Sea Dragon Heir

by Storm Constantine

  THAT EVENING, VARENCIENNE’S EXCURSION to Old Caradore with Merlan was treated with what she felt was an undue amount of comment and excitement. Niska appeared to think she was being very daring, while Ligrana couldn’t resist the odd sniping remark, clearly believing Varencienne just wanted to impress her brother. Everna, predictably, advised against it, backed up by Oltefney. “There’s nothing good left there,” Evema said. “It should be left to lie.” “My family destroyed it,” Varencienne replied. “Don’t you think I should consider it my duty to see what they did?” “You have expended considerable effort convincing us you have separated yourself from your family,” Everna said waspishly. “If that is the case, you should shun the place as we do. Also, it may be dangerous.” Varencienne cast a glance at Merlan. “I’m sure I will be well looked after.” “Valraven would not like it,” Everna said. “Valraven is not here, and he need never know.” Varencienne stretched in her chair. “It will be an adventure.” “Too much of one,” said Everna. “You’d be hard-pressed to ride there and back in a day.” “Perhaps we could stay overnight.” Oltefney expelled a disgusted snort. “Is this really the pampered young princess of the Magrastian court speaking? Only a couple of years ago, you could barely dress yourself. Now, you are thinking of camping rough in a ruin.” Pharinet was grinning now, having clearly got over her earlier reaction. “Oh, I think Ren will be fine,” she said. “She has a belief in herself that creates an aura of safety.” “I assure you she will be in safe hands,” said Merlan. “I am responsible for my own safety,” Varencienne retorted. Merlan raised an eyebrow at her. “Should we encounter wolves or vagabonds, I will watch with interest as you deal with the situation.” Varencienne found it uncomfortable to meet his glance. In the firelight, he looked more like his older brother than ever. “Is that likely?” He shrugged. “Probably not, actually. As in all good legends, Old Caradore is a lonely, empty place. It is said both animals and humans avoid it, and no birds sing.” “But of course. I would expect nothing less.” The tension between them intrigued and excited her. Everna muscled in on their exchange. “If you insist on this escapade, at least take some of our own guard with you,” she said. “Legends aside, we have no way of knowing who or what might have made the old castle its home.” “I suppose so,” said Varencienne. She quite liked the idea of leading a troop of men into the unknown. How quiet my imagination has been, she thought. Foy killed it. She showed me too much and destroyed my capacity to dream.

  2

  OLD CARADORE

  AT DAWN, VARENCIENNE ROSE from her bed and dressed herself in the garments Pharinet had lent to her: soft suede trousers and shirt and high leather boots. Admiring herself in the mirror, Varencienne decided she should have adopted this sort of garb before. It made her feel competent and powerful. Were men’s clothes part of what made them what they were? Oltefney had ordered the maids to leave out a cold breakfast in the small dining room. The castle was so quiet, and it was still dark. No one was awake, except for herself, Merlan and the guards who would accompany them. It seemed to Varencienne that this journey she would make was somehow preordained, because she’d gotten her own way so easily. She hoped to learn something at Old Caradore, or at least to feel something again. Then there was Merlan himself. Was something destined to occur between them? Only a day or so ago, her life had seemed settled and ordinary. She had felt old and unimaginative. Now, everything had changed. Shortly after she’d eaten, there was a soft knock at the door. She did not speak, but went to open it. Merlan stood at the threshold. She still felt a shock of recognition when she saw him. He had stepped from a portrait, from another world. Perhaps he was the man Khaster should have been. ?Are you ready?? he asked. “Yes. I’ll just get my cloak.” He ventured into the room behind her. “A coat would be better. It’s a cold morning. Also, cloaks flapping about when you’re climbing over old stones is not ideal.” “I do not possess a coat. Pharinet has not provided me with one.” “Perhaps one of the men might have something you could borrow.” They went down to the guardhouse, where horses waited outside, huffing in the chill air. “It’s kind of you to take me to the old castle,” Varencienne said, “but I suspect this is mainly because you want to go there again yourself. Why?” “It’s a journey I’ve been meaning to make for a long time. I just haven’t been home.” They entered the stableyard. “Old Caradore isn’t your family home,” Varencienne said. “What’s the attraction?” Merlan closed the gates behind them. “You are either intrinsically curious or have a suspicious mind. What are my motives to you?” She shrugged. “I’m just curious, as you said. How long will the journey take?” “About four hours if we keep up a good pace.” Four horses stood in the yard, being tacked up by a young guard Varencienne knew as Dray. A middle-aged man supervised the operation. This was Hamsin, one of the Palindrakes’ most