by Matthew Ward
The mark of indenturement. Josiri had attended the first brandings – he’d felt he owed the victims that much. But he’d never seen one healed before. And this one had been healed a long time.
“When did they take you?”
“I was part of the exodus, your grace. Me and two sisters. They went to the Outer Isles. Haven’t seen them since. I came here. But I’ve never forgotten. Not where I came from, and not the Phoenix.”
How old was Braxov? A few years younger than himself? Young enough to have been little more than a child when the exodus had begun. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you’ve had your own burdens.” He shrugged. “It’s not been so bad. I’ve been part of Lady Reveque’s household since before she was married, and she’s a good sort. You can trust her. You can trust them both. And for anything else, I’m here.”
“Thank you.”
Braxov bowed and withdrew.
Josiri sank onto the bed and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror.
“You need to pull yourself together.”
The reflection offered a baleful stare from behind red-rimmed eyes and four-day stubble. Nonetheless, Josiri’s spirit lightened. Braxov had offered a connection to home. One tainted by guilt and failure, but a connection nonetheless.
Clothes. Clean clothes would help. Josiri clambered to his feet and examined the contents of the wardrobe. Braxov had understated the selection, and it was a simple matter to find shirt, waistcoat and trousers of a close enough fit.
He took the time to unbundle his few possessions and toyed with the idea of asking Braxov for hot water and a razor, the better to scrape away the bristling ruffian he’d beheld in the mirror. But no. That ritual could wait for the morning. He’d need all the sense of self he could muster if he were to face his new “father” and the redoubtable Ebigail Kiradin. Instead, he kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed, fully intending to collect his thoughts.
A polite knock on the door jarred him to wakefulness.
Josiri levered himself groggily upright and rubbed at his eyes. Beyond the curtains, grey skies had deepened almost to black.
“Uncle Josiri? May I open the door?”
The girl’s voice was soft but insistent, not so much posing a question as forewarning of intent.
“Come in.”
The door opened a crack. Blonde hair and blue eyes appeared around the frame, the latter alive with amusement. “You’ve been sleeping.”
“Sidara, is it?”
The skirts of her dress gathered in slender hands, she bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, uncle.”
There it was again. “I’m not your uncle.”
“Mother says you are Uncle Viktor’s brother? That’s so, isn’t it?”
“So I’m told.”
“Then you are also my uncle. Not a real uncle, but near enough. Or am I to address you as Lord Akadra?”
He winced. “Uncle Josiri will be fine.”
“See?” She smiled, leaving Josiri with the distinct impression he’d been outmanoeuvred. “It’s very simple after all. I’m sure I’ll be your favourite niece.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her earnestness. “As it happens, you’re my only niece.”
If the lack of competition troubled Sidara any, none of it showed in her expression. “Father wishes to know if you’ll be joining him for dinner.”
“Thank your father for his concern, but I’m not hungry.”
Lips pursed in an expression of disbelief too old for her face. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m truly not.” Josiri wondered why he justified himself to a child. “I need rest, that’s all.”
“I don’t believe you.” Sidara nodded past his shoulder. “Neither does she.”
Josiri frowned and cast a long glance around the bedroom. He saw no one. “Aren’t you a little old to have an imaginary playmate?”
“She’s not my friend. She’s yours.”
Once again, he had the distinct feeling the girl was playing a game of some kind, but there was something in her voice . . . “What does she look like?”
“She’s all hollow, with dark eyes like a cyraeth. But she has beautiful white curls. I sometimes wish my hair was curly.”
Anastacia. Or at least, Anastacia as she’d once been. “Can I speak to her?”
An eye narrowed in thought. “I don’t think she’s for talking to. She’s more like . . . a memory.”
“I don’t understand. My memory?”
“Her memory. She left it with you for comfort.” Sidara stared down at her feet as if suddenly aware of the conversation. “Please don’t tell Mother. She’ll only get upset.”
