Shadowcaster

  Lyss came instantly alert.

  “From what we’re hearing, Montaigne is at odds with the Thane Council over the war,” Julianna said. “He sold them a quick win, with spoils for everyone who agreed to supply men and money. Some are questioning whether our rocky bit of ground is worth what they’ve spent in men and treasure.”

  “Do you think it will amount to anything?” Bayar asked.

  Julianna shrugged. “Hard to say. King Gerard has a history of ruthlessly quenching any spark of rebellion. Ask his six dead brothers.”

  The queen smiled sourly. “Anything else?”

  “They seem to have tightened their grip on Delphi,” Julianna said. “Recently the blackbirds have restricted travel into and out of the city. It’s made it more difficult to stay in touch with our eyes and ears there. Arden must be expecting some kind of trouble.”

  “Let’s hope they are right, Lady Barrett. Lord Bayar? Your assessment of our magical resources? Is there a shortage of flashcraft as well?”

  Bayar shook his head. “Not really, Your Majesty. So many of the gifted have been killed that we have more than enough amulets to go around.”

  He looks tired, Lyss thought, feeling an unexpected flicker of sympathy. And discouraged.

  “They seem to be growing more and more sophisticated in their use of magic,” Bayar went on, “which means that we are losing some of our advantage in that arena.”

  “Thank you, everyone, for your insights,” the queen said, scribbling a few notes and putting down her pen.

  Here it comes, Lyss thought.

  “In summary, the war goes on, but we’ve done well against superior numbers and vastly greater resources. I think we can be proud of our Highlanders, our clan warriors, our young navy, and all of the citizens who have sacrificed so much to keep us all free.”

  She raised her glass, and the others followed suit, murmuring, “Hear, hear!”

  That was always the postmortem—we’ve done well, considering. Against all odds, we’ve survived one more year. Raise a glass to that.

  “Does this feel like freedom?” Lyss said, pushing to her feet. “Or a life sentence?”

  There followed an awkward silence.

  “In regard to . . . ?” Captain Byrne said.

  “In regard to all the things that make life worthwhile,” Lyss said. “Can upland traders travel throughout the realms the way they used to do?” she said, looking at Trailblazer. “Can metalsmiths create the amulets and jewelry that made them famous throughout the Seven Realms, or do they spend all their time producing weapons? Can children roam the forests freely, the way our parents did? Can we sail from our ports without risking being taken by the enemy? Do our wizards sleep well at night, knowing that they might be collared and enslaved? Can the blooded queen of the realm walk through the streets of the capital without looking over her shoulder?”

  “I don’t know why not,” Lord Howard said, a little huffily. “There hasn’t been an attack on the royal family for nearly four years.”

  “But people keep on dying, don’t they?” Lyss said. “People we can’t afford to lose. Do you think we’re safe, Captain Byrne?”

  Lyss felt bad, putting him on the spot, but Byrne didn’t flinch. “I don’t know, Your Highness,” he said, “but I’ll do everything in my power to make it so.”

  “I know you will,” Lyss said. “But, as we’ve seen, sometimes that isn’t enough. We all agree that we’re doing better than anyone expected. But how many of you think that we are winning?” She looked down the table. No one raised a hand.

  “Maybe we’re not winning,” Trailblazer said finally, “but we’re not losing, either.”

  “I disagree. We’re losing plenty,” Lyss said. “What we’ve lost is irreplaceable. I’m not just talking about Hana, and Adrian and my father. We’re losing our future. We’re losing opportunity. Think of what we could do with the money we’re spending on the war. We’ve got lýtlings in the mines and fighting in the mountains instead of going to school, or the academy, or apprenticing in the trades. Where will the Demonai get their weapons when no one is left who knows how to make them?”

  “Shadow Dancer has been learning from his father,” Trailblazer said. “The work he is doing is as good as any I’ve seen.”

