Rion and Katherine shared a look. “Well, um…” Katherine said, “what…what did he say?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “A lot. He likes to talk, does that old geezer. He was all ‘chosen this’ and ‘chosen that.’ I don’t know, I got bored.”
Rion thought of his coin, of Katherine’s harp. “Did he…did he give you anything? This go—I mean…old man?”
“Sure,” she said, holding out her hand and showing one of her fingers, around which was a circle of faded twine. “This here. I told him I wasn’t into jewelry—even the kind made out of string, the sort looks like a child done it. But he wouldn’t let it go, goin’ on and on, so I figured it’d just be easier to humor him. I’m pretty sure he was soft in the head.”
I’m beginning to think I am as well, Rion thought. “Anyway,” he said finally, “we’d better go before the others come.” He started to walk to the cart but Katherine spoke.
“A minute ago…you said you were an orphan.”
“What’s that now?” The girl asked, but she was staring at her shuffling feet, her face the picture of shame.
“Back at the inn,” Katherine said, frowning, “you talked about your mother.”
“Yeah,” the girl said, a distinct pout in her voice, “and you said your name was Elizabeth, even though I know it ain’t.” Katherine said nothing and finally the girl sighed. “Fine, I lied or whatever, okay? It’s just, you go around tellin’ folks you’re an orphan, they look at you a certain way. You learn pretty early that people are more comfortable if they think you got a ma at home whining over your hurts and complainin’ at you about doin’ the dishes or whatever. And we were getting along so well, I thought, you know, why ruin it with a little thing like the truth?”
By Katherine’s expression, Rion thought that maybe they hadn’t gotten along so well after all, but he didn’t bother saying so. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to go. Now.”
“But…what of Darl? He’s supposed to meet us here.”
Rion shook his head. “We can’t wait for him. Besides, he’s got a better chance of surviving than we do.”
Katherine hesitated before finally nodding. She threw open the stable doors, then hurried toward the wagon. Rion had only just gotten up himself when the little girl appeared, as if by magic, sitting in the compartment, her neck craned and peering out at them. “So. Where we goin’?”
“We?” Rion asked.
“Well, sure,” the girl said. “You wouldn’t just leave me here, would you? I’m sure my ma will be happy to pay you, if you see me home to her, safe and all. She sure does dote on me—a bit embarrassing, sometimes, what with the way she’ll rub my head and always insists on fixing me sweets—but, I guess maybe I love her anyway.”
“Your mother,” Rion said flatly.
“Yep.”
“The one you don’t have?”
The girl froze like a hare that had just sensed a predator then slowly looked at Rion at Katherine. “Ah, right. Well…yeah. That’s the one.”
“Listen,” Rion said, pinching the bridge of his nose and feeling a headache coming on, “in case you haven’t figured it out already, we’re not the safest people to travel with and, frankly, the last thing we need is—”
“You can come,” Katherine interrupted. “But stay quiet.”
Rion turned to her, aghast, and the woman shrugged. “Alashia said I should keep her close, Rion. Besides, she was Chosen, just like we were.”
Rion grunted. “And what if this Alcer sided with Shira, you ever think of that?”
She pointedly looked at the unconscious innkeeper still lying on the ground of the stable. “Then we’d be dead.”
Rion sighed, giving the horses’ reins a whip to turn them around. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”
“Are you ever?”
And with that hanging in the stillness, they rode out into the darkness of the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
“As I said last week, Chosen,” the man went on, “we can not continue, not as we have. With the disappearance of the Lightbringers, my guild has lost—and continues to lose—a significant amount of profit. Something must be done and soon, else we go bankrupt.”
Kale stared at the man from where he sat on the throne of his audience chamber, wanting—not for the first time—to ram a sword through his fat belly. To hear the man’s incessant complaining, someone would have thought his family was only seconds away from starvation, but that didn’t keep him from appearing to be fatter every time Kale saw him. “I heard your concerns, Guildmaster Balen,” he said, forcing himself to seem calm, in control. “And I am working on it.”
