Page 140 of Play of Shadows
Letting go of Beretto and my grandfather, I reached out a hand and grabbed Vadris’ collar. The man spun to face us, dread filling his wide eyes.
‘Damelas? Saints, Damelas, have you come to rescue your old friend Vadris? Please, I can’t—’
I slapped him across the face, then proclaimed, ‘Your name is’– I reached back to Mount Cruxia– ‘Seriva Denor. You are a spearwoman in the army of Archduke Corbier. Stand with your feet wider and—’
‘Are you mad?’ Vadris demanded, cutting me off. ‘You want me to pretend to be a woman? I’m not some petty player in one of your—’
‘I’d do what he asks,’ my grandfather interrupted, gesturing to the Iron Orchids pressing ever closer, ‘and I’d pray my grandson is about to do something this sorry world has never before seen but badly needs, because the alternative isn’t going to be pleasant.’
Only overwhelming terror of impending death could have persuaded him, but that was in plentiful supply. Vadris widened his stance, held up his hands into fists and shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘I am Seriva Denor, spearwoman for Archduke Corbier, and I—’
Now, I thought, placing my hand on the back of the pedlar’s head, willing a single one of the thousands of memories pounding inside my skull to take up residence in Vadris.
Nothing happened at first. Vadris stood there, his features slack, almost disinterested– then the corners of his mouth rose into a smile far different from the leers and smirks I’d seen on his face before.
‘Oh,’ Vadris said, ‘this is going to be rather amusing.’
Suddenly he ducked down low, broke through the panicking folk in front of him and grabbed the end of an Orchid’s spear. With a deftness and precision entirely at odds with his own inexperience, he brought his right foot up and slid it along the shaft of the spear until his heel smashed into the Orchid’s hand and broke the man’s fingers. Vadris snatched the spear, held it up over his head and spun it gracefully before driving the sharpened steel tip into the enemy’s throat.
‘By all the gods,’ Beretto breathed. ‘How is this possible?’
‘The old songs said Veristors could inspire armies,’ Rhyleis said, her voice filled with awe. She looked as if she badly wanted to drop the sword she was holding so she could take out hernotebook and start composing herself. ‘We always assumed it was through the secrets they revealed, delivered through grand speeches. But this–this– is what they meant!’
I’d already grabbed hold of a woman in blacksmith’s leathers, dodging her punch as I reached inside my mind and drew on another set of memories. ‘Luzanne of Gamrock,’ I said. ‘Swordswoman of—’
It happened faster this time, and before I’d even finished, she’d pushed me aside.
‘I’ll take this, if you don’t mind.’ The blacksmith snatched the sword from Rhyleis and examined the blade. ‘Shit craftsmanship,’ she said, before rushing past the crowd and taking the head of another of the Iron Orchids.
‘Krev Medan,’ I said, taking the hand of a shopkeeper.
The memories slid from me smooth as silk, and were instantly taken up by the stoop-backed fellow. ‘One more battle, eh?’ the shopkeeper asked with a grin before running into the fight. Within moments he was tearing the shield away from one of the knights assisting the Orchids and bashing his helm off with it.
‘You’re doing it, boy,’ my grandfather said proudly, keeping a firm arm around me to keep me on my feet.
Faster and faster they came, the recollections of dead soldiers, hazy phantoms offering their experiences to farmhands, merchants, artisans and alley-rats alike. Soon I couldn’t keep up. The pressure was becoming too great for me to contain.
‘What’s wrong?’ Beretto shouted. ‘He’s bleeding from his eyes and ears—’
‘Grandson, are you sure—?’
I couldn’t answer, but I knew I had pushed the Veristor’s gift too far.
Rhyleis grabbed my arm. ‘You can’t do this one by one, Damelas. You’ve got to open yourself up and let the memories out– let them all out!’
Now, just as I could feel my mind coming apart, I found the answer to the question plaguing me since this had all began: who saves a city from an enemy who can never be caught, whose deeds can never be punished?
Clinging to my grandfather and my best friend, I threw my head back andscreamed,each word smashing through the din like a hammer shattering long-rusted iron.
‘Jereste!’ I cried out first, because Jereste, like any city, was an expression ofhope– of the mad and unfounded belief that by coming together, men and women could shape a society that was greater than the meagre sums of their own lives.
The crowd of artisans and merchants, the beggars and alley-rats, even the maddening memories breaking my mind apart, all became silent for a single moment. Thousands of eyes stared back at me, blurry through tears, pleading to know what was expected of them.
Inside that silence, I spoke the second word.
‘Arise.’
There was no great clap of thunder at first, no hue and cry. . . then a rumbling ignited within the crowds as people startedremembering: stories of daring and decency, myths of heroism and compassion, heard at the knees of parents and grandparents, or played out on the stages of operatos across the city, or told by children in alleys miming sword fights with sticks. The memories I’d borrowed from a thousand battlefield dead spilled forth into the waiting crowds – the knowledge, instincts and experience of trained warriors finding a home inside the brave and determined people of my city.
