Read an Excerpt
The Shadow Roads
Book Three of the Swans' War
Chapter One
The disk of light stretched and wavered, flowing left then right.
The moon, he thought. That is the moon . . . But who am I?
Dust mote stars spun slowly in the black. Light began to grow, and he slipped down into the cool, dark depths. He could feel the others here, their numbers beyond counting. Slowly they made their way toward the breathing sea, some so weak they were barely there, others . . . Others were as strong and clear as the risen sun.
But what are their names? Have none of them names?
Once he had been a traveler. Of that he was almost certain. A traveler whose journeys had become legend.
Once he had gone into a great swamp and battled Death himself.
The bright light faded, and he rose again, floating up toward the waning moon, the faint stars. Something swam by, pale and flowing.
A fish, he thought. But it was not. It was a man, blue-pale, like the belly of a fish, eyes like moon shells. For a moment it paused and gazed at him, sadly.
Who are you? he tried to say, but no words would form.
And then he was alone. He felt himself rising again, the wavering moon growing—so close. His face broke the surface, moonlight clinging to him, running out of his hair, his eyes. He took a breath. And then another.
"But who am I?" he whispered.
"Sainth?"
He looked around, but saw nothing.
"Sainth?" The voice came from a shadow on the water, black as a starless sky.
"Sainth . . . ?" he said. "Is that who I am?"
"It is who you were,"the voice said.
"And who are you?"
"I am the past. Perhaps not even that, but only a shadow of the past."
"I think you are a dream. This is all a dream."
"You are on the River Wyrr, where things are not as they should be."
A shard of memory knifed into his thoughts. "Death . . . Death pursued me!"
"His servants, perhaps. Death does not venture beyond the gates of his dark kingdom . . . yet."
"But why were his servants abroad in forms that could be seen?"
This brought a moment of silence, and he felt a breeze touch his face and sigh through the trees along the shore.
"They have not yet appeared so in the land between the mountains, but only in the hidden lands, as they are called: the kingdom of Aillyn, of old. Tusival's great spell fails, and the wall that surrounds Death's kingdom is falling. His servants clamber through the breach. They are preparing the way for their master to follow. . . as was foreseen long ago."
"But how can this be? Death cannot leave his kingdom."
"Aillyn . . . Aillyn meddled with his father's spell. He used it to sunder his lands from his brother's. Fear and jealousy and madness have led to this."
The man who had been Sainth felt himself sinking again, sinking beneath the weight of these words. He laid his head back in the waters, blinking at the stars. Each breath he drew sounded loud in his ears. The waters were neither warm nor cool. A soft current spun him slowly.
"Sainth," he whispered, listening for resonance.
Yes, he had memories of one called Sainth. But there were other memories, as well.
Death's servants had stalked him through a drowned forest. Death's servants!
For a moment, he closed his eyes, blotting out the slowly spinning stars. A man, almost hidden in a cloud of screeching crows, surfaced from memory.
Crowheart!
"Sainth?" came the oddly hissing voice again.
"I am not he."
"Then who are you?"
A light flickered behind closed eyes. "Alaan . . . I am Alaan!"
"Perhaps," the voice said, almost sadly. "Perhaps you are—in part. But you were Sainth once, and you have Sainth's duties to perform. Do not forget. You cannot shirk them."
The man who believed he was Alaan opened his eyes. "What? What are you saying? What duties?"
But in answer he heard only the soft murmuring of the river.
He floated on, the currents of memories filling him, spinning him this way, then that. How dreamlike some of them seemed, shrouded in mist, or washed out in the brightest light. Some were lost in darkness. Rabal Crowheart he remembered, and Orlem Slighthand. But surely these memories were confused, for Slighthand had served the sorcerer named Sainth, whereas Crowheart was a memory of this life—of Alaan's.
But the currents all seemed to flow together, like two rivers joining to form a new waterway. New, but made up of the tributaries.
Perhaps I should have a new name, the man thought—neither Alaan nor Sainth. But no, Alaan would do. Alaan would do for this life, however long it proved to be.
Waving arms and legs, he turned himself so that his head lifted clear of the water, and he searched the darkness. The Wynnd was broad here, but he could make out a line of trees, poplars, swaying gently in a soft breeze, moonlight shimmering off their leaves.
He set out for the shore, his strength seeming to grow with each stroke. A light, appeared among the trees. It was unlike the cold light of the stars, for this was orange-yellow and warm. Fire.
The man who had once been Sainth slowed his pace as he neared the shore. He could see other fires now. It was an encampment, he thought. And then a strand of music wafted out over the water and wove itself into the night sounds.
Fáel. He had found an encampment of black wanderers.
For a moment he hovered out of sight, silent in the slowly moving waters. On the embankment some Fáel men were watering horses in the dark. They must have just returned from somewhere . . .
The Shadow Roads
Book Three of the Swans' War. Copyright © by Sean Russell. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
