Shadows Past Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise for the Borderlands Novels

  The King’s Own

  “The intricate plot twists and turns, and characters turn out to be much more than they seem at first. Every page leaves you wanting more. Humor, suspense, adventure, and magic—this delightful series has it all.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “This is a very good book. It’s fast paced with lots of action, but the characters are distinctive and well drawn, and their setting is wonderful.”

  —SFRevu

  Covenants

  “Exciting and fun.”

  —The Weekly Press (Philadelphia)

  “A fantastical read.”

  —Barb and J. C. Hendee, authors of Dhampir and Sister of the Dead

  “An extraordinary debut … takes us to a world brimming with fantastical possibilities and intrigues.”

  —Rambles

  “Rabbit’s self-development and knowledge are particularly satisfying.”

  —KLIATT

  “Stands out for its complexity, its compassion, and its meticulous world building… . The author’s vivid descriptions make every passage a joy to read.”

  —The Internet Review of Science Fiction

  “A delightful and enthralling fantasy.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  ALSO BY LORNA FREEMAN

  Covenants The King’s Own

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February

  Copyright © Lorna Freeman, 2010

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18475-2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Jean B. Andrews. Miss you, Mom.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are the usual suspects of my writing group—Teresa, Eileen, David, Trai, Chris. Thank you for keeping the light on for your wayward member. I’d also like to thank Jennie and Anne for their support, which went way over and beyond the call of duty.

  One

  I was awakened by thunder. Peeling my eyes open, I stared at the darkened ceiling, muzzily thinking that the autumn rains had finally arrived. Part of me winced the autumn rains had finally arrived. Part of me winced because we were due to leave town soon and rain meant traveling roads turned into rivers of mud. But another part of me was fascinated with the flash and boom of a thunderstorm—as long as I wasn’t outside during the flashing and booming—and I gave thought to going to a window to watch the show. I then gave thought to staying very still to keep my head from exploding.

  Yesterday was my Nameday, the anniversary of when my parents stood before the tiny congregation that comprised the church where I grew up and announced to all who would hear that they had gifted me with the name of Rabbit. Their fourth son and seventh child, I figured that by the time they got to me my ma and da had just run out of names (my youngest sister did get the slightly better one of Sparrow). My ma had always insisted that she named me so because I was fast and could hide in plain sight; however, I didn’t think I was doing much moving or hiding as a babe in arms.

  For the most part, it wasn’t so bad. There was the occasional “hop to it” quip, but that was army humor. I got more razzing because of my sartorial style, but I figured envy was rampant even among horse soldiers. And last evening, clothes envy and bad jokes were set aside as I celebrated my Naming with my mates and senior officers from the garrison, several aristos and their armsmen, a mountain cat Faena, a dark elf enchanter, the royal guard, the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard and Royal Army, the king of Iversterre, and anyone else who cared to join us in the common room of Freston’s old posting inn. It had become very merry as the night went on, with calls to the innkeeper for more tankards and goblets, and calls to the musicians for livelier music. After a while, the tables and chairs had been pushed back and we danced with the local lasses, because the king’s court was a bachelor one and the one highborn lady who had been with us had left with her brother and uncle for their home the previous day. But that was all right as most of us didn’t know any court dances anyway, and those who did were very amenable to the more vigorous romping of the common folk. I remembered the Enchanter Wyln, his eyes aflame as he gracefully stepped by with one of the innkeeper’s numerous relations, the woman’s own eyes wide with dazed shock at finding herself dancing with the dark elf. Then, King Jusson’s partner was just as stunned, as was Laurel Faena’s. Especially Laurel’s—though the mountain cat’s dance partner kept running her hand through his fur, which was growing in thick and heavy for the winter.

  Still, dancing kings, elves, and cats didn’t stop people from joining in until the merriment spilled into the inn’s courtyard, and then into the street—not so much because I was such a popular fellow, but because Jusson was buying drinks for all in celebration of his cousin and heir who had turned one year older.

  It was also because we’d all been destroyed and lived to tell of it.

  The thunder sounded again and my eyes, which had drifted shut, sprang open once more. Judging by the embe
rs in the fireplace, it hadn’t been that long since we’d staggered up to the bedchamber. While not as spacious as the one I had at the king’s former residence across town, the room was big enough to cram four rather elderly beds into it, along with a rickety washstand and three army footlockers, which were shoved against one wall. Jusson had much nicer furnishings—he was king of a large, prosperous kingdom after all—but they were stored in a nearby warehouse as he’d hired the inn as is. By the fireplace’s scant light, I could see Laurel and my two personal guards, Jeffen and Arlis, sprawled on their beds, each under a tangle of sheets and blankets. The large cat gave a whiffling snort at the noise and Jeff didn’t stop snoring. But Arlis thrust back his covers and got up, and I realized what I’d taken for thunder was someone pounding on the door. Squinting against my throbbing head, I cautiously rose onto my elbow as Arlis unbarred and snatched the door open, the snarl on his goateed face just discernible. It disappeared quickly as he jumped to attention.

