He helped the guards remove the King’s body from the enclosure. They had difficulty with his lower half, resting as it was within the Threshold of Consciousness, but with the use of ropes they managed to drag him out. Him. He used the pronoun as they worked, but it didn’t feel right somehow. A man’s title surely stayed with his head and torso, but how else was he to refer to the rest of him? His friend’s legs, though severed from his body were still part of him – still worthy of respect.
An oak chest was brought and after shrouding the King’s remains in a blanket they placed him inside. With its lid open the chest didn’t look big enough to hold a body, but it was deep, and by bending his knees and laying his upper half on top, it easily accommodated him. He swore the guards to secrecy and had them take the chest deep into the bowels of the tower.
Afterwards he woke Marshal Beredrim and gave him the bad news. With the King dead Beredrim held the highest rank and it was his responsibility to break the news to the people and begin preparations for the funeral and a Reader Ceremony. But owing to both the nature and circumstances of the King’s death they had agreed to keep it a secret until they understood what had happened.
The King’s death was a tragedy, but it wasn’t the shock it should have been. A change had come over him after Solstice Festival; a slow degradation of character that had been painful to witness. He became rash and arrogant, developing a temper that was like dry tinder to a spark and he had watched with dismay as his wisdom and serenity were replaced by glittering madness. Twice in the last month the council challenged his poor judgements: when he ordered a young boy to be hanged for climbing over the city walls and after he beat the victualler for a bad bottle of wine and threatened to have his family stocked. They saved the boy’s neck and the victualler’s family dignity, but only after suffering vicious tirades that no one thought him capable of.
The King had brushed off any attempt to help with contempt, forcing him to arrange a secret meeting with Lord Beredrim to decide on what to do. He had become a danger to himself and those around him, and word of his erratic behaviour was leaking onto the street. Their other concern was the approaching Reader Ceremony. An incumbent king was obliged to go before The Reader on every anniversary of his selection; to prove his continued worthiness to rule. But they knew he would fail. Rejection wasn’t usually regarded as a shame, but the rejection of one who had previously been approved certainly would be. Such a rejection would imply a fall from grace - a degeneration of virtue during his reign.
Unable to stand by and let their friend suffer such a public disgrace and humiliation, they had decided to take action. Plans were made to confine him to quarters and impose treatment. There was no precedent for such action and they had no authority to do it. But it was their only option. They had enlisted two of the best mindsetters from the asylum who agreed to attend him day and night. But their plan of action was due to begin this morning – too late by a matter of hours. He had been flogging himself all day for not acting sooner and for not foreseeing what the King would resort to.
As he looked out across the city the riddle he had abandoned at his desk sauntered out to join him. The mystery wasn’t why the King had gone before The Reader; it was what happened to set him on such a course of destruction in the first place?
After talking with Marshal Beredrim he gained access to the King’s quarters and was appalled at the state he found it in. The smell was the first thing to strike him - pungent notes of filth that were more fitting to the back alleyways of Market Cross. Dirty clothes and scraps of food were strewn all over the floor and a contingent of flies hovered in one corner. The bed was unmade and its white sheet was stained red where it hung in a pool of red wine and broken glass. On a wooden dais in the centre of the room he found the book he had spent the last few hours studying. It was a scholarly study of Westland flora and fauna, but given how quickly things evolved in the Eastland it was an old and outdated volume. The King wouldn’t have known that, but the page he ripped out suggested he thought he had been poisoned. If true, it would explain a lot. But what poison? And who was the poisoner?
So far he hadn’t found an answer to the first question. The range of possible poisons was enormous and none of those he read up on produced effects consistent with the changes they had witnessed in the King. But he thought he knew the answer to the second question and he kept coming back to one name the way his tongue would come back to a piece of meat caught in his teeth: Karkus - the commander of the toruck contingent on loan from King Treigus.
He had no basis for this belief other than a look he saw on Karkus’s face; the one time the toruck was present during one of the King’s tantrums. He looked over to Karkus, the way one does in times of shared concern, but the toruck’s stubbly cheek was hitched in a sneer and his eyes were alight with nefarious satisfaction. It was an expression that vanished the moment he caught him looking, but he had seen enough to suspect him of being the poisoner.
Anomalies
There was a knock on his chamber door and he limped back inside, closed the book and dropped into his chair. ‘Come.’ The iron doorknob twisted. He expected Marshal Beredrim, but another familiar figure stepped in.
‘Ormis!’
‘High Exorcist.’ Ormis doffed his broad brimmed hat, pressed it against his abdomen and bowed his head.
Kass wrinkled his nose in distaste of the formality and waved him over. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I have news from Agelrish.’
Kass knew it was important. Reports were made directly to the Caliste and Ormis wasn’t one to break protocol lightly. He gestured to the other chair and Ormis sat, perching on the edge with characteristic rigidity. It gave him the look of a museum piece. ‘Agelrish? I thought you had an exorcism in Galleran Forest.’
‘We did, but word got to us of some killings in South Agelrish and I decided to make it our priority.’ Kass nodded his approval. ‘The night before we arrived, a group of villagers killed a man whose niece they believed was responsible for the killings, and who they had labelled a witch. She got away, helped by a local boy and the ghost of his dead sister. He hid her in a tree house and the ghost scared the villagers away.’
