Master of restless shado.., p.9
Master of Restless Shadows, page 9
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Perhaps it was that quality of selfless love that made the royal bishop so suspicious and resentful of the Grunito family as a whole.
“If only our papa had recognized the harm he did Nugalo by sending him from the family, . . .” Prince Sevanyo murmured. “If only I’d seen the hurt I caused Remes when I gave him over to Nugalo . . .”
An uneasy shiver rolled up Fedeles’s spine. The quiet swordsmen he’d noted earlier had padded much closer. One man stepped through the edge of Fedeles’s long shadow and it bristled like an angry guard dog. They drew closer still.
Now the nearby circle lamplight illuminated them clearly. The taller of the two called out loudly, as if taking offense at his companion’s remarks. The shorter man shouted back, while moving steadily nearer to Prince Sevanyo. He moved too calmly for a man truly infuriated, and the hint of a smile flickered across the lips of his companion.
“So much needs to change, but who among us possesses the courage to dismantle the very traditions that have put us in power?”
Fedeles hardly registered the prince’s words.
“I’ll have your head for that!” the taller of the swordsmen roared as the shorter man edged still closer to Sevanyo. The taller swordsman drew his blade and charged. The shorter tore his own sword from its scabbard. The two of them clashed, spun and advanced. Fedeles recognized that mere chance and momentum hadn’t carried them and their naked blades so close to the prince.
Sevanyo’s guards weren’t near enough, Fedeles realized with horror.
“Stop!” Fedeles bounded up, blocking the swordsmen’s path to Sevanyo. The taller of the two grinned at Fedeles as if he were a hare flushed from hiding. He thrust his shining blade in to drive through Fedeles’s chest.
Fedeles barely sidestepped the thrust. The blade whispered through the air as the swordsman thrust again. Instantly the murderous shadow curse that lurked within Fedeles broke free. Black talons surged up from Fedeles’s shadow. A flutter of darkness gripped the swordsmen, looking like little more than the flicker of lamplight. Then a bloody gash tore across the shorter man’s throat. The other swordsman’s body split open from groin to collar. Hot blood spattered across Fedeles’s outstretched palm.
Both men collapsed to the ground. Dark streams pooled around their bodies, turning the walkway pebbles slick.
Fedeles immediately jerked the murderous darkness back to the confines of his own body. He felt its rage thrashing and snapping against his will. His heart pounded with his own horror and his shadow’s fury. Fedeles clenched his fists, imaging himself crushing the life from the murderous creature within him. The shadow curse quieted, then slowly stilled as Fedeles drew in a deep, steadying breath. At last his shadow lay flat and featureless, while Fedeles stood drenched in cold sweat and shivering as if he were naked.
Hardly a yard from him, one of the swordsmen groped haplessly at the gaping chasm of his chest with a look of terror. Then his hand dropped and he lay as still and silent as his companion. All around them servants and courtiers stared in shock and confusion. Several stole frightened glances to Fedeles but averted their eyes the moment they met his gaze. Fedeles looked up into the bright sky just to avoid their stares. Shame and horror filled him. After all these years he still couldn’t control the shadow curse; he was still helpless before its fury.
The black silhouette of a crow winged overhead. Fedeles wished he too could simply fly away from all of this.
“Good Lord!” Atreau swung down from a bronze globe stamped with constellations. “I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed two men cut each other down so quickly. I hardly saw the taller fellow strike back as he was laid open. He must have been one of the finest swordsmen in the city. A pity he drew against his equal.”
Then all at once the rest of the courtiers took up the conversation, a few claiming they’d witnessed each stroke of the blindingly quick duel between the two men. Others bemoaned the violent times that they lived in.
Fedeles stepped back, sinking down beside Prince Sevanyo. He clasped his hands, pressing them against his thigh to still his trembling fingers.
He’d gone nearly three years without letting the murderous thing free; he’d nearly convinced himself that he could be trusted. But now two corpses lay where hale young men had stood only minutes ago. Assassins, surely. But still it shook him to the core that he’d so completely lost all hold over the shadow curse.
