Shadowrise

  “It is no simple thing to kill someone,” he said. “Even less so when you care for that person as much as I care for you, Lady Elan.”

  She opened her eyes again, and for a moment he thought she would shout at him, but the wildness went out of her face and her eyes filled with tears. “If your love and concern could have saved me, Matt Tinwright, it would have saved me already. But I am damned. I belong to Kernios and his dark country.”

  “No, you do not!” He lifted his hand to thump it down on the bedclothes, then thought better of it. “You were misused by a villainous man. If it were in my power to kill Hendon Tolly, I would, but I am not a swords-man. I am a poet—and sometimes, I think, not much of that, either.”

  If he hoped she would disagree with him he was disappointed. “It is so . . . so hard to be alive,” she said quietly. “A nightmare I cannot wake from. I sometimes think we are all Death’s servants and he only lends us to the temporary service of other masters.”

  He hated when she spoke this way. “But you are safe now, Elan. Hendon Tolly is not even looking for you.”

  A little of the hardness came back to her face. “Oh, Matthias Tinwright, you are a fool! Of course he searches for me. Not because he misses me, or even because he hates me—I could live with that—but because I belonged to him, and he does not let anyone steal from him.”

  “You do not . . .”

  She held up her hand. “Please. It does no good to say such things—you do not know.” Her expression changed again, became altogether more disturbing. There was nothing hard about her now—she looked absolutely defenseless, a soft-bodied thing with its shell torn away. “He has a mirror. He can . . . there are . . . there are things inside it. Things that . . . laugh . . . and . . . and talk. They know terrible secrets.” A shiver ran up her frail chest, made her hands shake where she clasped them before her. “He made me look into it . . .”

  Tinwright could not speak, could not even move when what he wanted most of all was to take her in his arms and protect her from the vile memories that troubled her so, but the sheer, haunted hopelessness in her voice made his limbs seem heavy and bloodless.

  “He made me look,” she said, whispering now. “He took me down into a basement room and held my head. It . . . it spoke to me. That thing spoke to me. It knew who I was! It knew things about me that no one should know, not even Hendon Tolly—not even my mother and father! I tried to run away but I couldn’t. Whatever lived in there, it held me and it played with me like . . . like a cat who dandles a mouse, claps hold of it, takes off its paw, lets it run, then catches it up again. I . . . I . . .” She was weeping wholeheartedly now, but did not even raise her hand to wipe her face. “I do not want to live in such a world as this, Matt Tinwright. A world that has such . . . filth, such terrible things hiding behind every looking glass . . . every ref lection . . .”

  Tinwright found his voice at last. “It was a trick . . . something he did to frighten you . . .”

  She shook her head, tears still running down her cheeks. “No. He is frightened of it too. I think that was why he took me to it. It is like a beast in a cage. He thought to keep it as a pet, but it is demanding. He was going to let it feed on me. That is another reason he will not lightly let me go, Matt. I was going to keep the beast . . . occupied.”

  It was some time before Tinwright could calm Elan M’Cory enough for her to take a little cold broth and then fall asleep. It was a relief to see her put aside the worst of her cares and rest, but how long could he sit here and guard her? How much time could he take for these secret errands before someone in Hendon Tolly’s court noticed his absences? The Inner Keep was packed with spies and sycophants, all of them fiercely jealous of their master’s attentions—some of them even jealous of poor Matt Tinwright, who had never had a day’s luck that didn’t turn immediately into horse dung!

  If Brigid won’t come, I must find someone to help me with Elan. But who can I trust? Just as important, who can I afford? He looked down at the silver sturgeon, which barring a miracle on the order of Onir Diotrodos and the jars of beer, would have to last him for a fortnight. It seemed impossible. Anyone low enough to work for such wages would recognize Elan’s status, sniff Tinwright’s need for secrecy, and make him out as a prime candidate for blackmail. He needed someone with no money and few scruples, but who would not immediately turn around and stab him in the back, or who would at least wait a little while before doing so.

