Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (31 page)

There was light, and it hurt his eyes. He crushed his eyelids together, but it persisted so he opened them, looked up at the ceiling. His mouth felt bad. There was a stickiness and a thickness there that reminded him of a shocking hangover, but it was worse than that.

I need water.

His whole body ached. This was a feeling that he knew. Sleeping in wooden chairs is never wise. The muscles cramp and flesh is pressed between bone and wood. It bruises.

The Shan.

He started up in the chair, memory returning in a rush, and gasped at the pain. Everything hurt, but especially his head.

The Shan sat in the chair beside him. She looked still and peaceful, eyes closed and hands resting lightly in her lap. There was a glass on the table between them, and it contained a trace of blue liquid. He levered himself upright and examined her more closely, working hard to focus on the task through the pain and discomfort. She was dead.

So much for death mating; he felt no different at all. Looking around the Shan’s rooms he found what looked like a jug of water. He sniffed it and tasted a drop on the end of a finger, but it appeared to be just plain water. He drank greedily.

He should get back to his rooms.

Don’t forget the ribbon, the glasses.

He started. Had that been a voice? Just a memory, perhaps, a memory of what she had said, but clear as a bell, and in the Shan’s voice. It was disturbing and suspicious. He went back and took the ribbon and the two glasses, pulled the chair he had sat in to the other side of the room. That was what she had said, do it so there would be no clues for Gerique.

He looked around again to be sure that there was nothing left in the room that would show that he had been here. It was a sterile, sad place to die. A memory flashed in his mind again of the house perched over the sea, bathed in hard, tropical sunshine. Her memory?

The walk back to his chambers was not long, and it was still night time, though there was a hint of light in the sky. It would be dawn soon.

He could hear voices. As he crossed the courtyard they became louder and he paused in a shadow, looking to see who might be passing at this time of night, but there was no movement. He heard a familiar voice, quite loud and quite close; Gerique. He pressed further back into shadow and waited, but still there was no movement. The voice was odd, too. It didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone.

It was a spell, an incantation, and as he focussed on it he recognised it as the spell of healing. There was movement, too, but it was not people. Shapes and colours slid around the air. It was beautiful. He realised that he was hearing and seeing a spell that had been cast many days, perhaps even years before.

How could this be?

Something from the death mating perhaps.

It was the Shan’s voice again. Something of the personality, she had said, might be passed on.

More than I thought.

“You’re in my head!”

Not really. Rin is dead. I am a piece of what Rin gave you, but somehow independent.

“Get out of my head!”

There was no answer, but he could feel a presence brooding there. Somehow the Shan had got into him, could read his thoughts. He hurried back to his rooms, angry and afraid. He locked his door, went into his study and locked that, too.

He sat in a chair and tried to calm himself. It was still his head. He was in control.

“Explain.” He said.

You are more reasonable. That it good.

“Explain!”

I am not Rin, I am you.

“Well, you sound like the Shan, and anyway I wouldn’t call her Rin.”

I can guess. That guess is that our minds were too different, and you coped with the gift by partitioning off what you couldn’t merge. I have never heard of it before.

“How do I get rid of it?”

Time. Your mind made me: a separate personality to house the gift, when you can accept it, it will disappear.

“I don’t want this gift – some other voice prattling on inside my head. I reject it.” He was angry again.

Too late.

He slammed his fist onto the desk and cried out in frustration.

Try to be grateful, Cal Serhan. Rin was old and wise and clever. She helped you when you needed help and gave her life to protect you.

“It’s true,” he conceded, “but you’re inside my head!”

Try to understand. Rin is dead. This voice and this presence exist because you have created them. Only you are inside your head.

“Yes, you said before, but I still hear you. You are still different.”

There was no reply. So he had to live with this? It was hard enough keeping things straight without having two minds. Would he argue with himself? Would he interrupt himself in the middle of conversations with other people? This could lead to madness.

“So what is this other thing?” he asked. “I could see colours, shapes, hear words spoken when there was nobody there. What is that?”

As you guessed, it was magic. You can see and hear the past presence of magic. If you go to a place where a spell has been cast, you can hear and see it.

“You think so?”

So it seems. Rin could see the past, know what had been said and done, and sometimes glimpse the future, as with us – you. Perhaps you do not have the senses to do that, but magic is something that you can do.

“Look, to stop me going mad I’m going to call you Rin. You sound like Rin, and you talk like her.”

Very well.

“So what you’re saying is that if I go to a place where I know a spell has been cast I can hear and see it?”

It seems so.

“That could be very useful. I could learn spells that had only been spoken in secret.”

There was no answer. He felt worse than he had ever done, and opened up a cabinet that he kept in his study. There were five bottles there, and he reached for one. A few draughts and he would sleep for a while.

His hand stopped half way to the bottle, and he felt a surge of disgust. This was what he had become, a man who hid from the world in the numbness and confusion of a distilled spirit? Mai would not want this.

