The Shadow Watch

by S. A. Klopfenstein

  Bound by the wrists, the two war criminals were escorted from Goran’El by Commander Zamel. Darien mourned General Thrain’s death as he had his own father’s—in chains and in silence. If given the chance, he would attack Hollsted all over again. He did not regret his actions. Damn the traditions of warfare.

  The Rebel King had not deserved to live. Though it might mean flogging, banishment, or worse, he would never take back that choice.

  Threading carefully through the mass of bodies that stretched across the Goran Fields, Darien and Valeria were led to the Legion encampments at the edge of the King’s Forest. Valeria had not spoken a word. It had been folly to fire that shot. She should have let the king run him through, but Darien was grateful she hadn’t. Because of her, Hollsted lay among the slain, and the Rebel King’s betrayal of General Thrain—and of the chancellor himself—was avenged.

  Zamel led them through the Legion encampment to a large black tent at the very center—the Metamorphi camp.

  One of the flying Morphs descended from the sky and landed before the entrance to greet them. He morphed back into his human form, and Darien, Valeria, and Commander Zamel all went to one knee instantly. The Morph was Cyrus Maro—the sixteenth Chancellor of Osha. Darien trembled at the sight of him. The last time he had been this close to his ruler, Darien had defied him. And now he had defied the Oshan laws of warfare.

  “Rise, please,” said the chancellor evenly. He pulled back the flap and ushered them into the tent. The place was lit by a circle of lanterns surrounding a small throne made of pale snowpines.

  How long has he been in disguise? Darien wondered with horror. Did he march with us the whole way? Fight in the battle?

  “Zamel, leave us for a moment,” said the chancellor. And before Zamel could protest, he added, “Do not fear, I am in no danger in the company of these comrades.” He flashed a thin smile at them, which made Darien feel queasier than he had the entire battle. Zamel nodded to his master, handed him Darien and Valeria’s chains, and left.

  “Gallows Boy!” said the chancellor.

  Darien sheepishly met the intense gaze of his master. “Aye, milord.”

  “Last time I saw you, you were defying me in front of all my lords and ladies.”

  Darien nodded dutifully. He had not thought of that day in weeks, and it made him cringe, particularly in the presence of his ruler. He felt as though he were sinking into the ground. “I was a fool then, milord.”

  The chancellor cracked a sly smile. “And not now?”

  “Only a slightly wiser fool, milord.”

  “Slightly? You attacked a king in the wake of battle, in front of all his elders and all my generals. That is beyond slightly foolish!”

  For the first time, Darien felt a twinge of shame at his defiant act. His body tensed, anticipating the chancellor’s coming wrath.

  “Comrade, you have the cunning of a general!”

  “Milord?”

  “As I understand it, it was your idea to send me and the other Morphs across the wall in the midst of that storm last night.”

  I sent the chancellor into the middle of the Morgathian fortress? Darien gulped. “It was, milord.”

  “Brilliant!” said the chancellor. “I haven’t had that much fun since I was a young boy. And you bloody well won us this battle and, in many ways, singlehandedly crushed the rebellion. Well, perhaps not quite singlehandedly.” His gaze moved to Valeria. “Valeria, is it?”

  Valeria nodded. “Yes, milord. Valeria Sardona, once of the Southern Isles. Now a loyal Shadow of Osha.”

  “Loyal, indeed. You shot off Hollsted’s head! Tell me, what did it feel like to see that bastard’s face torn apart by your bullet?”

  “It felt… very satisfying, milord.”

  The chancellor laughed again. “I would call you a liar if you said anything to the contrary. I wish I could have seen it!”

  “I’m sorry, milord, but aren’t you… angry with us?” said Darien. He knew he shouldn’t have interrupted the chancellor, but he bore no love for games. They were here to be punished, likely executed, and he would just as soon get on with it. “Isn’t that why we’re here, in chains? We broke the Oshan laws of warfare.”

