by Matthew Ward
“Are you certain?” Akadra emerged from the darkness of the gantry, the boy trailing behind him. “Of late, Lord Akadra’s reputation is not what it was.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“And in some demand, it would seem. What do you want?”
Apara hesitated. Akadra was most definitely not what she’d expected. The title of Council Champion carried the image of a battle-tempered brute, with as much muscle between his ears as in his sword arm. The bruised giant looked the part, but his voice lay heavily at odds.
“It’s very simple.” She filled her voice with ebbing confidence. “You die. They live.”
He stepped closer. “No. That isn’t what’s going to happen.”
Apara gripped Sidara’s forehead. “Stay back!”
He came on another step. “Let her go, and you live to warn Ebigail that I’m coming for her.”
The words should have sounded ridiculous. From him, they formed a promise certain as death. Apara felt the first flutter of panic. “You heard my terms.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I’ll kill her.” Raven damn them both. Couldn’t he see she didn’t have a choice?
“You won’t.” Akadra’s eyes dropped. “Sidara? Do you trust me, little one?”
“I . . . I do, uncle.”
“Then close your eyes.”
For the second time since entering the foundry, Apara went blind. This time, there was no searing light, no flash of brilliance. There was only darkness. Suffocating. Pervasive. Penetrating. It coursed through her, ice crackling beneath her skin – beneath her eyes. The raven-cloak shrieked in terror. Then the world fell away, and she with it.
Viktor caught the woman’s falling body, his shadow soaring as it enveloped her. Fingers hooked like claws, he tore her cloak to tatters. Bird-voices screamed in agony. Feathers burst into strands of black vapour and spiralled away like fading smoke. Viktor shuddered as unfamiliar magic washed over him. Then he turned his attention on the woman once more.
The contradicting tangle of her soul unwound like yarn, fears gleaming bright and reluctance shimmering like silver. It wouldn’t take much, sang his shadow. Just a gentle tug. A caress. The woman could be redeemed. She could serve a better, nobler purpose than Ebigail Kiradin’s schemes.
He’d felt the lure before, in the Southshires. When Josiri had first refused him. On that occasion, he’d turned aside. How many lives could he have saved had he done otherwise? And the woman was not Josiri. She had the stink of Otherworld about her. A vranakin. A murderer. He owed her nothing . . .
The woman screamed and twisted free of his hands. Eyes feral and face taut with terror, she flung herself from the gantry. Viktor’s fingers closed on empty air.
Viktor cursed under his breath. The kernclaw was gone. Lost. And to his surprise, the piece of his shadow that had assailed her lost alongside. He expected to feel diminished, lessened with the dwindling of himself. But somehow, he felt more complete than ever.
Opening his eyes, he faced the Reveques. Lilyana, on her feet once more, had her arms tight about her children. Her face was slick with blood and tears, but her eyes shone.
“Bless you, Viktor.”
Elzar staggered out of the gloom, doubled over and a splayed hand to his heaving chest. “They’re falling back.” He stared down at the motionless vranakin. “Those that can. They’ve taken Sevaka.”
Viktor frowned. Clearly the tangle of the vranakin’s soul was nothing to that which had claimed Tressia. “Tell me. All of it.”
Fifty-Eight
They marched across the city in a tight column, Captain Horden at their head. Two dozen constables and Freemont hearthguard for a pair of unarmed and shackled captives. Ridiculous, Malachi decided, but for the reason.
No one appeared particularly happy, least of all Horden himself. The captain had made a perfunctory reading of the arrest warrant, but that hadn’t stopped him from making a thorough search of house and grounds.
“The captain doesn’t seem pleased,” Josiri muttered. The southwealder held his head high and shoulders back. Malachi envied his composure. “What do you reckon? Conscience, or confusion?”
Malachi sighed. “Does it matter?”
“It always matters. Just because they’ve made you a prisoner doesn’t mean you have to think like one.”
Malachi bit back an angry response. Josiri was right. He still had his wits. Better to use them. As the column drew to a halt outside the constabulary barracks, he took his opportunity.
