by Matthew Ward
Josiri watched Kurkas go with tired eyes then turned to look once more upon the land he’d failed. Five days with too little food, and less sleep. He knew they’d taken their toll, that reason ebbed as low as his spirit, but the walk back down Drannan Tor seemed so long as to be impossible.
He turned the envelope over and over. He dreaded what he’d find within, and for a moment longed to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it away. He slit the envelope before temptation could take hold, and read.
Josiri,
If you’re reading this, then it’s over. I can only imagine the cost. I hope you can save something of the Southshires. As for me, that witch has her claws so deep that I’ll never be free. But I can hurt her, and that will have to do.
For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been trapped by the past. I’ve been your jailer as much as anyone. In that I’ve served you poorly, and I hope you can forgive me. If you’d honour my memory, I beg you not to spend your life fighting old battles, or in penance for what cannot be changed. Give me this, and I’ll walk the mists content.
Remember me well. I’ll look for you come Third Dawn.
Revekah
He lost track of how long he stared at the scratchy handwriting, the hilltop breeze threatening to tug the paper from his hand.
“She knew,” he whispered. “She knew how this would go.”
Anastacia slid her arms about his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. [[She suspected. We talked, she and I, that last day. One outcast to another. She saw only a dark road, filled with regrets. She didn’t want that for you.]]
“You . . . You knew about this?”
[[Of course. Why do you suppose I didn’t throw Kurkas down the hill?]]
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
[[Because you wouldn’t have listened. Sometimes it’s better to let the dead speak for themselves.]]
Josiri let the letter go. It danced away on the wind. “And what do you think?”
[[Does it matter?]]
“More than anything.”
She hesitated. [[Then I think you should honour Revekah’s request. Neither she nor Calenne would want you to wither away up here, or anywhere else, agonising over a guilt not yours.]]
Calenne. Josiri fought back sudden tears. Their arguments now seemed pettier than ever. Wasted moments that would have been better spent on anything else. “I’ve made a poor job of keeping my promises, haven’t I?”
[[You see?]] Her tone grew stern. [[That’s precisely what Revekah meant. And you’ve only broken one. Eskavord may be gone, but the Southshires is free. Not just from Malatriant, but from the Council.]]
“But for how long?”
She pulled away. [[If you persist, I’ll throw you down the hill. You have a seat on the Council. Even friends, if half of what you’ve said is true. Use them.]]
“You mean . . . leave the Southshires for Tressia?”
She shrugged. [[Why not? You’re hardly the Duke of Eskavord any longer.]]
Josiri winced at Anastacia’s bluntness, but her wisdom shone bright even through sorrow. With Malachi’s help he could do more – far more – for his people than he could as the master of a scorched ruin. Grief was a privilege he’d not earned.
“And you’d come with me? Life’s different in Tressia. You’ll be on display in a way you’ve never known here.”
She slid her arm through his. [[Let them stare. I’m worth it.]]
Viktor set his pack to his shoulder and stared back across the deserted camp. Most of the soldiers had gone. Those who remained were out in the ashen fields, aiding the proctors in their labours. It was better that way. He’d never been one for fanfare and ceremony, and never less than today. The dead of the pyres would stand witness. He doubted their eyes would ever leave him.
He looked up and found Rosa staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I don’t remember the last time I saw you out of uniform.”
He stared along the open road and offered no reply. It felt no less strange to him. The travelling leathers didn’t . . . Well, they didn’t feel right. But uniforms were for soldiers, and he wasn’t a soldier any longer.
“You’ve freed Melanna Saranal?” he asked at last.
“She left at dawn,” Rosa replied stiffly. “I let her have the sword, but not the bow. I still say we should have kept her. A princessa is a valuable bargaining piece.”
“Josiri would only have let her go. Better I take the blame for that, too. You have my written orders?”
Rosa nodded tersely. “I do.”
“And you’ll present them to the Council?”
“I will not. We took this decision together.”
He laughed under his breath. Did guilt or friendship lie beneath her defiance? “There’s no point us both becoming pariahs. Let the blame fall on me.”
She folded her arms. “I can’t do that.”
“You’re a good woman, Roslava Orova. The Republic’s fortunate to have you.”
“To have us both.”
He grunted. She’d change her mind once she was back in the city, and learned he’d already sent a herald north with documentation absolving her of Eskavord’s razing. However justified their actions, the Council would never forgive, and nor should they. But they would need Rosa, whether she liked it or not. The Hadari would come again. They always did. And the Republic needed a champion to stand against them.
“Where will you go?” asked Rosa.
“Someone needs to keep watch in case a piece of Malatriant survived. Blood travels far.”
“One witch to catch another?”
He grimaced. “I imagine so.”
Viktor didn’t feel like explaining the rest. That even with his shadow now locked deeper than he could ever recall, he didn’t trust himself. Better he was away from folk until he did. Rosa wouldn’t understand. Or perhaps she would. After all, her own being was at least as muddied as his own.
“Farewell, Rosa.”
She clasped a fist to her chest in salute. “Until death, Viktor.”
He set out through the gateway. A lone figure waited on the roadway. One Viktor had both hoped and dreaded to see.
“Brother.”
“Don’t call me that.” Josiri scowled and glanced away. “So it’s true. You’re leaving.”
“I think that’s for the best.” Viktor hesitated. Five days since they’d last spoken. Five days in which to find words for the terrible burden of his heart. A wasted search, for he’d no more notion what to say now than then. But still he tried. “I wish things had ended differently.”
“That’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. You came to me as a friend, but you’ve taken more from me than an enemy ever could.” He sighed. “To think, you were the Phoenix all along.”
