The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun)

by K J Taylor

  Laela leaned close to listen. “What happened?”

  “We grew up,” Bran said briefly. “Bad things happened t’all of us. That was just before the war started.”

  “What bad things?” said Laela.

  Bran’s brown eyes narrowed. “Bad things,” he repeated. “Young Gern, he died in a fight. Yer mother . . . pregnant out of wedlock, to a Northerner. Arren, he . . . he died, too.”

  “How?” said Laela, mostly driven by morbid curiosity.

  “Murdered,” said Bran. He sighed. “My best friend, was Arren. Him an’ me, always together.”

  Great Gryphus, thought Laela. No wonder he took to drink.

  “So yeh took me after Mum died,” she said. She paused. “But what happened t’her?”

  Bran coughed. “Laela, there are some things . . .”

  “Tell me!” Laela almost shouted. “Dad, I’ve got t’know! It’s all I’ll have of her, so give me that, at least!”

  “She was murdered, too,” said Bran. “When yeh were still in the cradle. Died defendin’ yeh.” His voice broke. “I came in right after it happened. The murderer . . . he’d slit yer mother’s throat wide open with . . . she was dead right by the cradle, with you in it. I came in . . . the murderer ran away, an’ I took yeh and left. Never went back there.”

  Laela withdrew, suddenly cold all over with shock. “Oh, Gryphus . . .”

  “So that’s it,” Bran muttered, as if he were ashamed. “That’s how she died, an’ there’s no reason t’look back. It’s over, girl. Over.”

  “Who did it?” said Laela. “Who killed her? Why?”

  Bran said nothing.

  “Who?” said Laela.

  “I’m tired,” said Bran. “Let me rest now, girl . . . get t’bed and rest yer own head a while. Yeh’ve earnt it.”

  Laela stood up. “What was my mother’s name, Dad? Please, can yeh tell me that?”

  But Bran didn’t reply, and she knew he wasn’t going to tell her, whether he remembered it or not.

  “Well,” she muttered. “G’night, then.”

  Bran opened his eyes again and smiled sadly at her. “I’m sorry, Laela. For everythin’.”

  She touched his cheek. “Yeh ain’t got nothin’ t’say sorry for, Dad, so stop that. Now, get some sleep, an’ I’ll see yeh in the mornin’.”

  She left him and went to her own bed, which was actually nothing more than a straw pallet near the fire. They’d never had much money, especially recently, since Bran had been forced to leave his job because of his illness.

  Laela snuggled under the blankets, thinking. She had never had anyone apart from Bran, and soon she was going to lose him, too. And when that happened . . . what then? She could stay in their house, but how would she support herself? And how long would it be before someone decided to take it away from her?

  No . . . she couldn’t stay. But if she left, where would she go?

  It doesn’t matter where I go, she thought bitterly. Everyone knows I’m a half-breed the moment they see me. No-one here’s gonna welcome someone like that; it’s worse than bein’ a bloody blackrobe. Oh, Gryphus, Dad, why did yeh have t’die now?

  She fell asleep with those painful thoughts circling each other in her head.

  Uncomfortable dreams followed her.

  She dreamt of her mother—an indistinct figure, but one whose blue eyes were kind. A dark shape reared over her, holding a dagger, and after that, blood splattered over Laela’s face. Murder. But she felt no fear.

  The dark figure turned toward her, dagger raised.

  Laela backed away. Leave me alone, curse yeh! I ain’t done nothin’!

  The murderer only laughed. Go. Go . . . go . . .

  You can bloody go, yeh bastard! Laela yelled back. I ain’t goin’ nowhere, see?

  Go, the murderer repeated. Go back. Go back.

  I won’t!

  Go back . . .

  Laela ran at him, lashing out with her fists, and he faded for a moment but then returned, his darkness parting to reveal the mocking faces of the village children.

  Blackrobe! Blackrobe!

  Darkwoman!

  Blackrobe! Go back to the North, blackrobe!

