Shadow's End (Light & Shadow) (25 page)

Chapter 27

When I awoke, it was daylight, and the camp had descended into chaos. As I slept, I had been moved; now, I lay on the Duke’s cot, in his tent, surrounded by the full-throated roar of a victorious army. I pushed myself up, panicked, and then saw that Temar’s body had been brought here as well. A workbench had been brought in, and his body laid out. The blood had been washed from his face and his hands, and his hair combed and re-braided. With a new tunic, to cover his wounds, he might only have been sleeping peacefully.

I walked to his side and knelt on the ground, looking at his face. The other memories, fresh in my mind, were trying to surface, and I thought that if I could only think of Temar and his death in my arms, I could feel a clean grief, a pure grief. His death had been honorable; at the last, it had been peaceful. If I could only weep for that—

Then I would not have to remember Roine.

Alone in the tent, the sound of my tears sheltered by the raucous celebrations outside, I broke down at last.  There was no need, now, to push away the sobs, to save my strength, and I gave way entirely. I curled over and pressed my forehead onto the cool earth, wrapping my arms around myself, squeezing my eyes shut; the sobs came anyway, wracking my whole body. My throat was raw. I ached with it, pressing my hand flat over my heart as if to stop a wound, and I rocked back and forth, lost to the world in my grief, wanting only to scream my anger out—and that scream was lost in tears, drowned out by the shouts of the men.

I was curled on my side when I came back to myself. My arms were still wrapped around my sides, my knees up to my chest. My breathing was deep and slow, my body drained of its rage and its anger. For a time, I only lay and felt the steady rise and fall of my ribs, only stared ahead at the canvas wall of the tent, feeling the discomfort of bones against the ground, the pain seeming very far away.

There was nothing to do but get up. Some long-lost vestige of instinct, perhaps, the same plain pragmatism that forced soldiers through the pain of lost limbs; the very earth itself might seem changed, everything immaterial, but there was nowhere to go other than onward. I was still breathing, my heart was still beating, and my body had a will of its own.

I got up and dusted myself off—clean clothes, minutiae, the right thing to do, and, because I could not think of where to go or what else to do, I went to the desk and pulled out the chair, and I sat in the darkness and waited. I knew that I could not go out into the camp; the canvas walls and the solitude of the tent were my only shield against the world. I could not face the jubilation of the army.

It might have been morning, when Miriel came to find me, or midday, or afternoon. I had lost track of time, it did not mean much to me. I knew that I was hungry, but I could not leave Temar’s body. I could not even be bothered to search the trunks and packs in the tent for food. I was sitting quietly, staring at Temar’s still face, when the canvas rustled and Miriel made her way into the tent. She stopped when she saw me, and I saw her eyes take in my red-rimmed eyes, the tangle of my hair, my white face.

“You’re awake,” she said quietly. Behind her, Wilhelm stooped and made his way into the tent. He nodded, as courteously as ever, to see me. He was trying to be grave, I knew, and he was exhausted in the wake of the past days—but nothing could have dulled his joy. The years were stripped away and he was a young man once more, confident and happy. I thought it over in the strange stillness of my mind, and decided that I could not blame him. His happiness was rational. I nodded back at him.

“They surrendered,” Miriel said quietly. “As you had said they would. With Kasimir gone, none had the heart to go to battle; Pavle confessed that Dusan had tried to recall them.” She came to stand beside me, leaning down to look into my face. “They’re going home now. They laid down their weapons and they’ll be given free passage to the border.”

“We kept Pavle here,” Wilhelm interjected. “All the commanders. We could not just let them go after—“ He broke off when Miriel shot him a look.

“The war is over,” she said to me, her smile encouraging. “Because of you, Catwin.”

“Because of Temar,” I corrected her. There was a noise at the door, a crisp command to halt. “Wait here,” Miriel said urgently, and she darted out the door, motioning the Wilhelm to stay where he was. I could hear her low-voiced conversation with the guards, and the sound of a voice I knew well, but in my haze, could not place.

A moment later, she stepped back into the gloom, and to my surprise, I saw Jeram duck into the tent. He raised his eyebrows to see me, and a body beside me, and then he looked over to Wilhelm. I saw him frown as he saw the blond hair, the rich clothing, the cloak pins with the crests of Warden and Conradine.

“Are you the Warlord?” he asked bluntly. Wilhelm smiled.

“After today, I think not,” he said. “But I am the King, yes.” He inclined his head, and his smile did not flicker when Jeram only nodded in return, unwilling to bend the knee.

