by L. Penelope
“But She has not weighed in on this demand,” Jack said. “And She has steadfastly avoided providing counsel to us on any matter at all. Each request for advice on decisions from small to large have been denied.” His voice was acerbic. The Goddess’s abdication of rule had been maddeningly complete. Her past weeks had been spent either at the temples or entirely absent, unable to be located by anyone.
Jack tapped a rhythm out on the arm of the settee. “The Council will no doubt want to consider all possibilities.”
Jasminda blinked rapidly, not believing her ears.
“I’m not saying that it’s a good idea, but as rulers we need to weigh every option.” His voice was conciliatory, but Jasminda couldn’t shake the dread overtaking her.
“You would consider bending to the will of terrorists?”
Jack clenched his jaw. “It’s not just the terrorists calling for two countries.”
“Yes, it’s the worst of the Elsirans. The nationalistic, small-minded people who think there’s such a thing as Elsiran purity. The ones being manipulated by an insidious cancer that’s already claimed dozens of lives this morning alone.” Her voice rose with each declaration.
Jack stared at her, eyes wide. So her anger hadn’t left after all. She turned to face Benn, who looked uncomfortable witnessing the disagreement between the two leaders.
She and Jack would discuss this later. “So why did you force poor Benn here to brave the dusty secret passages?”
Jack took a deep breath. She could feel his gaze lingering on her but couldn’t look at him right now. His voice was low and measured. “Do you think the Hand of the Reaper could be responsible for my brother’s death?”
Jasminda startled. Weeks ago, Benn had come to Jack to confide that his wife Ella believed Prince Alariq had been murdered. Her only proof lay in the memories of her dead sister, memories she’d been able to access via a magical spell. Benn hadn’t thought Jack would believe him. Little did the man know that the new king and queen were very well acquainted with magical memory spells.
Alariq had died in an airship accident—or so the nation believed. The idea that it had been murder had shaken Jack to the core. Ella believed that Syllenne Nidos, High Priestess of the Sisterhood, along with a mysterious man from Yaly were responsible for the killing.
Jasminda chanced a glance at Jack; his face was troubled. “The letter mentions further attacks, but also hints at past ones,” he said.
Understanding dawned. “If Alariq was murdered,” she said, “then it stands to reason it couldn’t have happened without at least the knowledge of the Reapers, if not their approval.”
“We have to assume they have their hands in everything,” Jack said, voice tight.
Benn stared at the ground, considering. “Ella is sure a Yalyishman was the one who approached Syllenne with the plot. If this Reaper group hates foreigners, then wouldn’t it be unlikely for them to have worked together or even approved of an assassination?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t track.”
“The truth is we have no idea of the identities of the Hand of the Reaper or anyone they may be working with or what they’re truly capable of,” Jack said. “I asked you to come in secret because, with the exception of Usher and Darvyn, the people I trust completely are those in this room. And I’d prefer to keep you as anonymous as possible to prohibit any reprisals. We have to assume that every institution from the Council to the constabulary is compromised.”
Benn nodded grimly. “I understand, sir. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to lead your own investigation into this. You can move around to places we can’t and you have connections we don’t. And your wife has proved very resourceful.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he chuckled.
“There will be another attack. We believe that the Reapers use independent cells. If we can find the people actually responsible for the bombing, that will get us closer to being able to stop another tragedy.”
Benn looked somewhat pale.
Jasminda was still upset at Jack’s willingness to even consider two countries. But her admiration and appreciation for the speed of his mind was greater than ever. She leaned forward. “It’s a big task, Benn, but I agree with Jack. There’s no one else we’d entrust it with.”
“It’s one I’m happy to do, Your Majesty. I just hope that I’m up to it. I promise I’ll do my best.”
She smiled. “I don’t believe any of us feel up to the roles we’ve been assigned. I certainly don’t. Your best is all we’d ever ask.”
Benn took a deep breath, which seemed to re-inflate his resolve.
