The River of Shadows

by Robert V. S. Redick

  One day he and the dog had made the acquaintance of a fenneg, one of the giant flightless birds of Simja, ridden by couriers and constables throughout the bustling city. The fenneg had been aware of them for some time, but it was only now that he summoned the courage to speak. In their first conversation the fenneg shared a secret: he had recently made a delivery to the house of a witch.

  She was a dark-haired woman from the mainland who lived alone near the East Gate. She had winked at the fenneg in a strangely knowing way, and told the rider that his bird looked unusually clever. The rider was taken aback: he knew the fenneg was woken, but never spoke of it to a soul for fear that someone might take his steed away.

  “The dog and I are going to have a look at this witch,” said the tailor bird said to Isiq. The admiral nodded: that was a fine idea. A few days later the bird had much more to tell.

  Her house had a private courtyard and a dilapidated barn. She had spotted the bird watching her from the barn’s upper window, and known him for woken at a glance. When the dog padded casually by the courtyard gate, she had glanced up sharply and laughed: “This is turning into a tavern. Well, come in, you filthy thing, your friend’s already here.”

  The dog did not come in that day—his survival plan forbade such a move. But the courtyard had two gates, and the woman began leaving them ajar, and also pointed out a hole at ground level at the back of the crumbling barn: yet a third means of escape. She set out a plate of dry corn for the bird and saved soup bones for the dog. By week’s end they had both concluded that she meant no harm.

  “She tells us we’re welcome anytime,” the bird reported to Isiq.

  “Happy,” he replied, meaning that for the bird’s sake, he was.

  “No,” said the bird, “I don’t believe she’s very happy. She talks frequently of war. She waves a hand over the city and says we should expect to see it burn. Don’t misunderstand: she’s not raving; in fact she’s quite presentable—attractive even, when she combs her hair. And she has a pretty name, too: Suthinia.”

  Isiq held the name in his mouth: Suthinia. It glimmered ever so slightly, in the darkness where his mind could not go.

  “I’d started to doubt she was a witch at all,” the bird continued, “but not after what the dog told me last night. He’d been to see her the day before: I was with my dumb darling, telling stories, weaving twigs. Do you know what he saw that woman do, Isiq? Put her hand through a wall! Right through! Not her fist, not with violence. She simply reached through the solid brick wall beside her mantelpiece and brought out a vial of smoke.”

  Isiq raised an eyebrow. “Smoke.”

  “Very good, Isiq! Smoke it was: a pale blue smoke that shone with a faint light, and swirled like liquid in the glass. A moment later she brought out another, and this smoke was red. The dog asked her what they might be. ‘Dream-essence,’ she said. ‘The purest nectar of intelligence, formed in the soul before a dream begins. When the dream breaks it leaves us forever, and empties into that dark flood called the River of Shadows. But if you extract it at that precise moment, before the dream, you have a connection to the dreamer’s mind. You can look into the smoke and see his dream, on that night or any other. And should you have the skill you can give him new dreams, specific dreams, the dreams you choose. There are few in Alifros with that skill, but I am one.’

  “ ‘Whose dream-essence do you have there?’ the dog asked, starting to be frightened of her again.

  “ ‘My children’s,’ said the woman. ‘Long years ago, I took it. I did not harm them in the taking, but I harmed them in other ways.’ She was somber and quiet for a moment, then held up a vial in each hand. ‘These are the only possessions I care for in all the world. I live in fear of their loss, and have never dared to give my children dreams, lest I make the existence of these vials known to our enemies. They can sniff out magic, even better than you can sniff out a meal. But I cannot wait any longer.’

  “She asked the dog to lie in the courtyard and bark if anyone drew near. He did so, and heard her whispering within. At one point his curiosity overpowered him, though, so he put his paws up on the windowsill and gazed into the room. The woman was holding the red vial against her cheek. She caressed it, moved it to the other cheek, then closed her eyes and breathed on the glass. Then she set it on the table and knelt as if to pray.

  “The dog saw nothing else at first. Then the smoke seemed to pass right through the vial, just as the woman’s hand had passed through the wall. It formed a cloud over the table, and within it the dog saw a boy in a coffin—alive, you understand, and battling to escape. The dog was so appalled that he turned away, and lay shivering in the bright sun of the courtyard, until the woman came and told him he could go.”

