Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy)

by Jefferson Cram

  As he read and transcribed, a frown deepened on his otherwise smooth face. The fears that he and the king shared seemed to be well founded, according to the journal. Still, Jericho worked diligently and with speed, getting everything that would convey to the king the dire reality of their fears.

  Satisfied with his efforts, he replaced the pen, the journal, and the floorboard. Having allowed enough time for the ink to dry, he picked up the scroll, rolled it and slid it into its case. Sliding it through his belt, he stole to the window, surveyed the room one final time, and disappeared back into the night.

  Chapter 5

  Beneath his fur cloak, King Remiel Van Uther II shivered in the cool night air. Standing upon the opulent balcony that spread out from his bedchamber in the royal palace, Remiel looked across the skyline of the city toward the Peln Rise, knowing as he did so that the distance would be far too great for him to see any sign of the Darkcloak’s movements. He blew a cloud into the moonlight, cursing his aging body for its frailty.

  Years ago he’d been one of the greatest warriors of the Realm, if not the greatest. He’d reveled in his strength, his stamina, and his ability to withstand punishments that most men would have collapsed under. It was his part of his birthright as a Van Uther; all of the descendents in the line shared a hardiness of special repute. Still, no man could forestall the advance of time forever. It didn’t mean he had to like it.

  A shooting star broke him from his thoughts. He watched it burn a bright green trail across the sky, halting his gaze as it passed the moon. He frowned.

  The moon was only a sliver of light, but brought with it dark feelings. Most of the populace he reigned over would never have thought twice about the pale orb that shed its cool glow over their nights.

  For the king, it represented an ancient menace barely contained. When he shivered this time, it was not from the chill.

  He turned his back on the night, the time for his meeting drawing close. He passed through ornate glass doors into the royal bedchamber, closing them behind him.

  Still feeling a bit of a chill, and not wanting an errant breeze to wake the queen, he stooped at the base of the massive hearth and hefted another faggot on the low fire. With a glance to his wife’s sleeping form, he stoked the coals until the wood lit, and then stalked across the room to a ruggedly constructed bookshelf.

  Reaching up over the lip of the top, he pressed a small panel and stepped back. After a moment, and with nary a sound, the bookshelf swung out into the room, revealing a passage through the bowels of the castle.

  Into the dark corridor he stepped, waiting only a moment for the bookshelf to resume its proper place with the faintest of clicks.

  The hall was completely lightless. The king, lacking sorcery of his own, reached up beneath his graying beard and depressed the ruby on one of his golden necklaces. Immediately the corridor was filled with a faint red glow.

  By the light of his mystical amulet, the king descended through the bones of the palace, following ancient pathways set by forgotten builders eons in the past. He wrapped his cloak tighter about him as he went, for the temperature began to drop once he began to plunge below ground level.

  At one point the seeping of water through the wall to his right told him that he’d come to the point where all that separated him from the fury of the White River as it sped past the keep was a wall of slime-coated stone. He hurried on, imagining he could hear the water on the other side, searching for a way to get its icy fingers on him.

  Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes, Remiel reached his destination. It was a strange metal door, quite unlike any other architecture in the castle. Indeed, it was different from nearly all architecture known to his kingdom.

  The door was rectangular, with its corners rounded. It was set into a wall made of the same strange metal, which was cropped after a few feet on each side by the stonework of the palace. A language strange to all but a select few in the Realm of Men named the door “Bulkhead C”. To the right of the door itself was a small square console with several luminescent buttons.

  Remiel reached out and keyed a familiar sequence, after which the door slid into the wall on the left. The hall beyond was illuminated with an unnatural white light. It was entirely constructed of the same strange material as the door, with a floor of grated metal, and a bank of lights that were set into the corner where the walls met the ceiling.

  Without missing a beat, the king entered the corridor and began walking to the left. Behind him, a hiss and a clank told him the door had slid back into its closed position, locked to anyone who couldn’t enter the proper sequence on the keypad. He continued with familiarity through the metal innards of this strange construct, his thoughts intent upon whether the meeting he was headed toward would reveal anything of real portent.

  Having walked through several hundred yards of corridor, passing through three more sliding doors, he finally entered the large room that was his destination. The walls were lined with large rectangular windows that showed only dull gray. Counters festooned with buttons, levers, and glowing screens formed a semicircle in the center of the room.

  In the exact center of the chamber stood an elaborate chair of exotic make. The cushions were upholstered with a material unlike any found in the kingdom. The design was sparse compared to what normally passed for opulence, but was comfortable nonetheless. The armrests sported a keypad, as well as several other switches, knobs, and small windows of some type.

  The king assumed a comfortable posture in the chair, and waited. As he did so, his thoughts drifted, as the often did, to the people who must have created the room he was in.

  It would shock the populace of his realm to know of this place’s existence. As far as they knew, Valia was always the home of humanity. It was part of his burden of rulership that Remiel was forced to keep the true story of the origin of mankind from the majority of his people. The truth could well destroy them all.

