by Lucy Hounsom
Kyndra’s heart twisted. How could she have just stood there, hidden, and watched? It seemed monstrous to leave her parents in doubt. She strove to remember why she’d kept herself invisible, why she hadn’t thought to reassure them, and realized that she just hadn’t considered it important. Her mother’s tears had meant nothing.
The afternoon had already begun to fail before Kyndra had her first view of New Sartya. She stood beside the sergeant on a small rise; from here, the earth sloped gently down, peppered with lights, which glimmered between the twilit folds of the land. A towering blaze dominated the southern horizon.
The sun hadn’t quite slipped from the sky, but its light was nothing to the radiance of New Sartya. Kyndra stared, transfixed by the sight of so much ambertrix. If the Fist was the empire’s muscle, ambertrix was its lifeblood. No wonder Sartya had crumbled when supply began to dwindle.
They started down the hill, making for the main road which led arrow-straight to the gates of the capital. The clustered lights belonged to manors, Kyndra saw – huge sprawling acres, hoarded behind high walls. There wasn’t a hint of chimney smoke, or cooking food and no whiff of livestock. All the scents Kyndra associated with evening were absent. She felt very far from home.
Although traffic was heavy on the road, everyone melted away from the soldiers. Most people looked like merchants, or craftsmen, but there were clearly civilians amongst the crowd. A few walked; others travelled in strange carriages that appeared to move on their own. They must be an invention of Thabarat, Kyndra concluded, the ambertrix college. A horn blasted and the sergeant marched her swiftly to one side as an elegant carriage raced past, its speed that of a horse at full gallop. ‘Nobles,’ he muttered darkly. ‘From House Lowmar. If they try anything …’
Several times they had to clear the road to let another noble carriage pass. Each time, the soldier’s face soured further. ‘Davaratch is taking a risk letting this vermin inside his walls.’
Kyndra’s skin prickled. ‘Why? What do you think they’ll do?’
‘The other Houses are vultures.’ The sergeant nodded at yet another carriage. ‘Always circling, looking for signs of weakness. The success of the Azakander conquest has shaken them. Davaratch is extending his reach.’ His eyes grew distant. ‘But it makes him vulnerable, stretches his forces thin. Many in the Houses would seek to take advantage.’ The sergeant watched the gates of New Sartya draw closer. ‘If Davaratch were to fall now …’ He shook his head, seeming to recall himself.
If Davaratch were to fall now … Kyndra swallowed. It would mean the collapse of the empire.
She was thoroughly chilled by the time they reached the gates, shivering in her loaned cloak. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked the sergeant through numb lips.
‘The manor garrison,’ he replied shortly.
‘And then?’
‘You’ll show the master-at-arms what you can do. He may well have a use for you.’
A chill colder than the freezing air stuck Kyndra. ‘I’m a Solar,’ she said, knowing it was merely postponing the inevitable. ‘I can’t do anything until the morning.’
‘Then we will wait.’
Kyndra hefted her manacled wrists. ‘How do you know I won’t translocate myself as soon as you take these off?’
He looked faintly amused. ‘Oh we’re not going to take them off, at least not both. Just one will prevent you doing anything more complex than lighting a candle.’
‘I’ve not done anything wrong,’ she protested, knowing she had to maintain the charade of captured novice. ‘You have no right to lock me up.’
‘We have every right. Remember: it was you who trespassed on House Sartya’s territory.’
‘By accident!’
The sergeant gave her a long, hard look. ‘There’s something about you and your story that doesn’t add up.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You could easily be a spy for one of the other Houses. We will have the truth from you.’
Despite the freezing wind, Kyndra felt sweat break out on the back of her neck. Now more than ever she wished for Fas, to wrap herself in air, to vanish into the crowd. She should have foreseen this loss of her power; she’d experienced it back in Naris when Kierik stood between her and the stars.
‘You are wise to be silent,’ the sergeant told her. ‘Once inside the garrison, you will not speak unless spoken to. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do try to impress the master-at-arms. I’d hate to have wasted rations on someone bound for the gallows.’
