Shadowcaster Read online

  Lyss couldn’t help herself—it was as if the music was tethered to her heart, drawing her forward at a stumbling trot.

  The busker lifted his head to look at her, and she could see his eyes glittering within the cowl of the cloak, his breath pluming out in the cold. He flinched back, as if surprised, as if she was not at all what he expected. But then, as she drew closer, he seemed to gather himself. He skipped backward along the riverbank, never missing a note, moving as lightly as a fellsdeer. Though he was moving backward, and she forward, it was all she could do to keep up.

  “Sir,” she said, digging in her purse for a handful of coins, “what’s that you’re playing? I’ve never heard anything like it.” He kept retreating, and she followed, her surroundings a soft smudge of shadow so that she wasn’t entirely sure where she was. It seemed unimportant next to her desire to follow the music to its source.

  He was teasing her with his music, like the piper in stories. It was as intoxicating as blue ruin. It tugged at her, drawing her on. It was full of promises that she wanted him to keep. Promises meant only for her.

  He knows me. He understands. If I keep listening, I’ll understand, too.

  As they moved down the riverbank, the wind blowing down the river caught his hood and it fell back, displaying a face like that of one of the young gods in the temples, the skin marble-pale, stretched over bone. His hair was the color of upland honey, a deep, rich brown threaded with streaks of red and gold. He smiled, his eyes alive with mischief, as he beckoned her on. He reminded Lyss of one of the faerie folk in stories that lured the unwary into trysts in the high glens—encounters that left a person forever dissatisfied with human lovers.

  The busker’s head came up, as if he’d heard something. As he looked past her, toward the river, the music dwindled, nearly stopped. The shadows thinned, and Lyss could hear a commotion behind her, the sounds of fighting, shouts of alarm, the twang of bows, and the clamor of weapons. Lyss turned and took a step back toward Bridge Street. But the music started up again, faster than before, frenetic, taking hold of her again, sweeping her away. Up ahead, she saw the busker round a corner and disappear, and she hurried after, trying not to slip on the icy cobblestones.

  Turning the corner, she saw him again, standing on a stone bench in a little riverside park, treed like a fox. He stood, his hands still moving over the strings, making that magical music. He’d left his instrument case there, sitting open on the bench.

  “Sir,” Lyss said, holding up her basilka in its case. “I’m a musician, too, and it’s just—I’ve never heard an instrument like that before.”

  “It’s called a jafasa,” he said. She was just a few feet away when he slung his instrument behind him. He bent, scooped something from his instrument case, and extended it toward her.

  As soon as the music stopped, her mind cleared of shadow, and she realized that he might be retrieving a weapon. She stumbled several steps backward, groping for her knife. And then she recognized what he was holding.

  A bouquet of flowers.

  As if in a dream, she took the flowers from him, bringing them to her nose to taste their scent. She recognized red foxflowers, white lilies, and blue trueheart, though there were others she couldn’t identify. She was momentarily distracted by an echo of memory—the sense that she’d seen them somewhere before.

  “Were you the one I saw onstage?” he said. When she stared at him, he added, impatiently, “Were you the one that sang the song about the northern children?”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding. “Yes.”

  “Your performance was brilliant,” he said, getting off an awkward bow.

  “You were there?”

  “I was there. It was . . . it was honest, and honesty is hard to find these days.” Then he went back to playing, eyes closed, head tilted back, lips slightly parted, as if the music flowed from some well of magic deep within.

  “I might as well be honest,” Lyss said, “because I’m not very good at lying.”

  When he heard her speak, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I know,” he said. Then he looked over her shoulder, his eyes went wide, and the music died abruptly. Otherwise she might not have heard the thud of boots on cobblestones, and more shouting behind her.

  “Look out, Lyss!” It sounded like Sasha, from too far away.

  The busker stood as if frozen, ashen pale, shaking his head, until Lyss heard a familiar thwack. It sounded for all the world like a—

  The busker leapt from the bench, slamming her flat, onto the cobblestones, sending her basilka flying. He raised his instrument like a shield and another bolt thudded into the soundboard, sending showers of splinters over her face.

