Shadowmarch

by Tad Williams

  The radiant presence made it clear that it would forgive him for his unseemly questioning, but in return he must perform a task. It was an important task, it seemed to say, perhaps even a sacred one.

  For a moment, but only a moment, he hesitated. A little of himself still hung back, as though the mirror were a fine sieve and not all that had been Chaven could pass through it into this singing fire. That tiny remainder stood and watched, helpless as though in a nightmare, but it was not strong enough to change anything yet.

  What must I do? he asked.

  It told him, or rather it put the knowledge into him, and just as it had chided, now it praised, that kindness was like honey and silvery music and the endless, awesome light of the heavens.

  You are my good and faithful servant, it told him. And in the end, you will have your reward—the thing you truly seek.

  The white light began to fade, retreating like a wave that had crested and now ran backward down the sand to rejoin the sea Within moments he was alone in a deep, secret room lit only by the guttering flame of a black candle.

  *

  Pounding on the kitchen door brought Mistress Jennikin out in her nightdress and nightcap. She held the candle before her as though it were a magic talisman. Her gray hair, unbound for the night and thinning with age, hung in an untidy fringe over her shoulders.

  “It is only me. I am sorry to rouse you at such an hour, but my need is great.”

  “Doctor . . . ? What is wrong? Is someone ill?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Zoria watch over us, there hasn’t been another murder . . . !”

  “No, no. Rest easy. I must go on a journey, that is all, and I must leave immediately—before dawn.”

  She held the candle a little closer to his face—scanning for signs of madness or fever, perhaps. “But Doctor, it’s . . .”

  “Yes, the middle of the night. To be more precise, it is two hours before dawn by my chain-clock. I know that as well as anyone and better than most. And I know at least as well as anyone else what I must do, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, sir! But what do you want . . . I mean . . .”

  “Get me bread and a little meat so that I can eat without stopping. But before you do that, rouse Harry and tell him I need my horse readied for a journey. No one else, though. I do not want everyone in the household watching me leave.”

  “But . . . but where are you going, sir?”

  “That is nothing you need to know, my good woman. I am going now to pack up what I need. I will also write a letter for you to take to Lord Nynor, the castellan. I hope to be gone only a day or two, but it might be more. If any of the royal family needs the services of a physician, I will tell Nynor how to find Brother Okros at the Academy—you may send anyone else who comes in search of me and cannot wait to Okros as well.” He rubbed his head, thinking. “I will also need my heavy travel cloak—the weather will be wet and there may even be snow.”

  “But . . . but, Doctor, what about the queen and her baby?”

  “Curses, woman,” he shouted, “do you think I do not know my own calling?” She cowered back against the doorframe and Chaven was immediately sorry. “I apologize, good Mistress Jennikin, but I have given thought to all these things already and will put what is needed in the letter to Nynor. Do not worry for the queen. She is fit, and there is a midwife with her day and night.” He took a deep breath. “Oh, please, take that candle back a little—you look like you intend setting me on fire.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Now go and rouse Harry—he’s slow as treacle in winter and I must have that horse.” She clearly wanted to ask him something else but didn’t dare. Chaven sighed. “What is it?”

  “Will you be back for Orphan’s Day? The butcher has promised me a fine pig.”

  For a moment he almost shouted again, but this was the matter of her world, after all. This was what was important to her—and in ordinary times would have been to Chaven as well, who dearly loved roast pork. So what if these were not ordinary times? Perhaps there would be no more Orphan’s Day feasts after this one—a shame to ruin it. “I am as certain I will be back before Orphan’s Day—and in fact, before Wildsong Night—as anyone can be who knows the gods sometimes have ideas of their own. Do not fear for your pig, Mistress Jennikin. I am sure he will be splendid and I will enjoy him greatly.”

  She looked a little less frightened as he turned—as though despite the hour, life no longer seemed quite so dangerously topsy-turvy. He was glad that was true for one of them, anyway.

  *

  The physician’s manservant did his best to turn Chert away. The old man seemed distracted, guilty, as though he had been called away from the commission of some small but important crime and was in a hurry to get back to it.

  Taking a nap, Chert guessed, although it seemed early in the morning for such things. A late lie-in, then. He would not be chased off so easily. “I don’t care if he isn’t seeing anyone. I have important business with him. Will you tell him that Chert of Funderling Town is here.” If the physician was just busy and not at home to visitors, Chert thought, perhaps he could go around through the secret underground passage—surely Chaven would not dare to ignore a summons to that door—but it would take him a very long time to manage going and then making his way back, and he bitterly resented the idea of losing so much of the day. Each hour last night spent in fruitless search for the boy had been more galling than the last and was even more infuriating now, as though Flint were on some kind of wagon or ship that sped further away with each passing moment.

