Shadow's Daughter Read online

  Shadow's Daughter

  Fifth Millennium

  Book I

  Shirley Meier

  CONTENT

  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

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  It was spring in F'talezon, and the Blutrosh, the Blood-roses, bloomed. The hand-sized blossoms nodded in the breeze over the head of a four-year-old child sitting on the white stone steps in the sunshine, pulling her tunic over her knees. The house was set into the ground, with only the windows, the door and the roof showing, like most of the other old houses in the Middle Quarter of the city. Her mother called the flowers her sisters because the newly planted bushes had first bloomed on the child's birthday.

  Megan Lixandashkya sat with her arms clasped around her knees, knowing she wasn't supposed to pull her tunic so far. She scrunched her knees up high; it wouldn't stretch so much that way. Her father had woven it new. Down the street one of the drover's husbands laughed with the roheji seller as he bought some of her pastries hot out of the oil.

  Around the corner she could hear the Old Brewery Gate rumbling open onto Brewer's Street; the horses snorting and stamping, harness jingling as they hauled the barrels out. She didn't like horses much, though she didn't mind their smell mixed with the bread-rising smell of the beer.

  Downstairs, inside, she could hear her mother singing, her hands flying over the lace-frame like the Veysneya, the Silverwings, in Koru's Temple. They flew in the light of the rose window, and the painted faces of the Goddess, hundreds of years old, gazed down from the smooth-polished rock walls. The Ladyshrine down the street in the park was a tiny shrine compared to the temple, but Megan liked the statue of Koru there much better. Her father would take her there sometimes, holding her hand because she was too little to walk alone and might be lost, or stolen by those whose market was children.

  Lixand Mikhailovych, called Weaver, whistled as he opened the yard gate with one hand, balancing a sack of 'maranth flour on one shoulder. He was average height for a Zak, four and a half feet tall, with dark brown hair, and green eyes set in a lightly tanned round face that smiled more easily than it frowned. "Ness! Megan! I'm home…" He laughed and caught Megan's hand when she ran and hugged his legs. "Come on, bylashka, little princess, help me put this in the cupboard and come for a walk with me."

  Megan would stretch her legs and trot to keep up to her papa whenever they went on these walks, while he told her stories. Mama always said that if he weren't a Gospozhyn, a Great Master in the Weaver's Guild, he'd be a storyteller. Megan always liked listening, though she didn't always understand.

  They walked past the lawyer's house, with its red brick and worn black gargoyles. It leaned and always looked like it wanted to fall on their house, but never did; past the baker's house, that smelled so good, past the drovers' houses and the empty space that had nothing in it but broken, burned stones and grass taller than Megan; past the brewers' houses and the nigh grey wall of the Sysbaet School.

  They were good teachers as well as healers, almost as good as Haians, and she might be able to go to the school and learn to read. Megan wanted to learn, but her parents said that it cost a lot of Dragonclaws and they didn't have time to teach her more, though they tried. She knew her letters already because Papa said that it was a good thing to know. He knew because his family had had enough money for schooling before the Great Fire took most of his family, and Ness had learned from her mother, Grandma-who-was-with-Koru. If you couldn't read, you couldn't be apprenticed in the Guild and would have to be a beggar or a thief.

  The cobblestones were old; worn by the tread of generations of people. Because the year had been dry so far the sewer in mid-street was cracking mud and didn't smell, which to Megan's mind was almost as nice as when the fall rains came and washed the mud and odor away. Her papa nodded hello to the neighbors who sat on their front steps or walked along Szyzka Lane.

  The bare trees' branches reminded Megan of old people's gap-teeth. The buds were just big enough to make small shadows to step in. She skipped from shadow to shadow, pretending the sunny spaces were the rat pits in the Va Zalstva, the Arena, where she mustn't step or she'd be devoured. Her papa got ahead of her a little and she gave up her game, running to catch up. Even this far down the street she could still hear the vats in the brewery groaning and sighing, like sleeping men snoring.