“I only wanted to push them back,” he whispered. Sickness rose through him and he fought for several moments not to vomit.
“Ever my guardian,” the prince whispered. Very gently he placed his arm around Fedeles’s shoulders. Then Sevanyo gestured to a servant and moments later a group of tired-looking groundsmen arrived and set about the gory work of removing the bodies, spilled bowels and bloodstained pebbles. Soon enough the clusters of courtiers returned to their frivolity, many assisted by the abundant platters of liqueurs and black poppy pipes.
“It troubles you, doesn’t it?” Prince Sevanyo asked, but then he nodded to himself. “Of course it does.”
Sevanyo had known Fedeles during the terrible years when he’d seemed mad—and he had been half out of his mind. Against his will, Fedeles had slain a dear friend and destroyed the lives of all those who’d been brave enough to fight to free him from Donamillo’s grasp.
Afterward, Prince Sevanyo and Father Timoteo had conspired to make it seem that those years had left no mark upon him. But they all knew that the razor-edged shadow curse lingered within Fedeles. He could not escape it.
“You are too good of a man,” Prince Sevanyo went on quietly. “If Hierro Fueres carried such a burden as you do, believe me, he wouldn’t suffer even a pang of guilt for the terror he would unleash with it. The very fact that it troubles you reassures me that you will not misuse it.”
“Thank you,” Fedeles replied. He wouldn’t argue with his prince, but he didn’t share Sevanyo’s certainty. Nor did he wish to linger on the subject—too much thought directed at the shadow curse only seemed to stir it, give it more power and solidity. “Would you forgive me if I took my leave, Your Highness?”
“Of course, dear boy. You are good to indulge me for as long as you have,” Sevanyo said. “Go with my blessing.”
Fedeles withdrew, taking care not to step on the few pebbles still glistening with blood.
Chapter Eight
The morning following Captain Ciceron’s murder, Ariz returned to his usual practice in the sword hall. Sunlight poured through the long windows and gleamed across the polished floorboards. The mirrors on the far wall threw pools of light across the sword racks and illuminated a pair of miniature paintings that hung between the marble columns that ringed the dueling floor.
Ariz lunged and returned to position while on the far wall his shadow distorted and twisted as if lampooning him. He lunged again and pivoted to slash the air with his blunt-tipped practice blade. His pallid reflection split across the panes of the nearest window.
Outside, two gardeners clipped sprays of scarlet blossoms from the camellia hedges. Soon the flowers would replace the fragrant jasmine that filled vases throughout the great house. After last night, Ariz would be glad of that.
He turned through each of the eight parries with his left arm first and then attempted the same with his right. His stitches pulled and fatigue slowed his motions to the sort of pretense of battle exhibited in so many stage plays and operas. For a moment he even considered singing the sentimental chorus of The Rogues’ Folly.
Scoundrel born of hate and strife
Loyal to none, cruel to all
Now gladly lays down his life
Redeemed by true love’s call
Absolution came so easily in theater. A few lyrics and a murderer transformed into a dashing hero.
Ariz stopped at the fifth position. He could feel blood seeping up from the seams of his stitches. He returned to leading with his left. He ought to have taken Delfia’s advice and made an excuse to cancel his morning practice with Lord Quemanor. But he didn’t want to lurk alone in his room, nor would it have been wise for him to chaperone his sister and her mistress, the duchess, as Delfia had suggested.
“You know I can’t be trusted to keep what secrets I overhear,” Ariz had been forced to admit. “It’s better that I hear and see nothing.”
Delfia hadn’t argued. Instead she’d helped him endure the pain while he struggled to confess all he could of what he’d done and witnessed in Hierro’s company. At some point he’d lost consciousness. Mercifully, Delfia hadn’t continued her gentle, agonizing interrogation after that. She had pressed a kiss to his brow and then gone to report to the duchess.
