The Shadow's Heir

by K J Taylor

  There, he picked up the wine jug, took it out onto the balcony, and poured the contents off the edge.

  After that, he took the wine-barrel from under the bed, rolled it out into the audience chamber, and left it there. The servants could remove it in the morning.

  “No more wine,” he told himself. “No more drinking. No more trying to hide.”

  Back in his room, he took off his boots, robe, and trousers and put them aside before opening a chest and bringing out a nightshirt.

  He hadn’t worn it in months, and the cloth smelled stale, but he put it on anyway and snuffed out the lamp before climbing into his bed. It, too, was dusty and unused.

  It felt more comfortable than he remembered its ever being in the past.

  He snuggled down under the blankets, his mind exploding with ideas as it had not done in many long years. He even felt excited.

  “You’ll come with me to Amoran, Laela,” he murmured to the darkness. “You’ll come because I’ll order you to come. And after we get back, you’ll stay with me. Every day, whether you like it or not. I’ll see to it that you learn all you need to know. And the Night God won’t be able to stop us, and neither will Saeddryn.”

  He grinned wolfishly to himself and drifted off to sleep.

  • • •

  Arenadd’s new feeling of determination and purpose was still there when he woke up, and it made the day feel much brighter. He enjoyed his customary bath and gave his hair the usual thorough brushing and combing before neatening up his beard and dressing in his favourite robe. That done, he called some servants to remove the wine-barrel, and then went for breakfast. The servants looked openly surprised when he asked them for food, and again when he ate it.

  After he’d eaten, he went to see Laela. The girl looked frightened and resentful at the sight of him, but he had rehearsed what he was going to say and wasted no time in saying it.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I haven’t been myself lately. And quite honestly, I drink too much. Now, about Amoran—”

  She avoided his eyes. “Yes, Sire?”

  “You’re coming with me,” he said. “And that is not a request. Also,” he went on, as she opened her mouth to protest, “I’m going to arrange for some more lessons for you. These won’t be as . . . cerebral as the ones you’re having now.”

  “What are they, Sire?”

  “You’re going to learn how to fight,” said Arenadd. “You mentioned that you already know how to use the short sword you brought with you, and that’s good, but if you’re going to become a Northerner, then you need to learn how to use one of our weapons. And you’ll find that the sickle handles quite differently. You’ll also learn how to use a bow, and how to fight hand to hand. I won’t have my new companion be helpless when there’s danger.”

  Laela’s blue eyes gleamed. “That’s fine by me, Sire. I mean, I’d like to learn how t’fight, like.”

  “And you will. I’ll assign someone to do that once we get back from Amoran.”

  “Yes, Sire.” She paused. “Thanks, Sire. I’m grateful for that. An’ I’m sorry how I was last night. I was rude, an’ I shouldn’t have been.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” said Arenadd, waving her into silence. “How should I have expected you to react? You saw a side of me I wish you hadn’t, and for myself I’d rather not talk about it any more.”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Laela.

  “Good. And you can call me Arenadd. I’d prefer it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “All right . . . Arenadd.”

  • • •

  The conversation improved Arenadd’s mood even further, and that good mood persisted until well after he had shaken off the last of his hangover and enjoyed a hearty lunch.

  After he’d eaten, he visited several of his officials whom he hadn’t spoken to in some time and enjoyed their obvious surprise when he called on them out of the blue to ask them about how their various duties were going and whether there were any problems.

  Even when there was nothing significant to talk about, it still felt reassuring just to talk and refresh his memory.

  After that, he managed to track down Skandar, and the two of them spent a lazy afternoon flying over the city together, just enjoying the feeling of being in the air.

  Arenadd felt more alive than he could ever remember.

  After dinner, he retired to his room to catch up on some paperwork, but that didn’t last long before he felt bored and put it aside.

  His gaze drifted toward his sickle, resting on its pegs over the bed. He lifted it down and gripped the handle, thrilling at how perfectly it still fitted into his palm. How long had it been since he’d used it? Five years? Ten years?

