Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  Elandra shook her head. “I do not believe he is behind this attack on me.”

  “You have failed to make him love you; how can you be sure?” Anas said tartly.

  It hurt, exactly as she intended it to hurt.

  “Anas,” the Magria said in displeasure. “You go too far. Events have turned, and we must reevaluate their meaning.” She turned her gaze on Elandra. “The important thing is to let nothing deflect you from the events of tomorrow. You have done well thus far. You must continued to be courageous. If your enemies stop you, then they have won. Do you understand?”

  Elandra nodded slowly.

  “We will be more careful now. There must be more safeguards taken,” the Magria said sternly.

  “Excellency,” Elandra said, choosing her words with care, “in your visions, have you foreseen the Madruns invading Imperia?”

  The Magria’s eyes widened. “What question is this?”

  “Have you?”

  “I have not.”

  Elandra frowned and told herself her fears were groundless. The army was strong. There could be no invasion.

  The Magria watched her closely for a moment, then said with unexpected patience, “We have naught to do with the wars of men. The goddess guides our attention elsewhere.”

  Elandra asked no further questions.

  Finally the Magria said, “Anas, resume the ceremony.”

  Anas sighed. She walked past Elandra. “Come, then.”

  “Anas,” the Magria said.

  Both Elandra and the deputy looked back.

  The Magria’s gaze was for Anas alone. “Be kind,” she said.

  Flushing, Anas inclined her head and walked out, stiff-backed, leaving Elandra to follow.

  Whatever Elandra expected, it was not the gentleness of the sisters as they finished undressing her and led her to a stone cistern filled with warm, steaming water. Chanting, they pushed her completely under, then sprinkled dried rosemary and rue on her as she emerged, dripping. The purification chamber was small and cramped. Sand covered the floor, and besides the cistern there was only a stone bench. Elandra sat on it, shivering and dripping water.

  The sisters carried in braziers of red-hot rocks. Placing these around Elandra, they poured small dippers of water on the rocks to create steam. Soon she was warm again. Then she was sweating. They scraped her skin, wrapped her in a robe, and led her into an adjoining room to be plunged into a cistern of fresh water.

  The water was so cold it had pieces of ice floating on it. The shock of immersion in it robbed her of breath, and she could not even scream.

  Then she was out, teeth chattering, hugging herself. They took her back to the steam and warmth, sweating her again.

  And thus it alternated until her body was pliant and relaxed. She felt sleepy but marvelous. How could she have been afraid? she wondered. Even the aftereffects of the poisoning attempt had vanished.

  When an elderly sister rubbed scented oil on her hands and began to massage Elandra, she closed her eyes and sank deep into luxuriant sensations. The sister’s strong fingers dug into all the sore spots and melted away Elandra’s tensions. She felt boneless, utterly at peace. Fears and worries about tomorrow faded from her mind. Even the chanting about her sounded lighter now, more like singing. Smiling, Elandra sighed and floated into sleep.

  Only it was not sleep. She had the sudden sensation of falling, and although she threw out her hands to catch herself, she could grasp nothing. Faster and faster she hurtled down through a darkness that terrified her. Then the darkness changed to light, and she was falling through images. Faces loomed at her, huge and confusing, only to dissolve and vanish as she fell through them. Dreams ... no, memories. She saw her father shouting at a hapless servant. She saw the emperor place his hand on a fragment of his magnificent throne. She saw Lord Sien sneering down at her during her wedding ceremony.

  Then with a jolt she ceased falling and found herself in a featureless hallway. The walls were very narrow. She could barely squeeze through, but she felt the urgent need to run.

  She did so, her feet flying faster and faster. She wanted out of this place, wanted this strange dream to end. But as she ran, a hand reached out from nowhere to grab her arm.

  Glancing down, she saw the hand projecting from the wall. She screamed, but heard no sound. Somehow she wrenched free and hurried on.

