Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

Expressions somber, their boots echoing in the spacious courtyard, the King’s Guard marched over to meet them. As they drew closer, Stefan’s sword began a slight thrum. He rested his hand on the weapon, and the sensation subsided. They lined up five on each side, one row in front Cerny, and the other ahead of Stefan, and marched up the stairs.

The gigantic metal doors, at least twelve feet tall, inched open. Light pooled out from the interior to meet that of the torches hanging next to the entrance. Creaking on hinges as if they hadn’t been oiled in ages, the doors swung inwards to reveal Kahar with his hood thrown back, silver and green eyes glinting.

“You men take to your patrols,” Cerny ordered. “If I have need of you, I’ll send for you.”

The King’s Guard bowed and turned stiffly to obey the command.

Behind Kahar stretched the main hall lined by pillars with lamps in sconces.

Cerny coughed into his gloved hand. “After you, the King-” He cut off when Kahar’s eyes shifted in his direction.

The prospect of accompanying Kahar almost made Stefan cringe, but he squared his shoulders and stepped inside. Cerny joined him and the doors groaned shut.

Stefan tried his best not to contemplate how they closed without Kahar touching them. Instead, he focused on a distant point down the hallway to give off the impression he was staring the bodyguard in the eye. Kahar turned and strode away; silky movements making it appear as if his feet never touched the carpeted floor.

A slow breath escaped Stefan’s mouth, but his relief was short-lived as the pungent stench of rot and moldy fur made him cough. A sudden clamminess crept down his spine at the scent he recognized.

Wraithwolf.

His hand slid down to the comfort of his sword’s hilt. Coupled with the carpet’s stink, which reeked as if it had been wet but not cleaned in months, if not years, the long hall began to feel constrictive despite it being at least fifteen feet wide. With his other hand, Stefan loosened his collar trying to make it easier to breathe. Not once did Cerny react to the foul odor.

As they walked, Stefan kept his gaze shifting from the side to side into any shadowed alcove or corner. He started at what he thought was a flurry of movement only to realize it was a trick of the capering flames within the lamps when they played off the images of men, beasts, and battles on the many paintings and tapestries or off the statues along the hall. At any moment, he expected the shadelings the King employed to leap into the open and tear him limb from limb, but none did. In fact, not once did he notice so much as a guard by the time they traveled the length of the hall.

“You should not have returned,” Kahar said as they entered an antechamber. Despite the palace’s emptiness and silence, the man’s voice lacked an echo.

“Why is that? I always return to the King, regardless of what happens.” Stefan’s voice reverberated.

“You were defeated. Again.”

Stefan shrugged, trying to appear braver than he felt. “Was this loss so different than the others? The Erastonians are stronger foes than Nerian anticipated.”

Kahar said nothing.

They passed into a large room decorated with cushioned benches and chairs. The stark desolation of the castle only added to the chill that had crept into Stefan’s bones upon reaching Benez. He wanted to hug himself. Instead, he drew the cloak tighter around him, making certain to keep the material clear of his sword.

“The Erastonians are not half as strong as they think,” Kahar finally said when they entered another antechamber. “In another time and place, you would have defeated them.”

Stefan bristled at the remark. “You mean if the King had bothered to give me the best of his Alzari or fought them in full force. Why would he let his armies face defeat after defeat?”

“Why indeed? Did the King not tell you about the hope, the belief he gained when he saved the Unvanquished?”

Stefan growled under his breath at the mention of the name. “He didn’t save them. He killed them. Now look what’s become of Benez. The people are without hope. They’re fleeing. The soldiers themselves, all but the Alzari, appear as if they expect the end any day now.”

“The end is soon, but not the one many expect.”

“Nerian can’t hope to win against the odds he faces. The Erastonians, the Felani, the Svenzar, the Tribunal’s Ashishin with an allied Granadia at their back. He must-”

“You sound as if you side with them,” Cerny interrupted.

In his mounting anger, Stefan had forgotten about the man. “No. I sound as if I have some sense.”

“Whatever happened to the man who believed he could not lose?” Kahar asked. “The man who followed the Disciplines ? The man who believed in perseverance?”

A twinge of sadness crept through Stefan. “He died,” he whispered.

Cerny chuckled.

“We both know the dead can be reborn.”

Stefan missed a step. What did Kahar mean by that? Could he know …?

They entered the last hallway and the long stretch before the throne room. Kahar stopped and faced Stefan. Heart thumping in his chest, Stefan met the man’s silver-flecked gaze, not flinching once. Demand bravery by overcoming your fear.

“What happened with Garrick and his men was a warning to you that you could do no more here,” Kahar said, face blank. “The Svenzar tried to warn you off, but you still would not listen. So no, I do not believe Stefan the Undefeated, Stefan the Steadfast is dead. He stands here before me, a living example of what a man who lives and breathes the Disciplines can become. You stand before me defiant, facing me down even though you know I am more than what I appear to be. You worked for years now to find a way to save your people, to defeat Nerian. Your presence here is proof of who you are.”

“What-” Cerny blurted. He took several steps back.

Stefan reached for his sword.

Kahar’s hand on his stopped him. He never saw the bodyguard move. “That will be of no help here. Do not attempt to draw on whatever meager power it gave you over the years. The divya was not meant for you but another. You are simply its carrier for now.”

No matter how much he strained, Stefan could not break free of Kahar’s hold. The man seemed not to exert any pressure, but his hand held fast all the same. Finally, Stefan gave in with a nod and relaxed.

Kahar leaned in closer. He had no scent. “Have faith in yourself. Ilumni will show you the way,” he whispered.

Stefan frowned at the bodyguard’s words. “Have you told any of this to the King?” he asked, matching Kahar’s pitch.

“No, but King Nerian has a way of perceiving things. He always has. Not many can hide what they do from him.”

“So what is it that you want?”

“For you to live … as you must. This is why I do not understand why you chose to return.”

Stefan stared Kahar in the eye, his face becoming a mask of its own. “Because I have a people to defend. A wife, a son, and a daughter to save.”

The corner of Kahar’s lips twitched. He bowed. “Go. Save them then. They are in the throne room. But remember two things. Do not draw your sword against him, and no matter what he offers, no matter what you see or think you see, do not willingly give it to him. The weapon is your family’s birthright.” He turned and strode back the way they came, the door closing behind him of its own volition.

Stefan stared at the closed door.

“What he says makes no difference.” Cerny regarded him with a sly smile. “You can’t hope to defeat Nerian.”

Thoughts spinning, Stefan barely noted Cerny’s remark. Then, Kahar’s words hit him. ‘They are in the throne room.’ He spun on his heels to face the room’s entrance. “No.” He whispered. “No.” Gut clenching, he sprinted down the hall. When he reached the door, he didn’t bother to push, choosing instead to slam it open with his shoulder.