The Tyranny of Shadows Page 11

  The trumpet sounded again, and the slavers retreated as suddenly as they had charged. Choson called hoarsely to his soldiers not to pursue, but some did. The slaver leader broke from the crowd, kneeled, and took aim at the nearest soldier. There were three blinding flashes of blue light within a few seconds, and three quarrels like surging bolts of light pierced clean through three soldier’s breastplates, and they all fell dead. Soon after, almost as suddenly as they had come, the slavers were gone.

  Choson stumbled away from the dozens of dead. He was soaked through to his boots with blood as cold as the snow, and each step was sticky and stung his cold-numbed feet. The village was bloodied, but less so. Many of the villagers had been taken, and few had been killed. Among the dead was Yiseyo, lying on her side in the snow in front of her house. The door had been smashed from its hinges.

  He passed the battlefield again and trudged down the slope the slavers had come from. He spent the better part of an hour searching the spots the scouts and watchmen used, until finally he found Jun. Choson collapsed to his knees beside his lifeless Lieutenant, who lay face-down amid smears of rust-dark blood in the snow, with a crossbow quarrel embedded in his back.

  ****

  “Quite a story,” Amelia said through the gap in the bars. She was aching from laying on the ground for so long.

  “Will you tell your leader of it?” Choson said.

  “No. Not worth the trouble.”

  “One of you Mordenari attacked a village and took slaves!”

  “You don’t know that,” Amelia said.

  “I do. That magic that flashes blue, I have seen you do it. It is only your people that can. Her name is Min-Yu. I found out what I could about her by posing as a slaver in other groups and hearing their talk in the years after the attack. She sent the trader in to see who in the village could be hired as mercenaries, and who would be taken as slaves. She paid the gatekeeper, Kang-Yu, to jam open the gate, and he is with her now as a slaver. She—”

  His voice choked. He set his jaw and pounded his fist on the stone. Tears were brimming in the corner of his eyes.

  “She killed Jun. And it is my fault. I sent him on dawn watch and she killed him.”

  “As I said, it is quite a story,” Amelia said. “But if I breathed a word about suspecting another Mordenari, I would find myself under a scrutiny that I cannot bear. Even if I would risk myself, which I wouldn’t, what would I say? That I trust the word of an intruder? I can’t help you.”

  “Why speak to us just to leave us to rot?” Roos growled. “Have you not honor?”

  “I never pretended I was the helping sort.”

  “No,” Roos said. “I watched your eyes while Choson spoke. I watched them when he spoke of finding Jun. What you pretend is that you do not care.”

  “Was he always this addled?” Amelia said scathingly. “Or did my little knock on his neck render him a simpleton?”

  Neither of them replied.

  “You are fools, and you know nothing,” Amelia said. She left them and climbed back inside the Monastery through a nearby window.

  Chapter 9

  The days at the Monastery passed with Gillis and Amelia tending to their usual duties, and meeting in the kitchens each evening to share a meal. Amelia insisted on Gillis cooking their dinners personally. While the majority of the Mordenari ate simple breads, broths, and porridges, Amelia and Gillis had fine meals of great variety. They told each other of their duties, and Gillis was most talkative when speaking of the role of Ghosts in the Monastery. Gillis’ duties outside of the kitchen, as he told Amelia, were bureaucratic and concerned information brought in by other Mordenari Ghosts like him. Outside the Monastery in the surrounding lands, there were many Ghosts who were involved in the gathering of information by stealth, coercion, and deceit. When paired with an enchanted or Momaentum warrior, they helped arrange or carry out assassinations, as Gillis had with Amelia. Gillis’ report on Pauloce, he told her, had included the strange herbalist Wilhelmina, and the knowledge Lord Pauloce had had about the Mordenari. He also assured her that he mentioned the manner of Pauloce’s death only briefly, and that, in any case, the report would be shelved along with the writ and forgotten about. Amelia relaxed visibly when he told her that.

