The Shadow Saint

by Gareth Hanrahan

The smell of the soporific gas gets into everything. The scent isn’t strong, but particles in the gas irritate the spy’s throat and eyes. He feels slightly dizzy, too, detached from his body. He grabs the blankets from the bed and tries stuffing them between the bars of his cell, to block the constant trickle of gas from the ceiling tube in the corridor.

  “It won’t work.” Miren smirks at Alic’s efforts. “They check. They want us cut off from the gods.”

  “I’m not a saint,” replies Alic, truthfully.

  “I am,” says Miren. “She stole my gods away. But Father says we’ll bring them back together.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  Miren’s expression doesn’t change. “He’s dead. He’s buried with all the broken things.”

  The door at the end of the corridor rattles, and masked guards enter. Alic tears down the blanket before the guards see it, flips it back onto the bed. A model prisoner. One of the guards pauses outside his cell and hands him a plate of food. Fried sausages, bread, mushrooms, a sort of sweet paste the alchemists make. The guard removes his mask before speaking.

  “A peaceful night, I hope?”

  “I’ve had worse.” They still don’t know how to handle him, it seems. He’s not a saint, not a criminal. They can’t figure out why he was on that boat.

  “We’ll be with you in a moment. Get that food down you.” The mask goes back down.

  The spy eats while the guards check the unconscious woman. She stirs but does not wake. The guards look at one another, speak in low, worried tones.

  They leave food for Miren, too, but do it cautiously, like they’re feeding a wild beast. One guard takes out a heavy club, while the other gingerly slides the plate of food across the floor, careful to keep his arm out of Miren’s reach. The boy reaches down and takes the plate, languid and unhurried. He glances over at the spy. “Did they give you a knife?”

  Alic shakes his head. He’s eating with his hands.

  “I’ll have a knife again,” says Miren to himself, nodding.

  One of the guards slams the club into the bars of Miren’s cell. The boy flinches and flees back into the shadows, spilling his breakfast across the floor. “Quiet, freak,” snarls the guard.

  Then, to Alic. “Come on. They’re ready for you.”

  Terevant steps out of the door of the half-house and the world explodes in his face. A light so bright he thinks first it’s the dawn, the sun blazing right in his face at midnight. Then–aha–it’s a dragon bomb, exploding right on top of him. That explains the pain–he and everyone else in the world is being annihilated.

  No. It’s just him. He’s been shot.

  He’s on the ground. Faces and voices, hands pulling at him. Can’t they see he’s busy? He’s holding his intestines in. They’re very slippery and it’s rather complicated.

  Then he’s walking in crisp sunlight, the frosted grass crunching under his feet. He’s back in the gardens of the Erevesic estate. Children, bundled up in woollen scarves and coats, run laughing past him. He isn’t sure who they are, but it strikes him that the laughter of children is the only laughter one ever hears in Haith. He makes this observation to Olthic, who snorts.

  “Empire is a serious matter,” says his brother. “A weighty matter, full of terrible decisions and heavy burdens. Daerinth told me that. Father told me that.”

  But I heard you laugh, Olthic. On the battlefield.

  Olthic shrugs. Thunder rolls from the cloudless winter sky.

  Then, reluctantly, Olthic says, “It was a mistake.” And then he walks away through the frost-rimed, leafless trees, a forest of bone.

  Terevant hurries after his brother, through the bones. He must have gone to the mansion. To the room where Father’s dying.

  Wait, this is a dream. He’s not in Haith. He’s in Guerdon. And he’s been shot. He’s dying in a different room, a half-room. One half perfectly made, the other half unfinished. It’s oddly fitting.

  Outside, the noise of fighting. Explosions, slashing, screaming. He should do his duty. Join the fray. All he needs to do is die, and resurrect. Become Vigilant. He recites the prayers to death, mentally traces the scrimshawed runes on the periapts of his wrists, his ribs, his skull. Come on! He tries to recall his training for this, lessons given by an old Vigilant in a cold hall by the shore at Shipbreak Strand.

