Shadowcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

Strange. Lyss couldn’t remember Aunt Mellony ever showing the least bit of interest in politics. Julianna took to statecraft like a—well, like a pig to mud, demonstrating the kind of clever, quick wit required to navigate agendas at court. It seemed like Lyss had spent a lifetime hearing Julianna gently correct her in meetings.

  “Well, the fact of the matter is . . . ,” she would say, tapping her long fingers on the reports in front of her. Or, “I can see why you might think that, Your Highness, but . . .” Or, “Our latest intelligence actually suggests that . . .”

  Lyss could only conclude that her cousin had inherited that interest and talent from her dead father. However she’d come by it, it seemed like Julianna and the queen could finish each other’s sentences without a hitch.

  Good for her, Lyss thought. I wouldn’t want to waste the marching season in one meeting after another.

  “Congratulations on the victory at Queen Court, Your Highness,” Captain Byrne said.

  Immediately followed by the massacre at Fortress Rocks, Lyss thought.

  “Finn says that you’re the most ferocious woman he knows,” Julianna added.

  Ferocious? That was a compliment of sorts, but it wasn’t exactly what Lyss was going for.

  “Julianna and I have been following your accomplishments,” Aunt Mellony said. “They are the talk of the court. Imagine, downing four slave mages with one swipe of your sword.”

  “That’s not exactly how it happened,” Lyss said.

  “The ambassador from the Fens tells me that Lord Dimitri is ready to adopt you,” Julianna said, “or at least marry you off to two or three of his sons.”

  “I’m not marrying anyone,” Lyss snapped. And then, taking a deep breath, she added, more graciously, “Anyway, Lord Dimitri is too generous. All the credit for our success in the west should go to the Waterwalkers. I’m just glad they’re on our side.”

  “Perhaps we should send some of them to our southern borders,” her mother said, with a wry smile.

  “Perhaps we should send them beyond our southern borders,” Lyss said. She looked at her mother, and her mother looked back, each knowing what the other was thinking, their ongoing disagreement about tactics hanging heavy between them.

  Let’s not get into an argument before the sun has set on my first day home, Lyss thought. Especially not in front of Mellony and Julianna.

  “I’d better see to Mincemeat,” she said, stroking the pony’s nose.

  “Dinner’s at seven,” her mother said. “Julianna and your aunt Mellony will be there, too. I can’t wait to catch up.”

  8

  SPARRING LESSONS

  “Heads up, Lyss!”

  Lyss gritted her teeth and raised the tip of her sword to counter Sasha’s swing. When their blades met, the force of the blow all but rattled the teeth from her head. Her ears were ringing from the clamor of steel on steel and her arms were so tired she could barely lift her sword. The cold wind somehow found its way into the practice yard and dried the sweat from her face as soon as it appeared, but her clothing was soaked through. When the bells from the cathedral tower signaled time, she fell forward onto her face in the snow.

  They were usually fairly evenly matched, heightwise, at least, though Sasha had about fifty pounds on her. But Lyss couldn’t remember ever being worked this hard.

  “Blood and bones,” Lyss muttered, scrubbing snow over her face. “Tell me, Talbot, is it something I said? If so, I’m very, very sorry.”

  “Special request from your salvo,” Sasha said, extending her hand to help her up. “They asked me to wear you out so they wouldn’t have to drill this afternoon. Some people have lives, you know.”

  “Ha,” Lyss said. “Well, you’ve worn me out for nothing. Drill is cancelled this afternoon, anyway. The war council is meeting, and then we’re having an early dinner because of the concert.”

  “Oh,” Sasha said, grimacing. “In that case, I’m very, very sorry I worked you so hard.”

  “I should probably just leave my armor on for this meeting,” Lyss said, as they walked into the deserted duty room.

  “You’re expecting heavy fire?”

  Lyss nodded. “Nobody wants to hear what I have to say.”

  “Is it what you say or how you say it?”

  Lyss sighed. “Probably both. I always think that if I tell the truth, people can’t help but agree. When they don’t, I lose my temper and everything goes south from there.”

