Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Enlighten me, then.”

  “Gladly.” Sranul’s eyes gleamed. “It’s the idea, the thought of acquiring a great fortune that intrigues me. Remember what you said once about we roos being a fun-loving bunch? It’s true, and I can’t imagine anything more delightful than bathing in a basin filled to overflowing with gems and gold and other beautiful things.”

  “Then it’s the beauty you’re after and not the wealth,” Maryld said.

  “The beauty, yes, and the excitement of acquiring it.” He frowned, looked from human to thaladar as if puzzled by the question. “Why else did you think I wanted the treasure of Shadowkeep?”

  “Sranul, I think I owe you an apology. I’ve been misjudging you.” Praetor extended a hand.

  The roo ignored it, slapped his friend on the back. “Don’t worry yourself about it, friend Praetor. You can’t help but think like a human. Now, knowing something of humans as I do, I have a pretty good idea of what you would do with a share of the treasure.”

  “I am curious.” Maryld leaned toward him. “What would you do with great wealth?”

  “Never go near a forge again, for one thing. No, that’s not quite true. Never go near a forge again to do someone else’s bidding. I’ve always considered myself an artist. So did my instructor, Shone Stelft, but he never had the time to do just as he wished. He had to provide for his family, and the fine, delicate things he fashioned from metal weren’t as much in demand as swords and shields.”

  “War is always more popular than art,” Sranul observed somberly.

  “But that’s what I’d do, make only what I wanted to make. That, and marry Rysancy, of course.” He looked at the slight form of the thaladar seated so close to him. “What about you, Maryld? The thaladar are traders and merchants. Surely you would have a use for wealth?”

  She nodded. “We want the same thing, Praetor Fime. To be able to purchase our own time, to own our own lives. You to practice your art, I to teach when and what I wished. I’ve always dreamed of being able to found a school to teach young thaladar about the world outside. It would be a place where our children would be able to learn alongside yours, and the offspring of roo and Zhis’ta as well. The isolation that exists now must be broken down. We must learn to interact with those whom we share the world with. My mother and grandmother would help gladly to design a curriculum for such a school.”

  Only the least talkative and most soft-spoken of the party had failed to share his dreams with them.

  Hargrod cleared his throat. “Since you are all sstaring at me, I ssupposse I musst ansswer alsso.” He looked away from them, speaking suddenly as if he were seated beside a Zhis’ta campfire instead of in the forlorn emptiness of the stone reservoir.

  “Far to the ssouth lies a country called Jantaria. It endss in a ssheltered bay lined with tall green treess of many kindss. Game sswarmss through the foresst landss that ssurround the bay.” His voice deepened in the manner of Zhis’ta storytellers.

  “But Jantaria iss dominated by humanss, and they are not overfond of Zhiss’ta company.”

  “Don’t judge all of us by some,” Praetor advised him.

  “You are kind, but be honesst with yoursself ass well ass with me.” Hargrod ventured a slight, reptilian smile. “You know me becausse we have lived and journeyed and fought together. What if you had never met a Zhiss’ta before but had only heard sstoriess about uss? Would you willingly open your home and heart to a wagon full of Zhiss’ta, ferociouss reputation and all? Would your friendss and neighborss?”

  Praetor nodded sagely. “I guess not.”

  Hargrod’s smile faded. “There iss truth in that, jusst ass there iss truth in treassure. Treassure sspeakss to all peopless. I would take my sshare of any wealth we found and usse it to buy a fine living place atop a hilsside overlooking thiss bay, where my family and I could resst and live in quiet. A family of poor Zhiss’ta would not be welcome to live in Jantaria, but one that doled out myssterious gemss and ancient gold would be made to feel right at home. We would be welcomed with open armss and palmss.”

  “No race is perfect,” Maryld observed thoughtfully, “and yet we four seem to get along well enough together. When you are compelled to work with people on an individual basis, you see them as an individual being, little different from yourself or others of your kind. Rumor, innuendo, and superstition tend to fall by the wayside.”

