Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (49 page)

Elessi was shaken from her inner monologue by a voice from behind her. ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ it said, tentatively, in a tired, raspy tone. But even despite its rough edge, it hadn’t changed a bit.

Elessi couldn’t help but freeze. She didn’t turn, the world revolved around her instead, until somehow she was gazing down at what appeared to be a dead man. Skin paler than her precious bunting, beard thick as brambles, hollow-eyed, and thin, Farden looked a mess. A rough sketch of a dead memory, but it was him, nonetheless, standing there as sheepishly as a man could manage. Smiling, of all things.

Elessi didn’t smile. She wanted to, a brief wish to appear polite. She tore herself away from his slate-moss eyes and buried her gaze in the grass. ‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said, in a little voice, one that did nothing to hide her lie.

Farden took a deep breath and stared up at the sky-bitten edges of the new Spire. His breath came out as a rasping sigh, and ended in a chuckle. ‘I knew it,’ he said, flashing teeth. ‘I just knew it. Those bastard gods and their puppet strings.’

Elessi shrugged. The ruse had been a weak one anyway. It lay in the grass, with her gaze, shattered like cheap pottery. ‘If you knew, why did you come?’ she asked.

Farden looked around at the bustle. ‘Because you all deserve better than a bitter memory. Especially you, Elessi, on your wedding day,’ he said.

‘My wedding day was fine before…’ she stopped herself, but it had already been said.

That burnt Farden. He took a step back and half-turned away. ‘I see,’ he said. Elessi pursed her lips.

‘I…’ she began, but the mage held up a hand.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I understand, for once.’ And he did, to tell the truth. He had abandoned her in a bloody mire. Why would she want the stains of that old memory besmirching the white cloth of her wedding day?
The gods and their tricks
, he thought. He should have known her better. Known them better. Farden began to leave. ‘I wish you all the happiness all in the world,’ he said over his shoulder.

Elessi watched him go. She didn’t say a word. This moment had been rehearsed for years, and the scene was exactly as she had imagined it; the mage admonished, guilty, back turned. It was strange, though, that the satisfied smile she had imagined emblazoned on her lips was utterly absent. Elessi almost stamped her foot. Servants had begun to cluster around her, clamouring for her attention. Just before Farden left, he threw one last question at her.

‘Who is it, anyway? The lucky man?’

‘You don’t know?’ she called, genuinely confused.

Farden’s reply was to shake his head.

‘It’s Modren.’

The mage nodded, turned, and walked away, boots squeaking on the evening dew hiding in the grass. ‘Figures,’ he muttered, feeling his anger and confusion grow with every step.

Farden was blessed and cursed with many things. Empathy wasn’t one of them. Even after all these years, he was still oblivious to the fact that Elessi had once harboured feelings for him. Sauntering down the hill towards a darkening sky and twinkling city, her true resentment escaped him. As did the irony:

Elessi had gotten her Written in the end, just a different one.

Durnus was contemplating flames. Tucked deep in the shadows of his rooms, nestled in a marble corner, the old Arkmage stared into the gloom of his blindness, watching the faint wisps of light ebb and flow with the crackling of the fire in front of him. Its heat fanned his face. A skinny bottle of wine balanced half-clutched in his lap. Thoughts danced through the darkness for him, as they did so often these days. So lost was he in his contemplation in fact, that he barely noticed the brushing of feet on the marble. It was only when their owner spoke that he realised he had company. He didn’t flinch, he merely looked up.

‘I finally did it,’ said Farden, in a quiet voice.

Durnus smiled, a little confused. ‘Did what?’

‘I finally managed to sneak up on you. After all these years,’ he muttered.

Durnus chuckled. ‘That you did.’

Farden found a chair and dragged it to the fire. Durnus held up the wine, and Farden couldn’t help but snatch it. He put its neck to his lips and gulped a good measure of it down. If he couldn’t have nevermar, at least he had alcohol.

Durnus sensed the eagerness in Farden’s drinking. ‘It must be difficult for you.’

The mage took a moment to wipe his lips and place the bottle back into Durnus’ hand. ‘You have no idea,’ he said.

‘How was Elessi?’

