Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

Kit went inside for a better look. Still unsure where she was, or how she had gotten here, she moved around to the side of the bed. The occupant was an old man. His silver hair was full, but cropped close to the scalp. His face was creased with deep lines like old leather. Kit leaned closer, and the breath caught in her throat as she recognized a resemblance through the drooping, wrinkled flesh. She swallowed, afraid to speak.

He opened his eyes. “Kit?”

Through the hoarseness and the straining, she could hear his old voice, the voice she'd loved for so long. “I'm here, Caim. How did this-?”

Kit stopped talking as she reached for him and saw her own hands. Instead of smooth and elegant, they were withered, the skin along the backs sunken to where she could see the bones. A large brown spot covered the knob of her left wrist. She pulled the hands-her hands-back and tried to hide them in the laced sleeves of her dress. “Caim, what's happened? You're so old, and I'm…”

She turned to the glass, the movement slow and stiff. The face that looked back at her was ancient. Her violet eyes were hidden within deep pockets of wrinkles. “I'm horrid!”

“No.” He coughed. “No, my love. You're as beautiful as the first time I saw you.”

Kit sat on the bed and touched his arm. The firm muscles she'd once fantasized about, wanting to hold her, were shrunken to thin cables. “How did we get so old, Caim? I'm a mud-woman now, but I don't remember how I got this way.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I know I promised to never leave you, but I don't know…”

His eyes closed as his voice drifted off.

“Mistress?” The girl had returned. She stood at the door. “Can I get you anything?”

Kit shook her head and looked back to Caim, resolved to wake him for some answers, but he exhaled a long, quiet breath before she could shake him. His chest seemed to shrink in upon itself, falling lower and lower. She waited for it to rise again. One heartbeat extended into a second, but his chest did not move. Kit clamped her teeth shut to hold back the wail that clawed up her throat. The room grew dimmer as the walls closed in around her.

The sun was in the same place in the sky when Kit returned to her grandmother's retreat. The flowers of the garden swayed to the breeze, surrounding her in a thousand heady scents that all smelled of ashes. She looked for her grandmother and heard the door to the cottage close. Tears welled up in her eyes, but they did not spill.

Kit walked back down the stony path to the water's edge. Standing in the sand, she thought about what she'd seen. Was it the future, or just a nightmare? A gust of wind blew through her hair. Small waves capped in white foam scudded across the water's surface as Kit pondered her destiny and the man she loved.

Caim groaned as he rolled over. The return journey from Othir had been rougher than he expected. He hurt all over.

Blinking up at the soot-black sky, Caim pushed aside his stiff blanket and sat up. Freezing rain encrusted the ground. Dray, bleary-eyed and slack-jawed, sat beside the campfire from which rose a few tendrils of smoke. Caim scooted closer to the warmth of the coals. “Do we have any more wood?”

Dray shook his head. “That's the last of it. And I doubt you'll find much dry timber around today. Been raining since midnight.”

Caim rubbed his hands together. A cold breakfast was the least of his worries. Josey was somewhere on her way north, to find him, of all things. From what Hubert said, she'd been through a lot since her ascension to the throne. Would he even recognize her anymore?

And then there was Kit. He'd been cruel last night. He wished he could say it was an isolated incident, but he'd been distracted for weeks, not giving her the attention he knew she wanted. Things had changed between them during their time in Eregoth. He needed to acknowledge that and make things right between them.

Caim studied the terrain to the north. The tugging in his head was strong this morning, as strong as it had ever been. And it had a strange texture, too. The droning buzz had changed to an insistent whine behind his ears. Why was that? Maybe it's me. Maybe traveling back to Othir, stretching my powers like that, did something to my head.

As he tried to figure it out, the others crawled from their blankets. They ate as they packed up the meager camp. Caim went to Egil and pointed in the direction of the pulling. “Keep us heading in that direction.”

The guide scratched his beard, which was flecked with small pieces of ice. “As you say, but the farther north we go, the better the chance we'll be seen. The Bear tribe is thick all through this region.”

“I understand. Do the best you can to keep us out of their way. Unless you'd rather head back. You didn't sign up for this.”

“Nah. This is a good-paying job. Anyway, I'd feel bad if you got lost up here and froze yourselves to death.”

Caim smiled, though it made his cheeks ache. As they headed out single-file after the guide, Caim stayed to the rear. It wasn't long before he heard Malig complaining again, but then Dray pulled something from his saddlebags. A long-necked bottle. Malig snatched it and popped the cork. “Damn!”

“I've been saving it. Good, eh?”

The two of them passed the bottle back and forth a few times before offering a swig to Aemon, but he declined with a shake of his head.

“Just have a nip, Aemon,” Dray said. “Maybe it will yank you out of the rotten fucking mood you've been in.”

“And if not,” Malig said, “at least it'll make you more interesting company.”

Dray said something Caim didn't catch, and both he and Malig guffawed with laughter. Then they started up a drinking song. While they sang, Aemon plucked the bottle from his brother's hand and took a long pull. Caim squinted ahead into the wind, but there was nothing to see except the stark flatness of the wastes. Then he spotted something far ahead in that distance, a slight darkening on the horizon. Not much to go on, but it was the only landmark in sight.

Caim nudged his steed into a canter that carried him up to the drinking Eregoths. Dray held out the nearly empty bottle to him. “Want the last bit?”

“Keep your voices down,” Caim said. “And your eyes open.”

Dray stared at him, but said nothing. They rode onward in silence, battered by the frigid wind and occasional flurries of snow. After Dray and Malig finished their liquid amusement, they both leaned forward in their saddles, eyes closed. After a candlemark of riding, Egil fell back to offer them a break. Everyone dismounted to give the animals a rest, but they kept walking at Caim's insistence.

When Malig complained, Caim said, “Moving will keep you warm. And we still have a ways to go before nightfall.”

Malig snorted. “Nightfall? In case you haven't noticed, it's always night in this frozen slice of hell.”

Caim felt the muscles in his arms contract. His fingers itched. Bracing himself as the frozen saddle met his thighs, Caim swung back up on his horse and cantered ahead. When he was a hundred yards ahead, he slowed his pace. He was edgy without knowing why. All he could think of was getting to the forest and finding the source of the sensation in his head. The snow lessened enough for him to see the horizon, where the darkness had resolved into a mass of trees. They appeared normal at first, except that they were the first trees he'd seen in the wastes. Yet, as he led his horse farther, small details emerged that gave him pause. The trees were gargantuan in size, even bigger than the mighty oaks of northern Eregoth. And then there was their hue, which was sable black with ash-gray leaves.

Caim pulled his steed back to a slow walk as they entered the forest. Thin, twisted branches entwined in a canopy over his head. Everything smelled bitter and dead. He waited for the others just inside the tree line. The pulling had grown more insistent, urging him forward.