Shadow Star

by Chris Claremont

  “Which is precisely what the Chengwei were waiting for.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth of it. The gates went next. I’ll never forget that sound, not the blast itself, that was like the detonation of a thunderstone, but a metallic whistling pitched so high it was almost a shriek. Didn’t know better, I’d say they unleashed a banshee on us. Splinters punched straight through the planks of my walls, doors, smashed through windows, turned my waryard into a charnel house.

  “They hit us in two waves, right after. Heavy cavalry, then heavy infantry. With the gate breached and most of my command wounded, if not outright slaughtered, we were done by sunrise.”

  “What happened to the scribe’s house?” As she strode across the waryard, surrounded by ashes and devastation, Elora saw what she’d missed from the heights during her initial inspection of the fort, that the ancient stone house and its tower were no more, erased as though they’d never been.

  “Damnedest thing, in a night of ’em. Nastiest collection of WitchFires was concentrated around the tower, where the World Gate was.”

  “The whole building just seemed to collapse in on itself,” Luc-Jon broke in. “As if it was being folded over and over again until it reduced down to nothingness. There isn’t a trace of it left, not the house, the tower, the Gate, everything’s gone. The ground there’s like polished glass, glazed over like a piece of fine lacquered porcelain.”

  “Think of it as a scab,” Elora said. “The Veil’s way of protecting itself.”

  “Whatever the device,” DeGuerin reported, “while it took thirteen wizards to activate it, only a few were needed to actually carry the thing.”

  “But they needed Drumheller,” Elora mused. “So urgently they rushed him back to Chengwei and left the rest of you behind.”

  “Another day or more would have seen the last of us in this place,” DeGuerin told her, after confirming her supposition. “Transport and escort east were just about ready. In the meanwhile, they wanted what information we possessed—especially from the lad.” He indicated Luc-Jon.

  “He’s a scribe,” the Colonel explained further. “They assumed, since he was the only one they found, the house and tower were his.”

  “They hadn’t expected what happened with the tower,” Luc-Jon said. “I think it scared them, the sorcerers, I mean. When they realized who Drumheller was, that’s when they got so eager to rush him home.”

  “For what it’s worth,” DeGuerin said, “I’ve seen that look before, the one we saw among the sorcerers. Usually on the face of a new recruit taking his first ride. Nothing so unnerves a body as the realization the creature you’re riding has a mind of its own. Strikes me they have a weapon they’ve never used before in the field and they’ve just discovered there’s a difference between what they expected—what it’s supposed to do—and its actual performance.”

  “They want Drumheller to help them fix it? But he wouldn’t—!” Even as she spoke, Elora made another set of connections and turned toward Khory. “Could the Caliban have wanted us both? Me and Anakerie together?”

  “Worth considering.”

  “What do you mean?” the Colonel asked, and Elora quickly told him of the pitched battle in Sandeni.

  “They use their device, Tregare falls,” Elora said, “they spirit Drumheller off to Chengwei—and within a day the Caliban’s hunting. It makes too much sense to be coincidence: grab Anakerie for the effect it’ll have on Castellan Mohdri, grab me for the same regarding Drumheller.” And she thought, but in Anakerie, because of the feelings she and Drumheller have for each other, they achieve both objectives.

  “You’re going after them,” DeGuerin said.

  “It’s why I’m here, Colonel, yes.”

  “Then we’ll come with—!”

  Elora shook her head and assumed once more to herself the mantle of leadership, gaining a gravitas of mien that was disconcertingly the equal of his.

  “Khory and I will go. You take these others, use the Chengwei horses, make your way to Sandeni. Scout the enemy en route if you can, the Council will need the fullest possible report on their capabilities and intentions, especially this device.”

  “You’ll need me,” Luc-Jon told her, and to forestall her certain objections: “You speak a little Court Chengwei, hooray for you. Do you know the culture? The lay of the land? The cities?”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s part o’ my job. A scribe needs t’ know everything, especially on the Frontier. Case in point: two women traveling alone, y’re doomed b’fore you start. Chengwei women ha’ no rights outside the home. They’re defined as either daughters or spouses. Anything else, you’re a slave. An’ there’s no travel at all between cities without a paiza, an inscribed passport-medallion.”

