“You’re not happy,” he said.
She pulled a deep breath of the cool northern air into her lungs and opted for honesty. “I’m conflicted. Lord Dura has obtained something I’ve desired for a hundred years,” she said. “I’m finding it hard not to be jealous.”
He nodded, but in a way that gave her the impression her gambit had failed. His next words confirmed it. “You surprised Pellin with your show of strength.”
“When was that?” she asked and immediately regretted it.
“When you fought for Dura’s mind,” Fess said.
“Pellin should have expected it,” she said. “He’s the one who told me love was the key to Elieve’s deliverance. I delved Lady Gael when we found Lord Dura in the caves beneath Bunard. I had access to her memories and her love, and my own, and that of all those I’d delved.”
Fess’s eyebrows, so blond they were almost invisible, narrowed for a fraction. “Couldn’t Pellin have accomplished as much?”
She groped for words to explain a facet of their gift that she understood only through intuition. “There are mysteries within us, diminished as we are, I think the Fayit for all their power cannot comprehend. We know much about gifts, and nearly as much about talents. Libraries are filled with the ruminations of scholars and theologians about their properties and combinations.”
“But not temperaments?” he asked, noting her omission.
“No, not so much,” she said. “Pellin believed his strongest temperament to be thought, and I think he was correct. He prized learning above all else.”
“But not you.”
A small laugh escaped her as she searched for words to describe the obvious. “No. Anyone who has known me at all would say my strongest temperament is passion.”
“Was it passion that allowed you to free Willet’s mind?”
She took a slow, deep breath. “I’ve wanted love of my own for a long time, Fess. In its absence I’ve collected the memories of love from those I’ve delved and made a habit of visiting them, reliving them as though they were mine.” The confession forced her to look away as she finished her explanation. “Inside Dura’s mind, I released them, relived them all at once until I thought they might burn me to ash where I stood, but they gave me strength I could never have summoned on my own.”
“And this shames you?”
She nodded. “Within the traditions of the Vigil, we regard that practice as a type of theft, a traffic and intrusion on the sanctity of another’s memories.”
He cocked his head to one side, a slight movement that accompanied the narrowing of his eyes. “Is this why you refused the position of Eldest?”
“Only in part.” She nodded and cursed the tears that threatened to betray her. “When I resorted to poisoning the wellsprings of those who took Lelwin against her will, I forfeited any right I might have to lead.”
“How is she?” he asked.
“She sleeps with a light and avoids the shadows to keep Brekana at bay, but we talk for hours each day.”
“What of her vault?”
Toria pulled a deep breath. “It is diminished somewhat. Lelwin’s healing will be long in coming, and I doubt it will ever be complete on this side of eternity, but I made a vow to see her healed, as much as possible. I won’t leave her until I have.” She lifted her head to see him looking at her. “I used her, Fess, and that’s the third reason I deferred the position of Eldest to Lord Dura.” She shook her head, forcing herself to make the admission. “He would never have done such a thing. I’ve used my gift for war and stolen memories. I am unfit to lead.”
He stepped closer as he laughed, and she felt his breath fall across her face like a caress as he brought her into his embrace. “Do not expect any condemnation from me, Toria Deel. I have thieved for most of my life.”
She stiffened at first so that he must have felt her reticence. She lifted her gaze and found it to be true, and wonder filled her. How could an urchin offer such grace? “Please,” she said, stammering and putting her arms around him. “Call me Toria, just Toria.”
He nodded, as she’d known he would, but she hadn’t expected the comprehension that warmed his gaze. “Yes, sister. I would be honored.”
I stood outside the throne room with Gael, waiting for the last of the monarchs before we made our entrance. “Stupid custom,” I said. “We should have fled to the southern continent and paid the first village priest we found to cord us.”
Queen Ulrezia chose that moment to arrive, resplendent in a deep blue gown with her lustrous snow-white hair piled up to look like a crown. “This attitude is unbecoming of you, Lord Dura. The north has been delivered from a threat greater than any in its history. Your marriage is a welcome occasion that allows us to celebrate it.” She looked away as she sighed. “And to plan for the future. I shudder to think of the time it will take to forge a consensus between the nobles, the heads of the church, and the Vigil.” She swept past me with a swirl of blue satin.
The throne room door closed behind her, leaving me nominally alone with my betrothed. “This isn’t what I envisioned when I asked Laidir for your hand all those months ago.”
Gael leaned forward to kiss me, the brush of her lips warm and soft against mine. “If I recall correctly, Lord Dura,” she said with an arch of her brows, “I told you not to be boring. You’ve succeeded admirably.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “In fact, I see I’ll have to exercise some caution about my instructions in the future. You’re such an enthusiast.”
Before I could respond, she signaled the guard at the door and we entered the throne room, the brazen-throated call of the chamberlain announcing our presence. The collected monarchs of the continent and the nobles of Collum turned from their private amusements to applaud.
Gael left my side before I could stop her. “Where are you going?”
She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Tradition dictates that we mingle before our vows, ostensibly so that those married women in attendance may give me advice and the men may counsel you.”
