by Ian Irvine
“They’re asking why you’ve allowed a foul shifter to live among them in secret. Why you would so betray them. Their beloved great dame, who was as proud a Herovian as ever lived, would not have allowed a shifter within five miles of the gates.”
“Go on,” Rix said icily.
“Some of them are wondering if you’re a true son of Lord and Lady Ricinus, whose disembowelled corpses still dangle from the traitor’s gate of Palace Ricinus. Does the dark blood of House Ricinus run in your veins? Have you come here to betray them too?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Tali.
“It’s what a good few of the people downstairs are thinking, and some are saying.”
“Whatever you’re working up to,” Rix said between his teeth, “spit it out.”
“To put it another way,” said Holm, “your enemies are starting to contemplate the unthinkable – mutiny.”
CHAPTER 57
Mutiny was unthinkable in so traditional a house, yet if Tobry stayed here much longer, it could come to pass. And with a great battle looming, Rix could not allow any kind of unrest to divert his people from their preparations, or undermine their morale.
“What am I to do, Glynnie?” he said. They were walking a track that ran along the top of the escarpment, where he could be sure he wasn’t overheard.
“Is mutiny certain? I haven’t heard anything.”
“It’s certain that my enemies are whispering about it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have any proof.”
“But you know who’s behind it.”
“No, but I can guess.”
“Is it imminent?”
“Not according to Swelt. Once the folk of Garramide give their loyalty, they’re not easily swayed. Though they’re angry and afraid of Tobry, it would take a lot for them to rebel. But if they’re pushed too far, they just might.”
“Be honest with them,” said Glynnie. “Call them together and explain why you took Tobry in. He’s a good man – tell them why he’s different to other shifters.”
“Is he, though – is he any different, on the inside?”
“He’s fighting it with every ounce of his will. Even I can see that.”
“But will it make any difference? I’ve never heard of anyone breaking the shifter curse, once it takes hold of them.”
Glynnie did not answer.
“Tobe and I have been through a lot together,” Rix went on. “I love him like a brother. But these people are my people now and I have a duty to them, too. How can I allow a shifter – one who could go mad any minute – to live among them?”
“What if you locked him in at night?”
“Shifters don’t only have their mad fits at night. Besides, Tobry’s a magian, a good one; I’m not sure any lock could hold him. Must I chain him to a dungeon wall? My oldest friend?”
“You could send him away. He’d understand.”
“He’s already offered to go,” said Rix. “But casting him out would feel like I’d betrayed him… and as you know, I’m a trifle sensitive about such matters.”
They paced across to a mossy outcrop in silence, looped around it and headed back.
“Besides,” Rix added, “if he leaves, it’s putting the problem on someone else, because —”
“A shifter has to feed,” said Glynnie. “Then you only have one option.”
“What’s that?”
She lowered her voice. “Identify the ringleaders and get rid of them.”
“How can I do that? They haven’t done anything yet.”
“They’re encouraging mutiny. Isn’t that enough?”
“Do you remember how the chancellor hung all the department heads of Palace Ricinus from the front gates, guilty and innocent alike?”
“Of course I remember,” said Glynnie. “He forced us to witness their deaths. I felt sure Benn… and I were going to be next.”
“That day I swore that I would treat everyone fairly and justly. I can’t arrest people and cast them out on hearsay.”
“Well, if Swelt is right, you’ve got a few days to uncover the plotters. No matter how careful they are, some of the people they try to recruit will inform on them. And then you can arrest them.”
“I hope so…” said Rix.
“The longer you leave it, the worse it’s going to get. If you’re going to be the lord of Garramide you have to take the hard decisions.”
“Swelt said the same thing.”
Rix stopped by an aged pine whose needles were like stiletto blades, and put his back to the trunk. Glynnie stood waiting several yards away, her hair streaming out in the breeze. She looked at peace, and the bruises were gone.
“How are things downstairs?” said Rix. “Between you and everyone else, I mean?”
“I fixed it.”
“How?”
“What happens downstairs stays downstairs.”
She headed towards the fortress gates. Rix watched her go. Had she fought the other servants, charmed them, or simply undermined their resentment by doing her best for everyone? He suspected that her work in the healery, where she had saved many lives, was at the heart of it. Not even Blathy took her on now.
Rix spent the day helping with repairs to the gates and the wall, trying not to analyse every sidelong glance among the workers, every low-voiced exchange. Logic said that most of the people were still behind him, that only a few troublemakers were plotting mutiny, but without proof, everyone was a suspect.
And perhaps, he thought as he hefted a block of stone no one else could have lifted, he was using physical labour to avoid facing up to the hard truth – that a mutiny reflected as badly on the leader as it did on the mutineers.
That night, without making any conscious decision, he took the steep stairs to the observatory. It would be bitter up there but he did not take a coat. He felt numb, and maybe the cold would rouse him.
