When Shadows Fall

by Bruce Blake

  Teryk sat on the chair to pull on his boots, but stopped, recalling footsteps echoing through the great hall when his father burned the scroll. He realized the click of boot heels would be too loud in the silence of the night and decided to go barefoot.

  With a fortifying breath filling his lungs, he crossed the room, hoping with each step that the king trusted him enough not to waste a man on the task of guarding him. He paused with his fingers touching the door handle, and listened for noise on the other side but heard nothing other than the lonely crickets and hungry birds calling through the window.

  This is silly. The scroll will be nothing but ash.

  He’d seen the squire light it, watched it curl and blacken as flames consumed it. Yet a compulsion drove him on, a curiosity he could neither quell nor explain. The whispers, the colors...

  The prince tightened his grip on the handle, pulled the door open.

  An empty stool sat to the right of the door, tight to the wall. Someone had been assigned to keep watch over the prince, but had shirked his duty. Maybe the guard left his post, desperate to make water or void his bowels, or perhaps an illicit affair prompted him to sneak away, not expecting the prince to do any more than sleep. The reason didn’t matter to the prince, only the result—his room left unguarded.

  He coaxed the door closed behind him and peeked along the hall toward his sister’s chambers and froze. An armored man holding a torch stood outside the princess’ door, his back to the prince. Teryk swallowed hard and crept the opposite direction, glad he’d forsaken his boots as the fleshy pads of his feet whispered on the cold stone floor. When he’d reached the corner and eased himself around and out of the guard’s line of sight, he leaned against the wall and released his held breath.

  He only hesitated a moment to relax the tightness in his legs before continuing—the other guard might return at any time, and Teryk didn’t want to run into him in the darkened hall.

  The prince stole down the stairs and along another hall laid with thick red carpet. The rug upon the floor deadened the sound his bare feet would have made slapping on a stone floor, allowing him to move more quickly, rushing from shadow to shadow and avoiding the light wherever he could. When he reached the staircase to the bottom level, he paused again and listened.

  The palace seemed to hold its breath along with him.

  Without seeing the moon, he didn’t know what time of night it was, but the entire place never truly slept at once. Guards always patrolled the hallways, bakers rose early to bake, servants cleaned through the night, but he’d seen no one so far. Time crept past, stealing by like a thief in the night, and his lungs burned with the pressure of his captive air. He released a small amount through his nose, then paused again.

  A sound.

  It came from the hallway he’d just traversed. A furtive step? The rustle of cloth? He knew not, but it didn’t come again as he continued waiting until air ached in his lungs and he could wait no more. Up on his toes to prevent his soles creating noise on the bare stone stairs, he descended the steps as fast as he dared. Ten paces later, he finally released his breath and drew another into his thankful lungs.

  By the time Teryk reached the bottom of the staircase, the muscles in his calves were knotted from tip-toeing. He paused at the foot of the stairs, relieved to stand on flattened feet again, and directed his listening back up the stairway behind him.

  Another sound.

  This time, the prince didn’t wait to find out if he’d imagined the quiet footfall or listen for another to follow it. He sprinted along the carpeted hall, his feet beating a quiet rhythm on the plush rug woven by enslaved hands centuries before his birth. As he reached the door to the great hall, he skidded to a halt, the threads of the carpet burning the soles of his feet, and peeked back over his shoulder.

  He saw nothing.

  Teeth gritted, he listened for signs of a pursuer still following him.

  Another sound—a creak of leather.

  Teryk pushed his shoulder against the door, heedless of the creak he knew it would make. He’d be discovered, he realized, but he needed to get to the scroll before his pursuer caught him, he needed to see it.

  The door groaned again when he pushed it shut, the noise carried up into the rafters, building into a wave that crested against the ceiling, rebounded back, then dissolved like the ocean rolling onto the shore. Teryk stood with his back against the thick wooden door, expecting a pressure against it as his pursuer followed him into the room, but none came.