  “I don’t understand why it’s so complicated,” said Praetor. “I never thought of any of you as anything but a good friend and equal.”

  “That marks you as unusual among your own kind,” Sranul told him, “but that was apparent to me as soon as we met.”

  “He’s right,” said Maryld, “and the proof of it is that all of us are here because of you.”

  Praetor found this new image uncomfortable. “No. That’s not true at all. Sranul, you came along because you were searching for some fun and excitement. Maryld, you had reasons of your own for wanting to challenge Shadowkeep, and Hargrod came because his family felt obligated to us for helping them against the goblins.”

  “All of what you say is true,” she countered, “but only in part. You were the motivating force behind our decisions, Praetor Fime. But what of your motivations? Why are you risking your life?”

  He thought a moment. “Someone had to attempt to stop Dal’brad.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. You can claim all you want that you came for a chance at glory or treasure, but those are nothing more than rationalizations for your inherent altruism, Praetor. You came because someone had to. You came because others faced danger and you wanted to try and help them. Deny it all you want. You have no idea what an unusual person you are. But the rest of us know.” Hargrod and Sranul nodded agreement.

  Praetor turned away angrily. “Dammit, I am not unusual. I was just in the wrong place at the right time—or something like that. Besides, the Spinner who set me on this course didn’t come looking for me. He was hoping to engage a real hero, Shone Stelft. When he refused, the Spinner was ready to depart. I had to talk him into letting me try. He did so only out of desperation.”

  Maryld seemed to be concealing a smile. “Is that so? From what you’ve told me, this Spinner is a most peculiar individual indeed. How do you know what he really wanted, what his hidden requirements were, and who he most wanted to recruit? Perhaps he was after you all the time. Perhaps in appealing to your master he knew he would refuse and that you would jump in to take his place. How can you be certain of the motives of this stranger?”

  “I…” Praetor didn’t know what to say. The idea had never occurred to him before, and his silence showed he didn’t know what to make of it. Could Maryld be right? Had the Spinner really come to Sasubree looking for him? If so, then that meant that the Spinner’s appeal to Shone Stelft had been nothing more than a sham designed to tempt Praetor’s interest. But that implied that…

  “That’s crazy,” he told her, “crazy.”

  “Is it?” Maryld was warming to her theory. “The Spinner saw you as less experienced but far more willing and compassionate than your master. He knew that if he approached you directly, you might have hesitated or refused outright. So it made a show of trying to recruit this Stelft person, with the result that he did not have to try to convince you. You ended up working to convince him to let you go.”

  “You’re being absurd, Maryld.” Actually, the thought of being duped by the Spinner bothered him more than the possibility that the thaladar might be right. In any case, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  He pushed himself off the outjutting section of stone. “That’s enough. It’s time we were on our way.”

  Sranul made a face. “I was just lingering over my dessert, and…”

  “Come on, roo.” Realizing he was being unnecessarily sharp to conceal his own unease over Maryld’s suppositions, he added in a softer tone, “Remember, the longer we stay in one place the easier it becomes for the demon king to pin us down.”

  �
�Yeah?” Sranul grudgingly began to repack the remainder of his food. “Well, I for one wouldn’t mind being pinned down here for a while. This is the first place we’ve found in this above-ground garbage pit where something wasn’t trying to bite my tail off every time I turned around.” That said, he hopped down to join Praetor and the others in slogging across the muddy floor of the empty reservoir.

  Though the stone beneath the shallow mud was solid and they had no reason to suspect the footing, they still proceeded cautiously. Maryld went first this time, using the staff to probe the path ahead.

  Eventually they found themselves standing on the far side of the chamber, to their considerable surprise and relief. For the first time since they’d entered Shadowkeep, they’d encountered a room that was nothing more than what it appeared to be.

  In front of them was the small door they’d spotted as soon as they’d emerged from the tunnel. It was fashioned of brass braced with steel straps. The steel was badly corroded. In place of a handle, a large brass ring was fastened to the left side of the door.

  “How do we get through thiss?” Hargrod fingered the haft of his battle-ax. “I could try to cut a way through, but I have no idea how thick the metal iss.”

