by Matthew Ward
Fingers tight about a sword claimed from a corpse in the entrance hall, Josiri set off in pursuit of Viktor.
He found him where the landing curved towards the Privy Council chamber, crouched beside Messela’s body, face rigid. A bloodied sword lying close told one tale. Pale wisps of shadow rising from her body another. The wary young woman had been more like her cousin than Josiri had ever guessed. Not just in manner, but in heritage.
“She should never have been here.” Viktor’s murmur frosted in the air. “This was my place. Had I not left—”
A crash sounded down the corridor. A man’s scream.
Shadow thickening about his mantle, Viktor took the fallen sword and strode towards the sound. The door to the council chamber crashed open beneath his boot.
Lord Marest lay dead beside the open doorway, one hand pressed to a bloody throat. Lord Lamirov was sprawled across the table, head split open and eyes glassy. A dark smear led from beneath the golden map of the old kingdom and out through the balcony passageway door.
“Saran Amhyrador!”
Two Hadari at the chamber’s heart flung themselves at the doorway.
Viktor’s shadow gathered up the nearest and bore him screaming away.
Josiri checked the other’s mace-blow, the shock of impact shivering up his arm. The Hadari, fast beyond the suggestion of his years, spun about and struck again at Josiri’s head. Hurried evasion turned a pulping blow into a grazing one that set Josiri reeling, red stars dancing behind his eyes.
Giddy with pain and nausea, he flung himself forward, weight behind one last, desperate lunge. The sword’s point glanced off bone and sank deep, the Hadari’s stale gasp warm on his cheek as momentum drove them both to the ground.
Josiri collapsed atop the body. Red stars turning black as the world sank into grey.
Viktor loomed above. “Brother?”
“Go.” Josiri waved toward the balcony, the motion enfeebled by failing strength. “I’m all right.”
Viktor ran for the balcony door. The last of the world lost its colour.
Malachi slid his arm from beneath Konor Zarn’s shoulder. The other sank against the balcony’s balustrade, bloodied leg buckling and good arm clutching the wound tight. Constans clung to Malachi’s other hand, pale and quiet. One more horror in a week full of them.
“Not exactly how I saw my councillorship ending,” murmured Zarn.
Blood bubbled over his lips, proof of wounds deeper than first thought. Malachi wondered what other details he’d missed in the whirlwind of violence.
He turned about. “Sidara? Is there any way down?”
She shook her head tiredly, giving the answer he’d always known. The balcony was a respite of seconds, no more. But even seconds were a victory now.
Malachi peered over the balustrade. The crowd seethed as constables and hearthguard forged towards the palace. Help was coming. Too late.
“I’m trying to reach a simarka,” said Sidara wearily. “A kraikon. Anything. It’s all so fuzzy. As soon as I make contact, it slides away.”
He kissed her brow. However wondrous Sidara’s gift, it remained a resource with limits. She’d been off-colour from the moment she’d burst into the council chamber, pale with lost blood and babbling about a man steeped in moonlight. There’d been no time to ask what she’d meant. Barely time to get out of the door. And now they were trapped, with no time at all.
The balcony door crashed open, and a bloodied figure strode out. But for the gleam of a moonsilver crown on his brow, Malachi would never have known him. With it, there could be no doubt. He glanced at Zarn, but the other lay still, eyes closed and barely breathing. No time. No options. Was this how Lily had felt at the end? So much left unsaid, because there’d always be another chance.
“Sidara. Keep your brother safe.”
Her eyes went wide. “No, Father—”
“Get Constans away.” He put his hand to her cheek and chased away a tear with his thumb. “And remember what I said. Be better than me.”
She nodded, blue eyes awash.
Weaponless, he blotted out the tumult of the crowd. “Kai Saran. And to think I sought to make peace with you.”
Malachi noted black blood among the red. The flicker of silver about the Emperor’s wounds. A man no longer wholly alive, but not yet dead. Steeped in moonlight indeed. Steeped in something else too, by the look of his eyes. This wasn’t the Kai Saran he knew from dry distance of reports, or from Josiri’s accounts of the year before. The man was a shell. A vessel run dry.
