by Matthew Ward
“The upstart Trelan is becoming a problem,” said Krastin.
Shurla snorted. “That family was never anything but. Ingrates and idolaters all.”
“Alas, Katya Trelan died before her time.” Anticipation returned to Athariss’ voice. “It might be that young Josiri follows her example.”
Shurla joined him in wheezing laughter.
“And what of Lord Reveque?” Krastin cut short the shared mirth. “Did he accede to our request concerning the empty council seat?”
Apara fought a wince. “He… did not.”
“I trust you communicated our dismay?”
“He insists the matter falls beyond the original bargain.”
Pale fingers steepled on the edge of the centre-most throne. “Konor Zarn will sit on the Council, and Lord Reveque must learn his place,” said Krastin. “An example shall be set. His daughter, perhaps.”
This time, there was no containing the wince. “If we harm any member of his family, Lord Reveque will reinstate the vote. He’ll empty the chapterhouses against us.”
“Bravado,” snapped Athariss. “Men often make such claims until the future closes about them like a fist. Let Lord Reveque cradle his daughter’s body. His priorities will shift.”
Apara’s raven cloak cawed delightedly at the prospect of murder, but the thought of killing a child – even one as far from defenceless as Sidara Reveque – awoke disgust. “She wields Lumestra’s light.”
“We have every confidence in your abilities,” sneered Athariss. “Light cannot bar the determined blade. If you fail, we can always send another.”
“Take from him that which he loves most and our hold weakens,” said Apara. “No threat will ever hold the same weight.”
“Is this cowardice I hear, cousin?” Athariss gripped the edge of his throne and leaned closer, his voice full of threat. “Do you fear the girl’s light?”
Of course she did. She’d seen it, where no other present had done so, and counted herself fortunate to have survived. But saying so would end poorly, especially with Athariss in typically intemperate mood.
“I fear failure,” she said instead. “There are other ways to show our resolve.”
In the darkness of the pulpit thrones, green eyes flicked back and forth in silent consideration.
“Very well,” said Shurla. “You may proceed as you judge appropriate.”
“But do not fail us, cousin,” said Krastin. “Failure is weakness, and we can afford neither.”
“Nor can you,” said Athariss.
Apara bowed low, but felt little relief. Ever since becoming a kernclaw, she’d convinced herself that she was merely the weapon, not the mind that guided it. No longer. Whatever deaths followed would belong to her.
“And if I may,” she said without rising. “What of my request?”
Athariss’ green eyes dimmed to a smoulder. “You come to us in failure and demand payment?”
“She means nothing by it,” said Krastin mildly. “A bargain was struck.”
“And it will be fulfilled,” said Shurla. “At the proper time. When she has proven her faith.”
Apara held her pose, lest the bitterness welling up in her heart leak into expression. The same answer she’d heard a dozen times since she’d parted ways with Viktor Akadra. Since she’d begged the Parliament of Crows to excise the Dark he’d planted in her soul. But they hadn’t. All she’d done was grant them the power to bind her with hope, as well as fear. The more she strove to be free, the more a puppet she became.
Some thief she was.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “I won’t fail.”
Four
The fortress of Ahrad had commanded the passage of the Silverway River since the Age of Kings, its foundations laid down in wars long ended, fought by heroes and tyrants long forgotten. As history turned and the Tressian kingdom fragmented, Ahrad had endured, a bastion of the shrinking Republic holding firm against the sprawling Empire to the east. As long as the fortress stood, the deep waters of the Silverway brought warships and troop transports to its walled harbours, ready to contest any advance.
But to take Ahrad by force? To breach the warding enchantments and storm its walls, all in the face of the defenders’ fire? Roslava Orova, Knight of Essamere, the Council’s Champion and storied Reaper of the Ravonn, would have wanted no part of that. One thing to face the foe in a clash of shields or astride an armoured destrier. Siege-work was different, a machine of murderous overlapping fire that ground all to offal and cherished memory.
Every time Rosa stared out across the three concentric walls she felt a strange frisson of dismay for the besiegers she’d be called upon to kill.
“Commander Orova? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you weren’t listening.”
