The Shadow Throne

EPILOGUE

IONKOVO

In the silent corridors of the darkened Royal Palace, a shadow rippled like black ink. Ionkovo stepped out of it, dressed in his working outfit of loose, dark leathers. He had a long knife in one hand, its shine dulled by lampblack.

There would be at least one guard just outside the queen’s room, he was certain, but he’d slipped past the outer perimeter. With the palace practically shut down, it was easy to move about without running into any stray servants.

He eased a door open and slipped into a long corridor, lined with large-paned windows on both sides looking out onto grassy courtyards. The moon was high, throwing a silver light that stippled the floor with shadows. Outside, the wind was picking up, and the manicured flowers along the walkways dipped and nodded.

The pontifex had been specific about what to expect. A simple assassination would be insufficient. Accordingly, there was a leather bag attached to Ionkovo’s belt, big enough to contain the young queen’s head. His instructions were to convey that grisly trophy all the way to Elysium. He wondered if the poor girl would be awake for the whole bumpy journey, and what it would be like to be reduced to a disembodied head.

I don’t suppose it matters. But he couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy. After all, she might have been one of us, had things gone differently. If she had kept faith.

Something tinkled gently against the window to his left. He glanced in that direction, but there was nothing but moonlit grass and flowers, whipping back and forth in the violence of the wind. Ionkovo shook his head and continued down the corridor, moving noiselessly over the marble floor.

Tink. Tink, tink, tink-

He spun, backing away. Tiny objects were bouncing off the window, like hailstones wildly out of season. As he watched, a thick cloud descended into the garden, and the impacts multiplied. The sound rose to a roar like the ocean crashing against rocks.

Then the glass started to crack, a spiderweb of thin white lines splaying from one side of the pane to the other. Ionkovo stepped backward, knife raised, a deep shadow underfoot.

The window exploded inward in a spray of glass and-

Sand?

The sand was everywhere, rushing into the corridor from the courtyard like water pouring into a holed ship. When he tried to breathe, Ionkovo got a mouthful of flying grit. The only thing that kept him from diving into a shadow at once was the knowledge that he would have to report this to the pontifex. What in the name of the Savior is going on?

The sand swirled, pulling together into a tall whirlwind. It began to shrink, and through the drifts a human figure became visible. A few moments longer and it solidified completely into a tall, thin man wearing odd, baggy clothing. His skin was a chalky gray that marked him as Khandarai, but his face was invisible behind a steel mask, featureless except for three thin slits.

“You wish to harm the queen,” the apparition said, in accented Vordanai. “I cannot allow this, abh-naathem.”

Ionkovo blinked dust from his eyes. “And who are you?”

“I was Jaffa-dan-Iln.” The steel mask tilted slightly. “You may call me the Steel Ghost.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Ionkovo said. “What is this queen to you?”

The Ghost’s voice was flat. “The enemy of my enemy.”

There was a long pause.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Ionkovo said. “Even the pontifex thought your cult had died out long ago.”

The Ghost only raised a hand. The wind rose to a shriek, filling the corridor and rattling the windows, and a blast of sand stung every bit of Ionkovo’s exposed skin.

He exerted his own power, and the floor rippled underneath him, dropping him neatly into the shadow realm. Safe in the darkness, he considered his options. It would be interesting to test his power against this demon, and that would give him the chance to complete his mission-

But no. More important to report this information to Elysium. That, across the sea, the ancient enemy had survived.

There are still servants of the Beast.

THE PONTIFICATE

The council chamber of the pontificate was a dusty triangular room, deep in the bowels of the great fortress-city of Elysium. It had once been richly appointed, and some vestiges of the finery still remained. The heavy, three-sided table was carved from fine hardwood, and under its coating of grime, gold and silver inlay glittered.

No servant had cleaned the room in years, because it was no longer necessary. Following the Great Schism and the subsequent reforms, one of the three pontificates had ceased to exist. The remaining leaders of the Church, the Pontifex of the Red and the Pontifex of the White, met up above, in daylight and full view of their followers. Elysium was riddled with chambers like this-whole wings that had lost their function centuries ago, closed up and abandoned to silverfish and cobwebs.

The leaders of the Red and the White entered together. The Red took his seat casually, while the White pulled his out, then carefully wiped it down with a silk cloth, lest the dust stain the perfect purity of his robes. They exchanged a look and settled down to wait for their colleague, the one who no longer officially existed.

The Pontifex of the Black was a man in his middle years, with a broad, powerful build. His face was concealed behind the mask of his order-black cloth, covered with hundreds of facets of black, volcanic glass, so the light seemed to ripple across him as he moved. His voice was a thick, unhealthy rasp.

