When Shadows Fall

by Bruce Blake

  “The king and queen missed you at dinner,” he said, one brow cocked. “And your brother. Where is your guard?”

  “Teryk is gone.”

  She stared at the master swordsman, arms held firm at her sides to keep from fidgeting under his glare. He crossed the edge of the circle and strode toward her, stopping a pace away. Pink twilight gleamed in his narrowed eyes.

  “Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?”

  Despite her attempt to hold his gaze, she found herself peering at her dirt-streaked feet, a piece of dry straw sticking up between her toes.

  “Danya?”

  “He’s left Draekfarren castle,” she said, stomach tightening.

  “What?”

  “And the inner city.” The princess looked up. Trenan’s eyes were wide, alarmed.

  “Why, Danya? Why has he done this?”

  “The scroll. After everyone was asleep, we crept back to the great hall and found it unburned.”

  “I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “It was naught but blank parchment.”

  “No, Trenan. Something happened to it. We discovered words secreted on it, ancient words. A prophecy. Teryk thought it spoke of him.”

  The sword master’s lips pressed into a tight, white line across his face, holding in rage the princess had rarely seen and harbored no desire to experience now. His gaze flickered away, as though searching for words to say amongst the practice dummies and bales of hay. Trenan drew a heavy breath, exhaled through his nose.

  “I must tell the king.”

  Panic jumped in Danya’s chest; open defiance of her father’s wishes never ended well, and Teryk wouldn’t be punished alone. Likely neither of them would see daylight for many turns of the moon to come.

  Trenan turned to leave and Danya grasped his arm.

  “You can’t tell father.”

  “I have to.”

  He shrugged off her hold and marched across the practice ring, determination in his steps. Danya swallowed hard, dreading the thought of speaking the words perched on her tongue. Trenan had been a part of her life since her birth, there to support and comfort her more often than either of her parents who were often consumed by their royal duties. She loved him like the uncle he practically was and didn’t want to hurt him.

  “Trenan, stop,” she said. He did, facing her. “If you tell the king, then I will have to, as well.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Tell the king what?”

  She crossed the ring, doing him the service of getting close enough to lower her voice and ensure no one nearby heard.

  “I’ve seen the way you gaze at the queen when father isn’t watching,” she said. The master swordsman stiffened almost imperceptibly. “And the way she looks at you.”

  Anger flared in his eyes and he leaned toward the princess. It took every bit of her effort not to back away.

  “Ridiculous,” he said, the word forced between clenched teeth. “You may be the princess, but you have no right to make such allegations. I am the king’s most faithful servant. I lost my arm for him. How dare you—”

  “I saw you in the garden, Trenan.”

  Her words stopped him with his mouth hanging open. He snapped it shut and took a wobbling step back, shaken as though she’d run him through on her sword. His gaze darted away, searching again, then returned to hers.

  “I—”

  Danya laid the palm of her hand on his chest over his heart, concentrating on softening the hated words as they came out of her mouth.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t, Trenan.” She tilted her lips on a false smile. “You’ll go search for Teryk, and you’ll take me with you.”

  ***

  Trenan hammered the heavy wooden door, the thick brass ring serving as its handle rattling. He lowered his fist, waiting; a cricket sawed out a verse of its twilight song behind him. When the door didn’t open, he pounded again, the sound silencing the bug.

  After a third hard knock that left his hand pulsing from the impacts, the door finally swung inward on a groaning hinge and a scrape of wood against stone. Trenan stepped back, frowning.

  “Who the fuck’s waking me up? What’s so important?”

  The armorer stepped into the doorway, a rumpled nightshirt hanging to his knobby knees, white hair sticking out at odd angles around his puckered face. He looked the master swordsman up and down, his expression remaining unchanged.

  “Shourn.”

  “Sir Trenan. What brings you to my door? In need of a one-armed hauberk?”

  Trenan bit back a growl. “Was the prince here today?”

  “The prince?”

  “Yes, the prince,” Trenan snapped. “Don’t play games, old man. I’m in no mood for it.”

