Spirits of Light and Shadow (The Gods of Talmor) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Note from the Author

  More by India Drummond

  Spirits of Light and Shadow

  by

  India Drummond

  Spirits of Light and Shadow

  Copyright © 2014, India Drummond

  http://www.indiadrummond.com

  Editing by Susan Helene Gottfried

  http://www.westofmars.com/

  First electronic publication: May 2014

  E-books are not transferable. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed a real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  After the success of the Caledonia Fae series, I was excited, but nervous, to branch out to something different. There were several people who have helped me develop this new world and make this first book in The Gods of Talmor series something I’m very proud of.

  My editor Susan Gottfried gave me help when and where I needed it most, even if that was just a friendly ear to listen in moments when I was feeling uncertain. Thank you so much, Susan. You’ve been a rock for me through all the many transitions I’ve made of late.

  To my beta readers: Marsha Moore, K.C. May, Dorian Marshall, and Mac Wheeler, thank you so much for your time and effort.

  I also want to thank Ailsa Abraham, who helped me understand magic so much better. Developing a new magic system for a fantasy world is a critical aspect, and her insight and advice aided me in bringing it all together.

  I owe a very special thank you to Matteo Michelloti. He cooked me meals when I was too focused to remember to eat, took me for walks when I had spent too long pounding away at the keyboard, and even typed for me when an injury nearly prevented me from making my editing deadline. Without his help and encouragement, I’m not sure how I would have completed this project.

  As always, I must thank my readers. You never fail to surprise and delight me with your kind words, your messages, letters, posts, tweets, and reviews. Writing can feel like a solitary and sometimes even a difficult job, and your faith and support constantly cheer me on. Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  “Sit.” Dul Tarsten looked old and tired. His rumpled, dusty clothes revealed that he hadn’t even taken the time to bathe after attending the public hearings for his province. He gestured to the chair opposite him.

  “Thank you.” Eliam sat. His frown tugged the scar slashing down his cheek and through his neat beard. He touched the insignia on his tunic, absently fingering the silver sparrow pin as he collected his thoughts. He didn’t know why he’d been summoned to meet with the senior legislator, but the message had been urgent and the wording cryptic.

  The older man opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, his scowl familiar to those who worked with him. He sat back in his chair, eyeing Eliam. “I wonder, young Dul, exactly where your loyalties lie.”

  “With the emperor, the senate, and the people of Talmor, of course,” Eliam said out of habit as much as genuine feeling.

  Tarsten ignored the political answer. The rifts in the senate were well-known and plentiful, even in Vol, this city that housed only eight of the empire’s legislative body. All proclaimed loyalty to the emperor, naturally, but the fractures were deep and the splinters sharp.

  “You grew up with the Ulbrich boy, didn’t you? Went to the same schools, the same parties, ate at the family table?”

  Eliam grew still. This was dangerous ground. His closest childhood friend, Korbin Ulbrich, was the son of Dul Graiphen Ulbrich, inarguably the most powerful man in Vol’s Council of Eight. Such a relationship might mean power and influence for Eliam, if only Korbin and his father were on speaking terms. “I knew him, yes.”

  “So careful,” Tarsten murmured.

  Did the old man blame Eliam for his caution? If Eliam confessed that he had contact with Korbin, the disgraced and disowned disappointment to the highest-ranked man in the city, would the revelation help or hurt his position? Dul Graiphen had seen fit to tell people his son had left to study elsewhere. Who could say whether he knew his statement wasn’t true and was guarding his family’s reputation? Eliam wouldn’t be the one to challenge him.

  As though reading Eliam’s thoughts, Tarsten chuckled. “I might be equally cautious in your position.” His smile never reached his eyes, and the laughter died in awkward silence. “I need your help.”

  “Of course.” What could a senior Dul such as Tarsten require from him, a junior legislator with little influence? And what did his need have to do with the Ulbrich family? If the request was regarding support for a political agenda, the call would have come through official channels, a scribe would be recording their meeting, and an imperial messenger would have brought the invitation, not one of the Talmor Riders. No matter the answers, he had little choice but to agree to whatever the old man asked of him. Unease prickled Eliam’s skin. “What do you wish from me?”

  Dul Tarsten stood and removed a half-empty canvas bag from a trunk on the opposite side of the room. As he returned to his seat, his face twisted with disgust. The bag landed on the table between them with a soft thud. “Look inside, but I wouldn’t touch.”

  Eliam reached for the sack. He glanced up at the Dul but found no reassurance in the older man’s expression. “What is this?”

  The senior Dul scowled again. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  Careful to open the bag only as far as necessary to peek inside, a sickening smell invaded Eliam’s senses. He grimaced at the strange collection of hair and bones, sticks and ripped fabric, burned remnants of leather and wax. After a cursory inspection, he folded the edges of the sack over, closing it. The scent lingered, causing a twist in his stomach. “I don’t understand what you think I might know. This looks and smells like something you’d find behind a foreign battlefield healing tent.”

