Shadow’s Lure s-2 Read online

  “When?”

  “Back in Othir. You heard me explain it to Josey. You didn’t have any objections then.”

  “Yes, I did. I just didn’t voice them.”

  He turned the spits. “Then you forfeited your chance.”

  “I’m voicing them now! Look at you. You’re half frozen, living like an animal. And you don’t have any idea what you’re searching for. Do you?”

  Caim grunted, but it came out like a clearing of his throat. When was the last time you agreed with anything I did, Kit? But she was always there, every time he fell down, even if sometimes it was only to throw salt in his wounds. “I’m tired, Kit. Let it go.”

  She floated over to sit beside him and leaned against his arm. Ghostly tickles raised gooseflesh under his leathers. “Why don’t we go to Arnos? Just the two of us, down to the Midland shore. Bright beaches, clear waters. By the time we get there, it would be warmer-”

  He scooted away from her. “Cut it out, Kit.”

  “Fine.”

  With a last glower, she vanished. No sparkles, no glitter. Out in the gathering darkness, an owl hooted. The air seemed colder when she was gone. What was he trying to prove? That he didn’t need anyone? He’d spent most of the first week after he left Othir looking over his shoulder, hoping Josey had ignored his admonition not to come after him. Even after he stopped looking back, that didn’t make his decision to continue north any easier. The encounter with Levictus was still fresh in his mind.

  The wind died down for a moment, making the sorcerer’s next words resound like thunder crashing over Caim’s head. “ She dwells in the peerless realm of her ancestors, beyond the veil in the Land of Shadow.”

  The Land of Shadow. Children’s nonsense. But it wasn’t. Caim reached out his hand and called to the darkness. A patch of shadow appeared in his palm. It came with hardly any effort. The shadows. The stag. His dreams. What else was changing?

  Caim gave a mental push and the shadow slid away. After giving the spits another turn, he ducked inside the lean-to, where his few possessions were pushed against the canvas wall. On top of the pile lay a long bundle wrapped in burlap. He reached inside and pulled, and the sword slid clear of its housing with a whisper. The black blade reflected no shine from the firelight. It had lain in the ground behind Kas’s cabin for almost twenty years, yet showed not the least sign of tarnish.

  Where did you come from?

  As if in answer, a tremble slithered up his arm. And then the night came alive. The sky lightened to milky gray. The trees stood taller and shed their shady cloaks, and the snow gleamed beneath him like a blanket of stardust.

  Caim thrust the sword back into its scabbard. When his hand left the hilt, his vision returned to normal. With a grimace, he folded the burlap over the end and shoved the entire thing under a blanket, where it made a conspicuous hump. He pulled over the bulging satchel. Under layers of spare clothes, he found a narrow book bound in a black cord. It was Archpriest Vassili’s personal journal, given to him by Josey. There had also been papers for safe passage, but he’d burned them. From what he had seen journeying north, any document found on his person tying him to the new empress would do him more harm than good. If things had been bad in Nimea before the Church’s downfall, they were worse now. There was no law beyond the length of a sword’s blade. The nobles squabbled over land rights while the commons stole off to become brigands.

  Caim cracked open the book, and a square of parchment slid out onto his lap. He held it up. A capital letter J was stamped in gold wax over the fold. A letter from Josey, tucked where he would find it. Was it a plea for him to come back? Or a warning to stay away and never return? He shoved it in the back of the book.

  The lines on the book’s smooth vellum pages were penned in Vassili’s cultured hand. He read a page or two each night. So far he hadn’t found anything useful, mostly passages about the archpriest’s early days as a praetor in Belastire.

  Caim touched the key-shaped pendant, another gift from Josey, under his shirt as he flipped through the pages until something caught his eye.

  Eighth day of Atrius, 1123

  We have arrived in Othir after fourteen days on the road. Despite the speed of our passage, I was the last of the conclave to arrive, a fact which shall no doubt be used against me.

