Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  He waved a lazy hand. “Can’t say the Raven holds any appeal, but . . .” He paused. His good eye narrowed as he stared through the trees. “On second thoughts, I’d rather you stuck around.”

  In the distance, what had been an empty field was thick with marching soldiers. And at their head, scarlet robes on a white horse. “Makrov’s back?” said Revekah.

  “Looks like. Holy fervour and a thousand halberds. Fun and games.”

  She shook her head to dispel growing unease. “Why? What’s happening?”

  “Both of them excellent questions, Captain Halvor. Alas, the eye with which I read minds was the one you plucked out.” He sighed. “But I’ll warrant you don’t want to be anywhere near that lot.”

  “I thought Lord Akadra had the Council’s authority.”

  “Sure. But only if he’s still living.”

  Revekah swore under her breath. Kurkas was right. But what was the alternative? Leave Kurkas to die? Nothing easier a week ago. There’d even have been joy in it. Now?

  “You need help.”

  “So I’m painfully aware,” he said. “But I see little point in risking your life for mine.”

  “I won’t let you die.”

  “Good,” he said wearily. “Then we need another option.”

  Commotion broke through Josiri’s dreamless sleep. Urgent shouts, bellowed oaths and running feet. All of it drowned in the fierce patter of rain and the howling wind.

  He opened his eyes onto the musty confines of Viktor’s tent. Anastacia stood by the flaps, staring motionlessly into the camp beyond.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  [[You should get up.]]

  Hastened by the clamour, Josiri pulled on his borrowed clothes. Had the prisoners escaped? Some quarrel between his people and the north-wealders blown out of control? He shook his head. Enough speculation. He left the tent, Anastacia on his heels.

  And entered into a scene from hated history.

  Wolf-cloaks and phoenixes snarled from within rings of shields and drawn swords, penned about the smouldering campfires by king’s blue soldiers. Wayfarers cantered hither and yon, corralling fugitives for capture. A lone kraikon loomed silent over all like an inscrutable judge of old.

  Some southwealders fought, weapons to hand or no. Isolated and outnumbered, they had no chance. Even as the tent flap fell from Josiri’s numbed hand, a phoenix sprawled in the mud, run through by a wayfarer’s spear. Her sword hadn’t even cleared its scabbard.

  A wolf-cloak hurled himself at shields and broke through. A north-wealder tackled him and both men went down. Angry voices sounded as comrades joined the quickening brawl.

  The world fell away beneath Josiri’s feet. Akadra had lied. He’d looked Josiri right in the eye, spun promises of freedom and friendship, and all the while he’d planned this betrayal. The bitterest core of Josiri’s soul – the echo of a young man orphaned by civil war – exulted in vindication. The larger part could have wept for the betrayal.

  Both kindled to rage undimmed by the downpour.

  “Ana, I need a horse.”

  [[Gladly.]]

  A wayfarer splashed past, spear lowered. Anastacia’s hand closed around the trailing reins. Her boots skidded in the mud. As the steed whinnied in alarm, she plucked the struggling young man from his saddle and tossed him aside.

  [[Horse.]]

  The wayfarer made to rise. Anastacia’s boot connected with his temple, and he slumped.

  Josiri scrambled into the saddle and turned his stolen steed about, searching for a brawl closely balanced enough that one righteous man might make a difference.

  That was when his gaze fell across Major Keldrov, propped up on crutches at the entrance to the physicians’ tent. The one eye visible beneath the soiled bandage flickered back and forth. Her pallid face lacked Josiri’s fury but held every ounce the confusion.

  If she didn’t know . . .

  For the first time, Josiri realised she wasn’t the only one. There were two groups of northwealders within the camp. The first, weary and dishevelled, looked on with uncertainty as the second group – travel-stained but otherwise unsullied – wrought capture and oppression. Maybe this wasn’t Akadra’s work. But if not his, then whose?

  [[Josiri!]]

  Anastacia screamed – a sound so pained and desperate he didn’t at first recognise the voice as hers.

  He turned. A proctor dangled from Anastacia’s grip. Three others converged, sun-staves held ready. Golden light flared. She cried out and fell to hands and knees. The captive proctor scrambled free. Anastacia strove to rise. Another jab – another golden bloom – and she collapsed anew.

