by Matthew Ward
Armund’s gaze swept the room, though with his axe and thus his connection to Anliss’ spirit in Inkari’s keeping, he could’ve seen nothing. Expressions were impossible to read beneath visored drakonhelms, but Viktor marked which of the vanaguard stiffened. Were they the mercenaries taking offence at the insult, or the true vanaguard, caring little for reminder how their honourable station had become diluted? From Inkari’s bleak stare, the latter.
“I claim the right to Astor’s judgement,” said Armund. “For my father. For my sister. For a stolen throne. Are you afraid he’ll find you wanting?”
Viktor’s worries billowed to fill the ensuing silence. In theory, a thane couldn’t rule without the support of his vanaguard and his landsmen, and no Thrakkian would respect a man who backed down from divine judgement. But tradition buckled under the weight of gold. If Ardothan decided its lustre eclipsed his own tarnished honour? If he decided that the risk to his position outweighed the benefit of silencing his brother’s claim?
Ardothan sank onto his throne. “Inkari tells me you’re a witch, Lord Akadra. And an exile.”
“This would be the same woman who fled Indrigsval? A man should not be described by a coward who shies from his blade.”
Inkari scowled. Ardothan’s lips hooked a mirthless smile.
“She also tells me you’re to serve as my brother’s champion.” He leaned forward, friendliness falling away. “Tell me why I should profane tradition by permitting one outcast to fight for another? What truth can that contest possibly reveal?”
“The only truth that matters.”
“Is that so? Does my brother’s truth extend to his own deeds? Did he tell you how our sister came to cut my throat while I slept? That but for the selflessness of my dear wife, she’d have succeeded. Armund knew her intent, and did nothing. He lacked the courage to aid one sibling, and the loyalty to warn another. His whole life, he has never chosen any side other than his own. Have you so little pride that you’ll choose his?”
Armund’s fingers gathered to fists. Viktor couldn’t imagine what he hoped to achieve, not with his axe in Inkari’s care and a dozen vanaguard between him and the throne, but knew that the attempt would unravel everything.
“Armund af Garna stood with me in need,” he replied. “I pay my debts.”
A little of the tension slipped from Armund’s shoulders.
Ardothan smiled his wise smile. “A good answer. As to the rest…”
The thane hooked a finger. A vanaguard howled and flung himself at Armund, his axe a brutal gleam against firelight.
Viktor’s shadow slithered free almost before he gave it leave. Ice crackled across the flagstones as it closed about the vanaguard and held him fast, frozen in the act of murder. The bellow of challenge choked back in terror. Horrified gasps carried across the chamber. Vanaguard inched closer, axes ready.
Ardothan stretched out a hand, restless eyes alive with triumph. “Hold.”
The vanaguard ceased their advance. Viktor drew back his shadow. The would-be assailant crumpled and scrambled away at Ardothan’s dismissive wave.
Armund didn’t even blink. “Am I missing something?”
“Nothing of note.”
Viktor forced levity to conceal dismay. Their one advantage laid bare, and it gave Ardothan all the reason he’d ever need to refuse Armund’s challenge. The Cindercourt was a trial of blades, not witchery. That he’d had no other choice was little consolation.
“So a coward’s word is sometimes true?” Ardothan steepled his hands and tapped his forefingers against his lips. “Inkari? See that they are both fed and quartered. They face the Cindercourt at dawn tomorrow. I’ve nothing to fear from Astor’s judgement. And I have just the champion to face you, Lord Akadra.”
The stone cracked off Erashel’s brow. Calenne’s heart sparked to dark joy at the accompanying cry. Her laughter rippled beneath the moonlit trees, unheard by all save herself.
Josiri glanced up. “Erashel?”
She reeled, the flat of a hand clasped to her temple. “I don’t know. Something hit me.”
He jumped to his feet with a frown. “What? A falling branch? A bird?”
“We just talked about how there are no birds,” came the acid reply.
“Then what?”
Erashel shook her head groggily. “It felt like…” She stared past him, eyes wide with alarm as they met Calenne’s. “Josiri!”
