Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Someone better help him down then!’

  ‘A wise and powerful figure, half god, half mighty dragon.’

  ‘And he ain’t half ugly-looking, neither! Bahaha!’

  Farden was confused to say the least. A pair of guards stood nearby, in Evernia colours. He was surprised to see them ignoring this preacher. Nobody would have dared do such a thing a decade or two ago. Farden considered heckling the man himself, just to be belligerent, but he thought better of it.

  As Farden walked on, he quickly realised the man was not alone. His competition stood on every other street corner, each bellowing their own brand of neurotic nonsense. Every step Farden took towards the centre of the city, the louder Krauslung became. As the streets widened, so did the crowds. Taverns spilled out onto the road in colourful umbrellas and fenced areas, replete with tables and chairs, packed with drinkers soaking up their fair share of beer and the last of the day’s sun. Many of the men were smoking pipes. Farden ached to join them, but he had no coin nor pipe. He wandered on.

  He soon encountered a magick market. He had scowled at them before, and he scowled at them now. Meddlers, he thought, eyeing the wares of a passing table. “Wigs! Fine Heifer-tail wigs that change colour with your mood!” screamed a painted sign. The man at the stall seemed to be wearing no less than four wigs, all on top of each other. The merchant must have been either a halfwit or deeply confused, for they all cycled through a various array of colours before the crowd stole Farden away.

  At another stall, a woman in short skirts was trying on a brass shoe etched with flames and feathers. She put one foot on the floor and it began to vibrate, and violently too. She barely managed to get the thing off before it clattered down the street. The merchant chased after it, much to the laughter of a nearby tavern-crowd. Farden shook his head. Magick was for the trained or for the trinket, not for everyone. It angered him to see it so available, after all he had done to attain it.

  Farden escaped to where a little hill rose under the cobbles, like a ripple in a grey carpet. There the buildings cleared just enough to allow a wanderer like him to stare out at the busy port. It seemed as though the water had been replaced with ships. There was barely enough room for them to manoeuvre out to open water. Krauslung truly was a hive, he thought. More so than ever. Farden then turned to gaze back at the mountains, and that was when he saw it.

  He began moving almost immediately, heading directly north like an arrow with a hood. Pushing men and women aside and not caring for their complaints, Farden pressed on through the crowds and gawpers. The day was drawing its smoke-blue curtains. The night was coming, and with it the evening crowds: those off to see the twinkling of the ship-lights, those heading to the night-markets, or to a feast, those in need of pockets to pick, and those in need of ale or meat or whoring or all the above. Cities were all the same, at their hearts, fifteen years or no.

  At the gates the guards were warning the passers-through that they would soon be shutting the city. As he wandered out into the field beyond, Farden gazed up at the thick walls and the giant gatehouse, every part of it bigger and deeper and taller than he remembered. The spear-tips of the portcullises, tucked up neatly in their grooves, caught the fading sunlight. Farden gazed up at the runes hammered into the stone of the arches, in the hinges of the gates, thick as a man is long. Whispers in his mind read them to him. Lock spells, slip spells, slow spells, and more… The Arkmages’ handiwork, he presumed.

  Farden stepped out from under the shadow of the monstrous gates. He had to smile wryly to himself; not an hour in the city and already he was leaving it. He paused and turned to take in the span of the walls once again, and caught sight of eyes watching him intently. They blinked and looked away. Their owners slipped back into the lines filtering through the gates. Farden shook his head. They didn’t trust him quite yet, and Farden didn’t blame them.

  The mage set his feet to the well-trodden dust of the road. One half of its width led people into the battlemented maw of the city, while the other half pointed north to the green hill, the brown smudge of Manesmark, and the snow-capped mountains beyond. Along the road and around the gate, tents sprang up from the grass like brightly-coloured boulders. Campfires were already roaring. Even an impromptu market had cleared a space for itself and was busy enticing last-minute buyers before they escaped north.

  A clatter of feet rushed up behind him. A hand caught his arm. Farden raised a fist, but he stopped himself when he found Modren standing beside him, a concerned look on his face.

