by Tim Stead
“I thought we were done with all this,” Sheyani said. “After the second great war I thought we would have peace.”
“And so we did,” Cain said. “For a hundred years. It is the peril of so long a life.”
“But what is the cause of it?” Sheyani demanded. “I see none.”
Cain didn’t reply, but he stood and went to a table where he poured himself a cup of wine and sipped it.
“There may be a cause,” he said.
“And you know what it is?” Sheyani asked.
Cain sipped his wine again, then quickly drank it down and poured another.
“It might be,” he muttered.
“Might be what?”
“Clever,” Cain said. “It might be so clever. If I had thought of it I might have done it.”
“What?” Sheyani was growing frustrated. Cain had seen something. His unorthodox mind had unravelled the problem again. She saw him smile.
“So bold,” he said. “But I do not know if I have guessed right. If I have, there will be no war, but the axe will fall.”
“Will you tell me?”
“I will,” Cain said. He sat down with his fresh cup of wine and cleared away a few things that stood on the small table beside his chair. “Look at this,” he said. “Imagine that this is Bas Erinor, and this is Golt, and this the border…”
37 Inevitability
Callista visited Rodric every day. Sometimes it was for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, but there was no doubt that his state of mind had improved after Sheyani had played her pipes for him.
It had happened twice.
That first day after taking her evening meal with Callista the Durander mage had walked back with her to Rodric’s apartment and played for him while he was in his drunken sleep. She had stayed for an hour, and even Callista, listening to the music, had been moved to think the world a better, more cheering place than she would have believed. She knew it was the music, of course, but even so the effect stayed with her for days. Rodric, too, had seemed comforted when he woke.
Sheyani had given her strict instructions.
“Feed him,” she said. “Make sure he eats as much as he can, and when he wakes give him plenty of water with some fruit juice mixed in. The kitchens will give it to you if you ask.”
“He won’t feel much like eating,” Callista said. She had been drunk once herself and still remembered the torture of the following day. She had felt nauseous the whole morning, and it was only late in the afternoon she had begun to be hungry again.
“He will be all right,” Sheyani said. “Once he starts to eat he will improve rapidly.” And so it had proved. Callista put it down to the magic of the pipes.
She told Rodric that Sheyani had played for him, and three days later he had asked her if she would try to make it happen again. Callista had asked, and was surprised that Sheyani agreed at once. She came over to Rodric’s apartment the same evening and after a brief conversation began to play once more.
Rodric fell asleep. Again Calista supposed it was the music, and he slept so peacefully that she left him there, propped up in a chair, when she left with the mage an hour later.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It is nothing,” Sheyani said. “Indeed it is a pleasure. There is little call for Halith skills in Col Boran, and I am glad to be able to help him.”
The next day was the day Callista met Kirrith for a second time.
That evening she came back to Col Boran and did not want to see Sithmaree so soon because she had promised to tell the Snake what had passed between her and the dragon, and she needed more time to think about what had been said. She went to Rodric’s.
He was sitting outside his eyes closed, leaning back in a comfortable chair.
She sat down beside him and for a while neither of them spoke.
“How are you?” Callista asked eventually.
“I mourn her,” Rodric said. “She was my only friend for all of my life – a true sister. But now I have another friend.” He looked across at her. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this last week,” he said.
“Oh you would have been fine,” Callista said.
“No. I think I would have killed myself. I had nobody, or so I thought, no home, no prospects, nothing. You have shown me that I can find a place in the world.”
“I did very little,” she told him.
“You were here.” He reached out his hand and took hers. “I will never forget that you were here when I needed you. Thank you, Callista.”
“I’m sure that you owe more to Sheyani’s music,” she said.
“She played because you asked her.”
Callista shrugged. Perhaps it was true. Sheyani had sought her out and found her here with Rodric.
He released her hand and sat back in his chair.
“She came to me in my dreams,” he said. “When Sheyani played she came.”
“Laya?”
“Aye. I don’t believe in ghosts. That’s all nonsense. The dead are elsewhere, or not at all, but when I dreamed, she was with me, and we talked. She told me to be strong, to look about me, that there was still a purpose for me to exist and that I would find it.” He smiled, a thin, weak smile for certain, but it was the first that Callista had seen since Laya’s death. “She came again the second time. We talked about things, and it was just like when we were alive and at home in Avilian.” He shook his head. “I know she’s dead, that it was just a dream, but somehow I feel that she’s still inside me, still a part of what I am. I don’t miss her as much.”
Callista was impressed, more than anything, by the subtlety of Sheyani’s magic. She had not distorted the truth, but she had provided comfort. It was a lesson to learn.
They sat and talked for a while, and evening came with failing light and a sunset that limned the mountain peaks with scarlet and gold.
Callista cooked food and they ate. She was reluctant to return to Sithmaree’s house because she was still thinking about what Kirrith had said. The more she thought about it the less it seemed she had a choice in the matter. No stars in the night, the dragon had said, and looking out across the plains as the stars began to drop their veils she could not wish that on anyone. It only remained to decide the time.
