Shadowcaster Read online

  Jenna was torn between following after the smaller ship and taking a closer look at the pirates, who were swarming over the decks, trying to put out the flames in the mast and rigging. She could see someone standing on a small, raised deck behind the tallest mast, shouting orders to the others. Someone who glowed so brightly that Jenna had to squint.

  “Can you get down a little closer?” I’m sure those are someone’s last words, she thought.

  Jenna could sense the dragon’s bone-deep terror. Not after us. Not after us. He slowly spiraled down toward the water’s surface, his muscles bunched with tension.

  Maybe it was catching, because, as they drew closer, a dull dread took root in her and grew. The magemark on her neck seethed and burned as if it might burst into flame. Every fiber of her being screamed danger.

  Jenna? Cas gave her a mental nudge.

  “One quick look, then we’ll go,” she said.

  The first surprise was that the figure on the deck was a young woman, not much older than Jenna. Locks of metallic silver hair twisted around her head like a nest of snakes in a scary story. She wore a leather waistcoat over a snowy linen shirt with a divided skirt. The dagger belted at her side—

  Jenna’s heart quivered and almost stopped. It was a jeweled, curved dagger—like the one left to her by her mother. The one her father had kept hidden in a box under her bed until they came for her.

  This must be the empress that she’d been warned about. That had been hunting her. That she was hunting now. Celestine. Surely she was too young to be an empress.

  It was as if the empress heard her name. She stiffened, then looked up and saw them.

  A rush of emotion all but foundered them.

  “You!”

  Jenna wasn’t sure whether the empress spoke aloud, or inside her head, but the message was clear—mingled triumph, joy, and unbridled lust. The empress extended her arms greedily, reaching for them.

  “Cas!”

  The dragon was already climbing, his neck extended, his muscles bunching and releasing as he sliced through the air. Jenna clung to his back, shaking, and no use to anyone.

  When they were high in the sky, Jenna took one quick look back. The empress still stood on her ship’s deck, hands on hips, watching them go, ignoring her crew, who were still frantically fighting the fire.

  When they were out of sight of the pirate ship, Cas slowed his frantic wingbeats and flattened his climb a bit.

  What now? It was a measure of his agitation that fishing wasn’t even mentioned.

  “We need to find that smaller ship the pirates were attacking,” Jenna said. “It seems like they might have some of the answers we want.”

  37

  A SECOND INTERVIEW

  Breon didn’t remember much about the days immediately after he smoked the bad leaf. Most of it, he didn’t want to remember, being the kind of person who tries to move on from misery. He didn’t know how much of it was from the poisoned leaf, and how much from withdrawal, but it wasn’t something he cared to relive in his mind or elsewhere.

  But there were a couple of high points. For instance, Talbot scrubbing the muck off him with this wonderful rough, hot washcloth, which left his skin tingling. And feeding him thick soups and rich puddings once he stopped hurling. She might have even massaged his back when it was tied up in knots, but he might have made that up.

  There was this other thing that was probably a dream, but he enjoyed it anyway. He heard this wonderful music, and thought it might be choirs of angels, which didn’t make sense, given the way he’d lived his life up to now. It turned out to be the princess, playing her basilka for him.

  Now I can die happy, he thought. He’d thought he was on his way to doing that before he got executed. They likely had special methods for those who try to hush a princess, and he’d just as soon sit that out.

  But now he was actually feeling better, so he had to act fast. Dying seemed easier than escaping. Breon closed his eyes and folded his hands and tried to let go of his body, but he kept on breathing, and, before long, he got hungry and thirsty and had to take a piss. Why is it that a person is always dying when he doesn’t plan on it, but when it’s in his best interest, he has no luck at all?

  The next time Talbot came in, Breon asked for pen and paper, and she brought some. “I hope you’re planning to write out your confession, scumbag,” she said, but he could tell that her heart wasn’t in it. Breon was pretty sure he was winning Talbot over; as time went on she seemed less and less likely to cut off body parts. That had been his goal—to remain intact during his incarceration. A man has to have goals, and now that he was off the leaf, he was doing better at remembering them.

  Besides, Breon wasn’t used to being hated. He didn’t like being packed in with somebody who looked like they wanted to yank his guts out through his eyes. Or some other aperture.

  Another good word, aperture. He wondered where he’d picked that up. Words were like the Tamric itch—all of the sudden you had it, and don’t know where you got it.

  “Well?” Talbot said. “What are you planning to write?”

  Breon hadn’t realized that she actually wanted an answer. “I’m going to write my eulogy,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Talbot said suspiciously.

  “It’s kind of a tribute speech they give after a person is dead,” Breon said.

  “Why do you need one of those?” Talbot took a quick look around. “You aren’t planning to—?”

  “You’re the one that said I’d be hung for the two that died in Ragmarket.”

  “Oh. Right. You will be.” Only this time she wasn’t gloating, like before. “You’re going to write your own?”

  “Nobody else is going to do it.”

  “You’ve got that right,” she said, with a snort. But still, she stood, rubbing the back of her neck, frowning at him. “You don’t have anyone? There’s nobody we should send a message to?”