He circled towards the balcony edge, and prayed that Saran would follow. A heartbeat, and he did, the heavy tread and the blood-slick sword drawing away from the door.
“Perhaps I was wrong to reject it.” Saran’s words gurgled and popped in his throat. “But blood washes away all failures. History will not soon forget the man who slaughtered the Tressian Council in their own lair. Your death secures my daughter’s throne.”
Another step. Out of the corner of his eye, Malachi saw Sidara usher Constans towards the doorway, hugging the white stone wall as they went.
“You’ll never see her again,” said Malachi. “There’s no way out of this for you now. Only the pyre.”
He chuckled, madness gleaming in bloodshot eyes. “All that remains is one last glory. My daughter will rule. Yours never will.”
Weariness falling away, Saran rounded on Sidara.
“No!”
Malachi flung himself between them. No hesitation. No fear. Not even any pain as the sword punched wetly into his chest. His final certainty was that Kai Saran wouldn’t live to see the pyre.
For long before his soul fell into mist, the balcony drowned in shadow.
The shadow recoiled even as it closed about Kai Saran, seared to vapour by moonlight invisible to ephemeral eyes. A year before, it would have been Viktor’s death. A year before, he’d nearly died to Melanna Saranal’s moonfire sword. But that had been a different man. One who’d not understood the legacy he wielded. Who’d not yet been tricked into accepting the last of Malatriant’s power.
Viktor Akadra had weakened himself by for ever holding back.
Not Viktor Droshna, who blotted out his shadow’s pain as soon as it began.
He parried Saran’s first strike. The clash from the second split his sword a span above the hilt and drove him to his knees. The third tasted blood. A fourth hacked deep into Viktor’s shoulder as he rose, casting him back to his knees.
“The Droshna,” said Saran, his voice full of bleak wonder. “Fitting that you’re here, in the end. After all, you brought all this to be.”
Blood soaked Viktor’s threadbare surcoat, stealing strength and granting only agony in exchange. But that pain was nothing beside failure. Of being absent when he’d been needed. Of all those who’d died while he’d built a false life and turned his back on duty.
Messela. Malachi. Even Rosa, in her way. His fault.
Viktor stoppered his seeping wounds with his protesting shadow. As the iron flood slowed to a trickle, he hurled the rest at Saran, smothering sight and breath even as it hissed to oblivion in the Emperor’s moonlight.
Blinded, Saran howled and swung wide. His nose crunched beneath Viktor’s rising fist.
The stub of Viktor’s broken sword ripped a black wound across the Emperor’s belly. “I brought this to be?” he bellowed. Wrath drove back the pain, conjured strength to ravaged flesh. “For years, I held back. I kept myself contained.”
Shattered blade still buried in Saran’s gut, Viktor struck again. And again. Knuckles split and creaked. Black blood mingled with red.
“And what good has it done my family? My friends? My city? My Republic? Those I love?”
Saran swung. Viktor stepped inside the blade’s arc. Steel wasted force on empty air. The sword’s hilt slammed into his flank. Ribs flexed and snapped. Breath raged like fire in a collapsing lung. His shadow howled, sparking to vapour on unseen moonlight.
Viktor drove his shoul
der into Saran’s chest. Back they went, past Malachi’s body and the unconscious Zarn. Saran’s back struck balustrade with a crack of bone. The Emperor roared, his sword falling away.
“No more!” Viktor shouted, the words raw in his throat. “No more!”
Moonlight ebbed. Viktor hoisted the dying Emperor high, ephemeral flesh lent strength by ageless shadow. He paused, aware of thousands of eyes watching him from the plaza. Then Kai Saran was gone. He made no sound until the wet thud of his landing three storeys below.
Anger ebbed, taking with it the last of Viktor’s strength. Wounds reopened to full spate as the moon-seared shadow retreated into his soul. He collapsed, elbow and forehead jarring on the balustrade. Slender arms eased him the rest of the way, their owner’s words all but lost beneath the sudden cheer of the crowd.
“I have you, uncle,” said Sidara. “I won’t lose you too.”
As he sank against her, he saw Constans staring at him, eyes bright with awe.
Lunandas, 21st Day of Wealdrust
Prophecy is empty without fear.
