She scowled unhappily at the unresponsive door as Doyle muttered quiet commands to his men, and they shifted quickly into position. More and more, she didn’t like the look of the sealed doorway. It looked too planned for her liking. In the past, the Unreal had always seemed random and undisciplined, but of late, the outbreaks had seemed to be following a pattern, almost as though the Unreal was somehow alive and aware …
Taggert took a deep breath and focused her will, calling on the High Magic she’d mastered under her father’s patient teaching. She reached for the light within her, the roaring blinding light that was her mind and her soul and so much more, and brought a little of it out into the world. The vivid white balefire crackled around her right hand, spitting and flaring, and slowly formed itself into a glowing sword. Taggert gripped the hilt firmly, feeling the familiar cold pulse of life beat against her palm and fingers. She was vaguely aware of Doyle and his men watching her silently. She didn’t need to see their faces to know that some of them were afraid of her. She didn’t blame them. Some of the things she could do frightened her, too. She swung her sword of light against the closed door.
The balefire bit deep into the thick wood, cutting clean through and out again. A vile, choking smell poured from the jagged rent in the wood, and Taggert fell back a step, coughing harshly. The guards screwed up their faces as the smell hit them, and one or two stirred unhappily, but they all stood their ground. Taggert scowled at the door and struck again with her sword, widening the opening until she had a hole big enough to look through. She dismissed her sword, but kept the unfocused balefire crackling around her hand as she waited to see if anything was going to come flying or oozing out of the opening she’d made. Nothing did. The silence dragged on, broken only by the unsteady breathing of the guards, and the spitting of the balefire. Not a whisper of sound came from the room beyond the door. There was only the smell, thick and corrupt and nauseating.
Taggert conjured up a small ball of light, and sent it gliding through the jagged opening and into the room beyond. She dismissed her balefire, and stepped cautiously forward to peer through the hole in the door. She was still careful not to touch the door, and did her best to breathe only through her mouth. The room was dark, lit only by the glowing ball. The walls were a glistening wet pink, and so was the low-domed ceiling. Slender purple veins traced disturbing patterns in the pink. The room was half full of a dark, viscous liquid that lapped sluggishly against the rosy walls. Bones floated on the surface. They might have been human once, but already they were losing shape and definition as the liquid dissolved them. Taggert sighed tiredly, and stepped back from the door. The ball of light winked out, and darkness returned to the room.
“They’re dead,” she said flatly. “They’re all dead.”
She’d known it from the first moment she’d recognized the smell, but somehow she’d still hoped she might be wrong. She always hoped. It was all she had left to keep her sane.
“What happened in there?” said Doyle quietly. “And what the hell is that stench?”
“The room ate them,” said Taggert. “And I don’t suppose the inside of your stomach smells any better. We’re going to need a sanctuary. Putting this right would take all the High Magic I have. Let the sanctuary take care of it.”
“Of course, my dear,” said Grey Davey. “That’s what sanctuaries are for.”
Grey Davey was a man of average height, but more than a little on the scrawny side. He always looked as though he could do with a good meal to put some meat on his bones. His face was drawn and gaunt, and seemed to fall naturally into apologetic lines, as though he felt he should be apologizing for his very existence. His clothes were well cut, but old and faded. Taggert always had the feeling on meeting Davey that he was covered in cobwebs. He was supposed to be in his early forties, but he looked old beyond his years, as though drained by having to struggle against a consistently unfriendly world. And yet he was still a sanctuary, and a power burned steadily beneath his gray exterior. Taggert felt better just for seeing him, and one by one Doyle and his guards sighed and relaxed a little as a feeling of peace swept over them. The lights seemed to burn a little more brightly, and the shadows were just shadows again. Even the smell didn’t seem as bad. In Castle Midnight, there were always a few places and a few people that remained unaffected by the Unreal. Places of ease and comfort, people of good cheer and better company. Sanctuaries against the darkness of the world, where reality remained safe and constant.
Grey Davey was a sanctuary.
Taggert bowed respectfully to him. “Got a nasty one here, Davey. Four dead that we know of, maybe more. See if you can put the room right, at least.”
Davey nodded. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, Kate. I’d swear the whole damned castle’s coming apart at the seams. And now four more dead. How many is that now?”
“Too many. And it’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. If I had any sense, I’d have left here years ago. I’ve always said this place was unstable, but who ever listens to us? We’re just the poor sods who have to clean up the mess afterward. Still, I’m here now. Let’s see what I can do. Get those guards out of the way, Kate, there’s a dear. They’re distracting me.”
Doyle glanced at Taggert, who nodded. He started moving his guards away while Davey studied the sealed door. No one took any offense at Davey’s attitude: it was just the way he was. They could tell he didn’t really mean it. Mostly. Davey placed his hands flat against the door, and pushed. The wood gave reluctantly under the pressure, stretching unnaturally, like taffy, and then the door tore itself free from the surrounding wall with a rending of splintering wood. It hung inward from one hinge, and the stench was suddenly worse. Davey didn’t even seem to notice it. He glanced into the dark room, and muttered to himself under his breath. Taggert conjured up her ball of light again, and sent it over to hover above him, casting its glow into the room. Grey Davey grunted a terse acknowledgment as the silvery light showed him the bones floating on the dark liquid. As he watched, the liquid heaved and swelled, lapping against the glistening walls, but some invisible barrier held the liquid back from spilling out into the corridor. The smooth white bones spun slowly on the surface as they dissolved.
