The Game of Shadows
(Disclaimed)
If this were a video game—this part would be a mini game: gather as much information as possible with out causing mass panic.
Chapter four:
Despite what Zelda had said, Link still suspected the Prince of Arcadia.
Which was quite rude. He did not know his proper name.
Still—Zelda had bigger plans for him, and she was right, the Waste was far more important than any Arcadian Peacock. So Link obeyed her, and instead of lurking about the castle gate, (like that little whisper advised, then pleaded, then scolded him for not doing) waiting for the lowly fellow to slink out in shame, he headed to the Bazaar.
On his way, he heard the gossip of the day, gentry talking amongst themselves, swaggering slowly with their bucklers and rapiers to one side, lovely companions on the other. Women mincing quickly to the Bazaars and markets with baskets at their hips or on their heads. Only once did Link hear a whispered inquiry as two who he was. He was largely unnoticed. He heard things that he could not confirm; the desert of last nights feast, had been little individual marchpane treats, flavored with raspberry, blueberry, and lime sauces, and for the King's table, a replica of the castle made of light, fluffy cake, that used so much spice, and was covered with so many fruits and flowers crystallized in so much sugar, it caused the royal treasurer to faint, once he saw that, oh no, it was not simply a hollow creation made of different pieces glued with egg white, but a completely accurate map of the castle, floor-by-floor, filled with sweet, marchpane figurines that had taken painstaking days to craft. If such a thing had been made—it had been for nothing. One of the courses, he had heard, but certainly never saw, had been a comically arranged pairs of roasted turkeys upon suckling pigs, made to look as though they were jousting.
"And wouldn't you know how our Princess had them adorned?"
Link matched pace a little ways behind so he could hear as the woman continued speaking.
"I have a brother—he works in the kitchens, you know—"
"Yes, yes I know get on with it!"
"Out of the ten jousting turkeys, five were made up in the colors of her suitors countries, Arcadia, Moria, Catalia, so forth—and the five others were dressed only in green, given the Master Sword of Legend, or so I was told, and one was place right in front of Prince Facade. Her message was quite clear to him."
"Aye, if that's not a firm no I can't imagine what would be. But still—I've not heard a word on who the king did choose at the end of the feasting? He was supposed to."
"I've not heard, either."
Link stopped completely—gossip on uneaten dishes was one thing. While there was no way that story about the replica castle was true, there were men in the kitchen who enjoyed talking about the fantastic creations they made for feasts, but there were also nobles at the feast and servants, and all had witnessed the King's death. It had been shocking and probably changed the course of Hyrule's history—and no one outside the palace knew?
And that was no surprise. With the Waste about, news of the King's death and the suspicious circumstances around it, would bring mass panic. An incomplete explanation would cause unease, and some fool would connect it to the Waste, and the knowledge of a lie would make the truth even more unbearable. He could not bring news of the King's death—clearly there had been some kind of order issued to keep that information secret, with respect to Zelda and the troubled times. He could not bring news of the Waste, either. If he told anyone that its origin had been linked to the Bazaar, every one would avoid it. The economy would freeze, and slowly crumble.
Gossip had turned from the food to the real savory of last night's feast—Who in Farore's good name had the King chosen for his daughter's hand?
Was it Ertegun of Catalia, that red-headed duke with a quick temper and a promising military career? Or perhaps the noble Sir Charles of Moria, their greatest knight, and the Queen's favorite? And what of the Princes from Holodrum and Labrynna? Or was it the King's favorite, the fabulously wealthy Facade of Arcadia?
Well—now Link knew his name. He felt free to suspect him all he liked.
Yes. That nagging voice in his head agreed, A plague to him.
