The Shadow's Heir

by K J Taylor

  “Aren’t yeh gonna have some, Sire?” Laela asked, as he was polishing off the third cup.

  He put down his cup and refilled it. “I just need something to keep me going . . . I’m not hungry anyway.”

  Watching him, Laela felt a sick, sad churning in her stomach. She pushed her plate toward him. “I’m done with this, Sire. If yeh want any.”

  He stared at her, expressionless. His eyes were fathomless and had no brightness to them. Looking into them for a moment, Laela felt as if she were looking into an empty pit.

  She did not look away.

  Arenadd put his cup aside and picked up a piece of bread. “Thank you,” he said softly, and bit into it.

  Laela couldn’t help but smile. “I reckoned yeh could do with some feedin’ up, Sire.”

  He finished the bread. “Is that so?” He took another piece. “May as well have some more, then.”

  She watched him eat. Gods, this was strange—too strange. To be here, with him, seeing him do something as normal as munch on a piece of rye bread. It didn’t have much to do with the cackling, blood-soaked lunatic of popular myth. But, then, popular myth had very little to do with real life.

  “Sire?” she ventured. “I was wonderin’ . . .”

  “Hmm?”

  Laela stared at her lap. “I can’t help but wonder what yeh said to that lady—Saeddryn. Yeh don’t have t’tell me, Sire,” she added hastily.

  The King shrugged. “I told her you were my new mistress.”

  Laela choked. “What? I mean . . . what, Sire?”

  He reached for another piece of bread. “I hope that didn’t offend you, but it felt like the simplest explanation. Why else would I have an attractive young woman staying with me?”

  Why indeed, Laela thought. “Uh . . . Sire . . . yeh don’t . . . want t’make it like . . . real, do yeh?”

  He started. “What? No, Laela. I’ve had enough lovers over the years. I don’t need another one. But you do like staying here, don’t you?”

  Laela scratched her ear. “I ain’t been here long, Sire, but I dunno where else I’d go. I ain’t got anyone who’d take care of me, an’ I ain’t got no money.”

  Arenadd looked pleased. “Then I have an offer for you.”

  “What is it, Sire?”

  “Laela, would you like to live in the North forever?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Yeah. I would, Sire.”

  “Would you like to become a citizen of my Kingdom?”

  Laela started. “Uh . . . what would I have t’do, Sire?”

  “Oh, not much. You’d get everything every child of the North gets—you’ll be taught how to read and write, how to speak our language. And you’ll be taught about the Night God, of course. And once you were done with your education, you’d go through the womanhood ceremony in the Moon Temple.”

  Outwardly, Laela was expressionless. Inside, she was thinking furiously.

  Part of her was filled with fear and disgust. Live here, forever? Worship the Night God—worship darkness? Let the Dark Lord be my ruler?

  But another part—a secret part of her, the part filled with anger and bitterness, whispered a different kind of wisdom. Do it, it said. Go along with it. You ain’t never had it so good as yeh do here, girl—see sense! He ain’t no Dark Lord—he’s just another man. He’s a drunk, obviously, an’ a nutter, too. He’s taken a likin’ to yeh for whatever reason—who cares why? He’s offerin’ yeh everythin’ yeh need . . . everythin’ yeh want. Who cares if yeh start worshippin’ the Night God? When did Gryphus ever answer any of yer prayers, anyway?

  Very slowly, she nodded. “I’ll do it, Sire. If yeh want me to, I’ll live here an’ . . . be a darkwoman.”

  She felt a secret thrill as she said those words.

  Arenadd sat back. “I shall be proud to have you as one of my subjects, Laela.”

  Laela smiled at him. “It’s nice t’be wanted, Sire.”

  • • •

  The next day, Laela was escorted to a large room in the tower, not too far from the spot where she had encountered Saeddryn. It was lined with bookshelves.

  There was a young man waiting there for her.

  Laela regarded him cautiously. “Hullo.”

  The man stood up and smiled at her. “Ye’re Laela?”

  “Yeah, I am. Who are yeh?”

