Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

  “They are being rested. The strongest will be our pack animals; the others will remain here with some of the men until they recover fully from the hard ride.” He grimaced. “I am afraid you will have to walk from now on, m’lady.”

  “Into the tunnel, you mean?”

  “Ah. You know about that?”

  “I spoke to the duke.”

  He looked relieved, perhaps at no longer having to field her questions. As though she did not have more, starting with, “Have you been into the tunnel, Captain?”

  “A little way. I was mainly working with the night-crews, clearing the vents.”

  “The what?”

  His expression closed again. “You’ll see.”

  He obviously took his duty to give her only the information she needed. seriously Which just meant she would have to pick her questions with more care.

  The darkness under the trees was deepening. As the last beams of silver light fingered their way through the forest she lay down. Despite her exhaustion, heat and worry kept sleep at bay. Now the immediate panic was over her mind kept going off into wild fancies, considering options and possibilities, none of them good. The overall picture was too terrifying so she concentrated on the next part of this bizarre not-invasion. Had the tunnel always started outside the shadowland? It had to date from before the Separation, as it was definitely “tech” – a term she had come across in her recent reading on prohibited devices and practices.

  What would the priests make of all this? She hadn’t seen any clerical robes amongst the duke’s expedition. Back in the city, they must be praying hard. Everyone must be, for all the good it would do. At times like this she almost wished she had faith, for the comfort it brought.

  No: don’t think of what this disaster is doing to people. Think of the cold theory, of the mechanics of what is going on.

  If the tunnel between shadowlands started outside them then, logically, the shadowlands had been larger once. Given how slowly the ironwoods grew, that must have been millennia ago. Perhaps they had been shrinking steadily, imperceptibly, ever since the Separation. It was an unpleasant thought, that her people had trapped themselves in pools of shade that would, slowly but inexorably, diminish and reduce. And it had tricky implications for her fledgling model of how the shade-swarm worked.

  But her last thought, before sleep finally came, was that all this was academic. What had just happened was not part of a natural process: it was a catastrophic failure.

  CHAPTER 51

  “Thank you Shenvet.”

  “You are welcome, Holiness.” Shenvet smiled and picked up her robe.

  For a few short hours she had helped Sadakh escape his troubles. Shenvet was one of his occasional lovers, the handful of initiates who understood that sex with the eparch was not about power or lasting emotional attachment, but a brief, mutual solace. He had found himself resorting to such comforts more often as the coronation approached, even as he knew they were just a temporary respite.

  He dressed alone, only summoning a servant to see to his hair. Last night had brought more bad news: one of the First Light initiates on the Eternal Isle, a junior mistress of the royal wardrobe, had been dismissed from her post. For stealing, apparently. It would not be hard for Mekteph to identify the initiated lay members of the Order in the palace. That he had chosen to expel only one was a warning, a subtle reminder of his power.

  Poliarch Hekmat had no more than a week to live. And in three days, young Prince Shirakeph would be crowned caliarch. How quickly his father took the reins of power remained to be seen.

  If you are still here then…

  His ghost wanted him to leave Mirror, though she had no suggestions as to where he should go. Perhaps he could idle out the last of his days in some distant rural village, such as the prince believed he hailed from, paying his way with his medical knowledge, preaching to peasants. Like a sulky martyr, his ghost offered unhelpfully.

  Or perhaps he could go to Shen. Rhia Harlyn was a Shenese noble; she might provide lodgings for him, even facilities. And if that brought him into contact with her young kinsman, perhaps he could find out where he had gone wrong with the serum. But that assumed she had survived her trial unscathed, and would be willing to take in an outcast from another shadowland and allow him access to the boy.

  Or you could go back to your real home.

  It was the first time his ghost had said it, though he had previously sensed, or thought he sensed, that this was what she wanted. The skyland was her home too, after all. Or had been, when she was a living seer. Maybe the Sun was the key for him; maybe it would trigger a change that would allow him to survive in the skyland, even if it did not grant him a longer life. Unless it just granted him a lingering and miserable death, like Ereket’s.

  But no skykin clan would take him in. The clanless would, perhaps. Then again, how welcome would he be when he had fallen to their level? At least his skyland business was beyond the prince’s reach now, the compromised umbral camp abandoned permanently.

  How fortunate, given how little he had to look forward to, and how much he had to worry about, that he was being kept so busy with preparations for the coronation.

  That evening brought more bad news.

  His secretary interrupted a round of tedious but suitably distracting paperwork to tell him that one of “his people” was in the infirmary. Viteph knew his master had interests outside the priory and the way he said “your people” implied his secretary meant one of his bodyguards. He put down the pen and went at once.

  It was Klimen. He had been badly beaten, face bruised and bloody, but what drew Sadakh’s attention was his eyes. They were gone, the empty sockets weeping blood and clear fluid down his face. He lay flat, although from the way his hands clenched and unclenched he was fully conscious. The hospitaller tending him looked up as Sadakh approached, his face pale.

  Sadakh gestured at his wounded bodyguard, “What happened?”

  “Something sharp, driven into the sockets–” said the hospitaller.

