Shadowcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “I’d rather go down fighting than be killed sneaking out of the back gate.”

  “What about the front gate?” Sasha said. “Leave by boat.”

  No. Not possible. Out of the question.

  “Did you see those ships out there? How far do you think we would get?”

  “They’re staying out of range of our cannon,” Sasha said. “The weather’s dark and miserable. Take a small boat, go out through the straits, hug the shoreline, and follow along until you reach a safe place to land.”

  “No,” Lyss said briskly. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d better get to—”

  “I know you don’t like boats, but—”

  “I’ll die on dry land, thank you,” Lyss said. Already, her bowels were turning to water, and she tasted metallic panic on her tongue. Once again, she saw the water closing over her head, felt the smothering pressure of it, her lungs screaming for relief.

  “What would be worse—going out on a boat or being captured by Arden?”

  “I don’t mean to be captured,” Lyss said grimly.

  “You owe it to your mother the queen to survive!” Sasha shouted at her.

  You mean the mother who lied to me? Who betrayed me? Who let me think my brother was dead all these years when I could have been with him or at least said good-bye?

  Lyss thought all that, but she didn’t say any of it, because she knew in her heart of hearts that it was unfair. So all she said was, “No.” It was a triumph that she kept her voice from trembling.

  Sasha gripped her shoulders and shook her. “What about your father? What would he want you to do? Would he want you to sacrifice yourself and leave your mother all alone? Or would he want to protect the Gray Wolf line? Do you want him and your brother and sister to have died for nothing?”

  “That’s not fair,” Lyss muttered. “That is totally not fair.”

  “What’s the old saying about love and war? If you’re gone, then so’s his line. Now, come on. We’ll go down to the cellar dock. You can slip right out of the keep and into the boat with nobody the wiser.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t make me knock you on the head and load you in the boat like a barrel of salt fish,” Sasha warned.

  Lyss had no doubt that she would do that if she could. She sighed, a long exhale of surrender.

  “You win,” Lyss said. “I’ll try the boat, but you’re coming with me.”

  “No!” Sasha blurted. “I mean, you go ahead, and I’ll follow a little later. I just need to kill a few more mudbacks, or whatever they are, and then I’ll—”

  “I’m not going if you’re not going. I’ll need your help. We’re taking Matelon and the busker.”

  “What? Have you lost your mind?” Sasha’s expression said that she probably had. “The two of them’ll cut our throats and push us over the side.”

  “I’m counting on you to prevent that,” Lyss said. “I still think the busker can help us figure out who’s behind these killings. And I’m not giving up Matelon, if he might help bring some of the southern thanes over to us.” Lyss paused. “Since you like quoting my da so much, here’s another of his favorite sayings—take or leave.”

  Breon wasn’t sure how long he’d been hearing the sound of cannon fire. For a while, it came fast and furious, but then it dwindled to an occasional vibration in his breastbone. Maybe the battle was still going on, but it was hard to tell, locked in a dungeon.

  He’d never been in a battle before, so that was interesting. Especially since, at the moment, he was out of the line of fire.

  Still, it was lonely, down here in the cell block, where there were no other prisoners, and even the guards hadn’t been very sociable. They made sure he was fed and watered, and they emptied his chamber pot, but that was all.

  He needed something to take his mind off his worries. He was a very creative worrier. Unless Aubrey had brought an army to save him, it really didn’t matter to him, personally, who won. Prisoners didn’t usually fare well in wartime. They were a complication nobody needed.

  He tried to sleep. But he couldn’t, what with the cannon fire and distant shouting and worrying and the faint, nagging craving for a hit of leaf.

  No. He was going to die clean, if it came to that.

  At least this gaol was different from others he’d been in. Not that he was an expert. Most cells were like cold, damp, dark closets with thick wooden doors and little peepholes. These were built of stone, but the fronts were a grid of iron bars that let the light and air in. If he craned his neck, he could see all the way up and down the hall. There’d been nothing to see for a good long time.