  The man was perhaps a little younger than her, his black hair cropped close to his skull. But he had a nice, easy smile. “I’d be Yorath, son of Yorath. Pleased t’meet ye, Laela.”

  Laela smiled back at him. “Pleased t’meet you, too, Yorath Yorathson.”

  Yorath grinned. “The King’s asked me t’be yer teacher in readin’ an’ writin’ an’ speakin’ our language. So if ye’d like t’sit down, we can get started.”

  Laela sat down at a table with him. “I dunno if I can do it. I never studied other languages before, like, an’ I can’t even really read much in Cymrian.”

  “Don’t worry, I can help ye,” said Yorath. “I’ve done this before. That’s why they asked me t’do it.”

  “Really?” said Laela. “Who’d yeh teach before?”

  “Children,” said Yorath. “I work in the Eyrie school. I help the teachers—one day, maybe I’ll be one of ’em. An’ I say, if five-year-old children can learn, so can ye!”

  “I’ll do me best,” said Laela, liking him.

  “I trust ye,” said Yorath. “Now then, let’s start with the basics . . .”

  The first lesson began, and Laela paid careful attention as her new tutor showed her how to draw the sharp Northern runes, one by one. He started with just the first few, and made her copy them over and over again until she knew them by heart. After that, he taught her a few simple words in the Northern language—“The ‘dark tongue,’ some call it.”

  Laela worked her hardest, and thanks to Yorath’s patience and good nature, it was easier than she had expected. She still felt like a child for not knowing it already, but her teacher didn’t criticise her, and she let herself relax.

  “There!” he said, after a good chunk of time had passed. “Ye’re gettin’ the idea already.”

  “They’re nice-lookin’, them runes,” said Laela, looking over the pages she had filled. “It’s sorta weird, though, t’think they can mean words.”

  “It’s odd, yeah, when ye think about it,” Yorath conceded. “But it serves us well enough, eh?”

  “I s’pose.”

  “Well, it’s lunchtime now, an’ ye’ve probably done enough for one day,” said Yorath, sitting back. “Take some paper with ye an’ practise the runes I taught ye today. Tomorrow, ye can show me how well ye remember them.”

  “I will,” said Laela. She paused. “How long d’yeh think it’ll take for me t’learn all this?”

  “Hard to say,” said Yorath. “The basics shouldn’t take too long, but it’ll be years before ye’re really fluent in our language, an’ our writin’ . . . well, that’ll take a while, too.”

  She sighed. “Yeh gotta start somewhere, I s’pose.”

  “Ye’re not in a hurry t’go somewhere else, are ye?”

  “Doubt it,” said Laela.

  “There’s no hurry then, is there? Now, I’d better be goin’.”

  He left the library, and she went, too, carrying her precious paper. She thought quickly of talking to him some more—finding some reason they could have lunch together—but he left before she could think of anything, and she went her own way, feeling very slightly depressed.

  When she arrived at the dining hall, where she’d been told to go for lunch, she found Arenadd waiting for her.

  “Sire.”

  He got up from his seat and came toward her. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to stay too long. How did your first lesson go?”

  “Good. I learned some runes. Some words, too.”

  Arenadd nodded. “Good, good. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble learning. I came by here because I had some news for you.”

  “What is it, Sir
e?”

  “Your friend from the street,” said Arenadd. “You may remember him—his name is Aled.”

  Laela tensed. “Yeah?”

  “Last night my guards caught up with him. He’s been assaulting women all over the city, it seems. Last night, he made the mistake of trying it behind a tavern where someone saw him and called the guard. He’s in prison as we speak.”

  Laela felt sick. “Oh.”

  Arenadd reached into his robe and brought out a small bag. “They searched his house after the arrest—I think you might recognise this.”

  Laela grabbed it. “My money!”

  “I think most of it is still there. As for Aled . . . tomorrow night is the Blood Moon.”

  Laela blinked. “The what?”

  “Oh—of course, you don’t know what it is.” Arenadd’s eyes glinted. “The Blood Moon is a very important time for us. A sacred night. It’s a time when the Night God is very close to the mortal world. When that happens, her power weakens, and she needs an offering of blood to save her. I thought our good friend Aled would be a perfect candidate.”

