The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  I pointed at the two girls. Both dark, with light-colored eyes showing hints of blue and green, they stood frozen by the threat of violence. “They saw something that has to do with Queen Chora’s death. I need to talk to them about it.” I dipped my head. “That’s going to happen whether you allow it or not. So the only question is, will you still be breathing a few moments from now when I do?”

  “Willet,” Bolt hissed, “I’m not quick enough to get to them.”

  “There you see?” The man in front said with a smile. “I think you’re going to let us pass. Otherwise, the girls will die.”

  A thought occurred to me, and I pointed to Rory. “If either of these men turn away from us without dropping their weapon, I want you to put your knives to use.”

  “You think I’m afraid to die?” the man in front asked.

  “Probably a little,” I said, “but maybe not enough to serve me.” I smiled. “That’s why I’m telling Rory to put those toys of his in your hamstrings.” I dismounted and took a step forward. “I’m not going to let you leave with them, and if you harm them in any way, I’m not going to let you die. I’m going to hurt you in ways you’ve barely glimpsed in your nightmares. Rory?”

  For effect, Rory lifted his left hand and rolled a dagger back and forth across it fast enough to make the edge buzz in the air. “And I’m right-handed,” he said.

  The guard in back straightened out of his stance and sheathed his sword, stepping to his right, away from the girls. A moment later the guard in front copied him. Bolt and Rory dismounted.

  “If you really want to help Aille, go north,” Bolt said. “They need men at the forest. If I see you back in Cynestol, I’ll kill you.”

  I took a step toward the girls, my heart pounding with relief and exultation. They backed up against the wall, their eyes wide with expectations of violence. Mirren tugged at my sleeve. “They might prefer a woman,” she said, but when she stepped forward they cringed.

  “I think they’re afraid of everyone, and it’s hard to blame them.”

  Gael dismounted and stepped in front of me. “Go easy, Willet,” she murmured. “They’re scared. You may be able to see into their minds, but you have no idea what they’ve been through yet.” She turned to the girls. “Let me introduce you to my friend.” She pointed to me. “His name is Willet. He’s not going to hurt you.”

  I took a step forward and then another, but at the third they flinched and tried to press themselves into the stones of the wall, their faces turned away. I unbuckled my sword and sat on the ground. “What are your names?”

  “Arriella,” said the shorter of the two. Her voice was reedy with fear, and the way she flinched when her back touched the stone explained some of it. “This is Oronelle.” She touched the other girl on the arm.

  “I’d like to talk to you, if I may,” I said. “For just a little while, and then, if you like, we can take you back to Cynestol and your family.”

  Oronelle dropped her head, and a tear caught the light as it fell to the ground. “We didn’t protect the queen,” she said. “They don’t want us anymore.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked quietly.

  Oronelle didn’t raise her head, but I heard her sniff. “The bishop.”

  “Well, Oronelle, the bishop lied,” I said. “Your family loves you, and what happened to the queen wasn’t your fault.”

  “How could you know that?” Arriella asked.

  I nodded and patted the ground to either side of me. Hesitantly, like skittish colts, they came and sat. “I know what came after the queen,” I said. “Your job was to see them, yes?”

  They nodded.

  I reached out to Arriella, not taking her hand, simply offering mine. She’d taken the lead, speaking for them both, but her fingers trembled even so. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “They told us to point at everyone. Everyone,” she said. She put her hand in mine.

  I plunged through the blue-green of her eyes and into memories that rushed and ran, cascading with all the force of fear and youth. Becoming Arriella, I stood close to the queen along with Oronelle and Bonicia, my sisters. Stern men of the cosp stood around us, tall and unspeaking.

