Shadows of the Soul

By William Thrash

The fantasy series Shadows of the Soul (Soul, Sword, and Shadow) all in one book.

This is the story of Krolassen Taren Morr, trained to use dual swords and taught the beginnings of shadow magic. Everyone seems to have an opinion of Taren that doesn't quite match what he desires. Hearing voices in his head doesn't help. Fleeing an unwanted life of work as a dung merchant, he joins the Imperial Army in search of adventure.

Taren's inexperience at dealing with life finds his abilities with the sword and shadow tested again and again. Accompanied by his friend Liv, he embarks on a journey that will lead him from one evil to the next.

He will face thieves and demon-dogs. He will face enemy soldiers and assassins. He will face the evil god behind the enemy empire in a dazzling display of shadow. But through it all, he must face himself.

Warning: This book is not entirely suitable for young readers. Battles and war can be violent. Otherwise, a great story for young adults and older. Courage, morals, and consequences are stressed throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Thrash
• Release date: Jul 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386967453

Book preview

BOOK 1––––––––CHAPTER 1

Ruin.

Taren’s life was ruined in an instant. So much promise was destroyed before he even managed to make it on his own.

The voices he heard weren’t any help, either. Voices were what other people called them. They also called them a problem or a sickness. He knew the voices as one voice. He had been taken to doctors, witches, and priests. No matter the treatment, the voices remained. Few wanted to trust him when they knew of his condition. However, there were exceptions. One such trusting man was Guards-Captain Ren Termono – a wizened old veteran of a few wars who took his duties seriously. Ren had judged Taren to be suitable for responsibility.

Newly commissioned to the civil guard in Varbenburg, Taren was only on his first day when doom struck.

Disaster was a familiar face; Chora, his former nanny, was there - amongst the crowd of people checking over foodstuffs for the evening meal later on.

Taren wore his rust-colored guard hauberk with pride. Despite his father’s protestations and the inner voice that occasionally assaulted him during the day, he had secured a future with the civil guard. Shunning a life of following in his father’s footsteps, he had signed on with the city to be a watchman. Law and order.

His grandfather had been strangely silent, offering no opinion, even if desired or not, when so many others had told Taren he should follow his father's profession.

Chora reached for a potato. Her hand was older than he remembered – he had not seen her in years. How long has it been, Chora?

The sounds of haggling and good-natured banter surrounded them. Even if they were separated by several paces, he could pick the old woman out of a crowd anywhere. Her caring features and the warmth of memory reminded him of comfort, love and guidance when his own mother was absent by death.

The voices he heard – or the one voice – were no help at all. He refused to speak to others of the voice, if it were one, and those who knew he heard something that they couldn’t approved of his silence. No one wanted to hear that he heard voices.

As if on cue, he felt the familiar tingle in his mind.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

What? Taren often spoke out loud when responding to the voice. He redirected his response in thought. What are you going on about? Chora is there...

*She fulfilled her duty—*

She was my nanny. A mother when I had none. He watched Chora glance at him with the potato in hand.

The food-merchant, Crollo, was dealing with the chandler Sebren. He was unaware of Chora.

The old woman shared a look of pain and regret with Taren for a few seconds through the chaos of the crowd, before slipping the potato under her robe.

The move stunned Taren into a frozen state of thought. Had she fallen on such hard times that she needed to steal? He had not kept contact with her over the years. The woman was frail – moreso than he ever remembered. Was she starving? Destitute? Would the potato be her only meal for the day? Or for the week?

His eyes were locked with hers; it seemed as if hers were on the verge of tears. She turned, bitterness in her features, and hurried away from the stall. Within a second, she was lost in the press of people vying for their food purchases.

*And why did you not stop her?*

Annoyed at the voice, he thought, Shut up—

That was as far as Taren got.

A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around.

Ren’s stubbled features and piercing eyes were even fiercer and steely than normal. Failure. The word was spat with disgust.

