He stared at his gloved hands, at the black fabric cuffing his wrists and extending up his arms, over his head, and down to his feet, concealing every inch of his flesh. Dear Koronolan, even I can’t bear to look! Groaning, he sank down on a rock and cradled his head in his hands. “I should have let the creature kill me! Then I would be free.”
You’d be dead, said the Voice in his head. How is that being free?
Be still! But the voice was right; he would never allow himself to die at the hands of a Krad. Not even now, after more than a dozen years of this…existence, doomed to hide himself from everyone, with only a damned, annoying voice in his head for company. Talking to it—to whatever part of his splintered self had spawned it—kept him sane.
The horse whinnied. Eyes rimmed in white, the gray stallion shook its head and stamped.
Rising with an effort, the man followed the stallion’s gaze to the edge of the clearing. The Wehrland lion sat in lengthening shadows, its eyes pinpoints of reflected firelight.
By Kiros, not the damned lion again! He bent to retrieve the knife lying on the rock, muttering, “Fresh-killed Krad not to your taste? Don’t think you’ll find a meal here.”
A slight tilt of the she-cat’s head made him freeze in mid-motion. Behind him the fire hissed and popped, but the feline gaze glowed now with a steady luminescence, a steady, unnerving, yellow-green luminescence. The man’s skin prickled. He swallowed, but he had no power to pull his gaze away. No power at all...
“—I saved you, Durren—” said a voice, not in his head.
The man whirled, knife in hand. His stallion reared, squealing. Overhead, a night bird veered off with a sudden beat of wings.
“Who’s there?” the man cried. But no shadow moved, no creature detached itself from the forest’s edge, no form materialized from the gathering darkness.
“I’m hearing things.” He slammed his knife into its sheath. “You’ve done it!” he shouted, swinging back to the lion. “You brought the Krad! You made me—”
The lion was gone.
The man stood, shivering as the breeze licked up his back. “I’ve had enough of the Wehrland.” Striding to his horse, he weighed the gem pouch at his waist. “It’s time to go to the valley and trade these cursed things.” The bloodstone alone would fetch as much as the others combined. Together, there should be enough to buy supplies and go home.
Yes, home, said the Voice in his head, where illusions won’t call you by name... Durren.
The name burned in his gut like the twist of a knife. He sucked in a breath, enduring, before he spoke, saying it out loud so there would be no mistake. “That name is dead.” If only the nightmares would leave it buried. They might, if he could leave the Wehrland tonight and return to the caves, the tunnels, the deep silent blackness he longed for in the bowels of Drakkonwehr fortress.
But first he forced his fingers to unclench and comb through the stallion’s mane, first they would have to go to Ar-Deneth. And he would have to deal with people. Well, it would have to be done. He shivered again and flung on his cloak.
****
In Ar-Deneth, the White Boar Inn, days later...
Gareth rolled away from the jostling hand. “Get up, boy,” Ulerroth said, pulling him out of a dream. “I don't pay you to sleep.”
The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was dark, well, darker than usual for one who saw only shadows. He saw one now, the hulking form of the innkeeper illuminated by some little light, a lantern, he supposed, not the fire that usually glowed under the inn’s kettles across the room. He yawned, wondering what had roused his master. Predawn guests usually cheered Ulerroth with the prospect of twice the coin, but his touch and tone had been brusque.
“What should I do, sir?” Gareth felt for the tunic he’d placed at his feet before lying down to sleep, found the hem and dragged the garment over his head.
“Go to the stable. We have a guest.”
“At this hour?” the voice of Freth, the cook, shrilled from across the kitchen. “Can't he wait till morning to eat?”
Gareth found his staff beside the bed where he’d leaned it to mark the location of his shoes.
“Be quick about it, woman,” Ulerroth said. “And be sure it's good.”
Wood tumbled into the hearth pit. “Good!” Freth sputtered. “Who the demon is he, traipsing around at night this close to the Wehrland, a prince?”
