Shadowheart

by Tad Williams

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “How could I refuse such a kind invitation? ‘Tell him to come, or I will drop dead on the floor and it will be on his conscience’—wasn’t that the gist of it, Sister Utta?”

  Even Merolanna had to smile at that, but she quickly raised her hand to cover her ruined mouth. “As always, you exaggerate, Brone. But I am glad you’re here. We need to talk.” She turned to Utta. “Leave us now, Sister, so I can speak to Count Avin alone. We are old friends, after all.”

  Utta had not known she would be sent away. She bowed her head and went out, but with more than a little anger in her heart. How much time had she and Merolanna spent together in the last year? How long had they lived with each other like maiden sisters, captives of the Qar? And had any of it been for Utta’s sake? No, but now Merolanna sent her away as though she were nothing better than a servant.

  It isn’t right, she thought, stopping as she reached the door of the outer chambers where she could hear Merolanna’s maids talking quietly as they sewed, pretty young Eilis usually loudest and always quickest to laugh. What future for Eilis or any of them in this doomed castle? These were frightening times. And yet, Utta, who had experienced things few other people could even imagine, who had actually met the dark mistress of the fairies and lived, was expected to go out and sit with these young children until Merolanna was done talking to this important man, so vital to the castle’s continued survival.

  Her hand was actually on the door handle when she turned and retraced her steps. Utta did not mean to spy on Merolanna—she intended only to walk back in and ask to be included, let the duchess know that after all they had been through together she expected better treatment—but what she heard through the door stopped her for a second time with her fingers on a door handle.

  “. . . My child? Yes, he is my child, Brone. But he is your child, too. You have never taken responsibility for your act ...”

  Utta went rigid. The lost baby, the one who after all these years had suddenly possessed Merolanna’s thoughts . . . was Brone’s?

  “My act? With all respect, Merolanna, you were my elder and I was quite green. Is that not called a seduction? And I helped you with money, helped you find the woman to take care of him. ...”

  “Yes, the woman who let the fairies steal him!” For a moment Merolanna was close to weeping—Utta knew the older woman’s ways quite well. “My poor child, stolen and dragged away behind that cursed Shadowline . . . !”

  Brone sounded tired and old. “You must make up your mind, Merolanna. Is he your child or my child? It cannot be both ways.”

  “Yes, it can,” she said, her voice so low that Utta found herself leaning close to the door like any eavesdropping servant. “Because he is ours. Your blood and mine.”

  “I don’t understand what you want me to do.” Brone spoke like a man who knew he had been defeated.

  “The Qar know what happened to him. They took him, so they know, but they would not tell me. That witch who leads them imprisoned me so she would not have to face me. I sent message after message asking only for the smallest bit of news, but she ignored me.”

  Which was not exactly true, Utta thought. The duchess had indeed sent message after message, but the strange creature named Kayyin had brought back more than a few replies, and all of them had been the same: Yasammez had not ignored Merolanna’s questions, she had simply refused to answer them.

  “What should I do?” Brone laughed sourly. “Do you think I have any sway with the fairies? Anyway, they are gone from here.”

  “Don’t treat me like an idiot. I looked that horrible fairy woman in the eye. She would no more walk away from this place than you or I would. She has only retreated a short way and she might be convinced to make common cause against another and greater mortal enemy. I suspect that is what’s happened. There are people who even claim that the fairies have gone to ground under the castle! But that is nothing to me.”

  “What people?” Brone was angry now. “Who says such things? Where did you hear it?”

  “Oh, don’t be a fool, Avin. It doesn’t suit you.” For a moment, Utta could hear the old affection come up in the duchess’ voice; for the first time she could truly believe the two had once been lovers. “Even with that foul little Hendon Tolly barring the way in and out of Funderling Town, gossip still travels. You cannot expect people to hide such a thing, especially not from me. I know everything that happens in this castle. You should remember that.”

  The Qar hiding inside the walls of Southmarch? And Brone himself aware of it and doing nothing? How could that be? For the first time, Utta was painfully aware that she was not just eavesdropping but spying on state secrets. She took a step away from the door in case one of the ladies in waiting should come through, but the muffled talk from the front room still went on as before.

