Nightlord: Shadows Page 28

  “I’ve seen you at the training, haven’t I?” I asked, pretending he only looked familiar.

  “Your Majesty did.”

  “You may address me as ‘Sire’,” I told him, and resisted the impulse to tell him to be informal. Like it or not, I have to at least act the part of a king when people are watching.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “I didn’t see you at the… incident… in the Lady Tort’s living room.”

  “No, Sire.”

  “Why not?”

  “The individuals of the Order who chose to address the King in such a manner did so without informing me of their intent.” His tone was less than amused.

  “Why do you think that is?” I asked, curious.

  “Because they knew I would not condone such an act,” he replied. He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the silent crowd. “If I may say so, Sire, I would have acted to prevent it.”

  “How so?”

  “By knocking their thick heads together until they learned better, Sire.”

  I decided I liked Kelvin.

  “As the head of the order, have you punished them?” I asked.

  “No, Sire. It seemed to me that sufficient action has already been taken by the King. I do not presume to know the King’s intentions, and have no orders.” He shrugged, slightly. “Since there are no true knights, nor even an Order of Shadow, it was also not my place to do so.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me before this?”

  “My King made it clear to all that we are not yet knights. Is it the King’s will that commoners such as myself should trouble him with questions he has already answered?”

  I re-evaluated Kelvin, uncertain about whether I was going to like him, or if he would irritate me, or both. I half-expected a smartass remark from Firebrand about that, and realized I missed it. Sometime soon, I have to go find it and see if it will come home with me.

  “Fair enough, I suppose. Now, this is important: stop talking like that.”

  “Sire?”

  “You are allowed—and ordered—to use personal pronouns. Stop talking as though I’m not here. Let me hear you say ‘Yes, Sire. I understand you.’”

  “Yes, Sire. I understand you,” he repeated, quirking a smile.

  “Good. No more of this he-him-his stuff. When you speak to me, you speak to me directly. That other stuff annoys me. Besides, I have high hopes that you will be a knight in the very near future and the head of an order of knighthood, as well. Individuals of such rank have more latitude in their mode of speech.”

  “I understand you, Sire. I will do as you instruct.”

  “Very good! Since I’ve had my evening cut short after an argument with the gods, I’m a little behind schedule. Please round up everyone who still wants to be a knight and do what we did yesterday, but harder and longer.” I beckoned him close and whispered in his ear, “The current goal is to build them up where they’re weakest—strength, speed, balance, that sort of thing. Later, when we’ve got those, we’ll sort them out for moral and ethical standards. Right now, I just want guys who will be able to stand up after the battle is over and run to the next one. But don’t let them know that. Got it?”

  “Yes, Sire,” he murmured. He seemed pleased. I gathered he approved. Maybe he was just pleased that I confided in him.

  “Take charge of them, Kelvin,” I said, loudly.

  Kelvin stood up, saluted with that closed-fist-over-opposite-side-of-chest gesture, and motioned to everyone. He hurried out the door; everyone in the room stood up, saluted, and followed him. Even most of the children, bless their little hearts. One little boy, probably about six, hurried over to me and hugged my legs.

  “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he said, and ran out. I watched him go, feeling strangely touched by the gesture. In seconds, Tort and I were alone.

  “Is that sort of thing going to happen whenever I give an order?” I asked.

  “It is likely, my angel. Except, possibly, for the child.”

  I sighed and sat down on the altar again. Tort seated herself at my feet and laid her cheek against my thigh, looking up at me.

  “My angel, do you truly not understand?”

  “Understand what?”

  Tort’s smile flicked on and off.

  “You are our King,” she said. “Your word is… well, not law, for that is something else. Your word makes law, or abolishes it. Those who do not worship you will follow you, obey you, work for you, and attempt anything you might wish of them. Those who do worship you will follow you into the jaws of a dragon, knowing that if they are to die there, it is for your purpose, and will go gladly.”

  I put my head in my hands and Tort moved to sit beside me. She stroked the back of my head, down my neck, and down my back.

  “Does this dismay you, my angel?”

  “It frightens me,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not qualified to be… whatever. I don’t understand politics, economics, agronomy, labor, capitalism, trade, shipping, industry… any of that stuff… well enough to be entrusted with that kind of responsibility.”

  Tort continued to, well, pet me while I rubbed the heels of my hands in my eyes.

  “Who does?” she asked, finally.

  “Nobody.”

  “And how many who seek power would bother themselves with these matters?”

  “Well… not enough.”

  “Then why does this trouble you?”

  “Anyone who wants power can’t be trusted with it,” I told her. “I don’t want power, so that’s in my favor, but I’m also not qualified to hold it.”

  “So, who should we trust, then? Someone who seeks power, or someone who does not want it, but will be conscientious in his attempts to wield it justly?”

  I paused to think about that one. She had a point. I didn’t like it—it was an awful point, and it nailed me right through the responsibility. But it was a valid point.

  “Have I mentioned,” I asked, sitting up, “that you’re not only beautiful, charming, and intelligent, but wise?”

  “I am old,” she reminded me. “I have had practice.”