trusted officers. Merlan knew Hamsin from his childhood. “Excuse for a day out,” he said, as the older man examined the girth of his saddle. Hamsin did not smile. “Lady Everna requested I come with you.” Varencienne could see he did not want to come. What was he expecting? Was it just superstition, or did Old Caradore really lie under a curse? “Could you find a good coat that will fit the Lady Varencienne?” Merlan said. Hamsin looked Varencienne up and down. His expression was not exactly approving. “See what I can find,” he said. The coat he produced smelled musty and felt slightly damp, but Varencienne did not complain. The company left the castle and presently were cantering along the cliff path leading northeast. High tide washed the rocks below and perigorts hung, impossibly huge, on outspread wings above it. Varencienne had thought the travelling would be difficult: up tiny, twisting trails between mountain crags and through trackless forests. But soon after leaving Caradore’s immediate territory, the party crossed the heath and joined the old Lord’s Road, which had been built in the time of Valraven’s great-great-great-grandfather. The road was constructed of huge slabs of yellowish stone, in which the sun picked out stars of quartz. It was in surprisingly good condition. Varencienne commented on this, and Hamsin told her that traders passing into the north of Caradore always used this route. “What is in the north?” Varencienne asked. “A great wilderness full of animals, trees and plants of great value,” Hamsin answered. “The people there have changed little in hundreds of years,” Merlan said. “Perhaps some of them are not even aware of the empire, tucked away in their high eyries.” “What sort of people are they?” Hamsin laughed. “You wouldn’t like them, my lady.” “Rather rough,” added Merlan. “But before you start worrying about them, I can assure you they have no interest in Old Caradore. If anyone lives there, it won’t be stray northerners.” “I am not disposed to worry,” Varencienne said tartly. “I was just curious.” Along the way, they passed through villages and skirted the borders of other great estates. Merlan told Varencienne the names of the families who lived there: Galingale, Shieling, Ignitante and Doomes, many of whom Varencienne had already met. Some of them she had visited. But the further away from Caradore they went, so the families became only romantic names. Varencienne imagined that each of these great dynasties would have histories and scandals equal to the Palindrakes. The very sound of their names conjured images of great antiquity: Darthenate, Quiribellin, Gegadour. They rode through a sparse wood, in whose center they came upon a standing stone, carved with curling symbols. “In this place,” said Varencienne in a dramatic voice, “I feel that a daughter of the house of Darthenate met with the heir of Gegadour. It was a tragic match, and ended with her brothers slaughtering her lover against that stone.” Merlan laughed. “Not bad. The families were Darthenate and Rook, actually, and the Darthenate girl was burned there.” “I knew it! I have a gift for these things.” The men thought this was very amusing, but Varencienne was only halfjoking. Around mid-day, they rode down a wide avenue of soaring poplars. Fields spread away to either side, in which shaggy cattle grazed. The hills beyond were crowned with follies: arches and mock ruins. Perhaps they were not follies at all, but had once been whole temple
s and summerhouses. Immense clouds boiled across the intensely blue sky, occasionally obscuring the sun. The air smelled of fallen fruit and damp earth. “Whose domain is this?” Varencienne asked. “No one’s,” Merlan answered. “We ride now upon Palindrake soil, of course, but I’d wager you’re the first Palindrake to come here for generations. Local farmers use the land. Valraven’s family has always charged them a small rent for the privilege.” “We are close, then, to the castle?” ‘It’s not far.’ This was not at all how Varencienne had imagined the place. She’d thought the old domain would have been reclaimed completely by the forest. It was clear that at one time the land they rode in had once been part of a great estate. Lodge houses punctuated the road and some of them were still lived in. “Why did the Palindrakes abandon this place?” Varencienne asked. “By order of the emperor, Casillin, who took Caradore,” he replied. “It was part of the conditions he set down. This was the seat of the Palindrakes’ power. You will see. We have come very close to the ocean again. Listen, you will hear it.” They drew their horses to a halt, and Varencienne strained her ears to catch the whispering crash of far surf. It was there, faint, muffled by the tall trees. “I can’t believe Pharinet never came here,” she said. “It seems her sort of place.” “Superstition, fear, distaste,” said Merlan. “Any of these sentiments might have prevented her.” “From what I know of Pharinet, I’d have said such things would have encouraged her,” Varencienne said. The road twisted round between the ancient trunks of an oak forest. Sunlight made coins of gold upon the road. Leaves and branches were strewn across it as if a storm had