The Shadow's heir

heartbeat it had spread through her entire system. She turned to Ocax, asking for help, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Her head began to spin. She turned around, wide-eyed. Her head felt as if it were growing larger and larger, floating toward the ceiling. Everything around her had turned yellow, full of tiny sparks like pollen. Oeka wasn’t there any more, but that didn’t matter; Laela had forgotten all about her. She’d forgotten about Arenadd, too, and Yorath, and home. Everything fled out of her mind in an instant, and she was flying, suspended in a delicious cloud of sweet yellow fog.

She grinned; her mouth seemed to be out of her control and wanted to do nothing else.

Humming inanely to herself, she turned to see if the altar was still there. It was, and the statue was still there, too. Only now, it was moving.

Laela squinted at it. “Here, why are you movin’?” She giggled. “Are yeh bored? Want t’come out an’ get some air an’ that?” She giggled again and couldn’t make herself stop.

Very slowly, the statue straightened up. In its hands the bowl had become a ball of pure golden flame, so bright it hurt to look at.

Laela stopped giggling. She backed away. “What. .? No. . stop. . I don’t like this. .”

The statue came toward her, its golden feet clanging on the stone. The face had lost its distant smile. Now it was alive, moving and changing its expression.

Laela tried to back away further, but her feet suddenly refused to move. The light hit her face, burning straight through her eyes and into her skull. She threw up her hands, trying vainly to protect herself. “No! Stop! Stop it! Go away! Help!”

The statue halted. She could hear it breathing; deep, rumbling, metallic breaths. Laela, it said.

Laela turned her head away. She was trembling in fright. “Leave me alone.”

Laela, the voice said again. Look at me.

It was impossible to disobey. Laela raised her head and saw those blank blue eyes, staring straight at her. “No. .”

Laela, said the statue. My child. Do you know me?

“No,” said Laela. “No, I don’t know. . I don’t. .”

The statue raised a golden hand, holding it out. It was glowing with heat. Then perhaps you know them.

Laela turned, and saw a point of light in the fog-three points of light, growing brighter. The fog moved around them, gathering inward as if the lights were drawing it in. Forming shapes.

Laela saw the first of them emerge, and her entire body went cold. “You. .”

The ghostly shape of Bran smiled at her. “How’s my little girl then, eh?”

Laela reached out to him. “But you’re. .”

“. . with Gryphus now,” he said. “Laela. .”

She looked at the fog beside him and saw another shape. A woman’s shape. And on his other side, a man. The woman had long hair and a kind face, but there was no smile on it. Something had left a deep and terrible slash in her throat, and blood had soaked into the front of her gown.

The man who was with Bran looked more like a boy to Laela, but that was probably because of his eyes-they were round and bright blue, like a child’s. His hair was blond and tousled, and his face peppered with freckles. But he, too, had a ghastly wound on his throat, and his face was as pale as death.

Bran came closer, reaching out with a pale but still big hand. “Laela,” he said. “These two wanted t’come see yeh.”

Laela cringed at the sight of them. “Why?”

Bran put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is your mother, Laela.”

The woman smiled sadly. “Laela. My little Laela. How you’ve grown.”

Laela stared at her, more frightened than anything else. “Mother. .?”

“Yes,” said the woman.

“I never knew yer name,” Laela mumbled.

“Flell,” said the woman. “I am Flell. Flell of Eagleholm. Lady Flell.”

“Lady?” Laela blinked. “Dad, yeh never said she was a. .”

“I was a griffiner,” said Flell. “At Eagleholm. Like my parents.”

Laela looked at Bran. “Why didn’t yeh tell me, Dad? Why. .?”

“It was too painful t’talk about,” said Bran. “I didn’t think. . didn’t see how it would help yeh t’know it.”

“Laela,” said Flell. She moved away from Bran and came closer, her feet making no sound on the floor. “Laela.” Her hand reached out. It was soaked in blood. “Laela, my sweet daughter. .”

Laela wanted to get away from her. “Why are yeh here, Mother? What d’yeh want?”

“I want to know why,” Flell whispered.

“Why what?”

“Why you’re here,” said Bran.

“Why you’re worshipping the Night God,” said Flell.

“Why you’re with him,” said the boy.

“Arenadd is my King,” Laela told them boldly. “An’ he’s my friend.”

“Laela,” said Bran. “He murdered your mother.”

Laela faltered. “What. .?”

Flell put a hand to her throat. “He killed me in Malvern,” she said softly. “As I tried to defend your cradle from him.”

“No,” said Laela. “Stop it.”

The boy shoved his way forward. “Don’t you understand?” he sneered. “The man you’re living with killed your entire family. Your mother. Your grandparents. Your uncle.” His expression twisted. “I’m your uncle, ashamed to admit it though I am.” He touched his throat and added, half to himself, “He killed me in the Sun Temple.”

Laela stared at him. “Who are yeh?”

He drew himself up. “I am Lord Erian Rannagonson.”

“Erian. .?” Laela laughed weakly. “This is stupid. I ain’t got no uncle, an’ certainly not Erian Rannagonson.”

“You miserable little traitor,” Erian snarled. He turned on Flell, pointing accusingly at her face. “I told you! I told you when I first saw the squealing little brat in your arms. Told you to smother it before it grew up. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s grown up into the Dark Lord’s lap-dog. A shame on our entire noble line!” He put his hands to his throat, squeezing until blood oozed over his fingers. “By Gryphus, I’m glad I died rather than see our father’s blood defiled by being mixed with that filth.” And he spat.

Each word felt like a stab to the heart. For a moment, all Laela could do was gape in horror, but the Northern ferocity that had come from her father rose up inside her, and she went hot with rage. “Now look here!” she yelled. “I never got no say in who my dad was, any more’n you did.” She sneered. “An’ them’s fine words comin’ from a bastard anyway, Erian.”

Bran and Flell laughed uproariously at that. Erian gaped, and then scowled and turned away with a curse.

Flell became serious. “Laela,” she said. “There’s no shame in your heritage. I loved your father with all my heart, and I believe that he loved me. But listen to me now. We were allowed to come back to speak with you so that we could warn you.”

“You’re in danger, Laela,” said Bran. “Terrible danger.”

“What d’yeh mean?” said Laela. “What danger? Oeka can protect me if anythin’. .”

Flell touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t you understand? You, Laela, are the last of the line of Baragher the Blessed. The only descendant of Lord Rannagon, who the Dark Lord killed in Eagleholm. His mistress commanded him to destroy all his surviving relatives-and that included you.”

“After Rannagon, he killed his son, Erian,” said Bran. “Then his daughter. An’ her daughter. .”

“Me?” said Laela. “He was meant to kill me? But he didn’t. .”

“No.” Bran looked away. “Not you. I saved yeh. Carried yeh away from Malvern before he could finish it.”

“You’ve got to get away from him, Laela,” said Flell. “Run away. Never let him find you! If he ever realises