The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun)

by K J Taylor

  “Yer goin’ to Amoran?” said Laela. “Ye gods, isn’t that over the sea?”

  “Yes. Skandar and I will both be going. Do you want to come with us?”

  Laela stared at him. “What? Go to Amoran?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Why?” Laela said at last.

  He smiled that crooked, joyless smile. “I’ll be a long way from home. I wouldn’t mind having a friend with me.”

  Laela backed away from him. “We ain’t friends.”

  He started as if she had slapped him, and then his eyes narrowed. “But we could be. D’you . . .” He lurched and grabbed onto the tomb to support himself. “Don’t you know why I saved you? Why I looked after you? Why I like spending time with you?”

  She wanted to run away. “Why?”

  He grinned manically. “You remind me of myself. That’s why. And the more time I spend with you, the more I feel it.”

  Laela snapped. “I ain’t like you. I ain’t nothing like you.”

  He turned his back on her. “Hah. Who’d want to be like me, anyway? Of course you don’t. Go, Laela. Just go. Leave me.”

  Laela stared at him a moment longer and stumbled away.

  10

  A Price

  Back in her room, Laela slumped onto the bed. She couldn’t stop herself from shuddering.

  He was drunk, she told herself. He was talkin’ nonsense. I ain’t like him. And I ain’t goin’ to Amoran with him, either.

  The dream came back to her, and she shivered again. Gods, but it had felt so real. And what if it was real?

  No. The idea was ridiculous. Why would Gryphus want to talk to her, anyway?

  An’ even if it was real, it’s still ridiculous, she thought. Me, kill the Dark Lord? How’d I even do it?

  And she didn’t want to do it, either. She was afraid of him, true—horribly afraid. But she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. He was too . . . sad to hate. Deep down, she had long since realised that the man she was living with wasn’t the warrior of darkness people saw him as. Not any more. He was past his prime: weak and indecisive, full of regrets he was obviously trying to drown in wine—and failing. She couldn’t hate a man like that, and killing him felt like little more than cowardice.

  Assuming it was even possible.

  As she lay there, thinking it over, she remembered something Gryphus had said to her.

  But you did pray to me once. A prayer offered up in terror and despair, but a true prayer nonetheless . . . You prayed to me for protection . . . and help came.

  A slow smile spread over her face. “Yeah,” she said aloud. “I prayed to yeh for help, an’ help came. But not from you.”

  • • •

  After Laela had fled, Arenadd staggered back to his private chambers. He felt sick and dizzy, and once or twice he nearly fell over, but he made it back and locked himself up in his room, where he sank into his chair and poured himself another cup of wine.

  It made him feel a little better.

  He sat forward, resting his forehead on his hand.

  Why would she want to go to Amoran with him, anyway? There was no reason for her to want to. And there was certainly no reason for her to want to be his friend.

  He picked up his cup and wandered into Skandar’s nest. It was empty, and he clambered over the nesting material and out onto the balcony.

  Alone, he looked up into the sky and saw the half-moon glowing among the clouds.

  “Damn you,” he growled. “Damn you. I served you, and you betrayed me. You took Skade. You sent me back. All I wanted was for you to let me die, but you sent me back. Sent me back here, trapped me in this hideous body again. You betrayed me.”

  He hurled the cup away with all his strength, at the sky—at the moon.

  “You betrayed me!” he screamed. “Damn you, let me die!”

  There was no reply, but he clenched his fists and continued to shout, hurling his curses at the moon with all his strength until something in him snapped, and he simply screamed.

  The scream went on for a long time, a primal sound, full of agony and hatred.

  Afterward, the silence seemed deafening.

  Arenadd fell to his knees, as if his exhaustion were forcing him to abase himself before his mistress once again.

  “Damn . . . you,” he gasped. “I won’t do it. I won’t. I don’t care what I told you. I won’t invade the South. I won’t kill any more. I don’t care what you do to me.”

  He fell silent, panting as he calmed down.

  Then, without any warning, a slow and horrible grin appeared on his face.

  “I’ll have my revenge on you,” he said softly. “Oh yes, I’ll make you pay. I can do it, and now I know how.”

  The grin widened, and madness gleamed in his eyes as it all unfolded in his mind—as if it had been there all along, just waiting to show itself.

  “Yes,” he hissed to himself. “Oh yes. Yeeesss . . .”

  And he laughed.

  “Oh I know what to do now. I know how . . . oh yes. She’s the key.”

  He stood up and dusted himself down in a dignified fashion before returning inside.

  There, he picked up the wine jug, took it out onto the balcony, and poured the contents off the edge.

  After that, he took the wine-barrel from under the bed, rolled it out into the audience chamber, and left it there. The servants could remove it in the morning.

  “No more wine,” he told himself. “No more drinking. No more trying to hide.”

  Back in his room, he took off his boots, robe, and trousers and put them aside before opening a chest and bringing out a nightshirt.

  He hadn’t worn it in months, and the cloth smelled stale, but he put it on anyway and snuffed out the lamp before climbing into his bed. It, too, was dusty and unused.

