Master of restless shado.., p.43
Master of Restless Shadows, page 43
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Both Courage and Fearless drew to a halt outside the rings of other spells.
Fedeles too paused. Dread, like a spreading chill, sank through his body. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. Once again his heart began to race. The longer he studied the walls of spells, the more furious they seemed to grow. He felt his confidence draining into a cold sweat.
“Now or never,” he whispered to himself.
He bolted forward before his nerve could fail him. As he raced through each of the four blazing circles, light gushed over him and tendrils of spells wrapped around him, like strands of fiery cobweb. Spells gripped him and stung him, but he tore through them one after another. At last, gasping and drenched in sweat as if he’d clambered up a mountainside of thorns, he reached the simple carved circle at the center of the temple. Strands of faint light clung to him like spider silk and red welts marked his hands and burned across the bare skin of his face. Smoke drifted from a few scorched locks of his hair.
But the shadow curse had not awoken.
All at once the surrounding rings of spells stilled, the gaps in one ring aligning with spells in the next, so that they formed a single sphere around Fedeles. He could see only shadows of the temple. Overhead the sky looked unnaturally black. Fedeles tried not to think of what might happen if he couldn’t leave this orb.
Again faint whispers brushed over him. But this time their tone was not warning so much as curious. He felt their question more than he heard it.
“I wish to see the sacred grove.” Fedeles’s mouth was so dry that his words came out in a low rasp. The filaments of spells that clung to his body from his passage through the rings lit up in a hot pulse. All around him Fedeles saw and felt spells turning and whirling like little whirlwinds. His hair and coat fluttered in the churning breeze.
Then the roof and walls of the temple seemed to melt away, offering Fedeles a clear view of the land below.
Spells scattered all across the dark city flared like campfires. The Shard of Heaven roiled with an inner golden radiance. Three bright blue shafts plunged down from the chapel, spearing through the seething gold forms trapped within the heart of the stone outcropping. By comparison the royal palace appeared as demure as the flame of a votive candle. Across the Gado River a scattering of chapels glowed faintly. But the sacred grove dominated the south side of the city like a bonfire lit against the night’s darkness. A circle of immense gold branches shot up into the sky, all of them flickering and surging like forks of lightning. Fedeles found it marvelous and hypnotic to watch the way they lit up the tiny buildings and streets. He knew that he shouldn’t have been able to pick out the frothy spray of the Shell Fountain, but somehow he could.
An enormous ring of shadows spread from the foot of the grove. Unlike the flat darkness of the night, these shadows seemed to gleam with the hidden depths of deep waters. Shards of color flashed briefly from within them. While the golden light danced into the heavens, the shadows curled and crept across the city like huge roots. They reached the edge of the river and a few coiled up around the supports of the Gado Bridge. Others wound to the city walls and even seemed to delve under.
The longer Fedeles gazed at the shadows, the more powerfully he felt the shadow curse within him flex against his restraint. It yearned to unite with them, to return to the source of its creation. To Fedeles’s horror, he realized that the shadows of the sacred grove had begun to move as well. Two black ribbons crept farther along the length of the Gado Bridge. As if answering the shadow curse’s longing, they quickened their pace, stretching over the river and then slithering up the empty streets. More shadows raced after them, like streams flowing into a river.
Slivers of color glinted through them and then, all at once, entire lengths of shadows burst apart and surged into the sky. A wild wind rose over Fedeles and the air filled with the sound of beating wings. Hundreds of glossy black crows blotted out everything as they filled the temple and circled over Fedeles.
The shadow inside him churned like an eel, lashing through his gut and struggling to climb up out of him. It hungered for release, to take possession of the power of the sacred grove.
I feel your gaze, child. Mean you to claim what I defend?
A woman’s voice rose on the thunder of crows’ wings and a strangely sweet perfume filled Fedeles’s mouth as he drew in a breath. The crows shrieked and spread their talons as they descended.
