Shadow Scale

by Rachel Hartman

  I was keeping scrupulous track of the days. St. Siucre’s Day, St. Munn’s, and Scaladora, our day for remembering fallen knights, all passed with abundant drizzle and little fanfare. St. Abaster’s Day dawned sunny, which seemed portentous, and soon after breakfast we crested a hill and got our first look at the Samsamese highlands. They rose abruptly out of the plain ahead, an imposing green tableland speckled with sturdy sheep and scrubby yellow gorse. The rain, over centuries, had battered the plateau and carved great grooves in its face; outcroppings of rock jutted forth like exposed bones. The clouds above loomed darker; gray streaks of rain trailed beneath them like an old woman’s hair.

  Hanse pointed to the southern end of the formation. “Fnark is beyond those bluffs,” he said in Samsamese. “We should arrive the day after tomorrow.”

  Rodya needlessly translated this into Goreddi for me. I replied, “We’re late.”

  “Oh, is not a worry,” said Rodya, waving off my irritation. “The earls do not meet for only one day. Most of the earls might not even be there yet. Nobody comes on time.”

  I clamped my mouth shut, knowing that railing at him wasn’t going to get us there any faster, but I surely wanted to. I tried to catch Abdo’s eye, to share my pique with him at least, but he stared into the middle distance at nothing.

  Fnark, two days later, was larger than I’d imagined, large enough to have streets and visible industry—a pottery and warehouses along the river. The houses abutted each other, end to end, sharing roof tiles; church spires punctured the sky. We crossed the river on an arched stone bridge and passed the market square, where intrepid merchants clustered together under the thatched shelter like cattle under a pasture tree.

  In this climate, I supposed, if you wouldn’t shop in the rain, you didn’t shop at all.

  Along the river road north, toward the rising tablelands, stood a walled complex resembling a Ninysh-style palasho. As we passed its iron gates, I saw that it was a shrine—and no small roadside shrine, but an enormous complex. Within its walls was everything a pilgrim could want: dormitories, souvenir stalls, chapels, and eateries. Rain fell on empty tables outside.

  The place looked abandoned; I felt my irritation rising again. “You said the earls would be here all week,” I said quietly to Rodya.

  He shrugged. “They must be inside. We Samsamese are hardy, but thet don’t mean we stand around in the rain.”

  Or maybe the earls had already gone home. If the meeting was of no fixed length, surely it sometimes ran short. I gritted my teeth and followed Hanse up the cobbled road toward the hulking church at the top of the hill.

  We tied our horses and entered. The great church was empty but for a cluster of bedraggled pilgrims at the front, led in song by a priest. I knew the tune, a drinking song in Goredd, but it had very different lyrics here:

  O faithless ignoramus, denier of Heaven

  Sitting smugly upon a disbelieving bottom

  O blatant person who disregards the scriptures

  Standing confidently in a puddle of sin

  There shall be smiting with lightning

  And blood-soaked retribution

  And heads kicked about like footballs

  And much worse upon your wretched person

  When Golden Abaster returns with judgment for you

  And salvation in the form of flowers for the rest of us

  Rodya was humming along; Hanse gravely removed his hat and placed it over his heart. Abdo leaned against a smooth pillar and closed his eyes.

  The priest was surely the person to ask about whether we’d missed the earls. While he finished the service and administered St. Abaster’s blessing to the crowd, I drifted around the church. After Ninys, where the churches had been frothing with architectural froufrou, this plain church came almost as a shock. The Samsamese called their own doctrine austere, but I hadn’t realized doctrine could be reflected in decor. There were no statues, no pictures, no ornaments of any kind, only stone inscriptions in severe square lettering.

  I read a few. Under this plate lie the mortal remains of St. Abaster, who will return in glory and … Ugh. More smiting. I didn’t care to be this near St. Abaster, even dead. Thus said St. Abaster: “Tolerate not the infidel, the unchaste woman, the permissive man, the dragon and his hideous spawn …” I didn’t read to the end of that one, but counted fifty-three intolerables in all.