‘I see your spies did their job well.’

Durnus held up his hands. ‘My idea alone. I just wanted to see what you’d do,’ he replied. ‘I have to rely on the eyes of others now.’

‘I see that,’ said Farden, and then winced at the unintended pun. He reached for the wine again, and Durnus let him have it. ‘Elessi seemed pleased to see me,’ he added. Durnus turned at that.

‘Really?’

‘No, of course not,’ snapped the mage. His friend’s silence made it obvious he had revealed the truth. ‘Refused to play along, I guess. I’ve got a mind to go and see how that Loki feels about a knife in the face. The bastard lied about her wanting me at the wedding. She could barely stomach the sight of me.’

There was a hardened edge to Farden’s threats that made Durnus’ heart fall. The long and distant years, it seemed, had filed his friend to a sharp and brutal point. He had seen Farden’s dark side before, but never as dark as this. Yet he knew how to deal with him. He pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘Then while you’re at it, why not stick a knife in Heimdall, and Verix, and your uncle and me too. And don’t forget Modren, while you’re at it.’

Farden said nothing, he only glared. Durnus could feel the heat of his eyes. Nevertheless, he leant forward. There was urgency and emotion in his voice. ‘Yes, we’re all guilty of sending Loki to lie to you, Farden. We all wanted you back so desperately. Lies or truth, we would have told them both to make you return. Heimdall suggested it and we agreed, all of us except Elessi. And here you are.’

Farden shook his head. He could tell Durnus was elated by his return, Elated, but trepidatious, even though he hid it well. ‘Here I am,’ he echoed.

There was a question burning at the edge of the Arkmage’s tongue. He turned it loose. ‘So, you’re here to stay?’ he asked.

Farden was silent. He had been tricked, duped, coerced… sold a promise of stone that crumbled like chalk. Nonetheless, he
was
here. He had come back, after all this time. Farden rubbed his eyes. His exhausted mind was too fuzzy to grasp at a decision. Willingly or not, Elessi had been the catalyst that had dragged him from the mud. Now he stood, naked and filthy, amongst old friends, and strangely the only eyes that made him feel shame were hers. He would stay, if only to make it up to her. ‘I suppose I will,’ he mumbled.

Durnus leant back, trying to hide his relief. He did a good job of it. Farden finished the wine and put the bottle on the floor. The Arkmage clasped his hands together. ‘So many years to catch up on,’ he sighed. ‘Where do we start?’

‘Let’s skip to the end,’ Farden said. It hadn’t ever been shame or guilt that kept his lips from talking about what he had done; it was the simple truth that others didn’t need to know. Least of all Durnus, Tyrfing, and the others. Those dark nights were for him and him alone, and for the bloody ghosts that no doubt followed in his wake. Darkness that was best left alone. It had a habit of spreading, did darkness.

Durnus held his tongue. He and Tyrfing had sworn to let Farden settle in, to let him come to them with his explanations. He shrugged. ‘Then what shall we turn our tongues to, if not the past? The future? The wedding? Krauslung? Or to the bastion in the room?’

‘
Her
?’ Farden asked. Durnus nodded.

‘I was wondering how long it would take to broach that particular subject.’ Farden looked out at the dark sky behind the windows. ‘Six hours. I should have placed a wager.’

‘We cannot ignore her.’

‘No, but she can wait until the morning.’

‘And I’ve prayed that every night since you disappeared,’ said Durnus, then he shuffled around in his seat, uncomfortable because of more than just the chair. The carved and inlaid wood of his chair creaked as he fidgeted, like a musical accompaniment. ‘The subject is a wound with you,’ he said. ‘Better to let it breathe, than to let it fester.’

Farden snorted. ‘It’s been festering for fifteen years. If this subject was a wounded leg, then a healer would cut it off and be done with it.’

‘Well you tried that, and quite obviously it did not work, otherwise you would not be sitting here with me,’ Durnus countered with a snort of his own.

Farden went to stand. ‘Oh, it works alright. Let me show you.’

‘Sit down, Farden! I thought your exile might have changed you, like it did your uncle, but that stubborn streak of yours still burns brightly, doesn’t it?’