  “That’s true,” Lyss said, “but both Shadow and his father are walking dangerous trails these days. Death will find them, if the war goes on long enough. Our officers are strategic geniuses compared to the southerners, but, General Dunedain, how long can you continue to work miracles with the soldiers and ordnance that you have? How many battles might we have won outright if we’d had more in the way of resources?”

  “That’s hard to say,” Dunedain replied. “I’m not a seer.”

  “If I threw down the scrying bones and told you that the empire would never claim the queendom, but the war would go on forever—how many of you would want to sign on?”

  They all shifted in their seats and looked away.

  Hadley held up her hand, her forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “Damn, Lyss, I was just this close to being happy.”

  “Your Highness,” Lord Vega said, verbally patting her on the head. “We all wish the war would go away. Until it does, we haven’t a choice.”

  “The war doesn’t go away until we make it go away,” Lyss said. “The only way to make it go away is to take a risk.”

  “Do you have something specific in mind, Alyssa?” Queen Raisa said, with a trace of impatience.

  “We need to draw blood on their side of the border. We should let them know that we have teeth. Wolves honor no borders when they are on the hunt.”

  Trailblazer frowned. “Are you suggesting that we deploy our own assassins into Arden?”

  “Isn’t that exactly what Montaigne will expect?” Hadley said. “He sends out assassins, and we answer back in the same way. I’ll bet he’s harder to get at than our royal family.”

  “He is,” Julianna said, folding her hands in front of her. “There have been several attempts on the king of Arden’s life already—all unsuccessful.” The others looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

  “Meadowlark,” Trailblazer said, using Lyss’s clan name, “I don’t blame you for wanting to get revenge on the southerners, after everything that has happened, but—”

  “I’m not talking about revenge,” Lyss said. “I’m talking about a strategy that might help us win the war. And I’m not talking about assassins, specifically. We need to launch an offense that will get their attention.”

  “If you’re thinking of an invasion, we’re spread thin as it is,” Dunedain said. “It’s not just recruiting and training the soldiers, it’s maintaining a supply chain, once they get down on the flatlands. I’ve fought there before, and it’s a different kind of war, and not one that plays to our strengths.” She paused. “Our soldiers are tired, Your Highness. Many are recovering from wounds. We’ve always used the dark season to recover. Would you ask them to march out again?”

  Lyss groped for an answer, conscious that she was losing ground. “We don’t have to march to Ardenscourt,” she said. “We just need to put a dent in their wall of invincibility.”

  “I agree with Alyssa,” Julianna said, which startled everyone into silence, including Lyss.

  What’s that about? Lyss thought, staring at her cousin.

  “I do, too,” Hadley said, planting her hands on the table and thrusting out her chin.

  “And I,” Finn said.

  “We can’t afford to risk soldiers just to put a scare into the southerners,” Dunedain said.

  “What the princess heir is talking about is not an empty gesture,” Julianna said. “If their council is weary of the war now, imagine their reaction if they actually begin to lose territory to us. The cost of this war is going to seem awfully high. A nasty turn in the war might be just what is needed to shift the balance of power and make Montaigne’s overthrow seem possible.”

  “We’ve been at w
ar for my entire life,” Hadley said. “Too many of my friends have died young. I hear the elders talk about the good old days, knowing that they’re never coming back. That’s a pretty low standard for success.”

  “I don’t understand why we need to change our tactics, Your Majesty,” Trailblazer said. “We have always waited for Arden to come to us. They impale themselves on our slopes, and our archers finish them. These younglings have not yet learned the value of patience.”

  That was when Lyss realized that every one of her age-mates was on her side. “I don’t want to send my children to war,” Julianna said fiercely, which Lyss found surprising because her cousin had none. She wasn’t even married.

  The queen smiled faintly, her lashes wet with tears. “I never wanted to send my children to war, either,” she said, lacing and unlacing her fingers.

  That was like a knife to the gut.

  Bayar glared at the three of them. “It is easy for the young to look back critically at what their elders have done. Do you have any idea what this queen has accomplished over these past twenty-five years? She has done the impossible in keeping the red hawk of Arden outside our borders. That may not be everything we want, but it will have to be enough.”

