The Shadowed Throne (33 page)

D
arkness in the First Mountains. Darkness among the stones of Taranis' Throne. Darkness in Iorwerth's heart, as he carried his old friend to his final resting place.

Freezing wind tugged at his clothes and ruffled his hair. He had come up to the plateau of the standing stones alone—leaving Kaanee to sleep in the valley below. Like all griffins, his partner had nothing but contempt for human rituals. Besides, he was tired. And the stones were no place for a griffin to be.

But Iorwerth wasn't alone. The urn that contained Nerth's ashes weighed him down—in more ways than one.

Ahead, the stones loomed. To him they looked like a group of hooded people looking down on him in judgment. Instinctively, he bowed his head as he walked the last few steps toward them. He had never seen them before, but all his life he had been told how holy they were. He hadn't needed it. He could feel it for himself.

He reached the level ground on top of the plateau but hesitated at the edge of the circle. Should he go inside?

Instinctively, he looked upward. The moon seemed to stare at him. He had never seen it so bright before.

Silent accusation pinned him to the spot.

“I know what ye think of me,” he mumbled. “I'm not proud of what I did. But I have to go into the circle. I'm not here for myself, and I know the one I came for deserves to be there.”

Clutching the urn to his chest, he stepped into the circle. Moonlight made the snow within it glow, and the stones cast bars of shadow toward the altar at the centre. For some reason, the sight of the altar calmed Iorwerth down. It made him think of the old Moon Temple at Malvern, and he realised now what he was really looking at. The Throne itself was a temple, no different than the one at Malvern. He had prayed there countless times, and he could pray here, too. The one was a shadow of the other, and
this
was the real thing. This was where the power of the Night God really lived, and unlike the Temple, it couldn't be burned down or destroyed. It had been here since the beginning of time and would be here at the end.

Awed, and humbled, Iorwerth went straight to the altar and put the urn on it. Standing over it, he glanced uneasily at the moon again and tried to think of something to say. He didn't know any of the proper prayers or chants, but as he searched his memory, he remembered something he had learnt as a young man. Old words. Words that had never quite been forgotten, even after centuries of Southern rule.

Softly, Iorwerth began to recite them.

“Of earth born and in fire forged,

By magic blessed and by cool water soothed,

Then by a breeze in the night blown away to a land of silver and bright flowers.

May the Night God receive the soul of Nerth, born in Eitheinn,

Who was a brave warrior and true to his family and his tribe

May he be admitted to the night sky and become a bright star to shine upon us all.”

That was the version had had been taught, and when he had finished, he said them again, louder and fiercer.

As he reached the end, he picked up the urn and opened it. “Ye were a great friend to me, Nerth, and a great man, and I'll never stop cursing the day I did this to ye. Forgive me.”

He emptied the ashes out and watched them scatter over the snow.

All at once a terrible feeling of desolation crushed him. Dropping the empty urn, he knelt at the altar and covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Night God, forgive me. What have I done? It's all gone wrong.
I don't know what to do!
”

Wind blew among the stones. It sounded almost like mocking laughter.

Iorwerth stayed where he was for some time, mourning Nerth and cursing himself, and searching for an answer that would not come.

Gradually, as he calmed down, the sense of being watched grew stronger. The wind had stilled. Iorwerth's throat tightened. Everyone knew what made the Throne different than any other sacred place. This was where the Night God herself was said to reach down to touch the earth. More than that, Iorwerth knew that the stories were more than just stories. Years ago, Arenadd himself had told him the story of how he had come to the circle on the night of the Blood Moon. That night, at the moment of the sacrifice, the Night God had appeared.

Iorwerth looked around nervously. This was the place where Arenadd had discovered what he was. This was where he had been given his holy task to destroy the Southerners and free the North.

The sense of being watched grew even stronger.

“Night God?” Iorwerth called out, rather self-consciously. “Night God, are ye there? Are ye listening to me now?”

And a voice whispered back,
“Yes.”

Iorwerth nearly choked on his own tongue. “Shit!”

The voice laughed softly. “I'm listening, Iorwerth of Fruitsheart. So speak.”

