Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  He gives Nisai’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “I came to protect my brother.”

  They say the Eraz’s dungeons, carved into the bedrock several levels under the palace, are darker than the Days of Doskai.

  They’re right.

  It’s so black I can’t see my hand in front of my face. Then again, I’m not even sure if I want to see, given my nose only finds rats, unwashed bodies, and slop buckets of human excrement.

  The rats are bigger than I’m comfortable with, judging from the skitters. And if the only guard standing watch over this floor has family? Poor them—he could snore a house down surer than a groundshake.

  I block it all out by focusing yet again on Sephine’s last words.

  When the lion wears the lost crown, he won’t live through the night.

  Nisai’s Aphorain roots mean he’ll be the first Emperor for generations to fly banners with the winged lion facing the imperial phoenix. Was the Scent Keeper saying he’d only survive to rule Aramtesh for a day? Surely they wouldn’t crown an unconscious Prince?

  As for the other things …

  The darkness will bloom again.

  I was dragged down here before the fire was brought under control, but I’d bet my nose the whole dahkai crop had caught. There’s no way those plants will be blooming when the moons go dark, nor at the next Flower Moon. They’re gone.

  The way of the stars.

  Scent Keeper philosophy? Caravan navigation methods? Starwheel superstitions? I kick my heel against the cell wall and start pacing.

  Asmudtag.

  For someone who only first stepped onto temple grounds days earlier, mention of a near-forgotten deity is a sniff too mystical to interpret.

  All I’ve got is those few words and a stampede of thoughts that reach the same dead end again and again. Yet the imperial heavies who’ve been taking turns questioning me think I know more than I’m letting on. Why haven’t any Aphorains been among them? Father would detest the capital pulling rank if he were still one of the Eraz’s officers.

  Father.

  Has word reached him of my fate? Would Barden have slunk home and told him, rubbing salt in a Rot-forsaken wound? And what would Father do then? Call in favors from an old army comrade? How many of those are left, and what would they be worth in the face of imperial command?

  Air brushes past me, stirring me from my thoughts. A hint of sweet freshness, its visit cruelly fleeting. Someone opened the door to the outside world and shut it just as quick.

  Sure enough, footsteps start down the corridor. My heart drums in my ears, instinct screaming for me to scramble to the rear of the cell and press my back against the wall. But how’s that going to help? I’ve got no chance if the imperials decide on more direct interrogation methods.

  The footsteps near. Just an average scuff. Probably a servant. In the darkness, I’ve lost track of all time. I’ve no idea how often they bring the barley gruel they call food in this place, or the last time they topped up the water bucket, its contents questionable enough for me to hold my nose every time I force myself to take a drink.

  The footsteps slow and stop. So does the snoring. A man’s voice—the guard. Then an ooof and a muffled thud. After that, nothing.

  I strain to hear, canting my head to the side, ready to gauge the angles of the next sound. The darkness only answers with silence.

  Candlelight flickers. A figure.

  I edge backward. How could anyone move without a sound?

  The figure steps closer. A girl in saffron robes and servant slippers. Black, chin-length hair framing a pale face barely older than mine. Huge eyes that could be any color under the sun—it’s too dark to tell.

  It’s not too dark to tell that she’s beautiful.

  She pushes a tray through the slot under the bars. Gingerly, I lift the cloth. The homey waft of still-warm barley bread. A fat leg of roasted sandsquab. Honey-glazed Hagmiri apricots. A cup of what could only be Trelian red wine, transported barrel by barrel on camelback from the riverlands.

  A meal fit for the Eraz. Delivered to a girl in a dungeon.

  If they think I’m going to beg, they can think again.

  “So,” I drawl, hoping my voice is steady enough to mask my fear. “We’ve skipped the trial and gone straight to the last meal? Care to tell me what it’s laced with?” I bring the cup of wine to my nose, but all I get is a bouquet of dark berries and a hint of anise.

  The girl raises a manicured eyebrow. “Satisfied?” She speaks with a calm assurance I wouldn’t expect from a servant. Guess anyone can afford to be confident on the other side of these bars.

