The king let a breath out through his nose, the torchlight playing with the angles of his face and making him appear far more severe than usual. “Very well. I suppose they would. Come.”
Lord Mosscrow breathed a huge sigh of relief as Isavor delivered him back to the land of the living where he belonged, but he became distinctly aware of just how desperately he needed a bath as he lugged his dungeon-saturated self through the luxury of the royal halls. He desecrated the space just by being in it.
“Forgive me, Majesty, but might I…freshen up? Before the groveling?”
“Nonsense. That would detract from the humility I am currently enjoying in your demeanor.”
Crow frowned at the king’s back. Have it your way, then, Majesty. Dungeon muck all over your personal chambers, if that’s how you like it.
The guards stationed by the king’s chamber swung open the doors to admit the monarch, and although Mosscrow’s face flamed with humiliation at any staff seeing him like this, he told himself the black robes probably hid the worst of it. As for the smell…
He ducked through the doors quickly, hoping they wouldn’t catch a whiff.
The king arranged himself behind his desk, pointedly taking a moment to get comfortable, making Crow wait until he was agreeably situated. Then his expectant gaze rose to his disheveled advisor. “Well?”
It was cruel, making Crow squirm like this. Did his seniority count for nothing? There was to be no dignity awarded him? Have I not suffered enough humiliation? And yet he would exact no less punishment on any other who dared disrespect his king, so he could not complain.
“Majesty, I…am ashamed to have spoken to your eminence in the manner that I did last I came to you.”
“Last you barged in.”
I deserve that. “Last I barged in. My behavior was most inappropriate. It is true; there is a certain degree of…fixation, which gets the best of me. But I beseech you to consider half of my frustration came from knowing your desire to not waste resources on the matter, and my desire to see your desires fulfilled. I only wished to put an end to it all, without diverting any more of the resources you were so hesitant to allocate in the first place, and when I discovered that could have been the case if only we’d held onto him–”
“Her.”
“–her… Imagine my regret knowing we had the thing the pursuit of which you so begrudgingly funded, only to lose it, rendering said precious resources a waste. I feel I have failed you. And while I admit my obsession with the Master of the Shadows, it is my king who gives reason to the breath in my body, and failing you I cannot abide. And so I…had a moment.”
Toying with the tuft of his feather quill while he listened, the king left off his twiddling when Crow was finished. “While I require an apology for the insubordination, there have been no other such failings, Lord Mosscrow. I knew the risk of it all being for naught when I granted resources. And let us not forget – it was by no effect of those resources that our quarry ended up here. They have secured us nothing, from the beginning. Again – my risk.”
Receiving the king’s forgiveness took a weight like a boulder off his shoulders. Mosscrow let the tension – and piteous subservience – go out of him. Then it hit him. “Our quarry, your Majesty?” Isavor had never taken ownership of it like that before.
Looking mildly annoyed, Isavor flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his desk and stared toward the window, avoiding Mosscrow’s gaze. “Our efforts thus far have secured us nothing, and the Shadhi Strag – Master of the Shadows – was clear in her communication that it would be in all of our best interests to cease funding the hunt for her and her mysterious counterpart. And yet…”
A thud of excitement jostled Crow’s heart. He perked eagerly toward the king’s words. And yet…?
“And yet…she intrigues me.” Begrudgingly, he admitted it. “In spite of myself, in spite of my dedicated apathy up until this point, I find myself succumbing to the same spell that has enraptured the masses. I have refused to be so gullible, poising myself above the influence. But then I saw her…” His gaze went far-off, shifting from the scapegoat window to what lay beyond. “She stood before me. Spoke to me. Presented with so many contradictions that I didn’t know what to make of her; the only thing I knew for certain was that she was no Shadhi. And then she escaped my dungeon. Rode through the palace gates without being questioned. Left a letter on my desk revealing that not only was she SFH and had devised her entire capture, but she was the Master of the Shadows himself. Mistress of the Shadows, as it would seem. And suddenly I understand. I understand how it lured you in. Got beneath your skin. Became personal. It would seem it happens to us all, in the end. That it is inevitable.”