  The hiss of an opening door disrupted his reverie, and he started at the entrance of his Shadow. Jericho Darkcloak entered the room and respectfully waited for his king to acknowledge him before moving closer. As he approached, he removed the scroll from his belt and handed it to Remiel.

  No words were exchanged, there was hardly any need. The king unfurled the offered scroll with shaking hands. Minutes passed in silence as he read the basic, but clear handwriting.

  At length, the Remiel regarded his trusted servant with a grim expression.

  “This came from her cousin’s journal?” his voice sounded old in his ears.

  The Darkcloak nodded, “Indeed, Your Highness. I left her manor not two hours ago. There can be no doubt.

  “The baroness has entered an alliance with the Drejth.”

  The words were almost a physical blow to the monarch. With a steadying breath he looked around the alien chamber before locking eyes with Jericho.

  “Then, she knows.”

  Chapter 6

  In the darkest hour that lurked before dawn, the mistress of the castle called Moonrest stormed its halls. Baroness Emberlock was in a mood, and impatient to address the source of her ire.

  She stalked the dark corridors, her silken nightgown flowing around her. The cool night air did little to diminish the flame that burned in her blood. No servant could be found in the same wing; all had learned too well to leave the baroness to her storms lest they receive the brunt of her wrath - however misplaced.

  She fumed at the incompetence of her guards; allowing the boy to overhear her plans was inexcusable. What if it had been an agent of the king, or an assassin?

  The fact that those men were currently sweating out their shame in the mines was small consolation. She would have to speak to Duln about trimming the fat in the ranks.

  As she stomped up the stairs to her study, Calistra realized she was glad that the moment of her clandestine meeting was at hand.

  She hated waiting, hated the impotence of it. She was a being of action and passion. Whenever she
wasn’t in direct in control of events, she was irate.

  The oak door of the circular chamber banged open, announcing her entrance. She quickly slammed it shut and gained the other side of the tower chamber in a few long strides.

  All around here were the trappings of nobility: lavish bookshelves, a desk with a hand-painted globe of Valia upon it, thickly cushioned chairs, lush rugs, and a graven hearth with well-stocked wood hopper.

  Reaching up, she tore a velvet curtain to the floor, revealing what had to be an incredibly expensive wall mirror. Edged in worked silver, the six foot tall lens was shined to perfection. She glared at her reflection for a moment, oblivious to her dusky beauty.

  “Dammit, Drejth, I won’t be kept waiting, you old ghost!” she snarled.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly at first, but with building speed, darkness grew out from the center of the mirror. It distorted, then replaced the baroness’s visage before enveloping the entire surface.

  Out of this emerged the image of a pale-faced man of indeterminate age, with deep black hair and a jet goatee. He smiled, revealing a row of teeth filed to points.

  “Ahhh, Calistra” he cooed to her irritation, “You can’t imagine how hard it is to stay away from your exquisite beauty.”

  She rolled her dark eyes, “Oh please. Don’t flatter me, Drejth. I’ll not be wooed by a dead man.”

  She inwardly smiled at the slight falter in his grin.

  “Now tell me some good news before I decide our little alliance isn’t worth it. I’m sure the lord mages under Remiel’s thumb would love to hear of your return.”

  Malavarius Drejth lost his smile. Cold, dead eyes bored into the baroness. She repressed an involuntary shudder.

  “Do not threaten me, my sweet,” his voice was like the death-rattle of a plague victim.

  “The living hold no power over me. You would do well to remember that.”

  Calistra smirked to hide her revulsion, “Fine. Just tell me that you’ve gotten something from those book-worshiping clods at the temple.”

  Drejth assumed his toothy grin once again.

  “Indeed. I’ve found a puppet that will suit my-,” he snickered, “-OUR needs perfectly. I simply need a little time to complete the transition.

  “Meanwhile, I need you to get your men in place at our site in Galloway.”

  Emberlock's eyes widened slightly, “You think everything will be ready so soon?”

  She looked away, thinking.

  “Not getting cold feet, are we, Baroness?” the last word was drawn out in a hiss.

  Her eyes flared as she snapped back to eye contact, “Don’t be a fool. I want the false king dead as much as anyone.”

  “Besides,” she smiled, “being a baroness doesn’t leave a lot of room for improvement if you’re not willing to marry some stooge.”

  Drejth laughed, a hideous rasping cough that curdled the baroness’s blood. At length, he spoke again.

  “Excellently put, my dear. Get your men in place and wait for my signal. I will contact you within a fortnight.

  “Our rise is at hand.”

  With that, his pale face faded and the gorgeous visage of the baroness replaced it.

  Calistra frowned. She hated dealing with the monster, yet she needed him to complete her ascension.

  She walked back toward the door before she paused, remembering.

  Returning to the mirror, she retrieved the crumpled cloth. She made sure to cover the entire surface before she left. The idea of Drejth peeking in on even a minute portion of her home made her spine tingle.

  The baroness retired to her bedchamber as the first light of the new day began to touch the tops of the tall towers.

  Barking orders to her servants, she set in motion the preparation of her retinue. After she was satisfied all would be in place, she sank into her feather bed, drifting into dreams of conquest and glory.

