by Matthew Ward
Haldrane’s estimate of the disaster made a grim tally. Three in every five men dead or taken prisoner. Of the two remaining, one was wounded. Rhaled had suffered worst of all, whole villages robbed of their sons. But the worst – the very worst – was to tread her father’s tent, and to wear its emptiness as a cloak. The unfairness of it all dragged at her heart. How could it be fair to have striven to avert one disaster, only to find another?
For all that Melanna had lived with the prospect of this day all her adult life, its burdens now were too great to bear, redoubled by the bitterness of their last parting. Worse was the knowledge that her actions had brought this sorrow to pass – first by encouraging her father’s war, and then by rendering that war unwinnable through conspiracy. Haldrane’s account of the battle had made that all too clear. If her father was dead, she’d as good as struck the blow. A world saved from the abyss was cruel consolation.
Too weary for tears, she’d lingered in her father’s sanctum, seeking comfort in simple possessions. His old dagger, the blade too thinned by the whetstone’s grind to serve in battle, but too lucky to throw away. The Book of Ashana, hand-copied over the course of a decade or more, the stark but graceful calligraphy revealing that an Emperor’s art served more causes than war. The locket bearing Melanna’s mother’s likeness – that he’d left it behind said more about his hopes of victory than Melanna was ready to admit. A polished black everstone, brilliant green lights dancing within – with the tell-tale hole through which one could hear the whispers of the honoured dead – found by a bright-eyed girl in the rubble of their summer villa, and retained by her father as a keepsake of days never to return.
She hadn’t wanted to leave, but she had, and ridden out to the hawthorn with but a single companion. The war council – her war council, until happier news proved otherwise – had argued against, but she’d brooked no objection. The Emperor was missing, likely dead; his legacy – her inheritance – stained by failure and a defeat unrivalled in living memory. The throne, once secured by a goddess’ favour, hung in the balance. Weakness, even to one’s subjects, was no option at all.
Fifty yards distant, the riders divided, one spurring away from the banners. Viktor Akadra. Melanna didn’t need to see his face. It was inconceivable they’d send anyone else.
Naradna – now Aelia – Andwaral walked her steed to Melanna’s side. It should have been Aeldran, and not his sister, who as Queen of Icansae had burdens of her own. But Aeldran drifted in the soothing embrace of bethanis to numb the pain of a leg amputated below the knee. He’d crawled a mile before the outriders had found him, and by then the limb had been beyond salvation. One broken soul among thousands. Another victim of a worthless war.
“There’s still time to change your mind, savim.”
Melanna shook her head. “I might say the same to you.”
“And leave you without a champion if matters go ill?”
The rider approached, the lantern in his hand doing little to dispel the darkness about his shoulders. A shadow seen more with the heart than with the eye.
“Lord Akadra.”
“Empress.”
A heart barely at rest fluttered anew. “Princessa. My father is missing, not slain. Unless you know otherwise?”
He didn’t answer at first, eking out her discomfort with each moment of silence. “I’ve had no word of his fate. He’s fortunate in that.”
She met his gaze. No weakness. “I understand. And our wounded?”
“Are treated better than they deserve.”
“Then I would like to discuss terms of settlement.”
The darkness about Akadra deepened. The air chilled. “There will be no terms. You may drain this war to the dregs for all I care. Come morning, you will.”
“And how many more will die? Whatever else you are, Lord Akadra, you’re not wasteful of lives.”
“I’ve no need to be. Not when the dead march at my command.”
“So I’ve heard, but I wonder why any of us are still alive? Perhaps the dead fear the onset of night? Or is it that your command is not all you’d have us believe?”
He offered no flicker of expression. “You of all people know what I am. You’d do well not to underestimate me.”
“And you’d do well not to underestimate my…” She swallowed. “My father’s icularis. They’ve already taken account of your forces. For all our losses, we outnumber you three to one, and your warriors are as weary as mine. You’re formidable, Lord Akadra, as I know to my cost, but are you worth six thousand swords?”
Again Akadra fell silent. Melanna held his gaze, daring him to read the lies in her words. Haldrane had made only the vaguest assessment of the Tressian forces, and she was scarcely more confident in the tally of her own. But beneath the lies lurked a singular truth: that the day’s losses would echo through the years to come. Compounding them served no one.
“What do you propose?” he said at last.
“Come morning, we will withdraw. This war can be over, if you so choose.”
His eyes narrowed. “And the price?”
“We will take the Eastshires under our protection. They will become a province of Empire.”
“Unacceptable.”
“It’s that, or lose everything east of the Tevar Flood. The Golden Court followed my father to war in hopes of claiming new territory. If I give them nothing, they will take it for themselves, and more will die. Is that what you want?”
Melanna fought to calm a racing pulse, aware that if Akadra chose to kill her, she could do little to stop him. The terms had been Haldrane’s idea. To make no demand was to admit weakness, both to the Golden Court, and to the Tressian Council, and weakness invited challenge. But nor were the Eastshires so grand a prize that terms would be dismissed out of hand. They were vulnerable with Ahrad gone, and Akadra had to know that they’d be near impossible to hold, even if he refused.
