Shadow Scale

by Rachel Hartman

  This is Alberdt. You can trust him, I read in Glisselda’s graceful writing.

  He was the Queen’s deaf bodyguard, who’d lurked behind her during that awkward tea in her study. His eyes were kind, like Nedouard’s. Still, when he gestured for me to follow, I balked. This had to be a trick. Glisselda wouldn’t want to see me, not after that disastrous breakfast. Jannoula was making more mischief at my expense.

  It was better to be out of confinement, however. There might be some opportunity for escape. Reluctantly I came out of the room and closed the door.

  Alberdt carried a bulky satchel, which he handed to me; the hilt of a short sword protruded from the top. He led me up a northerly corridor. Along one wall was an alcove containing a statue of Queen Rhademunde. Alberdt sidled up to the old Queen and reached behind her. A narrow panel to the left opened soundlessly; Alberdt waggled his grizzled brows at me. Together we plunged into the dark, secret guts of the castle.

  This passage comprised nothing but a spiral stair. We descended for many stories, finally emerging in a vaulted passageway, the castle’s subbasement. At the bottom of the stairs, the young Queen waited with a lantern, a dark cloak thrown over her long chemise.

  Her face had been scrubbed pink, and her eyes were rimmed in red, as if she had been weeping. Her hair was in a simple plait for sleep, though various golden curls had escaped. We stared at each other a long moment, my face burning with shame. She was surely furious with me; I didn’t know what to say.

  She signed at Alberdt before speaking to me; he answered her in kind, saluted, and climbed back up the stairs. “He’s been so helpful,” she said, turning toward me and smiling wanly. “He’s not immune to Jannoula’s glamour—none of us are—but it’s harder to manipulate where she can’t communicate. She hasn’t bothered to learn his finger speech, thank Allsaints in Heaven.”

  Glisselda paused, the lantern light illuminating her from below like a statue in the cathedral. I was seized with guilt. “I am so very sorry—” I began.

  She held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t. Lucian confessed all. I don’t mind about that—he’s like my own brother—but I need to know, do you love him?”

  “Yes,” I half whispered, terrified to admit this to her even now.

  “Then there is nothing else to say,” she said, her smile turned sad. “Lucian wins. Long live Lucian.”

  I stared at her in bafflement. She sighed loudly. “I was angry—but it was all to the good. It has been so hard to resist her, Phina. I put on masks and erected walls, but still there were cracks for her influence to shine through. Anger, though, dispelled the mists from my mind and let me see Jannoula’s cruelty clearly for once, which is a rare and beautiful blessing. Then last evening she had Orma brought in, and I saw what she’s done to him,” said Glisselda, tears in her voice. “Oh, Phina, how I hurt for you.

  “That’s why I’m here now. I’m releasing you. You, in turn, must find some way to help us from outside.”

  Outside the walls. The castle walls were easier to breach than the ones in my mind, it seemed.

  She offered me her arm, and together we walked through twisting passages, north and west, toward the sally port.

  “Alberdt is upstairs guarding your empty room,” she said. “Other guards will take his place, but I’ll have him deliver your meals. I don’t know how long we can keep this up—days, at most—so you need to act quickly. Free us from her. This war is bad enough on its own, but she has made everything worse.”

  “She told the Old Ard about Comonot’s gambit,” I said as we reached the first locked door of the sally port. “They’ve sent reinforcements to the Kerama.”

  Glisselda, fumbling with her key, emitted a sour laugh. “And she’s sabotaged the communication box in my study, I suspect. We haven’t had contact with the Ardmagar in days. I will try to reach him through General Zira, but it may already be too late.”

  We passed silently through the network of caves, the cool, damp breath of the predawn hours on our cheeks; she was escorting me all the way out. When we reached the cave mouth, I faced her and said, “Thank you. And I’m still sorry.”

  “Feh,” she said, waving off my apology. “Just remember, Seraphina, as if it could change anything: it was me who rescued you, not Lucian. That silly boy is upstairs, convinced that he has resisted Jannoula’s charms and that he can save her—and you, and everyone—if he can make her see reason. She uses our best qualities against us.”