  “Why do I suspect you have access to one?” Elora wondered with an appreciative grin.

  “On me, no. But I can forge one wi’ the best.”

  “Are you that eager to lose your head, Luc-Jon?”

  “I’ve already lost my heart. And I’m done wi’ being left behind.”

  Her own heart leaped at both statements, and from the way DeGuerin and Khory were looking at her, Elora assumed that response was as plain on her face as a firedrake’s inferno.

  DeGuerin held out his hand, but when she reached out to take it he gathered her into a strong and enfolding embrace, hugging her as he would his own daughter before sending her off to battle.

  “Fortune attend you, Elora Danan,” he said, and there were tears in both their eyes as she returned the gesture in kind, accepting that she was standing surrogate for his firstborn child, whom he feared he’d never see again. In turn, she used him as proxy for the father she’d never known but would always desperately adore.

  They watched DeGuerin and his companions strike out for the highlands, then shared a meal on the field while Luc-Jon told them of the land and dangers ahead, while Luc-Jon sampled what clothes they’d recovered to find what fit him best.

  “Now what?” he asked, as they finished the last of their meal. “How do we follow the Chengwei?”

  Elora stabbed her thumb toward the remnants of the fort.

  “By swimming through the fire at the heart of the world,” she told him. “If you’re game.”

  To Elora’s surprise, and delight, Luc-Jon cupped her face in both his hands and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. So light a touch, so fleeting a caress, yet it shot a charge of energy all the way to her toes.

  “Lead on,” he said. “My life is yours.”

  To the Chengwei, theirs was the greatest nation in the world, the oldest and richest civilization. Its wealth, in history and resources, was beyond counting, just as they considered their power beyond true comprehension. While other lands might claim one city or perhaps two worth the name, the Chengwei boasted a score, with populations numbering in the millions, greater than many countries. In the south, the Stairs to Heaven formed a nigh-impassable natural barrier, both to invaders and expansion. To call it a mountain range was akin to labeling a steel forge hot. These were peaks where the winter snows never melted, whose summits thrust themselves higher than there was air for climbers to breathe, that didn’t so much form the backbone of the continent as the armadillo’s spiny shell, a knobby shield, roughly oval in shape, stretching from near the midpoint of the mainland to the Sunrise Sea. There, the range came to an abrupt end, forming a rank of serried cliffs that ran along the shore for near a thousand miles, as much a wall as the one that rose at Sandeni. Beyond the coast, extending better than a week’s sail, was a magnificent archipelago composed of the straggling remnants of the Stairs to Heaven, spectacular seamounts that reared skyward from the stygian depths of the ocean floor, achieving heights so extreme that if they’d been set on land they would easily have topped the highest summits of the Stairs themselves.

  Aside from mountains, the other defining topographical
characteristic of Chengwei was its rivers, and again reality dwarfed the meaning of the term. Chief among them was the Quangzhua, believed by the Chengwei without hyperbole to be the greatest in the world. In length it was matched by the westward-flowing Cascadel but that was where all comparisons ceased, for in places the Quangzhua was so wide one bank couldn’t be seen from the other, and while the Cascadel fed the occasional lake along its route, the Quangzhua nursed a trio of outright seas, beginning with the Tascara.

  It was an old land, with the arrogance that comes of might unchecked by any foe worth the name. Like a champion gladiator just a hair past his prime, Chengwei strutted on the world’s stage and expected applause as a matter of right, not to mention triumph. Innovation had long since ossified into tradition, tradition into dogma. Things were done, not because they were right or even made sense (though once they might well have had that purpose), but because that was the way things were done. The bureaucracy and civil service, still a marvel of efficiency, were superb at maintaining the established order. Far less so at adapting to new threats and changing realities.

  The world to the Chengwei was a delicacy beyond price, a feast set solely for them. They saw no reason to share.

