Slight and Shadow Read online

  Slight and Shadow

  Shae Ford

  Copyright 2013-2014 by Shae Ford

  Smashwords Edition

  For my beautiful cousin, Bayleigh:

  We watched you grow into a loving and confident young woman,

  and now you watch us from above.

  You are our angel, our guiding light,

  and we love you with all of our hearts.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Only a Messenger

  Chapter 1: Two Thieves

  Chapter 2: The Endless Plains

  Chapter 3: Knotter

  Chapter 4: The Black Beast

  Chapter 5: A Fool’s Help

  Chapter 6: Mage Studies

  Chapter 7: The Lion and the Chandelier

  Chapter 8: Gilderick the Gruesome

  Chapter 9: The Head of an Arrow

  Chapter 10: No Ordinary Killer

  Chapter 11: Arabath

  Chapter 12: Minceworms

  Chapter 13: Lord of Southbarn

  Chapter 14: By Way of a Giant

  Chapter 15: The Scepter Stone

  Chapter 16: Abomination

  Chapter 17: A Dagger in the Back

  Chapter 18: A Giant’s Thanks

  Chapter 19: The Grandmot

  Chapter 20: Cave Trolls

  Chapter 21: Nakedness

  Chapter 22: Holey Roofs

  Chapter 23: Scalybones

  Chapter 24: A Warning

  Chapter 25: A Flock of Crows

  Chapter 26: A Good Hawk

  Chapter 27: A Monster in the Shallows

  Chapter 28: None Other Than Love

  Chapter 29: Dante

  Chapter 30: The Razor’s Edge

  Chapter 31: The Spring Sniffles

  Chapter 32: Across the Threshold

  Chapter 33: Unwary Revelers

  Chapter 34: Lake of Fire

  Chapter 35: If

  Chapter 36: The Baron’s Castle

  Chapter 37: The Queen of all Minceworms

  Chapter 38: The Sowing Moon

  Chapter 39: The Dark Rider

  Chapter 40: A Bright Light

  Chapter 41: Where All Men Fall

  Chapter 42: Squirming Hope

  Chapter 43: A Battle for the Plains

  Chapter 44: Into the Keep

  Chapter 45: The Only Death to Fear

  Chapter 46: Braver

  Chapter 47: An Unexpected Thing

  Chapter 48: A New Plan

  Prologue

  Only a Messenger

  It was the quiet hour before dusk. The sun slid between the horizon and the westward sky, moving as surely as an assassin’s blade through flesh. And for a moment, the whole Kingdom was colored in red.

  Winter was fading, spring was fast on its heels, and green, furled leaves had begun sprouting across the Grandforest’s tallest limbs. Soon, the air would be filled with the songs of birds, and the ice covering the horses’ water would finally melt on its own. But most importantly, the roads would be packed with merchants once again.

  For one particular merchant, spring couldn’t come fast enough. He’d just barely escaped the dinner table with his hide intact — and if he wanted to keep it that way, he knew he had to move quickly. He shuffled through a darkened hallway, nodding distractedly to the servants as he went, before he finally made it into the safety of his office. He closed the heavy oaken doors behind him and breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was a small room: a desk, a chair, and a roaring hearth were about all that would fit into it. But it was sanctuary, nonetheless.

  This was the one point in the Kingdom where the worries of the earth couldn’t touch him. It was very likely that his wife nagged on, that she was still ranting to whoever would listen about how she’d have to run the house all on her own for the whole trade season. But in the heart of his office, he couldn’t hear her. Nothing could trouble him — not even the grumblings of the servants, or the bickering of his sons.

  No, the only sound was of the fire popping merrily in the hearth, and the only troubles were the sort that money could solve.

  A pile of letters awaited him on his desk, and he’d been looking forward to opening them all day. He settled himself at his chair and retrieved a small, hand-carved box from his top desk drawer. It had been designed for quill and ink, but he’d gotten far more use out of it as a snuffbox. He tucked his pipe where the quill was supposed to fit, and in place of an inkwell was a packet of his favorite cherry tobacco.

