(Shadowmarch #2) Shadowplay

by Tad Williams

  “Don’t interrupt, old man,” said Opal. “He’s trying to explain if you’d just listen.”

  Chaven Makaros looked a little shamefaced at being the cause of such discord. Despite living in the house for several days he had not yet realized that this was Chert and Opal’s way of speaking, especially Opal’s, a kind of mock harshness that did not disguise her true and much warmer feelings—did not disguise them from Chert, at least, though outsiders might not recognize them.

  “Have I spoken too much?” the physician asked. “It is late…”

  “No, no.” Chert waved for him to continue. “Opal is just reminding me that I’m a dunderhead. Continue—I am fascinated. It is certainly the first time any of these subjects have been discussed inside these walls.”

  “I know it is hard to understand,” said Chaven. “I spent years with my master studying this and still do not altogether grasp it, and it is only one possible way of looking at the cosmos. The School of Phelsas says that the mistake is in thinking of our world or the world of the gods as solid things—as great masses of earth and stone. In truth, the Phelsaians suggest, the worlds—and there are more than two, they claim, far more—are closer to water.”

  “But that makes no sense…!” Chert began, then Opal caught his eye. “Apologies. Please continue.”

  “That does not mean the world is made of water,” Chaven explained. “Let me explain. Just off the coast of my homeland Ulos in the south there is a cold current that moves through the water—cold enough to be felt with the hand, and even of a slightly different color than the rest of the Hesperian Ocean. This cold current sweeps down from the forbidden lands north of Settland, rushes south past Perikal and the Ulosian coast, then curves back out to sea again, finally disappearing in the waters off the western coast of distant Xand. Does that water travel through a clay pipe, like a Hierosoline water-channel bringing water hundreds of miles to the city? No. It passes through other water—it is water itself—but it retains its characteristic chill and color.

  “This, says the School of Phelsas, is the nature of the worlds, our world, the world of the gods, and others. They touch, they flow through each other, but they retain that which makes them what they are. They inhabit almost the same place, but they are not the same thing, and most of the time there is no crossing over from one to another. Most of the time, one cannot even perceive the other.”

  Chert shook his head. “Strange. But where do mirrors fit into this?”

  For once in the conversation, Opal did not seem to find him a waste of breath. “Yes, please, Doctor. What about the mirrors?”

  Their guest shrugged in discomfort. Even after several days, it was still strange to see him here in their front room. Chert knew that Chaven was not particularly large for one of the big folk, but in this setting he loomed like a mountain. “You do not need to call me ‘Doctor,’ Mistress Blue Quartz.”

  “Opal! Call me Opal.”

  “Well. Chaven, then.” He smiled a little. “Very well. Ximander’s Book tells that mirror-lore is the third great gift because it allows men to glimpse these other worlds that travel as close to us as our own shadows. Just as an ordinary mirror bounces back the vision that is before it, so too can a special mirror be constructed and employed that will send back visions of…other places.” He paused for a moment, as if considering what he was about to say very carefully. In the silence, Opal spoke up.

  “It has to be a…special mirror?”

  “In most cases and for most mirror-scrying, yes.” Chaven looked at her in surprise. “You have heard something of this?”

  “No, no.” Opal shook her head. “Please go on. No, wait. Let me quickly look in on the boy.” She got up and left the room, leaving Chert and Chaven to sip their tea. The blueroot had helped a little: Chert no longer felt as though he might fall onto his face at any moment.

  Opal returned and Chaven took a breath. “As I said, I will not bore you with too much mirror-lore, which is complicated and full of disputations—just learning and understanding some of the disagreements between the Phelsaians and the Captrosophist Order in Tessis could take years. And of course the Trigonate church has considered the whole science blasphemous for centuries. In bad times, men have burned for mirrors.” As he said this, Chaven faltered a little. “Perhaps now I know why.”

  “What has your friend—your once-friend, I suppose—done to you, then?” Chert asked. “You said he stole something of yours. Was it a mirror?”

