by Ari Marmell
For a moment, standing before the final door, his ears filled with the frightened whimpers and whispers of the people within, Corvis paused. Exhausted as he was in body and soul, his mind raced ahead, poring over the possibilities.
They were right. For years, he’d worked toward a single goal, and he’d been thwarted by nothing more than bad luck and insufficient knowledge. For twenty years, now, he’d listened to the goings-on of the world around him, watched as the nation’s fortunes rose and fell, and he’d wondered: Would things have been different if he’d ruled? Would things have been better? Could he have given his family a better life? Something more than a tiny hut on a small bit of property, looking constantly over his shoulder on the off-chance that the next stranger might somehow recognize him? Could he give his children a home where they would never again have to fear the bad men hiding over the hill, in the trees at the edge of the woods?
Could he forget the promises he’d made to himself, when he and the nation were so much younger?
The Terror of the East began to draw breath to speak, and exhaled it in a single, mournful sigh.
He’d made other promises in more recent days, and they’d been made to someone far more important than the man he used to be.
The Terror of the East died with that breath. Corvis Rebaine turned to face the women behind him.
“Ellowaine,” he said, wiping a filthy strand of hair from his face, “I want you to head out. Find Losalis, tell him to assemble the men beyond arrow range of the walls—or what’s left of the walls, anyway. I want a complete casualty report. And I mean complete, from death down to bruises and hangnails. I want a full equipment inventory as well. And then I want Losalis to wait until I order otherwise.”
The blond mercenary stared through narrowed eyes. “You’re stalling, Lord Rebaine.”
Corvis smiled. “Have I let you down before, Ellowaine?”
For a moment more she stood, motionless, unblinking. Then, muttering under her breath, she headed back toward the stairs.
“You’re not going to give ‘the word’ at all, are you?” Seilloah asked once she’d gone.
The former warlord shook his head. “No, Seilloah, I’m not. I promised Tyannon this was the end of it. No more bloodshed. I think I’d like to start making a habit of keeping my promises.”
The witch’s mouth quirked ever so slightly. “What about your promise to pay this rather sizable army?”
“Well, some of my promises.” He frowned. “You might want to see about sending Davro a message. It’s probably best if he’s well on his way by the time Losalis and Ellowaine figure out I’m not coming back and they’re not getting paid.”
“I can do that. You think they’ll attack the city anyway? Try to make up their pay with looting?”
“Possibly. I think the city might prove more than they can handle, though. I hope they’re smart enough to cut their losses and go home.”
Seilloah’s hand absently picked at the heavy wool. With a conscious effort, she forced it back down to her side. “You’re not making any friends today, Corvis.”
“You might be surprised. And you’re one to talk about making friends. I didn’t eat one of the city’s greatest heroes!”
“He wasn’t doing anyone any good, anyway, Corvis. And I’d just used a lot of healing magic. You know how hungry that makes me.”
“Hmph.” He threw open the door.
The room was no less a mess than when he’d left. Chunks of brick lay where they’d fallen when Audriss obliterated the ceiling. Tables and chairs were overturned, some to provide a vantage point over the walls, others as some small measure of cover should any hostile forces storm the room. Several dozen pairs of eyes peeked at Corvis over the edges of those tables as he entered.
Smiling internally, Corvis made a point of putting on his business face as he surveyed the haphazard defenses. For a full moment he just looked, allowing the fine representatives of the upper classes to look back.
Then, “Well, I suppose your instincts were in the right place. But this wouldn’t stop a determined stable hand with a rake, much less professional mercenaries. And the Children would have just burned the building out from under you and sucked the souls from your falling bodies.”
Hammer clenched in a white-knuckled fist, Salia rose from behind the barricade. “Duke Lorum?” she asked, voice shaky.
“Dead. And his pets are gone.”
The entire room—the walls included, or so it seemed—breathed a huge sigh of relief. More than a few sobs of joy were heard from behind the table.
“And you?” the blacksmith-priestess asked, the mood again growing cold and brittle. “What are your intentions now?”
Slowly, each footstep clear and distinct, Corvis strode toward the edge of the table. Stepping around, he found a young noblewoman staring up at him, face slack with terror. Her gown was dust-covered, her makeup long since washed away by tears and sweat, her fanciful coif of hair unraveled.
She flinched as this monster of her childhood reached out toward her, and then blinked as his hand stopped, palm-up.
The world paused, watching.
It took every bit of courage she possessed, but her hand finally, hesitantly clasped his. With a smooth effort, Corvis helped the young woman to her feet.
“I came here,” he told the stunned assembly, “to stop Audriss. I succeeded. Our business is complete.” As he spoke, Corvis moved down the line, helping the astonished council members from the floor on which they’d lain or crouched. A hand here, a shoulder for support there. By the time the rest gathered their wits and regained their feet, more than half the assembly had actually been physically assisted by the greatest nightmare of their lives—well, perhaps second greatest now—and felt the simple touch of human flesh.
“Audriss yanked Baron Jassion off the field,” Corvis told them. “I imagine you’ll find him in the duke’s dungeons. Lovely place. I vacationed there myself recently. Personally, I couldn’t care less if you left him there to starve, but you’ll need every hand you have to rebuild this place, and if there’s one thing you can say for Jassion, he’s determined.”
And with that, Corvis moved to leave.
“Rebaine!”
Corvis locked eyes with a shaken but determined Salia. “Yes, priestess?”
“What about you? Whatever else has happened today, you’re still responsible for your actions of years past. Are we to just let you go?”
“Salia,” he said softly, “I’m not a young man anymore. My days of fighting are over, as of right now—unless you force me to do otherwise. I can walk out of here, in peace, and we can never trouble each other again. Or you can try to stop me.” Sunder clanked as Corvis’s hand rested upon the blade. “Which will it be, Salia?”
