The Truth of Shadows

by Jacob Peppers

  The brave hero come to save the day, he thought sardonically, working his foot back and forth in an effort to banish the numbness spreading through it. Gods help us all. He stood once more, preparing to give the latch another kick, then hesitated as a thought struck him. Frowning, he reached forward and grasped the handle, giving it a twist.

  Unlocked. Of course it is, he thought, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Sure, it didn’t exactly make sense for criminals planning to do criminal things to forget to lock the door, but he should have at least checked. It wasn’t as if his life had been making much sense lately anyway. But, more importantly, had he only imagined that scuffling sound, when he’d kicked the door? As if someone were preparing for him to enter, maybe loading their crossbow or moving closer, ready to cut him down?

  The element of surprise was wasted then, squandered, and the only thing he’d gained from it a sore foot. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. You’re going in anyway. You always were. Baring his teeth in a snarl, Rion charged inside.

  He held a blade to either side of his body, crouched low, waiting for an attack. But none came. His eyes were still trying to make sense of the room when his nose picked up the scent of blood. Thick and cloying, as if he hadn’t entered a home after all, but had somehow wound up in a butcher’s workshop instead.

  The front room of the house was empty, without even so much as a chair to show that it was used. He noticed a door at the back of the room and, frowning, half-expecting a trap, he made his way toward it. He put his ear to the door. The sound of breathing from somewhere beyond. Enough to know that someone was there, on the other side. Was someone waiting for him? Did he stand, now, with his own ear pressed against the door, his own blade held ready?

  Rion stepped back, preparing to kick the door open, then hesitated. Tried the latch. Locked. With a shout, he kicked at the door and, this time, it gave way, and the door crashed open. He rushed into the room with a cry, then froze as he realized there was no one to fight. The smell of blood was coming from this room, an overpowering odor that made his eyes water.

  Gods, not a butcher’s shop. after all. A charnel pit. His eyes scanned the room and, at first, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Four dead men lay scattered in a near-perfect semi-circle, blood pooling on the floorboards beneath them. A chair lay on its side, the wood of it being soaked though with one of the spreading crimson stains. But what drew Rion’s attention was the two people huddled closely together in the center of that circle of mayhem. They looked disheveled, pale and terrified, but appeared unhurt. “Mother?” he said. “Father?”

  The old man and woman blinked at him, as if seeing a ghost. “Rion?” his mother asked in a tremulous, fearful voice. “I-is that you?”

  Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Rion sheathed his knives and rushed forward, embracing his parents. “Gods,” he said, “I thought…thought that you—”

  “That’s alright, son,” his father said, patting his back, “that’s alright. Your mother and I are fine. If a bit…well, it has been a trying day, I’m afraid.”

  Hasn’t it just? Rion thought, but right then, he felt none of the usual pressing weight of the danger he was in, of the danger waiting further down his path. For such worries, such fears, were crowded out by the immense sense of joy and relief that he felt, and he hugged them tighter.

  “G-gods be good, Rion,” his father said in a strained, muffled voice, “you’ve gotten quite strong.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, Rion took a step back. “Sorry, I’m just…I’m glad you’re both okay.”

  “As are we,” his father said, grinning.

  His mother nodded, her gray hair, usually in a bun, wild and in disarray. “Rion, I can’t be sure, but I think…I think these men planned on hurting us.”

  “Well, you’re fine, thank the gods. But tell me,” he said, glancing around at the corpses lying on the ground. “What happened?”

  His mother suddenly looked uncomfortable, and she glanced at his father. Lord Tirinian sighed, rubbing a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s…well, it’s a bit hard to explain. I…I’m not sure you’d believe us.”

  Rion nearly laughed at that. He’d spent the last few days dealing with the supposed savior of the world, having conversations with gods and being chased by men serving a conspiracy that threatened the entire realm. His standard of what was believable hadn’t been raised—it had been destroyed. “Try me, Father,” he said. “You might be surprised at what I’m willing to believe.”

