by Paul S. Kemp
Still holding him by the arm, the High Songmaster scrutinized his face with a look Cale found ominous. “Mister Cale, is your first name Erevis?”
His throat constricted and he could barely find his voice. “Yes.” He felt as though he were floating.
His distress must have been plain on his face for Ansril Ammhaddan softly patted his shoulder. “She’ll live, son. Rest easy. She’ll live.”
Cale’s vision instantly went blurry. She’ll live!
Tears of joy replaced those of grief and streamed down his face. He smiled like a buffoon until he saw that the High Songmaster still wore a somber expression. He clutched a handful of the priest’s crimson robe so hard that he pulled Ansril forward a step.
“What? You said she would live. How is she? Will she—” He could not bring himself to mouth the words. A thousand terrible possibilities flew through his mind but he could give voice to none. He stared into Ansril Ammhaddan’s wrinkled face and tried to read the priest’s eyes.
“What is it, Ansril?” Thamalon asked. “I thought you said she would be all right.” Thamalon and Tamlin closed in around them, apprehensive. No longer crying, Shamur seemed to be holding her breath.
High Songmaster Ammhaddan gently disengaged Cale’s fingers from his robe and turned to Thamalon. “I did say that she would live, Thamalon …” he began to say.
Immediately, Shamur began again to laugh and cry all at once. Thamalon smiled like a fool through his own wet eyes. Cale gave Tamlin’s shoulder a squeeze and the heir patted him on the back.
“But,” the High Songmaster’s baritone cut through their relief. Their smiles vanished and the hallway fell silent. When Ansril had their full attention, he continued. “I did not say that she would be all right. She is severely wounded. Severely. Whatever this creature was, this shadow, the wounds it inflicted have attacked her soul and drained her life-force.” He looked to Thamalon and Shamur with sympathy. “Her recovery will be long, and she may not be the same afterward. Wounds like these could affect the spirit as much or more than the flesh …” He trailed off thoughtfully and stroked his beard.
Shamur’s eyes went wide. She visibly fought down her grief, looked to Thamalon, and spoke with certainty. “But she’s so strong, Thamalon. She’ll be all right. I know it. She will.”
Thamalon gave her a soft smile. “She will. She has her mother’s strength.”
To that, Shamur finally gave Lord Uskevren an appreciative smile, though she did not reach out to him. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and rubbed thoughtfully at her shoulders.
Finally unable to contain his own grief, Tamlin began to cry. He stood stiffly beside Cale with tears slowly falling down his face. Even if they had been close, Cale could have offered him nothing, his own sorrow cut too deep. The spirit as much as the flesh, Ansril had said. Shamur too began to weep anew.
Thamalon’s eyes alone remained dry, his mouth a thoughtful grim line. Cale could see in his lord’s expression grief warring with anger—anger at the parties responsible. Cale knew the reason for the attack but dared not speak it. It tore him apart inside to not immediately confide in Thamalon.
“I’m sorry, Thamalon,” said High Songmaster Ammhaddan sincerely. “I’ll do everything I can, of course.”
Thamalon gave him a forced smile and shook the Songmaster’s hand. “I know you will. Thank you, Ansril.”
The High Songmaster indicated Thazienne’s bedroom with a nod. “She needs undisturbed rest. The work of the Lord of Song is done. Sleep will heal her now as much as spells.”
“I’ll see to it she’s undisturbed. Thank you again.”
High Songmaster Ammhaddan bowed to Lady Uskevren. “She is strong, Lady. I can see that. Do not lose hope.”
Shamur nodded and forced a smile of thanks.
Ansril turned and nodded to Cale and Tamlin. “The Songlord’s voice bring you peace and keep you,” he said, and with that took his leave.
When he had gone, Cale, Tamlin, Shamur, and Thamalon stood about in the hall, grief-stricken, exhausted, and unsure of what to do with themselves.
Tamlin broke the awkward silence at last. Embarrassed, he wiped at his tear-streaked face. “I think I’m going to try and get some sleep.” He nodded goodnight to Thamalon but the two did not embrace. “Father.” He did, however, hug his mother with genuine affection. “Good night, Mother. It’s going to be all right. You heard the High Songmaster.”
