The Shadowglass

by Rin Chupeco

  Likh blushed. “Th-thank you.”

  I continued with purpose, “We’ve found a book in the Isteran library contradicting what we know of Blade that Soars’ and Dancing Wind’s origin.”

  “Was that your concern?” Garindor chuckled. “Few people know of it. The original is not quite as compelling and romantic as the famous one penned by Vernasha.”

  “You mean it’s true?” Kalen asked. “That’s the oldest incarnation of the legend?”

  Garindor nodded. “The volume in the Isteran library has no known author, but we believe it was written by Rashnu the Just himself.”

  “Rashnu of the Five Great Heroes?” Rahim exclaimed.

  “Rashnu was the budding historian of the five and served as their chronicler. Samples of his writing exist in other works, and they were easy enough to compare to determine authenticity.”

  “But why would Vernasha write a different version?” Khalad asked.

  “It is difficult to understand someone’s motivations with so little of their text available.” Garindor spread his hands. “We have even less of Vernasha’s writings than we do of Rashnu’s. She only kept one diary, and it was not a personal journal. It dealt with the problems of founding a city. She may have intended to use the legend as the basis for the darashi oyun and knew that her version would make for a more interesting performance.”

  “The original version mentions a First Harvest,” Kalen said. “What does that mean?”

  “That too is a question every scholar would dearly like to know. Rashnu was Drychta—an enlightened man who would have railed at the behavior of his descendants today, I might add—and his writings were in his mother tongue. Old Drychta was hieroglyphic, and this ‘First Harvest’ is in a similar syntax as one might write ‘runeberries.’ From context, this ‘First Harvest’ is the only plant of its kind, immortal until plucked.”

  Tucking the cigar between his teeth, Garindor selected a book from one of his shelves. “Rashnu refers to the First Harvest in one other document. Here: I have seen those strange blooms with my own eyes. Its name does not accord with its appearance. I have seen lovelier roses flowered, seen taller, prouder sycamore trees. But when brave Ashi reached for the sapling in curiosity, I felt its magic flow through the air, cracking like a whip. We were not worthy.

  “‘It is not ours to take!’ I screamed, but too late. For an instant, I saw the tree, a Sacred Tree, beckoning me into light. Then it blinded me, sent me to my knees, threw me through the air.

  “When I recovered my wits, my companions were gone. Where they once stood, the First Harvest remained—small and unimposing, deceiver, murderer. The best men and women I knew, who with me had survived countless wars and hardships, were felled by an incongruous sapling. May the light save their souls, and may the light save me.”

  Khalad leaned forward. “That was Rashnu’s account of the death of his fellow Great Heroes, is it not? At the Ring of Worship in Drycht? But what’s a Sacred Tree?”

  “Yes, Rashnu was never the same after that. They say the Ring of Worship is where the Great Creator first breathed life into the world, and that his sons’ sins corrupted the area. None has ever returned from it, aside from Rashnu. Even Vernasha made her final journey there, then passed from men’s sight forever. Others have made the expedition never to be heard from again. If the dry, desert heat didn’t wring those poor adventurers dry, perhaps they too were victims of this strange Sacred Tree. Daeva refuse to enter the area, it is said. If the First Harvest is within, then there is something that not only prevents its fruit from being plucked, but also kills anyone who—”

  A scream rang through the air. It came from the other room. Kalen was quick on his feet, and we all hurried behind.

  Althy was sprawled on the floor. Garindor’s young assistant hunched over his bed, horrible noises emanating from his throat. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.

  As we looked on, horrified, his face twisted. Clumps of hair dropped from his head as his skull flattened and shrank, but his scarlet gaze grew as his eyelids and brows disappeared and a snout sprouted from the remains of his nose. His fingers fused together, the tips turning razor-sharp, until he was no longer recognizable as human. Instead, what stood before us was a grayish-green creature that resembled a praying mantis, taller than Rahim, with several rows of teeth along its mandible. It screeched, a horrible, air-ripping sound, and reached for Althy.

