The Shadow King

by Alec Hutson

  “He works in mysterious ways,” Senacus assured Nel, and even from where he stood he could see her eyes roll.

  “Well, maybe he sent me back to you, then,” she said.

  “This isn’t just a visit between friends?”

  Nel shook her head. “I came to see if you’re well enough to travel. Queen Cein has extended you an invitation to her court.”

  “Truly? The Pure in a city of sorcerers?”

  A dagger appeared in Nel’s hand and she idly flipped it in the air, then caught it with a flourish. “Do you still consider yourself one of the Pure? Even after the leaders of your faith cast you out?”

  Senacus felt a twinge of sadness at this reminder. “You speak of worldly things, and my loyalty has always been foremost to Ama himself. Men can be corrupted, but not the divine.”

  “And that, in a roundabout way, is why I’m here.” Nel spun her dagger again, the blade glittering in the light filtering through the branches. “The queen believes war is coming. Dymoria is weakened after what happened in the north. Her army was lost and most of the magisters perished. Whispers from the east say that the legions of Menekar are preparing to march over the Spine, intent on another Cleansing.”

  “What can I do about this? As you said, the High Mendicant has named me apostate.”

  “Return with me to Herath,” Nel said. “Show the world that sorcerers and the faithful of Ama need not be enemies.”

  “I still believe sorcery is dangerous.”

  “Believe me, I know that to be true as well. So does the queen, perhaps more than before.”

  Senacus considered what she said, his gaze drifting to the farmhouse, just visible through the maze of trees. What had happened over the last year had taught him many lessons, but two were of particular importance. The first was that sorcery was not by its nature evil. It was a tool – a dangerous tool – and while it could be used for wicked ends, far more important was the nature of the one that wielded it. A sword was much the same: it could be swung to take or to protect. And the second truth he now understood was that sorcery could not be suppressed. The paladins of Ama had spent a thousand years scourging the land of magic, yet that had not stopped ancient threats like the Chosen from returning, or new powers such as the Crimson Queen from emerging. Perhaps Ama intended for him to help guide the rebirth of sorcery in this new age.

  “I will pray on what you’ve said,” he said quietly. Senacus saw that Marialle had appeared under the eaves of the farmhouse, peering into the orchard. No doubt she was curious as to why she couldn’t hear the sound of chopping wood.

  Leaves crunched as Nel dropped to the ground. He turned back to her and found that she was staring at the farmhouse now with a strange look.

  “Why haven’t you left this place, Senacus? I see you’re still injured, but it looks like you could sit a horse.”

  He cleared his throat, trying to hide the flush he felt coming on by bending to retrieve the ax he’d dropped. “I . . . have found something here.”

  Nel arched an eyebrow, a playful smile curving the edges of her lips. “The farmer’s wife?”

  When she saw his expression, she burst out laughing. “Oh, Senacus. How scandalous!”

  “She’s not a farmer’s wife anymore,” he said quickly. “Marialle has been a widow for three years.”

  Nel’s brow creased in confusion. “But she told us her husband was gone bringing fruit to market . . .”

  “A falsehood. Better to let strangers think a man could return at any time. In truth, he died of the Weeping and she and her boys have been on their own ever since.”

  “Hm,” Nel grunted, and then she shrugged. “It seems you do have decisions to make. But eventually word will get out that you are here, and the mendicants and your brothers will come looking. The woman and her sons could accompany you to Herath; I’m sure the queen’s offer extends to them as well.”

  Senacus bowed his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Nel. I will consider what you have said.” He held out his arm, and she clasped it firmly.

  “I hope to see you again in Herath, paladin.”

  A gentle knocking pulled Keilan from the depths of the dusty tome. Blinking, he glanced at the window and saw that night had fallen; he had no recollection of lighting the candles on his desk, but he must have done it some time ago as a fair amount of fresh-melted wax had collected at the base of their holders. He sat back, rolling his neck to alleviate the soreness. The knocking came once more, slightly more insistent. He must have missed supper again, and this would be the steward Haephus delivering a tray. His stomach squirmed at the thought of food; apparently, his body had made an agreement with his mind not to disturb him when he was immersed in his reading, but once he surfaced from the words on the page he was expected to immediately attend to the needs he had been ignoring. A visit to the chamber pot would also be in order.

  “Keilan! Are you there?”

  That wasn’t Haephus. Keilan came to his feet and quickly crossed his chamber, then flung open his door.

