by Leo Carew
She emerged gasping into the night, taking greedy lungfuls of the free air. She found herself in a trench, one side bordered by an earthen bank that bristled with savage wood. “Lie down,” commanded the tall Anakim, gesturing at a filthy wooden tray lying in the trench. A frame tethered it to a pair of ponies, and beneath the torchbearer’s gaze, Aramilla prostrated herself on the tray’s hard surface. She felt Cathryn squeeze in beside her, breathing raggedly. There was a creaking of leather as the Anakim bent down, and then his voice spoke next to her head. “We will cover you in earth. Keep air in front of your face. Do not move until you’re uncovered, or you die. Make no noise, or you die. There is only one horse. You will have to share. Ride west, as far as you can tonight. Bellamus will meet you at Wiltun.” Aramilla did not understand much of this, but dared ask no questions. She nodded into the board and the figure went on. “I am a friend to the Sutherners, whenever you need. You may have heard my name: Vigtyr.” There came a pause, the Anakim perhaps expecting some recognition, but Aramilla just waited for whatever was to come.
There was an aged crack as some stiff canvas was unfurled and then thrown over the pair of them.
Keep air in front of your face.
Aramilla raised herself up slightly to create an air-pocket beneath the canvas, but almost dropped back onto the tray as the first mass of earth was deposited on top of them. Next to her, Cathryn screamed again. “No! No, no, no stop, this is too much!”
“Silence!”
“Cat, we can’t turn back now,” said Aramilla, though her own voice was quaking. More earth was heaped on the canvas, and more and more until Aramilla was sure that the Anakim themselves had stood on top of her. She was crushed into her forearms beneath her, straining desperately for air and aware at the same time how little of it there must be beneath this canvas. The weight above reached the point where she felt she could barely fill her lungs, and kept building. Beside her, she felt a sudden flurry as Cathryn’s panic overwhelmed her and she tried to fight her way free. But she could not: they were both crushed against the board, her nose squashed into the wood.
She felt a jerk as the board was dragged along the trench. Already the air seemed to be running out, each breath satisfying less than the last. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this: the huge pressure bearing down on her and trapping her in this place, the fear that she might be discovered and executed by the Anakim, the requirement to stay calm so that she did not consume precious air with struggling and panting.
She reached for memories as a distraction, and seized on the drips of ink that she had left on the note to her father, now sitting in her room. Next, the feel of the chess piece’s rough interior when she had inserted a finger to check for more than the note that had led her to this place. Then the feeling of her nose and lips pressed into the board before her, forehead crushed into her immobilised forearm, the building heat. Each distracted her a little, so that she did not have to look that terror in the face. Cathryn had fallen silent, and no matter how hard she tried, Aramilla was dogged by panic. Please, please stop now. Unearth me. But the board slid and scraped onwards. She hauled in hot, precious air, counting her heartbeats.
Aramilla was not sure what happened to the rest of the journey. She suddenly became aware of the load above her lessening and she began to fight upwards. There was some give in the earth and she heaved against the canvas, determined to escape this stifling atmosphere whether she was discovered or not. Suddenly the pressure was gone, she flailed, and the canvas was ripped aside. The cool air rushed to her face and she cried out, flopping off the board and feeling the grass between her fingers. There came weak sobs and a hiss of “Quiet!” behind her as Cathryn was unearthed, but Aramilla could do no more than lie and pant, feeling how easily her ribs moved, utterly quenched by the night air.
A boot nudged her and she turned onto her side to see the first Anakim looking down at her. There was a tree behind him, a horse tied by the reins around its trunk. “West,” he said. Then he turned away, leading the ponies and emptied tray back the way they had come.
Cathryn still lay weeping quietly into the earth, and Aramilla felt a sudden urgency. There were two of them, and just one horse. She scrambled upright, going for the reins and making a mess of untying them. She fumbled at the leather, loosing them at last and hauling herself into the saddle. She kicked the horse forward, throwing one last glance back at Cathryn, who had not moved. She was just staring after Aramilla in confusion.
