by Vic James
‘I can’t hope that this is an elaborate joke?’ he asked Coira, when she came back some indefinable length of time later. His brain ached trying to take it all in. His heart ached trying to forget some of it all over again. ‘I reckon Jules could forge my handwriting well enough. Or is there a section on him in here, too, that I’ve missed?’
‘Nothing on Julian,’ Coira said. ‘Crovan knows he’s your friend, so I reckon he’s saving up the big reveal there so it really hurts.’
‘There’s something to reveal?’
‘We’ve already had this conversation. I honestly don’t know.’
‘But you don’t need to do anything like this?’ Luke fanned through the book. ‘Crovan doesn’t take your recollection away from you like he does from me?’
‘Not day to day, no. He took the main thing – the reason why I’m here at all. But now, he never talks to me, or asks to see me. He looks right through me. The only reason I’m in charge of things below stairs is because I’ve been here so long.’
‘But there’s something else different about you. Everyone in this castle is either predator or prey – that’s what it says in here.’ Luke touched the book. ‘The collars prevent the “servants” hurting the “guests”, but not the other way around.’
The thought of what he’d read made his gut churn. Crovan’s guests were punished by Crovan, but they could take out their sadistic urges on any of those living below stairs. All except Coira.
‘You’re not one of the guests upstairs. But you can’t be hurt, like the other servants below stairs. You’re special. Why?’
‘I have no idea.’ She hesitated. ‘You know that I came here young, but I don’t remember exactly when. I have no memories of any life before. But as a child, I would have been defenceless. So I think he did that to protect me.’
Luke’s mind recoiled. To have known only this castle, this treasure chest crammed full of horrors, for your entire life? It was unimaginable. He thought of his old house in Manchester, where Daisy had run riot in the back garden and Dad had tinkered with cars on the driveway, and how unappreciative he’d been of his life back then, and the sheer stupefying normalcy of it. Where was Coira’s family?
Then it hit him – a reason why Coira might have no memories of a place before Eilean Dochais.
‘What if you were born here? If your mother was the prisoner, not you?’
‘Luke, I told you when you first arrived that I’m a criminal like everyone else here. I’m not making that up – Crovan said so. He’s never told me what I did, only that it was awful. “The worst thing of all”, was what he said. And what’s that, if not killing another child?’
‘Haven’t you asked the others, if any of them remember when you came, how old you were, what was said about you?’
Coira turned her face away. A strand of brown hair fell down from where she pinned it back. He wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, and fiddled with the book to stop himself doing anything so stupid. When she looked back, her agitation made him wish he’d never mentioned it.
‘There’s no one to ask. Those who were here through my childhood are dead or gone through the door, or don’t know themselves any more. Lavinia was one of the first here, and she doesn’t remember a thing apart from what darling Braby liked for breakfast and between the sheets.’ This girl had no roots, no anchor. No parents to share embarrassing childhood stories, or siblings to sass her, tease her, or just occasionally make her heart melt. Abi had always coached Luke through his exams. Daisy had been one to get him out of Millmoor. He missed his family so much.
Luke wanted to promise Coira that one day, when they were far away from here, he would tell her stories of their time at Eilean Dochais. She would finally have someone with whom she shared a history. But he was afraid it would come out all creepy and wrong, and besides, it wasn’t as though their life here with Crovan was the stuff fond reminiscences were made of.
Crovan. They must have had the same thought at the same time, because Coira glanced up at the clock.
‘Five minutes. You need to go and hear your news. I guess whoever’s just arrived is something to do with it.’
‘Someone’s arrived?’
‘A helicopter came in a quarter of an hour ago,’ she said, taking the book and tucking it under her arm. ‘And as you know, we never get visitors. It’d be too much of a coincidence.’
A kind of panic gripped Luke. Not Angel again, surely? And please not Abi with her. He never wanted to see his sister within a hundred miles of this place.
He hurried out of the kitchen, and up the square staircase to Crovan’s apartments at the top of the castle, taking the treads two at a time. Devin was waiting outside the door to the upper floors, fob watch in hand.
