Sevenfold Sword: Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I’m sorry,” said Tamlin. “It sounds like a lonely way to grow up.”

  Tamara shrugged. “It wasn’t terrible. My father loves me, and I always got on well with my brothers. They don’t understand me, true, but understanding isn’t always required for love.” She hesitated. “Certainly, it is better than having to grow up as a gladiator in Urd Maelwyn.”

  “I suppose,” said Tamlin.

  “How did I know that?” said Tamara. “How did I know that you were a gladiator at Urd Maelwyn?”

  “I mentioned it when we were talking in the great hall,” said Tamlin.

  “No, that’s not it,” murmured Tamara. “It was…I already knew that you had been a gladiator. That just confirmed something I had already known.”

  “What else can you remember about me?” said Tamlin.

  She stopped and looked at him, and she was tall enough that she only had to incline her head a little. Her eyes, blue and purple both, went heavy-lidded, and he realized she had slipped into a sort of self-induced trance. Tamlin could do the same sort of thing when he needed to concentrate to cast a spell.

  “I remember,” whispered Tamara. “I remember that you have the mark of the Swordborn upon your left shoulder. I remember that your back is covered with scars from when you were almost flogged to death. You have scars on your chest and arms and legs from fighting. I remember…” She brushed a finger across the bronze plates of his cuirass. “A scar across the right side of your chest, yes…right there.”

  “I have a scar there,” said Tamlin. “It was the first one that you…that Tysia ever cleaned and stitched up for me.”

  “I remember you would talk about the books in the monastery,” whispered Tamara. “Your favorite was the Aeneid, the story of how Aeneas founded Rome upon Old Earth, because it reminded you of the tale of how Connmar Pendragon founded Aenesium and the realm of Owyllain. You wanted to escape from Urd Maelwyn and become a gallant and bold knight.”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin, remembering.

  “Is that all correct?” said Tamara, blinking as the distant look faded from her face.

  “Every word,” said Tamlin.

  “Did your wife love you?” said Tamara.

  “She did,” said Tamlin.

  “And did you love her?”

  “With all my heart,” said Tamlin. “I…couldn’t save her, not from Khurazalin. And I never got over her death. I tried. With wine, with fighting, with other women…no, none of it helped.” He let out a ragged breath. “And then I found Tirdua in Trojas and you here…”

  “That must be difficult,” said Tamara.

  “It is,” said Tamlin. “But I have no right to complain. I am not the one who died six times.”

  “Tamlin,” said Tamara.

  She hesitated, and then touched his hand. A shiver went through Tamlin.

  “I…don’t know what to say,” said Tamara. “Are we married or not? I don’t know. But not all my dreams have been nightmares. I’ve dreamed about you, and those were good dreams. In all those nightmares of blood and death and pain, you were the only good thing in them. I am going with you to the ruins of the monastery, and I…and I…would like to get to know you better. The real you. Not…not the version of you I remember in my nightmares. Though it seems that you are the same man from my dreams.”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. “I would like to get to know you better, too.” He hesitated. “Shall we walk some more?”

  Tamara smiled. “I would like that.”

  She threaded her arm through his, and suddenly Tamlin Thunderbolt felt better than he had in years.

  Chapter 12: Wishes

  The next morning, Calliande awoke and started to prepare to depart Kalimnos.

  Ridmark had gotten up already. He wanted to have a look around the hills with Third, to make sure the route east would be safe. Since the muridachs seemed focused on the gray elves, Ridmark thought it would be safe to proceed east through the foothills. From there, they would reach the River Morwynial, cross into the marshlands around Najaris, and travel east to the Tower Mountains and the ruins of the Monastery of St. James.

  Calliande hummed to herself as she checked her pack. The visit to Kalimnos had gone better than she had expected. They had found Tamara with little difficulty, and she had agreed to accompany them. As they traveled, Calliande hoped to unlock more of Tamara’s memories, or at least teach her to do so. Perhaps they would find some answers about the New God and the Seven Swords.