recently taken place. The company passed beneath a grey arch, atop which reared the broken effigies of dragons, surrounded by sentinel Ustredi. A wall snaked away into the trees to either side. This was the main entrance, although the gates had long gone. Varencienne learned that her ancestor, Casillin, had ordered this to be so. Old Caradore could never be a sanctuary again. Her inner lands lay open to whoever wished to walk there. Beyond the arch, the road continued in much the same manner for some miles. Varencienne looked for broken turrets above the tree line, but saw nothing. The sound of the sea, though, was louder now. Sometimes, she felt as if it was crashing into underground caverns beneath the horses’ feet, because its roar seemed to come from every direction at once. Then the ruins were before them. For a few moments Varencienne did not even recognize them for what they were. They looked like cliffs, covered with thyme, and grass tufts and young birch trees. The company rode over a stone bridge, beneath which was a dizzying drop to a road far below. It was then Varencienne realized they had come across the Palindrakes’ former home. Rocks swarmed up the castle’s side as if trying to reclaim and transmute it into a natural form. The domain had been built amid the living rock, sprawling over acres of ground. It was difficult to see where rocks ended and castle walls began. The stone was gilded with lichen and garbed in swarming growths of an evergreen shrub Varencienne had never seen before. The leaves were tiny and polished, like green fairy coins. Varencienne drew her horse to a standstill. The men did likewise, looking back at her. “I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she said. The men said nothing. Varencienne urged her horse onwards, ignorant of her companions’ presence. The bridge led to an overgrown road, where pale stone cobbles barely poked through the grass and apple-green moss. Varencienne cantered along the road, driving her mount to go faster and faster. She wanted to find the main gate, for at this angle there was no way in to the castle. The land on the right side of the road dropped down hundreds of feet, to a maelstrom of thrashing waves. Wind blew strongly off the sea and seemed filled with whispering voices. Varencienne clawed her hair from her face. She expected to hear the crack of flags in the wind, but there was just the whistle and moan of the raw elements that quested through the immense pile of stone. Varencienne slowed her horse to a trot. She gazed up at the walls. They seemed to be mostly intact, punctuated by narrow arched windows, but the glass had gone. Perhaps they?d never had glass. It was so old. Battlements glowered down at her, possibly hiding observant eyes. She was not afraid and, conscious of the men riding behind her, wished she was alone to enjoy this communion with the past. She did not want human voices to intrude with inane comments or warnings. She wanted only the song of the sea and the wind, so that Old Caradore might reveal its ghosts to her. If anyone should be there with her at all, it should be Pharinet. The castle was situated on a rounded promontory, so that the sea surrounded it on two sides, the right and the front. The front wall was the most badly damaged, which gave Varencienne a shock when she came upon it. She thought of Magravandian hordes battering at the main gate, but then realized that the elements were probably mostly responsible for the decay. Varencienne dismounted, staring at the huge jumble of stones and rocks that blocked the entrance. She had to get in somehow. Merlan and the guards arrived alongside her and Merlan jumped down from his horse. She appreciated the fact that at first he did not speak. He allowed her to break their silence. “The Palindrakes should live here,” she said. “Might be a bit draughty,” Merlan suggested. She glanced at him, realizing that levity was probably the best approach. The sight of this place was overpowering, simply because it was abandoned. It had not been just a noble family who had lived here, but a dynasty of great rulers. The Palindrakes had been reduced horribly. “Can we get in?” “If you’re agile.” Varencienne put her hands on her hips, already looking for the best route. “Drag me, if necessary.” Dray would stay with the horses, while Varencienne, Merlan and Hamsin negotiated their way inside. “There are other entrances,” Hamsin said. “From the lower road, which leads to the sea. You saw it beneath the bridge. I expect the paths down there will be more dangerous, though, if not impassable.” The immense tumbled stones were firm beneath their feet. They must have lain that way for hundreds of years. Plants and trees grew among them, and bright green lizards skittered away, wriggling their tails between the climbers’ feet. Bright gold lichen crumbled beneath Varencienne’s fingers, releasing a strong, herby scent. Merlan helped her up, offering a hand and hauling her over the most perilous places, but in fact the climb was not that difficult. Soon they could see into a wide area that was more like a town square than a yard. Buildings had tumbled into it, but ahead, rearing from within