  Ghosts met and made their reports in the libraries, a collection of smooth, dustless stone rooms near the Chanting Hall. The stone walls had recesses cut into them that held assortments of scrolls. Gillis’ tasks, under the supervision of a Dreyen, were to take the report-scrolls to the relevant rooms and shelves. Amelia yawned dozens of times as Gillis explained his work, but he spoke at length about reports he found to be interesting all the same. Amelia eventually took to cutting Gillis short when he droned on about his assignments. Her only interest was in the names of the Mordenari, and where they were sent. She had him look in the records for any mention of the name Min-Yu, but he was unable to find anything. Nor had any of the Dreyen heard of her.

  Amelia occupied her time with strength training, enchanting needed objects or potions, Momaentum duels with other Mordenari, and advanced combat scenarios. As a Momaentum warrior and enchantress, she had no need to take part in the administrative duties. This, she repeatedly told Gillis, was a blessing of the greatest kind.

  One day in the course of his duties, Gillis approached a Wittewolder Dreyen named Lief. He was of the same race as Roos, but other than the characteristic nine-foot height, he was entirely different. He had neat blond hair pulled back into a tail at the base of his neck, no beard, and very small spectacles that he peered through with light grey eyes as he read endless stacks of scrolls. He sat at a table made for a Veldenlander-sized person, and so looked very cramped. As Gillis approached, he turned and squinted through the spectacles at Gillis.

  “Yes?”

  “Lief,” Gillis said. “I wanted to ensure you received my report on Lord Pauloce.”

  “Yes. Strange read. I was not even aware Lord Pauloce had been marked for death,” Lief said. His voice was so deep and clear, Gillis almost felt it rumble in his own chest.

  “Nor I. The Dreyen sent me to intercept Beldas without the writ—but that is beside the point. It is all done now.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Lief waved a hand at Gillis and returned to the scrolls before him.

  Gillis teetered on the balls of his feet for a few moments, watching Lief carefully. Then he said, “There is something Verandert told me some time ago.”

  “Is there?” Lief said, still looking down.

  “That to be High Monk, Momaentum is of little importance. The laws are everything.”

  Lief sighed at great length through his nose and looked up at Gillis.

  “I do not ask to be the High Monk,” Gillis said hurriedly. “Or even a Dreyen.”

  “Gillis, advancement hinges on mastery of all three—”

  “I ask only for a greater scope of duties,” Gillis said. “I could help decide the fate of targets, the allocation of resources. I know the code better than any.”

  “That is work for the Dreyen.”

  “High Monk Javius was a cook before his advancement. An exception was made for him,” Gillis said.

  “I am busy, Gillis.”

  Gillis closed his mouth firmly, bowed, and turned to leave. Lief called him back.

  “Thank you for alerting us to Duvelt. One shudders to think of that hideous business being practiced by a Mordenari. You did well.”

  Lief returned to his scroll, so Gillis bowed again, and left.

  ****

  Some time later, Gillis sat on a ledge overlooking the lands south of the Monastery. His legs dangled over the edge, and though the ground was some hundred feet below the sheer cliff face, he was calm. He smoked his goud-root-packed pipe and enjoyed the solitude. Each pull of the pipe sent a tiny thrill through his chest and the top of his head. Above him was the stone-paved walkway, adorned with blue-grey arches and pillars, from which he had climbed down. The spot he sat in was not visible from above, unless some
one knew exactly where to look, and also leaned over the edge. He also had with him small strips of smoked and dried meats that he chewed slowly, and he contemplated sending off for different timbers to smoke the future batches with.

  Stretched out below him was the flat expanse of the northern Velden hinterlands. The bare branches of hosts of trees swayed in the chill wind. Gillis finished his pipe and snack, and started to climb back up to the walkway. His broken fingers were mostly mended now, though stiff from cold, and he managed the climb with little discomfort. As he reached the top, he saw a man standing on the walkway. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as though caught doing something shameful. He met eyes with the man briefly, and the latter extended a hand to help Gillis up. Gillis refused it, politely. The man was athletically built and young, and had longish hair tied in two tails that ended in a knot atop the head. Gillis, reaching the top, strained his memory as the man’s name evaded him.

