Sean Russell - The Swan's War 3 - The Shadow Roads

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THE

SHADOW ROADS

Book Three of the Swans' War

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents,

and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are

not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

whatsoever without written permission except in the case

of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

FIRST EDITION

EOS is a federally registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Printed on acid-free paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Russell, Sean.

/ .—1st ed. p. cm.—(Book three of the Swans' war) ISBN 0-380-97491-6 1. Kings and rulers—Succession—Fiction. I. Title.

PR9199.3.R84S

'54—dc22_______________________2004053242_______

JTC/RRD

This book is dedicated to

Sean Stewart and Neal Stephenson;

artists, craftsmen, friends

Acknowledgments

As usual, there are people to thank: my editors Diana Gill and Tim Holman; my wonderful agent, Howard

Morhaim; my wife, Karen, and her family, June, Nori, Don, Lorraine, Michael, and Carlos, who have

been a source of tremendous support and assistance dur-ing a trying year.

THE

SHADOW ROADS

Prologue

What Went Before

The children of the sorcerer Wyrr did not die, but dwelt for an age in the river as "nagar"; ghostly spirits.

The Knights of the Vow were formed to stop the children of Wyrr from ever finding their way back to

the land of the living, but members of the brotherhood were seduced by promises of power and long life,

and they hid away "smeagh"—arcane objects that could allow the children of Wyrr to return one day. By

this means Wyrr's two sons and his daughter made bargains with mortals and appeared again among the

living.

Wyrr's children, powerful sorcerers, had fought among them-selves for a thousand years, and when they

reappeared in the land between the mountains their hatred was undiminished, and they took up their feud

again. Thus it was that Lady Elise Wills and a traveler named Alaan became the enemies of a knight

known as Hafydd, who had contrived to start a war among the principal fam-ilies of the land between the

mountains so that he might come to power in the ensuing turmoil.

Unable to destroy Hafydd, Alaan lured him into the hidden

lands—into the Stillwater—a vast swamp that Alaan believed only he could escape. But Alaan's plans

went awry when he was wounded by one of Hafydd's guards, and his wound festered in the foul waters

of the swamp. Alaan would have been caught and killed, but he was rescued by a stranger accompanied

by an army of crows. This man, Rabal Crowheart, showed him a ruin where Alaan found a chamber

containing a great enchantment—the spell that separated the land between the mountains from the hidden

lands, and the land of the living from the kingdom of the dead. Alaan recognized then that the

enchantment had begun to decay.

Learning that Alaan was wounded and pursued by Hafydd, Elise Wills found the wanderer who could

draw maps into the hid-den lands and forced him to make her a map leading to the Still-water. She, the

Valemen, and Alaan's friend Pwyll, set off, hoping to save Alaan. They didn't know that map maker, Kai,

had also sent a legendary warrior into the swamp—a near giant named Orlem Slighthand.

While he lay in delirium from his corrupted wound, Alaan was approached by an ancient man-at-arms

offering him a gem he claimed had been left for a child ofWyrr, by Wyrr's brother, Aillyn. Fearing it was

a smeagh that would bring Aillyn back into the world, Alaan refused it, but Hafydd was not so wary and

took the gem, thinking it was a stone of legend that had once belonged to the great sorcerer Tusival.

A running battle was fought through the wetlands, both be-tween Elise and Hafydd, and between strange

creatures whom Crowheart claimed were the servants of Death. In the end the com-panies met at the

mouth of a tunnel that led out of the Stillwater. Here they fought a desperate battle, in which the magic

Elise sum-moned almost destroyed them all—but the survivors found them-selves again in the land

between the mountains, many swept into the River Wyrr, which seemed to have destinations for them—

though they were destinations none would have chosen.

One

The disk of light stretched and wavered, flowing left then right.

The moon, he thought. That is the moon___But who am I?

Dust mote stars spun slowly in the black. Light began to grow, and he slipped down into the cool, dark

depths. He could feel the others here, their numbers beyond counting. Slowly they made their way

toward the breathing sea, some so weak they were barely there, others… Others were as strong and

clear as the risen sun.

But what are their names? Have none of them names?

Once he had been a traveler. Of that he was almost certain. A traveler whose journeys had become

legend.

Once he had gone into a great swamp and battled Death himself.

The bright light faded, and he rose again, floating up toward the waning moon, the faint stars. Something

swam by, pale and flowing.

A fish, he thought. But it was not. It was a man, blue-pale, like the belly of a fish, eyes like moon shells.

For a moment it paused and gazed at him, sadly.

Who are you? he tried to say, but no words would form.

