Shadow and Thorn

by Kenley Davidson

  Malichai shot him a strange look, for Alexei had spoken Erathi.

  The woman reached up and lowered her hood. It was evening, and shadows had begun to fall, but Alexei could see well enough to note keen, watchful dark eyes and blonde hair mixed abundantly with silver. Though she still appeared fit and moved with the sure grace of youth, the hands that grasped her hood had begun to show the lines of time and care. And when her cloak fell back with the motion, it revealed both a simple traveling dress and a trio of sheathed daggers belted at her waist.

  “The House of Elanon greets the House of Nar,” she said formally in Erathi, forcing Alexei to conceal considerable shock. How could she know his house?

  “The House of Nar is pleased to receive Elanon,” he responded as tradition demanded, though he nearly stumbled over the simple words. “What might Elanon be doing so far from her home? And why does she wait for us by the road?”

  “Silvay Elanon Oridian. I wait because I have Seen that you are returning home. Because the Stone Scepter has languished long enough. And because I once swore my life to the House of Nar.”

  She was a seer. Alexei’s heart lifted at the simple reminder of truths he had once taken for granted. She had known he would come. And she had once served his family.

  “Tell me, Silvay, have we ever met before?” His heart pounded at his own question. If she said yes, how would it feel to waken a dormant connection with someone—anyone—besides his despicable cousin? To speak with another soul who remembered Athven Nar as she appeared before she fell, her turrets and towers glowing with magic instead of fire?

  But a twinge of fear accompanied the excitement. What if Silvay was one of the few who could recall Alexei as he had once been, before bitterness and scars, both emotional and physical, drove him to hide from the world?

  “I do not know, Son of Nar.”

  “Alexei Nar Trevelyan,” he answered, giving his full name to another soul for the first time in twenty-six years.

  “I do not remember you for certain, Trevelyan,” the woman answered, her eyes seeming to shimmer for a moment. “But I was only a minor member of the household. A maid, to one of Her Majesty’s ladies.”

  Alexei concealed the feeling of relief. “And you have been living here, in Andar?” Could it be that there were more refugees than he had imagined? In all his years of service to a wealthy Andari family, he had never met another Erathi besides his brother. He had assumed the vast majority to be dead or taken prisoner.

  “At times,” she acknowledged. “I have crossed the border frequently in secret. Those few of us who survived together waited many years for it to be safe to return.”

  “Then you know of others?” Alexei wondered at his own eagerness to know. Even if there were others, he did not yet have the ability to save them, or restore what they had lost.

  “There were five who escaped with me,” Silvay answered slowly, fingering the hilt of one of her daggers. “Only three who survived. The other two…”

  She stopped when Malichai drew his bow from behind his back, nocked an arrow, and leveled it at her chest. Alexei realized abruptly that his bear-like companion would not have understood a word of their conversation.

  “No!” he commanded in Andari, hoping to gain Malichai’s attention before the warrior committed himself to an action they would all regret. “She is a friend. One of my people. She means us no harm.”

  “The one does not equal the other,” Malichai rumbled, not lowering his bow. “I do not trust a stranger in the woods merely because she happens to speak my language.”

  “No, but neither are you forced to rejoice every time you meet someone who speaks your tongue because your land has been destroyed by treachery and war,” Alexei answered flatly. “I don’t care if you trust her. She has requested to join us for the remainder of our journey and I have decided to accept.”

  “As you wish, then.” The bow returned to Malichai’s back. “I can shoot two nearly as fast as one if need be.”

  “Have you a horse?” Alexei inquired of Silvay. “We can talk more as we ride.”

  She smiled and a dimple appeared briefly on her cheek. “I have a mule,” she said.

  After Silvay returned leading a glossy brown mule, they resumed their journey, though Malichai chose silence over his former melodic generosity. Alexei was grateful, as it permitted him to converse with Silvay without being required to shout. They spoke of her companions in exile, and of Athven Nar as they remembered her. Porfiry gave no sign that he heard or cared, until eventually Silvay noted his silence and turned to look at him.

