Orlov tossed the mask onto the stony beach and followed the Envoy. Silverdust watched him go and waited, feeling the wind whip all around him. It must have been a fight to inspire the storyweavers, he decided. A lone peasant boy riding a dragon, taking on a seasoned Vigilant and twenty soldiers. This was the stuff of legend. Something the people of Vinterkveld would grow drunk on. Silverdust stooped to retrieve the mask and drifted into town, though he was certain all the inhabitants had fled. To stay would be madness. To stay would invite difficult questions and a swift death.
They found rooms in an abandoned inn and the soldiers took roles as cooks, servants, and waiters. Envoy de Vries insisted on a hot bath and Father Orlov turned in early. He had said little since uncovering Shirinov’s mask. Silverdust waited in his room, sending his focus out beyond the wooden walls to ponder at the soldiers in their company. His attention brushed against the minds of men drawn from many provinces across the Empire. Most of the soldiers were useful fools that cared nothing beyond getting paid and fed, but one approached, younger than the rest, who he sensed was different. Silverdust opened the door before the young soldier could knock. He held a tray with a bowl of borscht, a plate of dark bread, and a stout mug of ale.
Come in.
The soldier hesitated at the door, then entered the room with a wary expression on his face. Silverdust knew full well what the rank and file thought of him. The way he seemed to glide rather than walk unnerved people. That he never spoke aloud but dropped the words directly into a person’s mind earned him greater mistrust. And there was the question of his loyalty.
What is your name?
‘Streig,’ said the young soldier as he set the tray of food down. He was barely older than Steiner, with a downy fuzz masquerading as a beard, and hair shorn down to stubble across his scalp.
I have already eaten, Streig. So I invite you to stay and enjoy this food.
‘I … I can’t do that,’ said the soldier.
You and I both know that the Emperor has so many soldiers he cannot afford to feed them properly.
‘That’s no secret,’ replied Streig. ‘The peasants in the Scorched Republics eat better than we do.’
And you are hungry, are you not?
Streig’s stomach chose that very moment to growl.
I wish to take the air outside. Being cooped up in these sombre dwellings does not suit me.
Streig had the good sense to remain quiet and watched Silverdust leave. The streets outside the inn were shrouded in the deep darkness of winter night but Silverdust had his own illumination. He drifted along the lonely winding lanes of the town. Something else was in Cinderfell, some other presence that he could not put a name to. The buildings became fewer as he drifted onward, following the steep incline up through the town. The Exarch paused, staring up at the star-flecked heavens, before turning north and advancing into the woods. The leaves and grasses at his feet grew black as he passed by, scorched by the aura of argent light. This was novel; for decades he had only walked the corridors of Vladibogdan and now he travelled in the shadow of moonlit trees, beckoned by an unknown feeling, almost a sound to his arcane senses.
Something wailed in the darkness, something pained and anguished. The trees crowded around Silverdust with dark and threatening branches, then all at once opened out to a clearing. The ruins of a chalet stood on the far side and scores of broken branches littered the ground. Silverdust paused at the edge of the clearing.
You can step into the light, Envoy de Vries.
‘And here I was thinking I’d been so good,’ she said, stepping out from behind an old oak tree a dozen feet behind him. ‘I do so hate the cold.’ She shivered in the night’s chill and stared up into the Exarch’s blank mask. ‘And what brings you out so late at night, Silverdust? What have you seen?’
Silverdust cast his gaze over the clearing where writhing ghostly forms stood weeping and moaning. There had to be a dozen of them, broken in body and mind, cradling old swords and crooning to themselves like tired children.
Can you not see them?
‘What?’ The Envoy drew her knife from the golden belt that hung from her hips.
The ghosts of the Okhrana haunt this place. They linger over shallow graves and cry out for absolution. I hear them.
‘This is nonsense,’ replied de Vries. ‘No Vigilant has ever had such gifts.’
They speak of a peasant girl with terrible power. She summoned the stones from the earth and smashed everyone alive to a pulp.
‘More of your cryptic foolishness. Don’t you think I know you’re hiding something, Silverdust?’
I am not hiding the ghosts of the Okhrana from you, I give you my word on that.
The Envoy looked over her shoulder and for a second Silverdust wondered at how easy it would be to kill her in the darkness of the forest. It was no good, he decided. He needed her to gain audience with the Emperor. Only after the Emperor was dead could he rid himself of the Envoy once and for all.
They haunt this clearing and yet remain hidden from you.
‘There is much that remains hidden from me.’ There was a sour curl on her lips. ‘Not least the events of Vladibogdan.’
The ghosts say one name, over and over.
‘Vartiainen,’ said the Envoy. Silverdust nodded. She stepped closer and dropped her voice to a deathly hush. ‘I don’t believe you can see these ghosts. You’ve told me nothing I did not already know.’
You knew a dozen Okhrana had been sent to Cinderfell, Envoy?
Her silence confirmed she had not.
We could return in the morning and dig them up if you need proof.
Envoy de Vries looked around the clearing as if it might come alive with stalking nightmares at any moment.
‘Perhaps you can see ghosts. I don’t care. I’m going back to the inn. You will keep me informed if you learn anything else.’
Silverdust said nothing and watched the woman leave. He wandered the clearing for long moments, drifting between the phantoms who cried or wailed in the night. As a man he might have fled from such a vision, but as a cinderwraith he had no fear of death. Never before had he seen such apparitions, but much had changed since Steiner had taken his hammer to the Ashen Torment.
Finally he came to a grave with a marker. The soul that had belonged to these bones had moved on to whatever rest awaited. Silverdust crouched down and leaned closer to the wooden marker. A name had been carved into the wood.
Verner.
Silverdust stood slowly and nursed a pang of jealousy. How he longed for the peaceful slumber of death’s cold embrace. How he yearned to pass on from this existence. Silverdust glided from the clearing back towards the town. There would be no peace, not while the Emperor still drew breath.