Gareth tapped his staff to the door, found the latch, and lifted it. Warm, moist night air caressed his face. Behind him, his master spoke in a hushed voice.
“Not a prince, you idiot, but the Shadow Man.”
Freth's sudden intake of breath startled Gareth. His hand slipped on the latch and the door closed, leaving him outside.
Alone.
Chapter Three
Gareth stood for a moment, calming his nerves and opening his senses. Being surrounded by darkness wasn’t particularly frightening when the condition didn’t improve with the sunrise. If anything, the shadows of day confused him with their changing shapes and sudden movements. Gareth preferred the night when he could maneuver with confidence.
At night there were fewer sounds and he could hear the echo of each tap of his staff. The echoes spoke to him of length and breadth and height. The breeze was like a living thing then, full of whispers about the shapes it slowed and parted for ,assages, walls, and posts. It brought, too, slight temperature changes, fragrances and odors.
There was an odor now, and a subtle warmth. Gareth hesitated. The odor was the expected one of a strange horse and its leather trappings. He could tell by the shuffle of hooves that the animal stood just within the stable doors.
But the warmth? There was no post or other obstacle here. The area was open between the stable and the kitchen, at least it had been when he last walked it after supper. Now he was distinctly aware of something diverting the breeze from his face.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Who was Ulerroth’s guest that he arrived in the dead of night and was spoken of in hushed tones? What kind of man would take upon himself the name of Shadow but one who could stand undetected in the dark? Gareth swallowed. What if—what if the man stood there now, before him, watching and—
The warmth dissipated.
Gareth stood, gripping the head of his staff while the night breeze circled his forehead like a friendly cat. He breathed it, carefully, but there was only the smell of the horse now. Whatever he’d sensed before was gone.
The horse huffed.
He turned toward the sound, took a step, and concentrated again on the fickle breeze. It licked at the damp hair at his nape, teasing him with the promise of a chill. Nothing diverted it. He shook off his uncertainty and approached the horse, holding out his free hand. “Easy, my boy. It’s only Gareth come to rub you down and settle you in for the night.”
The horse shook its bridle, stamped, and thrust its muzzle into his outstretched palm.
Gareth smiled. He stroked the animal’s head, then followed the ears to the crest and down to the withers. It was a tall animal, sixteen hands, and sturdy enough to carry armor, but the saddle it bore was a light one. He ran his hands along the rigging, finding a crupper and a chest harness in addition to a well-worn double girth, all signs of hard riding in uneven terrain.
“So,” he said, unfastening the reins from a hook near the door, “your master’s not a warrior, eh? The better for you.” He led the horse into a vacant stall and closed the gate.
He heard a faint echo, that of a latch lifted and closed again, but distant, as if the sound had bounced off rafters and beams. Gareth’s hands froze on the saddle girth. Or not an echo at all, but the kitchen latch...admitting someone.
The breeze invaded the stall. It slithered under his tunic and licked at the moisture sheening his torso. The Shadow Man was here. And he watched me.
****
Mirianna turned her face into the breeze, letting it play with her hair. She, her father, and the two men of Nolar had entered
the Wehrland two days ago, but she’d seen nothing unusual to mark their passage. Indeed, if her father hadn’t announced it, she wouldn’t have known. The upland meadows looked like all the other meadows they’d ridden through. The stands of pine, spruce and fir looked no denser. If anything, wildflowers grew here in greater profusion. Each time they rested the horses, she amused herself finding as many varieties as she could among the asters, daisies, and hawkweed.
Granite outcrops pushed up everywhere, sometimes soaring thirty or forty feet above their heads. And streams ran icy cold over rocks still raw from spring heaving and cracking. As they traversed a ridge, Tolbert gestured to five spear-pointed peaks visible in the distance.
“Legend says Koronolan and the Hero Mages forced the Last Dragon to earth here and turned him into stone. Those are reputed to be five of the spines on his back.”
Mirianna surveyed the snow-dotted mountains. “I suppose that’s why there’s bloodstone here.”
