Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (8 page)

‘D
o you know anything of this lifeday celebration for the King?’ the Elder asked his son as they stood alone in the battle-practice yard of Fortress Sh’hale. Around them rose pale sandstone, the lower portions of which were stained with blood, and though it was close to midday, the height of the walls kept all but the smallest patch of sunlight from entering. ‘The Dark spoke of a great celebration when I saw him at Castle Be’uccdha last week.’

Kert shrugged a lean shoulder, intent on his throw.

The Elder watched his son aim, then precisely as the weapons master had taught him, Kert lunged forward, his knife arm slicing through the air, the blade spinning from his fingers to land true, fair into the heart of his woven practice target.

A sneer came comfortably to his narrow face. ‘Die, Guardian,’ he said.

‘Kert!’ Acid roiled in the Elder’s stomach. He should be proud of his son’s prowess and even of his handsome features, yet he could feel only frustration and anger at this pointless rivalry with the King’s Champion. It was tradition for a Guardian to Champion the King, yet Kert’s coveting of the role had brought him nothing but discontent, which some months past had flared into deadly enmity over the favours of a filthy Plainswoman. It was beyond foolishness. Kert should not Champion, but should sit on the throne himself.

The Elder persisted with his questioning, ‘Have you heard nothing from the House of Guardians about this celebration? Do you not know their youngest son?’

‘I know Pagan,’ Kert said, strolling forward across the swept ground to retrieve his knife before slowly retracing his steps. ‘The fool speaks of nothing but wenching. He is a dolt.’

‘He is an ear inside their House and you will cultivate him as I have instructed.’

Kert ignored his father and threw the knife again, a vicious, sharp throw that took the head off his target. The Elder watched, his wrath stilled a moment by awe as the knife clattered against the deeply shadowed wall and stuffing from the effigy fell in disorderly clumps.

Such an arm the boy had.

‘I will do as you wish, Father,’ Kert said, stepping forward to retrieve his blade.

Yet the Elder noted there was no glance of obedience accompanying these words and again anger stirred within him.

His relief at being home among his own people faded in the presence of this disobedient son. On each occasion he was forced to deal with Kert, the firstborn son destined to inherit Fortress Sh’hale and the mountains that lay around it, the Elder felt his stomach ailment burn. Did Kert know? Did he deliberately provoke his father to gain just this response?

The Elder’s eyes narrowed. ‘Listen to me, boy,’ he warned. ‘You do not impress me with your warrior skill. I care only that you have a brain to keep our House from harm.’

‘I have a brain, Father.’ Kert returned the head to his target and resumed his throwing position. ‘I may not click sagea pieces across a stupid circle board all night, but that does not mean —’

‘You would rather battle than think,’ the Elder said, furious that his son would not spare him a glance.

Kert paused, arm at the ready, to turn his gaze on his father. ‘You would rather insult than instruct,’ he replied.

The Elder stared at his son long and hard, hatred in his belly like a lump of molten ore. Yet if he did not keep peace with Kert, the boy would not do his bidding. Then all would be lost. ‘So you have heard nothing of note about this lifeday?’ he asked again.

‘Nothing,’ Kert replied.

The Elder nodded then turned away. Agony such as he had not felt before burned deep inside as he made his way back to his rooms, calling for his healer as he passed the hallway of arched colonnades that surrounded his private garden. The scent of thick-petalled lorthen hung heavy in the air but it did not please him. And neither did the ash-blend incense the healer set beside his bed. Desperate for relief, he took the foul herbs given him and set his mind to rest, yet harsh thoughts bedevilled him, seeming to waft in on the hot breeze that stirred his heavy bed-drapes.

Damn The Dark with his air of mystery. Despite his assurances of good will, and the sham of a blessing he had given Sh’hale for his ‘duty to the throne’, Djahr had made no commitment to House Sh’hale. Worse, no preparations were being made to defend the Kingdom should the Northmen return. The Dark might think their young King’s ‘divine authority’ would save them from hard steel but the Elder knew better. Mihale’s father had died as mortal a death as any of his men, yet in all of this The Dark refused to see that Kert would be the better King.

Even to the question of why Djahr had chosen a Guardian to marry his daughter, rather than a son of the House Sh’hale had met no reasonable reply.