I nearly asked what type of advice, but the slightest curl of her smile warned me and made my question moot. “I hate this place,” I muttered.
Bolt and Rory were at my side, appearing as though they’d been spun out of air. “I can’t blame you,” Bolt said. He wore his Errant’s medallion on his chest, but hadn’t bothered to clean the tarnish from it.
I commented on that.
“If I polished it every time it got a little dirty, there wouldn’t be anything left.”
We progressed through the throne room, and for once I didn’t have to suffer the insults or jibes from the nobles of Collum as I made my way without destination. The throne and the regent’s seat next to it were empty. Cailin and Brod were somewhere within the throng on the floor.
Yet my fellow nobles managed to disperse as I approached. No one seemed overly anxious to engage me in conversation until I came upon Rymark where he stood with Timbriend. “I don’t understand,” he said, pointing to me. “You think the mathematicum will someday be advanced enough to predict the behavior of someone like him? The man’s a study in chaos.”
She nodded. “Perhaps not in our lifetimes or even several after, but the fight at the Darkwater opened new fields of study we never dreamed of before.”
I’d begun to stammer my greetings when a voice I’d come to despise intruded.
“Ah, Lord Dura,” the Duke of Orlan said as he stepped forward on my right. “I see that you’ve managed to impress the king of Owmead with your particular brand of charm.”
King Rymark turned to the duke, a man two hands taller and more physically imposing than any in attendance except the guards. “Who is this?”
I began to bow to both of them—a habit of survival that had been ruthlessly instilled in me upon my elevation to the nobility—but Rymark’s furious glare stopped me. I straightened. “Your Majesty, this is His Grace, Duke Orlan, the most powerful noble in Collum after Prince Brod and the regent.”
King Rymark, despite his stature, conveyed the impression that he had to look down at Orlan in order to see him. “Ah, a duke. I have quite a few of those.” He offered nothing more, just continued to stare at Orlan until the duke, his smile turning sickly, stepped away.
Rymark stepped close enough for me to touch my forehead to his. “You are Eldest,” he hissed. “You will bow and scrape to no one.” If possible, he managed to inch closer. “Hear me in this, Eldest. The balance of power in the north is as precarious as it ever has been. If the heads of the church see that you can be cowed by a puffed-up piece of conceit like Duke Orlan, they will assume they can put you in their cloak pocket and tell you what to do. I didn’t sacrifice a quarter of my men just so the church could tell me how to run my kingdom.”
His tone could have tanned an ox hide.
“You make peace sound like war, Your Majesty.”
He snorted his contempt. “Peace is war, Eldest. Every boundary and trade negotiation is an attack and counterattack. I have no intention of having to put men back in the field because you lack the will to use the power in your hands.”
I let my surprise show. “You don’t wish to fight, Your Majesty?”
“I’ve had my fill of fighting, Eldest.” He pointed around the throne room at the other members of the Vigil. “The first rule of war is to know and train your forces.”
My forces. Mine. I looked out across the throne room, searching for reassurance. I found it at the back, where Wag and Modrie sat in repose, watching. Modrie’s gaze, filled with budding intelligence, swept over the throng, and I thanked Aer for the miracle of the Fayits’ unexpected gift. We would have to find trainers for their pups when they had them, but the forest would be guarded once more.
To one side, Toria Deel and Fess stood close in quiet conversation. He still wore his vigilance like a guard, and I made a note to speak with him about surrendering his physical gift and ending the conflict between duties. Across the room Lelwin stood in the light, ill at ease, but unveiled. King Rymark wasn’t the only one who’d had his fill of bloodshed, it seemed. Near her, Mirren watched the crowd while appearing to be part of it, her temperament for observation apparent. I would have to resume her training soon, a laughable thought. Perhaps I could delegate that task to Toria Deel and Custos.
Yet the difficulty of those tasks paled in comparison to another. I turned toward the rear of the throne room to a young man and woman, hardly more than children, who stood close enough to touch and spoke in hushed tones, oblivious to all else around them—even Allta, whose bulk and demeanor were enough to discourage others’ approach.
“As Aer is my witness,” I said. “I can’t see the path forward there.”
Bolt followed my gaze to where Mark and Elieve stood. “I overheard Ellias considering the probability that the gift would come to each of them by chance. After the first fifteen minutes of his explanation I lost interest.”
“He shouldn’t have bothered,” I said. “There was no chance. None at all, but how are they supposed to be members of the Vigil when they’re not even aware of the world around them?”
“You worry too much, Willet,” Rory said. “If Aer can arrange for the gift to go to them, He can tell you how to train and use them. You know what we say in the urchins.”
I sighed. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
He laughed. “‘Each day has enough trouble of its own,’ yah?”
I laughed. “You little thief. That’s not yours. You lifted it right out of the liturgy.”
He eyes went wide. “That’s in the liturgy?”
I nodded, and he grew thoughtful.
“I’ll have to make it a point to read it then. Maybe there’s something to all this religious stuff after all.”
I was sure he was bluffing me. Almost.
