Beyond The Shadows (29 page)

The Wolf was aghast. His lambent eyes and scarred face softened, and he looked fully human for the first time. “Kylar. I’m
sorry. I thought you knew. I thought you knew all along.”

“Please. I’ll trade back! Let me trade back.”

“It doesn’t work like that. There’s nothing either of us can do. This time it’s Elene.”

Kylar woke on a cold stone slab in a cold room. He didn’t open his eyes. If he could have willed himself never to wake again,
he would have. He was still except for his breath and the currents of his life’s blood rushing through his veins. As always
when he came back from the dead, his body felt wonderful. Absolutely whole, powerful, bursting with energy. He’d stolen a
life and it came to him abundantly. He was overfull, spilling life in every direction. His health was a mockery.

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks to his ears. No wonder the Wolf had thought him a monster. He’d thought
Kylar was throwing away the lives of those he loved and who loved him.

He lay on his back, but it only got worse, so he opened his eyes. The air was stale, dank. The ceiling was ornate, cool white
marble. He was in a crypt. Only feet away, on slabs like his, were a man’s body and a woman’s. The man was big, holding a
big sword. The woman’s throat had been cut, and from how she’d decomposed, Kylar guessed she’d been bled dry. The man had
died around the same time, surely during the coup. They were Logan’s parents. Around them, the walls were filled with row
upon row of Gyre corpses, stretching back centuries. Logan had put Kylar in his own family’s crypt.

Kylar stood, not even feeling stiffness from having slept on marble. He’d been dressed in a cloth-of-gold tunic and white
breeches, and fine fawnskin shoes. It was, of course, pitch black in the crypt. There was no way of telling what time of day
it was, and the mouth of the crypt was sealed with a massive rock cut into the shape of a wheel taller than a man. If Kylar
remembered correctly, the crypt was located outside the city and sunk beneath the ground. If so, he had a good chance of getting
out without anyone knowing. Regardless, he had to get out, so he grabbed the wheel and heaved with his Talent.

Slowly, the massive stone rolled a half turn and settled into another rest. Kylar went invisible and stepped outside.

It was night, but the harvest moon was bright and high overhead. In the narrow stairwell that led to the crypt stood a young
girl, her eyes wide with fear. It was Blue, the little guttershite from Black Dragon guild.

Kylar stopped, still invisible, and rubbed his face. Blue didn’t move. He could tell she wanted to run but refused to. Brave
little shite. “Kylar?” she whispered.

What was he supposed to do? Kill her? Avoid her and let her blab stories about the crypt opening? It was unlikely, but someone
might open the crypt to check it out. And what would they do when they saw Kylar was gone?

“Kylar, I know you’re there. Take me with you.”

Staying invisible, Kylar asked, “Have you ever killed anyone, Blue?”

She gasped and swallowed, looking for the source of the voice. “No,” she whispered.

“Do you want to kill people?”

“I’d kill Dag Tarkus. He kicked Piggy in the stomach for stealing and the next day he died.”

“What if I told you that to be my apprentice you’d have to kill a dozen kids like Piggy? What if I told you you had to kill
your whole guild?”

Blue started crying.

“You just want out, don’t you?”

She nodded her head.

“Then I need you to do two things, Blue. First, never—ever—speak about this. If you tell anyone, bad people will find out, and they’ll kill lots of good people. You understand? You
can’t even tell your best friend.”

Blue nodded. “I got no friends, not after Piggy died.”

“Go to the corner of Verdun and Gar. I’ll meet you in an hour.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Blue left and Kylar closed the crypt. He found a safe house and loaded up everything he needed, including Retribution, which
he had left before he killed the queen, knowing his weapons would be confiscated. He wrote a note to Rimbold Drake, first
explaining about the laundress he’d maimed and asking Drake to pay restitution, and then explaining what the Wolf told Kylar
he’d cost the Drakes. He grabbed several bags of gold and a few poisons and changes of clothing, took a cloak and pulled the
hood over his face.

He found Blue sitting at the intersection. She scrambled to her feet.

