The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  “You are concerned with the nightwalkers. The Bane.”

  “I’m concerned that maybe it’ll rain, and I don’t have a tent,” Rion snapped. “I’m concerned that I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten, and my stomach feels like its starting its own rebellion. I’m not concerned about the nightwalkers, Ferinan. I’m terrified. Which, as it happens, is just about how any man or woman who isn’t a complete fool should feel about creatures whose hobbies include bloody murder and eating the hearts of their victims.”

  The dusky-skinned man nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. You are afraid. And yes, in most cases, such feelings would be understandable—would be as you say, how anyone who isn’t a complete fool should feel. But not now. Not now that he has come.” He turned then, and stared out at the darkness where the vague shape of the man Alesh could be seen, sitting alone in the shadows as he had been since Amedan and the other gods’ departures, saying nothing.

  Rion studied the Ferinan and shook his head, frustrated at the reverence in the man’s gaze, as if he wasn’t looking at a crazed man that was insane enough to fight nightlings for the gods’ sake, but at one of the gods themselves. “And you think what, exactly? That since the man knows how to glow like a damned torch, we’re all safe? Fine, I’ll admit that the show he put on was…incredible. But even with whatever strange powers he has, he is only one man, Darl. Do you really believe that one man can take on an army of nightwalkers?”

  “He is the Son of the Morning,” the Ferinan said simply, as if that was answer enough.

  Rion wished, not for the first time since a few hours ago when he’d begun speaking, that the Ferinan was still under his oath of silence. Now that the man had started talking, it looked as if he would never shut up, and whatever faith he had that everything would work out, Rion did not share it. True, they might be alive, but as far as he could see, that was an all-too-temporary state, one that would be remedied quickly enough when one of the things out to kill them finished its task. And it wasn’t just the nightlings they had to worry about, was it? No, there were the other Redeemers, not to mention Tesharna herself. If she hadn’t yet learned that her plan to have Rion and the others murdered had gone awry, she soon would. How long before she sent out troops to finish what Falen Par had started?

  And as bad as that was, as bowel-clenching, stomach-rumbling terrifying as that was, it wasn’t all they had to worry about. For according to Amedan and Javen, the gods themselves were at war. And in such a war, what chance did mortals have? If the Redeemers didn’t kill them, if—by some miracle—Tesharna’s troops didn’t find them and finish what the others had started, then the chances were they’d all be dead anyway, slain by some pissed-off god or goddess.

  And standing between that and them—at least to the Ferinan—was the man, Alesh. Rion glanced over to where the man sat in the shadows. Shortly after the gods had left, he had walked to that spot, saying nothing, and he sat there still, his grim-expression only just visible in the glow of the flames. The man didn’t look like anyone’s savior to Rion. He looked more like a man that needed saving, a man full of grief and pain and little else, but even that wasn’t the worst of it. For when Falen Par and the other Redeemers had run, Rion had seen something else in the man. Not pain, but hate not grief, but rage. A hate, a rage, that had twisted his features into something nearly demonic. The man hadn’t looked like a savior to Rion then, not at all.

  “You need not keep looking into the darkness, friend Rion. The creatures will not be back, not tonight. The Son of the Morning has sent them scurrying further into the shadows. And you’ll see,” the Ferinan said, drawing Rion’s attention back to him, “he will save us.”

  The man was studying him as if he knew exactly what troubles plagued Rion’s thoughts. “Of course.” And who will save him? he thought darkly as he regarded the crackling flames of the fire, the wood popping as the flames did their work. And another thought, even worse. Who will save us from him?

  ***

  Katherine sat apart from the two men at the fire, Sonya curled up in her arms asleep as if she were an infant instead of a child of six years. Still, Katherine thought she understood. The events of the day past had been traumatic enough for her and, unlike the girl, she had not been forced to watch those closest to her be murdered by Falen Par and his Redeemers.

