by K J Taylor
Laela managed to make a sound of mingled pain and disbelief.
Wolf chuckled. “Yes, these stairs actually do have a top. You’ve done very well so far, considering how tired you must be.”
Laela grunted noncommittally.
“Well.” Wolf yawned. “Let’s do this last bit together, shall we?”
Somehow or other, Laela managed to drag herself to her feet. “Where are we?”
“Nearly home,” Wolf said unhelpfully.
Laela muttered curses under her breath as the stairs continued. Wolf seemed to understand, and he didn’t hurry her along. That made her like him a little better.
Finally, finally, the stairs ended at a modest wooden door.
Wolf unlatched it. “Through here,” he said, and pushed it open.
Laela stepped through and into warm firelight. The room on the other side was quite large, and modestly furnished—there was a bearskin rug on the floor, and the walls were lined with wooden panelling. There was a bed there—it looked rather unused—and a very large fireplace. She saw an enormous archway set into the opposite wall, covered by heavy cloth curtains, and wondered briefly where it led to.
There were a couple of chairs in front of the fire, but other than a small writing desk, those were the only other pieces of furniture. Still, it looked like a home. For someone.
Laela collapsed into one of the chairs without waiting to be invited. “Thank Gryphus. I thought . . .”
Wolf put her belongings down on the floor and stretched, rubbing his back. “Argh. Ooh. Ow. Bloody thing. You’d think after this long . . . well.” He turned to her. “Home sweet home. What d’you think?”
“It’s nice,” said Laela. She paused. “What’s that smell?”
It was a strange heavy, almost spicy smell. Musty. It made her think of some kind of animal.
Wolf sniffed. “What smell? Ah, this cloth’s stopping me from smelling anything. Wait a moment . . . I may as well take it off now.”
He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the bed, and Laela saw the long, elegant Northern fingers on his right hand as he pulled the hood away and shook out his hair. It was black, of course—long, thick, and curly. He took off the heavy cloak that had hidden most of his body, and then untied the cloth from his face and turned to face her.
He was a young man—probably no older than her. He was tall and lean like most Northerners, and carried himself with a certain grace. His face was pale and angular, marred by a long, twisted scar under one eye, and he wore a neat, pointed chin-beard.
He shook himself. “That’s better. This is my face.” His eyes smiled again, but now Laela could see his mouth, she didn’t see it smile, too.
“Er . . .”
Wolf shook his head and turned away. “I’ll just get changed if you don’t mind.”
Without another word, he took off the tunic he was wearing and put it away in a box next to the bed. As he straightened up, Laela felt her stomach lurch.
He was hideously scarred. She had never imagined that anyone could be so deeply wounded so many times and in so many different places, and still be alive. Pale lines traced their way over his skin, interspersed with ugly red marks where the cuts had gone deeper. He looked as if he had been stabbed over and over again.
The worst of them was in the middle of his back, just to the left of his spine. It was as wide as her hand, and its edges were swollen and blackened, as if they were rotting. As he turned toward her, Laela saw its twin on his chest, over his heart.
Oh, Gryphus, she thought, nearly sick with horror. It went right through him . . .
Wolf suddenly looked embarrassed. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry. I forgot . . .” He hastily snatched up a piece of clothing that was lying on the bed and slipped into it.
It was a long, black robe, beautifully decorated with embroidered spiral patterns and tailored to fit his slim body. He did up the fastenings over his chest, fumbling with his left hand. The fingers on it were twisted and bent at unnatural angles, and the forefinger looked completely paralysed.
Laela found her voice. “What happened to yeh?”
Wolf looked grim. “Too much.”
She stood up and came toward him, forgetting her fear. “All them scars . . .” She reached out to touch his hand, and he let her hold it and turn it over, touching the warped fingers. They were painfully red and swollen around the knuckles, and they cracked horribly when they moved. “Gods. Yer fingers . . . what happened?”