“Thank you, Benn,” Jack said. “These times will sorely test us all.”
Jasminda felt that truth deep in her bones. As she sat back against the cushion, the smell of smoke wafted up from her hair. She wondered if it would ever leave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The seeker was uncertain, unconvinced of her talents, and wavering in her resolve. She begged the Mother to task someone else and lift this burden from her neck. But Melba the Judge raised a sapling in one hand and her axe in the other. “There is change and rebirth or there is death.”
—THE AYALYA
At the northwestern-most edge of Portside, Pier Road dead-ended in a vacant lot. No warehouses stood here, and the shoreline was too rocky for ships to safely dock. Massive boulders rose from the ocean to meet the edge of the mountain ridge that surrounded Rosira.
Darvyn took in the fresh scent of the ocean only a few dozen paces away. The black waves, sparkling in the moonlight, mesmerized him. The day he’d arrived in Rosira and seen the vast, unfathomable ocean spread out before him for the first time, he’d nearly cried. It still overwhelmed him.
“Strong as sand and weak as water,” he called out in Lagrimari. His voice carried to the two women and one man he felt waiting in the shadows of a small wooden shack. Upon hearing the code phrase, the figures peeled away and walked toward him. Darvyn raised his hand in greeting to Rozyl ul-Grimor, who stood at the head of the small group.
“Darvyn?” she asked, squinting at him.
“You look surprised to see me.”
“Didn’t expect the mighty Shadowfox to grace us with his presence is all,” she teased. “If the people knew who you were, there would be a riot.”
Since the fall of the Mantle, his alter ego, the legendary folk hero known as the Shadowfox, hadn’t been needed, at least by the public. There were no fields to plant here with his Song, no skirmishes with corrupt soldiers, no one to save from having their Song stolen, no pull on his incredible power. Until the temple explosion that morning, that is.
Rozyl turned to give a hand signal to the woman next to her, Sevora, who disappeared into the darkness, likely to do another scout of the area. The remaining man was Darvyn’s old friend Zango, who crossed his meaty arms in front of him, nodded in greeting, but remained silent. All had served in the Keepers of the Promise with Darvyn, fighting for freedom from the True Father’s rule.
“Considering what happened this morning, I wanted to be here—in solidarity. But do you really think all this secrecy is necessary? You know the king and queen won’t retaliate against a group of Lagrimari having a meeting.”
“You and I may know that,” Rozyl said, “but the people don’t. Not yet. Concealing the meeting is just a way to make them more comfortable to come out and speak their minds. And there’s the rest of the Elsirans to consider.”
She tilted her head and the moonlight illuminated the jagged scars on the left side of her face that had been made during a bobcat attack in her childhood, an incident she didn’t speak of. They gave her a fierce appearance, one backed up by the actual ferocity of her personality.
“Did you hear something?” she asked, her body preternaturally still.
Darvyn opened his Song. The dark, empty lot stretched out before them, hiding the gathering of close to one hundred people just beyond. “Sevora frightened a water rat. Are you the
one cloaking the meeting place?”
Rozyl gave a brief nod.
Sevora reappeared, giving the all-clear signal, and they gathered together. The energy from the nearby people beat a tempo in his head. The meeting was hidden from their eyes and ears by a clever spell the Keepers had been using for years. It required an Earthsinger to gain entry, and those attending tonight’s meeting had been instructed to approach in groups so that one of the few who’d retained their Songs could lead them in.
They walked a few dozen paces, and then Rozyl extended her arm straight out. Her fingertips brushed against gravel, causing a ripple. What had appeared to be an empty lot with nothing but crushed rock underfoot was revealed to hold a tent, gravel clinging to its exterior to make it look like the ground in the distance. The optical illusion was simple but effective.
The mirage pulled away like a curtain to unveil the tent’s interior. Darvyn and the others slipped into a crowded space filled with Lagrimari men, women, and older children packed in a tight spiral of bodies. A petite woman standing on a wooden crate at the center of the space held their attention.
