Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  Then the clatter of hooves and wheels broke her concentration and a moment later a two-seater drew up, and Calabos clambered out. The moment of unease passed and Tashil bent to the task of helping to lift Ondene into the carriage, then climbed up and squeezed in beside him. Back in the driver seat, Calabos took up the reins and flicked the horse into motion. Great clouds of vapour fumed from the animal’s mouth and nostrils as it hauled on the traces.

  “Where are we taking him?” Tashil said. “The Watch-house?”

  Calabos shook his head. “I think it would be better if we made for the townlodge — we should be safe there.”

  Tashi knew that was certainly the case — Calabos’ lodge was build like a fortress. So she sat back in the hard seat as Calabos steered the carriage round to head down the other side of the park, towards the eastern districts of Sejeend.

  * * *

  From a shadowed doorway, a tall, gaunt figure stared at the horse-drawn vehicle as it rattled away from him. The timely intervention of the two mages had saved him the trouble of having to retrieve Ondene from his predicament, yet they struck him as suspicious, especially that powerful older man who at all times had a secretive air about him. The young woman may have been weaker in power but she was still able to perceive his presence, even this far back along the street.

  He sniffed the cold fogginess of the air and was so reminded of sea mist that he smiled. He longed for a return to the Stormclaw’s deck, but he and his companions had been entrusted with the guardianship of Ondene’s mystery by the exalted Prince Agasklin himself, who hinted at mysterious lines from the Book of the Vortex. Thus duty commanded that he follow Ondene’s rescuers and discover their destination, which would not be difficult given their nature.

  Stretching, he rocked his head around to loosen the stiffness in his neck, then set off in trudging pursuit.

  Chapter Three

  From the first crystal morn,

  To the final luckless night,

  He trod a hundred islands,

  And slept in a hundred caves,

  With Time at his back,

  Like a vast, lost country.

  —The Last Shieldring by Ralgar Morth

  Crossing and recrossing the threshold of awareness, Corlek Ondene was harried and hedged in by pain, which slowly faded into the memory of pain. It seemed that he was being taken from place to place in a cart of some kind, then later physically carried. Snatches of conversation slipped through the fitful fog in his mind to disrupt those other recollections that were stubbornly marching to and fro. How his attackers rushed him from all sides before dragging him into the wooded park, how they tied him to a tree and began beating him, and how one said ‘You should never have come back…’

  Then he was aware of lying on something soft and warm amid the dimness of a room bathed in the amber of fire and lamplight. There were another two people there sitting either side of the bed, and sensations cold as coils of ice creeping through his body, coalescing around his aches and hurts….

  And then there was only one person there, her cool and gentle hand stroking his brow, brushing back his hair. In the buttery yellow firelight her features took on the semblance of his mother, her aristocratic sternness softened by a careworn sadness. ‘My son,’ he seemed to hear, ‘My poor, ill-treated son….’ Then the firelight wavered and her features became that of Lyndil, the emperor’s daughter who just smiled at him for a long, sweet moment before the flame-shadows danced across her face, changing it to that of a young woman he did not know…

  But the ebb and flow of wakefulness took her away and after another spell of oblivion he became aware of another presence, a taller, darker figure who stood by the bed, whose irresistable scrutiny he felt as a great pressure upon every fibre of his being. Only when that strange burden eased did he realise that the knots of terrible pain were gone.

  The dark figure’s face was hidden in the dimness of a capacious cowl while, in contrast, firelight glinted brightly on the brass-ornamented sheath of a straight, longsword hanging on the wall behind him. Some old aphorism about becoming the sword’s edge whispered through his mind like a vagrant memory before sleep surged over him, its heavy waves rolling in from a deep ocean of weariness.

  * * *

  Healing the boy Corlek’s wounds in tandem with Tashil had been a satisfying task but by the end of it she was fighting to stay awake. Calabos, while feeling the strain of the work, had deeper reserves of strength to draw on and eventually had to insist that since they had done all that they could she should retire and rest. Yawning, she had finally agreed, bid him goodnight and trudged away to the nearby chamber he’d had set aside for her.

