by Matthew Ward
“Hold! Who goes?”
For all that she knew it shouldn’t, Calenne’s confidence ran cold at the vanaguard’s challenge. Another piece of the Calenne-who-had-been echoing through her, and growing stronger as the helmless thrakker descended the keep stairs and struck out in her direction.
She altered course and passed through a wooden door. The dry, pungent aroma of horse dung rose to greet her, the soft champ and whinny from the stable stalls muffling the squeak of rusty hinges. She strode along the aisle, searching for an empty stall. The door creaked open.
“That’s enough,” said the vanaguard. “You don’t belong here. That much is clear.”
“I’m Lady Calenne Akadra.” The Thrakkian words came as readily as the innocent tone, though she’d never used them before. “I’m looking for my husband. He’s a friend to the thane.”
Impossible not to know of Armund’s elevation. The crowds had buzzed with it.
“Looking in the stables?”
“Not any longer. I can see he’s not here.”
“Maybe,” said the vanaguard. “I’ll send word to the great hall. Your husband can find you in the guardhouse, if he cares to.”
A mail-clad hand closed about Calenne’s wrist. The world drowned in black.
Horses screamed and reared as she lashed out. Not with a hand, or a foot, but a shadow concealed beneath the mask of her likeness. A shadow she hadn’t even known was there until it gathered the thrakker up and hurled him into an empty stall. He struck a stone pillar with a sickening crunch, and lay still.
Calenne gasped, as speechless at the writhing shadow as the body at her feet. Horror receded as the horses fell silent. Horror fed on fear, on guilt, and as her shadow caressed the broken corpse, those things bled away. They belonged to the Calenne-who-had-been. The Calenne-who-was felt only exhilaration as the corpse responded to her shadow’s touch, a lifeless arm jerking like a marionette at the first twitch of its strings.
Enthralled, she reached deeper. Let her shadow fill the empty flesh. A gloved hand jerked out to touch hers, fingertip to splayed fingertip.
She laughed, unable to contain a swell of childlike joy.
“Calenne?”
The shadow faded. The arm dropped. She started to her feet, absent guilt returning at a voice more familiar than her own. “Josiri?”
The stable door banged closed, let fall from a frozen hand. He stared like one lost to a dream, throat bobbing and tongue stuttering half-finished thought. “You’re dead. You died. Viktor…”
Shame crowded Calenne’s thoughts. Then anger, because she knew the shame wasn’t truly hers. Both were eclipsed by joy. She stepped from the stall and the corpse hidden within.
“Viktor wanted to keep me safe. He did only what I asked.”
Was that even true? Or had she parroted what Viktor believed the Calenne-who-had-been would have wanted? Had the words only ever been his, spoken by another’s voice to ease troubled conscience? Did it matter, if that truth was part of her?
Eyes bright with tears, Josiri stared down his hands. “Do you really hate me that much?”
The Calenne-who-had-been spurred the Calenne-who-was closer along that aisle. She took Josiri’s head in her hands, eyes welling reflected sorrow. “No. Never.”
He threw his arms about her and she him. Yet for all the warmth of the embrace, it didn’t touch the cold centre of her being.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said.
Josiri pulled away, his face mottled and sodden with tears. “You look different.”
“It’s been a year, Josiri. You look different too.” She offered a wavering smile. “You’ve eaten too well.”
“Viktor…” He wiped his face with a grubby sleeve. “I knew he was hiding something, I just never knew which question to ask. For an honest man he lies more easily than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Calenne drew him tight. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. Let it be the past, Josiri. We’re together. That’s all that matters. You. Me. Viktor. Anastacia. Family, now the Beral woman is gone—”
She cursed her mistake, but it was too late. He pulled back, suspicion glinting through tears. “Erashel? What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“She headed for the border after you left.” She clung to the lie, willed him to believe it. “After you refused her, she didn’t see any reason to stay.”
“You heard all that?”
“And more. I followed you ever since Tarona.”
“Last night. It was you.” His brow furrowed. “What did you say to her after I left?”
“Nothing. We never spoke.”
“Then how do you know why she went?”
