The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  Grief snuffed my anger like a chill wind extinguishing a candle. “Forgive me, my friend,” I said to no one, “for asking for more than you could give.”

  I made my way to the door of my cell, my feet splashing the puddle of water, and peered through the bars. Not the slightest hint of light intruded upon the darkness. I concentrated on blinking a few times to ensure my eyes were open. In the silence of my cell it occurred to me that I had seen Ealdor for the last time, either by his death or mine.

  A fresh tide of mourning, with its brackish taste, poured through me. Desperate, I almost laughed. Hope had died, and I would probably follow in short order. Here at the end, like those I’d accompanied in the house of passing, I would beg Aer for my life.

  I raised my hands and began the antidon, the words familiar through long practice. “Aer, Iosa, and Gaoithe, we commend your servant, Willet Dura—me—into your care, and pray that you would bring him into the company of those that have passed before. From darkness, let him pass into light. From death, let him pass into life.”

  I stopped, the rest of the prayer turning to ashes on my lips. Aer knew the antidon better than I possibly could. He’d heard it more times than I could reckon. “Aer, I need to live. Help me to find a way to beat Gehata and the forest. Please.”

  I can’t say I felt joy, but an odd reassurance stole over me. I had done what I could. My life and that of my friends and countrymen were in the hands of all-powerful Aer, but He had given me the mind of a reeve so that I could have some hand in the fight.

  In the tales, the heroes never have to sit around and wait for very long. My story should have swept to its thrilling conclusion, the hero fighting and winning against insurmountable odds. Water dripped behind me, the plop of each little splash mocking my imprisonment.

  “Stupid fables,” I said, but it was just as well I had to wait. I needed a way to survive. I bowed my head and relived every conversation I’d ever had about the gift of domere, searching.

  Gehata’s men would enter my cell with their sword points out front, while one of them bound and covered my hands. Then Mirren would delve me for whatever information Gehata might find useful.

  After Mirren delved me, one of the guards, or perhaps Gehata himself, would open me with a dagger and let me bleed to death, allowing time for my gift to find its way to a new owner.

  After Mirren delved me.

  There had to be something I could do, some way to fight.

  When I had delved Barl, one of the lost souls who’d gone to the forest, black threads had leapt for me within his mind, pinning me, making me, the delver, powerless. If I could do the same to Mirren, I could trap her mind within mine. Before I released her, I could force her will to my own, turning her against Gehata.

  I smiled, a lost gesture in the darkness of my cell, but the expression evaporated. The knowledge of how to take Mirren’s mind captive might have been written somewhere within the Vigil library, but Custos had disappeared. There were no rats in my cell, but desperation ate at me just as effectively. Without knowledge or intuition on how to fight Mirren’s gift, I had no recourse except to hide the knowledge Gehata wanted.

  Retreating within my mind, I entered the sanctum of the Merum library in Bunard once more and prepared a door behind which I would place every memory from the last year. Before Mirren entered my mind, I would lock the memories away, denying their knowledge to Bishop Gehata. I knew the gesture to be a feeble one. It wouldn’t keep me alive, but I had nothing else I could do.

  My imminent death clarified my desires. I stood and lifted my arms in benison, and I appealed directly to Aer. “‘The six charisms of Aer are these: for the body, beauty and craft; for the soul, sum and parts; for the spirit, helps and devotion. The nine talents of man are these: language, logic, space, rhythm, motion, nature, self, others, and all. The four temperaments of creation are these: impulse, passion, observation, and thought. Within them all and the gift of domere are found knowledge and wisdom. Know and learn.’”

  I finished the liturgy of the rite of haeling and sat, resigned, if not exactly peaceful. In the end, the battle was Aer’s. If I could have carried the burden of saving our world from the poison of the Darkwater, then Aer, Iosa, and Gaoithe wouldn’t have needed to touch the world they’d made.

  Did I believe that?

  In the dark with doubt gnawing at my spirit, I couldn’t say. Any number of points within the proverbs of the liturgy proclaimed His control, and churchmen recited it every day to console or congratulate those souls who’d been denied or received a gift.

