Shadows Past

by Lorna Freeman

  “I saw you talking with Captain Kveta, Cousin,” Jusson said. “How goes the search for the tainted rum?”

  Both the king and Lady Margriet listened intently as I relayed Kveta’s and the steward’s search of the castle and her joining the head groomer in a search of the barracks and stables.

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Margriet said. “I hope Kell and Kveta will find the bottles. I must admit that I find it very worrying that they’re still missing.”

  “Yes,” Jusson agreed. “Especially with all of the sailors about, who, if they did find them, would drink first and ask questions later.”

  “Good heavens,” Lady Margriet said, a horrified look on her face. “Perhaps I should have my husband offer a reward for the unopened bottles.”

  “Offer two for one, Lady Margriet,” Jusson said, grinning. “That would motivate the most determined guzzler.”

  Lady Margriet’s horrified look disappeared as she bit her lip, her eyes suddenly flashing with mischief. “I’m sure it would, Your Majesty—”

  She broke off as Idwal stepped to the fore of the stage, everyone quieting as the Lord of Mearden raised his hands in the air. “Your Majesty, Your Highnesses, lords and ladies, gracious sirs and gentlewomen. Those of you who have come from foreign lands are most likely familiar with anveas. For those who aren’t, we are about to see wondrous feats of magic not witnessed in Iversterre since days of yore.”

  Or at least since the last war when the Border Militia’s mages, enchanters, and other talent workers took over the job of pounding what was left of Iversterre’s Royal Army into the ground after the Faena were done with it. Fortunately, it seemed that the memory of our swift defeat at the hands of the People did not linger this far south. All around me eyes were wide with excitement and anticipation of seeing said wondrous feats.

  “However, we have a slight problem,” Idwal said. His gaze swept the spellbound crowd, his smile glinting like a horse trader’s. “There are four aspects that all schools of magic ascribe to, based on the elements that make up the seen world: air and fire, water and earth. Fire, water and air are well represented here. But we do not have earth.”

  “What about Laurel Faena?” an aristo shouted out from the crowd. “Isn’t he an earth master?”

  “Yes, the Faena cat is a shaman and earth master. Unfortunately, though, he is not able to participate,” Idwal said. He waited a moment as sounds of disappointment welled up from the crowd before aiming his horse-trading smile at me. “But his pupil, Lord Rabbit, is here.”

  The groans of disappointment immediately changed to encouraging shouts from the spectators. Berenice remained quietly standing next to her mother with her hands folded before her, her eyes demurely lowered. However, Lady Margriet laid her hand on my arm and sparkled up at me.

  “I know you hadn’t planned to, Lord Rabbit,” she said, “but if you would?”

  It was my day for being sandbagged. I glanced up at Wyln, who motioned to me with a slight movement of his hand, and then at Jusson, who gave a very small nod. Giving in, I bowed. “Of course, my lady.”

  People whistled, clapped, and stamped their feet as I walked on to the stage (more excitement over the horse race and wagers won than any promised feats) and found a place beside Wyln, who made sure he was between Munir and me.

  “So we meet on a battlefield of sorts after all, tiro,” Munir said across the enchanter.

  “So it seems, Lord Munir,” I said. I then shifted closer to Wyln. “This is not a good idea, honored cyhn,” I murmured.

  “I think that I’d rather have you up here than down there. And when this is over, I further think that we will leave the fair and return to Iver’son’s rooms. There is something in the air that is disturbing,” Wyln said back, his voice just as low. “In the meantime, since we missed your lesson this morning, this is as good a place and opportunity as any to work on your skills.”

  “That is very true, Sro Rabbit,” Munir said, proving nothing was wrong with his hearing. “An anvea is an excellent way to develop control, critical thinking, and—how do you call it? Talent work on the fly. At least my teacher thought so. Many’s the time I’d been flung head-first without any warning whatsoever into impromptu competitions held by His Glory’s senior wizards.”

  “War training, Adeptus?” Wyln asked.

  “No,” Munir said, a wry look on his face. “Court training—”

  “All right,” Idwal said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Munir and Wyln fell silent as Idwal strode over to a small, cloth-draped table where a large hourglass rested.