  "Megan, you mustn't let go my hand until you're bigger," Papa said and stroked her hair back out of her face. "Bylashka, my little shadow, in a crowd, anyone can get lost. I want you to be careful, even when you walk with me."

  "I will, Papa." She held tight to his hand and walked onto the dusty grass of the park as if she were grown up, instead of running ahead like she wanted to.

  The park was a small patch of grass with a few trees along the streets and the stream, and lilacs around the Shrine. Across the park the Sneykh tributary gurgled to itself, on its way down to Chas Lake. It was a shallow creek cascading from the Dark Lord's Temple in the northern cliff wall of the City. The Sneykh was usually dirty because the Dark Lord's priests sacrificed into the water. The other stream, the Byeliey, ran out of the Ladyshrine on the south cliff wall, and was carefully kept clean.

  "Tell me the best story again, please," Megan said. Papa sat down on one of the wood benches of the shrine and took her on his lap, and Megan hugged him looking over his shoulder at the white fountain with the statue of Koru. She's so beautiful, she thought.

  "Szyzka Lane," Papa began, "is a street with Middle Quarter ways of thinking, hanging on to the First Quarter's skirts with its fingernails so it doesn't slide any farther down the rift. It's the sort of street that, every morning, blinks its shutters, looks around, and wonders vaguely where its grandeur has disappeared to overnight. It's the sort of place where quiet people live quiet lives, away from the notice of the Prafetatla above and the thieves below. We have nothing that either of them wish to steal and when the riots come, we pull in our heads and wait until they're gone. We didn't always have riots, Megan-mi."

  "Tell me, Papa." She didn't understand it all, but she liked sitting on his lap, hugging him when he had time like this, on a rest-day at Hand'send. She loved feeling his big arms around her so she'd be safe and cozy.

  "The Zarizan, the Young DragonLord, Ranion, is the only Heir. His father the Dragon, the Woyvode, was harsh, ruthless, the very spirit of Prafetatla before he grew old and weak, but he cared what happened to us, here and in the other lands. The Kievir nearest the young Lord, Dark One notice him, cares for himself and his own zight, or pride, and nothing else. When the Old Dragon fell ill the first time, the Four-days War happened with the Thanes. No protection was offered us, no retaliation for people persecuted. That was when pogrom began along the Thanish border—"

  "Which is why Mama-came-to-the-city-you-met-and-fell-in-love-andhadme!" Megan finished in a rush, glad to get to the best part. Her papa laughed, all crinkly laugh-lines that she liked better than the frown ones, then he stood up and swung her around, off the bench high like a bird, before setting her down and taking her hand.

  "Yes, yes, little bylashka. We had you." Then he poked her cheek gently with one finger. "Nice to see a smile there, little solemn face!" They walked all the w
ay around the park, from the fountain past the path through to Svinina Street where the Guildhall was. Then Megan let go and ran and ran in big circles, arms wide, pretending she was a bird, flying high, always staying in sight and coming back to her papa.

  Someone had made a swing out of an old bell rope and a board, and her father pushed her so she swung high, laughing.

  Then he took her down and said, "We'd better go back or your mother will wonder what happened to us." He always said that before they left, every time. She pouted, then tickled him, and he put her on his shoulders to "keep you out of trouble" and carried her up the street that way, higher than the world.

  She was high enough to see the sun shining in the bits of broken glass set along the tops of the garden walls. People looked different enough from this angle that she felt shy about waving to them, but did anyway; it was neighborly.

  Everyone's yard was different within the stone and brick walls; plots of dirt for vegetables later in the year, grass, covered flowerbeds or stone and sand gardens. As Papa opened their wooden gate, they could hear voices inside the house. "Hello," Papa called, and stepped inside as Megan ducked her head under the lintel.

