Bane and Shadow

by Jon Skovron

  The sailors glanced fearfully at Red, then at one another.

  “If it’s all the same to your ladyship,” one said, “we’ll just continue on to Greater Basheta for repairs now.”

  “I understand perfectly,” she said. “Once you have completed repairs and found additional crew, please return with all haste to Her Majesty.”

  “You won’t be needing us to come back for you?” the second one asked.

  “We’ll be fine, thank you.”

  The sailors looked relieved. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Merivale gave them a gracious smile. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said the first.

  Merivale turned and uncoiled Red’s chain from the mast. “Come along, my lord,” she said lightly as she gave a tug on the chain that was still attached to his wrists, pulling him down the gangplank as if it were a leash.

  “Those sailors would rather pass up free food and a soft warm bed than be in the same place as me,” he said morosely as they walked through the village.

  “You can hardly blame them,” she said brightly. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d be just as frightened.”

  “You’re not making me feel better.”

  She stopped and turned to him, giving him that steely gaze he’d come to realize in the last few days was her truest expression. “It was not meant to make you feel better. I don’t have the luxury of coddling you. We need this fixed immediately, and I want to make certain you remain properly motivated to do so.”

  “You think I want to stay like this?”

  “Of course not. But the Shadow Demon cannot continue to run amok in the empire as the biomancers’ conscienceless killing machine. If we cannot fix you, we must kill you.”

  “Fine by me,” he said, and he still meant it. Better to be put out of his misery than continue life like this.

  She assessed him for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad we are of the same mind. And incidentally, I do have a good deal of optimism that we can fix this.”

  Red wasn’t so hopeful. The biomancers had probably been turning him into this thing for months. Maybe since he got to the palace. Had they snuck into his room while he slept? Or had they done things to him during training sessions, then made him forget? Either idea made his skin crawl.

  What would his friends think of him now? What would Hope think? She’d probably be horrified, and with good reason. He’d become everything she despised. An honorless tool of the biomancers.

  During the voyage, Merivale had suggested that this all happened as a result of Red making the deal to set Hope and Brigga Lin free. For a day or so, he’d even started to think that way himself. But he knew this wasn’t about her. This was about that pissing coral spice experiment. This was something he’d been marked for since birth. It almost felt inevitable that it had come to this. Maybe he would have been better off dying young like all the other coral spice babies. Hells, at least his parents would have had a better shot at living longer, less miserable lives.

  They continued to walk through the muddy village streets. The buildings were all one level and made from a rich, dark wood. It was a simple place. Humble was the word that came to Red’s mind. But everything was well cared for, with neat little gardens and stone pathways.

  “So this is all yours?” Red asked.

  “My family was granted stewardship over Lesser Basheta nearly three hundred years ago.”

  “The whole island?”

  “I would have held the title of archlady, but our population is too small to qualify. Which is just as well, since I’d have to fend off even more unwelcome marriage proposals than I do now. Anyway, it’s just this village and the manor house, for the most part. The rest is given over to forestry, our primary export.”

  “Lumber?”

  “In a sense,” she said. “We are careful to control it so that we never cut down more than we grow. It makes for a small export, but the quality and maturity of our wood is renowned throughout the kingdom, and best suited for high-end woodwork like furniture and decorative pieces, rather than standard building lumber.”

  The mention of furniture made Red think of that poor artisan that Leston had commissioned. He’d been awkward, but nice enough. And he’d been a serious talent, one that Red had silenced forever. Thinking of that twisted in his gut like a knife, and he let it. He wanted to feel that way. Maybe to punish himself? Or maybe to strengthen his resolve for whatever was coming.

  Finally they reached a small house a little set apart from the rest at the outskirts of the village. The building itself was undecorated, with a plain wood finish and closed, unadorned shutters. But the garden that surrounded the house easily rivaled the palace cliff gardens in its neatness and complexity.

  Merivale stopped and began to unlock Red’s chains. “Before you meet Casasha, I should warn you that she is rather… well, eccentric isn’t quite the right word, but it’s the closest I can think of.”

  “Who is she? How do you know her?” asked Red.

  “She was my chambermaid originally, when I was a girl. And it must be said, she was not a very good one. I didn’t mind, though, because she was strange and mysterious and she told me that I would help change the empire. And what entitled child who is constantly ignored by her parents doesn’t want to hear something like that? The difference was, she was right. But perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, since it was largely thanks to her that I have become the person I am.”

  “So, she’s like a wisewoman?” Red thought of Old Yammy.

  Merivale smiled faintly as she dropped the chains on the stone path. “I’m not sure wise is the word I would use. But she sees the world in a way you or I never could. Not without cost, I might add. Her actions and words may seem surprising to you. Perhaps even… hostile. But I have learned that it mostly stems from managing the enormous amount of information that comes to her which you and I are deaf and blind to.”

  “I doubt she’s much worse than my old mentor Sadie,” said Red.

  “We shall see.” Merivale stepped up to the front door and knocked quietly.

  “Who is it?” asked a harsh female voice.

