Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (16 page)

—Sir Walter Scott
The Lady of the Lake

Sadness enfolded Taziar Medakan as he sat, crosslegged, on the bare wood of the inn room floor. His cloak seemed a burden, as if it had trebled in weight during the few troubled hours he’d rested. Heedless of his sleeping companions, sprawled or tucked between packs and blankets, Taziar watched the play of light and shadow on the temple wall across the alleyway. Cold ash filled the hearth. The open window admitted autumn breezes that chilled Taziar to his core.

Taziar had grown familiar with the false dawn; the loyal dance of silver and black on Mardain’s church served both as old friend and enemy. He could not recall how many hundred times he had perched on the rotting remains of the apple-seller’s abandoned cart in this same alleyway at this same time of the morning watching this same pattern take shape upon the stonework.

A floorboard shifted with a faint creak. Taziar guessed its source without turning. Silme was the lightest sleeper, and the graceful precision of her movements was unmistakable. She approached, knelt at Taziar’s side, and, apparently misinterpreting the unshuttered window, whispered, “I hope you’re not thinking of running off alone again. You’re of no use to your friends dead.”

Taziar kept his gaze locked on the wall stones as forms emerged from the meeting of glare and darkness. He dismissed Silme’s words and the subtle threat underlying them. “See that building across the alleyway?”

Silme touched her fingers to the floor for balance. She followed Taziar’s stare. “Yes. It’s big.”

Taziar nodded assent. “Seven stories. Aside from the baron’s keep and Aga’arin’s temple, both of which are carefully guarded, it’s the tallest building in Cullinsberg.”

Silme said nothing.

Encouraged by her silence, Taziar went on. “It’s Mardain’s temple.”

“Mardain?”

Taziar remained still as the light shifted, subtly changing the patterns on the wall. “God of life and death.” He paused, then added, “Karana is goddess of the same, but Mardain’s yonderworld is the stars, and Karana’s the pits of hell. After death, Mardain claims the just and honest souls, and Karana gets the rest. Either treats his or her followers well. So long as a person worshiped the right god, he’s assured a happy afterlife. Mardain’s known for mercy. He forgives the worshipers of Karana whose souls find his star. But if they earn her realm, Karana tortures the followers of Mardain with heat or cold and darkness.”

Silme considered several moments before replying. “Sounds like the intelligent thing to do would be to worship Karana. Then you can’t lose either way.”

“Sure.” Taziar remembered the raid on Karana’s temple that had resulted in the execution of his young gang companions. Atheism had spared his life; otherwise, he might have been at the temple and died with his friends. “If you’re willing to admit to being conniving and untrustworthy. Karana’s also the mistress of lies and sinners.”

“But ...” Silme began.

Taziar cut Silme’s protestations short as the light assumed its final sequence before the world faded back into the blackness before true dawn. “There. Do you see that?” He pointed across the alleyway.

Silme leaned forward, eyes pinched in question. “What?”

Familiar with the dappled sequences, Taziar discerned them with ease. And, never having shared his discovery, he did not realize how difficult they might prove for a stranger to see. The memory was painful. But, since he had begun, he continued. “Straight ahead. Do you see that shadow?”

Many dark shapes paraded across the masonry. “Yes,” Silme said, but whether from actual observation or simple courtesy, Taziar did not know.

“That’s the baron’s gallows. You can only see it on a clear day when the light hits just so.” Grief bore down on Taziar, and he heard his own words as if from a distance and someone else’s throat. “I noticed it the morning after they hanged my father.” He recalled the restless need the vision had driven through him. “Then, though no one had succeeded before, I tried to climb that wall. At first, I just wanted to get high enough so if I fell, I’d die rather than lie wounded among the garbage. Once there, it seemed silly not to go all the way to the roof. And on top, I discovered another world.”

The foredawn dwindled, plunging the thoroughfare into gloom. Finally, Taziar glanced at his companion. Folds and straps from her pack had left impressions on her jaw, and her golden hair was swept into fuzzy disarray. But her cheeks flushed pink beneath eyes bright with interest, and her cloak rumpled tight to a delicate frame. She was one of the few people Taziar knew who looked beautiful even upon awakening. “Another world?” she encouraged softly.

