by Matthew Ward
“I’d every right,” snapped Sevaka. “With Lady Orova sick…” Better to say “sick” than “dying”. “… command falls to me.”
“Vrasdavora is a stronghold of the Tressian army, not lair to some Psanneque brigand.”
Sevaka narrowed her eyes. “Thaldvar was a traitor. He died as one.”
Paradan glared back. “He should have hanged.”
It was all Sevaka could do to keep from laughing. The Kiradin supposed it was always thus for the weak: hiding in protocol to disguise a lack elsewhere. Her mother had tried to teach her that.
“My name doesn’t matter, lieutenant. Only my rank.”
Paradan braced knuckles on his desk and leaned closer. “You think my soldiers will follow a Psanneque?”
Sevaka stifled a wince. What influence she had came from Rosa, not her own rank.
And Rosa was…
Don’t think it. Thinking it makes it true.
… dying.
“We’ve no time to bicker,” she said. “There’s an army barely a league distant. With Maldrath’s death the kraikons are useless. The simarka are worse. Come noon, these walls will be swarming with shadowthorns. We have to be ready.”
“Come noon, we’ll be gone.”
Sevaka blinked. “What?”
Paradan skirted the desk and crossed to the narrow window overlooking the part-collapsed road. “You said it yourself. The constructs will do us little good. I can’t hold these walls.”
“Retreat leaves the door to the Marcher Lands yawning wide!”
“And if we hold, we’ll last what? A day? Two?”
Sevaka cast about for rebuttal and settled on words Rosa had spoken that morning. “Sometimes the calling is to die while others win elsewhere. Lady Orova meant to hold this place.”
Paradan’s expression softened. “Lady Orova is in no position to give that order. I must consider the fates of the living, not the wishes of the—”
Sevaka closed the gap. Gathering a fistful of tabard, she shoved him against the wall. “Coward!”
“Will you use the dagger on me, too?” gasped Paradan. “Will that give you the garrison’s loyalty?”
The Kiradin would, had she thought it would have made any difference; the Psanneque was too forlorn to hold her back. But killing Paradan would only make truth of the lies whispered about her. Were it otherwise, rank alone would have allowed her to strip him of command. For want of authority, she needed leverage, and there was none to be had that would not make the situation worse.
The door creaked. “Apologies for the intrusion, castellan, but Sergeant Zallan—”
The Kiradin hauled Paradan around. The castellan’s back was to the door before it fully opened, her lips mashed against his, smothering the grunt of protest. Hands came up to push her away. They lost urgency when Sevaka slipped her dagger-point beneath his breastplate to prick the skin.
The orderly in the doorway saw none of it. Not the dagger, nor Paradan’s furious expression. He saw only what the Kiradin wanted him to see – his commander locked in passionate embrace with a Psanneque whose eyes widened in alarm at being discovered. Faced with that, he made the only natural response: he averted his eyes and shuffled away, the door falling closed behind.
Sevaka counted to ten. She stepped back and sat on the edge of the desk. A further five-count slipped away before a flushed Paradan recovered his voice.
“As a seductress, you leave much to be desired,” he growled.
“You didn’t see that fool’s face. Surprise… and just a hint of scandal. Right now, I imagine he’s telling a pretty tale, and if not, then soon.”
“You think I care?”
There it was: the first tremor of concern. Sevaka’s confidence blossomed. Leverage. “I know you do, Emil.” The use of the personal name was a necessary flourish. “I met your father at one on my mother’s parties. Always so proud, so desperate for patronage. What would he say if he knew about your torrid affair with a lowly Psanneque?”
“There is no affair.” Ice crackled beneath the words.
“When did truth ever matter in the Republic?” She smiled. Confidence was important. “You will follow my orders – your superior’s orders – as your oath to the Council dictates, or I will spend every waking moment nurturing the seed planted just now. A glance. A touch. A confidence overheard in a careless moment. Even if we never meet again, folk will know what we were to each other, even if we were really nothing at all. Consorting with a Psanneque? What will your fellow Prydonis think? What will your family?”