  “My apologies, Magister Vhalus,” he said, ducking his head and gesturing for Vhelan to enter.

  The sorcerer sauntered inside, a book of cracked red leather pressed to his chest. “Vhelan is fine when we’re not around the apprentices,” he murmured distractedly, raising his eyebrows as he took in the state of Keilan’s room.

  “Are you in the process of moving the entirety of the queen’s library here?”

  Keilan flushed as he hurried to drag a chair closer to the head magister. He gestured for him to take a seat, but the magister waved the invitation away.

  “Thank you, Keilan, but I’m late for a tzalik match with the Keshian ambassador. I was just stopping by to drop off this.” He thrust out the red book, and Keilan graciously accepted it. Vhelan’s gaze traveled over the haphazardly constructed castle of books rising from his desk and the other piles of parchment and folios spread around his chamber. “Though only the Silver Lady knows where you’re going to put it.”

  Keilan carefully shifted a yellowing scroll from a side table and laid the book down. While he was doing this, he glimpsed the lettering on the spine and gasped. “Eschaton’s history of the wraithhold wars! The librarian said it was missing!”

  Vhelan smiled indulgently, evidently enjoying Keilan’s excitement. “Texts written in High Kalyuni have a habit of being misplaced. That tends to happen when there’s no one around who can read them.”

  “Thank you, Vhelan,” Keilan said earnestly. So many questions had been gnawing at him since he had touched the wraith-child’s memories. Maybe here he would find some answers.

  Vhelan noticed Keilan’s eyes wandering back to the book he had just set down and chuckled. “I see your thoughts are already somewhere else. I’ll let you get back to your studies, but first I have a bit of news as well. A bird flew in from Theris today.”

  Keilan’s attention snapped back to Vhelan. “Nel?”

  The magister nodded. “She’s about to start on the Wending. If she spends a few days in Vis, that would mean she’d return in a month or so.”

  “And my father?”

  “He’s well. Nel says he and his wife moved up north into the town near your village – Chale, is it? – and they are living with a woman named Amela. You know her, I believe?”

  Keilan nodded, emotions swelling within him. Happiness, certainly, to hear about his da, but also sadness when his thoughts turned to Pelos.

  “Nel has the books you left with Amela. Though I don’t think you are lacking in material to read.”

  Keilan smiled ruefully. “They are all I have left of my mother. It will be good to have them here.”

  Vhelan suddenly noticed the smear of dust the book had left on his robes and attempted to wipe it away, frowning as he only ended up making it worse. “Well, I’ll leave you to the company of these dead men and their musings. Ge
t some rest – when the queen returns, she’ll expect you fresh for the great works she has planned.” He strode to the door, but then paused and turned back. “Oh, I should tell you that Nel has convinced me that every magister should have a knife like her for protection. It seems she’s under the impression it’s the only reason I’m still breathing.”

  Keilan kept his face blank, but inwardly he agreed with that assessment.

  “In her letter, Nel said she’s returning with a promising candidate for just such a position. Some fierce girl with mismatched eyes, if you can believe that. She said I should let you know this.”

  Then with a wink Vhelan was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

  Lessa stalked her prey, drifting like a ghost between the trees. Every step she took she slid into the snow carefully, making sure not to crack the thin layer of ice that had formed atop the drifts. Upwind from her, the deer continued stripping bark from the trees, the harshness of this winter evidenced by the ribs showing clearly along their dappled flanks. Yet even when treading the edge of starvation the deer would be wary, she knew, poised to flee at the slightest hint of danger.

  Silently, she reached over her shoulder and drew forth an arrow, then raised her bow and nocked the shaft, briefly closing her eyes to better sense the breeze. Slightly to the right, so she shifted her aim a bit; yes, that was perfect. Now she visualized the path her gray-fletched arrow would take, from the length of taut sinew she held without the slightest trembling beside her ear to the gap between the second and third rib, where she knew the deer’s heart to be. Brend had taught her that, how seeing an action before you attempted it made it easier to do, though Lessa had found the technique worked much better with shooting arrows than other things. Cooking, for one.

  The smallest of the deer raised its head, surveying the surrounding woods. Lessa held her breath. Now! She should shoot now! And yet she did not. Instead, she remained perfectly still, until the fawn bent again to its feeding.

