by Matthew Ward
Kurkas thought back to the gate, to the shudder of the crowd. “Do you share their pain?”
Halvor’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I shot one of her thralls. Didn’t get much of a reaction, but the others shared it.”
She laid a hand across her upper arm. “Here?”
He nodded, not sure whether to be impressed or terrified. “You felt it?”
“I remember Malatriant screaming. The babble of confusion. This . . .” She gripped her arm tight. “It’s like the memory of pain. I don’t know if that makes any sense?”
He snorted. “Look at who you’re talking to. Not a day goes by when my missing arm doesn’t itch. But Belenzo burned Malatriant! Every child knows that! Dragged her off into the wilds and gave her to the flame! That’s why we burn witches! Because it works.”
[[Much can change, in time,]] said Anastacia. [[Truth becomes hope, and hope becomes legend. What was wild becomes settled, and fear lives on as prejudice. People remember where history forgets.]]
“My old mother always said southwealders were wicked.” Kurkas shook his head. “Cheered louder than anyone when I marched down here back in the day.”
Halvor grimaced, and her thin voice drifted. “When I close my eyes, I can almost . . . see it. I feel the flames take root in my flesh. I hear her screams . . . my screams. And we make Belenzo a promise, as he stands behind the barrier of light. We promise that this isn’t the end. That the Dark will return.”
Kurkas shot Anastacia a worried glance. She shook her head, her mood unreadable as ever.
“Our ashes seeped into the soil.” The lines on Halvor’s face reknitted in a new frown, as if she were striving to recall a dream long-lost. “Bitter seeds took root in blood, and we slept. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” She hunched over, head in her hands. “I think I’ve lost my mind.”
[[It’s not lost,]] said Anastacia. [[But taken.]]
Kurkas glared at Anastacia. “Did you know about this?”
[[No . . .]] She tailed off. Her chin fell almost to her chest. [[But I think Emil Karkosa did.]]
“Makrov’s predecessor? Heard he went mad, pleading with Lumestra to send him a serathi . . .” Kurkas fell silent. Karkosa had begged for a serathi, and he’d received one, hadn’t he?
[[He bound me here.]] Anastacia’s voice quickened with anger. [[He staked me out as a lure.]]
“Or else he hoped you’d stop her.”
She laughed, the sound bitter as the ocean spray. [[All this time, I believed myself an outcast, hurled from the golden spires. But it wasn’t that way, was it? Mother heard Karkosa’s prayers.]]
Kurkas frowned. “Your mother?”
[[You’d call her Lumestra.]]
He’d nothing left to argue with. Not now. “Sure. Why not?”
[[She saw the Dark taking root beneath the soil. And even though her realm was riven by war, she sent a daughter. But Karkosa was cruel, and I was arrogant. The years slipped away. Now it’s too late.]]
Halvor laughed softly. “You’re talking like a northwealder. It’s never too late.”
Kurkas scratched his eyepatch. “I don’t believe this. Defying the Council? That’s one thing. But this? We’re talking about a deathless witch who’s got her claws into every poor sod for miles around.” He felt himself slipping, panic at last finding purchase in flesh. “What happens when she starts plucking demons from the shadows? Raising the bloody dead? How do we fight that?”
“We find a way,” snapped Halvor, her eyes alive with anger.
She sagged and sought the wall’s support once more.
Kurkas rubbed his jaw. “Who finds a way? That useless lot upstairs? I wouldn’t trust them to fight their way out of an orphanage. That leaves you, me and the walking plant pot over there. Unless we can count on Lumestra herself striding down from the clouds with a flaming sword and a host of serathi at her back . . . Wait. That a possibility?”
Anastacia gazed at him. [[My mother is dead.]]
He threw up his hand in surrender. “Course she is. Anything else you’d like to share?”
[[Only that you’re making a very annoying noise, and that I could snap your neck like a rabbit’s.]]
“Well, don’t do me no favours.” He sat heavily on an upturned wine barrel and almost slipped off the far side. A deep breath helped, so he took another. And another. “Assuming you don’t put me out of my misery, what do we do?”
