by Tom Stacey
Loster sighed, and as he breathed in he realised that he was angry. “Let me pass, Korin. I haven’t got time to argue with you.”
The lanky steward raised his eyebrows briefly, but then his disapproving mask slipped back down. “As I have told you, young master, your father has ordered the gallery closed. He doesn’t wish your mother to be disturbed.”
If that were true then he wouldn’t have moved her sleeping quarters to the gallery above the Great Hall. Loster knew the truth of it. The gallery was a perfect position to eavesdrop on the happenings in the Great Hall. By making sure that his wife occupied the rooms there, he could ward off any possible spies, and had a convenient excuse to keep it clear of listeners. But Loster was no spy. He was the heir apparent of Elk, and he had just about had enough of people telling him what to do.
He took a step forward, but Korin moved quickly to position himself in his way, reaching out a hand as if to physically restrain the young noble. Loster looked up at him. “We both know that my father would not appreciate you touching me,” he said through gritted teeth. Korin was Lord Malix’s closest confidant; many was the time that Loster had seen him standing outside the room while his father exercised his perverse sense of discipline. But Malix was a jealous man who regarded all of his family as possessions, and he would not suffer to share them with anyone.
Korin hesitated for a moment more, then skipped aside and disappeared down the stairs on long, insectile legs.
Loster breathed his relief and winced at a stabbing pain in his head. Confrontation always gave him a headache.
He climbed the last few stairs and found himself in the gallery corridor. To the right was the Great Hall. There were several arches at regular intervals that led to a wooden platform allowing a view over the whole space. The left wall was unbroken stone, except for a wooden door about midway along its length. The corridor was dim here since there were no windows. The only light came from the Great Hall itself: a deep orange glow that spilled in great fan shapes to lap at the opposite wall.
He began to walk forward, hugging the left side of the corridor. Lord Malix was in the hall, and though there was no chance Loster might be seen from below, the very thought made him uncomfortable. Loster came to the door that led to his mother’s quarters. The wood was a lustrous orange, unstained and fever-bright. He eased it open and recoiled from the suffocating heat that boiled out.
“Hello? Who’s there?” said a voice too strong to be his mother.
Loster took a deep breath and stepped inside.
“Oh, Lord Loster. The Lady Helin is sleeping.” Helin’s handmaid, Ogda, tried to ease her considerable mass from the wicker chair by the fire. It was roaring strong, which struck Loster as odd on this cool but otherwise mild day.
“It’s okay, Ogda, you don’t need to get up.”
The fat handmaid sank gratefully back into her chair. “Shut the door, milord. You’ll let the heat out.”
Loster frowned. He never understood the old wisdom that maintained that fresh air was the enemy, and that healthy lungs should only breathe steam and fume. It was stifling. “I’m leaving soon. Tell me, what did my mother want?”
Ogda let out a little moan. “I don’t know, milord. She’s not well. She was berry picking — and in this cold! I warned her against it, but she went and caught a chill. You really should shut the door, milord.”
Loster ignored her and looked around the room. He was in the antechamber, a small stone room with curved walls like an oven, and just as hot. There was a stone step on the right side of the room that would take him up to the Lady Helin’s sleeping quarters. If he looked, Loster could just make out the silhouette of his mother’s four poster bed. The curtains were drawn and everything was dim or dark. “Have you sent for the priest?” he asked, though he knew what Ogda’s response would be.
“Oh no, milord. We didn’t want to bother with that. Don’t need any priestly dithering when I’m here.”
Loster grunted. It was far beyond this dull woman to diagnose illnesses, but he suspected his mother’s latest ailment was just another phantom. He crossed the room and stepped up into the bedroom. Approaching the bed, he eased back the curtains and looked upon his mother. The Lady Helin lay fully clothed on top of the coverlet. Her dress was many different shades of grey in this light, and in the heat, sweat had broken out on her brow. She was a pretty woman — Malix would suffer no less — but hers was a muted brilliance, ethereal. She had never truly recovered from the loss of her eldest. I am a consolation prize, thought Loster. No, that is unfair. She loved us both equally. She cannot grieve for me as I am still here. Loster reached out and tenderly wiped a lock of hair back from her brow. He bent and kissed his mother on the forehead. She whimpered softly in her sleep.