  “Ancient laws for ancient fools,” said Cyrus Maro. “There are no laws in war, comrade. A true soldier understands that. There are only those with the guts to do what is necessary to achieve victory. And the two of you have proven to be of such quality. I am not angry with you. I spared you after your rebellion last year, and I spared you for a reason. To some, it might have seemed a fool’s pardon, but I saw a spark in you, and you did not disappoint me. The Gallows Boy has redeemed his rebellion, as I knew he would.”

  Darien swelled with pride, the way he had when General Thrain had first spoken well of him, but he tried not to show it. “I was… only doing my duty.”

  “Well, I would have more of your duty, comrade. And yours also, Valeria. I fear when the draft comes next, there may be more need of the gallows, if these damned rumors continue to spread. You have heard the rumors, have you not?”

  “Of the Gallows Girl,” said Darien. “Y-yes, milord.”

  “And do you believe them?”

  Darien did not hesitate. “I saw her body hanging from the citadel on the day of my conscription, milord. And even if the rumors were somehow true, I would wish they were not. Sorcery is an abomination. Her rebellion was deserving of death.”

  The chancellor’s grin stretched wide. “Was it, comrade? Now, of that, I am not so sure.”

  Darien and Valeria both bore puzzled expressions, and Darien felt uneasy. Was this all a game? It was surely no coincidence the chancellor mentioned Tori and her magic. Was this a test?

  The chancellor waved his hand, and Darien’s and Valeria’s shackles, magically, fell from their wrists. The chancellor was more than a Morph. He wields magic himself!

  “The Gallows Girl’s folly was not her magical prowess, but her defiance. It was the same folly that led to your old master’s downfall.”

  “C-Commander Scelero?” Then, Merri had been right about the chancellor’s reclamation of his mind. Did that mean she’d been right about the rest of it? About Tori?

  “I am in need of new Morphs, seeing as Scelero assisted in the escape of my most treasured prisoner.” The chancellor paused for effect.

  “Milord?”

  “What if I told you the rumors were true, comrade? That the Gallows Girl’s death was a fraud, and now, with the help of Scelero, she has escaped and is in the company of a remnant of Watchers bent on a magical revolution. What would you say to that?”

  “I-I would say again, I wish it were not so. I have no desire to return to the heathen ways of the Old World.”

  “And you, Valeria?”

  “In the Southern Isles, many still hold to the pagan practices of the Old World. It is even said that a Witch Queen now rules the Veil. I fled that land, and I hold no love for the old gods, or their Watchers of lore.”

  “You answer wisely,” said the chancellor. “But do you answer truthfully?”

  As the chancellor spoke, Darien felt a rush of air behind him and a chilling presence. He and Valeria both turned, and what they saw snatched away their breath.

  The tent filled with a dark cloud, and seemingly from the air itself, a woman appeared, translucently at first, and then she took on full form. The cloud dissipated around her, revealing a short, slender woman with skin paler than any Darien had ever seen, paler than Valeria’s, paler than the snows of the North. The woman bore a wild nest of dark hair sticking out from all sides in thick, tangled locks. Her clothes were made of thin silk that was nearly transparent and billowed from her body. Her face was contoured with discreet lines of age.

  “H-how did you...” Darien stammered.

  “W-where did you come from?” said Valeria.

  “From beyond,” whispered the woman. Her voice was airy, as though spoken in a dreamworld. Her misty eyes wandered the tent, yet never seemed to fix
on anything entirely. Darien had the unbidden feeling she was not wholly present, but he couldn’t explain it. Absently, the woman handed the chancellor a pair of glowing gems. Then, she stretched out with great branchy fingers and latched onto Darien’s head, and then Valeria’s, and her warm, fair skin felt suddenly very present, her grip like a vice on his skull. Yet Darien did not desire to resist it.

  The chancellor smiled. “Beyond—that is all you would understand presently, comrades. The world is much larger than our small corner, though few alive still know it. The knowledge has been lost to us since the fall of the Old World. Medea comes from a land too far to reach by sail, nor even by flying. But there are other ways to travel. And so… here she is.”

