Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  Rodrigo regarded Stephano’s green breeches, which were tied below the knee, his dark green stockings, light green waistcoat, and dark green coat, lacking adornment, with frowning disapproval.

  “I thought I might find you in this state. One reason I returned early. We are attending court, not storming the battlements at Vertin. Benoit!”

  “I wash my hands of him, sir!” came the querulous response from the kitchen.

  “Back to the dressing room,” said Rodrigo, placing his hand on Stephano’s shoulder and shoving him toward the stairs.

  Seeing Stephano’s rebellious look, Rodrigo added briskly, “Pays well, on time.”

  “You’ll find his court clothes laid out on the bed, sir!” Benoit called from below.

  Stephano heaved a sigh and allowed himself to be propelled up to his dressing room. “I’m only doing this for Miri and the others, Rigo. If it were up to me, I’d starve before I went groveling to my mother.”

  Once Stephano was properly attired, Rodrigo inspected him. “The sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. The coat is at least two years out of fashion, but the material is of the finest quality and the style is classic, so I am not completely ashamed to be seen at court with you. Let me tie your cravat.”

  With a suffering air, Stephano let his friend tie the white cravat, edged with a hint of lace, around his throat, and regarded himself in the mirror. He privately conceded that he did look good. The knee-length silver-trimmed coat was fitted at the waist, and powder blue in color with turned back cuffs that showed the lace-edged sleeves of his white shirt. His waistcoat was of blue-and-green brocade. He wore breeches of the same blue color tied with ribbons below the knee, white stockings, and black shoes. His rapier hung from an embroidered baldric draped over his shoulder.

  Stephano steadfastly refused to wear the powdered wigs then fashionable in the royal court. His sandy-blond, shoulder-length hair was tied at the back of his neck with a blue ribbon. He was clean-shaven, a task he performed himself, given that Benoit’s hands were too shaky these days to be trusted with a razor. Stephano’s blue eyes were changeable, becoming gray with anger or determination. He was of medium height with the light-muscled, fine-boned build of a Dragon Knight and an upright military bearing. His face tended to be stern and unsmiling, except when he was around his friends, at which time he would relax and lower his guard.

  Rodrigo draped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and regarded the two of them in the mirror.

  Unlike Stephano, Rodrigo was dressed in the latest fashion. His long, fitted coat was mauve, decorated with gold buttons and golden embroidery. His deep cuffs were a darker mulberry. His shirt was dripping with lace, and he wore a lace collar. His stockings were white. He also did not wear a wig, preferring to show off the brown curls that framed his face. Women termed his brown eyes “melting.” His face was long, his chin slightly pointed. His mouth quirked with fun and good humor. He was hopeless with a rapier and terrifying to his friends with firearms. His tongue was his weapon, he liked to say.

  Rigo—as he was known—was thirty-three, and he and Stephano had been firm friends from childhood, despite their contrasting natures. Stephano was energetic, resolute, disciplined (except when it came to money). Rodrigo was indolent, vacillating, with not an ounce of self-discipline (except when it came to money).

  Rodrigo was also a brilliant crafter and could have risen to the top of that profession, but he had studied magic only sporadically, dabbling in what interested him and forgoing the rest. Consequently, he had been thrown out of the University, to the dismay of his parents, who, however, continued to dote on him. He was the spoiled third son, with no income other than what he earned with the Cadre of the Lost and a modest stipend from his parents. Rodrigo was most at home in drawing rooms and salons. He knew everyone in court, knew the gossip about all of them, and he acquired most of the Cadre’s jobs.

  Rodrigo smiled. “You would never know I was forced to pawn your dress sword to pay for the carriage.”

  “You did what?” Stephano demanded, rounding on his friend. “My sword with the gold basket hilt? That was a gift—”

  “And we will get it back from the pawn shop,” said Rodrigo soothingly. “Just mention to the countess that you could use an advance on payment, will you?”

  “I haven’t agreed to take this job yet,” said Stephano angrily. He snatched his best tricorn hat, which was the current fashion, since it could be folded and tucked under the arm, and stomped down the stairs.