  He took up a fighting stance and flicked the weapon back and forth so that the blade flashed in the fire-light. It followed his every movement, almost dancing in the air, the wickedly sharp point curving back toward him in an imitation of the crescent moon.

  Arenadd ran his broken fingers over the blade, with its etching of the triple spiral, and smiled to himself.

  “By gods, I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve missed seeing you in battle . . . how the Southerners fell under you.”

  He smiled, remembering. The sweet smell of blood and the sound of screams, like music in his ears. Oh, how he’d thrilled to it. How could anyone ever say that killing was wrong or evil, when it felt so good?

  He realised he was standing very still, almost salivating at the thought of it.

  If you went to war, you could feel it again, an inner voice whispered.

  He shut it out, and returned the weapon to its place. No. No matter how much he wanted it, he would not do the Night God’s bidding. There was nothing she could offer him that he wanted, not any more. Even killing wasn’t worth it.

  He felt the familiar thirst for wine nagging at him. He hadn’t had so much as one cup all day . . . how long had it been since he’d gone an entire day without a drink?

  Maybe I could have just one. Just a quick one . . .

  “No!”

  He grabbed his broken fingers with his other hand and twisted them until they cracked, and his eyes watered. The pain helped to bring him back to his senses, though, and he berated himself internally. No more wine. You’re a King—act like one! You’re degrading yourself—making yourself look like a fool. You can live . . . you can exist . . . without drinking yourself to sleep every night.

  The room had begun to feel like a prison. If he stayed in it much longer, he knew he would crack and call for the servants to bring him a jug.

  But there was a solution to that.

  He went to his clothes chest and lifted out the black tunic, the hood, and the cloth to wrap around his face. He’d visited his officials—now it was time to visit his people as well.

  He put on the disguise of Wolf with practised speed and stuffed a money-bag and a long dagger into his belt before slipping through the concealed door into the secret passage and away, toward freedom.

  • • •

  The Blue Moon tavern was as quiet as it usually was. Arenadd slipped in via the back door and took his accustomed seat in a shadowy corner. There, carefully ignored by the other drinkers, he sipped at a mug of water and listened to the conversation around him.

  “. . . going to join up,” one man was saying. “The instant it’s made official.”

  “For sure? The money won’t be so good . . .”

  “It ain’t for the money!” The first speaker sounded a little overexcited. “It’s for the glory! I was way too young when the war was on, but my dad always told me about the fightin’. He said how he went into battle once under the leadership of the King himself! An’ afterward, he picked up all sorts of loot. He’s still got a gold cup from a griffiner’s bedroom.”

  “Who says we’re invadin’ the South, anyway?” someone else called out.

  “Not me,” Arenadd muttered under his breath.

  “’Course we will,” said
the first man. “The King’ll lead us there. He’d never let the sun worshippers go.”

  “I dunno,” said someone else. “If we were goin’ to invade the South, wouldn’t we have done it by now?”

  “Well, obviously the King’s had other stuff on his mind,” the first said defensively. “Ye don’t build a Kingdom overnight, do ye?”

  “I heard he’s gonna make more trade deals with Amoran,” said someone else.

  The others made disgusted noises.

  “I don’t believe that,” said the first speaker. “He wouldn’t do somethin’ like that.”

  Arenadd groaned to himself. Gods, listen to them whine. They all think they can read my mind.

  He was interrupted in his listening at that point by something nudging his elbow. He started, reaching automatically for his knife, but it was only the barmaid.

  She pushed a tankard toward him. “That’ll be four oblong.”

  “I didn’t order that,” Arenadd snapped.

  She gave him a condescending look. “No-one stays in ’ere unless they buy a drink. Four oblong.”

  He growled and fished in his money-bag. She took the oblong and walked off.

  Arenadd picked up the tankard and sniffed its contents. Beer. Well, maybe just one drink would do him some good. It would certainly be better than listening to this poor fool brag about joining the army to march off to a war that wasn’t going to happen.

