by Sam Bowring
Corlas stared hard at the darkness. Had it been Iassia? These lands were full of coloured birds, and why would Iassia sit watching him from the shadows? Why would any bird, for that matter?
From the trees came a fluttering and the bird broke free. ‘Corlas!’ he called. It was Iassia. ‘I’ve been waiting, to help you escape!’ The bird landed on the ground before him, just beyond the invisible threshold of the ward stone. ‘Come!’ he urged anxiously. ‘We must be swift if we’re to evade your pursuers!’
‘Why were you watching us from the trees?’ said Corlas. ‘It seemed you didn’t wish to be seen.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the bird in surprise. ‘No! I was waiting for you.’
Still Corlas could not help but feel that Iassia had only flown out of the trees because he’d been seen. Why did he feel that? The bird’s behaviour was suspicious, but this was his friend, wasn’t it?
‘I didn’t think you were going to meet me,’ Corlas said. ‘It has been months since we parted ways.’
Iassia hopped about impatiently. ‘We must hurry, Corlas!’ he twittered. ‘There are pursuers not far behind. All can be explained, but let us be away from here first.’
As Corlas watched the bird hop and twitter, he noticed something peculiar. It moved about frantically, yet it did not approach him. His eyes flicked to the ward stone between them – one link in an invisible chain keeping out the shadow. As his gaze moved from the stone back to Iassia, he found that the bird was staring at him silently.
‘Why don’t you fly up onto my shoulder here,’ Corlas said, ‘and say hello to my son?’
Iassia did not move.
‘Shadow,’ breathed Corlas.
Iassia chirped softly in amusement.
‘But you …you helped me.’
‘My enemy’s enemy,’ said the bird, ‘is my friend.’ He cocked his head. ‘You haven’t any allies in the Halls, Corlas. Come with me and we’ll escape together. The Shadowdreamer doesn’t care what happens to the boy, as long as Kainordas cannot set him against us. You can return to Whisperwood and hide, away from the light’s clutches. Come, let us away!’
Corlas’s brow darkened. ‘Do you suppose that I still trust your words, little bird?’
Iassia fluffed his feathers in anger. Moments passed with neither moving. Then Iassia spoke with a menace in his voice that Corlas had not heard before. ‘So be it then. You think you are no longer of the light, but it is they whom you choose. And you can thank your Arkus that I cannot invoke my bargain through this barrier …but if you stray, Corlas. If you stray …’
The bird took off, a silent dart back to the trees. Corlas gazed after it, a lump of ice in his stomach. It seemed the shadow still hunted his boy, and he’d almost delivered Bel into their hands. What ‘favour’ would the bird have invoked from him? Deliver his son to Battu? Kill him right here? It could have been anything. And now he was trapped in the Open Halls.
He looked at the boy and the boy looked back, smiling and aware. He did not seem like a normal baby, that was true. Could he really be the child of power? Everyone seemed so bent on possessing him. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Halls, perhaps Bel would indeed have been taken to Fenvarrow. Confused as his allegiances were, Corlas wouldn’t have wished that. Perhaps he did still prefer his homeland, despite everything. The lesser evil.
He lost track of time standing there on the cusp of the wards, wondering what to do. His boy chuckled cheerfully as Corlas stroked his head. Everything else seemed to fade away, and tears pricked the back of his eyes. They were together, that was the most important thing.
‘Taskmaster Corlas.’
The voice made him start. Fahren had come, though no others were with him. They were alone in the moonlit countryside, facing each other.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Fahren said angrily. ‘Why have you stolen this boy from my chamber?’
‘Stolen?’ Corlas laughed bitterly. ‘That is a very bold word for the likes of you, child-taker.’
Fahren’s anger flickered, to be replaced by confusion …and, finally, realisation. ‘By Arkus!’ he murmured. ‘You’re Bel’s father.’
‘I have not decided,’ said Corlas darkly, ‘if that is to be his name.’