  Leaving Calabos to contemplate Corlek Ondene, last scion of a disgraced and annulled house. As he stood there in darkness by the bed, a brief but perfect recollection came to him, that of a sunny day at the Ondene estate in the company of the Baron and his hawks. A day when a far younger Corlek had come running from the manor, bursting with exultation and eager to show to his father the parchment with seals and ribbons, confirming his new cadetship in the Imperial cavalry.

  “Do you ever recall what I said to you that day?” Calabos murmured to the insensible Corlek. “‘Train hard and you’ll become the edge of the emperor’s sword; survive and learn and you will become the edge of your own sword.’ What have ten years of exile taught you, I wonder?”

  Then, unexpectedly, the man’s eyes fluttered open and looked straight up at him.Yet they held little focus and alertness as their gaze drifted here and there, half-closing, showing the whites as the eyelids trembled for a moment or two before opening again. This time Corlek’s eyes wandered for only a moment before fixing on the longsword hanging on the wall behind Calabos, who frowned, alert to any change in it. But there was nothing, no disturbance in the weapon’s tranquility. Corlek muttered something unintelligible, turned onto his side and fell asleep.

  Sensing that this was a healing slumber, Calabos left the darkened room and climbed the main stairs to the second floor and entered his own chambers. Before long he had disrobed and was pulling heavy, woollen blankets over his head. Clearing his mind, he slowed his breathing then embraced sleep like a swimmer striking out from the shore.

  But his hold on the recesses of his mind was less than perfect this night and cryptic intrusions came in fleeting encounters amid a gloomy, thready fog. Shades of black, silver and grey predominated. Moans of despair, sighs, muted shouts and cries of pain came from all around. Part of Calabos wanted to wake from this unfamiliar dreamstate but curiosity kept him there, observing a succession of grotesque visions — a man with a cat’s head; a number of opaque, wraithlike children floating in midair, swapping their heads and limbs as they danced in a figure-of-eight; a golden-haired woman carrying a torch and pursued by a one-eyed barbarian who caught and killed her, then stripped away her flesh to reveal not bones but knives, swords, arrows, axes, all clotted with gore; a great black bull, its eyes and mouth filled with golden fire which left trails of burning letters in the air as it galloped. The letters were ancient Othazi script, and they spelled out a variety of curses and imprecations.

  Then the slow-swirling tendrils of ashen fog convulsed as if something huge had passed nearby and gaps opened up, revealing faces amid the leaden veil, men and women who stared at Calabos as if in recognition, although he knew none of them. There were expressions of anger and cold contempt and as they all glared at him they began silently mouthing one word, a name, over and over and over….

  Quickly, Calabos broke free of the dream and woke to a cold room made grey by the faint traces of dawn slipping past the edges of the window drapes. He sat up and swung his legs out to rest bare feet on the polished wooden floor, while his thoughts remained filled with the images from his dream.

  Not a good sign, he thought. Not good at all.

  It had been a long, long time since he had experienced a dream so freighted with such disturbing imagery. Clearly he had to discover the meaning of those s
ymbols and there was only one man he could trust with such truths but to visit him would entail a two-hour journey on horseback north to a town amid the Rukang foothills. Shrugging, he rose and dressed in dark, heavy garments suited to travel then left his room and descended to the lodge’s lamplit main hall where two night guards were on duty. He beckoned over one of them, a Kejaner called Gillat, and told him to woke Osig the stable boy and have him saddle the mare for a morning ride. As Gillat hurried off, Calabos donned boots from the hall cupboard then took a patterned riding cloak from several hanging on the wall and flung it about his neck. Fastening it to one side, he paused before a large oval mirror near one of the lamps and studied his reflection for signs of the truth.

  Before him stood a tall, grey-haired man noticeably past his middle years, yet retaining a certain vigour. While the dark-brown doublet and trews were sombre and formal, the calf-length cloak gave him an imposing, dramatic air. But he could not escape the sight of those disembodied heads soundlessly chanting in unison one word, a name that he knew so very well.