  “Apparently so. All right. Where are we, just for the sake of asking?”

  “Ah, yes. We are in a small temple—a chapel, perhaps. A little, one-room affair, dedicated primarily to prayer and contemplation of… its god,” she finished, choosing not to name me.

  “Well, that’s not so bad, I guess. They aren’t committing human sacrifice, right?” I didn’t smell any blood, but it was daytime.

  “Only rarely—the occasional rapists, traitors, and child abusers, my angel. They believe you to find their flavor particularly enjoyable.”

  I think I growled. I tried to look on the bright side. It wasn’t easy.

  Still, I reminded myself that it could have been a lot worse. If rape and child abuse are capital crimes, that’s one law I’m not going to change. It made me want to take a long, hard look at their criminal justice system, though. How often did people wind up under the knife when they didn’t deserve it? I’m all for killing the bastards who do such things, but I want to make sure we’ve got the right guy, first.

  “And why am I here?” I asked.

  “It seemed the best course when you, ah… departed. I—I was concerned that…”

  “That I might be away for a long time?”

  “Yes,” she said, in a very small voice. I was forcibly reminded of a frightened little girl. “We tried to call you back.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. I held her hand and patted it. “I really am.”

  She hugged me, as befits my Tort. Totally not in keeping with the Court Magician of Karvalen, but I didn’t mind a bit. I held her and rocked her. She trembled a little, and I realized just how terrified she had been. She really was afraid, genuinely afraid. She wouldn’t have merely missed me; she would have been devastated.

  I silently resolved to keep that from happening. And kept holding and rocking her
.

  “Now,” I said, once she stopped shaking, “I want to talk about some things.”

  “Whatever you wish, my angel,” she said, slightly muffled by my shirt.

  “Sparky didn’t want to tell me about my son. Nobody wants to tell me about my son. I’ve run around, asked people, nearly been flash-fried, and had to bite a goddess because I keep asking and no one will tell me. I’ve had it up to here with this. So, please, just tell me. I promise not to go ballistic.”

  Tort shifted her hug to put her head over my shoulder; I think she didn’t want to look at my face. It also allowed her to whisper much more softly.

  “Let me begin by saying that this is what I have been told. T’yl knew for certain, for he investigated, but this is the truth as he told it to me.”

  “Okay. Not absolutely certain, but as certain as it can be without being a witness. Go ahead.”

  “You are known for… well, many things, but one of the most common is that you a guardian and avenger of children.”

  “I suppose. And?”

  “How much more must those qualities manifest for your firstborn son?”

  “I see. Yes, I can see why people would be more than a little hesitant about giving me bad news on that front. But I’m braced for something awful; consider me more than adequately warned.”

  Tort took me at my word and gave it to me straight.

  “The Mother of Flame demanded Tamara make a human sacrifice of her newborn son. Tamara obeyed her goddess, and the doing of it broke her spirit and her mind.”

  “My angel?”

  I shook myself and checked where I was. Tort was still holding me.

  “Yes?”

  “You have been silent for several minutes.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes.”

  I wasn’t sure how long we sat there while I tried to absorb that. I knew Sparky had a mean, jealous streak, but what possible gain could she get from a human sacrifice? A newborn baby, at that?

  The sacrifice of the son of a fire-witch and the only nightlord in the world, twin brother to another fire-witch.

  Okay, maybe there’s a lot of potential there. But… no, I couldn’t see it. There was no reason for it. Why kill a baby? For the evidence of devotion? For the power of the sacrifice, itself? Or because of what he might grow up to be? A king? A powerful wizard or magician? Or maybe just to spite me for being so highly regarded that maybe people were starting to lean toward reverence? Or because nightlords were once regarded as gods? Could that be it? Petty jealousy? Surely, that can’t be all of it!

  Sparky does like to keep families small, so her deific presence is much more of an influential figure during a fire-witch’s life. But this is going to an extreme. Besides, she needs all the fire-witches she can get; before I took my long nap, she had one. Was she afraid she might have a male fire-witch? Wouldn’t that be a good thing for her, to be able to sire multiple children with him? Or did it not work that way?

  And yet… this was almost a certainty. That shred of doubt still existed. Sparky didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, which made me suspect that it was, indeed, true. But that’s not evidence.

  If I cling to the thought that I don’t actually have evidence, just a secondhand account, it’s easier to keep cool.

  “Where is Tamara?” I asked.

  “She resides in the House of the Grey Lady.”

  “I didn’t want to have to disturb her, but now I don’t see an alternative. Take me there.”

  “May I—”

  “Now,” I insisted, gently. She lifted her head and I saw the tears streaking her face. She met my eyes, nodded once, squeezed me, and slid over to sit on the floating staff again. We went outside where Bronze waited, and I mounted up.

  She took me there without another word.

  The House of the Grey Lady was a medium-sized brick structure. Normal doctrine called for relatives to bring incense and other such offerings to the priestess, who, in turn, prayed for the souls of those who were about to depart or had recently departed. Traditionally, after dying, someone brought such offerings once a day for thirteen days, by which time the departed soul would have reached its final destination: either a transformation into a bit of eternal something—opinions varied—or, usually, started along a journey to end in reincarnation. Some beliefs said that every star was a soul; some were just too faint to see. Probably not too bad a deal, all things considered.