“We will not trade one prison for another! We will not barter away our futures!” Talida was an elder of the Keepers. A middle-aged woman with steely, bright eyes, her silver locks were interwoven into thick coils streaming down to her waist. Her throaty voice thickened the air.
“We have just as much right to be in this land as anyone else. Our ancestors transformed the earth beneath our feet from desert to plentiful. It is only through the treachery of one of them—the True Father—that we were separated from this land. Why should we be cast off to some far-off corner with scraps and told to begin anew?”
Shouts of agreement rose from the crowd.
“Why not open the doors of employment instead of slamming them in our faces? Why not allow us to fill in the gaps here? We are a hardworking people; we are not looking for handouts because we are lazy. The doors of acceptance rattle in their hinges from the force used to shut them!” A chorus of cheers rang out.
“And what of justice?” Talida continued, when the crowd died down. “It cannot be put off forever. Why has no one seen the True Father?”
She paused to spit after saying his name. Many others in the crowd followed her lead. “They say he rots away in the deepest part of the dungeon, but it has been weeks since any have beheld him. Where are the Cantor and her agents? Those who have terrorized us for generations? What of the trials we have asked for? When will we see the villains punished?”
Shouts and applause sounded as Darvyn began working his way through the throng. Talida’s words were rousing, but something about them sent a sliver of unease down his spine. Still, it warmed his heart to see so many of his people here, looking well fed and full of hope, regardless of their meager circumstances.
He made it a quarter of the way around the outside of the crowd when a familiar gravelly voice stopped him. “Didn’t think you’d make it here tonight, oli.”
Darvyn turned to find Turwig ol-Matigor leaning casually against one of the tent’s support posts with his arms folded. An observer would simply see a grizzled old man dozing off in the back. But Darvyn knew better. Turwig was the closest thing Darvyn had to a father. He had been the one to take him from his mother’s home when the True Father’s threats against him forced her to seek safety for her son among the Keepers. Turwig had taught Darvyn everything, and Darvyn had always considered him family.
But the elders had kept him from his mother, purposefully, seeking to sever his connection to her and hone him into a tool for their use. That revelation had left him unmoored, floating adrift from everything he’d once thought to be true. He looked upon the old man differently now.
“Why is everyone so surprised I’m here?” Darvyn muttered.
“You have to admit, you’ve been scarce.”
“Do you blame me?” Darvyn arched a brow. Turwig had the decency to look somewhat abashed. Darvyn wasn’t certain he’d been one of the elders who’d kept his mother away, but the old man must have known about it.
Another round of cheers rose from the audience as Talida finished her speech. Darvyn turned to watch her climb down from the crate. She was aided by a scowling man with a bushy beard; Darvyn held back a groan. “I was hoping Aggar would be otherwise occupied tonight.”
“Where else did you think he’d be, oli?” Turwig gave a wry grin.
“Literally anywhere else.”
The old man snorted.
Aggar climbed onto the crate, which barely looked able to hold his weight. “What do we fight for?” he cried.
“Justice! Justice! Justice!” the crowd responded. Darvyn moved off to get closer to the makeshift stage.
“The streets must run red with the blood of the monsters who starved us, who stole our children, who enslaved us!”
The responding voices grew frenzied.
“Every pay-roller who benefitted from our suffering! Every Enforcer and Collector! Every Golden Flame!”
Aggar’s gaze locked with Darvyn’s, and a dangerous light appeared in the man’s eyes. “I believe that we have with us tonight someone who many of you will want to hear from.”
Darvyn froze. He reached out with his Song for the other man’s emotions. Excitement. Eagerness. A thread of animosity directed at him that was even stronger than normal.
“Throughout the bleak years, there was one figure shining in the darkness, defying the madness of the ruling regime and sparking hope in all of our hearts.” Aggar’s voice was rich and engaging, so different from his corrosive personality. The listeners hung on every syllable.