  Then, suddenly, Cam was there, grabbing the busker by the scruff of the neck, ripping him off her and tossing him aside. He shielded her with his body, pushing her toward a low stone wall along the river walk that would provide a bit of shelter. A bolt sang past Lyss’s ear, splashing into the river. And then Cam’s body shuddered, and he stumbled.

  “Cam?”

  They staggered forward a few more steps. He pushed her down behind the wall and collapsed beside her.

  “You’re hit!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he gasped.

  Lyss ran her hand over his uniform tunic until she found the arrow shaft embedded in his right lower back. He hadn’t lost much blood, but she had to get him to a healer. She came up on her hands and knees, peering over the top of the wall, scanning the buildings huddled along the intersecting streets. The fire seemed to be coming from there. On a nearby roof, she saw a hooded archer calmly reloading his crossbow. He turned, aimed straight at Lyss, and released as she dove back into cover. The bolt whined over her head like an angry insect.

  It’s me they’re after, she thought, her mind beginning to clear from the enchantment of the music. The busker had disappeared, but the bolts were still coming, sending chips of stone flying, so there must be more than one—

  “Heads up, ma’am,” Cam said, groping desperately for a weapon.

  Lyss turned. Another assassin was coming at her from the river, a blade glittering in his hand. She was cornered, with no place to go. He’d be on top of her before she could reach the knife in her boot. She tried to push to her feet, but her boots slid on the icy ground and she fell back, hitting her head, hard, on the wall.

  As the assassin lunged at her, she was conscious of Cam rolling so he was half on top of her. The assassin landed, hard, with an odd grunt, and then blood gushed over her and Cam both. Lyss saw a blood-smeared blade protruding from the rusher’s back. Cam had found his sword.

  Only now he appeared to have passed out. She heard running feet, and a shout: “For the Gray Wolf! For the queen in the north!” It was Sasha.

  But there were more blade men incoming. They were like demons, erupting out of the ground. Lyss squirmed out from under Cam, groped blindly and found the handle of her instrument case.

  Desperately, she swung the case at the leading blade man. It smashed into his face with all the force she could summon, slamming him onto his back, the dagger in his hand pinwheeling into the street. She slid her hand into her boot as he rolled to his feet and lunged toward her.

  He barreled into her and they both fell to the ground, with the assassin on top, his hands wrapped around Lyss’s throat. His body flinched as multiple bolts struck him, but he kept hold. His fingers didn’t loosen until Lyss’s shiv transfixed his throat and blood spilled over her leathers.

  I’m glad I changed out of Aunt Mellony’s dress, she thought woozily.

  Lyss pushed the deadweight of his body off her as more bolts clattered against the courtyard stone. She swung her basilka up, sheltering under it like an umbrella, feeling it shiver as missile after missile struck it, some boring through the soundboard and pricking out the back.

  She heard running footsteps, and the street lit up as Hadley raked the rooftops with bolts of wizard flame, clearing them of snow and archers. The bolts quit coming, for the time being any
way. And then Shadow was beside her, shielding her with his body until she was engulfed in a sea of blue uniforms. Finn flamed the riverside, clearing off any remaining assassins. Sasha was still clearing the street.

  “Are you able to walk, Meadowlark?” Shadow said, one arm wrapped around her, his face bleak with worry.

  “Me? I’m fine. We need to—”

  “You’re covered in blood,” he said gently.

  “It’s not mine,” she said, twisting so she could look around. “Where’s Julianna?”

  “I sent her on to the temple,” Sasha said, suddenly at her side. “Let’s go.”

  “Bring Staunton,” Lyss said, planting her feet and pointing to where he lay, still and silent, next to the wall.

  Shadow knelt next to Cam, pressing his fingers against his pulse points. “Meadowlark,” he said. “I don’t know if he—”

  “Bring him,” Lyss growled. “I’m not going anywhere without him.”

