Knite

The night was almost done. Early risers—mostly servants attending their duties—shuffled about the streets, bleary-eyed and half asleep. I hoped to be settled before daybreak brought out the larger masses.

I knew we were still in The Heartwood; the buildings were three or four stories high, clear-glass windows and dark-brown stone lending them an air of gravitas much of The Bark lacked. We weren't far though. Private gardens and walled estates had given way to terraced homes with modest balconies. A discerning eye could always tell the direction they were heading in, the shift in architecture as obvious as it was gradual.

The Heartwood was the best of the city. It was clean and spacious, lavish enough to provide comfort, unrefined enough to hinder decadence, and far enough from the glowing spires of the palace to be partially free of that damnable green light. I even preferred the stone-cobbled streets and brick walls to the smooth marble of The Leaves.

Helena walked beside me, sulking. I had isolated Farian’s memories of the night and she knew I could not do so without leaving scars. It would take her a day or two to realize she should be happy I didn’t end him there and then.

“Where is the church?” I asked.

Helena took longer than I’d like to answer—a measured act of rebellion. “The main church is in what is now part of The Roots,” she said, waiving any honorific. She wanted a reaction. I was in no mood to give her one.

“Is Solor still in power?” I asked.

“His grandson, Socram.”

“Really? Which of the smaller churches managed that?”

“Solor was tainted by a follower of Lorail. His son, Soralm, was taken by the very same.”

“Same branch?”

“Same follower, same day.”

I laughed. “Is this follower still breathing? I would very much like to meet this accomplished scoundrel.”

“Ilinai, if I remember correctly. Last I heard, she’s thirty-odd years into a hundred-year sentence at The Bridge.”

“Well, that’s not fair, is it? Remind me to liberate her when we attend to our business at The Bridge.”

Helena snorted. “I doubt she’d fare much better under your service.”

Again, I did her the courtesy of ignoring her.

There were no gates or borders that separated The Bark from The Heartwood—both parts of the city were situated on the third plateau—but I knew we’d crossed the boundary. Lighter bricks began to appear, starting with a few mismatched patches of repair and ending in entire homes and buildings made of the tawny material. Of course, Heartwood soldiers, given the astuteness of age and position, knew better than to embarrass themselves by attempting to imitate their social betters. Their homes still wore the venerable bricks of ages far gone—another reason I preferred it there.

“I trust our accommodations are in order?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In The Roots.”

I released a slow breath. “Near The King’s Church?”

“Of course.”

I kept silent then, biting off my frustration before Helena lost her life, and I, my most trusted subordinate.

When last I visited, The Roots was a community of relative equals. No longer. Many of the homes near the gate occupied large plots of land lavished with ornate gates, intricate and well-maintained gardens, and an abundance of staff standing guard or flittering about their menial duties.

The building Helena acquired was one of the older of those found in The Roots, only a half turn’s walk from The Bark. She’d done well. It had four floors, the bottom half made of stone, the upper of wood. And not the wet, rotting wood of The Muds, but an aged, smooth wood of dark oak. Nestled between an apothecary and a tanner, both of which stood half as tall, the location had decent traffic and offered a good vantage of the surrounding area. As I said, she’d done well.

I glanced around as Helena went about opening the door. Vendors who looked little more than beggars huddled before corners and between buildings, selling a few simple wears as wealthy passersby jeered their contempt with exaggerated disinterest. I couldn’t help but wonder what my father would say if he’d seen his city fall to such depths. Then I wondered what he would say when I punished his children for it.

Keys jangled and locks clicked. After an endless rattling of latches, the door swung open, presenting an old man too cheerful and energetic for his supposed age.

“G’day, Lord,” the man greeted, bowing low and deep.

“She left you to look after the place?” I asked, smiling despite myself.

“The betta’ part of me duties,” he said, righting himself.

“I hope your accent isn’t permanent.”

Old Roche laughed. Helena pushed past him, eager to display her mood. Roche quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Helena is having trouble letting go of Addy,” I said. “I’m giving her the day to remember who she is, and, more importantly, who I am.”

“Farian?” Roche guessed.

I nodded. “He was less genial to the truth than we had hoped.”

“I would think so. Spending so many years thinking you have a wife and son only to be told it was mere fantasy is a hard truth to swallow.”

A flicker of contrition and Roche, as perceptive as ever, caught the expression. “I see she’s not the only one yet to brush away the recent past,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. He saw enough in them not to need me to voice my displeasure. As I said, he was as perceptive as ever.

“Apologies, my Lord,” he said, bowing once more. “I guess I was more right than I presumed, being both victim and perpetrator of my own accusation.”