  My fingers flew, the Compulsion rune flaring bright before me. “Stop!” I commanded, but the magic ricocheted off the creature’s scales. Stunned by my failure, I attempted the Resurrecting rune, which I used to control daeva. It had the same effect.

  Kalen’s sword barred the creature from striking Althy. He made a quick movement with his other hand, and his blade burst into flame. Hissing, the creature stepped back. Likh was quick to braid a series of Wind around it, pinning it in place.

  Garindor gasped. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Althy said. It was rare to see her so frightened. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Kalen added his strength to Likh’s, reinforcing their grip on the monster. Still, Kalen held his burning sword aloft should the monster shake itself free. “What do we do?” Kalen asked me.

  “I can’t do anything. Dark runes won’t work on it.” Fear swirled at the center of my heartsglass. An azi responded to my beck and call, but it meant nothing to this historian’s assistant. With this new form of daeva, I was helpless. “Khalad?”

  The Heartforger was just as stumped. When I looked at his face, I found my own emotions mirrored. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a daeva.”

  “I’ll send for Rendor immediately,” Councilor Ludvig said brusquely. “We’ll have as many men as he can spare to contain it. I am sorry, Garindor, but we have no other choice.”

  “I understand,” the Drychta said weakly, sinking into a nearby chair. “Not daeva. These—these are foul, Blighted creatures. Yarrod, my poor boy…”

  Tea? Are you all right? Tea!

  Fox. I counted my heartbeats and rearranged my emotions, trotting calm and assurance to the forefront so they were the first emotions he read off me. I’m okay. We just had an incident.

  An incident my foot. I saw that thing!

  We have the situation under control, Fox. How’s Inessa?

  Probably wondering why I marched out of the room. Are you sure you’re okay?

  I promise.

  There’s something… I can’t explain it, but there’s a strange emptiness between us. It wasn’t there before.

  I stiffened, taking care not to think too deeply about my heartsglass to avert suspicion. Must be because we’re so far away. We’ve never been separated by kingdoms before.

  I suppose so. I felt him relax, though not completely, because that wouldn’t be Fox. He pressed me. What in the seven hells is going on there?

  I don’t know. It’s not daeva, Fox. I can’t control it.

  Then what is it?

  I wish I knew, I thought grimly, staring at the snapping face, the wriggling limbs of the abomination before me. I wish I knew.

  “Thought it silly, the first time I heard it,” Lady Zoya said, long hair streaming behind her as she scanned the sea with a practiced eye. Under her command, the ship purred like a cat, keel pointed unerringly toward the future. “It’s an old legend. Myth. Who cares what some senile old fool wrote centuries ago? We don’t deal in ancient stories and potters’ tales. What does that have to do with the here and now? Blade that Soars can’t help us. Hollow Knife can’t help us. There’s nothing more useless than the devout follower of a dead god, unless it’s the dead god himself.”

  She tore her gaze away long enough to survey me head to foot, as if I were an unknown specimen, and turned away again. “I’m not as big on tales as Tea was,” she said, her flinty, gray eyes once more markin
g the horizon before her. “Old tales aren’t going to change the world. I’ve performed the darashi oyun for a few years now, and I’d never once believed in the words, only in the dance. That’s what’s important, isn’t it? The things you do. But lately, I don’t know. I never knew about the Blight rune. Never realized there were blighted creatures until I disemboweled one myself. What else didn’t the elder asha tell us? What else hadn’t Tea told us?” Her hands clenched the ship’s bow. “Why would she attack Ankyo?”

  I had no answer. All that I knew of the Lady Zoya, I learned from the Dark asha. They were former enemies, rivals and friends, confidants and close companions. And now Lady Zoya directed her anger against the bone witch into the whirling winds that jettisoned salt and other furies into the air.