Third bell rang out and Ariz ceased his practice. Casually he stepped into the shadow of a marble column and gazed out the west-facing window. Mounds of creeping thyme and moss roses carpeted the low, rolling hills leading up from the wooded grounds where Lord Quemanor rode every morning. Lord Quemanor appeared soon after, striding between the potted roses lining the white pebble path.
His resemblance to his cousin Hierro was remarkable, both of them possessing long graceful builds, black hair and dark eyes. But where Hierro cultivated a rarefied pale complexion, Fedeles Quemanor’s face was freckled and his arms tanned as any of his grooms’. Today his son, Sparanzo, rode on his shoulders and both of them laughed at something—perhaps simply at the pleasure of each other’s company. Ariz observed them with the fascination that he knew other men would have reserved for majestic paintings or sublime music.
But neither art nor melodies meant much to Ariz. Hierro sang beautifully and his sister, Clara, possessed a fine hand for painting portraits and landscapes. Such artistry beautified the world to the same extent that perfume masked the stinking sores of merrypox. It was smiling prettily before spilling poison into a glass of wine. Superficial deceit that altered nothing of the ugliness it disguised.
Genuine kindness, on the other hand, could make even terrible pain more bearable. Just witnessing the affection of father and son, Ariz felt somehow lifted out of himself. But as they drew near he turned away, resuming his lunges. It would not do for Lord Quemanor to suspect how closely Ariz observed him. Instead Ariz studied their approach in the long mirrors lining the far wall. Lord Quemanor swung his son down from his shoulders as they approached and the boy darted ahead.
“Master Ariz!” Sparanzo came through the doors, dashing slightly off-balance ahead of his father and waving a sapphire studded toy horse. “See what His Grace Prince Sevanyo gave me!”
Ariz turned feigning surprise and then immediately leapt forward to catch the boy as his left foot caught on his right. He nearly collided with Lord Quemanor, who reached for his son at the same moment. But even in exhaustion Ariz’s reflexes served him well. He caught Sparanzo and then ducked under Lord Quemanor’s chin to step clear. Momentum carried him two more steps, then he stopped and propped Sparanzo back on his feet. The boy released his tight grip on Ariz’s right arm.
“Careful, young master,” Ariz said. “You wouldn’t want to break the prince’s gift.”
Sparanzo stared at him for a moment and Ariz thought he could clearly see Oasia Quemanor’s features in the five-year-old’s wide, round eyes and delicate brows.
“I tripped on the bad foot,” Sparanzo said quietly and frowned down at his left leg, as if its disobedience might merit a stern lecture. Ariz nearly smiled. Though Sparanzo didn’t bear a striking resemblance to his father, many of his expressions were perfect mirrors of Lord Quemanor’s.
Out of the corner of his eye Ariz watched Lord Quemanor. He waited near the sword rack, giving his often-shy son time to share his news.
“I named him Wind.” Sparanzo held out the toy horse. Its jointed wooden legs swung smoothly.
“Very handsome,” Ariz commented, then he stood. “You must have performed very well indeed to have impressed the prince.”
Sparanzo’s expression brightened, and after glancing quickly over his shoulder to his father, he straightened and performed the vine step and kick that he’d practiced with Ariz. Then he dropped down into a kneeling bow.
“Perfect, young master.” Ariz clapped lightly and Sparanzo sprang upright, grinning.
“The prince liked it so much that he picked me to bear the flower chalice in his coronation procession.”
“Did he?” An uneasy feeling moved through Ariz as he remembered Prince Remes’s casual mention of making Clara Odalis his queen.
“You don’t think the procession steps will be too difficult, do you?” Sparanzo asked.
“Certainly not,” Ariz replied quickly. “We can practice them along with the quaressa dance steps this afternoon if your noble father does not object.”
“His father does not,” Lord Quemanor called. “But for now it’s time you returned to your mother, Sparanzo.” Lord Quemanor smiled at his son, then went to the double doors that opened into a long interior corridor.
