The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  His cheek was swollen from Krea’s punch, and the skin around the side of his eye had turned purple. Jalis stepped forward and gently touched his cheek, causing him to wince.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He cast a moody glance to the steps as Gorven reached them. “Although, I may have to rethink one or two fundamental principles.”

  “What do you mean?” Jalis frowned, then sighed. “Oh, Orik, you didn’t.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  Gorven chuckled as he joined them. Oriken glared at him and took another pull of tobah.

  “The smart bee,” Jalis said sternly, “does not sip from the fallen flower. No offence, Gorven.”

  “None taken. I think you’d fit in quite well here, Jalis.”

  She scoffed. “Dream on. Not this girl.”

  Oriken flicked the stub of tobah into the rain and rose from the bench.

  “So,” Jalis said. “What else have you learned from the duplicitous madam? Anything actually useful?”

  “That’s a matter of perspective.” He pushed the mansion’s door open and stepped into the foyer.

  Jalis followed him in. “Where’s Krea?”

  “Upstairs sleeping, I guess.” Oriken shrugged “For all I know she could be preparing the sacrificial altar.”

  “Ah.” There was a note of concern in Gorven’s voice, and a distant look on his face. “I was worried this might happen.”

  “Hey.” Oriken stabbed a finger towards Gorven. “I didn’t start anything Your beloved little—”

  “You misunderstand,” Gorven told him. “I’ve just received word that King Mallak has requested your presence.”

  Jalis’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what? Mallak’s alive?” She sighed. “Of course he is. What’s he want to see us about? Don’t say the jewel.”

  “Not you, Jalis. Only Oriken.” Gorven fixed Oriken with a grim look. “And I wouldn’t delay, were I you. Years may pass without anyone even sensing the king – he’s a private person, you understand – but our liege has, shall we say, an erratic disposition. I suggest we ambulate with all due haste.”

  “Great.” Oriken folded his arms and scowled from beneath his hat. “Crypts and corpses, strumpets and sovereigns. I can’t wait for the encore.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  DEN OF DIRE SECRETS

  A fire roared in the hearth while candles lit the corners of Sabrian’s living room. Beyond the windows the street was dark and melancholy as the wind whipped rain against the panes. Immersed in the cushions of the armchair, it was an effort for Dagra to move even slightly.

  Feel like I’m melting into this thing, he thought, rallying against the myriad of voices that whispered in his mind as if from across a great divide, willing him to relinquish his grasp on wakefulness, on life.

  “We’re done here,” he said. The words were slurred, but the sound of his voice helped to ease the incessant internal babble. “I want to get back to my friends.”

  Relaxing in his own seat, Sabrian regarded him from across the table. “You will see them shortly.”

  “Oriken—”

  “He speaks with the king, while Jalis awaits with Gorven. Their business will be concluded soon.”

  “What business?”

  “That, I fear, I do not know.”

  “I need to get out of here,” Dagra said miserably. “I want to go home.” He lifted his head from the cushion and blinked, trying to push the drowsiness away. “Did you not want to leave, to go back to your village, your family?”

  Sabrian nodded. “I did, at first. How I wish I could see my wife and son again, but, alas, it will be many years now since they took the swan’s path. I rallied against staying here, just like you, but my entry into Lachyla was not quite as… comfortable as yours.” He barked a mirthless laugh. “I was, shall we say, in the wrong hands to begin with. But I was already close to death. And then it happened. However misguided my saviours, they did still rescue me when they could have left me on the other side of that door to rot, or worse. In comparison, you have had a warm welcome into the city and, unlike me, you were not suffering mortal wounds when you arrived. You were quite healthy.”

  “I am healthy,” Dagra corrected.

  Sabrian’s nod was acquiescent, but it was clear to Dagra that the man didn’t agree with him.

  “The corpses,” Dagra said. “That’s what did it to me, isn’t it? Those damned creatures.”

  “Perhaps we’re all damned creatures,” Sabrian mused, “whether cursed by a goddess or cursed by mortality. But, no, the denizens of the Gardens are not responsible, not in your case.”

  Dagra loosed a rattling sigh and rested his head back against the cushion. “What, then?”