  Benoit was there to see them off. The old man smiled to see Stephano and a wistful look came into the weak eyes. “I wish your father could see you, sir. You do him proud.”

  “He wouldn’t be proud of the fact that I’m selling my soul to the king,” Stephano muttered.

  “He would, sir,” said Benoit stoutly. “Your father, Lord Julian, God rest him, was a practical man.”

  “My father wasn’t practical at all, you know,” said Stephano somberly to Rodrigo, as they entered the carriage. “Julian de Guichen was a man who sacrificed his wealth, his lands, and eventually his life for a hopeless cause, all in the name of honor and loyalty and friendship.”

  “The apple did not fall far from the tree,” observed Rodrigo.

  “Don’t try flattering me,” said Stephano, glowering. “It won’t work.”

  “Take the rest of the day off, Benoit,” Rodrigo called out the carriage window before shutting it. “We will dine out.”

  Rodrigo told the driver their destination and shut the carriage door. The driver nodded his head at his boy, who released the mooring line that secured the carriage to the ground, then took his place at the rear. The wyvern was harnessed to the carriage by long tethers attached to breast and shoulders. Magic used in the construction of the carriage added strength to the thin wooden walls while keeping the weight as low as possible. Internal reservoirs or “lift tanks” held the refined and purified “Breath of God” that provided much of the vehicle’s buoyancy, with a balloon for additional lift.

  The balloon was red in color, the carriage blue. One could always tell a rented carriage by the red balloons. The driver, mounted on the seat in front of the carriage, began channeling the magical energy that existed naturally in the world into a brass control panel. A series of constructs, set into the brass itself, allowed the driver control over the levels of buoyancy in the two primary lift tanks located on either side of the carriage, and the forward and rear stabilizing tanks. From the brass panel, the driver could also control the large multichambered red balloon tethered to the top of carriage.

  The carriage’s passenger compartment could seat four comfortably. The leaded glass windows were covered with lace curtains to provide the occupants a degree of privacy. The blue-lacquered exterior was waxed till it shone and was set off by polished brass fixtures and lanterns.

  When the carriage was clear of the ground, the driver gave three short tweets from a whistle, letting anyone nearby know that they were preparing to leave. Next, he clucked at the wyvern and poked the creature in the back with a prod.

  The wyvern angrily whipped around its head and snapped at the prod. Wyverns are temperamental and stupid, but the driver was used to such behavior from his steed. He poked the wyvern again, and the beast sullenly flapped its wings and took off.

  Stephano threw himself into a corner of the conveyance and sat there, brooding. As always, when he was forced to pay a visit to his mother, he was in a foul mood. His thoughts carried him back to the past. He blamed Benoit for having brought up his father, but it wasn’t the old man’s fault. Stephano would have thought about his father in any case. He could not help thinking about his father whenever he was forced to visit his mother.

  Cecile de Marjolaine, daughter of the wealthy and powerful Count de Marjolaine, was introduced at court when she was sixteen, having the honor to become one of the ladies-in-waiting to the queen. Cecile was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, as well as being the only heir to her father’s vast for
tune. Both wealthy and lovely, she was the jewel of the court. Nobles and princes cast their hearts at her feet. Even King Alaric, newly ascended to the throne on the sudden death of his father, was said to be enamored of her.

  Cecile was flattered by the attention, but her own heart remained untouched until she met the handsome and dashing young Dragon Knight, Sir Julian de Guichen. The two fell deeply, hopelessly in love—hopeless because the count had determined that his only child, his beautiful daughter, would marry well. De Guichen was merely the son of a knight and not a particularly wealthy knight at that. To make matters worse, the de Guichens were loyal friends with the king’s avowed enemy, the Duke de Bourlet.

  The two young people knew only that they adored each other. None of the rest mattered. And then Cecile discovered she was pregnant. She was frightened, but was also ecstatic. She and Julian would run away to be married and live happily ever after. Before she could tell Julian the wonderful news, however, the Dragon Brigade was summoned to duty and he had to leave. The two had only a few fleeting moments together before he was gone.