Fear is nothing without hope.
Hope is bereft without prophecy.
The dread. The dream. The lie.
Fate turns, and the world turns also.
from Kespid’s unfinished folio “The Queen’s Curse”
Sixty-Nine
Melanna had hoped the cool silence of the root-bound cavern would be a balm to troubled thoughts. Hoped in vain. Doubts blossomed in the darkness. Mistakes of the past bloomed through the crystal-lit gloom, each perfect in memory. Was it some magic of the temple mound, or merely the burden of contemplation? Had her father felt thus? She wished she’d had the chance to ask him. She longed for the opportunity to say so many things, but Kai Saran had passed into legend, the hope of survival quashed first by Elspeth’s arrival, and again by Haldrane’s agents.
A valiant end, the Golden Court called it. Ironic, that the very tradition she despised now protected her. Those who would not respect her claim would at least honour her father’s sacrifice. Just as well, for of all the kingdoms who had marched to Govanna Field, Rhaled had suffered most of all. It needed every spear on its borders, and had none to spare for intemperate friends.
A distant bell chimed. Tenth bell. The sanctum approach.
Gathering golden skirts, she knelt before the statue of Ashana. The old Ashana, not the one who was her mother. The mother who had offered only silence since Govanna.
Elspeth had offered no insight. Indeed, the Daughter of Moon had offered no words at all – only a snarl before pressing the sword into Melanna’s hands and departing into the night. That sword now hung above a throne not yet claimed. Six months before, she’d defied tradition by coming armed to coronation. Now she defied it again by forsaking the sword. The imperial throne demanded a warrior, but now more than ever the Empire needed something more. Better to send that message from the first. The throne would not shape her as it had her father.
Shadows played across Aeldran’s armour as he shifted position, a sign that he wasn’t yet accustomed to the bindwork leg concealed beneath his robes. In time, when the amputation’s scar had healed, the facsimile of threaded metal and moonlight might yet serve him as well as flesh and bone. But not tonight, with harms still raw. She’d argued for him to stand apart from the vigil. He’d refused, as a champion should. Just as he’d refused the scarlet of Icansae that night in favour of Rhalesh green. What the Rhalesh Immortals in the chamber made of that, Melanna couldn’t guess.
Footsteps tracked across the chamber floor and halted behind.
“My princessa, you are called to coronation.” Aelia knelt as she spoke, head bowed.
“And who…” Melanna swallowed, memories thick in her throat. “Who calls me?”
“One who will guard the Empire to her last breath.”
Another tradition broken, for there was no heir to call the ascendant to the throne. No one to follow, once Melanna was gone. Come that day, Aelia Andwaral, Dotha Icansae, had as worthy a claim as any. Until then, she’d agreed to serve, and thus bound the kingdoms of Rhaled and Icansae closer than ever.
“Then lead, and I will follow.”
Aelia retraced her steps. Melanna followed through the temple mound, her honour guard keeping pace behind. Before long, they emerged into the gentle moonlight of the birch grove. A ring of white-cloaked guardians waited on the pool’s far shore. Beyond, princes and kings of the Golden Court held vigil of their own from balcony and cloister. Their ranks were thinner than at her father’s coronation, winnowed away by war and disapproval. Even now, some seethed with displeasure that a woman claimed the imperial throne, but opposition had gone no further than whispers. So far.
Demestae had sent no representative. Britonis, weeping for its losses, had dispatched only the youngest of its sons. Corvant remained true, its faith in imperial divinity unshaken. Silsaria’s support she’d purchased with promises of governance over newly claimed Tressian lands. Pledges of loyalty aplenty had been issued, but the gathering told its own tale. All were waiting. Watching. Just as the Ithna’jîm and the Thrakkians were watching the humbled Empire for sign of weakness.
Eleventh bell chimed the passing of midnight and called the Goddess to temple. But if Ashana heard the call, she gave no sign. There was only the long, lonely walk to beneath the moon-dappled branches, and the hooded priestess waiting beside altar and crown.
Leaving her guards behind, Melanna trod the winding path and knelt. “I seek the Goddess’ blessing.”
