The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun) (9 page)

“Sorry.” Yorath looked embarrassed. “It’s just . . . well, the Day God’s our enemy. He’s the one sent his people here in the first place, an’ they oppressed us in his name. An’ I just hate the idea that ye’d ever worship him, Laela. I like ye, see?”

Laela looked at his earnest face and felt inexplicably sad. Her father had always taught her that Gryphus was her protector—the guardian of the South and its people, the giver of life. But the Night God—Scathach, Southerners called her—was different. A god of lies and deceit, a god of darkness, a god of death, worshipped by barbaric Northerners, who slaughtered men on her altar.

And yet . . .

“I prayed to Gryphus once,” she said softly. “I’ll admit that.”

Yorath scowled. “An’ what did ye ask him for?”

“I asked him to make my father well again.”

“An’ did yer father get well?”

“He died,” said Laela.

Yorath moved closer and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry about that, Laela.”

“He was real sick,” Laela admitted. “It was probably just his time.”

“Then the Night God answered yer prayer,” said Yorath. “She comes in the night, when a man is deathly sick and suffering, an’ she takes away his life an’ lets him sleep forever. Life is suffering, but the Night God gives us rest.”

Laela nodded. “I like that.”

Yorath smiled. “I’m sorry I got angry. Ye’ll come t’know the Night God better once ye start learnin’ from the priesthood. They’ll teach ye about her. She protects her people. That’s why she sent the King—to be her warrior an’ fight for us.”

Laela thought of Arenadd, the night he had rescued her. “I know.”

Yorath looked at the floor. “Ye know . . . ye’re beautiful, for a—”

“—Half-breed?” said Laela.

Yorath reddened. “That’s not what I meant.”

Laela grinned at him. “An’ you’re not bad-lookin’ for a blackrobe.”

For an instant, Yorath stared at her as if she had slapped him. Then, suddenly, he laughed. His laugh was a warm and genuine thing, and wonderfully spontaneous. “I wouldn’t use that word in front of anyone else if I were ye. It’s a quick way to get yerself in a fight. Anyway, I ain’t a blackrobe.”

“I know,” said Laela. “Yer wearin’ a tunic.”

“That, an’ I was born free,” said Yorath. “An’ so was my dad. He was a peasant boy around the time the war started. He went t’join the rebels with a runaway slave. Good ole Garnoc . . . they’re best friends now. Ye don’t call him a blackrobe to his face, though. Not unless ye want yer teeth broken.”

“I’ll remember it, then,” said Laela, but she wasn’t really thinking about that. She was watching Yorath. She
did
like him, she thought. And he . . . “Do yeh really think I’m . . . well, good-lookin’?” she asked shyly.

“’Course I do,” said Yorath. “The King’s lucky to have ye.”

“Oh.” Laela deflated somewhat. Of course, he must think she was the King’s property. He’d never dream of . . . well . . .

Yorath suddenly looked embarrassed. “It’s gettin’ late, an’ I’d better get home. Can ye find yer way back to yer quarters from here?”

“Yeah, I know where it is,” said Laela. “Thanks for showin’ me around.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Yorath. “Here, let me walk ye back.”

He accompanied her back to her room despite her few token protests and inclined his head toward her when they arrived at the door.

“I’ll leave ye here, then, an’ see ye tomorrow.”

Laela smiled at him. “I’ll be sure to practise them runes.”

“Yeah.” He moved close to her. “Listen, I don’t want t’sound nosy or anythin’, but I was wonderin’ . . .”

“Yeah?”

“How long are ye plannin’ to stay here?” said Yorath.

Laela stared at him. “I dunno. I got a good place here . . . I wasn’t thinkin’ of leavin’—why?”

He looked uncomfortable. “It’s not my place to ask ye; I just was wonderin’. If ye’re stayin’ with the King an’ all . . .”

“He let me stay here for nothin’,” said Laela. “I owe him that, don’t I? He’s not askin’ anythin’ of me.”