“I know,” she whispered, as though trying to convince herself. “I know.”
He wiped a tear from her face and smiled at her. When she returned a wan smile of her own, he patted her shoulders and turned away from her to face Cale. “Goodnight, Mister Cale.”
“Goodnight, Master Tamlin.”
After he had gone, Thamalon kissed Shamur on the forehead. Unusually, she did not shrink from his show of affection. “I think our son has the right notion, Lady. Let me take you to your bed. Erevis and I will wait up for Talbot.”
At first hesitant—Thamalon only rarely set foot in her quarters—she at last nodded, dabbed her nose, and allowed him to lead her off toward her suites. As he passed, Thamalon said to Cale, “Erevis, I’ll meet you in the library in a quarter of an hour.” His serious expression told Cale that he should be ready to discuss business.
“Yes, Lord,” Cale replied. He would not have been able to sleep anyway.
Though only a few hours from dawn, the halls of Stormweather still bustled with activity. The surviving house guards scoured the manse. They searched and researched every room in the manse and every outbuilding on the grounds for ghoul stragglers.
A pair of weary-eyed guards dressed in blood-spattered, Uskevren blue thumped up the stairs as Cale padded down. They looked exhausted, but nevertheless went about their duty with the stolid, seemingly limitless endurance possessed by all professional soldiers.
When they saw Cale, both immediately snapped to attention. Cale gave them a half-hearted smile. He had always had the respect of the house guard—once, when he had been delegating duties to the staff for an upcoming dinner, Captain Orvist had walked by and complimented him by saying that he gave orders like a field general—but his battle with the shadow demon had elevated him to the rank of honorary commander. He thought he might as well take full advantage.
“Lady Uskevren has taken to her rooms,” he said. “Pass the word and see that it remains quiet upstairs. And under no circumstances is Mistress Thazienne’s bedroom to be disturbed.” The High Priest had ordered undisturbed rest for Thazienne, and Cale would see to it.
“Yes, Mister Cale,” snapped Darven, a big, muscular veteran who towered over most of the guards but still stood a handspan shorter than Cale. “We’ll inform Captain Orvist right now.” Darven gave the guard beside him an elbow and both men spun and hurried back down the stairs. Cale followed at a more leisurely pace, thoughtful.
The members of the household staff had already cleaned up most of the carnage, though Cale could still hear voices and the occasional clatter of dishes coming from the feasthall.
Thank the gods for Brilla, he thought with a tired smile. While he had personally organized the cleanup, he had left supervision of the effort in the kitchen mistress’s pudgy, but still very capable hands.
After the attack, the families of the slain had been notified immediately. All of the corpses and the pieces of corpses had been removed hours ago. No doubt some fortunate few already had been raised from the dead. Cale knew that with enough coin for the temple’s coffers and a powerful enough priest, not even death was insurmountable for the richest of the Old Chauncel nobility.
Thinking of the raised dead reminded him of Krendik, a former living man twisted into an undead monster, and sent a shudder up his spine. The dead should be left dead, he thought, and knew as soon as he thought it that those murdered by the shadow demon would be left dead. Cale himself had felt that black horror’s touch pull sickeningly at his soul. No matter the coin a family paid the temple priests for those
the demon had slain, there would be no coming back. There was nothing to bring back. The demon had devoured their souls.
Shuddering, his hand went to the faded gash in his shoulder. Strangely, the physical damage from the demon’s claws had almost entirely healed. The same was true of Thazienne’s chest. It was as though the demon’s claws opened the skin only to free the soul, and if the soul was not loosed and devoured, the wound quickly healed. The physical wound, at least. The emotional wounds would heal much more slowly.
Cale still did not know the total number of guests that had been killed. In truth, he didn’t want to know, but it had been a lot. The number of distraught relatives that had come by coach and carriage to Stormweather’s doors to retrieve their dead had seemed to him an unending stream. With Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin tending to Thazienne, the duty to assist the grief stricken relatives in sorting through the corpses had fallen to Cale and Captain Orvist. He had seen up close the gory wounds inflicted by ghoul fang and claw. He had also witnessed the desiccated remains left in the wake of the demon’s attacks. The images from the slaughter’s aftermath would haunt his mind for a long while. The fact that it was his fault would haunt him longer.
