Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  The wind was blowing harder now, and snow fell at a steady pace. “Let’s get moving,” Grimur said brusquely. “We’ve still got candlemarks to go, and the storm is closing in quickly.”

  The next two candlemarks seemed like an eternity as they traced a meandering line across the ice to avoid the tunneler’s traps. “I can’t see the whole ice field at one time,” Nidhud muttered to Connor at the forefront of the party. “Just a few feet in front of us. So while I’d love to go faster, we can’t without ending up like the capreol.”

  Borya and Desya hauled the sledges. Verran kept his slingshot handy, though his supply of stones was running low. Zaryae had made half a dozen ice balls, which she kept at the ready by turning up the edge of her long coat like a sling. The Grief Mountains behind them were completely hidden in the snow squalls of the storm.

  Crusted snow slowed their steps, and the indirect course sapped their energy. Despite his heavy coat, Connor was cold to the bone. Every muscle ached, and he was utterly weary. Only the knowledge that death would come quickly should he stop to rest kept him on his feet. Ice clung to the scarf covering his face as his breath condensed and froze, and his hands and feet were numb. Zaryae had begun to stumble, and she accepted Connor’s arm without protest. Nidhud and Grimur had shouldered the sledges, since it was all the others could do to keep on moving. After another candlemark, they reached firm ground once more.

  “Unload the sledges,” Grimur said. “We can safely leave the supplies here,” Grimur said. “I can come back for them tomorrow. We’re not far now from my cabin. Get on the sledges and Nidhud and I can drag you the rest of the way.”

  Connor, Zaryae, and Verran collapsed onto one of the sledges while Borya and Desya swallowed their pride and accepted seats on the other. Connor was sure the two talishte were also exhausted, but he had seen enough talishte strength firsthand to accept that Grimur and Nidhud were still in less danger from the elements than the mortals in the group.

  “Come on,” he said, jostling Zaryae. “Stay awake. We’re almost back to the cabin.”

  “So tired,” she said, her voice quiet and slurred.

  “If it weren’t so damn cold, I’d threaten to sing,” Verran said. “But Connor’s right—none of us dares fall asleep.”

  Connor and Verran huddled close to Zaryae, trying to shield her from the wind and share what little body heat they had. Zaryae’s head lolled on Connor’s shoulder, and he kept up a murmured running conversation, urging her to remain conscious. The sledge sank through the inches of new powder and ground over the icy, granulated snow beneath. Wind howled across the wide-open, frigid landscape and large flakes fell like a white curtain from the clouds overhead. Dimly, Connor was aware that Penhallow and the Wraith Lord gave him a mental nudge whenever the cold and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him.

  “We’re here.” Grimur shook Verran awake.

  “We need to get Zaryae inside and warm,” Connor said. “I haven’t been able to rouse her for a little while now.”

  Grimur and Nidhud lit the lanterns. Connor carried Zaryae to the cabin and laid her down on the bed. Though Grimur himself had no need of blankets, the cabin was obviously outfitted for the comfort and safety of occasional mortal guests. “Come on, Zaryae,” Connor coaxed, though his hands were shaking so much it was difficult to unfasten her heavy coat and pull off her boots. Connor’s hands and feet felt numb and leaden, and his face tingled painfully as circulation returned.

  “Wake up,” he urged. “Please. Wake up.” Zaryae’s skin was pale and cold to the touch. She murmured groggily, but Connor was unsure whether that meant she had heard him. He stripped off her sodden gloves and scarf, and wiped away the snow from her fur hat. Then he and Borya bundled her in blankets while Desya got a fire going.

  “Once that fire gets going, we can move her closer,” Verran said. “But don’t try to warm her too quickly. That doesn’t go well.” He made a face. “Believe me, I know more about frostbite and ice sickness than I ever wanted to learn.”

  “You don’t look so good, either,” Borya commented archly, taking in Connor’s condition. “I don’t pretend to know how you channel that ghost lord, but you look ready to drop.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Connor protested, too worried about Zaryae to focus on his own discomfort.