  “So I see.” Shourn rubbed his chin, fingertips grating in the white bristle of his whiskers. “What’s it worth for you to know?”

  Trenan’s fingers entwined the front of the armorers nightshirt before he had a chance to jump back. The old man’s eyes widened.

  “Was he here or not?”

  A moment passed as the armorer’s expression returned to its customary dispassionate set. Shourn raised a brow, considering whether another taunt of the knight might be in order, then thought better of it.

  “Aye, he was.”

  “And?”

  “Whelp asked me to sharpen a sword that didn’t need sharpening. For anyone else, I wouldn’t’ve done it.” He scratched his chin again and added: “I wouldn’t’ve sharpened yours.”

  Trenan ignored the slight. “Then he took his sword and left?”

  “No. That’s the odd thing. When I finished and went to give it to him, he was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yup.”

  The master swordsman relaxed his grip on the old man’s shirt front, allowing him to lower his heels back to the ground. Trenan looked toward the yard, glanced up at the stars the heathens called the Small Gods as they shimmered in the sky above, then returned his attention to the armorer.

  “Why would he leave his sword?”

  Shourn pulled out of Trenan’s grip, smoothed his wrinkled nightshirt with both hands, cleared his throat. His gaze dropped away.

  “What is it, Shourn?”

  The old man kicked at the ground with his bare foot, coughed, then raised his gaze back to the knight.

  “The crown sword,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “The crown sword, Trenan. Godsbane is gone.”

  ***

  Though she’d forbade him from coming to her, Trenan sat on the edge of a chair in the queen’s meeting chamber. He waited alone in the room but, when she arrived, she’d be accompanied by an entourage: her attendants, escorts. To avoid the appearance of impropriety, they should stay while he spoke with her. But he couldn’t relate what he needed to tell her without revealing far more than the appearance of impropriety.

  Footsteps in the hall brought the master swordsman to his feet. A thin sheen of sweat formed on his palm that he wiped away on his breeches. Swinging a sword in the hot sun for half a day didn’t make him perspire, but the mere thought of seeing Ishla brought moisture to his skin. His mouth filled with nervous saliva; he licked his lips and swallowed, but it filled again. It was always thus when he knew they’d steal a moment together, no matter the reason. It didn’t happen often.

  The footfalls drew closer and Trenan rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, the one thing in the world that never failed to calm his nerves. He stood straighter, pulled back his shoulders, ignoring the phantom ache that plagued him despite what the surgeon said should be.

  One of the queen’s escorts entered first, a man named Cellin, who wore the red vest of the queen’s guard over his mail shirt. His hand gripped the hilt of the sword dangling at his hip, and he scanned the room before his eyes fell on Trenan. They held each other’s gazes for a few seconds before he stepped aside and the queen swept into the chamber.

  As ever, she was the most beautiful woman Trenan’s eyes e
ver beheld, with her wide orange skirt blooming out around her and sequins shimmering on her lace bodice. Despite the desire seeing her stirred within his chest, Trenan’s face remained deliberately impassive. He bowed at the waist, his own hand never leaving his sword’s grip.

  “My queen.”

  “Sir Trenan,” she said, her voice sweet music to his ears. “How unusual to have the king’s trusted friend seek an audience with the queen.”

  “It is, m’lady. But I have words that require your ear.”

  He straightened to find the queen’s two ever-present attendants and another escort had entered the chamber. The second guard, a burly man named Dansil who was thick through the chest and almost as thick in the head, favored an axe and served more purpose for instilling fear than he did confidence. Trenan had advised the king against naming him a queen’s guard. Dansil’s appointment topped a short list of the times his majesty had not heeded the master swordsman’s advice.

  “My ears are here, Sir Trenan. I’ve brought both of them, as a matter of fact.” The two attendants tittered dutifully. The guards remained stone-faced.

  Trenan’s gaze flickered between them, then back to the queen. All of them watched him closely; his expression remained neutral in response.