  He stuffed his pipe with a generous helping of the tobacco and traveled to the hearth to light it. Only when the air was sufficiently filled with the sweet aroma of the smoke did he open a letter.

  This was how he preferred to spend his evenings: smoking, reading, and thinking. He read the message of the first letter — which was all business, mind you. There was absolutely no bickering and no weepy wives. The letter had come from a shopkeeper in Whitebone, who claimed that the Baron’s craftsmen had raised their prices once again. And he wanted to renegotiate their bargain to make up for the expense.

  The merchant chuckled to himself as he dipped his quill in ink.

  My dear fellow, he began, if we haggled every time the Baron upped the charge on his trinkets, we’d never make a deal. No, I’m afraid I must be quite firm on the previous price —

  “Evening, Randall.”

  The tail of Randall’s e went shooting off across the page as he jerked. When he saw the figure standing before the window, his pipe nearly fell out of his mouth.

  She looked like a highwayman, with her light armor and the mask that covered the lower half of her face. The armor was stained black and very well-made — the workmanship was nothing like the common bandit could’ve afforded. She wore a short, red skirt over the top of her leggings, and the color matched the scarf behind her mask.

  She might have been pretty. Her black hair, which hung loose to just past her shoulders, was so clean that it shined in the firelight. And her figure was certainly promising. But what little Randall could see of her face put any such thoughts straight out of his mind.

  Her dark brows were so low that they nearly touched the tops of her eyes, and they were set at such an angle that it gave her a glaring look — one that made her stare all the more potent.

  “What — what's the meaning of this?” Randall demanded, taking his pipe away so that he could frown at her properly. “Who are you?”

  “Hmm,” the woman murmured. She drew a small square of parchment from under the collar of her jerkin and opened it. After a quick glance, her eyes locked onto his once again. “You are Randall of Oakloft, are you not?”

  “I am,” he snapped, thrusting the pipe back into his mouth.

  “Then I should think my meaning would be quite clear. I've come on behalf of Countess D’Mere.”

  Ah, this again. Well, he wasn’t going to put up with it any longer — he was going to make himself very clear, this time. Randall took a long, steadying drag on his pipe. “This is about that blasted river bridge, isn't it?” When the woman nodded, he took another puff. “Well, I've already told her: I don't care if her convoys have to go a thousand miles out of their way — I won’t have her trying to widen my bridge. It’s good enough for my carts, and it should be good enough for hers.”

  The woman said nothing; she stared in reply.

  Randall was starting to feel a little lightheaded. He supposed it was just the stress of trying to keep his words civil. He breathed in another lungful of smoke … for his nerves. “She ruined the Williamsons’ land,” he went on, determined to make his point. “And she never got it fixed. So you'll forgive me if I don't want her workers hacking up my bridge —”

  “I haven’t come to forgive you,” the woman said. Her
voice was muffled behind the slits in her mask, but it made her words no less sharp. With one hand, she crumpled the parchment and flicked it into the fire.

  Her meaning became clear.

  “It’ll do you no good to murder me,” Randall growled. He was far more furious than scared. The audacity of it all — the sheer, open-ended audacity! He was so angry that he’d actually begun to sweat. He brushed the dew from across his forehead impatiently. “If I die, the whole estate goes to my wife — and she’d rather stick her hand in the furnace than let anything happen to that bridge. Her pap built it, and that’s all she’s got left of him.”

  The woman’s dark eyes bent into crescent moons as she … smiled? He supposed that’s what she was doing. But with that mask in the way, he couldn’t be sure. The fumes from the smoke must’ve been burning his eyes. His sight was starting to blur.

  “I’m not here to murder you,” she said, as if it was a joke. “I’m only a messenger.”

  “Oh, really?” Randall wiped furiously at his stinging eyes. “Then what’s …” he coughed to clear his throat, which suddenly felt tight, “what’s that all about?” he managed to sputter.

