Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

Kiel and Triste had tried to join him. He had refused. They argued of course, Kiel pointing out that, even after a decade and a half in an Ishien cell, he understood the political realities of the city better than Kaden, Triste arguing more passionately but less coherently that they had to stick together, to help each other. Kaden, however, had observed that Gabril might well greet their impromptu embassy with a blade, and if there was dying to be done, better one person than three. In the end, they couldn’t force him to bring them along, and so it was Morjeta who slipped him out of Ciena’s temple through another hidden tunnel, who led him through wide streets lined with stately bloodwoods, who pointed discreetly toward this fortress that was not a fortress, and murmured, “The estate of Gabril the Red.”

Kaden nodded, considering the place from inside his hood’s shadow.

“He is dangerous,” Morjeta continued, laying a delicate hand on Kaden’s arm. “Not just because he can fight, but because he can think.”

Kaden studied the woman. She was frightened. He could see the tension in her neck, in the rise of her shoulders. She was frightened, but she held that fear in check. The whole thing might have been a Shin exercise, and he took a moment to slow his own heart, to cool his skin.

“Dangerous and smart? That’s the point, right? That’s why we came here.”

Morjeta hesitated, then nodded. “When it is over, return to this place and I will take you back to the temple.”

Kaden didn’t point out that when it was over, he might not have the ability to go anywhere.

When he stepped through the graceful arch of the palace walls, however, and pushed back his hood to show his eyes, when he stated his name and asked to see the First Speaker of Rabi, the white-robed guard just raised his brows, then nodded, escorting him into a wide interior courtyard. Flowering vines perfumed the breeze, and a large fountain tossed a spray of water ten feet into the air. It was a simple, graciously proportioned space, ideal for the lazy sipping of chilled ta on a warm summer day. There was, however, nothing lazy about the fight unfolding on the wide flagstones.

Three soldiers with long spears were attacking a man, if the figure engulfed in the black robe was a man, pressing him from different angles, probing with their weapons, testing his defenses. At the sight of Kaden, the sparring stopped, and the servant who had ushered him in crossed to the robed figure, murmuring something to him. The robe turned-Kaden couldn’t see the man’s face inside the voluminous hood-considered him a moment, then a hand emerged from the dark folds, flicking the servant away.

So, Kaden thought, schooling himself to stillness, Gabril the Red enjoys making people wait . He filed the thought away as the fight resumed.

The soldiers with the spears immediately redoubled their attacks, weapons slashing and plunging into the robe at their center. Of the man inside the cloth, there was no sign. His hands, his legs, even his head were lost in the swirl of fabric. A shadowrobe, Kaden realized. Holy Hull, he’s a shadowrobe.

He’d grown up on stories of the desert warriors, enjoying them almost as much as tales of the Kettral. Many people considered the desert warriors to be leaches, but Kaden and Valyn had found an old codex in the palace library once, the pages filled with illustrations and diagrams, showing just how a skilled shadowrobe could use the huge, flapping cloak to hide his movements, to disguise the location of his body.

Kaden and Valyn had spent days using old blankets as robes, trying to perfect the techniques, to mimic hips with their hands, to make elbows look like shoulders, to twist their bodies so that what seemed from the outside to be the center of mass was nothing more than empty air. According to the book, men and women sometimes went mad fighting shadowrobes. Kaden never believed that; for all Valyn’s efforts, it was always easy to tell his hands from his head, to see his skinny ankles darting about beneath the cloth. Watching Gabril, however … Kaden shook his head. Fighting a shadowrobe looked like trying to attack the wind.

The spears appeared to be tearing the First Speaker apart, stabbing again and again into the great flapping garment, burying themselves in the shifting folds of cloth. Blunted edges or no, those thrusts could kill, and as Kaden stared he saw one of the spear points stab right through the center of the robe, then emerge from the other side, the steel bright in the sunlight. The hooded figure did not fall.

Kaden looked closer. The faces of the three attackers were drawn in concentration, their panting audible even at a distance. Though the men obviously knew how to handle their weapons, though they had the numbers, their faces were grim. Great hacking slices that seemed sure to take off a shoulder thwacked harmlessly into fabric that gave way in soft billows. Suddenly, with no warning he could perceive, a short knife flashed out from beneath the robe, the pommel slamming up into the jaw of the closest soldier. Before the body hit the stone, the hand and knife were both gone, disappearing back into that flowing shadow.

At the sight, one of the remaining men lunged forward with a furious cry. His spear passed through a fold of cloth, punched out the other side, and into the shoulder of one of his comrades. As the wounded man fell behind him, the shadowrobe flowed forward, well inside the reach of the spear, and then that furtive blade was out again, pressing against the soldier’s throat. The unrobed man cursed, dropped his spear, and raised his hands in surrender. For a long time, the blade at his throat didn’t move. Kaden watched, wondering if he was about to see a man die. Then, with a flicker like a fire-cast shadow darting when the wind rises, the blade was gone.

His foes forgotten, the cloaked figure turned to Kaden, then lowered his hood. Black hair lay plastered against his skull, and his face ran with sweat, but he didn’t appear to be breathing hard. For a while, he said nothing, just looked. Then he waved a hand at his servant.

“Take our visitor to the study overlooking the acacia tree. I will decide his fate when I have bathed.”

* * *

“I have come,” Kaden said carefully, “to offer my condolences for the death of your father.”

Gabril the Red said nothing, studying Kaden from behind steepled fingers the way a hawk perched on a high branch might study a rabbit, his stillness the stillness of a predator poised to strike. He had taken his time in bathing, and with his face scrubbed and sleek black hair knotted behind his head, he bore little resemblance to the sweating shadowrobe from the courtyard. He looked like a young, well-heeled nobleman, not a warrior. Only a long, fine scar, light across his dark cheek, and the bright knives glittering in their red sheaths at his belt, hinted at the earlier violence.

“Murder,” Gabril said finally. The word was sharp with the accent of the Western Desert, vowels polished, consonants pitted as though by the scouring sand.

Kaden raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should,” Gabril replied. “You talk of my father’s ‘death’ as though Gabril the Gray choked on the pit of a date or wandered from the well with no water. This is not the truth of the matter.”

“He was executed,” Kaden said, “in accordance with Annurian law.”

“He was murdered,” Gabril replied, “by your father.”

Kaden slowed his pulse, loosened the muscles of his shoulders and back. The Shin had trained him in all manner of techniques to control his own fear and rage, but they had said nothing about how to calm others-one more way in which they had left him ill prepared to rule an empire, one more deficit he would have to make up on his own, provided Gabril left him alive long enough.