  Ever so slowly, she crouched and set her bow down. Then she wriggled her feet from her boots, curling her toes in the snow, enjoying the icy prickle as the cold crept up her legs. She could do it. Brend said it was impossible, but Lessa had come close before, within only a few handspans, and she would give anything to see the look on Grandfather’s face if she managed to return with a still-living deer slung across her shoulders. They had enough venison to last the remainder of the winter, anyway, whether she brought home game today or not.

  With agonizing patience she crept closer, leg muscles tensed, ready to dash forward if the deer spotted her approach. Yes, they were careless today, intent; with their tails down and the hair flat against their backs Lessa could tell how safe they felt. Just a few more steps . . .

  One of the deer, the larger doe, looked up in alarm, reacting to something Lessa hadn’t heard. She stared into its deep brown eyes and could almost taste the animal’s surge of panic; then it was moving, bounding away, and her own legs were churning the snow in pursuit. The doe’s white tail flashed up and instantly the two fawns scattered, leaping in opposite directions. The last doe hesitated, and Lessa angled towards it, running so fast she felt as if she skimmed across the snow, her bare feet having no time to sink into the drifts.

  Left, right, left again. Snow sprayed up as the deer jagged back and forth over fallen logs and bushes, muscles rippling. Lessa pursued, pushing off from a rock half-sunk in the snow, reveling in her strength and the exhilaration of the chase. Branches clawed at her face, but the white tail hovered so tantalizingly close, an arm’s length away . . . she just needed to reach out—

  Her foot skidded. She was falling, and with a frustrated cry Lessa made one last attempt to grab the doe; her fingers brushed the tawny fur, so smooth, and then the deer was gone, vanishing into the thicket.

  She lay panting, tasting snow in her mouth as she listened to the fading crash of the deer’s flight through the woods. Lessa rolled onto her back, staring at the fast-moving clouds through the skeletal tree limbs. So close! Next time, next time . . .

  She heaved herself to her feet and retraced her steps to where she’d dropped her belongings. Freija would be incensed if she saw Lessa standing out here without her boots; the poor woman still refused to accept that the cold did not bother Lessa as much as it did others. It was best not to invite trouble, though, so Lessa scraped the snow from between her toes and slipped into her boots again. She scooped up her bow, and was just about to sling it over her shoulder when a prickling on the back of her neck made her turn.

  A figure stood across the clearing from her.

  “Ho!” Lessa cried in alarm, quickly nocking another arrow and aiming it at the stranger. “Who goes there?”

  The figure did not reply, drifting closer. It was a woman, she thought, from the shape of the robes she wore, though a fur-trimmed cowl hid her face. Lessa swallowed nervously when she realized how little the stranger was wearing; her slim white arms were even bare below the elbows, and this was on a day when one of the syrup trees outside her home had burst from the cold.

  “Stop, or I will loose!” she said, and the stranger must have heard the resolve in her voice because she did halt her approach.

  “Are ye from the Iron clan?” Lessa asked, still not lowering her bow. The Iron dwelled on the other side of these mountains, though they rarely ventured into these forests. Brend had told her they thought her grandfather was possessed by spirits; she could understand why, in truth, as Algeirr was like a thunderstorm: dark and brooding, with occasional flashes of intense, frightening anger. Never directed at her, though, thank the Stormforger.

  “I am not,” the stranger said. It was a woman’s voice, quiet yet strong, and flavored with a strange accent. She was not valley-born; Lessa wondered if she was even from the Frostlands. The stranger drew back her cowl and red curls tumbled past her shoulders. She had pale, unblemished skin and brilliant green eyes, and she held Lessa’s gaze confidently.

  “I come bearing a gift for you,” she said, and then she withdrew a sheathed sword from the inner recesses of her robes. It looked finely wrought, and a fist-sized red jewel burned in its hilt. Lessa found that she was holding her breath.

  Slowly, the woman crouched and laid the sword in the snow. “It belonged to your father. When you wish to learn more about him, come find me in Herath.”

  Lessa glanced over her shoulder as a crack sounded, but it was only a frozen branch falling.

  When she turned back, the woman was gone.

  Thank you so very much to all the readers who came on this journey with me. I really appreciate your support. I believe we are living in a golden age of fantasy writing, and I am immensely grateful and humbled that you would spend your reading hours wandering through my worlds. I hope you’ll accompany me on future adventures.

  Alec Hutson grew up in a geodesic dome and a bookstore, and he currently lives in Shanghai, China. To sign up for his mailing list, please go to:

  AUTHORALECHUTSON.COM