  On the face of it, it seemed impossible. To his sorrow, though, Tinwright knew better.

  There’s only one person like that in all of Southmarch, he thought with a heavy heart. My mother.

  But before he could hire her, he’d have to find her.

  For Briony, despite being surrounded by the comfort and pageantry of the Syannese court, the days crawled by. She had no cause to cause to complain about how she was treated—she was given accommodations suited to her station, a suite of chambers in the Broadhall Palace’s long eastern wing with windows overlooking the river. She had also been gifted with serving maids and ladies-in-waiting and chests full of jewelry and clothes to wear, all chosen, she was told, by the king’s favorite, Lady Ananka. Briony had been raised on nursery tales of jealous witches and evil fairies: before wearing any of the clothes she carefully searched them for poison pins.

  The nobles of the court treated her with deference when they saw her, although in truth she did not leave her rooms very often at first. It was too strange for her, this world of not-this, not-that in which she found herself—not a real princess, but not a simple player among other players either (although at times she certainly felt herself to be playing a role again). It was hard to exchange pleasantries with the pampered, overdressed folk of Enander’s glittering court and not feel that by doing so, by biding her time, she was somehow betraying her own family and folk. But in a foreign court and without trustworthy friends she could only snatch at those few bits of news she could get from her home. The fairy-siege, she learned, still continued, but since it had taken on a more peaceful cast in the last months the Syannese people thought of Southmarch less and less. Tolly still reigned there as the nominal protector of the king’s youngest child, Alessandros. And Briony herself was still a mystery—some people in Southmarch thought she had been kidnapped, perhaps even by the Autarch of Xis. Until recently, the rumor most believed in Tessis was that she had been killed and her body hidden, but her appearance at Broadhall Palace had taken some of the wind from that particular story’s sails.

  The four young women that the king’s mistress Ananka had sent to wait on her (to spy on her, Briony felt certain) seemed nice enough, but she found it hard to talk to them, let alone trust them, even the youngest, little Talia, who was not even twelve years old. Briony had been so lonely those first weeks after Shaso’s death and her escape from Landers Port that she had dreamed of just such homely pleasures as this, having her hair brushed, chattering of this and that, but either these young women were far more foolish than her favorite maids Rose and Moina had been at home or Briony had lost her taste for such conversation. Excited speculation about this ambitious courtier or that romance, pointed comments about who was aiming above his or her station, and the endless speculation about Prince Eneas and his romances and adventures did not much interest her. Briony had thought the prince impressive when she saw him, of course, but all she wanted was help for her people and her family’s throne; she could think of no decent way even to approach him, let alone ask him for help. As for going to the king himself—well, Lady Ananka had already made it clear that she considered King Enander her private territory.

  Marooned in her island chambers like a lost mariner, Briony found herself longing for something with more substance than Syannese court gossip and for better companionship than the ladies of the court could offer.

  Then one morning Agnes, one of the ladies-in-waiting, came to Briony with great excitement in her pretty young face. “Your Highness, you will never guess who is here!”
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  “Here where?” But Briony sat up straighter. Was it the prince, come to see her on his own? If so, how could she lead the subject around to Southmarch and its needs?

  “Here at the court,” the girl said. “He just rode in last night—all dressed up in furs like a Vuttish merchant captain!”

  “I can’t guess.” It wasn’t the prince, that was certain, since he was already in residence. It must be some other noble, some legendary object of Syannese court gossip. If Perin himself came down to earth waving his holy hammer, Briony thought, all these people would talk about would be his shoes. And maybe whether or not he was wearing colors appropriate to the season. Sweet Zoria, and my brother and I thought the nobles of Southmarch were shallow . . .

  Agnes was practically bouncing up and down. “Oh, but you should be able to guess, Highness—he is one of your countrymen!”

  “What?” For an instant her heart leaped impossibly to Barrick, and then to Shaso, and even Ferras Vansen, all lost in different ways, but all lost beyond question. A sadness struck her then so swiftly and so deeply that for a moment she feared she might break into tears. It took her a long moment to regain her breath. “Out with it, quickly. Who is it?”

