In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  Someone stirred next to her, groaning slightly. Without opening her eyes, Marin knew it was one of her guards, standing wearily on either side of the bed where she slumped. She felt some remorse for him, but not much.

  They had all been sleeping off their debauch late in the morning when someone banged with unnecessary vigor at the door. It was Cencova’s messenger. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at the staggering guards who admitted him, and at Marin sitting blearily in her bed, trying to make sense of the interruption. The spymaster would see her now, and she must make haste despite her… condition. The man shook his head at the guards and departed.

  They escorted her through the streets without a word, shielding their eyes against the light, flinching at the midday bustle. Marin could tell they were embarrassed by last night’s unprofessional conduct, and wondered if they knew she had slipped away from them. Mostly, though, she focused on navigating the overwhelming sounds and smells of Cievv in the impossibly bright daylight. In a corner of her mind, she wondered if Cencova had found out about last night’s wine-fueled search of the city and wanted to have words about that—or if he was ready to continue the conversation begun at his house three days ago.

  Because of his work with the Rassan Majalis and the siri, the spymaster maintained a number of rooms in the city, and conducted his business first in this one, then in that one. Only a select few knew how to find him on any given day. The place to which Marin’s guards brought her was in a wealthier neighborhood where the streets were mostly quiet except for well-dressed, orderly servants going about their errands. The flat was two flights up at the back of a handsome, spotlessly clean house.

  The antechamber’s windows overlooked the harbor. It was a clear day, and the sun streamed in. Marin could have asked one of her guards to pull the curtains, but decided against it. Calling Cencova’s attention to her condition might start the conversation off badly.

  Instead, she sat with closed eyes, thinking about the Books of Promise and the vast conspiracy spun around them.

  “There is always an answer,” she told herself. “It is just waiting to be found.”

  That had been Hiril’s guiding philosophy. So far, she was still seeking any answer at all. Lies were thick on the ground wherever she looked. Who among the powerful were doubling their allegiances? Who suspected whom of betrayal? Marin knew that she could become a suspect herself.

  “What if Cencova talks about me?” she wondered. “What if I gave myself away last night, and he has decided to give me up?

  How many already know I am here?”

  She smiled bitterly at the thought of such things. She knew in her heart that her motivation would always remain pure: Hiril’s enemies were her enemies. No jewels, however they glittered, and no sword, however sharp, would deter Marin from her mission.

  She lifted her head at the sound of an opening door. A man stood before her. He was not a guard. Obviously he must be the spymaster’s assistant. His face was expressionless, and Marin felt a surge of excitement despite the painful pounding in her head. The man cleared his throat.

  “He will see you now.”

  10

  “SARN MUST wait… for now.”

  Marin had almost relaxed after Cencova handed her a small cup of strong coffee and made pleasant small talk that included nothing about last night’s impulsive behavior. Both had ignored the four Books of Promise sitting on the table at his elbow. But at these words, the color drained from her face, and her head began to pound anew.

  “Why?”

  Had she been feeling more like herself, the word would have burst from her in a scream of rage. Instead, it came out in a meek whimper.

  “You have another mission first.” Cencova’s tone was firm.

  Marin said nothing.

  “You must confirm the authenticity of the books.”

  Again she was silent.

  “We must know this before anything else,” he went on, “but it will be a difficult task, Marin. You must seek the Sha’ir of Aeíx.”

  “Aeíx?” Marin grimaced. “Do you know how much I hate that

  place?”

  Cencova gave an apologetic shrug. “I understand why you might. Nevertheless, that is where you’ll find this particular sha’ir.”

  “And what is a sha’ir?”

  “An elemental witch. One who delves into the lore of the Jnoun.”

  “And this sorcerer can prove that the books are real?” Marin asked.

  “I believe so… yes.”

  Marin hesitated. This was not where her quest was supposed to take her. How did it bring her any closer to cutting off Ciris Sarn’s arms and legs and spitting in his eye while his life bled away? She was beginning to understand, however, that other people’s strategies would postpone this satisfaction. As long as they didn’t rob her of it altogether, she would accept the choices they gave her.