“It’s not far to Mother’s chambers. I could go alone.” Sparanzo sighed. “I know the way.”
“You could, but not today,” Lord Quemanor replied. Then he summoned two of his retainers from the hallway and tasked the brawny men with escorting Sparanzo through the great house to Lady Quemanor’s apartments. The men bowed and winked indulgently at Sparanzo. Most of the household staff considered Lord Quemanor overprotective of his wife and his son. Ariz, however, worried that the duke couldn’t go far enough to ensure their safety or his own.
Both the retainers escorting Sparanzo were experienced soldiers and strong men, but also easygoing and prone to allowing pretty maids to distract them—particularly while inside the Quemanor house. The first landing of the narrow back staircase would be the perfect place to dispatch them. Two sword strokes, then there would be no one to save Sparanzo.
Ariz turned away to the windows, despising himself for his repellant turn of mind. Ruddy gardeners continued pruning the camellia trees. He attempted to take consolation in the certainty that if Hierro attempted to use him against the Quemanor family, the duchess, Oasia Quemanor, would not hesitate to have him put down.
Likely she would employ Delfia. Ariz had already sworn to his sister that he would not resist if ever that time came. In return Delfia had embraced him and promised him as painless a release as she could provide. Her poison needles worked fast.
The sound of Lord Quemanor’s footsteps drew his attention back to matters at hand. Ariz turned to see Lord Quemanor strip off his dusty green jerkin and toss it over a stool. Morning light shone through his white shirt, outlining his lean form. His skin looked flushed from exercise and sun. He offered Ariz a friendly smile as he laid aside his sword and took up one of the blunt-tipped practice weapons from the rack.
“A good ride this morning, my lord?” Ariz inquired.
“Quite pleasant.” Lord Quemanor stretched and rolled his shoulders. “The view from the top of Crown Hill is superb, with all the wildflowers in bloom and the foals playing in the pastures below. Have you ventured there?”
“I made the attempt a week past, but I wasn’t sure of the way and didn’t want trespass onto Count Odalis’s property . . .” Ariz hoped that his words didn’t seem as obviously leading as they felt to him.
“A hundred years of weeds and weather have left very little to recognize of the path.” Lord Quemanor took his stance in front of Ariz, then added. “If you’re truly interested you should join me tomorrow morning. I’ll show you the way.”
Ariz’s heart seemed to jerk in his chest like a hooked trout. He forced himself not to answer too quickly or betray his pleasure. “A kind offer, my lord. I would be honored to ride with you.”
Lord Quemanor raised his blade and Ariz lifted his own to meet it. Then, wordlessly, their match began. Lord Quemanor maintained a tight defense and used his superior reach to hold Ariz at bay. And for a little time Ariz allowed himself to simply enjoy the give and take of their thrusts and parries. Lord Quemanor’s vigor rang through his blade as he met Ariz’s quick attacks. But Ariz didn’t like how easily Lord Quemanor backed off or his restraint when pressed.
“You should not allow me to push you into a corner, my lord,” Ariz chided him.
“You think I’m allowing it?”
“I think you are dancing, when you should be fighting.”
“Well, I do enjoy dancing quite a bit more,” Lord Quemanor said.
“Whether or not you like it, you must learn to fight, my lord. At least to defend yourself and those who rely on you.” Ariz jabbed in at the duke’s left arm and the duke sidestepped him, but this time Ariz didn’t permit his escape. He struck hard with the flat of his blade.
Lord Quemanor grimaced but blocked Ariz’s blade the second time he struck.
“Good,” Ariz told him. “But don’t just block me. Press your advantage.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Lord Quemanor’s friendly expression faltered. He looked almost stricken.
Ariz drove in fast. Lord Quemanor parried but failed to notice the sweep of Ariz’s left foot. He hooked Lord Quemanor’s ankle and jerked his leg out from under him. The duke toppled onto his ass.
“With respect, you’ll have to learn a lot more before you’ll be able to even challenge me, my lord,” Ariz replied.
