Disclaimer: The characters and world of this story belong to Patricia McKillip's Ombria in Shadow, which I love too much to be able to resist. They aren't mine. The description of the Shadow City is verbatim from the book, for verisimilitude, and I don't own that. The intent is not to plagiarize, but maintain in the fullest way possible the spirit of the original work.
A/N: The style here mimics, in a slightly more abrupt fashion, that of the author, though I can't come anywhere near her skill with imagery. You don't need to read the book to enjoy the fic, but I recommend it anyway; it's a great book, and the nuances of the fic will be clearer for your perusal of the original.
CHASING ASHES
"Dismissed."
Minutes of waiting then, sitting patiently next to the young Prince, as courtiers bowed obeisance and left. Low murmurs colored the air in shades of meaning, muted by distance.
The man smiled at the sigh from the throne as the doors of the court were barred for the day. He stretched, watching Kyel do the same. "My Prince?"
"Argh, no teasing, Ducon!" Blue eyes entreated him, twinkling through exhaustion. "If I must hear another complaint about the port regulations, I will drop the guilty party into the bay!"
Light laughter reached the ceiling, falling back to them in clear echoes. "You are the Prince, Kyel."
A disgruntled grumble was his response. "So why must they all besiege me the one day I hold hearings? You do so every day! Could they not irritate the court of Ombria then?"
His cousin and regent chuckled. "You are their true ruler, my Prince. They will be treating with you for the length of your reign. They want to know you."
"You mean they want to test me." The young prince plowed tired hands through shaggy black hair, staring at his cousin consideringly. When Ducon did not smile, he had his answer.
A side door yielded to them, expelling the pair into a serene corridor. "You do well, Kyel." A pale hand squeezed his shoulder, and Kyel smiled at the comfort there. "Your father would be proud."
He did not remember his father – he had had but five years when Royce Greve was buried, leaving him in the care of his cousin, and his father's former mistress. Lydea was the only mother he had ever known, and Ducon . . .
"I am proud of you, as well," the Regent added.
A flush stained the Prince's cheeks. The regent gave criticism sparely, and praise was an even rarer commodity. "Yes, well, it's not as if I was a child anymore," he tried to hide the blush, but blue eyes shone with pleasure.
Ducon was surprised into a laugh. "You are not yet sixteen, Kyel. There is no hurry for you to grow into such heavy responsibility so soon."
"I'll be sixteen in a month." The Prince couldn't resist the reminder, sitting down at an ornate table. Precious metals shone at him, close to hand. Flowers bedecked the room with a sweet scent, petals soft in the evening light. Even stronger was the savory odor of mid-meal, sneaking into the room from a discreet door hiding the corridor to the kitchens.
"Yes, I know," the regent said dryly.
Kyel grinned.
It was dark when the first of the voices reached his ears.
"Help – please – hear us!"
Ducon froze, wondering. And then the noises came again; pleading, begging. His heart twisted to hear the anguish embodied there.
He rose from the legalities couched upon the desk, homing in upon the sobs and awful cries. Outside the door –
The lighting was low, but he navigated his study with the ease of familiarity.
It was when he reached for the knob that faces leapt out at him from the shadows.
The noise of clashing steel rebounded through the room, mixed in equal portion with the pounding of feet, and the murmurs of conversation.
Kyel wiped his sweating face, setting his foil carefully aside. The fencing court was a large, light and airy room stuffed with sweating courtiers. He was enveloped by a crowd of distant cousins, all sharing the dark hair and blue eyes of the House of Greve.
And attention turned to the rare sight of the regent, raising his own foil in salute. Ducon detested practicing before others, though Kyel was the only one who knew it.
"Look, highness," a breath of words in his ear. Blue eyes watched the match, intent on the prowess of man and steel. "We are not sure how he does it, but we are convinced. He will throw the fight."
Kyel's confusion illuminated blue eyes. "Why?"
None truly knew how good the regent was. He never won more than he lost, never tasted defeat more oft than triumph. But to lose by choice – why? Blue eyes still asked.
