Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

Finally, he let severance drop from him. He paused behind a column in the passageway. Drawing in several deep breaths, he pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the small, reassuring lump of the amulet bag beneath his silk tunic. Even now it still felt cold to his touch, as though a chunk of ice swung inside the leather pouch. His emeralds, gifts from the ice spirits of Trau that had favored him long ago, had protected him many times before. No ordinary gems, they looked like plain, ordinary pebbles whenever anyone else examined them, and they revealed their true shape only to him. He had never understood why the ice spirits had chosen to give him such magical stones; he had never understood what purpose they might be intended to serve. Never had they intervened as directly as they had tonight.

  He realized he was still sweating. He felt trembly and a little sick. The wine, of course, had been drugged. Tipping his head back against the wall, he struggled to compose himself, then wiped his face with his sleeve and sent a small prayer of thanks to whatever benevolence existed within the stones.

  Painful memories of his sister flooded his heart. He choked a moment before he pushed such thoughts away. He had loved her with all his heart, and he had failed her utterly. He had failed other people as well, including his father, but it was only Lea he felt the sharpest guilt for. She had been sweet, innocent, special—a tiny, golden-haired child beloved by nature, people, and the gods.

  And he must stop thinking about her now, must drive her from his mind once more, knowing he could not return to the past and undo his mistakes, knowing he could not go back and save her.

  Wiping his eyes, Caelan repressed a shudder and walked on in an effort to pull himself together. Forcing his mind back to Fuesel and Thole, he found his anger growing. It had been a vile plot to remove him from the games. Rivalry among the owners was fierce, and sometimes fighters were stolen and sold illegally. Sometimes they were poisoned or hamstrung. The prince must be told without delay. He had the authority to order these agents questioned. Tirhin could find out who hired them, then plan his own retaliation.

  Yet the prince was not to be found. Searching discreetly, Caelan drifted from room to room, yet did not find his master. Occasionally he made an inquiry, only to be told, “His highness was last seen with Lady Sivee.”

  Yet Lady Sivee sat in the main reception chamber, surrounded by all her male admirers except Prince Tirhin. The group chattered wittily and nibbled on delicacies while dancing girls whirled seductively to erotic music. When Lady Sivee saw Caelan lurking in the doorway, she beckoned to him.

  “Tell your master I miss him dreadfully,” she said with a pretty pout. Drink had softened her eyes and her mouth. “Must he talk politics in the garden all night?”

  Caelan barely concealed his reaction. In that moment he had a sudden vision of Tirhin on horseback, galloping away into the darkness, alone.

  Somehow Caelan found a smile for the lady. “He is returned to the house, my lady. He sent me to ask you to meet him.”

  “Where?” she asked, too eagerly.

  Some of her male friends scowled. Others nudged each other.

  Caelan said nothing, and she gave him a quick nod and a sudden, dimpling smile.

  “I know” she said and put her finger to her lips.

  Caelan smiled back, although he could be flogged for playing such a prank. But the lady would never guess. He left the room and slipped outside into the cold air. As soon as the shadows engulfed him, he lengthened his stride, cursing to himself with every step.

  Every action of the prince’s made sense now. Bringing Caelan and his wealthy young friends to the party as distractions, chatting freely and moving about from room to room until everyone had seen him and everyone thought he must be nearby, ordering Caelan not to stay close to his side. Yes, it had been perfectly planned for the prince to slip away unnoticed. Even Lady Sivee would now contribute to the deception by going to wait for a rendezvous. Her tipsy departure would be noticed by her guests. Alone in her chambers, she would disrobe and wait. The prince would not come to her, but to save herself humiliation she would not rejoin her guests. They would never know he stood her up, because she would never tell.

  But the prince had no business going out unescorted and unprotected. Not late at night, not with strangers casting spells on his slaves for dastardly reasons, not with the land restless and unsettled as it was.

  “Fool,” Caelan said under his breath and quickened his pace.

