Reign of Shadows

by Deborah Chester

  Caelan’s face flamed hot. He had never heard Agel so cutting, so contemptuous. “You sound like you’d rather worship my father than the emperor.”

  “Uncle Beva is worthy of everyone’s admiration,” Agel said. “Yours most of all.”

  “I’m not like him!” Caelan cried. “I’m not ever going to be like him. I used to think you understood that. Now you sound just like everyone else.”

  “I’ve grown up,” Agel said coldly. “You haven’t.”

  His scorn hurt. Caelan glared at him, trying not to let it show. “You used to be on my side,” he said softly, struggling to hold his voice steady.

  “I still am. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t be out here now, risking a demerit to save you another beating.”

  Caelan snorted to himself, almost wanting to laugh except it hurt too much. “There was a time when you wouldn’t have cared about demerits.”

  “You’re right,” Agel said quietly, almost with pity. “I wouldn’t have cared. I would have probably raced you up here and we could have stayed out until we froze in the cold, daring each other to risk an attack of the wind spirits.

  Caelan laughed. “That’s more like it.”

  “But I have enough sense these days to know that’s stupid,” Agel went on, still in that same quiet voice. “I have my future to think about, and the way I want to spend my life. I’m an adult now, not a boy. I want to be a healer, because it is good work and helpful work. It gives something back to the world. I admire Uncle Beva more than anyone else I know, and I’m grateful to his kindness in seeing that I was allowed to enroll here. I’ve had to work hard and prove myself worthy of that admittance, while you—you have it as a birthright. That’s why it makes me so angry when I see you throwing your opportunity away.”

  “And it makes me angry when you refuse to see my side of things,” Caelan answered. “I am not Beva. I will never be him, no matter how much everyone wants me to be. All my life I’ve had to follow around in his shadow, hearing about his skill, his gifts, his success, his fame. I’m sick of it!”

  “Are you jealous of him?” Agel asked in astonishment.

  “No! I’m just tired of being expected to measure up to what he is. As though anyone could ever come close to him.”

  “But he’s the greatest healer in Trau.”

  Caelan shut his eyes.

  “More than that. His fame spreads beyond this province,” Agel said eagerly. “He could go all the way to Imperia if he chose. An appointment as court physician would be—”

  “My father doesn’t want that. He’s only interested in living in severance,” Caelan said bitterly. “No fame. No fortune.”

  “He is a good man.”

  “He’s cold and unfeeling!” Caelan burst out. “Damn you, why have you started worshiping him like this? You used to think he was as strict as—”

  “But since I started studying here, I understand severance.” Agel folded his hands in his wide sleeves and hunched himself against the cold. It was nearly dark now, and the soldiers could only be heard on the road. They marched in unnerving silence—the brutal force of the emperor evident and thrilling. “It is a total philosophy of life,” Agel said. “It is completion.”

  Caelan rolled his eyes. Everything angry and rebellious in him rose up, roaring inwardly against hearing any of it again. “It’s not for me.”

  “You must learn to accept it if you are to heal.”

  “I don’t want to heal,” Caelan said in exasperation. “Why can’t you accept that?”

  “Because it’s in you.”

  “It’s in my father, not me!”

  “But you have the gift. You are his blood. He tested you and said you could sever. I remember when he did it.”

  “The ability to do something doesn’t mean it’s my destiny,” Caelan said. “I know they teach that here, but you don’t have to believe everything they say.”

  “The ways that are taught here are good ways,” Agel said.

  “But they aren’t the only ways,” Caelan argued. He saw no change in Agel’s expression and sighed. “What’s the use? You’ve turned to stone, just like the masters here. You’re becoming exactly like my father.”

  A smile dawned across Agel’s face. “Really?” he asked in delight. “You really think so?”

  Disgust filled Caelan. Without answering, he shouldered past Agel and headed down the steps to the courtyard.

  Agel followed close on his heels, and in silence they hurried toward the hall.

