serve us both?”