  It felt more comfortable than he remembered its ever being in the past.

  He snuggled down under the blankets, his mind exploding with ideas as it had not done in many long years. He even felt excited.

  “You’ll come with me to Amoran, Laela,” he murmured to the darkness. “You’ll come because I’ll order you to come. And after we get back, you’ll stay with me. Every day, whether you like it or not. I’ll see to it that you learn all you need to know. And the Night God won’t be able to stop us, and neither will Saeddryn.”

  He grinned wolfishly to himself and drifted off to sleep.

  • • •

  Arenadd’s new feeling of determination and purpose was still there when he woke up, and it made the day feel much brighter. He enjoyed his customary bath and gave his hair the usual thorough brushing and combing before neatening up his beard and dressing in his favourite robe. That done, he called some servants to remove the wine-barrel, and then went for breakfast. The servants looked openly surprised when he asked them for food, and again when he ate it.

  After he’d eaten, he went to see Laela. The girl looked frightened and resentful at the sight of him, but he had rehearsed what he was going to say and wasted no time in saying it.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I haven’t been myself lately. And quite honestly, I drink too much. Now, about Amoran—”

  She avoided his eyes. “Yes, Sire?”

  “You’re coming with me,” he said. “And that is not a request. Also,” he went on, as she opened her mouth to protest, “I’m going to arrange for some more lessons for you. These won’t be as . . . cerebral as the ones you’re having now.”

  “What are they, Sire?”

  “You’re going to learn how to fight,” said Arenadd. “You mentioned that you already know how to use the short sword you brought with you, and that’s good, but if you’re going to become a N
ortherner, then you need to learn how to use one of our weapons. And you’ll find that the sickle handles quite differently. You’ll also learn how to use a bow, and how to fight hand to hand. I won’t have my new companion be helpless when there’s danger.”

  Laela’s blue eyes gleamed. “That’s fine by me, Sire. I mean, I’d like to learn how t’fight, like.”

  “And you will. I’ll assign someone to do that once we get back from Amoran.”

  “Yes, Sire.” She paused. “Thanks, Sire. I’m grateful for that. An’ I’m sorry how I was last night. I was rude, an’ I shouldn’t have been.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” said Arenadd, waving her into silence. “How should I have expected you to react? You saw a side of me I wish you hadn’t, and for myself I’d rather not talk about it any more.”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Laela.

  “Good. And you can call me Arenadd. I’d prefer it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “All right . . . Arenadd.”

  • • •

  The conversation improved Arenadd’s mood even further, and that good mood persisted until well after he had shaken off the last of his hangover and enjoyed a hearty lunch.

  After he’d eaten, he visited several of his officials whom he hadn’t spoken to in some time and enjoyed their obvious surprise when he called on them out of the blue to ask them about how their various duties were going and whether there were any problems.

  Even when there was nothing significant to talk about, it still felt reassuring just to talk and refresh his memory.

  After that, he managed to track down Skandar, and the two of them spent a lazy afternoon flying over the city together, just enjoying the feeling of being in the air.

  Arenadd felt more alive than he could ever remember.

  After dinner, he retired to his room to catch up on some paperwork, but that didn’t last long before he felt bored and put it aside.

  His gaze drifted toward his sickle, resting on its pegs over the bed. He lifted it down and gripped the handle, thrilling at how perfectly it still fitted into his palm. How long had it been since he’d used it? Five years? Ten years?

  He took up a fighting stance and flicked the weapon back and forth so that the blade flashed in the fire-light. It followed his every movement, almost dancing in the air, the wickedly sharp point curving back toward him in an imitation of the crescent moon.

  Arenadd ran his broken fingers over the blade, with its etching of the triple spiral, and smiled to himself.

  “By gods, I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve missed seeing you in battle . . . how the Southerners fell under you.”

  He smiled, remembering. The sweet smell of blood and the sound of screams, like music in his ears. Oh, how he’d thrilled to it. How could anyone ever say that killing was wrong or evil, when it felt so good?

  He realised he was standing very still, almost salivating at the thought of it.

  If you went to war, you could feel it again, an inner voice whispered.

  He shut it out, and returned the weapon to its place. No. No matter how much he wanted it, he would not do the Night God’s bidding. There was nothing she could offer him that he wanted, not any more. Even killing wasn’t worth it.

  He felt the familiar thirst for wine nagging at him. He hadn’t had so much as one cup all day . . . how long had it been since he’d gone an entire day without a drink?

  Maybe I could have just one. Just a quick one . . .

  “No!”

  He grabbed his broken fingers with his other hand and twisted them until they cracked, and his eyes watered. The pain helped to bring him back to his senses, though, and he berated himself internally. No more wine. You’re a King—act like one! You’re degrading yourself—making yourself look like a fool. You can live . . . you can exist . . . without drinking yourself to sleep every night.

  The room had begun to feel like a prison. If he stayed in it much longer, he knew he would crack and call for the servants to bring him a jug.