  “Well enough,” she said wearily. “What must I do?”

  “It will be dangerous.” Cencova looked at her with some concern. “I know you are not yourself today, but I want you to reach this decision with a firm grasp of the risks. The Sha’ir of Aeíx has an evil heart, and may kill you rather than reveal the books’ contents.”

  “I may be suffering this afternoon,” retorted Marin, her face growing hot, “but I assure you my grasp of this matter is as firm as anyone could wish. You will not let me kill Sarn until you have unraveled the lies that wrap themselves around those.” She gestured at the four books stacked on his table. “This accursed bitch may provide me with answers, or perhaps she will murder me. That is the risk I will take.”

  Cencova was silent for a time.

  Finally he nodded and pushed the books across the table toward her.

  “The ship is nearly ready.

  “You sail tonight.”

  11

  SHE HAD been here before.

  Marin had ridden across the island with the Four Banners. This was the place where she first met Hiril. Where the dying kayal had cursed his future. Where they fell in love for the last year of his life. She had hoped to never set foot on these shores again.

  At least there was no rain this time.

  It wasn’t a long journey from Darós, but the coast road was treacherous. The land that faced the sea was rocky and dry, the soil consisting of limestone rock and rough sand. Ragged hills rose above sheer cliffs. The suns’ reflection off the crags made the landscape gleam white as Marin followed a narrow path to a desolate ridge. It was shaped like a skeletal finger pointing west, a command to leave this island and flee far away.

  All who lived on Aeíx feared this spot. They were afraid of the sha’ir, and believed that she regularly stole and ate the bones of the dead. Marin wondered how such a bright landscape could conceal something so dark.

  A few hours out of Darós she reached the opening of a tunnel—a forbidding maw, black against the white rocks around it. She drew closer, remembering the spymaster’s warnings. “The place is riddled with tunnels, and the witch dwells somewhere within them,” Cencova had said. “I am unsure of which one. None living has seen her lair. Tread carefully.”

  Marin approached the entrance cautiously, her pace slowing as she peered at the dark hole in the shining landscape. The light of the second sun let her see fifty feet into the tunnel. She could just make out three caverns splitting off from the main entrance. Beyond that, the daylight would not go.

  She lit her lantern.

  Marin had little doubt that each of these caverns led to othertunnels and pits, winding deep into the rocky point like a rabbit’s warren.

  Cencova’s warning echoed in her thoughts: “She may kill you rather than reveal the contents of the books.” Marin had accepted that choice. If she died, her life without Hiril would be that much shorter. If she succeeded, Ciris Sarn was that much closer to dying at her hand.

  “Either way, I win,” Marin reasoned to herself, moving into the darkness.

  12

  VOICES OF the dead tau
nted her.

  Marin shuddered as dark words and strange images resonated in her mind. She knew it was a spell, a barrier of magic against anyone who attempted to disturb the sha’ir. She knew Aeíx was becoming more of a fell place with each passing year, and this enchantment felt like the root of everything else that plagued this miserable island. Angrily she ignored the ghost voices and their whispered fears. She wouldn’t let these things stop her.

  Marin went deeper into the cave. She paused at yet another fork that led to three different tunnels. Since she’d walked into the darkness with lantern held high, all of her choices seemed to come in threes.

  Up to this point, the air had been cool and still. Now there was a faint hint of rot. She took a step closer to the tunnel on her right. The odor of rot grew stronger.

  Here. This tunnel.

  Marin entered, ready to face the witch.

  An overwhelming odor of excrement and decay assailed her nostrils as she moved deeper into the tunnel. Marin doubled over and retched, her body recoiling from the charnel stench. She fought the urge to turn and flee, forcing her way deeper underground with her cloak over nose and mouth.

  Time passed, the foul stench growing with each minute. She willed herself to ignore it. The books lay in a deep inner pocket of her cloak, their presence reassuring her like protective talismans. The cool air gradually gave way to a warmer, damper atmosphere, tinged with the reek of sour milk.

