I cannot do it, she thought. I will step out of the illusion and reveal myself. I will give myself to him with the bone relic in my cupped palms. But I must not.
She screwed her eyes shut and felt her jaw clench. The pain in her body and mind was now beyond bearing.
So she did the only thing she could think to do.
Caewen sang a song of old power. It came to her in tatters of smoke and shadow on the air. It seeped out of the cracks of the earth, a rising fog of words. But she spoke not to the air, or the stone, not to the stars, or to the lines of power in the earth. She spoke to her own darkness. She spoke to the unseen and the unfathomable dreaming mind that sleeps within us all. She spoke to her worst desires. She spoke to a hunger for power. She spoke to selfish lust that has no care for how it is satisfied. She spoke to a need to revel in an enemy’s downfall and their pain and abasement. She spoke to the part of her that had guiltily delighted when Mannagarm was trapped in his own schemes. She spoke to the bitter joy she felt in hearing Athairdrost scream in pain as the dead cold hands of his white writhen tore his flesh. She spoke to all the things that a person denies about themselves, and fears about themselves, and knows deep down to be true.
She spoke to her shadow.
Not the Fetch. Her real shadow. The shadow within. Her own true darkness.
At her feet, the shadow responded. It stretched out, as it was a living thing upon the stone floor.
“You want him so much?” said Caewen. “You desire to be his? You need to yield to him, flesh and soul? Then go to him. Get up and go to him. I will not.”
At those words, her shadow did exactly that. It stirred, and it climbed to its feet, as if it had been simply lying down all this time. It grew shape and solidity, and it gathered colour to its flesh. For a moment Caewen was staring in a mirror, but then the image shifted. Where Caewen was untidy, her hair dishevelled, her clothing grey and brown and travel-stained, the Shadow-Caewen was suddenly not these things. She wore an elegant dress made of sapphires and over her shoulders lay a cloak of silvery fur. Her hair was wound and twinned and gloriously combed and shining, forming intricate braid-patterns, heaped up in lustrous coils. Her skin was a perfect and unblemished smoothness. Her eyes glowed with a colour like darkness on fire. And her lips, her perfect lips were as red as sunset after storm. With those perfect lips, she smiled, then the Shadow-Caewen bent down, picked up the brooch calmly between finger and thumb and she stepped out of Cag-Mag’s illusion.
“Hello,” whispered the shadow, quite huskily and with very clear intent set on The Winter King.
He did not quite flinch, but he stopped dead still.
“Give me the corpse-token,” he commanded. It was a tone that expected to be obeyed and there was a deep resonant power in it. No mortal being could have resisted, but the Shadow-Caewen simply held up the brooch and looked at him with a smile. Then, she whispered, “Make me. You might enjoy it. I think I would.”
He moved to raise his sword, but she only laughed and it was a long, clear beautiful sound. “Ah, what webs of joylessness and dour sadness you must weave for yourself. What a cloak of sobriety you wear. I will give you this, freely and of my own volition, without curse or obligation–if you grant me one small favour.”
“And what is that?”
“Take me with you. Keep me at your side. Let me serve you.”
“I have a hundred slaves to serve me however I please.”
“Oh,” she said. “But none like me. None who are your equal. Allow me to serve you. I think you will find it most rewarding. We both shall. I am certain of it.”
He did not answer, either yes or no. Instead, he searched his eyes about the cave again. “There are others here. At least one more. Maybe two or three? Some of them are not mortal, I think. Did you summon me, or was it these others?”
“It was one of them, but you can ignore that one. The effort of summoning such a power as yourself, and the effort of keeping this little wall of trickeries and illusions–it is killing her. She has not admitted it yet–but it is killing her. Her heart will give out, soon enough. She is of no import. Not any longer.” Then, narrowing her eyes, catlike, she said, “So?” and looked at him. There was a hungry, playful questioning in her eyes.
At length, he nodded, and held his hand out to her. Perhaps he intended her to hand him the brooch, but instead she swept to his side and took his hand. With the grace of a shadow, she leaned into his chest, breathing deeply. Although he tensed, he put his arm around her waist.
“What is your name?” he asked her.
“Caewen,” she replied.
Then, apparently noticing for the first time, he said, “You have no shadow.”
“I did. But I have cut it loose, and I will leave my shadow here. It is a thin, bloodless creature, unable to embrace life and pleasure. It will come to no good end. My shadow is of no importance. It is as thin as mist and twice as frail. In time, it will die, and then there will be only me. Caewen. There will be no Other-Caewen at all.” With that, she looked over her shoulder and shot a smouldering, contented look at Caewen. Clearly, the Shadow-Caewen could see through the illusion, even if The Winter King could not.
They left the cottage-cave together, stepping through the doorway in one fluid sweep of beautiful silks and chinking sapphires. As they went, Caewen heard The Winter King ask, quite conversationally, “Have you ever ridden a draig?”
A few hard moments passed, brittle and crystalline, like poorly made glass.
Caewen could feel the breath heaving in and out of her ribs. She looked down. She had no shadow. Dimly, she heard sounds outside, as of soldiers and beasts leaving, returning the way they had come, muttering in wonder. No doubt the Sorthemen and hunting boggarts had not expected the young woman they were chasing to emerge like an enchantress in the arms of their king.
“This is not right,” said Caewen, desperately trying to think and catch her breath. A thought struck her. “Is she the shadow, or am I?”
Cag-Mag’s voice was wheezing when it answered. “That remains to be determined.”