The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

“Where he goes, I go,” Bolt said.

  “Not this time,” I told him. “I’ll come back to you.”

  “No,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Dura alone, or no one,” Erendella said.

  “Why?” Bolt asked.

  The princess, tall as most men, might have shrugged. The haze from the solas powder had yet to clear. “You’re gifted.” She pointed to me. “He’s not. My father’s life is in my care.”

  Bolt looked as if he might object again, but in the end he relented. “Understand that I am making you personally responsible for Lord Dura’s safety, Your Highness.”

  “Is that a threat?” Erendella’s voice sharpened to an edge.

  “Interpret it however you wish,” Bolt said. “Just don’t forget it.”

  “Beorgan.” She pointed to one of the guards. “Take these two back to their quarters and rejoin us. If I do not see him within the minute,” she said to Bolt, “Lord Dura will bear the consequences.”

  The remaining guards formed up around me, but they didn’t draw their weapons. Evidently, I was so obviously ungifted that I didn’t constitute a threat.

  Unlike the court in Cynestol, which ran until nearly dawn, the citadel was quiet, devoid of courtiers or courtesans making the rounds. I remarked on the difference.

  “Court life in Vadras is a more serious affair,” Erendella said. “The citadel is the residence of the king, and the audience chamber for those whose petitions cannot be resolved by anyone with less authority. Ceremonial occasions are no longer held in the citadel but in the grand hall across the moat.”

  Some inflection within her voice, a hitch in her speech, gave me the impression this was a recent development. “How long has that been the case?” I asked.

  Her reserve receded just enough for her to glance my way. “Since father returned from the war.”

  We came to the chamber where we’d held conference with the rest of the monarchs earlier, but instead of departing through the east entrance, Erendella and the guards led me north to an inconspicuous door that opened to reveal a stairway heading down. “The king’s illness requires a measure of solitude,” she said. “I hope you’re not uncomfortable with enclosed spaces, Lord Dura.”

  “No, it’s forests I’ve learned to fear.”

  Her eyes widened at that, but she led the way down into the rock foundation of the citadel without speaking. We came into a room composed of a single arch running its length, and we gathered in the middle so that we could stand upright. At the far end of the room, four guards held vigil by a door. No light showed beneath it.

  Closer, I noticed that the door and frame had been padded with heavy felt. Erendella nodded to the guards, and they parted as she pulled a heavy key from within her dress. “You said you could cure my father of his sickness.”

  I nodded.

  Her mouth tightened as a prelude to anger. “And what is the price of your aid, Lord Dura?”

  I needed Boclar’s gift to help me call the Fayit. If I answered Erendella with the plain truth of my intention, she wouldn’t let me within arm’s reach of the king. She’d likely imprison me instead. I took refuge in the fact that I didn’t know what was wrong with Boclar, telling myself I only suspected. “The price depends on who pays it,” I said.

  “You sound like a priest.”

  I nodded. “There’s probably a good reason for that.”

  Erendella opened the door and we stepped into madness.

  A small room, hardly more than a niche within the rock, had been equipped to host the king of Caisel. Boclar stood on a thick pile of blankets in the middle of the room, bound by heavy chains anchored to the four walls that offered him just enough slack to sit, but no more. At the sight of his daughter, he threw himself toward her but moved no more than a few inches before the heavily padded manacles drew him up short. The whites of his eyes showed all around, and he strained, working to get his hands around his daughter’s throat. Rents showed in his clothes, and bruises discolored his flesh, testimony to the extremity that had burst the blood vessels beneath his skin.

  Just inside the door the king’s alchemist waited with fire, but her mirrored bowl was empty. “Please, Your Highness, let me light the powder,” she begged. “He’s killing himself.”

  Erendella watched her father, her expression cold and still like snow piled on a mountain before an avalanche. “How much do you have?”

  The alchemist dropped her gaze to stare at her hands as if they accused her. “An hour’s worth. No more. The shipment of phosine from Owmead has been delayed. It will be another week in coming.”

