The Shadow of Theron, page 9
A faint echo met Lysandro’s ears. There were voices—at least a dozen. It was all garbled together with the thrashing surf, but its heavy cadence and rhythm sounded wrong somehow in Lysandro’s ears in a way he couldn’t define.
He lay sprawled on his belly above the mouth of the cave for hours. The position of the moon told him it was past two in the morning. He’d considered trying to burrow a hole into the cavern’s roof to get a better look, but was afraid that any noticeable amount of falling sediment would spell the end of his being there undetected.
He needed to keep his nose and mouth covered with his handkerchief to keep out the charnel stench wafting up from beneath him. His skin crawled at the memory of the slick edge of the weapon that had nearly robbed him of his life.
He sensed movement at the mouth of the cave, and the swell of voices echoed as a handful of men exited the cavern and made their way back up the beach to the village. Keeping his head low, Lysandro spied their faces over the edge of the bluff. His stomach lurched. They were all Marek’s officers, the only law enforcement Lighura had. There were none in which Lysandro could confide, none whom he could hope would aid him in bringing Marek to justice. The people of Lighura were entirely at Marek’s mercy.
Lysandro rolled over onto his back, and laid his sword beside him, retrieving the pistol from his belt. The howling winds would mask the sound of anyone approaching; slowly, silently, he loaded the weapon and cocked it. He kept his hand on the trigger as he laid it across his chest, and prayed to all three of the goddess’s aspects to give him the strength and the wisdom to live through the night, so he might not miss his date with Sera in the morning. The possibility that he could go to his grave without confessing his true feelings broke his spirit. He found himself hoping that if his body were found and his identity discovered, that she might understand. The thought choked him, but he shook free of it to watch Marek, the last of the pack, climb up the road to the village without so much as a glance in his direction.
Lysandro slunk down to the beach when Lothan was completely out of sight, his pistol still in his hand and his sword in its sheath. He dropped down into the shelter between the outer and inner walls of the cave, listening to see if he’d miscounted, if there was still someone inside. There was no sound, no movement as Lysandro rounded the stalagmite that had shielded him, until he could see plainly that the cave was empty. He traversed the space with slow, unbelieving steps. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood at attention as he peered down into the shallow, muddy pit carved out of the cave floor. In the center of the depression lay the carcasses of at least three eldur vipers, their blood steaming as it dyed the mud of the pit a hellish red. To his right he spied a smoothed bit of the cave’s formation, a long gleaming shelf, stained by the glistening trail of blood. Lysandro realized what he was looking at, and it curdled the blood in his veins. It was where Marek sat, presiding over whatever dark doings had transpired, with that infernal weapon dripping its gore down into a widening puddle. Averting his eyes, Lysandro caught sight of a strongbox beside the seat. First with the tip of his sword, then with his gloved hand, Lysandro prodded the box, satisfied that its surface was safe for him to open. He pulled a hairpin from the back of his head and bent it out of shape to make quick work of the lock protecting the box’s contents. Inside was a pile of illuminated pages, torn loose from their bindings, and a strange, dark-colored stone that glowed like an ember from within. He avoided the stone and rifled through the pages. He recognized the prayers and service instructions from the temple, but didn’t understand their value to Lothan. Why would he steal what he could simply listen to if he ever set foot inside a temple? Then he found a handwritten log tucked in between the other pages, buried so deep in the pile that he’d almost missed it.
Lysandro grinned. He’d always known Marek lacked intelligence, but he never expected him to be so stupid as to record his own crimes. Near the bottom of the page, the date listed had not yet passed; another exchange was still expected. He laid the page atop the rest and closed the lid when he heard a subtle whispering behind him. He whirled around, pistol raised, and cried out in horror—in the corner, a skeleton cloaked in rags sat upright, staring into nothing. Curling around its edges was a dark purplish haze, like a shimmering mirage.
Lysandro heard the whispering again, a wet, pregnant echo of a noise not yet borne on the wind, and drew slowly closer. He could almost understand it, but he didn’t want to. It spoke of terrible things—insane things—and Lysandro knew that if he came close enough to truly hear it, he would go mad. The sound poured out in a slow steady stream like a poison river that threatened to overtake him. He backed away, gripping the lockbox under his arm and scrambling to escape the maw of the cavern. After a few fortifying breaths of fresh sea air, he laid the box down in the grass and pulled at the leather pouch of gunpowder hanging from his belt. Cleaving through the dirt-covered rock with his sword, Lysandro poured a line of powder across the overhang of the cliff. When he’d spilled all he had with him except what was loaded in the pistol, he picked up the box, retreated ten paces, and took his aim.
The shot lit up the night like a flash of lightning, followed rapidly by the roar of thunder as the ground beneath Lysandro’s feet trembled and gave way. He fled across the bluff as the hanging edge of the rock collapsed upon itself, filling the mouth of the cave.
* * *
“Sancio,” Lysandro whispered. “Sancio wake up, now.”
Sancio groaned and rolled over in his sleep. He only opened his eyes when Lysandro gave him a firm slap on the top of his head.
