by Martin Ash
As the world retreated, all strange in a haze of red and shining white flashes, the last thing that Master Atturio beheld was old Neena, leaning her face close to his, holding up the bloody, pulsing muscle that had been pulled from his chest. And Neena, opening wide her mouth, turning back into Skalatin as she did so. And then, as Skalatin bit and chewed, cruel taunting in his eyes, Atturio saw his own face begin to form, his own mouth opening to feast upon his own still beating heart.
PART TWO
VIII
‘Something’s gravely wrong. This isn’t like him.’ Sildemund stared at Picadus’s still form slumped at the foot of the taverna wall. Quick, amber-coloured ants scurried on the dry ground close to his bloodied knuckle.
Sildemund and Gully sat on a cracked wooden bench in the shade of an arbour of vines. They had had a long and exhausting day, and were resting, taking cool mint tea at the taverna, situated in a tiny square away from Dharsoul’s busy, dusty market streets. Sildemund was growing despondent. His efforts to discover something of the provenance and value of the mysterious stone had so far been fruitless.
Gully nursed a sore hand. He too looked down at Picadus, who was blind drunk and sporting ugly swellings and contusions about his mouth, nose and one cheek.
Earlier, Picadus had forced a fight with some foreigners in another bar. Gully had had no choice but to step in to extricate him, for it was plain Picadus was in for a brutal beating. Gully and Sil had managed to calm the fray and remove Picadus, but Gully had been obliged to throw several effective punches before his point was taken.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never known him like this.’
‘Is it a sweetheart, Gully?’ Has he left someone behind at Volm, someone he wanted to be with, who we know nothing of? Or has he perhaps been betrayed in love? Is that it, do you think?’
‘If it were either of those things, I would know. Pic and I’ve been friends for many years. We have few secrets. It isn’t a woman that’s the cause of his misery.’
‘Then I worry that his mind is diseased.’ Sildemund’s brow puckered. He waved away a wasp that had settled on the rim of his tea bowl. ‘Something else has struck me, Gully. Might he have fallen under a spell? The hill-ghosts we saw… could they have influenced him?’
‘That thought occurred to me, but Pic was brooding before we ever encountered the hill-ghosts. Remember when we left the caravanserai, he took no breakfast. And later at the inn, again he hardly ate, and drank little, too. And besides, we came nowhere close to the hill-ghosts.’
‘But we heard their song.’
‘Yes, we. Neither you nor I are affected.’
‘Who’s to say that Pic doesn’t have a greater susceptibility?’
Gully shrugged. ‘It’s one possibility, aye. But my feeling is that it’s the wrong one.’
Sildemund was silent for a while. Another notion had begun to form in his mind as he recalled the conversation between Meglan and his father before he left Volm. Meglan believed the red stone could adversely affect people. Master Atturio had not been entirely convincing in his efforts to deny the possibility. Sildemund wrestled with his feelings. On the one hand he wished to express the thought to Gully, but he was mindful of his father’s caveat that he should make no mention of the stone to his companions. Troubled, he maintained filial loyalty and kept the thought to himself, saying, ‘What can we do? In this condition he’s useless to us.’
Gully gave a mirthless grin. ‘Worse than useless. On the plains he barely lifted a finger when we were under attack. He was in a dream. And now, drinking and brawling… This isn’t Picadus, and he’s become a danger to himself.’
They called for more tea. The evening was drawing down. Sildemund felt the weight of responsibility heavy upon him. This was his expedition. He was in charge, entrusted by his father. But things were not going well.
It had begun auspiciously enough with their entrance into the city the previous day. At the head of a company of Darch’s elite knights, riding beside the crown prince of Darch himself, Sildemund could not have hoped for a more encouraging start. He was exhilarated, heady, filled with a sense that he himself must be dreaming, but reassured that he was not.
He had gazed at the city as they approached. The high red walls, built of imported stone, contrasted spectacularly with the dark yellowish earth of the region. As they drew close to the city gate a fanfare had blared out. Sildemund had watched as soldiers rushed from the gatehouse to clear the milling crowd. A guard of honour formed, lining both sides of the street as the prince’s company cantered in. The soldiers stood at stiff attention, lamellar tunics gleaming in the sun.