  Darien felt warmth, an otherness, that seemed to tease from her fingertips like wisps of smoke, and his head felt weightless.

  “In the Old World, Medea would have been called a Watcher of the Cerebro order. She can see into the mind, delve deep, and find what is hidden in the darkest crevasses. I have high hopes for the two of you, but first, I must know where your loyalties truly lie.”

  “High hopes?” said Valeria.

  “The two of you have proven yourselves beyond all your comrades. And so, it is to you I bestow a special honor. We lost many Morphs in the Battle of Morgath.”

  “You want us to become Morphs?” said Darien. The idea was strange, but then, everything that had happened to him in the past year was strange.

  “My personal army of sorcerers. Of course, if you do not wish such an honor, you may return to your regiment. There is no shame in a soldier’s life. I have full confidence you would both become generals of your own regiments, someday. But that, in my mind, would be a waste of your cunning. I have greater plans than you could dream up yourselves. But you must desire those plans.”

  Darien and Valeria made eye contact. She nodded to him. Darien felt the warmth of Valeria’s fingers weaving between his own, and he knew this was what he wanted. The feeling of energy increased from Medea’s fingers and seemed to pour into their minds as though her magic were a tangible thing.

  “We want your plans for us, milord,” Darien and Valeria said in unison, as though suddenly possessing one voice.

  The chancellor smiled and knelt, clasping his own hands around their intertwined fingers. “In the Legions, your minds were known and molded outwardly. But my Metamorphi must be known inwardly.”

  As one, Darien and Valeria said, “We are your servants, milord. We have nothing to hide.”

  The feeling of warmth filled Darien’s senses as Medea’s energy poured into his mind. He had never known such lightness, such knowledge, such meaning. He could feel the woman, her innermost essence, binding to him, and he could feel Valeria’s as well, as though they were parts of the same being.

  And then, in the midst of everything, he felt the chancellor’s presence, and he realized who that being was, binding them together.

  The chancellor.

  He was the center of it all. The meaning to Darien’s existence.

  There was nothing else.

  Part VII

  The Watchtower

  In the Old World, the Watchers were believed to have descended from the gods themselves. Though the magic beings counseled countless kings, the Watchers did not seek power for themselves. They devoted their powers and their lives to preserving peace and protecting the weak...

  Once, a faction of Watchers sought power. That was shortly before the fall of the Old World.

  —from New Histories of the Old World

  18

  A candle seared the darkness and a hand grasped Tori’s wrist. She jolted awake, and Mischa Sufai laughed.

  “Why?” Tori complained sleepily, shielding her eyes from the jarring light.

  “You’re the one who demanded private lessons. Get dressed. The captain’s waiting.”

  “Arayeva! Shut up, both of you!” moaned Vashti.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Mischa, not sounding sorry at all. “Had a little too much to drink last night, did we?” Vashti cursed and rolled over.

  It had been only a month since Tori arrived at the Watchtower, and already there had been three new arrivals. The latest was a young boy named Jann, no older than twelve, whom Dajha Bhati had found in the Trium’vel. The welcoming banquet had not been as extravagant as Tori’s own, but everyone had been generous with the wine. Vashti, most of all, though this was likely because Ren had seated Tori at the head table, which was apparently not common if you were not the new recruit being welcomed. Vashti had sat brooding while Mischa and a Medici named Zaya flirted the night away, and Tori caught Vashti glaring up at the head table more than once while she chatted with Ren. Tori didn’t see why she was jealous of the attention. Ren had been discussing her struggles in Conjuri training, which was when she’d asked for private lessons. This morning would be the first.

  “Be quick,” Mischa whispered to Tori, shaking her playfully.

  Tori rolled from bed and slipped into a pair of woolen breeches, a tunic, and a thick cloak lined with kendrak fur. Ren had supplied her with an entire wardrobe of fine clothes—tunics and cloaks and dining gowns—finer than any clothes she’d owned in all her life.