What? Taren was disoriented. Chora’s situation and the voice had him confused for the moment. Ren’s anger wasn’t helping.

Failure. And on the first day.

He looked around quickly, trying to make sense of his confusion. Crollo the merchant was looking at him. Sebren looked confused. Ren’s grip on Taren’s shoulder was strong. The captain's assistant was there, too. A few passersby looked curiously at the trio of guards. And there, through the crowd, stepped Chora.

Taren blinked.

She placed the potato back on the pile without looking at it. Her eyes were locked on his, full of sadness and regret. She pursed her lips and turned away.

I was being tested?

*Of course you were.*

Shut up—

Back to the hall with you. Ren pushed him. You’re not fit to wear the hauberk.

A crushing weight of shame and embarrassment made his knees weak. His eyes swelled with water as the enormity of the failure hit him. Wait, Captain Ren—

Silence. I was wrong to trust you. The gravelly voice had a weight that plugged Taren's protestations.

Off-balance and stumbling, Taren was propelled by timely pushes and shoves from Ren and the assistant with him, Lieutenant Drass.

Taren's thoughts flew wildly, trying to make sense of the sudden upset to his focus on being his own person. But—

You failed. Ren's two words were final.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Would you shut up?

*I have never steered you wrong.*

Taren laughed. You can't be serious.

Guard Captain Ren shoved him harder. This is no laughing matter.

Quashed in his incredulity over the voice in his head, Taren felt a deeper shame. I'm sorry, I—

Silence.

A familiar face appeared beside him. What's wrong? What has he done? It was Liv, his childhood friend and a young woman often pushed by those around him as a suitable future wife.

Go away, Liv.

Ren scowled. Guard's business, young lady. Be on with you.

She was pretty, with very pale skin and dark curls that were tied unsuccessfully back. Many ringlets would not be constrained. She ignored Taren's dismissal. Why are you—

The guards-captain frowned deeper. I said be on with you.

Taren flushed deeper in embarrassment. Though many thought he and Liv were destined to be married, he would have none of it. She was pretty enough and caring – going out of her way to talk to or help him – but he recalled an event he could not erase from his memories. Years before, when she was five, they had been playing in the dirt on the outskirts of town. A particularly fierce dog had come near and growled at them. He had been frightened, but Liv had been more frightened; she had wet herself. His lip curled at the memory. It was fifteen years ago, but he could still remember her tears, the tracks of her urine down her knees, and the smell. He wanted no part of such a weak and embarrassing woman. Go away, Liv.

She pursed her lips and fumed, her eyes angry, but concerned for him at the same time. She slowed her pace and fell behind.

Her attempt at intervention only deepened his shame.

What am I going to do? I cannot go back to my father.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Would you shut up? You're no help at all. My grandfather thinks I should go haring off after some myth.

*The Swords of Souls are no myth, young man.*

Taren rolled his eyes. But the last one known to exist has been lost for over two hundred years. It's probably at the bottom of a swamp and rusted to nothing by now. I will not join the hundreds of other idiots searching for something that doesn't exist.

*All of them still exist.*

Pure fantasy.

Ren growled at the door to the barracks as if willing it to open. Drass opened the door for them as if the growl had been meant for him. Ren had a way around others that offered little patience. In with you, and get that hauberk off.

Taren stepped into the small entry he had wanted to call home. A few aging decorations studded the walls with little flair or originality - tokens from skirmishes with bandits or bits of booty taken from someone who had committed a serious crime against the town. Prominent was a shield in the entry, its blue enamel faded and old. The yellow diagonal bar was also faded and the rampant lion in black was the only bold feature remaining. The shield had been taken from the warlord Drumos Rakken Sarraki, from the time before the merging of the two empires under the Shadowmasters of Strettin. The Shadowmasters helped the king maintain order between the two former enemies and the united empire had been better for it in the beginning.

