Excerpt Oath

THE SHADEBINDER’S OATH

by Jeanette Cottrell

CHAPTER ONE

David flattened himself against the wall of the King’s Stable. He bit his lip, glancing at the shadows along the rear of the cottages. Most of his friends loitered there, waiting to see if he really had the nerve to do it. Of course, it all hinged on the apprentices, those few hiding in the stable loft. If they hadn’t snared the latch open, no one could blame him for not stealing into the stable. If they’d done their part, he was stuck for it. David, the eldest son of High Captain Vance Heronlys, couldn’t back down in the face of their stupid superstition.

He sidled around the corner, braving the torchlights that spilled pools of dull flickering light along the wall. Three strides carried him to the door. He tested the latch, felt the give, and grimaced. He couldn’t be that lucky. Coins jingled in too many pockets; bets hung on his success or failure. He pressed the door ajar, straining his ears for a moment before slipping through.

Gods, if only he could wake up, and discover himself in bed, wedged between the other cavalry juniors. The warm, horsy scent filled his lungs. He firmed his chin, glancing quickly from one end of the barn to the other. He’d snuck in without alerting guards or grooms. He could do this, no question. Shades weren’t real anyway.

There were no such things as shades, he reassured himself. No such things as shades, no such thing….

The hair rose on the backs of his arms as he suppressed a shudder. The Shadebinder lurked inside the haunted stall, halfway down. In that stall, years ago, the Princess’ horse had gone mad, possessed by a demon. David had been seven then, but he’d never forget the tale. The gelding berserked, stomped on his groom, splintered the door, and drove his hoof through the wall. He’d leaped, stumbled, and crashed through the wooden paneling. By the time men dashed in with ropes, blood gushed from a hole in his chest, and his left foreleg flopped uselessly. The horse thudded to the floor, his eyes clouded before they managed to drag his groom from the wreckage. Workers rebuilt the stall, but people shied away from it unless they had compelling reason to work nearby.

Tonight, rumor had it, the Shadebinder demanded ‘permission’ to house his horse in that stall. The moment they heard, the boys huddled together, jabbing dares at each other. Their suspicions were confirmed. If the Shadebinder selected it especially, it must be haunted. Imagine the spells he’d cast this very night. David sneered at the idea. The Master wouldn’t allow the Shadebinder to conduct rites in his stable. He’d never put the King’s horses at risk. The moment David opened his mouth, he regretted it, but it was too late.

He had to prove himself and salvage his reputation. At this moment, apprentices in the loft awaited David’s signal. If he didn’t get to the stall and rap on the beam, they’d brand him a coward.

Lanterns hung on every other post along the aisle, but they didn’t dispel the shadows draping the stalls on either side. He steeled himself and slunk down the aisle. He edged past a groom, asleep on the floor. After the Princess’ horse had gone mad, grooms slept in the aisle, not in the stalls.

He counted the half-doors, his heart pounding painfully, and stared at the fourth on the right. No light crept from it; no sound or movement hinted at activity. Demon raising, huh. And with all these grooms about, sleeping. Obviously, they were scared to death. David peered into the light, glimpsing the shape of the Shadebinder’s horse. If the man himself were here, he must be asleep.

He grinned at his fears. All his terror, for nothing. With light feet, David crept the final steps, slipped the stick from his belt and stretched as high as he could to rap the beam running from floor to ceiling. Three raps, and he was out of here.

A shadow seized his arm, hauling it behind his back. Demons. Fear seized him. His throat closed, choking off the air. A hand clapped over his mouth, rough fingers denting his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The words rumbled over his nerves, scraping them raw. David twisted his head around. Not a demon, thank the One, but a man. His panic ebbed, surging again as his captor’s face shifted out of the shadows.

“Don’t yell,” said the Shadebinder. “You’ll startle the horses.”

David croaked something, but the words jammed in his throat as his spit dried. The Shadebinder had been waiting for him. Somehow, he’d known David was coming. His legs wobbled under him and he sagged against the burly arms. He nearly fell as the Shadebinder released him, spun him around, and grabbed his shoulder in an iron hand. The stick fell from David’s nerveless fingers. The Shadebinder caught it, twirling it lightly.

