Cast in Secrets and Shadow

by Andrea Robertson

Taking in a small breath of wonder, Nimhea nodded.

  “Lift your hand, move slowly,” Lahvja told the princess. “Let her take your scent.”

  Nimhea smiled as the snake’s tongue flicked out, and then the snake bumped its blunt nose against her fingers.

  “She likes you,” Lahvja said.

  Clearing his throat, Teth interjected. “I’m going to take the packs to the inn. I’ll just . . . be there.”

  He scampered up the ladder, forgetting the packs altogether.

  Ara took one more look at the snake and the two women it had ensorcelled, then hurried after him.

  5

  The way ArchWizard Zenar moved reminded Eamon of snakes: sinuous, elegant, and potentially deadly. When he looked at the prince, even his smile was serpentine.

  “It’s quite the surprise, seeing you here.”

  Eamon bowed deeply, trying to keep his fear hidden. “I know, ArchWizard. My deepest apologies for breaking from the plan we’d agreed on. I’m honored to make your acquaintance in person at last.”

  Zenar’s mouth quirked in acknowledgment of the greeting.

  “You’re a clever young man, Eamon.” He walked around Eamon in a slow circle. “Surely you have reasons for leaving your companions.”

  “I assure you, I do.” Words rushed out of Eamon. “I bore witness to impossible things, and I retrieved an item. Something unbelievable; I had to bring it to you immediately.”

  Zenar tilted his head. “You’ve piqued my interest. Come, let’s have a drink and relax. You must be tired from your long journey.”

  He ushered Eamon to a divan wrapped in gold silk. Grateful, Eamon sat. He marked himself fortunate, as he hadn’t been beaten or threatened since his arrival, but he knew he was nowhere near safe. Zenar’s every movement, gesture was made with care that seemed orchestrated, as though Eamon was meant to watch some sort of drama unfold. Only he was a major player in this performance who had no idea how to fulfill his role.

  The ArchWizard went to a cabinet and withdrew two silver chalices and a crystal decanter. He brought these items to the side table next to the divan. Eamon peered at the substance in the decanter. This was something more than wine. Its color was an unnatural red, too bright and far too opaque for fermented grape juice. The ArchWizard poured himself a cup of the same liquid, surprising Eamon.

  Lifting his cup, Zenar said, “To the unexpected.”

  They drank.

  Zenar sank into a high-backed leather chair opposite the divan and took another sip from his chalice. Eamon felt obliged to do the same. The liquid burned on his tongue and had a sour aftertaste. Warmth in his mouth spread into his throat and through his neck, making his skin hot. His head tingled in a not unpleasant way, though the tingling occasionally felt like an itch.

  Trying to keep a grasp on himself, Eamon attempted to analyze the sensations that intensified with each passing moment. The tingling overtook his entire head, making it feel as though his skull was expanding.

  He encountered his own mind and marveled at its vastness. At the same time, he became incredibly focused. He took in the minutiae of everything. The grains of wood, the threads in the carpet. He followed the path of a single drop of water down the wall on the opposite side of the room. So beautiful. All the tiny bits that made the world. Gratitude for being witness to it surged through him. And he was desperate to talk about everything he felt.

  He hadn’t noticed that amid his reverie Prince Zenar had drawn a tiny vial of blue liquid and tipped it into his own chalice. The wine in the ArchWizard’s cup turned to a translucent purple.

  “How do you feel, Eamon?” Zenar asked.

  “Extraordinary.” A quiet but firm voice in Eamon’s mind urged caution, reminding him of the strange red drink he’d consumed. And yet he could barely keep himself from blurting every thought that jumped into his mind. He wanted to talk. He was desperate to talk.

  “Good.” Zenar leaned back in his chair. “Now tell me all the things that happened to you.”

  Eamon had hoped to tell the ArchWizard part of the story but not reveal all, holding certain details back that might shield his sister and his friends. But words streamed out of his mouth like a river driven by an inexorable current. The colors and contours of the room distracted him and made it difficult to pay attention to what he was saying, much less control the conversation.