He was trying to scare her, but she wouldn’t be scared, Kyndra thought defiantly. In her own time, she was the most powerful person in the world. The thought didn’t bring as much comfort as she’d hoped.
They passed through the gates. Most of the soldiers peeled off, leaving Kyndra alone with the sergeant and two others. Guards in red mail that would eventually be recognized throughout Acre as the infamous armour of the Fist lined the street beyond, which was lit by blueish orbs raised high on poles, bunting strung between them. Singing reached her from some unseen plaza.
Kyndra found herself staring. She wasn’t the only one. Other visitors stopped to gape at the horseless carriages as they sped around seemingly at random. Some had open roofs; masked women, elegantly attired, held on to their coiffed hair as their male companions drove them laughing through the streets. So far, the only women Kyndra had seen were civilians, all of them accompanied by a man. It was equally as disorientating as it was disconcerting.
She caught the enticing whiff of roasting meat; at a nearby stall, a joint turned lazily over heated metal plates. They closely resembled the ones she’d seen in Rogan’s house back in Cymenza. Her stomach rumbled, but the sergeant steered her in the opposite direction.
The city immersed her in a chaos of noise and light. Despite an ever more pressing need to get away from him, Kyndra was in a way grateful for the sergeant’s presence – she’d never have found the Sartyan manor in this blazing labyrinth. Streets ran in circles, doubled back on themselves, snaked through alleyways and under roads raised up on great stone pillars. It was strange, but she found herself thinking of Medavle. This was the world to which the Yadin had awoken; a world of ambertrix, of unstoppable momentum, a world on the cusp of enormous change. Medavle had once told her that Kierik’s actions deprived Rairam of Acrean invention – he’d supported this aspect of the empire at least.
Kyndra briefly closed her eyes. She really had trusted him – he’d helped her, even saved her life. Maybe Char was right and she should have realized how deeply he still loved Isla; how far he was prepared to go to bring her back. She should have paid more attention to his nightmares, to the way he’d begun to distance himself from her. Another failing of the stars, she thought bitterly. For all their power, they couldn’t see inside the human heart.
When she blinked, refocusing on the colourful streets, she caught a flash of white.
Kyndra’s breath froze. Desperately, she searched the crowds, stumbling forward, so that the sergeant had to yank her back. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he barked, but she barely heard him, trying to spot that familiar robe, the one he always wore. Maybe I imagined it, she thought. Perhaps it was just a trick of the streets. But if she really had seen Medavle, it meant that the eldest was here too, somewhere close by.
Ambertrix lamps marched like soldiers on duty down a series of curving roads. New Sartya was a huge spiral, tiered like a seashell, tightening and sloping up as it neared the centre. Kyndra’s calves were aching now; her palms sweated with the thought of what would happen when they reached the Sartyan manor. She noticed the buildings becoming grander, lit by the natural blush of candles interspersed with ambertrix. Many carriages stood dark and still outside them; did every person in the city own one?
‘Not everyone,’ the sergeant said when she asked him. ‘Only the very rich.’ He nodded at the palisaded houses. ‘There’s a lot of wealth in New Sartya, a lot of influence.’ His tone spoke volumes; Kyndra reca
lled his suspicions about the other noble Houses and narrowed her eyes at each grand mansion they passed. How easy would it be for a rival House to seize control of the city if Davaratch died? She shook her head, unused to politics and power plays. Another unwelcome reminder of how deeply she was out of her depth.
The more raucous cries of revelry faded as they drew nearer the manor, other sounds taking their place. Staccato bursts of applause from an open-air theatre, a fluting viola, a soprano’s song soaring out of a glow-drenched garden. When they rounded the final corner, Kyndra didn’t realize that she’d stopped moving until the sergeant’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. ‘A sight, is it not?’ he said.