The queen brought her horse to a halt. She turned back to Cathryn, still lying on the ground, staring after her. “Come on, Cat.”
“Were you going to leave me?”
“I’ll leave yet if you don’t hurry.”
It took some moments of scrambling before Cathryn was seated behind Aramilla. Before them: leagues of unenclosed night. At their back: a besieged city, surrounded by a wild army, and ruled by a madman.
They went west.
36
Ellengaest
“What’s your name?” Keturah asked the messenger she travelled with. It was another grey day, and they were travelling off-road to avoid detection until they had made it back into the Black Kingdom.
The messenger, a black-haired, small-framed adolescent, gave Keturah a shy smile. “Gero, my lady.”
“Do you like the mountains, Gero?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“That is lucky indeed,” said Keturah agreeably. “It seems to me that we might take a tour there before returning to the Hindrunn.”
“My lady?”
“I was so taken with the haskoli that I wish to see it one more time, and to give my greetings in person to Guardsman Leon.”
Gero looked unhappy. “I thought we were returning to the Hindrunn, my lady, to take them news of the help that is needed at the Lake Avon haskoli.”
“I shall know much better what help is required if I visit myself,” declared Keturah. “Come now, we shall enjoy the journey.”
They did, passing through Suthdal and crossing the Abus into Kossi, the week of glow-worm light. They were not long into the Black Kingdom when they came upon a stone circle. It was the same that they had encountered near the freyi, all those months ago. The sacred border of the Otherworld, built by the ancient Anakim and invested with immense power. That time Keturah had stayed respectfully distant, but these rings were said to move, after all, and encountering it twice seemed unlikely to be coincidence. She left Gero outside the circle, advancing onto the grass within; dense and green, as though the deer dared not graze here. It felt cold between the stones, and she knelt at the centre of the circle. She prayed for the power to find Numa’s murderer, and the perspective to see what was beyond her. Then she stood, bowing her head respectfully and turning back to her horse. Gero said not a word, and Keturah merely nodded back to the path, and north.
Gero turned out to be unexpectedly good company, and Keturah teased him throughout their journey. On one occasion, she convinced him that she was a teetir: a spirit that occupied the space beneath the hanging fronds of a willow. Amused by his terror, she wound him yet tighter with every wild legend that she could half remember. Had he heard of the vesihest: horses with coats of rattling shells, that inhabited foaming waters and fed on people? Had he seen that stag with pine branches for antlers? It was, after all, a sure sign that the Otherworld was near and at any time they might expect to be swallowed in unnatural fog, emerging to find a land painted in shades of pearl, where the air simmered like broth, and words and song prickled with ancient power.
So time passed, and they came to the mountains. They climbed past Lake Avon, past the fading trees and into the haskoli. It did not seem to be summer among the peaks, but spring, the slopes still scattered with snow-bones.
Keturah had devoted much of the journey to the Battle Historian’s advice, thinking how she might proceed once they arrived. She led Gero straight into the haskoli courtyard, where they were observed curiously by the Black-Cloaks. She demanded directi
ons to Guardsman Leon, who turned out to be beneath the Feather-Tree with Ormur. They found him standing outside a circle of a dozen boys and paused, waiting as the students finished their lesson. A tutor was instructing them in the uses of a birch fungus. It was a cool day, fresh and breezy, and Keturah dismounted, very content to lean against her horse’s warm bulk and wait until Ormur was done.
Leon spotted Keturah just as the class was dismissed, offering a weary bow. The students stood and left in silence, forming a column two abreast and descending towards Avon to forage. Keturah watched them go, slightly taken aback by the discipline of boys so young. “Miss Keturah,” said Leon, taking a pace towards her. “The Black Lord sent you?”
“Indeed,” said Keturah, ignoring Gero’s panicked start at the lie. “I’m here for a bit more information and to assist you in finding Numa’s killer, if I can.” Keturah expected surprise on Leon’s part and was disappointed by its lack.
“Good,” he said simply. “Where do you want to start?”
“I hear you have a prisoner named Hagen,” said Keturah.