  Calabos felt an old dread in the pit of his stomach. In the past, only a few images had slipped by the disciplined barriers he laid across the deep wells of memory, glimpses of snowcovered battlefields, the massed ranks of dark armies, and horrifying carnage. Paradoxically, however, such disturbing dreams could be the first shreds of proof that the influence of the Lord of Twilight had returned to haunt Sejeend.

  There had been other places, other times, other circumstances under which he had come face to face with individuals not corrupted enough to be regarded as an incarnation of that vanquished godhead, yet driven sufficiently mad by its vestigial influence to be considered dangerous. Calabos only needed to look into the eyes to know if a shred of that immeasurably ancient evil had wrapped itself around that person’s spirit.

  300 years of living, he thought. Nearly a dozen lives lived, five score of friends and lovers gathered and discarded, ships sailed along every coast and every city seen and delved, and still I can feel your mark upon my very spirit, a scar so permanent and profound that it can instantly recognise in others the least remnant of you….

  Again, the faces from his dream filled his mind’s eye, pitilessly staring, all mouthing that name again and again….

  Byrnak, Byrnak, Byrnak, Byrnak….

  Calabos closed his eyes as if in pain, gritting his teeth.

  No, that name belonged to another, one who was part puppet and part mask, one who did not survive the death of his god….

  He opened his eyes and stared into their reflection in the mirror and saw a stark and grim resolve.

  Who can tell from where I received the touch of undying? he thought. Perhaps it was the consequence of being a god’s garb or my immersion in the Wellsource, or both. But I’ve had 300 years of living, and worn a dozen faces and a dozen names, and any one of them gave me more self-knowledge and inner strength than that other…no, Byrnak is dead — Calabos lives!

  A side entrance in the lobby opened, letting in morning light, cold air and Osig the stableboy. “Master, your horse awaits you.”

  Calabos nodded, gave Gillat a short message to pass on to Tashil, then followed Osig out to the stable courtyard. The air was cold and a fitful gust shook blossom from the old apple tree in the corner of the yard as Calabos swung up into the saddle of his horse, uttering a grunt of exertion for Osig’s benefit as the stableboy opened the heavy yard gate.

  Moments later, with the gate closed and bolted behind him, he spurred his mount into a trot along a narrow street that led between townhouses and loomshops, heading east before curving north. A while later he came to a pair of immense iron gates bolted into equally-imposing sections of city wall, a crossing point that marked the city of Sejeend’s notional boundary. There were several other gateways around the city, some guarded, others — like this — unguarded and lying open.

  Beyond the road continued with houses and buildings still spreading outwards. As he rode through, Calabos smiled, recalling a time when these gates really had been a barrier to the outside. Sejeend had been so much smaller back then, when Tauric III abandoned the melancholic, half-deserted isle of Besh-Darok and moved the Khatrisian capital here. He frowned, trying to recall the name he had been using at that time...Malban, that was it, who had been a cultivated and laconic swordmaster, tutor to the sons of the nobility and rich merchants alike.

  He remembered the sight of Tauric III’s court flotilla sailing into Sejeend’s wide outer harbour. It had been late in the afternoon on a clear summer’s day, with heat coming off the stones of the city and the setting sun filling half the sky with a spreading display of roseate clouds shot through with fiery orange. Flying hundreds of flags and driven by banks of oars, the massive Imperial barge had led the stately procession of noble ships and wallowing cargo galleys over-laden with all the treasure and chattels of the palace at Besh-Darok. He had observed it all from the protruding balcony of a cliff-edge tavern called the Brinksman which had once afforded a magnificent view of the estuary and the surrounding lands. From that vantage, the court flotilla with its warship escorts on either flank had resembled a huge jewelled regalia converging on Sejeend.

  Calabos laughed quietly as he rode — the Brinksman had not lasted long after that, demolished to make way for the gardens and walkways of the grounds of the new palace, which was only half-complete at that time.

  I almost wish I’d bought the place, he thought. Then dismantled it and put it back together further along the cliff. Perhaps I will rebuild it, when the years have wound well past this year….

