The tunnel was dark, and he didn’t know how long the rushing sensation of streaming through the water actually lasted, but it felt like a small eternity of blind panic and helpless trust before they emerged again into a strikingly enormous cavern.
A huge portion of the underside of the island had been hollowed out like a melon, its walls peppered with smaller caves and tunnels from the floor to the vast dome of the roof. Hanging from a thousand points clustered along the arc of the ceiling were long, long strings of glowing lights like pearls on a necklace, casting glimmers of cool blue into every crevice and corner.
In the very center of the space was a massive chair that echoed the jumble of color and life that thrived outside. It was Tiaraku’s throne, nearly as big as a house, but it was empty. There was no sound at all in the chamber except for the faint pounding echo of the surf beating its way into the rock with a slow, glacial pace. There were no courtiers or supplicants visible in the wings, and Arran was beginning to think that they were just passing through to another destination until Faidal let them float slowly down to the floor and pushed them to their knees, forcing their heads down in a show of respect to the blank and silent seat.
For a long moment there was simply nothing, and then there came a roar powerful enough to make Arran cover his ears as the sound washed over them with all the force of the high spring tide.
“So this is the fugitive,” the voice said, echoing from everywhere. “And who is the girl?”
“The Guild inspector, Your Majesty,” Faidal said.
“I see. Excellent. I am sure we will have a use for her as well.”
“You can’t –” Megrithe started, but Arran saw Faidal’s outline raise its arm to strike her for addressing the neneckt king without permission.
He knew how hard Faidal could hit, and it was with barely any hesitation that he found himself between the neneckt and the woman, the blow landing on the back of his head instead of hers, although the impact sent him sprawling on top of her, pinning her awkwardly to the ground anyway.
“Ouch,” he said, grabbing his shoulder, the jolt of pain running down his spine as Faidal pushed him off. Tiaraku, apparently amused by the spectacle, began to laugh.
“On this clownish fool you pin your freedom?” the neneckt king said to Faidal. “You are playing quite a game.”
“A game I hope we will both win, sire,” Faidal said, pulling Arran back into his place. “I have done as you asked in every particular. I believe this belongs to you,” he added, holding out his arm. In his outstretched hand was Arran’s pendant, hanging on its chain from his formless fingers.
“You lying, thieving bastard,” Arran murmured, knowing it would do no good to protest that the item belonged to him. “God, I hate you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Faidal told him.
Tiaraku laughed again. “Take him away,” he told Faidal. “Bartolo would like to see him.”
Faidal bowed deeply and dragged Megrithe and Arran to their feet, marching them out of the chamber. It was a long walk to wherever they were going, and Arran was starting to wish that they could fly again like the fishes that dodged past their heads on errands of their own, disappearing into hiding holes or plucking at their clothing with soft, delicate mouths before darting off, frightened, when they moved along the corridor that seemed to be sloping gradually upwards.
He was angry at being humiliated in front of the ruler of the sea, and his head was throbbing with the shivering shock of Faidal’s fist. Megrithe wasn’t even looking at him. He doubted she would ever thank him – he had made a bit of a fool of her, too, splayed in the sand like that. He was not doing a very good job of finding her elusive good graces.
In time, they came to a closed-off network of rocky caves, linked together like the rooms of a house, the interiors dimly lit with the same glowing spheres that graced the main chamber. There were glass mosaic panels on the walls, the muted colors curved to fit the shape of the space, covering the ragged stone and giving the space a polished air. Faidal condensed himself into a solid form with a twist of light that made Arran’s eyes hurt. Somehow he suddenly looked as human as he ever had, straightening his newly formed shirt and trousers on his frame before pushing his prisoners forward out of the reception area and into a long, narrow room.
There was a lengthy table surrounded by thick wooden chairs, made from the timbers of seagoing vessels that had been recycled to a new purpose. In the corner was a large square of glass propped up on an easel like a blank canvas, unframed and perfectly clear. Upon one of the seats sat a man of middling age, his hair dyed shiny black in the fashion of the wealthy of Paderborn to conceal any sign of advancing years.
He had a coin in his hand that he was examining with a jeweler’s loupe to his eye. Other gold and silver pieces were spread out on the table in front of him, along with a leather roll of delicate tools laid flat to show its contents. There was a smile on his face, and he seemed so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice his visitors for several minutes as he turned the disc this way and that under his close scrutiny.
“Queen Ranthya was a remarkable figure, Mister Swinn,” he said eventually, carefully placing the coin in line with the others. “Do you know her?” He paused for answer, but Arran wasn’t exactly in the mood to oblige him. The man didn’t seem much put out by his silence. “She was a great horsewoman and a keen huntress,” he continued, dabbing his finger to his tongue for a moment to rub an invisible spot off the coin’s edge. “There is a pavilion at the King’s Seat in Paderborn built entirely of the antlers and bones of her prizes.”
“Some of them are human bones, if I remember correctly,” Arran said.
“Indeed they are. They say even the Siheldi were afraid of her spears.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
“They do not fear much,” Bartolo agreed, standing up and putting his hands behind his back, looking at him quizzically. “Are the Siheldi afraid of you, do you think?”
