Then he saw that, despite the pale hair, she was Gorethrian. Dark-skinned, arrogant, a terrible cold passion burning in her face. The shock-wave of some unknown, unpleasant emotion shuddered through him so that he could neither move nor speak, yet it was not her expression, nor the wrongness of her being there that distressed him. It was simply her hair. A superficial detail, yet in the dream it seemed all-important, shimmering with malevolent esoteric meaning. No Gorethrian had ever had blond hair.
Then she was no longer at his side, but walking up an endless white staircase, while he was helpless to do anything but stare after her. The water swirled and darkened around him. The darkness became total; he could not escape, could not breathe – he flailed wildly, fighting to wake up. He was being crushed by an intolerable pressure, by slow, heavy waves of power that emanated from two massive, opal-smooth globes of rock. At first he could only sense them in the void; then, as if starlight had begun to glimmer round their edges, he could see them: two perfect spheres from which luminous energy flowed in deep, soul-annihilating pulses. This seemed of such profound importance that the world itself was dwarfed, but the actual significance remained, agonisingly, just out of his grasp. Again he struggled, but the weight of the dream pinned him. A sensation of dread, awe and inexpressibly poignant weirdness filled him, something that he yearned to capture and to escape at the same time – his mouth stretched in a silent cry as the two terrible spheres thrust him towards oblivion with their leaden sweetness.
Then the child on the ship was there again, and she released from her hand a little bird the exact red of her hair, and at this Xaedrek woke up violently, shaking and sweating.
Around him the air was as thick as musty black velvet. He could not get his breath, as if a malign power were still pressing down on him. In panic he pushed back the silk sheets that were clinging damply to him and half-fell from the bed. He was across the chamber and groping for the door before he became awake enough for reason to reassert itself.
It had been no more than a stupid, childish nightmare, the cause of which was obvious. Recovering his composure, he walked steadily across the pitch-black room to the window, intending to let in some fresh air. He found the edge of the curtain, its jewelled fringe cold and heavy against his palm. Drawing it back, he was astonished to find that it was not night, but broad daylight. He had slept well into the morning.
Around his mansion, the city of Shalekahh shimmered like opal under a perfect sky, her delicate white towers gleaming with flashes of colour.
Xaedrek turned back to the room to see the darkness bleeding from it, slowly, like ink. He stood for a few moments in thought. Then he crossed to a chair, put on a robe of dark green satin, and sat down at his onyx-and-silver desk to reflect.
‘What manner of nightmare was it?’ he asked himself. ‘That of my parents was no mere dream, but foreknowledge of their death. Yet this was different. Mental impressions induced by an actual… presence, or whatever… in the room?
Xaedrek had a scientific mind not prone to flights of fancy. He knew that the intense darkness within his chamber had not been a product of his imagination. Rather it had been a similar darkness to that which he had conjured by a certain experiment the previous day. The experiment had left him disturbed and exhausted, hence his long sleep.
‘However,’ he murmured, ‘it was not disquiet that made me dream. It was an actual return of that darkness.’
He considered the effect that the dream had had upon him, and discovered that the lasting impression was not one of horror or dread – but of exhilaration. Promise. The experiment had not failed after all, and he was on the verge of discovering something, the existence of which even Meshurek had never conceived.
Elated, eager to progress his work, Xaedrek summoned a servant and asked for his breakfast to be prepared. He bathed and dressed in a robe of white silk, heavily embroidered with silver thread and jet beads. He paused briefly to look out of the window as a line of Imperial Cavalry passed along the street below. Xaedrek sneered. They were bedraggled, battle-dusty. War was imminent, and they were all Gorethria possessed to defend herself!
The anger he felt at this was no uncontrolled, impotent emotion but a lifelong passion, his main motivating force. It centred on two questions: how had Gorethria come to this? And what could he, Duke Xaedrek, do to restore her to her former glory?
Xaedrek was a court official, protector and friend to the young Emperor Orhdrek. At Xaedrek’s own suggestion, Orhdrek had given him the task of investigating the distasteful events of recent years, which so far had been a mystery even to the wisest in Shalekahh. Why had Ashurek deserted his post of High Commander, just as the Gorethrian army was poised to vanquish Tearn? What had possessed him to murder his own sister, Princess Orkesh? And above all, what had become of the hated Emperor Meshurek II, who had vanished without trace some four years later?
For sixteen chaotic years since these events, theories had abounded. Xaedrek was sick of theories. He wanted the truth.
There was a longstanding ban by the Inner Council against such research, imposed to prevent people’s ill will towards the royal household from becoming something more dangerous. However, it had been easy enough for Xaedrek to persuade Orhdrek that it was time for the mystery to be solved. He had obtained the Emperor’s personal consent to do anything he deemed necessary to that end.
