The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun)

by K J Taylor

  But the King was gone, and Laela knew that betrayal was her only chance.

  To her surprise, she realised that, mixed in with her fear for herself, was worry about the King. Arenadd.

  What could have happened to him? Was he hurt—had he been kidnapped?

  Maybe he had run away.

  She remembered the bitter way he’d talked about his Kingship—how depressed he’d seemed. Maybe he’d killed himself.

  But she remembered seeing him the morning before he’d vanished, and noticing how energetic he seemed all of a sudden. Cheerful, even. That wasn’t the look of a man planning to kill himself that night. It had been closer to the look of a man who had something completely different on his mind.

  He’d looked like someone who had something planned—something important and special.

  He’s run away, she thought. Must have done. He decided to do it yesterday or the night before, an’ he did it that night, after he’d talked about Amoran to throw me off.

  But where could he have gone? And would he really run away from his responsibilities like that? He hadn’t struck Laela as the sort to abandon something as important as an entire Kingdom. But maybe she’d judged him wrong.

  It was too much for her to figure out, and she sighed and drank the last of the water.

  • • •

  Morning saw her sitting hunched on her bench, staring at the floor with blank, dead eyes. She had no idea what time of day it was, but it felt like morning. It had to be.

  The by-now-familiar jingling of keys made her look up, her tiredness vanishing as her heart leapt into her mouth and started pounding furiously.

  A solitary guard came in, leaving his friend outside to watch the door. “Get up.”

  She did. He stepped forward and shoved her toward the door, and she went meekly enough though her mind was racing as much as her heartbeat. She desperately wanted to speak up and tell them about Yorath, but something held her back. Part of it was her final reluctance to expose him, but it was also a more practical thought—that the guards were just guards and wouldn’t want to hear anything she had to say. They had no power to set her free anyway. If she told anyone, it would have to be whoever interrogated her.

  The guards took her along the same narrow passage as before—she was befuddled by her lack of sleep and couldn’t remember which direction they had been going in when they’d arrived and whether they were following it now.

  They reached a door at the end, and once the guard in front had identified himself to his comrade on the other side, it was unlocked, and they went through. Not, as Laela had expected, into a torture chamber, but into a small space that looked like a guardroom. Numerous guards were in it, relaxing at a table and sharing gossip and a game of some sort. Most of them barely glanced up.

  Laela’s own guards escorted her to the other side of the guardroom and through another door. That took them to a set of stairs that led them straight upward, and as Laela reached the top, she squinted as light hit her eyes. This wasn’t right . . .

  At the top of the stairs, the guards pushed her out and into a much more ordinary corridor, where a man was waiting for them. He wore armour like the guards, but carried himself with more authority than they did, and her two escorts bowed their heads to him.

  “Who are yeh?” Laela demanded. “What’s goin’ on?”

  The man looked distastefully at her. “I’ve been ordered t’pass this onto ye by Lord Torc.”

  Her heart quickened. “What?”

  “Yer tutor came forward this mornin’ and told the Master of Law he was with ye all last night an’ there’s no chance ye could have gone anywhere else without him seein’. Since there’s no proof he’s lyin’, the law says ye must be set free.”

  Laela felt warm all over. “They’re lettin’ me go?”

  A nod. “However, the Lady Saeddryn, as actin’ ruler of the Eyrie, has ordered that ye cannot stay here. Ye’re t’leave the Eyrie immediately, an’ if ye come back, ye’ll be thrown back into the dungeons for trespassin’. Is that clear?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “Good. Now get goin’.”

  Laela walked past him with as much dignity as she could muster, and followed the corridor around until she reached the door leading out into the city.

  Where Yorath was waiting for her.

  Laela stared at him for an instant, then threw herself into his arms. “Yorath!”

  He returned the embrace. “Laela, thank the Night God ye’re safe! They didn’t hurt ye, did they?”