“Me? Certainly not.”
“And yet you have this,” he said, holding out his hand to Faidal, who placed the pendant in it. Bartolo went back towards his table and picked up the loupe again, fitting it to his eye as he squinted at the piece. “Exquisite quality to the iron. Don’t you think, Miss Prinsthorpe?” he asked, holding out the tool to Megrithe. “Don’t be shy. You can look.”
Megrithe glanced at Arran, who shrugged, before she stepped forward and bent close over the pendant with the magnifying glass to her eye.
“Yes, sir. Very fine indeed. No wonder you were so desperate to get it back,” she said to Arran.
“If all you want is the stupid necklace, then just keep it,” he said, nettled by the fact that she was agreeing with whoever this man was. “Let us go. Or at least let me go,” he added, earning a sharp look from her.
Bartolo just smiled a little and sat down again, placing the pendant in front of him as he took up a pair of the little tools, hardly any larger than toothpicks.
“What are you doing?” Arran asked, alarmed as he started to lever apart the casing.
“The iron is very nice,” Bartolo said, bending over his work, “but you can’t think a bit of wire is worth all this trouble. Nor is this,” he continued, prying off the glass front and letting the scrap of paper inside float free into the water.
Arran lunged forward to grab it as it meandered up to the top of the cave, but Faidal held him back and it evaded his reach, sticking into a crack in the stone and waving out like a little flag. “Let me get it,” he demanded. “You just said you didn’t need it.”
Bartolo nodded at Faidal, who plucked the paper out of the fissure. He held it out to Arran, but just as he was about to reach out to take it, Faidal snatched it away again, tearing it into pieces before Arran could do a thing.
“Why did you do that?” he cried, collecting as many of the strips from the water as he could before they drifted away.
“That’s for ruining my face,” he said. “I reall
y liked that face.”
“That’s just spiteful,” Arran complained, tucking the bits of parchment into his pocket and hoping they would stay there. “There’s no need for that.”
“Can we dispense with the bickering, please?” Bartolo said, looking at the two halves of the pendant. “It’s irritating enough having to do this here.”
“Do what?” Megrithe asked, watching the process carefully.
Bartolo picked up what looked like a very small shovel and started scooping and pushing at the inside of the locket’s backing. It was just a slightly concave piece of silver, and Arran couldn’t really tell what he was trying to accomplish as he scraped the blank surface of the metal until he heard the sound of something popping free.
“Oh my God,” he said quietly, suddenly realizing exactly what it was as Bartolo carefully turned the seemingly empty scoop over into his hand. “I’ve had that the whole time? I’ve been carrying it with me? How many gemstones are there?” he asked, watching Bartolo pick up a brass tube like the one Arran had given to the eallawif and cup his hand to drop the prize inside of it. There was a small ringing sound as the stone, invisible under water, settled to the bottom.
“Just these two, as far as I am aware,” Bartolo said, screwing the top closed. “Look familiar?” he asked, waving the tube at Arran, who began to feel his already sunken spirits descend to an entirely new low.
“I had a bargain. How could the eallawif have given that to you?” he asked, although the question was pointless. It was obvious that he had already been betrayed.
“Come, now,” Bartolo said, looking at him pityingly. “Not even an eallawif can hold out against the desires of Tiaraku himself. Don’t be so naïve.”
“She lied to me. How could she have lied to me? I thought –”
“You thought they always told the truth?” Bartolo asked, finishing his sentence. “They do. But sometimes there is a greater truth. She was bound to Tiaraku long before she took your gifts. She could not lie to her first master. You were simply too late.”
“How did you know I was going to give it to her?”
“There are only so many places to hide such an object. We set traps for them all. The eallawif was just the one that sprung first.”
“What are they for?” Arran asked, his curiosity overcoming his indignation.
“For ushering in a brand new way of doing business, Mister Swinn.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
Bartolo ignored him. “There is only one thing the Siheldi do fear. That fear is a powerful motivator, even for such ruthless killers. They do not want these three things coming together against them.”
“Three things?”
“Yes. The two stones and you.”
“Why me? Why should they be afraid?”
“After having met you? God only knows,” Bartolo said. “You are nothing more than a product of coincidence, happenstance, and bad fortune. There isn’t anything else special about you.”
“So I’ve been told. This is to do with my father, isn’t it?”
“Your father was nothing,” Bartolo spat. “A tailor with no luck. Had my brother been born a day sooner, none of this would ever have happened.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you have any idea what the Siheldi are, Mister Swinn?”
“Um. They’re bad…things. Spirits. Demons. They feed on us.”
“Yes, but why?” Bartolo asked, sitting down again and looking at him closely, as if he was a tutor straining to aid a particularly dull pupil.
“I don’t know. Does anyone?”
“Everyone thinks they know. Ask a sailor, and he will say they are remnants of the drowned. Ask a farmer, and he will tell you they are pestilence of beast and field taken form. Ask a priest, and he will say they are those being punished by God for self-murder, forced to kill others for their sins. Ask a neneckt – well, ask a neneckt and he may tell you the truth.
