by John Marco
missed the little beast, just as he missed everyone in Jador.
His mind began to wander.
Another week had passed since he had confronted Kahldris in the cellars. Despite the demon’s dire pledges, it had been a wonderful seven days. Kahldris had remained quiet and aloof, allowing Gilwyn to continue bad-mouthing him, and Thorin gradually continued his slow-climb back to normalcy, taking interest in the small things in life again. He and Gilwyn continued to go riding almost every morning, and each night before he went to sleep Gilwyn made sure to spend an hour or so with the baron, usually playing cards or sampling from Lionkeep’s wine stores. Ruana continued to caution Gilwyn about Kahldris, but even she was forced to admit that the Akari’s threats had baffled her. He had done nothing to harm anyone, and soon Ruana, too, began to believe Gilwyn’s claims that they were untouchable.
Heartened by the recent events, Gilwyn spent more and more time in the library, imagining himself at the helm of the great edifice. When he had arrived in Koth, Thorin had offered the job to him, saying that the library needed him. It did, Gilwyn knew, but he still had a life and a lover to return to in Jador. Nevertheless, he daydreamed about remaining in Koth and reopening the grand ‘Cathedral of Knowledge,’ returning both the city and its icon to its glory days. How proud would his mother be to see him now, he wondered? She expected great things from him. Before she died, she had told him to reach for the stars.
Gilwyn pulled the duster from his belt, stretching to feather the higher books. Had he disappointed his mother? He thought so. But then, everyone in Koth was disappointed, because the city had fallen into ruin over the years, breaking all the dreams of it populace. The young face of Gilwyn’s mother burned brightly in his memory, and he held it while he dusted, unaware of the melancholy smile curling his lips. She had died young but he remembered her perfectly, and the memory of her gentle touch was never far from his mind. Thinking of her now, his hand stilled. His eyes drifted blindly from the books, seeing nothing but the image of her smiling face.
‘Oh . . .’
He caught himself with a sigh, stepping down from his stool and laying his duster down on a shelf. He rarely felt alone in the huge library, but now the solitude of the place unnerved him. It was almost noon, he was sure, and he promised Thorin he would be back in Lionkeep for midday meal. He glanced around the rotunda, proud of the work he had done, and then glimpsed a tiny movement near one of the many long reading tables. He pivoted to see it better, catching sight of a bit of tawny fur. Still in his dream state, he grinned when he realized it was Teku.
And then froze.
Impossibly, unimaginably, Teku jumped from one table to another, stopping to chatter at him from across the room. The monkey who he’d left in Jador gave him her familiar grin of little teeth. Gilwyn barely breathed, trying to make sense of what was happening. His eyes scanned the chamber, but everything else was the same, without a hint of distortion.
‘Teku,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t be here.’
As she always did, Teku gave her little monkey bark, then climbed up onto one of the shelves, wrapping her tail around a pole of wood to support herself. She dangled down from the long appendage, urging Gilwyn forward.
‘It’s not you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘It can’t be.’
Teku frowned in annoyance. Always remarkably intelligent, her human-like expressions left no doubt to her thoughts. Pulling herself up again, she hopped to a bookshelf closer to the exit, then jumped up and down excitedly. In her language, that meant for Gilwyn to follow her, but Gilwyn shook his head.
‘Whatever you are, go away,’ he told her. He glanced around the rotunda. ‘Do you hear me, Kahldris? I know this is your doing. You’re in my mind.’
Teku seemed not to hear him. The monkey leapt to the floor, clapped its tiny hands together, then loped out of the rotunda, looking back at him to follow. Her chattering went with her out into the hall, where she screeched for Gilwyn to come. Sure that he was being duped, Gilwyn nevertheless went after her. Ruana touched his mind instantly.
Don’t, she urged. That’s not Teku.
‘I know,’ Gilwyn assured her.
You’re doing just what Kahldris wants. Don’t follow her.