Love.

The Elder would have laughed in his host’s face, but by the end of his visit, his struggle to breathe the wretchedly moist air and his exertions with The Dark’s maidservant had taken their toll, He returned home exhausted and now matters were worse.

A true healer, one of the King’s Guardians, could use his powers to cure the Elder’s ailment, but once his defences were breached, a Guardian might see into his mind and recognise the sedition within. Though this use of a Guardian’s powers was prohibited, the Elder trusted no-one. Better to suffer and toil in silence, that House Sh’hale might reap the rewards of his sacrifice. That Kert, undeserving though he was, would one day rule in the boy King’s place.

Reconciled to his fate, the Elder tried to sleep, yet it was slow coming and later he awoke muddled, his mind heavy. Kert stood at his bedside.

‘Are you dying, Father?’ he asked, no shadow of pity in his eyes.

The Elder took comfort from this. A man must be strong to rule. Perhaps there was hope for the boy yet. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the urgency of this admission turned his thoughts to their most pressing need. ‘You must find a weapon to use against Be’uccdha. His throat was dry and he swallowed to wet it. ‘If The Dark will not help us he must not stand in our way. You must take the throne if our kingdom is to survive.’

‘I know a weapon against Be’uccdha, Father,’ Kert said, his narrow face and short-cropped hair blurring in and out of the Elder’s vision. ‘And the taking of it would grieve both your enemy and mine.’

The Elder frowned. ‘What do you say?’ he said and struggled against lethargy to fix his gaze on his son, cursing now the herbs he had taken to ease his pain. ‘What enemy of yours? The Champion?’ He wet his lips. ‘Fix your thoughts on Be’uccdha, not the Champion or you will risk the King’s anger before we are ready. Son … you must… not…’

The old eyelids flickered and closed, and Kert let the sneer that lived in his heart touch his lips. When he was sure his father slept, he said, ‘I will do as I choose, old man. You are too weak to stop me now. Best you make your peace with the Great Guardian and leave the affairs of House Sh’hale to me.’

Out of the shadows came the Be’uccdha maid Kert had sought out to poison his father even as she bedded him in The Dark’s guest rooms. ‘My Lord,’ she said.

‘We leave for the Volcastle tomorrow,’ he told her, dropping the bed drape and turning away from the stench that was his father. ‘Have you prepared the deadly herbs?’

‘My Lord will be head of his House within the month.’

‘Good. I will see you are given a position of responsibility once we reach the Volcastle.’ For a moment his gaze lingered on her lips, imagining the pleasure they could give him, the pleasure they had given his father, yet a glance at her eyes which now glittered in anticipation of his request stilled his desire. ‘Go,’ he commanded. ‘I will not speak to you again lest our conspiracy be suspected. You are a present to the King’s House from my father. Nothing more.’

She curtsied, ‘My Lord, the deadly Be’uccdha arts which I have learned and the herbs I have stolen are yours to command.’

Kert frowned and held her back a moment. ‘The Dark does not know of their loss?’ he asked.

‘My Lord, no,’ she replied. ‘My mother was the keeper of his medicinal pantry. She knew nothing of my thefts.’

Kert nodded at this, yet felt an odd sense of betrayal. A maid whose ambitions would endanger her own mother was not a woman to be trusted. What else might she have done in her quest for advancement? ‘You will not steal from your new master,’ he said.

‘My Lord, no,’ she replied and curtsied again, her expression obedient and yet oddly shuttered, as though her face was a mask behind which her real thoughts lay.

Kert wished then that he could kill her, yet knew he would not. If his father did not succumb as planned she would have to return and give him more of the medicament. It was a slow and disorderly death, yet necessary if Kert was to avoid any legal impediments to his claim on House Sh’hale. Should a Guardian be called to inspect the body, the poison would be gone within an hour of the death, and only the damage would remain. A stomach ailment which ate the flesh from within would be diagnosed and Kert would be free to claim the castle and lands which were rightfully his.

In that moment, however, while Kert gazed upon the maid, it struck him as odd that The Dark would keep such a herb. Being deviously slow, it was not an apt weapon to eliminate recalcitrants who upset The Balance.

‘My Lord?’ She raised a dark eyebrow and Kert remembered himself.