“You’re deluded.” He trembled beneath the scowl.
“Before I was a Psanneque, I was a Kiradin.” Sevaka struck an imitation of her mother’s disdainful smile. “My mother’s whispers almost brought down the Republic. Do you really think I can’t destroy you?”
Paradan quivered. Outrage? Fear? Sevaka couldn’t tell, and barely dared breathe in case it destroyed the illusion. She’d never met the elder Lord Paradan, and she’d no intent of debasing herself with tales of shared passions with the younger. But only what Paradan believed mattered. The deception was everything she’d hated about her mother. But holding Vrasdavora had mattered to Rosa. Honouring that wish was worth sacrifice.
Paradan broke long before he spoke. She saw it in his eyes. “With your permission, captain, I’ll inspect the defences.”
“Granted, lieutenant.” Sevaka smiled away relief. “We’ll reconvene at dawn. If you need me before then, I’ll be in my quarters… Unless you’d prefer I remain in yours?”
“Get out.”
With sardonic tip of the head, Sevaka complied. She made it halfway to the adjutant’s quarters before her legs began to shake.
Sevaka wasn’t surprised to find Rosa had been moved to the bed in the adjutant’s quarters – she’d given the order before seeking Thaldvar. The thin, domino-masked figure stood in lantern-shadow at the bedside was another matter. She froze in the doorway. Instinct called on her to flee, and not look back.
“Were you born in a barn?” said the Raven. “Close the door.”
The gravelly voice was at odds with the thin frame, and more cultured than Sevaka had expected. Polite, almost charming. Not the grim guardian of Otherworld priests denounced from their pulpits. And her only other option was to walk away, and leave Rosa alone.
Perhaps for the last time.
The Raven offered a wry smile. “Oh, don’t regard me so. This is a personal visit, not a professional one.”
The door fell closed. Sevaka wondered if it would matter; if any other would see if they happened by.
“How is she?”
The Raven brushed gloved fingers across Rosa’s brow. She twitched fitfully, glassy eyes seeing nothing. At least the bleeding – if it was blood – had ceased. Had the wounds closed, or had Rosa nothing more to give?
“The poison has made her a prisoner in her own body.” He tutted. “I can’t say I approve. Life? Yes, I suppose. Death? Of course. But this?”
Swallowing her fear, Sevaka pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the bed and took Rosa’s hand. “Can you help her?”
“I offered aid before, and was rejected.” His eyes never left Rosa’s face. “Now? She’ll recover in time, or she won’t. It’s not for me to interfere.”
“You might at least sound upset,” she said bitterly. “But I suppose this suits you, doesn’t it? If she dies, she’ll be yours.”
The lantern flickered. Shadows crept closer. The Raven, who to that point could have passed for an eccentric ephemeral, suddenly filled the room – all without twitching a muscle. The urge to flee returned, and Sevaka gripped Rosa’s hand tighter than ever.
“And you might remember that while I allow Rosa certain latitude, I take offence very easily.” He shrugged, ephemeral aspect flowing back into place. “Or I would, if I thought that tone were meant for me.”
“Why do you care?”
He shrugged. For the first time, his dark eyes left Rosa’s face and bored in
Sevaka’s. “A suitor should be attentive to his intended’s loved ones. Or do I have that wrong?”
Somehow, she met the stare without flinching. “She rejected you.”
“You mistake me for a rival.” He spread his hands. “Rosa chose you, and is welcome to that choice… for however long it endures. Nothing lasts for ever.”
Sevaka shivered. Nothing was less abstract than death foretold – even in haziest terms – by the Keeper of the Dead. “Not even you?”
He offered a short bow. “Not even I, Lady Kiradin.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Your name?”
“It’s not supposed to be.” She brushed a filthy blonde strand from Rosa’s cheek. “And yet what’s the point, if I become my mother as soon as I’m placed in a corner?”
“I’m told we all become someone else out of need.” He cocked his head. “I imagine the trick lies in choosing who.”
