Shadowcaster

  “Blood and bones!” he said, trying to twist away. “It don’t come off. I should know, I’ve had it all my life. It would’ve been sold off by now if it did.”

  “It might be some kind of flashcraft,” Shadow said, getting his own poke in. “What is this blue stone? Is this a sapphire? Aquamarine?”

  I wouldn’t know a sapphire from a hunk of glass, Breon thought. “I don’t know. I’ve never even seen it.”

  “Is this platinum?” Shadow tapped the metal framing with his finger.

  “I don’t know,” Breon said. “If it was anything valuable, somebody would’ve slit my throat for it by now.”

  The trader closed his hand over it, as if trying to read it through his fingers. At least he didn’t try to rip it off. “What does it do?” he asked Breon.

  “Nothing, far as I know,” Breon said, though he’d always wondered if it had something to do with his vast personal charm and extraordinary talent.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of a permanent amulet?” Shadow sat back on his heels.

  “You think he’s a wizard?” The bluejacket backed off a little, then tried to pretend she hadn’t.

  “Damn right I am,” Breon said. “You’d better be nice to me or I’ll turn you both into carbuncles on a pig’s ass.”

  That earned Breon a punch in the nose. Shadow had to step in to prevent the bluejacket from going on with smashing his head into the oak bar.

  “Talbot!” Shadow grabbed the bluejacket’s arm. “I know that you’re angry about Lyss. Which is all the more reason we need him alive and well enough for questioning. He hasn’t been convicted of anything. Yet.” His expression said that it was just a matter of time.

  For a mixed-blood smuggler, Shadow seemed very tight with this bluejacket. In no time, they had his hands shackled together and his ankles, too.

  “I’ll send a bird to Fellsmarch and find out what Captain Byrne wants done with him,” Talbot the Tree growled. “Maybe they’ll send a wizard to check out his tattoo or brooch or whatever it is. In the meantime, we’ll keep him nice and cozy in the guardhouse.” Her glare said that it wouldn’t be all that cozy, and not nice, either, if she had anything to do with it.

  “I think it’s best if we keep this quiet until they come from the capital to claim him,” Shadow said. “Whoever hired him won’t want him talking to us. If they hear that we’ve got him, they’ll try to either kill him or spring him. Let’s take him over to the lockup now and get him out of sight. I have some business to handle tonight, but I’ll ask him a few questions tomorrow before I leave for the down realms.

  “His partner might come here looking for him,” Shadow added. “She’s Ardenine, brown hair, broken nose, about fifteen, sixteen years old, and her name is Aubrey.” He did that thing with his hands that people do to depict a curvy woman. “Tell your guards to be on the lookout for her. We’ll want to question her, too.”

  “What made you suspect him?” Talbot asked Shadow as she hauled Breon to his feet, nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket.

  “I was curious about his bag,” Shadow said. “He didn’t seem to want anybody else to touch it, and I wondered why he was so jumpy. So I took a look the first night.”

  So Rogan swiving Shadow Dancer’s known all along, Breon thought. And here I was sticking up for him. I hope Aubrey robbed him blind.

  Sorry, Aubrey, he thought. I won’t be meeting you at the Gray Goose anytime soon.

  27

  CLASH OF SWORDS

  In the days that followed the liberation of Delphi, Lyss kept having to remind herself that they were the ones who had won. Sometimes she felt like the victim of a cruel joke. She’d never realized that the end of any battle is just a prelude to more politics.

  Her mother had sent warm congratulations. She ordered that Delphi be welcomed as an ally, and ruled with a light hand. The plan was to put the territory under martial law until it could be transitioned to self-rule. Then, in a nasty move, she named Lyss to represent the queendom in the negotiations.

  I want you to own this, and not because I want you to get the blame if it goes wrong. I want you to know how it feels to make a decision and live with the consequences, good or bad.

  In other words, every victory has its price. When you win, you have to quit fighting, and rule.