“Captain Horden, I’d like to speak with you.”
Horden stiffened and made his way back along the ranks. Malachi’s escorts drew back, their newfound distance as much an illusion of privacy as it was the possibility of freedom.
“Don’t make this more difficult.” Horden spoke without meeting his gaze.
One vote for conscience. Perhaps. “You’re a servant of the Council. Of the Republic. What Ebigail’s doing . . . it’ll tear both apart. You’re better than this, Mikel.”
Horden clenched and unclenched a fist. “It is what it is.”
He turned away and bellowed towards the gate. “Bring the others! They’ll all hang come dusk!”
Malachi tamped down resurgent desperation. He’d always known this would end on the gallows. Treason always did, whether real or imagined. But to hear it confirmed . . .
“And what of your children?” he demanded. “What do they think of their father’s deeds?”
Horden’s bunched fist drove the breath from Malachi’s lungs and left him a winded wreck on filthy cobbles. Malachi twisted aside as a boot stomped down. Leather grazed his scalp.
“Leave him be!” Josiri thrust himself between them. Two constables dragged him away.
“My children?” Horden squatted beside Malachi, eyes blazing. He spoke in a hushed, bitter whisper. “The Crowmarket has them. What would you do?”
Malachi found no good answer. Not that he’d the breath for one.
Horden strode back towards the gate. “What’re the rest of you looking at?”
Constables averted their eyes.
Josiri, released with Horden’s retreat, helped Malachi stand. “Picking a fight wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Ebigail’s in league with the Crowmarket,” Malachi said. “That’s how she’s got her hooks into Horden. You can bet that’s why the chapter-houses are looking the other way. Tassandra refused to play, and they killed her for it.”
“Whatever Ebigail paid, the vranakin will want more.”
“Hardly helps us, does it?” Malachi frowned. There was something there, although he couldn’t quite see the shape of it . . .
At last, the constabulary gates opened. Two dozen prisoners swelled the column – members of the Grand Council, and a handful of aides. A grey-haired and neat-bearded fellow fell into step beside Malachi, his lips parted in a sardonic smile.
“Well I never. Malachi Reveque. And this, I presume, is the troublesome Duke of Eskavord.”
Malachi nodded. “Josiri? Jardon Krain, councillor for Rackan and the Outer Eastshires.”
“No friend to Ebigail Kiradin, I assume?” said Josiri.
Krain’s green eyes twinkled. “Friends don’t have friends arrested on charges of treason, and certainly not at dawn. Most uncivilised. Would you believe she sent Prydonis knights for me? I suppose I should count that a compliment.”
So Ebigail had the loyalty of Prydonis as well? The chapterhouses were more than looking the other way – they were as complicit as Horden, and likely for the same reason. However readily Ebigail cast her own family aside, she understood the power of blood.
Horden bellowed, and the column moved out.
“You know where they’re taking us?” asked Josiri.
“I hear tell of the Hayadra Grove,” said Krain. “A burning and a forest of gallow-trees. We should make quite the spectacle.”
The road narrowed and climbed into the heart of the old
town. Timber-framed houses leaned closer as if to examine the curious parade. Malachi glimpsed worried faces at leaded windows. Worried, or perhaps grateful the day’s events were passing them by.
Josiri drifted closer. “If they get us to the grove, we’re dead.”
Malachi glanced back at their fellow captives without enthusiasm. Twenty-odd manacled prisoners – most of them far older than he – matched against an equal number of guards. Slim odds. Very slim. And that was assuming the others would fight. Most looked too beaten to consider resistance.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
The column lurched to a halt before Josiri could reply.
Malachi stared out over the shoulders of the leading constables. A knight stood in the middle of the road, arms folded. Tan skin betrayed a life lived beyond the city walls, and a hunter’s green surcoat proclaimed his loyalty to Essamere. This last, he shared with the double rank of men and women stood behind.
“Well, well, well,” he said, the eastsider’s hollow vowels and softened consonants echoing along the street. “This is a right shabby parade, and no mistake.”