He waved her away and with a dry swishing of skirts she was gone. Alone again, he stepped back to his father’s side and pulled back the bed drapes to stare in silent hatred at the lump of flesh which had governed his life for so long. ‘I obey you no more,’ he told his slumbering father, ‘and hasten now to protect the throne which you would steal. I shall see you in Haddash.’ Kert found he could smile at this, knowing he would take much pleasure in the knowledge that the Serpent of Death was devouring his father’s entrails.

L
aroque stood troubled at the river’s edge, his thoughts as tangled as the vines they had cut through to make their passage. Of the Forest Raiders there had been no sign, which in itself was worry enough, but now. Talis …

With the cunning of many years spent at court, Laroque turned, ostensibly to scan his men. Instead, his gaze lingered on the Princess Khatrene and her Champion who now stood apart from the others, their smiles a harmony of accord.

Away from the thick vegetation of the Elder Stand, feeble sunlight filtered through thick overhead clouds, illuminating the skin of the Princess exactly as it had for a brief moment on the Plains. Even her hair, which she had freshly loosed, glittered like threads of ice. Again the thought came to him that she may be The Light. However, it was not the question of her divinity that concerned Laroque this day.

He would rather know how the Princess came to be so content. Had her Champion finally found a way to soothe her temper? There had been a stilted reserve between them which appeared to be gone today. Laroque did not know how.

Nor should he care.

Battle could fall upon them at any moment but the insignificant matter would not stay at rest. It tugged on the edges of his mind like a persistent river current.

‘Argh, the river is the colour of piss,’ Pagan said from behind him.

‘The river is clean,’ Laroque said, his disagreement coming from habit. ‘And its appearance should be of no concern to a warrior concentrating on finding a suitable crossing.’

Pagan favoured his father with a patient glance before strolling down the line to inspect the lower section of the river bend. Laroque watched him pass the Princess and her Champion, and although he did not hear the comment Talis threw, he saw Pagan’s mock bow and heard the Princess’s merry laughter. Talis turned back to her then with his own smile, one of such carefree design it did not seem as if he was far from safety on a mission of considerable danger, but rather at a tournament picnic in the Volcastle woods.

The line named duty which clearly stood between a Champion and his charge had blurred, and Laroque did not know how. Yesterday it had been in place. He had seen the awkward way Talis spoke to his Lady and heard raised voices, not for the first time. Quickly, he had sent Pagan to diffuse their anger, which he had. The Princess and her Champion had shared laughter in Pagan’s wake and when next he’d glanced at them the Princess had been asleep. Nothing more.

Why then did Talis’s eye linger on her today where it had not yesterday? Laroque knew well the shock of her beauty, remembering the way his heart had raced in the presence of her mother, the Queen Danille. The pale, clear skin, the striking royal-hued eyes, and hair of such a soft colour that it seemed to melt in the light. Khatrene was no less beautiful and perhaps more so. Certainly she smiled more than Danille had.

But perhaps when this Princess was wedded to a man she had not chosen, as her mother had been, then might her easy smile be locked away. Then …

He shook his head and turned back to the river, struggling to clear his mind. The Princess was the responsibility of her Champion. It was the rescue of Lae Be’uccdha which should occupy Laroque’s thoughts. Talis was a grown man, not a boy to be watched over in this fashion. He had the trust of his King and he would have the trust of his uncle as well.

Still, as the pair drew closer Laroque held half an ear open to their conversation.

‘I’m washing my hair on the way over. I don’t care what you say,’ the Princess said, her tone light.

‘Shall I call back my lady’s assistant?’ Talis replied, his own tone gently mocking.

‘No need,’ she replied.

‘I’ve found a crossing, Father.’ Pagan’s approach was both a relief and an irritation. ‘A hundred paces down. I’ll warrant it’s only chest deep.’

Laroque turned to his son. ‘You are not wet. How was this tested?’

Pagan hesitated, threw a glance at the Princess, and then in a gesture so obvious Laroque felt embarrassed for the boy, he puffed out his chest. ‘My eye tested it, and I’ll warrant it’s true.’

Laroque pondered the things he could say and chose, ‘Then you have done well. Lead us to it.’

Pagan set off ahead and Laroque found his gaze meeting the strange beauty of the Princess’s eyes. She smiled at him, and he felt even his old heart move faster.