  “Do you recall the tomb you were in? The one belonging to Gorven and Krea’s family?”

  “Of course I bloody well remember it. Horrible place.”

  “That’s where you were taken by the blight.”

  “What? How?”

  “The broken vault.”

  “The burial hole?” Dagra frowned in confusion. “The one full of cobwebs?”

  “Curiosity, my friend,” Sabrian said softly, “can be quite the killer. Not every small thing is as innocuous as it may seem.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “In the graveyard and the city, you will have noticed a fungus that grows upon the tree-bark, between the flagstones and the cracks in the soil. That fungus is potent, but more so in its natural habitat beneath the ground, especially in, well, let’s not beat around the bush, in places where corpses can be found.”

  “I remember it. Black stuff with pale sacs and red veins. Ugly.”

  “Do you recall what you did?”

  He did recall. All too clearly. It had been a trifling moment, buried in the midst of his fear and forgotten through the terror that followed. The blisters. Those swollen, white cysts. I poked one, and it burst. Burst into my face. Oh, you damned fool. He held his hands over his eyes. “Surrounded by the desiccated dead, and I’m taken out by a piece of fungus.”

  Sabrian nodded. “Spores. Simple, yet deadly.”

  “Well, I won’t give up so easily. You say I can’t leave, and you expect me to just take your word on that. If you wanted to see your family so badly, didn’t you ever try to get out? Not even once?”

  Sabrian tapped a finger against the side of his head. “In here was, and is, the knowledge of all those who chose to leave Lachyla. None survived. I could not have reached my home so far away. But, I do leave the city on occasion; many do, but infrequently and never in large numbers, and always under the cover of darkness to avoid unwanted attention. It would be impossible to maintain a society without wood and other supplies. And then there are the times we feel nostalgic for the taste of meat, fish or vegetables.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t need to eat. Fresh water provides enough nutrients. Well…” He shrugged. “But everyone has the occasional urge to indulge. A juicy side of roasted deer, a boiled egg, a dish of scallops. Unfortunately, that which keeps death at the door also binds us to its proximity. Where there’s a boon, there is often also a bane. We can leave, but we cannot remain away for long. It is… what it is…”

  Sabrian’s voice was small as it merged with the sibilant whispers. His eyes were growing larger, and the walls and furniture of the room were all wrong – bulged, pinched, or stretched.

  “I’m so tired,” Dagra said.

  “I know. Close your eyes. The time will pass faster until you see your friends again. Rest. You need it.”

  “Aye. I do…”

  “Then sleep. Now.”

  And Dagra slept.

  Shade glided gracefully along beside Eriqwyn, her hips swaying, her skirt swishing like fronds of fern in the gentle breeze. Her bare breast scarcely moved.

  Damn her, Eriqwyn thought, casting the seamstress a cold glance. “I’ll be blunt, Shade. I don’t like you. I have never li
ked you. And you have put yourself in a no-win situation. If this tunnel of yours does indeed exist, you will be recognised as helping us today, but there will be questions. On the other hand, if it doesn’t exist—”

  “You always claim to despise me,” Shade said, her eyes mocking, her fingertips lightly touching her bare breast that was coated in a sheen from the fine rain. “But the only person you’re fooling is yourself. It’s a pity, because I do like you. I admire a woman who possesses”—her gaze drifted momentarily down Eriqwyn’s cloaked body—“such confidence and strength of character.”

  Infuriating woman, Eriqwyn thought. The insolence!

  “My information is correct, Eri. When that proves to be true, you can… reward me, later.”

  Eriqwyn glowered. How dare she call me Eri? As if we were ever friends! She gave a sniff of disdain and opened her stride to catch up to Wayland, who was taking the lead a short distance ahead. As she strode away from Shade, she could sense the wanton woman smiling at her. Goddess forfend, she thought. Demelza is easier to cope with than that lustful witch. Reaching Wayland, she sighed as she fell into pace with him.

  Long moments passed as the two walked swiftly without comment, the swell of the ocean a constant, subdued roar.

  “You shouldn’t let her get under your skin,” Wayland said quietly.

