Once the emotions lessened some, Kate turned back to the two men. They’d broken the embrace, but Raith hadn’t let go of Janus’s arm.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Raith said. “Your name wasn’t on the list.”
Janus scowled, reaching into his pocket to withdraw his patents. “I’m not surprised. Any magist who dares defect here is treated like vermin. I suppose someone decided to conveniently leave me off the registry in the hopes I might be denied entry.”
“Utter foolishness.” Raith accepted the patents and handed them off to the clerk just as quickly. “You are welcome here. Let me call for a litter to take you into the city.”
With a scathing look, Janus waved him off. “I can walk fine. It only requires a little patience on your part.”
If Raith had a mind to argue, he thought better of it. “As you wish, but I will find a place for you in the governor’s house.”
“You mean your house, if the rumors are true? It’s Chancellor Raith now, no?” Janus squinted up at Raith, who nodded once. “I always did know you’d ascend to the highest . . .”
“Miss Brighton,” the Norgard captain said, suddenly appearing next to her, close enough that Nightbringer bared his teeth at the man’s horse. In her distraction over Janus’s arrival, she hadn’t noticed his approach.
“What is it?” she said, annoyed more with herself than anything.
“Ambassador Thorne asked me to deliver this to you.”
Kate stared at the brown paper package in the man’s hand, guessing it must be a gift for her best friend, Signe. Dal had left Farhold nearly two months ago to serve as the Rising Ambassador in Norgard. He’d been the best person for the job, but the decision to leave hadn’t been easy on him and Signe, the two of them practically husband and wife, even if they hadn’t yet made it official. Accepting the box, Kate glimpsed Signe’s name written in Dal’s carefree script across the top. She wondered what was inside, feeling an old familiar ache of jealousy at their love, one that remained unbroken even now.
“Thank you,” Kate said, aware she’d been silent too long.
The captain bowed his head, then turned away, heading back to the caravan to muster his men for the return journey. Despite the threat of nightdrakes—the deadly, dragonish creatures that prowled the land of Rime from sundown to sunrise—they were not welcome to stay in Farhold. They would have to rely on mage magic to keep them safe. At least there were no more daydrakes for them to worry about. With her own magic, Kate and her small team had managed to hunt down and kill them all. Or rather, force them to kill themselves. Drake Killer was just another of her titles; at least she’d earned that one.
Distracted by the unruly flow of her thoughts, Kate nearly forgot that she hadn’t vetted Master Janus. Despite the old man’s slow pace, he and Raith were halfway to the gate. For a moment she considered not doing it all, having no wish to intrude on the reunion, but she remembered her argument with Raith earlier—that ensuring no one who meant harm to Farhold be allowed entry was the best way she could serve the wilders living here. She couldn’t make exceptions in that duty.
Reaching out to the man, she at first felt his affection for Raith, as she’d known she would, though it seemed far less than what she still sensed in Raith. The knowledge gave her pause, but not nearly so much as what she sensed when she went deeper.
Nothing. There was nothing there. She couldn’t sense his thoughts or memories behind the introductory ones she’d already gleaned, vague recollections of Raith as a young man and various memories of his service as a green robe, the order of healing. Puzzled, she tried to delve deeper, but to no avail. It was as if there wasn’t anything else to him besides these fleeting memories.
Concern fluttered in her stomach, and she opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. How could she explain this? It wasn’t as if she’d sensed deception in the man, uncovering some plot to overthrow the Rising. And yet, it wasn’t normal either. She’d never encountered anything like it before.
“Master Raith,” she said, forgetting for a moment that he was chancellor now, and no longer the master magist he’d once been.
Nevertheless, Raith turned at the address, the smile remaining fixed on his face. The joy he was feeling struck Kate anew, the power of it taking her breath away.
“What is it, Kate?”
She started to answer, then stopped, a warning sounding in her mind. She knew enough about the strength of feelings to understand that Raith wasn’t going to believe her, no matter what she said. Love and affection this strong was blinding.
“Nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Raith turned back to Janus, the moment forgotten.
Kate followed behind them as they entered the city, her nerves prickling. She decided to let Janus inside her city for now, but she would keep watch on him. He might be old, but he was still a magist, and that made him a threat. If he showed any sign of betrayal, she would kill him. Simple as that. No hesitation. That was the greatest lesson of her life, one learned in the failed rescue attempt in Seva. If she hadn’t hesitated, if she’d simply done what she needed to do without fear or self-doubt, things would’ve ended differently. And her arm might bear fewer mementos of the dead then it did now.
With her resolve made, Kate at last gave in to her old habit, unable to resist any longer. She raised a hand to the tattoos on her arm, starting near the wrist this time. Then slowly, one by one, she touched each flame and spoke the names of the dead. Firedancer . . . Bonner . . . Vianne . . . Kiran . . .
Finally, she reached the topmost one, and for a second she allowed herself to think his name.
Corwin.
2
Clash
THE PRISONER HAD FORGOTTEN HIS true name.
It wasn’t surprising. He’d forgotten many things. The color of a blue sky on a cloudless spring day. The sound the wind made as it passed through the trees. The way the sun felt on his face, or the soothing caress of warm water as he sank into a bath.
The sleepy contentment of a full belly. What it meant to laugh without care.
He’d forgotten what it was to be alive.
The guards and his fellow inmates called him Clash, a name he supposed he’d given them when he first arrived at the prison, although he didn’t remember much of those early days. His injuries had been greater than anyone realized or cared, particularly the blow he’d taken to the head, one that left him feeling like he’d been cleaved in two. Months had passed before the fits finally stopped. At least, he thought it had been months. It could’ve been years, or mere days. Time seemed to pass differently down here, in the bowels of this Sevan work camp. Most days it didn’t seem to pass at all, an endless loop, day after day.
He’d been called the name often enough that he answered to it, but no matter how many times he heard it, it always felt like something he’d lost a long time ago and had unexpectedly found again.
Hearing the name now, he glanced down at the man who had spoken it, hunched on the ground next to him. Dirty rags clung to a body so thin the bones of his spine protruded through the flimsy fabric. Henry looked up, his eyes glistening black points above the tangled beard on his face. “Did you hear me, Clash? Said I found it. A new deposit. I’d bet my last teeth it’s a dragon’s share of nenir.”
Clash lowered his pickax, the muscles in his shoulder giving a quiver of relief. It amazed him that, despite wielding the ax day after endless day, it still had the power to tire him. He would’ve expected the tool to feel like an extension of his own arm by now, like the way the sword he once carried had felt. Instead it was more like the chains he wore, something alien and cold.
He bent down next to Henry to examine the find, his eyes already aching from the bright glow of the nenir crystals protruding from the rock Henry had just dug through. Godtears, they were often called. A sweet, musky smell wafted off them. At a glance, Clash saw that Henry’s assertion was true. It did indeed look like a large find. The color of the roc
k surrounding the area was just a bit lighter than the rest, suggesting more glowing crystals beneath. Despite knowing better, he felt his spirits lift a little. For ages now, neither of them had found any nenir, not so much as a shimmering speck of dirt. Already their overseers had cut their food allotment, threatening to stop feeding them altogether unless they made a successful contribution soon.
“It’s a lot, ain’t it, Clash? Ain’t it?” Excitement rang in Henry’s words.
“Keep your voice down,” Clash said. This was the sort of treasure men would kill for, although he doubted Henry realized the danger. He couldn’t see or think beyond his excitement. Needing to get across the point, Clash added, “If Foster hears, he’ll try to claim the find as his own.”