“Inside that house lives a good man, Blue. He was poisoned and nearly died during the coup, and the Khalidorans killed his
wife and two of his daughters. He’s the best man I know, and I think he might need you as much as you need him. In my note,
I’ve asked him to raise you. He’ll give you the only chance you’ll ever have to make something of yourself. But it won’t be
easy. If you go in this house, you stay until you walk out a lady. Is that what you want?”

“A lady?” Blue asked, her face lit with impossible yearning.

“Say it.”

“I want to be somebody. I want to be a lady.”

“I believe you.” Kylar put his hand to a crack in the door, sent the ka’kari through, and opened the latch. He opened the
door and they walked past the porter’s hut to the front door. Kylar handed a bag full of gold crowns to Blue. It was so heavy
she could barely hold it. Then he put the note in her hand and threw back his hood, so she would never doubt that it was him.
“Blue, I’m trusting you. I see souls. I weigh them. From yours, I know you’re worth it. Be good to Count Drake. I wasn’t as
good to him as he deserved.”

With that, Kylar pounded on the door and went invisible. He waited until the bleary-eyed count opened the door. Rimbold Drake
looked at Blue, confused. She was too terrified to speak. After a moment, he took the note from her hand. After he read it,
he wept.

Kylar turned to go.

“You were better than you know,” Drake said to the night. “I forgive you any wrong you think you have done me. You will always
be welcome here, my son.”

Kylar disappeared into the night. It was where he belonged.

After two days, they moved Solon to another room. It was still locked, the windows covered with bars, the cedar door banded
with iron, but this room had a view of Whitecliff Castle’s courtyard. The courtyard was decorated in a style fit for the wedding,
greens the color of the vines and the seas, and the purples of wine and royalty dominating.

“I don’t know who you are, Pretender,” one of Solon’s guards said. He was a paunchy man with heavy jowls and haphazardly polished
armor. “But enjoy the wedding, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

“Why’s that?” Solon asked.

“Because the Mikaidon wanted his first order as emperor to be your death.”

The other guard, a rail-thin man with a single eyebrow, looked nervous and guilty. “Shut it, Ori. Nysos’ blood, it’s gonna
be a bad enough day as it is.” To Solon, he said, “We’ll make it quick, I promise.” He exited, watching Solon for any sudden
movement, and locked the door behind himself.

Solon was surprised to find a tub full of water and fresh clothes in the room. He scrubbed himself and donned the clean garments,
thinking. Oshobi was already giving orders to Kaede’s guards. That couldn’t be good, but it didn’t necessarily mean what Solon
suspected. Solon had never learned how much power Kaede intended to share once she married. When she talked with him two days
ago she hadn’t seemed desperate enough to grant Oshobi total power.

It made him feel sick. For the last two days, he’d thought through every option he had, and he couldn’t find anything that
would assert his own rights without undermining Kaede’s. He didn’t know what any of the political undercurrents were, so anything
he did could have the opposite of the intended effect. But the clean clothes laid out for him, clothing fit for a noble, if
not quite royalty, told him that Kaede most likely hadn’t intended him to die today. Was this his chance? Or was she punishing
him by forcing him to watch a wedding that she saw as his fault?

Outside, the nobles were gathering in order of precedence, standing as Sethi always stood to witness a wedding. Soon, at least
four hundred of them surrounded the platform where the Empress and Emperor-to-be would be wed. Solon could pick out many faces
he recognized, and saw a frightening number of absences, too. Had his brother killed so many? How had Sijuron become such
a monster without Solon knowing?

The ring of the singing swords announced the beginning of the ceremony. On the platform, the dancers faced each other. Each
wore a mask, the man the suitor’s mask, which today was deadly serious. A pubescent boy wore the woman’s mask, today lovely
but austere in keeping with the empress’s dignity. Each held a specially shaped hollow sword that would sing in the dance,
tones varied by the dancers’ grip and where each struck the other. The swords were pitched at octaves, and the duel—symbolic
of the couple’s courtship—was always partly choreographed and partly extemporaneous. It was a perennial favorite, and skilled
dancers were the most expensive part of a wedding. The dances, proclaimed sacred to Nysos, ranged from the erotic to the comedic.
It was also usually the most anxiety-provoking time of a wedding for the couple. Dancers being the artists they were, there
was no guaranteeing they wouldn’t make the man or woman or both look like fools, and the sword dance was often the only thing
remembered about the wedding.