“The need for secrecy is over, the time for hiding done forever. I cannot allow us to go to our beds without giving you the gift of meeting the Shadowfox.”
A gasp rose from the audience. People looked around, trying to figure out who among them was the legendary rebel.
The identity of the Shadowfox had always been protected for Darvyn’s safety since the True Father had been after him his entire life, eager to steal such a powerful Song. But no one had reached out to Darvyn about announcing his identity at this meeting.
He looked back at Turwig. The old man’s facial expression did not change, but Darvyn felt the denial of his knowledge of this in his dark gaze.
Aggar’s eyes glinted in challenge as the assembly became more and more excited at the prospect of finally meeting the famed Keeper. Though only a few years older than Darvyn, Aggar had been raised to the level of elder, a distinction the man had earned, but one that still rankled. Now he was provoking Darvyn, creating a spectacle. He could simply leave, refuse to play this game of Aggar’s. Making himself known now, without a plan or considering all the consequences, wasn’t wise.
But the crowd vibrated with hope and energy, and by the smirk Aggar wore, it was clear he expected Darvyn to duck out and disappoint everyone. Perhaps he thought such a thing would bring the Shadowfox down a few notches in the eyes of the people. Jealousy pulsed through the man’s other emotions.
Wise or not, Darvyn made the decision. Aggar’s years of baseless mistrust could not triumph here.
Darvyn had worked in darkness and stealth his entire life; now he would step forward into the light. With a deep breath, the weight of expectation once again on his shoulders, he made his way to the center of the gathering.
Nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed, Aggar stepped down from the crate to stand next to Talida. His shock and anger beat a cadence against Darvyn’s senses. Darvyn brushed by him and took his place.
The wood creaked beneath him, but if it had held Aggar’s heavier weight, it would hold him. He looked up to find every eye trained on him.
Fear ballooned in his middle. The quiet stretched on and on.
Then the audience began to cheer.
Shouts and applause lasted for several minutes. Every time Darvyn raised his arms to quiet the people, the jubilation only increased. He caught sight of Rozyl, Sevora, and Zango in the back. The connec
tions to his trusted friends set him at ease as he waited for the audience to quiet down.
“My name is Darvyn ol-Tahlyro, and I am the Shadowfox.” The cheers began again in earnest and took even longer to die down this time.
“Though you never saw my face, I have met and aided many of you. It was my honor to do so. I am … humbled by your regard and grateful for your attention. It has been a long journey up to this point.” He scrutinized the careworn faces looking up at him. “Much has been lost, but there is also much to be gained here. I look forward to our future in this new-old land of our origin.”
Zango began to clap and others followed suit. Darvyn didn’t know what else to say. He’d never had cause for public speaking before.
“What does the Shadowfox have to say about our benefactors?” Aggar shouted from just behind him.
Darvyn clenched his jaw. What was he playing at? “I … I urge patience. It has only been a few weeks. Housing is being built. And schools. The call to separate us into another land is only being broached by a few. The king and queen support unification. As does the Goddess Awoken. The Sisterhood and many others are coming to our aid. Jobs will come. Our battle against the True Father was not won in a night and neither shall be our integration into this new land.”
The audience nodded and murmured their assent. Many Lagrimari had fallen into the reverence of the Goddess Awoken in the past weeks, now that they were free to worship as they chose, while many others were still circumspect of organized religion.
“I encourage everyone to learn the Elsiran tongue. To not engage those who would speak poorly of us and hold fast to the knowledge that the Goddess would not have led us here if things were not going to improve. Already the weather is better, is it not?”
Laughter rang out.
“Our place here is being created. We will not have to wait forever, but we must give them time. The king and queen are aware of our needs. Neither they nor the Goddess will abandon us. Thank you!”
He jumped off the crate and was immediately surrounded by people patting him on the back or greeting him with fingers pressed to his forehead.
