“I’ve been hoping you’d be along soon.” Alwen sat on the edge of her bed, dressed but not robed. “Help me with the mantle, would you?”
Glain obliged, reluctantly, easing Alwen’s arms into the heavy velvet vestment. The dark blight on her hand did not seem to have worsened overnight, but Alwen did not seem rested. “You needn’t rise at all, you know. What would it matter? No one would dare disturb you, not even the prefects if I so instructed. I can well enough manage the day to day matters on your behalf, and by and by, I can come myself to see to your needs.”
“And just who will tend to your duties while you tend to mine, hmm?” Alwen’s smile was strained, but she pulled herself up to a fairly solid stand. “I am not as frail as I might appear.
Glain resisted the urge to assist Alwen as she walked from her bedchamber toward the scriptorium. “Do you have pain?”
“Yes,” Alwen said honestly, stopping midway as though she were reconsidering her destination. “Only needles and pins though, thanks to Cerrigwen, and only in my hand, but I must say the hand doesn’t trouble me nearly as much as the fumble-mindedness. It tends to settle over me later in the day, when I begin to tire, and always when I most want a clear head.”
“She is a bit off, don’t you think?” Glain thought she might be speaking out of place, but she was curious. “Different than she was before, to be sure.”
“Cerrigwen?” Alwen turned toward the sitting room and walked with careful steps to the divan. “She has been altered by her ordeals, that much is plain. And she seems genuinely plagued by regret. Certainly she is afraid for her daughter. Whether any or all of that is change enough to warrant my trust, well, that I am still deciding.”
Alwen settled herself on the divan with obvious effort. “You, on the other hand, seem to need less convincing.”
“What I said yesterday was that I believe she can be trusted within limits.” Glain was surprised to hear herself sound so assertive, but it felt unexpectedly natural. “Do you want me to pour the aleberry, or would you rather I called for tea?”
“The aleberry, please,” said Alwen. “You think Cerrigwen can be controlled through her concern for her daughter.”
“Not necessarily controlled.” Glain handed Alwen a cup full to the brim. “But I am absolutely certain she will do anything to protect Ffion, and nothing whatsoever to endanger her. As long as Hywel and Odwain keep this in mind, they will know what to expect from her.”
“And how to use her, I suppose.” Alwen gestured toward the seat next to her. “Sit. Tell me the state of things. Did Hywel agree to leave enough men to continue the excavation?”
Glain gathered her robe and skirts and sat next to Alwen. “He has taken only a handful of his soldiers, a dozen I think. The rest were conscripted to Emrys, with instructions that the work in the tunnel should not be interrupted. I understand they have made remarkable progress.”
“Let me know when they reach the cave,” Alwen requested. “Rhys and the mage hunter are well on their way, I presume?”
“Yes.” Glain did not want to speak of Rhys. It had been an awkward farewell, and she’d felt a sense of finality that she preferred to ignore. “Do you think when they find where the Cythraul have gone, they will also find Machreth?”
“I would be surprised if they didn’t. He is at the root of every treachery that befalls us, I am certain of that, just as I am certain he has help.” If Alwen noticed Glain’s discomfort with the subject, she gave no indication. “I presume the search for the scroll continues.”
Glain was suddenly reminded of Ynyr. “Yes, though I haven’t had time yet this morning to speak with Ynyr or the others. I shall make a point of doing just that, as soon as I am sure you have everything you need. Shall I have a morning tray brought?”
Alwen waved the idea away. “Just bring the scrying stone, will you? I heard whispers in my dreams last night.”
“The dream-speak?” Glain went into the receptory to retrieve it from the obelisk next to Alwen’s ritual altar.
“The stirrings of it, I believe. I have been visited by these whispers before, but I could make next to no sense of them. This time, I have an inkling of something, a message, maybe. I am hoping the scrying stone will help me see it more clearly.”
