by Matthew Ward
“I don’t need the Council’s approval to protect the Republic. Leonast, Konor, the others… I’ve neither the time nor the patience to weather their opinions. And that’s before we consider the Grand Council. I’ll speak with them later, but action must come first. For that, everyone I need is in this room.” He picked up a sheaf of letters from the desk and thrust them at Izack. “Authority to mobilise every regiment in the city, and those stationed at Tarvallion. I trust I can leave the chapterhouses to you?”
Izack took the letters without a glance. “I’m to take charge of this mess?”
“For now, at least.”
“And your orders?”
“Bring the Hadari to battle if you can win, but save our people most of all. Cities can be rebuilt, fields re-sown.” Malachi tapped a second sheaf of letters. “And keep me informed. I can’t be blind. Not now. Reinforcements will come as I gather them. Thank Lumestra the harvest is done, or they’d be tilling the fields.”
Izack gave a low, breathy whistle. “I said this’d be an interesting day. I bloody well hate interesting days. With your permission, First Councillor, I’ll be about your business.” He ruffled his sheaf of letters. “Warriors to muster, laggards to rouse, folk to shout at, and others to thump. Good day to you all.”
“Lumestra ride with you,” said Erashel.
“She’ll need a bloody fast horse.”
He yanked open the door and thumped away along the corridor.
Malachi sank into his chair and stared at the map. Josiri wondered what he saw. Fields aflame? Fortresses cast down? The dead strewn far and wide? Josiri had witnessed a little of that during the previous year’s invasion. But that had been the warriors of one divided kingdom, attacking across the mountains. This was a tide of war and death that would drown all in its path. If only the border could have been sealed with the same efficiency with which he’d been caged at Branghall, but the secret of that enchantment had died with its creator.
“What about us?” he asked softly.
“Hmmm?” Malachi continued staring at the map.
Erashel drew closer. “You said everyone you needed was in this room.”
He seemed hardly to hear. “It was once said that a single southwealder’s blade was worth six from the north. I hope it’s true.”
The words pried open old memories. “I hope you’re not pinning hopes of salvation on our countrymen. Between Saran’s spears, Makrov’s purges and—” He remembered in time that Erashel wasn’t party to the truth about Eskavord’s fate. “And everything that came after, there’s no army to raise. Most of what there is won’t follow me, not after Eskavord. But I will try, if that’s what you want.”
At last, Malachi looked up. Gone were distance and indecision, replaced by determination. “That’s why you’re both going. Those who won’t follow the Duke of Eskavord will heed the last daughter of Beral.”
“Then I should stay.” Josiri glanced back at Erashel and received the slightest of nods. “Erashel can manage the south. With Izack gone you’ll need one of us here. The Crowmarket—”
“You’re wrong, Josiri,” Malachi replied. “There’s something only you can do for me.”
Realisation came swift and sickening. Izack was “in charge of this mess” for now. A safe pair of hands, but survival called for more than safety.
“No. I won’t do it.”
“Erashel?” Malachi produced another bundle of letters. “The Sunrunner sits at anchor in the estuary. She leaves with the tide and will carry you as far as Margard. Requisition what you need from there. There are troops at Ardva. Find more.”
She took the letters, eyes flicking back and forth between Malachi and Josiri, the question on her lips different to the one she voiced. “So I’m to go alone?”
“That depends.” Malachi’s gaze never left Josiri. “Leave us to talk, would you?”
“Of course,” said Erashel. “I’ll see you if I see you, Josiri.”
The door creaked, and then they were two.
“The Republic needs Viktor,” said Malachi. “You’re the only one he’ll heed.”
There it was, stark and sure. Not that there’d even been any doubt. “I told you I never wanted to see him again. Let him rot in the Southshires for all I care.”
“And which need is greater?” asked Malachi. “Josiri Trelan’s or the Republic’s?”
“Viktor can do nothing Izack cannot.”
Malachi shook his head. “Izack is a good man, and a canny one. You and I would both be dead otherwise. I’ve no doubt he’ll hurt the Hadari greatly before this is done. But he lacks one thing.”
