***
Whilst Orla sat wrapped in thought Emelia picked at the potato and sage dish that Master Mek-ik-Ten had given her.
“You’re certain you feel able to sit through here, Emelia?” Jem asked.
“I’m fine, Jem, really. My shoulder aches like a demon, which I suppose is rather ironic. Yet I’ve not slept so undisturbed in weeks,” Emelia said.
“The sanctuary is shrouded in wards and bolstered by the peace of the minds within,” Master Ten said. “Speak to me now of Vildor.”
“I’m not sure how to explain, Master Ten. I sort of visited his dreams at first then he began coming into mine.”
“You mean you dream of him?” Jem asked.
“No. It’s more than that. He is in my dreams. Independently. We interact, as if we were meeting in real life. But I have this feeling that he’s constantly trying to entrance me, to …seduce me somehow.”
Jem looked at Mek-ik-Ten with alarm.
“H-how is it happening? Why is it me?” Emelia said.
“It is you because in this world there are those whom events of import gravitate to. In the way iron fragments will drift to a magnet or bees to the flower the forces of this world swirl around you Emelia,” Mek-ik-Ten said.
“But why now?” Emelia said. Panic was clawing at her and she could feel an increasing desire to flee. She could sense Lady Orla glaring with hatred at her.
“These dreams of Vildor have only been with you since we were taken from Azagunta, am I correct? As I told you before, Master, Emelia had had a strange encounter with a Dark-mage in the cemetery.”
“He was using some black stone for his magic until I challenged him. I could feel the dark sorcery in the gem when I held it,” Emelia said.
Master Ten rose and ambled across the chamber, deep in thought. He exited through one of the room’s three doors. Emelia sighed and rested her head against Jem’s shoulder.
Master Ten re-entered and returned to his place by the fire pit. In his hand was a large amethyst covered in runes and suspended on a leather thong. He placed the pendant in Emelia’s hands.
“Now empty your mind of its clutter. Block out the chatter of Hunor and the scents of the potatoes and the charcoal. Hear nought but your heartbeat, slow and steady, thudding its rhythm of life.”
Emelia did as she was bidden, feeling fatigue slip over here like a warm blanket on a winter’s night. In her mind was a red haze and the thump of blood was loud in her ears. Then, gradually, an image began to form, coalescing out of the warm fuzziness: a warren of tunnels and caves; caverns with roofs dwarfing the mightiest temples of man; Galvorians stumping through the gloom, chatting in their scraping tongue. The images progressed: a marketplace in a cave, with gems and stones and long enamel pipes; a Galvorian child easing past a stall and deftly taking a pendant whilst the trader bartered with a priest.
“You stole this. As a child in the depths of Orio,” Emelia said.
“It is past time we discussed this treasure of yours,” Master Ten said.
Jem, looking a little baffled, reached into his cloak and brought out the crystal. It seemed to light from within and Emelia was taken back to that day in the Keep when she had first seen the stone.
Hunor and Marthir stopped talking and stared at the glowing blue light.
“There’s something familiar about that stone,” Marthir said.
Kervin entered the chamber and made his way self-consciously to sit by Emelia, with the look of a man who had interrupted a show half way through an act.
“How’re you doing?” Kervin asked with a wink.
“Feeling out of my depth, thanks,” she replied.
Jem looked uncomfortable as Kervin nudged Emelia then, clearing his throat, said, “The master feels and I must say I concur that it is past time to discuss this crystal.
“I am uncertain as to the exact nature of this crystal that has found its way, through routes best not elaborated, into our possession. I would suppose on reflection that some—the late Ekra-Hurr included—regarded it as a likely part of a prism of power. Such are the wards on it that even the deftest researchers are likely to remain uncertain, unless they have the skills to wield it.
“That curiosity is largely academic. We know that the Dark-mages seek it and that Vildor, one of the most feared mages of the past, covets it also. Whatever his plan and purpose I think it can be assumed it will be dire. My question to you my friends is where do we take it?”
