Shadow War - Deborah Chester [91]
Some day, when Beloth was free, the shadow god would remember his loyal servant. Reward would be great.
Sien shivered and closed his eyes to regain his concentration. His arms were leaden with exhaustion. His body swayed, but he held onto the threads he had sent forth. It was almost time, almost time. He must not falter.
A whisper touched his hearing, faint yet unmistakable.
He turned his head slightly, acknowledging the sound with a slight curl of his lips.
Ah, they came.
The first shadow appeared, sliding under the doors and racing across the floor. It was a man’s shadow, short and square, but it came alone. When it overlapped Sien’s own elongated shadow, he shuddered and felt a moment of elemental pain before the joining.
“Speak,” he commanded.
The shadow belonged to Hovet, protector of the emperor. “He has gone to bed. I am free to roam a short time.”
“Tell me,” Sien commanded.
“The wasting sickness returns. The emperor will send soon for his new healer. He is unhappy tonight. He is lonely and afraid. He counts the number of his years. He feels the weight of his sins. He mourns the destruction of his throne. He fears tomorrow, when he must put the crown on the woman’s head.”
“Will he name her sovereign?” Sien asked impatiently. That was the only important bit. Sien had no interest in the aches and tremblings of an old man who had lived too long. “What is his decision?”
“He wavers first one way, then the other. He schemes and forgets. He schemes and forgives. He is angry at Tirhin. He is angry at the woman.”
“Tell me more,” Sien commanded.
The shadow writhed across Sien’s. “Let me go,” it wailed. “I am too far. I will die alone.”
It had nothing more to tell him. Disappointed, Sien released it.
The shadow sailed across the floor and vanished beneath the door as though it had never been.
But already another appeared to take its place. Petite and slender, it flitted back and forth, darting about the sanctuary as though reluctant to join. Finally, however, it came to Sien and merged into him.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
“She survived the poisoned smoke.”
Rage scorched the edges of Sien’s concentration. He held it away, however, refusing to let the spell disintegrate at this stage.
“Was she injured?”
“No.”
“Tell me more.”
“The women have begun the purification ceremony. It goes ill.”
His interest quickened. “How ill? Why? What has happened?”
“She has visions.”
“That is the purpose of the ceremony.”
“Visions beyond her ability. She sees too far.”
Sien smiled to himself. He liked this. “Can they bring her back?”
“She must come of her own accord.”
“Has she the strength?”
“They worry, master. Anas is blamed. She is no longer deputy.”
Sien had little interest in Anas. If the Magria lost her second-in-command it might be useful in the future, but on the whole it was of little significance to him.
“Can you ensure the girl does not return from purification?”
“I promise nothing, master.”
“Try!” he urged.
“I will try.”
The shadow fled him then, darting all around frantically before it finally found the way out.
Sien moaned aloud. His strength was waning. Great droplets of sweat poured from his forehead, but he was not yet finished. He struggled to hold the spell.
The third shadow came to him, lean and cold. It flowed into the room and sprawled long across the floor until it joined with his.
This time the pain made him grunt. Sien pressed his lips hard together to maintain his control.
“Speak!” he gasped out.
But the shadow said nothing.
Sien could feel its invasive coldness, its strength. He struggled to maintain mastery. To command Tirhin’s shadow was far from easy. It possessed a will of its own, colored by the personality of its owner. It fought him every time.
“Speak! I command it.”
The shadow said, “The healer has come, but he fears the taint of the shyrieas. He fears many things.”
“Does he foresee?”
“No. He has no visions. He is busy making mischief.”
“As I bade him?”
“Yes.”
Sien almost