Henry’s eyes widened, and he moved his frail body in front of the find, as if he could block it from view, but nothing could hide that glow. No one in the prison seemed to know what the godtears were used for—they were too fragile for jewelry and other such ornamentation—but they must be worth something for Magnar Fane, the Godking of Seva, to imprison so many to mine for them. Killing us would be far less costly, Clash knew. Even the little amount of food they did receive added up. Not to mention the wages paid to their overseers.
“No, no, don’t want that.” Henry grabbed Clash’s hand with a snakelike movement, the chains on his wrist clanking. “Will you fetch the warden?”
Clash frowned, although he doubted Henry could see it through his own considerable beard. He’d worn it for so long he no longer remembered what it was like to be clean-shaven. Clash suspected that Henry had forgotten that Berit was the warden in charge of their sector today, the cruelest of the prison foremen. The man thrived on spreading pain and misery. Every chance he had, he instigated fights among the prisoners, goading them into petty rivalries for the sheer enjoyment of watching the violence play out. A newly discovered deposit of godtears, especially a large one, would fuel his game for days.
Of all the damnable luck. If it had been any of the other wardens, Henry might’ve been rewarded for the find. Given a day’s rest and an extra meal. Maybe more if it was deemed big enough. But not with Berit in charge. Somehow or another, the man would find a way to twist the reward into punishment.
“Won’t you go, Clash?” Henry squeezed his arm harder, surprisingly strong despite his thinness. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, in case one of the other inmates was already listening in, but it appeared he and Henry had been alone in the narrow shaft, one of the deepest offshoots in the mine. Few of the prisoners came down here willingly, fearing a collapse or sudden release of poisonous air. Clash preferred it, though. It was cooler down here, the interminable darkness just beyond the reach of their lanterns a welcome distraction, a promise of oblivion, if he could just get there.
“All right,” Clash said, holding in a resigned sigh. There was no point warning Henry about Berit. He could tell by the crazed, desperate look in the man’s eyes that he wouldn’t be able to keep the discovery hidden until tomorrow when they stood a chance of having a better foreman. Desperation was as much a companion as the darkness in this place. “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Clash retrieved his lantern from the peg on the cave wall, one he’d hammered in a few days before, when he and Henry first started to mine this section of the shaft. The tired flame flickered at the movement, threatening to go out. The cheap oil that fed it sent a thick stream of smoke rising up from its top, cloying the air and burning Clash’s eyes.
He headed down the shaft to the lift, the first of many that would finally bring him to the main shaft at the top of the mine. While the mine itself was old and deep, the apparatus here was new, all the lifts in perfect working order.
“What are you doing back up so early?” Berit’s voice struck his ears before the lift’s basket had even breasted the floor. “Your shift only just started.”
There was something eager about Berit’s tone, and when Clash finally spotted the foreman standing beneath the light of one of the torches hung from the wall, he didn’t fail to notice the way he stroked the leather handle of the bullwhip he wore strapped to one hip, eager at an excuse to wield it. A phantom ache spread through the webbing of scars on Clash’s back at the sight of the whip, the memory of the way it felt when the glass- and stone-encrusted leather struck his skin. It was like being eaten alive, one agonizing bite at a time.
“Henry has found a new deposit,” Clash said, keeping his eyes locked on Berit. Most of the prisoners were too afraid to look at him directly. Not Clash. Fear was a luxury for the living. The dead had nothing to fear.
You don’t really believe that, a woman’s voice spoke in his mind, both comforting and cold at the same time. If you did, then why remain? Why not lie down and accept defeat?
It was a fair question. He supposed he just didn’t see the point of actually dying. But he knew better than to respond. That voice haunted him enough as it was without such encouragement.
“Is that so?” Berit’s eager look intensified, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the torch. The two guards sitting at the small wooden table next to where Berit stood exchanged a look, one full of the same greed so palpable in the foreman. A new vein of nenir would mean a boon for them as well.
Clash nodded, preferring not to speak unless he had to, especially to the likes of these men. He’d learned early on that silence was his best weapon in this place. When the other prisoners screamed or cried or pleaded, Clash held his tongue, undermining their power over him.