“To state the obvious, I would say return the crystal to where it was taken from. Coonor in Eeria,” Lady Orla said.
“It should go to the council of Druids,” Marthir said. “They are the most objective and the wisest.”
“Have we considered that it could be used as a weapon against Vildor?” Kervin said. “If we can harness its energy then we could take the fight to him. Let’s take it to Queen Hirga in South Artoria. The fools in Belgo would have to listen to us then.”
“Have you all lost your minds?” Hunor said, shaking his head. “The last time I heard such quality judgement was when the Bulian guild of fire-eaters decided to hold their annual get together in a cellar full of neat whisky. What can we do against the minions of an ancient sorcerer? We should ditch this crystal in the lap of someone more capable: the Goldorian knights or something.”
Jem looked from one to the other and then turned to Emelia. She looked up at his earnest face and felt a sense of destiny overtaking her.
“This isn’t a time for hiding, for cowering in the recesses of the mountains until Vildor recovers his powers enough to come and drag it from our dead hands,” Jem said. “This crystal has come to us for a reason. The Dark-mages need this stone for some purpose and we can suppose if they want one, they want them all. I say there is another path for us and it is this—we find the other crystals and reform a prism.”
The suggestion struck the room like a thunderclap. Emelia shook with a mixture of fear and excitement.
“Even supposing we were insane enough to try this scheme of yours, old mate, there is a slight flaw in your plan,” Hunor said. “The different crystals are all scattered who knows where and enchanted to escape detection. And that’s if any of them even exist any more. It’d be like finding a straight man in Kokis.”
“As even within the condemned man who walks to his death there is a flicker of hope, so we may find ours in this room,” Master Mek-ik-Ten said.
“And cryptic analogy aside, where exactly in this room is the answer,” Hunor said.
Emelia’s insides dissolved into ice as the Galvorian monk turned to face her.
“Here is our answer. Emelia will show us the other crystals.”
Chapter 6 Death in the chapel
Blossomstide 1924
“I just feel that it’d be courteous for you to join us, given that he saved me from certain slaughter at the hands of those bandits,” Aldred said.
Baron Enfarson regarded him with annoyance, looking up from a table strewn with scrolls and papers.
“If you think I have nothing better to do than spend my time with a wandering thespian who happened upon your misfortune, then you know me little, boy,” the baron said.
“He is excellent company, Father.”
Baron Enfarson snorted and returned his attentions to his desk. The last strains of sunlight were sneaking through the window of the study. Flecks of dust pirouetted in the beams, rising to the arched ceiling.
After a minute of silence the baron glanced up again and looked perturbed that Aldred remained.
“What were you doing down in the Barrowlands anyway? Was the night in that black mage’s den not enough excitement for you?”
“I—I was looking for an old friend from Thetoria City. No-one you’d know I’m certain.”
“It’s a fell day when goblins are so far from the borders and bold enough to ambush armed Thetorians. Benrich has clearly let it slip. I always thought they cut off the wrong brother’s head.
“Well, whilst you were look
ing up old friends, your little partner Korianson has been busy.”
A tingle of apprehension ran through Aldred. He had left Livor looking into the mysterious death of Smithson’s daughter. Another secret he kept from his father. Was that where he lived now—a castle of deceptions?
“Oh, really? Anything of importance?” Aldred asked.
“It seems that the Spring Fayre and its maidens were not enough for his appetite,” the baron said. “He organises an impromptu dance in the village for the Spring Maidens, in honour of the dead girl.”
Aldred shrugged and his father returned to his papers. After another minute, the baron slammed down his quill. “Aldred, I’m too busy to be entertaining your little sulks. Go play with your minstrel. I have taxes to harvest and murderers to find. If there’s nothing else?”
Aldred shook his head and wandered to the door. He paused as he pushed it open.
“Father, the knight in the dungeons, can I see him?”
The room chilled palpably behind him. “I see no reason why you should hear his poisoned words. No, Aldred, you may not. Now leave me.”
Aldred stalked out of the study shaking his head and stomped down the hall. He took the staircase that descended to the dining hall.
