Shadow and Thorn

by Kenley Davidson

  And he needed to start with the broken crystal in his hands.

  This time, he gathered all three together, fitting the pieces carefully along their broken edges, and delved in, probing the broken pathways, looking for a pattern to emerge. What emerged was not a pattern at all…

  The workshop faded, and then brightened. It was a different room, a different light, but there was a furnace, a trestle table, and tools. Resting on the bench was the Crystal Rose, whole and unblemished.

  “You have found me at last.” It was a man’s voice, gravelly and amused. “I wonder how long it has been. I wonder if you will remember my name, or simply believe me to be a dream brought on by overwork, or too much wine.”

  Alexei turned, and was confronted by the slightly blurred form of a man, far older than he, with a lined face and scarred hands much like Alexei’s own.

  “Nar?” Even his dream voice sounded incredulous.

  “Ah, you do remember. That is good. It will make this easier.”

  “How can you be here?”

  “I did not prepare a dissertation on the how. It seemed sufficient to address the why.”

  “From one enchanter to another, that strikes me as a terrible oversight. But you are dead and I am probably dreaming so I can’t see the point of arguing.”

  “Then you are both wise and foolish. This is not a dream. I prepared for this moment many years before my death.”

  “You knew the Rose would be broken.”

  “It was Seen. As were you.”

  “Then you can tell me how to repair it.” It was only a dream, Alexei told himself. He could not afford the hope that it was anything more.

  “No. Crystal cannot be repaired.”

  “Then why leave a vision? Simply to tell me I am wasting my time?”

  “No. Not a waste. Not if you understand what was done. When the seer told me what he could of what was coming, I was in the midst of my work. I could not change it entirely, but I could alter it. I built precise flaws into the design of the Rose. Baryte is not as fragile as it looks. The stone was intended to break exactly as it did.”

  “That is why the enchantment is still active!” Alexei could feel his excitement rising once again.

  “Yes. Each individual piece has its own note. Each has its own task. They will never again work in perfect harmony as they once did, but even apart they have a purpose to serve.”

  “What purpose? How can I find it?”

  “That is for you to determine,” the old man said gravely. “I could only prepare the way. You are not without skill, or you would never have found me. Use it. And I do not mean only your gift.”

  “I have no other skills,” Alexei protested. “I have hidden for most of my life.”

  “And is that not a skill? You are more than you permit yourself to believe. Accept what has been. Let yourself be whole, or your life is more a tragedy than a broken piece of rock could ever be.”

  Nar’s words echoed his own resolution, but his doubts would not be stilled. “And what if I cannot save them? What if I am not good enough?”

  “You were never meant to be enough, alone. Do your part. Embrace what you were born to do and leave the others to their own paths.”

  Alexei almost laughed. It was too much like a story. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tried to survive on so little sleep.

  “When I tell Malichai I have had a dream where an old man told me to embrace my path, he is going to insist on adding you to his epic ballad.”

  The old man brightened. “I have always wanted to be in a song. Though I admit it chafes my dignity to feature as the wise old hermit who merely advises the hero on his way to victory.”

  “Does it help at all to know that you have been revered as a hero for hundreds of years? That the royal seat and ruling family take their name from yours?”

  “On second thought”—the old man grimaced—“perhaps I prefer the hermit.”

  Alexei laughed. He almost wished it were not a dream. There was something appealing about knowing that the man he had grown up idolizing had a sense of humor.

  “I will not fail you,” he promised.

  “Of course you will fail,” the old man admonished, as he began to fade. “It is the nature of humanity to fail. And it is also our nature to find our greatest triumphs on the other side of failure.”

  “You are not very encouraging,” Alexei told him dryly. “But I suppose that is not part of your path.”

  “Exactly right.” The old man beamed. “I can see that I have succeeded. My blessings on you, young man, and may you find your purpose at last.”

  Alexei took a sharp breath and found that he was still standing by the table, holding the pieces of the Rose in his trembling hands. He set them down before he could accidentally drop them and took a seat to give himself a chance to recover.

  A dream, or a vision?

  He did not know which one would be harder to accept. But he would never be able to forgive himself if he ignored the possibility that it might have been real. That Nar had truly foreseen this day and prepared a way forward.

  Bending his head over the table again, he picked up a single piece and turned it over, examining the enchantment still resonating within, but not with any intention to fix. This time, he chose to see it for itself, jagged edges, somber notes and all.

  Some time later, he set it down and unleashed a yell of unfettered triumph. Nar had been everything he believed and more. The devious old man had not only created the greatest magical artifact ever known, he had prepared a new way to protect his people, hundreds of years after he was dead.

  And fate had chosen a scarred, cowardly, half-blind enchanter to finish his work. If there had been anyone else to choose, Alexei would have set down the pieces of crystal and walked away. But his people had no one else. Zara had no one else.

  He might not be the best person for the job, but he would be damned before he ran away a second time.

