by Jayne Castel
Now, with her shadow acting so strangely, she had more important things to think about.
Her gaze shifted from the bobbing ferry back to the quay. She stood before the shabby façade of the dockside tavern. The Barnacle—she recognized the name before remembering that Dain had mentioned it. This was where he came to fight.
The thought of Dain made Lilia frown. Turning away from the tavern, she continued her path down the pier. He barely spoke to her these days, his teasing and boyish charm had disappeared, replaced with aloof politeness. He hadn’t been the same since Saul’s visit. She’d clearly offended him in some way. Although Lilia hadn’t welcomed Dain’s interest, she’d enjoyed his banter and his cheerful greetings whenever he entered the kitchen. Apart from Ryana—who’d not returned since her visit at Winter Blood—he’d been the only friend she’d made here.
Never had Lilia felt so isolated.
She reached the end of the peer, melancholy pressing down upon her despite the warm spring sun and the lively crowd. Here, an elderly scribe sat upon a stool, a board on his knee and a basket of parchment scrolls at his feet. Next to him, a row of goshawks perched on a stand, their feathers ruffling in the sea breeze. Goshawks were the preferred means of transporting urgent messages throughout the Four Kingdoms.
The old man glanced up and caught Lilia’s eye, his expression hopeful. However, she answered with an apologetic smile—what need did she have of a scribe?
A few yards away from the scribe, a girl clutched a huge wicker basket of spring flowers: daffodils, crocuses and jonquils. The lass spotted Lilia eyeing her wares and grinned. “Spring flowers for you, miss!”
Lilia found herself smiling back. The daffodils were lovely—willowy green stems with creamy yellow trumpets. She bought a bunch to cheer herself up and inhaled the sweet scent. However, she’d lingered on her walk long enough. An afternoon of work awaited her at The Grey Anchor, although she was in no mood to return to it.
She turned and began her journey home, leaving the quayside behind and starting the steep climb up Harbor Way toward the inn.
She was halfway up the hill when a voice crooned in her ear. “Lilia.”
Startled, she stopped and turned. There was no one around. Further down the street, an old woman beat a rug outside her door but she was not close enough to have spoken.
Lilia drew her mantle close, clutching her daffodils to her breast, and hurried on. She had walked another five yards when the voice spoke once more. “Greetings, Lilia—it’s time we were properly introduced.”
Heart hammering, Lilia spun round. Her gaze shifted to where her shadow stretched behind her. It gave her a lazy wave.
Lilia’s breathing hitched. Then she turned and fled up the hill as if pursued by a gang of thieves. Fear gave her feet wings. She sprinted up the incline, past two women who were gossiping outside the butcher’s, and up the last stretch to the inn.
She flung open the front door and barged into the common room, colliding with Dain, who had been in the process of exiting. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, Lilia’s daffodils crushing between them.
“Gods, Lily,” Dain wheezed from underneath her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, clambering off him. “I’m late.”
A feminine laugh rang out from across the common room. Lilia looked up to see Ryana sitting by the fire, cup of ale in hand. “Good day, Lilia—I’m glad to see you’re keeping Dain in his place.”
Lilia rose to her feet, struggling to keep her composure. She’d been looking forward to seeing the scop again, but her shadow had spooked her badly. She glanced down at her bedraggled-looking daffodils and tried to stem the panic that still bubbled within her.
“I’m late,” she repeated before fleeing to the kitchen.
9
Cornered
Lilia shrank back against the wall inside the larder, her heart hammering. The shelves filled with clay jars, wooden crates and cloth bags of food, rattled as she threw herself back against them—but her attention lay elsewhere.
She stared at the dark shape that had blocked her escape.
“What’s wrong?” it mocked her. “Afraid of your own shadow?”
“Stay away from me!”
Lilia could hear her panic, her rising hysteria. In response, the shade her body cast behind her appeared to swell, swallowing the light from the lantern she had brought with her into the larder.
She gripped the lantern with trembling hands and held it out before her, as if to ward off the darkness.
