Thy Father's Shadow (Book 4.5)

by Robert J. Crane

  The House of Shrawn passed out of sight behind the gates, and there came a smell of familiar gardens as they crossed through the wall. Guards were present, clad in the livery of the sigil of the eye that hung over the carriage. A small waterfall flowed out of a rocky streambed against the wall of the cavern. A large, blocky estate house waited at the end of the drive, built into the rock. The lines of it were sheerest elegance, aping the palace of the Sovereign wherever possible. The carriage squeaked to a stop in the roundabout in front of the front door, and Terian drew a deep breath of cool air.

  “Don’t forget your cloak,” Guturan told him, not even looking at him.

  “I never took it off,” Terian said.

  Guturan looked back at him, frowning. “Why not? It is abundantly warmer here in Saekaj than it is outside in that awful wind, out in the frigid elements of that city you were living in.”

  Terian shrugged. “I suppose I’ve become accustomed to the warmer temperatures humans and elves prefer.”

  Guturan made a disgusted noise. “Comforts.”

  “I’m sure we don’t have any of those here,” Terian said, “in our palatial estate.” He brushed past Guturan and stepped out of the carriage first, taking care not to miss the hinged step that had been kicked down for him by a well-dressed doorman who had come out to greet them. Terian let the clank of his boots against the stone carry him up the steps to the entrance where a second doorman opened the front door with a deep bow.

  Terian strode into the house, where wooden floors varnished and dark awaited him. There were lamps burning in the entry, concessions to the fact that the bright luminescence from the ceiling of the cave was not present here, and that even a dark elf could not see in total blackness. He eyed the nearest lamp, saw the slosh of the fuel oil that he knew had been dredged out of the Depths by prisoners, and pondered idly whether it was the slaves on the surface or the dark elven criminals who truly had it the worst in the Sovereignty.

  “My son,” came a quiet voice from the corner. He turned and saw her, rising up from an unpadded hardwood chair, . Olia Lepos wore a dress of cotton grown on the surface by slaves. She was thinner and frailer than he remembered, much more so than the other noblewomen he’d known, though she was less than a century old. Her face was lined in the manner of humans who had spent days in the sun, but he knew that daylight had never touched her skin, even now. She stopped only a pace away, her reserve clouding whatever emotion she might be feeling. The room was smallish; a foyer with a staircase leading upward, the majority of it carved stone, built in the style of the noble houses of Saekaj to conserve space. Terian could have reached up and touched the ceiling were he of a mind to but even so, she appeared miniscule within it.

  “Mother,” Terian said and felt the tug of a worried smile. She looked so faint and worn, as if a thousand years had passed since last he had seen her, when in truth it hadn’t even been two decades. An eyeblink for a dark elf, really.

  “I am pleased that Guturan was able to find you,” she said, her hand reaching up and running across the pitted surface of his breastplate below the pauldrons. There were only small spikes here, twice as wide as his thumb, near each armpit where he could ram them into a foe with a sharp shoulder check and cause bruising, at least. She kept her small hand well clear of them, however, as though fearing he might employ them on her. She needn’t worry about that. “It has been so long,” she said in a voice tinged with regret.

  “Not so long for our people,” Terian said as cavalierly as he dared.

  “But for the humans whom you have been living among,” Olia said, her eyes still not meeting his, “half a lifetime, almost.”

  “I’ve also lived among elves,” he said, as gently as he could. “And for them it would be considered nothing more than a season.”

  She finally raised her face to stare at him, and though he could see the clouds of unease beneath them, not a word of condemnation came out. “Still, it pleases me to look upon you once more, especially here in this place, returned to us safe and whole.”

  “The blessings of Yartraak have surely been with him,” Guturan said from behind him. “Is Lord Amenon in his office?”

  “Of course,” Olia said. “One of the servants brought him that atrocious mushroom, suet and beansprout gruel only moments ago.” She had seemed almost indifferent until the food was mentioned. When she spoke of it, a hardening of the lines around her eyes became evident. “Cooked for only seconds, the way he likes it.”