  The manservant, despite Chert’s protests, was about to shut the door in his face when an old woman stuck her head under the tall old man’s arm and peered out at the Funderling. He had seen her before, just as he had seen the old man, although mostly from a distance as Chaven led him through the Observatory. He couldn’t remember either of their names.

  “What do you want?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  “I want to see your master. I know it is inconvenient—he may even have given orders not to be disturbed. But he knows me, and I’m . . . I’m in great need.” She was still looking at him with distrust. Like the old man, she had faint blue shadows under her eyes and a fidgety, distracted air. No one has had much sleep in this house either, Chert thought. After his own night stumping up and down Funderling Town and even through Southmarch above-ground, he felt like an itching skin stretched over a stale emptiness. Only fear for the lost boy was keeping him upright.

  “It can’t be done,” she said. “If you need physick, you must go to Brother Okros at the academy, or perhaps one of the barbers down in the town.”

  “But . . .” He took a breath, pushed down the urge to shout at this obstinate pair. “My . . . my son is missing. Chaven knows him—gave me some advice about him. He is a . . . a special boy. I thought Chaven might have some idea . . .”

  The woman’s face softened. “Oh, the poor wee thing! Missing, is he? And you, you poor man, you must be heartsick.”

  “I am, Mistress.”

  The manservant rolled his eyes and vanished back down the hallway. The woman stepped out into the courtyard, drying her hands on her apron, then looked around as though to make sure they were safe from prying eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you, but my master’s not here. He’s had to go on a sudden journey. He left this morning, before dawn.”

  A sudden suspicion, fueled only by coincidence, made him ask, “Alone? Did he go alone?”

  She gave him a puzzled look, but it began to shade into resentment as she answered. “Yes, of course alone. We saw him off. You surely don’t think . . .”

  “No, Mistress, or at least nothing ill. It’s just that the lad knows your master and likes him, I think. He might have tagged along with him, as boys sometimes do.”

  She shook her head. “There was no one about. He left an hour before the sun was up, but I had a lamp and I would have seen. He was in a terrible hurry, too, the doctor, although I shouldn’t speak of his business to anyon
e. No offense to you.”

  “None taken.” But his heart was even heavier now. He had hoped at the very least that Chaven’s keen wit might strike on some new idea. “I’m sure you have a great deal to do, Mistress. I’ll leave you. When he comes back, could you tell him that Chert of Funderling Town wanted urgently to speak with him?”

  “I will.” Now she seemed to wish there was more she could do. “The gods send you good luck—I hope you find your little lad. I’m sure you will.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  In his weariness he almost slipped twice going up the wall When he reached the top, he had to sit and gasp for some time until he had air enough to speak. “Halloo! It is Chert of Funderling Town!” He dared not shout too loud for fear of attracting attention below—it was the middle of the morning and even this less-traveled section of the castle near the graveyard was not entirely empty. “Her Majesty Queen Upsteeplebat very kindly came to meet me and my boy, Flint,” he called. “Do you remember me? Halloo!”

  There was no reply, no stir of movement, although he called again and again. At last, so tired he was beginning to be concerned about the climb down, he rose to a crouch Out of his pocket he took the small bundle wrapped in moleskin. He opened it and lifted the crystal up until it caught a flick of morning light and sparkled like a tiny star. “This is a present for the queen. It is an Edri’s Egg—very fine, the best I have. I am looking for the boy Flint and I would like your help. If you can hear me and will meet with me, I’ll be back here tomorrow at the same time.” He tried to think of some suitable closing salutation but could summon nothing. He made a nest of the moleskin and set the crystal in it. What a beautiful, shining monster might hatch out of such a thing, he thought absently, but couldn’t take even the smallest pleasure in the fancy.

  He picked his way with aching caution back down the wall, so heavy with despair that he was almost surprised that he did not sink deep into the ground when his feet finally touched it.

  *

  It was only a day like many others, but as she awakened in the early hours to hear the bell in the Erivor Chapel tolling as the mantis and his acolytes began the morning’s worship, Briony was almost as gloomy and disturbed as if it were the day of an execution.

  Rose and Moina and her maids came into the room, exaggeratedly quiet as though the princess regent were a bear that they feared waking, but still managing to make as much noise as a pentecount of soldiers in Market Square. She groaned and sat up, then allowed them to surround her and pull off her nightclothes.

  “Will you wear the blue dress today?” Moina asked with only the smallest hint of pleading in her voice.

  “The brown,” suggested Rose. “With the slashed sleeves. You look so splendid in that . . .”

  “What I wore yesterday,” she said. “But clean. A tunic—the one with the gold braid. A riding skirt. Tights.”