“Which is?”
“He’s not Viktor Akadra.”
Josiri bit off a growl and spun on his heel. Viktor Akadra, the Council’s Champion, the phoenix-slayer – the man who couldn’t lose because he didn’t know how. But victory always carried a cost borne elsewhere. But for Viktor, Josiri’s mother – the dowager duchess Katya Trelan – wouldn’t have taken her own life. But for Viktor, Anastacia would still be a free spirit, not shackled to a body of clay. And worst of all, Calenne. Even a year on, Josiri strove not to think of his sister, and thus spare himself the heartache. But for Viktor, she’d still be alive, rather than mingled ashes in the ruins of Eskavord. Calenne had been the last straw, one last broken promise beyond balm.
That Viktor had intended none of these fates to fall meant nothing.
Josiri clenched his fists. “Viktor took everything from me.”
“That’s why he’ll heed you.”
“He’d listen to you.”
“You’d have the First Councillor leave the city? Now?”
A foolish suggestion. One that would only tempt Lamirov and the others to mischief. With Izack and Erashel gone, there wouldn’t be the votes to keep them in check. “Then send Messela.”
Malachi sighed. “What rank Messela holds, she does so purely because Viktor removed himself. Even if she finds him – which I doubt she can – she lacks the confidence to force the issue. And I don’t trust our peers to make honest effort, let alone sway Viktor’s mind. My friends are stubborn.”
Josiri ignored the mixed compliment and faced Malachi once more. “Then send Kurkas.”
“Same problem as Messela, only he’d save us time by refusing to go. Moreover, I was hoping I might borrow him for other business, if I may?”
“Other business?”
“Constans is determined to learn a knight’s trade, and I’ll sleep easier if Sidara learns the sword’s art. I can think of no better tutor.”
To Josiri’s mind, the city held no shortage of better tutors, but perhaps none less likely to be intimidated if Constans or Sidara started throwing around their father’s rank.
“If he’s agreeable.”
“Thank you. Now, where were we?” Malachi ticked off his fingers one at a time. “I need Elzar to muster the foundry to reinforce Izack. Rosa was at Ahrad, which means she’s likely dead – if that’s possible. Even if she’s not, finding her takes time we don’t have. Which leaves you.”
“You need me here with the Crowmarket running wild! You weren’t at Westernport. The vranakin aren’t just killing for fun! It’s a ritual. Dregmeet’s sinking into the mists. Into Otherworld.”
“There’s always mist in Dregmeet.”
“Are there always etravia?” demanded Josiri. “And there was something worse. Something that would have killed us all, but for Ana.”
That shook Malachi. Though he tried to hide it behind an immobile expression, the tremor in his voice won out. “You tell me all that and say we don’t need Viktor?”
“I never said that,” he replied stiffly. “Only that I won’t be the one to fetch him.”
Malachi rose from his chair, as solemn and serious as Josiri had ever seen him. “You keep telling me north and south are all in this together. Stand by your convictions. Find him. Bring him back. Or at the very least tell me how many lives your pride is worth, so I’ll know for the future.”
The accusation cut deep for all its mildness, the words edged with truth. So easy – so comforting – to fall into old patterns. Half a lifetime spent hating Viktor Akadra, save for those handful of shining days where they’d fought as brothers. Frightening to dwell on the power of that hate. But Izack had been right before. There was duty beyond the personal.
He’d forgotten that once, and only Calenne’s example had brought him to his senses. Had it been otherwise, she might still be alive. In fact, the harm Viktor had wrought upon Josiri’s loved ones had only ever come to pass out of Josiri’s own weakness. Because he’d lacked courage. Katya. Ana. Calenne. Calenne, most of all, with her sapphire eyes and quick temper. It took little imagination to conjure the words she’d have for him now. Malachi’s would seem kind by comparison.
How many lives was his pride worth? Not even one.
“I will do as you ask.”
Jeradas, 3rd Day of Wealdrust
There’s little less use than a broken sword.
