Reign of Shadows

by Deborah Chester

  Reign of Shadows

  Ruby Throne Trilogy Book 1

  Deborah Chester

  Prologue

  IN THE BEGINNING of time there arose a mighty warrior named Kostimon, who used the power of his arm and the cunning of his mind to make himself a king. Favored by the gods, he drove his army against the provinces, using sheer force, trickery, or raids to subjugate them. At last the provinces were joined together, and he stood as emperor over a united land. One by one, through choice or coercion, the warlords swore oaths of eternal allegiance to him.

  When it came time to marry, he chose a red-haired and untamed bride, a beauty with the blood of warriors in her veins. Together, Kostimon and Fauvina ruled well and wisely, creating laws both fair and just for government. Religion flourished and unified into two state cults—the Vindicants and the Penestricans—balancing each other in perfect harmony.

  Thus did the fledgling empire prosper. Through diplomacy and alliance its borders spread. When war assailed it, the empire prevailed. Fauvina bore sons, and the gods willed they grow straight and strong.

  But as the years lengthened, Kostimon’s ambitions soared ever higher. He saw his work unfinished and his dreams incomplete. His quarrelsome, impatient sons thought only of their own pleasures and never of the responsibilities of rule. Into Kostimon’s mind came a most unholy plan. He turned unto darkness and petitioned for immortality. A fearsome bargain was struck, and Kostimon was promised life for one thousand years. Fauvina would not share his bargain and died at the fated end of her time, her soul consigned to the fertile earth from which it had come.

  Slaying each successive generation of sons so they could not challenge his throne, Kostimon lived on, feeding on power and glory, lusting for new achievements, building impressive monuments to himself. Under his obligation to the shadow gods, Kostimon turned against the light and built temples to darkness. No longer did he tolerate his enemies. Those who spoke against him were destroyed, and when the Penestricans dared to criticize the injustices of his reign, they were reviled and driven from their place of counsel. Greed walked the streets of his cities. Corruption swelled in the halls of justice. And it came to pass that men ceased to obey laws and followed only the capricious will of their emperor. He became a legend, more than a man but less than a god, greater than any other mortal.

  But prophecies tell true, and the gods forget no reckoning. Kostimon has reached his last century. His final years are running out like the last few coins in a spendthrift’s purse. Kostimon has forgotten how to accept defeat; even now he struggles against his fate. Yet the shadow gods remain deaf to his entreaties. Again and again the Vindicant augurs have cast his future, but for the first time in a millennium his sign does not appear. Nor does the sign of his one living son. The heavens are silent; the gods send no answer. The lack of portents has made even the augurs afraid.

  The empire waits with trepidation to see if the world will end with Kostimon. His enemies plot and circle, growing bolder as the sun of his empire sets. The shadow gods, released by the tolerance of his reign, wreak their own form of destruction on the hearts and souls of men. Yet Kostimon’s subjects still hope for a successor. Many lift prayers to the gods of light; others send their appeals to the gods of darkness. All seek clues that will reveal the founder of the next dynasty.

  Who—or what—will come?

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  BEYOND THE MARSHLANDS the sun was a ruddy orb sinking into the trees. Clouds scudding across the pale indigo sky turned gilded bellies to the west, reflecting the last rays of sunlight toward the frozen ground.

  At the close of afternoon lessons, a silent line of novices walked solemnly across the courtyard of Rieschelhold, famed school for the healing arts. The line of first-termers was led by an older, gawky boy in the long, medium blue robe of a disciple. Sauntering at the very end of the line, Caelan E’non cast a wary eye around for proctors and lagged back until he could step behind a stack of cider kegs near the wall.

  No one seemed to notice his disappearance. Grinning to himself, Caelan crouched low in his hiding place and waited impatiently for the courtyard to clear. The stone blocks at his back were very cold, and he had no cloak or mittens. Sucking in his breath, he tucked his hands in the wide sleeves of his grubby novice robe and felt content. This was freedom, tiny moments stolen at every opportunity to escape the tedium of his life here.

