The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  “No!” he screamed. His voice was lost in another crack of thunder.

  He tried to run to her, but his foot betrayed him. He fell, scraping his hands on the stony road, but hardly felt the sting. A hand clasped his shoulder, but he shrugged it away, hauling himself back to his feet. He nearly stumbled once more as he limped to his mother's side. It was a distance of no more than twenty yards, but crossing it seemed to take a lifetime.

  When he finally reached her and gathered her into his arms, she was too small. Too weak and frail. The colour was already draining from her cheeks. Her eyelids drooped. The very act of keeping them open seemed a monumental strain.

  Still, her eyes managed to find Caleb's face. She smiled weakly.

  “My son,” she whispered.

  “Come on, Mother. Stay with me, now.” Caleb’s eyes stung. His vision blurred.

  “No,” she wheezed. “I feel the Last Wind… ” She reached out with one bloody hand to cup Caleb’s face. “Go to Den, then to your sister. She’ll take care of you… I wish… I could have done more… ”

  “You’ve done enough,” he said. “More than enough.”

  “You’ve always been a good boy… become a good man… like your father. “

  “No! Mother, don’t leave me.”

  “Love you… Caleb…” The last word was little more than the whisper of a whisper. His name—carried on her last breath.

  Her body went terribly still, and the light of her eyes dimmed to nothing.

  “Mother!” he sobbed, but it was too late.

  Tamara Rusk was gone.

  Caleb’s world came undone. Grief fell like the coming of dusk. The colour drained from the world, leaving it drab and grey. He was left feeling like a ruined shell. I’m so tired of being broken and crippled. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save my own mother. No more!

  Somewhere, in the vast depths of his grief, he found a spark of anger. He grasped at it, fanned it with the choking breath of his anguish. The spark became a small flame, and that flame grew to a raging fire. Anger gave way to rage, and rage exploded into fury.

  It killed her. It needs to die.

  He reached down and very reverently pulled the knife from his mother’s breast. Blood rained down. Drip. Drip. He stood slowly, gritting his teeth and steeling himself to enact his bloody vengeance—or else follow his mother beyond the Morning Gate.

  He turned to find Shem already on his feet. The drifter faced the demon with an awkward hunch. One ruined arm hung uselessly before him. The sword in his remaining hand drooped toward the ground, as though the mere act of holding it aloft was a titanic effort. His clothes were shorn to bloody ribbons, and his chest heaved with a ragged rhythm. He looked more than half-dead—except for his eyes. Those burned with brilliant Flameborn fury.

  “Enough,” the drifter growled. “You've hunted me too long, demon. Too bloody far. This ends now.”

  The bracelet around his wrist began to glow. It started as a faint luminance, but in the span of a single heartbeat, it flared to a blinding violet that seeped into the drifter's flesh, snaking up the shape of his forearm and spreading through the rest of his body.

  “You cannot defeat this, manling. Even the stone cannot save you.”

  “And yet, here I stand. Still breathing.”

  “Give the stone, and this will let you continue living, in servitude to the Golden One.”

  Shem shook his head. A cold, hard smile cut across his face. “Burn.”

  His broken arm shot up with the sound of cracking bone. The drifter screamed. It was impossible to tell whether it was a cry of rage or agony. Perhaps it was both. All the luminance in his body seemed to converge toward the center of his palm.

  The demon hissed.

  Shem’s hand exploded.

  A stream of something like fire lanced through the storm, twisting and hissing like a geyser of amethyst and diamond. It was denser than flame, striking with such mass and force that it drove the demon back a step. In an instant, its shorn clothing was reduced to ash, as the liquid magic flowed around its stolen flesh. Skin and hair blackened and vanished. The demon screamed—an inhuman shriek to match Shem’s own—struggling to break free. The magic held it fast. Muscle and sinew liquefied, seeping and running before being burned away entirely, revealing a skeleton that glowed like molten iron. Finally, even the bones crumbled in on themselves until all that remained was a shadow that was all too human.

  Then it too was gone.