Grey Davey walked slowly forward into the room. The dark liquid surged back from him, its unreality repelled by his presence. The pink walls stirred uneasily. Davey’s scowl deepened and his walk slowed, as though he was contending against some unseen presence. He hunched his shoulders, tucked his chin in, and pressed forward. The room changed. The purple veins faded away as the walls and ceiling became solid and sensible stone again, and the dark liquid vanished. Scattered across an ordinary, everyday room were some smoothly rounded shapes that had once been furniture, and various odd bits of metal too tough to dissolve. Only a few bones were left, none in any condition to be identified. The vile smell lingered on the overly warm air, like a fleeting memory of a bad dream.
Grey Davey looked around the room once, and then turned and walked back into the corridor. His face was pale, but he carried himself as though this was just another day’s work. Taggert smiled at him fondly. Davey was an irritating bastard, when all was said and done, but you couldn’t help liking him. He reminded Taggert of her father, but then Grey Davey reminded everyone of their father. He kept the darkness at bay, and always seemed to know what to do for the best. His company was like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day—bracing but comforting.
“That’s it,” said Grey Davey to Taggert. “End of problem. For the time being. If I were you, though, I’d nail that door shut, barricade it, and declare this whole corridor out of bounds until things get back to normal. Once I’m gone and out of range, I wouldn’t put it past that room to revert back again. The Unreal’s getting sneaky these days. Not to mention stronger and more determined. The sooner we’ve a king on the throne and you can get to the Stone again, the better I’ll like it. I don’t like the way things
feel around here …” He glanced briefly at the broken door, hanging from its single hinge. “Pity about the Penhalligans. I never liked him, but she was a pleasant sort. Always a smile and a cheery word. I suppose there’s no chance the children weren’t there when it happened? No … I thought not. Ah well, can’t stop and chat, I’ve got work to do.”
He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off down the corridor. Taggert and the guards watched him go in a respectful silence. The corridor seemed colder and darker without him.
“Sometimes I wonder about him,” said Doyle.
“You’re not alone,” said Taggert.
Doyle glanced uneasily at the broken door. “Was he right about the room? Could it revert?”
“I don’t know,” said Taggert, “but I think we’ll seal it up anyway. Just in case. Take care of it, Matt. And you’d better send word to the Regent that Count Penhalligan and his family are dead.”
“Of course.”
Taggert looked up and down the long corridor and chewed on the insides of her cheeks. Davey had wanted the whole corridor closed, but that would mean uprooting a great many important people, just on the off chance that something nasty might happen in the future. The courtiers would not take kindly to that. In theory, as steward she outranked everyone not actually of royal Blood, but she had enough sense not to push that too hard in practice. Of course, things were different now …
“Start evacuating this corridor, Matt. I want everyone moved out of here, as fast as possible. No exemptions, no excuses. Then set guards at each end of the corridor to stand watch. No one is allowed in or out, unless accompanied by a sanctuary.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow. “The people here aren’t going to like that.”
“Yeah,” said Taggert. “Isn’t it a pity, all those wealthy courtiers and nobles having to put up with a little inconvenience, like us common folk.”
She grinned at Doyle, and then walked away and left him to get on with it. The grin stayed on her lips for some time. Every now and again, she got a little back for every time a noble had sneered at her or her father for not having any Blood. All in the line of duty, of course …
The old dining hall in the East Wing hadn’t been used for a major gathering in more than thirty years, and it looked it. A small army of servants were still scrubbing the floor, laying rush mats and lighting wall torches as the main courses of the meal were being served. The Regent said nothing, and did his best not to notice the scurrying servants. He’d intended to use the dining hall in the North Wing, but at the last moment Prince Lewis’s men had occupied it, and he hadn’t felt like fighting a war to get it back. So here he was, presiding over a banquet in one of the dingiest parts of the East Wing. God knows what they’d been using the place for previously, but from the smell that still lingered on the air, he should have ordered the hall fumigated first.
Count William Howerd leaned back in his chair and looked out over the crowd of nobles and courtiers and traders who sat packed shoulder to shoulder at the freshly scrubbed tables, filling the air with their chatter. There was more than enough wine for everyone, and the food was surprisingly good, under the circumstances, but William only picked at his. He had too much on his mind to allow for an honest appetite. He didn’t really want to be there at all, but his presence was necessary to prop up the weaker elements, who needed to see him being calm and strong. As long as he didn’t look scared or worried, they could convince themselves they weren’t either.
