The Wounded Shadow Page 2

  Mark and Allta nodded, mollified.

  “But the truth,” Pellin continued, “is that there is now no one in the north who can accomplish what the Fayit has asked me to do.”

  Allta looked to Mark before speaking. “And you believe his quest for you was different than rest?”

  Pellin nodded. “When Ealdor spoke to me, I had a sense that he meant to keep our conversation a secret, just as he communicated to Dura, Fess, and Toria Deel.”

  A sliver of doubt, like a shard of glass stuck in his finger he could feel but not see, cut him as he said this. “I can explain our different experiences in no other way.” He hadn’t meant to digress to this topic, but they had nothing but hours and days of travel before them and perhaps it was just as well. “We did not speak of it directly, but I have no doubt the command I heard was markedly different than the one Toria Deel and Fess heard.”

  Mark nodded. “Sense. After he appeared, Fess followed Lady Deel from the hall to speak with her. I tried to hear what they said to each other, but they were in the center of the courtyard and I couldn’t get close enough to eavesdrop without being seen.”

  “Your curiosity is understandable,” Pellin said. He stopped before he could add his customary remonstrance about spying. Doubtless the boy already knew his feeling on the subject. “In truth, I was tempted to speak to them about it, but the wisdom behind Ealdor’s actions was apparent.”

  “It’s what a military commander would do,” Allta said. “What is not known cannot be revealed.”

  Mark grunted. “We operated similarly in the urchins to keep the city watch from finding us after we’d stolen something too valuable.” He paused to scratch beneath his arm. “That’s scant comfort. It means the Fayit thinks there’s a good chance one of us will be taken.”

  “Which brings us to the point,” Pellin said looking south to where the smell of the sea drifted to him. “We’re going to the southern continent.”

  “What did the Fayit tell you to do?” Allta asked.

  He took a deep breath. “Something no one in the Vigil has been able to do in its long history. I have to discover a way to break Dura’s vault without destroying his mind.”

  Mark shook his head. “Why not ask Dura? From what he’s said, he broke Queen Cailin’s vault right after Bas-solas and she survived.”

  Pellin nodded in approval. The boy’s thoughts ran along the same path as his own. “Unfortunately, Dura doesn’t know why Cailin survived, but even if he did, there would be an additional reason to go south. We have to break the vault without losing the information within it.”

  “The Fayit said this?” Allta asked.

  Pellin nodded. “Of the Vigil that remain, I am by far the most experienced. Toria Deel is six hundred years younger in the gift than I am, Willet and Fess seven hundred. And while I do not possess the prodigious memory of our friend Custos, there is no knowledge within our library that can aid me in this. If the knowledge is to be found, it will be on the southern continent with our brothers there.”

  Pellin made some pretense to confidence, but even so Allta and Mark quieted. When they stopped for the lack of light still some distance from Port City and took rooms, his guard and apprentice still showed no desire to talk.

  Mark was the first to break the silence. “How far is it to the southern continent?” he asked as they ate that evening. Their inn had the benefit of being indistinguishable from countless others in Aille. If someone had tracked them here, they would have had to follow them the entire distance from Edring to do it. Even so, Mark kept up a steady scan of the interior, searching for dwimor.

  “Almost two hundred leagues,” Pellin said.” A bit over a week by ship with a good captain and fair wind—longer with a full load.”

  “What if it’s not fair?” Mark asked.

  A memory of Pellin’s last crossing rose before him, of rough gray-green seas and swells that sent their vessel up and down the troughs like a child’s toy while he fought and failed to keep his stomach under control in the crew’s quarters. “It should be fair now, but the journey south is best avoided during the winter.”

  “What’s it—” Mark stopped. His eyes fixed on the front entrance of the inn. Allta had already noted his manner and turned toward the door, his hands moving beneath the table to his weapons. Pellin had just begun the motion when Mark turned back to them, his face and voice calm.

