Luck in the Shadows

“Looks like you’ll have to climb,” Seregil whispered, squinting up. “Be careful going over; most of these places have the walls topped with spikes or sharp flints.”

“Hold on!” Alec tried to make out Seregil’s expression through the darkness. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“It’s a one-man job; the fewer the better,” Seregil assured him. “Would I send you in alone if I didn’t think you could handle it? Best leave your sword, though.”

“What if someone sees me?”

“Honestly, Alec! You can’t just go hacking your way out of every difficult situation that arises. It’s uncivilized.”

Alec unbuckled his sword and started up the garden wall. He was halfway to the top when Micum called softly, “We’ll meet you back here when you’ve finished. Oh, and look out for the dogs.”

“Dogs?” Alec dropped down again. “What dogs? You didn’t say anything about dogs!”

Seregil tapped himself sharply between the eyes. “Illior’s Fingers, what
am
I thinking of tonight? There’s a pair of Zengati hounds, snow-white and big as bears.”

“That’s a fine detail to forget,” growled Micum.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Let’s see, the spikes, the dogs, the servants—No, I think we covered it. Luck in the shadows, Alec.”

“And to you,” Alec muttered, starting up the wall again.

Praise for
Luck in the Shadows
by Lynn Flewelling

Like many first novels, this one wouldn’t be complete without acknowledgments. Those of you who don’t know me can skip this part, if you like. Really. I don’t mind.

With deepest gratitude to those hardy early readers who believed in this project long before I did myself: Mom, Fran, and kid sister Sue, God love ’em; Gram, God rest her; Jeffs K. & A.; sisters of the heart Darby, Laurie, the Other Lynn, and Nancy; Bonnie; Cheryl; Marc and the whole BookMarc’s gang; Cathie Pelletier, for her guidance and support; Greta, Sandy F., Gary, Bill & Dorothy, Maria, Sabine, Scott & Julie, Marc & Lisa, Todd, Jen, Gail N.; Suzannes K. & C.; and Pete “The Organmeister” K. and Debbie C., who materialized out of the electronic ether at the nicest possible time. Apologies to anyone I missed.

Love also to Matt and Tim, who’ve heard, “Not now, Mom’s writing,” far too often; and to my dad, who’s probably bragging me up in Heaven, because he always did.

And finally, special thanks to my literary midwives, Lucienne Diver, Eleanor Wood, and Anne Groell, who made it all come real.

The ancient Hierophantic calendar is based on a lunar year divided into twelve 29-day months and four seasonal festivals, which account for an additional twelve days.

Winter Solstice—observance of the longest night and celebration of the lengthening of days to come. (Mourning Night and Festival of Sakor in Skala.) Followed by:

Spring Festival—preparation for planting, celebration of fertility of Dalna. (Festival of the Flowers in Mycena.) Followed by:

Summer Solstice—celebration of the longest day, followed by:

Harvest Home—finish of harvest, time of thankfulness. (Great Festival of Dalna in Mycena.) Followed by:

M
ouldering bone crumbled beneath their boots as Lord Mardus and Varûgl Ashnazai lowered themselves down into the tiny chamber beneath the earthen mound. Oblivious to the pervasive odor of swamp and old death, to the dank earth filtering down the back of his neck and into his hair, Mardus crunched across more bones to a rough stone slab at the back of the chamber. Brushing aside brittle ribs and skulls, he reverently lifted a small pouch from the stone. The rotted leather fell to pieces at a touch, spilling eight carved wooden disks across his palm.

“It appears you’ve accomplished your purpose, Vargûl Ashnazai.” Mardus smiled and the scar beneath his left eye tightened.

Ashnazai’s sharp, sallow face was ghostly in the uncertain light. With a nod of satisfaction, he passed a hand over the disks and for an instant their form wavered, giving hint of their true shape.

“After all these centuries, another fragment reclaimed!” he exclaimed softly. “It’s a sign, my lord. The time draws nigh.”

“A most propitious sign. Let us hope that the remainder of our quest is as successful. Captain Tildus!”

A black-bearded face appeared in the
rough opening at the top of the mound. “Here, my lord.”

“Have the villagers been gathered?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. You may begin.”

“I shall make preparations for the safe conveyance of these,” Vargûl Ashnazai said, reaching to take the disks.

“And what could
you
do that the ancients have not already done?” Mardus inquired coldly, pocketing them as casually as if they were gaming stones. “There’s nothing so safe as that which appears to be worthless. For the time being, we will trust in the wisdom of our ancestors.”

Ashnazai quickly withdrew his hand. “As you wish, my lord.”

Mardus’ soulless black eyes met and held his as the first screams erupted above them.

Vargûl Ashnazai was the first to look away.

A
sengai’s torturers were regular in their habits—they always left off at sunset. Chained again in his corner of the drafty cell, Alec turned his face to the rough stone wall and sobbed until his chest ached.

An icy mountain wind sighed through the grating overhead, carrying with it the sweet scent of snow to come. Still weeping, the boy burrowed deeper into the sour straw. It scratched painfully against the welts and bruises that bloomed across his bare skin, but it was better than nothing and all he had.

He was alone now. They’d hanged the miller yesterday and the one called Danker had died under torture. Alec had never met either of them before his capture but they had treated him kindly. Now he wept for them, too, and for the horror of their death.

As the tears subsided, he wondered again why he’d been spared, why Lord Asengai repeatedly told the torturers, “Don’t mark the boy too badly.” So they hadn’t seared him with red-hot irons or cut off his ears or opened his skin with knotted whips as they had with the others. Instead, they’d beaten him skillfully and dunked him until he thought he was drowned. And no matter how many times he’d screamed out the truth, he couldn’t seem to convince his captors that he’d wandered onto
Asengai’s remote freeholding seeking nothing more than the pelts of spotted cats.