The Shadow's Heir

by K J Taylor

  Skandar, he thought, I need Skandar. Need him to help me. I need . . .

  “Where’s . . . Skandar . . . ?”

  Arenadd, the Night God said again. You are weak, uncertain . . . I sense it in you. Why is this? Why do you waver?

  He said nothing but tried to drag himself toward her, wanting her comfort and strength.

  I cannot sense you, she said, and for the first time, she sounded uncertain. You are weakening . . . your faith in me is weak . . . your devotion, weak. Why? What have you done to make this happen?

  “Don’t,” he managed. “Don’t want . . . Where’s Skandar? Make him come, send him to help, help . . .”

  BELIEVE! The Night God roared. Believe in me, Arenadd Taranisäii! You are my creature, you cannot turn away from me. Without me, you are nothing. You—are—nothing! Is that what you wish? Do you wish that? To be nothing, know nothing? Would you cast yourself into the void?

  His voice was coming back. “No. Please, no. Not that.”

  Then listen to me.

  “I will.” He felt stronger now, more lucid.

  The confusion and the greyness faded, and darkness came. And the Night God was there, as always, her face stern but sad. I know that it is difficult for you, Arenadd. You have been steadfast for so long.

  He gritted his teeth, his insides almost boiling with rage and despair. “I—don’t—want to be steadfast! Understand? I’ve had enough! I’ve come so far—you’ve pushed me so far—and what do I have to show for it?”

  Only power, only wealth. Only the immortality I promised. Only the loyalty and love of thousands. Only that, Arenadd. Only my favour.

  He said nothing.

  Behold, she whispered. I have brought something with me.

  “What . . . ?”

  She smiled. On the night of the Blood Moon, you asked me to tell you who you were. But when I told you, you did not seem content. Perhaps I did not give you what you truly wanted. Therefore . . . see what you have forgotten.

  As she spoke, she reached upward—upward to where stars shone in their millions. Her fingers closed around one star. Just a small star. It wasn’t particularly bright.

  See it, she said, bringing her hand down toward him. See him.

  Her fingers uncurled, and the star drifted away from her palm and toward him, to hover between them. Then the Night God leant forward, and blew softly on it. Her breath came out as silvery-white mist, and it gathered itself around the star, soaking up its light.

  The mist spread out once again, but it didn’t drift away. The star lit it up from within, as it formed itself into a shape around it—a shape that grew larger and larger until it was man-sized.

  And man-shaped.

  Arenadd found himself looking into a pair of eyes—pale, transparent eyes.

  The mist had taken on the shape of a boy. He looked no older than nineteen and had the same height and build as Arenadd did. He was silvery-white all over, but Arenadd could tell from his angular features that the mop of curly hair on his head must once have been black.

  The boy was simply clad, and though he had a brash, self-confident smile on his face, his eyes were sad.

  Arenadd reached out toward him. “Who are you?”

  Don’t you know? The spirit’s voice was fainter than a whisper and echoed slightly.

  “No . . .”

  The boy reached out in return, until his ghostly finger-tips almost touched Arenadd’s. This was what I looked like, when I was alive, he whispered. Before Eluna died. Before I met Darkheart. Before my face was torn by the griffin chick I stole.

  “Who were you?” said Arenadd. “What was your name?”

  The boy didn’t seem to hear him. A griffiner, I was. A Northern griffiner. So many people thought it was wrong, but they couldn’t stop it. I was so close! So close to having everything. They were going to put me on the council—make me truly one of them! They tried everything to stop us, but we wouldn’t go away, Eluna and me, and we were so clever and careful . . . We worked hard and people liked us . . . I was Master of Trade, I was.

  “Master of Trade,” Arenadd muttered. “A Northerner, Master of Trade in a Southern city?”