Link decided the best place to start, before going to the Bazaar, was to gather as much information from Farore's temple as he could. He walked to the main tower, and found, instead of congregation, about twenty or so children learning their letters on the first two pews. Link had a few memories of his schooling—mostly he remembered sitting on the far edge of the pew and staring out the window to the woods while Creda constantly prodded him so he would pay attention to some lesson that Old Faron—when he was slightly younger—managed to drag from fifteen minutes to two unbearable hours. It was a terrible way to spend his afternoons. He had learned the old system of writing, sharp and made for carving into wood and stone. The newer system was made for ink, paper and vellum, and flashy, regal documents. Curving, turning from clear runes to unreadable mush before his eyes. He knew next to nothing about history, and old Faron had always joked, "Ah, young Link is such a hands-on learner... perhaps he would prefer to make history rather than learn it."
He wondered, for a while, how to breech the subject delicately. Children where much worse about rumors and gossip than adults were. An adult, upon hearing something like, "A wizard is turning victims of the Waste into shadow puppets for regicide" would scoff, so long as they heard it once. Not a child. Not so many children. They would run with it, spread it like wildfire—and they would spread it to their parents, and after hearing such a tale so many times they would begin to believe it.
So, the first thing would be to ask for a more private room to talk, out of reach of so many ears.
The second thing would be to take his association with Princess Zelda out of it. Probably a good idea to avoid giving anyone the impression that he was the Chosen One, too, just for good measure.
Zelda really should have put him in blue or yellow or something less... obvious.
There was a great clamor from the belfry. A young woman's voice, "Oh! Oh come and see! A fine spectacle approaches!"
Link expected the sage leading the class to admonish his disciple—but he gathered up his long robes and climbed the stairs to the choir's loft and up to the bell tower, proving he was quite spry for an old man. His class scrambled up behind him. The older ones daring to climb the ladder, the younger ones staying behind, trying to get a good look from the lower windows. Link followed. He climbed the ladder and arrived just in time to see the gate rise and a host of Arcadian cavalrymen ride out. Then game a gilded cage drawn by horses, housing three slim and stately greyhounds. Link had to squint to see them, they were so far away.
"Is Prince Facade leaving?"
Finally—the sorry fellow had slinked out of the gates!
Good riddance, Link thought to himself as he climbed higher up the tower, to the axle that held the bell securely in place. He could see little glimpses between the houses and businesses clustered by the gates, he made a grand show of it. Leaving with a host of servants and splendidly arrayed yes-men, even their horses dressed in their best finery. The Prince himself was secluded in a gold and ebony carriage drawn by six white horses. It was loaded down with luggage. No one would mistake this procession for a mere pleasure trip. People flocked to it, calling his name, fawning over him, their arms upheld like they were expecting him to throw silver from the windows.
Knowing the Prince, that was precisely what he would do.
"I would swear that the Prince came with five hounds—yet I only see three."
"Perhaps two have died?"
"One perhaps—two is unlikely."
Two was unlikely. She was right. "He has a Herald reading something out."
"Alas, if only we could hear him!"
"I am sure someone will come along and spread the word—what else are neighbors for? It should be here soon. Though, I suspect it is merely bitter posturing. Clearly he is not her Highness's betrothed."
"Then I have won our wager!"
"Not yet."
Link watched the procession until he could not see it anymore. It had headed towards the square, which was closer to Nayru's temple and out of his line of sight. He climbed down the belfry, back to the disciple, who had gone back to her mopping, muttering about the fine details of an agreement, a betting pool with all of the acolytes, which the sage had not been exempt. Link climbed down the ladder, but this time, he did not go unnoticed. Every child in the pews looked to him, began to turn around and inquire of their fellows, interrupting the Sage's very important history lesson by asking, "Who is that? Who is that!?"
Link stopped, tried to look like he had nothing to hide. Foolishly, he had not though about how he would answer any of the inevitable questions. Not the truth. That was all he knew to say. Lie.
The sage settled the children effortlessly, lifting his hands, palms down, and lowering them, hissing softly, "Shhhh, shhhh." until they regained their composure, settling politely into their seats. "Who might you be, my son?"
"I am Link—"
Din's Fire, what is wrong with you!?
The children all gave a great exited clamor, gradually getting more and more out of control—the sage was not able to contain them. Link cringed, took a step back, but that was all he did. He held his ground. He heard a splash from the belfry and the clatter of the mop across the boards. Link had to move again. The water splashed down where he stood, barely wetting his right side. He looked up, adjusted his hat, and was tackled by a waist-high mob of exited children, fingers and sleeves covered in chalk, asking him too many questions at once to even begin to hear.