  Tamara lived there. She was widely believed to be touched by the Grey Lady. Maybe she was.

  I was scared.

  When last I saw her, Tamara was a lovely lady and about to have my children. Since then, I’ve had a nap, she may have sacrificed my son, my daughter is high priestess, and I have a granddaughter.

  Things have changed and I’m not thinking they’ve changed for the better.

  Add to that my own insecurity. Tamara is someone I loved. I think she loved me, but I could be wrong. Now? It’s been decades for her, days for me. What else has changed?

  Yeah. Scared. And all of this first thing in the morning. I’d like to think that’s better than in the middle of the night, but I’m not sure.

  I walked in through the archway—there was no door—and into the Hall of Remembrance. Small, rather generic statues of various sorts lined the walls. Some were armored knights, some where soldiers with spears, some were children, some were ladies, some were doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs. Temporary nameplates denoted who was currently being represented by any statue. Each had a tray-like area in front for offerings, most of which were lit candles or piles of flowers.

  Half a dozen people were there, presumably praying for someone’s safe journey or ultimate disposition. Tamara was wielding a broom at the other end, under the gaze of the main statue: a ten-foot representation of an old woman. The statue’s held its hands out in invitation and smiled gently.

  Again, the statue looked like Tamara, only after the passing of years. I daresay they may have marched right over her. Tamara’s hair was silver-grey and hung loose over her shoulders. Her hands were bony, with blue veins. Wrinkles drew lines all around her face, mostly sad ones.

  At least her eyes were still clear and sharp. She looked up as I blocked the morning sunlight, squinted as I walked forward, and dropped her broom to jam both hands into her mouth when she recognized me.

  She screamed.

  Everyone looked up. There followed a mad scramble for the door. Either everyone knew the story about the sacrifice or I was wearing an unpleasant expression. Possibly both.

  Tamara stood there, staring at me with eyes that looked ready to come right out of her head. I walked up to her, put my arms around her, and held her. She was as stiff as a post for a moment, possibly expecting to be crushed, then relaxed into my embrace and threw her arms around me.

  She broke into sobs and wept into my shirt.

  I loved her. I can admit that, despite the fact that I’m about as good with relationships as a broken flashlights are. I still love her. And, in the last few weeks—by my reckoning—she’s gone from bright, beautiful woman to withered and ancient crone. She changed so much; I did not. And none of that mattered in the slightest.

  With her sobbing on me, I couldn’t even be angry with her. I’m a sucker for a woman’s tears.

  Still, to be fair, it wasn’t really her fault. She was raised as a priestess of a fire-goddess, and her goddess gave her an order. I could find it in myself to fault her for obeying, if I really tried, but I didn’t care to go looking for an excuse to be angry with her, especially since I could see the effect it had on her. For one thing, a fire-witch does not age—well, isn’t supposed to age—anywhere nearly as quickly as other mortals. For another, her life in general struck me as an exercise in misery and despair; she spent all this time in this temple, instead of in Sparky’s. For a priestess to abandon her goddess when her daughter did not…

  “I knew you would come,” she sobbed, breaking my train of thought. “I knew it, I knew it, I kne
w it.”

  I patted her back and held her while she cried. Someone stuck his head in the archway and I glanced at him. He faded back out into the street. We were undisturbed thereafter.

  Eventually, I sat her down on a low bench and let her continue. I did my best to be comforting, but she seemed inclined to go on indefinitely.

  “Tamara.”

  “Yes?” she gulped.

  “I have to know.”

  This brought on a fresh storm of sobbing. I suspected it might. I waited for the worst of it to pass.

  Eventually, haltingly, sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word, she managed to blurt out what happened. Not much in the way of details, of course, but I didn’t need the fine points.

  Tamara did not follow orders; she refused her goddess. Of course, to Sparky, that wasn’t just a refusal; that was defiance.

  Yeah, that explained a lot.

  Sparky then manifested through Tamara, assumed control of her priestess, and carried out the execution—excuse me, “sacrifice,”—using Tamara as a highly unwilling conduit. Tamara, of course, had no say in this, and no choice but to watch, to be used, without being able to resist. That’s how the fire consumed my newborn son.

  Sparky then dismissed Tamara from service, taking from her all the gifts of a fire-witch. Longevity, healing, control of fire, immunity to fire and heat, permanent good health, the works. Tamara aged pretty much as others do from that point on.

  When Amber entered adolescence and gained the full powers of a priestess, she used them to help preserve Tamara’s health and life. If she hadn’t, Tamara would certainly be dead of old age by this time.

  Tamara, for her part, was torn. In some ways, she wanted to die; to her, she killed her own baby. On the other hand, she had a daughter to raise. Then again, that daughter was doomed to be a priestess of the same goddess that forced Tamara to kill the other baby…

  I suppose it’s not a surprise that she was considered a bit mad.