“Thank you,” I whispered. A thousand other sentiments were left unvoiced, but you could see in his eyes that he heard them all.
“May God protect you,” he murmured, and he kissed me on the forehead. Tenderly, like a man might do with his own child.
Then, with a terrible heaviness in our hearts, we started eastward.
As we began to work our way slowly up the steep slope, I remembered the warning he’d given to us over breakfast.
The Shadowlords are insane. Never forget that. Their Gift is handed down from person to person, and it carries with it all the memories of its past owners. All their prejudices and obsessions, their hatreds and fears and uncertainties, poured into the brain of one who was born and bred to receive it, and who has been told from childhood that he must submit … think what that would do to a man! I’ve been told that some become lost in the process, that they wander about in a haze, unable to fix on a single identity or even a single time. Others appear to be more rational. But even with the latter, there’s still madness at the core of them. Dozens of ancestral voices clamoring inside their heads every waking moment, each derived from a Shadow who was himself insane. Madness layered upon madness, all of it trapped within a soul that must walk the borderline between life and death, committed to neither. Never forget what they are. Never forget that no matter how human they may appear to be, they ceased to be human long ago.
Little wonder Sebastian expected the worlds they controlled to rise up against them some day.
Hopefully we’d still be alive when that happened.
27
SHADOWCREST
TWO YEARS HAD PASSED since Isaac last approached the Guildmaster’s audience chamber, and he had forgotten just how long that final hallway was. The walk gave him enough time to reconsider his decision, though, and wonder about whether he should turn back before it was too late. Once the Guildmaster saw him that option would be lost forever.
At the end of the hallway was a pair of heavy wooden doors whose design he had studied in his childhood. There was a time when he could have identified every symbol carved into them, and recited the particulars of each world those symbols represented. Now, after two years of self-imposed exile, he found that his school memories were getting hazy. Or perhaps he was just so nervous about this interview that it was hard to focus on anything else.
The umbra mina who had arranged for his audience lifted the knocker and rapped down sharply; even from outside the doors one could hear how the sound echoed emptily in the chamber beyond. Isaac didn’t hear any signal come back from inside the room, but evidently his escort did, for the man pulled upon the heavy doors and gestured for Isaac to enter.
A tremor of nervous anticipation ran through him as he stepped forward. The audience chamber was vast—cavernous—and the sound of the doors shutting behind him resonated as if the place were a tomb. There was nothing in the room save a throne-like chair at the far end, adorned with images of ghosts and tormented souls … and of course, the man who was seated upon it.
Augustus Virilian, Guildmaster of Shadows, had been an impressive man even during his natural life. Now, with his black undead gaze fixed upon Isaac, fragments of lost souls circling about his head like an unholy halo, he transcended such simple adjectives as powerful and intimidating. Isaac had seen the Shadowlord a few times before, but never so close and never without family surrounding him. It took all his self-control not to turn around and flee from the room.
“Isaac Antonin.” The Shadowlord’s voice was a hollow, inhuman thing. For all of Isaac’s experience in dealing with the umbrae majae, the sound of it sent chills up his spine. “Your father said you would return some day. I told him he was a fool.”
Isaac bowed his head slightly but said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice to be steady.
“Why do you come to me, instead of him? Do you fear facing your family as an outcast? Do you come here to be reinstated first, so that they won’t reject you outright?”
“If it so pleases Your Lordship,” he whispered.
“And if it doesn’t please me? What then?”
When Isaac said nothing the Shadowlord stood up from the throne and approached him. A faint moaning sound seemed to ripple in his wake. “You’re the son of a prestigious bloodline, Isaac Antonin, and could have risen to be a great Shadowlord. Your family had high hopes for you. In time, the fate of a hundred worlds might have been placed into your hands—to guide, to protect, to assimilate. Few men could ever dream of more. But you ran from your duty like a frightened sheep, and in doing so shamed not only yourself but the entire Antonin line. So tell me now: Why should the Guild want you back? Why should those who share your lineage ever want to see your face again?”
Isaac drew in a long, slow breath; it bought him a moment to steady his spirit. He understood that the Shadowlord was testing him, and that any overt show of emotion now would be viewed as a sign of weakness, but that didn’t make this confrontation any easier. “I couldn’t have served the Guild properly back then. Not like everyone wanted me to. Yes, I went where I was told to go, and said and did all the things I was supposed to, and in that sense I did my duty … but my heart wasn’t in it.”
“And it would be now?”
He drew in another deep breath. “Yes, Your Lordship. If you allow me return.”
“I see.” The black gaze was merciless. “And what prompted this miraculous change of heart?”
Isaac had rehearsed the answer to that question all the way here, hoping he could make the words sound as if they flowed from him naturally rather than as something he’d spent hours preparing. “I needed to figure out who I was, before I could commit myself to serving others. I needed to learn what I wanted for myself, to know if I truly belonged here. I needed to know that if I dedicated my life to this Guild it wasn’t just because I was born into it, or because everyone expected me to follow in my parents’ footsteps, but because this was where I wanted to be.”
“Passion,” the Shadowlord observed dryly. “You wanted passion.”
