“Not so,” Urmaeor said earnestly. “Not at all. Your work, your purpose, has just—”
“My work—my purpose, as you call it—is finished. Now I simply exist.”
“Summoning an army, however small, is not existing.”
Shadrael’s brows knotted. He did not speak.
“Bitterness is a dish we all consume,” Urmaeor said. “But we are not defeated. The Vindicants are not destroyed, not wiped from the face of the world as Light Bringer intended. Nor are all the Maelites gone. We wait. We watch. We work to bring back the shadows in whatever way we can. My master wants you to join him.”
“I’m already hired,” Shadrael said.
“By Lord Vordachai?”
Shadrael grew more cautious. “Tell your master I have nothing to contribute to his cause. I’m no priest. I have no prayers to put into the chanting.”
Urmaeor hesitated, then spoke in pitch-perfect replication of Shadrael’s voice: “‘Let war come. Strengthen me, O Beloth, that I may forget the ties that bind men to men, honor to honor, and serve only thee in my quest to shatter the reign of Light Bringer. May thy shadows return forever.’”
Shadrael had long ago learned not to be shocked by the tricks of Vindicants, but it angered him to know he’d been spied on. He cleared his throat. “A war prayer is habit. Don’t read more into it than is there.”
“Ah, but my master heard your prayer. It came from your heart, and was not said by rote.”
“Has your master nothing better to do than to overhear the private prayers of men?”
“You are willing to sacrifice honor and family ties in order to shatter Light Bringer. Don’t trouble to deny you said it. To find such passion, to discover such hatred festering in a wound that will not heal…this pleases my master greatly. You are exactly right for our purpose.”
“No.”
“Yes! You live as a ruined and broken man. Your dreams and ambitions have been destroyed. You wanted to retire as a man of property, with a villa in the hills of Imperia, overlooking the sea. There were to be banquets and feasting every night in your dining hall, nubile dancing girls as scented and soft as the petals of flowers to provide the entertainment, and—”
“A young man’s dreams are left in the dust soon enough,” Shadrael broke in gruffly. “Let them lie.”
“But have they really all left you? Would you not accept a handsome villa in New Imperia if Light Bringer were driven out? Would you not take command of the army this instant if it were offered to you?”
It had been a long time since anyone had read Shadrael’s innermost thoughts so easily. He’d lost the habit of shielding his mind, and now he felt exposed, even mocked, by Urmaeor’s remarks. Back when he’d been in the army, he’d heard stories of how Lord Sein used to pry into the private thoughts of generals and high-ranking officers for the amusement of Emperor Kostimon. As a legion commander, Shadrael had been subjected to such scrutiny before entering the presence of certain officials. He’d been trained to expect it and submit to it. But the violations he’d borne willingly as an officer were a far cry from what he would tolerate now.
“I do not insult you,” Urmaeor said. “I mention these things to persuade you.”
Shadrael’s hand went to his dagger. “Get out of my head, damn you!”
“Why? You are a man of courage. You would not have dared the Kiss of Eternity otherwise.”
“It takes no courage to commit folly.”
“Have you lost pride in the ultimate risk? No, Commander. Tell no such lie. Had you no courage, you would not have won the medal you wear at your throat. That you wear it still, despite your public disgrace, is an announcement of how proud you are to bear the illustrious rank of praetinor. Remember that day of triumph. Remember it!”
Shadrael frowned, trying to shut out Urmaeor’s voice, but memories were swamping his mind, memories of the day he’d celebrated his greatest military victory with a triumph through the streets of Imperia. The people thronging the avenue had roared out his name. And Kostimon’s own hands had hung the medal around his neck. The emperor’s yellow eyes had met his, one warrior to another, and the emperor had even smiled.
“A worthy hero, who serves us well,” Kostimon had proclaimed him. “Praetinor, behold your people!”
As he spoke, the emperor lifted his hand, and a tide of sound filled the air as the masses cheered and cheered Shadrael’s name.
