When Shadows Fall

by Bruce Blake

Birk struck a flint and a spark flashed eerie light across his face, but the wick didn’t catch. He did it again, the spark flashin’ on the snaky grin spread wide on his lips, and it didn’t light again. Horace almost stepped forward and offered to ignite the thing for him, but remembered to hold his tongue on account of he didn’t really want the lamp to light. If it didn’t, might be he’d be able to sneak himself out while Birk cussed o’er it, as any man’d do if it didn’t catch by the third attempt.

  But it did. The spark flared a third time, and the wick caught, throwin’ a fluttery light across the inside o’ Birk’s shack. Horace tensed, his teeth bit tight, expectin’ a man clothed in red and white, seaweed draped 'round his neck and ocean water drippin’ outta his hair, to lurch at him, drag him to the ground and then on a long trek back to the sea.

  No man awaited him in the dark, though, and ol’ Horace Seaman relaxed the tension outta his limbs, if but a little.

  Inside Birk’s shack were a damn bit better than the outside. He’d carved it up into at least two rooms what Horace saw, and the table and chairs set in the room’s middle appeared artisan-made—must’ve been brought from the city, ‘cause the way the shacks’ outside looked proved Birk didn’t make them himself. Rocks o’ different colors and sizes made up the mantle, also an expert’s work, and Horace wondered if rockwork were somethin’ Birk might’ve done himself, but he doubted it.

  “Welcome to my home,” the man said, arms spread wider’n the grin upon his face.

  Horace sucked a breath in through his nose. The sea’s salty odor lingered, torturin’ him, and it sure as hell didn’t make him no hero. Fact, his bladder gave a shake at the smell of it and he thought it might let go and make him piss himself. He told himself it were the two tankards o’ ale what caused it, nothin’ more. Horace Seaman weren’t no chickenturd.

  “Where is he?”

  “Right to business.” Birk gestured toward a tattered velvet curtain hung across a doorway what leaned towards starboard. “Right through there, in the bedroom.”

  Horace’s gaze found its way across the room to the drape what he suspected might’ve once been a lively shade o’ green, but time and wear’d faded it closer to brown. The frayed edge brushed the floor, threads danglin’ from it, and behind it lay...what? A God? Death? Hopefully nothin’ more’n a man.

  With a hard blink and a shake o’ his head, Horace forced his feet to move him toward the doorway. Thresh crinkled under his boot, then pressed into the sole o’ his rag-wrapped foot, and he wondered if whatever were on the curtain’s other side might know where to find his other boot.

  Birk grinned and stared as the ol’ sailor made his way across the room like a cat sneakin’ up on a mouse, one slow, careful step after another. Horace suspected the man might wanna prompt him into goin’ quicker, the way he did when he flicked the reins against the horse’s flank, but he kept himself from it, and that were for the best. Horace wouldn’t’ve taken kindly to him slappin’ a piece o’ leather on his ass, no matter how much stew and ale he bought for him.

  The sailor raised his hand and stretched his callused fingers—digits used to tyin’ knots and workin’ hard—out toward the curtain. His fingertips touched its edge, found it softer’n he imagined, and hesitated. His bladder made its desire to have a piss known again, but Horace ignored it, concentratin’ on the cloth’s smoothness. There weren’t nothin’ soft as this on a boat.

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” Birk said. He’d come across the room while Horace weren’t payin’ him no mind and stood a pace away to the side. “He’s unconscious.”

  The sailor faced his host.

  “Asleep,” Birk explained.

  “I know what you mean,” Horace snapped. “I ain’t afraid, is all.”

  Birk bent his head forward, his smile unfalterin’, and Horace went back to the curtain to insert his hand between the cloth and the leanin’ jamb. Closer to the second room like this, the sickly sea smell were stronger. The sailor’s stomach clenched and he moved the drape aside, took a step.

  He peered into a small, dark room without much in it. Horace caught sight o’ a trunk and a bed, and on the bed lay a man’s shape...a big man, judgin’ by the bulges in the covers. Big, but Horace’s eyes couldn’t make out his features in the dark, and a blanket covered him right the way up to his chin.