They stared at each other. The man’s eyes pulled at him, demanding something

of him. David’s heartbeat pounded, skipped a beat, and thumped more slowly.

The Shadebinder nodded slowly, and David understood. If he yelled, he’d wake

the grooms too, as well as the horses. The Shadebinder knew it and didn’t

care. He didn’t intend immediate violence.

David drew breath more easily. At worst, the man would turn him over to the Stable Master for punishment, in which case, David would go hungry tomorrow and sling dung by the cartful. Of course, the Shadebinder might have a score to settle, but David could deal with that another day.

His fear faded, and he slid a glance to the loft where his accomplices waited for his tap. Damn it, now what? He’d gotten here, but they’d never believe him. They’d rag him for days. He had to give the signal.

“Why the stick?” The Shadebinder shook him by the shoulder. “Scare a horse or two? That’s a despicable game.”

David bristled. “No. It was a dare, that’s all. To get to this stall.”

“Why?”

No one could read the Shadebinder’s face. The Shadebinder rejoiced in tragedy, and glowered at celebrations. In years past he’d avoided the castle, as a hawk avoided civilization in favor of fields overflowing with rabbits. Now, he soared in daily, hovering over people, and the human rabbits shrank under his gaze. Did hawks think? Did they plan? Did they care what their prey thought of them?

The Shadebinder raised an eyebrow. David cleared his throat. “Um. No reason.”

“Because of me?”

“No. Well, partly,” he added. “I guess.”

“You’re welcome at my home any time,” the man said, his words crackling like thunder in distant clouds. “But confine your stable visits to daylight.”

David eased backwards. “Sure.”

“Look at me.” The Shadebinder grabbed his chin and forced his head up. “Answer me truly. Were you planning to hurt anyone or anything?”

“No.”

The Shadebinder dropped his hand. “Ah. Go, then.”

David paused in mid-step and scowled. “You believe me?”

“It’s the truth. Go.”

“Umm.” David toed the straw at his feet, and glanced at the ceiling. The apprentices would hear the voices, but that just proved he’d been caught. Which was the greater danger, really? The Shadebinder, or the loss of his reputation? Should he run? Or grab the stick, rap the pillar and then run?

“What’s the trouble? This dare of yours?” Amusement threaded between the words.

“I’m supposed to rap three times on that beam,” David said in a rush.

“Hmm.” The Shadebinder raised the stick and rapped, one, two, three.

David heard a muffled yelp in the loft overhead. He let out his breath, flashing the Shadebinder a grin. “Thanks. Bye.”

He slipped out the stable door, shoved it closed, and ran for the corner where his friends stood. A scream cut off in mid-breath, as the boys scrambled out of the shadows, bent over strangely as they scattered in all directions. David slowed to a halt, glaring after them. Now who were the cowards? Not the High Captain’s son, that was for sure. He’d braved the Shadebinder’s lair and escaped. David snorted, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and sauntered slowly to the barracks.

Back in the stable, the Shadebinder growled softly to the shadows. “Did you have to scare them to death? I’d almost convinced him…That’s nonsense. They didn’t wake you up. You don’t sleep. Just cooperate for once in your afterlife. A boy runs in on a dare, and you smite all his conspirators so they vomit their guts out. He believed me, damn it. And the others would have believed him. Now all the stories will roil up again.”

The Being radiated his anger in stiff-legged silence. A groom stirred in the straw, turned over, and slept. The Shadebinder stroked his horse’s flank, his gentle hands a mute contrast to the rage evident in his bunched shoulders. He turned his back on the Being in the corner, analyzing this episode and its effect on his plans.

~*~

Gods, he could swim in his own drool.

The Being crept closer, his mouth watering, his eyes riveted on the intruder. She couldn’t hear him, naturally. Mortals were deaf. Blind, too, even with the full moon glaring overhead. He swallowed his slavor and planted his feet more firmly as he studied the creature. Curiosity flickered, grudgingly.