Times had changed, including how those living in the empire had been named. On the Eastern side of the empire, from which Taren was born, families were named by first their lords and then their given names, followed by their family names. Taren's name was, in the Old Ways, Krolassen Taren Morr. In earlier times, it would have been shortened to Kro' Taren Morr. The usage persisted here and there as if the people rejected the naming conventions of the new empire. Everyone knew their names, if unused. Taren knew little of the lord named Krolassen, but his family had served under him four generations back. The Krolassen line had been destroyed during the battles leading to the merging, but the Morr family retained the Krolassen title, as did the few other families descended from that estate. Using the lord's title was sometimes considered a condescension.

Hearing his own title from Ren added to his shame.

Kro' Taren Morr, you are expelled from service to the town. The guards-captain waited while Lieutenant Drass helped Taren out of his swordbelt and hauberk.

Taren felt helpless. He did not want to go home and face his father. But... I'm good with a sword. His pleading melted off of Ren's stony glare. He was indeed good with a sword – with two at the same time, even. His grandfather had slowly taught him over the years. I can—

Ren's look did not change. You'll do nothing for the town. If you're good with swords, then go join the Provincial Army.

The army was taking recruits. War between the two former empires was threatening. The Shadowmasters seemed to have altered their efforts from keeping the two empires at peace to fomenting anxieties.

But—

Out. I do not care what you do. Go be a soldier. Go work for your father. He pointed at the door. But right now, you will get out of my sight.

Drass opened the door again and Taren was shoved abruptly out the door.

He blinked in the setting sun and tried to ignore the two guards outside the barracks. He knew they would know he had failed. He had left for his first day on patrol wearing the hauberk of the Varbenburg Guard. He had just been ejected from the barracks without it.

Tremors inside threatened to become more. He felt mortified. At twenty, he would not succumb to tears. He clamped his jaw shut and then saw Liv. She was there, under an awning, watching the barracks. She said nothing. Her arms were folded as if hugging herself and she was crying. Crying for him.

He tightened his jaw and went the other way.

*Why do you treat her so?*

I don't need her sympathy.

Taren Morr had nowhere to go. How was he going to face his father? How was he going to deal with the smugness? He did not want to follow in his father's footsteps, no matter what the cost. He had to get out and get away. His father had taken up the business from his grandfather when grandfather had become frail. The Morr family had served Varbenburg for generations. Lord Krolassen had hired Great-great-great somebody-Morr a long time ago to clean up the dung. The Morr family had become successful dung merchants, shoveling dung, hauling dung, and selling dung to the local farmers for fertilizer. But such a future was not for Taren. He would never again shovel dung for his father. He would have to leave or he would get stuck shoveling shit for the rest of his life. He went back home, determined.

CHAPTER 2

Taren approached the manor house with dread. The familiar sights and smells made him want to vomit. The pervasive smell from the penned heaps twisted in his nose. He hated it.

His father was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wore a look that said nothing. You coming back to work, then?

How does he know?

*He can see the long look on your face.*

What?

His father raised an eyebrow. Taren knew his father would be wondering if he was answering him or the voice in his head. I assume something didn't go well?

Taren scowled. Why do you have to be right? I will not be a dung farmer.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Well, maybe I will, he said angrily.

A concerned frown crossed over his father's face. Son—

I'm leaving. Tomorrow.

The older man did not respond right away, but his look was sad. He nodded. You going to say goodbye to your grandfather?

I will. He shouldered past his father and into the cool of the home. Inside was neat and clean, but still the smell was there. Manure. Endless manure.

The voice vibrated in him as if to say something, but was silent.

Taren entered his room and began collecting clothing and what items he thought he would need: his brush; his toothbrush; his journal; pen and ink; and his knife. He rolled his favorite wool blanket and tied it. He slid the knife into his boot. The rest he shoved into a satchel.

I will leave in the morning.

*Where will you go?*

Maybe I will join the Provincial Army. I'm good with swords.

No answer.

His father watched silently from the doorway.

