Mosscrow took the bait seamlessly.
On to the Hither and Yawn they rode, Clevwrith taking up station in their wake and stalking them from all the covert nooks and crannies. Two men who rode at the back carried on an amusing dialogue of speculation regarding their quarry, coming up with theories about everything from whether the Shadowmaster liked cream and sugar in his tea to what his favorite color was to if he was handsome or so ugly that that was the reason he labored tirelessly to hide his face from the rest of the world.
“What about everyone calling him by some extravagant pseudonym or other?” the fellow on the left asked. “He’s got a real name. Doesn’t anyone ever wonder what it is?”
“Cromwell!” suggested the fellow on the right.
“Burt!” submitted the chap in the middle.
In front of the trio, an older man turned in his saddle to chime in. “I’ve heard a rumor he uses the Old word for ‘clever wraith’.”
The trio exchanged glances.
So they knew the origin of his name, Clevwrith thought with some surprise. He wondered how that had traveled through the grapevine or slipped through the cracks. From one of his predecessors when they were incarcerated, no doubt, all those years ago.
Well, rumors were fun. What did it matter if they speculated about his true name? It came with infamy all its own, for they were right – it was of the Old Tongue. The Old Tongue which had been outlawed by King Tutaunus, whose belief was that the language of the Mystic Ages had been tainted, too many words desecrated by finding themselves woven into dark spells, and that you could hardly speak for fear of accidentally casting some inadvertent incantation.
Indeed, that had been the official term put down in the ban – ‘due to the rising concern of Inadvertent Incantation, the native tongue is hereby banned from the kingdom of Cerf Daine, and a new version shall be distributed and instructed to all citizens…’
It was a tedious and lofty goal, but Tutaunus had successfully reformed the language and implemented it throughout the kingdom. And thus, Clevwrith’s very existence was defiant, his name illegal, a scandal, an unmentionable vulgarity laced with a mystical stigma.
And they were all about to start to wonder if they’d summoned him by speaking it.
Shifting so the convoy was downwind, he let the meandering afternoon breeze carry his scent ahead. Horses spooked suddenly, squealing and fidgeting, dancing uneasily beneath baffled riders.
Grinning, Clevwrith looked on in amusement. While everyone would rationally try to come up with some other explanation, he knew in the backs of their minds they would all court that inevitable suspicion – He’s here. And then they would marvel over the fact that even the horses sensed the Spylord as a threat.
*
Only the first of the evening lanterns had been lit in the dim, empty common room of the Hither and Yawn. A matronly innkeeper stood behind the counter writing in a ledger, glancing up when the king’s men entered the inn.
“Lord Advisor,” she greeted, closing the ledger and pulling out another, larger log book. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Although his initial response was flattery that he was recognized, it was followed quickly by bemusement. Then just as quickly by understanding.
Of course she was expecting him. The Shadowmaster had come ahead, and arranged something for his arrival.
Acting as if he expected no less, Mosscrow marched up to the counter. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, eager to get on with it.
“Your reservation has been paid for in full.” Noting something in her book, the innkeeper turned to select four old skeleton keys from their hooks on the wall, which she placed on the counter for Mosscrow. Each key had a tag strung to it, and they read 8, 9, 10, and 11. “Top of the stairs to the left. Room Eleven was reserved specially for your lordship.”
“Very good.” Snatching the keys, Crow ambled brusquely away, clambering up the cramped, creaking stairs to the second floor. He paid no attention to whether his men followed, not bothering to distribute the keys. Whatever the Spylord had waiting for him was far more of a priority than his men settling into their rooms for the night.
I don’t even know if we’re staying, besides. But it was getting late, dusk settling in with every passing moment, and they were deep into the south quarter, the opposite point of the city from the palace. If the next clue pointed them somewhere more easily accessed from here than the north quarter, well… Mosscrow wasn’t about to push his men to ride all the way back to the palace tonight when they wouldn’t even arrive until midnight, only to rise early to come back this direction shadow-hunting.
Passing up rooms 8, 9, and 10, Mosscrow stopped before the one labeled 11 and inserted the corresponding key. Heart pattering faster in his chest, he pushed the door open. Hinges creaking, it swung inward to reveal what the Spylord deemed worthy of hosting the esteemed Lord Advisor.
Pallid light from the rising moon came through a grimy, blurred window across from the entrance, illuminating a swirl of dust particles as the opening door disturbed the stuffy chamber.
Before he could inspect the extent – or lack thereof – of the room’s amenities, something fell from where it had been secured between the top of the door and the doorframe.
Crow blinked down at the folded piece of parchment that landed with a soft smack at his feet. And what is this? Bending with a grunt and a hand placed at the small of his aching back, he retrieved the parchment. The folds were sealed, unsurprisingly, with black wax that showed that absurd rose with wings, ensnared by a spider web.
He’d always found the Shadowmaster’s emblem ridiculous and gimmicky. Why does the rose have wings? Please, somebody enlighten me.
