Shadow and Thorn

by Kenley Davidson

  Zara grew still and her mouth fell open slightly as she realized what the avatar was saying. “You would imprison me here forever to save your own life?”

  “As you said,” the woman agreed, “we do what we must to survive. But if you agree to my bargain, perhaps a different ending would be possible.”

  Zara hated being forced into things. She especially hated when it was guilt that forced her hand. But she couldn’t walk away and leave a living creature to its death, no matter how much she hated what the castle had done to her, deliberately or no. “All right.” She nodded reluctantly. “I will hear your bargain.” She would hear it, but she wasn’t going to give this cat/woman/castle the idea that she was in control. Zara might be the penniless daughter of a feckless treasure hunter, but she would not be anyone’s pawn. “But first,” she added, “before I make some sort of agreement with the avatar of a haunted castle, shouldn’t I get to know your name? You do have one, don’t you?”

  “Of course I have a name, silly child. But a name is a thing of power. It gives shape and meaning and is not to be given or taken lightly.”

  Zara scoffed silently. Her own name meant less than nothing. “I suppose you know mine already, but you may call me Zara,” she said flippantly.

  “That is not your name,” the avatar said slyly. “It is what you call yourself, but it is not your name.”

  Zara stared at her.

  “But I will give you mine, all the same,” the woman went on. “And I will expect you to treat my name with respect, as you may be the last person to ever hear it.”

  The thought sent a chill down Zara’s spine.

  “In the language of this place, I am Athven. And in former days, when I was not alone, those who cared for me called me Athven Nar. And now. About our bargain…”

  Zara woke herself with a harsh cry, sweating and gasping for breath. Her eyes flew open to see only her dim and shadowy kitchen. And a cat, watching her carefully from her seat close to the few remaining coals.

  “You furry little bastard!” Zara snarled, leaping out of her blankets and grabbing for the cat with both hands. The animal darted away. “That was no bargain! That was a curse!” She dashed at the cat again, but was too fuddled by dreams and sleep and nearly stumbled.

  The cat hissed, looking angry this time, and the hair on her back stood up.

  Zara hissed back.

  Until the stones under her feet began to shift. Her eyes and her arms flew wide and she staggered, nearly losing her balance.

  When the floor stopped moving, she stood tall and glared, refusing to acknowledge her terror at the realization of exactly who she shared her fire with. And what the creature could do if she chose. “Very well,” she said coolly. “You’ve proven you can be a bully. I hope you’re proud of how strong you are. But I remember what you said. You need me, just as much as I need you. If you pull your own roof down on my head you’d be a far bigger fool than I. And let me be clear.” She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t get to push me around and you don’t get to mess with my head. I am not your toy and I am not your plaything. I might have to live up to this bargain, but I will do it my way. And if you don’t like it, you can be stuck as a one-eared cat until I drop dead of old age.”

  With a sharp nod to punctuate her words, Zara turned her back on the cat and marched back to the fire. It spoiled her dignified retreat just a trifle when she tripped on her own blankets, but she didn’t check to see if the cat was laughing. She had a fire to build up. More tasteless stew to make. And a lot of angry muttering to do. The fact that she’d had no choice did not make her feel any better about the bargain she’d made.

  She wasn’t sure whether she should be more upset about the terms of the agreement, or about the fact that she might never have the chance to live up to it. That, she supposed, would depend on the future.

  She’d heard of cursed princesses, be-spelled princes, and enchanted kingdoms. They simply had to find the right hero to break the curse so that everyone could live happily ever after. The only stories about cursed treasure hunters, however, ended badly. If this was a story, she, Zara, was the villain. But she didn’t feel like a villain. She felt lost and alone and she wanted to go home, except she didn’t have a home. All she had was a nameless longing for somewhere to belong and someone to belong to. Someone who cared more for her than for the glitter of gold and gems. And now, thanks to a magical talking cat, that possibility was further away than it had ever been before.

