Casting Shadows by Jeanne Cavelos

of the Drakh god had been a bit uncertain. The effect was rather like a black sun with a shifting, spiky black corona. In the center of that dark sun were four piercing points of light, the one detail that seemed certain. According to Osiyrin, the god wasn't exactly a Shadow; he was the source of Shadows. The Shadows were his highest servants. And the Drakh served the Shadows. The Drakh stirred. The god spoke, in a dry voice that carried a faint echo. Isabelle had worked hard on the voice, which was similar to the Drakh's own, but more resonant. It spoke in the limited vocabulary of Drakh that Osiyrin had provided. The words were translated in Galen's mind's eye. You have earned my wrath. The Drakh jerked awake. His arms shot out to the sides, pressing against the mat as if he were desperate for balance. His mouth fell open in what Galen hoped was awe. You have not prepared the way. You have not furthered my cause. You are not fit. The Drakh's head wavered back and forth as he fought disorientation. Galen struggled not to make contact with his skin, though he doubted the Drakh would notice if he did. The Drakh's lips moved, though no sound came out. Then, the Drakh whispered. Osiyrin's dictionary translated. I have tried. I am devoted to your cause. The god's voice grew louder. You are too slow. You are too cautious. It is time stretched forth my hand. I am working toward the great conquest, the Drakh whispered. [The plans are words unavailable in program.] You are too slow.