  But there was a solution to that.

  He went to his clothes chest and lifted out the black tunic, the hood, and the cloth to wrap around his face. He’d visited his officials—now it was time to visit his people as well.

  He put on the disguise of Wolf with practised speed and stuffed a money-bag and a long dagger into his belt before slipping through the concealed door into the secret passage and away, toward freedom.

  • • •

  The Blue Moon tavern was as quiet as it usually was. Arenadd slipped in via the back door and took his accustomed seat in a shadowy corner. There, carefully ignored by the other drinkers, he sipped at a mug of water and listened to the conversation around him.

  “. . . going to join up,” one man was saying. “The instant it’s made official.”

  “For sure? The money won’t be so good . . .”

  “It ain’t for the money!” The first speaker sounded a little overexcited. “It’s for the glory! I was way too young when the war was on, but my dad always told me about the fightin’. He said how he went into battle once under the leadership of the King himself! An’ afterward, he picked up all sorts of loot. He’s still got a gold cup from a griffiner’s bedroom.”

  “Who says we’re invadin’ the South, anyway?” someone else called out.

  “Not me,” Arenadd muttered under his breath.

  “’Course we will,” said the first man. “The King’ll lead us there. He’d never let the sun worshippers go.”

  “I dunno,” said someone else. “If we were goin’ to invade the South, wouldn’t we have done it by now?”

  “Well, obviously the King’s had other stuff on his mind,” the first said defensively. “Ye don’t build a Kingdom overnight, do ye?”

  “I heard he’s gonna make more trade deals with Amoran,” said someone else.

  The others made disgusted noises.

  “I don’t believe that,” said the first speaker. “He wouldn’t do somethin’ like that.”

  Arenadd groaned to himself. Gods, listen to them whine. They all think they can read my mind.

  He was interrupted in his listening at that point by something nudging his elbow. He started, reaching automatically for his knife, but it was only the barmaid.

  She pushed a tankard toward him. “That’ll be four oblong.”

  “I didn’t order that,” Arenadd snapped.

  She gave him a condescending look. “No-one stays in ’ere unless they buy a drink. Four oblong.”

  He growled and fished in his money-bag. She took the oblong and walked off.

  Arenadd picked up the tankard and sniffed its contents. Beer. Well, maybe just one drink would do him some good. It would certainly be better than listening to this poor fool brag about joining the army to march off to a war that wasn’t going to happen.

  He carefully lifted the cloth away from his mouth and sipped at his drink. It wasn’t bad, especially considering he didn’t like beer much.

  The conversation around him continued, but it was fairly noisy in the tavern, and he let it wash over him without much effort, drinking his beer while he soaked in the atmosphere. Gods but it felt good to be surrounded by people who didn’t know who he was and didn’t stare at him. True, he attracted a few curious glances because of his shrouded face, but the regular drinkers at the Blue Moon were used to him by now—and all of them knew that he wasn’t a person to be interfered with.

  It had taken him a while to establish himself at first—the owner had found his appearance unsettling and started to ask suspicious questions, but a bag of money and a few threats had made it clear to the man that this drinker preferred to be left alone. And at least the Lone Wolf (as people had started calling him) always paid for his drinks and never got into fights. It was enough to keep them quie
t.

  Normally, he enjoyed being here, but listening to the conversation and the barmaid’s sneering attitude had left him feeling out of sorts, and he decided to move on. There were other haunts he could visit.

  He downed the last of his drink and pulled the cloth back into place before quietly slipping out of his seat and making for the door.

  As he crossed the threshold, a sick, dizzy feeling hit him, and he staggered and nearly fell.

  He clutched at his head. “Oooh . . .”

  The dizziness increased sharply. He blinked several times to try and dispel it, but that only made grey spots flash in front of his eyes.

  His stomach roiled.

  “Ugh, what is wrong with me?” he mumbled, leaning against a wall as he tried to recover himself.

  The sick and disoriented feeling only got worse, and frighteningly quickly. It made him feel something he hadn’t experienced for as long as he could remember: fear.

  Oh, holy gods, he thought suddenly, as the world spun around him. I’ve been drugged!

  His first instinct was to go back into the tavern and confront the barmaid, but he quickly realised that would be the worst thing he could do. He couldn’t possibly fight like this—even walking would probably be very hard.

  Realising that, and now very aware of how much danger he could be in, he struck out toward the Eyrie as fast as he could. He had to get back to safety—had to get somewhere protected, where he could sleep off the drug. In the morning, he could return to the Blue Moon—or better still, send the city guard.

  But even that plan began to look impossible as he weaved back and forth along the street, staggering hopelessly this way and that. He couldn’t tell which way was which. His vision was turning grey and hazy. He felt so tired, he wanted to lie down and sleep in the middle of the road.

  He forced his eyes to stay open and took deep breaths to clear his head.

  Find a guard, he told himself. Find one and tell him who you are—it doesn’t matter that they’ll ask questions tomorrow—you’ll be safe!