And then he was alone. He felt himself rising again, the waver-ing moon growing—so close. His face

broke the surface, moonlight clinging to him, running out of his hair, his eyes. He took a breath. And then

another.

"But who am I?" he whispered.

"Sainth?"

He looked around, but saw nothing.

"Sainth?"The voice came from a shadow on the water, black as a starless sky.

"Sainth… ?" he said. "Is that who I am?"

"It is who you were," the voice said.

"And who are you?"

"I am the past. Perhaps not even that, but only a shadow of the past."

"I think you are a dream. This is all a dream."

"You are on the River Wyrr, where things are not as they should be."

A shard of memory knifed into his thoughts. "Death… Death pursued me!"

"His servants, perhaps. Death does not venture beyond the gates of his dark kingdom… yet."

"But why were his servants abroad in forms that could be seen?"

This brought a moment of silence, and he felt a breeze touch his face and sigh through the trees along the

shore.

"They have not yet appeared so in the land between the moun-tains, but only in the hidden lands, as they

are called: the kingdom of Aillyn, of old. Tusival's great spell fails, and the wall that sur-rounds Death's

kingdom is falling. His servants clamber through the breach. They are preparing the way for their master

to fol-low … as was foreseen long ago."

"But how can this be? Death cannot leave his kingdom."

"Aillyn… Aillyn meddled with his father's spell. He used it to sunder his lands from his brother's. Fear and

jealousy and madness have led to this."

I

The man who had been Sainth felt himself sinking again, sink-ing beneath the weight of these words. He

laid his head back in the waters, blinking at the stars. Each breath he drew sounded loud in his ears. The

waters were neither warm nor cool. A soft current spun him slowly.

"Sainth," he whispered, listening for resonance.

Yes, he had memories of one called Sainth. But there were other memories, as well.

Death's servants had stalked him through a drowned forest. Death's servants!

For a moment, he closed his eyes, blotting out the slowly spin-ning stars. A man, almost hidden in a cloud

of screeching crows, surfaced from memory.

Crowheart!

"Sainth?" came the oddly hissing voice again.

"I am not he."

"Then who are you?"

A light flickered behind closed eyes. "Alaan___I am Alaan!"

"Perhaps," the voice said, almost sadly. "Perhaps you are—in part. But you were Sainth once, and you

have Sainth's duties to perform. Do not for get.You cannot shirk them."

The man who believed he was Alaan opened his eyes. "What? What are you saying? What duties?"

But in answer he heard only the soft murmuring of the river.

He floated on, the currents of memories filling him, spinning him this way, then that. How dreamlike some

of them seemed, shrouded in mist, or washed out in the brightest light. Some were lost in dark-ness.

Rabal Crowheart he remembered, and Orlem Slighthand. But surely these memories were confused, for

Slighthand had served the sorcerer named Sainth, whereas Crowheart was a memory of this life—of

Alaan's.

But the currents all seemed to flow together, like two rivers join-ing to form a new waterway. New, but

made up of the tributaries.

Perhaps I should have a new name, the man thought—neither Alaan nor Sainth. But no, Alaan would do.

Alaan would do for this life, however long it proved to be.

Waving arms and legs, he turned himself so that his head lifted clear of the water, and he searched the

darkness. The Wynnd was broad here, but he could make out a line of trees, poplars, swaying gently in a

soft breeze, moonlight shimmering off their leaves.

He set out for the shore, his strength seeming to grow with each stroke. A light, appeared among the

trees. It was unlike the cold light of the stars, for this was orange-yellow and warm. Fire.

The man who had once been Sainth slowed his pace as he neared the shore. He could see other fires

now. It was an encamp-ment, he thought. And then a strand of music wafted out over the water and

wove itself into the night sounds.

Fael. He had found an encampment of black wanderers.

For a moment he hovered out of sight, silent in the slowly mov-ing waters. On the embankment some

Fael men were watering horses in the dark. They must have just returned from somewhere. He could

hear their muffled voices as they spoke softly. The horses splashed in the shallows beneath the low

embankment, drinking, then lifting their great heads to peer into the night. Their white faces appeared to

glow palely in the moonlight. He wondered if they sensed him here, in the dark.

"Nann is distressed," one of the Fael said. "I have seen it in her face. And Tuath…Tuath has not been out

of her tent in two days. Nor has her needle stopped in all that time. A vision has possessed her, they

say."

Alaan could hear the uneasiness in the men's voices. Even among the Fael the vision weavers— for

certainly that is who they were speaking of—were viewed with a mixture of awe and loathing. Too often

their visions were of dark events, calamities pending. Yet such visions had allowed the Fael to escape or

at least mitigate such disasters many times. Thus the weavers were tolerated, even treated with some

respect, but they were also feared and shunned—outcasts among the outcast.

