The Outstretched Shadow

by Mercedes Lackey

  Savilla sipped at her wine.

  “As a mother myself, I feel for Lycaelon Tavadon. I know he would want to know where his son is, and what he is doing. Of course he has spies in the High Hills, but I’m afraid they’re not quite as efficient as they could be.

  “Do you love me?” she asked suddenly.

  “As I love power and pain,” Prince Zyperis said huskily, his voice thick with renewed desire.

  “Good,” Queen Savilla said. “Now. Here’s what I want you to do …”

  GAREN Miq was a tinker and a peddler—a mender of small odds and ends, and seller of this and that—whose route took him all the way to the border, through every small farming villages there was. His favorite stops, of course, were the lowland villages that made a fruitful apron around the Golden City, and he always tried to make sure that his last stop before winter set in was Nerendale, where the trading post was, for Garen didn’t like to travel during winter, and always picked a likely village to spend the months of cold and wet somewhere dry and warm. Nerendale was said to be as close as you could get to living in the Golden City herself—didn’t it have an actual Mage living there full-time, after all?

  But if Garen played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to just wonder about what it was like to live in Armethalieh. He’d live out the rest of his days there—as a real, Talisman-wearing citizen, with hot water in his house, fires that never went out, a roof that didn’t leak, and all the other wonders of the City of a Thousand Bells, his, free for the asking.

  If he only served the Arch-Mage loyally and well.

  Garen Miq was a seller of oddments, but he was also a spy. For many years he had served the Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon in that capacity, wandering through the hills and villages and reporting any information that he thought the Arch-Mage should know—of heresy, of Otherfolk within the City lands, of unrest or dissatisfaction with the wise and just rule of the Mages.

  He never saw the Arch-Mage personally, of course. Oh, no. That wouldn’t be right. Garen Miq had never even been within the walls of the Golden City. Not yet. The man who had come to him many years before—a member of the Arch-Mage’s personal staff, of course, wearing the grey robes of a High Mage and carrying the staff of authority—had told him that citizenship would be his reward after long years of faithful service, and given him the means by which he could make his reports—a small ball of golden glass, barely the size of a ripe apricot.

  “Only speak into this ball, and it will be as if I—or the Arch-Mage himself—hear your words, Garen Miq. So speak wisely and carefully,” the Mage had said.

  It was Garen Miq’s greatest treasure, proof that he was more than he seemed, and he guarded it carefully.

  TONIGHT he was drinking in an inn in a village called Delfier’s Rest, at the westernmost edge of the forest. It was a wild, uncouth place, as so many near the border were; people were careless with the Law here, and Garen had seen Other Races here in the past.

  Even the name of the inn skated perilously close to heresy, as he’d already reported. The Inn of the Invisible Unicorn? What sort of a name was that for a proper inn?

  Still, the mead was good, and the beer was excellent. And the kitchen did a very nice rabbit pie. If it only didn’t snow so much here in the wintertide, Garen would even be perfectly willing to winter here if he had to, though Nerendale, being closer to Armethalieh, was naturally better.

  It was already late summer, and in a sennight—a fortnight at the most—he would have to turn eastward again, lest winter catch him far from Nerendale’s comforts. There had been little reason these past few moonturns to speak into his golden orb—in the spring, several farmers had reported seeing a pack of stone dogs running through their fields, and Garen had duly reported that, since it was unusual. But he had no doubt it was Magework, for were not the streets of the Golden City itself filled with statues that walked and talked like living men? Undoubtedly the dogs had been sent on Mage-business.

  He was considering one last tankard of ale before retiring to his rooms for the night when a stranger sat down at the table across from him.

  “Am I intruding?” the stranger asked. “I hope not. I’ve been on the road all day, and I confess I’d hoped for a little company at the end of my journey. And you look like an interesting fellow.”

