Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy) (5 page)

Night had fallen on the capital city of Freehold.  Lights still burned across the skyline, from the high towers of the lord mages to the depths of the smuggler’s dens, brothels, and watering holes. 

Traffic on the streets had died down as the night wore on, while the light of the moon reflected on the mist creeping up from the docks.

In the area known as the Peln Rise, the nobles and wealthy landowners made their homes in large stone edifices with fence-enclosed estates, to keep the riffraff out of smelling distance.  The entire neighborhood stood upon the highest point in the city limits, almost as if sitting in snide judgment upon the rest of the city.

One of the smaller manors was home to Vedra Renmoth, a minor noblewoman of no distinction among her peers.  In fact, the relatively unnoticed mistress of the manor enjoyed her anonymity; it allowed her to make her nearly nightly jaunts to the docks for some low culture fun without reprisals from high society.

So it was that on this night she wasn’t present to witness the dark form that entered her bedchamber from the window.  Cloaked in the deepest of black, the furtive form slid through the tall glass doors that opened to the balcony and quickly closed them.

No light shone in the room.  Still, with sure movements the figure walked to the armoire and lit an ornate lantern with a long
match.  Waving the flame out, Jericho Darkcloak, the king’s Shadow, began his work.

One of the lucky few who’d been granted a significant gift from the sun’s rays,
Jericho was the chief investigator of King Remiel van Uther II.  His ability to uncover plots against the king was uncanny.

Moving to a corner near the door to the hall,
Jericho removed his cloak, folded it neatly on the floor and then sat upon it.  Crossing his legs, he began the deep breathing exercises that allowed him to access the small portion of the Arcane that allowed him to use his power.

With his breathing slowed, he fell into a trance-like state, with his dark eyes closed to mere slits.  Gradually, the bedroom before him became alive with movement.  He could see slightly luminescent after-images of the people who’d moved through the room over the last day.

It was a form of post-cognition, which allowed Darkcloak to review events that had already happened in a specific area, up to roughly a day beforehand.  While many would have preferred precognition, or the ability to see the future, it suited the role of royal investigator quite well.

Focusing his attention past the maids, butler, and other visitors to the room,
Jericho settled the lens of his vision solely on the noblewoman, Vedra.  He watched as she rose from the previous night’s sleep, went about brushing her hair and freshening up, before leaving to bathe.  Concentrating, Jericho pushed the timeline of his vision forward.

It was noon, and the noblewoman had taken lunch in her study.  He watched in interest as she shooed away her retinue.  At this point, he slowed down the vision to work in real time and let the scene play out.

Vedra made a show of picking away at her meal for several minutes, before casting a furtive glance about the room.  She rose, walked quickly to the door before producing a key from the folds of her dress and locking the portal.  Next, she purposefully strode toward the corner of the room that Jericho currently occupied.

Feeling silly, he fought the urge to move out of her way.  It would make no difference to what Vedra had already done that day, as she
had no way of perceiving him, but would also end the vision and require him to start the process again.  He wasn’t sure he had the time, so he dismissed the feeling of anxiousness and remained motionless.

He watched as her shade reached down to the floor, beneath where he was sitting, beneath his folded cloak, and began to pry at one of the floorboards there. 
After a few moments’ effort, she extracted a small book from a space under the floor, carefully replaced the board, and moved back to her seat.

She began to scribble furiously in the book with one of the rather expensive-looking pens she
pulled from the desk.  Jericho watched in interest as she entered what were no doubt important events in a secret journal.

This was what he’d come to investigate.  To be sure, he watched her through the entirety of her writing, and stayed focused until she deposited the book back in its hiding space.  His objective reached, he closed his eyes and began to breathe normally, ending the vision.

Carefully he rose to his feet.  He’d been sitting, unmoving, for a couple of hours, and the kinks were slower to leave his limbs than they had been even just a few years ago. 

When he was sufficiently limber, he reached down, moved his cloak, and pried at the floorboard to retrieve the book.

It was small, measuring just over six inches from top to bottom.  Leather bound, holding pages that were nearly perfectly white, it was of obviously expensive make.  He moved over to the noblewoman’s vanity and removed the same expensive pen.  Producing a scroll from his a tube at his belt, he fished for the most recent entry, and began to take notes.

As he read and transcribed, a frown deepened on his otherwise smooth face.  The fears that he and the king shared seemed to be well founded, according to the journal.  Still,
Jericho worked diligently and with speed, getting everything that would convey to the king the dire reality of their fears.

Satisfied with his efforts, he replaced the pen, the journal, and the floorboard.  Having allowed enough time for the ink to dry, he picked up the scroll, rolled it and slid it into its case.  Sliding it through his belt, he stole to
the window, surveyed the room one final time, and disappeared back into the night.

