Shadows for a Lady

 

 Shadows for a Lady

 

The two contestants clashed together, the sun glancing off their weapons, their backs glistening with sweat. The crowd screamed its approval, cries punctuated by their stamping feet and clapping hands. I tried to turn away from the madness, the beastliness of the whole affair, but my eyes were fastened on the match as surely as anyone else’s. Sweat from heat and fear ran from my forehead, smearing the ornate golden whorls scripted across my face, and though it was unseemly for a woman of my status to be seen like this, I welcomed the sweat. In its small way, it helped to hide my tears.

I stood alone on a platform that raised me well above the barbaric mass, but in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to rush forward to the front lines, perhaps shout encouragement to my dear one through the barrier of gnarled briars, but it would be for nothing. I strained to see the fight. Both warriors were fresh, full of life, but only one could remain that way—and it could not be he whom I favored.

“You have sent him to his death, you know,” whispered a slithery voice in my left ear. I spun to see Visk, my mother’s familiar, his leathery wings whirring so fast that he hovered steadily at my eye level. My grip tightened on my satchel, and inwardly I prayed that he wouldn’t want to investigate its contents. He knew my feelings on the match better than anyone, and could hardly fail to see through my plan.

“Leave me, demon,” I said, finally managing to get past my blocked throat. I turned back to face the fight. Still they harried, feinted, hounded, neither tiring, neither giving ground.

Visk landed at my feet, claws clicking against the wood as he paced to and fro. “This did not need to happen,” he hissed to me under the crowd’s roar. I quelled the urge to kick him, keeping my eyes fixed on the battle before me. “Had you agreed to the union my mistress favored, Phairocles might have decided to spare your dear one’s life.”

I stifled a cry as one of the fighters—my dear Andros—stumbled back, a bloody gouge along one leg. First blood. Gods old and dark, what had I done?

“You see?” Visk asked, long tongue flicking in satisfaction. “Already he falters. Weak. It is why you were to wed Phairocles.”

“Go back to the abyss that spawned you,” I spat, but couldn’t concentrate on him long enough to complete the insult. Andros staggered, barely keeping away from Phairocles’ sword. The weapons flashed in the sun, and it was impossible to tell whose blade was whose—but each spectator knew whose blood now stained the arena’s blinding white sands. Then, so suddenly that I didn’t scream until it was almost over, Andros went down. I lurched forward—and slammed against the banister as Andros’ blade bit deep into Phairocles’ leg, through skin and muscle, into bone. Phairocles released a deep-throated bellow and limped back as Andros scrambled to his feet. A surge of hope tore through me, and I turned a triumphant smile to Visk, who was watching with the closest thing to a sneer that his mottled face could manage.

“Celebrate while you can, little princess,” he hissed, tongue flicking in agitation. “For now…now we shall see.”

My stomach tightened at his words, and I fell against the banister as nausea hit. He was right. Wounded in honorable combat, Phairocles would resort to the recourse that would surely leave Andros dead—sorcery. My hand dropped to my satchel, hand shuddering at the touch of the feathered formholder within.

The crowd sensed the change as well. A quiet muttering anticipation gripped them as they watched the adversaries circle one another. Phairocles had discarded his sword, confirming my fears, but Andros still held his, and even from this distance I could see the uncertainty in his stance, his gaze. Phairocles abruptly stopped his limping pace, and I saw his mouth move as he began to utter words, words that should have never been uncovered, let alone spoken. I gripped the banister, unable to look away as the air around him grew steadily darker, weighed with power, shimmering like the putrid air above gas swamps in summer. Then, when the shadows had almost enveloped him, he began to change. I buried my face in my hands, and I heard Visk clamber up onto the balcony beside me, panting in anticipation for the kill. Then abruptly, his breath caught, and he made a noise of astonishment. Someone screamed. 

I could not bear to look. All this could only mean that Phairocles was making some terrible display of his powers—the last thing my beloved would see before his death. I stifled a sob. It was why I was to wed Phairocles—his power over demons. Never mind the cruelty that shone in his eyes. Never mind that his heart was so corroded by constant dealings with demons that it was a wonder it still beat…and never mind that I had first been betrothed to Andros, and had grown to love him for the noble, gentle heart that he bore, a heart that I knew would never be demon-touched—he was better than that. When my tribe’s only need had been for wealth, Andros had been acceptable to my mother. But with the growing threat of Karish invasion, my mother had turned her jaded eyes on a more powerful union—between myself and Phairocles, a demonmaster of the Six Lands.

I was dimly aware of Visk’s frantic, sharp voice in my ear, but ignored it. I was busy steeling myself, for when Andros perished—as surely he must—I would not wed Phairocles, as was expected. I would use my formholder, a gift from Seleni, witch of the northern marshes on the night that I had reached marriageable age. Three years ago, and still the memory made shivers run like tiny insects over my flesh. She’d appeared to me in my own tent after the festivities had finally died away, bypassing all our necromancers’ wards of protection as if they were of less consequence than cobwebs. She was wearing the form of a white staghound, lean, muzzle wet and shining with blood. You could do this too, she’d whispered in a voice that resonated, not from her mouth or even in my own mind, but from the very air around her. Change. Escape. She dropped a shimmering bundle into my trembling hands. It is for the day when you will abandon all you know. When that happens, come to me.  A drop of blood fell from her jaw onto the bundle. A formholder. A gift of power, one that would allow me to borrow the shape of the animal that had been sacrificed to make it. A route of escape, but to a fate that might well be worse than that which I ran from. To hide my fear, I’d laughed.  I could not refuse a witch’s gift, not without summoning a blight upon myself and my tribe, so I merely thanked her, unable to keep the tremor from my voice as I added that I did not plan to use it. She bared curved teeth at me. From a true hound, such a gesture would have been a threat. From a witch, it was a smile that promised great evil to come.