  “Thick enough to keep a roomful of water from leaking out.” Maryld pushed back her sleeves. “We will open it without muscle, my good Zhis’ta.” She raised her hands and muttered an invocation. When she’d concluded she stepped forward, took hold of the brass ring, and pulled. The door groaned and Praetor had to give her a hand, but it swung inward easily enough.

  “Fine magic,” said Hargrod, complimenting her.

  “Not really.” She smiled at him. “You see, normally this reservoir is full of water, which keeps the door sealed tight since it only opens inwards. That was my little show. The door wasn’t even locked.”

  “Oh.” Hargrod’s expression fell while Sranul roared at the deception and clapped him on the back.

  “Who says magic doesn’t work? It’s a good thing we have a thaladar along to help us with the heavy stuff, eh, Hargrod? And with the occasional joke. Who says thaladar have no sense of humor?”

  “And it iss alsso a good thing,” the embarrassed Zhis’ta growled, “that you can hop ass far and fasst as you can or I would tie those long earss of yourss in a tight knot.”

  “Teh, what’s this?” said the roo. “A Zhis’ta who can’t take a joke? And here I was thinking you had such a bubbly personality.”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Praetor forced himself to hide his grin. “Come on.” He turned and bent to step through the open portal. His companions followed.

  The room beyond was not as well lit as the reservoir. One would’ve thought the reverse would be true, but nothing in Shadowkeep went by the rules of the outside world.

  “What do you see?” Praetor asked his companions.

  Sranul was swatting at the air and brushing at himself. “Bugs.” He ducked as something small and super-fast shot past his head to enter the empty reservoir. They could hear it buzzing around in the mud as they moved further into the room.

  It was the smallest they’d yet encountered, but contained the familiar assortment of old furniture, most of it in disrepair. There were badly scuffed tables, chairs without legs, torn banners drooping morosely from the ceiling.

  “Here’s something—maybe.” Sranul wasn’t going to make any more predictions about his finds. He’d been wrong too many times already.

  Praetor and the others joined the roo in staring down at the chest he’d found. It was sealed but didn’t look particularly sturdy.

  “Wonder what’s in it,” said the roo.

  “Your gold and jewelss, no doubt,” Hargrod said mockingly.

  “Is that so? Well maybe they are, maybe they just are.” He reached to open it.

  Maryld put a hand on his arm. “Careful, friend. Remember what happened the last time you opened something.”

  “You mean the sword case?” He nodded at her. “You’re right. The rest of you move to the far end of the room.”

  “You don’t have to open it, you know,” Praetor told him worriedly, eyeing the chest.

  “I know, but what if the Zhis’ta’s right? I can’t take the chance. Maybe I’ll find another couple of goldens.”

  Praetor found a thick table, turned it on its side, and crouched down behind it. Maryld joined him, but couldn’t keep from peering over the top.

  “I have to see,” she apologized to him. “If the roo loses his head, there may still be knowledge to gain. I must watch.”

  Praetor shrugged, crouched lower. “It’s your head.”

  Hargrod refused to retreat, taking the suggestion as a personal challenge. If the roo wasn’t afraid of the chest, then neither was he. But he held himself ready to run. He was proud, but he wasn’t a fool.

  Sranul slipped his fingers under the upper edge of the chest, took a deep breath, flipped it up and over, and jumped ten feet straight back. Nothing came out of the chest. There was no flare of light, no all-encompassing flame to incinerate the curious. Praetor and Maryld slowly stepped out from behind the protective table.

  Cautiously the roo approached the open chest. He leaned forward, straining his neck to see inside without getting any nearer than necessary. Finally he walked right over next to it.

  “Nothing,” he snapped. “Some worn old armor, sticks and stones, a couple of cheap daggers, and cobwebs.” Putting both hands on the lid, he Slammed it down. “Where is the treasure!” He whirled, yelling at the silent walls. “I’m tired of tiptoeing my way from one danger to the next for a bunch of old garbage!”