  So here she was, sitting in meeting after dreary meeting, discussing coal production targets, road building, food distribution, and medical services. She might as well be at home. At least there, she knew where the broken stones were in the castle wall. At home, if someone stabbed her in the back, she at least might have a guess who it was.

  Dealing with the Delphians was like herding angry cats. As long as Arden held the city in its iron grip, that common enemy united the people. Now that the occupiers were gone, the realm seemed destined to descend into internecine squabbling. Old disputes rose up like festering boils on the civic skin. The population had a massive grudge against Arden, its blackbird guard, and its mudback army, with some left over for anyone perceived to have cooperated with them.

  The former mayor was found dead in an alley, his throat cut, his body wrapped in an Ardenine flag. The mine supervisor was found buried under several tons of coal. It got to the point that Delphian collaborators begged to be taken into custody for their own protection, but the city jails were already bulging. That required attention, too—sorting out who should stay and who should be released.

  To Lyss’s surprise, Julianna was a major help. She seemed to thrive on all the jobs that Lyss detested. She remembered every name, and she managed mind-numbing details with cool efficiency, pushing people until they discovered common ground. Her natural charm seemed to grease every wheel that squeaked.

  Lyss missed Sasha. Sparring with her might work off some tension. At least she’d listen to her complaints without trying to fix them. But first Sasha, and later, Finn had been dispatched on to Chalk Cliffs to join the garrison there in case Arden tried to bring reinforcements in by sea, as they had before. So these days Lyss had to wear herself out with long patrols, slogging through deep snow, and sparring matches with less challenging opponents.

  When I am queen, she thought, I’ll keep my friends close, and my enemies closer.

  She caught her breath. When I am queen? When had she started thinking of that as something she might actually look forward to?

  One clear, cold morning, Lyss and a triple of Gray Wolves rode up to the army headquarters. It was in a manor house north of town, now occupied by the Fellsian Highlanders. The survivors of the Ardenine army were being held up there, both because it offered the only guardhouse large enough to hold them, and to protect them from the angry population. General Dunedain’s staff and Julianna’s eyes and ears had been debriefing the Ardenine prisoners, gathering what intelligence they could about troop strength and weaponry. Lyss often sat in.

  Maybe I can’t ride into Arden and kill King Gerard, but I can find out as much about the enemy as possible, she thought. With the added bonus that it got her out of the city and its endless meetings.

  When they reached the stable yard, Lyss handed off her pony and strode toward the manor house. Before she reached it, she was distracted by the clatter of sword on sword and the shouts of onlookers. Following the noise, she came upon Halston Matelon and a Highlander, going at it with heavy wooden longswords. A mixed crowd of soldiers stood watching, the mudbacks cheering on their commander, and the Highlanders shouting encouragement to their own man.

  Despite the cold weather, they were both steaming in the cold air and breathing hard, so they’d been at it for a while. There was an intensity to the bout that said it was more than a casual match. Matelon’s raven-wing hair was plastered to his forehead and sweat ran down his face and under his uniform collar.

  Just then the Highlander turned, and Lyss saw his face. Blood and bones, she thought. It’s Bosley. Clearly, Matelon had found a way to get under the young officer’s admittedly thin skin.

  “That’s it,” Matelon
was saying, like a teacher to a pupil. “Don’t fix on what I’m doing now, think about what I’m going to do, and keep moving to counter. That way you—”

  “Shut the hell up! I’m here to school you, not the other way around. I don’t need some slime-bellied mudback to tell me how to use a sword.”

  What’s this all about, anyway? Why are these two sparring with each other? Lyss edged forward for a better view. When the Highlanders saw who it was, they hastily stepped aside to let her through.

  Bosley tried a quick jab inside Matelon’s reach. Matelon leapt backward and even Lyss could tell the tip was inches short, but Bosley crowed, “Hit!”

  The mudbacks exploded into shouts and catcalls, but Matelon just shrugged. “All right. If you say so.”

  Bosley thrust his chin forward. “Are you questioning my call?”

