Shadow Star

by Chris Claremont

“What happened after, do you know?”

  “Eamon Asana lived to a ripe old age and it’s said that to know him was to watch a man become a living ghost before your eyes. Not that he became invisible but that gradually he came to lose everything that made him human. No one’s even sure he actually died. Nowt tha’ was his was left standing t’ remember him by—except”—and here, Luc-Jon smiled a grin he’d learned from Elora, a wry quirk of the mouth—“the World itself and all its myriad peoples. There’s some in the old writings who claim that our troubles descend from that betrayal, that the foes in those old days—those who must remain Nameless—weren’t properly defeated. Are they right, Elora Danan?”

  She had no proper answer for him, beyond a shrug.

  “Ancient history,” Luc-Jon suggested.

  Another shrug, as she swung her legs over the edge of the parapet and leaned on the railing to gaze down the tower. From this height and angle it appeared far deeper than from the bottom looking up.

  “Is there such a thing,” she asked at him in return, almost a retort, “for races that are immortal, or others for whom time is as easily traversed as space is for us? Compared to the Veil Folk, the lives of Daikini are nothing. We dance our little while and then we’re dust and how much of the knowledge learned during that time vanishes with us? When do we have the chance to transform it into true wisdom, Luc-Jon? Thorn Drumheller’s young as Nelwyns go, chances are he’ll know your great-grandchildren. I saw a dragon for whom these people”—and she shook the book at him—“weren’t just pictures in a book or actors on some stage, they were real! Comrades in battle! Friends!”

  “Less time, perhaps,” he replied, taking a seat by her side, “a greater incentive to do more. Age don’t connote wisdom, not always, not in everyone. Authority, yah, I’ll grant’cha that. But somewhile y’ get comfortable in the pattern of things. Y’ work a certain way because that’s the way it’s always been done. Y’ resist change because y’ don’t see the need.

  “Y’ plant the same crop year after year, Elora, the soil eventually dies. Y’ run a wagon down the same exact path journey after journey, y’ come t’ wear ruts in the road so deep the wheels won’t turn. Who knows, from what y’re sayin’, mayhap a change was begun in those ancient days that wasn’t completed?”

  “Everyone has a theory, Luc-Jon. I have to be sure.”

  “The way you mean the word, lass, I dinna think it’s possible. Y’re no’ a god, Elora Danan. Y’ see the world mainly as we do, through your own two eyes, five feet an’ a bit off the ground.”

  “I don’t want to make Asana’s mistake.”

  “Who said it was a mistake? He was High King, yah? Wi’ a war t’ win. He takes the offer, he has a semblance of peace, the chance t’ build somethin’ lasting f’r his own folk and the other allied Realms, yah? What’s the cost, a few lives, a few souls? Versus how many if the war goes on? An’ f’r once, ’tis the King who pays the price, no’ the commons. Betrayal, aye, in full measure. But also a rare courage.”

  “You’re worse than Drumheller.”

  “ ’Tis a failing of scribes. We read so much it’s easy to act the part o’ teacher.” He stirred his hand beside her but made no move to touch. He looked down as she did but his eyes were slightly unfocused, his gaze turned more inward, to his own memories.

  “I’ve had to lead men in battle these past months, Elora. The answers there weren’t always what I thought they’d be.”

  She said nothing for a fair while and Luc-Jon’s lips pursed with anger at the thought that she wasn’t listening.

  “They never are,” she spoke at last, then looked sharply at Luc-Jon as he chuckled. “What?” she demanded, letting some irritation show.

  “Just watchin’, is all.” The answer was unsatisfactory and an upward prompt from her eyebrows demanded more. “Whenever y’re frustrated, kind’a like Puppy worryin’ an itchy patch o’ skin…”

  She made a nasty face at him at the image, which she didn’t find at all complimentary.

  “…y’ start tracing circles. Same pattern every time.”

  She looked down and saw it was so. Three interlocked rings, surmounted and bound together by a fourth.

  “It’s how I feel sometimes,” she told him. “Spinning in circles, getting dizzier and more lost with every revolution.”