  In the gloom and quiet of evening, the courtyard had an eerie, deserted feel. Light glowed warm from the narrow window slits in the buildings, and the air smelled of peat smoke. The wind still blew sharp and bitterly cold, knocking old snow off the roofs in soft drifts of white.

  No one was supposed to be abroad by the last stroke of the Quarl Bell. All residents of the hold had to be indoors before nightfall, safe within the warding keys and secured from the wind spirits that hunted during the long winter darkness. Which, Caelan thought to himself, was only an elaborate way of enforcing a strict curfew.

  It seemed that everything at Rieschelhold was buried under an endless series of rules. Living here was like dying a slow death. Caelan hated the tall stone walls, hated the confinement, the serenity, the order, the iron routine that never varied. At home he could always find a way to escape his tutors. He lived for wild gallops across the glacier, his horse’s mane whipping his face, the icy wind whistling in his ears. The mountains, the sweeping views of the top of the world, the endless sky. And at night, the breathtaking display of colors from the light spirits.

  That was living.

  But here, in the marshy lowlands, the winters were bleak and rainy and the summers were hot and insect-riddled. Beautiful days were wasted cramped inside classrooms. The joy of life, the urge, the passion were all driven away in favor of severance, which meant to be cold, aloof, detached, emotionless, and dead as far as he was concerned.

  Caelan tipped back his head to look at the starry sky. His heart ached for freedom. But even if he sent for the scrivener and wrote another letter to his father, begging for release, it would be a waste of time. Beva E’non wanted his only son to be a healer; therefore, the son would be a healer. Close of subject.

  Accept it, Caelan told himself as he and Agel crunched across gravel, then reached the cobblestones. Grow up and do as you’re told.

  But even when he forced himself to concentrate and really tried to do his lessons, his heart wasn’t in the work. He wasn’t a scholar, never had been. And always in the back of his heart gnawed the question of what kind of healer he would be. How could he cure anyone? How could he reach the depth of empathy necessary to sever illness and suffering from the lives of his father’s patients?

  Ahead, from the side yard, a shadow suddenly emerged from the darkness. Long-robed and hooded in cerulean blue, it carried a long rod of yew carved with the faces of the four wind spirits. Its left hand was held aloft, and upon its palm glowed a pale blue flame not of fire. It saw the boys and paused, then headed toward them.

  Dragging in a breath of exasperation, Caelan stopped so quickly Agel bumped into him from behind.

  Agel’s breath hissed audibly. “Gault have mercy on us.”

  Caelan turned his head. “Run,” he whispered. “Take the passage by the stables and slip into the hall of studies through the side door. It’s always open at this hour for Master Mygar.”

  Beside him, Agel was tense with alarm. “But the proctor—”

  “Shut up and go! I have so many demerits another won’t hurt me. Just go.”

  As he spoke, Caelan gave Agel a shove. Ducking his head, Agel shuffled away; then abruptly he broke into a run and vanished from sight.

  The proctor veered that way and lifted its staff, but Caelan stepped into its path.

  “I have permission to be out after Quarl Bell,” he lied loudly.

  Proctors did not split their attention well and tended to confront whatever was clos
est. Figuring this out had enabled Caelan to avoid them many times. But now he danced nervously across the path of the proctor a second time as it tried to look in the direction Agel had gone.

  The proctor finally turned its hooded head back to Caelan and pointed its staff.

  Caelan backed up warily. That staff could strike with lightning speed to enforce the hold’s many rules. He had the bruises to prove it.

  “Master Mygar released me from late drills for an errand,” he said quickly. “I’m to report back to him after supper.”

  The proctor, its face unseen within the depths of its hood, stared at Caelan in grim silence. Extending its left hand, it cast the truth-light at him.

  His heart sank, but he knew better than to flinch.

  The light flowed over him from the top of his head and spread slowly down. Caelan scarcely breathed and kept his lie uppermost in his mind, visualizing old Master Mygar with his food-stained robe and toothless gums.

