The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun)

by K J Taylor

  Iorwerth bowed his head. “Mighty Skandar, do you believe we should go to war?”

  Skandar clicked his beak dismissively. “This my home nest now. Enemy come here, I kill them. Why leave? Have enough here; territory big enough now. You do as human say, or I drive you away.”

  His piece said, the dark griffin stepped off the platform and loped away after his retreating partner.

  • • •

  Up in his own room, Arenadd sat down at the desk and began to sort through a heap of paperwork. These days, it seemed everything was about pieces of paper. And arguing. Gods, how had it come to this?

  The Night God gives me immortality, he thought. And here I am, spending it doing this all gods-damned day.

  “Well, what’s the alternative?” he muttered aloud. “You’re a warrior who’s lost his taste for fighting. Maybe you don’t have any grey in your beard, but you’re ageing on the inside.”

  A sudden, intense feeling of loneliness came over him. He put down his pen and buried his face in his hands. Gods help me, what am I supposed to do? Everything used to be so simple. What happened to me?

  But things had been simple then because he had known what he had to do. The Night God had ordered him to use his powers to destroy the Southerners and free the North for her people to own once again. She had promised him power and riches in return, and he had them now. But without Skade . . . without his Skade, none of it could make him happy.

  Attacking the South won’t bring Skade back, and it won’t make me happy. And my people don’t need war.

  But the Night God had commanded him to, and if he defied her, even now . . .

  He shuddered. What do I do? What? I know what I must do, but I don’t want to do it.

  For some reason, he had imagined that finding out his old name would answer the questions that had been spiralling endlessly in his head for the past few years. But now he had the knowledge, nothing felt any simpler.

  “Arren Cardockson,” he repeated to himself.

  The name stirred nothing inside him. It could have been anybody’s name. It certainly wasn’t his. Not now. No, whoever Arren Cardockson had been, he was gone now. His short life had ended a long time ago, and perhaps his soul was at rest now.

  “For your sake, I hope it is, Arren,” he said. “And I hope you never did find out who would use your body after you died. No matter what you did in life, you didn’t deserve that.”

  His misery and anxiety were making him feel sick. He wanted to scream.

  Instead, he breathed out slowly and picked up his pen again. Control yourself. You have work to do.

  • • •

  Laela returned to her room after dinner, tired but happy. She had spent the entire morning in the library with Yorath, learning more runes. She could draw all of them by now, and once she’d practised the last of them and could write them down in their proper order, she could begin learning a few simple words.

  After the lesson, Yorath had surprised her by offering to show her around the Eyrie. She’d accepted, and after they’d had lunch together, he took her through the five towers—showing her the armoury, the treasury, the kitchens, and the Hatchery, where unpartnered griffins lived and bred. They couldn’t actually enter the Hatchery since unpartnered humans weren’t welcome inside it unless they worked there, but Yorath showed her to a window, where she could look through and see the huge space, teeming with griffins, fighting, eating, or sleeping.

  “’Course griffins weren’t really meant to live this close together, but they manage,” said Yorath. “Takes humans t’keep ’em peaceful-like. If a griffin kills a human, he’s likely t’be brought up on murder charges. Same goes if a human kills a griffin. It’s different if a human attacks a griffiner, mind. Then the griffin’s within his rights t’kill the bastard. Ye don’t have much t’fear if yer a griffiner. Probably why everyone wants t’be one.” He grinned.

  “I’d be damned scared having one of them things followin’ me around,” said Laela.

  “Oh, me, too,” said Yorath. “Wouldn’t happen, though. Griffins, they’re picky. They only choose the best humans.”

  “Still,” Laela said wistfully. “Flyin’ would be somethin’ else.”

  “Oh, yeah, wouldn’t it just,” said Yorath. He sighed. “I used t’dream of flyin’ a griffin, when I was a lad.” He tugged at her elbow. “C’mon, anyway—there’s one last thing t’show ye. I saved the best part till last.”

  They returned to the largest tower in the Eyrie, which Yorath had said was called the Council Tower.