“It was obvious!” She cast her arms wide in frustration, voice ragged. “I can’t believe you! Why are you spoiling this? Can’t you just be happy?”
He tilted his head, voice losing its warmth. “Why are you in the stables?”
“I was looking for you.”
“No. I don’t think you were.”
Pushing her arm aside, he stepped past.
“Josiri, no!”
Her shadow caught him at the moment his gaze widened at the vanaguard’s corpse. It hoisted him high to the rafters. Squeezing, twisting. His scrabbling hands found no purchase on its inky folds.
“You’re not my sister!”
“But I am!” she screamed. “I am Calenne Akadra. I am loved! I am real!”
The world rushed black, drowned in it as her joy drowned in fury and the renewed panic of the horses. Her shadow squeezed tighter as his struggles failed, smothering the lies that were truth as they smothered his breath. Only when Josiri’s effort ceased entirely did the black veil about Calenne’s thoughts recede, laying bare what she’d done.
“No!”
She dropped to her knees. Josiri fell boneless beside her, throat red raw, and chest stuttering fitful breaths. Joy that he lived sputtered beneath certainty he’d never forgive, never understand. The brother she’d no choice but to love could only ever hate her for what she was, and was not.
Calenne doubled over. She’d been happy at Tarona. Happy with Viktor. Content believing the lie. Now everything was falling apart. All because someone had come creeping into their life, like a vranakin at a wedding feast, and poisoned everything.
Sorrow gave way to wrath. To resolve. Still weeping, she kissed Josiri’s forehead. The last of the Calenne-who-had-been burned away. The Calenne-who-was rose to her feet and left the stables.
It all felt… different to how Armund had expected. Not the throne, which was as hard-edged and angular as they all were. Reminder that the comforts of rule never lasted. Even if your rivals didn’t get you, the Raven would, in time. Better to fill your shrinking days with deeds worthy of song.
So yes, the throne was as expected, but the rest? Reclaiming his birthright had been the dream of years, but the reality lacked something. Perhaps it was tiredness and the pain of a snapped ankle. Perhaps it was loss, with Anliss at last fully at Astor’s hand, her vengeance sated in the Cindercourt. A cruel reprieve to have robbed them of final farewell, but Armund supposed she’d carry his love with her, unspoken though it was. She’d always known his mind. Infuriating and glorious, all at once.
Then perhaps it was the darkness, no longer for parting. That made sense. Too much of life’s pleasure lay in the beholding. The rays of the sun dancing on the waves. Banners raised in triumph. The delicate curve of an axe well-crafted. A beautiful woman, offering a smile. Other sensations inferred these things. Warmth against skin. A victor’s roar. Gentler, softer sounds and pressures. None of them the same as seeing.
Armund growled, and shook maudlin thought aside. “As if you’re the first to leave his eyes behind on the field. You’ve glories left to come.”
That was true. The angular throne was his, and he intended never to lose it. Indrigsval’s treasury was his also, whatever remained after Ardothan’s fancies. And beyond that, a story worth bequeathing. One that could only season with age, as all
good sagas did.
And while he waited for years to pass, and family to birth and bloom, there was always mead.
He laughed softly to himself and drained his tankard.
A footstep sounded in the dark.
“Akadra? Is that you?”
No answer came, nor a second footstep to make sense of doubt.
The empty tankard loomed mournful in his thoughts. One more before lending his voice to the muster of Kellevork. A last toast to vanished sister, and a throne reclaimed. He reached out to the table, to the bell that would summon a thrall.
Another footstep. This time accompanied by a swish of cloth. Armund sought stillness and sifted the outer darkness. Unfamiliar acoustics offered up little but confusion. Too much time playing the blind man, and not enough learning his new world.
He reached for the bell. A hand closed about his. Cold. Soft. Unyielding.
“Hello, Armund.”
He frowned. “I know your voice.”
“I’m sure you do,” she replied.
“Calenne? Calenne Trelan?” He frowned. “Can’t be. You’re dead.”
And so she was. He heard it in her voice. The open grave and the squawk of carrion birds.