‘Cutting it fine.’
Not a nice man, Luke reminded himself.
Luke was ushered into Crovan’s apartment. The lord of Eilean Dochais was sitting at his desk by the window, sifting some documents.
‘Thank you, Devin,’ Crovan said. ‘Send the girl up with a pot of coffee for my guest, please. Make sure it’s hot.’
Devin bowed obsequiously, and withdrew.
‘So, Hadley,’ Crovan said, eying Luke through lenses that were a disconcerting cloudy white, reflecting the overcast day outside. ‘Intriguing news. It appears that while in detention Lord Rix admitted responsibility for the slaying of Chancellor Zelston and the attempted murder of Lord Jardine.’
Luke couldn’t believe it. A confession from an Equal? Hope blossomed inside him. He had purposely kept it dark and unwatered all these weeks, because to allow yourself to hope in a place where there was no mercy and no escape was the quickest way imaginable to drive yourself insane.
But then of course – of course – with his next words Crovan ripped that hope up by the roots and tossed it on the bonfire. Because that was what evil magical sadists did.
‘Sadly, Rix then expired while in custody, so your precise involvement in the matter remains opaque. Given your prior history of violent sedition at Millmoor, Heir Bouda writes that your sentence of Condemnation stands, and the case is now closed. And of course, Heir Meilyr is no longer with us to plead for mitigation. You seem to be a dangerous young man, Luke Hadley: not one, but two of your Equal associates turning up dead.’
Luke’s heart was heavy with the memory of Jackson, and his mind churned with this latest news, but his mouth was still doing its own thing.
‘I’m happy to make it three, if you like.’
Crovan uttered a well-bred guffaw. From an armchair placed with its back to where Luke stood, a second laugh echoed it.
‘Such wit. Oh – did you hear that splash?’ Crovan turned back to the window, his expression quizzical. Luke had heard nothing, but then the Equals did have superfine senses. ‘Ach, that’ll be the key to your freedom, sinking all the way down to the bottom of my beautiful Loch nan Deur.
‘No defender. No witness. You’re all mine now, Hadley. Or should I say, “ours”. I’m sure you remember my guest.’
‘Hello, Luke.’
And as the curly dark head appeared round the side of the armchair, Luke realized he should have known it would be him.
‘Silyen.’
The Equal swung both legs over the side of the chair and jumped to his feet.
‘Have you missed me, Luke? And it’s “Lord Silyen” now.’
Ennoblement had done nothing for Silyen’s appearance. He was as dishevelled as ever, and there were dark lines beneath those dark eyes. How on earth had he come by his title?
‘I’m presuming you didn’t murder your father and brothers?’
‘Luke.’ The Equal’s tone was reproving. ‘We’re no paragons of familial devotion, like you Hadleys, but even I have my limits. No, Lord Rix generously adopted me as his heir after the events at Kyneston. And then a few days ago he even more considerately passed away while in the custody of my sister-in-law. I’m sure she would have been more careful if she’d thought that through, but
there you go.
‘So I stand before you as the new lord of Far Carr. The investiture’s in a few days, but I thought I’d come up here rather than go straight to London. Father’s planning some ghastly parade to celebrate having the full set of us in the House of Light. You see, Mummy and Jenner are getting Orpen Mote now that my Aunt Euterpe is also no longer with us.’
Was Luke imagining it, or was that a glimmer of actual emotion on Silyen’s sharp face?
Of course he was imagining it.
There was a knock on the door. That would be the coffee. And Luke knew who ‘the girl’ was that had been ordered to bring it up. He didn’t want Coira in here with this pair. He didn’t want Silyen so much as laying eyes on her. Nothing good ever came of catching Silyen Jardine’s attention.
But a warning from Crovan stopped him in his tracks when he moved towards the door, so he could only watch as Coira stepped in, bearing a steaming coffee pot.
‘Where shall I put it, my lord?’ she asked Crovan, keeping her eyes down.
