The Shadow Saint by Gareth Hanrahan EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Author: Gareth Hanrahan
- Language: English
- Genre: Dragons & Mythical Creatures Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
If Sanhada Baradhin had a son, then the boy’s bones lay probably
somewhere in the ruins of Severast. Perhaps he was turned to screaming
gold by the weaponised wealth-curse of Blessed Bol, or speared on a shaft
of moonlight. Even if he lived through the invasion, he was likely killed in
the orgiastic rampage of sacrifice, when gangs of war-priests culled the city
streets, murdering entire districts in accordance with the funeral rites of
their respective gods. The spy saw priests pushing ornamented saltwater
tanks, blood and water slopping out of the overflowing basins as they
drowned worshippers to the Kraken. Mass graves marked with coins for
Blessed Bol. Cannibal rites of the Lion Queen. Even the Fate Spider’s slow
embalmment could be hastened; mummification takes too long, but
alchemical preservatives imported from Guerdon can do in minutes what
used to take long years in the Paper Tombs.
If Sanhada Baradhin had a son, the boy is dead.
But while the spy is not Sanhada Baradhin, and the boy in the cabin with
him is not his son, for the duration of this voyage from the southlands to
Guerdon he is Baradhin and the boy is Emlin. Eleven or twelve years old,
maybe, but sometimes something far older looks out from his eyes.
The boy didn’t have a name when he was presented to the spy. They
took his name away in the Paper Tombs.
Sanhada named him Emlin. It means ‘pilgrim’ in the tongue of Severast.
Taking on the roles of refugees from the Godswar was easy for both of
them. Walk like you’re hollow. Keep your voice low, as though speaking
too loud might attract the attention of some mad deity. Shudder when the
weather changes, when light breaks through the clouds, when certain noises
are too loud, too charged with significance. Flinch at portents. The man
whose name is not Sanhada Baradhin and the boy who didn’t have a name
arrived on board the steamer a week ago with bowed heads, shuffling up the
gangplank with a crowd of other survivors. Sanhada’s contacts and godwrought gold earned the pair a private cabin.
Taking on the roles of father and son is harder. Sanhada has no official
standing in the Ishmere Intelligence Corps; nor is he a priest of Fate Spider.
Nor, for that matter, was the spy ever a father before.
“I am chosen of the Fate Spider,” said Emlin on the first night at sea,
when they were alone in the cabin. “Your fate has been woven for you.
X84. The thread of your life is in my hands, and you shall obey me.” His
adolescent voice broke as he recited the words they taught him in the
temples. The boy’s small for his age. Dark hair, dark eyes, the pallor of
years spent in the lightless Paper Tombs. He stood straight, with the pride of
one who knew he’d been chosen by a god.
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