Too curious to ignore the monkey, Gilwyn stepped out of the rotunda and into the corridor. Fleet-footed Teku was already well down the dim hall, but chattered happily when she saw Gilwyn following. Again she started off, heading down the corridor toward the private living chambers. The darkness of the hall gave Gilwyn some pause. He had spent very little time in that part of the library since returning, and still didn’t care to see the places where he and Figgis had lived. Teku, disappearing around a bend in the hall, called insistently for him to proceed.
‘What does he want?’ Gilwyn wondered. There was no sense of Kahldris in the air, yet he knew the spirit toyed with him.
To frighten you.
‘With a monkey?’
To Gilwyn it made no sense at all, and the puzzle of it propelled him down the hall. With Ruana’s cautions ringing in his mind, he hurried down the corridor after the monkey, catching glimpses of her as she continued rounding corners. Gilwyn’s clubbed foot ached in his special boot, trying gamely to keep up with her. Very quickly he was in the living area, a much less grand part of the library marked by plain stone walls and small, narrow chambers. This was where he had spent his adolescence, where he and Figgis had shared their lives, and the ghosts of the place were all around him suddenly, flooding him with memories. With only the light from the clouded windows to guide him, Gilwyn struggled to see where Teku had gone, peering into the many chambers to find her. Her chattering voice was coming from everywhere at once, and like a hall of mirrors the corridors all took on the same, confusing greyness. Gilwyn realized with dread that things were not exactly as they were before. The halls were impossibly narrow, and not because they’d been rebuilt. Just as he had when he’d come to Gilwyn in Roall, Kahldris was changing the landscape.
‘We should go,’ he told himself, but turning around did him no good at all, because the way he’d come was blocked. A wall that shouldn’t have been there had sprung up in seconds, and the only way out was forward. The panic of being trapped gripped Gilwyn. He forced himself to stay calm.
Wait, said Ruana. He means to trap you, Gilwyn. This is a game, but you don’t have to play.
‘Don’t I? There’s no way out now.’
Whatever he would find going after Teku, it had already been ordained. Gilwyn stiffened his resolve, refusing to let Kahldris best him. He took a resolute step forward. Teku’s calls stopped instantly. Silence engulfed the hall. Up ahead, a chamber beckoned, pouring out orange candlelight. Vaguely he remembered the room, calling it up from his past. Not a room from the library, this one was from Gilwyn’s first home. The place he had been born.
‘Lionkeep . . .’
Things had changed in Lionkeep over the years, but he was back there suddenly, nearly two decades in the past. Shadows grew in the chamber’s threshold, the frantic throes of a woman in labour. It was his birthday, and in that room he was being born.
Inching forward, the illusion became complete as he heard his mother’s cries, screaming as the midwives consoled her. The agony of his birth drove her cries through the hallway. Gilwyn pushed himself onward, unable to look away as he neared the chamber. At first he saw Gwena, the midwife who had delivered him, half hidden behind a woman’s bloodied thigh. Gwena stared intently into the woman’s womb. Another woman – a girl, really – stayed beside Gwena, looking frightened as the one on the bed continued to scream. She was Beith, Gilwyn’s mother. Gilwyn could see her contorted face now, streamed with tears, the veins on her neck bulging with effort. Gwena urged her on, coaxing her to push the baby from her body, its head beginning to crown between her legs. Fluid rushed from the womb, staining the sheets. Beith screamed for it to end. Gilwyn reared back, the surroundings swimming and changing as the library more and more became Lionkeep. Then, inexplicably,
his mother turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she scowled.
Gilwyn couldn’t move. Like his mother, he wanted to scream, but even breathing became difficult as he forced himself to watch his own bloody birth. With one last momentous push, the infant that was him came tumbling out of Beith’s body, wet and wailing, the cord connecting them pulsing pink with life. The midwives looked at the infant and all at once their happy faces shrouded in dread. The baby – baby Gilwyn – writhed in its own wet bounty, its hands hooked, its fingers fused to clubs. Gwena shrieked at the hideous thing and the girl at her side fainted away. His mother was sobbing, somehow knowing the monster she had birthed. Gilwyn shook his head wildly, falling back.
‘That’s not how it was!’ he shouted.