“Quiet. Alone with thoughts and memories and the souls of the dead.” He clarified quickly, “I mean the stars, of course. This may sound strange ...” Suddenly self-conscious, Taziar banished the description. “Forget it.”

“Tell me,” Silme prodded.

Embarrassed by his reminiscences, Taziar shook his head.

“Come on,” she encouraged, her voice honey smooth.

Taziar blushed. “Never mind. It was stupid.”

Instantly, Silme’s tone turned curt. “Finish your sentence, Shadow, or I’ll throw you out the window.”

The abrupt change in Silme’s manner broke the tension. Taziar laughed. “When you put it that way, how can I refuse your kind request? My first morning on the temple roof, I discovered a star I’d never noticed before. I’m certain it was always there, but, to me, it became my father’s soul. It hovers in the sky from the harvest time to the month of long nights.” Once his secret was breached, Taziar loosed the tide of memory. “It’s small, a pale ghost, a pinprick in the fabric of night. Nothing like my father. He was huge in body and mind, and everything he did, he did in the biggest possible way. Moderating soldiers’ disputes, leading the baron’s troops, fighting for the barony, even conversation, he did it all in a wild blaze of glory. And only death came in a small way. He was deceived and condemned by the very warriors and citizens who’d loved him.”

A rush of sorrow garbled Taziar’s words, and he went silent. For the first time in nearly a decade, he felt defenseless and vulnerable. “Shylar and the others are family to me. If Harriman is a sorcerer, if my betrayal results in Shylar’s hanging, I couldn’t stand it.” Taziar lowered his head, but his lapse was momentary. Shortly, his fierce resolve returned, and he felt prepared to face and revise any disaster fate threw at him. Dawn light traced past the window ledge, strengthening his reckless love of danger, and with it came understanding. With his own life at stake, every challenge beckoned. But the excitement of a jailbreak paled to fear when a mistake might cause the death of friends.
And I’m risking Silme, Allerum, their child, and my beloved Astryd for a cause that Allerum, at least, is firmly against.

This time, Silme guessed Taziar’s thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “I know you’re concerned for us, too. But we chose to help because we care. If you go off alone, we won’t wait around for you. Without your knowledge, I imagine we could get ourselves in more trouble than you could ever lead us into.”

Taziar realized Silme spoke the truth. The urge to work alone was strong, but refusing his friends’ aid would make his own task more difficult and endanger them as well. “Is mind-reading a Dragonrank skill?”

“A woman’s skill, actually,” Silme corrected. She smiled. “Shadow, you’re just going to have to find some new friends. We know you too well.” Silme raised her voice; and, after the exchanged whispers, it sounded like a shout. “Speaking of women, if you’ll kick Astryd awake, I’ll take care of Allerum.”

“I’m up!” Larson said quickly. To demonstrate, he leaped to his feet, scattering blankets and sending the pack he used as a pillow sliding across the planks.

His antics awakened Astryd who groaned. Her eyes flicked open. Finding all her companions awake, she swept to a sitting position, cloak pulled tight against the chill. “No fire?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Glad for the distraction, Taziar trotted to the woodpile and began arranging logs in the hearth.

Larson pulled on his boots. “I don’t suppose we can get room service around here.”

Taziar cast a curious glance over his shoulder.

Larson laughed good-naturedly. “I didn’t think so.” He maneuvered on his boot with a final twist. “I’m going to the kitchen to get breakfast. Any requests?”

Taziar knew the question was polite formality. The fare would depend on the supplies and the inclination of the cook. “Anything not jerked, smoked, or dried for travel.” He piled another row of logs, perpendicular to the first.

“Fine choice, sir.” Larson assumed a throaty accent Taziar did not recognize. “Anyone else?”

Silme thrust the empty, pewter pitcher into Larson’s hand. “More water so we can wash up this morning.”

Taziar added a third layer to the stack. “And a brand to get this fire going.” He rose, brushing ash from his knees as Larson slipped through the door, pitcher in hand.

Silme slammed the shutters closed and threw the latch. “Hand me three or four logs.” She stretched out her arm for them.

Taziar selected four narrow branches and tucked them beneath his arm. He carried them to where Silme waited on a bare area of floor between the window and the table. One by one, he set the wood on the floor beside her. “What’s this for?”