  There was one plaque I did read to the end, however, because it was short and the names—easily translated—caught my eye. The blessed are not exempt from judgment. St. Abaster righteously smote: St. Masha, St. Daan, St. Tarkus, St. Pandowdy, St. Yirtrudis.

  St. Yirtrudis, my heretical psalter Saint, struck me first, but they weren’t all heretics in this list. St. Masha and St. Daan were known and commonly invoked in Goredd; they’d been lovers, two men, martyred by other Saints, but they’d retained their blessed status. St. Tarkus and St. Pandowdy, on the other hand, I had never heard of—although I’d named my most monstrous grotesque, the one I’d decided not to look for, Pandowdy.

  Pandowdy was also a pudding my Ninysh stepmother made. An ugly, mushy, steamed monstrosity, all suet and raisins. Those raisins, slimy and swollen with brandy, had inspired me to name the monster after the dessert. How odd to think of a Saint with the same name.

  Yirtrudis, though. Her inclusion here was strange to me. I knew so little about her that any new detail was interesting. I’d never heard Goreddis claim that St. Abaster had smote her, but then, we weren’t as into smiting as our neighbors, it seemed.

  The last of the pilgrims received her portion of charcoal, another curious practice—these Samsamese were mysterious to me, for all that we prayed to the same Saints. Then the priest finally turned to us, his faint brows raised in mild surprise. Rodya and Hanse both knelt for and received his blessing. I held back, my arms folded.

  “I had understood the Erlmyt would be held here,” I said in Goreddi, letting Rodya translate into Samsamese.

  The priest grunted. “Not this year.”

  I’d expected to hear You just missed them, although I’d fervently hoped for They’re here, but you didn’t look in the right place. I did not know what to make of this news at all. I blurted out, “Why not?”

  He scowled deeply. “Do you want a blessing or not?”

  Rodya leaped to his feet and actually drew his sword. In a church. I goggled at him.

  “Answer her question,” he drawled. “She represents the Gorshya Queen.”

  “I don’t care if she represents Heaven itself,” said the priest. “I have nothing to tell, except that half our yearly tithe comes from the Erlmyt, and we were given no notice and no explanation.”

  My heart sank. Now how would I find the Librarian? Lars had suggested it could take months to scour the highlands, but we were due in Porphyry by midsummer. I couldn’t justify taking that much time to look for one man when there were seven ityasaari more easily found in Porphyry. We gathered Abdo, who had curled up in a ball at the base of the column, resting his head upon his folded arms, and stepped back out into the rain.

  We stayed the night at the shrine’s dormitories, which were strictly separated by sex. Abdo was clearly unwell. I argued with the monks, insisting that he was a child and I was his guardian and had to stay close and take care of him. After much grumbling, the monks finally conceded, allowing us both to stay in the infirmary. We were the only ones there, or I’d have complained a great deal more.

  Abdo flopped onto a cot with his clothes on, like a Goreddi would have. He didn’t change into his sleep tunic or wrap his sleep scarf around his head, like he normally did. I sat on the next cot, elbows on my knees, and watched him, worrying. His breathing evened out, and I thought he was asleep.

  I closed my eyes, weary in my very soul.

  I had never particularly felt like the Saints watched over me, but St. Abaster did seem to be dogging my footsteps on this journey, to my dismay. I was no great hand at scripture—I avoided most of it—but I knew every line w
ritten about my kind, thanks to the pamphlet Orma had made me. “Half human, all malevolence” was one of Abaster’s best. Or: “If a woman hath lain with the beast, beat her with a mallet until she miscarries or dies. Let it be both, lest her horrifying issue live to claw its way out, or the woman live to conceive evil again.”

  “Darling old St. Abaster,” I muttered into my hands. “I love you, too.”

  He smote people for that kind of sarcasm, said a voice in my head. It wasn’t Abdo’s voice, although I could feel, distinctly, that it came from Abdo’s avatar in my garden.

  I looked up. Abdo’s eyes were open; his mouth quirked into a sly, familiar smile.

  I gripped the edge of my cot, wrestling visceral horror. “Abdo said he’d escaped you,” I said, working to keep my voice steady.