  He waved at the deadly-looking blades she had strapped to each upper arm, and she touched one of them lightly. “They’re for my protection, Mr. Randall,” she said quietly. “The Kingdom is a dangerous place … especially for a lady. No, I haven’t come to kill you. And I haven’t come to forgive you. I’ve come only to ask you to reconsider.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “Will you sell your bridge to the Countess?”

  “No,” Randall said firmly. He coughed again, and this time it took him several moments to get the words out: “No, I … won’t! Now get …” He coughed so violently that his pipe fell from his hand. It struck the desk, and the little glowing leaves spilled across its polished top. “Get … out of my … house!”

  The woman nodded slightly. “As you wish.” She was halfway to the window when she paused and held up a finger — as if she’d forgotten something. She crossed back to the fire and dipped her hand beneath her collar once more. This time, she drew out a vial of clear liquid.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she said as she tossed the vial into the flames. “No, of course you don’t. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Randall.”

  He heard the window open, but didn’t watch her slip outside — his eyes were on the vial.

  He’d stopped coughing, but only because his lungs had swollen shut. He couldn’t catch his breath. The pressure in his head kept building. Randall realized that he wasn’t having a reaction to the smoke at all — he’d been poisoned!

  The vial — the antidote — he had to get it.

  He tumbled out of his chair, dragging himself a pitiful few feet. Then his limbs began to twitch, and his whole body went limp. He managed to raise his head one last time, seemed to try to urge himself forward … but couldn’t muster the strength. At last, Randall went still.

  And the Countess’s message had been delivered.

  Chapter 1

  Two Thieves

  Horatio put the letter down. He dabbed at the tears on his cheeks with a corner of his filthy apron, and smiled.

  It seemed like only yesterday that Aerilyn was begging him to go off on a journey of her own. She was so wide-eyed, so wholly untouched by the world that Horatio had been reluctant to let her out of his sight. He didn’t think he could have ever let her go, had he not been so thoroughly convinced that Kyleigh could protect her.

  When she’d sworn to keep Aerilyn safe, he’d believed her. He certainly wasn’t going to make a habit of trusting outlaws, but there was something in those strange, green eyes of hers that made Kyleigh trustworthy.

  Well that, and he’d seen firsthand what she could do with a blade.

  He picked up the letter again, sifting through the many pages that Aerilyn had managed to seal together for his favorite passage. It was hard to believe that the little girl who used to squeal about getting dirt on her hems had fought her way through a tempest — and a monstrous one, at that. But the picture Kael had drawn on the back of the page was very convincing.

  The charcoal swirls of foamy waves and the jagged lines of lightning seemed to come alive on the parchment. They batted the tiny boat caught in the middle of them, ripped at her sails, tossed her about — and even though he knew how the story would end, Horatio found himself holding his breath.

  For such a quiet boy, Kael certainly had a lot of talent.

  No — Horatio was decidedly very happy for Aerilyn to be having her own adventure, and all seemed to be going well. The only truly troubling bit of news was how often this Captain Lysander fellow kept popping up in Aerilyn’s letter. He seemed to haunt every paragraph: Lysander was so valiant as they sailed through the tempest; no finer captain had ever lived; there was nothing the good captain couldn’t do.

  And come to think of it, Horatio didn’t remember Aerilyn mentioning what it was that Lysander actually did. He flipped the page over and frowned at the portrait Kael had drawn of him. He was handsome, to be sure — but perhaps a little too roguish to be a merchant. There was something about his grin that made Horatio uneasy … almost like he should check his pocket for missing coin.

  It was most troubling, indeed.

  He was deep in speculation when the front door slammed open with such force that he nearly tumbled out of his chair. He heard footsteps racing down the hall and gathered his girth to meet them. “What in Kingdom’s name —?” Two boys turned the corner, struck Horatio’s ample belly, and went flying backwards. “Steady on, lads! What’s this all about?”