  “An’ this is why they call it that,” he said, pushing open a huge pair of doors.

  Laela stepped through them and into the biggest chamber she had seen so far.

  It must have taken up more than one entire level of the tower, and had the same rounded shape. High above, the ceiling was an enormous dome, painted with a mural of griffins flying in a dark, star-studded sky dominated by the phases of the moon in a ring.

  The only furniture in the room was in the middle of the floor, where a ring of huge benches surrounded a platform shaped like a full moon. Above, ringing the inside of the chamber, were an enormous series of ledges, obviously designed for people and griffins to sit on. In fact, when Laela squinted, she could see a solitary old woman asleep up there.

  “Probably didn’t realise the meeting was over,” said Yorath, behind her. “What d’ye reckon?”

  Laela walked slowly toward the middle of the chamber, almost speechless at the sheer size and magnificence of it. “What is this?” she managed.

  “The council chamber, of course,” said Yorath. “This is where all the highest officials meet an’ talk with the King. They met here just today. Everyone was here—very important things going on just now.”

  Laela stepped onto the platform, noticing the deep cuts in the wood. “Is this where the King stands?”

  Yorath nodded. “The Mighty Skandar, too.” He knelt and ran his fingers over a row of marks at the edge of the platform. “Ye can see where his talons’ve been. Griffins have got a bad habit of tearin’ things up like this. They do it when they’re angry or upset about somethin’.”

  Laela examined the cuts. “Dear gods, the strength that beast has got. I saw him once up close, an’ I never want t’do it again.”

  “Ugh, me neither,” said Yorath. “He’s an unpredictable creature, that Skandar. He wasn’t brought up in a city, see. Word is he was born wild—an’ ye can’t change a wild griffin for love nor money. My father says that in the war, he’d tear a man’s head clean off in one go. An’ what he did when the griffiners attacked at Fruitsheart . . .”

  “He’s got magic, ain’t he?” said Laela. “Griffins’ve got magic.”

  “So they do,” said Yorath. “I’ve even seen one use it a few times. They don’t do it often, mind. But when they do . . .”

  “What do they use it for, anyway?” said Laela.

  “All kinds of stuff. Every griffin’s got a different power, see?”

  “Really?” Laela had never heard that before.

  “Oh, yeah. Some are more powerful’n others. Skandar, now . . . his magic won the war, really.”

  Laela shivered in pleasant anticipation. “What’s his power?”

  Yorath looked solemn. “The power of death. The power of shadows. They say the Night God gave it to him, and to the King as well. Lord Iorwerth—he’s the commander of the army—he told me he saw it used in battle. Skandar an’ the King can both disappear—turn ’emselves into shadows. That’s why they call the King the Shadow That Walks. An’ the Mighty Skandar, well . . . Iorwerth told me that in Fruitsheart, when the griffiners came, the Mighty Skandar breathed black magic at them. An’ everyone that magic touched—even the biggest of the griffins—died.”

  Laela felt cold inside. “Oh, Gryphus . . .�
��

  Instantly, Yorath’s friendly face darkened. “Gryphus!” he said. “Ye don’t worship him, Laela. Ye don’t, do ye?”

  “What?” Laela started. “Gryphus? No . . . I don’t think so, not really.”

  “Good.” Yorath’s mouth twisted with hate. “Nobody can worship Gryphus here, on pain of death. The Day God . . .” He spat. “A demon, he is. Only filthy Southerners worship him. The light an’ the day . . . it’s disgustin’. Who’d want to worship the sun, anyway? It’s a ball of flames—it can’t do anythin’ except burn. There’s no beauty in it, an’ no subtlety, either.”

  Laela stared at him. “Ye gods, Yorath, calm down. I never said nothin’ about worshippin’ Gryphus.”

  “Sorry.” Yorath looked embarrassed. “It’s just . . . well, the Day God’s our enemy. He’s the one sent his people here in the first place, an’ they oppressed us in his name. An’ I just hate the idea that ye’d ever worship him, Laela. I like ye, see?”

