Shadow Dawn

by Chris Claremont

  “Your Royal Highness,” Elora said.

  “That’s a title I don’t use anymore.” The unspoken conclusion lay between them: for a realm that no longer exists.

  The aide returned and whispered in the Chancellor’s ear.

  “Ah. Splendid. We’re ready.”

  “For what, may I ask?”

  “You may well, my lady. You know, my founding great helped lay the first foundations of this city. He was a bricklayer, charter member of the guild.”

  “How nice.”

  “But he knew the great truth about this place….”

  “Which my founding great—a quaint phrase that, Chancellor—also recognized about Angwyn the instant he saw the Bay and the King’s Gate. What of it?”

  “It’s true, our location plays a major role in our prosperity. But there’s another leg we stand on, and I thought this would be the ideal opportunity to present it to you.”

  Anakerie’s officers stirred nervously, drawing a bit together and slipping through the crowd to vantage points where they could better defend their warlord in case of trouble. They had no obvious weapons on them but they were prepared and more than ready to improvise. Most likely a futile effort, they knew, but they planned to go down swinging and not alone.

  The Chancellor made a hand gesture to his aide. “Alert the semaphores, Nerys.”

  Despite the cold, the windows, which also served as towering doorways, opened to allow those who wished out onto the lawn. Elora led the small charge, and wasn’t surprised to find Anakerie close behind, though the Angwyn Princess was gathering a heavy cloak across her shoulders while Elora herself remained bare and unprotected.

  “You’ll catch your death like that, girl,” Anakerie cautioned.

  “Your Highness is too kind.”

  “There’s room to share.”

  Anakerie held the cloak open.

  For a moment the two women faced each other, tension plain between them. Then Elora repeated the shallow curtsy she’d made inside.

  “I am in your debt, Anakerie,” she said lightly as she stepped beside the Warlord, into the comforting shelter of her cloak.

  “Good. Someday I’ll hold you to it. Tell me, Elora, what’s the big surprise?”

  “Blessed if I know. Oh!” The exclamation came in response to the lighting of giant torches, mounted on the end of the semaphore arms. The two women couldn’t see the signal tower directly, since it stood on another headland closer to the cataracts, but its fires burned intensely enough to shine right through the wide-open rooms of Cascani House.

  That cry of surprise and wonder proved but the first of many, as people scurried hither and yon across the yard, mindless of the cold as they rushed to catch sight of the line of torches which were lighting in sequence along both shores of Lake Morar, all the way from the cataract to the falls.

  In the distance, the spectacular waterfalls were defined at night by the phosphorescence of the water itself, cascading off rocks during their descent or when they crashed into the lake below. Either way, the trails appeared as haunted, pale silver on blackest indigo.

  The double line of torches reached the base of the towering cliffs and there Elora, suitably impressed, assumed would be the end of it.

  Then was heard a collective gasp, from a score and more of watching mouths, with pointing, outstretched arms to match, as a second line of torches appeared atop the Wall itself, stretching south toward the Shados and north beyond the point of easy sight.

  It has to be miles, Elora thought, and marveled at the logistics of the enterprise, to get so great a number of Sandeni’s pugnaciously opinionated citizenry to volunteer for anything, especially when it involved standing in freezing cold on a bleak winter’s night.

  The Chancellor wasn’t done yet, for in the far distance out across the prairie, colossal bonfires burst simultaneously into flame atop each of the Three Maidens.

  From the darkness Elora heard a voice begin the closing verses of her song, followed by the refrain. Another voice joined, and then another and another, until the entire lawn was filled with her music. The next refrain, though, was taken up by voices outside the wall and it quickly spread down onto the beach, where soldiers stood at relaxed attention. They sang, too, as did the torch holders on the shore, and in a surprisingly short time, those atop the cliff as well.

  It was a memorable sight, one every person present knew they’d carry as a treasured memory to their grave, thousands upon thousands of people, holding lit torches in the chill winter darkness, until even more amazingly they all broke into song. The final refrain of Elora’s anthem. She didn’t know if they could see her from on high, she didn’t rightly care as she strode to the tip of the promontory and threw up her hands as an exhortation for more joyous noise.

  The wind was against her but still she heard laughter and good cheer and the crescendoing lyrics of her song.

  “My people have spoken, milady,” the Chancellor said, leaning close to Anakerie so he could make himself heard. “We are a free people, this is a free and independent land. And will remain so evermore. Tell that to your castellan.”

  The smile she returned to him was just as diplomatic. In her eyes, though, was a terrible sadness.

  “We all have dreams, Chancellor,” she replied as she looked toward the small, deceptively slight figure of Elora Danan. “Come the dawn, however, we must deal with the world as it is.”

  Elora didn’t want to leave.

  The official guests departed in good time and smart order, though there was some agitation among the Maizan when Anakerie decided to stay awhile longer. They considered every town that wasn’t theirs hostile territory and preferred their visits kept as short as possible. They kept to themselves and stayed mainly inside Cascani House.

  Someone had lit a fire on the promontory and a small group gathered to share some wine and watch the lights sparkle atop the cliff. Quite a number had planted their burning torches on the Wall and despite the occasional gaps the sight remained impressive.

