Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  “I don’t understand.”

  Orlo’s gaze never wavered. “I think you do. You threw yourself on the Madrun’s sword as though it was nothing. Stupid or courageous, who can say? But why can’t you throw yourself on the truth?”

  Caelan’s temper slipped. “Speak your mind, Orlo. Not these riddles.”

  “He won’t free you.”

  It was like having the sword pierce his side all over again. Caelan lost his breath and struggled to regain it.

  “You are wrong,” he said, his voice weak against the intensity of his emotions. His fist clenched on the coverlet. “Wrong.”

  “I have made my share of mistakes,” Orlo said, “enough to know that it is stupid to walk about in blindness. His highness will never free you as long as you are valuable to him. No matter how many times you guard his back when he goes where he should not. You have served him with all your heart and soul. Yesterday you nearly got yourself killed for him, and none of it will avail you.”

  “I will be free again,” Caelan said grimly, staring into space. “I have his word.”

  Orlo snorted, his square face branded with cynicism. “Oh? You have the word of our kind, honest master. Soon enough there will be betrayal to balance the honey. I have warned you enough, but you never heed warnings, do you?”

  Caelan glared at the trainer, hating everything he said. “Careful, Orlo. You’re stepping close to treason.”

  “No,” Orlo said. “He is.”

  Caelan surged to his feet.

  Orlo took two quick steps back, balancing on the balls of his feet, his eyes watchful and wary. “Defend him,” he said in what was almost a taunt. “You always do.”

  “It is my duty to defend him,” Caelan said hotly.

  “Why? Do you have hopes of becoming his protector when he takes the throne?”

  The accusation hit Caelan like a glove of challenge. Caelan’s eyes widened. How much did Orlo know? How much had he overheard? Or was this only speculation?

  He was not quick enough to keep his reaction from his face. It was Orlo’s turn to stare with widened eyes.

  “Great Gault,” he breathed, taking yet another step back from Caelan. “So he has promised you that.”

  Caelan felt stripped and vulnerable. To deny it would be useless, yet he could not confirm it either without condemning himself. He said nothing.

  Orlo frowned and slowly shook his head. “You great fool,” he said at last, pity in his voice. “Can’t you see he is—”

  “He does not use me,” Caelan broke in hotly. “You understand nothing of this matter. Nothing!”

  “No wonder you pulled the Madrun’s sword into your side. With that incentive, what man would not take tremendous risks?” Orlo glanced sharply at Caelan. “But can’t you see that he is jealous of you?”

  Caelan’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Jealous!”

  “Whose name were they screaming yesterday?”

  “But he is the prince.”

  “And you have the popularity,” Orlo said with scorn. Glancing at the door, he kept his voice low. “When you ride through the streets at the prince’s side, cheers from the populace are guaranteed. He can pretend the cheers are for him. It sends a message to the emperor, does it not? But inside, the prince knows the truth. His popularity is purchased, and at the crux it will not hold.”

  “Take care, Orlo,” Caelan said in warning.

  “No, you take care. Prince Tirhin is a desperate man, and I tell you to watch yourself. When you cease to be of use, he will discard you as he does all his worn-out possessions.”

  Caelan’s chin lifted with dignity. “I have his word.”

  Without warning Orlo closed the distance between them and gripped Caelan’s shoulder hard. “And what is the worth of a promise made to a slave?” he snarled. “Nothing! Nothing at all.” He gave Caelan a shake and released him. “He doesn’t see you as a man. You belong to him as his dog belongs to him. As that chair over there belongs to him. He owes you nothing, do you hear? No matter what you do for him, there is no obligation from him in return.”

  Caelan sighed and stopped listening. Orlo held some ancient grudge against Tirhin that he never discussed. For Caelan’s sake, he had returned to the prince’s employ, but he was never comfortable in Tirhin’s presence. And when the prince was out of earshot, Orlo could be full of venom and paranoia, just as he was now. Caelan felt too tired to pay attention to any of it.