  If he’s not, I am, Lyss thought.

  “I would never insult a man by questioning his call,” Matelon said. He resumed his ready stance. “Shall we?”

  This time, Matelon’s sword was everywhere, cutting and thrusting, a blur of motion. He called out three hits in as many minutes in a flat, almost bored voice.

  The Ardenine was damned good. It made Lyss wonder if he’d been holding back before.

  “That wasn’t a hit,” Bosley said, after the third was called. “That was a miss.” A low rumble of disapproval rolled through the southerners.

  Matelon raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said, eyes narrowed, spots of temper blooming on his cheeks. “I stand corrected.”

  Lyss scowled in disgust. She wanted to root for her own man, but Bosley was making it difficult.

  The next time Bosley tried for a hit, Matelon countered with a fierce blow, and the Highlander’s sword went flying.

  Bosley retrieved his weapon and tried again, with the same result. “Bloody bones!” Bosley swore, when it happened a third time. “That’s not proper swordsmanship. Are you a mind reader or what?”

  Matelon picked up the fallen sword and handed it back to Bosley. “I’m no mind reader,” he said. “But you signal what you’re going to do before you do it, every single time.”

  “I do not!” Bosley said, sticking out his chin.

  Yes, you do, Lyss thought, embarrassed at Bosley’s bad showing and poor sportsmanship.

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” Matelon said. “You are correct. I can see inside your head, and likely so can all of your opponents. Perhaps you should talk the copperheads into making you a magical helmet.”

  The mudbacks doubled up laughing and the lieutenant’s face went purple with rage. Bosley charged forward, swinging the flat of his blade at Matelon’s head. The southerner sidestepped nimbly but stuck out his foot, and this time it was Bosley himself who went flying, skidding some distance through the snow on his face until he came up against the stable wall.

  Bosley rose onto his knees. “Pin his arms!” he growled, reaching for his sword.

  Lyss planted her boot on it. “Stand down, Lieutenant,” she said. “You’re done here.”

  Bosley looked up, his face contorted into a snarl that drained away in an almost comical fashion when he saw who was standing over him.

  “Captain! I didn’t realize that you were here.”

  “Obviously,” Lyss said.

  Bosley scrambled to his feet, leaving his practice blade in the snow, and got off a combined bow and salute. His lieutenant’s scarf was layered in slush and his face scraped and reddened by his face-first slide.

  “Does Captain Barnes know that you are sparring with Captain Matelon?”

  “He doesn’t specifically know it,” Bosley said.

  “Meaning he doesn’t know it at all?”

  “We—Matelon and I—we were just giving the troops a skills demonstration,” Bosley said, shooting a warning look at Matelon as if daring him to disagree. The Ardenine tightened his jaw and said nothing, but his body was as taut as a drawn bowstring.

  “Indeed you were, Bosley, but I don’t know what exactly it was you were trying to demonstrate,” Lyss said. “Were you aware that Captain Matelon is the son of an Ardenine thane and a prisoner of war? Had you considered the strategic cost to us if he were to be injured or killed?”

  Bosley stared at her for a long moment, as if considering and discarding several possible responses. Finally, he gathered his wits and said, “That’s why I held back, Your Highness, so as not to hurt him. Had I known that the captain was such a fragile bit of crockery, I would have found a sturdier opponent.”

  Too late, Lyss realized that she’d handed the lieutenant a weapon and an excuse. When she looked into Matelon’s gray-green eyes, she was reminded of the expression “if looks could kill.”

  Unable to undo the damage or conjure up a suitable reply, she said, “You are dismissed, Bosley.”

  He bowed again, with more grace this time, collected both swords, and strutted off like the cock of the walk, leaving Lyss, her guard, Captain Matelon, and a dozen gawking soldiers.

  “The rest of you as well. Go on.” She waved the audience away.

  Matelon bowed curtly. “By your leave, Captain,” and went to turn away.