  Laela looked at his earnest face and felt inexplicably sad. Her father had always taught her that Gryphus was her protector—the guardian of the South and its people, the giver of life. But the Night God—Scathach, Southerners called her—was different. A god of lies and deceit, a god of darkness, a god of death, worshipped by barbaric Northerners, who slaughtered men on her altar.

  And yet . . .

  “I prayed to Gryphus once,” she said softly. “I’ll admit that.”

  Yorath scowled. “An’ what did ye ask him for?”

  “I asked him to make my father well again.”

  “An’ did yer father get well?”

  “He died,” said Laela.

  Yorath moved closer and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry about that, Laela.”

  “He was real sick,” Laela admitted. “It was probably just his time.”

  “Then the Night God answered yer prayer,” said Yorath. “She comes in the night, when a man is deathly sick and suffering, an’ she takes away his life an’ lets him sleep forever. Life is suffering, but the Night God gives us rest.”

  Laela nodded. “I like that.”

  Yorath smiled. “I’m sorry I got angry. Ye’ll come t’know the Night God better once ye start learnin’ from the priesthood. They’ll teach ye about her. She protects her people. That’s why she sent the King—to be her warrior an’ fight for us.”

  Laela thought of Arenadd, the night he had rescued her. “I know.”

  Yorath looked at the floor. “Ye know . . . ye’re beautiful, for a—”

  “—Half-breed?” said Laela.

  Yorath reddened. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Laela grinned at him. “An’ you’re not bad-lookin’ for a blackrobe.”

  For an instant, Yorath stared at her as if she had slapped him. Then, suddenly, he laughed. His laugh was a warm and genuine thing, and wonderfully spontaneous. “I wouldn’t use that word in front of anyone else if I were ye. It’s a quick way to get yerself in a fight. Anyway, I ain’t a blackrobe.”

  “I know,” said Laela. “Yer wearin’ a tunic.”

  “That, an’ I was born free,” said Yorath. “An’ so was my dad. He was a peasant boy around the time the war started. He went t’join the rebels with a runaway slave. Good ole Garnoc . . . they’re best friends now. Ye don’t call him a blackrobe to his face, though. Not unless ye want yer teeth broken.”

  “I’ll remember it, then,” said Laela, but she wasn’t really thinking about that. She was watching Yorath. She did like him, she thought. And he . . . “Do yeh really think I’m . . . well, good-lookin’?” she asked shyly.

  “’Course I do,” said Yorath. “The King’s lucky to have ye.”

  “Oh.” Laela deflated somewhat. Of course, he must think she was the King’s property. He’d never dream of . . . well . . .

  Yorath suddenly looked embarrassed. “It’s gettin’ late, an’ I’d better get home. Can ye find yer way back to yer quarters from here?”

  “Yeah, I know where it is,” said Laela. “Thanks for showin’ me around.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said Yorath. “Here, let me walk ye back.”

  He accompanied her back to her room despite her few token protests and inclined his head toward her when they arrived at the door.

  “I’ll leave ye here, then, an’ see ye tomorrow.”

  Laela smiled at him. “I’ll be sure to practise them runes.”

  “Yeah.” He moved close to her. “Listen, I don’t want t’sound nosy or anythin’, but I was wonderin’ . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “How long are ye plannin’ to stay here?” said Yorath.

  Laela stared at him. “I dunno. I got a good place here . . . I wasn’t thinkin’ of leavin’—why?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “It’s not my place to ask ye; I just was wonderin’. If ye’re stayin’ with the King an’ all . . .”

  “He let me stay here for nothin’,” said Laela. “I owe him that, don’t I? He’s not askin’ anythin’ of me.”

  “I know,” Yorath said hastily. “But listen—how are ye feelin’? Are ye . . . well?”

  “’Course I am,” said Laela. “What sort of question’s that?”

  Yorath looked even more uncomfortable. “Just . . . if ye start feelin’ sick or somethin’, then tell someone.”

  “I will,” said Laela, by now thoroughly lost. “Why—there ain’t some sickness goin’ around here, is there?”

