Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (2 page)

T
alis of the House of Guardians stood alone in the place his King had bade him wait, the patch of scorched earth where the two worlds lay closest. It was exposed to the merciless dry season winds and the raids by Plainsmen, yet on this open ground the Princess Khatrene would re-enter his world. The alignment of their moons, seen days before from the highlands of the Volcastle, had guided Talis to this day and hour.

Luck had afforded him good weather for the Plains, only a thin lowlands haze providing him a good hundred strides of clear vision. Beyond that lay a wall of golden mystery through which vague shadows drifted. Whether they were Plainsmen or imagination depended on the weariness of the eye, and while he waited for his Princess, Talis’s eye was sharp.

So too were the cracks in the floor of the Mud Plain beneath his boots, their sun-baked pattern as familiar to Talis as the skin of his own hand. Having time to spare he crouched to lay fingers across them, thinking as he often did, how strange was the construction of his world that so mimicked the life upon it, and how easily it could all be destroyed.

Should one turning in their history go awry, one birth, one death, one marriage, then The Balance would tilt towards evil and the blackness which was the Great Guardian’s displeasure would come upon them again. So said The Dark who was their leader in matters of the spirit. Many times in their history the blackness had come and only the wisdom of The Dark had stood between the kingdom of Ennae and eternal night. He stood at the fulcrum between good and evil, and decided for Ennae which sacrifices must be made.

One such sacrifice was the Plainsmen, whose refusal to believe in the Great Guardian was a threat to The Balance. Talis himself had led parties of warriors against them and their numbers had been reduced from many thousands to only one tribe of hundreds. Yet they were notoriously elusive. Legend told that their minds saw through the mists, the better to avoid their enemies. How Talis wished he had that power today.

Thinking this, he straightened and turned in a circle, scanning the golden haze for any sign of them. Though few in number now, they were vicious fighters to be avoided by a lone warrior, especially today when so important a personage was to cross their territory with no escort party.

The time drew close; he would have to begin.

Yet his mind wandered.

It had been three years since he had seen the little Princess. Three years since the Northmen had attacked their kingdom in a war which had claimed their King’s life. Talis had lost his own father, but with his charges safely exiled to Magoria, he had buried his grief in battle. The royal guard and the noble Houses of Ennae had united to fight the disbelievers from the north and force them back over the mountains. The traitor Roeg, who had used his position as King’s Champion to aid the invaders, was never found. The Dark named him dead and so declared the Kingdom safe for the return of its boy King Mihale.

Talis had rejoiced at this news, for much time had passed since he had assisted the royal family into exile. His father, like many Guardians in their line, had not opened the way between the worlds for other purposes than ceremonial worship of the Great Guardian. Talis, however, had been taught the ancient lore that enabled him to help his charges through the Sacred Pool to another world. This lore told that one moon’s passing was the longest time any had remained in Magoria, yet it had taken twelve moons to rout the invaders and Talis had feared for his charges, so long away from them.

Magoria offered no threat, for it was nothing more than a brightly-hued world of illusion which, once left, was instantly forgotten, like a vibrant dream on waking. None of the handful of royals in their history who had ventured there had ever been harmed and all had returned unchanged to take up their lives where they had left off them.

Yet when Talis had opened the Sacred Pool that joined their world to Magoria, the Mihale who surged to the surface of the strangely hued water was not the same child who had left them. Though only a year had passed since the ten-year-old boy King had departed, a young man with newly broken voice had returned to them. The Dark had declared that grief and responsibility had aged their King prematurely and none had argued, for The Dark who could see into the souls of men was never wrong.

But while the return of their King gave much cause for rejoicing, with that joy had come failure. Though Talis tried for many days, no other came through the Sacred Pool. The Princess Khatrene, whose memories he still held, seemed lost to them, as did her mother the Queen Danille.

With no recollection of Magoria, the young King could offer no cause for the absence of his kin and though Talis wore his own strength to threads, and that of his uncle who also bore the Guardian blood, he could not find them. A moment came when he thought he had touched the White Princess with his powers and in elation he sought to strengthen the bond and draw her to Ennae, but as quickly as it had come, the feeling of connection with the young Princess was severed and search though he might, Talis could not find it again. Both Talis and the young King were sick with frustration, but at last The Dark decreed that they must stop trying and return to the Volcastle.