  Erendella was wavering.

  “Your Highness,” I said, “if you have any hope of defeating this illness, light the powder and let me work.” Inside, I retched at the deception I’d just perpetrated.

  She pointed to Helioma, who placed a measure of powder into the bowl and lit it with a taper from one of the lamps. Shadows fled. “My compliments,” I said to her. “The best alchemist in Bunard sought in vain to find a way to make the powder burn more slowly.”

  Erendella paused just long enough to turn to me. “Helioma is the foremost alchemist on the continent.”

  The king’s struggles ceased, and he looked around at us, his eyes clear. “Aer have mercy,” he cried. “I hurt all over.” Erendella ran to him, holding a cup. “Not too much?” he asked. “I have to be able to function come dawn.”

  She swallowed. “Not too much, Father. Drink.”

  I steeled myself for what I had to do and tried to ignore the fact that my justifications sounded too much like Pellin’s or Toria’s. “You spent a night in the forest,” I said. If Boclar or his daughter noticed the absence of his title, they gave no sign. “Why?”

  Boclar looked like a patchwork of a human, used up. “I doubted,” he said. Screaming had reduced his voice to a croak.

  I waited, but he seemed to think his explanation sufficient. “What doubt led you into the forest?”

  “I’ve been to Bunard,” he said, scraping the words across his throat. “Years ago I visited Laidir. Bunard was smaller than I expected, but I thought the way the engineers had diverted the river to divide the city and defend it ingenious.”

  He paused, and I wondered if Boclar’s mind had broken under the unique strain he bore. I looked to Erendella, who signaled me to be patient.

  “I remember thinking the tor was magnificent, the way the tower of rock soared toward the heavens. I had a carriage, of course, but I wanted to feel the height, so I ordered my captain and his men accompanying me to dismount. We ascended the road.” His laughter came out as a soft bark. “When we finally got to the top, the view took my breath away and refused for the longest time to give it back. The men and women of Caisel live their entire lives on the plain, Lord Dura. We are unaccustomed to the extremity of height.”

  “Your Majesty,” I interrupted, the weight of time pressing on me. “The forest?”

  But he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Most of my guard recoiled from the sight our lofty vantage point offered, but it drew me onward to the edge of the parapet, Lord Dura. I stood there with my head as close to the clouds as it had ever been and wanted nothing more in the moment but to jump and fly.” His eyes lost their abstracted look and focused on mine. “That’s what happened in the forest, Lord Dura.”

  I shook my head. “You knew what would happen.”

  “The threat of the forest is less real to us in the far south than to those in Collum,” Boclar said. “The reality you experience daily is an abstraction to us. I didn’t view the forest as evil but as a sickness.”

  “What did you do?”

  Boclar nodded toward Helioma. “I surmised that if darkness was the means by which the forest infected its victims, then light would be the means by which the disease could be prevented. I went into the forest equipped with enough solas powder to last the duration of my stay.”

  Boclar’s gaze bored into mine, and the tenor of his voice carried accusation. “If a
soldier of Collum could survive the forest, then surely a man with phos-fire and the gift of kings could. I expected to learn the means by which to conquer its disease.”

  I gaped. “You dared the forest because of me?” I put my hands on my head, but I couldn’t think, couldn’t order my thoughts. “You . . . Your Majesty . . . how could you do anything so stupid?” Rage I couldn’t contain worked its way up my chest and into my throat. “You didn’t think to ask? I would have told you how I survived the forest!”

  The king stiffened at my tone, but he managed to smile. “Foolish, yes. Perhaps even as foolish as Cesla, but I believe in the mercy of Aer, Lord Dura. It may surprise you, but I have faith that He offers second chances to everyone.” His nod was deep enough to be considered a bow. “Hasn’t He brought you to me? You’ve been to the forest. Pellin and the Chief of Servants have testified to it, and though I have no means to test them in this, I believe them.”