  He told Zenar everything about the Loresmith. Beginning with his and Nimhea’s abduction of Ara in Rill’s Pass, Eamon took the ArchWizard through their journey from the Fjeri Highlands to Ofrit’s Cavern. Zenar listened with impatience, having little interest in the appearance of a lowly thief or their time in Silverstag—he’d already known about the arrangements to meet with Resistance leaders—hurrying Eamon through the mundane progress of their travels to linger on Lahvja’s appearance and defeat of the wizards’ hounds.

  “You shouldn’t have sent them,” Eamon said, surprised by his own audacity.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The hounds were a mistake,” Eamon continued; anger crept into his words. Just as he couldn’t stop himself from confessing everything, neither could he hide his feelings. “It served no purpose other than to terrorize us, and it brought Lahvja to us. When she joined us, all my plans began to fall apart. She knew too much of magic, of the gods. She threatened to displace me.”

  She did displace me. Eamon ground his teeth.

  Zenar regarded him curiously. “You don’t like this summoner.”

  “It’s not about liking or not liking,” Eamon said in a huff, ignoring that it was only half true. “I was the source of lore and arcane knowledge until she arrived with her mystical abilities. She communed with the gods, where I recited what I’d read in books. And Nimhea was infatuated with her.”

  “Indeed?” Zenar smiled slowly. “That could prove useful.”

  Eamon bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to bring Nimhea’s budding romance into the conversation. He didn’t begrudge his sister’s feelings, but he couldn’t stand that she’d fallen for someone who represented everything Eamon wanted to be but had been denied. Lahvja was, well, full of vitality. And she had power. Real power. She embodied all the reasons Eamon had made his deal with the Vokkans.

  With her arrival, Eamon’s dread that his role would be rendered obsolete had grown day by day. Feelings of inadequacy had plagued him for as long as he could remember. Friends of the Dentroth dynasty who’d harbored them in the Ethrian Isles after the conquest had made it clear that Princess Nimhea was the twin who mattered. Eamon was no more than a hanger-on.

  His life had been that of a recluse until the day that two of their friends approached him, speaking in whispers of a dire warning that his sister’s path led to her doom. Of a Vokkan prince who wanted to help the twins. Then they’d said the words that gave Eamon the purpose he’d longed for: Only you can save her.

  That day set Eamon upon a new path. A path that had led him to this place.

  Continuing his tale, Eamon recalled joining the caravan and its plodding pace across the Daefritian grasslands and the horrible night of the raid.

  “Did you send the soldiers, too?” Eamon shot an accusing look at Zenar.

  Zenar returned his gaze calmly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

  Not able to discern if the ArchWizard spoke the truth, Eamon said, “A conscription squadron raided our caravan. We were almost captured.”

  “How resourceful your friends must be to have evaded the soldiers,” Zenar said thoughtfully. “Imperial recruiters are reputedly dogged in their work.”

  Eamon still waited for an answer.

  With a sigh, Zenar told him, “That was army business. I have nothing to doing with the army; that’s my brother’s realm.”

  After considering Zenar’s words, Eamon decided he wasn’t trying to deceive him. It didn’t make him feel
any better.

  Eamon explained their arrival at the Bone Forest and Ofrit’s Trials, briefly wondering if the ArchWizards would send his followers to the place. No wizard would make it past the judgment of the butcher crows, but Eamon suspected Zenar would send them anyway. The ArchWizard was particularly interested in the path through Ofrit’s Labyrinth and the Bridge Between Worlds that had transported Eamon, Nimhea, and Ara from Ofrit’s Cavern to his apothecary.

  Eamon had just begun to describe what transpired in that place when Zenar jumped to his feet.

  “Impossible!”

  The ArchWizard’s shout stunned Eamon into silence.

  “You’re lying.” Zenar began to pace, his face reddened to resemble the liquid in Eamon’s chalice. The contrast to his usual pallor was shocking and frightening.

  “I’m not,” Eamon answered quickly. He couldn’t have lied if his life depended on it, which it probably did. But he sensed that Zenar’s knowing Eamon spoke the truth was what had so disturbed the ArchWizard.