  “Tell me why this joyous homecoming includes a prisoner. And one that I feel as though I remember.”

  “The Betrayer,” Alexei answered simply.

  “Who has he betrayed?” she asked curiously.

  Alexei dragged his mount to a full stop, shocked beyond words.

  “How could you not know?” he exclaimed. “He betrayed us all. He is the one who stole the Rose and destroyed the barrier. The one who allowed the Caelani army to cross the border and destroy everything in their path. That betrayer.”

  Silvay stopped beside him, her face pale in the gathering dark. “Then it was not simply an accident? We thought the enchantment failed. That it grew weak with age. We never dreamed…” She broke off and looked at Porfiry again. “I may be a seer, but we do not See everything. You are sure?”

  “I have never been more sure.” Alexei bit off the words harshly. “He boasted of it as Athven prepared for a final stand. As we looked out and saw the smoke rise across Erath and felt the pain of her destruction, he laughed.”

  Alexei spurred his horse forward as though he could escape the memory, and Silvay followed.

  “But he is Nar,” Silvay said when she caught up to him. She said it as though it were fact rather than conjecture, so perhaps she truly did remember him.

  “Yes.”

  “You know you cannot shed Nar blood. Not once we cross.”

  “I didn’t bring him to make him bleed,” Alexei answered shortly. “He is going to tell me how to find the Rose.”

  Silvay jerked in surprise, her gaze darting to Porfiry and back again. “You mean… it is still there? The barrier can be restored?”

  “He claims to recall where it is hidden. But he will say no more until we reach the border. After that I fully expect he will give me a cryptic clue and then refuse to say another word until we reach Athven Nar. But I will find it.”

  She fell silent as they rode on a few more paces, then glanced at Alexei, concern written on her features. “I cannot help but share your hopes, now that I have heard your story, but you should know what has been happening. I often seek out news from those few who dare the mountain roads, and… It has been almost thirty years, Trevelyan. And Athven has had no one to protect her. I very much doubt if she is even…”

  “The truth, Silvay.”

  “There have been rumors,” she said slowly, “circling through other lands ever since the shield fell and the towers burned. After all our years of secrets and silence, the world assumed we had something valuable to hide. And when they learned that the way was open, they came. They descended on the ruins and they trampled and they looted, and even though they found nothing, some of them stayed.”

  “And Athven? What have you heard of her?” Alexei could not keep the pain and the fear from his voice. He would not give up on the Rose, no matter what she said, but this mattered too much to feign indifference.

  “Athven stands. At least her walls did when last I heard. But treasure hunters do not give up easily. When they found no trace of any valuable secrets elsewhere, they turned to Athven herself, looking for some trace of what they believed us to be hiding. They have not yet been able to breach the walls, but, even if by some miracle Athven herself is not gone, she cannot last forever. Not without someone to stand beside her.”

  Alexei glanced at her face, which had returned to serenity despite his revelation and the ill news she had to impart.
He feared she had come to entirely the wrong conclusion. “I am not a king, Silvay. That is not why I’ve come. I would restore the Rose and its protection to whatever may be left of my people and see the Betrayer punished, but I do not aspire to the Stone Scepter. If that is why you waited, why you have chosen to join us, you will be disappointed.”

  She shrugged. “A seer’s gift is a tricky one,” she allowed. “As I have said, we do not See everything. Not even all the important things. But I have Seen you—all of you—enough times to trust that my place is here. Whatever future that may bring to pass.”

  “As you will.” Alexei knew enough of seers to reject any notion of dissuading her. And he was not yet ready to lose the gift of her conversation. She shared his memories, even if she could not share his guilt, and he would accept her companionship for as long as she chose to offer it.

