The Office of Shadow

by Matthew Sturges

  She leaned over him and took his face in her hands.

  "Now let's get started building some more of those Einswraths, shall we?"

  "Einswrath?" he said, fighting the urge to comply with her every whim.

  "That's what they've dubbed your masterpiece," she said. "A lovely name, if a bit religious for my tastes."

  Hy Pezho laughed out loud. "And so much more appropriate than you can possibly know."

  "Do tell."

  Desiring nothing more than to please her, nemesis no longer, Hy Pezho explained exactly how the Einswrath worked. He wasn't sure, but he thought that she-Mab, who had seen everything-grew pale as he spoke.

  "You're a madman," she said.

  "I am bold," he said. "There is a difference."

  Each city in Faerie has its own variation on the Procession of the Magi during the solstice festival, but my favorite is in the small city of Hawthorne-by-the-Sea. Rather than the solemn function seen most places, the procession in Hawthorne is a bawdy, ribald affair, replete with laughter and inebriation, in which the townspeople dressed as the magi are insulted and openly mocked by the citizenry as they make their way around the square.

  The first in line is a "general," representing Leadership. This is a plum assignment and is given to the fattest man in Hawthorne. He barks orders that no one heeds, and does his best to run the parade into walls and blind alleys.

  Next comes a "Master of the Gates," representing Folding. He complains that walking does not suit him, for he can fold where he wishes.

  A "Master Toucher" follows, representing Awareness, riding a touched donkey, which is in reality two boys in a costume. The donkey wanders back and forth, ignoring the Master Toucher's commands, and insulting him in the foulest language imaginable.

  Each magus comes in turn and is ridiculed.The spellhardener representing Binding, carrying a floppy sword made of reeds. The blind Glamourist. The bargemaster representing Motion, who bears a heavy log on his back. A fearful, accident-prone thaumaturge for Resistance. A faux hunchback for Poise, an idiot for Insight, an alwayswrong seer for Premonition, a mean-spirited brute for Empathy.

  The final mage is always an Elementalist who pretends to eat horse dung, claiming that he transforms it into roast beef in his mouth. He typically gets the biggest laugh.

  The last in the procession is a hooded figure who represents no Gift; the meaning of this figure is lost to the ages. Some say that he represents Death; others believe him to be an avatar of the fabled Thirteenth Gift. No one I spoke to in Hawthorne could tell me what that Gift might be.The crowd does not acknowledge his presence, and when the parade ends, he slips off into the night without revealing his identity.

  Stil-Eret, 'The Unruly Eastern Provinces;' Travels at Home and Abroad

  Fate is fond of her little reversals. All the better to stab you in the back.

  -Master jedron

  ilverdun awoke in his tattered bed at Whitemount, feeling unbearably hung over. He sat up, his mouth dry, his ears ringing, his stomach twisting in his belly. He leaned over and retched, but nothing came out.

  On the table next to the bed were a pitcher of water and a small loaf of fresh bread. He drained the pitcher without bothering to pour it into the nearby glass and wolfed down the bread. A fresh change of clothes awaited him on the floor.

  He had been plagued by dreams. Sela. Ironfoot. Preyia. Falling in flames. Bel Zheret.

  He stood up long enough to dress, but then his head started to spin again, and he sat back on the bed. How had he gotten here? He couldn't remember. Everything since his last visit here was a blur, a melange of disconnected images swirling in his mind.

  The door opened and Than entered. No-not Ilian. Jedron.

  "It's about time you woke up," he barked. "This isn't an inn, you know."

  "What happened?"

  "My guess is that you had one too many whiskeys last night and now you've come to learn the evils of drink firsthand."

  "I don't remember how I got here. How did I get here from Elenth?"

  "Elenth?" said Jedron, his brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

  "The last thing I remember I was in the Unseelie city of Elenth. We were to meet a priest named Virum, but then the Bel Zheret appeared and ... I don't remember the rest."

  "You're talking nonsense, boy. You've been here at Whitemount for the past six weeks. And if you're done hallucinating, it's time to get back to your training."