  A sliver of moonlight shining through a high window fell across the long, polished floor. The brazier’s edge caught the glow, amplified it to a beacon calling to the prince, guiding him to his goal. But the moonlight reflected in the brass was no normal moonlight; it sparkled blue and pink and green.

  Teryk pushed away from the door, his shadow forgotten, the guard outside his door forgotten, his father’s wishes forgotten. The reflected moonlight consumed him as he paced down the long room, oblivious to the chilly stone pressing against the soles of his feet, the soft echo of his footfalls swirling up into the heights.

  By all rights, the ancient parchment should be ash, indistinguishable from any other. There shouldn’t be fragments or pieces, scraps or flakes—nothing but dust. Somehow, though, the prince knew this wouldn’t be the case.

  The colors told him he’d find it so.

  He stepped into the band of moonlight and stopped three paces from the brazier, its edge glowing as though alight with flame. The prince tilted his head, peered up at the high window, but no moon shone through. He stared, wondering where the light came from, then returned his attention to the brazier, the colored light, the scroll.

  The last three steps passed beneath his feet and Teryk stood beside the brazier, close enough to touch it. He leaned forward, peering in, its interior illuminated by the light with no right to shine, and he saw it.

  The parchment. Rolled, blackened, but whole.

  Seeing it thus should have stopped him. Intelligent and educated, the prince had been raised to believe in the one old God and scoff at the mention of magic. He knew nothing should have survived the flame he’d watched burning in this very brazier earlier in the evening, nothing should have been more than ash, yet here lay the scroll, charred and brittle looking, but in one piece.

  Common sense told him to be afraid, to run back to his bed to cower beneath his thin blanket, but he didn’t listen. Instead, he reached into the brazier with a shaking hand and touched his fingertips against the scroll.

  Its rough surface didn’t immediately flake under his touch, so the prince grasped it between thumb and finger, worried it might fall if he squeezed too hard, but it didn’t. Despite its appearance, the scroll’s surface felt the same as when he first touched it.

  But it made no sound.

  Teryk lifted it out of the vessel, careful not to knock it against the side for fear his fingers misjudged its condition. When his hand cleared the sides, the light shining through the high window dimmed and the color reflected in the brazier’s edge faded, throwing the room into darkness.

  The door behind him creaked.

  Teryk whirled, the scroll held protectively against his chest. He expected to find the light of a torch spilling down the hall, reflected in the polished stone floor, but didn’t. He expected to hear a guard’s voice call out, or his father’s, telling him to drop the scroll and return to his chambers, but didn’t.

  In the darkness, he observed a silhouette framed in the doorway, and a whisper floated through the great hall to his ears. A droplet of sweat ran down his temple.

  “Teryk?”

  His sister’s voice.

  Nervousness drained from him and the unintended tautness gripping his muscles eased. He paced across the polished floor, the scroll grasped in his hand and the unexplainable lure of the brazier gone.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “I’m not sure. I had a dream.”

  He stop
ped in front of her, close enough to see the light of a wall-mounted torch shining down the passage reflected in her eyes. She wore an expression of worry on her face that made him want to touch her cheek to soothe her, but his fingers refused to release the scroll.

  “A dream? What did you dream of?”

  “I dreamed you came to take back the scroll.” Her eyes darted to the roll in his hands, then back. “But it must be burned to ash. Isn’t it?”

  The prince inhaled deeply through his nose, hesitating, not sure if he should tell the princess the truth or keep it for himself. He’d told Trenan and nearly lost the parchment because of it.

  This is Danya. This is my sister.

  “We can’t talk here,” he said, pushing past her into the broad hallway beyond. “Someone will discover us.”

  “Teryk—?”

  “Let’s go back to my chamber.” He crept along the hall toward the staircase without waiting for an answer, but knew she followed when he heard the door to the great hall creak shut.

