Master of restless shado.., p.28
Master of Restless Shadows, page 28
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“Certainly.” Lord Quemanor inclined his head but didn’t appear at all disturbed by the thought. “If he chose to lead Skellan’s armies against Cadeleon, I have no doubt that we would see our cities in flames. But despite how much he’s been ridiculed by our countrymen, Elezar is likely our nation’s greatest ally. His presence shields Cadeleon greatly from Skellan’s most dangerous idealism. He’s a dear friend.”
“That’s fortunate,” Ariz managed. The conversation was a mire, but Lord Quemanor’s earlier statements rang through him. No one should ever live under a thrall . . . I would have done everything in my power to free Elezar.
If only Ariz could find some way to communicate his own enslavement to Lord Quemanor . . . A shock of pain withered the thought before it could even begin. The brand would kill him before he could ever get the words out.
“You know”—Lord Quemanor’s voice dropped to a whisper—“there are even some men who consider Elezar’s story quite romantic. Atreau told me there’s a dueling house here in the capital where Elezar is held up as almost a patron saint. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
Ariz knew exactly the place. He practiced there regularly and was known as ‘Corpse.’ Under normal circumstances he would never have admitted any awareness of the sword house, but Lord Quemanor’s curiosity and blatant hope made Ariz want to please him.
“I’ve heard of it,” Ariz admitted.
Lord Quemanor studied him intently and Ariz found himself unable to look away.
“I have the strangest feeling, Master Ariz, that there’s something you want to tell me.” Lord Quemanor’s expression softened further, and as he leaned forward, Ariz felt the comforting pull of Lord Quemanor’s unconscious magic. “Whatever it is, you can confide in me.”
Ariz parted his dry lips. A paroxysm of crushing agony hammered through his chest. He struggled to pull in breath.
“The Red Stallion,” Ariz gasped.
Lord Quemanor drew back in confusion. “What?”
“The name of the dueling house, it’s the Red Stallion.” The pain eased and Ariz managed a deeper breath. “You’ll have to improve your footwork if you want to spar there.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Lord Quemanor blushed, seemingly at a loss. Then he pointed to a slab of white stone jutting from a spray of wildflowers “Look! We’ve arrived.”
“So we have.”
“That’s the only remaining step from the original temple path. The rest were dug out and carried up to make the chapel.” Lord Quemanor returned to playing the part of his guide. He pointed out a few other features as he led his stallion up a nearly invisible track in the east wall of the ravine and Ariz followed. In a matter of minutes they reached the summit.
Great blocks of white marble and fallen columns lay scattered across wildly overgrown flower beds and herb gardens. Crooked flagstones wound in broken trails, winding through the fallen walls that had once supported a Cadeleonian chapel. Ariz recognized the stone steps of a pulpit, and a few weathered stone pews still stood.
Oddly, the remains of the older, heathen temple appeared in far better condition—perhaps because the larger chapel had sheltered them from the brunt of winter winds. An archway and a small circular chamber from the temple appeared in near perfect condition, though the timber doors and roof that had once enclosed it were long gone.
They hitched their horses in the shade of a few saplings and left them to graze on the summer grass.
As they wandered the grounds Ariz spied numerous intricate carvings covering the temple structures as well as the flagstones that lay scattered beneath weeds and wildflowers. He recognized a number of them, from the books that Hierro had kept in their shared room at the Yillar Academy. These were incantations and spells, Ariz felt certain. It frightened him to look at any one of them too long.
But Lord Quemanor seemed drawn to them. He reached out and traced their shapes as he strolled the ruins. He walked a full circle and twice paused to replace an upended piece of stonework. Then he paused only a foot from Ariz and ran his fingers along a string of symbols that curled between the weathered reliefs of two winged mares.
“Do you think these were their names?” Lord Quemanor asked.
“Blessings granted in their names, I believe,” Ariz replied.
Lord Quemanor looked to him with a questioning expression.
“Those two symbols”—Ariz pointed but took care not to touch the carved stone—“I believe they’re the archaic forms of blessings. Bishop Seferino wrote about them. He thought that the symbols came down to us from the days when the Old Gods were dying and our Holy Cadeleonian Church was just arising. So you see them in both heathen ruins and very old chapels.”
