Shadow and Light

by Peter Sartucci

  “Then he didn’t take these horses.” Terrell relaxed fractionally. “What do we do next?”

  His rescuer didn’t answer with words, but led the way to the fallen gate. Someone had long ago cleared the rubble from it, a broad dusty passage led through. But the air itself seemed to hold him back. He looked with his magesight and found an enormous spell running across the opening. It sank into the wall to left and right.

  “What is that?” he whispered.

  “Barrier spell, I think,” Kirin answered tersely. “Wraps all the way around the city.”

  “Can we get through it?” He tentatively touched it, ready to snatch his hand back if it proved to be damaging. It pushed back, not strongly but unquestionably there.

  “Guards did. We can too.” Kirin took a grip on his sleeve.

  His rescuer’s dark disguise spell flowed over Terrell again, blinding him. He fought down reflexive fear. He must be hiding us from the spell. Then Kirin pulled him forward, not ungently but steadily, for four paces.

  “That should do it,” Kirin remarked, and abruptly Terrell could see again.

  They were on a stone plaza outside the city wall. Terrell gazed about in awe.

  The vast bowl-like basin holding the ruined city stretched north for more than a dozen miles. The floor looked smooth, probably deceptively so, since he could see a web of roads and broken canals covering the whole valley. West and north the basin’s edges rose in sharp cliffs, ranks of them piled one atop another. The western set glowed faintly rusty even in Calm’s wan light. That had to be the other side of the Red Wall that he had seen more than a season ago from beyond Purification Lake. Whirling little columns of windblown dust wandered the basin. Faintly across the miles, the roar of a lion came to his ears.

  The hairs on Terrell’s neck prickled. He didn’t even have a belt knife. Then something about the dust storms caught his attention and he stared, nonplussed. They were growing bigger, organizing themselves into two opposing masses.

  “Dung,” Kirin cursed in a low voice, staring at them too. “What monsters are those?”

  The dust took on shapes and Terrell understood. Awe shook him as he said, “Azerin and Zablock! Their ghosts, at least. Reenacting the battle where they killed each other.”

  “How do you know?” Kirin demanded in an astonished voice.

  “Commander DiVetzi warned me about this.” He shook his head. “Never mind. They’re fighting right on top of the road to Purification Lake. I don’t think we can get through those sand-storms they’re raising. Not alive, anyway.” He looked longingly to the southwest where the peak of God’s Footstool gleamed in the moonlight. There were five hundred men garrisoning the Tonatia Fortress on the crest of the Scarp and he doubted Ap Marn had been able to corrupt many of them—the Tonatia brigade had long been one of the most loyal in Silbar’s entire army. If he could get to them, he could race that force down the Kings’ Road to Amm Crossing and block Darnaud from getting at Pen.

  “Agreed, Highness,” Kirin said. “But we can’t stay here. Your prison-guards will come after us and dawn is only a few hours away. So we’ve got to go there instead.” He pointed east, away from the ghostly combat.

  The eastern edge of the valley had at least three canyons slashing through the cliffs to reveal jumbled hills beyond. The nearest and most southerly spread a vast fan of sand and rocks before it. The plaza under their feet threw off a road that ran straight toward that canyon.

  “We’ve got to hide before dawn,” Kirin explained. “Sulmona has to be somewhere beyond those hills. Maybe that road even goes there.”

  There’s hope in his voice, thought Terrell. Sulmona is important to him too. Why? Aloud: “Agreed. But hiding won’t do any good if our tracks lead right to our hiding place.”

  “Ah.” Kirin looked around, then rooted in the weed-grown rubble at the foot of the fallen tower and came up with a handful of brush. A strip of silk for binding and a stick for a handle turned it into a broom. “You walk in front. I’ll wipe away any tracks we leave.”

  Terrell nodded consent and began plodding, sticking as much as possible to bare stone. The occasional scratch of twigs against sand told him when he missed. Resolutely he drove on, ignoring aches and pains from his too-long sojourn on the temple floor. He wondered how Fenman dealt with his escape, and whether Ap Marn and Chisaad already knew about it. His judgment of Fenman’s character told him the young aide would try to recapture his escaped charge before admitting the truth to his superior. I hope. The longer he takes to call for reinforcements, the better my chances of escape.