"The one with no legs … he has unsettled Nann as much as any. As much as that small boy who makes

speech with his hands. I don't like what goes on. We should have been gone from this place days ago.

Why we remain is a mystery to me. War is gathering, has begun already if the rumors are true. We

should flee—west or south—as fast as our horses will bear us."

"Nann is not foolish. She is wise and cautious, Deeken. Bear with her yet awhile. There might be more

for the Fael to do than simply fly."

"We'll not be involving ourselves in the wars of the Renne and the Wills—the wars of men. Our people

have taken oaths."

"Long ago, Deeken. Long ago. Nothing is as it once was. Up, you!" he said, clucking at the horse whose

lead he held. The two men turned the massive beasts and led them back up the bank, into the firelit

camp.

Alaan gazed into the darkness along the shore. Among the shad-ows there were bowmen watching the

river. He could sense them.

For some time he waited, patient as the river, holding his posi-tion near to the bank. And then he slipped

ashore, silent as a ser-pent. He was in the central open area before anyone noticed him.

A group seated beneath lanterns stared at him, gape-mouthed. A determined-looking Fael woman rose

and was about to sound the alarm when Alaan noticed a legless man seated in one of the bent-willow

chairs. Alaan stopped, as surprised to see this ghost as they were to see him.

"Kilydd?" he said.

The man only stared at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish gasping for water.

"Go back," the man managed finally, his voice a frightened whisper. "Go back into the river where you

belong."

Two

The shaft of an arrow, jaggedly broken off, protruded from the links of mail, a bit of wine-dark blood drying on the

polished wood and staining the armor. Hafydd cursed. It had been one of those meddlers from the north

who'd shot him—which he would not forget.

He cleaned the shaft with a fold of his cloak, then took hold of the wood. Pain coursed through his

shoulder, far worse than when the arrow had entered. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the pain

wash through him, like a wave of fire. He focused his mind on the feel of the shaft in his fingers. In a

single, slow motion, he drew the arrow out, then doubled over, gasping. He tried to press a fold of his

robe against the wound, but the arrowhead was caught up in his mail and stymied his efforts. The world

began to spin, and he fought to keep his balance and push back the blackness at the edge of his vision.

Nausea shook him, and he broke out in an unhealthy sweat.

After a moment, the pain subsided enough that he could sit up and examine the wound, half-hidden

beneath his armor and the padded shirt beneath.

It appeared worse than he expected—the foul Stillwater cor-rupted it, no doubt. He would have to bathe

it in the River Wyrr. That would heal almost any hurt he might have. He covered the wound, ignoring the

ache. Rising to his feet unsteadily, he set out into the wood in search of the river, which he sensed was

nearby.

Less than an hour later he saw the Wynnd sparkling through the trees. He drank from the waters, and sat

for a moment on the grass, exhausted—unnaturally exhausted. With great effort and pain he managed to

pull his mail shirt over his head and bathed his wound in river water. Almost immediately, the pain

receded, as though it had been driven deep, almost beyond feeling—almost.

He set off, again, along the bank, where a narrow footpath had worn away the covering of green. The

breeze was redolent with the scent of pine trees and the musky river. And then a tang of smoke reached

him.

Hafydd was not beyond caution when it was deemed necessary. He was, after all, without his guards and

not wearing a shirt of mail. And though he could press back an army with his spells, he was ever

vulnerable to an arrow, as recent events had shown.

Creeping through the underwood, he pulled aside the thin-limbed bushes and peered through the leaves.

Flames crackled, and he heard voices speaking softly. People crouched around a cooking fire—a

woman, a man, a child—eating from crude bowls. Beyond them, angled up the bank, an old skiff lay

burdened with their bag-gage, oar blades pressing down the summer grasses.

Hafydd watched them warily for a moment. Watched the woman clean their dishes in the river while the

man doused the fire and the child picked a few huckleberries from low bushes border-ing the path. As he

searched among the branches, the child sang quietly to himself, his plain, freckled face bobbing among

the summer-green leaves.

To a man who had seen so many conflicts, they looked like refugees to him—a family displaced by war.

By their dress, likely people of little or no wealth, no property, certainly. Tenant farmers.

He decided they would likely not want to help him, a grim-looking man-at-arms, obviously wounded,

likely on the run.

Hafydd drew his dark blade and stepped out into the open, grabbing the boy child by the scruff of his

neck with his bad arm. If the boy struggled, he would easily break free, so weakened was this arm and

so painful even this small movement.