Beneath his fur cloak, King Remiel Van Uther II shivered in the cool night air.  Standing upon the opulent balcony that spread out from his bedchamber in the royal palace, Remiel looked across the skyline of the city toward the Peln Rise, knowing as he did so that the distance would be far too great for him to see any sign of the Darkcloak’s movements.  He blew a cloud into the moonlight, cursing his aging body for its frailty.

Years ago he’d been one of the greatest warriors of the Realm, if not the greatest.  He’d reveled in his strength, his stamina, and his ability to withstand punishments that most
men would have collapsed under.  It was his part of his birthright as a Van Uther; all of the descendents in the line shared a hardiness of special repute.  Still, no man could forestall the advance of time forever.  It didn’t mean he had to like it.

A shooting star broke him from his thoughts.  He watched it burn a bright green trail across the sky, halting his gaze as it passed the moon.  He frowned.

The moon was only a sliver of light, but brought with it dark feelings.  Most of the populace he reigned over would never have thought twice about the pale orb that shed its cool glow over their nights. 

For the
king, it represented an ancient menace barely contained.  When he shivered this time, it was not from the chill.

He turned his back on the night, the time for his meeting drawing close.  He passed
through ornate glass doors into the royal bedchamber, closing them behind him.

Still feeling a bit of a chill, and not wantin
g an errant breeze to wake the queen, he stooped at the base of the massive hearth and hefted another faggot on the low fire.  With a glance to his wife’s sleeping form, he stoked the coals until the wood lit, and then stalked across the room to a ruggedly constructed bookshelf.

Reaching up over the lip of the top, he pressed a small panel and stepped back.  After a moment, and with nary a sound, the bookshelf swung out into the room, revealing a passage through the bowels of the castle.

Into the dark corridor he stepped, waiting only a moment for the bookshelf to resume its proper place with the faintest of clicks. 

The hall
was completely lightless.  The king, lacking sorcery of his own, reached up beneath his graying beard and depressed the ruby on one of his golden necklaces.  Immediately the corridor was filled with a faint red glow.

By the light of his mystical amulet, the king descended through the bones of the palace, following ancient pathways set by forgotten builders eons in the past.  He wrapped his cloak tighter about him as he went, for the temperature began to drop once he began to plunge below ground level.

At one point the seeping of water through the wall to his right told him that he’d come to the point where all that separated him from the fury of the White River as it sped past the keep was a wall of slime-coated stone.  He hurried on, imagining he could hear the water on the other side, searching for a way to get its icy fingers on him.

Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes, Remiel reached his destination.  It was a
strange metal door, quite unlike any other architecture in the castle.  Indeed, it was different from nearly all architecture known to his kingdom.

The door was rectangular, with its corners rounded.  It was set into a wall made of the same strange metal, which was cropped after a few feet on each side by the stonework of the palace.  A language strange to all but a select few in the Realm of Men named the door “Bulkhead C”.  To the right of the door itself was a small square console with several luminescent buttons.

Remiel reached out and keyed a familiar sequence, after which the door slid into the wall on the left.  The hall beyond was illuminated with an unnatural white light.  It was entirely constructed of the same strange material as the door, with a floor of grated metal, and a bank of lights that were set into the corner where the walls met the ceiling.

Without missing a beat, the
king entered the corridor and began walking to the left.  Behind him, a hiss and a clank told him the door had slid back into its closed position, locked to anyone who couldn’t enter the proper sequence on the keypad.  He continued with familiarity through the metal innards of this strange construct, his thoughts intent upon whether the meeting he was headed toward would reveal anything of real portent.

Having walked through several hundred yards of corridor, passing through three more sliding doors, he finally entered the large room that was his destination.  The walls were lined with lar
ge rectangular windows that showed only dull gray.  Counters festooned with buttons, levers, and glowing screens formed a semicircle in the center of the room.

In the exact center of the chamber stood an elaborate chair of exotic make.  The cushions were
upholstered with a material unlike any found in the kingdom.  The design was sparse compared to what normally passed for opulence, but was comfortable nonetheless.  The armrests sported a keypad, as well as several other switches, knobs, and small windows of some type.

The king assumed a comfortable posture in the chair, and waited.  As he did so, his thoughts drifted, as the often did, to the people who must have created the room he was in.

It would shock the populace of his realm to know of this place’s existence.  As far as they knew, Valia was always the home of humanity.  It was part of his burden of rulership that Remiel was forced to keep the true story of the origin of mankind from the majority of his people.  The truth could well destroy them all.

The hiss of an opening door disrupted his reverie, and he started at the entrance of his Shadow. 
Jericho Darkcloak entered the room and respectfully waited for his king to acknowledge him before moving closer.  As he approached, he removed the scroll from his belt and handed it to Remiel.

No words were exchanged, there was hardly any need.  The king unfurled the offered scroll with shaking hands.  Minutes passed in silence as he read the basic, but clear handwriting.

