Shadow and Light

by Peter Sartucci

  * * *

  Who was he?

  The question didn’t occur to Terrell until he reached the broad Processional that formed the far side of Aretzo’s Bazaar. The presence had been male, though he could not have said how he knew. Terrell decided it was much too late to send someone back to search; the man could have been a visitor paying for a place on the roof of that bakery, or one of its workers, or even a member of the family that ran it. If that mage had been even half as confused as him, and it seemed likely, he had probably fled by now.

  Odd. I’m quite sure he had no ill intent. That’s not reasonable. Why am I not more worried? He examined the sensation uneasily, but the confidence remained like a burning night candle nestled in his heart. Somehow, I can tell that he wasn’t an enemy. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

  He contemplated the feeling and his disquiet grew in the face of its very certainty. Is this some demonic deceit? I must ask Shimoor and Seraphina about it. Later.

  His heralds and banner bearers had turned onto the Processional. He glanced left toward the towers of the Admiralty looming above the harbor, and right toward the imposing gates of the Middle Court and the halls of Treasury and Justice that did much of the Kingdom’s work. He’d never seen such a long straight street in his life. A little ahead and to the right the Mother Temple’s golden dome arched above alabaster and chalcedony walls. A veritable horde of priestesses gathered on the marble steps, where a huge choir of them sang a holy psalm to greet him. The Hierarch waited on a temporary platform built to the very edge of the Processional.

  Somebody had given thought to their meeting. She sat on a small throne and the platform’s height put her head exactly level with his own face here on horseback. As he drew close the elderly woman, with poise almost as great as Lady Ymera’s, gave him a gracious nod without a bow, which signified the equivalence of their respective ranks.

  The right to rule and command men’s bodies is reserved to me, he thought. But Mother said never to underestimate the strength of a claim on their hearts, for that is ultimately where we all live. The heart. If I’m to rule Silbar instead of merely reign over it, I need the Hierarch’s willing support.

  Terrell reined his horse into the arranged stop and nodded back from the saddle, touched his head, heart, navel and groin in piety, and began the campaign to win that.

  But all the time the memory of that mindtouch lurked in the back of his mind.

  * * *

  Grandfather had indeed decided to be angry that they’d gone out, even with permission, but as Kirin had predicted, their early return mollified him. The old man contented himself with a few words of scolding before he allowed Sevan and Kirin to get on with trapeze practice.

  Yet after three hours of disciplined swinging and flying, Kirin’s heart remained unsettled. The second time that he missed Sevan’s hands and landed in the net, Pieter called a break.

  “You’re not concentrating enough, son. Did you get too much sun at the parade?”

  “I don’t think I could have,” he answered evasively. “There were clouds this morning and I kept my hood up. I just feel a little off. Maybe it’s the stuffy air in here.”

  “Mmmm, go out on the back porch and take a breather,” his adoptive father ordered. “Attir needs more training time on the trap. We’ll work him while you get a breath, then you practice on the tightrope.”

  Kirin obeyed, but even the porch, four stories above the alley connecting the Inn’s courtyard to the Serpentine, seemed stifling in the hot still air. He grabbed the gutter over his head and pulled himself onto the Sulfur Serpent’s roof, where he scrambled up the ladder-like ridges planted in the slates until he reached the building’s ridgeline. There he sat looking over the city.

  The harbor and its thicket of masts and sails didn’t draw him today. Instead he found his gaze hunting westward. The Old City sloped up toward the gulf of air that marked the bazaar. To the right of it loomed the blocky towers of the Grey Fort. Beyond both, the upper spires of the palace bristled across the slope of the conical Hill.

  Even as he watched, a banner rose up a pole atop the highest tower. He saw the spell that made it artfully wave despite the still air. A purple field with silver circles.

  The Prince is there, Kirin thought. He’s taken command of the city, and the country. What will it be like, to be ruled by this foreigner?

  He snorted at himself and turned away to climb back down.

  I sure hope he’s better than that swine of a Governor. Only . . . I wish I knew what he did to me.

