For a moment, Alster felt like the old statues were watching him, judging him, and trying to determine if he was worthy enough to stand in their presence. Their stares made him shiver, and the hair on his neck stood on end.
Alster moved from the busts to a row of low glass cases. Sunlight streamed into the room from high windows behind him, but most of the objects in the cases remained obscured by shadows. He remembered enough of Wilkes’ teachings to recall the general dates for the First Conquest of the Shades some four hundred years ago, though he could only assume the treasures in the archive were arranged chronologically.
He moved past a rusted suit of armor and something caught his eye. He remembered his tutor telling him stories of one of his ancestors and his namesake, Alistair the Fourth, who had led a successful campaign against one of the shade legions during the war. A portrait of Alistair hung on the wall behind the armor, the canvas covered in a thick layer of dust. Alster gingerly brushed some of the dust from the painting, quickly captivated by the intricate details of the artist’s work.
Along the bottom of the depiction, grasping hands of darkness, the tendrils of the shade soldiers, reached up toward the commander like vines growing over an old wall. Alistair, ever valiant, glowered down on the shadows from his steed. Behind him, a field of fiery destruction shimmered and burned.
Alster looked back to the suit of armor, wondering if it had belonged to his forefather and been used in the war. It didn’t take long for him to realize it wasn’t the same armor from the painting. The crest on the breastplate was wrong, the helm bore a different visor, and the gauntlets Alistair wore in the painting were etched with red filigree. The pair on the wooden stand next to the breastplate were plain and unornamented.
A small wave of disappointment crept through his mind. Part of him wished to find that suit of armor, to try it on, and just once, feel as heroic as his name was meant to be. But he knew he was not destined for such theatrics. Jarix was the one being trained for military service, not the cripple.
Sounds from somewhere behind Alster made him jerk his head back toward the door. Someone was coming. Though he had tenuous permission from the old caretaker to enter, his father would never allow him to explore such important areas of the estate. Alster looked for somewhere, anywhere to hide. The shelves of relics offered some concealment, but his father would surely find him. Palos, the lord of Lightbridge and patriarch of the Lightbridge family, was not known for forgiveness.
Alster ducked behind the suit of armor as the door to the archive swung open. His heart fell. It was his father holding a bundle of scrolls, which meant he would be heading for one of the racks directly across from Alster. He knew his father would surely spot him. Alster rubbed his crippled legs and remembered the gruesome assault his father had wrought upon his body when he had been caught exploring one of the guard houses on the family property.
Palos Lightbridge grumbled something under his breath as he moved through the archive. The beast of a man stalked through the shelves and past the relics, paying them little attention as he went. Alster tried to make himself smaller, but he couldn’t drop his walking stick for fear of falling down entirely, and the stick was too large to be quickly concealed.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Alster groaned. He knew he would be caught regardless of his efforts to hide.
Palos stopped when he heard the noise. He set the scrolls he was carrying on a nearby table and his hands turned to fists. “Why are you here?” he demanded, his voice even lower in pitch than it normally was.
Alster blanched. “I-” he began, but his knees gave out in fear and he fell into the shelf in front of him, knocking an ornate vase to the ground where it shattered.
If his father’s expression was full of fury before, it transformed into a visage of pure, murderous rage when the artifact crashed to the ground. “Alster!” Palos bellowed, his voice loud enough to shake the tall panes of glass in their frames. He had a muscled chest with matching arms, each bulging with ire, and in that moment Palos was nothing short of an angry god about to smite his damned creation.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Alster repeated, though his voice was soon lost.
The sun had already set when Alster finally awoke on the floor of his small room. He pulled himself painfully from the ground with the help of his windowsill. From the fourth floor, he could see most of the estate and the courtyard below. Almost all of it was bathed in darkness. Only a few torches sputtered in metal sconces throughout the compound.
A mirror hung next to the window, but Alster was afraid to look into it. He couldn’t remember when he had lost consciousness. He glanced at his reflection in his window and saw an angry circle of darkness forming around his right eye. He touched it, and the flesh pulsed with pain beneath his fingertips. He sat on the windowsill as he always did in the library, leaning his back against the cool glass, and tried to stretch his twisted legs. They throbbed with every movement, just as they always did.
Alster felt a twinge in his side which seemed to grow in strength the more the pain in the rest of his body subsided. He lifted his tunic, rubbing the area and cursing himself for being so foolish to go where he knew he was not allowed. Beginning under his left pectoral and continuing down almost to his waist, a nasty red and purple bruise was oozing a thin line of blood. Alster let his shirt fall back down and tears began to wet his face.
He saw his walking stick sitting in the opposite corner of the room and moved toward it, slowly inching across the cold wooden floor. His room, despite being in the tallest tower of the estate, was anything but regal. He liked to think the room used to belong to a king or a queen, or perhaps Alistair himself, but it had been drastically changed when Alster had been forced to move into it. The fireplace had been bricked over, tapestries had been taken from the walls, and even the room’s bed had been deconstructed and taken elsewhere.