  Oh, I was, I was. The boy smiled beatifically. Eluna was so proud of me. He looked up abruptly, his smile fading. I was wrong. I was wrong! WRONG! Listen, listen—you’ve got to understand. Northerners can’t live in the South! We can’t be like them, understand? They hate us, hate us . . . oh, gods, what did I do? All I wanted was to show I could be more than just a blackrobe, but Lord Rannagon betrayed me. Betrayed me! The dark griffin killed Eluna. I lost everything, everything! And then they killed me. Killed me! I was murdered. They shot me full of arrows, pushed me off the edge of the city. Oh, gods, not falling, not that, not that . . . oh, gods save me, I fell . . . fell so far . . . oh, gods, the pain. All my bones, my whole body broken, and it hurt . . .

  The ghost was hysterical, his face a mask of horror. Arenadd thought he could see the marks of wounds appearing on his body as he screamed—a phantom arrow, protruding from his chest, and another from his leg. Blood ran down his face from just beneath his eye, as if he were weeping.

  “I’m sorry—”

  The ghost lurched toward him, wild-eyed. Who will avenge me? he demanded in a terrible voice. Who? Rannagon betrayed me, his griffin cursed me to die! They killed me! Who will avenge me?

  “I did,” Arenadd whispered.

  You? Who are you? The ghost’s eyes had gone wide in sudden fear. Who are you? Why do you look like me? WHO ARE YOU?

  Arenadd backed away. “Leave me alone. I don’t know you, I don’t know . . .”

  The ghost stopped dead, holding his hands upward as if to tear a hole in the sky. I am Arren Cardockson, curse you! I am Arren Cardockson, and I was murdered!

  • • •

  When Laela stepped through the outer gate in the wall surrounding the Eyrie and back into the city, she knew exactly where she had to go. Even if it came to nothing, she had to be certain, at the very least for the King’s sake. He’d been so kind to her, done so much for her—he deserved her help.

  She was taking no chances this time. Keeping her sword at her side and her hand on the hilt, she approached the nearest person. “Oi, you. Yeah, you.”

  The man looked vaguely annoyed at first, but became wary when he saw the sword. “What can I do for ye, girl?”

  “I’m lookin’ for the tavern called the Blue Moon,” said Laela.

  “Oh, is that all? Well, it’s easy enough t’find. It’s on this street—just follow it westward until ye see it. It’s a bit shorter’n the ones around it, an’ there’s a nice big sign over the door.”

  “Thanks.” Laela nodded and went on her way.

  She had already noticed how different the city was now. For one thing, guards were stationed on nearly every street-corner, heavily armed and looking tense and watchful. The people around and about had a nervous look to them, too, and avoided the guards as much as they could. Laela avoided them as well. She’d become somewhat disenchanted with guards.

  A shadow passed over her, and she looked up sharply and gasped.

  The sky was full of griffins. She’d seen them before, of course—they seemed content to spend most of their time flying aimlessly over the city—but now they had an intent look about them. This wasn’t the lazy circling of griffins who had nothing better to do; this was the deliberate motion of a group of hunters. And they were hunting for something they were desperate to find.

  But not as desperate as Skandar.

  Laela saw him, too—massive compared to the others, even at that height. He circled close to the Eyrie, his huge wings beating slowly. As Laela watched him, she heard his cry echo over the city.

  She had heard him call before, but not like this. It was a plaintive cry—almost a wail. It made her think of a lost child calling for his mother. She had never imagined that an animal so huge and powerful could sound so forlorn.

  Laela tore her eyes away and walked on, shoulders
hunched in determination.

  The street was a long one, but she followed it doggedly, pausing to examine every sign. Finally, she came across one that made her heart leap. It hung over the door of a building that looked squat despite its two storeys, and featured a faded picture of a blue moon.

  She examined it, and her eyes narrowed. This was the place he’d taken her on the night they had met. This was the place he went when he snuck out of the Eyrie. They know me there.

  Laela gripped her sword more tightly and went in.

  The tavern was almost deserted today—there were only one or two drinkers in it, one of whom was asleep in a pool of vomit. Laela ignored them and strode up to the counter, where she thumped the solid wood until a man appeared on the other side.