Even now, Shadrael could hear the noise, feel the baking heat. The wind stirred his hair as he bowed to the emperor. How brief that moment of glory had been, yet how satisfying to stand shoulder to shoulder with the emperor, ruler of the world. And as the people cheered, Shadrael’s heart had thundered with pride. He’d dared to dream of commanding all thirty legions, ruling the army as Kostimon ruled the empire.
Instead, Light Bringer had swept everything away, broken Shadrael from rank, decommissioned and exiled him. The only thing Light Bringer could not do was take away his membership in the august body of praetinori—a body of men who were members for life—men honored and distinguished publicly, acknowledged and bowed to by every citizen. Yet who would bow to me? Shadrael thought.
“Yes,” Urmaeor said. “Pride and passion. Strength and courage. Defiance and hatred against your enemies. Yes, Commander. You are exactly what we’ve sought.”
Hatred for Light Bringer swelled inside Shadrael. Aware that the priest was manipulating his emotions, he hardly cared at first. But then he pulled back, closing down the memories and feelings, refusing again to be controlled.
“It’s all dust,” Shadrael said, pushing away his past. “Dust and tarnish. Useless to me now.”
“If you still have pride,” Urmaeor said, his voice soft, “you still care. And if you still care, then you will join us.”
“The shadow gods cannot be resurrected,” Shadrael said harshly. “If that’s what your Barthel wants, he’s lost in foolish dreams.”
“My master is a pragmatist, like you.”
“Maybe.”
“Our fight is—”
“I have a living to make,” Shadrael broke in. “You call me commander, but I’m no imperial officer. Nothing but a mercenary. When I’m free of my current job, perhaps we’ll talk again, but not—”
“We are not finished here. Do not try to dismiss me.”
“I’ll leave when I choose. Even if I have to waste magic to find my way out. Call up the past all you want, but you won’t change the facts of the present. You can dredge up a little army perhaps. You can even strike a few times at villages or burn an imperial arch or two, but the Reformants have taken your temples and ceremonies—”
“Reformants,” Urmaeor said with loathing, the first true emotion he’d shown.
Shadrael bared his teeth. “That’s right. Face it, priest. Your day is over, just like mine.”
Urmaeor lifted one hand, but he did not strike. “Decommissioned or not, you retain the skills of a legion commander,” he said in glacial tones. “Your oath to Beloth still binds you to his service, and you are now called to obey that oath.”
“When I’m not employed—”
“Lord Vordachai will cheat you of the money he’s promised,” Urmaeor said. “After you’ve committed treason for him and abducted the sister of the emperor as he’s bidden you, he will not pay you a single ducat more than you carry now.”
“Faure’s breath, how know you that?”
“Don’t be stupid. Can you not see how her abduction serves the Vindicants even better?”
Shadrael understood at once. His hand came off his dagger hilt.
“Yes,” Urmaeor said. “Lea E’non is a javelin that can be driven deep into the emperor’s flank, to fester, to bring him to his knees. And your hand, Shadrael tu Natalloh, is perhaps the only one strong enough to control that weapon.”
An icy tendril of caution curled around Shadrael’s spine. The Vindicant spies, he thought, had been busy indeed if they knew of Vordachai’s secret plan. He did not deny what Urm
aeor was saying. With mind walkers, why bother?
Naturally, he understood that if he agreed to the Vindicant demand, he would be betraying Vordachai, his only brother. It’s only a job, whispered a voice in his mind. Serve the one who pays you best.
But in his heart, he knew it was not that easy.
“Lord Vordachai is an impetuous man,” Urmaeor said. “Although we admire his intentions, it would be better for everyone if we Vindicants were to take over the situation. Lady Lea can become a significant political pawn, if that pawn is played with skill.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Shadrael asked, “What will you pay?”
“How long do you think your powers will last? How long can you hoard shadow magic inside you?”
“What does that matter?”
“How long?”
Shadrael frowned. “I have enough to do what I must do.”
“Enough to hold the girl helpless while she’s your prisoner? She’s not without special resources, you know.”
Shrugging, Shadrael didn’t answer.
