Gilded Shadows

Gilded Shadows

Stephanie J. Cress

Copyright © 2015

All rights reserved

Distributed by Smashwords

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author/publisher.

Line/Content Editor: Tracy McDonald & Denice Whitmore

Cover: Debi DeSantos & Richard Draude

Interior Design: Jo A. Wilkins

Author Photo Shot:Ryan Abella

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

ISBN: 978-1-934051-90-0/Paperback

ISBN: 978-1-934051-95-5/E-Pub

1. Fiction / Fantasy / General

2. Fiction / Fantasy / Epic

3. Fiction / Action & Adventure

NewLink Publishing

www.newlinkpublishing.com

Published and printed in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is for the strong women who have held me up over the years:

To Jennifer Smart & Carol Ferguson, my lifelong friends who have seen me through more than I can recall.

To Sandra Bell Kirchman, the first person in the business to give my writing a chance.

To Joni McGaughey & Grace Ware, who gave me a home away from home when I needed it most.

To Deborah Laurent: teacher, inspiration, long-lost sister.

But most of all, to my mother, Marti, who gave me the eyes to see a thousand other worlds, especially my own.

I love you all. This is for you.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

A piercing scream shattered Sarret's sleep. Groaning, he pulled a blanket over his head, twin daggers twisting behind his eyes. He didn’t mean to drink so much last night but the party was in his honor. How could he say no?

The screaming stopped, only to be replaced by the pound of feet racing up the stairs toward his room. Sarret recognized the shriek of their newest maid, the one who was a trial to train. Last time she screamed at a harmless spider in her path. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. What is it this time?

Frantic pounding on his door jarred Sarret from his thoughts. Master Sarret! Master Sarret! the elderly voice said.

One of father's valets? Sarret frowned struggling to recall the man’s name.

Master Sarret, are you all right? The door handle jiggled.

Sarret sat up tensing his body. He’s coming in whether invited or not.

I—I’m fine. He squinted against the bright light from the hallway spearing into the darkened bedroom. What is it?

Master Sarret. The fuzzy outline in the doorway breathed out a huge sigh. There's been a…a situation, sir. Please, come with me.

Shadows darted past the lighted crack in the door. A low babble of voices grew in the hallway. The old man—Lorrik, still stood in the doorway, shifting his feet, repeating his whisper of he's all right to people outside.

Sarrett’s brain caught up to him. Lorrik, what's happened?

It's your father, sir.

Father?

Sarret’s father retired early last night, pleading exhaustion. He winked at Sarret on his way out, though. Late hours are for the young, the old man said once, A time to have fun whilst strengthening connections. Remember your friends, his old man often said. And make sure they remember you.

Sarret’s headache faded as urgency quickened his heartbeat. With fumbling fingers, he straightened the rumpled clothing he had slept in. Is he ill?

No. There’s been…there’s been an assassin, sir.

What? Sarret ran both hands through his hair. Had he heard that right? Assassin? You caught an assassin? It explained the excited voices, but what about the screaming? Any assassin who could get past all the traps, guards, and other precautions his paranoid father put in place would have to be an expert.

No, we didn’t catch him, sir. Lorrik slipped back outside the doorway. The elderly man hobbled toward a babbling knot of people down the hallway.

Ice in the pit of his stomach spread its frigid fingers into his chest as Sarret scrambled after him. At his approach, the crowd parted. The authorities are on their way, Master Sarret, someone whispered.

Though the bedroom windows were open, lit candles flickered on every available surface banishing all shadow. The room appeared a washed-out, garish version of itself. Pale beige floors and walls scarred the off-white of the furnishings. The gray of the man lying dead on the floor accented the scene. In fact, the only color in the entire room, in the entire world it seemed, pooled in a round crimson stain on his ruffled white shirt.

He hated that shirt anyway, Sarret said, mumbling.

What was that, sir?

For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes to gather strength. If you appear confident, the world will follow. So his father had always advised. I never expected to use it like this. Sarret turned away from the body—the brief encounter burning its image into his brain. Even in his state of shock, his politician's mind assessed the crowd. They milled around, uncertain—near panic, and more crowded in. One didn't realize how many people lived in this house until they all gathered. They needed direction.

