by Matthew Ward
“Do you mind? I’ve only the one left.”
[[I have her.]]
“What do you mean, you have her?”
[[She tried to call on her light. I saw the afterimage.]]
Kurkas stared into the distance. To his complete lack of surprise, he saw nothing. He’d quickly come to terms with the fact that Anastacia’s perceptions of the mist-stolen streets were clearer than his own. For the first time since the Estrina, he’d cause to hope he might even see the sun.
“I can’t believe you let the girl come running off after me.”
[[I didn’t know. I wasn’t there. And do you know why? Because someone told me I shouldn’t be meddling in her life, so I stayed home and read an insipid romance, like a lady of quality.]]
He snorted. “She listens to me? Now I know I’m dreaming.”
[[I’m already regretting it. Now hush, before you bring half of Dregmeet down on us.]]
The sobs began so softly that Altiris didn’t recognise them at first. It was only when they grew louder that his ears pricked up, the tingle between his shoulders close behind. He’d heard similar in the streets outside, and every time chose a divergent course.
Sidara sat up and stared into the darkness. “Do you hear that?”
Altiris stood and drew his sword. “It’s coming closer.”
“Put that away,” she said. “What if it’s a child?”
“Then I’ll apologise.” He peered at the shifting shadows away towards the loading dock. The etravia, present in number only moments before, had thinned to a handful. “Do you not have tales of prizraks in the north?”
She gasped as the first shuffled into view. Not a child. Not even anything human, not any longer. Just a pale, emaciated husk in a remnant of vranakin grey, her fingers hooked to talons. Bloody eyes met Altiris’ gaze. The sob became a cold hiss spilling over needle teeth. Another parted the mists on the far side of the smelter’s river. A third. A fourth.
Sidara winced. “Chapel?”
“Go.”
With an ear-splitting shriek, the prizraks broke into a run, as often on all fours as feet alone. Sidara staggered as she reached the narrow landing. His shove sent her sprawling through the doorway.
Altiris spun about. His sword bit deep into pale flesh. The prizrak howled and shied away in a flurry of ragged cloth.
A second scurried up the banister on all fours. Altiris cried out as its claws opened his right cheek to the bone. A desperate thrust sent the creature wailing into the darkness, and then Altiris was through the chapel door. It crashed shut beneath Sidara’s shoulder.
As Altiris joined his weight to hers, the shrieks redoubled. Timber reverberated beneath frenzied abandon.
“The window,” Altiris gasped. “I’ll hold them. Get down to the street.”
“It’s three storeys of sheer brick,” she replied, breathless. “I can’t climb that.”
The door shuddered. Hungry cries redoubled. “Chance the fall. It’s better than staying here.”
Blue irises stuttered gold and fell dull. “I’m not leaving you to die.”
“If there’s something you can do about that, now would be good.”
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. He saw the truth in her eyes. Whatever light dwelled in Sidara’s blood, she’d spent too much of both on too little rest.
Impact shuddered the door open a crack. Talons scraped at the frame. Altiris hurled his shoulder at the door anew. A shriek, and the talons vanished.
“Go,” he said. “While there’s any chance at all.”
Sidara clenched her fists. Gold light gathered briefly about her fingers and bled away.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped.
A door panel splintered. Altiris’ head rushed hot as talons grazed his scalp. He hunched lower, boots slipping on tiles. “Go!”
Sidara backed towards the broken window.
A scream sounded behind the door. A wet thud. Another. More followed, the accompanying shrieks now thick with pain, not hunger. A cascade of footsteps on the stairs, and they ceased entirely.
A rap of knuckles. A familiar voice. “Open this damn door!”
Altiris opened the damn door to find a sodden Kurkas propped wearily against the outer jamb, black hair greyer than at their last parting, and face markedly more lined.
“You’re both in so much bloody trouble.”
Behind him, on the landing proper and clad in a dress so fouled it took Altiris a moment to realise it had once been ivory white, Anastacia stood on a pile of dismembered dead. The golden light rippling beneath her frozen face contrived the image of a scowl.