  If he dies, the Erevesic line dies, too. Olthic was supposed to be the proper heir, to carry on the family. Have another generation, then watch over them from within the sword. Now only Terevant is left, and if he’s dead, the line ends. Only a living bearer can wield the full power of the sword. If he’s dead, then the Erevesic sword will remain forever silent.

  Is he supposed to live or die? What does the Empire want from him now?

  No doubt there’s some Bureau protocol for a phylactery without a bearer.

  “It’s happened before,” says Lys. He’s back in the gardens, hurrying up towards the mansion. “It’d become property of the Crown.” She pulls Olthic’s heavy coat around her against the cold. “I’m sorry, Ter.”

  Why.

  “You never understood the game, and the odds were against you.”

  The odds were against him at Eskalind, too, and for a moment it seems like he’ll fall out of that frosted garden, slip back to the horrors on that bloodied shore, when he contended against mad gods. When Yoras and so many others died. But, no–he’s still dreaming of home.

  “Have you found Vanth yet?” she asks as they climb the steps into the mansion.

  From outside, voices. The smell of burned flesh. Like Edoric Vanth’s body, soul destroyed by holy fire. Who killed Vanth, he wants to ask, but it comes out Who killed Olthic.

  Lys has always been smarter than him. She grins and asks “Who ordained his death?”

  Look for higher powers. The actions of the gods don’t always make sense from a mortal perspective. He’s lying on the floor, but he feels like he’s soaring over Guerdon, seeing everything from atop the spires and towers.

  He extends a hand to Lys. Wipes it on his shirt, because it must be bloody from keeping pressure on that wound. Offers it again.

  Come with me.

  She shakes her head. “It’s not for me.”

  Somehow, they’re now in the corridor outside Father’s room. He can feel the heat of that fire. The attending necromancer’s walking with them, cloaked, head bowed. Terevant feels like he’s floating, being carried away from Lys. The smell of incense, the distant sounds of prayer.

  He wants to warn her about touching the sword. She knows better than to touch the sword, right?

  She opens the door, but it’s not a sword, it’s a crown. Divinity.

  And then the sound of the gunshot, again. And the sun bursts.

  At some point, the sound of the gunshots in his dream became the tolling of church bells, and then he could actually hear the bells ringing nearby as he woke.

  Cool hands touching his. Fingers probing his wrist, checking for his periapt. Terevant struggles to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel matted together with sleep. He tries to reach up to brush them clean, but moving his arm is agony upon agony, his chest exploding in pain.

  “Don’t move, Ter. You’re barely holding together. Let me.”

  Sounds. Water splashing in a bowl. Then a damp cloth wiping his eyes, his forehead. He tries to speak, but his throat is full of mucus, and coughing will bring even more agony. He groans, and Lys places a glass against his lips. “Drink,” she orders. It’s not water–it tastes sugary, and numbs his throat, and smells metallic. Some alchemical cure-all.

  “Where?” he manages. How long has he been unconscious?

  “You are in the Palace of the Patros of Guerdon. Sinter’s men brought you here yesterday evening.”

  He manages to open one eye. Lys, sitting on the bed, dressed in black. The room richly appointed, an ancient painting of some Keeper saint on the wall. Opposite that, a window. He can see blue skies, pierced by the white spire of one of the Victory Cathedra
ls and a black column of smoke. They’re up on Holyhill, high on the eastern side of the city. Through the window he can hear singing, the murmur of a crowd.

  “Olthic,” he says, and it’s all he can manage.

  “I know,” she says. She slips him a little sad smile. “I wish you’d been here with us when things were good, Ter. It was like old times, back home.”

  “I didn’t—” He can’t finish. He rolls his head to the side, lets blood spill from his mouth, staining the white pillow.

  “I never thought you did,” she says, wiping the blood away. “When we were first married, when he was off in the war, I would get advance copies of the casualty lists through the Bureau. They came early in the morning. I wouldn’t sleep at all the night before, not until I’d checked and made sure he wasn’t dead. I thought, in Guerdon…” she trails off.

  She looks out of the window.