Calenne twisted behind a tree and held her breath.
The musical scrape of a drawn sword. The hurried tread of boots on leaves. Calenne pressed her shoulders against the tree. She’d wanted to be seen, but not like this. Not caught in so childish an act. Or was it childish? Could it be so when satisfaction still burned, and yearned for more? Even for blood.
For blood? No, she didn’t want to truly hurt the other woman. Just put her in her place.
Liar.
Rage boiled black beneath the fear, daring her to break cover. To beat the other woman down with fist, rock or branch. Calenne’s stomach turned, knotted tight against the temper that had ruled too many thoughts and deeds since Eskavord. A deep breath helped, but with rage’s passing, fear returned.
“What did you see?” said Josiri.
“She was right there,” breathed Erashel. “Just for a moment. Then she was gone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A woman. Pale. Angry. I caught only a glimpse.”
Footsteps tracked closer. Josiri passed the tree to Calenne’s left, Erashel to her right. Both had swords drawn. Neither paid her a second glance. She released a faltering breath.
Josiri advanced a handful of paces, made a long, slow sweep of the surrounding woods. “No one. And the undergrowth’s too thick for us not to hear someone running away.”
Erashel scowled, one hand still braced to her forehead. “So you don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that.” He sheathed his sword. His tone was that of a man treading with exquisite care. “This doesn’t have the feel of a Forbidden Place, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. However, it’s been a long day and we’ve both seen enough in the recent past to fuel tired imaginations, especially when emotions are running thin. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.” He sighed. “As to the rest? It will keep until morning. At least until morning.”
Calenne barely noticed them leave, her existence once again in upheaval. Erashel had seen her, however briefly. Whatever she was – whatever she’d become – might be reversible.
There was hope.
Forty-Four
Ruined walls sprawled beneath waning moonlight, stones smeared black by the soot of spent pyres. Ahrad’s middle bailey was a forest of makeshift grave markers, hummocks of fresh soil marking the defenders’ last vigil in all places save one: a ring of bare grass amid the waterlogged mud, scattered with autumn leaves and ringed by stones, the dark staff of the Huntsman’s spear at its heart.
No one had touched the spear since Ahrad’s fall. None had even come near since Dakrash’s watch had begun at dusk. Carters and provisioneers bearing supplies from the east gave the weapon as wide a berth as the makeshift road allowed. Dakrash empathised. Even looking on the weapon stole away his breath.
Not a new feeling for a miller’s son tithed to war. Dakrash had felt it when he’d followed the Emperor’s Immortals into the breach – for were they not heroes, pledged to the service of a mortal god? So the augurs preached at the village shrine. They did so everywhere within Corvant’s borders, where Ashana was acknowledged, but deemed too distant for worship. But this? The sense of insignificance pressing down like a boot on his chest? For the first time in twenty-three winters, Dakrash understood what it was to stand in the shadow of something truly divine.
The spear that had shattered three gates. What might it do for a miller’s son without wealth or prospects? Who had not yet been granted the chance to prove himself a warrior? For three nights, he’d held his post and resisted temptation, awed by half-remembered sto
ries told by fireside at High Moon and Dark Sun – tales that warned of the grim price paid for drawing divine notice. For three nights he’d looked upon the weapon, content to dream. But as midnight approached on the fourth night and the moon shone purer than it had in days, dreams smothered fable’s warning.
As watchfires and waning moon faded behind rising mist, Dakrash took his chance. Abandoning his post beside what had once been the inner gate, he passed through the graves. His heart quickened with the thickening mist, the fear as heady as the lure. Soon he stood on the ring’s extent, cold air raising gooseflesh beneath leather breastplate and silk robes.
The spearhead shone with reflected moonlight, defiant of the mists. Dakrash faltered, ambition turning to ice in his veins. Licking his lips, he screwed his courage to the act. Himself a hero. A family elevated to the rank of great house by his deeds.
Setting aside his shield and his own poor ashwood spear, Dakrash stepped into the circle.