“They are brethren, you know. Two branches of an ancient house. The sea people will say they are the righteous ones, choosing to dwell in peace with humankind, and the Siheldi are the black evil. The Siheldi will say that the neneckt, too, have a taste for the souls of men, but are too cowardly to satiate themselves on the right of their heritage.
“I care little for the history,” Bartolo continued, picking up one of his coins and turning it over in his fingers. “Their feud is nothing to me. I am more interested in the defenses of men. The red iron is useful, but they rely too much on it.”
“They have no choice,” Arran said.
“They don’t think they do,” Bartolo countered. “They are wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Megrithe asked, listening intently.
“They could turn to the sea.”
“Trust the neneckt?” Arran laughed. “I don’t think so. Look where that has gotten us so far.”
“It has gotten you killed for centuries,” Bartolo sneered. “The neneckt may have lost their fear of red iron, but they know its worth. They know what the humans will do for it. They know what the Guild is capable of,” he added, shooting a look at Megrithe. “And that is unacceptable.”
“This is about the Guild?” she asked.
“This is about control,” he replied. “The Guild is a nuisance that will soon be eliminated. The Siheldi will take care of it – and your friend here will see to that.”
“I have no particular fondness for the Guild,” said Arran, “but I’m not going to be eliminating anything. Speak plainly already.”
Bartolo sighed. “I am, Mister Swinn. As I was saying, the Siheldi and the neneckt have a common enemy in mankind. The Siheldi need men like men need cattle, but the neneckt loathe humanity. And the sea people hate the Siheldi, too.”
“So the neneckt are going to rid themselves of both?” Megrithe asked.
“No, no,” Bartolo shook his head. “Humans are useful. They make good workers when properly motivated. And the Siheldi make an excellent incentive to keep them to their tasks.”
“The gemstones,” Arran said suddenly as the entire picture started to come into focus. “The Siheldi wanted to get rid of them because – because you want to use the stones to…do something,” he finished lamely, not entirely sure where he was going with the thought.
“Very good, Mister Swinn,” Bartolo said nodding in mocking praise. “With the two stones brought together again – and with you, the only keeper left alive, to manage them – the neneckt will be able to use the Siheldi like hunting hounds. And who will we be hunting, Miss Prinsthorpe?” he asked Megrithe, encouraging her to provide the answer.
“The Guild,” she said quietly. “Because if you control the red iron, you control mankind.”
“Exactly. Isn’t that clever? Both sides of the equation neatly in Tiaraku’s hand,” Bartolo said gleefully, picking up another coin so he was holding one in each palm. “The humans work for us,” he continued, raising one hand higher than the other like a scale. “And if they don’t, the Siheldi are unleashed upon them. We will have the red iron as collateral, to protect our friends from our own attack dogs – and to make mankind pay dearly in gold and labor for any hope of survival.”
“The only keeper left alive,” Arran echoed, his churning thoughts unable to wrap completely around the horrible scheme, trying to carve off manageable bits of information instead. “Who was the other one?”
“No one of consequence,” Faidal said when Bartolo looked to him. “A woman who thought she was well hidden. She wasn’t.”
“You killed her?”
“She fought me,” Faidal said. “The Siheldi would have done it if I hadn’t, anyway. They would have wanted to protect their secret.”
“Is that why my father died?”
“He was in the wrong place at the right time,” Bartolo told him. “The Siheldi were desperate to hide the gem from Tiaraku, but they were weak with the effort of concealing their plans from him. They needed to feed on a human soul to gather their strength and bring
the object from their world to ours. Your father volunteered his life for the purpose. He thought it would save you and his wife from the same fate.”
“What do you mean?” Arran asked. He felt like his entire life was taking a large step to one side without bringing him along with it.
“My own father miscalculated,” Bartolo said bitterly. “If my half-brother Cederick’s birth hadn’t been delayed, his mother would have been the sacrifice instead. They are sentimental, the Siheldi. Did you know that? They study us. They are fascinated by our children, and what lengths we go to in order to ensure the safety of our offspring.
“Cederick’s mother was a common whore, but she was a loyal one. She would certainly have given her life to save her child, had she not been so untimely. She would have had to. As it was, she died another way.
“But since your parents happened to be in the place we had chosen instead, your father was the one to give his blood. The pact was made, only the pendant went to you instead of Cederick. It was a mistake. You are a mistake, Arran Swinn.”
Arran just stared at him for a long moment. “A mistake.”
“Yes. But now that the error has been made, you are necessary to me. The Siheldi chose you to keep the stone. They blessed your blood and so I must use it. With the other keeper dead, you are the only one who can do it.”
“But I won’t,” Arran said. “I simply won’t. There’s no reason for me to.”
“Not even for a chance to live?” asked Bartolo.
“What?”
“You think you are in the eallawif’s debt. You think that she will take your life if you cannot give her this,” Bartolo told him, picking up both halves of the piece of jewelry and fitting them back together. “She wanted the gem because I asked her for it,” he said, putting the necklace in front of Arran. “But the casing is meaningless to me. You can have it. You can still give it to her, and you can live. And you might even find yourself on the right side of history if you perform your duties to Tiaraku’s satisfaction.”
Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