  “There will be a series of tasks given,” Idwal said, addressing us, “in increasing levels of difficulty and complexity. Those of you who successfully complete the tasks in the allotted time frame will advance to the next round. When there are just two remaining, they will duel, with the winner of the duel also winning the anvea—”

  “Is calling the element part of the trials, Harn Mearden?” the Svlet weather witch asked, interrupting.

  Idwal stopped mid-explanation. “It’s the first one—”

  “Then he has an unfair advantage, yes?” the witch asked, pointing at me.

  I stared at the man, before following his blunt-tipped finger to the spheres hovering above my shoulders.

  “Fire, air, earth,” he said. He waved his thick fingers near his ear. “And his pretty feather in his braid, whatever it does—”

  There was a rumble of laughter from his shipmates down in the audience, but they all broke off as I gestured and the air and fire spheres winked out (to my relief). The earth sphere, however, remained where it was.

  “My feather stays,” I said to the witch.

  “So it will,” Idwal said before the witch could speak. He reached for the hourglass and swiftly turned it over. “The rest of you, summon your aspect!”

  A fire sphere appeared next to Wyln and a small tongue of fire also appeared next to Munir, the flickering flames reflecting on his bald head, highlighting the flowing tattoos. The two Turalian forecasters produced what looked like tiny water spouts, the Qarant prescriber a rain cloud, and the Svlet weather witch a miniature whirlwind. I counted. Two with fire, one with air, three with water, and me with earth.

  There were exclamations from those watching, which increased as Munir split his fire into several individual flames that encircled his head. Deciding that they too could show off, the two Turalians made their water spouts dance and the Qarant prescriber had his cloud begin to rain, creating a damp patch on the stage. The witch, though, did nothing with his whirlwind but instead glared at me, as did his mates in the audience.

  “Is not fair,” the man said.

  “What?” I said, glaring back.

  Wyln touched my arm. “He is right, Two Trees’son,” he said. “Dismiss and resummon.”

  Obeying my cyhn, I gestured again and the earth sphere winked out (to my further relief). I then held up my gloved fist and opened it, expecting to see the same sphere slowly turning. Instead a tiny oak tree sprang up from the palm of my hand, complete with green leaves on its branches.

  There were more sounds of awe mixed with applause, though the Svlet weather witch and his shipmates looked even darker.

  Munir moved closer. “That is truly interesting,” he said, intrigued. “I’ve never seen earth manifest like that.”

  “Sprites of ancient oaks sometimes summon earth in that manner,” Wyln said, his flame-lit eyes on the tiny tree.

  “Not in Tural they don’t,” Munir said. His flames a halo around his head, he reached out across Wyln. “May I?”

  I started to shift my hand away but wasn’t fast enough as Wyln took hold of my wrist and moved it and the aspect out of reach. “I think not, Adeptus—”

  “No touching and transferring essences,” the witch said.

  Munir, Wyln, and I all stopped and looked at the weather witch, who folded his beefy arms across his chest and glared back. The two Turalian f
orecasters edged slightly away, and though the Qarant prescriber stayed put, he cast the witch a considering look.

  “Time is up,” Idwal announced, his voice hearty. “And everyone will advance to the next level.”

  “As I said, something’s not quite right,” Wyln murmured under the applause at Idwal’s announcement.

  Our slight tussle momentarily forgotten, Munir first frowned at Wyln, then looked around the crowd, his gaze lighting briefly on the Svlet crew members with their near identical expressions of malcontent.

  “You’re right,” he said, a line between his brows. “It does feel off, like standing on an uneven surface.”

  One of the Turalian forecasters moved closer to us. “You feel it too, Sro Adeptus?” She glanced up at the cloudless sky. “Heavy, like a storm is coming—”

  “No whispering either,” the weather witch said. “Wizards, elves, and mages plotting together—”

  “In this next level,” Idwal shouted, “each contestant will further demonstrate his mastery over his aspect by changing its appearance. It can be larger, smaller, change shape or colors, but it has to be noticeably different.” He reached for the sand-filled glass timer. “Ready. Set. Go!”

