Shadowrise

by Tad Williams

  His smile had much of the tiger grin she remembered from the old days, and for a moment Briony found herself quite breathless.

  “That said,” he continued as he straightened up, “you will find your tribute in a room above this tavern near Underbridge—“ he handed her a scrap of parchment—“along with two discreet men who will transport it for you.” He bowed. “I hope that serves your needs, my princess. To be honest, following your adventures is nearly payment enough. Can you tell me why the Kallikans?”

  “It is the gods’ will.”

  “If you truly do not wish to tell me . . .”

  “That is not a polite evasion, Master dan-Faar. A goddess spoke to me in a dream—well, a demigoddess . . .” He was smiling at her. “You do not believe me.”

  “On the contrary, my lady,” he said, “I believe that things are happening that are without precedent since the days of the gods. You and your family are clearly in the midst of them. Beyond that, I reserve my secret heart even from you, Lady.”

  “That is fairly spoken.”

  “And with that I must leave you.” He brushed a few flecks of night-dew off his breeches. His scabbard thumped against the bench. “I do not know when we will meet next, Highness. Other duties call me.”

  “You are . . . you are leaving the city?” The moment of panic this brought caught her by surprise.

  “I am afraid I am leaving Syan entirely, Princess.”

  “But you . . . you are my only real ally, Dawet. Where are you going?”

  “I cannot tell you,” he said. “I beg your pardon for my secrecy, but a lady’s good name is at stake. Still, be assured this is not the last time we will see each other, Princess. I do not need to believe in anything very strange to feel certain of that.” He took her hand as she stood, suddenly full of confusion and discomfort. “My thoughts will be with you, Briony Eddon. Never doubt yourself. You have a destiny and it is far from fulfilled. That you may trust when you can trust nothing else.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it for the second time; a moment later he had turned and slipped away into the shadows of the garden path.

  “I still do not quite understand what you are doing, Princess Briony,” said Eneas as they made their way along a narrow road that ran parallel to Lantern Broad. So far they had attracted much less attention than they would have on the great thoroughfare, which was certainly what Briony wanted. Still, it was impossible to go out into Tessis with the heir to the throne, his guards, and a pair of oxcarts without drawing a crowd.

  “Then you do me the greatest possible compliment by trusting me.” As soon as she had said it, Briony worried that she sounded like she was trying to charm him. He is a good man, after all—I owe him something more than just the ordinary round of courtly pleasantries. “In truth, I’ve told you all I can. If I say any more you’ll no longer fear I might be mad—you will be convinced of it!”

  Eneas laughed. “I swear there is no such thing as a workaday conversation with you, Briony Eddon! Because of that alone I would have been happy to accompany you anywhere. As it is, I have only been asked to go to a part of my own city that I confess I do not know well. Underbridge has long had a name for its strange folk and stranger happenings.”

  “The folk are strange if height is your only measurement,” she told. “But if they are anything like our Funderlings at home, Highness, I believe them to be honest citizens—as honest as any other men, that is.”

  Eneas nodded. “An important qualification. But let us not curse them too quickly even with the crimes of bigger men—perhaps dishonesty, like the price of fish and meat, increases with greater weight.”

  Briony could not help laughing.

  As was his wont, Dawet dan-Faar had admirably prepared the ground for their visit: when they reached Underbridge the Kallikans immediately opened the gates of their guildhall and invited the company inside, oxcarts and all. Inside it was dark and the ceilings were low. A group of small grooms came forward and took the oxen off to the stable and began to unload the carts. In its own way the Kallikans’ hall was as much a world of its own as Broadhall Palace—although smaller in all ways, of course.

  A group of armor-clad Kallikan guards now arrived to lead them into the hall itself, bearing what looked like ceremonial digging-sticks.

  “Your pardon, lady . . . and sir,” said one of them, bowing. “Follow us, please.”