Taren did not want to talk to him about the loss of his position with the guard. He moved past him without looking and out of the house.

The trek up the hill to the small cottage where grandfather stayed was a familiar one. Going up to grandfather's had looked like such a long journey when he was younger. It seemed to have moved closer over the years and the several strides up the hill now were not difficult or long.

His knock brought grandfather to the door.

There you are. A smile as bright as the sun lit the old man's face. Then it evaporated. Oh, no. I can see it in your face. Come in, come in.

He knows?

Sit and be at ease. I think this is a time above others.

I don't know if that is true.

*It is.*

Who asked you?

The comforting sandalwood incense smells permeated the small dwelling, pushing out and banishing the smells of the manure heaps.

The persistent aroma was not missed. The old man's home was dark and lit in bright areas by two small lamps. The smell of polishing oil hung in the air. Everything metal was oiled and polished with a care that said vast amounts of time were spent making sure everything was looked after.

His grandfather's kind face drew down in a frown. I sense you are about to embark on something larger than the Morr farm.

Taren looked at the old face. Frail, it was, lined and creased with years of worry and determination. I won't ever be so old.

The laughter in his head was clean and genuine. *Is that so?*

Shut up.

His grandfather raised an eyebrow. Even still? There was no need to phrase the rest of the question about hearing voices.

Taren hung his head. Yes. I'm sorry.

His grandfather touched his shoulder. Do not be ashamed. Perhaps the Creator has blessed you with something beyond what normal people experience.

Taren laughed inside – a laughter filled with bitterness. Sure, as long as no one else hears of it.

His grandfather nodded, very slowly. The unknown causes fear.

Overwhelmed by years of voices that were considered unusual or beyond the norm, he said, But why me?

His grandfather sat in his chair by the table. On the table were a few metal things requiring his attention: a knife; a hinge; and a door-bolt. The Creator does as He wills. We often do not understand because we are too small to see.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Shut up, would you?

His grandfather raised both eyebrows.

The wash of shame felt tangible and wet. I'm so sorry, grandfather.

The old man's look of concern was as genuine as any he had ever seen. So your voices have never gone away – even for a short time?

Taren looked around the small home – so familiar and yet so small in memory. No.

His grandfather, always so direct and concise, twisted his mouth. I have something for you.

Hmm? What was the old man going on about?

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Shut up. You're making me angry.

His grandfather rose from the chair and approached the hearth of the fireplace. I have wondered when the time might be right... He moved stones about waist-height and uncovered a long, hidden hole.

Right time?

I've showed you how to use swords.

Yes... Taren's memories of time spent with grandfather were filled with laughter and also hard work. The training was slow; grandfather said he wanted to make sure Taren learned it correctly. A slow move from a block position took weeks to learn – not that Taren was slow. Grandfather wanted to see that he learned and cemented what he learned so that moving became second nature.

Taren had long ago given up agitating for grandfather to show him the next move and had settled into progressing at the very slow pace the old man set. Indeed, his use of two swords was so natural that he thought nothing of it. Grandfather even said he was very good.

Most soldiers used a sword and shield: grandfather scoffed. He had said that two swords could equal any shield, although not against arrows. The old man was of the opinion that the benefits outweighed the disadvantage of shield-cover.

I used these when I was younger. He was turning, holding a long oil-cloth wrapped bundle.

Swords?

There was a twinkle in the old man's eye. He grunted assent.

The inner voice vibrated as if to say something, but trailed off.

He took the proffered bundle. The swords inside felt small and long.

I have something else to tell you, as well. A final lesson.

Taren carefully unwrapped the bundle, yet eager to see what was inside. I'm leaving tomorrow morning; I don't have time for more lessons. He did not mean to be dismissive and he knew his grandfather would not take it so. He figured his grandfather might be trying to begin another weeks-long instruction of something basic and simple. Such was his way.

A firm hand clamped on his arm as grandfather sat next to him. It is more than you think.

