The Outcast

by Louise Cooper

  Some of the hurt faded, but Cyllan was still defensive.

  ‘We’ll go as soon as we can,’ she said. ‘When we’ve rested.’

  ‘Ah. As to that …’ Tarod sighed. ‘I can’t explain fully, Cyllan; not here and now.’ His mouth twisted briefly as if his own words had reminded him of some private and none too pleasant joke. ‘But there’s one fact that in all conscience I can’t keep from you.’ In all conscience? He had almost forgotten what conscience meant … ‘Now that you have come here,’ he continued, ‘you can’t leave.’

  She stared at him, not comprehending. ‘Can’t? But -’

  ‘I mean that it isn’t possible. You are, effectively, trapped here, and even I haven’t the power to change matters. I’m sorry.’ The last words were chilly, and Cyllan felt herself turn cold inside as the animal foreboding she had felt before awoke yet again. Something wrong … so hideously wrong that it was beyond her understanding …

  Mustering all her courage, she spoke with slow deliberation. ‘Tarod - if what you’re saying is true, then something terrible must have happened here.’ Intuition made the nape of her neck tingle, and she knew that, as happened on rare occasions, it was guiding her surely.

  ‘Something has happened to you,’ she stated.

  Tarod knew that she implied far more than she was saying. For an instant his gaze filled with such venom that she recoiled. Then he took a grip on himself, and shook his head. ‘You’re too perceptive for your own good, girl. But if you’re wise, you’ll make no more presumptions. Whatever answers you think you’ve found, they’re less than the truth!’ Abruptly he turned away, and with that movement an invisible but tangible barrier seemed to descend between them.

  ‘You’ll find robes on a rack at the end of the shelf,’ he said coldly. ‘Make use of anything you please.’

  She tried to call after him as he walked away, but the words died on her tongue. His footsteps echoed from the cavern roof, and the last she saw of him was a black shadow that moments later was swallowed by the darkness on the stairs.

  She didn’t understand. For a few brief moments the impassive mask had relaxed a little; then he had deliberately and almost contemptuously withdrawn, shutting her off as though she were beneath his notice.

  Which perhaps she was … slowly, Cyllan peeled off her salt-stiffened shirt and trousers, and sat down on the edge of the shelf to let her legs dangle in the water. It was surprisingly warm, bringing a stinging, fiery ache to her bruised and lacerated feet, and she let herself gently down into the quiet depths until she was immersed to her shoulders. Her own face, pinched and pale, stared solemnly back from the mirror-like surface of the pool, and not so much as a single ripple spread out to break the calm.

  She had to forget, as best she could, the confusion and fear that were trying to eat at her. She was too tired for coherent thought; Tarod’s strangeness and the mystery surrounding the Castle were too much for her exhausted mind. She craved sleep, craved the relative sanity of a new day. Then, and only then, could she begin to take stock of the predicament she was in, and try as best she could to find the answers to her questions.

  The water was a soothing balm to aching muscles.

  Cyllan took a breath, then ducked under the smooth surface, letting the warmth of the pool suffuse through flesh and bone to bring its own form of comfort.

  She was lying not on familiar hard ground, but in a bed.

  Her head was cradled by pillows, softer than anything she’d ever experienced … Cyllan emerged from a chasm of sleep, and at first thought she must be dreaming one of the hurtful and unfulfillable dreams of another, better life which often plagued her in her tent.

  Then, gradually, memory returned …

  She had found the rack of bathing-robes when she emerged from the pool, and had found Drachea, who was waiting for her, wrapped in a similar garment several sizes too large for him. His eyes were haunted and he had tried to launch into a flood of questions, protests, arguments; but sheer fatigue had the better of them both, and they lapsed into silence.

  Ascending the stairs seemed more arduous than the long toil up the face of the stack. Twice Drachea faltered and might have slumped and slept where he stood, but for Cyllan’s hand which gripped his and urged him on.