  [[Get out of here! Don’t let them take you!]]

  “No!”

  Josiri screamed his voice raw and thrust back his heels. His horse surged forward. A proctor made desperate parry, and his sword skittered away. A sun-staff blazed, drowning the grey morning in brilliance. Off-balance and blind, Josiri fell sideways from the saddle.

  Muddy water rushed up his nose and into his mouth. He spat it out and grasped for purchase in a splotchy blue-black world. Something cracked against his wrist, jarring the sword from his hand. The butt of a staff thumped into his back, driving him to hands and knees.

  “Stay down,” growled a proctor. “Or you get the other end.”

  Josiri spat a bitter mouthful into the puddle and stayed down.

  “Bind her!” A new, strident voice cut through the tumult. “Fetch silver! By the Holy Dawn I’ll have her back in Branghall where she belongs.”

  Blinking furiously to clear his vision, Josiri stared up at a vision in scarlet robes, his fleshy face twisted in satisfaction. Makrov. Of course it was Makrov.

  “What is the meaning of this, Makrov?” Josiri demanded.

  “The meaning, your grace?” The archimandrite spoke with feigned surprise. “The Council would very much like you and your co-conspirators to answer for your crimes.”

  “You mean now we’ve won the victory they could not?” Josiri laughed without humour. “And you wonder why my mother rejected your advances? You’re a coward, Makrov. A feckless, honourless . . .”

  Makrov gestured. The staff thumped home. Josiri prised himself free of the mud.

  The archimandrite leaned low over his horse’s neck. “You are a traitor, a troublemaker and an embarrassment. You’ve sought solace in the arms of this . . . this . . . demon . . .”

  [[Oh Arzro,]] whispered Anastacia, [[does this mean we’re not friends any longer?]]

  She convulsed as a sun-staff’s tip touched her shoulder. Her low, hollow moan set Josiri’s teeth on edge and his heart racing. Makrov’s eyes gleamed beneath bushy brows.

  “Stop it!” snapped Josiri. “Let her alone!”

  Makrov nodded. The light dimmed. Anastacia’s moan faded. She gazed up at Makrov, eyes brimming with murder.

  [[Play . . . Play as rough as you like. I’ve a long memory.]]

  A pair of king’s blue soldiers scuttled forward, a coil of silver rope in their hands.

  “As have I,” said Makrov. “And I’m sure silver will hold you as well in this form as it did in your other. As for you, your grace, declining the Council’s invitation would be a poor choice. I’m certain that bandit Merrik would tell you so . . . were it not for the fact that he’s dining with the Raven even as we speak. The disgraced Proctor Gavamor too.”

  Josiri offered silent prayer for his fallen comrades. They deserved better. They all deserved better. Even Melanna Saranal, whose fate he was now to share.

  Summoned to Council. Just like his father. So easy now to understand why his mother embraced the Raven. Had Josiri a knife to hand, he’d have taken the same course then and there – though he’d have taken Makrov’s throat first, sun-staves or no.

  Thunder rippled across the sky. Josiri caught a glimpse of his sword, just out of reach.

  [[Next time,]] Anastacia murmured, [[just run.]]

  “No,” said Josiri. “Never.”

  H
e tensed, a shiver running up his spine as the folds of his sodden clothes shifted. One last deed before the mists took him.

  The soldiers paused, Anastacia’s wrists still half-bound. Josiri glanced up. A giant loomed through the rain behind Makrov, his face grim as death.

  “Arzro Makrov!” bellowed Viktor Akadra. “I would have words.”

  For one joyous moment in the hissing rain, Viktor thought Makrov might fall from his saddle in surprise. Alas, the archimandrite steadied himself on the cusp of no return and turned his steed smartly about.

  “Lord Akadra, a pleasure to . . .”

  “Enough.” Viktor’s fury, building ever since Yanda’s warning, threatened to spill over into unwise action. He buried it deep and gestured sharply at Josiri and Anastacia. “Let them up.”

  Makrov flinched but held his ground. “They are malcontents of the first order and will be treated as such.”

  “The Council granted me a warrant of pardon,” growled Viktor. “For Josiri Trelan and all others I deemed worthy.” He let his voice carry through the rain. “I proclaim all who fought yesterday to be worthy! Anyone who breaks this decree will answer to me! In private, and with a sword in their hand!”

