Mosscrow was growing tired of directing subtle hints at the king to influence interest in the Spylord. It was his own obsession he wished to satisfy, but he ignored that fault about his motives. Once, he had been entirely dedicated to his master and monarch, no thought passing through his overlarge head that didn’t directly seek to serve the king’s agenda, but his mind had been poisoned – not by anything hostile, but with fascination. He had secretly been studying the Spylord’s moves for a personal eternity, trying to understand how the wretched shadow thought.
Mosscrow tucked his gnarled hands away into his ink-black sleeves, oversized and draping like tunnels around his arms. The morning chill of the spacious hallway was getting to his old bones. It wasn’t unusual for him to traverse the palace lurking within the cavity of his hood like some hunched wraith, either, in a foreboding attempt to keep cozy his lumpy bald head. He brooded from that vantage point now, withdrawn and sallow. The king wished he didn’t prefer to dress in all-black robes, ‘lurking ominously like some wicked king’s minion’, but in his quest to understand the Master of the Shadows, to really get inside the trickster’s head, Mosscrow was determined to expel every shred of light and color from his life. It was the only way.
Osprey lagged a margin behind, prompting a startling bark of “Keep up!” from the recesses of Lord Mosscrow’s hood. Jumping to attention, Osprey hurried forward, his much lighter and brighter white-and-gold robes swishing with hasty friction.
Time and time again, Mosscrow had experimented in anticipating the Spylord’s next move, but he was never quite successful. All it would take was one correct guess – just one! – and Mosscrow could start to discern a pattern. True, he couldn’t very easily predict what was so random and reckless, but guessing was as clever a game as he could play, at the moment. One day it would work; he would peg a theme, an end-game, a habit in the chaos, and therein would lie the precious clue that would lead him to decoding the madness.
And it would be about time. Usually, he didn’t catch wind of any mischief until long after it was committed, for it was reported to the king and, well – Isavor dismissed it all. By the time Mosscrow heard about it, no one cared enough to get the details straight, and the trail’s scent had already turned stale, like an old crust of bread for which no one could rustle up an appetite.
The king was young, Mosscrow tried to excuse him, laboring to calm the restless discomfort that stoked his brewing temper. A young king still finding his way couldn’t be expected to distinguish every pressing matter from its imposturous counterparts. Even if he were an intuitive prodigy, the sheer number of ‘pressing matters’ that amassed on his desk was enough of a headache to land the more rumorous threats on anyone’s waiting list. And to his credit, he did take heed of Mosscrow’s nudges and prompts more often than not, it was just… Well, when he developed his own opinion on something, the same headstrong, stubborn set of mind his father had possessed turned him into a downright formidable brat who held firm to what he wanted.
And what he wanted was to ignore the Master of the Shadows.
On second thought, no – there was no excuse. To dismiss the Shadowmaster was to invite chaos into your kingdom. And because Isavor didn’t seem to be concerned about chaos in his kingdom, Mosscrow was forced to go behind the monarch’s back, a deception he did not enjoy. It tasted like betrayal.
Yet he couldn’t help himself. Besides, it wasn’t as if he were plotting a war against his master. No, he was loyal in that regard.
“My lord,” Osprey piped up hesitantly, breaking into Mosscrow’s turbulent inner commentary. “Do you suppose it means that...he doesn’t like the publicity?”
Of course, he was referencing the Spylord and the posters that had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared. At least Osprey had the sense to lend the subject due consideration. Remind me to consider him for a promotion to something incrementally more esteemed than useless boot-kisser.
“If he didn’t want publicity, he wouldn’t reveal himself so illustriously all the time just before he vanishes again. No, there’s far too much of a presentation element about it. He’s a genius, Osprey, and wants everyone to know that.” Genius and bloody narcissist.
Osprey resigned from the conversation, discouraged from furthering his own speculation.
Osprey had to be excused. He’d been born to a boorish, unintelligent caste, and it wasn’t his fault. How he’d gotten into the king’s services was beyond Mosscrow. He was fortunate he had such a patient master. At least, Mosscrow flattered himself pretending it was patience, fancying himself the understandable, charitable master sort.
But enough about Osprey.
Back to the star of the hour.
So, Mosscrow returned to his musing. The Master of the Shadows had made an appearance, and perhaps a statement. What exactly did it mean?
Was it a taunt? An angry rampage? A patronizing ‘you’ll have to do better than that, old man’? An effortless, routine counter-measure to all anti-SFH efforts that the Shadowmaster barely gave a second thought?
Should Mosscrow devise a few more probes to flush out the menace, or should he wait, not interfering, for the Spylord’s next authentic appearance?
Oh the headache it all gave him! Such impotent indecisiveness when he tried to think on a scale equal to a genius. Sometimes he felt like he navigated squares on a chess board just walking the palace halls.
Mosscrow spent far too much time second-guessing his equal brilliance, he knew he did, but it wasn’t impossible that the Shadowmaster had him beat when it came to the above-average wit that they shared, so it wouldn’t do to be hasty. It wasn’t faltering, it was calculating.