Horden broke ranks, his hand on his sword. “Stand aside, Izack. We’re under council orders.”
“Is that so?” Izack drifted closer. However nonchalant his manner, Malachi found no levity in voice or expression. “Seems to me you’ve more of the Council in chains than you’ll find on the hill. You sure you’ve the right of all this?”
Horden drew his sword.
“Clear the road,” he growled. “These men are traitors.”
Izack tugged the wrinkles out of his uniform. “I’m a simple soul. I don’t put much stock in fancy speeches. I draw my own conclusions. When I see one of our best trussed like a hog for the roast? When I find my mistress in a pool of her own blood at the heart of our chapterhouse? Those conclusions get a mite uncharitable.”
“You owe the Council your loyalty!” Horden’s protest held more than a whiff of hypocrisy. But maybe that was why he sounded so angry.
“Bugger the Council,” spat Izack. “We fight for Essamere, and Essamere fights for the Republic. I reckon it could use us right now.”
Running feet thumped on cobbles. Alleyways came alive with hunter’s green and the shine of steel. Within moments, prisoners and escort were surrounded by some fifty knights. Constables and Freemont hearthguard froze with swords half-drawn, then cast their weapons down.
Horden broke for the nearest alley, a desperate bellow spilling from his lips. A clash of swords, a shove to send a knight crashing against brick, and he was gone.
“Let him go!” shouted Izack. “Tie the rest up. We’ll take ’em back to the chapterhouse. Might be they find some bloody sense along the way.”
As the knights busied themselves with Horden’s troops, Izack pushed through the throng and freed first Malachi’s shackles, then Josiri’s.
Malachi rubbed his wrists. “Thank you, captain.”
Izack grinned wolfishly. “Not me.”
He shared a glance with Josiri, who shrugged. “Then who?”
“You’ll see.”
Josiri wasn’t at all surprised to find a battered and bloodied Viktor waiting at the Essamere chapterhouse. The presence of the Reveques, he took less easily in his stride – especially upon learning of Braxov’s death – but the shared joy of father and family was a welcome sight.
Leaving Malachi to a heartfelt reunion in the officers’ quarters, Josiri hung back in the muster yard and joined Viktor in the cool, deep shadows beside the chapterhouse well. He was once again in armour with a claymore strapped across his back, though this time the surcoat was hunter’s green, not black.
“Come north, you said. I can protect you there, you said.”
Viktor shook his head. “Of late, my promises have not been all they should.”
Haunted eyes told a deeper tale. Josiri decided the details could wait. “What happens now?”
“Now?” Viktor arched an eyebrow. “Now, we put a stop to this nonsense.”
“Just you and me?”
“And as many as will follow. We cast Kai Saran from the Southshires. Do you suppose Ebigail Kiradin more dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“You should. Essamere stands with us. Alone, so far.”
Icy fingers danced along Josiri’s spine. “A few dozen knights? It’s not enough.”
“Don’t let Captain Izack hear you. But yes, most are on the border. It’s the business of knights to be in battle, and we’re fortunate to have as many as we do. Too many follow Ebigail out of habit. I hate to say it, but my fellow northwealders lack your people’s fire. They’re too easily led.”
“Be glad they’ve not had to learn defiance,” Josiri replied. “It’s a hard lesson.”
“And one that must be taught today. Revolution is like glass. For a time it is malleable from the fire of its birth, but once it cools? Then, only destruction will serve.” Viktor’s gaze slackened as he stared not at what lay around him, but a future only he beheld. “I’d spare everyone that.”
Josiri cast his mind back to the plaza filled with soldiers and a cheering crowd. “Didn’t you say we were outnumbered?”
“I implied it. But there’s little choice. Ebigail has woven lies to protect herself. If we pluck her from that web, perhaps events will return to their proper course. If we offer defiance, others will break from her side.”
“And if they don’t?”
Viktor shrugged.
“That’s what I thought,” said Josiri wearily. “What about the vranakin?”
“The Crowmarket has no taste for defeat. If we prove Ebigail vulnerable, they’ll abandon her.”
