Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

by Olivia Rivers

  I force in a deep breath, urging my heart to keep pumping. “So then… You have something against Father? That’s why you’re asking me to do this?”

  Blaize nods, his cloak dipping. “I suppose it’s possible to put it that way. Although your interpretation is rather simple for my tastes.”

  “Then explain,” I demand. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  My lungs gasp in a shuddering breath, seemingly on their own. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. That I’m willingly participating in it. But something in Blaize’s serious tone and cool posture keeps me engaged. Maybe he has a spell over me. That must be it, that’s why I’m not completely balking at the subject. But if he did cast a spell, then I wouldn’t be able to detect it… Right?

  Which means it’s my own fault I’m still talking to him. My own fault that I’ll probably die because of this conversation.

  And I don’t care enough to walk away.

  “Your father is not an honorable king.” Blaize closes his hand into a fist, and the fire-sword disappears. “But you already know that, don’t you? I’d say you know it too well. So I suppose there’s no point in giving you examples.”

  “Are you here to ask me to kill the king, or torture me with memories?”

  Blaize ignores my little outburst. “Your father is treasonous to his own country,” he says in a tone that’s nearly bored. “He’s conspiring with Shale.”

  The name strikes me like a poisoned arrow, tearing into me, then slowly numbing my senses. Shale. A perfect name for the most imperfect soul ever born.

  Some say it’s the Mage King’s real name, but I don’t think that’s possible. Shale must have given it to himself; it’s too accurate for it to be natural. Shale treats his enemies just like the stone he’s named after, chipping away at them, layer after layer, gradually revealing weakness after weakness. He’s a master at finding fault lines in armies and simply shearing them away.

  And they come cleanly. No mess, no struggle. Just death and destruction made so simple, it’s both sickening and fascinating.

  “My father would never conspire with Shale,” I say. “He knows that man is a monster. Shale gains control of every country he touches. If he’s contacting my father, then Irrador is…”

  I trail off, counting in my head how many countries Shale took in the past few years. One, two, three, four, five…

  Irrador could make six.

  “Irrador is in danger,” Blaize says. “Shale has promised your father that he’ll overtake your country. But he’s also made your father the same offer the other rulers received.”

  I close my eyes as Blaize’s words rip into me. It’s the only way I can keep from punching something, or screaming, or worse.

  The deals are a relatively simple tactic, just like all the others Shale keeps in his playbook. First, Shale tells rulers that their country will be overtaken, pointing to all his conquered lands to prove it. Then he offers them the deal: The rulers can remain in power as influential governors, as long as they quietly hand their land over to Shale. They get to keep the majority of their powers, and their court will remain as advisers. But if the ruler doesn’t hand his land over, they lose everything—including their life.

  I know Father. I know how his conscious works.

  He’ll take the deal.

  “What proof do you have of this?” I demand.

  The mirror shudders and Blaize disappears. I almost cry out for him to come back, but then another image appears. It’s Father, wearing a dark cloak and sitting in the corner of a room that looks like part of a restaurant. I don’t recognize it as a restaurant in Kastellor, and it’s definitely not the kind of establishment Father would ever visit. It’s run-down, the floorboards warped and the tables looking like they might collapse at any moment. And the people…

  The people aren’t human. They’re too tall, too pale to be any Irradorian. I peer closer at one of the people, looking at their eyes, and find they’re multicolored. These are Mages, definitely.

  But what is Father doing surrounded by Mages? Almost all of their kind is in alliance with Shale, and are hesitant to visit Irrador.

  Then I notice the flag in the corner. It’s red, with a sword in the center and a two-headed snake wrapped around the embroidered pommel. The flag is the one bared by all of Shale’s territories. So Father isn’t in Irrador; he’s somewhere in a foreign country, one occupied by Shale.

  Why?