  “There’s a dwimor by the door. Don’t,” he said as Allta started to rise. “It’s already seen everyone in here. I don’t think it’s here for us.” Pellin watched his apprentice take another glance around the room, his gaze roving across the patrons without landing anywhere. Clever, the dwimor wouldn’t know it had been seen.

  Pellin lifted his glass to his lips, let the wine wet them without drinking. His hand shook, but he ignored the splashes that stained his clothes. “What’s it doing?”

  Mark cocked his head as he took a bite, the motion smooth. Pellin prayed a quick thanks to Aer. The boy had ice water in his veins.

  “It’s moving toward the kitchens. I guess even dwimor have to eat.”

  “Take him,” Pellin said.

  “Her,” Mark corrected.

  “Regardless,” Allta said, “the risk cannot be taken. Mark, you will follow the dwimor and kill her.”

  “No,” Pellin said. “If Mark can take her, I can delve her. Who knows what we might discover?”

  His guard shook his head. “Eldest, consider. If Mark should fall to the dwimor, I will have no way to protect you here or for the remainder of the journey south.”

  Pellin sighed. Once again, his guard had managed to plot the safest course of action, offering prudence while he proposed risk. When had he become so reckless? Pellin turned to confirm Allta’s order. “Curse that little thief,” he breathed. “He’s done it again.”

  Mark was already gone.

  “Impressive,” Allta said. “I should have heard him slip away.”

  A clatter of dishes and a scream came from the kitchen. Allta rose, conflict written plain on his face—between his desire to aid Mark and his duty to protect Pellin at all costs. Men and women in the inn ran toward the sound of struggle, two of them wearing a reeve’s insignia.

  “Here now,” a deep voice called. “What’s this?”

  “I’m telling you the truth, you stupid growler,” Mark’s voice came from the kitchen. “She was robbing you. Look at all that food.”

  Allta led Pellin toward the kitchen at a run. Mark’s voice paused for a moment, followed by a thump.

  “What was that for?” another man yelled. “Are you trying to kill her?”

  “She’s dangerous,” Mark said. “You really don’t want her to wake up.”

  Allta shouldered the crowd away, and they came into a circle of men, some almost as big as the guard, surrounding the figure of Mark standing over the now visible form of a young woman.

  Pellin itched to remove his gloves, but the crowd of men around Mark had grown ugly, their protective instincts roused by sight of a defenseless girl being attacked. He dug into the pocket of his cloak, his fingers searching among the emblems stored there for the symbol of the Merum faith. His fingers brushed across the silver medallion of the intersecting arcs and brought it forth. “Gentlemen,” he said in a voice that cut through the mutters, “may Aer be with you.”

  The men turned, catching sight of the worked metal that signified the rank of bishop, and as one, most of them bowed. “And also with you,” they chorused. This far south the Merum church held almost absolute sway. Only one or two of the patrons crammed into the space refused to bow, their faces stiff with refusal and nervousness.

  Pellin pointed at the innkeeper hovering over Mark, a large-bellied bull of a man who had no idea how much danger he was in. “The boy is my servant.”

  The man took two quick steps back, bumping into those behind him, and Pellin stepped toward Mark, tapping the emblem on his chest, hoping his apprentice understood. “Tell me what happened, lad.” />
  Mark bowed in a way that spoke of familiarity and long habit. “I saw this one”—he nudged the unconscious girl—“sneaking into the kitchen, moving like she didn’t want anyone to see her, and I think to myself, ‘She’s not up to anything good.’ When I follow her in, I see she’s stuffing food into her cloak like she’s trying to empty the place. That’s when I rapped her behind the ear, but not before she takes a swing at me with her dagger. Quick she was. I was on my way to tell you, Your Magnificence, but he stopped me.” He nodded toward the pot-bellied man.

  “I don’t allow brawling in my inn,” the man said as he bobbed his head. “Not even among boys or women.”

  Pellin pursed his lips as if thinking, fingering his medallion the whole time. “I need to question the girl. It may be that there is a story behind her thievery. If so, it may be that the church can provide some mercy.”