  Their feet whispered over carpet, padded up stairs, and they encountered no one. Teryk breathed a relieved lung full of air upon reaching the third level landing undiscovered, the floor on which they both kept their chambers. He stopped at the top, his back pressed against the wall, the scroll held against his chest, and held his arm out to stop Danya before she rounded the corner. A finger held to his lips, he gestured for her to wait while he peeked down the passage.

  The guard assigned to his room had returned and the sight of him made the prince’s heart sink. The man sat upon the stool set outside his door, arms crossed in front of him, head sagging until his chin rested on his chest. Beyond him, the hall lay empty. Teryk retreated.

  “I think he’s asleep. And your guard is gone.”

  He held one finger to his lips again and signaled for Danya to follow, then took a furtive step around the corner.

  They crept down the hall, the princess’ hand on her brother’s waist. As they approached the man on the stool, a snore rattled in his nose.

  The royal siblings hesitated, waiting to be sure he hadn’t woken himself, then the guard’s breathing returned to the deep, even breaths of sleep. Teryk glanced over his shoulder at Danya, offered a wan smile, and set out again.

  They crossed the last few paces to the door, close enough to the guard to see the hairs of his mustache quiver with each exhalation. Danya raised a finger and pointed out a line of drool spilling out of the corner of the man’s mouth and along his chin; she brought her hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. Teryk shot her a warning look and reached for the door handle.

  The door opened, smooth and silent on hinges lubricated regularly by the prince himself since his youth—this wasn’t his first clandestine trip out of his chamber. When they’d entered, he closed the door and the tension in his shoulders loosened as he eased the bolt into place.

  Danya opened her mouth to speak, but he barged past her to the table. He pushed the half-full goblet of mulled wine nearer to the edge and placed the rolled and blackened parchment in the middle. The princess came to stand beside him, eyes wide, staring at the scroll.

  “It survived?”

  Teryk nodded.

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it’s any more legible now than before.”

  She scowled and reached for it, but Teryk pushed her hand away.

  “You should open it,” she said.

  He shook his head. “It might fall apart.”

  “If you don’t try, you’ll never know if anything changed.”

  Teryk dragged his gaze from the scroll to his sister, one eyebrow raised at her. “Why would anything have changed?”

  Danya shrugged. “How did it survive the flames?”

  The prince’s gaze fell back to the scroll. She had a point. The parchment was scorched black, its edges curled in on themselves, though it had no right to be in one piece. If he’d wanted to retrieve the scroll, he should have needed a pouch to scoop it into.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

  He reached out but hesitated before touching it, fingers shaking, suddenly thinking the entire foray futile. He’d detected no sounds from the scroll on the return trip from the great hall, and its surface was burned beyond legibility, even if words had once been written on it. What could unrolling it reveal?

  The prince flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, then opened them again, wiggling them above the scroll. His sister poked him in the ribs.

  “Come on, then. It’s a burnt piece of paper, not your attempt at a virgin.”

  He looked sideways at her, a retort regarding the number of virgins he’d deflowered teetering on his lips, but then noticed her smile and realized she already knew. He kept quiet, shook his head, and returned his attention to the scroll.

  Nothing out of the ordinary tingled through his nerves when he lowered his hand to brush his fingertips along the scroll’s surface. It felt firm and rough, as before—old paper, poorly made, Danya had rightly said—but no sounds whispered in his ears, no colors danced before his eyes, as though whatever powered the roll before had died in the flames.

  He inhaled a breath that smelled nothing at all like charred parchment, grasped the scroll’s edge between his fingers, and unrolled it across the table.

  Danya leaned in, peeking over his shoulder, but it was blank and as black as a night at the beginning of the moon’s turn. An excitement he hadn’t felt building in his chest leaked out of the prince and his head sagged forward.

  “Touch it,” his sister said.

  “What?”

  “Touch it. See if it feels different.”

  “I’m touching it. There’s nothing. It’s a burnt piece of paper.”