  The next morning the King swept into the chamber, with gifts of walnuts and macaroons.

  “Your Highness,” said Isiq. At the sound of Isiq’s voice the King put down the gifts and seized his arms.

  “Splendid, man, splendid! Try something else!”

  Isiq smiled, squirmed, cleared his throat.

  “Come on, nothing long-winded. What would you like for breakfast?”

  “Your woman.”

  “Eh?”

  Isiq’s mouth worked, and he made a beckoning gesture with both hands. After a moment the King’s face relaxed into a smile. He had become quite good at interpreting the admiral.

  “Bring her here, to meet you? What a funny idea. She’d do you a world of good, too, with her gentle ways. But you know it can’t happen, Admiral. I’ve explained all that to you.”

  Isiq tilted his head. There was a question in his eyes.

  “Oh, I trust her,” said the King. “More than I reasonably should. I’d put a dagger in her hands and sleep like a babe, with her beside me, if you care to know. Yes, I’d even trust her with the secret of you. But why burden her? She’s had a hard life already. This is her refuge, now, just as it’s yours. When both of you have healed a little more, then we’ll see.”

  He clapped Isiq on the shoulder. “You’re talking. That’s exquisite progress, and quite enough for today.”

  Isiq’s expression was thoughtful, as though he might venture to disagree. Oshiram looked encouraged by the alertness in the face before him.

  “It’s a real pleasure, watching you heal,” he said. “By the Tree, I think I shall bring her to see you after all. I’ll tell her your story this evening. We must tell someone about you, mustn’t we, if you’re ever to resume a normal life?

  “I do hope you take to her, Isiq. She’s the best thing to happen to me in years. I was beginning to think my reign was cursed, you know. After your brave Thasha’s death and the collapse of the Peace, some of the other lords of the Crownless Lands turned their backs, called me Arqual’s fool. Then came the death of Pacu Lapadolma, those furious letters from the Mzithrin Kings, that Gods-awful plague of rats. I should have gone mad without my darling girl. Watching her dance, one can believe that beauty still has a place in Alifros.”

  Isiq nodded, smiling to please the King. “B-beauty,” he made himself say.

  “Ha!” laughed Oshiram. “Carry on, Isiq. Perhaps in a day or two we shall be watching her dance together—or just listening to her sing. Did I mention that she sings?”

  An enraptured look came over the King’s face. He raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips, and was suddenly womanish, crooning in soft falsetto:

  Look for me by starlight, lover, seek me in that glade.

  I’ll bring you all the treasures of the world our love has made—

  He broke off. Isiq was lurching backward, mouth wide open, flailing. Before the King could reach him the big man fell hard upon the chest of drawers, knocking it back against the mirror, which jumped from its peg and shattered on Isiq’s bald head.

  “Rin’s eyes, Admiral!” The King experienced a rare kind of panic: Isiq was bleeding, the doctor was elsewhere, he could not shout for aid. He went down on his knees and plucked sickles of glass from the admiral’s
clothes. No danger, no danger, only scratches on that bedknob cranium of his. “What in Pitfire happened to you?” he demanded. “Oh, keep still, shut your mouth before you get glass in it.”

  Isiq thought his mind would burst. The song was hers. She had sung it to him countless times, early in the mornings, in the garden cottage, bringing him his cigar—aboard the Chathrand, in bed, with Thasha in the outer stateroom practicing her wedding vows. Oshiram had even managed a fair imitation of her voice.

  The King was scolding, but Isiq could barely hear. Time slowed to a crawl. There were shards of mirror in his hands and lap. In every sliver, a memory, bright and perfect. There was his daughter, murdered in her bridal dress. There were the four men bearing her body to the Chathrand. And Sandor Ott. And the Nilstone, throbbing.

  “Don’t handle them, you daft old—”

  And here in this largest shard, so cruelly, cleverly shaped (the King tried to remove it; the admiral fiercely gripped his hand) was that unequaled beauty, his Syrarys, with her arms around a lover—not Isiq, of course, and not the spymaster, nor even this good, deluded King. Mesmerizing, this clarity, after so much blindness. And yet Isiq was certain. No one else could have made his consort so dangerous. The one in her arms was the one who had always been there, invisibly. The one who’d slain Thasha, and cheated death. The one whose hands moved all the strings—

  “Arunis.”

