by Matthew Ward
Melanna scowled, but could not deny the accusation, even in spite.
“But yes, I have brought war upon your people. Were that not terrible enough, I have made you complicit in my error.” With a sad smile, Ashana bowed her head. “I am a poor goddess and a terrible mother, but even now one far outweighs the other.”
Shock chased away the last dregs of anger. Before Ahrad, the Goddess had loomed large beyond her mortal frame. No longer. For all her seeming rejuvenation, this Ashana was but a fraction of the Goddess Melanna had known.
Anger faded to weariness. Guilt. A memory of silver dust on a muddy road. “Elene is dead.”
“I know. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ve been so lost.”
“No you haven’t,” said Ashana, her eyes still downcast. “You’ve flourished.”
“I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“Have you learned from them?”
Orova. Naradna. Even Haldrane. “I’m working on that.”
“And me.” She looked up. “I need your forgiveness, and your help. Withhold the former if you must, but I beg you, lend me the latter.”
Melanna embraced the only mother she’d ever truly known. As they held each other close, the piece of her that always felt insignificant in the Goddess’ presence slipped away. Ashana had so often claimed to be an imperfect goddess, but only now did Melanna glimpse understanding of what that meant. Wisdom earned through loss. Scars through failure. Different to Melanna’s own struggles only as ephemeral and divine were different, the burden scaled to one’s ability to bear it, but the weight constant to each.
“Both my help and forgiveness are yours for the asking.”
Ashana pulled away, a smile trembling upon her lips. “That means more than you’ll ever know.”
“Then tell me, how did we come to this?”
“Because I was afraid.”
Melanna blinked, caught off-guard by bluntness. “How can a goddess feel fear?”
“I wasn’t always a goddess. I was born ephemeral.” She shook her head, eyes unfocused. “Evermoon had no queen then, only a wanderer-king, for ever treading distant realms. Our paths tangled. We were very much in love, or so I’m told.”
“How can you not know?”
“It belonged to a different life, and life ends. When I perished, the Wanderer sought to remake me as divine so we might pass the ages together. But you cannot steal from the Raven. When the Wanderer cheated him, the Raven cheated in return and scattered my soul across the generations. Desperate, the Wanderer drew on the Dark to reclaim me, and thought himself successful. But I remained lost – all he’d achieved was a conjuring of his own imperfect memories.” Ashana’s expression set hard as stone. “For all that his new queen was my twin in aspect, she was a creature of the Dark, and ruled by spite. This was the Ashana your ancestors worshipped – she who revelled in the spilling of blood, and whose light made wolves of men as the Dark once did before Second Dawn.”
“Aunt Saramin once spun a similar tale,” said Melanna. “How the Sceadotha murdered her husband in a rage, then out of grief dragged him back from Otherworld. He too went mad. I had nightmares for a week. Father was furious.”
Ashana nodded. “It was no more Malatriant’s husband than the Wanderer’s creation was me. Only the Raven can truly return life to the dead, though he’s too self-centred to bother. The rest of us can grant an eternal’s existence, providing some sliver of soul holds obsession enough to endure. I did so for Roslava Orova at Tevar Flood. Some master their obsession. Others are themselves overcome.”
“That’s horrible.”
“At least they have a chance. Those woven from the Dark know only madness. The void where the soul rests cannot be filled by another’s love.” She scowled. “When the Wanderer realised what he’d done, he sought me anew. Reunited, he and I overthrew Evermoon’s hateful queen, but by then the love we’d shared was only a memory. We were strangers. The Wanderer resumed his journeys, and I’ve ever since striven to be a kinder goddess for your people.”
Melanna winced. “But old ways die hard.”
“Some harder than others. I thought I’d finally grasped what it was to be divine. Then I beheld the return of the Dark and glimpsed my reflection within it. She mocked my inaction, my arrogance in holding aloof from war. I saw the ruin of everything for which I’d laboured. The rest you know.”
Melanna nodded. The rally of kingdoms to the Avitra Briganda – a holy war of a sort not seen in generations. Honour abandoned in search of victory.
Ashana hung her head. “After Ahrad, adrift between life and death, my fears lost their hold. I realised then what I should have from the first. The day of the Dark is done, and will never return.”
