by Matthew Ward
Drawing aside the makeshift blanket, Kai crossed to a narrow window in the far wall. He opened the filthy curtain a crack, and stared out across a river alive with barges’ prow lanterns. Upstream, king’s blue uniforms stood sentry before a sunken jetty. Bundled dead rattled past on handcart and barrow, ushered to a corpse-barge’s keeping.
He let the curtain fall. “What do you counsel, old friend?”
Devren drew back his shoulders. “The fields to the east blaze with Tressian fires, but their eyes will be towards Sirovo. With a swift horse and firm purpose you can be among friends long before dawn.”
If the sentries were slow to react. If his body didn’t fail before he reached the safety of Rhalesh banners. And even if he came safely to the army, how many hours before the mists took him at last? Dead, he was a failure. A burden for ever on the House of Saran, should it long outlive him. Better simply to disappear. One more mystery in a world swollen by them.
Above, the door creaked. Stoic expressions regained purpose. Jagorn and Golmund slipped daggers from their sheaths. Devren’s hand closed about his mace’s haft.
Dust trickled down from the floorboards. The trapdoor creaked aside. Black boots preceded a king’s blue tabard on the stairs. Akangar drew back into shadow, coiled to pounce.
“Spare me your attempts at stealth,” hissed Elspeth. “It’s me.”
Kai sagged with relief as she descended into the cellar. “Perhaps a little warning next time, Ashanal?”
“There may not be a next time. Even now, reinforcements are dribbling in from the west. Come dawn, this riverbank will be alive with enemies. One or two I can deceive, but a patrol? A company? Even were the moon full, that would tax me.” She picked at the edge of her tabard, her lip curling. “So I am forced to hide my brilliance beneath this… this crude—”
“Then we should move, and soon,” said Kai. “Devren suggests we steal horses and chance the gallop.”
She shook her head. “There are too many corpse-parties on the field, and too many guards with them. Thrakkians pick over our dead like carrion. One cry of warning and you’ll have an army on your heels.”
“Then what else is there?” asked Devren. “The noose is closing. If the Emperor is taken, he will be paraded to the pyre. The shame of it will cling to his heir, if she lives.”
Elspeth scowled. “She does. It’s why I’ve been away so long. My mother demanded to speak with me. She offered reminder that my duty was done. I am to leave you to your fate, and carry the sword and crown to your daughter, so that an Empress may rule.”
Kai closed his eyes, gave himself to the warmth kindled by her words. “Melanna lives.”
“She is at Sirovo, or so Mother insists. What does it matter?”
“It is everything. You should do as the Goddess asks. My fate should not be yours.”
“I cannot. I will not.” She stiffened, aquiver with pride. “I promised to serve you. I will do so until the end. That was our bargain.”
Kai’s hand spasmed. He clenched it tight and ignored the worry in Elspeth’s eyes. That end would not be long in coming. Either by Tressian blade, the spectacle of the pyre, or his own failing body, the mists would soon take him. What purpose railing against that fate without cause?
But even as the thought formed, Kai realised he had cause. Victory would have made unassailable Melanna’s claim to the throne. Defeat left all uncertain. Even if she had the crown, and the sword… What worth such baubles when set against an inheritance of failure? If he died, broken and feeble – if he vanished into history like a ghost – he would only further undermine her position.
Whatever came next, his path ended in the mists, but opportunity remained to ensure hers led to the throne. One last chance to blaze bright before darkness fell. Such was tradition – the same tradition Melanna had resisted all her young life. Glory to make truth of a lie. Blood spilled to wash away all sins, and all failures.
He stared out again to the bobbing lights of the river, an audacious plan taking shape. One last deed to echo through history before the mists took him.
“I will not slink away into the night. I would have my daughter know I fought to the last. I would have our people remember my name with reverence, and the Tressians whisper it with fear.” He cast his gaze about the crowded cellar, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. “This will be my Last Ride. There is nothing but death at the end of this road. I free you from oath and duty, but I hope you will accompany me, all the same. A man should not die alone.”
