Shadowblood (Book Four of the Terrarch Chronicles)

by William King

As a child he had pointed out many fascinating things to her, had seemed remote and calm and the very epitome of what a civilised Terrarch should be. Only later, as she had come to understand the world of blood and shadows he had always inhabited, did she realise that was a mask, just one of many he had layered over his inner self.

  She walked through the ballroom, vast and empty save for some kitchen girls on their knees scrubbing the stone floor, and remembered the balls that had filled the place with music and light, and the intrigues, political and erotic that had taken place in the darker nooks and alcoves. She found herself touching hangings and vases as if to reassure herself of their reality, and the reality of the memories in which they had also been present.

  She moved to the huge sitting room with its large bay window and fine view of the street and saw that things had not really changed for other people as they had for her. Out there, the world went on, as it always did. Soldiers marched, nobles rode, merchants sold, thieves stole. Servants came and went, supplicants presented themselves at the doors of the more powerful.

  Out there, all was clamour. In here, all was silence.

  She knew there were things she should be doing, letters to be written, visits to be made. Great events were taking place, and she should have a hand in their shaping, but at this moment, she found it difficult to care. She wanted to stop for a while and think, to try and put things in perspective in a way she should have done long ago and never had. She wanted time and peace and stability and she knew those were exactly the things she could not have with a great orgy of violence about to sweep through the world.

  Briefly she considered what she had witnessed in the West and on the road. She thought of the refugees and the walking corpses and the stink of strange sorcery constantly in the air. She suspected that the Empress’s sorcerers had their hands in that. She could feel the foul magic hovering in the air over the city. There were plenty more like Jaderac to be found at Court, Terrarchs whose ambitions justified their using any means, no matter how loathsome to fulfil them.

  Yet for all the size of the Empire’s armies, and all the skill of its sorcerers, she was starting to wonder if this was a war it could win. The West was rich now in a way that it had not been a century ago, its Generals seemed more secure with the new technologies of war- with muskets and alchemy and cannon and all the other new instruments of destruction.

  The Scarlet armies had cut through Kharadrea like a sword passing through a bale of hay. Queen Arielle’s forces had responded to the threat of war with far greater swiftness and savagery than any of the Empress’s advisors had forecast. Their humans seemed loyal to the new order. Every intricate scheme that Arachne’s advisors had tried, from raising the mountain tribes to allying with Ilmarec, had been foiled.

  Her father, a most powerful sorcerer and assassin, worth a regiment at least on his own, was dead before the war had even begun. Without any pause it looked like the Scarlet armies were marching to meet the Purple. Where was the cowardice so many Sardean nobles had predicted when they saw how the Taloreans had backed down to their humans, granting freedoms and concessions at every turn?

  It came as a shock to her to realise how inward-looking and isolated her people were. Living on their great estates, surrounded by the mechanisms of religion and state that reinforced their prejudices, they had convinced themselves that their foes were weaklings and fools, and that, as representatives of the true ancient ways of the Terrarchs, they would inevitably triumph.

  It had been her fate to travel in the West and have her ideas challenged. She smiled sardonically. Of course, by her very nature she was forced to be more open-minded than her fellow Sardeans. Her basic training had undermined her faith in all orthodoxies. By virtue of birth, she had been forced to question whether any nation had a monopoly on virtue and of vice.

  Her father would have laughed at her doubts. He would have pointed out how necessary this war was for the cause and how the coming chaos would be to pave the way for the great enlightenment. Somehow, he had never been able to see that in many ways, the Western nations were more in keeping with his ideals than the Empire was. He and his people had started off by rebelling against the stultifying rule of the so-called Angels. They had wanted a more equal and open society where the grip of the old on power was released. His thoughts on equality and freedom had never applied to humans though. To him, especially as he had grown older and more dependent on his dark magics, they had been only cattle, incapable of real thought or real life. It was not something she could really accept. She had spent too much time around them to be able to dismiss them so.

  A servant knocked and then entered. On a silver tray she bore a letter. Tamara wondered who had sent it, for she had yet to inform anyone she had returned. Either a servant had talked or someone had the house under observation. Neither was surprising, really. It was common policy among many of the great Houses of Sardea. It did not even necessarily mean that one of her servants was a traitor. They might simply have mentioned the fact that the mistress was home while out shopping and been overheard.

  She picked up the letter and noticed the seal. It bore a two interlocked serpents, the sign of Xephan, Lord Ilea, an associate of her father’s, the present Prime Minister. She slit the seal with a knife and unfolded the page within. It was dated that day and welcomed her home before inviting her to pay a visit. He had heard disturbing rumours about her father and wished to discuss his fate. It was laced with code words used by the secret Brotherhood to which all three of them belonged that let her know she had no choice but to attend.