Kass’s mind starting to wander. The scenario Ormis was describing was all too common; victims of possession killing their neighbours and being pursued by angry mobs seeking revenge. He felt a stirring of impatience and hoped Ormis would hurry to the reason he had broken with protocol. He was tired and there were other matters begging his attention.
‘Kring tracked them to the tree house and we were just in time to save the boy from being throttled by the real killer – a creature with the limbs and torso of a tree and the mists of the Eastland in its eyes and on its breath.’
Kass stiffened, his focus yanked back into the room by the possibility that something new had found its way over the mountains. All at once a dozen questions scrawled themselves into his mind.
‘Kring pulled it off the boy and killed it. But when we got a good look at the creature’s face, it was an almost exact replica of the girl’s. She testified later that during a previous encounter, it had changed itself to look like her…Have you ever heard of such a creature?’
Kass almost laughed, probably because he was so tired. The creature Ormis was describing was like nothing he’d ever heard of – a shape shifter whose brethren could pose a new challenge to the Westland’s security. But Ormis asked his question the way an innkeeper would ask him how he wanted his eggs. There was no hint of the excitement or disbelief expected in someone describing such a novel and implausible creature. But it was a typical Ormis delivery. He managed to frown down his amusement and settle into the seriousness the report demanded. ‘No. I have not. Any clues as to how it got there?’
Ormis shook his head ‘I’ve sent trackers to Agelrish with orders to take its back trail.’
‘You’ve sent word to the Wall and the high passes?’
‘As soon as I arrived.’
�
��Good. Did you bring the creature to Irongate?’
‘No. We planned to collect it on the way out of Agelrish, but we ran into trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
‘The villagers were waiting for us at the holdings. And because some of them had seen the creature kill one of their own whilst wearing the girl’s face, they would not consider her innocence. They had her marked as a witch and my words in her defence served only to embellish their fantasy - convincing them that Kring and I were under her spell. They armed themselves and laid siege to the holdings, demanding that we hand our charges over to them. When we refused, they set fire to the building with the four of us inside… I’ve asked the trackers to bring the creature back with them and I’ve also sent word to Rockspur as I expect they’ll want to examine it.’
‘Very good. But the attack on Agelrish Holding’s mustn’t go unpunished. I want you to return to head an inquest and I’ll have Marshal Beredrim loan us some soldiers to keep the peace… What does this girl have to say about the creature?’
Ormis recounted the girl’s interrogation while Kass leant back in his chair and listened. The account was factual and sterile; the kind of report he had come to expect from him. But when he mentioned scouring her at the tree house he was intrigued to see a rare flash of uncertainty in his eyes.
‘You have doubts about the girl?’
‘She’s withholding something, I’m sure of it. But there’s something more than that. I plan to question her again in the morning and with your help if you would give it.’
Kass frowned. ‘Why would you require it?’
‘I want your opinion on her scour.’ His eyes swung open like furnace doors giving Kass a rare view of the fires that burned behind them. ‘Her scour was pure, but her soul was…Loose.’
‘Loose?’
‘As though the bonds between her flesh and soul were unpicked. It felt like I could have drawn her out with the slightest draught.’
‘As though she was ready to pass?’
Ormis thought about this for a second. ‘Close. But not the same. It’s not something I have experienced before or even read about and I would appreciate it if you could take a look.’
Ormis had given his report and he was looking at him now with the air of a full stop. Kass considered his request as their mist stones pulsed in unison. The girl Ormis described had certainly piqued his interest, not least because of the way she had stirred him up. But still, there was other business he needed to attend to.
‘And the boy?’
‘He has much to answer for, but I believe his part in it was as the girl describes.’
‘Where are you keeping them?’
‘Azhul has them overnight.’
‘The city gaol?’
‘It’s just for tonight. There was no time to make other arrangements.’
Kass sighed. ‘Alright. There’s work of some urgency here, but I can meet you there at first light.’
‘Thank you High Exorcist.’
Ormis rose, twisted his wide brimmed hat back into place and headed for the door. But as he reached for the handle Kass called after him. Karkus’s brother Kring had been assigned to Ormis as protector and he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to pursue his poisoning theory. If Karkus had poisoned the King, then it might be part of a wider plot involving the other torucks. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he said as Ormis spun around, trying his best to make his inquiry sound like an afterthought. ‘How’s it working out with Kring?’
‘He’s good at what he does.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Does he get to see much of his brother?’
‘Karkus. I don’t know. Perhaps he does when we’re in the city. The torucks have a weakness for taverns… Why?’
‘King Treigus has been asking after them,’ he replied without hesitation. Ormis had a low threshold for suspicion and questions of dubious origin were likely to provoke it. ‘The torucks have been with us three years now and I’ve got to put together a report for him. What they’ve been assigned to and how well they’re integrating – that kind of thing.’ He waved his hand over his desk as if he was working on it right now. It seemed to work and Ormis nodded without any real interest. He let a short silence run out, hoping his inquiry would provoke him to remember something that might turn out to be important. But Ormis just looked at him. ‘Well, if you’ve nothing to add, I’ll just say Kring’s doing a fine job. I’m sure Marshall Beredrim can pad it out a bit.’ He raised an arm to show they were done and Ormis disappeared through the door.