  His raised eyebrows and conspiratorial smile indicated the rest of the folk in the common room of the Invisible Unicorn, and Garen Miq had to agree—with a small flush of pride—that no, none of them were what you’d consider “interesting fellows” at all. Farmers and laborers from nearby villages mostly. Not one of them was like him—practically a citizen of Armethalieh.

  “Please,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d be glad of the company myself.”

  The stranger summoned the tavernmaid over and ordered two more tankards of ale—“and brandy—good brandy—if you have it.” Garen saw him pass a coin into her hand, and heard her gasp. He recognized it—his eyes were sharp—as City minting, one of the legendary Golden Suns of Armethalieh herself!

  Garen wondered what the girl would do with it. The stranger could probably buy every keg in the Invisible Unicorn—and the wench herself—for the wealth that single coin represented …

  “You’ve come from the east, then?” he asked, congratulating himself on the casualness of his tone.

  The stranger smiled—he really had the most charming smile—and the golden handsomeness that spoke of noble breeding. “Ah, best not to say too much about some things,” he said. “Not everyone would take it in the proper spirit. But no harm in exchanging names, now, is there? I’m Henamor Lear. And you …?”

  “Garen Miq.”

  The tavernmaid returned with a wooden tray. On it were their tankards, plus a squat stone bottle and two smaller cups—silver!—as well. She set the items on the table and bobbed a hopeful curtsy at Henamor as she withdrew.

  Garen raised his tankard and drank—was it his imagination, or was the ale of a far better quality than his last tankard had been?

  Henamor had taken out a small silver knife—of a finer quality than anything that had ever graced Garen’s stock—and cut away the wax seal surrounding the cork on the stone bottle. With great care, he withdrew the cork, and poured one of the small silver cups full, sniffing at it delicately and then smiling.

  “Ah. An unexpected surprise, and pleasure. I’m sure you’ll find this an unanticipated change from what you’re forced to deal with here in the rural outlands.” He poured the second cup full as well, and passed it toward Garen.

  Generally Garen did not care for brandy. He found it harsh and biting, and its only virtue was that it got a man drunk far more quickly than wine. This brandy, however, was nothing at all like any he had ever experienced—mellow and fiery, with no bitterness to it at all.

  “More what you’re used to, eh?” Henamor said with a congenial chuckle.

  “I … yes,” Garen said. Suddenly he very much didn’t want his new friend to lump him in with the boors and country bumpkins that surrounded them. He wanted to seem to be the sort of fellow who drank this kind of brandy as a matter of course.

  “Well, we must all make sacrifices … for the good of the City.”

  Garen nearly choked on his drink. Was Henamor hinting that he was actually in a situation similar to Garen’s—an agent of the Golden City?

  He’d better not say anything. The penalties if he made a mistake would be too dreadful to contemplate.

  But oh, only imagine if it were true! Obviously, this man was a full citizen, and had mistaken Garen for the same. How wonderful to think that his years of study and sacrifice had borne fruit, just as he had always hoped …

  IN his guise of Henamor Lear (he had not been able to resist using the name, and the real Lear was long past complaining), secret agent of Armethalieh, Prince Zyperis stifled his laughter with an effort. How very easy it was to fool these brutish, half-bestial humans! It didn’t even require any more magic than was necessary to disguise
himself as one of them. Why, the gullible fool—who was, in fact, one of Lycaelon’s own handpicked Undermages, his true memories hidden behind a spell-screen until his field assignment should be complete, or unless true danger threatened him personally—wanted to believe “Henamor.” He wanted to think he was special, and superior to these simple farmers, when in fact Zyperis could tell no particular difference between them.

  Other than that Garen had power, of course. And if the situation had been otherwise, he would have taken very great delight in charming Garen Miq entirely into his clutches and then ripping the spell-screen from his mind, allowing him to know just who—and what—had beguiled him. So many of the High Mages were so conservative …

  But today he acted at the word of Queen Savilla, and his dearest mama had other plans entirely for Garen Miq.

  Fortunately for Garen Miq.