Intent upon the match, he felt the cousins drift away before the force of someone else's arrival. Looking up, Kyel saw the emblem, the lion rampant on red. A courtier he knew – one he needed no warning to be wary of.
Moments passed, as both openly contemplated the match before them, and covertly contemplated the other.
"An exquisite display of skill," the lion commented.
Kyel murmured an agreement. Indeed it was – whispers held that none in Ombria could best the regent.
"'Twould be a shame if he slipped, and the regent felt the bite of cold steel through his heart." The tone was too careless.
"Excuse me?" Quick words betrayed his shock, and Kyel scrabbled for composure, clenching it tight in shaking hands. But his voice held even. "My lord Sozon, I can't have heard you correctly."
The lord at his side curled his lip. "Accidents happen, highness. With distressing regularity."
The match suddenly over, Ducon had approached without their notice. "Kyel." The name was a question, and worried blue eyes flew to unreadable silver. "My lord Sozon." Now, the chill he had seen, but never before felt.
"Regent. Highness." And the lord bowed, prowling away into crowds of young men. Sweating bodies swallowed him whole.
Kyel stared, with sudden fright, at his cousin. Ducon sensed his nervousness, and smiled gently. "I believe I shall retire."
"I'll join you," Kyel said instantly. He might have been abashed at his eagerness, had he not been so unsettled. "Let me collect my foil."
The cousins were muttering not far from the bench where his equipment rested, and Kyel's ears caught the bragging of the man who had bested Ducon. The Prince's lips thinned.
"He threw the fight," one said brusquely, and the boasting man's pride fell flat.
Kyel blinked, pausing mid-reach.
"Perhaps you misjudge my skill," the winner retorted coolly.
The Prince hefted his foil, careful to keep his interest concealed.
The first snorted, the disagreement clear. "Have you never noted that the regent neither wins nor loses in excess? Each victory is matched by a defeat."
"I don't keep score," arrogance replied.
"Perhaps the regent does."
It was not the second time, nor even the third, that sorrow had stretched out to him from the shadows since that night. But it was the first time he knew from whence it came. He had done some reading, once the fear for his own sanity had dimmed, and memory offered an explanation.
"You're of the Shadow City." Of Ombria's reflection.
Words of the story, overheard in a reality that now had no more substance than memory, came to him. "The shadow city of Ombria is as old as Ombria. Some say it is a different city completely, existing side-by-side with Ombria in a time so close to us that there are places – streets, gates, old houses – where one time fades into another, one city becomes the other. Others say both cities exist in one time, this moment, and you walk through both of them each day, just as, walking down a street, you pass through light and shadow and light . . ." Lydea had not noticed him standing in the doorway for many moments more.
Relief, in the faces that grew clearer with each sighting.
"Yes." Though the voices still sounded far away, it was more as if they were in another room, instead of another country. Though both were equally true.
Ducon breathed a silent sigh.
In the half-light of the secret passages of the Palace, he had found a window that, in the brightest afternoon, was cast into shade. Neither enemies nor allies would think to look so high within the hidden corridors of the palace to seek out the regent.
And Ducon needed privacy for this.
He might be Regent of Ombria – but by birth, he was the son of the sorcerer who ruled the Shadow City. A starving piece of his soul – the same piece that found solace in charcoal – needed to know.
"What is happening?"
"The balance has shifted," said one. "Too far." The balance that had spun wildly out of control in Ombria, ten years and a memory ago. The balance that had swung crazily into the abyss with the weight of Domina Pearl's malice, only to be tilted to rights when Ombria cried out to the Shadow City. And the reflection, thought to be no more than a fairytale, had been Ombria's salvation. If the balance had gone too far in the opposite, then – But how?
"Our City is fallen to despair."
