by Matthew Ward
“. . . your council has failed you. I have failed you. Lumestra charged us to remain vigilant against the Dark, and we have not. Poison has crept into our veins – into the very lifeblood of our greatest families! Tolerance for the shiftless and lazy! For the southwealders! Yes, even for the shadowthorns!”
Malachi watched agape. “What is this?”
“I don’t know.” Josiri’s eyes were everywhere but on Ebigail.
“I, more than any, have paid a price for our laxness. My son, Kasamor, whom I know many of you loved, torn apart by those he trusted! His sister, taken from me this very night by those who seek my silence! But I am Ebigail Kiradin! I do not bend my knee to murderers and assassins! I will not let them do to you what they have done to me!”
The crowd’s muttering swelled to a low growl.
Malachi frowned. Kasamor had been popular, not least within the 7th. As for the rest . . . “But Sevaka lives! I must speak with Ebigail.”
Josiri grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”
Ebigail spread her hands. “Our fair city. Our beautiful, glorious Republic. It is rotten to the core! Eroded from within by those in whom we have placed our trust. Last night, they came for me! But for my steward, I’d have joined my dear children in the mists.”
She gestured. The palace gates swung inward. A kraikon strode out into the light, a great baulk of timber held aloft like a banner-pole. But no flag fluttered in the wind, no bright heraldic silks. Instead, it bore what Malachi at first took for a bundle of rags. But as he peered closer, he made out hands and feet twisted and bound behind the pole, and the steel glint of mooring spikes driven through green cloth into shoulder and thigh. A ragged gasp rippled through the crowd. A sword hilt projected from her shoulder.
Stone hands gripped Malachi’s gut. “No!”
Ebigail cast a triumphant hand towards the macabre display. “My would-be assassin! A markhaini spirit conjured from the mists. A thing that bears the likeness of one of our greatest heroes, but which does not bleed!”
Another gesture, and the kraikon set finger and thumb to the silvered sword-hilt and twisted. Rosa slammed her head against timber. Her desperate scream ripped across the plaza. Not one drop of blood flowed.
Malachi pinched his eyes shut and fought for breath. “We have to go back.”
Josiri’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You can’t let this continue!”
Malachi stared out across the crowd, at faces riven by fear and consternation. He heard the growing swell of outrage. At last, the kraikon let go of the sword. The scream faded to a sob. Rosa sagged against the mooring spikes. He’d accused her of falling hard beneath Ebigail’s sway, but he’d been snared no less. In his arrogance, he’d seen only Ebigail’s opposition to his and Viktor’s ideals. But her designs went deeper and wider than he could ever have believed. And now? Now it was too late. Ebigail fancied herself a queen and reached to claim her goal.
“Don’t you see what this is?” he said softly. “Don’t you see where this is going?”
“And now, this very morning,” Ebigail’s voice cracked as she strove to be heard, “I learn that Viktor Akadra has fled the provosts’ lawful interrogations! No innocent would behave so! Who knows how deep this rot goes? The Council will be cleansed! The Republic will be cleansed! The demon burns at dusk, those she had corrupted alongside! Will you stand with me? Will you give me your trust?”
The crowd roared their assent.
“Surely it’s not too late,” Josiri grabbed at his arm. “You can speak with Hadon. The masters of the chapterhouses . . . She can be stopped.”
Malachi pulled free. He wanted to shout, to break into a run. But such behaviour would only make things worse. “How? You and I, we’re right at the top of her list for rooting out. And it won’t stop with us. You of all people should realise that. Family is everything.”
Josiri paled. “Lilyana. The children.”
“Come on.”
The roar of the crowd rumbled like thunder through Elzar’s foundry workshop. Edvard stood motionless beneath the rising arch of the steeple. The hessian sack in whose embrace Viktor had been smuggled into the foundry lay draped over the kraikon’s arm.
“What now, I wonder?” muttered Elzar.