His first thought was to freeze, but he knew that would only make them more adamant for his attentions. His second thought was to scream at them to be silent, but that might frighten them, or worse, anger the sage, or perhaps a parent, and simply serve to make the situation worse.
He said firmly, "Now calm down!"
Gradually, the did as they were told, walking away, still hoping for his attention as they returned to their seats in the pews. His name may cause excitement, but it also provided comfort, he supposed. The old sage smiled at him, patted his hand, "It's good to know the Goddesses have sent you to us in the dire time."
"I was wondering if we might speak privately?"
The sage looked over his shoulder and nodded to an acolyte that had been dusting a bronze candelabra, a silent request for him to finish the lesson. He nodded back, set down his dampened rag after folding it neatly, so the dryest part was down, and took the sage's place, speaking in a quiet, calm tone. The Sage then took Link by the elbow and guided him to a secluded office, when they were beyond all ears, he asked, "I suppose, you've come to inquire about the Waste."
Link was glad the subject was not difficult to breech, "Yes. How long ago exactly did it start?"
"Four weeks and... Let's see—It was Gildenday. The last Gildenday in Darunas—the first was brought to Nayru's temple on the other side of town."
That was going to be a lot of walking—but it was Hyliasday now, in Ilenas. "Four weeks and two days."
"So it has been." The sage nodded solemnly, "So many victims in such a short time."
A month's time. Link did not say much. He held his chin, looked down, and thought for a moment. He did not know what was by the temple of Nayru—but it was more likely to have an inn nearby that the temples of Din or Farore. Suppose the wizard dropped into town, checked in, and started taking victims from day one? That would be risky. It would be part of a trail anyone could follow, should they investigate, "And who was it?"
"A scholar. A very learned and wise man by the name of Shad. I knew him well. I had spoken to him just a day before."
That placed him near the bazaar, Link thought to himself, not the inn. "Did he go anywhere after speaking with you?"
"Yes—of course. He usually gets medicine from an old apothecary in the bazaar. He suffered from terrible headaches."
"For how long?"
For now, the Sage did not seem suspicious of these questions, "From his boyhood."
"Can I speak to the apothecary?"
"No, I'm afraid you can't—you can speak to her grandson, though. He's there."
"The Waste?"
"No." the sage shook his head, "Too much blood in her veins. One burst. Just here. I told her to go for a blood letting," the sage pointed to the left side of his head, "But ah, you know the stubbornness of the elderly. Certainly a better way to die than the Waste. Happened just before that day—The fellow said he was going to find a new apothecary—he's gripped with terrible fear of the pain his affliction causes him. I told him the only one there was the new fellow, calls himself doctor, what ever that may mean—and that the apothecary's grandson would arrive in a few days time. I told him not to trust that new fellow. When you are old you can sniff out the frauds—and that man's no fraud, but he still has an air to him. He's a wicked man. I told the children never to go near him."
"And he ca—" Link stopped himself before he could draw a line from the Waste to the man in question, "Had he been there long?"
"No—showed up less than five days before. He said he was a traveling merchant. I wish he would leave."
Might be coincidence—might not be. Regardless, Link had something solid to investigate now. Perhaps the sage was seeing things that were not there, but after speaking to him, even Link had started to grow wary of this 'doctor' and he had never once laid eyes on him. He changed the subject, set up a few false trails—after all, he still wanted to put as much distance between 'The Waste,' 'The Bazaar,' and 'the King's Death' as possible. So he asked about a few symptoms—and found that it was true, only he and Zelda could see the missing shadows. Link wondered why—but he said nothing about it.