Xaedrek made his way to the dining hall, a simple, beautiful room of marble, polished agate and gold. He asked a servant to bring some fruit, and sat abstractedly chewing a piece of spiced bread as he continued to pursue his thoughts.
Xaedrek, in the true Gorethrian mould, was tall, slim and graceful. He had a languid way of moving and a quality of stillness that could seem menacing, although his arched brows and well-shaped mouth lacked the grim set that marked most of the Gorethrian nobility. In a way this made him seem more dangerous, for it made the expression on his handsome face impossible to interpret. His skin was of deep, sheeny brown with the merest hint of violet, and his irises were blood-red, like firelight glittering through garnets. He was only twenty-five, having inherited the dukedom at his father’s early death, yet despite his youth his long, silky black hair had streaks of white at the temples.
Ten years older than the Emperor Orhdrek, he had made a point of befriending the boy from his birth. Even as a child, Xaedrek had known that such care must one day repay him richly. Indeed, it had already borne fruit. He had been allowed access to Meshurek’s private chambers – sealed since his disappearance – and had found there, concealed by various ingenious devices, a remarkable collection of private papers and books. Xaedrek had spent some weeks studying them, translating and interpreting and discarding until he finally reached what he became convinced was the heart of the enigma.
Meshurek had practised the lost art of summoning those beings called the Shana, or demons.
His records of what the demon Meheg-Ba had done for him – or demanded of him – were fragmented, hard to understand. Xaedrek realised that Meshurek had gone mad, just as everyone said. The details of the actual ritual of summoning were contained within an ancient book, evidently found by Meshurek in some forgotten corner of the palace library. It was hard to read. The pages were yellow, their edges crumbling to dust, and the ink was almost gone. Xaedrek had spent hours studying the tome, struggling with every obscurity – just as the equally clever but less perceptive Meshurek had once done – until he felt confident that he understood the ritual well enough to make it work.
Xaedrek was not a fool. It was clear enough to him that the summoning of such a being was dangerous, that the bargains they offered were false and that all they desired was to leech strength, sanity, everything from the summoner. But he possessed an insatiable desire for knowledge that sometimes undermined his better judgement. Understanding the danger, curiosity still compelled him to practise the ritual. His advantage was that he went into it open-eyed, viewing it as a particularly risky experiment; his mind was calm and scientific, not
ravaged by fear and paranoia as Meshurek’s had been. Once he had encountered a Shanin, whatever happened, he would understand what had destroyed Gorethria.
Yesterday he had locked himself within a subterranean marble chamber and performed the long, arduous ritual. Once, twice, three times before exhaustion forced him to desist. And he had failed, no demon had materialised, not even the faintest glimmer of argent light in the blackness.
Cold and sick, his mouth thick with the tang of brass and dust, he had eventually collapsed, thinking he was about to die. But his bitterest emotion was frustration, the single thought, ‘What did that idiot Meshurek do that I have failed to do?’ That refusal to be beaten had given him the strength to escape the marble room, gain his bed and fall into hag-ridden sleep.
Now he took a long draught of a honeyed drink from an exquisite glass cup. Even in these times, the craftsmanship of Shalekahh was unsurpassed. Rest, refreshment, thought, and daylight … all were excellent for putting problems into perspective. He still could not accept that he had performed the summoning incorrectly.
Perhaps there were no longer any demons.
And yet, there had been something. A darkness that was more than lack of light; a thrumming of power, like someone in another dimension repeatedly plucking a low string. A pressure in the air, something that had manifested itself a second time within his bedchamber; something that he had seen, draining from the air like liquid.
A wave of excitement shook him, but he suppressed it. ‘Scientifically,’ he thought with calm deliberation, ‘it must be possible to capture and channel that power.’
‘Is anything wrong, your Grace?’ said a voice at his shoulder. He looked round and saw a serving-maid of about sixteen or seventeen, holding a large dish of fruit. She was neatly attired in a full-sleeved dress of russet silk. He lived alone and had few slaves, so was mildly surprised to see a new face.
‘No. I’m just tired,’ he said. ‘I don’t know you. How long have you been in my household?’
She seemed startled that he should take a personal interest in her, but she answered without any trace of servility, ‘Seven days, Your Grace. Your steward has been training me. My name is Kharan.’
‘And where do you come from?’
‘An’raaga, Your Grace.’
‘Ah, An’raaga. The “quiescent” land. Are you quiescent, Kharan?’ The question sounded ominous. Xaedrek had the quiet, imposing presence that was common to Gorethrian nobility, and an ability to inspire terror in his subordinates without really trying. But this maid seemed to realise he was only teasing her.
