Shadowheart

by Tad Williams

  But why am I helping this monster? he thought. Nobody knows better than I do what a mad beast he is. I should find a way to kill him, even if I die myself making it happen.

  But that was just the problem: Matthias Tinwright did not want to die. Not even to rid the world of a murderous piece of offal like Hendon Tolly. In fact, he was so terrified of the lord protector that he couldn’t convince himself he would succeed even if he somehow steeled himself to do it. Tolly would survive, somehow, and he would go out of his way to make Tinwright’s death long and painful.

  So instead you’ll go along with him? he asked himself. By Zosim’s lyre, what kind of man are you?

  A coward. There was no reason to lie—Tinwright was talking only to Tinwright, after all. A coward who wants to live. Besides if I die, who will take care of Elan? Who will keep her from falling back into Tolly’s clutches?

  But it wasn’t really Elan, he knew. Coward—that was the true shape of it. No sense in pretending otherwise.

  Queen Anissa was struggling with the guards again, trying to reach Tinwright and the child. “Sir!” she cried to Tinwright, “Sir, I know you not, but you have a kind face. Will you let at least me carry him? Please, sir! He is frightened, the poor, dear little lamb.” She strained toward the red-faced, weeping baby. “Let his mama hold! Let me . . . !”

  Matt Tinwright felt as if he might be ill. What could the harm be, after all? Why shouldn’t Anissa hold the baby?

  Because she might kill the child instead of letting Tolly have him, he told himself, and was horrified not only to be able to conceive of such a thing, but to know it was true and he had to act on it. Come now, he told himself, as if another member of the crowd of Matt Tinwrights had shouldered forward to have a say. If you hold onto the baby, you can keep it safe. No telling what this hysterical woman might do.

  “Please, sir, please!” Her tone changed, grew louder and more desperate as they approached Tolly’s chambers. “Oh, by the gods, by the holy Three,” she began to screech, “and our lady Zoria and all the demons in the deeps, curse this monster for stealing my baby! Curse him!”

  And the worst thing was that he did not know which monster she meant, Hendon Tolly or himself, and he could not find much difference between the two.

  “Why do you act like this, my queen? Why do you make such a clamor? No one will hurt your baby. Go back to your rooms.” Hendon was smoother and more composed than the last time Tinwright had seen him. He had bathed and put on a clean doublet and hose; except for a certain feral quality in his stare and his ceaseless pacing and gesticulating, he almost seemed the old Hendon Tolly again.

  Anissa was trying her hardest to believe the lies he was telling her, but she was not finding it easy. “Why take him from me, Lord Tolly? Why such treating of me, who always gives you kind words and . . . kind help?” Her accent, thick at the best of times, had become nearly impenetrable. “Just give back him and I bring when you need him.”

  “But I need him now, sweet Anissa.” Hendon smiled, but he was clearly out of patience with her. He held the baby awkwardly, like a fastidious scholar who had been handed a mud-spattered pig. “Enough talk, now. Go back to your chambers and I promise I will soon bring him to you, safe and sound.”

  “But why do you take him? For what?” She tried to smile back, but it was agonizing to see how poorly she did it. “You cannot need such a little one!”

  “Ah, but I do, my queen, and you must trust me. Have I not helped you since your husband was taken from you? Have I not guided you during these most difficult times, and sworn to you that Alessandros here would follow in his father’s footsteps?”

  “But why do you need my baby?” She pulled free of the guard who held her arm and threw herself down onto her knees in front of Hendon Tolly. It was painful to watch, like a sick drunkard begging for a last cup.

  “Enough. I do not have time to explain everything. Go back to your rooms, Anissa.” Tolly’s already scant tolerance was fraying fast. The imposture—his attempt to seem ordinary and composed—was already falling apart.

  “No!” She crawled rapidly toward him and threw her arms about his legs. “Please, Hendon! I beg you! Not this thing! Not my Sandros!”