  “Which of your qualities has she used against you?” I asked quietly.

  She lowered her gaze. “My heart, alas. She talks about you, and tells me how sad she is that you despise her, and then I pity her, because it would be a terrible thing to lose your … I mean …”

  Her cheeks had gone very pink. I waited for her to gather herself.

  “Bah!” said Glisselda, stamping her foot. “You and Lucian are so very smart, but you walk around with your eyes closed.”

  Glisselda rose on her toes and kissed me on the mouth.

  And then I understood why she’d been the first to flee the breakfast table; why she cared more about whether I loved Lucian than whether Lucian loved me; why she’d always been so happy to hear from me, whatever else was happening. I understood something about myself as well, even if I didn’t have the will to examine it just then.

  I managed merely an “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said. Her face in the twilight looked unexpectedly old. She valiantly tried to smile. “Go now, and stay safe. Lucian would never forgive me if I sent you out to be killed. He has his faults—like not obeying my simple request to stay out of the city—but he would’ve insisted on accompanying you into the unknown.”

  “You could come,” I said, and meant it.

  She laughed in earnest then, like welcome rain. “No, I could not. You’ve witnessed the full extent of my stupid bravery. But please, if there’s to be peace in our time, bring yourself back whole.”

  She retreated into darkness. I turned to face the slate-blue world. Abdo was out there somewhere. We’d find the way to free my mind-fire. In any case, he was my last, best hope.

  I hefted my baggage and picked my way down the rocky, weedy slope.

  The sun was rapidly rising. I needed cover or I’d soon be visible to the city walls, to sharp-eyed dragons in the sky, and to Jannoula up in the Ard Tower. I doubled my pace down the scrubby hill, then across two low-lying pastures, scattering sleepy sheep before me. Over one last stone wall, across a culvert, the wetlands began, full of dense foliage to conceal me.

  I sat in the shadow of an orange beesuckle to see what Alberdt and Glisselda had packed in the satchel. Besides the sword, there was bread and cheese, a pair of sturdy boots, and a change of clothes. I put on the boots at once, then devoured the food. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast in Glisselda’s suite the day before, and not much then.

  As I chewed, I considered. I wasn’t confident that Glisselda’s subterfuge would last long; the guards would notice they were watching an empty room, or Jannoula would try to throw Orma in my face again. Jannoula could trace any ityasaari’s mind-fire to my head and speak to me in my garden—she’d done it through Gianni and through Abdo. I didn’t think she would be able to find me that way, but I wasn’t completely certain. If their lines of mind-fire came out of my head like snakes—to which Abdo had so charmingly compared them—could she see them? Could she follow them back to me?

  It hit me: What if the way to unbind myself was to release everyone from my garden? The garden hadn’t started shrinking until I’d unbuttoned Gianni Patto. That might be a clue. If the wall was no longer necessary, might it disappear?

  Unfastening Gianni and Pende had hurt terribly. I curled into a ball, steeling myself. I had to do this all at once, like jumping into icy water, or I would lose my nerve.

  Lars Brasidas Mina Okra Gaios Od Fredricka Phloxia Ingar Gelina Nedouard Blanche Pandowdy Camba. One after the other, in rapid succession, I unfastened the ityasaari from my mind.<
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  And then, lastly—O Heaven, it would shatter me—Abdo.

  I flopped back on the damp ground, my arms wrapped around my head, sobbing and retching, grief clamping my heart, my lungs full of needles. I had never felt so empty or alone, all the way to my core. The hole must collapse. I would cave in on myself.

  Dragons were already engaging in the pink morning sky overhead. The screams of generals rousing their troops echoed off the walls of the city. I felt dark shadows cross my eyelids.

  I opened my eyes just as the invisible hand of St. Abaster’s Trap began batting dragons aside. They fell like birds hitting a window.

  The trap was still invisible to me. I had not found the way to release my mind-fire. I had pulled myself to pieces for nothing.