So what to do? There was such a riddlesome tangle of secrecy and presentation, of fact and suspicion aswirl around the Shadowmaster’s actions. The mind-dance kept Mosscrow young.
But tired, as well. Very tired indeed. Sometimes, it didn’t hurt to play the game of waiting. An air of indifference could sometimes be the best tool for prodding narcissistic fame-seekers into performing another stunt, into leaving another, more careless clue as to their triggers and tells. And while Mosscrow was keen on the thrill of equals that was a back-and-forth game of chess, he was getting old, and if he didn’t rest, he might have to discontinue his efforts permanently one day soon. Better to see to his personal needs and hope he was killing two birds with one stone.
It was settled. He wanted to see where the devilish trickster would go on his own. He sought to understand if the wanted posters unnerved him, or if the publicity only upped the ante of the thrill factor the Shadowmaster found so attractive.
Danger was, after all, what seemed to warm the Spylord’s heart.
We will wait and see what unfolds now, Mosscrow decided. We will let the Spylord have the next move.
4
Dancing on the Rooftops
“There is strength, and there is subtlety. There is speed, and there is stealth. There is precision, and there is improvisation. And then there is that other, less-apprised but equally as imperative skill which should never be overlooked, and that is grace.” – First Master of the Shadhi, Clevwrith’s great grandfather, first year of the reign of shadows.
*
While Lord Mosscrow was waiting for the Spylord to do something mischievous, Clevwrith had other plans – at least for the night.
This night was not dedicated to crime or chaos, to deviousness or disturbance, or anything the rest of the world would ever hear about. This night was dedicated to secrets, to mastering an unknown prowess behind the world’s back
Once the city was asleep, Clevwrith found Despiris and took her away from the Cob. He said nothing of where they were going, but there was promise in his eyes. The special mystery of the situation intrigued Despiris and drew her on without questioning him, away from the stacks, through the crumbling mansions of the elite part of the old city, into the slums of the new city.
Where could he possibly be taking her? Despiris let herself wonder, let the unknown titil
late her. There was something magical in the anticipation of a surprise, and she did not want to break the spell until it was time. Because that would be soon enough, and then it would be over. She knew a thing or two about patience. Biding your time was a sacred virtue in the book of the Shadhi, and this was just one more opportunity to practice it. To hone her perfection.
Into the populated city he stole her, where midnight had chased strangers into their homes for the night. At this hour it seemed the world was empty except for the two of them. A ghost-town of stars, which consisted precisely of two ghosts.
Out under the glittering night sky, they climbed onto an anonymous person’s roof. There was no moon tonight, just the twinkling, white-freckled heavens, specks of scattered spotlight.
“Now, Des,” Clevwrith began. “There is one last thing I need to teach you before we have covered everything in Shadhi fundamentals.”
Despiris waited eagerly, always keen on a new lesson.
“What I’m going to show you is unlike anything I’ve taught you before. There will be no weapons, no bag of tricks, no wicked intent, no ulterior motives. No victims. A purely innocent bit of mischief.” The twinkle in his eyes rivaled the stars, holding her rapt.
“I didn’t know the two could coincide.”
Clevwrith flashed a small smile. “They can.” Crossing his arms, his grin widened, and he let the silence of night settle around them and stretch on for a moment as if just to draw out her curiosity.
A little awkwardly, Despiris glanced from side to side. Maybe she was missing something, and he was waiting for her to pick up on it. “What?” she asked, when he just continued to gaze at her.
“Just prolonging the beautiful, eager light in your eyes.”
She blushed, glad the night hid it. Someone’s oddly sentimental tonight. “Tell me what it is,” she insisted, anxious to sidestep the rare affectionate climate.
“Dancing,” Clevwrith revealed. “Every Shadhi has learned this dance, on a rooftop where you are required to move silent as a cat, using pure grace to mute your footsteps so the residents under this roof will never know you are up here at all. Every shadeling must pass this test to be considered full Shadhi.”
Though dancing was the last thing Despiris had ever expected, the challenge presented in the way she must do it made her hunger for the lesson ahead.
“If you alert the inhabitants of this house to the fact that we’re up here,” Clevwrith warned, suddenly serious, “I will make you sleep at night for a week.”
He wouldn’t, Des thought, subtly horrified. For one who grew bored and listless and drowsy by day, rejoicing as dusk fell, the night streets a playground to the child in her soul, it was a terrible punishment. She would go mad under such restrictions. I’ll sneak out. I’ll defy him right to his face. I’ll–
“So,” Clevwrith began. “Come to me.”
His quiet command brought her back, focusing her. I won’t fail in the first place. She could dance. How hard could it be? Just think like a cat. Having studied the art of stealth, balance, and a wide range of bodily contortion, it shouldn’t be that hard.
Stepping lightly across the precarious slant of shingles, Despiris closed the space between her and the Shadowmaster. Taking her hand, he slid it up around his neck, placing his at the small of her back. Catching her other hand, he interlaced his fingers with hers, their arms extending out.
The corner of his mouth crooked upward in amusement. “Not so stiff, Des.” His palm left the small of her back to adjust her stance, forming her posture to perfection. “You can relax a little, you know. It’s supposed to be fun.”
