Master of Shadows

by E. A. Copen

  Foxglove nodded. “Understandable. Her father is Death and her mother was the Summer Princess. I have seen her restore life with one hand and take it away with another. Everyone who’s ever met her has been terrified by her power, myself included.”

  Gwen turned her head to the side. “You’re afraid of the queen?”

  “Of course I am, and you’d be wise to fear her as well.” Foxglove sat up straighter in his saddle. “She’s a good person, but she has a touch of her grandmother in her. I see her fighting against those instincts, and I worry for her. She needs to surround herself with strong, moral advisers and she’ll do well.”

  “I’m not afraid of her,” Finn offered. “She may be powerful, but the very fact that she holds back means she doesn’t want to hurt people. Her whole ruthless queen act is just that. She’s a softie, a big, squishy softie who probably melts at the sight of puppies and butterflies on the inside.”

  Foxglove snorted. “Hardly. She’s a warrior and I should know. I trained her.”

  “Can’t someone like puppies and be a warrior?” Declan asked.

  “Of course they can,” Gwen snapped. “To think anything else is completely ridiculous.”

  Foxglove narrowed his eyes. “You seem familiar, Gwen. Have we served together somewhere?”

  Gwen shifted in her saddle. “No, you’re mistaken. I’ve been doing patrols since I was appointed a knight.”

  “Must not be a very good knight if you were stuck on patrols,” Finn muttered.

  Foxglove gave him a warning glance. “The queen offered to send her best swords. I don’t doubt her judgement. If she says Gwen is one of the best, then she must be. But I could’ve sworn I’ve fought alongside you before, my lady. Were you at Boxsawin? Eglacain?”

  Gwen jerked on the reins and brought her horse around so that she was facing the rest of them. Because the ridge was so narrow they couldn’t pass her, the three others were forced to stop. “I have never served alongside you, Sir Foxglove,” she said. “Not at either of those places, and it would do well for you not to forget my title. It’s Sir Gwen to you. I’d appreciate if you used it.”

  Before Foxglove could answer, Gwen turned her horse around and urged it into a full gallop, leaving them in the dust.

  Finn sighed. “Well, someone pissed in her breakfast cereal. I don’t think she likes you very much, Foxglove.”

  “Come on,” Foxglove growled. “We’re wasting daylight.” He sped off after her.

  “Touchy.”

  Declan frowned. “If they push the horses too hard, we’ll be on foot before long.”

  Finn nodded. It seemed Declan was the only sensible one out of the bunch.

  Chapter Ten

  They made camp the first night at the mouth of a shallow cave near the border between Summer and the blight. Firelight danced against the cave wall, making the men seem bigger than they were. Remy drew the whetstone over her sword, watching them as they sat, staring into the fire, chewing on strips of dehydrated meat. Finn had wanted to rehydrate it, but Foxglove insisted their water was too precious to waste. Foxglove had been right of course, but that didn’t make the leathery strips any more appetizing.

  So far, no one suspected her. As long as she kept quiet, they would believe she was Gwen and not Remy.

  Maybe it was foolish, coming along, but she couldn’t just wait in her castle while they went to save the kingdom. Besides, she’d promised Finn her best swordsmen, and she was one of them. No one in the kingdom—Foxglove aside—could beat her in a duel, and they might need her magic.

  That worked both ways. If one of them was injured, they could die so long as she stayed with them. But Sir Malcom hadn’t reported any of his people dying, just disappearing in the black mist. Whatever was out there wasn’t killing them, but kidnapping them, and Remy aimed to get all her missing subjects back.

  “This sucks.” The fire sizzled as Finn tossed the last scrap of his jerky into it. “I ate better on Earth. Man, I would kill for a hot dog about now.”

  Declan recoiled, horrified. “Humans eat dogs?”

  “No,” Finn countered. “Well, I guess some do, but that’s not what a hot dog is.”

  Foxglove poked at the hot coals with a long stick. “Imagine the slimy, ground up bits of minced organ meat from pigs, chickens, and cows. Now smash it into a tube shape and slather it in tomato sauce. That’s a hot dog, Declan, and they’re disgusting.”