  “We had a bad run of blighted a month ago,” she continued. “Fox saved us. He fought off a couple single-handedly, saved Inessa and Her Majesty’s life. Even had time to rescue Hestia of all people, that ungrateful derriere, as Polaire often liked to say. She would have been blight fodder if I had the choice. I’m the worse of us two, but even I draw the line at what Tea’s done. I could understand why she hated them, but not why she would allow her hatred to harm everyone else.

  “Maybe Tea was right to tell you her story. It’s no use keeping emotions bottled up inside. Sooner or later, you burst with all you want to say. Shadi would always listen, but Shadi’s in Ankyo and I’m still here.” She stared at me. “Well, go on. You said you had a song to tell, didn’t you? The crew is clinging to one another, but here you are, holding on to those papers like they’re your lifeline. What do you want to know, while I’m in a mood to talk?”

  I looked down at the letters. I had been tempted many, many times to skip forward, to read the end of those pages first—but something held me back. It was not the right way to read a story. “Do you miss her?”

  She seemed taken aback by the question, her slate eyes meeting mine again. “Yes,” she said. After another pause: “And no. I miss what we used to be. Did she ever tell you how I used to push her around? I never gave her an apology, and she never asked for one. We just kept on until the moment for it had passed. I wish all were as it used to be.”

  Her fingers fluttered, and the ship picked up speed. “But those days are over. She harmed my friends, Bard. I lost so many good people these last few months.”

  “So did she.”

  Lady Zoya smiled with lips a shade of cruel. “It’s not considered ‘losing them’ if you’re responsible for their deaths, Bard. She torched my city. What kind of hatred runs that deep? That’s the quandary, isn’t it? Besides, if she goes down, we lose Fox. Why take you into her confidence? What does she have left to say?”

  She stopped speaking as more heavy gusts of wind roared by.

  “What does she have left to say?” she asked quietly. Her gaze turned to the letters I held, and I realized it was not a rhetorical question. “Tell me.”

  4

  None of Istera’s historians knew much of runic magic, despite the wealth of research on hand. Having red heartsglass prevented them from seeing its effects. Sakmeet’s silver made her the foremost expert, but her notes were all we had left to go by.

  Lord Garindor was the next best thing, but even he admitted his limitations. “Those of us with purple heartsglass see magic on a very different spectrum than those with silver,” he explained. “We simply cannot observe some weaves that are obvious to all asha.”

  We had returned to the library while the king and his councilors debated the fate of the historian’s assistant-turned-creature. That this daeva-like being had started as a human, not an unnatural aberration, had shaken the Isterans. If there was a rune capable of turning people into monsters, King Rendorvik argued, then perhaps there was a way to change them back.

  But the librarians—bless their staunchly patient hearts, as they worked to supply us with information—spent their lives dedicated to these books and still had little idea of the runes we sought. It was not likely that we would succeed, our experiences as asha notwithstanding.

  Still, Althy threw herself into the ongoing inquiry. Likh appeared distracted. He kept abandoning the volume he was perusing to prowl the room, lost in thought. Kalen and Khalad were helping guard the strange creature that had once been Yarrod. Lord Garindor, though rattled, had insisted on accompanying us, determined to help.

  “I can do little for my assistant’s condition,” he pointed out, “but what expertise I can offer lies here, among these old books. Permit me to assist you in any way I can.”

  “You are very kind, milord,” Althy told him gently. “But I’m afraid we don’t know what questions to ask, knowing very little of this ourselves.”

  “Are there any generalities regarding your research that you can tell me? Perhaps I can narrow the field.”

  “We seek information on any runic spells that could cause this transformation. We have never encountered anything like this in the Willows before.”

  The man thought about it. “No, I cannot say that I am acquainted with such a spell. I have looked through many manuscripts on runes, but our experiments were restricted without a silver heart to guide us. As such, we thought it best to turn over our research to the Isteran asha in the hopes they would make better sense of them, though they also found little. Sakmeet was always very private about her own findings.”

