The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  He frowned in concentration trying to remember. He had been fighting the two men, had been confident that he would have the best of it, when something had struck him from behind. Then he was falling, but he remembered a brief glimpse of a shape before unconsciousness took him. “Shadow,” he said. “Shadows took her. It was as if the very dark was given form and substance. He was a man but…he was not.”

  “A man?” she said. “One you recognized?”

  Darl considered that then nodded. “Yes. He was the one who captured us and brought us to Falen Par at the tree where the Son of the Morning was hung. The one that knew you, Rion.”

  The man’s eyes widened at that. “Wait…gods, do you mean Sevrin?”

  Darl shrugged. “I do not know his name. I only know that he is badly scarred now, when before he was not. And…” He trailed off, troubled, hoping that perhaps he had imagined the rest.

  “And what?” Katherine prompted.

  “He wears shadow about himself,” Darl said, his voice little more than a whisper. “It hides him and, more than that…his hand…it was shadow only.”

  “‘Shadow only’?” Rion demanded. “What in the name of the gods does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” the Ferinan said slowly, shaking his head. “But I fear that the gods themselves have entered the fray, and however dangerous Shira the Wild One is, we no longer must contend with her only.”

  They all studied each other silently for several seconds until the driver leaned in. “Can’t say as I know much about gods or shadow hands. But I can tell you this much—we hang around here any longer, we won’t have to worry about ‘em on account of we’ll be dead. Dead, on account of we sat around chattin’ while the Redeemers found us when we should have been puttin’ as much distance between us and the city as we could. Get me?”

  “He’s right,” Rion said. “We need to go. Now.”

  “But what of your parents?” Katherine asked.

  Rion glanced at the driver who pointedly looked away, beginning to whistle softly. Then he frowned. “They’re safe.”

  “And the Chosen?” Darl asked, studying Katherine’s face.

  She shook her head slowly, handing him the note. The Ferinan read over it, a look of profound sadness coming over him as he did. “I have never met one as worthy of carrying the light as she.”

  Katherine only nodded, apparently not trusting herself to speak.

  “And the other?” he asked. “The one she spoke of in the letter, who brought it to you?”

  Katherine winced. “Gone. I…I lost her.”

  Darl put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “All will be well, Katherine. The light will reach even the darkest places of the world, if given time enough.”

  “Speaking of time,” Rion said, “I’d say it’s about time we got out of here.”

  “Past it, really,” the driver said, the sarcasm thick in his voice, “but, then, who am I to say? Besides, that is, a fella doesn’t much relish the idea of windin’ up with his head decoratin’ the city walls. Now, close that hatch, manservant, and let’s be about it.”

  Darl turned, frowning at the man, but the driver shrugged. “Got to be somebody, hadn’t ya? That skin of yours’ll draw attention, but a manservant ain’t unheard of, even the Ferinan kind.”

  “My name,” Darl began, “is—”

  “None of my business, that’s what it is,” the other said. Then he gave the reins a whip, and they started forward. “Less I know the better, Ferinan. That way, when I inevitably get tortured for helpin’ you, I can’t tell ‘em nothin’ ‘cept that you were dark-skinned.” He shrugged, turning back to the road, and then, barely loud enough for Darl to hear, “And maybe a bit of an asshole.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My Chosen?”

  Tesharna turned from the large sculpture of her within her castle’s inner courtyard to see one of her guardsmen approaching. “What is it?”

  “It’s one of the Redeemers, Bright One; he wishes to speak with you.”

  Tesharna turned back to the sculpture. She enjoyed coming and gazing at it, from time to time. Most always, her visage, immortalized in stone, granted her a measure of peace when her own world was chaotic and uncertain. The woman depicted there, her face turned up as if in challenge, her eyes seemingly possessed of secret knowledge, did not fret or worry, and there was no room in her for doubt. Such a woman as that had no need to fear, for there was no question that she would, in the end, reach whatever goal she strove for. Beautiful in her strength, hers a face blessed by the gods themselves to never age, for even those immortals recognized the perfection of her countenance.

