Beyond the Shadowed Earth

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  “Well?” Niren prodded, actually looking up from her work to catch Eda’s eye. “What happened at the council? Did Rescarin steadily undermine you while Domin drooped with love and Lohnin frowned over his awful beard? Did Princess Dagger Eyes try to murder you? Did Prince Silver Ear propose?”

  This was enough to shake her from her reverie. Eda laughed. “You’re not far off. No proposal, but Prince Ileem did ask to speak with me, alone.”

  Niren gave Eda a wicked grin. “Alone, hmm? Must have been all that dancing last night. Tell me everything!”

  Eda did, glossing over the prince’s mention of his vision and his vow to Tuer. Niren listened with interest, the manuscript forgotten.

  “Do you think you’ll sign a treaty?” Niren asked. “Is there any possibility you’d consider marrying him?”

  “Gods’ hearts, no! I’ll do just enough to appease them and then send the Denlahns home.”

  “Meeting them doesn’t change your mind about war?”

  Eda looked at the illuminated manuscript again, not able to tear her eyes away from that image of Tuer. Had it changed her mind? It was easier, certainly, to think of sending a ship filled with soldiers across the sea to conquer a land she’d never seen, a people she’d never encountered. She’d always considered it part of her vow—expanding the Empire, building temples in every province, compelling all the world to return to the gods. But as Ileem’s own vow proved, Denlahn was not the backwards, godsless nation Eda had always thought… . Perhaps war wasn’t the answer. Perhaps it never had been.

  The light from the glass dome ceiling grew suddenly dim—a cloud must have passed over the sun. But when Eda glanced out the window, the sky was clear, sunlight refracting off the spired towers, heat shimmering in waves above the rooftops. She repressed a shudder. Why had it grown so dark?

  She left Niren and went over to the window for a closer view. If she squinted just right she thought she could see a crack splintering through the air, a host of winged spirits flying toward the sun. But then she blinked, and there was nothing.

  She turned and stifled a scream.

  Shadow Niren hovered at real Niren’s shoulder, limp hair brushing her living counterpart’s smooth skin, the marks of Tuer’s fingers glowing like live coals on her brow.

  The sun was at its zenith by the time Eda rode out of the city, a single guard on horseback accompanying her. Sweat ran into her eyes and pricked at the back of her neck. Heat spiraled up from the ground in waves, yesterday’s rain all but forgotten. Eda swiped a hand across her forehead and nudged her red mare, Naia, toward the mountains that marched across the desert like a scattering of jagged spearheads. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to get to the sacred pool and back before nightfall.

  Good thing Naia was the fastest horse in the Empire—she’d won the races at the Festival of Uerc a few years back. Eda kicked the mare into a run, not sparing a backward glance for the mounted guard a few paces behind her. She leaned into the wind, letting it wrap around her, trying not to think about her vision, trying to squelch the horror of seeing Niren’s ghost, of those telltale marks left by Tuer’s fingerprints. The gods were taunting her. Showing her what would happen if she failed.

  But she wasn’t going to fail. She refused to fail.

  Eda spat a curse into the wind and urged Naia even faster.

  An hour later, Eda and her guard reached the foot of the mountain, where an ancient stone stair wound upward, out of sight. Eda swung off her mount and handed the guard her reins. “Wait here,” she told him, five steps up before he could object to her going alone.

  It was cooler in the shadow of the mountain, a little breeze fanning her face and bringing with it the scent of sagebrush and wild jasmine. The climb wasn’t difficult, but it took another half hour before she reached the top of the stair, where a small courtyard led to an ancient shrine built into the side of the mountain. The stones were weathered and overgrown with vines, the images carved into the pillars so worn they were unrecognizable.

  Long ago, the shrine had been dedicated to the river god Hahld, built as it was around an underground spring. Eda could hear it now, burbling from inside the mountain: the sacred pool. It was a common place for petitioners and pilgrims to come and seek the gods, even after the old Emperor had abolished religious practices. In centuries past, Enduenan royalty had bathed there the morning of their coronation—Eda had revived that tradition. The pool had been as freezing as the godless void, and when she’d stepped from the water, a weathered old priest had blessed her.