“And you signed the treaty?” Jeram’s skeptical look took in Wilhelm, Miriel, and even me, sitting beyond their small circle.

“I did.” Wilhelm drew out the leather case and beckoned Jeram over to the table, spreading out the scroll to show his seal. “As I told the Lady, a proclamation will be sent tomorrow—before, Gods willing, my Council knows of this.” I saw irritation in his eyes, the look I had seen so often as Garad spoke of the Council.

“And why tell me?” Jeram asked Miriel, pointedly. “Should you not have told…
Jacces?” Wilhelm looked up and around, his gaze fixing on Miriel’s face.

“You know who Jacces is?” he demanded. “Why did you not tell me?”

“It was not important anymore,” Miriel said to him, gently. To Jeram, she said, “Jacces is dead.”

“What?” The conversation had flowed around me like the babble of a stream, but at that last sentence, I felt my curiosity begin to return. “How do you know? How did he die?” Miriel looked down at once, but I had seen the pity in her eyes.

“I think it was Roine. He was found dead this morning—stabbed.” 
All of us
, Roine had said.
Through our deaths, the rebellion will be born.

“The High Priest?” Wilhelm demanded, incredulous. “He was Jacces?”

“Yes,” Miriel admitted. “He had planned this for decades—he tried to sway Isra, and Garad, and when he could not, he chose you for his King.” She spoke plainly, and her gaze did not waver when Wilhelm dropped his head into his hands. I could see her fighting the urge to go to him; her fists were clenched. But she would not spare him the truth.

“What are you talking about?” Jeram asked, finally. He had been looking back and forth between the two of them, his eyes narrowed. Wilhelm raised his head, his eyes dull.

“The High Priest had my cousin murdered to make way for me, because he knew that I would support the rebellion.” He cast a bitter look down at the scroll on the table. “And see, it worked.”

“Not how he had planned it.” It was little consolation, and Miriel knew it, but at her words, the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
I had known all of it: the High Priest, Roine. But none of it had made sense until this moment.

“Me,” I said, and all three of them turned to look at me. My gaze locked with Miriel’s. “When the soldiers were looking for us after the murder, they were looking for
me
. The food sent to our rooms that night was for
me
, in case we escaped the soldiers. When Aron came for us, that’s what he meant—he wasn’t trying to kill you at all.”

“But that was Roine,” Miriel said, shaking her head.

“I told you, he said there was a key—it did not hinge on people or Kings, but that there was one key. He meant me. You were right.” I could feel a sob building, the urge to laugh despairingly—or scream, I did not know which. “The balance that would tip, and the ending, you said it was the rebellion. They thought so, too. Roine was the one who convinced him of it.” Miriel looked at me, her lips parted, her eyes wide. Behind her, the men exchanged a quick glance, Wilhelm frowning, Jeram staring at us as if we had gone mad. And then Miriel said the worst thing of all:

“She was right.”

“What?” Roine had not been right, none of it had been right. I was not dead, but the treaty to cement the rebellion lay on the table only a few feet from me, signed. She had been wrong, the betrayals had been meaningless—and that made it all the worse. It had all been for nothing, and still, the pain of that fact was as nothing to the possibility that she might have been correct. I fought the urge to lash out, reach for something and throw it.

“What happened the first time someone came against us?” Miriel asked. “That was when I found the rebellion. And the second time, that was when we became allies, you and I. Every time they tried to kill us…” I swallowed, closing my eyes. It did not help; the pattern was burning in my vision. Each betrayal had brought us closer, propelled us further towards the rebellion.

“But she didn’t succeed,” I said softly, and Miriel shook her head.

“It was like Jacces’ plans. She succeeded—she just never knew it. She did not know what the prophecy meant, but she was right to trust it.”

“She
wasn’t
!” My voice broke on the shout. “It didn’t need to happen this way!”

“But it did happen this way,” Miriel said. I shrank away, but I could not block out her voice.

“And they have paid for their treachery,” Wilhelm said. His voice was gentle; he meant to calm me, but the grief rose up so strongly that I thought I would choke. They had not paid, either of them—Jacces would not have regretted anything, I knew that well enough, and when Roine had died, it had not been guilt that I saw in her eyes, but fear. She thought that she had failed. Her only regret was that she had not killed me.

“Get out,” I said, my voice ugly.

“Catwin—“ Miriel came to me, but I put out my hand to stop her from touching me.