  She herself felt sick and feverish with exhaustion, and her perceptions sank into a nightmarish miasma, clouding awareness. She vaguely remembered seeing Tarod again - in her confusion he seemed to have taken on the air of some dusty and foreboding spirit rather than a living man - and she recalled pleading to be allowed to sleep. A hand had touched her forehead - Tarod’s or Drachea’s, she didn’t know - then there were blurred recollections of more stairs, a long corridor, a door which seemed to open without a hand to touch it, and a high-ceilinged room furnished with dark draperies. She felt a surface that yielded beneath her, then sweet oblivion claimed her consciousness.

  Now though, the tiredness had washed away, and as she opened her amber eyes she was instantly alert. The bed in which she lay occupied one corner of the room, and the gory light from the courtyard, filtering through the one window, cast a dim, blood-red sheen over the shadowed furnishings. The room’s grim unfamiliarity put Cyllan on guard in spite of her physical comfort - that, and an instinct which told her she wasn’t alone …

  Very cautiously she turned her head - then uttered a sigh of relief as she saw Drachea, half hidden by shadow, sitting on the window-ledge.

  ‘Cyllan … ?’ He rose and came hesitantly towards her, and she saw that he had exchanged the robe for a shirt, jacket and trousers which weren’t his own. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to wake.’

  She sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and looked quickly around, fearing that other presences stood silent and invisible in the bedchamber. Her senses discerned nothing untoward …

  ‘Here,’ Drachea said, dropping a shapeless bundle on the bed. ‘I found a chest with all manner of garments in it. I brought these for you.’

  ‘Thank you …’ Wondering at his disregard for what was, after all, a theft of someone else’s property, she none the less shook the clothes out and fingered the material. Wool - and fine wool at that; a world away from the rough fabrics she was used to. But they had still been designed for a man …

  Cyllan pushed down a small and foolish sense of insult, and looked at Drachea again. ‘How long have I slept?’ she asked, not quite knowing why she felt the need to whisper.

  Drachea scowled. ‘As well ask the High Margrave as ask me - I can barely remember anything since I emerged from those damned baths! I woke some while ago and came to find you. I couldn’t make you stir, so I waited.’ He glanced over his shoulder towards the heavily curtained window, and shivered. ‘And the gods alone know how long I’ve been sitting here. We must have slept for hours, but - I looked outside just now. There’s still not the smallest glimmer of light in the sky. Just as before; no sign of the dawn. It’s as though the whole world has stopped.’

  Cyllan looked in the direction of the window again.

  The peculiar crimson hellfire still hung beyond the glass, but there was no paler hint of daylight to redeem it.

  Drachea shivered, and helped himself to one of the blankets from Cyllan’s bed. The room wasn’t cold, but he felt the need of it to stave off an inner chill. ‘And as for our host, or whatever he chooses to style himself - ‘

  Suddenly his voice sharpened. ‘You recognised him, didn’t you? And he knew your name. Who is he?’

  His tone verged on the accusing, and Cyllan wondered if, in a dark recess of his imagination, Drachea suspected her of being involved in some complex plot of which he was the victim.

  ‘His name is Tarod,’ she said. ‘He’s the Initiate I met … when I was here before.’

  ‘An Initiate … What’s his status?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hardly know him, Drachea! All I remember is that he’s a high Adept; seventh rank, I believe.’

  Drachea was taken aback. ‘That’s the highest of all!’<
br />
  Chagrined, he remembered his own attempt to treat the Adept with disdain, and the memory made him break out into a cold sweat. If the half of what he had heard about the Circle was true, the man could have destroyed him with little more than a look. ‘But - where are the rest of the Circle?’ he demanded. ‘All the other Castle inhabitants?’

  ‘I don’t know, any more than you! Gods, Drachea, all I do know - sense - is that something’s terribly wrong! I felt it when we arrived, I tried to tell you then, but you were so intent on gaining entrance to the Castle - ‘

  ‘And what would you have preferred to do? Sit outside on the stack like some importunate beggar, and wait for the wind to strip the skin from your bones? Damn you, if- ‘ And Drachea abruptly took a grip on himself, realising that he had been leaning over her as though about to strike out in angry frustration. His face coloured. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with an effort. ‘We shouldn’t quarrel. It only makes matters worse.’ He sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Besides, our circumstances hardly give us cause for alarm. We’re safe from the sea, sheltered, rested. There’s sure to be an explanation for the Castle’s desertion - and it can be no great distance to the nearest village. From there I can despatch a messenger to Shu-Nhadek - ‘ The smile that had spread across his face abruptly died as he saw Cyllan’s stricken expression. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Tarod told me - ‘ She couldn’t finish.

