Shadow and Light

by Peter Sartucci

  “No, and I never will. You’ll always be bigger and stronger than me, big brother. I’m offering a pledge of wealth to my future Emperor.” Terrell met his gaze, not with a challenge but with a promise. “But only what I can actually deliver. Would you prefer I tell you lies instead, only to fail and leave you with diminished coffers? I’m sure there are plenty of others who would do so.”

  Osrick’s face turned bitter for a moment. “Too true.” His gaze cleared, and Terrell saw the decision made. “I accept.” He turned to Father, made a small bow. “If my Emperor wills it.”

  “Nice of you to include me in this conversation,” the Emperor said, but his smile robbed the words of anger. “Consent given, and well done, my son.” He glanced at Terrell. “Both of my sons. Remember this moment when others try to make you forget it. You’ll always be stronger together than apart.”

  Terrell nodded jerkily, relief flooding through him. Osrick inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He stared at Terrell for a long moment and then made a formal farewell. Only after the door closed behind him did Terrell slowly let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “You got your way again, Brion,” Aunt Klair sniped. “I wonder how long it will last?”

  “You can report on that to me in hell,” Father answered genially. “Since we’re both probably bound there.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Terrell’s mother said fiercely, squeezing her husband’s shoulder. Terrell’s heart hurt as he watched another wrinkle appear in her face.

  Father patted her hand as he leaned back against the pillows. His face sagged in exhaustion. “I hope you are right, my love; I hope you’re right.” He let Dona Seraphina extend her Healing aura over him as he added, “Next time do it the polite way, Klair. Send word ahead first and knock when you arrive.”

  Aunt Klair’s nostrils flared as if she resisted comment by sheer self-discipline. She too bowed and excused herself, with an unreadable side glance at Terrell.

  “Thank you, Father,” Terrell told his sire.

  “No need,” Emperor Brion mumbled sleepily. “Get ready to travel, son; you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

  Terrell hesitated, went to the bed and kissed his father on his withered cheek. The old man smiled as his eyes drifted closed. Terrell left the room with his heart both heavy and light.

  * * *

  Outside the Royal Suite one of the Brigade guards bowed to him and said, “My Lord, Magister Pyrull requests your attendance on himself and Baron DiLione in your mother’s chapel.”

  Terrell resisted the temptation to ask why. Pyrull was notoriously close mouthed, so the guardsman probably didn’t know. Terrell simply said, “Take me there.”

  The chapel was only a quarter turn around the New Keep and on the same level; they arrived quickly. Terrell found the Master Swordsman quietly conferring with one of Dona Seraphina’s healers near the door. Up at the altar, Pan knelt in prayer.

  “What is this about, Magister?” Terrell asked Pyrull quietly, not wanting to break the hushed stillness of the room.

  The old Silbari teacher bowed to him gravely. The slanting light that fought its way through the thick stained glass windows bathed him in purple and gold. It only accented the whiteness of his hair and the deep wrinkles of his face. “You Highness, the time approaches for Irreneetha to choose a new bearer. I wish to nominate your servant for the honor.”

  For a moment Terrell’s mind refused to make sense of the words. He couldn’t mean—

  Pen rose from his prayers, bowed to the altar, and came up to Terrell. His face glowed.

  “What—” Terrell stopped himself, swallowed as he gathered his thoughts. “What does this mean, Pyrull? What will happen?”

  “If she accepts him,” Pyrull set a hand on Pen’s shoulder and an invisible bond seemed to manifest between the two men. “Then he will become her bearer; her protection will extend over him; her strengths will endow him.” He looked at Penghar. “All that makes me the Master Swordsman will pass to you; my skills, my strength, and my loyalty.”

  “Loyalty?” Terrell asked, his heart constricting at the word. “Loyalty to whom?”

  “To Her,” Pyrull answered, and this time Terrell could hear the capital letter.

  “Pen,” Terrell struggled the force the words out through a suddenly tight throat. “You swore your fealty to me. What if—what if she takes you away?”

