Sea of Shadows (25 page)

Forty-nine

T
he commander accompanied them to the gates, talking as they went, mostly to Gavril, though he included the girls. It was idle chatter, yet not meaningless, Ashyn decided as they passed through into the city proper with the commander still at Gavril’s side, still talking to him. It was another statement. So, too, were the actions of other guards, older than the ones who’d first met them, warriors coming out from the gate garrison, welcoming Marshal Kitsune’s son home.

Was it simply a sign of respect for their old leader? Ashyn hoped so. She knew from her studies that no enemy, no plague, no natural disaster was more dangerous for an empire than a schism between its emperor and its army. She’d heard her father and other villagers speak of the current marshal, saying he was not the man his predecessor had been, and she’d heard relief in their voices. He was a competent marshal and nothing more, and that seemed to be the way most liked it.

At least, it was the way the villagers of Edgewood had liked it. For the average citizen, peace was good. She looked at the armed men greeting Gavril. Were they as fond of peace? Did they chafe under a “competent” man?

The commander took his leave of them at the roadway, and they walked into the city, followed at a distance by the two guards with their packs. There was no need of anyone to lead them. While Gavril knew the way to court, the path was clear—the Imperial Way, now paved with brick, cutting clear through the city, ending at the palace.

It was still quite early in the morning, but the Way was more crowded than the main thoroughfare in Edgewood on market day. Carts and makeshift booths lined the roadway as traders hawked everything from fresh chicken eggs to petrified dragon eggs. Gavril assured Moria that the latter were simply pretty rocks, but Ashyn was certain her sister was making a note to come back later for a closer look.

There was no time for dawdling at merchant carts now. It did not take long for people to see them, and for whispers to snake along the street and spread. Soon it was as if they were leading a victory parade, as onlookers lined both sides of the Way and watched and whispered.

The spirits came, too, those whispers an undercurrent of the air itself. At home, they were mostly just that—an undercurrent, the spirits conversing, rarely to her. These ones were talking both to and about her.

You ought not to be here, child.

Not your place.

Beware.

“Beware of what?” she whispered under her breath.

Everything.

She could tell Moria was hearing the same messages. Her face was tight with annoyance.

“Tell me something useful for a change,” Moria muttered. “We could truly use some help here.”

Beware and be safe,
the spirits whispered.

Moria grumbled and Daigo snorted.

The onlookers’ whispers had grown now. Cries of “Bless us, Seeker,” and “Protect us, Keeper,” rang out. When a group of children pushed to the front of the crowd, Moria reached into her pocket and pulled out copper coins, blessing them and throwing them. It was almost instinctive, Ashyn thought, and when the children dove for them, Moria hesitated. Ashyn saw grief flicker across her face, and she knew Moria was thinking of the children of Edgewood.

She caught her sister’s hand and squeezed it.

“You ought not to throw coins here, Keeper,” Gavril said. “I know you mean well, but these are not the children of Edgewood.”

“I can see that,” Moria said dryly. The children looked as if no one had bathed them in a week, and most wore clothing so tattered that even the thriftiest mother in Edgewood wouldn’t have attempted to mend it. “I’m not sure we can trust the emperor to care about the plight of Edgewood’s children when he apparently has so little regard for those of his own city.”

Ashyn hushed her, but it wasn’t necessary—Moria was wise enough to keep her voice low. When an older child grabbed a coin from a younger one, Moria flipped the bereft little one another, her aim perfect. The crowd cheered.

“Your advice is noted, Kitsune,” she said. “But I will give coins where I choose.”

“As expected,” he said. “You’ll do as you choose and learn your own lessons.”

“Is that not the best way to learn them?”

Gavril shook his head and prodded them to pick up the pace. People continued to join the throng along the roadside. Few ventured onto the actual road, and those who did moved back at a growl from Tova or Daigo.

They were halfway along the road when a voice yelled, “Kitsune!”

Gavril didn’t turn, only letting his gaze flicker that way, as if to reassure himself it wasn’t someone he knew.

“Gavril Kitsune!” the voice called. “Did you meet your father in Edgewood? Does that son-of-a-whore haunt the Forest of the Dead?”

Someone shouted for the man to be silent. Gavril’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, but he kept walking, gaze forward.

“If it was
my
father, I’d do the honorable thing,” the man shouted. “Drive my blade between my ribs. If you’d like, I can do it for you.”

Moria stopped then, swinging around.

“Don’t,” Gavril said.

Moria didn’t stop, but only because silencing the man wasn’t necessary. Someone had done it for her—with a punch to the man’s jaw. Others had joined in, and a brawl erupted.