“Nothing good,” Viktor buttoned the borrowed shirt and winced as the motion put fresh strain on his injuries. Elzar’s perfunctory bindings were no match for those of a trained physician. He remained a mass of livid flesh, haunted by agony each time he did more than draw breath. At least he was free. But the price . . .
“You shouldn’t have come for me.”
“Viktor . . .” Elzar set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “My only regret is that I left it so long.”
Viktor nodded and laid his hand on Elzar’s. It wasn’t that simple. It could never be that simple. Elzar’s life, his work, his calling. He’d thrown it all away. And all the while, Viktor’s father had done nothing.
“They’ll be coming.”
“And you’ll be gone.” Elzar began sorting through the clutter of tools and cast-off scraps of metal that littered his bow-legged desk. “Don’t tell me where. Better if I don’t know.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Where would I go?” He patted the wall. His fingers left no mark in decades of impacted soot. “Forty years, this place has been my home. There’s something to be said for the familiar.”
“Maybe.” Viktor limped to the filthy window and stared out across Tressia. “My whole life I’ve fought for the Republic. Now? I wonder whether I should have been fighting at all.”
“That depends. Why did you fight?”
“Because those were my orders.”
Elzar scratched the back of his head. “Don’t give me that. Why did you fight?”
“To defend those who couldn’t.”
Elzar’s smile was weary. “And that’s your answer. Don’t mistake the people for the Republic. Fighting for one needn’t mean fighting for the other. But you already knew that, else you’d never have gotten into this mess.”
Viktor laughed. A flash of pain dulled the mirth on his lips and he pressed a hand to his side. The fingers came away bloody.
“So much for your healing touch,” he breathed.
“I told you before – it takes a rare talent to make magic lower itself to knitting flesh. I don’t have it.” Elzar sniffed and fished a rag from his desk. “But if you want to try for yourself . . . ?”
Viktor ignored the quizzical eyebrow. His shadow had been silent ever since escaping the vaults, and it certainly had no gift for healing.
“I’ll give you another chance, old man. Just try to keep my insides on the inside.”
“What in Lumestra’s name do you think you’re doing, Ebigail?” roared Hadon Akadra.
It was Apara’s first glimpse of his lordship so near. She’d seen him before from a distance, giving one pompous speech or another in the Hayadra Grove. She’d always written him off as just one more arrogant noble – all wind and no fury. Up close, she realised that she’d been very much mistaken, and darted across the Council chamber to block his path.
Lord Akadra barely spared her a glance. It might have been otherwise if Apara had still worn the raven-cloak rather than the plain tunic of a Freemont hearthguard, but its presence would have invited too many questions best left unanswered.
Ebigail brushed Apara aside. “I should have thought that was obvious, Hadon. Even to you. I am giving the Republic much-needed direction.”
He drew up on the far side of the table and glared daggers at her. “And what of the Council?”
“As of this morning, you and I are the Council. I’ve given orders for the arrest of Malachi Reveque and Josiri Trelan, and Josiri Akadra – we’ll have no more bungling in that regard, I can assure you.”
“On what grounds?”
“Their association with your heretic son. I assured Captain Horden you and I were of like mind on this issue.”
He gripped the backrest of the
chair so tight Apara feared it would shatter to splinters. “You lying, treacherous . . .”
Ebigail cut him off with a wave of a finger. “Don’t let pride lead you false, my dearest. It would be such a shame if the shadow of suspicion fell across you as well.”
“The Grand Council will never stand for this.”
“Oh yes, the Grand Council.” Ebigail shook her head. “Never knowingly bereft of empty opinion and meaningless debate. I fear it is infested with traitors.”
“You have proof of this?”
“Proof is for doubting minds. I have the support of Prydonis, Sartorov and the church. What need have I of proof? The constabulary are already going door to door. I expect many will not be taken alive, one way or the other, but we’ll have enough left for the spectacle of a trial.”
“And the pyre you’re having built in the Hayadra Grove? More spectacle?”