  “His name is Jenkin Crowel!” The girl clasped her hands across her bodice as though she could barely control herself. “Do you know him?”

  For a moment the name meant nothing to Briony—it had been so long since she had thought of any of those folk or the world she had shared with them . . . but then it came and the sadness turned to something more sour.

  “Oh. Yes, I do. Brother of Durstin Crowel, Baron of Graylock, although I’m sure Durstin’s more than a baron now since he’s long been one of Hendon Tolly’s most determined lickspittles.” The thought of the Crowels made her want to kick something over. “Why is Jenkin here?”

  “He is the new envoy here at Broadhall from your brother Alessandros.”

  Briony snorted. “Alessandros is less than half a year old. Envoy from the bloody-handed usurper Hendon Tolly, you mean.”

  The young lady’s eyes widened. “Of course, Highness. As you say.” Briony did her best to control her temper. The treachery of the Tollys was not this girl’s fault, even if she was one of Ananka’s spies. “Thank you for telling me, Agnes.”

  “But what are you going to do, Highness? He has asked to see you.”

  “He has? Truly? By all the gods, these people must have solid brass . . .” She stopped herself. Using language appropriate among strolling players would only cause more talk about her here in Syan. The sourness in her belly became something worse, almost dread, but she felt a strong, hot surge of anger as well. “Very well. Yes, of course we will see him. If he is the Tollys’ man we have much to talk about, he and I. But let me make some arrangements first.”

  After all, she had learned all the lessons she needed about the trustworthiness of Crowel’s master. If she was going to talk to the man, she wanted King Enander’s guards inside the room as well as outside.

  Someone who knew neither of them might have thought that Jenkin Crowel was the one doing a favor and Briony the one gratefully accepting it. He brought two guards of his own and a thin, sour-faced cleric dressed in black, as though a contract were being negotiated.

  Crowel himself was fleshy without being fat, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, and dimpled chin. He was dressed in what he obviously believed was the height of current Syannese style: when he made an elaborate bow his stiff pantaloons and frilly, oversized sleeves rustled and creaked.

  “Your Highness, this is a delightful and most unexpected surprise! I could scarce credit it when I was told. Your people will be thrilled to hear that you are alive and well. How did you come here? I will at once send a message home of your survival that will put joy into the hearts of a grieving populace!”

  Briony looked to her maids. All were sewing assiduously. Compared to this idiot, the childish obsessions and subtle cruelties of the Syannse court suddenly looked much better. Still, if that was the game Crowel wished to play, then Briony could have her sport as well.

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “I have missed my home so much, Lord Crowel. Tell me, how is my infant brother Alessandros? And my stepmother, Anissa? And of course, dear Cousin Hendon, who is taking such good care of all of them?”

  He hesitated. “Is the steward . . . is Hendon Tolly truly your cousin? I, ah, I did not think the family relationship quite so close.”

  Briony waved her hand. “Ah, but the Tollys have always been closer than family to me. That is why I call Hendon ‘Cousin.’ Why, do you know, the night I left Southmarch we had the most illuminating conversation. Hendon told me all that he had planned for me and my family and the throne. I was touched that he had expended so much thought and effort on our behalf—oh, yes, touched. In fact, it has grieved me so terribly I cannot tell you that I still have not shown him my gratitude. But I have considered very carefully how Lord Tolly and his supporters should be rewarded, you may be sure. Yes, I have given it much thought, and I believe I have come up with a few rewards so unusual even Hendon himself cannot guess at them.”

  Crowel stared, his mouth slightly open. “Ah,” he said at last. “Ah. Yes, of course, Highness.”

  “So when you write to dear Hendon, be sure and tell him that. As you will discover, I have many friends here in Syan, many powerful friends, and they all agree that such noble, loyal stewardship as his should be suitably rewarded.”