  Lyss hadn’t intended to sound critical of her mother’s war strategy, but that was the way it was coming off.

  “We don’t have to decide this issue now,” her mother said. “I suggest we defer this topic until we meet after the Solstice holiday. It may be that we can come up with some changes in strategy that will satisfy all parties in time for the next marching season.”

  If it’s not too late, Lyss thought. “Sometimes there is more risk in doing nothing than in doing something,” she said. She paused, memory washing over her like dark waters closing over her head. “When I was nine years old, my brother and I were out in a small boat and it capsized. I managed to grab hold of a rock just offshore. The tide was coming in, and I knew that I had to swim to my brother. But that meant I had to let go of the rock. I did it, but it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

  Trailblazer nodded thoughtfully. Uplanders often used stories to make a point.

  “What does your boating accident have to do with the war?” Lord Howard said.

  “My point is, we need to let go of what we have been doing and take a chance. If we do what we’ve always done, we’ll get what we’ve always gotten—this never-ending war. We can’t tread water forever. Eventually, we will drown.”

  9

  BREON

  It might have been the craving that woke him—that was the usual. Or the sound of stealthy movement, which was not. Breon’s hand found his shiv before he cracked open his eyes. Someone crouched on the filthy floor next to him, rooting through his things.

  “Goose,” he said through parched lips, “don’t waste your time.”

  Goose lurched backward, landing on his ass. “I wasn’t . . . I was just . . .”

  “Just . . . shut it.” As always, Breon regretted waking up. Every part of him hurt, and, as was happening more and more often, he had no idea where he was. It was too cold for the clothes he wore, the air seemed thin, and he could no longer smell the sea. It only made his own stench more apparent. He smelled of sweat and stingo, leaf and fish.

  Fish?

  It must be daytime; he could see light leaking in around the window shutters. He must have slept like the dead. He propped up on his elbows, in a sudden panic. But his jafasa still lay next to him in its padded bag. He ran his hand over it, making sure it was real. It would have gone missing long ago, but the others knew better than to touch it. Whacks found it useful for Breon to keep it. It was a tool of the trade in their traveling show.

  They were in a city; he heard temple bells close by. That muddle of blankets in the corner would be Aubrey. Out of their original dozen, they were the only four left. Breon supplied the talent, Aubrey the looks, and Goose—he was a fine acrobat when he was feeling well, which was almost never, these days. Whacks was supposed to handle the business end—book their shows and arrange for travel. But he mainly made his money dealing leaf.

  Whacks was a sorry codshead of a manager, to tell the truth. Breon had plans. He was leaving, too, any day now.

  “I thought Whacks would be back by now,” Goose whined. “I could use a wake-up, if you know what I mean.”

  I do know what you mean, Breon thought. His head throbbed like a drum that’d been pounded all night. “Where are we again?”

  “The capital,” Goose said. “Fellsmarch. In the mountains.”

  “For real?” Breon said with a spark of interest. “I always wanted to see the mountains.” He stood, all but losing his breeches in the process. He was losing weight again. There was never any food around these days, and when he was using leaf, he burned it up like a furnace.

  Goose, as usual, stayed on point. “Do you think they even have leaf here? I mean, it’s all snow and ice, in’t it?”

  “You can get whatever you want here,” Breon said. “It’s the capital.” Like he knew any more than Goose. He paused. “How’d we get here again?”

  “Whacks got us a spot in a fishwagon from the coast,” Goose said. “Remember?”

  Right. That explained the smell clinging to his clothes.

  Breon walked out to the privy, which looked and smelled like privies everywhere. They were in a narrow lane in a tangle of streets lined with tenements and warehouses. It might be the capital, but it wasn’t much of a step up from the coastal towns he was used to. It was colder than the coast, but warmer than he expected it would be, in the mountains. The streets were cobblestoned, not mud like some. And, on every side, snow-covered peaks loomed up behind the buildings like the walls of a stone prison.