Isavor blinked, finding his way back to the room where Mosscrow stood across from him. His had swiveled to regard Crow once more. “I have to admit it – of the possible twists and turns the Shadowmaster might have treated us to, she was the last thing I expected. So there it is. I am intrigued. And I also must admit I don’t very much enjoy being made a fool of.”
Crow’s excitement solidified into elation. Elation and something far more devilish. What a pleasant surprise this was! He’d come expecting to have to let it all go, and had been prepared to – at least he told himself so – in order to restore himself to the king’s good graces. But, “Ha!” he thought. And then, at the king’s blink of surprise, realized he hadn’t merely thought it. It had blurted right out of him, triumphant and un-take-backable. Oh, well. Too late now. “That is… Have…mercy on yourself, Majesty. It happens to the best of us. It’s what they do. They excel at playing games. And in doing so, if I might speak my mind, have made a mockery of your authority. Never mind what was said or how persuasive she was in her letter. As long as my role as your advisor hasn’t been redacted, I’ll come right out and say it: you should not suffer any who make a fool of you. If she was trying to prove a point, she only proved she is a brazen creature who thinks herself above the law. She has made a joke of your reign.
“When you ordered your own advisor into the dungeon for disrespecting you, I would hazard that you transferred just a smidgeon of rage from that insolent vixen doing it first.”
“Bold words as always, Crow.”
“I was not employed to sugarcoat or tell you only what you wish to hear.”
“Indeed not.” The king grew introspective, and Mosscrow put a hand on the eager itch creeping back into his manner.
He just couldn’t help himself, could he?
Eventually, he allowed himself an unassuming, “So, then?”
The king’s eyes flicked back to him. “You wish to know if I intend to pursue the matter, of my own volition.”
“It would be untruthful to say the curiosity hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Isavor considered him for a long moment, and Mosscrow couldn’t for the life of him tell what the monarch was thinking.
Finally, Isavor broke his silence. “If we continue the same efforts to pursue them, they will only continue to make fools of us.”
Mosscrow let himself accept the truth of that before responding, searching for an alternative suggestion that would keep the king from disbanding the objective. He had to keep him while he had him!
The king surprised him by speaking first. “What we need is a secret weapon.”
Now Mosscrow was intrigued. “Your Eminence?”
“I know how badly you want this, Crow. I cannot in good conscience sanction the furtherance of the hunt as it has operated, but if you want this badly enough, and we both know all too well that you do, I have every confidence you shall apply yourself and find the secret weapon we require.”
Surprised, Mosscrow did not at first feel up to the task. He blinked, wanting to object that he was not sure what brilliance the king supposed he could whip out of a hat that he had not already devised. It wasn’t as if he had been holding out, keeping something up his sleeve for later.
Then he clamped his mouth shut, chiding himself. This was his
chance! His chance to get creative. To play dirty. To wield the full leverage of royal forces at his back if only he contrived the perfect scheme.
He inclined his head. “Allow me a span to restructure, to formulate a proposal.”
“And in the meantime, Crow, no testing the waters behind my back. No taking any more bait. If we are going to do this, we are going to do it right.”
It had to be said, he supposed. “I humbly relinquish the cause until which time we can agree we have acquired an edge.”
*
Weeks passed. Crow disciplined himself, resisting the temptation to scour the city day and night, sniffing out any trace he might find of the Shadhi. It was hard for him, given the insult of the Shadowmaster’s latest trickery. The insufferable goad that was escaping the king’s dungeon like it was child’s play and denouncing any retribution like they were dreaming to even try. He could hardly keep from rallying the troops and storming the kingdom, but he knew this was a necessary discourse. Not only was it his only chance to get the king on board, he knew deep down a carefully devised plan was his only chance to ever truly best the Shadhi.