“Go. All of you.” They left, Jeram rolling the scroll gently, handling the leather case as carefully as he would hold a baby. I saw Miriel cast a look over her shoulder as she left, but I turned my face away; I could not meet her eyes. When they were gone, I grabbed the ink pot from the desk and hurled it at the wall of the tent. A small chest of books went the same way, and the tent lurched, but the shadows at the door stayed constant. Wilhelm must have asked his guards to stay.

I dashed the hanging lamp down onto the ground, watching the flames spread across the Duke’s carpet for a long moment before finally beating them away, smothering them in a blanket, burning my hands and coughing at the fumes, heedless of the tears that ran down my face. When the fire, at last, was out, I slumped to the floor by Temar’s body, stifling my gasps into my shirt. After a few moments, I crawled to the edge of the tent and pulled up the edge of the canvas, leaning down to breathe the pure air, clenching my teeth against the stinging on my hands.

I sat there for a long time, my arms around my knees, and gradually the sunlight faded. The camp began to grow quiet as the men streamed into the city. I could hear music carrying faintly on the wind, and when at last I heard nothing outside the tent, I got up and pushed aside the door flap.

The camp was deserted, and the fire had burned low. I looked around myself in the moonlight, and at last turned back to the Royal Guards, who were watching me silently. They nodded their heads to me; if the King had said to guard me, their manner implied, then surely he knew best.

“I need to build a pyre,” I told them. “Guard the tent.” They nodded and I set off, taking brush and makeshift weapons racks, piling them over the fire
pit at the center of the Voltur camp. At long last, I beckoned the guards inside the tent with me, and between us, we carried Temar’s body out and laid it, carefully, on the pyre.

I stood and watched as smoke began to curl from the edges, as the crackle grew and flames began to lick at the wood, the light flickering faintly, and finally, as the pile itself was consumed. The flames leapt skyward and the heat from the fire made me wince, but I kept my gaze fixed on Temar until the last, as the blaze began to die. I stood and cried, my only companions the two silent guards, and I felt the anger begin to bleed away.

I was alive—that had been Temar’s gift. I was alive, and there was no prophecy left to govern the rest of my days. For the first time in six long years, I could face the next day without fear of betrayal, without distrust. It was over; I was free.

Chapter 28

Barely a week later, when the business of the surrender had been concluded, and Pavle had put his name to the treaty, the trial of Isra Dulgurokov and her brother began. The two had been arrested as the festivities reached their peak, when the news of the King’s startling proclamation had been running rampant throughout the city. The nobles had been so preoccupied that few had known of the charges until Wilhelm called his Council away from their roistering in order to sit as a jury for the two. They were charged, the crier read, with high treason: the attempted seizure of the throne, and murder of the DeVere heirs.

The trial, conducted near in secret in the recesses of the Fortress, was nonetheless a shock to a court drunk on celebration, all the more so as it became clear that Isra and her brother were guilty—guiltier even than Miriel and I had known. Afraid of her uncle’s growing madness, we had believed without question that the plan to turn the troops on each other was his, and his alone. But a young soldier gave testimony that the Dulgurokov men had been ordered to break the planned charge, falling back behind the DeVere men and cutting them down from behind as they led their troops against the Ismiri, and a maid of Isra’s was called to give evidence that she had found a dozen little vials of poison in her mistress’s jewel case.

In fear for her life, Isra turned on her nephew, snarling that it had been he who killed her son. She accused Gerald Conradine, before all the Court, of disguising his men as the Royal Guard, and she accused Guy de la Marque of aiding the murder, having been assured that his daughter would be Queen when Wilhelm came to the throne. As Isra raged, her eyes red with tears, I began to wonder if she did not believe what she said—if this had not been revenge for Garad’s death. She rejected, absolutely, the dying confession of the High Priest’s head servant, a man who had killed himself in the Great Cathedral when he heard of Jacces’ death. Lies, Isra proclaimed. Wilhelm’s story was lies, his rise to the throne had been treason—and she would gladly admit to plotting against the man who had murdered her son.

Wilhelm sat quietly, his hands clenched on the arms of his throne as he listened to the accusations against him. Marie sat beside him, a circlet of gold over her veil, the crest of House Warden embroidered on her gown. When Isra spat that Wilhelm’s
sons, too, must die, Marie went white, her hand pressed over her stomach as if to shield her child from the malice of the words, and her blue eyes went cold and hard. Any pity she might have felt this woman, whom she had once expected to be her mother-in-law, was lost in Isra’s uncompromising hatred.

Arman listened to the charges laid against him with his head bowed. He offered no defense but a whispered plea that he was innocent. He had no hope of reprieve, and his grim face said that he knew it well; but
still his head jerked up, his face incredulous, when Miriel was called to give evidence against him.