  How far was I willing to go in those beliefs? Would I be able to surrender my will to survive?

  I don’t know how long I pondered those questions, wavering between certainty and disbelief, but at some point in my deliberation I heard the irregular footsteps of men in the distance. A moment later, I saw the yellow bobbing of lantern light coming toward my cell. I genuflected and made the sign of the intersecting arcs on my forehead.

  Did I believe?

  Keys rattled in the lock and the door swung open. I would have laughed at how prescient I’d been in my imaginings had I not been about to die. A half-dozen guards with their weapons leveled at my chest squeezed into the confines of my cell, their sword points a hairsbreadth from my tunic or touching it. I tried not to breathe too deeply. One of the guards came forward with a thick leather bag and a length of stout cord.

  I didn’t bother to argue or fight. Instead, I extended my hands in front of me and watched as the guard covered and bound them, removing the only weapon I had. Bishop Gehata and Mirren stood outside in the hallway, illuminated by a pair of lanterns on either side. I watched as Mirren stripped the gloves from her hands.

  “You’ve returned sooner than I expected,” I said to Gehata.

  “Sooner?” He smiled. “It’s the sixth hour of the night.”

  I shrugged. “You know what’s written in the proverbs as well as I. ‘A thousand days is as a breath.’”

  He laughed. “And ‘the coming of Aer catches fools unaware.’”

  I met his gaze with my own, for once deadly serious. “So it does.”

  His smile wilted a bit at the corners, turning to a sneer of disdain. “Find what you can, Mirren, and then break his mind.”

  I had hoped she might refuse, that such cold-blooded murder would be the line she refused to cross, but she stepped forward, her hand cupped and raised to my face as if she meant to offer me a caress.

  I closed my eyes before she made contact. Panic prowled through my mind like a wounded animal in a trap, desperate for escape. I felt the touch of her skin, and reflexively I retreated into the depths of my construct. Powerless.

  I stood in the sanctum of the Merum library in Bunard, somewhat surprised at Custos’s absence. The trestle table stood in the middle of the room with a broad taper on it that gave light, but the shelves and nooks were devoid of books or parchments. In my panic, I must have put them away.

  A woman, hardly more than a girl, stood before me, gazing around the room in surprise. Her eyes were a deep green, not quite olive, but more akin to the color of the sea beneath clouds. She’d pulled her ash-blond hair back in the style of the cosp, but she wore no sword.

  No sword. In her mind, she didn’t see herself as a soldier of the cosp.

  “Greetings, Mirren.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can talk to me?”

  I nodded. “If one is aware of the gift and expecting it, they can converse. I have a good friend who showed me how.”

  She shook her head. “Where are your memories?”

  I gestured to the walls of the sanctum, lined with doors. “Locked away.”

  Her mouth pursed. “Do you think that will save you from me? From him?”

  “No,” I said. “He means to have my gift. It may be as close to him as a dagger thrust, or not, but even if he is denied, he still means to see me dead.”

  She stepped toward me, and I felt pressure within my mind.

&
nbsp; “Do you know why you have the gift?” I asked.

  Mirren nodded. “Aer willed it.”

  “Yes. Why do I have it?”

  Her face darkened. “Most of those memories were denied to me, but I learned enough. You have it because you took it from a dying man.”

  She looked at me as if she expected me to deny it. “True enough, but I never wanted it, Mirren. I never desired to be able to see into the minds of others. How many times has it brought you joy to look into the hearts of those around you?”

  She didn’t answer, but her brows knotted.

  “Has Bishop Gehata allowed you to touch him?” I asked.

  “It’s forbidden.”

  I didn’t laugh. The pressure on my mind reminded me that despite being in my construct, Mirren could destroy me. “I don’t recall reading that in the liturgy anywhere as an acolyte.”

  “You’re a priest?” Her eyes widened enough to lighten their dark green.

  I nodded. “Most of the Vigil are—though I was a week from taking my vows when my king conscripted me into the war.”

