Counting Shadows (Duplicity) (3 page)

“But this man is still around Kastellor?” Farren asks, referring to our country’s capital.

I nod. “He’s staying close to the castle, or at least most of the time. My informants say he’s leaving the city for periods of time, and then coming back. But I have no idea what he’s up to.”

Which just about kills me. The day before Ashe was taken into custody, I saw the man in the royal throne-room. He was tall and broad, with a long scar at the corner of his mouth. A pearly patch of skin marked his collarbone, a small circle that almost looked like a brand.
Treason,
I’d heard him whisper out of his ruined mouth, and Father’s eyes had grown wide.

After Ashe was sentenced to death, I started hunting the man. But, after ten months, I barely have anything to show for it. Every day I wake up with this reality hanging over my head, and every day I wake up nauseous, pained…
guilty.

“You don’t even know his name, Faye,” Farren says softly. Then he scoffs, his tone hardening a little. “You can barely confirm he
exists
.”

“I know he exists. I
saw
him, Farren. He’s the one who reported my Guardian as a traitor. He set him up!”

Farren does another one of his hand-flicking gestures, dismissing my words. “Maybe he did report Ashe. But what if this man was working for someone else? What if he was only a messenger?”

I wince at the way he says the name:
Ashe.
Like it’s just another casual word to use in discussion. I stopped using it soon after Ashe died, deciding his name deserves more respect. But I can’t convince everyone of that.

“If he was just the messenger,” I reply, my teeth gritted, “then I’ll make him tell me his employer’s name before I kill him.”

Farren shakes his head. “Why are you so set on killing him, Faye? Why does he have to die?”

The answer is so obvious that I laugh. We both wince at the harsh, ruined sound. “He has to die because he
murdered
my Guardian,” I growl. “It’s his fault, and he needs to die for it.”

“So now it’s your job to deal out justice, huh? Great. I’ll inform the Grand Judge that he can retire.”

I ignore the sarcastic drawl in his voice. “It’s revenge, not justice. There’s a difference.”

“And that is?”

“Justice is laws and politics and lies. Revenge actually means something.”

Farren shakes his head.
One, two, three, four, five…
I count the moments of silence that pass. After Ashe’s death, I was always counting my heartbeat, remembering his promise to me. Soon I figured out methodical counting can be soothing, and it became a habit.

When I reach eighteen, I let out a long breath. “Seriously, though. How was your day?”

He groans and lets his head fall back, but goes along with the subject change. “Good, I guess. I went and saw Ameila.”

I try to hide my wince, but fail miserably. Farren shoots me a glare, his shoulders suddenly tensed, and I quickly say, “I just worry about you.”

“No,” he says, “you just don’t like that I’m courting a peasant.”

“She works in a bakery, Farren. Don’t you see how terrible that would look if anyone discovered you were courting her? You could be stripped of your titles.”

“And why would that be so bad?”

Because then I wouldn’t have you in my life,
I want to say. But instead I snap, “You’re always saying you don’t want to be king, but the alternative is worse. Being cast out of a royal family is practically a death sentence.”

“You’re being overly dramatic.”

I scoff. “Being a cast-away means no bodyguards, no laws to protect you. Do you really think you’d last long on the street, with all the grudges people hold against royalty?”

He chews at his lip for a long moment. Then he glances away from me, his gaze focused on the fire, and says, “I love Ameila. And I’m not just going to leave her just because she’s a peasant.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Farren,” I say, even though my heart screams that he’s making the right decision.

“You’re one to talk. Falling in love with that Angel boy? You know that’s worse than falling for a peasant.”

I dig my fingers into my palm, trying to stop myself from lashing out at Farren. Sometimes it seems rather pointless to be so highly trained in fighting, when I can rarely use my skills… “I was already disgraced by practically the entire kingdom when I Chose him. It didn’t matter who I took as my Guardian. You, on the other hand, have an image to uphold.”

“I don’t care about images.”

“The people love you. Don’t ruin that, Farren. It’s not worth it.”

“Ameila is worth anything.”