Isaac felt color rise to his face.
“Strong emotions are natural for a boy your age, but that doesn’t make them any less of a weakness. So: for two years you wandered the world without discipline or responsibility, indulging every teenage impulse, chasing every rainbow that crossed your path … do you feel that experience will make you a better Shadow? Or a weaker one?”
“It will make me a more confident one,” he said sharply. Though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t let this man get under his skin, the characterization of his time in the Warrens as chasing rainbows raised his hackles. “Would you rather have a Shadow who hides his emotions from you but is tormented by inner doubts, or one who has faced his own strengths and weaknesses and knows what he’s capable of?”
For a moment the Shadowlord was silent. A thousand ancient voices might be clamoring for attention, for all Isaac knew, but in appearance the man was as quiet and still as a frozen lake. Even the whispers of the dead that normally surrounded him had grown silent, which was surprisingly disconcerting.
“There’s a reason we live as we do,” the Guildmaster said at last. “A practical reason. Preparing one’s soul for First Communion is no easy task. The less attached one is to this life, the more likely one is to be able to embrace other lives without tragedy.”
The words spilled out before Isaac could stop them. “I won’t be seeking Communion, sir.”
For a moment there was silence. The shadows surrounding Virilian grew agitated, spirits stirring in distress as they sensed a sudden change in his mood.
“There is no other way you can fully awaken your Gift,” he replied in an icy tone.
“I know that, sir.”
“Without Communion, your Gift will never mature. At best, you will have a stunted capacity. At worst … it might drive you mad.”
“I understand that,” Isaac said. The steadiness of his own voice surprised him. Inside, his heart was beating wildly.
<
br /> “You will never hear the music of the spheres within your soul. You may continue to hear the cries of the dead, but you will never fully comprehend them. You will never know the freedom of stepping through a Gate at a moment’s notice, without need for physical transfer or support teams. You will never know what it feels like to be the first to set foot upon a virgin world, to assess its value for our Guild, to have it bear your name forever. Some of our greatest explorers have come from your bloodline. Some of our greatest leaders, also. You would be abandoning their legacy, trading all that for the life of an animal in a cage. Albeit a gilded one.”
“I understand,” he said tautly.
“Is it that you’re afraid of what will happen to you if Communion fails? The Antonin bloodline is strong in that regard; I can’t recall the last time we lost one.”
“Fear is part of what drove me away originally,” Isaac said frankly. “But if I really wanted to be an umbra maja, I wouldn’t let that stop me.”
The Shadowlord’s expression didn’t soften, but Isaac sensed that the answer had pleased him. “Your family won’t approve of such a choice.”
He felt a knot within his chest ease slightly, as he realized he’d just gotten past the first hurdle. “That was why I ran away, sir. I didn’t have the courage to tell my parents how I felt, so I chose a coward’s course. Now I’ve come back to own up to my responsibility, and have that conversation. The question is whether I return to them as a Shadow in good standing, or as an outcast.” As if from a distance, he heard an edge of pain come into his voice; his hands balled into fists by his sides as he struggled to suppress it. “Family pride being what it is, that matters.”
“So you seek the sanction of my office first. Not for the honor that sanction would bring you, but to start you on your new path … the humble duty of an umbra mina.” There was a faint edge of scorn to his voice.
“Yes, sir. That’s what I came here for.” And then he added, in a slightly more humble tone, “If it please Your Lordship.”
The seconds that passed while the Guildmaster stared at him in silence were endless. Isaac tried not to think about Jesse. Tried not to remember the beauty of the mountain dawn he had shared with her, the caress of morning sunlight on his face, the strange, unaccustomed warmth he’d felt holding her hand. He didn’t want to lose those memories. And he would indeed lose them, if he ever accepted Communion. They’d be crowded out of his brain by a million colder, more “relevant” memories. The Isaac Antonin who had existed that morning in the mountains would effectively cease to exist, replaced by someone more knowledgeable and more powerful, but less him. He would never allow that to that happen, he swore. No matter what his family did.
“Very well,” Virilian said. “I accept your petition to return to the Guild of Shadows. Let me know when you are reconciled with your family, and I will speak to them about changing your course of study to reflect your new path.”
“And if they don’t take me back?” he asked quickly.
The Shadowlord shrugged stiffly. “You’re past the age of majority. Other arrangements will be made.” He paused. “Is that all, Apprentice Antonin?”
Isaac shut his eyes for a moment. “No,” he said quietly. “No, it’s not.”
Forgive me, Jesse. If you understood our ways, you would know why I have to do this.
He opened his eyes and met the Shadowlord’s undead gaze without flinching. “I have some information to give you… .”
28
SHADOWCREST
SHADOWCREST WAS EVERY BIT as creepy as I had imagined it would be. It was also considerably larger than Sebastian’s map suggested, which was not reassuring. Clearly the Shadows had expanded their stronghold since Sebastian had last been there, which meant that some of the areas he’d originally passed through might have been changed. Which meant that his escape route might no longer exist.
Another thing not to think about.