  Of course I let him think that, said Jannoula, making Abdo sit up. She stuck his scaly tongue in and out of his mouth. Feh. He really can’t talk. I thought he was exaggerating.

  “He hasn’t been completely unaware of you,” I said, suddenly making sense of his ongoing preoccupation. He had been struggling with her.

  Struggling alone. Why hadn’t he told me?

  His mind is entirely different, she said. He has such facility with mind-fire. More than the others. She flexed his fingers and toes experimentally, frowning at the fingers that wouldn’t bend. A mighty mind trapped in a small, inadequate body.

  “If he’s so mighty, how did your consciousness gain ascendancy?” I asked.

  He has to sleep sometime. I’ve just been rifling through his memories, and it looks like you’ve reached a dead end today. You could use my help, said Jannoula.

  “You’ve possessed him while he’s defenseless,” I said, my voice rising. “I don’t want this kind of help.”

  Careful, he’ll wake up if you shout, or if I move him too violently. Abdo’s dark eyes looked at me sidelong as if to underscore that last word. Was that a threat?

  I only want to help you find the others, dear sweet Seraphina, she said, her voice syrupy. You’re looking for Ingar, Earl of Gasten—the one you call the Librarian. You’d know his name if you could reach out to him properly. All you can do is watch, alas. It’s rather feeble.

  I plastered on a smile. “I’m lucky to have you, then.”

  Quite right, she said. He’s in Blystane, at the court of the Regent.

  “What’s he doing there?” I asked. “And how do I know you’re not sending me on some wild-goose chase?”

  Jann-Abdo scowled. Always so suspicious. Our goal is one and the same, Seraphina. Waste your time combing the bald hills, if you prefer, or else have the courtesy to take me at my word.

  I saw her melt from Abdo’s face, replaced by a look of repugnance and horror. Oh no, he said, and it was him, wide awake. Oh gods, no.

  I was at his side in an instant, sitting by him on the cot, my arms around him while he sobbed into my shoulder. I couldn’t … I didn’t …

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling with her?” I asked into his hair.

  Because it was my own stupid fault, and because I thought I could get rid of her myself, and you’d never need to know.

  There was nothing I could say to comfort him. I held him in silence as long as he would let me, my own tears falling on his dear head.

  I waited until the next morning to report our change of course to Glisselda and Kiggs. “We’re heading to Blystane,” I said into the sweetheart knot thnik. Abdo, who clearly had not slept well, lay listlessly on the cot opposite. “Our ityasaari has gone to the capital to visit the Regent, I’m told.”

  “You trust this intelligence?” Kiggs’s voice crackled.

  Abdo straightened quickly in alarm. Don’t tell them, madamina. Please!

  He was ashamed that Jannoula had invaded his mind; I knew what that was like. I tried to be reassuring. I won’t mention you, but they need to know she’s interfering.

  “It was Jannoula who told me,” I said. “And no, I don’t trust her. This is the only lead I have right now, however.”

  There was a long silence from the royal cousins. I kept my eye on Abdo, who had flopped back on the cot and wrapped his arms around his head. Kiggs and Selda were no doubt asking themselves, How could Phina have heard from Jannoula out there in gloomy Samsam with only Abdo and two Samsamese for company?

  I hoped they’d conclude that Abdo had been taken and trust that I had good reason not to say so aloud. Jannoula could be coiled passively in his head, listening to everything we were saying. “That’s all my news at present,” I added, trying to emphasize the unspoken point.

  Glisselda cleared her throat. “In similar news, Dame Okra and the others arrived from Ninys yesterday. They seem well. Dame Okra is in her usual good mood.”

  “We’ve arranged for the ityasaari to stay together in the south wing, where they will be comfortably secure,” said Kiggs. “If they need anything, we can attend to them at once.”

  So they were keeping the ityasaari under guard and carefully watched. I supposed, short of canceling the whole project and sending everyone home, that was the safest way to proceed. I said, “It sounds like you’re accounting for all contingencies.”

  “It’s just as well that you’re going to Blystane. We’ve heard nothing from the Regent in ten days,” said Glisselda. “Maybe his thnik stopped working, or … I scarcely dare think what. The knights at Fort Oversea have heard nothing from the capital, either.”

