Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  “By the gods, I’ll have a straight answer from you yet,” Nilot said angrily. “Tell me the truth! Was it his highness who taught you?”

  Caelan gritted his teeth. He wanted to scream from the pain. He knew his face must be as white as paper, but severance still served him. Coldly, he said, “You speak disrespectfully of my master. Shall I defend him, here and now, with my bare hands?”

  Nilot’s eyes flickered as though he realized he stood unguarded, face to face with an unchained gladiator. Caelan reeked of sweat and blood. He had just killed in the heat of combat; his temper still ran high enough for him to risk the punishment of death or mutilation for threatening a free man like this. Nilot swallowed, and his grip slackened on Cae-lan’s arm.

  At once Caelan yanked free. Glaring, he started to speak but Orlo reached them, hastily interceding.

  “Enough, enough,” the trainer said, his eyes darting from Nilot to Caelan. “Nilot, what are you doing, keeping him standing here? For Gault’s sake, let him clean off the gore first and have his wine. There’ll be occasion enough to talk to him tonight.”

  Nilot scowled and stepped back. “I think not. There is no reason for me to attend the victory party of the emperor’s opponent.”

  Orlo sent him an innocent look. “What a pity. I thought the Madrun was considered everyone’s opponent.”

  Nilot’s scowl deepened. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  Orlo gestured at Caelan to descend the steps. “Get on with you! I thought you’d have enough sense to get to your bath at once. You can reap your glory later.”

  Sighing, Caelan turned in silence and somehow got himself moving down the steps. Orlo flanked him, grumbling and criticizing all the way. He fended off anyone else who attempted to approach them. “Get back! Let the champion pass!”

  Leaning closer, Orlo shot Caelan a sideways glance. “What in Murdeth’s name did that snake want with you?”

  “Nothing,” Caelan said. “He was angry at the loss.”

  “Angry? Him?” Orlo snorted. “Oh, yes, and how innocent you are. You, looking like you meant to tear out his throat. Don’t you have better sense than to threaten a man of his position?”

  “He insulted the prince,” Caelan said through his teeth.

  Orlo shot him another look, then frowned. “You are a slave,” he whispered hotly, glancing left and right to make sure no one overheard him. “It’s not your place to defend the honor of his imperial highness.”

  Caelan shrugged. Now that he had a little distance from the incident with Nilot, he was annoyed with himself. Tirhin was not worth the risk he took. “You’re right, Orlo,” he said meekly. “The prince can defend his own honor. I am a fool.

  I have always been a fool. It is likely I will be a fool until I die.”

  Orlo’s frown deepened. “I know Nilot. He never does anything without a purpose. Did he make an offer to buy you?”

  Caelan snorted, not bothering to answer. There were always men trying to buy him from the prince. Caelan was supposed to be flattered by such offers, but he always found them demeaning and shameful.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Orlo continued. “He will bring an offer from the emperor. Gault, that will be a problem! If the prince refuses to sell you, he runs the risk of offending—”

  “Stop worrying,” Caelan said tersely. “Nilot didn’t come to buy me. He wanted to know who taught me the Dance of Death.”

  Orlo veered onto that subject immediately like a dog after a bone. “Hah, wouldn’t he just! Wouldn’t we all? You didn’t get it from me.”

  “No.”

  “And it was a damned stupid thing to try! You—”

  “It worked.”

  “Oh, yes, it worked, but the risk!”

  Caelan’s gaze dropped. “Necessary.”

  “You could have killed him several times before you finished him,” Orlo said sternly. “Gods, it was like watching your first season. My heart nearly stopped at the mistakes you made. Besides, have you ever practiced that move? It was invented for bravado by lovelorn officers wanting to duel over their women.”

  “It was invented for combat,” Caelan said stubbornly, concentrating on each step. “Later, it was used in duels.”

  “Yes, by the officers in the emperor’s Crimson Guard. You had no business using it.”

  Caelan threw him a cynical look. “Because I’m a slave.”

  “Because you’re not in the Crimson Guard. They’ll be offended. They hold their traditions as high as their honor.”

  Caelan frowned. No wonder the prince was displeased with him. Caelan thought he was doing the right thing, but once again he had blundered. It did no good to say he wasn’t versed in military traditions. Neither the prince nor the army was interested in his excuses. Some of Caelan’s anger returned. He hadn’t asked to be involved in this intrigue. He was no good at it. And now he had made things worse.

  Someone hailed Orlo from the bottom of the steps, calling out congratulations.

  Orlo waved, and swiftly changed the subject with a warning glance at Caelan. “I’ll bet you twenty ducats that putting the Madrun in today was Nilot’s idea. Stupid. If the brute had won, how could they celebrate the victory of an enemy? If he lost, who would care?”

  Caelan nodded, conserving his strength against the mists that were blurring everything. He bumped into the wall and had to bite off a groan.

  Orlo’s hand gripped his uninjured arm to steady him. “Stiff,” he said with pretend anger while he hastened Caelan past the group eager to offer yet more congratulations. “Too much standing around talking. Time for that massage.”

  The moment they were inside Caelan’s ready room, Orlo slammed the door and yelled for the slaves.

  Unz appeared. Scrawny and perpetually nervous, he was the youngest.

  “Where is everyone?” Orlo demanded, looking around. “Why isn’t the massage table ready? Where’s the bath water?”

  Unz bowed. “I’ll get—”

  “I’ll flog their hides for this. Where are they?”

  “Gone to cash in their wager tokens,” Unz replied nervously.

  Orlo’s face turned a dark purple. “Get the water” was all he said, however.

  Unz fled.

  Orlo kicked a stool over to Caelan. “Sit!”