“Yes, and then what? When you’ve finished this task and expended all your magic in doing so, what will be left to you? What will hold back the creeping madness, the internal torment that will only grow more unbearable as you age? I use blood potions as my treatment. You’ve tried them, and they do not work well for you, do they?”
Shadrael struggled to hold his temper in check. “Urmaeor—”
“You know what is coming,” the priest said, “and if you do not, you are deluding yourself.”
“Yes, damn you, I know! What would you have from me?” Shadrael snarled. “Shall I mew in fear at the fate that awaits me?”
“My master offers you a way out.”
“What?”
“A soul.”
Disbelief swept Shadrael. Urmaeor was throwing a cheap lie to him, a bone tossed to a dog.
“This is your payment?” he said violently. “Do you think me such a fool to believe you?”
“No one thinks you are a fool, Lord Shadrael.”
“Gods! What next will you say? My soul is gone. It can’t be recovered.” Shadrael glared at him. “Or did you lie about that during my counseling?”
“No. I told you no lie,” Urmaeor said in a quiet voice. “There are other souls to be had. Would you mind having one of them instead of your own, as long as you escaped damnation?”
It was like taking a punch in the guts. Shadrael opened his mouth, but could find no words. He felt winded, hollow inside, even a little sick. Could it be possible? he wondered. Yet even as that tiny thread of hope unspooled in his thoughts, cynicism clipped it.
“A new soul?” he said slowly, warily. “This is no Vindicant teaching.”
“Things change,” Urmaeor replied. “Without the shadow gods to aid us, we must survive as best we can. Share their doom if you wish, or take the escape my master offers you.”
“Your master,” Shadrael said scornfully. “What is he, who is he, to dispense lives, even souls, as though he is immortal? I believe none of this.”
“But you want to believe me. You want to very much.”
Breathing hard, Shadrael took a step back. No, he thought fiercely, yet there rose in him a yearning so powerful, so overwhelming he could not quell it. How desperately he wanted to undo a moment’s mistake, a moment’s stupid bravado. Oh, to relive that day when he’d been too young and foolish to know better than to rise to a dare. He’d wanted to impress the men, rough veterans who refused to respect a new junior officer. He’d wanted to prove his valor, to stand out among the other green, untried young decivates, and so he had. The men had feared him after that.
For years, he had simply accepted the situation, accepted it and used it to his advantage. Until the destruction of the shadow gods and the loss of his connection to them, a connection that had kept him vital.
Self-denial, not pride, he told himself. Lying to himself, pretending he did not care, keeping his courage high like a shield when all the time the reality—the desperate, clawing reality—was that he would do anything, anything to get his soul back.
And this priest knew it.
“Who offers you the better price?” Urmaeor asked now, extending his hand. “Lord Vordachai’s ducats?” Urmaeor held out his other hand. “Or a soul? The choice is yours.”
Shadrael frowned. He hadn’t believed Vordachai’s offer because it had been too high, and he wasn’t going to believe Urmaeor’s now for the same reason.
“It’s not a betrayal of your brother,” Urmaeor said persuasively. “Just a better way, politically, of accomplishing the same objective. You do understand that, I’m sure. And eventually, so will Lord Vordachai. Your brother will not be hurt by this. In fact, we may help his cause—”
“Do you think I care about Vordachai’s feelings?” Shadrael asked in astonishment.
“The blood ties between Ulinians are said to be strong.”
Loosing a hard, bitter laugh, Shadrael shook his head. “You priests,” he said contemptuously, “living in your towers, chanting your prayers, carrying out your rituals. It’s emptiness, all of it! You have nothing! Nothing!”
“Commander—”
“Have you been banished to the provinces so long you think you’re dealing with a peasant?”
“I assure you, Lord Shadrael, that we’re fully aware of your lineage and family connections.”
“Eighth Legion, damn you! No other family!” Shadrael shouted.
“Yes, of course. Then we’re agreed?”
“Sham and trickery. Charlatans without potent magic, thinking you can manipulate lives the way you used to. Well, no more! You’re finished, just like the rest of us. Finished!”
