Free Reign of Shadows by Deborah Chester

heart lay exposed to the boy—a lifetime of
hope, ambition, and plans for the future now in ruin. A dream of companionship,
of working together for a mutual aim, now shattered.
    Caelan
dragged in an unsteady breath. All the lightness in him dimmed. The relief, the
joy, the sense of unfurling like a warrior’s banner, faded. He was once again a
boy in trouble for his mischief, small and sorry, waiting head down for the
word of scolding.
    “Oh,
Father,” he said, his voice a mere whisper of sound in the falling snow.
    Beva
E’non drew in his pain, closing it behind the gates of his own will. In silence
he turned away from Caelan and mounted his pony. The globe lantern bobbed and
shook on its pole as he settled himself in the saddle.
    Gazing
down at Caelan, he held out the reins to the other pony without a word.
    Equally
silent, Caelan took them. A wool tunic and cloak lay across the saddle. Caelan
shook snow off the  garments and put them on, grateful for their warmth. He
hesitated a moment, hating to be collected like this, haling to still be a
child in a man’s body. But at last he climbed into the cold, stiff saddle. It
was his own, the stirrups shorter now than they’d been on his last visit home.
He looked at his father’s erect back. The white fur made Beva almost vanish
into the snowy landscape.
    The
man had always sought to blend into his surroundings, to never stand out, to
never insist that he be seen or heard. This inner stillness, this silence of
manner, appearance, and word, only added to his great mystique.
    Hut
lot Caelan, it made his father impossible to approach.
    Worse,
he had not expected Beva to know yet, much less come for him. Beva must have
overheard everything in the ceremony. Everyone in Trau would soon know of
Caelan’s public disgrace, and it would mark the first failure of this famous
man.
    How
to explain anything to the unyielding back riding in front of him?
    Caelan
sighed. He glanced over his shoulder at the immense walls of Rieschelhold, and
still felt no remorse. His way lay elsewhere, even if he did not yet know what
his life was to be. Perhaps now, at last, Beva would accept that.
    Frowning,
Caelan kicked his pony and followed his father home.

Chapter Five
    The
snow fell harder through the afternoon, the flakes large and wet. Caelan pulled up the
hood of his cloak and searched the saddle pockets until he found a pair of
gloves. His feet were freezing in their thin leather shoes, but he made no
complaint. Concentrating on the patterns of warmth and well-being, he tried to
make his toes warm. It didn’t work very well.
    Beva
swung his mount onto the imperial road, and Caelan followed. In silence they
galloped along the empty ribbon of stone, hoofbeats echoing against the wall of
forest on either side beyond the ditch. Clipping past the place where he’d been
ambushed, Caelan found himself holding his breath. But no lurkers were in
evidence today. Even the corpse had been dragged away, probably by wolves. The
soldiers of course were long gone, with no trace of their passing except a
series of fresh clearings off the road, with blackened fire sites and raw
stumps sticking up jaggedly.
    After
about a league, the forest thinned to marshland. The imperial road rose up atop
a levy, but a common road of frozen mire branched off from it, skirting the
marsh and heading south toward Meunch. At this spot stood an immense archway of
imported granite. Although plain of any curving or ornamentation, its
architecture was foreign, exotic. The speckled stone seemed to speak of other
lands, other customs, calling to travelers to seek them out. Strange letters
had been etched into the base of the arch tall, spiky letters in a script as
foreign as the stone.
    Towering
almost as high as the trees, the arch spanned the imperial road, testament to
one of the emperor’s greatest achievements. The roads spanned the length and
breadth of the empire, making every corner of it accessible. As for the