  Suspicion filled Drachea’s eyes, and behind it lay a dawning premonition. ‘What did he tell you?’

  She couldn’t hide it from him. If she didn’t tell him now, Tarod soon would. ‘We can’t leave the Castle,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  Afraid that this time he would be unable to control his temper, she went on hastily. ‘Drachea, please don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. I know only what Tarod told me - that it’s impossible for us to leave. He said …

  we are trapped.’

  Silence hung as sharp as a knife blade in the room, until Drachea explosively broke it.

  ‘Damn him!’ He hurled himself off the bed, paced the floor like a caged cat. This is insane! The Castle of the Star Peninsula - the Circle’s own stronghold - empty; one Adept who claims that we’re prisoners here - it’s insane!’

  Cyllan was on the verge of tears; a state that had been rare throughout her harsh life. She could understand Drachea’s fury, but the instinct which had guided her with such alarming clarity thus far told her that no amount of ranting and raving would alter their predicament. And although she couldn’t begin to comprehend the truth behind Tarod’s cold revelation, she didn’t doubt for a moment that it was true.

  Drachea came to rest at last with his hands pressed flat against the door. He was breathing heavily, trying to control his anger.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Adept or no, I’ll have this out, and now! He can’t treat an Heir Margrave in this careless fashion - there must be searchers looking for me, my parents will be wild with distress! He can’t do it!’ He thumped his fists impotently against the unyielding wood, then a little of the rage drained from him and he turned to look searingly at Cyllan.

  ‘Come with me or stay as you please - I’m going to find your Initiate friend and remind him of his responsibilities!’

  Despair flooded Cyllan. Drachea was reacting like a thwarted child, and in his current mood she shuddered at the thought of the conflict that might ensue. But, remembering Tarod’s distant coldness, she reminded herself that, petulant or no, the Margrave’s son was her only sure ally.

  She slid from the bed, reached for the clothes Drachea had brought her, and hastily began to dress.

  Finding Tarod proved to be less easy than they had anticipated. Drachea strode through the empty, echoing corridors of the Castle, stopping to fling open doors, twice shouting furiously in his frustration, but there was no answering footstep, no sign of movement. Cyllan caught up and followed him, trying to ignore the leaden weight that seemed to have settled in her stomach. Her unease was increasing with each moment, and she was torn between hoping that Tarod would choose to show himself before Drachea’s frail hold on his temper finally snapped, and dreading what might happen once the two met face to face.

  And last they found themselves at the double doors which led down the wide, sweeping steps into the courtyard. Cyllan stared at the dead scene before them, the relentless black walls tinged with a gory crimson cast from the unnatural glow that permeated everywhere then a flicker of motion at the edge of vision alerted her.

  Tarod’s tall figure emerged from a doorway set into the foot of the Castle’s Northernmost spire. Instinctively Cyllan looked up to where the gargantuan tower loomed into the night sky, and immediately had to fight back an attack of vertigo. Far, far above, at the spire’s summit, a faint glow burned in a tiny window …

  ‘Adept Tarod!’ Drachea’s voice brought her back to earth and she turned her head to see him swaggering down the steps to intercept Tarod’s path. ‘I’ve been looking for you!’

  Tarod stopped and regarded the younger man dispassionately. ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  This time, Drachea’s anger was enough to overcome awe. He halted three steps from the bottom, so that their eyes met on an equal level, and said angrily, ‘Yes, indeed! And I think that an explanation is long overdue!

  I have just been told that I am, effectively, a prisoner here - and I demand to know what you mean by such an impertinence!’

  Tarod glanced briefly at Cyllan, who flushed. Then he folded his arms and regarded Drachea as though he were some unknown species.