  “Would you prefer a bunch of new garbage?” Hargrod taunted him.

  “Don’t toy with me, Zhis’ta. There’s supposed to be treasure in this bedamned fortress, and I damn well expect to find treasure. This is Shadowkeep, the most notorious pile of moldy rock in the whole world, and—”

  He let out a startled wheeze as Hargrod hit him in the ribs and knocked him sideways. The two of them rolled over and over. Meanwhile Praetor had thrown himself on Maryld in an attempt to shield her with his body.

  With his back to the chest, Sranul hadn’t seen the bulging orange-red blossom of fire which had erupted from the wood to engulf the entire chest in a ball of flame. Praetor kept his eyes shut tight. He could feel the intense heat against his back. He thought his skin was burning, then there was a violent explosion. The little room became as bright as midday.

  Heat and light dissipated rapidly. He turned and tried to find the chest. It was gone, along with the heat and light. There were no ashes, no blackened cinders, no skeleton of charred wood. The chest had simply gone.

  Hargrod rolled over and with great dignity disengaged himself from Sranul. The roo sat up and stared dumbly at the place where the chest had been only a moment earlier.

  “There was nothing in there,” he mumbled in a subdued tone. “Junk. Worn leather, useless weapons.”

  “And treasure.” Maryld dusted herself off, began straightening her hair. She smiled over at Praetor. “Thank you, Mister Fime, though in the future it would be nice if your demonstrations of chivalry were tempered with a bit less violence.”

  “Sorry. All I saw was that growing fireball. I didn’t know what it was going to do or how much time I had in which to do something about it.”

  “I’m not criticizing you. It was a brave and thoughtless gesture, typical of you.”

  And he’d thought she was criticizing him. Would he never figure the thaladar out?

  Sranul was examining the floor where the chest had been. He reached out and touched it, quickly drew his fingers back and shook them. The stone was still hot enough to burn, even though it hadn’t been blackened. Whatever had destroyed the chest had been no normal fire.

  “What do you suppose was really inside?” Praetor asked Maryld.

  “I’ve already said: Sranul’s treasure.”

  The roo gave her an indignant look. “What do you mean, treasure? I saw no
gold or gems, no pearls or fine woods.”

  “How do you know what you saw?”

  His expression darkened. “Thaladar, are you saying I lied?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying you were deceived. You saw only what you were intended to see. Do you not think Dal’brad would take care to disguise his treasure from any who might stumble across it?”

  Sranul mouthed the words slowly. “Disguise… his… treasure?” He blinked, shook his head confidently. “No. That was no treasure. In any case it doesn’t matter, because whatever was there is gone.”

  “What makes you so certain it’s gone?”

  The roo gaped at her. “You talk in riddles, like all thaladar.” He waved his hand through the air where the chest had been. “There’s nothing here. Nothing!”

  Maryld rested her delicate chin in a hand. “Think a moment, roo. A chest full of useless things is opened. You peer inside, ascertain what is there, and then dive for cover as it all vanishes in a most impressive ball of flame. What is that designed to do? To pique your curiosity further? Or to discourage you and send you on your way? No, the trick is neither to become frightened nor frustrated. Remember the vault door we encountered?”

  “The big iron door none of you wanted to try and open. Sure I remember it.”

  “It’s not worth trying to open, Sranul, because it’s too obvious. It says to any and all who find it, ‘Here I am, a barrier concealing something indescribably valuable, priceless, unique!’ One who has something to hide, roo, does not advertise its presence by placing it behind a door as big as a house. He secretes it in a small, unimpressive location, disguises it with everyday artifacts, and as a last resort, places deceptions in the path of the curious.” She nodded toward the floor where the chest had lain.

  “A clever deception, the jewel chest devoid of jewels. But thaladars are trained to see through such deceptions.

  We are not easily fooled. A good magician occupies the eyes of his audience with busy movements of one hand while quietly preparing his trick with the other. To find the source of the illusion one must learn to look beyond the obvious. The chest was a work of subtlety, but not the flame that followed. That was too obvious.”