“Well then, take me to it.” Berit shot a glance at the other guards. “You two keep an eye on things. I’ll be back.”
Clash turned and entered the basket, leaning against the edge to make room for the warden. The journey down was faster than the journey up had been. They hurried to the next lift and then the next, heading deeper into the mine. Clash’s shackles jangled as he shuffled along, the weight of them tugging at his wrists and ankles.
The moment the final lift came to a stop, the sound of raised voices reached them. With a mumbled curse, Berit pushed past Clash and down the shaft, already pulling the whip off his belt. Clash followed the warden, aware of the dull thump in his chest.
“Whatever is going on, it’d best be over by the time I get there!” Berit called as he hurried his pace. His breath came in hard pants, his lungs unused to the air down here. His bulky frame nearly filled the space in the cramped tunnel. Despite his warning, the shouts continued. He rounded the corner into the offshoot with Clash trailing just behind.
“What’s going on here?” Berit’s voice boomed against the walls.
“It’s my find, mine, mine, mine,” Henry shouted. “You can’t take it from me.”
“That’s a lie,” the deeper, heavier voice of Foster shouted back. “I found it first.”
As Clash navigated the corner, bringing the scene into view, he realized at once what had happened. Against all reason and chance, Foster had stumbled into their shaft, seen the glow of the godtears, and decided they were his.
And Berit would let them fight for it, knowing full well it belonged to Henry. He enjoyed watching them suffer more than anything.
Then why don’t you do something about it? the voice said again, and as before it was female. It was always female, the voice of a woman he’d known and loved. And forgotten.
Have you?
There is nothing for the dead to do, Clash thought, pushing her from his mind.
He stepped into the shaft to see Henry lunge at Foster, fingers curled into claws as if he meant to gouge the man’s eyes out. Foster reared back, avoiding him by an inch.
“That’s enough.” Berit swung the whip over his head, its short length brushing against the low ceiling. It landed across Henry’s shoulders with a loud crack, and he shrieked. The whip struck again. Crack, crack, crack. Henry ducked, arms shielding his head and neck as he crouched down in submission.
Berit struck once more for good measure, then let the wh
ip fall to his side. “There now. That’s better.” He turned to Foster. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”
Clash listened from a few feet away as Foster told his lie.
“It’s not true!” Henry screamed. “I found it. Clash was with me. That’s why he went to fetch the warden.”
Foster shook his head, casting a pleading look at Berit. “He’s lying, sir. They planned it together to try and cheat me.”
Berit tsked, his gaze alighting on Clash for a moment. “This is a dilemma.” Clash saw everything he suspected confirmed in Berit’s look. He would make them play the game. Although in the end we all lose, we dead men. He was weary of it.
Berit turned back to Henry. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to let fate decide.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a bronze coin, one side emblazoned with the image of the Godking, the other bearing the red bull insignia of House Fane. “Heads it’s Foster’s, tails it’s Henry’s.” He tossed it into the air, nearly bouncing it off the low ceiling before catching it again. “The dead gods have spoken,” Berit said, revealing the image of Magnar Fane.
“It’s not fair,” Henry said, in a voice small as a sigh. He looked up at the warden, his eyes wide and watery.
Ignoring him, Berit motioned to Foster. “We’ll need to call the surveyors down to examine it. Depending on what they say, you might have a hot meal tonight.” He sniffed toward Foster. “And a bath.”
Henry’s howl of rage seemed to shake the very walls. Clash felt the pain of it like a nail shoved in his eardrums. Leaping at the warden, Henry grabbed him by the throat before the bigger man could so much as raise an arm to defend himself.
“It’s mine. You can’t take it. Mine! Mine!” Henry tried to force the warden to his knees as he squeezed and squeezed, the grubby stubs of his nails pressing into Berit’s thick neck.
Shadow & Flame Page 4