The priestess raised the crown from its cushion of leaves – not the moonsilver crown, for that was lost to the Tressians as spoils of war – but a replica fashioned from worldly metal. It shone, though not as brightly, just as Melanna’s world was duller for her father’s passing.
“You will always have that,” murmured the priestess. “Never doubt it.”
Melanna stared up into a face as familiar as the voice. “I…”
“Say nothing,” Ashana breathed, her face still hidden from onlookers by the folds of her hood. “No one must know. No one must even suspect.”
Wonder and delight shrivelled away. Melanna bowed her head in semblance of prayer. “I don’t understand.”
“The kindness Jack sought of me. A simple trade. He will make no claim on you, not so long as I renounce my own. I shouldn’t be here now, but I wanted to see you one last time.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
Yet the words remained a lie. Even the thought of Jack invited shadow beneath the moonlight and a cold itch under her skin.
“You should be. He has pride enough for a hundred kings and loathes that he was outplayed. And… perhaps it is best I keep my distance. My fears almost broke this world. My love may yet prove more dangerous. Even for a goddess, knowing when to do nothing is the hardest lesson of all.”
Misery flooded free. “Can I say naught to change your mind?”
“An ephemeral alter the will of the divine? Unthinkable.” Arch tone faded to affection. “It is every mother’s hope that her child will surpass her in happiness and wisdom. Do so, and I am content.”
“And I’ll be alone.” Melanna hated the words, petulant and selfish as they seemed, but found no others to bear the weight of her ailing heart.
Ashana smiled. “Not so long as there’s a moon in the sky.” She held the crown aloft and raised her voice alongside. “The blessing is granted. As the crown passed to your father from his, so now it passes to you. The Goddess and the throne are one. May your rule be long, and her love for you never fade.”
Ashana set the crown on Melanna’s head. Lighter than she’d expected, and heavier also.
“Ashanael Brigantim!” shouted Aelia. “Saranal Amyradris!”
Others took up the cry. The clamour grew, joined by the thump of boot on stone. Melanna rose from unsteady knees, the elation of a moment long-sought swirling sick with the reminder of all she’d lost along the way.
“Ashanael Brigantim! Saranal Am
yradris!”
Strength returned as Melanna made her way back along the path. The challenges of coming days did not care for what she’d lost. And for all she’d claimed otherwise, she wasn’t alone. She had Sera, and the lunassera. The support of Icansae, of Haldrane’s icularis, of her father’s Immortals and the chieftains of Rhaled. There would be others. Those who had defied the princessa would not readily oppose an Empress.
“Congratulations, savim,” said Aelia. “The Kingdom of Icansae stands with you.”
The queen knelt, her head bowed. The ring of Rhalesh Immortals followed suit – as did Aeldran, though the discomfort of his bindwork leg must have troubled him greatly. Melanna stared past them to the temple balconies, where royalty of a dozen nations cheered her ascension. Some reluctant, others with gusto, and no few seeking to convey one while cleaving to the other. The weak and the strong; the honourable and the opportunist. A lifetime’s work to tell them apart. To know which to trust, and which to watch.
She glanced back as dawn’s first light touched the cloister, but Ashana was a flicker of robes beneath the temple mound, and then she was gone.
You will have to find one you can at least tolerate if this day is to mean anything.
Her father’s words, spoken in that very spot, truer now than ever. Ashana had promised she would not be the last Empress. But a daughter needed a father, and an Empress a consort to share her burdens. She didn’t need to trust the Golden Court entire. Just one who’d proven his loyalty.
“And do you agree with your queen’s words, Prince Aeldran?” she asked.
A frown creased his brow. “My life is yours, Empress.”
“Good.” Extending a hand, she raised him to his feet. “Because I need you to be more than my champion.”
Morning found Apara atop Seacaller’s Church, lost in a sight never beheld. Oh, she’d climbed the tower many a time, risking both mouldered stairs that creaked beneath the lightest tread, and the malevolent gazes of caryatid and stone-nymph – the latter no less chilling for their thick layer of grime. If anything, they were more so, for she’d recently seen their like guarding a throne in a place that was no place. Immobile servants to a Nameless Lady. Seacaller’s would never be the same again, just as Apara knew she’d never be the same again.