"I want only passage across the river," Hafydd said. "Nothing more. Bear me over, and I will set your

child free. Refuse, and I will kill you all and row myself."

The father had stepped forward, but stopped when he realized what he faced—a trained man-at-arms

bearing a blade, his manner deadly.

"Don't hurt him," the father pleaded, his voice breaking, hands up in supplication. "Leave him, and I'll

bear you across. You need not fear."

"He will accompany us," the knight said. "I'll release him upon the other shore, and you may go where

you will."

The frightened father nodded. His wife, white-faced and near to tears, had begun to tremble, so that

Hafydd wondered if she would collapse. The knight pushed the boy forward as his father stooped to

retrieve his oars.

Caibre's long life of battle had brought Hafydd memories and skills he had never dreamed of. Almost

before the father knew it himself, Hafydd could see that the man intended to strike him with the oar. And

when he did, the knight easily stepped aside, pushing the boy down roughly and putting a foot on his

chest, the point of his blade to the boy's heart.

"And I had intended you no harm.Yet this is how you repay me!"

The woman did fall on the ground, then, or perhaps threw her-self forward on her knees. She was

sobbing uncontrollably, her en-treaties almost lost beneath the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hair

fell out of its ribbon and clung to her wet face.

"Don't…" she cried. "Don't hurt him! 'Twas a foolish thing my husband did. Foolish! I'll row you across

myself and offer you no harm."

Hafydd stopped, his sword poised over the heart of the boy, who was too terrified even to cry. If he'd

had both his arms, he would have considered killing them all and rowing himself, but he was one-armed

for the moment, and the Wynnd was broad.

Before the father could move, Hafydd struck him across the side of the face with the flat of his sword, a

vicious blow that drove the man to his knees. Upon his face two thin, parallel lines of blood appeared,

and the man swayed, dazed.

"Get up, boy," Hafydd said. "You will sit in the stern with me."

The woman strained to push the boat down the bank, but she managed and scrambled into the bow with

the oars. Hafydd put the boy before him on the pile of baggage and took the stern seat, sword in hand.

"Row," he said.

They set out into the river, the slow current taking hold of them. The woman put her back into her work,

pulling at the sweeps with obvious familiarity. She was pale and shaken, her hair breaking loose from a

braid and shivering in the wind. The boy sat still as stone, his hands covering his eyes.

"There be patrols upon the eastern shore," the woman panted. "The river is watched."

"And why is that?" Hafydd asked. She was obviously trying to ingratiate herself with him, fearing for her

child.

"The war," she said, clearly surprised. "The Prince of Innes in-vaded the Isle of Battle. That is what put

us on the river. But we've heard now that the Renne drove him back over the canal, with the loss of

many."

Hafydd sat back a little in his seat. That fool Innes wouldn't go to war without him? Would he?

"Is this a rumor, or do you know it for truth?"

" 'Tis no rumor. We left the Isle as soon as the Prince crossed the canal. The roads were choked with people

fleeing. We could have sold our skiff a dozen times, but we used it ourselves, to keep safe our child."

Hafydd cursed under his breath. He left Innes alone for a few days and what did he do? Attacked the

Renne—and lost!

The eastern shore was steep and falling away, trees leaning dan-gerously, their roots exposed. Hafydd

had the woman row south a little, for they were north of the Isle of Battle, she said. Shortly, the bank

sloped down, and there they found a patrol of men-at-arms in purple and black—men serving the Prince

of Innes.

Hafydd hailed them, and they recognized him. The woman put the boat ashore, silent now, looking warily

at the men-at-arms, then guardedly at Hafydd. The knight stepped ashore, tossing his shirt of mail down

on the grass.

"I must bathe in the river," he said. "And then I will take a horse. Two of you will accompany me."

The captain of the patrol bowed his head, not arguing.

Hafydd looked back over his shoulder at the mother and child. "And these two…" He paused. "Kill

them."

There was a second's stunned silence, then one of the men drew a sword and stepped forward. The

woman threw herself over her son, where she lay sobbing as the sword was raised.

"No, let them go," Hafydd said, unsure why. Unsure of the odd feeling in his heart. "He is only a boy.

Death will find him soon enough."

He was cast down upon cold stone in a place of faint twilight. The creature, the servant of Death, fled

into the night, its cry echoing nightmarishly. The claws of Death's servant had poisoned him, he was

certain, for he could barely move his limbs, and lay on the stone waiting for Death to come breathe him.