  “Let me relay this to you, although Gault knows why I bother,” Orlo said. “Since yesterday, has the prince been a man happy and carefree? You won a tremendous victory on his behalf. He has every reason to celebrate, yet beneath the smiles and the charm there is anger. All the anger that was present before the contest. Did you not see it?”

  “Yes,” Caelan said reluctantly. “Angry, but hiding it.”

  “Do you know why he’s so angry? Why he’s ridden three horses into the ground and broken their wind in the last week? Why he’s taken to staying out all hours of the night? Why he’s so often in the company of that creature Sien?”

  Caelan thought of the bizarre meeting he’d had with the prince and Lord Sien. Hiding a shiver, he said nothing.

  “It is the coronation,” Orlo said, looking at Caelan as though he had just failed an examination. “His temper gets more foul with every passing day of the festivities. The empress threatens his position, and if you’re wise you’ll avoid getting caught up the middle of this family’s conflicts. No matter what he promises you.”

  Caelan hated politics. He hated court intrigue. He hated all the gossip conducted by people who weren’t directly involved.

  “The imperial family’s problems are none of your business,” he said coldly.

  Orlo flushed, and he glared at Caelan with his eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you something. Years ago, when Tirhin was much younger, and much more impetuous, he tried to rally the imperial army around him. He intended to bring off a coup d’etat. And I was at his side.”

  Caelan rolled his eyes and turned away. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  Orlo gripped his arm and pulled him back. “You will listen,” he said angrily. “You must!”

  Caelan shook him off, and found himself swaying weakly with the effort. “Why?” he shouted. “Why should I listen to this parable of yours? I have no need of lessons—”

  “I committed treason for his highness,” Orlo said bleakly, his eyes pinpoints of cold.

  “What?” Caelan said in disbelief. “When?”

  “Years ago. I was young and hotheaded. I was impatient for change. I had just been passed over for promotion into the Imperial Guard for the second time.” His mouth twisted with old bitterness. “My family wasn’t good enough. Simple country farmers, with the stink of manure on their shoes. It didn’t matter how good a soldier I was or how ably I served. I wasn’t the right sort for the elite Crimson.”

  Caelan looked at him, at his stocky shoulders and bullish neck and square face, and knew all about class and status. He thought of his own birth and how he had been raised in Trau. He had resented being the son of a famous and esteemed father. How spoiled he had been. How disdainfully he had taken so much for granted.

  For the first time, Orlo was baring his soul. Caelan glanced at the door, wishing he could escape this. He had no desire to hear Orlo’s secrets, not now, not like this. But when he met Orlo’s eyes, he knew there was no leaving.

  “What treason did you commit?” Caelan asked.

  Orlo’s eyes were on fire. His face contorted with old memories and his hand groped instinctively for the dagger in his belt. “I killed General Solon, the Lord Commander of the army,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “At Tirhin’s order, and in cold blood. The man was defenseless, asleep in his own quarters. I crept in, and stabbed him in the heart.”

  Orlo’s eyes flinched, and a tide of red colored his face. “I stood over him in the lamplight, this general who had denied me my dream because of tradition. I had never met him before,
never spoken to him, never been addressed by him. Had he been awake, he would not have recognized me. He did not know of my existence, and I took his life.”

  Orlo drew his dagger and held it aloft so that its blade reflected the ruddy dance of firelight. “This is the weapon. I carry it as my conscience, that I may never forget the thud of impact, the heat of his blood, or the soft sigh of death that issued from his lips. This knife is my mark of shame.”

  He fell silent, lost in his own tormented thoughts, turning the knife over and over in his big, callused hands. No sound disturbed the quiet.

  Watching him, Caelan had no words. He understood revenge. And although he had never killed in cold blood, he had thought of it. There had been many sleepless nights in his bunk, thinking of Thyzarene raiders and how to torture them into hell.

  Finally Orlo seemed to come to himself. Still staring at the dagger in his hands, he said, “I might have burned over the injustice for years, without acting, but the prince gave me the means. He bribed the door guards and obtained a way for me to enter the man’s house. He promised me leadership in the army he would reorganize.”