  Tonight the serfs seemed slower than usual in finishing their chores. Drumming his fingers on his knees, Caelan listened to the cadenced sounds coming from the road outside the walls and mentally urged the serfs to hurry.

  Finally the cobbles were swept clean of straw, mud, and leaves. The women hastened to finish gathering the laundry, and the carts holding apple baskets from the harvest were rowed up neatly along a wall. Even the well rope had to be coiled neatly over the crossbar. Nothing could be left undone or untidy, lest it attract the mischief of the wind spirits that blew at night.

  Already the breeze was picking up, sweeping down even into Caelan’s hiding place. Pine-scented and frosty, the air held a promise of snow.

  He shivered and didn’t care. The serfs were gathering the last of their tools and heading for the hall. From the tower, the Quarl Bell began to toll the first of its nine solemn counts, calling all inhabitants of Rieschelhold indoors to safety.

  The sound of the bell made Caelan crouch forward.

  Everyone would hurry now to get inside. It was the best part of the day. Besides, if his absence hadn’t been noticed by now, it was unlikely to be. He had to stay after class so often for punishment drills that his fellow novices wouldn’t even notice his failure to show for washing up.

  He’d be inside by darkfall, and at the table for supper. The proctors counted heads at supper and made a bed check at lights out. The rules here were strict, but the ironclad routine made it easy to dodge most of what he really wanted to avoid. He just had to pick the right moments.

  Like now.

  Scooting past the cider kegs, he dashed for the steps leading up to the ramparts of the wall. Bending double, he scuttled along below the crenellations until he reached the open-topped lookout turret near the main gates.

  Inside the circle of brick, he could not be seen from the courtyard.

  Grinning broadly, Caelan flung himself at the sloped tip of a crenellation and balanced there on his stomach with his toes barely touching the ground.

  From up here he had sweeping views of the surrounding marshlands and forest. A place of evil mists said to shelter wind spirits and the evil spawn of the shadow gods, the marshlands were mysterious and forbidden. Even now, a dank fog could be seen rising above them, gilded on top by the sunset. The sky was tinted a muted gold, with streaks of coral and indigo. Winter geese flew overhead in a ragged V formation, calling plaintively. The wind nipped bitterly at his uncovered ears and blew his hair into his eyes, but he didn’t mind.

  He was in time to see the soldiers.

  All day he’d been obliged to do his chores and work at his lessons, while in the distance came a steady tramping of feet along the imperial road that passed beside Rieschelhold. Word had passed among all the boys—imperial troops were marching home from the border wars.

  None of the masters would release classes even for a few minutes so the boys could see the army. Rieschelhold clung to its routine no matter what the rest of the world did. But alone of all the students, Caelan refused to miss this opportunity.

  Now, at last, he saw them, and it was a sight worth the risk of lingering out here past the forbidden hour.

  The fading sunlight reflected off the burnished spear tips of more men than Caelan could count.

  His mouth dropped open at the sheer size of the army. They f
illed the road, as far as the eye could see in either direction, marching ten men abreast. Never in his life had he seen so many. And they had been marching by all day.

  Caelan drew in a slow breath of wonder. It must be the entire eastern force—three legions at least, perhaps more. Eighteen thousand fighting men and their officers. A force larger than the town population of nearby Meunch. Staring at the sight, Caelan’s spirits slowly sank. Was the war over? As long as he could remember, his dream had been to join up and become a warrior in the service of the emperor. Right now the war involved fighting off the heathen Madruns who were overrunning the eastern borders of the empire.

  Caelan’s fists clenched on the wall. The war just had to last until he could be a part of it.

  But it couldn’t be over. The bells would be ringing if there had been victory. And the standard-bearers on horseback still carried banners and legion emblems, so there hadn’t been a defeat. These men must have been replaced with fresher troops, although none had marched east on this road.

  Still, to see an entire army—even a small one—real and entire ... Caelan leaned out farther over the edge of the wall, absorbing every detail of these men who were his heroes.