Her father swatted at a black-winged fly. “Where else do you find dragon’s blood but where he died?”
“Some folks say the dragon’s not really dead, only sleeping,” another voice said.
Shading her eyes from the noon sun, she turned toward Rees, the Master of Nolar’s man riding at her gelding’s tail. “Why’s that?”
“The cracking. From season to season, from dark to day.” The blond man used a stretch of flat terrain to urge his mount beside hers. “They say the Wehrland cracks when the dragon dreams. Someday—” He gestured with a sweep of his arm. “—he’ll wake again and break free. He almost did once, you know.”
“I haven’t heard that story,” Mirianna said.
He inclined his head. “I’d be pleased to tell it to you.”
I’m sure you would. She turned away from his gaze. Why hadn’t Master Brandelmore assigned them two like Pumble, whose pear shape bobbed in the saddle some thirty feet ahead? He smelled, but at least he didn’t stare at her with that predatory gleam of teeth she’d grown so weary of encountering in Nolar. From cobbler to carpenter to herdsman, they’d all stared at the young woman who had nothing but an aged father and her own wiles to keep their lust at bay. Some, thus emboldened, had tried what Rees would no doubt attempt some night soon, maneuvering her into the darkness alone. A man who wore his tunic cut to conform to a muscled body and unlaced to mid-chest would expect her compliance, if not her invitation.
She sighed. There was always the knee, properly applied, or, if necessary, the silver and turquoise-handled knife her father had given her to wear at her waist. If that failed—she rubbed a hand over her thigh, feeling the faintest bulge under her riding skirt—there was always the slender dagger even her father knew nothing about.
Not smiling, she glanced once more at Rees. “Shouldn’t we be stopping soon to eat?”
“Yes.” Tolbert reined to a halt. “My stomach’s been—”
His horse jerked sideways, spinning. Tolbert, hands clutching at air, tumbled off.
“Papa!” Mirianna flung herself out of the saddle even as her own horse blundered into Rees’s mount.
“Grab the horses!” Rees shouted.
Mirianna registered the blur of Pumble galloping away, but she paid no heed. Her focus was on her father, his body sprawled between hummocks of moss.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Tolbert wheezed when she threw herself to the ground at his side. He caught her hand, pulling himself up to sit despite her attempt to hold him down. “Just a tumble,” he told Rees, who’d dropped to one knee at Mirianna’s side.
“You certain?” Rees said.
Tolbert brushed off Mirianna’s hands. “Yes, yes. Don’t worry about me.”
Rees stood. His gaze swept Tolbert from head to toe, and then surveyed the ridge line. “What in Beggeth spooked the horses?” he shouted to Pumble, who rode up holding the reins to Mirianna and her father’s mounts.
“Not Krad,” Pumble said. “It’s too open.”
“Lion?”
Pumble shrugged. “Could be just a bird in the brush.”
Rees slapped crushed moss from his knee. “Bloody Wehrland!” A moment later he turned and offered Mirianna his hand. “Can I give you a leg up?”
She shook her head at the gleam returning to his eyes. “Help my father.” Ignoring Tolbert’s protests, she brushed bits of greenery from his hair and clothing, checking once more for any sign of injury. Assured he was unhurt, she held his horse’s bridle while Rees boosted him into the saddle.
“Mirianna,” her father warned as she handed him the reins.
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
Tolbert scowled. “But you’re thinking it.”
That I’m glad I didn’t stay behind and let you take this journey alone? That you’re not the horseman you used to be? That maybe now you’re just a little bit glad I’m here? Masking those thoughts from her eyes, she laid a hand on his knee, squeezed it, and smiled. “How do you know what I’m thinking, Papa?”
With more confidence than she felt, she grabbed her own horse’s reins and swung into the saddle before Rees could open his hand for her foot.
Rees glanced from her face to her father’s and back again. With lowered brows, he said, “We’ll ride till we find a stream.”