Leon scowled. “That worm,” he growled. “Totally broken. Too enthralled by fear of Ellengaest to help in any way at all.”
“Nevertheless, I hope to interrogate him.”
Leon shrugged. “He’s this way. Boy? With me.” Ormur looked rebellious, but fell into step as they walked to the longhouse where Hagen was held. Gero followed behind, leading their two horses.
Leon led them to a door in one of the longhouses, producing a key from a chain around his neck and scraping the lock open. He pushed the door in and the first thing that greeted Keturah was a dark and rancid waft. She wrinkled her nose and stepped into the shadows. “Grim conditions to live in,” she announced to the void. There came a soft clinking of chains as somebody moved in the room. The floor was scattered with hay and by the light now streaming through the door, she could see a teenager slumped against the wall, squinting up at her silhouette. His arms were tied behind his back and he made no reply to her pronouncement. Beside the prisoner was a pail of water, nearly empty, and a small wooden plate adorned with a few strands of hay.
Keturah crouched down to Hagen’s eye level, keeping her face blank over the sweet smell of urine that rose from him. His hair was dishevelled, his face pinched, gaunt and pale, and heavy pockets hung beneath his eyes. “You’ll have seen better days,” she commented, looking him up and down. She could hear Leon behind her, tapping a foot with impatience. “What’s your name?” The captive looked away from Keturah, eyes resting on the floor. “Mine is Keturah. It would be rude not to reply,” she said mildly.
He whispered something, shook his head and cleared his throat. “Hagen,” he tried again, a little stronger.
“A handsome name,” declared Keturah, reaching forward a finger and tilting his chin towards her. Hagen met her eyes for a moment, his own filled with hurt and suspicion, and beneath all that, a vulnerable glint of hope.
“How long have you been here?”
“I…” He stopped to clear his throat again. “I don’t know.”
“Well it won’t be much longer, if you can help me,” said Keturah. The captive rested his head wearily against the wall behind him. He closed his eyes, squeezing a tear between the lids and out onto his cheek. She reached forward and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Hagen? What’s the matter?”
He moaned hopelessly.
“I’m going to help,” she said kindly. “Poor man, you’ve been here long enough. But I need something from you first.”
“I can’t help,” whispered Hagen, hoarsely.
“Your situation cannot get worse than it is now,” said Keturah, squeezing his shoulder. “You are doomed if you won’t speak. But if you will, I can release you.” Keturah had no authority to deliver any of what she promised, but was not greatly concerned. Her duty was to Ormur, and to Roper, and Numa’s memory, rather than the ruined traitor before her.
“You can’t release me.”
“In fact I can; I have inquisitorial powers,” she lied. “I am in charge here.”
“The Master…” said Hagen, faintly.
“Is dead,” finished Keturah, and Hagen looked up suddenly, showing some energy for the first time.
“Dead?”
“Suicide,” said Keturah, looking at the captive with interest. “He was a traitor, and killed himself when discovered.”
“When?” breathed Hagen. “You’re sure?” He was suddenly sitting straighter, seeming to inflate slowly as though a weight had been taken off him.
“Of course I’m sure. It was months ago, you hadn’t heard?”
“I…” Hagen glanced over her shoulder and she knew he was looking at Leon, standing in the doorway. “Nobody has spoken to me for some time.”
“Well he’s dead. I have the power to release you if you please me enough.”
The captive was staring around the room as though seeing it for the first time. Then he shook his head. “What do you want?”
“I know you can summon the assassin,” said Keturah. “You’ve done it before. You have a signal that he’ll respond to.” She and Hagen stared at one another. “Summon him tonight. Let us take care of him. In return, I’ll get you a better room, somewhere safe. You’ll have light, and better food, and won’t be tied up.”
“What will you do, when he comes?” breathed Hagen.
“We’ll ask him some questions,” said Keturah, “and he may lead us to Ellengaest.” She saw Hagen pale at the name and went on. “But nobody need know that you helped us. As far as anyone will be aware, the assassin will just have made a mistake. One for which Leon,” she gestured over her shoulder at the fiend barring the doorway, “will make him pay.”