  “I have just prayed to The One that she will not,” his best friend answered, fearlessly meeting his gaze. “But She is an angel, My Lord.”

  And commanded a higher loyalty than any mere human could claim, Terrell knew. “Then, I could lose you.” He wanted to grab Pen and drag him away from this terrifying choice.

  “Terrell.” Pen looked at him steadily. “I never expected this, but it is the greatest opportunity I could ever dream of. Please, My Lord.”

  Terrell’s back prickled. “Pyrull, what happens if she doesn’t accept him?”

  “He can die.” The Master Swordsman gestured to the waiting Healer. “Hopefully the Dona can prevent that.”

  Terrell squeezed his eyes shut and drew a trembling breath. I could lose him no matter what I choose. Oh God Above, please. Do what is right for him. “You have my permission.”

  Pen’s solemn face split in a boyish grin and he bowed deeply. Pyrull led him to the altar and bid him kneel again, this time facing sideways.

  “Bare your chest,” he told Pen. “And spread your arms.”

  Terrell watched in terrified fascination as Pen did so, and Pyrull drew his sword. The blade glowed with an ethereal light that should have been too bright to look upon, but somehow did not hurt. Pen’s eyes closed briefly as his lips moved in a prayer, then his gaze locked on Pyrull’s eyes and he nodded.

  The Master Swordsman raised the slender blade, her point so sharp it simply faded into the air with no clear edge. Pen took a deep breath and held it, as steady as his gaze.

  Pyrull drove Her point into Pen’s heart.

  For an instant both men turned incandescent. Terrell squinted, wordlessly praying. Please, Father Seraph Haroun, intercede with The One for him!

  Then Pyrull drew the sword back and the radiance around him flowed into the sword. He sagged to his knees and for a moment both men knelt, heads bowed, the blade flaming between them. Terrell stared at Pen’s chest, dreading to see the arterial spurt of blood that such a fatal strike should produce.

  Then Pen reached forward and gently took the sword from Pyrull’s hand. Terrell’s heart soared.

  “It’s done,” the old swordsman gasped. “She is yours and you are hers, boy. Remember this when your own time comes, and do likewise.”

  “I promise, Magister,” Pen answered, and used his free hand to help Pyrull to his feet. Terrell breathed deeply and rushed to help support Pyrull as his fear receeded, but only a little way. He lived. She accepted him. But will she take him away from me?

  “I can stand,” the old man insisted heavily, and did so, though he wiped his face with trembling hands. “Dona, your aid please?”

  The priestess tended to him. Terrell turned to Pen.

  Pen’s shirt was still pulled open, and a wet line gleamed on the brown skin over his heart. No, not wet, Terrell realized. Silvery. It’s a scar. “How do you feel, Pen?” He desperately wanted to ask, will you stay with me? But he did not dare.

  His best friend grinned at him again, an exhilarated grin like none Terrell had ever seen on his dear familiar face. “She says I’ll be taking her where she wants to go.”

  “Go?” A cold fear seized Terrell’s heart. “Is she going to take you away from me, Pen?” He knew the bearer of a soulsword had little choice when the weapon set its mind to something. Dona Seraphina had told him that the souls of divine beings, even the lesser ones that consented to dwell in anything as mundane as a length of ensorcelled steel, tended to overawe an ordinary human mind without particularly trying, and Pyrull had confirmed it. The prospect of travelling to Silbar al
one held far less attraction than the adventure he’d imagined with his best friend.

  “No,” Pen answered, and Terrell found immense relief in the word. “She wants me to guard you with her help!”

  Terrell stared at him. “What?”

  “She says you’re going to need us both, Terrell,” Pen added seriously, staring at him expectantly. “I’m to guard you all the way to Silbar, and beyond, if necessary for the rest of your life.”

  “But does that mean . . . what does that mean?” Terrell’s thoughts were even more confused now. For a moment he floundered, trying to find words. “Is she saying that I’m going to be King?”

  “I don’t know,” Pen answered. “But you’re going to become something, My Lord.”

  Terrell discovered that it had become hard to swallow.