“A lesson, scratched out in the ashes of Roslava Orova. A cleansing will do the Republic all manner of good. It will burn away our weakness and leave us stronger.” She shook her head, as might a disapproving tutor. “On which side of that lesson you serve is down to you.”
Hadon’s expression didn’t flicker. But Apara knew what many did not – that truth often dwelled in the eyes. So it was here. Hadon Akadra’s eyes broke alongside his spirit.
Perhaps she’d been right all along. All wind, no fury.
“What do you wish of me?”
Apara’s mother drifted around the end of the table and set a hand to his cheek. “Go home. When this is over, we’ll discuss how you can best serve my Republic.”
Defiance flared in his eyes. Then it was gone. “Yes, Ebigail.”
Lord Akadra retreated from the chamber, leaving mother and daughter alone.
“He used to be such a vigorous man, afraid of nothing,” Apara’s mother said. “Even ten years ago, he’d have fought. He’d have squeezed the life out of me before making that craven display. Now look at him. Gelded and brittle. But he may yet serve some small function.”
Apara cleared her throat. “May I ask something?”
A brief smile. “Whatever you like, so long as you retain a civil tongue.”
“This . . . All of this. Was it always your plan?”
“Only the goal. The rest . . . Well, you must be flexible if you are to thrive, Apara. Fate laughs at your intentions.” She paused. “Kasamor. There was no going back after that. I couldn’t let his death be for nothing. He forced me to it, you know. He found out about my links to the Crowmarket, and threatened to tell the Council if I blocked his ridiculous betrothal to that southwealder. He was never more my son than in that moment, and never more a fool.”
Was that bitterness? Regret? Apara couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t even be certain her mother was speaking to her at all. Kasamor. A reminder that she’d not merely lost a sister, but a brother too. Apara shook her head. Such thoughts belonged to the past.
“And Viktor? Lady Orova?”
Her mother sighed. “Opportunities too good to waste. Superstition has such power. Even a simpleton knows how to fear, and to hate. Convince people that your will is actually theirs, and they’ll bleed themselves dry without ever really knowing why.”
“And what do you fear, lady?”
“Dying with my work undone. I intend to live on in every brick and stone.”
Apara realised she could no longer put off the reason for her presence. “My cousins are unhappy, lady.”
There was no outburst. No scowl. Rather, her mother laughed. “I’m certain they are. Let me guess the nature of their complaints. They’re afraid my little enterprise will interrupt their own. And are livid that I have temporarily reclaimed the kraikon they accepted as payment?”
Apara inclined her head. “Yes, lady.”
“Tell them not to be so foolish. Short-term turbulence is to be expected, but the curfews will not last for ever. The Crowmarket will ply profit from its sordid little trades soon enough, and the kraikons will be theirs again. They need only grow a spine.”
Apara winced, the memory of the elder cousin’s green eyes vivid in her mind. “I might phrase it differently, lady.”
“You may phrase it however you like, so long as they understand.”
Apara nodded. “Yes, lady.”
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Enter!” snapped Ebigail.
A red-haired young woman in a proctor’s robes crept into the room, head bowed. “Lady Kiradin?”
“Tailinn? I gave instructions you were to remain in the foundry in case of . . . complications.”
“Yes, lady,” Tailinn’s coastlander’s lilt danced atop the words like wind on waves. “Only I thought you’d want to know – Viktor Akadra’s there. In the high proctor’s workshop.”
Apara’s mother laughed under her breath. “Elzar. Of course. I never knew the old goat had it in him. Apara? Find Captain Farran. He’ll secure the foundry. Viktor is yours. I’ve no need of him alive.”
“Yes, lady.”
The door had barely opened when Lilyana Reveque, ordinarily so restrained, flung her arms around her husband. Josiri stepped aside and averted his gaze, embarrassed to witness a private moment.
“Malachi! Thank Lumestra! I was on the point of sending Braxov after you!”
“What? Why?”
“Sevaka’s awake.” The words came out in a gabble. “She says that Ebigail’s responsible for all of this. Kasamor. Poor Abitha Marest. Viktor’s arrest. She locked Sevaka up for days. What manner of mother could do such a thing?”