[[There was a time when I flew to war arrayed in gold and silver, a sunlight spear in my hand and diamonds glittering on my brow. Kings offered me fealty. The unsullied their virtue. Now look at me. I’m a nursemaid for children, and I smell like an abattoir.]] She brought her axe down on a prizrak’s corpse, splitting head neatly from body. [[I hate you all.]]
Forty-Nine
The elder cousins came to Silvane House at third bell, passing through a mansion emptied of servants and hearthguard in anticipation of their arrival. She’d wanted to run, to let the Dusk Wind carry her where it would. But defiance took courage, and Apara Rann had none. And so she sat, surrounded by gilded finery, and tried not to scream as the air crackled to ice.
“You are called to face the Parliament, cousin,” said one.
“It wasn’t my fault.” She closed her eyes. Athariss’ lifeless face stared back.
“Still you are called.” Another reached out a rag-bound hand. “Will you come willingly, or must we bring you?”
She almost laughed. Even now, they presented her with a choice that was no choice at all. Her service to the Crowmarket encapsulated in one perfect moment.
You’re not cut out for this. Leave while you can.
The advice of girlhood was never more apt. She wished she’d listened.
Freed from the mists to the cold afternoon air, Altiris’ soul soared free. Sidara leaned on him every step of the way – though not so heavily as Kurkas did Anastacia.
As for Anastacia herself, she’d navigated the mists with her customary surety. She cut a ghoulish figure in the lantern light beyond Three Pillars. It took little effort to imagine folk cowering behind their drapes as she passed, less a serathi on a mission of mercy than a demon seeking feast. Certainly no one crossed their path, a circumstance that spoke to a curfew willingly observed – which was to the benefit of all, for there seemed to be no constables to enforce it.
At the Abbeyfields gate, Sergeant Heren sent for a cart. The final half-mile thus passed swiftly, if jarringly. Soon, Altiris stood before the grand staircase of Abbeyfields’ front door, and the uncertain prospect of the elder Reveques’ welcome.
Anastacia helped Kurkas from the cart and eased him against a plinth. [[I trust you can stagger the rest of the way alone, Vladama?]]
“You’re leaving?” said Sidara.
[[Of course. I expect no welcome worthy of the name.]]
Kurkas snorted. He looked older and greyer than he had days before. Still on the outer cusp of his prime, but perhaps a year further removed. Altiris recalled the uneven chimes in the mists, and wondered if Kurkas had been gone a good deal longer than days. “Easier to walk away, ain’t it?”
[[I’ve no idea what you mean.]]
“Sure you don’t.”
“Please stay,” said Sidara. “Mother will want to thank you.”
Mother, not my parents. Accusations about Lord Reveque’s complicity had sunk deep.
[[I’m quite sure she will not.]]
“Then I will want to thank you. Properly.”
Anastacia turned to leave. [[Then it will wait until tomorrow.]]
Light flooded the driveway. “Sidara? Blessed Lumestra.”
Lady Reveque descended the stairs and flung her arms about her daughter. Fingers wended through Sidara’s matted, tangled hair; arms clung tight. None of the emotional detachment traditio
n demanded of nobility. A woman reunited in joy with a piece of her world thought lost.
“Mother…” said Sidara. “My arm…”
Lady Reveque stepped back. Fingers traced the bloody cloth of the arm she’d trapped between them. “It must be tended. You’ve been fortunate.”
“Yes. In my friends.”
Lady Reveque’s gaze touched first on Kurkas, then Altiris.
“We will talk about this.” A hand snaked beneath her veil to brush away a tear. “We shall, and at some length. But only after I’m certain you’ll survive the telling, and…”
She noted Anastacia’s presence where the spill of light yielded to darkness. Hand slipping from Sidara’s shoulder, she bore down, inevitable as death.
“Mother, no…”
[[I was leaving anyway,]] said Anastacia. [[You needn’t trouble yourself with the command.]]
Careless of the ruined, bloody gown, Lady Reveque embraced Anastacia with only a hair less ferocity than she had Sidara. The other went rigid, arms splayed, as one might upon discovering a spider crawling across one’s leg. After a moment that strained into discomfort, Anastacia returned the embrace, but hesitatingly, with reluctance that might have been fear for the other’s fragility, or might equally have been distaste.