  “I should have tried to wreck the teleporter,” he mumbled to himself. Though time had been precious and escape more important, that would not matter if Chisaad recaptured him.

  “Already did it,” Kirin muttered back, bending to wipe away another footprint and then bouncing back upright with easy grace. “Broke their wards too. Hope the monsters keep your jailers busy. Highness.”

  Startled, Terrell looked back over his shoulder. Kirin had covered himself with that black illusion again, he looked like a fuzzy man-shape in the fading moonlight. For a moment, white teeth flashed in the darkness, then there were only dark eyes looking back at him for the briefest instant before Kirin bent to wipe footprints again.

  But Terrell had seen. Black eyes gazing at him out of darkness. He’s the mage who kidnapped me!

  It took all his self-possession to turn his back and keep walking.

  Madness had already set and Calm poised above the distant mountains, throwing the shadow of the Red Wall across the basin. Terrell plodded on toward the hills and the fragile promise of concealment. Behind him the man who had got him into this nightmare erased their tracks. Pain gnawed at him as abused muscles and tender feet protested.

  My kidnapper is helping me escape. Or is he? If this is some sort of double-cross, what do I do about it?

  CHAPTER 44: CHISAAD

  Chisaad strode into his office and cast the spell that filled every crack around his door until neither sound nor breath could pass through. Only then did he drop his inscrutable expression in favor of a grimace. His plans were mostly working as he had hoped, but the exceptions were galling.

  The golem was the brightest star in his plan’s constellation. The spells had held perfectly. So far it had completely fooled Fantillin and Dona Seraphina and all the lesser servants in the Palace. Chisaad enjoyed a little glow of pride at this accomplishment. If Sir Penghar and his damnable sword could be kept away, that part of the plan should work perfectly.

  The winnowing of the Twenty had gone less well. Silbaris expected a certain amount of bloodletting when the Crown was in contention, or looked like it would be soon. But Darnaud’s deadly duels had resulted in most suspicion falling on the Prince—and on the Emperor. Ifni-worshiping gossips had begun to claim that Emperor Brion had ordered the deaths before his illness to raise the odds that his son would win the Kingship. Others whispered that Osrick had instigated them, preferring the Crown go to a brother he disliked rather than to a stranger he trusted even less.

  That turned Chisaad’s grimace to a scowl. If such a claim got back to Gwythford Castle, it might draw unwelcome attention to the Choosing. So far Osrick had stayed busy with his own maneuvering, content to accept Ap Marn’s carefully slanted reports. Chisaad did not want the future Emperor’s attention drawn to Aretzo prematurely.

  Most of the Twenty had barricaded themselves in their Aretzo townhouses to wait for the Queen’s death and the formal day of choosing. Chisaad considered that an advantage, since it handicapped their own scheming and offered fewer distractions for him. Alliances were being negotiated with furious urgency by go-betweens, and probably broken almost as often.

  Good. Let them waste time on each other. Once I take the Crown for myself they’ll have to fall in line no matter how much they hate it.

  The religious situation worried him more. Accusing Kirin of blood-magic, especially with Darnaud’s two murdered priestesses to blame on
the boy, had tied up many but not all of the Temple Inquisitors. It would be even better if they issued a warrant for Kirin’s arrest and trial, so that he could be seized when his escape ship arrived in Haresalaam. While the brat would likely babble his role in Chisaad’s ascension if they managed take him alive, the Temple Court ground slowly indeed. Chisaad would have the Crown securely in his grasp by the time the religious bureaucracy drew the right conclusions. By then it simply wouldn’t matter, with Heaven’s mandate resting in his hands.

  Unfortunately, hints percolated out of the Mother Temple that tomorrow the Hierarch would exercise her prerogative to take control of the Hill of Sight for the Choosing. Not waiting for the Queen’s death would be a very public hint that she suspected an unusual level of misbehavior going on.

  And of course, she’s right, damn her to the bottom of the Nine Hells.