And so he devised. He brooded and brainstormed, thought and theorized, stewed and strategized, drafted and delineated. Scrapped more ideas than he entertained. Cried more than he had in his lifetime. Had scrolls of tediously calculated proposals spilling like entrails out his doorway and down the palace halls. Locked himself away in the Spylord’s cell at least twice more during bouts of exasperation to punish himself for his inadequacy. Drove himself quite honestly a little mad. But in the end, the manic episodes paid off.
In the end, his wits rallied to pull him from the trenches. To remind him there was a reason the king of Cerf Daine entrusted him with the impossible. To reinstate his lofty opinion of himself which had inspired him to pursue the land’s most devious trickster to begin with.
It wasn’t conventional, and the king might very well balk at the idea. As well he should, because it was both illegal and immoral.
Illegal, immoral, and, if he did say so himself, entirely ingenious.
*
Putting his feelers out for reports of sorcery across the kingdom, Lord Mosscrow was rewarded with a complaint stemming from Terryvale – a small town near Cerf Daine’s western border. He sent a convoy to investigate straightaway, with orders to bring the suspected culprit back to him.
And so, a week later, the convoy returned with one Cetas Ophelious, accused of sorcery and pulled from Terryvale’s jail three days before his trial was to be held.
“Guardsman Vardis with the Terryvale prisoner, my lord,” announced Osprey ahead of the arriving duo. Mosscrow nodded and waved him away, straightening his desk to expel his nervous energy as Vardis entered.
He brought with him a tiny man, older than he was young, scrawny and wide-eyed and surely the most pitiful image of a ‘sorcerer’ Mosscrow could have imagined.
Mosscrow had given specific instructions to not treat the individual as a prisoner – indeed, to ‘deliver’ him from his jailcell with promises of asylum – and so Cetas Ophelious arrived unshackled and unrestrained, and had been allowed to bathe and was given fresh robes for his meeting with the Lord Advisor.
Mosscrow stood. “Mr. Ophelious,” he greeted, trying to sound cordial. It was not his practice to be friendly, but today it suited his purposes. “Have a seat.” Gesturing to the chair across his desk, he watched as the little man wriggled himself up onto the cushion like a child. The poor fellow’s feet dangled well above the floor.
Trying to keep from appearing less than impressed, Crow lowered himself back into his chair and stared across at the entity he hoped would catch him the Master of the Shadows. There’s about as much chance of that as my hair growing back, but never mind. We have to start somewhere.
He cleared his throat. “I do hope you have escaped mostly unscathed from that unpleasant business in Terryvale,” he began. “They are not quite as…open-minded there, as we are in the capital.”
Cetas Ophelious blinked his huge, watery hare-like eyes. He nervously wrung his bony hands. “Forgive me, my lord; is magic not…forbidden here?”
“Technically illegal,” Mosscrow admitted. “But not for superstitious reasons or religious ideals, anymore, as much as…tradition and a lack of ability to regulate such things, were they allowed. In other words…frowned upon? Generally. Practiced in the open? Certainly not. But we do not condone burning witches or executing sorcerers, here. All known cases of magic-dabblers have been handled as disturbances of the peace – usually warranting reprimand and probation, but little more.”
Unable to meet Mosscrow’s steady gaze, Cetas Ophelious’ eyes shifted constantly about the chamber as the Lord Advisor spoke. He twiddled his thumbs, eye twitching every time he came back around to Mosscrow across the desk. “Am I to be…reprimanded?”
He really was the most pathetic thing Mosscrow had ever seen. “No. No, Mr. Ophelious. You are here for a different purpose. There may yet be a place for your kind in society – or, at the very least, employed by sanctioned administrators and authorities. But we’ll get to that. Tell me, if you would, what prompted the uproar in Terryvale about you being a sorcerer.”
Cetas Ophelious licked his lips, struggling to compose himself in the presence of the Lord Advisor. “Well,” he began. “It was a week ago, I believe, sir. My lord. I was down in the cemetery. I work there, you see, tending flowers and the like. I was recently given the new task of cleaning the tombstones. They get caked in moss and bird droppings, you know, and loved ones are comforted by the deceased being cared for even after death. They wish to see only enduring, timeless symbols of those they’ve lost – not filth and decay.