  “All of us are ready to drop,” Verran argued. “We’ll take turns sitting up with her. Once the rest of us warm up, we can bundle together under the blankets and use our body heat to break the chill, but we have to have heat ourselves before we can share it.”

  Grimur went back outside and returned with a cauldron of something that had frozen solid in the snow. “Venison stew. I figured you’d want something warm, but it will take a bit to thaw. In the meantime, there’re dried meats and provisions on the table.”

  Verran filled a kettle with snow and placed it on the hearth to boil, and a second pot of snow farther back from the flames to melt for drinking water. Then he joined the others, who were dividing up the dried meat, cheese, and herring, plus thick slices of bread. “For someone who doesn’t eat, you put on a good dinner,” Verran remarked.

  “I find it useful to be prepared,” Grimur remarked. “Now that your needs are met, Nidhud and I must hunt. Today has been… taxing… and tomorrow comes soon.” With that, he and Nidhud headed out of the cabin and back into the snow.

  “Let’s just hope there’s some game dumb enough to be out in a storm,” Verran remarked. “I don’t fancy being a snack.”

  Connor felt light-headed with exhaustion and hunger, glad to take his portion of the food and sit down on the floor beside Zaryae’s bed. “Once the stew warms up, we should try to get some of the broth into her,” he said. “She’s chilled through.”

  “After all that, I sure hope the fancy knife turns out to be worth it,” Verran said.

  “If it’s as powerful as Penhallow believes, it could remove Thrane as a threat—and Reese and his followers, too,” Connor replied. He turned his attention inward to the Wraith Lord. Testing the Spike is obviously out of the question, but is there a way to make sure its magic still works, and didn’t get corrupted by the Cataclysm? Connor had firsthand experience with artifacts that had become dangerously changed when the Cataclysm changed the magic. He had no desire to add to those nightmares.

  There’s no good way to ‘test’ the Spike, the Wraith Lord answered. For obvious reasons. First, it would be a wanton disregard for life, in addition to the fact that it would surely tip our hand to Thrane. And as you know, magical objects don’t have unlimited uses. It would be a pity to test it and use it up before the real battle.

  What if it doesn’t work?

  Penhallow and Dolan and I have come up with secondary plans. But all of them are more difficult, more dangerous, and certain to cost more lives, Vandholt replied. Let’s hope that the Spike retains its power, for at least one more use.

  Borya lifted an eyebrow. “Penhallow must trust you quite a bit. Did it ever occur to you that Thrane isn’t the only one the knife could be turned against?”

  The thought had crossed Connor’s mind, and he had understood why Grimur handed off the knife to Nidhud. By now you should know, it is not a lack of trust, Bevin, the Wraith Lord’s voice supplied in his mind. Nidhud is better able to guard the knife on the trip home. But he could not have obtained it without you. You’ve done well.

  I’m too tired to care about Thrane or Reese or the wars back in Donderath, Connor replied silently. Right now, I just want Zaryae to wake up, and I want to fall asleep. After everything that’s happened, surely that’s not too much to ask? He did not expect an answer, and despite his best efforts, resigned himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WHEN DID THEY SHOW UP?” BLAINE MCFADDEN handed off his reins to a groomsman as Kestel swung down from her horse to join him. It was late in the day, and they and their contingent of guards had ridden hard to make the journey from Glenreith at Dillon’s urgent summons.

  “T
hree days ago, m’lord,” Dillon said. “Folville sent us word directly as soon as the messenger arrived. That’s why we had a talishte take the message to you at Glenreith. We knew it would take time for you to get here.” Before the Great Fire, Dillon had been the assistant to the Exchequer. After the Cataclysm, with the king and the seneschal dead, Dillon had stepped up to do his best overseeing the efforts to repair and refurnish what remained of the castle. The strain of his responsibilities showed in Dillon’s pinched features, and his hair had thinned dramatically in the past year with the stress. Still, there was a grim set to his jaw that indicated he intended to see his charge through, no matter what.