The dancers bowed low, but kept their eyes up, as if suspicious of each other, and then they began. For a time as they danced,
Solon forgot that he was in a prison. They gave the boy a quick hand for Kaede’s quick tongue, and a wide range. A woman known
as a scold might be given a single note for an entire dance, while an excitable man might be given only notes at the extremes
of the singing sword. The man playing Oshobi was a huge presence, forceful and manly and, if slower, also stronger than Kaede.
Whoever they were, these dancers were incorruptible, unafraid of even a man who would be emperor. In their dance, Solon read
the courtship perfectly.

Oshobi had always pursued with a single-minded determination. Kaede weakened early, then rallied for years. Always, Oshobi
pursued, and the dancer gave a lightly mocking tone to it that only a skilled eye would have seen. There was the suggestion
that Oshobi wanted not Kaede, but that which was behind her—missing opportunities at the woman as he aimed at the throne.

Kaede slowly tired, but the dancers underplayed it, not suggesting that Oshobi beat her into submission, but simply allowing
her to slow to his level and make him look more brilliant as he matched and overmatched her, cadences singing together until
Oshobi took up Kaede’s line. As the dance wound to a close, Kaede bowed to her knees and spread her arms to take the ceremonial
touch over the heart. In apparent haste, the dancer playing Oshobi stepped forward too quickly and slipped, his sword tapped
her throat for the barest instant before he righted himself and touched it to her heart.

It was so well done that even Solon believed for a moment that the dancer really had slipped. Everyone took it as that, or
decided to take it as that: a slight error in an otherwise flawless performance. They cheered wildly and once the cheering
stopped, the betrothed entered.

Solon’s heart leapt to his throat as Kaede strode forward. She wore a purple samite cape with a long train, edged in lace.
A crown of vines with ripe purple grapes was woven through her long black hair. It being her wedding, both of her breasts
were bare, the nipples rouged, and beneath her navel her bare stomach was adorned with ancient fertility runes. A cloth-of-gold
skirt hung low on her hips, trailing slightly behind her, her wine-stained bare feet barely winking out. Most women exposed
more of their ankles, saying the juice of the grape is clothing enough for a wedding. Apparently Kaede really did believe
that a queen was a queen first and a woman sometime later. But after a decade and a half in Midcyru, the modesty was lost
on Solon. The sight of her here, like this, filled him with every sort of longing. The skirt had neither buttons nor clasps
nor ties, nor underclothes beneath it. It was finished the morning of the wedding with the woman inside it. It was to be torn
off by the groom in his passion. Revelers outside the wedding chamber would call loudly until the groom threw it out the window.
In ancient times and in some rural areas still, the skirt was always white, and ripped open but not removed until the wedding
was consummated. Then the revelers would parade with the “proof” of the woman’s virginity, which as often as not was sheep’s
blood. Most mothers provided their daughters with a vial of it, in case she had broken her hymen licitly or illicitly. It
was a tradition Solon was glad had mostly disappeared, not only because he thought it was gross, but also because he found
it hard to imagine enjoying consummating his marriage with drunken screaming assholes pounding on the walls.

In the courtyard, Oshobi Takeda walked forward. Solon felt a stab of hatred. He should be walking forward now. He should be the one who tore Kaede’s skirt tonight. Oshobi Takeda came into the circle bare-chested as well, runes of vigor
and potency painted on the surface of a stomach so muscular and devoid of fat that it wasn’t flat but ridged. He too wore
vines through his hair and a simple green cape, paired with cloth-of-gold trousers that ended just below the knee.

Oshobi mounted the platform, barely looking at Kaede. Solon thought he must be either blind or homosexual to disregard such
beauty. He turned and addressed the assembled nobles. “I came here today to marry our empress. It was in my heart to unite
this land as it hasn’t been united for more than a decade. I know all of us were dismayed when we heard of Daune Wariyamo’s
infidelities, and though it strained my family’s honor, I came here determined to wed.”