Breaking the seal, he unfolded the note and squinted in the faint light to make out what it said:
You are invited to sleep free of charge, courtesy of the Spylord. I hope you have enjoyed the first segment of this season’s Wild Goose Chase, charitably hosted by yours truly. Sleep well and enjoy the view.
Long live the king, and the Spylord’s reign.
Disappointment and frustration wormed through Mosscrow at what was obviously the Shadowmaster excusing himself for the night. The night, the week, the month – who knew, really. It was maddening.
How quickly Lord Mosscrow’s liberated quest had dead-ended, the Master of the Shadows stringing him along before quickly growing bored. Too quickly. Mosscrow tried not to let the humiliation creep in, knowing he hadn’t been a riveting enough opponent to toy with for more than even day.
The urge to wallow came over him. Crumpling the note, Mosscrow squeezed it in a crushing fist until his knuckles turned white and black wax oozed out between his fingers and wedged under his nails.
Then he composed himself.
Stop pitying yourself, old man. It isn’t becoming. Besides, who says it isn’t just for the night? The memo did say this had only been the first segment of the chase. And if–
The view? he wondered suddenly, something sparking that tidbit of the memo once again in his mind. What about the view?
As Mosscrow crossed the creaking floorboards past a small, rumpled bed tucked against the wall under the lowest point of the cloistering A-frame roof, he had to wonder if all the note meant was that the view was merely the best thing about his ramshackle accommodations. He wasn’t even sure he could crawl into the bed without banging his head on the angled ceiling, and he certainly couldn’t do it without getting tangled in the cobwebs that hung even lower.
At the window, he rubbed away a veneer of thick, dusty residue and peered out through the cleared lens.
In the distance, over the rambling array of thatched and stone rooftops alike, the Cobweb District stood perfectly framed by the center of the window. It seemed to catch the moonlight, as if the Master of the Shadows had bartered with the night to spotlight it for effect. So clearly did it stand out from Crow’s vantage point that he knew – knew there was something significant about it…
But what was h
e supposed to think? His attention had been directed there by the greatest trickster of all time. Was it a clue, a joke, a trick? Something completely meaningless just to turn the wheels of his clutching mind?
He sighed and shivered at the same time, a weary ache in his bones making him reconsider that dingy little bed. The adrenaline of the day was wearing off now that he’d reached this anticlimactic end, and he had to admit the rush had drained him. Adrenaline was a young man’s game.
Suddenly, he was glad for the accommodations, for he did not suppose he could make it back to the palace tonight without falling off his horse.
He was just about to turn back toward the hall to announce to his men they were retiring for the night when a dark, masked face peered into the window from outside. Crow’s heart jumped into his throat, and before he could regain sensible thought or take action, the masked face opened its wide black jaws and breathed fog onto the clear patch of glass. The outside world blurred from view once again, and it was only a shadow that passed in front of the window and climbed out of sight.
9
Things That Never Were
“He has woven a spell, a wondrous dark spell,
this wraith, this fae, this ghost of whom I tell.
Shadow? Or man? Or nightmare shared by all?
Does he terrorize the masses? Or merely just enthrall?
Is he witch or boy or lord or beggar?
Shapeshifter, deformed three-legger?
He’s on the roof, he’s on the wall, he’s standing in the palace hall.
But if you ask me matey, the scoundrel don’t exist at all.”
– Common tavern chorus performed by minstrels throughout Cerf Daine
*
Despiris clipped another stem from the rosebush, pruning the way Clevwrith had taught her. Moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a sallow blush across the blooms. It was monotonous work, but pleasant, and someone had to do it. Clevwrith had been mysteriously absent, and although it had occurred to Despiris that she was free to go and stir up trouble or play with fire as she pleased – a delightful concept – she’d found herself at a loss. Uncertain where to start. Aimless without direction.
Come on, Clev, where are you? The snipping of stems became restless, an unexpected swell of insecurity making her question why Clevwrith would unleash her and then just…veer off on his own. Had he been that eager to return to his own devices?
Had she been holding him back?
Had she been a burden in some way she never knew?
Or…was this a test? To see what she did when left to herself? What she would contrive for her first solo game?
She chided herself, realizing if that was the case she had failed miserably.
Then chided herself just as quickly when she realized she was thinking like an apprentice. She was Shadhi now. That was the whole point. There were no more tests.
And so what if Clevwrith needed one day alone after spending nearly every moment for the last five years tethered to her side, after devoting himself body, mind, and soul to harboring her tirelessly under his wing? She could give him that, without jumping to ridiculous conclusions.
It was just…she had grown so accustomed to him always being there, and her independence had left her with some unexpected separation anxiety.
Another stem falling to the ground almost covered the soft fall of a footstep, but Despiris was hyper-alert for Clevwrith’s return. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, finding him bathed in moonlight in the doorway.
Relief tingled through her, followed by a sheepish feeling for getting so worked up. “Where have you been?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
“Playing with the Lord Advisor.”
An inevitable pang stabbed again from that new place of insecurity. “Without me?”