  Orlo snorted and sheathed the dagger. “For fledgling conspirators, we were lucky. The only part of the plan to succeed was mine. No one else carried out their orders. In the hue and cry over the unsolved murder of the Lord Commander, the prince’s plans fell apart. His supporters lost courage, and he departed for the border to fight the Madruns.”

  “And you?” Caelan prompted.

  “I barely escaped with my life and hid for days, terrified of arrest. His highness abandoned me.”

  “But he—”

  “Don’t defend him!” Orlo snapped. “By the gods, you will not find excuses for him in this.”

  “You weren’t caught,” Caelan pointed out. “Did he not have you protected?”

  “No. He was long gone by then, anxious to cover his trail. I spent a year in hiding, skulking around the provinces, until I was caught for army desertion and flogged. I spun a believable tale. I wasn’t connected to the murder. At the end of my term, I didn’t re-enlist. Instead, I took employment in a run-down gladiatorial arena out in Sarmina. That led to a better job in a bigger town with a bigger arena. Finally I returned to lmperia.”

  “And the prince made you one of his trainers.”

  Orlo’s expression filled with contempt. “The prince had nothing to do with it. I gained the job on my own.”

  “But you trained me. You trained his other fighters.”

  “I worked for the public arena,” Orlo said coldly. “When the prince was informed of my skills, he came to interview me for his service.”

  “And he had forgotten you,” Caelan guessed.

  Orlo’s mouth twisted. “You love a tale, don’t you, boy? No, he had not forgotten me. Recognition lay in his eyes the moment we looked at each other. He was shocked and cautious, but he knew I could never denounce him without destroying myself. I took his money to train occasional fighters for him, but I did not reenter his service until you came.”

  Caelan stared at this man, who had once been his enemy and who had slowly become a friend. To see Orlo so vulnerable, so open, disturbed Caelan. He understood now the cynicism and bitterness, and most of all, the distrust.

  “Why did you help me?” he asked now. He had tried to ask before, but Orlo would never give him an answer. “Why do this for me? Why trust me now with your secret?”

  Orlo frowned and finally looked away. Something helpless and bewildered lay in his face. “I—I don’t know,” he said at last. “I cannot explain why I should care what befalls you. But. . . Ah, gods, what lies in a man, that he can convince others to help him? Why do the gods give one man qualities that they deny to others? Why have you succeeded in the arena beyond anyone else? How have you survived, and how have you kept your spirit that will not be tamed? What makes you different and unique?”

  His expression deepened into a scowl. Suddenly he looked angry and embarrassed. “I’m a fool,” he said gruffly.

  Caelan was touched. He reached out, but Orlo flinched away from his hand.

  “Why,” Orlo asked heavily, “did you have me train you?”

  “Because you’re the best trainer in Imperia. You could keep me alive.”

  “No. I meant, why ask for me when you have never heeded anything I’ve said to you?”

  “I heed you when what you say is useful,” Caelan retorted, annoyed again. “Otherwise, I follow my own judgment.”

  Orlo’s gaze dropped to Caelan’s wounded side. To the side that was now healed by a mysterious process that Orlo, in his fear of foreign religions and ways, probably didn’t understand.

  “Thank you for your trust,” Caelan said. “I will not betray your confidence.”

  Orlo shot him a look of despair mingled with exasperation. “You will not learn from it either.”

  Caelan had no answer.

  “You will continue to follow him,” Orlo said bitterly. “You great, stubborn lout. You cannot be taught. You cannot be shown. You cannot be warned. Always you will do things your own way.”

  “My way works best for me,” Caelan said softly. “All my life others have tried to shape me to their will. I cannot do that.”

  “Then he will destroy you,” Orlo said. “Perhaps he will even get you killed. Be damned, then,” he muttered, and flung himself out.

  Chapter Four

  Caelan turned around too fast, nearly lost his balance as his knees went wobbly on him, and sat heavily on the bed to save himself from falling. For a few seconds he was so dizzy he had to grip the side of the bed; then his head cleared again. Breathing hard, he wiped sweat from his face.