The hand withdrew, the bell with it. His voice would carry to the corridor beyond. So why was he struck by the sense it would make no difference? Maybe because Calenne – if it was Calenne – knew that also, and didn’t care.
“You ruined everything.” Footsteps drifted away to Armund’s left. “We didn’t have much, Viktor and I, but we had each other. We were happy. But then you set him thinking on the past, and the more I tried to make sense of it, the faster it all fell apart.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, lass. Akadra’s a comrade. We were comrades. I lost my sight saving your life. My sister died!”
“I know you don’t understand.” The voice drew closer. The air crackled cold. “But you’re a thrakker. You understand the importance of debts and bargains. A life for a life. Yours for mine. Maybe then things can go back to how they were.”
She said the last dreamily. Heirs and sagas as yet unearned fell away into the cold, dark void.
“I won’t beg,” said Armund.
Her breath was a cold breeze at his ear. “I don’t need you to.”
Viktor heaved open a door that felt heavier than it should, the weight of the gilded timbers enhanced by a long and tiring morning. “Armund, there’s a Glaiholda ceorla offering to join the muster, but…”
At the hall’s far end, Armund sat silent on his throne. Calenne turned from his side and straightened, lips parting a bright smile.
“Calenne? When did you arrive?” He blinked. “How did you know where to come?”
She stepped from the dais and drew closer. “You think you could hide from me, Viktor? Me, of all people?”
“And you’re not angry?”
“Not a bit. Disappointed, of course. But angry? No.”
He frowned, his thoughts realigning. “Josiri’s here. In Kellevork. If he sees you…”
Calenne took his hands, a flicker of pain darting behind her eyes. “We’ve already spoken.”
“You have?”
“Just moments ago. I gave him much to think about.”
That seemed inevitable. As did further argument with Josiri now he knew the truth. It would be better in the long run, especially with wider events as they were. If only she’d given him some warning. “Armund, I owe you an explanation.”
Armund offered no reply other than a flex of his fingers, the knuckles white where they gripped the throne’s armrests.
“I think he’s asleep,” said Calenne. “I’ll be honest, I was about to give up on him. Perhaps we should leave him be.”
If that were so, he was sleeping in the stiffest, most rigid pose Viktor had ever seen. Even Kurkas, who he’d known to slumber standing up, back braced against a tree, would have looked relaxed by comparison. Armund looked more like a man under restraint than one taking his ease. More than that, the room held a strange sensation. Not something present, but something absent, the lack so unusual that Viktor couldn’t even begin to deduce its identity.
The doors crashed open. A thunder of boots admitted Josiri and Inkari at the head of a half-dozen vanaguard, the former with blood matted in his blond hair, and all with weapons readied. Josiri’s cheeks were flushed with anger.
“Stand away from her, Viktor!” he shouted. “That’s not Calenne.”
Viktor sighed. Of all the circumstances in which to face this conversation… Private emotion had no place in front of strangers. Armund, perhaps, for they were bonded by battles shared. But Inkari? The vanaguards? Was this his penance for deceit, however well-meaning?
He sidestepped to set himself between Calenne and brandished steel, and turned around. “But it is, Josiri. I brought your sister out of the fires of Eskavord. I should have told you. I nearly did, that last day before you rode north. Instead I honoured her wish to be free.”
“I’ve heard this story.” Josiri tugged down the collar of his shirt. The livid bruise beneath owed nothing to intemperate emotion. “She spun it just before she sought to choke my life away.”
“He’s lying.” Calenne clung to Viktor’s arm. “He’s mad with anger, and it’s all my fault. I should never have asked you to deceive him.”
Inkari clapped her hands. The vanaguard started forward. Viktor, weaponless, dragged Calenne behind and sought sanity in an afternoon crumbling to madness.
Josiri edged closer. “She’s already killed one man, Viktor. I can show you his body. Blessed Lumestra, but I think she murdered Erashel too.”
Calenne stared at him, face and voice twisted in sorrow. “Oh, Josiri. What have we come to? Take me away from this, Viktor. There’s no reasoning with him.”
“She has a shadow, Viktor. Like yours. She’s an imposter. A demon.”
