The Office of Shadow

by Matthew Sturges

  But this was a day that every commander knew he might someday face. Leading his men into death, praying for a miracle. Knowing that he had done everything he could do, Mauritane nearly resigned himself to loss. If the tide did not turn soon, he might actually consider surrender. The war would end then, and there would be nothing to stop the Unseelie incursion across the border. But his troops would survive the day. And an Unseelie occupation would meet with strong resistance. Even in the darkest hour the Seelie would find a way to hope. They would bend, but they would not crack.

  As the morning progressed, things grew worse. The Annwni were nearly in position now, and once they joined, the Seelie would be finished. Mauritane was determined to announce his surrender before that happened, before any more lives could be lost. He mounted his horse, feeling lower than he had ever felt, even worse than the day he'd arrived at Crere Sulace after being branded a traitor. He'd thought that there could be no worse feeling than that. He'd been wrong.

  An aide approached, somber. "Shall I fetch the flag, sir?"

  Mauritane took a last look down the hill. The Annwni battalions had taken formation, but not where they ought to have. They were in no position to flank the Seelie. In fact, they were far better suited to-

  A horn sounded and the Annwni charged. But not at Mauritane's troops. Instead, they rushed the Unseelie at its exposed right flank. Caught utterly off guard, the Unseelie force crumbled; chaos rippled through the army from right to left as the Annwni plowed into them.

  Mauritane reached down from the saddle and grabbed his aide by the neck. "Get word to the commanders in the field," he shouted. "Move left and block the Unseelie retreat!" The aide looked at him, wide-eyed.

  "Move!" shouted Mauritane, kicking the man in his shoulder.

  "Wait!" he cried. "Come back!" The harried aide circled back around. "Give me your sword," said Mauritane, holding out his hand."

  "But sir!" the aide said.

  "If you don't give me that sword this second, I will take it from you and remove your head with it, boy!"

  The aide gave him the sword. Mauritane tested it in his hand, flicked it in the air. It wasn't his sword, but it would do.

  "Sir, you can't just-"

  "My officers know what to do," said Mauritane. "Give them the order and tell them to get to work!"

  Mauritane dug in his heels and sprinted out of camp, nearly knocking over the aide. He waved his sword, felt the air rushing past him. This was good.

  When the first soldiers spied him approaching, they raised up Mauritane's famous battle cry. "The Seelie Heart!" they shouted. The cry was taken up across the front. Mauritane rode up through the lines, toward the battle.

  There was a chance.

  A flier came in low from the north, its sails luffing in a crosswind. It had traveled at speed all the way from the City of Mab without stopping and had nearly used up its entire supply of Motion. The pilot fought the tiller, trimmed the sails as much as he could, trying to catch as much air as possible.

  It was a near thing, but the flier managed a safe landing just outside the north gate of Elenth. The pilot leapt out of the flier, carrying a wooden box. He was met by a lieutenant at the gate, who took the box from him and lashed it to his saddle, then mounted and raced into the city, knocking down a frightened fruit seller as he passed.

  The lieutenant whipped around a corner and rode directly up the outside stairs to the rooftop garden of a townhouse in the middle of the city. When he reached the top, his comrades were still setting up the catapult.

  "What's wrong with you?" shouted the lieutenant. "This should have been set up last night!"

  "It only just arrived," grumbled the sergeant in charge of the assembly. "We've been having trouble with the supply lanes. Saboteurs everywhere."

  "What saboteurs?" said the lieutenant, dismounting and untying the box.

  "Arcadians, if you can believe it," said the sergeant, pulling hard on a rope threaded through the catapult. "Damndest thing," he said. "Suddenly seem to be everywhere."

  "Well, that doesn't matter. Once we've annihilated the Seelie, there'll be plenty of time to deal with them."

  The lieutenant placed the box carefully on the ground and unlatched it. Inside were two dark objects, not much bigger than oranges. They were rough globules, and they pulsed to the touch.

  "That's it, then?" said the sergeant, breathing heavily, afraid to touch them.

  "That's the Einswrath," said the lieutenant. "You may fire when ready."

