Where Light Meets Shadow
Read Where Light Meets Shadow Online
Authors: Shawna Reppert
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR’S PREVIOUS BOOKS:
THE
STOLEN LUCK
(winner of a
2013 silver medal in the Global
Ebook
Awards for
other world fantasy and a 2014
Eppie
for fantasy
romance.)
Crissy
, JoyfullyJay.com
RAVENSBLOOD
(winner of a 2014 gold medal for contemporary fantasy in the Global
Ebooks
Awards)
“The
setting, the magical rules, and the world building are impeccable, the plot is
clever and suspenseful, and all the characters are well-drawn and interesting.
. . .” The reader is dumped right into the middle of the action and
expected to keep up, and that gives the book a sense of immediacy. The
stakes are high and very personal. . .
Carrie
S., Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
Ms. Reppert is an expert at creating damned-if-you-do,
damned-if-you-don’t situations that tax relationships and personalities to the
exploding point. Complication piles on complication, with the freedom of the
nation’s population at stake. We become involved with characters with
believable goals and ideals, placed in dire but believable circumstances where
we really care whether they win (survive) or
not.The
suspense is palpable.
The whole thing piles up to an ending that, despite all the
author’s careful hints and preparation, still knocks our socks off.
Gordon
A. Long,
Airborn
Press
“I loved this one even more than the first one
!.
. .Basically, the drama increases and the suspense with
it. Lives are on the line, Raven's and Cass's specifically. Raven has to learn
that he's more than the bad guy with a conscience. He really grows into himself
and becomes even more of an awesome hero to match his stubborn heroine.
Loren Weaver, LorenWeaver.com
As one learns to expect from Ms. Reppert, this book
abounds with entertaining characters, tight suspense, and enough steam to
satisfy diehard Romance readers.”
Gordon A. Long,
Airborn
Press
Where Light Meets Shadow
by
Shawna Reppert
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is
entirely coincidental.
Where Light Meets
Shadow
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by
Shawna Reppert
Cover by Lisa
Colgrove using photo images Sunset in the Mountains ©
Cristi_m
|
Dreamstime.com
and Harp player ©
Derektenhue
|
Dreamstime.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Dedication
For Julie Zamudio,
who made sure I got the music part right.
Author
Acknowledgments
With much thanks to Eric M.
Witchey
and to Mary Rosenblum, for all they have taught me
about the writer’s craft. Thank you to Seonaid Welch for editing. Gratitude
also to Dale and Mary Jo Mosby for the occasional one-writer writer’s retreats,
and finally to all the fine traditional musicians who have inspired me to write
about the magic of music.
Kieran had made a serious
mistake; his stomach churned sourly with the realization. Wind blew as cruelly
as the breath of the ice-dragon in the
Ballad of Barran,
driving white,
wet flakes against his face, his hair,
his
already-sodden clothes. Despite the bitter cold, sweat darkened his mare’s gray
coat in streaks. He patted her shoulder in apology and urged her on. The only
slim hope they both had for surviving the night lay in moving forward.
He had only himself to blame if
he died out here, but his poor horse had not taken part in that decision.
Kieran was surrounded by snow and
gray rock and the occasional bare, gray tree thrashing against a slate sky that
darkened with encroaching night. He could see no sign of habitation, no shelter
to speak of.
Maybe over the next rise.
He had though the path he
followed was a bridle path or at least a peddler’s track, but now he wondered
if it had just been a deer trail. It had risen, and dipped, and risen
again, but here, clear of the thick forest, he could no longer deny he overall
ascended the mountain. Did mortals dwell in higher altitudes? The
ones he’d encountered before all seemed to prefer to farm the fertile valleys.
His hands ached with cold, and he
wondered how long it would take for them to warm up enough to play, should he
find some place to exchange a few songs for food and a roof to sleep under. The
cobwebby tightness he felt in his chest did not bode well for his singing
voice. Nor did the congestion that made his head feel twice its normal size.
What was all this cold and damp
doing to his harp? It nestled in its protective case, carefully wrapped in
oilskin, but still the weather couldn’t be doing it any good.
The harp had been his father’s,
as had the sword at his side. He was rather more skilled with the former than
the latter, though he could take care of himself well enough.
He thought fondly of the warm,
cozy village inn where he’d slept last night, of the orange glow of the fire in
the huge hearth. His stomach rumbled, remembering the savory stew the innkeeper
had been pleased to serve him in exchange for songs and stories to entertain
his guests.
That inn was nearly a day’s ride
behind him. Yes, he could have asked them the distance to the next town, asked
for advice as to the road ahead. But he’d been having far too much fun playing
the mysterious, all-knowing elven bard, coming from nowhere to nowhere on a
whim.
