Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘Who comes?’ Nathaniel queried of the lantern-bearer from behind an outstretched hand.

  The cloaked figure, face hidden in shadow, sighed and walked on past his cell, his fine black cloak trailing as a stool was dragged back across. With another sigh, although this time tinged with disgust, the figure perched atop the stool, placing the lantern carefully beside his boots.

  The boots looked expensive, not to mention the black tunic that adorned his visitor. Was the city already in mourning? How long had he been in here?

  ‘Did you do it?’ the man asked bluntly.

  Nathaniel squinted past his hand but found that little other than the man’s attire was apparent to him. The lantern’s light stretched only as far as the bottom of his chin.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘Did you do it?’ the question came again somewhat more impatiently, his visitor’s knuckles cracking as his fists clenched together. This time, the voice sounded distinctly familiar to Nathaniel.

  ‘Solas?’ Nathaniel tilted his head up towards the shadowed face.

  The stool creaked as his brother leaned forward, staring down at Nathaniel. The lantern finally illuminating his features. His eyes looked dark around the rims, like he hadn’t slept for weeks, and his dimples, once proud accompaniments to an infectious grin, were the only impressions of his usual self that remained.

  ‘Did. You. Do it?’ Solas hissed.

  ‘What? Kill the Emperor? Are you mad? Ozin’s Throne, Solas, of course I didn’t!’

  Solas’ features appeared to soften with his words and he leant back into the darkness, nervously playing with his hands.

  ‘Draeden – the Szar – says you killed him. Slaughtered him and his bodyguard in cold blood. The people are calling you… ‘Kinslayer.’ No one saw it coming-’

  ‘Solas, I–’

  ‘–and father. Well father hasn’t been the same since the wedding. Not since what he saw, since–’

  Nathaniel pulled himself up towards the bars of his cell, as close as the chains would allow, and peered up towards his brother.

  ‘Solas, please,’ he pleaded.

  ‘–you… you attacked him,’ Solas choked.

  Nathaniel felt the blood drain from his face and his grip on the iron bars falter.

  Attack their father? This could not be. These were the Szar’s words, they had to be! His father would not, could not, do this.

  ‘Solas,’ Nathaniel insisted, ‘I didn’t kill the Emperor. You know I would never attack father! It was the Szar!’

  Nathaniel heard Solas’ breath catch in his throat, and he leant forward in his stool, the light from the lantern catching his mirthless face once more.

  He stared down at his hands, pondering on his brother’s words for a moment. However, just as Nathaniel thought he’d finally got through to him, Solas shook his head sadly and looked down at Nathaniel with impossibly cold eyes.

  ‘Father said you would try to blame Draeden,’ he said quietly, as if this was final confirmation of Nathaniel’s guilt.

  Then with a cry the stool he was sat on was sent spinning across the floor, as he snatched up the lantern and cast himself away.

  ‘Solas!’

  ‘Fog take you, Nathaniel! Murdering the Emperor wasn’t enough for you was it?’ Solas shouted back as he climbed the stairs, ‘you would have killed father, wouldn’t you? And the Szar too!’

  ‘You can’t believe that! Solas! Solas!’

  Solas’ hurried footsteps paused above Nathaniel, his ragged breaths filling the cells. When he spoke, each quietly spoken word was articulated with such venom, they cut into Nathaniel, shocking him into a momentary silence.

  ‘If you ask for mercy, brother, maybe the elders will petition for your exile. But I think the Szar, rightly, has his mind set on the Stone for you.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Nathaniel cried up to the pools of light, which were quickly evaporating. ‘Please! You have to believe me! Solas! The Szar has betrayed us all! Solas! SOLAS!’

  Not another word was returned. All Nathaniel heard was the slamming of the door, plunging him back into darkness.

  Chapter 7

  The Lycans considered Old Fire-Eyes quite the enigma.

  Some said he’d been a journeyman, seeing all the world had to offer on foot. Others thought he’d been driven here, to the Lycans, running from some dark purpose. Some, in hushed tones, in the darkest corners of Sanctuary, spun tales of murder and Majik.