  Zenar sucked in a breath through clenched, bared teeth. “You encountered a god. Ofrit himself.”

  “Ofrit and Eni spoke to us,” Eamon said quietly.

  “Eni.” The god’s name was a snarl in Zenar’s throat.

  Eamon swallowed hard. “Both gods, the Alchemist and the Traveler, were there.”

  Zenar stared at Eamon for an uncomfortably long time; then he went to a cabinet and withdrew a vial of honey-like liquid, pouring a measure into his chalice. The ArchWizard downed the cup’s entire contents in one swallow.

  When he returned to the chair beside Eamon, Zenar’s pupils were dilated and he was noticeably calmer.

  “What, pray, did these gods do in your presence?” he asked.

  When he reached the point where Ofrit gifted him the scrolls, Zenar’s eyes went wide.

  “You have these scrolls?”

  Eamon pointed at the satchel lying on the floor between them. Zenar picked it up, opening it carefully. He withdrew Ofrit’s scroll, cradling it in his hands.

  “May he be sated,” Zenar murmured.

  Eamon didn’t understand the meaning of the phrase, but it sounded like the ArchWizard was pleading for forgiveness.

  “The scroll is why I came to you,” Eamon hurried to say. “I knew you needed to have it. I couldn’t leave it with that summoner.”

  Nodding slowly, the ArchWizard said, “Perhaps you made the right decision after all. Where is the other?”

  Eamon swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “I left it.”

  “Why?” The word came out deadly quiet.

  Knowing he might be about to condemn himself, Eamon answered, “They need to find the site of the next trial. Without one of the scrolls, they’d have no chance.”

  Zenar’s jaw twitched. “You helped them. And then came to me.”

  Eamon’s unwelcome temper flared again. “You need Ara to succeed. You want the power of the Loresmith. She won’t have it without completing the trials.”

  Zenar trapped Eamon with a hard gaze. It was a long time before the ArchWizard spoke again.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “But to you I pose this question: Does it serve me best to let your young friend continue on her quest unimpeded or to intervene?”

  He rose. When Eamon moved to do the same, Zenar laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back onto the divan.

  “Rest here. I’ll have food sent to you while I make arrangements for your stay.”

  He went to the door, pausing to say, “I’ll be interested in your answer to my question.”

  Zenar left the room, taking the scroll with him. Eamon watched him go, knowing that no matter the man’s words, the only answer the ArchWizard was interested in was his own.

  6

  After settling into their rooms—Ara and Nimhea in one, Teth and Lahvja the other—and changing out of their drenched clothes, they sought dinner. The tavern was attached to the inn, a round building with a high-peaked roof that the rain sluiced off in torrents. The covered walkway saved them from another soaking.

  The inn had been clean and sufficient. The tavern was the balm to days riding in the rain. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Instead of burning candles, they held glass globes filled with a substance that glowed golden as sunlight. The beams supporting the ceiling were decorated with Vijerian script. Cheery fires burned in small, tidy hearths. Low, round tables studded half the room, where cushions upholstered in silk made fine substitutes for chairs. Rich savory scents and spices floated in the air.

  Ara’s stomach didn’t growl so much as roar. Soggy food held little appeal, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  They found a table and settled onto the cushions.

  “Let me order,” Lahvja said. “They’ll have Vijerian specialties that I think you’ll enjoy.”

  Teth gave her a wide smile. “If it’s anything like your cooking, I’ll eat it.”

  “I like how Teth thinks,” Ara said.

  Nimhea remained silent.

  Lahvja waited an extra beat to allow for Nimhea’s reply. When none came, she went to the long bar that separated the kitchen from its patrons. A few minutes later, she returned bearing a silver platter with four tiny cups and a decanter. Lahvja placed a cup in front of each of them, then carefully poured measures of a bright red liquid from the decanter.

  Joining them at the table, Lahvja gestured to her cup. “This is fali; it’s a mixture of local fruits and a Vijerian spirit called ro.”