  The King froze. “What did you just say?”

  Isiq’s gaze had wandered for months; now it focused sharp as daggers on the King. “You’re in danger, Oshiram,” he whispered.

  “A complete sentence!” cried the bird suddenly from the window, forgetting himself entirely.

  The King whirled, gaping; the bird was already gone. “What is happening here, Isiq? Have you been feigning this illness? Where did that bird come from? And why in Rin’s name did you mention the sorcerer?”

  Isiq stared up at him: glass in his eyebrows, rivulets of blood on his cheeks. “We must trust each other, Majesty,” he whispered, “and somehow we must be cleverer than they. By the Night Gods, I remember it all.”

  FROM THE NEW

  JOURNAL OF

  G. STARLING

  FIFFENGURT,

  QUARTERMASTER

  Thursday, 26 Ilbrin 941

  Where, by the Blessed Tree, to begin? With the dead men? With the blessing of the goat? Or with the fact that Heaven’s Tree doesn’t even hang over us here, so help me Rin?7

  No: I shall start with Pathkendle, since I have just seen him & the lad’s misery is fresh in my mind. I had just taken my turn in the rigging, same as nearly everyone aboard. The dlömu were still staring at us, but their numbers were dwindling. Perhaps they were moved by the doomsday-babble of that screaming hag. Perhaps we misspoke, somehow, hurt their feelings. However that may be, we soon concluded that we weren’t to be fed, or even greeted with more than fear & superstition, before daybreak. They hemmed us in with cables to stop our drift & placed guards at the ends of the walkway & left us to stew in our own sinking ship.

  A few men exploded, cursing them. Others begged loudly for food. The dlömu, however, did not look back & when they were gone from sight even the timid hands joined in until the whole topdeck was bellowing insults, fish-eyes, black bastards, cold-hearted freaks & then someone gave an embarrassed little, “Ahh, umm,” & we saw that one of the cables was moving like a trawling-line & dangling upon it were bundle after canvas bundle. Wisps of steam escaped them & the smell when we hauled them in brought a low moan of ecstasy from the nearest men. Ibjen had shamed them, apparently. Ghosts or no ghosts, we wouldn’t be starved.

  Inside were warm rolls & slabs of fresh cheese & smoked fish, the river clams Bolutu had gone on about for days, and cloth packages filled with strange little pyramid-shaped confections, a bit smaller than oranges & coated with sugar and hard little seeds. We nibbled: they were salty-sweet & chewy as whale blubber. “Mül!” Bolutu cried at the sight of them. “Ah, Fiffengurt, you’ll find nothing more authentically dlömic than mül! They’ve been the salvation of many a sea-voyage, or forced march through the mountains.” But what were they? “Nutritious!” said Bolutu, & quickly changed the subject.

  There was dark bread, too; & as I live & breathe, many bundles of what we took for fat white worms. A dozen of these fell to the deck when we tore open the first basket & wriggled away like lightning for fifty feet or so & then lay still. Bolutu snatched one up, peeled off its skin like a blary banana & ate it: the things are fruits—pirithas, he calls ’em: “snake-beans.” They fall from a parent tree & squirm away, seeking new places to grow. “If it doesn’t wriggle it’s not worth eating,” he said.

  I was about to brave one of these dainties myself (having already wolfed down bread & cheese & fish & clams; the latter stained green whatever they touched & made us all look frightfully murthish about the mouth) when Lady Thasha appeared with a platter heaped with all the aforementioned. “Will you take this to Pazel?” she asked me.

  “We can do better than that,” I told her. “It’s well past midnight, ain’t it? That’s three days. Let’s get ’im out of the brig, my dear! You come along.”

  But Thasha shook her head. “You do it, Mr. Fiffengurt. And see that he eats, will you? There’s enough food for the sfvantskors, too.”