The people of Dharsoul cheered and waved as their prince rode by, or stood and watched in awe. Prince Enlos had smiled, lifting his hand from time to time in acknowledgement. He did not slacken his pace. The troop rode on, clattering up the wide way that led from the central markets and commercial areas.
There was a minor incident at that point. A woman, clad in tattered garments of red and brown, broke suddenly from the crowd and rushed towards Prince Enlos. Her arms were raised and she was shouting something, though her words were not easy to make out.
Soldiers were upon her in an instant. They pushed and dragged her back to the roadside. Enlos had been obliged to swerve his horse slightly, but was otherwise unaffected.
The woman had no weapon, and plainly was not intending harm to the prince. Sildemund stared at her, wondering what it was all about. She continued to yell, hands high, even as she was dragged back. He caught some of her words: ‘You haven’t listened! Even to your own! …must not be allowed to perish!’
What was it that must not be allowed to perish? The word was unfamiliar and unclear, but he thought it might have been ‘Claine’.
Sildemund thought back to the exchange earlier in the day between Prince Enlos and Gully. Mention had been made of the Revenants of Claine, but the prince had cut the conversation short. Sildemund’s thoughts went to unknown Garsh, located somewhere in the wilds of Tulmua. He had heard only the vaguest tales concerning the strange religious sect based there.
And then the incident was forgotten. The prince’s company rode on, and the woman disappeared from sight, the crowd cheering the louder. The troop veered and passed beneath a colossal stone arch. The entered the royal mall, red-paved, dividing wide, formal gardens, and flanked by lolling palms and a blaze of flowering shrubs. The mall led up a long, even slope to the massive barbican and gates of the Palace of Darch, home of the royal family. More fanfares rang out from atop the mighty, crenellated walls. Tall iron-clad gates swung open at the head of a fortified ramp.
Sildemund glanced questioningly across at Gully. Should they not be taking their leave of the royal party now? Within moments they would be inside the palace walls. Surely Prince Enlos would give a signal of some kind, indicating his wish for them to go their own way? But Gully just smiled, keeping pace with Prince Enlos, and Prince Enlos looked askance at Sildemund and called, ‘Join me, please. Bathe and refresh yourselves, then we will enjoy a modest collation.’
Sildemund gazed up at the soaring red walls, and the magnificent towers, turrets, domes and cupolas of the palace rearing behind them. The company rode up the ramp, through the barbican gate, along an enclosed causeway that took them through a fortified inner gate, and entered the first court.
Prince Enlos led them to the foot of a short flight of steps at one side of the court, where he dismounted, signalling for Sildemund and his companions to follow suit. The company of Darch knights rode on for barracks and stables.
Prince Enlos sprang nimbly up the steps and led the three across an ornamental garden to enter the main wing of the palace itself. He talked with Gully as they went. Sildemund stared in wonder at the splendour into which he had entered: high, twisting marble columns, ornately carved pillars and sweeping staircases; fabulous statues, opulent furnishings and ornaments; vibrant frescoes and mosaics, rich tapestries and drapes; dazzling windows in every shade of st
ained glass; high, vaulted, decorated ceilings. Elite Guards were stationed at doors and in corridors, equally impressive in gleaming armour, colourful silk capes and masks. It was a feast for his eyes, an intoxicant, for he had never seen its like.
Behind him Picadus’s eyes were downcast, finding nothing to attract his interest.
Prince Enlos came to a halt outside an arched door of oak planks and wrought-iron straps. ‘Here are my apartments. Refresh yourselves, then return here and we will eat and drink together. Have you made arrangements in the city? Where are you staying?’
‘We’ve made no arrangements yet, my lord,’ replied Sildemund. ‘We’ll be seeking a modest hostelry somewhere close to the commercial quarter.’
‘Excellent! You shall stay here, in the guest’s wing. You will be my honoured guests.’ Prince Enlos beckoned a steward. ‘This fellow will take you to your rooms. Wash, bathe, as you see fit, and I shall see you here anon.’