a protective wall, was the main keep itself. “This must have been a town in its own right,” Varencienne said, rubbing her hands on her trouser legs. Her palms smarted a little from the scrapes she’d received on the way in. “Old Caradore Town lies a couple of miles to the west along the old road,” Hamsin said, “but the Palindrakes had most amenities on hand; blacksmith, brewery, cloth-makers and herbalists, to name but a few.” The Emperor Casillin must really have feared the Palindrakes to let this place fall to ruin, Varencienne thought. Surely, this should be jewel of the empire, with the wide road from the south busy with traffic from Magravandias. There should be towns along the way, richness and opulence. As it was, new Caradore lay closer to the border, with all the panorama of its mother country spreading away to the north. “This was the gateway to the north,” Hamsin said, as if reading her thoughts. “The Lord’s Road runs right up into the mountains.” “I want to see the keep itself,” Varencienne said. As they walked towards it, Merlan said, “I’m quite impressed by the way you have such feeling for Caradore. I did not expect it.” Varencienne glanced up at him. “Neither did I. I was married off without realizing what that entailed, but found myself in a fairy tale. This land is beautiful, as if I dreamed it up in my head. But then, you must have seen many lands.” “Some. I’m stationed in Mewt.” “I know. That must be wonderful for a different reason. So exotic.” Merlan nodded. “It has immense history, like Caradore does, and it’s also full of magic, but as you said, a different kind. The gods of Mewt are still very much alive, and not even the emperor would deign to destroy them.” Varencienne hesitated, then said, “You know about the old gods of Caradore, then?” He smiled. “I give them more credence than most, and Mewt may be responsible for that. I sometimes wonder
…” He paused and shook his head. “Wonder what?” Merlan glanced at Hamsin, who was strolling behind them, his easy posture hiding a professional alertness. “Well, perhaps you are the wrong person to confide in.” Varencienne snorted. “You think I’m going to run to my father shrieking, ‘Papa, papa, those naughty people in Caradore say bad things’?” He grinned more widely. “No. I don’t think that. And what I have to say isn’t heretical against your father.” “Oh? I’m intrigued. Still, you can rely on my silence, if it’s needed. I can be discreet.” She placed a hand over her heart. “You have my word, on my children’s life.” “Very well. I sometimes wonder whether the people of Caradore surrendered their gods rather than had them taken away. It was as if once the empire became involved, the Caradoreans wouldn’t play the game any more. I think that Casillin wanted the old ways to continue, but for his benefit. The Palindrakes, led by the redoubtable Ilcretia, wouldn’t let him have it. And young Valraven was never more than a pawn. Ilcretia was the one who decided the male Palindrakes should be kept from their heritage. The old legends say that the Magravandian mages worked sorcery so that no Palindrake heir could ever invoke the old gods again, without risking destruction, but what they meant was that the Caradoreans should not try to use the ancient magic against the empire. I don’t think they were against indigenous belief systems, per se, as long as their own god was considered the leader of the pack. They consider Madragore to be lord of all gods, but his church does not actually deny the existence of other gods. He is an emperor, like your father, always pushing his way into other belief systems, taking them over, making their deities his vassals, but he does not remove them from history.” “I have never thought of it like that.” “I have, because, as you say, I’ve visited other lands. I’ve seen the temples and cathedrals of Madragore, with his subject local deities, like appointed governors, skulking in their little shrines. They are his generals, much like the Caradorean nobility have become your father’s generals.” “You don’t see any Caradorean gods in shrines,” Varencienne said. “No, you don’t. I think that is partly because Valraven himself, as spiritual leader of this land—whether acknowledged or not—has no truck with them. If he did, perhaps they wouldn’t be dead.” Varencienne fell silent, thinking of the Sisterhood. “Are gods really that important, though?” “They are if we accept they are invented by us. They are part of us, aren’t they? And if we deny them, we deny part of ourselves. In Caradore, this is a stubborn act, I feel.” Varencienne laughed. “You have strange ideas, Merlan Leckery.” “That is why I am so valued by my employer.” Varencienne wanted to ask about his employer then, and learn what his duties actually entailed, but they had come to the gate of the keep, or what was left of it. The top of the arch had gone, but beyond it could be seen the wild remains of a former garden. The walls had hidden a far more elegant building than was imagined from the outer gate. The castle was built in a square around a central court. A wide road led through the walls, and the entrance to the keep itself stood above a sweeping flight of steps. The walls