Azriel looked aside for a moment and took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “Red Shadow. And Teyn. It seems you may have a name after all.”
“I don't understand.”
“Did your friend ever tell you what Teyn means?”
“She said it meant spirit.”
“Spirit? Yes, it does mean that, but it also means shadow. I think perhaps 'shade' might be the most accurate translation. And the name you've selected for yourself speaks of shadows as well. Furthermore, you slipped out of the cave without being seen, an act well suited to a shadow.”
“I only made it a few days before a dragon picked up my scent.”
“Ah, yes. Solomon does hold quite tightly to his predatory nature in some ways. Still, a few days is a good deal longer than anyone else. 'Shadow' seems to follow you, if you will excuse the play on words.”
He watched as she leaned farther back into her chair. Closing her eyes, she sipped again at the tea, as though it took her undivided attention to enjoy it properly. She was the first human, if she was a human at all, to lower her guard around him for quite some time. Even with the mask, those who saw him were either certain to keep their eyes on him or were anxious for every moment that he was out of view. Even Maribelle, for all of her seeming indifference, smelled strongly of fear when he was near her. This woman, Azriel, was perfectly at ease.
“May I ask another question?” Shadow said.
“Certainly.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I'm a rather powerful sorceress, dear. It wouldn't be far from the truth to suggest I've got no reason to fear anyone.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Hate?” she remarked with a tone that suggested the very word itself was laughable. “I've been alive a very long time. I've learned a great deal over the years, but possibly the most important lesson is this: take nothing to heart that you have not seen proven with your own eyes. So many years I wasted believing what I was told. So many things I thought were impossible until I tried them. I've heard the stories about malthropes. I know what people say. You're the first I've met. I don't imagine you deserve my hate until you've earned it. And I'll warn you that it isn't the sort of thing that one should be eager to seek.”
“Do the others here feel the same way?”
“How the others feel is immaterial. How they act is what is important, and they will treat you with honor and respect. That is our way,” she said. She drew a deep breath of her tea's aroma again. “Bless me, I had another question I wanted to ask and now it escapes me.”
“You said you could see my thoughts. Why do you ask questions at all?”
“Most people consider mind-reading to be a horrid violation. I certainly count myself among them. It would be terribly rude of me to pluck the thoughts from your mind without permission unless it was absolutely necessary. Ah, yes, that was it. Tell me, that mark on your chest. There since birth, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“And the quickening? I have you experienced something like that?”
“I don't know what that is.”
“Let me ask another way. Has there been a moment in your life, and you needn't tell me what, that was searing in its intensity? A moment that sliced your life in two and left you only with what came before and what came after?”
He shuddered.
She nodded, “That's answer enough.” She looked to one of the walls and gestured toward it. A bookcase came into being and from it floated a thick, leather-bound tome. She flipped it open and turned a few pages with deliberate motions, her eyes running over their contents. “A master of every weapon . . . he will have the blood of a fox . . .” she muttered quietly, “Why did you seek the beast? Glory? Wealth?”
“Every great act of combat I've ever managed was at the risk of my life or that of someone I cared about. I believed if I fought the creature, I would learn how to repeat those deeds. Or perhaps it would be intelligent and it could teach me.”
She snapped the book shut, a wide and genuine smile lighting up her face. “You came to learn,” she remarked, adding with a triumphant laugh, “and learn you shall.”
She set down the book and held her hands out to her sides. Into one, there appeared a quill pen; into the other, a sheet of parchment. She set the parchment on the table and wrote a few lines in a complex and impressive script. As she wrote, she spoke.
“Teyn is a Crich word. Here we use another word, related but much older. It, too, means shadow—in a way. That word is Lain. It is a title, one that is rarely earned. I think, for you, it is something to strive for. Keep that in mind, should such an opportunity present itself.” She folded the parchment and casually produced a drizzle of red sealing wax, then a signet ring to leave an impression in it. “Let us go. On your feet.”
He did as she instructed, and the moment his weight was off the chair, it wafted away, with the rest of the cottage and the whole of the world around it following. There was only he and his host once more. She was ushering him forward with a hand on his back.
“It will be difficult, I am sure, but you must be calm and open with the people here. Be honest. When you leave this place, there will be people waiting. Give this to one of them,” she instructed, pressing the parchment into his hand. “You will be taken to the elder. When you meet him, be as forthcoming as you have been with me. He will see to it that you learn what you wish to learn.”
“But,” he began, stopping as she turned to face him, “you do not even know why I wish to learn these things.”
“But I do, dear, though perhaps you do not.” She brushed his shoulders and clasped them tight, looking him in the eye. “You carry a heavy weight, child. Perhaps you do not feel it, but it is resting squarely upon your shoulders. There is a darkness about you, but a great light within you. I see the strength to do what fate asks. It is up to you to find that strength. Now, go. And good luck to you.”
