by Matthew Ward
“He kept me company while you played hero,” Sevaka slurred. “All exiles together.”
“Are you drunk?” asked Rosa.
“No.” A pause. “Little bit.”
All exiles together. Now Rosa thought on it, there were a great many borderers on the battlements, clustered together in ones and twos, offering the occasional stolen glance at the noblewoman who’d stumbled into their midst. Rosa felt like an intruder.
“You don’t care for Lady Sarravin’s hospitality?” she asked.
Thaldvar’s lip twitched. “I care greatly for her wine, but less so for the attitudes of her soldiers.” He cast a hand out over the battlements. “And it is a magnificent view.”
The wall on which they stood was Ahrad’s innermost and highest – the curtain wall that defended the citadel and its inner harbour. To reach it, an attacker would have to breach two others, or else storm offset gates thick with sentries and bell towers. Their broad abutting ramparts were patrolled by sleepless kraikons – bronze statuesque constructs that stood twice the height of a man, and were armoured with the finest steel the forges could produce. Even in the dark, Rosa saw them making ponderous circuit of the defences, golden magic crackling from their eyes and through rents in their armour. Should danger threaten, the kraikons would be joined by the blades of whichever regiment held the duty watch, then the soldiers of the ready garrison, and by others soon after.
Further out, past Ahrad’s walls and crowded baileys, the dark ribbon of the Silverway snaked across the Ravonni grasslands and into the forests, shining brilliant beneath the moon.
“The land of my fathers. Domis everan unmonleithil.”
Thaldvar’s use of the old, formal language caught Rosa so off-guard that it took her a moment to parse it into low tongue. A wistful prayer that would most likely never come true. Even if peace reigned, Thaldvar’s home would never again be what it once was. At best, it might command a seat on the Privy Council, but the thought of even Malachi inviting a borderer to the highest court struck Rosa as fanciful.
“A home lost, but not forgotten?” translated Sevaka.
“Something like that. You’re surprised a borderer speaks so well?”
“I try not to judge.”
He nodded. “There are borderers and there are borderers. Some of us are quite civilised.” He stared down at a muster field strewn with inebriates. “Though I suppose that’s relative.”
Heavy footfalls on the stairs preluded the arrival of a lieutenant of the 7th, his face florid from drink. Rosa tried to recall the name from the flurry of introductions and promises sought. Stasmet, that was it. And he’d not come alone.
Half a dozen soldiers trailed in his wake, none the better for the evening’s festivities than he. All moved with the distinctive purpose of folk with malice in mind, hands close to weapons not yet drawn.
“Borderer!” Stasmet was as boorish in voice as appearance. “I told you to move on.”
“And I did,” Thaldvar’s brow creased in polite surprise. “From down there, to up here. You see how that works, lieutenant?”
Stasmet growled and started forward. Along the rampart, the hubbub of conversation deadened to nothing. Hands slid beneath cloaks. Eyes narrowed. Rosa stepped in front of Thaldvar.
“Is there a problem, lieutenant?”
Bloodshot eyes flicked from Rosa to Thaldvar and back again. “Cheated me at jando. A marked deck.”
“The very idea,” said Thaldvar. “He was drunk. Couldn’t tell the Queen in Twilight from the Court of Kings. A child could have cleaned him out.”
“You think I’m a fool?”
“Well—”
“Enough,” snapped Rosa. “Get some sleep, lieutenant. Your pride’s hurting.”
Stasmet’s sword scraped free of its scabbard. “Not until he pays up, or moves on.”
Rosa watched the point of Stasmet’s sword bob back and forth and despaired at finding this conversation one of the more enjoyable of the evening. Small talk left her adrift, but bellicose threats…?
She drew forth her best parade-ground voice. “Lieutenant Stasmet, you do know who I am?”
Several of Stasmet’s would-be threateners exchanged glances, their hands retreating from their swords. Stasmet either missed the threat in her voice, or was too far lost to anger and wine that he didn’t care.
“The Council’s high and mighty Champion?” He snorted. “I know all about you.”
