The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  A woman stepped from the crowd, her dress so filmy it could have doubled as a scarf. A deep red, it shifted and floated behind her as she moved. Somehow it managed to stay in place, and I wondered what sort of craft or sorcery managed the task. She approached the dais as if we were her subjects, wisps of her blond hair mimicking the dress she wore.

  “I know this one,” Gael murmured looking at Bolt, “at least by reputation. Duchess Lyllian Hungor. Does Willet have to delve her?”

  He nodded. “If she claims to hold the gift of kings, he must.”

  She turned to me, shaking her head. “If even half the talk about the duchess is true, you’re probably going to want to put her memories away as quickly as you can.”

  Closer, Hungor appeared to hold about two score years. Fine lines showed around her eyes and the beginning of smile lines lay on the sides of her mouth. Yet, age had managed to enhance her beauty instead of diminishing it, though most men would consider her features strong rather than comely.

  “Errant Consto”—she curtsied—“allow me to welcome you back to the court of your homeland.”

  He inclined his head with enough grace to make any monarch or dancer envious. “Duchess Hungor, I thank you for your welcome, though anyone looking at me would know my birth lies elsewhere.”

  She nodded, smiling indulgently. “But Cynestol is your home, and you’ve earned the right to call it such.”

  “Do you wish to make a claim for the gulled throne?”

  She dipped her head. “I do. The burden of our people rests heavily upon me, and I believe the gift of Aer does as well.” A thread of uncertainty marred the serenity of those green eyes. “Naturally, I would reward all those who have served Aille so well in the past.” Her glance darted to Gael, then me. “Or would do so in the future.”

  Bolt matched her gesture, his head lowering slightly. “Allow me to introduce my friends and advisors, Lady Gael Alainn and her betrothed, Lord Willet Dura.”

  The duchess extended her right hand, palm forward, which Gael matched with her left, each finger and thumb placed to touch their opposite. After a brief moment in which Gael’s eyes widened visibly, they parted and the duchess turned to me, this time extending her left hand in the same manner.

  I’d stripped off my gloves and raised my right hand to match hers. I knew what to expect, but in the instant before I fell into the delve, the heat of her touch still surprised me. The river of her memories flowed past me in a swirl of colored recollections. But where the colors of most people I’d met showed hues of startling clarity denoting both pleasure and pain, most of hers were muted.

  I let them wash over me until I became Duchess Lyllian Hungor, a major power in the kingdom of Aille and as lost a soul as humanity or circumstance could contrive. I spent my days in quests for influence and pleasure, trying to fill a hole the death of my first husband had put in my soul. But each fleeting moment of pleasure carved out a bit more of my insides, until the hole became a cavern. At the last, nothing of pleasure remained in my liaisons, only a hunger that refused to be filled.

  I blinked, finding myself in the throne room with my right hand a whisper away from her left and my face flaming. I jerked as if I’d been burned and tried to turn the motion into a bow that would hide my embarrassment. The duchess eyed me, suspicion engraved in her expression.

  “Thank you, Duchess Hungor,” Bolt said from his seat. “Your dedication to Aille is noted.” At the tone of dismissal, Lyllian Hungor curtsied once more and withdrew, her dress and hair trailing after in the breeze of her departure.

  “Willet?” Gael asked.

  I swallowed, working to put the fresh set of memories away, but try as I might, there were vivid images that remained. “Well . . . that was an education.”

  Bolt laughed, his bark of amusement drawing the stares of court.

  For a moment, I saw Gael’s sculpted features flash a look I’d seen on other women, but never on her until that moment. Jealousy. I would have told her that the duchess was more to be pitied than censured, but the other chief nobles, emboldened by the encounter, queued up to present themselves as contenders for the throne.

  An eternity of formality and half a dozen sets of memories later, Bolt withdrew from court, allowing me to trail in his wake. Not one of the nobles I had delved possessed the gift of kings or, more correctly, none of them were aware of having such a gift. The only monarch I’d ever delved was King Laidir, and that had been in the earliest days of my gift, before I even knew I had or understood it.