  This courtly little fellow reminded her suddenly of the day of the wyvern hunt back in Southmarch and the Funderling man her horse had almost trampled. That had been the day when everything had first begun to go really wrong—the day they had come back to the message from their father’s captor asking for Briony’s hand in marriage. But what she remembered now about that day was something else . . . something about her lost twin.

  Oh, Barrick, where are you? It hurt to think about him, although scarcely an hour of any day went by that she didn’t. The underground dreams had ended, but she still missed him as fiercely as ever.

  On the day of that long-ago hunt Shaso had saved them from the Shadowline monster and Kendrick had been dragged out from beneath the carcass of his horse, miraculously unhurt but for a few scrapes and bruises. Many courtiers and huntsmen had run to attend to her older brother, but Briony had been more concerned about her twin and his crippled arm. Still, when she tried to help him Barrick had turned angrily away from her and Briony had demanded to know why he always fought against the people who loved him.

  “When I’m fighting to be left alone it means my life is worth something to me,” he had told her. “When I stop fighting—when I don’t have the strength anymore to be angry—then you should worry for me.”

  Oh, sweet and merciful Zoria, she prayed now, wherever he is, please let my brother still be fighting! Let him stay angry!

  The Guild of the Underbridge Kallikans, as Dawet had named them, had already assembled in the main hall to wait. The little people watched with careful and mostly silent attention from rows of benches as Briony and the others entered, which only added to the sense that she and the prince were performers in some unusual masque. In keeping with the citizens of Underbridge, the room was small and the ceilings were low. In the center of the closest bench sat a very round little man with an enormous fuzzy beard and a tall hat. As the guards showed them where to stand, this imposing figure raised his hand.

  “Welcome, Princess Briony of Southmarch,” he said in the same broadly understandable accent as ordinary-sized Syannese, which was a relief—she had feared the Kallikans might speak some language of their own. “I am Highwarden Dolomite.”

  She made a careful curtsy. “Thank you, Highwarden. You are kind to give me an audience on such short notice.”

  “And you are kind to bring us such splendid gifts.” He smiled as several of the guards came forward to give him the manifest. “Two dozen Yisti pick-heads,” he read, giving a little whistle of appreciation. “Those are the finest anywhere, sharp as glass, strong as the very bones of the earth! And fifty hundredweight of Ulosian marble.” He shook his head, impressed. “Rich gifts indeed—we have not had such fine stuff to work for over a year! We are impressed by your generosity, Princess.” He looked to the other Guildsmen on either side before turning his sharp eyes back to Briony. “But what, if we may wonder, is the cause of such kindness? Even our own folk outside Tessis do not come to see us in these days, let alone bring us fine gifts.”

  “A favor, of course.” Briony had danced this little dance of teasing flattery and hard questions a hundred times before. “But such wise folk as you knew that already.”

  “Indeed, we guessed.” Dolomite smiled carefully. “And we of course will be very interested to hear what necessity has brought such an important woman to our humble hall. But, first, here is something else we do not know.” The highwarden looked straight at Eneas, who still wore his traveling cloak. “Who is this man who stands beside you so silent and watchful? Why does he remain hooded under our roof like an outlaw?”
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  A couple of the prince’s guards made angry noises and would have drawn their weapons but Briony saw Eneas calm them with a whispered word.

  “You . . . you mean . . . you don’t know . . . ?” Briony silently cursed her own stupidity. Dawet had not told the Kallikans about her companion, though she had explicitly asked him to do so. Accident—or a purposeful bit of meddling?

  “No. Why should we?” Dolomite asked.

  “Because he is your lord!” one of the prince’s guards shouted, his outrage overcoming even his master’s injunction to silence. A startled murmur ran through the watching Kallikans. “This is Prince Eneas—son and heir of your king, Enander!”

  Zoria save me from my own stupidity! Briony was horrified by what she had done. She should have introduced Eneas first—no, she should never have brought him. She had let her own weakness drive her, inviting a strong man to accompany her instead of simply getting on with things herself. And now the gods alone knew what would happen.