  Chapter 15

  Zara entered the kitchen the next morning to the sound of joyous and enthusiastic singing. A resonant baritone filled the room, and possibly exceeded it, from the pained looks on the faces of everyone except Wilder.

  And the singer himself. Malichai appeared flushed and triumphant, his spoon dancing in the air more than in the pot, and his face pouring sweat with the exertion of his dual efforts.

  “Good morning, Miss Zara.” He paused the song long enough to greet her with a delighted smile. “I was just in the middle of one of my favorite Vidori ballads. No one else can understand a word of it, of course, but there is something about the chorus that goes well with a nice pot of porridge.”

  Zara put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She didn’t think she had ever appreciated Malichai more than she did at that moment.

  Silvay was staring fixedly into a mug and Gulver couldn’t meet her eyes, but the expressions on the faces of Rowan and Porfiry appeared to have been carved in stone. Wilder was clearly indulging in evil speculation, which hopefully meant the girl was plotting something devious.

  “You’re absolutely right. What a lovely compliment to the meal!” Zara perjured herself without hesitation. “And did you know my father was Vidori? I’ll bet I can understand at least one word in three.”

  Malichai opened his mouth, clearly intent upon testing Zara’s assertion, when Rowan interrupted, his suave self-assurance vanished beneath a tide of desperation.

  “I hope you slept well.” He almost stumbled over the words, so hastily were they forced out. “We were considering coming in search of you if you did not appear shortly. However did you manage to sleep, cold and alone in such a place?”

  “I am never alone,” Zara answered, smiling sweetly. It was so much easier to be generous with her smiles when she knew him to be suffering. “Not here. Athven is always with me.”

  She turned to Malichai. “Please, continue. I want to hear the rest of your song.”

  Malichai, ever the gentleman, happily obliged, and managed to
complete all eighteen verses before breakfast was ready.

  “It would be kinder to kill me now,” Porfiry muttered, as Zara handed him a steaming bowl.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she replied. “Do you have a preferred method of execution?”

  He shot her a nasty glare.

  Rowan took advantage of the silence to be insufferable. “I thought today we might begin a search for resources. I am most interested in looking for tools the Erathi might have used in teaching children, books that outline the history of magic, or other artifacts of that sort, unless you have already recovered them.”

  “It’s been twenty-six years, not twenty-six centuries,” Silvay answered dryly. “A little soon to be talking of artifacts. And I think you’re forgetting that some of us here are Erathi. We have no need of tools. Nor are we very interested in permitting an outsider to misunderstand our history and misuse our knowledge.”

  “But Athven has accepted me,” Rowan reminded her, glancing suspiciously at the bowl of porridge offered by Malichai. “I have magic as you do. Would you condemn me to remain ignorant of my gifts because I was not fortunate enough to be born amongst a people who understood them?” He sampled a cautious bite, but appeared satisfied.

  “I condemn you to nothing,” Silvay pointed out. “I object to you on the basis of your methods, not your magic. There might be some merit to your claim had you come asking, instead of taking. When you arrive with an army and view our history as your property, I have little sympathy for your plight.”

  “Then I apologize.” Rowan set down his spoon and adopted an air of utmost contrition. “In my eagerness to learn, it appears I have blundered into error and trampled on a topic of some sensitivity. I pray you would forgive me, and help me understand how I might achieve my ends without offending.”

  “You’re still obviously more interested in your ends than you are in learning,” Zara interjected. “And that speech might sound more sincere if we didn’t know what your ends really are. You desire only to conquer and to subjugate. To use whatever gifts you have in the service of your own elevation. What madness leads you to expect that we would help you do it?”

  “The same madness that has demanded I surrender my life to its service,” Rowan answered without pause, his face animated by the depth of his enthusiasm. “The madness that declares it is possible for people to live together without questioning one another’s differences, or condemning what they do not understand. I desire conquest, yes, but not for the sake of ruling alone, rather for the sake of erasing the barriers that lie between us. The Erathi were forced to isolate themselves for centuries, to protect their kingdom from ignorance and hatred. What if the world no longer relied on borders and otherness to drive us forward? What if we saw otherness as opportunity and chose to learn from it instead?”

  “Yes, what if,” Zara muttered, but to her surprise it was Gulver who answered.

  “It’s a good story, isn’t it?” he said, looking up from his bowl and smoothing his mustache. “But who is going to make that happen? Who is going to make sure that ignorance and hatred don’t win? You? When you’ve conquered everyone and erased our borders and made us all one family, will you still be there in the night when they come to burn my house because I healed a child’s fever?”

  “There would be laws, of course,” Rowan said smoothly. “And force, to ensure they were followed. No one would go unprotected.”

  “No?” Gulver asked. “I have lived in a land with laws and a land without, and I can tell you it is not the laws that make people treat their neighbors with respect. The law can make them behave, for a while, but it doesn’t make them care.”

  “And you know this because of your vast experience?” Rowan sounded amused.