The gradual slope of the roads had raised them to a great height. Now the city lay below like a huge quilt with its neat patchwork of ambertrix lights. Ahead of them loomed a gateway, just wide enough to admit a carriage. Through it, the street dissolved into a structure that was more fortress than manor. From here, Kyndra couldn’t see the top. What she could see was the statue in the process of being built at its base. Awe rooted her to the spot.
It was colossal, each booted foot half the size of Argat’s airship. The figure wore a kind of armoured robe, carved of red marble. Pauldrons made small hills of the shoulders and both arms were outstretched, one not yet released from the mass of unshaped rock. The head, too, was uncut, awaiting a face. Kyndra shivered. Whether that face would be Davaratch’s might well be up to her.
Steeling herself, Kyndra started for the gate, only to feel the sergeant’s hand tighten its grip on her shoulder. ‘No further,’ he said and gestured his two remaining soldiers into the fortress-like manor. ‘We wait for the captain.’ As he spoke, carriages drew up, elegant guests unfolding themselves from leather seats. Some drove straight through the gate, only to stop just inside. Men climbed out, tossed a small object to a waiting servant, who climbed in and drove the carriage on and out of sight. A major event must be taking place, Kyndra thought, watching closely. Other red-liveried servants stood amongst the guards, their gloved hands ready to seize and inspect invitations. If only she had one of their uniforms …
‘Davaratch is holding his own festivities,’ the sergeant said. He looked discomfited. ‘None but the city’s most prominent citizens are permitted inside the manor tonight.’
She had to get in there. Who knew how much time she had before the eldest reached Davaratch? Kyndra kept watch for him and Medavle, but saw neither. That didn’t mean they weren’t here, however.
I need a distraction.
It came a scant minute later in the form of a bright flash and a surge which Kyndra felt in her blood. A surge and a whisper: Raad. No, she thought, no, it’s impossible. But there before her, coat still tossed by the wind of his passage, was Kierik the Starborn, a crisp invitation clutched in his fist.
18
Gareth
He couldn’t remember, and it terrified him.
The further from the crypt he travelled, the mistier grew his memories of its dank stone passageways, its restless dead. Perhaps he’d only dreamed them and that journey in the dark. Sunlight sparked off the shining gauntlet he wore on his left arm and Gareth glanced at it. How exactly had he found Hond’Lif?
‘Can we really afford to stop here?’ Kul’Das asked as they rode towards the fortified walls of Paarth. ‘We need to reach Rairam and your mother before Iresonté does.’
Gareth pulled himself back to the present with a shudder. ‘We will,’ he said. ‘And anyway, the valley where we agreed to meet Argat is on the other side of the city.’
‘The man is a rogue,’ Kul’Das said distastefully. She hadn’t enjoyed her last trip aboard the airship when they’d flown into Acre, he recalled. ‘Argat does not care to follow anyone’s orders except his own. And what you put in that envoi was definitely an order.’
‘He owes me for fighting off those bandits.’
Kul’Das looked at him askance. ‘You remember that?’
‘Yes,’ he said softly, flexing his fist inside Hond’Myrkr, the dark metal a shadow against the afternoon. At least, he recalled the ecstasy that had seized him as the gauntlet stripped the life from men’s bodies. When he glanced back at Kul’Das, her gaze had turned wary, so he forced a smile. ‘A debt is a debt, after all.’
She made a sound in her throat that wasn’t quite agreement. It didn’t matter. Gareth was confident Argat would do what he wanted. ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘we go to the city. I cannot meet my mother dressed in rags.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. But armour takes a while to craft and I don’t know how you plan to pay for it.’
The Sartyans were stopping every group at the city gates. Gareth and Kul’Das dismounted and waited in line. ‘Looking for members of the Republic,’ the merchant in front of them said and spat. ‘As if a rebel would be stupid enough to walk around—’ Shouts drowned the rest of his sentence. There was a short tussle and then two men were dragged out of view, both loudly proclaiming their innocence. The merchant spat again and glanced at the wintry sun. ‘Waste of time.’
