The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  Fiercely Shadrael let the silence grow. He did not move, plead, or repeat his order. Not by the merest fraction did he give any indication that he expected less than their obedience and loyalty. If he voiced one word of reasoning, or even asked them to follow him, he would be lost. When he’d put on this armor, he’d made his declaration. The rest was up to them.

  In the quiet, Fomo loosened the rope and let the dog drop to the floor. Landing awkwardly because of its tied hind legs, the dog yelped and tried to drag itself upright.

  Drawing his small boot knife, Shadrael went to it. At once the dog twisted to face him, raising its hackles and snarling.

  “Useless dog,” Fomo rasped. Years ago, a Madrun had nearly crushed his throat, damaging his voice permanently and making it hard for him to bawl orders. Another commander would have pensioned him out or demoted him to ranks, but in Shadrael’s view, Fomo had been one of the best centruins in the army, as devious as he was efficient. Whatever Shadrael wanted done, Fomo found a way to do it. In the military, such a centruin was a tremendous asset, too valuable to throw away. So he’d kept the man, and Fomo had rewarded his generosity tenfold.

  Until now.

  “Too small for hunting,” Fomo went on, keeping up the inane chatter while his gaze said something else. “Not a good fighter. Belongs nowhere, to no one. No endurance. No training. Why not let him amuse the men? We caught him easy with a scrap of meat, the little wank.”

  “Instead of getting ready to move out,” Shadrael said, and Fomo dropped his gaze.

  “Ain’t the army now, Commander,” Wilbis said, and the others laughed uneasily.

  So there it was, open refusal. Shadrael swiftly seized the dog’s neck with his free hand, pinning it while it thrashed and showed its teeth, and sliced through the rope to free its legs. As soon as he released the animal, it sprang up and dashed to the far side of the taproom, where it crawled beneath a chair and peeped out with a low, fierce growl.

  The men laughed at it, elbowing each other in scorn. They’d fallen out of line by now.

  “Like Centruin says, a proper bit of nothing, it is,” Wilbis said, speaking up without permission. “We were going to have a little sport and then eat the scrap. Makes a tasty stew, them little dogs.” He shot Shadrael a look of shrewd calculation. “You wouldn’t have us set out at dawn on empty stomachs, m’lord.”

  Some of the others were nodding. They all shuffled their feet, exchanging glances, while Fomo stared coldly into the distance, not bothering to whip them into silence. The centruin—having given his warning to Shadrael—had stepped away from the men. But neither was he at Shadrael’s back, and that, too, was a warning.

  Gritting his teeth to restrain his temper, Shadrael put his knife back in his boot and slowly straightened. There had been a time when no one questioned anything he said at any time, for any reason, without incurring a flogging. The past, he thought angrily. The damned past.

  Shadrael’s continued silence seemed to encourage Wilbis, who glanced around at his comrades before shooting Shadrael an insolent grin.

  “No, m’lord, we never too keen about marching on empty stomachs. Never too keen about marching at all. No need, is there?” As he spoke, he turned so that his knife was pointed at Shadrael in silent threat. Two other men moved close to Wilbis’s back.

  Wilbis cocked his head. “Now, if you asked us nice and sweetly to ride out with you on whatever that warlord hired you for, we might consider it, if the price is good. Otherwise—”

  Shadrael almost smiled. That was the only warning he gave as he flicked his hand at Wilbis. Red lightning crackled through the air and engulfed the man. Writhing back on his heels, twisting and turning in a futile effort to break free, Wilbis clawed the air and screamed while the others stumbled back from him.

  When Shadrael released him, Wilbis crumpled to his knees, twitching and slapping himself with shrill little moans. The air reeked of burned hair and charred wood. A black, smoking gouge marked the floor where Wilbis had been standing. From beneath a table, the little dog howled and shot out of the room with its tail tucked between its legs.

  Shadrael waited until Wilbis recovered himself enough to look up. Whatever the man saw in Shadrael’s gaze made his eyes bulge with fear.