  “You’ll have to guess,” said Merivale in a mischievous tone.

  “I hate guessing,” the voice said peevishly.

  “I know,” said Merivale.

  There was a pause, then, a little less harshly, the voice said, “If you know that, then you must know me.”

  “True,” agreed Merivale.

  “And if you know I don’t like it, but you want me to do it anyway…” There was another pause. “That means you are teasing me.”

  “I am.”

  “There is only one person who teases me,” the voice said triumphantly. “Meri-kitty! Come in, Meri-kitty!”

  “Meri-kitty?” asked Red.

  Merivale shrugged. To anyone else it might have been unnoticeable, but Red’s keen eyes saw the slight blush creep into her cheeks.

  The inside of the house was one open room, free of furniture. The floor was covered in a mat of soft reeds. The room was dim, since the shutters were closed, and the only light came from a crackling stone fireplace set in the wall on the left side with a kettle suspended over it on an iron hook. Off to the other side was a washbasin, and in the back was a pile of blankets and pillows.

  An older woman sat in the center of the room, her legs folded under her. Her hair was a ragged white curtain across her forehead, as if her bangs had been impatiently hacked off with a knife. She wore a large men’s jacket, but it was on backward. Her expression was distracted, as if she were listening to some distant music. She glanced at them briefly when they came in, but didn’t get up or acknowledge them in any other way. Instead she went back to staring at an empty corner of the room. Her hands fluttered around on her lap like trapped birds, and her lips moved as if she was silently talking to herself.

  Merivale didn’t seem surprised by the indifferent reception. She left Red by the door and wa
lked toward her. She leaned over and examined a blank canvas, paintbrush, and jars of paint that were laid out next to the old woman.

  “Casasha, are you taking up painting?” she asked.

  Casasha made a disgusted face, although she still didn’t look at Merivale. “I hate painting. It gets everywhere. So messy.” She wiped her hands against each other for a moment before letting them flutter again.

  “So what are these for?” asked Merivale.

  “For the artist, obviously.” Casasha pointed at Red, her eyes never leaving the corner of the room.

  Merivale looked curiously at Red.

  He shrugged, a feeling of unease growing inside him. It reminded him of Yammy predicting the future. He never liked the idea of his fate being fixed like that. “I’m not really an artist.”

  “You’re not really an assassin either, but that didn’t stop you from killing all those people,” snapped Casasha. She glanced at Red for the first time, looking him right in the eyes for just a moment. He was glad it was only a moment, because her eyes felt as if they were tunneling into his brain like a hungry mole rat. Then she broke her gaze and turned back to her corner.

  “Casasha,” said Merivale. “I need your help.”

  “Wrong,” Casasha said absently. “You need his help.” She pointed again at Red without looking. “And he needs my help.”

  “You’re right,” said Merivale.

  “Say what you mean, Meri-kitty.”

  “I’m sorry, Casasha,” Merivale said with a simple humility Red had never heard from her before.

  “Save your double-meaning spy talk for your spies. It gives me a headache.”

  “I will.”

  “Right here.” She jabbed at her own temple with one finger. “It hurts me right here when you don’t say what you mean.”

  “It’s been a little while and I forgot,” Merivale said patiently. “I remember now.”

  “Good.” Casasha glared at her for an instant, and Merivale flinched. But then she turned back to her corner again. “Lying Artist.”

  Merivale looked over at Red.

  “She means me?” asked Red.

  “Of course I mean you,” said Casasha. “You’re an artist. You said you’re not an artist. So I’m calling you Lying Artist. Now get your paint stuff. It’s smelly.”

  Red walked over to them, unable to shake the tension creeping up his back. There really was something unnerving about this woman, which he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  He picked up the canvas, brush, and paints. “What do I do with them?”

  “Paint, obviously.” Her tone was withering.

  Red took a deep breath, trying to match the patience Merivale had shown. Supposedly, this woman could help him. “Okay… is there anything specifically I should paint?”

  “Yourself.” She pointed to the small washbasin off to one side. “You can use that as a mirror, if you don’t remember what you look like.”

  Red walked over to the basin and found it was already filled with water, so that his reflection glimmered back at him in the firelight. How could she be so prepared for him? Again, he felt that uneasiness.

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “So you understand what you look like.”

  She said it with such scorn, he had to take another deep breath to keep his temper in check. “And that will… help me?”

  She glanced at Merivale. “Is he always this stupid?”

  “You forgot to tell him the fee,” said Merivale.

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips and gave Red a flickering look with just a hint of apology. “You have to pay my fee, or I can’t help you.”

  Red’s uneasiness grew. “And what’s the fee?”

  “Trust.”

  “Trust?” He looked at Merivale helplessly.

  “You have to trust her,” she said. “Even though you don’t know her. Even if that trust feels completely unearned, you have to give it to her. I know that probably feels as unnatural to you as it did to me, but this is what I meant earlier about making sure you were motivated to do what needs to be done. You must give yourself over to this fully, or it won’t work.”

  “I don’t know how to just… give trust.”