  “Talk it through. Might help.”

  The pitch of her shoulders told him eloquently, you asked for this, almost as though it was a dare. Then, she began, quite simply: “The physical world, this globe we Daikini live upon, spins daily on its axis like a top. At the same time, the moon revolves around us. The world and moon together, in turn, revolve around the sun.”

  “And the sun, what does it revolve around?”

  “Who knows? Other than the dragons, and maybe Drumheller. The Liege Lord of the Dragons, Calan Dineer, told him all this when I was just a baby. Years later, Drumheller told me. The point is, everything moves in relation to everything else. As they do so, the relationships between them change, the balance of powers shifts and flows.

  “You know about Magus Points, yes?”

  “Where the lines of magic intersect, both in our world an’ those beyond the Veil,” Luc-Jon replied. “I’m not completely dim, lass, thank y’ kindly,” he said with a chuckle. “Bein’ a scribe, it’s no’ just about scribblin’. It’s about books. It’s about knowledge. We seek out what’s been lost. We try to learn it f’r ourselves, an’ then pass it on to those who come after.”

  He leaned over and tapped a knuckle on the diary she’d uncovered.

  “That one’s mine,” he said with a measure of pride. “First book I found”—and his smile broadened—“an’ near my last as well. Got too cocky, got a scar t’ show f’r it. Weren’t f’r Puppy…” He didn’t need to finish.

  “I’d hate to think of what the scribe who found that Malevoiy text had to go through.” She spoke lightly, but there was an undertone of awe. If the challenge matched the prize…

  “Giles the Red, they called him, so my master tells.”

  “Your master knew that scribe?”

  “They were mates. Giles Horvath. He lives in Sandeni, teaches at the University.”

  “I’ve met him!” she acknowledged, though she was hard-pressed to match the quiet, almost reclusive academic she recalled with someone worthy of such a nickname.

  “F’r scribes, the tales of our Book Quests are our badges of honor. We pass ’em about at gatherings as we do the knowledge we’ve accumulated.”

  “That makes you sound like troubadours.”

  “We’re more private, like. We don’t perform. The big book, though, that’s a story I’ve never heard told, from either man. Anyroad, I want t’ hear the rest o’ what you were sayin’, about the Magus Points.”

  “Magic is strongest where the lines of power intersect,” she repeated what he’d said, for emphasis. “At the strongest of those points is where we find World Gates, passageways to the other Great Realms that lie beyond the Veil. On one side of the Veil, the Realms and races who’re anchored more to a purely physical state of existence, like us and Lesser Faery. On the other, those who tend more toward the spirit.”

  “Greater Faery an’ the Malevoiy?”

  Elora nodded. “But why,” she continued, “should those lines of power be limited to just this one world? Perhaps they run through the cosmos as well? If we look back through history, we see that the Magus Points aren’t fixed. It may take generations, but they move.” She pursed her lips as her musings led her to an unexpected inspiration. “I wonder, could the point of change referred to in the prophecies about me occur because the world itself is about to pass through a Magus Point in the heavens?”

  “How could you know that for certain, or chart such a thing?”

  “Haven’t a clue. But it makes too much sense to ignore. And it would help explain wh
y time is so critical.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “If we’re building to a specific moment, a specific place in the scheme of things, then this really does become a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—only we’re not speaking in terms of Daikini lives, but of the Veil Folk. As you said, was that opportunity missed ages ago, with Khory and the ard-righ; could this be our chance to set things right?”

  “Or consider—would it be better to leave matters well enough alone, as they are now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  This time, it was Luc-Jon who reached out to offer comfort. This time, when they came together in an embrace, there was an all-too-real awareness of the bodies beneath the clothes. She tilted her head, and saw a scattering of crow’s-feet around his eyes and a quality within them that hadn’t been there before. She thought of her forge and the swords she made, of how gleaming pure the metal was in the mold, and how deceptively strong it appeared. Fate had taken a hammer to Luc-Jon’s soul these past months, folding and tempering him as Elora did her steel, adding substance to the shape and a resilience that would allow him to bend without breaking. She’d thought him as much boy as man when they’d first met; that had changed.