  He lifted his hand in a plea. “No, m’lord Commander. No! Please—”

  Shadrael severed and saw the man’s threads of life reaching out from his head and body toward infinity. Shadrael cut them. In the blink of an eye it was done, and Wilbis lay dead on the floor. As Shadrael turned to the others, the shadows murmured and whispered in his blood, filling his mind with the sweet lust for more killing. He stretched out his hand toward them, toward their fragile threads of life, and felt tempted to slay them all.

  Instead, with the last vestige of his willpower, he pulled himself back from madness. He drove the shadows from his mind, and wrenched himself out of severance. Even so, it took him a moment to adjust, to regain mastery of his wits.

  When he lifted his head, he saw that the men had retreated from him. Most were clutching their amulet bags; a few had their hands on their weapons. Pale and breathing hard, they stared with white-rimmed eyes, aware they could not escape him even if they tried to run.

  Shadrael faced them, giving each man a grim stare in turn. “Did you think because the shadow gods are gone, my magic is gone with them?” he asked harshly. “Have you forgotten what I am?”

  One man, brawny and hook-nosed, stepped forward with a swift salute. “You are our lord commander. Have mercy on us.”

  Shadrael flicked a glance at Fomo, who cracked his small whip.

  “All of you, to attention!” he rasped.

  The men formed a new line with quick obedience. The looks they shot Shadrael now held worry…and respect.

  His gaze remained icy. He did not value respect gained in such a way. As soon as they forgot tonight’s fear, they would have to be disciplined again. He did not want to waste his precious reserves of magic keeping them in line. He would have to stay alert, and outthink them.

  “We do not leave at dawn,” Shadrael announced. “We march out now. Centruin!”

  Fomo stepped forward smartly. “Sir!”

  “Get the horses and supplies ready. Find these men boots and get them kitted in full gear. I’ll—”

  A raven flew into the room through the open door, and so strange and unexpected was its appearance that Shadrael broke off in midsentence. The bird was a peculiar ashy gray hue, with a band of white around its neck. Flying straight to Shadrael, it landed on his shoulder.

  Although his first instinct was to knock the bird away, something held him still. Behind him, the men were whispering to themselves and clutching their amulets. Even Fomo backed warily away.

  The pale raven’s claws scratched for purchase on Shadrael’s shoulder plate, and the bird pecked in curiosity at the shoulder spike next to it before turning its head and leaning close to Shadrael’s ear.

  “Harm not my messenger,” a voice said in Shadrael’s mind. “Remember that you have issued a call, and I have answered.”

  “What are you?” Shadrael asked aloud.

  “Come to me. Let us talk.”

  Frowning, Shadrael strode outside into the dark inn yard, unaware that his men crept cautiously after him.

  The raven on his shoulder pecked at his armor, then flew into the night. And before him, a doorway opened in the air, a doorway wreathed in mist, with a pale gray light shining beyond it.

  Someone gasped aloud, but Shadrael found himself smiling. “The Hidden Ways,” he murmured and walked forward.

  A hand plucked at his arm. “Commander, don’t!”

  Pausing, Shadrael glanced aside at Fomo. The battle-scarred centruin would never show fear, but he was plainly worried.

  “Where does it lead?” he asked hoarsely. “What summons you?”

  Shadrael gave him a thin smile. “Does it matter? Wait for me.”

  He stepped into the mist, feeling himself slide from th
e world he knew into a place of shadow.

  Around him lay darkness, impenetrable as though it were solid. Before him stretched a passageway lit by the pale gray light. The mist wreathed around his ankles and flowed forward.

  He saw the pale raven with the white band around its throat flying ahead of him.

  Without fear, Shadrael followed it.

  Chapter 3

  It was the first time Shadrael had entered the Hidden Ways since the defeat of the shadow gods. Then the passages through the shadow world had been lit with fires burning the very rock and ground, choking the air with smoke. Now all lay gloom shrouded, still, and very cold. His boots crunched softly on gravel; only when he looked down he saw not pebbles but tiny bits of charred bone. Here and there lay a skeletal hand, twisted claws burned black, or a portion of skull.