‘Why don’t you bring it to me?’ Silyen said.
So she went over, gaze still firmly fixed on the rich Turkish carpet. She’d have a good view of the lord of Far Carr’s dirty boots. Silyen reached out and plucked the cup from the tray.
He held it out expectantly. And Luke knew what he was going to do, dammit. He could see it from the smug way Silyen’s mouth twitched up.
As Coira lifted the pot, Silyen lifted the cup. A little higher, and then a little higher again. Eventually she had to look up in order to see where to pour.
Luke’s fingers itched to slap Silyen for his jerkish manners, but then he saw where the Equal’s gaze was directed and it wasn’t – as his eldest brother’s would have been – lasciviously on Coira’s face. Silyen was studying the golden band at her throat. Unlike the men at Eilean Dochais, whose shirts and ties mostly hid their collars, Coira’s plain black dress left her neck fully exposed.
When Silyen reached out and touched Coira’s collar, she gasped and flinched. Luke had to fight to keep himself still. Crovan actually sprang up from his seat at his desk.
‘Don’t touch her,’ he snapped at his guest.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Silyen, in his usual not-sorry-at-all way. ‘I was just curious. Its effects are confined to this place, aren’t they? I remember the Dog didn’t have one when he went to Hypatia. You heard he slipped his leash after the business in our ballroom? He’s such a bad dog.
‘So how did you do it? Was it based on the principles of Gruach’s necklace? I used something similar at Kyneston, but without the collar, obviously.’ Silyen’s eyes drifted back to Luke and lingered. ‘Maybe I missed a trick.’
‘Coira, leave us,’ Crovan ordered.
‘Thank you for the excellent coffee,’ Silyen said, draining the steaming contents of the cup and placing it back on her tray. ‘Just what I needed after that awful helicopter flight. How on earth can people bear to travel like that? So unnatural.’
He gave Coira his most brilliant smile, but she had already ducked her head. As she hurried past, Luke reached out and brushed her arm in a way that he hoped was reassuring.
‘Enough. To business.’ Crovan’s brisk tone might as well have been accompanied by a rolling-up of sleeves. ‘This decision by Bouda removes any concerns about one day having to present him in a fit state for re-examination. And the fact that we now know that it was Rix who Silenced him may assist us. Hadley, come and sit down. I don’t want to be hauling you off the floor if you collapse.’
Crovan pointed to the armchair that Silyen had vacated. Luke didn’t exactly sprint to it.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for some answers,’ said Silyen, shoving his hair carelessly off his face.
A memory stirred, deep in Luke’s silted-up brain, and clawed its way to the surface.
The grey dawn before Luke’s trial. Silyen curled in an armchair, and his whispered words: You’ll be useful to me, where you’re going.
And another memory. The Equal’s breath coiling into Luke’s ear in Kyneston’s wine cellar: I have questions. And right now, you’re the best chance I’ve got of finding some answers.
‘Answers to what?’ Luke said, trying to keep his voice under control. ‘You just said that someone confessed to what happened at Kyneston, some lord who wanted to kill Zelston – or your father. What other answers do you need?’
‘Oh, that’s just facts, Luke. No one cares about facts. No, Arailt and I are interested in whether the Silence that Rix laid on you at Kyneston can be lifted or broken. The Silence is something of a specialism of my learned friend here. I’m sure you’ve noticed his fondness for it.’ Silyen indicated Crovan, who gave a wolfish smile, before continuing.
‘Everything we know tells us that the Silence and the Quiet can only be lifted by the person who laid them. Half our world is built on secrets concealed by Skill. Just imagine what we’d discover if we could break them open.
‘In your case, we now know who did it, and what he was trying to conceal, so we know the parameters we’re dealing with. It’s perfect test conditions.’
‘You don’t need me for that,’ Luke protested, even as Crovan pushed, hard, in the middle of his chest and sent him down into the chair. ‘This castle is full of people its lord has Silenced that you can practise on. Or if you need to know what about, then why not Silence someone’s memory of what they had for breakfast, then do your research?’