  I didn’t like it.

  Please, oh Father Seraph Haroun, Defender of the Faithful, keep him away from us. Away from me.

  CHAPTER 15: CHISAAD AND TERRELL

  Chisaad resisted the temptation to curl his lip as now-ex-governor Ap Marn postured before the Prince. The man had no sense of dignity and he laid his flattery on so thick that even this callow youth couldn’t miss it. Prince Terrell’s eyes wandered over the assembled Palace staff as he barely pretended to listen to the posturing of the man he’d come to replace. Chisaad had a position on the ex-Governor’s left, with Fantillin between. Today the wizard didn’t begrudge the majordomo the proximity, as it saved him from any duty to calm the fool Gwythlo. To Ap Marn’s right, his military attachés were enduring their lord’s speech.

  Chisaad let his own eyes wander. The Prince had his bodyguard at his right hand, Baron Sir Penghar DuVerhys DiLione. Word had already come to Chisaad that DiLione now bore the famous soulsword Irreneetha. Chisaad’s last sight of it had been when Magister Pyrull boarded ship for Gwythlo with the Queen and her new husband. Fortunately, he knew the blade’s reach and how to avoid its attentions, though that wouldn’t be easy. The angel within would have difficulty penetrating his spells, since her metal form and even more importantly, the mind of her bearer, limited what she could do in the world of matter. He would still have to discipline his thoughts every time he came nearer to the blade than this.

  And now Pyrull lies dying in the cold north, he thought. As will the Queen, and soon too. How much time do I have to maneuver?

  The Prince had a six-starred priestess at his left, the famous healer Dona Seraphina, but Chisaad had little interest in her. All the Donas are essentially fingers of the Hierarch’s hands, and I know what she wants. His gaze moved on until it found a withered face, some old man in plain gray robes leaning on a staff. Recognition hammered him.

  God Above! It’s Shimoor!

  The round smiling face Chisaad once knew so well had gone thin and gaunt. White wisps of hair strayed out from under his hood across a liver-spotted forehead. The eyes, once so warm and vibrant, were dim lamps in sunken pits where life and power both ebbed like the tide. The Royal Wizard’s hands were thin knobby sticks where they clung to his prop.

  My Teacher! Are you fallen so low? Chisaad’s chest hurt to see him like this. For a long moment he could only stare in anguish, his public persona forgotten as memories stormed through his mind. He remembered those early years and the joy of learning under his beloved teacher’s wise tutelage. Stretching and disciplining his newgrown talent to make it the finely crafted instrument of his will that it had become today. Without Shimoor he knew he would merely have become some journeyman mage, forever stuck toiling in a greater mage’s service.

  You taught me so much, gave me a path to my golden opportunity. Without you . . .

  Shimoor’s gaze intersected his own and a tremulous smile lit the old man’s face.

  He remembers me! Chisaad was torn between wanting to caper like a child and needing to weep.

  Abruptly he noticed that the Prince’s gaze had flickered back and forth between both mages. No! He saw my feelings! With effort Chisaad brought his face back under control.

  The years have flown too fast. I am no longer a callow apprentice. And I play now for stakes that I once could have barely imagined. I must not lose sight of my goal.

  Yet his heart ached within his chest.

  * *
*

  That may be significant, Terrell thought. The Acting Royal Wizard was upset to see his old teacher. I think—no, I’m sure—that Shimoor’s condition profoundly moved, even grieved, him. He considered that and found in it a dash of melancholy satisfaction. This Chisaad will regret Shimoor’s passing, perhaps as much as I. Is he a man with more love in his heart than ambition? I must find out. If so, I’ll keep him on.

  Finally the transfer ceremony finished. Ap Marn, belatedly realizing that he had done more damage to his stature than good with his ill-conceived oration, ended it, and allowed majordomo Fantillin to take over. Terrell concealed his relief and thanked the outgoing Governor politely, steeled himself to make the offer courtesy demanded and prudence required.