Clevwrith examined her face as if he could sense her inner conflict. “Just a little preliminary setting-of-the-stage. I thought you might still be out reveling in your freedom. I didn’t wish to tether you by assigning a particular task.”
Despiris glanced around at the quiet, still greenhouse, at the oaken floor strewn with the sprays of her tedious pruning, feeling suddenly foolish for wasting that freedom on such tasks.
Clevwrith read her thought process. “You don’t need me to paint the town black, Des. I do have something planned for us, but I gave you that emblem-maker for a reason. You are free to do as you please. Make your own mark.” Stepping into the greenhouse, Clevwrith approached and gently took Des’s fingers to turn her so the moonlight illuminated her face. His clear blue eyes willed her to listen. “If you are ever faced with an opportunity to test your skills, and especially to test your limits, do not hesitate. Do not hesitate to take full advantage of the situation. If you ever discovery potential for a game, play it.” Despite the words of a trickster, his face was deadly serious. “Promise me you’ll do that.”
She searched his eyes briefly, realizing how silly she had been to ever question his motives for disappearing for a day. Of course he’d merely been allowing her the chance to enjoy herself, to revel in her own glory. He hadn’t abandoned her, and he didn’t think of her as a burden. “I promise,” she vowed, reassured. And then, with a smirk, “You smell like a wolf.”
His lips crooked wickedly, and he held her eyes. The aroma of crushed roses drifting up from underfoot mixed with his Wolf’s Musk, a fascinating, delectable combo. Despiris’s nostrils flared at the stirring scent, a tingle of strange euphoria awakening the butterflies in her stomach. She smiled tentatively in return, never certain what to do under those intent, quiet stares of his.
So she interrupted it, asking, “Can we do something tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Very well. Let me know when you do. Surprise me.” He spread his hands as he backed away, an unassuming invitation. Then he vanished out the door.
Despiris looked down at the sheers in her grasp, and gleefully tossed them aside.
*
Clevwrith had trained himself to court only the shallow fringes of sleep, so when a breath of disturbance passed over his form, an alarm went off in his head. He came awake in an instant, but kept his features smooth, not a single muscle twitching. He waited until he felt the warmth of a body crouched over him, and then he sprang into action.
Lashing out, he had the intruder knocked askew and pinned to the bed beneath him in a moment, holding a knife against the assailant’s throat.
“Oh. Hi, Des,” he said casually as he recognized her, but did not slack off.
Despiris let her breath out. “You said to surprise you.”
“Well done,” he praised with amusement. “But your guard was down.”
“But where is your second dagger?”
Without releasing her, Clevwrith reached for his belt knife, finding it gone. With that hand off her, Despiris was granted freedom enough to hold his own pilfered dagger to his throat, giving away where the weapon had disappeared to.
Clevwrith caught his breath and then chuckled in resignation, seeing what she had done. A twinkle lit his eye. And out of his sleeve came another dagger.
Despiris’s gloating manner turned wry. “Well, this could go on for a while.”
A rush went through him at the thought, for he was quite enjoying it. “Indeed.” Please feel free to search me for another dagger.
“But I’d hate for you to miss the rest of the surprise.”
“There’s more,” he mused with intrigue.
“Mm-hmm,” she taunted, sealing her lips.
“And I suppose you think it’s that easy to trick me into letting you go.”
She shrugged. “It’s your choice. How badly do you want to know what it is?”
“Why don’t you just tell me about it? Here? Like this?”
“Maybe because it feels like I’m being interrogated,” she said good-naturedly, holding out.
In the end, it was the same en
joyment, that delightful hyper-awareness of how her body felt pressed beneath him, that saw him release her and climb off. It wasn’t right, thinking of her that way, when all she’d come for was an innocent wrestling match.
Despiris sat up, handing his dagger back. “The Cob is being invaded.”
Of course, to that, Clevwrith grinned. “Sorry, no surprise. The king’s men?”
“You invited them?” Despiris guessed, confirming it was his royal scapegoats.
“I dropped a hint. I didn’t expect they’d come tonight, though. The Lord Advisor was looking a bit haggard by the end of our little play-day.”
“I only detected a few men. No sign of the Lord Advisor.”
“Ah. Just a few scouts sent ahead, then, no doubt, while that mossy old crow gets some shut-eye.”
Climbing off the bed, Clevwrith performed a swift routine of sheathing his multiple weapons. “Shall we take up a game of chess, in the lounge?” he suggested, pulling Despiris to her feet as well.
She frowned. “We’re not going to play with their heads? Lead them on? Taunt them as ghosts and shadows would?”
“Not tonight. Tonight, we lie low. We vanish into the cracks and leave them to come up empty-handed. Tonight, I want them to question everything. Tonight, we do not exist.”
10
Rain
“A limit is a challenge. A threat is a promise. Danger is not foreboding but fulfilling – the connection to feeling your own heart beating inside your chest. And if you are afraid of the dark, you will go to war with your greatest ally.” – Early Shadhi teachings between the Shadowmaster and his pupil.
Girl of Rooftops and Shadows (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 1) Page 7
