This book is dedicated to
MY PARENTS
reat thanks are due, as always, to the boys of Clockwork Storybook: Bill Willingham, Chris Roberson, Mark Finn, and Bill Williams, for providing encouragement and feedback during the writing of this book.
As with Midwinter, a special debt of gratitude is owed to Bill Willingham, who again graciously allowed me to borrow a couple of concepts that he included in his (as yet!) unfinished novel Just Another Ranker, back in the days when we all wrote stories set in the same worlds. If he ever asks for them back, I'll be in dire straits.
Thanks to Dave Justus, who worked tirelessly to comment upon and proof the original manuscript, and to my editor at Pyr, Lou Anders, who is basically awesome.
Thanks to Margaret and Kevin for watching the girls that time.
Thanks to Samantha, Amy, Jenn, Terrie, Lynn, Emma, Jacob, Abby, Patti, Nate, Jeremy, James, Alison, and Yvonne for keeping me fueled up throughout.
And especially, thanks to my wife, Stacy, and my daughters, Millie and Mercy, for allowing me to essentially abandon them for two months while I finished.
Pibil.
Uvenra slept among the ash at Belekh; the daughter of Uvenchaud was dead by the hand of Uvenchaud and slept among the ash. For a week and a day the king wept. Then Uvenchaud took his chariot and drove it to Prythme, where the gods dwelled.To confront the gods he went there. He shook his sword at the gate; he shook his shield at the gate. Uvenchaud struck the earth with his sword and the earth trembled. The gate opened. At Uvenchaud's threat did it move upon its mighty hinge.
Uvenchaud went into the courtyard at Prythme. In the courtyard Uvenchaud called out. "I am Uvenchaud, whose fist is iron, who united the wild Fae clans; the Fae clans have submitted to my will. As the ruler of them I demand parley."
Uvenchaud stood in the courtyard for a week and a day. For another week and for another day he stood and there was no answer. Uvenchaud struck the earth again with his sword and called out. One of the gods came.The bearded god Althoin, god of Wisdom whose Gift is Insight, came to match his wits against Uvenchaud.
"Why do you come here?" said wise Althoin. "Why does Uvenchaud come here to disturb the thoughts of the gods?"
"Uvenra my daughter sleeps among the ash. She is dead by my hand, for she betrayed me to my enemy Achera, the dragon who has slain many."
"You have come here to be judged by the gods."
"I do not come to be judged by the gods. I come to defy the judgment of the gods."
Althoin spoke. He said,"You cannot escape the judgment of the gods.We are seated above you to judge you and to command you."
"Who seated you there?"
"We seated ourselves."
"Then I will unseat you" Uvenchaud struck the earth with his sword, and the god laughed at the sword.
"You cannot kill a god," said Althoin.
Uvenchaud struck at Althoin for a week and a day. After a week and a day he stopped and Althoin was unharmed. "You cannot kill a god," said Althoin.
Ein, god of War, whose Gift is Leadership, came to match his strength against Uvenchaud. For a week and a day Uvenchaud struck Ein with his sword. For a week and a day they struggled, but Ein was not slain.
"You cannot kill a god," said Ein.
"What I cannot kill I can bind," said Uvenchaud. Uvenchaud had a rope, made of fibers from the tuluk plant.The rope was dipped in dragon blood. Uvenchaud bound Ein with the rope. Ein strained at the rope, but he was bound.
One by one the other gods came to answer the challenge, and Uvenchaud bound them. He bound Senek. He bound Urul. He bound Penithe and Althoin. He bound Tur and Loket. Obore and Reinul he bound. Ehreg and Purek he bound.Tenul he bound.
In this way did Uvenchaud bind each of the twelve gods at Prythme.
In Prythme the gods lie. In Prythme they are bound. In Prythme they are held by tuluk fibers and dragon's blood.
No god judged Uvenchaud for the slaying of Uvenra.
from The Chthonic Book of Mysteries, translated by Feven IV of the City Emerald
The sun in Annwn perches eternally on the horizon, swimming in lazy circles that allow it to fully rise for only three hours each day. Never lighter than morning nor darker than dusk,Annwn exists in perpetual transitionalways arriving, never arrived.
Annwn was discovered by the Fae long ago and was, for many centuries, a bastion of the pure Elvish folk. But it was later discovered by men from the Nymaen world, those called human, and conquered by them. Over time the two races mingled, and have now become one. Neither Fae nor Nymaen, they are simplyAnnwni,with some of the qualities of each.
There are many villages in Annwn, but only one city, named Blood of Arawn.The city is built upon seven great ramparts of earth and stone dug out of the otherwise flat grasslands of that world.The oldest buildings of that city-the coliseum, the Penn's villa, the temples-are built of marble, but many of these structures have since crumbled and have been replaced with more modest structures of brick. Only the obelisk at the center of the great market, called Romwll's Needle, remains unblemished after fifteen centuries. Conventional wisdom holds that a pair of thaumaturges sit in a stone room beneath the obelisk, whispering bindings without cease, for it is believed that if the needle were ever to fall, then Blood of Arawn would fall soon after, and all of Annwn crumble into dust.