  “Heed captain!” he croaked.

  Laurel gave a low growl and pulled a pillow over his head. However, Jeff, showing a finely developed sense of self-preservation, leapt up from his bed almost before Arlis finished croaking. But then, so did I, with both feet together, my spine straight, my shoulders back, desperately hoping that whatever was in my stomach would remain there.

  Captain Suiden had been my commanding officer for the more than five years I’d been in the Freston Mountain Patrol. The Mountain Patrol was the lowest of the low in a garrison filled with the inept, the disgraced, the suspect, and the patronless. We actually had to fight bandits in the mountains—unlike the King’s Road patrollers, whose duties consisted of escorting merchants’ caravans and looking good for the locals. Despite his lowly posting, Suiden was a good captain who took good care of his men, and he had more than a few times gotten us out of very sticky situations surprisingly whole. However, goodness had nothing to do with the faint smile the captain gave as he stepped into the room, neatly dressed in his army uniform. He held a single candlestick, its light flickering over the faded clan markings on his dark face—relics of his former life as the crown prince of Tural. But the candlelight also left other parts of his face in shadow and his green eyes glowed in the darkness.

  “Go back to bed, guardsmen,” Suiden said softly to Jeff and Arlis. He turned those green, glowing eyes on me and my spine stiffened more while the butterflies on my headboard fluttered. “Lieutenant, you’re with me.”

  Suiden wasn’t my captain any longer, as I’d been co-opted by Jusson into the King’s Own. But I wasn’t about to tell him no—I too had a finely developed sense of self-preservation. As Arlis and Jeff collapsed back onto their beds, I stepped into my slippers and shuffled over to my footlocker to get my uniform.

  “We don’t have time for you to dress,” Suiden said, watching the butterflies watch him. “Put on one of your robes.”

  I made a turn for my robe, which was hung from a hook on the wall, and went past the beds and their once again slumbering occupants. Or maybe not so slumbering. I caught the gleam of Arlis’ eyes in the light thrown off by Suiden’s candle, and in the washstand’s mirror I could see the pale oval of Jeff’s face turned to me. I said nothing, sliding my arms into my robe and fastening it before returning back to my bed for the feather and boot knife I’d stashed under my pillow. Putting both in my robe’s pocket, I then took the plain ash-wood staff from where it leaned against the wall next to my bed. The butterflies flitted up but Suiden gave them a slight bow.

  “If you would please remain here, Sraene, I need Rabbit alone.”

  The butterflies landed back on the headboard and I felt the weight of their stares as I followed the captain out of the room. I reached back to shut the door behind me but was beaten to it by one of the royal guards standing on each side. Before it closed, I could see that Laurel had removed the pillow from his head to watch us leave, his amber eyes reflecting the fireplace light.

  “With me, Lieutenant,” Suiden repeated, and turned, quickly walking down the hallway. And despite my alcohol-induced malaise, I was right on his heels. Though there was the occasional night candle in a wall sconce (proof that prosperity—or a rich royal guest—had returned to the inn), only the captain’s candle illuminated the long dark stretches in between. Well, there was another light. The truth rune on my palm shone softly in the gloom. As did the symbols of air and water on one side of the rune, and fire and earth on the other. Still, the faint glow wasn’t enough to navigate the hallway, and I wasn’t about to try to make it brighter. I hadn’t done any talent work for the last couple of weeks—I was wary of what might happen.

  We hurried by Jusson’s unguarded chamber; the king was up and about, then. But before I could decide whether I wanted to ask where he was, we reached the inn’s grand and sweeping front stair (another tribute to better times). Sheltering his candle flame with a cupped hand, Suiden ran lightly down it. Setting my back teeth, I once more followed, seeing the telltale royal guards standing at one of the four private parlors. They both jumped to attention, one flinging the door open. At the same time, the common room door also opened and three teamsters walked out. They stopped and gaped, while beyond them in the common room the noise died down.

  Though much of the night and a lot of the early morning had been spent in wine, dance, and song, the common room showed no evidence of last night’s bacchanal. The floor was swept, a modest fire burned in the fireplace, and the tables and chairs were back in their accustomed places with those who labored for their bread filling the seats as they ate their first meal of the day—including two men who were seated at a table near the door. One wore the outfit of a royal messenger while the other’s short tunic sported an unfamiliar device: a running stag of faded brown against a sky blue field. Each had his attention on the piled plate in front of him, both shoveling in food as if they’d not eaten for days.

