Dreams of Darkness Rising (17 page)

He paused at the fragmented mural on the east wall; its tiny ceramic pieces flaked onto the flagstones. Artorians had not been lovers of paintings and tapestries in the way the Eerians had been. Instead they had depicted scenes of valour and war in vast intricate murals. This one was of a great battle, perhaps the subjugation of his country. He could see the faded kings bowing to the might of the Artorian war machine, a metal onslaught cast in the forges of mighty Erturia. 

Yet the Empire was long gone: fragmented, shattered and now but a dusty memory for the history tomes. It had been destroyed by the greed of its rulers, finished by a civil war that had ended with cataclysmic magic in its very core.

Aldred stroked the tiles of the mural, feeling the rough edges under his fingers. As ever the Thetorians had survived, their royal lineage returned to power after centuries of living as minor nobility to the Emperor’s governors and custodians. The lineage stretched into the mists of time, back to King Thetoria the First. Their nation had been founded in the ashes of the Trimenal lands, a vast country split by the two Wars of Brothers into becoming Goldoria, Feldor and Thetoria.

Aldred smiled as he considered that many centuries of marriage and inter-marriage had linked almost every noble house of Thetoria with the other such that Aldred was probably eight hundredth in line to the throne.

Bored now, Aldred turned to exit the keep and return through the bailey to his horse. Like one huge family, he mused, and like one huge family it squabbled incessantly. Barons fought barons over lands whilst dukes played their games at court and the king did as he fancied, leaving the scraps for the nobility like an elder brother would leave hand me down clothes. His vainglorious children Dulkar, Altred, Meara and Gwyn played with courtiers’ lives as if in a game of Kirit’s eye then fought each other at any opportunity. Aye, Thetorians liked to fight, whether against Goldoria over mines or with each other in pointless battles and duels. They were never far from a good scrap.

Aldred emerged into the bailey and then froze, his hand slipping to his long sword. Atop the crumbling wall was a large bird, its ebony eyes staring at him. A trickle of fear ran down his spine: it was a black-hawk. The size of a bird of prey, its feathers were the colour of charcoal and its beak a wicked hook of black pain. The old tales he recalled from his wet nurse spoke that the birds were born from the souls of murderers, so foul that the Dukes of the Pale would not give them succour in their halls.

Aldred stared at the large bird and noticed it had a tiny scroll tied around its leg. Curiosity got the better of his wisdom and Aldred stooped and grabbed a stone then slung it at the bird. The bird took flight as if anticipating the missile and the rock clattered along the wall.

Aldred vaulted across the boulders and out to his horse, cursing his poor aim. The black-hawk was flying towards the distant River Eviks that traversed the barony. The river ran from the Khullian Hills past the castle, past Eviksburg and then east to the neighbouring baronies and ultimately south to Birin.

He rode his horse down the slope but the bird had gone. At the base of the hill he found a track that wound between fields occupied only by corn stubble and occasional grasslands. The serfs knelt as he passed but Aldred did not acknowledge them, occupied as he was by his own thoughts.

After an hour he saw Livor waiting patiently at Ungor’s Common, situated on the north bank of the river. His friend waved and greeted him as he approached.

“Ho, Aldred! It would seem that even my meek steed manages a better time than your royal bred stallion. Did you doze in the old fort?”

Aldred gestured at the gathering clouds that were darkening the lands around them.

“I though it prudential to return before we were obliged to swim home. I didn’t want you to ruin your best riding clothes. After all I’d hate for you to show me up when we go to Thetoria in the new year.”

“My lord father may not have the wealth of the baron, but he shall provide me with enough finery to charm the city girls. Besides you shall have three years to try outdo me with the ladies there!”

Aldred’s moody face broke into a grin. The prospect of going to Thetoria City for three years to complete his education was the beacon at the end of his gloomy life at the castle. The pair rode from the common, following the track that ran west to the castle along the riverside.

“Maybe we could find a temptress to put a smile on the face of Quigor?” Livor said. “Draw him from his catacombs to the warm thighs of a woman!”

Aldred laughed at the jest and tried to imagine the pasty flesh of his father’s advisor entwined with that of a buxom city girl.

“I fear he would find more pleasure in the crumbling limbs of the cemetery’s residents,” Aldred said. 

The two lads chuckled as their horses galloped into the grounds of Blackstone Castle, its walls looming high above the river that lay at its feet. They slowed to cross the Blackstone Bridge which arched over the wide River Eviks and trotted onto the stones of the main road that ran from the castle to Eviksburg.