  “How many you think?” wondered Ryn, who’d snuggled himself so close to the flames that his fur was actually steaming. In all the excitement earlier, no one noticed him clamber out of the lake and hide himself onshore. It was the first time she’d ever heard him complain of being cold and Elora was concerned he might set himself alight in his desire for warmth.

  “Up there?” She shook her head. She still wore her costume, wanting to prolong the sense of power and grace she’d achieved during her performance. Duguay had produced the carryall satchels with their belongings and, most thankfully, her own tartan cloak, which was slung over her shoulders and under her backside both to keep her warm and to provide somewhere dry to sit upon the ground.

  She tried to count but quickly gave up in favor of a single, spoken “Lots.”

  Someone offered a beer, but it took only the merest sip to remind herself why she didn’t drink the stuff. She preferred her bread baked, sometimes toasted, never brewed. She was content with water, with the company, with the view.

  Morar was the first lake below the falls, and the greatest, larger than the five that followed put together, better than three miles wide and near a dozen long. According to local legend, it was formed when a promontory rock calved off the face of the Wall to strike the earth with such terrible force that it opened a huge fissure that in turn became the basin floor of the lake. The land rose at the western end to form a headland to the cataracts, and those same tales claimed that the rocks jumbled there were the leftover summit of the original fallen pillar. Which was a neat trick, when one considered that the length of the lake was better than ten times the height of the rock that supposedly made it.

  That was the nature and delight of legends. Truth was quickly relegated to the status of an afterthought, if not forgotten altogether.

  Hearing that, and thinking of her own life, El
ora had to chuckle.

  The lake district was as thickly settled as atop the plateau, in a scattering of separate villages and townships. This close to the Wall there were no great farms, but every house had a plot of land sufficient for a garden, some even for an orchard. The earth was rich and water abundant. The only real drawback was the lack of fresh game, as the ever-encroaching settlements drove local animal life farther away.

  The moon had just cleared the Wall, looking for those briefest of instants as though it rested precisely atop the two topmost spires of the Citadel. Its light lay across the surface of the water like a swath of silver paint, in a shade that matched Elora’s skin. From this distance, and in this light, Elora could only make out three streams of water, and two of them came together halfway down the crag. The third she recognized as the Paschal, dropping straight and true as a plumb line to Morar below.

  “It sounds like thunder,” she said, with the same still reverence she’d use in a church.

  “You get used to it.” Ryn nodded.

  There was a mild explosion of talk, thickly laced with profanities, from around the far side of the bonfire, which turned out to be a group of ministerial aides enthusiastically lampooning the talks their superiors would begin on the morrow.

  The opening Maizan position (absolute surrender) would be rejected as wholly unacceptable by the Sandeni, nor in all likelihood would the Maizan think much of the initial Sandeni response (Go to hell, dog robbers!). For the week following, the trained and motivated professionals on both staffs would bustle back and forth, presenting appropriate position papers, trading on nuances, seeking out the slightest room to maneuver, looking for someone to bribe or better yet blackmail, angling all the while for a resolution both sides might be able to live with. In the meanwhile many intemperate and highly provocative remarks would be exchanged (off the record, thank you very much) by both sides regarding each other’s ancestry and/or amorous proclivities.

  Then a deal would be struck.

  “Or,” someone said casually, managing with one phrase to kill all the laughter and good humor the comedic tirade had generated, “there’ll be war.”

  “I’d call the Maizan demented,” Ryn said with a lazy stretch, “if I didn’t know what drives ’em.”

  “We don’t know what drives them, Ryn,” Elora retorted quietly, though given the roar of the crackling fire and the noise opposite from the drinking party it was doubtful even normal tones could be overheard. “That’s the trouble.”

  They heard laughter, inspired by a series of not terribly inventive japes that under the circumstances were accepted by one and all as screamingly funny.

  “How do you tell a generous Maizani offer from a nasty one?”

  “You can have your severed head served on a plate, my good man, or set on a pike before the city gate as food for crows.”

  “How utterly charming,” Elora said with a sour expression.

  “The jest or the commentary? What did you mean before, ‘We don’t know’?”

  “Plain words, Ryn, plainly spoken.”

  “Humor me, I’m sick.”

  “Don’t say that!” she snapped.

  He hunched himself around, his expression serious, and she yearned to see him as she had during that madcap flight from Angwyn. She’d never met anyone so instantly comfortable, never told him that she often thought of him as her stuffed bear made flesh.

  “I’ve been a churl and a swine lately,” he said. “I owe you my life, Elora, and I never made the time to offer a proper thank-you.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I was raised better than that.”

  “I only wish I could have found a way to set things right.”

  “You can’t save everyone.” Her eyes began to flash and he held up a temporizing hand. “Rather, not everyone can be saved. Is that better?”

  “Not much. Not really. And you’d better not number yourself among them, do you hear?”

  “And obey!” Unspoken, amusedly, went the addition most dread and royal high-and-mighty-ness!

  “Why hasn’t he found me, Ryn?”

  He knew full well she meant the Deceiver. “Count your blessings, if you please.”