“I know,” Yorath said hastily. “But listen—how are ye feelin’? Are ye . . . well?”

“’Course I am,” said Laela. “What sort of question’s that?”

Yorath looked even more uncomfortable. “Just . . . if ye start feelin’ sick or somethin’, then tell someone.”

“I will,” said Laela, by now thoroughly lost. “Why—there ain’t some sickness goin’ around here, is there?”

Yorath hesitated, and muttered a Northern curse under his breath. “Damn this—ye’ve got the right to know.” He glanced over his shoulder, and then hustled Laela into her room and closed the door behind them. “Listen,” he said urgently. “If anyone asks, I didn’t tell ye this, understand?”

“Lips are sealed,” said Laela. “What’s this all about?”

“The King’s had mistresses before ye,” Yorath said. “Ye’re the first in a while, though.”

Laela shifted. “Ah . . . I see . . .”

“Do ye know what happened to the others?” said Yorath. “The ones before ye?”

“No,” said Laela.

“They died,” said Yorath. “All of ’em.”

Laela gaped at him. “What?
All
of them?”

“At least four of the poor things, from what I heard,” said Yorath. “They were fine when they came here, but none of ’em survived. Some lasted longer’n others, but in the end . . .”

An image flashed into Laela’s mind—Saeddryn, narrow-eyed and contemptuous 
. . . if I were ye, I wouldn’t stay long. Ye may think ye’re different, but trust me—he’ll be the death of ye. Maybe not soon, but one day.

“He kills them,” she breathed. “He takes mistresses, then kills them.”

“What? No!” Yorath looked horrified. “No, no, it’s not like that. He never killed any of ’em. He wouldn’t do that. No, no-one knows why they died. It was like a sickness. They’d just sort of . . . fade away, like they’d lost the will to live.”

“For gods’ sakes, why did they keep comin’ to him?” said Laela. “If they knew they’d die . . .”

“They didn’t, did they?” said Yorath. “Would
ye
believe it? They all came in thinkin’ they were invincible—not weak like the others. Maybe the King believed it, too. But that must be why he never married. In the city, they say he’s cursed never to love a woman for more than one full moon. Everyone thought the last mistress would
be
the last, but now . . . ye’ve come along.”

Laela felt dizzy. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If I ever feel sick or anythin’, I’ll leave. That’s a promise. Nothin’s good enough to make me die for it.”

Yorath smiled. “Good. I’m glad t’hear ye say it. Now I’d better go. Don’t want the King thinkin’ we’re up to somethin’.” He hastily opened the door and checked that the coast was clear.

“Thanks for tellin’ me,” said Laela. “It’s nice t’know yeh care, like.”

Yorath inclined his head politely. “Always, my lady.”

He smiled at her again and hurried away, leaving Laela to watch him until he had gone.

Alone again, she closed her door and collapsed onto her bed, where she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling.

Her head was spinning.

Gods, no wonder Saeddryn had made that threat. And no wonder people had been avoiding her since she’d come into the Eyrie. She’d thought they were keeping their distance for fear of offending the King, but if they all believed she was going to drop dead in a matter of months . . .

To her surprise, she felt a pang of sadness on the King’s behalf. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see so many young women die so quickly simply because he had touched them.

She wondered if he had cried for any of them.

He’s so alone.

The thought surprised her.

9

The Tomb

T
hat night, she had a strange dream.

She was standing in a meadow, surrounded by flowers and lush, green grass. Butterflies drifted through the warm air. Above she saw the huge, graceful shapes of griffins soaring. Their feathers were brown, patterned with gold that shone in the sun.

But there was no sun in the sky.

Laela wandered through the meadow, breathing in the rich, flower-scented air, and saw someone else there.

It was a man. He was tall and muscular—the most-powerful-looking man she had ever seen. His skin was tanned brown, and he had a mane of thick, red-gold hair flowing over his shoulders. A strong beard covered his chin, and he wore a golden crown. Below it, his features were strong and stern, dominated by blazing blue eyes.