  After a while, he heard somebody coming—footsteps and the rattle of keys. He sat up. Long shadows preceded the newcomers down the corridor between the cells. They seemed to be arguing.

  “Put a sword in my hand and let me fight,” one of them was saying. “You need every able-bodied man on the walls. I’m not any good to anyone down here.”

  “No offense, but nobody wants to be fighting next to a slimy-assed southerner.”

  No offense? Breon thought. Even the most thick-skinned person might—

  “It doesn’t matter who they are,” the first man persisted. “They are no friends of mine. I can help.”

  Let him help, Breon thought. If he’s crazy enough to want to.

  “Save your breath,” one of the gaolers said. “I’d be glad to make that trade with you, Matelon, but Captain Gray ordered us to lock you down here, and that’s what we’re going to do.” They unlocked the cell across the way from Breon’s, pushed the prisoner inside, and locked the door behind him.

  “I hope you rot down here,” the chatty one said. Then they both trooped back through the corridor and up the stairs.

  Breon’s new neighbor swore at their backs and then paced around his cell a bit as if he hoped that he might find a tunnel out or an extra set of keys.

  “Hey,” Breon said. The man spun around and groped at his hip as if he was used to finding a sword there. “If it was up to me, I’d of let you fight. You look like you’d be good at it.”

  The other man gripped the bars of his cage and peered across at him. He was tall and muscular, the kind that would be called well made if you were going for a military look.

  “Unfortunately,” the man said in Ardenine-accented Common, “you are not in charge.”

  “I’m Breon d’Tarvos,” Breon said. “I’m a musician wrongly imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit.” Maybe it was early to be bringing that up, but he didn’t want his new neighbor to get the wrong idea—that he was a criminal or something. “Call me Breon.”

  The soldier eyed him as if trying to guess what crime he’d been accused of. “Halston Matelon, prisoner of war. I go by Hal.”

  “What’s going on out there?” Breon asked. “Who’re we fighting, and are we winning or losing?”

  Hal’s jaw tightened. “The horsemen wear no uniform or signia, but the ships besieging us carry a death’s-head banner.”

  “Pirates, then,” Breon said, feeling an odd quiver deep in his belly.

  “Or line soldiers pretending to be pirates.”

  Breon hated to push his second question, but he did. “So . . . how is it going?”

  Hal shook his head. “Short of a miracle, I’d say we’re done for. I’m going to be on the losing end of my second battle in a month.”

  “If they won’t let you fight, they can’t blame you, can they?” Breon thought that was a reasonable deduction, but Hal just shook his head and kept prowling, examining the places where the bars met stone, maybe hoping for a gap he could wriggle through. With those shoulders, though . . .

  “They’re pretty well built, these are,” Breon said, slapping his palm against the bars. “Not that I’m an expert, being law-abiding and all.”

  After pacing and muttering a while longer, Hal finally seemed to give up, and he sat down, slumping against the wall. “What is it you’re accused of that you didn’t do?” he said.


  Breon guessed that Hal really didn’t care, that he was just being polite, but it was nice of him to ask.

  “They think I conspired to kill the princess Alyssa,” he said.

  Hal turned his head to look at him. “You?”

  Breon nodded, unoffended. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Why do they think it was you?”

  “Well, it’s true that I was there when it all went down,” Breon said. “But I had no idea what was going to happen. The princess keeps coming down here and trying to get me to finger the people behind it, but I can’t tell her what I don’t know.”

  That got Hal’s attention. “The princess Alyssa . . . was here?”

  Breon nodded. “Still is, as far as I know.”

  “She couldn’t be here,” Hal said, with conviction. “We’re all going to be slaughtered.”

  Breon was finding out that Hal was a pessimistic sort.

  “She’s a tough, military kind of princess. She’s probably out there in the thick of the fighting.” Breon paused, and when Hal kept frowning and studying on it, added, “I mean, it’s possible she left. Last I saw her was dinnertime yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? But . . . why haven’t I seen her, then?”