  The sergeant gingerly reached out and picked one up. It was heavy.

  "Hurry!" he shouted to his men.

  "This should be quite a show," said the lieutenant.

  We await and fear your release.

  -Chthonic prayer

  ilverdun led the way along the road. To either side there was only the unsettling emptiness. Before them was the great black castle, imposing and-frankly-terrifying. Silverdun kept his eyes on the road.

  Ironfoot caught up to him and they walked in step, with Sela and Faella just behind. Silverdun looked down at Ironfoot's boots; they kicked up small clouds of dust from the road.

  "Why do they call you Ironfoot, anyway?" Silverdun asked.

  Ironfoot looked at him. "When I was a boy I used to trip a lot."

  "Ah," said Silverdun. "I was hoping it was something more menacing than that."

  "I take it back then," said Ironfoot. "I once kicked a man in the head so hard that he forgot his name."

  "Much better."

  "Does anyone feel something strange?" asked Sela.

  Silverdun looked back at her. "That implies that there's some part of this that isn't strange."

  "I've got the oddest sensation," said Sela. "As though I'm being pushed backward, but I can't feel a wind."

  Now that she said it, Silverdun could feel it as well. It was slight, but noticeable. As though a light breeze he couldn't feel was blowing into his face. Or perhaps more like the heat from a distant fire radiating toward him. But it was not fire or air that was pushing against them. It was their own re.

  "The queen's alabaster ass," said Silverdun. "Do you know what I think?"

  "What?" said Faella.

  "I think that castle is made of iron."

  "What?" said Ironfoot. "That's impossible."

  "I've had a few run-ins with iron, friend. Trust me. That's what you're feeling."

  By the time they reached the bottom of the stair, the sensation of being pushed backward was unmistakable. It was becoming difficult to walk. And as if that weren't enough, the steps themselves presented a problem. They were each waist high, and there were easily a hundred of them.

  "Stairs for giants, said Silverdun.

  "Or gods," said Ironfoot.

  "Don't get superstitious, Ironfoot," said Silverdun. "I admire you for your powers of reason."

  "There's nothing reasonable about any of this."

  "That inscription is just to scare off visitors," said Silverdun. "Whatever awaits us up there may be ominous, but it's not divine."

  "If you say so," said Ironfoot.

  "Well, boys," said Faella. "Are we going to stand here nattering all day, or are we going to storm yonder castle?" She was smiling. Faella was many things, but apparently she was no coward.

  The steps were just high enough to be an enormous bother without being an impassable obstacle. Silverdun and Ironfoot hauled themselves up each one, reaching back to help Faella and Sela up, neither of whom was quite tall enough to manage it themselves. After twenty steps his back was aching, and they weren't quite a quarter of the way to the top.

  The closer they came, the stronger the repulsion grew. It was painful now. Not excruciating yet, as it had been when "Ilian" had yanked him into the bars of his cell, but bad enough.

  Halfway up, Silverdun was out of breath, and Sela and Faella were both struggling. Silverdun and Ironfoot had the benefit of Shadow strength and resistance, but neither of the women did. Thinking of his Shadow nature recalled his c
onversation with Jedron at the pit. Silverdun was dead. But that was insane. He was Silverdun. In every way that mattered, anyway.

  But if Silverdun was truly dead, where was he? Was his true self in Arcadia with Mother and Father now? Were Je Wen and Timha there, waiting to blame him for their deaths? And the others he'd seen fall: Honeywell, Gray Mave, all the men he'd killed at the Battle of Sylvan?

  Was this Silverdun merely a ghost? Was that what he'd become?

  After what seemed like ages, they reached the top of the steps. The castle loomed before them, giving off waves of reitic repulsion; it was like standing in front of a bonfire. It burned the skin and stung the eyes. Before them was a wide door, easily forty feet high. It was opened just a crack.

  "Not to be defeatist," said Ironfoot. "But what in hell are we supposed to do now?"

  Silverdun paused. He'd been so intent on reaching the castle that he hadn't given much thought to what they'd do when they got there. One thing at a time.

  "What, indeed?" he said.

