Shadow Star

by Chris Claremont

  A light more terrible than any present could remember flared from the Resonator and they all assumed the end was nigh.

  They were right, but not in the manner they thought.

  Through the body of the Resonator strode Elora and the Deceiver, in tandem step, each act and gesture a mirror image of the other. Each used a hand to support the dragon’s egg. As they approached, their outlines lost coherent form, the boundaries between them blurring to insignificance, and Thorn was reminded of the image seen through the lenses of a pair of binoculars. Unfocused, the double-glass system would produce two distinct images. Turning the focusing ring gradually brought the view into strict alignment. That was what was happening here. The closer they came, the more the two figures merged into one.

  As Elora Danan cupped the egg in both her hands, and offered it a smile, there was a resounding crack as the eggshell broke apart.

  To those outside, waiting for news, they thought the sun itself had been reborn on the surface of the world. The most terrible and beautiful of lights erupted outward from the Citadel, casting a glow sufficient to banish night from this entire hemisphere of the world, brighter by far than the most radiant star in the heavens. A light that would be seen and remarked on throughout the cosmos, from this time forth.

  The energies of this explosion raced through the atmosphere, grappling with all the disharmonious elements they found in their path and setting them to rights. The storm that had raged over Angwyn since Elora’s failed Ascension reached a peak so fierce it was fortunate there were none present to witness it, for their lives would surely have been forfeit. Lightning played across the city of Angwyn and where the bolts struck the earth, the icy substance of the Deceiver’s enchantment fell away.

  Life returned to that ensorcelled city. And a full measure of sanity to the world’s weather.

  In Nockmaar, as those encamped on the plain before the fortress scrambled for their horses and their lives, beating a headlong retreat to what they hoped was the safety of the mountains, their flight was halted, their attention transfixed by a trumpeting succession of roars.

  A dragon reared into view, emerging from the core of the light, flexing its wings with the ineffable delight of a newborn experiencing the sensations of the world for the very first time. It leaped skyward and, as it rose from the ground, another appeared almost immediately to follow, and then another and another and another, until there seemed to be so many that the sky itself was filled from end to end, from top to bottom. All eyes were drawn back to the flaming ruin of Nockmaar itself, as the substance of the stone turned incandescent and to the amazement and delight of the onlookers actually began to cascade into gas. It was a variation on the Ritual of Oblivion, applied to a place rather than a person.

  The dragons bugled, one and all, a cheer of celebration and thanksgiving, and then with their first breath of fire…

  …they vanished.

  With them went all evidence of their passing. The radiance vanished as well, revealing that day had spun inexorably into night. For the first time in Nockmaar’s memory, stars were visible overhead. No more did clouds obscure the sky.

  Then, the onlookers saw that Nockmaar’s memory had reached an end, because that haunted, accursed stronghold was itself no more. The ground gleamed, like a polished tabletop, fused by the unimaginable heat of the dragons’ flame into a ceramic glass. Of Elora Danan and her companions there was no sign, and the others immediately feared the worst.

  Until they heard a young woman’s laugh, rich with delight and merriment.

  Still reeling from the events they scrambled to the center of the field, but all they found were Anakerie and Luc-Jon. They were laughing themselves, though Maulroon swore that wasn’t the Princess Royal’s voice he’d heard before. Of Elora Danan there was no sign, nor of Khory Bannefin, nor Thorn Drumheller, nor the brownies.

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. In the precise center of the ceramic plain, where Bavmorda’s sanctum had stood, and the altar and the Resonator—at the precise spot that marked the intersection of the greatest Magus Point in the Twelve Great Realms—was a clutch of flowers. A rose the likes of which no gardener had ever seen, nor would again, whose color was a silver so pure and polished the blossom might have been a casting of that precious metal. A little below were two more, one of burnished sungold, the other a wine-dark scarlet, companion stems of the same root. At the last, sneaking in and entangled around the main stem of both plants, a pair of miniature wild roses.