It was my fault, he frankly admitted. It had to be. He felt too tired now even to feel anger at himself for the attack. He admitted the truth of it as he would any other self-evident fact. Thazienne’s wounded spirit, Meena Foxmantle’s wounded sanity, all the dead guests and house guards—his fault. He was not sure how, but he was sure that the Righteous Man had finally learned that he had been protecting the Uskevren, not spying on them. The Righteous Man had meant the attack to send a message—I know.
After driving off the demon, Cale had carried Thazienne up the stairs to her room and placed her in bed to await a priest. Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin had remained with her. Cale had reluctantly left her side and hurried back to the feasthall to examine the ghoul corpses. He had to know for sure.
As he had suspected and feared, all of the ghouls had been former Night Knives. Beneath the gray skin, rotted fangs, and charnel reek, he had recognized the twisted faces of his former fellow guild members. Somehow, they had been transformed from living men into flesh-eating, undead monsters. The realization had sickened him, but he had swallowed his nausea and tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle.
After learning of Cale’s ten-year deception, the Righteous Man must have decided to repay the betrayal by hurting the people Cale loved most. To accomplish that, the Righteous Man, not only a guildmaster but also a powerful priest of Mask the Shadowlord, had summoned the shadow demon. After using his black magic to warp guildsmen into ghouls, he had turned them loose on Stormweather to slay its inhabitants.
While it seemed an extreme measure, Cale put nothing beyond the sadistic guildmaster. He was a priest, and therefore a fanatic by definition. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he realized that he was mistaken, that anger was causing him to over generalize. Many priests might be fanatics, but not all. Not Jak, and not Ansril Ammhaddan. For them at least, religion had not meant fanaticism.
But it had for the Righteous Man. Once, Cale had watched him burn down an entire guild warehouse, with eleven guildsmen trapped inside, just to ensure that he had eliminated one among them whom he suspected to be a traitor. It would be just like him to try to hurt Cale before killing him.
Cale’s thinking had gone no further, then. At that moment, High Songmaster Ammhaddan and three other underling priests had walked huffing and wide-eyed into the feasthall. The priests insisted on healing Cale’s wounds and he had reluctantly stood still for a few moments while their song spells closed the numerous cuts in his chest, back, and shoulders. Afterward, he had dispatched three of the priests to tend the wounded among the house guard and had escorted High Songmaster Ammhaddan from the slaughterhouse to Thazienne’s room.
She had looked worse than when he had first left her, so he had waited apprehensively in the hall while the High Songmaster had used song spells to try to heal her.
Now that he knew her to be safe—or at least knew that she would live—he began again to consider the depths to which the Righteous Man would sink. The masked dog had dared attack him here! Had dared harm Thazienne!
Rising anger began to wash away his fatigue—anger at himself for adopting this selfish, asinine plan ten years ago, anger at the Righteous Man for using Cale’s family as a way to get at him. As he stomped through Stormweather’s carpeted halls, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in rage.
If the Righteous Man had targeted him, as he now suspected, then he was already a walking corpse. He could admit that forthrightly—his death was only a matter of time. Sooner or later the Righteous Man would come to finish him, or more likely still, send Drasek Riven to do the job. Unfortunately, at least as far as Cale was concerned, Riven had not been among the ghoul corpses. Given that situation, Cale could not remain in Stormweather and risk another attack on the family. But where to go?
He knew the answer almost as soon as he posed the question—the Night Knife guildhouse. Thinking of it gave him a focus for his anger. He would take the battle to them.
I’m coming for you old man, he silently vowed. I may be a dead man, but I’m taking you with me.
He stalked into the library and began to pace and think. The smell of burning ghoul corpses carried through the shuttered windows. Spells that allowed High Songmaster Ammhaddan’s priests to magically communicate with the dead ghouls had revealed nothing. Cale had therefore directed the house guard to pile the dead creatures near the stables, cover them in lantern oil, and burn them to ashes. The lingering reek of the burning pyre only fueled his anger.
