In Her Shadow

by Boyle, Sally Beth

  Britta shook her head to tell herself no, but also hoping it might loosen the ache from her injury a little. The pain clouded her judgment, made it hard to think straight. It wasn't fair of her to think of Lucius had abandoned her. He'd probably put his career on the line just getting her somewhere safe before rushing back into danger. He wasn't a coward. Dux Lucius didn't run away. He was down there, fighting.

  And here she was, standing by a window she couldn't see out of nursing a lump on the side of her head. He hadn't abandoned her, but if she didn't act, she would be abandoning him. Dux Lucius was brave, yes, but this wasn't his city. It was hers. And it was hers to win back before the whole thing crumbled. But how? The people had rejected her once already. Was the black cloak that had once protected her and her sisters now dangerous?

  Her knees wobbled as a wave of nausea overcame her. Britta swooned, leaning against the wall next to the window.

  "Ma'am?" Mariza asked.

  "I – I have to go."

  "No! You can't! You're hurt."

  Britta tried to muster up a smile but the pain made her wince. "I'll be okay."

  "It's not safe. Anyway, you just told me you can't see. How do you expect to make it there safely?"

  "I don't know," Britta said, her voice low, defeated. "I don't know, but I have to. Before. . ."

  "Before what?"

  "Before Ankshara burns to the ground."

  "I'll send my daughter with you," said Mariza.

  "No, don't."

  "I will. She'll guide you to the abbey."

  "You don't have to."

  "I do. It's my city too. I'd go myself but she's faster. If there's trouble, she can run away."

  "Please, don't risk your child."

  A cool hand touched the side of Britta's face. "You're getting a fever. The wound might be infected."

  "Your daughter–"

  "Might die anyway, if nobody acts," the woman said, a tinge of anger boiling beneath the surface of her words. "Do you understand?"

  Britta's mouth bobbed. No citizen had dared talk to her like that before. Of course, none had thrown a rock at her head either.

  "I'm sorry," Mariza said. "It's just–"

  "No," said Britta. "I understand. Get her."

  ***

  There were too many rioters, too many clubs, too many knives. Too many bottles arched over the cohort's shields and smashed into too many faces. Dux Lucius needed reinforcements, but there were no more. The men holding the line were disciplined, but the human body could only handle so much. At some point, the line would buckle under the great mass of people pressed against it. Even rotating the men off the line wasn't enough. He simply lacked the numbers to push back. His last option was a fighting retreat, setting up lines behind him and falling behind them, staggering his defense backwards to the garrison. But then – then he would have to abandon his position; leave Britta alone to face thugs already proven willing to attack her. What was his other option, though? Let his men die in her stead? And even then, the looters would swarm through the city and Britta would be in just as much danger.

  A bottle hit one of the shields in front of him. It burst into a hundred jagged pieces. A bit of it caught his lip, slicing it open. Dux Lucius wiped away blood. The wound stung, as did his muscles, and his throat from shouting orders. In an act a filial impiety – unthinkable mere days ago – Lucius cursed his father's name. The damn fool wasn't just sneaky, he hadn't even thought to make sure Lucius's troops were up to the task of holding the city. That's assuming the Governor was guilty. Part of Lucius didn't want to believe it, but another part of him knew it to be true. The only way to settle is was to find Weboshi. And if she were anywhere, it was on the other side of this crowd, stowed away on some boat anchored in the harbor.

  "The other detachment," he said.

  "What, sir?" screamed one of the soldiers.

  "Captain Marcus's men! The men I sent to inspect the ships! The ones we were coming to check on!"

  The soldier shook his head, not understanding. It didn't matter. The soldier didn't need to, but Valex did. He wasn't back yet, sent with a letter encouraging his father to release some of his household guard to assist in the fighting. Where was he? Dux Lucius glanced over his shoulder to see if the boy was coming down the street. What he saw was Britta, draped in her cloak, holding a teen girl's hand. They didn't even look at him as they went up the street, away from him. Was the girl leading Britta? What was happening? There was no time to ponder it. All that mattered was holding the line a little longer.