She let out a breath, trying to loosen up. But nerves had the best of her, and Clevwrith’s warm, strong hands were causing strange girlish butterflies in her stomach, molding her body like she was clay and he was intent on forming her into his perfect statue.
You are lithe and supple, she told herself, trying to become what she needed to. This was a challenge like any other. You are a cat on the rooftops. A goddess of night. And any man’s ‘warm, strong hands’ should be so lucky to touch you.
“There,” he said once he approved.
And they began.
So close she thought she could feel his heartbeat, he walked her slowly through the steps of the dance. He smelled of roses and sandalwood and clean linen. Unfair, when Despiris always felt like she smelled of sweat and sewer. But because of their more unseemly habits, the Shadhi were obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene. Clevwrith’s soap inventory was extensive, and the number of times Despiris scrubbed clean in a day and did laundry sometimes felt like it rivaled the adventure and time spent training.
Focus, Des. You don’t smell like sewer.
A second time, they walked mechanically through the sequence. On the third, the Shadowmaster let her lead to see how much she remembered. The fourth, they tried it a bit faster – and by the fifth round, they were dancing it as it was meant to be danced. The proper speed, precise moves. Starting together and then parting ways, meeting again after a series of steps – spinning away, twirling back. Flourishing a lithe routine to the silent music of the mind.
The stars spun, streaking together into halos overhead. Hair came loose and breath came fast. The roof became a stage, the sleeping city a breathless audience.
Each shingle designated to a dance step lit up in Des’s mind as she went, announcing itself as the next stepping-stone. From glimmering shingle to glimmering shingle she hopped, side-stepped, wove between, and flirted with. Some came into play as merely a toe-touch, others as a center of gravity upon which to pivot.
Her favorite part came halfway through the routine – a backwards slide down the shingles on one foot, free of Clevwrith’s embrace. At the edge she went all but over, emptiness gasping beneath her, a mere toe of her boot clinging to the ledge as Clevwrith caught her fingers. One arm furled out, reaching toward the dizzily-tilted city, one foot curling up toward her arched back. She leaned as far as she dared, trusting Clevwrith to hold her, catching a thrilling, fully upside-down glimpse of the city before he pulled her back.
She could get used to this dancing stuff. To this unlikely, seductive thrill. Clevwrith had been holding out on her, keeping this delightful pastime up a sleeve for so long.
Despiris wasn’t ready to be finished when the dance ended, successfully mastered.
“Again?” she breathed.
Clevwrith’s grin was fond and full of delight. “As you wish.”
So they danced it again. As eager as Des was to stand on that last shingle and look up at Clevwrith looking proudly down at her, and hear the fateful words, ‘Congratulations; you are Shadhi’, a part of her never wanted this last, glorious test to end. This breathtaking, nostalgic chapter of her life.
What if things were different, once she was Clev’s equal? Though she’d never expected to stay his apprentice forever, and had at times been decidedly grumpy about being held back and treated like a novice, a part of her had become so comfortable in the role and accustomed to a certain order that it seemed like things might stay as they were forever.
But nothing stayed the same forever.
At the conclusion of the extra number, they ended in the same gentle embrace they started in, slightly breathless but neither of them fatigued. They could have done it a thousand times. If the night had been long enough, they might have.
“Well done,” Clevwrith breathed.
“Thank you.”
“The night is proud to award you your secret destiny under its dark reign.”
Despiris swelled with pride and excitement. Clevwrith passed his fingertips gently over her eyelids, caressing them closed much the same way one might put the dead to rest.
“Be one with the darkness,” he murmured, and she swayed in his hold, intoxicated by the sweet spell of it all.
Yes, whispered a desperate, appeased voice in her mind, and thus her coronation, her instatement into the Court of Night, was complete.
“You are S
hadhi.”
Somehow stunned even though she knew it was coming, Despiris opened her eyes. The world looked the same, but she felt…different. New. Like a crown of stars sat atop her head.
The Master of the Shadows backed away, going to sit by the edge of the roof. Taking a deep breath to let it all settle in, Despiris went to join him, lowering herself quietly by his side. They stared out over the sleeping city, across the uneven rooftops strewn to the choppy horizon. Gray dawn was creeping into the sky, the stars beginning to fade, and the Shadhi duo breathed in a final morsel of indulgence, knowing there was not much time left for them to enjoy. The nooks and crannies of the Cob whispered their names, calling them back into hiding.
“Will we ever get to do this again?” Despiris asked suddenly. “Or is it reserved as a rite of passage?”
Clevwrith turned his head to meet her gaze. “It is generally reserved as a rite of passage.” Her disappointment lasted only a moment before he added, “But we make the rules, Des. It’s just you and me. And while you may be Shadhi in the long-lost Book of Night, now…as far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be my little Shadeling.”
She grinned, a touch of relief moving through her. So maybe not everything would change. She could be Shadhi and Shadeling both.
And if the night had a problem with it… It could come to her on her pedestal in the stars, and speak to her directly.
Girl of Rooftops and Shadows (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 1) Page 3