The Shadowed Throne (40 page)

Habit,
said the Night God.
Your mind expects you to be hungry, and so you are. You may eat, or ignore it. Neither will hurt you. Rest now.

The voice faded away.

Saeddryn stayed in the circle a while longer, meditating in silence. She didn't have anything more to ask, but being in the circle made her feel better.

And, as she sat there, she came up with a plan. It would delay the half-breed's death, but it would make the meaning of that death far more complete, and the more Saeddryn thought about it, the more satisfied she felt. After all, she reminded herself, being the Night God's avatar meant having more than just the power to kill. And this was something she had done before, many times.

Alone in the moonlight, Saeddryn began to smile. Yes, that was it. That was exactly it. She would go to Malvern, and she would make herself known in the city. She would talk to people, spread the word, pass on the Night God's message. She would win the people to Caedmon's side; and
then
she would kill the half-breed.

By the time Caedmon arrived with his followers, the city would already be weakened from within. She would tell everyone it had been his idea. It would work perfectly.

Saeddryn couldn't contain herself any longer. She stood up and lifted her bag onto her back. She left the stone circle where it was but picked up her sickle and tucked it into her belt before setting out again. Sleep could wait. She didn't need it any more anyway. And besides, this was the night, and she was strongest now.

Why make the Night God's business wait? It was the only purpose she had left.

She would not disappoint her master.

Y
orath left the library with his books under his arm and his mind buzzing. In all his life, he had never seen anything as amazing as what he had seen that day, and even now he still couldn't quite grasp the reality of it.

Yorath's world was books and teaching, and he had never had much experience with griffins. To him, they were big, dangerous, and mysterious animals, not meant for ordinary people like himself to understand. He had never seen one use magic, either—not up close, anyway. But most griffins rarely did use their gifts. As far as Yorath could tell, it was a last resort for most of them.

But now the wonder of what Oeka had done and shown him had thrown Yorath's mind into disarray. So much power, all in one place. A griffin that spoke to him without even using words, a griffin that could reveal the past in the blink of an eye. Yorath had never imagined that wonders like it could exist, and now it had all been shown to him in less than a day.

As his initial fear began to die away, excitement replaced it. Oeka's judgment had been absolutely correct: he had indeed seen her power as an opportunity to uncover the past. Yorath had always been fascinated by history, and there would never be a better chance to record it than now. If only Oeka had stayed . . .

But she
had
stayed, hadn't she? Her body was still here, wasn't it? And she must still be in it somewhere. It only made sense.

Impulsively, Yorath changed his route down inside the tower. Everyone knew that Oeka had locked herself away under the Eyrie, and Yorath had guessed that meant she was in the crypt. It was supposed to be off-limits, but he had bribed his way down there once, wanting to see the carvings on the tombs. If Oeka was in there now, and he could get to her . . .

As Yorath climbed down the stairs to the ground floor of the tower, he tensed expectantly—waiting for the horrible disorientation he had felt here before to come back. But nothing happened, and when he reached the bottom without any ill-effects he started to relax. He had passed through here once before, while Oeka was working her magic, and had never forgotten the overwhelming confusion and dizziness that had struck him. It had taken almost an entire day for the headache to wear off afterward.

But he felt fine now.

Oeka really had finished, then. Thank goodness.

Feeling much safer now, he pulled aside the tapestry that hid the door to the crypt passage. The door hung open, so he took a torch off the wall and stepped boldly down into the gloom.

“Oh dear gods!”

He scarcely even noticed the cry escape from him. For a moment he stood there, staring in horror, before the stench hit him, and he reeled away and out of the passage.

He took a few moments to recover, and when he felt brave enough, he looked again.

He retched.

There were bodies in the passageway. At least—he dared to look closer—at least three of them, lying slumped against the walls.

In the end, only the thought that one of them might be alive and needing help made him enter that passage. Gritting his teeth, he stooped to examine them, but he didn't need to check pulses to know they were beyond help. Three people, a woman and two men, huddled and pathetic in death and all of them smelling faintly of decay. Yorath saw the contorted shapes of their hands and limbs, and the memory of what he had felt before flashed across his brain. These people had been stupid enough to push through that and try to get closer, and they had died for it.