  “No,” he said.

  Aubrey had cared about him—he was sure of it. But he wasn’t going to send them out hunting for her. He imagined himself going to the block, and her out in the audience somewhere in a long black veil. He liked everything about that story except the going-to-the-block part.

  Then he had an inspiration. He looked up at Talbot and said, “If I write something down, would you read it?”

  “Me?” Talbot took two steps back. “You don’t want me reading it.” She paused. “Do you?”

  “I do,” Breon said. “I feel like you’ve been a big part of the story of the end of my life. I’ve probably spent more time with you than anybody else that’s—that could do it.”

  “What are you going to write?” Talbot asked suspiciously.

  “You’ll see. If you look it over, and you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. I’ll be dead, anyway.”

  “All right,” she said. “Fair enough.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Sasha.”

  “Call me Breon. If you want.”

  It wasn’t easy to come up with anything to write. Half of his life had been blotted from his memory, and he didn’t really want to write the other half down. Now that his mind was clear, he was remembering things he’d done that he’d just as soon leave buried. It was like when you find something promising lying in the street and you rinse it off and it’s just a hunk of broken glass.

  It’s all in the presentation, he thought, looking over his page of scratched-out lines.

  He tried to look out for his friends.

  He knew how to have a good time.

  He told stories.

  He loved sunrises and puppies and walks by the ocean.

  Sometimes, he made people forget their worries for a little while.

  Then again, you could say pretty much the same for leaf. Speaking of leaf . . . he wondered if he would be granted any last requests.

  When he wasn’t struggling to put words together, he spent his time reading and sleeping and eating.

  It wasn’t a bad way
to spend his final days. He was just grateful that he wasn’t spending them sweating and shaking and cramping and heaving. He was mortified at the display he’d put on when the princess came to see him. He would offer a sincere apology if he ever saw her again, which he probably wouldn’t. Which was probably just as well.

  A few days later, Breon was sitting under the window, where the light was best, struggling with his eulogy. Sasha had called him a charmcaster, but that didn’t seem to project the right image. He’d decided he should go with something more dramatic. Like Shadowcaster.

  They called him Shadowcaster, because he came out of the shadows, and stole the minds and hearts of men. Also women.

  They called him Shadowcaster, because he cast a great shadow over the events of the day. People called him a murderer, but it just wasn’t true.

  They called him Shadowcaster, because his music was like a torrent of light amid the shadows.

  No. Actually, it was the other way around.

  That was the problem. He was trying to write a story about a hero, but the truth kept elbowing in and ruining it. This story isn’t about you. This is about the person you wish you were.

  Just then, the door banged open, and in came Her Highness with Sasha Talbot, a moblet of bluejackets, and, to his surprise, Rogan Shadow Dancer—Shadow in the north. The trader must be back from wherever he’d gone off to. To Breon’s relief, the young mage, Finn, wasn’t with them this time. Breon brushed his fingers over his nearly healed arm. He still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. But he wanted to avoid a repeat.

  The princess arrived with an entourage.

  Entourage. That was a good word.

  Shadowcaster always traveled with an entourage. His friends were many, and his enemies few.

  Maybe in his next life.

  Breon wrote the line down before he put his scribbling aside. He rose and crossed the room to where they stood. The bluejackets leapt to get between him and the princess.

  He made what he hoped was a graceful bow. “Your Highness,” he said. “I apologize for my appearance and my behavior the last time we met.”

  “Are you talking about the time you lured me into an ambush, or the time you threw up on me?” the princess said.

  “I apologize for both,” Breon said, bowing still lower. When he straightened, she was studying him, her head cocked, eyes narrowed.

  So he studied her back. The night of the concert, he’d seen her first on the stage in her fancy dress and later on the street in her tribal garb. Now she was dressed like a soldier, in the spattery colors the northerners wore. It was like she was three different girlies in one. He’d sensed some of that in her song.

  You’re not the only one that’s a chameleon, he thought. Only, in my case, it’s more like I don’t really know who I am.

  “You’re looking amazingly well,” the princess said. “It’s hard to believe you’re the same person.”

  Breon fussed with the cuffs of his prison shirt. He’d rolled them a bit and turned up his collar for a casual, jaunty look. “I am not the same person, Your Highness,” he said. “I am transformed, thanks to Corporal Talbot here, and Grace, and your team of healers. I would be happy to answer any questions you have. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to find out that you survived the attack the night of the concert.”

  “Especially since you were caught,” Sasha said.

  The princess looked him up and down, head to toe. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Yes,” Breon said, embarrassed. He knew he looked like a street urchin in a famine. He patted his stomach. Or where it should have been, if he’d had one. “The food’s good, and there’s plenty. I’ve probably already gained a few pounds.”

  “You could use a few more,” the princess said bluntly. She motioned for the guards to bring up some chairs. Three chairs facing one. “Sit down,” she said.

  Breon took the single chair, and the princess sat opposite, with Sasha to her left, Shadow to her right. That was when Breon noticed that Shadow was carrying his jafasa. Not only that, it had been repaired. It looked to be as good as new.