  "You forget, Lord Silverdun," said Faella, "that I am a talented girl."

  He looked at her. Still smiling, eager even. He realized that he was in love with her, and always had been.

  "What are you going to do?" asked Ironfoot. "Make us all impervious to iron?"

  "No, Master Falores," said Faella. "I'm going to remove the iron."

  "There's no way to do that with the Gifts," said Silverdun.

  "There is with the Thirteenth Gift," said Faella. "Change Magic reaches into the very nature of things. I'm not really sure how it works. I'm no Ironfoot. But I believe I can manage it."

  "I'll believe it when I see it," said Ironfoot.

  "There's just one thing," said Faella. "In order to change something, I have to touch it."

  "No," said Silverdun. "That much iron-it'll kill you."

  "Not just that," said Faella. "I'm afraid I don't have quite enough re of my own to get the job done."

  "Meaning what?" asked Sela.

  "Meaning I'll need Sela to join us all in Empathy, so I can draw from you all."

  "I can do that," said Sela. Silverdun looked at her. She was looking at Faella, her head high. She clearly wasn't going to let Faella take the award for bravery without a fight.

  "Ironfoot, can you think of any alternative?" said Silverdun.

  "No," said Ironfoot. "But I have a hard time believing this will work either."

  "Allow me to surprise you," said Faella.

  They linked hands. Silverdun stood between Sela and Faella, with Ironfoot at Faella's other hand. Silverdun opened up and felt Sela flow into him. He felt the same swirl of beauty and darkness and pain and hope that he'd always felt from her. But now it was tinged with a keening sense of loss. Silverdun knew that he had caused this feeling, and he cringed. Then Faella flowed into him as well, and Sela faded into the background. Faella. There were no words for her. She was simply Faella. That was all she cared to be, and no matter how much he had tried to deny it, it was all Silverdun wanted.

  Faella stepped forward all at once and placed her palm against the door. Silverdun felt what she felt. It was torture, agony. For an instant they were all blinded by the pain, by the magnitude of the hurt, the relentless force of the iron's push.

  But then, something changed. Dimly, Silverdun sensed a fleeting thought coming from Ironfoot: Just like Lin Vo. Silverdun had a little touch of Insight, and channeled a bit of it to try to figure out what Faella was doing, but he only caught a brief glimpse, and as soon as Sela noticed him channeling, she threw her own thought at him: Stop that!

  There was a crackling sound and a burst of heat: real heat. It burned Silverdun's skin, but then was whisked away. With it went the force of the iron. The repulsion was still there, but much reduced. Tolerable. Silverdun looked at Faella's hand against the door. The hand was red and blistering. Her pain, which Silverdun could still sense, was more than he could have borne on his own.

  Beneath Faella's hand, the door began to change. From the deep black of iron, it became lustrous and gray. The change spread out in veins from Faella's fingers, growing like the branches of a tree, each branch sprouting others. The branches grew and overlapped, and after a few moments the door was all gray, and Silverdun felt no repulsion from it at all.

  Faella dropped her hand from the door and clasped it in her other. Silverdun looked at her face and saw that she was crying.

  "I've started the change. I made it into a little binding-it's funny, once I started it, it sort of took off on its own; there was energy in the change itself, as the iron became something else."

  "What kind of energy?" said Ironfoot. He let go of her hand and touched the door, rapping against it.

  "Oh, I'm sure I don't know," said Faella. "But I sort of nudged it a little and it turned into re. There's re here, lots of it. Everything here wants to become it. I don't know how to explain."

  A bit of the door chipped away in Ironfoot's hands. "What is this?" he asked.

  Silverdun took the chip and channeled Elements into it. "Cobalt," he said.

  Ironfoot frowned at him. "Geology was a required subject in Elements," said Silverdun. "Boring as all hell."

  It took all four of them, but with some effort they managed to pry the door open on its hinges. Silverdun looked at Faella.

  "Your hand," he said, pointing. "It's healed."

  "Oh, that," she said. "That's not so hard."