  “Ah, you see where I am going,” Chaven said almost gratefully. “Yes, it was a very powerful, very old mirror. One that I think was made carefully in ancient days to see, and even talk, between worlds.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Chaven’s look became even stranger, a mixture of shame and a sort of furtive, almost criminal, hunger. “I…I don’t know. There, I have said it. I do not know. I have traveled much, and I suppose I brought it back from one of my journeys, but with all the gods as my witnesses, I cannot say for sure.”

  “But if it is such a powerful thing…” Chert began.

  “I know! Do not task me with it. I told you I was ashamed. I do not know how it came to me, but I had it, and I used it. And I…reached out and…and touched something on the other side.”

  It was the tortured expression on the physician’s face as much as his words that made the hairs prickle on the back of Chert’s neck. He almost thought he could sense movement in the room, as though the flames of the two lamps danced and flickered in an unfelt wind.

  “Touched something…?” asked Opal, and her earlier interest seemed to have vanished into fear and distaste.

  “Yes, but what it was…what it is…I cannot say. It is…” He shook his head and seemed almost ready to weep. “No. There are some things I cannot talk about. It is a thing beautiful and terrifying beyond all description, and it is mine alone—my discovery!” His voice grew harsh and he seemed to pull deeper into himself, as though prepared to strike or flee. “You cannot understand.”

  “But what use is such a thing to Okros—or to Hendon Tolly, for that matter?” Chert thought they seemed to have tunneled a bit far from the seam of the matter.

  “I don’t know,” said Chaven wretchedly. “I don’t even know what it is, myself! But I…woke it. And it has great power. Every time I touched it I felt things that no man can ever have felt before…” He let out a great, gasping sob. “I woke it! And now I have let Okros steal it! And I can never touch it again…!”

  The sounds he was making began to alarm Chert, but to his relief Opal got up and went to the weeping physician, patting his hand and stroking his shoulder as though he were a child—as though he were not twice her size. “There, now. All will be well. You’ll see.”

  “No, it won’t. Not as long…not as long…” Another spell of sobbing took him and he did not speak for a long time. Chert found the man’s weakness excruciatingly difficult to witness.

  “Is there anything…would you…? Perhaps some more tea?” Opal asked at last.

  “No. No, thank you.” Chaven tried to smile, but he sagged like a pennant on a windless day. “There is no cure for a shame like mine, not even your excellent tea.”

  “What shame?” Opal scowled. “You had something stolen from you. That isn’t your fault!”

  “Ah, but it meaning so much to me—that is my fault, without doubt. It has seized me—rooted itself in me like mistletoe on an oak. No, I could never be such a noble tree as Skyfather Perin’s oak.” He laughed brokenly. “It does not matter. I told no one. I made it my secret mistress, that mirror and what it contains, and I went to it afire with shame and joy. I spoke to no one because I was afraid I would have to give it up. Now it is too late. It’s gone.”

  “Then it will be good for you,” said Chert. “If it is an illness, as you say, then you can be cured now.”

  “You don’t understand!” Chaven turned to him, eyes wide and face pale. “Even if I survive its loss, it is a terrible, powerful thing. Yo
u do not think Hendon Tolly and that bastard traitor Okros stole it for no reason, do you? They want its power! And what they will do with it, the gods only know. In fact, it could be only the gods can help us.” He dropped his head, folded his bandaged hands on his chest—he was praying, Chert realized. “All-seeing Kupilas, lift me in your hands of bronze and ivory, preserve me from my folly. Holy Trigon, generous brothers, watch over us all…!” His voice dropped to a mumble.

  “Doctor…Chaven,” Opal said at last, “do you…can you do things…with any mirror?”

  Chert gaped at her in astonishment—what was she talking about?—but Chaven stirred and looked up, hollow-eyed but a little more composed. “I’m sorry, Mistress. What do you mean?”

  “Could you help our Flint? Help him to find his wits again?”

  “Opal, what is this nonsense?” Chert stood, feeling bone-weary in every part of his body. “Can’t you see that the man is ready to drop?”