  The impossible violet fire continued to burn for several moments before dissipating with a final hiss. The night turned deathly still, though the storm raged on around them. Shem stood alone and immobile, hand frozen in place. The bracelet was still alight, bright and violet. The drifter’s Flameborn eyes found Tamara’s lifeless corpse, lingering briefly before turning toward Caleb.

  “She is avenged,” he said. Those three words seemed to shatter whatever force of will it was that held him upright. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the drifter crumpled.

  “Bloody flaming hells,” Caleb heard Tanner say.

  The big man rushed to Shem’s side. He bent down and began talking in hushed tones. The drifter’s lips quivered in response.

  Caleb felt someone move up beside him. Palawen. She didn't say a word. She didn't try to offer words of hollow comfort. She was merely there, close enough that he could sense her presence, but far enough to maintain a respectable distance. Space to mourn. Caleb nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. When she returned the nod, Caleb caught the glimmer of understanding in her eyes.

  She’s known this pain, too. Somehow, that made him feel better. Not by much, but it was good to know he wasn’t alone.

  He looked down at his mother and tumbled back to his knees. He stroked her cheek, already cooling from the falling rain and the chill touch of death. She looked so still that it was difficult to believe she’d ever been so vibrant. So full of life. Did those lips ever smile? Did those eyes ever cry? It seemed impossible.

  What do I do now? His mother had told him to go to his sister, but how could he go on alone? He was a cripple. A broken man. Not even a man. Just a boy who’s lost his mother. An orphan. A quiet sob escaped his lips, and he tasted salt. He hadn't even realized he was weeping. The moment he did, the tears fell in a torrent, adding their waters to the storm pools collecting on the road.

  You are not alone. The voice resounded in his mind. Never alone.

  Azental.

  I’m here, always.

  He was amazed at how much her voice sounded like his mother's. How did I never notice?

  I learned your language by mimicking those who were close to you. I can try to change if it brings you too much hurt.

  No! Please. It’s good. Like having a piece of her with me.

  Oh, Caleb… I found the pony. She didn’t run far. About halfway to the airfield. You should be able to retrieve her on the way.

  Thank you, my friend.

  A heavy hand touched Caleb's shoulder. He looked up to find Tanner standing over him. The hard planes of the mercenary's face were grave and severe, but there was a glimmer of empathy there—and of worry. “He's asking for you, lad.”

  “Who?”

  “The drifter. He wants to speak with you.”

  Caleb wanted to protest, but something in Tanner’s expression stayed his tongue.

  “There’s always time enough to mourn the dead,” Tanner said. “I mean no disrespect to your ma, lad. But it’s the living that need concern us at the moment, and I’m not sure how much longer the drifter’ll be counted among us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dying, lad.”

  Dying. He couldn’t bear the word. “He can’t. He’s too strong. You saw what he did.”

  “I did. And I know what it cost him. I'd wish that were true, but wishing's never changed much of anything. He's a strong one, to be sure, but he's spent himself. Pushed too far to come back. Best to speak to him. Might be that h
e has a surprise or two left in him.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” whispered Palawen, inching closer to Tamara’s body and placing one protective hand on her lifeless shoulder.

  Caleb clutched at his mother’s stiffening hand. He wasn’t sure he could let go. It felt too much like acknowledging the reality of her absence. Too much like saying goodbye.

  “Go on,” urged the drifter girl. “There’s nothing more you can do here. She’ll be waiting when you return.”

  Caleb nodded. Somehow, he found the strength to stand. His muscles ached with the weight of grief, as though he'd spent an entire day climbing and swinging through the rigging of the Damenson. He limped his way to where the drifter lay, still and unmoving. Were it not for the unsteady rise and fall of Shem’s chest and the faint flicker of his tongue over bloodied lips, Caleb would have thought him already gone.

  As he drew closer, Caleb was shocked at just how battered and bloodied the drifter was. Fresh cuts and bruising were caked in mud and grime. He should be dead ten times over.