  "What?"

  "Training. It's what you were sent here for, remember?"

  Silverdun's mind reeled. "Are you saying ... ?"

  Jedron snickered, then laughed out loud. "You gullible fool," he said through chuckles. "I had you going there for a second, didn't I?"

  "Damn you, Jedron!" shouted Silverdun. He picked up the water pitcher and flung it at his old teacher. Jedron caught it handily and threw it back at him, hitting him square in the forehead.

  "Get up," he said. "You've got to get back to work."

  "I don't understand," said Silverdun. "What happened to me, you old bastard?"

  Jedron was already at the door. "Oh, that. You died. Come on."

  Silverdun followed Jedron down the stairs of the castle. Nothing had changed since his first visit there months earlier.

  "Jedron?" Silverdun shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Just shut up and follow me. I have something to show you."

  Silverdun sighed and followed. His weeks at Whitemount were jogged back fully into memory by his presence here. He'd forgotten just how much he disliked this man.

  "Wait," said Silverdun. A flash of images came to him, and the memory of pain, and fear. "I remember. The Bel Zheret stabbed me. I felt him pierce my heart!"

  "I know," said Jedron. "I heard all about it."

  They left the castle, and the sunlight hurt Silverdun's eyes. The sea around them was a deep blue, and as he looked to the east, he could just make out the spires of the City Emerald.

  "You can gather wool later," said Jedron, glaring. "I have things to do." He went to the steps leading to the pit and started down them. Silverdun followed, muttering a string of obscenities under his breath.

  "I can hear you," Jedron said, not turning around.

  "I know," said Silverdun.

  They stood together at the pit, looking down into it. It was dull gray in the sunlight, dank and deeply unpleasant. The temperature here seemed easily ten degrees colder.

  Jedron said nothing at first, then sighed.

  "Here's the truth," he said. "Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, is dead."

  "I know that," said Silverdun. "I felt the knife go in."

  "That's not what I mean. Silverdun died here, in this pit. On the last night of your training. Ironfoot and I hurled him in here, and what was inside the pit ate him. He is no more." Jedron reached inside his robe and withdrew a small white object.

  "Here's all that's left of him. A tooth. Maybe a molar."

  Silverdun took the tooth and looked at it, remembering the bone he'd found in the pit after watching Ironfoot go into it.

  "The problem with your theory," said Silverdun, "is that I'm standing right next to you."

  "Yes, you are. But you're not Silverdun."

  "No? Then who am I?"

  "A shadow. A shadow of him. You're a thing that's taken his form, taken his mind and memories. A sylph, to be precise."

  "A sylph."

  "Never heard of them?" said Jedron. "I'm not surprised. They're very rare, and we don't advertise their existence.

  "Elusive little creatures. We get them from an island across the sea. The way they hunt is to eat animals-deer mainly-and assume their shape. Then they join the herd and kill the animal's friends and relatives at their leisure. Nasty things."

  "I don't feel like eating my friends or my relatives," said Silverdun.

  "Well, we alter the sylphs a bit first," said Jedron. "It's a complicated and expensive process, I can assure you. And an extremely classified one. That's
why we never told you. The less any of our people knows, the better."

  "In case I was captured."

  "Yes."

  "So I'm not who I think I am," said Silverdun.

  "Who is?" Jedron shrugged. "People make such a fuss of identity and the concept of self. But it's only because they're mortal and afraid to die.

  "Listen, you have all of Silverdun's memories, all of his feelings, all of his emotional detritus. You have all of his Gifts. You're him, more or less. More, really, since you're stronger, faster, more powerful, and you can be brought back from the dead. I'd like to see the old you try that."

  "But ... what about the soul?" said Silverdun.

  "How the hell should I know? Have I ever given you any indication that I might be a philosopher?"

  "So," said Silverdun, understanding everything Jedron had told him, but not accepting it. "Ironfoot?"

  "The same."

  "And Paet?"