  “What happened to the guard?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “He snores when he sleeps.”

  She smirks. “He’s sleeping very soundly.”

  “Did you … ?”

  “He’ll be fine in a couple of hours. Won’t even have a headache. Or any recollection that a servant girl brought him a nice cup of ale halfway through his shift.”

  “Then you are here to …” My voice finally betrays me, catching in my throat at the thought of dying here, now, in a dungeon.

  “If that were my intention, it’d already be over with you none the wiser.” She looks pointedly at the food. “Do you treat everyone who shows you kindness with such disdain?”

  I try another angle. “Who sent you?”

  “Someone who thinks you’re worth saving.”

  Barden? Has the guilt finally got to him?

  “It’s not your pretty guard, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  So, she’s been around the palace long enough to note its comings and goings. Or she’s someone with sources.

  She waves her hand. “All of that’s irrelevant, and I’d hate it if our dozing friend was discovered before we’d finished our conversation. I’ll talk, you eat. Who knows where your next meal will come from.”

  I glare at her.

  She stares back, unblinking.

  My traitor stomach gurgles. Hunger wins the battle against suspicion, and I fall on the food.

  “Delightful choice.” She draws nearer to the bars. “Now. You’ll be found guilty no matter what. They need a scapegoat. You’re the newest servant on the estate, the Eraz can plausibly deny any of his staff was involved or had knowledge of anything you had planned. Sephine could have vouched for you, but she’s gone to the sky.”

  The girl turns away. What was that in her expression? Grief?

  Then she’s all business again. “Whether you like it or not, they’ll get a confession from you. There’s been no major physical harm yet. But there will be. You’ve seen the chain gangs working the irrigation ditches?”

  Noseless ones.

  I swallow the mouthful of apricot I’d been chewing. It sticks painfully in my throat. Whatever this girl’s motives, there’s truth in her words. If there’s anything I’ve learned from recent events, it’s that those with money or power are the ones in control. No matter if I’ve done anything wrong or not, they’ll decide my fate. Just as whoever employs my unexpected visitor is doing right now.

  What’s in it for them, I haven’t the smokiest.

  The girl sets the candle on the ground and pulls two metal pins from her robe. She jams one into the lock on the cell door and works the other like a tiny lever, clucking her tongue.

  “They really should keep these things oiled. Where were we? Ah, yes. Someone high up wants the Prince healed before too many hotheads start us down the road toward civil war. That someone also recognizes that self-preservation is one of the best motivators, hence deciding it’s worth adding you to the field. You’ve built a reputation in certain quarters for—how shall I say it?—unorthodox creativity. Tenacity, too. You’ll need both if you’re going to figure out how to save our next ruler.”

  The lock clicks audibly. She gives me a sly wink as the cell door swings open. “Guess I’ve still got it.”

  Who is this girl?

  “Now. The ni
ce thing about rich people not wanting to sniff their own stink is that the drainage systems go well beyond the walls. That’s your way out. I’ve taken care of the grate.”

  I cringe. The dungeons are bad enough. But the sewers?

  “Far from glamorous, but that’s how it is. I’ve taken the liberty of having your horse relocated. I trust you’ll take that as a sign of good faith. She’s penned in the outer corral of the trader camp north of the walls. Two silver zigs say the stock boy won’t be reporting any unusual noises tonight.”

  I choke back tears of relief. Guess if I’m going to be played by someone, I’d rather it to be the sort who takes care of my horse.

  My lock-picking visitor leans a shoulder against the doorway, arms folded. “Circle wide of the city, then strike south, for Belgith’s Canyon. You know the place?”

  I nod.

  “Lovely. Whatever you do, don’t even think about taking a side trip to that village of yours. And here, you’ll need this.”

  I’d noticed she was carrying a bag but couldn’t make out the details given the cloak draped over it. Now she hands it to me and my hands instantly recognize its familiar shape, the strap fitted to my shoulder from turns of wear.

