Shadowrise

by Tad Williams

  “I don’t know.” Her look turned serious. “But it must mean something. The gods do not give out such gifts for no reason.”

  That seemed like something he had just heard or thought himself. “What’s your name?” But he knew it, didn’t he? How could she feel so close, so real, so . . . important, but still be nameless?

  She laughed and he could feel it like a cool breeze across overheated skin. “What’s yours?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Nor can I. It’s hard to remember names in dreams. You’re . . . you’re just him to me. That pale-skinned boy with red hair. And I’m . . . well, I’m me.”

  “The black-haired girl.” But it made him sad. “I want to know your name. I need to know it. I need to know that you’re real, that you live. I lost the only other person I care about . . .”

  “Your sister,” she said, her face suddenly sad; then: “How did I know that?”

  “Perhaps I told you. But I don’t want to lose you, too. What’s your name?”

  She stared at him, her lips parted, about to say something, but instead she remained silent for a long moment. The mirror seemed to shrink against the darkness, although he could still see her soft thick eyelashes, her long, narrow nose, even the tiny mole on her upper lip. He was afraid that if he waited in silence too long the mirror would shrink and fall away from him. He almost spoke, but understood suddenly that if she did not think of her name now, if she did not tell him, she never would. He had to trust her.

  “I used to be a Hive Priestess,” she said at last—slowly, like someone reading from an old, damaged book. “Then I went to live with the other grown women. There were so many women! All together, all scheming and plotting. But worst of all was that we all belonged to . . . to him. The terrible one. Then I ran away. Oh, gods save me, I do not want to go back to him!”

  Again he ached to speak but he knew somehow he should not. She had to find it herself.

  “And I will not go back. I will stay free. I will do what I want. I’ll die before I let him use me, either as a toy or as a weapon.” She paused. “Qinnitan. My name is Qinnitan.”

  And in that moment he found a sudden strength, something that rooted him despite all the darkness through which he had come, rooted him in his own blood and history and name. “And I am Barrick. Barrick Eddon.”

  “Then come to me, Barrick Eddon, or I will come to you,” Qinnitan said. “Because I am so afraid to be alone . . . !”

  And then the mirror did fall away, spinning into darkness like a silver coin dropped down a well, like a bright shell tumbled back into the ocean, a shooting star vanishing into the endless field of night . . .

  “Qinnitan!” But he was alone now in emptiness. He tried to feel again the strength and certainty that had given him his name, the knowledge of his own living blood, rushing through his veins hot as molten metal . . .

  My blood . . .

  Then he could see it like a river, a red river, stretching away in two directions. One way vanished into an impenetrable, silvery mist. The other way snaked a course back into darkness, but a living darkness full of movement and suggestion. It almost felt as though he could reach out and trace it with a finger, like a line of paint on a map, a line that meant movement, a road, a track, something that would lead him to . . . to . . .

  Silver flashed, then flashed again, dazzling him. He fell into the hot red river and for a moment was certain it would destroy him, that it would boil away all that he was, even the name he had just recovered.

  Barrick, he told himself, and it was as though he stood on the bank and called it out to another part of himself that was drowning in the crimson current. Barrick Eddon. I am Barrick Eddon. Barrick of the River of Blood . . .

  And suddenly another face was there, congealing out of the redness just as the face of the girl had come to him out of blackness. It was a man, half-ancient, half-young, with white streaming hair and a bandage wrapped around his eyes, a face dimly familiar, as if seen once on an old coin.

  Come quickly, manchild, the blind man said. Soon it will all be moving too fast to change the course. We are rushing toward darkness. We are hurrying toward the end of all things.

  Come soon or you must learn to love nothingness.

  And then everything around Barrick fell away into a greater darkness and he was falling too, tumbling once more through the unending black void, empty of all feeling and thoughts, touched only by a harsh, moaning wind and the dying whisper of the blinded man:

  . . . You must learn to love nothingness . . .