He had been forced to put the Lightbringers of Ilrika to the sword when he’d taken control of the city, to make sure its citizens did not flee at news of Olliman’s death. But there were other sects of the guild, dozens of them. He’d sent messages to the nearest days ago but, so far at least, there had been no answer.
“You said as much last week, Chosen,” the merchant persisted, bowing his head as if by doing so he might avert Kale’s displeasure, “but while we wait to hear news from the other guilds, my workers cannot afford to feed their families. We’ve had to lay off nearly twenty percent of our workforce already, and I expect much more will come soon.”
“Cannot afford to feed their families,” Kale said, the thread of his patience finally snapping, “and yet, Guildmaster Balen, you seem healthy enough. Perhaps, if you are so concerned with the welfare of your employees—and certainly not just your own profits—you may want to consider giving them some of the food off your own table.”
The fat man’s face grew a deep, angry red at that, and he started to speak, but Kale held up a hand, silencing him. “I would choose my next words carefully, were I you, Guildmaster. It has been a long, trying day for me, and I am quite low on patience. Now, I have sent messengers to the guilds, and I will send more. Is there anything else the Chosen of Ilrika can do for you?” It was good, he thought, to remind the pompous bastard who he was speaking to.
“O-of course not, Chosen Leandrian,” the man said, bowing his head again and wiping an arm across his sweaty face. He rose clumsily to his feet, awkward for all his bulk, then waddled out of the audience chamber, surprisingly fast. Gone, then. Fled. But he would return, that much Kale knew, for there had been other such conversations, other such threats, yet the man came back just the same, voicing the same complaints, the same entreaties.
It was as if the guildmaster did not take Kale’s threats seriously, as if he was yet another of those who feigned obedience only to laugh and conspire behind his back. Still, he had to admit, if only to himself, that the threat—in large part—was idle. The man might have been a frustration, but Guildmaster Balen was said to be the best Merchant’s Guild head in a hundred years or more, and Kale would need his help if things did not improve soon.
The knowledge that he needed the guildmaster’s help—just as he did with so many other of the city’s nobles and functionaries—sickened Kale. He was the Chosen, after all, not them. He was the one to whom the goddess had promised all the power, he was the one who had sacrificed so much, had risked so much to get to where he was. To now be forced, after all of that, to smile and nod, to pretend to listen to their inane speeches, their selfish complaints, was almost more than he could endure.
And on top of all of that, on top of all the worries and concerns of being the ruler of Ilrika, now there was the rash. He’d woken up with it a couple of days ago, but it was unlike anything he—or the healers he’d called on—had ever seen. A gray patch of skin, about the size of a coin, that had appeared on the inside of his forearm. It itched terribly, an itch that no amount of scratching alleviated. When he touched it he felt nothing, had felt nothing even when the healers had probed at it with those looks of concentration that seemed the exclusive purview of learned men when they pretended at a wisdom or knowledge they did not possess.
As if responding to his thoughts, the itch
suddenly became worse, and he scratched at it beneath the long-sleeved tunic he was wearing to keep it covered, scratched and scratched, yet it did no good. Since the strange mark had appeared, the itch was always there. And despite all the healers’ attentions it seemed, if anything, to be getting worse. But what worried him the most was that, although he hadn’t measured it, Kale was fairly sure that the rash—or whatever it was—was growing. When he had looked this morning after bathing, it seemed to him that it had nearly doubled in size in his sleep. He had told himself he only imagined it, that it had always been that big, and had rubbed a thick coating of the paste one of the healers had given him onto it. The man had sworn by it, claiming that it was a remedy for any rash, even, he believed, one as strange as the one on Kale’s skin but, so far, the unguent had had no noticeable effect.
“Chosen.”
He looked up at the sound of the voice to see his chamberlain standing before him, a short, squat man, his shoulder hunched with age, his gray hair thinning. “What?” Kale snapped, his thoughts—and the itch, always the damned itch—making him irritable.