Rosa detected more amusement than rebuke in Castellan Noktza’s tone. For all that Ahrad was a storied command, he hewed little to pomp and ceremony. He seldom even wore the scarlet heraldry of the Prydonis chapterhouse, preferring the simple king’s blue uniform of a common soldier.
Likewise, Noktza forsook grand musters of his officers and underlings in the citadel hall. Come rain or shine, he favoured quieter, informal discussion on the broad turret adjoining his quarters, whose worn stones screamed like a mournful cyraeth whenever the Dusk Wind blew from the west. Fortunately, both rain and wind were in abeyance that day, the waters of the Silverway River blazing like fire in the glow of the setting sun.
Rosa tore her eyes from the outer barbican, and the rushing weir gates that fed the moat, and offered a nod of accession.
“I’m sorry, Riego. After the first couple of petitions, they all began to blur.”
Noktza chuckled and joined her at the parapet, his back braced against the crenellations. Behind him, a mile or so beyond Ahrad’s northern wall, the plains gave way to a sheer, root-worn cliff and the brooding, leafy expanse of Fellhallow.
“When I was your age I’d have given my right arm to be so feted.”
Rosa scowled. “I don’t know what they want from me.”
“Yes you do. You’re a hero. Let the regiments wine and dine you as such. There’s really nothing to it. Some polite conversation, a rousing speech and drink them dry of the good stuff.” Noktza tugged at a goatee more white than grey. “I honestly don’t see why it bothers you so.”
No, he didn’t. That was the problem with those blessed of a garrulous nature. For Noktza, every gathering was an opportunity for revels. For Rosa, who held her words close and her feelings closer, to stand in a crowd of strangers, drunk or sober, was a tortuous prospect. And not just because she was doomed to remain steadfastly clear-headed throughout, regardless of drink taken.
“I’m the Council’s Champion,” she said instead. “I should be out there. Fighting.”
She cast a hand to encompass the Ravonni Plains and their sparse forests. Running from the foothills of the Greyridge Mountains to the south before boiling away into the majestic depths of the Silverway within Ahrad’s curtain wall, the River Ravonn served as a natural border between the Tressian Republic and the Hadari Empire. A border she’d spent much of her life defending. A border upon which she’d lost too many friends and shed too much blood.
“Fighting who?” asked Noktza. “Three months since a shadowthorn trod within sight of the walls, and if there are any scoundrels within a dozen leagues, they’re cowering so deep in their caves that you’ll never find them.”
“I’ll dig them out. It’s my duty.”
“It’s also your duty to set an example to the soldiery. I could make this an order.”
She snorted. “Just like a Prydonis. All reason until you can’t get your way.”
“And it’s just like an Essamere to hide behind chapterhouse rivalry to avoid an uncomfortable truth.” Now the bite of authority surfaced. “Ahrad is my command, so you’re my responsibility. And you concern me. A year ago, I thought you felt you’d something to prove. Your predecessor was a difficult act to follow.”
<
br /> Rosa made play of straightening her surcoat. Yes, Viktor was certainly that. He’d looked the part more than she, a mountain of a man whose black hair and brooding countenance struck disquiet even in those who knew him well, where her own wiry figure and straw-blonde tresses seldom worried anyone. At least until steel was drawn, and the killing began.
And there had been so much killing in the wake of last year’s invasions. Wars seldom ended as tidily as history recounted. Where Kai Saran’s doomed invasion of the Southshires had drawn readily to conclusion, skirmishes had raged along the Ravonn for months after. Never enough to truly threaten the Eastshires, let alone the wider Republic, but enough that Rosa’s blade had found employment.
And then, six months back, the fighting had simply… stopped. Cessation had left Rosa with a void she’d struggled to fill, and a growing fear that what had once been vocation now owed more to obsession. When Rosa had first earned her spurs, she’d proudly proclaimed she was never more herself than when filling Otherworld with the vanquished. Lately, she’d come to worry that the reverse was true – that each death lessened who she was. And yet that fear never eclipsed the longing to draw the sword, to feel its bite shiver her arm and see the light leave an opponent’s eyes.