  The town was called Hekanseh and it nestled among the verdant, wooded foothills south of the Rukang mountains. Like many other towns north of Sejeend or west along the banks of Gronanvel, Hekanseh was a former village which had expanded in the prosperous stability of the last 100 years or so. Unlike them, however, it was host to a House of Seclusion, one of several scattered around the empire. Houses of Seclusion were founded and administered by the Healer subchapter of the Earthmother order as refuges for the care and study of the sick in mind. It was Hekanseh’s own House of Seclusion which was his destination, and one of its residents his intended advisor.

  Calabos avoided the town’s main road and square, choosing instead a narrow track which skirted the western edge of Hekanseh. Passing several small orchards and a watermill, he came to a gravelled road which sloped up a hillside, and turned along a bushy gulley between tall trees. Before long the road levelled off as he emerged from the trees to see a small, weatherbeaten mansion from whose squat belltower the Healer’s banner hung. Wallthorn and dogivy had grown wild across the frontage, partially obscuring some of the tall, decorative windows and providing a fringe of foliage for the wide archway through which he steered his mount.

  Coming to a halt in a small enclosed courtyard, he dismounted just as a young Healer novitiate in the green livery of the chapter came forward to take charge of his horse. Behind him approached one of the senior brothers who carried a long plain walking staff, swinging forward in time with his gait.

  “Welcome, ser Calabos,” the Healer monk said impassively. “We were not expecting you for another week or more.”

  Calabos maintained an amiable demeanour despite the man’s coldness. This was Niloc, the most important monk at the House, after Bishop Daguval.

  “Well, good brother Niloc,” he said airily. “Having gone for a ride beyond my usual daily round in a wander which brought me close to splendid Hekanseh, I thought to derive some virtue from the day by visiting my pour cousin. How is he, pray tell?”

  For all Niloc’s skill at concealing his disdain, it was clearly visible to Calabos’ eyes. It was a guilty pleasure this, prodding the man’s prejudice by playing the city-bred fool yet it was also a necessary one.

  “He has apparently displayed considerable lucidity these past few days,” Niloc said. “But you will have to ask the Bishop — ”

  “Could it be the diet you’re feeding him?” Calabos sai
d. “Or perhaps it’s the water, eh?”

  Calabos could almost sense the acid remark rising to Brother Niloc’s lips but it was forestalled by the appearance of the Bishop at an open door in the corner of the small courtyard. Bishop Daguval was a short, balding man with a large presence, and a strength of character that showed in his features. The slight dishevellment of his green robes seemed to emphasise his personality.

  “Ah, good Calabos!” he cried. “An unexpected pleasure is it to welcome you to the House this day … thank you, Brother Niloc, for greeting our friend. I think that I should take charge of this fellow now.”

  Niloc gave a small bow of the head. “As you wish, your worship.” Then with a cool nod to Calabos he stepped through the door and was gone.

  The Bishop shook his head and with a forefinger tapped Calabos lightly on the chest. “One of these days you’ll overplay that buffoonery and Niloc will become less than courteous…”

  Calabos gave a wry laugh as they entered the building. “I doubt that he gives me any serious consideration,” he said. “But I take your meaning.”

  Inside, a long, tall corridor led in either direction, dimly lit by small, round windows set high on the walls. Calabos paused to look directly at the bishop.

  “How is he?”

  A sombreness came over Daguval like a garment he was well used to wearing. Calabos had a high regard for the man’s intellect and compassion and knew that there would be no evasions and no soothing nonsense.

  “For the last week and a half he has been surprisingly lucid,” the bishop said. “Possibly his longest period of unbroken sanity since you brought him to us….until last night.”

  Calabos’ heart sank and recollections of his dream flickered in his minds eye for a moment. “He took leave of his sense once more?”

  Bishop Daguval nodded sadly and led Calabos to a nearby archway beyond which rough stone steps wound upwards.

  “But there is an odd libration to his inconstancy of mind, as if his sanity is a pendulum that swings to and fro between the light and the dark but according to unknown principles,” the bishop said as he ascended the stairs ahead of Calabos. “I’m afraid he’s gone back to carving.”