At the top he partly closed the shutter of his lantern and passed the narrow band of light across the mural, left to right – and his skin crawled. It was a crude work, done with vigorous brushstrokes and hardly any touching up, yet the cheeks and eyes of Axil Grandys were so like precious black opal that Rix shivered. How had he had managed such realism from such a casual technique?
It raised the troubling question Tobry had hinted at the first night – had something guided his hand? Maloch?
From childhood, Rix had suffered from a deep-seated fear of anything uncanny. His first divinatory painting, done at the age of nine – a youth cutting down a rabid old shifter – had terrified him. Several months later, Tobry had been forced to kill his mad, shifter grandfather. When Rix heard about it he had blamed himself. He had burned the painting and had never found the courage to tell Tobry about it.
He scanned the Grandys mural again. Where had it come from – memory, divination, or the sword’s enchantment? The thought that any aspect of the art he loved could have come from outside him, that he was no more than a conduit for an ancient sword that was using him for its own fell purpose, was too much to contemplate. Yet if it were true —
No! It could not be true.
Had Grandys ever suffered from such crippling self-doubt? It was hard to imagine it, but successful men learned to hide their frailties, or overcome them. If Rix could not overcome this one, he would fall, and Garramide with him.
How could he become the leader Garramide needed? How regain the confidence of his people? And even if he did, how could Hightspall be saved now? Or was it already too late?
He passed the band of light across Grandys’ face again. It was probably the movement of the light that created the illusion; yes, it had to be. Yet Rix could have sworn the stone lips moved.
And he felt sure he heard a whisper inside his head.
Follow me.
Tali lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. She wanted to be with Tobry so desperately that she was tempted to damn the lot of them and creep down to the black hol
e, which some of the servants now called the kennel.
But even if she could defy Rix, Tobry would not. He was deeply ashamed of concealing his true nature from his friend and would turn her away at the door. Tali could take the servants’ abuse, their knowing looks and their calling her slut and bitch, but his rejection had crushed her, and the thought of it happening again was unendurable.
Anyway, after Rix’s impassioned pleas last night, she could not undermine him further. She would not be the spark that lit the fire of mutiny.
She closed her eyes and wiped the tears away. Why wouldn’t Tobry let her help him with healing magery? Did he know it was impossible – or was there another reason?
His own magery was stronger since becoming a shifter, he had said, but more perilous. And now he was practising it day and night. In the past, he had often joked about what a dilettante he was – a man with many natural gifts who had made no effort to master any of them. He was certainly making the effort now, but was he practising his magery because he hoped to save himself with it? Or in despair that he never would, and would soon be dead?
It reminded her of her own dilemma. She had hesitated too long at Tirnan Twil, possibly because of a subconscious worry that one day she would need her magery for healing. You can be a destroyer or a healer, but not both. Her eyes roved across the barely perceptible ceiling, creating images where there were none.
Lyf would soon resume the attack, with far greater force than before. He would throw everything at Garramide and surely must prevail. No matter how bravely Rix fought, he did not have the numbers to hold the walls against a proper army.
This battle could not be won by arms. It had to be fought another way – with magery. She lit a candle, then got out the little self-portrait Holm had taken from Tirnan Twil and lay back on her bed, trying to get into the mind of her enemy. She knew Lyf’s story, knew all that had been done to him, but Tali needed more; she needed to understand the process by which the gentle, decent young king had transformed himself into so embittered and vengeful a man.
The miniature could not tell her. The heavy film of grime and smoke stains obscured all but the outlines. If only there were a way to clean it —
Tali sprang up and hurried up to Rix’s chambers. He answered the door himself. He was barefoot, his black hair was tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it and he had a sheaf of papers in his left hand.
“What?” he said curtly.
She thrust the miniature at him. He blinked at it, then took it. “Lyf?”
“A self-portrait, done just after he was crowned.”
“You’d better come in.”
He tossed his papers onto a pile of papers and ledgers on the table and gestured her to a chair by the fire. “Wine?”
“No, thanks.”
“That’s right, you don’t drink.”
“It’s too strong. It goes to my head.”
“It doesn’t go far enough to mine.” Rix set a lantern down on a side table, turned the wick up and sat down on the other side of the fire. He studied the portrait for a minute or two. “He wasn’t without talent.”
“Can you clean it?”
“If I had the time. Is there some reason why I should?”
She told him about her various seeings and spyings on Lyf and Errek, the decline of magery, and Lyf’s frantic search for the missing key to king-magery, the greatest power of all.
“And he needs it for his greatest task,” she added.
“A task that’s more urgent than winning the war?” said Rix. “I can’t imagine what.”
“Neither can I. But he’s really desperate.”
“And you think this image might be the lost key?”
“I don’t know – but Lyf did say that the master pearl could lead him to the key, and I felt drawn to the portrait the moment I saw it.”
Rix glanced at the huge pile of work on his table and his jaw tightened. “I’ll clean it up when I get some time. I don’t know when that’ll be.”
He stood up, and Tali was rising to go when someone slapped a heavy hand on his door, three times.