They were escorted to a set of communal chambers elsewhere in the palace, set on the third level, overlooking a pleasant courtyard. Again, Sildemund was taken aback by the sheer opulence. Magnificent paintings were mounted upon the walls, the tiled floor was carpeted in the richest rugs. Ornaments were of precious metal or finest glaze, encrusted with fabulous stones.
He stepped out onto a broad balcony. The city of Dharsoul lay revealed before him.
The focal point of the city was the waterfront. The numerous quays jutted out into the mighty Tigrant, which glistened, dark and reflective, a hundred small boats and barges studding its slow, sleek surface. From the quaysides the labyrinth of twisting streets that were the souk and commercial area crowded chaotically back. Some were shadowy, dark slots, others, touched by the sun, were bright, with colourful awnings visible even from this distance. The city covered four low hills, upon one of which rested the palace. It was built mainly of red or whitewashed stone, though many roofs and domes had been painted in other hues.
‘You are well-connected, Gully,’ said Sildemund, as Gully came out to stand beside him. ‘And a man of secrets! I had no idea, nor I believe has my father, that you have such intimate acquaintance with the Prince. Why have you never told us?’
Gully scanned the magnificent vista. ‘The occasion never arose. It’s years since I’ve seen Prince Enlos. It was sheer serendipity that brought us together today. Had it not happened, we would probably have passed our lives without ever meeting again.’
‘Well, had it not happened, I believe our lives would have been summarily curtailed within seconds.’
Gully grunted. ‘Aye, that’s true.’
Sildemund was curious. ‘What were the circumstances behind the rebellion, Gully? Wasn’t there some supposedly shameful incident involving the Queen?’
Gully lowered his voice. ‘No one knows. There was no shortage of scurrilous tales, and probably none were factual. Certain members of the nobility endeavoured to besmirch the Queen’s name, claiming some improper conduct on her part. But I know nothing of it. Whatever it may have been, it’s long in the past. And this is seditious talk! Come, let’s get ready.’
They bathed in a sunken marble tub large enough to hold a dozen people. The water was scented with linden and orange blossom and they were attended by palace maidens with perfumed soaps and oils. When they came to dress again they found that their travel-stained clothes had been removed and new garments set in their place: light gowns of finest white cotton, baggy pantaloons and soft slippers. A steward arrived to escort them to the Prince’s chambers. Picadus, who had found the energy to bathe himself, had curled up naked on his bed and now refused to budge.
‘You can’t spurn the Prince of Darch!’ Gully protested. ‘We’re his guests! It is the grossest insult! What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’m weary. I want to rest.’ Picadus turned his face to the wall and would say nothing more.
Sildemund took Gully’s arm. ‘We must make excuses for him, explain that he’s unwell. It’s perhaps best this way. As he is, he would make incongruous company.’
Disgruntled, Gully could only concede.
Prince Enlos had changed into a long robe of deep blue, bordered in regal gold, with flared, scalloped sleeves. His dark hair was combed and plaited, and he looked fresh and invigorated. He expressed regret upon learning of Picadus’s condition, which Sildemund described in terms of a physical sickness. ‘I noticed as we rode that he seemed a lugubrious fellow. Plainly, if that’s not his normal disposition, he’s been struck down by some gloomy affliction. Shall I have my physician attend him? He is a worker of miracles, an expert in ailments of body, mind and spirit.’
‘You are most kind, my lord,’ Sildemund replied, ‘but we believe that Pic’s most pressing requirement is a good rest, at least for the present. Perhaps in the morning, if he’s fevered, we might take advantage of your generous offer.’
‘By all means. But at least let me have a servant deliver food and drink to him. That way, should he wake and discover an unexpected gnawing in his belly, he’ll find himself well catered for and have no cause to accuse me of a lack of hospitality. Now, come, take seats. Have wine eat your fill, and let us talk.’
They ate, and Gully and Prince Enlos regaled one another with recollections of past adventures. Wine flowed abundantly and the tales took on legendary dimensions. A fine storyteller, Enlos later revealed himself to be an accomplished lutenist. When they had done eating he took up his instrument and they joined him in stirring ballads and poignant laments, then bawdier songs of camp and tavern. The evening progressed and Sildemund, who had planned to spend the hours in the pursuit of his father’s concerns, quite forgot about the red stone and Kemorlin and the other people Master Atturio had commissioned him to seek out.