He walked toward her, barefoot and graceful. His only clothing was a bright yellow-and-orange cloak, and she could see his manhood, long and thick between his legs.

Laela tried not to stare at it. “What is this?” she said aloud. “Where am I?”

The man towered over her, smiling.
My child. My sweet Laela. Walk with me.

“Who
are
yeh?” said Laela, falling into step beside him regardless. Everything seemed too bright, too unreal.

I am light,
said the man. His voice was deep and strong.
I am warmth. I am the day. I am life and health and happiness.

“Yeh look like a man to me,” said Laela.

He laughed—a deep, magnificent laugh.
Humans gave me my shape, Laela, and what better for a man to worship than another man?

“Worship?” said Laela. She felt sleepy and bewildered.

Yes, worship—many do,
said the man.
I am the god of the South, the god of the day. There are some who call me Gryphus.

“Gryphus!” Laela grinned at him. “But this is all a dream, ain’t it?”

Yes. But I am here, nonetheless. Laela, I am the god of your people, and you have been in my grace all your life.

“I ain’t,” said Laela. “I never been in anyone’s grace. I’m a half-breed, an’ I get what I’m given, an’ nothin’ an’ nobody’s ever answered
my
prayers.”

But you did pray to me once,
said the man—Gryphus.
A prayer offered up in terror and despair, but a true prayer nonetheless. I hear all the prayers of my people, if they are true.

“Yeh never answered it,” Laela said flatly.

Didn’t I?

“No.” Laela looked around at the meadow. “Beautiful place, this.”

Thank you. It is a place where I am at home. When my followers die, they come here.

“What’m
I
doin’ here, then?” said Laela. “I ain’t dead.”

You are here for . . . a visit,
said Gryphus.
Laela, listen to me. You are more than a half-breed. You are from the line of Baragher the Blessed, and though your hair is black, you have the blue eyes I blessed him with. You are both Northerner and Southerner in looks, but what your nature is is for you to decide. You were not born to either Scathach or myself. Whom you worship is your choice.

“I never thought about it much,” Laela confessed. “What’d you want me for, anyway?”

You are stronger than you know,
said Gryphus.
And your spirit is great. Put your trust in me, and you can do great things.

“What things?” said Laela.

You could take back the North,
said Gryphus.
Avenge our people. Overthrow the Dark Lord, who has caused so much suffering in the name of the Night God.

“I couldn’t do
that
!” said Laela.

With courage, and faith in me, you could do anything.

Laela spat. “Faith! What did faith ever do? I had faith my father’d protect me, an’ he died. Left me with nothin’. I never had nothin’. The Dark Lord took me in, gave me a home—why’d I want to hurt him?”

He seeks to corrupt you to darkness, in his mistress’s name,
Gryphus growled.
Stay with him, and you will give her your soul. Then you will be lost to me forever.

“Maybe that’d be a good thing,” said Laela. “Maybe the Night God would care about me. Maybe
she’d
help me when I was in trouble.”

Gryphus’ blue eyes blazed.
If you would know what the Night God would do for you, see how she has treated her most loyal follower.

“She gave him a Kingdom,” said Laela. “And how are
you
any better? Did yeh ever answer that prayer yeh heard me send yeh?”

His expression softened.
You prayed to me for protection. Pleaded to be saved from the scum who sought to hurt you.

Laela looked him in the face, and the truth dawned on her. “I was saved,” she said.

Yes. You prayed for help, and help came.

Her mouth curled into a smile. “I see it now, Gryphus. I prayed, an’ I was answered.”

Then I have your faith?

“What do yeh want me to do, anyway?” said Laela.

The meadow seemed to vanish. All she saw now was him, filling her whole world, his voice booming in her ears.
The Dark Lord must die,
he said.
He must be destroyed, so that our people may take back the land they own by rights. The Night God’s people are not fit to live upon this beautiful land of Cymria. They must be driven from it and cast back into the darkness from whence they came. You, Laela, are in a place where you may do this. Where my chosen warrior failed, you may succeed.