  There weren’t any young priests, not anymore. That was one of the things she was working on changing, one of the ways she was serving the gods and fulfilling her vow. She had started an informal school for future priests and priestesses, setting a handful of young men and women to study ancient library texts for hours every day so they’d be well versed in sacred duties and traditions.

  The gods just had to give her the chance to finish the temple, and then she could put them to work in earnest.

  Eda crossed the courtyard and stepped between two worn pillars, descending a few shallow steps to the edge of the pool. Dark water lapped over her sandals, washing the dust from her feet with icy, whispering fingers. She peered across the pool to the other side of the shrine. “I would speak with you.” Her voice echoed strangely, bouncing off the walls and the surface of the water and wobbling back to her. She drew her dagger and slashed it across her palm, pain sharp and sudden, blood hot and wet. “I would speak with Tuer. Or Hahld, if Tuer cannot come.” She trembled at the names of the gods—did that brief glimpse of Tuer yesterday and Ileem’s recounting his vision make her think he would just appear at her command?

  She squeezed her hand together, blood dripping into the water, and waited. Her toes grew numb; the stale, damp air seemed to choke her breath away.

  A light flared in the dark, and the priest who had presided over her coronation peered at her across the pool, his face lined and spotted with age, his hair limp and ragged. He wore robes in the ancient style, wound about his torso and hanging loose to the ground, girded with a length of leather cord. He lived up here all alone, a hermit and caretaker of the sacred pool. She couldn’t begin to guess his age, and he had no name that she had ever heard of.

  “Tuer is not here, child.” In stark contrast to his frail appearance, the priest’s voice was strong as the mountain. “Nor Hahld either. They are both of them bound, far away: one in stone, and one in water. What do you want with them?”

  Eda wiped her palm on the thigh of her loose riding trousers and waded into the water. It lapped up to her shins, then her knees and her waist, soaking her trousers, washing over her bare midriff and the bottom edge of her beaded silk top. She stopped in the center of the pool, ignoring the cold and the pain in her hand, her feet sinking ankle-deep in shifting sand and mounds of long-forgotten petitioners’ coins. “I want Tuer to tell me that a few missing stones won’t cost my friend’s life. I want him to tell me that the vision I saw today will not come to pass.”

  The priest studied her in the wavering light of his candle. “What does Tuer care for a little girl who plays at being Empress?”

  Rage coursed through her, but she hadn’t come to let this wretched priest make her into a fool. “Tuer made a deal with me.”

  “Impossible. Tuer has not been seen in this Circle of the world for millennia.”

  Her anger burned. “I saw him.” As had Ileem.

  “You saw his Shadow, perhaps, a sliver of himself. But the god is gone, child, chained in his mountain far away. If you wish to speak with him, you will have to find him.”

  “If you won’t help me, old man, I’m not going to waste any more time.” Eda turned in disgust and started sloshing back through the pool. Her palm pulsed with pain.

  “Something burns inside you that was never meant to be there,” said the priest quietly. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

  She jerked around again, heart unaccountably pounding. “What are y
ou talking about?”

  The priest’s face creased suddenly, as if he was in pain, and his eyes rolled back into his head. The candle fell from his hand and landed, sputtering, on the stone. Somehow it seemed to flare brighter than before. “The world is broken,” the priest whispered. “The Circles are closed and they cannot get through. They’re trapped in the dark. The sun will be swallowed. Time will end. All will turn to shadows and dust.”

  In one swift movement, the priest stepped into the pool and grabbed her arm, hauling her toward him, his strength startling and fierce. Now his eyes met hers, and they blazed with light. “Seek the god. Fulfill your vow. Unlock the doors.”

  “Get off me!” Eda wrenched herself from his grasp. Her skin burned where he’d touched her. “What do you think I’m doing right now? I am seeking him. I am fulfilling my vow. What about Niren? What about my temple and the Empire?”