Josiri blinked away his confusion. How could a memory express disapproval? Probably Sidara had invented that detail in the hopes of getting him to eat. But how had she known Anastacia’s appearance? He’d been careful not to speak of her in front of Malachi and Lilyana, for fear of their reaction. What was the alternative? That Ana had indeed left a “memory” with him? An afterimage of the magic that was her flesh? It almost didn’t matter. She didn’t seem so far away any longer, and he no longer felt as alone.
But one thing was clear: Sidara had been blessed with magic and didn’t want her mother to know.
“Uncle Josiri? You mustn’t tell her. Please.”
A few hours, that was all. He’d been in Tressia for a few hours, and already he was invited to intrigue. Not by Malachi, as he’d feared, but by a girl who looked very much as if the sky was falling.
“What manner of uncle would I be if I couldn’t keep a secret?” he said. “Tell your father I’ll be down shortly.”
Viktor’s shadow moaned at the touch of silver, the low, breathy wail more sensation than sound. It wasn’t pain – pain he could have ignored – but a crawling, gnawing discomfort that permeated every inch of his being, ephemeral and eternal alike. It hadn’t been so bad at first, but after hours in the darkness without other stimuli, it had worn Viktor ragged.
It wasn’t the first time Viktor had seen the inside of such a cell. It was his first as a prisoner, stripped to shirt-sleeves and left barefoot in the dank. For more than a hundred years, the vaults had been a site of inquiry and investigation – a testing ground for those accused of demon-hood and witchery. Few examinations ended well.
He shifted position on the narrow stone bench. Beyond the barred window, waves crashed on distant rocks, howling salt-tinged cries on the western wind. Silver shackles about wrists and ankles glinted in scant moonlight. Ropes, he might have ripped free, but not chain. Most certainly not chain bolted to the rock wall. And even if such a thing were possible, there was still the locked door and the provosts roaming beyond.
Never mind that even an attempt at escape was as good as a confession of guilt. Sun-staves would sear his flesh from bone before he reached the Hayadra Grove high above. And if death didn’t find him thus, simarka would be loosed to the hunt.
He could take the risk if it came to it. Better to trust Malachi to see him freed. Or maybe even his father might stir himself to the task? Probably not. He’d sever one branch of the family tree and hope no one sought rot among those that remained. No one could accuse Hadon Akadra of lacking pragmatism, least of all his son. Still, he would be free. He had to know what had become of Calenne. To see her again, if she still lived.
A key rattled in the lock. The door creaked open. Viktor tilted his head against the sudden brightness. A robed man entered the cell. He set a firestone lantern on a hook beside the door. He placed two bundles on the table, one of rough cloth and the other in leather binding. Two provosts came in close behind. They took up positions to either side of the door, dulled sun-staves held at guard.
The lead provost drew across a chair from the opposite wall and sat at the table. Stick-thin, he did not so much occupy space as the emptiness between. An unremarkable man, with greying brown hair and an aquiline nose.
The door slammed.
“Greetings.” The man’s
voice was as nondescript as his appearance. It held neither interest nor anticipation, only boredom. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I am Hargo. And you, I believe, are Viktor.”
Viktor strove to silence his shadow long enough to form coherent words. “Lord Akadra.”
Hargo tutted. “Not here. Here, we are all equal in Lumestra’s sight. There are no ranks. No titles. There are only her servants of light and those who have strayed.” He leaned low across the table, his nose almost touching Viktor’s. “We are bound together, you and I. You, the mystery. I, the seeker of revelation.”
“You’ve no cause to test me.” The words came slow and heavy, dredged up from behind the implacable grasp of silver.
“So I am often told. So seldom is it true.”
Hargo unwrapped the cloth bundle. “Mysteries of the Raven, penned by our old friend and probable pseudonym Alain Corbeau.” Another followed. “Brathna’s The Undawning Deep. I confess, I’d always thought this one the stuff of rumour.”
