This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Ward
Cover design by Charlotte Stroomer – LBBG
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant
Map by Viv Mullett, The Flying Fish Studios, based on an original illustration by Matthew Ward
Author photograph by Photo Nottingham
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939522
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45790-3 (paperback), 978-0-316-45793-4 (ebook)
E3-20200922-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
Six Months Ago: Lunandas, 28th Day of Frosthold
Lunandas, 28th Day of Ashen One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Lumendas, 1st Day of Wealdrust Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Astridas, 2nd Day of Wealdrust Twenty-Four
Jeradas, 3rd Day of Wealdrust Twenty-Five
Maladas, 5th Day of Wealdrust Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Tzadas, 6th Day of Wealdrust Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Lunandas, 7th Day of Wealdrust Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Lumendas, 8th Day of Wealdrust Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Astridas, 9th Day of Wealdrust Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Jeradas, 10th Day of Wealdrust Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Lunandas, 21st Day of Wealdrust Sixty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Discover More
Meet the Author
Also by Matthew Ward
Praise for Matthew Ward and the Legacy Trilogy
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Dramatis Personae
In the City of Tressia
Josiri Trelan Member of the Tressian Privy Council
Malachi Reveque First Councillor of the Privy Council
Stantin Izack Master of the Knights Essamere; Member of the Tressian Privy Council
Anastacia Psanneque Definitely not Lady Trelan
Vladama Kurkas Captain of the Trelan Hearthguard
Lilyana Reveque Tressian Noble, wife to Malachi Reveque
Sidara Reveque Daughter to Malachi and Lilyana Reveque
Constans Reveque Son to Malachi and Lilyana Reveque
Altiris Czaron Fugitive
Vona Darrow Captain of the Tressian Constabulary
Hawkin Darrow Steward to the Reveque household
Leonast Lamirov Member of the Tressian Privy Council
Erashel Beral Member of the Tressian Privy Council
Messela Akadra Member of the Tressian Privy Council
Elzar Ilnarov Tressian High Proctor; Master of the Foundry
Konor Zarn Peddler of wares and influence
Sabelle Mezar Member of the Grand Council
Adbert Brass Sergeant of the Trelan Hearthguard
Dregmeet
Apara Rann A vranakin, a cousin of the Crowmarket
Inidro Krastin Pontiff of the Parliament of Crows
Karn Athariss Pontiff of the Parliament of Crows
Endri Shurla Pontiff of the Parliament of Crows
Erad Nyzad Kernclaw
Koldra Vranakin Rogue
In Defence of the Border
Roslava Orova Knight of Essamere; The Council Champion
Sevaka Psanneque Captain of the Tressian Fleet
Riego Noktza Castellan of Ahrad
Emilia Sarravin Commander of the 7th regiment
Indro Thaldvar Borderer captain
Zephan Tanor Shieldbearer of the Knights Essamere
Halan Gavrida Lieutenant of the 11th
Of the Hadari Empire
Kai Saran Hadari Crown Prince, King of Rhaled
Melanna Saranal Hadari Princessa, daughter of Kai Saran
Sera Lunassera; a devoted servant of Ashana
Kos Devren Rhalesh Warleader
Aeldran Andwar Prince of Icansae
Naradna Andwar Prince of Icansae
Haldrane Spymaster; Head of the Emperor’s Icularis
Elsewhere
Viktor Akadra Champion of the Tressian Council
Armund af Garna Thrakkian outcast
Ardothan af Garna Thane of Indrigsval
Inkari af Üld Ceorla of Indrigsval
Arlanne Keldrov Reeve of Ardva
Gone, But Not Forgotten
Malatriant Tyrant Queen of Old, known as Sceadotha in the Hadari Empire
Ebigail Kiradin Disgraced member of the Privy Council
Aelia Andwar Princessa of Icansae
Anliss af Garna Thrakkian outcast; sister to Armund af Garna
Divinities
Lumestra Tressian Goddess of the Sun, known as Astarra in the Hadari Empire
Ashana Hadari Goddess of the Moon, known as Lunastra in Tressia
The Raven The God of the Dead, Keeper of Otherworld
Jack o’ Fellhallow God of the Living Lands
Astor Lord of the Forge, Keeper of Skanandra
Tzal The Unmaker
The Nameless Lady Inheritor of Mantles Past
Endala Goddess of Wave and Wind
Elspeth Daughter to Ashana
The Huntsman Ashana’s Equerry
Six Months Ago
Lunandas, 28th Day of Frosthold
Of seven, six sprang from Dark of Old.