  “What d’ye want?”

  Laela reached for her belt and opened her money-bag. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”

  “Anyone in particular?” the bartender said cautiously.

  She reached up to the bartop again, and slowly placed a silver oblong on it. “I’m lookin’ for a man who comes here a lot,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Yeh probably remember him pretty well.”

  “I’ve got plenty of regulars here,” said the bartender, not taking his eyes off the money.

  “This one’s different,” said Laela. “He keeps his face covered an’ never shows it to anyone.”

  The man’s expression changed. “Look, I don’t mess with him, all right? No-one does. He minds his own business, an’ so do I.”

  “But he was here two nights ago,” said Laela. She pushed the oblong toward him. “Wasn’t he?”

  The bartender took it. “I ain’t interested in helpin’ ye, understand? What he does is his own business, an’ it’s more than my life’s worth t’go talkin’ about it to anyone who just walks in here.”

  “I ain’t just anyone,” said Laela. “An’ I don’t want t’know where he goes or anythin’ like that, see?”

  “Well then, go away an’ stop botherin’ me,” said the man. “I’ve got enough troubles of my own as it is, what with the serving girl disappearin’. The Lone Wolf’s brought enough bad luck here already without bringin’ any more.”

  Laela dug out another oblong. “Just tell me one thing. Just one thing, all right? That’s all I want t’know. An’ I’ll make it worth yer while.”

  “What do ye want to know?” he asked cautiously.

  She put the oblong on the table, keeping it trapped under her fingers. “Was the Lone Wolf in here two nights ago?”

  “I dunno, we had a lot of people in then . . .”

  Laela lifted the oblong between her finger and thumb, holding it up where he could see it. “Was he in here?” she repeated. “Did yeh see him?”

  “I might’ve,” said the bartender, staring at the oblong. “Memory’s not what it used t’be.”

  She sighed and tossed it to him. “Now is it what it used t’be?”

  He frowned, scrunching up his eyes. “Two nights ago . . . he hadn’t been here in a while . . . sorta got used to him not being here. But I ain’t sure . . .”

  Laela reached into her bag one last time. This time, the oblong she brought out was gold. “Was—he—in here?” she said, very slowly and deliberately.

  The bartender reached over the counter and snatched it from her. He backed away before she could take it back. “Yeah, he was in here,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket. “Didn’t stay long. Had one drink, an’ then left. He was took funny—must’ve been to another tavern, ’cause he looked pretty out of it to me.”

  “That was two nights ago?” said Laela.

  “Yeah. Now push off an’ don’t come back.”

  She left the tavern, her heart pounding. He was here. I was right. But then where . . . ?

  It was a start.

  She sat down with her back to the tavern wall, deep in thought. If the King was drunk, where would he go? A whorehouse, maybe? Or maybe back to the Eyrie to sleep it off?

  The second possibility felt more likely to her. She couldn’t see him as the sort to visit whores. Not when he could choose any one of the women in the Eyrie.

  She stood up and began to walk back along the street toward the Eyrie—maybe he’d decided to go home. She moved slowly, still thinking—this time, recalling the night he’d taken her to the Blue Moon.

  She stopped abruptly. Of course! He wouldn’t use the street—he’d want t’stay hidden an’ all that. He’d have used the roofs like he did with me—must’ve done!

  Excited now, she hurried back to the Blue Moon and walked around the outside, looking for the window they’d climbed out of. She found it—there was a broken brick just above it that had provided a handhold.

  The tavern backed onto the canal that ran through the city, and she walked along it, hoping to find a clue. She couldn’t help but wonder whether the King would be capable of running along those blasted rooftops while he was drunk. Then again, if he’d been doing it for years, maybe he could. He must have done it before while he was drunk.

  As she walked along, keeping her eyes on the rooftops, her boot caught on something and she pitched forward and fell flat on her face.

  She got up, muttering, and walked on, watching the ground now. A few steps later, she saw something that made her pause.