This can’t be happening.
She’d gone to retrieve a jar of pickles when her shadow had come to life. Not only that but it had tripled in size and barred her exit.
“What do you want?” she gasped.
The silhouette cocked its head. “So much fear,” it murmured. Her shadow had a reed-thin, lilting voice. “How does a being exist when it’s so afraid?”
Lilia shivered. She was so frightened that she hardly heard the words, yet they petrified her nonetheless. Her bowels cramped, and her bladder tingled in warning. The walls closed in on her; her world was shrinking.
A scream rose in her throat.
“Lilia?” Dain’s voice echoed across the kitchen. “Ma’s asking for that stew.”
“In here!” Her voice came out as a strangled shriek. “Dain—help me!”
She heard the scuff of his boots on the flagstone floor and then he was there, his lean frame filling the doorway. Concern lined his face.
Dain’s gaze slid over her, taking in the way she cringed against shelves, her lantern clutched against her. “What’s the matter?”
Lilia gave a sobbing gasp and looked down at the floor. Dain’s shadow had chased her own away. The walls no longer closed in. She could breathe again.
Shaking uncontrollably, she rushed to Dain and threw herself into his arms. Enough pretense—she couldn’t keep this secret any longer.
Dain pulled her out of the larder into the welcoming glow of the kitchen. He hugged her trembling form against him and let her recover. Tears streamed down Lilia’s face, soaking into his shirt. She could feel the tension in his body, but was grateful that he simply held her without asking questions.
Yet when she looked up, she saw the worry in his eyes. “What happened?”
Lilia took a deep shuddering breath. How could she explain this without him thinking she was losing her mind?
“What do you two think you’re doing?”
Lilia glanced over Dain’s shoulder to find Neasa standing in the doorway, hands on hips. Her round face had gone the color of beetroot. Lilia’s upset faded, replaced with mortification—Neasa had seen her in Dain’s arms and jumped to conclusions.
“Now isn’t the time for courting.” She marched over to them, collecting a wooden spoon as she did so. “You’ll not distract my cook from her work.” She took a swing at Dain.
He ducked the blow with ease before turning to Neasa, his face incredulous. “Hang on, Ma. Lilia’s upset, I was just—”
“I know what you were doing.” She swung at him again, and this time Dain caught the end of the spoon and wrested it out of her grip.
“Enough.” Dain’s face had gone hard. “Go back to the common room—Lilia and I will bring out the stew now.”
Neasa glared at him, still angry but wary. She swung her gaze to Lilia then, eyes narrowing. “I don’t pay you to fool around with my son.”
With that, Neasa turned and stalked, stiff-backed, out of the kitchen.
The stove burned low and the kitchen was starting to cool. The last of the evening meals had been served and Lilia sat by the stove.
She felt exhausted, wrung out.
Dain and Ryana perched upon stools on the other side of the counter. After Neasa’s outburst, Lilia hadn’t been able to speak to Dain for the rest of the evening. She hadn’t wanted to be alone in the kitchen, but the supper service passed without incident. Lilia had lit all the lamps and cressets in the kitchen to chase away the shadows, alth
ough she was on edge the entire time.
Finally, once the last customer had staggered off home drunk, and the inn-keeper and his wife had retired for the night, Dain had entered the kitchen, bringing Ryana with him. Lilia didn’t mind Ryana listening to this; she had the impression the scop was more open-minded than most folk anyway. Even so, she was nervous about speaking about her shadow.
Neither Dain nor Ryana spoke while she told them, although she saw the alarm on his face and the concern in her eyes. When she concluded, Dain rose to his feet and took a large clay bottle down from a shelf.
“I think we all need some Black Fire,” he muttered, pouring the fiery blackcurrant liqueur into three small clay cups. He passed Lilia her cup, studying her face as he did so. “You’re sure it actually spoke to you?”
Lilia nodded before she took a large sip. She sighed as it left a hot trail down her throat before pooling like molten ore in her belly. “It has on two occasions now.”