I want every able-bodied man searching the grounds. Sarret’s voice grew in volume as he spoke. The babbling voices tapered off and the weight of their gazes fell on his shoulders. No, we're not going to find the miscreant, but there might be some sign of him, some sort of clue. Maybe we can still catch him.

The men turned to leave, grateful for a task.

I want the women to provide ample food and drink for the searchers, he said, noting how the female staff fidgeted. They, too, hurried off. Sarret suspected the men would have a spread to rival last night’s party when they returned.

Watching them all rush away, Sarret found that he, himself, couldn’t move. He provided their direction but what happened to his own? How could he remain in control without Father? He shook his head. The day after his twentieth birthday, the first day he could legally act in his father's place. And he had been spared. What did it mean? Appearances. If he tried hard enough to appear confident, perhaps he may even fool himself.

Master Sarret?

He turned to find Lorrik rushing back to him but the valet only stopped before him, wringing his hands.

Is there something else?

I…there's someone here to… He glanced back over his shoulder at the doorway. There's a courier, sir.

His brow wrinkled in confusion. Something else was going on. Couriers came to the house all the time and no one ever made this kind of fuss. What is it now?

The old man took a shaking breath. He's insisting on seeing your father, sir. I didn't know what to…

Sarret’s vision blurred and he reached out one hand to grasp the old valet’s shoulder. It's all right, Lorrik. The elderly valet's distress upset Sarret more than his father's death. In fact, he still didn't seem to be feeling much. A distant part of him knew it was the shock of the recent discovery but he didn’t dwell on that. I'll go and talk to him. With a deep breath, he released Lorrik and made his way to the front door.

A young man dressed in a lightweight linen tunic sprawled on a shady corner of the stone bench outside the manor's front door.

Sarret couldn't blame him. Even this early in the morning, the late summer's thickening humidity formed beads of sweat on his forehead as well. He stepped into the sunlight and cleared his throat.

The courier jumped to his feet, words dying on his lips when he recognized Sarret.

You have a message for me? Sarret’s voice cracked. His situation sank in and he clenched his jaw. If he broke down now, the rumors flying through his home would only worsen. Not now, not where everyone can see me. What would Father think?

I… The young man craned his neck, peering over Sarret's shoulder to the door. This was for Lord Cordalis only, Sir. He shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes resting on Sarret again.

That would be me. He fought to keep his voice even. My father was assassinated last night. This message may be the best clue we now have. He held out one hand, the other remained clenched at his side. Can I have it please?

The trembling fingers of the courier handed him a folded parchment sealed with pale yellow wax. Shall I wait here in case they need a reply? he asked, stepping back.

Sarret cracked open the parchment and read the two lines printed there. We need to talk. Meet me at our usual place on the Row after tomorrow’s Farewell. S

They don’t need a response. He mumbled in a faraway voice.

Master Sarret? the valet’s voice said from behind him.

A scuttle of feet brought his attention to the courier trotting off toward the street, his duty dispatched and a story to tell. Sarret opened his mouth to ask him who had sent him, closing it again a moment later. It would have been no use. A lack of knowledge was in a courier’s job description. Yes, Lorrik?

The authorities are here, sir. They need to speak with you.

Won’t that be fun, he said under his breath. I’m coming. After that I want to go to the usual place on the Row. Wherever that is…

Chapter Two

A brief tap on the paneled pine door warned Calron before it slid open without a sound. In his seat behind the worn desk he set aside the scroll he read, folding pale hands across the paunch of his stomach.

Flickering candlelight reflected in the hazel eyes of his visitor. The man’s coal black hair, which he wore cut short in the current style, soaked up the light from the flame. I have a problem, the man said without preamble. Shadows jumped across the bare, stone walls. He closed the door locking it behind him. The thin line of a smile graced his lips as he glanced at the closed window and drawn curtains. He wasted no time. Leaning forward, his long, tanned hands splayed on the light wood, his delicate, pointed ears stood out in sharp relief.

The ancient wooden chair creaked under Calron’s shifting weight. The Sunfolk man's mournful tone could move a stone to tears. Even Calron, accustomed as he was to dealing with the Sunfolk, could not completely control his impulse to help the man, though he had learned how to curb this bizarre altruistic tendency into making a few coins. What is it?

I need to request Gilwin’s services.

So soon? But he just finished—

I know another used him recently. His clipped words froze the air around them. And I know of his eccentricities, of his preference to rest between jobs but this one cannot wait. The man has this annoying habit of following the targets around. That waste of time must be taken into account.