Devren knelt, his grey head bowed. A ripple of gold, and the three Immortals followed suit.
“Saran Amhyrador,” he said. “In life or in death, our place is at your side.”
Jeradas, 10th Day of Wealdrust
Consider always that it may not be your battle to win.
A good death is worth more than gold.
from the saga of Hadar Saran
Sixty-Seven
The lock gates glided open, driven by the grind of hidden gears. The roar of the weir redoubled, and the Silverway was an inky black ribbon threading ramshackle streets, ushering the corpse-barge towards the setting sun.
The view through the cabin’s filthy porthole greatly diverged from Kai’s expectations. Not a bastion of stained glass and polished metal, but a squalid tangle of buildings, punctuated by the magnificence of clock towers and churches. The glories of Tressia, capital of the Republic, lay in the past… had they ever existed at all.
Tressia, the city of his ancestral enemies, and he now trapped within it. Worse, in the hooded garb of those enemies, for fear that warrior’s silks and an easterner’s aspect would spur discovery. Devren and the three Immortals waited in the bilge, concealed among the dead in anticipation of a search that had not come. The river watchman had made the briefest tour of the upper deck, skirting the tarpaulined bundles with the distaste of a man who’d seen too many such sights.
Elspeth, her army tabard exchanged for a naval coat, stood at the barge’s stern with her elbow at the tiller, her expression unconcerned as she guided the craft through slime-clung wharves and the cloying, night soil stench of urban river meeting the sea.
“The watchman said there’s to be a celebration tonight.” Elspeth spoke as if to herself, with no flicker of expression towards the open cabin door.
Kai grunted in the gloom. A celebration meant crowds – a gift to the purpose at which he found himself. Concealment. Witness. And the one as important as the other. “Did he say where?”
Another barge slid past to starboard, towed upriver by straining carthorses. Children jeered from a crumbling embankment, flung stones spattering across the churning waters. Elspeth nudged the tiller and the barge drifted behind a broken-masted merchant hulk, moored mid-stream.
“No.” She’d a wicked gleam in her eye. “I can find out. People like talking to me.”
“Do so.”
Fingers spasmed, the tremor a warning of waning time. Kai gripped his sword and sank back on the bench. A few hours more, and it would all be over.
Viktor sank from the saddle and into Stonecrest’s gravel, his shadow as weary as his flesh. Sleep was a distant memory, devoured by the horrors of a battle won.
A battle won? Hardly that. Even without the Eastshires ceded, too many had died to claim victory. He’d considered ignoring the summons, but there was little left for him to do at Govanna that Rosa and Keldrov could not.
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
Kurkas stood at the head of the stairway, the mansion’s front door falling closed behind. No salute. No smile. No welcome in a face that had aged years in a few short months.
Viktor tugged his surcoat back into position and made his way up the stairs. “Captain. It’s good to see you.”
“Lord Trelan’s waiting inside.”
The expression remained impassive, Kurkas’ one good eye staring straight ahead without really seeing anything. Attentive, but elsewhere. The soldier’s trick, and none played it better. But
always before, he’d played it for a joke. Giving shape to a distance that wasn’t really distance.
“You’ve something you want to say to me, captain?”
The eye didn’t flicker. “No, sah!”
“Say it anyway.”
Silence stretched to aching eternity. Long enough for Viktor to fear he’d have to make the matter an order and undermine everything. Then, at last, the parade ground stare slipped away and shoulders drooped. The bluff soldier replaced by a disappointed friend.
“We needed you, and you weren’t here.”
Viktor closed his eyes. Whatever lie he told himself about the months since they’d last spoken, that truth was unassailable. So many bonds broken. Were he honest, he doubted that events would have played out greatly otherwise. He little comprehended the powers that had gathered to the war. Indeed, he scarcely understood his own, even now. But that wasn’t the point, was it? He might have made a difference, and would now never know.
“I’m sorry, Vladama. It won’t happen again.”