  The weight suggests it’s full, but I open the flap to check. Sure enough, the various vials and pouches of my stores are there, and some have even been replenished: yeb balm for starting fires, liquid torpi to aid a sleep so deep no pain is felt, even some Linod’s Elixir. I haven’t needed the latter since I was young, but I always feel better carrying a small amount for emergencies. I slip my hand into the concealed pocket, fingertips finding the tiny vial of dahkai essence.

  The girl raises an eyebrow. “All in order, I trust? Now, this’ll also come in handy.” She hands me a pouch with the telltale jangle of silver zigs. “Oh, and I almost forgot …”

  She produces a book from her robe. It’s not much bigger than my splayed hand, but thick with pages and bound in what appears to be aurochs leather.

  I’ve never seen a book up close—I don’t exactly have reason to frequent the scroll merchant in Aphorai’s market. It falls open at a random page, and I squint in the low light. Charcoal sketches. Scrawled notes from which I can only pick out every third or fourth word. Other scripts I’ve never even seen before.

  “It was the Prince’s,” she explains. “May come in useful or shed light once you get to the Library of the Lost. If anywhere is going to have answers to the Prince’s calamity, it’ll be there.”

  A legendary library hidden somewhere in the depths of the Aphorain desert? I’d almost started believing this girl was serious. Dared hope there might be a way out of all this.

  “And how am I meant to find it?”

  “The map around your neck.”

  Stunned, I reach for my locket, my thumb tracing the constellations. Follow the way of the stars, Sephine had said.

  She leans forward, peering at me searchingly. “Scents be damned. She told you nothing of the Order, did she?”

  “Who? And in what order?”

  “Sephine. The Order of Asmudtag.”

  Asmudtag. That’s two out of three. What is going on here?

  She rolls her eyes skyward, though a ton of rock stands between us and whichever god she’s invoking. “What did she tell you? Don’t bother denying it, I know she spoke to you before she passed.”

  “How could you—”

  “Irrelevant,” she snaps, all trace of her arch playfulness evaporated. “Tell me what she said. Word for word.”

  I consider resisting, but she’s given me food and the promise of escape. “It was babble. Her usual riddles. Something about the darkness blooming again. And something about the Prince’s coronation: ‘When the lion wears the lost crown, he won’t live through the night.’ ”

  The girl hisses a string of curses that would make a soldier blush. “Not the Prince’s coronation. Tozran’s. She was speaking of the old calendar. Ours uses Kaismap’s moon but pre-Accord calendars follow the fifteen-day cycles of Shokan, the moon of the Lost God. Feast days, auspicious dates, times of ill omen, were decided by its movement against the stars. When Shokan waxes full and crests the eighth segment, the moon ‘crowns’ Tozran—the lion constellation.

  “Sephine must have had reason to think the Prince will succumb on that night. I don’t spend my days hunched over starwheel charts but that’s”—she purses her lips, staring into the shadows as she counts on her fingers—“sometime in Adirun.”

  Adirun. Three moons away. Fifty days, give or take.

  Enough time to cure a prince, clear my name, and potentially stop my province feeling the imperial boot on its neck?

  It’ll have to be.

  The girl checks the darkness over her shoulder. “I don’t plan to be here when that guard comes around. Let’s be blunt: You want two things—salves and tinctures for your father, and to understand who your mother was. The Order can provide both.”

  “My father needs treatment daily, not at the tail end of some smoke-brained quest.”

  “Arrangements have been made. He’ll be well supplied, and someone will watch over him. So, are we burning the same taper? Take the sewer tunnel. Get your horse. Find the Library and a cure for the Prince before the lion is crowned.”

  Footsteps echo far above us.

  My visitor retrieves her candle. “We need to move.”

  What choice do I have?

  Stay and risk almost-certain punishment for a crime I didn’t commit?

  Escape and flee home for the hours or days I might get before I’m apprehended, implicating Father for harboring a fugitive? He wouldn’t last long down here.

  Or trust the words of a stranger who has gone to a lot of trouble to offer me a chance at a way out of all this.

