Shadow Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “No, it is true,” Maurin protested; then he saw Alethia’s grin. Together they walked toward the target. “We must have a rematch,” Maurin said as they retrieved the daggers.

  “Not today, I am afraid,” Alethia said with some regret. “Mother and I are going down to the healer’s houses for our weekly visit. If I stay here to play another game, I’ll be late.”

  “Then I suppose we must wait,” Maurin said. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  Alethia nodded, smiling. “Tomorrow.”

  The rematch was not held. Alethia was caught up once more in the whirl of preparations for the visit of the two lords, and she was barely able to snatch enough time to let Maurin know that she could not make it to their appointment. Maurin would have been disappointed if he had not been busy with Bracor and Har, going over and over everything that was known about the Lithmern. As it was, neither of the two found time for regrets.

  Chapter 3

  ALETHIA HURRIED DOWN THE back stairs of Styr Tel, skirts lifted high to avoid catching dust on the green silk. She rather wished she could protect her slippers as well. They were new—Har had brought them back from his caravan journey—and she did not want dust and dirt to dull the spangles before the welcoming feast. Still, she supposed that neither Maurin nor the two great lords who had come to speak with her father would pay much attention to her shoes.

  As she reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the Styr kitchens, Alethia frowned. She had hardly seen Maurin, or her brother, since the two men arrived. It really was unfair of her father to monopolize them, no matter how worried he was about the Lithmern armies. Now that First Lord Gahlon and Lord Armin were here, she probably wouldn’t see any of them at all, except at meals.

  The door to the kitchen swung open, cutting Alethia’s reflections short. She found everything in a predictable and unalarming state of chaos. She waved to Ceron, the head cook. He grinned broadly in response, but he made no move to leave the large kettle he was stirring. One of the assistant cooks came hurrying up.

  “Anything we can do for you, my lady?”

  “Mother sent me down to see if things were going well. She would have come herself, but she has too many details to see to upstairs.” Alethia did not mention that her mother seemed more apprehensive than usual about the evening. Isme’s hunches were known and respected by the members of the household staff. To allow her nebulous fears to be known would ensure a disaster, so Isme had reluctantly allowed Alethia to take her place for the customary visit to the kitchens.

  Things seemed to be well under control. Alethia settled several small quarrels, checked the wine, and informed Ceron that he could begin serving upstairs in one hour’s time. The whole tour of the kitchens took only a few minutes, and she left quite satisfied. Now, if she could only convince her mother that everything was fine…

  As Alethia paused in the hallway to dust off her skirts, she heard a muffled thumping in the courtyard outside. She turned uncertainly, and the noise was repeated. Frowning, she reached for the small side door that led to the yard.

  The courtyard was unusually dark, though the sun had set only a few minutes before. Alethia peered into the shadows, wishing she had thought to snatch a candle. “Who is there?” she called, and stepped forward. Something moved on her left, and she half turned. At that moment a heavy cloak dropped over her head. She felt herself being grasped and lifted. Through the folds of cloth, she heard a hoarse chuckle.

  Alethia fought and tried to scream, but the cloak hampered her movements and muffled her voice. She twisted, and for a moment she thought she would win free, but despite her struggles, she was picked up and thrown across a saddle like a roll of cloth. The pommel dug into her stomach, making breathing difficult. Where are the guards? Surely someone must have noticed the commotion by this time!

  She felt the horse begin to move, and heard other hoof beats all around her. Gathering her strength, Alethia kicked and tried to slide from the horse’s back, but the rider who held her was strong. She kicked again and lost one of her slippers, but she heard the rider’s breath hiss as she connected. A moment later, something struck her head, and she lost consciousness.

  Har sat beside his mother, watching his father pace the length of the study. The candles in the wall sconces flickered as Bracor passed back and forth in front of them, making shadows leap even more erratically than usual. Har wished his father would sit down; he was making everyone nervous. Well, almost everyone, he thought, glancing at his youngest sister. Tatia had taken over Bracor’s usual seat and, oblivious to the tension in the air, was playing happily with a paperweight and Bracor’s official seal.