  We were received at DiVecci in the afternoon. Just as I suggested in my treatise, the Inquest has been expanded several times beyond their original…

  The next couple words were indecipherable. Then:

  The oubliettes beneath the castle stink of river water and are bursting with prisoners, many of them imperialist agitators, but one caught my attention. Something about his eyes. I have decided to return tomorrow and inquire about him.

  Hearing the sizzle of dripping fat, Caim lurched forward and caught the meat before it fell into the fire. He peeled off strips with his teeth and hissed as he gulped down the steaming flesh, then turned back to the journal. The text went on to tell how Vassili liberated a young man from the torture cells beneath Castle DiVecci and decided to keep him as a ward.

  The prisoner’s name was Levictus.

  By the time Caim finished the page, the sun had gone down. He put the book away, tossed another couple of branches on the fire, and crawled under his shelter. As he lay there, gazing up at the stars through gaps in the canopy, Josey intruded into his thoughts. What was she doing? Was she safe? Had she forgotten about him? But the more he thought of her, the more he knew he’d made the right decision. She was an empress now, and he was a penniless freebooter without a home or history.

  His last thoughts, as he drifted off, were about Kit. He regretted the way he had spoken to her. Promises of making it up to her lulled him into an uneasy slumber.

  Caim could tell he was dreaming by the phosphorescent tint of the starshine and the springy softness of the grass underfoot. He stood beside a split-rail fence as tall as his chest. Beyond it stretched a long yard of tar-black earth. He was eight years old again. Small. Scrawny. Weak.

  The fence rail was coarse under his palms. A big man knelt in the center of the yard. Caim’s breath remained trapped in his lungs as he looked upon his father. Over him towered a cloak-shrouded scarecrow. Moonlight illuminated the face of a young Levictus, with a midnight blade in his hand. The scene played out as it had a thousand times before. The blade swooped down. Caim bit his lip to stifle the scream. He wanted to run away, but he could only stand and watch as his father crumpled to the ground, the familiar sword’s hilt protruding from his chest.

  Levictus turned, and another figure came into view, garbed in a black cloak like the wings of a giant bat. A cold finger of dread scratched down Caim’s backbone. He started as a dry branch snapped beneath his foot. The figures looked toward him from across the yard .

  A sharp pain pierced his right ear. Caim tried to let go of the rail, but his hands wouldn’t obey. Shadows swirled as the figures melted away into the night, leaving his father alone in the yard. Caim wanted to go to him, but his head hurt so much. He focused on his fingers, willing them to let go. His arms shook with the effort .

  Just… let… go…

  A titanic roar jerked Caim awake, to find a huge shape looming above him. Massive jaws studded with fangs opened beneath a snub nose. Tiny eyes peered from under tufts of dark fur. Caim started to lift his arms, but the bear’s plate-sized paw knocked him sideways.

  Rocks gouged his back as he skidded over the hard ground, and another roar filled his ears. He reached for his knives, but his right arm was pinned underneath him. The fingers of his left hand were stiff with cold, but he made them curl around a hilt and pull it free. As the animal lurched over him, Caim thrust upward. The knife’s point struck hide as hard as old timber, and the air rushed from his lungs as clawed paws came down on his chest. The bear’s jaws gaped wide, spewing the stench of rotten meat into his face. Caim freed his trapped arm in time to wedge it between his throat and the bear’s teeth. The jaws slammed shut on his forearm. Spot
s of light danced in front of Caim’s eyes as he stabbed repeatedly into the animal’s side, but he might as well have been chopping down a tree with a spoon. Growls pierced his skull as he was thrashed from side to side. Biting back on his fear, Caim reached out to the shadows. He could feel them lurking around the edge of the camp, but he couldn’t summon the momentary calm he needed to call them. The spots began to swirl as his free hand swept back and forth across the ground, searching for… for

  …

  I’m going to die.

  With that realization, the terror receded long enough for him to detect a familiar feeling in his chest, a tugging he’d felt before. Then a horrific screech split the night, and a long, low shape rose above the bear’s rugged shoulder. Blacker than the night sky, it clove to the darkness. Wide, lambent eyes gazed down as its mouth closed around the bear’s neck.