  “Foreign, yes. Healing? I don’t think so. I’ve been in touch with members of several temples. They say these are objects used in Kilovian witchcraft.”

  Ah. Now the summons made sense. Parstelia, the province Eliam represented in the senate, almost exclusively contained the inner population of this great city. Vol housed a large Kilovian immigrant segment in the lower east quarter, where the people practiced their native religion. No one made too much of a fuss about
the fact that the community shunned the eight Spirits worshipped in Talmor, even though heresy was technically still a crime.

  The immigrants were mostly poor refugees, but they didn’t cause much trouble. Their hard-working nature allowed the citizenry to overlook their peculiarities. Still, in the seventeen months Eliam had represented the province, he’d spent most of his time dealing with Talmoran citizens and merchants, rather than the poorest of his constituents. After all, they couldn’t vote.

  “Where did you get these things?” he asked, daring, for once, to be direct.

  The older man didn’t appear to take affront. “Dul Graiphen Ulbrich’s private home in the city.” Before Eliam could ask why any decent Talmoran would possess such accoutrements, Tarsten added, “Priests of Nyloc suggest these items have been used to curse him.”

  Eliam laughed. Kilovian witchcraft was a cartload of nonsense, superstitions for foreigners and the weak-minded.

  When he saw Tarsten’s expression, the chuckle turned to a dry cough. “You wish me to direct the city watch to investigate a break-in?” Eliam’s personal involvement was hardly necessary. Perhaps the senior Duls were being polite by informing him of such a sensitive case. The city was within his constituency.

  The Dul leaned forward. “No, you idiot boy. I want you to find someone to remove the curse.” When Eliam started to respond, the elder man held up a hand. “This is no laughing matter. Graiphen Ulbrich is very ill.”

  “Ill?” Eliam repeated, confused. He’d heard no such reports. He thought back, realizing he hadn’t seen Dul Graiphen in months. Because of his relationship with the senior legislator’s son, the lack of contact had relieved him rather than raised concern. When was the last time I saw Graiphen?

  “Yes,” Tarsten said slowly, as though weighing how much to reveal. After a few moments, he appeared to reach a decision. “His mind has grown addled. He has nightmares, even when awake. Visions.” He paused. “No one must learn of this. I’m placing great trust in you.”

  “How long has he been sick?”

  “I noticed the first signs months ago, but they didn’t become alarming until recently.”

  “If Dul Graiphen is as ill as you say, shouldn’t the senate be informed? The emperor even? The people—”

  “It would be detrimental to his position if the people thought their most beloved senate leader suffered from a prolonged illness. And if they believed him cursed by some foreign god? No. First, we find out what these things are. I’m not making official declarations until I am certain what has happened and how to undo the damage. The less public involvement, the better.”

  Eliam sat back, staring thoughtfully at the canvas sack. A bag of smelly bones might make the air unpleasant, but they couldn’t make a man mad. If, in fact, Graiphen Ulbrich had lost his grasp on reality, his days in the senate were numbered. Soon, the axis of political power in the empire would shift. On the other hand, if Eliam did this favor for Tarsten, he’d have earned the man’s gratitude regardless of the true source of Graiphen’s ills.

  “I can ask around,” Eliam said.

  “Be discreet,” Tarsten warned him. “No one can suspect the truth.”

  “What about Korbin?”

  “So you’re still in contact with him?”

  Eliam nodded. “From time to time. He lives in Chelotti Strand.”

  “The slum along the river?” Tarsten blinked. “Here in Vol?”

  Populated by working class people, Chelotti Strand was by no means a slum, although the wealthiest avoided it. Even merchants looked down their nose at those living there. Which was why the section was a perfect place for Korbin Ulbrich to hide from his wealthy, noble family.

  Eliam shrugged. “He enjoys a simple life.”

  “I had no idea he stayed in the city.” Tarsten frowned thoughtfully. “The family estrangement is a source of ire for Dul Graiphen and isn’t a matter we discuss. I hope they’ll reconcile one day, but today is not that day. I’m not even sure Graiphen would recognize his son at this point.”

  Especially not with Korbin dressed as a Talmor Rider. Eliam wondered what Graiphen would think if he saw his son earning a wage, bartering with merchants, drinking with the riffraff. Of course, the Dul would be horrified, incensed even. But surely part of him would be proud of the hard-working side of his son. Korbin had always insisted that was romanticized crap and that his father had never been proud of him and never would be.

  “So you’ll do it?” Tarsten asked.

  Eliam’s reverie was broken and the Dul’s stare weighed on him. “Yes.” With disgust, Eliam reached for the canvas bag. “I’m not convinced about any witch’s curse.” He stood, holding the sack away from him as though it contained venomous snakes.