Dark memories rose up; memories of a witch who lived beyond the years allotted to man through magic wrapped in beetle wings. Memories of crumbling docks and pirate raids, of black mourning-silks and dangerous streets. Memories of a small form with black hair and blue eyes, helpless in the clawlike clutches of Domina Pearl. His heart thumped. Kyel. The boy who was son and brother and Prince, though blood ties proclaimed them merely cousins.
"What of my father?" The question choked its way past a tight throat.
"He lives. He fights."
"We all fight. Our enemy is closing in."
"We need you."
At that, all thought stopped for a long moment. "But why?" Ducon breathed. He was a bastard son of the House of Greve – and despite being Prince of the Shadow City, he was no more than a bastard in that world as well. And a child of neither Ombria, nor the Shadow City, but both at once.
Ducon, after all, didn't look at all like his mother, the sister of Royce Greve. I look like him. The father he hadn't seen until that day, nor since.
A familiar face then, one he recognized from reflections and glimpses in shadow, and memory. "You seem to have inherited that power in odd ways," his father told him.
"It comes out in my drawings," Ducon finished. Oh, he remembered that day well, though duty had ordained that he wield steel now, instead of charcoal. Survival of the flesh over that of the soul.
It was only a whisper, but lines of worry, evident even in shadow, eased.
"Every day!"
Silver eyes were unsurprised. "You are nearly sixteen, Kyel. When you reach your majority, you will take complete control as rightful ruler of Ombria."
"I know that, Ducon," the boy protested. He ignored both the plate and cup at hand to stare at his cousin. "But I must attend in court every day!"
"For the mornings," the regent maintained. He chewed slowly. "You will continue your lessons with Mag in the afternoons."
"But -"
A white brow, so out of place on that unlined face, rose. "But it will only be for three hours. And you will not be wholly alone."
"You'll be there?" Kyel could not conceal his hope. It was one thing to appear once a week, with the backing of his regent. Kyel was the Prince, and he was very involved in the duties and decisions of ruling Ombria. But 'twas a far cry from ruling in name to having the willful obedience of his people; something he knew that for all the oaths sworn at his father's death, he had yet to earn.
"Most of the time."
Suspicion congealed in blue eyes. "Most of the time?"
"Your breakfast is getting cold, Kyel."
"What do you mean, 'most of the time'?"
Ducon stared at him levelly. "Four days out of five."
He was to be on his own in court? "But I don't have the full power -"
"You are Prince of Ombria," Ducon gently cut through the panic. "And you have a level head on your shoulders, Kyel. Yes – the first few times will be trying. Petitioners will come to try to get you to make foolish decisions; the courtiers will push you. But you must establish your own authority over the courts without me. And its best that you do it soon."
Panic ratcheted up once more. "Soon? Why soon?"
Compassion reached out to him from silver eyes. "Because when you come into your full power at twenty-one, there will be more important things to concern you than needing to keep control over the court."
Kyel gulped. "But that's in five years -"
The feeble protest was brushed off like lint from mourning-silks; quickly spied and even more quickly done away with.
"Gradual transitions are smoothest and best," Ducon said firmly. There would be no swaying the regent on this, Kyel recognized. He might be the Prince, but Ducon was his guardian.
Morosely, the blue-eyed boy plucked at his food. "I suppose if I complain you'll only tell Mag to have me write an essay on something horrible, like the importance of tradition in the evolution of court etiquette," he said sourly.
Ducon laughed.
Mathematics, writing, etiquette. Metallurgy, alchemy, history, healing . . .
"Good." There were many things that a ruler of Ombria needed to know. Some were strangely esoteric, but no doubt they would serve Kyel in good stead.
Ducon lowered Mag's lesson plan, smiling at the various objects holding the blonde strands messily piled on her head.
A whisper of expression, in the shadow over Mag's shoulder, caught his eye.
"Ducon?" Faey's waxling studied him a moment. "There is something . . ." Understanding, in walnut eyes. And – a hint of relief? "You've taken up your charcoal again."
He'd tried to wipe streaks of ash from his fingers and face as best he could before this meeting. Somehow, Mag always knew.
