The Crown of Silence

by Storm Constantine

  Nip reached out quickly to touch Shan in reassurance. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m really sorry. I’m stupid sometimes, insensitive, perhaps too much like Thremius.’

  Shan rubbed his eyes, embarrassed. ‘It’s all right.’

  Nip hesitated, then pressed on. ‘Let me tell you about Caradore. Can I?’

  Shan nodded.

  ‘Hundreds of years ago, the Palindrake family communed with the sea dragons, who live in caves around the coast. They were heirs to a great heritage, and magic ran in their veins. But then, Caradore was conquered by Magravandias. The Magravands knew they could never control the world unless the land of the sea dragons was firmly under their control. The dragon heir, the first Valraven, who was only a boy at the time, was forced to make allegiance with the empire, and one of his sisters was married to a son of the emperor. The Magravand magi used their arts to make him do as they decreed. He was only a boy, poor thing, but through his action, the link with the sea dragons was lost to the Palindrakes. Caradore was put in chains. Isn’t that terrible? Every firstborn male of the Palindrake family has been named Valraven ever since, probably as a reminder. A gruesome mixture of shame, anger, resentment and sorrow must flavour their lives. Imagine it!’

  Shan was silent for a moment. ‘Whatever some magi did hundreds of years ago, it seems a poor excuse for someone to be a butcher now.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t a poor excuse,’ Nip said. ‘Maybe the Dragon Lord is as much a victim asc other people.’

  Shan considered this, surprised to find her words didn’t anger him. ‘You clearly believe so.’

  ‘I don’t think the world is a place of black and white truths,’ Nip said. ‘It’s more complex than that. Think about it. If you were a Magravand, you’d believe with your whole heart that you were an avatar of good and that everyone else in the world was ignorant, dangerous and destructive. You have to remember that while the empire sweeps across the land, it seeks to impose a divine order.’

  ‘No,’ Shan said, angry now. ‘I can’t accept that. You didn’t see what happened in Holme. It was pointless cruelty. They revelled in it.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that, and it appals me too. But Shan, in order to be wise, you have to rise above the world and look down. See things from a wider perspective. You could say that the emperor is not entirely responsible for what happens in the furthest corners of his empire. He has his dreams, his beliefs, but they become diluted or warped as they filter down through the ranks. The Magravands are human, the soldiers perhaps more so than those who control them. War does strange things to men. It is the smell of blood. It makes them more beastlike. They crave it. They do not see fellow humans before their weapons but simply something they must destroy, dismember and defeat. The emperor himself does not walk upon the battlefield. He lives in his gilded palace, dreaming of a perfect world.’

  ‘Then he is a fool.’

  ‘Foolish,’ Nip corrected. ‘Deluded. Thremius once said to me that Leonid has unleashed a power in the Dragon Lord over which he has no control.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Shan asked. He was thinking about how Nip lived deep in the forest, far from anywhere. Did Master Thremius go out into the world to gather news, or did he employ an arcane art like Taropat, a scry-mede? Shan still had difficulty believing valid information could be acquired that way.

  Nip wrinkled up her nose and clasped her knees with her arms. ‘It is our business to know,’ she said, ‘because it affects us. If something happens in Magravandias, we can feel it here. The power that men crave is related to the power of nature. It is simply that they do not understand it. It is not a tool to wield, but a state of being.’

  ‘How do you know, Nip?’ Shan repeated gravely.

  ‘Spies,’ she answered, and jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll show you a spot where the power gathers. Come along, grim thing!’

  Shan followed her down a narrow forest path, rugged with tree roots, while Gust leapt from branch to branch overhead. Spies? He was unsure of this answer. Nip spoke with so much authority and eloquence, and seemed far older than her years. This was clearly the consequence of education. She must have lived with Thremius nearly all her life.

  The path began to slope downwards, pitted by channels where in winter and early spring, water would run. Nip ran nimbly down the path, while Shan was more cautious, stepping sideways. Gust flew before them, uttering unrestrained gibbers of delight. Stones shifted beneath Shan’s feet. The slope was long. It would be painful to roll down it.