Terrified, Iorwerth knelt. “I need help, Night God.”

“All of the North needs help,” the voice replied. “What makes
ye
so special?”

“I—” Iorwerth's eyes narrowed. That voice . . . He stood up. “Where are ye?”

“In the circle,” said the voice, and now Iorwerth's suspicion solidified.

“I know that voice—ye're not the Night God! Show yerself,
now
.”

The voice did not reply. But as Iorwerth looked, he saw the figure appear among the shadows and come toward him.

He flicked his sickle out of his belt and into his hand with one practised movement.
“Saeddryn!”

The former High Priestess wore a plain black dress, and her ceremonial circlet—silver with a crescent moon over the forehead. Her eyepatch had gone, leaving the ugly, scarred hole bare.

Iorwerth backed off a step, raising his sickle. “What are ye doing here?”

Saeddryn lifted her chin and gave him an arrogant smile. “Prayin', like any righteous Northerner should. It's been too long since I was here.”

Iorwerth's mind raced. “How did ye get here?”

“Easily.”

“Are ye alone?”

“The Night God is with me.”

Iorwerth relaxed a little—she was alone and unarmed. “Forgive me if I sounded shocked, but ye're supposed to be dead, traitor.”

“Traitor!” Saeddryn's smooth self-confidence turned to rage in an instant. “How dare ye stand here in this place an' call
me
traitor after what ye did.” She spat at him.

“I'm not proud of what I did,” Iorwerth snapped back. “Now, are ye going to surrender, or do I have to kill ye myself?”

Saeddryn sneered. “No need for that. The Bastard's griffin did a fine job of it already.”

Iorwerth edged closer, getting ready to attack. “What are ye talking about?” he asked, mostly to distract her.

Stone-faced, Saeddryn reached up and pulled her dress open. Underneath, hideous red gashes ran down her chest and disappeared under the cloth. Scars, fresh scars—scars so deep they had left channels in the flesh like dried red rivers.

Iorwerth gave a little cry of disgust and horror. “
Oh!
Dear Night God . . .”

“Senneck's work,” said Saeddryn, covering herself up again. “She killed Arddryn first, an' Nerth. An' Aenae.”

Iorwerth couldn't bear to listen to another word. He lifted his head and gave a call—bellowing his own name at the sky as loudly as he could. It echoed off the mountains, travelling far away.

Saeddryn didn't flinch. “Callin' Kaanee won't help ye now,
traitor
.”

“Me, a traitor?” Iorwerth yelled back at her. “Don't play that game with me, Saeddryn. I know what ye did. Ye turned on the King himself, ye tried to kill him. It's ye who'll suffer the traitor's death when we bring ye back to Malvern, not me.”

Saeddryn's remaining eyelid twitched. “Aye, I did those things. I won't lie about it. But I did what was best for Tara.”

“Like trying to steal the throne from our rightful ruler?” Iorwerth snarled.

“Don't be blind,” said Saeddryn. “Ye know what he was toward the end. Drunk every night, obsessed with the past, full of mad ideas. He wanted to
talk
to the Southerners! Trade with them—he even told me he was thinkin' of lettin' some of them
settle
here! An' Amoranis, too—he nearly
married
one of them, for shadows' sakes! An' then he takes in this little half-breed from off the street, uses her as his whore—he made her Master of Wisdom! Some stranger who traipsed in from the South, no-one knew who she was, an' he makes her his chief advisor! He had to be removed, Iorwerth. The country would've fallen apart otherwise.”

“Queen Laela is his daughter,” Iorwerth said stonily. “His rightful heir.”

“So she says,” said Saeddryn.

“He chose her to succeed him, and that's all that matters to me,” said Iorwerth. “I trust his judgment.”

“He was a madman.”

“He was chosen by the Night God.”

“Not any more,” said Saeddryn.

A screech came from overhead, and Kaanee arrived—landing neatly by his human's side. He saw Saeddryn at once. “What is this—?”

Saeddryn backed away. “We need t'talk, Iorwerth. Sensibly.”

Iorwerth glanced at Kaanee. “Make it fast.”

