The Shadow Reader ml-1

by Sandy Williams

  No. No way. I am not losing like this.

  I reach down to the bed of rocks beneath the picnic table and pick up the largest one I can find. It’s sharp on one end, and as I straighten, it takes all my self-control not to chuck it at Aren’s head. I don’t have time for that. My memory of the shadows is fading fast.

  I face the two fae sitting on the table. “Move.”

  They glance at the rock in my hand, at each other, then back at me. I’m about to shove them both off the table when they scoot off its edge and stand out of the way. I fist my rock pointy-side down in my right hand and begin to carve the shadows. The wood is old and damp with humidity. It gives way to my makeshift knife. I sketch quickly, seeing the shimmers and shifts of the shadows in my mind’s eye. I draw the curve of a river down the craggy side of a mountain. A village lines its west bank, but that’s not where Trev fissured to. He’s somewhere in the farmland on the opposite bank.

  My map’s scale changes when I narrow his location down to a smaller area. I focus in on that, trying to remember distinguishing features in the shadows. There was an orchard, I think. Right there.

  I mark the spot, but I have no clue if Trev is in the orchard or in the farmhouse half a mile away. Where is he? Where?

  The shadows tell me nothing, and a moment later, they vanish from my memory. Shit. In frustration, I stab my rock into the orchard.

  Wait. I focus on my map.

  A rock in the orchard.

  Yes.

  I pick up my rock to scratch an X near the edge of the orchard.

  “He’s there.” I point. “Near Carbada.”

  As soon as I voice the name of the city, Aren’s grin vanishes. I don’t know which of us is more surprised. He’s visibly stunned, but I’m downright astounded because I know the location that magically locked into Aren’s mind isn’t just within a hundred feet of Trev’s location; it’s practically underneath his boots.

  Holy crap, I’m good.

  I push away from the picnic table, and with an unwavering gaze and a little attitude, I tell Aren, “That’s what I’m worth.”

  He sets Sosch on the ground. The whole camp must be shocked, because nobody says a word, not even Lena, who’s still staring at my scratched-out map.

  “Have a nice life,” I say, and then I turn on my heel and head for the narrow trail that brought me here. I keep my spine straight, my chin up, but I’m half expecting a dagger to be thrown at my back. I listen for the sound of metal sliding free of a sheath, but hear only the wind, the chirping of crickets, and the shuffling of feet. I’m almost to the tree line when Aren finally speaks.

  “Stop her.”

  I wince but continue walking until a fae cuts off my path. He reaches for my arm, but stops just short of touching me. I can’t outrun him. I can’t fight him. With a sigh, I return to Aren.

  I meet his eyes. “Glad to know you’re a man of your word.”

  “I said I’d give you your freedom and I will. Eventually.” He pauses to pass his silver-eyed gaze over me as if he can’t quite figure me out. I don’t like the scrutiny, especially not when something in my chest tightens in response. “But I can’t let you go right now. Especially not after seeing what you can do. You’re amazing.” A small smile finds its way back to his mouth. “I’m sorry, McKenzie, but you’re going to have to stay with us until this war ends.”

  “The war’s never going to end.”

  He shrugs. “I guess you’re going to be here awhile, then.” His gaze shifts to the fae beside me. “Take her up to her room, then find Sethan. We need to talk.”

  Aren takes one last look at the map scrawled into the picnic table and shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it.

  “Aren,” I call when he starts to walk away. I don’t want to say another word to him, don’t want to look into his silver eyes a moment longer, but I have to know.

  He turns.

  “The king’s sword-master,” I say past the lump in my throat. “He’ll kill you for taking me.”

  If Kyol’s dead, I have no doubt Aren will boast about it. I hold my breath and my heart shatters and mends a thousand times while I wait for his response. I’m too terrified to hope, too desperate not to. Finally, after what seems like millennia, Aren dips his head in acknowledgment.

  “It will be an interesting fight.”

  FOUR

  AS SOON AS the door to my room closes, I waste no time stripping the sheets off the bed. I test their strength. Both are ratty but they’re strong enough to resist my attempts to rip them. Whether they’re strong enough to hold my weight, I don’t know yet, but I’m not sitting here for another twelve hours alone with my thoughts.