"Yes." A free admission; so rarely given in court. But Mag was not a courtier. 'Something of an apprentice,' she called herself. To Faey – the sorceress in the undercity of Ombria – the grimy face so rarely seen, and even more rarely survived.
Mag thrived there.
They were both children of two worlds, of Ombria and the Shadow City. It was a relief to find that in that at least, he – the bastard son of the House of Greve – was not alone.
Words shaped out of shadow, calling quietly to him.
Mag's head turned.
Walnut eyes searched the shadow, and turned back to him, full of questions.
"You see them?"
The waxling nodded. "What are they?" Mag breathed. She stood from her chair, to meet the faces now fixed on her. "Are they -"
"They are in the Shadow City." Ducon grimaced. "Something is wrong, there. The balance has shattered."
"They need help."
The Regent nodded to the tutor. "Yes."
Walnut eyes lingered on the shadowy smears marking the skin of his hands, and the silk of his cuffs. "You have been trying."
"And failing." The sorceress' apprentice was the only one he could speak this to, who might understand. Even Faey didn't fully comprehend the strange ways his father's power showed itself in him.
The head of spun straw faced him. "What have you been trying to do?"
"Draw a different ending from the shadows."
"But that," Mag said softly, "is neither here nor there." Nothing he had done in Ombria had helped the Shadow City. And he had tried.
"They need help." And the last time Ombria had needed help, the Shadow City had watched in pain, unable to aid them. Until he had found the door. . . "You don't think -"
Mag remembered; in that as well, they two were alone. The day when Domina Pearl had pushed too far; when Faey had brought her terrible power with her from the undercity into Ombria above. And the land itself had convulsed, ill and straining to rid itself of the infection that was embodied in black eyes and beetle's wings.
"I think that you can do little good, here," Mag said quietly.
And Ducon knew what he must do.
"Ducon!" Blue eyes sparked, overflowing with triumph. On his own for only two weeks, the court had tested their Prince's ability to act and reason without the Regent at his right hand. Today, the problem had been tricky, difficult to settle. Port regulations were ever so impossible; but nonetheless, he had resolved it. On his own!
Kyel burst into the study. "Did you hear what -"
"Not now, Kyel."
The Prince blinked, pulling up short in surprise. Ducon had never – no matter the crisis, or the stress of court – been so abrupt.
The Regent was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled past his elbows. White hair in uncharacteristic disarray, papers spread messily across the desk surface, held down by sticks of charcoal. His cousin was smudged with the stuff.
Lydea had laughed at fond memories when, as a boy, he'd asked her what Ducon had been like before Royce Greve died. "Oh, we barely saw him then. The only sign he'd been by were streaks of charcoal through the halls. He used to sketch, constantly. The charcoal got everywhere; he would practically eat it, when he drew.' Her brows had drawn down at that, a dark memory tugging at her. But then she had smiled, and told the story of how on one of the Regent's days at court, after the black-mourning silks had been set aside, he had appeared in a huff, nearly late, and still shadowed with charcoal. Ducon had apparently occupied his time before courts with drawing; no one had noticed during the year of mourning, when all were required to wear black. But that day at court, the Regent had dealt with more than a few surreptitious glances, and smiling whispers. Enough so that Ducon's even temper had frayed into frustration by the end of the day. Even so, when Lydea had presented him with a mirror at his irritated inquiries, Ducon himself had been unable to hold back the laughter.
Kyel did not remember seeing any of Ducon's sketches.
"Ducon?"
Silver eyes glanced from the papers to the Prince. "Yes, Kyel?" Clipped impatience in every word.
Blue eyes tried once more. "I wanted to tell you – I solved the conflict over port regulations between -"
"Yes, I heard." A brief smile. "And I approve of your decisions in dealing with the mariners and tradesmen. It was well done, Kyel. But I really must get back to work."
A little put off, blue eyes narrowed. The last time the Prince had seen someone this distracted, one of his more distant cousins had been courting that lady – what was her name – well, it didn't matter. But he had noticed several of the courtiers making efforts at gaining the Regent's attention. One in particular. Suspicion welled high.