  To their surprise, they made the next move as one. That was why, the moment their lips touched, they backed away, not so much startled by their own temerity but by the realization that the other had just had the same idea. In that instant, the stakes suddenly rose higher than either was yet prepared to wager.

  Again, as though they were twins, both dropped their eyes simultaneously and offered shy, inane expressions of excuse and apology.

  The great book Elora left, the little one—with the Master Scribe’s permission and blessing—came away with her, to show to both Drumheller and Khory.

  They had a little time left before Luc-Jon went on duty with his troop; impulse took them to the watchtower by the main gate, which had the most commanding view of the Frontier approaches to the fort. It was a decent climb, since this tower stood as high above the ramparts as they did above the ground. While Luc-Jon swept the tree line and what could be seen of the horizon beyond for any sign of the enemy, Elora looked the other way, down at the layout of the fort itself, and wasn’t surprised to find that it echoed the shape and alignment of the scribe’s tower. The fort itself was nestled in a hollow, if the term applied to a geological formation that had to be miles across, and Elora had a sudden yearning for the companionship of her eagles. In the great scheme of things hardly any time at all had passed since she’d last seen Bastian and Anele, barely a fortnight in fact, yet in Elora’s heart it felt like forever. It wasn’t simply their company she missed, though, but their wings. She wondered what the shape of this land would look like from their perspective, if the lay of the ridgelines that formed this valley would echo that of the tower.

  She looked down at her hands, removed one glove, and looked again. One palm bare, the other sheathed in worn, serviceable deerskin. She closed each slightly, curling her fingers just enough to make the creases and folds of her skin visible. She flexed her hands, stretching them as tight and taut as she could. The lines were indelible, in hand and glove both. The precision of their definition depended on how she looked at them.

  “Patterns,” she whispered to herself. “It has to be the same here. The power exists in harmony with the earth, as it does with air and fire and water. But those are all mutable elements; nothing about them is fixed. The land doesn’t flow so easily. Once its pattern is established, that’s how it tends to stay. So—for the power to define the land, for the land to reflect those patterns of magical energy the way this valley does, and Sandeni as well, they must have been laid down ages upon ages ago, when the very World itself was forming.”

  “Your intuition does you credit, Elora Danan,” said a new voice from behind.

  She whirled, and in so doing slammed her backside hard against the railing to pin her left hand, shocked speechless inside at the reflex which had sent her grabbing for a dagger at Tyrrel’s words. The Liege Lord of Lesser Faery was friend and ally, yet she’d reacted to him as a deadly foe. For once, she was grateful for her argent skin, so pale in the daylight that none could tell when the blood rushed from her features.

  “Another piece for my puzzle, m’lord,” she replied. “To add to my collection.”

  “Why so upset, then?”

  “I don’t feel any closer to the answers. And I know already I don’t like the paths I see before me.”

  “As opposed to those already taken?”

  “My lord?”

  Tyrrel stood a double span of arms distant from her, the position of a wary man who is unsure of his companion but also respectful of her abilities. She’d gained a measure of height since their first meeting, months ago, but he still topped her in mass and strength of body. She didn’t need to glance around to spot the glittering motes making lazy circles about the watchtower, each a fairy, each ready to immolate themselves in defense of their Monarch. An attack by an individual fairy could be survived; in their case, size was a crucial difference. Despite their ferocity, there was a limit to the damage one alone could inflict. Even a score of them might leave their prey alive. In war, however, fairies swarmed by the thousands, the tens of thousands. The merest touch of iron would doom them but even plate armor was no defense, because it was impossible to craft a suit that did not have a chink these tiny creatures could slip through.

  Elora always considered it strange that most Daikini had a much greater fear of the elves of Greater Faery. Perhaps because they were most like the Daikini in stature, that made them somehow more worthy of respect. The smaller creatures of Lesser Faery were generally considered objects of amusement, rarely given a first thought, much less a second. Yet Lesser Faery was one of the Twelve Great Realms and its myriad races in their way, far more formidable than most would give them credit for. Elora knew so from cruel experience, memories all her own, as well as those she’d seen of Khory’s.