The fever had altered his father. Bad temper was nothing new: the baron had been that way since Aldred’s mother died. Yet before the mood was driven with a kind of weariness, of gloom and of irritation, as if he was lashing out from the pain locked inside him. Now it was different. It was as if the baron enjoyed being mean and vindictive. It was as if he took pleasure in cruelty.
Aldred paused on the staircase feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the events he was embroiled in. One thing was definite: he had to get out of this castle and its lands sometime soon.
***
The dining room was a substitute for the Great Hall, which was currently under repair from fire damage on the night of the Feast of Blood. An old table had been dragged from some cobweb clogged corner and given a new lease of life.
The mood was light as Aldred entered. Ekris had evidently spent his time entertaining the serving girls with japes and jests because their faces were reddened from laughter. They all stood stiffly when Aldred entered. He slumped onto a seat and the servants began placing dishes on the table.
Ekris was dressed in a red and gold doublet with a floppy cap very much the fashion amongst the artisans of Thetoria.
“Is the baron indisposed, m’lord?”
“My father is in a fickle mood of late. He has just recovered from a fever and seems inclined to work in his study most nights.”
“We are night owls then, he and I,” Ekris said. “The silky darkness of the night nourishes all my most extravagant ideas that fade like a lover’s promises in the heat of the day.”
“And what plans have you now, Ekris? You are more than welcome to indulge my father’s indirect hospitality for as long as the fancy takes you.”
Ekris made a bowing motion with his head. “As ever you humble a simple thespian. I shall not be as the boor in Deradov’s epic tragedy Voltag’s Doom and outstay my welcome. No, m’lord, I plan to saunter to the town of Eviksburg and sample its pleasures for a number of days before I recommence my travels.”
“Good idea. Tell me though, how did you come to be on the road to Weaver’s Beck? And if it’s not too presumptuous of me to ask how does a wandering actor fight like you do?”
“My troupe finished in Silverton a week ago, albeit prematurely. I rode ahead of my fellow players intending to use my time to contact an old acting friend near Weaver’s Beck. Yet with the events that then transpired I thought it my duty to accompany you back to Blackstone Castle.”
“And your skill with the sword?”
“I was raised in the warrens of stormy Kir on the north coast of Azagunta, m’lord. One fought daily for survival in the Barnacle.”
Aldred nodded and gestured for the servants to bring the next course of basted goose and sweet potato. The Azaguntan seemed genuine but a nagging doubt still played inside him. There were layers beneath layers in this man.
“Forgive my queries. I could sorely use some of your technique in battle,” Aldred said.
“Maybe I will have the honour of tutoring you one day then, m’lord?” Ekris said, with a mouth full of goose. “Or perhaps lessons in the art of pretence and acting? As an aside I note that the castle is fond of Azaguntans. I can not think that I have ever seen so many outside of the glum isle.”
“You’re very observant. They were brought in over the last few years by our deceased advisor Quigor. I’m afraid he proved to be...a poor representative of your nation.”
“In the great Eerian tragedy Historica Imperius, Holden writes of the Azaguntans ‘A race born from the dust with a soul of stone.’ I’ve often added ‘and a heart of opal.’”
Aldred’s hand trembled abruptly at the mention of the opal. The goblin bandit had spoke of Ligor. It had occurred to him that it was one of the names that Quigor’s master had said.
“How came Quigor to be in this corner of fair Thetoria?”
“My father’s cousin, Argas Enfarson, had sent him, though Argas lives in Artoria somewhere so I am unclear how.”
“A mystery befitting of the most epic yarn. I have long had a hankering for the journey to Keresh, to learn the dance-theatre of the legendary Glazan Players. I shall be sure to convey your disappointment to your noble cuz.”
Aldred smiled and, as Ekris proceeded to witter almost non-stop about the variety of theatre he had been trained in, Aldred’s mind drifted. There was a pattern to all these threads: Quigor, Hunor, the knight, magical opals and the creature that slew the maiden. And Poris’s omen: was this all somehow predestined?