  Breon shrugged. “Don’t feel bad. She’s a busy person, and I guess she has to focus on the important prisoners. Maybe there’s nothing she wants to pry out of you.”

  Hal chewed on this awhile, then straightened a little and said, “This princess—what does she look like?”

  “Well, she’s very tall and long-shanked, with hair the color of pale caramel. Lately, she’s had it done up in a fat braid, with—”

  “Saints and martyrs,” Hal swore, glaring up at the ceiling. “Why didn’t I see it?”

  “So you have met her?”

  Hal nodded. He had the stricken face of a man who’s looked back along the path he’s on and discovered he’s been walking on very thin ice, with no way to go back.

  “You know what always helps when I . . . ?” Breon’s sentence trailed away as he heard quick footsteps approaching and the rattle of keys. He stood, craned his neck, and peered down the hallway.

  It was Her Highness, with Sasha, grim looks on their faces, bags slung over their shoulders, and armed to the teeth.

  Sasha unlocked the door to Breon’s cage and tossed the keys to Her Highness so she could do the honors for Hal. Hal kept staring at the princess like she might strip off a mask and turn into somebody else right in front of him.

  “Let’s go, busker,” Sasha said, handing him the kind of warm waterproof coat that fishermen and sailors wear. “Put that on and bring your belongings.”

  “Where are we going?” Breon said, sliding into the coat.

  “The enemy is inside the keep, so we’re going for a boat ride.”

  44

  SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

  You’re a fool, Halston Matelon, Hal told himself, as “Captain Gray” and Corporal Talbot ushered him and Breon down two more flights of stairs. You’d better stick to fighting, where at least you have a little skill.

  The Gray Wolf, they called her. Hal had been hearing that name for years. She was a legend on both sides of the border, known as a fierce and savvy fighter.

  The Gray Wolf was Captain Gray. Of course she was. Also Alyssa ana’Raisa, the heir to the Gray Wolf throne. Also Lyss.

  As he thought on it, as fragments of conversation came back to him, his mortification grew. Hal blithely assuring her that, as soldiers, their lives wouldn’t change much, no matter who sat on the throne. Hal suggesting that a royal marriage might put a big fat bow on the peace accord.

  How could he ever look her in the eye again?

  How much of what had happened between them was real? Had she been laughing at him behind a façade of eager kisses and embraces?

  No. For someone who’d been lying to him from the day they met, she was the most honest person he knew.

  Hal peered sideways at Lyss, looking for some evidence of royalty that he’d missed before. He saw none of that. In fact, she looked as pale and wretched as he’d ever seen her. She looked like she might faint dead away at any moment.

  His heart went out to her, despite the fact that she’d made a fool of him. “Are you well, Captain?” he said, resisting the temptation to take her arm.

  “Fine,” she whispered, unconvincingly. “Couldn’t be better.”

  The farther they descended, the damper it was. Hal could smell the sea and hear the crash of waves against the walls of the keep. On the lowest level was a small dock, protected from the weather, likely meant to allow the off-loading of people and supplies without the risk of being smashed against the cliffs. Several small boats were tied up there, rocking in the waves that found their way inside.

  Talbot tossed their kit bags into the largest of the boats, carefully distributing the weight. “You sit up front, Captain,” she said, putting out a hand to help her into the boat.

  “Could I . . . could I sit in the middle?”

  “I thought we’d put these two midships, to handle the oars. I’ll sit in the back and keep an eye on them. That leaves the bow.”

  “Oh,” Gray said miserably. She put out a foot, as if to step into the boat, then yanked it back. “What if we barred the doors and hid down here? If they’re pirates, they’ll likely just steal what they can and leave again.”

  “Get into the boat, Lyss,” Talbot growled. “Now.”

  She’s frightened, Hal thought. She’s absolutely terrified. That was when he remembered what she’d said. I don’t like ships—or the ocean.