The shadow curse rose like bile in the back of his throat. Fedeles struggled to contain it. But it was too strong. He felt it rising up from him, stretching out to grasp the crows and devour them. And all at once Fedeles remembered the shadow curse invading Captain Ciceron’s corpse—he felt it ripping into his beloved friend Kiram’s body—he choked and gagged as it burst from him to tear open his friend Victaro. He tasted the hot blood and felt Victaro’s heart shudder in his hand. And still the shadow curse knifed into his flesh.
Fedeles couldn’t stop it then. He couldn’t stop it now.
In desperation he threw himself from the center of the temple.
Burning threads seared through his body. His arms jerked like they were caught in ropes and his legs tangled in invisible snares. He fell against the stone floor and rolled to his knees. Then he wrenched himself free from the rings of spells that had entwined him and staggered toward the open grounds. His shadow writhed and jerked, straining to drag him back into the center of the temple. Bahiim crows shrieked above him.
Fighting for every step, Fedeles lurched out of the temple’s grip. Freed, he ran blindly across the grounds. A small hillock of buttercups snagged his foot and brought him down to his knees in the weeds and dirt. He rolled onto his back, expecting to feel talons tearing at him as his shadow dragged the birds from the sky.
Belatedly he realized that the crows and shadows of the sacred grove were nowhere to be seen now. An open sky of distant stars spread above him. Fedeles lay there, staring up at the flickering little constellations. A cool wind washed over him, turning his sweat clammy. Fedeles rolled up to his knees.
The temple stood silent and dark. Only the faint familiar spells that Fedeles knew remained, glowing through the grass and wildflowers. Courage and Fearless trotted over a cracked flagstone and stopped at Fedeles’s side. He could hardly look at them, with declarations of bravery shining from the centers of their beings. They were so pure, utterly unspoiled by the corrupting rage and fear that saturated Fedeles’s own being.
They were radiant creatures, like Javier.
Fedeles clenched his eyes closed at the thought of his valiant cousin. Had it been Javier here in his place he would have stood up, brushed himself off and charged back into the temple. No, he wouldn’t have fled in the first place. He would have entered the temple and reached out to the sacred grove with certainty. He would have secured the holy place instead of enraging its guardians and nearly destroying them.
Fedeles hung his head.
He possessed neither Javier’s self-confidence nor his unsullied soul. And the thought of returning to the temple again only filled him with a sick fear. What murderous horrors would he unleash if he allowed the shadow curse to spread and pollute the sacred grove? As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, deep down he knew that he couldn’t muster the strength to restrain his shadow once it gripped a place of so much power. He could hardly control the monstrosity as it was now. If it grew stronger, Fedeles felt certain that it wouldn’t simply defy his will, it would devour him completely.
He couldn’t endure the pain and madness.
He yearned be the man Javier and Oasia and even Alizadeh seemed to believe him to be—capable, dependable and brave. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was a corrupted, broken coward. He couldn’t do what they wanted him to do.
He didn’t look at Fearless or Courage as he regained his feet and stumbled down from the hill. He kept his head bowed, his eyes focused on the obscure, dark path before him. He felt the spells fading behind him, but didn’t look back. Instead he wandered down the grassy hill as the first light of morning broke through the darkness at his back. By the time he reached the red gate of his home, songbirds were singing and the sky above him glowed with the colors of dawn. The spire of his household chapel gleamed and the white pebbles of the path before him glinted with dew and golden light.
It all seemed too beautiful and none of it should have been his.
The bountiful grounds and lovely mansion rightfully belonged to Javier. The fine weave of faint blue blessings strung across the buildings and hanging from the tree branches arose from Oasia’s looms and were products of her labor. Fedeles had done nothing to deserve all this splendor and wealth; it had simply fallen to him, and now he feared he couldn’t even keep it safe from himself.