Her final words were delivered as her figure drifted apart like smoke in a breeze. The darkness around him did the same; without moving, he found himself once again standing in the shadow of a cliff, the cool smoothness of crystal beneath his bare feet and a semicircle of anxious and excited villagers staring at him expectantly. They kept their distance at the edge of the crystal, unwilling to enter.
Foremost among them was a woman, an elf. She was perhaps thirty years old to look at her, but one of her race could easily have been decades older without showing a hint of the additional years. She was tall and slender, ears pointed and deep brown hair woven into a braid. She looked him over, judging something about his posture before turning and addressing the others. She spoke in short precise instructions in a language he didn't recognize and motioned for the crowd to back away. When she alone stood near the edge of the crystal, she took a step back and beckoned, uttering foreign words in a reassuring tone.
He stepped over the threshold, feeling the pressure of the stares of half the village. The woman spoke again, nodding and indicating the parchment. He held it out to her and she took it, investigating the seal before breaking it and reading the message within. When she was through she nodded once and looked him in the eye.
“Follow me,” she said.
#
The crowd parted as the malthrope was led through. Though being the focus of their attention still bored into him, there was something different about the way these people looked at him. On the other rare occasions he'd been paraded before a group of “civilized” creatures like men and elves there had been outright, unmasked disdain. The disgust was not wholly absent here, but where it was present, it was kept beneath the surface, hidden from him in the same way that they may do each other the courtesy of setting their prejudice aside when face to face. Many, though, seemed fascinated. No doubt most had never seen a malthrope in the flesh. Whereas people elsewhere seemed grateful for that fact, here there were those who were clamoring for a better look. It did little to decrease his discomfort.
He had come to this place expecti
ng to clash with a bloodthirsty creature. At this moment, he would have greatly preferred if he had.
“Are you well? Do you need a healer?” the woman asked. She spoke Tresson, and did so with a practiced precision. Only the slightest twist on her words betrayed the fact that it was not her native language.
“No,” he stated.
“Do you require a meal?”
“No.”
“Though you had no way of knowing, I must inform you that what you did, entering the crystal arena without time to prepare, was foolish. Azriel is a phenomenal wizard, but her diplomacy and patience are each something less than desirable,” the woman said. “I trust she did not do anything regrettable.”
“She didn't.”
“She has written that you are from Tressor, is this correct?”
“I am.”
“And that you have no name, but that you may be called Shadow. Is this correct as well?”
“I suppose.”
“Very well, then.”
She stopped and turned to him, prompting him to stop as well. Extending her left hand, she reached toward him, but he backed away. She furrowed her brow.
“This is how one initiates the traditional Tresson greeting between friends, is it not?” she asked.
Shadow brought to mind the handful of times he had seen Jarrad or Marret greet their friends on the plantation. Reluctantly, he stepped forward and allowed her to clasp his right shoulder with her left hand while he returned the gesture.
“I am Ryala of Entwell. Welcome,” she said. The more she spoke, the more it became clear that there was a crispness and efficiency to everything she did, as though she was checking items off of a carefully prepared list as she went along. She turned back to the path ahead and continued. “I am the personal apprentice to the Elder. As is traditional for all newcomers, you are to be brought to him for review. Do you speak any languages other than Tresson?”
“Some Crich. Less Varden.”
“In Entwell, we speak the languages with which we are most comfortable, and we expect our fellow villagers to do us the courtesy of learning to understand. You will find that we all can understand Tresson, and some may speak it to you, but for the others you'll need to listen and learn. The Elder speaks an ancient dialect native to South Crescent. I will translate for you. Can you read or write?”
“No.”
“You will be taught to do so.”
“What have I done to earn any of this?”
“You have reached this place, Shadow. You faced the trial of the cave and you overcame it. It takes skill, perseverance, and luck to do so even if you know the way. Having passed that test, you are one of us.”
“You don't care that I am a malthrope?”
“We have humans, elves, fairies, dwarves, nymphs, dryads, and a dragon. Never before have we had a malthrope, but any creature with the wisdom to teach or the desire to learn has a place here.” She raised the parchment. “Azriel believes that you have both, and much more. From what little I have seen thus far, her judgment seems sound.”
Their journey took them to the center of the village, where the largest and most grand of its structures could be found. It was tall, its two-tiered roof rising to perhaps three stories and slanted gently along its length. Like many of the cottages, it was round, and windows were spaced at regular intervals along the walls. They revealed a mostly open interior. The wood was left mostly in its natural color, though intricate symbols and ornate script had been etched along the edges of the planks and beams. She led him to the tall double doors, which currently stood open, and motioned for him to stop.
Inside, men and women dressed in tunics of various colors, and one or two dressed in simple armor, seemed to be engaged in half a dozen different discussions. Some were huddled over books and spoke quietly. Others spoke with raised voices and threatening gestures. Presiding over them was an ancient-looking man, bent under the weight of many years but seeming to be the embodiment of wisdom and respect. He wore a long robe of simple cloth. It was embroidered with the same script and sigils that adorned the outside of the building. He was on his feet, looking over the pages in a book offered by a dwarf in a brown tunic.
