Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “Help me!” she shouted at the crowd. A few glanced away. Most gave no reaction at all. “We fought for you! Why won’t you help me?”

  Then she was gone, dragged into the streets beyond. Makrov resumed his tyrant’s sermon, though Kurkas spared it little attention. His one good eye he spared for the woman at his side, her manner rigid as a serpent coiled to spring. It was easier that way. Easier than reconciling his own thoughts. He’d celebrated victory at Zanya as much as his ravaged body had allowed. But this? This made him want to scream.

  At last, Makrov tired of hearing his own voice. With a last heartfelt cry of Praise Lumestra – one almost nobody echoed – he withdrew from the balcony.

  Yanda lingered a moment longer, her eyes sweeping the crowd. Before Kurkas had a chance to look away, her eyes found him. Recognition was as mutual as it was instant – the sidelong glance she shot Halvor as unexpected as the tight, respectful nod that followed.

  Kurkas braced himself for the accusation and the call to alarm. Neither came. Yanda simply turned her back and passed inside.

  “She knows,” muttered Halvor as the crowds began to thin.

  “Yes, but I don’t think she’ll say anything,” Kurkas replied. “We’re not all like Makrov.”

  She stared across at the reeve’s manor. “Enough are. Enough that killing him won’t change a thing.”

  “Might make you feel better.”

  “You’re an odd one, Kurkas. Even for a northwealder, you’re odd.”

  He stared gloomily across the thinning crowd. “I’ll take that as a compliment, under the circumstances.”

  He hitched his crutch closer and hobbled for the alleyway. The cold and wet had seeped into his bones. Branghall seemed a long way off. Two paces distant, he turned back the way he’d come. Halvor hadn’t followed. She stood in the empty marketplace like a child cut adrift from her parents in the rain.

  “Can’t you feel it?” she said.

  He winced and lurched back towards her. “All I feel right now is ice in my bones and a yearning for a crackling hearth.”

  Where he was to find the latter, he wasn’t sure. Ardel’s cottage was a good three hours’ ride back across the fields, and he was certainly in no state to go clambering about over Branghall’s walls, ward-brooch or no.

  Though Halvor’s eyes met his, Kurkas had the strangest feeling that she hadn’t seen him.

  “Don’t come apart on me now, yeah?”

  “The Dark surrounds me,” she murmured, “and there’s no light to show the way.”

  Scripture? Now? Kurkas revised his assessment of his companion’s grip on reality.

  “A soldier makes his own light. Just needs something to burn.”

  Her eyes widened in recognition. “Kevor? Kevor, is that you? Just wait until I tell Katya. We thought you were dead.”

  Kurkas felt a chill that had little to do with the weather. This went far beyond exhaustion. “Snap out of it, Halvor. I can’t drag you out of here by the heels, much less carry you.”

  “I’ve no need to leave.” She frowned and sat down in the wet. “I’m home. I can lay down my burdens.”

  Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. What was he to do now? Smart thing would be to leave her to it. Maybe find a way of reaching Yanda without Makrov catching wind. But he wasn’t that smart, was he? Smart folk didn’t leave pieces of themselves on battlefields, much less stomp into occupied territory with a fugitive.

  He cast about the marketplace. A few knots of southwealders remained, eyed warily by a handful of soldiers. No one seemed to be paying them any heed. So far.

  “Captain Halvor,” he hissed. “You need to pull yourself together right bloody now, you understand me?”

  She stared past him, expression brightening. “Elda.”

  Elda? Who in the Raven’s name was Elda? Kurkas glanced back over his shoulder. A stocky woman stood in the alleyway mouth, rain trickling across a crow’s-footed face and iron-grey plaits. He’d seen her before, though she’d not seen fit to waste her breath on him. Calenne’s foster-mother.

  Boots splashing through filthy puddles, Elda closed the distance. “Revekah? It’s me. I’m here.” She glared at Kurkas as if seeing him for the first time and sniffed. “Oh, it’s you. The captain who left filthy boot prints across my hallway. What have you done to her?”

  “What have I done?” Fraying patience snapped. “Now you listen to me . . .”