  “Was I that well hidden among the Rock Nelwyns? I mean, if you listen to him I’m the ultimate object of his desire. Here’s a creature possessing such power he can ensorcell Angwyn and the monarchs of the Twelve Great Realms. He slew a dragon, he set Cherlindrea’s sacred forest ablaze, why does he come after me with surrogates? He posted a reward, for goodness’ sakes!”

  “Perhaps he’s not so impressive as you think. Or perhaps he needs his power to keep Cherlindrea and the others enchained?”

  “Interesting supposition. And that’s my point. After all this time what do we truly know? He’s not Bavmorda, of that I’m sure. This war is not about the acquisition of power for its own sake or for personal self-aggrandizement. He has a goal and a purpose and we can’t fight him effectively until we know what it is.”

  “Ask Keri, why don’t you?” He gestured toward the house with his chin. “She’s standing over there on the veranda.” His smile broadened, as if in acknowledgment of a private joke. “She sits on one side of the bench, Thorn on the other, trying to make the world think they’re simply sharing a common space. She’s Mohdri’s warlord, remember, bet she’s privy to all his secrets.”

  “Don’t talk silly. That’s as dumb a notion as the jokes they’re telling. And stop using that name, she hates that, she used to box my ears in Angwyn whenever I did.”

  “The Princess Royal struck the Sacred Princess?” He sounded delightfully scandalized.

  “I think it was a matter of defiance of her father, and of putting me in my place. I was pretty unbearable.”

  “You’re looking thoughtful again.”

  “What are you staring at, rude boy?”

  “You, actually. That’s a becoming costume.”

  “Duguay’s design.” Ryn’s feelings about that name were plain and immediate, as was her response. “Oh, don’t start, Ryn,” she pleaded, taking him by the hand, “please, not tonight, it’s too lovely a night, don’t spoil things.”

  “Very becoming,” he conceded. “A compliment to the woman who wears it.”

  She flushed so fast, so intensely her skin felt like it was glowing.

  “Tell me more,” he said, “about the Deceiver.”

  “I’d like to,” she said. “I’ve got to tell it to Thorn and I’m pretty nervous about it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who understands, but then I think, these past months, maybe I’m the only one who’s had time to look. The rest of you were too busy doing.

  “The Deceiver is the catalyst, the preeminent current threat, but he is not what this is all about. It’s the Realms, you see, twelve component aspects of a single whole—like parts of a body—trying to pull themselves apart in different directions. If the Deceiver hadn’t kicked them all in the teeth by lopping off their titular heads in Angwyn, I’d stake my title that most of them would probably be at war by now.”

  “I thought your Ascension was supposed to stop all that.”

  “Ryn, you saw me then. Would one word from my mouth have the slightest credibility? Would I have even cared? I looked around that hall and the first thought that came to mind was, now at last I get my own back!

  “The Deceiver is an opportunistic infection, the disease is the Realms’ refusal to live together.”

  “You can’t force them to, Elora.”

  “Then we have to close the World Gates, just like the Deceiver’s doing, and sacrifice those Realms as a doctor might a gangrenous limb to save the patient. There may be battles by armies, but the war itself is for the hearts and minds and souls of the people.”

  “Good luck winning them over, my girl.”

  “I’m not Anakerie, I can’t
run an army. But I can make people listen, Ryn. I can make them think and feel, and possibly even learn.”

  “One soul at a time?”

  “If I have to. That’s the other difference between us, the Deceiver and me. He’s a monarch, as much as any of those he’s ensorcelled. He orders, others obey. The change he brings the world crashes down from above. I’m starting at the bottom, with ordinary people. His way is faster, my hope is that mine will last.”

  “Until the world freezes, anyroad.”

  His ears quirked, ever so slightly, and he went completely still.

  “Do you hear that?” Elora wondered to him softly.

  “Hard to distinguish over the competition.”

  “It sounded like a hunting horn.”

  Ryn was about to scoff when a piercing cry of alarm brought them both around to behold Rool running flat out toward them across the lawn.

  “Elora!” he called. And then, impossibly, louder still, “Elora Danan!”

  The hubbub around the fire vanished as if a switch had been thrown or a door slammed shut, until one querulous voice inquired, “The Sacred Princess? Here?”

  “Rool,” she cried, “what have you done?”

  “Someone answered him?” they heard. And then: “Who’s over there?” And then, the words all tumbling one upon the other, too many voices speaking at once, “No one but that ragmop of a Wyr.” “Isn’t that the singer, what’s-her-name?” “Her name’s Elora.” “Her name’s Elora!” That last was a shout, followed by the clatter and thump of too many bodies trying to untangle themselves into coherent motion at once, with no thought and less coordination.

  In the meanwhile Rool had reached Elora and hurled himself to her shoulder.

  “Go!” he roared to them both. “Don’t question, don’t argue, just go! Can’t you hear that bloody bedamned horn, now go!”

  They were on their feet and moving in mid-harangue, faster with every step. The Ryn Elora remembered would have been to the house like a shot. Instead she had to hurry him along.

  The horn sounded again, far louder than before, and underlying it was the sound of hoofbeats.