  Shadow scooped him up and they swarmed toward the bridge, Hadley and Finn providing cover, Lyss in the center of what remained of her guard. They had to pick their way around bodies at the Ragmarket end of the bridge.

  “Ambush,” Sasha said, stepping over a black-clad body. “They blocked the bridge after we started across. We had to fight our way through. That’s why it took us so long to get to you.”

  They crossed the bridge into the temple courtyard, where two carriages still waited. That’s all Lyss saw before Shadow shouldered his way into the temple. Sasha followed, pushing Lyss ahead of her.

  Julianna was waiting inside with a young dedicate. “Sweet lady in chains,” her cousin whispered, taking in their bloodied appearance.

  “Is there a healer on the premises?” Shadow gasped. “This one’s hurt bad. They tried to murder the princess heir.”

  “Of course,” the dedicate said, signaling to a young girl who sat next to the hearth, reading a book. The girl took off running.

  The dedicate shook back her hood, revealing clan-style beaded-and-braided hair. Reaching behind her desk, she pulled out a longbow and a quiver of arrows.

  “That’s what I like to see,” Shadow said, “a faith with teeth.”

  “Carry the boy into the sanctuary,” the dedicate said. “I’ll go upstairs and cover the door in case anyone tries to get in.” She ran lightly up the stairs.

  As Lyss turned to follow Shadow, she all but ran into Julianna. Her cousin’s eyes were red from crying, her lashes clumped together with tears. She stared at Lyss’s blood-soaked clothing, looking as if she might faint dead away. “Alyssa,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

  “They’ve pissed me off, is what they’ve done,” Lyss said, brushing past her.

  Shadow deposited Cam facedown on a wide stone bench. Lyss knelt next to him, slicing his uniform tunic away from the wound. The bolt was all but buried, with only a small bit protruding from his flesh. His skin was icy cold around the wound, and seemed to be getting colder. His pulse was faint and flickering.

  “Where’s the rest of the Wolves?” Lyss asked, looking around. “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “There’s one more dead,” Shadow said.

  “Who?”

  “Carew. The rest are hunting down the archers. Hadley and Finn are still out, and we’ve called in reinforcements from the Southbridge Garrison House. I’m going back out, too.” The spark that had been kindled in his eyes during the concert seemed to have been extinguished, leaving them as flat and dead as they had been since he lost Aspen.

  This is my fault, Lyss thought. Guilt rose inside her like a full-moon tide. It’s Solstice, and Mama said the wolves were running. I should have stayed at home. And now, Shadow . . .

  “I don’t want anyone else hurt,” Lyss said, catching his hand. “Can we call them back until we know what’s what?”

  Shadow gently pulled free. “If we don’t catch them now, they may disappear for good. This is the golden hour, before they have time to go to ground.” His eyes met hers, held. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” And then he was gone.

  The young girl returned with Ty Gryphon at her heels. He was carrying a remedy bag.

  “Ty!” Lyss said, relieved. Ty was Hadley’s older brother, and a gifted healer. When Lord Vega wouldn’t allow Adrian to work in the healing halls, Ty had taken him on as a kind of unofficial assistant. Adrian always said that Ty was the most skilled healer in Lord Vega’s service—including Lord Vega.

  Ty spent little time in the capital these days. Lyss hadn’t seen him in more than a year—he traveled all over the queendom, wherever the fighting was fiercest.

  Ty looked Lyss up and down, taking in her blood-smeared clothing. “Where are you—?”

  “It’s somebody else’s,” Lyss said. She pointed to Cam. “He’s the patient. He took a crossbow bolt in the back.”

  Ty glanced at Cam, then back at her. “You’re sure you’re not wounded? Even a scratch?”

  Lyss’s head was throbbing, and she could feel a major lump where it had hit the wall, but it could wait. “I’m all right. See to him first.”

  As Ty examined Cam, Lyss stroked the blood-matted hair away from Cam’s forehead. He didn’t respond at all.