“Why not?”
“Because the light will always stand against it. If not mine, then another’s. And now I wonder: was it fear I heeded, or my predecessor’s whispers? She’s part of me still, and I part of her. Both Ashana. The dark moon and the light.” She sighed. “I’ve never told anyone that. I keep hoping it’s not true.”
Few of those final words made sense to Melanna, but one truth gleamed clear. “If the war was a mistake, let it be ended. My father will listen.”
Ashana shot her a shrewd look. “Will he? He’s spent his life fighting the Republic. And he seeks to leave you a realm stronger than the one he inherited.”
“We can try. We must.”
“I wish it were that simple.” Ashana stared up through the trees. “But I’m barely clinging to this life. I haven’t strength to waste on follies. This ephemeral war is nothing.”
Temper rekindled. “Not to the thousands who’ll die before it’s done.”
“They’ll only be the first. By interfering so plainly in ephemeral affairs, I’ve given licence for my brothers to do the same. The Raven and Jack have already chosen sides.”
We will see one another again.
Melanna’s skin crawled, the shadow of fear heavy even among the mist-draped trees. “Jack fought with us last night. Had he not, I’d be dead.”
“He didn’t fight with you. He fought against the Raven.”
“No, he spoke of a bargain with my father.”
“And I shudder to think the price. A bargain with Jack…”
“Binds all parties?”
“… is never as it seems,” Ashana finished bleakly. “The others are already rousing. This world will crack asunder, and Third Dawn will come. At least, that’s what the Tressians believe. It’s more poetic than ‘oblivion’. I hate poetry.”
The chill air grew colder still. Third Dawn. Lumestran prophecy of a world reborn from cinders. Cold comfort to those left in the ash.
“Everyone will die,” murmured Ashana. “All because I was startled by my own reflection. Please, Melanna. Help me undo the war we set in motion, before it’s too late.”
“She’s mad, you know,” said Naradna.
Aeldran stared down the sparsely forested slope. Melanna was barely a dark shape against the risen dawn and growing more distant with every step. “For going, or for leaving you in command?”
Naradna stiffened, armoured scales rustling atop silk, and scabbard tapping at her thigh. Only the mask was missing, a lie banished to the past. What shame Naradna Andwaral invited she now faced openly. It made it easier to read her expression. She was too accustomed to holding it secret behind gold. That would change in time, but for now Aeldran revelled in full knowledge of his sister’s mind, and worries worn plain.
Only an hour before, the chieftains had acknowledged Naradna’s elevation, some sullenly, others with guarded feelings. Aeldran expected most to fall into line. For those who didn’t? He’d been his sister’s champion long before he’d been the princessa’s. He could be so again. Assuming, of course, anyone dared risk the displeasure of the third member of their group.
“Wonderful people, the mad.” Haldrane leaned into his crutch. Wind set his robes dancing. “So very driven.”
“What d
id she tell you?” asked Aeldran.
“No more than you, I imagine.” The spymaster’s expression hinted at deeper knowledge, but it always did. “That the Goddess calls her elsewhere. That I was to offer Warleader Andwaral my every support. And that we were to join our spears to the Emperor’s as soon as able.”
“And that was enough for the head of the icularis?” asked Naradna.
“She is the Emperor’s heir. All else is irrelevant.”
Aeldran grunted. Haldrane’s account matched Naradna’s but fell short of his own knowledge. He’d not understood much of what Melanna had told him. But his impression was that she hadn’t wanted him to, and had spoken only to unburden buzzing thoughts. Aeldran cared little for those parts he had understood. Gods and wars and the bleakest of fates. A goddess who was but reflection, and another who feared to look upon her. Secrets held safe behind a champion’s vow.
Naradna scowled. “If she is mad, why should any of us obey?”
Haldrane shrugged. “Because she is the Emperor’s heir. All else is irrelevant.”
He grinned, his eyes on hers in search of provocation’s bounty. Thus, Aeldran alone saw the sudden mist that rushed from the trees to swallow Melanna up. For a moment, he glimpsed two figures silhouetted beside her: a man in an antlered helm, hunched against a spear for support, and a woman in a long, flowing dress. Then the mists were gone, and the forest empty.
