(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (38 page)

Yasammez was the blade which that fist had raised in the past. Now it would be raised again.

 

Her arrival threw Qul-na-Qar into confusion. By the time she rode through the great leaning gates at the head of a silent flock of Qar, the ancient citadel had already broken into camps of fanatical supporters and equally fanatical opponents, and a party larger than those two put together whose only shared philosophy was resistance to both extremes, a willingness to wait and see the shape that time took. But none of this was obvious, and to the casual eye—if there had been such a thing in this place—the great capital would have seemed to move in its usual deceptively calm way, its immemorial ordered disorder.

The servitors of Yasammez who waited for her within Qul-na-Qar, almost all of whom had been born into that service since the last time she had visited the city, had scurried to air out her chambers on the sprawling castle’s eastern side, heaving up the shutters for the first time in decades and opening the windows. The chill marine winds and the ocean’s ceaseless noise, like the breathing of a vast animal, filled the rooms as they rushed to make things ready for their mistress. This was a day that all knew would someday form a chapter of its own in the
Book of Regret.

But as she made her way through the Hall of the Gate, passing beneath its living sculptures without an upward glance, Yasammez was surrounded not only by her own minions but by all the dark city’s excitement-seekers as well—those bright-eyed ones who dabbled in the showier magicks, others who passed their time refining the arts of war and the arts of courtship until they were scarcely distinguishable from each other, all the planners of secret campaigns and delvers of forgotten mysteries. She was surrounded by believers, too, those who had yearned for a voice to echo forcefully their own talk of catastrophe, to satisfy their yearnings for an all-smothering doom. All came singing and calling out questions, some in languages that even Yasammez herself did not speak. She paid none of them any attention, and passed instead from the Hall of the Gate to the Hall of Black Trees, then on through many more, the Hall of Silver Bones, the Hall of Weeping Children, the Hall of Gems and Dust. She stopped outside the Mirror Hall but did not go in, even though the blind king and silent queen waited behind the doors, aware of her coming since before she even left her high house.

Instead she told the servitor who guarded the entrance—a Child of the Emerald Fire who showed the faint glow of its kind even through its robe and mask—“Outside the gate there are thousands of our race who have followed me here from the countryside. See that they are well-treated. Soon I will speak to them.”

The masked figure did not reply, but bowed. Yasammez turned away from the Mirror Hall—it was not yet time to seal the Pact of the Glass, although that time would come before she left Qul-na-Qar again—and made her way to her old chambers overlooking the sea and the dark twilight sky. The crowd that had gathered inside the great castle and followed her through the halls like ants through a rotting tree were left to stand, to wait, to stare at each other in glee or shame or madness, and eventually to disperse.

It did not matter. There would be a time for all of them, Yasammez knew.

 

She had donned her plate armor, forged in Greatdeeps in the days before the Book, cured for centuries in an ice mountain without a name. The black spikes covered it like the quills of her namesake, a dark bristling that was obscured but not hidden by her cloak, which seemed almost as insubstantial as a thundercloud. Her head was bare: she had set her featureless helmet on the table beside her, as though, like a favored pet, she wished it to watch the proceedings.

Seven other figures sat at the round table in Lady Porcupine’s chamber. It was dark in the room, only a single candle burning, its flame a-tremble before the open windows, but Yasammez and her allies did not need to see each other.

Some of what they said was spoken, some passed only in shared thought.

“Eats-the-Moon, what of the Changing tribe?”

“Many are with us. I smell anger. I smell readiness. Ours were often the first of the People to meet the stone apes, back in the world before defeat, and the first to suffer as well. Not all are fighters, but those who are not shall be ears and eyes for the rest, swift fliers, silent crawlers.”

“Many? What number is that?”

A growl.
“Many. More than I can count.”

“And Greenjay? What of the Tricksters?”

“Cautious but willing to listen, as you would expect. Our tribe always likes to determine which side will win, and then join that side at an opportune time—not too late, but most definitely not too early.”

“Your honesty is commendable.”

“Can a frog be taught to fly? I tell you only what is true.”

“There will be no winner in this fight, even if we triumph. This is only a moment in the great defeat. But the mortals will suffer, and our own suffering will become less. What the stone apes inherit when we are gone will no longer taste sweet to them—will never taste sweet again. Make no mistake, the time has come for your Tricksters—and all the others, too—to decide the manner of their passing—not as individuals, but as families of the People.”

“But why, Lady? Why must we allow defeat? Still we are strong, and the old ways are strong. It is only our resolve that has been weak.”

“I have not yet come to you, Stone of the Unwilling. Soon I will ask you what the Guard of Elementals thinks . . .”

“Ask me now.”

A pause.
“Speak.”

“They think as I think. That we can retreat no farther, and that we can no longer live with exile and defeat. We must push them from our lands. We must put fire to all their houses and sickness in all their beds. We must shake down their temples and bury their cruel iron in the ground where it can become something clean again. We must bring on the Old Night.”

“I have heard you. But no matter what they wish, will your tribe follow where I lead, whatever path I may choose? Because only one can lead in this thing.”

“Can you lead, my lady? What of the Pact?”

“The Pact of the Glass will come to naught, an empty promise. But the old rules cannot be ignored, so I have agreed. It has been signed. Only an hour ago, I put my blood on it.”

“You signed the Pact? Then have they given you the Seal of War?”

For answer she lifted her helmet from the table. In the dark room the thing that had been hidden beneath it gleamed like molten stone. She lifted the red gem on its heavy black chain and put it on, let the stone fall with a dull clank onto her breast.
“Here it is.”

