Shadow War (43 page)

Caelan found
himself wishing for an army to command. If only he could wing his thoughts to
the imperial troops camped and deployed elsewhere in the empire. If only he
could bend the mysterious forces of time and distance to his will, and bring
them here—instantly.

He would have
given his soul right then to be able to turn the tables on these brutes and
crush them. But the main army was far away, and only the Imperial Guard was
stationed here. Now that esteemed fighting force lay massacred.

Stupid, Caelan
thought, the word beating in his temples like his pulse. Stupid. Stupid.

But he was not the
Lord Commander of the armies. He was not the one responsible for the deployment
of troops.

He was not the one
who had declined to bring extra protection back to the capital city.

In the distance
the screaming of men and women told Caelan of more horrors. He resisted the
urge to look back, but the empress stopped and stared over her shoulder.

“The servants,”
she whispered in anguish. “The courtiers. My ladies—”

“Don’t,” he told
her, tugging at her hand. “Hurry.”

It was a long way
around the perimeter of the walls. The farther they went, the more exposed and
vulnerable Caelan felt. The edges of his consciousness sensed dangers lurking
in the darkness around him, dangers not of this world, dangers he could not
fight with sword and strength. Dry-mouthed, Caelan tried to shut off his own
imagination. But for the first time in years, he longed for warding keys. The
darkness cloaked him and the empress, but it was no friend.

Praying under his
breath, he kept moving, refusing to let fear stop him.

At last, the
grouping of temples loomed ahead, silent and unlit, ignored by the combat at
the other end of the compound. To reach the Temple of Gault, Caelan would have
to run across the open. He hesitated, caught between the steady trickle of time
and the intense need for caution.

Beside him,
Elandra sank to her knees, sobbing for air. Yet her grip never slackened on
his. “The Penestrican temple is closest,” she whispered.

“Are there
underground chambers, for the secret rites?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He considered it,
a trifle uneasy about invading the sanctum of the women priestesses. He knew
nothing about the Penestricans, save that they were barely tolerated
officially. The cults surrounding the earth mother were very primitive and old.
He shivered a little, but hesitated no longer.

“We’ll go there,”
he said.

Looking in all
directions, his heart in his mouth, he led her out from cover and ran across
the open distance. Overhead, the clouds parted to release a finger of moonlight
along the steps. Caelan loped up them, two at a time, the empress’s feet
pattering swiftly beside his.

They reached the
top, darting past the columns, and he lunged across the vestibule for the inky
shadows behind the altar. Slinging the empress around it, he crouched beside
her and pressed his sweating face against the gritty stone side of the altar.
His breath came in loud, hoarse gusts. The empress had doubled over, pressing
her face against her skirts, but still he could hear her muffled sobbing and
panting.

He listened hard,
every sense straining, but heard no sound of discovery or pursuit.

They had made it.

His taut shoulders
sagged in relief, and he rolled his head back against the stone. Time to take
stock. How long could they reasonably expect to hide?

There was a chance
they might elude discovery altogether, especially if there were numerous hiding
places below the temple, and depending on the degree of Madrun superstition and
caution.

But what good was
hiding? And how long could they last without food and water? Caelan knew he
could hold out for several days. The empress was another matter. If they
starved beneath the ground, what was accomplished except they did not die by
Madrun hands?

Again, he drove
such defeatist thoughts away. His goal was to keep this woman alive and well.
Thus far, he had done that. If the gods were kind, he would find a way to get
her out of here. Every moment of survival he carved out gave them a better
chance.

Regaining his
breath, he touched her arm gently. “Come.”

She rose to her
feet, although she swayed in his hold. Worried about her, he let her lead the
way to the temple’s entry.

A stout door of
thick wood blocked the way. Though he put all his strength against it, it would
not budge. Refusing to let a mere lock stop him, Caelan traced the metal with
his fingertips, intending to pick it with the empress’s dagger.

But intense heat
seared into his fingertips.