“But how?” said Laela.

You must find his heart. It is his only weakness. Laela, there is something you must know. He killed—
And then, without warning, she woke up.

She turned over in bed. “What?”

“Laela. Are you awake?”

She realised the room was full of light, and sat up hastily. “Who’s there?”

“Calm down,” said a voice. “It’s just the Dark Lord.”

Laela woke up very quickly, but not before she’d got out of bed in a hurry. “Sire . . . ?”

Arenadd was standing over her bed, holding a lantern, which he put down on a table. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Laela grabbed a cloak and put it on over her night-gown. “It’s fine, Sire,” she babbled. “I can always . . . What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” the King mumbled. He was swaying slightly.

“What about?” said Laela.

Arenadd gestured at the hearth, where a fire was still burning. “We can . . . can sit down if you want.”

Laela took a chair and watched in alarm as he staggered over and half-collapsed into a second one.

“What’s goin’ on, Sire?”

Arenadd waved a hand, a little wildly. “Oh, it’s nothing . . . nothing, just wanted someone to talk to, really.”

“Well . . . all right, Sire. Talk about whatever yeh like.”

He looked unsteadily at her. “D’you know, it was my birthday not long ago.”

Laela stifled a yawn. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Forty years old. I look good for my age, don’t I?”

“I didn’t know it was yeh birthday, Sire,” said Laela.

“Almost no-one does,” said Arenadd. “I don’t celebrate it any more. Why bother? I died . . . a long time ago. You don’t celebrate a dead man’s birthday.”

Laela watched him sadly. “Everyone should celebrate his birthday, Sire.”

Arenadd slumped in his chair. “I’d only celebrate mine if I had someone to celebrate it
with
. If she were here . . . maybe. Skandar cares, but he’s a griffin, and griffins don’t care about birthdays.
She
would have . . .” He shivered. “She cared about me. She always did.”

“Did she?” said Laela, wondering who he was talking about. One of his mistresses, perhaps?

Arenadd nodded. “Always. You see, I never realised until it was too late. I didn’t see that she was the only one who cared about me. Skandar cares about me because I’m his human, and I give him what he wants. But she . . . she . . . loved me.”

“She did?” said Laela. She was being polite, but inside she was deeply curious, and surprised as well.

Another nod. “Oh, she did. She loved me so much, and I loved her. I could talk to her about anything. She would have cared that it was my birthday. Nobody else does, you know. Not Saeddryn, that’s for sure. She hates me.”

“Who loved yeh, Sire?” said Laela. “What was her name?”

His gaze was distant. “Skade,” he said softly. “My sweet Skade. Oh, gods, how I wish she was here . . .”

Laela had already caught the stench of wine on his breath. “Where is she, Sire?”

To her surprise, his response was to jerk out of his chair. “You want . . . want to see her, do you?”

“Sure,” said Laela, still playing along.

“Well.” He dragged himself out of his chair. “Well, come with me, then. I’ll show you.”

Laela stood, too. “All right, Sire.”

Bleary-eyed, barefoot, and not a little frightened, she followed him out of the room, and then on a long journey through the Eyrie. Arenadd walked a few paces ahead, weaving slightly but apparently confident about where he was going.

Where he was going, Laela quickly saw, was down.

They followed the corridor that lined the tower, down and down, only pausing once when Arenadd stopped to rest. But he quickly recovered and went on until they had passed all the parts of the tower Laela had seen. She kept close to her companion, though not too close, sometimes wondering if she should try and support him or suggest that he stop.

Finally, they reached a point where the passageway became dark and cold, and a door opened onto a narrow flight of stone stairs. Arenadd started down them without hesitation, clutching a torch taken from the wall.

Laela followed, but reluctantly. She had already realised they were going underground.

