The gate clanged into place as the walking dead stumbled out of their crypt, clearly visible by the hellish flames that consumed them with each step. With fingers that shook, Tristan inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The key glowed as the lock clicked into place.
Tristan stared, panting, a few inches away from the burning corpses. They moaned their agony and anger, reaching skeletal hands through the iron bars toward his throat. Safe from their vengeance, Tristan watched them for a long moment. “Rest in peace, you bastards,” he muttered.
He mounted Kal and galloped backed toward Kantora, leaving behind the wailing, shuffling Figures of the violated kings.
When no answers came to his letters, Sigfrid decided to go and investigate. As he rode up in the late evening, he sighed. He dreaded going to Faerhaaven these days, as much as he used to look forward to it. Tristan was seldom at home, and when he was, he was poor company. The new staff he had hired over the last few weeks was distinctly hostile, and Sigfrid was horrified to learn that loyal old Guillaume had recently been dismissed.
“When?”
The old woman who met him at the door shrugged. Her eyes were hooded, furtive. “This morning. Master’s not here. Y’just missed ’im.”
Sigfrid shook his head. He was becoming fearful for his friend’s safety. As the woman was about to close the door on him, Sigfrid stopped her, drawing a ring of keys from a hook on his belt. “Sir Tristan asked me to keep an eye on Faerhaaven.” It wasn’t an outright lie; Tristan had given him a set of keys to the old estate should anything happen to him.
The woman glanced cursorily at the keys, then nodded and opened the large wooden door to the hall. Filled with relief, Sigfrid entered. He had no plan, only to be here when Tristan returned from whatever foray he was on. He wandered aimlessly about, encountering dark looks from the men and women who were now staffing Faerhaaven. What on earth had possessed Tristan to let the older servants go?
There were more differences in the fine old castle than simply the cast of players. Faerhaaven had suffered from Tristan’s lack of attention. The rooms not in frequent use had been permitted to bear layers of dust and cobwebs. Even in areas such as the dining room and receiving room, the lack of care was felt. Silver and brass utensils and works of art were tarnished, and some had gone missing. The place felt—abandoned. Abandoned, but not quite empty.
Sigfrid made his way up to the Royal Suites, unlocking doors and peering into various rooms. He went to the window in one of the closed-up guest suites and looked out. Though the moon was new, the stars this far away from the smoke of the city provided ample illumination for him to see the family cemetery. He gave it a quick glance, then his gaze lingered. It took a moment before he realized what was wrong about the scene, eerily lit by starlight. Digging implements were strewn about, and there was a grave whose dirt was darker than that of its fellows.
This grave was fresh.
Neither Tristan nor any of the servants had said anything about a death to Sigfrid. He had enough presence of mind to take a lamp with him as he hastened down the endless stairs and through the castle. Running toward the cemetery, his heart pounding with apprehension as well as physical exertion, Sigfrid told himself that he was being too easily spooked, that it wasn’t Tristan, murdered, lying there; that it was a distant relative, or a servant who had broken his neck on the stairs, who now slept in the newly dug, herb-covered grave.
There was no fence around the cemetery. The herbs kept the plains cats from digging up the bodies. As for human scavengers, well, that was what Tristan kept soldiers for. Sigfrid ran straight for the new grave and fell to his knees.
A small stone with carved letters was mounted on the grave, its writing hidden by the long tendrils of thyme. His heart pounding, Sigfrid brushed them aside and read:
HERE LIES IVAAR HIREGAARD,
A VICTIM OF HIS OWN IDEALS.
“Ivaar!” Sigfrid breathed, shocked. He sank back on his heels. How long had he been dead? Not more than a day, judging by the relative freshness of the earth and the carelessly scattered shovel and pick. Why hadn’t Tristan told him?
Feeling suddenly very old, Sigfrid rose slowly, brushing off the dirt from his breeches and turning again toward Faerhaaven. He had not originally intended to violate Tristan’s confidences, but discovering Ivaar’s grave gave his task new urgency.