  She realised she was on the verge of tears. “No. They were goin’ to, but they didn’t. Yorath, yeh saved me. They was gonna torture me in there—if yeh hadn’t . . .” She hugged him more tightly.

  “Well, I couldn’t just sit by an’ do nothing!” said Yorath. “I knew ye hadn’t done anythin’ wrong. An’ besides . . .”

  Laela pulled away to look him in the face. “Yeah?”

  He hesitated. “Never mind. Laela . . . look, I’m sorry. I did what I could for ye, but Lady Saeddryn’s in charge now since she’s the King’s oldest blood relative. I can’t go against what she says.”

  “I know,” said Laela. “It’s all right; I ain’t blamin’ yeh. I don’t wanna stay here anyway. Not with the King gone. Gods, Yorath—what happened to him? Where did he go?”

  Yorath shrugged helplessly. “No-one knows. He just vanished out of his room, an’ no-one saw him go in or out. The whole city’s in an uproar. Skandar’s half-mad.”

  “Wait—Skandar?”

  “Yeah. Well, of course he’s gone bats. He’s lost his human—do ye know how shameful that is for a griffin? If the King doesn’t come back soon, he could lose everything. The other griffins won’t respect him any more if he hasn’t got a human.”

  Laela barely heard him. The King vanished, but Skandar didn’t. Why in the gods’ names would he run away an’ leave his griffin behind?

  “Listen,” Yorath interrupted. “I’m so sorry about this, but I can’t let ye stay any longer. Here.” He pressed her sword into her hands. “I got this back for ye. An’ this.”

  Laela took her bag of money and tied it to her belt. “Thanks, Yorath. This sword was Dad’s, y’know. He left it to me.”

  “I know; ye told me. Now, go. Get out of here, Laela—an’ good luck.”

  She smiled to hide her real feelings, and tapped the sword-hilt. “I don’t need luck when I got this.”

  Yorath darted forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Go, Laela. An’ may the Night God watch over ye.”

  She kissed him back. “I think she does,” she said, and walked out of the Eyrie.

  • • •

  Arenadd. Arenadd . . .

  The voice drifted toward him through the currents, and he struggled to reach it. His own voice felt weak, but he tried his hardest to call out to her. “Master . . . help . . .”

  Arenadd.

  “Help,” he whispered. “Help me . . . please, Master . . .”

  My help . . . is no help, she said.

  He tried to speak, again, but his throat was full of something he couldn’t cough up. His mind was full of vague memories of a scarred and horrible face looking down at him with terrible malice and pain.

  Skandar, he thought, I need Skandar. Need him to help me. I need . . .

  “Where’s . . . Skandar . . . ?”

  Arenadd, the Night God said again. You are weak, uncertain . . . I sense it in you. Why is this? Why do you waver?

  He said nothing but tried to drag himself toward her, wanting her comfort and strength.

  I cannot sense you, she said, and for the first time, she sounded uncertain. You are weakening . . . your faith in me is weak . . . your devotion, weak. Why? What have you done to make this happen?

  “Don’
t,” he managed. “Don’t want . . . Where’s Skandar? Make him come, send him to help, help . . .”

  BELIEVE! The Night God roared. Believe in me, Arenadd Taranisäii! You are my creature, you cannot turn away from me. Without me, you are nothing. You—are—nothing! Is that what you wish? Do you wish that? To be nothing, know nothing? Would you cast yourself into the void?

  His voice was coming back. “No. Please, no. Not that.”

  Then listen to me.

  “I will.” He felt stronger now, more lucid.

  The confusion and the greyness faded, and darkness came. And the Night God was there, as always, her face stern but sad. I know that it is difficult for you, Arenadd. You have been steadfast for so long.

  He gritted his teeth, his insides almost boiling with rage and despair. “I—don’t—want to be steadfast! Understand? I’ve had enough! I’ve come so far—you’ve pushed me so far—and what do I have to show for it?”

  Only power, only wealth. Only the immortality I promised. Only the loyalty and love of thousands. Only that, Arenadd. Only my favour.