  “It can wait.” Elda straightened, suddenly all business. “Let’s get her inside.”

  Kurkas glanced from one to the other, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with uncertainty. But what were the options? Leave Halvor out in the rain?

  “Have it your way.”

  Forty-Seven

  For nearly twenty years, the city of Tressia had held dual identity in Josiri’s memory, his childhood recollections muddied and distorted by a man’s resentments. A place of alabaster towers, fluttering hawk-flags and gilded statues, it was also the place his father had come to die. Where hundreds – even thousands – of southwealders laboured in servitude, having committed no crime other than to have lost.

  Strange, then, that the streets were neither so glorious as Josiri remembered, nor as horrifying as he’d feared. The white city of his dreams and nightmares had grown grey through neglectful years. The flags streamed not from proud towers, but from walls surrounded by rubble, brick-spoil and sweating labourers. Statues bore powdery stains that marked them as gull-roosts. But then nor did Josiri catch signs of the slavery he’d feared. The labourers worked unfettered, and the streets were empty of the shuffling columns of oppressed he’d conjured in his mind’s eye.

  Tressia, bastion of glory and oppression, was merely a place, neither intrinsically good nor irredeemably evil. It simply . . . was.

  It was also oddly empty. In the long walk from King’s Gate, Josiri and his five-man escort passed perhaps a thousand souls. The marketplaces, which should have been bustling even at that hour, were but sparsely attended. The church doors were sealed tight, their congregations and preachers cloistered inside, their hymns echoing out into the open air. The taverns and hostelries of the deeper streets, which should have been thick with drinkers celebrating the dying work day, played host to but a few huddled inebriates. But for all that, Josiri felt eyes upon him from every alley-mouth and window. Empty though the streets might have been, the people were still there.

  Kraikons stood silent sentinel at the confluence of major thoroughfares. It took Josiri a moment to recognise them for what they were. Steel armour and polished bronze flesh gleamed in the waning daylight, giving them the aspect of gods, and not the broken-down old field-hulks Josiri knew. But their stance was familiar. Watchful. In this, if nothing else, Tressia reminded him of Eskavord, and he wondered why that should be so.

  They began the curved descent towards the harbourside and the Silverway River. Battered kraikons loomed alongside silent, moored ships. Josiri spotted a woman dragging her child along. The girl, oblivious to her parent’s wishes, lingered at arm’s extent, gazing up at a kraikon in wonder. What was a familiar sight in Eskavord was apparently not so in Tressia.

  “Is it always so quiet?” he asked.

  Sergeant Brass pondered, as steadfastly laconic as a cow chewing cud. “No.”

  Josiri waited for him to expand on the answer. After a dark, silent tavern fell away behind, he realised no such expansion was forthcoming.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked.

  Brass quickened his pace. “No.”

  Josiri fell silent. The wary look and the hastened tread told him plenty. Something was badly wrong, and Brass knew it.

  By the time they reached the intricate wrought-iron gates of Abbeyfields, the further thinning of the crowds and the increasing prevalence of constabulary tabards allowed him to put a name to circumstance. Curfew. Not yet begun, but soon. Apparently he’d brought at least part of the Southshires with him.

  Four guards watched the main ga
te. Brass made a lumbering beeline for the woman who shared his sergeant’s stars. After brief conversation, Josiri was beckoned through into the gardens. At the mansion door Brass hauled hard on the bell-pull. Shortly after, the door creaked open to reveal a rotund, grey-clad servant whose harried expression spoke to labours interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  “The Duke of Eskavord to see Lord Reveque.” Out of nowhere, Brass possessed a crispness of voice and manner that had earlier been lacking.

  The servant’s brow furrowed. Josiri felt disbelieving eyes boring into him. Jack o’ Fellhallow and an entourage of thornmaidens would have been only a fraction less surprising a houseguest – and he’d have managed better garb than Viktor’s borrowed clothes.

  At last, the fellow nodded. “Very well. If you’ll wait inside, your grace?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me. This is a lot to take in.”

  Malachi topped off both glasses and returned the decanter to the dresser. He handed one glass to Josiri Trelan – it seemed odd to think of him as Josiri Akadra, even given the explanation for why he should do so – and reclaimed a seat at Lilyana’s side. Her glass remained untouched.