  Twice he nearly ran into couples entwined in the dark shrubbery. There were almost as many people in the gardens as in the house. Torchlights blazed everywhere, but the noise and general confusion was a blessing. Finding a dark wool cloak lying across a bench, Caelan put it on, drawing up the hood to disguise himself. Joining a group of guests who were leaving, he was able to get his horse and mount up, unnoticed by the harried grooms and stableboys. He also casually drew a sword from a saddle scabbard as he rode by. His heart was thumping hard, for if he were caught it would mean his death.

  But the gods favored him, and he was able to conceal the weapon under his cloak.

  Leaving the gates, he wheeled his horse around uncertainly and set off at a trot. The moon was too thin to provide much light. It was hard to see the road, and he had no idea which direction the prince had gone.

  Again he cursed his master, then he cursed himself for caring. What had happened to his anger and resentment? The prince could risk his foolish neck if he wanted.

  But if anything happened to the prince, Caelan knew he would be sold to a new master. Better to stick with the master he had than risk the unknown.

  He tried to calm down, although impatience and worry made it hard.

  He sought, extending sevaisin farther than he had ever tried before. A flicker of the prince came to him, but it was clouded by something else, something evil and horrifying.

  Caelan’s mouth went dry, and he cut off the contact with a shudder. He did not know what he had sensed, but it was of the darkness. And it was on the prince’s trail.

  Praying he would not be too late, Caelan turned his horse north and spurred it to a gallop.

  Chapter Six

  The north road climbed steadily through the hills rimming Imperia, its broad, unpaved expanse twisting lazily through the inclines, then crossed a narrow plain and began to ascend to the mountains. Highest of all of them stood the ancient and forbidding Sidraigh-hal, its jagged peak shooting up a pale curl of smoke against the night sky.

  Ever questing with his senses, Caelan kept his horse at a gallop until the animal foamed with lather. The prince was not that far ahead, but he must be setting a blistering pace, for Caelan never got within sight of him. Caelan had to ride on faith, the amulet bag bouncing against his chest as though to urge him on.

  And if he was wrong? If the prince had remained at the party? Then eventually bounty hunters would come after Caelan. He would be dragged back to the city in chains, and without trial or the chance to offer explanation, he would have sentence read over him. When the floggings and other punishments were done, his broken, mutilated body would be thrown into an iron cage, and he would be suspended from one of the city gates, given no food or water, and left there to die and rot.

  It was the kind of risk to make a man sweat with fear.

  But Caelan didn’t draw rein. Danger rode on the prince’s trail, and if Caelan could save him, then perhaps he would be made Tirhin’s protector after all.

  Cresting a low rise, Caelan spotted a glimmer of light below, far down inside a valley. He let his winded horse slow while he glanced about and took his bearings.

  This land lay empty of dwellings. The hills were not farmed. There were no villages. The light that winked briefly through the darkness, then vanished, had to be connected with whomever the prince was meeting.

  Caelan frowned. More conspiracies. He wanted no part of them, no knowledge of them. The prince could lay plots all night, for all Caelan cared. But as for the creatures on Tirhin’s trail... that was different. Stripping off his cloak a
nd tying it to the saddle, Caelan drew the sword he’d stolen.

  Using his knee, he nudged his mount forward cautiously.

  He was halfway down the hill, still on the road, when a sudden flurry of wings above him gave him a split second of warning.

  His horse screamed in fear and reared. Caelan had a confused impression of something large and black descending on him from the sky before sharp talons ripped across his shoulder. Crying out, he stabbed up with the sword and caught the creature deep in its vitals. Inky blood gushed forth, running down his sword arm and splattering across his face. The stench that accompanied it was of something putrefied.

  The creature made no death cry, but simply plummeted past him to land in a dark heap on the ground. Caelan’s horse shied and bucked away from it, and by the time he was able to regain control of his mount and move closer, the creature was crumbling rapidly into dust. A breath of wind scattered it away, and he never got a good look at what it had been.

  Breathing hard, Caelan wiped off the stinking blood as best he could. Inside, he was shaken more than he wanted to admit. What, in all the names of the gods, was that thing? It had very nearly killed him, and he still could not quite believe his luck.