‘He’s young,’ she said, and shrugged to show she had taken no offence.

Laroque offered a small bow. ‘My lady has a generous heart. The man your royal brother chooses for your husband will be lucky indeed.’ He cast a glance at Talis and moved on, hearing only silence in his wake.

Khatrene shivered and rubbed her arms, then gave up when she realised it wasn’t making her any warmer. It had been a stupid idea to wade through the thick water of the river, even if it had sloughed off the accumulation of four days’ dirt. At the time, nothing short of an armed attack would have stopped her, and despite its strange colour and slushy consistency of unset jelly, it had been wet and as a consequence felt wonderful.

Now, sitting on the floor of a pitch-black, draughty cave, she could think of cleverer things to have done. Like letting Talis carry her across. He had offered.

But no. She’d decided to wade across the ten metre stretch of icy sludge, intent on getting clean. Fully clothed, she’d scrubbed herself as best she could while struggling to push past the water’s heavy resistance and find safe footing on the smooth stones of the riverbed. In the middle of the river she’d ducked her head under and rubbed her face. That had felt like scrubbing with honey, but it had effectively rinsed her hair which was now in a plait and hung down her back like a wet rope.

A long walk would have dried her completely but they’d crossed the open ground to reach the rabbit-warren of tombs they called the Shrine in less than ten minutes. The deathly silence of the guard around her and the eerie early morning shadows cast by the squat, ugly shrines had already unnerved her. Then Talis pointed out the royal family’s shrine, where a plaque for the father she didn’t remember was placed. It was a clean-cut rectangle of pure white marble, like an enormous brick slapped onto the soft fungus-covered ground.

Laroque’s guard, which was spread out before and behind her, padded silently on past the lesser shrines which made this one look like a swan in a flock of grubby ducklings. Khatrene wasn’t sure whether she thought her family’s shrine was impressive or pretentious until she saw an early morning shadow slide into a symbol carved on either side of the entry; four circles that touched to form a diamond.

She faltered, blinked, and like a person drenched in a sudden downpour, she was changed, her whole perception of Ennae … ‘I know that symbol,’ she whispered, and closed her eyes on the brown landscape but could not escape the circles. They were inside her mind, only this time in colour. At the apex was white, the left circle blue, the right brown and beneath them was a colour she could only describe as fire.

Four circles. And Michael had told her there were four worlds.

She opened her eyes and stared at Talis, suddenly seeing him not as a man who was helping her, but as a part of Ennae. A Guardian. As important to the survival of this world as the vegetation which fed them and the air they breathed. For Ennae to survive, there must always be Guardians. But as quickly as the insight had come to her, it disappeared. She looked at the circles again and they were simply circles. But she remembered what she’d seen.

‘My Lady,’ he whispered, looking from her to the shrine, ‘Can you continue?’

‘I know that symbol,’ she whispered urgently, and pointed to it.

Talis nodded. ‘It is the symbol of the Ancients. The Royal Seal.’ She’d expected him to be surprised but his expression showed relief more than anything else. ‘The spirit of your ancestors awakens within you. It recognises what you cannot remember.’ He held her gaze a moment longer then flicked a glance behind them. He was always looking around them, searching for danger. That was his purpose. Yet before Khatrene could lose herself again in the revelation she’d had, she noticed that the guard was banking up behind them.

She started her feet moving and reminded herself that Talis would be more concerned with the life of his betrothed than her lost memories. Distracting him with trifles might unsettle his concentration, and if something bad happened to the daughter of The Dark as a consequence, Khatrene would never forgive herself. She resolved to keep her mouth shut as she padded along by his side. What she had seen, however, was still inside her like a warm meal in her belly, satisfying and comforting. She did belong here.

It had been hard to accept that she had spent her childhood here when she didn’t have any proof of it herself. But now she had something. She recognised the circles. Somehow that brought Mihale closer and she tried to hug that to herself as they followed the guard along winding trails between the clay-coloured shrines which were nothing more than glorified boxes.

It was a morbid place, and Khatrene’s happy glow soon faded. She tried not to feel oppressed but the cloud cover was thick and low, giving her the disconcerting expectation that she was about to be crushed by a huge quilt of brown cotton wool. At last they reached a larger, pitch-black rectangle with an open doorway.