  The pale blue light flowed over him in a shimmering glow. At first its color did not alter, indicating the truth had been told. Caelan began to hope he might get away with this.

  Then the light faded to sickly yellow.

  Caelan gulped but resigned himself. All this meant was a couple of stout blows and no supper tonight. The black mark would go on his record, and tomorrow he’d have extra drills from Master Mygar for lying. Unpleasant, but easy enough to endure when he had to.

  The proctor stretched forth its left hand again, and the light spread from Caelan’s feet, then gathered itself into a tight ball and returned to the proctor’s palm. The proctor swept its rod aside, gesturing for Caelan to pass.

  Disbelieving, for an instant Caelan thought he was being allowed to go. He grinned and hurried past the proctor, but a faint whistle in the air warned him of his mistake.

  The blow slammed across his back with a force that drove him to his knees. Streaks of black and red crossed his vision. He wheezed and could not draw in air. His back felt as though it had been broken in half. Wrapped in agony, Caelan sagged forward onto his palms.

  The staff struck him again, knocking him flat. His cheek scraped on the cobblestones, a tiny flare of pain beneath the immense agony in his back. He coughed and choked, still unable to drag in any air.

  Just when he began to panic, his lungs started working again. He drew in another breath, then another, although each one caused pain to stab through his back. It was too hard to get up so he lay there, fighting back tears, too angry and proud to let the proctor see how badly it had hurt him.

  The proctor glided around him in a silent circle. From where he lay, Caelan could see that the proctor’s feet did not quite touch the ground. Instead it floated ever so slightly in the air. Caelan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He and another novice had a bet on whether the proctors walked. Right now, winning Ojer’s quarterly allowance didn’t seem very important. Caelan felt too gray and clammy to care about anything except that it was over. In a moment he’d manage to get to his feet, then he’d be confined to his quarters without supper. No loss, the way he felt right now.

  The tip of the proctor’s staff struck the ground a scant inch from the tip of his nose. Startled, Caelan jerked open his eyes.

  The proctor bent over him. Truth-light rolled down the length of the staff, making it glow. Caelan thought he saw the carved faces of the wind spirits shift and grimace.

  Gasping in alarm, he jerked himself up to a sitting position and winced with pain.

  “You fear no wind spirits. You mock the rules of protection,” the proctor said, its voice hollow and not quite real. “You meet wind spirits.”

  “No,” Caelan said in growing unease. He held up his hands and scrambled to his knees. “I’ve learned my lesson. Honest. Don’t—”

  “More lies,” the proctor said sternly. It lifted the glowing staff over its head and swung it in a circle.

  A gust of wind swirled around Caelan, dumping snow down his collar and making him shiver.

  “Tonight you meet the wind. You learn.”

  The proctor turned, but Caelan reached out in desperation and gripped the hem of its robe.

  The cloth was scorching hot. With a cry, Caelan released it and shook his singed fingers.

  “You can’t leave me outside all night,” he said in protest. “I’ll freeze to death.”

  “Then lesson will be learned.” Without looking back, the proctor glided away and left him kneeling on the cold cobblestones.

  Chapter Two

  BY THE TIME Caelan managed to stagger to his feet and lurch forward, the proctor had vanished from sight.

  Sharp pain stabbed through Caelan’s left knee every time he took a step. He could feel blood trickling down his leg, and his leggings were ripped.

  Fresh resentment washed over him, but he pushed it away, determined to get inside the hall before the proctor locked him out. He wasn’t going to spend all night out here. They had no right to do that to him.

  Limping and gasping, he hobbled past the main hall entry. The massive wooden doors with their elaborate carvings were always bolted shut at the conclusion of Quarl Bell. He didn’t waste time trying to get in that way. Instead, he limped around to the side door that he’d recommended to Agel.

  It was locked.

  He pushed on it with all his strength, then cursed and kicked it.

  He tried the larder.

  Locked.

