Shadow Star

by Chris Claremont

  “You’ve seen, you’ve felt, what it can do. Yet you would make this device even more deadly?”

  “I’ve also seen, and felt, what the Deceiver can do, Elora.”

  “Consider this well, Drumheller. You know the truth of who she is. The Deceiver is me.”

  “Not so.” His voice was still as hers, but the vehemence in it made her blink. “She is someone who bears the name Elora Danan. She is not you.”

  “Semantics, Drumheller. Mixed with a little sophistry. She claims to hail from a future consumed by Shadow. A world so bereft of all that we value and treasure she felt she had no choice but to destroy it in order to save it. Is hers the path we should follow?”

  “If you were a common soul instead of the Sacred Princess, would you follow her?”

  She climbed from the tub and padded warily into the next room for a towel. She took care with every step. Crystal might be lovely to look at but it was slicker than ice when wet and she had no desire to take a tumble, tempting as it was to yield to the oblivion of violent unconsciousness.

  “So what then?” she asked as the light caught her, flashing off her glistening skin as off a polished surface. “We eat the stones that are set before us?”

  “If you follow the Nelwyn proverb, when offered a banquet of stones you crush them to powder and use them to season your fields for the next crop. Also, as we’ve discussed before, if the Deceiver knows everything, by rights we should have been beaten at the start.”

  “From year to year, generation to generation, the Quangzhua changes its course. New twists and turns, new sandbars, it’s been known to wander for miles off an established route. But the destination never changes. Always, it flows to the sea. Could time be the same? The details can alter, but the thrust of history remains intact.”

  “I don’t know. I pray not.”

  “Drumheller, should I surrender?”

  “Is that why you came, to ask me that?”

  “I came to rescue you.”

  “By walking into a trap you knew was there?”

  “I came to stop you.”

  “That’s better.”

  “You still owe me an answer.”

  “Surrender, Elora Danan? Ask yourself first, would you trust the fate of the world—of that future you spoke of—in her hands?”

  * * *

  —

  Elora had no answer for him then, nor when they were escorted down to dinner.

  The gown provided for her was silk but that was the only thing it had in common with her scullery costume. It came in layers and it was obvious at a glance that it couldn’t be donned without considerable assistance. In addition, a wooden mannequin head had been provided, made up to demonstrate how her face was to be painted; atop it was set the wig she was likewise expected to wear. It was composed of real Daikini hair, arranged in the most artful and elaborate of styles, anchored in place by a set of enamel pins. The bulk of the coiffure, however, fell in a waterfall mane that was half as long as Elora stood tall. Supporting the weight alone would give Elora’s neck a wicked strain.

  She cast a jaundiced eye toward her companion, who’d been presented with a suit of robes so layered and complex he’d be lucky to be able to breathe, much less move.

  “It is the most formal culture in our Realm,” he explained.

  “In any Realm,” she countered.

  The makeup was equally ornate. A base coat of chalk white would cover her face, her neck, the front of her shoulders to the upper curve of her breasts and down her back to her shoulder blades. As well, her forearms and hands. Every part of her that would be on public view. Compared to this, and at its most statuesque, even her normal silver hue appeared more alive and animated.

  Once Elora’s features had been stripped of their defining characteristics—no hollows for her cheeks, no indication of lines about the eyes or nose—a brush of black ink would stroke the shape of an eyebrow with slightly arched deliberation. Her eyes were to be outlined in kohl, the border extended slightly beyond the orbit and upward to a small point, creating the impression that they were slanted, and then that space colored a striking shade of maroon. The hue chosen for her mouth tended more toward scarlet, defining its overall shape so as to make it appear much smaller and delicate, with sharply delineated points on the upper lip and a deep bow on the lower.

  As for the clothes themselves, the first item was an underslip of gossamer magnificence, to be followed by layer upon layer of robes fastened as tightly as possible by sashes that reached from breasts to hips. Worse, the gown was so restrictive that her walk would be hobbled. She’d only be able to manage mincing little steps, like the modish women of the city, in their stacked heels and platform soles.

  Elora scooped up the entire costume and the effort made her grunt. Fully arrayed, she’d be carrying the load equivalent of a knight in full armor but with virtually no freedom to maneuver.

  Her face was set as she confronted the majordomo and she dismissed him with a single word.

  “No,” she said.

  The man had sense enough not to argue. He turned visibly pale, but from outrage, and the barely veiled sneer was a masterpiece of restrained, refined, and absolute contempt. As he bowed and withdrew, he made no attempt to hide thoughts that were as transparent as the walls: what else should one expect from a barbarian? And a girl!

  From her traveling pouch Elora drew a pair of trousers that fit as snugly as hose and which she tucked into soft-soled knee-high boots. Next came a long gown of wool so fine it was fair competition for Chengwei silk. Worn over a blouse of pristine samite, the gown’s pagoda sleeves fell just past her elbows; it was likewise slit to the waist up both legs where it hugged her torso with becoming enthusiasm. Its stand-up collar fastened at the neck with ornate brocade frogs. The base fabric was a blue as dark as her eyes, embroidered with a pair of magnificent dragons in scarlet and silver. The threads glittered as she moved in the dress, creating the illusion that the dragons themselves were hiding in shadows; indeed, that they themselves were moving. Their eyes were appliquéd precious stones, with an additional dusting of gems to highlight their sinuous bodies. To finish, she buckled her belt once more about her waist, snugging it beneath the bodice of the gown, arranging the pouch so that it hung through the slit that exposed her left hip.