The two swords inside the bundle were long and almost straight – curving very slightly upwards from the hilt. They were beautiful, if old. He set the bundle down and stood, hefting one sheathed sword and considering its weight. With a decisive tug, he whipped the sword from its sheath. While having a delicate look, he felt the sturdiness of solid steel and balance. He realized he was grinning like a madman.

His grandfather's smile was wide and open. You like them? The look in his eye said he knew the answer.

Taren moved away from the table and swung the sword; it felt balanced and light in his hand. The hilt was long to accommodate two hands, but the sword was light enough to be wielded single-handed. He sliced the air twice and retrieved the other sword. It was a twin – identical in look and weight. These are fantastic! Hefting the two, he assumed the guard position taught so long ago using wooden practice swords. This time, he used steel.

His grandfather smiled with knowledge. They served me well many years ago, though it seems like only a few months. He frowned. Time seems to pass so quickly now.

Don't I know all you have to teach? You said—

Yes, I said you knew all I could teach for swords. This is beyond that.

Hmm? The confusion was irritating to Taren. Grandfather took weeks to impart the simplest of things. I'm leaving tomorrow—

I know. The time is right.

But I'm leaving in the morning. I won't have time for—

His grandfather was shaking his head. This is right now and not something requiring days of study, though you might require years to comprehend.

Taren was mid double-stroke with the twin swords. What? I don't understand.

Grandfather motioned to the chair. Sit a few minutes and I will tell you.

Placing the swords down on the oil-cloth, he sat. What is this about?

*Maybe you should—*

Shut up. Taren felt irritated.

His grandfather raised an eyebrow. Have the voices ever interfered with your silence?

Taren frowned; they had endured this conversation before. No, I've told you—

Then let's be done with it if it won't interfere.

He was thankful for that. Not many were willing to overlook his voices. Or the one voice, as he heard it.

I've taught you to embrace the silence.

Taren nodded. Yes. He knew from years of practice to attain a calmness within himself – a silence of thought and concerns that normally clouded a typical slice in time. The silence allowed a focus of intent and action. Moves became clearer. Responses with the sword became instantaneous. His grandfather had honed in him the discipline to acquire and hold the silence. He was well-acquainted with it.

His grandfather leaned forward. There is something beyond the silence.

What?

The old man peered into his eyes. Something I have not told your father.

Taren shook his head; he could not imagine his father even holding a sword, much less learning about the silence. You said you never taught my—

I did not. He was not the kind.

What?

Grandfather sat back and folded his arms. I have said before, your father was not of the sword. He was not born to it.

Irritation and familiarity flared in Taren. No, he was born of shit.

The old hand clamped down on his arm, painfully. He is my son, and born in pride. Whether you approve of his profession or not—

Anger flared in him. I will not follow in his footsteps. I will not shovel shit for the—

Silence. The word was low but filled with steel.

He glanced at the twin swords on the table before them. The command from his grandfather was as solid as the metal blades glinting in the lamplight. He immediately sought the silence of being as he had been taught. The simple word had been used before as a tool to bring a focus within himself. His breathing slowed and his mind emptied of the tumultuous activity of his scattered thoughts.

Knowing Taren was entering the state of focus, his grandfather leaned forward. My son is my son and born in love. Do not again malign your father for pursuing that path determined by his focus.

I thought you just said you did not teach him the—

No, I did not teach him the silence. It was not necessary. He was not of the kind.

But I—

Yes, you are of the kind. I knew this day would come. But in your father resides the same ability, if not the path in life that would lead him to it. He is who he is. Leave off berating your father – he is doing what he does for who he is.

Taren thought back on the many arguments he had endured with many people about the value of what his father and family did and for which they were known. Manure for fertilizer provided a richer yield in crops that fed people better. An honorable profession, some had claimed. A stinky one, he had countered.

The old man's eyes held his. There is darkness with the silence.

*This is dangerous...*

What? Why?

