The Shadowed Throne

by K J Taylor

  “War,” he said again, gritting it out from between his teeth. “This is war.”

  Beside him, his partner, Shar, extended her talons. “Yes. We shall make it war. There is no other way.”

  “Sweet Night God,” Caedmon muttered to himself. “How did it come to this?”

  “We live in a land built by fighting,” said Shar. “And we ourselves were made for it. Accept that.”

  Caedmon couldn’t take it any more. He moved away and began to pace around the room, shoulders hunched. “I can’t believe it, I just . . . can’t. It’s all so much, so fast . . .”

  Shar turned her head to watch him. “Yes,” she admitted. “It has been a strange time, and so many bad things have happened in only a few days. But we must accept that. Our path is clear; that is what we must look toward now.”

  Caedmon stopped pacing. His hands opened and closed compulsively. “My father, dead. My sister. My mother. All of them gone—I just can’t . . .” His voice cracked. “I can’t believe they’re gone.”

  Shar came closer, opening a wing to cover him like a shield. “But they are gone, Caedmon, and my own father with them. You and I are alive, and we are strong. We must ensure that we do not go to the soil as they have done, and we must fight to destroy the ones who have done this.”

  “Going to the soil” was a griffish term for dying. Caedmon struggled, fighting against the tears that wanted to escape. In the end, he twisted them into rage. He pressed himself against Shar, taking strength from her own lithe, red-feathered bulk. “You’re right. I know we can do this. The North will know what the half-breed did. We’ll unite them and see justice done.”

  “Revenge will be ours,” said Shar. “And so will the throne of Tara.”

  “Yes,” Caedmon said grimly. He stood taller, willing himself to be strong. “I am the last true Taranisäii, and it’s my duty to protect Tara from Southerners and half-breed traitors. I’ll purify this land just like my cousin Arenadd did. I swear it on my family’s graves.”

  Shar purred, the sound vibrating softly in her flanks. “And I shall fight for our lives and our honour. You are my human, my precious human, and I shall protect you always and tear your enemies apart with my talons. That is my own duty, and my own . . . vow.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Caedmon, keeping his voice steady. “We’ll go and talk to Garnoc. Time to make plans.”

  Shar yawned. “Yes. Plans are human things; I trust you to make them well.”

  “I will.” Caedmon picked up his sickle from the table by his bed, and the two of them left.

  It had been only a few days since the worst had happened—a few days before the last survivor had arrived at Fruitsheart with the awful news of what had happened at Warwick.

  All done, all of it, on the Queen’s orders. Queen Laela, the false Taranisäii. Laela, the half-breed. Laela, who claimed to be the daughter of King Arenadd, after she had murdered him and stolen his throne. Laela, the traitor with the impure and treacherous blue eyes of a Southerner.

  The mere thought of her filled Caedmon with hatred.

  He walked down the stairs of Fruitsheart’s Eyrie, taking them two at a time. At nineteen years old, he was tall and long-legged and had just grown his first beard—a small thing that ringed his mouth, which he was careful to keep neat at all times, like the curly hair that people said made him look like his great cousin. He had always taken pride in that fact, even after he had lost the awe he had once had for the former King. When other people pointed out the resemblance, it was always as a compliment.

  Just now, he wished he could be as strong as Arenadd had been, as decisive . . . he had always made it look easy. But, then, nobody could ever imagine Arenadd Taranisäii’s ever being uncertain, not even Caedmon, who had grown up so close to him.

  Shar reached the tower’s middle level ahead of him and waited, tail twitching. “Garnoc is close by; I smell him.”

  Caedmon managed to smile as he joined her. “You and your amazing beak. I wish I could do that.”

  “You do not need to,” said Shar. “You have me. Come now, let us catch him.”

  Garnoc must have been expecting them because he emerged from the room he was in just as they arrived. Big and powerful despite his advancing years, his dark grey hair cropped close to his head, Garnoc inclined his head briefly by way of greeting. “Sir—”

  “We have to talk,” said Caedmon. “Now. Where’s Hafwen?”