Upon entering Tristan’s private suite, Sigfrid found nothing amiss at first. The room was clean, the bed well made. The open window let in fresh air. Then he saw the picture. Tristan had mangled the painting of his beloved Ailsa, and there was dried blood on the canvas. “Oh, no. Oh, Tris,” mourned Sigfrid, staring at the portrait with sorrowful horror.
He glanced down at the ring of keys he held, suddenly realizing he was clutching them so hard that his hand ached. He knew where he had to go next. Praying that his trespass into the sorcery chamber would vindicate his friend, Sigfrid unsteadily ascended the stairs into the Master’s Tower.
Sigfrid inserted the key, then hesitated. Right now he had a jumbled, scarlet-colored confusion of suspicions. Did he really want to know what secrets lay behind that door?
Yes, he decided. If Tristan was in trouble, if he had gotten himself wrapped up with the killer, as Sigfrid suspected, he would need a friend who still loved him. No matter what Tristan had done, Sigfrid would try his best to help him. Thus renewing his strength of purpose, Sigfrid spoke the word of power that negated the magic ward on the door and turned the key in the lock.
The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door. Sigfrid gagged slightly and covered his nose for a moment, then forced himself to breathe deeply to accustom himself to the stench. He took the torch from the hallway and brought it into the room, lighting the candles with it. As he did so, he glanced around, fearful. At first, the place seemed well ordered despite the smell; there was no chaos here. Sigfrid permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He closed the door behind him and locked it. It was then, as he turned around for a second look at the room where Tristan spent most of his time, that he saw the entrails.
His brown eyes grew wide. This was what was giving off the scent of rot—the entrails of some small animal. They were placed on a silver tray on the table in the center of the room, and sprinkled with what seemed to be dirt.
“Tristan,” he whispered, “what are you doing?” He looked at the open jar next to the rotting guts and read in Tristan’s careful script: Dirt from Ivaar’s grave. He walked slowly around the table, noting that there were various jars of dried herbs laid out. One, marked Nepata, whatever that was, was open and almost empty. A cup sat nearby, crusted with the remains of what had obviously been a very strong concoction. Sigfrid picked it up and sniffed. The scent made his eyes water. Whatever this potion had been, Tristan had been taking a lot of it in very strong doses. Tristan’s cane was also on the table, and its brass head was stained with what seemed to be dried blood.
Sigfrid had fought and killed before. He was no stranger to blood or death. But this calculated perversity that now spread itself before him touched a deep-seated fear that he quelled with difficulty.
A book was on the table, spattered with ink from a quill that lay near it. Sigfrid picked it up, seated himself, and began to read, hoping against hope this would give him some information to vindicate his friend. But when Sigfrid touched the book, it fell open to an entry that, like the portrait in Tristan’s room, was stained with crusted blood. Sigfrid read with growing revulsion: HE HAZ HIS MUTHERS FACE, EH TRIS?
It was not Tristan’s neat, precise hand. This was a violent scrawl. Sigfrid, sick, recognized it. He had seen that handwriting in blood before—on the wall of a brothel where the signature killer had struck and fled moments before Sigfrid had arrived. That single word, “SUPPRIZE!” had been burned into his memory. Had the killer been here and murdered Tristan? Could one of the servants be the man he and Tristan sought?
He flipped back to the beginning entry. Today I bury my friend Kethmaar.…
> While the candles he had lit burned low, Sigfrid read on. He followed the events of the last month and a half, from Kethmaar’s death through that of young Amasa, from the appearance of the signature killer through Tristan’s suspicions of his own son. One entry brought him up short.
Could there be someone who is not altogether on our side? The Vistana warned me of a traitor.… Perhaps, horrible though it is for me to think it, the killer is indeed my son. Or perhaps—and what gods there be forgive me—but perhaps the traitor is the other one who knows when the traps are being laid.…
“Tris,” Sigfrid moaned, wounded to the heart. “How could you doubt me?”
He read on, hungry and yet fearful at what he would discover. Tristan had convinced himself there was a being—I dare not call him a man—called Malken the Cat, and had come to the conclusion that Malken and I are, for want of a better word, linked in some bizarre fashion. The crimes, according to the journal, increased, even though Malken knew Tristan was aware of him.