Forty-Six
Smoke from the timber and blackstone ring rushed up through the chained metal stairway, past the stone platform to dance a maddening spiral above Kellevork’s keep.
Viktor had never seen so much blackstone in one place, much less set to so frivolous a use. Even in the foundry, where its wrath fuelled the smelters and its steam drove the chainways, the friable, smoky rock was hoarded. But then, Thrakkia was built on great shelves of the stuff, as plentiful below the poor soil as was the air above. Blackstone, claimed the Lumestran priests, was solidified Dark, its vapours corrupting to the faithful. It certainly burned fiercely enough, the pale blue flame leaping to join the red in a roaring crucible of justice whose walls stood four times the height of a man. By descending to do battle in the broad courtyard, a warrior proved his truth with steel, or perished a liar.
At least, that was the idea. Songs driven by pulsing drums boomed across the crackle of flame. The battlements were thick with vanaguard, thrydaxes and lowly thralls – the latter unadorned by the bright-woven claith that marked service to Ardothan or the ceorlas of his court.
Those ceorlas clustered close about Ardothan on the platform opposite, a dais of stone atop Kellevork’s dungeon gate – a holdover from a time when such arenas had hosted blood sports. All were decked in gilt-edged chain and woollen cloaks that should have been unbearable so close to the fire. Then again, the trial of the Cindercourt was as much about endurance as blood. To partake in its suffering was seemly. Even Ardothan had donned armour, though his was more leather than wrought steel, save for two knotwork pauldrons anchoring a golden cloak.
Viktor’s own raiment was less flamboyant: his swan surcoat worn over chainmail loaned by one of Inkari’s vanaguard. Armund stood beside him on the platform, lips thoughtful beneath plaited beard; Inkari a short way distant, far enough to suggest disassociation. Around them gathered a knot of smeltpriests, their armour soot-black beneath ashen cloaks, their plain, long-hafted hammers unremarkable by Thrakkian standards.
Armund tapped the butt of his axe on stone. “At least we’ve drawn a crowd.”
“Ardothan sent riders.” Inkari shouted to be heard over the tumult of song. “Indrig, Elsbarg, Tarlsan – anywhere within reach.”
“Witnesses to his justice?” said Viktor.
Her lip curled in a sneer. “It’s not you they’ve come to see, but Ardothan’s champion.”
Viktor eyed the arena below, the mud already drying to dirt. “Who is he?”
Drums crashed to crescendo. Songs fell silent. A smeltpriest approached the edge of the platform and drew back her hood. Long, dark hair coiled in the cinder wind.
“The Judgement of Astor is sought,” she cried. “Armund af Garna names Ardothan af Garna as a kinslayer, a stealer of birthright, and a coward. Viktor af Hadon he names his champion. Will the accused contest the Cindercourt?”
He’d have to. Tressian and Thrakkian justice at least shared the common passion of rhetoric. Having let the matter go this far, Ardothan could scarcely back down. Arrogant men never did.
“My brother is a liar!” Ardothan rose, his denial offered to the crowd, not the priest. “An exile, a vagabond, and a traitor. Astor knows this to be true.”
“Have you a champion?” called the priest.
Ardothan reclaimed his throne. “I do.”
The gate beneath Ardothan’s throne yawned open. Two thralls staggered out into the Cindercourt, dragging taut chains. A vast shape stumbled into view, hauled by an iron collar and goaded by spears behind.
Armund rushed to the platform’s edge. “Are you mad, brother?”
Below, the rangy brute reached the arena’s centre. Twice Viktor’s height, it was clad in rotting chainmail and pitted plate that offered little protection from the handlers’ spears. Black platelets of gnarled skin shifted and cracked above forge-bright flesh. A pained bellow spilled from black, flaking lips, the outsize mannish face contorted in pain and confusion.
“Behold your folly!” Ardothan raised his arms high. “Astor sends a son to be my champion!”
The crowd roared, unaware or uncaring that the brute had chosen nothing of its fate. Viktor felt a flutter of uncertainty. Not fear. Not yet.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
Armund stood silent, teeth bared and head bowed. When Viktor beheld him through his shadow’s eyes, he saw Anliss’ forge-spirit standing close by, the swirl of cinder and flame that was her face furrowed no less deeply than her twin’s.