  She could hear Rion and Darl on the other end of the campfire, speaking in low, quiet voices, the nobleman casting worried glances in the direction of Alesh where he sat in the darkness. And the truth was, she couldn’t blame the man, for she was afraid herself.

  When Alesh had first walked out into the night, alone and without a word, she had called out to him, but he had said nothing, seeming not to hear her at all, as if he existed in a world of his own. A world with which—if the grim look on his face was any indication—he was not pleased. She tried to imagine what it would be like to learn that you were The Son of the Morning, that you were the man meant to stand against the night and its creatures, to win a war against enemies who included not just at least one member of the Chosen, but the gods themselves, and found that she could not.

  And whatever hurts, whatever losses Sonya had suffered, he had suffered them as well—had also been beaten and dragged to the traitor’s tree to be executed. What would such an experience do to a man? Katherine wanted to comfort him, but found that she had no comfort to give. After all, she had her own worries. She had been chosen by Deitra, the Goddess of Music and Art, but what did that even mean? And chosen to do what exactly? She had given herself to Deitra long ago, but for all her loyalty to the goddess, she could not imagine what good music and art might do against fangs and claws, against swords wielded by men with blood on their minds and hate in their hearts.

  No, she could not fault the girl for her fears, nor Rion for his. In fact, the only person who seemed at peace with their situation was Darl, the Ferinan seemingly convinced that Alesh would protect them. Katherine wasn’t so sure. She had witnessed, after all, the way the man had snuffed out the lights of Falen Par and the others as they tried to flee, had seen the expression on his face—one of hate and joy both—as they were torn apart by the nightlings. She had seen his eyes dancing with satisfaction as their screams filled the night, and whatever she had felt in that moment, it had not been safe.

  Sonya stirred restlessly in her arms, small mewling sounds escaping her throat as if Katherine’s worries had been transferred to her through touch. Or perhaps she is having a nightmare, Katherine thought, and the worst of it was that, if that were the case, waking would offer the girl no relief. For they still knew nothing of what they would do now. She had thought, perhaps, that as he had been chosen by Amedan, Alesh, might have some plan, that he would come back into the firelight and tell them what they should do. But, so far at least, he seemed content to sit in the darkness, apart from the rest of them, staring into the night as if it were an enemy he could slay.

  The girl’s whimpers grew louder, desperate and scared, and she began to toss more in Katherine’s arms. Katherine considered waking her, but fought down the urge. Sonya needed her sleep. The truth was, they all did, and the girl was the only one smart enough to get it. So instead of shaking her awake, Katherine began to sing.

  An old lullaby, half-remembered, back from a time when her father had not yet been struck mad by grief at the loss of his wife, when her mother still lived and breathed and laughed. And sang. Katherine did not know all the words of her mother’s song, for she had not heard it since she was a child, but now, as then, she did not think it mattered. It was not the words, not really, but the voice—soft and reassuring and there—that had always comforted her.

  As she sang, the girl’s sleeping struggles eased then stopped altogether, and Katherine noted that Darl and Rion had both gone silent and were now studying her from across the fire. Noted it, but gave it no mind, for it was to the girl she sang and not just to her, but to herself as well. Her mother’s song. Her song, and in singing it, Katherin
e felt the presence of her mother stronger than she had in years, as if she were standing over her shoulder, watching with a small, approving smile on her face.

  That brought back more memories, sweet and painful both, and Katherine closed her eyes as tears began to slowly wind their way down her face. She remembered. And she sang.

  ***

  Alesh sat in the darkness, and he thought of his life, of those he had lost, of those—the little girl sleeping in Katherine’s arms chief among them—that he might still lose. He thought of the last few weeks, of Tesharna and Kale’s betrayal, and of Amedan claiming that Alesh was the Son of the Morning, a title he’d never heard before. He thought of his father, Torrik, and wondered what had caused him and Alesh’s mother to venture onto that dark forest path so long ago. Dark, yes, dangerous and dark.

  Mostly, Alesh thought about darkness.