The priestess forced a smile, though it was weak and sickly at best. “Have a safe journey, Rebaine.”
“AND FOR A CHANGE,” Corvis finally finished, “that’s exactly what happened. Davro and Seilloah traveled with me part of the way. She’s back in Theaghl-gohlatch, probably chatting it up with the sidhe. Swapping recipes for wayward travelers, I imagine. Davro as much as told me that he’d kill me on sight if I ever came near his valley again, but to tell you the truth, I think a part of him enjoyed the whole thing.”
Tyannon lay next to him, far more beautiful than he remembered, eyes wide as she took in the entirety of the tale. The kids, excited beyond measure to see their father again, had exhausted themselves into slumber hours ago. They’d hear a heavily edited version in the morning.
Corvis and Tyannon were curled up in bed, where they’d spent hours talking. Lying in a heap at the foot of the bed, its fate largely undecided, was a battered suit of black-and-bone armor.
“It’s so incredible!” Tyannon breathed, one hand tightening on his. “Even knowing what happened seventeen years ago, it’s hard to believe.”
“Believe it,” Corvis said simply. “I’m not proud of it all, but it’s all true.”
“A
nd you really saw me? When you were …” She choked, just as when he’d described to her his condition at Jassion’s hands after his capture. “Seeing things?” she finished lamely.
“Tyannon, you’re all I’ve seen since I walked out that door last summer. It was just a little more vivid that time, that’s all.”
For a time they lay in near silence, each pretending not to notice the other’s occasional tears.
Finally, Tyannon stirred. “I’m so sorry about Jassion, Corvis. About what he did. I—”
“Hush. It’s over now. And at least you know he’s alive and doing well for himself.”
She frowned. “He’s not the kind of person I’d wanted him to be.”
“I don’t think any of us are.”
“You know, you’re right,” Tyannon said brightly with a sudden, unexpected grin. “I think we’d better work on improving you—right now!”
The next hours passed with no conversation at all.
SOFTLY, with a stealth he’d lacked months before, Corvis closed the door to the kitchen and sat down at the table.
It was the darkest hour of night outside. The moon had long since sunk beneath the horizon, but the sun would not rise to take its place for some time yet. Tyannon and the kids slept soundly, content for the first time in ages. Corvis—Daddy—was back, and everything was all right again.
He’d see to that himself.
Corvis was tired, a weariness that saturated muscle and flesh, down to his bones. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, perhaps for a week or three. To forget the events of the recent past, to awaken to Tyannon’s face, her smile outshining the dawn itself.
But Corvis Rebaine was never a man to leave things undone, and though his last remaining task could have waited days, or weeks, or longer, he would do it now, this night, and have it done with.
Moving slowly, smoothly, silently, he lifted the pouch he’d worn at his belt and placed it gently on the table beside the flickering candle. As nimbly as he could, he untied the thong and reached inside.
The first item to emerge from the depths of the bag was a small scroll case, containing Rheah Vhoune’s key, pieced together from fragments of ancient lore. The key to a spellbook that had burned to ash in a storm of apocalyptic flame.
Mostly.
Next came a handful of parchment, ragged and torn at one end where the pages ripped from the book when Audriss grabbed it. Thank the gods he’d had the time to find the proper place, to get a solid grip on the pages before the Serpent recovered! He wondered, briefly, if Audriss had even heard the sound of tearing as he’d wrested his prize away and, if he did, if he’d been sane enough to understand the repercussions.
Finally, from the depths of the pouch, he pulled a jumbled mess. Strands of hair, scraps of cloth, baubles and adornments such as rings and earrings: everything he could surreptitiously gather, palm, or outright steal while he’d helped the nobles and Guildmasters to their feet.
“… this one you’d especially like, my Terror,” Audriss had gloated. “A charming spell that flawlessly controls dozens of people, so long as you have the proper foci …”
The new regent—the new King—would create a better Imphallion. Exactly the kind of nation Corvis would have created …
If he’d been in charge.
Slowly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the silence of the night, Corvis began to cast.
Acknowledgments
Thanks and accolades …
To the many eyes that have analyzed Shadow in its earlier sundry incarnations: Gary, Chung, Joe, Cortney, Erin, Brian, and Laura; and especially to my dear wife, George, and my sister, Naomi. (And also to Dad, but you already got a dedication earlier in the book. Leave some for everyone else.)
To Brendan, for “You know, that looks interesting.”
To David, for agreeing with Brendan.
To C.A., who’s been waiting patiently for his misplaced acknowledgment since 2004. (It’s a little dusty, but it’s still good.)
To Justin, who started the whole thing. (Well, my whole thing.)
And to my mother, Carole, because failing to thank Mom is always a bad idea.
About the Author
ARI MARMELL would love to tell you all about the various esoteric jobs he held and the wacky adventures he had on the way to becoming an author, since that’s what other authors seem to do in these blurbs. Unfortunately, he doesn’t actually have any. In point of fact, Ari decided while at the University of Houston that he wanted to be a writer, graduated with a creative writing degree, and—after holding down a couple of very mundane jobs, such as retail positions and an advertising proofreader—broke into freelance writing. He has an extensive history of writing for role-playing games, but has always worked on improving and publishing his fiction at every opportunity. He has several shared-world novels and short stories in publication—including Agents of Artifice, a “Magic: the Gathering” novel—but The Conqueror’s Shadow is his first wholly original published book.
Ari currently lives in an apartment that’s almost as cluttered as his subconscious, which he shares (the apartment, not the subconscious) with his wife, George, and two cats who really need to have some form of volume control installed.
The Conqueror’s Shadow is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Ari Marmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51905-4
www.ballantinebooks.com
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