  Nonetheless, he was liked well enough by most, although there were those still bitter over his rise to the top.

  But he had been somewhat subdued of late.

  He seemed rarely present in conversation. Not exactly cold, but his usual warmth was rarely seen nowadays.

  Samir was pretty sure it had all started with the Regal.

  What was her name?

  Ahh, it would come back to him.

  During the past year he had spent as Old Fire-Eyes’ aide, he had seen the young Regal regularly. Young. The thought made him chuckle. Youth, he had learned quickly, was a luxury long enjoyed by Regals - notably so, compared to Lycans, and even more dramatically so, compared to the short lives of humans.

  A Regal could live through a thousand years, before you’d even realise they had passed adolescence. For all Samir knew, she could easily be that old.

  He had been uncomfortable at first, escorting her to Old Fire-Eyes’ chambers. Whilst he was not nearly old enough to remember the Lycans’ bondage under the Regals, he had heard stories about their difficult past. Indeed, at first, this shared history had seemed to make a monster of the Regal, accentuating the cruelty of her sharp eyes and harshly prominent cheekbones.

  But she was different.

  She seemed kind. And perhaps it had just been for Old Fire-Eyes’ sake, but his brothers and sisters seemed to accept her. Well… almost everyone.

  To begin with, Old Fire-Eyes had been equally kind.

  But that had all changed a few months ago.

  One night, Samir, and half of Sanctuary, he imagined, had suddenly awoken to a pitched argument a short distance away from the dormitory.

  Raised voices could be heard coming from Old Fire-Eyes’ chambers and Samir was pretty sure he’d heard something breaking against one of the walls inside. Though, even the most curious of his brothers and sisters hadn’t dared venture close to it.

  ‘I don’t care!’ the Regal shouted, as she whipped open the door, so fiercely Samir was surprised it didn’t break off its hinges.

  She was clearly in some distress. Her blue eyes awash with tears, she brushed past with a hard shoulder that almost knocked the nearest Lycan off his feet, despite the woman’s slim frame.

  ‘Oh, get out of my way, would you!’ she snapped, without looking up at Samir.

  Her long blonde hair then whipped out of sight down a corner, leaving the gathered group with something far more terrifying.

  The door behind Samir, now wide open, exposed the room’s remaining inhabitant, a thunderous expression burning across his lined face.

  That, alone, was enough to send most running back to their dormitories.

  Old Fire-Eyes merely spun and walked back to his desk, placing his shaking hands on its surface, claws digging into the wood.

  ‘Leave me,’ Samir heard him growl, just loud enough for him to hear.

  Even months later, Samir hesitated on the threshold, clutching the letter with a Regal seal in his hands.

  Taking a deep breath, he whispered, in a higher-pitch than he expected, ‘you have a message, sir.’

  Samir edged backwards, away from the door, as if it were liable to suddenly burst into flames.

  He briefly considered just slotting the letter under the door. The thought of experiencing Old Fire-Eyes’ fury alone was a most terrifying thought.

  ‘What is it?’ came the response a moment later.

  ‘A letter, brother.’

  ‘Come in, then.’

  Sun above… too late now, Sami
r thought.

  Tentatively, he edged through the door. To his relief, he found that the furniture appeared to be largely in order, with no fresh dents or scratches across the walls.

  Old Fire-Eyes crossed the room and sat in his armchair, as he did most often nowadays, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace in front of him.

  There was something grand about him still, even in his morose state. A sheer presence that extended beyond his leadership of the Brotherhood and beyond Samir’s imagination. What glories and atrocities have been witnessed by those intense, grey, amber-rimmed eyes that so captivated everyone?

  Old Fire-Eyes had seen things. Knew things few others did. And the gravity of those experiences loomed over those who locked eyes with him.

  ‘You have something for me, Samir?’

  With a start, Samir suddenly realised he’d just been staring at his leader for the last minute or so.

  Thankful Old Fire-Eyes hadn’t appeared to notice his blushes, with a nervous cough, he placed the letter on the arm of the chair.