  The door opened onto an entry hall with a pair of great doors just opposite the ones they'd entered. It was dark inside, but there were witchlamps on the walls, and Silverdun lit them. Once lit, they revealed the continuation of Faella's work; the iron around them turning slowly into cobalt, branches of gray flowing out in all directions.

  "I suppose what we're looking for is through there," Silverdun said.

  After a moment, the second doors were changed enough to touch. They were even more difficult to open than the first, but they eventually gave as well. Beyond them was a great chamber, also dark, but there was a gray light flitting in the distant darkness. The slightest footstep echoed in the space beyond. From within came a quiet droning sound.

  "I believe there's someone in there," said Silverdun.

  "How is that possible?" asked Sela. "How could any Fae survive in there?"

  "Let's find out," said Silverdun.

  He started through the doors and was immediately struck with vertigo. Waves of re reverberated through the chamber, condensed by the surrounding iron. It was like walking into water. It was a curious, warm sensation. Not unpleasant. Like being bathed in warm light. It took a moment for Silverdun to regain his bearings.

  "I can't see a damn thing," said Ironfoot. "Should we chance some light?"

  "Let's hold off for the moment," said Silverdun. "It might be best if we catch whoever's in there by surprise."

  They pressed forward. Silverdun could hear his companions' breath strangely muffled in the cavernous room. They were all breathing quickly.

  The gray light beyond was still now, and as they approached it, the droning grew more intense. Not knowing what else to do, Silverdun led the way toward it. Whatever the source of the light was, it was hidden behind something massive in the room, something he could sense more than see from the way that sounds and re echoed from it.

  They reached a wall that cut across part of the chamber, and stopped behind it.

  "Wait here," Silverdun whispered to Sela and Faella. "Ironfoot, you're with me."

  "I want to come with you," hissed Faella. "We both do."

  "Ironfoot and I can move in total silence," said Silverdun. "Neither of you can. Wait here."

  Silverdun and Ironfoot continued, making no sound whatsoever. They came closer to the source of the light, and Silverdun now began to notice that there were a number of other massive objects in the room. The wall they'd left Sela and Faella behind was actually the base of one of them. The droning noise grew as they approached, the light remaining constant.

  They rea
ched the edge of the tall obstruction that hid the light. Just as they were about to peer around it, the droning whine stopped, and the room grew impossibly silent. There was a slight rushing sound, and Silverdun felt a breeze on his face. The light began to approach them, its reflection moving along the wall behind it. Silverdun and Ironfoot both drew knives and slid around the corner.

  Approaching them was a glowing silver moth, huge and hovering ten feet in the air, flying directly at them. It was the source of the illumination; its body and wings emanated witchlight.

  The creature noticed them and flapped its wings, stopping in the air. Now that it was no longer in motion, Silverdun could see it better. It was not a giant moth, but a Fae man, dressed head to toe in bright silver armor, a helmet covering his head entirely. A pair of great wings, composed of silver so thin it was nearly transparent, emerged from the shoulder plates of the armor, easily thirty feet from tip to tip.

  The flying man reached up and raised the visor of the helmet. He looked astonished.

  His face was that of a Bel Zheret, but his eyes were those of a true Fae.

  "Who the hell are you?" he said.

  The only perfect battle plan would be the one that acknowledges that no such plan exists.

  -CmdrTae Filarete, Observations on Battle

  he catapult was finally finished, no thanks to the lieutenant who wouldn't stop breathing down Sergeant Hy-Asher's neck.

  "Where do we aim?" he said. "Into the main force?"

  "No, you idiot," said the lieutenant. "You'd be killing our forces as well. Aim for the camp on the hill. Take out General Mauritane and the war's as good as won."

  Hy-Asher's men tested the wind and maneuvered the catapult into place. A private wound the roller handle, and the beam came down slowly and was hooked into place. With shaking hands, he placed the Einswrath into the bowl and nodded.

  Mauritane was at the front of the line, leading Bear Company toward the gate of Elenth. Once the gate was breached, they could fight their way into the city, and he and the Annwni commanders could rendezvous. The battle, he felt in his bones, was as good as over. All around him men shouted, swinging blades in strong arcs. Clatter and shriek. Hoofbeat and shout.