  The inside door was still open, along with the shutters around the top of the house. From the landing, ten steps led down into the house proper, where the stone floor was covered with bright carpets. Sitting cushions were scattered here and there. In the kitchen corner a red-tiled stove sat and a small brazier helped keep the floor warm. Across from the stairs, the wallbed was open to air out and the feather tick, pillows and blankets hung outside to get the winter's mustiness out of them. Near the stairs stood a wooden chest with Megan's bed tucked in behind it like a miniature wallbed. The sun shone in through the shutters, cutting the room in half slantwise from top corner to bottom opposite, bright and dim light, dust dancing in the breeze from the outside.

  "Lixand, Marte's come to visit." Mama's voice was cheerful as she called from her cushion by the table, but Megan could hear tears in it. Beside her, Megan's aunt Marte put down her kahfe cup with a click. Mama cries sometimes when Aunt comes, Megan thought. When Papa put her down and went to greet his sister, Megan hid in her bed.

  She crawled in under the feather tick and pillow, all her own. Her mama had traded at the Big Market for the feathers and sewed the patchwork cover with pieces of Papa's old green coat and bits of felt from her worn-out boots. The tick wasn't like her parents' that had a red cover all of a piece and two pillows each as big as Megan. Some mornings when Mama opened the carved doors of the bed, Megan would run across the cold floor and climb into the wallbed with them. She wasn't a baby any longer, needing her parents to keep her warm, and had a bed all her own, but she liked those mornings.

  It smelled wonderfully of cedar in the dark, but she poked her head out since it was getting too hot and her braids were coming undone. Then she moved to the top of her tick, hugging her stuffed bear Brunsc, listening to the adults' voices and the click of Ness's good cups. They sat on the cushions by the brazier, drinking kahfe, though Megan didn't understand why her mother would serve it; kahfe was only for special company.

  "Lixand, you have your position to consider," Aunt Marte said. "As next in line for the Guildmastership, you should at least live in a more prosperous neighborhood. Somewhere in the First Quarter, where you can associate with people of your own station, people of—quality." She always looked sideways at Mama when she said things like that.

  "We like it here," Lixand said quietly.

  Megan peeked over the edge of the trunk for a second before ducking down again. Like Lixand, Marte had dark brown hair and very fair skin that burned easily. Next to her husband, Ness was tiny with raven black hair and slanted eyes almost dark enough to be called black. Megan tended to favor her mother which, for some reason Megan couldn't understand, angered Marte. Aunt wrinkled her nose as if there were a foul odor in the room, and Megan pretended that Brunsc had teeth and could bite her.

  "Of course, I understand your tastes, brother," Marte said and smiled, but she kept looking at Ness. "Never quite refined enough."

  "Marta Mikhailashkya, my tastes are none of your business." Megan remembered one time when he'd almost hit her; she was kin so he restrained himself. He was starting to sound that angry again.

  "Oh, certainly. Ness, dear, the kahfe is lovely." Megan lay down again and started to play with Brunsc. He only had one ear left because she'd chewed the other one off when she was a little baby. Her mama said she was a big girl now. She lifted him up over her head, pretending she was old enough to have access to the manrauq, the power of mind that all adult Zak had, and could make him float without holding him in her hands. Her mother could do that, but it would tire her out.

  Megan didn't want to listen to Aunt Marte. She didn't understand how Aunt could make Mama sad and Papa angry all at the same time without raising her voice.

  "Megan," Papa called to her. She pushed Brunsc out to see if it was safe, and when the toy just lay there dribbling sawdust from a little hole under his arm, she looked around the corner of the trunk.

  "There's the child! Megan, come here," Aunt Marte said, and held out her thin hands, beckoning. Megan didn't move. "Willful, isn't she? Just like western stock."

  "Megan, come out and be polite." Papa's voice was like his flint and steel scraping to start a fire. "Your aunt is just leaving."

  Marte had a peevish, annoyed look, entirely unlike her younger brother. She was taller than he was and her hair was streaky with grey. Lixand's face was flushed and if Ness held her cup any tighter she was going to break it. Megan crawled out dragging Brunsc to protect her and Marte held out her hands again. Those hands never felt like what her voice said, usually holding too hard or pinching. Megan shook her head and stayed by her papa, hiding her eyes on his leg. She thought that her aunt smelled like the medicines she made. "Such a sweet little grig! Such a child, Ness! With her looks you'd think that both her parents were City Zak of the purest sort," Marte said. Ness looked away, silent. Megan wanted to spit on her aunt's feet, but wouldn't; she was kin.