  Go back to the North!

  Go . . . go . . .

  Laela woke up shivering in the grey light of dawn, the dream still lingering in her ears. It felt very cold in the room.

  The fire had gone out.

  Laela stood up, intending to rekindle it, but almost as soon as she had stood up and the cold air embraced her she felt—not a premonition—but hard, bitter certainty.

  Walking as if her feet had turned to stone, she moved toward her father’s bed to check on him.

  Bran lay on his side, his face turned toward her. His skin looked grey in the dim light, and his eyes were half-open.

  Laela reached out to touch him. He felt cold and rigid under her finger-tips.

  He was dead.

  2

  Choices

  Laela buried her father in a makeshift grave in the wood outside the house, where he had liked to spend time alone every day. Thinking of her mother, maybe—Laela had never asked.

  It took most of the morning to dig the hole, but she was used to hard work and kept at it, using the strain to stop herself from thinking about what had happened.

  When it was done, she lifted her father’s body into the hole as gently as she could. She folded his arms over his chest and tried to smooth down his hair and beard.

  “There yeh go,” she said huskily. “I hope . . . hope yeh like it. I did me best. It ain’t much, I know, but it’s the best I could do. I’m sorry.”

  She found herself choking on a sob.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said again. “Sorry . . .”

  This time, there was no way to hold back the tears. She slumped beside the grave and cried—not beautifully, or elegantly, or dramatically like people in stories, but in a harsh and untidy way that made her chest hurt. The sobs sounded ugly, and she hated them, but they went on, and she felt as if something had crumbled inside her.

  “Oh, Gryphus,” she moaned. “Oh, Gryphus, help me. What am I gonna do? What . . . ? Oh, Gryphus . . . Dad . . .”

  And she sobbed harder.

  A noise disturbed her mourning, and she looked up, tear-streaked, and froze.

  Something huge was emerging from the trees, coming forward. It looked like . . .

  Laela’s mind raced, but she sat very still, remembering the advice her father had given her. With a wild animal, sit very still. They go for movement . . .

  The thing came closer, moving slowly. Its huge head reared high above her—if she had been standing, she guessed she would barely come up to its shoulder.

  At first, it looked like a bird—the head was beaked, and the neck and chest were covered in thick, rusty-red feathers. The legs were thick and muscular, scaled like a bird’s, with long, grasping toes the size of her arm. The talons at their tips made them longer.

  But as the creature came closer, Laela saw other things, beyond the wings folded on its back. The other legs—furred and shaped like those of a giant cat. The long, lashing tail, partly covered by a fan of red and yellow feathers.

  Laela’s heart had leapt into her mouth. She started to crawl away from the grave, backward, not taking her eyes away from the beast.

  The animal ignored her. It stepped over to the grave and inspected it, huffing through its beak and sending up little puffs of dirt.

  The word came to Laela through a haze of terror. Griffin.

  The griffin paused by the grave, and then clumsily bent its forelegs and put its head down into the hole. Laela could have run then, but the horrible thought crossed her mind that it was going to eat her father’s body, and
that pushed her over the edge.

  Like a lunatic, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the shovel and stood up, holding it like a spear.

  “Get away!” she shouted. “Leave him alone, damn yeh!”

  The griffin pulled its head out of the hole and stared at her. Its eyes were yellow, and to her intense dismay, Laela saw the last thing she had been expecting to see in them: intelligence.

  She hefted the shovel, trying to look braver than she felt. “Go on, clear off!” she said, and her voice came out weak and wavery.

  The griffin only stared at her. Then, moving slowly and deliberately, it stepped over the grave and came straight for her. Laela stood her ground for a few moments, and then backed away.

  The griffin came closer.

  Laela’s mind screamed at her to run, but her legs felt weaker than a couple of twigs. She continued to back away, not knowing what to do, until she hit a tree. The griffin cornered her in an instant, its head outstretched toward her.