“What would you have me say to those you have driven from their homes?” he snarled. “What justice do I offer to those you have slain?”
“Tell them that Melanna Saranal made herself a traitor to present this offer. That she will be fortunate to end the year with her life, let alone her throne. That may yet be their justice.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Lord Trelan can tell you, when next you meet.”
Again, he fell silent, though this time Melanna had the impression his thoughts wandered far from that blustery stretch of meadow.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” she said. “This war began because I, and those I love most dearly, believed you a horror only fire and valour could destroy. Now I hope you have it in you to prove me wrong. That the Droshna holds less malice than an Ashanal, and offers his people more than a Legacy of Steel.”
He shifted in his saddle. “I have no official standing, and can make no promises, but I will… recommend your offer to the Council. Were I you, I would ride soon, and ride hard.” He hauled on his reins. “This will mark the third time I have shown you mercy. There will not be a fourth.”
He rode off in a spray of mud. The chill of his presence remained.
Melanna exhaled to her last dreg. “You’ll convey these tidings to the Golden Court? I… I need to be alone for a time.”
Aelia nodded. “Of course, savim.”
“How long before they challenge me?”
“They will await confirmation of your father’s death. Anything less would be—”
She offered a bleak smile. “Against tradition?”
“Yes, savim.”
The ruined cottage consisted of two tumbledown walls and a single glazed window that overlooked the wharf side and the Silverway’s placid waters. But it was an island of tranquillity where the rest of the night-cloaked town rang to voices raised in jubilation and sorrow. Rosa wondered if the cottage was thought to be haunted. Certainly, it would be so after today. The window carried just enough reflection to remind her of what she’d become: a woman as much spirit as
flesh, one foot in the mists and the other in the light.
Beyond the tangled, cobbled streets, a corpse-barge slipped its moorings and began the slow westward journey, bearing highblood sons and daughters on their last journey home. Misery soured to loathing. Surely half a life was better than none at all? Acknowledging the truth brought little solace. For all she walked the ephemeral world, Rosa no longer felt part of it. Which made recent resolution all the harder, but no less necessary.
She pressed a hand against the glass, fingertips guttering like candleflame.
“I have a question,” said the Raven.
He stood in the ruined doorway, his customary nonchalance undercut by tension. “Go away.”
He set his hat down on the floor. “No kind word?”
“Do you deserve one?”
“I suppose not.”
Rosa growled and turned away. “Then ask your question, and go.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s your question?”
“It occurs to me that it’s one I’ve never asked.” He paused. “I’ve recently been privileged to glimpse how affairs will unfold. I beheld a bitter, spiteful creature railing at the world. I didn’t much care for him, but he was me.”
She snorted. “For the first time, I feel like we might actually have something in common.”
“Strangely, I don’t find that as comforting as I once might.”
Rosa set her back to the window and sought a clue to his mood. “Should I care?”
“I imagine not. If it helps at all, you should consider your… transgressions a result of my influence. However, that doesn’t answer my question. What do you want?”
She pursed her lips, but where was the harm? He’d know soon enough, if she held to her resolve. “To fight for life more than death. To be a shield, not a sword.”
“I should be offended, perhaps?” He waved at her, the swift flourish of fingers encompassing brow to heel. “I didn’t want this for you. I hope you understand that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted,” she snapped. “Only what you did.”
He joined her at the window and stared down at the river. “My part in your war is over, as is Jack’s. Whatever happens next is for ephemerals to resolve. Which means our bargain is broken. I’ve not upheld my end of our agreement, so by rights I should already have returned you to how you were. But in light of our past association, I’ve chosen not to force the matter.”
“Why would I possibly want to remain like… Like this?”
“Even an eternal cannot accomplish what the divine can.”
“The Queen of Otherworld as a champion of life?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’ve always been fond of irony. The title would be purely ceremonial, of course. No influence. No subservience. No attachment. Consider it a gift.”
A hand against the glass once more, Rosa closed her eyes. Free of the Raven, and yet imbued with his power. What better way to redeem past mistakes? To grow beyond what she’d been? The temptation was thick enough to taste. Only…
Freed of the Raven’s influence, her mistakes would be her own. For all he said her actions that day could be laid at his door, the claim rang hollow. The Pale Queen had done nothing that the Reaper of the Ravonn would not. Better if her mistakes went unlaced with divine power.
The windowpane shattered beneath her bunched fingers. “No. My humanity ran thin enough before. Frankly, it doesn’t need the help.”
“You’re certain?” She’d expected anger, or disappointment, but the Raven seemed more relieved than anything. “Many would kill for what you have. As a matter of fact, three have recently come to my keeping for want of obtaining it.”
“I’m sure.”
“There must be something I can give you in exchange. I don’t want to be like the Raven I glimpsed. He’d no room in his cold heart for anyone save himself. That isn’t me. At least, I don’t want it to be.”
“Then choose to be something else.”
“It’s not that easy. To be human is to seek purpose. To be divine is to be trammelled by it.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
A shadow darkened the stoop. “Rosa?”
Rosa’s breath caught at the sound of a voice more familiar than her own. One she’d despaired ever of hearing again. “Sevaka?”