  “Are you sure the one who has the gift will know?” I asked Bolt in the privacy of our rooms.

  He nodded as if the question had already been asked and answered. To be fair, it had. “Imagine yourself suddenly skilled at every endeavor known to man. How could you not know?”

  I shrugged. “What if it came to a drunkard? Some poor sot who’s never sober enough to understand what he’s feeling might completely miss the fact that he’s supposed to be the next king.”

  His shoulders dropped as he turned my way. “Then I suppose we’ll have to go through the city and round up all the drunks so we can sober one of them up enough to take the throne.” He lifted a hand. “Do you always have to imagine the worst set of circumstances?”

  I shrugged. “It usually saves time.”

  Bolt turned to Gael. “Are you sure you want to marry him? He’s dour enough to be a Vigil guard.”

  She gave me a smile along with one of those smoldering looks from beneath her lashes. “I’ve never noticed that. Maybe it’s the company he keeps.”

  “Never mind.” He grew serious as he looked at me. “Are you ready to do your job?”

  Queen Chora’s death. “I wonder what it would be like to be a cobbler or musician, to be part of a profession that didn’t have to deal in the worst humanity had to offer.” But inside I could feel the beat of my heart quicken, and I nodded.

  We left our quarters and began the long trek to the royal chambers, making slight turns that fell short of the expected right angles as we negotiated the six-sided palace one leg at a time, the thick carpet muffling the sound of our steps. On our right, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Cynestol at night, a city so lit that it resembled a mass of light bugs hovering over a field. On our left, toward the interior of the palace, were short hallways filled with doors, an uncountable number. I nodded down the hallway. “Why are so many people still up?” I asked Bolt.

  “Cynestol is huge. The bigger the city, the more people it takes to keep it running smoothly.” His mouth pulled to one side. “Plus, there have been so many marriages among the nobility that nearly all of them work here in some capacity or another.”

  “Does the crown really need all these people?” Rory asked.

  Bolt shrugged. “No, but it helps keep them out of trouble. There’s a ministry for nearly everything, most of them incredibly insignificant. Except for the attempt on Chora that ended the time of the Errants, it’s been hundreds of years since any of the major nobles did any serious plotting against the throne.”

  We came around to the east side of the palace after something closer to a hike than a walk. A quartet of guards stood sentry over a pair of double doors fifteen feet tall and wide enough for eight men to walk through abreast. The wood, light and nearly without grain, looked as if it had been freshly lacquered the week before. They probably had a minister for that.

  One of the guards advanced, a captain’s insignia on his shoulder. “No one is permitted into the royal chambers, by order of the bishop.”

  Bolt nodded. “Almost no one, and I think you mean the Archbishop.” He reached inside his doublet and pulled the letter from Vyne.

  The captain read the letter in increments, pausing to look at Bolt and the rest of us. He handed back the letter with a shake of his head. “No, Errant Consto. I mean the bishop. Bishop Gehata has forbidden access to the royal apartments until such time as the church can confirm a new king.” He nodded toward the letter in Bolt’s hand. �
��The Archbishop’s letter grants you quarters in the palace, not access to Queen Chora’s apartments.”

  Bolt gazed at the captain through narrowed eyes. “I suppose the bishop has the entrance guarded round the clock?”

  At the captain’s nod, we retreated the way we came, Rory leading with Bolt on my left, chewing the inside of his cheek the whole way.

  “We’re stuck,” I said, more to dispel the silence than anything else.

  “For the moment,” Bolt said.

  “Vyne never intended for us to investigate Chora’s death,” I said.

  Bolt nodded. “The Vigil is the biggest secret the church has, Willet, but not its only secret. In Vyne’s mind, Chora is dead and the risks associated with uncovering the facts of it outweigh the benefits.”

  Something mulishly stubborn flared to life in my chest. Bishop, Archbishop, or no, I was determined to find a way to investigate the queen’s death. Bolt’s soft laughter hit me like iced water dumped down my back. “What’s so funny?”