  The duty of watching for everyone who approached the queen had seemed exciting and a little scary at first, but the routine of pointing at everyone who approached Chora had grown old. We walked toward the only respite from that duty, the queen’s private quarters, where she would sleep for the night. Two of us preceded Queen Chora into her bedchamber, searching out every crack and crevice that might conceal an assassin. Only after we’d satisfied the cosp of the security of the queen’s quarters was the queen allowed to seek her bed with us on cots to each side and at the foot. The lieutenant, flanked by the youngest of the cosp, almost boys, nodded to the queen and locked us in for the night.

  The first thump against the door woke Oronelle, though she hardly slept anyway. It was her cry that woke me. A second thump, the sound of a body hitting the floor brought Chora to wakefulness. “Guards?”

  No answer to her call came from outside the door, but a moment later a key turned in the lock. Relief flooded through me at the sight of the uniformed cosp guards that stepped through, a man and a woman. The woman must have been inordinately skilled with the sword to offset her slight stature, but there was no mistaking the power that resided in the man. His shoulders bulked like hams, and he stood a hand taller than most of the other guards.

  Bonicia ran to them as Oronelle and I turned to the queen.

  Chora sat up in her bed, openmouthed and watching, her gaze alternating between a wide-eyed stare and a squint, and her head moved back and forth as if she were scanning the room.

  A sharp retort of sound by the door shot through me and I turned to see Bonicia on the floor, her head at an awkward angle. The man and the woman darted to us, not slow by any means, but not so gifted as the cosp. Beside me Oronelle whimpered, but I drew breath and screamed.

  “Guards! To the queen! Guards!”

  Then the man was upon us. I saw the fist coming toward my head, tried to duck, but I was too slow. Pain flared like the sun and everything went black.

  I woke to sobbing and light. I recognized that voice. Even as a young child Oronelle had cried in rhythm in her distress, exhaling three sobs before pulling a protracted breath.

  I sat up, and the room spun with the effort. I probed twin egg-sized lumps by my temples that felt as if they would split and bleed any moment. The queen stood talking to her advisor, Bishop Gehata.

  “He came for me,” Chora said, her eyes cold and calculating, “but I couldn’t see him. Only providence and the girls kept him from killing me.”

  “Praise Aer,” the bishop said.

  But Queen Chora shook her head. “I’d be more inclined to praise Him if Bonicia hadn’t been killed.” She pointed to a body riddled with arrows that everyone in the room now saw without effort. “I want the other,” Chora said, “the woman.”

  The bishop nodded, his unblinking gaze on me and my sister, his expression sorrowful, but his eyes glittered like splinters of agate. “I think it would be best if we brought fresh guards, Your Majesty. And fresh watchers as well. Oronelle and Ariella are probably too grief-stricken to exercise the diligence needed to watch over you.”

  The queen nodded. “Go with the bishop, girls.”

  We stepped over and he took us, one under each arm, and escorted us out of her chambers. At the top of the stairs, the bishop stopped to signal the lieutenant. “Have one of your men go with them. The girls want to go home.”

  I descended the stairs with my arm locked in Oronelle’s, her sobs echoing from the polished stone.

  I came out of the delve to see Ariella talking with me, her narrative racing to keep pace with her thoughts. “The next day when we got to the palace we were told to return home.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Every day we came back, but it was always the same. The bishop told us the palace had no place for those who w
ere so lax in their task.” She swallowed, her throat working against her shame. “Then the queen was killed,” she said. “We were outside the hall. The bishop was furious when he found out we were there, screaming at how we’d deserted her.” She shook her head. “But it didn’t make any sense. He was the one who sent us away.”

  I nodded without speaking. It made all too much sense. With none but the cosp loyal to him to witness it, he’d had the queen murdered, but I didn’t have time to explain, and it would have done nothing to succor the wounds the girls carried. I’d seen something else in Ariella’s mind, a room within the protected walls of the farm that no one approached, a room always guarded. “They kept you in the largest building?”

  The gesture they both made might have been a nod. Gael herded them toward the nearest entrance, a straight-lined rectangular door in the heavy stone wall surrounding the keep. There was no guard, and the door stood open. We walked through into a community of the Merum church. Penitents and postulates worked at stalls and sheds at whatever tasks the church or Aer devised for them, and across the yard the pinging sound of a hammer came from a smithy.