  She forced down a sense of outrage. Xephan was not her master, nor was he her father. He was not one to command her. She took a deep breath and composed herself. She conjured up a picture of the Terrarch in her mind -- tall, slender, with curly hair unusual for her people, tawny eyes with gold flecks. A careful dresser, fastidious, a sometime lover of the Empress who thought himself a poet. A sorcerer of great skill, a seeker after hidden secrets, an initiate of many mysteries. At one time Xephan had been a pupil of her father’s but latterly had come to be a rival and one whom her father had feared for all his insouciance. He was a member of the inner circle of the Brotherhood, privy to all its great secrets.

  The fact that he dared write to her in such a fashion told her much. He obviously felt very secure. For the first time she allowed herself to consider what the failure of her father’s schemes actually meant. Failure was not something that enhanced any Terrarch’s reputation, and the stakes had been high. Had rumours that her father had assassinated Kathea reached the capital already? His scheme to capture Asea in Harven had failed. The death of the Talorean candidate for the Kharadrean throne had been meant to redeem that- and would have, had he lived.

  She considered her options. The very nature of the way Xephan wrote implied a threat. She decided that she had better go and see him. Sending a servant to bring her pen and paper, she began to compose her reply in her mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  Set atop high cliffs, the Palace was as much a fortress as a royal residence, and as much a religious centre as either. Guards in Imperial purple stood sentry at gates warded by ancient portcullises and even more ancient spells. Tamara passed over pits spanned by bridges as she made her way in, her papers scrutinised at every watchpoint, even though they were signed by the Prime Minister himself.

  Security was even tighter than it had been before she had left. Kathea’s death had upset the Empress, understandably, given the nature of her own mother’s demise. Tamara suspected her father’s hand in that, from hints he had dropped, and she wondered just how complicit the old Empress’s daughter had been. Amarielle’s death had certainly come at a good time for Arachne. She had been out of favour and her mother had been about to announce her sister Arielle as heir. Perhaps her suspicious nature was a reflection of some guilt.

  Tamara smiled, wondering if the Empress were capable of such feelings. If the human serfs thought her a goddess, she more than matched their
opinion of herself. Her self-centredness was awesome even for a Terrarch.

  Don’t be so sour, Tamara told herself. Just because the Empress has not invited you to tea since your father’s departure from high office.

  There had been a time when Tamara was something of a favourite with the Empress and her courtiers, but at the time her father had been Prime Minister, so everyone courted his favour in any way they could. Things had been chillier since Malkior’s fall from grace, and perhaps the lack of an Imperial invitation reflected just how deep she was in disfavour herself.

  A chamberlain waited for her at the last guard station, warned by whatever discreet system of surveillance was in place. She could just picture messengers scurrying ahead as she was kept waiting at each checkpoint, bearing news of her arrival to Xephan. Then again, perhaps the Terrarch had simply been waiting for her to appear. She had arrived on time for her appointment. Under the circumstances a lack of punctuality would have served no purpose.

  The chamberlain bowed to her as she came up. She recognised Ryzarde, a friend of her school days, whom she remembered as something of a sensitive child. There was nothing sensitive about him now though. There was a smirk on his face, the look of one secure in his position dealing with someone not at all secure in their’s.

  “Dear, dear Tamara,” he said. “Such a pleasure to see you again. How is your father?”

  “I do not know. It has been some time since I have seen him,” she said.

  “I trust his…diplomacy… is going well.” Ryzarde was a member of the same cult as her father and Xephan. He knew what Malkior had been trying to do. “A terrible scandal about poor Jaderac, is it not?”

  “I do not think this is the time or place to discuss that,” said Tamara.

  “Quite. Quite. Your discretion is an example for us all.”

  “Gossip is the curse of the Terrarchy.”

  “True but it is also our main amusement. For the sake of your delicate sensibilities I will try and limit myself to neutral topics of conversation as we stroll arm in arm through the Palace.”

  Gallantly he offered her his arm. Tamara did not take it. Instead she fell in beside him and increased her pace slightly. She knew that Xephan had taken her father’s old ministerial office and she knew where it was. She did not need a guide and Ryzarde needed to be reminded of that.

  He talked as they walked, filling her in on the latest Court gossip; which of their old friends were having affairs, who had fought a duel over a human whore, which tailors were fashionable and which simply were not talked about. It was the standard stuff of courtier’s conversation and she was grateful for it. At least he had not quoted any of his execrable poetry to her. Without any further embarrassing incidents she was delivered to the outer chambers of her father’s one time office.

  It came as a surprise to her how crowded with petitioners they were. A number of older Terrarch matrons were there, doubtless come to use their influence on behalf of their sons, to seek the Prime Minister’s aid in finding them a place in a fashionable regiment, or under a famous commander. All of them glared at her as she entered, sensing a potential rival. She smiled sweetly back at them and composed herself to wait. She was quite surprised when Xephan’s secretary stepped from the chamber and called her name.

  Now some of the matrons smiled back at her. After all, she might have some power herself, or be a personage of some importance to the Prime Minister, a lover or a mistress perhaps. She nodded to one or two of them in a friendly fashion just to encourage their hopes and illusions, and then she stepped into the office and was face to face with the most powerful male Terrarch in the Empire.