With each new moon the King had commanded his two Guardians back to the Plains in the hope that they could summon his mother and sister, yet though Talis and his uncle searched Magoria with their minds, nothing came of it. These fruitless trips took place for a year before The Dark advised Mihale to cease the obsession with his sister which was overtaking his mind. Mihale had complied out of fear for The Balance, yet Talis knew his heart had not reconciled itself to the loss. Thus he was not surprised when his Lord and King, through the offices of his Chief Counsel, ordered him alone to the Plains to try one last time for the life of his sister. Talis was to embark in secret only a few days before the King’s thirteenth lifeday.

Joy stirred in Talis’s heart at the thought of delivering the White Princess from her exile, yet that happiness could not altogether overcome his unease at how the years had altered his mind. Her memories, which he had struggled to keep safe for her, were no longer a separate collection he could simply gather and return. Over time they had joined with his own memories in a surprising and irrevocable meshing.

The child he had thought of as gentle and kind, lay claim in her own mind to neither attribute. Behind those royal-hued eyes lay the heart of a warrior, and remembering this calmed his apprehensions. The Princess was as clever as the day was long. Her kiss had surprised him, but her ingenuity would not. Between them they would find a way to return her memories, of that he was sure.

His immediate duty, however, was to return her safely to her royal brother so Talis scanned the visible horizon again. Finding no danger, he set his mind to the sacred duty that was his birthright.

Kneeling on the floor of the Plain, he opened the Ancestor Pouch, handed down to him by his father, and withdrew from it a handful of soil he had gathered from the royal garden where the young Princess had played. With this earth that was the element of his world, he leant forward and inscribed a circle on the baked ground, to create the Sacred Pool from which he would summon water, the element of Magoria, and the Princess with it.

A quick glance at the sun’s direction told Talis he was late. Cross-legged, he spread wide his hands over the cracked earth where he would join the two worlds. Then, summoning his inner powers and wielding them with a warrior’s strength, he poured into the circle the invisible essence of his being, and thus began the rite of calling.

‘I am the light that warms the tunnel. I am the door that opens the way,’ he intoned and after a time felt a jolt within himself as his search touched and then snagged a tenuous hold on Magoria. His fingers lowered to touch the edges of the earth circle he had inscribed and from it he formed the way, widening it with his mind.

‘Ancient powers, take from my hand the sacred element of our land.’

‘This earth that gives our world its hue will forge a way betwixt the two.’

Energy flowed through Talis and he felt again the wonder that his father had never lost; their inborn ability to connect the worlds. It was duty, privilege and joy wrapped in one. Yet, even as his powers were at their height, struggle and pain came hard to him from Magoria. In a rush, he gathered his life-force and secured his hold again, fearing now for the Princess and her safety.

Had his inattention caused some harm? He held over the words of opening to add the Guardian’s blessing,

‘May your passage be eased and your essence unharmed.

Or from my own blood take a life-giving balm.’

The struggle he felt from Magoria intensified. Talis did not wait for the sensation of her passage but immediately put his palms to the ground and felt a wrenching as the circle drew more of his life-force into it. Moments passed where his fear grew. She drew no closer. Then he felt a stab of pain and her struggle abruptly ceased.

Ignoring the tenets that protect Guardians, Talis sent more of his life-force than was permitted, and drew on her essence with every straining muscle in his body.

His final words came harsh and overloud.

‘From life itself I would unfurl … the water of another world.’

His mind strained with the burden but held, and within seconds the final connection was made. A mighty crackling roar issued from the circle and rolled across the Plain.

Under his palms there now glistened water from another world. Eagerly he looked into the pool to find the Princess, but instead sick premonition gripped him. The storm of creation itself should have roiled in the pool’s depths, yet its surface was still and dark. The Princess was nowhere to be seen.

With desperation as his ally, he plunged a gloved hand into its depths, searching for what he feared was already lost.

S
poon motionless in his gnarled hand, the Elder Sh’hale squinted across the dining table at his elegant host, Djahr of the House of Be’uccdha. As the ruling Lord of the southlands of Ennae, Djahr also carried the title of The Dark, as did his forebears in House Be’uccdha, all marked at manhood by the swirling tattoo that covered the right side of the face. It was a fitting title, for the darkness of eternal night was the very thing The Dark’s powers of discernment held back. Many times in the Elder’s own life the blackness had come and fear had covered the land until The Dark could discover its cause and sacrifice that evil to the Fireworld of Haddash. Joyful relief came then as the scythe of death moved away from their sun and let warmth once again flood their lands.