  CHAPTER 3: CHISAAD

  “Acting Royal Wizard Chisaad DuVaya DiGallio?” The Silbari Palace functionary sought Chisaad’s attention in a perfectly correct and subservient way.

  Long practice at controlling his anger prevented any hint from showing. More than eighteen years at this thankless task and Chisaad still bore the stigma Acting. He carefully paused his repair of the Palace’s southeast ward spell at a safe point and let his assisting mages assume temporary control of it before he spoke.

  “What is it, Fantillin?” The man’s concern might or might not be worth interrupting a delicate task. The palace staff had their own opinions about relative importance and the Royal Wizard of all Silbar did not have any control over their hereditary positions, unfortunately.

  “Imperial Governor Ap Marn is on his way back from Sulmona,” Fantillin reported. “His mage sent a message that they are two hours out from the north gate.

  “Also Mage Blue is here from the Council of Colors and insists that he must see you as soon as possible.

  “And a message construct marked for your attention arrived from the Imperial Seat in Gwythford Castle shortly after you began work on the ward. I put it in your office.”

  Chisaad nodded. “I see. Tell Blue what I’m doing and have him wait in the Fig Court. I’ll read the message as soon as I finish here and join him after. Should I assume you’ve already alerted the rest of the Palace Staff to prepare for the Governor’s return?”

  “You should, Your Excellency.” Fantillin didn’t change expression but managed to radiate a smug satisfaction soured by his usual badly hidden contempt for any office holder not of the Royal Blood.

  Chisaad mentally added that to the extensive list of grudges he held against the efficient may-the-Tormentor-damn-him functionary. “Good. Make sure somebody tells his wife.”

  “Already done, your Excellency. I will oversee the preparations for his arrival.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Chisaad made sure he put the proper amount of politeness into his words.

  Fantillin bowed his head and left with that leisurely walk that the Palace servants affected. It didn’t look like running but carried him out of sight in moments.

  Chisaad turned back to the ward spell. The two mages and three priestesses participating in the complex job pretended they hadn’t been listening. The recording scribe pretended to be invisible. Chisaad finished extracting the small demon caught in the damaged place. The creature of smoke and shadow writhed and snapped. Chisaad successfully dodged but the demon’s pseudo teeth seized on the aura of one of the mages assisting him and tore a chunk out of it. The mage stifled a cry of pain but doggedly upheld his part of the joint casting. Chisaad silently approved of the man’s discipline even as he and the third mage pinned the hellspawned creature between webs of magical force. The senior priestess captured the demon in an ensorcelled flask and sealed it in with a blessing reinforced by her assistants. The inky black thing pulsated inside the glass, disturbingly like a living heart.

  Chisaad completed the repair, closed the spell, reactivated the ward and checked it. The blue glow meshed perfectly with the other quadrant wards. The two Mages standing seconds to him in the delicate task voiced their agreement and wrapped their own imprimaturs over it. No mage, not even Chisaad, could change any of the Palace’s labyrinth of spells without two others to observe and verify his work, and a trio of Priestesses to confirm it. The three Donas that the Hierarch had assigned to the duty solemnly attested to the repair and sealing of the southeast ward. The two junior ones carefully carried off the captured demon to be used as evidence in the trial of the fool who had summoned it.

  While the scribe recorded it all in quadruplicate and the assistant mage repaired his demon-bitten aura, the third mage idly asked the senior priestess about the underlying cause of the damage. “Did the Inquestors find that madman, Dona?”

  “Early this morning,” she reported. “He led them a hard chase through the Sump, but there wasn’t any doubt when they caught him. He still had blood from his latest sacrifice under his fingernails, the monster.” She sniffed vengefully. “This will be a simple case and a quick conviction. And then a thorough purification.”

  Chisaad did not let his mental snort at the euphemism sound out. Purification in this case meant being burned alive while bound to the nine foot tall iron stake set in the plaza in front of the Mother Temple.

  “A shame he didn’t get caught sooner,” the third mage silkily insinuated. “That poor washerwoman might have been saved.”