  I paused when my gaze fell across Mirren. The idea of having an apprentice was going to take some getting used to. “Give me your hand,” I said.

  When I let go, I watched Mirren sort through the memories. “Why are you giving them to me now?”

  “I’m safeguarding them,” I said. “You said so yourself. I’m lucky to be alive. If anything happens to me, find Pellin or Toria Deel and show them my memories. They’ll know what to do.” At least I hoped they would know what to do.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Gael asked a pair of postulants.

  “The deaconess,” they said in unison as they dropped their eyes to the ground. From their reaction I had an idea of the type of person this deaconess might be. Gael must have had the same notion. Her stare went flat. “Where is she?”

  One of the girls pointed to a large squat building opposite the church. Set amid a meticulously groomed flower garden tended by a trio of white-robed postulants, its solidity refuted the adornment. It looked like what it was—a prison. A bell stand stood in the middle of an arc of intertwined rose vines.

  “She has a talent for nature,” Custos said, “if not nurture.”

  We tied our horses to the most convenient rail and escorted the girls inside. The postulates tending the garden looked at us with wide-eyed stares, as if we were willingly marching to our deaths.

  I blinked twice to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light and saw a woman of middle years behind a desk, her dark hair shot with streaks of silver. The lines on her face testified to the years she wore, but there remained enough traces of her youth to testify to a luminous beauty. She rose, the motion gracefully imperious, and nodded greeting without smiling.

  “Deaconess.” I bowed. “The customs of the church here in Aille are unfamiliar to me. How should I address you?”

  Her eyes flashed her irritation. “Given that I dislike being interrupted—especially by those wearing steel—as seldom as possible.”

  “I’m guessing hospitality is not your talent,” I said.

  Her lips curled. “There is no talent for hospitality in the Exordium,” she said.

  I smiled. “And you are living proof.” I pointed at the two girls. “We’re taking at least two of your postulants with us.” I moved toward the corridor behind her desk, and thankfully the rest of our company did the same.

  The deaconess moved to block me. “What makes you think you can walk in here and give orders to me in my own demesne?”

  I tapped the sword strapped to my waist. “That steel you spoke of, Deaconess.” She darted a look over my shoulder. “If you’re looking for the men Bishop Gehata put here to guard them, you’re wasting your time. If they’re sensible, they’re on their way north. If they’re stupid enough to disobey a direct order from the last Errant”—I nodded to Bolt—“they’re headed to their own funeral.”

  Her eyes widened, and she searched Bolt’s face. “Errant Consto?” she breathed.

  Bolt’s expression soured. “I hate it when people look at me that way.”

  Her steel-shod resolve quickly deserted her, and she nodded to the hallway behind her. “There are four more guards at the end of the hall, but two of them are hardly more than boys.”

  I looked at Bolt. “I wish that worked everywhere. Who are they guarding, Deaconess?”

  “A girl, but Bishop Gehata never said who.” She licked her lips. “I don’t know. I swear it.”

  “But you suspect, don’t you?”

  “Is there another door out the back?” Bolt pointed down the hallway.

  When the deaconess shook her head, he nodded to Rory. “Ready your knives, lad. I doubt they’ll be willing to walk away.” He faced Gael. “If any of them get past us, don’t bother with mercy. It’s a waste of time.”

  He and Rory disappeared down the corridor. I pulled my sword and tried to adopt the inherent grace that came with a physical gift. If I was lucky, I’d be able to distract any cosp long enough for Gael to put them down.

  “What do I do?” Mirren asked.

  I pointed to the far side of the room. “Stand over there with Custos, and don’t get killed.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked to Gael. “Is he jesting?”

  Gael looked like a cat, crouched and ready to pounce. “Not this time, no.”