  “It’s true I am too tired to be of any use just now,” said Chaven, “but it is also true that after abusing your hospitality in many ways, there are things I could…explore. But we have no mirror.”

  “We have mine.” Opal revealed the small face-glass she had been holding in her palm. She had received it as a wedding present from Chert’s sisters, and now she held it out to Chaven, proud and anxious as a small child. “Could you use it to help our boy?”

  He held it briefly, then passed it back. “Any mirror has uses to one who has been trained, Mistress. I will see what can be done in the morning.” A strange light seemed to come into his eyes. “It is possible I could learn something of what Okros does as well.” He passed a hand over his face. “But now I am so tired…!”

  “Lie down then,” said Opal. “Sleep. In the morning you can help him.” She giggled, which alarmed Chert as much as Chaven’s blubbering. “You can try, I mean.”

  The physician had already staggered to his pallet in the corner of the sitting room. He stretched out, face-first, and appeared to tumble into sleep like a man stepping off a cliff. Chert, overwhelmed, could only follow Opal into the darkness of their own bedchamber.

  Sister Utta had just finished lighting the last candle, and was whispering the Hours of Refusal prayer when she noticed the girl.

  She almost lost the flow of what she was saying, but she had been practicing the rituals of Zoria for most of her life; her tongue kept forming the near-silent words even as she observed the child who stood patiently in the alcove, hooded against the cold.

  “Just as you would give your virtue to no man, so I shall hold mine sacred to you.”

  How long has the child been standing there?

  “Just as you would not turn your tongue to false praise, I will speak only words acceptable to you.

  “Just as you did walk naked into darkness to return to your father’s house, so I will undertake my journey without fear, as long as I am true to you.”

  Ah. I know her now. It’s young Eilis, the duchess Merolanna’s maid. She is pale. It will be a long time until the spring sun, if the weather keeps up.

  “And just as you returned at last to the bounty of your father’s house, so will I, with your help and companionship, find my way to the blessed domain of the gods.”

  She kissed the palm of her hand and looked up briefly to the high window, its light dulled today by the cloudy weather. The face of her gloriously forgiving mistress looked down on her, reminding her that Zoria’s mercy was without end, but Sister Utta still could not help feeling as though she had somehow failed the goddess.

  Why has prayer brought me no peace? Is it my fault for bringing an unsettled heart to your shrine, sweet Zoria?

  No answer came. Some days of deep sadness or confusion Utta could almost hear the voice of the goddess close as her own heartbeat, but today Perin’s daughter seemed far away from her, even the stained glass window without its customary gleam, the birds that surrounded the virgin goddess not flying but only hovering, drab and distressed.

  Utta took a breath, turned to the girl in the heavy woolen cloak. “Are you waiting for me?”

  The child nodded helplessly, as if she had been caught doing something illicit. After a moment of wide-eyed confusion she reached into her cloak and produced an envelope with the seal of the dowager duchess on it. Utta took it, noting with surprise and sadness that the girl snatched her hand away as soon as the transfer had finished, as though she feared catching an illness.

  What is that about? Utta wondered. Am I the subject of evil rumors again? She sighed, but kept it from making a sound. “Does she wish an answer now or shall I send one back later?”

  “She…she wants you to read it, then come back with me.”

  Utta had to repress another sigh. She had much to do—the shrine needed sweeping, for one thing. The great bowl on the roof of the shrine needed filling so the birds could feed, a journey of many steps, and she also had letters to write. One of the other Zorians, the oldest of the castle’s sisterhood, was ill and almost certainly dying and there were relatives who should be told, on the chance—however unlikely—that they would wish to come see her in the final days. Still, it was impossible to refuse the duchess, especially in a castle so unsettled by change, when the Zorian shrine had scarcely any protectors left. Hendon Tolly was openly contemptuous of Utta and the other Zorian sisters, calling them “white ants” and making it clear he thought the shrine took up room in the residence that could be better employed housing some of his kin and hangers-on. No, Utta needed Merolanna’s continued goodwill: she was one of the few allies the sisterhood still retained.