  The sounds of battle faded. Fitful stillness overtook the camp. Southwealders eyed Makrov’s soldiers uneasily and were regarded with suspicion in return. Those northwealders who’d shed blood alongside those Makrov had come to claim stood frozen – uncertain and apprehensive.

  Stalemate.

  “Major Keldrov!” Viktor shouted. “Kindly escort the archimandrite from the camp. He and his men are leaving. Everyone else stays!”

  Keldrov didn’t move. Of course she didn’t. She was too young. Too wary of the archimandrite’s authority. Kurkas would have done it. He’d have dragged Makrov out by his heel without a second thought. Yanda might have done it. But Kurkas was gone, and Yanda was back in Kreska, purposefully insulated from whatever acts Viktor needed to perform.

  Makrov removed an envelope from his saddlebags. “You have a warrant of pardon. I have a warrant of arrest. One that specifically overrules yours, I might add. The demon goes back to her lair, and the named persons are to stand trial for treason. This is the will of the Council, Viktor. It is not for you or I to break.”

  With stiff stride, Viktor closed the distance between them. “Let me see.”

  Makrov’s lip twitched. “Gladly.”

  Viktor unfurled the scroll and began to read. With every line, his heart sank a little further. All was as Makrov had claimed. Though the ink was already beginning to run, the names upon the warrant sprang clear. Josiri Trelan. Calenne Trelan. Drakos Crovan. Revekah Halvor. Anastacia Psanneque. The list went on. And the seals of the Council at the base. No surprise to see Ebigail Kiradin’s mark present, but his father’s black swan . . .

  He fought temptation to tear the letter to shreds, his breath frosting in the air as his shadow coiled free. Destroying the document would be nothing but petulance. Makrov would have a copy. He’d won one battle but lost another without knowing the clarion had sounded. For the first time in a dozen hours, Viktor was glad Calenne wasn’t there to see him humbled. The accusation and hope brimming in Josiri’s eyes was bad enough.

  Calenne . . .

  The flames of an idea flickered.

  “You may have those named on this list. I’ve no doubt the Council will see their mistake soon enough.” The hope faded from Josiri’s eyes until only accusation remained. “All others are to be released, at once.”

  Makrov scowled, but he surely knew the warrant back to front. The wording allowed him to claim named ringleaders – it did nothing to gainsay Viktor’s broader powers of pardon.

  “Very well,” he said, with fragile huffiness. “Out of respect for you, Lord Akadra, and for your victory, I’m sure the Council will approve a little . . . clemency.”

  He gestured at Josiri and Anastacia – the latter with her hands now bound. Viktor winced at the sight. Silver and magic were a poor mix. He could only imagine her discomfort.

  “Bring them,” said Makrov.

  Viktor let the soldiers get the pair to their feet before clearing his throat. “Apologies, eminence, but where are you taking that man?”

  “Josiri Trelan is mine, as agreed.”

  “He is indeed, if you can find him,” said Viktor. “The man you hold is an Akadra. Calenne Trelan and I were married at dawn yesterday. She petitioned me to adopt her dear brother, and I gladly agreed.”

  Taking advantage of Makrov’s sudden descent into apoplexy, Viktor embraced Josiri.

  “My brother. I’m glad to see you unharmed.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Forgive me. I can conjure no other solution.”

  Josiri returned the embrace, if stiffly. Over his shoulder, Viktor made eye contact with Anastacia, who gave the slightest of nods.

  “And where is the Lady Trelan . . . forgive me, the Lady Akadra?” asked Makrov.

  “Missing.” Sorrow tugged on Viktor’s heart as he spoke. “No other fought harder for the Republic than she.”

  “And the priest who married you?”

  “Dead.” Viktor shrugged. “He didn’t fight so hard. But what can one expect of a priest?”

  Laughter rippled around the camp. Makrov scowled.

  “If you don’t believe me,” said Viktor, “you need only ask around. We made no secret of our betrothal.”

  Makrov shot a glance at Keldrov. She nodded without hesitation.

  “I’m taking this man,” he snapped.