  “Tamara,” Xephan said. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

  “And it is a pleasure to look upon you as well,” she replied, quite honestly. There was no denying that he was worth looking at. He was a Terrarch of quite astonishing beauty, his hair long and dark and glossy, his features sharp and masculine. Tamara could appreciate his looks with an unbiased eye. She preferred a somewhat rougher type herself but she could certainly see what the Empress was said to see in him. His good looks made up for the comparative poverty of his House, and the rustic upbringing he had spent the past century distancing himself from.

  He strode across to the door and made sure it was closed, then returned to his desk and uncovered the warding globe there. A few passes and an incantation and it glowed brilliantly, letting them know they could not be overheard by sorcery.

  “Your father was indiscreet,” he said, and she was surprised by the amount of anger in his voice. “The Empress is very unhappy. Killing Kathea has upset her greatly. I do not need to remind you, surely, of how any reminder of Royal mortality does that to her.”

  “How do you know my father was behind the killing?”

  “I have my agents. They saw his body by the way. Asea had him killed and dissected. Our Lady of the West is quite the anatomist.”

  So Xephan knew about her father’s death. A stony feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. It was confirmation, if she needed it, of what Rik had said.

  “Are you sure your agents are reliable?”

  “Indeed I am, sweet Tamara. I had one of them recover his head from where they buried it. Would you like to see it? I have it kept in preservative fluid to remind me of the cost of failure.”

  It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. She would not have believed it was possible to get from Halim any faster than she had, and yet, if he was to be believed, Xephan has managed to have her father’s head shipped here. His reach had grown very long indeed.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said calmly.

  “Your father’s incompetence, and his protégé Jaderac’s, has brought us all to the attention of the Inquisition. Joran is in Halim, making inquiries. There are matters afoot that the Brotherhood did not want brought to their attention for as long as possible.” There had been a time, not so long ago as Terrarchs measured time, when Xephan had been her father’s protégé too. He seemed quite determined to forget that.

  “Your spies have been busy,” she said, letting a note of amusement show in her voice.

  “I am the Empress’s first minister. It is my duty to know that such things are going on. It is your duty to let me know.” She studied him closely.

  There was something different about the way he talked to her, about his whole manner. He was more assured, more confident. It was as if he had stepped out of the shadow of her father and become wholly his own person. And there was something else, something she could not quite put her finger on, a subtle difference in the way he carried himself. He was more poised and graceful, seemed to have achieved the control of a dancer or a master swordsman.

  “Are you talking about my duty to the Empress or to the Brotherhood?”

  “Both.”

  “So you speak for the Brotherhood as well as Arachne now?”

  “The Council met when news of what had happened to your father reached us. It was decided that I would lead.”

  “I should have been there.”

  “Alas, you were not here, but do not worry, the meeting was quorate.”

  “It’s nice to know that you still consider yourself bound by the same petty rules as others.”

  “Do not be foolish, Tamara. We both know the Council’s decision merely reflects the realities of power. They support me because I am the best Terrarch for the job and because I have the most power.”

  “And if I disagree?”

  “Then you disagree, but your father is dead, killed by some half-breed apprentice, and I do not think you wish to set yourself against the Council.”

  In this he was right. The Council contained some of the most potent sorcerers in the Brotherhood as well as some of its richest and most influential members. She felt a growing sense of resentment. Xephan was taking too much for granted, and so were the others. Her father had founded the Brotherhood, and she was his heir. She should at least be consulted. Xephan too
k her by the arm, gently, as if seeking to mollify her. His grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Do not worry,” he said. “Your father did a most excellent job until his regrettable madness set in. We will see that his work is completed and the Enlightened Ones come to rule here.”

  There was a total and frightening assurance in his voice, and for a moment, it seemed to her as if something else looked out at her from behind his eyes, something ancient and wicked and not entirely mortal. She was reminded of Rik and what had happened to him, but whatever was in Xephan was both more Terrarch and less innocent than the half-breed youth had been.

  “How can you be so certain?” she asked, to see if she could goad him into speaking.

  “Because I am their messenger. I have looked into the Black Mirror and seen what lies beyond.”

  So that was what had happened, she thought. The Mirror had been centuries in the making, and now they had finally found the courage to use it. Had her father known about this, she wondered? And if so why had he not told her? The Black Mirror was the Brotherhood’s greatest artefact, a device intended to allow communication with Al’Terra.

  “That was my father’s role.”

  “Your father lacked the purity of spirit. His hungers soiled him and made it impossible for him to look into the depths.”

  “So you claim.”

  “So I know. Believe me, I now know more about these things than anyone in this world. More even than the likes of Lady Asea or Ilmarec or the other so-called sorcerers of the First.”

  There was a fearsome pride in his voice, and a resentment that she understood all too well. They had both stood in the long shadows cast by the First. For someone as ambitious as Xephan that must have been a hard thing to bear.

  “I have become greater than your father, greater than the Scarlet sorceress, and soon you shall see proof of it.”

  His fingers bit into her arm painfully now, and the malevolent thing behind his eyes looked at her with something like hunger. She began to feel a little bit afraid.