  “Neither am I.” Tarsten struggled to raise his ample girth as he rose as well. “This line of inquiry is my last hope. We can’t lose the Dul to our enemies.”

  Our? So by taking this assignment, he’d become a member of the higher Duls’ inner circle? “I’ll inform you if I find any useful information.”

  “Hurry. Dul Graiphen grows more confused by the day. We don’t have much time, I fear. It’s getting difficult to contain him.”

  Eliam frowned and nodded. Had he stepped in over his head? He didn’t like the way Tarsten said contain.

  ∞

  Octavia walked along the riverside path, her mind occupied with thoughts of that night’s task. Although the sun had already set, a twilight haze lightened the Western sky, and she couldn’t begin her ritual until full dark. Still, the timing gave her the opportunity to focus.

  Tonight’s job was small, in terms of difficulty, but her customer paid well. A Talmoran merchant’s wife lost her marriage ring, claiming the trinket slipped off her finger while working. Octavia suspected the woman removed it while with a secret lover.

  In two days, the merchant would return from a purchasing trip to Arcciosca. The ring had to be located before then. The wife gave Octavia fifteen declani to attempt to find it and promised another fifteen if she succeeded. The deposit would pay Octavia’s rent for a month. Of course, if the woman had been Kilovian or her cause just, Octavia never would have taken so much for the trivial task. She and her mentor Rhikar laughed about such jobs, calling their high fees a tax on Talmoran morality.

  She was only able to command high prices from the Talmorans who dared invoke what they referred to as foreign witchcraft because she was successful more often than not. Naturally, much of her success stemmed from her ability to discern the truth of a situation. Often, her assurances alone relaxed her customer enough that they found the solutions themselves. Octavia was given credit most times. People, she discovered, believed what they wanted.

  A shuffling in the darkness broke her reverie. Although she felt safe in her own quarter, Talmorans didn’t hold the Sennestelle to be a sacred class as Kilovians did. A prickle of fear made her shiver.

  A whisper came from the shadows. “Senne?”

  The use of the Kilovian honorific put her at ease. “Yes, child?” She was a young woman, and the man who stepped into the yellowing lamplight was more than twice her age, but he took off his hat and bowed his head to her.

  “Someone has been asking about you. A Talmoran.”

  “Oh?” At best, a stranger might be a potential customer. Or perhaps the jealous husband of her current customer—or a man like him. The idea didn’t please her. “Do you know what he wanted?”

  “He claimed he needed help for a sick wife, Senne, but I’m not sure I believe him. He has your name, though, and said he’ll return tonight.”

  She nodded with a frown. “What troubles you about him?”

  “He dressed like a merchant, but wrong.”

  “Wrong?” she repeated.

  The man shuffled his feet. “It was his voice. He sounded high-born.”

  She nodded again, trying to relax, to erase any traces of concern from her face, although the root of her worry remained. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. �
��Long may your fires burn.”

  A soft smile broke his craggy face, as though her words carried more power than if a weaver or baker had bestowed the same traditional blessing. “The power of the One forever guide you,” he replied, a phrase often uttered to practitioners. He bowed his head again and they parted ways.

  Within a few moments, she was pushing open her front door. She was not in the habit of locking up until she went to bed for the night; her neighbors watched out for her. In return, she performed small tasks for them, gave them medicines and herbs or just a small word of blessing or comfort. Back in Kilovia, she would not have even needed to lock her door while she slept.

  Beyond the threshold, a staircase rose immediately and led to the second level. She paid six declani per week to a Talmoran landlord for a modest set of rooms on the upper floor. Kilovians didn’t own property in Vol, for the most part, although a few traders had grown wealthy and influential enough to purchase small shops and market stalls.

  She lit the lamp on her workbench, and the flame cast shadows that stretched until the brightness banished them. Where a family might have comfortable seating, Octavia had a long table for cutting and grinding herbs, another for preparing wax and bone. She stored various ingredients necessary for her work in a shrouded high cabinet. Several shelves contained books in her native tongue.

  She performed her nightly rituals in this room, invoking the power of the One, channeling her knowledge of the earthly and the divine to aid her community… and to pay her landlord. She removed a pouch from her belt and placed it on the bench. It contained a handwritten note from the owner of the marriage ring, a small cloth with a few drops of the woman’s blood, and a silk ribbon.

  Octavia had told the woman she needed an artefact of some importance to the man she loved, with the promise the item would be returned in perfect condition the next day. At first, the woman offered a crest of her husband’s, a token of Ja’al, one of the Talmoran Spirits of Light.

  “Only you can determine if this is the best representation of the man your heart beats for,” Octavia had said. “Remember, my success depends on the true worth of the item to its owner and the owner’s worth to you.”