Custos performed the wedding, eschewing the tradition in Collum for the priest to charge a silver crown for joining members of the nobility, opting instead for the memories I’d gathered since we were parted.
And a packet of figs, of course.
“We are gathered here in the presence of Aer to cord these two together,” he intoned, his voice surprisingly strong. “And tradition dictates that we offer praises and prayers for a long and bountiful union, for in the blessing of children we find that renewal in physical form that Aer promises our spirits if we join in union with Him.”
Gael cocked her head at me, her eyes filled with surprise. “He’s a poet.”
I found his delivery more impressive than his prose. Custos probably had a dozen books of wedding speeches tucked away inside his head. “I bet he’s quoting,” I whispered. “Where do you want to live?”
“Someplace warm.” The smallest catch in her voice told me she thought of Kera. “I will age, Willet. Even with my gift, time will exact its price and at the last, I will grow old and infirm while you remain young.” She swallowed, and I saw fear in her eyes. “Will you love me for the rest of my life, Willet?”
We turned to face each other across a narrow bench to partake of haeling, and as Custos recited the liturgy and fed us bread and wine, I couldn’t help but search the shadows of the buttresses for my friend Ealdor. He never appeared. I would have asked him what he’d found on the other side of eternity, but that question would have to wait.
Gael looked at me, waiting for an answer, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet.
While Custos waxed eloquent, I found myself tallying the questions that remained and the tasks to be completed before the world would be normal or safe again, if it could ever be. When the time finally came for Custos to cord our hands, I held out my left and Gael her right and he tied them together with seven loops of purple braid.
At the touch of her skin, I fell through her eyes and found her waiting for me within her mind, tall and lithe and glorious. There, in the time between heartbeats, I took her into my arms. “I will do more than love you for the rest of your life,” I said. “I will love you for the rest of mine and past its end as well.” I smiled. “And here, you may picture yourself however you wish. You can be forever young. I am, and always will be, yours.”
There in the privacy of her thoughts and memories, I taught her how to construct a room within her mind. With a smile that set my blood on fire, she created a wedding bower, complete with a canopy of delicate purple flowers entwined over a broad bed on a raised dais.
If we were lucky, very lucky, we would have decades together, and I intended to make the most of every moment. But outside the delve, in the world of Bunard’s throne room, we faced each other, motionless while the crowd of witnesses looked on. “You do know that time is passing, however slowly, in the throne room while we tarry here?” I asked.
Even in her thoughts, her physical gift made her strong, though I wouldn’t have tried to resist anyway. Her laughter caressed its way over my ear, my lips, my throat.
“Let them wait.”
Acknowledgments
The Wounded Shadow is complete and THE DARKWATER SAGA has drawn to a close (at least for now). One of the things that may not be apparent (and it shouldn’t be since it would defeat the purpose of the story) is the difficulty of creating and maintaining consistent world-building with a series this long. To say it’s difficult is a vast understatement at best. Put in another way, the task is so far beyond the capability of one person (as far as I’m concerned anyway) as to be laughable. I had a ton of help along the way.
Steve Laube is my agent. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s calmly listened to me and my complaints and given me the benefit of the experience and peace he carries with him.
Dave Long is my interface at Bethany House and a friend. I’m not sure what he heard in that very first pitch that made him decide to take a look at my work (I was too stressed with nervousness and caffeine to remember the conversation), but I’m so thankful he gave me a shot.
Karen S
churrer is my editor, and her ability to spy inconsistencies in plot and characterization is amazing. I don’t know how she does it, but I’m glad she’s willing to do it for me.
Mary Carr is my wife, but that is far too short a word to describe everything she is and means to me. For the purposes of The Wounded Shadow, Mary brought her incredible attention to detail to bear on the galleys. She managed to find small mistakes I’d missed even after I’d made multiple passes through the manuscript.
Ramona Dabbs is my alpha reader and has been ever since I started writing well over a decade ago. She’s read everything, good and bad, polished and raw, and she’s never failed in her encouragement. What a gift.
Finally, dear reader, if you’ve made it this far, I want to thank you. You have no idea how your letters, emails, and kind reviews have encouraged me to strive to improve as a writer. The goal is and always will be to write a story that you come to regard as your best friend. I hope someday to succeed.
About the Author
Patrick W. Carr was born on an Air Force base in West Germany at the height of Cold War tensions. He has been told this was not his fault. As an Air Force brat, he experienced a change in locale every three years until his father retired to Tennessee. Patrick saw more of the world on his own through a varied and somewhat eclectic education and work history. He graduated from Georgia Tech in 1984 and has worked as a draftsman at a nuclear plant, did design work for the Air Force, worked for a printing company, and consulted as an engineer. Patrick’s day gig for the last nine years has been teaching high school math in Nashville, TN. He currently makes his home in Nashville with his wonderfully patient wife, Mary, and four sons he thinks are amazing: Patrick, Connor, Daniel, and Ethan. Sometime in the future he would like to be a jazz pianist, and he wrestles with the complexity of improvisation on a daily basis.
Books by Patrick Carr
THE STAFF AND THE SWORD
The Wounded Shadow Page 53