“You returned my daughter to me,” said Lady Reveque. “No demon would do such a thing.”
Sidara offered a weary grin. Kurkas shook his head.
Gingerly, Anastacia pried herself clear. [[I should go.]]
“I won’t hear of it.” Brusqueness returned. “Not in that state. You will at the very least have clean clothes, and water to bathe. Hawkin? Hawkin!”
The steward appeared at the doorway, two maids hurrying in her wake.
“Shall I summon a physician, lady?”
Lady Reveque’s attention turned on each of her unexpected guests in turn. “No. Lumestra knows the hospices have their hands full, and my years in the convent have to be useful for something. Hot water, Hawkin. Clean cloth. And someone help Captain Kurkas. The poor man looks dead on his feet…” She glanced at the blood-soaked Anastacia. “… but perhaps through the servants’ door.”
Hawkin bobbed her head. “Yes, lady.”
Despite claims his injuries were “scrapes that would heal well enough alone”, Kurkas allowed Hawkin to lead him away to the prospect of a hot bath. Anastacia crossed the threshold with all the enthusiasm of a cyraeth anticipating exorcism, but eventually followed a nervous maid deeper into the house. All of which left a none too comfortable Altiris alone at the kitchen hearth with only Sidara and her mother for company.
“Sit down, boy,” said Lady Reveque. “There’s a time for formality, and this isn’t it. You too, Sidara. Sit.”
Altiris pulled up a chair at the table as Lady Reveque set about unwinding Sidara’s filthy dressings. “What a mess. You’ve more your father’s fortunes than your mother’s.” Sidara flinched. Lady Reveque leaned closer. “Who did this to you? A vranakin?”
She nodded. “I’d not be here but for Altiris, and…” Eyes wide, she rose halfway to her feet, restrained only by her mother’s grip about her arm. “I must speak to Hawkin.”
“She’ll be back soon. Sit down.”
“You don’t understand. We saw Captain Darrow. She might still be lost in the mists.”
“To my certain knowledge, Captain Darrow arrived at the Crossmarch watch house a little after noon today, practically carrying one of Lord Lamirov’s hearthguard. She could barely stand, but refused treatment until she’d reported to your father.” Again, Sidara flinched. “She told him you were wounded, but alive and in good company. I told Hawkin to take the evening off, but she wouldn’t listen.”
A maid returned with a bowl of steaming water, clean cloths and an assortment of physician’s paraphernalia, all borne on a tray. Lady Reveque dismissed her, then set about bathing and rebinding Sidara’s arm. Before long, the kitchen stank of tincture, cloying but wholesome. When all was done, she turned her attention to Altiris.
“That gash on your cheek. Is that the worst of it?”
“Bruises and sore bones, my lady. Nothing more. I too have been fortunate in my friends.”
Sidara smiled.
“Good,” said Lady Reveque. “But that will have to be stitched, or it’ll scar.”
He brushed the crust of blood and winced as she reached for the needle and thread lately used to draw Sidara’s wounds closed. “I don’t mind a scar.”
“My daughter seems to think you’re not a fool, so don’t prove her wrong. Bring the chair, and look up at the light.”
Sidara’s brief shake of the head offered no support, so Altiris did as he was told. Proximity to Lady Reveque did nothing to lessen his unease, even though the woman lost in physician’s labours was a good deal kinder in word and manner than the one he’d striven to avoid in recent days.
“It’s no good, I can’t see a thing.” She folded back her veil, her own scars livid in the lantern light. “Better. What did this? An animal?”
“A… a prizrak, lady.”
A thin hiss. “What days these are. Shadowthorns at the gates and horrors everywhere.”
“Shadowthorns?” a young voice called from the kitchen door. “You told me I was never to use that word.”
“And when have you done anything I’ve asked of you, Constans?”
The boy sidled into the room. Peering through his dark fringe, he beheld his battered sister with sullen disinterest. “Oh. You’re back. Is she to be punished, Mother? I’m punished whenever I run off.”