He wrapped up the conversation and left the church. The business had taken about half an hour or so. He went to the Bazaar in search of the Doctor's little plot. The Bazaar's true nature had been hidden. Link had thought it was a single street, maybe two, but it was a maze of slapdash stalls and tents that stretched across a wide, open square. There were remnants of stone pathways, but they had been traveled so frequently they were simply pebbles and bits of mortar in dry dust, and no one treated them like roads anymore. The Bazaar was open to anyone willing to sell anything. Even themselves. Some merchants were there so little time, their shop was simply a blanket on the ground on the outskirts. There were so many, they leaked out into the streets leading too it. Bards and beggars, too.
"Fine beads!"
"Charms to guard against the Waste!"
There was a fish monger and a baker trying to scream over each other as they touted their wares in the more established, permanent storefronts along one of the high walls. These walls were so high, half of the bazaar was covered in shadow in the early morning, some storefronts did not receive direct light until noon, making them very popular with merchants selling perishable foods that needed cool shade to stay fresh.
"Bread baked just five minutes ago!"
"Fish caught just this morning!"
"You've never tasted anything finer! It's barley and beer but you'll swear it's wheat!"
"I was up at five in the morning for this fish!"
"I toiled for hours grinding the grain!"
Next to them was a weaver who said nothing, aside from a muttered, "My work speaks for itself—my rugs and blankets can be found in Princess Zelda's tower." Link touched a rug on display—the pattern did look familiar, and the skill was unmatched. "A woolen replica of one found in the reception room—hers is silk."
Link moved on past a vendor sitting behind bright, eye catching sacks of fragrant, colorful spices, a vast array from sweet to savory. Flowers, hibiscus, camomile, and cloves, even the local, plain clover, and seeds, coriander, cumin, pepper, mustard and poppy, to roots and leaves and other bits, like ginger, horseradish, cinnamon bark, vanilla beans still in the pod, bay and rosemary, ground saffron, all of it giving off a lush fragrance in the drying dew of the morning. There was something from everywhere.
Set up right next to it were two Gerudo women, fresh out of the desert. One was selling her wares—long strings of glass beads that were highly prized in the desert for the skill required to craft them. They had been so prized at one point that they were used along side strings of pearls for currency, the desert, and the fields of Hyrule, did not have much metal—what they had was the rupee. Naturally growing crystals, no bigger than a fingertip, that were valued by the rarity of their color. Any metal was under the control of the Gorons, proud craftsmen that refused to let the beauty of silver, gold, and even the hidden handsomeness of iron be wasted as currency. A bar of silver, which spelled wealth to another nation, was wasted space and beauty to a Goron.
The Gerudo, recently, had found great stores of metal in the desert. Copper. Like pearls and beads, they wore their coins on strings, ten, twenty in length, when they walked, the chiming was a blatant way for them to show their wealth—as opposed to the silencing, stifling purses favored by other kingdoms. They still held long strings of glass beads in high favor, for the way they glinted in the sunlight, and for how easily they could be adapted, wrapped into hair, about wrists, and ankles, not just the neck, for adornment.
"You'd be worth about thirty or so feet of them—the strings of beads, that is."
Link was not quite sure how to react to that.
He knew how he wanted to react of course, a firm no, but that would be rude. He did not exactly want to say thank you, either. That might be seen as encouragement, "It's nice of you to say so."
"You got a lass?"
It was best to lie, "Yes."
"I won't tell her if you don't."
Nayru's love I don't even know you!
Time to move on.
Next to her was another, perhaps a cousin, a sister or a friend, selling a Gerudo staple, a dish of rice and beans, chickpeas and lentils, topped with fried onions, and served with a sauce of tomato and cumin dressed with vinegar infused with garlic, and minced roasted hot pepper for the extremely daring, washed down with strong black tea. She was too focused to serving up the dish at a frightening speed to speak to Link.
He thought about finding the Apothecary's grandson first, but the grandson had clearly not been the cause, and he would not know anything about it, so he set out to find the Doctor the sage had told him of. He was not hard to find. The Doctor's shop was a large white tent with a crude wooden sign above, supported by two wooden pillars, wrapped in cloth and holding the flaps that served as a door open wide.