The staircase was horribly cramped, and she began to feel the first hints of irrational panic before they had gone very far. But it ended soon enough, and as she hesitated at the bottom, Arenadd went ahead into the room it led to and lit the torches.

When the place had been lit up, Laela saw a large, stone space with a low ceiling. The air was still and smelt of earth.

Ahead, two large, stone blocks had been placed side by side, the gap between them just large enough for someone to walk through. Arenadd had already gone to the nearest of them and was standing over it, unmoving.

Moving as quietly as she could, Laela went to stand by him, and her heart fluttered when she realised what she was seeing.

It was a tomb.

The stone block—actually a hollow box intended to hold a body—had a lid decorated with a highly detailed, life-sized statue of a woman lying on her back. The woman wore a long gown, and her hair flowed over her shoulders. She had sharp, hard features, and her mouth was set into a stern line. Laela thought she looked strange and unfriendly.

Arenadd, shoulders hunched and heaving slightly, caressed the cold stone face. “This is Skade.”

Laela looked at the face again. The eyes were open but without pupils, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Who was she, Sire?” she ventured.

Arenadd lurched suddenly, and almost collapsed over the tomb. “She was . . . someone very special,” he mumbled. “She was a . . . she was the most beautiful woman I ever met. The most wonderful.”

Laela blinked. “She looks fierce.”

He laughed softly. “She was. Fiercer than Saeddryn. Fierce as a griffin. Gods, how I loved her.”

Those simple few words had an incredible effect on Laela. For a moment she felt faint. She looked at the Dark Lord, his eyes now fixed on the statue’s face, and felt as if her heart had swelled inside her.

Arenadd didn’t seem to notice her any more. “She was the only one who knew me. The only one I could talk to. She knew all my secrets. She had my heart, Skade did. My poor, dead heart. Such a worthless thing, but she wanted it, she did, and she protected it . . .” He looked at her suddenly. “You see, I always knew that when I drove the Southerners out, I would rule Malvern. My followers would demand it, and the Night God had promised it. I wanted that.” He breathed in shakily. “I wanted the power. And I always planned that when I was King, I would make her my Queen. Only she could rule with me. And on the last day, when we came here, she and I, and Skandar . . . I told her. And she said she would. We could have been so happy, I
know
we would have, I . . . I could have loved being King, with her there beside me.”

Without even realising what she was doing, Laela moved closer to him. “Who was she, Sire?”

“Sire!” He spat the word. “Don’t mock me, Laela.”

Laela started in fright. “I wasn’t mockin’ yeh, Sire, I was only askin’—”

He was breathing strangely. “I have a name. Arenadd. That’s my name. So call me that. Let me be a man, not a King.”

Laela had backed away, but now she dared move closer. “Arenadd?”

He calmed down. “That’s better.”

“Who was she, then, Arenadd? This woman yeh loved.”

Arenadd looked at the tomb again, and shuddered. “Who was she? Just a woman I loved. I’ve had lovers since she died, but I never
loved
any of them. There was only ever one woman for me. Just her, just Skade. And my lovers all died. My touch killed them. It took longer for some of them, but in the end . . . it was me, you see. My curse. I am the Master of Death. All I know how to do is kill. I can never create.”

“Yeh made a Kingdom,” said Laela.

“Oh yes.” He snorted. “My precious Kingdom. All I do day in and day out is care for it. It gives me a reason to . . . live.”

“At least yeh got a reason,” said Laela, trying to sound upbeat. “Plenty of people ain’t.”

He didn’t seem to be listening. “I killed Aled a few days ago, like I said I would.”

Laela shivered. “Yeh did?”

Arenadd nodded. “I sacrificed him on the night of the Blood Moon. Gods, I forgot how much I missed killing. You know—d’you know . . .” He had begun to sway. “D’you know . . . when you . . . when it’s the Blood Moon, when the sacrifice is made, it summons the Night God. It did last time, before the war. That was when she told me who I really was.”