  Shadow set the jafasa on the floor, the neck resting against his thigh, and curled one arm protectively around it.

  Breon stared at it. It was like it crowded everything else out of his mind. It was the first time in a long time that he’d felt a bone-deep ache for anything other than leaf.

  “What do you like to be called, busker?” the princess asked.

  “Breon,” he said. He licked his lips and took a chance. “I can’t help but notice that you’ve repaired my jafasa.”

  Shadow nodded. “I believe I have restored your musical instrument to playing condition.”

  “Shall I try it and see?” Breon said, reaching for it.

  Shadow pulled the jafasa back, out of reach. “You’ll have to take my word for it, for now,” he said.

  For now. Did that mean that, eventually . . . ? “I didn’t realize that you were a luthier,” Breon said.

  “I make flashcraft,” Shadow said.

  Breon shifted his hungry gaze from the jafasa to the trader. “Flashcraft? What do you mean?”

  “We are assuming that there is magic in this device, that it functions like an amulet to channel power,” the princess said. “So we decided to repair it and see if it would help us understand your magic.”

  “Has it?”

  The trader shrugged. “We’re all eager to hear what you have to say.”

  It had been a long time since Breon had thought of much aside from making it to his next hit. He’d not thought of his talent for connection as magery. That would be a dangerous play in Arden or any of the down realms.

  “I don’t know, I just—I’m just a musician. I don’t know how it works. I mean, I know how to play it, is all.” He paused. “I can play the flute, too, and the basilka, and the harpsichord, in a pinch.”

  “Do they all . . . charm people . . . the way the jafasa does?” Shadow stroked the fretboard gently. Like he was taunting him.

  “Musical instruments are simply tools that allow nuanced musical expression in the hands of the right person,” Breon said.

  They all gaped at him.

  He was a little surprised himself. He sure was discovering a big stash of words now that he’d quit the leaf.

  “The magemark on your neck says that you’re more than a simple musician.”

  “I said I was a musician. I didn’t say I was simple.” He thought a moment. “Like I said, any instrument helps, even my voice. It’s just that the jafasa, or the basilka—really, any stringed instrument—can deliver a complexity that my voice can’t. People are chords, not single notes. So unless somebody is a very simple person, my voice doesn’t capture them exactly.”

  Her Highness nodded. “When I heard you playing, it was like— it was like I knew the song before I ever heard it.”

  “I’ve never, you know, been on the receiving end, so all I can tell you is what it’s like from my end.” He thought a moment. “I connect to people,” he said. “I read them, and I hear their music, and play it back to them. Everyone is different. Everyone has a different song.”

  “I don’t understand,” Shadow said.

  “You see, that’s what’s so seductive,” Breon said. Everybody flinched at the word seductive, but he soldiered on. “We come into this world alone, and we go out of it the same way. Even our partner, our lover, our best friend—they can only know a part of us, and that knowledge is imperfect. Imagine hearing your song, your truth, reflected back to you. It resonates here.” He pressed his fist against his chest.

  “I don’t have to imagine it,” the princess whispered, putting her hand over her own heart.

  “Are you saying that you’re a mind reader?” Sasha looked a little panicky, like she wanted to race from the room. Like she had thoughts she didn’t want to share.

  Breon shook his head. “It’s more like a current that runs between me and the listener. It’s like, all your life
, you’ve been looking for someone who understands. And now you do.”

  “It seemed like it shuts out everything else, too,” the princess said. “It was like everything else was thrown into shadow.”

  Exactly, Breon thought, pleased. Shadowcaster.

  “The question is, busker, are you casting light or casting shadow?” Shadow said.

  That was a very good question. Breon wished that he had a very good answer. He just shrugged.

  “Who hired you to lay in wait for the princess heir and lure her away from her friends?” Sasha said, as if eager to get onto a more solid footing.

  “I didn’t do the deal myself,” Breon said. “It was my manager.”

  “Your manager?” The princess sat forward. “Who is that?”

  “He went by ‘Whacks’ but I think his real name was Crosby, or Crowley, maybe.”

  “Whacks?” Talbot butted in.

  “Right. You know.” From the blank looks on their faces, they didn’t know. “Like shares. Everybody gets a whack of the pie. But Whacks always got the biggest slice.”

  “Where can we find him?” Shadow said.

  “He’s dead. He was murdered in a warehouse back in Fellsmarch along with one of my—ah—colleagues.”

  Princess Alyssa’s eyes narrowed, and Breon got the idea that she already knew about the bodies in Southbridge.

  “I was—I think it went down when I—during the street concert,” Breon said. “If I’d of been there, I’d be dead, too.” He scanned their faces, looking for sympathy, but got none.

  “And you were the only one that escaped?” Shadow wasn’t buying.

  “Well. Me and Aubrey,” Breon said. “You know, the girlie that traveled with us.”

  “So Aubrey was in on it?” Shadow leaned forward, as if eager to suck down this new knowledge.

  “What do you mean, ‘in on it’?” Breon was getting a little prickly himself. “She knew about the gig, that’s all. We’re musicians. There were four of us that traveled together, including Whacks.”