  Danya huffed air out through her nose, exasperated. “Touch the inside. If you won’t, I will.”

  She reached her hand past him and Teryk jerked his shoulder, blocking her from reaching the scroll. His hip hit the table hard, jarring it and tipping the wine goblet. He watched it tilt toward the parchment as though time slowed, leaving him powerless to stop it.

  The goblet leaned farther and farther. A drop of wine slopped out, splashed on the paper, then another. The chalice toppled, spilling its contents over the scroll’s surface; Teryk released his hold on the edges, jumping back from the mess.

  “Look what you’ve done,” he snapped, standing a step away from the table, hands held up in the air.

  He faced his sister, intent on skewering her with an angry look to show his annoyance, but she paid him no attention. She continued staring at the scroll, now ruined by a sweet and spicy mulled wine, as if being burnt in a brazier wasn’t enough.

  “Danya!”

  The princess raised her hand and extended a finger, pointing at the soggy scroll. Teryk’s anger melted away when he saw white mist gathering around the roll of parchment.

  “What in the old God’s name?” he exclaimed.

  “Teryk.” Danya’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Open it.”

  His head whipped around and he stared at her hard. Did she mean it? Trenan’s words sprang back to his mind again.

  ‘It has been touched by magic.’

  The thought both scared and excited him, made him nauseated and filled with exuberance at once. He shook his head, but Danya still wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes remained on the scroll and, when he returned his gaze to it, he saw the mist had dispersed as quickly as it had come.

  “Open it.”

  He reached for the parchment. When his fingers touched its edge, a choir whispered in his ear with a low, musical hum.

  “Do you hear that?”

  Danya didn’t respond.

  A deep inhalation whistled through his teeth and he grasped the edge of the parchment, spread it across the table. A few beads of crimson wine rolled away onto the table, but not nearly as much as had been spilled.

  The runes scrolled across the paper’s dark surface glowed with faint white light tha
t pulsed and dimmed, pulsed and dimmed. To him, they may as well have been no more than shapes, for they were written in an ancient language he’d seen once before, in the secret chamber. Wide-eyed, the prince stared at their forms, tracing each swoop and angle with his eyes, forgetting his own need to breathe, forgetting his sister stood beside him until the princess’ fingers touched his forearm.

  With an effort, he wrenched his gaze away from the lucent patterns. Danya continued staring at the wine-stained parchment stretched across the table, an expression of awe and wonder lending a glow to her countenance.

  “Teryk,” she said, finally tearing her eyes away from the pulsing light and finding her brother’s gaze. “I can read it.”

  XI Prophecy

  The black parchment went red with the wine, then faded to pink. Shapes appeared, their edges and curves radiating dim light in the dark room. Danya stared at the lambent runes, symbols she’d never seen before but knew were the markings of an ancient language, long dead and forgotten. She watched them dance and writhe on the page like living things, then they settled into letters she inexplicably recognized, formed words she somehow knew.

  The princess’ eyes widened as she stared at the strange message on a charred parchment that, by all the laws of God and nature, should be nothing but a heap of dusty gray ash. But it wasn’t. Instead, it spoke of omens and portends, visions and prophecy. Danya dragged her gaze away and found her brother studying her face.

  “Teryk,” she said. “I can read it.”

  His brows dipped and a line took shape on his forehead. “What?”

  “I can read it.”

  “You can read it? How?”

  She looked from him to the scroll and back, waved her hand over top of the parchment.

  “What is it you see?” she asked.

  The prince’s eyes fell to the paper, narrowing in concentration. Danya waited. She and Teryk had learned all the same lessons from the masters, were close to equals in languages and letters, but his expression told her the lines didn’t appear to him as they did to her. The tilt of his brows and set of his mouth revealed that he saw only unfamiliar forms of a long-ago language scrawled across the page. She waited for him to say so, excitement building in her chest. Finally, he sighed heavily and raised his head, shaking it in defeat.