  Josiri nodded his thanks. “Easier to hear it than to live it.”

  “You’re certain the Hadari won’t return?”

  “Kai Saran is wounded, his army broken. The Hadari are no longer a threat.” His tone darkened. “They never were. Not the one I should have heeded.”

  Malachi nodded. “I wish I could say that Ebigail and Makrov’s arrangement came as any surprise. But Viktor arrested? And by Rosa? Time was, she’d be first to defend him.”

  It at least explained why she’d moved out that morning. Was she protecting him, or avoiding confrontation? The former would have been very much in character.

  “People change,” said Lily. “Rosa’s been through a great deal. She may not be the person you knew any longer. Or perhaps Viktor never truly was.”

  Malachi scowled away a flash of irritation. “I can’t believe that. I won’t. They’re my friends. The world’s gone mad.”

  “The world was always mad,” said Josiri, his tone edged with steel. “I don’t blame you for not noticing. It’s easier to look away than to fight.”

  Malachi flinched. “Josiri . . .”

  Lily rose in a swish of skirts and fixed Josiri with a cold stare. “You’ve no idea how my husband has sacrificed – how he’s fought. I don’t expect gratitude, but you might show respect!”

  “Lily, please. Josiri’s . . .”

  “. . . behaving like a poor guest.” Josiri’s posture softened. He ran a hand through his tangled blond hair. “I apologise without reservation. It’s easy to fall back onto firm habits, and history has tempered mine hard as steel. Still, that’s no excuse.”

  He approached the leaded window and stared across the dusk-shrouded garden. Lily scowled and reclaimed her seat as Malachi sipped from his brimming glass and gathered his thoughts.

  He couldn’t say what he’d expected of Josiri Trelan – a man he’d never met save through the dry distance of written report – but the dishevelled individual whose outsize garb more suited a beggar than a nobleman was certainly not it. He’d hoped they’d meet, of course, once common sense prevailed at council. In his folly, he’d expected confluence of mind and opinion. Brotherhood born of common cause. Soft words of thanks dismissed with dignified grace.

  The reality was sadly lacking, as reality so often was. He’d have been blind not to recognise the resentment and worry underlying Josiri’s every word and gesture. How well Malachi knew those feelings. And yet he worried only over one friend – maybe two, given Rosa’s part in unfolding events. Josiri had family, loved ones . . . even an entire people at risk.

  “You’re with friends,” he said at last. “Apologies are unnecessary.”

  Josiri gave a wry snort. “If I’ve learned one thing of late, it’s that apologies are more necessary between friends than elsewhere.”

  Lily’s scowl receded into thoughtfulness. “Actions are better.”

  “I agree, but what would you have me do?” He spoke without turning.

  Malachi shook his head. “She’s talking to me. My dear wife defends me, Josiri, but her appraisal of my efforts is eerily similar to your own. I think too much, and act too little. I rely on Viktor’s support where I should have learned to stand alone. Now he – and you – rely on me. I shall not be found wanting.”

  “Thank you—” Josiri broke off. When he spoke again, it was with quiet mirth. “You should know that there’s a mass of water-slime making its way up the garden path. I think there’s a child at the heart of it.”

  Lily growled. The sitting room door slammed behind her. Malachi joined Josiri at the window. Constans indeed looked more nightmare than child, with thick green weed trailing behind like some vile bridal train. White teeth hinted at a broad grin beneath the mud.

  “You don’t have children, do you?” asked Malachi.

  “My life’s complicated enough.”

  “They have a way of simplifying matters. I’d die for Constans and Sidara. Without hesitation.”

  Lily appeared in view, her face brimming with incipient thunder. Constans hooked his hand into claws and spun gleefully towards her.

  “Then you’d best hurry,” said Josiri. “I fear you’re about to lose a son.”

  “There are limits to all things,” Malachi said airily. Lily stalked back up the garden path, her hand tight about Constans’ collar. “But you’re right. He’ll be my son for the foreseeable future. I hope he learns better sense as he grows.”