  “I didn’t mean you, Matelon,” she said. When he turned back, his face stony, she added, “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “About?” He cocked his head.

  “I want to hear your side of the story.”

  Matelon dabbed at a cut on his chin that he had acquired along the way. “I have no ‘side.’ Lieutenant Bosley told you what happened. It would be inappropriate for me to comment.” It was like he chewed on each word before he spit it out.

  “I apologize for Bosley’s behavior,” Lyss said.

  Matelon shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously eager to be on his way. “Forgive me, ma’am, but if you think Bosley’s behavior was improper, you should be speaking to him and not to me.”

  With that, Lyss’s temper snapped. “Follow me, Captain, and that is an order.” Turning to her Wolves, she said, “Drag him if he doesn’t come on his own.” Lyss stalked toward the manor house without looking to see if he was behind her. Eventually, she heard his boots crunching through the snow, following after.

  28

  CLASH OF WORDS

  Hal, his heart sinking like a stone, followed after Captain Gray. He should have better managed his temper, but it wasn’t easy. Idleness drove him mad. He was not a happy captive.

  It didn’t make much sense for Gray to be leading the way, since Hal knew the garrison headquarters a lot better than she did—he’d lived there for nearly a year.

  If she’d just tell him where she wanted to go, he could get them there. But as it was, he followed after her like an obedient dog going to be put down.

  As they walked, Hal ran his eyes over the damage done to his former headquarters. He’d been so proud of the improvements he’d made since his arrival in Delphi. Now his palisade was a charred ruin, which demonstrated the power of wizard’s flame against walls of wood.

  The northerners were rebuilding with stone. There was plenty of that around.

  Stone next time, he thought. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t believe that there wouldn’t be a next time. He’d never been good at losing.

  Now he’d made things worse by drawing Gray’s attention again. She’d made it plain the day they’d met that she bore a giant grudge against Arden. He didn’t want her to be taking an interest in him. His duty as a prisoner of war was to protect his men and escape if he could.

  She’d saved his life—twice now. Why? His biggest worry was that she intended to use him in a way that would dishonor his family name. Would the northern witches fashion him into a weapon that could be wielded against his homeland? The thought made his skin crawl.

  I’ll kill myself before I betray my command, he told himself. The church frowned on suicide, but Hal had never been all that well churched, anyway. A church that burned people to save their souls would surely understand the difficult choice before him.
>
  After the brilliant, brittle cold of the grounds, the interior of the mansion seemed oppressive, the air too thick with heat and magic to breathe. Gray shed clothes as she walked—her gloves, hat, scarf, and, finally, her thick outer coat, draping it over her arm. Water dripped onto the stone floor as the frozen bits layering her coat melted.

  Underneath, she wore copperhead-style clothing—leather trousers that fit her long legs closely and a loose overshirt of embroidered wool. Hal liked the way she walked, with long strides so a man didn’t have to mince along in her wake.

  He’d thought maybe they would go to the great hall, where the northerners had established their military command. She did pause briefly and speak to the soldiers standing guard at the entrance, but then she walked on past, into a corridor that led toward the back of the house. Her usual small escort followed along behind. Hal glanced back at them, feeling more comforted than dismayed by their presence.

  That’s when Hal realized that they were heading for the library, where he’d spent a lot of time during his residence here. He’d done considerable reading, trying to learn more about mining and iron-making so he wouldn’t have to rely on the corrupt officials in charge of production to make good decisions.

  Even if the job you’re assigned is not to your liking, a Matelon will see it done. His father had drilled that into him from a young age.

  The library was deserted; the only light was what leaked in around the heavy shutters. Gray walked around the room, throwing the shutters open to spill in light and fresh air.

  Hal stood ramrod straight in the middle of the room, fists clenched. Why did you bring me here? he thought. Though he’d had a taste of ruthless politics at the Ardenine court, he was, like his father, a soldier at heart.

  When the captain had the room lit to her liking, she waved her guard to the other side of the room and gestured to a pair of chairs under the window.