Biting back a cry
of pain, Caelan jerked his hand away.

“What happened?”
Elandra asked. “What’s wrong?”

Grimly he reached
out again. Once more, his hand was repelled by a blast of heat.

He stepped back,
wary and respectful now, and nursed his aching fingers.

“What’s the
matter?” Elandra asked insistently.

“It is
spell-locked,” he replied, flexing his hand. Although his fingers still hurt,
there was no actual burn. “We cannot enter.”

She drew in her
breath audibly. “Even here, so close to the palace, the sisters fear
desecration of the sacred places. By order of the emperor they are not
permitted to keep this temple open, and so when they leave they lock it tight.
It is a pity—”

“Pity for us,” he
said angrily. “We are denied refuge.”

“Then we’ll go to
Gault,” she retorted. “The Vindicants are always here. Surely it is open,
unless the priests are cowards and have locked themselves inside.”

He thought of the
Vindicants, thought of Lord Sien, who was one of the traitors. “I do not think
they will give us the help we want.”

“Where, then, will
we go?” she demanded. “To the treasuries? They will be looted. The priests are
our last hope.”

“Sien cannot be
trusted.”

“No one can be
trusted,” she said. Turning from him, she started down the steps alone.

The moonlight shone
across her, and she hadn’t even noticed. Swearing to himself, Caelan ran after
her and shoved her to one side of the steps.

“Take care,” he
whispered furiously.

She stiffened
under his hand, but did not waste her breath arguing.

Together they
hurried to the imposing, larger temple, standing tall against the night sky.
Its auxiliary buildings, containing living quarters and instructional rooms,
stretched out behind it. Caelan considered circling around to the back and
entering that way, but Elandra still hastened a step or two in front of him.

Picking up her
skirts, she went up the wide marble steps with confidence. Caelan followed,
watching for trouble, knowing they could be walking into a trap yet having no
alternative to offer.

At the top, he
moved ahead of her, keeping his arm outstretched to hold her back, and went
first to the door.

Its lock was
normal. No spell protected it. Caelan fitted the dagger’s tip into the keyhole.
A stiletto would have served his purpose better, but he had no such weapon.

Crouching there in
the darkness, working by feel, the sweat of urgency running down his temples,
Caelan felt the hand of the empress close upon his upper arm.

It was a silent
warning. He reacted without looking, whipping his sword off his knees and
coming up and around in one swift movement of defense.

The moonlight
shone full upon the steps now, lighting their pale marble surface in silvery
radiance. Skimming upward over the steps came the shadows of men, only no men
walked the ground to cast them.

Caelan’s blood
congealed in his veins. Staring in astonishment and rising dread, he
straightened fully upright, and for a moment his grip slackened on his sword.
Although the empress had described these shadows to him previously, nothing she
had said truly prepared him for the horror of seeing them coming so fast and
silently.

He took one
cautious step back, retreating deeper into the dark, and brought up his sword.

The empress did
not retreat, however. Fumbling at the bodice of her gown, she drew out
something secured on a cord about her neck. “Hurry and break the lock,” she
said softly. “I’ll try to hold them off.”

He stared at her,
wondering what kind of talisman she held. “Do you have a warding key?”

“What is that?”
she asked, then gestured at him. “Hurry! You cannot fight them with swords. I
told you. Get the door open as soon as you can.”

But Caelan knew
that doors would not protect them from the unbound shadows of men. Even if they
got inside, these creatures would follow. He shivered involuntarily and braced
himself for the fight to come.

A faint golden
glow appeared on Elandra’s palm. He looked and saw that she was holding a
large, square-cut jewel, and it was emitting the light. Astonishment spread
through Caelan. He had not realized she possessed powers of her own.

Above the light
spreading out from her hands, Elandra’s face looked set and purposeful. She
raised her hands to cast the light from the jewel a little farther, and the
racing shadows stopped and curled back from the light as though burned.