From his position, Solon could see what the nobles below could not. At every exit, armored city guards had lined up, and with
them in irregular ranks stood many of the royal guards. The strength was, so far, hidden, but they could move in on the assembled
nobles in moments. What Solon couldn’t see was how Kaede was taking this prologue to treason.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Kaede strode up onto the platform directly to Oshobi and slapped his face. “If you speak treason, Oshobi Takeda, I will have
your head,” Kaede said in a clear, fearless voice.

An older noble Solon recognized as Nori Oshibatu, long a friend of the Wariyamos, shot a look at Oshobi and stepped forward.
“My dear, Kaede, our beloved empress, you sound hysterical. This is not befitting. Please, he only speaks.” Nori pulled Kaede
back into the crowd, where several other family “friends” closed around her.

Oshobi smiled like the big cat he was. “I came here to serve Seth, but this very morning, I discovered something my honor
could not countenance. Daune Wariyamo had on her person letters from the late emperor’s brother Solon to Kaede. In these letters,
he spoke of his trysts with her in the castle and of a secret marriage.”

“You lie!” Kaede shrieked.

Solon’s heart sank. The trysts in the castle had only been attempted trysts, culminating in the disaster of her mother coming
in on them naked and beating Solon with a shoe. It would have been worth it if she’d come in ten minutes later or—well, he’d
been a young man—maybe two minutes later. The marriage, of course, was a total fiction.

But Oshobi was quick. “I have the letters here!” he said, brandishing a sheaf. “And this woman was with Lady Wariyamo when
she came upon you fornicating in the castle.” A slave woman was thrust forward. “I do so swear,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Louder,” Oshobi demanded.

“I swear it’s true!”

The nobles were in the predictable uproar, but Oshobi was wise enough that he didn’t call his men forward. Kaede was screaming,
but someone put a hand over her mouth, and numerous men were restraining her.

“So you see, even if we believe that Kaede wasn’t incestuous in her sluttish trysts in our nation’s very heart, we know that
she married Sijuron Tofusin. A marriage null and void because she was already married—to the emperor’s brother!”

Oshobi painted a sad look on his face. “I woke this morning, willing to dishonor my family because I wanted to do what was
right for our country—”

Behind Solon, the door creaked open. He turned away from the courtyard to see his two guards enter. “All right,” the paunchy
one said, “we already let you see more of the show than we was supposed to. You can figure how it turns out from here. You
ready?”

“Yes,” Solon said. He drew in his Talent. “Which of you would like to die first?”

“Huh?” they asked in unison.

“Together then,” he said, and stilled their hearts with his Talent.

The guards collapsed, one crumpling, the other falling full on his face. Solon took a sword and faced the barred window.

With a concussion that rocked the castle, Solon blew out the entire wall. Stones rained on the crowd fifty paces away. Everyone
ducked and turned to see what had happened. And Dorian always said I wasn’t subtle.

Solon jumped down lightly and strode toward the crowd. A guard stepped in his path, wide-eyed and gulping. Solon gestured
as if shooing a fly and a wall of air flipped the guard aside.

“I am Solonariwan Tofusin, son of Emperor Cresus Tofusin, Light of the West, Protector of the Isles, and High Admiral of the
Royal Fleets of Seth.” It was a deliberately ambiguous construction, whether he was listing his father’s titles, or claiming
them for himself. “I have come home, and I call you a traitor and a liar, Oshibi. And even if your despicable lies were true,
you have no claim to this throne while I live.”

“We can remedy that,” Oshobi snarled.

Solon advanced quickly onto the platform, not giving Oshobi time to think. “You would duel me?” Solon asked. He laughed scornfully.
“A Tofusin does not dirty his hands with the blood of a dog.”

Oshobi roared, drew his sword and hacked at Solon with all his considerable strength. Solon deflected it. His counterstroke
cut halfway into Oshobi’s neck. Oshobi’s eyes went big, but he tried to complete one more slash while Solon’s sword was stuck.
A sliver of magic enervated Oshobi’s fingers. The sword dropped.

“However,” Solon said, “I’ll make an exception for a Little Cat.” He ripped the sword out of Oshobi’s neck and blood sprayed
over the platform as the big man dropped onto his face. Solon put his foot on the neck of his dying foe and pointed the sword
at the nobles holding Kaede. “That’s your empress,” Solon said. “I’d advise you to take your hands off her.”