  “Where is Alethia?” demanded Bracor, for the seventh time at least. “This banquet is important. We can’t keep the guests waiting much longer, and Gahlon made a point of mentioning his desire to see her.”

  “She knows how important it is, and she promised to be as pleasant as she could to First Lord Gahlon,” Isme said soothingly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be late without a reason.”

  Bracor stopped pacing and turned. “I know, Isme, but that girl finds the most unusual reasons!”

  “I sent her down to make the kitchen visit in my place.” Isme frowned. “Though that was at least an hour ago…”

  “Maybe she got distracted,” Har said.

  Bracor rolled his eyes. “Go see if you can find her. And make sure you don’t get distracted!”

  Har nodded, and rose. Tatia looked up from her play and said with round-eyed seriousness, “Something bad happened to ’Lethia.”

  Isme’s frown grew more worried.

  “Hush, brat,” said Har, aiming a swat at his youngest sister as he passed. The last thing they needed was for Isme to get as worried as Bracor already was.

  Tatia ducked under the table to escape him and stuck out her tongue. Bracor bent to retrieve his erring offspring before she tipped the table over, and Har proceeded on into the corridor. Turning right, he headed toward the back stairs and practically tripped over Maurin.

  “Where away?” the Trader asked.

  “Alethia is wandering around somewhere, and Father is having fits, so he sent me to find her,” Har said. “You look splendid,” he added as Maurin fell into step beside him.

  “Splendidly uncomfortable, maybe,” Maurin replied with a grimace. “Give me a nice, practical uniform over these any day. I can hardly move.” He indicated his tightly fitting garb of wine-red velvet and silver. A round silver clasp held his black cape at his left shoulder. On the clasp, a stylized shield, sword, cup, and staff intricately entwined with vines formed a circle around a lighted candle. Maurin did indeed look a splendid figure, and just as uncomfortable as he claimed.

  Har laughed. “I hate to mention it, but that is a uniform. The dress uniform of a Captain of the House Guard of Styr Tel, to be precise.”

  “What!”

  “It was all I could find on short notice. Did you want to go to a formal banquet in caravan leathers? Quit complaining and let’s find Alethia before Father blows the roof off. Mother said she went down to the kitchen.”

  They hurried down the stairs and through the passage below. Just before they reached the kitchen, Maurin paused. “Should that door be open?”

  Har turned his head, and saw the door that led to the rear courtyard standing half ajar. “No. I’ll get it; you go on and see whether Alethia’s still in the kitchen.”

  Maurin nodded and went on. Har walked over to the door and shoved it wide. “Allie?” he called into the shadowy dimness.

  There was no response. With a shrug, Har stepped back inside. As he pulled the door closed behind him, something jammed. Letting go of the handle, he leaned over to examine the door frame, and the gleam of silver caught his eye. He shoved the door wide once more and picked up the object. It was a silver house-clasp, badly bent by his attempt to close the door, but not damaged enough to hide the crossed leafy branches at the center.

  “Found something?” Maurin’s voice came from
behind him.

  Har held out the clasp. “It’s the badge of Styr Cisek, at Meridel.”

  “What would one of Gahlon’s guards be doing—” Maurin began, then stopped abruptly, staring through the open doorway into the courtyard outside.

  “—down here?” Har said with scarcely a pause. Leaning against the door, he swung it wider. Maurin pulled his black cape over the betraying silver of his borrowed uniform and slipped like a shadow into the darkness outside as Har continued, “I don’t know, but the badge undoubtedly belongs to one of them. Perhaps he had an overwhelming desire to sample our dinner, or maybe he came courting a kitchen maid. Still, he must be found; we cannot have such—” He broke off as the sounds of a scuffle came from the courtyard. “Maurin, have you got him?”

  The noise subsided, and Maurin reappeared, grinning broadly. “Here is our spy,” he said, lifting up a small, squirming boy about six years old.

