The Office of Shadow (50 page)

You can't change what is, but you can always make it look
like something it isn't.

-Master jedron

ust before sunset they shuffled off of the lowest hill into a row of wheat.
They were bloodied, covered and caked with dust, their clothes torn.

They headed toward a farmhouse at the end of the field, next to a stout
green barn. A few cows raised their heads to watch them approach.

A farmer was out in the yard behind the house, throwing out grain to the
chickens. He looked up at them and froze.

"What now?" said Ironfoot.

"I'll handle him," said Sela, stepping forward.

The farmer stood and watched them approach.

"What can I do for you?" he said. Silverdun couldn't imagine what he
must be thinking. Three bloody, disheveled men and a beautiful woman, all
covered in dust, appearing in his barnyard.

"We were out for a walk in the mountains," said Sela, her eyes all
apology. "It was foolish, I know. One of those impetuous ideas a girl has from
time to time. We were caught in the quake.

"Yes, we felt it down here, for sure."

"We'd be extremely appreciative if you'd avail us of your pump, and perhaps some fresh clothing," said Silverdun. "We'd be happy to pay you."

"Out for a walk?" said the farmer, contemptuously. "I know what you
were doing up there. I've seen it before."

Silverdun looked at him, confused. He started to kneel down as if to tie
his bootlace, going for the dagger in his boot.

"You think you boys are the first three that ever tried to escape a draft?"

"What draft?" said Sela. She gave the farmer an odd look, and the man's
expression grew thoughtful.

"You don't know about the draft," he said.

"Of course not," said Sela. "We've been out all day."

"It's all over the city," said the farmer. "A flier came in yesterday from the
City of Mab. All able-bodied men in the city are being called up."

"What?" said Silverdun, his voice sharp.

"There's going to be war," said the farmer.

Silverdun looked at Ironfoot, and they shared a look of despair.

"If that's the case," said Silverdun. "Then we need to get back to the city
immediately. As I said, I'm happy to pay for some clean clothes." He reached
into the pocket of his waistcoat for a few silver coins.

"Keep your money," said the farmer. "You boys are going off to fight the
Seelie. A few pairs of trousers is the least I can do."

He looked sadly at Sela. "You might fit in some of my wife's old things.
She was a bit bigger than you, but with a little bit of tucking and tying, I
imagine it'll do until you get home."

"Thank you," said Sela. She gave him the same odd look as before, and
he actually smiled.

"It's my pleasure," he said. "We're all in this together, after all."

The farmer took them into the house and handed out towels and fresh
clothes. They took turns at the pump next to the barn, washing the dust from
themselves, but regardless of how long he dunked his head under the pump,
the grit never left Silverdun's hair.

The farmer's clothes were a bit tight, and far from fashionable, but Silverdun didn't care. The news of the draft had sent a chill down Silverdun's
spine, and every part of him wanted to race away from the farm, but the last
thing they needed was to make the farmer suspicious.

Eventually they were as clean as they were going to get, and all dressed.
The farmer-whose name, they discovered, was Tiro-gave them cold
chicken to eat. Silverdun wasn't hungry until the plate was set in front of
him, but as soon as he took the first bite, he found he was ravenous.

It was night when they finally bade Tiro good-bye.

"Are you sure I can't drive you back to town in my cart?" he asked. "It's
two miles to the gate from here."

"No," said Sela, taking his hand in hers. "You've done too much already."

"Whatever suits you," said Tiro.

"Thank you so much," said Sela.

Timha, who had said little up to this point, offered, "You are a great
friend in Mab."

"We all do what we can in her service," said Tiro.

Tiro looked at Silverdun, very serious, and motioned him aside. "Let me
give you some advice, son," he said. "I know a little of the ways of the world,
and if you've got any sense, you'll marry that young lady before you go off to
fighting." He nodded toward Sela.

Silverdun thought of correcting Tiro, but stopped himself. "That's wise
advice," he said.