She shifted her attention to where Ryana sat watching her. The scop had not yet taken a sip. “You’ve travelled more than most. Have you ever come across something like this?” she asked.
The scop’s grey-blue gaze clouded, but she shook her head. “Never.”
Dread welled up in Lilia and the strong liqueur gurgled in her belly. “Maybe I’m sick.”
Ryana shook her head. “I’ve never heard of a sickness that wakes your shadow up.”
Lilia glanced over at Dain. “Should I go and see Moira?”
Dain frowned. “Ryana’s right—this isn’t something a healer can help you with.”
Lilia blinked back tears. “Who then?”
Ryana sighed and reached across the bench, taking hold of Lilia’s trembling hand. “It sounds like your shadow’s behavior is the work of enchantment.”
Lilia went cold at this news. Next to Ryana, Dain’s expression turned grim. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Ryana shook her head. “Of course not, but that’s the only explanation that makes sense.” Her gaze met Lilia’s. “Think back over the last few months. Did anything out of the ordinary occur?”
Lilia shook her head. Her life had been nothing but work since arriving here—she’d been chained to this kitchen.
“Has anyone spoken to you … or given you something?” Ryana pressed.
Lilia’s breathing caught.
Ryana’s gaze narrowed. “What is it?”
Lilia hesitated. She’d promised Saul that she’d keep the charm secret. Yet he hadn’t returned and the current situation made her reconsider her promise to him.
Slowly, with an odd reluctance, she withdrew the stone from inside her clothing. Even though it had lain against her skin, the charm was chill to the touch.
Dain’s brow furrowed. “A hag stone?”
“Yes, but an odd one,” Lilia replied. “It’s too smooth, too regular in its shape—and there’s a piece missing at the bottom.” Lilia turned her attention to Ryana then. She wanted to know her opinion of the stone. However, one glance at the woman stilled her.
Ryana’s face had drained of color.
Lilia frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Ryana swallowed, tearing her attention away from the stone. Her gaze when it met Lilia’s was haunted. “Who gave this to you?”
“Saul … that man who stayed here a few months ago. Do you know what this is?”
Ryana glanced back down at the stone. Lilia noted that a faint sheen of sweat now covered her face. “Why did he give it to you?” she asked, refusing to meet Lilia’s eye or answer her questions.
“He had to leave suddenly.” Lilia inwardly cringed at the excuse which now sounded so feeble. “He wanted to give me something as proof he’d come back.”
Dain snorted but both women ignored him. Ryana looked up, finally meeting Lilia’s eye. “But he hasn’t come back, has he?”
Lilia shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about Saul—she wanted to know why the sight of the hag stone had spooked Ryana so.
“You’ve seen this stone before,” she observed. “You know what it is.”
Ryana drew in a deep breath and leaned back. She picked up her cup and downed the contents in one gulp. “Aye.” She reached for the clay bottle and refilled her cup. “I do.”
Lilia waited, watching the scop intently. She could see Ryana was struggling with something, some inner turmoil she could barely control. Her usual light-hearted, flippant manner had gone, revealing a troubled woman underneath. Ryana took another shot of liqueur before she eventually spoke.
“I’ve seen its other half,” she murmured. “Ten years ago.”
Ryana ran a hand over her face, her body tensing. When she removed it, Lilia saw her eyes were haunted. “I came all this way, buried the past deep—and still it finds me.”
Lilia stared at her, uncomprehending, before she flicked a look in Dain’s direction. Likewise, he watched Ryana in bemusement. “So the travelling scop is just a ruse?” he asked.
Ryana’s mouth twisted. “I’ve always been a singer and a story-teller,” she replied, “but that wasn’t the path set out for me.”
Ryana put down her cup and stripped the leather fingerless glove off her right hand, turning her palm face-up so that they could see it. Her palm bore a tattoo—a black, inked-in eight-pointed star.
Lilia gasped, her gaze widening as she looked upon Ryana with fresh eyes. Although she’d never seen a person bearing such a tattoo, she knew what it meant—all folk did. “You’re an enchanter.”