Wolf looked back at her, his expression curiously ashamed. “Laela . . .”
She let go and stepped back, suddenly horrified. “Oh, Gryphus, I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry, I—”
Wolf clutched at his ruined hand. “Nobody’s ever touched it like that before,” he said. He sounded a little shaky. “Nobody . . . nobody likes to go near it. I know it looks ugly . . . I try to keep it covered up . . .” He rubbed it nervously, until the fingers cracked.
“What happened?” said Laela. “How did yeh get all them scars? What did they do to yeh?”
“My fingers . . .” He wrapped them in his other hand to hide them. “This is what they do to you when they want information.”
Laela went cold. “Torture?”
“Yes.”
She shuddered. “The King lets them do that to his people? What kind’ve monster is he?”
“A monster,” Wolf snapped. “Hah! The Southerners did that to me. In a cell under this very city. Broke my fingers . . . one . . . by one.”
“Griffiners?” said Laela. “Griffiners do that?”
“Always have,” said Wolf. “But I was dangerous . . . a dangerous criminal. I had information they desperately wanted. I didn’t give it to them. And I made them pay. I made them pay a hundred times. Didn’t fix my fingers, though, did it?”
Laela stared at him. Against her will, she thrilled at his words. “What had yeh done?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Wolf. “Now, as far as . . .”
“Where are we?” Laela asked suddenly. “What buildin’ is this? Why all those stairs?”
Wolf looked incredulous. “You don’t know?”
“Wait. We ain’t—”
“We’re in the Eyrie, Laela,” said Wolf. “This is my home. This is where I live and work . . . This is my prison. Of course, my guards don’t know I sneak out most nights.”
A horrible fear and bewilderment ate away at her. “No. This ain’t . . . this ain’t . . . Who are yeh?”
Wolf tugged at his beard. “I know,” he said wretchedly. “I shouldn’t have brought you back here, but what was I to do? You needed help, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave you . . .”
Laela turned sharply as he suddenly stopped talking and looked to his left.
The curtains over the archway had moved. Laela could hear something stirring on the other side.
“Gods damn it!” Wolf cursed. “Laela, stay behind me.”
He pushed her behind him and stepped toward the archway, but too late. They parted, and something pushed its way through.
Laela staggered backward, wide-eyed, and fell.
It was a griffin . . . the biggest griffin she had ever seen—the biggest living creature she had ever seen, or imagined. Its birdlike forequarters were covered in silver feathers, but the magnificent head had a diamond-shaped cap of black and two long plumes over the ears. The hooked beak was black, too, and the eyes, glaring straight at her, were silver.
Wolf reached out to touch the creature, making strange, harsh sounds in his throat. The griffin dipped its head toward him, and he scratched it under the beak, still making the sounds and clicking his teeth every so often.
The griffin rasped something back, and then raised its head to look at Laela again. It took a threatening step toward her, its beak open to hiss.
Laela almost whimpered. “Keep it away from me. In Gryphus’ name, don’t let it—”
Wolf put himself in the way and made more of those strange sounds.
Griffish, Laela thought thr
ough her terror. He’s speaking griffish. He’s a griffiner. He’s—
The griffin snorted angrily but made no move to come closer. It rasped again and butted Wolf with its beak before abruptly turning away. It went back through the archway, and Laela saw its muscular hindquarters—covered in glossy pitch-black fur.
Wolf breathed a sigh of relief. “You were lucky there. He’s in a bad mood tonight.”
Laela managed to get up. “What—that was—you—”
He turned to her. “That was Skandar. My best friend. My only friend, I think.”
“But you . . . you . . . in the Eyrie . . . with him . . .”
“Yes.” Wolf sighed. “You’re right. I am King Arenadd Taranisäii, and this is my Eyrie.”
5
The Dark Lord
Wolf—Arenadd Taranisäii, the Dark Lord, King of the North—watched Laela in silence, almost as if he were waiting for something.