Sigfrid was jolted when Tristan’s hand gave way abruptly to the vicious scrawl that had appeared on the wall of the dead prostitute’s room. He looked closer at the erratic writing that, at first glance, had borne absolutely no resemblance to Tristan’s small, careful script. Now Sigfrid, looking at this maniacal writing for the third time, compared the two hands. He swallowed hard. The killer’s hand—for so Sigfrid believed it to be—was really nothing more than an exaggeration of Tristan’s. The letters were less careful, more haphazard, and differently sloped. Clearly, though, both entries had been penned by the same hand.
Tristan hadn’t been killed or blackmailed by the signature murderer. He was the signature murderer. Unable to bear it, his mind had concocted a story that Tristan obviously believed, about the mysterious Malken and his realm of treachery. Sigfrid now thought he knew why Osric Laars had insisted that they stop the hunt for the killer. Somehow, Laars knew what was going on and, out of love for Tristan, didn’t want anyone else to discover the terrible secret. Sigfrid closed his eyes in pain for a moment, as if he were mourning one already dead. Then he continued.
He read Tristan’s interpretation of the Vistana Tarokka reading and shook his head. How could Tristan have missed the obvious? He read of Tristan’s awakening in the room with the dead girl—“Of course you woke up with her, you killed her,” said Sigfrid, unaware that he had spoken aloud—read of his obsession, of the appearance of Ivaar’s body.
Knowing what I do now, I am hopeful I will be able to raise enough power to trespass into Malken’s plane of existence—the cursed mirror. There, where we can be two separate entities, I will be able to fight and destroy him.
“Sigfrid! What are you doing here?”
Tristan’s voice was tired, tremulous, and yet full of blazing anger. Sigfrid was startled, but he did not flinch guiltily. Instead, he slowly raised his curly red head from the book and met Tristan’s bloodshot gaze. Tristan’s eyes fell to the journal in Sigfrid’s lap.
“You—know, then?” he whispered softly.
Sig nodded, slowly, cautiously. “Yes, I know. I know everything. And I want to help you.”
In his relief, Tristan didn’t notice the wary caution in Sigfrid’s posture. On the table, Tristan set down the sack he’d been carrying.
It was as he removed his cloak and dropped it carelessly to the floor that Sigfrid saw burns on his friend’s hands. “What happened to you?””
Grimacing, Tristan went to one of the towering shelves and perused its contents. Selecting a jar, he turned around as he tried to open it with his burned fingers. Sigfrid leapt to his feet to assist his friend. Tristan accepted the opened jar, scooping out a greasy gray ointment and rubbing it into the burns. “I’m sorry I doubted you, but if you’ve read that journal—”
“You doubted everyone, Tris; I understand why.”
Tristan smiled, and for a moment, he seemed like his old self to his heartbroken comrade. “I’m actually glad this happened. Now that I know I can trust you, and you understand how desperate the situation is, you can help me.”
With a coolness that chilled Sigfrid’s blood, Tristan upended the sack and shook out a pair of human hands. The hands bounced on the hard wood and came to rest, the fingers rigid and reaching for the ceiling like an insect turned on its back. Rings glittered on the stiffened digits, and Sigfrid’s horror deepened as he realized to whom those hands had once belonged.
“It’s a bit grisly, but you know the saying—the hands of a king are the hands of a healer. That’s where I’ve been tonight.” Tristan fixed his friend with a piercing gaze. “Malken is slowly killing the land. I need to raise enough power to confront him, and the hands of Kethmaar will help me.” He frowned at the expression of shock on Sigfrid’s face. “Still squeamish? Can’t you see what I’m trying to do?”
“I see that you’re ill,” replied Sigfrid, choosing his words with care. “I see what you think is going on, and I want to help you stop it.”
“So it was you,” breathed Tristan, for the moment too shocked to be angry. “You are the Traitor!”
“No, Tris, I’m your friend, and I want to help you!” He hesitated. “You said in that journal that you and Malken were linked.” Tristan nodded. “Do you remember when—he takes over?”