‘I suppose I am a fairly typical example of my race, sir,’ she replied with a smile.
‘What’s this, a sense of humour?’
‘If you prefer your servants humourless, your Grace, I will oblige at once,’ she answered, looking unwaveringly at him as if she were his equal. She was dark-haired and fair-skinned; not pretty, but something more than that. Her large eyes gathered light, and her smiling mouth and rounded figure radiated a very feminine charisma. He felt idly fascinated by her, as though he needed some distraction from the grave matters that occupied him. He thought again of the power that he had stirred, and felt a wave of exhilaration. Ambition. Gorethria’s rebirth.
Carried along by it, his mood suddenly light, he asked impulsively, ‘How would you like to be servant to the Emperor, Kharan?’
‘Your Grace?’ She was puzzled.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that child, Orhdrek,’ he said quietly, grinning. ‘I want you to stay with me. Well?’
He saw that the implication was not lost on her. It had been a reckless thing to say; the girl might have been a spy – but he doubted it. She lacked the haunted, insomniac look.
She stood very still beside his chair. He looked round to observe her expression, and their eyes met, hers as brown as ripe chestnuts, his ruby-brilliant. With a deliberate, graceful movement she leaned across him and slid the silver dish of fruit onto the agate table. He was enthralled by her, and she seemed to know it.
‘Actually, your Grace,’ she replied with guileless honesty, ‘I would much rather not be a servant at all.’
***
A Blackbird in Amber and A Blackbird in Twilight: available on Kindle from August 2015
For further information and to buy in print or audio:
Audible
Immanion Press
www.fredawarrington.com
More books by Freda Warrington
THE COURT OF THE MIDNIGHT KING
A Dream of Richard III
King Richard III: a shadowy, charismatic figure of eternal fascination. The Court of the Midnight King mixes alternative history with the fantastical to create a wonderful, epic tapestry of love, war and treachery. In this novel, the author goes searching for Richard – not in the ruins of a Leicester friary, but deep in the human psyche.
“Superb fusion of dazzling alternative history and smouldering romance... Tell all the romance fans and the fantasy fans you know about it.” – Justina Robson
“Beautifully written – but not for the cynical!” – Anne Lyle
“One of my very favourite historical fantasy novels, this is a lushly written alternate version of Richard III’s history, with magic and romance and a rich sense of period. Gorgeously written, a wonderful book to sink into.” – Stephanie Burgis
For further information and to buy The Court of the Midnight King in Kindle, print or audio:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Feedaread.com
www.fredawarrington.com
The Blood Wine Sequence from Titan Books
“The Blood Wine books are addictive, thrilling reads that are impossible to put down and they definitely deserve more attention” – Worldhopping.net
“Not merely one of the finest fantasy novels of recent years, but one of the finest ever. Should not be missed.” – Brian Stableford
“A cross between Anne Rice and more edgy modern paranormal romances, only with Freda Warrington’s incredible voice… This author truly has a gift for storytelling.” – Not Your Ordinary Book Banter
“It’ll remind you of how good, thrilling and romantic vampire novels can be. It has everything you could ever hope for from an entertaining vampire novel: horror, suspense, romance, passion, plot twists, supernatural elements and captivating storytelling.” – Rising Shadow
“Freda Warrington’s prose is simply stunning, sumptuous, graceful and seductive.” – Starburst
“The writing is gorgeous, by turns haunting, lucid, and all-round beautiful… eminently readable, absorbing, and all-round brilliant, a lovely piece of work.” – Alex Bardy, British Fantasy Society
For further information and to buy in Kindle, print or audio:
Amazon
Titan Books
www.fredawarrington.com
Expanded Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication and Reviews
A Blackbird in Darkness
Chapter One. The Quest of the Serpent
Chapter Two. Medrian of Alaak
Chapter Three. Forluin
Chapter Four: The Shana’s Lie
Chapter Five. ‘I was alive here.’
Chapter Six. The Domain of the Silver Staff
Chapter Seven. The Past and the Future
Chapter Eight. Children of the Worm
Chapter Nine. At the Staff’s Mercy
Chapter Ten. Across the River
Chapter Eleven. The Mathematician
Chapter Twelve. Hrunnesh
Chapter Thirteen. The Last Witness of the Serpent
Chapter Fourteen. The Arctic
Chapter Fifteen. ‘They must open their eyes.’
Chapter Sixteen. Night Falls
Chapter Seventeen. The Far Side of the Blue Plane
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Freda Warrington
Sample of Book Three: A Blackbird in Am
ber
BACK TO START
A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2) Page 50