  Marin paused briefly in her descent and suppressed a shudder. Her hand gripped the handle of a short-bladed saif. The lantern’s dim flicker barely reached ahead of her now, and she relied more on sound and touch to guide her way. She breathed evenly and deeply through her mouth, calming herself. Walking into danger was nothing new to her. Keeping an inner calm had always kept her alive on these missions.

  So far.

  A distant light grew, beckoning. Sensing she was close, Marin pressed forward.

  She paused at the mouth of a cavernous room with stalactites jutting like fangs from the ceiling. Shadows flickered on the walls. A faint tinge of smoke masked the stench of decay, making her eyes sting. The light came from thousands of foul candles dripping greasily from ledges and crevices in the walls.

  She took a cautious step forward, dropping the cloak from her face and gripping the hilt of her sword.

  Across the cave, something stared at her with predatory eyes. She could feel its hunger and hatred before she saw what it was. A wasted figure sat on a throne of what seemed to be polished limestone. It was a hag wrapped in a raven-black abaya, and she had the look of someone expecting a guest. At her feet lay an opening like a shallow grave, where a blue light burned with a smokeless flame.

  Taking a deep breath, her muscles coiled and tense, Marin entered the vile lair. After a few more steps, she could see that the sha’ir’s throne was actually made from weathered rosewood and bleached bone.

  A voice spoke, making her skin crawl. “Come closer, my pretty thing,” the hag said.

  13

  “DO YOU know of these relics?”

  Marin held one of the books in her right hand. Her left hand never strayed from the handle of the saif. She had stopped ten feet from the witch, not daring to come any closer. “There are three others. They were found together.”

  The sha’ir’s gaze flicked to the book Marin held, then settled on her face. “Where were they found?” The voice was thick and gurgling, with an edge like tearing parchment.

  “It matters not,” Marin responded, suppressing a shudder at that unsettling sound. “They are here now.”

  The hag’s dark eyes fixed upon Marin with penetrating force. They carried the same magical charge that Marin had ignored when she first entered the tunnels.

  “Strong, too, I see.” Marin heard envy and admiration in the words.

  “Yes,” she agreed, and meant it.

  The sha’ir smiled, baring puffy gums and blackened teeth filed needle-sharp. A shiver of fear raced down Marin’s spine. Yes, she was strong, but fear was essential, too—it had kept her alive many times.

  “Relics, you call them. And you can’t read them, and want to know what they mean. Why should I share such secrets with you?”

  “It is important to me,” Marin said, which was the truth.

  “And what will you give me in return?”

  “You may feast upon the bones of a ruthless killer,” Marin said in ringing tones.

  The witch’s horrid smile widened even more. “Ah, yes. Yes, I would love that. But I need more.”

  Of course she would. Marin knew that anyone who proposes a bargain is at a disadvantage.

  “What’s that?” she asked neutrally.

  “I will tell you the secrets of those books. But after you kill the assassin, his soul becomes mine.”

  “As you wish.” Marin bit back a smile. She cared nothing for the soul of Ciris Sarn, and if this meant further torture for him after she took his life, so much the better.

  “And,” rasped the witch, “the books themselves become payment as well. All four of them.”

  Marin’s mind raced. Despite her personal mission to kill Sarn, she understood that, to many, the Books of Promise held far more value than the life of one miserable assassin. Who was she to trade the fate of the world for her own revenge?

  “Well?” The hag’s grating voice became even more unpleasant. “The Four Books. Yes.”

  The witch was her only choice. Maybe gaining the knowledge of what was written in the books would make the books themselves unnecessary. Cencova could find a solution to the problem. He must—because she had to take this chance. “Agreed,” Marin said at last. “They are yours once he is dead.”

  The sha’ir made a chilling sound that was perhaps a sigh of pleasure.

  “But now you will translate them,” said Marin. “You agreed.”

  “Yes, yes. Come to me.”

  Marin hesitated. Words might shield her, but physical contact with this loathsome creature would be far more dangerous.