“What? What?!”
“Get the high priestess. I have something she needs to see.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Lysandro’s masked face disappeared from the window, and Sancio scrambled out of his bed. He woke Beatríz, who was even less pleased to be summoned by a bumbling acolyte to the front entry of the temple, where the Shadow of Theron stood with an unremarkable metal box in his hands.
“You dare to come here wearing that mask,” she scowled, “presuming to be the sacred hero, the worker of the Goddess’s will?” Her chastisement echoed off the stone columns framing the nave.
Lysandro answered in a calm, quiet voice. “I don’t claim that name myself. It was given to me by the people of Lighura.”
She rebuffed him. “You don’t correct them.”
“If I thought serving the Goddess could be done in the daylight, this would not be necessary.”
The high priestess opened her mouth again, the rage of being woken from her sleep blazing in her eyes, but Sancio interceded.
“High Priestess, please, if he has come here at this hour, he must have a reason. Let’s at least hear it.” At the turn of her head, Sancio hunched his shoulders, trying to hide himself from her murderous stare, but there was nowhere to go. She turned again to face Lysandro, her expression unyielding.
He stepped forward and opened the box as he handed it to her. He told all that he had seen. When he spoke of the broken shard from the Sword of Argoss, her voice stiffened.
“You’re mistaken. The Blood Sword was destroyed.”
Lysandro knew she wasn’t telling the truth. Even she didn’t sound like she believed it. “Lothan Marek is at the center of this. I saw him with my own eyes.”
The Aruni shot him a skeptical glance before eyeing the papers inside the box. “I won’t deny these are Temple property. But not our temple; thankfully, we have not been thieved.”
“Yet,” Lysandro added. “Marek smuggled those into the village. For what reason I don’t know. But to strike the temple in his own district would cause too much suspicion.”
“Someone transported these here,” she conceded. “You can’t say for sure it was Marek.”
“Surely ships do not come and go without his notice?”
The high priestess flinched, but she stood her ground. “You have proof of something but not someone. You’ll forgive me if I don’t just take your word for it.”
Lysandro realized that she was right; Marek had been stupid enough to create an account of his activity, but not so stupid as to sign his name on the ledger.
“Take me to this cave, then,” the warrior said.
Lysandro started. “I can’t.”
She raised an impatient eyebrow.
“I destroyed it. I thought…I thought it would be safer, for everyone.”
The priestess’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know it’s not you? You’ve already established a flair for flirting with sacrilege.”
“Why would he come to us, then?” Sancio objected.
One look said what the priestess thought of Sancio’s opinion.
“Marek has never entered your temple,” Lysandro pressed.
“Sure he has,” the priestess hedged.
“Name one occasion.”
“I could say the same of you, hiding behind a name that isn’t yours.”
There was an awkward pause, but Lysandro continued. “Will you call the Examiners down, at least, tell them there’s no time to waste?”
“I’m quite sure their time isn’t being wasted. And besides, I couldn’t contact them even if I wanted to. There’s no way to tell who or where they are.”
“If you sent a rider, asking for people who have seen the Examiners, you might find them…” Sancio suggested.
“And who will go, you? You’re not fast enough to catch a slug.”
Sancio bowed his head. “I would if I could, High Priestess.”
Beatríz sighed. “I will keep these safe, until the Examiners see fit to come.”
“Will they come? Why would they if we’ve had nothing stolen?”
Beatríz’s face darkened two shades. But she gave no answer.
Lysandro raged inside his head. But he knew it would be worse for him if he argued further. He stepped back, leaving Lothan’s lockbox in the high priestess’s hands.
She handed it to Sancio, who disappeared behind her. He caught up with Lysandro as he passed through the temple’s outer columns and clasped Lysandro’s hands in his own.
“Thank you for bringing this to us. You are a true servant of the Goddess.”
Lysandro kept his eyes on his friend as he felt a folded slip of paper pass into his hands. Lysandro squeezed Sancio tighter, and left. Alone in the street, he unfolded the paper to find the last page of Marek’s ledger, the one saying where he would be expecting more stolen relics to arrive, and when. He secreted it away in his garments, then disappeared into the night.
8
Lysandro rose when he could wait no more. He gave himself a clean shave and agonized over his attire, dressing himself in multiple garments and then tossing them onto the bed if he didn’t deem them flattering enough. He settled on a white silk shirt with a high collar and a slight billow to the sleeves, paired with charcoal pants and a coat with notches cut out at the hips. It was lined with bright silver buttons and a pewter embroidered pattern along the hem. He brushed his dark hair until he achieved a glossy shine. A simple ring of burnished silver with a topaz stud was his only jeweled ornamentation.
The coach ride to Sera’s home seemed to take forever. When he finally arrived and knocked on the door, he hoped he would not have to see Don Alvaró.
Sera answered the door in a flowing dress the color of pale sunshine. Her hair tumbled in loose waves of shimmering gold and copper in the morning light. She looked more ethereal than ever. Once again, Lysandro was dumbstruck.
“Good morning,” she greeted him.