Ryana favored her with a bitter smile. “I once belonged to the Order of Light and Darkness in Rithmar,” she confirmed, “but that all ended the day I stole the other half of that stone you bear, and gave it to the enemy.”
Lilia stared at her, scarcely breathing. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a Guising drum. She felt slightly sick and wished she’d not touched the Black Fire.
Ryana held her gaze firmly. “You carry half of The King Breaker.”
10
The King Breaker
The King Breaker.
Lilia looked down at the charm about her neck in awe. Ryana must have been mistaken. This stone looked too plain to be the object that had locked away The Shadow King. She knew the legend—all folk did. Centuries earlier, a brave and talented enchanter had forged a talisman to defeat Valgarth. He’d succeeded in imprisoning The Shadow King, but the act had taken his life, and snapped The King Breaker in two. After that the two pieces of the stone—the only object that could free Valgarth—were lost. Folk believed they were gone forever.
Lilia reached up, clasping the ice-cold stone with the intent of ripping it from her neck but found she couldn’t bring herself to.
She glanced up to find Ryana watching her. “You can’t take it off, can you?” she asked.
Lilia’s breathing quickened before she shook her head.
“The King Breaker contains a strong protection charm—it bonds to its wearer,” Ryana explained. “It amazes me that Saul had the strength to part with it.”
Lilia thought back to the moment in that lane when Saul had given the stone to her. “He wasn’t wearing it,” she replied. “He carried it in a metal box.”
Ryana’s mouth thinned. “That explains it. We found the other piece in an iron box as well, and kept it safe inside. None of us dared touch it for we knew its power.”
“So both pieces of The King Breaker have been found.” Dain spoke up. Lilia saw her own confusion mirrored in his dark-blue eyes as his gaze shifted between the stone and Ryana. “That can’t mean anything good.”
“Valgarth The Shadow King,” Lilia murmured, remembering the story her grandmother had told around the fireside, passed down from her own mother. “The breaker of Kingdoms, the enslaver of all.”
“Aye,” Dain replied, his face grim. “You wouldn’t want him set loose on the world again.”
“But it happened so long ago.” Lilia found herself gripping the stone tight in her hand, its rounded edge digging into her palm.
“Surely he couldn’t survive five-hundred years locked under the mountains.”
“He was immortal,” Ryana reminded them, her voice subdued. “He’ll still be there, waiting.”
Lilia suppressed a shudder. Despite the presence of an Altar of Umbra in each settlement across the land, and the offerings folk left for the servants of the shadows at Winter Blood, it was easy to believe that the story of The Shadow King was a myth. The creatures that had once marched with him now lived in hiding, deep in woods and mountain valleys and shunned the brightly-lit towns and villages of Serran. Valgarth wasn’t part of the world that Lilia had been born into.
“The other half you say you stole.” Lilia met Ryana’s eye. “Where’s it now?”
The woman inhaled deeply, suddenly appearing much older and wearier than a moment earlier. “The Shade Brotherhood has it,” she replied.
Dain frowned. “The what?”
Ryana raked her hands through her hair. Her tall, athletic frame vibrated with tension. When she looked back at Dain, her eyes were wild, desperate.
“You might as well hear this tale from the beginning,” she rasped. “Just don’t ask me to repeat it.” Ryana looked down at her hands and inhaled deeply before beginning. “I liked my life in the Royal City of Rithmar, in the Order, but sometimes I used to feel stifled. A couple of evenings a week I’d go down into the lower town and sing and recite poetry in taverns for coin. That’s where I met Gael. He was older than me, a musician who played the harp while I sang. It wasn’t long before we became lovers.” Ryana paused here, composing herself a moment before continuing. “He used to ask me questions about my life in the Order, about the other enchanters, and I answered them without hesitation. Then one day I unwittingly revealed to him that we’d had an incredible find. Under the ruins of a temple to the old gods in Fellmere, one of our Order had found an iron box—and in it one half of an artifact thought lost forever.”