The Arkanist

Chapter Eight: The Face of Shadow

            He let his hand brighten under the sun, gaps of black splattered like paint at his fingertips, and continued. "They mastered the art of shadow, a difficult thing indeed, for they knew its name and its face. They conquered its being, and could weave it like fabric, or hide it, if they wanted.

            "They came to be known as the Shadowless, after the Faey Wars, for they used their knowledge in the art of killing. Shadows are dangerous things, Kaedn, in the art of killing, as they are anywhere, you should know. They killed many lords during the wars, but afterward, when the fighting was done, they did not return to Nevrast, but, instead, took refuge within Vantos, or at the time, Vannit, and have remained there ever since, although none know exactly where they dwell. Those who do, or rather did, are hunted down and murdered quickly and silently."

            "Then how to you know these things?" I asked. To be honest, I was scared of the answer. "If they murder the people who find out, why haven't they murdered you?"

            "The art is still taught in Nevrast," he said.

            "You were in the Faey-Realm?" I asked. As far I as I knew, and the world knew, no man had set foot into Nevrast since the Pact.

            "No," he said, turning to face me, his eyes a darker shade of grey. "But in the dark corners of the world, knowledge and power still dwell, still endure when all else has faded from it." He let the statement linger, brushed about by the wind. "But you are not ready to learn of shadows. Not yet."

            I bit my lip. "Then why did you bring me out here?"

            "To learn, too teach, to observe," he said. "You must observe something, especially something as elusive and enigmatic as shadow, observe it to its very limit before you can master its power. You must know when the wind blows, where the shadows will fall, you must know where it will shatter its light before it happens, you must know why is moves and where it will move before you can weave it like the Shadowless do, like I can."

            "So what do you want me to do?"

            "Watch," he said, standing up. "Learn."

            Aryl started back to Raenish, toward the stone walls, and the chimney smoke, and the towers, and the turrets, and the ramparts with the banners rippling in the wind, and I stayed behind, looking for the face of shadow.

            I bent low to the earth and watched the darkness break and fall between the blades of grass, and dash away like a hunted doe, never to be found again. I held my hand out as Aryl had, letting my skin bask in the warmth, then the cold shade. I moved my hand with the moving wind, allowing the shadows to slow.

            Never did I catch the face of shadow. It was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

            Light was fading upon the sky, and the shadows went dull on the grass, and I knew my time was gone. I rose to my feet, picking the deadknell from the earth, slipped in the pocket of my cloak and made my way back to Raenish.

            I wasn't terribly far from the gates, but I was far enough to be surrounded by fields and farms rather than stone and people. When I looked up, I saw the sky, boundless in its reign, faint stars gleaming at the edges of knowledge. I could feel the wind at my face and the relative immensity of the world around me.

            I had space to think, to reflect.

            People need space, they need the expanse, more than anything. To deny them such, is to deny them thought, and thought is the thing that makes us human. The thought is the thing that allows us to enter into our own conscience, our own self. Without it, we are nothing.