  “For the love of all the gods, will you simpletons get this woman off me!” Tolly shoved her away with his foot, fighting to keep a grip on the young child, who was squirming and crying again. He managed to get his heel against the queen’s shoulder and kept her at bay that way, although she wept and tried to get to him. At last the guards pried her loose and dragged her to her feet, then had to hang on as she shrieked and fought to get to Tolly again.

  “Take her away,” he said. “Lock her in her rooms—no, she will raise a fuss there that will put the cat amongst the mice for certain. Lock her in the strongroom on the next floor. Feed her and see that she is tended to—she may have one maid, a young one—but I do not want to see her again until I call for her.”

  The guards dragged the queen out of the room. It was not easy, even though Anissa was a small, slender woman, because she fought them every step of the way, and even with Tolly’s orders, the guards still could not bring themselves to be rough with the king’s wife.

  When they were gone and the echoes of the woman’s wretched cries had finally faded, Tolly set the child down on his bed where it kicked and wailed.

  “Do you know anything about changing a child’s smallclothes?” Tolly asked him suddenly.

  “Sire?” Tinwright had not been expecting this.

  “The creature stinks. I am sure it needs cleaning. We shall have to find a woman who can do it.” The lord protector shook his head in disgust. “My library is small—I am not going to share it with that ghastly stench.”

  “Library, my lord?”

  “We have incantations to speak, potions to prepare and serve to this little beast,” Tolly said with a look of distaste toward young Alessandros Eddon. “Okros explained it to me, although I do not remember everything he said. No matter! You are a scholar too . . . of sorts. We have all his books and papers. We have a day or so before the autarch’s bloody Midsummer Night—plenty of time. The magical royal blood is already there, after all.” He gave a sudden laugh—long, loud, and harsh. “Yes, the little beast is simply full of the stuff!”

  28

  Better Than Expected

  “The Orphan’s journey north was a long one. He and Moros were menaced by robbers, heathens, cruel demons, and spiteful fairies . . .”

  —from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”

  THE FIGHTING AS THE FUNDERLINGS were forced back through the Maze was as bad as anything Ferras Vansen had ever experienced. He had been terrified facing the Qar, he had been confused and despairing almost his entire time behind the Shadowline, and of course his earliest fighting, raids that his old commander Donal Murroy had led against bandit chieftains in the Southmarch countryside, had been terrifying precisely because they were the first time he had faced opponents trying to kill him—but this was different than all of them. Most of it was siege work, breast against breast, shield against shield, a sweaty, slippery, exhausting struggle where a moment’s loss of concentration could cost your life. In some spots the ranks were so tightly packed that men were killed next to him but could not fall down until he and his Funderlings finally retreated; other times Vansen and his comrades remained tangled with the very Xixian soldiers they had killed and could not shove the bodies away until the southerners fell back. It was a disturbingly intimate war: because of the darkness and close quarters archers became almost entirely useless, so most of the struggle was with men you could touch and smell and see . . . if not see well. The bearded, desert-browned faces of the Xixians, their conical helmets and armor of overlapping plates, began to seem almost as familiar as those of the little men who fought beside him. Together, the two sides moved deeper and deeper into the earth, twined like courtiers engaged in a complicated dance. The defenders gave ground, and the a
ttackers pressed them, so that sometimes it seemed to Vansen the entire struggle was only some complicated way of worshiping great Kernios, lord of death and darkness.

  Has ever a stranger war been fought? he wondered to himself. And by more bewildered combatants?

  After hours of bloody fighting, Vansen’s men were able to use their dwindling supply of blasting powder to drop a large section at the front of the Maze onto the autarch’s army, utterly blocking the central chamber known as the Initiation Hall with the rubble of collapsed walls, and thus closing the only route through the Maze. After retreating a safe distance, the defenders were able to snatch some much-needed rest as the Xixians labored to dig their way through the shattered stone that barred their path.