  "May She hide you in Her shadow," he said, and turned his attention back to the fight.

  ***

  Was her sweat from exertion, fever, or nerves? With the heavy cloak entombing her in the muggy air, it was hard to say. A little of each. But she couldn't get rid of it, no matter how much it weighed her down. It might be their ticket to safety should they run into trouble. So far, however, she and the girl hadn't encountered any. In fact, the rest of the city was quiet and still.

  "Ma'am," said the girl, and tugged at her hand.

  "I need to rest." But she knew better. She couldn't. So she pushed forward despite what her body demanded. Maybe too hard. After all, what was she going to do once she made it to the abbey? What could her and her sisters do to end this? Talk the crowd down?

  The world swirled around her. She stumbled to her knees. The palms of her hands bloodied and knees scrapped, she wasn't sure whether to lie down and die or get up and keep moving.

  "Please," said the girl. Was she underwater? Were they sinking? "You must get up! Please, you can't give up!"

  "I'm so tired, momma."

  "I know," said the girl. "We're almost there."

  Britta forced down the pain. Forced down the dizziness. Quelled the urge to die inside her, and shoved herself to her feet. She didn't know what she was going to do, didn't know how she was going to help save the city, but she wasn't going to give up – not with her future husband down there risking his life.

  "Help hold me up," she said. "Quickly, quickly girl."

  Chapter 15

  When Valex Etrarian signed up for the army to avoid spending his youth in an orphanage, it hadn't occurred to him he might actually have to face combat. Boys his age rarely did. They were messengers, by and large, with the occasional drummer thrown in. Most survived into adulthood, groomed by their cohorts to rise up as officers one day – men who made their way in the world through sweat and duty. But death? They rarely faced death head-on like this. Even caught delivering messages behind enemy lines, few enemies could bring themselves to hang young boys as spies. This mission was different. The crowd might kill him entirely by accident, trampling him beneath their feet or crushing him between their bodies long before he made it safely to the other side.

  That being said, he was small enough to slip through. A larger boy couldn't do it, definitely not a man. Dux Lucius could have sent one too, instead of him. If a soldier had doffed his uniform, he might have sneaked into the crowd. But would he have made it so deep toward his goal?

  Valex didn't have to go. Dux Lucius had given him the choice, saying there was no shame in refusing. And Valex believed him to a point. Yes, he knew the Dux and the other soldiers wouldn't look down on him but he would look down on himself. That was the example the cohort had set for him, and Valex wasn't about to disappoint them, or himself. So he'd taken the Dux's written orders, folded them up, and stuffed them into a tight belt below his tunic. With that, he slipped beneath the soldiers' shields and into the angry crowd with no one the wiser.

  Now, pinched between so many people bigger than himself, Valex wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake. As he struggled to breathe, he realized he found the idea of an orphanage not quite as bad as he'd thought. That didn't stop him from pushing against the current of the crowd. And pushing. And pushing. Until, at last, gasping and wheezing, he burst out the other side. There were still people here, but thinly dispersed. The injured, the tired, the curious. Few ev
en looked at him as he came through. Most seemed more interested in what was going on up the street, stretching over the crowd to see.

  Good, Valex thought as he bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Exhausted and blinking, he watched little drips of sweat from his forehead plop to the ground. He couldn't rest long. But a moment. Just a mo–

  Someone put a hand on his back. The boy jerked upright, ready to run.

  "Valex."

  The boy relaxed and looked up at the man. "Captain Marcus. I – I'm not used to seeing you out of uniform."

  "Never mind that. Orders boy, do you have orders?"

  Valex stuck a hand under his tunic, but before he could get his fingers on them, Captain Marcus yanked him away from the crowd. "Not here, boy, not here."

  "Are your men okay?"