  The old man studied him for several seconds then nodded again. “Very well. These men took us,” he said, gesturing at the corpses. “They locked us in this room and, for a time, left us alone. Save for this one,” he said, gesturing at one of the dead men, “who was sitting in the chair there, against the wall. Then, we heard the door to the street open as someone came in. They talked…I’m not sure what about. I couldn’t hear,”—he glanced at his wife who shook her head to indicate she hadn’t been able to either—“but I don’t think it was anything good.”

  He swallowed, remembering. “Anyway, the men came in, and they had their blades drawn. They nodded to that one, in his chair. Our guard nodded and drew a blade—the one lying there, on the floor—and started to rise. But when he did, he tripped, and somehow…” He paused, wincing. “Saying it now, I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “What is it?” Rion said. “What happened?”

  “Well,” his father said, “the knife…when he tripped, it struck his fellow, that one there, in the neck. They were surprised of course—so were we—and the man with the knife too. He sort of stumbled back, shocked, I guess, and tripped over his chair. He was flailing against the wall, trying to get his balance, the chair under him making it harder, and one of his hands struck the wall, the one holding the knife. It somehow…gods, it sounds insane, but it flew out of his hands, and he fell. He didn’t move after that and, judging by the angle of his neck…I don’t think he will ever again.”

  Rion nodded slowly, seeing how it must have played out. The God of Chance had promised to look after his parents, after all, but he hadn’t expected something quite so…dramatic. “What about this one?” he said, nudging the corpse of the third one with his boot. The man lay on his back, and one socket of his eye was a red ruin.

  “Ah, right,” his father said, wiping a hand across his forehead. “Well, see…when the knife flew out of the other man’s hands…it struck him in the eye.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Eriondrian. If I hadn’t seen it happen myself, I would have thought someone was guiding it.”

  Oh, but they were Father. “And he fell here?”

  “That’s right. Didn’t make a sound. I think the knife must have went into his brain, or…well, I don’t know. But he hasn’t moved since.” His father sighed heavily. “And that’s…that’s what happened.”

  Rion studied the room, seeing it play out in his head. Then, a realization struck him, and he frowned, pointing at the fourth man, the one his father hadn’t mentioned who lay on his stomach, a knife protruding from his back. “What of this one? Or, no, let me guess, the man with the hole in his eye tripped or stumbled and accidentally stabbed him?”

  His father winced. “I…yes. Something like that.”

  Rion raised an eyebrow. “‘Something like that’?”

  His father took a breath, opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, glancing at Rion’s mother. She was wringing her hands together, as if nervous, and she only met her husband’s eyes for a second before studying the floor. “Well, dear,” she said, slowly, obviously reluctant. “The thing is…well. I’m afraid I stabbed him.”

  Rion blinked in surprise, staring at his mother in shock. He glanced back to his father who nodded, wide-eyed, and he didn’t think he imagined the sweat on Lord Tirinian’s brow as he patted his wife’s back with a slightly-trembling hand. “It was a good thrust, my dear. Clean.”

  The last hours had been the most terrif
ying, stressful hours of Rion’s life, and the week past had been little better. Hunted by crime bosses, attacked by Redeemers and nightlings, speaking with the gods. He couldn’t help it. He began to laugh. Quiet at first, but soon, the laughter grew louder, and he saw his father’s lips twitch, as if he was nearly laughing himself.

  Then his mother looked up at him, waggling a finger. “Eriondrian Tirinian, this is no laughing matter. Why just look at me,” she said, holding out hands covered in blood. “I’m a mess.”

  That, of course, only made it worse, and soon Rion was laughing harder, unable to hold back the mirth—a mix of relief and outright incredulity—that overcame him. His father started to laugh too, but then cut off at a scowl from his wife. “So uh…son,” he said, pointedly avoiding her gaze, “where have you been all this time? We were worried.”