  “If you are willing, My Lord Ap Marn, I ask you to delay your departure by a few months and stay on to assist me in learning about my realm.” I need to wring out of you every scrap of knowledge I can get.

  The old Governor put on a good show of bowing to royal will, but underneath Terrell could tell the man had practically swooned with relief.

  That’s unexpected. Is he simply relieved that he won’t lose his status quite yet? He doesn’t feel lazy to me, there’s ambition inside that head, so I don’t think this is relief over not having to move his household. Does he hope to accomplish something here still, and is glad that I won’t put a premature end to his plans? I need to find out what he’s been doing.

  “We’ll discuss matters of the realm in your office at the ninth bell tomorrow morning, My Lord Ap Marn,” Terrell told him, and noted how caution instantly tempered the man’s relief. Yes, I need to know more about him.

  The palace majordomo urged Terrell away and he turned his attention to the vast home of his ancestors.

  Now to be mine, he reflected. If I can keep it.

  * * *

  Chisaad approached Shimoor as the crowd dispersed, some to follow the Prince and most back to their interrupted tasks. He bowed more deeply than politeness required, did the shaking-hands-with-himself courtesy—he certainly wouldn’t presume to mesh spells with his old master uninvited!—and found himself at a loss for words.

  “Shocked to see me so decayed, my dearest pupil?” the old man asked him in a quavery voice. His sunken eyes were bright and searching, his fire banked but not yet out.

  Chisaad could sense the frailty of the body behind the old wizard’s spells. Shimoor looked like a blown glass bubble with a candle inside, bright but terrifyingly fragile. The Acting Royal Wizard hesitated while his throat tightened again, and finally choked out, “Yes, Teacher.”

  Don’t be a fool, he scolded himself immediately. He forced his mind back to the old habits of discipline and duty.

  Shimoor’s eyes were still sharp enough to catch the effort that took. The old man smiled. “Ah, Chisaad, it warms my heart to see you. Come, let’s go to my—now yours!—office. On the way you can tell me about affairs here in the city.”

  Chisaad matched pace with him as Shimoor glided over the marble floor. It startled him to realize that his old mentor had a levitation spell supporting him. The old wizard had good control, but Chisaad caught a faint tremble in the movement.

  He can’t walk, the younger wizard realized. He’s tapping the Node to power a levitation spell and relied on it to get through the ceremony. He’s even closer to death than he seems.

  Chisaad found it unnerving to walk beside such a display of power and frailty. He suppressed the feeling. This is my chance to convince him that I’m worthy to be his successor. He’ll expect me to do no less. To avoid awakening his suspicions I must present exactly what he expects.

  “Mage Blue and his Council of Colors seek to reopen the allocation of the Aretzo Node,” he began. “He’s offered a potent argument, but the Hierarchy will certainly counter—”

  * * *

  “This is the approach to the Royal Apartments, Your Highness.”

  Fantillin gestured gracefully at a marble ramp that led west from the big anteroom of the Hill Door. Terrell wondered if the man ever did anything clumsily, and if so, whether he scripted that as thoroughly as the rest of his actions.

  “Does Ap Marn live there?” he asked Fantillin.

  “No, Your Highness, he dwells in the Diplomatic Court adjacent to the Gray Fort.” The majordomo’s smile glinted with barely-hidden triumph. “Your mother left instructions that the Apartments be maintained against the day of her return, or that of her heir. She never saw fit to amend those instructions, so no one else has dwelt here for eighteen years.”

  Which probably infuriated Ap Marn, Terrell reflected. But I don’t think that has much bearing on his suspicious degree of relief. Unless he’s nursing an old resentment? More to the point, I hope Osrick doesn’t take umbrage. He said I could be a king, as long as I didn’t call myself one. And be a king is exactly what I’m going to do.

  “All is in readiness for you,” the majordomo continued as he led Terrell’s party up the ramp and into an arched passageway. “Only the initiated servants of the Palace, the Royal Family, and those persons designated by the King, may pass through the bridge guardian.”

