The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  “Allow me to be blunt,” the Queen continued. “We need your help, Corporal Avendor.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. The Second Company is at your disposal, as always.”

  “You misunderstand. I mean you specifically. You have a very particular past, with a unique range of skills and experience that is uncommon among your peers. It’s an asset we would like to put to use.”

  Avendor frowned. “May I speak frankly?”

  The Queen consented with a crisp nod.

  “Was it not you who commanded me to put the past behind me? I believe your exact words were ‘the man you were is dead.’”

  The Queen’s eyes glinted like flint. “Matters have changed.”

  “You were at Darlan Ramsey's shop today.” When the Lord Questor spoke, his tongue flicked across his lips, and only half of his mouth moved, giving him a strange lisp. “Ramsey was an agent of the Throne.”

  Avendor arched one eyebrow in genuine surprise. “Was he? Yes, I saw him earlier today, but by all indications, he died of a burnout.”

  “The third burnout in the last two weeks, no?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “The smith, Fendor Tam, also had connections to the Throne,” Navarius continued. “And Raleigh Kellington was a known informant. Not in our employ, so to speak, but someone we traded information with on a regular basis. Three experienced Hearthborn all burning out so close together? We might dismiss that as an unfortunate coincidence. But when those same three all have direct ties to the Ember Throne? It smacks of conspiracy.”

  Avendor grimaced and scratched his greying beard. “Conspiracy?” he asked. In truth, he’d been having the same thought, even before learning of the connection.

  The Queen nodded gravely. Her dark, penetrating eyes remained locked with Avendor’s own. “Tell me, Corporal, that such a coincidence does not seem beyond strange to you. Tell me that something in this situation does not seem amiss.”

  Avendor hesitated. A dozen responses sprang to his mind, lies and half-truths that would allow him to skirt around the question. He pushed them away. Here was the woman who’d spared his life. Instead of sending him to the gallows, she’d given him a different choice. He’d bent his knee and sworn to her service.

  “I cannot,” he said quietly.

  “I thought not. Which is why we must investigate this matter. I am well aware that it should be impossible for the Hearthborn to burn out by force or coercion, but the world is full of wonders, many of which have nothing to do with the Sanctum and the Flame.”

  Avendor scratched his beard as he considered the implications. “Shadowcraft?”

  “We simply don't know,” said the Queen, “though I do suspect there must be some magic involved. It will be up to you to unearth answers to our questions.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” said Avendor, "you've mentioned a range of skills from my… previous life. Unfortunately, they do not include more than a common understanding of the Arcane Arts."

  “No.” The Queen smiled. “Which is why we’ll be providing you with an expert on the subject.” She turned to Nix. “Please invite the sage to join us.”

  The gandjai nodded and left the chamber. When he returned, he was escorting a man Avendor didn't recognize. He had the dark complexion of the Norad and appeared to be near the same age as the Lord Questor, if not a few years older. He was clad in a simple cassock and the starched collar that was common among the Devoted. His caywen hung from his neck by a chain of thin silver. A few wisps of white hair stood out against his umber skin, but it was his eyes that were the most striking. They were milky, colourless and seemingly entirely blind.

  “Corporal Tarcoth, allow me to introduce Tiberius Alaran, master of the Arcane Arts.”

  Tiberius leaned on his staff as he shuffled into the room, a flicker of irritation rising in his mind. He'd waited for more than an hour in a cold, damp room before he was led into this larger chamber. He recognized the Queen even before she spoke, by the sheer force of her presence. He wasn't familiar with any Corporal Tarcoth, though he supposed that was no surprise. Other than the rare moments he spent with Prince Jayslen, Tiberius had little contact with the Ember Guard. He sensed two others in the room. The habitual tapping of nails indicated the presence of Navarius Tarovar. That was an unpleasant thought. Where the Lord Questor reared his head, trouble often followed. He could tell nothing of the last presence, but he assumed it was another of the damned gandjai.