Kass rubbed his face and blew. Before Ormis came knocking he would have said his head was full. But he would have been wrong. It was only as full as a bucket of rocks and Ormis’s news was like a handful of gravel poured into the spaces. The King was dead, likely poisoned by Karkus and now there was a potential breach of the Westland defences and a girl with a scour that had rattled his most competent exorcist. So much to think about. He looked at his bed and back at his desk again. Sleep was tugging at him like a small child, but he couldn’t give in to it just yet. He slid another book out from beneath the one he had been studying and flipped it open. It was the log book from Rockspur, documenting all activity in and out of the outpost over the last year. He yawned, turned to the first entry and started to read.
The room had dimmed considerably when he got up from his desk again and limped onto his balcony for more air. This time he looked beyond The Reader to the Caliste. A wide wash of sunlight could soften the hard lines of the fortress – transforming the black edifice into a huddle of warm walls that might inspire a child to climb its steps and look down from its parapets. But now as twilight summoned its shadows, it had the look of a beggar’s mouth - its battlements like teeth in a jutting jaw and its green mistlamps pulsing like abscesses in a black throat.
Someone was climbing the Cragg right now, bounding up its steps two at a time. His sore eyes strained and he was soon able to make out the climber’s distinctive straight back and wide brimmed hat.
Ormis.
It had been upon those very steps that Kass first met him. He was on his way down from the Caliste when he came across a boy sitting on the cold stone beneath one of the hideous skulls that were mounted on the rock face. The boy jumped to his feet as he approached and fixed him with a pair of stone grey eyes. ‘Begging your pardon sir, but are you an exorcist?’
Kass drew up on the step above him. It was rare to see a child on the steps and rarer still for one to be alone. Those he had encountered before were always in groups – street boys daring each other to trespass ever higher up the steps. There was severe punishment for those who were caught and so whenever an exorcist appeared the children usually scurried away like rats. But this one was bold and fearless.
‘I am,’ he replied, the mist stone that should have rendered the question unnecessary, throbbing on his hand.
‘I want to be one too. Can you teach me?’
Kass laughed. Since the very inception of his order the Caliste had found it difficult to recruit new members. Exorcists were either reviled or viewed with suspicion. Their work had little appeal to most men and it was rarely a desirable prospect for a child. His humour however, was quick to condense on the boy’s cool regard.
‘I’m not scared you know.’
‘So I see… What’s your name?’
‘Ormis.’
He decided to wave the boy’s penalty for being caught on the steps and escorted him back to the orphanage instead, promising to give him a proper hearing should he feel the same way when he came of age.
He had expected never to see him again, so it came as a surprise when five years later he was called to the gatehouse to see a young man who claimed to have an appointment with him. Ormis had come straight from his discharge at the orphanage, dressed in patched rags and with not a single item in his possession. He was much bigger and broader than the boy he had met on the steps, but the cold confidence he remembered was carved into every angle of him. Ormis r
epeated his wish to become an exorcist and he had kept his promise. Less than an hour after leaving the orphanage he took his oaths and began his training.
Ormis was now one of his best men. He was efficient and reliable and one of the rare few who could keep his head in extreme circumstances. His drive and dedication was unrivalled by any of their order, including himself. He was a personification of the Caliste and an uncompromising emissary for its ideals. Superficially he was everything a High Exorcist would desire in his ranks, but given the chance to enlist a dozen more like him, he would have major reservations. The business of exorcists was conducted in the black soup of cruelty and suspicion that bubbled away at the heart of every village and a pinch of cheer and humour was necessary to keep the broth tolerable. Ormis had no trace of either. As he watched him approach the gatehouse it occurred to him that he had never heard him laugh in the whole time he had known him. He tried to imagine such an occurrence but was unable to superimpose even the slightest expression of joviality upon his mental image of him.
No one would deny there was fire inside Ormis, but it burnt only with the passions of his work. He built no relationships outside the Caliste and those he built within it were superficial and professional. No one could get near him. His posture was a fortification and his aura a moat around it. If Ormis were to die and a surgeon to open his chest, he wouldn’t be surprised to see a collection of organ shaped stones inside it.
He watched him disappear into the gatehouse before retiring to his bed. There was more reading to be done, but his sore eyes and sagging body demanded it wait till morning.
Coffin
Azhul studied his cards: a spirit lure, a festered haunt, a mist stone and a pair of exorcists. It was a decent hand and he had a good chance of scooping the large pile of silver moons accumulated on top of an upturned barrel. He looked across at the other guards, trying to keep his face neutral. He succeeded in this much, but unbeknown to him he had already given himself away with an unconscious twitch of his little finger. But before the hand could be played the rest room door swung open and another guard appeared around it. ‘Gaolmaster. You’re needed at the gate. There’s three torucks and they’ve got something for yer.’
Absence: Whispers and Shadow Page 21