  “The Archbishop has played us perfectly,” he said. “He can’t forbid you from investigating the queen’s death, but he can deny you access to the facts of it.”

  Rory turned from his survey of the hall ahead. “Is everyone in the nobility and the church a schemer? They make Fess and Mark look like choirboys.”

  “No,” Bolt said. “Not all of them or anything close to it, but the ones in power don’t get there by being stupid, no matter what their intentions are. You didn’t really believe the urchins were the only ones who bluffed or conned people, did you?”

  Rory stiffened. “Of course not,” he said, but I could see a different perspective growing behind his eyes.

  “Where does this leave us?” I asked.

  Bolt took a deep breath. “For now, this leaves us in the throne room.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “That’s just what I’ve always wanted, a chance to swim in the accumulated indulgences of the richest kingdom on earth. Lovely. When I’m done, I think I’ll have a bath in the sewer.”

  “Stop complaining,” Bolt growled.“It’s a chance to see if any of those peacocks know anything that can help us.”

  Chapter 16

  A week after sailing from Port City, Pellin sat on his bunk with Mark and Elieve seated before him. The gentle rocking of the ship beneath the blue canopy of the sky had served to lull the girl into a semblance of calm. Allta guarded the door. Mark’s hands twitched every time his gaze fell on the blindfold Elieve wore. Pellin placed his hand on Elieve’s arm, had just enough time to enjoy the infrequent sensation of touching another before the delve took him into her mind.

  What he saw astounded him. His expectation, his hope, had been that Elieve would accumulate memories as swiftly as a newborn, but Mark’s focused companionship had managed to create memories within the girl at an even faster rate. While Elieve’s memories still constituted a stream rather than a river, there was no danger of the girl losing her way.

  With a brief mental exertion, he lifted his hand from her skin and came out of her mind. “Well done, Mark. I think we can do more than just try to restore her vision; I think I’ll be able to take away all of Cerena’s memories.”

  He glanced at Allta, waited for his guard to acknowledge him before he continued. “Listen carefully. Here is how it must be done. When those with the gift of domere enter a person’s mind, we see their memories as a river composed of colored strands. The color indicates the emotion attached to the particular memory. When I first entered Elieve’s mind, every strand I saw was black with hatred. That was Cesla’s doing.”

  He sighed against the coming fatigue. “Since all of those memories had to be destroyed, it was a fairly simple process. What I must do now is harder. I will have to sift through Elieve’s memories until I have destroyed every remnant of Cerena’s life. Within her mind, I will grasp each memory, one at a time, to determine its origin. If it is Elieve’s, I will release it. If it is Cerena’s, a mental twist, hardly more than the intention of destroying it, will serve to obliterate it. Delving runs at incomprehensible speed compared to the waking world, but even so, this will take a long time. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Mark?”

  His apprentice—strange that the word carried more weight now—nodded.

  “Good,” Pellin said. “You must commit everything I tell you to memory. It’s important.”

  Mark’s answering nod was serious. “Yes, Eldest.”

  He put his hand back on Elieve’s arm.

  When he lifted it again, the ship still rocked, but the morning sky outside the porthole had turned to charcoal and a scarlet wash of clouds on the horizon showed that night was mere minutes away. The room spun in his vision, and he pitched toward the floor.

  Strong hands caught him, helped him upright. Slowly, the room stabilized and Pellin pointed to a chair. Allta half carried him, but once sitting, his real senses reasserted themselves, and after a drink he found speech possible.

  “I have done all I can to ensure she is well and truly Elieve. I think you can remove her blindfold now, Mark, though she may find even this dim light uncomfortable at first.”

  Mark reached up to untie his thief’s blindfold from the girl.

  “Be ready, Allta,” Pellin said. “Her response is unpredictable.”

  The girl ducked her head, squinting against the light, then buried her face into the crook of Mark’s shoulder.

  “It’s alright, Elieve,” Mark said.

  The sound of his voice pulled her head up, her eyes wide, but his nearness kept her from focusing on him, and blinking, she leaned away until almost a foot of space separated them.