  I looked down at my tree, wondering how to make it different, when it changed by itself, its leaves turning autumnal hues. Pretending that I meant to do that, I glanced around to see that Munir had changed the colors of his flames, alternating between red, yellow, and orange, while Wyln’s sphere took on the backlit delicacy of a window in front of a lit hearth. The two Turalian forecasters had bent their waterspouts into arches and the prescriber’s rain cloud had small jags of lightning arcing within it.

  The only person who hadn’t successfully changed his aspect was the Svlet weather witch. He was trying—the whirlwind would grow, but then would shrink back to its original size. With increasingly desperate glances at the sand slipping through the glass, the witch redoubled his efforts, his crewmates shouting encouragement. Finally, with only a few grains of sand to spare, the witch managed to keep his whirlwind at roughly twice as big. He shot me a look of triumph mixed with scorn, once more folding his arms.

  “Ha! I have prevailed despite the unfair whispering essence exchanges of others—”

  “Time’s up!” Idwal shouted. “And again, everyone will advance to the next level.”

  “Should it be doing that?” I asked.

  The other contestants had been ignoring the witch, their gazes politely on Idwal, but at my question, they all looked at the whirlwind to see that it had continued to grow and was now three times its original size—and getting larger.

  “Sas Beisa!” Wyln hissed, and dropped to the stage floor, taking me down. At the same time, Munir also dropped, reaching a long arm to pull a startled Idwal with him.

  “Ach, frightened by a little wind?” the Svlet weather witch asked, his face smug. He sneered down at us, blindly reaching out to the whirlwind, now almost as large as him. “Little girls wanting their muoters—Maene Gedt!”

  As the witch’s hand was swallowed by the whirlwind, Munir turned his head to where Princess Rajya stood in the audience. “He’s lost control of his facet! Get down!”

  Wyln also looked down at the audience, his gaze aimed at Jusson and Thadro. “Cover Iver’son!”

  “Naen!” the witch said, struggling to free his hand as the two Turalians and the Qarant swiftly backed away. However, the Qarant prescriber stumbled in his haste, knocking one of the Turalian forecasters into the witch. The witch fell into the whirlwind and, with a shriek, was engulfed. The Turalian managed to escape, but her waterspout didn’t and the whirlwind became a cyclone with air and water whirling together, gaining strength and momentum before passing over us with the roaring sound of a mountain avalanche to sweep down into the crowd. Jusson, Lady Margriet, and Berenice were on the ground, the Own and soldiers covering them. Princess Rajya was also down, her guards protecting her. A few of the crowd also managed to hunker down while others grabbed hold of the stage supports. But most were blown about by the violent storm, their screams part of the howling winds as they were pummeled by flying debris. I saw the straw man from the tilting run go whipping by, immediately followed by a couple of brightly painted juggler’s clubs, which in turn were chased by one of the archery butts, the arrows from Princess Rajya and Berenice’s match still stuck in it.

  “Heinrich!” one of the Svlet crewmen shouted over the roar of wind. He turned enraged eyes on me, somehow staying upright. “You have killed him!”

  The Svlet crewman produced a dagger and, flipping it in his hand, started to throw it at me. Jeff, though, down by the king, managed to get to his feet and leapt on the seaman, immediately followed by several King’s Own and troopers. The other Svlet sailors waded in with fists swinging, and more Own and troopers followed. Stumbling back, one Svlet fell into the Turalians surrounding the princess. One of her guards tried to push him away, and he swung on him too. Several Svlets joined their crewmate, one reaching in and grabbing Her Highness by the tunic.

  “Rajya!” Suiden bellowed. Rolling to his feet, he flung himself at the melee, followed by Jasry and her crew. At the same time, the princess produced her own dagger, slashing at the Svlet sailor. He fell into a knot of castle armsmen, the captain putting an armlock on him. More Svlet crewmen poured on them, their grunts and the thuds of their fists sounding over the gale, and the aristos armsmen joined in.

  “Fire!”

  “Damn it!” Idwal shouted, staggering to his feet. “Not again!”

  Rising up a little, I turned to see that several of the booths had collapsed, including the baker’s. Flames were erupting from the mishmash of broken boards and bunting near the brick oven.

  “Bertram!” I shouted, also pushing to my feet. The wind snatched at my braid and it unraveled, my feather disappearing into the gale.

  Despite the horizontal rain, the flames rode the wind to the next booth, setting its bunting on fire. The spreading flames, however, did not stop the Svlet crewmen as they started beating on everyone around them.