  “Here,” Birk said, the word startlin’ Horace and makin’ him have to squeeze harder to keep his bladder from havin’ its way. “Allow me.”

  Birk grasped the edge of the velvety curtain and pulled it outta the way, then held the oil lamp up for it to cast light into the room. Horace turned his gaze away toward the chest sittin’ at the foot o’ the bed. He found it finely crafted in the manner o’ the furniture, and inlaid with somethin’ what sparkled and shimmered in the lamp’s dancin’ light. Horace thought it might be called mother o’ pearl, but he weren’t sure if that were it, or if pearls even came from mothers.

  Birk held the lamp patiently and Horace felt its heat against his cheek, his ears detected the flame’s hiss burnin’ the oil in the wick. The sailor made his eyes move up the bed from the chest, followin’ the man’s curves and bumps hidin’ beneath the blanket. They seemed like reg’lar curves and bumps, not akin to tentacles and such bein’ hid underneath, and he thought even a man o’ Birk’s nature would’ve thought to tell him if the man were possessed of tentacles.

  The pulled-right-the-way-up blanket covered half the man’s face, right to his nose. His eyes was closed, but weren’t no mistakin’ the mess o’ straw-colored hair stickin’ out from under like someone were attemptin’ to hide a mop.

  Horace’s mouth fell open.

  “Do you know him?”

  He stared a moment, then forced his jaw shut again, hopin’ Birk didn’t notice it openin’. His bladder begged for relief and he fought the urge to cross his legs to make it behave.

  “What?”

  “I said do you know him, Horace?” Birk repeated.

  “Nope,” Horace said, forcin’ his voice into soundin’ normal. “I ain’t never seen him.”

  Birk let out a breath what stirred Horace’s hair and coaxed goose bumps along the flesh on his lower arm. The sailor’s eyes remained on the shock of tangled locks pokin’ out from under the blanket.

  “All right, then. We’ll take the fellow to the doc at first light. Maybe he’ll have better luck waking him and we can find out where he came from. Here.” Birk gave the oil lamp a shake, its metal door rattlin’. “Take this and I’ll prepare a place for you to sleep.”

  Horace raised his arm and took the handle o’ the lamp in his fingers without removin’ his gaze from the unconscious man. He sensed Birk move away, then heard the man shufflin’ 'round furniture and thresh, clearin’ a space for Horace to lay himself down. The sailor ignored him, takin’ another step into the small room and lettin’ the curtain swing back across the doorway behind him. He glared’ hard at the bit o’ head left uncovered by the wool blanket, leaned in close, doubtin’ his eyes, but there weren’t no reason for doubt.

  “Fuck me dead,” First Man Horace Seaman whispered so quietly, even he couldn’t’ve heard the words. “Dunal.”

  XIII Plans and Lies

  The faint odor of burnt wood and charred cork wafted to Teryk’s nose. Nostrils flaring at the scent, he glowered at the empty table top, a black mark the size and shape of a rolled scroll scorched onto its surface, the blackened stopper from the inkpot atop it. He resisted the urge to bend over and search across the floor, under the bed, by the desk. He’d find nothing but the silver goblet he’d fortuitously knocked off the table the night before.

  Not fortuitous: destined, fated.

  The door swung open and his sister entered without knocking, her custom no matter how many times he’d admonished her for it. He’d given up the demand a long time ago. Beyond her, Teryk glimpsed the empty stool on the other side of the threshold, his guard likely recalled from his duty sleeping outside the prince’s room to partake in f
ar more strenuous activities.

  Already clothed for the day, Danya closed the door and strode across the floor to where he stood. He suspected she’d been out of bed for a while, though the dark circles under her eyes suggested she’d found sleep no more easily than him.

  The princess strode to his side and gazed down at the table.

  “Did you take it?” he asked knowing she hadn’t.

  “No. Why would I? The prophecy speaks of the first born, remember? Not the second.” Danya glanced across the room at the desk where he’d hidden his transcript in the drawer, tilted her head in its direction. “Is it...?”