  They stopped for the night in the shadow of tall narrow rocks that jutted out of the earth at an angle to create a leaning cliff face. Alexei and Malichai went about their predetermined tasks, Alexei seeing to the horses and Porfiry, while Malichai erected tents and gathered fuel. When it came time to eat, Silvay joined them and watched with some trepidation as Malichai added seasonings to the pot simmering over the flames.

  “I have my own provisions, so I will not need to impose upon your hospitality,” she said politely.

  Malichai frowned severely at her offer. “Do you doubt my culinary abilities? Because I am a man or because I wear too much leather? Is it the boots? The beard?”

  Silvay eyed him, from his iron-tipped boots to the elbow-length brown hair he had braided to keep out of his way while cooking. “You do have a certain, er, warlike appearance that does not often occur in conjunction with such skills,” she allowed.

  “Nonsense,” Alexei broke in before Malichai had a chance to become belligerent. “Malichai happens to be one of the finest cooks I have ever known.” Despite the singing, Alexei could admit the man had at least one useful skill.

  “When a man has to eat his own cooking every day of the year, he either becomes an artist or he ceases to truly live,” Malichai explained expansively. “I choose to eat like a king, and I have spent many years perfecting the largely unexplored art of eating well on extended campaigns. And I have never”—he scowled behind his beard—“heard any complaint from those who have shared my fire.”

  “Then I will apologize for my prejudices and beg for a bowl,” Silvay answered gracefully, seating herself on the ground and smiling at the burly warrior.

  Between the beard and the shadows it was difficult to tell, but Alexei could have sworn the man blushed.

  “Now,” Silvay went on, glancing across the fire to where Porfiry hunched over his knees, both wrists and ankles bound. “I would know more of the Betrayer. Who is he? What does he say of those days? I cannot twist my mind around the question of how and why anyone could have done such a thing.”

  “He is Porfiry. My cousin,” Alexei replied shortly. “We grew up together with all of my other Nar cousins, haunting the halls and the shadows of Athven Nar. And I do not ask him why. Whether it was for money or vengeance, I don’t need to know.”

  “Don’t need to know?” Silvay answered gently. “Or don’t want to know?”

  “Does it matter?” Alexei asked, with a hint of anger. He might have been overjoyed to have the opportunity to speak his own language, but that didn’t mean he wished her to invade his private grief, or his private doubts. “When he stole the Rose, he destroyed our home and betrayed our people. My family is all but gone because he chose himself over everything else. That is enough.” He could sense Porfiry watching them, but would not give him the satisfaction of noticing. He didn’t care what Porfiry thought. He didn’t care what Porfiry wanted. All that mattered was the Rose.

  Silence fell, but for the crackle of the fire and the scrape of Malichai’s spoon in the steaming pot.

  Suddenly unable to remain still, Alexei jumped to his feet. “I’m going for a walk.” He didn’t wait to find out if they would try to stop him, but stood and strode away from the circle of light, into the darkness that would hide his shaking hands. Hands that had almost moved to his scars, the painful and ever-present reminder of what else Porfiry had destroyed only a year ago.

  Alexei had never considered himself vain. He had been described as stern rather than handsome, and the gray in his dark hair had never particularly disturbed him. With his lean, wiry build and forgettable looks, he could easily disappear into any crowd, which suited him perfectly. Until his cousin nearly killed him, leaving him with scars no one could ignore or overlook. Now he found that he occasionally resented his cousin as much for the destruction of his face as he did for the destruction of Erath, and the realization filled him with shame.

  As did his own choices for the past twenty-six years. He told himself he hid because there was no other way. What could he have done, without the Rose? His homeland had been overrun, his people were dead or in chains, and he was helpless to change their fate without its power. But was he genuinely being honest with himself? Or had he remained in hiding so he never had to face the reality of his cowardice?

  The waning moon shed enough light to see where he stepped, but it might hide predators, so Alexei was cautious enough to stop before he strayed too far from the fire. He leaned back against a rock that was cool and solid against his shoulders and looked up. The stars winked dimly, laughing at his fears and his insecurities.