  Silent and grim, the veterans looked battle-worn and tired. They trudged along, crusted with mud and frost. Some of them wore bloody bandages, but not many. He knew army regulations separated wounded men from sound troops.

  All the foot soldiers wore winter-rusted mail and tattered cloaks. Few were clean-shaven. Besides the long spears, they were armed with two standard army daggers each—barbed blades that were nearly as long as Caelan’s arm. A regiment of archers passed by next, clad in tunics of imperial red and winter fur leggings. These men were tall and mostly blond. Their longbows were slung over their shoulders, and each man carried four quivers.

  Officers and cavalry, however, were the most flamboyant. They wore polished armor breastplates beneath their red cloaks and had leopard skin saddlecloths. Booted and spurred, with mail leggings and armored knee and elbow protectors fitted with wicked spikes, they wore mail cowls, and their helmets dangled on straps from their saddles. Their curved swords had crooked hilts for one-handed fighting. War axes and spiked clubs also hung from their belts. Their massive war chargers—also armored—made ordinary horses look like mere ponies.

  The hoofbeats of the trotting chargers on the stone road rumbled like constant thunder, a glorious sound that made Caelan’s heart beat faster.

  At that moment he would have given anything to go with them.

  “Caelan! Here you are.”

  Startled, Caelan slid off the wall and turned around.

  For a split second he saw only the long robe of a disciple, and with disgust he knew he was in for more demerits. Then the boy stepped out of shadow.

  Caelan let out his breath in relief. “Oh, it’s you. Well met, Cousin Agel.”

  Black-haired and blue-eyed, Agel was a slim, handsome boy who always looked neat and well dressed. Unlike Caelan, he never slept in his robe. He never used it to dust his room. He never knotted up stolen apples and cheese in it, using it as a makeshift haversack on outings.

  Agel was townbred, unlike Caelan who had grown up in a country hold. His father was a merchant and a wealthy man. As a result Agel possessed a level of sophistication Caelan had always envied. Agel was poised and well mannered around adults, who thought him incapable of the pranks he could think up. When he laughed, he had a pair of dimples and a charming twinkle in his eye. He could sweet- talk any cook into slipping him extra food for a growing boy.

  But right now as he stood there with his fists on his hips, he wore a frown instead of a smile. “Are you deaf tonight?” he asked. “The Quarl Bell has rung.”

  Disappointment crashed into Caelan. He thought Agel had come to share this moment with him like old times.

  “Did you hear the bell?”

  “Yes,” Caelan said with a shrug. “What of it?”

  Agel blinked. “You know very well—”

  “Careful! You’d better run for hall before you get a mark and spoil your perfect record.”

  Agel’s frown deepened. “I was upstairs in the hall of studies when I saw you sneak off. I came to bring you in before you ruin yourself. You can’t risk another—”

  “Never mind.” Caelan grinned and beckoned. “You’re in time. Come look.”

  Agel shook his head, but Caelan caught him by the front of his robe and pulled him over to the wall.

  “Look at them!” Caelan said. “Did you ever see anything like it?”

  Agel gave the troops a quick glance and turned away immediately. “They’ll probably loot and burn Meunch on their way through.”

  “No, they won’t!” Caelan said, disappointed in his reaction. “They’re heroes. I’ve dreamed of the chance to see a fighting force this large.”

  “Well, now you have. Come, let’s go before the proctors catch us.”

  Caelan sighed. His cousin used to be fun, always ready for mischief, eager to join in any adventure. But since coming here to study healing, Agel had turned into a dullard. It was as though he’d checked his sense of humor and fun at the gate when he took his matriculation oath. This term, he’d advanced a grade to disciple, and he was more pompous than ever before.

  Hooking his elbows over the wall, Caelan turned his back to Agel. “Go on, then. Sit in hall and eat your stew while Master Umal delivers another boring lecture on philosophy. I’m staying out here until it’s too dark to see anything.”