  Laela pressed herself into the bark, sobbing in fear. The griffin brought its beak down to her face, and she closed her eyes tightly and braced herself, ready to die.

  She felt the animal’s hot, stale-smelling breath on her face. The beak rubbed against her skin—smooth and hard and rounded, almost like the top of a skull.

  Laela dared to open her eyes again and found the griffin’s big yellow ones looking back. It blinked, and then took a step back. For a moment it stood and stared at her, and then it turned and walked away with a swish of its tail.

  The instant its back was turned, Laela pulled away from the tree and ran straight back to the house.

  She ran, expecting to be struck from behind at any moment, but the blow never came, and she threw herself through the back door of the house and slammed it behind her before collapsing on her father’s bed, shaking violently.

  She was convinced the griffin would come looking for her and spent a good portion of that day hiding before she even had the courage to peer out of the window. But the griffin had gone, and it didn’t return.

  That afternoon, screwing up her courage, she left the house for the village marketplace. There, she sold everything the house had contained, down to the last stick of furniture. She didn’t care if she was being given what they were worth; all she wanted to do was get it over with and empty the building, which had now become a mausoleum, full of memories of her foster father that she didn’t want to stay.

  By nightfall, the house was empty but for her old straw pallet, a couple of blankets, and some food. She had even sold the cook-pots and spoons.

  She spent that night lying awake in front of the cold fire-place, staring at the ceiling.

  From time to time she cried, but never for long. She felt . . . numb.

  • • •

  When morning came, she bundled her few remaining belongings together in a blanket—food, spare clothes, the leather bag that contained all the oblong she had earned in the marketplace, and . . .

  She crouched at the spot where her father’s bed had once stood and lifted up a few loose floor-boards. He’d thought she didn’t know about them, but she had seen him move them one morning while she pretended to be asleep. By now she already knew what was in there.

  She pulled out a wooden box. It was full of oblong, and she tipped them into her money-bag. There were also several bottles of strong barley wine—she hesitated for a long moment before stuffing two of them in her makeshift bag. And, hidden under that . . .

  Laela brought out a long object wrapped in cloth.

  She pulled away the wrappings, and uncovered a short sword. It was a well-made thing with an oiled-steel blade and a plain bronze hilt, and it had been stored with a red leather sheath.

  Laela tied the sheath to her belt and replaced the boards before she stood up. The sword’s weight felt reassuring at her hip.

  Once that was done, she paused to take one last look around at her former home.

  “I’d stay,” she mumbled aloud, in answer to the feeling of longing that hung in the air. “I would, honest. But I can’t. Not any more. But I hope whoever lives here next remembers I was here. An’ Dad. Him, too.”

  She left the house via the back door and locked it before walking slowly and warily back toward Bran’s grave.

  There was no sign of the griffin. She hastily snatched up the shovel and filled in the grave without looking into it, muttering the ritual prayers as well as she remembered them.

  When that was done, she walked away without a backward glance.

  Out in the village streets, people openly stared at her as she passed. Some of them called out to her, but she ignored them—whether they were insults or friendly greetings, she didn’t care.

  She made straight for the centre of the village, for the modest building that was home to, not the governor of this piece of land, but one of his officials, who had been given the unrewarding job of living in the village and handling its official matters.

  Laela nodded curtly to the guard by the door. “I want t’see Kendrick.”

  “That’d be Lord Kendrick to you, girl,” the guard snapped.

  Laela straightened up. “He ain’t no lord an’ everyone knows it, Gower, so let me through.”

  “You got a fine tongue on yer for a peasant,” the guard muttered, but he knew better than to pick a fight, and went on more moderately. “What’s it regardin’?”

  “I’m here t’talk to him about the rent,” said Laela. “Dad sent me.”

  Gower nodded. “Right then,” he said. “May as well let yer in. How’s yer dad, by the way?”

  “Much better today,” Laela mumbled, and went in.