Sevaka closed her eyes. Echoes of her final conversation with Thaldvar washed over her. That anger was long spent, replaced by bone-hollowing weariness. Why was she even talking to the Raven? She supposed she needed to speak to someone, and her options were few.
“It might be I haven’t the backbone to make that choice,” she said. “I doubt I’ll ever be free of her.”
“Your mother was certainly a… presence to be reckoned with. Dare I ask what led you to emulate her?”
“Vrasdavora must be held.”
“Ah. Death and honour. A fine tradition. Give the shadowthorns no satisfaction, only steel. Is that it?”
“No.” So the Raven considered Vrasdavora indefensible? She looked down at Rosa. “Because it’s what she’d do.”
“Ah.” He reclaimed his hat from the bedside table and set it on his head. The crown stopped just short of scraping the ceiling. “Well, I’m sure you know best.”
She snorted. “That makes one of us.”
When she looked up, the Raven had gone.
Tzadas, 6th Day of Wealdrust
Trust not the kindliness of ravens,
Nor linger ’neath the crooked tree.
A god’s embrace is costly haven,
If you doubt the price, the price is thee.
Hallowsider’s Nursery Rhyme
Thirty-Six
“I regret, my lord, that there’s no sign of Lord Akadra.” Arlanne Keldrov’s cheek creased, then smoothed. A woman afraid she’d speak out of turn. “I thought he’d be here.”
Josiri turned to hide his own expression. A mistake, for it granted peerless view across Ardva’s uneven fortress wall, over the Grelyt River and its steep red cliffs, and out across the muster field on the far shore. The mostly empty muster field. Three score wayfarers among the wagons, perhaps two dozen knights in blood-red surcoats and gilded armour, a mismatched mob in militia tabards, patchwork leathers – and yes, a few phoenix tabards from Katya Trelan’s time – and six companies of the 14th ordered for march beneath brooding skies.
The latter were mostly southwealders – the only such regiment in the Republic’s service. The 14th had suffered greatly at Davenwood the year before, and Keldrov had recruited from the villages and towns preserved by its valour. Though the bad blood between north and south could have filled an ocean, southwealders stood ready to fight just as the 14th had fought for them. A shared history forged from division.
Little more than a thousand. Perhaps five hundred more waited on the Kreska road – all of them militia, lured forth by loyalty to the twin names of Trelan and Beral. Still, it wasn’t enough. A southwealder’s blade was worth six from the north? It’d have to be. Too many had died the year before. At Davenwood. At Eskavord.
Eskavord…
Even though the town’s remains lay far to the east, hidden by Davenwood’s outspread arms, Josiri could almost see it. The charred ruins. The desolate fields. The pervasive mist that had descended with Wintertide, and never receded. Eskavord, the only real home he’d ever known, had become a Forbidden Place, blasted by magic and sorrow, and thick with ghost-haunted mist. Viktor’s doing.
Josiri hung his head. “Viktor keeps his promises.”
Erashel laid a hand on his forearm. “Perhaps no longer.”
“He’ll be here.”
The women shared a glance. Josiri shook his head, and tried again. “There could be a dozen reasons for his delay.”
Keldrov’s expression betrayed unhappiness, but her tone remained level. “Dawn is long in the past. Lumestra knows we’ll make little enough difference as it is. We’ll make none at all if Izack’s overwhelmed before we arrive. You saw the same despatch I did. Tregga’s gone. The Eastshires are ablaze. Tarvallion will be next.”
Tarvallion, with its slender towers and vibrant gardens. The Republic’s radiant heart. And the Hadari would burn it to ash.
“Then march,” Josiri replied. “I’ll catch up.”
“Josiri, be reasonable,” said Erashel. “He’s not coming.”
“Does it not occur to you to wonder why? Viktor crushed Saran’s dreams of conquest not far from here. Do you suppose the Emperor has forgotten?” He spoke faster, the idea taking horrible shape. “Would you chance history repeating itself, or give orders to ensure it could not?”