"Ducon, does this have anything to do with that courtier, Lady Amarisu?"
Preoccupied silver met prying blue. "Who?"
"Lady Amarisu," Kyel prompted, studying his cousin. After all, marriage to the man who was most powerful in Ombria, if only in fact and not in name . . .
Ducon frowned, thinking. "Never heard of her. Kyel." A pointed glance toward the door.
Blue eyes blinked. That wasn't the reaction I expected. . . Maybe it simply was work. Foreign relations had been a problem since a minor blow-up between two other nations six months ago; maintaining neutrality to both, who happened to be allies of Ombria, was prickly.
Ducon's mouth was a thin line, as he perused the papers.
Kyel moved to a window, throwing back the shades. There was no call for it to be so dark in here; it was nearly afternoon, and quite sunny outside.
"Kyel."
Impatience there, a bare thread of a warning he'd heard only a few times in his life. Taken aback, the Prince retreated to the door. "Very well, Ducon," he said softly. "I will see you at dinner?"
A distracted nod and a wave.
Kyel paused in the doorway, struck by a sudden thought. "Ducon – you have remembered to cancel the court in five days, have you not?"
"Of course, of course." In contrast to the hasty tone, silver eyes met his with an understanding smile. "The Prince's birthday is, after all, a holiday in Ombria."
Blue eyes sighed with relief, brightening at the thought. "Thank you!"
At the joy there, some of the tension left his cousin's frame, and the stern mouth unbent in a smile. But there was no mistaking the firmness in the finger pointing him out of the room, and into the hall. Knowing himself defeated by business, Kyel closed the door softly behind him.
Between his increased absences from court, the charcoal, and Ducon's terseness – in the last week, he'd been acting strange, indeed.
It was done.
This door was unlike the other, the first. That one had been wrought with his heart's blood and thick shadow in the desperation Domina Pearl had left him with. Under her eyes, he had no choice if he wished to save himself. If he wished to save Kyel. It had been of darkness, in dark times.
This door was different.
Not the solid outline of shadow but the formlessness of light, captured on a smooth wall by the confines of a window frame. A door of light, in Ombria's time of hope, to lead to the shadowed city that was her reflection. The latch was a dark print of palm and fingers – the only spot on the door that was touched by charcoal, both the latch and Ducon's hand reaching for the latch.
It felt right.
And so he stretched a hand to the door. Skin shimmered in light, ghosted over ash, meeting the mark of his own hand on smooth plaster – and the door fell open. Fell into shadow.
And so did he.
He caught his breath on the other side, dazed and unexpectedly drained, to see astonished faces staring at him. No one he had ever seen before, but strangely familiar to the eyes of his soul. He had fallen out of light and into the darkness of their world. It was everywhere he looked, leeching out from the undercity of this world, for the stain came from the undercity of its reflection. The undercity of Ombria. He knew it, though he didn't know why.
"So you feel it, then."
Ducon looked up, meeting eyes so like his own. Someone had summoned his father – though simply opening the door might have done it. "I feel. . . ." and he grasped for useless words, though they refused to come.
His father smiled at him. "Come. We have much to do."
And he was led through streets that were a darkened reflection of those he knew so well; reversed and refracted and reflected, but not wholly unfamiliar. To a palace whose nooks and crannies showed him not the pain he knew from the shadows, but joy of the world he had left behind, if only for a moment.
"There is a war in my city," his father said quietly, once they had reached a room Ducon recognized. Almost the same as his own study, but not quite. Familiar enough to be unsettling and comforting at once. "We are matched, magic for magic. Power against power."
"Who?" Ducon found his voice to ask a soft question.
His father's silver eyes were shadowed. "They are raiding, roving bands of pirates that hit the coast as often as they please. We have been formidable enough that they dare not attack us, but they have a leader. One who is unknown to us, and bold because of it."