  ‘I told Cyllan nothing but the truth,’ he said with cool disinterest. ‘And as your uninvited presence here is none of my doing, so the fact that you must stay is something I can’t influence. Believe me, you don’t regret it any more than I do!’

  Drachea was far from satisfied. ‘This is outrageous!

  I’d remind you that I’m not some peasant whose absence counts for nothing! My clan will be searching for me, the militia will have been alerted - if I’m not found, then I warn you, there will be severe consequences!’

  Tarod pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and sighed with irritation. ‘Very well. If you wish to leave - if you believe you can do so - then go. I’m not your jailer, and the gates aren’t locked.’

  Drachea had been on the verge of a fresh tirade, but now he stopped, nonplussed. He looked at Cyllan and frowned.

  ‘Well?’ he said, gesturing towards the Castle gates.

  ‘No, Drachea. It’s pointless.’ She shook her head, knowing in her bones what would happen; knowing, too, that there was nothing to gain from trying to convince Drachea. He had to find out for himself.

  He gave her a scathing glare, and strode across the courtyard. Cyllan hoped that Tarod might turn to her, say something to dismantle the icy wall that he seemed to have built around himself, but he didn’t move.

  Drachea reached the gates and began to wrestle with them; they swung easily enough on vast, well-kept hinges, and he started out -

  And stopped. Even at this distance Cyllan could share the appalled fear that swamped him as he stared out beyond the Castle, at nothing.

  She could see it for herself as the great gate swung noiselessly back. Not fog, not even darkness, but a void, so unutterably empty that it made her feel sick just to look at it. Drachea uttered a single, inarticulate cry and stumbled back. As he released his hold on the gate it closed once more, of its own volition, and slammed into place with a dull boom that made Cyllan jump.

  The Heir Margrave returned slowly to where they stood waiting. His face was the colour of putty, and his hands shook as though he had a fever. At last he stopped, at a safe distance from Tarod.

  ‘What is it?’ he grated through grey lips.

  Tarod smiled with more than a trace of malice. ‘Didn’t you feel the inclination to step through and find out?’

  ‘Damn you, there’s nothing out th
ere! It’s like - it’s like the darkness of all the Seven Hells! Not even the stack to be seen! Cyllan -‘ he appealed to her. ‘When we came here - there was a world beyond! The beach, the rock - it wasn’t illusion?’

  ‘No … ‘ Yet there had been the mist; and the terrible feeling that the real world lay somewhere out of reach…

  Drachea turned again to Tarod and almost pleaded.

  ‘What does this mean?’

  Unmoved, Tarod regarded him coldly. ‘I’ve told you that you can’t leave the Castle. Do you now believe me?’

  ‘Yes ‘And will you, then, believe that I can’t change matters?’

  ‘I - ‘ Drachea hesitated, then burst out, ‘But you’re a High Adept of the Circle!’

  Tarod’s eyes narrowed. ‘I was.’

  ‘Was? Then have you lost your power?’ The words were a fear-driven challenge. Tarod didn’t answer, but instead his left hand moved slightly. Cyllan was just able to glimpse something on his index finger before his form was blurred by a dark aura that seemed to flow out from within him, swallowing even the grim red light. The air turned bitterly cold as Tarod raised his hand higher, holding it, palm upward, towards Drachea.

  What Drachea saw, Cyllan would never know and preferred not to speculate. But his eyes stared, starting almost from their sockets, and his jaw dropped in a rictus of sick terror. He tried to speak, but could only utter a tormented moan - then he sank to his knees on the steps, doubled over and retching with blind, helpless fear.

  ‘Stand up.’ Tarod’s voice rang harshly, and the dark aura winked out of existence. Cyllan stared at the tall Adept, horrified by the sheer inhumanity of what he had done - and by the magnitude of the power he had commanded with such careless ease. Now, the only hint of what had gone before was an echo of something unholy in Tarod’s green eyes … but she wouldn’t forget it easily.

  Drachea staggered to his feet and turned his head away. ‘Damn you - ‘

  Tarod interrupted him, speaking very softly. ‘You see, I have power, Drachea. But even my skills aren’t sufficient to break down the barrier and allow you your freedom. Now do you begin to understand?’