The Regent looked out over his supporters, and fought to keep a weary frown off his face. They weren’t the kind he’d have chosen for his friends, but he needed these people if he was to establish his own power base. Whoever eventually ended up on the throne of Redhart, they were going to need help to govern the kingdom, and the Regent intended there should be only one person able to give that help. Him. Let the princes have their troops and their magicians. He would control trade, prices, and politics. And at the end of the day, he could control the king, too.
In a way, although he regretted King Malcolm’s death, in the long run it was for the best. The royal line had grown weak and corrupt, distorted by their own power. Malcolm hadn’t been a bad sort, all told. He’d just listened to too many stupid ballads about the honor and glory of the warrior’s life. William had found a great deal of pleasure in Malcolm’s company, when they weren’t arguing politics, but their separate positions had meant they could never be the close friends they might otherwise have been. Still, William was determined to catch Malcolm’s murderer, and see him hang. He could do that much at least for his friend.
Even if it turned out to be one of Malcolm’s sons. William stirred uneasily in his chair. They had to be the most obvious suspects, if only because they had the most to gain, but as yet no real evidence had turned up to incriminate any of them. Strange, that. You’d have thought something would have surfaced by now. Instead, they were busy gathering their forces and preparing for civil war, and he was trapped in this gloomy old hall, surrounded by chattering fools. Sometimes, William wondered if Malcolm hadn’t been right after all about the joys of battle.
Down below, at the end of one of the tables, some minor noble lurched to his feet and proposed yet another toast. William lifted his glass to his mouth and wet his lips with the wine. Everyone cheered and went back to what they were doing before. William was getting fed up with toasts. There had been too many of them, and they were beginning to sound increasingly hollow. Someone else got to their feet, cup in hand. William grabbed the nearest wine goblet and threw it at the unsuspecting courtier before he could open his mouth. The solid steel goblet hit him square between the eyes, and he toppled over backward. The gathering roared with laughter, and cheered William again. Perhaps it was only in his mind that the laughter sounded strained and forced. Gabrielle leaned in close beside him.
“My dear, that was a very nice throw, but I wouldn’t do it again. One outburst they’ll explain away as high spirits, but more than one would be taken as a sign of tension.”
“I hate jesters,” growled William.
“That wasn’t a jester.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Gabrielle smiled despite herself. William made a placating gesture with his hand.
“I know, dear, it was a stupid thing to do, but I’m going crazy just sitting here doing nothing. How much longer before I can diplomatically leave?”
“No more than an hour or so, my love. Now eat your dinner. It’s delicious.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat it anyway. There are too many rumors of poison going around the Court at the moment, and we can’t afford to look timid in front of our guests.”
William looked unenthusiastically at the platter of roast beef before him. “Where’s the mustard? Can’t eat beef without mustard.”
“Right in front of you, dear.”
A messenger hurried in through a side door, spotted the Regent at the high table, and hurried over to him. William smiled graciously at him, but his pulse quickened. He’d left instructions he wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was vitally important. The messenger bowed briefly to him, and then leaned forward to murmur in his ear.
“A Captain Doyle to see you, my lord. He says it’s urgent.”
“Doyle?”
“One of the steward’s men, my lord.”
“Bring him in. I’ll talk to him.”
The messenger hurried away, and William settled back in his chair, frowning in spite of himself. He knew he wasn’t supposed to look worried in front of his guests, but of late the steward seemed only to have bad news for him. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but more and more he had to fight down an urge to shout and rant at her for letting things get so out of hand … William rubbed tiredly at his aching eyes. Had the Unreal broken through again? And if so, what did Taggert expect him to do about it? He’d already given her carte blanche to do whatever she thought necessary to protect the castle. The messenger returned with the guard captain, and Wil
liam looked him over dubiously. Doyle had to be the scruffiest guard he’d ever seen. The man was a disgrace to his uniform. Doyle came to a halt beside the Regent, and gestured with his head for the messenger to leave. The messenger looked at William, who nodded. Doyle waited till the messenger was out of earshot before speaking, and William felt his tension build.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, my lord,” said Doyle quietly, “but Count Penhalligan and his family are dead.”
“Dead?” William looked at the guard blankly. Richard Penhalligan had always been one of his closest friends and his staunchest supporter. “You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord.”
“And his family? Even the children?”
“Yes, my lord. The Unreal broke through in their chambers. It was very sudden. There was nothing anyone could have done. We used a sanctuary to put the room back to rights, but the Penhalligans were long dead by the time we got to them.”
“I see,” said William. “Thank you for keeping me informed. Perhaps you could start arrangements for their burial.”
“I’m afraid not, my lord.” Doyle’s voice was rough, as always, but there was an honest compassion there as well. “There isn’t enough left of them to bury. We did everything we could …”
“I’m sure you did.” William looked away from the guard. He suddenly felt very tired. His family were all dead and gone, and he’d lost most of his real friends in Malcolm’s bloody campaigns. Richard Penhalligan had been the last; a brave knight and a cunning politician. He played the dulcimer badly, and always knew the latest jokes. And now he was gone, like all the others. William looked back at the waiting guard.
Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) Page 21