  Laela blanched. “What?”

  “Tomorrow night, I have to sacrifice someone,” Arenadd explained blandly. “I chose him. I thought you might be pleased to know.”

  “Yer gonna kill him?” said Laela.

  “It’s always a condemned criminal,” said Arenadd. “As long as it’s Northern blood, she doesn’t care. Anyway.” He drew himself up. “I have things to do, so I’ll leave you to have lunch in peace.”

  7

  The Blood Moon

  Lying comfortably in his nest, Skandar snuggled deeper into the dry reeds and straw.

  “Human sad,” he rasped.

  Arenadd, sitting near his head, sighed. “Yes.”

  “Always sad!” Skandar said, in an almost accusing tone. “When not sad, human?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The dark griffin nudged at him, none too gently. “Why sad? You, me, live together. Have good food—have females, good nest! Have good land. Why sad?”

  “Why am I sad?” Arenadd buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know; what right do I have? Skandar, I can’t live like this. I can’t.”

  “Why not live?” said Skandar. He sounded unhappy. “What not right?”

  Arenadd raised his head but stopped abruptly and cringed before he could speak. His hand went to his chest, and he groaned. “Ugh . . .”

  “Hurt,” Skandar said softly.

  Arenadd sat very still, teeth gritted until the pain subsided. “Yes,” he panted. “Every so often.”

  “But pain is not why sad,” said Skandar.

  Arenadd looked away from him, out through the archway at the dark sky. “I can’t live without her, Skandar. I just can’t. Every day, waking up and knowing she’s gone . . .”

  Skandar clicked his beak. “Female gone!” he said. “You not gone! Other female come—you Master. Good strong human—all female want!”

  “That’s different!” Arenadd snapped. “It’s not all about . . . mating, Skandar. I didn’t love any of those women. I loved . . . her. And I . . .” His voice faltered. “I let her die.”

  Skandar shuffled closer to him and pressed the side of his head against Arenadd’s shoulder. “Am not dead,” he said. “Am still here. You still here.”

  Arenadd ran his fingers through the warm black feathers on the top of his friend’s head. “I know. I should let her go . . . She’d want me to. She’d want me to move on—but to what? I feel like the Kingdom barely needs me . . . Most of the people in the Eyrie certainly don’t want me—not Saeddryn, that’s for sure. And now . . .” His eyes narrowed, and he stilled. “And now her. This girl. Why did I find her? Why is she here? Why . . . ?”

  “Is female,” Skandar said dismissively. “Is another human.”

  “But there’s something about her,” said Arenadd. “Something . . . something. She reminds me of . . . of something. Someone. But I don’t know who, or why. I don’t know, Skandar . . . I want her to like me, trust me—but why would she? Why would anyone?”

  Skandar chirped. “Not need female. Have me. Have Skandar trust, like.”

  “Yes. Yes, I certainly do. But I need other humans, too, Skandar.”

  “Skra!” Skandar snorted. “Why need human? Human lie, human weak. I not lie, not weak.”

  “No. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Skandar—and don’t let me ever tell you otherwise.”

  “You do great thing, Arenadd,” said Skandar. “Give me all you promise—all I want. You, only human I like. Best human. My human.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Skandar. You know that.”

  “Yes. Know that.”

  They sat together in companionable silence for a while, each busy with his own thoughts.

  “Who am I, Skandar?” Arenadd said at last. “Who was I? Who died to create me?”

  Skandar only stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “I was someone before I fell,” said Arenadd. “I had another . . . I had a life. Before I was dead. Before I was this. This thing, this monster, this Dark Lord.”

  “Why want know?” said Skandar.

  “Because that was me, Skandar,” said Arenadd. “If I could only remember . . .”