It was her, just as she’d been at their last parting. Filthy, worn, weary and yet the most wondrous sight Rosa had ever seen. Impossible. A heart that had long abandoned joy leapt at the sight and ached anew as that joy soured to suspicion. One last bleak joke from a god who’d only ever offered misery couched in friendship.
She rounded on the Raven, voice ragged. “How dare you? Sevaka died. She’s dead, and the best part of me with her.”
The apparition drew closer. “It’s true. I died. I walked the mists. I…” She shook her head. “I don’t remember much about it. But I remember I held the wall. And that my last thought was of you.”
Rosa stumbled back. “No. This can’t be…”
The apparition’s face creased with hurt. Certainty faltered.
“I have never lied to you, Roslava Orova,” said the Raven. “Not before, and not now. What’s the point of being the Keeper of the Dead if you can’t bend the odd rule?”
The apparition’s arms enfolded her, and doubts evaporated. No doppelganger could so perfectly match the sensation of a longed-for embrace. Not the warmth, not the touch, not the scent of a love lost. A hundred tiny details unnoticed until that moment, when Rosa needed them most. She returned the embrace, joyful tears washing away those of sorrow.
Pulling back, Rosa cradled Sevaka’s head in her hands and gazed into grey eyes as bright with tears as her own.
“How?” she gasped. “How is this possible?”
The Raven curled a half-smile. “Perhaps because if the heartless Raven can be unselfish, even for a moment, then all manner of terrible things once thought inevitable may never come to pass. Or perhaps because, just once, I can choose to be a friend sooner, rather than later.”
Sevaka wiped her eyes and offered him a scowl. “I am not a gift to ease your conscience.”
“What conscience? As for the rest? Of course you’re a gift, and so is Rosa. What else is love, save to be blessed with a reward of which you consider yourself unworthy, but urges you to give of yourself in exchange?” He shrugged and set his hat back onto his head. “In any case, the deed is done. I bid you good evening, ladies. May it be a long, long time before we see one another again… but perhaps not too long.”
Then he was gone, and they alone.
Sevaka stared at the emptiness left behind. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“I don’t care.” Rosa drew her in for a kiss, then hissed as pain creased the back of her hand.
“Rosa? What is it?”
“My hand.”
Pulling free, she stared at knuckles haler of complexion than before, the lacerations from the broken windowpane bright with blood. Not the empty flesh of the Pale Queen – not even an eternal’s dark ichor – but scarlet.
Kai awoke into darkness. Not the darkness of the mists, but the gloom of a shuttered lantern, haunted by the foul air of a silted river. Distant aches reminded of wounds taken. Heaviness of limbs spoke to imperfect mending; of a body fast approaching the precipice. His hand found the rough wool of a cloak, bundled as a pillow. A bear pelt spread as a blanket. No crown. No sword. Tressian song adrift beyond the walls.
Was he a prisoner again in defeat?
Muscles screaming reluctance, he rose with a creak of shifting timber.
Gold glinted, and a hand closed about his shoulder. “Hush, savir. We are in the very jaws of death.”
“Devren?” The warleader’s face grew to focus in the gloom, an expression seldom less than worried now morbidly so. “Where are we?”
“The cellar of a fisherman’s hut, perhaps half a mile from Govanna.”
“And the battle?”
/> “Done, my Emperor.”
No need to enquire as to the outcome. A commoner’s dwelling was hardly a victor’s repose. A new pain joined the aches of unsettled bones, this one tight about Kai’s heart. “How bad is it?”
“The Ashanal has walked the field. She paints a bleak picture.” He wiped at stubble and looked away. “The demons of Fellhallow have abandoned us. Our warriors lie slaughtered. Those who remain have retreated to Sirovo. The Tressians whisper of the dead marshalling to their cause.”
Kai kept his expression rigid, determined not to wear the burden of his heart plain upon his face. Shadows yielded to tired eyes, revealing three Immortals about the room’s extent. All were filthy and bloodied, their faces crowded by the stoicism of men in denial of unpalatable truth.
“How is it we remain free?”
“Akangar and Golmund bore you here. The Ashanal mended your harms. We have abided the hours since.”
“Without discovery?”
“A patrol happened by some time ago. Two men. The Ashanal cautioned us to stay silent and went to greet them. They looked inside and rode away. They saw only what she wished.”
“And where is Elspeth now?”
“She left. She does not explain herself to me.”
Kai grunted. “Where is my crown? My sword?”
“Jagorn has them in his keeping. They are safe.”
Safe. None of them were safe, even with Elspeth watching over them as she had. The chaos of battle’s aftermath had kept them hidden as much as her magic. Come morning, matters would be worse… were he alive to see them. He was nothing but a foolish old man; no one to blame for his woes but himself. A goddess misled. A daughter betrayed. A divine bargain severed by the strike of his sword. An army broken through hubris. And if Devren’s expression spoke truly, an Empire humbled where it should have triumphed. Could there be any failure more complete?
The only solace of defeat was that it freed Melanna. With the Raven unvanquished, Jack’s claim on the future was spent. Or such was the hope to which Kai clung.