Stil-Eret,''Light in Annwn;' from Travels at Home and Abroad
Five Years Ago
he flashes of witchlight began to streak the horizon shortly after midnight and continued through the night, growing closer by the hour. Paet ran through the dappled darkness, ignoring the sky.
The attack had come as no surprise to anyone, but Mab's Army had beaten even the most alarmist estimates in its timing. Back at the Seelie Embassy, the packing and burning of documents, which had begun in an orderly fashion three days earlier, had become a frenzy of activity. Bags were hurriedly packed; valuables were sewn into the linings of garments; empty kerosene barrels were stuffed with dossiers and set aflame.
None of this was of any concern to Paet.
Blood of Arawn was an ancient city. Not as old, perhaps, as one of its Seelie counterparts, but it appeared much older as a result of governmental indifference down the ages. The cobbles in the streets were uneven, some missing, and Paet could hear carts and carriages jouncing across them in the street beyond his darkened alley. He could also hear shouts and occasional shrieks, as certain of the populace considered the reputation of the encroaching conquerors and decided not to take their chances. Paet could hardly blame them; life under the Unseelie was certain to be a disappointment for those who decided to stay.
A group of a dozen Chthonic coenobites clattered past Paet, their faces calm, their legendary indifference suiting them well this night. Their saffron-dyed robes brushed the cobblestones, the bells sewn into their fabric quietly jingling. As the state religion in all but name, the Chthonics would be allowed to continue so long as they acknowledged Mab as a goddess, and superior to their own. This the Chthonics would happily agree to do, praising Mab publicly and ignoring her in private. Their own deities had been subdued eons earlier and could scarcely take offense. Or so the stories went; Paet had no use for religion.
There was a scintillating flash in the sky. A moment later the ground shook and Paet stumbled. He stopped and listened as the low rumble of reitic concussions echoed down the alley. Waves of heat from the battle outside had begun to roll over the walls before Paet had left the embassy, and now the city both felt and smelled like a tavern kitchen: stifling, stinking of sweat and overripe food. Paet felt the prickling of perspiration beneath his heavy linen shirt. He continued running.
The district of
Kollws Vymynal covered the smallest of Blood of Arawn's seven hills. The East Gate was set into the wall at the foot of Kollws Vymynal, which put it closest to the fighting outside. Here Paet could just hear the clash of blades and the shrieks of horses and men mixed in with thundering hooves and reitic blasts.
How long had it been since he'd left the embassy? His internal time sense told him it was only about twenty minutes. That gave him just enough time to retrieve Jenien and make it to the Port-Herion Lock before the Masters shut the thing down, stranding them in Annwn. Not the end of the world, but close enough.
The streets of Kollws Vymynal twisted and doubled back upon themselves, and what signs existed were printed in tiny ancient script that beggared deciphering. The district's inhabitants had either bolted themselves inside their homes, drawing the curtains and shutters tight, or had joined the frantic knots of refugees. Most were headed toward the Southwest Gate, which meant that Paet was fighting against their current. From the city they would beg passage to a different world or strike out southward, hoping to disappear into the plains villages.
The clock in a nearby Chthonic temple struck three and Paet whispered a curse. This was taking too long.
Paet finally found the address he was looking for at the end of a small culde-sac, a four-story tenement that smelled heavily of burnt cooking oil and pepper and rot. This was the address Jenien had written down in her logbook when she'd left the embassy that morning, long before word of Mab's invasion had reached the city. Just the address and a name: Prae Benesile. All she'd told Pact was that she was going to visit a "person of interest," which could mean just about anything. By nightfall, while Blood of Arawn convulsed in preparation for its imminent surrender, she still hadn't returned. Paet had waited for her until he could wait no longer and had then gone after her.
"We won't hold the lock for you," Ambassador Tract had told him diffidently. Everything about Tract was hesitant and noncommittal; his appointment had been a sinecure, and laughably so. In happier times, Annwn had been a cozy assignment. Now Tract was in over his head, but at least had the sense to realize it. "If you're not back by sunrise," Tract had said, stuffing a valise haphazardly with documents, "you're on your own."
Pact breathed deeply ten times. He consciously slowed his heart and forced out the remainder of the prickly heat that filled his blood. The fear of the body could be controlled easily, but for the fear of the mind there was no cure. Only action, despite it.
At the end of the street someone smashed the window of a bakery and grabbed a basket of bread amid surprised shouts.
Pact let himself into the tenement building and hurried up the stairs, making no sound that any Fae or Annwni could hear; of course, the things he was most concerned about were neither, and had excellent hearing. Still. The stairway was filled with cooking smells and body odor. When he reached the third floor he stepped carefully out of the stairwell. The narrow hallway was empty; several doors along its length were open, their inhabitants apparently not seeing the point of locking up behind them. Many of the older, poorer residents of Annwn had fought against Mab's Army in the Sixweek War twenty years previously, and had apparently had enough of the Unseelie for a lifetime.