  Cecile had no mother in whom to confide; her mother having died when she was young, and she continued to dream her pretty dreams until the day she was confronted by Lady Adele, an older woman, who was also one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The sharp-eyed Adele had noted Cecile’s swelling breasts, expanding waistline, and her unfortunate tendency to vomit on a daily basis. Lady Adele spoke to the girl in private and in a few stark words shattered the pretty dreams by making Cecile face cold, ugly reality.

  Did Cecile honestly think the Count de Marjolaine would allow his only daughter, who stood to inherit one of the largest fortunes in the kingdom, to marry a penniless knight?

  “Your noble father would have Julian killed first,” said Lady Adele pitilessly. “And don’t think he could not do it and get away with it. If you truly love Julian, you will cast him off and never speak to him again.”

  Cecile was forced to admit the lady was right. Her father was known by everyone to be a cold-blooded, ruthless, calculating man. She cried herself to sleep every night, Julian’s letters in her hand.

  Cecile was fast reaching the point where she could no longer hide her pregnancy. She had planned to travel to Lady Adele’s country estate to have the child in secret, when she received an abrupt summons to return home. The count did not ask her if the rumors he had heard about her were true. One look at her swollen belly provided the answer.

  He demanded to know the name of the father. Cecile steadfastly refused to tell him. He called her a whore and struck her across the face, knocking her to the floor. His large emerald ring split her lip, leaving a small, white scar visible to this day. He sent his daughter to a nunnery, where she remained in seclusion until her baby, a son, was born.

  Cecile had not written to tell Julian of her pregnancy, for she knew he would come to her and that would place his life in danger. She had determined to keep the name of the baby’s father a secret. But her labor was long and difficult and at one point Cecile was in such agony and was so exhausted that she feared she would die. In her despair, she confided the name of the baby’s father to the Mother Superior.

  Cecile gave birth to a son. The nuns allowed her to spend a day—one glorious day—with her baby. Then, on the count’s orders, the child was taken away to be placed in the Church orphanage.

  The Mother Superior was a woman of strong convictions. She came from a noble family herself and did not think it proper that the child of a knight should be raised in an orphanage, never knowing his father. The Mother Superior wrote to Sir Julian, telling him he had a son.

  Julian was astounded and confused. He could not help but wonder why Cecile had not told him. He traveled with the family retainer, Benoit, to the nunnery and demanded to see Cecile, but was told she had returned home. She had left no message for him. All he could think was that she no longer loved him. The Mother Superior brought the baby to him. Heartbroken and bewildered, Julian took his son home.

  Several months later, after she had recovered from her ordeal, Cecile returned to court. She was more beautiful than before, if that were possible, but her beauty, which had been warm and vibrant, seemed now cold and glittering. She became the open and avowed lover of King Alaric, a calculated move, meant to ward off the men her father would have forced her to marry. Whenever she received an offer, she was able to manipulate the jealous and grasping Alaric into refusing to give his consent.

  Julian had secretly dreamed his own pretty dream. He nursed the fond belief that Cecile still loved him and that someday they would be together. Then he heard about the affair. Not only was she openly involved with another man, that man was the enemy of Julian’s liege lord, the Duke de Bourlet. If Cecile had stabbed Julian in the heart with a dagger, she could have caused no greater pain.

  Sir Julian was a chivalrous and honorable knight. He would not say a word against Cecile to anyone. Her name never crossed his lips. There were those in his household who knew the truth—or thought they did—and they were free in venting their rage against the woman who had hurt their beloved friend and master.

  Only one man, Julian’s friend, Sir Ander Martel, the baby’s godfather, knew Cecile, knew her father, and knew or was able to guess both sides of the tragic tale. He tried at one point to tell Julian that Cecile had done this for his sake, because she feared for his life. The moment Sir Ander mentioned her name, Julian told him coldly that if he wanted to continue to be friends, he would never speak of her again. Julian de Guichen would eventually learn the truth, but, sadly, only on the night before his execution. Too late to tell his son.