  “I beg to differ! The only acceptable toppings for a hot dog are mustard, relish, and onions.” Finn grabbed the stick away from Foxglove.

  Foxglove immediately took it back. “You wouldn’t need so many disgusting and strongly flavored toppings if the food itself wasn’t gag-worthy.”

  “It doesn’t sound very good,” Declan said.

  “Okay, no hot dogs then. How about bacon?” Finn folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the cave wall. “Nice, crunchy bacon on a fresh sourdough bun with a good helping of mayo, two cool slices of tomato and a bed of crisp, cool lettuce. Oh, man would that hit the spot.”

  “Well we don’t have any bacon, so you might as well get used to eating jerky and dry biscuits for the next month unless we come across something to hunt.” Foxglove moved to sit on the other side of the fire. The smoke that had been blowing into his face immediately followed. He scowled.

  No one spoke for a long time after that. The only sounds in the cave were the crackling fire and the noise the whetstone made as Remy drew it over the blade.

  “Okay,” said Finn to no one in particular, “what about drinks?”

  Declan offered Finn the canteen at his side.

  Finn pushed it away. “No, not water. Beer. Ale. Whisky. Anything other than faerie wine. Pick your poison. What’s your favorite?”

  “Oh. You mean alcohol.” Declan lowered the canteen. “Afraid we don’t have any of that.”

  Foxglove crossed his arms. “Yes, Declan. He means alcohol.”

  “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Foxglove,” Finn said, crossing one leg over the other. “Your king holds court in a bar so you must be an avid drinker. What about you? What’s your choice?”

  Foxglove rolled his eyes and tossed another log on the fire. “I would rather not talk about my court with you.”

  Finn sat forward. “You don’t want to talk about food or about drink. How about women then? You’re clearly carrying the torch for the Summer Queen, so how come you’re her father’s knight and not hers?”

  “I said I didn’t want to talk to you about it.” Foxglove crossed his arms.

  “Touchy subject, huh? So no food, no drink, no women... Damn, can’t even sing then since every song I know is about one of those things. You’re a party pooper if ever there was one.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough of your songs,” Remy volunteered. “Does anyone know any proper songs?”

  Silence answered her and she went back to sharpening her sword.

  After a long moment, Declan began to sing. It was a slow, sad ballad, the kind of lullaby Titania might’ve sung to put her to sleep. The song told the story of the first high queen of Faerie, Queen Oonagh, and her forbidden love for her nameless knight. The high king discovered their affair and sentenced the knight to death for treason. The very evening the knight was to be executed, Queen Oonagh crept into the tower to be with him one last time. There, both queen and knight drank molten iron and died in each other’s arms.

  It was a nice story, but far from accurate. In reality, the knight had been encased in iron until he died, and the queen was run through with an iron sword when the king discovered them in bed together. It seemed strange to Remy that such a story would be immortalized in song, but then again the bards loved a story of forbidden love.

  Declan finished his song and Finn clapped. “Sing another!”

  Foxglove tilted his head to the side, staring out into the darkness. “Quiet!”

  “Come on, Foxglove,” Finn protested. “Let the guy sing.”

  “No, it�
��s not that. I heard something.” He stood, drawing his sword.

  Remy followed suit, rising and holding her sword at the ready, watching the shadows at the mouth of the cave. All she could make out was darkness, the only sound the crack of wet wood in the fire.

  There! A low groan, a shifting shadow. Whatever it was, it was bigger than a man and it was standing in the mouth of the cave, sniffing the air.

  “Bear,” Foxglove whispered. “Don’t move.”

  Finn slowly rose to his feet. “That didn’t sound like any bear I ever heard.”

  The bear lumbered into the cave and it quickly became apparent why it didn’t sound like a normal bear. Its once brown fur had mostly fallen out, leaving patchy skin exposed. In some places, the skin too had rotted away and become infested with maggots. The bear’s eye sockets were empty, its gums pale, and its teeth sharp. It sniffed the air one more time before rearing onto hind legs and letting out a terrifying roar.