Yorath might have turned back then, but the pure stubbornness he had inherited from his father won through. The magic had gone now. It was safe here. And he had to take this opportunity in case it disappeared. History was more important. History, and preserving it.

Moving slowly, picking his way past the corpses, he moved down the corridor and stepped into the crypt. The air was clearer here, at least, and there was still no sign of danger. And there she was, right there in the middle of the floor . . .

Yorath moved closer, calling out to avoid startling her. “Hello? Oeka? It's me, Yorath. I'm friends with yer human. I've come to talk to ye . . .”

His voice faded away when he saw her. She lay on her belly with her legs spread out limply, wings draped down over her flanks like old curtains. Her head was outstretched, beak slack, blind white eyes open and horrible. Yorath had never seen something so obviously dead in his life.

But she was still breathing. He could see her sides moving in and out, ever so slowly.

“Oeka?” he said again, hesitantly. “Can ye hear me?”

The reply came very faintly, as if from over a huge distance.
Yes . . .

Yorath started. “I just wanted to ask . . .”

Yes,
the voice whispered again.

Yorath opened his mouth to say something more, but he never did remember much of what happened after that. In one instant, the sight was ripped away from his eyes. The crypt disappeared, along with his own body, and visions replaced them.

Not knowing if he was standing or falling, he saw things. Impossible things. Ancient things.

He was vaguely aware of his hands, opening a book and dipping a pen into ink. He thought he wrote something down, or drew something. But his eyes were as sightless as Oeka's, and they saw as far as hers.

He saw the North move below, flickering and warping, nothing standing still. Trees were there, but he could see a layering in them. Every tree was a tree, a stump, a sapling, and a seed still in the ground, all at the same time. Leaves fell but stayed on their twigs. Even the ground itself seemed to move, hills rising and falling, valleys widening and narrowing again. He saw cities, constantly moving between what they were and what they had been in the past. Now a city, now a village, now a mere cluster of huts. It was all confusion and change, and he couldn't grasp anything before it shifted away again.

But he did see some things clearly. As Oeka focused on details that interested her, he saw them still and become solid for just a moment. Saw Wolf's Town as one little tent by the river, smoke rising from the fire lit at its entrance. A man sat there. A griffin crouched nearby.

Then Oeka moved on, and they approached the mountains. The First Mountains, although nobody Yorath knew could tell him why they were called that.

And there, there was the plateau with the standing stones, and they were more substantial than anything else he had seen so far. They had been there a long, long time.

Oeka brought them down to the plateau, and the stones faded into the past. He saw bare earth now, covered in springtime grass. And people. Oeka took them to a time when there were people.

A cluster of them stood at the centre of the plateau. Northerners, clad in furs, their hair rough and ragged. The men wore beards.

They were grouped around a hole. A deep hole . . . a grave. Lowering someone into it. A man.
A burial,
Yorath thought, but something was wrong, something . . .

The man went into the grave, but he was alive, tied up and struggling. Yorath tried to reach out, wanting to help him, but it was all in the past. He saw the man in the bottom of the hole, looking up at the two who looked back. A man and a woman, side by side, and the man—the man had curly hair and a pointed beard, and a cruel gleam in his black eyes.

“This will be your tomb, Traegan,” said the woman by his side. “The circle will be built over you.”

“The world needs us,” said the man with the pointed beard. “I will lead them.”

The man in the hole laughed like a lunatic. “Lead and fight, brave Taranis! Age and die! Die and become nothing! Traegan will endure and Traegan alone.
I—am—forever!
”

He kept on laughing while they buried him, and Yorath's cry was utterly silent.

Then Oeka moved on to other visions, and Yorath was dragged with her, unable to stop himself from becoming lost in the past.