  At the southern end of the Quangzhua delta, where that majestic river reached the Sunrise Sea, was the city of Ch’ang-ja, itself considered one of the wonders of the world. Partly built on the mainland in the comparative shadow of the Stairs to Heaven, its populace had spread over time to a dozen islands that rose like stalagmites from the floor of the continental shelf. These best resembled a thicket of spires or a grove of nursery saplings planted too close together, grouped in a sprawling arc no more than a league from land and ranging for a couple along the shore; they conspired with a significant dogleg notch in the coastline itself to form a deep-water harbor that like so many other elements of this ancient land defied superlatives.

  Bridges connected the seamounts to the mainland and flying causeways—suspended at varying levels up the slopes of the near-vertical peaks—connected some of the islands with the others. Within the sprawling harbor itself was a kind of floating city, called Freemantle, composed of boats of every size and description, permanently moored together to provide housing for those who couldn’t afford to live on land or wished a minimum of interference from the local authorities. This was the roughest district of the city, where even the prefecture of police ventured only rarely. As a result it was also one of the centers of business and commerce.

  Ch’ang-ja was a trading port, its anchorage serving as the Empire’s official point of entry for foreign traders. As such, it had much in common with both Sandeni and Angwyn. The shoreline was thick with warehouses and the mercantile exchanges that operated them, as well as the myriad of peripheral companies and establishments that serviced their needs, professional and personal. It was a city of banks and credit institutions, of light industry, of shops and markets offering goods from every corner of the Empire and the wide world beyond. Winding alleys so narrow folks had to twist themselves aside to pass by each other vied with esplanades that ran straight as an arrow for miles, wide enough to accommodate a triple score of men marching abreast. Buildings were jumbled one atop the other, without regard for any need but to house a population that grew daily, yet parks could also be found, of such a size and tranquillity that one might wander for hours without a hint of the hustling, bustling municipality that lay beyond their boundaries. There was wealth to beggar the imagination and the mansions and palaces to show for it, this being that rare metropolis in Chengwei where a merchant prince could dare live in greater ostentation than the local Khan.

  Yet it could never be forgotten that while the merchant lords had power almost beyond measure, it was the Khan who ruled both city and province, in the name of his Khagan, for on the headland overlooking the entrance to the harbor stood the fortress aptly named Gate of Peace. From its topmost battlements the whole of Ch’ang-ja could easily be viewed. Look the other way and the same could be said for the seaward approaches. It was stacked in terraces, from sea level to better than three hundred feet above the crest of the bluff and was of such a size, the Sandeni stronghold of Fort Tregare would have been lost within its confines. Its construction was stone, its foundation walls three times as thick as most men were tall. On the various levels, arrayed against land and sea, were a multitude of huge mangonels, ballistas, catapults, bombards, and siege crossbows. Across the harbor entrance, slung well below the surface, was a massive wood-and-chain boom that reached from the Gate of Peace to the nearest island, Bayan, named for the first Khagan (the official title of the Chengwei Emperor). The other islands were named for Bayan’s eleven successors. In case of attack, the boom could be raised to trap any invading naval force. As well, a tremendous network of pipes and runnels honeycombed the outer curtain wall, allowing for cauldrons of hot oil and flaming pitch to be deployed against any direct assault on the fortress.

  From its earliest construction, the Gate of Peace was considered impregnable. It was a measure of its reputation that for generations past no one had even made the attempt.

  The only more imposing structure in the city was a lighthouse, planted atop the summit of Bayan, a beacon fire that, thanks to its intricate arrangement of lenses, could be seen brighter than any star at a distance of a hundred miles.

  In nearly all the ways that mattered, Ch’ang-ja considered itself the preeminent city of the Empire. Surprisingly, though it was the self-evident seat of the nation’s wealth and commerce, there was no significant interest in making it the seat of government as well. The people valued their relative independence from the central bureaucracy, the opportunity to do as they pleased with a minimum of official interference. So long as they supported the Khagan, happily ensconced in the Imperial Capital of Daido some five hundred miles inland and to the north in the Sagamar Highlands, and paid their appropriate share of taxes, they gained the privilege of being left alone.