They took the road to the city, but veered away before they reached
Elenth proper. Instead, they headed up a side road up the far slope of the
valley, to the south of the city, to a villa where the Arcadian priest Virum was
waiting for them. Virum would provide them with mounts and escort them
to a closely guarded secret spot along the border where they would be able to
cross unobserved.

The villa was dark when they arrived. Odd, since the evening wasn't that
far gone, but not worrisome; they were three days late, after all.

The villa was a great pile of moss-covered stone set amid a stand of
willow trees. An old rope swing hung from a willow branch in the wide,
walled-in front garden. In the stable next to the house, horses quietly whickered at their approach.

Silverdun led the way through the gate and up to the house. He knocked.
Receiving no answer, he knocked again, louder.

"What do we do?" asked Sela.

"Perhaps Virum doesn't want to take any chance of being seen with us
that he doesn't have to."

Silverdun tried the door and found it unlocked. They went inside. There
was no one to be seen.

The house was elegantly decorated; thick damask curtains hung over the windows, and the furniture was plush and well crafted. Timha spied a soft
divan in a parlor off the entryway and slouched toward it. Silverdun raised a
bit of blue witchlight, looking for a lamp.

"Hello, Journeyer Timha," came an oily voice from the parlor. "So lovely
to see you again." A tall, thin figure dressed entirely in black stepped out of
the shadows and swiped at Timha's throat. Blood spattered purple in the
witchlight, and Timha fell to the floor, gasping.

The slim figure stepped into Silverdun's light. It was Bel Zheret.
Another appeared on the stairwell, and another materialized out of the darkness of the hallway. Each of them held a long, serrated knife.

"You are the Shadows, yes?" said the one in the parlor. His knife was
smeared with Timha's blood. Before Silverdun could react, he said, "Hold a
moment, won't you? We have no wish for further violence."

Silverdun stopped, knife in hand. No one moved. From everything Paet
had told them about the Bel Zheret, a fight in close quarters could well be
suicide.

"What do you want?" said Silverdun. "Other than murdering poor
Timha."

"I am called Asp," said the Bel Zheret in the parlor. "My colleague on the
stairs is Dog, and in the hallway is my dear old friend, my boon companion,
Cat."

"Lovely meeting you," said Silverdun. "Again, what do you want?"

"We Bel Zheret take our promises very seriously," said Asp. "It's in our
nature, you see. We were lovingly crafted by Mab to be loyal, honest, and
most of all, reliable. I made a promise that I would kill Timha if he failed his
queen, and I am unable-constitutionally unable, mind you-to ignore that
oath. Surely you can understand."

"Of course," said Silverdun. "A promise is a promise, after all."

"Now," said Asp. "As I'm sure my old acquaintance Paet has informed
you, you Shadows are woefully inadequate to the task of defeating us in
combat. He probably told you to flee us on sight, as he did us, back in
Annwn."

"Tell me," said Cat. "Does he still walk with a cane?"

Silverdun felt an odd sensation. He turned to face Sela, saw her glancing at him. She was pressing against him with her Empathy. He dropped his
guard and let her in, much as it pained him to do so. He allowed her access
to him, and immediately regretted it. The remorse and sense of loss was palpable; it washed over him, draining what little hope he had of escaping this
confrontation alive.

"He does, in fact," said Silverdun. "It's a jaunty thing, too. Head in the
shape of a duck."

He felt a thought forming in his mind. I can stop then. It was less a statement than a collection of emotions: aggression, confidence, concentration.
But the intent was clear. Then came worry, concern. You and Ironfoot must be
out of the way. She looked down at the band around her arm. Frustration,
impotence. Make this go away.

And fear: Run.

"Well, here's a proposition for you," said Asp. "We've been here waiting
for you for a few days, and it's given us a chance to talk and think about
things, reminisce over old acquaintances.