  “Begging your pardon, Bishop, but why not just call the watch?”

  Pellin forced himself to laugh, praying Mark had hit the girl hard enough to keep her unconscious for a few moments longer. “I hardly think we need to disturb them for a hungry little girl. Here.” He held out a silver half-crown. “This should cover your losses from this disturbance. Come, Mark. Allta. Disarm her. I’m old, and I’d rather do this sitting down, and I’m sure we’ll get more of the truth from her if she’s not surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. Bring her.”

  Mark did a quick search, relieving the girl of a pair of very functional daggers. Allta lifted her so that she rested in the crook of his left arm, his right hand free and close to his sword. Pellin led them from the kitchen.

  Chapter 3

  The sound of tearing cloth filled the room as Allta ripped the bed covering into strips that Mark used to tie the dwimor to the chair. Her head lolled from side to side, and Pellin squinted against the uncomfortable sensation of having someone fade in and out of perception right in front of him. His head started to hurt.

  When her head came up and her eyes opened, his gaze slid from her. If he’d been asked to count the people in the room, he never would have seen the girl. Mark, on the other hand, appeared to have no such trouble. The sounds of struggle and the chair rocking on the floor echoed in the room until Allta put his weight on the girl’s seat.

  His guard put the blade of his dagger to what Pellin judged to be her throat, forcing her to stillness for a moment before he jerked the dagger away with the sound of air being displaced. A drop of bright red blood appeared in midair and fell to spatter against the floor.

  Pellin drew in a breath. Only Allta’s physical gift had kept the assassin from killing herself. “Can you speak?” he asked. The effort of trying to bring her into focus made his eyes hurt.

  Nothing. No sound came from her—not a word or sigh. He might have been talking to the chair for all the response he received.

  Mark moved around until he stood in front of her chair, looking, Pellin supposed, into eyes that had been drained of all color. He turned to Pellin and shook his head. “I don’t think she’s going to talk, Eldest. It’s as if she doesn’t have the ability.”

  Pellin nodded in resignation. “I had hoped it would be otherwise, but Cesla—we—did the same hundreds of years ago to keep the identity and the origins of the dwimor secret.” A weight descended upon him as he stripped off his gloves. “Very well, let’s see what’s in her mind. Bare her arm.”

  He reached out, the motion stirring the air across his fingertips, until he made contact. Her skin felt human enough. No hint of the emptiness within her mind tainted the warmth her pulsing heart gave to her flesh, but the vision of her fading in and out of his visual perception stymied his gift. He tried to find her gaze, but he couldn’t hold those colorless orbs in his sight. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

  Pellin rushed into the delve, his thoughts diminishing as he felt himself absorbed into the remnants of the woman’s personality. He stood in near absolute emptiness—still himself, still Pellin, Eldest of the Vigil, a man who’d lived for centuries. He turned in the emptiness, searching for the accustomed river of memory that should have taken a part of him at the first touch, the collection of a lifetime of experiences and emotions that defined each and every soul he’d ever delved, no matter how forsaken.

  He found it finally—what was left of it, at any rate—a trickle down by his feet. He crouched to inspect it, hoping for some sign, though he knew better than to expect such hope. A thread drifted past him on the stream, dark as obsidian, but short, the recollection comprising it brief in duration. Beneath it, a vault of purest black lay, covered in the symbols of the forest. Another memory followed, also black and short-lived. He reached out his hand and lived the memory as if his own.

  “You are dismissed, Myra,” Queen Chora said in a voice that could have frozen water.

  She fell to her knees, would have clutched the queen’s feet had she not kicked her hands away with disdain, her dancer’s grace evident even in that gesture. No amount of pleading could convince the queen of her innocence. “But I never touched him,” she begged.

  “You expect me to believe the word of a common servant over that of a prince?” Queen Chora yelled. “You dare? Take your dismissal and go, and be thankful I do not send you to the headsman.”

  Pellin stood in emptiness again, the memories too few to create the familiar sensation of consciousness he’d come to expect when delving. He waited until the trickle of Myra’s memories brought him the next strand. He reached out and felt blackness take him again.