“Forgive me, Bright One, but I was only asking if you were ready for the next parishioner. Lord Gustan of the Healer’s Guild seeks an audience regarding a shortage of healing supplies.”
Kale’s jaw clenched tightly—if he had to listen to another guildmaster’s complaints today, someone would suffer for it. “Tell Lord Gustan,” he sneered, “that while he may suffer from a shortage of supplies, his Chosen suffers from a shortage of time, and he is to make do on his own.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly at the anger in Kale’s tone as well, no doubt, at the fact that he was dismissing one of the most powerful men in the city, but he nodded. “Of course, Chosen. The following parishioner is a farmer who seeks to—”
“Enough!” Kale roared, standing, and the chamberlain let out a terrified whimper, recoiling as if he was afraid of being struck down. “The farmer too can manage on his own,” Kale continued. “I will be taking no more audiences today.”
The squat man bowed his head in acknowledgment then hurried toward the audience chamber door. Kale watched him go, a snarl on his lips. The man had done nothing, yet he found himself wanting to hurt him, wanting to listen to him scream and beg, to see his blood coating his hands and—gods, what is wrong with me?
He needed some rest, that was all. He’d had little enough of it in the last days, thanks to the damned rash and the damned itch. And the cold, of course, the cold that could never be banished no matter how big the fire or how much coverlets he piled on himself. Yes, he would get some sleep, and he would feel better. Even the Chosen of the Goddess Shira, after all, needed sleep. He walked from the audience chamber, two of his guards falling into step behind him as he did. But their presence there, at his back, offered him no comfort. Instead, he thought of how easy it would be, how simple, for one of them to stab him without him being aware of it. Oh, he knew they whispered, knew they conspired against him. With a growl, he rounded on them. “Leave me.”
“B-but, Chosen, our duty—”
“You are my guards, and your duty is whatever I say it is.”
The man swallowed hard, sharing a look with his comrade before nodding. “Of course, Bright One. Forgive me. We will be here, if you need us.”
Kale frowned. They would be there, if he needed them, would they? Oh yes, no doubt all too happy to pick him up, should he fall. And, in the doing, if one of their knives found its way to his throat, his heart?
He promised himself that he would get to the bottom of the conspiracy against him, would discover those who perpetrated it, and he would make them suffer. They would learn—all of them—that he was not a man to be trifled with. He stalked to his quarters, ignoring the guards who saluted him as he passed and the servants who scurried out of his way.
By the time he finally made it to his rooms and closed the door behind him, the itch of the rash had grown so terrible that he had to choke back a scream. He dug at it frantically with his fingernails, feeling as if he were going mad. There was a lance of pain through his arm and blood began to blossom on the white sleeve of the tunic he wore. “Damn,” he growled. He pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor with disgust, staring at his bare arm. He had scratched hard enough that his nails had dug into the flesh, drawing blood, yet the rash remained there as stubborn as ever, and it was only the skin around it that had given way.
The itch grew worse, and he began scratching at it again, heedless of the blood he drew, the blood coating his fingers, as he hurried to the bureau by his bedside. Growling, he slung one of the drawers open, retrieving the bottle of unguent the healer had given him. The man had advised him to apply it by dampening a cloth with the stuff then pressing it gently on the rash, but Kale turned the bottle up, dumping its liquid contents out onto his arm. Praying that it would help, that it would stop the itching before he went mad.
It didn’t. “Gods, but I must be cursed,” he said, sitting on his bed and continuing to scratch, the oil of the liquid mixing with his blood.
“Not cursed, Chosen. Blessed.”
Kale started at the sound of the voice and spun to see the hooded man known as Shira’s Proof standing by his bedside. “You,” he said. “How dare you enter my chambers?”
He could not see the man’s face, cloaked in shadow as it was, but his voice, when he spoke, sounded apologetic. “Forgive me, Blessed One, but I heard that you weren’t feeling well and thought that I might come to see if I could be of some help.”
“Not feeling well,” Kale said, barking an angry laugh. “It’s this damned rash—it’s driving me mad. And all those old fools that call themselves healers claim to have never seen anything like it. Even the unguent that costs a damned small fortune does nothing.”