  “. . . It matters not,” Merolanna was saying when Utta leaned close to the door again. “At least not to me. Nor do any of the other secrets you are keeping, like the return of Vansen, who disappeared behind the Shadowline with my great-nephew. Do you know where my poor nephew Barrick is, too? Surely even if you hated me for what’s between us you wouldn’t keep that from me, would you?”

  Brone sounded quite helpless. “Gods, Merolanna, of course not! I swear I know nothing of where Barrick is today, nor does Vansen. The prince was alive when they parted.”

  “Good. That is good, at least.” Even through the door, she could hear how weary Merolanna sounded. The duchess had done her best to seem stronger than she was, Utta knew, but even the imposture was beginning to flag. “Then we can get to the most important matter. I’m dying, Brone.”

  “You are not. You will outlive me . . . !”

  “Nonsense. I’m ten years your senior and I doubt I will live to see next spring. Do you think I fear it? I welcome it. But here is what I ask of you—no, I demand it. Use Vansen or any other tool you have to make the fairies talk. Find out what happened to our son. Find out why they stole him and what happened to him. I must know that before I die. Promise me that.”

  Brone didn’t sound angry anymore, but he didn’t sound happy. “I cannot go near Vansen or the . . . or any of the others, Merolanna. Hendon Tolly watches everything I do.”

  “Promise me.” The voice was so quiet now that Utta could barely hear it. “Give me this one last gift, Avin. Swear you will do it.”

  Utta didn’t hear any more words, but she guessed that Brone had nodded his head. She heard his heavy, hobbling steps coming toward the door. Utta’s own eyes were full of tears and she was frightened at the prospect of being caught listening—as it was, she felt like the lowest of spies. All her anger had gone, driven out by the voices of two old people discussing a great sadness.

  Brone stepped into the hallway just as she reached the far door. She tried to make it look as though she had just come from the front room, but the count seemed scarcely even to notice her. He limped slowly down the hallway, his face stretched in a grimace of pain. She did not think all of it was from his gout.

  “Good day to you, then, Sister,” he said gruffly, but did not look up. She had forgotten how tall he was, even with his head bent as though he were weary beyond belief.

  “And to you, Count Avin.” She stepped aside as he passed, then watched him make his halting way down the passage.

  The booming noise of a monstrous cannonball striking the outer wall had barely ended when another crash came from much closer to hand.

  Hendon Tolly grabbed another dish from the tray and threw it across the room after the first, almost killing the cowering squire who had brought him the meal. Gravy and bits of meat and crust from the splattered pie made their slow way down the wall as Tolly walked back and forth with bulging eyes and a face as red and raw as an open wound. “Curse that yellow-eyed freak! Curse him! None of this veal nonsense—I’ll have the autarch’s stones in a pie instead.”

  Tinwright knew better than to say anything. Across the room Puzzle was on his elbows and knees
, whatever message had brought him to Tolly’s chamber still undelivered, cowering for his life. Tinwright had been kept at the lord protector’s side for days and hadn’t seen the old jester for some time, but this was clearly not the best moment to catch up on gossip.

  “My lord . . . !” Puzzle quavered. He was so frightened that the bells on his dark green jacket and cap made an unceasing, jingling murmur. “My lord, please do not ...”

  “Shut your mouth, you withered old lackwit!” Tolly raged. “I could kill you where you stand and not even blink. Not a living soul would remember you by tomorrow sundown.”

  Puzzle looked like he was about to weep. He pressed his head against the floor and was silent except for the continuous tinkle of his trembling bells. Tinwright would have felt sorry for him but he had been kept in a state of fear for his own body and soul for days now and had little strength left for others, even friends.

  Another distant cannon blast echoed like thunder.

  Berkan Hood, the lord constable, stood in the doorway watching, his scarred face pale but expressionless. The news he had brought of the first breach in the outer walls—a breach that the defenders were struggling to close at this very moment—was what had sent Tolly into this fit of rage.