  That kind of interference could too easily turn into disaster. He couldn’t shut the damned priestesses off from the Aretzo Node without using the Crown. If the Hierarch positioned any of them on the Hill prematurely, they’d start prying into the Royal Wizard’s preparations for the Choosing. Once they figured out what his spells were really designed to do, they’d demand his death as a traitor.

  I can’t afford the time for this, there’s too much else to do! Chisaad dropped into his chair with a sigh. His Office only had limited control over the Hill’s link to the City Node, just enough to manage ordinary power allocations among the thousands of mages and priestesses. Serious changes could only be made by the King wearing the Crown, which meant he’d gone as far as he could right now. He had hidden spells readied for the moment of Choosing, spells no mage would ever have dared cast if he wasn’t of the royal bloodline himself. And no Royal Wizard ever had been, before him.

  I can tilt the Throne’s choice to me, I know I can. I’m so close to wearing the Crown, I can feel it. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Stay calm, keep your eye on your goal, and bluff your way through, he told himself.

  At least he had finally got Darnaud and his household troops dispatched to Sulmona to eliminate the threat of Sir Penghar’s premature return. Ap Marn had squeezed half a company of Gwythlo regulars out of the commander in the Gray Fort to send with him. It would have to be enough. Even if they failed, merely pinning Penghar to Sulmona for the duration should be sufficient. When Chisaad became King, he could dismiss the man and appoint his own Hands.

  Chisaad wished his half-sister the Queen would hurry up and die.

  His door chimed; a quick check of the spy-spell revealed Ap Marn. Unscheduled meetings made Chisaad nervous, especially since the tightness around the Governor’s eyes presaged bad news. He hurriedly unsealed it to invite his co-conspirator in and then prudently sealed the wards again.

  “Message construct from Haresalaam,” Ap Marn said cryptically. “Your apprentice never sailed on that ship.”

  Chisaad’s heart skipped a beat. “You mean he’s still here in Aretzo?” The prospect of Kirin creeping through his wards chilled his spine.

  “Doubtful,” Ap Marn growled, shaking his head. “I’ve had his family watched and your spells have consistently told us that they’ve no idea where he went. With the yellow bitches alert for him too, we’d have heard something before now.”

  “Then he did leave the city, at least,” Chisaad said aloud, his thoughts racing. “Where did he go?”

  “Did he know where you sent the Prince?” Ap Marn’s gaze had grown narrow and hard.

  “I didn’t tell him,” Chisaad said, then paused. “Which doesn’t mean he couldn’t find out. Or guess. He’s quite clever and Darnaud’s men have been our weakest point from the beginning. I laid subtle spells on them to keep quiet, but such things aren’t fully reliable. Then there’s whoever Darnaud himself may have boasted to.”

  Ap Marn made a disgusted sound. “I know, but you use the tools you’ve got.”

  The Governor’s gaze narrowed and Chisaad made very sure his bland expression didn’t slip.

  “I’ve kept the decagram powered,” Chisaad said quietly. “Can you take a candlemark for a private conference with me?”

  Ap Marn jerked his head yes. “My aides are waiting outside your door with orders to keep us from being disturbed.”

  Chisaad activated the decagram on his office floor and a moment later they stood on the larger one in his tower. Only yesterday he’d used it to send and retrieve Darnaud from Silbariki, to reassure the guardsmen posted there. A quick reset and Chisaad spoke the word that would send them on a repeat of that journey.

  Nothing happened.

  Chisaad’s throat clenched nearly shut and he shivered. The spell is broken, and so deftly that I couldn’t tell.

  Ap Marn swore profanely. “Don’t,” he added dangerously, “call this a coincidence.”

  “Kirin’s work,” Chisaad acknowledged, battling his shock. “Has to be.”

  “How soon can you repair it?” the Governor demanded urgently. “My man is there with half a dozen guards. They may have taken the little bastard but if he broke their emergency message-sender too, then they have no way to assure us.”

  “I can’t repair it from this end alone,” Chisaad admitted. “We have to get another anchor-spell planted there, then I can rebuild the linkage.”

  “Even with fast riders that will need three to four days.” Ap Marn’s fist clenched, then relaxed. “I’ll see to it. You—” He visibly stopped his next words, instead said, “Get ready. Whatever’s happened can’t have been longer ago than yesterday, since Darnaud came back without a problem. We’ll need scouts to find your brat at least, and maybe to find them. I’ll arrange the men.”