  The priest shrank into himself again, his eyes dull and blank. He studied her impassively. “You came seeking answers. That is your answer.”

  “Will Niren die?” She hated how her voice shook, how the words choked out of her. “Will the gods take her from me? Will she—will she turn into her shadow self?”

  “Seek the god,” the priest repeated. “Fulfill your vow.” For one brief moment he brushed his fingers across her forehead and she felt a flare of heat. But then he withdrew his hand and stepped out of the pool, vanishing into the darkness.

  Eda slapped the water and it splashed up into her face. It touched her lips and tasted bitter.

  Chapter Six

  EDA ARRIVED BACK AT THE PALACE JUST as the sun disappeared over the western horizon. She was dirty and tired and angry, and her hand gods-damned hurt, blood still slowly seeping from the wound; she hadn’t had time to bandage it properly. She could taste the grit of her long and fruitless ride, feel it caked on her skin. She longed for a bath. Huen take the doddering priest and his cursed riddles to the depths of the earth—she’d wasted nearly an entire day.

  A young female attendant met her at the door, obviously flustered. She couldn’t seem to look directly at Eda, twisting her fingers in the loose material of her silk trousers.

  “What is it?” Eda snapped, coming up the steps and sweeping past the young attendant. It was cooler inside, the arched halls and marble floors helping to circulate the air and keep the heat at bay. Down the corridor and around a corner, Eda saw a flare of orange—another attendant, lighting a lamp.

  The attendant’s eyes found the floor, and her knees started shaking. She mumbled something incoherent.

  “Speak clearly to your Empress, girl!”

  “Your Barons have been in the council room with the Denlahns all afternoon. They’ve—” Her whole body started shaking. “They’ve signed the treaty,” she whispered.

  Eda went cold and, for an instant, shock outweighed her fury. Then she straightened her spine, staring at the quivering attendant and felt her rage burn. “Where is he?”

  “Who, Your Imperial Majesty?”

  “Baron Rescarin. Where is he?”

  “In the dining hall, Majesty. The court has—the court has just sat down to dinner.”

  Eda’s fingers coiled tight around the hilt of her dagger, and the girl gasped and scrambled backwards, pressing up against the wall of the corridor. Eda looked at her in disgust. “I’ve not yet stooped to slitting the throats of servant girls, you sniveling creature. You’ve delivered your message. Now get out of my sight.”

  The attendent bowed and was gone in the space of a heartbeat.

  Eda strode into the dining hall ready to murder Rescarin.

  He was sitting on the right hand of her empty seat at the head of the table, the Denlahn ambassador beside him, the prince and princess opposite. An uncorked bottle of what Eda recognized as the late Emperor’s centuries-old vintage lay half empty at Rescarin’s elbow, which shocked her unduly—the Emperor himself had reportedly touched it only once a decade.

  Eda swept up to the table and grabbed the bottle, corking it firmly. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, past caring to present an aloof exterior to her Barons.

  Rescarin eyed her mildly, lifting his glass in her direction. “Toasting the signing of our treaty with Denlahn, of course, Your Majesty.”

  Eda could practically taste her anger. “You have no right to sign a treaty in my name.”

  “Oh, not to worry, Your Majesty—we have left the marriage clause up to you, to sign or not, as you wish.” He smiled, smug as the viper he was, and patted her arm like she was still the child whose province he’d snatched up before her parents’ bodies were even cold.

  She drew a sharp breath, the rage eating her up from the inside. “No treaty can stand unless it is affixed with the Imperial seal.”

  Rescarin swirled the wine around in his glass. She stared at the priceless liquid and imagined it was his blood. “You can affix it in the morning, my dear. But tonight is for celebrating the long overdue cessation of hostilities between our two nations. Have a seat, won’t you? Join us.”

  His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, and Eda was suddenly aware of the other courtiers seated around the table, watching her, waiting to see what she would do.