She knew that she should tell Rodric, but not now. He remained fragile. If he really had decided that she had replaced Laya as a sort of sister-friend, then he would be terrified of losing her, too. It was not a possibility, but Rodric would not believe that. Not yet.
She took her leave of him and walked slowly back down the paths that led to Sithmaree’s house. It was full night by now, but Pascha’s palace, her town, her streets, were never dark. There were lamps scattered about, and a small group of lamp lighters who rushed out in the evenings to make sure that nobody need stumble in the dark.
She had not gone far before she felt that someone was following her. There was no sound of footfalls, no movement in the corner of her eye, just the feeling of a presence pressing on her back.
She stopped and turned.
There was nothing there. The lamps showed her an empty path, or patches of it, surrounded by darkness. Yet she still felt the presence.
“Who is there?” she demanded.
There was no reply, and she stood for a moment longer staring into the night. It was odd, but she did not feel afraid. Whoever – whatever was watching her seemed more curious than hostile, but it was unnerving all the same.
She turned again and walked on. There was a roll of thunder from high above her. It was a cloudless night. She supposed it might be an avalanche. She had seen them during the day, a rush of cloudy white down a distant slope, and a moment later the rumble of thunder like a distant storm.
The presence behind her became more intense, as though it had closed the distance between them. Callista turned again.
Shadow.
She recognised the thing at once. It stood no more than ten feet from her in the full glare of a gutterin
g lamp, swallowing the light. She was at a loss what to do. She had no offering to make, nothing to give the thing.
“Hello,” she said.
Shadow did not respond.
“Do you want something?”
It moved a little closer, and she backed away.
“They are coming,” it said. She heard the words as clear as if it had whispered in her ear.
“Who?” she asked. “Who is coming?”
Shadow looked agitated. How, she could not have said. It was barely human in shape and had no features, but something about the way it stood…
A vast darkness passed over her head, and behind her the air stirred and popped. She turned once more, and was surprised to see Pascha standing ten feet behind her, a sword of flame and light in one hand.
Even as she stared at Pascha she heard the unmistakable beat of a dragon’s wing above her and looked up to see Kirrith setting down ten paces to her right.
Shadow seemed to crouch.
“Speak to me,” Callista said. She took a step towards it. Shadow reached out a hand towards her.
“You know,” it said. “I see. You see.”
“I don’t know,” Callista replied. “I truly don’t.”
“Then.” Shadow said. “The empty cup. The frozen woman.”
It stepped back, apparently content that its message had been delivered, but it was gibberish. She didn’t understand any of it.
“I don’t understand,” she said. Callista was acutely conscious that neither Pascha nor Kirrith had said a word. They were leaving it to her when surely either of them would have been a better choice to speak to this ancient remnant.
“Then.” Shadow said, and began to fade, becoming thinner, transparent, and wavering in the lamplight.
“Wait!”
“Then,” it said again, just a whisper as it finally dissolved into the light. A moment later is was gone and she was standing on the path looking at a dark shrub that had been behind it. She turned and looked at Pascha.
“I didn’t understand a word of it,” she said.
“You will,” Pascha said.
“How? How will I understand?”
Pascha shrugged. “I have no idea, but the words were meant for you and you alone. If you do not understand now, you will understand then, whenever then may be.”
“Eran Pascha is correct,” Kirrith said. “This is prophecy of a kind. Shadow is like any other shadow. It is in all places between the object that casts it and the place where it falls, but this one falls through time, and so it sees what you will see.”
Pascha looked at Kirrith, and Callista could see that there was tension there. These two did not absolutely trust one another. “It means more to you, Kirrith. Did you understand the words?”
Kirrith looked at Callista. “The words were not for me,” he said.
“But you understood them,” Pascha persisted.
Kirrith did not reply. The god mage looked annoyed. The flaming sword she had been wielding had vanished and she stepped closer to Callista.
“How did you know it was here?” Callista asked. “You both came so quickly.”
“Nothing that powerful can be in Col Boran without my knowing of it. I assume it is the same for our close-mouthed friend here.” She studied Callista for a moment. “You’re all right?”
“I am quite unharmed.”
“Well, that is something.”
“But…” Callista found the words, the irrevocable, inevitable words were reluctant to cross her tongue.
“But what?” Pascha frowned.
“I wish to be tested,” she said.
Pascha’s response was swift. “No,” she said. “Not you. I won’t permit it. I’ll not be responsible for your death.”
“The child is in no danger,” Kirrith said.
Pascha turned on the dragon. “How do you know that?”
“I am a dragon,” Kirrith replied. “I do not know how I know, but I do, and so does she.”
Pascha turned back. “You know? How?”
“It is the same,” Kirrith said. “In this small way she is like a dragon. She knows without a reason. It is a kinship.”
Pascha looked from one to the other. She laughed. “And I thought I was the all knowing one. You are sure? You will come to no harm?”