  Chapter 5

  They entered the valley around midday, and the worst of the tension in Alexei’s chest eased somewhat. She still stood. Even after all the stories, he had not quite believed it until he could see her for himself. That last day, the day he fled, had been so dark, with so much chaos and violence, he had wondered for many years whether Athven might have crumbled under the onslaught.

  She had her scars, just as he did, visible even from a distance. The stones of the northmost tower were dark, and chunks were missing from several of the turrets. But her walls appeared sound, and, best of all, there was no smoke rising from the valley floor. Perhaps his fears of needing to fight their way in would prove unfounded.

  Wilder cheered when he saw the towers, almost falling off his perch behind Malichai’s saddle in his enthusiasm. Silvay and Gulver were both silent, and Alexei caught Silvay wiping a surreptitious tear. Gulver made no secret of his emotion, and allowed the tears to roll down his face unchecked.

  But Alexei felt nothing. Not relief, not joy, not pain. None of what he’d expected. His eyes remained dry, and his memories lay quiet, locked behind some unseen, unfelt wall. Everything drew back—the sights, the sounds, the smells—behind some distant curtain that deadened his senses and allowed him to note only the immediate.

  They would ride to the center of the valley and camp. He would take stock of the surroundings. Strategies rolled through his mind, possible entrances, probable pitfalls.

  They rode by the remains of the stone arch that marked the descent of the road into the valley of Athven. It had been destroyed, no doubt during the invasion, and heaps of piled stones lay to either side of the way, overgrown with vines and surrounded by grass. A hawk soared overhead, and a bird cried out harshly from a nearby tree. The sun was warm on their shoulders and the horses’ hooves were louder than they should have been.

  Alexei still felt nothing.

  “It’s normal, you know,” Silvay said quietly, almost in his ear.

  “What?” He wanted to lash out, but kept his tone coolly civil.

  “The numbness.”

  “Then why are you and Gulver not affected? Why are you able to weep when I cannot?” It didn’t seem fair. Why could he not cry for what had been lost?

  “We have so much less to feel than you,” she said, patience and sympathy in every line of her face. “When memories run that deep and dark, we find ways to keep them from rising.”

  “Will I be numb forever?” He fought to sound calm, rather than desperate, but Silvay heard his plea.

  “Only until it’s safe to mourn.”

  That might be never. And all Alexei could feel about it was a sort of guilty gratitude. He could not stomach the idea of his cousin rejoicing in his pain. He would never let Porfiry see him weep.

  But he also would not look at his cousin’s face. He didn’t want to know what feelings might be visible there, be they triumph or dismay. He couldn’t bear the sight of either.

  They drew up at last beneath the shadow of Athven’s imposing heights. Where the castle had once been flanked by cultivated gardens and artfully tended wilderness, it was now overgrown and wild, and parts had clearly been flattened by the camps of hopeful invaders. Trees had been cut down to make crude shelters, and fire rings had been built from the remains of crumbled fountains and toppled statuary.

  Nothing stirred, within or without the castle walls, except for their own party going about the business of making camp, pretending it was just another end to another day
on the road. Alexei knew that they were all watching him. All except for Porfiry, who sat straight and defiant, rather than his usual hunched and bitter posture.

  Silence reigned until they had eaten and the shadows had fully fallen over their camp.

  “We’ll approach tomorrow,” Alexei announced suddenly. “By daylight. I don’t know what we may find, or whether we’ll be able to enter, but there is little value now in being over-hasty. If anyone else was here to hinder us, that might be different, but I believe the valley to be abandoned.”

  He did not tell them of the dread that was growing with each passing moment. If Athven was still aware, she had given no sign of it. Perhaps he had barely dared hope, but his disappointment told him he had not quite given up the idea that she might still live. But if that was the case, he should have felt her by now. The fact that his magic had sounded no chime of recognition suggested that she was at least dormant. Which meant that her walls may already have been breached. The Rose might already have been found.