  Chapter 7

  Morning crept in on Mord’s Casting, bringing with it rain and wind. The sky was slate grey and bloated disgorging a continued downpour. The fisher folk were out and about regardless; working their trade as best they could in howling wind and choppy waters.

  The majority of them stayed at dock, tying lines, repairing nets, and seeing to the myriad of other tasks that required attention, even if one was not at sea.

  From a room on the third floor of Leodyne Falkshire’s tower, Reynolt looked out upon the choppy bay and the boats moored there, bobbing like children’s toys. Most of the window was of stained glass, but a central portion was clear and allowed a view. It was also completely sealed in all ways, as Reynolt had found out earlier. No spells he knew or amount of prying would open or break the glass. Not that he had suspected differently.

  He was sure that he lacked the raw power to overcome any magic that Leodyne would have in place to stop him, or would be able to summon at a moment’s notice.

  Besides, he didn’t want to escape. He had been given a job by the lord mages, and he’d finish it, or die trying.

  Closing his eyes, he steadied himself. He could feel more than hear the hum of some power coursing down through the stones of the tower. Above him, something was pulsing with raw arcane energy.

  Reynolt’s gaze was drawn out beyond the pillars of rock that dotted the sea to the north of the bay.

  Had it been somewhere out there, upon the reefs, that the ship containing Leodyne’s looted ARC engine went aground? He supposed it didn’t matter, but imagining how the lych had obtained the artifact helped to pass the time.

  Turning, he surveyed once again the room in which he’d been deposited, without word, that morning. It was small, though not uncomfortably so. The furnishings were rich by most standards; the people of the ‘Casting would have gawked at the drapery alone.

  There was a large and comfortable-looking bed set against a wall, dressed in fine comforters. A round table made of polished mahogany stood next to the stone hearth, which was throwing a small amount of heat.

  For some reason, the air still held some chill, despite the flames.

  Another clue to the goings-on around here, Reynolt told himself. His suspicions were getting stronger by the minute and being led here under captivity, as well as the atmosphere of the tower, were facts that only bolstered them. He had yet to meet the man of the tower, but he felt as though he knew all he needed to know about the mysterious Leodyne Falkshire.

  That knowledge cast the mage in a most unfavorable light. It would be unfortunate if the old wizard was practicing forbidden magics, but it mattered little. Reynolt had been given a task, and he felt as though he were more than up to it.

  He stepped over to the table and examined the bottle and glasses set upon it. For not the first time he regarded the liquor with some suspicion.

  Had the old man somehow guessed at the true nature of Reynolt’s visit? And if so, would he simply poison the young upstart and be done with it?

  Deciding not to chance it, he once again set down the decanter and started as the heavy door swung open.

  One of his grim-faced captors took a step in and regarded him without expression. He wore the same deep crimson robes that they all had been wearing, but now had the hood cast back. A clean-shaven head adorned with mystical tattoos framed a cold and somehow lifeless face.

  His markings told Reynolt that he hailed from the south, Iniklus, or some such marsh city. His craggy face made his age indeterminate, but the eyes showed neither the luster of youth nor the wisdom of age. They were simply dead.

  Suppressing a shudder, Reynolt returned his gaze, even managing a frown.

  “You gentlemen have something to learn about manners,” he half-heartedly chided.

  The man said nothing.

  “Yes, well…” the young wizard stammered.

  “The master wishes to see you now,” came the eventual monotone. With that, the man turned and left Reynolt standing alone, bewildered. Apparently they’d lost their concern that he might try to escape.

&nb
sp; And why not? he thought to himself. It doesn’t seem likely that I could get out if I tried. The entirety of the tower was sealed effectively from the inside and no amount of spellwork or physical force would set him free.

  Shrugging, the young wizard went after the man, sighting him as he ascended the stairs to the right. Reynolt followed close behind. It was not wise to get lost in a mage’s tower.

  Decay, cloying and oppressive began to assault his nostrils as he closed with the man. How had he not noticed the smell before?

  As they ascended the stench became more forceful, making Reynolt gag slightly. If his escort noticed, he did not react. The young wizard regarded the back of his companion with interest.

  His cloak was tattered and moth-eaten, whereas before it seemed clean and well made. The back of the man’s head displayed a grayish hue, as though the blood had left his scalp.

  Around them, the stones of the stairway seemed to get more and more decrepit as they progressed. The tapestries rotted and faded with age and neglect. It seemed that whatever glamour Falkshire used to hide his true nature was irrelevant this close to his inner sanctum.

  All doubts cast away, Reynolt prepared himself. He was being led into the heart of the tower, the very lair of evil. Leodyne Falkshire had cast away his teachings and delved too deeply into Drejth magic. He’d become a lych.

  The thought both excited and saddened the young wizard. Lyches were beings of incredible power, having drawn upon the power of negative energy to defeat death itself and continue on in a magical existence. It was a delicate balance, as too much of the hungry power would consume them, too little and the transformation would fail. Lyches invariably gazed too long into the abyss, and such things as can be seen there taint them irrevocably.