  Considerate, that was: the food would be gone in minutes. But the compliment I thought to pay her died on my lips when she turned & walked back to Greysan Fulbreech. Old Smiley fed her a piece of bread & she grinned through the mouthful at him & suddenly I was enraged. A nonsense reaction, of course: young hearts are fickle & Thasha’s has clearly left Pathkendle in favor of this youth from Simja. Why does the sight of them fill me with such indignation? Perhaps I merely hoped the girl had better taste.

  I ducked down the Holy Stair, bickered with the crawlies at the checkpoint & was finally escorted (how the word sticks in my throat) onto the mercy deck & aft to the brig. The four Turachs (two for each sfvantskor, none for Pathkendle) were licking clean plates of their own; they turned spiteful when they realized I wasn’t bringing second helpings. At the far end of the row of cells the two sfvantskors watched me with bright wolf eyes.

  I unlocked Pathkendle’s cell; he walked out, slow & dignified & hurt. Some spark in his eye was gone. I might never have become of aware of its existence, that lad’s blary spark (what do I mean, spark? Here’s my old dad’s answer: If you have to ask you ain’t never goin’ to know) but for its absence then.

  “Chin up, Pathkendle,” says I, much heartier than I feel. “The ship’s out of danger & you’re out of jail. Try a wiggler. I happen to know they’re fresh.”

  “Go on,” said a grinning, green-lipped Turach, “they only look like big maggots.”

  Pazel stared insolently at him & bit into a piece of bread. “I want,” he said, chewing, “to finish telling Neda my dream.”

  Under the soldiers’ eyes we took food to the sfvantskors. Pazel sat facing them, cross-legged on the floor. They ate. To fill the silence I talked about the waterfalls, the incredible way we rose into the city. Pazel sat there slipping snake-beans into his mouth & gazing at his sister through the iron bars. His sister, a Black Rag priestess: the thought chilled my blood. This was the girl they’d been looking for, those countrymen of mine, during the Ormali siege. They’d beaten Pazel himself into a coma, that day, when he refused to guide them to his sister’s hiding place. He’d lain there ready to die for her. Could anything—time, training, religion—challenge a bond like that?

  “Thasha painted me with mud,” Pathkendle was saying. “Head to toe. Bright red mud that she’d heated in a pot. It felt”—he glanced at me, coloring a little—“really good. The beach was windy; the mud was smooth & warm. I told you already what happened next.”

  “She pushing you,” said Neda. Her attempt at Arquali was for my benefit, I suppose.

  “Into a coffin,” said Pazel. “A fancy coffin, trimmed with gold. She slammed the lid & nailed it shut & I kicked & pounded f
rom the inside. When she was done she dragged the coffin into the surf.”

  “And pushed you out to sea,” said the older one, Vispek. He raised his head & looked at me. “The mud, the gilded coffin in the waves. Those are Arquali funeral rites, are they not?”

  “Only for kings & nobles, these days,” I said, startled at his knowledge of us. “It’s a high honor, that sort of burial.”

  “And the one who paints the body?”

  “The King’s favorite girly. His whatsit, his courtesan.”

  “Neda thinks the dream’s important,” said Pazel.

  Her eyes flickered over me coldly. “Dreams are warning,” she said. “We not listen, then we getting die.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  She said something quick & cross in the Sizzy tongue & her master grunted in agreement. “The Isiq girl wants to be rid of him,” he said, “although once she pretended to love him. Like an expensive whore.”

  “Now just you shut your mouth,” I said, rising to my feet. But Vispek went right on talking.

  “She wished to seem as though she revered him, saw him as her equal. Never mind that she’s from one of the most powerful families in Arqual, and the boy is nothing: a peasant from a country her father destroyed. So she honors him, buries him like a king.”

  “But is lie,” said Neda, wolfing cheese. “No honor if he put in water alive. Only after he getting die.”

  “The girl’s touch was pleasurable, in this dream?” asked Vispek.

  Pazel nodded uncomfortably. “Well then,” said Vispek, “all the better to catch you off-guard in the moment of betrayal.”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “You’re a slimy beast, Vispek. You’re trying to divide us, and using Pazel’s sister to do it. By the Tree, you’re carrying on the old war, ain’t you? Right here in Chathrand’s brig, ten thousand miles from home.”