  “The same might be said of us all. I’ve made poor decisions of late. I can’t afford any more.”

  And there it was: brotherhood born of common cause. Or something so near to it that divergence didn’t matter. “Viktor was right to send you to me.”

  “Viktor has an annoying knack for being right. Can you help him?”

  “Yes.” Malachi imbued the word with confidence, and hoped it was true. “Hadon may not often see eye-to-eye with his son, but I can’t imagine he’ll allow Viktor to go to the pyre. Given the Council’s denuded state, that’s no small prize.”

  Josiri set his back to the garden. “What’s happened to the Council?”

  “What hasn’t happened? We were five, saving yourself. We’re now three. Lord Tarev embraced the Raven and so, they’re saying, did Lady Marest.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “As a vranakin tried to kill me less than a week back, no I do not. Neither do Ebigail nor Hadon.” Malachi forced a smile he didn’t feel. “A rare moment of unity.”

  “Hence the curfew?”

  “Hadon’s idea. Ebigail backed him. I don’t blame her. Her daughter’s missing. Knowing the Crowmarket, that means she’s dead. But curfews don’t stop assassins. They simply make everyone feel . . . safe.”

  “My mother spoke of the Crowmarket,” said Josiri. “She sought their help, but the price was too steep.”

  Malachi shuddered. Given the ease with which the kernclaw had infiltrated his home, it was easy to conjure how Katya’s rebellion might otherwise have ended. “Did she say what they wanted?”

  “They wanted her. Obedient and blind. But my mother was nobody’s puppet.”

  “So I understand.” A newly freed Southshires would have been profitable ground for the Crowmarket. “She made the right decision.”

  “Did she? I think her pride got in the way. One life in sway to the Crowmarket to free thousands. It’s not such a poor trade, is it?”

  The skin on the back of Malachi’s neck prickled. “If you thought that, you’d have made your own deal by now.”

  “Maybe I’m proud, too. But maybe I’m learning to put that aside. I’m hoping you’ll offer a different path.”

  He spoke the words as simple matter-of-fact, without malice. But there was threat, all the same.

  “We can do nothing tonight,” said Malachi. “We’ll start tomorrow, at coun
cil. If nothing else, I’d like to see Hadon’s reaction when he learns he now has two sons.”

  “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

  Malachi’s soul ached at the accusation. “It’s all a game, and one won by canny action, not passion. By the terms of your original pardon, and despite your adoption, Viktor’s seat on the Privy Council reverts to you and claims a full vote. We can use that. In the meantime, my house is yours.” He looked Josiri up and down. “And we’ll find you some clothes that actually fit. Please. You trusted Viktor enough to come here. Trust me.”

  “Through here, your grace.”

  Josiri passed into the airy, high-ceilinged room. It wasn’t anywhere near as grand as his chambers at Branghall, but it was generous enough. More generous than he deserved. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy coming back to Tressia, but he’d not anticipated just how changeable his mood would become. Everything reminded him of what he’d lost – and what he yet stood to lose. Ana in Makrov’s clutches. And Calenne? Lumestra knew where she was.

  “You’ll find a selection of outfits in the wardrobe,” the steward continued. “Serviceable, but I’m afraid Lord Reveque doesn’t hold fashion in high regard.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage,” Josiri murmured. “What’s your name?”

  “Braxov, your grace.”

  “Your name, not your family’s.”

  “Yan, your grace. Will you be needing anything else? Some food perhaps?”

  Josiri’s gut rumbled, reminding him that he’d eaten nothing since an early and frugal lunch. But he couldn’t face food. The sense of displacement was almost worse than the feeling of loss. Fifteen years, always sleeping in the same bed, shackled to the same routine. Freedom brought strange fears.

  “No.”

  Braxov offered a pot-bellied bow. “If you change your mind, I’m at your service. Whatever the hour. The bell-pull rings through to the kitchen. If I’m asleep, one of the night-maids will find me.”

  “I’m sure I’ll not put you to that trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble, your grace.” Braxov extended his left hand and spread his fingers. The faded swirl of a rose-brand stared up from his palm. “Some things are more important than sleep.”