The Shadows

Shifting her legs off the edge of the mattress, she jumped down and jogged to the phone.

Picking up the receiver, she said, “Good morning, how may I help you?”

It was a male voice, but not that of her blooded sire. It was the one who had called before from the s’Hisbe, the one who had issued the decree of war in that strangely accented tone: “I have a message for your King, Wrath, son of Wrath. The Queen wishes to thank him for the swift return of the Anointed One. Wrath’s compliance is that of a wise leader and statesmale, and it is my pleasure to reassure him that no military action shall be taken by us and that there is accord, once more, between our peoples.”

Click.

Paradise looked at the phone.

Had she gotten that right?

Punching her finger into the two buttons on the cradle, she cleared the line, and when the dial tone came back on, she tapped out her father’s number on the buttons. Or tried to. She was shaking so badly, she couldn’t get the sequence of digits right.

When things finally rang through, she found herself breathing hard.

“Hello—”

“Father!” she cut in. “Father, they called again—”

“Paradise! Are you safe—”

“Yes, yes, you have to listen to me! They called again, the s’Hisbe—they said Wrath returned the . . .” What was it? “. . . the Anointed One? They said everything was okay—I mean, they called off the war!”

Stupid way of putting it, she thought in the back of her head. Like the thing had been a birthday party canceled because of bad weather?

“Whate’er speak you of?” her father said slowly. “Wrath was not going to give Trez up.”

“He must have changed his mind?”

“I spoke with him at dawn. The Brotherhood had sent out a day-faring emissary to gather intelligence on the Territory. Whate’er has . . . I shall have to call him at once.”

“Will you try to let me know what happens?”

“I shall.”

“I love you,” she blurted.

“Oh, Paradise, I love you, too. Stay underground.”

“I promise.”

As she hung up the phone, she found herself praying she got the chance to apologize in person to him. Although she supposed that impulse was just her inner four-year-old wanting to be a good girl.

No matter the outcome of the conflict with the Shadows, she had to stand firm.

The threat of war was a good reminder that you only had one life to live.

So you’d better make it count.

* * *

As s’Ex met the unwavering stare of the Princess, he decided she was very smart to disarm him and get the Chief Astrologer away from his reach before he got the answer she had prompted from the male.

But the explanation was unnecessary; he knew the “why” of the chart’s alteration.

The Astrologer stumbled through his words. “The infant was the rightful heir, supplanting you, Princess. But the Queen did not want a commoner’s bloodline on the throne. She knew that her executioner was the sire. She forced me to change the time of birth by four minutes, thirty-two seconds—which would place the young under a disadvantageous positioning of the sixth planet from the sun.”

At once, the sound of his daughter’s plaintive cry ran through s’Ex’s mind . . . and then entered his bloodstream.

His chest began to pump with hard breath.

His fists curled up.

His heart skipped a beat . . . and then settled into the slow, steady beat of a killer.

The Princess held out his blade to him. Her eyes were full of sorrow, but they were also very, very clear. In a voice that shook, but had strength in it, she spoke four words.

“Do what you must.”

She knew she had just sentenced her mother to death. By this truth coming to light, he would not hesitate to avenge the murder of his blood.

With his war hand, he accepted the serrated blade—and tilted the tip toward his face. With two quick streaks down the hollows of his cheeks, he marked himself.

Once for his daughter whom he would never know.

Once for the wrong he was going to rectify.

As he turned for the break in the tiled partition, he was single-minded—and yet he stopped.

Cranking his head over his shoulder, he pegged the Chief Astrologer with his stare. As the male shrank back in mortal terror, s’Ex said, “If my daughter was to be the heir, who succeeds the Queen now?”

“S-s-s-she d-d-d-does.” The male pointed to the Princess. “She has rightful claim to the throne. Her records have not been altered. She would have been second in line after your daughter, and with the death, she is the legitimate heir—”

“The murder,” he cut in, “of my daughter, you mean.”

He glanced at the Princess.