  “This is a matter for the queen’s ears alone.”

  A shadow crossed her brow and a look entered her eyes for him alone to see: admonishment and longing folded together. It left as quickly as it came, her face returning to its royal mien. She nodded curtly.

  “As you wish.” She raised a hand and wiggled her fingers. “The rest of you wait outside.”

  They each bowed and exited, Cellin pausing with his hand on the door handle.

  “We’ll be right outside the door, my queen.”

  “Of course.”

  The door closed behind him and the queen’s facade vanished; anger flickered in her eyes.

  “Trenan,” she whispered. “We cannot do this. What if the king—”

  “I am not here for us, Ishla. I am here because of your children.”

  She parted her lips. Memories of their softness flashed through his mind. How long had it been since his own lips touched them? He forced the thought from his head.

  “Has something happened to Teryk and Danya?”

  Trenan’s stomach clenched at what he must tell her. He didn’t want to cause the queen distress, never wanted to chance hurting her.

  “They’re fine,” he said, daring to touch her arm. “It’s just that...”

  “What?”

  “Teryk has left Draekfarren. Perhaps the inner city, too.”

  She shook her head disbelieving. “Why would he leave?”

  “He’s got a head start, so there’s not much time to explain. It’s the scroll they found—it contained ancient gibberish he thought a prophecy naming him the kingdom’s savior. He set out to fulfill it.”

  Color drained from the queen’s face and her gaze trailed away, looking at nothing. For an instant, Trenan thought her knees might give out and leave her to slip to the floor in a swoon. Not with him in the room; he’d catch her.

  “I have to tell the king,” she said, her voice whispery and distant. “I have to tell Erral.”

  “You can’t, Ishla.”

  She glanced toward the door. “ I have to tell my husband.”

  Trenan squeezed her arm, pulled her to him. She gasped, her eyes wide and distressed.

  “We can’t tell him,” he said.

  “But my son...”

  The sword master shook his head. “Danya suspects.”

  Her expression took on a bewildered aspect. “Suspects what?”

  “Us. She wants to go with me to find Teryk and threatens to tell the king her suspicions if I don’t let her.”

  The queen shook her head, dropped her gaze to Trenan’s grip on her arm. He released her, his heart hammering in his chest. Did she blame him? Did she hold him responsible?

  “They’re my children, Trenan. I can’t let anything happen to them. The king must know, even it means the end of us.”

  “Precisely what it means. If the knows he truth, my life will become forfeit, Ishla, and perhaps yours, too.” He rubbed her arm and she flinched. “I can’t let that happen.”

  Her eyes searched his face, melting his insides to jelly. There was so much power and strength in her, yet he’d shaken her with the words he spoke. He’d understand if she never forgave him, because he may never be able to forgive himself for making her feel this way.

  “Can you find him? Can you bring him back?”

  “Yes. But I will have to take Danya.”

  The queen’s lips pressed tight together, forcing the blood from them and turning them as pale as her cheeks. Her gaze flickered away again and, for a moment, he thought he’d lost her to her thoughts, but she came back to him.

  “Trenan, Teryk...”

  Her voice trailed off and the muscles in the master swordsman’s body tensed, waiting for her to speak. His heartbeat quickened, sweat came back to his palm and his stomach ached for her to complete her sentence, but she didn’t. Resolve returned to her face, a steely nerve like she presented to her subjects and the court.

  “Bring back my son, Trenan. Keep my daughter safe.”

  “Of course, my queen. But what of the king?”

  “I’ll handle Erral. Concern yourself with bringing both of my children back unharmed.”

  He bowed at the waist, the turmoil caused by what he thought she’d say splintering, becoming anger, determination. Disappointment.

  When he straightened, she stepped up to him and laid her hand on his chest, leaned in and touched her lips to his. The kiss lingered, but the passion their infrequent embraces usually held was absent, stolen when the news Trenan spoke numbed his lips and turned the queen’s cold.