  The city blocked my view of the armies on the ground, but I saw endless sky battles as I crossed the swamp toward Abdo’s shrine. Dragons swooped and circled, flamed and grappled, trying to drop their enemies out of the sky or bite off their heads. Through a blaze of autumn leaves, I saw dragons skim along the city wall, setting soldiers and war engines on fire, only to be slammed by St. Abaster’s Trap.

  I kept moving, staying under foliage. Around midday, I flopped down upon a mossy hillock under a willow and let myself rest. The percussive thud of scaly bodies hitting the swampland woke me again and again; only the dampness of their landing place prevented their setting the wetland on fire. Smoke curled above the Queenswood, which was drier. In the late afternoon, I awoke when the fighting changed timbre. I squinted at the bright sky. Above me, five young dragons had taken on a much larger specimen.

  With a net. The Porphyrian five were alive and biting.

  Only when darkness fell did the cries abate and the dragons regroup at their own camps. I wondered how the human armies had fared, how many dead they would gather, a bitter harvest off the plains.

  Crossing the wetland at night was perilous business. I mentally thanked Alberdt for the sturdy boots, because I was often up to my knees in muck. My white gown, though I hoisted it up, grew sodden around the hem. I finally called a halt on higher ground and dug through my bag for something drier to wear. I changed into a tunic and trousers and launched myself at the swamp once more.

  The northern road ran upon a levee. I scrambled up the embankment eagerly when I found it, glad the going would be easier now. I was almost there. The moon rose, coating my path with silver. I saw the tumbledown shrine at last, and my heart swelled.

  I reached the lean-to, sweating despite the chill. I paused near the odd statue, the human figure without features or hands, like a gingerbread man. Its decorative apron fluttered in the breeze. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, but I couldn’t make out anyone in the shadows. “Abdo?” I asked the inky blackness behind the statue, but there was no answer. I knelt, not believing my eyes, and felt around for him. I found his plate and cup, both empty, but no Abdo.

  He’d been here just last night. Where could he have gone? Had he finally freed himself of Jannoula and could now move without fear of drawing her attention? That was glorious news, if so, but unfortunate for me. I’d lost my last ally, and I had unfastened him from my mind. How was I to find him?

  The irretrievable aloneness settled upon me again.

  I don’t know how long I stared at the darkness, or what deep well of stubbornness I drew from to get myself back on my feet, but eventually I wiped my eyes and dusted myself off. The moon had shifted and now shone through a hole in the roof, illuminating the statue’s bald crown. I remembered the odd inscription and knelt, looking for it again.

  When he lived, he killed and lied,

  This Saint who lies submerged.

  The ages passed, the monster died;

  I ripen, I emerge.

  Saint who lies submerged … the monster … I went cold. I hadn’t known the fate of St. Pandowdy when I’d read that inscription before. What other Saint had been buried alive? Who else had been described as monstrous? Had he been buried in this very swamp, the one I’d been trudging through all day?

  My Pandowdy—the giant slug from my garden—lived in a swamp. I’d dismissed the name as a coincidence.

  I brushed lichen off the bottom of the inscription, trying to make out the name to be sure. I traced the P with my finger, and the A, all the way to Y. There could no longer be any doubt.

  Was there some connection between St. Pandowdy and the scaly swamp slug of my visions? They couldn’t be the same being. Yirtrudis’s beloved had not been so grotesquely inhuman. But … could he have survived being buried? Might he have changed over time? I emerge made me think of a cocoon; what if I’d been seeing some kind of chrysalis?

  It was a mad idea. He’d be seven hundred years old.

  But if Pandowdy was nearby, in whatever form—worm or cocoon, monster or ancient Saint—was there any chance he could help? Maybe Abdo had glimpsed his mind-fire out there in the swamp and gone looking for him.

  Maybe I could follow. I was at a dead end otherwise.

  Abdo must have left signs. I hoped I hadn’t spoiled them already by barging in here. I retraced my steps, examining the moonlit road, but saw no tracks. I picked through the tall grass behind the shrine, discerning nothing. The mud had been churned up, but a wild pig might have done that. I was about to give up when my gaze drifted across a fetid pool and I saw them: footprints on the far bank. There were only two, but they were indisputably human and exactly the right size.

