The Shadow Casket (The Darkwater Legacy)

Contents Title Page Maps Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Chapter 95 Chapter 96 Also by Chris Wooding Copyright 1 The things we value make us weak. Klyssen sat hunched over a desk, examining the message before him, his bad eye watering in the lanternlight. In his hands he held a small brass cylinder made up of five rings of letters which he rotated from time to time. Now and then he scribbled in the margins with a quill, turning innocent words to damning testimony, pleasantries to betrayal. No one understood betrayal like Marius Klyssen. Click-click-click. He turned the rings again. A new combination, another piece of the hidden report revealed. It was his own private cipher, known only to himself and his network of spies, each of whom had been drawn into his service through the careful application of threats and promises. Everyone had something they’d give anything for. It was just a matter of finding it and using it against them. He took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. The effort of decoding the letter was bringing on a headache. More reports of sedition and discontent, people saying things about the Empire they’d never have dared to before. Once he’d have stamped on them. These days he found it hard to care. No point crushing roaches one by one when the house was already infested. He pushed the letter aside and leaned back in the chair with a creak. The study was quiet and restless with flickering shadows. A cool wind blew against the shutters, bringing with it the smell of charred meat and the faint sound of screaming. There was a present on the desk, next to the lantern that illuminated the room. A cream-coloured box, gift-wrapped in blue ribbon. He replaced his spectacles, considered it a moment, then reached over and pulled the bow. Whoever it was intended for would have no use for it now, and he was an incurable investigator. The box fell neatly apart, revealing a silver casket inlaid with a design of bold geometric shapes and rays. Krodan through and through. Just the sort of thing he’d expect to find in the study of an Ossian manor. They loved to ape their betters. It looked like a cigar box, and he was partial to cigars. The smoke was hard on his stomach, but lighting one would give him a moment’s pleasure, and that was as much as he could hope for these days. Besides, he’d long since stopped caring about his health. He flipped open the casket. The quiet was pierced by the tinny chimes of a nursery rhyme. A painted princess, one arm aloft, rotated before a mirror. A music box. Likely a present from the lord to his daughter, a gift he’d meant to give and never would. Klyssen felt his throat thicken as the music played. It was a song from his homeland, sung to him at his mother’s knee, as he’d sung it in turn. When the tune came around again, he began to murmur hoarsely along. Little star, oh little star,Lay down your head.The time’s right for dreaming,The sun’s gone to bed. He faltered as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Even after three years, his reflection never failed to shock him when it caught him unawares. The drooping eye, the red-raw landscape of scar tissue across his cheek and jaw, the burned patches where hair refused to grow. He’d never been a handsome man, but the lanternlight made a ghoul of him, a storybook terror peering hungrily from the darkness into a world of beauty he was forever banished from. Small wonder she left me, he thought. Small wonder she took my girls away. His mouth twisted in bitter anger. No, that wasn’t why she’d left him. It was his power she’d loved, not his face. His status and wealth were what bound her to him. Once they were gone, so was she. He snapped the lid shut, silencing the music, hiding the princess and the ghoul from his sight. The things we value make us weak, he thought. And I have been made weak indeed. Rage boiled up in him and he swept the lantern from the desk. Flame raced along the floor where it shattered, climbing curtains and bookshelves. Klyssen watched for a time, the fire reflecting in the round lenses of his spectacles. Then he got to his feet and stalked outside, where the rest of the village was burning, too. The manor house stood atop a rise overlooking the sluggish river from which Darkwater took its name. As Klyssen stepped onto the porch the town spread out before him, black silhouettes of buildings billowing with fire, hazy in the smoke. Soldiers moved among them, swords drawn, hunting. Thin shrieks sounded over the rumble of flame and the periodic crash of collapsing timber. Behold the