The vibration in him provided no answer.

His grandfather, unaware of the inner voice's warning, said, Feel the darkness within the silence.

It was not hard to do, though he had not thought of it in terms of light and dark before. Suddenly envisioning himself enveloped in darkness came easily. I feel it. It seemed like the right thing to say, though he sensed and saw it in his mind more than felt anything. If anything, the light in the room dimmed as if a tangible presence was beginning to block out the light.

His grandfather was nodding - a critical eye appraising him. The darkness is a force on its own. We do not dwell in it. Instead, we dwell in the light. Look around within yourself and you will see light.

Taren concentrated inwards, turning in the silence and the newfound accompanying darkness. He imagined a pinpoint of light. Am I just imagining...

The imagination provides the access.

Taren nodded. They had been through this conversation before in regards to the silence. How could there be silence when he heard his own labored breathing? While the practice swords swished through the air? While his feet shifted on the floor in twists and shifts of stance? But the silence was there, in his imagination. His grandfather had pushed his imagination to accept what it was forming.

Initially, Taren had thought it all trivial and pointless. But he had learned grandfather was right. He had indeed formed a silence amidst the noise and activity of moving through his sword training. Light? As if something small?

Grandfather grunted. Make it larger. Go to it.

Alright. And he did. A golden glow suffused his thoughts, washing back and drowning out the darkness.

Brighter.

Taren imagined the light brighter as if the sun were shining brightly down on him. Blinding?

Grandfather pursed his lips. Very good. In the light is life. Darkness is not the absence of life, even if it is the absence of light.

*This is danger—*

Shut up.

The light is necessary to create shadow and without light, there is no shadow.

Taren felt the vibration of the voice within him recede and go quiet. You? At a loss for words?

There was no answer.

Within the light are areas of shadow. It is there that we can draw power.

Power? What? You've never—

You did not need to know.

Taren shook his head. Why now?

This is taking longer because of your questions. Silence.

He drew a deep breath and silenced himself, re-entering that state of awareness that came as easily as breathing. It had taken much practice to attain it in years past. Alright.

Shadow can be manipulated – used as if a part of yourself. With practice, you could manipulate the shadow as easily as curling a finger. The simplest usage of shadow is how we all train to use it: the itch.

Itch?

The old man's hand lifted and fell as if dismissing the notion. It is how I was taught by my father. Use the shadow to cause an itch on the neck of someone. A parlor trick, at best, but useful for—

Taren looked around in the light that banished the darkness. He imagined objects creating areas of shadow. He imagined his hand dipping into it and swirling around. Then he touched his grandfather's leathered neck in his mind. He did not move a hand.

His grandfather stopped speaking, his eyebrows drawing down in annoyance. He reached a hand up and scraped at his neck – exactly where Taren had imagined. The old man's eyes went from annoyed to surprised, and then pleased. Yes, yes. Excellent. Old, white teeth flashed in the light. Excellent.

I did it right? With grandfather, something learned required days and weeks and months of practice before being told he had done it well.

Indeed. The old man was nodding. I will leave it to you to explore the shadow on your own. You are limited by your imagination.

But...

Listen to me, Taren. If I give you more, I would be giving you my own imagination – my own interpretation of what my mind sees in the light and the shadow. You must envision it and learn yourself. Learning what I see is a perversion of your imagination – something unnatural and wrong. Your imagination is yours and yours alone. Seek the light and the shadow. There is power there.

Alright? He was unsure.

Do not doubt. You successfully manipulated the shadow on your first try. You must explore it with your own imagination and develop what you see in your mind using your own thoughts and interpretations.

I see. Taren was nodding. Grandfather had taught him to explore his imagination at whim during sword training – to envision opponents and react to them. It was not always so. Grandfather had mostly practiced with him using the wooden practice swords. But on occasion, he would direct Taren to move against an unseen opponent conjured from his imagination.

The last of your training is done. There is no more I can teach you.