  “Do not fear,” the sha’ir said, her smile turning the words into a mockery. “I have no… desire for you… just yet.” She beckoned with a bony claw.

  Marin moved closer, Cencova’s dire words flitting through her mind once more.

  “Your left hand.” The sha’ir gestured again. “To seal the bargain.”

  Marin reached across the flickering blue pit, ready to lash out with her sword if she sensed the slightest threat. The hag enfolded her hand in fingers that felt like those of a desiccated corpse, but pulsing with unnatural life. They clamped shut with an explosion of pain. Marin cried out and jerked her hand back, eyes flicking to the cut that ran across her palm from thumb to smallest finger. The hag grinned, her long nail tinged red. Marin took a step back, unmindful of the blood running from the wound.

  The sha’ir made arcane gestures above the pit and uttered words in a language Marin didn’t recognize. The air between them shifted and almost took form.

  It was a dark presence, shapeless yet threatening.

  “Our bargain is sealed,” the sha’ir said. “The Evil Eye is on you, always watching. If you fail to deliver those four books as agreed, a curse will fall upon you. The mark on your palm will disappear when I’ve been paid in full.”

  What have I done? Marin thought.

  The sha’ir held out both hands, her bony fingers twitching with impatience. “Now, give them to me.”

  Trembling, Marin handed the books to the witch.

  14

  MARIN COULD not understand the words the sha’ir uttered, but the sense of ill magic grew stronger.

  Brilliant red light flashed behind the witch. Marin threw up her hands to protect her eyes, but the sight of her bleeding palm reminded her that she needed to watch everything. Flames roiled behind the throne, and Marin lowered her hands in time to see—something—emerge from the fiery pall. She forced herself to stand her ground and breathe.

  A shape of infernal fire loomed behind the sha’ir, the flames f
rom the top of its head blackening the ceiling. Marin shrankaway from the molten giant. Its blazing eyes were impossible to meet. They swept across the cavern, passing over the sha’ir and settling briefly on Marin.

  She knew what this thing was. An efreet. A hellish spirit, known for its brazenness and evil. Efreeti—born of flame. Marin had heard that they were cunning, malevolent, with a burning hatred for mortals. Was the sha’ir actually strong enough? Would she be able to control what she’d called up? If not for the books now in the hag’s shriveled hands, Marin would have fled.

  “What do you wish of me?” the efreet asked. Its voice was deep, melodious, compelling—yet still inhuman. And certainly not to be trusted. Marin felt a chill despite the intense heat.

  “To glean the knowledge contained in these ancient texts of wisdom.” The witch held up the Books of Promise.

  “I will do your bidding,” rumbled the efreet, “with the promise of more essence of the dead.”

  “I know what sustains you.” The sha’ir smiled as she flicked a sidelong glance at Marin. “It shall be done.”

  What? Marin stepped back as a spike of fear stabbed through her stomach.

  The hag actually laughed. “Do not fear, my pretty thing,” she said. “The efreet gains its strength through Azza, not through you.”

  What followed might have lasted only a few moments or half the night. It was a dream or hallucination outside the flow of time. Throwing foul-smelling objects into the blue fire and chanting in a voice like the death cries of tortured animals, the sha’ir performed a ritual that invited the efreet to possess her—yet when the Jnoun tried to enter, a pillar of flame reaching out to consume the witch, she fought it as if fighting for her life.

  It was horrific. Marin fought her own body’s compulsion to run from the stinking cavern.

  She stayed. She would not leave this place without the Books of Promise.

  Thrashing in what could have been a dance or a death spasm, the sha’ir flung herself at the walls of the cave, knocking statues from the ledges, flapping her black abaya against the floor when a falling candle set it alight. The efreet was her partner in the dance, bright as a sun, insubstantial as smoke, laughing madly as it tried again and again to merge with her body. Suddenly it pulled back, threw her against the cavern wall, took a running leap and effortlessly plunged into her, its immense fiery bulk simply disappearing.