by Veras Alnar
Amis put his hand against the plaster walls just inside the hallway leading to the great room and was a bit surprised to notice the fragility of it as it came away. Color and stucco had adhered slightly to his hands and crumbled with the slightest touch, it all seemed like a great facade that must have been put up years ago and had now after being dampened by the lack of fires and activity, begun to wear away. The colors on the wall were lurid and bright, crimson gold and red with dark greens and thatched houses and swirling violent leafy patterns but underneath it all, the stones were a dark and brutal gray just as dismal as the sky of Garstwrot itself.
As he looked above him where the stucco ended Amis thought he saw something moving along the upper staircase, an area that was in far worse repair than the rest. It was a swank of purple cloth that shimmered and slithered along the ground as if from the train of a cloak. It stopped for a moment against the turn of the stair and then began to move again after a time, slipping behind the wall.
After rubbing his sore eyes to be sure of what he had seen, Amis followed its trail up the stairs and found himself on a rather ragged looking landing. At the top of Garswrot keep was a single window that had been tinted with red glass and was partially covered by hammered metal shutters that hung askew. There was no one on the landing or anywhere around and only three doorways to any other room. Two of them looked blocked up by plaster and Amis laid his ear against one, wondering if some interloper had found their way inside the keep or joyously, if someone else from town had survived. But the only sound Amis could hear coming from the sealed up room was the faintest of scratching that could have been a rat, or a shutter off its hinge or any innumerable thing other than human life.
Amis turned to the final door, a great black metal thing with large elaborate hinges that were carved into twisting rose vines. It more than anything looked original to the very ancient age of the keep and Amis noticed, with some nervousness that the door had been just slightly popped open from its resting place.
With a bit of effort the great door was pulled free and the overwhelming smell of must nearly knocked Amis backwards. It was, disappointingly, a small library and not a place anyone could hope to hide. Amis had never been much for books or for reading and wished that it had been an ancient armory he had found instead because then at least he could have had some sport in the courtyard to lighten his mood. Instead he was faced with dusty tomes and a rough wooden table and a few very old, carved wooden chairs. The shelving was bent from damp and age but still held a few books that looked freshly made.
Curiously perusing their titles, Amis saw the most famous stories of the country on its shelves; the King of Ulfsr, the Song of Elaine and the infamous Albin and Gamwyd, most known because of the tempestuous romance between its two male leads. The last book seemed to have multiple copies strewn about the room and one in particular that appeared to be a country play version of the story had been well paged through. It sat on the wobbly three legged desk next to the wooden table and there were a few symbols scratched on the page Amis took for a strange shorthand, perhaps a code of one of the prior lords. A few lines were even underlined for emphasis;
ALBIN;
I saw the great clawed hand,
Beckoning from its craggy hole,
And down I went into its heart,
To test myself against Garstwren,
When I went only the dead were there,
But from the empty chambers and dusty halls,
I heard his voice like a whisper on the wind,
“To Garstwrot when the devil calls”
And by the underline in a tidy hand was written, Garstwrot Keep.
“Garstwren of Garstwrot,” murmured Amis.
Amis had heard the stories about town that everyone knew; Garstwren was a great witch who lived in a cave by the fens or the edge of the forest near the craggy stones or wherever may have been convenient to the telling of a story. Garstwren was dead but also alive in some mystical way, or sometimes a ghost or a devil that haunted the steps of lost travelers with tricks and curses. The stuff of legends and fairy tales and even as a little boy he had heard that name when he had been forced to read the King of Ulsfr and the very sanitized but classic version of Albin and Gamwyd and there was a mention of him even in the country's greatest epic, the Song of Elaine.
“It's the closest to the original tale I could find,” Lord Guain said, “the church despised the bits about black magic and tried to have it burned. And they were less than forgiving about the more sordid stanzas, besides.”
Amis nearly dropped the book in his surprise. Lord Guain's shadow stretched across the room and he was wreathed in a barely luminous darkness from the red stained windows. For a moment, he had looked just a bit hellish, like a figure covered in flames. But he wasn't wearing a violet cloak or moving with sinuous grace and yet, Amis still felt a little unnerved by his sudden presence. The man stepped forward and the illusion was broken; Lord Guain was indeed very handsome but just a man of flesh and blood who dressed in very fine clothes.
“I'm sorry,” Lord Guain said, “I didn't mean to scare you.”
“It's fine,” Amis said, putting the book aside, “so, you've managed to get a hold of the original Albin and Gamwyd? I bet that was quite a find, I've never read it.”
What Amis could remember about the famous tale was that the knight Albin had dark hair and a scarred face and was easily enraged, and desperately in love with his peasant page Gamwyd who for most of the book, wanted nothing to do with him. Amis fancied Gamwyd might have resembled Lord Guain who looked for all the world like a blonde archangel in the light of the dying day, his curled hair and strong, handsome face aglow in orange light.
“Most haven't,” Lord Guain said, proudly, “only the most avid collectors saved the books from the zealous flames of the church. But it was worth the cost, there was an appearance by that great witch, Garstwren, at the end just as Albin dies and a few stanzas involving our very own little town.”