Beith’s wails followed him as he turned and ran down the shifting corridor. He was crazed by the vision and desperate to get away, and the hallway stretched out before him, changing in the darkness as he hobbled, part Lionkeep, part library. The screams of his mother fell away behind him as he manoeuvred through the coil halls, turning corners only to see another unfamiliar wall. Soon he was exhausted, and resting against the wall he caught his breath, trying to banish the horrible images. Ruana was talking to him, begging him to breathe. The long hall lead to darkness.
At the end of the corridor, an apparition waited. Gilwyn turned toward it with a moan. His mother Beith waited there, dressed in saffron, her face tranquil and beautiful. She smiled at him, raising her gentle hand to call to him. Gilwyn gripped the stone wall. She was as she had been when she was healthy, before the cancers had eaten her flesh. Like sea foam she floated toward him, the hem of her saffron dress trailing silently across the floor. Gilwyn pulled himself from the wall and drifted toward her, fascinated by the image Kahldris had conjured. He knew she wasn’t real, but in every way she was his mother, picked from his memory and gloriously remade. He remembered the dress she wore, her favourite, and the way she kept her hair, straight and long around her shoulders. The serene expression on her face spoke only of her love for him, the child she missed so sorely.
‘Mother . . .’
Beith met him in the centre of the hall, reaching out to take his hands. Her warm touch brought him to tears.
‘My Gilwyn,’ she said, her voice a perfect likeness. ‘I’ve come back to you.’
‘It’s not you,’ sobbed Gilwyn. ‘You’re not real.’
‘I live on, Gilwyn. You know that. I watch you. Everyday I am with you.’
He knew that spirits walked the world; he had learned that much at least in Jador. And the touch of his mother’s soft fingers made her seem so real to him.
‘No,’ he argued. He closed his eyes against the pain. ‘You’re the trick of a demon. I know you are!’
His mother leaned in closer, kissing his cheek. ‘What a fine man you are now! I am so proud of you, Gilwyn.’
‘Stop,’ he begged, falling into her embrace. ‘No more . . .’
But his mother held him closer, taking him to her bosom the way she had in his youth, and later in all those dreams when she was dead. Gilwyn sank into her, surrendering, knowing she was made from smoke but unable to resist. So sorely did he miss her, so much had he missed in those years when she was gone. Sickness had taken her, but she was back now, and for a moment he believed.
Gilwyn, stop! cried Ruana. She is a phantom!
Her shout broke his spell, and he pulled himself from the visage of his mother. Looking at her, he watched her eyes began to bubble in her head, the skin on her face falling off in clumps. She screamed, clawing at her body as Kahldris’ magic ravaged her. Bones popped through her skin. The ivory complexion turned to dust. Then, in a heap of wailing flesh, she fell to the floor and shattered to bits.
‘No!’
Horrified, Gilwyn ran. The long halls of Lionkeep became the library again, but he hardly noticed the transformation. Driven by the ghastly images, he dashed from the hall as quickly as his shriveled foot allowed, leaving behind his dead mother and the taunting laughs of Kahldris.
70
One day’s journey south of Nith, in a valley not unlike the tiny principality itself, Lukien and his cohorts from Jador had reined in their horses to bed down for the night. Dusk had settled over the surrounding hills, casting the long shadows of twilight across the road. In the nearby meadow, only a handful of trees obscured the flat landscape, inviting them to rest themselves and water their horses at a lake of clear water. Alsadair, the most anxious among them to reach Nith, agreed reluctantly to stop for the night, and as he and Lorn watered the horses Ghost and Lukien prepared the fire. The young albino worked fast and diligently, and by the time the others had unpacked their things he had the fire ready for them all, just in time for the encroaching darkness. The four of them went through their usual routine with ease, well-practiced in the tasks of making camp. They had ridden together for many long weeks, and over that time had developed a rhythm to things, each of them taking on their own set of duties. And in less than an hour, they were ready to eat.