She met Noktza’s appraising stare. “I’ll talk to the regimental commanders.”
An eyebrow twitched, betraying Noktza’s awareness that her promise lay some way short of the concession he’d sought. He planted his hands upon the rampart and stared eastward across the middle bailey and its tangle of barracks, warehouses and armouries.
“Do so,” he said. “Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself, and it’ll do you no harm to polish the societal niceties. If the Hadari share Lord Krain’s enthusiasm for peace, the duties of the Council’s Champion are likely to become more ceremonial, not less. You may even find yourself called back to the city. Or worse, to the Council itself.”
Rosa stifled a wince. “You really think there’ll be peace?”
“You’ve met the princessa. You tell me.”
Rosa cast her mind back to those last, dark days of Eskavord, before mists had swallowed the fire-blackened fields. To the unlikely alliance with Melanna Saranal. She recalled an earnest, defiant young woman who offered no apology for what she was, or what she’d done, but nonetheless wore old ghosts like a cloak. Much like Rosa herself.
“We didn’t talk much. And I asked first.”
He grunted. “The Hadari invade, and no sooner have we sent them packing than some fool on the Council hurls armies across the border to recapture lost ground. Round and round, back and forth, and only the Raven is laughing.” He shrugged. “But who knows? Maybe this time is different. It feels different. There’s something new on the wind.”
“Late pollen from Fellhallow,” said Rosa. “I wouldn’t breathe too deep. You’ll sprout blossoms.”
“Yes, commander,” he replied drily. “I don’t know. Perhaps Lumestra’s finally shaken sense into that sister of hers, and she in turn has brought the shadowthorns into line. The First Councillor must think so, to send an envoy to Tregard, rather than an army.”
Tregard, the stolen city, captured by the Hadari when the kingdom of Rhaled had spread its bounds two centuries before. “All the more reason to remain watchful. Lord Reveque has been wrong before.”
“And we shall. The watch-forts east of the Ravonn are fully manned. We’ll have plenty of warning if the Hadari attempt nastiness.”
“Even so, I should—”
“Take advantage of the lull and live a little?” said Noktza. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She glared at his back, uncaring that Noktza likely knew what was in her expression. “I meant I should inspect the watch-forts. Drill the garrisons.”
“But you’re on leave,” he said with mock surprise. “By order of the Castellan of Ahrad, whoever he is. A shifty sort, I’m sure, and not to be trusted. But unflinching, too.”
So that’s how it was? Rosa bit back a reply that, despite long years of comradeship, would only have made things worse. “I thought we agreed that wouldn’t be necessary if I allowed myself to be… what was it? Feted.”
“Simpler to find the time for that if you’re not shackled by duty, surely?” said Noktza. “And we both know you agreed to no such thing. Two days, Rosa. Put aside the colours of Essamere and wear the champion’s mantle lightly. Be yourself.”
“Yes, Lord Noktza,” she replied stiffly.
“You’ll find the 7th barracked in the North Quarter of the inner bailey. Lady Sarravin expects you within the hour. I thought you might start among familiar faces.” At last, he turned about. “And because I’m not the malignant old man you’ve not quite accused me of being, I thought you’d like to know that the Zephyr tied up at the inner dock this afternoon.”
“The Zephyr?” Rosa’s cheeks warmed with surprise and pleasure. “I didn’t know.”
“You were busy, I’m sure.”
Yes and no. A patrol to the north under Fellhallow’s eaves, chasing rumours of smugglers. All for nothing, as it had turned out. Maybe all this was for the best.
“Riego… Thank you.”
He waved her away. “Enjoy yourself. Should the Hadari attack, I promise not to cede the fortress without your express permission.”
Rosa hurried along the harbourside, every other step punctuated by a sibilant curse as the skirts of her sleeveless gown conspired to trip her. She’d always been fonder of practical clothes – to Rosa’s mind, a dress could never be truly practical – and even now wore soldier’s boots rather than the lighter, softer shoes fashion demanded. The roadways of Ahrad, well-dunged as they were by draught horses and the garrison’s destriers, rewarded firm grip and punished fripperies.