  “If she knew anything about these runes, she didn’t write about them.” Likh was going through Sakmeet’s old notes, and he sounded frustrated. “Her handwriting is difficult to read.”

  “What else can you tell us about Blade that Soars’ and Dancing Wind’s origins?” Althy asked Lord Garindor. “Perhaps we can find another connection there.”

  “Ah. Unlike its popular version, the legend says little about Dancing Wind, for she had almost no agency in the story. Her role was simply that of Blade that Soars’ lover. A few colleagues have even gone so far as to theorize that her abrupt disappearance suggests she died long before Hollow Knife stole his brother’s heart—that her death may have triggered Blade that Soars’ war against the world.

  “In the darashi oyun, which Vernasha penned, Dancing Wind takes on Hollow Knife’s role, and the latter is cast as its main villain. We scholars thought it was nothing more than a romanticized version of the legend. Scholars look down on embellishments, but we never thought Vernasha had another motive.”

  “That Dancing Wind and Blade that Soars shared two halves of the same soul?” Rahim asked.

  “I am afraid you are mistaken, Lord Arrakan.” The scholar took off his spectacles, wiping them vigorously. “Blade that Soars and Hollow Knife are two halves of the same whole. They are brothers. For Blade that Soars to gain power, he would have to take Hollow Knife’s heartsglass, not that of his lover.

  “It was not Blade that Soars who formed the world. Older texts indicate a Great Creator shaped the world and begot a son for its stewardship. But then he split his child into two brothers, so their abilities were also halved. There are enough similarities between that ancient document and the Blade that Soars legend for us to say with certainty that this Great Creator was their father.

  “Blade that Soars resented his father’s decision to make them two, however, for it greatly diminished his strength. He had wished for a perfect world, free from pain and suffering, and to do so, he strove to be his sire’s equal in power. It was he, not the Creator, who taught magic to his subjects. Hollow Knife criticized his brother’s actions, fearing the chaos that could come from the spells of imperfect creatures.”

  “Aenah always said Hollow Knife was the true hero,” I murmured, remembering what Aenah had told me while she languished in the Odalian dungeons, pretending she had had no relationship with Telemaine. “It was why the Faceless worshipped him.”

  “But isn’t that good?” Likh asked. “To want a perfect world?”

  “To be perfect witho
ut suffering means no change. If you know neither hurt nor hardship, then you will not know the strength they can summon within a person. What is life’s meaning if you cannot distinguish between happiness and sorrow?”

  “It would have been nice for the Great Creator to make the world with a little less suffering though,” Likh said sadly.

  Garindor smiled briefly. “Blade that Soars certainly agreed with you. He believed that the world would be destroyed by its flaws. So he offered magic as a means to address those ills, for his people to forge a better life. But even he abused this power, giving the best of it to Dancing Wind and subjugating his dissidents.

  “Hollow Knife determined the only way to stop his brother was to take his heartsglass and merge it with his own, to double his strength and restore the world in the image his father had originally intended—one without magic—even if it meant forfeiting his own life. And because Blade that Soars gave the core of his heartsglass to Dancing Wind, Hollow Knife had to take hers.”

  He shifted some books off a heavy pile and selected one volume, opening it to reveal Drychta writing. “The unnamed book you referenced is only a piece of the puzzle. It is the oldest book written in the common tongue that talks of the legend, but this Drychta book—this precedes it by at least a year. Few people study Drychta, so it tends to be overlooked by even the best Isteran scholars. But I know this manuscript’s value; it was discovered twenty years ago, hidden within one of Drycht’s numerous mountains. It lay in a strange cave filled with unnatural flora, unearthed only because of a sudden rock slide. King Aadil decreed its contents heretical because it criticized the absolute rule of kings, and many of my colleagues were killed for defending the tome. This book is more important than my life, and I barely escaped with both intact. I came to Istera because they treasured and honored knowledge in all its forms—Aadil did not.”

  “What does it say?” Althy asked. “I can speak a little Drychta, but not to read.”