The Office of Shadow (54 page)

"I can hear you," Jedron said, not turning around.

"I know," said Silverdun.

They stood together at the pit, looking down into it. It was dull gray in
the sunlight, dank and deeply unpleasant. The temperature here seemed
easily ten degrees colder.

Jedron said nothing at first, then sighed.

"Here's the truth," he said. "Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, is dead."

"I know that," said Silverdun. "I felt the knife go in."

"That's not what I mean. Silverdun died here, in this pit. On the last
night of your training. Ironfoot and I hurled him in here, and what was inside
the pit ate him. He is no more." Jedron reached inside his robe and withdrew
a small white object.

"Here's all that's left of him. A tooth. Maybe a molar."

Silverdun took the tooth and looked at it, remembering the bone he'd
found in the pit after watching Ironfoot go into it.

"The problem with your theory," said Silverdun, "is that I'm standing
right next to you."

"Yes, you are. But you're not Silverdun."

"No? Then who am I?"

"A shadow. A shadow of him. You're a thing that's taken his form, taken
his mind and memories. A sylph, to be precise."

"A sylph."

"Never heard of them?" said Jedron. "I'm not surprised. They're very
rare, and we don't advertise their existence.

"Elusive little creatures. We get them from an island across the sea. The
way they hunt is to eat animals-deer mainly-and assume their shape. Then
they join the herd and kill the animal's friends and relatives at their leisure.
Nasty things."

"I don't feel like eating my friends or my relatives," said Silverdun.

"Well, we alter the sylphs a bit first," said Jedron. "It's a complicated and
expensive process, I can assure you. And an extremely classified one. That's
why we never told you. The less any of our people knows, the better."

"In case I was captured."

"Yes."

"So I'm not who I think I am," said Silverdun.

"Who is?" Jedron shrugged. "People make such a fuss of identity and the
concept of self. But it's only because they're mortal and afraid to die.

"Listen, you have all of Silverdun's memories, all of his feelings, all of his
emotional detritus. You have all of his Gifts. You're him, more or less. More,
really, since you're stronger, faster, more powerful, and you can be brought
back from the dead. I'd like to see the old you try that."

"But ... what about the soul?" said Silverdun.

"How the hell should I know? Have I ever given you any indication that
I might be a philosopher?"

"So," said Silverdun, understanding everything Jedron had told him, but
not accepting it. "Ironfoot?"

"The same."

"And Paet?"

"Yes. And I as well. And scores of others down through the centuries. I'll
admit, I found it a bit troubling at first, but once I realized it didn't make a
rat's shit worth of difference, I got over it. So will you."

"What about Sela?" asked Silverdun. "She was never brought here."

"No."

"Why not?"

Jedron thought about it. "We were afraid to," he said. "The man who
made her what she is did a far better job than I ever could. To do to her what
we did to you could have been ... disastrous."

"What do you mean by that?"

"None of your damn business."

Jedron spat into the pit and turned away. "Let's go," he said.

"How long have you been here, Jedron?" Silverdun asked.

"Four hundred years or thereabouts. I stopped counting a long time ago.
But I think I might retire soon. Get a little cottage somewhere, with some
trees. I miss the trees." He stopped and stared into the distance. "Honestly,
the caliber of trainee they've been sending me the past few decades has made
me fear for the future of Faerie."

"Shocking."

"Who knows?" said Jedron. "Maybe I'll teach you all my secrets one day, and you can take my place." He stroked his beard. "On second thought, I'd
probably pick Ironfoot over you. He's a bit brighter."

"Wait," said Silverdun. "What happened to Paet? If we're so indestructible, why isn't he still active? Why does he have a limp?"

"Bel Zheret got to him five years ago. Ripped out most of his spine, ate
part of his brain. You can regenerate most things, as I believe you've noticed,
but you're not invincible. So don't go thinking you are. If you die out there
and aren't brought back, well ... Paet didn't bring you here because I missed
you. And don't even ask what I had to do in order to bring you back. To say
it's a Black Art doesn't even begin to describe it."

He clapped Silverdun on the shoulder, the only mildly friendly thing Silverdun had ever seen him do. "Now let's get going. Paet's waiting down at
the dock."

Silverdun looked down into the pit, thinking. "You'll never have that
cottage, will you? You can't ever leave Whitemount, not with the things you
know."

Jedron looked at him, serious. "No," he said. "When I get too sick of it
to stand it another day, I imagine I'll walk into the ocean and drown myself.
And if Paet tries to revive me, I'll slit his throat."

"Thank you, Jedron," said Silverdun.

Jedron punched him in the face.

Silverdun is having an excellent time at the cafe until he looks up and spies
his mother. She is moving toward him very slowly, glaring at him the way
she once did when she caught him doing things he oughtn't. He rises from
the table and staggers toward her, nearly falling. He's had quite a bit to
drink.

He meets her at an empty table halfway, and they sit together.

"Who's your new lady?" comes the drunkenly stupid voice of one of his
friends. He waves it away.

"Mother, what in the name of Auberon's pale ass are you doing here?"

"Language, Perrin," she says primly.

Silverdun sighs. "What in the name of Auberon's pale hindquarters are
you doing here, then?"

"I can see that I should have sent a sprite ahead of me."

"That might have been wise."

Mother places her hands gently on the table before her. "There wasn't any
time. I had to see you right away."

"Oh, but you never come to the city, and it's so lovely this time of year,
Mother," says Silverdun, his mind wandering. "Tomorrow night there's a
mestina you simply must see, and-"

"I'm dying, Perrin. I came to say good-bye."