  “Tiberius,” said the Queen. “Thank you for joining us. Please, take a seat.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, allowing himself to be led to a hard, wooden chair. “I am at your service, Your Majesty, though I confess that the nature of this audience is quite unusual.”

  “The matter is a sensitive one, I’m afraid. I often find this chamber ideally suited for such discussions. Allow me to introduce Second Corporal Avendor Tarcoth.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Your Wisdom.” The man had the sort of voice that always sounded vaguely familiar. It was neither unusually high nor uncommonly low, with an even and carefully controlled timber and no hint of an accent. Tiberius was reminded of listening to an actor at the theatre.

  “And you are already acquainted with the Lord Questor.”

  “We know each other well, Your Majesty,” replied Tiberius. Far too well. “Burned down any libraries lately, Navarius?”

  “Not lately.” The humour in the man’s voice set the sage’s nerves on edge.

  “This is no time for old grievances,” said the Queen. “I’ve called you here because we’re faced with an issue of a somewhat arcane nature. Tell me, Tiberius, are you familiar with a man named Darlan Ramsey?”

  “The apothecary? We've spoken several times in the past.” In truth, Tiberius had known Darlan Ramsey very well, but the nature of their association was not something he would speak of here—not even to his queen. “His balms are quite fascinating.”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Tiberius gasped as ice pierced his heart. “How?”

  “A burnout.”

  The sage frowned. “Strange. He never struck me as the type of man who would overextend his Soulblaze. I always thought him as careful and methodical.”

  “You aren’t the first to say so,” said Navarius. “Yet all evidence points to a burnout. Isn’t that right, Corporal Tarcoth?”

  “Yes,” said the man’s even voice. “All the signs are there.”

  “Describe them to me,” said Tiberius. He listened intently as the corporal detailed a slight scorching around the eyelids, overly dilated pupils and darkened veins beneath waxy skin. The sage found he could not disagree with the assessment. “It seems you have the right of it. He must have overstepped himself somehow.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not the only one,” said the Queen. She went on to explain how a smith and a young galewright had also burned out recently. “We’re concerned that the three incidents might be related.”

  Tiberius shook his head. “Unless it was a group suicide, it seems highly unlikely.”

  “But not impossible?”

  Tiberius hesitated. He could sense the urgency in her voice. He was not one to offer false hope, but at the same time, he disliked speaking in absolutes. “I'm hesitant to label anything as impossible, Your Majesty. I've encountered all manner of strangeness in my studies, but according to everything we know, the only way for any Hearthborn to burn out is for them to draw from their Soulblaze open until it empties completely. Even then, they can replenish themselves by drawing from an open flame. Moreover, each of the Hearthborn has control over their own Soulblaze. If you're suggesting that someone murdered these people by some form of forced burnout—well, we know of nothing that would allow that to occur.

  “Of course, there’s still much we don’t understand, even about the Flame. It wasn’t until two centuries after Mischa brought us the Everburning that we devised the technique of using seals to augment the power of the Flameborn. It’s conc
eivable, however unlikely—and it is unlikely—that there might be some means of interfering with another’s Soulblaze.”

  There was a moment of stillness, as the others weighed his words. He weighed them himself. The very idea of what he had suggested was terrifying, but a part of him was fascinated by the possibility.

  “We consider this carefully,” said the Queen. “We’ve assigned Corporal Avendor to investigate the deaths. We’re asking you to assist him in this. As a member of the Ember Guard, he has some familiarity with matters of the Flame, but I’m afraid that these matters are beyond him. Correct me if I’m wrong, Corporal.”

  “I feel that Your Majesty has provided an accurate description of the situation,” replied Avendor. “Any assistance would be valuable.”