A shiver of cold air worked its way over Alster’s spine. He reached out for his stick and plucked it from the ground, nearly losing his balance in the process. He pulled it close to his chest and felt something sticky on his hands. “He beat me with my own stick,” he realized.
Defeated, Alster wiped his hands on his tunic and collapsed into the pile of blankets where he slept. He cried, his body convulsing violently with every breath and pulling apart the scabbed skin over his ribs.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep his body from shaking. “I’ll leave this place,” he promised between breaths. He imagined creeping away through the estate’s iron gate in the middle of the night, never to return. Alster had always wanted to simply vanish. He wanted to run away, to sprint from the place and forget even the memory of his home. Most of all, Alster wanted to forget the memories of his father.
“I’ll leave,” Alster repeated. “I’ll find a way to leave.”
RELICS
An owl hooted outside Alster’s window, breaking his tenuous sleep well before dawn. The torches outside his window had gone out, leaving the estate in near perfect darkness. His side still throbbed and his face was damp with salty tears, but he felt something other than despair welling up inside him. He felt something stronger, something more aggressive.
“I’ll leave this place,” he said for what felt like the thousandth time. The words were comforting, like a mantra to ward off some evil spirit, and his body began to relax and return to normal; whatever normal truly was.
To his surprise, he found himself sliding out from under his blankets and heading toward the door, his walking stick in hand. So much energy filled his twisted legs that he felt almost possessed. Trying to balance what speed he could muster with the need for stealth, he wound his way down the spiral staircase from his cold tower into the main section of the estate. The door which connected the stairs to the hall below was latched, as it was every night, but he had long ago developed a plan to defeat such a simple barrier.
He placed his ear against the stone wall and waited for a long time. If the caretaker saw him, he coul
d probably bluff his way out, but if Palos caught him… The thought made him shudder. His beatings had increased in frequency over the past several months, and it seemed as though he could never do anything right. It was only a matter of time before his father would go too far and beat the rest of the life from him. With every day that passed, Alster felt as though he was one day closer to death at his father’s hands.
After enough time passed for Alster to feel safe, he slipped his fingertips between two of the stones next to the door handle and began to pry them apart. After a little wiggling, the stones separated and Alster was able to remove one of them, opening a portal just large enough for his small hand to slip through. It didn’t take much effort for Alster to unlatch the door once he was through the wall.
With everything back in place and Alster standing on the other side of the door, he surveyed his options, unsure of where he meant to go. His typical nighttime escapes usually involved trips to the kitchen or slow walks around the courtyard while he dreamt of leaving the estate. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, Alster felt compelled to prove to his tutor that he was capable of finding an ancient artifact. Jarix was daily praised for his accomplishments, no matter how trivial they seemed to be, and Alster wanted a piece of that reward for himself.
The archive was at least a hundred yards from Alster’s tower, but he knew every single passage and corridor of the estate, especially in the dark. Roaming the silent halls at night had been a form of respite for Alster ever since he could remember. He was nearly certain the caretaker knew he left his room at night, but so far his father did not, and that was what mattered.
To cross from his tower to the archive, Alster had to navigate through a vast series of kitchens which served the estate’s many residents and frequent guests. The first kitchen, more of a simple bakery than anything else, was deserted. Alster moved between the shelves, hobbling along with his walking stick, and had nearly reached the room’s end when a movement caught his eye. It was only a flicker, but it was enough to stop him in his tracks.
“Hello?” Alster called out to the pots and pans. If someone else was in the kitchen, he would surely be caught. Hiding would only be a waste of time and energy. “Hello?” he repeated, raising his voice slightly higher.
A baking sheet clanged somewhere to his side, redirecting his attention. Alster saw a flash of red hair reflected on the bottom of a copper piece of cookware hanging from a rack on the ceiling. He smiled, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.
He heard her laugh before he saw her again. “Elsey,” Alster called, turning around to find the mischievous girl poorly hidden behind a low counter.
“Where are you going?” she asked, taking a step forward.
“To the archive,” he said. “You can join me if you like.”
Elsey hushed him with wave of her finger. “Someone is in the next room getting meat for your father,” she told him quietly. Alster nodded, his face suddenly pale.
The girl slipped her hand around Alster’s waist and helped him to the corner of the room where they waited for whoever it was to finish their business. A few meager rays of light drifted through the window from a torch somewhere outside, guiding their steps. “What are you looking for in the archive?” Elsey asked in a whisper.
Alster smiled, but then winced when a twinge in his side sent pain spiraling through his body. “Wilkes wants me to find something from the First Conquest of the Shades,” he explained.
Elsey could see the pain clouding her friend’s face, and she offered him a sympathetic smile. “That’s the war your family was involved in, right?” she asked timidly.
“Alistair the Fourth was the first Lightbridge,” Alster whispered. “He killed The Shadow King and saved Vecnos.”
“I heard all the shades are dead now,” she added, her voice showing a bit of fear.