Mirianna nodded. Left unsaid was what they all understood: This was not a place to tarry in. She glanced about as they moved on, wondering what had spooked the horses. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her, This is the Wehrland. Isn’t that reason enough? No, she wanted to reply, but she wasn’t sure she should or could.
****
The cloaked and hooded man stood in the balcony’s shadows, noting the common room below was nearly empty now midnight had passed. It was always like this on the first evening after his arrival, everyone trying to catch a glimpse, hoping for something strange to happen. But I never give them what they want, the fools.
Approaching the rail, he slid gloved palms along it. There were only two farmers and one old man below. The farmers were struggling to stand while they complained the markers in their bead-casting game were shape-shifting, due, no doubt, to the presence of the Shadow Man. The old man lay curled up and snoring on the fireplace bench.
Ulerroth’s voice boomed out as he crossed the common room to help the farmers gather their cloaks. And to gather his payment, the man thought, watching the innkeeper count the coin poured into his palm. With a merry laugh, the bulky innkeeper shuffled his charges to the door and let them out. He, too, checked the old sleeper, stepped back with a shake of his head, and returned to the door to bar it for the night.
“Gareth! Fetch a blanket,” Ulerroth called as he secured shutters over the large window.
The man descended slowly, one step for each candle Ulerroth extinguished in the wheel above the main table. When darkness stretched over the bottom step, the man paused there.
The boy entered. The man watched him cross the room bearing a blanket. He looked about thirteen, with thin limbs and a squarish face. His crudely cut hair, the color of wet sand, stood out in tufts upon his head. He walked confidently to the bench where Ulerroth directed and covered the old sleeper. Smothering a huge yawn with the back of his hand, he returned to the kitchen.
The man frowned. This had to be the same boy he’d watched in the stable last night, the one who’d looked straight at him without seeing. Now, though, he walked without a staff. Still frowning, the man stepped to the common room floor.
“Ah, you’ve come down,” Ulerroth said, wiping his hands on his apron. He hovered near a table on the fringe of the firelight. “Will you have dinner now?”
“If it pleases you.” The man selected the chair with its back to the fire and sat in it.
“Gareth!” the innkeeper called, taking the chair opposite. “Bring food for our guest.” Perspiration shone on the innkeeper’s high, rounded forehead. “You’ve brought me business, as usual.” He hefted a tankard left on the table, found ale in it, and drained it in one swallow.
> “Do they spend much?”
The innkeeper wiped his drooping mustache on his sleeve. “Oh, plenty, my friend, plenty indeed.”
“Even though I don’t appear?”
Ulerroth’s teeth flashed in the firelight. “All the better. They buy on hope. That’s more than enough to keep them drinking.”
The man leaned back. “They’re fools.”
The innkeeper dragged another tankard over, peered in it, and pushed it away. “There’s always hope. What’s a man without hope, anyway?”
“A man like me.”
Ulerroth’s gaze shot across the table. The man watched it try to penetrate the hood folded about his face, the face-covering underneath. For a brief, irrational moment, he was tempted to unveil, to show this brazen ale-pumper precisely what it was he so callously sold his customers the promise of. But Ulerroth, as if catching himself, looked down, away, everywhere else in the room.
He knows. Or else he’s afraid of what might be...like everyone else.
“Freth!” The innkeeper stood, knocking his chair back on two legs. “What in Dragontime is keeping that food?” Damp circles darkened the innkeeper’s armpits, and a trickle of sweat beside his ear glinted in the firelight.
Better to have fear and run and hide, Ulerroth, than to dream lunatic’s dreams—the man’s cheek twitched against the fabric covering it—like mine.
The kitchen door opened. The boy entered, bearing a tray. “Freth’s gone to bed, sir.”
“Here,” Ulerroth said. “Set it here.”
The man watched the boy approach, find the table’s edge with his hip, then lower the tray to it. All the while, the boy’s eyes looked at nothing.
I was right.
When the two men were alone again, the man said, “Your stableboy, I haven’t seen him before.”
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