  Steadily he strode forward, wandering neither left nor right, making no effort to touch anything. A gray light illuminated his path, as dim and immaterial as the dawn. He could see no source for it.

  How far he walked, or how much time passed, he knew not. Within the Hidden Ways, time and distance held little meaning. When he came to a small cavern, empty and swept bare, Shadrael saw outlines of demons on the walls. It was as though they’d been hurled against the stone with such force they’d left a permanent impression. He kept walking, leaving the cave and picking his way through rubble that made the footing increasingly treacherous.

  Once he inadvertently touched a boulder to steady his balance, and it was so cold it burned his skin.

  Thereafter, he moved even more cautiously.

  When he came to an open place where the light seemed brighter, showing him an emptiness on all sides, he stopped and waited. The path he’d been following stretched forward as though to infinity. He sensed none of the usual markers ahead of him. To continue meant becoming lost here forever.

  The gray raven flew up to him and landed on his shoulder as before. “Come forward,” said the voice in his mind.

  “No,” Shadrael replied. “I have journeyed far enough. Tell me here what you want of me.”

  “Three more strides.”

  Frowning, Shadrael counted them off. The raven rode his shoulder until he said, “Three,” under his breath, and then the bird flew away, leaving him alone.

  Only he wasn’t alone. Between one eyeblink and the next, Shadrael saw a man’s silhouette appear before him.

  Startled, Shadrael stiffened but made no other move. Without turning his head, he sought to determine whether other silhouettes surrounded him, cutting him off from retreat, and saw none.

  “Be at peace, Commander,” the figure said aloud to him. “I am not your enemy.”

  The voice sounded familiar, teased his memory. Shadrael frowned, his gaze still flicking here and there alertly. “Name yourself.”

  “What do names matter in the land of torment?”

  It was the line of a poem. Shadrael stifled his sharp intake of breath. “Urmaeor?”

  “You remember?”

  “Of course.”

  Memories flooded Shadrael’s mind of early days in the service, when he was a raw recruit being honed into a raw young officer. He’d met a slender acolyte in dark robes assisting priests administering the blood bowls and rites of Alcua. Later, in the shocking aftermath of his act of shuldrakshera, it had been Urmaeor who had closed the gaping wound of his psyche, Urmaeor who had counseled him and showed him how to channel the power of Beloth without destroying himself. They’d become casual friends, each ambitious to rise to the top of his profession, each successful in gaining promotions. Shadrael had been posted to the Madrun border, and Urmaeor had gone to Imperia to serve in the temples.

  Shadrael blinked away the thoughts. “It’s been many years, but I have not forgotten your voice, or your love of the Iyna poets.”

  “Such minor details, despite all that has happened. You are rare.”

  “So I have been told,” Shadrael said with sudden impatience. “Why have you summoned me here?”

  Urmaeor spread out his hands. Whispering fires flared hot in Shadrael’s veins, bringing alive the agony he’d suppressed since the destruction of the shadows.

  Jerking to one side, Shadrael fought not to cry out as he held himself rigid against the pain. Shadow voices murmured to him, in him, around him, all commanding him to walk forward.

  He would not take a step.

  A force pressed against his back from behind, trying to push him closer to Urmaeor, but Shadrael stiffened his legs, bracing himself against it. The pressure intensified until his body shook and his heart throbbed as though it would burst. Still he held on, refusing to surrender.

  Defiantly, he even managed to glare at the shadowy figure standing before him. “You cannot control me,” he rasped out, his voice unsteady from his efforts not to scream. “Vindicants stronger than you have tried it.”

  The whispers inside his head deafened him, the fire racing even hotter through his body, so that he twisted and jerked. Sweat ran in his eyes, and he tasted the coppery bitterness of blood in his mouth. No longer could he draw in air, and his vision wavered, blurring Urmaeor’s motionless figure.

  But he would not surrender. And although he’d been caught off guard by the swift strength of Urmaeor’s power, he managed to sever. The fires tormenting him retreated, doused by the icy relief of severance. He saw Urmaeor’s threads of life, black and withered cords that they were, and reached out for them.