Miriel, veiled, dressed in stark black for the loss of her uncle, gave a final performance to put Isra’s to shame. To the horrified men of the Court, she admitted without a shred of remorse that it had been she who killed her uncle. Her voice low and mesmerizing, she spoke of overhearing his treacherous plans on the eve of the battle, and of giving him the vial of poison and swearing that she would expose him to the Court if he would not end his life himself. It was she who named Isra and Arman as his accomplices, her gaze not wavering from the peers; she did not see Isra’s fury, nor did she see as Arman dropped his head into his hands, accused by the very woman he had hoped to make Queen.

Isra had admitted her guilt openly, and there was no defense Arman could make—and with the men of the DeVere line sitting judgment, there was no hope for leniency for the two of them. The court ruled, to a man, for execution, and the King and Queen, sitting silently on their thrones, only nodded—had I not known Wilhelm for a populist sympathizer, had I not seen him sign the treaty, I would have thought him a Warlord of the old line. There was no pity in his eyes as he watched Isra walk to her cell.

When he turned back, his face was no less determined; in the rise of his chin,
I saw that he was dreading his next words. Before I could stop myself, I shot a quick glance over to Miriel. To my surprise, I saw the faintest hint of a smile, hastily wiped away as the courtiers followed his gaze and looked to her.

“Miriel DeVere,” he said clearly, “come forward.” As his side, Marie looked down, unwilling to face her rival. “You have averted the massacre of our troops and the murder of your King, your
Queen, and the heir of House Warden,” Wilhelm proclaimed. “For this, you are to be commended. But we cannot, and will not, condone the murder of the peers of our realm. You are to be stripped of your titles and banished, henceforth, from Court.” Marie looked up and around, her eyes wide with shock, and the murmurs rose of the peers began to rise. It was only when I saw Miriel look down to hide her smile that I understood.

“I accept your judgment,” she said, after a moment. “I wish your Grace a peaceful and prosperous rule.” She sank into a beautiful curtsy, and then removed the heavy signet ring of Voltur from her finger and held it out. As it was taken from her hands, it was if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders; she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and then nodded once more and left without another word, a faint smile on her lips.

“You could have warned me,” I muttered to her as we walked through the crowded corridors, Palace Guards clearing the way around us, servants and minor nobles pressing forward to look at Miriel, now a famed murderess.

“I didn’t know how it would be done,” Miriel said simply. “But he asked what thanks I would have for what I had done, and this was what I chose.”

“So you chose banishment? Nobles are crazy, I’ve always said so.”

“Oh, did you want to stay at Court?” Miriel laughed at the look on my face. “I thought not. You can thank me now.”

“Thank you,” I said grudgingly. “But where
are
we going to go?”

“I really don’t know,” Miriel admitted
, her face grave at the thought. “I suppose we could—“

Both of us stopped, confused, as we emerged into a side courtyard, and I saw the grooms waiting. A detachment of the Royal Guard was waiting for us, mounted, the Warden and Conradine pennants flying above their heads, their horses outfitted in the royal colors, but all the men in most somber black. Two horses stood riderless, and, secured to the pommel of one
was an urn carved of jet.

“An honor guard,” said Wilhelm’s voice, and the two of us turned to see him emerge from a hidden door, pushing aside a wall of ivy, guards trailing in his wake. “The Lady—“ he broke off. “
Miriel
told me that you had promised this man you would bring his ashes home. I hope you will accept that his body be escorted by my men. He has done us a great service, and we wish to honor him.”

I only nodded and bowed. My throat was tight, and I stepped up to the horses to run my fingers lightly over the urn.

“Are you sure about this?” I heard Wilhelm ask Miriel.

“You know there is no place for me here,” Miriel said to him, and I looked back to see he
r standing, determinedly, apart from him. She had wept over this in the past nights. She had left the celebratory banquets as soon as she could, not because she was in mourning, but because she could not bear to see another woman sitting at Wilhelm’s side. But there was no sign of it now, save the weariness in her face. She tried to smile. “Thank you for sending me away.” Wilhelm did not smile in return; his face fell.

“I wish I could
have you for an ally,” he said, his voice very low. “The Council is against me, to a man. I do not know how I can hold to this treaty without you.”

“
You will,” Miriel said, with quiet confidence. “I know you can. And you have thousands of allies. I am you ally, always. But there should be no court with two Queens. And so I will leave. I must.”

“Where will you go?” Wilhelm looked at her, and she looked at me.