Doctor Operimen's Marvelous Mystical Remedies for All Ailments. The sign above the tent door read in bold, colorful letters. Tarot readings, palmistry, tea leaves. The paint was peeling, but the spirit of it remained. The sign directly beside the door was just as old, covered with a layer of dirt kicked up by the bustle of the Bazaar, with a message that caught his eye. Love Potion of Eternal Devotion, guaranteed to give you a love more pure than the Hero and the Goddess. The Object of your Desire will want nothing but solitude and you—only one rupee.
What? Just one rupee? For what? Clearly some water infused with herbs and honey and dyed red with beet juice. No such cheap concoction could grant such love—Clearly, love potion was not what the Prince had wasted five thousand rupees on.
Glove Cleaner. Inquire within. Was written in sloppy, plain letters below it; small and careless, it blended in like an ugly after-thought, a mumble the sign maker had wanted no one to see—though the Doctor still needed to advertize it. Five thousand dollars on... simple leather oil? There must be some nuance, some inside joke of the Doctor's, that Link was not privy too.
Link entered the tent. It was cool inside, lit only from the light that came through the roughly-woven fabric—probably hemp. No lanterns, no candles, nothing, and considering the floor was padded with woven straw mats, Link was not surprised. Nothing looked amiss, save the absence of the Doctor himself. It seemed to Link that the fellow was no poisoner or evil wizard. He was simply an apothecary that chose to glorify himself for the sake of business.
Glass jars, stuffed with dried herbs and slightly more unsavory bits of dead animal, preserved in sea-salt brine, were arranged and clearly labeled on collapsible shelves that might have cleverly re-constructed into crates. Bits of the straw used to pack them clung to the unsanded wood, indicating a recent arrival, but there was also a layer of dust between the jars, indicating he had been here for a while.
Too inconclusive for him to start accusing the man.
He had found the elusive miracle "love potion." It was made in a cheap glass vial, roughly blown with many imperfections, bumps and bubbles in the green glass. They had plain cork stoppers. It looked more like mud—and mud was putting it politely. Link picked up one, murky, clumpy, greenish-brown. Clearly, it was not something that could be slipped imperceptibly into food or wine. It must have a foul taste to it. Link could not imagine anything pleasant with a look like that.
Link set the vial down and turned his attention to a table in the center of the room. There was a small silver basin with a small, round crystal sphere in the center, no bigger than the palm of his hand, the silver basin about as large as his hand, fingers outstretched. There were charts of the heavens, a map of Hyrule, a little print of a human body, parts labeled in a quick scrawl that did not look Hylian. He was trying his hand at astronomy and anatomy—a learned man, too.
Link heard a murmur, a distant whisper that he could not place. When he paused, pretended to be occupied, he could pick up many different voices speaking at once. He thought, at first, that he was just hearing the market place—but the market place was loud and all around him. It was not a quiet place. The thin hemp fabric of the tent did not cut out the noise around him. It should have been to loud to hear anything above a mutter, and yet, there it was, he could hear it as plainly as if it was the dead of night and that whisper was all there was to hear. It was small, like the chirping of a cricket beyond a window or a rustle of fabric over his shoulder.
Link stopped, strained his ears in the cool dimness of the tent and listened intently. Even still—he could not make out a single word. He felt a sudden tug, and he turned. There was a tapestry up, a pretty thing, suspended from the yew beams that held up the fabric roof. It was old, faded, the black fabric changed by the sun to a deep grey-green, the white tarnished to a yellow. There was no scene. That was common for tapestries from the north side of Hyrule, where the winters were so cold everything became a blanket—and no one was comfortable sleeping on a great historical scene sewn generations ago. Those were works of art, made with real velvet and gold. This was hand-sewn scraps of wool arranged in a pattern, and tacked down to a backing of linen and a little down.
And there was something solid behind it. Link looked it up and down, there was a little wooden frame peeking out below it. He took the tapestry between two fingers, prepared to move it just a little bit to take a peek behind.
"What are you doing here?"
Link jumped, jerked his hand away from the tapestry, "Oh!"