  11

  Cut and Thrust

  “In ancient days Zmeos and his brother Khors stole Perin’s daughter, Zoria.The war that followed changed the shape of the earth and even the length of days and nights. Almost all scholars agree that the fairies took the side of Zmeos, the Old Serpent. Because of this, the Trigonate Church still holds the Qar people ‘cursed and excommunicate’.”

  —from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”

  “PRINCESS BRIONY,” said Lady Ananka as the servitors cleared away the most recent course, “can you tell me how children are raised in the north?”

  A few whispers and quiet anticipatory laughter ran the length of the royal table. Briony wished her friend was beside her, but Ivgenia had been assigned to one of the lesser tables at the other end of the hall and she might as well have been in another country.

  “I’m sorry, Baroness, but I did not hear your question.”

  “How are children raised in the north?” the king’s mistress asked. “Are they allowed to run wild there, as the Marchfolk allow their sheep and other animals to do?”

  Briony smiled carefully. “Not all our animals run wild, Lady, but for those who live in areas where grass grows freely it only makes sense to take advantage of the bounty the gods provide.”

  “But it is the children I am interested in, dear,” said Ananka with acid sweetness. “For instance, I was told that you were taught to fight with a sword and shield. Most exciting, I am sure, but to us it seems a little . . . uncivilized. I hope I do not offend.”

  Briony did her best to keep smiling, but it was growing harder. She had not expected the assault to begin quite so early in the evening—they had only finished the soup—but no one could stop this except the king, and Enander seemed much more interested in his wine and the conversation of an attractive woman on his other side.

  It is like one of Shaso’s knife exercises, Briony told herself. Combined with playing one of Finn’s invented parts. If I could do both of those, I can achieve this, too. “How could you possibly offend, Lady?” Briony asked the king’s mistress, letting no hint of irony into her words. “When you and His Majesty have so kindly given me a place here, as well as the priceless gift of your friendship?”

  “Of course,” said Ananka slowly, as if reassessing her strategy. Another flurry of whispers ran around the table. Those who had been deliberately ignoring Briony for social reasons were now regarding her openly, able at last to indulge their curiosity. “But I inquire because there is something else I wanted to ask. Something that I hoped you could . . . help me understand.”

  Whatever happens, do not be drawn into a battle, Briony told herself. She has the high ground here and all the other advantages. “Of course, Lady Ananka.”

  Ananka put a grave expression on her handsome, long-boned face. “Is it true that you challenged Hendon Tolly to a fight? A . . . swordfight?”

  The whispers became something louder and more violent—laughs, gasps, expressions of disbelief and disgust. Women who had never done anything in their lives more strenuous than sewing stared at Briony as though she were some freakish example of the gods’ displeasure—a two-headed ram or a legless cat. The looks on their faces ignited a flame of anger in Briony’s gut, and for a moment it was all she could do not to stand up and sweep her crockery onto the floor.

  Every night this woman tormented her. Gods, I wish I had my sword now!

 
; “If you lose your temper, you will likely lose the fight.” She heard Shaso’s gruff voice as if he stood at her shoulder. “The warrior who can keep his thoughts clear is always armed.” Briony took a breath. “To play calm, you must remember calm.” That had been Nevin Hewney in one of his sober moments. “Bring that feeling to your thoughts. Taste it like a piece of fruit.” She thought of riding the wagon when they had first crossed into Syan, how the great expanse of the Esterian river valley had opened before her like the arms of a welcoming friend.

  “I did challenge him, Lady,” she said, her voice light. “I regret it now, of course. It was not seemly and it put a burden on my other guests.” Nothing wrong with a small feint in return, though, was there? “No hostess should ever force her guests to participate in her own bad manners.”

  Another quiet chuckle ran around the table, but Briony fancied the laughter might have become a tiny bit more sympathetic.

  “You put a sword to his throat, did you not?” asked Ananka sweetly, as though she too sought only to minimize an unfortunate moment.