Glain brought the crystal orb from its resting place, wrapped in its protective velvet cloth, and placed it in Alwen’s lap. She could not imagine how the scrying stone could be used to amplify the voices from the beyond. The orb neither possessed nor controlled the power of the dream-speak, and it seemed to Glain that Alwen was clutching at straws. But then again, there were many things Alwen knew that she did not, and this was not the time to question such things. “If there is nothing else, I’ll go and find Ynyr.”
“Yes, do.” Alwen, already distracted by the orb, was slipping into her thoughts. “Come to me again later, when you have news.”
Glain left Alwen to her scrying, pledging to return soon, news or not. She had her doubts that Alwen was faring as well as she wanted Glain to think. Still, it was eating at her that she had neither seen nor heard from Ynyr since the day before. Nor had anyone else, she soon discovered. One of the prefects found Ynyr’s room cold and quiet, as if he had not even slept there. The last place he was known to have been was with Glain, after Alwen’s infamous audience. When he’d left Glain, his plan had been to investigate a second-floor storeroom.
Verica and Euday were inquiring discreetly throughout the temple and the grounds as they went about their daily business, while Glain retraced Ynyr’s steps. Ariane had not been included—not just yet—mostly because Glain wanted to avoid her questions. Besides, Ariane had no love for Ynyr.
A large storage closet was located at the end of the west annex hallway on each of the second and third floors, across from the service stairs leading to the kitchens. They were catchalls for things that had fallen out of use and big enough for at least two persons to move about and rummage through. Her first stop would be the second-floor room to see if Ynyr had actually gone there in the first place.
As small as the membership had become, it was unusual for anyone to go missing for more than a few hours. One could make themselves scarce in a castle so sprawling and so replete with secret spaces, but Ynyr normally went out of his way to let his presence be known. He was a watchdog by nature, and a leader through his own example. Glain’s most urgent concern was that he had next gone searching somewhere even more obscure than the storeroom and become trapped or injured.
Two of the four spell rooms on this hall were in use by small groups of apprentices testing their skills. The others were open, but empty. Beyond the spell rooms was a matching pair of simple guest quarters just big enough to hold a cot, a chair, and a washbasin and stand, one directly across the hall from the other.
Odwain’s brother was convalescing in the south-facing room, attended by a young male apprentice named Ilan, who nodded as she paused at the entrance. Pedr was resting well under the care of the young apprentice, who already had the skills of an accomplished physician and was uncommonly dedicated to the healing arts. Such a pity that Cerrigwen had lost her way; she would have found an eager student in Ilan.
Glain glanced down the hall. On the north side, beyond the unoccupied guest room was the storage closet. The door to the closet was ajar. A sudden wash of relief eased her anxiety. Ynyr had been here.
“Were you sitting with your patient last evening, Ilan?” Glain asked. “Did you happen to see Ynyr pass this way?”
“Not that I noticed,” Ilan said. “But I excused myself while Odwain was here visiting for an hour or so. Ynyr might have come then.”
Glain crossed the hall and pulled the storeroom door open wide to investigate. “Good Gods. What happened in here?”
Ilan was quick to her aid, oil lamp in hand. “Stay where you are. Don’t go in just yet. Let’s have a good look first.”
He stood on the threshold and extended the lamp into the shadowy space. The closet was in a shambles. What should have been an orderly arrangement of unneeded implements and household goods was a mess of upended crates and broken pottery. The top of an old trunk was caved in where something heavy had landed upon it, hard. And the thick layer of grime that had once covered it all had yet to settle again. It coated the air with its tacky silt and the stale, fusty odor of disuse. Glain was aghast at Ynyr’s carelessness.
“Well,” she huffed. “I hope he found what he came for.”
“Come now.” Ilan scowled, disbelieving. “You don’t really think Ynyr would do this, do you?”
“No.” Glain realized right away how unlikely it sounded and regretted that her first thought had been accusing. “He wouldn’t.”
“Looks to me as though there was a struggle,” Ilan speculated. “Though I don’t know how that makes any more sense.”
He stepped back into the hall and glanced around, searching. “What is that smell?”