“So I was going about my duties, when I came to the grave of Mary Castos. The mayor’s daughter. Perished not two months ago, just shy of her twentieth birthday. Too young, too soon. Mayor Mavintosh was not ready to let her go. He had a statue carved, in place of a tombstone. Mary’s striking likeness, so he could still see her. Still speak to her. Still almost imagine she was there with him, when he came to visit her grave.
“So there I was, about to rid the figure of its accrued filth, when…” Closing his eyes, he shuddered, remembering.
Crow’s brows arched expectantly, the suspense congealing in the room. “When…?”
Ophelious’ eyes popped back open so suddenly it startled Crow. “As soon as I touched the statue, it came to life!” The little man’s hands had sprung to the arms of the chair, his fingers clenching down on the upholstery so hard his knuckles turned white. The incident had clearly left him traumatized.
The reports had spoken of a man who had animated stone, channeling some demon from the spirit world to possess the statue. Of course, Crow had been skeptical, but the uproar was loud enough to permeate the countryside and have people three towns over squirming from the rumors. It had been his only lead, in any case, and he’d been must curious to hear it for himself.
It sounded far more unbelievable in person, due in no small part to the beggarly excuse for a man sitting before him claiming to have done it.
Well, it was worth a shot. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, realizing this whole venture might be over before it began.
But Ophelious went on. “Now Mary Castos is flesh and blood again. But nothing like the dead brought back to life. I am no necromancer. She is a different Mary Castos. A mere animated look-alike. Dull stone given life. Childlike and gullible. She couldn’t say a word at first, though she learned very quickly. She was innocent, ignorant – a blank canvas to be completed by whatever artist was there to shape her, her mind waiting to be carved like the rest of her.
“Of course, the town thought her a demon and locked her up, and all she has ever known is being looked at like a monster. I was with her, in the jail. Our cells adjacent. I admit I was terrified, and spoke very little to her. But I saw the way she studied others. Learned their speech. And then, once she could understa
nd them, began to believe them. Began to accept she is what they say. A despicable creature born of black magic.” He shook his head helplessly, guilt and confusion and terror contorting his scruffy features. “But it was an accident, my lord. Not black magic! I don’t know how it happened. I certainly don’t consort with demons.”
“Of course not,” Crow dismissed brusquely. “Magic is one thing – demons, quite another.” Still skeptical, he considered the alleged sorcerer in front of him. His eyes cheated suddenly to the paperweight holding down a stack of curling scrolls on his desk. It was a stone figurine about the size of a large potato, rendered in the likeness of an ogre. The king had given it to Mosscrow as a gift last Winter Festivus, with the glib remark, “Since you always lament not having a second of yourself, so that you might get twice as much done.” Whatever he’d meant by that. But never mind. Mosscrow snatched it off the scrolls, sliding it across the desk in front of Ophelious. “Touch this,” he instructed.
“My lord–” Ophelious started to protest, horror gleaming in his moist eyes.
“Touch it.” Crossing his arms, Mosscrow waited.
Ophelious hesitated, wringing his hands, but ultimately pushed up his sleeves and did as the Lord Advisor commanded. Arms ramrod straight, he barely reached across the space between the chair and the desk, nearly slipping from his seat as he wrapped his fingers around the figurine. Appearing dubious, he avoided concentrating on the paperweight, gaze averted to some therapeutically boring speck of dust on the floor.
Mosscrow, on the other hand, didn’t take his eyes off the little man’s hands. Off the slivers of gray stone visible through his fingers. With each passing second – of which there were all of two – he grew increasingly impatient.
Then something remarkable happened.
Ophelious’ grasp caved in a little as if stone suddenly gave way to a softer, squishier material. Startled, the man released the paperweight, recoiling.
And in place of a paperweight stood a very lifelike, very confused little hideous green beast-man.
Girl of Rooftops and Shadows (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 1) Page 13