  “This is someone you know?” Ty asked.

  “He’s in my personal guard. He’s been with me on the battlefields all summer without a scratch, and then he comes home and this happens.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cam Staunton.”

  “Could we get some blankets over here?” Ty called to the young acolyte. She brought over an armload, and Lyss put one under Cam’s head and one over his hips and legs.

  “How long has it been since he was wounded?” Ty asked.

  “It’s probably coming up on an hour since he was hit,” Lyss said.

  Ty’s lips tightened. “Have you had a look at the bolts they used?”

  “There are probably some out there,” Lyss said. “I could send someone to—”

  “I don’t think it will change the treatment plan,” Ty said. He pressed one hand against the skin around the wound, gripped his amulet with the other, and closed his eyes, concentrating. Then he moved his hand to Cam’s upper back. Then to his forehead—as if he was counting up the damage.

  He sighed, sitting back on his heels. “I can try to cut the bolt out,” he said, “but it would cause considerable trauma and pain, and it’s too late to do any good.”

  Lyss reared back. “What do you mean, it’s too late? He hasn’t lost that much blood. I’ve seen soldiers survive that kind of wound a hundred times.”

  “It’s poison, Lyss,” Ty said. “Whoever attacked you, they meant to kill.”

  “He saved my life,” Lyss said. “He’s just thirteen. That’s unacceptable.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  No. She would not say good-bye to Cam Staunton. “Can’t you suck it out of him with magic?” She’d seen the gifted draw out poison and infection that way. “Or—we could treat it like a snakebite? We could open the wound, so it bleeds the poison out.”

  “It’s been too long. The poison is everywhere now, so I have no hope of drawing it out.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, though I can probably figure it out once I get hold of one of the bolts.”

  “I’ll get you one,” Lyss said, pushing to her feet. “Once we know what it is, we’ll find an antidote.”

  “Lyss,” Ty said gently. “Does Cam have a family? We should send for them.”

  “No!” Lyss said, backing away, angry tears streaming down her face. “I mean, if you don’t know what it is, how do you know there isn’t an antidote? You should heal him. You’re a healer, right?”

  It was like Lyss was being sucked into a well of memory, to that day almost exactly four years ago. Her father lying still and cold in the street, and Lord Vega saying it was poison, and there was nothing he could do.

  Eleven-year-old Lyss had punch
ed him for it. She wanted to punch somebody now, but she’d grown up enough that she knew Ty wasn’t the right person.

  “Lyss,” Ty said, in the soothing wizard voice Adrian had always used on her. “Could you hold his hands and talk to him? He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  Lyss blotted at her eyes. She wished Sasha were there—she knew him best. Or anyone else who would know the right thing to say.

  “Don’t worry,” Ty said, as if reading her mind. “Whatever you say will be the right thing.”

  Lyss would have to do. She sat down next to Cam, took his ice-cold hands between her own, and began to talk. And she talked, rambling on about everything and nothing, recalling the summer’s battles, and memories from camp, stories about his mother, and pranks the two of them had played on Sasha. She moved on to the concert, and the songs they’d sung in the tavern, and retold the story of how they’d driven off the rushers together. She even sang to him a little, like she was singing him to sleep.

  All at once, Cam’s grip tightened, and his eyes flickered open. “Ma’am?” he whispered.

  Lyss leaned in close. “What is it, Staunton?”

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” His eyes searched her face anxiously. “Did they get to you?”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “Thanks to you.”

  Cam smiled. And closed his eyes.

  16

  POSTMORTEM

  Ty finally persuaded Lyss to let go of Cam’s hands.

  “We should get you back to the palace, where Lord Vega can do a more thorough—”

  “No,” Lyss said. “I’m not leaving here until my Wolves come back. I need to know that they’re safe, and I want to find out what they’ve learned.”

  “They may be out all night, Your Highness,” Ty said.

  “I’m a soldier, Master Gryphon. I’m used to all-nighters.”