At first Glain thought he meant the cloud of dust that had escaped the closet, but then she caught the waft of a second, even less pleasant scent. Faint, but distinctly familiar. Her heart seized. Glain recognized this sickly sweet stench.
“Ilan,” she said evenly, drawing her wand from its sling at her waist. “Can you tell the source of the smell?”
Ilan squatted to set the oil lamp on the stone floor and, now steely-eyed and tensed, drew his own wand. He stood again and turned full circle, slowly, tracing the source of the scent. “I can’t be certain, but it seems to be strongest right here. What is it, Glain?”
Glain could barely utter the word. “Cythraul.”
She admired the look of indignation that settled over Ilan’s face, even took courage from it, though she knew he did not understand the horror they might be facing. Still, she was grateful she was not alone.
“Stand ready,” Glain said, indicating the vacant chamber across from the sickroom with a jut of her chin. It was the only other place to hide. “Do what you must to keep Pedr safe.”
Without questioning, Ilan positioned himself behind her in the middle of the hall, which emboldened Glain just enough to confront the closed door. Logic informed her skittered mind that the scent they were encountering was only a remnant of danger already passed. She could not be certain, though, until they had seen for themselves.
Glain reached for the handle. She could see her hand shaking but could not make it stop. The last time she had fought the soul-stealers, she had not been strong enough on her own to overcome them. She had needed Ynyr and Nerys. Brave as Ilan showed himself to be, he would be of little help were they facing even one wraith now.
Pulling a steadying breath deep into her lungs, Glain gripped the door handle and turned until the latch slid back. She paused for an instant, listening for any sign of being from within. Satisfied there was none, she flung the door in and struck a defensive pose at the threshold. Nothing would pass her unchallenged.
It took a dozen heartbeats for her eyes to adjust to the unlit space. At first she saw only shapeless shadow, like a curtain of black wool draping the entry. Slowly her vision sharpened and the blackness refined itself, until the realization of what awaited in the darkness struck her so hard that she staggered.
Glain stumbled forward and fell to her knees at the feet of the twisted, stiffened figure that lay on the floor between the door and the cot. The room was so rife with the stench of the Cythraul, she gagged, choking on the acrid mixture of bile and stifled sobs roiling in her chest.
Ilan retrieved the lantern and rushed to her side. His light fully exposed the grotesquery and shocked him to a dead stop. Ilan let out a low groan and muttered an angry epithet in the old tongue, followed by a gentle blessing meant for the protection and safe passage of a departed spirit.
“Great Gods, Glain,” he said. “He looks unnatural. What happened to him?”
Glain was so devastated she could hardly speak. She forced herself to stand, to tear her eyes from Ynyr’s hideously contorted face and to detach from her horror in order to function with at least a little clarity and dignity. If she did not lead, who would?
“His soul has been torn from his body. The darkling shroud sucks out the very essence of a person. It is a slow and agonizing process, even when the victim surrenders to it. Ynyr did not surrender.”
Ilan crouched beside the remains to examine them more closely. Glain cringed as he poked and prodded and then pulled at Ynyr’s crooked limbs. They were rigid.
“His body is cold,” Ilan deduced. “Death came to him some hours ago.” Ilan turned to look up at her, alarmed. “Would the wraith still be loose somewhere in the Fane?”
Glain had no idea, but then she could hardly think straight. Still, the last thing she wanted was to admit uncertainty to Ilan. “Once they have overtaken their intended victim, the Cythraul return to whomever it was that summoned them in the first place.”
“You assume, then, that Ynyr was the intended victim?”
Was he? Or had he surprised the soul-stealer on its way to attack someone else? Glain envisioned Ynyr trapped in the darkling shroud, helpless and alone. Sorrow nearly cracked the thin and fragile mask of control she had fashioned, and she swallowed the wail that kept rising in her throat. Mustering every ounce of determination, she focused on following the most rational trail of thought. “You said yourself he was overcome hours ago. He was last seen yesterday eve, on his way to the storeroom. I would have to think that was when he was attacked. If the Cythraul were still in the vicinity, someone else would have encountered it by now.”