The apartment Pact was searching for was near the end of the hall. Its door was open as well, though light still burned within. Pact took a long, serrated knife from within his cloak, testing the blade with his thumb by force of habit. He pushed the door open gently and waited, listening. His hardlearned caution warred in his mind with his sense of urgency. If ever there was a time to take a risk, this was it. He swore under his breath and stepped into the apartment.
It was small, a single room lit by a lone witchlamp sconce set into the wall. The long-untuned bilious green light cast harsh shadows over the furniture, placing imagined adversaries in every corner. A tattered cot slumped beneath the waxed-paper window. A chipped chamber pot sat in the corner. Books and bits of paper and parchment were everywhere, piled on the floor, leaned in uneven stacks against the wall, scattered across the cot. There was no sign of Jenien.
Stop and think. Breathe. Relax and smooth the edges of consciousness. Paet picked up a book at random and opened it. It was written by Prae Benesile himself, a work of philosophy, something to do with the history of the Chthonic religion. He put it down and picked up another. This one was a collection of Thule religious poetry, prayers to the bound gods, hymns of supplication, prophecies of liberation and doom. A sampling of the rest of the books revealed most of them to be of a kind: works of philosophy, sacred texts-many regarding the Chthonics, but also some Arcadian scrolls, a few codices from the Annwni emperor cult. Some were written in languages that Paet didn't recognize. There was nothing here to indicate that Prae Benesile was anything other than a reclusive scholar.
Paet sniffed. Blood. Blood had been spilled in this room, and recently. He knelt down and examined the dusty floorboards. Too many shadows. Paet glanced toward the window, shrugged, and created a stronger, pure white witchlight that suffused the entire room. The blood on the floor was tacky and brown, smeared in a scuffle. Paet heard the choking cough from beneath the cot just as his eyes followed the trail of drying blood toward it. He tested his grip on the knife and then channeled Motion and drew the cot quickly backward with a twist of his mind.
Jenien lay curled in a fetal position, clutching her abdomen, breathing raggedly. She looked up at him, and her eyes went wide in her pale face.
"Watching," she whispered. "Bel Zheret are here."
Paet's heart leapt forcefully at the name. He stood and whirled, brandishing the knife. Nothing moved.
He turned back to Jenien and knelt before her. "If they were here I either slipped past them, or they're long gone.
"Said they'd be back for me," Jenien wheezed. She was having trouble breathing. Paet gently pulled her hands away from her belly, pulled aside her shredded blouse. Jenien was going to die; there was nothing he could do for her. These were wounds that not even a Shadow could recover from.
Paet found a pillow on the overturned cot and put it under Jenien's head. Her hair was wet with perspiration. She reached for his wrist and grabbed it with weak fingers.
"Mab's coming," Jenien observed. "Thought we'd have a few more days."
"Things at the embassy have become frantic to say the least."
Jenien chuckled softly. "Traet running around like a headless chicken?" "Yes."
"Is that knife sharp, Paet?" she said after a brief pause.
"I'm getting you out of here," he said. "Just rest a moment longer."
"Remember that night in Sylvan?" she asked. She was starting to slur her speech. Her body trembled. "The little theater with the terrible play?"
"I remember," Paet said, smiling.
"I bet if we were normal we could have fallen in love that night," she said, sighing.
Paet felt his emotions receding as she spoke. The world became flat. Jenien was an object; a bleeding thing with no impact. A problem to be solved. Was this lack of feeling something he'd always had, or something he'd developed? He couldn't remember. Had he become empty like this when he became a Shadow, or was it the emptiness that qualified him for the job? It didn't seem to matter.
"It was the mulled wine," he said, sitting her up. "It was strong. Hard to tell through the cinnamon and cloves."
She winced as he maneuvered himself behind her. "You looked very dashing. You had one of those red cloaks that were so popular back then."
"Just blending in," he said. Then, after a moment, "What was so important about Prae Benesile, Jenien?"
She shook her head sadly, worked to speak clearly. "Someone from the City of Mab had been to see him. Five times in the past year. I was just curious. Bel Zheret showed up when-" She winced.
Paet brought up the knife. "They take him?"
Jenien nodded. "He struggled; they killed him."
"Ah."
"I don't want to die," she said. It was a statement, merely an observation.
&
nbsp; "We've been dead for a long time," he whispered in her ear. He drew the knife across her throat in a quick, sure motion, and pulled her neck back to hasten the bleeding. She shook; her chest lurched once, then twice. He waited until he was certain she was dead, checking her eyes. He looked into them until all the life had gone out of them. It took time. Dying always took time.
Paet took a deep breath and braced his knee against her back. He put the serrated blade of the knife to Jenien's throat again, using the original cut as a guide. He buried his other hand in her hair and pulled, hard, as he began to saw.
Ligament popped. Metal ground against bone. With a sickening crunch, vertebrae parted. A few more strokes and the remaining skin tore loose soundlessly. Jenien's head swung obscenely in his grasp.
Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow Page 1