  “What on earth were you doing down there?” the man said.

  In a flash of recognition, Gillis realized it was the Dreyen Athers, the one who had sent him to kill Beldas without the writ. The man had worn his hood up on their last meeting.

  “I wanted some privacy,” Gillis said.

  Athers sniffed the air around Gillis with a hint of a smile. “I see. Don’t let any other Dreyen catch you.”

  “I will not,” Gillis said. His neck grew hot at the younger man’s reprimand.

  “Worry not, I don’t report trifles like goud root. Speaking of reports, I read yours—are your fingers well?”

  “They have healed almost perfectly.”

  “I am glad, I am glad.”

  “Excuse me, but it is cold and I was heading inside.”

  “I will come with you,” Athers said, and kept pace with him as Gillis entered a great archway that led to a long spiral staircase down.

  “You speak to Amelia often, don’t you?” Athers said. He tried to keep his voice light in tone, but Gillis heard a note of strain.

  “Yes, often.”

  “Good. I have not been able to ...”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted to—” Athers dropped his voice and leaned in to Gillis. “I wanted to thank you for what you risked in helping Amelia.”

  “It was nothing. She was captured and I acted as any would.”

  “Not that. I mean the danger you accepted from the first. In agreeing to the writ when she brought it to you.”

  Gillis narrowed his eyes, confused. What danger had there been in accepting the writ? True, Lord Pauloce was well guarded, and suspicious of Mordenari, but if all had gone according to the original plan there would have been no more danger than was usual. What a strange thing to thank me for, Gillis thought.

  “It was nothing,” Gillis said.

  “Truly? I had the impression that you were more … well, if you smoke goud perhaps you have less regard for rules than I thought. Still, this was a big risk and I would thank you. It meant much to Amelia and, thus to me,” Athers said.

  “What? Why?”

  “She … she never mentioned me? Amelia and I were close, once.”

  “Ah,” Gillis said. “I see.”

  “Yes, and I suspect she avoids me. I know the two of you meet for meals.”

  “They are no more than meals, if that is your concern.”

  At this, Athers laughed so that the stairwell filled with echoes.

  “No,” Athers said. “That was not my concern. I just ask that you would pass on my hopes that she is well, that she can now … have peace.”

  “I will pass it on. This is the floor I need,” Gillis said, and suddenly left through an archway.

  It was not the corridor he needed, but thankfully Athers did not follow. Gillis recalled the night of Lord Pauloce’s feast, and the poorly hidden hatred Amelia had borne as she watched on. Athers’ remark about Amelia finding peace fit with the guess Gillis had made on that night. But what had that been about the danger of the writ?

  ****

  It was nearing midnight when Amelia abandoned her second attempt at sleep, lit some candles with the touch of her finger, and set about experimenting with a new enchantment. The same nightmare had begun again lately, in which she was paralyzed and Pauloce stood in the corner. He had been holding a knife and casting a shadow over her bed, never moving except for the shadow that grew to cover her, and as it swallowed her she was cast into a pit of dread. Her hands shook as she unstoppered vials and set neat piles of colored powders on her table. Two vials of freshly made Hearing Oil rested by her satchel on the far side of the table, the product of the earlier part of the sleepless evening. She needed to make a vial of Sleeper for whatever writ came next. But no, she thought, best not to have the temptation lying about. It may make for a dreamless sleep, but then you will need it every night, and after long enough you would not be able to sleep without it again.