  She nodded. “Now more than ever. In truth, I don’t know how she manages to vex me so.”

  “Aye, well, let it be a problem for another day. You have other concerns. So do I. What do you need of me?”

  She moved closer to his side and kept her voice low. “Shade is less than a weak link in our chain – she’s an open lock waiting for a chance to slip free. As for Lingrey, bless his soul, he’s a fine man.”

  “That he is.”

  “When it comes to hard work, he’s second to none.”

  “That’s a given.”

  “I only hope he can hold up against an opponent if he has to fight to the death None of us go to this task with cheer, and the fulfilment of it will undoubtedly fall on you and I, but—”

  “Lingrey once killed a man,” Wayland said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Eriqwyn glanced at him. “This is news to me.”

  “Well, it was long ago. Reckon he must have been in his late twenties at the time. I was a lad, in my eighth year, out in the fields spying on Jessa’s mam, goddess rest her soul. Spotted her getting flirty with one of the young men, having a bit of a tumble in the hay, as it were. The feller, he started getting rough, pushing her around. When he slapped her, she screamed at him. Well, around the corner of the hedgerow comes Lingrey, pitchfork in hand – could’ve been the same as he’s carrying now, truth be told. He watches the feller take a swipe at Jessa’s mam. Down she goes, and Lingrey shouts. The feller swings round.”

  “And Lingrey killed him?”

  “Let me tell it, woman,” Wayland said in mock irritation. “The feller says to Lingrey it’s none of his business. Calls him a retard, says he’ll be getting some of the same as Jessa’s mam. Well, Lingrey looks at him and says he shouldn’t oughta be hittin’ on a woman, so he shouldn’t. Mayhap he oughta leave ‘er be. Feller steps over to Jessa’s mam and hoofs her right in the middle, asks Lingrey how he liked that. Then he does it again.”

  Eriqwyn bristled. “Bastard got what was coming to him.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth.”

  Wayland flicked a glance over his shoulder, as did Eriqwyn, but the old farmhand was striding along at the rear beside Onwin, his pale eyes gazing about his surroundings. Tan had ventured closer to Shade, while Demelza walked several paces to their side.

  “So,” Wayland continued, “Lingrey and stomps over to the feller, swings his fork across, whacks him right on the ‘ead. Down he goes on his back, all a-daze, and Lingrey stands over him and says he shouldn’t oughta have done that. Them’s the last words the feller hears. Lingrey raises his fork and brings it down, tines-first, and the feller gets the middle two spikes right through his eyes an’ starts twitching, you know like they do when they don’t know they’re dead yet. And then he’s still.”

  “Sweet Valsana,” Eriqwyn breathed. “I would never have guessed.”

  “Aye.” There was a distant tone in Wayland’s voice. “When he pulled the fork out, the eyeballs stayed stuck on the tines, like skewered beans. I never lost that image.”

  “Neither will I, now.”

  Wayland mumbled an apology.

  “I never heard a whisper of this,” she said. “How did they keep it hushed up?”

  Wayland glanced at her. “Because it never happened, that’s how. Man deserved it. Lingrey didn’t deserve to face the laws for that.”

  “He certainly dodged a stern reprimand, possibly even death, but for once I’m glad to hear of it.”

  “Jessa’s mam, she were lucky to have had Jessa nine months later, despite who the girl’s father was – a man whose name didn’t matter then and don’t matter now. Lingrey got rid of the body. Jessa’s mam swore she’d never say a word to a soul. As for me, I hid there till they went away. Neither of them saw me. Lingrey never knew I was there, and I never told a soul till now.”

  Eriqwyn knew there was no need for him to mention trust; he had hers implicitly, not that the farmhand could be tried now for a murder that took place four decades earlier. “Well then,” she said. “That’s three strong enough links with you, me, and Lingrey; two that will hopefully stay back and not interfere; Tan, who needs to keep his mind on the mission; and Onwin.”

  Wayland laughed softly. “I’ve got no tales about Onwin that you don’t already know, and we share the same opinion of the man. In his mind he’s probably out hunting animals, which, callous as it may sound, is probably for the best. We’ll see how he fares.”