She imagined this must be the shrine of The Dark, the place where her brother’s adviser had apparently ‘seen’ Lae in a vision. Around her, the men of Laroque’s guard were deathly silent. She couldn’t ask Talis, so instead she asked the voice.
Where are we?

B
E
’
UCCDHA
S
HRINE
. H
EREIN LIES YOUR
C
HAMPION
’
S BETROTHED.

That was easy.
Is she all right?

There was no reply from the voice, but instead of letting herself become frustrated, Khatrene thought about Mihale, picturing him in her mind, calming herself as she visualised their happy reunion. It was a distraction technique she’d devised to keep herself sane and to thwart the voice which obviously got a kick out of irritating her.

Talis touched her arm and she opened her eyes, nodding when he gestured for her to follow him. They entered the shrine, and a set of deep stairs descended in front of them. The bronze light cast by Talis’s flickering torch led them down to a passageway where they secreted her in a small anteroom the size of her old bathroom. Talis was sure battle threatened and to keep her with them under such circumstances was apparently out of the question. A single guard was posted inside the door and the rest of the party moved on to find Lae, taking their torches with them.

Except for the voice and her still and silent guard, Khatrene was alone in darkness so deep she had to sit down for fear of losing her balance and falling over.

Worse, she was cold. Not winter cold, worrying about pneumonia. Just uncomfortable cold. Her boots had stopped squelching but her socks were still sodden and the constant drip from the end of her plait down her spine was driving her crazy.

T
HE TEMPERATURE IS INCONSEQUENTIAL
. Y
OU MERELY DISTRACT YOURSELF FROM THOUGHTS OF A HUSBAND.

She shivered again. Bloody voice. She’d been trying to forget what Laroque had said. Pass it off as a misunderstanding. Except that Talis had become very quiet afterwards. As though he’d known it would upset her. As though it were true.

She resisted for all of one minute, then asked,
Does Michael
—

M
IHALE.

Right. Mihale. Does Mihale think he can choose a husband for me?

T
HE HUSBAND IS CHOSEN.

Khatrene blinked in the darkness, couldn’t begin to believe it.
You know this for sure?
she asked, hoping for once that he wouldn’t reply.

I
T IS THE
K
ING
’
S DUTY TO ENSURE YOUR DESTINY IS FULFILLED.

Well to hell with that
, she said instinctively, but something in the voice’s tone reminded her that Mihale wouldn’t be the same person she’d lost ten years ago. She wondered then if she’d be able to recognise her brother inside this King of theirs. It was hard to imagine the Michael she’d known, the dreamer with the ready smile and the trademark shrug, being burdened with the responsibilities of an entire kingdom.

D
ID YOU NOT CARRY THE SOLE BURDEN OF YOUR MOTHER
’
S CARE AT JUST THIS AGE?

I guess I did.
Khatrene found herself drifting through memories of her mother’s debilitating disease and the crushing weight of responsibility she’d accepted — unquestioningly accepted. Saturday nights spent listening to her mother’s breaths, hoping they wouldn’t stop, knowing her friends were out dancing, kissing, living. If there had been a boy she’d been interested in it would have been worse, but thankfully she’d been spared the drama of unfulfilled longings. Instead she’d buried her grief at her brother’s loss and grown tough to survive the rigours of being a full-time carer at an age when her friends had been only interested in fun.

Yet at the same time as she’d been struggling with money and dealing with her mother’s growing helplessness, her brother had been here in Ennae, learning to be a king. Two years for him, she realised, had been ten long, heartbreaking years for her. She couldn’t begin to guess which of them had suffered more.

P
AIN BRINGS STRENGTH.

Khatrene pulled up her legs and pressed her face against her knees, feeling the drag of her plait across the back of her neck.

Right. Nothing like a cliché to make you feel better.

She sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about the husband thing just yet. According to Talis they were at least five days from the Volcastle. Assuming of course that they found Lae here — alive she hoped, for Talis’s sake.

Khatrene’s toes wriggled impatiently in her soggy boots. She wondered how long Talis would be. It wasn’t that she was nervous in the absolute blackness of the shrine, and there were no bugs or animals to be frightened of. But time was dragging and —