  She had also been preoccupied lately with thoughts of Duvelt. He had said, “As many do in deeper studies of Momaentum, I came upon knowledge of Blood Magic.” Well of course you did, Duvelt, Amelia thought. We all do. We just hide it better. Just as Gillis smoked goud, many of the enchanters used Blood Magic to at least some degree. The use of blood and other living materials did not make it evil. Duvelt could indeed have gone back and fixed the girl’s and his own rotting fingers if only they’d let him go. Getting Beldas’ blood out of the writ, healing the ribs Pauloce had broken, and even making the Hearing Oil—where would she be without at least a bit of Blood Magic? And even Gillis hadn’t suspected a thing. Still, for the moment while Verandert and others were sniffing around for Blood Magic, she thought it better to minimize her use of it and stick to Momaentum.

  She combined the pinches of the powders with iron shavings, and cast short bursts of Momaentum over them in blue sparks, like striking flint over tinder. This formulation was the latest in her string of attempts to make a powder that would keep a blade stronger as well as eternally sharp—usually enchanters could do only one or the other. Something unseen changed in the powder, which she felt as a trickle running by her fingers, so she tipped the powder into a vial with some water. As she took up the vial with metal tongs and carefully transferred it to yet another vial, her mind began to wander. Killing him had been supposed to stop the nightmares. And it didn’t. Nothing would, it seemed. Not time, not distraction, not the death of the specter himself. It didn’t make sense. Very little had happened to her while growing up in Pauloce Keep—nothing compared to those other girls, the ones that disappeared. Wilhelmina taught me well enough, she thought. I had a knack for magic, and that was defense enough. But I couldn’t stop him getting the others.

  Would that I could steal glances of the future, as Wilhelmina can, she thought. Would that I had looked ahead and seen how long a wait it would be for peace, with Pauloce dead. Say I had looked ahead and seen nothing but a lifetime of blackness and dread, she wondered. Would I still have killed him?

  She slipped, dropped the vial and the tongs, and the content spilled all over them and her hands. Instantly the tongs began to hiss and smoke. She cursed repeatedly and scrubbed her hands, waiting for the burn, but it never came. She looked again from the tongs to her hands. The tongs were little more than a puddle of liquid now, completely consumed by the mixture she had made, but her hands were unharmed. Still swearing, she threw a nearby rag over the spill and mopped it up, trying to recall where she had gone wrong.

  What can I do now? she thought. Wander the halls, lie awake in bed, tinker more with this garbage. Or …

  Her eyes fell on the vials of powder that combined to make Sleeper.

  Within minutes she had a pinch of Sleeper, then set it on the tip of her dagger and inhaled sharply. The Sleeper stung her nostril at first, then pressed a heavy, numbing weight on her eyes and limbs. She barely had time to get over to her bed, and she collapsed there into a dreamless sleep.

  The next morning, seemingly moments later, a knock woke her.

  “Amelia. Please
open,” a voice outside said. Then they knocked again, hard.

  “Come in,” she mumbled as she sat up.

  A thin, bald Mordenari entered. His skin had a sheen to it, and with his slender frame and shiny head Amelia thought he looked like a brass bed-post. She scowled in greeting, eye half-open.

  “High Monk Javius requests an audience,” he said. Very quickly, he thrust a scroll into her hands and left.

  Her heart beat faster and questions raced through her mind. Nobody was casually summoned to the High Monk. This is either for some triumph, she thought, or some grave punishment. And I have done nothing to warrant a triumph in my life. Very few Mordenari ever met with the High Monk, and those that did spoke little of their meetings. She unfurled the scroll and read:

  Amelia

  I would speak with you on recent events. Please come to my chambers promptly.

  Javius.

  Her palms were slick now with sweat, and her heart pounded and her mouth dried. She thought wildly of packing her satchel and fleeing the Monastery.

  Calm down, she told herself. You’re ahead of yourself. You don’t know this is about the forged writ. Then, grimacing, she thought, You know it cannot be anything else. At least prepare for the worst.

  She took the rag, still sodden with the metal-melting mixture, and tucked it inside her clothes, along with one of the new vials of Hearing Oil.

  Chapter 10