  “You’re mad!” Agel said angrily. “It’s too dangerous, especially in winter hours. The wind spirits—”

  “Silly old superstitions,” Caelan said, keeping his gaze stubbornly on the troops.

  Agel slapped his back, and Caelan flinched and whirled around. “Don’t!”

  “You still have bruises from the last beating the proctors gave you,” Agel said, glaring at him. “Why don’t you ever learn?”

  “Learn what?” Caelan retorted, angry now. “To fold my hands and practice severance until my eyes cross? To recite passages that are so dull I can’t say them without yawning? What’s the point of it?”

  “You know,” Agel said in a low, disapproving voice. “Or maybe you don’t. You’ve acted like a child ever since you came here.”

  “I hate it here!” Caelan cried. “Last term you complained as much as I did.”

  “But I advanced, and you didn’t. You’re at the bottom of the novice class in ranking. For shame, cousin! You’re already on academic probation. If you fail again, that will be the end of your studies here.”

  “Good,” Caelan said stubbornly, hating this lecture. “Then I’ll be free.”

  “How can you talk so? Rieschelhold offers the best training in the empire. To be a healer with any kind of reputation, you—”

  Caelan scowled. “I don’t want to be a healer.”

  “Nonsense. Of course you do.”

  “I don’t!”

  “You have to be!”

  “Why?” Caelan shot back. “Because my father’s one?”

  “Of course.”

  Caelan spat over the wall in the soldier’s way of insult, and Agel’s eyes narrowed with disapproval.

  “You don’t mean any of this,” Agel said. “It’s time you grew up and started acting your age.”

  Caelan sighed. He would be seventeen next month, which meant he was one year short of being able to legally defy his father, one year short of residing under a roof of his own choosing, one year short of breaking his apprenticeship, one year short of taking himself out of school, one year short of living as and how he chose.

  “I get enough lectures from the masters,” Caelan said angrily. “I don’t need any from you.”

  Agel glared back. “I’ve tried to let you walk your own path, but how can I call myself your friend and kinsman if I let you throw this away? This place is so pure, so special. It’s—”

  “It’s smothering me!”

  Consternation filled Agel�
�s face. “You’ve known since childhood you would train here as your father trained, following in his footsteps. Why didn’t you protest earlier if you really didn’t want this?”

  “I did. You know that.”

  Agel shook his head. “If you really want something else, you could have insisted. I did with my father, and he listened to me. Otherwise I’d be working in the counting house instead of studying here.”

  Caelan couldn’t believe Agel was saying this. It was like he’d forgotten those summers when he’d visited E’nonhold. “You know Beva. He hears only what he wants to. Nothing I’d ever said has made the least difference to him.”

  “Well, if you told him you wanted to be a soldier I’m not surprised he ignored you.”

  Caelan bristled. “What’s wrong with soldiering?”

  Agel threw him a scornful look. “Spend your life tramping hundreds of miles and being bullied, for what? For the chance to be speared by a heathen wearing tattoos and a breechclout?”

  “I would see the world,” Caelan said, his dreams turning his gaze back to the ribbon of soldiers marching into the gloom. A trumpet sounded in the far distance, mournful and low. The sound made him shiver. “I would serve the emperor. I would have honor—”

  “More honor in taking lives than in saving them?” Agel sounded genuinely horrified. “I thought you would grow out of this foolishness, but you’re worse than ever.” He threw out his arms, making his wide sleeves bell. “We are in the very place most devoted to the preservation of life, and all you can think about is killing. It’s a defilement—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Caelan growled. “You sound like Master Hierst. It’s not like that. You’re twisting everything.”

  “Am I? Or are you? How can you glorify a profession devoted to slaughter? Yes, in the name of the emperor,” he added scornfully as Caelan tried to protest. “And does that justify it?”

  “Careful,” Caelan warned him stiffly. “You’re close to treason.”

  Agel sniffed. “Your father has dedicated his life to helping people, to alleviating suffering, to saving lives whenever possible. He has honored the gods who gave him the gift of healing. What about you, Caelan? What are you going to honor? Bloodshed and pillage?”