  After a moment he forced himself to ride on, but he kept his senses attuned to the sky as well as to the shadows around him. Even so, he nearly missed the small trail branching off from the road. It led down the hillside that was rough with boulders and thickets of stunted trees.

  Caelan hesitated a moment, then turned his mount that way. His horse’s ears pricked forward alertly. The animal seemed more nervous and reluctant than ever, and he had to force it to take the trail. Step by step, the horse picked its way along, while Caelan’s unease grew.

  He had the same eerie feeling of being watched as he had earlier that evening when he’d ridden with the prince and his friends. Yet though Caelan’s eyes were never still, he saw nothing.

  The glimmer of light he’d spied before now reappeared in a brief wink, then was gone as though a door had been opened and closed. It was not far ahead.

  But the land itself grew increasingly desolate. The trees were either stunted and deformed, or they stood as burned skeletons leaning over the progressively steeper trail. The air had grown strangely warm and oppressive, smelling strongly of cinders, ash, and smoke. Yet he saw no fire. Sweating, Caelan loosened the throat of his tunic and slicked back a strand of hair from his eyes. His horse pranced and minced along as though walking on eggs, snorting with every uncertain step.

  Caelan realized he had come to the forbidden mountain of Sidraigh-hal, once sacred ground of the shadow gods. Across the narrow valley, it rose above him, black and forbidding, its fiery top wreathed in yellow, sulfur-laden mists.

  Drawing rein in dismay, Caelan knew he should turn back before he found himself in worse trouble. This was no place for him. Even the simple awareness of where he was sent goosebumps crawling up his spine.

  Breathing an old childhood prayer, he edged forward.

  Here and there, frozen tongues of black lava scored the hillside. Lava canyons fell away sharply, their razor precipices offering death without warning.

  The trail crossed a tiny stream, and the horse balked at first, refusing to cross it. Glancing around warily, Caelan dismounted and knelt at the edge. He was thirsty, and he wanted to wash off the creature’s blood that still stank loathsomely. But when he put his hand into the water, he found it strangely warm as though it had been heated.

  Caelan cupped water in his palm and tasted it. It was foul. He spat, shuddering, and splashed some of the water quickly onto his arm and shoulder.

  A faint rumble passed through the earth.

  Uneasily Caelan scrambled to his feet. His horse broke away and ran off. Caelan swore silently, but he did not go after it. The panicky animal could elude him easily, and he dared not waste time chasing it.

  Feeling isolated and more vulnerable than before, he stepped over the stream and continued, keeping to cover as best he could. The farther he went, the hotter it became. The air smelled of ashes, and the ground grew unpleasantly warm beneath his feet. Here and there, the earth broke open to let steaming mud bubble out.

  Something screamed in the distance, and Caelan jerked himself up tight against a tree. He stood there, tense and listening, his mouth open to gulp air, his heart pounding out of control. The outcry had been too brief for him to guess whether it belonged to a man or wild animal. But something out there in the darkness was hunting.

  Hunting ... him.

  His hand grew sweaty and tight on the sword hilt. Again, he cursed himself for having come to this godless place. But he could not retreat now. Caelan pushed himself forward, his breath coming short and fast.

  Ahead, past a stand of charred trees and new saplings, a hut loomed in the shadows. Its windows were shuttered tight, permitting no light to escape. Yet Caelan could hear the restless snorts and shifting about of horses, as though the animals were inside. His keen ears picked up low murmurs of voices, punctuated occasionally by a sharper exclamation.

  Caelan circled about in search of a sentry, and found none. Only then did he approach the hut, from the back, and with great care. His feet moved soundlessly over the hot ground until he could press himself against the wall. Back here, there was only one window. Its shutter was warped, and Caelan could peer inside through the crack.