“Never mind about the King for now,” Saeddryn resumed. “What about the half-breed, an' all she's been doin'? Do ye really think she's rulin' well?”

“And ye'd do a better job?” Iorwerth said sarcastically.

“Not me,” she said. “It was never going t'be me. Ye know who was the heir before the half-breed came along. I was only plannin' to rule a short time, until he was old enough.”

“Caedmon,” Iorwerth muttered.

Saeddryn smiled gently at the mention of her son's name. “Ye watched him grow, Iorwerth. Ye taught him how t'fight yerself. All of us in the Eyrie did what we could t'help him grow. The King himself taught him griffish an' presented him to the griffins. It was always going t'be Caedmon. Even Arenadd agreed with that.”

“I remember he changed his mind,” Iorwerth said coldly. “Didn't he?”

“Caedmon was just a boy. Every boy rebels. He's what we need, Iorwerth. Caedmon was meant to be King, an' he will be. What would ye have instead? The half-breed, making Northerner fight Northerner? Don't ye understand? Unless we act fast, this whole mess'll carry on until the Kingdom is nothin' but a bunch of warring factions. An' then what'll happen, Iorwerth? Do ye really think the South won't notice—that they won't come back lookin' to take back what used t'be theirs? Do ye want to see us lose everythin' we fought for, all because of that half-breed slut?”

Iorwerth looked away. “This
mess
will be sorted out once ye an' the rest of yer lot are dealt with.”

Saeddryn laughed out loud. “As if ye believe that. The North doesn't forget, Iorwerth. We have more supporters than ye think. Until the half-breed's gone, an' Caedmon has his throne, this will
never
be over. An' Nerth will have died for nothin'.”

Kaanee tossed his head. “I have had enough of this,” he rasped, and leapt straight at Saeddryn.

She took a step sideways and disappeared.

Kaanee skidded in the snow, and crashed headlong into one of the stones. He righted himself and darted around, talons snatching at empty air. “You cannot hide!” he screeched.

Saeddryn's laugh echoed in the air. “Oh, I can.”

Iorwerth turned around, searching in vain. “Where are ye? What—?”

“Here,” she said, just behind him.

He turned sharply, and there she was. When he made a grab for her, she stepped into a shadow and disappeared.

“So ye see now,” her voice said over the sound of Kaanee's frustrated hissing. “The truth. The Night God has chosen me. The powers of the Shadow That Walks have passed on to me, and I have been given a sacred task of my own.”

Iorwerth's heart thudded. “What task . . . ?”

“Kill the half-breeds,” Saeddryn hissed.

Kaanee had subsided, his sides heaving. “What is this magic? Where has the human gone?”

Saeddryn reappeared without a sound. “How can ye change what the Night God commands?” she said. “Would she have brought me back if she wanted the half-breed t'stay on Tara's throne?” She pointed straight at Iorwerth's face. “Choose, Iorwerth. Choose carefully. Choose wrong if ye don't remember what happens to the enemies of the Shadow That Walks.”

With that, she vanished again and did not reappear, leaving nothing but a low laugh behind.

S
aeddryn waited in the shadows until Iorwerth and Kaanee had gone. From where she stood, they were silver shadows, moving in total blackness.

She emerged back into the circle and shook herself. The shadows made her feel even stronger than she had already become, but she knew better than to abuse the ability. It was tempting to stay in darkness all the time, but she had known her predecessor too well to give in to that.

“I can't die,” he had told her once. “But I only feel invincible when I'm in the shadows. But it makes me afraid as well. Afraid that if I stay too long, I won't be able to find the way back.”

Saeddryn remembered that warning well. She also remembered what she had witnessed in the early days, just before the war began. Arenadd had thought he had magic of his own—had thought that his powers truly belonged to him. He had been wrong. No human had magic, dead or alive. It was impossible. Only a griffin could channel it, contain it. Arenadd had had powers, but they had come to him through Skandar.

Saeddryn guessed that she must be draining the giant griffin's energy every time she went into the shadows, and even if he was no friend to her, she didn't want to hurt him. He had done great things for Tara. And besides—if he died, what then? If Skandar died, she might lose her powers, or even die herself.