  “My daughter brought you out of darkness and walked you through lightless halls.” He smiled, his teeth wet and shining by the light of the solas powder. “Yet no hint of madness came upon you.” He nodded to the guards, and they drew weapons. “You are Aer’s second chance for me,” he said. “I am king of Caisel. I cannot continue to rule in this manner, Lord Dura. You will tell me the secret to your survival.”

  Chapter 53

  I gaped at the king. Under different circumstances I would have accused him of jesting in poor taste and at my expense. “What have you done?” I asked. My voice rebounded from the rock of the citadel and came back to me, hollow and desperate. “You dared the forest because I survived?”

  Any trace of humor disappeared from Boclar’s face, and his expression grew stiff and haughty. “I hold the gift of kings, Lord Dura. When you survived the forest, you were just a man. Now, release me from this disease.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I was and still am just a man. It wasn’t me at all. He must have seen you, but he was too weak to prevent it.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, Aer,” I wanted to weep. “Ealdor. You’ve destroyed yourself for nothing.”

  The king pointed, and one of the guards closed with me, the point of his dagger working through the cloth of my tunic. “If this Ealdor saved you, Lord Dura, he will save me. Bring him.”

  “Don’t you understand?” But of course, Boclar couldn’t possibly understand. “Ealdor’s gone, dead, because he broke his vow in order to save me.”

  My arguments had no effect on the king or his daughter. They looked at me, implacable and merciless as iron. “Then bring another like this Ealdor.”

  A desperate laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Ealdor was one of the Fayit.”

  “The Fayit?” The king gaped at me, his expression caught between mocking and incredulous. He nodded to the brazier. Half the solas powder had burned away, leaving streaks of soot to mark its passing. “Lord Dura, my patience and time are limited. If you wish to be believed, then summon the proof of the Fayit and have them release me.”

  “I can’t. Not without a perfect circle,” I said.

  Boclar pointed to the brazier. “Lord Dura, there was a flaw in the last shipment of solas powder. The brazier holds the last of our supply. My body is bruised and spent, and I’m at the last of my strength. Without healing or more powder, I won’t live beyond another week. Have I not said the gift of domere is powerful beyond measure? Either heal me yourself or summon one who can.”

  My hands were bare, and I held them up for the king’s inspection. “I’ll have to touch you.”

  At the king’s nod the guards stepped back, and I took a moment to speak to Erendella. “I’ll need your help as well, Your Highness.” I had no hope of healing the king. Ealdor’s knowledge of the Darkwater so far surpassed mine it precluded hope, but I needed all six monarchs with the gift of kings in one place.

  I approached Boclar and his daughter, who stood to his immediate right, the two of them basking in the light of a false sun. “Hold hands.”

  “Why?” Boclar asked, suspicious.

  “Do you love your father?” I asked Erendella.

  She nodded once, solemn. “I would die for him. He’s already proved he would do the same for me.”

  “There are mysteries I can’t explain, Your Majesty,” I said, “because I don’t fully understand them. But Pellin and Bronwyn and Toria Deel went to lengths to tell me the importance of love. It undergirds our gift. I bear you no great love, so it’s imperative that your daughter be close. Hold hands.” I waited until they’d done so and stepped forward.

  I reached out to Erendella, and she mirrored the gesture, but instead of taking her hand in mine, I grasped her sleeve, protecting myself from her memories. Some lasting suspicion must have remained with Boclar. When my hand was close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, he turned to his daughter. “You remind me so much of your mother, full of fire and strength.”

  I reached out and gripped his hand, roughly, desperately. The phos-fire of the king’s powder receded as my consciousness hurtled through his dark, dark eyes, and I stood before a wide stream of memory. What I meant to do would take little time as those with Boclar reckoned it. Before I destroyed the king’s vault, I wanted to see what circumstances had driven him to the forest.

  Our talk of the Darkwater had brought those memories to the surface of his mind—they flowed close by me. I dipped my hand into the stream and let myself become the king.

  The trees rose all around me in the fading light of day, a mass of twisted trunks so large around it would take half a dozen men to encircle one of them. Leaves the color of midnight blocked all but the barest hint of the dying sun. Erendella, my heir and heart, waited.