Fahren looked out into the night. ‘Where were you taking him?’
‘Home.’
‘Yet I’ve observed you standing here for some time, Taskmaster. What has delayed you?’
Corlas tried to speak about the bird, but the words would not form in his mouth. That part of the contract held fast, it seemed. Instead he said, ‘I grew worried for his safety beyond the wards. I did not believe until tonight that he might really be the child of the prophecy. But now …’
His heart sank as he realised he truly did believe it. What kind of life would that make for his son?
‘Corlas,’ said Fahren softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I think you and I should go back into the Halls and have a long talk.’
Twelve
A Name in the Ice
Heron shuffled out of the throne room into the corridor, the hem of her tatty grey skirt dragging behind her. Papery pale and pockmarked skin stretched over her creaking bones, and her flesh sagged in wrinkled bags. Her long grey hair ran in a ponytail down to the small of her back, when she wasn’t clutching it to her chest and running her fingers through it. She was old now, very tired, and sometimes she went up to the higher balconies encircling the bulbous head of Skygrip to think about stepping off. She never had the courage, and there was always the possibility she’d be caught by a Graka patrol before she hit the bottom. Battu would not have been pleased.
All she’d wanted was to retire into a dark hole and drink herself to death. Instead the Shadowdreamer had forced her back to service. Now all she drank was what she could pilfer from the kitchens. The Golgoleth Ghost at the front entrance wouldn’t let her leave the castle, and all other exits were guarded too. In her younger days escape would have been easier. Now she couldn’t even escape sobriety.
It had been a horrible day when she’d woken up back in Skygrip, six years ago now. Her head pounding, her eye red-rimmed, she had stared about the bed chamber without memory of how she’d come there. To her dismay she could find no bottle to quell her cramps and shaking limbs. Curled into a wretched ball, soaking the sheets cold with sweat, she had lain in a disoriented haze for what seemed like hours. Eventually she’d managed to summon enough of her once formidable power to soothe the aching, and sat up woozily on the bed. She had stumbled to the door, only to find it locked.
Some time later the door had opened. Two female Grey Goblins had entered, carrying jugs of water which they emptied into a rusted bath in the corner. They had ‘helped’ Heron into the water, informing her that the First Slave wanted her clean before she was taken before Battu. Neither of them had answers to her questions. They’d left her feeling clean outside and rotten within, like an apple with a maggot in its heart. They didn’t lock the door behind them, but it had seemed best to stay put. Tyrellan arrived and told her what was expected of her. He made her drink soup, and she’d managed to keep it down. The whole ordeal had been so terrible and foggy that she’d barely noticed the butterfly flapping around the room, and following Tyrellan as he led her to Battu.
The dark lord had been irritated to find her so reduced. Her once formidable power had been disused for years and her mind was still half-pickled. Battu had given her a week to sharpen up, not specifying what would happen if she failed. She thought she could guess. Tyrellan had watched her closely during that week. She had no access to drink, but he forced her to eat and walk. Her power grew again, more quickly than she would have believed. When she next came before Battu, she was more like the tutor he remembered from his youth. He had taken her to see the child she was to watch over and, eventually, teach. She’d been given chambers adjoining the boy’s, and warned not to die from old age, else Battu would be forced to bring her back. If she was to escape him in deat
h, her body would need to be destroyed beyond recognition, but she feared to fall, or burn in flames, and so she served.
As she retreated from the throne room, dead Shadowdreamers stared at her from their shadowy alcoves. She knew their faces well – not only had she passed them many times in her younger days, now her slow trudge gave her time to study them whenever she passed. There was Rassid, a strong-jawed Arabodedas, a great leader by history’s account. Nim’rahl, a Black Goblin, her stone hair spilling from the pedestal down to the floor, who had presided over the genocide of the Green Goblins. Wide-eyed Timma, the trickster, who had caused an internal war in Kainordas through an elaborate deception. Skench the Builder, one of the few Graka Shadowdreamers, who had earned a reputation for fairness to all races, funding developments in each major city without prejudice. Telnuwind, a beautiful Arabodedas who had loved her land and whose people had loved her. And on, and more. Despite what they had in common, each was different from the last.