  “The Inquisitors have to be thorough,” she snapped at him. “And blood sorcerers are very good at covering their tracks. As it is he nearly got away before they pinned him down. Capturing him after only three victims is very quick work!”

  “I could wish his demon familiar hadn’t escaped,” the silky-voiced mage remarked, surveying the repaired ward and his colleague’s aura repair work. “It did some expensive damage.”

  “I’m simply glad the nightmarish thing attacked the Palace and not some innocent asleep in his tenement,” the senior priestess answered. “A nuisance repair is preferable to a funeral—or two, or ten if the demon had been one of the really destructive ones.”

  “In any case, the problem is settled now,” Chisaad intervened. “The perpetrator will burn, and his summoning will be banished. I am sure the Queen will formally commend all who brought this tragic affair to such a rapid conclusion.”

  At that point the scribe passed out copies of the attestations for the Temple, the Royal Wizard’s Office, and the Mage Guild, and Chisaad finally managed to return to his office.

  The message construct perched on a wooden stand in his anteroom. The creation stood nearly a foot tall, a glowing, ever-changing shape reminiscent of feathered wings, though it was really made of intricately folded light and air. This one flashed white and blue in his personal pattern. He carried it into his private office, made very sure that his own wards were solid and nobody could spy upon him, keyed the sequence and sat down to read. When he finished he carefully extinguished the construct, then destroyed it so thoroughly that even he wouldn’t have been able to reconstruct a word of it. He had to still the trembling of his hands before he could complete the task.

  Can it be possible? Is this my opportunity? I’d almost given up hope . . .

  For a moment the yearning shook him to his core.

  The Crown in contention once more . . . it could be mine!

  He looked at himself in a mirror and grimaced. Seraphs witness, he couldn’t let Mage Blue see him like this, face flushed and one eye twitching in the old nervous tic that he had worked so hard to overcome these eighteen years. He didn’t dare try to cover up his agitation magically, since any member of the Council of Colors would certainly notice, so he’d have to get himself under control by sheer self-discipline.

  Which he did, starting with his breathing. Ten long minutes later he finally dared meet his visitor.

  The Fig Court was small, and the giant namesake tree put most of it into shadow at this time of day. Blue sat on a bench under the spreading limbs and idly nibbled one of the ripe fruits. He cast the stem aside and stood when Chisaad entered
the walled space, gave him the nod of equals. They both made the shaking-hands-with-himself gesture that mages used to avoid entangling their personal spells while greeting another mage. Chisaad bid Blue sit again, glad that he’d had the foresight to meet the Councilmember here. The Acting Royal Wizard took a facing bench set where the deep shade would help conceal any lingering dishevelment.

  “I see that you’ve already heard,” Blue said shrewdly.

  “That Emperor Brion is dying, and his Queen-Empress has merged her lifeforce with his to give him another season of life?” Chisaad twitched one hand in a spare gesture while thinking, Shyrill must be mad with love for the brute. “I learned of it today. When did you?”

  “Barely an hour past.” The Council mage spread his hands in an ebullient gesture. “Marvelous how swift the new message constructs have become, eh? Word carried all the way from Gwythford Castle in less than three days!”

  Chisaad made an agreeable noise and inclined his head. “But you’re not here to crow about how fast your informant’s messages fly. I invite you to save time and get to your point, Mage Blue.”

  “All right.” Blue planted his palms on his knees, leaned forward. “You know as well as I how draining that sort of life sharing effort is on anybody, and Queen Shyrill has a limited Healing talent with which to work. She can’t possibly keep him alive for more than a season or two, and then death for both. There’ll be a choosing and a new Silbari King before winter ends. A new King means a chance to renegotiate the three-way compact governing use of the Aretzo Node. The sixteen thousand Mages in this city have had to scrape along with a bare pittance of power while the Temple Hierarchy appropriates three-fifths of the Node for itself. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the Council of Colors will not accept a subordinate role any longer. We intend to petition the new King, whoever he ends up being, for equal access.”

  “Admirably succinct and to the point,” Chisaad nodded. “And you want me to endorse and support your petition, of course.”