Save for a shield that shelters no more.
from the Vigil Oath of Essamere
Twenty-Five
Tongues of flame raced through dry timber. Clouds of choking, bitter smoke sucked air from lungs and hope from the heart. The lone figure at the kitchen’s hearth vanished into their embrace.
Even as Viktor reached for her, steel glinted, and she was gone.
“Calenne!”
He lurched bolt upright. The smoke-clogged kitchen gave way to stone walls and lattice roof, cracks of sunlight brilliant through ill-fitting timbers. Blankets lay more upon the flagstoned floor than the bed. Viktor wiped sweat from his eyes, the bed’s timber creaking as his weight shifted.
And deep within his soul, in the cage he’d made for it, his shadow laughed.
Cool fingers slipped around his waist.
“Hush, I’m here.” The words fell softly in a room quiet save for morning birdsong. “I’m here. Was it the same dream?”
Viktor scowled. “It’s always the same dream.” He leaned into the embrace, fingers closing about hers, and willed his racing heart to slow. “The fire rages, and then you’re gone…”
“But I’m not,” Calenne whispered. “I’m here. And I’ve no mind to be anywhere else.”
She leaned across his shoulder for a kiss. Tendrils of nightmare receded, and the shadow in Viktor’s soul fell silent.
“And you, Lord Akadra, should be about the business of the day.” Wicked asperity crept into her tone. “How you ever made a soldier by sleeping so long, I shall never understand.”
She slipped from beneath the covers and padded barefoot to the battered wardrobe. Not for the first time, Viktor marvelled at how different they were. She, slender as a reed and fine of feature, with sparkling blue eyes beneath a gentle brow; he as tall and broad as she was not, with dark eyes in a swarthy face and a soldier’s scars to prove his failings – the deepest of all on his left cheek, where Calenne’s long-dead mother had left her mark. She but a span of summers out of girlhood, and he approaching middle-years.
Only hair dark as night offered commonality. Even there, she’d the better of him. Cropped to jawline length in commoner’s fashion – and to conceal likeness to a notorious mother – it seldom strayed save in fiercest wind. Viktor’s own was a bird’s nest.
He bided while she dressed, elbows propped upon bundled knees. Though the nightmare was gone, its echo remained. Conscience aghast at necessary deeds. Of thousands sent to the flames to save untold others. He closed his eyes. In the darkness, Eskavord burned. So long a soldier, but one no more. That path had burned with the Grelyt Valley, burned with the remnant of Malatriant, the Tyrant Queen who’d come howling out of history to claim him as her own. A piece of Viktor had burned alongside both, but better the fire than the Dark.
That was the nature of sacrifice, to give away a piece of yourself for a greater good. Viktor didn’t resent the cost to himself – the dishonour borne for deeds whose truth would never be common knowledge. Dwelling on choices made was the surest path to madness, and Viktor – who woke to fading terror each morning, and had a sliver of Dark coiling about his soul – already deemed himself closer to madness than comfort allowed. The life once lived he surrendered gladly to need.
And Calenne was right. The business of the day called.
The log split cleanly. Birchwood halves toppled from the stump to join their forebears. Another, and the sweat of honest labour banished that born of nightmare. Rhythm steadied, the rush of the axe and the dull chonk of falling blow blurring to strange music.
Skirts swished as Calenne sought comfier perch on the drystone wall. She picked idly at Viktor’s discarded shirt, fingers tracing the stitching. “Just how much firewood do you think we need?”
“You remember last year? Snows waist-deep all about, and ice on the inside of the walls? This year, I’d rather be prepared.”
“Last year, the walls were more whistling wind than stone.”
“True.”
He gazed back up the hill – past the thin crop-garden and the forlorn scarecrow bedecked in a fraying black surcoat – to the uneven silhouette of Tarona Watch. Decades before, the keep had stood guard over the Thrakkian border to the south, and the Valna-Ardva road that wound its way through the meadows to the north. But the floods of ’76 had washed the road away, to be reinstated further north. Tarona Watch had been abandoned, and soon stripped by locals seeking stone.