  “My lord,” Hood said when the lord protector’s rampage had finally slowed. “Calm yourself. All is not lost. We are repairing the breach and they will not be able to fire their biggest gun for some time. I understand that you are frustrated ...”

  “You fool.” Tolly walked over to him and stared up at the taller Hood, eyes slitted with contempt. “Calm myself? I should have your head for that. You understand nothing. We cannot defeat that pagan bastard. He has ten times the troops we have—more!—and more than twice that at his disposal down in Hierosol. Not to mention what he could muster if he brought another army up from Xis after the winter storms are over. And unlike the fairy folk, the autarch has ships. We will be getting no more food from Marrinswalk or anywhere else.” He picked up the tray he had knocked from the squire’s hands, then let it drop to the floor again with a clatter. “Whether it is tomorrow or next tennight or half a year from now at the very longest, Southmarch will fall to Sulepis.”

  Hood stared down at him. The warrior’s face was implacable behind his thick mustache but something in the way he stood at stiff attention suggested he was resisting the urge to strike his lord and master. Despite Hood’s cruel reputation, at that moment Tinwright almost admired him.

  “Of course, Lord Tolly,” he said at last, then bowed, turned, and walked out.

  Hendon Tolly walked to the door to watch him go. Puzzle crept to his feet with much grimacing at the stiffness of his joints, and hobbled across the room to Tinwright.

  “I only came to tell you ...” he began.

  “Puzzle!” Tolly shouted from the doorway. “Curse you, you ancient bit of dried jerk-meat! Are you not my royal jester?”

  Tinwright surreptitiously put out his hand and braced Puzzle as the old man’s knees buckled and he nearly fell. “Yes, my lord!” Puzzle fluted. “Of course, yes, Lord Tolly!”

  “Then make me laugh. Go to—I wish to be cheered!” Tolly stared at him, his face pale, eyes fierce and intent. “Did you hear? Amuse me.”

  “M-m-my lord, I am unpor . . . unpoo . . . unprepared! I came only to give a message to Master Tinwright . . . !”

  “Very well.” Tolly walked toward him slowly, a feline smile playing on his features. “I shall be just as in need of merriment an hour from now. You will return to me then and make me laugh uproariously or I will cut off your face and make it into a Midsummer mask to scare the ladies. Would you like that, Puzzle? You wouldn’t, would you?”

  “N-no! No, my lord!”

  “I thought not. Then go and prepare your very best japes and comical songs. Do you see how I am frowning, old man? Well, in an hour, one of us shall have our face changed.”

  Puzzle tried to bow and moan and promise his cooperation all at once, but only succeeded in muddling himself so badly Tinwright had to brace the old man again. “Why were you seeking me?” he whispered to the trembling jester.

  “Oh, Zosim preserve me!” Puzzle’s red, rheumy eyes were welling with tears. “He will murder me!”

  “He will probably forget,” Tinwright tried to assure him. “He is very changeable of late. Just do your best and all will be well. Now, what was your message?”

  The jester had to swallow twice before he could speak again. “Your mother is looking for you, Matty. She is looking for you all over the residence, and attracting much attention, little of it favorable.” Message delivered, Puzzle patted his arm. “Farewell, lad. You were a good friend.”

  The old man trudged away, legs and arms as thin as pipestems, bells still chiming mournfully.

  If only he would not try to be funny, Tinwright thought, he would be the most amusing fellow in the March Kingdoms. If ever a man was perfectly ill suited for his work, there goes such a man.

  But he was only thinking about poor Puzzle to avoid considering the horror that was Anamesiya Tinwright loose in the royal residence. If anything could assure Matt Tinwright of being executed even before the doomed jester, it was the presence of his mother, stupid and righteous as a peacock and no more discreet than a feverish child. It would be a miracle straight from Zosim if she had not already told half a dozen people about Elan M’Cory.

  The gods, it appeared, had been searching for new ways to amuse themselves at a humble poet’s expense, and now they had found one.