  "Yes. When we got wind of something happening we holed up and waited. Didn't want to take the risk of acting until we had a handle on the situation, but it's hard from this angle." Marcus led him to a worn down warehouse. Indefensible in a fight, but a good place to hide. As soon as Marcus opened the door, the room erupted into a flurry of shining sword points. Marcus threw up his hands. "Whoa! Whoa!"

  "Sorry, Captain. You've got to use the knock next time."

  "Yes," said Marcus, then to the Valex. "Take that as a lesson. Always remember your pass codes."

  As a professional messenger, Valex knew that by heart, but he didn't think it wise to point it out to a commanding officer. "Did you find her?" he asked.

  Marcus swung a door in the back of the office. On the floor, bundled up in rope, was a beautiful, dark hair and dark eyed, middle aged woman. "Does that answer your question?" Marcus smiled and held out an expectant hand. "Now, about those orders."

  ***

  Dux Lucius had asked his men to give and give until they had nothing left. Bled dry, literally and figuratively, only one thing could save them. Then it did. The effect wasn't obvious at first. Captain Marcus's attack must have started a few minutes before, the ripples it caused in the crowd taking time to disseminate to the front. Now the mob buckled forward, as if pushed by some unseen aggressor from the rear, because it was pushed by some unseen aggressor from the rear. His plan in action, Lucius wondered if it would work. Under normal circumstances, yes, but the soldiers on his side of the crowd had had enough. Coupled with that was the eternal danger of a fighting withdrawal, that it might turn into a real rout. He couldn't entertain those thoughts right now, though. He hoped his men had enough energy play the part demanded of them.

  Dux Lucius held his sword up in the air, moonlight gleaming off the tip like a star. "Line!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. The few men he pulled for this task formed a second row a few yards up the road.

  When they were ready, Lucius shouted, "Step!"

  The men in the front line began a slow, careful march backwards. Without anyone to guide them, without being able to look back, they had to trust themselves not to trip over their own feet and break the line. And somehow, they did.

  When the two lines met, Lucius shouted, "Rally!" And the two lines melted into one.

  Line reformed, he repeated the process, retreating the cohort a few yards at a time. Before, he'd held the narrowest point, but with every move backwards, the road widened. With every retreat up the street, his line thinned. Dangerous, but the crowd thinned as well. Had he tried this without Captain Marcus hitting their rear, the mob would have had the mass to overrun him. Out flanked, however, it fought at both ends like snake unsure where to strike. Lucius didn't intend to run away, especially not with part of the crowd's wrath coming down on Marcus now. He just wanted to back up enough to give his men some rest. They needed to take a moment to get their heads together, catch their breath. The crowd still threw itself against the shield wall, but not with the same force as before. The reprieve was sweet bliss compared to just a few moments before.

  The struggle wasn't over yet, though. Any moment, the crowd would realize it was trapped. It would panic and then. . . Then he'd have to order his men to draw swords on them. Not a fight proper, a massacre. He'd go down in history as Lucius, Butcher of Ankshara. Even with his men using clubs, Lucius feared some in the crowd had died. He didn't want to start killing in earnest. There was no stopping the momentum of the moment, however. Not now.

  Dux Lucius raised his sword, ready to give his next order.

  Chapter 16

  "Here," said the soldier Lucius had left behind at the abbey as he slipped Britta's arm around his shoulders. "Go!" he said to the girl. "Run inside, get help!" He yelled every word into Britta's ear but she was past the point of caring. If anything, the tinny ringing his voice left in her already ringing ears was a mild inconvenience compared to everything else going on.

  "Goddess," said one of the priestesses as she rushed down the path to help. "What happened?"

  The girl babbled off an explanation that passed by Britta as a mush of words.

  "She's burning up," said the soldier.

  "We need a doctor," said the priestess.

  "No," said a third voice that pierced the echo and mist surrounding Britta's thoughts, a voice she'd so often heard without seeing – the Abbess of Night. Britta felt her nearing like spilled ink on fresh parchment. "Tell me, New Moon, can you see?"