  “Guardian?” Terrell looked down the passageway using his magesight. This corridor looked no different from the rest of the palace; marble floor, vaulted ceiling pierced by translucent panels that lit the frescoed walls. A little way ahead the walls opened to let in even more light; the spells that wrapped the building strengthened there. He followed the majordomo and discovered that the passageway made an enclosed bridge from one part of the sprawling palace to another, physically separate, building. He walked out into it, Fantillin at his elbow, and looked curiously to either side.

  The side of the Hill had been cut away to make a moat at least fifty feet wide. It ran three stories deep beneath the bridge, the sides sheer and the bottom fanged by fourfoot spikes of stone. The moat curved away in both directions to enclose a building perched on a huge pier of rock, itself a mere bump on the lower slopes of the Hill of Sight.

  It’s a smaller palace inside the big one.

  Outside the righthand windows the peak of the Hill loomed to the north, its bottom slopes held back by a retaining wall of titanic granite blocks. The whole cone blazed purple-white in Terrell’s magesight, many times brighter than the node under Gwythford Castle.

  What must it be like to grow up next to such power?

  He looked in the less-disturbing direction. The outer wall of the moat sank lower as it rounded the south side of the Royal Apartments, its top supporting another wing of the sprawling Palace. The inside curve of the moat remained thirty feet high and had been made so smooth below the Apartments that it reflected sunlight. A water-filled channel hugged the foot of that gleaming wall and shaded into marshland between the stone spikes. Black cormorants dived into the moat for fish and squabbled over choice catches. An osprey swooped among them like a thunderbolt, seized a fish out of the water, and flew up to the roof to eat it.

  “Impressive,” he told Fantillin. He looked ahead to the midpoint of the enclosed bridge. There the walls and roof stopped to leave a gap. The space stretched a dozen feet wide, wallless and roofless. In the center of the gap a fancifully-carved ring of stone sprang from the right side of the floor, circled overhead in an arch wider and taller than the hallway, and returned to the floor on the left side. It had been decorated with dozens of faces of creatures. All their eyes were made of gems, and they gazed across the corridor at their mirror images on the opposite side of the ring, some of those inset into the floor. The Two Suns made the eyes glitter. Terrell’s magesight revealed animating spells that ran through the ring and under the floor.

  “Observe,” Fantillin said as he gestured to a waiting attendant on the ring’s far side. The woman opened a small box. A butterfly emerged and immediately flew straight toward Fantillin. When it passed through the ring—

  The jeweled eyes lit like lamps. They bathed the corridor in brilliant color as they instantly wove a web made of beams of light
. It covered the opening and caught the butterfly, suspending it in midair between one wingbeat and the next.

  Terrell glanced to either side of the bridge. That glow must be visible to any guards for hundreds of feet around. Sure enough, he spied two guardsmen on a tower overlooking the moat and bridge, both diligently watching the royal party.

  “The Ring Guardian also stops inanimate objects,” Fantillin said. A second attendant stepped forward on the far side, raised a bow and shot an arrow into the ring. Terrell forbade himself to flinch; the archer had aimed well over their heads. The arrow stopped halfway through the glowing web and hung suspended.

  Pen looked ready to jump up and pluck it the rest of the way through. Terrell put a hand on his sleeve to stop him and quickly asked the majordomo, “How do I control this spell?”

  “I have set it to respond to the next member of the Royal House to touch the web.” Fantillin gestured Terrell forward. “From within it you can direct the Guardian to accept an individual by simply taking their hand and drawing them through while you remain in the web. Thenceforth it will recognize that person, and the web will not be activated when they pass.”

  Terrell put his right hand into the web of light. He could feel the heavy stream of it, as thick as wind or water and quivering like a living thing. He stepped into it and the stream flowed around him, lines of light bending to wrap him in a warm embrace. It bathed him right through his clothes, a disconcertingly intimate touch. He closed his hands around one stream. It constricted to rush across his palms at a speedier rate. The multiple colors all merged to become pure white.

  Fantillin smiled. “You are your mother’s son, Your Highness. The Guardian recognizes your kinship.”