  “You can start by shutting up and doing what you’re told without asking stupid questions,” said Casasha.

  Merivale gave him a wry smile. “There you go.”

  Red managed a very faint smile in return. “I guess so.”

  “Fine,” said Casasha. “Meri-kitty, time for you to leave. Lying Artist, time for you to paint.”

  Red took his time with the painting. He assumed this was not something to rush, and that whatever the actual point of this was, the details were important. He hadn’t picked up a brush since he’d painted Hope over a year ago, but he found himself sliding right back to that place of focus. It was even pleasant to push all his worries and fears aside and just paint.

  When he was finished, he had a little bit of the creative afterglow, despite the pressure and strange situation. He even felt a quiet surge of pride when he showed it to Casasha.

  “Wrong,” she said flatly.

  “What do you mean wrong?” demanded Red. “How can art be wrong?”

  “It’s not scary enough,” said Casasha. “Does this look like someone who could kill eight people in four seconds? No way. Fix it.”

  Red glared at her, his temper beginning to rise again. But she had already lost interest and went back to staring at the wall, flicking her hands, and silently muttering.

  He stalked back to the basin and his paints. He added some harder lines until his red slitted eyes really did look demonic. He also hardened the corners of the mouth. He didn’t even know if he did that as the Shadow Demon, but it felt right for some reason. He added a few more details until finally he felt that his portrait was indeed scarier. When he looked at it, an unmistakable chill of recognition ran through him. That’s when he knew it was done.

  “Okay, did I fix it?” He showed it to Casasha.

  “Nope, still wrong.”

  “What?” Any show of patience was gone, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I made it scarier!”

  “It’s not fun enough,” she said. “Does this look like someone who tells good stories and tricks people into crazy adventures?”

  “No, but you said—”

  “Fix it.”

  “You want me to start over?”

  “No one gets to start over. Just fix it.”

  Red went back to his paint. He worked on the eyes, giving them a mischievous slant. He turned up the corners of the mouth into that grin he was always trying to perfect. The painting was getting messy, but he couldn’t help that. The only way to keep those changes from bleeding into the previous changes was to let the original ones dry first, but Red was pretty sure the sun would set soon, and with it, the Shadow Demon would be free to come out. So he just kept working, letting the paints begin to smear.

  As he worked on the grin, he had to show it in the water a few times on his own face. He realized it had been a while since he’d really used that grin. He had to admit, it felt good on his face and strangely enough, by doing it, he felt a little better. He’d had dark times before, hadn’t he? And he’d always laughed it off, knowing he would find a way to the other side. That was part of the fun, after all.

  By the time he was finished, he even had a little spring in his step as he walked over to Casasha.

  “Alright, how about now?”

  “Still not right yet,” she said.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Does this look like a painter? Someone who can take a jar of colors and a brush, and create something unique and beautiful that moves people to tears? Someone who has art hanging up right now in big important galleries? Does it look like an artist?”

  He stared down at her wordlessly. All his cockiness and cheer drained away.

  Her eyes drilled into him for a moment as she said, “You have to fix it.” Then she turned away
again.

  Red walked slowly back to his paints, his chest filling with dread. He looked down into the water and let his reflection soften. Let it open. Nettles used to make fun of him when he got that “artsy ponce” look. Sadie used to try to slap it right off his face. Even Filler would get uncomfortable around him in those rare moments when Red let it out. And yet, as he thought of how hard they had been on him, he suddenly missed them so much. The longing welled up inside him like it was a physical need. He hadn’t let himself truly miss them, always telling himself he’d see them again. He’d find some way out of this like he always did. But what if he didn’t see them again? There would be holes in his heart that he’d never be able to fill. Pain that he’d never be able to quell.

  Except, maybe when he was painting. He’d always known that. It would quiet the pain and loneliness and confusion, at least for a little while. He’d always wanted to believe he didn’t need it. But right now, he did. So he stretched out on the floor like a child, and he painted. It was even messier now, but he didn’t care anymore. This wasn’t about neatness or detail. It was about letting the truth come out. Letting that scared little boy out of his cage, if only for a little while, so that maybe he could find some peace and not hurt quite so much.

  Red painted until his hands shook. Until his vision became blurry. Until the world around him spun and time had no meaning. He painted until he could no longer keep his eyes open and exhaustion swept over him like a heavy blanket.

  He dreamed of being a child. Of lying on that old couch with his mother in their cozy little apartment in Silverback. The two of them were bundled up under a blanket to ward off the cold winter winds that slipped in through the cheaply made window frames. The room was dark and they stared out the window up at the night sky, which they could just make out as a dark blue sliver between building tops.

  “Do you know why I named you Rixidenteron?” his mother asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Rixidenteron the Third was one of the greatest painters who ever lived. What I love most about his work is that he found the beauty in even the darkest moments. Once, when I was a girl, I saw his masterpiece, The Storm Brings Change. It was so violent, with ships breaking against coastal reefs, people dead and dying… it terrified me. But I couldn’t stop looking at it because it was also the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”