Other than three shallow-keeled corpse-barges, only two vessels graced Ahrad’s inner dock – an artificial harbour, fed by sluices and joined to the Silverway River at either end by stairways of huge lock gates that were small fortresses in their own right. One, a supply hulk sitting low in the water, had travelled as far east as the river permitted. Beyond the fortress, the Silverway’s majesty narrowed sharply, barring passage for such wallowing vessels.
Not so the single-masted caravel silent in the hulk’s broken-backed shadow. Had its master wished, the Zephyr could have made passage of the eastern lock gates, ghosted out beyond Ahrad’s walls and sailed all the way to the Hadari capital of Tregard. Not that such a course would have been advisable. For the Zephyr too, Ahrad marked the last stop before favourable winds and the Silverway’s current carried her back to Tressia. Where the supply hulk bore the heavy burdens of the garrison’s rations and armaments, diligently unloaded by straining crewers and towering bronze kraikons, the Zephyr carried something altogether more precious: word from home.
Leather satchels bearing the wax seals of great families carried orders from Council and chapterhouse. Larger, rougher sacks were filled to bursting with letters penned by loved ones and tokens from sweethearts sundered by distance. When the Zephyr slipped her moorings and headed home, she’d bear the frontier’s tidings to the Council’s ears – written in plain language, but couched in coded phrases known only to the author and to the Privy Council to ensure authenticity. She’d perhaps also bear one or two of the garrison’s officers who’d no patience for making the journey by conventional steed.
Rosa ducked away from an oncoming dray cart and approached the caravel’s gangplank. Anticipation blurred with awkwardness she knew was misplaced but could never entirely banish. A slight woman in a drab naval coat and cocked hat stood at the head of the gangway, deep in conversation with a crewer. As Rosa approached, the woman dismissed her underling and turned about.
“Lady Orova.” A broad smile beamed beneath dancing grey eyes.
Rosa fought a smile of her own. “Captain Psanneque. Permission to come aboard?”
“Always.”
Gathering her skirts, Rosa picked her way along the gangplank and onto the Zephyr’s for
edeck. As she found her footing on tar-stained timbers, Sevaka’s gloved hands brushed her cheeks, cradled the back of her jaw, and drew her in for a kiss.
Rosa tensed, her shoulders prickling, aware that at least three pairs of eyes were upon them between wheelhouse and bowsprit – to say nothing of onlookers on the harbourside. Overt affection, while not exactly frowned upon by the nobility, was neither fully approved of. But Sevaka, who was as open about her feelings as Rosa wore them close, was long past caring about such things. Try as she might, Rosa could never quite emulate her candour. A different kind of courage to the one she knew so well.
Ignoring the soft wolf-whistle somewhere to her left, Rosa fought back panic and closed her eyes, slipped her hands about Sevaka’s waist, and lost herself in the warmth of a reunion too long in arriving.
Sevaka drew back. “Miss me?”
Rosa wondered what Sevaka’s brother would have made of it all. She’d loved Kasamor, though she’d lacked the courage to say so until it was too late. She shook the thought away. Kas was gone, and life was for the living. The living, and whatever she was.
“Yes.”
“Your hair’s different.”
“You said you liked it longer.”
“I do.” Sevaka spoke matter-of-factly, but with an impish gleam. Without turning away, she raised her voice. “Mister Alvanko?”
“Captain?” said a weather-beaten crewer to Rosa’s left.
“If you ever again whistle like that when I’m having a private moment, I’ll find a needle and thread and stitch your mouth shut. Do you understand?”
Alvanko grinned. “Yes, captain.”
“You see what I have to put up with? And the others are no better. Rogues, all of them.” Blonde plaits glinted in the dying sun as she swept off her hat. Her next words were wistful. “Then again, look at the captain.”
Rosa waited for eyes to wander elsewhere before speaking. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” She patted the gunwale. “She’s fast enough to chase corsairs out at Selann, or slip the Hadari blockade lines. I’ve pleaded with Admiral Tralnov, but the orders don’t come, and I’m stuck plying the Silverway as a glorified herald.”