  There was no room for such weaknesses now. He had found Porfiry and all of his excuses were gone. His own reasons for staying or going didn’t matter. What mattered was that there was a chance—a chance to find the Rose, which meant a chance for whatever was left of his people, whether Athven lived or no. The new leader of Caelan had promised to free the Erathi slaves from their silver collars. They would be coming home, looking for refuge, and he had to make sure they would find it. There was no time for personal grievances, or wallowing in his regrets. Not when so many had suffered and died.

  And yet, Alexei still could not share in that pain as deeply as he ought. A part of his heart seemed numb, uncaring, uninterested in anything but bitterness and revenge.

  Perhaps when he set foot on Erathi soil once more, he would find it easier to feel as he should. It had been so long, even his own happy childhood almost didn’t seem real. He couldn’t remember much more than glimpses of those days spent playing with his cousins, exploring the farthest corners of Athven Nar, serving as a page to his much older cousin, the queen, and learning his gift.

  Alexei stared at his hands in the pale, cold light. They looked as they ever did— marred by the scars of his early trade, yet still strong and competent—except lately they seemed to shake and curl themselves into fists as often as not. It was not weakness, or even age, he knew. After forty-two years, he hoped he was wise enough to admit—even if only to himself—the true depths of his fear.

  When Alexei was ten, one of Beatra’s uncles had announced to the court that Alexei was probably the greatest enchanter to be born in several generations. Almost as great as the enchanters of old. Enchanters like Nar himself. Creator of the Rose.

  That moment had sustained him for years. It had given him the energy to hope that he could do something for their people; even enticed him to believe that he would someday create a work of great significance. But that dream was gone and now he was afraid. Afraid to find out just how much he lost when Porfiry attacked him on that dark night in Caelan.

  The twisted, silvery lines that marred the right side of his face rarely bothered him, except when people stared. It was the sightless white wreck of his eye that troubled him most, and not because of its appearance, as frightening as that was.

  Part of an enchanter’s art was the ability to “see” the interaction between magic and the physical. To create objects and imbue them with power required immense concentration and the ability to perceive several realities at once. What if he could no longer see the delicate balance between the
work of his hands and the working of his magic? What if his imbalanced sight meant he could no longer be an enchanter? What if he had lost the chance to use his gift to help him save his people?

  And what if none of it mattered because there was not enough left of Erath to save?

  Alexei pushed off the rock and began to walk again, back towards the fire, before Malichai decided to come looking. He had no doubt the man would consider it his duty to save his companion from whatever might be lurking in the dark, should he fail to reappear in a timely manner. Just as Alexei’s brother would have done, and had done, so many times in their lives.

  He wished Andrei could have been convinced to return with him. Andrei had always been the more settled of the two of them, more at ease with himself and his gifts. He had also found peace many years ago, working with horses, content to let the magical part of his ability with animals lie dormant. Andrei had even given up his talisman to the young woman who was now princess of Andar, when she needed courage in a dark moment of her life. And the younger Trevelyan had never cared much for politics, or the inner workings of even such a simple court as their aunt’s.

  Beatra Nar had been one of their strongest sovereigns in terms of natural magical ability, but she had never cared much for pomp. She rewarded her retainers for their abilities and their dedication and showed little regard for wealth or ostentation. Unmarried at forty, she’d designated her younger brother to be her heir, and insisted that the horde of Nar cousins be properly trained to benefit their people with their gifts.

  And she’d had such great hopes for Alexei. The queen would be deeply disappointed in him, were she alive to see what he’d made of his life. She would no doubt deem him a coward for doubting his gifts, and a traitor for remaining in hiding until it might be too late. Too late for him, too late for Athven, too late for Erath.

  Silvay was only the beginning. Once he crossed the border, he would have to face others who might want very much to know why the House of Nar had abandoned them. And he would have to give an answer, even if it brought him nothing but grief and shame.