“We get help,” said Halvor.
“From where? If Makrov’s dead, you can bet Cragwatch is overrun. Your wolf’s-heads are scattered, even if we could trust them.”
“Then someone’ll have to ride to Tressia. There must be horses in the stables.”
Now that was a fine idea. A herald, riding light and changing horses along the way, could reach the Council. Plant the whole mess in Lord Akadra’s lap. “There are, but there’s no way out. Gate’s sealed up tight.”
Halvor nodded. “What about the wall?”
“And how do we get a horse over the wall?”
[[We don’t,]] said Anastacia. [[I can open the hallowgate. It can trot out through a tunnel of roots and boughs.]]
“Sounds lovely.” Kurkas decided against asking exactly what a hal-lowgate was. “But I had Dastarov make a circuit. We’re surrounded. Not as deep at the wall as at the gate, maybe, but enough that it’ll be a fight to get clear.”
Anastacia stared down at her feet, then straightened. [[Then I’ll hand myself over. I can be very distracting.]]
“No,” said Halvor. “You’re the only advantage we have.”
“Then what?” asked Kurkas. “How do we make this work?”
Halvor slid down the wall and sat in the dust. She stared at her hands, turning them over and over as if to memorise every crease. “There’s a way. You won’t like it, but there’s a way.”
Fifty-Three
The key turned in the lock. Marek hesitated. So easily everything turned to dust. Used to be, he basked in Lady Sevaka’s company. Now he couldn’t bear her to look upon him. But duty performed beneath the weight of a breaking heart was the pinnacle of service. He entered the room.
Lady Sevaka watched from the bed. “Mealtime again so soon? Come to spare the great Lady Kiradin the disappointment of a dead daughter by forcing her to eat?”
Marek told himself he wasn’t responsible for what his hands did at Lady Ebigail’s instruction. Only what he chose to do counted. He had to believe that, or what was he?
Lady Sevaka hung her head. “How long before it’s your turn, Marek? What mistake will see you dangling from the gibbet?”
He knelt beside the bed. She pulled away as his hand reached for hers. His was the quicker.
“Don’t touch me!” She kicked at him. “Don’t . . . !”
Protest fell silent as the key slipped the manacles’ lock. She pulled back, eyes hooded.
“The south gardens are lightly patrolled.” Marek’s speech came easier now the deed was done. He’d loosed more than one set of shackles. “Climb into the street from there.”
“Why?” She rubbed at a chafed wrist. “Why are you doing this?”
Marek glanced away. If she didn’t know by now, then what point in telling her? “Go. Be safe.”
He remained on his knees as she moved towards the door, unsteadily at first, but growing in confidence with every stride. For a heartbeat, Lady Sevaka was a silhouette frozen in the firestone glow of the corridor. Then she was gone.
Marek sighed, overcome by contentment not known in years. With good fortune, it would be morning before Lady Ebigail checked on her daughter. He’d be aboard ship by then, bound for the anonymity of the Outer Isles.
As he reached the basement door, a new shape appeared at his side – one hooded and framed by raven feathers.
A gloved hand caught the door as it closed.
The firestone lanterns of Abbeyfields smouldered low. Hearthguard were at their posts a
nd the children in their beds – or at least, so Malachi fervently hoped. Josiri glanced at the clock for the dozenth time since dinner.
“She’s late.”
“She is.” Malachi took a swig of brandy and gripped the glass tighter.
“She’s not coming.”
Lily’s fingers closed over Malachi’s wrist and gave a gentle squeeze. He shot her a grateful look and received a slender smile in exchange.
“You don’t know Rosa. She promised. She always keeps her word.”
Josiri scowled into his drink. “Then why are you so on edge?”
Malachi fell silent, his thoughts returning to Elzar’s revelations. Viktor was a witch, and no amount of reason could dislodge the uneasiness worming through his gut. Viktor was a witch. No other man was as entangled with Malachi’s life. His family. He’d been alone with Sidara and Constans. Malachi hated how completely his world had been set adrift. But that was the power of superstition.