  Yorath hesitated, and muttered a Northern curse under his breath. “Damn this—ye’ve got the right to know.” He glanced over his shoulder, and then hustled Laela into her room and closed the door behind them. “Listen,” he said urgently. “If anyone asks, I didn’t tell ye this, understand?”

  “Lips are sealed,” said Laela. “What’s this all about?”

  “The King’s had mistresses before ye,” Yorath said. “Ye’re the first in a while, though.”

  Laela shifted. “Ah . . . I see . . .”

  “Do ye know what happened to the others?” said Yorath. “The ones before ye?”

  “No,” said Laela.

  “They died,” said Yorath. “All of ’em.”

  Laela gaped at him. “What? All of them?”

  “At least four of the poor things, from what I heard,” said Yorath. “They were fine when they came here, but none of ’em survived. Some lasted longer’n others, but in the end . . .”

  An image flashed into Laela’s mind—Saeddryn, narrow-eyed and contemptuous . . . if I were ye, I wouldn’t stay long. Ye may think ye’re different, but trust me—he’ll be the death of ye. Maybe not soon, but one day.

  “He kills them,” she breathed. “He takes mistresses, then kills them.”

  “What? No!” Yorath looked horrified. “No, no, it’s not like that. He never killed any of ’em. He wouldn’t do that. No, no-one knows why they died. It was like a sickness. They’d just sort of . . . fade away, like they’d lost the will to live.”

  “For gods’ sakes, why did they keep comin’ to him?” said Laela. “If they knew they’d die . . .”

  “They didn’t, did they?” said Yorath. “Would ye believe it? They all came in thinkin’ they were invincible—not weak like the others. Maybe the King believed it, too. But that must be why he never married. In the city, they say he’s cursed never to love a woman for more than one full moon. Everyone thought the last mistress would be the last, but now . . . ye’ve come along.”

  Laela felt dizzy. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If I ever feel sick or anythin’, I’ll leave. That’s a promise. Nothin’s good enough to make me die for it.”

  Yorath smiled. “Good. I’m glad t’hear ye say it. Now I’d better go. Don’t want the King thinkin’ we’re up to somethin’.” He hastily opened the door and checked that the c
oast was clear.

  “Thanks for tellin’ me,” said Laela. “It’s nice t’know yeh care, like.”

  Yorath inclined his head politely. “Always, my lady.”

  He smiled at her again and hurried away, leaving Laela to watch him until he had gone.

  Alone again, she closed her door and collapsed onto her bed, where she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  Her head was spinning.

  Gods, no wonder Saeddryn had made that threat. And no wonder people had been avoiding her since she’d come into the Eyrie. She’d thought they were keeping their distance for fear of offending the King, but if they all believed she was going to drop dead in a matter of months . . .

  To her surprise, she felt a pang of sadness on the King’s behalf. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see so many young women die so quickly simply because he had touched them.

  She wondered if he had cried for any of them.

  He’s so alone.

  The thought surprised her.

  9

  The Tomb

  That night, she had a strange dream.

  She was standing in a meadow, surrounded by flowers and lush, green grass. Butterflies drifted through the warm air. Above she saw the huge, graceful shapes of griffins soaring. Their feathers were brown, patterned with gold that shone in the sun.

  But there was no sun in the sky.

  Laela wandered through the meadow, breathing in the rich, flower-scented air, and saw someone else there.

  It was a man. He was tall and muscular—the most-powerful-looking man she had ever seen. His skin was tanned brown, and he had a mane of thick, red-gold hair flowing over his shoulders. A strong beard covered his chin, and he wore a golden crown. Below it, his features were strong and stern, dominated by blazing blue eyes.

  He walked toward her, barefoot and graceful. His only clothing was a bright yellow-and-orange cloak, and she could see his manhood, long and thick between his legs.

  Laela tried not to stare at it. “What is this?” she said aloud. “Where am I?”

  The man towered over her, smiling. My child. My sweet Laela. Walk with me.