Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (53 page)

Modren turned slightly on his stool. ‘When did you start taking that red poison? After the Battle, I mean, not the years before.’

‘Elessi’s been telling stories, I see,’ said Farden. He rubbed his bearded chin as he tried to drag the memories from the fog. ‘Maybe a year after Krauslung.’

‘By Evernia, that’s a long time.’

‘Hence why I can’t feel whatever it is you want me to feel.’

‘Haven’t you heard the stories? The rumours? Seen the markets?’

‘I’ve seen the markets…’ Farden shrugged.

‘Something has happened to the magick in this world. As if it’s sprung a leak somewhere. It’s why the magick markets have exploded, and why we’re hearing more and more rumours of strange goings-on. Strange creatures appearing in the mountains and in the forests. Beasts talking, more than usual that is. People waking up and speaking spells they’ve never heard before, burning houses to the ground with a song. In the meantime, every single mage and Written has felt themselves grow stronger, almost like their abilities and their Books are just waking up. Do you know how many School recruits we’ve had to initiate over the last year?’

Farden shook his head.

‘Ten thousand. Peasants and foreigners are turning up at the gates in droves, showing magickal skills that they shouldn’t possess. We’ve had no choice but to take them in.’

‘So that’s what Malvus meant.’

‘But Malvus doesn’t know the half of it. We need them Farden, every single useless one of them.’

‘Why?’

Modren gave him a strange look. ‘To fight her.’

Farden sipped his ale.

The Undermage sipped too. A full minute went by as the two men stared at the rows of painted bottles standing like soldiers behind the bar. Amber liquids showed their faces where the paint and script had flaked. Some were as dark as varnish, and probably as strong. ‘You going to help us?’

Farden laughed. ‘And how exactly am I supposed to help?’ he asked. He didn’t mean to sound so callous, but it was the truth. He was about as much use as a paper sail. ‘Even if my magick still lives, I don’t know if I want it back.’

Modren pointed at Farden with the lip of his mug. He looked crestfallen. ‘It hurts to hear you, of all mages, say that.’

There was a clatter of feet outside a nearby window, and a trail of fire flew across the mottled pea-green glass. Torches, followed by the clank of mail and steel. A distant shout rang out. Something about Arkmage swine. Farden sighed and gulped half of his tankard down. The ale was disloyally exacerbating his headache and his aches, but he was nothing if not stubborn. It would numb him eventually. ‘You would say the same if your Book was to blame for
her
, for Vice, for all of that,’ Farden waved his hand at the window.

Modren rapped his knuckle on the brass bar-top and signalled Fash for another brace of ales. ‘Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t. You’re you, I’m me,’ he said, stamping an end on that trail of conversation. He could remember how his old friend worked.

Farden grunted. ‘Well said.’

‘As long as you can still wield a sword, I’ll be happy.’

Farden didn’t feel like he could wield a quill, never mind a blade, but he nodded nonetheless. He had to give his friend something. ‘What do these scars say?’ he said, jabbing a finger at his cheeks.

‘That you need to duck more?’

Farden grinned at that.

‘Durnus and Tyrfing told me you don’t want to talk about Albion, and whatever it is you did these last years. Though, knowing you and your tendencies, I can imagine.’

‘I bet you can. There’s only one thing we Written were bred for. And there’s plenty of that work in the Duchies.’

‘Well, all I can say is it made you even uglier. I didn’t think that possible,’ chuckled Modren, finding solace in a little humour. Farden was glad of it.

‘It’s like looking into a polished helmet, isn’t it?’ he countered, and the two banged their mugs together. ‘So,’ Farden said. ‘Marriage.’

‘That’s right,’ coughed Modren.

‘Never took you for the type. I never thought the Arkmages would let such a thing happen, if I’m honest.’ Farden sipped his ale.

‘The laws say not to breed. Don’t say anything about marriage.’

‘And Elessi is happy with that?’

Modren nodded matter-of-factly. ‘She is.’ There was a moment. Modren posed a question. ‘You know she had feelings for you, once?’ He had to add the “once.”

Farden let his lips hover in the foam of his beer for a while before shaking his head.

‘Well, she did.’

Farden cleared his throat. ‘If it bothers…’

Modren interrupted him with a hand. ‘It doesn’t. Never has. She’s got nothing but anger for you now, old friend.’