  The Church always spoke of the need for each man and woman to carry Amedan’s light, a light which chased away the shadows, revealing truths they sought to hide. For there was no greater quest, they said, than the truth. Alesh was not so sure.

  For though the shadows might hide truth, they hid other things, too. Things like memories, so jagged and sharp that a man couldn’t handle them without drawing blood. Memories such as those of a boy stumbling through a shadowy forest path, alone then and, it seemed, destined to always be alone. Memories of the boy becoming a man, his life’s path leading ever onward as he watched those others who shared some piece of his journey fall into the night. Until it was only him alone, a revenant, forged and fashioned by pain, a twisted shadow of the memory of what he’d lost trailing behind him with each step he took.

  Perhaps the shadows concealed, perhaps they hid the truth. But the shadows hid pain too. And the truths they concealed were sometimes better left alone, forgotten. It seemed to Alesh that much of a man’s life was spent trying to tuck away those things, those memories that were painful to touch, to hide them away in shadow and darkness as if they had never been, ignoring their faint but always present whispering as they trailed after him.

  Memories like his parents’ death. Memories like the deaths of Chorin and Abigail and so many others, but even that was not all, for the bare truth was rarely a kind thing, and when facing it, a man could not long cast himself as the hero of his story. Yes, Alesh remembered. He remembered all too well. The way he had rejoiced as he’d snuffed out the fires of Falen Par and his men, in that moment taking not only their lights but their lives. The way he had basked in the sounds of their screams, their tortured wails, as the nightlings did their work, and none but Alesh to thank for it.

  Yes, he remembered. He remembered, and he despaired, for though he knew it was wrong, that dark joy he’d felt…the truth was, he felt it still. He was glad they had died, was glad they had suffered, but the larger truth was that, if he had his way, the suffering had only just begun. Tesharna and Kale, all of the Redeemers, they all deserved death. He felt that, knew that, and the strength of his knowing terrified him.

  And not just him. He had seen the way the others looked at him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. The furtive glances, the slight drawing away, as if the darkness in his soul was some sickness they might catch, and he could not even blame them for that…maybe it was. Only Sonya and Darl didn’t seem afraid of him, and one of those was a child with a child’s trust. As for Darl, the man seemed to be convinced that Alesh was some hero come to save the world, and as painful as the suspicious looks from Katherine and Rion were, he preferred them to the reverent, almost worshipful way the Ferinan studied him.

  A hero come to save the world? Alesh thought sarcastically. Then the world is doomed. How was he supposed to save the world when everyone he had tried to save—Chorin, Abigail, Olliman—had been killed? The only one that had survived was Sonya and that was thanks to Rion, Katherine, and Darl, not him.

  Yet, as ridiculous as it was, he knew Darl believed it. Just as he knew that they were all waiting on him, waiting for him to lead them, to tell them where they must go, as if Amedan, in choosing him, had put some sort of map in his head, a course they might take, a road they might follow. He had not, and to Alesh it didn’t seem to matter. What difference did it make what they did? There were five of them. Were they somehow supposed to fight not just Tesharna’s army, but Kale’s as well? And even were they to somehow conquer both of the armies arrayed against them, still they would not be victorious. After all, there was no telling how far the conspiracy went, how many had turned to the darkness.

  Alesh was no leader, and all the proclamations in the world wouldn’t change that. He was as he had always been—a servant. An orphan whose past lay shrouded in mystery and pain. No, the task of saving the world was too much, too…big. He could not do that—he wouldn’t even know how to begin. But revenge…seeing his enemies suffer and die as Falen Par had…that was smaller. Easier.

  The scar on his shoulder began to itch, and he found himself thinking of Chorin, of Abigail, of how they had looked, lying dead and broken in the street. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, his fists clenching at his sides, and felt something stirring in him, something dark and hungry. Kale and the others should suffer for what they’d done, shouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if Alesh was the monster and, even if he were, it was them, Kale and the rest, who had made him what he had become. And if, in seeking his revenge, Alesh made the world a safer, better place, then how could that be wrong?