  As Old Fire-Eyes took the letter and examined the seal, Samir eyed, with trepidation, an old, but deep set of scratches that stretched across the wall behind the desk. By the Sun, he hoped it wasn’t bad news.

  ‘Did Fael say anything when he gave you this?’ Old Fire-Eyes queried.

  ‘Just that it was important that it got to you as quickly as possible, Brother,’ Samir said. He then added hesitantly, ‘although, maybe I judged him incorrectly, but Fael seemed on edge.’

  Old Fire-Eyes seemed to consider this for a moment, as he span the envelope about in his hands, before splitting the seal neatly with an extended claw.

  After pouring over the contents, he dropped the letter against his thigh and murmured bitterly under his breath, something that sounded like ‘Kusk.’

  ‘Brother?’ Samir said apprehensively.

  Thorne folded the parchment methodically until it was no larger than his palm and tucked it into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Little wonder Fael was ill at ease,’ he sighed heavily. ‘The Emperor is dead.’

  Samir let out a sharp breath. ‘What?’ he said. ‘How?’

  ‘It matters little now, Samir, pretend I never told you. News will spread in time, of course, but until then… I need to make certain preparations.’

  ‘Of-of course,’ Samir began to bow but, after a sidelong glance from Old Fire-Eyes, he quickly collected himself. No bowing, he remembered.

  A flicker of a smile, all too rare these days, crossed Fire-Eyes’ face, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

  ‘Oh, and Samir,’ Old Fire-Eyes called, halting him in his tracks, as the young Lycan was retreating out of the room.

  ‘Yes, Brother?’

  ‘Do ask Brother Marcus if he would be so kind as to prepare for another newcomer. Tell him it will be most… irregular.’

  Nodding in affirmation, more than was necessary, Samir realised, he launched himself through the door, before he could cause himself any further embarrassment.

  *

  As soon as the door was closed, Old Fire-Eyes rose from his seat, flicked open the letter again and tipped the contents into his open hand.

  A dozen petals of varying size and colour nestled against his palm, a gentle, but distinct fragrance mixing pleasantly with the warmth of the flames before him. Old Fire-Eyes brought his hands to his face and breathed deeply, allowing himself to drift to a better place, a better time, with…

  ‘Sunflowers and orchids?’ a voice called.

  Closing his fist behind his back, like a child attempting to hide a stolen bounty of sweets from his mother, Old Fire-Eyes span on the spot and stared, wide-eyed at the dark corner of the room. ‘How long have you been hiding back there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Long enough,’ came the reply.

  Old Fire-Eyes narrowed his eyes and tilted and his head, sniffing the air but to no avail. Not even the vaguest hint. How could she never have a scent?

  ‘Ozin’s Throne,’ he said, shaking his fists before him, ‘don’t keep skulking there!’

  From the dark corner of his chambers, behind one of his bookcases, a woman emerged. As softly as a Hunter, she padded past Old Fire-Eyes, long maroon dress trailing the floor behind her.

  An open book that lay on his desk, its pages yellow and wrinkled with age, apparently caught her eye. He watched her incredulously, as she ran a polished nail across the length of a page, which bore a faded drawing of a banner, and inside a sword smothered with flame.

  She recited the words on the page beside it as her hand traced the blade.

  ‘Till dusk doth come, slumber we must

  At the stroke of midnight, the lost embers return

  Bearing the flames of the First, the heir’s lead we trust

  With fang and claw, beckons darkness to dust’

  ‘Still taking a great interest in Fierslaken’s Kingsguard?’ the woman removed her hand from the book and turned to lean on the desk. ‘How long have you slaved over those two pages?’

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ the old Lycan grumbled. ‘Still breaking and entering I see.’

  ‘Darling, I’m hardly breaking in, if the front door’s left open,’ she retorted with a grin.

  He snorted derisively and joined the seer by his desk. He lifted the lid from a small metallic pot beside the book and carefully dropped the petals inside, but the seer caught Thorne’s hand as the lid hovered above.

  He looked down at her, staring at the opaque veil. Still to this day it bothered him that he could never see her eyes.