  “No,” Countess Relgin said. “I will by no means hire a servant dismissed by the queen.” The countess leaned forward until Myra could almost taste the wine on her breath. “No house in Cynestol will hire you, girl. Can you blame them? The queen has told us how you put your hands on the prince.”

  “But I didn’t!” Myra cried.

  The countess stiffened. “Are calling the queen a liar?” She looked Myra up and down. “You’re young enough. Perhaps you can find work as a night woman.”

  The memory ceased, and he waited for the next strand, impatient, though he knew that outside the delve, no more than a single heartbeat or two had passed. When it came, he grasped it and despair took him.

  She skulked in the streets of Cynestol, begging for food, unable to find work and unwilling to become a night woman. Everywhere she went people accused her of trying to seduce the prince until she fled from them all to hide and hunt the alleys at night. The desire to take Queen Chora and imprison her, force her to live this same humiliation burned through her.

  When the memory stopped, he sighed, looking, waiting for another strand, but when it came he found himself reliving the first memory again. Turning, he searched the emptiness of the girl’s mind until he found her vault once more.

  Surveying the black scroll, he saw it to be like the others, covered with the same writing he’d seen in all who’d been tainted by the evil, written in glyphs that bore no resemblance to any language he’d seen. Redemption was impossible.

  He willed his fingers to break contact and he straightened, once more standing in the middle of the room he’d taken with Allta and Mark. Allta’s look probably matched his own, resigned and stoic, but Mark wore an expression filled with the wonder the gift of domere often inspired in the uninitiated.

  He stood, pondering the girl he couldn’t see.

  “Eldest?” Allta asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “A mystery, my friend. There is so much we don’t know. A millennium is hardly enough time to make a scratch.” He sighed. “We heard no bells signaling Chora’s death. I think she was on the way to kill the queen.” Even as he said it, his conclusion felt wrong. But why?

  “Eldest,” Mark said, “she was stealing a lot of food.”

  Pellin took a deep breath. “Meaning she wasn’t alone or she intended to wait before making her attempt on the queen. There’s not much to work with. The process of making her a dwimor has emptied her mind, making it impossible to retain any memories except what Ce
sla intended.”

  He looked at Allta, who responded with one curt nod. All that remained was for him to take his apprentice out of the room on some pretext so his guard could dispatch the girl as quickly and cleanly as mercy allowed. “Mark,” Pellin called, “why don’t we go downstairs. Perhaps we can persuade the innkeeper to find us something sweet.”

  Mark didn’t move or answer, his eyes fixed on the girl, though Pellin couldn’t tell if she met his gaze.

  “You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?” Mark asked.

  A stab of regret pained him before he shunted it aside and nodded. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing left of her except a desire for vengeance.” He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shed the responsibility Mark’s regard placed upon him. “There’s nothing left of her except hatred and a name that’s not real.”

  “What is it?”

  He thought at first of refusing to answer, but perhaps this would be Mark’s way of grieving. Pellin reminded himself his young apprentice was acquainted with bloodshed. Along with several other members of the urchins, he had helped to defeat Laewan during the slaughter of Bas-solas. “Myra,” he said. “He gave her the name Myra.”

  Mark nodded. “I don’t read as much as Fess, but I know that means sorrow. Why do you have to kill her?”

  Pellin shook his head, tried not to let his frustration show. “Mark, there’s nothing left of her life. Everything has been emptied out of her mind except the barest need to survive and a hatred of Queen Chora.”

  Mark shrugged as if Pellin’s argument was irrelevant. “Then give her a different life. Give her a different name to live to.”

  Defeated, Pellin sat on the bed. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Wounds on his soul he’d tried to forget tore open anew. “Let me try to explain.” He met Mark’s gaze, his apprentice’s sky-blue eyes so earnest they were almost desperate. “How long does it take a carpenter to make a chair?”

  Mark shook his head. “It depends on the chair.”