  She had visited the statue more often of late, seeking that peace, that certainty. After all, the last few days had been trying indeed. “Let him in.”

  “Of course, Brightness.”

  A moment later, the door opened, and she turned to see one of the Redeemers enter, dressed in the black armor and red cloak of his kind. “Chosen,” he said, nodding his head.

  Tesharna’s jaw clenched, and she studied the man, standing so arrogantly before her, as if he were somehow her equal. “Do you think not to kneel before one chosen by the gods themselves?” she demanded.

  The man shrugged. “Amedan is not my god, Brightness.”

  “What news do you bring?” she hissed.

  “The traitor and those helping him have escaped.”

  Tesharna bared her teeth in a snarl. “Escaped? How?”

  The Redeemer shook his head. “We don’t know. We found where they were hiding, but they killed more than a dozen of my men and escaped.”

  “You mean to tell me,” Tesharna said, her patience fraying, “that we have nothing to show for all the men we sent out except for a dozen corpses?”

  He winced. “Well. Not just that. The traitor has become separated from the others—that much we know.”

  “Separated? And how do you know that?”

  “Because…” The man hesitated, clearly reluctant to answer. Then, finally, he sighed. “Because we’ve been tracking him.”

  Tesharna stared at him. “If you’ve been tracking him, then why hasn’t he been taken?”

  The Redeemer’s jaw clenched tightly. “We’ve tried. He keeps killing the men I send against him. Barely even slows him down. And not just kills—the bastard is butchering them like hogs for harvest.”

  Gods, I am surrounded by fools. Fools one and all, Tesharna thought. “And where is he going?”

  “South.”

  “South?” she said, incredulous. “Why?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not sure. But he is. And the bastard isn’t stopping. Not even to so much as sleep, from what I can see.”

  Tesharna considered that, frowning. “And what of the others? Alashia’s agent, and the Ferinan?”

  “We’ve lost them.”

  Tesharna began to shake with sudden rage, but the man held up a hand. “Still, it’s not all bad news. We’ve got their names. The woman is Katherine Elar, goes by the name of Elizabeth—a musician of some renown. I don’t know the Ferinan’s name, or that of the little girl, but the other man’s name is Eriondrian Tirinian.”

  Tesharna froze. “Did you say Tirinian?”

  “I did,” the Redeemer said, a smug smile on his face. “From what I hear, he’s one of your city’s most prominent nobles. Funny, but it seems he’s been sittin’ right under your nose all this time.”

  Tesharna wasn’t angry anymore; she was furious. Not only had the man escaped, along with his accomplices, but it now turned out that one of those accomplices had been here in her city all this time. She turned to the guard stationed at the door. “Send troops to the Tirinian home and make sure—”

  “We already did,” the Redeemer said. “They’re gone, with no sign of either of them, or their son. Seems that they out-thought you on this one, Brightness.”

  Tesharna stared at the man’s arrogant smile, the way he watched her, clearly pleased with himself, and her patie
nce—which had been holding on by the slimmest of threads—suddenly snapped. She flung her hand in the Redeemer’s direction, and though she did not touch him, he grunted in surprise and pain as he flew across the room as if slapped by some invisible god. He struck the massive stone statue of her, and there was an audible crack at the impact before he collapsed to the ground in front of it, leaving a smear of blood where he’d struck.

  “Y-you can’t,” the Redeemer gasped as she stalked toward him. “W-we’re allies…y-you can’t—”

  Snarling, Tesharna lifted her hand, and the man rose into the air like a puppet whose strings had been given a violent pull. He levitated there, his feet dangling several inches off the floor. “You think to tell me what I can and can’t do?” she demanded, and the man squirmed uselessly against the force holding him, gasping in pain. “You think to criticize me?”

  She clenched her hand into a claw, and the man’s eyes bulged in their sockets as his throat began to compress. “You fool,” she hissed, stalking closer, so that she was only inches from the man’s writhing form, watching as his face began to turn blue. “You are nothing to me, no more than a bug that I might squash beneath my heel at any time. I am a queen, the most powerful person in the world.”