“Malachi?” Lily’s insistence dragged him out of reverie. “Malachi? She’s here.”
He rose as Braxov ushered Rosa into the sitting room and noted that Josiri did the same. Good. Some manners still held sway in the Southshires.
“Thank you for braving the curfew, Rosa. Can I offer you a drink?”
She gave a stiff shake of the head. “I shouldn’t be here at all.”
“Ridiculous,” Malachi replied. “Whatever happens with Viktor, we can’t let it divide us.”
“This isn’t about Viktor. Mistress Tassandra’s dead.”
“What? How?”
Unreality crowded out sorrow. Tassandra had been bullish as ever the previous day – larger than life. But a day was an increasingly long time in Tressia. Events turned on their head in hours.
“Murdered in the Essamere chapterhouse, four of my brothers and sisters alongside.”
Malachi grimaced. “The Crowmarket?”
“Who else?” She gripped the back of a chair. “This is a warning.”
Lily gathered her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check on the children. And that the hearthguard aren’t asleep at their posts.”
Now it was Malachi’s turn to offer a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “Take Braxov with you.”
She nodded and drifted from the room.
Rosa turned towards the door. “I must go. I came only out of courtesy.”
Malachi caught her arm. “Rosa, please.”
“I have duties.”
“So you said before.” He took a deep breath. “I could command you to stay.”
“You must do as you think best, my lord councillor.”
He didn’t think it best at all. Formality wouldn’t break through the walls Rosa had erected, though perhaps logic might. “What do you think to achieve at this hour that cannot wait until morning? Even with their mistress dead, the Knights Essamere will endure until dawn . . . and I need my friend’s help.”
She snorted, but ice thawed from her expression. “You always were soft, Malachi.”
He grinned, glad to glimpse a little of the old Rosa. “Please?”
She sighed and sank into a chair. “Very well. But not in here. I’ve spent the afternoon cooped up in the chapterhouse. I need to feel the wind on my cheeks.”
Malachi crossed to the dresser, poured a generous measure of brandy and passed the glass to Rosa. “To Kaleo Tassandra. May Lumestra light her path.”
Glasses tilted in salute, but neither of his companions echoed the toast – though Malachi suspected for different reasons.
Abandoning the attempt at ritual, he led the way out onto the terrace garden. Josiri and Rosa took up positions to either side, neither of them terribly close to him, but noticeably more distant from one another. Firestone lanterns shone through the trees, betraying the positions of patrolling hearthguard. But for all the activity in the grounds, the night remained quiet enough that he heard the rush of the river on the boundary between his gardens and the overgrown wilderness of Strazyn Abbey.
“I’ve never known the Parliament of Crows to be so bold,” he said.
Rosa stared into her glass. “I never truly believed the vranakin existed before they murdered Kas. Viktor has made them bold.”
“Events have made them bold,” Malachi corrected. “The Council has never been more divided.”
“And whose fault is that?” She didn’t address Josiri by name, nor even look at him, but her meaning was obvious. “You invited this division, Malachi. You and Viktor, and your schemes to pardon the south-wealders. But I suppose that was always part of his plan.”
“You mistake the symptom for the disease.” Josiri spoke flatly, but taut cheeks and eyes betrayed a waning temper. “I’ve spent the better part of a day in council. I found only a catalogue of sneers and petty complaint masquerading as governance.”
“Because of that division,” snapped Rosa. “Weakness is like rot. Once it settles in the bones, it spreads.”
Malachi sighed. “You sound like Ebigail.”
“She talks a lot of sense. More than you credit. She was right about Viktor, wasn’t she?”
She spat the words, but Malachi heard a crackle of self-loathing beneath the rage. He’d hoped the worst anger and grief behind her. He now realised he’d been wrong to do so. Unable to avenge Kas, she’d found a new target for her ire. Found one, or been guided by an old and canny hand. A callous strategy, even by Ebigail’s standards, and one that preyed on Rosa’s first love: duty.