  But there were other hands brushing her, grabbing at her clothing and hair. Ahead of her stood the healer Agel, arms outstretched. She veered around him and collided with Caelan, who seized her by the throat. Pulling free, she stumbled on around a turn in the passageway. And now Hecati followed her, beating her with a switch until her back and legs stung.

  Then, without warning, she found herself in the grip of a woman tall and warm, smelling of ambergris and henna. This person held her fast when she would have torn free.

  “I must go,” Elandra sobbed. “I must run.”

  Abruptly the loving hands were gone, and she found herself standing alone in the darkness.

  From far in the distance came a whisper: “Elandra, my daughter. Do not run. Do not heed them. Find your own way. Walk to your destiny at your own pace. Do not be forced.”

  Elandra spun around, searching for the voice with a sudden yearning. “Mother?” she called. “Oh, Mother, please help me!”

  “Help yourself,” came the reply, fainter than ever. “You are stronger than they know. Trust your own heart. Heed nothing else.”

  Elandra ran toward the voice, wishing now she had not pushed her mother away. She had so many questions, so much need for this woman she had never known. “Mother—”

  But she could not find her. The voice spoke no more to her.

  Finally Elandra stopped running. Anguished tears streaked her face. She had never understood why her mother sent her away when she was so young. She had never understood why her mother did not want her.

  A feral snarl from behind her scattered her thoughts. Whipping her head over her shoulder, Elandra saw a huge black game cat leaping toward her from a thicket. Without warning she found herself in the jungle, sunlight barely filtering down through the upper canopy. The panther came at her fast. With fangs bared, it was intent on bringing her down.

  And she was ten years old. Foolish and headstrong, she had wandered away from the safety of the camp against orders, and now found herself terrified, the intended victim of this predator.

  Before she could turn to run, its paws hit her chest with a jolt that knocked the wind from her. She was falling, falling, her scream entwined with that of the cat. Its hot breath scorched her face as its fangs tore into her exposed throat.

  “Stop!” Elandra cried.

  She struck the panther, and her hand passed right through it as though it were only mist. The beast dissolved, and she was no longer lying on her back in the rotting humus, but instead standing on a desolate mesa, all bare rock and scrubby weeds, overlooking a sharp drop to the open plains below.

  The air was cold, and it blew constantly at her back with a mournful howl.

  The jungle cat’s attack was not a true memory. Elandra frowned, still feeling shaken by how close it had come to killing her. But she had not wandered away from camp. Someone else had—a bearer. He had been brought down and killed before the soldiers could drive the animal away. And it had been tawny, not black.

  And had her mother ever spoken to her? Was that a true memory, or just a hope?

  She felt angry now. She had been toyed with enough. The sisters had no right to put her through this nightmare.

  “Stop this!” she said aloud. “I will participate no further. Bring me back and have done with your games.”

  But nothing changed or responded. She stood alone on the mesa, the precipice at her feet. There was not another living creature within miles of her.

  Suspiciously she turned around, gazing in all directions, but she did not even spy a dream walker standing at the fringes of her vision as they so often did. She no longer chased dr
eam walkers as she had at first. Right now, however, she would have chased anything, if it meant a way of getting out of this dream.

  The sky was overcast and very dark, as though a storm was coming. The clouds roiled, and now and then lightning flashed in their bellies, although none struck at the earth. On the plains below she glimpsed movement.

  Turning to give it her full attention, she watched until she saw an army coming over the horizon. Soon she could hear its approach, like thunder that grew ever louder. It was huge—black, distant figures that stretched as far as the eye could see, an endless mass that came and came. And as the army marched in perfect rows, spear points gleaming with green fire, she saw dragons flying over, wheeling in the sky and belching fire as they bellowed.

  Every creature in the army was black. The soldiers’ armor was black, as were their helmets, cloaks, and gloves. Their swords were fashioned from black metal. Their horses, dogs, and dragons were all black.