For a moment, Alster had forgotten how different he was from his best friend. Elsey was the daughter of the estate’s former stablemaster, but she was an orphan now, living off the sporadic charity of Alster’s family and the other servants who worked around the grounds. He had to remind himself that Elsey did not have a tutor teaching her history every morning as he did.
“They are,” Alster began slowly. He didn’t know where to begin trying to explain the history of the entire war, especially since he didn’t know it well himself. “The Shadow King controlled the shades, and Alistair put an end to it when he won the war,” he said.
Elsey visibly relaxed, though only slightly. In the other kitchen, they could hear someone leaving and shutting the door. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling Alster along behind her.
The two friends bounded through the next kitchen as quickly as they could, Elsey stopping every few feet to help Alster catch up. They reached the archive after a short while and paused in front of the door as though gazing upon a glorious statue, both of them afraid to try the handle.
“How do we get inside?” Elsey asked, her voice full of wonder.
Thoughts of getting caught again filled Alster’s head. He hobbled to the simple wooden portal and traced his fingers along the grains of the wood. “I doubt my father remembered to lock it when he dragged me out earlier. He forgets things when he’s angry,” he whispered. He touched the handle and it gave way easily.
“You were right,” Elsey said with the hint of a smile. She followed him into the archive, watching her step in the near-utter darkness. Only a few splashes of moonlight lit their path.
Several shelves into the room, Elsey spotted an antique oil lamp resting on a simple wooden pillar and snatched it up. “Don’t go far,” she told Alster when she saw that the lamp still contained a fair amount of oil. “I’ll light this in the kitchens, then we can continue.”
Alster nodded. He was already engrossed with finding the painting of his namesake again, but he had to move slowly, painstakingly so, to avoid knocking anything over in the low light.
Elsey returned quickly, bounding back into the archive with the burning lantern in her hands. She found Alster beneath the painting of Alistair the Fourth, his eyes locked onto the portrait in a near trance-like state. “You were named after him?” Elsey asked, bathing the magnificent image in light.
“Yes,” Alster responded. “He defeated the shades and liberated all of Vecnos from the tyranny of their reign. He was our savior.”
“You’ll do great things too, you know,” she said quietly.
Alster scoffed. “I’ve never even ridden a horse,” he replied. He tried not to think about his ruined leg, but jealously toward Jarix’s perfect body flooded his mind. “I can never live up to Alistair’s name,” he whispered after a moment.
“Hey,” Elsey said quickly, “what kind of things are you looking for in here?”
Alster turned his gaze from the portrait to the suit of armor and other objects nearby. “I just need something from the war, from Alistair’s time. Wilkes said there are a couple artifacts here in the estate, but come to think of it, he did not specifically say they were in the archive.”
“What’s this?” Elsey asked, pulling a curved sabre from a hook set into the stone wall. “It looks old.”
She handed the rusty sword to Alster and he turned it over in his hands. It was heavier than it looked, and had a bronze hilt and matching scabbard. Alster didn’t remember seeing it earlier that afternoon, but after being beaten so savagely by his father, he wasn’t sure which memories he could trust at all.
“I don’t think this was Alistair’s sword,” he said after a moment. “The sword in the painting is straight, not curved.”
“Perhaps it belonged to one of his officers?” Elsey suggested.
Alster shook his head. “I don’t think the knights from Vecnos ever used curved swords, so this style must be from somewhere else,” he explained.
Elsey took the weapon and hung it back on the hook. Somewhere behind the wall, something clicked rapidly for a few seconds before quieting once more. It was barely audible, but in the comp
lete silence of the room, Alster and Elsey both heard it clearly.
“Is someone coming?” Alster whispered. He couldn’t imagine the wrath he would face if his father caught him in the archive a second time. The two of them crouched down beneath the painting and Elsey closed the shutter on her lantern.
They waited for what felt like far too long, but nothing happened. No one entered the archive, and the sound did not repeat. Finally, Elsey stood and cracked open the lantern once more. She kept it close to her body as though she was afraid something might jump out and knock it from her grasp.
“What was that?” Alster asked quietly. “Where did it come from?”
Elsey shook her head. “It sounded so close, but it was so quiet,” she said. “I think it happened when I put the sword back.”
Alster’s mind whirled to the stories he had heard of the shades. With such meager light, shadows were everywhere. He knew shades were powerful and could kill them both—but he also knew they were all gone. “Open the lantern, Elsey,” he whispered.
Elsey pulled the shutter as far wide as she could.
“The shades only existed in shadow,” Alster explained, his voice shaking. “The more light we have, the fewer of them can be here.”
Without a word, Elsey closed the shutter once more until only the smallest sliver of light was left to guide them. “If there is no light, there can be no shadows,” she said quickly. “I’ll keep it low. If anything happens, I can extinguish it quickly.”
“I hope you’re right” Alster said. He knew Elsey’s logic made sense, but the lack of light only made him feel less safe, not more. “We should leave,” he said past a knot of fear growing in his chest. He could barely see her eyes in the darkness.
“We’ll be alright,” she reassured him. “Let’s just hurry and find your artifact.”
Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1) Page 2