Viktor blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“A phoenix shall blaze from the darkness,” quoted Josiri, his voice thick with emotion. “A beacon to the shackled; a pyre to the keepers of their chains. It was never my mother; never Calenne. But you. The man who killed them both.”
Viktor closed his eyes. He’d never considered that. Never thought to place himself in prophecy, but he had brought fire out of darkness, and freed Malatriant’s slaves.
But not all freedoms were equal.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could bring her back to you.”
“You didn’t even bring me a body to mourn.”
The urge to ease his anguish flared. Viktor forced it back. “There was nothing to save.” He cleared his throat. “I understand you’re leaving too. I’m glad. Malachi will need all the help he can find.”
“Even from a southwealder?”
“In my experience, there are few things finer than a southwealder’s friendship, and few losses weightier.”
Josiri’s brow flickered. His mouth opened for a response, then stone slabs fell down behind his eyes. “Goodbye, Viktor.”
Two words. Two words would ease his heartache, but to speak them meant breaking a p
romise, and Viktor had so few left intact.
“Be well, my friend.”
Leaving Josiri behind, Viktor struck out southwards, walking the road that had once joined Eskavord to the distant Thrakkian border. Fields smouldered to either side, dull orange slumbering among the lifeless greys. The bitter notes of yesterday’s blaze melded with sweet duskhazel and the sweat of the soldiers sent to tend the razed crops. To the west, beyond motionless kraikon silhouettes and the remnant of Eskavord’s wall, the stones of Branghall yet stood – a lonely, charred reminder of the world as it had been a week before.
At last, Eskavord passed away behind him. An hour later, ash gave way to golden wheat, promising harvest yet to come. The once empty road thickened with travellers.
The sight went some way to raising Viktor’s spirits. Life would go on. The Southshires would go on. So too would Josiri, though their brief friendship was as ashen as Eskavord.
As dusk slid into night, he left the road entirely. He set off into the hills, losing himself in the trees and the fragmented ruin of ancient days. At last, he arrived at the statue – Ashana and Lumestra back-to-back on a crumbling plinth. The one with a crescent moon in her hands; the other hooded, with a lantern held outstretched.
“It’s done,” he said. “I wish you’d let me tell him the truth.”
Calenne emerged from the trees, her dark hair cut short to disguise her rank. Her cold hands took his and held them tight.
“It’s kinder this way,” she said. “Josiri would see me remain a Trelan for ever. He’d make us both miserable with his demands. Better a clean break. He can mourn me in memory, rather than hate me in the flesh.”
Viktor’s discomfort returned with her bitter words. “I think you misjudge him.”
She smiled, though not unkindly. “And I worry that you love my brother more than you do me.”
He grunted. “No. Never that.”
“Good.” Holding tight to his hands, she rose onto her toes and kissed him. “We are one, Viktor. Light or Dark. Now and for ever.”
Careful not to set the leaves rustling, Melanna let the branch fall back into place. She’d followed Lord Akadra from Eskavord, hood drawn low to hide her shadowthorn features. She hadn’t been sure why at first – save perhaps a vague notion that she owed him thanks for her release – but by now trusted her instinct far more than her judgement.
Now, hearing him speak in earnest tones to an empty clearing, Melanna knew without doubt that her instinct had the right of it. Her shoulders itched with the feeling of an unwelcome presence she couldn’t quite see.
Akadra turned this way and that, the soft baritone of his words losing their form long before they reached Melanna’s position among the trees. Then he gazed briefly up at the twin statues of Ashana and Lumestra, and strode deeper into the forest. Alone, save for the Dark billowing about him like a shroud.
“Goddess,” she breathed. “It’s not over.”
She felt the presence before the soft glow of moonlight reached her eyes. Turning about, she saw Ashana standing a pace behind her. And further back, a heavy cloak, an antlered helm, and blazing green eyes.
“No,” said Ashana. “It’s not over. It has barely begun.”
The story continues in…
Legacy of Steel
Book two of the Legacy trilogy
Acknowledgements
You made it! All the way to the end. Or rather, all the way to the end of the beginning. I hope you’ll stick around for another couple of hundred words, because there are thanks to be made. If you need to grab a cup of tea first, go right ahead. I need one myself. Writing about intrigue, gods and battles? Easy. Talking like a human being? Much harder.
Let’s see how I go.
First of all, a heartfelt thanks to my agent, the estimable John Jarrold, not only for his unflagging support, but also for weathering my storm of questions, worries and outright nonsense. Likewise, my editors at Orbit, James Long and Priyanka Krishnan, for helping the story shine all the brighter.
Beyond that, I’d like to offer my gratitude to the friends and family who have offered encouragement along the way. Special mention should go to Mum and my good friend Greg Benedict, who have never met, but are allied in abject horror when I sometimes spell like an American (look, sometimes it’s just clearer that way, guys). To Mark Latham, who keeps me a good deal saner than he might suspect. And of course to my wife, Lisa, who doubtless longs for the days when we could make car journeys unaccompanied by soliloquys of fractured narratives and character arcs as I unpick the mess I’ve gotten myself into the day before.
As for the cats, to whom I am but a humble servant? They need no thanks. They know all and see all.
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meet the author
Matthew Ward is a writer, cat-servant and owner of more musical instruments than he can actually play (and considerably more than he can play well). He’s afflicted with an obsession for old places – castles, historic cities and the London Underground chief among them – and should probably cultivate more interests to help expand out his author biography.
After a decade serving as a principal architect for Games Workshop’s Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 properties, Matthew embarked on an adventure to tell stories set in worlds of his own design. He lives near Nottingham with his extremely patient wife – as well as a pride of attention-seeking cats – and writes to entertain anyone who feels there’s not enough magic in the world.
Follow him on Twitter @TheTowerofStars
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