At length, the Remiel regarded his trusted servant with a grim expression.

“This came from her cousin’s journal?” his voice sounded old in his ears.

The Darkcloak nodded, “Indeed, Your Highness.  I left her manor not two hours ago.  There can be no doubt.

“The
baroness has entered an alliance with the Drejth.”

The words were almost a physical blow to the monarch.  With a steadying breath he
looked around the alien chamber before locking eyes with Jericho.

“Then, she
knows
.”

In the darkest hour that lurked before dawn, the mistress of the castle called Moonrest stormed its halls.  Baroness Emberlock was in a mood, and impatient to address the source of her ire.

She stalked the dark
corridors, her silken nightgown flowing around her. The cool night air did little to diminish the flame that burned in her blood.  No servant could be found in the same wing; all had learned too well to leave the baroness to her storms lest they receive the brunt of her wrath - however misplaced.

She fumed at the incompetence of her guards; allowing the boy to overhear her plans was inexcusable.  What if it had been an agent of th
e king, or an assassin? 

The fact that those men were currently sweating out their shame in the mines was small consolation.  She would have to speak to Duln about trimming the fat in the ranks.

As she stomped up the stairs to her study, Calistra realized she was glad that the moment of her clandestine meeting was at hand. 

She hated waiting, hated the impotence of it.  She was a being of action and
passion.  Whenever she wasn’t in direct in control of events, she was irate.

The oak door of the circular chamber banged open, announcing her entrance.  She quickly slammed it shut and gained the other side of the tower chamber in a few long strides. 

All around here were the trappings of nobility: lavish bookshelves, a desk with a hand-painted globe of Valia upon it, thickly cushioned chairs, lush rugs, and a graven hearth with well-stocked wood hopper.

Reaching up, she tore a velvet curtain to the floor, revealing what had to be an incredibly expensive wall mirror.  Edged in worked silver, the six foot tall lens was shined to perfection.  She glared at her reflection for a moment, oblivious to her dusky beauty.

“Dammit, Drejth, I won’t be kept waiting, you old ghost!” she snarled.

For a moment, nothing happened.  Then, slowly at first, but with building speed,
darkness grew out from the center of the mirror.  It distorted, then replaced the baroness’s visage before enveloping the entire surface. 

Out of this emerged the
image of a pale-faced man of indeterminate age, with deep black hair and a jet goatee.  He smiled, revealing a row of teeth filed to points.

“Ahhh, Calistra” he cooed to her irritation, “You can’t imagine how hard it is to stay away from your exquisite beauty.”

She rolled her dark eyes, “Oh please.  Don’t flatter me, Drejth.  I’ll not be wooed by a dead man.”

She inwardly smiled at the slight falter in his grin.

“Now tell me some good news before I decide our little alliance isn’t worth it.  I’m sure the lord mages under Remiel’s thumb would love to hear of your return.”

Malavarius
Drejth lost his smile.  Cold, dead eyes bored into the baroness.  She repressed an involuntary shudder.

“Do not threaten me, my sweet
,” his voice was like the death-rattle of a plague victim. 

“The living hold no power over me.  You would do well to remember that.”

Calistra smirked to hide her revulsion, “Fine.  Just tell me that you’ve gotten something from those book-worshiping clods at the temple.”

Drejth ass
umed his toothy grin once again.

“Indeed.  I’ve found a puppet that will suit my
-,” he snickered, “-OUR needs perfectly.  I simply need a little time to complete the transition.

“
Meanwhile, I need you to get your men in place at our site in Galloway.”

Emberlock's
eyes widened slightly, “You think everything will be ready so soon?”

S
he looked away, thinking.

“Not getting cold feet, are we,
Baroness?” the last word was drawn out in a hiss.

Her eyes flared as she snapped back to eye contact, “Don’t be a fool.  I want the false king dead as much as anyone.
”

 
“Besides,” she smiled, “being a baroness doesn’t leave a lot of room for improvement if you’re not willing to marry some stooge.”

Drejth laughed, a hideous
rasping cough that curdled the baroness’s blood.  At length, he spoke again.

“Excellently put, my dear.  Get your men in place and wait for my signal.  I will contact you within a fortnight. 

“Our rise is at hand.”

With that, his pale face faded
and the gorgeous visage of the baroness replaced it.

Calistra frowned.  She hated dealing with the monster, yet she needed him to complete her ascension. 

She walked back toward the door before she paused, remembering.

Returning to the mirror, she retrieved the crumpled cloth.  She made sure to cover the entire surface before she left.  The idea of Drejth peeking in on even
a minute portion of her home made her spine tingle.

The b
aroness retired to her bedchamber as the first light of the new day began to touch the tops of the tall towers. 

Barking orders to her servants, she set in motion the preparation of her retinue.  After she was satisfied all would be in place, she sank into her feather bed,
drifting into dreams of conquest and glory.