C
aedmon had had a very long day. Since Saeddryn's departure, he had taken over the running of the city, working alongside Isolde, the woman who was still more or less the governor. Together, they had set the city's inhabitants to prepare for whatever lay ahead—a siege, or more likely an out-and-out assault from Malvern. For now, Isolde and her officials were keeping up their correspondence with the capital city, to make it look as if nothing had changed. But this was only a delaying tactic, and everyone knew it. In the meantime, antigriffin spear-launchers were being set up on the walls, and the city guard, shored up by Caedmon's followers, were training and preparing arrows and other weapons. Shar, together with Isolde's partner, Haaek, spent time with their fellow griffins, intimidating and inspiring them to fight when the time came. There would be no doubt at all that they would fight any attacker that came to the city—Skenfrith was, after all, their own territory, and no other griffin could enter it except with great politeness. It was harder to stop them attacking perceived intruders.

Shar and Haaek visited them anyway, mocking supposed weaknesses and increasing their rage toward the anticipated invaders, as well as their determination to prove they were not weak.

“Ya-khek oo ee krak.”
That was a phrase Shar had taught her partner. It meant “hatched from a soft-shelled egg” and was just about the worst insult any griffin could throw at his own kind. It implied feebleness, deformity, and cowardice, and it was the best way to make a griffin dangerously angry.

Caedmon had no intention of ever using it himself, but he watched Shar's progress with satisfaction. She did good work. They would soon be as ready as they ever would be.

He hoped Saeddryn would complete her mission quickly.

That evening, he retired to the audience chamber, which was outfitted with comfortable chairs and served as a place to relax when it wasn't in use. Myfina was there already, deep in a book.

She looked up when Caedmon came in and gave him a smile that made his heart beat faster. “Hello. You look exhausted!”

Caedmon sank into a chair beside hers. “I am.”

Myfina put the book aside. “I was just in here resting, too, lest you think I was being lazy. I've been helping Garnoc. And before that I was helping Hafwen. It's been nothing but go, go, go since I got up this morning!”

“I know how you feel,” Caedmon said ruefully. “But things are going well, at least. No major problems yet.”

“Yes, that's because so far we
don't
have the half-breed trying to kick the gates in,” Myfina pointed out.

Caedmon couldn't help but laugh at the mental image. “You know, I can actually imagine her doing that. She's got a nasty temper on her.”

Myfina put her head on one side, like a griffin. “You've met her?”

“Not really. I saw her once, but I didn't introduce myself. I haven't been back to Malvern since she got here.”

Myfina looked sad. “Yes . . . people wondered if you ever would come back after what happened.”

Caedmon scowled, not realising that the expression made him look much younger and sulky. “I wasn't going to come back until he apologised to me himself. Obviously, he never did.”

“That wasn't his way, really.” Myfina coughed. “So . . . the half-breed, eh?” She shook her head. “I can't believe she expects people to believe she's
his
daughter! The whole story's insane. This girl just turns up out of nowhere, and overnight the King himself is eating out of her hand. Giving her presents, giving her official positions in the Eyrie, for shadows' sakes—I don't know what she did to him, but it worked very well.”

“I don't understand it, either,” Caedmon admitted. “How in the world did she win him over so quickly? I do know one thing for certain—there's no
way
she's really his daughter. For one thing . . . him, with a Southerner?” He laughed out loud at the suggestion. “And for another, she was his lover.”

Myfina gaped. “
What?
His
lover
?”

“According to my mother,” said Caedmon. “She said he told her so himself.” He shuddered. “The idea of it . . . I want to vomit just thinking about it. Him with a half-breed! I know he had lovers over the years, but that was different. They were all from good families, all had good reputations—perfect Queen material.”

“Except that they all died,” Myfina said darkly.

Caedmon's mouth tightened. “Yes. Too bad the half-breed didn't join them. My gods, she's disgusting. I can't even
think
about someone so utterly repulsive sitting on our throne. First, she sleeps with him, then she claims to be his daughter!”

“But not until after he leaves the city with her and is never seen again,” Myfina added.