Ramparts were now a jumbled tideline no taller than Viktor’s knee, and the central keep a single, ramshackle storey. Mottled stone betrayed where Viktor had patched the walls, discoloured timbers where he’d repaired roofs and doors. No longer a fortress, Tarona made for an acceptable home. At least, provided one had no desire for company. It was a long walk down difficult and treacherous hillsides to reach the village of Valna, and a longer walk back. The bustling inland port of Ardva was further still. What farms the border hills possessed lay far to the west, where the ground yielded crops more nourishing than stone.
“And anyway,” Viktor readied another log before the axe. “It helps me think.”
She smiled. “And what weighty thoughts do you wrestle with, dear Viktor?”
“How best to restore the upper floor.”
“I’m content with what we have.”
So she always said. Viktor wasn’t sure he believed her. She’d grown up in too much comfort for that. Now, this all seemed a grand adventure. But adventure faded. And besides, his shadow seethed in idleness, testing the bounds of its cage. Hunting quietened it; provided meat for the pot and the spit, as well as pelts for trade and barter, but it did not stir the blood or satisfy the soul. Nor did it occupy a great measure of his time. Hands without purpose only encouraged brooding thoughts, and he was already prone enough to that.
“You said that before I restored the hall,” he said. “Could you return to living your whole life in one room now that we do not?”
She offered that pitying smile he’d come to know so well – the one that despaired of ever making him see reason, but somehow revelled in the failure. “Then you should at least let me help.”
He returned his gaze to the logs as the old argument beckoned. “You’re still not well.”
“You worry too much about me.”
“I’ve reason.”
Viktor had saved Calenne’s soul from Malatriant’s pyre, but her body had sickened. The longest night of Viktor’s life had come at winter’s height, with howling wolves scrabbling at the door and a febrile, listless Calenne lost to fever. He’d left her bedside to drive away the starving pack, but had at every moment feared she’d be gone upon his return. In desperation, he’d let his shadow slip its cage and scatter the wolves – something he’d sworn never again to do.
When the thaw had come, Viktor had argued she see Ardva’s physician. Argued, and lost. Calenne Trelan, who had spent her whole life in a gilded cage – longing to escape the burden of her family’s history and the expectation that came alo
ngside – feared nothing more than her brother learning that she yet lived. Viktor, who feared nothing more than losing her, had traded confrontation for a promise of non-exertion. And so while he laboured to build the foundations of a life together, she walked the hills and dales, or watched him at his work.
Half a year had passed thus, but Calenne was little improved. Never was it more noticeable than when sunlight revealed how pale she’d grown. She surely knew that better than Viktor did, but illness had done nothing to dim her defiance. Trelans were stubborn, even when they were Akadras.
Calenne dropped down from the wall and planted a hand on her hip. “Viktor, I rode to war for you. I traded blows with a Hadari princessa and held her to a tie…”
Her voice tailed off as her chastisement strayed into forgotten memories. Forgotten through choice, or lost out of terror, Viktor had never determined, and had been loath to ask. He longed to forget what little he remembered of his own time under Malatriant’s shadow, and could not resent Calenne for having done so.
Calenne blinked as if waking from a dream. “If I can come safe through all that, I don’t see what harms modest fetching and carrying – or heaven forbid, carpentr y– have to offer. I am not made of glass, and I won’t have you treat me as such.”
There it was. The defiance Viktor both loved and hated. The piece that would remain of her long after the memory of her touch and smile had faded. The piece that challenged better of them both, and had filled a void in his life he’d never known existed.
Perhaps she was right. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“And I won’t live in a cage, even one wrought from concern.” She drifted closer, dark skirts flowing across the stubbled grass. Her fingertips brushed his arm, then tightened to draw him down for a kiss. “You can’t lose me, Viktor. Not now, not ever. We are—”
She stared down the overgrown cart track.
“Someone’s coming.”
Viktor heard it too, carrying clear through the buzz of insects and the hum of bird’s wings. The soft tramp of boot. The laboured breath of someone unprepared for the hike.