  ‘Farden,’ began the Undermage. His brow was furrowed like a spring field. His eyes flicked up to the Manesmark hill. ‘Where are you going?’

  Farden chuckled drily. ‘Don’t trust me?’ he asked.

  Modren let him go. ‘I trust you. I always have. Why don’t we go find a pair of stools in a tavern somewhere? We’ve got some grog to catch up on.’

  The mention of ale set Farden’s mouth watering, but he shook his head. ‘There’s somebody I’ve got to see first,’ he said. He turned his back but Modren caught him again.

  ‘But evening’s falling. You must be tired.’

  Farden blinked at his friend. ‘What’s wrong, Modren? What are you up to?’

  It was his friend’s eyes that betrayed him the most. They flicked again to the hill and its new Spire, to the white specks at its base. Suspicion crept into his mind like a bony spider. ‘Is there something I should know?’ he asked.

  Modren swallowed, then shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine.’ He released Farden a second time, and it was his turn to move away, towards the gate. ‘If you want me, there’s a tavern, on Friedja Street. It’s called the Captain’s Folly. I believe you know the place; it was once called the Bearded Goat. I’ll be there.’

  Farden nodded, watching his friend leave. His narrowed gaze faded, but the spidery suspicion remained. He kept moving, feeling the ache settling into his calves and thighs as he set his feet to the hill. He knew it would be a long walk, but he willed himself into it.

  And a long walk it was. Two hours it took him, with plenty of rests in between. Farden played catch with his breath while he leant against a boulder at the top of the hill. The past few weeks had beggared his muscles. If there was a god of fitness, then he must have been laughing from the firmament, thought Farden. His lungs were full of hot coals, and his armour made him feel as though bags of lead had been strapped to his limbs.

  Wheezing, Farden assessed the path ahead, where the dusty road levelled out and then rolled straight down into the main thoroughfare of Manesmark. Her cobbles swallowed up the road like a cannibalistic snake.

  Manesmark was a military town. It was easy to see that in the way the buildings kept each other at arm’s length, and in the angles of the alleyways and roads. It may have been a military town, but that didn’t mean it was blessed with quiet and order. Like the city behind him, it was a whisker short of crowded. Where Krauslung’s port brought travellers and sailors, Manesmark meant soldiers and mages, and they too had coin to spend on ale, women, and trinkets. Their coin had brought the innkeepers and the traders running. The town had grown fatter and taller in his absence. Manesmark may have had town boundaries but it had city dreams.

  Farden wasn’t interested in Manesmark proper. His attention was firmly fixed on the little path that splintered from the dusty road and led towards a great stump of a building.

  Wearing a crown of pine-wood cranes and scaffolding, the new Spire was a shadow of the old tower he could recall; a ghost pencilled in block-stone and granite. Its sleek sides were young, yet to be matured by ivy or storm. It was barely more than half-a-dozen windows high, but he could see it would be every inch the size of its predecessor. Farden pulled a sour face as he took in its lines. To him it was a grandiose gravestone. His thoughts were too tired to know what to truly make of this new building.

  He was fortunately distracted by a splash of ivory white at its base. Bunting, tents, marquees, all gathered in a ring like a patch of eage
r daisies. People buzzed around them like urgent bees, desperate to make the most of the fading light. Farden put his hands into his pockets and followed his feet. He felt agitated. Uncomfortable. Intrusive sprang to mind. Nevertheless, he strode bravely into the ring of white tents, searching for her. The bunting stretched overhead flapped and flounced like bleached trout on a line. The people paid him no mind. They were too busy. Only one of them stood rock-still amidst the whirlwind of activity. A pillar of order standing on a wooden pedestal, all auburn curls and smock. Farden recognised her from a mile and a decade away. Farden couldn’t help but crack a smile, albeit a foreign little thing, dragged by its heels.

  Farden waded through the crowds of servants running amok, toting barrels and packages and bundles on their weary shoulders, and walked straight towards Elessi, smile and all.