  "Yes. And I as well. And scores of others down through the centuries. I'll admit, I found it a bit troubling at first, but once I realized it didn't make a rat's shit worth of difference, I got over it. So will you."

  "What about Sela?" asked Silverdun. "She was never brought here."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Jedron thought about it. "We were afraid to," he said. "The man who made her what she is did a far better job than I ever could. To do to her what we did to you could have been ... disastrous."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "None of your damn business."

  Jedron spat into the pit and turned away. "Let's go," he said.

  "How long have you been here, Jedron?" Silverdun asked.

  "Four hundred years or thereabouts. I stopped counting a long time ago. But I think I might retire soon. Get a little cottage somewhere, with some trees. I miss the trees." He stopped and stared into the distance. "Honestly, the caliber of trainee they've been sending me the past few decades has made me fear for the future of Faerie."

  "Shocking."

  "Who knows?" said Jedron. "Maybe I'll teach you all my secrets one day, and you can take my place." He stroked his beard. "On second thought, I'd probably pick Ironfoot over you. He's a bit brighter."

  "Wait," said Silverdun. "What happened to Paet? If we're so indestructible, why isn't he still active? Why does he have a limp?"

  "Bel Zheret got to him five years ago. Ripped out most of his spine, ate part of his brain. You can regenerate most things, as I believe you've noticed, but you're not invincible. So don't go thinking you are. If you die out there and aren't brought back, well ... Paet didn't bring you here because I missed you. And don't even ask what I had to do in order to bring you back. To say it's a Black Art doesn't even begin to describe it."

  He clapped Silverdun on the shoulder, the only mildly friendly thing Silverdun had ever seen him do. "Now let's get going. Paet's waiting down at the dock."

  Silverdun looked down into the pit, thinking. "You'll never have that cottage, will you? You can't ever leave Whitemount, not with the things you know."

  Jedron looked at him, serious. "No," he said. "When I get too sick of it to stand it another day, I imagine I'll walk into the ocean and drown myself. And if Paet tries to revive me, I'll slit his throat."

  "Thank you, Jedron," said Silverdun.

  Jedron punched him in the face.

  Silverdun is having an excellent time at the cafe until he looks up and spies his mother. She is moving toward him very slowly, glaring at him the way she once did when she caught him doing things he oughtn't. He rises from the table and staggers toward her, nearly falling. He's had quite a bit to drink.

  He meets her at an empty table halfway, and they sit together.

  "Who's your new lady?" comes the drunkenly stupid voice of one of his friends. He waves it away.

  "Mother, what in the name of Auberon's pale ass are you doing here?"

  "Language, Perrin," she says primly.

  Silverdun sighs. "What in the name of Auberon's pale hindquarters are you doing here, then?"

  "I can see that I should have sent a sprite ahead of me."

  "That might have been wise."

  Mother places her hands gently on the table before her. "There wasn't any time. I had to see you right away."

  "Oh, but you never come to the city, and it's so lovely this time of year, Mother," says Silverdun, his mind wandering. "Tomorrow night there's a mestina you simply must see, and-"

  "I'm dying, Perrin. I came to say good-bye."

  Silverdun stops, words colliding on his tongue.

  "Whatever does that mean?"

  "It means that I am dying, and I intend to do so not at our family home, but at a convent in the South."

  "You. What?" Silverdun can't compose a proper question. "You aren't dying," he says stupidly.

  "I can assure you that I am. Several well-paid physicians have confirmed it."

  "How long-?"

  "A few months, possibly. Impossible to know."

  "But ..." Silverdun doesn't quite know. But what?

  "So I came to say good-bye to you, Perrin."

  "No, no," says Silverdun. "You'll come stay with me. I know the queen's personal physician. She'll take care of this. We'll go to the mestina together."

  Tears are beginning to insinuate themselves across Silverdun's vision. "You're going about this all wrong."

  "This would be much easier if you were sober," says Mother.

  Silverdun concentrates. Working Elements while drunk isn't wise, but Silverdun has no great reputation for wisdom. He hums a sobering cantrip that's come in handy more than once and is rewarded with a powerful headache for his efforts.