  “But I need to know more!” Vansen told Brother Flowstone, one of the monks who had come to fight with the other Funderlings. With many of the Maze’s corridors now cracked and in danger of collapse, he had pulled his men all the way back to a wide, low chamber called the Revelation Hall where the young Funderlings spent the end of their vigil before finally being given a sight of the Shining Man. “Why can’t you tell me the names of these tunnels?” Vansen continued. “It’s the one thing Chert didn’t put on his map. With so many different ways to choose, we might even be able to attack the southerners from behind or from the side!”

  “Because these tunnels do not have names!” A broken nose and several long cuts disfigured Flowstone’s youthful face. “I told you, Captain, we Brothers only learn the steps of the maze by heart so that we can pass through it and lead the celebrants. We do not learn the names of each back-around and blind pass. Don’t you understand, Captain? We Funderlings didn’t build this place.”

  Vansen was astounded. “You didn’t? Then who did?”

  Flowstone shrugged. “Perhaps the Qar. Perhaps your gods—the same gods that this mad southern king wishes to bring back to life. In a way, we are all strangers here.”

  Ferras Vansen tried to rest, but as had happened so many times on this retreat, he got up after a short, ragged sleep and wandered through the makeshift camp, watching over his men and wishing he could do more for them. Too many dead had been left behind; here too many were wounded and in need of care. For a while Vansen lingered to watch some of the Funderlings building walls across the narrower end of the broad chamber so they would have some cover when the time came to retreat from the Revelation Hall—if any men were still left to retreat.

  His heart heavy, Vansen wandered back to his own fire. “Gods! This will drive me mad!” he said. “We have used all but the last of our blasting powder. When they dig through this fall of rubble, we will have no other way to hold them back but our sinews and blades. Why did we say yes to Chert’s cursed plan—how much blasting powder will be wasted up above . . . ?”

  “Might as well calm yourself, Captain,” Jasper told him. “What the Elders decree the rest of us will see.”

  “But we need only hold them back for a day or two more, and it will be too late for the autarch’s lunatic scheme!” Vansen was nearly beside himself with frustration. “Am I wrong about the day, Copper?”

  “We may not have had enough water to drink,” said Malachite Copper said, “but we have kept the water-clock damp as a ferret’s nose.” He shook his head sadly. “Up in Funderling Town they will be lifting a cup to Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “Gods bite me. What do people who live in a dark cave care about summer?” Vansen asked pettishly.

  At that moment, Cinnabar’s son Calomel came running through the camp. He was a great favorite, but the men were so weary and downhearted that few of them even bothered to look up as he passed. If they had, they would have seen his dirty face streaked with tears.

  “Captain! Come quick!” he cried. “Hurry! Bring men! My father needs you at Initiation Hall!”

  “What?” Vansen jumped to his feet. “But he only went back to look after the ones pushing rubble into the tunnel ...”

  “The Xixies have used blasting powder of their own!” Calomel said, tugging Vansen back across the camp. “They have knocked down an entire wall of the Maze and they have trapped my tada!”

  “Perin’s beard!” Vansen said, “I feared this. The autarch has finally decided he is tired of making his way inch by inch! Copper—bring your men. Sledge, you and Dolomite get the rest up and moving after us ...”

  “Hurry!” shouted the boy. “Hurry—oh, they will kill him! They will kill my tada!”

  Vansen could think of no words to console the child. He had hoped the southerners would not break through until at least tomorrow. Was this the end, then? Had the Funderlings fought so long and hard for nothing? Cinnabar deserves a better death than to die alone, whatever else happens, he thought. If we must go down, let it be with our hands filled by our sword hilts. He was fearful for his comrade, but also felt a wild sort of optimism that had nothing to do with the truth of things. Let be what will be, he thought as he raced after little Calomel. The gods alone know a man’s end. If it had not been for the terrified boy, he would have shouted it out loud. As my father used to say about his ancestors . . . if you’re not a coward, a good death beats a bad life any time!