He turned away from the great house and instead made his way to the familiar comfort of the stable. The warm air inside smelled of summer straw, horse droppings and the fragrant bouquets of rosemary and fleabane that the grooms had hung from the rafters. The two young grooms had already risen to begin feeding the horses. Fedeles exchanged passing greetings with them before working his way back to the largest of the stalls. Firaj lay sleeping with his big head nestled atop a mound of straw bedding. Despite his age, his black coat retained a glossy sheen and he seemed untroubled by the aches that so often kept other aged warhorses from their sleep. The gelding shifted slightly, sighed contentedly and then returned to snoring.
As he observed Firaj, a feeling of contentment came over Fedeles. Even his restless shadow calmed. Its sharp edges softened, and where it fell across the straw, it looked faint as a natural shadow. Slowly it stretched out to rest against the curve of Firaj’s thick neck like a cat curling up to nap. Fedeles sank down against the wall of the stall and closed his eyes.
Soft whinnies and nickers of waking horses drifted to him, along with the morning songs of barn swallows. Sunlight crept into the stable, illuminating the painted floral designs carved all across the rafters. Knots of apple blossoms and sunflowers clustered above Fedeles. More grooms arrived. They greeted each other and exchanged jokes. The smell of fresh hay and fodder filled the air. Here, for the time being at least, a tranquil world flourished, and it required nothing from him.
His agitation at last drained away. He drifted on the edge of sleep.
Then Fedeles heard a page call for the duke. His voice sounded far away and not particularly concerned. A few moments passed. The familiar voice of a household guard also made an inquiry. One of the grooms replied that he’d not seen the duke.
Fedeles sighed and opened his eyes. He ought to go and see what fresh trouble awaited him. But the temptation to steal just a few more moments alone stilled him. Couldn’t he have just a quarter of an hour in peace?
“My lord?”
Fedeles almost jumped at the intrusion, though Master Ariz’s voice hardly rose above a whisper. The sword master leaned into the stall. Fedeles noted that despite his obvious effort to brush his short hair down flat against his skull, one tuft bristled up at the back of his head. As it so often did. Fedeles found the unruly lick of hair charming, though he supposed that it vexed a man as disciplined as Master Ariz.
“Come to finish our dance, Master Ariz?” Fedeles asked.
The faintest of smiles curved the sword master’s lips, but he shook his head.
“Prince Jacinto calls for you.”
“I suppose it’s some emergency that I’m needed to address.” Fedeles sounded exasperated even to himself. He probably struck Master Ariz as petulant. God knew, he probably was being petulant. A man as wealthy and indulged as himself should hardly fuss over the fact that from time to time he was expected to put some effort into maintaining his fortunate status.
“The matter is not so urgent that it couldn’t wait a few moments.” Master Ariz stepped quietly into the stall, drawing the door closed behind him. He crouched down at Fedeles’s side.
Fedeles had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke that short spike of Master Ariz’s hair. He felt certain that it would spring back up against his fingers.
“Does Jacinto bring me good tidings or bad?” Fedeles asked.
“Does it matter?” Master Ariz cocked his head in that way he did when considering something.
“No. Either way it’s better to know than remain ignorant,” Fedeles admitted. “It’s only that I feel sorely in need of some good news just now. And I’m not certain of how much more calamity I can stand.”
“Captain Ciceron was dear to you, I know. His passing . . . It’s hard to lose someone so near your heart.” Master Ariz lowered his gaze to the straw of the stable floor. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
While his passive face gave away very little of his inner thoughts, it seemed to Fedeles that Master Ariz’s movements always conveyed a great deal more. Just now the way he leaned in reminded Fedeles of Firaj—when the warhorse stood close to him, offering support without voicing a single word. Fedeles supposed the sword master wouldn’t thank him for being compared to a horse, but to Fedeles’s mind there was no creature of greater grace, candor and nobility. He felt grateful that Master Ariz didn’t attempt to draw him into a conversation when all the turmoil he felt seemed too vast and volatile for words to capture.
The two of them sat quietly together.