  She had been in this building before, when Bran went there on official business, and she found Kendrick’s office easily enough. She knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Laela obeyed.

  Kendrick, a pasty-faced middle-aged man, squinted at her. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What d’you want? Why are you carrying all that, may I ask?”

  Laela dumped her possessions on the floor but kept the sword. “Just wanted a quick word with yeh, sir.”

  “If it’s quick,” he said, in rather ungracious tones. “What’s the problem? How’s your father, by the way?”

  “He’s dead, sir,” said Laela.

  He started at that. “Oh. I didn’t . . . uh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Laela knew he wasn’t. “I’m leavin’, sir,” she said. “Dad’s dead, so I’m gettin’ out of this bloody place while I can an’ before people know about it.”

  “I see. So why are you telling me this?”

  “I won’t need my Dad’s house no more,” said Laela. “So I’m sellin’ it back to yeh.”

  Kendrick gave her a look. “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as—”

  “I ain’t interested in no arguin’,” said Laela. “I know how much my dad paid yeh in rent, an’ I know what the property’s worth. So I want two hundred oblong.”

  “You want—” Kendrick controlled himself. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said in patronising tones, as if he were speaking to a small child. “Your father didn’t own the house, he rented it from me. Therefore, you can’t sell it.”

  “Fine,” said Laela. “But my dad paid rent in advance for this whole month comin’, an’ this whole month just started today. So give me the money back, an’ I’ll get goin’.”

  “Well.” He softened. “There’s no need to be so hasty—”

  “Yeah, there is,” Laela snapped. “An’ I don’t need any of yer blather about paperwork an’ all the rest of that nonsense. Yeh don’t want no stinkin’ half-breed hangin’ about the place, so just give me the damn money, an’ I’ll be out of yer hair.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred and fifty oblong
,” said Kendrick.

  “Two hundred.”

  “Young lady, this is not marketplace bartering,” said Kendrick. “I’m offering you a hundred and fifty oblong, and that’s final.”

  “Two hundred,” Laela repeated in a flat voice. “Two hundred, an’ I’m gone.”

  He threw up his hands. “Why should I be giving you money at all? You weren’t the one who paid the rent. It’s not even your money to take.”

  “My dad didn’t have no other family,” said Laela. “Just me. An’ I was here when he told yeh I’d get everythin’ he owned after he died, see? I inherit everythin’. So hand it over.”

  He glared at her.

  She glared back.

  Finally, Kendrick threw up his hands. “All right, fine. It’s not as if it’s my money anyway. Show this piece of paper to the treasurer, and she’ll give you what you’re after. I suggest you take it and go.”

  Laela waited until he had finished scribbling down the order and calmly took it from him. “See yeh.”

  “Laela?”

  She paused in the doorway and looked back. “What?”

  Kendrick had stood up. “Where are you going to go?” he asked, almost gently.

  Laela stared coldly at him. “I’m gonna take the advice people’ve bin yellin’ at me in the street for years. I’m goin’ North.”

  Kendrick stared at her. “What? Laela Redguard, you can’t be serious! The North . . . ?”

  “I am serious,” she said. She sneered at him. “Where else is a half-breed gonna go?”

  He paused briefly, and then sat down again. “You’ll be killed,” he said bluntly. “The instant you set foot in darkman territory . . .”

  “What, they’ll treat me worse than you would’ve?” said Laela. She spat. “I ain’t known nothin’ but prejudice from anyone here ’cept Dad. Maybe a blackrobe would understand that. It’s a hope, an’ I’m takin’ it.”

  She walked out of the office.

  At noon that day, she left the village, too, with a bag of gold oblong, her sword, supplies for a few days, and faint hope wavering in her chest.

  • • •

  Laela had never left the village before in her life, and she did so very nervously now. She followed the main road on foot until she managed to beg a ride on a vegetable cart heading for the next village. It arrived after nightfall, and once she had disembarked, she snuck into a barn and slept hidden behind a pile of hay.