  He carefully lifted the cloth away from his mouth and sipped at his drink. It wasn’t bad, especially considering he didn’t like beer much.

  The conversation around him continued, but it was fairly noisy in the tavern, and he let it wash over him without much effort, drinking his beer while he soaked in the atmosphere. Gods but it felt good to be surrounded by people who didn’t know who he was and didn’t stare at him. True, he attracted a few curious glances because of his shrouded face, but the regular drinkers at the Blue Moon were used to him by now—and all of them knew that he wasn’t a person to be interfered with.

  It had taken him a while to establish himself at first—the owner had found his appearance unsettling and started to ask suspicious questions, but a bag of money and a few threats had made it clear to the man that this drinker preferred to be left alone. And at least the Lone Wolf (as people had started calling him) always paid for his drinks and never got into fights. It was enough to keep them quiet.

  Normally, he enjoyed being here, but listening to the conversation and the barmaid’s sneering attitude had left him feeling out of sorts, and he decided to move on. There were other haunts he could visit.

  He downed the last of his drink and pulled the cloth back into place before quietly slipping out of his seat and making for the door.

  As he crossed the threshold, a sick, dizzy feeling hit him, and he staggered and nearly fell.

  He clutched at his head. “Oooh . . .”

  The dizziness increased sharply. He blinked several times to try and dispel it, but that only made grey spots flash in front of his eyes.

  His stomach roiled.

  “Ugh, what is wrong with me?” he mumbled, leaning against a wall as he tried to recover himself.

  The sick and disoriented feeling only got worse, and frighteningly quickly. It made him feel something he hadn’t experienced for as long as he could remember: fear.

  Oh, holy gods, he thought suddenly, as the world spun around him. I’ve been drugged!

  His first instinct was to go back into the tavern and confront the barmaid, but he quickly realised that would be the worst thing he could do. He couldn’t possibly fight like this—even walking would probably be very hard.

  Realising that, and now very aware of how much danger he could be in, he struck out toward the Eyrie as fast as he could. He had to get back to safety—had to get somewhere protected, where he could sleep off the drug. In the morning, he could return to the Blue Moon—or better still, send the city guard.

  But even that plan began to look impossible as he weaved back and forth along the street, staggering hopelessly this way and that. He couldn’t tell which way was which. His vision was turning grey and hazy. He felt so tired, he wanted to lie down and sleep in the middle of the road.

  He forced his eyes to stay open and took deep breaths to clear his head.

  Find a guard, he told himself. Find one and tell him who you are—it doesn’t matter that they’ll ask questions tomorrow—you’ll be safe!

  But he couldn’t see any guards, or indeed see much at all. The entire world was turning dark. His feet felt like a pair of granite blocks. When he thrust out a hand to try and support himself, he half-expected it to touch the sky. Meanwhile, people around him were bumping into him, sometimes painfully. He wanted to ask them for help, but his head was in a whirl, and none of them seemed to stay long enough to speak to. Finally, one of them ran into him hard enough to send him staggering sideways and into a wall. He hit it, and then groped his way along it until he found a corner, and peered around it. It looked dark, and he could see another wall, but he couldn’t tell whether it was another street, or even if it was an open doorway.

  A hand grabbed him by the arm. He resisted, but the hand didn’t let go, and he stumbled after it until it released him and something shoved him violently in the chest, sending him to the ground, which he hit with a bone-jarring thud.

  An instant later, something heavy pinned him down and he saw a face looking into his, wavering sickeningly through the haze. It looked small, but the mouth was twisted and horrible, the eyes staring.

  Arenadd groaned and mumbled something.

  The stranger reached down and took hold of the cloth wrapped around his face. “Now let’s see who’s behind the mask,” a voice rasped.

  The cloth came away, and Arenadd felt air on his face. “Let go of me,” he managed. “I . . . order you . . .”