"But – the undercity -"
"It is from the undercity that the imbalance spreads," his father sighed, seating himself. "But if I were to abandon the battle against the invaders, no matter that it was to focus on stopping the problem at its source, I would leave my people defenseless against them."
"They know you well," Ducon observed.
"We are matched, every day. They test us, and push gently against our forces. Enough so that I know they have more power mustered. They are holding back, so that Lumenosa is not completely destroyed before they have won." His voice dropped, scraping an exhausted whisper. "I am tired."
Ducon raised silver eyes. "What do you need?"
It was not the first time such rumors had reached his ears. His own informants had brought him word of such sly talk, preparing him for the attacks that would come in court.
Yet it was the first time these words dripped into his ear while he sat the Throne of Ombria. "Lord Sozon," Kyel said, layering honeyed words with chill. "Such gossip is beneath a man of your stature."
The lion rumbled, displeased. But the man bowed, cunning eyes never leaving the Prince. "Of course, my Prince."
He had dealt with much this day, and all the previous days. Try as he might, his patience became strained, and he felt less inclined toward leniency with each passing hour. Ducon had warned him against this, against the hardening of his heart. Yet Kyel saw the benefits of it. Especially when dealing with situations like this.
The lion retreated behind fronds of color and silk, hanging draperies and women's skirts.
And Kyel turned to the next petitioner.
Lydea smiled at him over his books. The labors of a Prince, after all, never ceased. He learned continually.
"You must not put any stock in the rumors," she cautioned. Mag had led them both through the evening's lesson, and given them problems. Lydea's gentle teasing about journeywomen who wandered had coaxed a smile from Faey's waxling. She had drifted from the room, then, and Kyel knew she had gone to poke her way through the secrets of the palace. But she would be back. Mag always came back, though always different from before.
"Is there any truth to them?"
Lydea sighed, a breath of air that fluttered the petals of a rose. "Your cousin was always a mystery to the court. He would disappear for hours on end, days at times. Come back streaked in charcoal, smelling of alcohol and perfume."
Blue eyes were fascinated.
Lydea laughed at him. "Little of what he did was known to the court; he kept his own counsel then, as ever."
Kyel thought he might begin to understand. "And few trusted him."
"A bastard son of the house of Greve?" Lydea's tone was gentle, though the words sliced the air between them. "Of course not. Royce might have been the only one who truly knew Ducon, then."
The Prince's dead father had been fond of the strange, silver-haired youth with his opaque eyes and strange ways. Fond enough to name him guardian to the small Prince, suddenly vulnerable in the wake of his father's impending death. Fond enough to name him regent. Whispers of the court told that the mysterious bastard child of the House of Greve had done more for Ombria than full-bloods of the House ever had. At least in recent memory.
Those words stung sharply at Kyel, because he could not deny their truth. Ombria had been strong under Ducon's guidance, for the first time in years. Pirates now feared their shores, and the people of the city prospered. It was different enough from the Ombria of his blood-father's rule to be almost another city entirely.
'Twas a difficult legacy to uphold.
"Why doesn't Ducon draw anymore?"
Lydea's smile was distant. "The man Ducon used to be began to die when we buried Royce," she said softly. "Ombria was desperate, Kyel – our city needed leadership. I think Ducon erased who he had been, and redrew himself into what we needed him to be."
Blue eyes blinked, puzzled.
Lydea only gifted him with a smile, turning back to the arithmetic on her paper. "That's enough gossip for one eve. Put no stock in the rumors, Kyel."
And she asked him a question, about numbers and accounts and lines, and he put the conversation away for now, resolved to take her advice.
But the rumors hissed steadily underneath the court, darting and biting with irritating persistence.
And in Kyel's heart, doubt stretched tiny roots, and began to grow.
In shirtsleeves, he paused. A whisper, pleading with ears to be realized.
He was preparing for Kyel's celebration; but battles did not come at convenient times. There is never a convenient time to die.
He strained for the whisper.
"The Lord is hurt."
"Dying."
"Please, you must -"
He was already reaching for shadow.