  Sasha snorted. “That’s your mistake—thinking politics has anything to do with the truth.”

  “So it doesn’t matter what you say, as long as you make it pretty,” Lyss said. “I should write that down.” She peeled off her padded sparring coat, leather armor, and the weights she used to strengthen her arms. Sasha stripped down, too. Lyss could tell she was chewing on something, trying to decide whether to spit it out.

  “What?” Lyss said finally.

  “I keep thinking about something my da told me about making a sale.”

  Sasha’s da had died when she was just a lýtling, but he seemed to have been a gusher of wisdom, because she was always quoting him.

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, you know he had a stall in Ragmarket,” Sasha said.

  Where he fenced stolen and smuggled goods. Lyss nodded.

  “He said when you’re trying to sell a lady a shawl, you don’t plunge in talking about upland sheepswool or indigo dye or hand-knotted fringe.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Maybe she don’t care about any of that. No. You find out what she wants, what’s missing in her life, and then you show her how that shawl fills the bill.”

  “So, if she’s starving, you tell her she can eat the shawl?”

  “Never mind,” Sasha growled, cheeks flaming. “I was just trying to help.”

  “Hang on,” Lyss said, putting her hand on Sasha’s arm. “I’m sorry. Can you give me an example?”

  “So she says she don’t need a shawl, it’s too expensive, and she’s got a warm coat already. But you’re talking, and you find out she loves her grandchildren, and wishes they’d visit more often. So you paint a picture of her sitting at the fireside with all those grandchildren, snuggled up in that shawl. That’s what she’s buying, not just a shawl.”

  Lyss laughed. “Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.”

  Sasha gathered up the equipment and practice swords, cradling them in her arms like a load of kindling. “Everybody’s excited about the concert tonight,” she said. “There’s banners up all over town. I think your whole salvo’s planning to be there. Littlefield and Mason, anyway.”

  Great, Lyss thought. What if they show up and Shadow doesn’t? I’ll never hear the end of this.

  “What are you planning to wear? Wait—let me guess—your mourning coat.”

  That was Lyss’s standard dress-up garb—it seemed to suit every occasion. But not this time. “Aunt Mellony’s lending me a dress,” she said.

  “Hmm,” Sasha said, her lips twitching as she fought back a smile. “That’ll be a sight to see.”

  “It’s not like you haven’t seen me in a dress before.”

  “Not one of Princess Mellony’s dresses. What about Shadow? What’s he wearing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dressed up.”

  Lyss shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s not back yet.”

  “He’s not?” Sasha struggled to wipe away the surprise on her face. “Oh. I thought you’d be practicing.”

  “I’ve been practicing some, on my own,” Lyss said. “Probably he has, too. We’re both writing new songs that we’ll do solo.”

  Sasha bit her lip. “Have you heard from him?”

  Lyss shook her head. “I’m not worried,” she lied. “He said that he wouldn’t be back until right before the concert.”

  “You mean like now? It is right before the concert.”

  “He’ll come,” Lyss said. “Music was always really important to him. Besides, he won’t let me down.” Unless someth
ing’s happened to him.

  Just then, the bells of the cathedral tower bonged the half hour. “Bones,” Lyss said. “I’d better hurry and clean up, or Julianna will think I’ve gone back to wallowing in the mud.”

  “Good luck, Lyss,” Sasha called after her.

  When Lyss walked into the library, a cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth. The council members were scattered around the room, chatting informally. Her mother was poring over maps she’d spread across the large central table—maps of the Fells and neighboring Tamron and Arden.

  Why do you need maps of places you never intend to set foot in? Lyss thought.

  Lyss had maps on her walls, too—drawings of military targets south of the border; schemes for how to get a northern army in and out.

  You should talk, she scolded herself. You aren’t going anywhere, either.

  When Lyss entered, the queen looked up and nodded briskly. “There you are. Help yourself to some tea, if you’d like. We’ll get started in a few minutes.”