  “Lemme go!” the prisoner cried. “I didn’t do nothing! It wasn’t me. Lemme go!”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Har as Maurin set his captive on the ground once more. Without a word, the child darted toward the courtyard, only to have Maurin scoop him up a second time.

  “Lemme go!” the boy wailed.

  Maurin set the boy in front of him, this time keeping a strong grip on one skinny arm. Squatting down to look directly at the child, he said, “We aren’t going to hurt you. What is your name?”

  “Ancel,” sniffed the boy.

  “Well, Ancel, what are you so afraid of?”

  The boy trembled, but under Maurin’s steady gaze his eyes fell, and he mumbled, “The guy with no face that took the lady.”

  “Took the lady?” Har burst out, and then bit his lip. If they frightened the child any further, they would likely be hours getting any useful information from him.

  Maurin’s fingers tightened on Ancel’s shoulders, then relaxed; he gave no other sign that the boy’s words had affected him. “Tell us what you saw,” he said in a firm tone.

  The boy gulped twice and began. “Cook told me to get out of the way, so I came out here. Then a lot of men sneaked around the corner, and I hid. They waited for a while, and then one of them made a noise. The lady from up in the house came out to see what it was and they put a big cape over her and took her away. She looked awful pretty, all in green. Then one of the men stuck something in the door and they all rode away. I was scared so I stayed hid. Then you came.”

  “What did these men look like?”

  “Like the traders when they come in, except their hair was all chopped off around their ears. I didn’t like them. But the big one didn’t have no face. He made it dark. They were all scared of him. I was scared too.”

  The boy began to cry again. Har looked at Maurin, stunned. “Lithmern! But how could they get through the city, and the castle guards?”

  “I don’t know,” Maurin said grimly, “but they appear to have done it, and kidnapped your sister into the bargain.”

  “The one with no face made it dark,” Ancel said between sniffles.

  Har and Maurin exchanged glances. “Ancel,” Maurin said, “did they say anything?”

  “They didn’t talk much and I didn’t understand what they said. They didn’t talk right.”

  “At least we know who they are,” Har said. “Maurin, take him up to Father’s study and tell them what’s happened. I’ll start the guard saddling horses for a pursuit.”

  “Tell them to saddle an extra one for me,” Maurin called over his shoulder.

  Arranging for a suitable force to pursue the kidnappers took only a few minutes, and Har caught up with Maurin and Ancel at the door to Bracor’s study. As they entered, they saw that Bracor had been joined by his guests, and from the look of things the lords were not in the best of tempers.

  “—will not stand for it,” Armin was saying angrily. “This girl is making fools of us all.”

  “Har!” Isme said. “Have you found Alethia?”

  All heads turned toward the three in the doorway. “Obviously not,” Armin said with a snort of disgust.

  “She isn’t here to find,” Har said, nettled.

  “What do you mean?” Bracor stepped forward, frowning.

  “Alethia has been kidnapped,” Maurin said baldly.

  Isme turned as white as her hair, and the two visiting lords looked at Maurin in consternation.

  “We found this jammed in the door,” Har said, holding out the bent silver badge. “I believe it belongs to one of your men, First Lord.”

  Gahlon held the clasp without looking at it for a full minute as the implications of that statement sank in. “Are you accusing me of this?” he asked quietly.

  “No, but we were meant to,” Maurin said. He pulled Ancel forward. “Fortunately, this boy saw the whole thing. Alethia was kidnapped by Lithmern, who deliberately planted First Lord Gahlon’s insignia to throw suspicion on him and cover their traces. Possibly they also intended to make us waste time arguing among ourselves.”

  Bracor nodded thoughtfully. “Such an accusation would ruin all chance of an alliance between Brenn and Meridel for years. The Lithmern would seem to be well informed; I had thought your purpose here was unknown.” He gazed absently at the other two lords for a moment; then, abruptly, he came back to the present. “Under the circumstances, speculation can wait. I trust you will excuse me, my lords, but I must go after these men.”

  “Our horses should be waiting now, Father,” Har said. “We only came back to tell you.”