One drowned. One sleeps. One waits.
The fourth sets blood awry with gift of self.
The fifth bargains all to ruin.
The last yearns for treasure lost.
Gods do as they please,
never knowing their roles are set.
But it is a poor story that changes not in the telling.
Excerpt from The Undawning Deep
The moon blazed in the field of stars and the royal city of Tregard reached up to embrace her. Filigree patterns laid into flagstone and wall glowed bright with whorl of root and branch, supplanting the blocky buildings of day with a silver forest whose limbs offered worship to regal Ashana.
A goddess who no longer spoke to Melanna Saranal as once she had.
Melanna released her grip on the balcony and strove for joy amidst melancholy. No room for sorrow this night. By dawn, everything for which she’d striven would be hers. No longer a mere princessa of the Silver Kingdom of Rhaled, but recognised heir to the imperial throne – the first woman acclaimed so.
But the cost…
Storeys below, crowds gathered beneath skeletal birch trees. Tregard had emptied for this moment. Despite the hour. Despite winter’s lingering cold. Thousands upon thousands of citizens gathered beneath Mooncourt Temple’s alabaster walls, standing vigil until the toll of twelfth bell proclaimed a worthy soul had claimed the imperial crown.
Gentle hands bound the last black tress of Melanna’s hair with jewelled chain.
“Ashanal. The hour is upon us.”
“Thank you, Sera.” Melanna gazed out across the shining city to Ravenscourt Temple’s brooding spires. The black stone lay ever in shadow, unyielding as the promise of death, and implacable as the embrace of Otherworld’s mists. “I wanted to see the city one last time. We’ll never be quite the same, it and I.”
“You will bring it only prosperity, Ashanal.”
Ashanal. The title that marked her as a daughter of goddess as well as Emperor. Fit for one who’d walked with Ashana since her earliest years. But no more. Not since Melanna had allowed a scion of Dark to escape her grasp. She longed to hear Ashana’s voice. She’d begged. But the silence in her prayers had stretched through the turning of leaves and the harsh bite of winter.
Melanna set her back on Tregard’s splendour. Always so hard to read Sera’s expression behind the silver half-mask that left all but her eyes and the olive skin of her jaw concealed. Melanna couldn’t even be certain of the handmaiden’s age. Sera’s ready vigour spoke to youth, perhaps as brief a tally as Melanna’s own nineteen winters. Indeed, in complexion and build they were twins. But the poise Melanna envied belonged to a greater span.
What would Sera say if she knew the truth? She was lunassera, handmaiden to the Goddess, driven to serve Melanna by faith more than friendship. But Sera remained inscrutable, and Melanna found, once again, that she couldn’t raise herself to the confession.
A bright peal rang out. The eighth bell of coronation ritual, welcoming dignitaries into the temple’s heart. The ninth would call Melanna to her father’s side. The eleventh would invite the Goddess to grant her blessing. It had gone unanswered for decades out of mind.
Sera stepped aside in a swish of close-fitting white robes and drew aside the balcony’s drape with graceful precision.
“Come, Ashanal. Even for royalty, punctuality is politeness.”
Melanna returned Sera’s smile, though she shared little of its warmth. She crossed the threshold, exchanging the crisp silver of the midnight sky for the glow of torchlight. Sera followed with soundless tread, pulling closed the drapes and the etched glass door.
Two mannequins waited between hearth and changing screen. Melanna traced fingertips across the golden scales of the nearest, the scars of battle long since repaired. The armour alone was challenge to tradition, but not so much as the sword belt laid alongside. Though they were otherwise equal to men in all things, women did not fight wars. They did not bear swords – not even a divine gift, as was the Goddess’ silvered blade – and because of that, could not rule. On the second mannequin, the threads of a golden gown shone like sunlight – as different from the black cotton dress she currently wore as night from day. Armour of a different sort, worn to draw attention to the wearer’s body, and thus guard her thoughts.
The warrior or the courtier. Wearing armour to her father’s coronation would be affront to tradition and the pride of jealous men. The dress was conciliatory – proof that the upstart Saranal had not completely forgotten her place.
Her father would prefer she don the dress. Soothe the feathers of a Golden Court ruffled by his wary acceptance of peace overtures from the Tressian Republic. The panelled gown was entirely beautiful, crafted from Ithna’jîm silk, and radiant with a magic of a type not practised in the sprawling kingdoms of Empire.