“No. I have no memory of what he makes my body do. Do you think I’d condone these murders? What kind of a bastard—”
“And that tea,” continued Sigfrid, pointing desperately. “How much of it do you drink? What does it do?”
“I drink as much as I can hold, all the time,” Tristan replied. “I’m low on a certain herb, and I need to get more right away. The tea keeps Malken from knowing my thoughts.”
“Good, that’s good,” said Sigfrid. “Listen to me for a few moments.” He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “There is no Malken. He’s not some monster that’s taken you over; he’s a part of your mind. Malken is you when you—the Tristan I know—isn’t there.”
“You think I’m mad.” The knight’s voice was calm, but Sigfrid didn’t miss the undercurrent of anger beneath the cool tone.
“Let’s just look at what’s been happening. You’re taking all kinds of herbs that have who knows what kind of effect on your mind. You see ghosts. You’re robbing the graves of your son and your best friend—”
“I needed Kethmaar’s hands for the spell!” cried Tristan.
“You may have killed your own son!” Sigfrid cried. A muscle in Sig’s jaw tightened. “I believe you when you say you didn’t know what you were doing when you killed those women. But you’ve got to stop, and I’m going to help you. You’re—you’re the closest thing to family I’ve got. I don’t want you to hang, especially when you weren’t truly responsible. Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not going to throw you to the cats.” He smiled, a kind of trembling, lopsided smile. “Now,” he said, collecting himself, “you stay here. I’ll get that herb—nepata, wasn’t it?—in town for you.”
“Then—you don’t think I’m mad?”
Sigfrid hesitated, answering carefully. “From what you say, and I believe you on this, there’s something in that brew of yours that works. We need to find out more about it and keep you safe when—you change. I’ll bring Hadwinsson. He knows a lot about herbalism. He’ll help us, I’m sure.”
Sigfrid turned to leave. He placed his hand on the door.
“No, he’s involved with Malken too! They all are!” Tristan could hear his voice rising with tension. Sweat started under his arms. “That’s just what they’d want, to have me—Tristan—locked away so they and Malken can control everything! Do you know what kind of a hellhole Malken will turn this country into?” His voice broke on the last word.
Now Sigfrid turned to face him, and there was a sorrowful pity on his open face. “What happened to your respect for the law? To the protection of innocents? There’s a traitor here, all right, but it’s not me. It’s you. Don’t you understand? This is all in your mind! There’s nothing wrong except th
at you’re ill, Tris.” He paused, then added, “I know you think I’m turning against you right now, but one day you’ll understand. I’ll help you get through this. I promise.”
He turned away from Tristan and took out his keys, preparing to unlock the door.
“Sig—don’t.”
Determinedly, Sigfrid inserted the key in the lock. “This is the only way. Just stay here and I’ll be back soon. You don’t have to fight this battle alone anymore.”
“Do not walk out that door, Captain Skolsson.” Tristan’s voice was hard, steely, the voice of command.
Sigfrid swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t hear that order.”
“I’m the only one who can stop Malken! You can’t keep me locked up! Please, Sig!”
Now the voice was openly pleading. Sigfrid had never heard Tristan beg for anything in his life, and it almost broke his will. Then he thought of the bodies of the dead girls, and how he now had the chance to stop that and restore his friend’s mind. There was no choice. He turned the key and placed his hand on the knob.
Tristan panicked. He was the only one who truly understood the diabolical depths of Malken’s malevolence, was the only one who had a prayer of stopping him. He reached out blindly, grasping for something, anything, to delay Sigfrid’s departure. His left hand closed on his cane.
In utter silence, Tristan fell upon his friend. With a muffled crunching sound, one strong blow landed on the back of Sigfrid’s head. The young man crumpled without a word of protest. Now, at least, Tristan thought to himself, he had bought some time. He reached down to pick up Sigfrid. He could place him in a corner, tie him up, and when he awoke—But as he looked at his friend’s still form, Tristan knew with an icy certainty that Sigfrid would never awaken. There was too much blood, too much shattered bone, too much—too much. “Sig?” he said, stupidly.
The Enemy Within Page 27