  They separated and the queen stepped aside. The master swordsman needed no further prompting. He strode by her, yanked the door open and pushed past the attendants and escorts, carried over the threshold by purposeful steps. Dansil grunted as he passed, but Trenan paid him only the attention the man was worth: none.

  He swept down the hallway, his one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his face chiseled determination as, inside, his guts swirled.

  “Foolish boy,” he muttered and went to find Danya where he’d left her.

  XX Fallin' From the Sky

  The tasty odors waftin’ outta the window made ol’ Horace’s stomach gurgle in the manner o’ somethin’ what possessed its own life. He flattened himself against the wall, worried his damn belly might give him away. Nothin’ happened, so he thought it might be all right and crept forward a step, cursin’ inside his own head for gettin’ himself into the predicament. His clan weren’t no thieves, but here he found himself, thievin’.

  He stood on his toes and peeked in through the window. A pot hung o’er the cook fire, brewin’ the stew what were makin’ his gut complain 'bout not bein’ fed, but it weren’t no bowl o’ stew he wanted. A few chunks o’ meat and potatoes might satisfy his hunger a short while, but the pig leg layin’ on the counter be what he wanted to liberate for his own. That’d quiet his belly for a while.

  With not a soul in sight, Horace rolled the piece o’ wood he’d brought from the tavern’s very own woodpile right up under the window. He pushed it o’er with a quiet thud so it’d keep from scootin’ away while he stood upon it, then climbed up.

  The counter holdin’ up the pig’s leg he desired were pushed up against the far wall, farthest from the window. Horace let out a breath and struggled himself up onto the sill. He hung there, bent o’er at the waist like one o’ them sailors what likes a man to poke him in the porthole, the lintel cuttin’ into his gut and makin’ it growl some more. The stewy aroma set his mouth waterin’.

  Horace teetered back and forth, hopin’ no one’d come in and find him, mostly ‘cause he’d be embarrassed bein’ found caught up on a window. He leaned in, slipped o’er the window’s edge, and tumbled to the fl
oor in a tangle pretzel made outta arms and legs.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, forgettin’ his situation, then snapped his mouth shut. Cursin’d have to be done in his head.

  He rolled onto his knees and waited, mouth waterin’, gut grumblin’, to find out if anyone’d heard him. The door stayed shut; the galley remained empty but for him, a pig’s leg, and a heavenly smellin’ pot o’ stew.

  Horace clambered to his feet, back achin’, and touched the scrape on his belly. No blood from it, and there weren’t no time for pissin’ and moanin’ though—the barkeep or the server might come strollin’ through the door and find him, then he’d either be locked up in the town hoosegow or sent back to try and catch his own food. Horace’d proven himself a poor hunter more’n once already.

  He tip-toed across the floor toward the counter, eyes dartin’ to the door and back, to the door and back. A fly buzzed 'round the pig’s leg, landin’ to take a bite outta Horace’s dinner, then circlin’ before landin’ again and eatin’ some more. Horace snarled at the bug and grabbed the leg by the bone stickin’ outta the end, givin’ it a shake and sendin’ the insect buzzin’ into the air.

  The former sailor crept back across the kitchen, wishin’ he’d brought a sack for carryin’ the leg, but he forgot his lack o’ plannin’ before gettin’ halfway back to the window because his belly took o’er from his brain in tellin’ his legs what to do. Without intendin’ to, he steered a course towards the stew pot stew danglin’ o’er the cook fire.

  Horace beheld the bubblin’ goodness and licked his lips, then sucked back the spittle what wanted to escape his mouth. Meat-and-vegetable-scented steam washed o’er his cheeks, crawled up his nose and into his brain. His belly growled even louder’n before, the rumble stretchin’ on near forever. He put his hand on his gut and peeked toward the door.

  It stayed shut, a mute burble of conversation sneakin’ through the crack underneath.

  The handle o’ the wooden spoon stickin’ out from the stew pot’s edge whispered to Horace, tellin’ him he had time to take one little taste. Just enough to quiet his belly until he got a fire lit and the pig’s leg cooked.