But so have I been, and now not wishing it I wonder who’s wish that is. Rin? Are you already so much a part of me that I reject this hiding in grief?

Nothing answered him, and he closed the cabinet. No drink would help him sleep tonight, if sleep there was to be had. Yet night had gone, and there was a new day pushing through the windows.

He went back out of his study and found water, took many deep draughts, and then went to his bed chamber, folding himself up in blankets and a little piece of the future. Sleep was what he needed, day or night, and when he woke there would be things to do, and perhaps a little destiny in his hands.

The first few hours back at Tarlyn Saine’s house had been difficult for Calaine. She had found it necessary to convince first Corban, and then Tarlyn that she was not seriously injured, and that nothing that had occurred had been in the least their fault. This was particularly difficult with Corban, who chose to believe that something different would have happened if he had climbed with her.

Calaine did not understand this at all. The only difference that she could imagine was that Corban would have been killed or beaten as well. There was certainly nothing that he could have done against six armed men.

She had just succeeded in calming her hosts when her father arrived, steaming with anger and indignation, ready to attack the completely blameless guard contingent that had saved her life, ready to wreak vengeance on anyone to whom a portion of blame could be attached.

Swords were drawn in the Saine house for what she guessed was the first time in decades. The militiamen drew theirs to protect their masters, the guard drew theirs because Tarnell’s men drew theirs, and Calaine drew her own weapon to beat the others down. There was a lot of shouting.

In a way it was a small miracle that nobody was killed. She eventually persuaded her father to send his men down to the courtyard, on the condition that Portina’s men went out to the garden, and only the militia remained in the house.

“You’re telling me,” Tarnell said, quite red faced and still breathing hard, “that your life was saved by a contingent of Ocean’s Gate guard? That I owe them your life?” It was almost a challenge, daring her to say it was so.

“Yes.”

Her father looked at Portina, and there was still nothing in his eyes that suggested belief. Portina looked indifferent, but his hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword.

“Father,” she said. Time to try something new. “May I introduce you to the Regani Bren Portina of Blaye.”

That stopped him.

“Regani?” His eyes cleared and he looked at Portina again. This time there was curiosity dulling the anger.

“I do not use the title,” the captain said stiffly.

“You are the Regani – King of Blaye? Portina, yes, I recognise the name.” There was another flash of anger and disbelief. “You serve the Faer Karan?”

“I am a realist.”

“You are a coward!”

“And you are a fool.”

Both men were angry, but it was Tarnell who drew his sword. “You killed my son!”

Portina’s sword was drawn. “Your son killed himself.”

“Liar!”

Calaine stepped between them, beating Portina’s blade back with her own and kicking her father.

“Portina is right,” she said.

“How can you say that? Your brother was heir to the throne of Samara!”

“He was heir to nothing, heir to running and hiding, heir to hunger and hatred in equal measure, heir to a war against an opponent he couldn’t beat. Like you. You knew it – you knew it yourself, and still you pass it on, like a disease from generation to generation.”

“Petron did not kill himself!”

“Captain,” she turned to Portina. “Tell me how my brother died.”

The guardsman was surprised, but quickly gathered himself. He sheathed his sword and relaxed a little.

“There is not much to tell. We were sent a message. Now I think that it was Fram who sent it, though I have no proof…”

“That one will die slowly,” Tarnell muttered.

“We were told that there would be something of value at the tavern, and a patrol of ten men was sent to see if it was so. As they walked through the door they were attacked. They did not know who it was, but orders have been given not to engage, not since the losses at Barisal, so they withdrew. The rest of the men still outside were in a defensive posture. There were three archers, all of them across the street, and it’s a wide one. As soon as your men came out of the door one of them ran at the archers, sword raised. There was no way he was going to get to them. They shot him before he’d taken five paces. That was your brother. The others took him away when they saw our numbers. The sergeant in charge didn’t pursue.”

“Father?”

“Lies.”

“You know it is true. Petron was always careless of his own life. Charging three archers with arrows already on the string was no better than suicide.”

“You cannot think that of your own brother.” Tarnell’s fury now sounded desperate.

“I know it is true,” Calaine said. “Since his death I have had the same thoughts. The throne of Samara is a doom, not an honour.”

“Calaine!” The anger in his voice was turned on her now. Portina stayed silent, but she could see that he was watching with great interest.

“The sadness is that it does not have to be.”

“You would abdicate?”

“No. I do not know where this hatred, this war on everything came from, but it has not served us. Tell me, Regani, Father, what would you do if Borbonil and Cabersky came to Samara? If you were so successful that the Faer Karan themselves chose to face you? Would you ride out, flanked by your loyal men to face them, as the king of Samara did four hundred years ago?”

The king looked away. “You know that they cannot be faced.”

“Then who is it that we fight?”

“We fight against surrender, against the spirit that accepts the usurpers.”

“They hate us for it, father. The city and all its people hate us.”

“I am the king,” Tarnell rallied. “I rule in Samara. It is my right. Do you, too, betray me, Calaine?”