  I walk to the window. My room faces a bright, full moon. Its light struggles through the treetops, mottling the surface of the picnic table. The rest of the lot is deserted. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or the rebels careless, but I plan to take advantage of the situation. Problem is, I’m three stories up and two sheets aren’t going to make a long enough rope.

  I try again to rip the cotton. I don’t break a single thread. At least it’s stronger than it looks, but I need something sharp, something that will cut.

  The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room. Kneeling beside it, I inspect underneath for anything that might snag the fabric. The mattress rests on a network of metal links. It’s too dark to see anything useful, so I pat around until I feel a loose link. I work it around until one end pulls free from the bed frame. Once that’s accomplished, I stab the metal through the center of one sheet, brace both my feet on the bed, lean back, and pull.

  “Ha!” I gloat to the empty room when the sheet rips perfectly down the middle. I repeat the process with the other sheet, ending up with four halves. Tying each of these together, I take my makeshift rope to the window and peek out. Still no patrol.

  I test each knot. When they all hold, I clamp down on a sudden surge of anxiety. I have to do this. I won’t wait around for Kyol to save me.

  Kyol’s alive.

  I close my eyes, silently say a quick prayer of thanks. Our relationship—if you can call it that—has been awkward these past few months. It’s my fault. I’m trying to be a normal human. I’ve concentrated on my studies. I’ve looked for a real job. I’ve even let Paige set me up on a number of blind dates. The guys have all been nice, and I’ve tried to like them—really, I have—but, so far, I haven’t been interested in a second date.

  Frustrated, I shove open the window. Christ, it’s loud. It screeches like it hasn’t been opened in decades. I hold my breath and listen. No footsteps sound from the hallway; no voices shout from outside. I breathe again, but count to a hundred just in case. After one last scan of the inn’s yard, I tie one end of the rope around the radiator bolted beneath the window and then toss the other end outside. Even with the knots, it reaches almost to the ground.

  It’s a heck of a lot harder climbing out than I imagined, and I’m not sure how to go about it without getting myself killed. I end up straddling the ledge, a difficult thing to do since the window isn’t that big. Slowly, carefully, I let myself slip down until my left leg, which had been inside the inn, pulls over the edge and scrapes down the side wall. I have no idea how much noise I’m making, but at this point, I can’t do anything about it.

  I grab the rope with my right hand, then let go of the windowsill with my left. As soon as I do, I start falling. I tighten my hands around the sheet, but I’m sliding too fast. My palms burn until I hit my first thick knot and yelp—softly, so as not to draw attention. I glance up at the window, wonder if I should try to get back inside. Shaking my head, I decide against it, grit my teeth, then let the next sheet sear through my palms. I meet another knot. Then another.

  There’s blood on the white cotton now. I’m still half a story above the ground when it hurts too much to hold on. I manage to land on my feet, but a sharp twinge of pain shoots through my legs and I crumple over. As I’m down on all fours drawing cold air into my lung
s, it occurs to me just how big an idiot I am for trying a stunt I’ve seen done only on TV. I could have broken my neck.

  But I didn’t, I remind myself. I’m alive. I’m outside. I’m alone.

  Careful to keep my blistered hands off the grass, I push to my knees and stand. I wait a second for a wave of dizziness to pass—God, I need some sleep—then quietly move away from the inn.

  Thump.

  I stop, glance over my shoulder.

  Aren. Shit. He must have heard the window opening after all and followed me down. He stares up at my makeshift rope, gives it a little tug, then turns his silver eyes on me.

  “You’re certainly resourceful,” he says. “I must give you that.”

  His hands don’t look sheet-burned. Mine are on fire. I try to hide them, try to appear unconcerned that he’s interrupted my escape attempt, but when he strides forward, I tense. What if I’ve made him change his mind? What if he thinks it’s too risky to keep me alive?