  “I did, my lady,” she said. She was pleased to realize that much of her anger had passed through her like a storm. “I certainly did, and as I said, I am ashamed. But let us not forget, he is the man who usurped my family’s throne. Imagine how you would feel if one of your loyal nobles,” Briony turned with a smile, looking up and down the table, “turned out to be a traitor? Unbelievable, I know, but we trusted the Tollys, too.”

  For the first time she seemed to have Enander’s attention. “Did you have no idea, then?” the king asked. “Did this Duke Hendon not live at your court?”

  “The duke was his brother Gailon, Majesty,” Briony gently corrected him. “And Gailon was, I must admit, a better man than I gave him credit for. Hendon killed him, too, as it turns out.”

  Now the whispers were unleavened by laughter. “Terrible,” said one of the women, an old duchess with a wig like a bird’s nest. “You poor thing. How frightened you must have been.”

  Briony smiled again, as shyly and humbly as she could. At the end of the table Ananka’s face was set in a mask of polite sympathy, but Briony had no doubt that the baroness was none too happy with the way the conversation had slipped her reins. “Frightened—yes, of course. Terrified. But I did only what any young noblewoman would do when her father’s throne was in jeopardy. I ran away in search of friends. Trustworthy friends, like King Enander. And again I thank him . . . and the Lady Ananka . . . for all they have done for me.” She lifted her cup and bowed her head in the direction of Enander. “May the Three Brothers give you long lives and good health to equal your great kindness, your Majesty.”

  “His Majesty,” echoed the others, and drank up. Enander looked surprised but not unhappy. Ananka was hiding her irritation well.

  Briony considered it a victory on both counts.

  After Briony had sent her maids away, she took out the note and studied it for the fifth or sixth time since she had received it the night before.

  Come to the garden in the Vane Courtyard an hour after sunset on Stonesday.

  It had been sitting on her writing desk when she returned, a homely piece of twine around it instead of a wax seal. She did not recognize the handwriting but she had a good idea who had left it for her. Just to be on the safe side, though, she went to her chest and lifted out the boy’s clothes she had worn while traveling with Makewell’s Men. She had sent them to be cleaned, then packed them away—there was no telling when she might need them again. Even this, perhaps the greatest palace in Eion, felt like poor and unsafe shelter after the events of the last year.

  Underneath the homespun garments was the sack with her Yisti knives. She rucked up her long skirts, not without a great deal of puffing and gasping as she bent across the whalebone stomacher, and was about to strap the smaller knife to her leg when she realized the foolishness of what she was doing.

  What, shall I ask an enemy to wait while I roll around on the ground trying to reach past my petticoats for my dagger? What had Shaso said? “Examine your clothes . . . find places you can keep them and draw them without snagging.” What would he have thought of her struggling red-faced to reach her leg?

  She gave up and stood. She pulled on her mantle, then slipped the smaller of the two blades into her sleeve just as somebody knocked on her chamber door. Briony waited for a moment before remembering the maids were gone, Feival was out collecting gossip in the servants’ hall, and she was alone. “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Just me, Princess.”

  She opened it but did not step aside to let her friend in. “Gods keep you, Ivvie. I don’t think I’m going down to dinner.”

  Ivgenia looked at her clothes. “Are you going out, Snowbear?” The name was a little joke—her friend liked to pretend Briony came from the far, frozen north.

  “No, no, I’m just cold.” It was hard to lie to someone she thought of as a friend, but she could not bring herself to trust anyone in the court, even sweet, kindly Ivgenia e’Doursos. “I’m not feeling well, dear—just a little chill on my heart tonight. Please give the king and Lady Ananka my best wishes.”

  When Ivgenia was gone Briony found her shoes and slipped into them. It had been a dry week, which was good—it made the prospect of waiting out of doors more appealing. Still, as she walked quietly down the corridor she was already netted with gooseflesh.