  “Caleb.” The man’s voice was weak and hoarse, but when he turned his face, a fiery intensity still burned in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen… to drag you and your mother into this mess.” When he coughed, it sounded as though his chest was about to come apart. “When that thing went over the cliffs into the Crush… I thought I had time. Time enough to come to your mother and get away before it found me. I was wrong. And now, she’s paid for it. Another flaming regret. Another chain around my neck. I carry so many… too many…”

  For the period of a passing breath, he seemed to drift away. His eyes shifted, as though he were gazing at something far away—or perhaps right before his face.

  "Another regret?" Caleb raged. Anger washed over him again. “She was more than just another regret! She was my mother!” He wanted Shem to die. He wanted the blood and wounds to carry him away. Painfully. He wanted the man to suffer for bringing such pain upon him. “And she’s dead. Because of you! You bloody well did this to her. To me.” Fresh tears streamed down his face. “So don’t you dare tell me she’s just some passing regret, you bastard. Don’t you bloody dare!”

  Shem regarded him for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said. “More than a regret. Tamara was a remarkable woman and a good friend. I’d mourn her, but I think I’ll soon be joining her. Maybe that’s some small consolation to you.”

  “It’s not. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “You carry on.” He said it simply—as if the words were all that was needed to make the world right again. “It's all we can ever do. Earlier, you asked me a question. I pushed it off. I think I'll answer it now.”

  “Question? What question?”

  “You asked who I was. Here’s the simple truth of it. The name my father gave me is Jayslen Rayderon.”

  The name hung in the space between them, suspended like breath on an icy morning. Jayslen Rayderon? What madness! Caleb might have laughed, but there was no humour left in him. It had been burned away by grief and pain and anguish.

  “Is this some sort of twisted joke? It’s not funny.”

  “It’s no joke, Caleb. I am who I say I am.”

  “Bloody hells you are! What would the Ember Prince be doing here? Masquerading as a drifter? By all accounts, Jayslen Rayderon is an arrogant sod, too wrapped up in his own self-worth.”

  “Is that what they say of me?”

  “No! It’s what they say of him. You're just a bloody madman. A lunatic drifter, given over to his own delusions.” Even so, Caleb couldn't prevent himself from thinking back and remembering the man's self-assurance, his sense of command and effortless authority. No. It can’t be true. It can’t!

  “Perhaps. But then there’s this.”

  The man raised the hand that bore the bracelet. Even that small effort seemed a great sacrifice. The bracelet was bound tightly around his wrist, so close that it seemed almost a part of him. It appeared to be a single piece of pale, violet crystal with no visible joint or clasp. A faint luminance continued to pulse deep within.

  “Do you know what this is? It’s called the agiestone, and it’s been in my family for generations. You could ask Branden Lynne about it—if you could secure an audience. Or the Lords Irons and Laynford, Calder and Solnich. They all know it. Perhaps some even covet it. The Faceless did. This is what it sought.”

  “What is it?” Caleb asked. He still wasn’t ready to accept the drifter’s story, but the bracelet had piqued his curiosity.

  “For years, I thought it was just another seal. Like the Seal of Yaren that my mother carries, and my father before her. That’s what I was taught to believe. It turns out it’s more than that. More than even my old teacher knows. It’s a key, lad.”

  “A key? To what?”

  “That's the question…” he wheezed, taking another deep breath; his face contorted in pain, “…that I've been trying to answer. I've found some clues, but each one only led to more questions. What I know is there are forces on the move, gathering power. I don't know who they all are—or what their intentions are—but I know that some want the agiestone, and they'd be only too happy to kill me over it. It seems they have, but I won't let them have it.”

  He reached across himself, placing his opposite hand on the bracelet. When he pulled it back, the talisman was gone. In its place, the drifter held a single gem of glimmering amethyst. Twice the size of a common pearl, it had the same internal luminance that Caleb had seen in the bracelet, the same polished sheen. There was something alluring about it.

  “Take it,” the drifter urged.

  “What?”

  “Take it. Find your captain friend, flee to Timberford and get the stone to Carvesh.”

  “Are you insane?” cried Caleb, backing away. “I can’t take that!”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “What about Tanner?”