  As the army came closer, her vision improved. Suddenly she could see them clearly, although they were truly too far away for such clarity to be real. She realized the cavalry was not riding horses, but scaly four-footed beasts with vicious, barbed tails and nostrils that breathed fire. Those were not dogs that bounded ahead of the foot soldiers, but hellhounds with eyes of flame and teeth like razors. The dragons were ridden by demons who screamed with laughter.

  The sound was so insane, so awful, she clapped her hands over her ears and tried to back away from the precipice. She did not want to see the faces of the soldiers beneath their helmets.

  Yet she found herself frozen, unable to move or look away. With the army came a dreadful stench of death and decay. And at the head of the army rode a figure as large as a giant, with armor that threw off sparks at every movement and a winged helmet that caught bolts of lightning in its span, yet never burned. This figure’s cloak was darkness. Wherever it looked, scrub crumbled to ash and the rocks melted into lava. It carried a quiver of fire, and flames danced at the tips of its spurs.

  Terrified, Elandra found herself consumed with recognition. The god’s dire name trembled on her lips, demanding to be spoken. With all her might, she fought to hold it back, knowing that if she said the name Beloth aloud, she would somehow chain herself forever to his darkness.

  The god looked up as though he saw her standing on the rocky cliff high above him. He raised one arm as though to launch a hunting falcon, but the creature clinging in chains to his wrist was not a bird but a man, a man square and powerful of body, a man with white curly hair and yellow eyes.

  “Kost—”

  She bit back his name also, fearing to say anything.

  The emperor waved his arm in supplication. “Ela!” he cried, his voice a thin wail against the howling wind. “Ela, help me!”

  “Do not say my name,” she whispered, pressing her fists against her lips.

  The god looked in her direction again, but his terrible eyes went on scanning as though he could not see her.

  She had the terrible urge to kneel before him, to hurl herself over the cliff and fall to her death screaming his name. She felt pierced with a thousand red-hot needles, until she was writhing in agony, and yet she knew there was far worse to come if she succumbed.

  Sobbing, she crouched down and plunged her fingers into the thin, stony soil. “Oh, goddess mother, help me,” she prayed. “Give me the strength I need. Take me unto thy bosom and shelter me.”

  Suddenly she felt as though invisible shackles had been removed. She whirled about and ran for her life, full tilt away from the horrors behind her.

  Then the ground that should have been flat dipped down into a low place that was sheltered and hidden. The cold wind ceased blowing. She found herself stumbling and slowing, sobbing for air.

  Ahead, her path was blocked by a low altar of stone. Four thumb-sized jewels lay on top of it, each of a different color, each square-cut and perfect.

  An enormous serpent, perhaps eight or ten feet long, lay coiled on the other side of the altar. As Elandra approached reluctantly, the serpent lifted itself into the air until its head was at her eye level. It swayed there, its forked tongue flickering, with the altar between them.

  “Choose a stone,” the serpent commanded.

  Shivering in fear, Elandra closed her eyes a moment. She was still too close to the dreadful army. She wanted to keep on running and never stop. She had no time for this.

  “Choose!” the serpent commanded.

  She tried to go around the altar, but her feet were frozen again.

  “I don’t want to choose!” she cried furiously. “I must run and warn the others. There is no time.”

  “Choose!” the serpent commanded. “You will not pass by me until you have chosen.”

  Impatiently she swept her gaze across the gems again.

  Ruby. Sapphire. Topaz. Emerald.

  Each was beautiful. Each was flawless, worth a king’s ransom.

  “Only one may you take,” the serpent told her.

  She felt hurried and flustered. This was some sort of test, but she could not reason it out. There was no time. She had to run and warn the others of what was coming.

  “I don’t want any,” she said.

  “Then you will stand here forever.”

  An unearthly howl lifted behind her. The hairs on her arms prickled, and she felt herself shrink inside with fear. The armies of hell were coming closer. She dared not glance back.