  They pointed straight into the heart of the fen.

  I plunged in after him. I didn’t see what choice I had.

  I was an inexperienced tracker, but Abdo hadn’t been trying to hide. I found a few more footprints and some bent foliage, but after an hour I was guessing, walking forward on faith alone. He had to be ahead; he had no reason to hare off randomly. That conviction carried me a long way, up until I stepped onto a patch of moss and found myself sunk up to my thighs in a black lake.

  My boots were rapidly filling up. I scrabbled through the weeds and hauled myself onto the muddy bank, leaving an enormous hole in the frogbit and algae veiling the water’s face, the greenery I’d mistaken for moss. Looking at it now, the lake was obvious; only water was that flat. I’d grown tired and unobservant.

  It was also obvious, as I scanned the water, that Abdo hadn’t fallen into it. There were no Abdo-sized holes in the smooth green surface. He’d have gone around … if he’d come this way at all. I emptied my boots, shaking them ferociously in my frustration.

  The chorus of autumn frogs, which I had barely been aware of, stopped peeping. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Something was near, but it wasn’t Abdo.

  The green surface of the lake roiled as dark water churned beneath it.

  I scrambled away from the edge just as a scaly, featureless thing broke the surface, a tarnished sliver slug wreathed in slick waterweeds.

  A short, strangled laugh bleated out of me. “Pandowdy, I presume.”

  Seraphina, the creature rumbled back in a voice like distant thunder. My frantic heart nearly stopped.

  “How do you know my name?” I asked hoarsely.

  The same way you know me. I have seen you, a patch of darkness against the colors of the world, he said. I felt his voice through the soles of my feet and up my spine, as if the very earth had muttered, and yet I had a feeling it was also in my head. You keep yourself to yourself. I do not judge you. Sometimes it’s the only way.

  I couldn’t be the only one he was aware of. “What about Abdo?” I asked. “Has he come past?”

  He was looking for me. He’s here, said the earth, vibrating meaning through my feet.

  I glanced around. Abdo was certainly not here, but then the creature seemed to have no eyes. He saw mind-fire—or the lack of it—but how? With his mind? Maybe it was hard to judge distances.

  “You aren’t … St. Pandowdy from the Age of Saints?” I asked, still looking around in case Abdo stepped out from behind a shrub.

  Am I not? The ground pulsed rhythmically.
Was he laughing? Some have called me Saint. My mother called me All Ugly. I have lain here for centuries.

  A breeze rustled the yellowing witch hazel leaves above me and chilled me through my wet clothes. This creature was truly ancient; it was difficult to fathom. I managed to say, “I need your help.”

  I don’t think so, he rumbled.

  “Pandowdy!” I cried, for he seemed about to submerge. “A lot of people and dragons are going to die. Jannoula wants—”

  I know what Jannoula wants, he said, lolling in the water. But how do you think I can help, Seraphina? Shall I come to your city and kill her?

  I didn’t see how he could do that—he seemed to have no limbs—but he was a living Saint from the Age of Saints. That had to be worth something.

  He was answering his own question: Humans, dragons, Saints. Geologic eras. They come and go. I am done with killing. Time does the job for me.

  “I don’t need a killer,” I said, thinking quickly. “But maybe an ally, a voice of authority. Someone to convince the armies to stand down until Jannoula can be …”

  I see, he growled. You’ve come for the peacemaking Saint, not the murderous monster. Alas, that works no better: I never asked to be a Saint. I was never good at it. Do you really suppose anyone would believe I—all gruff and muddy—was anything special? That they’d listen?

  “I don’t know what else to try,” I said, my voice heavy with frustration. “I can’t seem to release my powers, and I can’t stop Jannoula alone.”

  The breeze carried a tang of smoke from the Queenswood. The monster bobbed in his pond like some moldy tortoise. You’re right, he said at last, you can’t do it alone, which is why it’s peculiar that you take such pains to be alone. Your fortress is cleverly constructed, but you have outgrown it. When I grow too large, I shed my skin. This is why I have lived so long, Seraphina. I’m still growing.