Why the hell was a peasant girl ransacking the King’s garden? Coarse gray woolen stuff shrouded her to the teeth, hiding her in the darkness. Weren’t there guards or something, to protect the King’s property?

He shifted stance, silently stamping a forefoot. To hell with mortals. He only had to turn around and cough twice, to find another castle or a city reducing the countryside to a rubble heap. Humans, for the gods’ sakes. An entire generation of the critters could vanish into memory during the slightest flick of his beard. Oh, granted, they were amusing. Occasionally, their frantic little lives entangled him, but even the most entrancing entertainment rarely lasted for long. The moment he got attached to one, it went and died on him. An odd coincidence, really. Doubtless, this latest young man, sulking in the stables, would do the same.

He hadn’t meant to get involved. It was the Demon’s own luck that he’d been sucked in by his euphoric memories, drawn by that one, undeniable, unscratchable itch. In one single sphere of knowledge, only one, humans mastered the universe: Food.

Deft human fingers toyed with roasts, herbs, and heavenly aromas, tempting the Beings from their lofty pinnacles. Oh, if the Others could see him now, wistful and greedy, lurking just outside the King’s garden, like a common thief. Wouldn’t they sneer! Was he a sniveling brat or a true Being?

Oh, but buttery cheeses melting on the tongue, delectable sweets delighting the eye, and tender roasts trapping his nose with their warm succulence. Oh, for those he’d suffer the occasional company of hobgoblins, if need be. He’d sacrifice a little dignity for the sake of the vast rewards awaiting the true gourmet. And so he’d graced the King’s garden with his presence, only to discover a thief in the night, poaching on his territory.

He glowered up at the castle wall. The feckless guards should be scaring off vagabonds instead of swaggering along the perimeter wall, hunting out places to raise a leg and piss. Meanwhile that girl, that dastardly girl, stole the King’s green beans. More importantly, his green beans. Kings were here today, gone tomorrow, but Beings were forever.

By the Hills, she had quick hands. She skittered through the garden like a starving doe. What a greedy little thing! Just look at all that stuff she squirreled away in those great apron pockets.

She pulled something from a leather pouch at her belt. Moonlight glinted on the blade of her belt knife. She dropped an object into a newly dug hole, shoving the dirt over it with one bare toe. As she rose, she nipped off a firm red tomato and bit into it with avid pleasure, half-closing her eyes to savor the taste.

“Don’t they feed you?” he rumbled to her unhearing ears. Unwillingly, he studied the bones on her wrists and the hollows under her eyes. Her bony face looked like underground crystal, pale, rigid, and sharp-edged. He bit off a tomato and ate it. Her delight struck him as a trifle extreme.

From overhead, hobnailed boots struck the walkway on the stone wall. The girl shrank into a grape arbor’s shadow. The guard strolled along, glancing away towards the city. Apparently, his priorities did not include the King’s garden. He vanished around the curve and his footsteps faded into the distance.

The girl eased out of the shadows. She slid an item from her pouch, blew on it, buried it with quick, neat movements, and slipped down the row. The Being flicked in behind her, whuffling at the freshly turned earth. He prodded the dirt heap.

“What are they?” he said. “What are you doing?” Why couldn’t he break himself of expecting the deaf to answer? She’d dashed into the orchard already, where she held something high in the air, and tucked it onto a fork in the tree limbs.

He flicked in behind her, rose onto his hind legs and balanced against the tree trunk, sniffing. Frustrated, he snorted. “Hurruff!” He stamped his forehoof against the tree, irritated as it slipped through the bark and into the wood. He yanked it free, leaving the bark unmarred beneath it.

“Girl,” he snapped. “Answer me. What is that thing?” To his astonishment she paused, resting a hand on the nearest tree. Her eyes passed over, through, and beyond him. With a small shrug, she swung up onto a branch.