“Lead the way,” I said.

Rouche took my cloak and swords. I kept the two long daggers strapped down my thighs and the two throwing knives tied to the inside of my forearms; even among loyal servants, even in a place as innocuous to me as The Roots, it wouldn’t do to be unarmed.

The place was vaguely reminiscent of the compact buildings the Kolokasi were known for, the rooms small, the hallways narrow, and every space used with reverence to efficiency and little care for ornament.

After a quick tour, Roche led me to a room in the back with four chairs laid out in a circle. Helena, stewing in quiet rage, sat in the chair facing the window, legs and arms crossed. A smiling Roche fell into the seat opposite her. They both knew I liked to keep any entrances or exits in view. A habit I’d nurtured amid treacherous kin.

“You’ve kept your name,” I said to Roche.

Helena shook her head, an amused smile breaking past her sullen dissent. “A dangerous choice. People still remember your exploits in The City of Betters. Tales are still told in alehouses and brothels the islands over, telling of your daring intrusion of their courts, lauding you for bedding dozens—nay, hundreds of their officials.”

Roche unhooked the conical wineskin hanging from his hip. “I’ve grown old, young Helena,”

“They’ll expect you to have,” she said. “And I haven’t been young for some time.”

“Excuse my lack of modesty, but I am the greatest Tunneler of commoner blood Evergreen has ever seen,” Roche said. “Who would believe me to be a measly custodian?”

Helena snorted.

Roche tilted back his head and took a deep swallow, rivulets of wine running red down his unkempt beard. “And yes, you are young.” He wiped the wine from his mouth with a stained sleeve.

“Helena is right,” I said.

Roche pushed the stopper onto his wineskin and hung it back on his waist. “Age is relative, Lord. No doubt she is young to me. I’d bet a cask of wine she’s little older than a child to you.”

I smiled. “An unnecessary risk is a risk too many.”

“Yes, Lord,” he said. His hand covered his wineskin as if my advice pertained to his proposed wager.

“To business. How are the preparations?” I raised a hand before Roche could start. “Just the facts, Old Roche. Spare me the banality of your excuses.”

Roche deflated, muttering, “Reasons, not excuses.”

“On with it,” Helena said.

“Fine, fine.” Roche leaned back on his chair. “I think our plans—or more specifically, your plans—require some major adjustments. There are a few new powers at play in The Roots. Criminals obscured behind a veneer of merchant houses have been left to riot in recent years.”

“Yes, I’ve notices things are not what they used to be,” I said.

“Right,” Roche said. “Several families of nefarious origins have brought with them the tribulations of crime. Largely ignored by the authorities—whose ranks have whittled away to the endless wars—they’ve infiltrated the sector offices and grown audacious enough to reach a hand or two into the churches.”

“Enough to nullify my plans,” I asked.

“Probably,” Roche said. I knew it to be true when he gave me one-word answers. Roche was a man of many words, and when he gave you but a few, they were always worth listening to.

“And the godlings?”

“Like children wielding sharp and cumbersome weapons.” Roche unhooked his flask again, taking another swig of wine. “With the main family busy with The Old Queen’s war, the lesser godlings have taken front stage in the ruling of the great cities.”

“I assume we can’t just cut the heads of these nefarious snakes and be done with it.”

Roche shook his head. “A hundred years is a long time for criminals to breed new criminals.”

I stood. “Helena, what say you about The Bark and Branches?”

“As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with the lecher,” she said. Roche grinned, proud of the title. “For decades they’ve ruled with petulance, ineptitude, and greed—more so than you remember. Without oversight, The Branches have found ways to realize ambitions that, in the presence of the ruling five, had previously been kept in check. I’m not surprised the same has happened in the lower plateaus.”

Roche nodded drunkenly.

I frowned. How could The Old Queen let this happen? “And The Bark?” I asked.

“Thankfully,” Roche said, “The Heartwood has been able to keep order. Though many of the more capable soldiers have been sent off to war, the elders have kept the military sections relatively calm. They hold the respect and ear of many. The lower godlings and newly risen merchant houses are rightly cautious of them.”

I began to pace the room. “Speak to me of my family.”

“In summary, The Old Queen and Bainan are at the front lines,” Helena said. “They’ve been there since soon after your supposed death. The twins have been left to guard The Eastern Gate and Manar travels the continent as an ambassador of a sort, visiting gods and kingdoms and demanding their fealty with warnings of our army’s inevitable approach.”