  Of all the hundreds of men and women living in the court of Enander, only a very few went out of their way to speak to Briony or seek anything beyond a passing acquaintance. One such was Ivgenia e’Doursos, the young daughter of the Viscount of Teryon, a small but important territory in the middle of Syan, south of the capital. The fact that it was she who reached out to Briony meant that she couldn’t be trusted—the chances were too great that she was acting on behalf of the king’s mistress—but Briony discovered she enjoyed Ivgenia’s company anyway.

  They met at one of the uncomfortable meals in the main hall, with dozens of tables and hundreds of servants, the room absolutely throbbing with the clamor of voices. Ivgenia was seated across from Briony, who had been put next to an older nobleman who drank too much wine and kept trying to look down the front of Briony’s dress. Late in the meal he fell off his seat and had to be helped up by servants. The dark-haired girl leaned across the table toward Briony as the baron stumbled off to bed and, with a properly serious face, said, “We provincials have so much to learn from these sophisticated Tessians.” Briony laughed so hard she almost choked on a piece of bread and their friendship began that night.

  Ivgenia had been sent to the court to receive an education and she had certainly learned to pay attention to what was going on around her: she was a fountainhead of gossip and amused observation, her sensibility almost as dry as Barrick’s. Ivgenia was an outsider herself, not because of her breeding, which was perfectly good, but because of her wit, a quality not much valued in Syannese girls, at least not in those young and pretty enough not to need it. Wit, as the popular saying explained, was a tool for ambitious men or ugly women.

  Syan was in some ways more licentious than home—the women showed far more skin and the men far more leg than did the courtiers in Southmarch—but in others it was more conservative, perhaps because of the strong local influence of the Trigonate faith. The famous temple of the Trigonarch himself sat on a stony hill in the heart of Tessis, its towers looming even higher than Broadhall Palace, and the church’s influence was everywhere. Everyone wore the Triskelion, and nearly every day seemed a holy day of some sort. And just as King Enander was flanked always on his left by Lady Ananka, he was companioned on his other side by the Trigonarch’s most powerful priest, Hierarch Phimon, of whom it was said that the only ones who could get a word into the Trigonarch’s ear more quickly were the three brother gods themselves.

  “If you want to get something done around here, your Highness,” Ivgenia said one day in Briony’s chambers
, “you really need to have the hierarch on your side. They say the Trigonarch will usually do as he asks. Maybe he would help you get your kingdom back!” Ivgenia, like everyone else in Broadhall Palace, knew at least a little of Briony’s situation: a princess chased out of her own country was not the kind of thing that happened every day, even in a city as large and important as Tessis.

  Briony felt a moment’s chill—was she being manipulated? Was Ivgenia going to take what she said directly back to Ananka? “I’m certain Hierarch Phimon has better things to do,” she said carefully. “I will wait until King Enander decides what he wishes to do about Southmarch. I am certain he will make a wise choice.”

  Ivgenia shrugged. “Just as well, Highness, since you’re not the type who interests the hierarch anyway. They say that the only three kinds of people Phimon cares about are young boys with pretty voices, old women with lots of money, and trigonarchs.”

  “But, Ivvie, there’s only one trigonarch!” Briony protested, laughing.

  “Yes, that does make the last one a small category,” said Ivgenia. “And you’re not a young boy, although I heard you tried to pass yourself off as one. So you’d better find a way to get your hands on some money, Grandmother.”

  “Oh! You!” Briony threw a cushion at her. If Ivegnia was a traitor she was a very skillful one, and even having a false friend as entertaining as Ivegnia e’ Doursos was far better than living in isolation. Still, each night Briony Eddon slept in Tessian luxury far from her stolen country, it took her longer to fall asleep.

  “I’ve heard several people mention Kallikans again today,” Briony asked. “What is a Kallikan?”

  Several of the ladies-in-waiting made little noises of dismay, but not Ivgenia. “Do you want to see some? You’d find them quite interesting, I’m sure.”