were carbuncled with turrets and balconies, and ivy hung down in swags. The atmosphere in the courtyard was still. The wind did not intrude there. Varencienne led the way to the main entrance. Her heart was beating fast now, her breath shallow. She felt slightly light-headed as if the weight of centuries pressed down upon her, filled with tragedies and celebrations. The Palindrakes had left their history here, all of it. Inside, the building was quite light, because all the windows were uncovered. There was remarkably little structural damage. Overhead, floors were intact, although Hamsin suggested it might be dangerous to try and walk across them. Varencienne was conscious that they might fall upon her at any moment. Perhaps they were held aloft only by a delicate balance, and the fact that no busy human presences had intruded there for so long. Merlan had been right about birds shunning the place. None roosted in the outer courtyard, or ventured into the keep itself. All was utterly silent. Varencienne doubted even a mouse scurried here. She went to touch the walls, which were constructed of the same creamy stone as the newer castle further south. She wanted vibrations to stream up her arms, for impressions to come, but none did. The history of the Palindrakes kept itself to itself. She imagined it gusting away from her to find a dark corner in which to hide. Perhaps it smelled her Magravandian blood and fled from it, frightened. “We must stay here tonight,” Varencienne said. “We have no provisions, we’ll freeze,” Merlan said. “Be sensible. We’ve got time to take a good look around.” “I want to see it in moonlight, feel it.” He sighed. “I should not have talked of ancient gods. Now you want to invoke them.” “The only thing I want to invoke is life,” she said. “The Palindrakes left it here.” “Lord Palindrake was butchered in the yard out there. As were most of his men. His wife and daughters were raped, along with some of his sons. Other women and children, wretched with grief and shock, were taken into captivity and shipped to Magrast. Palindrake’s heir was subjected to a brutal ritual that stripped him of his heritage. That is only a part of it, greatly sanitized. There is nothing here you should wish to awake, Varencienne.” She glanced at him archly. “The past is not all gilded memories of summer, Merlan. If some aspects of it are uncomfortable, it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be confronted.” He shrugged. “You think what you like, but I’m not staying here overnight.” “Are you afraid?” He shook his head at her in apparent exasperation, but said nothing. “There’s no one here,” Varencienne said, gazing up at the blackened roof. “No one ever came here again. It’s like an enchanted place.” They passed through the main hall and came across a great stone staircase cut into the wall that led upwards. Varencienne walked up it, one hand on the wall. Merlan and Hamsin kept close behind her. “Wait at the top,” Hamsin said. “Don’t go charging off, my lady. You could take a tumble through the floor.” Varencienne could not see how. A stone gallery led around the hall, with dark openings leading off it. The gallery looked sound, although the men insisted they couldn’t be sure. “I want to find Ilcretia’s rooms,” Varencienne said. “How?” said Merlan, the tightness in his voice suggesting he now thought this trip hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He clearly hadn’t counted on Varencienne’s enthusiasm. “There will be no sign left which rooms were hers.” “Oh yes there will,” said Varencienne firmly. She stepped off the stairs and went towards an archway ahead. Hamsin sprinted past her. “Let me go first, my lady.” Sighing, Varencienne allowed him to do so. He paused at the entrance to a corridor and looked to left and right. Presently, he ventured inside. Varencienne went to peer after him, ignoring Merlan’s hissed command not to. The passageway was very dark, but light came down through the ceiling, suggesting that somewhere floors and roofs had caved in. She could see doorways, all shut up. Sconces on the walls were dripping drifts of webs and dust and the floor was covered in broken stone. She wanted to see a shadowy figure walking away from her, trailing robes in the dust, but leaving no mark. She wanted to hear a soft sound, a sob or a smothered laugh. Everything was silent and still, but for Hamsin’s burly figure feeling his way gingerly up the left of the passage. “Can we come yet?” Varencienne asked in a loud whisper. “Try one of the doors, Hamsin.” He looked back at her, his face set in an expression of weary patience. Obligingly, he reached for one of the door rings. Varencienne laughed at his expression of shock when the door opened easily beneath his hand and he nearly fell into the room beyond. Varencienne went after him, Merlan following. The room was a disappointment, but then she shouldn’t expect treasures to be revealed behind the first door. A huge fireplace was set into the wall, streaks of soot rising up like frozen flames against the crumbling plaster. There was a wide casement, where someone might sit, looking out over the garden. Varencienne went to lean upon it. She imagined what it would be like if this room was restored and thick furs were draped over the window seat. A fire would burn in the great hearth, smelling of sap. Outside, she imagined late autumn, the beginning of chill. This would be a comfortable room. There’d be thick tapestries upon