  Father’s face is shielded by a hood, but I recognize the way he holds his shoulders, and the blue sapphire ring on his finger. There’s no doubt it’s him. I see him from across the room, where someone watches him from the corner. It’s as if I’m seeing him through this other person’s eyes, and I guess it’s Blaize who I’m looking through.

  A man approaches Father, dressed in a cloak even finer than Father’s. His hands are covered in rings, and he stands tall, towering over the seated people in the restaurant. He’s no doubt another Mage, with his elegant presence and height. But both his eyes are a deep maroon color, and not multicolored.

  That must mean… Shale. Shale is the only Mage I’ve ever heard of who has two eyes of the same color. It’s whispered that his eyes changed color the first time he killed a man, and have never changed back. My heart pounds, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. One of the rings on his hand is larger than the others, and I recognize the same symbol from the flag engraved on it.

  Only the owner of that symbol would ever wear it.

  Father bristles as Shale approaches, but strangely, no one else in the restaurant seems to realize their king is in the room. There’s probably some sort of magic at play. Shale sits in the chair across from Father, and they talk for a few minutes. I can’t hear any sound, but I watch as Father’s posture slowly goes from hostile to resigning.

  By the end of the conversation, his shoulders are slumped. Shale holds out his hand, and Father shakes it, sealing some sort of deal. A blue light envelops both of their hands, and Father shudders and recoils, rubbing his hand on his pant-leg like he’s trying to wipe away something filthy.

  My heart pounds desperately, and my breath comes in gasps as the mirror shudders again, and Blaize replaces the silent restaurant scene. His shoulders are softly shaking again. I clench my first and snarl, “You think this is funny? You think it’s funny that my father would hand over my country to Shale?”

  “No, no, it’s not funny,” Blaize says. “But this is rather… ironic.”

  “Ironic?”

  “Just look at yourself, princess. You’re obviously horrified, but you’re still going to refuse to do me one little favor.”

  “It’s not little.” My voice is a whisper when it should be a shout.

  “But it is. Think about it, princess. That deal was sealed in magic; it can’t be broken now, not unless one of the deal-makers die. And what’s one life in compared to thousands? You know Shale treats royalty well, and the middle class, too. But he doesn’t treat the lower-class the same. Every lower class citizen in Irrador will be either forced into Shale’s army, or taken into slavery.”

  Blaize opens his palm, and the sword reappears. It burns brighter this time, the flames jumping off the blade and falling as ash. Blaize swings the sword around, not bothering to look at it as he performs complex slashes and twirls. “The position lower-class citizens receive is based on a lottery system. That’s how Shale determines their fates, princess. Luck.”

  “I get it. He’s evil. And someone should do something about it, but that someone isn’t me. I’m not going to kill my father.”

  “And why not?”

  I shake my head, unsure how to reply. I could spew some nonsense about morals and keeping a clean conscious. But I haven’t cared about those things for months, and it wouldn’t be the truth.

  I listen to my heart, its wild beat hammering through my veins, spreading adrenaline through me. Fear. Now that’s the truth.

  Blaize is laughing again. He dismisses the fire sword ag
ain and nods to me. “I’ll be back, princess.”

  “You’re not wanted back,” I snarl.

  “You’re right.” He turns his back to me and walks away. The rippling glass becomes smooth, and the colors begin to fade. His image blurs and then disappears, but I still hear his voice echoing around the stone room. “Give it a few days. You won’t just want me. You’ll welcome me.”

  TWELVE

  The colors dwindle away from the glass, leaving it perfectly smooth and reflective and… normal. I’m not sure how it can change back like that. Like nothing had just happened, like I hadn’t just been asked to commit a murder that would be so cataclysmic.

  And so terribly easy.

  Blaize is right to ask me, if it’s convenience he’s after. I have easy access to Father, practice at concealing a weapon, and a serious grudge. I’d make the perfect assassin.

  I stand there shaking, silently thinking over my options: Spare Father and allow Shale to overtake the country. Or kill him, and… What? Shale will still overtake Irrador. If he’s set his eyes on my country, there’s no stopping him.