  The bear roared and threw Caim away. He rolled over several times before crashing into the base of a tree. He tried to sit up and sucked in a short breath as a sharp pain erupted down his leg. He lay still, gasping in the snow, as the two beasts rolled across the ground, clawing and biting at each other. The bear’s struggles grew weaker by the heartbeat; its attempts to dislodge the huge shadow slowed until the great animal finally collapsed in a heap.

  A cold dread settled in Caim’s stomach as the shadow beast released the bear’s throat and stared at him from atop the shaggy corpse. Then it climbed down out of sight and disappeared. Caim craned his neck, but there was no sign of it. The pressure in his chest faded.

  Caim reached up to touch the side of his face. His fingers found a warm slick of blood and the loose flap of his earlobe attached by a thin membrane. With a grunt, he tore off the skin and dropped it in the snow. His body hurt all over. His forearm throbbed where the bear’s teeth had shredded his jacket sleeve and the flesh underneath. Lines of blood dripped down his hand to stain the snow. A darker pool was spreading under his left leg from a set of long parallel gouges.

  Moving slowly, Caim crawled past the carcass to the remains of his fire. He blinked back the darkness from the edges of his vision. He couldn’t afford to pass out. Even if he didn’t freeze, he would bleed to death before morning. The warmth of the fire pit felt good against his face and hands. Working quickly, he shoved his knives into the bed of coals. Then he sat up, wincing, and pulled open the gashes in his pant leg and sleeve. Blood poured from both sets of wounds. He pulled the first knife out of the fire and slapped its glowing red tip against the raw meat of his thigh. Blazing pain shot straight to his brain. For an instant he was back on the roof of the palace in Othir. Josey’s face hovered over him, saying something, but he couldn’t hear a word.

  Reality returned as he pulled the cooling blade away. The stench of burnt flesh clogged the back of his throat. The leg wound was blackened and puckered, but most of the bleeding had stopped. Before he could think it through, Caim pulled the second knife from the coals and placed it across the two larger bite marks on his forearm. The pain wasn’t as bad the second time, or maybe he was getting numb to it. When he was through, he slumped back on the ground.

  Stars twinkled overhead. Save for a low buzzing in his head, the night was quiet. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but he fought it off and started crawling. He snagged the straps of his gear as he passed the wreckage of his lean-to. Dragging the bundles, he pushed onward into the night. If he kept moving until morning, he might survive. If his wounds didn’t reopen while he crawled. If he wasn’t visited by any more uninvited guests.

  If. If. If.

  With the buzz droning in his ears, he took it one painful inch at a time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Standing by the clear glass window, Josey plucked at the lace cuffs that encased her wrists. Her suite at the top of the imperial residence was a series of connected rooms larger than the entire top floor of her old house. This parlor was her favorite place to come and be alone. A vase of fresh amaryllis filled the cloistered air with a delicate scent. Pale rectangles of sunlight reflected on the parquet floor. Masterpieces in oil and bronze hung on the walls.

  She reached into a small pocket sewn into her skirt and took out a square of parchment. She unfolded it and counted the rows of hatches drawn on the page. Forty-one, one for every day Caim had been gone. It seemed longer than that-weeks longer. Some part of her had believed he would return before now; another part whispered he was never coming back.

  Hearing footsteps out in the foyer, Josey stuffed the paper back in her pocket. The door opened, and a servant appeared, dressed in a blue doublet and hose with a griffin stitched over his heart in gold thread. He held out a steaming porcelain cup on a silver tray.

  “Tea, Your Majesty?”

  It smelled divine. Josey started to accept, but a twinge in her stomach reminded her that breakfast had not settled well. With a shake of her head, she sent the servant away. She took out the parchment and smoothed it on a sideboard table. She was about to fold it back up when Fenrik entered, carrying a long teakwood box. Her foster father’s man servant had aged dreadfully over the past months. His internment at Castle DiVecci during the recent troubles had turned him into an old man before his time. His hair had gone from gray to white, and his back bowed like a withered tree trunk. He set the box down on the table, opened the lid, and stood aside.