  Eneas pulled back his hood, prompting the Kallikans to more gasps and murmurs, loud as a covey of flushed birds. Several of them got down from their benches and prostrated themselves; even the highwarden removed his tall hat and began to clamber down from his chair to bow to the prince.

  “Forgive us, Highness,” he cried. “We did not know! We meant no disrepect to you or your father!”

  Briony was a little sickened to see the change that had come over people who only moments before had been calm, careful, and subtle. “This is my fault!” she said.

  “No, it is mine,” countered Eneas. “I thought to stay out of this and let Princess Briony do what she needed to do. I should not have hidden my face from my father’s subjects. I ask your pardon.”

  All of the Kallikans were relieved by the prince’s words. Some were even nodding and smiling as they made their way back to their seats, as if the whole thing had been an amusing, if slightly frightening, jest.

  “You are very kind, Prince Eneas, very kind.” Dolomite looked anxiously between Briony and Eneas. “Of course, we will do whatever the princess asks of us, Highness.”

  Now Briony felt heavy and sick in the pit of her stomach. By bringing Eneas she had forced the Kallikans into a position where they had no choice but to do her bidding. That was a way to get what one wanted, but not a way to make real allies.

  “I tell you in all honesty,” she said to Dolomite and the other Kallikans, “I asked the prince to accompany me only because he is one of my few friends here in Syan and I could not leave the court without some kind of escort.”

  “Surely the big folk in Broadhall palace do not think us a danger to noblewomen? ” piped up a particularly wizened little Kallikan sitting next to Dolomite. He almost sounded flattered by the thought.

  “I am certain you would be dangerous to Syan’s enemies,” Briony said. “But it was not your people I feared. One of my countrymen was attacked in the streets of Tessis only a short time gone, so my friends here do not want me to travel without a companion even in the city.”

  “And what better companion for a young woman than our famous prince?” said Dolomite. “We are ashamed not to have recognized you, Prince Eneas.”

  “And I should have made myself known to you immediately, Highwarden Dolomite, but I am glad we have met at last. I have heard your name spoken well of before, and from men I trust.”

  “Your highness is too kind.” Dolomite looked as though he might swell up and start booming with pride like a frog during the spring floods.

  Briony let her breath out all the way for the first time in a while. Despite mistakes, they had crept past the first obstacle. “Let me waste no more of your time, Highwarden,” she said. “Here is what I’ve come to ask. Please, can you show me your oldest drum?”

  “Drum? ” The smile on Dolomite’s face began fading—he looked genuinely surprised and confused. “Our oldest . . . drum?”

  “That’s all I know. I was told by . . . by someone important to ask for it.”

  The silence gave way to another series of murmured conversations, including several of the Kallikans in the front row around the highwarden, but the common tone seemed to be one of confoundment.

  The little wrinkled fellow next to the highwarden suddenly began wiggling his fingers in agitation. “Ooh, scarp me, I’ve just had a thought,” he began, then frowned so hard that his face almost curled away into his beard and vanished. “But no, that’s foolish! . . . it wouldn’t . . . would it . . . ?”

  “By the Earth’s Eldest!” sputtered Dolomite, “Would you be good enough to share your idea with us, Whitelead?”

  “Just . . . I thought . . .” The old Kallikan waggled his fingers even faster beside his face, so that he looked like a river mudfish; at last he noticed what he was doing and stopped. “That . . . perhaps what she means . . . this drum . . . could it be . . . the drumstones? ”

  At these words even the last few whispers trailed off and the hall fell completely silent. All eyes turned toward Briony in astonishment.

  I must make the very gods despair, she thought. What have I done now?

  The days were getting long, Theron Pilgrimer noted with satisfaction: even hours past the evening meal the sun settling into the hills beyond the river was still high enough to turn the whole length of the Pellos bright copper. That boded well for his desire to reach Onsilpia’s Veil, the most important pilgrimage site in the north, well before the Midsummer Penance Festival began—and that would mean satisfied customers. He had been leading these pilgrim caravans since he was a young man, but for all Theron’s experience things could still catch him by surprise. For that reason, he had guided this caravan far to the south of Brenn’s Bay. He wanted nothing to do with the mad things he had heard about Southmarch, besieged by fairy armies, its royal family scattered to the winds.