  At the bottom, they came to a glade where a natural spring rose up through the earth. Tiny snaking rivulets stole through the grass and the ground was marshy. Nip jumped from tussock to tussock, leading the way to a deep pool overhung by willows. Gust settled himself in a tree and began preening himself.

  Nip, much to Shan’s embarrassment, began to pull off her clothes. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Into the water.’

  Shan was reluctant to undress himself in front of the girl. He stood some distance back. Nip’s body was nut brown, as skinny as a boy’s or an elden maid’s. She ran into the water, throwing up a spray. ‘Come on!’ she urged. ‘Are you so bashful? What’s the matter with you? I’ve seen a thousand naked boys.’

  Shan could not believe this assertion. He laughed nervously. ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘Of course I have. Thremius is a healer. We treat people every day. We take off their clothes.’ She grinned at him. ‘Shan, you mustn’t be shy of yourself. That is another lesson.’ With these words, she plunged beneath the water’s surface, and presently Shan saw her head bobbing some distance away, below a fringe of willows. Stiffly, he undressed himself and gingerly entered the water. It was freezing cold. Nip was nowhere to be seen, but then her body erupted from the pool only inches from Shan’s face. He yelped and winced away. Nip laughed. ‘That’s better. Can’t you sense the power here?’

  ‘It’s very cold,’ Shan said. ‘Is that a sign?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Water attracts the life force and spring water more than most. Bathing in this pool can heal a hundred hurts. Just lie back and try to feel it.’

  ‘What’s it supposed to feel like?’

  ‘Tingling,’ she said, floating beside him, her face turned to the sky. ‘All through you.’

  That’s the cold, he thought, but let his body hang in the water as hers did. It was silent, but for the soft chuckle of the pool and the breeze in grass and leaves. Nearby, a lone bird released a stream of shrill notes. In response, a squirrel chattered, high overhead. Shan closed his eyes. There was an ache behind them. He felt slightly disorientated, as if something was pressing hard against his head. It didn’t feel pleasant. He opened his eyes, gasping.

  ‘There,’ said Nip. ‘You felt it, I can tell.’

  ‘I feel pressure,’ Shan said. ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘You’re not used to it,’ Nip said. ‘You will be, one day. That feeling is the building block of magic, your body’s experience of the life force.’

  Shan still wasn’t convinced his experience wasn’t simply an effect of the cold. He began to swim around, trying to bring some warmth to his limbs.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Nip called, still floating on her back in the middle of the pool.

  Shan trod water some distance away. ‘What?’

  She swam towards him. ‘If you ever hear Taropat weeping again, which you will, you must go to him. That would be the time to ask questions. His guard would be down then.’

  ‘That seems sneaky.’

  ‘Only if you look at it that way,’ Nip said loftily. ‘Another way of looking at it is that Taropat has needed someone to talk to for a long time. You could help him. Hasn’t he helped you?’

  Shan and Gust returned home as the sun was sinking into the arms of the forest. The glade was filled with a beautiful ruddy bronze light that made the yellow horse, who stood dozing beneath the eaves of the house, appear to be made of pure gold. The tiles
of the roof looked as if they’d been painted red, while, incongruously the trees and grass seemed to shine with a green light. Taropat had laid out supper on a wooden trestle in the garden. As Shan emerged from the forest, Taropat came out of the house carrying a big tureen, his hands shielded by tea-cloths. He whistled a greeting to Gust who flew over to him and enclosed his master’s shoulders with his leathery wings. Shan’s heart ached as he gazed upon this scene. He would remember it always.

  ‘Had a good day?’ Taropat said as Shan sat down at the table.

  ‘Yes, Nip and I went swimming. She doesn’t have much modesty, does she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t count that as one of her attributes, no.’ Taropat ladled out some fragrant carrot soup into bowls. ‘Here, eat this. Although I say it myself, it is nectar of the gods, enlivened by a dozen different herbs.’

  ‘Nip thinks you’re fabulously handsome,’ Shan said, unable to quell the devilish urge to tell tales.

  Taropat laughed. ‘Does she now?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think she’s pretty?’