  “There’s a purge going on outside,” Lys whispers. “Not the Patros, but below him. Sinter and the city Keepers are pushing back against the Safidists. They’re seizing control of all the new saints and bringing them here. They’ve got a dozen so far, but they won’t let us have another healer for you. Sinter wants to keep me distracted.” The last said with a hint of amusement or sadness, he can’t tell. “We should be safe–it’s an internal feud. They both need Haith.”

  “The embassy?” he manages.

  “Shush. Rest.” She walks to the window, spreads the bloodstained cloth against the windowsill, draping it like a flag. Her wedding ring glints in the sun. “Daerinth claims you killed Olthic. The Crown of Haith has demanded that Guerdon hand you over.”

  “I didn’t do it,” he insists again.

  “I know.”

  He swallows. He has to ask. “Lys, did you kill him?”

  She turns back to him, hands folded behind her back. “How could you think that?” She doesn’t sound insulted–she’s curious, detached. Like she’s trying to see things from his perspective. Giving nothing away.

  “Answer me, please. Honestly. I know the train from Haith was a setup. You stole the sword once, to make sure Olthic’s deal with parliament fell apart. Is that it?” He manages to half sit up in bed, to turn and watch her. The pain in his chest feels like his heart might just fall out if he moves too quickly.

  “The train was Lemuel’s suggestion. He’s very eager to please, and I had other things on my mind. I’m sorry for tricking you.” She lowers her voice. “I told you that’s it’s bad back home, Ter. The Bureau, the Enshrined Houses, the Crown–they’re all terrified. We’re losing the Godswar. The Empire is lost, Ter, everyone knows that. It’s all about saving Old Haith now, and for that the Crown needs weapons and allies.” She crosses back to the bed. “The Bureau has held the royal line of Guerdon for generations, waiting for the right moment. Then Olthic came in, trampling everything.

  “Maybe it was the nomination to the Fifty, and he felt he had to beat me. He tried to push a grand bargain, but we don’t have the strength to fully defend Guerdon and Haith. I had to undermine him. I did it as gently as I could. But I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did. If I’d been at the embassy, they’d have killed me, too. I’m protected here–that’s why I didn’t come when he died.” Her mask slips a little, there’s fear in her voice, Or is she letting the mask slip? How much of her is Lys, and how much is the artifice of Bureau training?

  “And what about Edoric Vanth?”

  “I learned what happened before I visited you at the mansion. A mad Keeper saint killed Vanth–one of the Safidist lunatics, running wild. We couldn’t let one crazy saint disrupt the Bureau’s plan to install Berrick as king–if Olthic found out that one of the embassy staff had been murdered by our new allies, he’d have blown everything up. He’d have gone to parliament, gone to the Houses… you know how loud he could be. We had to hide the Keepers’ involvement in Vanth’s death. And Olthic wouldn’t believe me or Lem. It had to be someone he trusted. It had to be you.”

  “You used me?” Even though he’d suspected it, he still feels sick to his stomach to have it confirmed. Subtle variations of shame run through him–shame at being used by Lys, at unwittingly betraying Olthic, at his own foolishness… and at how quickly part of him wants to forgive her.

  “I have to compartmentalise,” she replies. “The mission comes first.” She shakes her head. “The Office of Foreign Divinity warned us that returning the king would strengthen the Kept Gods, but Sinter said he could keep them in check. Their gods are idiots, Ter, and their saints are mad. It’s something else we’ve got to navigate.”

  She pauses. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Go on.”

  “You made it into the Bureau. It was a close-run thing, but you passed the exams.”

  Even after all these years, it’s a punch to the stomach. He’s outside that black door again, wondering how he could have failed. Slipping and stumbling into the gutter.

  “Why?”

  “Olthic wrote to me, and asked me to ensure the Bureau turn you away. He wanted you by his side.”

  A great fit of laughter mixed with tears rises up in his chest, but he’s too badly hurt to do either. He just lies back and stares at the ceiling, while the world spins around him. The past decade unspools, years flowing backwards, a train without brakes. Hurtling downhill.

  “Now, listen to me, Ter. Your old life is gone. They’re blaming you for Olthic’s death, so—” Lys tenses, then folds away the cloth and sits up on the windowsill as if relaxing there. Terevant struggles to rise. He’s got so much to ask her, so much to say–but she raises a finger to quieten him, and a moment later there’s a knock at the door.