Suddenly the distant voice of his father sounded loud from the Great Hall. So that was why the gallery was closed. Malix had a guest he didn’t want the world to see.
Loster turned and came back to the antechamber. “I need to go, but when she wakes, tell her I was here.”
“She’ll like that, milord,” said Ogda happily.
Loster headed for the door. “Maybe try opening a window,” he offered. “Clear the air a bit.”
“In her condition, milord? She’ll freeze!”
Loster shook his head. “Yes, well, look after her.” He shut the door behind him and filled his lungs with cooler air. He felt damp where he had sweated.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Malix’s voice was too loud, as if he were performing.
Loster slid down the corridor and chose the archway nearest the staircase. If he watched from there, he would be directly in line with his father and therefore less likely to be spotted.
“You know why I’m here, Malix,” the answering voice was boyish and yet bubbled with anger. “This is what you wanted, was it not? To make us come to you on bended knee.”
Loster crouched and crawled towards the edge of the gallery. The Great Hall had ceilings as high as a Temple Dawn’s — a true Temple Dawn, not the low hall in Elk — and Loster could see everything from here. The high windows on the far side were the only windows in the hall and they were covered with black leather. It meant that the only light came from the torches in sconces on the wall, and two great braziers of dished iron at the foot of the dais where Malix sat. In truth, the Lord of Elk lounged, with one leg dangling arrogantly over the arm of his chair.
Loster reached out to grab hold of the wooden railing along the gallery. As he did so, he was very briefly transported back to that dark room in the Widowpeak that smelt of old blood. He screwed his eyes shut and the vision dissolved but the pain in his head flared briefly before settling back down to a persistent ache.
“Come now,” Malix continued. “I only do what I am forced to in order to provide for my people. The war has been hard on them, you see. A war, I shouldn’t have to remind you, that you started.”
“Don’t tell me you believe that drivel. You’re called many things, Malix, but idiot is not one of them.”
Loster looked at the speaker. He was a man of average height, dressed in a charcoal grey robe that stretched to his knees, with a hood pulled down low over his face like a thrall of the Temple Deep. But this was no priest. His father had spoken of the war. From his lessons with Aifayne, Loster knew that this meant the man was a member of the Sons of Iss, a shadowy group of Respini plotters and assassins that had sworn vengeance against Veria.
“Lies? Are they lies? Were you not responsible for the atrocities at Iero?” Malix asked sweetly.
“You know that had nothing to do with us. We had an understanding with Illis.”
Loster could only assume his father was referring to the event that had started the recent conflict: two imperial grain collectors seized and murdered by a mob at Iero. Aifayne had told Loster that it was the influence of the Sons of Iss, stirring trouble against the rightful rule of the Verians. In response, Illis had declared the Sons outlaw, to be killed on sight. That
had been two years ago. Now the news from the Greenlands was that the last rebels had been crushed. There would be peace again.
Malix barked a laugh. “An understanding! Yes, yes. He gave you the Helhammer and you promised to stop your little attacks.”
“The Scourge deserved to die a thousand times and more,” the robed man’s voice brimmed with hate, “but that was twenty years ago. We had, other arrangements with Illis.”
“You are aware that some say the Helhammer is still alive?” Malix could not help but grin as he mocked. It made Loster’s skin crawl.
“It changes nothing. We did not break our covenant. Illis did. The Sons of Iss were a convenient badge to pin on any unrest. Taxes and forced conscription started this war, not us.” The man in grey waved a hand. “But all this is immaterial. Why did you not accept our last tribute?”
“Tribute? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Malix,” the grey man spoke with a warning tone, “why did you not accept it?”
Malix tapped his goatee with one long finger and then swung himself around so that he was sitting forward. “Because I have had a change of heart. Providing you with sanctuary in these turbulent times has proven to be more expensive than I originally thought.” He grinned evilly. “I’ll consider your tribute half of the required monies.”