“Good morning.” He led her up into the coach and seated himself on the opposite bench. With a gentle knock on the ceiling, they left the Alvaró estate and headed west.
They turned on to the main road toward Lighura’s sole repository of Andran art and culture in an awkward silence. Sera looked at Lysandro expectantly, and he realized he should have practiced what he was going to say. His brain raced through the possibilities of what to tell her, petrified by indecision, until Sera’s anxious expression turned to one of impatience.
“I was trying to protect you from Marek!” he blurted out.
“What?”
Lysandro took a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves. “He will not let your insult stand. As much as I loved watching you humiliate him, he might make trouble for you.”
“Trouble…”
“He’s a dangerous man, Sera. He doesn’t respect the law, and holds himself above it.”
Sera’s brow furrowed. “So you want me to marry you?”
“I thought that if your father agreed to let me court you exclusively, then Marek wouldn’t be able to harass you.”
She leaned back in her seat, absorbing his confession.
Lysandro balled his fists in his lap as he waited for her reaction. Whether she would continue talking to him or tell him to turn the coach around hinged on this moment.
“Yesterday was a disaster,” he added, a final plea.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Lysandro’s face reddened, and he was grateful for the shadows enveloping the corners of the coach. He leaned into them.
“It’s a clever ruse,” she said finally.
“Oh—”
“But you should have told me.”
“I was going to tell you. But I barely had time to speak to your father, and I didn’t get the chance.”
“You should have told me first.”
He bowed his head. “I should have told you first.”
He clenched his jaw. She’d called it a ruse. She believed his entire proposal to be false, his intention to marry her a lie.
He didn’t know what to say, or how to fix it without angering her further. So he stayed silent. And cursed himself for a coward.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” she said, turning her head toward the window to hide her expression. “I didn’t want to believe that you could be so cruel, to barter for me like a…a…”
“Sera. I would never think of you, or of any woman that way. What your father said…it stunned me speechless.”
“I’ve always known what I meant to him. And what I didn’t.”
Sancio’s voice echoed in Lysandro’s head, chiding him about silence more often than not acting as his enemy.
“I should have said something,” he muttered.
Sera turned her gaze away from the window to look at him.
“No one should be allowed to speak to you like that, not even him. I should have defended you.”
She clasped the silver pendant of an angel’s wing hanging from her neck. “That might have been nice…”
Lysandro closed his eyes to shut out the pain her words inflicted. Sancio was right. His reticence to show his true feelings had robbed him of the chance to be her champion.
She sighed. “You’re forgiven.”
He shouldn’t have been. The men in her life—her father, her mysterious first suitor who’d proposed, but not out of love, and the cur who abandoned her at the docks of Mirêne—had made the fair maiden sitting opposite him feel unworthy of love. It seemed to him the world’s greatest injustice. But he couldn’t turn his thoughts into words; they tumbled and dissolved on the journey from his heart to his lips. Constant was the fear that no matter what he said, no matter what soulful confessions he made, they would never be enough to upturn the corners of her mouth.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a tall stone edifice of gleaming alabaster. Narrow steps led up to a column-lined portico that gave way to the marble floors inside. At this hour, the influx of patrons was modest. Lysandro reached for Sera’s hand. He allowed himself to hope when she didn’t pull away.
“Thank you for listening to me. If you would prefer for me to take you home now, I’ll understand.”
“I’d prefer to go inside, if you don’t mind.”
Lysandro smiled. “It would be my pleasure.” He opened the carriage door with a crisp turn of the handle and let Sera out into the early sunshine. They were met in the first room of the gallery by a collection of primitive Andran statuettes and fetishes dating back to before the Age of Theron.
“How did it start?” Sera asked, peering at the carvings on a ritual dagger made of obsidian, displayed on a stone pedestal.
“Hmm?”
“This feud between you and Marek.”
Lysandro cocked his head.
“He didn’t try to cut in on anyone else but you and me, didn’t insult anyone but you, and went out of his way to do it.”
“It seems since the moment he arrived, we’ve been at odds,” Lysandro said.
“What does he have against you?”
“I’m not charmed by him.”
“Is that all?”
It was more difficult by the day for Lysandro to separate what he knew of Marek from what he could safely say—what he could admit to knowing without revealing himself. He chose his words with deliberation, careful not to lie.
“He has no care for his position, or the people he’s meant to protect. The only thing that matters to him is the power that his post allows him.”
Sera pointed out what Lysandro wasn’t saying. “And I suspect you’ve made your feelings known?”
“I’ve not made a secret of it.”
After kneeling to admire the craftsmanship of a stone altar inscribed with interlocking characters and symbols that made little sense to her, she straightened.
“Is it safe, for us to talk about this?”
Lysandro scoffed. “He would never be found at a place like this. He resents that too; it undermines his influence in the village.”
“What does?”
“My title, my family name, my ability to afford finer things.”
“And appreciate them,” she countered. “Money doesn’t buy intellect, or taste. And this place is open to the public.”
“That way of thinking would be lost on him.”
They moved to the next room, which showcased several depictions of the Age of Theron in paint.