  He said nothing.

  Behold, she whispered. I have brought something with me.

  “What . . . ?”

  She smiled. On the night of the Blood Moon, you asked me to tell you who you were. But when I told you, you did not seem content. Perhaps I did not give you what you truly wanted. Therefore . . . see what you have forgotten.

  As she spoke, she reached upward—upward to where stars shone in their millions. Her fingers closed around one star. Just a small star. It wasn’t particularly bright.

  See it, she said, bringing her hand down toward him. See him.

  Her fingers uncurled, and the star drifted away from her palm and toward him, to hover between them. Then the Night God leant forward, and blew softly on it. Her breath came out as silvery-white mist, and it gathered itself around the star, soaking up its light.

  The mist spread out once again, but it didn’t drift away. The star lit it up from within, as it formed itself into a shape around it—a shape that grew larger and larger until it was man-sized.

  And man-shaped.

  Arenadd found himself looking into a pair of eyes—pale, transparent eyes.

  The mist had taken on the shape of a boy. He looked no older than nineteen and had the same height and build as Arenadd did. He was silvery-white all over, but Arenadd could tell from his angular features that the mop of curly hair on his head must once have been black.

  The boy was simply clad, and though he had a brash, self-confident smile on his face, his eyes were sad.

  Arenadd reached out toward him. “Who are you?”

  Don’t you know? The spirit’s voice was fainter than a whisper and echoed slightly.

  “No . . .”

  The boy reached out in return, until his ghostly finger-tips almost touched Arenadd’s. This was what I looked like, when I was alive, he whispered. Before Eluna died. Before I met Darkheart. Before my face was torn by the griffin chick I stole.

  “Who were you?” said Arenadd. “What was your name?”

  The boy didn’t seem to hear him. A griffiner, I was. A Northern griffiner. So many people thought it was wrong, but they couldn’t stop it. I was so close! So close to having everything. They were going to put me on the council—make me truly one of them! They tried everything to stop us, but we wouldn’t go away, Eluna and me, and we were so clever and careful . . . We worked hard and people liked us . . . I was Master of Trade, I was.

  “Master of Trade,” Arenadd muttered. “A Northerner, Master of Trade in a Southern city?”

  Oh, I was, I was. The boy smiled beatifically. Eluna was so proud of me. He looked up abruptly, his smile fading. I was wrong. I was wrong! WRONG! Listen, listen—you’ve got to understand. Northerners can’t live in the South! We can’t be like them, understand? They hate us, hate us . . . oh, gods, what did I do? All I wanted was to show I could be more than just a blackrobe, but Lord Rannagon betrayed me. Betrayed me! The dark griffin killed Eluna. I lost everything, everything! And then they killed me. Killed me! I was murdered. They shot me full of arrows, pushed me off the edge of the city. Oh, gods, not falling, not that, not that . . . oh, gods save me, I fell . . . fell so far . . . oh, gods, the pain. All my bones, my whole body broken, and it hurt . . .

  The ghost was hysterical, his face a mask of horror. Arenadd thought he could see the marks of wounds appearing on his body as he screamed—a phantom arrow, protruding from his chest, and another from his leg. Blood ran down his face from just beneath his eye, as if he were weeping.

  “I’m sorry—”

  The ghost lurched toward him, wild-eyed. Who will avenge me? he demanded in a terrible voice. Who? Rannagon betrayed me, his griffin cursed me to die! They killed me! Who will avenge me?

  “I did,” Arenadd whispered.

  You? Who are you? The ghost’s eyes had gone wide in sudden fear. Who are you? Why do you look like me? WHO ARE YOU?

  Arenadd backed away. “Leave me alone. I don’t know you, I don’t know . . .”

  The ghost stopped dead, holding his hands upward as if to tear a hole in the sky. I am Arren Cardockson, curse you! I am Arren Cardockson, and I was murdered!