Sevaka pushed away from the wall. “Not enough, or you’d put that sword away and apologise.”
Stasmet stared as if seeing her for the first time. “You? Shouldn’t be surprised, always a Kiradin hanging around you, isn’t there, Lady Orova? Working your way through the whole family, are you? Who’s next, another sister?”
Rosa’s enjoyment melted beneath a red rush of anger. “What did you say?”
She took grim delight in a flinch that betrayed Stasmet’s faltering confidence. Clearly rumour had told Stasmet a great deal. She and Kas had made no secret of their friendship, and plenty had seen how his death had ripped her apart. But did Stasmet know the rest, or was he simply craven? Perhaps he needed to see that part first-hand. She’d not need a sword to make the point.
She stepped closer.
Sevaka moved between. Her hand found Rosa’s shoulder and she stood on tiptoes, bringing her lips level with Rosa’s ear. “Remember your promise.”
The red fought, but it receded. Rosa met Sevaka’s gaze, nodded and received a slight smile in return.
“Thank you,” said Sevaka.
She spun about, naval cutlass sweeping free and striking Stasmet’s sword from his hand. A stomp of boot on instep set him howling. Then Sevaka had a handful of grubby shirt twisted between her fingers, and Stasmet up against the ramparts. All to the horrified stares of the lieutenant’s accomplices, and the borderers’ laughter.
“Lady Orova’s right,” said Sevaka. “You’re drunk. I think you should sleep it off, don’t you?”
Stasmet spluttered and nodded as frantically as her stranglehold allowed.
“And since you asked so politely,” Sevaka went on. “I do have a sister. But I’m the nice one.”
She brought her knee up between Stasmet’s legs. He howled, and she let him drop.
“Always good to see an accord between wetfoots and dry,” said Thaldvar.
The words provoked a ripple of mirth from fellow borderers. It drew filthy looks from the soldiers but, with their erstwhile leader gasping on his knees, what little fight they’d started with was long gone.
Sevaka retrieved her wine bottle from the wall and drained its dregs at a single pull.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” muttered Rosa.
“And what would you have done?” When Rosa found no answer – at least, no answer that would help her cause – Sevaka sheathed her sword and cocked her head. “See?”
Behind her, Stasmet bellowed like a wounded ox and staggered to his feet. A dagger shining in his hand, he lunged at Sevaka.
Rosa shoved Sevaka aside. The dagger meant for her spine instead slipped between Rosa’s ribs.
She felt no pain. She seldom did, unless silver was involved. Just the rip of tearing cloth, the tugging sensation in her chest, the tooth-rattling judder as the dagger’s blade scraped across her rib. The rasping, sucking sensation as steel punctured her lung. That was the worst part, reflex gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come, and every fibre of her being screaming that death was coming for her.
“Lady!” cried Thaldvar.
Borderers started to their feet, expressions twisted in shock.
Rosa clubbed Stasmet down and kicked him hard in the head. Thaldvar’s horrified expression provoked a rasping laugh. He at least hadn’t heard all the rumours. One in particular had escaped him: that the Lady Roslava Orova, who fed the Raven so readily, could not herself be killed. A goddess’ curse. The Raven’s blessing. Rosa didn’t know which had made her thus, only that she was.
Aware she had the full attent
ion of everyone around her, Rosa fumbled for the dagger’s hilt. A dribble of black blood became silver vapour as she dragged the blade from the prison of her flesh. She hurled it away, and sought a leader among Stasmet’s soldiers.
“Corporal?” The word bubbled with black spittle that turned to mist on her lips. “Take the lieutenant away, lock him up and I’ll forget I ever saw you here tonight, agreed?”
The corporal gulped, nodded and seized the fallen Stasmet’s shoulders.
Rosa coughed, the rasp fading as her wounded lung reknitted. She cast about the surrounding faces. Borderers and soldiers alike bore curiously similar expression, men and women afraid to speak as if in so doing they’d break some terrible spell.
Only Sevaka’s was different, frozen in concern and distaste that presaged a difficult conversation.
But despite it all, Rosa found herself laughing.