  ‘No, no! The bunting needs to be put up before the lanterns, otherwise what will they hang from? Yes, white bunting, not the red. This isn’t Frostfall, now is it?’

  Elessi wiped away bead of sweat and took a well-earned breath. It felt like her mind had been invaded by squabbling seagulls, all chattering for her attention. So much to do! So much to think about! She sighed as a trio of servants edged past her with a table. ‘Make sure it’s clean afore you put the cloth on it!’ she told them. Damn, but this was hard, she thought to herself. Weeks, she had been at it now, with barely a glance at a bed, nor a moment of peace. The women and wives of the court had been helpful at least, lending their finest servants and housemen to aid her. Like a seasoned general, Elessi had deployed them in battle formation, but the description of ‘finest’ servants had left much to the imagination. They were a docile, snooty lot. She was only really a maid herself, after all. It was only due to the orders of their mistresses and the status of Elessi’s husband-to-be that made them listen at all. Thank the gods for that at least.

  Elessi was shaken from her inner monologue by a voice from behind her. ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ it said, tentatively, in a tired, raspy tone. But even despite its rough edge, it hadn’t changed a bit.

  Elessi couldn’t help but freeze. She didn’t turn, the world revolved around her instead, until somehow she was gazing down at what appeared to be a dead man. Skin paler than her precious bunting, beard thick as brambles, hollow-eyed, and thin, Farden looked a mess. A rough sketch of a dead memory, but it was him, nonetheless, standing there as sheepishly as a man could manage. Smiling, of all things.

  Elessi didn’t smile. She wanted to, a brief wish to appear polite. She tore herself away from his slate-moss eyes and buried her gaze in the grass. ‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said, in a little voice, one that did nothing to hide her lie.

  Farden took a deep breath and stared up at the sky-bitten edges of the new Spire. His breath came out as a rasping sigh, and ended in a chuckle. ‘I knew it,’ he said, flashing teeth. ‘I just knew it. Those bastard gods and their puppet strings.’

  Elessi shrugged. The ruse had been a weak one anyway. It lay in the grass, with her gaze, shattered like cheap pottery. ‘If you knew, why did you come?’ she asked.

  Farden looked around at the bustle. ‘Because you all deserve better than a bitter memory. Especially you, Elessi, on your wedding day,’ he said.

  ‘My wedding day was fine before…’ she stopped herself, but it had already been said.

  That burnt Farden. He took a step back and half-turned away. ‘I see,’ he said. Elessi pursed her lips.

  ‘I…’ she began, but the mage held up a hand.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I understand, for once.’ And he did, to tell the truth. He had abandoned her in a bloody mire. Why would she want the stains of that old memory besmirching the white cloth of her wedding day? The gods and their tricks, he thought. He should have known her better. Known them better. Farden began to leave. ‘I wish you all the happiness all in the world,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Elessi watched him go. She didn’t say a word. This moment had been rehearsed for years, and the scene was exactly as she had imagined it; the mage admonished, guilty, back turned. It was strange, though, that the satisfied smile she had imagined emblazoned on her lips was utterly absent. Elessi almost stamped her foot. Servants had begun to cluster around her, clamouring for her attention. Just before Farden left, he threw one last question at her.

  ‘Who is it, anyway? The lucky man?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ she called, genuinely confused.

  Farden’s reply was to shake his head.

  ‘It’s Modren.’

  The mage nodded, turned, and walked away, boots squeaking on the evening dew hiding in the grass. ‘Figures,’ he muttered, feeling his anger and confusion grow with every step.

  Farden was blessed and cursed with many things. Empathy wasn’t one of them. Even after all these years, he was still oblivious to the fact that Elessi had once harboured feelings for him. Sauntering down the hill towards a darkening sky and twinkling city, her true resentment escaped him. As did the irony:

  Elessi had gotten her Written in the end, just a different one.