  “In the healers’ quarters,” said Garnoc. “Sir, there’s somethin’—”

  “Go and fetch her, then,” said Caedmon. “We should—” He finally realised that Garnoc was trying to say something, and broke off irritably. “What?”

  “Sir, it’s yer mother.”

  “I know she’s dead, Garnoc,” said Caedmon. “And I’m going to avenge her. That’s what we’re going to talk about with Hafwen, so come on! We have to make plans, and fast, before—”

  “Sir—”

  “There’s no time to waste,” Caedmon snapped.

  “Sir, yer mother,” said Garnoc. “She’s—”

  Caedmon couldn’t bear to hear her mentioned. “I told you, Garnoc, I know she’s dead. I don’t need to know anything more than that they killed her.”

  “But she’s not dead!” Garnoc shouted at last. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell yer!”

  Caedmon froze. “What?”

  Shar’s tail ceased its endless twitch. “What?”

  “She ain’t dead,” Garnoc said again. “They found her, collapsed outside the city gate. She’s in with the healers right now. I just found out an’ came to let yer know, sir.”

  Caedmon couldn’t move. “That’s impossible,” he whispered.

  “It’s her,” Garnoc said flatly. “I saw her.”

  “Is . . . is she hurt?”

  “Don’t think so. Just exhausted. I reckon—”

  Caedmon heard no more. He ran. Away from Garnoc, away from Shar, away toward the healers’ quarters as fast as he could go. Someone got in his way; he didn’t even slow down or try to dodge him, or hear his complaint when a blow from his shoulder sent him sprawling. The door that lay between him and his mother reared up in front of him; he threw himself against it so hard it hurt, grabbing the handle with sweat-slicked fingers. The door opened inward, and he stumbled on and into the room, mouth opening to call. “Mother!”

  “Caedmon!” Hafwen was there, turning to look. Not his mother, only old Hafwen. He looked blankly at her and went straight to the bed, and there . . . there . . .

  Saeddryn Taranisäii lay among the pillows, apparently asleep. She looked tiny and fragile, her face pale. The eyepatch she had once worn was gone, and he could see the ugly, gnarled hole where her eye had been. She could have been dead, but her chest moved up and down very gently under the covers.

  Caedmon’s mad rush finally came to a halt when he saw her. “Mum . . . Mother . . .”

  “Aye,” Hafwen said softly. “The great an’ holy Saeddryn Taranisäii, come back to us when we thought she was lost forever.”

  Caedmon reached down to touch his mother’s face. It was cold, terribly. “How? How could she be here?”

  “Don’t know,” said Hafwen, in her dry old voice. “All I know is the guards over the gate saw her walk up through the snow an’ collapse. They don’t know how she got so close without bein’ spotted sooner.”

  “She wasn’t with Aenae?”

  “No, no sign of any griffin about.”

  Caedmon hadn’t taken his eyes off his mother’s face. “She can’t have walked here . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Hafwen advised. “She’ll tell ye about it when she wakes. For now, just be glad ye got her back, boy.”

  Caedmon never even considered taking offence at her tone; you didn’t bother with ceremony around Hafwen. Instead, he forgot he was a grown man
, forgot he was a griffiner, forgot he was a leader, and lifted his mother into his arms. He held her tightly, frightened by how thin she felt, and murmured, “You’re safe now, Mother. You’re safe. I’ll protect you now, I swear.”

  Far away, deep in one of the five towers that made Malvern’s great Eyrie, someone else stirred. Senneck opened her eyes and lifted her head from her talons. Beside her in the darkness she could feel the warm shape of Kullervo.

  She moved, shifting very carefully away from him. He stirred and mumbled in his sleep, and she waited until he stilled again before sliding away and standing up. Kullervo rolled over into the hollow left by her body, snuggling into the straw, and slept on.

  Senneck crooned softly over him, like a mother over her chicks, and slipped away.