the walls, woven of jewel-colored yarn. She wondered what it had been used for, but couldn’t dispel the idea that it had been a sitting room of some kind. “Did they take all the furniture to the new castle?” she asked. “I expect so,” said Merlan. He came to stand beside her. “You’re obsessed.” He grinned at her. She stretched her mouth into a grimace. “Haven’t you got any imagination? Just think what this place must have been like in its prime.” Merlan looked around himself. “Clearly, your imagination is more fecund than mine is. Any ghosts yet?” She ignored the remark. “We should look in other rooms. Perhaps the family’s private chambers were on the next floor.” “First we have to find the stairs,” Merlan said. “It must be near where we alighted on this floor,” Varencienne said. “It’s obvious.” “I wouldn’t count on it. This is a huge place, added to by generation after generation of Palindrakes. Originally, it would just have comprised the ground floor and this one. There could be another staircase somewhere other than the main hall.” “Well, let’s go and look.” Varencienne marched out of the door, and Hamsin ran to overtake her. They looked in other rooms on the way back down the passage, but they too were empty. Varencienne didn’t really know what she was looking for. It was clear that Ilcretia would have taken all her effects with her when she moved south. The place had been ransacked. No doubt anything she’d left behind had been pilfered by the invading army. Varencienne thought then of the book in her mother’s possession. How had Casillin got his hands on that? Why had her family known about it, but not the Palindrakes? These things mystified her. She had to know. Eventually, after roaming through several passageways, they emerged into the well of another, smaller galleried hall. The great wooden staircase that reared up to meet them looked intact; its surface was dull, almost petrified. It swept up to a floor above, where some of its banisters were missing. Hamsin was uncomfortable about venturing onto the next floor. Varencienne’s heart had begun to beat faster, and it hadn’t been sluggish before. The shadows that massed on the gallery above them seethed with significance. She became aware, for the first time, of presence. Something was up there. A pang went through her that took a few moments for her to identify as fear. “Varencienne,” murmured Merlan, and his voice seemed to come from far away. “You’ve gone pale.” “Up there,” she answered, equally softly. He followed her gaze, and she heard him swallow thickly. He was afraid, although she doubted he’d admit it. “When I was a boy, we wouldn’t go up to the top,? he said, in a voice she guessed was designed to break the tension in the air. ?In fact, I don?t think any of us went beyond the ground floor. I certainly didn?t.? “Did you sense something?” “We spooked ourselves, as children will. It’s hardly surprising.” “We have to go up there, Merlan. It’s very important. I can’t explain how much so.” He sighed through his nose. “What’s this all about? Why are you here—the real reason?” She glanced at him. “One day, I might explain, but trust me when I say this is the right thing to do. For me, anyway. Are you still my escort?” He hesitated, then nodded. “Then come on.” “Let Hamsin go first.” Hamsin, now, did not seem so keen. Varencienne guessed he would prefer his master’s mad wife to go up to that haunted realm by herself. Huffing, he shouldered past them, and made a great show of testing the first stair. “You have to be careful with these old staircases,” he said. Then, slowly, he began to climb, his companions following. Varencienne could tell that the staircase was firm and sound. It neither creaked nor wobbled, sharing the invulnerable immensity of Old Caradore itself. She realized the place really was indestructible. It had been sacked and abandoned, yet even though its surrounding buildings had crumbled and the walls had fallen, the keep still stood. It seemed defiant somehow, or suggestive of unfinished business. Perhaps, even, it was waiting to be reborn. At the top of the stairs, the atmosphere clung to Varencienne’s face like wet cobwebs. She found it hard to draw breath, and the feeling of light-headedness had returned. The unseen presences were watching her now. What did they see: Magravandian blood or the wife of Valraven, who loved this place? Would her love allow them to forgive her ancestry? She had a brief, petrifying vision of being pushed by invisible hands over the banisters. Instinctively, she moved closer to the wall. She could sense Merlan watching her closely, beginning to worry how strongly she was affected by the atmosphere. He wouldn’t say anything yet, because to say something aloud would confirm his fear, Hamsin’s fear and her own. They might freeze in terror, panic or die. You are making this worse, she told herself. Stop panicking. It’s only memories, filling