In Her Shadow (10 page)

When Valex Etrarian signed up for the army to avoid spending his youth in an orphanage, it hadn't occurred to him he might actually have to face combat. Boys his age rarely did. They were messengers, by and large, with the occasional drummer thrown in. Most survived into adulthood, groomed by their cohorts to rise up as officers one day – men who made their way in the world through sweat and duty. But death? They rarely faced death head-on like this. Even caught delivering messages behind enemy lines, few enemies could bring themselves to hang young boys as spies. This mission was different. The crowd might kill him entirely by accident, trampling him beneath their feet or crushing him between their bodies long before he made it safely to the other side.

That being said, he was small enough to slip through. A larger boy couldn't do it, definitely not a man. Dux Lucius could have sent one too, instead of him. If a soldier had doffed his uniform, he might have sneaked into the crowd. But would he have made it so deep toward his goal?

Valex didn't have to go. Dux Lucius had given him the choice, saying there was no shame in refusing. And Valex believed him to a point. Yes, he knew the Dux and the other soldiers wouldn't look down on him but he would look down on himself. That was the example the cohort had set for him, and Valex wasn't about to disappoint them, or himself. So he'd taken the Dux's written orders, folded them up, and stuffed them into a tight belt below his tunic. With that, he slipped beneath the soldiers' shields and into the angry crowd with no one the wiser.

Now, pinched between so many people bigger than himself, Valex wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake. As he struggled to breathe, he realized he found the idea of an orphanage not quite as bad as he'd thought. That didn't stop him from pushing against the current of the crowd. And pushing. And pushing. Until, at last, gasping and wheezing, he burst out the other side. There were still people here, but thinly dispersed. The injured, the tired, the curious. Few even looked at him as he came through. Most seemed more interested in what was going on up the street, stretching over the crowd to see.

Good, Valex thought as he bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Exhausted and blinking, he watched little drips of sweat from his forehead plop to the ground. He couldn't rest long. But a moment. Just a mo–

Someone put a hand on his back. The boy jerked upright, ready to run.

"Valex."

The boy relaxed and looked up at the man. "Captain Marcus. I – I'm not used to seeing you out of uniform."

"Never mind that. Orders boy, do you have orders?"

Valex stuck a hand under his tunic, but before he could get his fingers on them, Captain Marcus yanked him away from the crowd. "Not here, boy, not here."

"Are your men okay?"

"Yes. When we got wind of something happening we holed up and waited. Didn't want to take the risk of acting until we had a handle on the situation, but it's hard from this angle." Marcus led him to a worn down warehouse. Indefensible in a fight, but a good place to hide. As soon as Marcus opened the door, the room erupted into a flurry of shining sword points. Marcus threw up his hands. "Whoa! Whoa!"

"Sorry, Captain. You've got to use the knock next time."

"Yes," said Marcus, then to the Valex. "Take that as a lesson. Always remember your pass codes."

As a professional messenger, Valex knew that by heart, but he didn't think it wise to point it out to a commanding officer. "Did you find her?" he asked.

Marcus swung a door in the back of the office. On the floor, bundled up in rope, was a beautiful, dark hair and dark eyed, middle aged woman. "Does that answer your question?" Marcus smiled and held out an expectant hand. "Now, about those orders."

***

Dux Lucius had asked his men to give and give until they had nothing left. Bled dry, literally and figuratively, only one thing could save them. Then it did. The effect wasn't obvious at first. Captain Marcus's attack must have started a few minutes before, the ripples it caused in the crowd taking time to disseminate to the front. Now the mob buckled forward, as if pushed by some unseen aggressor from the rear, because it was pushed by some unseen aggressor from the rear. His plan in action, Lucius wondered if it would work. Under normal circumstances, yes, but the soldiers on his side of the crowd had had enough. Coupled with that was the eternal danger of a fighting withdrawal, that it might turn into a real rout. He couldn't entertain those thoughts right now, though. He hoped his men had enough energy play the part demanded of them.

Dux Lucius held his sword up in the air, moonlight gleaming off the tip like a star. "Line!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. The few men he pulled for this task formed a second row a few yards up the road.

When they were ready, Lucius shouted, "Step!"

The men in the front line began a slow, careful march backwards. Without anyone to guide them, without being able to look back, they had to trust themselves not to trip over their own feet and break the line. And somehow, they did.

When the two lines met, Lucius shouted, "Rally!" And the two lines melted into one.