“Half?” the robed man spluttered. “You have lost your mind. Your price is already exorbitant, and your sanctuary… well, we have lost seven members these past two weeks. There are tunnels a mile long, winding and twisting…” he trailed off as Malix began to chuckle, low in his throat.
“I’m not surprised you’re losing members. Rats often jump from a sinking ship.”
“We are not losing members, they are disappearing. There is a difference. If we find out it is of your doing, there will be a price for it. One that you cannot pay. Remember that only our arrangement keeps the knives from your door,” the robed man snapped. “Elk is not so far from the ashes of Iss. Do you think we suffer a Verian to live here lightly?” He spat on to the floor in front of him, and Malix’s guardsmen shifted restlessly. Loster’s heartbeat began to quicken.
Malix had fallen strangely silent and his eyes were fixed on the spittle darkening the stone floor. Loster felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. Gaston Malix’s temper was a terrible thing.
“Do you know,” the Lord of Elk said slowly, “I’ve just figured out why you wear such sombre clothes.” He stood suddenly in an elastic motion and marched down the steps in a swirl of colourful fabric. The Lord of Elk was a vain man, and was often dripping with gold and jewellery and fine silks. Today he had opted for a dark blue cloak with a tunic and trews of wine red. The robed man shifted slightly as Malix approached but otherwise stayed where he was. “Such a moody grey colour.” He reached out to pluck at the man’s sleeve.
“They are grey to reflect the ashes of Iss,” said the robed man. “The City of Innocents that your Empron and his lapdog burned to the ground. This is no secret.”
Malix nodded as he stalked around the man in a circle. With the speed of a striking snake he whipped out a hand and yanked the hood from the man’s head. Loster bit his lip to stifle a gasp, for the robed man was no man at all, but rather a thin, anaemic young woman, with hair as black as the night.
The woman yelped in surprise and turned to Malix, only to find herself facing the bared blades of three of his household guard.
Malix laughed coldly. “Who would have known? A daughter of Iss.” He turned to his men. “And so pretty.” They grinned maliciously at their master’s jest. Loster could not make out the details from his hiding place for the woman had her back to him, but her anger was evident in the stiffness of her body and the delight on his father’s face.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Malix. The Sons of Iss are not to be mocked.”
“No, indeed. That must be why you hide in the mountain hall, quivering whenever Verian soldiers wander by. You’re finished here. A relic of a war decades old. Your cause is dead,” he spat. “The Helhammer is dead. Iss is dead.” He pushed past her and began to walk back to his seat of office, then he turned smartly on his heel and snapped his fingers. “Hold her.”
The woman tried to move but two of the guardsmen were on her too fast, gripping her around the waist and upper arms. They dragged her around to face Malix again. He stepped forward and backhanded her across the face with sickening force.
“I am the power in this land,” snarled Malix. “Not some sad gathering of murderers, weeping over a dead city.”
“You’ll pay, you’ll—” the woman was cut off as Malix struck her again. She spat blood on to the floor to land next to her spittle. Loster suddenly wanted to leave. He knew his father’s tastes and they often went further than mere bloodshed.
Casually Malix reached out and gripped the neck of the woman’s robe. With a violent jerk, he ripped downwards, tearing the garments underneath and baring her small, pale breasts that quivered and heaved as she struggled. The Lord of Elk reached out and cupped one tenderly, then he gripped and twisted savagely. She cried out in agony and Loster felt his stomach heave.
“You are lucky I don’t give you to my men. You would make good sport once we’d stripped that unsightly costume from you.” He released her and snapped a curt order to his men, who reluctantly let her go. She fell to her knees and covered her naked chest with the folds of her torn robe. “Go, crawl back to your hole. Tell your friends that you have two weeks. If I don’t have my money by then — all of it — news of your hiding place will find its way to Illis. And let me tell you that the Dremon are far worse neighbours than I.” With that he strode from the hall, followed by his guardsmen.