Even with his shadow wailing, Viktor sensed the power within the pages. The first book felt cold and clammy, like a brisk sea wind on a hot day. The second . . . it hurt to look at the second. No. Not hurt, not exactly. It gnawed. As if it sought to burrow into his soul. Hargo didn’t seem to notice.
“What have they to do with me?” Viktor breathed.
“They were found in your chambers.”
So much for any hope that this was all a mistake. Someone had planned this. Someone who’d known his secret, or suspected it. Someone who’d convinced Rosa that he was responsible for Kasamor’s death. That pointed the finger of guilt at his father, and left Malachi his one hope for salvation.
“They’re not mine.”
“Of course not.” A smile tugged at the corner of Hargo’s mouth. “But it’s better to be certain. The sooner the mystery is solved, the sooner I can release you back to the Council for the settlement of the more . . . commonplace charges.”
He stood, and unrolled the leather bundle across the table. A wicked array of spikes and blades glinted silver in the lantern light.
“The path to revelation. Let us seek it together.”
Endas, 11th day of Radiance
Do we worship light for its glory, or because darkness too easily breeds suspicion?
Is a righteous man ever truly thus if none bear witness to his deeds?
from the sermons of Konor Belenzo
Forty-Eight
Ebigail Kiradin was a dark shape at the sitting room window, a serathi with a halo of brilliant sunlight. For all that, she remained cold . . . distant. As if she touched the world but lightly. But Apara knew all too well that the lightest touch often wrought the greatest change.
“How goes our endeavour?”
Lady Kiradin’s voice held an unusual note. Not fear – that the lady might fear anything was unthinkable – but an admission of equality, of shared desire.
“Captain Horden understands the consequences his family will pay for defiance.” Even in dawn’s light, the elder cousin cast a wispy, indistinct shape. More a shadow-strewn nightmare than a man.
The lady nodded. “And the chapterhouse seneschals?”
“Rother and Mannor will comply. Tassandra is proving . . . intractable. The honour of Essamere.”
The lady crooked a sour lip. “Honour is a sop to those without power. Have her killed. Something that will pass into rumour.”
The cousin’s hood tilted, reshaping the shadow beneath. “Another death so soon . . . Perhaps a display of largesse would be more appropriate.”
“Offer a bribe, and we admit weakness. Weakness invites betrayal.” The lady sniffed. “The Republic needs strength more than I need the services of Kaleo Tassandra. Those who survive must understand the single, inflexible truth of our times: that I am not to be defied.”
The cousin stiffened, his robes twitching in a non-existent breeze. Apara caught her breath. No one spoke thus to an elder cousin. More than ever, she wished she were elsewhere.
“Have a care, Lady Kiradin,” he breathed. “The Parliament of Crows remembers your service, but there is a limit to latitude granted by favours past.”
“I agree,” the lady replied. “It is the future alone that concerns us. You will fulfil my wishes.”
After brief hesitation, he nodded. “Cousin? The task falls to you.”
Apara offered a bow. She, at least, knew the difference between a request and an order.
“What of the Grand Council?” asked the elder cousin.
Ebigail snarled. “Hah! The Grand Council is irrelevant. The Grand Council was always irrelevant. A talking shop for inbreds unfit for true responsibility. They will fall into line. Everyone will fall into line. We need only give them reason to pause.”
Green eyes blazed beneath the hood. “We will not be your footsoldiers.”
“I’m well aware of that. Look at you! For all your tricks, a little daylight chills you to the marrow, doesn’t it?” She fixed the elder cousin with an iron stare. “The Crowmarket has always clung to the shadows. I am a creature of light, and I’ll scour this city clean before I’m done. Work with me a little while longer, and we shall all have what we desire.”
The shadows about the elder cousin deepened, the dawn further distant with each quickening beat of Apara’s heart. If he ordered Lady Kiradin’s death, Apara knew she’d have no choice but to obey. The raven-cloak whispered in anticipation. She pinched her eyes shut and blocked out its voices.
“Will there be anything else?” Ice crackled beneath the elder cousin’s words.