I grit my teeth, holding back a frustrated groan, and stare up at the ceiling. Smoke from the fireplace has blackened the stone over the decades, and it almost looks pretty, a patch of dark amidst all the pale stonework. I try to focus on the prettiness, but all I can think of is that the stone will crumble sooner because of all that soot.

Neither of us say anything for a long moment. Then Farren hesitantly murmurs, “You should know that there were three more magical raids on the border.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Some of the Council is trying to blame you.”

I let my lip twist into a sneer. “When will they ever give up on that theory?”

“They have no reason to give up on it, Faye. These are magic raids. People are dying, and they can’t find any culprits.”

“Except for me, of course,” I mutter.

“Except for you. You look strange, you act strange, and you’re a person of power. Plus you have those visions
and
you keep hidden away from everyone outside the castle. You’re the perfect suspect.”

“So now it’s my fault that Father makes me hide away? You know I’d be murdered within days if the peasants knew what I looked like. Like you said, they don’t trust me or my visions.”

Farren grinds his teeth. “You’re not getting the point, Faye.”

“And that is?”

“You need to be more careful. Stop going out at night, and stop drawing negative attention to yourself.”

I narrow my eyes. “Farren, you know I have no power. I’m a princess, not a prince. You don’t actually think I’m
responsible
for anything, do you?”

Farren rolls his eyes. “Of course not. You’re odd, but you’re definitely not a witch.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You should be thanking me,” he says, his tone a little sharper. “There are some people who—”

“—want me dead. I get it, Farren. I hear all about it. I’m not as oblivious as people treat me.”

He bites his lip and doesn’t agree with me. I cross my arms and look away from him, trying to hide my glare. Mature, no. But wise? Yes. It’s never smart to get into a heated argument with Farren. Neither of us ever wins—we’re too stubborn—and we’re both fantastic at holding grudges.

Farren gnaws at his lip for a couple more seconds—it’s a habit he’s never been able to break, no matter how much Father gets after him—and then murmurs, “I don’t understand you, Faye. Not at all. You don’t seem to care that there are people out there wanting you
dead
.”

I care, of course. I won’t die knowing the man who murdered Ashe is still alive. But I only care enough to ensure Father will protect me from the witch-hunters and all the other paranoid citizens calling for my death.

“I do care,” I say simply.

“Not enough.”

I shake my head. “You’re being ridiculous, Farren. We all know who’s behind the attacks. The Council is just too afraid to admit it.”

Farren raises an eyebrow. “You think it’s Shale?”

“Of course. He’s publicly admitted his intentions to take our country. How could he
not
be behind the raids?”

He nods in agreement, his expression darkening. It’s a little odd, seeing him look so glum when he’s usually cheery. But it’s not surprising. Shale is a powerful Mage—so powerful, that he’s set out to conquer the entire continent. No one has been able to get in his way so far, and now that he’s claiming his next victory will be Irrador, Farren has good reason to dread Shale’s name.

“But we seem to be the only ones who believe it’s him,” Farren mutters. “Everything else is pretending like he’d never be able to take Irrador.”

“Why wouldn’t he? I mean, our country is well-protected, but it’s nothing compared to Shale’s army. He’s taken over five countries in the past three years. It’s just stupid to think he won’t overtake Irrador. And he’s—”

Farren holds up a hand to stop me. “You don’t have to tell me, Faye. Believe me, I know.” He continues gnawing at his lip, his jaw working back and forth. “I have a theory.”

“And that is?”

“Well, Shale is a Mage.”

“That’s not a theory, Farren. We already know he uses magic.”

He rolls his eyes at me, and gives me his classical shut-up-for-one-moment-and-listen look. “That’s not my theory.” He uncrosses his legs, looks around anxiously, and then crosses them again. “Here’s what I’m thinking: If Shale uses magic, then why couldn’t he use it on us?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why he couldn’t. He’s obviously responsible for the border raids.”

“But that’s the thing. It’s so obvious, but very few people realize that.”

I open my mouth to ask what he’s going on about, but then it hits me. Of course. It
is
obvious. And if Farren is right… My stomach suddenly feels like it’s full of icicles. “You think he’s somehow blocking us from noticing him? That he’s using magic to make us all oblivious?”