  He doesn’t hit or scold me. He takes one of my hands between his and flares his magic. Blue lightning skitters down his arms and his palm is suddenly a warm compress against mine. After a few uncomfortable seconds, the achy warmth changes. It feels good now. So does the electric tingle pulsing toward my elbow. I allow him to touch me longer than I should, long enough for some of the jagged blue lines to leap from his skin to mine. They’re bright in the moonlight. I watch them pirouette around my forearm, very aware Aren’s watching them as well.

  “Edarratae,” he says. “Chaos lusters.”

  “I know what they are,” I tell him, trying to ignore the sensations the lightning, the edarratae, sends careening through me.

  “You can let go.” I try to tug my hand free.

  “You could have killed yourself.” He releases my right hand to take my left, carefully avoiding the watch strapped around my wrist. This palm isn’t hurt as badly as the other, but he heals the skin with another warm touch.

  “That would have made Lena happy.”

  His gaze meets mine. “Yes. Yes, it would have.”

  I don’t like the way he continues staring into my eyes. It reminds me of Kyol and how mesmerized he always is by them. To me, they’re nothing extraordinary, just a plain brown color a few shades darker than my hair. My features are slightly different from a fae woman’s—my cheekbones aren’t quite as prominent, my nose not quite as sharp—but Aren’s not analyzing the rest of my face right now. I wish he would because the intensity of his gaze coupled with his chaos lusters triggers a warm, simmering sensation in my stomach. It’s not right to feel like this, especially not with Aren, son of Jorreb.

  I break eye contact, willing my body to cool and berating myself for reacting to those soft silver eyes. I try to tug my hand free again. I need his edarratae gone so I can think clearly.

  After another moment, he releases me. I fold my arms across my stomach without looking at my mended palms. Healing is an endangered magic, and it seems wrong that a killer should be gifted with that ability.

  Aren motions toward the front of the inn. “Come, nalkinshom . We need to talk.”

  I keep my feet rooted to the ground. “I have a name. You don’t have to insult me.”

  “Insult you?” He cocks his head. “Nalkin-shom is one of the least insulting titles you’ve been given.”

  I frown. “Titles?”

  “Yes, titles. Nalkin-shom means shadow-witch. Lena prefers to call you traep-shom. Shadow-bitch. Some of the other names lose their sting in translation, but there’s also shadowscum, map-whore, kin-killer.” He pauses. A grin bends a corner of his mouth, and I swear moonlight twinkles in his eyes. “What? You didn’t know you have the reputation of a killer?”

  “The Court captures most of the fae I track,” I say, trying not to let his smirk get under my skin.

  “Fae children have nightmares about you.” He grabs my wrist, waits until his edarratae leap up my arm. “Parents tell them if they’re bad, the nalkin-shom will come for them in the night, sear them with her lightning, and drain them of their magic.”

  My heart beats in time with the energy pulsing through me. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I?”

  “You’re the false-blood. If the fae tell stories to scare their children, then they’re telling them about you.” False-bloods are like cult leaders on crack. They gather a following of the gullible and disillusioned, then wreak havoc on the Realm, claiming to be the chosen progeny of the Tar Sidhe, the magically superior fae who ruled the provinces centuries ago. I’ve hunted down half a dozen false-bloods over the years, some more successful than others, but all of them violent. Aren’s the real monster here.

  To my surprise, he chuckles. “Come, nalkin-shom. You need to meet someone.”

  He doesn’t give me the opportunity to protest. He lets go of my wrist, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward. We round the corner of the inn. Either the rebels have all fissured out or they’re holed up inside the house, all except for Lena, who’s on the porch speaking to another fae. He’s new. I’d certainly remember if he was one of the onlookers during my sentencing. His blond hair is long and straight, falling over broad shoulders covered by a burgundy cloak. His tunic and black trousers look rich and clean, and the leather scabbard at his hip is in pristine condition, almost as if he’s never had to draw his sword. He’s either a criminal or a noble. Either way, he has access to tinril, the currency used in the Realm, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the fae funding Aren’s rebellion.

  He ends his conversation with Lena as we climb the porch steps.