  I turn my back to the mirror, knowing I’m a fool to have considered the proposition for even a moment. Irrador is doomed. There’s nothing I can do about this, and no point in trying.

  Besides, I’m royalty; Shale won’t treat me too terribly when he overtakes Irrador. I’ll be safe. And I’m not going to sacrifice that security, at least not for some illusion in the mirror.

  And not for a man who refuses to show his face.

  THIRTEEN

  Lor stumbles into my room as I walk away from the mirror. He’s unsteady, dripping blood on my expensive carpets, and glaring at me like all the world’s problem are my fault.

  I wish he was right. Then I might know how to fix them.

  I scramble back a few steps. “Out,” I snarl, pointing to the door.

  Lor ignores me and stumbles closer. My heart beats faster as my predicament dawns on me: I Chose an Angel. An Angel. As in the natural enemy of human royalty.

  I curse myself for my stupidity. I should have given Lor some kind of herbal sedative to keep him down. Maybe passionflower, or lavender… Or hemlock. That’d have done the trick.

  Lor slams into the corner of my bed-frame and nearly falls, but steadies himself and keeps coming closer. I look for a weapon, but there’s nothing within reach. I’m backed up against the wall, and there’s no way I’d get past him to the door. So I stand straighter and glare right back at him, hoping to intimidate him.

  Bad idea.

  Lor reaches me and slams his hands against the wall on either side of me, just inches from my head. His muscles shake as he leans in close to me, eyes narrowed and lip curled into a snarl.

  “Where am I?” he demands, his voice a rumbling growl.

  Even through my shock, his voice sends an ache of familiarity through me. His accent is the same as Ashe’s killer, but also the same as… Ashe. He pronounces vowels elegantly, like each is a teacup that could be easily broken. The consonants flow together just as smoothly, and every word sends a sharp pang through me.

  Some inner part of me, a part I didn’t even realize was still there, wants to reach out and touch Lor. Feel that he’s really here, with me, alive. That part wants him closer, so that I can hear his strong heartbeat and feel his chest rise and fall with his breaths.

  But that part of me is a traitor.

  “You’re still in Irrador,” I answer. “In the capital, Kastellor. You’re in the royal castle.”

  He rears back and then slams forward again, his palms smacking the stone beside my head. I glance down, hoping to calm him by avoiding his furious gaze. My eyes settle on his side, where his bandage has fallen away and a stitch has burst open. He doesn’t seem to notice the blood trickling out of the wound and down his side.

  “I recognize you,” he hisses, his voice dark and not nearly as familiar now. “You’re that girl who was asking too many questions.”

  “My name is Faye, not ‘that girl’,” I say evenly. “And, yes, I visited you in prison.

  “Tell me what I’m doing here,” he commands, leaning in even closer. “What do you want from me?”

  I consider my options: Heel of palm to nose? That could kill him if I do it too hard, and I need him alive. Right hook to stomach? I’m not in the right position for it. Left uppercut to jaw?

  Perfect.

  I swing my fist up, just like Jackal taught me. Fist tight but not too tight, forearm clenched, momentum coming from the body. My punch strikes Lor precisely on his jaw.

  His head snaps back, and I get ready to bolt for the nightstand with my dagger in it. But the rest of his body doesn’t even flinch. He shakes his head, like a horse getting rid of an annoying fly, and then growls at me. The sound rips through the air, and I press myself closer to the wall.

  “Answer me,” he says. “Now.”

  “I Chose you as my Guardian,” I say, shaking my hand to get rid of the pain in my knuckles. “That’s why you’re in the castle. You’re in my chambers.”

  “Your Guardian?”

  “You’re my royal bodyguard now,” I explain.

  He blinks at me a couple times, his eyes widening. Then he throws his head back and laughs. “You’re kidding me, right? You picked an Angel to be your bodyguard? What kind of idiot are you?”