  And maybe Tamara would find out more about herself. Not to defeat the New God and unravel the mystery, but for her own sake. And for Tamlin’s sake. He was still in love with Tysia, and Tysia and Tamara were the same woman. For that matter, Tamara seemed fascinated with Tamlin, stunned that the figure from her dreams had turned out to be flesh and blood and not the phantasms of an ill mind. For Tamlin’s sake, Calliande hoped that fascination would turn into affection and perhaps love.

  She laughed a little at herself. Between Calem and Kalussa and Tamlin and Tamara, she was turning into a meddling old matchmaker. Calliande closed her pack, straightened up, and turned towards the window. The shutters were open, and she saw the sunlight spilling over the eastern hills. Her stomach rumbled, and she decided that it was time for some breakfast.

  Calliande started to turn, and the bracelet on her left wrist flashed with white light.

  Antenora was reaching out, trying to make contact. Perhaps she had learned something more about the Seven Swords, or about the strange power of the Masked One to make his enemies believe that he was no threat to anyone. Though Calliande herself had not thought about the Masked One in days. They were a long way from the city of Xenorium, and the troubles with the muridachs and their arrival at Kalimnos had occupied the entirety of her attention.

  She turned towards the bed, and she froze in shock.

  A gray-robed shape floated before the door, hovering a few inches off the floor, and Calliande’s mind noted details in that instant of astonishment. The figure wore the ornamented cowled robe of a Maledictus, bound with a sash around the waist, but this robe was a dull gray rather than the black of Qazaldhar or the reddish-orange of Khurazalin. Calliande could not see the Maledictus’s face because rippling gray mist filled the cowl, and more tendrils of mist danced around the sleeves of the robe, concealing the Maledictus’s hands.

  The Sight rose to life within Calliande, and she saw the ribbon of twisted magic flowing into the Maledictus. It was immensely powerful, and it was coming from the north. She realized the ribbon of power was coming from the twisted aura around the Tower of Nightmares. Somehow the Maledictus was drawing on that magic and using it to empower a spell.

  And that spell was potent. Why hadn’t Calliande seen it? The Sight ought to have awakened in response to the power.

  Then Calliande realized what that mist was.

  It was magic to twist and alter memories. The Maledictus had been standing there for some time, using that mist to erase her perception of its arrival.

  Well, that ended now.

  Calliande thrust out her left hand, white fire blazing to life around her fingers as she called magic.

  The Maledictus’s whisper echoed inside her head.

  “Forget.”

  Mist exploded from the Maledictus, filling the room and pouring out the window, and Calliande reeled on her feet. Exhaustion flooded through her, and she fell to her knees, unable to stand, unable to keep her eyes open.

  The bracelet fell from her wrist and clanged against the floor, and Calliande collapsed.

  Darkness swallowed her.

  ###

  Calliande blinked her eyes open.

  Why was she lying on the floor?

  She pushed off the floor and looked around her room, surprised. Clearly, she had been pushing herself too hard. Some proper sleep would do her good. The bed looked appealing, and Calliande decided to lie down and rest.

  She got to her feet and took one step towards the bed, and then the voice filled her e
ars.

  “Mama!”

  Calliande turned just as Joanna ran into the room.

  Her heart rose into her throat. Joanna beamed up at her, with no trace of guile on her two-year-old face. She had Ridmark’s eyes and Calliande’s features, and she was alive and healthy and strong.

  What a strange thought. Why would Calliande have ever thought her daughter was dead?

  Smiling, she scooped up Joanna in her arms and sat on the bed.

  “Mama,” said Joanna, “will we leave today?”

  “No,” said Calliande, blinking tears from her eyes. Why was she crying? Why did she feel overwhelming joy? She saw Joanna every day.

  A brief flicker of uneasiness went through her mind. Was something wrong?

  No. No, nothing could be wrong. Calliande was with her daughter.

  She hugged Joanna close.

  ###

  Tamlin yawned and sat up in bed, reaching for his boots.

