The Prince of Shadow by Curt Benjamin

strategy. He soon fell asleep, where evil dreams pursued him, of Kwan-ti burning and Tsu-tan leering at the fire. Sometimes, Llesho was at the center of the dream fire, and Markko stood in the doorway of the stone cottage with a beaker of poison in one hand and a leash in the other, a hell-hound with Tsu-tan’s face lying at his feet. Llesho rested little, and woke with a start at dawn.
    After prayer forms and breakfast, Llesho made his way to the laundry where Den greeted him with a sour pucker of his lips.
    â€œI don’t suppose anyone ever taught you how to wash shirts?” he asked.
    Llesho shrugged. “I’ve washed my own shirt every rest-day since I was seven,” he said, “But the water came from what I could save out of my drinking ration over the week. I don’t suppose that was what you had in mind.”
    â€œNot exactly.” Den introduced him to the pump handle and showed how, when he worked it up and down, hot water from an underground spring gushed out of a curved spout, bubbling and steaming as it filled the vat. Mesmerized by the waves that lapped away from the point where the water fell, Llesho’s thoughts drifted back to the pearl beds and the longhouse. The hiss and roar of the tide as it rose and fell with the crossing of the moons had underscored his every move, every thought since coming to Pearl Island. Now the sound, in small, reminded him of Kwan-ti, and the death of Minister Lleck.
    Lleck had trusted Kwan-ti, had known the healer would protect his secrets and the boy in his care. He wondered if he could do the same. Could he trust Master Den with this secret, that he knew who Tsu-tan, the witch-finder, sought? When he realized that he was hesitating not out of concern for Kwan-ti, but for fear that he would draw Markko’s attention to himself, Llesho knew what he had to do.
    As if reading his mind, Master Den dropped a heavy hand on Llesho’s shoulder. “I have broad shoulders, if you need help with that burden,” Den said, and Llesho understood that the washerman did not refer to the sacks of laundry waiting to be tumbled into the washing vats.
    â€œI have to get outside the palisade.” Llesho sat on the edge of the washing vat, his brow drawn down in a worried crease. “I have to warn—someone—that they are in danger.”
    â€œFrom the witch-finder?” Den asked. He sat heavily next to Llesho and nodded for emphasis. “Tsu-tan has been creeping around again; I wondered if you had seen him, or knew what he was about.”
    â€œI have to warn her,” Llesho insisted, “I owe a debt of trust.”
    â€œHave you considered, Llesho, that the charge against your friend may be true?” Den seemed to be looking for more than he said in the question, but Llesho had enough of puzzles and secrets of his own.
    â€œShe is no witch,” he said. “I have known her for all my seasons on Pearl Island.”
    The washerman did not remind him that his seasons measured very few in the schemes of witches and spirit demons, but pointed out what must be obvious to a pearl diver:
    â€œThink, Llesho. If she is guilty of witchcraft, her magic puts her beyond the power of the likes of Tsu-tan and Master Markko. But if she is innocent, she is trapped already: there is no way off Pearl Island without Lord Chin-shi’s blessing—or his boats.”
    It hurt to realize Den was right. He would risk everything—his life, even his kingdom—in a pointless display of misplaced chivalry that could have no good outcome. It hurt even more to know he was going to do it, or die trying, anyway. Master Den saw the decision harden the expression in Llesho’s eyes, and seemed himself to come to a decision.
    â€œI have a message for the healer, Kwan-ti,” Den said, and pulled himself upright. He left the washroom for a moment and returned with a small parchment, tightly rolled and tied with a ribbon and seal.