  “Still there, and in one piece.” He slouched onto the blue velvet divan, arm thrown across the back. Danya perched on the edge of it beside him.

  “It seems so silly now the sun is up, doesn’t it?”

  Teryk noticed her peering sideways at him and only grunted in response. She shifted to face him, eyes glittering, a forced smile on her lips.

  “I mean, truly...magic? There’s no such thing in the real world. No one believes in magic, or Small Gods, or men from across the sea. Right?”

  The prince held his sister’s gaze without answering for a few seconds, then turned away to study his fingernails. If he let her speak long enough, she’d decipher the goings-on in his head. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed—the first sign her realization had begun.

  “Parchment can’t survive fire. Glowing letters don’t appear out of nowhere. Men don’t sleep like the dead on guard duty and scrolls don’t spontaneously burn up in the middle of the night.”

  She waved a hand toward the table and the charred mark on its surface, then continued to stare as though she thought doing so might make it fade away. Teryk realized she’d almost convinced herself of what he already believed.

  Danya sighed and fell against the divan, her eyes rolling back as she directed them toward the ceiling. Teryk looked at her, at the way her hair rested across her shoulders, at the sprinkle of freckles on her nose. In just another moment, she’d—

  “It happened, didn’t it?” she said.

  He nodded. “It did.”

  “How can it be?”

  “I don’t know but, believe in magic and Small Gods and all the rest or not, it happened.”

  “What do we do now?”

  The glimmer returned to her eyes. As was so often the case, she began to see this as just another of their little adventures, like swimming in the river. But it wasn’t. His heart told him it was far more.

  “We don’t do anything,” he said. “I am going to fulfill my destiny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sat up and leaned toward her, his elbows resting on his knees, letting the pause draw on until she’d have trouble containing herself from asking again.

  “I’m going to find him, Danya. I’m going to find the man from across the sea.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Teryk. The—”

  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped, jumping to his feet.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I understand what you meant.” He paced away, shaking his head. When he faced her again, she’d moved to perch on the edge of the divan again, her hands clasped in her lap and concern creasing her brow. She hadn’t meant to call him stupid, but the word had come out of her mouth, nonetheless.

  “All my life, I’ve lived in our father’s shadow,” he continued. “At his insistence, I spend more time learning history and matters of the state than I do swordplay and strategy. What have I learned in my studies, sister? I’ve learned that, generations ago, our family took the throne by force. That men swung swords and won the crown for our ancestors through cunning and strength of arm without any concept of which crops command what prices and when the merchants can sell their wares.”

  “It’s not that way anymore, Teryk. We’ve seen no war in our lifetime and longer. We live in a kingdom of peace.”

  He strode to her purposefully, went to his knee and took her hands in his.

  “Yes, Danya, but it’s also true I’ve never been outside the walls of the inner city. When my day comes, what sort of king will I be if I’ve not seen Woodsel or visited the dungeons of Dreemskerry? By the God, I’ve never set foot on the ground of the outer city, let alone the others.”

  The princess nodded because she couldn’t do otherwise, for she lived the same life. In all their days, they’d barely been out of each other’s sight but for sleep.

  “What if the words you read on the scroll tell the truth?” he said. “What if Woodsel and Dreemskerry, Bywater, Riverbank, and the rest of the land are in danger from an evil no one is aware of? What if terrible things come to pass and, having known, the future king—the one named in the prophecy—stood idly by and watched?”

  He squeezed her hands and a corner of her mouth rose, not in a smile, but in a gesture of agreement. She got his point, as he knew she would, as he knew she likely had before he ever began speaking.

  “We must tell father,” she said and Teryk’s heart jumped.

  “No.” He dropped her hands and stood. “We cannot. He burned the scroll without opening it, without knowing the words written upon it. A piece of paper frightened him so much, he put it to the torch. What do you think he’d do if we told him what it said?”

  “Trenan, then.”

  He sank onto the divan beside her, rested his arm around her shoulders.