  He saw a single room littered with straw and rat trash. The walls were crude daub and wattle. A fire burned on the hearth, smoking as though the chimney was blocked. In one corner the horses stood tied. Weapons, including Tirhin’s fashionable rapier and jeweled dagger, lay in a small stack near a water pail. In the opposite corner Prince Tirhin, Lord Sien, and two other men stood clustered about a tiny, crude altar. Warding fires burned in tiny bronze cups, emitting green smoke as protection against whatever spirits lurked in this place of ancient evil.

  The prince looked very pale, angry, and uncertain. Sien spoke and Tirhin shook his head violently. He broke away and began to pace. Doing so gave Caelan his first clear look at the other two men.

  One stood in worn battle armor, tall and grizzled, missing one ear and badly scarred across the face. He was Madrun, no mistaking it. The other man, younger and well dressed in a foreign style, was also Madrun.

  He spoke Lingua persuasively: “Please listen to the rest of our proposal, Lord Tirhin.”

  “No!” the prince said, casting a furious glare at Sien, who stood impassively with the green smoke floating across his face. “I will not betray my own people, not for gain, not for anything!”

  “It is not a question of betrayal,” the civilian Madrun said. “It is a question of helping each other. This war has drained us severely. We are an exhausted people. We are a starving people. Our men die in the battlefields, and who is left to raise crops and father children? Help us, Lord Tirhin, by giving us a way to end this war. And we shall help you to take your father’s throne.”

  The prince barely seemed to hear. He was still glaring at the priest. “You brought me here to listen to this? What were you thinking?”

  Sien’s yellow eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “I was thinking your highness needs allies and support.”

  Tirhin clenched his fists. He was white about the mouth, and his eyes were blazing. “I have support—”

  “From the army?” Sien said softly. “The way you had its support before?”

  Red stained Tirhin’s cheeks. “That was—”

  “Need real army,” interrupted the Madrun soldier, his voice gruff and guttural. “Need fighters to tear throne from dying emperor. Wait too long already.”

  “I see,” Tirhin said, clipping off his words. “I am to let you into Imperia, let you pillage and destroy my city. And what assurances do I have that you will leave when your work is done?”

  “Our word,” the civilian began.

  Tirhin uttered a short, ugly laugh. “The word of a Madrun? No.”

  The soldier bristled, but Sien lift
ed his hands. Gowned in saffron with a leopard hide worn across his shoulders, his shaved head gleaming with oil, he stepped between the Madruns and the prince.

  “Let us speak openly of our needs and how we may help each other. Sir,” he said first to Tirhin, “you have need of armed support, substantial enough to subdue civil unrest. Without an army, you cannot hold the empire together. We have already seen enough evidence to warn us that the provinces will split from each other if given the chance.”

  He frowned slightly at Tirhin, as though conveying an unspoken message, and turned to the Madruns. “And you, sirs, have need of peace.”

  The soldier growled.

  “An alliance between our empire and yours would allow you a chance to recover. Once your resources were rebuilt, perhaps with the help of advantageous trade agreements between us, you could then wage new wars on your other enemies.” Sien lifted his hands. “It is such a simple solution, and satisfies so many things for both sides. Come, sirs, put aside old grievances and traditions. Consider the future and new ways.”

  “We are willing,” the civilian Madrun said.

  All of them stared at Tirhin, who still looked pale and tense.

  His eyes sought only Sien’s. “There has to be another way.”

  “You have been loyal to your father,” Sien said persuasively. “No one could argue that. You care about your people. Yes, they are yours, by right! You are the true heir to the throne, not that woman. What will become of you, of your steadfastness all these years, of your work, of your service when he gives his empire to her? She cannot rule this land. She lacks the strength of will, the knowledge, the ability. She is only a woman, foolish and weak. Her training comes from the Penestrican witches, and you can imagine what they have implanted in her mind. She will lose the empire. She will let it crumble into anarchy. She cannot hold it. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Tirhin whispered. His face held bleak bitterness and resentment. “I know.”

  “Be bold. Seize what belongs to you now, while the chance is in your hand. At least listen to what the Madruns propose. They are not the first enemy to be turned into friends. Let them help you, and then help them in return.”