  “It’s the Countess!” the elder boy, Chaney, said as he shoved his younger brother away from him.

  “And she wants to see Garron!” Claude added as he managed to untangle himself from Chaney’s boots.

  Horatio clutched his side. His gut was acting up again — a sign that trouble was about to cross his threshold. “Be off with you, lads. Go on — get back to your pap. And tell him not to come to the house until the Countess leaves.”

  The brothers’ heads bobbed up and down as they tore off down the hall. When the back door slammed shut behind them, Horatio let some of the air out of his lungs. But it wasn’t long before he heard something that made his stomach throb once again:

  Two pairs of quick, graceful steps — two pairs of slippers striking the polished oak floor. And they were heading directly for the study.

  Horatio shoved Aerilyn’s letter to one corner of the desk and barely had a chance to turn around before the footsteps stopped.

  Two women stood in the doorway: the first was a pretty young forest woman. Though she wore a tight-fitting red gown and lace, she stood with her legs splayed out — as if she was prepared to break her slippers on the shins of anyone foolish enough to attack her.

  Her features were dainty, but her glare was not. The dark brows poised above her eyes matched the warning behind her stance. Horatio stood perfectly still as her gaze swept the room. When she was satisfied, she stepped to the side and allowed the second woman to pass through.

  This woman was in her middle age, with long, golden-brown hair and eyes like ice. She carried herself in the same way a witch might have carried her impetus: moving gracefully, intentionally — and knowing full well the effects of the spell she cast.

  Horatio’s mouth went dry as Countess D’Mere tugged the blue silk gloves from her hands, one finger at a time. Her full red lips pursed when she turned to look at the empty desk. The arch of her neck began an S that followed the curve of her back … and downward.

  “Where is Garron?” she said.

  Horatio jerked his gaze from the depths of her neckline, and found himself caught in the snare of her crystal blue eyes.

  Worry throbbed in his gut. She hadn’t heard, then. He’d hoped the rumor would’ve reached her by now, if not by some loose-lipped sailor then by one of the other merchants. Every hold across the Grandforest had heard of Garron’s death … though he supposed no
one wanted to be the man who broke that news to the Countess.

  Now she was standing in Garron’s office, and Horatio knew he had no choice but to play the messenger.

  He would have to choose his words carefully. If he didn’t, his life could end swiftly. Oh, she wouldn’t kill him immediately: the Countess was a patient woman. She might feign some emotion. She might laugh or purse her lips. Or she might keep her face as smooth as her skin. He didn’t know.

  He wouldn’t know until nightfall whether or not she was displeased. Even then, it would happen subtly — maybe as he drank his wine at dinner. Or perhaps he would fall asleep, never to rise again. These were the sorts of things that had happened to the other merchants. In taverns all across the realm, the truth was a dark joke:

  If a dozen men died in the Grandforest, Countess D’Mere was behind roughly eleven of them.

  As much as Horatio didn’t want to speak, to keep the Countess waiting was just as dangerous. Somehow, he managed to pass the first sentence through his lips: “Have you not heard, My Countess?”

  “Heard what?” she said, her voice suddenly as cold as her stare. “Speak up, cook. I haven’t got time for riddles.”

  “Garron is slain.”

  His words came out loudly, blurted above the noise of his pounding heart. He hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. And even after a long winter of mourning, the truth still stung his eyes.

  The Countess spun to look at the desk once more — as if she expected to see Horatio proved wrong. As if she hoped to find Garron bent with his nose to his ledger, mumbling to himself as he once did, figuring the day’s profit. “I see,” she said after a moment. “If he is truly slain, would you mind telling me how it happened?”

  Horatio told her everything he could remember about that horrible day in Bartholomew’s Pass. He told her about the monsters that had ambushed them — the twisted creatures that were half man and half wolf. He told her about how Garron rallied the men together and saved their lives with his cunning. He told her the truth: that Garron fought till the end.