  ‘Nip would bite off my nose if I called her pretty,’ Taropat said.

  ‘Do you like her, though?’

  ‘Not my type,’ Taropat said, ‘but you don’t have to tell her that. Now shut up and eat.’

  Shan had wanted to use this bit of gossip about Nip as a path to more pressing topics, such as what else Nip had revealed to him that day. But Taropat clearly intended to dominate the conversation, perhaps because he sensed some of what was on Shan’s mind. Shan ate quietly, as Taropat regaled him with tales of Nip’s and Thremius’ eccentric behaviour. ‘He once hung upside-down for a week and made Nip speak to him backwards. It’s no wonder she’s a bit odd.’

  Shan normally enjoyed listening to Taropat’s tales, but as time went on, he felt increasingly tense. Unspoken words bulged in his throat. He didn’t know why he should feel nervous of saying them. A gut instinct advised him Taropat would react badly. Halfway through the main course of roast pheasant and succulent vegetables, he blurted out, ‘Nip talked to me about Magravandias today.’

  Shan sensed immediately a stillness come into Taropat, which the man sought to disguise. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes, she told me the story of Caradore, about the Dragon Lord.’

  Taropat laid down his knife and fork and spoke in a slow steady voice. ‘Those are subjects which I suppose it is essential you know about eventually.’

  ‘She seems to think Valraven Palindrake is a victim. I reckon she wanted me to see that we are similar in some way.’

  Taropat’s face had gone very white. He stared at his food as if it were poison.

  Shan wished at once that he could retract the words, because he could tell he’d said something terrible. ‘I don’t agree with her,’ he stammered. ‘I mean, I don’t know anything. It was just what she said.’

  ‘Valraven Palindrake,’ said Taropat as if the name burned his mouth, ‘is a monster in every sense. You must never, ever think otherwise. I shall have to speak to Thremius about this. What is he doing, letting the wretched girl think that way? I can’t have such obscenities spoken to you.’

  Shan had the impression Nip’s opinions derived from Thremius’ own, but decided it would not be a good point to make. ‘I didn’t believe her,’ he said, then couldn’t help asking cautiously, ‘but is it true about Caradore, the sea dragons and everything?’

  ‘Caradore exists,’ Taropat said fiercely, ‘and perhaps the dragons did too, at one time. But the Palindrakes are foul creatures. They are immoral, corrupt and bestial. No one other than Valraven Palindrake could lead the Magravandian army. He is its heart. He is like Bayard, Leonid’s degenerate son, who is equally demonic. They deserve one another.’

  Shan considered these words. Taropat clearly knew a lot about the subject, perhaps more than Nip did. He realised these people, mere names to begin with, were somehow coming alive for him. He was desperately curious about them. ‘But did it happen the way Nip said, about the first Valraven and what the Magravandian magi did to him?’

  ‘It happened,’ Taropat said. He picked up his knife and gripped it firmly as if he wanted to stab something. ‘But the Palindrakes now are very different to their ancestors. They were stripped of their nobility and goodness. What lives in Caradore today is evil incarnate. It was the most beautiful country in the world, and now it is ruined. It began a long time ago but Bayard finished the job. Caradore has become a ghost country, a sad memory.’

  Shan said nothing more. It was clear he’d touched upon a topic personal to Taropat. There would be no point in pushing him further, because Taropat would only get angry. Shan sensed he was close to the secret he knew existed in Taropat’s heart, but also knew he must wait to discover it. He remembered Nip’s advice. There would come a time.

  In the night, Shan awoke to the sound of a voice singing softly. It came from outside. He slipped from his bed and went to the window where the curtains hung open. The moon was a slim sickle above the trees, but clear starlight illumined the glade below. A pale, glowing figure hovered at the edge of the forest, crooning a song that could break the heart. Shan stared out of the window. He wouldn’t run away this time. He should go down to the glade and confront this creature. If it was an eld, he wanted to see it.

  Swiftly, he pulled on his trousers, and hopped down the stairs to the dark and silent kitchen. It was only when he reached the door that he saw Taropat was already out in the garden. The man was making the most peculiar sounds, wordless cries of anger and despair. He shook his fists in the air, apparently addressing the pale form half hidden among the trees.