the air, pressing down on you. Fight it, or go back down the stairs. The men will be led by you. You have to be strong and show it. She straightened her spine and willed the massing shadows to draw back. She pushed them from her, but not with hostility or aggression. In her mind she told them she knew she was trespassing in their domain, but that she meant only good. They must let her pass; they must let her see. She sensed, or perhaps imagined, that the atmosphere lightened a little, but it still took all her courage to venture into one of the passageways leading from the gallery. Hamsin and Merlan now followed her. No one suggested that one of them should lead. She put her hand upon the cold stone of the archway and peered round the corner. It wasn’t dark. The roof had come away and filled the corridor with rubble. Above the sky was a shimmering blue, skimmed by thin clouds. Seeing that made Varencienne feel better. The castle did not have total sway here. The outside had got in. “It’s all right,” she said, looking round. It was hard not to laugh at the others; they looked like scared boys. Merlan’s shoulders relaxed a little. He came forward. “Now, you must agree this bit looks unstable,” he said in a light yet ragged tone. Varencienne nodded. She couldn’t disagree. At the end of the passageway was an enormous round opening that she thought would once have contained stained glass. Perhaps there’d been a picture of the dragons there. “This is it,” she said. “This is where Ilcretia lived with her children.” “How do you know?” “I just do.” She looked back at him, then down the passage to the right. Here, it was darker, and the ceiling was mostly intact, with the occasional tongue of hairy plaster hanging down. She knew she had to go down there, but was also aware that the ceiling might fall on her. “Wait here,” she said. “No!” Merlan was emphatic. “We must go back, Ren.” It was the first time he’d used the affectionate form of her name. She smiled at him. “I’ll be fine. I’m meant to be here. Also, if you great males come tramping down here, there’s more chance of the roof caving in. I’m a delicate little thing. I’ll just scamper like a mouse.” “Be careful,” he said. Hamsin said nothing. Keeping her hand on the wall, Varencienne ventured slowly up the passageway. She wanted this to be over and wondered why she was so driven. Was it her desire that was pushing her, or something that remained here drawing her in? She couldn?t be sure. Glancing back, Merlan?s stern face seemed a hundred miles away. She couldn?t stop now. Her hand slipped into a recess. She had found a door. Relieved, she opened it and stepped forward. She had to suppress a scream. The floor had nearly gone. Before her was a terrifying drop to the next floor. The space was like a vortex of time, sucking her forward. She took a step back, her head spinning. No. No. Back in the passageway, the shadows crowded round her again, finding her vulnerable and afraid. She pressed her hands against her eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Be strong. Groping, she pressed forward. She passed other doors but did not want to look beyond them. She was drawn to the end of the passageway, and here she found a door hanging open. Inside were some narrow steps, spiralling up. A turret. There would be a room at the top. The steps were of stone. They’d be safe. Rubble covered them and Varencienne had to pick her way carefully. Her chest was full of pain, as if her blood had become thicker. A great weight pressed down upon her head. At the top was another door. This, she stared at before opening it. Beyond it, something would be shown to her. Be kind to me, she said. Look upon me with gentleness. It was a prayer to Foy, but also to the spirit of Old Caradore. With one hand, Varencienne pushed against the wood. The door opened smoothly, as had all the doors the
y had tried in this place. There was no sense of being kept out, quite the opposite, but what reason the lingering presences might have to draw living souls to them could not be guessed. Varencienne held her breath. The turret room was dark, even though slivers of light came down through holes in the roof. She heard a sound, the first since they’d entered the keep; a rustle in the far shadows. Varencienne took a step into the room and then it was too late. A woman crouched in the corner, clutching to her a group of wild-eyed children. Her face was terrible: too white like a corpse, with dull black eyes. Varencienne could not scream. She could not even draw breath. The woman squatted malevolently before her; a hideous revenant. She must be a gypsy creature, a vagabond, not anything else, please, not anything else. Malnutrition and disease could do that to a face, couldn’t they? Varencienne sucked a painful breath into her lungs. She would speak and say, “It’s all right,” in a soothing voice. Then she realized there was no woman, no children. She was looking only at a jumble of old rags; grey and white, covered in dust. Splintered rafters looked liked the thin arms of children. Spots of mildew looked like hollow eyes. Varencienne laughed to herself, seeking comfort and normality. She put her hands