  The maids and the two ladies did their best not to look upset, but they were very poor mummers. Rose and Moina in particular seemed to feel that Briony’s boyish costumes were a personal affront, but on this morning the tender feelings of her ladies were of little interest to her. Briony was tired of dressing for other people, tired of the forced prettiness that she thought gave others the unspoken right to ignore what she said. Not that anyone dared completely ignore the princess regent, but she knew that when they were in private, the courtiers wished for Olin back, and not simply because he was the true king. She felt it in their glances: they did not trust her because she was a woman—worse, a mere girl. It made her almost mad with resentment.

  Is there a one of them, male or female, who did not issue from a woman in the first place? The gods have given our sex charge of the greatest gift of all, the one most important to the survival of our kind, but because we cannot piddle high against a wall, we do not deserve any other responsibility?

  “I don’t care if you’re angry with me,” she snapped at Rose, “but don’t pull my hair like that.”

  Rose dropped the brush and took a step backward, real upset on her face. “But, my lady, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I know. Forgive me, Rosie. I’m in a foul mood this morning.”

  While the women braided her hair, Briony took a little fruit and some sugared wine, which Chaven had told her was good for healthful digestion. When her ladies had succeeded in piling her tresses into a tight but intricate arrangement on top of her head, she let them pin the hat into place, although she was already anxious to be moving.

  Underneath it all, threatening to pull her down like the sucking black undertow in Brenn’s Bay that sometimes formed beneath a deceptively placid surface, lay the horror of what Barrick had told her. She was frightened for her brother, of course, and she ached for him, too, he had taken to his rooms in the days since, making the excuse of a recurrence of his fever, but she felt certain that what was really going on was that he was ashamed to face her. As if she could love him any the less! Still, it was a shadow between them that made all their other differences seem small.

  But even worse, in a way, was what he had told her about her father Briony had never been the kind of foolish girl who thought her father could do no wrong—she had felt Olin’s sharp tongue enough times not to feel overly coddled, and he had always been a man of dark moods—but Barrick’s story was astounding, devastating To think that all through her childhood her father had carried that burden, and had kept it secret. She didn’t know which was the stronger feeling, her pain at his suffering or her fury that he had hidden it from those who loved him best.

  Whatever the case, it felt as though a hole had been torn through the walls of a familiar room to reveal not the equally familiar room presumed to be on the other side but a portal into some unimaginable place.

  How could it be? How could all this be? Why did no one tell me? Why didn’t Father tell me? Is he like Barrick—does he think I’d hate him?

  Briony had always been the practical child, at least compared to her twin—no brooding, no flickering changes of mood—but this went beyond anything she had experienced In some ways it was worse than Kendrick’s death, because it turned upside down all that she had thought she knew.

  She was in mourning again, not for the death of a person this time, but for her peace of mind.

  I’m tired I’m so tired. It was only ten of the morning. She couldn’t help being angry at Barrick. Whatever dreadful thing he was suffering, he was letting all of the duties of ruling Southmarch fall onto her.

  The throne room was josthngly full of people with claims on her time, and some of those claims were inarguable. Just now the Lord Chancellor Gallibert Perkin and three gentlemen of his chambers were going into painful detail about the need either to find more money for the government of Southmarch or to use some of the ransom money collected for King Olin on expenses. The merchants were worried about the coming year, the bankers were being careful with their funds, and the crown had in any case already borrowed more than it should have, which made dipping into the ransom an attractive alternative. It was ultimately a problem without solution, although a solution would have to be found—to spend the ransom would be to betray not only her father but the people who had given, not always happily, to free him. But the household of Southmarch ate money like some gold-devouring ogre out of a folktale. Briony had never understood how much work there was in simply keeping an orderly house— especially when that house was the biggest in the north of Eion and the center of the lives of some fifty thousand souls—let alone an entire orderly country. The crown would have to come up with some other way of making money. As always, Lord Chancellor Perkin recommended levying more taxes on the people who had already given hugely toward ransoming her father.

  The parade continued. Two Trigonate mantises spoke on behalf of Hierarch Sisel’s ecclesiastical court, which believed it had jurisdiction over the town court in a particular case. This, too, was about money, since the crime was a major one—a local landowner accused of the death of a tenant by ne
gligence—and whichever court supplied the judge would keep any levies or fines. Briony had hoped that being the princess regent would mean she would get to solve problems, punish the guilty, reward the innocent. Instead she had discovered that what she mostly did was decide who else got to hear suits of law, the town magistrate, the hierarch’s justices, or— and this very occasionally, usually just in cases of nobility accused—the throne of Southmarch.

  Midday came and went. The pageant of people and their problems dragged on and on like some official celebration of boredom and pettiness. Briony wished she could stop and have a rest but the line of supplicants seemed to stretch out to the ends of the earth and whatever remained undone today would need doing tomorrow, when she was supposed to have a lesson with Sister Utta. She had learned to be fierce in protecting her few moments of private time so, instead of resting, she called for some cold meat and bread and shifted back and forth in her seat to ease her aching fundament. It was strange but true that even two or three pillows could not make spending an entire day in a chair comfortable.