“Brothers,” he said, taking his own seat. “Thank you for answering my call.”

“It seems to me that you have much to answer for,” said the White. He was an old man, with hair as snowy as his robes of office under his tall cap. “This entire situation is the result of your meddling.”

“I am afraid I must agree with my Brother of the White,” said the Red. He was a younger man, round-faced and ruddy-cheeked, with bushy eyebrows and a squashed bulb of a nose. “This is not the result you promised, when you proposed to intervene in the matter of the Vordanai princess.”

“The concept was a sound one,” the Black rasped.

“Placing a demon on the throne of one of the great powers of the world?” said the White. “A considerable risk to the souls of every one of her subjects, as I believe I said at the time. This is a sound concept?”

“As I said at the time,” the Black returned, “those souls are in grave danger, cut off from the true Church as they are. A compliant monarch, who might lead her people back to the faith-”

“Enough,” the Red snapped. “It is done, and there is no undoing it now.”

The Black inclined his head. “Indeed. And our problem stems not from the girl, but from. . unanticipated factors.”

“Vhalnich,” said the Red.

“Vhalnich.” The Black’s rasping voice turned the name into a wet, ugly cough, as though he wanted to spit. “He is the most dangerous heretic we have faced since ancient days.”

“So you say,” said the White, querulously. “I have seen only slim evidence to that effect. You say he is the Demon King come again, but all we have is a single vague report.”

“Vhalnich returns victorious from Khandar,” the Black said. “He sets this child queen on the throne. And now we find her protected by the enemy.”

“Vhalnich may simply be a pawn,” the Red said.

“Not Vhalnich. He has studied the arts. And now he has control of Vordan.” The Black crossed his arms. “We must move against him, or face the greatest loss since the Schism. No simple heresy, but a true apostate, a whole nation under the sway of the enemy such as we have not seen since the Demon King. Such a step backward might threaten the Grace itself, and unleash the final judgment.”

The White’s lip twisted, unconvinced. “Or Vhalnich may be a man like any other. He should simply be eliminated.”

“Difficult,” said the Red, “under the present circumstances.”

“I have set events in motion toward that end,” the Black said. “But careful preparation is required. And, regardless, broader action will be necessary. Even if Vhalnich is removed, we cannot allow Raesinia to rule. . unguided.”

“True,” the Red said. “It may be that this represents an opportunity.”

“It is a great risk,” said the White. “But if the prize is the restoration of the true faith to Vordan. .”

“Then we are agreed?” the Black said.

The White nodded, and the two of them turned to the Red. He shrugged, crimson robes rustling.

“I will make the arrangements,” he said.

The hand of the Church moved slowly, almost invisibly. It tightened its grip in easy stages, as messengers rode to and fro, and news of what had happened in Vordan spread through the civilized world.

The agents of the pontificate knew their business. In Holy Korslavl, capital of Imperial Murnsk, the Priests of the White began to whisper of the opportunity presented by a girl queen and a popular revolution. The chance to stamp out the heresy of the Schism, after so many years. And darker rumors spread, apparently without a source, hinting of demonic forces at work at the heart of the new government and the so-called deputies.

In Viadre, seat of the Borelgai Court and the pulsing heart of world commerce, the Priests of the Red met with nervous bankers in their tall houses along the market streets. Vordan’s debt to Borel was great, and the queen had left her financial policy in the hands of demagogues and rabble-rousers. If they took it in their heads to repudiate the loans, heads would roll in the Exchange.

And in Hamvelt, high in its mountain fastness, angry currents among the burghers started to come together. Sworn Priests were banned there, but the agents of the Pontifex of the Black still moved in secret, spreading Elysian gold where it would do the most good. They spoke of the long-disputed border between Vordan and the League, the coastal counties over which so much blood had been spilled over the centuries. And to Hamvelt’s ancient nobility, ever jealous of its privileges, they spread the word that the queen intended to finally dissolve the Duchy of Orlanko, just across the mountains, and subordinate the old families of Vordan to the new “representatives of the people.”

At length, couriers set out from these three great cities, hastening by stagecoach and riverboat across the length and breadth of the continent. In their diplomatic bags, secured by the wax seals of the world’s most powerful men, they carried messages addressed to the new Queen of Vordan. The letters were in three different languages, couched in elaborate diplomatic circumlocutions, citing ancient legal precedents and disputes generations old. But when all the curlicues and embellishments were stripped away, they all carried the same deadly simple meaning:

War.