Line reformed, he repeated the process, retreating the cohort a few yards at a time. Before, he'd held the narrowest point, but with every move backwards, the road widened. With every retreat up the street, his line thinned. Dangerous, but the crowd thinned as well. Had he tried this without Captain Marcus hitting their rear, the mob would have had the mass to overrun him. Out flanked, however, it fought at both ends like snake unsure where to strike. Lucius didn't intend to run away, especially not with part of the crowd's wrath coming down on Marcus now. He just wanted to back up enough to give his men some rest. They needed to take a moment to get their heads together, catch their breath. The crowd still threw itself against the shield wall, but not with the same force as before. The reprieve was sweet bliss compared to just a few moments before.

The struggle wasn't over yet, though. Any moment, the crowd would realize it was trapped. It would panic and then. . . Then he'd have to order his men to draw swords on them. Not a fight proper, a massacre. He'd go down in history as Lucius, Butcher of Ankshara. Even with his men using clubs, Lucius feared some in the crowd had died. He didn't want to start killing in earnest. There was no stopping the momentum of the moment, however. Not now.

Dux Lucius raised his sword, ready to give his next order.

"Here," said the soldier Lucius had left behind at the abbey as he slipped Britta's arm around his shoulders. "Go!" he said to the girl. "Run inside, get help!" He yelled every word into Britta's ear but she was past the point of caring. If anything, the tinny ringing his voice left in her already ringing ears was a mild inconvenience compared to everything else going on.

"Goddess," said one of the priestesses as she rushed down the path to help. "What happened?"

The girl babbled off an explanation that passed by Britta as a mush of words.

"She's burning up," said the soldier.

"We need a doctor," said the priestess.

"No," said a third voice that pierced the echo and mist surrounding Britta's thoughts, a voice she'd so often heard without seeing – the Abbess of Night. Britta felt her nearing like spilled ink on fresh parchment. "Tell me, New Moon, can you see?"

"No," Britta said, forcing the word out for fear it wouldn't come if she didn't put her all behind it.

"Take her to my room," said the Abbess of Night.

They did as the Abbess commanded. The jostling of being carried by her shoulders and feet was all that kept Britta conscious. They set her in the Abbess of Night's bed. Or was this her own room? Her own bed? The world danced and twirled. Whose room was it? The room of her childhood, before The Siege, now only glimpsed faintly through the fog of distant memory. It was every child's room, throughout time and place; after mother had gone to bed and the light was low. Shadows of innocent things elongated into monsters. The settling floorboards howled for young blood. Where was she? Who was she?

The Abbess of Night's voice cut through the dark. "It is not that the New Moon should wane," she said.

Britta wanted to say something, to ask what was going on, but the heat bore down on her, pressing her into the bed.

"No, the New Moon should only wax strong until she is full," said a second voice. Whose? It was so cool, commanding. Was it also the Abbess of Night's? Yes. Why was she talking to herself?

"I'm not talking to myself. We are all talking to you."

"You can hear my thoughts?" Britta asked, or had she? With tongue leaden and mouth dry, her jaw shut taut with fever and pain, she wasn't sure she was capable of speech any longer.

"We know all things done in the dark."

"Goddess," Britta said.

"That is the secret, New Moon, the lie We told you before. We need no spies, though We have them. This was Our city once, but that time has passed. We go to live among the Regnal pantheon now, subjugated to the whim of their emperor-god."

"No–"

"Yes, such is Our fate. But Our part is not done, New Moon, because We will always lurk in the shadows to protect Our city."

"You keep saying 'Our.'"

"We. Us."

"I don't understand."

A gnarled hand pressed against her eyes. "See," said the Abbess of Night.

And she did.

The image of the child's room resolved, came into focus. She saw every such room in the city, and the children in them. They huddled with their parents in the darkness as Ankshara fell apart around them. She saw Weboshi, tied up in some dripping old warehouse. She saw the Governor, alone in his office, pacing as he waited for news. She saw ship captains on decks commanding their men to pull anchor and slip away before they fell victim to the growing violence. She saw her mother on the abbey steps, dragged away by soldiers. She saw a young couple making love in a public park despite, or perhaps because of, the chaos.

Britta saw each and every thing happening in the dark. She saw so much it impossible to parse all but the most relevant information.

The Abbess of Night had known where Weboshi was the whole time, knew about Weboshi's plot to kidnap Ava. She had known and chosen not to intervene. If the Abbess hadn't died a moment before, Britta would have asked why. But she saw the answer to that question too: because that's the way it had to be. A long shot on the Goddess's part. To save the city, She had to let these things play out and hope, pray (could a goddess pray?) that Her plans came to fruition. That in this crucible, a union would form between Her city and the Regnals that might save them both. Britta understood she and Lucius represented that union.