  I grab a last chunk of bread. With no better option before me, I follow the girl deeper into the tunnels.

  “I’ll be leaving you here,” she announces when I’ve lost count of the turns we’ve taken and the floor has begun to slope downward.

  “At least tell me your name before you go?”

  There goes that arched eyebrow again. “You don’t know many spies, do you?”

  I answer with a glare.

  A row of white teeth flashes in the candlelight. “Good thing you’re so cute when you’re pretending not to be out of your depth.” She reaches out and lays her hand on my arm, her touch raising my skin to gooseflesh. “You can call me Luz.”

  She steps back. “Stars keep you, Ana. You just might be reckless enough to pull this off. If you don’t end up dead first.”

  The barest hint of violets follows in her wake before it’s swallowed up by dungeon reek. It’s delicate, but it clangs in my memory. I never forget a scent.

  Zakkurus.

  She’s one of his? What’s he got to do with all this?

  More to the point, what’s he going to get out of it?

  Iddo’s first order of business after declaring martial law was to station several of his Rangers in and outside Nisai’s chambers with strict orders not to admit anyone who hadn’t been pre-approved by the Commander himself, especially any Aphorain. The First Prince’s safety, he said, is his paramount concern, a concern he’d “obviously have to take personal responsibility for” if he wanted it done right.

  The second order was to appoint an interim Shield for Nisai from among his Rangers, considering my incapacity.

  He appointed Kip.

  A good choice, in my view.

  She didn’t object, but the disappointment in her eyes was obvious. Being one of the newest Rangers and having a reassignment to a comatose Prince? I expect the Commander’s decision hinged on Kip’s loyalty and her prodigious mastery of the deadly art of lo-daiyish, the unarmed combat style of her home province. But the way the other Rangers immediately began to let their gazes slide over the Losian—as if “out of the field” means “part of the furniture”—made me feel guilty and sympathetic in equal doses.

  Iddo’s third order landed
me here.

  Told to focus on my recovery, I’ve been reassigned to a chamber that appears remarkably similar to a servant’s cell—four unadorned stone walls, bare ceiling, narrow bed, a candle in a simple holder providing the only light source.

  The passing hours bleed into one another. Issinon brings food, fresh candles, and a reminder I’m to rest—my priority is to mend. Esarik pokes his head in the door as often as he can, giving me updates that aren’t updates on Nisai’s condition.

  The Prince’s heart beats.

  Breath rises and falls in his chest.

  His eyes stay closed.

  The darkness remains.

  The scholar grimaces when he speaks of the ratcheting tension as the Commander hunts for the culprit behind the fires and Nisai’s condition. I want answers, too. But I’ve begun to wonder whether more energy is being spent on identifying and punishing the would-be assassin than on finding what ails Nisai, and, more importantly, what will cure it. Because who knows how long he will last in this state, how long it will be before he recovers or succumbs.

  Sometime in the night, I wake to raised voices echoing down the hall.

  I’m thankful that my wounds have crusted over well enough to allow me to pull on my armor. I exit my cell and hurry along the corridor, following the sound to Nisai’s chambers.

  The Rangers stationed on the outer door nod me through in unison. Their comrades on the inner door greet me in the same manner.

  Inside, Kip meets my eyes across the room. There’s sympathy in her gaze, but then the moment passes and she’s stoic again, on guard at the Prince’s bedside.

  Nisai remains on his back. Someone has changed his clothes into his state robes—deep imperial purple with thread-of-gold phoenixes stitched into the silk. The sight makes me slightly uneasy—it’s not what Nisai would have chosen. Not that you’d be able to tell: The Prince’s expression is serene, eyes closed, hands clasped over his stomach.

  Iddo, however, appears anything but serene. His shirt is uncharacteristically unbuttoned, his face shadowed where by now he normally would have shaved. He paces in front of one of his senior officers—by the look of the man’s insignia and silver-sown hair—who stands next to an Aphorain guard. It’s the same hulking brute who steered the chariot at the lion hunt. What’s he doing here?