“Really?” Lord Quemanor gazed at the carved script and Ariz wondered if it didn’t speak to him in some deeper way. Did his heartbeat quicken in the proximity of so many dormant spells? Did the magic flowing in his blood respond in some way to all this potential for it to take form?
Ariz dropped his gaze briefly to Lord Quemanor’s shadow, noting how it curled into the recesses of the carvings. It seemed darker and stronger here, so that Ariz could almost feel the solidity of where it brushed over his ankle.
“You are a student of languages as well as a sword master?” Though Lord Quemanor’s expression remained friendly, a tension played through his voice. Genimo had studied languages; he’d been fluent in the ancient tongue in which these spells were written. Ariz had no wish to be equated with his cousin.
“I’m afraid that trivia is the full extent of my knowledge,” Ariz replied quickly. “I just happened upon it back in school when I was sifting through old classics looking for anything new to say about Bishop Seferino.”
“Ah. And what did you end up writing, do you recall?” Lord Quemanor appeared to relax a little.
“Sadly, what I told you was nearly the full extent of my paper,” Ariz admitted. “I think I tried to pad it out by throwing in a few instances of ‘by the will of Our Holy Savior’ and ‘Lord bless us,’ but even so I don’t think I ever managed to turn out an essay longer than a single sheet of paper.”
Lord Quemanor laughed but then seemed to think he shouldn’t have, because he cast Ariz an apologetic look.
“I could hardly put my own name down to paper, so I don’t know what I think I’m laughing at, forgive me.”
“No need,” Ariz replied. “I’ve no illusions as to my scholarly prowess. Honestly, I’d be happier riding, or dancing or fencing, than receiving any number of accolades for puttering about in a musty library.”
“There’s the truth,” Lord Quemanor agreed, but his gaze lingered on Ariz’s face. “You don’t smile readily, do you, Master Ariz?”
Ariz shrugged, but out of reflex he bowed his head, hiding his dead, plain face.
“It isn’t that I’m unhappy, my lord. It’s just that my feelings don’t easily show.”
“I envy you. Mine betray me all too readily,” Lord Quemanor admitted. “Any passing stranger can know exactly what I’m thinking. Even Sparanzo can see through my bluffs when we play cards.”
“Well, he is a particularly canny boy.” Ariz hoped that his affection conveyed through his tone if not in his expression.
“Indeed he is.” Lord Quemanor’s fingers absently played over the carved blessings. “He’s utterly smitten with you, did you know?”
“He seems to enjoy his classes,” Ariz replied.
“He does nothing but talk about you for most of his dinner. Did I know that Master Ariz can walk on his hands? Did I know that Master Ariz can juggle five knives at once and never drop a single one? Was I aware that Master Ariz can run up a wall and flip over to land back on his feet?” Lord Quemanor gave Ariz a slight smile. “He has suggested—in all seriousness—that I purchase a carnival tent where he can sell tickets and you can amaze onlookers and the two of you will make me a fortune.”
Ariz snorted at the thought of making a living, much less a fortune, in such a manner.
For some reason Lord Quemanor looked incredibly pleased with himself. He turned away but then beckoned Ariz to follow him to one of the pews. Lord Quemanor sat and Ariz joined him, though he didn’t dare sit as near as he would have liked.
“Here is the view that I promised you,” Lord Quemanor said.
Ariz took in the rolling hills below them, where horses ran free. They made a lovely sight. But looking farther, Ariz realized that he could see all the way across the expanses of noble households to pick out the gold spire of the ancient chapel perched atop the Shard of Heaven.
“If you look far out across the river”—Lord Quemanor pointed to a distant green circle in the midst of all the cluttered yellow and blue architecture in the southwestern Theater District of the city—“that is a Haldiim sacred grove called the Circle of Wisteria. I think sometimes that it’s a mirror to the green circle of this place. Though I suppose when they were both founded ages ago, nearly all the land was open, wild and green.”