A poor legacy he had become for
the great bard his father had been if he ended up dead on the road like some
beggar, and all a result of his pride and folly. Doubtless few he’d left behind
would be surprised at his end. Likely they’d just shake their heads.
Crazy
Kieran. Talented, but impulsive. Entirely too foolhardy.
Some, at least, might miss
him. Brona would. Surely more would miss his music.
The mare lost her footing in the
snow just as the path dipped. She slid for a few dangerous lengths before
regaining her balance. She snorted in alarm. Kieran murmured to her soothingly.
The snow had started well after
noon. By that time, he had gone hours without seeing an inn or even a
farmhouse, and decided his best chances lay in pressing ahead, though all he
could see was endless forest. Then even the trees became sparser, smaller, and
bent, stretching away from the fierceness of the prevailing winds. Stark, black
rock rose up through the snow drifts like the teeth of the mountain. The sun
sank low, and the air grew colder still.
Kieran shivered convulsively. He
could no longer feel his hands.
Fortune had favored him for weeks
into his sojourn. The mortals were kinder and more generous than he’d expected,
eager for music and in awe of his strangeness. A bard was a rarity, an elven
bard something out of legend. That they recognized him at all, and that they
were surprised at his dark hair, set whispers of caution running through his
mind, but he ignored them. He’d shared songs and stories, gathered material to
be worked into new tales and ballads. He represented an old tradition, and one
nearly dead now. Kieran’s father had been the last elven bard to honor it, in
his own youth, centuries before.
At least, his father had been the
last Scathlan elf to follow the tradition. Kieran knew nothing of the Leas
elves, nor did he care to know, so long as they stayed far away from him.
By setting out in the world
his own people had long abandoned, he risked encountering his people’s
enemies—the Leas elves had been responsible for his father’s death and,
indirectly, his mother’s, as well as his stillborn brother’s. Ironically, mere
cold and snow proved a bigger threat.
Reckless,
old Cyrna would
say.
Reckless and irresponsible.
She’d said it often enough in the
years she’d put into raising him to his majority. He’d given his old nursemaid
plenty of opportunities.
The mare raised her head, alert,
ears pricked hard forward. Kieran’s hearing, far keener than a mortal’s, didn’t
quite match that of his elven horse. A few moments later, he heard what had
caught her attention.
Thunder of hooves, belling of
hounds, and voices calling back and forth. He turned his mare toward the sound.
She picked up the pace of her own accord, breaking into a trot.
Closer still, and he could make
out the words. Could he be mad from the cold? That sounded like his own tongue
which he had not heard spoken for nearly a month.
His own tongue, yes, but the
accent was wrong. His people, and yet not his people.
Leas.
He reined the mare in. She pinned
her ears and pawed but obeyed the command. The coming night meant certain death
unless he found shelter and warmth. The Leas he was less sure of. They were
still elves, after all. He was alone, and a bard, and a stranger in need. Even
the meanest mortal crofter would not refuse him a place at the hearth under
such circumstances.
He remembered the stench of blood
and the moans of the wounded and dying, before the healer’s aide found him and
shooed him from the infirmary. His four-year-old mind had struggled to grasp
that other elves had done these terrible things. Not animals, not even mortal
men, but
elves. Leas.
He’d had nightmares about Leas, fueled by what
little he’d heard of them. Like his people, and yet unlike. Pale-haired, with
mouths twisted in awful cruelty.
He had never met one face to
face, though they were distant kin to his kind. He felt a morbid curiosity
about those who had been responsible for the destruction of his family and his
queen.
The sounds of the hunt came
closer, and Kieran realized he had been sitting frozen, like a rabbit in the
hypnotic stare of a fox. He shook himself. Maybe he was not the bard his father
was, after all, but he was all the hope his people had, whether they
acknowledged it or no. He’d be damned before he yielded meekly to the foe.
Kieran turned his mare, ignoring
her rumble of protest. He urged her to a gallop. She refused. He clapped his
heels into her sides as though she were a mortal’s nag. She bucked in shock,
then lunged forward.
The shouts behind him changed in
tone. He had been spotted.
The mare labored in the deep snow
drifts, skidded, floundered, and pitched to her knees. His cold-stiffened limbs
reacted too slowly. He tumbled over her head, landing on his back. His father’s
harp broke beneath him with a sickening crunch that echoed forever against
uncaring rocks.
The mare struggled to her feet,
but the dark shapes of tall, powerful horses were coming upon him, close enough
now that he could see the fair hair of the riders escaping from under their
hoods. Not enough time to remount, and too many of them to fight.
The horses pulled up in a
semi-circle around him, blowing clouds of steam with each breath. Several of
the riders dismounted. All wore swords, and all moved as though they knew how
to use them. All were pale and eerie beings out of his nightmares.
Kieran spared a moment’s regret
for the music that would die with him and for the home he would never see
again. If this were the end, he hoped it would be quick and clean.