  The door opened quietly. Inwardly Caelan groaned, and he forced himself to lift his head. “Orlo, I—”

  It was not Orlo who returned, but the healer. For the first time the man stepped into the light where Caelan could see him clearly. It was Agel. His cousin and boyhood friend, whom Caelan had not seen since being expelled from Rieschelhold, the school of healing arts.

  Agel... the steady, dependable one ... grown to manhood now ... more gaunt and austere than handsome. His face had the etched clarity of an ascetic. He stood tall and still, his hands folded out of sight in the wide sleeves of his white robe.

  Caelan lost his breath. Thoughts tumbled through his mind without making sense. He had believed he would never see any of his family again, yet now he had found Agel. It was a miracle, a return of hope.

  Consumed with happiness, Caelan smiled and tried to speak. But his throat choked up, and unmanly tears blurred his vision. Caelan averted his face sharply, struggling to master himself.

  Agel’s hand settled gently on his shoulder. “You are overwrought,” he said. “Rest and let the healing finish.”

  Caelan gripped Agel’s hand in both of his. “I cannot believe you are here,” he said in Trau, his words running eagerly over each other. “I have often thought of you, wondered how you did and where you were. And now, to find you here, in Imperia, is—”

  “Rest,” Agel said. His voice remained calm and serene. He continued to speak in Lingua, and his hand lay slack in Caelan’s grip. “Loss of temper destroys the balance of harmony, and healing cannot finish. I should have denied you all visitors until you were stronger.”

  Caelan stared at him. There was no joy, no recognition in Agel’s face. When Caelan’s fingers loosened, Agel withdrew his hand and tucked it back inside his sleeve. Caelan’s happiness faded, to be replaced by sharp hurt.

  “Don’t you know me?” he whispered. “Cousin, I am—”

  “Yes, Caelan, I know you.”

  Caelan waited, yearning for more, but Agel said nothing. His eyes betrayed nothing. It was as though Beva had returned—cold, detached, unfeeling. Agel was living in severance, too distant to touch.

  “Is there nothing you will say?” Caelan asked hoarsely.

  “You should lie down and sleep.”

  “Damn you!” Caelan shouted. He shoved himsel
f furiously to his feet.

  Agel blinked and took an involuntary step back.

  That angered Caelan more. “How in Gault’s name can you do this to me? We were friends, the closest. We grew up together. We were—Is there nothing left between us? Nothing? You are all the family I have left. Can you not even say ‘well met’ to me? Can you not give me something?”

  Agel’s expression did not change. He met Caelan’s eyes steadily. “What would you have me say?”

  “Oh, something like ‘Caelan, I’m relieved to find you alive. Caelan, I’m glad to see you. Caelan, let us sit a while and talk of old times.’ Something along those lines. Nothing too emotional. I wouldn’t want you to lose harmony.”

  Agel might have been a stone. He watched Caelan lurch to the foot of the bed and grab a bedpost for support. He did not move.

  “Discussing the past is unproductive,” he said. “The events have occurred. They cannot be undone. As for regrets, they are a waste of time. You chose the course of your life, as I have chosen mine.”

  “I did not choose this!” Caelan said violently. “Gods, do you think I crawled into the city and begged them to make a slave of me?”

  Agel turned his head and gazed about the luxurious room. Compared to a Trau home, the place looked too full of furniture, too gaudy; it would be considered excessive and wasteful. Caelan frowned, but it was Agel who spoke next:

  “Slavery seems to have its rewards. You have done well for yourself here.”

  Caelan gasped, but even as memories of floggings, nights spent crouched in filthy straw, long hours of brutal drills, and the grim realities of arena combat flashed through his mind, he realized he could not explain anything to Agel. His cousin had already judged him by these surroundings, and would never believe anything else.

  Pride lifted Caelan’s chin. “Yes,” he said tightly. “I have done well. I have a master who rewards me when I please him. I have a roof over my head. I have the security of knowing I will be fed and clothed. Even my slave chain is made of gold. Isn’t it pretty?”