Ilan nodded, reassured. “Outside this room, the scent trail is weak.”
“Raise the alarm anyway.” Pedr had managed to make his way to the doorway, sword at the ready. “Whether the threat has passed or not, the Fane has still been invaded. And unless you have some idea how and by whom, we are still vulnerable. The grounds must be searched and any breach reinforced. And I’m afraid until you have accounted for the rest of your membership, you cannot possibly know if this one Steward is the only casualty.”
“Yes. Of course, you’re right.” Glain felt foolish for not thinking the situation through. “Ilan, gather help from the apprentices in the spell rooms down the hall. Send someone capable to stay with our wounded warrior here, and then summon Emrys to Alwen’s quarters. Order the membership to gather in the main hall and wait for me there.”
Ilan scrambled madly down the hall, leaving Glain alone with the corpse. It frightened her, the malformed shell that had once held the essence that was her truest friend. She couldn’t stand to think what he must have suffered in those final moments, and yet the thoughts filled her mind anyway. The putrid, inescapable smothering of the darkling, tearing and shredding at his consciousness until he could no longer resist; it was beyond hideous. Agony sent a violent shudder through her.
“Pull the door closed now,” said Pedr. “You only torment yourself, standing there staring at him, and nothing good can come of that.”
It was kind advice, and wise, though Glain was inexplicably reluctant to take it. It seemed too final an act to shut the door on what was left of him. She could not shake the childish feeling that until he left her sight, Ynyr was not truly gone.
“Come,” Pedr said, gently insistent. “Help me back to my bed before you go.”
Glain complied, grateful for direction when she felt so profoundly lost. Ynyr had been her guide at times like these, but she could not bear that thought now. She offered Pedr her hand for balance, though he seemed perfectly able to walk all on his own. He sheathed his sword with relative ease, even with only one good shoulder, and stood the scabbard against the wall next to the head of his bead.
“You seem to be doing remarkably well on your own,” she observed.
“You needed the distraction.” Pedr sat on the edge of his bed and eased hi
mself onto the cot. His attempt at a wry smile was only half successful, and he was perspiring more than he should. “And I’m afraid things aren’t always what they seem.”
Glain began to wish she hadn’t sent Ilan away. “Are you in pain?”
“No more than I was before. Just not as steady on my feet as I’d like to think,” he confessed. Once he was still, the color returned to his face. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Glain pulled the blanket up to his chest and then noticed Pedr was watching her.
“Yes. And so will you. You are strong.” His eyes were a mire of hidden emotion, powerfully expressive and unnervingly deep. “There will come a proper time to honor your friend.”
These simple, honest words nearly broke her. Glain accepted them with a polite nod, wishing she could trust her voice enough to thank this near stranger properly for his kindness. Somehow he had known what she most needed to hear, and whether he knew it or not, he had helped her.
EIGHTEEN
Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely pull on the door latch, and yet Glain’s thoughts were clear and focused. As she knocked and opened the door to Alwen’s suite, Emrys appeared at the top of the staircase and rushed to follow her inside.
“What has happened?”
Alwen was startled by the abrupt interruption, but Glain managed to block the doorway long enough for the Sovereign to sit straight on the divan and make her best presentation. She looked stronger than Glain expected, strong enough that Emrys might not notice her sunken eyes and sallow skin.
Not that she need worry. Emrys was so agitated, he was unable to restrain himself long enough for Glain to speak, and blurted out his concerns. “There should be double the guard at your door, Sovereign.”
“I will first hear what Glain has to say,” Alwen said, subtly reminding Emrys of his place. He deferred, but it appeared to pain him to do so.
“Ynyr is dead.” Glain had to swallow hard to find enough spit to speak. Tears burned her eyes, and a sob tightened the back of her throat. “We found his body in one of the second-floor guest quarters. He succumbed to the darkling.”
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 18