  • • •

  When Laela stepped through the outer gate in the wall surrounding the Eyrie and back into the city, she knew exactly where she had to go. Even if it came to nothing, she had to be certain, at the very least for the King’s sake. He’d been so kind to her, done so much for her—he deserved her help.

  She was taking no chances this time. Keeping her sword at her side and her hand on the hilt, she approached the nearest person. “Oi, you. Yeah, you.”

  The man looked vaguely annoyed at first, but became wary when he saw the sword. “What can I do for ye, girl?”

  “I’m lookin’ for the tavern called the Blue Moon,” said Laela.

  “Oh, is that all? Well, it’s easy enough t’find. It’s on this street—just follow it westward until ye see it. It’s a bit shorter’n the ones around it, an’ there’s a nice big sign over the door.”

  “Thanks.” Laela nodded and went on her way.

  She had already noticed how different the city was now. For one thing, guards were stationed on nearly every street-corner, heavily armed and looking tense and watchful. The people around and about had a nervous look to them, too, and avoided the guards as much as they could. Laela avoided them as well. She’d become somewhat disenchanted with guards.

  A shadow passed over her, and she looked up sharply and gasped.

  The sky was full of griffins. She’d seen them before, of course—they seemed content to spend most of their time flying aimlessly over the city—but now they had an intent look about them. This wasn’t the lazy circling of griffins who had nothing better to do; this was the deliberate motion of a group of hunters. And they were hunting for something they were desperate to find.

  But not as desperate as Skandar.

  Laela saw him, too—massive compared to the others, even at that height. He circled close to the Eyrie, his huge wings beating slowly. As Laela watched him, she heard his cry echo over the city.

  She had heard him call before, but not like this. It was a plaintive cry—almost a wail. It made her think of a lost child calling for his mother. She had never imagined that an animal so huge and powerful could sound so forlorn.

  Laela tore her eyes away and walked on, shoulders hunched in determination.

  The street was a long one, but she followed it doggedly, pausing to examine every sign. Finally, she came across one that made her heart leap. It hung over the door of a building that looked squat despite its two storeys, and featured a faded picture of a blue moon.

  She examined it, and her eyes narrowed. This was the place he’d taken her on the night they had met.
This was the place he went when he snuck out of the Eyrie. They know me there.

  Laela gripped her sword more tightly and went in.

  The tavern was almost deserted today—there were only one or two drinkers in it, one of whom was asleep in a pool of vomit. Laela ignored them and strode up to the counter, where she thumped the solid wood until a man appeared on the other side.

  “What d’ye want?”

  Laela reached for her belt and opened her money-bag. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”

  “Anyone in particular?” the bartender said cautiously.

  She reached up to the bartop again, and slowly placed a silver oblong on it. “I’m lookin’ for a man who comes here a lot,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Yeh probably remember him pretty well.”

  “I’ve got plenty of regulars here,” said the bartender, not taking his eyes off the money.

  “This one’s different,” said Laela. “He keeps his face covered an’ never shows it to anyone.”

  The man’s expression changed. “Look, I don’t mess with him, all right? No-one does. He minds his own business, an’ so do I.”

  “But he was here two nights ago,” said Laela. She pushed the oblong toward him. “Wasn’t he?”

  The bartender took it. “I ain’t interested in helpin’ ye, understand? What he does is his own business, an’ it’s more than my life’s worth t’go talkin’ about it to anyone who just walks in here.”

  “I ain’t just anyone,” said Laela. “An’ I don’t want t’know where he goes or anythin’ like that, see?”

  “Well then, go away an’ stop botherin’ me,” said the man. “I’ve got enough troubles of my own as it is, what with the serving girl disappearin’. The Lone Wolf’s brought enough bad luck here already without bringin’ any more.”

  Laela dug out another oblong. “Just tell me one thing. Just one thing, all right? That’s all I want t’know. An’ I’ll make it worth yer while.”

  “What do ye want to know?” he asked cautiously.

  She put the oblong on the table, keeping it trapped under her fingers. “Was the Lone Wolf in here two nights ago?”