“No, Regani. You are the king. But I plead for a different kind of king. I want the people of the city to love my father, their king.”

“It cannot be while the Faer Karan rule.”

Calaine was in her stride, now. Her father had never been this open before, never argued with her, never allowed her to question him in this way. It might be how close she had come to death, and it might be that now she was the Do-Regana, the heir.

“We can change everything,” she said.

She had them both. Her father waited for her to speak, and Portina leaned forward in his chair, eyes keen.

“Captain,” she asked. “Who is Ocean’s Gate’s greatest foe?”

He did not hesitate. “The Lord Serhan, Seneschal of White Rock.”

“Why?”

“He has reduced our numbers by half, he is changing the way that half the world is governed, his subjects and his men alike love and esteem him. Even Borbonil fears him now. He is a great man.”

“Why do they love him, Captain?”

“Because he loves them, or at least acts always in their interest. He has driven out the bandits, garrisoned the towns, given the people law and stability. He has brought peace to their lands and prosperity follows.”

“As in White Rock,” she said. “So in Samara.”

There was a silence in the room. Her father was staring at her. Captain Portina looked thoughtful.

“I see what you think, Do-Regana,” Portina said. “But Borbonil will not allow it.”

“We do not need the usurper’s permission, Captain,” she snapped back. “We have resisted the Faer Karan for four hundred years.”

“You want us to give up the fight?” Her father looked bewildered.

“No. Never. But we will fight with new weapons. The people will look to us for justice, for protection. The Faer Karan cannot rule a city. They only seek to destroy any other authority, and we are good at not being destroyed.”

“They will hunt you with even greater vigour,” the captain said.

“But not at first. White Rock has wounded you, and it will be years before you are up to strength, and I do not think your men will hunt so eagerly, captain, when the whole city turns its face against them. They have friends here, family, wives, children.”

“You are right,” Portina was thoughtful. “There would be much sympathy for your cause if it were so presented, and Borbonil is fighting for the survival of his own lordship amongst the Faer Karan. If he fails there may be another face at Ocean’s Gate, and a new outlook.”

“It cannot be so, Calaine,” Tarnell said. “Even if you are right, the people hate us. You have said so yourself.”

“Forgive me, father, but I am not so well known as Petron, not so disliked. If you let me be your new face, your Serhan, I think it can be credible.”

“You are asking me to give up power? I am the king. It would show great weakness.”

“Only the appearance of power, father. You are still the king. You will always be the king while you live. Would you not have given power to Petron had he asked? You said that you would have liked to have him by your side.”

“I do not know, Calaine. You are unprepared for this.”

“You wanted me to advise Petron, to learn from others so that I could be a voice of wisdom in his ear. I have learned. I have at least begun to learn. Let me fulfil that promised role. Let me advise you this day.”

Calaine knew that she had to win the argument now. Her father was well set in his ways, and on his own would revert, decide, and be unmoveable. Captain Portina was helpful. In the reluctant King of Blaye’s presence Simon Tarnell would not want to seem unreasonable or arbitrary, though he was capable of being both.

“Regani,” the captain said. “I have listened to what your daughter has said, and I find in her words a wisdom that I do not hear from older lips. White Rock grows and prospers.”

The king walked to the window, turning his back on them. There was no real view from this room, just a street along which the occasional person passed. He stood for some time staring out onto the cobbles, his arms folded. Portina made as though to speak, but Calaine held up her hand to stay his words.

Eventually he turned from the window.

“It has been our mistake,” he said, “to put our war against the usurper above the welfare of the city. The war will not end, but we will change our strategy. Noting the weakness of Ocean’s Gate and the unpopularity of our cause we will use our forces for stability, for peace, and for justice. Yes, Calaine, you will be our face. The people of Samara will see the change at once.”

“It is a wise decision, Regani,” Portina said. “I find myself jealous of the task you face, but my duty lies elsewhere.”

“Captain,” Calaine said. “I owe you my life, and also my thanks for your support and counsel in this. I cannot think that I will have an opportunity to repay you, so I ask of you that you permit me to promise you a truce. Our men will not attack the guard as long as they are not attacked. Only the guilty will die in Samara.”

“You see, Portina,” the king said. “Already she issues decrees. I offer you my hand, king to king, in thanks for saving my daughter. We may not be friends as long as you are a guard captain, but I will call the king of Blaye my ally.”

They shook hands.

How much more could now be done? Calaine made a note to herself to speak to Corban. She knew that the traders who owed allegiance to the house of Saine went as far north as White Rock, and she wanted to send a message to Serhan. She would have wanted to make the trip herself, but now that was impossible.

Corban would be pleased. She had used her mind and not her sword, and achieved a victory in which none had been defeated. It was the trader way.

Fram and what he had done still troubled her, and the knowledge of the fear she had felt would colour her life for ever, but she knew that it was not weakness. Fram would soon be only a dark memory, and the distant grief that she felt for her brother was the only bitter edge to this day. He did not die for nothing.