  Puzzle survived. In fact, by the time he reappeared, the lord protector had either forgotten all about him or simply lost interest. “Who? The jester?” he asked the guard who had stepped into the room to announce Puzzle’s return. Hendon Tolly did not even raise his eyes from his cup of unwatered wine—perhaps his dozenth of the evening. “Send him away. That moping horse-face is all I need to sour the last of this good Torvian red.” The guard went out. Tolly looked blearily up at Matt Tinwright. “Go on! Make certain that fool of a guard sends him away. Tell him to give the old fool a good kick, too.”

  Before Tinwright could get to the door the castellan, Tirnan Havemore, suddenly leaped to his feet. “I will deal with the fool, my lord. Rest yourself.”

  Tolly did not look at either of them but only waved his hand.

  Neither of the two men was willing to relinquish the chance to get out of their master’s presence, even for a few moments. Both went out the door of the lord protector’s chambers at the same time. Puzzle had already been sent away by the guard and was wandering down the corridor toward the kitchen, his relief combined with confusion.

  “Puzzle, wait,” Tinwright called after him.

  “I will give him the message,” Havemore hissed. “I am your superior.”

  “As you wish, Lord.” Tinwright knew better than to argue.

  The castellan swept down the corridor with all the authority he could muster, his long, fur-trimmed robe swinging above his velvet slippers. He was clearly taking as much time as he could, delivering Hendon Tolly’s criticisms in elaborate detail as the old man looked more and more morose.

  “But he told me to come back!” Puzzle protested, apparently forgetting that his attendance would likely have ended in his execution. “Look! I prepared a new diversion—the ball floats in the air!”

  After Puzzle had at last, and with great effort, chased down the bouncing ball, he was sent on his way. Tinwright waited for the castellan to return to the door so they could go back in together, but to his surprise Tirnan Havemore gestured for Tinwright to walk with him a little distance away from the guards.

  “Lord Tolly does not like me to be long away from him. ...”

  Havemore scowled. “Yes, yes. Enough of that.” He was a tall man with a round, youthful face, but he had aged in recent months. He was not well shaved today and looked bloated and pink. “I would talk to you, Tinwright. Would you walk away from the lord castellan of Southmarch?”

  “No, Lord.” />
  “You are much in our master’s company lately. If that scarecrow who just left is your rival in entertaining him, then it is little surprise, but still it seems odd the protector should take such pleasure from the company of a mere poet.”

  Jealousy? Or something more complicated? “Lord Tolly does what he wishes, Lord Havemore. And gets what he wants.”

  The other man studied him carefully. “We have only a moment before Tolly notices our absence, even full of wine. Answer my questions truly and you may find you have a friend you will need one day. What happened to Okros, the physician? I know the story we were told is a lie.”

  “I don’t know. He died ...”

  The stinging slap came so fast Matt Tinwright did not even have time to raise his hand. “Do not trifle with me, young man. I ask you again—Okros?”

  Matt Tinwright rubbed his face. The masters of Southmarch were all terrified, that seemed clear, and none of them trusted Hendon Tolly. Tinwright lowered his voice to a near whisper before answering. “He was killed doing the lord protector’s bidding.” How much did he dare say? “It had something to do with a magic mirror . . . and the gods. I did not see it happen.” There was no reason to mention that Tolly had made him perform the same ritual—that Tinwright himself had almost suffered Okros’ fate while helping Hendon Tolly reach out to the land of sleeping gods.

  Havemore blinked. “Witchcraft!” he said, peering at the nearby guards to make sure they could not hear him. “I knew it! That madman will doom us all.” His shrewd eyes fixed on Tinwright again. “I also know you are close with my old master, Avin Brone. Do not deny it! Tell me what Brone plans. Does he have some strategy of his own to save the castle?”

  “I truly don’t know, Lord Havemore. He would never tell me.”

  “No, likely that’s true.” The castellan frowned, considering. “Tell Brone . . . tell him that his old friend and servant Tirnan wishes him well. Tell him that I still think of him fondly, and would . . . that I would be ruled by his wisdom about what to do to save our beloved Southmarch. You will say just those words to him, and to no one else.”