‘And I thought you were a revolutionary concerned about your fellow man, Hadley,’ said Crovan. The only thing reflected in his spectacles now was Luke’s own panicked face, horribly magnified. ‘But here you are, trying to save yourself by offering up someone else. It’s just as I said when you first arrived: you and your kind turn on each other without provocation. It’s a mark of your inferiority.’
‘What do you mean? Why is that me turning on someone else?’
‘Because this sort of work breaks brains,’ said Silyen Jardine, crouching down to Luke’s level. And if Crovan’s blank spectacles were disconcerting, Silyen’s gaze was even worse. In its dark depths, something flickered like golden fire. ‘Now hush – and remember what I promised.’
Silyen laid a finger to his lips, before retreating to an armchair directly opposite. He rested his chin in his hand to watch.
What did he think he’d be seeing?
Luke received his answer when his spine arched against the chair and his head snapped back with the ferocity of Crovan’s incursion into his mind. If his thoughts were a tangle of confusion, Crovan’s Skill was taking a machete to them, slashing a way through.
Luke whimpered. Crovan had hacked great holes in his memory already. There’d be nothing left of him but tatters by the time this was done. Each downward slice of the man’s Skill hurt like a hot knife in Luke’s head. But then, Crovan enjoyed pain. He inflicted bodily torture on people for amusement. Why should this be any different?
But it was different. It was worse.
He felt agony in every part of his body, as if all his blood had been drained out and replaced with the acid waters of Loch nan Deur. His fingers jerked uselessly, and in his neck the carotid artery pulsed like a jackhammer. He arched back against the armchair again, racked by spasms, and on his face the trickle of his own tears – sweat? snot? – scalded as it ran down his face.
He hated them. With his last, conscious, coherent thought, he hated them.
You have to – hate them. To beat them, Dog had said.
He’d dismissed Dog as a maniac.
Now he knew the man was right. Half right – because there’d be no beating the Equals.
Luke blacked out.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see properly. Momentarily, he was back in the van carrying him away from Millmoor, coming around in the darkness, not knowing where he was. He’d been afraid then, but certain that whatever faced him, he would bear up under it. He couldn’t bear up under this, though.
Which was
when he realized that the pain wasn’t there any more.
Or that it didn’t hurt any more – if you could have pain that didn’t hurt, which Luke didn’t think you could.
He blinked to clear his vision. It sharpened, but all the colour had gone. He was seeing in monochrome. But not black and white – rather, dark and bright.
He was standing in a field of rippling grass that stretched as far as he could see. Beyond, where he couldn’t see, he somehow knew there were mountains. Behind, if he looked, would be trees.
He turned – and blinked against what he saw. Two flares of brilliance, almost too bright to bear. One was writhing, lashing like lightning strikes against a high dark wall. The other was a sun, blazing. Luke put his hand up to shield his eyes, which was when he saw that a thread of fire trailed from it, to him.
Astonished, he reached out towards the thread – tentatively, afraid it might break. He didn’t want it to break. It lifted and swayed beneath his touch, fine but strong, like golden spider silk.
When he turned back, someone was standing there: a young man with wild hair. The man’s hand rested on the neck of a massive stag, its antlers branching and sharp. Above him, in the sky, an eagle screamed.
Luke shivered. Who was this? He squinted, as if that might make any difference. Was it some dream-version of Silyen – because, ugh, surely he was not dreaming about Silyen Jardine?
But no. What Luke had mistaken for messy hair was a nest of twigs and flowers, woven around the man’s head like a child’s pretend crown. His fingers were dug deep into the scruff of thick fur at the stag’s throat, and with his other hand he petted the animal’s nose. He was older than Luke had at first thought, and yet it was impossible to put an age on him.
His eyes were golden, like an owl’s.
A thrill of terror and joy went through Luke. He wanted to run from this man. He wanted to kneel and pledge his life to him. He wanted to grip him by the shoulder like a comrade, and look him in the eyes.