“I saw the lines about Garstwrot,” Amis said, “and the witch Garstwren. I remember reading about him as a boy.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Lord Guain said, his face aglow with excitement, “I've been a scholar of Garstwren and his stories for years. It's a personal project of mine to figure out if he was a real person or just some fancy of a writer back in the old days.”
“Are all these books about Garstwren,” Amis asked, noticing the heaping piles around his feet.
“Some only have a mere mention but according to ancient sources he wasn't just a witch but a demi-god that got himself into trouble with the devil. The legend goes that when he died he wasn't wanted by anyone and had to walk the earth alone forever as a divine punishment. But this I think is a modern reinvention, he seemed to gleefully enjoy himself during the pagan days and gets dropped into the story as some kind of ancient, carnal fountain of knowledge. Some stories have him giving birth to his own children, other times he was a shapeless, shadowy giant that stalked the land for beautiful women to despoil. Lots of places liked to claim that they had been where his first castle had been built and where he lived his ribald pagan existence until a great knight, who was usually described as a fair haired beauty, came to end his reign of terror and cut off his head. I've been reading anything I could get my hands on concerning him and I feel I have the most complete picture of the real Garstwren anyone has ever had in centuries.”
It all sounded like a massive bore to Amis but he didn't dare say so out loud.
“That all seems,” Amis said, “very peculiar.”
“It is to be sure,” Lord Guain said, “and the stories the further back you go, only get stranger. Why, they say he drank blood to keep his immortality. But not human, the blood of devils from the crag. That he slept with demons and gained their powers, cavorted with witches on the hill and fell madly in love with a druid who met a sticky end and encouraged human sacrifice in this very land to sate his lonely spirit. And, have you heard about the infants?”
Amis felt himself go rigid, “no, I hadn't.”
“They say in Garstwrot itself,” Lord Guain said, eyes gleaming with excitement, “they used to sacrifice unwanted infants to Garstwren and then feed the remains to his bestial lovers in the crag. For you see, it was the only way to gain access to his greatest power, that of immortality, through the offering of innocent blood.”
The wind howled outside the little library in a sudden gust and it sounded very much to Amis like the wail of a dying infant. Amis glanced up at Lord Guain who was looming over him, his golden hair falling in a curtain and hand splayed against the stacks of papers and books on the wooden table. The rings on his fingers gleamed with bold ostentatious designs, except for one that Amis noticed seemed very old and tarnished. It had a beautiful black stone and some strange writing around it in an English that must have been very old, as it was impossible to read.
“I didn't know any of that,” Amis said, quietly.
He wished sorely he could close his eyes and block out the winds' lamenting howl.
“Does it bother you?” Lord Guain said, “If it's any consolation, I doubt it was ever done. Most of these accounts are just clergy interpreting pagan rituals to their benefit. Make the unbelievers seem like savages and your way seems more right. Are you all right, really?”
“Yes,” Amis said, nearly at a whisper.
“Then you'd better come downstairs when you're done here,” Lord Guain said, “as Fulk has robbed almost all there is of value. He left the corpses uncovered by the way but I'll give you payment for his careless ways if you put the blankets on. Unless you still feel unwell-”
“I'll do it,” Amis said, “just give me a moment's peace to-”
Amis looked around and realized that what he had seen shimmering up the stairs must have been a wild imagining born from his rattled nerves.
“-to collect myself.”
“Of course,” Lord Guain said.
When left alone Amis let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in, there was something unnerving about Lord Guain despite his ethereal beauty. There was an edge to him that resembled Amis' recently missing cat, who had been a very handsome devil but would throw around the mice he'd catch, not to eat them but to play in his own cruel way. Amis turned over the book to close it and was surprised to see a neatly written sentence on the back.
To Ges of Cafur from the Count of Castille, may your days be sunnier than Garstwren's, old friend.
When the book was shoved aside Amis realized he had been reading over a stack of family lines and there was the same name off to the side, Count Castille of Cafur, Garstwrot keep. What little he knew of geography reminded him that Cafur was very far away, well east of Adelaide. Strange then, that a count from a foreign country would have Garstwrot keep under his belt. But even more unusual, was that at the bottom of the paper heap of names and death dates and strange counts and countesses was a little book that dislodged itself and fell to the floor as if swept off the table by an invisible wind.
On the floor where the book had popped open, Amis noticed it was very fine but all written in a common script and not stamped out as was the modern way or made in an overly embellished hand the way very old books were.
Diary of Lady Anna of Lorix, Castille Castle
Quickly flipping through the book, Amis read the small missive in Lady Anna's own hand. It was mostly an account of day to day life in Castille Castle; dealing with the irritation of maids, house work, hiring and firing of staff. Minstrels and feast dates, various missives on the state of the church social life and a few barbed gripes about having a much older husband who had already turned gray.
But finally, after some flipping, Amis found what was most interesting to him.