  Tiberius considered the request. It would likely require setting his current studies aside, but he'd already confessed to Ferris that he was making little progress in his study of the Old Magic. Prince Jayslen was off on one of his fool's adventures, and nobody knew when he would return, so Tiberius’ services as a teacher would not be required. Assisting the corporal on this matter might prove an interesting diversion. More importantly, it would allow him the opportunity to conduct an investigation of his own. He needed to know more about Ramsey's death.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. But I must caution you that, in all likelihood, we’ll find this matter is just one unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said the Queen.

  There was a brief pause. When she spoke again her voice had taken on a different quality.

  “I do have one additional question. Do you have any idea where my thrice-damned son has gotten to?”

  From any other woman, the question would have been shocking. From the Queen, it was almost commonplace. Her struggles with her eldest son had become nearly the stuff of legend throughout the Realm.

  “No, Your Majesty. The Prince tells me little, even when I do have the chance to speak with him. And that is infrequent enough these days.”

  “You’re his teacher,” the Queen reminded him.

  “In time, all students grow beyond their teachers. I’m afraid he left any need for me behind a long time ago.”

  “Well, he better be back before the Assembly, or I might just pull Vhanna down from her tower and set her up as heir in his place.”

  It was an idle threat, spoken out of frustration. Tiberius was no politician, but he was astute enough to know that even if the princess hadn’t been subject to bouts of madness and raving, the Lords of the Relen-Kar would never accept her as heir. As it was, many of them endured the Queen’s reign only because she had Jayslen as an heir—a true son of the Rayderon line. In many ways, the Prince was the cornerstone that held the Realm together.

  It was why his frequent absences were a constant source of frustration to the Queen.

  “At any rate,” she said, “the hour grows late, and we'll not keep you all from your beds. We'll expect continued reports on the progress of your investigation.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the corporal.

  Tiberius merely nodded his assent. He was determined to begin his search as soon as he arrived at his office in the morning. First, there was one more visit to make, for Ramsey’s death had greater ramifications than even the Queen suspected.

  An hour later, Tiberius found himself sitting in the carriage as it clacked once more along the streets of Taralius. The night had lost some of its earlier warmth, and the sage pulled his cloak around his shoulders against the faintest touch of a chill. Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all, but recently his bones seemed to feel every minor discomfort. Such was the burden of age.

  His mind raced. Darlan Ramsey. Dead. What can it mean? Nothing good. Of that much, he was certain.

  Eventually, the carriage came to a stop. The door opened, and the driver's gravelly voice drifted up. “We're here, Your Wisdom.”

  Tiberius nodded and shifted himself toward the door.

  “You're sure you don't want to go straight back to your apartments? This place looks deserted.”

  “I’ve been coming to this chapel for years,” Tiberius said. “I enjoy the peace of it. The chaplain here is an old friend of mine. Trust me when I tell you he’ll still be awake.” It was only half a lie—Brother Milos was a good friend—but it still tasted bitter to speak it.

  “As you say, Your Wisdom. Here, let me help you down.” The driver reached out to offer his support. “I’ll wait out here for you.”

  “That's not necessary. My apartments are only a short distance from here, and I've made the walk more times than I can count. Besides, I am not certain how long I shall linger here.”

  “Orders are orders. I’ll be waiting.”

  Tiberius sighed. “Very well, then.”

  Using his staff to orient himself, he began making his way along the short walkway. Upon reaching the chapel, he allowed his hand to linger on the carved wooden doors. He had no sense of what those carvings depicted, but he could feel careful attention and loving detail that had gone into their creation.

  He entered into a deep stillness. A fire crackled in the hearth opposite the door, filling the chapel with a supple warmth like the Mother's embrace. Smoke mixed with the smells of wood and vellum. Tiberius strolled up the centre aisle, using his staff to avoid smashing his knees on the rows of old, polished pews. At the altar, he bowed his head and brought two fingers to his brow in a sign of reverence for the Nine.

  He always enjoyed coming here. He felt more at peace in small chapels than in the vaulted Hall of the Devoted or the massive Cathedrals that formed the Halo. There was a greater sense of intimacy here. It was a place for him to come and pray, to think and meditate—all activities that seemed to have been in short supply in recent years.

