Shadow Dawn

by Chris Claremont

  As the wagon emerged from the outer cavern Elora’s eyes swept the encampment beyond with an eager gaze. Normally, this deep into the trading season, the bazaar had the appearance of a small, portable city, home to a score of trading houses, hundreds of tents, and at any given instance a thousand inhabitants. There were merchants, of course, dealing in every conceivable article of commerce, the bankers that financed them, the roustabouts and joy houses that hoped to separate much money from many people, the constabulary that tried to keep such transactions within acceptable bounds of propriety. There was a hospice for the sick and a ministry for those poor souls who failed to recover. No boneyard, though, that was an unbreachable stipulation of the master trading agreement: no bodies to be laid to rest within a ten-day march of the bazaar. The dead didn’t just draw flies and corruption, they attracted ghouls, who generally attracted trolls, and the only taste trolls savored more than carrion was that of Nelwyns.

  There’d been few caravans this season, none at all since solstice, and even a cursory glance revealed the bazaar as little more than a shadow of its true self.

  Hardly a surprise, Elora thought sourly, given what’s happening in the world. It seemed that everywhere she looked, she beheld shadows where once had stood healthy substance. The forms of reality, but little more.

  Dominating the campground was the Cascani pavilion, the largest tent on the highest rise of rock and earth. The Cascani were wanderers and explorers, and considered themselves traders to the world. They’d travel anywhere by land or sea, and it was said they even ventured beyond the Veil for the sheer fun of it and as often as not found a way to turn a tidy profit from the trip. They hailed from an archipelago of seamount islands scattered along the coast above Angwyn that reached as far as the northern Ice Lands. In spirit and occasionally blood they claimed kinship with the seaborn Wyrrn, whose race dominated the Great Deeps as the Daikini did the land. The one guaranteed safe passage over the waves, the other an equivalent access to the land, to the benefit of both.

  The Cascani were a rough-hewn breed, their character shaped by the harsh physicality of their home, forever presenting themselves to outsiders as the quintessential country cousins. One small step removed from bumpkin-hood. They were the kind of folk most would expect in the role of pirate and freebooter, more comfortable mule-skinning a wagon train than in the halls of political power or courtyards of high finance. This was a foolish, fatal assumption which generally cost those who made it dearly. It was no accident that Cascani letters of credit were honored virtually everywhere, or that their word was the hallmark of trust throughout the Great Realms. They drove hard bargains, but kept every one they made. They were true to their friends, allies, and especially customers, grim death to whosoever was dimwit enough to cross them. They weren’t the only traders in the world, but they set the standard the others found themselves forced to live by.

  In happier times, Elora remembered a half dozen more pavilions of rival trading houses, trying their best to eclipse the Cascani in size and opulence. Smaller boutique firms offered a less comprehensive selection of wares or sought to purchase something equally specific. On the road, each caravan looked after itself. The Cascani assumed responsibility for the bazaar, ensuring their claim by establishing a permanent residence for their Factor and a modest contingent of cavalry. Each spring, it was the Factor’s responsibility to block out the configuration of the encampment, with space for every tent and sufficient access to freshwater and forage.

  This season, it was clear from the outset, there would be no need for such an effort or much precision. The plain should have been crowded for the better part of a mile, fanning outward from the entrance to the Nelwyn stronghold. What Elora saw in addition to the Cascani pavilion was a second of like size, a handful belonging to lesser firms, and a sad scattering of household and individual tents, clustered as close as they dared to the larger encampments, like children snuggling up to a parent in a desperate attempt to keep warm. Normally there was a separate paddock for the livestock, but with few exceptions both horses and draft animals were picketed within the arc formed by the dominant pavilions. In the distance Elora could see outriders, in patrols of four, ranging the approaches to the bazaar, complementing the constantly manned observation posts whose locations on the distant heights gave commanding views of well-worn trails.

  “Have you ever seen the bazaar so empty, Uncle?”