  The man did not answer, could not, and his face had begun to darken considerably now. His eyes fluttered in their sockets, the only sound issuing from his throat a strangled wheeze as the pressure continued to increase. With a snarl, Tesharna brought the fingers of her clawed hand together, and the man’s neck exploded in a shower of crimson mist. His body collapsed to the floor, his head following a moment later and rolling several feet across the ground, leaving a bloody smear to mark its passage. Then, Tesharna was suddenly overcome with a terrible exhaustion, and she staggered, catching herself with one hand on the statue.

  For several seconds, she stared at that hand, at the agedness of it, the skin wrinkled, the bluish veins visible beneath. Great power had been bestowed upon her by her goddess, greater even than that which she had once been gifted by Amedan, but such power came at a price. She forced her eyes away from that trembling hand, the hand of an old woman, telling herself that it did not matter. Soon enough, she would do what her goddess had asked of her and would receive the reward she’d been promised. Eternal youth. Eternal beauty. And power. Power great enough to make the world itself kneel at her feet.

  Come.

  The word exploded in her head, and she cried out, feeling as if her head were going to shatter. She would have fallen had she not still been supporting herself on the statue.

  “M-Mistress?” Someone asked. “Is everything okay?”

  For a time, Tesharna could not answer, could barely even hear the man’s words, as the maelstrom of agony raged inside her head. Then the pain, the pressure, began to subside, the echoes fading like the thunder of departing lightning, and she gasped with relief before turning to the guardsman who had spoken. “What?”

  “Y-your hair,” the guardsman said in shock, his fear almost a palpable thing.

  Not at first understanding what the man meant, Tesharna reached up and took a strand of her hair, pulling it so that she could see it. Her skin went cold as she saw that a large swath of her once beautiful, lustrous dark hair, hair that poets and bards had called “ebony perfection” in her youth, had gone a dull, lifeless gray. It does not matter, she assured herself again, tucking the hair back and out of sight. She will give you your youth again. She promised.

  The guardsman was still watching her. And was that disgust in his eyes? “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Now, get this mess out of here, and send in one of the maids to clean up the statue.”

  “Of…of course, Chosen. Right away.” He turned and started for the door, unable to completely hide his eagerness to be away.

  “And guardsman.”

  “Yes, Brightness?”

  Tesharna was turned back to her statue, regarding its countenance. So beautiful, a beauty that had inspired dozens of poems and songs. And unlike her own beauty, the stone would never age, would never become old and haggard. She frowned as she noticed a white stain on the marble. Leaning closer, she realized it was bird droppings marring the marble surface. “After the maid is finished, have her clean these bird droppings as well. Once she’s done, have her flogged and tell her and the other maids that I expect this sculpture to remain perfectly cleaned at all times. Do you understand? And send a messenger by my room later. I will have a correspondence I wish delivered to Chosen Leandrian in Ilrika.”

  “Of course, Brightness.” She did not turn to watch him leave, but a moment later she heard the sound of the courtyard door shutting behind him. As soon as he’d gone, she hurried toward her room. Her goddess wanted her, and she did not like to be kept waiting.

  ***

  Tesharna strode through the castle hallways, barely resisting the urge to break into a run, for a woman of her station must display confidence in all that she did and said, must show none of the fear that was creeping through her. Shira had not spoken to her since the single word in the inner courtyard, but then Tesharna would not have expected her to—her goddess did not repeat herself, nor was she patient with those who did not obey. Evidence of that could be found in the growing pressure inside Tesharna’s head, pressure that seemed to double with each passing moment. By the time she finally reached her quarters, she was staggering, nearly blinded by the pain in her head and behind her eyes, as if jagged shards of glass were embedded there.