  “No. He’ll go with you, at my request, but Carvesh’s a careful man. He doesn’t know Tanner and won’t trust him. But he’ll trust you. You’re family.”

  This is madness. Caleb wanted to flee, to leave the man to his delusions. Instead, he asked another question. “What's so important about Carvesh?”

  “To me? A great many things. Too much to explain now. Without the stone, my strength is failing quickly. So take it.”

  His bloodied hand shot out with surprising speed, closing around Caleb's wrist like an iron shackle. A moment later, the stone fell into his open palm. Its surface was cool and glassy. He wanted to give it back, to throw it away, to be done with all of this. He wanted to run, to scream and flee and forget all about demons and magic and madmen who named themselves princes. Somehow, he couldn't. Somehow, he found his fingers closing around the stone.

  “Good,” said the man who called himself Jayslen.

  Or Shem. I don’t know what to think anymore.

  “Now listen closely. I fear it wasn’t working alone.”

  “What makes you think that?” Caleb asked.

  “Things it said. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you need to get away from here. Tonight. If there’s something powerful enough to command the Faceless, do you want to meet it?”

  “No,” Caleb admitted. He shuddered at the thought.

  “Then go. Now.”

  “We can’t just leave you here.”

  “You must.”

  “The lad has the right of it.” Tanner had returned. “I’ll not leave you behind.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “Then I’ll bloody well make time. I'm not leaving the son of Merek Rayderon to die alone in the dark like some common bastard.” It was the look on Tanner's face that finally convinced Caleb the drifter had been speaking the truth—at least about his identity. “I owe his memory more than that. You know I do.”

  “You can’t save me, Tanner. Just take the boy and go. I’m too far gone.”

  “Even so.” The big man bent down and lifted the broken prince’s body, cradling i
t as gently as a mother might cradle her newborn child. He whistled once, a loud, sharp note. The white wolf appeared at his side. Caleb would’ve been shocked to see it alive if he hadn’t already suspected that the beast was Tanner’s totem. It was wounded and bloodied, but its spiritflesh was already starting to heal.

  “Winter'll bear you,” said Tanner, “as though you were her own cub.”

  The wolf bent itself to the ground, and the mercenary laid Jayslen across its broad back. When he was in place, the wolf stood again, bearing the extra weight easily, even in spite of her wounds. She turned her snout back toward the prince and nuzzled his shoulder. Rivulets of blood already stained her snowy coat.

  “You’re a damned fool, Hoff,” wheezed the prince. “But you have my thanks, nonetheless.” He closed his eyes, sinking into Winter’s fur.

  Caleb thought the Last Wind had borne him away until he saw the faint swell of his breathing.

  “We’d best be off,” said the big man, turning to Caleb. “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll manage. But my mother…”

  “We won’t leave her, lad. I’ll carry her myself.”

  He stalked over to where Palawen crouched protectively over Tamara’s body. He nodded once to the girl, then knelt and lifted the woman into his arms with the same tenderness he’d shown the drifter-prince. “You coming, Red?”

  Palawen glowered but said nothing for a moment. She chewed at her lower lip as she glanced from Tanner to Tamara, her gaze finally coming to rest on Caleb. He could see the hesitation in her eyes. When she nodded, Caleb released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Good. You’re handy to have in a fight. Now let’s be off. I’ve a mind to get out of this bloody rain.” He looked to Caleb, then to where the agiestone still rested in the palm of his hand. “Put that thing away, lad, and lead on.”

  There was still another mile to cover—maybe more. Caleb tucked the agiestone into the pocket of his rain cloak then took the lead, limping along, numb and soaking wet. Tanner followed several steps behind, with Winter padding along at his side. Again, Palawen brought up the rear. Her bow was holstered alongside her empty quiver, but she held a long knife in one hand. When Caleb looked back, she offered half a smile. He nodded, taking one steadying breath and a final glance over his shoulder, to where Kharl’s few putrid remains were already attracting a swarm of bloodflies. It’s gone, he told himself. There’s nothing more to worry about. He turned and pushed on through the night, trying to make himself believe.