  He had just finished discussing food supplies with Avidel, his apprentice, when the cripple’s boy appeared. “He wants to talk to you,” the boy told him.

  Theron cursed quietly under his breath and looked around for the tattered, ill-omened figure of the beggar. But no, Theron reminded himself, he should call the man by a different name: you couldn’t very well name someone a beggar who was paying you an entire gold dolphin to join your pilgrimage for a fraction of its journey.

  Theron followed the boy to the low hill where the cripple stood waiting, well away from the rest of the caravaners. The hooded man, whose blackened, bandaged face Theron had never seen properly, didn’t show the least signs of interest in his fellow travelers except to share their fire and the meals they ate out of the communal pot. He spoke only through the boy, and that seldomly, so it was surprising he should ask to speak with Theron now.

  The cripple seemed to be gazing out across the rolling land toward the broad sweep of the Pellos. Distant as an ant on a branch, an ox towed a barge from a path along the bank and several small rowboats bobbed in the backwater at the bend of the river as Silverside fishermen cast out their nets.

  “Lovely evening, eh?” Theron said as he approached. He was looking forward to getting into his bedroll and paying his respects to the flask of wine hidden in his travel chest. It was not that the other pilgrims would disapprove, but rather that as long as it was hidden he didn’t have to share it. He would not be able to fill it again until they reached Onsipia’s Veil, which was still days away.

  The hooded man waved his bandaged hand and his child servant stood on tiptoe to hear his muttered words. “How far away is Southmarch?” the boy asked.

  “Southmarch?” Theron frowned. “At least a tennight, riding most of the day. For a group like ours, closer to a month. But of course we aren’t going anywhere near it.”

  The bent man murmured again and the boy listened. “He wants you to take him there.”

  “What?” Theron laughed. “I thought your master was just crippled in his body, not simple-minded, but it seems I was wrong! We talked of this when he first joined us back at Onir Plessos. This caravan is not going t
o Southmarch nor anywhere near it. In fact, this is the closest we shall come.” He waved his hands. “If your master wants to strike out on his own I will not stop him, of course. I will even pray for him, and all the gods know he will need it, and so will you, child. The lands between here and there are said to be full of not just the usual cutpurses and bandits, but worse things—far worse.” He leaned toward the boy. “Goblins, they say. Elves and boggles. Things that will steal not just your money but your very soul.” Theron straightened up. “So if he has sense to go with his money, he will stay with us until we reach the Veil. I know he keeps what’s wrong with him a secret, but I have my guesses. Tell him there’s a leper house there that treats its wards with true kindness.”

  The boy listened to another flow of whispers from the hooded depths, then turned to Theron again. “He says he doesn’t have any leppersy. He was dead. The gods brought him back. That is no illness, he says.”

  Theron made the sign of the pass-evil, then remembered his position and changed it into the sign of the Three. “He talks nonsense. The dead do not come back. Only the Orphan, and he was the gods’ favorite.”

  Both Theron and the child waited for some reply from the hooded man but he stayed silent, looking out across the darkening valley and the murky silver ribbon of the Pellos.

  “Well, I can’t stand here forever,” the caravan master said at last. “Nice to talk with you and all,” he added, remembering the exorbitant fee the man was paying. “If you haven’t had any of the turnip stew, I recommend it. Few pieces of mutton in there, down at the bottom—don’t make a fuss and nobody’ll notice. But I should be on my way. Still a great deal to be done.” Including, he suddenly remembered, exhuming his wine flask from his travel chest. The thought gave him a warm feeling. He might not be as devout as he had once been, but he was still doing the gods’ work. Surely they looked on him with favor—surely they wanted only good things for Theron the pilgrimer, son of Lukos the potmaker. Look how high they had already raised him!