  To Lyss’s surprise, Finn sul’Mander was at the sideboard, stirring honey into two cups of tea. He’d never attended the council before.

  “What are you doing here?” Lyss whispered, coming up beside him and looking over the meager spread on offer.

  “My father asked Uncle Micah to bring me to this meeting,” Finn said, sipping at his tea and adding a little more sweetening. “He wants me to know more about decision-making here in the capital and how to plan battle strategy. Especially since I’ll be here in the city full-time. Lord Vega says that maybe I can take his place at some of the meetings related to the health service.”

  Spend a little time at these meetings, and you might find you prefer the battlefield, Lyss thought. Though she’d swap Vega for Finn any day.

  “Here’s a tip,” she said. “Try to stay awake. Everyone notices if you fall asleep.”

  Finn pretended to scowl. “Oh, too bad. I thought I could get a nap in so I’ll be fresh for the concert tonight.”

  Lyss all but choked on her tea. “You’re coming to that?” It was beginning to register that the audience would be made up of actual people that she knew, that she’d see again.

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, your aunt Mellony seems to be eager to show you off, and Julianna’s really excited about it.”

  She is? Lyss thought, watching him carry two cups of tea back to the table, setting one down in front of Julianna and taking a seat between her and his uncle-cousin, Micah Bayar. With the two wizards side by side, their heads together, talking, the resemblance was striking, save that one was dark, the other light. Bayar was draped in the High Wizard stoles that had once belonged to Lyss’s father. As long as she lived, she would never get used to that.

  Lyss took her usual seat to the right of the queen. She looked around the table, thinking about what Sasha had said. She’d known most of the council members all of her life. But what did they really want?

  Her mother was easy. She wanted to preserve the queendom and the Line. She wanted to protect what was left of her family, that being Lyss. That tended to make her more cautious—less eager to take chances. The key would be convincing her that doing nothing brings its own risks.

  Captain Byrne sat to the left of her mother. As the queen’s bound captain, he wanted to protect the queendom and the Gray Wolf line. He might back a change in strategy if he believed that the Line was in danger otherwise.

  Beside him was Shilo Trailblazer, clad in her deerskin leggings and coat, her hair entirely beaded and braided, signifying her many kills. Shilo was matriarch of Demonai Lodge and commander of its famous clan warriors. The Demonai were born to fight, but they preferred to do it in their beloved mountains, where they had the upper hand. Lyss would have to make a good case to move them to a different field of battle.

  Randolph Howard drummed his fingers on the table, then riffled through the notes spread out before him as if he had places to go and better things to do. A merchant and member of the Vale nobility, he served as a quartermaster of sorts—arranging for supplies for the Fellsian fighting forces. Howard could always find a way to make money, in peacetime or wartime.

  Char Dunedain commanded the regular army—the Highlander forces. She was smart, tough, and experienced, with an extra share of courage. She wanted a strategically important mission with clear goals that would not spend her soldiers’ lives thoughtlessly.

  Bayar represented the Wizard Council. When it came to offense, they were likely to balk at crossing into Arden, where they might be captured and collared. Still, wizards might be her most reliable allies if she could make her case. They’d seen what happened to the gifted in the empire and they had no desire to see that replicated in the north.

  Lord Vega sat to Julianna’s left, but he kept leaning across her to speak with Finn. Vega was the health minister and overseer of the healing halls. Lyss couldn’t imagine why he’d chosen that profession—he was arrogant, mean-spirited, and totally lacking in empathy.

  What Lord Vega wanted was to go back to some golden age in his imagination when people knew their place and wizards were kings.

  At the far end of the table, Hadley DeVilliers met her gaze and brought her fist to her chest in a mock-solemn salute. Hadley was the commander of the fledgling Fellsian navy. She wasn’t much older than Lyss, but she’d built the navy from nothing in a few short years. Hadley tended to avoid politics, but she was a friend who could usually be counted on.

  Across from Hadley sat Lyss’s cousin Julianna, next to her mother, the princess Mellony. Mellony had never had much to say, but Julianna was cut from different cloth. She tended to be outspoken. She asked a lot of questions and offered her opinions freely.