The Proof stepped forward. “May I examine it closer, my lord?”
Kale thrust his arm out. “Here. But I don’t expect you’ll be any more useful than the rest of those bastards.”
The man nodded his head slowly, making a thoughtful noise in his throat. “Ah, yes. I have seen such a rash before, Chosen.”
Kale felt a flare of hope, and he looked up at the man’s shadowed features. “You have?”
“Oh yes,” the man said. “I have seen it.”
“I-is there a cure? Gods, man, I cannot take anymore of this itching, I swear I cannot. Tell me what you want, what you need to fix it, and you will have it.”
The man’s smile might not have been visible, but it was clear enough in his tone. “Oh, no reward is necessary, Chosen, for we are both servants of the Goddess, and it is my pleasure to offer you what help I may. There is a remedy for such rashes and, by chance, I happen to have some on me right now.”
Kale couldn’t believe his luck, felt himself almost shivering with excitement as he watched the man reach into his tunic and produce a tiny vial of clear liquid. Kale frowned at it. “It looks like water.”
“Not just any water, my lord. Water from an oasis far to the south, one that is said to have healing properties.”
“I ask for help, and you show me water?” Kale demanded.
“I believe, my lord, if you will let me apply some to your arm, you will note the difference quickly enough.”
Kale had nothing else to lose, so he watched, scowling, as the man applied a drop of the water. He rubbed it in thoroughly with his fingers, massaging it into the gray, scaly rash. After a moment, the man stepped back. “There now, Chosen. Do you feel any relief?”
Kale opened his mouth to scream at the man for his useless cure then, to his shock, realized that the itch had subsided and soon it was gone completely. “By the gods,” he said, nearly struck breathless by relief. “You cured it.”
“Not completely, my lord, not yet,” the man answered. “But a regular application once daily should eventually rid you of the rash.”
“Very well,” Kale said. “Thank you.” He reached out his hand for the vial, but the man made no move to give it to
him.
“Forgive me, Chosen,” he said, “but it is better if I apply it. The water is strong medicine, but there is an art to applying it to the flesh, to ensuring that it seeps through the skin to the heart of the…rash.”
Normally, perhaps, the man’s refusal to give him the bottle might have angered Kale, but just then he was too happy to be rid of the itch to be offended. “Fine, fine,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “It does not matter. But hear me—you will arrive on time with that remedy each day, and should you fail to appear, your next visit will be to the executioner’s block. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, Chosen,” the man said, and Kale frowned at what sounded like amusement in his tone. “I understand very well.”
Now that the itch was gone, Kale found himself thinking more clearly than he had in days, and he regretted dismissing Guildmaster Balen so quickly. The guildmaster was powerful, a man who, if he so chose, could make Kale’s life considerably more difficult. As, in fact, could the representative for the Healer’s Guild, and the many others who had begun to make more and more regular visits to the castle, practically daily now, demanding some solution to the shortages they faced. “And what of the Lightbringer guilds?” he said. “I have still heard nothing from any of them, no matter how many letters I send.”
The man nodded slowly. “Such men, Chosen, are convinced of their own importance, their own preeminence. They defy you and, in their defiance, they threaten not only your rule, but the lives and well-being of your citizens. You remember before how we spoke of making an example?”
Kale frowned. “I remember.”
“Perhaps they would be the perfect candidates for such a…demonstration.”
“What did you have in mind?”
The hooded figure shook his head slowly. “I am sure that is not for me to say, Chosen. There are no doubt those far wiser than myself who might counsel you. I only know that all your efforts to heal the city are undermined by their disobedience, and that conspiracy which you have spoken of…I have heard some whispers myself.” He held up a hand, forestalling Kale’s question. “Nothing, as of yet, that points to anyone directly, but I believe it will, in time. Either way, it is my belief that, in refusing to even so much as acknowledge your summons, these Lightbringers seek to make of your rule a farce, to make you look…pathetic. Weak.”
The Truth of Shadows Page 26