The Shadow's heir

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” said Arenadd, waving her into silence. “How should I have expected you to react? You saw a side of me I wish you hadn’t, and for myself I’d rather not talk about it any more.”

“Yes, Sire,” said Laela.

“Good. And you can call me Arenadd. I’d prefer it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“All right. . Arenadd.”

The conversation improved Arenadd’s mood even further, and that good mood persisted until well after he had shaken off the last of his hangover and enjoyed a hearty lunch.

After he’d eaten, he visited several of his officials whom he hadn’t spoken to in some time and enjoyed their obvious surprise when he called on them out of the blue to ask them about how their various duties were going and whether there were any problems.

Even when there was nothing significant to talk about, it still felt reassuring just to talk and refresh his memory.

After that, he managed to track down Skandar, and the two of them spent a lazy afternoon flying over the city together, just enjoying the feeling of being in the air.

Arenadd felt more alive than he could ever remember.

After dinner, he retired to his room to catch up on some paperwork, but that didn’t last long before he felt bored and put it aside.

His gaze drifted toward his sickle, resting on its pegs over the bed. He lifted it down and gripped the handle, thrilling at how perfectly it still fitted into his palm. How long had it been since he’d used it? Five years? Ten years?

He took up a fighting stance and flicked the weapon back and forth so that the blade flashed in the fire-light. It followed his every movement, almost dancing in the air, the wickedly sharp point curving back toward him in an imitation of the crescent moon.

Arenadd ran his broken fingers over the blade, with its etching of the triple spiral, and smiled to himself.

“By gods, I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve missed seeing you in battle. . how the Southerners fell under you.”

He smiled, remembering. The sweet smell of blood and the sound of screams, like music in his ears. Oh, how he’d thrilled to it. How could anyone ever say that killing was wrong or evil, when it felt so good?

He realised he was standing very still, almost salivating at the thought of it.

If you went to war, you could feel it again, an inner voice whispered.

He shut it out, and returned the weapon to its place. No. No matter how much he wanted it, he would not do the Night God’s bidding. There was nothing she could offer him that he wanted, not any more. Even killing wasn’t worth it.

He felt the familiar thirst for wine nagging at him. He hadn’t had so much as one cup all day. . how long had it been since he’d gone an entire day without a drink?

Maybe I could have just one. Just a quick one. .

“No!”

He grabbed his broken fingers with his other hand and twisted them until they cracked, and his eyes watered. The pain helped to bring him back to his senses, though, and he berated himself internally. No more wine. You’re a King-act like one! You’re degrading yourself-making yourself look like a fool. You can live. . you can exist. . without drinking yourself to sleep every night.

The room had begun to feel like a prison. If he stayed in it much longer, he knew he would crack and call for the servants to bring him a jug.

But there was a solution to that.

He went to his clothes chest and lifted out the black tunic, the hood, and the cloth to wrap around his face. He’d visited his officials-now it was time to visit his people as well.

He put on the disguise of Wolf with practised speed and stuffed a money-bag and a long dagger into his belt before slipping through the concealed door into the secret passage and away, toward freedom.

The Blue Moon tavern was as quiet as it usually was. Arenadd slipped in via the back door and took his accustomed seat in a shadowy corner. There, carefully ignored by the other drinkers, he sipped at a mug of water and listened to the conversation around him.

“. . going to join up,” one man was saying. “The instant it’s made official.”

“For sure? The money won’t be so good. .”

“It ain’t for the money!” The first speaker sounded a little overexcited. “It’s for the glory! I was way too young when the war was on, but my dad always told me about the fightin’. He said how he went into battle once under the leadership of the King himself! An’ afterward, he picked up all sorts of loot. He’s still got a gold cup from a griffiner’s bedroom.”

“Who says we’re invadin’ the South, anyway?” someone else called out.

“Not me,” Arenadd muttered under his breath.

“’Course we will,” said the first man. “The King’ll lead us there. He’d never let the sun worshippers go.”

“I dunno,” said someone else. “If we were goin’ to invade the South, wouldn’t we have done it by now?”

“Well, obviously the King’s had other stuff on his mind,” the first said defensively. “Ye don’t build a Kingdom overnight, do ye?”

“I heard he’s gonna make more trade deals with Amoran,” said someone else.

The others made disgusted noises.

“I don’t believe that,” said the first speaker. “He wouldn’t do somethin’ like that.”

Arenadd groaned to himself. Gods, listen to them whine. They all think they can read my mind.

He was interrupted in his listening at that point by something nudging his elbow. He started, reaching automatically for his knife, but it was only the barmaid.

She pushed a tankard toward him. “That’ll be four oblong.”

“I didn’t order that,” Arenadd snapped.

She gave him a condescending look. “No-one stays in ’ere unless they buy a drink. Four oblong.”

He growled and fished in his money-bag. She took the oblong and walked off.

Arenadd picked up the tankard and sniffed its contents. Beer. Well, maybe just one drink would do him some good. It would certainly be better than listening to this poor fool brag about joining the army to march off to a war that wasn’t going to happen.

He carefully lifted the cloth away from his mouth and sipped at his drink. It wasn’t bad, especially considering he didn’t like beer much.

The conversation around him continued, but it was fairly noisy in the tavern, and he let it wash over him without much effort, drinking his beer while he soaked in the atmosphere. Gods but it felt good to be surrounded by people who didn’t know who he was and didn’t stare at him. True, he attracted a few curious glances because of his shrouded face, but the regular drinkers at the Blue Moon were used to him by now-and all of them knew that he wasn’t a person to be interfered with.

It had taken him a while to establish himself at first-the owner had found his appearance unsettling and started to ask suspicious questions, but a bag of money and a few threats had made it clear to the man that this drinker preferred to be left alone. And at least the Lone Wolf (as people had started calling him) always paid for his drinks and never got into fights. It was enough to keep them quiet.

Normally, he enjoyed being here, but listening to the conversation and the barmaid’s sneering attitude had left him feeling out of sorts, and he decided to move on. There were other haunts he could visit.

He downed the last of his drink and pulled the cloth back into place before quietly slipping out of his seat and making for the door.

As he crossed the threshold, a sick, dizzy feeling hit him, and he staggered and nearly fell.

He clutched at his head. “Oooh. .”

The dizziness increased sharply. He blinked several times to try and dispel it, but that only made grey spots flash in front of his eyes.