  Instead of mollifying her anger, my answer intensified it. She stepped toward me. “Betrayers of the faith! The bishop told me what you’ve done, corrupting your gift for power.”

  The pressure on my mind increased until it became a stabbing pain, and the doors within my sanctum rippled as if they were nothing more than cloth in the wind. “Stop.”

  Her fury escalated. “So you can continue to manipulate and lie and kill? Your secrets betray you, Lord Dura. If I cannot bring your deeds to light before I break your mind, you will have to justify yourself to Aer.”

  “Aer? Is that whom you serve?” She didn’t answer. A part of my mind cracked and my thoughts blurred. What did I believe?

  I held up a hand in surrender. The pressure didn’t ease, but it didn’t increase either. “It’s yours.”

  “What’s mine?” she asked, pointing at the doors. “You’ve locked them all away.”

  “The gift,” I said. “It came to you freely. It’s yours.” I either believed what I believed or I didn’t. With a mental wrench of effort, I opened all the doors of my sanctum. Light flashed as a lifetime of memories came into existence in the room in the form of books and scrolls, some dusty, others with the ink still wet.

  But the pressure on my mind remained. “This won’t save you,” Mirren said.

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But before Gehata kills me, you should know the truth of the man you’re condemning.” I gestured at the walls. “This is my life. All of it.”

  Pain lanced through my head. “Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dura?” she snarled. “I can’t absorb your entire life without breaking my mind. I know that.”

  I nodded in spite of the lights exploding in my head. “Time outside the delve passes far more slowly than it does here.” I pointed to a shelf. “My knowledge and memories of the Vigil are there. It only encompasses a few months, but there are connections to my past that you will need for context.”

  She moved to the indicated case and touched a book, her expression plainly speaking doubt. A flash of light that made my head hurt lit the sanctum, and the book flared with light as Mirren absorbed the memories. I stood too far away to see which one it had been and the organization of my mind couldn’t begin to rival Custos’s, but she didn’t appear impressed.

  Mirren moved to the next scroll and showed it to me, her expression grim. I recognized it as the set of memories from my capture by the Vigil and my visit to the prison cells beneath the king’s tor in Bunard.

  “I was a reeve,” I told her. “You won’t like what you find in there.”

  “Tricks,” she said shaking her head, but when the scroll flashed, she doubled over, retching.

  The pressure vanished, and I walked over to her, bent and clutching her stomach by the case. “I’m sorry, Mirren.”

  She straightened. “You grieve for me?”

  I nodded. “The gift came to you—though it might be as accurate to say that it came for you.” I pulled another book from the shelf, the next set of memories of my life after the ones she’d just absorbed.

  “No.” Her blond hair rippled with her refusal.

  She could have denied me. I was the one being delved, but when I held the book out to her, she took it. A flare of memory-light later the book had closed again. I reached for another, but she held up her hand. “It’s too much.”

  “Put them away,” I said. “Only keep in your mind what you need. Lock the rest behind doors. You can’t absorb my life, but this is only a few months. Even at that, most of my memories are insignificant and can be ignored.”

  She took the book from my hands with the air of a woman accepting her death.

  Inside the delve, half a day might have passed by the time Mirren emptied the shelf. She slumped on the floor, her back against the wall and her knees curled protectively against her body, shaking her head.

  “Gehata will see me killed, Mirren. You have to find a way to summon Ealdor,” I said.

  She gaped at me as if I’d asked her to shoulder the weight of the moon and parade around the cathedral with it. “He doesn’t even know me.”

  I lifted my hands. “It’s difficult to determine what the Fayit know. He might. It doesn’t matter. Gehata means to have my gift.” What did I believe? “I don’t think it will go to him, but that will make little difference to me.” I pointed at her head. “You have to get my memories and thoughts to the rest of the Vigil.” I paused. “I’d like to say they’ll know what to do, but they might not.”