  Though she’d known Julianna nearly all her life, Lyss realized that she had no idea what Julianna wanted. How could that be?

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed lounging about here in the luxury of the capital,” the queen said, by way of a beginning. “What’s it been—three weeks, now?”

  Laughter rippled through them. Though a step up from their summer encampments in the borderlands, wartime Fellsmarch was not exactly luxurious.

  “The beds are too soft,” Trailblazer grumbled. “All wrong for my Demonai bones.”

  “All this rich food,” General Dunedain said, pinching the nonexistent fat at her waist. “I can scarcely fit into my uniforms.”

  Even Bayar joined in. “The nonstop parties grow tiresome after a while,” he said wryly.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way,” her mother said, “because we have work to do. As you know, the fallow season is when we discuss our military strategy and consider whether we need to make any changes. That’s what I would like to focus on today. As usual, I would encourage you all to speak freely, knowing that what we say here will stay in this room.”

  Lord Bayar stood. “Your Majesty, before we begin, I would like to introduce my cousin’s son, Finn sul’Mander, and to thank you for allowing him to sit in and observe our proceedings.”

  “Welcome, Finn,” the queen said. “Feel free to ask questions as we move through the agenda. Now, General Dunedain, let’s start with you.”

  And so it began, the annual ritual that Lyss had grown to detest. No matter what had happened on the battlefield during the year, the outcome was always the same—let’s keep doing what we’ve been doing.

  Dunedain reviewed the “victory” at Queen Court and the massacre at Fortress Rocks. This was old news to most of the council.

  “One point of clarification,” Lyss said. “Since it seems clear now that Queen Court was just a diversion from the attack on Fortress Rocks, I don’t think we can call it a win.”

  “Yet the southern forces at Queen Court suffered heavy losses,” Dunedain said.

  “True,” Lyss said, “but the troops they lost appeared to be poorly trained conscripts from the down-realms. It’s not like Arden had a lot invested in them.”

  “There you go again,” Hadley said, wincing. “Snatching defe
at from the jaws of victory. Can’t you just bask in glory for once?”

  “I just don’t want to mislead anyone,” Lyss said.

  “Still,” Raisa said, “isn’t it true that the Ardenine battalion was decimated, and they lost four mages?”

  “That’s true,” Lyss said. “The difference between us and them is that the king of Arden doesn’t care.”

  “Stipulated,” the queen said, and amusement rippled through the council. She turned back to Dunedain. “Continue.”

  “Lord Dimitri and our allies in the Fens have been keeping the enemy busy in the west,” Dunedain said. “They’ve also captured quite a bit of ordnance, along with supplies and foodstuffs, which should help us through winter and again in the spring.”

  Lyss knew what the summation would be. At the end of the marching season, neither side had gained ground. The southerners had sustained more casualties—in absolute numbers, anyway. But the queendom had lost hundreds of civilians and millions of crowns’ worth of property.

  “Each one of our soldiers is worth three of theirs,” Howard said, with the kind of fierce pride displayed by those who’ve never raised a sword themselves.

  “Our soldiers have to be,” Dunedain said. “The south can field three times as many troops as we can.”

  “Southern weapons can’t compete with clan-made blades and longbows,” Shilo said.

  “Aye, our weapons are better,” Dunedain said. “It’s just difficult to lay our hands on enough of them.”

  “The problem is the Ardenine blockades of our ports,” Howard said, looking pointedly at Hadley.

  “Which brings us to Lady Barrett,” the queen said, ignoring Howard’s glare. “How goes our negotiation with the port masters in the Southern Islands?”

  Julianna grimaced. “Negotiating with them is like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Just when you think you’ve got a grip on them, they slip away. They’ll build ships for us—our money spends as good as any—but they’re wary of opening their ports to us for shipping or for military use. They’re just too vulnerable to Arden.”

  “Is there any news from Arden?” Captain Byrne asked. “From within the realm, I mean?”