The group continued on, but this time they didn’t get more than twenty paces before someone else shouted, “Kitsune!”

Gavril kept walking. This man didn’t settle for shouting from a crowd. He elbowed his way to the front, coming out behind them and jostling the sheath on Gavril’s sword as he passed. In previous ages, to knock against a warrior’s sword, even by accident, was an insult punishable by a lethal swing of that blade. Today, such a response broke the empire laws, but the insult remained, and could be answered with a scarring blow.

Gavril turned a cool glare on the man and rested his hand on his blade hilt. For a moment, it seemed the man intended to stand his ground. Then, slowly, he eased back, just enough to let Gavril ignore the insult with a nod and continue on.

Ashyn saw her sister tense as they passed. She also let her hand fall to one of her blades. But the man made no move and said not a word. He simply spat, loudly, spittle landing on Gavril’s arm.

Moria threw her blade so fast neither Gavril nor Ashyn had time to stop her. It sailed under the man’s arm and pinned his cloak to the cart behind him. Then, with a snarl, Daigo ran at him. The man let out a high-pitched shriek, arms shielding his face, but the wildcat simply plucked out the dagger, giving him a disdainful look, and bounded back to Moria. As she took it from him, the crowd laughed and let out a cheer as the man slunk back into the crowd.

“Keeper! Keeper!”

“What’s your name, Keeper?” a young man near them shouted.

Moria sheathed her weapon. “I am Moria of Edgewood. My sister is Ashyn.”

“Welcome to the imperial city, Moria!”

“Ancestors bless you, Moria!”

Gavril sighed as they resumed walking. “So much for a quiet and subtle entrance.”

“If you wanted either, you needed to give her a sleeping draught,” Ashyn said.

Moria rolled her eyes. “The street is lined with people gaping at us. We were hardly passing unnoticed. Gavril couldn’t respond to the insult, so I did.”

“Which I appreciate,” he murmured. “But I’m going to ask you not to repeat it, Keeper. You would do well not to align yourself with me.”

“I already have.”

“I’m serious, Moria,” he said, voice lowering as he moved beside her. “You cannot—”

“Ashyn, is the city what you thought it would be?” Moria asked.

Ashyn glanced at Gavril, but he only shook his head. He’d have the conversation with Moria at another time, she was sure. For now, he let the subject drop, and they continued on to the court.

Moria

Fifty

M
oria looked at the palace ahead. It was imposing—she’d give it that much. The wall around the compound was said to take four thousand steps to circumvent and it was so high they could only see blue-tiled roofs beyond. Ashyn had always talked about wanting to see this, not because she was truly interested in court life, but because she’d read of it and heard of it so often that she wished to see it for herself.

Moria wondered if it was what Ashyn expected. Or if Ashyn still cared. No matter what their message brought, it would not return their village.

The Imperial Way ended at the Gate of the Crimson Phoenix. Which sounded terribly impressive, until one realized that it simply meant “the south gate”—the crimson phoenix being the guardian of the south. It was not even a proper gate, but rather a gatehouse two stories tall, with flared roofs at each level, in the imperial tradition. It was made of cypress wood, painted red, with a red tiled roof. The first floor was for the guards. The second was a tearoom, where the emperor would meet dignitaries from enemy nations, which allowed them to be on the palace grounds but not truly within the palace proper.

Once again, guards spotted them long before they arrived. This time, though, they stayed inside the walls of the gatehouse as if they didn’t notice the party approaching, though Commander Alain had sent a runner ahead.

When the party reached the gatehouse, the men bowed deeply and respectfully to Moria and Ashyn.

“Welcome, Seeker and Keeper of Edgewood.”

There was no greeting for Gavril. Not a glance his way. He’d told her to expect that, as he’d told her to expect the overly warm greeting from some warriors, like the commander, and an uglier one from some bystanders, like the man who’d spat and jostled his sword.

Moria was not sorry she’d thrown her dagger and caused a scene. It wasn’t even about avenging an insult to a comrade. Truly, if the man had spat at Gavril over some misdoing, Moria would not have gotten involved. While she’d never felt the urge to spit at Gavril herself, she certainly understood the underlying sentiment. But the insult wasn’t about Gavril—it was about his father. That was unacceptable.

She wasn’t much happier about the commander’s greeting. At first, she’d thought perhaps Gavril had trained under him or spent a season learning his trade at the wall. But as they’d walked Gavril had said he knew the commander only slightly. He’d been a general under his father, demoted to wall commander after the marshal’s exile. Just as the spitting man had said, “I stand against your father,” the commander had said, “I stand with him,” and had simply used Gavril as a tool to do it. Unacceptable. She could certainly understand now why he had been in no rush to return to the imperial city.