  That sobered Rion quickly enough, and he winced. “Well, that’s a long story, Father, and a hard one to believe.”

  The elder Tirinian raised a gray, bushy eyebrow at his son, glancing meaningfully at the corpses scattered about the room. “Ah. Right,” Rion said. “I’ll explain it the best I can but first…first I think we’d better get out of here.”

  “You’re right, of course,” his father said. “Lead the way, son.”

  Rion nodded, starting for the door, and his parents fell into step behind him. “Shame to leave the place in such a mess,” his mother said. “What would Lady Averton say?”

  Lady Averton had been his mother’s best friend since Rion was little. The fact that his mother, surrounded by the corpses of men who’d planned to kill her, was worried about her opinion now, threatened to crack his calm facade, and he fought down the smile trying to come to his face. “I’m sure she’d understand, Mother.”

  ***

  Katherine stepped out of the crime boss’s tavern and into the street, half-expecting someone to come rushing out and pull her back in. Sigan had treated her kindly enough, but she got the impression that he was always one wrong word away from violence. And judging by the wary looks his men gave him when he wasn’t watching, she wasn’t wrong. Thinking of her conversation with the crime lord, she brought her hand to her bare neck, where the golden horn, given to her by Alashia, had once hung. Such horns could not be bought, only earned. At least, that was, until Sigan had made it the price of his help, and she felt at once ashamed and naked without it.

  The horn was a symbol to Katherine of when her life had turned around, when Alashia had taken her off the street where she had been begging for food, and given her a job, a life. Her most prized possession. And now it was gone. Still, there was nothing she could do about it, so she wiped a finger across the tears gathering in her eyes and stepped into the street. As she walked, she said a prayer to Deitra, the Goddess of Music and Art, that Rion’s parents were okay. More often than not, she wanted to strangle the man, but whatever flaws he possessed, it was clear that he cared deeply for his parents.

  Katherine told herself there was no point in worrying about it. She would know the truth soon enough once she met the others at the forest cave. And she, at least, had good news to share. Sigan had agreed to help them, had told her that their escort would meet them in the early afternoon of the following day. She had hoped for him to arrive sooner, maybe even tonight, but the crime boss had explained that the man would need to prepare for the trip and such things took time. Katherine knew he was right, but that didn’t mean she liked it. The longer they stayed near Valeria, the better the chances they’d be found, and she felt the danger growing, as if a noose lay about their necks, slowly tightening with each passing minute.

  Still, there was nothing to be done for it, just as there was nothing to be done for whatever fate had befallen Rion’s parents. Nothing, at least, but to hope. To hope his parents still lived, to hope that she and the others would not be discovered before they were able to flee to the south where Darl’s tribe waited.

  Of course, she and the others were not defenseless. After all, she, Rion, and Alesh had all been chosen by the gods, Alesh with the power of fire and light, Rion with the ability to bend random chance to his will, and Katherine…well, she wasn’t entirely sure what being chosen by the Goddess of Music and Art meant.

  Chosen. Something about the word, the thought of it, struck her, and she paused in the street, feeling as if she had forgotten something important. No, she realized, her eyes widening. Not something. Someone. Chosen Alashia. The woman who had saved her and her family from their pathetic, destitute existence, who had bent on that fateful day and pulled Katherine up not just from where she’d sat on the street, playing for coin, but from her old life altogether. You have played for empty streets, the woman had told her, now, I would have you play for kings.

  And she had, hadn’t she? More than once, she’d been invited to one of the Chosen’s castle halls to play her music, yet that was not the best gift Alashia had given her. Instead, she had given her a chance. The chance to make a difference. The chance to matter.

  Shame suffused her as she realized that, since she had come with Darl and Sonya to the city under the Chosen’s orders only to be attacked by the guards escorting them, she had thought little about her benefactor. Even telling herself that they had been busy trying to stay alive felt like an empty excuse, for there had been quiet moments—brief, perhaps, but there nonetheless—where she might have sought to discover Alashia’s fate.