Much had changed. I expected my adoptive mother to lead the war from the palace. Hateful and thirsty for conquest as she was, her talents were ill-suited for the front lines of war. And my dear Manar, my favorite sibling, the kindest of us, was roaming the world, leaning into kings and gods with the oppressive weight of our father's kingdom. Yes, much had changed.

I stopped in front of Roche, my hand held out. “Golodanian?” I asked, nodding to the open wineskin he clutched to himself like a mother would her firstborn.

“South Golodanian to be precise. The best there is.” He tightened the lid and threw me the flask, then reached under the breast of his tunic and brought out its younger brother.

“You’ve never had Silas’ brew,” I said, bringing the flask to my lips. The earthy thickness of the wine was sour, sweet, and bitter all at once. It took a conscious effort to allow the intoxication to take place.

I turned to Helena. “And Lorail?”

Helena shrugged. “She hasn’t left her royal spire at the palace for almost thirty years—or so it’s said. Only her royal guards have seen her since.”

“You’ve been an adjudicator of hers for over a dozen years,” I said. “How can you not have seen her.”

Helena shrugged again. “I was offered the appointment without her presence. The head of her outer guard anointed me in her place.”

“Rowan,” I guessed.

Helena nodded.

“Was,” I said.

“Was?”

“She was the head of her outer guard.”

Helena’s smile was wicked. “Good riddance.”

I resumed my pacing, wine in hand. “How do the other cities fare?”

Roche took another deep pull. “Partum is doing well,” he said, slurring his words. “With the kingdom at war and spending so much on weapons and alchemical tonics, they see much of the generated taxes.”

“The Island of Betters is contending with internal conflicts,” Helena said. “There’s word of a resistance led by a man capable of removing the bonds used to keep the island’s men in line. As you can guess, recruitment has been plentiful for this new uprising. The rulers at Halor are having difficulties handling the matter.”

Taking out a pipe, Roche tapped the end into his cupped hand, dislodging the burned content within. “Reports of famine in Durum have been circulating the merchant groups,” he said. “They’ve made plans and concessions to keep the exports of grain to the island expensive, hoping to increase the profit margins. The war has not been kind to the city’s population.”

“Bainan levied his own people?” I asked.

Roche answered me with silence. I had a feeling he thought it a dumb question. He took a pouch from a folded pocket of his faded cloak, picking out clumps of thin, purple strips of hashla plant. I wondered if he would’ve fared better serving Silas. Then I saw how tightly he gripped his pipe and remembered why he served me.

“Celer is doing relatively well,” Helena said. “Manar’s absence and the constant stream of soldiers passing through have caused some problems, but her children rule in much the same way their matriarch had: with a fair and heavy hand.”

My next few questions would be the hardest for them to answer, so I retook my seat and took another pull from the flask. “The Muds?”

Both Helena and Roche looked away.

“The free-cities?”

Silence.

“The Plains?”

More silence.

“Is it as bad as that?” I asked instead.

“Worse,” they said in unison.

Helena cleared her throat and looked out of the window, deep in thought. There was pain, pity, and sadness swirling in Roche’s eyes. He lit his pipe and took a deep drag.

Helena was born in a small free-city in the north of Durum Island. Roche hailed from The Muds of Halor. Both knew what the worst of Evergreen offered back when they’d struggled against the cruelties of fate and the tyranny of heritage. They still carried some of the scars. It was hard to imagine what Evergreen had become as it declined further into the depravity the gods’ neglect had allowed, into what these two reacted to with such distaste.

I took one last, long swig of the wine, closed my eyes, and let the effects tickle my mind. After a long moment, I closed the wineskin and the effects of its content.

“That is enough for now,” I said. “You may retire for the night.”

“Good night…Lord,” Helena said, bowing deeply. Being reminded of what we fought against twisted her anger at me inwards, turning it to guilt—or so I assumed. She knew I’d taken a risk in letting Farian live, that I’d done so for her more than anyone or anything else. I doubt she knew it was also for me; killing the man, despite being unhindered by my promises, was more disagreeable than I’d expected.

Roche swayed, grabbing the chair’s cresting rail to steady himself. “I would bow, but I fear I might tilt too far to return, Lord.”

“Think nothing of it. Go and rest.”

He made to leave.

“Roche,” I called. He turned, glassy-eyed and leaning on the wall for balance. “No more wine or hashla. No more hiding or dulling your anger. You have waited a long time in the darkness, watching the torment of your nightmares replicate. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we begin to quell that torment. Tomorrow we begin to bring back the Evergreen I promised.”

Roche nodded. “Yes, Lord,” he said, his back a little straighter, his eyes a little clearer.

He knew I always kept my promises.