  Or a palace, depending on how you looked at it. It’s all about attitude, Whacks liked to say, when he got them yet another gig in a rundown tavern or clicket-house.

  A few blocks up, he could see towers poking up above the buildings. Must be the temple. Slitting his eyes against the painful sunlight, he followed the wall out to the high street to see what he could see. Sometimes the temples had food on offer. He needed to fill his belly before Whacks came back. Another hit of leaf, and he’d forget he was hungry at all.

  In that, he lucked out. On the plaza in front of the temple, dedicates were handing out bread and oranges.

  Oranges! That struck a chord deep inside him. Where would he have tasted oranges before? Breon had no idea. It was like somebody had wiped huge chunks of his life from his memory. His mouth remembered, though, because it watered as he lined up with the others. Looking forward, he saw that Aubrey had somehow got in line ahead of him. She turned and smirked at him. That was Aubrey—two years older and always two steps ahead.

  The dedicate offered a blessing along with the bread and fruit.

  “Could I have another?” Breon asked. Meaning the food, not the blessing. “For my friend?”

  The dedicate gave Breon a good look-over as he handed off seconds. “If you need help,” he said, “you’ll find it inside.” He tipped his head toward the temple.

  Breon shook his head. “I’m not much for religion,” he said, around a mouthful of bread.

  The dedicate smiled, showing perfect blueblood teeth. “It’s not only religion,” he said. “We offer help of a more practical kind—classes, housing, a chance to get clean.”

  Breon raised the hand clutching the bread. “This is all I need right now,” he said. “Thank you—” He cast around for the proper title, then finished with “Your Honor.”

  “Call me Samuel,” the dedicate said.

  “Samuel.” Breon got off a little bow and started to turn away.

  “There’s a free concert tonight,” Samuel persisted, pointing to a banner draped across the front of the temple.

  The Briar Rose Ministry Presents HRH Alyssa ana’Raisa in Concert Tonight, with Rogan Shadow Dancer and the Temple Dancers. One night only. Southbridge Temple. Freewill offering.

  “It
says that—”

  “I can read,” Breon growled. When and where he’d learned, he had no clue. People said that leaf fried the brain, and maybe that was true. He could quit anytime, and maybe he should.

  “Since you can read, you might enjoy our library,” Samuel said, gesturing toward the temple. He seemed to be one of those dedicates who are so hot to do good, they don’t know when to give up.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I need to go see my friend over there.” He nodded at Aubrey, who was watching, doubled over with laughter.

  “Sometimes you need to feed the spirit along with the body,” Samuel called after him. He turned to his next customer, who’d been shifting his feet, probably worried he’d starve to death during the sermon.

  The temple was a stone’s throw from the river, and Aubrey was sitting on a bench overlooking the water. She scooted over to make room for Breon. That’s when he noticed she’d snagged three helpings, and was finishing off the first.

  “How’d you get three?” Breon scowled at her.

  Aubrey patted her midsection, where her belly should have been, and put on this vacant, cow-eyed look. “I lied. I told him I had a bun in the oven.” From the look on her face, you’d think she had no idea how it got there.

  Breon laughed. Aubrey was a natural felon. She’d been the one to teach him how to survive on the streets of a harbor town. She’d taught him other lessons, too, after the lights were out.

  She wasn’t much of a musician, but she brought in the men in droves to see their sorry little show. Sometimes, when Goose was feeling good, he and Aubrey would do funny bits together.

  Sometimes Breon thought he might be in love with her—how was he to know, since he’d never been in love before? Leastwise he always enjoyed what she had to teach him. She was the only person in his tattered memory who had ever been kind to him. But lately she’d seemed more snappish and standoffish.

  Breon peered over the stone wall at the river. It was the cleanest he’d ever seen in any city. Though it was nearly midwinter, tiny flowers cascaded over the wall. He picked a few and held them out to Aubrey. She sniffed at them, then set them on the bench beside her.