With a sigh, Lady Reveque drew her veil into place and set down the needle and thread. “Sidara’s not a prisoner, however it may sometimes seem. I just… I’m afraid for you. Both of you. But there’s nothing to be gained by keeping you from a world of which you must be part. Love and trust are hard to balance. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
For all that she addressed the words to her son, Altiris sensed they were meant more for her daughter – a sidelong apology from a woman too proud to admit fault.
Constans ran a hand through his unruly black hair, one eye part-closed in sceptic appraisal. The boy remained a mystery to Altiris, having endured Kurkas’ brief lessons only long enough to prove himself faster and more vicious with a singlestick than his fellow pupils.
“So she isn’t to be punished?”
Sidara slid a hand over her eyes. “For pity’s sake, Constans.”
“Enough, both of you,” said Lady Reveque. “Constans? Bed. But kindly ask Hawkin to join us, if she’s done with Captain Kurkas.”
Constans scowled and withdrew, having taken the measure of his mother’s patience and finding it too thin to risk. Peace restored to the kitchen, Lady Reveque again turned her attention to Altiris’ cheek. By the time Hawkin arrived, the matter was done, Lady Reveque’s hands scrubbed clean and Altiris’ nerves almost on an even keel.
“You wanted me, lady?”
“Yes. Would you send someone to tell my husband his wayward daughter is safe and well?”
“I’ll go myself, if you’re agreeable.” Hawkin flashed a subdued smile. “I might check on Vona?”
“Yes. Yes of course.”
“I imagine Father already knows,” said Sidara, after Hawkin had gone.
Lady Reveque froze. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I’m sure a little bird’s whispered the news in his ear. That’s what vranakin do, isn’t it? Trade tidings and tales.”
Altiris’ fleeting sense of calm dissipated. “Sidara, are you sure this is a good—”
“Lady Reveque,” the girl’s mother snapped the correction. “You forget yourself.”
“Leave him alone,” said Sidara. “Be angry at Father. He sold this city to the Crowmarket.”
Altiris shied from the inevitable explosion. Lady Reveque stood silent and unmoving by the kitchen’s stone basin, arms spear-straight at her sides.
“Young man,” she said at last, in cold, quiet tones. “You
have my thanks. But I will now speak with my daughter in private.”
Grateful and terrified, Altiris stumbled to his feet.
“Stay.” Sidara’s voice halted him halfway to the door. “He knows, Mother. Sending him away won’t change anything.”
“You don’t know that,” snapped Lady Reveque.
Caught between the vying wills of mother and daughter, Altiris went still in the vain hope that he might be forgotten long enough to make his escape. It was only then he realised that Lady Reveque’s retort lacked denial.
Sidara’s face fell. “You already know, don’t you? You know he’s a vranakin.”
“He’s nothing of the sort! Your father’s a good man. He made a difficult choice.”
“What could possibly be worth what his choices have done to this city?”
“Saving this city! The Crowmarket helped Ebigail Kiradin take control last year. The only way to split them apart was to offer a better deal: a sympathetic ear on the Council with none of Ebigail’s pride. Your father offered himself, thinking he’d never have the influence for it to matter.” Lady Reveque sagged. “Then Lord Akadra abandoned him and ruined everything.”
“Uncle Viktor knew?”
“Of course not! But with him gone it all came tumbling down. Your father’s held things together – kept the Crowmarket content, but also restrained them.” She swallowed hard. “He thought it would grow easier, but it’s only getting worse.”
“It’s his fault it’s getting worse.” Sidara flung out a hand. “They brag about how Malachi Reveque is just another of their playthings.”
“Sometimes you can’t make a decision wholly from the good. You take what life offers and do the best you can.”
“Or you find another way.”
“There wasn’t one.”
Sidara sprang to her feet, cheeks colouring. “Stop defending him!”
“I’m not defending him. I’m endeavouring to explain.” Lady Reveque paused. “When has your father ever taken a decision without me?”
Sidara went deathly pale. Her good hand steadied her against the kitchen table. “The great and just Reveque line. The bedrock of the Republic. A name bound together with truth and honour, even as the other families fell to squabble and shame. One worth sacrificing dreams for. Is any of it true?”