“I am certain,” Callista assured her.
“You will have to convince Sithmaree,” Pascha said. “I think she has grown quite fond of you.” She turned to face Kirrith squarely. “Know this, Kirrith. If you are proven wrong I will hold you entirely to blame.”
Kirrith bowed his great head. “So shall I,” he said.
38 Blood for Blood
Francis woke up in bed. It was daytime, and there was a smell of cooking bacon. He tried to sit up and fell back again. He felt weak, as though he had been in a sick bed for a month.
He tried again, levering himself up more cautiously. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grunting with the effort. He remembered being in Johan’s old rooms, the three men who had attacked them. He remembered healing Prince Rubel.
His head swam a little, and his mouth watered with the smell of food. He was ravenous.
“Calitanto.” His voice cracked on the word. He sounded like a plaintive old man, but it had the desired effect. Calitanto appeared in the doorway.
“You’re up, then,” the old soldier said. Francis could see weals and cuts on his face and hands, but he was smiling.
“Not sure I can stand,” he said. “Prince Rubel?”
“He’ll live.”
Calitanto came in and helped him to his feet, guiding him out of the bedchamber into the other room. He saw Rubel was on the floor, swathed in blankets and apparently asleep. There was blood everywhere and Calitanto had piled the bodies in the corner.
“We have to get out of here,” Francis said.
“Soon,” Calitanto agreed. “But I couldn’t move both of you. You need to get your strength back.”
“If they know where we are…”
“I don’t think so. If they did we’d have seen more of them by now. I think these three thought it would be easy and didn’t call for help.” He stared at Francis. “That was something, what you did. That was really something.”
Francis shrugged. “Food?” he asked.
The old soldier gave him a piece of buttered bread and he devoured it. Another followed, strips of bacon piled on top of it with a fried egg. He ate that, too, and began to feel better. His strength was returning more quickly than he had anticipated.
“Where will we go?” Calitanto asked. Francis hadn’t thought about that. This was the only place that was safe, or that he’d thought was safe. Now it was a trap. They would have to wait until night to dump the bodies in the river – it was only two streets away – and even then he was reluctant to stay. He had no idea how anyone had followed him, if they had. He’d been careful. Perhaps they’d guessed somehow, in which case Calitanto was right. They had to get out as soon as they could. But to where?
“I’ll have to take him to my place,” he said.
“Isn’t that a bit obvious?”
“Not if they think he’s dead. I’ll put it about that he was killed. That should take the hounds off the scent a bit.”
“How can he stay with you?”
“I’ll take him on as an apprentice,” Francis said. “It’s about time I had one at the forge. They’ll expect it of me. But we can’t have Ru… Jackan turning up the day after Rubel is supposed to have died. That’s too easy. We’ll have to put him back with you for a week.”
“I don’t like it,” Calitanto said. “Can’t he stay with one of your people?”
Francis thought about that. Nobody in Dock Ward had the space to put up another mouth, nor the money, truth be told. The only one he really trusted was Keron, but Keron was reckless. The general was a possibility. He could hide the boy easily enough, and had the power to protect him, but somehow Francis couldn’t bring himself to trust the man. The
general had seemed disconcerted that Rubel was alive, and if he had the boy prince in his power Francis would lose all control.
“No,” he told Calitanto. “It’s best we let as few people as possible know.”
“But if you want them to think he’s dead shouldn’t there be a body?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll say I want people to think he’s still alive, that I dumped the body in the river with the others.”
Calitanto nodded. “That might work,” he said. “How do you feel now?”
Francis stood up and flexed his arms and legs. “Much better. We’ll need a cart or a stretcher to move the boy. Is there any more food?”
“Aye, there’s a loaf to finish, and a sausage, and half a pound of butter.”
Francis went to the table and began to spread the butter on the bread. He cut himself a slice of the spiced meat. “Can you get a hand cart? There’s a man two streets down who’ll loan you one for a few coppers.”
“I can do that,” the old soldier agreed. He cast another look in the direction of his prince and then left the room. Francis waited until his footsteps had faded from the stairs and then went over to the boy.
Rubel looked pale, but he was breathing easily enough. Francis lifted his shirt and looked at the angry red scar on his belly. The real damage, he knew would be internal.
He placed his hand on the wound and tried to feel the injury. For a moment there was a spark, like a sliver of ice beneath his palm, then it faded. There was an answering surge of warmth down his arm, but he snatched his hand away. He wanted to be able to control this.
He tried again. Knowing what to expect it seemed easier. He felt the cold spike again and this time it didn’t fade. He held the sensation in his mind and tried to direct heat towards it. It worked, at least for a short while. He felt the warmth rush down into the prince and dissolve the ice. But it didn’t stop. Francis lost control again and had to wrench his hand away from the boy. His palm was sore, as though he had just slapped a stone wall, hard, but the pain faded.
Had he done the boy some good? He thought so. He went back to the table and ate more bread and sausage. He was hungry again, which he had expected.