  The others asked about Elora but neither Anakerie nor Luc-Jon had anything substantial to say right then. The scene, they felt, spoke most eloquently for her. The Deceiver was no more and the dread fortress of Nockmaar, a font of evil since time immemorial, likewise. Elora had prevailed, not through conquest but through faith. She had left the world better than it was, found a way to heal lasting wounds and restore the natural order of things.

  She had brought life to a place that had never in its existence known any.

  And in turn, given the people hope for a future radiant with promise.

  The Shadow War was over. A new day, a brighter Epoch, was at hand.

  The year turned. Nothing changed, and everything.

  Winter was normal, for the first time since the Deceiver’s enchantment had claimed Angwyn. With the breaking of that curse, the infernal heat sink that had warped weather patterns across the continent quickly dissipated, as though Nature herself had decided the world had suffered enough. There was cold aplenty, and snow, but there were warm spells as well that hadn’t been seen in years, and while the elements might have been bitter and even harsh at times, they could be survived. While the Deceiver reigned in Angwyn, that hadn’t been the case.

  Angwyn itself faced the hardest test. True, the battle in Nockmaar had ended both the threat of the Deceiver and the sorcery that had sheathed the city in ice, but liberation proved bittersweet. The city was restored, buildings and people untouched by the passage of years but beyond its walls the consequences of that enchantment weren’t so easily banished. Angwyn Bay remained substantially frozen, which meant no trading vessels at her wharves, nor any fishing. In effect, the city would be under siege until the passage of the seasons once more gave it access to both the land and the ocean. But the King and his Council had reckoned without the Monarchs of the other Great Realms who’d been ensorcelled with him. They had access to harvests that were unaffected by the wild weather that had bedeviled the Daikini and made an offer of them, free and clear. A gift to those in need, in hopes that should circumstances warrant, the Daikini might do the same in return.

  As the days lengthened, and the vernal equinox aproached, the storms that rolled across the great western prairie brought rain more than snow, and with it a welcome gentleness. Parched fields gratefully swallowed up the offered moisture and farmers and ranchers from the Rampart Range to the Wall allowed themselves to hope they might have decent crops and herds again, that the lean times were behind them.

  Of necessity, Daikini who’d never considered such a course of action found themselves asking the help of the Veil Folk who dwelled on or near their land. Naiads, to calm the streams and guide the flow of irrigation channels so that fields and stock were adequately cared for but also so that the water itself wasn’t contaminated in the process. Dryads, for the restoration of woodlands. Pixies, nixies, and many of the lesser imps to help care for the fields themselves. In return, the Daikini offered to share whatever bounty resulted, for the benefit of all. Races that had been bitter rivals found common cause in their own survival, and ultimate prosperity.

  The changes, though, were small and incremental. They were personal. The greater whole of society proved more stubborn. There were still mighty armies in the field, national ambitions to be fulfilled. The winter that had plagued the heart of the continent had also proved a formidable defensive redoubt, keeping military operations almost nonexistent for weeks at a
time, if not months. There was no point in waging war if the weather was more certain to kill you than your foe.

  With the spring, with the climate gentling daily, those forces were expected to stir, like bears from hibernation, grumpy from enforced inactivity and spoiling for a fight.

  At the vernal equinox, on the thoroughfare in the Sandeni district of Madaket once known as the Street of Lost Dragons but which had been renamed (unofficially and in the middle of the night with a brush of indelible paint) Street of Young Dragons, there was a gathering at Black-Eyed Susan’s. No invitations were issued, nothing was done to indicate that this was any more than a normal evening, yet in its way it was uniquely special, for to the tavern came every principal in Elora’s life and adventures. Many were strangers to one another, while some were old companions; what mattered in the end was the young woman who’d touched all their lives.

  There were cheers and toasts, gossip and reminiscences.