  A challenge came from the mouths of one of the guards, and then a scream of pain and the ringing sound of steel on steel. A moment later Bolt beckoned to us.

  Gael led the deaconess at sword-point down the hallway. Leaving the girls with Custos, Mirren and I followed. Two men were down and two more—boys, really—were standing to one side, disarmed. I avoided the stares of the dead men, unwilling to deal with whatever horror or recrimination the deaconess might offer.

  “Give me the key,” I told her.

  She stared at the dead men on the floor. “They kept it.”

  “That might have been a clue,” I said in disgust.

  Gael bent to search the dead guards. A moment later she straightened to place a key in the lock. She opened the door to the windowless room, but Mirren stepped in front of her. “She might prefer someone who looks like her,” she said. “Come here,” she called. “You’re safe now.”

  An Aillean girl of thirteen or fourteen, with the features typical of her country came into Mirren’s arms. Curious to see if her small cell offered any proof of her destiny, I entered. The Merum order had never believed in coddling their postulants and the interior bore testimony to that philosophy. A raised platform of planks covered with a sheet and blanket served as her bed, and a single ladder-back chair with a miniscule writing desk constituted the furniture. To one side an hour candle had been burned in precise increments.

  It was the desk that drew me. Threads had been picked from the sheet and blanket to form a likeness of the deaconess that any artist would have envied. Next to them were portraits of the guards, done in painstaking detail. I stepped back into the hallway.

  “Her name is Herregina,” Mirren said.

  I knelt and watched the new queen of Aille blink against the light in the hallway. “I saw the pictures you made. How long have you been able to do that?”

  She blinked, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I did one before,” she whispered, “for the bishop.” Her voice faded as her chin started to quiver.

  I sighed. Later, I told myself. I would have time to delve her later, but my imagination conjured images of Chora’s death and the desperate passing of her gift.

  The deaconess elbowed past me to go into the tiny room. When she came out, she was pale and sweating. “I didn’t know,” she panted. “I swear it. I had no idea that—”

  “I think we should step outside,” I said over the woman’s fearful babbling. She darted looks at Bolt, as if she suspected he would take her head at any moment. “Gael, would you, Custos, and Rory take Mirren and the girls out to the y
ard? Bolt and I need to have a word with the deaconess.”

  We retraced our steps to her office, and as the rest of our company departed, I pointed at the chair. “Sit.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

  “That depends,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bolt staring in my direction. “I have something that needs doing, Deaconess, and it requires discretion—something you’re obviously acquainted with. I watched you go into Herregina’s room. You weren’t surprised by what you found there, were you?” I moved toward her, and she started to rise. I put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back into her seat. “No, don’t stand up.”

  I reached for her neck, the skin smooth and unwrinkled despite the streaks of silver in her hair. A moment later, it was done and I knelt by her side. “Are you alright, Deaconess?”

  “What happened?”

  I looked at her. “You don’t remember?” When she shook her head, I went to the door and called to the pair of acolytes working by the roses. “The deaconess has had a spell that seems to have affected her memory. Please see to her.” I looked around the yard at everyone sweating in the sun. “I think it would be best if everyone took a respite from their labor for the rest of the day.”

  I went back in. “We’ll be taking our leave, Deaconess. After a few days you should start to feel better.”

  Outside, Bolt cut his gaze to me for a moment. “What did you do?”

  “I reset her memories to just before the girls’ arrival.” I shrugged. “Some of them may come back, but even so, she won’t be sure of them.”

  “Good,” he said. “I think a little doubt and humility will be good for the deaconess. Let’s gather the girls and get back to Cynestol. I want to get this over with. I didn’t really care for being the hero of the kingdom when I saved Chora, and I’m pretty sure I won’t enjoy having all the nobles fawn over us for finding her heir.”

  I looked at the sky. Days were longer here in the south, and we probably had enough daylight to make a good start back to the city before sunset, but I shook my head. “Let’s find a comfortable inn, preferably one that has some decent ale. We need to talk.”