  So Prince Zyperis went on pretending to be Henamor Lear, implying that Lear was a High Mage of the Golden City, traveling in disguise, and that Garen—foolish softskin!—was Henamor’s equal in all things. He plied Garen with excellent and only slightly spellbound brandy, and he talked.

  Oh, yes, he talked.

  “No doubt, dear Garen, you saw the Outlaw Hunt go by this spring—or heard of it at least? It is a terrible thing when a citizen is Banished—worse by far when it is the Arch-Mage’s own son!”

  He leaned forward, placing his hand over Garen’s confidentially. By now the man was more than a little drunk, but not so drunk that he did not hear every word—and would not report them all to his masters.

  “The Arch-Mage’s son was Banished?” Garen breathed, sobering a little at such a shockingly intimate piece of gossip.

  “Oh, yes,” Zyperis/Henamor said confidingly, lowering his voice. “They’re keeping it very quiet, of course—and quieter still that the boy escaped the Hunt. He’s living just the other side of the border, with his sister. Near a Centaur village—Merryvale, I think they call it. Someone here would know where it is … for the right price. I suppose he thinks he’s safe enough.”

  It was amazing just how much Brightworlders could resemble goblins when they really tried—without, of course, having any of the little creatures’ more endearing characteristics. Garen Miq looked very much as if he were about to swell up and explode, and his eyes were as round and bulging as fishes’ eggs.

  “Are you sure?” Garen said in a strangled whisper.

  “Dear fellow, I saw him myself,” Zyperis drawled. “No mistaking Kellen Tavadon—or his sister. Go see for yourself, if you doubt me. It’s only a couple of days from here, I expect.”

  “I will,” Garen said boldly.

  But Zyperis knew he wouldn’t. That would involve crossing the border, leaving the boundaries of Armethaliehan lands. Garen wouldn’t know why he was so reluctant to do that, though Zyperis did. If Garen Miq crossed the border, the spell-shields on his mind would crumble away once he was beyond the boundaries of the High Mages’ power. He’d remember who and what he was.

  Can’t have that, now, can we? Who knows what might happen? A nice, plump little Mage like you, reeking of power, wandering around all alone out here … some Demon Prince might swoop down and carry you off and do hideous things to you …

  But it was not to be, Zyperis reminded himself with regret. Garen must deliver his message to his masters and return to them safely. He could not even disappear after his message had been delivered. There must be no possibility that Armethalieh might be distracted from the course upon which Queen Savilla wished to set her.

  Perhaps another time.

  At length the bottle was finished, and Zyperis, with the excuse of the need to make an early start, got to his feet. By now Garen was anxious to be free of him as well; Zyperis knew that he had some article of magick about him and would be making an immediate report.

  And Zyperis intended to console himself for having had to forgo the pleasure of devouring the Mage-man …

  ALL that had still been available when he’d arrived at the Invisible Unicorn had been either a private room or a pallet on the floor of the common room, and for the safety of his wares, Garen Miq had chosen the private room. Now he was very glad he had, even though a private room was ruinously expensive. In his little room at the top of the inn, Garen bolted the door, lit a lantern from his stores, and drew forth his speaking orb.

  Prudence warred with excitement. Perhaps he should wait until morning, when his head was clearer, to report his news. But no. He knew that he must tell this news at once. Tomorrow he would make inquiries about the precise location of the village of Merryvale and report that too, if he could.

  He withdrew the leather pouch from around his neck and pulled out the orb. Unwrapping it from its silk coverings, he warmed it in his hands. As always, it glowed brighter than could be accounted for by the available light. He took a deep breath.

  “This is Garen Miq.” He never knew if whoever heard his words could just tell it was him, so he always began with his name. It was unnerving, speaking this way. He’d never quite gotten used to it. Like speaking to the Eternal Flame, only more so, since the orb never said anything back.