  Terian let that hang in the air for a moment before he spoke. “The way the poor eat it, you mean.”

  If Olia was affronted by her son’s comment, she hid it behind the facade of her purple eyes, as indigo as the dyes he had seen in the Reikonos markets. “No matter how far above his beginning station your father has risen, he continues to shun the luxuries afforded him by his Lordship, his fortunes and the continuing favor of the Sovereign.” She shook her head ever so subtly, so subtly that Terian could not discern whether she was mentally chiding her husband or merely dismissing his faults. “To think that the son of a vek’tag herder and a seamstress could rise so far. Truly the Sovereign is gracious.”

  Terian bit back his immediate response. Truly gracious, to allow only those who have sacrificed what you have sacrificed to rise up from the pits of Sovar. Never mind those languishing there who have been given no such opportunity. “Truly,” was all he said.

  “We must take you to your father,” Guturan said without further ado, striding up from behind to lead him on.

  “You don’t think he saw our arrival out his window?” Terian asked with returning amusement.

  “You will go to the lord of the house; he need not come to you,” Guturan snapped, his long, lanky legs now resting on the first step of the staircase, giving him an even more pronounced height advantage as he looked down at Terian. “Or have you forgotten your manners and your place, having lived so long out in the cold daylight of the filth above?”

  Terian let that one pass, feeling more pleased at riling the steward than stung by his ineffectual reply. “I don’t recall ever knowing any manners, actually. Who was in charge of teaching me those? I can’t remember.”

  Guturan let out a low exhalation of frustration. “My apologies, my lady, for failing you so in the instruction of this one—”

  “My son has always found his amusement in defying the expectations of others,” Olia said dismissively. “Do not trouble yourself over it, Guturan, you did your best. After all, if he confounded the responsibilities handed him by his father, his mother and his Sovereign, it cannot be expected he would take the education you gave him with any seriousness—”

  Terian sighed. “Do you hear that?”

  Olia and Guturan both stopped, caught by surprise, and listened. “What?” Olia asked.

  “You might not be able to see it, here in the dark,” Terian said, striding forward to the stairs and dodging past Guturan as he began to ascend, “but it was the sound of my eyes rolling.”

  He climbed the stairs, the long, pacing steps of Guturan Enlas following behind him. When he reached the landing after the third floor, he slowed and Guturan overtook him. There was only one room here, at the top of the house, and the stairs cut straight up toward it. Double doors marked the entry. They were not wood but stone, and heavy, as Terian knew from experience. He recalled many a time as a child trying to push them open, just a crack to glimpse a sight of his father at his desk, poring over parchment that seemed to come from messengers arriving at all times of day and night.

  Guturan stopped and used a solid metal knocker built into the door to sound a heavy, thunking call that echoed down the stairwell through the rest of the house. Terian remembered that noise as well, all the way back to boyhood, awakening him at times in sleep. The smell of something deep and earthy was in the air: the gruel his father had eaten every day for as long as he could recall.

  He never made any of us eat it, though, Terian thought.
Not even once.

  “Come,” came the voice from within the study, and Guturan shot a look at Terian, something between disapproval and a warning to behave, something that had roots in Terian’s childhood. He felt himself subconsciously straighten as Guturan pushed open the door, and Terian stiffly went up the last steps into the study.

  Chapter 8

  “Your son,” Guturan announced as Terian strode through into the study. The aroma of the gruel was even stronger in here, in spite of the weak nature of the stuff. It was hardly fit to feed the poor, yet his father consumed at least a bowl of it per day along with all the other meals that were served in the house. Doesn’t affect the old man’s waistline, though, Terian noted.

  “So it is,” Terian’s father spoke. His hair was a dark, lustrous black, like the oil that came from the Depths, and his skin showed nary a wrinkle in spite of his several centuries of life. It was all combed back in smooth lines and slicked down, as though it had been wet with water from the well. Not a strand was out of place and Amenon Lepos stared at Terian down a nose that was as pointed as his son’s.