  “How do we know they’re ambassadors—and not spies?” Blaine asked as he and Kestel followed Dillon up the castle steps. Piran and a dozen soldiers followed at a respectful distance.

  “Of course they’re spies,” Kestel chided. “That’s what ambassadors are. The rest is just ceremonial.”

  “Which is why we gave them the best quarters to be had in the castle, and then kept them confined there, ‘for their own safety,’” Dillon replied with a sly smile. “I’ve tried to balance according them due respect and not showing them anything so nice that it might suggest Donderath is a plum to be plucked.”

  Thank the gods Kestel and Dillon know how to play this game, Blaine thought. If they can coach me through the formalities, I won’t complain about being the figurehead.

  “Are you certain they came from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms, like they claim?” Blaine asked.

  Dillon met his gaze. “We’re certain of nothing, m’lord. A messenger showed up under a white flag in a rowboat four days ago. He claimed to be from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms, and said that the ambassador and his entourage wished to come ashore to meet with our ‘king.’ Captain Folville sent a messenger to me, and I dispatched a talishte to you.”

  “Excellent job,” Blaine said. “Now what do we do?”

  “I’ve plied them with the best whiskey we have available,” Dillon replied. “Rummaged up the wherewithal to cook them dinners I’m not ashamed to serve, though of course, nothing close to what would have been protocol… before.”

  Blaine shrugged. “No point in making comparisons. Those days are gone for good.”

  “And I’ve sent them musicians and entertainers every night,” Dillon continued. “I also made certain that the servants who attend them know to report on anything they hear, but answer questions in the vaguest possible answers.”

  “Good, good,” Kestel said. “Does the suite where you’ve put them have listening holes?”

  Dillon gave her a crafty smile. “Of course.”

  “The rooms have listening holes?” Blaine asked, feeling as if he had somehow missed an essential part of the conversation.

  Kestel chuckled. “Sure. How do you think the king knows so much? Ears everywhere—especially when there are foreigners around.”

  Dillon grinned. “They haven’t said much, which tells me that they know the game. From what they have said, I gather that their trip across the ocean was relatively peaceful, and that we’re having better weather than where they’re from.”

  “Is there any way to confirm that they are indeed from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms, and not just pirates?” Blaine asked.

  Dillon and Kestel thought for a moment, then shrugged. “In the old days, a visit like this would have been arranged months in advance,” Kestel said. “Letters and gifts would have gone back and forth. Our ambassador would have known their ambassadors, and had a good idea who the servants and minor functionaries were, too. Anyone out of place would have stood out. Nothing would have been a surprise or left to chance. But now…”

  “It’s the first ship from elsewhere we’ve seen since the Cataclysm, with the exception of those pirates Folville and his men fought back a few weeks ago,” Dillon replied. “None of our ambassadors survived the Great Fire, and if it was this bad where the delegation came from, that might be true for them as well. So there’s no one who can verify or gainsay.”

  “Handy if you’re trying to fool people,” Blaine pointed out.

  Dillon nodded. “Agreed. But just as inconvenient if you’re who you say you are, with no way to prove your credentials.”

  “Have any of our people seen their ship?” Kestel asked as they accompanied Dillon down the corridors of the castle. Before the Great Fire, Quillarth Castle had been much larger, and it had been decorated to reflect King Merrill’s wealth and power. Empty hooks along the stone walls showed where tapestries once hung. Bookshelves and alcoves were bare. Paintings and sculptures were absent, too. Most of the treasures burned or were destroyed on the night of the Cataclysm or were looted by Reese and Pollard in the aftermath. What few remained had been carefully secured in the castle’s cellars, safeguarded until a less tumultuous time came upon the kingdom.

  “No. Folville said he’d see what information his men could gather, and tell us what they find out,” Dillon replied. “For all we know, it’s the same pirates changed into fancy clothes, but just as eager to plunder.”