Malachi disentangled himself. “A mad one.”
“Or one whose sanity is so tightly wound it’s snapped like a rotten mooring rope. Excuse me.” Josiri pushed past into the house. “Braxov? Are you there?”
The steward appeared from the kitchen at close to a run. “Your grace?”
“The children. Make sure they’re ready to travel.”
The unspoken question dissipating from his lips, Braxov hurried upstairs.
Sevaka stood in the sitting room doorway, her face as pale as her borrowed dress. “It’s my mother, isn’t it?”
Josiri nodded. “She’s intent on remaking the Republic. I doubt she has any place therein for the Reveques. Can you walk?”
“I shouldn’t be able to. I shouldn’t be able to stand, but . . .”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Go with them. Your mother thinks you’re dead. If you’re found here, you will be.”
Braxov reappeared on the stairs, a coated and booted Constans and Sidara in his wake. Constans regarded the assembled adults with suspicion, Sidara with apprehension.
“Uncle Josiri? What’s happening?”
How much should he tell her? How much could he tell her? “You have to leave the house for a time. Perhaps a long time. Your father will explain.”
“No!” The door slammed back on its hinges, admitting a Lilyana of very different mood to the one Josiri had last seen. “This is my home! I am not leaving!”
Malachi hurried in behind. “There’s no choice; it’s not safe.”
“You’re right,” Lilyana snarled. She reached up behind the sitting room doorway and unhooked a battered militiaman’s sword from the wall. “If Ebigail wants my children or my husband, she’ll have to go through me.”
“She will,” said Sevaka. “She’ll have you cut down in a heartbeat and not shed a tear.”
“Let her come.”
Josiri stepped past two startled children and laid a hand on the scabbard. “Fifteen years ago, I heard many speak with that same defiance. They’re all dead.”
The anger in her eyes guttered and died. “But . . . this is our home.”
“And it might be again tomorrow. But for today, you must leave.”
She shuddered. The sword, still sheathed, fell to her side. Slowly, she nodded her head.
Malachi shot Josiri a grateful glance. Josiri turned away. Tressia was starting to feel like hom
e for all the wrong reasons. Why did he even care? They were northwealders, one and all. They weren’t his people. What battles they had were theirs, with allies and hearthguard aplenty to fight for them. Not like Ana, or Calenne.
Hurried footsteps sounded on the gravel. A breathless hearthguard appeared in the doorway.
“My lord,” she gasped. “Captain Horden’s at the front gate with warrants for your arrest. He has a score of men and two kraikon besides. If they make a fight of it . . .”
Josiri scowled. “Is there any chance?”
“Against a kraikon? Let alone two?” Malachi shook his head. “Thank you, sergeant. Tell everyone to lay down their arms.”
She shot him a confused look and beat a hasty retreat.
Malachi pursed his lips, his expression teetering on the brink of despair. He crouched beside his son. “Constans. I need you to do something very important. Take your mother and sister through the gardens and out into Strazyn Abbey. Along that briar-path you think I don’t know about. Can you do that?”
His son frowned. Then he nodded earnestly. “Yes, Father.”
Malachi hugged him, then Sidara and finally kissed his wife. “Go. And remember always that I love you.”
Lilyana’s eyes narrowed. “Malachi . . .”
“I’ll give Horden part of what he wants and buy you time to escape. Sevaka and Josiri will go with you.” He turned to Josiri. “Get them clear of the grounds, then head south. Find your sister. I’m afraid we north-wealders have lived down to your every expectation, haven’t we?”
Josiri nodded. “Close enough.”
He’d no reason to stay. He’d come north for his own safety, and to save his people. Neither goal any longer held hope. But he couldn’t entirely set aside how his mother, bereft of reasons to live, had instead chosen to die. All for want of someone to share her burdens. Malachi deserved better.
“I’m staying.” He met Sevaka’s gaze. “You owe Sidara your life. Remember that. Keep them safe.”