  Once she was well out of sight and hearing, she sped up, hurrying off through the Eyrie as quickly and quietly as she could. She had to get back before she was missed, and Kullervo would fret if he woke up and found her gone. Besides, he would ask questions, and questions about this night were something she didn’t want.

  The Eyrie passages were only dimly lit—most of the lamps had been snuffed out, and only a few were left in case of an emergency. There was nobody about, and Senneck was glad—and even gladder that the carpets on the floor helped to muffle the sound of her paws.

  She travelled through the tower, always heading downward, down and down toward the lowest levels, moving with the grace of the predator she was.

  It never really occurred to her to think about the irony of where she was now. She had once been Arenadd’s sworn enemy, but now she was fighting on behalf of the Kingdom he had built, and had made his son her human. An Eyrie was an Eyrie, and humans were humans, and griffins had no concept of betrayal. Not betrayal of ideas, anyway.

  This time, she vowed yet again, this time it would be different. She had already struck the first blow against the real danger that stood in her way. Soon, it would be time to make the second.

  Carried along by these thoughts, Senneck finally reached the tower’s ground level—a place she would normally never bother to visit and, in fact, had never seen before tonight. But a combination of scent, and a deeper sense, one only griffins could use, had led her to it. She halted here and began to scent around, searching for her goal. In the end she found it by following, not her nose, but the other sense—the sense that felt for traces of magic. It was harder than she might have expected; finding magic here was easy. The trouble was that there was so much of it that the source was difficult to locate. She closed her eyes and let herself relax, turning slowly until the tingle in her neck and head increased, and she stopped. When she opened her eyes, she saw a wall with a tapestry—a tapestry that was stirring ever so slightly.

  Senneck went straight to it and thrust it out of the way, and, sure enough, there was a tunnel behind it, sloping downward and into a smell of earth and stone. It was only just wide enough for her to fit—she was thankful now that she had always been slim and that age and bad living had made her even slimmer. Holding her wings up over her head to keep them out of the way, trying even harder now not to make a sound, she descended into the darkness.

  The further she went, the stronger the sense of magic became, until her entire body thrummed with it. In her throat, her own power stirred, wanting to break loose. She fought it down as if it were a chunk of food caught in her crop, and moved on.

  Toward the end of the tunnel, she stumbled and lurched to one side when her forepaw bumped into an obstruction. She stopped to sniff at it. A human carcass, lying where it had fallen. She had a good idea of what had killed it: the very same thing that had stopped any other humans from coming to find their dead friend. The level of magic in the air right here was so huge that only a griffin could survive it. And maybe not even all of those.

  Senneck could feel it beginning to affect her mind, confusing her senses with flashes of images and sounds that weren’t there, scents of things that didn’t exist, the touch of objects and creatures that had never been real. Shuddering, she pushed them away with all her strength and forced herself to see the wooden barrier that had finally blocked her way. She had no way of opening it, not without alerting what lurked on the other side. But she had never intended to.

  With a great effort, trembling now with the strain of keeping her mind and body together in this sea of magical and mental energy, she crouched, with her head touching the door and opened her beak wide. Muscles flexed in her throat, the same ones used to expand it when she swallowed large prey. She retched a little with the effort, but, ignoring her instinctive urge to close her throat and leave this place, she pushed.

  Her crop opened, exposing the strange little organ that stored her magic. It pulsated like a heart, flickering faintly green. It had never meant to be exposed this way, and it shrivelled a little, as if trying to protect itself. But Senneck held her position, allowing herself to gasp slightly as the magic in the air touched the gland and began to be absorbed by it.

  She stayed there for a long time, unmoving, feeling it as she took in the raw magic that had been concentrated here in a way magic was never meant to be. The process held her rigid, just as when she wielded her own power, and it would take a great effort of will to break free.