The other’s expression softened. “See that it doesn’t. Won’t end well if it’s me who comes looking for you next time.”
Viktor gripped Kurkas’ shoulder and passed inside. Maybe the bonds weren’t broken. Maybe they’d merely been tested, and he given another chance to prove himself.
A creak of the door admitted Viktor to the drawing room. Even filthy with travel and war, his face swarthy with stubble and sorrows, he looked more himself than the man Josiri had followed to Indrigsval. A piece of himself found on the battlefield, or perhaps left behind at Kellevork.
[[You’re late.]] Ana, still subdued from the trials of recent days, nonetheless found strength for mockery. [[I thought ephemerals prized punctuality?]]
“I can only apologise,” Viktor replied. “I’d some difficulty finding the house. Hard to believe I’ve never been here.”
“It’s fine. Malachi doesn’t intend to address the crowds until dusk,” said Josiri. “He wants a symbol. The sun finally set on a dark chapter of history.”
The smile faded. “How is he?”
“Brittle. Lilyana’s death ripped something out of him.”
For all that Viktor was one of Malachi’s oldest friends, he didn’t yet know the full depth of the other’s grief. Of his collusion with the Crowmarket. Of Hawkin’s betrayal. Josiri scarcely believed the latter himself. Hard to reconcile the charming, sparkling woman he’d known with the traitor she’d been.
It would wait. It would all wait. The Parliament of Crows was gone, and those of their works that could be unmade in the process of dissolution. The streets belonged to the Council once more. Messela had led the remaining constabulary into Dregmeet to rescue those the vranakin had taken – not just the children who’d been lost to the mists, but a few dozen emaciated southwealders too. Young and old, all had been freed from their chains, though nightmares would last a lifetime.
“I sent the children to join him at the palace,” Josiri continued. “They’re all staying with us, as long as they need. It seemed the least I could do.”
[[That we could do.]]
Viktor’s brow twitched, then settled. “You’re aware of the princessa’s proposal?”
“I saw the despatch. You likely passed Malachi’s herald on the road. None of us are happy, but the realities…?” Josiri rubbed at his brow, wearied by recollection. He’d spent his whole life trying to free an occupied Southshires, now he was party to surrendering the east. “Between the Hadari and the Crowmarket… the troubles of last year? It’ll be a generation before we’ve even begun to recover. I don’t see we’ve any choice.”
“The princessa said even that offer made her a traitor. She said you’d explain why.”
Josiri told all. Everything Melanna had recounted when she’d come begging for his help. The Crowmarket. The Raven. Jack. A Reckoning fit to end the world and the fall of Last Night. Ashana’s fears, and her folly. The deal she’d sought to strike, and presumably had. It spilled forth in disjointed torrent, ridiculous and inevitable.
When the well of Josiri’s memory ran dry, Viktor stared out of the window. “You were right to keep this from me. I’d have damned the princessa and sought my own solution. In my arrogance, I’d have doomed us all. Thank you.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“You saved my home.”
“It’s my home too.” Josiri grimaced. “How can it feel so strange to say that, and yet not feel strange at all?”
“Because home isn’t a place. It’s who we fight for.”
It was obvious when spoken aloud, as were all simple truths. Somewhere along the line, distinction between northwealder and south had ceased to matter. And with that change had come another, unrecognised until that moment. Whether their bond was friendship, the fleeting ties of family, or merely common cause that gave purpose to willing hands when all others lay idle, for the first time, Josiri knew himself to be Viktor’s equal. A long way from Eskavord, across a distance measured in more than miles and months. An intoxicating revelation that brimming heart saw no way to express.
[[If you’d like to be alone to weep manly tears, I shall be relieved to withdraw,]] said Anastacia. [[Otherwise, might I suggest you leave for the palace? Malachi will be waiting.]]