  “Gods, it’s still dark out!” Tori muttered, rubbing her eyes as she gazed out the window.

  “The captain is waiting in the courtyard,” said Mischa. “Have fun!”

  Tori slipped out the door, but not before she heard Vashti muttering more demands for silence. Tori found Ren standing alone in the snow, his white cloak glowing against the darkness. The courtyard was lit only by the pale light of the Sisters. A sharp chill nipped at her nose and cheeks. Even the summers were cold in the Teeth, especially at this hour.

  “Are you certain your strength is returned?” Ren said. “In truth, I was not surprised you’ve struggled in the exercises thus far. You’ve been through so much.”

  Tori did not wish to be doted on. She was frustrated, and she was still waking. One month, and she had not been able to summon so much as an apple from across the table with her Conjuri power. “I am recovered plenty!”

  “Very well, then,” he said. “Show me what you can do.”

  Tori had never used her powers at demand. The sense always came of its own accord, and this was her problem. She could not control it. It was as though her body was rejecting the abilities, like fighting off a sickness. Tori reached out with her mind, trying to re-create the sense that had come so easily during her escape from the White Citadel. Now, in the safety of the Watchtower, with Ren’s sparkling eyes watching her every move, she sensed nothing.

  “That bench,” said Ren, gesturing across the courtyard to a wooden bench toppled on its side. “Raise it.”

  Tori focused and held out her hands toward it.

  Ren laughed. “What in the names of the gods are you doing?”

  “Trying!” Tori clenched her fists tight, then released them.

  “Do you expect a rope to fly from your hands and move it for you?” Ren was smirking.

  Tori glared. “When Mischa uses her flames, she waves them away. Several of the Conjuris use their hands as well.”

  Ren laughed again. It was getting annoying. “That adds nothing. Your power does not come from within your body, Astoria. It is out there”—Ren gestured at the sky in a sweeping motion—“you have access to the forces behind the world. Use your mind. Reach out with your senses.”

  Tori focused again on the bench and tried to recall her magic awareness, imagining what it had been like back in the Fringes. Ren hovered above the ground, watching her intently. Tori gritted her teeth and concentrated. There was no awareness. She could not make the bench move. How could she do anyone any good if she couldn’t replicate that sense?

  Already, the enthusiasm of the other Watchers was waning. Tori’s first few weeks of training had been a letdown for all. Two days previous, Tori had overheard Vashti whispering to a Faerish girl named Calla about the folly of the Gallows Girl. And Tori did not
despise Vashti for it, so much as herself. Tori cried out in frustration, and a pair of ravens started across the courtyard and flapped away, squawking. Tori dropped to her knees.

  “I am not the girl you were hoping for.”

  Ren remained silent, floating a couple feet in the air, eyes closed, as though in meditation. Then he said, “You are what you think you are, Astoria. Failure is nothing but a game in your mind. Just like the ghosts of Ghen.”

  Tori shuddered at the memory of the ghosts. They still entered her dreams, still plagued her thoughts, still left her wondering what was truth and what was nightmare. Does Ren know this? How Scelero and Mum and Darien torment my dreams?

  Ren had been absent the past two weeks, gone to Maro’El to meet with nobles conspiring against the chancellor. Last night, Tori had asked for news of Scelero at the celebration, worried that he had been imprisoned—or worse, executed—for helping her escape. She had also asked about the Gallows Boy. During her imprisonment, the chancellor had gleefully updated her on his progress as a soldier. Now it killed her not to know what had been truth and lie. But Ren said he had heard nothing of either of them. A fact that frustrated Tori nearly as much as her failure to make any noticeable progress in over a month at the Watchtower.

  To make things worse, the only news Ren had brought back from Osha was bad. The Legions had ended the Morgathian rebellion, which did not bode well for persuading nobles to turn on their chancellor.