against her face, found it gritty. What had happened here? Varencienne no longer felt afraid. She walked into the room and stood in a beam of light that came in from the sky. She sensed melancholy, but also resolve and a kind of ferocity. With a clench in her belly, she became certain that this must have been the place where Ilcretia and her family had been taken by the soldiers. It was so clear now. The top room of the castle, perhaps a place where they’d be overlooked until the battle was over and the victors lay drunk in their spoils. But the Dragon Heir had meant too much to Casillin. It was essential the boy be found. So they’d searched every corner, every cellar, every sewer, until eventually they’d come here. The vision Varencienne had had at the threshold was what the invaders must have seen. A desperate woman, haggard and spent, but full of hatred. She sat down on the floor, her hands dangling between her knees. “Tell me, Ilcretia,” she said aloud. “What are your secrets? It is true you trapped and changed the dragons, by caging them in your bitterness?” She could not appeal to ghosts with desires from the present, because surely that would mean nothing to them. Ghosts existed only in the past, caught up in their melodramas, reliving and reliving them. Selfish they were, selfish and blind. She rested her cheek on her knees and closed her eyes. She had to attune with the place, penetrate the spongy membrane of awareness that separated her from the memories that still clung to every stone of Old Caradore. The feelings she’d had here were very similar to those she’d experienced at the Chair with Niska: the light-headness and disorientation, the shortness of breath. She willed herself backward in time, imagining how Ilcretia must have felt, hiding here, and knowing that her hope for nondiscovery was scant. Outside, were the sounds of fighting: the cries of men, the hack of steel against stone and bone, the serpent hiss of arrows. Horses neighed hysterically, children sobbed in despair, loyal hounds bayed and whined, and women shrieked in a terrible, high-pitched way. Ilcretia could do nothing. She was lady of this realm, in more ways than one, yet she was powerless. Her people were being slaughtered around her, yet here she was, trembling in a corner, in wait and in dread. Had she put her hands over her ears? No. Her arms were about her children. Her neck was stiff with pain, her jaw clenched tight. Varencienne felt chilled. Her nose and fingers were numb with cold. Ilcretia knew what Casillin would want: the Dragon Heir, his priestess and her knowledge. She felt guilty because in some way this certainty gave her relief. Magravandias might take prisoners, and force them to utter vows, but what lived in the soul could never be touched. Ilcretia would never let Casillin have the dragons and their secrets. She knew she would survive and that Valraven would also. Guilt warred with principle. Her son should die rather than become the means whereby the Fire King gained control of the great waters. She should summon up a storm, call out to the winds to lash the castle with killing whips of rain and lightning. But she hadn’t the strength. Nor the true will. She must weave her art and hide her eldest son. A little sorcelment. Just a glamor. It might work. She rocked her body back and forth, waiting for the heart’s pierce which would tell her that her husband was dead. There was a moment’s stillness, and fragments of dust, ash and straw sifted down from the ruined ceiling. Then came the baying roar from the enemy, the irrepressible caw of triumph. She felt it in her heart, felt the light go out. It doesn’t matter, she told herself, it doesn’t matter. Varencienne expelled a gut-deep moan of weariness and despair. There were no phantoms before her eyes, no horrific scenes replayed upon the shadows. Just feelings. Ilcretia had planned to play a long game, but somewhere along the way, her intentions had become diluted or perverted. The Sisterhood of the Dragon didn’t keep her plan alive; they had ossified it, made it into a pageant, a myth. Who had been responsible? Was it simply the distance of time from the event that weakened the impact of her ancient rituals? Varencienne raised her head weakly. The sun had moved position and now streamed down through a wide hole above her head, burning her hair. Trials upon rocks in the night were one thing, but she felt that any true initiation into the Sisterhood should be a night spent here, in this room, soaking up the past. It had to be faced and accepted. Only then would it be possible to cast it off and move forward. Foy was Ilcretia, of this Varencienne was sure. There had never been a living Dragon Queen to summon, but only elemental spirits. If anything slumbered restlessly beneath the sea, it was Ilcretia?s essence, disempowered and vengeful. She heard a male voice calling her name and got to her feet. She felt neither dizzy nor disoriented. This was just an old room: empty. For now. Varencienne went back down the stairs. Merlan had been brave enough to venture up the corridor. She saw his pale face looking up at her as she descended the winding steps. “We can go now,” she said.