“No . . . Yes.” The lady pressed a finger to pursed lips. “I’d like to retain Apara’s services here at Freemont for the immediate future. For contingencies, if you will.”
“She is yours.”
Apara cursed softly behind an impassive expression.
“Good,” said the lady. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have family business to address.”
The cell was dark, and silent but for the crash of waves. Viktor wasn’t sure how long he’d hung there, his chained wrists suspended from an iron hook in the ceiling. That was the point. Let isolation work on the mind as surely as fire and silvered steel worked on the body.
Ironic, then, that Viktor welcomed the quiet. It allowed him to bend his full concentration on his shadow, which hissed and spat beneath the silver manacles like a beast before flame. It worried and wearied at Viktor’s fading reserves, little caring that its freedom was the very proof Hargo desired.
And so Viktor hung in the near silence, eyes closed and torso sheeted in sweat. His skin crackled and tugged where the sun-staves had seared it. Wounds taken in battle with the Hadari had reopened under the strain, setting bloody rivulets trickling across his skin. And then there were the newer wounds – those opened by silvered needles at the points scripture taught offered access to the soul. Black blood for a black soul. Scarlet for a healthy one.
Thus far, Viktor’s had tended towards the scarlet. But if his shadow seeped free, who knew what dark miracles might be wrought?
He strove not to think of past or future, only the moment at hand – and when that moment had gone, the one that replaced it. But each existed only in a haze of pain.
Through the weariness, through the pain, Viktor clung closer to Calenne than ever. He’d see her again, whatever it took.
The cell door creaked open. Viktor opened a blood-crusted eye. Hargo held his leather satchel and a firestone lantern, his escort a sun-stave.
“Good morning, Viktor.” As ever, Hargo sounded overwhelmed with tedium. A man doing necessary work, all the while wishing he were elsewhere. “I thought we might renew our conversation?”
“When I get down from here, you’ll wish we’d never met.”
“Is that so?”
Fire blazed across Viktor’s spine – the familiar strike of a sun-stave at the small of his back. Viktor sagged against his manacles. This too was a moment, no longer or shorter than the others he’d endur
ed. This too would pass. He closed his eyes.
The sentries wore the forest green surcoats of the Knights Essamere. For a moment Josiri was back on the battlefield, lost in the shouting, striving mob – fighting beside the survivors of Calenne’s charge. Less than a week, and yet more than a lifetime ago.
Malachi took Josiri by the elbow and led him away across the empty drill square.
“You’ve nothing to fear,” he said. “Kaleo Tassandra is an old friend.”
Josiri shook his head. Malachi wanted so badly to be liked, and to be trusted. While Josiri had little trouble acceding to the former, he knew the latter would come only with time, if it came at all.
“The mistress of a chapterhouse sounds like a useful friend to have.”
But then his mother had thought that too, hadn’t she? And at the end, every chapterhouse had betrayed that friendship.
“I’m not good enough for you?” Malachi smiled away his offence. “I’m sure introduction can be arranged. But you’ll have to wait until after I’ve presented you to the Privy Council.”
The Privy Council. Josiri told himself the frisson was of anticipation, rather than fear. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. Josiri Akadra, Duke of Eskavord, heir to the Trelan seat on the Privy Council. A responsibility he knew almost nothing about. Strange how Viktor could be accused of witchcraft and yet his claims of adoption went unchallenged. Then again, there was so much about the city that Josiri found baffling.
“I wish you’d tutor me in protocol,” he said.
“I shouldn’t worry about it. What precious little there is, Ebigail will almost certainly ignore.” He shrugged. “Protocol is for the Grand Council. Pique and hauteur hold rather more sway above.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”
“What about Viktor?”
Malachi’s good cheer evaporated. “That’s harder. He’ll be in the hands of the provosts by now. If we can’t persuade Hadon or Ebigail to join us in ordering his release, it won’t matter if he’s guilty of witch-craft or not. The provosts don’t deal in innocence, only guilt. They’ll keep delving until they find it, or there’s nothing left to answer their questions.”