“That’s a leap.”
“Nothing else will serve. If we do not come for her, she’ll surely come for us.”
Josiri glanced about the courtyard. The chapterhouse was a sturdy enough fortress, its thick walls a throwback to more fractious times. But it wouldn’t hold long against kraikons. “You’re still the Council’s champion. Surely you can rally support out in the shires?”
“Ebigail’s had a busy morning. If Izack’s to be believed, there are ‘traitors’ enough gathered at the Hayadra Grove to keep the gallows swinging until dawn – members of Malachi’s extended family among them.” Viktor shrugged. “And Rosa? Rosa is my friend. For her alone, I’d take this chance. But you? You may go wherever you wish. Home, if that’s what calls you. I’ll think nothing less of you. This isn’t your fight. I wish it weren’t mine.”
The words were different to those Malachi had used that morning, but the sense was the same.
“People keep telling me that,” Josiri replied. “But I don’t think I can.”
Viktor clapped him on the shoulder. A grin broke like sunlight from behind storm clouds. “Then let’s be about our business.”
Viktor watched Josiri cross the courtyard to the brutish blockhouse of the Essamere armoury. At last, there was true accord between them, but the price . . . Why did fate hate him so?
“Uncle Viktor?”
He forced a smile. “Sidara. Aren’t you supposed to be with your parents?”
“They’re arguing again. I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m gone.”
“What are they arguing about?”
She pulled herself up onto the rim of the well and sat in silence for a time, heels kicking back and forth. “Mother tells me I shouldn’t use my light to help people – even her. She says I should keep it secret.”
Was she answering his question, or was this a different conversation entirely? Viktor couldn’t tell – he’d never been good at reading children. He’d suspected Sidara of being gifted for several months, but hadn’t known how to broach the topic with father or daughter.
“She wants you safe.”
“But I helped Lady Sevaka. It was the right thing to do . . .” Her tone wavered. “Wasn’t it?”
Sevaka. What had become of her? Another fly caught in her mother’s web. “Sometimes it’s not enough
to be right, little one.”
One eye narrowed to a scowl. “That’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not.”
Sidara thought for a long moment, lips pursed and eyes downcast. “You use your magic to help others, don’t you, uncle?”
So she had seen. Viktor had hoped the gloom of the foundry had kept his secret, but he supposed it no longer mattered. “Not as often as I should.”
“Why?”
Why indeed? “It’s complicated.”
“Grown-ups always say that when they don’t want to answer the question.”
He smiled. “Yes we do.”
She grinned back. “So what should I do?”
“What do you want?”
Another pause. “To help people. Mother and Father are for ever talking about duty. What if this is mine?”
She sounded so earnest. So much nobler than he had at her age. So much less twisted up with anger and loss. He squeezed her shoulder. “Then I think your mother will understand, little one, if not easily. And when this is done, we’ll see what can be done about lessons.”
Blue eyes widened in excitement. “Truly?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Never, uncle.”
Viktor was glad she thought so. Yes, a far nobler child than he’d been. A good omen for the Republic, if it could be preserved for her to inherit.
Time to do something about that.
“It seems failure is the tonic of the hour, so readily do you all sup of it.”
Ebigail Kiradin stood before the church altar, her lips twisted in distaste at Horden’s grovelling bow. Apara hung her head, knowing the criticism was directed at her as much as the guard captain. Worse, she couldn’t truly recall how she’d failed. Lady Reveque’s scream . . . a burst of light, and then . . . nothing. She couldn’t even remember what had become of the raven-cloak, only that it was gone. Uneasiness of the consequences to come should have outweighed her sense of failure, but Lady Kiradin was close to hand, and her elder cousins were not.
“I . . . I can go back,” stuttered Horden, his eyes still fixed on the nave’s gold-chased tiles. “If you’ll lend me a portion of the 7th . . .”
Lady Kiradin stared up at the eastern window. Radiant Lumestra stared back, her expression frozen in coloured glass. Inscrutable, the both of them.