  Sir Foxglove thrust his sword at the bear. The blade sank into its chest several inches, definitely deep enough to penetrate to the heart, but all it seemed to do was make the bear angrier. It swatted Foxglove to the side where he crashed against the cave wall and lie still.

  Declan had his bow up and two arrows nocked before Remy could get past the fire. Both sailed at the bear and struck their mark in its throat. Black blood oozed from the wounds as the bear staggered forward a step. It dropped to all fours and charged. Declan barely managed to dodge to the side. His arrows hadn’t even slowed it down.

  The bear stomped over the fire as if it didn’t even feel it and snapped its rotted jaws at Remy. She fed it her sword. The blade sliced into the bear’s tongue and the bear reared its head back, taking the sword with it. Remy’s sword sank deeper into the bear’s throat as its throat worked.

  With a battle cry, Remy leapt over the dying fire, her foot landing on the bear’s chest. She wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword, and with a victory shout, wrenched downward, slicing the bear’s jaw and neck in half to pull it free. Another horizontal slice relieved the bear of its head completely, showering Remy in black blood and gore.

  The bear fell with a resounding thud that sent a cloud of dust into the air. Finn and Declan stared at her, their faces a mix of awe and terror.

  “Well?” she snapped, trying not to sound too eager. “Check on Sir Foxglove. Is he alive?”

  Declan rushed to Foxglove’s side and checked for a pulse. “Alive and coming around.”

  “It’s just a bump,” Foxglove murmured, pushing Declan away. “The bear...”

  “Dead,” Declan confirmed with a nod.

  Finn lifted the bear’s severed head and looked into it’s broken, snarling face. “I think it was dead before it ever got into the cave.”

  Remy frowned at her sword which had a new nick in the blade. All that sharpening for nothing. “What makes you say that?”

  “You ever see a bear bleed black before?” Finn dropped the head and kicked the body. “Maggots in its guts too. The whole side is so rotted you can see straight to the ribs. Eyes gone. This bear’s half rotten, which means someone or something reanimated it.”

  Remy squatted next to the bear’s body. Finn had a point, but it didn’t add up. “The dead don’t bleed. You need a beating heart for that.” She placed the point of her sword in one of the bear’s open chest wounds and wiggled it until the bone cracked. She worked to keep from gagging as she stuck her arm inside the bear’s open chest. There was only one way to know for sure if the bear had been dead when it attacked them, and that would be to look at the creature’s heart.

  Her hand closed on thick, corded muscle. Found it. She drew her back-up knife and used it to hack the heart free.

  Declan turned away when she brought it out of the dead bear, making a retching sound.

  “It’s not so bad,” Finn said.

  “This is a normal heart,” Remy said touching her magic. “And it was beating until very recently.”

  Her eyes fell back on the deformed bear’s head. That meant it was alive in such a sorry state, suffering. No necromancer had revived it and sent it to attack them. Something else was going on. “This is the blight. This must be what it does to living creatures that are exposed to it for too long.”

  They stood in silence, staring at the rotting bear carcass, all of them thinking the same thing. If the blight could do that to a bear, what could it do to one of them?

  Chapter Eleven

  The throne room was more crowded than Jessica expected. Remy had warned her that Cian’s trial would draw attention, but she hadn’t said it would fill the huge room near to bursting. Lords and ladies, dukes and earls, and all the minor nobility of Summer had filed into the throne room early that morning. Whole families were in attendance from the very old to the newborn.

  Aside from the Summer fae, a small delegation of representatives had come from Winter unannounced. Jessica welcomed them as she thought Remy would, and gave them the guest tower. Summer’s alliance with Winter was tenuous at best, so she didn’t press them for a reason for their visit at first. That would have to wait until after the trial. The whole delegation came to the trial and stood in the front row on the right side, grim-faced, chilling the air with their very presence.