Inkari’s sneer faded to unhappy awe. “We think it’s a varloka.”
“My friend Malachi has a copy of Gormir’s Falsang. I’ve read the sagas. Varlokai are divine, yes, but no larger than a man. Gormir bested one at arm wrestling.”
“So the songs tell,” she said wryly. “Seems Gormir was an overcompensating braggard, even for a skald. Thralls found three when Ardothan reopened Elsbarg’s mines. They were sleeping on beds of stone, surrounded by rusted blades. Two were cold and grey. This one… Ardothan wanted it woken.”
“He’s mad,” rumbled Armund. “He’ll roast in Skanandra’s forge for this. Look at the poor scunnered thing. Astor won’t forgive.”
“That’s tomorrow. When has Ardothan ever cared of anything beyond today?”
In the arena, the thralls laid a massive notched axe at the varloka’s feet and scrambled for the safety of the dungeon gate. Cracked fingers closed about the haft.
The smeltpriest turned. Her hammer’s haft thumped twice on stone. “The Cindercourt waits.”
Armund scowled, his sightless eyes restless. “You can’t go in there, lad. It’ll pound you flat.”
Viktor stared as the varloka thrashed and railed at blazing walls twice its height. So different to the florid descriptions in Gormir’s Falsang, which had told of contemplative, measured creatures with dextrous hands and ready minds. Yet it was alike to the foundry kraikons, not just in size, but in aspect. The one the remnant of the other, fashioned by craftsmen who’d forgotten the divine creature that was inspiration’s source. As a younger man, he’d sparred with a kraikon, coming away battered and broken in body and pride.
Accepting Armund’s offer would have been so easy. Thrakkian honour had no claim on any save Thrakkians. But arrogant men never backed down.
“I will honour our bargain.”
Viktor drew his claymore and descended into the Cindercourt.
The coastal breeze tugged at Calenne’s dress and shivered at her skin. Or perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps she imagined these things, as she’d plainly imagined so much of her life at Tarona. It was maddening,
a night of contemplation fuelling a bleak mood as much anger as fear. Both were unfocused, suffocating, united in the urge to lash out at someone, anyone. As distraction. As recompense.
Beyond jumbled rocks and coarse hummocks, puddled by spent rain, Josiri and Erashel drew to a halt where the ragged, grey cliffs fell into the seething Issamar. Half a mile distant, flame leapt from Kellevork’s dark walls. Gusting breeze veered north until the Ice Wind blew strong, and carried a snatch of bellicose song and the rumble of drums.
Keeping low behind the hummock ridge, Calenne scrambled closer.
“… not a Thrakkian feast day.” Josiri contemplated the last of his apple core and tossed it into the white-flecked waves far below. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Who can tell with thrakkers?” Erashel folded her arms. “You think it’s Viktor?”
“He has a knack for raising commotion, and his trail does lead to Kellevork. If it is a feast day, they’ll be friendly enough.”
“And if it isn’t?” Erashel sat down on an outcrop, forcing Calenne to duck lower out of sight. “I’ll stay up here. One of us should keep a free hand.”
Josiri stiffened. “I can take care of myself.”
“I saw the border villages while you and Commander Keldrov wrestled with logistics. Fresh graves and burned farms. Let’s not be reckless.”
“And if some bellicose ceorla locks me up for ransom, you’ll break me out?”
“Yes.”
Calenne risked a glance over the hummock. Josiri stood facing Erashel, head cocked and hands loose behind his back. Wind-blown blond hair obscured much of his expression, but what remained was one Calenne had seen too often – suspicion poorly masked by polite enquiry.
“And that’s all there is to it?” he asked.
Erashel frowned. “What else could it be?”
“I still haven’t given you an answer.”
“I can read silence. But I’m not a child, and we’ve other matters to worry about.”
He sighed. “I understand the pragmatism at play. Honestly, I do. It’s a shrewd proposal. Even flattering. But… I’ve spent my life living in the shadow of tradition. What my mother expected, and what society – northwealder and south – demanded. It almost broke me. Even now, it threatens to do so. You’ve said it yourself: I’m too ready to play the outcast. If I wasn’t, who knows what might be different?”