Laela gaped at him. No. It ain’t possible. It can’t be . . .
But it was. She knew it was him. The black robe, the home in the Eyrie . . . the giant griffin living next door to him . . .
“But yer so young!” she exclaimed, finding her voice all of a sudden.
Arenadd scratched his beard. “I’m forty next week. I know I don’t look it. Laela, let me explain . . .”
“Explain!” said Laela. “Yer the King! Yeh rule the North—what in Gryphus’ name were yeh doin’ runnin’ about the streets in the middle of the night? An’ what do yeh want with me? An’ why—”
He waved her into silence. “I sneak out, all right? I go out into the city sometimes. To listen to my people. To have some time to myself. They don’t know I do it, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about it.”
“Then why did yeh bring me here?” said Laela.
“I already told you: because you need help. I can give you a place to live—I can protect you.”
“But why?” said Laela. “Why d’yeh care?”
Arenadd’s eyes were suddenly cold. “I didn’t have to save you, you know. I could have left you to die. I can take you back out into the city and leave you there if that’s what you’d prefer.”
Laela backed away. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I’m just . . . well, thanks. I don’t . . .”
It was too much. So much had already happened to her, so many terrors, and now this. Now she was seeing him. The Dark Lord. The most feared and hated man in Cymria, the most . . .
“Listen,” said Arenadd. “It’s been a long day, and you’re obviously tired. I’ll arrange a room for you, and you can get some rest.”
“I—” Laela hesitated, not knowing what to say or do.
Arenadd came toward her and touched her on the shoulder. “There’s no need to be afraid of me.” She recoiled from him, and he withdrew immediately. “I’m a powerful friend to have, Laela,” he said abruptly. “Think about that.”
Laela managed to nod.
“Then come with me.”
• • •
The rest of the night passed in a kind of haze. Laela let herself be ushered out of the King’s bedroom and into the Eyrie proper, where a couple of servants were unceremoniously woken up and ordered to prepare a room for her. The room in question turned out to be a surprisingly large and well-furnished one—in fact, it looked more decorated than the King’s own. The servants efficiently dusted off the furniture and put fresh linen on the bed, and Laela was left on her own to stare at her new quarters in wonder.
The King had somehow managed to vanish without her noticing, so she shut the door behind her and sat down on the bed to rest and try to think. But her mind refused to take in everything that had happened.
I’m living with the Dark Lord.
She thought of the deceptively young-looking but appallingly scarred man she had met, trying to reconcile that image with the spectre of the one Southerners called the Dark Lord. The man who had single-handedly started the civil war in the South. The man who had massacred hundreds of Southerners, who had personally killed the pregnant Eyrie Mistress of Malvern, who had sold his soul to the evil Night God and been given vile powers, who . . .
Gryphus help her, she was living with him. She had met him face-to-face, had touched him in sympathy, had . . .
It was all too much to take in. But at least, she thought, she was safe now.
Maybe.
• • •
In his own room, Arenadd was hardly less agitated than his unwilling guest.
He paced back and forth in front of the fire, his brow furrowed. His heavy leather boots made no sound on the rug.
For a long time now he’d suspected . . . no, had known . . . well, everyone knew, didn’t they? Saeddryn certainly did. He knew what she’d been whispering behind his back. Everyone was, after all, and who could blame them? Time was turning him eccentric.
“Night God help me, what am I doing?” he mumbled aloud. “She’s terrified of me. Why would she want to be here?”
But something about her, something, had compelled him to help her. Perhaps it had been just her dire situation. Or perhaps it was her courage.
He smiled to himself. Not many people would have dared to speak to him the way she had. At least, not when they knew who he was. Laela was fearless. He liked that.
He paused and winced, putting a hand to his chest. Gods, it still hurt. After so long, it still hurt. But, then, so many things did.
