Shadow of the Father (45 page)

The Cantor’s head disappeared from the opening. Yilon explored the area with his paws. “Sinch?” he called, but his voice was swallowed by the darkness. “Sinch!”

Silence answered him. He couldn’t wait for the Cantor. He edged forward slowly, until his hind paws found the edge of a staircase. Keeping his paws on the walls, he walked slowly down each step. The chill in the air crept into his fur.

The wall on the left gave way to an open space. Yilon groped at air, called, “Sinch?” again. The sound of his voice and the twitch of his whiskers told him there was a large room open beyond. The silence remained absolute, but now the smell of blood grew stronger.
If You love me
, he prayed.
Please, please, no…

Down to more steps, and his toes encountered something soft. He recovered his balance and crouched on the stair. Now he recognized Sinch’s scent, drowned out by blood and dust and bones and mold. His paw hovered in the air. If he touched Sinch and found him as stiff and cold as Maxon, what then? What would he do? He listened for breathing, for movement. Surely in the silence of the crypt, any noise would reach his ears.

But he could not hear anything over the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. He lowered his paw slowly and met cold fur. A soft whine escaped him before he realized it. “Sinch?”

Light flickered at the top of the stair, enough for him to see Sinch. He was sprawled on the stair, one arm reaching for the step above. Below him, a trail of glistening in the dust showed where he’d crawled from the floor up three steps before his strength had given out. Yilon couldn’t see where he was hurt, but he wasn’t conscious. There has to be a chance, he thought firmly, and wouldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise.

He gathered Sinch in his arms. Slowly, mindful of his balance, he stood, and then climbed the stairs as quickly as he dared, moving his paws to feel for any sign of life. There, a pulse? No, it was gone now. Sinch stirred in his arms—or was it just the way Yilon was carrying him, a natural movement? My fault, my fault, my fault, sang voices in his head, and he couldn’t argue with them. His breath came out in sharp whines until he reached the top of the stairs, looking past the lamp at the Cantor’s bewildered muzzle.

“He’s hurt,” he said as the Cantor withdrew the lamp. “You have to take him to the guard, get him to a chirurgeon.”

The Cantor’s muzzle twisted at the sight of the mouse’s head, thick with dust and cobwebs. “I…”

“He needs help!” Yilon cried. “Please!”

Calm settled over the other’s muzzle. “Yes, of course,” he said, and reached out his arms.

Through the opening, Yilon watched him carry Sinch’s limp form out of the front of the chapel. He sat back heavily on the stone floor. He knew he would have to leave the crypt soon, but when he did, he would have to find out whether he had killed his best friend or merely caused a near-fatal wound. In the darkness, none of that had happened yet.

He tried to hate Dewry, but he couldn’t. It would be too easy to blame him for everything, when in fact Yilon had been the one who’d left Sinch alone with the crown; Yilon had convinced him to steal the crown; Yilon had brought Sinch here in the first place, into this place where there was hatred and danger and death.

A muzzle appeared at the hole in the wall. He smelled a vixen’s scent and thought it was Dinah. But her voice was Lady Dewanne’s. “How curious,” she said. “Are you planning to stay there for much longer?”

“Not much.” Yilon curled his tail around his legs, taking hold of the end with a paw.

“Your friend is on his way to a chirurgeon,” she said. When he didn’t respond with more than slow exhale, she continued. “Dewry is on his way to jail. Maxon is…”

It was her turn to let out a long, slow breath. Yilon stirred. “I know.” No words felt adequate. “I’m sorry.”

She seated herself on the other side, leaning against the wall and speaking through the opening. “It’s not your spirit that bears the burden.”

“I should have rushed him. He would have hurried the shot—Sinch wounded his other arm.”

“And then you might be lying on the floor of the church. His spirit is with Canis, and though I am certain he would have liked to witness your Confirmation, he did not regret the manner of his passing.”

Yilon buried his muzzle in his paws. “Is this what it’s like? Every day, wishing you could change something you’ve done that hurt someone else?”

She did not immediately respond. He lifted his head and saw hers bowed, her eyes closed. “I can tell you,” she said, “that a great deal of a Lord’s time is spent attempting to right wrongs, and that in many cases those wrongs will be your own.”

“How do you do it? When every decision you make might cost someone his life?”