Silme knelt, settling the logs into a crooked rectangle. “Astryd’s spell requires a boundary. No need to waste time. Once we know what we’re up against, we can make a plan of action.” Silme summoned Astryd with a brisk wave. “Besides, if Harriman is a sorcerer, best if he doesn’t know we’ve discovered his secret. And we don’t want to give him access to our plot.”

Though not spoken directly, Silme’s meaning was clear to Taziar.
She wants to take advantage of Allerum’s absence. Should Harriman turn out to be a sorcerer, he could dredge any information we give Allerum from his mind.

Astryd walked to Silme’s side. Taziar touched her encouragingly as she passed, and the warmth of that simple gesture sent a shiver of passion through him. Everything about Astryd seemed functional, from her close-cut, golden ringlets to the dancer’s grace of her movements and the plain styling of her dress and cloak. And, where Silme’s beauty could transform a man into a tongue-tied fool, Astryd had a lithe, homespun quality that made her more real and more desirable to Taziar.

Astryd crouched before the lopsided outline of wood.

Taziar scooted the table closer; the screech of its legs against the floorboards made him wince. Hopping onto its surface, he let his legs dangle, allowing him a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings.

Silme traced the outline of the rectangle, patting logs securely into place. “Ready?”

Astryd lowered and raised her head once. “I’ve been considering shortcuts all night.”

Silme appeared outwardly calm, but her attempts at delay revealed hidden anxiety. “Any more questions for the man who met Harriman?”

“No.” Astryd continued to stare at the rectangle.

Silme glanced questioningly at Taziar who shrugged. The grueling inquiry of the previous night had tapped his memory and powers of observation to their limits.

Astryd closed her eyes. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. She stirred a finger through the confines of the rectangle. For several moments, nothing happened. Then, white light swirled between the logs on a shimmering background of yellow. Lines of black and gray skipped across the picture. Colors appeared, erratic splashes of amber, red, and brown that melted together and separated into a blurred, featureless man and woman lying close upon a pallet of straw.

Astryd made a high-pitched sound of effort. She sank to her knees, and the image within the rectangle smeared beyond even vague recognition.

Alarmed for Astryd, Taziar gripped the ledge of the table.

“Concentrate,” Silme insisted with a casual authority echoing none of Taziar’s concern. Her composure eased Taziar’s tension, and, apparently Astryd’s as well. The picture reformed, strengthened, and became discernible as the stiff-bearded figure of Harriman. Back propped against the wall, he reclined with bed covers drawn halfway up his abdomen. A tangle of golden hair enveloped a well-defined chest. A thickly-muscled neck supported features that might have appeared handsome if not for the unmistakable glaze of madness in his eyes. One arm was draped across the breasts of a slender woman. She lay, wooden with fear, trembling and half-exposed by the turned back blanket.

“That’s Harriman,” Taziar confirmed. He leaned forward for a better look, holding his balance with his hands on the lip of the table. “That’s Galiana with him.” Overgenerous to Shylar with his money, Taziar had always found her prostitutes eager to take him to bed.

Despite fatigue, Astryd gave Taziar a sharp look.

Immediately realizing his error, Taziar tried to save face. “I knew a lot of Shylar’s girls.” He clarified, “I mean I
met
a lot of Shylar’s girls.” Fearing to offend his companions, he amended again, “Women.” Then, not wishing to overemphasize the prostitutes’ maturity, he returned to his original description. “Girls.” Suddenly aware his antics were only driving him deeper into trouble, he changed the subject. “That hand at the edge of the picture. I think it’s Skereye’s. Can you focus in on him?”

“Astryd centered the spell on Harriman,” Silme explained. “Anyone else in the image is coincidently within range. To see another, she’d have to recast.”

“I don’t see an aura.” Astryd slouched on the floor, her hands trembling and her expression strained. “Harriman can’t be a sorcerer.”

Silme bent forward until her head blocked the patch of magics from Taziar’s view. She gasped in alarm. “Astryd, look again.”

Astryd shifted to her hands and knees and tilted her face closer. Silme’s thick cascade of hair distorted her reply. “There is something there. Fine and almost transparent. He looks awfully alert for someone who’s drained life energy that low.”

Silme’s words scarcely wafted to Taziar. “We’ve seen what we need. Don’t waste your energy.”

The women sat up, and Astryd dismissed her magics. The image disappeared immediately, and the polished wood floor replaced Taziar’s glimpse of Harriman’s room.