  “Well done. We go, then.” Turning to his guests, Bracor continued, “You are welcome to stay and enjoy the feast that has been prepared for you. I must hold myself excused; do not think me a poor host, I pray.” He bowed and started for the door.

  Armin cleared his throat, and Bracor paused and looked at him inquiringly. “I may not speak for First Lord Gahlon,” the Lord of Lacsmer said rather gruffly. “But for myself, I would consider it a poor return for your hospitality if we were to remain here at our ease while you ride out to danger. I would join you.”

  “I also.” Gahlon spoke quietly, but there was no doubt of his sincerity.

  The grim expression on Bracor’s face lightened a little. “I accept.”

  Har and Maurin moved aside to let the lords take the lead, and then followed them. As they started down the stairs, Har caught a last glimpse of his mother’s white, strained face, heading for the north tower. He hesitated, then followed the others. The best thing he could do now was to help catch the kidnappers before they got too far ahead.

  A troop of guards was mounted and waiting in the courtyard when they arrived. Three riderless horses stood beside the door; Bracor and his two guests mounted them immediately. Cursing his lack of forethought, Har sent one of the stable boys off to saddle two more horses for himself and Maurin. Bracor exchanged a few words with the gatekeeper and the captain of the guards, then motioned the mounted men forward. Har walked back toward the doorway where Maurin stood frowning.

  “The Styr gatekeeper swears he didn’t see anyone come in or go out since the last of the guests arrived late this afternoon,” Har informed him. “But there are signs of a struggle in the courtyard outside the kitchens, and traces of several horses.”

  “Never mind that. What about us?” Maurin asked, indicating the departing party of guards.

  Har’s reply was drowned for a moment by the noise as the pursuers started out the gates of Styr Tel into the city. Then he said, “They are saddling horses for us now. We should be able to catch up without too much trouble, once we’re clear of the city.” He shrugged. “It’s my fault; I should have thought that First Lord Armin and Lord Gahlon might want to go along, and Father could hardly insult them by asking them to wait.”

  Maurin snorted disgustedly. “Politics at a time like this! I’d never make a noble, that’s certain. Well, come on. We’ll get started faster if we don’t wait for the horses to be brought to us.”

  The two walked across
the courtyard to the stables. A groom met them just inside the door, leading two horses. With a nod of thanks, Maurin took the reins and led the animals outside.

  “They’ll head for the West Gate,” Har said as they mounted. “It is closest, and the kidnappers wouldn’t want to attract attention.”

  Maurin nodded, and with barely a backward look he and Har galloped out into the city.

  Outside the West Gate of Brenn, the trail of the pursuers turned northwest, toward Lithra. Har turned his horse to follow, but Maurin reined in suddenly. “Wait a minute,” he said. Har obligingly brought his mount to a halt and turned to look inquiringly at his friend.

  Maurin sat bolt upright in the saddle, staring at the sky. “We are going in the wrong direction,” he said slowly.

  “Why do you say that?” Har asked.

  “The Lithmern were trying to throw the blame on Gahlon, and Gahlon’s troops wouldn’t head for Lithra the minute they were out of the city. Suppose they went east, toward Meridel, to lay a false trail instead? They wouldn’t need to go far before they doubled back toward Lithra. If that’s what they’re doing, Bracor and the rest will never catch up with them.”

  “Maybe,” Har said, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “But do you really think they would take such a chance? It means they will have to slip past Brenn on their way back, with the whole city looking for them.”

  “Not if they go through the Wyrwood,” Maurin said grimly, swinging his horse’s head around.

  “What good will that do?” Har said. “Brenn sits right in the middle of the only major gap in the Snake Mountains. Going through the Wyrwood will keep them off the main road, but they’ll still have to sneak by the city to get back to Lithra.”

  “No, they won’t. There’s a pass to the north, up where the Snake Mountains meet the Kathkari.”

  Har stared in disbelief. “A pass? Are you sure?”

  Maurin nodded. “The Traders used it in the days of the old Ciaronese Empire, to trade with the Wyrds and the Shee. It has been abandoned for at least two hundred years.”