Hagen seemed unequal to a reply.
“Seems to me this is a chance you must take,” said Keturah, scarcely daring to believe he might be capitulating. “If you don’t, you will be executed for aiding the death of an heir to the Stone Throne. Your options are to help me, do the right thing, and gain the rewards; or face certain death, in squalor and disgrace. Of course there’s a tiny risk from Ellengaest if you help, but I’d sooner take a small risk with honour, than a big one with disgrace. I suspect you would too.” She squeezed his shoulder and his eyes disengaged from hers. “Hagen? Look at me. What do you say? Will you summon him for us?”
He stared at her hopelessly. “He won’t trust my signal any more,” he said hoarsely. “I haven’t been able to contact him for…” He shook his head, staring up at Leon.
“Months,” supplied the guardsman, dispassionately.
“Only months,” said Hagen, bitterly. “But he’ll have been waiting to hear from me for that time… He’ll be suspicious.”
“Nevertheless,” said Keturah, “will you try for me?” He said nothing, but she could see he was wavering. “Please,” she said, squeezing his shoulder again.
He flinched slightly at her touch. Then his head slumped in a wobbly, hopeless nod.
“That is the right choice,” said Keturah, patting the centre of his chest. She looked over her shoulder to the guardsman. “Would you untie him Leon? I believe he has earned some food, and somewhere better to wait for the evening.”
Leon duly untied the captive. Keturah felt no fear, for the man was so wretched that he no longer seemed capable of independent effort. She and Gero helped him upstairs to the room where he had first signalled to the assassin. Keturah sent for food and Hagen ate ravenously.
“We’ll do it tonight,” said Keturah. “We will have Leon with us,” and there she paused, for Hagen had flinched violently at the guardsman’s name. “And Ormur, so that we know he’s somewhere safe. Then you will signal, and we’ll see if anything comes of it.”
“And if he responds?”
“Then Leon will be waiting for him. We’ll capture him and see if he knows who Ellengaest is.”
“And then?”
Keturah shrugged. “And then he’ll die.”
“So explain to
me one more time,” said Leon.
Keturah almost clapped a palm over her face. “All you need to know is that you wait downstairs, and if the murderer comes through the door in front of you, then capture him.”
Leon nodded, satisfied by this.
“There’s one thing I’ve been thinking,” she said, after a pause. “After the assassin drew Salbjorn away, Ormur was undefended for the whole day until you got back. Why wasn’t he killed?”
“I had wondered,” said Leon. “All I can think is that whatever happened to Salbjorn, he managed to keep the assassin busy for a long time. When he was finally finished, there wasn’t time to go back to the boy. Maybe Salbjorn injured the assassin. Maybe they killed each other.”
The two were silent, thinking of Salbjorn fighting alone during his last hours, perhaps knowing that the longer he resisted, the greater the chance Ormur would survive. “At least that suggests the assassin is now working alone,” said Keturah. “He should be the final piece of this.”
Behind Leon was Ormur, looking everywhere but at Keturah. She was struck by how withered he looked.
“Ormur?”
His gaze met hers briefly and then fell back to the floor.
“You will stay up here with us.” She indicated Gero, who now held a stout staff so that he could stand guard over Hagen. “You’ll be completely safe, and we’ll see if Leon can at last capture this assassin.” The boy made no reply and Keturah prayed that they could bring some measure of closure to his ordeal. If we don’t, this grief will kill him, she thought.
Through the window, it was dusk. The sun hung just above the mountaintops, and the boys and tutors scurrying in the courtyard below trailed silken shadows. Gero suggested they light the fire in the room and make tea, but Keturah forbade it. There must be nothing out of the ordinary. But there were apparently good supplies of birch sap, and Keturah went to fetch a container, which they shared between them. They waited in silence, every now and then taking a draught of the sap, which was fresh and woody. Ormur lay listless by a wall. Gero fidgeted. Hagen looked dead.