The last to be sacrificed had been Djahr’s own Guard Captain, and for this reason the Elder had warned his firstborn Kert to beware. Even the sons of ruling noble houses were not immune to The Dark’s decrees. Any who dared upset The Balance were shown no mercy, so it was with trepidation that the Elder sought to convince Djahr that their own King threatened the stability of Ennae.

No takeover of the throne had proved successful in Ennae’s history, yet there was also no occasion when the people had been ruled by such a young and inexperienced King. This was the point the Elder planned to emphasise when he broached the subject with The Dark whose House had guarded the throne of Ennae for eight generations. Though there was little likelihood they would turn against it now, the Elder needed the Be’uccdha Guard to complement his own if his planned insurrection against the boy King was to succeed. His subtle hints, however, had thus far met with frustratingly obtuse replies.

Djahr took a spoonful of the poached oceanweed soup and said, ‘Did you know that the King will hold a mighty celebration on his lifeday this year?’

‘I know nothing about it,’ the Elder replied, wondering what message lay behind these words. Were they a warning of some kind, or simply a demonstration that Be’uccdha lay closer to the King’s ear than Sh’hale?

Yet Djahr offered no explanation, simply nodded and continued to eat, the movements of his long, elegant fingers causing the Elder irritation at his own blunt digits. More accustomed to grasping than gauging, the Elder needed Be’uccdha’s subtlety to complement House Sh’hale’s brute force.

Still, at the moment when despair should have bitten most sharply, the Elder felt some of his hope restored. His gaze was caught by the ornate wall-hangings in his host’s dining chamber and they reminded him that despite this current Lord’s piety, Castle Be’uccdha boasted a bloody history: bodies of enemies thrown from the parapets to smash onto the rocks below, food for the hungry waves of the Everlasting Ocean.

Djahr clearly appreciated the repetitive moaning of the great expanse as it wore away the foundations of his castle but the Elder detested it, and even here in the centre of Castle Be’uccdha where fires burned constantly to repulse the moisture, he felt his chest clutch on itself for want of dry air.

The Elder cleared his throat, lay down his spoon and said, ‘Perhaps this celebration is to appease the Houses who have taken umbrage at the disbanding of the Royal Council.’ Djahr did not respond to this and so the Elder continued. ‘You and I are old and wise, but the younger Lords fear threat will come again from the north, and our young King with no advisers —’

‘The King has advisers,’ Djahr said, not bothering to raise his head. ‘And I am half your age, Sh’hale. You would do well not to think me old.’

Now, that was a warning for sure, and brought the unwelcome surprise that The Dark still held the King’s ear while Sh’hale’s advice was no longer required. Yet the Elder would not be deflected. ‘Our Lord and King shows excellent swordsmanship for his tender years and his strategies in the games of war are unparalleled.’ This was said generously, for the Elder knew his own son to be better on both accounts. ‘Yet we do not know what lies in his heart.’

‘Our Lord and King is descended from the Ancients,’ Djahr said softly, the circles and sinuous designs of his tattoo blending darkly with his complexion, giving him a sinister cast in the shadowed room. ‘He has divine authority over Ennae and will not be overcome by barbarian disbelievers.’

‘Yet his father was killed —’

‘By a traitor.’ They stared at each other across the table and the stillness of the empty room grew profound. The Elder knew that Djahr’s stewards stood outside the closed doors, yet it felt in that moment as though the heavy sideboards lining the walls of the Be’uccdha dining chamber were not inanimate timber but crouching servants ready to leap up and kill him at their master’s command. The gilded bowls and vases with their encrusted jewels were furtive eyes, watching, waiting.

The Elder found his throat dry and he knew he must forge a way past his fear. Daring to attack where he knew Djahr was vulnerable, he said, ‘Perhaps this mighty celebration is not only for our Lord and King’s lifeday.’ He paused to dampen his hoarse throat with a swallow of water. Djahr waited patiently. ‘If Mihale has a woman to take as his wife,’ the Elder went on, ‘we could stand witness instead at a betrothal rite. Had I a daughter of my own, I would offer her for his royal sword.’ He grinned and gestured crudely. ‘I am surprised that you do not offer your own.’

Djahr laid down his spoon with a deliberate air. ‘My daughter is already betrothed, Sh’hale, as you well know,’ he said. ‘But do not grieve. Perhaps the King delays in claiming a betrothed because he would prefer a boy. You may lose a child to his … sword yet.’

The Elder stared hard and then burst into surprised laughter. He thumped a hand on the table before him, not caring that his goblet jumped and spilled. ‘You would mock the King —’

‘I mock you, Sh’hale,’ Djahr corrected. ‘I would not mock the throne I serve. The throne we both serve.’