What? He was used to weeks of learning the same thing in excruciating, if thorough, detail. That's all?

Grandfather slapped his hand down on Taren's arm with love and care. That's all.

But that's not much to—

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

I thought you said it was dangerous?

You must explore the shadow on your own. I cannot show you what I know without leading you astray – without hurting you with preconceptions of my own imagination.

He knew arguing with grandfather was useless; his grandfather was being as direct as usual. He knew that the old man could not be more direct because he was always the most direct with which to begin. Grandfather never beat around the bush. Well, alright, then.

Good. Grandfather's smile was bright. Where will you be going?

I...

*You don't know, do you?*

Shut up. Taren wasn't sure where he would go; he just knew he had to get out of Varbenburg. I... I suppose to join the provincial army.

Grandfather nodded. He placed a hand on the pair of swords without shifting his eyes from Taren's. Then these will serve you well, may they do so. The old man gathered up the two swords and placed them in Taren's hands. There was a wetness about his eyes, but the old man said nothing more.

Many times, his grandfather had captivated him with stories of finding the fabled sword of myth and legend, known as Wrath. Lost a couple hundred years or more before, the sword was the focus of seekers everywhere. Said to be the last of the Swords of Souls, it was considered lost in the War of Sorrow. Many stories surrounded the sword and those who wielded it. While his grandfather believed the stories, Taren had outgrown the fascination years before. A myth was just a myth. Reality was solid steel in his hands, not some fantasy of power sought after by everyone else.

Taren left grandfather's cottage for the last time.

CHAPTER 3

What didn't he tell me?

*Things you must learn on your own.*

But I thought you said he was speaking dangerous things?

*So it appeared at first.*

What makes you the authority on the shadow?

*More than you can imagine.*

I thought I was limited by my imagination?

*And so it is.*

Well, I can imagine a lot.

*Your imagination will limit you to the whole truth.*

And what is the truth? Taren reached the bottom of the hill. He paused in the chill air, regarding his home. The manure pens drew his attention. I will suffer this no longer.

*You may regret—*

Shut up. He entered the home that had been his for so long. He heard his father in the kitchen, but he did not want to talk; all the talking was done. Everything that could be said had been said before.

His father appeared in the doorway to his room – he was bearing a bundle. Food for you. For your journey. His voice was sad, but firm with knowledge he would not change his son's mind.

Taren sat on the edge of his bed and looked up. He wrapped himself in the silence and imagined the dark, the light, and the shadow. Dipping his hand into the shadows, he reached out in his mind and touched his father's neck. He wanted to be sure he had actually learned something and had not seen grandfather scratch out of coincidence.

His father twisted his mouth without thought and reached up with his free hand to scratch his neck.

Hmm. It works.

*Of course it does.*

Thank you, he said and took the bundle. He imagined causing the itch on the other side and his father's hand reached around to the other side and scratched at his jawline – exactly where Taren had imagined.

Some bread and cheese. A few wraps of dried meat. The man pursed his lips and then turned away abruptly.

Taren watched his father's form recede into the darkness of the hallway. What was so dangerous about what you thought I was learning?

*The darkness is its own power. But it is evil and twists one into a state of being wretched and vile. The shadow is of the light.*

But isn't the shadow a form of darkness?

*No, it is the opposite. I had concerns your grandfather was going to teach you to use the darkness when he mentioned it first.*

Didn't I need to envision darkness before seeing the light?

*Not at all. You could have envisioned light first. Perhaps it is just the way your grandfather learned.*

I thought the shadow was evil. The Shadowmasters—

*The shadow is of the light and cannot be evil. The Shadowmasters began in shadow and moved into darkness.*

Oh.

*Once they held power for good. Now they work evil.*

Why would the king allow—

*He is one man, against a Council of Shadowmasters.*

His father had lit a candle in his bedroom sometime before Taren had returned. He leaned over toward the nightstand and blew it out. What can't I learn about shadow?