Fedeles listened to the lively conversation of the grooms and the twitters of sparrows. His household, this stable, all the surrounding world seemed unchanged by Ciceron’s absence, almost as if he’d never truly been part of Fedeles’s life. He felt almost guilty that grief over Ciceron’s death didn’t overwhelm him—that he’d forgotten for a time that he should be mourning.
He glanced to Master Ariz and met his gaze. He wondered if the sword master would understand any of this? Would he think Fedeles hard-hearted for feeling mere melancholy in the face of death? Did he consider Fedeles an aberration for caring at all for the charming captain?
Fedeles studied the relaxed curve of Master Ariz’s callused hands where they rested on his sword belt. He crouched in such an easy manner that it conveyed an immense calm, and yet Fedeles couldn’t miss the coiled tension belying the swordsman’s posture. Was he uneasy in Fedeles’s company, or was readiness to spring into battle simply second nature for him?
Fedeles supposed that if he wanted to know Master Ariz better, then it fell to him to make the first overtures of sharing his own thoughts. Otherwise his interest could all too quickly come to resemble an employment interview.
“Ciceron and I weren’t constant companions.” Fedeles spoke before he could stop himself. “I enjoyed his company when he was with me. I believe he liked me as well . . . but what I’m most saddened by isn’t the loss of what there was between us. It’s the loss of what might have been—not just with me . . . but . . . but for all of us in Ciceron’s life. None of us will ever have the pleasure of knowing the man he might have become.”
Master Ariz nodded but didn’t lift his head, and Fedeles felt like a clod for having burdened the other man with his woes. The last thing he wanted was to discourage the already laconic sword master from further conversation with him.
“It’s a hard thing to lose a possibility. They are all we can imagine of our futures.” Master Ariz lifted his gaze and Fedeles noticed for the first time how red his lashes and brows were. “But at the same time it’s a hopeless venture to lament what never existed outside of imagining. There are too many things that will never come to pass.”
Fedeles almost argued but then stopped himself. If anyone knew what it was to lose all the promise of his future, it was Master Ariz. From his careful response, Fedeles guessed that he hadn’t spoken off the cuff, but instead shared a hard-won wisdom. Fedeles took a moment to consider Master Ariz’s opinion.
What good came from conjuring the great romance that might have been, just for the sake of mourning it? It was both self-indulgent and self-pitying.
“I see your point,” Fedeles admitted. He wondered what fantasies Master Ariz had once imagined for his own future. How painful had it been for him to abandon them all? What hopes did he allow himself now? Fedeles almost asked but then caught himself. If Ariz wanted to share his dreams, then he’d speak of them in his own time.
“So what is this morning’s news?” Fedeles asked.
“I . . . I believe that Prince Jacinto wishes to inform you of Count Odalis’s death. He passed away last night. They believe that his heart gave out.” Master Ariz rarely betrayed anything of his personal feelings, but there was something about the way he hunched his shoulders as he spoke that made Fedeles wonder if the sword master hadn’t known the hardened old count personally and felt sorrow in his demise.
“I don’t know if that’s good news or bad,” Master Ariz added. “Prince Jacinto seems pleased.”
Fedeles had not liked Odalis, and under other circumstances he might’ve welcomed this news. But Master Ariz’s somber bearing suddenly reminded him that no death should be treated as something to celebrate. Odalis had numbered among Prince Sevanyo’s opponents, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t people who would miss him and mourn him.
“Or perhaps it’s not the count’s demise that gives the prince joy, so much as power passing to the count’s heir,” Master Ariz added.
Odalis’s young nephew, unlike his uncle, was a fervent supporter of Prince Sevanyo’s. Fedeles nodded. It seemed like Master Ariz to immediately and accurately discern the political implications of the count’s death. After all, the conflicts of dukes, bishops and princes had destroyed his entire family. If anyone understood how the private lives of nobles could have far-reaching effects, it would be him. In all likelihood, Master Ariz probably possessed a far more nuanced understanding of noble politics than Fedeles.
“You could be right,” Fedeles said. “Jacinto isn’t unfeeling by nature; sometimes his enthusiasm can make him a little tactless.”