  He glanced at Porfiry and wished he hadn’t. After so many days of pinched silence, his cousin’s face bore the ghost of a smile.

  “We will, however, set a watch. Everyone but Wilder will take a turn.”

  “Why not me?” Wilder protested. “I’ll never be able to sleep and I promise I would do a good job.”

  “Because you still haven’t had a bath,” Alexei said, lacking the energy or inclination to explain the truth. He hadn’t the heart to tell the boy he didn’t trust him to stay awake. “If someone wished to attack our camp, they would assume you were not a very good watchman because you haven’t bothered to wash.” Perhaps that was not the best argument to make to a child, but he hadn’t known very many children.

  “I know I’m not a very good watchman,” Wilder insisted earnestly, “but I’m an excellent watchwoman.”

  Everyone turned to look at him—her—at once. Malichai’s mouth hung open.

  “Watchwoman?” Alexei repeated slowly.

  Silvay dissolved into laughter. “So much for the amazing powers of seers,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that.”

  “I told you I wasn’t a grubby little boy, but you didn’t listen,” Wilder said defensively. “And if you let me watch, I promise I would be wide awake. No one can sneak up on me and I can be very loud if anyone tries to attack.”

  “I have no doubt in your ability to be loud,” Alexei assured her, smiling faintly, “but you’re still not watching. Keep the watchman—or watchwoman—company if you must. Quietly.”

  Wilder frowned, but Alexei didn’t give her a chance to protest. “I will be first. Malichai, you will be last, and Silvay and Gulver can fight for whichever shift they prefer.”

  “Second,” Silvay chimed cheerfully, and Gulver agreed.

  “I am accustomed to being awake at all hours, so it makes little difference to me.” He rubbed his hands together over the fire. “And I may be too excited to sleep.”

  Once everyone else had retreated to their blankets, Alexei withdrew to the remains of a garden wall and seated himself carefully, in case it collapsed beneath him. He rubbed his arms to dispel a chill and felt older than the stones themselves. His scars twinged but he ignored them. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his magic instead of his senses.

  He could feel the remains of broken enchantments. The wall on which he sat fluttered with torn bits of magic that had once protected the life of the garden. The earth beneath the stones still sparked with tiny flashes of the power that had sustained and nurtured it. But as soon as he stretched his abilities and inched closer to the walls of Athven herself, all traces of magic died out. There was a void, an empty place in the earth, and then a barrier, beyond which he could not feel.

  It was as if something was deliberately shutting him out, but he could find no thread of awareness to suggest that she knew he was there, or even that she was awake. It might be a hopeful sign. If she had gone completely dormant, she may have found a way to shut everyone else out as well, and he might yet be able to wake her. But if she was not dormant—if she was truly dead—perhaps the barrier he felt was nothing more than the void formed where life had been utterly snuffed out.

  As his watch wore on, Alexei extended his reach to look for any evidence that the valley sheltered more lives than their own. He found nothing but forest and elusive creatures who shied away from the gentle brush of his power. There was a brief glow of something larger, but it did not feel human and was gone almost as fast as it registered. Probably an indrik testing the possibilities of a life outside the bounds of Vrendel Wood. By the time Alexei retreated back into himself, he was exhausted and ready for sleep. He had not extended himself so far since he was young, and the small enchantments he had been able to work in Caelan had not come even close to testing the depths of his abilities. The phantom ache of skills long left unused was an almost pleasant distraction from the empty void of his heart.

  He fell asleep moments after awakening Silvay, and did not stir until dawn touched the topmost tower.

  Or rather, he did not awaken until he heard Wilder shouting.

  “He’s gone! The Betrayer is gone!”

  Alexei jerked to wakefulness and threw off his blankets, fear clawing at his throat and stealing his breath. But no. Malichai had been on watch. He was the most reliable watchman they had. Porfiry could not have disappeared from under his nose.