‘I came back because of Elessi,’ Farden replied, a half-lie, but a half-truth too.

‘Well, that hurts,’ said a voice. Another pair of feet had crept into the room, unnoticed in the heat of the conversation. The figure took a step out of the gloom. It was Tyrfing, arms crossed and stony-faced. He was wearing a blacksmith’s apron over a thin shirt and starched trousers, military-style. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, trekking down from his tangled hairline to his overgrown beard. He did not look happy. Farden didn’t blame him, but all he could do was shrug.

Tyrfing strode forward and found his own chair by the fire. He swivelled it around and sat backwards on it so that his elbows rested on its back. He stared straight at Farden, as if waiting for an answer. It was a while before anyone said anything.

Tyrfing finally broke the silence. The pained look hadn’t left his face, but Farden could tell he would leave the subject alone. ‘You look like hell, nephew.’

Farden had to smirk at that. ‘I probably do.’

‘And it smells like that bath never found you.’

‘No, I don’t think it did.’

‘And your finger…?’ Tyrfing’s voice trailed off.

Farden looked down and waggled the fingers of his left hand, all except one. ‘Vice’s goodbye.’

Tyrfing sighed. ‘What happened to you, nephew?’

Farden shook his head and let his eyes glaze over. A hundred scenes shuffled past his vision, dripping with blood and oily shadow. Scenes of gristle and bone and his knife tickling both. Scenes of guts and little glory, of all the different colours of flesh a blade could bare to him, red, pink, white and fatty yellow… of his knuckles embedded in crushed faces, of knife-points idly carving shapes in innocent stomachs, foreheads, cheeks… of teeth lying in puddles… He slowly moved his head from side to side, counting them all. He soon lost count. ‘Let’s leave that conversation for another night, shall we?’

Tyrfing looked to Durnus and the blind Arkmage nodded, somehow sensing Tyrfing’s questioning look. He sighed and threw his hands up in the air. ‘Fine.’

Farden quickly found another subject. ‘What’s with the apron?’ he asked.

Tyrfing pulled a confused face. ‘Don’t you remember?’

Farden scratched his nose. ‘There’re a lot of things…’ he trailed off. ‘It’s been a long time…’

Durnus interjected. ‘That it has.’ He reached out and grasped Farden by the shoulder. As did Tyrfing. Farden looked rather uncomfortable for a moment, sat there, being clasped by the shoulders by two men. But they were his oldest friends. Family. By every right they should be fuming, reading from the same script as Elessi, and yet here they were, simply happy to be in the same room as him for once. Farden let the weight lift slightly. He knew it would reappear by morning, but for now, he could let it go. He sighed.

‘We’re so glad you’re back, nephew,’ Tyrfing whispered hoarsely. He sounded tired. He coughed then and quickly turned away, covering his hand with his mouth. Durnus patted Farden on the shoulder.

‘Let us call it a night, shall we? We shall wait until tomorrow to wag our tongues.’

Farden nodded. He suddenly realised how tired he was. He got to his feet and felt the weakness in them. His body felt borrowed again, beaten.

Tyrfing also got to his feet. He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Ilios should have returned by then, with that friend of yours. Loki mentioned her.’

Farden had completely forgotten about Jeasin. He wondered how Ilios must have been faring. The poor gryphon would be exhausted by the time he returned. ‘Oh, she’s just a lump of baggage that I can’t get rid of,’ Farden had to chuckle to make it sound light-hearted.

‘How charming,’ smirked Durnus. As Tyrfing and Farden turned to go, Durnus raised a hand. Enclosed within a cage of bony fingers was a candle. ‘Farden?’ he asked. The mage turned. Tyrfing too. He looked at the candle and ran his teeth over his bottom lip. ‘Before you go,’ Durnus began, ‘could you light a few candles? For the maids, should they decide to disturb me.’

Farden looked at the candle as if it were a knife plunging into his side, wiggling its way through his ribs to nick his heart. ‘Er…’ he said. Durnus held the candle out so he could take it. Farden grudgingly did so. It felt like a bar of lead. He looked to Tyrfing, who was trying hard not to look utterly crestfallen. They already knew.