  “Skandar remember,” said Skandar. “I live in mountain nest. Look for human. No human talk. One day, you come. See you, think, human different. Human have dark fur, like Skandar. Try and take you, other griffin protect you. White griffin. I kill. Then you—you put me in . . . thing . . . cage. You take me back to place—human nest. I watch you, think you strong. You leave me, other human make me fight. Kill human—many human. Kill griffin. Always wait for you to come back. You special human. Then you come to place . . . fighting place . . . you come back. I catch you, not kill you. Tell you, ‘Set me free, or I kill you.’ You promise. You come later—night. Set me free, and I kill many human. I fly away from human nest, not know where to go. Hear you call. Find you. Hurt. See you die. Use magic, you wake up. Then you, me, go back to nest. Kill human, griffin. Then we fly away, and you my human. Then come North.”

  Arenadd nodded. “You told me that much. I captured you, and later on you forced me to set you free. But why did I capture you in the first place? Why was I living in the South if I wasn’t a Southerner or a slave? What was my name?”

  “Not remember human name,” said Skandar.

  “But I want to know. And I want to know why I forgot.”

  Skandar yawned. “Maybe Night God know,” he said unexpectedly.

  Arenadd’s fists clenched. “Yes. And I intend to make her tell me.”

  • • •

  The Blood Moon ceremony took place the following night in the Moon Temple out in the city. The Temple had been built on the site of the old Sun Temple on Arenadd’s orders, as a deliberate sneering gesture at Gryphus, the Day God. He’d always thought the Night God appreciated it.

  The witnesses had already gathered by the time Arenadd made his entrance—alone, as tradition demanded. He came in via the dark wood doors and walked slowly toward the altar, admiring his surroundings along the way.

  The Temple had been designed to look like a forest. The pillars that held up the roof were covered in tiny brown tiles that spread onto the floor in the stylised shapes of roots, and here and there lantern-holder “branches’ jutted out from them. The lamps they held were silver and had blue glass, so the light they gave off was cool and muted.

  There were no benches or seats of any kind, and the gathered worshippers were standing. More than two hundred of them had crammed themselves into the Temple, and more were standing in the street outside. Many of them reached out to touch Arenadd’s robe as he passed. He paused to touch some of them in return, sometimes murmuring a few words.

  At the centre of the Temple, a hole had been left in the roof to let the moonlight in. It shone on the circular altar, where Saeddryn and the rest of the priesthood were gathered.

  As Arenadd ap
proached, Saeddryn came to meet him. She wore her ceremonial silver gown, and a deer mask covered her face.

  She silently offered a cup to him.

  Arenadd took it and walked toward the altar, while the priestesses formed into a circle around it. They were bare-chested, clad in nothing but simple fur loin-cloths, each one wearing the mask of a different tribe.

  Arenadd lifted the cup to his mouth and drank the blood it contained before handing it back to Saeddryn. She gave him the copper-bladed ceremonial knife in return, and went to join her companions, leaving Arenadd to approach the altar alone.

  He reached it and stood there, looking impassively at the victim already chained to it. Aled had been gagged, and he stared back mutely.

  Arenadd looked upward, to where the moon shone through the roof. It was a perfect silver orb—a Wolf Moon.

  I know you’re watching me, he thought. If I didn’t kill him—if I let you die—what would you do then, Master?

  But he knew that, even now, he didn’t have the courage to do something like that.

  Around him, the priests chanted, invoking the Night God, and the worshippers joined in softly. “Night God, bring darkness, Night God, bring death to our enemies. Night God, take the souls of our dead to the stars and let them shine there forever. Night God, guide us, guard us, oh beloved spirit of the moon and the dark and the shadows.”

  Arenadd knew what he was watching for, and he kept his eyes on the moon. Waiting.

  Sure enough, after a few moments, he saw it—saw the shadow begin to cover the moon. The Night God’s eye was closing, blinding her to the world and so cutting her off from the strength of her people. Arenadd kept quite still, holding the knife and watching the phases of the moon pass in a single night. The full moon followed by the half moon, the Deer Moon, followed by the crescent, the Bear Moon. After that would come the new moon, the Crow Moon.

  As the shadow drifted across it, the moment came. The moon turned red from edge to edge. Inside the Temple, the priestesses moaned and cried out in horror.

  Arenadd tore his gaze away from the bloodied moon, and saw the altar and the victim. Aled struggled feebly against his chains. He was actually crying in his terror.