  “She’ll never forgive me for this, Woruld.”

  “As long as she’s safe, Your Majesty,” he said. His voice carried strains of effort from hauling the polished brazier and the heavy sack of solas powder. “Your Majesty, if this doesn’t work . . .”

  He didn’t bother or need to finish. “We have enough,” I said. The light dimmed further, and we were far enough into the forest that the darkness had become almost complete. “We should light the brazier now.”

  Quickly, with the economy of motion that came from practice, Woruld threaded two rods through the holes on either side that would allow us to carry it while the fire burned. Then he poured a quantity of powder that would last for the duration of the night into the bowl and struck his steel with a glancing blow that sent a handful of sparks dancing through the air.

  The darkness leapt away from us, held at bay by a circle of light, a sun in miniature that rested on the forest floor. Together we picked up our burden and threaded our way through the undergrowth.

  “Which way do we go, Your Majesty? Woruld asked.

  We’d entered from the south. Our exit and safety still lay just a few hundred yards, no more than half a mile, behind us. It would be simple to walk away—but for the fact that any reason I had for living was ahead of me. “In,” I said, “to the center.”

  Twisted trunks, blackened with age and malice surrounded us, their roots overlapping each other, struggling for preeminence. “Careful of the bowl,” I said, but my warning was more for my own ears. I was a child of the delta, and the forest was as strange to me as Vadras would be to any from Collum or Frayel. Nothing stirred. The malevolence of the forest had extinguished every creature. Only trees possessed the requisite fortitude to grow here. I glanced up by the light of the phos-fire to the hatred-blackened leaves above me. Yes, the trees grew, but even the durability of wood was insufficient to keep the evil at bay. The trees’ strength had done nothing more than allow them a life of corruption.

  We worked our way toward the center of the forest for hours. I nibbled on chiccor root, wary of the danger it presented. After a night comprised of putting one foot in front of the other, Woruld stopped to snuff the fire in our brazier.

  “We can rest, Your Majesty.” He pointed overhead to the merest hint of sunlight
could be seen through the canopy.

  I stopped, my legs shaking from unfamiliar use. “Have we come far enough? Is there still enough powder to get us there and back?”

  Woruld nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He looked around. “We should have brought more men.”

  I swallowed my indignation. “I was ordered not to.”

  “Sleep, Your Majesty,” Woruld said. “I will wake you when it’s time.”

  I dozed for a few hours and rose before Woruld summoned me. Fatigue flowed through my veins with every beat of my heart, but every step we could take in the daylight was a bit of powder we could husband at need. We spent the second day as we had the first. And most of the next.

  As the third day died, Woruld lit the brazier again, and we marched toward the smell of water. The ground grew marshy under our feet, though no frogs or turtles disturbed the black-leaved plants. After a mile or so, we stepped through the stench of moss that hung from trees like a curtain and onto the muddy shore of a lake.

  “And so the name of the forest is the name of the lake,” Woruld said. “Darkwater.”

  “Come,” a voice called from outside the glow of our brazier. “The water is shallow.”

  “Father!” Erendella’s voice cried. “Run! It’s a trap.”

  Laughter rebounded from the surface of the lake. “Of course it is,” Cesla said, “but he knew that when he entered the forest.”

  “We have light,” I called, but my intended defiance met only more laughter.

  “Yes, my servants told me.” Scorn, a trace only, filled Cesla’s voice—as though my defiance didn’t merit anything greater. “Bring your light, if you wish.”

  We stepped into the cold of the water, our boots splashing before sinking into the mud. After a few paces, the footing became firm, unyielding, as though I walked on stone.

  “Sire,” Woruld said.

  I nodded. “I feel it.”

  After a hundred yards, I saw figures arrayed in an arc around Cesla, the man who had been Eldest for centuries. They were men and women of no particular note or gift, but they held themselves ready, their hands on knives or swords. All of them wore layers of gauzy cloth over their eyes.