  “Elieve,” Mark said again.

  “Loved,” she said.

  “Yes.” Mark nodded.

  Pellin watched her gaze fix upon Mark’s lips. “Keep talking to her, lad.”

  “You are loved,” Mark said.

  Elieve lifted her hands to Mark’s face, feeling, poking him clumsily as he spoke to her, tracing the movements of his mouth. Her head lifted as her gaze traveled up from his lips, and wherever her sight landed her hands followed, touching. When she got to his eyes, a light blue that matched the color of the sky at noon, she stopped.

  His shy grin showed teeth, and she reached out to touch them. “Greetings,” Mark said.

  She traced the movement with her hands and copied it in a husky voice. “G-gr-greetings.”

  This time when he smiled, she copied that as well.

  Hesitantly, his moves gentle and slow, as though she was a fawn he didn’t want to startle, Mark turned Elieve around so that she faced Pellin. “Look.”

  Her eyes. Her eyes were a light brown, tan, the color of weakest tea with cream, but they were colored. Not clear.

  Tears stung his old man’s gaze, and he drew a deep shuddering breath. How long had it been since he’d felt this, this sense of wonder, since he’d felt young? “It’s a miracle.”

  Mark laughed softly, his posture mirroring the fatigue wrought by Elieve’s constant care. Smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes testified to the price he’d paid to bring Elieve’s mind back from oblivion. “Do all miracles take so much work? I thought they were supposed to be like magic.”

  Pellin sighed. Despite the tone of jesting, Mark’s question carried hints of earnestness that shouldn’t be ignored. “I think so, though I haven’t seen enough to claim any expertise. Perhaps a miracle must carry a cost, but most of the time we just don’t see it.”

  Mark nodded. “That makes sense. Someone should put that in the liturgy.”

  “It’s in there,” Pellin said, “for the really important ones anyway.”

  “Ma-ark,” Elieve said, putting her hand to his chest.

  Mark’s smile lit the room. “That’s right, Elieve. That’s right.” He turned. “What do I do now, Eldest?”

  Pellin shook his head as he smiled. “You’re asking me? I’ve never brought anyone back from such emptiness. What I have to do and what you have to do from th
is point are very different.” He let all the pride he felt at Mark’s accomplishment blaze in his smile. “I’m going to record everything you’ve done in the most minute detail so that those who follow us will know how to rescue such lost souls. Aer be praised, lad! Do you know what you’ve done?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Allta. “She’s coming with us to see the southern Vigil. What’s most important?”

  Allta nodded. “She needs to be able to tend to her own ablutions, to dress and feed herself, to be able to ride, and to speak.”

  Mark’s face stilled. “Elieve’s like a newborn. That will take years.”

  Pellin shook his head. “I think not, lad. She knows her name and yours already. The nature of memory holds more mystery than we can divine. We spoke of the inseparable nature of the mind and the body and the spirit. In her spirit, she knows all these things already, even if they’ve been temporarily erased from her mind. I believe, based on what you’ve accomplished already, that her mind and body will relearn the rest with amazing speed.” He lifted his hands, palm up. “But in any case, the most important thing is for you to teach her to tend to herself without constant supervision. We won’t have time for you to bathe her every day.”

  For the next two days Pellin watched, amazed, as Mark tended to Elieve. The boy had been committed before, but with Elieve’s mind now her own, Mark had been afforded the opportunity to obtain regular sleep and rest. He taught Elieve with an intensity belied by his playful demeanor. Each morning he would talk her through breakfast, insisting that she feed herself, describing the utensils, the food, even the taste. When Elieve’s attention flagged, he would cease that particular lesson and adjourn to the deck.

  Hand in hand they would walk around the ship, and Mark would take Elieve’s fingertips and rub it across the surfaces, describing each in turn, or point to objects that shared the same color to call them out. It was during one of these moments that Elieve rediscovered her sense of humor.

  “Blue,” Mark said, pointing to the waters of the southern sea. Then he pointed to the sky and repeated the word.