  “Here we are,” Dillon said, leading Blaine and Kestel to a doorway. “This will be your room. There are empty rooms on both sides and across the hallway for your guards.” He sighed apologetically. “You know what it’s like here, so you know not to expect this to function like the castle it was. But we can offer the basics. There’s food enough, and servants to fetch your wash water and draw a bath. And what passes for brandy is in the decanters.”

  “You’ve done well,” Blaine said. “Thank you.”

  Dillon opened the door to the room and led them inside. “Here’s your room, m’lord—and m’lady,” he added. “Not as fancy as it once was, but there’s furniture and linens, which are in short supply these days.”

  Blaine had occasionally accompanied his father to court when he was younger. In those days, he had been so awestruck at the possibility of glimpsing King Merrill or his queen that Blaine remembered few other details besides the glittering mirrors and impressively large coaches.

  The mirrors were gone now, shattered or in storage. So were the paintings and many of the fine furnishings. The carpets that remained were threadbare and soot-stained. But the four-poster bed looked relatively unscathed, and its linens, while worn, were finer than anything they had at Glenreith.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of procuring some clothing for both of you,” Dillon said, clearing his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought it might help to dress the part.”

  “We’re grateful,” Kestel said, grinning. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a new frock.” That she had spent most of the last six months dressed for battle went unsaid.

  “The clothing is hardly new, but it’s the best we could find. I hope it fits you.”

  “We can make do,” Blaine replied. “Thank you. You’ve gone to a great deal of work to present Donderath in its best light.”

  “I’ve set out uniforms for your bodyguards as well,” Dillon replied, though his cheeks colored at the praise. “Not exactly regulation for the king’s guards, but close enough to represent us well.”

  Kestel looked to Blaine. “You know there’ll be no living with Piran after this.”

  Blaine looked from Kestel to Dillon. “I’ve spent more time at Quillarth Castle after the Great Fire than I ever did before the Cataclysm. My memories of court were from when I was just a boy. The only negotiating I’ve done since then has been with warlords and talishte.” He shook his head. “I’m going to need some quick instruction if our guests are to take me seriously.”

  Dillon chuckled. “I suspected that you might not feel as much at ease as Lady McFadden, so I’ve taken the liberty of going in the opposite direction. We’ve let our guests know that you are Donderath’s dominant warlord, Lord of the Blood, and victor of countless battles, triumphant over mages and magic beasts.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not far off from the truth,” he added. “If you’ll excuse my being blunt, we painted you as a
brutal power to be reckoned with.”

  “A little intimidation won’t hurt, especially if they’re really here to see if we’re an easy conquest,” Blaine replied.

  “Exactly.”

  “Piran will never let you live this down,” Kestel said, chuckling. “And he’s going to love every minute of it.”

  “What’s the plan now that we’re here?” Blaine asked.

  Dillon indicated a nearby washbasin, and a waiting bathtub and towels. “I’ll send someone up to see to your bath and help you get ready. I shall present the delegation to you at dinner in the great room, after which there will be brandy and cakes in the small parlor. Your servants at dinner will be guards in disguise. My people will handle all of the food and drink with care, so there will be no opportunity for tampering.”

  “You just need to look stern and dangerous,” Kestel said to Blaine with a grin. “I’ll worm their secrets out of them. Oh, I haven’t had a good game like this in a long time!”

  Blaine chuckled despite the circumstances, then turned back to Dillon. “If you haven’t already tried to send a talishte to take a look at the ‘Cross-Sea’ ship, see if you can get one out there tonight. I’d like to know a little more about what we’re dealing with, and we don’t have time to wait for Folville to report in.”

  Dillon nodded. “Done, m’lord. And I’ve taken the liberty of also having two of the mages you stationed at the castle with my servants tonight. They won’t announce their true purpose, but they will scry to ensure we aren’t about to be attacked during dinner, or have magic used against us by one of your guests.”

  He paused. “Mage Rikard will join you for dinner. Normally there would be a tableful of noble guests, but we’re short on nobles these days, so we’ll settle for just matching your numbers to theirs, four to four. Rikard served in noble houses before the war, so he should handle himself well, and if things do go wrong, he’ll be one of your first lines of defense.”