The voice vibrated within him in silence.

He shrugged out of his clothes and into the covers of his bed. I can do anything with shadow?

*Your imagination is your limit. Do not envision a limit. Explore your imagination as to learning something new, not defining what you can not.*

That's not much help.

*Man is a very negative creature. It is easier to place limits on yourselves than to expand your abilities.*

Taren grunted and rolled over.

Sleep was restless and filled with dreams of trying to leave and being unable to get away from the farm. He would try to leave, but he had to empty a manure cart first. No matter how hard he tried to shovel fast, the manure pile stayed the same in the cart. In another dream, Chora and Crollo the food merchant were expressing their disapproval and he was forced to endure it before leaving. In another, he tried to get into the barracks to bid his farewell to the guard captain. The door was barred and he could not leave without—

Forcing himself awake in the very early hours, he decided he had endured enough tortured dreams. He would leave now.

I will be gone from here before father awakens. He will not convince me to stay.

The voice within him did not even vibrate as if to hint at unanswered attention.

Taren wrapped his gear together and slung it over his back. He quietly stepped out and to the front door. His father's room was in the back and he would not hear Taren leave. He opened the door and stepped out into the dank smell of manure. A blast of cold hit him in the face and his feet crunched in frost. But it was the smell that had his attention.

Overwhelmed with disgust and the desire to be away, he started trotting. Before he reached the gate leading into the old farm, he was running. He did not look back – not even up the hill toward grandfather's cottage.

He did not head into Varbenburg. He skirted the fences of the farms arrayed around town and began a trek to the northwest. That way lay Garland, a large town that would be his first destination. Further on to the north, the Provincial Army of the East gathered in recruits.

Do I want to join the army?

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Nonsense. What hope do I have of finding any of the Swords of Souls? Idiots have been searching for them for hundreds of years.

*In the obvious places.*

Some help you are, he said aloud. The morning air was very cold and barely light. The sun was brightening the horizon, but only just. Taren was already shivering. I'm going to need a cloak.

*All of the swords still exist.*

Fantasy.

*Reality. But they were too dangerous to be lost; they were hidden.*

Taren frowned. The voice often prodded him to listen to people and sometimes hinted that it held knowledge. Who are you?

*A voice within your head.*

Who are you, really?

*An agent of the Creator.*

What?

The voice vibrated within him but said nothing.

Why in my head? Why not in Liv's head or father's?

*Remember the time you pulled Liv from the advances of the dog?*

How could he forget? The infamous peeing incident. I do not want to think of it.

*It was then that I was sure of you.*

Had it been then when the character of his voice had changed? He couldn't remember; it seemed so long ago. Sure of me? What do you mean?

*I was with you, and your father and your grandfather before you.*

You what?

*But I did not speak to them.*

Why not?

*Your grandfather dreamed, but never pursued. I was tempted to speak to him, but I restrained myself.*

Why would you do that?

*Your grandfather was a fine man and still is, but he lacked certain characteristics I find compelling in you.*

Me? Such as?

*You pulled Liv away from the dog when you could have run. She was so frightened she might not have moved at all if the dog had attacked her.*

But she wet herself—

*She was a little girl.*

Taren shook his head. Getting the memory of her accident out of his head was impossible.

*Your actions that day confirmed to me your character. I then began speaking to you in earnest.*

What?

A dog barked in response nearby – hidden in the open door of a shed. It was the last farm out of town.

The voice vibrated within him but did not respond.

All you ever did was pester me to listen to my grandfather.

*And so you should.*

He sighed. The sword, again?

*Yes.*

Oh, please. What makes you think I could find the cursed thing when thousands before me have failed? He threw up his hands and the pack shifted to slide along his shoulder. He readjusted it and gripped the strap again.

*Look where no one has looked before.*

He snorted. That's real useful. The battlefield where the sword had last been used was large and remote. Many adventurous types had braved bandits or worse to go and