She saw him too, among his bloodied men, sword in hand, sweat pouring off him as he shouted orders. Strong and stern, he radiated confidence outward. In the darkest part of his mind, however, festered the guilt of what he and his men were about to be forced to do to save the Ankshara from itself.

Alive, she thought. Britta's chest pounded with excitement, worry, relief and thanksgiving. Alive for how long? The crowd grew more and more organized as its more outrageous fragments tossed themselves against the cohort's shield wall, leaving only the smarter ones able to act. Its members, some of them having taken leadership, organized ad hoc arson brigades. Goddess, Britta thought as they tossed a torch into the home of the family that had sheltered her. She didn't have to see what happened next. She knew.

And then she was back in the Abbess of Night's bed. Her bed.

One of her sisters rushed through the door to say something. She glanced around the room, eyes wide. "Where – where's the Abbess of Night?"

"Hidden in Her shadow," Britta said as her eyes adjusted to the light. She could see again, really see, but it hurt with all these candles blazing. Is this why the old woman always kept it dark? Not just for religious reasons but practical ones?

For her part, the sister didn't say anything, but bowed her head. "New Moon?" she said.

"I am now waxing."

"Blessed Abbess of Night."

"We have to act, before the city burns. But first the girl who helped me here. Quickly, quickly."

A moment later they brought the girl into the room. Britta knelt before her, doing her best to muster up her most reassuring smile. It felt fake, weak. "I'm sorry," she said. "Your parents. . ."

Britta need say no more. The girl nodded. Sniffled. Wiped her nose with her sleeve.

"You may stay with us, if you wish. Become a priestess, if you wish. Either way, we'll care for you and. . ."

"Yes," said the girl.

Britta enveloped the girl in her cloak and said "I take you, child, in the name of Eventide, the Night of Starless Sky, the Dark and all things done therein. May She hide you in Her shadow," and the girl was made one of them. "Now," Britta said, turning to the gathered sisters around her. "This city is about to go up in flames. Surely you can smell it on the air. We couldn't stop this night from happening, couldn't stop the riot before it started, but that doesn't mean we're helpless. It doesn't mean we're broken, or that nothing can be done. Ladies, Ankshara is still our home, and we'll do all we can to save it."

"So what should we do?" asked the girl. "What can we do?"

"I want every bucket in this city. Do you ladies understand? Kick down doors if you have to."

"You'll need axes and hooks," said the soldier Lucius had left to guard the old Abbess of Night. Did he know she was dead yet? Now that Britta had taken the position, would she be liable? If Weboshi was safe, and thus the abbey's innocence assured, then it didn't matter. So long as the wind didn't shift and–

Britta shook the thoughts away. She didn't have time to worry. She had to act. "Axes and hooks?"

"Yes, ma'am. You'll want to tear down buildings around the fire, so that they–"

"Do you know something about stopping fires?"

"It's – I mean yeah." The soldier shrugged, an oddly goofy – if not embarrassed – smile on his face. "It's part of our training. You'd be surprised how often soldiers are called to put out fires."

"Good, you're in charge."

"Ma'am?"

Britta didn't have time to debate, so she leveled her eyes at him. His own gaze dropped to the floor. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good, listen to him."

"Listen to him?" asked the newest member of the abbey.

The sisters mumbled their agreement with the girl's question. Britta understand why they were hesitant. These soldiers had long been their oppressors. Expecting her sisters to risk their lives side by side with the people who'd held them down so long was asking a lot. "When this is over," she said, "we're going to have to work with the Regnals to rebuild this city. We need this alliance to work. Not just for our abbey, but our people. That hasn't changed. It may be old, and decadent, and wicked, but Ankshara is our home. We're not just going to save it tonight, we're going to ensure its future by integrating into the Regnal Empire. On our terms. This is how we survive."

All the sisters glared at her. Were they with her or against her? All her new found powers had fled from her. Is this what it meant to be the Abbess of Night, cursed with a fickle clairvoyance that came and went as it pleased? She could figure out the rules later. The most important thing at the moment was whether her sisters were on her side.

"May She hide you in Her shadow," the girl said in a thin, wobbly voice.

Then another said it, and another. Their voices rose together in a chant that crescendoed upwards and shattered into a cheer of confidence. They were going to do it. They were going to save Ankshara, and they were going to do it hand in hand with the Regnals.