  There was little enough noise in the study, an almost ominous silence in the book-lined room. A few lamps hung in the corners and a small hearth blazed with heat and light to Terian’s right, the only sign of comfort in the room. A picture of a dark elven girl was hung above the hearth, but Terian averted his gaze from it as quickly as he saw it.

  Ameli.

  The chair behind his father’s desk was a simple thing, functional wood and not nearly enough to be considered extravagant. His desk was a table, well crafted but spare, and with parchment carefully organized in stacks on top. A quick look toward the hearth showed Terian his memory was not in error; the remains of parchment turned to ash lined the front of the hearth. The fire was as much for the destruction of the countless secret missives his father received as it was for any sort of warmth. The smoky aroma filled the room, reminding him of more than one uncomfortable memory of this place.

  Terian’s eyes fell upon a single red gemstone centered in the middle of the desk on a small pillow. He pursed his lips when his gaze fell upon it; it was the lone decoration on the otherwise Spartan surface, the only item not made of paper. “You still keep that?”

  Amenon Lepos did not even raise an eyebrow. “I prefer to surround myself with reminders of the blessings of the Sovereign, to always keep my remembrance centered on thoughts of gratitude for what has been given unto me.”

  Terian stifled the bitter reply he wanted to make. He shuffled from foot to foot for a moment before he spoke again. “You summoned me, Father? Called me home?”

  Amenon looked past Terian. “Leave us, Guturan.”

  Guturan nodded. “If I may, m’lord, do you require—?”

  “I need nothing further right now,” Amenon said curtly and turned once more to look out the large window behind him. Terian stole a glance and saw that it was as he remembered, a full view of the approach to the house. And directly across from it, clear and proud against the far cavern wall, was the manor of Dagonath Shrawn. “My son and I have things to discuss.”

  “As you wish,” Guturan said, making his retreat with a last bow. He shut the door behind him, the sound of the stone’s heavy weight on the hinges as they closed almost palpable to Terian.

  They stood in silence, Terian’s skin prickling at his last memory of this place, of the last conversation he’d had within the walls of this study. Echoes of that conversation had played in his head for years, but not a word was spoken now.

  “I heard you fell on hard times,” Amenon said, turning at last to face Terian. “That you had taken to selling yourself in menial guard duty, drinking and whoring in your off time.” His countenance was dark and serious; grave.

  “Well,” Terian said with lightness, “I was all about the drinking and whoring in better times, too, but I had more money to pay for it then.”

  Amenon studied him without amusement. “I’ve told you this before, but it bears repeating. The wit that comes so naturally to you is familiar to me. Your grandfather made a constant jest of everything in his life, and it took him no farther than the vek’tag pens of Sovar. You would do well to remember that when next you interrupt a serious topic with your pointless levity.”

  “In fairness to him,” Terian said, without much levity at all, “anyone who worked the vek’tag pens for very long would need to have a sense of humor about them. After all, shoveling spider dung? When does that get fun?”

  Amenon did not even blink, keeping his gravely serious aura. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to listen to the words I speak to you.”

  “I’m listening,” Terian said. “I’m taking it all in. I’m here, ready to serve as your adjutant, if that’s what you want.” He didn’t have to force his face to turn serious. “But if you think I’m going to do it without making light of amusing situations, then I’m not sure what you expected when you summoned me here.”

  Amenon wore a wary look. “I expected you to have matured, perhaps. To be ready to assume your duties as my heir.”

  Terian gave a moment’s pause. “I’m as ready as ever I’m going to be for that.”

  Amenon studied him shrewdly—looking for a smile or laugh to mark the joke, probably. “I expect you to fulfill your unquestioned duty to the Sovereign and to the Noble House of Lepos. Do you think you can do that without exposing us to too much embarrassment and scorn from your … eccentricities?”