Sounds of celebration raged beyond the palace walls. Within the Privy Council chamber, old ghosts hung closer than ever. Not just Ebigail Kiradin and Hadon Droshna and all the other withered old vultures Malachi had spent his career seeking to overcome, but those he’d failed, Lily foremost of all. Intellectually, Malachi understood that he was culpable for none of the woes that had haunted the Republic in recent days, but responsibility remained. Was there anything more dangerous than a man out of his depth?
Time to end all that.
“Father?” Sidara hovered in the doorway.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
Her expression took on a hint of Lily’s asperity. “How else am I supposed to talk to you?”
Wasn’t that the story of her life? One he’d authored. “Well, you’re here now. Tell me.”
She averted her gaze and moved for the door. “It doesn’t matter.”
Malachi pushed away from his chair. “Your mother… Your mother used to lecture me for always being too busy. She worried I was becoming a stranger, and that you and Constans would wonder if I loved you at all. Never doubt it. You are my world, both of you.” Grief choked away the words. He blinked back a tear, embarrassed – and yet not – to be so struck before his child. “Where’s Constans?”
“In your office. Altiris is keeping an eye on him.”
“Altiris? The southwealder?”
“My friend.”
The mix of indignance and embarrassment coaxed forth a smile. “Then keep him close. A good friend is a treasure beyond price. What did you want to say?”
She rallied, as one anticipating opposition. “I’m going to be a knight, Father. I know… I know it’s not what Mother sought for me, but I want to help people. I want to keep them safe, if I can.”
“Do I hear Josiri’s influence?”
“Ana’s. She said I should stand firm and stop dodging the issue.”
Knowing Anastacia, she’d been a good deal more blunt than that. Still, it explained where conversation had meandered after sleep had taken him the previous night. “Yes, I can imagine that.”
“She also said that if I didn’t learn how to control my magic, she’d take it off me again, and keep it. I think she was joking.”
“Why take the chance?” He forced a smile. “Half the trick to life is knowing when to listen to yourself. Everyone’s always telling you what you should do, or what you shouldn’t. But they don’t really know. They’re just telling you what they think you need to hear, or what will get them what they want. So be a knight. Be a beacon that shines through the years to come, if that’s your desire. Lumestra knows we’ll need some of that. But more than that, be better than me.”
He b
roke off, a body not yet on even keel exhausted for having spoken at such length.
She beamed and flung her arms about him. “Impossible, but I’ll try.”
“Then I’m sure your mother will be proud.”
He held her close and promised himself he’d give a similar speech to Constans. If he’d been distant from Sidara these past few years, he’d been doubly so from his son.
A sharp knock on the door and Lord Lamirov entered, moving with cultivated affectation of wounded pride.
“I understood there was to be a meeting?”
Malachi reluctantly stepped away from his daughter. “Sidara? Perhaps you’d find your brother. I’d like you both beside me when I address the crowds. I assume there are crowds, Leonast?”
Lamirov inclined his grey head. “There are, though they don’t know why they’ve come.” His expression darkened. “But then, nor do any of us.”
Sidara stifled a sneer beneath a formal curtsey and withdrew.
As she departed, the shrunken Privy Council filed in and took their seats. Messela Akadra, recently returned from overseeing the pacification of Dregmeet. The vranakin had bled away like shadows before the sun. It remained to be seen if they returned now their pontiffs were dead.
Konor Zarn, still sporting the bruises Malachi had meted out at the close of their last meeting. Another apology to offer, when he could stir himself to it. Evarn Marest, his pride worn every bit as tenuously as Lamirov’s. The constabulary had practically dug him out of Windchine mansion. No Apara Rann, and thus no Rika Tarev. No Erashel Beral, who Malachi understood would not be returning from the Southshires, though Josiri had given evasive reason as to why.
And no Josiri – that would hardly have been proper. Let him find out with the decision made. One last flexing of authority, and then retirement, if not one exactly earned. Malachi would take with him all the blame for the devastation of the city, the war and the loss of the Eastshires. In exchange, Tressia would have the leader it needed, and one better than it deserved.
He took a deep breath and stared along the table. “Let us discuss the future.”