  “This is Sethan, son of Zarrak,” Aren says. Lena’s brother? I hate him already. “Have a seat, McKenzie.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to the weathered wooden bench beside the front door. I sink down, partly to get away from his touch and partly because I’m so damn tired. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since a few hours before my final, and a headache pounds behind my eyes. The least the rebels could have done was given me a scrap of bread when they locked me inside that room.

  The fae remain standing. I hate having to look up at them, but I cross my arms, lean back, and wait for Aren to speak.

  “Tell us what you know about the Court.”

  Even though my stomach twists into knots, I keep my gaze steady and—I hope—defiant.

  “It’s your system of government,” I say, sticking with a universally known fact. Well, universally known in the Realm, at least. “It’s led by King Atroth, a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe, who was elected by the high nobles of the thirteen provinces. The king’s—”

  “The king told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan interrupts. It’s not quite a question.

  “He’s shown me maps,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

  “What kind of maps?”

  “Paper ones,” I snap. I know what he’s fishing for. He wants to know if gates were marked on those maps. That’s what this war is about, after all. Control of the gates means control of the Realm’s commerce. While fae may be able to fissure from whatever point they choose, they can’t drag along wagons full of goods unless they open their fissure at a gate. Anything more than what they can carry will be lost in the In-Between. Several decades ago—long before I first met Kyol—King Atroth’s predecessor began regulating their use, requiring merchants to pay a tax to fissure their wares throughout the Realm. The merchants didn’t like that, of course, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why so many have started searching for an alternative Descendant.

  Sethan remains unperturbed. “How many gates were there?”

  “None,” I lie. There were thirty-one, over a dozen more than are marked on the Realm’s public maps.

  “Then why were you shown the maps?”

  “For the same reason he”—I nod toward Aren—“probably shows maps to his shadow-readers: geography.” I needed to memorize the Realm’s provinces and regions. Without know
ing the name of a place, my maps might as well be random scratches on a page. I have to say the name of the region out loud for the magic to lock in, and for the fae I’m with to be able to fissure to the location I mark. It’s the one teensy bit of magic that shadow-readers like me can claim.

  Lena pushes off the wall. “She’s lying. She knows where the Missing Gates are. She’s used them.”

  “I’ve used the Provincial Gates,” I tell Sethan. I’m not sure why I feel like I have to explain myself to this fae. He’s important—of that, I’m certain—but why haven’t I heard his name before?

  “We monitor the Provincial Gates,” Lena says. “We would have abducted you long before now if you used only those to travel.”

  I keep my expression neutral, trying not to give any indication that she’s right. The Realm used to be made up of hundreds of small kingdoms, each with its own gate, but three thousand years ago, almost all of those gates disappeared in the Duin Bregga, a brutal war that translates roughly into “The Dissolution.” According to Kyol, the Missing Gates were said to be destroyed, but there were always rumors that some of them remained, and that the locations had just been wiped from the minds of the fae using a magic that’s extinct today. When one of King Atroth’s aids, with the help of a silverflushed kimki, stumbled upon a gate not marked on any map, those rumors were confirmed. Ever since then, Atroth has been searching for—and finding—other Missing Gates.

  “If you want to extend your life,” Lena says, taking a step toward me, “you’ll give us those gates.”

  “Lena,” Aren cuts in. Then he speaks in their language. She fires something back. Calmly, he speaks again. Whatever he says, she’s obviously not happy about it. Sethan barely has time to move out of the way before she yanks open the front door and storms inside, grumbling a litany of what I’m betting are fae curses under her breath. Most likely, they’re directed at me.

  Whatever. I’m glad to see her go.

  Sethan turns his attention back to me. “I’m truly sorry you’ve been brought into this war. We never wanted to involve humans, but Atroth made it necessary when he began employing your kind against us. His shadow-readers, you in particular, have almost destroyed us. We had no choice other than to take you away from him.” He pauses, his silver eyes boring into me as if he can read my thoughts. He can’t. Telepathy isn’t one of the endangered magics; it’s one of the extinct and forever lost ones. “We would like your help, McKenzie. And we’d like to help you.”