There were several buildings clustered along the ridge, the largest of them an immense stone Victorian Gothic structure whose every inch was dedicated to architectural excess. Arches within arches within arches. Emaciated spires thrusting up aggressively through the steeply angled roof, surrounded by smaller sub-spires. Thorn-like finials adorning every possible corner and edge. Narrow windows staring out at us with an anthropomorphic intensity that made my skin crawl. If you were looking for the perfect place to set a horror movie, this was it.
Or maybe it was just your average Victorian Gothic mansion. Maybe the fact that we knew what kind of horrors it represented made it seem more intimidating.
There were other buildings nearby, smaller and less opulent but built in the same general style. Two of those were on Sebastian’s map, so we knew them for servant dormitories, linked to the main building by underground passageways. The others must have been constructed more recently; their grey stone exteriors were of simple design, built for function rather than aesthetics. A volleyball net had been staked out in front of one, a disconcertingly frivolous note in an otherwise forbidding landscape. Of course, for all we knew the Shadows played volleyball with severed human heads. All this we observed by the low-angled light of the setting sun, which sent stark shadows lancing across the close-cropped lawn and turned the smallest, most innocuous tree into a sprawling, black-limbed monster.
We had taken shelter behind a low rise, which was as close as we could get to the complex without leaving the cover of the surrounding forest, and we lay full length upon the ground to stay out of sight as we studied the place. Never had I been so grateful for a chance to stop moving. The hike up to the crest had been long and strenuous, and there wasn’t a muscle in my body that didn’t ache. As for my injured ankle … well, it was still supporting my weight, which was a good thing, but the limitations of Sebastian’s healing fetter were becoming painfully obvious. I knew that if we got out of here alive I’d be off my feet for at least a week, and I’d probably need to sleep for at least twice that long.
Never had convalescence sounded so appealing.
We decided to wait until nightfall before trying to enter the citadel. The Shadowlords were sensitive to sunlight, and most of them spent their daylight hours underground. The prison facilities were located in the lowest level of an underground complex dedicated to their use, and during the day all the resident Shadowlords would likely be present. Once darkness fell, however, some of them would emerge to deal with aboveground business. We figured that every enemy who wasn’t underground was one less enemy we might run into.
Now the sun was setting, and soon it would be time to move. For the first time since we’d arrived in this world the magnitude of what we were planning to do truly hit home. Suddenly I realized how small the odds were that we’d come out of this alive, much less with Tommy in tow. Yeah, I’d known that all along, in a theoretical sense, but until now it had been possible to hold the knowledge at arm’s length. Like it was something I was reading about in a book, or watching on TV. The mind focuses on small details instead: the map in your pocket, the wards you’ve been given, your innate faith that the good guys will win out because, well, the good guys always win out. But now all of a sudden it was real. And there were no guarantees that anything would go the way we’d planned. Glancing at my companions, I realized I wasn’t the only one experiencing such a revelation. The color had drained from Rita’s face, and even Devon looked a little grey around the edges.
Suddenly we saw a pair of abbies heading our way, each one carrying a long wooden rod with a thin metal spike on one end. I tensed as they headed in our direction, afraid we’d been spotted. But then one of them stabbed his pole into the ground, and when he brought it back up it had a piece of crumpled paper was stuck to it. He plucked it off the stick and stuck it in the bag by his side. Trash collectors.
As they moved away, Rita whispered, “I want one of those sticks.”
“Yeah,” Devon whispered back. “Carrying those wouldn’t draw attention to us at all.”
The ab
bies went on their way and were soon gone from sight. The sun dropped below the horizon right after that, providing us with a brief but spectacular sunset view across the valley. Night quickly followed. A low-lying fog moved in, swallowing most of the stars and draping the surrounding mountains in mist, isolating us from the rest of the universe. We could see lights flicker on in a few windows—amber in the outbuildings, pale blue inside Shadowcrest itself—but fog blurred their edges, making them seem as if they were will-o’-the-wisps hovering in midair. The volleyball net flapped loosely in the breeze and for an instant its upper edge caught a stray beam of light, giving the motion a surreal quality, like the wing of giant bat.
“All right,” Rita muttered. “Time to get this show on the road.”
We rose to our feet and brushed the dirt from our clothing. Sebastian had given us burlap sacks to carry our stuff in, and we slung them over our shoulders in what we hoped was the proper manner for servants delivering supplies. The more we looked like people who belonged in Shadowcrest, the better the stealth ward would work. Of all of us Rita seemed to be the best at bluffing her way past trouble, so she pinned the silver fetter to her shirt, while I kept the brass one affixed to my own. I wasn’t letting the key to Tommy’s cell out of my sight.
Like all good Victorian mansions, Shadowcrest had been designed to allow its owners to go about their business without ever having to see a servant. That meant there were hidden passageways through which housemaids might carry fresh linens to the guest rooms, hidden staircases by which food could magically make its way from kitchen to dining room without a guest seeing it pass by, and below the service level, a veritable labyrinth of secret tunnels that extended into every wing of the Shadowlords’ private space, offering discrete access to nearly every corner of the underground complex.
Dreamwalker Page 26