  "No," Britta said, forcing the word out for fear it wouldn't come if she didn't put her all behind it.

  "Take her to my room," said the Abbess of Night.

  They did as the Abbess commanded. The jostling of being carried by her shoulders and feet was all that kept Britta conscious. They set her in the Abbess of Night's bed. Or was this her own room? Her own bed? The world danced and twirled. Whose room was it? The room of her childhood, before The Siege, now only glimpsed faintly through the fog of distant memory. It was every child's room, throughout time and place; after mother had gone to bed and the light was low. Shadows of innocent things elongated into monsters. The settling floorboards howled for young blood. Where was she? Who was she?

  The Abbess of Night's voice cut through the dark. "It is not that the New Moon should wane," she said.

  Britta wanted to say something, to ask what was going on, but the heat bore down on her, pressing her into the bed.

  "No, the New Moon should only wax strong until she is full," said a second voice. Whose? It was so cool, commanding. Was it also the Abbess of Night's? Yes. Why was she talking to herself?

  "I'm not talking to myself. We are all talking to you."

  "You can hear my thoughts?" Britta asked, or had she? With tongue leaden and mouth dry, her jaw shut taut with fever and pain, she wasn't sure she was capable of speech any longer.

  "We know all things done in the dark."

  "Goddess," Britta said.

  "That is the secret, New Moon, the lie We told you before. We need no spies, though We have them. This was Our city once, but that time has passed. We go to live among the Regnal pantheon now, subjugated to the whim of their emperor-god."

  "No–"

  "Yes, such is Our fate. But Our part is not done, New Moon, because We will always lurk in the shadows to protect Our city."

  "You keep saying 'Our.'"

  "We. Us."

  "I don't understand."

  A gnarled hand pressed against her eyes. "See," said the Abbess of Night.

  And she did.

  The image of the child's room resolved, came into focus. She saw every such room in the city, and the children in them. They huddled with their parents in the darkness as Ankshara fell apart around them. She saw Weboshi, tied up in some dripping old warehouse. She saw the Governor, alone in his office, pacing as he waited for news. She saw ship captains on decks commanding their men to pull anchor and slip away before they fell victim to the growing violence. She saw her mother on the abbey steps, dragged away by soldiers. She saw a young couple making love in a public park despite, or perhaps because of, the chaos.

  Britta saw each and every thing happening in the dark. She saw so much
it impossible to parse all but the most relevant information.

  The Abbess of Night had known where Weboshi was the whole time, knew about Weboshi's plot to kidnap Ava. She had known and chosen not to intervene. If the Abbess hadn't died a moment before, Britta would have asked why. But she saw the answer to that question too: because that's the way it had to be. A long shot on the Goddess's part. To save the city, She had to let these things play out and hope, pray (could a goddess pray?) that Her plans came to fruition. That in this crucible, a union would form between Her city and the Regnals that might save them both. Britta understood she and Lucius represented that union.

  She saw him too, among his bloodied men, sword in hand, sweat pouring off him as he shouted orders. Strong and stern, he radiated confidence outward. In the darkest part of his mind, however, festered the guilt of what he and his men were about to be forced to do to save the Ankshara from itself.

  Alive, she thought. Britta's chest pounded with excitement, worry, relief and thanksgiving. Alive for how long? The crowd grew more and more organized as its more outrageous fragments tossed themselves against the cohort's shield wall, leaving only the smarter ones able to act. Its members, some of them having taken leadership, organized ad hoc arson brigades. Goddess, Britta thought as they tossed a torch into the home of the family that had sheltered her. She didn't have to see what happened next. She knew.

  And then she was back in the Abbess of Night's bed. Her bed.

  One of her sisters rushed through the door to say something. She glanced around the room, eyes wide. "Where – where's the Abbess of Night?"

  "Hidden in Her shadow," Britta said as her eyes adjusted to the light. She could see again, really see, but it hurt with all these candles blazing. Is this why the old woman always kept it dark? Not just for religious reasons but practical ones?