‘Hatred would probably be more accurate. And that explains a lot,’ Farden sighed. ‘Rather a lot, actually…’

‘Looks like she got what she wanted in the end, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A mage.’ Modren grinned. Farden chuckled. He could see a little of the unease sliding off his friend. He decided to change the subject, to keep the words flowing. ‘So where are the dragonriders? Or Eyrum? And where’s Lerel for that matter? Are they not invited?’

Modren tapped the side of his nose. ‘Lerel is, well, Lerel is just late. I’ll explain later. You won’t know what to make of it. As for the Sirens, we haven’t heard a peep from them in months. We send hawk after hawk and not a single reply in return. They must be busy battling with the ice. Last we heard it’d swallowed up another breeding ground. Let’s hope this spring helps.’

‘Undermage?’ ventured a voice standing behind them, a young voice by its tone.

Modren turned and saw a young mage standing at attention. He had a face spattered with orange freckles, a mop of curly hair, and eyes so bright they had probably never seen the darkness of a battle. He quickly threw up a salute. ‘I’m off duty, lad,’ said Modren.

‘ ‘pologies, Modren, sir, I just wanted to wish you the best of luck for tomorrow,’ he said. His eyes kept flicking to Farden.

Modren raised his tankard to the young man. ‘Why thank you, lad. What’s your name?’

‘It’s Bringlin, sir.’ His eyes were still stuck on Farden. Modren nudged his friend, and Farden turned to look the young man up and down. He was a keen-looking mage. Fresh out of the School. The young man stuck out a hand. ‘And may I say, sir, it’s an honour to meet you. We’ve heard a great many stories.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ grunted Farden, trying to be polite. He took the mage’s hand in his and shook it once. The man beamed.

‘A cheer for the Undermage and Farden!’ he announced. He raised his tankard and the whole of the tavern joined him. Modren and Farden nodded their thanks, though Farden felt himself pawing for his hood. Too much attention for a recovering hermit.

Before the young mage went back to his table, he leant close to Modren and lowered his voice to a murmur. ‘I’m part of the assignment for tomorrow. The Winter Regiment. There’s a lot of talk going ‘round sir. May I ask…’

‘That’s quite enough, thank you Bringlin,’ Modren cut him off. He reached into his pocket and brought out a coin, flicking it towards the mage. ‘Why don’t you get your table some ales on me, hmm?’ Modren turned back to the bar, leaving Bringlin to retreat, sheepish, and Farden to wonder.

‘What was that about?’

‘Nothing,’ Modren shook his head.

‘I’m not that drunk, Modren.’

‘Told you, it was nothing. Just loose lips in the barracks. You remember.’

‘Modren, what’s tomorrow aside from your wedding?’

The unease slid right back on. Modren put his tankard to his lips and drained the thing. He slammed it back on the bar, wiped his lips, and stepped from his stool. ‘Come. I’ve had enough of this place.’

Farden scowled, but did as he was told. He gulped down his ale and followed Modren to the door. The whole tavern got to its feet in salute, but the two men barely spared them so much as a wave. Out into the night they went, slamming the door behind them.

Outside, the air was tinged with a spring frost. The two men paused on the tavern’s steps to take in the night around them, staring up at the sky between the curving rooftops above. The moon was a bright coin rolling lazily across the south. A seagull had missed its bedtime. From a chimney pot, it cried to the frayed lengths of silver cloud splayed across the star-speckled sky.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’ asked Farden.

Modren rubbed his eyes, restoring a little of the clarity the half-dozen ales had stolen from him. ‘Nothing you need to know,’ he sighed. Farden stepped out onto the cobbles so he could face the Undermage. He stumbled into a passer-by as he did so, a young girl with a fountain of black hair and a pale face. Farden mumbled a quick apology to her as she hurried past, nursing a shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ he managed.

‘Don’t you worry,’ she whispered in a soft voice, without turning.

Farden watched her until she vanished down a nearby alleyway. When he turned back to confront Modren, he found him marching across the cobbles, towards the Arkathedral. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve already had my fill of secrets from those bastard gods and the others. I don’t wish for any more. Why would you need a regiment of mages at the wedding? What’s going on?’

Modren stayed silent.

Farden pressed him. Questions and answers rattled back and forth like heels on the cobbles. ‘What are you worried about?’

‘It’s just a precaution.’

‘Against what? Her?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t play the halfwit. It is her you’re worried about. You think she’s going to attack?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We don’t. We’re just being cautious.’