  The ensemble was undeniably royal and bespoke a culture that valued practicality as much as ceremony. A formal occasion was no excuse for lowering your guard, or forgetting your warrior origins. Dressed so, a Princess could easily lead her consort onto the dance floor, or her men into pitched battle.

  She gasped when she saw Drumheller, who’d forsaken his usual dark earth tones and ruggedly serviceable cloth for a suit of pristine samite, a white so pure and unsullied it hurt the eyes, with a minor enchantment woven into the threads themselves to repel dust and any and all stains. Interlaced with the basic fabric was a pattern worked in gold, accented in precious stones, making it a gown fit more for a Prince than a sorcerer. Yet the cut and workmanship was of such quality that every element managed to complement the wearer. Thorn’s lack of stature didn’t matter, nor his barrel chest, nor the fact that he wasn’t the most beautiful of men. He looked like what he was, a figure of uncommon strength and courage, character and valor, a match and more for those two and three times his height whose rank came to them as an inheritance.

  She saw he was nervous and that moment, that purely human reaction, made her heart ache with relief. For her first thought when he stepped into view was a memory of Angwyn, the night of her Ascension, when the Nelwyn she believed was her protector tried his best to steal her soul. Somehow, that fateful night, the Deceiver had managed to craft herself a semblance of Thorn’s features. That version of Drumheller had worn white and gold, and Elora herself had been wrapped in gowns so tight they might have been the swaddling clothes that bound her as an infant.

  Sh
e could barely move that night. She was a lamb well trussed for the slaughter.

  If not for the real Thorn, the Nelwyn walking by her side, this War of Shadows would have been over before it began.

  Together, the Sacred Princess and her Sorcerer strode down to confront their captors.

  Elora found herself thinking of the lives taken in the years since. Not just those who fell on the battlefield but people far afield, who knew nothing of the combatants of the conflict yet whose fate hung just as much in the balance. Who would be blessed or cursed by an outcome over which they had no control.

  “It always comes down to killing,” she muttered aloud by accident, giving voice to thoughts she meant to keep to herself.

  There was no escort, beyond the majordomo. There was no need. An itch burning up and down Elora’s spine told her the Caliban was close.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Thorn.

  “We consider this a war. That means someone has to win, someone lose. You win by defeating the enemy. The surest way to defeat that enemy is to kill him.”

  “That is the usual way of it, yes.”

  “What a way to bind the Great Realms together, Thorn, by slaughtering whoever disagrees with you.”

  “The Deceiver has no such qualms.”

  “And isn’t that supposed to be why we’re against her?”

  “And sometimes a fire must be started to stop a greater conflagration.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this.”

  “Perhaps I’ve never had reason.”

  “You never answered me before, about Tregare. What happened there, Drumheller?”

  A pair of double doors blocked their way. Without preamble, once more dodging her question, Thorn pushed them open and ushered Elora into the atrium hall. Impressive as the space had looked from high above, beheld as it was meant to be seen it stole her breath away.

  The floor was the most intricate mosaic, a multitude of jeweled tiles, none larger than a fingernail, as carefully cut as they were delicately colored. There was a quality to the air that made all her physical senses register things far more intensely. She perceived more shades to every hue than she had names for, yet viewed each with a clarity that was almost painful. From the floor rose fluted columns that might have been carved, but might as easily have been naturally occurring pillars of crystal that were shaped and pruned as an arborist might do a tree.

  There was no distinct light source that Elora could discern, nothing to cast the slightest shadow; radiance appeared to burst forth from the core of every gem, as though the world itself were a star and they, visitors in its solid heart.

  Everywhere Elora turned, she noted beauty, of a quality and perfection to make her head swim—not so hard a thing, regrettably, when the best she could manage was a hollow gasp—yet the more she saw the more disquiet she felt.

  “Your friends didn’t come up with this on their own, Drumheller.” Her voice didn’t go with the setting or the ceremony. It was too deep, too resonant, too much of the earth. “They had help.”

  “Inspiration.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Power always calls to power, Elora. So does ambition. It’s a combustible mix.”

  A scattering of sorcerers from the Palace was already present. As if Elora’s entrance were a cue, each succeeding minute brought new arrivals until the hall was thick with learned scholars. Though they clearly knew one another, they congregated among their own kind, each order wrapping itself in its own sense of superiority. They might be cooperating on this project, pooling resources and knowledge on an unprecedented scale, but none of them were happy about it. It forced them to look upon one another as equals, when each in his own heart knew himself to be greater by far.

  The sole fanfare announced the arrival of the delegation from the Gate of Peace, led by the Khan himself. Elora, as the only woman present, as much as by her attire, had drawn her share of stares and sneers throughout the gathering. Now it was Anakerie’s turn to bear the brunt of such attention.