  Shan hurried forward softly. He was just behind Taropat when the strange figure appeared to notice him. It uttered a threatening hiss and streaked off through the trees. Taropat leaned down to rest his hands on his knees, his head hanging between them.

  ‘Taropat,’ Shan said. ‘What was that?’

  For some moments, Taropat neither answered nor straightened up. When he finally looked at Shan, his face was wet with tears.

  ‘What was it?’ Shan repeated, awkwardly.

  ‘A torment,’ Taropat answered. He collapsed onto the grass where he sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

  This is the moment, Shan thought, but didn’t know how to proceed. He’d never had to deal with a stricken adult before. It seemed wrong to see a grown man weeping, not because it was unnatural, but because it was so much more powerful and frightening than the grief of a child.

  Self-consciously, Shan squatted beside his mentor and gingerly patted his back. Should he speak, remain silent, what?

  After a while, Taropat raised his head, which he shook slowly. ‘This should not still be happening. I hoped you being here would stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’ Shan asked.

  ‘Today,’ Taropat said, ‘when you spoke of Palindrake, it revived unwelcome memories. Nip had a tale to tell, but so have I. She thinks Palindrake is a victim, does she? She’s wrong. What you just saw here is a small part of it, a legacy.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Shan said bravely. ‘I must know.’

  Again, Taropat shook his head. ‘It would burn out my voice to speak of it.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Shan said. ‘I think you’ve needed to speak for a long time. Trust me, Taropat. Please. Let me help. If I am to be what you want me to be, I must know everything.’

  Now, Taropat nodded. ‘You are right. I must remember who I am, what I believe.’ He stared at Shan for some moments. ‘If I tell you this tale, it might shock you. It will change your view of me, I think.’

  Shan shrugged, unable to think of anything to say that didn’t sound trite.

  Taropat rubbed his face, then stood up. ‘Very well. Let’s go back to the house. I’ll open some port, because the story is long. Can you stand a night without sleep?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shan said.

  Taropat put his arm around Shan’s shoulders. ‘It begins,’ he said, �
��with the story of another man of Caradore. He was a friend of Valraven Palindrake, married to his sister in fact. Like Palindrake, when he came of age, he was forced to go to Magrast, the capitol of Magravandias, in order to train in the imperial army. His name was Khaster Leckery. I will tell you the story of his death.’

  Chapter Five: The Ancient Wound

  Khaster was drunk when he went to The Soak. He’d not been back long from Caradore, and on his return to Magrast, his Magravandian friends had commented on his strange mood. He drank more than he usually did – far more – and his performance suffered accordingly in the training yards. It was noted that Khaster no longer spent any time with Valraven Palindrake, but then neither did Prince Bayard. What had happened in Caradore? Khaster, Valraven and Bayard had left Magrast together, to spend some rest time at Valraven’s ancestral home. Yet they had returned separately. Whispers had started up. People speculated that it was something to do with Khaster’s wife, Pharinet Palindrake. She was a wild one. Had to be. She was Valraven’s sister, after all. Everyone knew how highly Valraven regarded her. Perhaps too highly? He’d always spoken about Pharinet more than he ever did about his own wife, Khaster’s sister, Ellony.

  One evening, in the sumptuous, wood-panelled lodge attached to the barracks, where the officers would gather before going out into the city, a strange meeting between Bayard and Khaster had been witnessed. The prince had come in, his eyes as hot as fever, and had approached Khaster at one of the gaming tables. He had leaned down, muttered urgently in Khaster’s ear. Later, all present had confessed they’d thought a fight would ensue, but Khaster had merely looked up, as white as a corpse, and hissed, ‘You lie!’

  ‘I do not,’ Bayard said. ‘Ask him.’

  Ask who what? They all wanted to know, but Khaster had said nothing. He’d stormed out of the building and no friendly hand could bar his passage. His mouth had been a grim line and it did not change after.

  Bayard had shrugged and grinned and ordered merlac from the bar.