Robert Redick - The River of Shadows

Thasha raised her eyes from the scribbled vellum. Crowded around her, Pazel, Neeps and Marila continued to read. Oggosk was leaning on her stick by the palace window in the bright evening sun, watching them. She had appeared suddenly in the palace, and been escorted to their waiting chambers by a pair of dlomic chamber maids. “What do you want us to do with this?” Thasha asked.

The old woman walked stiffly to them and snatched the page back. “I want you to bear it in mind,” she said. “Nilus faces a terrible decision-probably the greatest in his life. And how you speak to him next may make all the difference.”

“What’s this about ‘a few others not among us’?” asked Pazel. “Who’s he talking about?”

“You’re about to find out,” said Oggosk, glancing at the door.

“Where’s the rest of the letter?” asked Marila.

“Right here,” said the witch, pulling two more sheets from inside her cloak. Placing the three sheets together, she ripped them in quarters. Then, walking to the hearth-it was chilly in the palace, despite the warmth outside-she tossed the pieces onto the bed of glowing coals.

“Again!” cried Neeps. “I’ve never understood why you do that. Such a blary waste of time.”

Oggosk looked at him over her shoulder, contemptuous. “Scrawny little ape. When did you ever understand a thing?” She crouched before the fire and blew. The vellum smoldered, then burst suddenly into flames. Oggosk stood with a groan and turned to face the youths.

“The letters I burn, he watches forming in a fireplace, beneath the dying coals. When the last ember goes out he brushes off the ash and there they are, waiting to be read. I speak of Theimat, of course, the captain’s father. He is a prisoner in Agaroth, on the doorstep of death, a shade without the rest that every shade must long for. Until Nilus chooses to let him go.”

“And Rose keeps him there,” said Pazel, “because he wants to know which of you is his real mother?”

“You can see that much plainly,” snapped the witch. “Now listen to me: you will keep the family matters to yourselves, am I clear? Nilus will go mad if he learns I’ve made you privy to the worst secret of his childhood.”

“Why did you?” asked Thasha.

Oggosk hesitated, and the wrinkles tightened around her milky-blue eyes. “Perhaps for no good reason,” she said. “In any case we will know in a matter of hours.”

The door of the chamber banged open. It was Prince Olik’s footman. “His Highness asks his honored guests to join him on the Dais of Masalym.”

“He’s back!” cried Pazel. “Is Hercol with him? Is there any sign of Arunis?”

The man did not answer at first; like most of the dlomu he seemed caught between wonder and fear when in their presence. “I am to take you quickly,” he said at last.

They followed him, Thasha’s dogs padding at her side; Oggosk struggling irritably, leaning on both her stick and Pazel’s arm. Out of the splendid drawing room they walked, through a portrait gallery where they had tried to glean clues about Bali Adro history (and where Druffle now stood transfixed before a dlomic nude), across the dining chamber where Rain and Uskins sat earnestly masticating mul. How could they possibly be hungry, Thasha wondered, when two hours ago they had all been treated to such a staggering meal?

What they had not been treated to was information. They had climbed a broad stair from beneath the pillar to these chambers, where Alyash, Dastu and Sandor Ott were waiting already, and twenty servants (and twice as many guards) attended them, in that same abashed and fearful style. Olik and Bolutu had returned at once to the Lower City, and the frantic search. Ibjen had stayed to dote on them-carrying tea-trays, measuring their feet for new shoes when the tailor’s hands shook too much for the task. It was good luck, Thasha realized, that they had landed first in a village too small and isolated to trade in the fanciful, terrifying gossip that had swept Masalym. Ibjen had had time to realize they were simply people, before anyone declared them something else.

From the dining chamber they walked down a short corridor, then climbed a steep and narrow staircase. Then another, and another. Only after the fifth staircase did the footman speak again, announcing, “The Dais of Masalym,” and throwing open a door.

Sunlight and wind: the door let onto a small, roofless space with another staircase, very short, leading up to what Thasha saw instantly must be the roof of the entire palace, the cut-off apex of the pyramid.

“There you are! Come, hurry!” came the prince’s voice, faintly.

Up they climbed, into the last hour of daylight. The roof was flat, featureless, immense, a great courtyard thrust up into the sky, with no railing, no shelter of any kind. Here at the center they could see nothing of the city, only the snowy peaks in the south and west, and on the other side the spire of Narybir Tower, hazy across the gulf. Olik and Hercol stood close to this edge-and beside them, tiny in that enormous space, were two figures that made Thasha’s heart leap with joy.

“Ensyl! Felthrup!”

The dogs bounded forward, skidding to a halt before their beloved rat. Thasha saw that Hercol was holding Ildraquin naked in his hand. “You found it!” she cried.

“It was never lost,” said Ensyl, “though in removing it from Vadu’s reach I made it appear so, alas. Dear friends! I wondered if I should ever see you again.”

“Felthrup, you’re a hero,” said Thasha, dropping to her knees beside him.

The black rat scurried into her arms, shivering with pleasure. “I am nothing of the kind,” he said. “What sort of hero sleeps through a fight, and awakens when it has ended?”

“It has not ended,” said Oggosk, wrapping her cloak tighter against the wind.

“Quite right, Duchess,” said Prince Olik. “Listen well, you four. A great deal has changed since this morning.”

“You know where Fulbreech is, don’t you?” said Marila to Hercol.

The Tholjassan drew a deep breath. “I know,” he said. “Ildraquin has told me.” He stepped back, closing his eyes and straightening his sword-arm. At first he appeared to be pointing down at someplace in the city, but then his arm swung slowly to the right, and upward, until it was pointing southwest, at a place in the mountains between two peaks. It was a saddle, a pass, but still a very high and distant spot. The mountain peaks were white all around it; the slopes looked harsh and dry.

“There?” asked Neeps, disbelieving.

“At the Chalice of the Mai,” said Prince Olik, “where the river that flows past our feet has its source in cold Ilvaspar, the glacier lake. Yet I must doubt you, friend Hercol. Arunis stood in this very spot just twenty hours ago, with Fulbreech at his side, and the tol-chenni he took from the Conservatory, too-his ‘idiot,’ as he calls the creature. Many servants, and the Issar as well, confirmed that they were here. And even on the swiftest steed, they could not yet have reached the Chalice. It takes that long to cross our Inner Dominion, the high country that begins here, at the Upper Gate of the Upper City, and runs to the mountain’s foot. And another twelve to climb to the Chalice, and Ilvaspar’s frigid shores.”

“Yet Fulbreech is there all the same,” said Hercol. “Alone or with the sorcerer? That I cannot guess. But Ildraquin has never led me astray when we follow a blood scent.”

Olik sighed. “Then perhaps they did not use the highway at all, but some magic that let them ride the very wind. As you say, however, we have no proof that Arunis has kept the boy by his side.”

“It could well be a trick,” said Ensyl. “Arunis might have sent him to the mountains alone, to throw us off.”