  She felt Thorn Drumheller stiffen beside her, as shocked by Anakerie’s presence as Elora was, since the Princess Royal was supposed to be a “guest” of the Khagan in Daido.

  “Must have taken some inducement to cut her loose,” Elora muttered.

  “She should not be here,” Thorn breathed.

  “The night’s still young, my friend.”

  Unlike Elora, Anakerie hadn’t been given the luxury of refusal. Her costume was similar to the one the young woman had been presented. It made her look like a doll, a toy brought along for the amusement of the host and other guests. He’d brought a retinue, and a detail of guards. The courtiers were allowed within the atrium, but only one officer. The guards remained beyond the moat. That made them the happiest of men.

  The officer’s armor gleamed and beneath his ornate helm he regarded the room as he would a potential battlefield. His height made him distinctive, yet he had the knack of fading from view every now and then. It wasn’t that he actually disappeared. He seemed to withdraw from the awareness of those around him, and thereby blend with the background. The eye saw, but the mind ignored his presence.

  Thorn had noted the officer’s arrival, and recognized who it was as instantly as Elora had. It was Khory Bannefin.

  On impulse, Elora pivoted on the ball of one foot, sweeping her gaze over the galleries that rose from the atrium. They were gone from sight, masked by the same translucent fog that hid the object at the broad end of the room.

  “They’re taking their privacy seriously, Drumheller,” she muttered to the Nelwyn beside her.

  “With good reason.”

  “So damn’ mysterious.”

  “Telling you won’t help you understand, Elora. This, you have to see for yourself.”

  To a scattering of applause, the Vicar-General of the Crystal Palace stepped before the assemblage. He made a speech of welcome and then, proudly, unveiled his marvel.

  The device was roughly twelve feet square and twice that in height, topped by a roofed platform that was reached from the ground via a steep stepladder. Its corners were framed in foot-square panels, each bearing the sigil of one of the Great Realms. Otherwise the interior workings of the mechanism were open to view. Elora made out a rotating drum, twelve levels high, with twelve figures mounted on each plate like horses on a carousel. Each figure was a representation of the dominant element or race of the various Realms: a firedrake for the Realm of Fire, a golem (a creature made of stone) for that of Earth, a zephyr for Air, Wyrrn for Water. But the plates themselves were the real marvel. Thanks to multiple sets of interlocking gears and wheels, not only did the main plate spin but so also did three subordinate ones built into it, representing the Three Prime Circles, the World, the Flesh, the Spirit. Move any one of those four plates and you set the other three in motion, thereby altering the relationship of all the various components.

  The drum as a whole was linked by clockwork gears to a series of waterwheels, which could allow the plates on the drum to turn independently of each other and at different rates of speed. At the heart of the apparatus was another wheel, on which were mounted a dozen intricately faceted crystals. The hub of that wheel enclosed yet another gem, which Elora took to be a diamond since it was as clear as the Palace itself, and bigger than Khory’s clenched fist. Directly above that crystal-spoked wheel, on a floor level with the topmost plate of the rotating drum, was mounted a globe of the same jeweled substance, better than a foot in diameter, far too big to occur in nature.

  During her apprenticeship with Thorn’s cousin, Torquil, Elora had mainly worked with metal. But the Rock Nelwyns were as renowned for their artistry with gems as their facility with ore. She knew the effort and skill that went into cutting and polishing those precious stones, she couldn’t imagine what it must have taken to produce this monster. The slightest flaw, the most minute imperfe
ction, at any point in the process, would ruin everything. The sorcerers would have to start again from the beginning. Judging from the expressions she saw around her that must have happened, more than once.

  To her amazement, she saw something in this convocation of sorcerers on the order of a miracle. On these faces, by turns and degrees aged, dissolute, degenerate, corrupt—on these men who had sacrificed everything for their art and the ambition that drove them—she saw a flash of wonder. Of an innocence that hearkened back to the first sublime moment each of them had accomplished a feat of magic.

  It was a moment that she would never forget, but that she prayed they would. For to be reminded so starkly of all they might have been, of the potential they had squandered, the gift they had dishonored, and then be confronted with the inescapable reality of what they were and likely would remain, that was a punishment too cruel to be endured.

  Thorn spoke quietly, as if he’d read her thoughts.

  “Some might say it’s no less than they deserve.”

  “No argument. I’d just prefer this once to err on the side of mercy.” Elora couldn’t stay still. She was like a racehorse champing at the bit, wanting to charge, forced to remain at rest. The raw tension in her bones and muscles tested her more than a full-scale workout.

  “What’s wrong?” Thorn asked.

  “Too much magic,” she said. “Too much power concentrated in a single place. Did people not learn anything from what happened in Angwyn?”

  “An attack?”

  “It’s what I’d do, given this tempting a target.”

  “You counted on this being a trap. They’re counting on the Deceiver being that predictable.”

  “You said they were no match for her.”

  “They aren’t. They know it. They’re also Daikini. They’re used to being overmatched by every other race in the Realms. How is it that Daikini tend to resolve that riddle?”