  Eriqwyn sniffed. “Lingrey would make a finer hunter than that one, but it’s a good thing that he never did. Maybe we could count on him to keep half a mind on Onwin.”

  Wayland smiled. “Aye, Queenie, maybe so. Some might say that half a mind is all Lingrey’s got, but I wouldn’t recommend them to voice it to his face.”

  From some a dozen paces behind came a faint, “Ayup.”

  Eriqwyn glanced back at the farmhand, whose long-handled fork rested easy over his shoulder. “Ayup, indeed,” she said quietly.

  Within minutes the rain gained in intensity, reducing visibility, with the occasional errant gust preceding the full storm, pulling it further inland. The group closed to a tighter formation, Shade taking point, with Eriqwyn and Wayland directly behind her. All hoods were drawn and cloaks clasped at the chest, and those with bows held them beneath protective garments.

  Shade’s hair was plastered to her shoulders and back, the fine material of her dress and sash clinging even tighter to her body. The only part of her that stayed dry were her feet, covered by soft, calf-length boots. She almost seemed to enjoy the deluge whipping at her exposed skin. Glancing back, she said, “Not far now. Half-way between those hillocks.”

  Eriqwyn’s eyes followed Shade’s pointing finger to a pass between two rises that ruffled the land in a sweeping quarter-circle, five minutes distant. In the shadowed dip between the hillocks, the eastern wall of the graveyard was just visible against the sheet of rain. Although she had passed close to the wall a thousand times and more, the sight of it now gave her a deeper feeling of dread, knowing she would all too soon be on its other side. When she glanced at Wayland, he pulled his hood aside to meet her gaze and gave her a wink that told her he had her back.

  Behind Eriqwyn, Lingrey cleared his throat. “I’m mighty glad you opted to bring the stone back to its rightful place,” he called against the growing wind.

  Beneath her cloak, the pack containing the deadstone pressed into her back. She’d felt mildly sick during the whole journey, having to keep it in such close and constant proximity.

  “The tragedy of the boy and his parents,” she said, pausing as thunder rumbled over the ocean, “must never be given the chance
to repeat itself.”

  “Ayup,” Lingrey said. “Happen I’m not meaning that, though. I’m meaning what daft notions the folk had afterwards. Keeping a-hold o’ that foul hunk o’ stone. Should'a oughta taken it right back.”

  “What do you mean?” Wayland asked.

  “What’s that, feller? Ah, me pa told me. He were a young man when it transpired.” Lingrey leaned over Eriqwyn's shoulder. “No offence to yer, but it were the Lord Albarandes what delayed the stone’s return. Ayup, your ‘cestors kept the accursed thing a while, ‘cause someone had the notion that the problem were that the bairn was already dead. See? So they reckoned maybe if the stone were around someone what was alive, it might cure ‘em. Har!” The old farmhand retreated from being immediately behind Eriqwyn before he hawked and spat a wad of phlegm into the rain.

  “I heard there’d been a delay in returning the deadstone,” Eriqwyn said. “But what of it?”

  “Well, it were daft, weren’t it?” Lingrey barked a laugh. “Anyways, I forget his name, but it were your pa’s pa who was the lord; he were still alive when I were a bairn. Only, his lady, the wastin’ disease were takin’ her. Cut story short, same shit came as afore, beggin’ the young misses’ pardons for me manners, an’ all.”

  Eriqwyn glanced back. “Are you saying there was a second incident after the boy?” Returning her eyes to the front, they glanced over Shade’s glistening skin and rain-soaked skirt that managed to highlight the subtle sway of her hips.

  “That’s right,” Lingrey said. “The lord thought that to keep the stone by his lady’s side would stop the wastin’. It did, for a while, so me pa said, but only a while. Then she died. Then she woke up.”

  “Blood of the old gods,” Onwin said from beside the farmhand. “Shameful business. Bloody shameful. He should'a known better than that, bein’ the lord.”

  My great-grandparents, Eriqwyn mused. “The Beck is turning out to be a den of dire secrets,” she muttered.

  “Mm-hm,” Wayland sounded in assent.