He saw a man, mid thirties perhaps, frantically gathering up the parchment on the table and stuffing it all away between the pages of an un-named vellum-bound book. Link caught a glimpse of the title page, but could not read it. It was gone in a flash. The man cleared his throat, and put that one book away under two others, that had been gathering dust under the crystal ball on its silver stand, then said, trying to cover for his moment of panic with a thin veneer and hastily smoothed wrinkles. "Ah—I've been expecting you."
He probably said that to every one that came in. He was a friendly-looking man, wide eyed and smooth-faced. Dark haired, blue eyed. He sat down at the table. Now that the paper was clear, Link saw that it was covered with an ornate cloth. A length of silk.
Link wondered what he could say that would not sound suspicious, "I—um."
He was not succeeding. He grew curious about the book, but he pulled his eyes away from it, put them back on the man. The man glanced at the book, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Link wondered if he was truly guilty of any wrongdoing—accusing him would be rude, while letting go, particularly after raising his suspicions, would put more people in danger. He may flee after he left, go on to plague a new city and leaving his victims in this town to gradually fade away.
The man indicated a little oak stool opposite him, half-hidden beneath the buttery length of silk, an unspoken urge for him to sit. The pause continued still, and Link wondered what to say. The sun vanished behind a cloud for a moment, the noise outside came to a quiet lull, and then the Doctor said, "Please, I can see you are a man of many questions, and I have so many ways to divine answers. Link, I can only aide you in your quest. Sit."
Hearing his name after he had never once given it sent chills running every which way. He felt strange, like someone was frantically trying to get his attention out of the corner of his eye, tugging on his arm or shaking his shoulder violently. "I—I never—"
"What more proof, than knowledge of your name, do you need to see I know all already?"
Link did not sit. Instead, he leaned forward, planted his hands on the table, "Tell me, if you know all already, then why have you not applied such fantastic powers to the Waste?"
The Doctor laughed uncomfortably.
"Tell me, what do you know of it?"
"I—I know only of what I see, Sir Link."
"Then you would know I am no Sir."
He laughed again, "Oh—but I know all. Past, present, and future. Come, let me show you."
Link did not want to be shown. Doctor Operimen took the crystal ball off its pedestal. He had fine, flowing sleeve, trimmed with gold, and a little dust. He smiled, said again, "Sit, O great knight."
Link wrinkled his nose and backed away. He was trying to fool him, trick him with sweet words. It would not work. He was a fraud and a liar, and Link would not be tricked. He felt the air the sage had spoken of before.
"Perhaps you could be of great use to the city—if you know all of what you see, then you need only look at a victim of the Waste to know—"
He gave a third uneasy little titter and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Link had him worried now. A little bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, followed by another. Link felt a small, creeping triumph brewing, "Tell me—have you seen a dark haired girl, about seventeen or so, dark eyed?" he leaned forward again, a bit too far forward, perhaps. His right hand come to rest flat in the center of the table, his left just behind it, fingertips only, as if the Doctor was prey he had cornered. "Creda was her name, a girl from the palace?"
Link felt a draft. He turned, saw the room reflected back at him, saw himself for a moment, hanging where the tapestry used to be. He glanced down. It was on the floor. A mirror. As long as a man was tall, as wide as his arm was long, from shoulder to wrist, made of perfectly smooth glass, like the surface of a lake, it looked like it would ripple and distort if his placed a finger on it. It was backed with buffed and polished silver. Pure silver. Link had never seen a mirror quite like that before. He had seen basic things, polished bronze discs that were handed form servant girl to servant girl for a few minutes of admiration and grooming—nothing like this. It was in a finely carved wooden frame, the edge was decorated with little bits of obsidian in calculated and precise grooves. Clearly the glass work was the work of Goron craftsmen. Link had never seen glass so smooth before.
He had never really seen his own refection before either. He had seen it a few times, vague and scarey there in a window or a pool. He knew a few things, the color of his hair, that he was not too tall, and that his eyes were blue.
Break it!
Link was taken aback—the Prince of Arcadia rubbed him the wrong way—rude thoughts about him could be expected. This mirror had done him no trespass. It was a work of incredible craftsmanship. It was inanimate, inert, devoid of agency.