  “So deep into season.” Torquil shook his head. “Not like this. Not ever. And d’you see the way the stock is set?”

  “As if they expect a raid.”

  “More than that, starskin.” That was the nickname he’d given her, at their first meeting. She didn’t mind. Torquil meant it as a term of affection and endearment. From others, though, she’d heard it as a curse. “Usually, the animals are all grouped together in a common herd. Folks trust to brands and truthtellers to tell them apart.”

  “These are tethered in discrete groups,” she finished, nodding in comprehension. “Close by their owners. D’you see, Uncle—the household tents have their animals staked right outside. How long do you think it would take everyone to leave?” she asked suddenly.

  “Start your strike at first light, be an empty valley by sundown. This lot isn’t just ready to go, they’re eager.”

  “Do you need me at the tally station?”

  “Itching for a stroll?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Have a care, child. And don’t dally. The mood here is catching. I’m of a mind to be back under my own roof quick as I’m able.”

  “Is there anything that’s needed at home?”

  “Here’s Manya’s list, and the household chit as well. Give both to the Cascani Factor, let him and his staff do the work. I’ll meet you at his pavilion within the hour. Agreed?” Tone notwithstanding, this wasn’t a suggestion. He said an hour, he meant an hour, not an instant more.

  She could have hopped from her perch but she descended to the ground in Nelwyn fashion, a careful, questing step at a time, bearing the whole of her weight on her arms and shoulders until she was sure of her footing. She walked as they did, with a slight side-to-side waddle, and took the easy path upslope to the Cascani pavilion.

  “From Torquil Ufgood,” she said to the sentry, holding out both chit and list.

  “Ahhhhh,” she heard from within, and cranked her neck back a notch as the Factor himself came out to welcome her, “the Master Smith’s apprentice.”

  “One of many, lord,” she protested humbly as he looked over the two slates.

  “Aye. Tha’s true. But t’ my mind, as there’s but one among the Rock Nelwyns worth that title, there’s also only one among his helpers worth calling a true apprentice.”

  She was glad he couldn’t see her blush but also thrilled to his praise.

  “How could you possibly know the difference in our work?” she wondered.

  “Whose ingots’re those y’re jus’ deliverin’, hey? Trust an old man’s eyes, lad. Quality tells.”

  “I thank my lord for his generosity.”

  “An’ a diplomat in the bargain. ‘Strewth, y’re a wonder, y’are.”

  Hanray Rutherwood wasn’t as big as the pure-blooded Cascani she’d known, but there was a solidity of spirit that more than made up for the lack. He was an odd mix of color and features. His skin was fair, yet the almond shape of the eyes, the structure of the bones, came from the people of the Spice Lands well to the east. They were mostly dark-eyed and dark-haired. His eyes were green, and as age had stripped the mahogany from his hair it had left behind the russet undercoat, with an end result that appeared more salt and paprika than the salt and pepper she was familiar with.

  At a glance, the fitments of the pavilion seemed far less impressive than one would expect of a merchant of the Factor’s rank and responsibility. In the main, the other trading houses had more lavish presentations, as though each was try
ing to create a palace in small out here in the wilderness. To Elora, whose upbringing had been in the grandest palace on the continent, if not the world, the end result appeared far better than she suspected it actually was, pretty without being practical. The Cascani hallmark, by stark contrast, was function over form. The traders had no objection to their movables looking good, but they had to travel well and serve their purpose; those were the paramount considerations. They didn’t come all this way merely to impress, they were here to do business.