For a moment only the sound of the ocean was heard, the waves pounding against the rocks.

“The Guard of Elementals will follow you, Lady Yasammez.”

The others spoke, one by one, telling her of their tribes, of their readiness or unreadiness, but all agreed—there were enough to muster. There were enough to cross the line and make war.

“Then I have one more thing to show you.”
Yasammez reached beneath her great cloak. Buckles clicked. A moment later she lifted her scabbard and dropped it on the table, then wrapped her hand around the hilt of the sword and pulled it out. From point to pommel it was as white as packed snow, as licked bone. The candle flame, taxed by one too many chill breezes, shuddered and died. The only light in the room now was the subtle blindworm glow of the sword itself.

“I have taken Whitefire from its sheath.”
The voice of Yasammez, the People’s Fire of Vengeance, was matter-of-fact, whether aloud or in winged thought. Her words had weight because of who she was and what she said.
“It will not be sheathed once more until I am dead or until what was taken from us is ours and the queen lives again.”

Briony found him outside, to her surprise and annoyance, wandering in the quiet and somewhat gloomy west garden of the residence. Except he was not wandering: he was staring up at the roofline where the chimneys clustered like mushrooms that had sprouted after rain.

“I . . . Did you see that?” Barrick rubbed his eyes.

“See what?”

“I thought I saw . . .” He shook his head. “I thought I saw a boy on the roof. Is it the fever? I saw many things when I had the fever . . .”

She squinted, shook her head. “Nobody would be up so high, certainly not a child. Why aren’t you in bed? I came to see you and they told me you had refused to stay in your chamber.”

“Why? Because I wanted to see the sun. But it’s almost gone. I feel like a corpse, lying in that dark room.” His face had closed again, the moment’s vulnerability replaced by something harsher. “It’s not like you need me, in any case.”

Briony was shocked. “What do you mean? Merciful Zoria, Barrick, not need you? You’re all I have left! Gailon has just left the castle—left Southmarch entirely. He will be back in Summerfield in days, full of discontent, telling anyone who will listen about it—and many people will listen to the Duke of Summerfield.”

Her brother shrugged. “So what can we do? Unless Gailon’s talking treason, we can’t stop him saying what he wants. In fact, it wouldn’t be easy to do even if he
were
talking treason. Summerfield Court has walls almost as thick as Southmarch and the Tollys keep a small army there.”

“It’s too early to worry about things like that, and if the gods are kind or Gailon has a shred of honor, we may not have to. But we have problems enough, Barrick, so no more of this nonsense, please. I need you to be well. Better a few days bored and restless in bed now than you being ill all through the winter months. Let Chaven tend you.”

“No more of
what
nonsense?” He shot her another of his suspicious glances. “Are you certain you don’t just want me out of the way so you can do something foolish? Pardon Shaso, perhaps?”

Her heart felt like a lump of lead. How could her twin, her beloved other half, think such things? Had the fever really changed him so much? “No! No, Barrick, I would never do such a thing without your approval.” He was staring at her almost as if she were a stranger. “Please, now is not the time for you and I to argue. We’re all that’s left of the family!”

“There’s still Merolanna. And the Loud Mouse.”

Briony grimaced. “That’s a strange thing, now you mention it. I have never seen Aunt Merolanna so distracted—perhaps over Kendrick, but it seems odd. She was strong as stone before the funeral, but has been grieving like a madwoman since, hardly leaving her chambers. I’ve been to see her twice and she’s barely spoken to me, as though she can’t wait for me to leave. In fact, it seems that all the family we have left is at loose ends. Oh, and here’s another surprise—since you mentioned her, I should tell you that our stepmother has asked us to dine with her tomorrow night.”

“What’s that about?”

“I don’t know. But let’s be openhearted and believe she wishes to be closer to her stepchildren now that Kendrick is gone.”

Barrick’s snort made his feelings clear.

“Another thing. Have you seen the letter Father wrote? The one Kendrick received from Hierosol the day before . . . before . . .”

Barrick shook his head. He looked annoyed—no, it was something more. He almost looked frightened. Why? “No. What does it say?”

“That’s just it—I don’t know where it’s gone. I can’t find it.”

“I don’t have it!” he said sharply, then waved his hand in weak apology. “I’m sorry—I suppose I really am tired. I don’t know anything about it.”

“But it’s important we find it!” She looked at him, saw that it was no good pressing; he was exhausted. “Whatever the case, never forget, you
are
needed, Barrick. I need you. Desperately. Now go to bed. Rest, and let me do what needs to be done tomorrow, then I’ll tell you about it when we go to dine with Anissa.”

He looked at her, then looked around the garden. The sun had sunk behind the residence’s western wing and the roofs were rapidly becoming dark silhouettes; an entire army of fever-children could have been hiding there now.

“Very well. I will stay in my bed for tomorrow,” he said. “But no longer.”

“Good. Now, I’ll walk back with you.”

“You see, I don’t like sleeping,” he told her as they made their way down the path. Almost without her noticing it, he had taken her hand, as he had done when they were both children. “I don’t like sleeping at all. I have such very bad dreams—all of our family being cursed, haunted . . .”

“But that’s all they are, Barrick, dear Barrick. Just dreams. Fever dreams.” But his words had started a chill in her, even as the first evening breezes swirled through the garden and made the leaves of the hedges and ornamental trees scrape and rustle.

“I dream that darkness is coming down just like a storm,” he said, almost whispering. “Oh, Briony, in my dreams I see the end of the world.”

15

The Seclusion