“Quiet! Both of you!” The vanaguard shuddered to a halt at Viktor’s bellow, wary of the man who’d bested a varloka short hours before. “Let me think. Let me explain.”
Even as he spoke, Viktor realised that neither thoughts nor explanations would alter matters, for he finally realised what was wrong about the room. It was him. More precisely, it was his shadow, which was quieter than he’d known in years. Beyond quiescent, beyond cowering. It didn’t want to be noticed. Why?
Arms outspread to discourage hasty action, Viktor cast his shadow upon the great hall. At once, he perceived the bonds pinning Armund to his throne, and his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He saw too the Dark billowing about Calenne, through Calenne – a piece of her being he’d always seen, but never recognised. Howling in despair, he lashed out at Armund’s bonds, scattering them to nothing.
“She came to kill me, lad. Said I ruined everything.” Armund gasped for breath and slumped on his throne. “Demon or not, she’s glaikit – mad as a fish in a forge.”
Viktor rounded on Calenne, about whom the Dark now flickered freely, all pretence cast aside. The pit of his stomach fell away. He felt lost, more lost than he had in years.
“What are you?”
She sank to her knees, head bowed. “Don’t you know?” Her sob of despair became a bitter chuckle. “I’m your guilt. I’m what you made when you couldn’t save her. Something with her face. Something you could love. I don’t have her memories. I don’t have a life. All I have is loss, and pain, and anger. I’m a part of you, Viktor. We are one.”
Josiri looked away, face contorted in anguish. Inkari spat. Armund hung his head.
Viktor looked on his love through his shadow’s eyes, and saw nothing but reflection. Calenne was not a host for the Dark, she was fashioned of it. She seethed with it. A conjuring so far-reaching, so complex, that Viktor couldn’t imagine how he’d managed such a thing, let alone forgotten the striving.
A buried memory clawed to the surface. A flash of steel in a burning cottage. Blood soaking through his clothes. This wasn’t Calenne. He’d killed Calenne, though Malatr
iant had taken her soul long before. Of course he’d driven that madness from his mind. He’d made it hers.
“We are all one in the Dark,” he said softly.
“Drag it away!” said Inkari. “Throw it in the forge!”
Calenne snarled and leapt to her feet. The room rushed dark. A pulse of shadow hurled a vanaguard away. Another fell to his knees, clutching at his throat.
“No!” Viktor shouted. “No. Calenne! Look at me!”
She stopped, her shadow rigid, coiled.
“Did you want to be her?” he asked, his voice thick. “Would you be Calenne Trelan – Calenne Akadra – if only for a moment?”
The snarl slipped from her lips and her brow. “I can’t.”
“Look inside yourself. Look at the memories I gave you. What would she choose?”
She closed her eyes. The shadow drew back, and daylight flooded in. Arms at her sides, she stood before him, cheeks stained by tears, but her eyes unafraid.
“End this,” she whispered. “Please.”
Heart too full for words, he held her close. The Dark within her yielded without resistance, peeled away beneath his shadow’s probing, layer by layer, inch by inch, until her Dark was his once more, and only the barest scrap of her remained.
“I love you,” she said, the words little more than memory even as they were spoken.
“Of course you do,” he murmured. “I never gave you any other choice.”
Then the last of Calenne Akadra, the woman who had never truly existed, slipped away into shadow, and Viktor fell to his knees and wept.
Fifty-Two
By early evening, Josiri had tried and failed to bring balance to a storm-tossed heart. The only kindness was that he’d barely come to terms with “Calenne’s” existence before her deceit had been revealed. The pain of a loss thought faded hadn’t blossomed to greater hurt. And so he walked Kellevork’s tapestried halls while the muster of Indrigsval gathered pace, his feet ushering him to a confrontation neither head nor heart wanted any part of.
In the end, Josiri found Viktor where he’d seen him last, a shirt-sleeved and silent presence in an empty hall. He sat hunched on the edge of the dais, the air cold with his brooding. But his tears? Those were long spent. Viktor Akadra was once again a rock upon which dreams foundered.