Girls in trees? Times had changed. He dug into his capricious memory, extracting the King’s name from half-remembered tavern talk. Gerritt. King Gerritt and Queen Ailsa of Ramsvalt, with twin sons and a daughter or two. He’d seen the boys once, at the Emperor’s court, unless he had the wrong century. They were fostering there, over the sea, with the Emperor Theo-somebody-or-other. Emperor Whosit, and his wife, Empress Whats-her-name. Huh. Such impressive names for creatures that died in a few decades.

In fact, he’d wandered this way partly because the name attracted him. Ramsvalt. It sang to him. At least it acknowledged its debt to a Being, even if it was the wrong one. So here he arrived, after meandering for a few months. Or was it years? No matter. Time was for mortals.

Plums. She found plums. If only he could fly, and just hop to the treetop, and cram them all down. Oh, to eat a ripe plum, the juices sweet, dripping down his beard. They were nothing like those disgusting windfalls, so sour to the lip and sickeningly overripe. Gods, it’s so unfair. He groaned. All those plums out of reach. Why can’t I fly? I demand to fly.

“Girl! Girl, you up there. Give me those.”

The girl’s darting hands faltered with three plums in one hand and two in the other. A black braid fell free of the hood, dangling over one shoulder.

“That’s right, I’m talking to you. Make yourself useful, and drop me a plum. Better yet, drop them all.”

She blinked, her dark eyes glittering in the nighttime, like deep caverns trapping the firelight.

“Are you deaf?” Of course she was. They all were. He could burst from the frustration. He dropped to all fours and slammed a forehoof against the ground. Slowly, deliberately, he enunciated the words, “Drop … me … a … plum. Now!”

A ripe plum plopped to the ground. Greed swamped his astonishment. He leaped on it, slurping it into his mouth with a long tongue. “Nectar of the Gods. Another one!” She lay against the branch, unmoving. His temper flared. “Another one. Throw it to me!”

She dropped to the ground, picked up the plum he’d just eaten and held it out to him, perfect and whole.

“I can’t eat that one again. There’s no flavor left,” he said impatiently. “Give me another.” Thank the gods for his self-control, or he’d just gobble them out of her pocket. However, as she’d been polite, he’d be polite as well. In his own way, of course. “A plum, girl.”

She held out a second plum, jerking her hand back as he snatched it. The plum hit the ground with a heavy, juicy thud and fresh sweetness perfumed the air. He lunged at it. She raised the first plum to her lips and bit into it. A puzzled look crossed her face briefly, leaving behind it the calm, glassy look of a pond after the ripples have ceased. She sat on the ground, poured the plums from her pocket onto the grass. He tore through the lot, moaning with pleasure. As he finished each one, she set it aside, eating several herself, storing the pits in a small leather bag.

“They taste all right to you?” he said, in mid-munch.

“They’re fine,” she said.

“Aha. So you can talk after all.” He threw back his head, shook it wildly, and broke into a gallop through the garden. “Hurruff. Damned good fruit, girl, great stuff.” He skidded to a stop, the turf remaining undisturbed behind him. “Do you have a name, girl?”

“Riss.”

“Caprio, caprine apparition.” He shook his head again, his beard spiraling beneath him.

“Caprine apparition. Why would a goat be a ghost?”

“I am not a ghost. Or a shade, or a spirit. Or even a goat, come to that.”

“You look like a goat.”

“Correction,” he said sternly. “Goats look like me. I am a Being. Ghosts, shades, and spirits were all mortals who died. Beings aren’t mortal. We simply exist. We’re gods, really.” He nosed at the fruit pile, his tail wriggling furiously as he tried to find one he hadn’t eaten before. “Any more of these luscious things?”

“If I take more, they’ll notice. If they set a guard, I’m out of luck. Have a tomato instead.”

“I’ve three more stomachs for tomatoes, peas, and beans. Fruit’s harder to obtain,” he said, gazing at the fruit dangling far overhead. A small flash of movement arrested his gaze. A bat swirled around a tree and swooped after a firefly. “I’ve never seen one so brave around humankind before.” Caprio jerked his head towards her. “You should be screaming, girl. First me, then a bat. Don’t you have any normal reactions?”