When these gate guards ignored him, Gavril didn’t react. He’d said this would happen—no matter what their position on the matter, those at court would keep it to themselves. Truly, Moria didn’t see why there ought to be any “position” on a marshal exiled ten summers past, but there was, and there was little she—or Gavril, apparently—could do about it.

“We come with a missive for the emperor,” Ashyn said to the guards. “We ask that you allow us to take it to him.”

“That is, I regret, impossible, my lady,” the older of the guards said. “We must ask that you give us the message, and we will convey it to his imperial highness.”

“It is not an invitation to lunch,” Moria said. “Do you have any idea—?”

“They do not, I’m sure,” Ashyn cut in.

Ashyn gave her sister a look. Moria glowered but held her tongue.

“Our missive must be given to the emperor himself,” Ashyn said. “Those were our orders, and I fear we dare not disobey. There are lives at stake. Many lives.”

Gavril had warned them to tell as few people as possible about the fate of Edgewood and the threat against Fairview. It would only lead to panic.

“We cannot let you in, my lady,” the guard said. “Our Keeper and our Seeker are in court. The spirits would be disturbed and offended if we permitted you onto the grounds.”

“Then tell Thea and Ellyn to leave,” Moria said. “Better yet, call them here, and I’ll tell them myself.”

Her sister stiffened at her tone. The younger guard’s eyes flashed in something like amusement.

“We know your Keeper and your Seeker,” Ashyn said. “They trained us in Edgewood. Ask them to come, please.”

“I would, my lady, but they are the ones who gave the order not to open the gates.”

“Did they?” Moria stepped forward, Daigo moving with her. “Go tell those old—”

Ashyn cut in. “Please ask Thea and Ellyn to come speak to us so that we may properly explain the situation. Under normal circumstances, we understand their concern, but the situation is far from normal.”

The older guard nodded and sent the younger to fetch the city’s Keeper and Seeker. Then he murmured, “It is good to see you, Gavril.”

“Thank you, sir.”

An awkward pause. “Your lady mother is well. She was at the palace last moon for the Cherry Blossom festival.”

“Good.” A pause, and Gavril seemed to struggle, finally asking, “Is she in the city?”

“No, son. She is not.”

Gavril didn’t seem surprised by the news. He turned his attention beyond the gatehouse, inside the walls to the palace grounds. Moria followed his gaze to see two warriors sparring. They were on a raised platform, which would have suggested they were performing for an audience, except the dais was unceremoniously placed at the rear of a government building. It was for training, then—get knocked off the narrow platform and the young warrior would suffer a bruised rump and ego.

In the silence, she could hear the faint click and clash of their blades. She moved to the fence for a better look. The two were dressed in battle armor. They wore sleeveless tunics and loose-fitting breeches, as Gavril did, but were also dressed in sleeve armor, shoulder plates, shin guards, and neck guards; all were made of fabric and covered in overlapping lacquered wood scales.

One of the warriors wasn’t much older than Moria. From here she could see little of him except dark hair tied back and arm tattoos, though only two pairs of bands, rather than full sleeves—one band circling his upper arms and one his lower, like ornamental cuffs.

“Is that how they sometimes do the tattoos?” she asked Gavril. “In stages?”

He shook his head.

Ashyn moved forward and murmured. “It signifies that he is a . . .” She seemed to struggle for a word, and her cheeks flushed. “He is not born of a wife, but a courtesan.”

“That’s Tyrus,” Gavril said. “He’s one of the emperor’s bastards.”

Moria watched the young man. His instructor was having a hard time keeping up, the youth’s sword flashing like quicksilver.

“Do you know him?” Moria asked Gavril.

“We trained together.”

“He’s very good.”

Gavril grunted. “Decent enough. We used to spar.”

“Until you weren’t enough of a challenge?”

He gave her a look. When she resumed watching the fight, Gavril tried to nudge her from the fence. She ignored him. This was a distraction and she was happy for it. Also, admittedly, she was enjoying it. There was something to be said for watching an expert swordsman in training, particularly if he was young and, at least from this distance, well formed.

When Tyrus wheeled to avoid a blow, he noticed that he had an audience and gave a small bow. His instructor’s sword flashed, nicking the youth’s cheek to get his attention. Moria would have expected a prince—even a bastard prince—to take the rebuke badly, but she heard Tyrus laugh as he called something to his instructor. Then he resumed the fight.

“Keeper,” Gavril said.

She was about to brush him off again when she saw what he meant—the court Keeper and Seeker were coming down the walk.