  Caelan dropped heavily onto it. His side began to bleed again; he could feel it warm and wet against his arm. The effort of holding severance was too much. He longed to let go, yet he was afraid to.

  “Hurting, are you?” Orlo asked. He tossed his club aside and advanced on Caelan. “I thought I’d never get you safely out of sight. You reckless idiot, I told you to stay out of his reach. Let me see that arm.”

  As he spoke, he pulled the cloak from Caelan’s shoulders, then stood there, staring. The cloak slid unnoticed from his fingers. “Merciful Gault,” he whispered. “I thought I saw him stick you, but then you seemed unhurt. I couldn’t get out of the stands sooner to help you.”

  “It’s all right,” Caelan said through his teeth. He had never seen Orlo look this pale, this frightened. “I had to provide ... spectacle.”

  “You fool,” Orlo said, pressing his fingers gently against Caelan’s side where the trickle of blood was beginning to bubble faster. “You great, hulking fool. When I told you to use every dirty trick, I didn’t mean this.”

  Caelan felt suddenly flushed and hotter than ever. He twisted on the stool. “Where’s my bath? It’s too warm in here. I—”

  Orlo gripped his shoulder. “Boy!” he bawled at the top of his lungs. “Unz! Bring bandages, quickly!”

  The room started spinning around Caelan. He braced his shoulder against Orlo’s side and gripped the bottom of the man’s tunic. “Not so loud. They’ll hear you.”

  “Why the devil shouldn’t someone hear?” Orlo said in exasperation. But he lowered his voice. When Unz came running with a handful of gauze strips, he grabbed them from the boy’s hand, knocking some of them to the floor.
“Get more! Idiot! Can’t you see he’s bleeding to death?”

  Unz stared, his face as white as the bandages, and stammered something incomprehensible.

  “Get more bandages. And water. And the healer. We need the healer!”

  “No,” Caelan said.

  Orlo pressed the gauze to his side, and he flinched at the pain.

  “Steady,” Orlo said, but he sounded more desperate than soothing. “Don’t talk. Just stay quiet. Boy! Where are you?”

  Unz reappeared with more gauze. “This is all—”

  “Never mind. Get the cloak. We’ll bind it around him. Quick, boy. No, I’ll do it. Support him.”

  Unz timidly grasped Caelan’s shoulders while Orlo hacked the cloak into long strips and wrapped them around Caelan’s torso. He knotted them with a firmness that made Caelan cry out.

  Severance slipped, and he could not hold on any longer. The river of blood escaped him and gushed into the cloth. He could feel his life, his awareness flowing out with it.

  “Forget the water. Run for the healer now,” Orlo said while the room swirled and eddied. “Go, boy!”

  “No,” Caelan said. He reached out, his hand groping blindly.

  Orlo gripped his fingers hard enough to crush them.

  “No one to know,” Caelan insisted. “Spoil the victory. Spoil the prince’s ... orders ...”

  He couldn’t finish. The room grew white, blurring into shapeless light, then fading, fading until there was only shadow.

  “Get the healer,” he heard Orlo say. “Don’t say why. Don’t say anything. Just get him. Run!”

  Caelan came drifting back to the pleasant fragrances of balm and honey, herbal scents that reminded him of his childhood safe in E’nonhold. Someone nearby was grinding with a small mortar and pestle, working the old-fashioned way, doing things correctly.

  He opened his eyes a fraction, not quite willing to wake up completely yet. There was a fire burning to keep him warm. It cast a ruddy glow across his bed. He listened to the hiss of the embers, a steady singing of flame that seemed to be calling his name.

  Wind spirits had called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.

  Restlessly, a little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.

  “Drink this,” a voice said.

  Caelan sipped the potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.

  He gazed up at the healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.

  “These aren’t my quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been sold?”

  “No,” the healer said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”

  Caelan frowned, but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like silk.

  Caelan was sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.

  Sometimes at dawn Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop, snorting, across the glacier.

  Gentle hands probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were being drawn from his body.

  The healer severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.

  “Drink again,” the healer said. “Then sleep.”

  Caelan looked up at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.

  “Sleep,” the healer said.

  Although he meant to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.

  The next time he awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.

  Lifting his hand to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince’s own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it out, he tried to lift himself onto his elbow, and found himself as weak as a newborn.

  Orlo reached him first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting, sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain? You must lie still.”

  The discussion between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.

  From the shadows he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he requires is rest.”

  Caelan frowned, his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and how he had severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father would have done.

  “You are still in pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”

  Caelan shook his head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid time to let his emotions gain control of him.

  To change the subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong,” Orlo said.

  But he spoke too quickly.

  Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”

  “Not long enough,” Orlo said gruffly.

  “A day,” the healer replied.

  Orlo shot him a glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”

  “The festivities,” Caelan said. “I forgot them.”

  He reached for the coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.

  “No,” Orlo said. “You will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not wel
l enough.”

  Caelan stared up at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had the strength to stand.

  “Stop this!” Orlo said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”

  He broke off and stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold back words.

  “My life is not at risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled ministrations of my countryman.”

  As he spoke he glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,” Caelan said. “I—”

  The healer bowed and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.

  Astonished, Caelan looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.

  Orlo shrugged.

  “Why was he in attendance, and not the arena healer?”

  “That quack,” Orlo said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man came.”

  “A Traulander,” Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.

  “It is said they are the best healers in the empire.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  How long had it been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet, and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.

  “You are tired,” Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it is still old-fashioned rest that makes the best cure.”

  “There is not time for rest,” Caelan said, frowning. “And I am well.”

  Orlo touched his shoulder gently. “A lie,” he said, but the reproof was mild. “Stop the lies, Caelan. You lie to the world. You lie to the prince. You lie to me. Worst of all, you lie to yourself.”