Shatter it into a million pieces! These thoughts of violence and contempt he had been having recently, they were unlike him. When had they started? Just last night? Perhaps—perhaps the injury to his head was responsible for it?
Link looked back to the man and forced himself to attend to the matter at hand, "Creda, sir."
Break it! Link was positive the voice was not coming from his own imagination. At this point, it was quite real. Ringing in his ears, it had gone from a quiet hiss to a loud shriek of unmatched pain. Break it! Break it! Break it!
Link started to turn his head.
"No! Don't look to the mirror just yet, lad. We've not reached that point."
Link looked at the mirror. The reflection of the room was contorting, pulling inwards until it split open and a little black maw opened up, gradually spreading wider, aligning with the center of his back. Link actually felt it there. Link gasped and reached for his sword, then he felt the splitting pain grow, cutting from his belly to his chest, it stopped his breath short in his lungs. The voice became pleading, Hylia's Grace, break the mirror, please!
Link took out his sword and drove the pommel into the center of the glass. It cracked, shattered, pieces of glass flying into his face and spilling over his boots. He had hit it harder than he meant too, the pommel punched through the soft silver, and the wood behind it. The pain stopped, but the ever present scream; Break it. Break it. Break it, continued. Link grabbed the sword with two hands, on hand on the hilt, the other on the strip of leather to seal the rain out, and bashed the mirror in repeatedly, leaving small holes in the metal, and gaping ones in the wood. When every piece of glass was knocked from the beautiful, evil frame, he began to hack away at the wood, splitting it apart.
Something shoved him, knocked him away, pushing the air from his lungs. He was thrown against the edge of the tent. It ripped a little with the impact, the rest of the blow snapped one beam and caused the structure to collapse. Link kept going, bringing it all down on a few bales of straw. He heard Cucoos clucking and screaming in terror, fluttering against their cages.
Blindly, recklessly, he slashed through the ten and got to his feet.
"There!" Link's eyes honed in on a bump in the wreckage that must have been the wizard. "Grab him!" He lunged for it, but something grabbed the back of his tunic and threw him back. He narrowly avoided falling on his own sword a second time. He got up and put it away—if he could not see his opponent, it was a liability. He took out his bow and an arrow. Merchants and shoppers shrieked and dove for cover as Link pointed it at the Wizard.
He aimed to kill.
Before the bump could move, Link drew the string back, pushing the curve of the bow forward for that last bit of power, then he loosed the arrow. The bump in the fabric vanished the second it was punctured, like a bubble. There was nothing there.
"Watch out!"
Link turned. Plastered against the sunniest wall of the Bazaar was a shadow. It may have been—Link was certain of it, yes—the one that killed the King. It was much larger now. "Lighting conditions. The longer the shadows, the stronger She'll be."
"She'll...?"
Link barely had time to ask, simply acknowledge that she shadow did look rather feminine in figure. The shadow's head turned, tangled hair flying about like she was suspended in water. She turned, saw a few city watchmen, and sent them flying, simply by flicking their shadows away dismissively. Link ducked, heard the Cucoos shrieking again, the sound of metal cages breaking. He jumped over the Gerudo merchant's table, cutting through to the sizzling pan of frying onion. He doused the head of the arrow in olive oil and lit it with the cooking fire, aiming it at the shadow's center. Perhaps fire, light, would disperse or stun it.
"No!" The voice screamed, "No don't!"
With out warning, his hand moved on its own, the moment he let the burning arrow fly, so that it lost its path, and instead of hitting the shadow dead center, it hit her left hand. She drew back, physically hurt by the flame, then vanished, disappearing into the dark side of the Bazaar.
Some one—some thing, actually, grabbed his wrist again and jerked him out into the light. Link could hardly believe his eyes when he realized what it was. A shadow, his shadow. From the darkness before him a voice shrieked, punctuated by only a pair of furiously glowing red eyes in the dirt, "Do you have any idea what would have happened to Creda if we had killed her shadow!?"
I can't stop world building help.