  “I’ll keep the drinking and whoring at levels acceptable for the nobility,” Terian deadpanned. “It’ll require me to step up my efforts in both of those areas to keep up with that old sot Mangrein or to bed as many whores as Lady Irinset does serving boys, but I’m willing to apply myself in order to properly represent our house.” He snapped to formal attention, just as he had learned in the Legion of Darkness. “I shan’t fail you in this endeavor, Father.”

  Amenon Lepos did not so much as narrow his eyes, but his hand rose faster than Terian could react. A vise grip found its way across Terian’s neck in spite of Amenon being a good ten steps away from his son and having a desk separating them. Terian dropped to his knees immediately, prying at his throat, trying to rip off the gorget that was there to protect him from attacks to his neck.

  Terian gagged as he felt the pain of his fall on both knees, the shock of the drop not nearly as heavy as the pressure on his throat. Can’t breathe …! He tried to mouth the words for the countercurse to Lockjaw, but his sublingual casting skills were mediocre at best, and he knew it even as he tried and failed the first time. It’s not fatal, he told himself. Not fatal. The crushing pressure around his windpipe was only in his mind, the logical part of him knew, and yet it felt as though a pearl as large as a troll belly had been forced down his gullet and he choked again, making the same gagging noise that he’d heard the night before in the Brutal Hole.

  “Perhaps you labor under the illusion that your wit impresses me,” Amenon said calmly. Terian had a dim vision of his father standing behind his desk, unmoved, not even watching the spectacle of his only son crawling on the floor, fighting for breath, trying to reverse the spell that had been cast upon him. It will pass. Terian tried to force the thought to calm him, but failed. It will pass it will pass it will pass—

  “It does not,” his father went on, still calm. “Skill in battle impresses me. Dutiful service impresses me.” He looked back at last, now, and Terian met the cold, disinterested gaze of his father as his own surely screamed Help me! to the man who could spare him. “A good jest is fine for a working man of Sovar, whiling away his nights drinking the mulled brews that allow him to dull his senses. Not for a man of purpose. Not for a scion of one of the most noble and exalted houses of Saekaj.” He flicked his wrist toward Terian and the pressure in Terian’s throat released in one gasping outrush. Terian collapsed to his face on the stone floor. “Not for a Lepos. Not for you.”

  Terian saw boots appear in his vision,
the clouds of red in his eyes finally starting to dissipate. “I summoned you here to take your place at my side.” Terian looked up and saw his father looking down, examining him dispassionately, as though he were something accidentally scraped onto the floor by an ill-cleaned boot. “I expect you to perform your duty as part of my unit, to give me your all in battle, and to keep your indiscretions well and truly under our feet.” Amenon did not deign to lean down. “If you find yourself compelled to drink and whore, do it the way the other nobles do—in Sovar, in quiet, deniable secrecy. Shame me, fail me, fail in your duties, and you won’t need to look to the Sovereign for punishment.” His expression remained level, as though he were talking about nothing more vexing than the weather. “For I keep my house in order in his name, and I shall not suffer weakness or foolishness within it that does not aid in our ascent.”

  Chapter 9

  Terian scraped himself up off the study floor after lying there only another minute. There was nothing further to be said in his father’s eyes, apparently; Amenon had seated himself in the chair and begun examining parchments.

  Son of a bitch. Terian’s glare went unnoticed. I don’t have to take this shit. He wheeled and started to leave, but his father’s voice held him at the door before he opened it.

  “Terian,” Amenon said. “See Guturan before you storm out. And be back tomorrow morning, early. We have an assignment from the Sovereign and shall be leaving after surface sunrise. Matters to attend to.”

  Terian ran a hand across his throat. The pain was fading but still noticeable, so he said nothing, merely forced the stone door open and slid out.

  “I have this for you,” Guturan said, waiting just outside. His hand was extended and a coin purse dangled from it, filled to the brim, a sight Terian’s eyes hadn’t beheld very often in the last few years. Especially of late, he realized with some chagrin. “You will of course have all the privileges of a noble heir, all the access, receive all the invitations to the balls and events while you remain with us.”