  The stranger’s leer widened, turning his face into a hideous mask. “At last,” he breathed, and his voice was a strange lisping thing. “At last, I’ve found you.”

  Arenadd shoved at him, but all his strength had gone. “Leave me alone. I swear, if you don’t let me up and call the guard, I’ll make you suffer.”

  A laugh. “Too late!” the voice almost screamed. “Too late!”

  And then something hit him.

  It felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. But only for a moment.

  The stranger rose, breathing harshly. “This time, no-one will be there to take it out,” he said. “Not this time. In Gryphus’ name, die.”

  Arenadd’s breath came in short gasps, and he reached up and clutched feebly at the dagger embedded in his chest. Blood bubbled up between his teeth, and he coughed and moaned. If he could only take it out . . .

  But he didn’t have the strength, and he could feel it sapping his energy, shutting down his senses. The last of his vision faded to black, and his ears filled with a roaring sound that blotted out all else.

  He felt his attacker roll him onto his front and tie his hands behind his back. His ankles were tied, too, and after that, something was stuffed into his mouth. The blood welling up in his throat had nowhere to go now, and he choked on it, gagging and retching. It was filling his lungs . . .

  Above the roaring in his ears, he heard the stranger say something.

  “For Gryphus. For Lord Erian. For justice.”

  After that, he fell into the void.

  11

  Learning

  Laela had had a long day. The morning had been spent with Yorath, as usual, learning to write her first words. He had also taught her several more Northern phrases—she was learning how to ask for food and how to say “I am the King’s companion.” Yorath had told her she had very good pronunciation, which surprised her.

  Once the lesson was over, Yorath began to excuse himself as he usually did.

  “Wait,” said Laela.

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  She resisted the urge to stare at her boots. “I’m goin’ for lunch now, an’ I was
wonderin’ if . . . er, if yeh’d like to come an’ have it with me, like.”

  Yorath looked uncertain. “I dunno . . .”

  “Yeh don’t have to come if yeh don’t want,” Laela said in a rush. “I just . . . sorta . . . thought I’d ask.”

  “Oh, I want t’come,” Yorath said, just as quickly. “It’s just that . . .”

  “Why? Yeh got somewhere else to be?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Come, then,” said Laela. “I’ll be eatin’ on me own otherwise.”

  Yorath scratched the back of his neck. “Well . . .”

  “The King won’t mind,” said Laela. “He really won’t. He told me I could do whatever I wanted.” This wasn’t actually true, but she said it anyway.

  “I thought he’d be eatin’ with ye,” said Yorath.

  “No, he never does,” said Laela. “C’mon, hurry up—I’m hungry.”

  He paused a moment longer, and then smiled. “All right. I’ll be glad to.”

  Laela smiled back, and they left the library together, side by side. Up in the dining hall, food had been laid out for her as always, and the serving-woman, seeing Yorath, silently left to bring a plate for him.

  Laela sat down, gesturing at him to sit beside her.

  He did, looking around at the room. “I’ve never been up here before, ye know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, usually only the King an’ his officials use it,” said Yorath. “Teacher’s apprentices like me’d never come up here. Not without an invitation, anyway.”

  “I gave yeh one,” said Laela. “Want some beer? It’s not bad.”

  “Thanks.”

  They drank together in companionable silence.

  Laela’s heart was pounding. I wonder what’s goin’ on in his head. What does he really think about me? I’d never get him to tell me . . .

  She paused, holding her cup. Well, be damned with that.

  “Yorath?”

  “Yeah?”

  Laela put her cup down and looked him in the face. “What do yeh think of me?”

  The question obviously caught him off guard. “What do I think of ye?”

  “Yeah,” said Laela. “I mean, yeh got yerself a good job tutorin’ me—probably got yeh some favour with the King an’ all—an’ yer nice to me, but that’s probably just ’cause of me livin’ up ’ere with the King. So I was wonderin’—what do yeh actually think of me?”