Amazingly, cooking their rations fell to Lorn, the only one of them with a genuine talent for it. Despite a lifetime spent being pampered by servants, the last few years of the deposed king’s existence had been marked by doing things for himself. He knew his way around a frying pan like an expert, and whatever meats or vegetables they had managed to find for themselves found their way into Lorn’s oddly capable hands. He was, Lukien had discovered, a man of many surprises.
Tonight, Lukien remained unusually quiet, made thoughtful by their closeness to Nith. Alsadair, who had guided them all the way north, bore an unmistakable smile of anticipation. He had been gone from his homeland for months, but he was near enough to smell it now, and had spent the day regaling them all with the big history of little Nith. And Ghost, who almost always played his flute while they rode, made up ditties about Nith that had them all laughing.
All but Lukien.
The campfire leapt and crackled. On the other side of it, Ghost and Alsadair played cards while Lorn finished making the meal. Lukien watched them through the orange glow, glad that they were with him. In Jador, before he had left to rescue Thorin, he and Ghost had been fast friends. He was more than a companion on their mission – he was a confidant, and the only one of the three that Lukien really trusted. Lukien had grown to like Alsadair during their time together, but Ghost was an Inhuman, and because of that there was a special bond between he and Lukien. They understood the magic of Grimhold better than the others. It made them like brothers.
Lukien relaxed, quietly watching Lorn as he tasted the stew simmering in his iron pot. The old king gave a nod of satisfaction, then caught Lukien staring at him. Without a word Lorn went back to his work. The two of them rarely talked, though to his credit Lorn had tried. It was Lukien who kept the Norvan at arm’s length, because he neither liked Lorn nor trusted him, and he wanted no misunderstanding about that. Lorn had proven useful on the long journey, not only as a cook but also as a scout and a lookout and all the other talents martial men learn. He could fight, too. There was no doubt about that, and having his sword with them gave them all an added sense of security. Still, Lorn had only one mission in life, and it was not to free Thorin Glass.
Above all else, it was this that made Lukien uneasy tonight, and it was this that lead him to step away from the fire. Beside him lay the Sword of Angels, resting inconspicuously in its battered sheath. He retrieved the weapon and got to his feet, eager to be away from the others. Ghost was the first to notice him leaving.
‘Lukien? Where you going?’ he asked, lowering his cards. Alsadair swiveled to give Lukien the same puzzled look.
‘I have something to do,’ replied Lukien vaguely. ‘Eat without me.’
Lorn looked up from his pot but said nothing. Ghost crinkled his white nose. Now that the sun was down he had taken off his protective wraps. His grey eyes danced with firelight.
‘It’s dark out there!’ he shouted after Lukien.
‘Thanks, Mother,’ said Lukien. ‘I’ll be careful.’
It wasn’t lack of appetite that drove Lukien out to the field. He was famished, as they all were, but a nagging feeling sent him away, one that he could not share with the others. So far, he had only spoken with Malator once on the long ride north, just before leaving Ganjor. His Akari had been as silent as Amaraz over the past few weeks, leading Lukien to worry. Now that they were nearing Nith, it would only be a couple of weeks more until they met Kahldris. And then?
Lukien didn’t know, because Malator had done little to give him solace. And solace was what the knight needed more than anything this evening, more than food or friendship. He needed to see the face of his Akari and be told that everything would be alright. Leaving behind the light of the camp, Lukien walked through the tall weeds of the meadow, brushing aside the cattails and switches of grass. The ground was damp beneath his feet but solid. He could hear the rustle of wildlife from the nearby lake. Overhead, the moon glowed big and bright, lighting his way. He walked until the voices of his companions fell away and he could no longer see them. For what he was about to do, he needed privacy.
Finally, near the centre of the sprawling meadow, Lukien stopped. He took a breath, glancing around then pausing to stare up at the moon and the stars that had come out to greet him. He saw the great sweep of milky cosmos, feeling small beneath it and confused. In his hand he held the Sword of Angels in its sheath, and through his fingers felt the pulsing of its steel, alive with Malator. The spirit in the metal sensed his trepidation, but said nothing. Lukien pulled the sword from its sheath and held it high toward the moon, not really sure if it was a ritual or not.