  “I am in the village of Delfier’s Rest, near the border. Tonight, in the Inn of the Invisible Unicorn, a traveler named Henamor Lear came to me and told me that the Arch-Mage’s son, Kellen Tavadon, is alive, and living with his sister over the border, near a village called Merryvale …”

  He told the orb everything he could think of, hoping he had not been lured into error somehow, tricked into reporting untruths … but if he had been, that, too, was information that the Arch-Mage would need, since he would now know when and where and how it had happened. And Garen had reported it very promptly. Surely that would count for something.

  But deep in his heart, Garen was certain there was no error. There had been Hounds coursing the uplands this spring—the farmers had reported it. Had the Arch-Mage’s own son been fleeing them?

  But how could he have escaped? Not only were the Mages of Armethalieh wise and good, they were all-powerful.

  He finished speaking, and replaced the orb in its silk wrappings, and then in its leather purse, and hung the purse once more around his neck.

  He would not think about it any further. These were things beyond the ken of a simple tinker and peddler. He would sleep now, cushioned by his new friend’s very good brandy. In the morning he would ask his questions, and then he would take the road in the direction of his next destination. He had many leagues to go before winter came, but his heart was light, for Garen Miq knew that this night he had struck a mighty blow for the good of the City.

  THE tavern-wench had been watching him all night. And why not? He’d bought the most expensive swill this wretched hovel boasted, he dressed in silks and jewels, and he’d paid in gold and never asked for change. And it had amused Zyperis to wear the form of one of the human Mageborn, a form that the softskins reckoned alluring.

  “Is there aught else I can do for you, noblesir?” she asked, catching up with him as he headed toward the door that led toward the innyard.

  “It seems too early for bed,” he said, letting his voice linger on the last syllable, “but I grow weary of sitting and the moon is bright. I thought I’d go for a walk in the forest. Perhaps you would care to accompany me?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, but it was late by now and few patrons remained in the common room. She tossed her head and favored him with what she must think was a seductive smile. “I’d like that, noblesir.”

  It would be a long time before she was missed, and longer still before anyone remembered she’d left with the stranger who’d been drinking with Garen Miq all night, and who had never come back to the inn. By then, Garen Miq would be long upon his road eastward.

  Her body would never be discovered.

  By the time Prince Zyperis was finished with her, there wouldn’t be enough left of it to recognize as a human woman, and the forest scavengers would take care of what was left.

&
nbsp; IN the World Without Sun, Queen Savilla watched the threads of her weaving slowly draw together.

  And smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Storms and Bright Water

  ON THE WHOLE, Idalia was rather pleased with her little brother. He could so easily have been sullen and intractable, spoiled and softened by City luxuries. Granted, he was no Wildlander yet, but he was willing to learn, and ready to contribute what he could to the household. Oh, sometimes he sulked, and sometimes he brooded, and often enough he whined, but that was in the nature of the adolescent male, and Idalia had expected a certain amount of temperament out of him. The wonder was, there was less of it than she would have anticipated.

  Summer had come and gone, and in the past dozen sennights, Kellen had settled fully into the life of a forester of the Wildlands. With Idalia’s help and guidance, he’d begun work on an addition to Idalia’s cabin, for with winter coming on, they’d need more space—even if it was only enough space for a second bed.

  But even though the first frosts were still sennights away, the days were already perceptibly shorter, and work kept both the young Wildmages occupied from dawn till several hours after dusk. There was always wood to chop—logs to fell for the walls of the addition and firewood to stockpile for the coming winter as well—food to hunt and to forage for, clothes and tools to make and mend, and in addition to all of that, not a day seemed to pass that did not bring someone to Idalia for healing or advice.

  And every time Kellen was sure that the world held no more surprises, something always came to jar him out of his complacency.

  Take the weather, for example.

  Of course the seasons changed in the City. There was even rain—though always at night—and sometimes fog. Snow fell sometimes in the winter—though never on the streets and walkways, of course.

  But the sort of violent weather that Idalia described so casually was something that Kellen had never imagined experiencing, and the first time that rain had fallen during the day, he’d been so indignant over losing a day’s work that Idalia had laughed quite hard.