A hand erupted from the grass, scattering leaves. Streaked dark with mud, it clawed at the air and closed about the spear-staff. The ground ruptured, bucking and heaving. Withered leaves spilled away, and a naked man clawed free of loam’s embrace.
Dakrash yelped and scrambled away, dreams of heroism swallowed by terror. A pale woman in a shimmering gown barred his way, a finger pressed against her lips.
“Hush. You have nothing to fear.”
Dakrash’s heart thundered its disagreement, but his legs locked tight and his tongue felt leaden. The woman drifted on, her being diaphanous against the mist, her expression maudlin beneath a tangle of straw- blonde hair. The man dragged his way clear of the soil. Reaching his feet, he slumped, the spear his sole support. Muscular shoulders shuddered as he strove for breath.
“I have… failed you, my queen.”
“No. I erred. Now my brothers rouse to war, and my fears may yet shake this world apart. Will you help me mend what I have broken, old friend? I may need your strength before this is done.” Mist curled up from translucent fingers as she examined her hands. “It took all I had to pull myself back together.”
The man straightened. Beneath his shadowed brow, eyes smouldered to green flame. “I remain your servant. Now, and always.”
They walked away into the mist, he leaning on his spear, and she more memory than being.
Only when they were lost to sight did Dakrash’s legs at last obey his command.
Eyes streaming with tears he could not explain, he fled through fading mist, the memory of what he’d seen already slipping away.
Lunandas, 7th Day of Wealdrust
Pride is the spark that sets the world ablaze.
Those who seek profit by the flame
are seldom caught in its path.
from the sermons of Konor Belenzo
Forty-Five
Even with Vrasdavora’s survivors reinforced from the main encampment – even with watches tripled and duskhazel ready at the fires – every scratch of shifting stone jarred Melanna from sleep. Jack’s tatterdemalion silhouette loomed over all.
We will see one another again.
Melanna jerked upright, sheets falling away. Dawn gleamed about shutters and beneath the door. Grasping at the bedframe, she set her feet against the floor and strove for calm. A dream. Only a dream.
Yet still shadows crawled at vision’s edge.
Melanna urged herself to stillness, lost herself in the sounds beyond the castellan’s chamber. The sentry’s tread. The crackle of watchfires. The Ash Wind groaning about the keep. She exhaled, the shapeless horrors of sleep falling away.
Mist thickened to a flood about her feet. Dawn’s gleaming sputtered and died.
Melanna stumbled upright and fumbled the sword belt from the hook behind the door. She spun about, blade whispering from its scabbard. A cry of warning fell silent on her lips as the rear wall fell outward, stone by stone, into a mist-wreathed forest.
And there, among the trees, head bowed and weary, a figure in shimmering green, thought lost.
The remainder of the room vanished into the trees. Melanna’s sword fell from numbed hands.
“Hello, Melanna,” said Ashana.
Rosa formed a fist atop the blankets. Tremor wracked her forearm. Her brow sheeted in sweat, the salt stench as bad as the clamminess. Fingers yielded reluctantly, joints softening only after excruciating protest. That the fingers uncurled to a loose claw as soon as she relaxed her attention did nothing to stifle savage joy. The paralysis was fading. Strength would return. And then?
Then there’d be a reckoning. One tallied in the dead. Aeldran Andwar – Sevaka’s slayer – foremost among them.
Beyond the cottage, the air shook to barked orders and the tramp of feet as Castellan Paradan stirred his column of beaten, humiliated soldiers to the march. They’d come for her soon; load her into the wagon for another burst of dreary miles. Away from the shadowthorns. Away from revenge.
It didn’t matter. She could wait. That was an eternal’s privilege.
Gritting her teeth, she bent her will upon her hand once more. Fingers curled inward.
“Aren’t you looking better this morning? How do you feel?”
Rosa gasped. Her hand relaxed. The Raven was a dark presence beside the hearth. She’d not seen him arrive, but she never did. Nor did anyone else ever see him. The previous night, Paradan had made faltering report, never knowing the Keeper of the Dead stood but a pace behind, head cocked in mockery.