  Anakerie stepped over the threshold straight from the road, dressed much as she’d been the day years gone when Thorn Drumheller first beheld her in Angwyn. Trousers and riding boots, with a sand-colored blouse of such exquisite weave the cotton looked and felt more like silk. Over that went a sleeveless leather tunic, snug at the waist but slit below on both sides to allow for ease of riding. She wore earrings Thorn had made her, and a choker necklace of interwoven silver and gold. The hair she’d worn long her whole life was recently slashed to the nape of the neck; an attractive cut to be sure but one she was still getting used to. She thought herself quite daring, almost scandalous, until her return to Sandeni. Young girls wore their hair even shorter, in a rebellious brush cut that looked like it had been dipped in raven ink, the better to resemble the woman they claimed as their ideal, the Sacred Princess Elora Danan.

  Anakerie wore two rings of significance on her left hand. One, on the traditional ring finger, was etched with the Great Seal of Angwyn, a representation of the seal itself. The other, on the thumb, served a similar office with the Maizan. They marked her office as plainly as any crown, for as Princess Royal of Angwyn, she stood first in governance beside her father, the King. The other, in its own way, was more important, for it was worn by the Castellan of the Maizan, making her undisputed leader of that nomad nation.

  “I bid you welcome, Highness,” said Renny Garedo in the reception foyer, as Anakerie unclipped her harness and divested herself of most of her weapons. She still wore the sword Elora had made, that Khory Bannefin had given her during the battle within Nockmaar. She hoped to pass it on to her own firstborn, when she had children. She hoped for a daughter.

  Her reply to the Chief Constable was a smile and a moment when she stretched and twisted her body along the whole length of her spine, to work loose the kinks of too many days in the saddle.

  “You’re not expected till next week,” the Constable continued pleasantly, referring to a scheduled summit conference between the Chancellor and representatives of the western powers over various bilateral relationships and mutual concerns. At the top of that agenda stood the Chengwei.

  “Officially, my friend, I’m not here at all” was her cheery response, “so do me the courtesy of ignoring my escort outside. I promise they’ll behave.”

  “Maizan, are they?”

  “Lancers and a couple of Black Rose. It seems I can’t travel anywhere alone anymore.”

  That prompted an outright laugh. “The price of responsibility, Highness.” But then the Constable reverted to type and his voice and manner turned altogether serious. “Regarding your assassins, Highness. Have I your word you’ll keep them on a tight leash?”

  “If I have need of them during my stay, Renny, I’ll tell you straight.” It wasn’t an absolute assurance but considering the source he found it acceptable.

  Luc-Jon tried to greet her with a surprisingly courtly bow but Anakerie swept him into a comradely embrace instead.

  “No ceremony, lad,” she told him, as he led her through the press of tables to an alcove where other friends already awaited them. “We’ve fought and bled together, and seen our share of wonders. Whatever our rank, we’re equals, you and I.”

  “You do me honor, Highness.”

  “Call me Highness again, you scut, it’s the last thing you’ll say for a while, I promise you that.”

  “As you wish, High—!” He grinned, the slip had been intentional. “Anakerie.”

  Giles Horvath headed the table, together with Ranulf DeGuerin and some others Anakerie couldn’t make out at first, since they sat far back in the shadows. Not for the first time, she muttered about the fundamental unfairness that allowed some to possess MageSight, so they could see in pitch-darkness, while most did not.

  “Seems to me a grumpy sort of greeting,” noted a familiar voice and she flushed at how transparent her thoughts could be. When she stepped around the table and into the shadow herself, where she could finally see Thorn Drumheller properly, she discovered the feeling was mutual.

  The months hadn’t made a difference in him. Being a Nelwyn, it was likely centuries wouldn’t. His clothing looked rustic, until you noticed the extraordinary workmanship of its brownie tailors; the finest suits in Sandeni were no match. In style and substance, they were of a piece with the sorcerer, outwardly unassuming but with unexpected and delightful depths.