 Visk let out an exasperated shriek, one that finally pierced my grief-numbed mind.

“Talia. Talia! How long has he studied the Shadow Arts? When did he first learn the ways of demons?”

I wanted to crush the little familiar. “All his life, of course,” I snapped. “How else would he achieve the rank of Master?”

“Not Phairocles, you fool!” he cried, and I jolted upright as he swiped one claw across my forearm, leaving a needle-thin scratch. “Your beloved. Andros!”

I raised my eyes. My hand flew to my mouth in disbelief.

Phairocles stood with both arms raised, shouting words of power. Flames raced around the arena, and sometimes in the smoke and ashes I could see flickers of the demons’ true forms—but none of this held any of my attention. For instead of attacking, cruel claws raking Andros’ beautiful form as Phairocles bade them, Phairocles’ demons were hanging back, shrieking with voices of the fallen. Andros stood in a pose that matched Phairocles—commanding three demons of his own.

“It cannot be,” I whispered, and then the first of Phairocles’ demons struck.

It was madness. The seven demons fought with power that shook the sky itself. To those like me, who had resisted the seductive call of power and were thus untrained in the ways of demons, there was little to see beyond flashes of tainted light, little to hear beyond shrieks of pain. The Sighted there, however, later told the tale of how it happened. How each of Phairocles' demons were slaughtered, one by one. How they screamed and groveled for their lives before Andros’ power.

How he ordered them slain without so much as a thought.

At the end, Phairocles stood before him, with the ashes of his demons blowing about his ankles, trembling with an emotion he’d not known since he was a child—fear. I trembled, too, but with another feeling. Pain. Loss. For though I had not lost my loved one in combat as I’d thought was sure to happen, I knew through to my core that I had lost him to a different, deeper death. Once seduced by the power that demons can give, until he loses it, he can no longer fear. Nor can he feel pain. Nor can he truly love.

Phairocles died quickly, I’m told. Andros offered him an honorable death, a chance to once again fight with steel and skill. He refused, and Andros’ demons ripped him apart. It is said that rather than meeting flesh and bone when their claws first rent his skin, they met only more shadow—Phairocles’ last vestige of a soul. The shadows disintegrated, scattering in the midday light.

I do not know how much of this is true. I did not see it. For when Andros looked up to claim his bride by right of combat, he did not see me there in my robes the color of sunlight. All he saw was a golden kestrel, winging its way north.

Author's Note

Doubtless some of you will remember his piece from the Window--I"m posting it here because it's been lengthened, added upon. (Also because I wanted to post SOMETHING, and none of my other stories are typed at the moment). Anyway, I'm wondering how the themes are coming across, and if there's any prose that needs tightening, etc.
Thanks for reading!
~Laureleaf

Reviews

[Jhaniel]

I read through the whole story again, and while I cannot tell what parts are new I still find this story to be your best, and one of my favorites ever. The twist at the end is oh so well done, and, well, I'd just be repeating my old comments from the Window if I continued! This story makes the reader /think/--about what a person would be willing to sacrifice, how that sacrifice might turn to evil in the name of good, how to go too far to gain something will lose it . . . This is so good.

I have only a few quibbles:

'How he ordered them slain without so much as a thought.'

Sounds awkward to me. I know what you mean, but it just doesn't flow as well as the rest of the story does. Otherwise, the imagery and voice of this piece is excellent. Oh, and one more thing:

'Once seduced by the power that demons can give, until he loses it, he can no longer fear. Nor can he feel pain. Nor can he truly love.'

Really good. But I think you should take out the 'until he loses it', because that makes it seem like he could turn his back on his powers once he got the girl, which lessens a bit of the story's emotional power and makes her flight not as compelling. So instead, maybe: 'Once seduced by the power that demons can give, a man can no longer fear. Nor can he . . .' etc.

Such minor critiques though, honestly. It's great to read this again!

[BP Barwick]

I have to say that this story had me pinned. I love how it is really just a snippet from some greater story: that in itself makes me want to know what is going on. I kept thinking to myself as I read, "How is anything going to happen that can make this story have a good ending in so few words?" I mean, it felt like it had been building up to this climax long, long before the story began. Very well done.

One thing that might notch up the tension of her decision to flee, however, (and maybe this would be too much) is to add in there something about the consequences of her leaving. What is going to happen to where ever it is she comes from? To her mother?

Your writing is strong and the pace and flow of the story is done well (although the flow might have slowed a bit much during the aside with the witch). I enjoyed the read and the voice you brought to the story. Thanks for sharing it!

[Jhaniel]

Yay, I inspired a Snoopy dance! Now that doesn't happen every day :)

And okay, I see what you meant by adding the 'losing power' part, but I think that it is self-explanatory when you describe Phairocles' terror, so you don't need that bit. I didn't remember the witch part, but it seemed so natural I wasn't sure if it was new, ha. So I guess it was a good decision to put it back in!

[Laureleaf]

A review! *Does snoopy dance*. Yay!
*Ahem* Actually, the main difference between this draft and the old one is the section on that charming Seleni character--I skipped it altogether in the last draft, but I felt like it's an important part of the story, so I kind of melded it back in.
Ooh. I meant the 'until he loses it' part to refer to Phairocles--he lost the source of his power, but previous to that had only a vague idea of what fear was. I could see how that would lessen the impact overall, though. I should probably reword that, yes. And--
--wait. *skims review again* This is one of your favorites? Really? Wow--that's so awesome to hear! Thank you!!
~Laureleaf