#
Alban shook his head at the sweat-streaked
coat of the stranger’s mare.
Irresponsible.
He handed his reins to his
squire, then turned his attention to the fallen rider who had just become his
problem, at least until he could get the fool to his father’s hall.
Why had the man tried to flee?
Yes, he was trespassing, but the Leas and the mortals were on good terms. The
worst the interloper would face was a lecture from Alban’s father before he was
returned safely home. No other shelter lay within half a day’s ride, and with
night and the storm closing fast, being taken in by the Leas offered his only
chance at survival. What was the man doing here in the first place, so far from
any mortal settlement?
Best get the horse and the fool
to shelter and sort it out later. He approached the stranger with a hand out to
help him to his feet—and froze.
He registered features just as
fine and angular as his own—
elf!
—and hair black as the heart of all
darkness—
Scathlan!
Alban had never expected see one
in the flesh, though the war between their peoples had shadowed his life since
before his birth.
Scathlan. Cold. Proud. Ruthless.
Elves, yes, but elves bloodthirsty enough to slaughter their own cousins over a
small slight of honor.
If the Scathlan had had their
way, he would have never been born. The love that had brought him into being
had also birthed the bitterest war in the long history of elvenkind.
Footsteps crunched in the snow.
Alban turned to face Eamon, his
swordmaster
and
hunting companion. Eamon knew far more of the Scathlan than did Alban. He had
known them before the war, when there had been peace between their peoples and
civil, if stiff, relations between them. He had fought them in the war, and
still bore a nasty scar from a Scathlan arrow in his thigh that had left him
with a limp in cold weather.
Eamon had twice his years and had
been his mentor since he was a child. Still, he deferred to Alban here because
Alban was the lord’s son, even though Alban wished he would take the decision
from his hands. Alban couldn’t show hesitance or weakness by conferring in
front of the enemy. The Scathlan was yet another responsibility on his
shoulders, and none of his choosing.
Maybe the Scathlan was a spy or
perhaps an advanced scout. He didn’t look dangerous. To be honest, he looked
scared, and cold, and miserable.
Looks could deceive.
Everyone—the Scathlan, his own
companions—were waiting for him to take charge of the situation. As King
Toryn’s son, he had responsibilities. He drew himself up.
“What are you doing on Leas land?”
Alban asked in his coldest voice.
The stranger gave a sharp laugh.
“Believe me, if I had known this was Leas land, I would have stayed far, far
away.”
“I don’t. Believe you, that is. I
know how far your dwellings lie from here. How could you possibly end up here
by accident?”
The stranger glared at him with
eyes as black as a crow’s. “By following my nose.”
“To what purpose?”
The Scathlan’s smile showed
false, his shrug insolent. “Only to chase songs from inn to inn, like a lark
flitting from tree to tree.”
“Liar.” Alban stalked toward the
Scathlan whose very presence threatened the peace and the lives of his people.
The stranger tried to rise and
flee. He floundered, and his scream rent the darkening sky. The Scathlan must
have injured himself in the fall and been too numb with cold and the shock of
the fall to feel it until he tried to stand.
Alban pushed pity aside, pushed
aside the healer’s instincts that were part of the Leas royal birthright. This
was a Scathlan elf who would kill Alban if he could.
The Scathlan scrambled backward,
dragging one leg and revealing the remains of a harp that must have broken
beneath him when he fell.
Alban knew a little about harps;
his mother played and had even studied under an itinerant Scathlan bard before
the war. From what he could see of the pieces that spilled from the smashed
case, the instrument had once been a fine travel harp.
The Scathlan wrapped his hand
around the hilt of his sword. Alban wondered if he even knew how to use it. He
wore no armor, and wasn’t even properly dressed for mountain weather in this
season. He looked like nothing more than the wandering musician he claimed to
be.
Alban couldn’t kill the Scathlan
in cold blood, not for merely trespassing. Leaving him here, injured and with
the snow falling and night setting in, would condemn him to a slower death.
Though every instinct screamed against bringing a Scathlan into his father’s
hall, he had no other choice.
The wind blew harder. Alban
pulled his fur-lined cloak closer about him. He wanted to get out of the cold
and get the stranger to shelter. It would be easier if the stranger cooperated.
Alban’s approach, to this point, had not been particularly conducive to
encouraging cooperation.
He took a deep breath,
concentrating on his empathy for the stranger’s misery and setting aside his
antipathy for the stranger’s race.
He forced a smile and approached
the Scathlan. “What is your name?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“I could say it
is
my
business, as you are trespassing on our lands.” Matching the stranger’s
hostility wouldn’t help; Alban took a calming breath. “But let’s set that aside
for the moment. You’ve gotten yourself into a bad spot, Scathlan. Even an elf
can’t survive a night on the mountain this time of year, and I take it you’re
injured, besides.”