“I will announce you, and you will come inside. The Elder may choose to test your abilities. If he does, behave in any way that you feel is best. Nothing will be done to threaten your life, and I will inform you if you've done something wrong.”
She stepped through the doorway. At her appearance, the Elder dismissed the dwarf and spoke quietly with Ryala. After a short exchange, he nodded and sat in what would have been a throne in another setting. Instead, it was a tall but simple seat at the opposite end of the room, situated atop two shallow steps. He spoke a few words and the various lively discussions were silenced. Ryala turned and motioned for Shadow to enter.
He stepped inside, trying to will away the terrible feeling that this was all too familiar. He was being asked to step forward, to be judged. The last time it had happened, it had cost him his tail. What would it cost him now?
The Elder spoke. When he was through, Ryala translated: “What are your skills? What are the things that you do best?”
“I track and hunt.”
The old man nodded and spoke again.
“The Elder observes that these are valuable skills, but ones we have little use for in this place. Food is plentiful without the need to hunt,” Ryala said. The Elder smiled and muttered a few more words. Ryala continued. “Unless, of course, you hunt a different sort of prey.”
“I hunt what I am told to hunt, what I am paid to hunt.”
“The Elder wishes to assure you that there is no need to be evasive. Are you a bounty hunter or an assassin?”
Shadow looked to those around him. None seemed apprehensive. Those who were armed were not reaching for their weapons, and those who were unarmed were not eying the exit. “I have been both.”
The answer caused no stir.
“There are many such hunters among us. Are you skilled?”
“Not skilled enough.”
The Elder nodded, and held out his hand. Ryala handed him the parchment. He looked it over, then spoke again.
“Azriel speaks of a mark on your chest. Show it.”
He opened his recently repaired shirt. At the sight of the mark over his heart, the interest in him intensified, and whispers were scattered about the room.
“Tell us, have you any family?”
“No. My mother is dead. I never met my father. There is no one else that I know of.”
“Have you received any mystic training?”
“No.”
“You have a powerful soul. You might consider it. Have you been trained in any weapons?”
“No.”
There was another stir and a wave of whispers. The Elder closed his eyes for a moment, then began to issue orders not only to Ryala, but to several of the younger occupants of the room. When he was through dispatching orders, Ryala turned to Shadow.
“Follow me,” she said, leading him out the door. “An opponent is being selected and you will be asked to defend yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because the Elder wishes to see what combat skills you may have. He believes that though you claim to have no training, someone of your species having selected your career would not be alive unless you had attained some level of proficiency in defense.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then we will be unaware of your abilities, and you will have far greater difficulty finding a master willing to take you as an apprentice.”
“I don't understand.”
“In Entwell, we are all students, and we are all masters. You will share with us what you know, and we will do the same. Whatever you wish to learn shall be taught to you, but only if you can convince a master to take you on as a student. Showing what you can do will go a long way to easing that process.”
“What sort of things do you teach?”
“Armed and unarmed comba
t, stealth, weapon-crafting, elemental magics, white magic, black magic, and many other things besides. Like you, each master entered this place alone or as part of a group, and each believed that they would find a creature that had bested every warrior before them. As such, each is among the most skilled in their craft, and each has been honing those skills against one another since their arrival. You will find no better teachers anywhere in the world.”
“And you would teach me even knowing that I have been an assassin?”
“The nature of your role is of little importance. There is no inherent evil to being an assassin, any more than there is evil inherent to any manner of warrior. Indeed, an assassin, working as an individual, can often achieve through a single kill what would otherwise require a pair of armies and thousands of lost lives. What could be more noble? As with so many other things, the virtue or sin comes not only from the act, but from the purpose as well. If you serve a virtuous cause, then you are virtuous. And even if you were a villain and scoundrel before entering the cave, in reaching the village, you have been given a chance to better yourself and in doing so to better us all.”
There was an odd quality to the words as she spoke them. She did not speak as though she were preaching a philosophy or doctrine. It felt more as though it was a simple explanation, a fact of existence of which she was helpfully educating him. How she said it didn't matter, though. What mattered were the words themselves. Shadow had resigned himself to the path of darkness when he allowed himself to take a life. It had never occurred to him that such an act could be considered righteous or just. To hear such words now, to hear that perhaps in the right cause he might find redemption, caused the tiniest glimmer of hope in his soul. It may be that what he whispered to himself when his shame was at his greatest, that the good of his deeds might outweigh the bad, could have the ring of truth. He let the word sink into his mind, then he tucked them away and turned back to the matter at hand.
The people here were wise. They were powerful. They knew how to do things that he didn't. There may not have been a beast for him to fight, but all of the skills and knowledge that such a creature might have had to offer were present in this place. They seemed to accept him, or at least tolerate him, and they claimed to be willing to teach him. It was too good to be true. He would have to be vigilant for the inevitable moment when their true intentions became clear—but until then, he would absorb all that he could.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 181