‘What are you going to tell them?’ Kul’Das asked in a low voice as they moved up the line.
‘I’m working on it.’ She left the decision to him, Gareth noted with some satisfaction. Once she’d outranked him – when he’d stumbled into Ümvast’s hall half-dead, claiming guest-right. Now she held no power over him. None did, save Kyndra. Gareth tried to push the thought of the Starborn from his head. It would only remind him of Irilin and what she’d said about Shika.
He wouldn’t have felt it, wouldn’t have suffered. Gareth swallowed. The deep ache of loss filled his chest. Shika had died months ago and no one had bothered to tell him.
Death is never the end, Hrafnasueltir.
That word froze the tears threatening to gather in his eyes. So derogatory, so familiar, as if he’d heard it somewhere before …
The guard at the gates interrupted his musing. ‘What is your purpose here, traveller?’
‘Stopping for supplies on the way to my homeland,’ Gareth answered, trying to inject confidence into his voice. ‘Nor’Voldt in the Territory.’
‘You have the Yrmfast look,’ the Sartyan said, his eyes flicking over Gareth’s features. His gaze moved to the blond Kul’Das. ‘Your companion, however, is no northerner.’
‘My servant.’ He hoped she wouldn’t bristle too openly. ‘I picked her up in Sarterion.’
‘How long have you been away from home, traveller?’
‘Months,’ Gareth said crisply. ‘I had business in the south.’
‘Then you should know the Territory is a hotbed of Defiant scum. With the Fist preparing for war, it is the duty of all northerners to help root out these cells.’
‘My family and holdings have always been loyal to the empire. If the Defiant seek to recruit for the Republic, they’ll soon discover Yrmfast a far-from-fertile territory.’ Gareth gave the guard a cold smile that seemed to assuage some of his suspicion. ‘Speaking of home, my youngest brother comes of age this winter and I wish to gift him with a set of armour. Would you know of a suitably skilled smith in the city?’
The guard relaxed. ‘This is Paarth. Our smiths are some of the best in the empire.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Go to the ironworks and ask for Sim. Tell him Sergeant Laylan sent you.’
Gareth gave a brisk nod. ‘My thanks.’
As they walked their horses unmolested through the gates, Kul’Das let out a breath. ‘Where did you learn to talk like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re familiar with Acre. And that story you made up about a brother.’
Gareth blinked at her. ‘I …’ How had he come up with it? He couldn’t remember now. ‘Does it matter?’ he said finally, quashing his own unease. ‘It got us in, didn’t it?’
Kul’Das narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t press him further.
The buildings had a heavy, looming air. Paarth was a granite city, seemingly founded on the profits of its mines.
The value of the guard’s information soon became clear – Gareth had never seen so many smithies. Every corner held one, the forge’s molten glow spilling out across the streets. ‘Lucky we have a recommendation,’ Kul’Das said, giving voice to his own thoughts.
After a few enquiries, they found the ironworks and tied their horses up outside. It was a fortress of a building, echoing with the rhythm of hammer on anvil. Steam from the quenching hung in the air like fog and sweat popped out on Kul’Das’s brow. She stripped off her gloves, dragged a hand across her face and then looked at him accusingly. ‘Why are you not hot?’
He shrugged. ‘An after-effect of being dead, perhaps.’ It was a mark of how far they’d come that she didn’t wince.
Asking for Sim produced either eye rolls or terse grunts. ‘Not a popular man,’ Kul’Das said as they followed a woman’s reluctant nod into the bowels of the ironworks.
‘Except with customers,’ Gareth said. ‘They’re jealous. I bet he gets all the lucrative commissions.’
‘If that’s the case, he’ll have a waiting list.’ She gestured at the other smiths hammering around them. ‘We should try someone else.’
‘I want the best,’ Gareth said shortly. He wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered. He had the nagging feeling that once, quite recently, in fact, he wouldn’t even have entertained the idea of commissioning armour. The thought sent a stab through his head and he raised a hand to his temple.