“North,” I said shortly. Even Miriel did not know yet where we were going; I would not tell the King, and half the Royal Guard besides. At the pleading look on Wilhelm’s face, however, I felt my heart ache for him. As much as I might disapprove of this prolonged goodbye, I had to admit that it was one thing for Miriel to leave her love and go into the wilderness, and quite another for Wilhelm to return to his wife, a furious council, and a resentful court. “I’ll keep her safe,” I promised him, and he nodded.

“I bid you farewell, then.” He watched as we were thrown up into our saddles, and raised his hand in farewell. As we trotted out of the courtyard, Miriel and I both turned back. Wilhelm still stood alone, his hand raised, a small figure against the bulk of the Fortress. Miriel took one last look at him, her own hand raised, tears in her eyes, and then she turned and spurred her horse to a canter.

I looked around myself as we made our way through the winding streets of Penekket, soaking in the sight of the philosophers on the steps of the academies, the brightly-colored tents of the vendors. Children dashed underfoot, and men and woman cried out their wares, holding up ripe fruit and fresh bread to try to tempt us. Groups of priestesses made their way through the streets, offering prayers. Everyone looked up to see the Royal Guard go past, marking the fluttering pennants and Miriel, dressed in black and looking ahead, unseeing, biting her lip to keep the tears back. Few enough thought to look at me, with my ragged, honey-colored hair and my own somber black suit, and not one paid attention to where my hand cupped, protectively, over the jet urn.

I thought about it, and decided that Temar would like that: to move through these streets, even at the last, as a Shadow. He would not want to be celebrated for what he had done, and I thought I could understand that, a little—I would never wish to have ballads sung ab
out the Duke’s murder, either. But beyond that, even, Temar was not of this land. He had confessed his origins to me in his last moments. He would not want to be a legend here, in Heddred. So I held my hand over the urn, protectively, as we rode through the city, and only took it away as we emerged onto the broad highway, an avenue of white stone stretching northwards to the sea.

We rode until sundown, cantering through the heavy summer air, and we did not speak amongst ourselves. The men cast sidelong glances at the two of us, and I wondered how many of them had watched us through the years, seeing Miriel when she was only a girl, wide-eyed and clever, catching Garad’s heart.
Then, I realized, I had half hated her—I had been sullen in her service, a country girl who despised the palace. Now, only a few years later, we were a puzzle indeed: two young women who had left the court, twice, of our own volition, without husbands or families or fortune.

They did not know what to make of us now, and I thought, when I looked over at
Miriel, that we did not even know what to make of each other. Who could say what life held in store for Miriel? She had the wit of an academic and the manner of a Queen; where could such a woman go? And what use could I be, a girl who was trained only for intrigue, if we were leaving the seat of power to wander, homeless, across the world?

I looked over at her, my ally, and saw that she rode with her head bowed. The pride that had propped her as we left the city
had now bled away, and she slumped, exhausted, in the saddle. She had been crying, I could see, and I remembered that Miriel had left behind not only those who hated her, but a man she had loved for years, who she had sworn never to see again. Instead of being a Councilor, setting her talents to use in implementing the philosophies she held so dear, she was instead riding away, north, to an uncertain future.

I had expected to share her fear
, leaving the city behind, but instead I felt, unmistakable, a rush of joy in my veins. We were free. Our lives were not to be determined by another’s schemes, by the whims of a court that was mad for scandal and intrigue. We could live as we wished, watching the changes of Miriel’s devising, knowing that we were not bound to any one place, any one goal. I swallowed down a laugh of pure joy, and clenched my hands tightly around the reins, promising myself that I would rejoice—but only when Miriel shared in my happiness.

When
we made camp that night, I did my tasks as quickly as I could and then went to seek out Miriel. She had wandered away from the bustle, and for the first time in my life, I had let her go without a backwards glance, unafraid that there would be an assassin lurking in the shadows. I found her sitting, alone, at the edge of the camp, holding a folded scrap of paper. She was gazing up at the sky, where the stars were beginning to glimmer. I walked towards her, trying to think of something to say that would make her smile, but as I joined her, she looked over at me sadly.

“I’m afraid,” she said bluntly
, but I knew that she embraced her fear; it was easier to bear than her grief. “Where do we go, after…?”

“We’ll find a place,” I assured her, and she looked down at her hands.

“I’ve been praying for them,” she confessed. I knew without asking that she meant Arman Dulgurokov, and Isra. “I watched them go to their deaths and I thought they deserved it. I still do—I think. But I’ve been thinking, today…Isra truly thought that Wilhelm had killed Garad. I believe that. And Arman would have been kind to me. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”