Heron wondered why she’d bothered to be nervous about approaching Battu. She had requested to speak to him about the boy, who had been asking to be told the story of his parents. Battu had displayed the same lack of interest he always did. She remembered well the only other time she’d approached him uninvited to discuss the child.
•
She had entered the throne room to find Battu standing with his back to the long window, talking to Tyrellan. Their gazes had turned to her as she approached.
‘Yes?’ Battu said without preamble.
‘Lord Battu,’ she’d said, bowing. ‘I come concerning the boy.’
‘Yes, yes, Turry said. What is it?’
Heron raised her head. ‘I feel it is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to consider his name. Not knowing whether my lord had something in mind, I come seeking his wishes.’
Battu blinked. ‘A name?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose he should have one.’
Tyrellan had shifted his stance, clawed hands disappearing behind his back. ‘An important matter,’ he said. ‘It is a name the whole world will soon know.’
‘Yes,’ said Battu. ‘It must be something befitting.’ He’d seemed to brighten and, in a voice that was almost jolly, said, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Heron. It will give you a diversion as you while away the hours. Let me know what you come up with and we shall see if I approve. You may go.’
Heron had wondered why she was surprised. ‘As you say, my lord.’
She thought she saw Tyrellan glancing sideways at his master, though it was hard to tell with his black eyes. Still, it wasn’t unexpected when he caught up with her in the corridor. She’d noticed that the First Slave took a very personal interest in the raising of the child.
‘I take it my lord Tyrellan does not share his master’s indifference to the naming of the boy?’ she said, not turning to face him.
‘Bite your tongue or I will bite it for you,’ Tyrellan said. ‘The Shadowdreamer does not tolerate such bold words.’
‘And what if he did hear? He’s already made it known that death is not an escape for me. And any other punishment he might inflict on this old body would be as good as death.’
‘You are not as stupid as you sound,’ said Tyrellan. ‘There are many forms of punishment as you well know – why else do you linger here?’
Heron hoped she’d stopped shock from registering on her face.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tyrellan went on, reaching out a claw to scrape some lichen from the wall. ‘Don’t think I cannot see what is in your heart. You would escape that way, if you could. But to escape the Shadowdreamer in death, you must destroy your body beyond hope of being raised again. You would shatter it, then, from the parapets of Skygrip? Or maybe burn it? But you fear that, don’t you? Fear the fall. Fear the pain of fire. You have no courage beyond a deadly herb brewed in a cup, a peaceful descent into sleep. Such an end would leave your body intact though, would it not?’
Heron returned his flat stare. ‘It would. But there are other ways, Tyrellan. What makes you think I cannot fashion a spell for myself? Fire in the belly, as it were. An explosion from within, instant and painless, with nothing left behind but dust. Do you imagine that is beyond me?’
Tyrellan bared his fangs in a humourless smile. ‘Then perhaps you are wiser than I take you for and know that the Dark Gods do not take kindly to those who return to them without fulfilling their obligations in life. If this boy has been born to carry out their will, they will be watching closely. Such knowledge will bind you to your purpose more strongly than any threat of Battu’s. Otherwise you need the courage to face not only death, but what comes after, and you do not have either. You may return to the balconies freely, Heron, and continue to romanticise your own demise. I’m glad we had this talk. I will not fear for you any more.’
Beneath her anger, Heron felt sick.
They had arrived at the boy’s chamber. It was large and circular, cut through with shafts of dim light from holes in the roof high above. Its lumpy stone walls were clear of adornment, besides a large iceplace in which glowed a slowly melting block. In the centre of the room stood a wooden cot, to which Heron and Tyrellan walked.
‘His name,’ said Tyrellan, looking down on the boy, ‘is not something to be shrugged off lightly.’