‘And how does Elessi feel about an army at her wedding?’

‘They won’t be… She… It doesn’t matter.’

Farden hiccuped, and said no more. Modren put a hesitant hand around his bony shoulder as they rounded a corner and came face to face with the Arkathedral. The giant fortress was painted orange and milky silver by the innumerable torches and the moon. ‘How do you feel about her?’

‘Who, Elessi, or my… her?’

‘Your daughter.’

There was a pregnant pause as Farden pondered. After the ale, it was like shouting a question into a wall of fog and waiting for an echo. ‘I don’t know,’ came his answer, as the forest of guards stationed at the Arkathedral’s huge gates parted to let them enter.

Modren took his arm from Farden’s shoulders. ‘What kind of answer is that?’

‘A truthful one. I don’t know her. I’ve never even met her.’

‘Don’t you realise what she’s been doing, Farden?’ Modren sounded angry.

Farden stopped dead in his tracks, halfway cross the cavernous atrium. ‘No, apparently I don’t.’

Modren kept his voice low, but it was tight and seething. ‘She’s killing mages, Farden. Written mages. Skinning the very Books from their backs and then disappearing without so much as an explanation.’

Farden kept walking, feeling the bite of anger in his stomach. ‘How do you know it’s her?’

‘Stories. Witnesses. We’ve followed her trail. Besides, who, or what, could kill so many of our Written with such ease? Where’s your ambivalence now, hmm?’ Modren challenged him. Farden didn’t reply. He scuffed his boots against the marble floor. ‘I thought so. Your girl’s a murderer, Farden. Pure and simple.’

Farden’s knuckles popped as he clenched his fists. ‘How many?’

‘Left or killed?’

‘Left.’

Modren looked wistfully at the ceiling. ‘There’s only twenty-eight of us left now, old friend. All safe and sound behind the city walls, waiting for their revenge. Gods have mercy if she tries anything here.’

The coin dropped for Farden. ‘Bait,’ he said, making Modren flinch. ‘You’re using the wedding to draw her out, aren’t you?’ It was Farden’s turn to sound angry. It was an all-out play. A gamble. Power for power. Draw her in when they were ready, and see what she was made of. Who cares that it was a wedding.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about…’

‘Does Elessi know?’

The Undermage began to walk away. Farden raised his voice. He didn’t care about the people around them; guards, servants, mages, residents of the Arkathedral, milling around the atrium like rich folk on market day. ‘Does Elessi know?’ he shouted after Modren, his hoarse voice echoing damningly.

Modren swivelled on his toe and came marching back. He grabbed Farden by the shoulder and wrenched him close, so close they could share the smell of ale on their breath. ‘You shut your mouth!’ he snapped. He looked around. People were staring.

‘Does she know?’

Modren stared at the floor. ‘She might suspect…’

Farden spoke slowly, his tone dangerous. ‘Your own wife-to-be, Modren. Your own wedding. Bait for a war. Just a worm on a hook. How fucking noble of you,’ he growled. With a snarl, he shrugged himself free of the tight grip and stormed up the stairs, boots squeaking against the polished marble. Modren had to jog to keep up with him.

‘Farden, stop!’

‘How dare you use her like this,’ Farden was ranting, looking around for more stairs.

‘Stop!’

‘You three have gone too far with this. It’s despicable. It’s ridiculous. It’s dangerous and stupid. It’s…’ Farden ran out of adjectives. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, swaying ever so slightly. He couldn’t deny the wave of nausea that swept through him. The alcoholic numbness he had been so eagerly waiting for had finally began to seep into his bones, but it was making him feel worse, not better.
Not now
, he told it.

A strong hand grabbed his arm. ‘If you calm down, I’ll take you to her,’ Modren hissed in his ear.

‘You’re damn right you will.’

Modren pointed in the general direction of up. ‘She’s in our room.’

Farden waved a hand up the stairs. ‘After you,’ he said.

Modren muttered something dark to himself and took the stairs two at a time. He led Farden across a short landing, and then up another winding waterfall of marble steps. Up, they strode, further and further into the Arkathedral. The torches and lamps were being snuffed by the servants. The corridors and hallways grew dark as Modren steered Farden towards his wife-to-be. They said nothing. Farden silently fumed and collected his words, while Modren just let the clattering plod of their booted steps form a decision in his mind.