  A fate that, it seemed to her, could only be bad. She knew that Chosen Tesharna was a traitor to the Light that she had—for reasons Katherine couldn’t fathom—chosen to side with the Dark. The last Katherine had heard from Alashia, she had been Tesharna’s guest. One of the others—most likely Rion—might have said that, for all Katherine knew, Alashia could also be a traitor, could be working in the conspiracy with Tesharna.

  But he would have been wrong. The woman who had saved her so long ago, who had taken her and her family under her wing, would not so easily abandon the Light. But then what has happened to her? After all, Tesharna was clearly preparing to make her move, to begin a plan that must surely have been long in the making. What possible place could a sweet old woman, still possessed of some of the powers her god had given her—namely, the ability to sometimes see into the future—want with the Dark? And, given Alashia’s unique ability, wouldn’t Tesharna want to dispose of her counterpart as quickly as possible?

  No, Katherine thought. No, you mustn’t think like that. Tesharna couldn’t…she wouldn’t…But the truth of the matter was that she would.

  Katherine knew that Alesh and the others were waiting for her and Rion to return. She also knew that, this late at night, no one would be granted audiences with Chosen Tesharna and even if she did somehow manage to see the Chosen, it wouldn’t take her long to figure out who Katherine was and to either orchestrate an “accident” that ended with Katherine dead or—more likely—to just kill her outright. No, going to the castle wasn’t an option.

  So what then? She bit back a curse, considering just how big of a fool she was, when she realized that she could have asked Sigan about the Chosen’s fate. If anyone knew what was going on in the city, the crime boss would. But she was quite some distance away from Sigan’s tavern now, and she didn’t love the idea of spending anymore time with him and his men than she absolutely had to. Once Rion had departed, he had been polite enough—at least, as polite as anyone can expect a man who spends his days and nights ordering around thieves and murderers—but she hadn’t missed the way he and his men had looked at her. No. Better not to give him a chance to change his mind about letting her go. Which left her with few options. Katherine did not know Valeria, had only been once or twice, and if Alashia had any other agents placed in the city, she did not know them.

  Suddenly, Katherine was struck with an idea, and she found herself smiling. True, the normal avenues of finding out the Chosen’s fate were closed to her, but she had spent years as Alashia’s agent, and her primary job in that role had been to gather information, to li
sten to every rumor, sifting through them until she found the truth.

  And if rumors had a home, it was in the mouths of drunkards. Drunkards who, this late in the evening, would be sitting in their favorite taverns, having pints of ale and sharing anything they’d heard or experienced—often far more than the listener was interested in hearing—to anyone unfortunate enough to be near them when the ale began to do its work.

  And if Alashia is still alive? a part of her asked. If she is in prison or being tortured? What will you do then? How will you save the woman who saved you? But no. It wouldn’t do to think of that just now. One thing at a time, one step at a time. It was the only way forward—Alashia had taught her that. Katherine would be late returning to the forest cave, but Sigan’s man wasn’t showing up until the next day anyway, and she would get there in plenty of time to leave with the others. Or so she hoped.

  It didn’t take her long to find a tavern, and would not have even had she been blind. For this late in the night, those who’d set out to get drunk already had, and their raucous shouts and bellowing laughter were like a beacon blazing in the darkness. Katherine paused outside the tavern door, taking a slow deep breath. A simple thing, air into the lungs and back out again, but enough to work a transformation, to change the Chosen of Deitra, one-time agent—spy, truth be told—into Mistress Elizabeth, a traveling singer and harpist of no small renown, one who any tavern owner would be thrilled to have on his stage. A hand drifted to her neck where the golden horn usually hung, then she remembered her trade to Sigan, and she felt the horn’s absence as an almost physical pain. You can be that woman again, horn or not, she told herself. You have to.