  He felt tired, but content. He and Tamara had stayed up late talking, and it had been both exhilarating and strange. Exhilarating, because it had been just like talking to Tysia, and he and Tysia had often stayed up late talking as they lay in each other’s arms, speaking about their hopes and fears for the future.

  It had been strange because Tamara was different from Tysia. She was more confident, for one, and had far more experience of violence and battle. Yet Tamlin found it to be a good kind of strangeness.

  He looked forward to speaking more with Tamara.

  And he wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to do more with her…

  Well. One step at a time. As strange as this was for him, Tamlin knew it was even stranger for her. It had to be unsettling to have a man who claimed to have been her husband in another life to turn up on her doorstep. At least she remembered him from her dreams, and she had accepted the truth without a struggle.

  Though what was that truth? Why had Rhodruthain split her into seven different lives? For that matter, how the hell had the Guardian even managed it? Tamlin had never heard of magic like that.

  One problem at a time, he reminded himself. First, they had to live long enough to reach the ruins of the Monastery of St. James. And he had to make sure Tamara lived long enough to reach it. Tamlin vowed that he would not fail her as he had failed Tysia and Tirdua. He would…

  Gray mist exploded through his door.

  Tamlin just had time to feel alarmed. Was the inn on fire?

  Then the gray mist washed over him, cold and clammy and clinging. Tamlin collapsed to the floor, exhaustion and darkness claiming him.

  When he woke up, Tysia was there.

  She helped him to his feet as he gazed at her in wonder. No longer did she wear the ragged garb of a slave of Urd Maelwyn. Now she wore the sleeveless red dress of a woman of Aenesium, and her blue eyes sparkled with joy as she looked at him.

  “Tamlin, are you all right?” said Tysia. “You fell.”

  “I…” Tamlin started, feeling the warmth of her hands upon his scarred arms. “You’re here. I don’t…”

  “Don’t you remember?” said Tysia. She gave him a quick kiss. “You rescued me from Urd Maelwyn, just as you promised.”

  “That’s right,” said Sir Aegeus. He sat in the room’s rickety chair, his boots propped on the bed. Tamlin stared at his friend. That didn’t make sense. Why was Aegeus here? Aegeus couldn’t be here.

  Aegeus had…had…

  Aegeus boomed with laughter. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already, man! I thought you might have taken one too many cracks on the head as we escaped.” He laughed again. “Or Tysia has worn you down already. I always knew women were insatiable, and…”

  “Sir Aegeus!” said Tysia with disapproval, but she smiled. “That is not an appropriate way to talk to your friend’s wife.”

  “Wife,” said Tamlin.

  Yes, she was his wife. The only woman he had ever loved. And she was here with him now, and with his best friend. They had escaped from Urd Maelwyn together, just as he had hoped.

  Tamlin drew her close and kissed her.

  ###

  Prince Krastikon Cyros sat in the common room of the Javelin Inn, eating breakfast.

  To his surprise, the inn’s food was quite good. Master Melex and his sons and maids had prepared a fine meal of pita bread and olives and even a bit of dry fruit. Krastikon had not thought that anything would grow in the hills around the town, but the men of Kalimnos made the most of their terrace-hewn hills.

  Perhaps he ought to ask about their technique. There were many hills to the northwest of Trojas, and maybe they could be made into fertile farmland. It would make a good present for his wife. The Necromancer’s long rule had impoverished Trojas, and Zenobia wanted to rebuild the city to its former wealth and glory.

  Krastikon smiled to himself. Other men might think to bring jewelry or silks as gifts for their wives. Zenobia would prefer improved farming methods. Or a good supply of seed crops. And not silk, but silkworms, so that Trojas itself could make silk, though that would throw King Aristotle of Echion into a fury.

  Krastikon sat and ate breakfast, thinking about farming methods, and then gray mist exploded from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  He shot to his feet in alarm. “Fire!”

  Krastikon started to draw on his magic, preparing to cast a spell of earth magic. His training as an Ironcoat let him use earth magic to ward himself in battle, making himself all but impervious to harm. The magic would also let him become immune to fire for a short time.