  And yet, when he looked across the remains of their fire to where Malichai and Porfiry would have been, there was nothing but the gently snoring form of Malichai stretched out on the bare, hard ground.

  “Wake up!” Wilder was shouting in Malichai’s ear, to no avail. The giant man snored on, and Alexei felt a terrible chill, a premonition that something far worse than fatigue may have befallen him.

  A quick touch of his magic confirmed it. The sleep was not natural, but neither did it bear the imprint of Athven. Nor of any of his companions. He checked Gulver to be sure, as a healer would be well able to produce a magical sleep, but Gulver was as panicked as everyone else. Nor was the magic holding Malichai the brown and gold that marked Gulver’s gift. It was… other. Bright as a morning, stunning as a sunrise, seductive as a fire in the dead of a winter night. It was gilded light, shot through with veins of crimson that flowed like blood and sparkled like rubies, colors that symbolized power and influence.

  Alexei tore through it with barely a thought. Malichai snorted and blinked and sat up, perplexed by the circle of faces staring down at him.

  Then he turned a deeply humiliated red. “Never,” he said hoarsely. “Never in all my life have I failed on a watch. I swear to you, I have not betrayed you. I was awake.” He slumped down, a miserable, defeated mountain.

  “I know,” Alexei said, surprising them all. “Tell me what you remember of your watch.”

  “There was nothing to remember,” the larger man insisted. “It was quiet and still. Not so much as a rabbit or a fox. The prisoner was sleeping, and I began to think over the third verse of my epic…” He flushed again. “The rhymes weren’t quite right, and I wanted to get them down before it was time to write another verse.”

  Alexei nodded. “I am not criticizing your choices. I merely want your memories.”

  “I… I was searching for a rhyme for tower. Or possibly pinnacle. Though I doubt there’s any rhyme for that one. And…” He scratched his head. “I think the rest is dreaming. There was a man, but he wasn’t one of us. I knew him, but I couldn’t remember why.”

  “Tell me about him.” Alexei’s demand came out harsher than he meant it to. Unpleasant memories had begun to cast their shadow across the present.

  “He had to be a dream. He was tall, and fair, and well spoken. Courteous too, and so familiar. He asked me about my work. About each of us. He wished us fair weather and fair luck. And then he said…” Malichai’s voice hitched and wobbled. “He said the prisoner was his. That we’d done good service by bringing him this far, but that the need for our
help was done. He untied him and led him away. And… I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even try.” He broke down into sobs, tears rolling into his beard and soaking through to his chin.

  “Be at peace, my friend.” Alexei dropped to one knee and placed a hand on the weeping giant’s shoulder. “You did not fail. You were defeated by dishonorable tactics.”

  He stood, his hands clenched so tightly that he feared his knuckles might bleed of their own accord. His shoulders shook and his teeth ground together.

  “Pack up,” he said. “And lead the horses. We’re going in.”

  “But…” Wilder was instantly shushed by Silvay.

  “Please fetch Halla,” she urged, pointing at her mule, and Wilder went, though with much grumbling. “You know something,” Silvay murmured in a low voice, looking pointedly at Alexei.

  He jerked a nod. “I know that our chances were small at the start of this journey. I also know that they may have now been destroyed utterly. Unless we can find a way in.”

  “Who took him? Who would have known?”

  “Don’t ask me that,” Alexei whispered. “I do not have the luxury of rage.”

  He was still shaking. Wilder returned leading Halla, and Alexei’s own horse. Gulver had fetched Loraleen, and was now engaged in comforting Malichai, while surreptitiously using his own gift to sweep away the lingering effects of the stranger’s magic.

  Once Malichai was on his feet, they moved as one towards the walls of Athven Nar. They had no ally now but haste. If Porfiry found an entrance before them, he could once again steal what they had come so far to find, and all of their hopes would crumble to dust and ash. If they could only keep him out, there might still be a chance.