Ariz nodded. Three points of power so perfectly aligned wasn’t likely an accident, but what ancient purpose it might have served he couldn’t have said. Though he remembered how vexed Hierro had been by the thought of Lord Quemanor controlling this old ruin.
“I’m glad that a few wild places have survived,” Lord Quemanor said. “It’s pretty up here. And blessedly quiet.”
When Ariz looked he realized that Lord Quemanor gazed up at the blue sky and billowing white clouds.
“What do you see?” Lord Quemanor asked.
Ariz peered intently into the sky, trying to pick out the flash of a dove’s wing or the shreds of a torn banner. But all he could make out were the masses of clouds.
“I see a ship.” Lord Quemanor raised his hand and traced the curve of a cloud. “There’s the bow and the mast. The sails are getting tattered as the wind takes them.”
Ariz peered at the clouds, then suddenly he saw the large ship. A simple but delightful wonder lit him and he studied the clouds overhead anew. He remembered that very long ago, when he’d still been a child, his uncle had sat with him after sword practice and pointed out pictures in the clouds overhead. It had been decades since Ariz had allowed his concentration to wander up into the sky.
The wind pulled and tugged the masses of clouds into new forms.
“There’s a wolf’s head.” Ariz pointed. “It’s howling.”
“Ah, yes, I see it,” Lord Quemanor said, then he pointed to a string of small round clouds in the west. “It must be why those rabbits are leaping off into the horizon.”
“Likely you are right, my lord.”
“Call me Fedeles, will you? It’s only the two of us, and this morning I don’t feel much like anyone’s lord or master.”
Ariz considered Lord Quemanor. He looked tired but also languid, leaning back against the pew, his face lifted into the morning sun. How tempting it was to reach out and brush that stray lock of black hair back from his brow. But indulging such thoughts would lead him to ruin.
“You may not feel like it at this moment, but you are my lord,” Ariz said.
He didn’t want to argue, but he was also extremely wary of overstepping his place. Directly after Ariz had been stripped of his nobility, Hierro had taken a particular pleasure in punishing him for behaving in a manner that was suddenly inappropriately informal. And though he didn’t believe that Fedeles Quemanor was the kind of man to encourage familiarity only to punish him for it—there were many other nobles among Lord Quemanor’s entourage who would not hesitate to beat a servant for assuming he had the right to address his better as an equal.
Lord Quemanor scowled up at the blue sky, then turned his gaze to Ariz.
“If I weren’t, would you call me Fedeles?”
“What do mean? How could you not—”
“I mean if our circumstances had been different.” Lord Quemanor returned his attention to the air overhead. “If, for example. you had attended Sagrada and Genimo had been sent to Yillar. Do you think we might have been friends?”
There was a fantasy so near everything Ariz longed for—and so impossible that it struck him like a blade driving fast and deep to the very core of his body. For just a moment Ariz couldn’t even speak.
“I . . . Yes. I would have been the best friend to you that I could have been—” Ariz cut himself off before he said anything even more foolish. He glowered down at his ugly boots, feeling like an idiot.
This, he rebuked himself, was the problem with indulging his desire to be near Lord Quemanor. Thanks to the letters exchanged between Hierro and Genimo, Ariz had been aware of Fedeles Quemanor since the very beginning of his school days. Lord Quemanor had been the one other soul whom he knew bore as great a burden as himself, and he’d felt a bond with him that had only grown since entering the man’s service. He’d thought so much about Lord Quemanor that now his every little word or motion carried too much importance for Ariz. Particularly when he was already so tired and dispirited.
“I’d like to imagine that we would have been friends as well.” Lord Quemanor sounded wistful but also distant—as if he were again speaking of illusions passing over wind-tossed clouds. “I didn’t really live those years with the others, you know. I’ve read a little about them in Atreau’s memoirs, but . . . I never had the opportunity to grow close to my peers. By the time the curse was broken I’d become a duke and the friends who’d saved me were gone—exiled.”
“I’m sorry, truly—”
“No, please. I don’t want an apology or sympathy. I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad for me, but because . . .” He trailed off with an exasperated shake of his head.