  “I’ll ready the spells.”

  Chisaad took the two of them back to his office, bowed his putative superior out, then shut the door and leaned against it trembling.

  How did Kirin do this? If he’s got the Prince, then he could break the spider at any moment!

  Hurriedly Chisaad checked. The golem busily signed documents in the Prince’s office, his link to it undamaged. It wasn’t doing anything that would require it to draw on Prince Terrell’s memories yet, and its own ability to imitate the man convincingly had improved every day. But later this day the prince would have sword practice and then a physical checkup by Dona Seraphina.

  It will have to tap into Prince Terrell again for both. What if Kirin is waiting to break the link when it does? Seraphina will realize it’s not the real prince! Chisaad’s thoughts raced and his heart beat feverishly as he teetered on the verge of panic. Then he forced himself to draw a deep breath and calm down. Wait. Terrell’s got to realize the spider’s spiked into his head. He probably won’t risk uprooting it until he has a priestess ready to repair that wound. I have a little time to get ready. Then with some luck and daring I may be able to turn the tables on them.

  He wiped his sweating forehead and almost prayed for the first time in years. Then he caught himself and angrily dashed the thought away.

  I am not some callow boy, to pray to gods because I feel helpless! I’ve learned a great deal about how Kirin’s talent works and does not work. I can capture both of them. It will merely be difficult.

  He opened a spell-warded cabinet in his office and took out a magical instrument shaped like two dulcimers merged at an odd angle. Even Shimoor had never known about this. He set it on his desk and awoke the dormant spells on it. The instrument gave forth a soft shivering note that throbbed in the air.

  You can hide in your Shadow, Kirin, he thought harshly. You can be invisible to every spell in the world. But you can’t hide your absence.

  CHAPTER 45: KIRIN

  Kirin swept away another stretch of their tracks. Dawn had revealed a canyon floor made of alternating patches of sand and gravel with occasional ledges of rock. Now the midday suns blasted down into the narrow space and heated everything their light could touch. He and the prince tried to stick to bare rock when they could. When the canyon floor didn’t cooperate Kirin’s back go
t a workout wielding his makeshift broom.

  I need to find a longer stick and make a better handle for this cursed thing, he thought as he straightened up with a wince. They had passed occasional windrows of debris caught on the rocks, but none boasted sticks both long and thin enough to use. Some of the debris had been snagged higher up the canyon wall than his head. He couldn’t imagine this bone-dry place with that much water running through it, but the broken fragments of old road hinted at the power in such floods.

  “Wait,” Prince Terrell panted. “I’ve got to rest.” He collapsed onto a flat stone and stared up at the sky.

  Kirin hesitated. I’m afraid of his eyes. What if he does that vision-swapping thing to me again? Can he do more than that to me? But I need him to save Pieter. I’ll have to be careful to never look directly at his face unless I’ve got my Shadow over me. I’d better think up an explanation for that, too, so he doesn’t decide I’m a demon. The rock could easily hold both of them so Kirin stretched out flat in the shade.

  He passed one of the two remaining figs to the Prince and nibbled the other. He mentally kicked himself again for not stuffing his pack full at the sunken palace. The water bag at his hip also hung too lightly. Water looked like a worse problem than food.

  Their route had climbed slowly but steadily as they left the dead city behind. The walls about them were steep now, stacked cliffs layered by treacherous talus slopes and slashed with side canyons. Patches of grass were rare and trees rarer, nothing but twisted little junipers on the canyon walls.

  The prince turned his head to look at him. “We’re going to have to find a place to hide.”

  Kirin avoided meeting the man’s eyes as he answered. “I know, I’ve been looking.” He forced himself to sit up. “But we also need to get as far away from the Gwythlos as we can.”

  His charge answered in a dry voice. “Hard to do, when we’re both part Gwythlo ourselves.”

  Kirin scowled in the prince’s general direction, feeling insulted. “I’m a Silbari, Highness. I’ll never be a Salim-be-damned Gwythlo.”