  Stephano, growing up, knew he was different from other children in that he did not have a mother. He was not particularly bothered by this lack. He and his father were extremely close. Sir Julian always refused to speak ill of Cecile, but Stephano’s grandfather felt no such compunction. When Stephano was twelve, his embittered grandfather summoned the boy to his study and told Stephano the truth—his side of it, which had been further tainted over the years by a hatred of King Alaric and his mistress, who, on the death of her father, was now the wealthy and powerful Countess Cecile de Marjolaine.

  Sir Ander, as Stephano’s godfather, could have told the boy what he knew, but that was the time Julian’s friend and patron, the Duke de Bourlet, had openly split from the king. The seeds of rebellion were being sown. Sir Ander did not like King Alaric, but he believed a man should be loyal to the Crown and, although he knew the duke was in the right, in that he had been goaded past endurance into fighting, Sir Ander did not join in the rebellion. He and Julian remained friends, though they were on opposing sides of the terrible conflict.

  As Stephano sat in the carriage, his hat on his knee, he heard again his grandfather’s bitter, hate-filled tirade against his mother, words forever seared in the boy’s memory. He was jolted from his dark reverie when Rodrigo got into a heated argument with the carriage driver, claiming that the man was deliberately taking them out of their way in order to charge them more money.

  “Look, Stephano!” Rodrigo cried, pointing out the carriage’s glass window, “Look where this son of a goat has taken us! Out past the Rim!”

  The continent of Rosia was surrounded by an ocean of air, as were all the continents—the Seven Sisters—of the world of Aeronne. The air, the Breath of God, with its magical properties, was the “sea” on which floated the continents and islands that made up the world of Aeronne.

  Similar to the water in the greater inland seas and lakes, the Breath had currents and moods. The wispy, peach-colored mist of a calm day could quickly darken to the deep reddish orange of a coming water storm with winds that would whip the surface of the Breath to a froth, lifting the heavier clouds from below to wreak havoc with the controls on an airship.

  The mists that were wispy and thin as silken scarves grew thicker as one sank deeper into the Breath, becoming almost liquid at the bottom, or so learned men theorized. No one knew for certain wha
t lay at the bottom because no one had ever been able to penetrate that deep and survive.

  Where the Breath met the shoreline of the continents was called the Rim. To sail beyond the Rim meant leaving land behind and venturing into the mists of the Breath.

  The view out the carriage window was spectacular and, as always, caused Stephano’s heart to contract with both pain and pleasure. When he had been a Dragon Knight, riding the thermals of the Breath, flying among the tendrillike mists, he would always take a moment to view the continent from this angle: the jagged edges of distant mountains, the green of hills, the smoky haze rising from the multitude of chimneys, the airships of all sizes and types sailing in and out of the bustling port of Evreux, the capital city of Rosia and one of the largest and busiest ports in the world.

  He and his dragon mount, Lady Cam, would always share this moment. He would laughingly point out his family’s former small estate, tucked somewhere in those green hills, and she would, with more gravity, mention her family’s estate in the Montagnes Impériale, the mountain range which the dragons called home. The two would ride the mists, knowing themselves—in the dragon’s grace and beauty and Stephano’s skills as a rider—superior to those who were forced to rely on wood and magic and silk balloons to sail the Breath.

  Lady Cam was dead now. She had died in battle eight years ago, struck down by friendly cannon fire from a ship of their own fleet. She had died and so had the Dragon Brigade. And so had Stephano, in a way.

  Stephano looked at the clouds and took note of the wind speed and the direction the wind was blowing, and then endeavored to make Rodrigo understand that the carriage driver knew what he was doing. Given the conditions, he was taking the best route to the palace.

  “Otherwise, the ride would be bumpy. We would be blown all over the sky, and you would be air sick and complain about that,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo gave way with such good grace that Stephano suspected his friend had started this row simply to shake Stephano out of his gloomy mood. By that time, they were once more over land and the palace was in view.