“Yes. I don't even like to imagine what she might have done with him.”

“But to
him
?” said Myfina. “She's mortal. How could she do anything to the Shadow That Walks?”

“I don't know. But I promise you right now that if I get the chance, I'll make her suffer for it.” Caedmon hadn't told Myfina about Saeddryn's mission to assassinate Laela.

Myfina reached out and touched his hand. “Don't worry,” she said. “You're going to win. We're all going to win. Justice is on our side.”

Caedmon stared at her hand as it rested on his own and felt a blush begin. “Yes,” he mumbled, hoping she wouldn't see it. “I know we will because I'm going to make it so.”

Myfina smiled at him. “I believe in you, Caedmon.”

T
he next day went off more or less like the one before it. Caedmon went back to work, with Shar and everyone else pitching in. Unfortunately, as the time dragged on, the stress started to take a toll on him, and he was feeling tired and irritable by the time he stopped for lunch with Isolde and Myfina. He wasn't in the mood for much conversation. Unfortunately, the meal didn't last as long as he was hoping it would, and he was not at all pleased when Garnoc interrupted them.

“S'cuse us, Lord, Ladies . . .”

“What is it?” Caedmon groaned.

Garnoc nodded hastily to him. “Sorry to bother yer, but something's come up an' you an' Lady Isolde here should see it.”

Isolde was already getting up. “See what? We're not under attack, are we?”

“Oh, no, no, that's fine,” said Garnoc. “No, it's just that you sent me t'work with the reeve here, an' he asked me to come tell yer about this man they've just arrested.”

“Can't he handle it himself?” asked Caedmon.

“Normally, yeah, but it's the rule around here that with some criminals, the governor's got to be informed.”

“Who is he?” Isolde asked, in a way that suggested she'd done this sort of thing before.

“Total scumbag,” said Garnoc. “They've been trying to get him for months. Seems he got rich by sellin' people houses that don't exist. Swindled thousands of oblong from people all over the city. In other cities, too. He moves every time the authorities start catching on.”

“Oh!” Isolde blinked. “
Him.
Yes, I've heard about him. The Master of Law personally told me to bring him his head on a spike if I ever got my hands on it.”

Caedmon managed to laugh. “That doesn't sound like my father at
all
.”

“It was,” said Isolde. “Lord Torc couldn't stand liars. Garnoc, tell the reeve I said to have him brought to the audience chamber immediately. I'll be there.”

“Right, milady.” Garnoc left.

“You don't have to come,” Isolde told Caedmon. “I can deal with this myself if you'd prefer.”

Caedmon, however, jumped at the chance to take a longer break. “No, I'll come, too.”

“I'll join you, then,” said Myfina. She grinned mischievously. “I always wanted to know what a real criminal looked like.”

T
he moment the notorious swindler was brought into the audience chamber between two guards, Caedmon saw why so many people had fallen for his scheme.

He was tall and lanky, but carried himself with so much confidence, it made Caedmon feel instantly inferior. His clothes were so fine that they managed to draw attention away from the manacles hanging off his wrists, and he acted as if they weren't there anyway, strolling into the room with such an open, instantly likeable smile that he might as well have said, “Chains? Guards? Nah, it's just a trick. The
real
criminal's just behind us. Did I fool you?”

Caedmon very nearly smiled back at him without meaning to. He drew himself up and tried to look stern and kingly instead. Myfina, however, didn't have as much self-control and smirked to herself.

The reeve, a middle-aged man with a grey beard, coughed and finally succeeded in making people notice he was in the room as well. “My lord, my lady—Governor. This is the man Garnoc mentioned to you.”

“I can see that,” said Isolde, unsmiling. She turned her attention toward the still-grinning criminal. “What's his name?”

The man winked at her. “Call me Heath.”

“Heath what?” Caedmon interrupted.

“Just Heath,” said Heath. “Heath of no fixed abode and no fixed name, either, and isn't life so much more
exciting
that way? Don't you think?”

“I don't know, I never tried it,” said Myfina, unable to stop herself.