Calron frowned. I have others I can use.

No. This one is…important. Those others, those thugs that you refer to, will not do. Only a man of Gilwin's caliber can be trusted. Offer him whatever it takes. The Sunfolk man's head bowed, his last words forced out between clenched teeth. His thin figure went rigid. His dark hands and locked elbows seemed the only thing holding him upright. He remained unmoving, chin to his chest, for several long moments before straightening again.

Are you… Calron said but thought better of it. Blowing out a pent-up breath, he dared to ask. They’re getting worse, aren’t they?

The Sunfolk man glared at him through narrowed eyes. This job is of utmost importance. Our way of life depends on it.

Whose way of life, yours or everyone's? Calron cocked his head to one side. Is this that…one…you spoke of last week? The one you couldn't find?

No. A muscle twitched in his jaw but otherwise the Sunfolk man’s expression remained unchanged. "I’ll take care of her myself."

Dela quickened her steps on the clean, narrow stone road. The hood of her fine embroidered cloak billowed from her head. One hand clutched it beneath her chin as she searched the street. She had never been followed, much less attacked in this section of the city. However, the approach of the darkening night sky left a sense of paranoia crawling beneath her skin.

The sharp scent of rosemary from a nearby spice shop welcomed her around the last corner toward home. The aroma also reminded her she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Her stomach fluttered too much anyway. She didn’t intend to stay out so long, but the conversation nurtured her interests. It held more information than any conversation she had ever known! It worried her, in its way. But change comes with the scientific aspect. She would examine the religious ramifications later.

What mattered most right now—one of the Mixed Folk conceived! True, the woman lost the child after her fourth month of pregnancy, but the news itself was unheard of. The couple with whom she spent the afternoon offered to let her stay the night at their humble apartment, but she declined the offer. Things needed attention at home.

She whisked past the neighbor's jewelry store and around the corner to her mother's seamstress shop. Opening the side entrance, she slipped inside and locked the door behind her. Dela hiked her skirts up, taking the stairs two at a time to the top. I must write down my findings while they’re still fresh. What she uncovered endangered everyone. She couldn’t tell anyone about it yet, only her journal.

Unhooking her cloak, she stepped through the door at the top of the stairs and hung it on the peg to the right of the entrance. Long, white-blond hair, cut and styled to hide her pointed ears, spilled down the middle of her back. Heat rushed to her face. She stopped on the threshold of the old, comfortable apartment she shared with her mother.

Her mother, Liri, looked up from where she sat in her chair beside the fireplace and smiled. Carefully, she laid her embroidery on the hearth and gestured to her daughter.

Dela bit the inside of her cheek as Liri’s silent-voiced gestures dredged up memories of why she spoke that way. A mix of horror and pity always filled Dela when she recalled the image of her mother’s tongue, cut out by the cruel Stonefolk in a raid years ago. Nonetheless, her method of communication fascinated Dela, who had picked up the language within months of their reunion. She smiled back.

Liri signed, Her small, long-fingered hands turning speech into a graceful dance.

Yes. Dela grinned wider. She crossed the room and knelt on the thick woven rug before her mother’s chair. Leary’s deep sable eyes gazed down into her own as she continued. There are still others I need to speak to. I need to verify further—find as much solid proof as possible before going public. I have to be able to prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Perhaps. She shifted to a cross-legged position on the floor. There are two more possibilities to whom I can speak, both in Duskhaven.

Concern in Liri's eyes dropped Dela’s gaze to her own lap. She always tried to avoid discussing the xenophobic, half-breed town with her mother. Though the pregnancy was against her will, it had been a difficult choice for Liri to give her child over to the growing community almost twenty-three years ago. Believing they were unable to bear children, most Mixed Folk welcomed children of their own race with open arms. Dela's childhood there, while peaceful and sheltered, still etched guilt in Liri’s features. The woman seated before her would never forgive herself, despite her daughter’s efforts to ease her conscience.

A light touch on her shoulder lifted Dela’s chin. Startled out of her reverie, she looked at Liri.

Liri signed.

Yes, I suppose I should go. I'll plan a journey for tomorrow at dusk. I'll take any who need to go and stay long enough to speak with the other two candidates. She hesitated. I do worry about you being here alone. I may need to stay for a day or two.