  “I used to keep an inn,” Gulver answered shortly, looking up only briefly. “We got all sorts in there, mostly bad sorts, but they came from all over, and they had one thing in common—a lack of care for their fellows. There was more blood on my doorstep than I care to recall.” He shuddered. “They all came here because there are no laws telling them how they have to treat one another. But they didn’t learn to be lawless by crossing the border—they brought their lawlessness with them.

  “My point is, you can conquer and subdue and trust in your laws to make things right. But it won’t, because folks from everywhere are good at hate. And the only thing that stops hate is learning to love, and you don’t do that under the sword of a conqueror.”

  “Love?” Rowan smirked as though he were about to deliver a much-needed lesson. “How would you propose to teach such a thing?”

  “It happens one person at a time,” Gulver said stoutly, shoulders still hunched over his breakfast. “Miss Zara was right, when she sat here and told us we were wrong to isolate ourselves, wrong to keep our gifts from being used to benefit our neighbors. We should have done something, taken the risk, been willing to give up our safety to save who we could.”

  “And if they hate you anyway?”

  “Then we would have done no wrong. My duty is not different because a man hates me for it.”

  Rowan laughed. “By your methods, you might change one person’s mind, or even two, in your lifetime. And risk your own neck in the process. Why not take the ground and then plow it? You could do your work just as surely after my laws had made you safe.”

  “And how would they make me safe?”

  “By providing swift judgments on any who dared harbor prejudice against magic.”

  Gulver shook his head, and his mustache drooped. “Young man, you are a fool if you believe that. Laws are good and necessary, but they don’t change a person, neither man nor woman. No heart ever softened at the tip of a sword.”

  “I can see that we are not going to agree.” Rowan shrugged, his expression still amiable. “But I must believe that we want the same thing.”

  They didn’t. Even Zara, despite her lack of education and experience, could hear the difference in their visions.

  Rowan, despite his innate talent for leadership and his staggering ability to read the minds of others, had somehow completely missed the ability to understand hearts.

  And Zara was going to use it because it was the only advantage she had.

  “Perhaps Rowan is right,” she said, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as she said it. She gripped her spoon and took another bite of porridge, chewing slowly while everyone around the table stared. “What if there could be a world where borders were not needed, and those with magic could travel freely without fear of prejudice?”

  “The question is not the value of the outcome, but the price of purchase,” Silvay said, her tone a cool reprimand. “I would not care to purchase my safety in blood.”

  “But it need not be much,” Zara noted. “If the thing could be done swiftly, without much loss of life, perhaps it would be worth consideration.”

  “And just how would you accomplish that, Miss Zara?” Malichai joined in, his brows pinched together. “With the magic this fellow claims to command?”

  “Why not?” She raised her chin, cringing on the inside. “If there is a way to wage a bloodless war, why not?”

  “Why not?” Gulver drew in a breath. “To steal someone’s will is a violation. A misuse of power.”

  “But if it is for their good,” Rowan argued, “how can it be wrong?”

  Silvay and Malichai exchanged glances.

  Zara decided she’d done all the betraying she could stomach for the day. “Come.” She stood up. “I, for one, am ready to explore. Athven has revealed even more that was hidden and perhaps we will find new treasures.”

  Without meaning to, she met Silvay’s eyes and withered inside at their expression. But before she could look away, the older woman winked.

  Damn all seers anyway. Zara glanced over at Wilder, who had a hand clapped over her mouth, probably trying to hold in a grin.

  Gods grant she was wrong and they hadn’t both seen through her already. She needed to be able to fool Alexei at the
least, and if the others turned against her as well, so much the better.

  But if nothing else, her efforts needed to be enough to fool Rowan. Even if her companions guessed at her ruse, there was little chance they would ever suspect the full truth of what she meant to do.

  The day passed with glacial slowness. Zara was alone with Rowan for most of it, doing her utmost to keep him away from anything he might actually find useful or interesting. She was forced to exclaim over tapestries, enter countless bedchambers, and endure his poking through the tower she had come to consider her sanctuary.

  Shadow trailed them everywhere, pretending she was ignoring them, but watching every move while her tail lashed continually. Her normal feline complaisance was completely absent.

  Zara kept one eye on the cat and one eye on Rowan, trying to sound interested while a majority of her mind was elsewhere. Wondering about Alexei. Was he well? Was he making progress? Would he forgive her for what she had to do?

  As for Rowan, he seemed to glow ever brighter as the day wore on. He spoke expansively of his plans, and grew increasingly attentive to her moods and opinions. Could he know, Zara wondered, what she was thinking? Did his gift allow him to read her thoughts? Or worse, could he be affecting those thoughts without her even realizing he was in her head?

  The effort of seeming unaffected through it all gave Zara a tremendous headache. She insisted they return to the kitchen around nightfall, and just before they arrived, Rowan reached out and grasped her hand.

  His skin was warm and smooth, and his hand enveloped hers completely. “Have you thought any more, Zara, about my proposal?”

  Her already upset stomach heaved at the thought, but she forced a smile. “Of course I have. A great deal.”