  Today, however, his visit had another purpose.

  He reached out to place one hand upon the pages of the Holy Canticles, which lay open for the devout to come and read. He began leafing through the pages, turning each over with a lover's tenderness. He traced his fingers reverently across the smooth vellum, imagining he could feel the shape of the words. A familiar pang of envy gnawed at his heart. He'd come to terms with his blindness long ago, but there were still occasional moments when it weighed heavily on him. He longed to sit and read a book without the need for the carefully embossed volumes that he was forced to commission.

  Soft footsteps reached his ear, and he banished the self-indulgent thoughts from his mind.

  “Brother Tiberius,” came a quiet, familiar voice. “Welcome, my friend.”

  “Brother Milos.” The sage turned toward the steps of the approaching chaplain.

  “What brings you here at such a late hour?”

  “Fear.”

  The chaplain's robes rustled as he strode forward, placing one gentle hand on Tiberius' shoulder. "And what is the source of this fear?"

  Tiberius’ response was little more than a whisper. “Ramsey’s dead.”

  He felt Milos stiffen at the news.

  “How?” The question echoed through the chapel.

  “Quiet now,” said Tiberius softly. “I’ve been told he burned out.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Strange? Unexpected? I know. The Queen has set the Ember Guard to investigate, and asked me to help. Commanded, really. She fears there might be some fell magic at work.”

  “Is there?”

  “We’ll find out, I suppose. But that’s not why I’m here. With Darlan dead—”

  Tiberius felt Milos nod. “It leaves the League exposed.”

  The League of the Hidden Eye was a secret order, dedicated to finding, preserving and often hiding talismans of arcane power. They were a diverse and sometimes disparate group, spread across the Realm and operating in small, concentrated cells. Both Tiberius and Milos were members of the League in Taralius.

  “What of the Phial?” asked the chaplain.

  He was inquiring about the small tali
sman that had been given into the keeping of Darlan Ramsey, but Tiberius didn’t miss the secondary question hidden beneath those words. It had already occurred to him as well. Was Ramsey killed because of the Phial?

  “I don’t know,” Tiberius confessed, “and I wasn’t about to ask the Queen.”

  “No, I suppose not. Very sensible.”

  “I’ll see what I can learn about it through our investigation.” Now for the real question. “Is the sword safe?”

  “Of course. I’ve not been down in the cellar this week, but I examine the verenlock twice a day. The wards have not been disturbed.”

  “Check again.”

  “What? This very instant?”

  “If you please. Let’s not forget the attempt that was made on it four years ago.”

  Brother Milos sighed. “Very well, though I dislike disrupting the wards. I’ll be back quick enough.”

  Tiberius listened to the tap, tap, tap of the chaplain's shoes shuffling toward the back of the Chapel. Left to himself, Tiberius took several steps to his right and sank into one of the pews. His legs thanked him, but his back did not. The muscle there started to cramp, and he was forced to twist and stretch to prevent it from tightening up in a knot of agony. All around him, the hushed tranquillity of the chapel settled like a warm blanket. It was small comfort to his troubled mind or aching bones.

  I’m being paranoid, he told himself. Ramsey's death has unsettled me. The last attempt at capturing the sword failed. I'm sure it's secure. Oh blessed Teacher, let it be secure.

  He repeated the simple prayer over and over in his mind until he heard Milos shuffling back toward him.

  “The blade is in its case,” said the chaplain, “just as it should be.”

  Relief washed over Tiberius. “Thank the Nine for that.”

  “I already have. What now?”

  “We contact the Moon Mother. If she doesn't know of Ramsey's death already, she will soon enough. I suspect her priority will be to secure the Phial again. In the meantime, I'll learn whatever I'm able to.”

  “And do you need anything from me?”

  “Only what we’ve always needed, my friend: keep the wards secure and watch for any suspicious activity. We cannot allow that blade to fall into the wrong hands. The last time that happened, thousands died.”