"It also gave us time to nibble on that priest Virum. And my, was he
tasty."

Both Paet and Sela had been cagey about exactly what purpose Sela's
armband served. It was a restraining band-that much was obvious. They
were generally used to bind prisoners with Gifts, to render them reitically
harmless. Sela was already a powerful Empath. What would happen if she
removed the band? He wasn't sure he wanted to find out, and he certainly
didn't want to be connected to her when it happened.

"So we decided on a fun compromise," Asp continued. "You came all this
way for poor Timha, and you didn't get him, so I don't see that letting you
go could do much harm. So we'll just take one of you, and let the other two
go free. On the assumption that if we were to fight, there's some chance that
you might kill at least one of us. I think that's a very good bargain."

Silverdun glanced quickly over at Ironfoot, who nodded. He was connected with Sela as well.

Asp frowned. "Please tell me you're not planning some kind of secretive
maneuver," he said. "It's just going to get you all killed."

"Fine," said Silverdun. "You can have the woman."

"What?" said Sela, looking at him in horror. Had he misunderstood her?
Or was she simply playing the part? Her connection to him vanished before
he could sense the answer.

"Oh," said Asp. "Well, that's lovely! I honestly didn't think you were
going to agree. All that Fae propriety and so forth."

"We Shadows have no use for propriety," said Ironfoot. "They leached it
out of us, just as your masters did to you."

"Not quite," said Asp. "We never had any to begin with."

"So, we give you the woman, and you let us leave?" said Silverdun.

"Why, I suppose so!" said Asp, seemingly delighted.

"Then come along, Ironfoot," said Silverdun.

"But the next time we see each other," said Asp. "I wouldn't expect any
such bargain."

"Understood," said Silverdun. He and Ironfoot backed slowly toward the
door. Sela looked at him, forlorn, empty.

At the doorway, Silverdun stopped and said, "I'm so sorry, Sela." He
stepped toward the door, raised his hand as if to bind the witchlight in the
room to keep it lit, but instead channeled Elements, and dissolved the silver
lining around the iron band on Sela's arm. He heard it clatter to the floor,
heard Sela shriek.

The world exploded with light. Not actual light, like the witchlight that
Silverdun had conjured in Preyia. Something else: an illumination of reality
that separated and defined everything in Silverdun's vision: each blade of
grass, each willow, each stone on the garden path. He and Ironfoot ran, and
when he looked at Ironfoot, he saw a being of light, a superimposition of
bone and blood and flesh and something else, a column of white entangled in
a web of blackness. That web, he knew, was in him as well. It was what made
him a Shadow, he realized with total certainty. The pit that Jedron had
thrown them in, the pool of blackness. It was in them and around them and
it had somehow become them.

A sound came from the house that Silverdun had never heard before. A
howl-no, a pair of howls-rising shrilly into the night sky, a sound of infinite pain, infinite horror.

Reality shifted back to its normal state. The front door to the house slammed open, and one of the Bel Zheret, Asp, lurched out of the front door,
lunging at Ironfoot.

"Monsters!" he screamed, tackling Ironfoot. The two of them went down
in a tangle. "She killed them! She took them! You are all monsters!"

The Bel Zheret was stronger by far than Ironfoot, who was still recovering from his close call with Timha on the ledge. All for nothing, Silverdun
realized. He ran and kicked Asp in the stomach as hard as he could.

Which, it turned out, was harder than he imagined. The Shadow
strength flowed through him. The Bel Zheret flew off of Ironfoot and
slammed into a nearby willow trunk, his knife clattering from his hand. Silverdun pursued him.

With astonishing speed, Asp righted himself and met Silverdun's
approach. He grasped Silverdun by the throat and hammered him with his
fist, in the solar plexus, driving Silverdun's breath out of his chest and
knocking him backward. The force of the impact twisted Silverdun's neck in
Asp's iron grip, and it felt as though his throat was about to split open with
the strain.