  I didn’t blame them. I too had eaten the inn’s cooking.

  However, the rest of the room’s occupants were gawking, taking in my waist-length braid, mussed from bed, my ash-wood staff, and my robe in blues, purples, and greens with matching slippers (I was suddenly very glad that the butterflies had remained upstairs). A few showed stunned expressions in response to my early-morning splendor, vivid even in the predawn dimness of the foyer. Most, though, wore the same wide-eyed stare I’d seen for several days, one that had nothing to do with my appearance and everything to do with the happenings of the previous couple of weeks.

  One of the teamsters took in a deep breath. “I didn’t believe it,” he said to his friends. “Not for a wagonload of gold did I believe it. But it’s true.”

  Frowning, I opened my mouth to ask him what was true.

  “Lieutenant,” Suiden said.

  Closing my mouth, I followed Suiden into the private room. Once more the guard shut the door behind us and I stood wincing in the light.

  Like my bedchamber, the parlor was a little shabby. At one end of the room were a somewhat threadbare settee, two worn stuffed chairs, and a scarred, low table. They were balanced on the other side of the parlor by a battered dining table circled by straight-back wood chairs. The drapes covering the windows showed signs of careful darning, as did the faded tapestries on the walls, and both the wood floor and the rug had burn spots where sparks had popped out of the fireplace. But the room was ruthlessly clean, the furniture glowing with the patina of age and polish. A couple of days ago there was a wreath of fall grasses and leaves over the mantelpiece. It was now gone as Harvestide, the celebration of the last harvest of the year, had just passed with all the crops safely gathered in. I supposed in a month or so Festival decorations would take the wreath’s place; right now there were only two candlesticks on the mantel. There were also candles in the wall sconces and in other candlesticks scattered about the room—again supplied by the king—filling the air with the scent of beeswax. An ambitious fire burned in the fireplace; the king’s majordomo, Cais, stood at the hearth tending the
flames. Turning, Cais give me an assessing look and, adjusting the fireplace screen and placing the poker in its stand, he slipped out of the room.

  “Good morning, Rabbit,” Jusson said.

  I looked away from the closing door to the dining table, where the king sat in one of the five chairs. Bright-eyed, Jusson did not look as though he’d been carousing the small hours away. Then, he was near as old as my da and he didn’t look that either. Instead he appeared my age. Tall and slender, with a mass of black hair, winged eyebrows, and tilted eyes with a gold ring etched around each black iris, he also looked like a dark elf from one of the Border coastal city-states. His raiment was austerely elegant, as was the simple gold circlet upon his head, yet somehow he managed not to clash with the shabby parlor.

  That couldn’t be said of the man lounging beside Jusson. Unlike his king or his fellow officer, Captain Javes of the Freston garrison, King’s Road Patrol (South) was as close to a fop as one could get and still be in uniform. His golden blond hair was curled and pomaded, a quiz glass hung by a black ribbon around his neck, a jaunty cap with both his rank insignia and a sleek feather was on the back of his chair. As Javes’ father was the head of Iversterre’s merchants’ guild and his mother was a member of the powerful trade consortium the Qarant, I figured he could afford to dress any way he damn well pleased. As he was part of the king’s inner circle, he could get away with it.

  Javes gave me a vacuous smile, not quite hiding the wolf lurking behind the silly ass. “Hallo, Rabbit. Smashing party last night, what?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I bowed carefully. “Your Majesty.”

  “You look as though you had a smashing time,” Jusson said as Suiden seated himself at the table. The king pointed at the empty chair directly opposite him. “Sit. Before you keel over.”

  Very conscious of my unshaven scruffiness—and the vapors of past tankards of ale that swirled around me—I gingerly sat, propping my staff against my chair. Empty plates were scattered on the table, bearing evidence of breakfast, and my stomach cringed at the thought of food. Also on the table were two dispatch pouches—one with the royal seal, the other displaying the same running stag symbol I saw on the tunic of the man in the common room. The dispatches themselves were split open and stacked together in front of Jusson and I eyed them, mildly curious. Then, realizing a certain lack, I glanced around the room. Thadro, the king’s lord commander, was missing. Usually Thadro stood at Jusson’s back—though he recently had to vie with the Enchanter Wyln for the honor. But the dark elf was also absent. I had started to ask their whereabouts when the door opened and the lord commander himself came in. Tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like the head of the royal guards and army should, Thadro also showed no signs of last night’s festivities. I struggled to stand as he strode to the table, Javes and Suiden rising with me, but he waved us down as he sat in the last vacant chair on the king’s right-hand side.