At length, abruptly, Prince Enlos brought the merriment to an end. He put aside his lute and stood, clapping his hands together. ‘My friends, this has been a rare and thoroughly enjoyable evening, but regrettably I have other duties. Join me tomorrow evening, if you will. If it is at all possible, I shall introduce you to my mother, the Queen. But for now, I must bid you goodnight.’
Sildemund blinked uncomprehendingly, his senses befuddled by too much drink. Prince Enlos seemed to have dispatched his gaiety like throwing off a cloak, as though it had been an act, as though the food, the wine, the companionship had had no real effect. He was perfectly polite now, but formal and precise.
A servant appeared to escort them from the Prince’s apartments. Sildemund’s head was spinning. He was not sure whether his ears had deceived him. Had Prince Enlos truly said what he believed him to have said? That he, Sildemund, was to meet Lermeone? Lermeone, Darch’s revered Silent Queen? She who had ruled Darch for three decades! The firm but benign sovereign who by sacred decree might never publicly utter a word, whose sage thoughts and intentions were revealed via mystical connection and divine interpretation! Could it be so? Was he truly to stand in the same hallowed space as she?
They made their way back to their chambers. In a corridor they passed a young man accompanied by three armed guards. He was well-attired in an elegant green robe and floppy, crushed velvet, brimless hat. He was headed in the general direction of Prince Enlos’s apartments, though whether that was his destination it was not possible to divine.
As they passed, the man halted briefly to give a courteous bow of his head. It would strike Sildemund later, when his mind was less befuddled, that there was a tenseness in the guards’ faces, and that their hands hovered nervously about the pommels of their short sabres as the stranger stopped.
The stranger was of no great stature, but bore himself with dignity and élan. His glance, as they passed, was keen and penetrating; his gesture, though understated, carried a flourish. There was a slight smile on his lips. Sildemund was struck by his appearance. His eyes were deep green, his hair light brown. His skin was olive toned and he sported a finely trimmed beard and moustache. He was certainly not of Darch, and Sildemund guessed him to be a northerner. Sildemund marke
d him down as a personage of some authority, yet curiously, while the stranger was accorded respect by his escort, it seemed to Sildemund that he was in fact under guard.
They passed on. In their apartment they found Picadus asleep. Food lay untouched on a silver platter on a table close to his bed. The hour was too late for Sildemund to engage constructively in any business in the city, and he was in no fit state to do so anyway. He promised himself an early start as he undressed, then fell upon his own bed and knew nothing more until morning.
IX
Sildemund awoke with a dull pain in his temples and a queasiness in his gut. But mindful of his promise to himself the previous night, he set to in earnest to complete his father’s commission. With Gully and the gloomy Picadus, he left the palace and set off for the souk and commercial district. There he would seek out Kemorlin, in the hope that he could inform him as to the value and provenance of the red stone.
The souk was a teeming, throbbing hive, a maze of noisy streets and smelly, shadowed alleys, interspersed with small crowded squares. Everywhere were shops, booths, stalls. Vendors stood beneath gaudy awnings, surrounded by their wares, striving to outdo one another with loud proclamations of the quality, beauty and low cost of the myriad goods on sale. Beggars, sharps, entertainers and whores vied for business; old men squatted in shaded alcoves, smoking shugweed through ornate water-bowls and staring with vacant smiles into a world that had no defined existence, yet was infinitely more comforting than that in which they passed their corporeal lives.
Twice Sildemund spotted women garbed in the red and brown tatters of the woman who had dashed out in front of Prince Enlos’s horse the previous day. Their rags, it appeared, were a uniform of sorts, identifying them – so he believed – as members of the Revenants of Claine. The second of these women was addressing a small crowd of curious onlookers, and Sildemund paused briefly to listen. The woman shouted in earnest, something about ‘forgotten words of the ancestor’ and ‘protecting she who protects’, then emotive pleas for clemency and intervention in Garsh.