“Not every decision has quite as much weight.” She opened her eyes now. “And you must remember what Canis says: “Though your Alpha mark the trail, still you must choose where to place your paws along it.”

“He may compel you to follow, but you must choose the manner of your following,” Yilon recited.

“Precisely.”

He flicked his ears. “Look how much damage I’ve caused in just three days. I don’t trust myself to lead.”

“Your father does.”

He jerked his head all the way up. “My father? He just sent me out here, with no preparation. I was picked by Lord Dewanne years ago. Because of a lie.”

Lady Dewanne did not act perturbed. “You were not named to succeed until two months ago.”

“Not formally.”

“Not at all.”

Yilon frowned. “There was an agreement…”

“Yes. But part of the agreement was that your father would make the final recommendation, and Sheffin would make the final decision. Oh, it was well known that you were going to be considered. The noble families here have known for some time. But it was not until we received the letter from your father that Sheffin made the formal designation.”

“Letter?” He squeezed his tail, staring at her.

“I have it back in my chambers. You may read it if you like.”

“What did it say?” he whispered.

She smiled. “He told us how intelligent you were. That you had a marvelous aptitude for history, and that while your sense of diplomacy could perhaps use some development, he would be proud to hand over the rulership of Vinton to you, were you the first-born.” She rubbed her whiskers. “We made the announcement the day after receiving the letter.”

“So Dewry really thought it might be him.” She nodded, slowly. “He has held on, all these years, to his hatred of me and his love for his father. I am not sure he will ever be the same, after seeing with his own eyes the lengths to which his father was willing to go to keep the lordship from him.”

“Is that what you meant by ‘righting wrongs’?” Yilon said. “His loving Kayley, giving Dewry hope all those years… stopping you from having your own cubs?”

She remained silent. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to speak ill of Sheffin.”

“He loved too much,” she said. “He could not bear to put one he loved aside, even when that one took advantage of his love. Of all the mistakes a lord can make, that is not such a bad one.”

“He tried to make my mother betray her husband.”

“None would have needed to know, in his mind. He did not want to hurt your father.” She rested a paw on the opening. Grey hairs speckled the brown fur of her long, delicate fingers, and two narrow silver bracelets clinked against the stone. “Which brings us back to you.”

Yilon still didn’t move, though the chill of the stone was creeping into him further and further. “Give me a minute.” He was trying to understand what it meant, that letter from his father. His first bitter thought was, why couldn’t he have sent Volyan out here if he liked me more? But things didn’t work that way. And so here he was, sitting on a cold stone floor in a crypt on the other side of the country from everything he thought of as home. He’d never wanted anything more in that moment than he wanted his mother’s presence near him, a warm cup of milk, an a sleep unencumbered by worry or responsibility next to a healthy, happy Sinch.

Dinah’s voice came through to him, followed a moment later by her muzzle as Lady Dewanne withdrew. “Sinch is going to be okay,” she said, encouragingly. “They’ve got him on the way to the chirurgeon.”

That just reminded him of the feel of the limp body in his arms. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he said.

She looked away, up at Lady Dewanne, probably. “We’re counting on you.”

“Who?” He couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t be better off without him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Me. Lady Dewanne. All of the city.” She paused. “The Shadows.”

The Shadows. He looked up and around at the darkness. But for the lack of water and filthy odor, this place was dark enough to be the sewer. He thought of his promise to Whisper, and how proud Sinch had been of him afterwards. If he did nothing else for his friend, that would be a fitting legacy. Atoning for past mistakes, Kishin’s and Shadow’s and countless foxes and mice. And, not least among them, his own.

He breathed in the cold air once more, flicked his ears to the palpable silence, and then rocked forward to his knees. “All right,” he said. “I’m coming.”

 
The muted light of morning streamed into Yilon’s chambers. The heat had broken; the clouds that filled the sky now bathed the city in a gentle rain. He held his arms out, waiting for the young fox to finish fastening his garments. He had tied and re-tied the fastenings on the back of the doublet three times, each time following it with, “I’m sorry, my lord,” in progressively higher and more nervous tones. His name was Raffi, and he had been appointed by Maxon to be Yilon’s servant after Min’s death, one of the last acts the steward had ever made.