  She glanced at Prince Ileem, who raised one eyebrow, the expression on his smooth face unreadable.

  Rescarin smiled, saluting her with his wine glass as if to say, Your move.

  She didn’t deign to answer, just strode from the hall without another word.

  Exhaustion was making Eda’s ears buzz by the time she shimmied down the roof of the guest wing and arrived at Ileem’s window. She’d bathed, changed, and eaten in her chambers, then stopped to briefly check on Niren before clambering up on the roof. She rubbed at the grit in her eyes—if she didn’t sleep at least a little tonight, she would be absolutely useless tomorrow. Eda rapped on the window frame and crouched on her heels to wait, cursing the limitations of mortality.

  Ileem appeared after a moment, a silver dressing gown tied about his slim frame. He raised his eyebrows at her sudden appearance, but gave no other indication of his surprise. “Come in, Your Majesty.” He sounded amused.

  Eda stepped lightly through the window, ignoring Ileem’s proffered arm. She settled herself on a blue velvet couch with carved ivory legs that sat facing an empty fireplace, running her fingers through the waxy leaves of a potted orange tree that stood to her left. Ileem took the matching armchair adjoining the couch, then crossed his legs and folded his hands over his knees. He regarded her with mild interest, clearly waiting for her to speak first.

  “I have one condition,” said Eda, without preamble.

  “Just one?”

  “My Barons have halted construction on the new temple. I need you to help me finish it by the Festival of Uerc.”

  “That’s mere weeks from now. Why must it be completed so soon?”

  Eda plucked an orange—it was small to suit the size of the potted tree, and fit easily in the palm of her wounded hand, which she had properly bandaged after her bath. She took the dagger from her waist and began to peel the orange, slowly. “Enduena forsook the gods during my late father’s reign—I mean to reinstate them. The temple—” She paused, deliberating how much to tell him. “The temple is part of a vow I made at my coronation.”

  “A vow to the people?”

  The orange peel fell from the fruit and coiled into her lap like a tiny bright snake. “A vow to the gods. To Tuer—to your Rudion.”

  Ileem stiffened and leaned forward in his chair. “Then we have both treated with him.”

  She brushed the peel onto the floor and tore the orange in half. She handed one half to Ileem and kept the other for herself. “Tell me about your vow. What did you offer him? What did he promise you in return?”

  He fiddled with his orange while she tore off slices and ate them until they were gone.

  “I was twelve when I made my first vow, as I told you yesterday. My mother had always hoped her youngest son would se
rve the gods, not be consumed with vengeance and war like my father and my brothers. But her vow alone could not bind me. I chose it for myself.

  “I went to our temple, and I shaved my head, and I knelt on the stone floor for nine nights and nine days, neither eating nor drinking. The gods’ wills alone sustained me. Every morning I sliced open my palm, spilling my blood into the dust, begging Rudion to come, to take me for his own, to mark me. And at last, he did.”

  She could hardly breathe. “What did he look like?”

  “A tall, shadowy figure with bright eyes that pierced me down to my core. He accepted me as his servant. He touched my ear with fiery fingers, burning the gods’ own mark into me.” Ileem eased the silver cuff off his ear so Eda could see the scorched, mangled flesh concealed underneath. “I collapsed after he touched me, and when I revived, I commissioned the metalsmith to craft cuffs for my ear, so I might always remember my vow.” Ileem fitted the cuff back on. “Each one is engraved with Rudion’s name in the old language and prophesizes my death by the blade if I ever deny him what he asks. I am his servant indeed—his arm, his mouth, his oracle to the mortal world. I am bound to do his will as long as there is breath in my body.”

  Juice from the orange clung to Eda’s chin and fingers and stained the stark white of her bandage. “You’ve told me he wills peace with Enduena. Will you help me?”

  He tossed his own half orange up into the air and let it dance over the back of his knuckles, all the while his eyes never leaving hers. “What did you bargain?” he asked quietly.

  She forced herself not to look away. His words burned through her. “My life in service.” It was the truth, or part of it.