  “Chosen,” the guard stationed at her quarters began, “is everything—”

  “Open the door,” Tesharna screeched, and the man hurried to comply. A moment later, Tesharna was stumbling through, slamming it shut behind her. She hurried to her wardrobe, hitting her shin on the side of her four-post bed as she did, but she barely noticed, the incredible pain in her head leaving no room for anything else.

  Barely able to stay upright, she reached her wardrobe, slinging the doors open and thrusting aside the clothes hanging there, heedless of the expensive dresses—many costing a small fortune—that fell into ragged heaps on the floor. There, hanging at the back of the wardrobe, was a shape covered by a dark cloth. Whimpering in pitiful mewls of terror and agony, Tesharna grasped desperately at the cloth, and pulled it aside.

  “I’m here, Goddess,” she wheezed at the mirror.

  For a moment, the reflective surface remained dark, and the pain in her head doubled, then trebled. Tesharna gasped, and suddenly found that she was unable to breathe, the pain too great for her even to manage to draw breath back into her lungs. “P-please, Goddess,” she moaned, staring at the mirror, “pl—”

  Tesharna. Look at me.

  There was a roar in her mind, as if of distant thunder, and the pain began to abate. Distant thunder, yes, but thunder that could be only the prelude to a terrible storm, if her goddess was displeased. Tesharna slowly opened eyes that had been squeezed shut against the pain and realized that, at some point in her distress, she had fallen to her hands and knees. Swallowing hard, she looked up at the mirror.

  At first, she saw nothing but her own reflection. A woman of once legendary beauty, but older now, and despite the blessings of a Chosen, that age showed. Where once her skin had been unblemished perfection, now wrinkles stood out at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her once long, lustrous hair now had several streaks of gray. Her face was pale, possessing none of the youthful glow it’d once had. Who is this hag looking out at me? Tesharna thought wildly. She is a stranger, someone I do not know, someone I do not want to know.

  No sooner did she have the thought than the image in the mirror began to change. It was subtle at first, a darkening of the edges, as if clouds twisted and shifted beneath the glass surface, tiny sparks of what might have been lightning within their roiling masses. Then the vision expanded, and soon the entire mirror was taken up by the clouds, the forking illuminations of what was now unquestionably lightning within their depths, and Tesharna wasn’t sure whether it was her
imagination or not, but she thought she could hear the sounds of thunder, as if the place the mirror showed was not just an image, the wildness of the sky a projection of her goddess’s will, but a real place, one where dark clouds roiled in unending waves, swallowing everything and everyone they touched.

  Tesharna.

  “Y-yes, Mistress?” she asked, and had one of those who knew her been there to see the trembling, aged woman who spoke in little more than a pleading whisper, they would not have recognized her. For that woman had nothing in common with the grand Chosen Tesharna whose likeness could be found at nearly every street corner in the city, had no similarity to the woman who, during the Nightfall Wars, was known for her courage as well as her tactical genius.

  I am displeased, Tesharna. Each word was like a hot knife being jammed into her head, and Tesharna mewled in pain.

  “M-Mistress, I live only to serve you.”

  Is that so? You were wrong to kill the commander of the Redeemers, for it is not the fault of those men that your quarry escaped you. It is your own fault. You had him in your grasp, a dagger at his throat, and nothing standing between his life and death but the twitch of a muscle. But you did not kill him, as I commanded. Did you?

  The last two words exploded in her mind, and Tesharna gave a choked, strangled scream, cringing in upon herself. A moment later, the pain lessened, and she reached up to her ear, only to bring back fingers slick with blood. “N-no, Goddess.”

  No. Instead, you betray me. You send this dangerous one, this one who I have told you must die at all costs, to this Traitor’s Tree of yours, so that, in his death, you might be glorified. The Son of the Morning lives now, Tesharna, not because of any fault of the Redeemers, but because of your vanity. For your vanity, you would betray everyone you know, all those beliefs which you feign to hold so dearly. For your vanity you would betray yourself—would betray me.

  Tesharna found herself trembling, and was unable to stop the pitiable, mewling sounds of terror that escaped her mouth. “P-please, Goddess. I am loyal.”