The throne. Not the King. The Elder nodded, hope alive within him again. ‘Ennae is lucky to have two such men to serve her best interests,’ he said.

Djahr merely raised an eyebrow.

The heavy door opened and a serving maid entered. Both men fell quiet while bowls were cleared and hot ale served. The Elder, relaxed now, gazed at the fullness of the maid’s breasts, covered demurely by the swirl-patterned cloth that denoted her as belonging to House Be’uccdha. A stirring in his loins such as he had not felt for many years gave his eye greater discernment. She was not over-comely, this one, but he liked the way her strong fingers gripped his cup as she filled it, the warm ale spilling a little on the back of her hand. A pity that her Lord’s celibacy would see her unused this night. Although hospitality might be offered to a guest.

‘I would bed her,’ he said to his host. The serving maid continued her task, showing no sign of having heard. This pleased the Elder more.

‘I see our conversation has refreshed you,’ Djahr replied and nodded to the girl who withdrew in silence. ‘She will be warm in your bed when you retire.’

Djahr smiled as the Elder lurched to his feet.

Sickness burned deep in the Elder’s gut, yet he did not speak of it. He would die soon enough, but not before he had seen his own son on the throne to ensure the Kingdom’s survival. And certainly not before he had blunted his sword in the warm sheath that now awaited him in his bed.

‘Give me the slumber of satisfaction this night,’ he told Djahr, ‘and tomorrow we will speak of all things necessary for the good fortune of Ennae.’

His host rose also. ‘Will I see you for early devotions in the Altar Caves?’

The Elder grunted, eloquent comment on House Sh’hale’s aversion to religious ritual.

‘Many pilgrims pray there tonight,’ Djahr said. ‘Their supplication adds much good to The Balance. As would your morning presence in our midst.’

The Elder acknowledged defeat with a nod of respect to his host, then lumbered across the dining room. A steward stepped forward to guide him to his chambers and Djahr signalled to another. His musician quickly appeared with four-stringed mitabre tuned and ready to play.

‘Ballad of the Ocean,’ he instructed, then seated himself again. Ignoring the ale he had drunk in deference to his guest, he reached for a goblet of wine which had been brought with the musician. As he sipped, soft chords swelled and drifted around the warm stone walls, licking them, as did the real ocean beneath his castle walls. Djahr closed his eyes and soon felt his Shadow Woman return. She curled against his stomach. ‘Good work, my invisible friend,’ he murmured. ‘You have woken an old sword and sharpened its purpose well.’

The wraith drifted up to his ear, pausing to tighten at his throat before whispering,
‘The pleasure was all his.’

‘You did not enjoy yourself?’ he asked idly, his words swallowed up by the rising notes of the ballad.

‘He is old and ugly, while you, my precious lord, are young and virile,’
she replied.

‘Not young,’ he argued, despite what he had said to Sh’hale.

‘Virile then,’
she breathed, stroking down the side of his face, tracing his tattoo with fingers of air.
‘Yet the day approaches when I will have to share you with another.’
She sighed. 
‘
I will not enjoy that.’

Djahr smiled, as though to himself. ‘You must do many things you do not enjoy, my love,’ he murmured. ‘And one of them is ensuring the pleasure of an old and ugly guest.’

The wraith’s hold drifted lower then tightened on his throat again, but Djahr merely waited. It was an amusement of hers to squeeze in two places, the pleasure and fear mounting with each until he was not sure if he would die or … die.

‘
I will do it,’
she said, releasing her grip,
‘but I will not be tender, as I am with you.’

Djahr felt her slide over him, wakening him to pleasure, yet he felt no remorse at this. His vow of celibacy, declared at the death of his wife, was taken to purge his mind of the distracting pleasures of the flesh. The Shadow Woman was not flesh, therefore he did no evil by accepting her attentions. ‘You are not always tender with me, my love,’ he reminded her, and heard her laugh.

‘Tonight, I am nothing with you,’
she replied, and instantly he felt her gone.

Djahr opened his eyes, took a sip of wine. His bed would be empty this night, but tomorrow his Shadow Woman would return. At devotions she would stand invisible beside him, whispering in his ear the sins of his petitioners which he would then denounce, proving to all the power of The Dark, while none knew she was the true source of his discernment.

The evening had gone well and with her help, the night would further improve the humour of his visiting enemy. For enemy Sh’hale was, no doubt of that. While both took the same path, and of necessity must make room for each other upon it, at their destination lay only one throne.

For there could be only one King.