  “I’m a princess.”

  He stops laughing and gives me a critical look. With every passing moment, his arms tremble more.

  “You don’t want to kill me,” I say, and nod to the vambrace on his arm. It’s smooth black leather, and the swirling silver etchings form ancient runes across the surface of the vambrace. “That thing will kill you if you harm me or run away. It’s magic.”

  He snarls and glares at the vambrace. Then he glances back at me, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Your kind doesn’t use magic. How could you have gotten your hands on a magical item?”

  “Look at it,” I command. “It’s old. Old enough to have been made when humans did use magic.”

  Lor frowns down at it. “But I’ll still have the chance to kill you before I die, right?”

  “I saved your life,” I say quickly, desperate for some way to calm him. “My father was going to kill you. I stopped him.”

  His lip twists into a sneer, but it’s not as vicious as before. “And why should I believe that?”

  “Because you’re alive. Do you honestly think the king would willingly let you live? You’re an Angel. You trespassed on human land.”

  He sucks in his lip and nibbles at it, his jaw working back and forth. I wonder how his jaw is working at all; my hand is aching from that punch.

  “I’m the reason you’re alive,” I repeat. “Taking you as my Guardian was the only way to save you. Guardians are exempt from most laws.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Including the trespassing law?”

  I nod. “That law can’t touch you now.”

  He cocks his head. “Why would you save me?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “You want to be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  Lor scoffs and finally removes his hands from the wall. He wobbles for a moment, and then falls to one knee. Bracing one hand on the ground, he glances at his side and mutters a curse.

  “Your stitches burst,” I say.

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “You should get back in bed.”

  He whips his gaze up, piercing me with a glare. “What is it with you and obvious statements?”

  Blackness. Then candlelight that illuminates the room in eerie flickers. And red. Burning red eyes that bore into me, desperate and pleading. Those eyes belong to the man kneeling in front of me on the dirt floor. Black hair, and pale skin, and soft features. He almost looks like a child, but I know he’s not. He’s a monster.

  “Please,” he whispers, voice wavering.

  I shake my head, disgusted by the sound of his grovelling. And then raise my knife.
/>   I gasp and look around. I’m still in my room, brightly lit by the fireplace and chilly from the stone floors. No candles. No dirt in sight, expect for the stains on Lor’s clothes.

  I sag against the wall and close my eyes. Why are these visions hitting me now? Why do they come to me at all? Why red eyes, and not black? Why?

  All of my visions have always been impersonal. Just sounds and sights, and the occasional smell from the past. There’s no thoughts in them. No talking. Nothing to identify them to a particular owner.

  Except for these. These visions—the ones I haven’t had since Ashe died—are just as disturbing as they are unique. Because they contain thoughts— thoughts that somehow feel like they belong to me.

  I open my eyes, remembering that I’m trapped in a room with a dangerous Angel. Lor is still crouched on the ground, glaring up at me. A log crackles in the hearth. The fire flares, casting light across the room. For the first time, I see Lor’s face clearly, without shadows or distance obscuring it.

  His eyes are red.

  FOURTEEN

  “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

  Lor’s question brings me out of my daze. I blink a few times, clearing my thoughts. Lor has red eyes, and so do the men in my visions. But that could just be coincidence, right? There’s no reason to panic.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, although I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I clear my throat, then swallow hard.

  Lor cocks his head to the other side, reminding me of a little of a confused puppy. “What just happened? You zoned out for like a minute.”

  I shake my head and press a hand to my forehead. “Nothing. Really. I’m just tired.”

  He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a growl. Somehow, I know he’s laughing at my lame excuse.

  “Really,” I insist weakly.

  He nods and then presses his forehead against his knee. His chest expands in a shuddering breath. I look around, and my gaze lands on a blanket resting on my dresser, folded and ready for use. I walk over to it and toss it to Lor. He flinches as it lands beside him, and shoots me a suspicious glance.