Silverdun stops, words colliding on his tongue.

"Whatever does that mean?"

"It means that I am dying, and I intend to do so not at our family home,
but at a convent in the South."

"You. What?" Silverdun can't compose a proper question. "You aren't
dying," he says stupidly.

"I can assure you that I am. Several well-paid physicians have confirmed it."

"How long-?"

"A few months, possibly. Impossible to know."

"But ..." Silverdun doesn't quite know. But what?

"So I came to say good-bye to you, Perrin."

"No, no," says Silverdun. "You'll come stay with me. I know the queen's
personal physician. She'll take care of this. We'll go to the mestina together."

Tears are beginning to insinuate themselves across Silverdun's vision.
"You're going about this all wrong."

"This would be much easier if you were sober," says Mother.

Silverdun concentrates. Working Elements while drunk isn't wise, but
Silverdun has no great reputation for wisdom. He hums a sobering cantrip
that's come in handy more than once and is rewarded with a powerful
headache for his efforts.

"Oh, hell!" he says. "I'm sober now."

He realizes now how pathetic he must look to his Arcadian mother. The
wastrel Lord Silverdun at a cafe in the wrong part of the city, drinking with
his wastrel friends. Sons and daughters of the gentry, all. One of them once joked to Silverdun that they should start a musical group and name it "The
Grave Disappointments."

"I'm sorry," he says.

Mother takes a deep breath, and Silverdun can now see that it is an effort
for her to do so. He cringes.

She reaches up and touches his cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry for,
my sweet boy."

"This isn't who I wanted to be," he says.

"I know."

"Why aren't you angry at me?" he asks.

"You're angry at yourself enough for both of us, I think. I'm finding that
I'm too grateful for what is to worry about what might have been."

"That does it," says Silverdun. It's as though a dam has burst in him, but
he doesn't know what the dam is or what it's been holding back. "Tomorrow
I'm going to call my solicitor and I'm going to take back Oarsbridge, and I'm
going to give it all away to those bloody farmers once and for all."

"I don't want you to do that anymore," says Mother.

"Why not?"

"Because if you try, your uncle will have you killed. I'm certain of it."

"I'm not frightened of Bresun," says Silverdun, straightening his back.

"Whether you are or you aren't," says Mother, "he will not part with
Oarsbridge. He believes he is Oarsbridge, and Lord Silverdun in all but name
only. He'd rather die than give that up."

"And what about those poor noblemen? The villagers and the farmers?"

"I'm a dying old woman, Perrin. If I want to prefer my son over all of
them, then Aba can grouse to me about it himself when I see him."

Silverdun sighs. "What do you want from me?" he asks.

"To be happy, Perrin. What else?"

The next morning, he watches her carriage drive off through the city,
feeling certain that he will never see her again. He's reassured her that he will
let the matter between him and Bresun drop.

As soon as the carriage has disappeared, however, Silverdun goes directly
to the family solicitor's office. He knows the way well, as this is where he goes
every month to draw upon his trust.

"You're a week early," says the solicitor, when Silverdun barges into his
office.

"I'm here about something else entirely," says Silverdun. "I'm here to
take back my lordship."

The solicitor looks at him through squinted eyes, tapping a long white
quill pen against an inkwell as he considers Silverdun's words.

"I was wondering when I'd finally hear you say that," says the solicitor,
smiling.

Silverdun explains his plan, and the solicitor listens patiently, asking
questions, making suggestions. When Silverdun returns home, he feels alive
for the first time in as long as he can remember. It is time. Time to become
a man. He goes to bed thinking about his childhood, about the day when he
showed his mother how far he could walk around the wall. He feels as if
something important has been given back to him.

The next morning, Silverdun awakes to find a quartet of burly Royal
Guardsmen standing in his bedroom.

"Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun," says one, reading from an official document, "you are hereby detained for the crime of treason."

"Excuse me?" says Silverdun. "I'm fairly certain I've never done that one."

Silverdun's next meeting with his solicitor is far less friendly, and takes
place in jail.

"I can't believe you'd betray me like this," says Silverdun. "You worked
for my father." He eyes the solicitor across the small table with genuine fury.
He can't remember the last time he felt something so white-hot.

"I did work for your father," says the solicitor. "But I work for your uncle
now." As if this justifies his betrayal.

"How can I possibly be charged with treason?" says Silverdun. "Isn't that
a bit excessive?"

"You signed documents in my office yesterday signaling your intent to
take an estate from its rightful owner and provide it to an organization that
does not respect Seelie sovereignty. That is a traitorous act."

"I am its rightful owner!"

"That's not relevant, legally speaking."

Silverdun fumes. "And what makes you think you're going to get a judge who'll play along with this `organization that does not respect Seelie sovereignty' nonsense? Times have changed."

"Perhaps," says the solicitor. "But not all judges have changed along with
them. And it so happens that the court official who does judicial assignments
is a very good friend of your uncle's."

Silverdun is offered a choice. He can stand trial, and almost certainly be
hanged, or he can plead guilty and spend the rest of his life in prison.

Silverdun is sitting in his holding cell pondering these options when he
receives a note from his mother.

Perrin,

I would have come in person, but I am now too weak to travel, so this letter must suffice. I've received word f rom your uncle apprising me of your situation and asking me
to implore you not to take your case to trial. I will so implore you, but not fir him.
Braun wants to avoid the spectacle and would much prefer that you disappear quietly. I, however; simply want you to outlive me. Please respect a dying woman's last
wish in this regard.

You will not believe me, but I know that Aba is not finished with you. This is
a great detour; but it is not the end of the road. Know that.