The armour bore old memories of rash decisions poorly made. Its presence beneath the last night of full moon would sour events.
Chimes broke out high above. Ninth bell, calling the heir to the sanctum.
The warrior or the courtier. As Empress, she’d one day have to be both. Today, the path was clear. She reached for the gown.
Brash trumpets split the air. Melanna began her descent of the long, marble stair towards the grassy mound and the triad of birch trees. Anticipation shivered bare skin at the base of her neck, quickened by the air’s crisp, sweet scent. Only the stoniest heart roamed the cloister’s open skies and felt nothing.
Beneath the largest tree, a simple stone block sat bathed in moonlight. The first altar at which the Goddess’ praises were intoned, or so legend told. Simple too was the circlet atop it. The first Emperor, Hadar Saran, had died in the Sceadotha’s dungeons, but the crown endured. Flesh withered and blood faded, Emperors came and went, but the crown abided. It was the Empire.
And it was all Melanna had ever desired. The crown, and what it meant for her to wear it.
A knot of Immortals stood on the root-woven path to the sunken sanctum gate, resplendent in emerald silks and golden scales; swords drawn against those who would disturb the meditations of the Emperor-to-be. Nearer, on the shore of the pool that made an island of the sanctum mound, a ring of temple wardens, garbed in brilliant white, and their long spears held at guard.
Melanna pressed on, neither too hurriedly nor too slow. She strove to ignore the murmurs and widening eyes from balconies set in concentric tiers above the cloister. Kings, princes and clan chiefs called from across the league-strewn Empire to acclaim one among their number more equal than the rest. Men of Rhaled, Corvant, Britonis, Silsaria and others. Representatives of the Gwyraya Hadar, the great kingdoms of Empire, and the client realms under their sway. In garb and feature, they were as varied as fallen leaves in autumn. But women had no place here, save as servants or celebrants.
Certainly not as heir.
How many murmured with awe at her splendour? How many with disgust because she wore her sword at her back, the woven links of its belt crosswise at right shoulder to left hip? Melanna stifled a smile. She hadn’t left the warrior behind entirely. Better to remind her peers who she really was. That despite the soft promise offered by silk and the gossamer chains binding her hair, she was their equal. No, their better.
The chimes of tenth bell swept the courtyard. Conversation fell silent. The bare branches of the birch trees rippled gently in the cool breeze.
A second fanfare heralded Melanna’s arrival at the base of the stair. Head bowed in respect, she awaited the high priestess’ approach.
&
nbsp; White robes brilliant in the moonlight, the old woman made stately procession over the narrow latticework bridge. Wardens crossed spears behind her, barring Melanna’s final approach to the sanctum mound.
“Why have you come?”
The priestess’ words were ritual. Scowl and unfavourable tone were not. Disgust that the heir was a woman, or because that woman bore a sword?
“To guide my Emperor out of Dark, and into Ashana’s light.” Melanna let her voice blossom, acoustics folding echoes beneath the words. “As a daughter will one day do for me.”
Fresh murmur broke out on the balconies. To the Golden Court, the Dark was ritual and history. An enemy overcome long ago, first by Ashana’s radiant sister, and once again – in the form of the Sceadotha – by Hadar Saran’s allies. But Melanna had walked within it. She’d carried the Goddess’ fire against it. And at the end, she’d failed.
None of the sourness left the priestess’ tone, but she persevered. “May the Goddess walk with you in the Dark.”
She stepped aside. Spears parted.
Melanna crossed the bridge. She gave ritual bow to the Immortals, and their golden wall split apart before her coming. Beyond, the stone pathway diverged, the upper fork arriving at altar and crown, the lower at the sanctum’s birchwood gate. Offering a bow to the former, Melanna took the latter, passing beneath the woven arch.
Once the double leaves of the gateway were behind, and Melanna deep in the sanctum’s gloom, she allowed the mask of unconcern to slip and her stride to quicken. The soft, damp fragrance of soil thickened as breathing shallowed. White crystals glimmered in the root-woven ceiling, shaping passageways and revealing shimmering insects scurrying across loose soil.
At last, the passageway widened into a broad chamber, dominated by a statue of Ashana – though the likeness little matched that of the Goddess who had guided Melanna since girlhood. Two Immortals flanked the Goddess. And before the statue, Kai Saran, Prince of the Silver Kingdom of Rhaled and scion of Emperors past, stood in silent contemplation, eyes closed and expression unreadable above a neat, greying beard.