“Allow me to—”
Shadrael gestured in disgust. “Not even a ducat for my hire. Instead, you offer me a soul. Marvelous. How in Faure’s lying name am I supposed to put it back in? Eh? You tell me that.”
“Commander Shadrael—”
“Be damned!”
Spinning on his heel, Shadrael faced the blackness yawning before him and spoke a brief, harsh word. It cracked the blackness open, letting gray light spill forth once more to illuminate the passage out.
“Wait!”
Hearing footsteps coming after him, Shadrael angrily quickened his stride. He didn’t bother to look back, and after a moment the sound of pursuit faded and stopped. The only noise he heard was the quick crunch of his boots over the bones of the dead.
Chapter 4
Riding in her wheeled litter, closed in by heavy leather curtains lined with silk, and reclining on soft cushions, Lea E’non made one last effort to read from her scroll of poetry, but the jolting was so bad it caused her small overhead lantern to swing wildly from side to side, casting dizzying shadows across the words. Her eyes ached from trying to read in such impossible conditions, and with a sigh she tossed the scroll aside. It made no sense to her why she had to stay out of sight while they traveled through these small towns dotting the banks of the Parnase River, when two weeks ago she’d been allowed to ride her cream-colored gelding along a road lined with cheering villagers.
Imperial politics. She frowned impatiently. “Sit here. Eat this,” she muttered aloud. “Ride out of sight. No, today wave to the crowds. Don’t smile. Smile with your utmost charm. Be friendly. Be aloof. Bah!”
Flinging open one of the curtains, she peered out and found herself looking at a rock cliff face rising almost from the very edge of the road. Trees grew atop the hill, towering above her. Some of them leaned precariously, with roots exposed where the thin soil had worn away. In places, water was seeping from the stone, dripping down to pool beside the road. The air smelled clean and very cold.
Lea smiled to herself and inhaled deeply, letting her eyes nearly shut. She smelled frost, and woods, and imminent winter.
“Wonderful,” she whispered.
At that moment, her conveyance lurched violently, nearly tossing her out on her head. She clutched the frame
hard to save herself, and the leather curtain swung down, slapping her in the face. The litter lurched again and stopped.
Around her came the sound of shouts, punctuated by the bitter cursing of her driver.
Lea righted herself, grabbing a cushion just in time to save it from tumbling out into the mud, and opened a curtain on the opposite side.
She saw an enormous bog of mud and cinder where the road should be. Her litter appeared to be stuck in the middle of it. To her right, a cluster of cavalrymen gathered at the edge, talking among themselves with much head shaking and shrugs. More men rode up but didn’t dismount. Instead, they called out several joking suggestions and were answered in kind. Deployed from the Household Regiment of cavalry for her protection, the Crimsons looked bright indeed against this gray, sunless day with their short, scarlet cloaks banded in tawncat fur, their shining steel cuirasses and helmets sporting long horsehair plumes, their immaculate black boots, and white gauntlets extending nearly to their elbows. They were also going to be quite useless, Lea told herself, for wading in mud to free her litter.
“Thirbe!” she called.
Her protector came to her at once. “Yes, m’lady?”
“Are we stuck?”
“Aye. Sit tight while the men give this thing a push.”
Lea frowned. “No, I—”
But Thirbe closed the curtains and stepped back. Lea was about to push them open again and ask to be lifted out when there came a loud crack of a whip and the snorting of horses. Her driver bawled commands, and the litter shuddered so violently Lea clutched at whatever handhold she could find. But it did not roll forward. Instead, she felt the conveyance sink a little lower, and through the curses of the men she heard a sucking, squelching noise.
They did not give up. More shouts came, and she heard the servants cluster at the back, muttering under their breath as someone directed them to push on command. Again the whip cracked. Again the horses pulled. Again the litter tilted and settled, and did not budge.
When Lea heard the order for a pry pole to be cut from the woods, she pushed open her curtains, noticing they were now liberally splashed with mud.
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