Ariz said nothing, but simply sat beside him, giving him time to think and speak if he felt like it.
“I’m not good with words,” Lord Quemanor said at last.
“That we have in common,” Ariz replied and Lord Quemanor laughed.
“God knows how we’re going to muddle through a conversation, eh?” Lord Quemanor offered Ariz a wry smile. “If only we could, I don’t know, dance a conversation.”
Ariz imagined the two of them performing wild, rhythmic pantomimes back and forth, and again that ugly rasp of a laugh escaped him.
“Sir, you know I am an excellent dancer.” A grin undermined Lord Quemanor’s indignant tone. “If anyone could strut and pirouette a discourse, it is I.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Ariz replied. “Any failure to understand would be all on my part.”
“No, I’ve seen you dance when you were instructing Sparanzo. You’re a sight to behold.”
Ariz felt his face heat.
Lord Quemanor cocked his head to the side. “Speaking of instruction . . . do you think you might be able to take me through the steps of a quaressa?”
“The ballroom dance?” Ariz asked, though he knew the dance full well. It was a standard of Cadeleonian courtship, and most young men learned the steps in school, if not even before then. A slight flush colored Lord Quemanor’s face.
“Yes, you see, the way I was at the academy, I never learned.”
Ariz felt immediate sympathy. How unmanning must it have been to have to admit ignorance of something most boys mastered before they reached sixteen years of age? Doubtless, many other gaps existed in Lord Quemanor’s education and experiences. But this one Ariz could easily remedy for him. He rose to his feet.
“I’d be happy to teach you. We could do it right now, if you’d like.”
Lord Quemanor’s face lit with a truly stunning smile. Then he leapt up.
“I entrust my education to you, Master Ariz.”
For just a moment Ariz hesitated to remove his coat, but they were alone and likely to hear anyone approaching. Without the coat Lord Quemanor could much more easily see the exact motions on his arms. Ariz stripped it off and lay it across the pew, taking care not to let its weight show. Then he strode out to a flat expanse of stonework that had likely once been a chapel floor. Lord Quemanor followed him.
First Ariz took him through the steps, keeping time by clapping his hands. Then he demonstrated the simpler changes of holds that accompanied the two turns that made up the full circle of a quaressa. Lord Quemanor picked up the entire thing with remarkable ease.
“You’re a quick study,” Ariz commented, and again Lord Quemanor colored just a little.
“Perhaps. But isn’t the real test dancing with a partner?” Lord Quemanor asked.
Ariz’s heartbeat quickened at the prospect of holding Lord Quemanor in his arms. His throat felt too tight to get a word out, so he simply nodded and then held out his hands.
Lord Quemanor stepped up next to him and took Ariz’s left hand in his right. His skin felt warm and fine against the hard calluses of Ariz’s fingers. His grip was surprisingly gentle. Then Lord Quemanor drew Ariz against his chest with a hand curled around his waist. Pressed so close, Ariz felt the heat of Lord Quemanor’s body and caught the faint mingled scents of sweat and soap. He bowed his head toward Ariz just slightly. Ariz lifted his gaze to meet Lord Quemanor’s scrutiny. His eyes were like polished onyx beneath the shadows of his lowered lashes; his full lips curved ever so slightly in a smile. He seemed both inscrutable and inviting at once. Ariz felt his face again heating with a flush, his blood raced through his veins, turning his entire body rigid and hot.
They stood holding one another, staring into each other’s faces. The foolish desire to shift his hands from the careful pose of a dancer and truly embrace Fedeles Quemanor rushed over Ariz, and for just an instant he thought he sensed a similar longing in the tension of Lord Quemanor’s graceful body.
But the danger of even entertaining such a thought, much less acting upon it, quickly brought Ariz back. As Duke of Rauma, and the favorite of Sevanyo, Lord Quemanor could discreetly do as he pleased with whomever he chose. If called out, he might pay a fine that he could easily afford and go on as he always had done. But common men like himself faced long prison sentences of hard labor for indulging in such vices—they rarely survived the ire of their fellow Cadeleonians, even if the brutality of their prison terms didn’t kill them.