“Then you should! But I should warn you—once you start, you'll never want to stop.”

“That's enough,” said Isolde, cutting across him. “Now then. Heath, if that is your name, you stand accused of fraud, theft, and multiple counts of forgery in Warwick, Fruitsheart, Malvern, Wolf's Town, and Skenfrith. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Heath looked affronted. “Theft? Fraud? I can't say I like those words much.”

“What would
you
call it, then?” asked Caedmon, trying to stop himself from liking this man and failing.

“Theft,” said Heath, with a nod toward him, “is taking what you haven't earned. And let me promise you, Heath earns what Heath gets.”

“Is that so?” said Caedmon.

“Most definitely.”

“Are you suggesting that you did, in fact, give your victims something in return for their money?” Isolde asked.

“Absolutely.” Heath tried to touch his own face and failed because of the manacles. “I gave them the very best of my talents.
And
I gave them the chance to contribute to a good cause.”

“What cause would this be?” said Isolde.

“A charitable one,” Heath said slyly. “All the money went toward helping support a poor boy without a home or any belongings to speak of, and no family to look after him, either. Without it, he'd have starved to death in a gutter! What a waste.”

“We arrested you in an expensive rented house full of velvet and silver,” said the reeve. “According to your neighbours, you'd been entertaining people there all week. Loudly.”

Heath shrugged. “Like I said, I needed somewhere to live. It took a lot of skill to earn enough for that house.”

“And the parties?” the reeve prompted.

“I'm very generous with my wealth,” said Heath. “Ask any of my new friends.”

“Is that your confession, then?” said Isolde. “You cheated people out of their money and spent it on yourself and your friends, whoever they are. Did anyone help you do this?”

“No,” said Heath. “All my own work.” He sounded openly proud of himself. “As I told you, I'm very talented.”

“I've heard enough.” Isolde nodded to the reeve. “Since he confessed, there's no need for you to do anything further. Take him out of here and cut his right hand off.”

Heath's eyes widened. “Come on now, milady, you can't do that! That's the hand that does all my favourite things!”

Isolde glared at him. “Tear his tongue out as well, I think. We'll see how many lies he can tell without it.”

“My pleasure,” the reeve growled.

Heath finally started to look afraid as his guards prompted him to leave. “Er, now just hold on a moment here, would you? Can't I just pay a fine or something? I've got some money hidden under the mattress, if you can just let me go get it—”

One of the guards thumped him in the stomach, and he and his colleague hauled Heath toward the door.

Heath started to struggle. “Wait! No! Please, stop, I swear I'll do anything!”

Myfina glanced at Caedmon, and he could see her distress. Impulsively, he took a step forward. “Stop!”

The guards stopped, looking at the reeve for orders.

Caedmon thought fast. “I want to talk to this man,” he said. “Alone.”

Isolde hesitated, but she knew he overruled her. She nodded to the guards. “Let him go. Wait outside.”

They let the prisoner go and left at once, followed by the reeve. Isolde went with them.

Myfina stayed where she was, looking at Caedmon. “Should I—?”

“If you don't mind,” said Caedmon. “I'm sure we won't be long.”

“Well . . . all right then.” Myfina walked out, casting a hopeful glance back at Heath.

He grinned back. The moment the door had shut, he turned to Caedmon, all confidence again. “I
knew
you were really in charge here. The moment I came in that door, I saw you and thought, ‘He's the one holding all the pieces here.' Which means
you
must be Lord Caedmon Taranisäii.”

“I am,” said Caedmon.

Heath nodded. “You're the image of your cousin, but I'm sure you already knew that. The very image of a King.”

Caedmon didn't smile. “Don't think that just because I stopped them I'm going to let you keep your hand. Just how much money did you steal, anyway?”

“A good amount,” Heath said carelessly. “I didn't keep count. That's my rule. Move often, make plenty of friends, and don't keep score. But what's
your
rule, Lord Caedmon? I know you have one of your own. Everyone does, and besides, you look like the sort of man who knows what he wants.”