  It was a strange dark stain. What made her pause when she saw it was its shape; it was long—reaching all the way to the edge of the canal. It looked like it had been left by something that had been dragged there.

  Her throat tightened.

  She knelt and examined the stain more closely. It had soaked into the dirt, and when she ground some of it between her fingers, she saw the brownish-red colour of it.

  By chance, she glanced at the edge of her skirt, hanging over her leg near her hand. It had been light blue, but it was dirty now—she had used it to clean her face after her nose bled, and now the cloth had an ugly brown-red stain on it.

  It’s blood, she thought, almost calmly. The colour’s the same. And it’s been here long enough to dry out.

  It was a clue, maybe, and she decided to investigate.

  She stood up, looking back toward the buildings in the direction the thing must have come. There was an alley behind her, and she walked slowly toward it, examining the ground.

  There were more bloodstains here. They led her to a spot just inside the alley, where more blood had been left on a wall. She found nothing else there.

  Very frightened now, she almost ran back to the canal and looked down into it. The waters were murky brown and sluggish, with nothing to suggest that there was anything beneath them. But she knew there had to be.

  She sat down and pulled her boots off. Making sure there was no-one watching, she stuffed her money-bag inside one of them and hid the sword under a heap of garbage.

  Then she dived into the water.

  It was cold, and much deeper than the stream near Sturrick where she had swum as a child. The current tugged at her clothes, trying to pull her away downstream, but she fought against it and struck out for the bottom.

  Relying on instinct more than anything else, she thrust downward with all her strength. She risked opening her eyes, but couldn’t see much beyond the vague impression of light filtering through the water. She closed them again and swam on.

  Her dress hampered her badly, and it didn’t take long for her to start running out of air. She kept on doggedly, despite her fear, determined not to give in until she absolutely had to.

  Finally, just as she was on the point of turning back, her outstretched hand brushed against something. She jerked in fright and almost breathed in a lungful of water, but quickly thrust out her hand again, searching for whatever she’d touched. She found it, and after a few tries managed to catch hold of it.

  Cloth. It was cloth. She tugged at it, but it was attached to something else and refused to move. But she grabbed at it again, and fear stabbed at her when she felt something soft underneath. At that, lungs bursting, she gave in
and swam for the surface.

  Once she had reached the open air, she checked to make sure no-one had stolen her belongings and dived again.

  It took her a few more tries to find the cloth again, and several more to feel her way around it, but her heart thudded painfully when she realised that there was something underneath it. She tried several more times to pull it to the surface with her, but it was stuck fast, and she eventually realised that there was a rope tied around it that had to be anchoring it to the bottom.

  She returned to the surface yet again, and climbed out of the canal. There she rested and considered her next move.

  She nodded to herself, got up, and checked yet again to make sure no-one else was around. All was quiet. Satisfied, she moved close to the nearest wall and stripped off her wet dress. Naked, she spread it out in the sun to dry and fished her sword out from its hiding place. She took it out of its scabbard and tucked it under her arm before slipping back into the water. Its weight dragged her down, but not too badly, and she stuck it between her teeth and dived.

  The sword’s added weight was an advantage now, and she reached the cloth bundle, swam underneath it and, anchoring herself by holding onto the rope, took the sword and started to cut through it. The blade wasn’t that sharp, but it was not as blunt as a long sword or something else meant for warfare, and as she sawed at the rope with it, she could feel it working.

  She had to return to the surface again, but when she returned for another go at it, she felt the rope fray, then snap. Above her, the bundle, set free, started to drift away. She hastily transferred the sword to her teeth again and grabbed the thing before it could escape. Then she set out for the surface once more.

  It was easier said than done. The bundle was far heavier than she had expected; it felt as if it were actively trying to pull her back to the bottom. Desperate for air, panicking a little now, she struggled with all her might, trying to pull it toward the canal’s brickwork bank so she could use it to drag herself upward. The bundle barely moved, but she didn’t dare let go of it—she knew that if she did, she’d never find it again. Not in this water.