  “If something has happened, we need eyes on the ground,” said Kiggs. “Report back at once.”

  “I will,” I said. I wanted to ask for more detail—didn’t they have spies in the capital?—but couldn’t with Abdo within hearing. Saints’ bones, this was going to be a problem. How could I talk to them—or him—openly?

  “We need to go, Seraphina,” said Glisselda abruptly.

  “Grandmother has taken a significant turn for the worse,” said Kiggs.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. And then they were gone.

  Abdo and I gathered our bags and headed for the stables. Abdo lagged behind, his feet dragging. The air was full of fine mist; buildings and trees hulked in the gloom.

  “Has she troubled you this morning?” I asked Abdo quietly, waving at Rodya, who stood in the stable’s entrance, arms akimbo.

  She’s not active right now, Abdo said, but she’s never entirely gone, either. I’m like a fish caught on a line; her hook is in me, and I can’t get it out.

  We were too near Rodya to continue this discussion aloud. There must be a way to unhook you, I said. We’ll find it.

  Abdo took my hand and squeezed it hard.

  The road to Blystane was straight and well maintained compared with others we’d traveled in Samsam, but halfway there we lost half our escort.

  We were camping. I was alone in the tent, naked from the waist up, washing the scales around my midriff, when the tent flap rustled behind me. I assumed it was Abdo coming in before I’d finished my nightly ablutions. I turned, intending to ask for a few more minutes to myself, and met a different pair of black eyes behind me.

  It was Rodya, staring in horror at the silver dragon scales across my back.

  He screamed and scrambled backward away from me, knocking over the tent pole. The tent collapsed. My wash water spilled all over the bedrolls as I thrashed around. I kicked over the lantern, causing a brief flare-up, but the damp canvas smothered the flame. It seemed likely to smother me as well. Outside, Rodya screamed hysterically. Finally, a pair of calm, strong hands began pulling one end of the tent, dragging it off me. I rolled onto the wet ground.

  I folded my arms, covering what I could, but my wide girdle of silver scales encircled me all the way around. Hanse stood over me, his creased face inscrutable, the canvas flung over his shoulder. Behind him, Rodya was practically dancing in the firelight. “There! See? What is she? A demon? A saar?”

  “What are you, grausleine?” said Hanse in surprisingly clear Goreddi.

  “My mother was a dragon,
” I said, my teeth chattering.

  Hanse raised his eyebrows. “And the boy?”

  I nodded. “Is also half dragon.”

  Then Rodya screamed again. Abdo had pulled a smoldering branch out of the fire and whacked him one-handed across the back of the knees with it. Rodya collapsed.

  I saw him wander away from the fire. I should have hit him then, Abdo said grimly, hitting Rodya again while he was down.

  I scrambled to put on my shirt, which had fallen on the damp, muddy ground. Rodya hadn’t brought his weapon into my tent, which was lucky; by the time I looked up again, he’d scrambled to his feet and was chasing Abdo around the fire. Abdo wouldn’t have stood a chance against the sword. Even now, Rodya came perilously close to catching him. Abdo dodged and rolled, trying to keep the fire between them.

  Hanse watched in silence, sucking in his cheeks, coming to some conclusion of his own. As Rodya ran past, trying to catch Abdo, Hanse grabbed him by the shirt collar, wheeled him around, and punched him in the mouth.

  “You saw her!” shrieked Rodya in Samsamese. “How can you take her part?”

  “No, you saw her when you shouldn’t have,” said Hanse. “Did you not listen to your mother’s stories, boy? Never spy on strange maidies bathing.” He belted Rodya again. “They’re always the ones who turn out to be other than they seem.”

  Rodya, his horse, and his things were gone by morning. Hanse would barely speak to me; that wasn’t new, but in light of recent events and without Rodya to fill the awkward silences, it was hard to take. It seemed we had one or two things we might have spoken about. I just pray we don’t miss Rodya’s sword, I told Abdo as we packed to go.

  Rodya’s lucky to have a sword after last night, he said, mounting his horse.