  Durnus was contemplating flames. Tucked deep in the shadows of his rooms, nestled in a marble corner, the old Arkmage stared into the gloom of his blindness, watching the faint wisps of light ebb and flow with the crackling of the fire in front of him. Its heat fanned his face. A skinny bottle of wine balanced half-clutched in his lap. Thoughts danced through the darkness for him, as they did so often these days. So lost was he in his contemplation in fact, that he barely noticed the brushing of feet on the marble. It was only when their owner spoke that he realised he had company. He didn’t flinch, he merely looked up.

  ‘I finally did it,’ said Farden, in a quiet voice.

  Durnus smiled, a little confused. ‘Did what?’

  ‘I finally managed to sneak up on you. After all these years,’ he muttered.

  Durnus chuckled. ‘That you did.’

  Farden found a chair and dragged it to the fire. Durnus held up the wine, and Farden couldn’t help but snatch it. He put its neck to his lips and gulped a good measure of it down. If he couldn’t have nevermar, at least he had alcohol.

  Durnus sensed the eagerness in Farden’s drinking. ‘It must be difficult for you.’

  The mage took a moment to wipe his lips and place the bottle back into Durnus’ hand. ‘You have no idea,’ he said.

  ‘How was Elessi?’

  ‘I see your spies did their job well.’

  Durnus held up his hands. ‘My idea alone. I just wanted to see what you’d do,’ he replied. ‘I have to rely on the eyes of others now.’

  ‘I see that,’ said Farden, and then winced at the unintended pun. He reached for the wine again, and Durnus let him have it. ‘Elessi seemed pleased to see me,’ he added. Durnus turned at that.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ snapped the mage. His friend’s silence made it obvious he had revealed the truth. ‘Refused to play along, I guess. I’ve got a mind to go and see how that Loki feels about a knife in the face. The bastard lied about her wanting me at the wedding. She could barely stomach the sight of me.’

  There was a hardened edge to Farden’s threats that made Durnus’ heart fall. The long and distant years, it seemed, had filed his friend to a sharp and brutal point. He had seen Farden’s dark side before, but never as dark as this. Yet he knew how to deal with him. He pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘Then while you’re at it, why not stick a knife in Heimdall, and Verix, and your uncle and me too. And don’t forget Modren, while you’re at it.’

  Farden said nothing, he only glared. Durnus could feel the heat of his eyes. Nevertheless, he leant forward. There was urgency and emotion in his voice. ‘Yes, we’re all guilty of sending Loki to lie to you, Farden. We all wanted you back so desperately. Lies or truth, we would have told them both to make you return. Heimdall suggested it and we agreed, all of us except Elessi. And here you are.’

  Farden shook his head. He could t
ell Durnus was elated by his return, Elated, but trepidatious, even though he hid it well. ‘Here I am,’ he echoed.

  There was a question burning at the edge of the Arkmage’s tongue. He turned it loose. ‘So, you’re here to stay?’ he asked.

  Farden was silent. He had been tricked, duped, coerced… sold a promise of stone that crumbled like chalk. Nonetheless, he was here. He had come back, after all this time. Farden rubbed his eyes. His exhausted mind was too fuzzy to grasp at a decision. Willingly or not, Elessi had been the catalyst that had dragged him from the mud. Now he stood, naked and filthy, amongst old friends, and strangely the only eyes that made him feel shame were hers. He would stay, if only to make it up to her. ‘I suppose I will,’ he mumbled.

  Durnus leant back, trying to hide his relief. He did a good job of it. Farden finished the wine and put the bottle on the floor. The Arkmage clasped his hands together. ‘So many years to catch up on,’ he sighed. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Let’s skip to the end,’ Farden said. It hadn’t ever been shame or guilt that kept his lips from talking about what he had done; it was the simple truth that others didn’t need to know. Least of all Durnus, Tyrfing, and the others. Those dark nights were for him and him alone, and for the bloody ghosts that no doubt followed in his wake. Darkness that was best left alone. It had a habit of spreading, did darkness.

  Durnus held his tongue. He and Tyrfing had sworn to let Farden settle in, to let him come to them with his explanations. He shrugged. ‘Then what shall we turn our tongues to, if not the past? The future? The wedding? Krauslung? Or to the bastion in the room?’