28 himself could even harm the creature. Was this his old hunting knife? Perhaps something of his had the potential to injure the creature as well. This was a vulnerability unaccounted for, and quickly exploited. He would have to double down on the insurgence. “Will it happen again?” the shadow whimpered. “Are they dead?” “I killed them, Father.” “Then no, child,” he said, pulling it into his arms. “No one else could ever hurt you, except me.” He stroked the shadow’s back as it lay against his shoulder. “And I never will.” * * * The Senator insisted on naming the shadow. She called it Elendi. And though it ate nothing, she requested its presence at supper day after day. He suspected her fondness for it was a result of concealing anything she felt for him. Let her do it, then. Every now and again she’d let a smile slip through. The shadow’s blood loyalty would not be bothered. He didn’t tell her of the rebel hunts. Of the nights when he and the shadow prowled the mesa’s caves and catacombs. Of the desperate struggles of those they cornered; of standing back, arms folded, as the shadow closed in. Did he fear them? The man feared nothing for his own safety. The shadow never let a soul touch him. But he feared their knowledge. They had found a weakness, and the shadow couldn’t heal without him. * * * A speech, a fortnight after a rebel cell was cleared. He’d dismissed the shadow indoors and stood over the courtyard. Intimidation was not what he wanted, not right now. When there are no rebels, he promised, there will be peace. He saw a silhouette rise above the crowd, and his words died. A figure climbing up a statue amidst them. The silhouette—he began to take a step back— held—he tried to turn, and dive to the ground—a bow—but before he could turn far, an arrow sang across the courtyard and slashed past his shoulder and into his ribs. The shadow rushed out and stood over him in the calamitous noise, his guards filled in between him and the railing, and a physician broke off the bloodied shaft. He was carried into the nearest bedroom, where the physician cut the arrowhead from his chest. Not too serious, he pronounced, wrapping the man’s shoulder tightly. His mantle had likely saved him a month’s recovery. The shadow stumbled in, hands pressed against spiderwebbed cracks in its chest. It paused against the wall to yank out an arrow-shaft, the headless shaft that had been spattered with the man’s blood. The shadow ran to his side. “Father! Father, are you well? Father, I failed you,” it panted. Wisps of light leaked between its claws and curled up to the ceiling.
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