Arenadd slumped into a chair by the fire. He knew he should probably sleep at least briefly . . . not that he needed to sleep much any more.
Instead, he picked up the jug of wine he’d left on the table and poured some of its contents into a mug, which he drained in a few long swallows. He refilled the mug and drank more slowly, while the familiar, dizzy warmth embraced him like an old friend.
Well, she could stay for a while. She had obviously had a hard life, and it wouldn’t hurt her to have some respite. He could give her some work in the Eyrie to justify her presence to everyone else. Yes. That would work.
The wine did its work as he got closer to the bottom of the jug. Yes. She could be a servant, and would have a good enough life—certainly better than she could have expected elsewhere, and he could forget about her and worry about more important matters. Yes.
He emptied the jug and made a good dent in a second one before he fell asleep in the chair. In his dreams, the Night God’s voice whispered to him, trying to make him listen. He ignored her.
• • •
Laela did sleep that night, and far more deeply than she would have expected. She was too exhausted, both emotionally and physically, to resist the lure of her new bed, and though she was still deeply frightened, she pushed her doubts aside and got into it.
It was wonderfully soft and comfortable, and she drifted off very quickly.
Next morning, she was woken up by a servant.
“Get up an’ get dressed; the King wants t’see yer.”
Laela sat up sharply, her drowsiness vanishing almost instantly as sick recollection came back. “The King?” she said stupidly.
“Aye, so get a move on, girl—he doesn’t like t’be kept waitin’.”
Laela dragged herself out of bed and struggled back into her travel-stained wool dress. She also put her sword-belt on, including the sword.
The servant made no move to stop her and stood by impassively while she laced up her boots and dragged a comb through her hair. “Good, now come with me,” she said, the instant that was done.
Laela thought briefly of arguing or trying to leave, but only briefly. She was in the Eyrie—probably right at the top, judging by all the stairs she’d had to climb. There would be guards everywhere. The chances of escaping were next to none. She was as good as imprisoned.
Frightened, but a little angry, she followed the servant out of the room.
Now she got a proper chance to see the inside of the Eyrie, she couldn’t help but be impressed. It was a stone building, of course, but the walls were lined wit
h wood, and there were thick carpets on the floor. Tapestries hung on the walls here and there, too, between ornate silver lamps, and she realised she must be in the richest part of the Eyrie.
Another thing she noticed was how big the place was. This corridor was easily wide enough for an ox—probably wider, she thought.
She wondered about that as the servant hustled her on. They passed several doors along the way, and those were abnormally huge as well. When Laela noticed that, she finally realised why—they had to be that size so that griffins could use them.
The thought only helped to increase her sense of dread.
Eventually, her guide took her up a ramp and to a door that had a pair of armed guards standing on either side of it. They both glanced curiously at Laela but said nothing and stayed at their posts as the servant nudged her through the door. “In ye go.”
Laela hesitated, but the servant had already departed, and the guards shut the door behind her.
She found herself in a fair-sized room furnished with a fireplace and a large table and chairs. And seated at the far end of it was . . .
Her heartbeat quickened.
King Arenadd was already coming to meet her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Laela swallowed. “I . . . yeah.”
“Good. Now, come and sit with me.”
It didn’t sound like a request. Laela thought he probably wasn’t used to having people say no. She walked numbly over to the chair he indicated and sat in it. There was food laid out on the table in front of it.
The King returned to his original seat—directly opposite her. “Help yourself. You must be hungry.”
Laela looked uncertainly at the bread, milk, and fruit. For a moment, she wondered if it could be poisoned. But what sense did that make? If he wanted her dead, he would have seen to it already.
“Go on,” he interrupted. “It’s perfectly fine.”
Just do what he tells yeh, she told herself. Just play along.
Arenadd nodded in apparent satisfaction as she helped herself to an apple. “Settling in all right?”
Laela swallowed. “It’s nice here, Sire.”
“Good. Don’t let me interrupt.”