  Krastikon had just started the spell when the gray mist rushed over him.

  When he came to, he was lying on his back.

  “Husband?” said Zenobia.

  Krastikon blinked and sat up. His wife knelt next to him, concern on her beautiful face. She was a small, delicate woman with large eyes, and her left hand had been maimed by Taerdyn’s sorcery.

  “Come now, son,” said Justin Cyros. “There is no time to lie about when there is work to be done.”

  Krastikon stood and looked around the common room.

  King Justin Cyros stood at the head of the room, his hand resting on the hilt of the Sword of Earth. The other Ironcoats, his half-brothers, stood in a ring against the walls. They had been Krastikon’s enemies and bitter rivals for all his life, but all that was done now. His father had been victorious, six of the Seven Swords sealed away in Cytheria, and the Sword of Earth remained in Justin’s hand. Owyllain had been reunited and brought to peace and prosperity and order, and the people went about their work without fear of war and raiders.

  And Krastikon had married his bride, his beloved Zenobia.

  “You’ve done well,” said Justin. He looked a great deal like Tamlin, with the same build and features and gray eyes. “Peace and order have now come to Owyllain, and we have defeated the curse of the New God. And it was your work that defeated the dark power.”

  “I did only my duty, father,” said Krastikon. “That is all I ever wanted to do. My duty, and to do it well. I…”

  A strange feeling of unreality went through him.

  Something seemed wrong, something seemed off. Why was Justin Cyros in Kalimnos? Why would the King of Cytheria and the Ironcoats have come to Kalimnos? For that matter, why would Zenobia have traveled here? Krastikon wasn’t sure that Zenobia had even heard of Kalimnos.

  But his wife smiled at him, and Krastikon’s doubts vanished.

  ###

  Kalussa had just finished getting dressed and had opened her door to see a wall of mist explode into her room.

  When the mist cleared, she looked around in disorientation, trying to focus her thoughts. Something seemed wrong…but what? She couldn’t quite place it. Concentrating was difficult.

  Then she realized what was wrong.

  Her husband!

  Kalussa stepped into the hallway and hurried three doors down, the Staff of Blades clanging against the floor with every step. She stopped before a door and started pounding on it.
>
  “Calem!” she said. “Calem! Are you there?”

  The door wrenched open, and her husband stared at her, his green eyes drilling into her.

  “Calem,” she said. “Oh, thank God. Thank God you’re all right.”

  The memories surged through her mind, almost as if for the first time. Sir Calem was the greatest warrior of Aenesium, one of the Companion knights of King Hektor. He had gone to war with the Shield Knight and the Keeper, and he had returned victorious.

  She had missed him so much.

  “Calem,” whispered Kalussa. “I…”

  He seized her, pulled her into the room, and kissed her long and hard. Kalussa tossed aside the Staff of Blades, and it clattered in the corner as she wrapped both her arms around his back.

  “Kalussa,” said Calem when they broke apart, breathing hard. He brushed aside a lock of hair from her forehead, gazing into her face like a man dying of thirst looking at a cup of water. “I…”

  “No,” said Kalussa, and she kissed him again. Her body felt like it was on fire. “No, don’t make me wait, Calem, don’t make me wait any…”

  He didn’t. He began pulling off her clothes even as she tugged at his. In short order, she stood naked before him, and then she helped him remove the last of his clothes. She could not look away from his strong, muscled body. He had so many scars, especially the lines of scars running up and down his legs and arms, but that just showed how brave he was, how he had broken away from the dark magic that had controlled him.

  So strange that it felt like she was seeing him for the first time. He was her husband. Kalussa had seen him undressed so many times before.

  Hadn’t she?

  Then he drew her close and kissed her again, her body pressed against his, and all thought dissolved in a torrent of desire and need. She had longed for this, had needed this for so long, and at last, it was at hand.

  Kalussa led her husband to the bed.

  ###