  Josey went over to him. “Please, Fenrik. You should have had someone else carry this.”

  “I can pull my weight, my lady. Always have, always will.”

  “I know. It’s just that I worry about you.”

  Fenrik made a show of looking abashed. “Your father. The earl, I mean. He would have been proud to see you finally come into your own.”

  She smiled at him, then eyed the open box. A sparkling array of stones nestled on a bed of ivory silk. A necklace of sapphires and another of sea-green emeralds, three pairs of earrings, an assortment of rings and bracelets. Resting in their midst was the crown. Interlocked golden circlets formed the base of the diadem, sweeping up into nine delicate points. The whole thing was encrusted with enough precious stones to feed the city for a month. She reached out with one hand, but stopped before touching it.

  “Allow me.”

  Fenrik whisked the crown out of the box before she could protest and settled it upon her head. Josey glanced into the mirror set in the lid of the box. The image that looked back at her was a stranger, far too regal and serene to be her. She wasn’t sure she liked the change.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Josey followed his gaze to the parchment in her hand. She folded it up and slid it into her pocket. “Nothing, Fenrik. Just a reminder.”

  The door opened again, this time admitting a gentleman with a balding pate, one of the court’s many secretaries. “Your Majesty, the court waits at your pleasure.”

  Squeezing Fenrik’s arm, Josey bid him good-bye and followed the secretary, her long skirt swishing. Two guards in burnished armor waited in the hallway outside. They fell in behind her as she walked down a winding staircase to the ground floor.

  When they reached the door to the Grand Hall, the secretary looked to Josey, but she held up a hand for him to wait. Her stomach was uneasy again. The crown felt like it wanted to slide off. She took a deep breath as she reached up to adjust it. Just breathe, Josey. It will be fine. When Josey got the diadem balanced, she nodded to the secretary, and he held open the door with a bow.

  Although she had grown accustomed to the opulence of palace life, Josey’s pulse still quickened each time she entered the Grand Hall. The elaborate tapestries, the vast marble floor, the graceful pillars rising to the domed ceiling-they filled her with reverence. Yet ghosts also lingered in the vast chamber. The bloodstains had been removed, but in her imagination she could still see the spots where the assassin Ral had kicked over boxes holding the severed heads of the Elector Council. And when her gaze strayed too high, the paintings depicting the glories of the True Church illuminated above brought her back down to solid ground. Sh
e might be empress now, but her rise to power had not been easy, or without bloodshed.

  Sixteen ministers of the Thurim-less than a third of the officials who’d held the post when her father reigned-stood upon her arrival. They were old men, nobles for the most part, but two were elected by the common people of Othir. That had been one of her more progressive ideas.

  Josey ascended the dais where the Elector Council’s thrones had been replaced with a gaudy eyesore of mahogany and teak decorated with golden studs over every conceivable surface. The palace staff had retrieved it from some cellar storeroom where it had sat since the overthrow of her father and restored it here. She sat down with all the grace she could muster on the seat as hard as an old stump and forced herself to smile.

  Hubert stepped to the foot of the dais and made a deep bow. “Majesty,” he said, loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. “Have we your leave to begin this day’s proceedings?”

  When she assumed the throne, Josey hadn’t much of an idea what an empress actually did. Presented with a host of questions, from whom to appoint to various administrative posts left vacant when the Church officials who had been running the country were removed, to how to raise a new police force to enforce her laws now that the Sacred Brotherhood was disbanded, Josey had turned over much of the daily operations to Hubert, her new lord chancellor, so that she was free to consider larger matters of state. Or so she had told herself.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “In one moment.”

  Hubert had started to turn away, but halted in midstep. Josey flicked a glance toward the offensive ceiling paintings and tried not to meet the mournful eyes of the Prophet hanging on his noose.

  “When will the ceiling be restored?”

  Hubert cleared his throat. “We have not yet acquired an artist, Your Majesty.”

  “Why not?”

  Hubert turned to the long desk he shared with the new Keeper of the Imperial Treasury. Ozmond Parmian cut a fine figure in his fashionable white suit.