Liri shook her graying head and patted her daughter on the shoulder.

I know. Dela leaned forward to lay her cheek on her mother's knee. But I can't help it. You know that. Staring down into her lap, she said, I wonder why no one ever spoke of the pregnancies before.

Liri tapped her shoulder and Dela looked up again.

Yes, you're right. Dela sighed. If the pregnancies didn’t reach term, then the prospective parents would look like liars. They might be thrown out of the city or taken by the government. It's not as if the Old Dominion officials know what I’ve discovered. She thought for a moment. Or maybe they know more than I think. Mixed Folk trying to conceive isn't a new idea. Maybe it's just been kept quiet.

Tomorrow night, Dela agreed.

The sinking sun pierced Sarret’s closed eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and rubbed at his temples with his fingertips.

The guardsman’s questions swirled in Sarret’s head. How did he know it was an assassin? Why had he jumped to that conclusion? A trusted staff member, one with a grudge, was a much more likely culprit.

It made sense to Sarret, of course. Why did the staff think of an assassin first? Because no one wants to believe someone they know could be guilty of such an atrocity. Plus, the wound itself was…precise. He shuddered. No, this had to be the work of a professional.

When was the last time you saw your father alive? The middle-aged man, dressed in his beige uniform, raised an eyebrow.

Sarret turned from the window, forcing himself to meet the guardsman’s eyes. When he retired—early in the evening.

And you claim you were up until past midnight, after the last of your guests departed, and then went directly to your own bed?

Yes.

Is there anyone who can confirm this?

I don't like where this is going. Sarret's eyes narrowed. I slept alone, if that's what you mean.

Anyone, Master Cordalis. Your staff? Surely someone turned down your bed? Helped you stumble to it, perhaps?

Lorrik, my fa - my valet, did. Sergeant Kryn, are you implying what I think you're implying?

The guardsman sighed. Master Cordalis, I was ordered to consider every possibility. By all accounts, from what I know of you, I would not believe you capable of killing your own father. All of your staff say the same of you but the suspicion is there. Staff lie, they like their jobs. Besides, much stranger things have happened than a son killing his father for an inheritance.

An assassin killed my father, Sergeant. I believe your time would be much better spent finding out who sent him. His throat tightened as the last words left his mouth. Gods, he’s really not coming back.

Do you have any idea who would want to do this? Anything at all?

No. I mean, he had rivals of course but no one who… Sarret forced himself to exhale slowly, no one who would…I mean, I didn’t think he had those kinds of enemies. He was just so…likable. Every…everyone said so. Clenching his fists at his sides, he forced the tears back. Later. Not here, not now.

Kryn nodded. Believe me, you’re the first person we’re speaking to. Honestly? I wanted to be able to rule you out in good conscience. Your father was a good man and people speak well of you, too. We want nothing more than to bring the killer to justice.

As do I. Sarret turned to stare back out the window. The folded parchment in his pocket jabbed at him. He wouldn’t mentioned the message to his interrogator, something in him, some instinct, warned him to keep it quiet. The farewell, the farewell…whose farewell? He turned the message over in his head dozens of times throughout the day. The Row probably means Merchant’s Row, not a far walk from here, but… A faint chime sounded in the distance and Sarret straightened, his eyes wide. Of course! Not whose farewell…the Sun’s Farewell, as in the Sunfolks’ religious rites at… He watched the sun wink out behind the wall outside. Their rites at sunset…

When a shadow at the doorway caught the corner of his eye, Sarret whipped his head around. For the barest second, he expected to see his father there. He caught himself doing this all day. His heart plummeted into his feet every time the realization struck anew. None of this seemed real.

The shadow was only Lorrik. Will you be taking your dinner soon, Master Sarret?

Food? Gentle but insistent, the staff, Lorrik in particular, kept trying to feed him as if nourishment would be some kind of cure. Sarret refused it all. He couldn’t eat. His stomach roiled every moment of the day. He doubted he could keep anything down, except the constant stream of hot tea he had forced past his lips since they found the body.

Later, Lorrik. Right now, I need to take a walk. He looked back to the uniformed man. Are we finished? Please, I have so much to do. He hated himself for the pleading in his voice, for taking such advantage of the situation, but the sun just set, he needed to get moving if he wanted to get to the Merchant’s Row in