  The Factor liked to eat on the run, so a table had been set in buffet style with baskets of breads and platters of sliced meats, trays of cheese and bowls of fruit. There were decanters of wine for guests, but the Cascani contented themselves with carafes of springwater. They enjoyed their drink as much as anyone but never allowed it to interfere with the job at hand. Called from Elora’s side by the sudden entrance of a subordinate, the Factor snatched up a crisp apple as he passed and flipped it underhand back to her, indicating with a wave that his bounty was hers to enjoy. She caught the apple easily, and snatched up some cheese and a couple of boiled eggs and a small sausage pie as well, wrapping her booty in a napkin and snugging the whole lot into the belly pouch she wore beneath her smock as she slipped out a side entrance to the pavilion. The Factor was busy and she was of a mind for a stroll. If the season was to be cut short, as seemed more and more likely, she had some shopping of her own to do. Moreover, she was intensely curious as to the reasons why. The Rock Nelwyns delighted in the fact that the world came to their doorstep, but that also meant news of that world came only with their clients. In that regard, this year’s pickings had been fearfully lean.

  She quartered the apple blind, and fed the bits of core to a nearby horse. Her hood was oversized and even with the flaps unfastened she decided it left her features sufficiently in shadow that no one would notice her unique coloration, especially with her face as smudged as it was. The fruit was tartly sweet, the cheese sharp, their conflicting tastes quickly exciting her palate. She was starving, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she forced herself to be as deliberate with her snack as she had been earlier with Torquil’s flask. She needed to be more than the sum of her appetites, that was another lesson she was still learning the hard way. She should be their mistress, not the other way ’round.

  In Elora’s tower, servants had cringed at the flick of her eyelid, and no doubt cursed her when her back was turned. In the bazaar, no one spared her a second glance. She preferred the anonymity. She enjoyed watching the faces of those around her, which represented races she knew, others she’d heard of, still more that were wholly and utterly strange to her. No two were alike, and every moment brought a new adventure, in endless fascination.

  She also liked to listen. What she didn’t like was what she heard.

  “Soon as deal’s done, I’m gone,” a trader said in passing, his bluff tones a fit complement to the solid construction of Cascani trade tongue, which had long since established itself as the standard language of commerce. “Ye’ve half the sense Cherlindrea gave a rock,” he continued to his companion, who walked less heavily, as befit a warrior, “ye’ll follow my lead. C’d use a good bow wi’ my train.”

  “Fair offer.”

  “Better’n ye’ll see from the likes o’ them,” outthrust thumb in the direction of the Chengwei pavilion, the only one to rival the Cascani, who’d made the trek all the way from the continent’s eastern shore. “Slit y’r throat as soon as look at ye, those slant eyes, so I’ve heard.”

  Grunt of agreement but the spoken reply took the discussion in a different direction.

  “Is’t bad?” the warrior asked. “In the west, I mean?”

  She never heard the answer as the pair passed beyond earshot. Instead she found her attention drawn by the tavern across the way. Without moving from where she sat, Elora tightened the focus of her OutSight to bring both men and conversation into sharp clarity.

  “What’s the old saying”—rumination from a smoker, each phrase broken by a meditative puff on his pipe—“wherever a Maizani rides, the Maizan rule. They take it seriously.”

  “That’s daft, wha’cher sayin’,” protested a drover. “They can’t conquer everything!”

  “Givin’ it a fair country try, way I sees it. Spent a year or so consolidatin’ their hold on Angwyn…”

  “What really happened there, does anyone know?”

  Elora blinked her eyes and held herself close as a skirl of ice twisted outward from her soul to remind her of that awful night. Her thirteenth birthday, when the rulers of all the Great Realms gathered in Angwyn to celebrate her Ascension, the fulfillment of the age-old prophecy that proclaimed her as the savior of this world and those beyond the Veil who would bind together all those disparate domains and peoples in a lasting era of peace and harmony. Among the Daikini, since it was generally assumed that she was one of them, this had been popularly proclaimed as the Age of Man. At long last the youngest race would have its chance to stand beside the other Realms as an equal.