  ‘The Hunter thinks you’re making a mistake,’ she said.

  Old Fire-Eyes grimaced, she had an remarkably firm grip, despite her size. ‘He thinks a lot of things,’ he said, ‘but then often fails to take his own advice.’

  The seer smiled wryly, a somewhat shaky smile that belied her usual composure, releasing Old Fire-Eyes’s hand so he could close the pot once more. ‘For what it’s worth, darling, I think you’re making a mistake too.’

  ‘I assume, after all this time, this is not a social call?’ he asked brusquely, brushing his hands free of pollen.

  ‘The letter,’ the seer said simply.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Troublingly, it would appear that the shadows are stirring quicker than expected,’ the seer said.

  ‘Yes… troubling for us all,’ Thorne agreed, ‘so it does have something to do with Tolken’s death?’

  The seer shrugged, then looped her arm around his. ‘Perhaps nothing… or everything,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I will say this, however. The timing cannot be coincidental.’

  ‘When we’re finally on the verge of peace? It can only be Kusk,’ Thorne growled. ‘But why? Why now? He may despise Lycans but surely he would never consider serving the Necromancers?’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But could he not be nudged towards a desired goal?’

  ‘What do you know?’ he asked quietly, turning to face the seer.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Zakariyanna. What do you know?’

  The seer sighed. ‘You know I can say no more. I am bound by–’

  ‘–rules that cannot be broken,’ he grimaced, ‘you’re not the first to use those words.’

  ‘Nor will I be the last,’ Zakariyanna smiled sadly and padded softly towards the open door.

  Pausing briefly, she turned to face the old Lycan, considering him for a moment.

  ‘Do take care, dearest, but remember… you cannot run from your destiny forever.’

  As she glided through the doorway, he thought he heard her whisper ‘…and neither can your bloodline.’

  Chapter 8

  Nathaniel’s breath caught in his chest.

  Something had rustled in the opposite corner of his cell. Rats were his first thought, but the sound suggested something larger.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out to the darkness.

  A sudden scrabbling against the floor caused Nathaniel’s heart to race once more
. Whatever it was that had made the noise before now appeared to be coming straight at him, and it was certainly no rat.

  ‘Athrana’s grace,’ Nathaniel muttered, as he tugged against his metal bonds in vain. ‘I’m not dying here! Not in this damned cell!’

  The scrabbling stopped.

  ‘NOW, WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT DYING?’ a deep, rasping voice asked.

  Boomed was perhaps the better word, indeed the stranger’s words seemed to rattle Nathaniel’s bones. So much so, he feared they would suddenly snap, if he uttered another syllable.

  Nathaniel squinted into the darkness but couldn’t make out anything of his own body, let alone his cellmate. Such was the sheer blackness that hung over them.

  ‘You’ve been here this whole time?’ Nathaniel said.

  HMM. THAT’S AN INTRIGUIGING QUESTION,’ the other said thoughtfully. ‘WELL… TECHNICALLY, I’M ALWAYS HERE… OR THERE. BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nathaniel frowned. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘WELL, I SUPPOSE WE HAVE MET – IN A WAY – BEFORE,’ the voice boomed contemplatively. ‘WHY NOT?’

  There was a sound like a heavy tablecloth being pulled from a stone table, then light suddenly bloomed back into Nathaniel’s cell.

  ‘Ozin’s beard!’ Nathaniel recoiled and sprang back against the wall.

  The thing that sat across from him was no man. For a start, it didn’t seem to have any skin and just stared at him through hollow eye sockets, with flames dancing in the recesses.

  Nathaniel stared in disbelief.

  How could this – this thing – see? Indeed, how could it have a conversation with him without ears or, seemingly, a tongue?

  The skeleton caught him glancing around his skull. ‘YEP, I HAVE A SKULL FOR A HEAD,’ he said, mimicking the circular motion Nathaniel was making with his head. ‘AND, I’M AFRAID TO SAY, THE REST OF ME ISN’T A HUGE IMPROVEMENT ON THAT EITHER.’