  There was one other reason for the Gate of Peace and the fact that its fearsome weaponry could reach virtually every quarter of the city, and why the Khagan preferred to keep a fair amount of distance between his Imperial Court and the source of much of its economic might: Ch’ang-ja was a city of sorcerers.

  Ch’ang-ja was one of those rare points on the globe where a Magus Point was found, though it lacked sufficient power to sustain a World Gate. As with the material fortunes of the merchant princes, magic, too, had its hand in defining the shape and nature of the city. The location and positioning of any building of importance was determined by priests, to place it in harmony with the local fields of power. At every entrance could be found stone fu dogs, to guard against any disruption of that harmony. Magic allowed for designs that stretched the laws of nature to their limits and building materials whose beauty was as unearthly as their origins. A Jade Palace composed entirely of that precious stone, surpassed by one of crystal. Where the towers of Sandeni appeared as solid and unshakable as the rock on which they stood, and the primordial stone of which they were composed, their counterparts in Ch’ang-ja—on the whole much taller and far more dramatic—presented themselves more as confections of gossamer.

  Sandeni was a city of industry and invention, Ch’ang-ja one of art. There was no doubt in the minds of its millions of citizens which was by far superior.

  Elora and Luc-Jon entered on horseback, Puppy trotting at their side. He’d joined them at Tregare as they made their preparations to depart, having taken refuge in the forest when the stronghold fell, and made it plain that, like Luc-Jon, he would not be left behind. Elora had brought them only part of the way through the bowels of the earth. She’d never encountered so thick a fog of magic as lay about Ch’ang-ja and didn’t want to take a chance of unwittingly triggering an alarm by using arcane means to enter the city. There were preparations to be made as well.

  Elora’s first decision was that the three of them go separate ways, she and Luc-Jon to follow
Drumheller while Khory sought for Anakerie in the Imperial Capital of Daido, which is where royal hostages such as she would be held. That was also to have been the destination of Colonel DeGuerin and the other prisoners from Fort Tregare. Drumheller, however, had been transported to Ch’ang-ja. She sent the brownies ahead on reconnaissance, accepting their assurances that they could reach Ch’ang-ja much more quickly through secret trails known only to their kind and roam the city undetected far more easily than Elora could, on horseback or riding fire. They all accepted Elora’s rationale, that leaving Anakerie in Chengwei hands would create a lasting window of vulnerability in Drumheller. He cared too deeply for the Angwyn Princess and would blame himself for whatever harm came to her. None were comfortable with the notion of splitting up; by the same token they could see no other way to rescue Drumheller and Anakerie both.

  The Empire was linked by a vast web of trunk routes, paved highways that allowed for the speedy movement of goods and people and—when necessary—troops. Courier stations were established at regular intervals, allowing both for regular coach service and the swift transit of Imperial Heralds. In a hurry, sparing neither horses nor riders, a message could reach Daido from the most distant province in a minimum of three weeks. Coaches generally took double the time. Travel required a paiza, an internal passport, plus secondary documentation relating to city of birth, point of departure, rank, occupation, and the like. There was a whole host of regulations and the smallest violation carried a punishment of fine and imprisonment. If the bureaucracy wanted an excuse to place someone in custody, it rarely had to be manufactured; the slightest legitimate pretext could easily be found.

  Luc-Jon was as good as his word regarding the paizas. Lacking both his full complement of tools and his reference books, and short of time in the bargain, the results he presented Elora were nothing short of remarkable. It turned out he had a gift for intrigue. The roles he chose for them played to their strengths—he and Elora would be a pair of traveling players, bards as she and Duguay Faralorn had been, the kind who generally tour the smaller cities and towns of the outer provinces, performing for coppers or an occasional sliver of something more precious in addition to a meal and a place to sleep. At festival time, which this was, the greater cities were full to bursting with such folk, all angling for a position with some house or tavern that could afford full-time entertainment. Khory would stay as she was, a warrior, although in this land she would present herself as a man.