We have abandoned the sunny shores of Castille Castle for a most dismal place, the land of Garswrot. The people here are not the best of the land but not the worst and seem more often troubled by bandits and bargeman than any unkindness from roving armies. My husband says this place will gain us an advantage in the row brewing between King Edgen and his younger brother and I must defer to his formidable political skills but I don't like it here, the weather is miserable and the earth rumbles in a strange, unpleasant way.
It went on a bit about political things that Amis found terribly dull but when he was about to give up and put the book back under the maps, he noticed lines that chilled him.
The death of my husband was a terrible blow to our already troubled keep but Lord Guain has offered marriage in hopes that I can keep my lands safe. What a blessed, blessed child! I'm twenty years his senior and hardly able to provide what a younger woman could but he said that he missed our talks that we had when he was a child, though I have no recollection of him visiting as a boy. I think this is all to comfort me and not based on any truth but how could I say no? The wars are earnest and deep in intrigue and my beloved village in Lorix had no turbulent courts and even less cause to go to war, I am at a loss and in danger. I should pray for guidance and see what is wanted of me by the almighty.
God has give me an answer. I will marry and take the gift given to me to save my family. Lord Guain has knowledge of this place that borders on an obsession, if anyone can save us it will be him.
There was no more written and the book hadn't been finished to the last page as was the custom in a Lady's diary. He stuffed the little book back where it had come from, under the family trees.
Outdoors the weather was windy with a strong bite and riled up all the ash so it was nearly a flurry in the wind. The bodies stacked outside the gate were a miserable sight to behold. Amis tried not to focus on the ones he might know and instead kept his eyes to the ground and threw the blankets over them, covering them as best he could. Despite the wind, the flies at first were overwhelming but then their buzzing began to dim until, there were only a few stragglers left. After laying the cloths over the corpses Amis had a strange fancy come over him. He picked up a struggling fly in between his fingers and watched it gasp its last few agonizing twists between them. The fly in a few seconds was dead.
“Poison,” Amis thought, with horrific dread.
It would do no good to scream or panic but Amis felt his hands shake. After tying the ends of the cloth to the carts, Amis walked back into the courtyard stiffly. It didn't make any sense even as it whirled around his head; why would a landed noble kill off his very own hold? Perhaps it wasn't Lord Guain who had done it but some person aligned against him, or stranger still some outside force that wanted Garstwrot to themselves, though why anyone would want a struggling keep by a loamy fen that was prone to being ransacked by warring Kings was anyone's guess.
As Amis walked under the eastern window deep in thought, a heap of flower petals fell from the open shutters over his head, nearly drowning him in their profusion and he found himself spitting flowers from his mouth.
“Ah ha!” Fulk laughed from the open window, “I bet you'll be smelling better after this. Too bad it wasn't the chamber pot, you'd feel right at home then!”
“You loathsome bastard!” Amis screamed, “Come down here and I'll fight you!”
“That's enough now, Amis,” Lord Guain said, across the yard, “they're only rose petals, they wont' hurt you. I think we should retire our labors and see what we can do about the great hall.”
“Damn him to hell!” Amis shouted.
Lord Guain sighed, “But I would suggest a wash by a fire, firstly, the two of you look far worse for wear.”
“It was my father who gong farmed,” Amis shouted, “not me!”
“I don't care who dug the shit out of the gutters,” Lord Guain said, sharply, “just get it off yourself.”
“Damn you both!” Amis shouted, “If one isn't cutting my hair while I'm dying the other is lambasting what I'm doing with myself.”
“I'll leave you to it,” Guain said, indifferent, “remember, all the mean things of the house still must be done if we're to maintain any order. That means your original occupatio
n may be called upon as well.”
“It wasn't me who gong farmed!” Amis shouted, but it was hardly heard as Lord Guain wisely had hurried away to other matters.
Having been refused the comfort of hard work due to his fragile condition and wishing to be anywhere but in Fulk's company, Amis had spent the better part of an hour in gloomy repose upstairs balefully glancing at a water basin until good sense took over and he returned to the only companion he was left with, no matter how spurious.
“Back amongst the living are you?” Lord Guain said, setting down a bottle of wine on the great hall's table, “Looking somewhat cleaner, I see.”
Perhaps it was some foolish train of thought that had Amis doubting Lord Guain's intentions. He seemed so very ordinary, even if remarkably handsome and was apparently a well read man with his peculiar fancies the way all nobles had. They were very far apart in minds but Amis still couldn't be sure about the diary of Lady Anna and felt the unease wash over him in great waves.
“I cleaned upstairs,” Amis said, “you're awfully cheerful for someone who has lost their whole household.”
“The reason for my cheer should be obvious,” Guain said, “I am, after all, still alive even if others are dead. Have some wine and gather some strength from it, it's quite clear you need a little fortification after your illness.”
“I'm not weak,” Amis said, “only tired.”
“It's not a personal fault to be brought low by sickness,” Guain said, gesturing to the table, “and unlike most you seemed to have survived which is a testament to your strength and dare I say, God's favor.”
There on the table was a decanter of wine most certainly watered down until it barely resembled anything approaching a stiff drink, which was unfortunate as Amis felt he could have done with several. Gone were the days it seemed of pilfering bottles of his father's favorite and getting stonking drunk next to the river.