“Assassination?” Erashel shook her head. “The shadowthorns aren’t northwealders. They’d consider that dishonourable.”
Keldrov – herself a northwealder who’d endured a stream of similar asides from Erashel that past day – scowled. “We’d be fools not to think Saran’s icularis aren’t active in the Southshires – especially after last week’s granary fire.” She shot Erashel a bitter glance. “I dismissed it as the same old trouble. A few holdouts clinging to dreams of independence. Perhaps it was the Hadari. Or perhaps it was both.”
Josiri’s fear found new life. Viktor was a man alone, and surprise would compensate for his other talents – especially were he reluctant to use them.
“March,” he repeated. “I’ll see for myself.”
Keldrov nodded, but her eyes held sympathy for someone clinging to a memory of a man who no longer was. “I’ll give you an escort.”
Josiri glanced again at the muster field. “I won’t squander anyone else’s time or wellbeing. Erashel, will you convey my regrets to Malachi? Tell him the Southshires has mustered all it can, and…” He sighed and spread his hands. “And whatever you think best about Viktor.”
Erashel folded her arms. “I’ll send a herald. I’ve no intention of returning.”
“Malachi needs you.”
“Malachi has a whole city. You don’t. Be reasonable, Josiri. Either Viktor is dead or taken, or he’s not the man you remember.” She flickered a thin smile. “Either way, if we southwealders don’t stick together, then what’s the point?”
Josiri grimaced. “Commander Keldrov, you’ll march to reinforce Izack. Lady Beral and I will see what’s become of Viktor.”
“And if the man you remember isn’t to be found?”
The double meaning soured Josiri’s gut. But the answer was the same. Distant though he’d become from his homeland, he remained a southwealder, with a southwealder’s duties.
“Like I said, I’ll catch you up. I’m not out of this fight.”
Calenne woke to find Tarona Watch empty, as was so often the case. Viktor slept lightly, and rose with the dawn save when nightmares held him captive. But something felt different, though Calenne couldn’t quite put her finger on precisely what. If was as if their home, and her place in it, were somehow diminished.
Ridiculous. But the sensation lingered as she dressed. By the time she departed the bedroom for the kitchen, she’d thought for little else.
“Viktor?” She peered out into the garden. A grey, miserable day. Sommertide’s last gasp was slipping away. “Viktor? Are you here?”
A folded sheet of paper on the table gave shape to formless concerns. Her heart pacing a hair faster, Calenne opened it out.
I cannot sit idle while the Republic burns. But my deeds
must be as unconventional as the times, and I can’t risk the consequences of your involvement.
I know it’s no use asking you not to be angry, and I’m sorry if this strains the bond between us.
I’m sure we’ll discuss the matter upon my return.
Viktor
“Raven’s Eyes, Viktor!”
That there was danger in his future seemed obvious, and perhaps on a different day Calenne would have thought well of his desire to shield her from it. But after Valna? He’d taken the avoidance of argument to heights hitherto unknown: denying her even the chance to discuss the matter. Just as Josiri had done when he’d kept secret his involvement with the wolf’s-heads.
Josiri. Anger quickened to a flame. This was his fault. Even when he thought her dead he conspired to confound her happiness. Why couldn’t he have let Viktor be?
Shame rushed close behind the unworthy thought. If the Republic was beset and Viktor could make a difference, then of course he should act. Holding him back suggested her love was as shallow and selfish as she sometimes feared was truth.
But to leave without word? To not even discuss the matter? Shame boiled into fresh anger. He’d said so little the night before, offering barely more detail than the letter, and nothing of intent. Did he really think she’d have picked up a sword and followed him into war?
She laughed bleakly. Was there a deceit more foolish than that visited upon oneself? Of course she’d have followed. If only to prove that the selfish, sheltered woman she’d been at their first meeting belonged to the past. That was their bond. She’d softened Viktor’s pragmatism with compassion, and in return he’d set her free. Not only from the Council’s suffocating grip and Josiri’s overzealous protections, but from her own preconceptions of who and what she was. He was right not to trust her in this.