“It’s okay,’ Yilon said, though his arms were starting to ache and the wide belt rubbed his stomach wounds, even through the soft chemise he wore under the doublet. “Just relax.”

“There.” Raffi stood back. “I think it is all done now.” His tail relaxed, uncurling from around his leg, and then he jumped at a knock on the door. He stared at Yilon.

Yilon lowered his arms and smiled gently. “Answer it?”

“Oh!” Raffi ran to the door and opened it.

Caffin walked in, dressed in a more formal footservant’s uniform than Yilon had seen before. He bowed. “My lord,” he said, “the ladies are waiting for you.”

“I’ll be there in a moment.” He couldn’t help contrasting Raffi’s nervous eagerness to please to Min’s more confident and capable manner. “Are we done, Raffi?”

“Yes, my Lord. Almost, my Lord. There is this chain… if I may…”

Though Raffi was two years younger than Yilon, he was nearly a foot taller. Yilon didn’t even have to duck for his servant to loop the silver chain around his neck and fasten it. It tugged at the fur on the back of his neck.

“My Lord?” Caffin hesitated at Yilon’s nod. He ducked his head. “Forgive the presumption, but… is it true what they’re saying?”

“About what?” Yilon already knew.

“In the church, yesterday… they say that after he killed Maxon, and threatened you,” Caffin briefly pressed his fingers to his chest in a quick approximation of the sign of Canis, “Canis descended from the sky and struck his senses from him. They say he’s lost all reason.”

Yilon lifted one of the links from his chest and turned over the finger-sized circle so that the star of Canis inside it caught the sun. He let it fall again as Raffi came around to the front, brushing fur from the green fabric of the doublet. “Yes,” he said. “That’s about right.”

Raffi stared at him, wide-eyed, and then remembered what he was doing. “There,” the young servant said, finishing with the doublet. “Let me just…” He straightened the chain, let it fall, straightened it again. When he reached for it a third time, Yilon raised his paw.

“We’re ready. Lead on, Caffin.”

For most of that morning, Yilon had been trying to forget the events of the previous day, up to the time when he’d crawled out of the crypt, past the bewildered workers who were just arriving to decorate the church. He’d made Lady Dewanne take him to the chirurgeon Incic, where he’d sat in the small, private waiting room pacing back and forth until Incic himself came out to tell him that he’d done all he could and they would have to see if Sinch would make it through the night. Yilon had wanted to stay, but Lady Dewanne had reminded him that he needed to attend the ceremony Maxon had died to make possible, and that guilt drove him back to the castle. After a nearly completely silent dinner, he’d retired early to his room and slept fitfully until a young Raffi had woken him.

They approached the office. From inside, Yilon heard the voices of Dinah and Lady Dewanne stop when Caffin knocked at the door.

“Come,” Lady Dewanne said. “The Heir to see you,” Caffin announced. Yilon stepped through as Caffin held the door for him. Raffi tried to follow, but Caffin took him firmly by the wrist and pulled him back.

“Caffin,” Lady Dewanne said, “please bring our other guests up when they are ready.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Caffin kept hold of Raffi, as though the servant might dart back into the office, and closed the door.

Lady Dewanne wore a long, elegant forest-green gown with silver trim, and a silver circlet above her ears, but Yilon’s eyes were drawn to Dinah. She stood in the sunlight, in a similar gown with a pattern of silver beads on the shoulders which caught the sun in bright flashes as she turned. Her head, though, was bare. “Good morning,” she said with a smile.

“You look beautiful,” he said, pushing memories away. “What other guests?”

Lady Dewanne smiled. “Your parents arrived last night. You were already asleep, and considering the events of the past few days, we chose not to wake you.”

“My… parents?” He looked back to Dinah’s smile, then at the door. “Um… which parents?”

“Both of them.” She didn’t seem to realize that this didn’t answer his question, at least not completely. “It was a surprise to me, as well. I had told them when the Confirmation was to take place, but I never received an answer.”

He tried to picture his mother, or his father, here in Dewanne. It just didn’t fit. This was the place where he’d known Dinah and Lady Dewanne, Corwin and Maxon and Min. They belonged here. But his father? Even stranger, his mother (if she’d arrived)? Though he’d not seen his mother in two years, and had said good-bye to his father only three weeks ago, they both felt equally distant from him, part of a different world. “They’ve been here since last night?”