“Angry,” she croaked.
“I’m told that’s unhealthy.”
“Said the God of the Dead.”
He offered a sardonic smile. “I suppose I should be grateful you’ve recovered your usual disrespect.”
“How goes the war?”
“Didn’t that officious young man tell you?”
“Only guesses and rumour. You know where the dead lie.”
He sniffed. “I don’t keep score. But my efforts have not been entirely wasted. My intervention on the Toriana Plains threw the Emperor a scare. And I’ve taught his daughter not to trust stone walls.”
Rosa’s turgid pulse quickened. “Are they dead?”
He turned about, his attention given wholly over to examination of a poker propped against the mantelpiece. “Alas, there were complications.”
“So the Raven’s power isn’t all that is proclaimed?”
“It is without measure,” he snapped, without turning round. “Or it would be. A shower of dreary ephemerals have my mists gripped tight. You call them vranakin, I believe. All this death on the border has given weight to old rituals. They believe they’ve regained my favour, but all they’ve done is steal what isn’t theirs. The harder I tug, the fiercer their response. It’s the consequence of an old bargain – a very old bargain – and all very tedious.”
“What did you get in return for your trade?”
“A blood tithe. Promises. Worship.” He shrugged. “Who among us is proud of all our yesterdays?”
“A blood tithe? You mean sacrifice.”
“What does it matter? They’re ephemerals.”
Not long before, his manner would have appalled. Not now. Ephemerals faded and died. That truth didn’t care if she acknowledged it or not.
“You said complications. Plural.”
He straightened, goatee twisting thoughtfully. “I can see I’ll have to speak much more carefully around you. I’ll have no secrets left.”
“Should you have secrets from your queen?” The prospect no longer horrified. Something else that had changed.
He grunted and sat at the end of the bed. “My brother has become involved. He never could resist trying to match me. He’s such an envious soul.”
“Your brother.”
“Jack.” The Raven waved a dismissive hand. “Jerack, to the more pedantic. He intervened at Vrasdavora. Even now, his filthy little creatures will be mulching the dead. Briar, bone and rotting flesh bound to belligerence. Revolting, and very untidy.”
A hundred tal
es of haunted Fellhallow vied for attention. “Why would he side with the shadowthorns?”
“Why does Jack ever do what he does? Because he wants what I have. It’s pitiful, really. Imitation is flattery, yes, but to everything there are limits.” Disgust darkened to a tone so barren that a piece of Rosa recoiled to hear it. “But he’s never beaten me yet. He won’t do so now.”
The Raven sprang to his feet. He gathered Rosa’s fingers and pressed them to his lips.
“Make speedy recovery, my dear Roslava. This will be a victory worth sharing.”
Tears rolled down Melanna’s cheeks, though she couldn’t say for sure what called them forth. Joy? Anger? Fear that this was but another aspect of nightmare, come to harry her in waking aspect? Heart and soul awash, she searched for words to carry the burden and found none worthy of the deed.
“You’re dead. I held you as you died.”
Ashana’s eyes met hers. No longer the rush-pool’s crone, she was again the Goddess of cherished memory, vibrant with straw-coloured hair and pale, unblemished skin. “No woman is ever dead while she’s spoken of. Her legacy abides while memory remains.”
Turbulent emotion seethed to anger. Tears ran hot. “That’s the best you have?”
Ashana’s cheek twitched. “False hope is the province of preachers and politicians. I didn’t want it to be my last gift to you.” She hesitated. “I have been wrong about so much, but not about you, Melanna.”
Melanna closed her heart. “Me? The weapon you level at your enemies?”
The Goddess stepped closer. “No, never think that.”
Melanna backed away, her foot catching on a tree root. “How can I do otherwise? So much of what you’ve told me is lies! The Dark does not rule Tressia. The Droshna is one alone. He holds himself apart!”
“I didn’t know.” Ashana’s face fell stricken. “Not then. I made a mistake.”
“A mistake? You hurl my people into war, and you call it a mistake?”
“Would war not have found you otherwise?”