The woman remained on her knees for a moment after he was gone and then gingerly climbed to her feet. After taking a moment to compose herself, she left, followed by sniggers from other guardsmen that remained unseen.
Loster sat back. He felt ill and his headache had returned with a fury. It was no surprise that Malix was turning a profit from the enemy but how could he let them live there without warning them of the horror that lurked in the mountain? Loster knew he had to go after her, find out exactly what was going on. He waited for the voice that had ruled his actions in his childhood, the voice that egged him on and made him face his fears, but there was only silence. Ever since his brother had died, the voice had stayed quiet. No more dark encouragement. No more false bravado. In its place there was nothing, just emptiness and a raw ache that throbbed deep in his skull.
Loster flinched as the huge double doors of the Great Hall slammed closed. The noise breathed new life into the pain in his head and his hands flew to his temples to squeeze it out. It was no use. The agony whipped around inside his skull, flailing tendrils of scorching flame and spikes of ice that stabbed and probed at all the softest membranes he possessed. He screwed his eyes shut, but every time he did he found himself back in the darkness of the Widowpeak and terror clasped his heart in barbed fingers.
“Barde,” he moaned aloud, careless of being heard. “Where are you, brother?”
IV
The motion of the cart was making Callistan’s head swim. It didn’t help any that he could only open one eye; the other was swollen shut. Every time his good eyelid drooped with fatigue, his world became a swirl of colour. It was making him nauseous.
The cart rocked violently as one of the wheels slid into a deep rut, and Callistan was thrown against the flimsy wooden screen that shielded him from the elements. The iron shackles he wore bit into the thin skin of his wrists and he gritted his teeth against the pain. A guffaw of laughter came from the portly driver, followed by a hacking cough as he spat a gobbet of phlegm into the undergrowth. Callistan heard a string of curses directed at the driver, who simply laughed all the more.
Callistan shuffled to the centre of the stained wagon bed, over old straw and his own filth. He had long since stopped caring about what he smelt like. He dragged himself backwards so tha
t the small of his back rested against the shallow skirt of the wagon. It wasn’t exactly comfort but it felt near enough like it.
The convoy rumbled onwards. They had been travelling at a punishing speed for days now. He could not judge exactly how much time had passed, but at the end of the wagon there hung a leather curtain, wrinkled and worn like the dewlaps of an old milk cow, and he could get a loose understanding of night and day by how much light spilled through its folds. They fed him seemingly at random — if at all — and each meal — if it could be called that — was accompanied by kicks and curses. He had learned to stay silent, though he earned new bruises every day nonetheless.
The heat inside the wagon was unbearable. The weather should have been turning cold by now yet the snows were withheld, as if by some jealous god. The days were the worst, and Callistan spent them itching and sweltering in his soiled clothing. The heat didn’t abate much at night but it was enough for him to catch some fitful sleep on the hard wooden floor of his prison.
So he waited, and sweated, and brooded in his flimsy wooden cage until somebody would come and speak to him.
Either that or put him out of his misery.
He was still utterly baffled by his situation. The nobleman who had ordered his arrest had seemingly shared his name, his voice, and presumably his face as well. Surely there must have been some misunderstanding? His mind had been groggy — indeed it still was. Perhaps the old man, Hapal, was a lunatic? No, he had seemed entirely natural. Besides, the other men would not have humoured him unless they too were mad. Callistan rolled his tongue around his mouth, probing at a loose tooth in the back. One of his guards had caught him square in the jaw with a pointed boot and his head was still foggy from the impact. The man had been one of Hapal’s aides. None of it made any sense.
Callistan closed his eyes and rested his head on the wooden panelling behind him. If he truly was a spy, then why did everything seem familiar to him? To steal a man’s flesh was a feat in itself. To steal his mind was another thing entirely. His memories were few and far between, yet they had all seemed to click together neatly when he had heard that name, his name. Callistan. Lord of Blackwatch. It just sounded right. Gods, he wished he could remember! Then he could say something, do something to prove that he was him, and that the other… what was the other Callistan? What man could wear another’s face so convincingly?