Heron caught something in the goblin’s gaze. Was it …? No, impossible. Tyrellan was not fond of anything.
‘What do you suggest?’ she said.
It surprised her that he actually had some ideas. He muttered them as if self-conscious, and after a while she began to offer her own suggestions. He listened, seeming to test the weight of each one in his mind. Soon they were throwing names back and forth across the crib like some parody of parents.
A resounding crack echoed through the chamber, making them both start. The glow from the iceplace became brighter, blue light dancing across the walls. They turned to stare as fine threads of dark blue energy coalesced within the block, concentrating within the hairline split that had appeared through its centre. The threads twisted to form letters, electric and alive, and brief. The crack grew and the ice fell apart, letters gone.
‘The gods,’ Tyrellan had murmured in wonderment, ‘take an interest.’
Suddenly Heron felt the cold touch of steel at her throat. ‘You will not tell Battu of this!’ Tyrellan hissed through pointed fangs, a strange gleam in his eyes. ‘You tell him the name, but not its origin. Do you understand? You will never speak of this to anyone!’
‘As you say, First Slave!’ she’d choked, confused. What did Tyrellan fear? Would not Battu be pleased?
Tyrellan had pushed her away, giving her a hard look as though making up his mind whether or not to end her right then.
‘I will not need the courage to jump from a high balcony if I have a dagger through my throat,’ she muttered.
He’d scowled and left the room.
Heron had gripped the side of the cot to steady herself and looked down upon the baby.
Losara.
•
Heron entered Losara’s chamber. It held an old cupboard full of knotholes, a low flat bed in the centre, a table at which Heron and Losara ate their meals in high-backed chairs, a board of slate against a wall where Heron drew with chalk when she taught him, and ice glowing in the iceplace. The few small oddments Losara had found for himself barely made an impression in the space.
It took her a moment to spot the boy. He was sitting half-submerged in the shadows that ringed the edges of the room. Naked and cross-legged with his back to her, he was sliding his hands along the stone floor. She raised a hand to her mouth when she realised that, as he withdrew his hands, the shadow came too, like melted toffee sticking to his fingers. Losara cocked his head to watch as it drained back through his fingers, though some flecks remained trapped under his fingernails. She had already guessed he had an affinity with shadows, but this, at such an early age?
The boy turned, regarding her with large, dark eyes.
‘Hello, Losara,’ she s
aid.
Without speaking, he got up and padded over to the bed, spots of shadow shaking free of him to fly back to the edges of the room. He climbed up and sat, watching her, then patted the bed next to him. She smiled; despite his being the cause of her internment, she had grown fond of the boy. She sat, and he reached out to touch her hand.
A quiet child, he was strangely affectionate towards her – and, she had realised with some surprise, towards Tyrellan – whether it was a soft touch in greeting, or the gift of some small thing he’d found, or the look of acceptance in his beautiful ivory face. Although he rarely smiled, his face was full of expression: curiosity, compassion, sometimes something unrecognisable. His brown eyes had become almost as dark as the black of his pupils, and when he looked out from under his silky blue fringe, it was a gaze that seemed both full of depth and capable of seeing depth in what it looked upon. In a world of misery, he was the one thing that brought her comfort.
‘What were you doing there?’ she asked.
‘Playing,’ said Losara. He waggled his fingers at her.
‘How long have you been able to do that?’
Losara looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense. ‘Where are my mother and father?’ he asked instead, just as he had done that morning. Then he added, in a very un-childlike manner, ‘I’ll learn nothing else till I learn of this.’
She was taken aback by the command in his voice, and glad Battu had given her leave to tell him. She began to recount the story of his birth, on a stormy night six years past. She told it as best she could, not leaving out anything to do with the prophecy. When she finished, she expected questions, but the boy seemed to take the tale of his origins with calm acceptance. He stared into the distance with a thoughtful expression.
‘Losara?’ she said. ‘Do you understand what I’ve told you?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘What are you thinking about?’