  “No, I mean how did he get here?” Klimen had, he now recalled, been watching over the launderers’ house.

  “I… I believe a hired punt dropped him off. I do not know more than that.”

  “Do everything you can.” He wanted to help, but would only be a hindrance. His medics knew their business. “Send someone for me when you have tended to him.”

  This is the prince’s doing!

  Yes, it had to be.

  He went to find Naldak, and told him to get Penek to take him to the launderers’ house. “Do not approach unless it is safe, and you are sure no one save Taklew is there. Remove everything you can carry from the workroom at the back.” He had already brought most of his notes and the magnifying frame to the priory, but his more perishable materials were still at the house.

  He returned to his office, and stared at the pile of paperwork until summoned back to the infirmary.

  Klimen’s head had been cleaned and bandaged. The hospitaller said he’d given him poppy-milk, but he was awake and relatively alert.

  Sadakh took the stool next to the bed and called his name softly.

  The bandaged head turned on the pillow. “Holiness?” Klimen’s normally firm and confident voice was faint and rasping. “I am sorry, I failed you.”

  “You did not! Never think that. But I need to know what happened.”

  “I was on watch. They jumped me.”

  “Did you…” He paused; he’d been about to ask if he’d seen anything. He settled on, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “There were three of them. Low-lifes, locals I think. Came at me from behind. I headbutted one, managed to punch another, but they caught me unawares. Before I could draw my stave they’d battered me down. They just kept hitting me. Then I felt something in my eye…” He shuddered.

  “Yes,” said Sadakh gently. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I shouldn’t have let them take me like that!” Klimen’s voice broke. “Sloppy
. So sloppy.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were outnumbered and ambushed. And someone will pay for this. I promise.”

  “Thank you Holiness.” Klimen sounded like he might cry, had that still been possible for him.

  Sadakh laid a brief hand over his, then left.

  Mekteph had gone too far. But what can you do? Very little. He knew that, despite his promise.

  Naldak found him in his office shortly afterwards. “The house looked quiet, Holiness, so I went in.”

  “And?”

  “Someone’d trashed it.”

  “And Taklew? Was he all right?”

  “Been knocked out. He was just coming round. Sent him to the infirmary when I got back.”

  “And the house itself…”

  “They’d ripped off the doors, broken the furniture, smashed everything breakable and smeared… muck over the walls. Reckon they’d’ve set fire to the place if they hadn’t been worried the whole neighbourhood’d go up.”

  “The room at the back I told you about, was anything salvageable in there?”

  “Don’t think so. The table was just splinters, and all the jars were smashed. Guess they took anything small that might’ve been valuable.”

  “Did you go into every room?”

  “Yes, Holiness. Same everywhere.”

  “And in the washroom, where they used to do the laundry.”

  Naldak’s heavy brow furrowed. “That was odd. The place was wet, smashed containers and soap and that, but also smears of blood. Dunno where that came from.”

  You do. The serum, the fruits of his labour, destroyed in passing by vengeful thugs. The anger was a constant now, spinning inside him, building and flaring. He made himself take a deep breath, then exhale. He must not take out his feelings on those around him. “So just to confirm: there was nothing to bring back, is that right?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry, Holiness.”

  “No, you did all you could. Make sure the others don’t leave the isle.” By which he meant the other bodyguards. Other potential targets.

  Naldak nodded and left.

  Sadakh sat on the floor and made himself go through an advanced meditation exercise, closing down senses and emotions, drawing on the well of peace deep within. It was hard, but he must not let the anger take over.

  Finally he managed to regain some perspective. But the outlook was grim. His contacts and schemes beyond the priory isle had been cut off, his options pared down to the choice to obey the prince, or suffer.

  Now do we run?

  Tempting. Don a disguise, sneak out the city. Just disappear. But he would have nothing, have achieved nothing. And he’d be dead soon enough whatever happened.

  No, he would stay, and crown Shirakeph, because it took an eparch to crown a caliarch, and Zekt needed a caliarch, even one who was only the puppet for a monster. It would take all his willpower to get through the coronation with that monster looking on, gloating, but he would do it. It was his duty.

  The next day was restday. Sadakh tried his best to deliver a sermon that would make the world a better place but in his head his ghost kept saying What is the point?

  Afterwards, he was tempted to avoid the post-service encounters, until he saw Philekh, one of the initiates who worked at the palace. The young man’s expression was strained, and Sadakh invited him to his study.

  Once they were alone Philekh handed over a sealed note without a word, then found his voice. “I was just leaving the Isle when a courtier came up and gave this to me. He said, ‘Give this to your master’.”

  Sadakh took the note. As he was breaking the seal the young man blurted, “Should I be worried. I mean, I heard about Emshet losing her job, and everyone is so tense at the palace…”

  “I pray that matters will soon resolve themselves favourably.” Prayer was about all he had left now. “But if you choose to worship alone rather than attend the service here until they do, I will understand.” He hated cutting off any sources of information, but it was unfair to draw his initiates into this deadly game.

  “Thank you, Holiness. I think I may do that.”