To his right, gray waters lay mercury still, to his left, a shad-owy cliff. To his shame Beldor sobbed,

sobbed like a child now that his time had come. But he sobbed half from frustration, for he had been

about to send Toren to this very place when Samul had interfered; and then the servant of Death had

swept him up into the sky. He could only hope that the foul creatures would find Toren, too.

The stone beneath him began to tremble, and a terrible grind-

ing noise assaulted his ears. Above him, the cliff shook, then ap-peared to move.

Death's gate!

He tried to move, to crawl away, but at the same time he could not tear his eyes away. Here it was, life's

great mystery. What lay be-yond? No one ever returned to tell. And now, he would know.

The grinding of the gate seemed to continue for hours, a dark stain spreading out from its base. Beldor

had managed to wiggle a few inches, and there he stopped, exhausted, his sobs reduced to whimpering.

How vain all of his pursuits seemed at that moment, all of his absurd pride, his boasts, his petty triumphs.

He lay there trembling in fear, like every ignorant peasant, his Renne pride reduced to whimpers.

From beyond the gate he heard scuttling and muttered words he could not understand. For a moment he

closed his eyes, sud-denly unable to bear the sight of Death.

Silence. But he could feel a presence—a cold, like opening an icehouse door. When he could bear the

suspense no more, he looked.

A shadow loomed over him, black as a well by night. Not even a shimmer of surface, only fathomless

darkness.

"So, we meet at last, Lord Death," Beld whispered, his mouth dry and thick as paste.

"You flatter yourself, Beldor Renne," a voice hissed. "Death barely noticed your passing—nor did life.

But perhaps you will yet gain a chance to leave your mark. To do something to affect the larger flow of

events." The voice paused, and Beldor felt himself being regarded, weighed. He struggled and managed

to gain his knees, where he gasped for breath, his head bowed because he had not the strength to lift it.

"You might be of some small service, yet," the dark voice hissed. "I am the Hand of Death, and I will give

you an errand, Beldor Renne. If you manage it, you will be returned to the kingdom of the living for your

natural span of years—though likely a sword will see

you here much sooner. What say you, Lord of the Renn ? A second life is granted to few."

"Yes, whatever you ask," Beldor gasped, "I will do."

"Then you will deliver this to the knight known as Eremon, councilor to the Prince of Innes."

"Hafydd," Beldor whispered.

"So he was once called. You will tell him that Wyrr was laid to rest beneath the Moon's Mirror."

An object appeared from the shadow and was thrust into Beld's hands. It was hard-edged and bound in

soft leather, warm as a woman's skin. A book.

"H-How do I proceed from here?" Beld stammered.

"Like this," the shadow whispered.

From above a dark form fell through the twilight, and Beld was snatched up in the claws of Death's

servant. He closed his eyes and clung to the book as though it were a shield that protected his life.

Hafydd leaned back in his chair, staring gravely at the book. Beldor Renne stood by, watching, glad to

have the cursed book out of his possession. Just holding it had filled him with fever and dread.

Hafydd put a hand to his temple, the other arm immobilized in a sling. "Have you any idea what you bore

into this world, Beldor Renne?"

"It is a book, Sir Eremon. I know nothing more."

"You did not open it?"

"I did not. To be honest, I was afraid to."

"And for good reason," Hafydd observed, still staring down at the open pages. "You could not have read

it anyway, for it is written in a language that has not been spoken in a thousand years. It is a long, very

elaborate spell. One that, to my knowledge, has only been performed once in all of history—to

catastrophic results." Hafydd leaned forward and with great care turned the page, for a moment taking in

the text. Beld thought the knight looked paler since he'd opened the book, as though the blood had

drained from his face.

There was a ruckus in the hall outside, and the door was thrown upon. In strode the Prince of Innes,

followed by two of Hafydd's black guards.

"Tell your guards that when I wish to see you, they do not stand in my way!" the Prince demanded. He

was shaking with anger.

Beldor had only ever seen the man at tournaments, but he de-spised his arrogance. Coupled with the

man's obvious dullness of mind, it was an enraging combination. The Prince glanced at him with disdain.

"What is it you want?" Hafydd asked, as though he were being annoyed by a child.

"I want to know if Lord A'denne is a traitor. How we shall prose-cute our war, now? What your spies

have learned of our enemies' in-tentions…" This seemed to exhaust his list of questions for the moment.

"Of course A'denne is a traitor. Have him killed—or tortured. Whichever will give you the most

satisfaction."

This took the Prince aback. "Should you not speak with him first?"

Hafydd went back to gazing at the dreadful book. "I don't need to."

Innes tilted his head toward Beld. "And what of this one? He is a Renne… here, where he can do great

Sean Russell - The Swan's War 3 - The Shadow Roads

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