Seething with rage, he hardly noticed the blazing stone hearth. He barely saw the shelves of valuable, leather-bound books that he so loved. He paced the floor, thinking, planning, stewing. His lord’s chess set, the pieces skillfully carved from imported ivory, the board itself crafted of aged mahogany, stood untouched on a walnut end table. He restrained the urge to shatter the valuable pieces against the wall.
He tried to calm himself.
He lit a single candle, carried it to the end table, and fell into one of the accompanying chairs to await his lord. He could feel his pulse pounding in his forehead, every beat of his heart feeding his rising rage. Get yourself under control, he ordered.
With a supreme effort of will, he calmed himself and remained still.
After a time, Thamalon walked into the room and pulled the door shut behind him. He had shed his doublet and now wore only a light shirt, blue pants, and cloth slippers. He looked exhausted—the events of the night understandably weighed heavy on his mind—but his blazing eyes could fire a torch. When he entered, Cale immediately climbed to his feet, but Thamalon ordered him to sit down.
Grim faced, Thamalon walked to the small wine rack he kept near his oak work desk and pulled out a bottle of Storm Ruby. He stabbed the cork with a screw, jerked it out, and poured two glasses. Cale could see the barely controlled anger in the tense set of Thamalon’s powerful shoulders.
He and I are much alike, Cale realized. We both understand that uncontrolled anger works against us, not for us. Both men had to struggle mightily to control that anger. Of course, guilt did not pollute Thamalon’s anger. That burden was Cale’s alone.
Thamalon strode over to him, handed him a silver goblet, and sat opposite in his favorite rocking chair. For a time, they sat in the dim light of the fire and silently regarded one another, two friends who took comfort in each other’s company. Riddled with guilt, Cale found it difficult to look Thamalon in the eye. Uncomfortable, he placed his wine untouched onto the table beside him.
“You wanted to talk, Lord?” He managed to keep his voice level, though he thought his guilt must be plain on his face.
Thamalon gazed at him from beneath bushy brows for a long moment before replying. “I wished to thank you again for your bravery tonight—”
“Unnecessary, Lord,” Cale interjected with a
dismissive wave of his hand.
“Without you …” Thamalon trailed off and took a gulp from his goblet. He gripped the metal so tightly his fingers went white, “Without you, things would have ended much differently.”
Cale nodded but held his tongue. Where was Thamalon going with this?
Thamalon set the goblet down on the table. “I did not know you were capable of such things, though I’ve long suspected.” His discerning eyes pierced Cale like blades.
If you knew what I was really capable of, Cale thought, you’d have thrown me out years ago.
After a moment of awkward silence, Thamalon spoke, “It’s time we played a match, Erevis.”
“Lord?”
Thamalon sat forward in the chair and indicated the chessboard with his eyes. “A chess match. We have never played. It’s time we did.”
“Tonight? After—”
“Tonight.” Thamalon took another gulp from his goblet and slammed it down on the table so hard it knocked over several chess pieces. “I’ll have the heads of everyone responsible for this, Erevis! Everyone.”
Cale stiffened at that. Everyone responsible. A wave of fear and self-loathing drowned him. He looked across the end table and met Thamalon’s angry gaze, fearful of what he would see there.
Thankfully, his lord’s eyes held no accusations. Anger blazed in those gray orbs, but not anger directed at Cale.
Thamalon continued, “To do that, I will need to call upon all of my resources. Including you.” He leaned forward, placed his forearms on his knees, and shot Cale a meaningful stare. “I need to know the full range of your … chess skills.” He nodded at the chessboard. “I don’t need to know where you learned to play.”
Cale swallowed a sigh and immediately felt shame for the relief he felt. Thamalon did not suspect that Cale was responsible for the attack. He only wanted information about Cale’s past and skills. He wanted to know what Cale could do to help find the guilty parties.
At that, he felt his face flush red and looked away. I am the guilty party, he thought. If Thamalon ever learned that his secret life had been the cause of the attack, he would never forgive him. Hells, Cale would never forgive himself, but he didn’t want the last conversation he had with his lord to end with the revelation that he had been living in Stormweather as a spy.