  Susan herself, the proprietor, brought them a carafe of spiced mulled wine, Anakerie’s favorite, and the perfect restorative after a long day’s ride.

  “You look well, Peck,” she told Thorn.

  “Responsibility becomes you, Anakerie,” he replied. “How goes the world?”

  “You ask me?”

  “Monarchs and their surrogates are generally the folk you expect to know such things.”

  “Why not simply pour a scrying pool and see for yourself?”

  He looked lost a moment, before telling her, “I’ve had my fill of magic. I’ve no great hankering to use it, at least for a while.”

  She nodded, understanding. “Plenty of war to go ’round, if that’s what you’re wondering. Bloodshed and betrayal, that I’m afraid hasn’t changed. I wonder sometimes if we made any difference at all.”

  “It’s only been six months; do you expect miracles?”

  “Where Elora Danan is concerned, absolutely.”

  “In point of fact, ma’am,” interjected Colonel DeGuerin, introducing his remarks with a tactful cough, “the Frontier’s stabilized a fair piece since last fall.”

  “The Chengwei?”

  He smiled, not pleasantly. “The army that came through Tregare was broken the night Elora Danan sent her WitchFires to chase them. When they heard the news from Ch’ang-ja, the commander was beside himself to arrange a truce and safe conduct to his own border. The eastern invasion force that decamped from the Tascara Sea remains intact. If they choose to advance they may prove troublesome but indications are unclear. There’s every chance they won’t.”

  “I have been out of touch.”

  “Incredibly busy, would be more like what I’ve heard,” said Thorn.

  “What have you heard, Peck?”

  “After Nockmaar, you rode to the heart of the Maizan encampment, claimed Mohdri’s sword and shield for your own, and challenged any and all comers to take them away from you.”

  “That’s the Maizan way when a Castellan dies. The best man’s supposed to win.”

  “I also heard you were unopposed.”

  She examined her left hand, watching the candlelight play on the precious metal of the two bands. “I’m Angwyn born,” she said simply, before gesturing with her thumb, “but this is the ring I wear closest to my heart. The Maizan know this. I won’t shed their blood if it can possibly be avoided, and I won’t betray them.”

  “Spoken like articles of faith.”

  “For me, they are. Elsewise, what’s the point?”

  �
��Will they stay within Angwyn territory?” Thorn wondered, and she nodded.

  “They may even settle.”

  “A Maizan putting down roots,” marveled DeGuerin. “Who’d have thought to ever live to see such a day?”

  “What about Chengwei?” Thorn asked, meaning the Empire itself rather than its armies.

  “A disaster,” the Colonel reported, as though he were briefing the Council of Ministers. “No place for the likes of you, Master Drumheller, that’s certes. Because of what happened to Ch’ang-ja, there’s precious little love for sorcerers of any stripe, by commons or crown. It’s said the shock of that city’s destruction devastated the Imperial Capital of Daido as well. Internally, the whole country’s a mess, in near-total disarray. You have the Khagan trying to reestablish a central government, with some of the subordinate Khans remaining loyal but others striking out on their own. So, down the road, we’ll have either a score of principalities to deal with or a land preoccupied for the better part of the next generation with setting its own house in order. Either way, a scenario the Republic welcomes. My sense is that the army at Tascara will likely disband. Even the harshest discipline won’t hold men who believe their homes and families to be threatened. Whatever remains intact, the commander will offer either to the Khagan or to whichever local Khan looks the most promising. Or he might try to seize a province for his own.”

  “The more things change,” Thorn said with a rueful shake of the head, “the more they stay the same.”

  “I think you’re wrong there, Drumheller,” said Anakerie. “More a case to me of old habits dying very hard.”

  “I’ve got a new Elora story,” Luc-Jon announced excitedly, taking his seat at the table, with his wolfhound by his side.

  “I beg your pardon?” This, from Anakerie.

  “Haven’t you heard? They’re all the rage, everyone’s telling them.”