  Lixand looked tired. "Marte," he said, "she looks like her mother and I am proud of my family." He took a deep breath and tried to be civil. "Tell me, have you made a connection with the Haian?"

  "No, but I've made some other good contacts, nonetheless. The Haian isn't likely to be here long, ever since the Woyvode started showing his disfavor towards them." She got up as she spoke, brushing her sleeves hard as if to slap the dust of the house off. "Good Blossoming to you."

  Lixand only said, "Shall I see you home? One can't be too careful in the City nowadays…"

  She laughed as she walked over to the stairs and her shadow, as she walked by, was cold. "Oh, no. I'm quite safe." She looked happy, which made Megan feel both small and scared. "No," she said again. "I don't have to worry. Especially with the new contract I have. Just think on my advice, little brother." He took her by one elbow and walked her up the steps as if to make sure that she left quickly. Ness was shivering. Megan stood a moment clutching her bear, then ran to hug Mama.

  "Your poor little cousin," her mama said, rocking her. "Poor Rilla."

  "Poor Rilla," Megan parroted. "Can she come't' stay again? She's a funny baby."

  "Maybe soon, Megan-mi. Your aunt says that she's too little to be away from her mother." Ness's face was closed as she repeated the words, and Megan could tell that her mother didn't feel them to be true. The door clicked upstairs and Papa came down, his feet making soft scuffing noises on the mat.

  "Ach, she's venomous today." He sighed, then kissed Ness. She shushed him and nodded down at Megan in her lap. That means I'm not supposed to hear that. Papa hugged them both. "Don't worry, love," he said to his wife. "She's been like that as long as I can remember, thinking I'm living below my status. She knows I don't play the cutthroat games for position and I won't let her pour poison in my ear. It's not as if I'm the only candidate for Head of Guild, and it's safer if I keep out of the way till the d
ust settles. There are rumors of murder; we'll be safer keeping our heads down."

  Ness was silent, holding onto her family.

  "I'm four. I'm four." Megan skipped and sang beside her mother, holding her hand as they went down to the school. Four was important because that was when school could start. It was important enough for Ness to take time off from her work at the Guildhall, though they could ill afford the loss of her work time. Megan would normally have been with her parents in the baby's hall at the Guild.

  Instead, she was being very careful not to wrinkle her good black tunic and Ness had spent a bit of time brushing Megan's hair, braiding it up neatly out of the way. She took one long stretching step and three little running ones to keep up with her mother, humming.

  They stopped before the Sysbaet's gate, and Megan craned her neck up at the phoenix carved in inlaid light and dark wood. Ness sighed and Megan looked to see what was the matter.

  "Someone's stolen the bellpull again," Ness explained. The bell was too high to reach, being metal and very precious.

  Megan's eyes filled with sudden tears. "If they don't hear us knock we won't get in and I won't start school and I'll be a beggar…" She bit her lip, trying not to cry.

  "Hush. They'll hear the bell." Ness took a deep breath and put one hand on the gate to steady herself, closing her eyes. The clapper of the bell started to swing to the Zak woman's thought. She wasn't strong enough to swine the whole bell, so she started it swinging then pushed at the right time. In a minute it rang, once, a tiny ring— then louder, a jangle. Ness was breathing a little hard. "There," she said. "They'll hear that."

  "Thank you, Mama." Megan knew her mama was good at magic, manrauq, even if she was only barely a red witch.

  The Sysbaet was older than the Weaver's house and dug further under the ground, perhaps the oldest place in the Middle Quarter. It was hard to dig so deep now with handtools. The old buildings had been dug out of the mountain with metal monsters before the Fire, when the sky burned. Some of the oldest tunnels were dangerous, full of the sickness that the Flames had burned away.