  The Vane Courtyard was named for an immense weathervane in the shape of Perin’s flying horse. It stood atop a tall tower at one end of the courtyard, a monument that could be seen halfway across Tessis and was often used as the reference point in local directions. On the far side of the highest courtyard wall ran the Lantern Broad itself, the massive, ancient street that gave Broadhall Palace its name: Briony could hear the lowing of oxen, the scrape and thunk of cartwheels, and the shouts of peddlers. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to walk out of the palace and into that great street and simply follow where it led her—find a life that had nothing to do with courtly connivance or family responsibility, a life without monsters, fairies, traitors, or poisoners. If only she could . . .

  “Hello, Lady,” said a deep voice beside her ear.

  Before the second syllable was finished she had whirled and snugged her knife against his throat.

  “I gather you are not pleased to see me,” said Dawet dan-Faar, his voice only a little thickened by the blade pushing against his gorge. “I am not certain why, Princess Briony, but I will be happy to apologize directly you remove your pretty blade from my windpipe.”

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” She lowered the knife and backed a step away. She had forgotten the smell of his skin and the quiet rumble of his voice and she did not like the way those things made her feel. “Sneaking into my rooms to leave a note? You men, you are all boys when it comes to it, playing at games of war and spycraft even when you do not need to.”

  “Games?” He raised an eyebrow. “I think what happened to you and your family shows that these are not merely games. Lives are at stake.”

  “Why? Because of other men.” She slipped the knife back into her sleeve. “What will happen to you if you are caught here, Master dan-Faar?”

  “In truth? Nothing that cannot be fixed, but I would prefer not to have to set my energies to such repairs if I can avoid it.”

  “Then let’s go sit on the bench beneath that apple tree. It is mostly out of sight from the colonnades.” She led him toward the bench and swept her skirts carefully to the side so she could sit down. She patted the wood a decorous distance away. “Here, sit. Tell me what has happened to you since I’ve seen you last. We had no time to talk at the inn.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “The False Woman, with its grubby little proprietor. That was an unpleasant afternoon—they almost had me.”

  “Oh, stop.” Briony shook her head. “I told you, these games bore me. Do you truly expect me to believe you escaped all on your own?”

  He looked more than a little start
led. “What do you mean, Princess?”

  “Really, Master dan-Faar. What was it you said to the guard captain? ‘I swear by Zosim Salamandros, you have the wrong man!’ What, swearing by the Trickster god himself as a pass code and you think I could not guess? And then that . . . charade of an escape, conveniently out of everyone’s sight? After spending months with a troupe of players, did you think I would not recognize sham and playacting? The guard captain let you go.”

  A smile tugged at the edge of Dawet’s mouth, just visible in the torchlight. “I am . . . speechless,” he said at last.

  “I can even guess with whom you made that arrangement,” she said. “Lord Jino, the king’s spymaster—would it by any chance be him? No, you need not answer. The only real questions, Master dan-Faar, would be about your true relationship with the Syannese court. Secret envoy from Ludis Drakava in Hierosol? Or a double agent working originally for King Enander, but pretending to serve Drakava?”

  “I am impressed, my lady,” said Dawet. “You have been thinking, I see, and thinking carefully and well . . . but I am afraid you are not yet the mistress of intrigue you think yourself to be.”

  “Oh?” The air was growing cold now that the night had come on. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves. “And what have I missed?”

  “You are assuming that I am your friend and not your enemy.”

  A moment later Dawet had clutched her two wrists through the sleeve and prisoned them together in the firm grip of a single hand. In the other hand he held a knife, longer and more slender than Briony’s as he laid the blade gently against her cheek.

  “You dastard! You . . . you traitor! I trusted you!”

  “Exactly, my lady. You trusted me . . . but why? Because I admired you? Because my leg looks shapely in woolen hose? Yet I was your father’s captor’s man when you met me—poor grounds for friendship.”

  “And I treated you well when no one else would.” Briony was trying slowly to tilt her balance so that she could kick Dawet hard in the leg, hoping it would hurt him enough that she could jerk free from his grasp and draw her own blade. She would rather have kicked him higher—Shaso had been most thorough in teaching her the best places to strike in close combat—but neither her angle nor her petticoats would permit it.