  He felt an ache in his hands and glanced down to where his arms were draped over his knees, realizing for the first time that his hands were balled into tight, white-knuckled fists. In his frustration, he had dug his nails into the flesh of his palms and blood was leaking out.

  Suddenly, a soft voice began to drift along the air, and Alesh was pulled out of his dark thoughts, to raise his head and gaze at the fire. Katherine held the sleeping Sonya, and it was she that sang. Just as the first time he’d listened to her, Alesh thought he’d never heard anything so beautiful, so perfect.

  Almost before he realized it, he was standing and walking toward the fire, as if pulled to it by her voice. Not everything was darkness—there was light, too. Light like the sound of her, light like Sonya’s smile. Those things were worth fighting for, worth dying for, if need be.

  He crouched on the other end of the log where Rion sat, and pretended not to notice the way the other man shrank away from him, watching him with the same expression a man might have if a lion had walked into his dining hall and sat down to have dinner with him. You earned that look, he told himself, that and more besides.

  But any thought of Rion, of Darl, even of what he’d done and the joy he’d felt at doing it disappeared quickly enough as he was carried away under the power of the woman’s voice, and he was reminded of the last time he’d heard her sing, in Ilrika. Weeks ago, no more than that, yet he felt as if he had lived several lifetimes since then.

  Alesh wasn’t sure how much time passed as the woman sang, only knew that when the final notes of her song drifted into the air, scattering like mist, he was sad to hear it end. Sad, yet at the same time, full of an unexplainable contentment at its ending, and not just contentment but a feeling of completion, as if the song had to end there, as if it could have ended nowhere else, not and still kept the perfection it had shown. Beautiful.

  He wasn’t aware he’d spoken out loud until the woman cleared her throat, giving him a smile that was somehow shy and amused all at once. “I…I’m afraid I forgot the rest of it,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper, and though it might have been a trick of the firelight, Alesh thought he saw her cheeks color.

  He cleared his own throat then, suddenly aware of the Ferinan and Rion watching him. “I thought it was perfect.”

  She smiled, tilting her head. “Thank you.”

  Even through the haze of his anger and shame, Alesh could not help marveling at her beauty. Her golden hair seemed to sparkle in the firelight, and her green eyes shone like twin emeralds. Liste
ning to her sing, it was no surprise that she had been chosen by Deitra, Goddess of Music and Art, though it would have made perfect sense to him if the Goddess of Beauty had contended for her favor. If not, then the goddess was a fool who didn’t—

  He jumped, pulled from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder, and spun to face Rion. The other man recoiled, jerking his hand back as if Alesh were a viper preparing to lash out with its fangs. “Yes?” Alesh said, realizing for the first time that he’d been staring at the woman in silence for some time, and feeling his own face heat at the thought.

  “I uh…that is, I said, what’s the plan?”

  Alesh looked at the others and saw that they were all watching him, save for Sonya who had been lulled back to restful sleep by the woman’s song. Why do you look at me? he thought. I did not ask for this, and I do not deserve i— He paused then, thinking. Maybe that last wasn’t true. Maybe he did deserve it. Night-cursed, they had called him when he was a child, and adults often said that children spoke the bare truth and little else, not bothering to veil it in their speech as so many adults did. But they were all looking at him, waiting for what he would say—his shame, his doubt, would have to wait for another time.

  “We need men.”

  Rion frowned. “Look, it’s not my place to judge, and the gods know I wouldn’t think to question y—”

  “An army,” Alesh interrupted. “We need an army. Tesharna has an army of her own, the size of which I can only imagine, and now that Kale has…” He trailed off as anger rose in him. He took a slow, deep breath and continued. “And now that Kale has taken over Ilrika, he will have a formidable army of his own. Not to mention the Redeemers. Just because Par is dead, doesn’t mean they’ll all pack up and go home.”