  Instead an evil sorcerer—known to her only by the name Thorn Drumheller had given him that fateful night, the Deceiver—had struck down the ruling heads of those domains and, in trying to seize her soul as well, cast a dread enchantment over the entire city. He had reached out to everything in Angwyn that lived and had stolen the warmth from their hearts, the joy from their eyes, the light from their souls. It was as if, in one terrible instant, winter had come to the city in the guise of a spider, to encase it within a cocoon of the most delicate ice crystal. Nothing was said to be more beautiful to behold, nor likewise more deadly.

  She and her companions had barely escaped with their lives that fateful night. They’d been running, one way or another, ever since.

  “Who’s to say for sure? Cursed, the city is, tha’s certes.”

  “I hear it’s like the Ice Lands. Unbearably cold.”

  “ ‘Unbearably cold,’ ” mocked the pipe smoker. “The city is ice, the bay is ice, any fool enough to come within a day’s travel of the place is turned to ice. In a word, pure an’ simple, Angwyn is hell. And all within are damned.”

  “The Maizan did that?”

  “Elora Danan did that.” A new voice, to more mutters of agreement than protest.

  “The Sacred Princess?”

  “Hers is a blessing I can live without.” More rough chuckles, a popular sentiment evidently, followed by the sound of spitting to ward off evil and the sight of hands making signs to do the same. Different cultures, different traditions, the same intent.

  “What’s that y’say, dog?” Surprisingly one among the group stood to her defense. He was in a minority.

  “Dinna get’cherself in such a twist, man,” cautioned the pipe smoker, waving the protester back to his stool and further attempting to mollify him with a fresh tankard of ale. “But look to the plain truth of it. The gal’s supposed to be the world’s savior, am I right? Yet you’ve heard the stories, have yeh not? Tir Asleen—”

  “Where?”

  “Some damn city or other,” groused one of the merchants, “on the far side of the damn world, so the Cascani say. Shut’cher gob, willya, an’ let folk listen.”

  “—was her home,” continued the first speaker, unheeding of any interruption, “an’ it was smashed t’ dust, so the tale goes.”

  “Your pardon,” said a voice she knew to speak in her favor, the Factor himself, “but I’ve heard tha’ tale told a mite differently. Were a battle with a Demon Queen tha’ came before, some sorceress name of Bavmorda.”

  “With respect, milord Factor, what of it?”

  “Y’ canna have it both ways. Which is truth?”

  “Could be lies,” her first defender exclaimed in final protest, though his tone suggested he knew full well the ears he addressed were mostly closed. “Unless any of you have actually been there t’ see for yourself.”
<
br />   “Fine, they’re lies,” agreed the smoker, without conceding the point in the slightest. “What is known for fact is that Angwyn took her in, an’ it’s been rightwise cursed. Were up t’ me, I’d think twice about offering sanctuary, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Elora blinked back a sudden rush of tears, and concentrated on silently peeling the shell off an egg. She wanted to cry a protest of her own, to tell them they were wrong, but she had no arguments to marshal against them. Somehow, even though it was through no fault of her own, save perhaps the simple fact of her existence, she’d brought doom to both cities. Despite all the faith invested in her, she’d been unable to save them. Without the aid and sacrifice of valiant friends, she’d have been unable to save herself.

  What was I supposed to do? she thought miserably. I was a baby when Tir Asleen was destroyed and all of thirteen when the Deceiver came for Angwyn!

  “Does the child stand for good or ill?” she heard asked.

  “Bein’ a child,” commented one of the others, “can she stand for anything?”

  “How old is she,” came the question, “anyone rightly know?”

  “Does it matter?” said the smoker. “Should we care? If she is a child, dancing to the tune of others while they pull her strings, do we have any business paying her heed?” Murmurs of agreement. They knew, either directly or through histories, of crowns worn by those who’d not yet come of age, mere figureheads all, with the true governance of the realm held by regents and powers behind that throne. “An’ if a woman grown,” the smoker continued, “then she must take responsibility for what’s done in her name an’ for her cause. The suffering as well as the joy.”