  All the damage from the attack had been hastily repaired at Jessica’s insistence. Remy wouldn’t have wanted Winter to see their palace in disarray, so Jessica didn’t want that either. Pretending to be her best friend was exhausting. The glamor may have made her look like Remy, but Jessica had to copy her speech, mannerisms, and make decisions she thought Remy would make.

  It was foolish of Remy to go off as she did, but that was just like her, wasn’t it? Why let a bunch of men do work you’re not willing to do yourself? Foxglove had called it leading from the front. “While leading from the front is admirable for a general,” he’d said, “it is not for a queen.”

  Remy had argued with him over that. They argued over everything. No wonder everyone thought they should’ve married. The two of them certainly fought like an old married couple. At least she’d taken him with her so Jessica didn’t have to pretend to fight with him.

  The morning of the trial, she put on an ivory dress and waited in the hall while Sir Malcom threw open the doors and announced Queen Remy. Fabric rustled as everyone in the audience bowed at once. She took in a deep breath and held it as she strode onto the red velvet carpet running from the door to the throne. Head high, no eye contact, Remy’s voice reminded her in her head. As queen, you must be above everyone else, even if you aren’t. People need to know they have a strong leader. If you start looking around, they’ll think you’re nervous. You must fix your gaze on a single point and never let it waver as you walk.

  Jessica reached the throne and turned around to address the people, all of whom were still bowing. She sat and straightened her posture before saying, “As you were.”

  The crowd stood, and Sir Malcom took his place at her side. He rested his hand on his sword almost lazily. “Hear one and all that the queen’s court is now in session. Today, our Majesty opens the trial of Cian Bluebell, former foreign policy advisor to the crown. Bring in the prisoner.”

  The huge double doors opened once more and Cian shuffled in, held at either elbow by a guard. They’d placed him in iron if the blisters on his hands were anything to judge by. For the trial, however, someone had been kind enough to swap the iron for a more neutral metal. He’d only been imprisoned for a few short days, but it already looked as if he’d lost some weight. Before Cian had been red-faced, and bright eyed. Now, as he made his way down the carpet, he hunched himself over, hiding drooping eyes and pale cheeks.

  Cian stopped before the throne and went to his knees, looking sorrowfully up at Jessica.

  Sir Malcom stepped between Jessica and Cian. “Former advisor Cian, you stand accused of treason, murder, attempted murder, and conspiracy to commit regicide. What say you in your own defense?”

  Cian shook his head
. “I say I am innocent, though I don’t believe it matters what I have to say. Someone has decided to frame me for something I didn’t do. Your Majesty—”

  “You will address the court, not the queen,” Malcom snapped.

  Cian sighed and seemed to deflate. He focused on the floor between his knees. “Perhaps I have been rude and rash at times, even biased. All of these are mistakes I will admit to, but murder... Treason?” He shook his head. “I would sooner cut off my own arm than betray my queen and country. I was born and raised in this Summer palace, and if it is decided that I should die here, then so be it.”

  “You deny these accusations then?” Jessica asked, keeping her tone neutral.

  “Yes,” said Cian, “I do.”

  She gestured with two fingers. “Escort the accused to his seat.”

  Two guards escorted Cian to a chair set up far from all the others facing the crowd. They secured him to the chair, though he made no move to resist.

  Sir Malcom looked over the gathered crowd. “Is there anyone present willing to speak in defense of the accused?”

  Silence answered.

  He turned sideways so that he could address the throne without turning his back on the audience. “Then I will present all the evidence against the accused.”

  Jessica tried to listen as Malcom read the signed affidavit Sir Declan had left, but hearing his letter was like hearing his voice. It plucked at the strings of her heart and reminded her that she may never see him again.

  What if Remy never came back? How long could she keep up this charade, pretending to be queen? Not indefinitely. Eventually, someone would notice or she would run out of glamour. Then what? Remy had left a signed and sealed royal order explaining why she had left Jessica in charge, but that might not matter if she died. It was entirely possible that if things played out wrong, she could be exactly where Cian was not so far in the future, except that it would be worse for her. She wasn’t fae like the rest, which meant she could die even if Remy wasn’t around.