  Briony had captured perhaps an hour of hard-earned sleep, but the shock of seeing her brother still dizzied her as she pulled her boots back on and staggered to her feet. What could have happened to him? How could Barrick simply walk away from her as though they meant nothing to each other—as though their lives growing up together in Southmarch had never happened? She felt as though her heart had been pierced by one of the battle’s arrows, that she had been murdered but no one had told her to lie down.

  It was still dark out, but all around her the Temple Dogs and their followers were hastily tearing down what little camp they had bothered to raise. The beach was covered with torches. At least one seemed to be pushed into the sand beside every one of the long, low boats that had been grounded along the shore of the bay, so that Briony felt as though she passed through a forest of light. Dozens of Skimmer men waited beside the boats, many of them in armor made (as far as she could tell) of pungent dried fish skin, carrying bows and long forks and spears—weapons that she thought looked better suited for spearing sharks.

  But these Skimmers had done more than their share, she realized, and far more than simply killing a few southern soldiers. The firing of the autarch’s fleet, some of which still burned out on Brenn’s Bay, little left above the waterline but charred, sparking hulks, was a deed that might mean everything in the hours ahead.

  Eneas strode across the sand. “I have had men scouring the city. I feel certain now that the rest of the Xixies truly have retreated into the hills. Not a sniff of them to be found anywhere ...” He reached her side. “You look unwell, Briony.”

  “How could I feel otherwise? You saw my brother act as if we did not know each other.”

  The prince looked as though he didn’t know what to do. He doesn’t like problems he can’t solve, she thought, although she suspected she was being unfair. Still, just now she didn’t care. “I have seen men badly taken by war in the past, Princess ...”

  “He is not mad. It is not war that has done this to him; it is that Qar woman, Saqri. She’s put a spell on my brother.” She looked around. “Where are they?”

  “Gone,” said Eneas. “Back into the caves in the hills. Back into the ground beneath the castle.”

  For a moment the lights of the torches and Eneas’ face and even the few stars blinking miserably behind the smoke all blurred as tears came to her eyes yet again. She dragged her fist across her lids. “No more,” she said. “No more talk. Let us get on with what we must do.”

  “All is nearly ready,” he said. “I have only a few matters yet to see to ...”

  “Then see to them,” she said. “Don’t fear for me, Eneas. I will not run into the bay and drown myself. I am made of sterner stuff.”

  “But I never ...”

  “Go on.” She turned her back on him and walked toward the wa
iting boats without looking back. When she reached the nearest she turned along the strand and began walking from torch to torch, trying to ignore the angry, miserable thoughts that swarmed through her weary mind like bees. The Skimmers watched her pass, eyes bulging and faces expressionless.

  “Princess Briony?”

  She turned and found herself before one of the armored Skimmers, although something about the fellow’s hairless face was not quite right. A moment later Briony realized that the he was in fact a she.

  “Do I know you . . . ?” She squinted in the dim light. “Zoria’s mercy, is that you? Aren’t you Ena, the headman’s daughter?”

  The girl nodded. “I am pleased you remember me, Highness. It was only a night or so that we spent in each other’s company.”

  “The most frightening of my life—at least up until then.” Briony shook her head. “But what are you doing wearing armor and fighting with the menfolk?”

  Ena laughed. “I might ask you the same! It seems we both wished to play a greater part in these final days.”

  “Final?”

  The Skimmer girl shrugged. “One way or another. Egye-Var has made that clear.” With her helmet off she was much more recognizable, her solemn, heavy-lidded eyes and her high brow reminding Briony of things and times she would have rather forgotten. “And how is Lord Shaso?” Ena asked.

  That was the memory Briony had been trying to keep at bay. “Dead, may the gods rest him. He was a good man. He was killed in a fire in Landers Port, when our house was attacked.” At the will of Hendon Tolly, she felt sure; someone had to have put the local lord up to the attack. Briony was furious with Prince Eneas’ decision to let the Qar queen Saqri have her way, but at least now there was a chance Briony would meet Tolly the traitor again, preferably with them both free to settle things. She owed him something on behalf of the entire Eddon family, not to mention her own honor—she could think of no other word for it.