  “‘The firstborn child of the rightful king,’ it said. Not the king. Not the one-armed swordsman.” He pulled her closer, leaning in toward her. “You’re the one who read it.”

  “Of course.” She smiled and pushed him away with her palms against his chest. “But I’m not letting you go alone. If you don’t want me to tell anyone, you’re taking me with you.”

  Teryk let his shoulders sag, as though giving in to her demands because he had no other choice. But he’d known the conversation would end up here. His sister loved adventure too much to allow him one on his own, and she was too devious not to threaten exposing his plans. He was ready.

  “Okay,” he said with a nod. Danya clapped her hands together once and bounced in her seat, then settled herself. “We leave after my lesson, three sunrises hence.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “The scroll didn’t say when things would come to pass. What if it’s not for many seasons?”

  “What if it’s already happening? What if the man from across the sea is here? If we accept that the scroll’s magic led us to find it, then we have to assume it did so at the right time.”

  The princess nodded. “Of course.”

  “Then we have no time to lose.”

  Danya rose from the divan and paced the room, hands clasped behind her back as she thought. Her feet—bare as usual—alternately clapped on the uncarpeted sections of the stone floor, then made no sound when she walked on the rug.

  “It will be difficult to leave the inner city. By the God, it will be near impossible to escape Draekfarren,” she said.

  A grin spread across his face and she raised an eyebrow.

  “But you have a plan.”

  “I do,” Teryk said. “Do you have a waterproof bladder, like we used to use on our river adventures when we were young?”

  “You’re planning to leave by the river.”

  “Yes.” He jumped to his feet and crossed to her. “If we go after my lesson, around dinnertime, everyone will be occupied. The river cleaners will be done their work, and we will reach the wharves after the shoremens’ day is finished.”

  “And the grate?”

  He shrugged. “If we can get through one, we can get through any of them.”

  “It might work.” She crossed one arm in front of her chest, propping up her other elbow to rub her chin with her fingers. The habit she’d picked up from their father, more suited for a man with a beard than a fresh-faced young lady. “What happens after we get out?”

  Teryk allowed the grin to cross his lips again. This was play
ing out as he’d hoped.

  “That, my dear sister, is when the real adventure begins.”

  She stopped rubbing her chin and crossed her arms, studying him with one brow raised and the corner of her mouth up-turned. He recognized the expression—the same one she got when she talked him into something.

  “Okay. The river, moonrise after three sunrises.”

  “Pack light and we’ll meet at the far wall of the northern courtyard to spend as little time in the water as possible.”

  She poked him in the ribs. “A little frightened of the water after our last swim, aren’t you?”

  “No, but it will raise suspicions if someone sees us floating through the courtyard when we’re supposed to be supping.”

  “So we’ll meet by the grate?”

  “Yes. We’ll attract less attention if we go separately. And it will be easier to slip our guards. Until then, go about your business like any other time.”

  “Of course.” She moved closer and put her hand on his arm, held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “Are you sure about this? It will be dangerous.”

  Teryk breathed in sharply, then let the air out slowly, as though finally making up his mind. He’d been planning this since he sent her from his chambers the night before.

  “We have no other choice.”

  Danya slipped her arms around him, pulled herself against his chest and hugged him. For most of his life, the prince’s younger sister had given him strength, made him see the man inside himself he often didn’t realize existed. She’d encouraged him, comforted him, aided him, and he liked to think he’d done the same for her, though she didn’t need it as often.

  But now, he was a man, and next in line for the throne. Teryk, son of Erral, was firstborn of the rightful king, the one named by the prophecy written on the scroll by some long dead hand. His fate was determined, his destiny preordained.

  But his heart ached for having lied to his sister.

  XIV Doctorin'

  Horace glanced back o’er his shoulder as the wagon bounced through another rut hard enough to lift his ass from offa the seat. Dunal’s limp form jounced along with it without resistin’, but the sacks he an Birk’d piled 'round him kept him from bouncin’ right o’er the side, somethin’ Horace weren’t altogether against happenin’.