Inside his amulet
pouch, Caelan’s fused emeralds grew warm against his chest. They had warned and
protected him before. Now he marveled to see that the empress carried something
similar. Even better, she knew how to utilize the powers within hers. Although
he was long familiar with the magical ability of his emeralds to conceal their
true shape and worth from the eyes of other men, Caelan had never dreamed his
emeralds contained a force such as this. He had kept them all these years as a
token of hope, as a reminder of his little sister. But perhaps they had other
uses.

The shadows raced
around behind him, and Elandra turned quickly in a small circle, casting the
golden glow over both Caelan and herself. She was using her jewel exactly like
a warding key. Its light kept the shadows back, although Caelan could feel
danger pulsing at him. The shadows were vicious, angry, and intent on their
prey. He could almost sense thought in them, a simple, hammering thrust of
purpose—kill, kill, kill.

The heat cast by
his emeralds intensified to an almost unbearable degree beneath his
breastplate. Tempted to draw them forth and join their power to that of Elandra’s
jewel, Caelan tugged at the cord around his throat; then the corner of his eye
caught movement to one side.

He plunged deep
into
severance,
and pivoted sideways quicker than thought.

The thrown dagger
came hurtling through the air, plunging through the spot where he’d been
standing only a split second before. It thunked into the wooden panels of the
door and quivered there.

“What—” Elandra
cried.

In her
startlement, she let her hands drop. The circle of light dipped low, and in
that instant one of the shadows leaped at her.

She fell back,
screaming.

Caelan’s arm went
around her, and he dragged her close even as she kicked and screamed against
the onslaught of the shadow. The thing seemed wrapped around her throat. Caelan
could hear her choking.

He shifted to
sevaisin
and found nothing to join with. The shadow had no substance, no
existence of its own. Caelan caught only a faint effusion of someone else ... a
man familiar, yet no one he could recognize. It was like looking at a
reflection in a pool of water, hazy and indistinct. In frustration, Caelan
sought to join with the source of the shadow.

And found himself
suddenly sucked into a tide pool of surging emotions, hatreds, vile passions,
and perversions. Overwhelmed by the fury of them, Caelan temporarily lost
himself. He was being sucked in ... he was becoming ... he was one with ...

“No!”
he
shouted, and
severed.

The shadow
screamed in his mind, a mortal cry that went through him like a knife plunge.
Freed of that which had controlled it and had tried to control him, Caelan came
to himself with an abrupt jolt.

He found himself
on his knees at the top of the temple steps. The moonlight bathed him in
silvery radiance and coated his sword where he had dropped it. The empress lay
on the stones, unconscious or dead, he did not know.

Frantically Caelan
pressed his fingers against Elandra's throat and found a pulse. He sagged with
relief and gathered her still body in his arms, drawing her back into the
concealment of the darkness.

Across the parade
ground, a group of Madruns were coming now, having been alerted by the screams
and the flash of light. Bearing torches, they ran with their uncanny speed, and
more joined them. It would be scant minutes before they arrived to finish what
the shadows had begun.

Laying Elandra
down next to the door, Caelan retrieved his sword, then remembered the
half-seen assailant who had thrown the dagger at him.

Breathing out
short and hard, Caelan closed his fist around the hilt of the dagger and
plucked it from the wood. Using
sevaisin
he joined with the weapon,
learning who owned it and who had thrown it.

Agel.

The answer made him
ill, but he snapped from the joining and gazed around swiftly without sparing
time for his emotions. His nostrils flared, drawing in scents, sifting them. He
spared one more glance at the approaching Madruns, then hurried off to the
right, in the direction from which the dagger had been thrown.

At the front
corner of the temple vestibule, he found a narrow flight of steps heading down
the side of the temple. At the foot of them crouched a man in pale robes,
struggling with a broken shoe lacing.

Agel.

Caelan’s heart
felt like stone in his chest. Gripping his sword, he went hurtling down the
steps.