  Mirren looked at me, her head moving slowly from side to side. Then her eyes grew wide. “I’ve been here too long. Someone is shaking me.” Standing, she gave me an inscrutable look that might have held pity or judgment or both. “Put it away.” She pointed at the rest of my life lining the walls. “All of it. Leave the barest portion of yourself here,” she ordered. “Just the last few moments of your imprisonment.”

  I tried to smile. I knew what she meant to do. “That won’t stop him.”

  The anger I’d seen in her at the first, returned. “We’ll see, Lord Dura.”

  Pressure, sharp and intense, built against my mind until my thoughts broke and broke again. Darkness grew at the edge of my vision, swallowing the walls of the sanctum, growing until it consumed the shelves, the trestle table, and the candle upon it. And me.

  Chapter 34

  I woke to cold and damp. My hands groped and found stone, wet with the same chill that tightened my legs into cramps. Gehata and Mirren would be coming for me. I tried to play the scene in my head, but my thoughts wouldn’t cooperate. They moved, sluggish as a stick floating on the Rinwash.

  The bishop would come for me. I nodded. Yes, that felt right, but his men would enter my cell first. They’d come with their sword points out front. Gehata wouldn’t take the chance that I might touch one of them and turn him.

  Had I?

  I shook my head, and my thoughts oozed with the motion, muddy and thick. Had? Was I remembering?

  One of them would cover my hands. Then they bound them.

  Hints of visions haunted me. No. Gehata hadn’t been here yet. I cast further back, remembering my imprisoned isolation in perfect clarity. I needed to live, and for that I needed a plan.

  Mirren would delve me for whatever information Gehata might find useful. What would that be? What had Gehata wanted?

  I shook my head, but I couldn’t reconcile conjectures that felt like memories.

  Power. Gehata wanted power.

  He wanted the rest of the Vigil. If one of us remained outside of his control, his position as head of the Merum church was precarious at best. It wouldn’t take much to convince the rulers to gather their armies and march on Cynestol. And the Darkwater would be left undefended. Thousands upon thousands would venture into the forest like a deluge bringing ruin to the north.

  After Mirren delved me, one of the guards, or perhaps Gehata himself, would open me with a dagger
and let me bleed to death allowing plenty of time for my gift to find its way to—

  I stopped as the barest hint of light shone outside my cell, without no sound. Gehata was coming, but where were his men? The light grew, and I withdrew into the corner of my cell as if I could find some escape there. Fear bubbled through the ruin of my thoughts.

  Fight, I told myself. If I couldn’t hear the sound of boots, they weren’t coming for me in strength. A key turned in the lock.

  Only Mirren stood in the hall. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes from the light of her torch, but I didn’t attack. Despite the fact that she showed no weapon, fear held me, and I wanted to cower in the corner and beg her to go away. I struggled to think as hints of nightmares and reality blended.

  “The fear will fade,” she said, “but we have to get out of here. Dawn is less than an hour away.”

  She held out a gloved hand. I didn’t take it, but I managed to step toward her. “We have to get Bolt,” I said. I tried to ignore the way my voice quavered.

  “And the rest,” Mirren added. “The guards will change any minute. If they discover the keys gone, the cosp will fall on us like an avalanche.”

  “Bolt first,” I said. We went up one level, my legs as confident as a newborn colt’s, and down the long hallway until we found his cell.

  He blinked once in the lantern light and with that simple motion appeared to shed any indisposition of his captivity. “I don’t suppose you brought my sword.”

  “That would have raised questions I couldn’t answer,” Mirren said. “We have to go back to the lower levels.”

  I shook my head. My thoughts still wouldn’t cooperate. “Why?”

  “I told you,” Mirren said. “We have to get the others.”

  Instead of following, Bolt lashed out, grabbing Mirren by the arm. Her mouth opened in a silent cry of pain. She struggled to bring her other hand to bear, striving to touch him, but he caught her by the wrist and a mewing cry whispered from her.

  “What did you do to him?” Bolt asked.

  “I muddled his thoughts,” Mirren said. “Let’s go. We don’t have time for this.”