  Viktor folded his arms. “No, eminence, you are not. The sins of the kith do not jump family to family, and your warrant is quite clear. Josiri Trelan is yours to claim. Josiri Akadra is not. This is the will of the Council, Arzro. It is not for you or I to break.”

  Makrov scowled at the repetition of his own admonishment. “And if I choose otherwise?”

  “You’ve known my father long enough to know better than to come between an Akadra and his kin.”

  Makrov fell silent, his face thunderous as the sky. He clicked his fingers. “Bring her.”

  He trotted away, entourage of soldiers and proctors in his wake. Anastacia, her wrists bound on a silver leash, strode in their midst, shoulders back and head held high.

  Viktor watched them go, partly to ensure Makrov made no attempt to take others to whom he was not entitled. Mostly because he couldn’t face Josiri.

  At last, the gate cleared. Weary, worn and still abuzz with a fury he dared not express, Viktor beckoned to Keldrov. “Major? I have a task for you, if you’re feeling bold.”

  She limped over, eyes wary. “Sir?”

  He set Makrov’s precious document in her hand. “Armund af Garna you’ll find on the field, beside his sister’s pyre. Korsov and Drenn, I don’t know. Find them. Warn them. Carefully. The archimandrite’s wrath is not to be taken lightly.”

  Her lips pursed, then relaxed. “At once, my lord.”

  He watched her go, glad and proud. Perhaps there was hope for the Republic after all.

  And then the moment could be put off no longer. Josiri had to be faced. Viktor strode through the mud with a certainty he scarcely felt, not wanting to be thought diffident or reluctant.

  Josiri met him with bleak stare. “A fine token your friendship bought, Viktor.”

  “I know.” He strove for words to express the knot about his heart. “You’ve no reason to believe me, but I will not let this stand. I’ve allies on the Council. Makrov will be stopped.”

  He broke off, the full consequences slamming home. That meant leaving. Leaving meant abandoning Calenne. As ever, the desires of the man and the duties of the leader walked divergent paths.

  “You’ll have to come with me, brother.”

  “Back to Tressia?” Josiri snarled. He stared back through the rain towards the gate. “I’m going nowhere. Ana needs me. Calenne needs me. And my people. The people you and I betrayed. They need me.” He punctuated each point with a jab of a forefinger to Viktor’s chest. />
  “If you stay, Makrov will kill you,” said Viktor. “In the north, I can protect you. The pardon restores your family’s seat on the Privy Council – a full vote, not the half-measure I once commanded. We can use that to change things.”

  He turned away and stared at the sky. How swiftly happiness turned to ash, triumph to defeat. How could intent count for so little? “I’m . . . I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”

  Hearing no reply, he turned. Josiri had gone.

  Josiri staggered through the rainswept camp, heartsick and seething. Once again, he’d lost everything. Calenne. Revekah. Anastacia. The others.

  He suspected – as Makrov surely suspected – that there had been no marriage between Viktor and Calenne. And to be named an Akadra? He couldn’t even begin to express his distaste. But he admired the cleverness of the ploy. It had preserved those who’d fought under his command and in his sister’s name.

  Better than that, it gave him a chance to hurt Makrov as he had been hurt. He paused for breath in the lee of a supply wagon. The rain hammered down, fit to match his mood. No. Not as he had been hurt. He could never repay Makrov so completely. But there had to be something. His mother would have known how to twist the knife.

  He thought of their last day together, as he had so often since waking. Her last advice. When enemies are your only recourse, choose the one with the least to gain. Katya had surely not meant the words as he now took them, but wasn’t that the nature of legacy?

  He cast around with renewed purpose and took his bearings. Gavamor was dead. But if his possessions remained, one last act of retribution could yet be managed.

  Melanna gazed out across the prison stockade, her mood bleak as the skies. Perhaps half her fellows had survived the night. The rest had succumbed to their wounds, quietly or with din fit to wake the heavens. At least the rain served to wash away the smell, though she was sure it would return soon enough.

  “So that uproar wasn’t Devren coming for us,” her father grunted. He was pale beneath his wounds, his breathing shallower than she cared for.

  “It seems not.” Melanna had hoped that Ashana might relent and send the Huntsman for her. But no. This mess was of ephemeral make. It was for ephemerals to resolve.