  He checked the stables, but they were firmly bolted. He knocked as loudly as he dared, but no one came.

  The storage barns, harvest shed, and cider press were all secured. He could not gain entry to the servants’ quarters, and the only access to the tall stone building that housed the students was through the hall.

  As for Elder Sobna’s small house, tucked up against the low wall of the kitchen garden ... impossible. He wasn’t about to seek refuge there.

  Darkness—bleak and terribly cold—closed in around him. The wind cut harshly through his clothing. Shivering, he tucked his numb hands into his armpits and tried to pull his robe up over his head to protect his aching ears. It wasn’t enough.

  They had to let him in, he kept reassuring himself. They couldn’t let him die of exposure out here. How would they explain it to his father?

  His mind’s eye conjured up a scene of his father, grim and sorrowful, standing in Elder Sobna’s study. The Elder would be stroking his beard and shaking his head.

  “The boy was always in trouble. Lax and disobedient, always breaking rules designed for his own protection. No one knew he’d slipped outside again. The poor boy simply froze to death. An unfortunate accident.”

  Caelan’s anger came surging up hot and fierce. He wasn’t going to shiver out here, losing toes and the tips of his ears to frostbite. They thought he would pound on the doors and plead for forgiveness. They were trying to scare him into behaving.

  But it wasn’t going to work.

  Furiously, he circled the infirmary and classrooms. All the windows were shuttered firmly. The doors were locked tight.

  No refuge anywhere.

  The wind blew stronger now, whipping his clothing and lashing his hair into his eyes. It cut straight through him, driving him into a corner of the wall. Gusting and shrieking around the eaves of the buildings, it seemed to sob and wail. For a moment he thought he saw a blurry shape forming in the air itself, long talons reaching out to rend him.

  “No!” he shouted, and shoved himself out into the open again.

  He wasn’t going to give up, and he wasn’t going to beg for forgiveness. There had to be another way, one he’d wanted for a long time.

  He limped toward the main gates. It took four men to lift the stout crossbeam that lay across the brackets of the gates. But there was a smaller pass gate, also bolted from inside and guarded by a softly glowing warding key.

  By day the key was only a crude triangle of hand-hammered bronze. But at night its powers awakened to guard against all creatures of the shadows, including wind spirits an
d the unnameable things that crept the earth in increasing numbers. Spell-forged by the mysterious, nomadic Choven, warding keys could be found on the gates of the largest holds in Trau, or on the doors of the humblest daub and wattle cottages.

  Warding gloves were required to handle the keys, but those were locked away in the gatehouse along with the gatekeeper, who was probably spooning his supper and refusing to listen to any knocking on his door.

  The glimmer of pale blue light in the distance made Caelan look up. He saw a proctor gliding along the upper ramparts of the wall.

  Caelan shouted and waved, but the proctor did not glance in his direction. When it reached the corner of the wall, it descended the steps and vanished from sight among the working sheds.

  Desperation had many sides. Caelan’s resolution hardened. He’d rather be cursed now than to chase down a proctor and beg for mercy. He’d rather lose a hand from touching a warding key than endure another beating. Everyone in Rieschelhold could go to Beloth, for all he cared.

  He looked around, but as usual no tools had been left lying about. There was nothing he could use to pry the warding key off the gate.

  Every time Caelan stepped too near, the key’s glow brightened to a dazzling intensity, and the metal hummed with a force that vibrated through his skull.

  He stepped back and scowled with growing determination. Beyond the gate lay freedom and hope. He could join the soldiers and shake the dust of Trau once and for all off his shoes.

  Although most of the time Caelan daydreamed through his lessons, he had received some training in severance at home from his father. And the extra drills from Master Mygar had not all been worthless.

  Caelan squared his shoulders and shut his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate. All his anger had to be gathered first. He visualized a chest with a lock. Placing his anger inside, he slammed shut the lid. He visualized another chest. Into it he shoved doubts, fear, cold, hunger, and thought.