  "Oh, hell!" he says. "I'm sober now."

  He realizes now how pathetic he must look to his Arcadian mother. The wastrel Lord Silverdun at a cafe in the wrong part of the city, drinking with his wastrel friends. Sons and daughters of the gentry, all. One of them once joked to Silverdun that they should start a musical group and name it "The Grave Disappointments."

  "I'm sorry," he says.

  Mother takes a deep breath, and Silverdun can now see that it is an effort for her to do so. He cringes.

  She reaches up and touches his cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my sweet boy."

  "This isn't who I wanted to be," he says.

  "I know."

  "Why aren't you angry at me?" he asks.

  "You're angry at yourself enough for both of us, I think. I'm finding that I'm too grateful for what is to worry about what might have been."

  "That does it," says Silverdun. It's as though a dam has burst in him, but he doesn't know what the dam is or what it's been holding back. "Tomorrow I'm going to call my solicitor and I'm going to take back Oarsbridge, and I'm going to give it all away to those bloody farmers once and for all."

  "I don't want you to do that anymore," says Mother.

  "Why not?"

  "Because if you try, your uncle will have you killed. I'm certain of it."

  "I'm not frightened of Bresun," says Silverdun, straightening his back.

  "Whether you are or you aren't," says Mother, "he will not part with Oarsbridge. He believes he is Oarsbridge, and Lord Silverdun in all but name only. He'd rather die than give that up."

  "And what about those poor noblemen? The villagers and the farmers?"

  "I'm a dying old woman, Perrin. If I want to prefer my son over all of them, then Aba can grouse to me about it himself when I see him."

  Silverdun sighs. "What do you want from me?" he asks.

  "To be happy, Perrin. What else?"

  The next morning, he watches her carriage drive off through the city, feeling certain that he will never see her again. He's reassured her that he will let the matter between him and Bresun drop.

  As soon as the carriage has disappeared, however, Silverdun goes directly to the family solicitor's office. He knows the way well, as this is where he goes every month to draw upon his trust.

  "You'r
e a week early," says the solicitor, when Silverdun barges into his office.

  "I'm here about something else entirely," says Silverdun. "I'm here to take back my lordship."

  The solicitor looks at him through squinted eyes, tapping a long white quill pen against an inkwell as he considers Silverdun's words.

  "I was wondering when I'd finally hear you say that," says the solicitor, smiling.

  Silverdun explains his plan, and the solicitor listens patiently, asking questions, making suggestions. When Silverdun returns home, he feels alive for the first time in as long as he can remember. It is time. Time to become a man. He goes to bed thinking about his childhood, about the day when he showed his mother how far he could walk around the wall. He feels as if something important has been given back to him.

  The next morning, Silverdun awakes to find a quartet of burly Royal Guardsmen standing in his bedroom.

  "Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun," says one, reading from an official document, "you are hereby detained for the crime of treason."

  "Excuse me?" says Silverdun. "I'm fairly certain I've never done that one."

  Silverdun's next meeting with his solicitor is far less friendly, and takes place in jail.

  "I can't believe you'd betray me like this," says Silverdun. "You worked for my father." He eyes the solicitor across the small table with genuine fury. He can't remember the last time he felt something so white-hot.

  "I did work for your father," says the solicitor. "But I work for your uncle now." As if this justifies his betrayal.

  "How can I possibly be charged with treason?" says Silverdun. "Isn't that a bit excessive?"

  "You signed documents in my office yesterday signaling your intent to take an estate from its rightful owner and provide it to an organization that does not respect Seelie sovereignty. That is a traitorous act."

  "I am its rightful owner!"

  "That's not relevant, legally speaking."

  Silverdun fumes. "And what makes you think you're going to get a judge who'll play along with this `organization that does not respect Seelie sovereignty' nonsense? Times have changed."

  "Perhaps," says the solicitor. "But not all judges have changed along with them. And it so happens that the court official who does judicial assignments is a very good friend of your uncle's."