  Urmaeor’s attack ceased so abruptly that Shadrael staggered. A shimmering wall of energy rose up around the priest, shielding him, and Shadrael dropped out of severance.

  Winded and spent, aching inside, he dragged in several breaths and wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was tempting to sink to the ground and lie there. Instead, trembling and still short of breath, he found enough pride to straighten.

  “Satisfied?” he said angrily.

  “My apologies,” Urmaeor said in contrition. “Most of the few surviving donare I’ve managed to find have been weak, useless. You seem stronger than ever.”

  Holding in a bitter laugh, Shadrael spat blood from his mouth instead. “Be damned! You waste my time.”

  “What else have you, Commander, but time?”

  The mocking twist to what he’d said to his brother sent temper sweeping over Shadrael. He spun around to return the way he’d come.

  And was met by a wall of darkness obscuring the passageway behind him. He halted, well aware he’d been tricked into venturing beyond the markers. Urmaeor could cloud his senses like this in an eternal game of cat and mouse. Reluctantly, resentfully, he turned back to face the priest.

  “Please,” Urmaeor said. “I had to test you. Understand that it was the only way to be sure of your remaining capabilities.”

  “So now you understand me,” Shadrael said flatly. “What do you want?”

  “My master watches and waits for…opportunities,” Urmaeor said. “A donare still able to function, still strong, still possessing magic…this is a rarity he cannot afford to ignore.”

  “So you summoned me here and squandered some of that rare magic so hard to find by forcing me to pass your test.”

  “You came to our notice when you cast shadow magic to summon men and casna to you. I assure you those you have summoned will come swiftly in response.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “Ah yes, I see you have retained that unshakable confidence,” Urmaeor murmured. “My master wishes to offer you his help.”

  “Why?”

  “Do we not all serve a common purpose?”

  Shadrael was fast losing patience. “Spare me your mystical pronouncements and tell me why I’m here.”

  “My master—”

  “Who is that?”

  “The chief priest of the Vindicants.”

  Disbelief swept Shadrael. “What lie is this? Sein was destroyed during the Terrors.”

  “Yes, Lord Sein was lost to us. It is his successor who wishes to know you. I speak
to you on behalf of Lord Barthel, worthy servant of Beloth That Was and Beloth That Will Come Again.”

  “Beloth is gone, destroyed. And we are all of us doomed to follow our god to perdition.”

  “To lose protection of the shadows is indeed difficult,” Urmaeor said sympathetically. “How easy in such times as these to lose faith.”

  “Faith!” Shadrael said in scorn. “What would you have me believe in, priest? What is left but ashes?” He gestured at the dark wall behind him. “Let me go back.”

  “You suffer,” Urmaeor said as though he hadn’t heard Shadrael’s demand. “So do we all, but one such as yourself—once so close a servant of shadow—what torment you must endure. I wonder it does not drive you mad.”

  The aching pain inside Shadrael had not eased. He knew it would stay with him the rest of the night; it might persist for days. But he managed a cold smile. “Who these days is not mad, or close to it?”

  “Agreed. Lord Barthel understands your plight, for he also suffered much at first. We feared he might not survive the transition. Perhaps you, having already survived the Kiss of Eternity and its aftermath, drew your strength from that experience. Most donare are born as they are. But you were made. The difference is—”

  “Who cares?”

  “We do. Lord Barthel does. You may feel yourself to be alone, Commander, but you are not. Hear me. When the world was broken by the Light Bringer, Lord Barthel was one of the few in our upper echelon of priests able to reach the Vindicant refuge. We tended him carefully while Sein’s first successor perished. The second successor also failed to make the transition, and he, too, died. But Lord Barthel survived, and that’s when we realized he’d been chosen to lead us. Since his recovery, he has sent some of us—myself included—to search for those servants of shadow still able to function, still in possession of their powers. To find you here in Ulinia, someone of your caliber and reputation, is surely confirmation that destiny is working to en-twine Lord Barthel’s path with yours.”

  “My destiny ended with the arrival of Light Bringer.”