At least, until she raised her eyes past Sevaka’s shoulder to meet those of a pale, dark-suited man in a feathered mask. A man no one else saw, and whose polite applause no other heard.
Six
Awash in tangled feelings, Sevaka closed the door to Rosa’s quarters and dragged the heavy curtain into place.
“So you’re not keeping it secret any longer?”
Worry made the words more accusatory than she’d meant.
Rosa’s fingers brushed the firestone lamp above the crackling hearth. Soft moon-shadows retreated before the blaze of enchanted crystal, bringing shape to sparse furnishings more suited to a penniless carpenter than a knight of good family. A champion’s chamber should have been opulent of cloth and possession. This was a shell – the bare timbers of a house after a hurricane.
Halting in front of the dresser, and its simple wood-framed mirror, Rosa teased apart the torn cloth level with the spur of her sternum, and peered mournfully at the reflection.
“Another dress ruined.”
“A dress?” Sevaka started forward. “That’s all you can talk about? What if the church’s provosts come for you? You know what they’ll say.”
The Lumestran church was technically forbidden to marshal soldiers of its own – even the kraikons and simarka crafted by its proctors fell under the Council’s authority, rather than that of Archimandrite Jezek – but it wasn’t entirely toothless. The provosts were tireless in their search for spiritual corruption, and ruthless when their quest bore fruit.
“That I’m an abomination? Some hideous Dark-tainted harridan to be burned on the pyre?” Rosa unfastened the gemmed clips holding her plaits in place and tugged the ribbons free. Straw-blonde hair brushed her shoulders. “The time for that would have been three months ago, when that Immortal nearly took my arm.”
“What?”
“I was careless, and ended with my left arm hanging by a scrap. The physicians wanted to amputate. I had them stitch it back on.” Her back still to Sevaka, Rosa raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers. The bare flesh bore not a scar. “All mended.”
Winding the ribbons tight, Rosa set the clips to hold them closed and arranged them on the dresser with methodical care. Her fussiness, like her social reserve, was sometimes appealing. Not at that hour.
“And then there was the ambush at Ranadar,” she went on. “That was a bad one. A dozen of us, and fifty of them hiding among the trees. My horse took an arrow in the throat and kicked me in the head on my way down. I awoke in darkness with a mouthful of soil. Buried in a shallow grave by the shadowthorns, would you believe? Once I stopped screaming, I clawed my way out. Half of them fled when their arrows couldn’t put me down. I don’t remember much of what came after.”
Sevaka swallowed to clear a claggy mouth. Death was a soldier’s fate, but to hear it described thus… “You never told me.”
“It’s not the sort of thing one puts in a letter.”
“You could’ve told me last month, at Tarvallion.”
Tarvallion. Three days without the burdens of vocation, or the lingering threat of the empty border. Just the elegant spires and vibrant gardens of the opaline city, reviving memories of early days together, before diverging duties brought the separation of distance. Laughter and dancing, and sometimes nothing at all save the quiet of company well-shared – contentment that went deeper than the moment, and into a promise that it could always be so. But secrets soured the memory. Lies always did, even lies of omission, rather than intent.
Rosa shrugged. “I didn’t think it was important.”
“Not important? Rosa, you could have died. Still might, if word reaches the wrong ear. The provosts—”
She spun around, lips pursed. “Don’t care. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The garrison’s proctors all know. They think I’m a miracle, blessed by Lumestra. That I’m doing holy work. The high proctor himself once even suggested as much.”
“But you don’t think that, do you?”
Irritation gave way to wariness, eyes hooded and suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“You talk in your sleep.”
Sevaka folded her arms. Rosa slept barely at all. Those brief hours where she did were seldom peaceful, but the muttered words of nightmare seldom made sense.
“I see,” said Rosa, her voice low and dangerous. “So is this about what the church provosts might think, or what you think? Do you believe I’m a creature of the Dark, hungry for souls?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I think you don’t trust me. I think a part of you’s embarrassed by me, and that’s why you keep me at a distance.”
“I’m sure you’ll find consolation somewhere else,” snapped Rosa. “A girl in every port, isn’t that the way?”