  “Choose!” the serpent said. “Quickly.”

  The ruby she did not want. She hesitated over the others, not understanding the significance they represented.

  The howl came again, louder and closer. One of the dragons swept over her, and she felt the hot scorch of its flaming breath.

  Without further hesitation, she reached out and plucked up the topaz.

  There was a tremendous explosive sound around her— blinding light and deafening noise. The world went white, then black, and once again she was falling.

  Chapter Ten

  In the honeycomb of chambers beneath the temple of the Penestricans, the night had passed and dawn lay near. The candles were burning low with tired flickers. The chanting had stopped hours ago. All was silent, and in that silence anxiety stretched so strong it nearly became a sound itself.

  The Lady Elandra lay on a slab of stone, straight and stiff, with her hands folded across her stomach. Robed in simple white, her unbound hair spread out beneath her, she remained unconscious and still. Her breathing was so slight she might have been dead. Her pale face was drawn, and a frown knotted her brows.

  On one side of her stood two of the sisters, looking frightened and anxious. On the other side stood Anas, almost as pale as Elandra. And at Elandra’s feet stood the Ma-gria, her old face very grim indeed.

  With angry eyes, she swept the faces of the others. “This has been badly handled from the start,” she said, her gaze stopping on Anas. “I told you to be kind to her. Have you grown so efficient, so cold, so brutal, Anas, that you have forgotten how to be gentle? Have you forgotten the meaning of kindness?”

  Anas looked mulish and upset. “You blame me for this?”

  Denial was always a clumsy line of defense. It showed how rattled Anas was.

  “You pushed her into the memories,” the Magria said. “You pushed her too far.”

  “The memories are an important part of the cleansing process,” Anas said half angrily, defending herself like a child. “I did not know she would go past them. We screened her before, when she was with us. She exhibited no abilities to have visions then.”

  “But she has had one now,” the Magria said. She sighed, feeling every year of her age. It had taken all her strength to pull Elandra back. Even now, as she thought of what she had seen through Elandra’s vision, she shuddered. It was fearsome indeed, as clear and vivid as any of Ma-gria’s own visions, and all too likely to come true.

  “The child was not prepared for this. She has had no training. She could not protect hers
elf.”

  “But you brought her back,” Anas said, insisting as though she wanted comfort.

  But there was no comfort to be handed out. The Magria looked at her deputy unsparingly. “Yes,” she said. “But whether she has returned with her reason intact is something we do not yet know. Whether she can survive the shock is another question beyond it.”

  “The coronation is in three hours,” Anas said. “The guard of escort is already waiting outside the temple.”

  “Do not speak to me of time!” the Magria snapped. “Do you think I can simply put my hand on her forehead and revive her to her senses? Do you think she is likely to recover in time to be crowned?”

  “But—”

  “I told you not to do this, and you disobeyed me,” the Magria said, too angry now to soften her tone.

  “The purification ceremony must be difficult—”

  “Why? The girl did not require it. She is no threat to us.”

  “She will be if he gives her the throne,” Anas said sharply. “You saw how much she has changed already. She must be taught to need us.”

  Disappointment caught the Magria in the throat like a knife. She had trained Anas with such hopes, but Anas continued to fall short. Another candidate to succeed her must be sought, and there was no time for that now either. Not with events shaping themselves so quickly.

  “You are wrong,” the Magria said flatly.

  For the first time Anas looked uncertain. She opened her mouth to say more, but the Magria lifted her hand.

  “You are no longer deputy,” she said in a harsh, toneless voice. “If you cannot realize what your mistake has cost us in terms of time and trust, then you are incapable of judging what needs to be done to salvage this situation. We have lost this child.”

  “She still lives,” Anas said, white-faced and shaken.

  “Go.”

  Anas started to protest again, but the Magria glared at her and curled her fists. She was angry, so angry she could barely trust herself not to strike.

  As though finally seeing this, Anas bowed her head and crept from the room.