  “This is insane!” Munir shouted, also struggling to his feet. He raised his hand, his fingers crooked. “I’ll take the fire and, Lord Rabbit, you try to control air—”

  I slammed my staff down against the stage. The fires winked out, the rain ceased, and the howling cyclone stopped, spilling the Svlet weather witch on the ground, where he lay blinking up at the sky. Everyone else froze and in the quiet all that could be heard was the dripping of water. It was broken by the sound of my boots as I ran across the stage and jumped off, hurrying to the baker’s booth. Folks shook off their paralysis and they too hurried to the collapsed booths, helping vendors and customers alike out of the debris. Others joined me as I flung aside boards and posts, my heart in my mouth. But, after I lifted a board, a slender hand came up and, grabbing it, I gently pulled Bertram from the wreckage, unharmed. A few moments later, the baker and his assistants were also freed, with nothing more serious than a few bumps and bruises.

  My hand gripping Bertram’s shoulder, I turned to go to Jusson—and came face-to-face with a spinning water orb. I stared at it—and as I did, fire and air reappeared, and earth floated from the stage to join them, all four spheres hovering at eye level. They looked back, considering.

  “AlDraconi capen nus,” Munir breathed softly.

  Dragon lords keep us? Shivering with wet and cold, I turned to see the wizard next to me.

  “Others’ summonings controlled and dismissed, as effortlessly as falling off a log,” Munir said, his face avid.

  Wyln pushed between us. “Of His Grace Loren’s line, Adeptus.”

  “And I’m not surprised that he snatched at so potent a wizard,” Munir said. “Human or not—”

  I was distracted from Wyln and Munir’s verbal shoving match by a hollow thump. Jusson had climbed on the stage, Thadro with him. Sodden, his hair plastered to his face, his gold circlet lopsided, his cloak dripping, the king did a slow circle, taking in the
remnants of the fairgrounds. There wasn’t much left—the yards were destroyed, the tilting run nonexistent, the booths heaps of rubble. Here and there were folks who remained on the ground, injured. The Svlet weather witch was also still stretched out, his crewmates surrounding him—at least, those who could get away from the armlocks and choke holds the various armsmen and soldiers had on them. Jusson’s gaze rested on them a moment before moving to Suiden standing with his arm protectively around Princess Rajya. He then looked down at Idwal, standing with his own arms around his wife and daughter, holding them close.

  Jusson drew in a deep breath. “We declare the fair ended and the tourney closed—”

  “Sirs!” a faint voice shouted. It was accompanied by the sound of approaching running feet.

  “Too late, sire,” Thadro murmured.

  Jusson closed his eyes. “Pox rot it, yes.”

  The running feet came nearer, and a moment later Ryson appeared flanked by several troopers and King’s Own. They paused only briefly at the disaster scene before them before locating Thadro on the stage and hurrying over.

  “Sir,” Ryson gasped. “The entire royal chambers have been ensorceled and Captain Javes and Master Laurel are gone.”

  Seventeen

  “When Groskin and I got here, we found everyone like this, sirs,” Ryson said to Thadro and Suiden.

  Jusson hadn’t wasted any time but at Ryson’s announcement turned and strode back to the castle, his wet cloak flapping. The rest of us followed quickly behind him, squelching, dripping, and tracking mud into the great hall. However, like the previous night, it hadn’t fazed Lady Margriet. She once more set the servants bustling, building up the fire in the massive fireplace and providing towels, blankets, and hot drinks to her guests who could stand and placing pallets near the fireplace for those who couldn’t. The castle healer moved among them, administering comfort and aid to the injured, which included Kveta. Apparently the wolf had been returning from the stables when a flying plank hit her. She limped on three paws to the castle, growling at my offer to carry her. She was placed on a pallet and she lay there with her eyes closed, her ears pressed against her head. But I only saw that in passing as Jusson hurried up the stairs to his chambers, Idwal, Thadro, Suiden, Wyln, me, and those who could walk unaided again following right behind. I glanced in at the bottom when we reached it; it seemed normal, if rather empty; the lucky sods who, for whatever reason, didn’t attend the fair were not in evidence. I discovered why when we reached the top floor.