  Ara lifted the cup to her lips and drank. The fali was at first pleasantly sweet and cool, but a moment later, fire kissed her belly and her head began to hum.

  “Well now.” Teth set his cup down. “That’s quite the concoction.”

  Lahvja smiled. “It would be unwise to have another before we’ve eaten.”

  Nimhea took the decanter and refilled her cup with slow deliberation. She downed the fali in one gulp and refilled her cup.

  “Save some for the rest of us.” Teth grabbed the decanter and refilled his glass, but didn’t drink it.

  He passed the decanter to Lahvja so she could refill her cup and Ara’s.

  Nimhea scowled. “We can order more.”

  “Only if you don’t plan on getting out of bed tomorrow,” Lahvja told her.

  “I can hold my own.”

  Lahvja covered Nimhea’s hand with her own. “But you don’t have to.”

  Nimhea met Lahvja’s gentle gaze, hesitating for a moment before she drew her hand away. Ara noticed. It was a tiny thing, but still, it was something.

  The food arrived, preventing the exchange from progressing further. Ara’s eyes widened as dish after dish was set on the table. Stews, skewers of meat, vegetables, and even fruit—most of the latter two she didn’t recognize. There was a soup that smelled slightly of lemon and another where chunks of fish floated in a delicate broth. Braided rolls and flatbreads accompanied the meal. Sweet cakes scented with herbs were presented for dessert.

  “I may have been too enthusiastic when ordering.” Lahvja blushed, but she was beaming. “But I haven’t been in Vijeri for such a long time. I couldn’t resist.”

  Ara knew they’d never eat it all, though at the moment her grumbling stomach assured her she could do that very thing on her own. Her mouth watered.

  Lahvja named all the dishes for them, gave warnings about those that lit a fire on your tongue.

  “The other purpose of the fali,” she said, “is that it will cool your mouth if any dish is too hot. But be careful not to drink too much. The breads will also counter the heat.”

  They dove into the feast. No one attempted to start a conversation. For the time being, food was all that mattered to them. Each dish was surprising and scrumptious; some flavors Ara could identify, while others were completely unfamiliar. All melded perfectly. Heady scents filled her
head, and a menagerie of flavors danced on her tongue—so much so that she could have sworn a spell had been cast upon her. In that dreamy state, she picked up a slim, curving vegetable that reminded her of the skinny yellow beans that grew on stringy vines in Fjeri, dipped it in an herbed cream sauce, and took a bite . . .

  “Ara?” Lahvja’s voice came from very far away. “Ara, can you hear me? I’ve ordered you a drink made of fruit and yogurt. I don’t think fali will be enough after what you just ate. For now, try to breathe and be still.”

  Ara opened her mouth to speak but could only draw a wheezing gasp, suddenly aware of the heat blazing from her face and neck and the sweat beaded on her forehead. Most of all, the roaring furnace inside her mouth.

  Nava’s mercy, I think I’m dying.

  Her burning head felt like it would soon lift off her body and float away.

  Teth had come to crouch by her side. His arm slid around her waist, his eyes full of concern. “I’m right here. Lean on me if you need to.”

  Resting in the curve of his arm, Ara tried to thank him, but her voice refused to come.

  Turning to Lahvja, he asked, “Will she be okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Lahvja answered. “Just a bit . . . stunned.”

  Ara tried to speak again but only succeeded in coughing while tears poured from her eyes.

  “I’m sure it will get better soon,” Teth said, pressing a brief kiss to her temple.

  She managed a nod. A wooden cup was shoved in front of her.

  “Drink this,” Lahvja said.

  Between coughs, Ara managed to get in sips of the sweet and creamy mixture, which quenched the fire in her mouth and throat. Her coughs began to subside and breathing became normal.

  Nimhea watched her with an apprehensive gaze.

  “Senn’s teeth, what happened to her?” the princess asked Lahvja.

  Pointing at the half-eaten vegetable Ara had dropped onto the table, Lahvja answered, “You aren’t meant to eat that. It’s a garnish.” She frowned at Ara. “I’m fairly certain I mentioned that when I described the dishes.”