The words hurt, the weight of old truths driving them deep. Companionship sought as solace for an unhappy life, rather than its own joys. All done with.
“Is that really what you believe?”
Rosa glanced away. “No. I shouldn’t have said it. And you don’t embarrass me. I love you.”
The rare confession should have ended the argument – would have, had Sevaka’s temper not already slipped its moorings. “You only love me in the darkness, where no one can see us. It’s not enough. I know that sounds selfish, but it can’t be enough. Don’t you understand?”
The emotion swirling in Rosa’s eyes was as uncertain as Sevaka’s own. Through seething thoughts, Sevaka swore she wouldn’t be the first to look away, only to prove herself a liar immediately after. Rosa let out a pained sigh, crossed to the bed and sat down.
“You know I don’t do well with letting my feelings show. You know the mistakes they’ve led me to.” Hands on her knees, she stared at the threadbare rug. “I’m the Council’s Champion. I’m only free to be myself in the darkness. The rest of the time, I have to set an example. When others look at me, they need to see the warrior, not the woman. And certainly not a woman who lowers herself to embrace a Psanneque.”
Not for the first time that night, Sevaka wondered if she’d erred by casting off the family name. That in a moment of vengeful spite, she’d blighted herself for ever. But no. To keep the Kiradin name would have been worse, and not for its legacy of treason. It would have proved her mother right, even in some small way.
With a sigh, she sat on the bed beside Rosa. “So you are embarrassed by me.”
“No. Not that. Never that. But your name… your choice. It makes things difficult.”
“It doesn’t make things difficult for Josiri Trelan,” said Sevaka. “His Anastacia’s even more of an outcast than I am, but he doesn’t hide her away.”
“That’s different. He’s a southwealder. No one expects better from him. I’m daughter of Orova. A knight of Essamere.”
“And too good for me?” Sevaka fought to contain bitterness. “You should at least admit it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s not what you mean that’s the problem, Rosa. It never is. It’s what you say. And what you don’t. I love you, but I won’t be some backstairs consolation, ushered in and out of your chambers wh
en it suits your fancy or your reputation.” She hesitated, the next words leaving her heartsick even before they were spoken. “It has to be more than that, or it’s nothing at all.”
“Then what do we do?” said Rosa. “What would you have me do?”
“We could marry.” The audacious words slipped free before Sevaka realised she’d intended to speak them. “Few care that I was once a Kiradin now I’m Psanneque. Fewer still will care about either once I’m an Orova. The betrothal might ruffle a few feathers, but it won’t last. We’ll finally be free of it all. Together in the darkness and the light.”
Excitement gathered pace as the idea gained purchase. Hope rushed to fill emptiness.
Rosa frowned. “My uncles would never approve.”
“Who cares? You’re a grown woman, Rosa, not a child.”
“They’re the heads of the family. I have to respect their wishes.” She clenched her fists. “The star of Orova is on the rise. Davor and Gallan won’t want me to jeopardise that by joining my future to a Psanneque’s.”
The flame of hope flickered and died. “It’s yours to jeopardise. Or do you suppose it’s Davor’s work in the treasury that sets hearts aflutter at your family name? Or does the Grand Council cherish Gallan’s prize-winning roses so highly they consider them grounds for acclaim?”
“But that’s just it,” snapped Rosa. “My ascension isn’t mine alone. It’s theirs, and that of all my cousins alongside. It will raise up the whole family to new heights. I can’t throw that away. Could you do different if the situation were reversed? If you were still a Kiradin, and I the Psanneque? Would you have defied your mother for me?”
The words sucked away the room’s warmth. Sevaka closed her eyes. They both knew the truth. Even before Kas’ death had proven the horrific extent of Ebigail Kiradin’s desire to control her family’s future, Sevaka had been terrified of crossing her. She’d joined the navy to escape, and still never been free. The past swallowed the future and left only ashes behind.
Blinking back tears, Sevaka stood. “Then I guess it’s nothing at all.”
Rosa grabbed her hand. “Please. Don’t go. Not like this.”