  Gray edged forward again, and this time Talbot half-lifted her into the boat. She crawled toward the front and huddled in the bow. Hal followed her in, and then Breon did, each claiming a thwart and a pair of oars. Talbot cast off, and climbed in last, shoving the craft away from the dock.

  It was tricky, navigating out through the water gate, rounding the corner, and putting their backs into it to open space between the boat and the cliffs so they wouldn’t risk smashing up before they even got started. This coastline was treacherous under the best of conditions, but now it seemed like a gale was coming out of the northeast. It didn’t help that they were in such a tiny boat. They’d go down into the trough and then up over the crests like a cork. The good news was that in these seas there was little risk they could be spotted from the ships lurking offshore.

  To Hal’s surprise, Breon was a capable oarsman—better than Hal, in fact. Clearly he’d done rowing before. But where would a street musician get that kind of experience?

  Breon kept shooting looks over his shoulder at Gray. When Hal stole a look, he saw that she had her head down, eyes closed, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the gunwales as if that way she could pretend she was somewhere else.

  “Do you think she’s going to hurl?” Breon whispered to Hal, nodding toward Gray. “We’re not even into the bay.”

  Shaking his head vigorously, Hal mouthed no to the busker. Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t, but Hal didn’t want to give her any ideas.

  Fortunately, the tide was in their favor, and they had very little rowing to do on their way through the straits, just what was required to keep them off the cliffs to either side. He could still hear the boom of cannon from the cliffside batteries, and see the ruddy flashes on the horizon that he knew was answering fire from the enemy ships. Hal tried to look up to the top of the cliffs, slitting his eyes against the rain and sleet to see whether anyone was still fighting up top. He couldn’t tell. Already his shoulders were burning, protesting against the unusual strain after weeks of idleness.

  They were close to the exit into the open bay, and now Hal could hear waves crashing against the cliffs ahead. Talbot stood in the stern, guiding them by screeching when they seemed likely to ram into the rocks. Finally, they were around the corner and pulling, pulling, pulling against the force of the flowing tide. Their little craft rocked wildly in the currents, and he could hear something ro
lling on the floor under his feet, and Gray whimpering behind him.

  Eventually, as they left the straits behind them, the rocking eased. It was still rough, even in the bay, but manageable, between him and Breon. They followed the coast to the northeast, hoping they could get out of the bay without venturing close enough to the enemy ships to be spotted.

  It was, all in all, a long, miserable night. They almost capsized when they left the bay for the open sea, but managed to ease around a point of land and into the shelter of the shoreline again. Hal transitioned from burning pain to a kind of numb acceptance, his body reacting automatically to the demands of the oars while his mind strayed to the possibility of escape.

  If he could get away from the others, he would still be in the Fells, but he ought to be able to blend in well enough to make his way south eventually. Assuming they landed someplace close enough to civilization that he didn’t die of exposure before he found shelter.

  At some point during the night, Breon slumped from his seat and into the bottom of the boat, overcome by exhaustion. Without a word, Captain Gray scrambled back, seized his shoulders, and pulled him forward, draping him over the thwart so he wouldn’t drown in the water sloshing in the bottom of the boat. Draping an oilskin over him, she replaced him on the forward set of oars.

  For a princess, she’s not much of a complainer, Hal thought. This was somehow reassuring, that the fierce Fellsian captain he’d fallen for was still there.

  At least this way, it’ll keep her blood moving so she doesn’t freeze to death.

  Finally, toward morning, the storm abated and they found a little inlet to shelter in. Hal and Talbot and Gray bailed out as much water as they could, huddled together for warmth, and unrolled the sail over top. Despite the cold and all his aches and pains, Hal slept like a dead person.

  45

  CASTAWAYS

  When Hal awoke, the brief winter’s day was well under way. He realized that Gray was snuggled up against him, her face buried in his chest, her breath warming him through his wool tunic. One long leg was thrown over his hip, and . . . anyway. There was no more sleeping after that.