  “What do you mean, Tyrrel?” she demanded of him when he made no reply to her initial query, only this time she dropped the honorific, deliberately reminding him of her own stature.

  “There’s summat about you that’s changed, Elora Danan. A taste t’ your spirit that hasn’t walked this world since, I don’t know when.”

  “The days of Eamon Asana?” she prompted. Tyrrel made a face, features quickly flashing through an expression of heartfelt contempt; at the same time, he made a warding sign with both hands and spat. Elora heard a faint buzzing that might have been mistaken for bees, but she knew better. Tyrrel’s bodyguards had pulled closer about the platform in response to their Monarch’s burst of agitation.

  “Do not speak that name, child,” the Monarch warned. “And have a care which path you choose to walk.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning. You don’t know everything, Elora Danan.”

  “I know this, Tyrrel. There are Twelve Great Realms. I can’t pick and choose between them, which to include in the binding and which not.”

  “Consider then, perhaps we should let this binding pass us by?”

  “And leave the world as it is? Look about you, Tyrrel, and tell me if this is what you truly want?”

  “Beg pardon, m’lord—!” It was Luc-Jon, bless him for his timing.

  “You’re not interrupting, lad. We were just finished, the Sacred Princess and I.”

  “They just called up from the main gate. There’s a message pouch.”

  “Good. It’s past time.”

  “Still no sign of the Chengwei,” Luc-Jon continued, trying to defuse the tension with a change of subject.

  “Colonel DeGuerin’s had his own scouts out lookin’ for ’em, as I’ve had mine. Been starting to worry why I’ve had no word.”

  A trooper clattered up the steps, handing the oilskin package to Luc-Jon,
who turned to pass it on to Tyrrel.

  Elora struck first, with a swiftness that would have done Khory proud. There was no margin for error, or for hesitation. Each move had to be precise and sure.

  She blindsided Luc-Jon with a shoulder check that knocked him off his feet. As he tumbled, she yanked her knife from its scabbard behind her back and used it to slap the package from his grasp. Continuing the same motion, she flipped the blade across her body, to bury its point in the opposite wall a narrow fingerwidth in front of Tyrrel’s nose. Sensible man, he flinched from it, opening a decent space between himself and Elora. While Luc-Jon was still falling, she used her other hand to grab for the pommel of his sword, grateful that he kept his equipment in such pristine condition that it slid free of its scabbard without a snag and only a whisper of sound, three feet of tempered, double-edged steel, honed to a killing edge.

  Elora felt a burst of pinprick stings about her face and bare hand and down her front. The first of the fairies, believing their Monarch to be threatened, had rushed to the attack. The fiercest attack was directed against her hand, which held the sword. They meant for Elora to drop the blade, before it could be used against Tyrrel. If necessary, to save him, they’d strip her flesh right down to the bone.

  Fortunately, the sword wasn’t for him.

  Elora swung her arm up and over her head, grasping the hilt with her other hand at the apex of the curve and putting the fullness of her strength into the blow as she sliced straight through the oilcloth while it was still in the air. She let momentum carry her around for a second cut, this one lateral, to bury sword and package deep into the watchtower. She didn’t strike wood, however. The sound of contact was the sharp ding of metal on metal, as she pinned the pouch hard against one of the massive iron spikes used to fasten the massive structural timbers together.

  That was when the screaming started, frantic ululations pitched so high they registered to Luc-Jon as an instant headache. Elora’s eyes creased to slits and Tyrrel collapsed to his knees like a man who’d just taken a cudgel across the shoulders, clutching his own gloved hands to his head in wordless agony. All about the waryard, the animals pitched a variety of fits. Cows bellowed and bulls rammed the nearest wall. Horses turned skittish, nostrils flaring wide and eyes showing their whites as they bugled both challenges and calls to flight. Cats puffed double their size and bared fangs while every dog in the place howled. The sole exception was Luc-Jon’s hound, who charged the watchtower at a flat run.