Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

‘No!’ The Sunbright shrank away from them. ‘Guards!’

Tasahre turned on the temple guard. ‘The first one of you that raises a blade, I will cut you down. Any of you.’

The Emperor’s men took hold of Ansinnas. They marched her away and no one moved to stop them. The Overlord and his followers and Kol all trailed after them. The Sunherald turned and walked out the other way, without a word to Tasahre. The priests and the temple guard went with him. Tasahre stood alone bedside Velgian’s body.

When everyone else was gone, Berren walked around the catwalk. On the other side of the dome, a tiny set of steep steps led down. He crossed towards the altar, but as he came close, Tasahre whipped round and pointed a sword at his face. It was the same thing he saw for ten minutes every day across the fighting circle, yet here and now, the sight almost stopped his heart. He froze, paralysed with a moment of utter terror.

‘And now you see,’ she said, as the tip of the sword held his eyes, ‘the power that this holds.’

As his heart remembered to beat again, he looked at her. Tear-tracks marked her cheeks.

They went through the rest of their daily routine. She worked him as hard as she always did, and the more his mind wandered, the more she pushed him. Sometimes he liked that, losing himself in the sheer physical energy she demanded from him. She still beat him at almost everything but he made her sweat to do it now, and there was no taking anything for granted any more. He had no idea, after what had happened in the temple, how she could put that aside and go back to the simple motions of the fight, thoughts unclouded by the fears and anxieties of the world. Yet he saw no guilt, no fear in her, only a deep sadness.

But today his timing was off, his footwork sloppy, and not just because of what Tasahre had done. Today was Moon-Day. Abyss-Day was tomorrow, the night before the Festival of Flames, the day he’d been waiting for ever since he’d fled the warlock. Tomorrow he’d find Master Sy again, and now the sight of Velgian had left him thinking of the thief-taker, of where he might be and what he was doing and why, and why did it matter so much, and what was it that Velgian had wanted him to know? He still didn’t know.

When they were done, Tasahre held him back for a moment. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes did it for her, fixing his feet to the dirt while she sheathed her swords behind her back. She came towards him and held him, her hands on his shoulders, and stared at him, and then touched her cheek lightly to his, almost as though she knew their time was coming to an end. Maybe she was right. After today, maybe she’d be sent away. Or after tomorrow, maybe it would be Berren who left, off on some ship far away with his master, running from the justicar who was once his friend and the city he used to serve.

‘I do not know if I will be here in the morning,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You have it in you to be a good man. Hold fast to that.’ She let go of him and left.

He watched the priests, later that afternoon, moving Velgian out of the temple before dusk prayers. They took him over to the same place they were keeping the warlock’s things. Berren went to prayers like a good novice, unsure whether the priests knew that Tasahre hadn’t been alone when she’d challenged the Sunbright. If they did, no one said anything, but still, he’d keep his head down for the rest of the day in case. He did his work in the kitchen, saw Tasahre come in and eat with the other sword-monks as she always did, and then when they were done, settled down to his own supper. It bothered him, not knowing what would happen to her, same as it bothered him with Master Sy, but with Tasahre he knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing he should do.

Velgian. Right here in the temple.

He tried never to think about what had happened between him and Kuy before Tasahre had run the warlock through, but it was always there in his dreams or when he closed his eyes. Mostly what he remembered were the strands of his soul, laid before him, and cutting them and understanding every part of what he was doing — that was the nightmare that woke him with a cold sweat when he was asleep and made him shudder when he was awake, wondering how else he might have changed, whether without those missing pieces he was still the same Berren he’d been before.

But he remembered the rest too. He remembered the symbols he’d been forced to write, the ones that made the dead speak.

He picked at his food. The answers he wanted were there to be had. He almost got up, right there and then, to go and look for Tasahre, to ask her to come with him. Then he changed his mind and ran through the way that conversation would go.

I want to see Velgian .

Really? Why?

I can make him talk .

How?

Oh, there’s just this thing that the evil warlock showed me .

A spell?

Yeh, I suppose, if you put it that way, yeh, it’s like a magic spell .

That you learned from the abomination?

Yeh. From the evil warlock who tried to kill you and made me cut out a piece of my own soul. Yeh, that one. But we’re not evil, we’re good, so that’s all right, isn’t it? A necessary evil, like you said .

Yeh. And Tasahre would be just fine with that, and then his long-lost father who just happened to be king of the silver faeries would come to the temple disguised as a rainbow and shower him in gold!

Maybe it would be better to just do it and tell her afterwards. If he could find a way to not mention the part about making dead people talk. Or maybe he shouldn’t tell her at all. Hadn’t he got her into enough trouble already? Maybe he should just leave Velgian alone.

He needed someone who wasn’t Tasahre, someone who wasn’t Master Sy, someone who could let him think it through for himself without telling him the answer. Tasahre would say no, it was wrong, it was sorcery and never mind what they might find out, never mind that it might save Master Sy, never mind that even the Emperor himself was said to study the arcane. Master Sy, on the other hand, would tell him to get on with it. Use the best tool for the job, that’s what he’d say. How you got to where you got didn’t matter: what mattered was where you found yourself when you were done.

He picked at his food. He did his chores and he went to bed. And in the night, when everyone else was asleep, he got up and crept outside again to where Velgian was waiting. He crossed the practice yard, darting from one shadow to the next. No one was about this late but he felt eyes everywhere. At any moment, someone was going to shout out: Boy! What are you doing? and then he’d be caught and they’d find out and Tasahre would know and everything would be bad.

But there were no shouts; and then he was inside the Hall of Swords and it was dark and the warlock’s things were all around him and he didn’t dare even light a candle. He waited, letting his eyes get used to what little moonlight filtered in through the open windows. He already had a quill and a strip of paper, stolen while he was cleaning the classrooms. He found an old book to write on, a shaft of light to see by, dipped his quill in his stolen pot of ink …

And paused.

It didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong. He didn’t feel like he was damning his soul or committing some terrible crime, yet if Tasahre came in now, if she saw him like this, he was quite certain she’d do almost anything to stop him. She’d fight him if she had to, for his own good, not that it would ever come to that.

No. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Maybe he was trying to stop something terrible. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe all Velgian wanted was for Master Sy to know that he could keep Velgian’s book of poetry, but it had something to do with Saffran Kuy and he’d never know unless he did this, and Master Sy and Tasahre had both told him in their different ways that he should trust his instincts. Well here he was, that was what he was doing and tonight his instincts were all he had.