A dessert of Feldorian sugarcake and another bottle of Nulorian White arrived at the table. Well the knight was off limits for the moment. Perhaps a simple start would be to read Poris’s omen and Aldred resolved to find a copy of the Nine Sacred Scrolls that evening.
***
It proved a futile search through the castle. Perhaps it was the influx of godless Azaguntans into his home or perhaps it had been a product of the fire that had ruined the castle’s shrine as it had the Great Hall, but Aldred could not find one copy of the Nine Sacred Scrolls.
He was struck with inspiration as he stood sulking atop the battlements, watching the mists gather. The collection of cottages in the bailey below Garan’s Motte had a chapel for the small folk.
Aldred descended to the courtyard. In the light of the red moon he could see guards chatting whilst the stableboys brushed the horses. With a smile he noticed Hinkir the stable boy, now a hulking lad of fifteen, mumbling to a pair of scullery girls. An old woman was drawing water from the deep well close to the steps that lead to the main castle.
He passed the bored looking soldier at the gatehouse. Another bloody Azaguntan, he griped, as he walked down the steep road that ran down Garan’s Motte.
The night was cool and the mist was thick over the grass of the bailey. The clamour of the castle behind him was fading and the road to the outer gatehouse was quiet. The walk seemed to take longer than normal in the fog. Aldred began to get a strange sense he was not alone in the night.
He turned and scanned the road back to the castle but it was empty.
He continued towards the collection of cottages scowling at his own nerves. His heart was quickening, his breathing loud in the gloom.
He paused again and turned. There was definitely something near him.
“Hello? Hello? Is there someone here?” he called. His voice was dampened by the grey air.
There was only silence.
Aldred felt a sudden urge to void. Damn his stupid imagination and damn that bloody wine. Livor would laugh himself senseless if he knew of this.
Aldred ran to the cottages, his mouth dry and sticky. Sounds of warmth and laughter came from within their wattle and daub structures. The noise was like nectar to Aldred’s senses. He moved swiftly along t
he road and to the wooden chapel. Its roof was crested by the sign of the sun, silhouetted against the faint red of the Pyrian moon.
Aldred entered the foyer, clutched the wall and tried to gain control of his breathing. After a minute he moved through into the nave. The benches were arranged for the next day’s service, with an occasional hymn book for those skilled in letters. At the chancel, before the altar, Aldred could see the kneeling form of Pastor Pritir. He was crying.
“Pastor?” Aldred said, his voice echoing in the empty chapel.
Pritir nearly fell over at the sound of Aldred’s voice. One of the two flaming braziers that stood either side of the chancel wobbled as he scrambled to his feet. He squinted, drying his face with the sleeve of his golden robe.
“Lord Enfarson? What is it? Why—why are you here?”
Aldred looked a bit embarrassed at the priest’s astonishment. He wasn’t that reticent a worshipper of Mortis was he?
“Would you believe I just couldn’t find a copy of the Nine? May I please have one to read?” Aldred asked.
The old priest shuffled to the bookcase on the east wall, lifted down a gold book and passed it to him.
“Pastor, are you alright?”
“No, my child, I fear none of us are. I weep for the weakness in my faith that has allowed such evil to breed at my doorstep.”
“We were all taken in by Quigor, Pastor. My father included.”
“I am the chosen of Mortis on this soil. Let all who serve me guard well against the serpent in the nest, it is written in the Book of Hirid. I have permitted the serpent to multiply and the good folk now endure its bite. Excuse me, I must return to prayer and penance. Kindly put the book back on the shelf when you are done.”
Aldred nodded and took a seat in the back corner of the nave. The light from the braziers was poor and he sat partly in shadow but he felt so uncomfortable near the wretched priest that he accepted this.
The lament of the pastor was the only noise in the chapel. Aldred began leafing through the book. The ink was smudged from years of thumbing and Aldred thought transiently of Livor and his printing press as he located the sixth book, the Book of Graen.
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 41