“I knew it would come. I called it.”

“Ha. Is that what you hid in the tree? Some kind of charm? And those other things you’ve been hiding everywhere?”

“Yes. They summon ladybugs, praying mantises, and bats, or chase off gophers and moles. Just little magic things. Nothing big.”

“Well cut my horns and call me a carrot. You’re a charm maker?”

“Oh no, no, no. The cook gave them to me. I work in the kitchen.” She fumbled the remaining fruit into a pile and scrambled to her feet.

“So the cook gave you charms to put out in the dead of night.” He snorted skeptically. “Uh huh, right.”

“I have to put them out at night. Magic is, I mean, I could lose my job if they find out.” Riss poised to flee, like a mouse trying to fool an owl with stillness.

“Hurruff. You’re in no danger from me, girl. Sit down.” He pawed the ground. “All right, don’t sit down. See if I care. Come on, run with me.”

“Run?”

“Run, run, run. Race me to that tree.” Caprio bolted. After a moment, Riss lifted her skirts and trotted after him. Caprio tore around the target tree twice, waiting for her to catch up. “Slowpoke! What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” She breathed heavily, clinging to the tree trunk as she staggered. “I’m not used to running.”

“You need to eat more.” Damn it, what did he care if she ate enough or not? It wasn’t his business. “Why can’t you smile? Snort, scowl, grimace, and laugh. Show you’re alive, why don’t you? I’m more alive than you are, and I was never born. Here, now, don’t run off, girl, I don’t mean anything by it. Get back here. That’s better. Sorry I offended you,” he added gruffly.

She measured him with a glance, from four dancing hooves, to shaggy gray hair and beard, his floppy ears flicking constantly. “You really are a –an apparition? I mean, you’re not alive? People don’t see you?”

“Fools can’t see me. In my experience,” he said, thrusting out his nose, “most people are fools. I never make friends with fools. With non-fools, occasionally.” He cocked his head at her.

“A friend,” she said, testing the words for hidden spikes.

She was just like a rabbit, invited into a wolf’s den for company’s sake. Suspicious creature. “Or not,” he added carelessly. “I don’t suppose I’ll stay long. The world’s too wide to be stuck in such a damp bit for long.”

Her mouth quirked.

“Humph. Call that a smile? Looks like you painted it on. Never mind, girl. Some of us can smile, and some can’t. One last race? I’ve places to go and stomachs to fill. Just to the wall, let’s say. Keep up this time, can’t you?”

Caprio dashed for the wall. Riss ran after him, one hand outstretched as if to catch his tail. Caprio hit the wall, his white tail lingering for a split second as his transparent figure faded through the stones. Riss caught herself against the castle wall, grazing the palm of her hand. She leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.

The garden’s stillness soothed her soul. A second bat flitted in crazy loops around the first, hunting insects. The other charms would toil away secretly, hidden in the greenery and dirt. The garden had produced a bumper crop this year, despite the gardeners’ disinterest. Royal gardeners loved ornamentals, wondrous flowery displays, or geometric greenery plantings for the visiting nobles. The farmers took huffy pride in grain fields, snarls of squashes and tubers, and their beast herds, providing wool, milk, and meat. Fruits and vegetables were an afterthought, a rich man’s whim.

Bonnara, the royal cook, had the garden planted yearly so she had additions for stews and some savories for the table, but beyond that, no one bothered much. Except Riss, of course, who snuck in at night, planting seeds garnered from previous years, weeding, thinning, selecting, and eating, her stolen garden protected by castle walls and the King’s unwitting connivance.

A revolting surge of nausea swept through Riss’ stomach, erupting to the front. Caprio danced under her nose, beating the air with his front hooves.

“Ha! Gotcha, girl. Scared you, didn’t I? Admit it!”

Riss gasped, her hands clutching her stomach. The cold vanished, replaced by unaccustomed warmth, spreading through her body and mind.

“Now, that,” said Caprio, triumphantly, “that’s what I call a smile.”