  Then again, perhaps the duchess was ill herself. Utta felt a clutch of worry. For all they were different, she liked the woman, and there were few enough among the castle folk these days with whom she felt anything in common.

  “Of course I will come,” Utta told the girl. She opened the letter and saw that it said nothing much more than the maid had suggested, except for a curious coda in the duchess’ slightly shaky hand, “if you have a pair of specktakle glasses, bring them.”

  Utta did not, so she waved the girl toward the door of the shrine and followed her, but she could not help wondering what the duchess wanted of her that would require such a thing: Merolanna was an educated woman and could read and write perfectly well.

  As she followed the girl Eilis through the nearly empty halls Utta could not help noticing how the interior of the residence seemed to mirror the weather outside. Half the torches were unlit and a dim gray murk seemed to have fallen over the corridors. Even the sounds of voices behind doors were muffled as though by a thick fog. The few people she passed, servants mostly, seemed pale and silent as ghosts.

  Is it the fairy folk across the river? It has been a full month now and they have done nothing, but it is hard not to think of them every night. Is it the twins disappearing? Or is there something more—may the White Daughter protect us always—something deeper, that has made this place as cold and lonely as a deserted seashore?

  When they reached the duchess’ chambers, Eilis left Utta standing in the middle of the front room surrounded by a largely silent group of gentlewomen and servants, most of them sewing, while she went and knocked on the inner chamber door.

  “Sor Utta is here, Your Grace.”

  “Ah.” Merolanna’s voice was faint but firm. Utta felt a little better: if the dowager duchess was ill, she did not sound it. “Send her in. You stay outside with the others, child.”

  Utta was surprised to find the duchess fully dressed, her hair done and her face powdered, looking in all ways prepared for any state occasion, but seated on the edge of her bed like a despondent child. Merolanna held a piece of paper in her hand, and she waved it distractedly, gesturing toward a chair high and wide enough to hold a woman wearing a voluminous court dress. Utta sat down. Because she wore only her simple robes, the seat stretched away on either side, so that she felt a bit like a single pea rolling in a wide bowl. “How may I help you, Your Grace?”
>
  Merolanna waggled the piece of paper again, this time as if to drive away some annoying insect. “I think I am going mad, Sister. Well, perhaps not mad, but I do not know whether I am upside down or right side up.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Did you bring your reading spectacles?”

  “I do not use such things, ma’am. I get along well enough, although my eyes are not what they were…”

  “I can scarcely read without mine—Chaven made them for me, beautiful spectacle-lenses in a gold wire frame. But I lost them, curse it, and he’s gone.” She looked around the bedchamber in mingled outrage and misery, as though Chaven had disappeared on purpose, just to leave her half-blind.

  “Do you want me to read something to you?”

  “To yourself—but quietly! Come sit next to me. I already muddled it out, even without my spectacles, but I want to see if you read the same words.” Merolanna patted the bed.

  Utta herself did not wear scents, not because the Sisterhood didn’t permit her to, but out of personal preference, and she found Merolanna’s sweet, powdery smell a little disconcerting, not to mention almost strong enough to make her sneeze. She composed herself with her hands on her lap and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  “This!” Merolanna said, waving the piece of paper again. “I don’t know if I’m going mad, as I’m sure I already said. The whole world is topsy-turvy and has been for months! It almost feels like the end of the world.”

  “Surely the gods will bring us through safely, my lady.”

  “Perhaps, but they’re not doing much to help so far. Asleep, perhaps, or simply gone away.” Merolanna laughed, short and sharp. “Do I shock you?”

  “No, Duchess. I cannot imagine a person who would never be angry at the gods or full of doubt in days like these. We have all—and especially you—lost too many that we love, and seen too many frightening things.”

  “Exactly.” Merolanna hissed out a breath like someone who has waited a long time to hear such words. “Do I seem mad?”