Farren nods. A small drop of blood wells on his chewed lip, and then drops down his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve, and frowns at the stain it makes.

“You have to do something,” I demand.

“I’m not king. Seven more months, remember?”

“Of course I remember. But that’s no excuse to just sit back and let Shale mess with our minds.”

“I’ve tried, Faye. The Council won’t listen to me.”

“Then try harder!”

He scoffs. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you even paid attention to politics?”

I probably should try to come up with a comeback. But I just shake my head and say nothing, because I know he’s right, that I should pay better attention to Irrador’s politics.

Or at least that’s what my conscience tells me. But I learned to ignore that annoying little voice the moment I set out to avenge Ashe.

Farren stands from the chair and stretches. “We can’t seem to have a discussion tonight without disagreeing.”

“Can we ever?”

He chuckles and shrugs. “No, not really.” His expression softens into that affectionate smile he’s given me as long as I can remember. “I’m going to retire for the night. You should, too. It’s late.”

“How can you sleep, knowing what Shale is up to?”

“Like I said, it’s just a theory. I don’t know anything.”

“But you’ll tell me when you do?”

He scoffs. “How about you try coming to a Council meeting, and learning political information the traditional way?”

“Tradition is so bland.”

He just rolls his eyes and starts out of the room, but says over his shoulder, “I mean it, Faye. Get to sleep. You have a big week ahead.”

I nod, despite knowing that I’ll be up for hours poring over the letter Derrin gave me. It’ll be in code, of course. Derrin loves his codes.

Fire. Surrounding me, everywhere, the flames licking at the wooden cabin. I cough and stumble toward the door, throwing my arm over my mouth to keep the smoke out. Ahead of me, there’s a clear path leading outside, untouched by the accelerant I doused the cabin with.

“Please!” a voice calls from behind me. It’s deep and masculine, but strained by the smoke. “You can’t just leave me. The windows are jammed, I can’t get out!”

I glance over my shoulder. A young man stands across from me, trapped in the corner of the room by the fire. He stares at me with eyes as red as the flames.

I could unjam the windows for him when I get outside. But then why block them in the first place?

“Goodbye,” I say.

I walk out the door, his screams following after me.

I startle at the fire in front of me. But then I blink a few times, and realize it’s safely contained in the fireplace. The fireplace in my chambers, far from any wood cabins.

“Faye?” Farren says tentatively.

I can only imagine what my expression looks like. My skin feels clammy, and I’m breathing too fast. I swallow hard, trying to remember where our conversation left off before the vision struck.

“Goodnight, Farren.” My words are a whisper.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll see you in two days.”

Farren strides out of my chambers, his shoulders straight as ever. Sometimes I wish I could be like that: the perfect child, everything Father expects.

But then I remember wishes are useless.

The log in the fireplace crackles, sending a shudder rippling through me. I haven’t had a vision of death since… Ashe. I used to get them all the time when he was my Guardian. Always a man about the die, always with the pure-black eyes of my Ashe.

And always me as his killer.

But this time, it’d been different. The man’s eyes were red, not black. Why? Why was I even seeing these visions? They can’t be real. Unlike my other visions, these ones aren’t just images and sounds and scents. They contained thoughts.
My
thoughts. Which is impossible, because I’ve never killed anyone.

Yet.

I let my head fall back and my mind wander away from the vision. Farren said he’d see me in two days, but he visits me weekly. He probably just misspoke.

The remnant of the fire catches my eye as it casts shadows over the room. First on the mantel, then the couch, then the chair, quickly flickering and slowly fading. It reminds me of Ashe’s wings, how they used to shimmer in the sunlight. I watch the fire until it dies, leaving one last shadow strewn across the entire room.

The man you seek lies in the Royal Prison. Third floor, seventh cell.

The decoded letter was so simple that my heart stopped beating. But now I walk down a dungeon corridor, my heart hammering to make up for those long seconds it stopped. The air up here is thick and reeks of sewage, and my chest is tight with anxiety as I struggle to breathe.