  All the same, she found room for a little glimmer of smug satisfaction. The griffin on the other side of this door had no idea of what she was doing. No idea that trying to weave this much magic into her own body would inevitably destroy her. No idea that her foolish quest for power had given her rival this opportunity. No idea that this was exactly what Senneck had wanted her to do and had deliberately provoked her toward.

  Oeka thought her youth and magical strength made her invulnerable, but Senneck knew better. She was older, but she was wiser, and she would win. By the time Oeka emerged—if she ever did—Senneck would be long gone, and Kullervo with her. Safe, and ready to bide her time until her day came again.

  When she had absorbed as much magic as she felt she could contain, she broke away and backed off up the tunnel. Once she had reached the entrance again, she turned and hurried away back up the tower. Her throat felt swollen and uncomfortable, and she knew what she had done and what she was going to do would take a toll on her. But she could bear it, and she would.

  All for Kullervo’s sake.

  All for her own sake.

  32

  The Dark Lady

  Darkness was all Saeddryn saw in her stupor. The darkness of death, where her master waited.

  The Night God stood over her, pale and graceful, primal in her nakedness, her single eye commanding. You have done well so far, but do not allow yourself to be blinded.

  “Never,” said Saeddryn. She looked up with absolute faith written all over her face. “Never, Master. Thankye so much, for givin’ me back my sight . . .”

  A gift, for your faith.

  Saeddryn frowned. “I remember when Arenadd’s fingers were broken by the enemy. They never healed properly . . . couldn’t understand why, if he was . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed to have nearly questioned her master’s power out loud.

  They were broken because he did not listen to me, did not obey me, said the Night God. He denied me in that prison, and I could not help him. Even then I could have given him back the use of his fingers, but he did not ask me to. He preferred to remain a cripple.

  “He didn’t understand,” said Saeddryn. “He was never a real believer, not even after he became yer avatar.” But I am. She didn’t say that part out loud, but she knew the Night God would sense it in her anyway.

  The Night God smiled slightly. There are more important things to do now than discuss your lost cousin. Wake now.

  And Saeddryn woke up. Her eye opened, blinking quickly to focus. To her surprise, she found herself stifling a yawn. “Aaaahhh . . .”

  “Mother!” The shout came from nearby, and before she could sit up, hands we
re touching her, and a face appeared in her field of vision, frowning and pale with concern.

  Saeddryn smiled. “Caedmon. Thank the Night God, I came in time.”

  Caedmon looked wan and disbelieving, almost afraid, but he returned the smile. “I thought . . . you were dead.”

  I am, Saeddryn thought, but she couldn’t make herself say it yet. She needed time to try to come to terms with it herself first. Reality came rushing back, and she sat up sharply. “Where are my boots?”

  Caedmon opened his mouth to protest but backed off when he saw her face. “You didn’t have any when you got here.”

  “Fine.” Saeddryn got out of bed, barefoot, and suddenly realised she didn’t have any clothes on, either. She gave a strangled cry of embarrassment and grabbed a blanket to cover herself up, but too late.

  Caedmon had already seen what the sheets had hidden, and his eyes widened in utter horror. “Holy shadows, what—? What happened—?”

  Saeddryn tried vainly to hide it, but she quickly saw it was pointless. She sighed and let the blanket slip away, bowing her head to look at the ruin that her ageing body had become.

  Long, hideous scars spread from her neck to her stomach and down over her thighs. They were jagged and red, so deep in places that they had obviously exposed bone. One had cut straight through her left breast, which still had a deep channel in it where Senneck’s talons had slashed through it and down onto the skin below, reaching all the way to her pelvis.

  Caedmon had gone white. “What did that? What happened to you? How—?”

  Anger and humiliation made Saeddryn’s face burn—she turned away and snatched up the gown that lay draped over a chair, pulling it on roughly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s healed.” Healed when it shouldn’t have, her mind said treacherously. Left as a reminder forever.

  Even Caedmon must have guessed that she couldn’t possibly have survived what had left those scars. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head quickly and changing the subject. “How did you get here? Did you escape from Warwick?”