“Swelt!” Rix muttered. “What the hell does he want?”
He opened the door and Swelt lumbered in, red-faced and panting, followed by Tobry and Holm.
“Carrier hawk just came in,” said Swelt.
“News of the war?” said Rix.
“Bad news. From the west.”
Rix stood up, offering the castellan his chair by the fire.
Swelt shook his head. “No, thank you – too much to do.”
“Well?” said Rix, curbing his impatience.
“It appears the chancellor took heart from the news of your victory, and led his army north to battle.”
“Where?” Rix’s voice went hoarse.
“Halfway between Rutherin and Bleddimire.”
“I assume it didn’t go well.”
“His officers lost their nerve, and the troops broke and ran at the first charge…”
“I can hardly bear to hear the rest. The chancellor’s army was wiped out?”
Swelt shook his head. “Through sheer good luck, most of his troops survived.”
“Good luck has been a scarce commodity in this war,” said Tobry.
“They were racing across a narrow bridge,” Swelt went on, “closely pursued. An enemy bombast fell short and destroyed the first span of the bridge. They got across but the enemy couldn’t follow.”
“I dare say the chancellor counts it as a victory,” Tali said sourly.
“No one else does,” said Swelt. “I’m told his hold on the south-west is weakening.” He went out.
“So nothing’s changed,” said Tali. “As far as resistance goes, we’re it.”
“I’m really worried about Lyf’s next attack,” said Rix. “What if he brings a thousand men?”
“No one could beat off such an attack,” said Tobry.
“Save Axil Grandys himself,” said Rix, to his own surprise.
“You painted a mural of him,” said Holm. “Can I see it?”
“It’s not a secret,” said Rix. He took a lantern. “Half the servants have been up there. They think highly of Grandys here.”
He went ahead up the steep tower stairs, lighting their way with the lantern.
“Careful of the broken steps. The masons are too busy reinforcing the walls.”
“What do the servants make of the mural?” said Holm.
“They prefer to see the Five Heroes on horseback, brandishing their swords. Or standing over their fallen enemies, crushing them into the muck.”
“And you haven’t depicted Axil Grandys that way?”
“You’ll see in a minute.”
He stepped into the observatory and held the lantern high, illuminating the wall where he’d painted the mural.
Tali let out a little cry, then stepped back, her hand over her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” said Rix.
“It’s the opal man.”
“So what? You saw him in the Abysm. You told us about it, remember?”
“He didn’t look like that,” said Tali.
“I recall you saying he was all twisted and contorted.”
“But his face was different.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“In the Abysm, the opalised man was screaming in agony.”
“He is screaming.”
“Not in agony, Rix. He’s screaming in rage.”
“What does it matter, after all this time?”
Tali went forwards again, studying the face. “It reminds me of something I’ve seen before.”
“You’re an infuriating woman. You must have driven hundreds of men into a rage.”
Rix’s joke fell flat. “I’ve seen that expression somewhere –’ She broke off, clutching at her heart. “Tirnan Twil.”
Rix and Tobry stared at her. “What about it?” said Rix.
“That’s where I saw his face – in my mind’s eye.”
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“What were you doing at Tirnan Twil?”
She related the story of the destruction of Tirnan Twil, briefly, baldly.
Rix ground his teeth. Even Tobry looked shocked.
“Why are you only telling me this now?” said Rix in a frighteningly soft voice.
“The night we came, you weren’t interested in my story —”
“Nor did you volunteer it.”
“I was planning to tell you both, until I discovered Tobry was an incurable shifter. After that, everything’s been such a disaster that I didn’t get time to tell you.”
“I assume that’s where you found Lyf’s self-portrait,” said Rix.
“Um, yes.”
“You didn’t tell me then, either.”
“I would have done, if you hadn’t been so busy. But it doesn’t change anything, does it?”
“Oh, Tali,” said Tobry. “How could you be such a fool?”
“It changes everything!” said Rix.
“How?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”
“Not only am I harbouring a shifter in my house, and not only are you, according to rumour, debasing the whole fortress by sleeping with him —”
“I’m not!” cried Tali. “He wouldn’t have me.”
“I’m glad one of you showed some sense.” Rix scowled at Tali. “Tirnan Twil was built by the Five Herovians. It contained many of their most precious books and relics, vital objects that can never be replaced.”
“And it survived, never seriously threatened, for two thousand years —” said Tobry.
“Yet now you tell me,” Rix continued, speaking over Tobry, “that within hours of your arrival it was aflame from top to bottom.”
“It was attacked by renegade gauntlings, hunting me because —”
“And everything there, and everyone except you and Holm, perished,” Rix went on, talking over her. “Can’t you see what the Herovians in this house, and every other Herovian house throughout Hightspall, will think when they hear of it?”
“They’ll blame you, Tali,” said Tobry, looking as though he had aged twenty more years. “You and Holm, but mostly you, because you’re the Pale slave who escaped from Cython, and it doesn’t take much for Hightspallers to think of the Pale as traitors.”