  When Philekh left Sadakh unfolded the note. It was unsigned, but written in the prince’s extravagant hand:

  Take your guard’s fate as a reminder that not all eyes belong to you.

  Know as well that your woman in the kitchens is dead – how typical to use the weaker sex for your most dangerous agent!

  The longer you hold out against my will, the more counters will be taken.

  Sadakh crumpled the paper, and stared at his clenched fist. Mekteph had won.

  When Hekmat died he would tell the prince that Sholrew was replacing him, because all that further opposition would achieve would be more vengeance on undeserving people who had been loyal to him.

  Perhaps, when he bowed down to formalise his capitulation, he should ask about the reference to “your woman in the kitchens”. He hadn’t the faintest idea who that had been.

  CHAPTER 52

  “M’lady, wake up.”

  “What?” Rhia twitched and stirred. Her back twinged, the movement setting off other aches and pains. She was lying in hot, heavy darkness.

  “We’re leaving soon.”

  “Right.” She got up on the third attempt. Her legs and backside felt like tenderised meat. Good job she wouldn’t be riding. After hurried preparations – a mouthful of tepid water and an undignified squat behind a tree – they set off. Captain Deviock led her through the dark forest to join the slowly reforming column. Against the lighter patch marking the end of the trees she made out only a few dozen figures; they were nearer the front now.

  When the column broke free of the forest Rhia strained to spot their destination. She saw only the heads of marching men and the odd packhorse in the pre-dawn gloom, but they slowed almost at once, so abruptly that she nearly tripped. The soldiers stood, facing forward in silence, waiting. Disconcerting as it was to be surrounded by military types, Rhia could not imagine a group of nobles, or even guildsmen, taking this absurd and awful situation so completely in their stride.

  They started up again and Rhia glimpsed a faint, white light ahead. A little later the ground began to slope downwards. They were walking on recently dug but well-trodden earth; on either side banks of soil rose up. A ramp, dug into the ground – and ahead, darkness. No, another glint of white light.

  Then they were underground, in an echoey space. The column slowed and stopped again. Another light appeared, nearer, and she had a sudden sense of dizzying perspective. This room was bigger than the Council hall, but perfectly square and lacking any visible supports. There were massive doors on the side walls, larger than the palace gates. The walls looked smooth and plain and dark; not brick or wood or plaster.

  “M’lady, did you want to carry this?”

  “Carry what?” Sudden light flared.

  Captain Deviock was holding a loose net containing a glass globe the size of a grapefruit. It glowed with the same white light touching off all around the great underground room. He gave it a shake: the light brightened.

  “What is that?” Rhia breathed, reaching for the globe.

  Captain Deviock handed it over. “We call them glow-globes. I am not sure what they actually are.”

  The globe was heavier than she expected. It was like a tiny, captive moon. Holding the net in one hand she reached through to poke it. Just glass, cool and smooth. She looked across at Deviock. “Are these pre-Separation artefacts?” No wonder Francin had left the clergy behind; any priest would be apoplectic at such forbidden miracles.

  “Actually, no. His Grace had them made. I think the glow comes from some sort of creature, in water.”

  “Made? Oh.” She vaguely remembered how a treatise on bad air from Seeker of Thir – which Francin had borrowed, now she thought of it – spoke of underground spaces becoming more dangerous when naked flames burned, and how other sources of light might be employed. She sniffed, in case “bad air” had a smell, but smelt
only unwashed bodies.

  They started to shuffle forward. Rhia held the globe high. With only a few globes dotted about, most of the room remained in shadow. The column closed up; she held the globe to her chest. It did not emit any warmth. The far end of the great room was visible now. Ahead she saw a wide semi-circle of darkness; some sort of exit. It lightened briefly, as someone carrying a glow-globe went through. After a pause, they followed on. Before they went in, Rhia turned for a moment to look back. The rear wall, above the gap where they had entered, was decorated with an intricate pattern of interlocking hexagons that reminded her of the cross-section of a beehive, with side columns of what looked like writing.

  Then she was swept forward with the others, into the tunnel. It was a perfect tube, as wide as a house. However, due to its curve, they could only walk four abreast. She had let Deviock march on the outside so far but now insisted on changing places, the better to see this marvellous place. The tunnel was made of the same smooth and featureless material as the room. Closer, and with light, she could see the substance was mid-grey and mildly reflective; less so than metal – this much metal would be a dizzying impossibility – but enough to amplify the glow-globes and fill the tunnel with a cold twilight.

  The men upped the pace. Rhia made sure she stayed with them. After a while they passed another, smaller, door, set flush with the tunnel wall, with markings on it, a short string of not-quitefamiliar symbols. The writings of the ancients.

  A little after that she looked up at a sudden breeze. She was passing under a circular hole in the roof; this must be one of the vents Deviock had mentioned, presumably going up to the surface, allowing fresh air into the tunnel while blocking the skyland’s killing light. How ingenious!

  By the time they stopped, some time later, she was more concerned at how tired she was than with exploring the tunnel. The soldiers had set a fierce pace and her arms ached from carrying the globe, though she had not wanted to relinquish it.