  Two of the Keeper’s ceremonial guards enter, plumed helmets brushing against the lintel. Behind them, a third guard stands with a wheeled wicker bathchair. “His Majesty desires to speak to the Erevesic.”

  Lys stands. “Of course. Give us but a moment, and—”

  “The Erevesic alone, my lady.”

  “As he wishes.” Lys helps Terevant out of bed, and as she does, she whispers in his ear. “Trust the Bureau.”

  The Palace of the Patros looks humble from the outside, overshadowed by the three massive Victory Cathedrals that flank it. No marble or gilt, no ornamentation apart from on the wall that overlooks the cathedral’s shared plaza, where the Patros addresses the faithful from a balcony.

  As the guards push the squeaking bathchair down long marble corridors lined with statues of silver and gold, Terevant realises that the bulk of the palace is hidden. Interwoven with the city, or delved deep into the stone of Holyhill. The halls are quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of the crowd in the plaza outside. Black-robed priests and clerics vanish like ghosts as the guards pass by. It reminds Terevant of his time in Haith’s holdings overseas. The palace has the air of an occupied city, the locals vanishing when the Vigilant pass by, only to reappear behind them, jeering or plotting against them. Making signs of banished gods.

  Once, they pass a door that’s half ajar, and Terevant catches a brief glimpse of a trio of old women, ritually stripping bloodied robes from the corpse of a Keeper priest. Sinter’s consolidating power. They come to a massive set of double doors, marked with the seals of the Patros and the emblems of Saint Storm. More guards stand outside, still as Vigilants. The doors are unlocked, the wards disarmed, and they press on into this inner sanctum. Ahead, another set of doors, equally huge, but instead of going through them they bring him to a small room off the corridor. A little study, with threadbare chairs and walls lined with bookcases crammed with yellowed books. A single narrow window, looking out over the University District.

  Waiting behind the desk is a man in a jewelled robe, a crown of gold upon his brow. Berrick’s slight frame seems almost swallowed by his finery; instead of being made grander by his new appearance, he’s diminished, occluded by the mantle and the title.

  “Your Majesty, the Erevesic of Haith.”

  One of the guards helps Terevant out of the b
athchair, although he discovers he doesn’t actually need the aid. His chest still aches, but the pain’s diminishing. Another healing miracle, and he might be nearly recovered.

  The guards withdraw outside the door.

  “My condolences on your new title,” says Berrick after an awkward moment.

  “My congratulations on yours,” replies Terevant, cautiously.

  Berrick grins, touches the crown. “Oh, that’s yet to be determined. At least the gods have conspired to restock my wine cellar. Please, join me.” He reaches under the desk, produces two huge silver goblets and a bottle of wine. “Drinking is a large part of my kingly duties.”

  He fills the cups and passes one to Terevant. “To duty!” toasts Berrick.

  “I can’t.” Terevant puts the goblet back down without drinking.

  “As you wish.” Berrick sighs. “I suppose I can speak a little more freely now than I could when we met at the fair. Not much more freely, though.” He waves the goblet at the bookcases. “Gods watch over this city, my friend, and they have many willing ears.”

  Terevant wonders how many in the Keeper’s church know that Berrick was planted by Haith? Is it common knowledge? A closely guarded secret, kept only by the highest in the clergy? Terevant has no idea. He’s lost in a foggy marsh–he knows enough to realise that the footing is treacherous, but has no clue where he should be going or how to escape with his life.

  Lys said everything had been taken care of. He has to trust her.

  “You said that things were going to happen, whether you wanted them to or not.”

  “I did, didn’t I? And they did. And they continue to happen, I’m afraid.” Berrick sips from the goblet, turns to the window. “You know, I still haven’t seen any of the city. They tell me it’s my city, but you’ve seen more of it than I. You fled the embassy. Lived on the streets. Tell me, Terevant, how did it feel to be free?”

  For some reason, he flashes back to the last night of the festival, to the mercenary woman Naola. To that moment when he turned around to walk back towards her. Just before Lemuel clubbed him, and everything fell apart. “It felt good,” he admits, “but fleeting.”