He forced himself to meet Rosa’s flinty stare, searching for a sign that some part of her knew how badly she’d strayed. Perhaps she even knew and couldn’t bear the pain of the admission. Malachi of all people knew the strange comfort of being trapped – the absolution of actions taken or denied, all the while claiming events had conspired against you. He had to find a way to reach her. Not only for Viktor’s sake, but hers also.
“That’s what I want to discuss,” he said at last. “Tell me what you know.”
“Why? It’ll be a matter of record once the provosts have done their work.”
Their work. The butchery of a friend. How could she speak so calmly? “Because I want to hear it from you. I want to know what you know, while there’s still anything left of Viktor to save. Will you do that for me?”
“Where is she?”
Marek’s head snapped aside. Blood oozed up where Lady Kiradin’s heavy rings had torn his cheek. A hearthguard wrenched the steward’s arm behind his back and shoved his head forward, keeping him on his knees.
Apara watched with distaste from beside the hearth. Even with all the blood that had flowed over her hands, the display turned her stomach. She was grateful for that revulsion. She clung to it.
“Where. Is. She?”
A backhanded slap punctuated each word, the strikes opening fresh wounds.
“I don’t know,” gasped Marek. “You think I’d ask? You think she’d tell me?”
Lady Kiradin froze, her hand backswept for another blow. A low growl escaped parted lips. Then she straightened, the animal snarl retreating from her expression and a semblance of decorum returning. Stooping, she set a knuckle beneath his chin and tilted back his head.
“No. A secret’s worth nothing when shared with the likes of you. I see that now.” She sighed. “How could you do it, Marek? Have I not treated you well?”
“Better than I could ever have dreamed, lady,” his voice shook as he spoke.
“I thought perhaps you understood what was necessary. I thought you had the strength for this.” Her expression wavered, a rare moment of vulnerability glimpsed and concealed. “Lumestra damn me for a fool for ever thinking that. This isn’t what I wanted for you. It’s what you’ve chosen. You must understand that.”
Marek stared at the floor and offered no reply.
Lady Kiradin straightened and fixed the hearthguard with a baleful stare. “Set the dogs on him. Cast whatever remains into the sea.”
Marek offered no resistance as he was dragged from the
room – not even a word of protest. Apara envied him his peace, fragile though it might have been. Another death laid at her door, even though she’d done nothing more than raise the alarm. If only she’d chanced by the cellar a minute later. Little would have changed, but she wouldn’t have been the one to deliver another man to his death.
Lady Kiradin set a hand against the window frame and stared out across the night-shrouded garden. She seemed smaller, shrunken – as if for the first time she bore every one of her advancing years.
“It’s too soon.” The words came as a breathy, urgent mutter. “I’m not ready. She mustn’t . . .”
The windowpane rattled beneath the impact of a thin fist. Lady Kiradin spun on her heel, renewed fire in her eyes. “Find her.”
Apara blinked at the impossibility of the request. “How? I don’t know where she’s going. I’ve never seen her face . . .”
A hand swept out. A porcelain vase flew from the table top and shattered against the floor. “Must I do everyone’s thinking? She’ll go to Malachi Reveque! Fools always flock together! As for her face, you’ll know it when you see it. Kill her, and anyone she speaks to.”
“But she’s your daughter!”
“Not any longer.”
Apara shrank back from the lady’s fury. Other worries crowded in. Sevaka had a head start. Even the raven-cloak couldn’t close the distance in time. She had to get ahead of her quarry. That meant risking the paths of Otherworld. Fearful as she found the idea, it paled beside the prospect of lingering in Lady Kiradin’s company.
A chorus of throaty, canine snarls split the night air. The first screams came soon after.
Sevaka fled through streets emptied by curfew, navigating by sparse streetlights and what little of the moon breached oppressive clouds. She longed only for the strength to keep moving.
Keep moving. But moving where? No one in the extended family would offer shelter – her mother had too long a reach for that. The same was true of her old shipmates – even assuming the Triumphal still lay at anchor.
Her pulse quickened. What use was it being free of one cage only to roam another? And Tressia was a cage. It waited only for her mother’s cold hand to reach down and scoop her up.