Blackstone Castle lay on the south bank of the wide river like a slumbering mountain giant. Its dark walls had stood for a millennium, erected in the time of the First Empire to guard the north-west corner of Thetoria against the goblins and ogres that teamed in the mountains. Its outer curtain wall was wide, encircling a vast grassy bailey in the centre of which stood the main castle. This sat atop a small hill and comprised of a collection of towers and turrets that reached high into the air above the lower keep and halls. Having been added onto over the centuries its structure was confusing at times. It reflected the fancies of the many barons who had ruled from here during the changing times of Thetoria.

Its black stone made for many shady corners. They had never seemed sinister to Aldred as a boy but in the wake of his mother’s death the shadows had grown deeper. Something had happened during the baron’s forage into the hills and his mood had never lifted since.

Two months later Quigor had arrived to take on the role of advisor after Helgint, the baron’s old counsel, had abruptly retired to the town of Eviksburg. Quigor had some connection with Baron Enfarson’s second cousin, a merchant in South Artoria whom Aldred had only heard referred to as ‘the runt.’ With Quigor there seemed to arrive a gloom at the castle, as if the stones were sapping the delight and life from its inhabitants. In fact when his father had suggested he finish his education in Thetoria City he positively leapt at the chance to leave his home.

The pair came through the gatehouse in the outer wall and trotted across the green. They passed the small collection of houses in the bailey, ascended the slope of Garan’s Motte and continued through the inner gatehouse of the keep. They dismounted in the courtyard and handed the bridles and reins to the two stable boys who waited shyly.

“M’lord, the baron asked for you to attend him when you returned,” one said, staring at the cobbles of the yard.

“That’s fine, err… Hinkir,” Aldred said. “Make sure Greymane is brushed down, the long grass irritates him.”

“M’lord,” the boy said and lead the horse off to the stable. Aldred clapped Livor on the shoulder and strode in through the entrance hall, slipping off his cloak and tossing it on a vacant chair. He was sweaty from riding so undid the top few buttons on his shirt and took the stairs two at a time. He ascended rapidly to the second floor and then froze as he passed a slit like window.

Perched on the tip of the south tower was the black-hawk. It was resting beneath the flag that bore the banner of the House of Enfarson: a black castle on a gold field. It preened its feathers, oblivious to or uncaring of his attention. Aldred cursed once more, turned to ascend to his father and ran straight into the slight figure of Quigor.

Aldred let out a yell in surprise and then jumped back at the furious glance that Quigor shot him. In an instant the expression was replaced by a sly smile, so rapidly that Aldred began to doubt he had even seen the glower.

“Always in such a rush, my lord. The impetuousness of youth, how I long for its thrill,” he said.

“Master Quigor. You move like a shadow around my father’s castle.”

“There are many shadows in the dark stone. I seek only to diminish their toll on your father’s heart.”

Quigor was shorter than Aldred, with lank ginger hair that trailed from his shiny bald crown. His eyes were a light brown—not the warm brown of the earth but rather the mottled brown of rust. He was an Azaguntan and this fact did nothing to endear him to the baron’s friends and troops.

He glanced out of the window. “I see you have spotted a black-hawk, my lord. What a magnificent bird it is. I am sure you concur?”

“They are said to be ill omens in Thetoria, master Quigor, not that this house needs any more of those.”

“In Azagunta we believe they are dispatched by Engin to symbolise a time of change. Perhaps it comes to wish you well on your journey.”

“My journey? I am not sure I understand you, Quigor?”

“Oh how careless of me. I do beg your pardon. Your father is to send you to Thetoria City earlier than planned. This weekend it would seem. But I’ll allow you to hear it from his lips. By your leave…”

Quigor bowed and then slipped away down the steps.

Aldred’s mind whirled as he took in the news. Part of him was glad to be rid of this mausoleum that passed for a home yet another part ached at the ease with which his father sought to send him away. Did he feel pain inside when he saw Aldred’s face, a face so like that of his mother? Or had his love been replaced with something darker and more consuming?

Aldred ascended the stairs contemplating Quigor’s words. Like it or not the Azaguntan was correct: it was all going to change.

***

The opportunity came to Emelia more easily than she had been expecting. Her mind had been racing all morning, entertaining a dozen fabrications and schemes to try to get to the upper floors whilst the steel within her soul remained sharp. Mother Gresham had kept the girls so busy that none had time to brood and in the bustle of allocating tasks she had received an order for refreshments to be taken to the upper Keep.

Emelia had stepped forward, rather too keenly but Mother Gresham looked too weary to argue. A flicker of guilt came to Emelia as she ascended the stairs. It was possible that the rotund matron may well catch some of the brunt of the inevitable furore that she was about to unleash.

Her athletic legs took two steps at a time, hastening to the third floor in which the lord’s chambers began. The numerous halls, rooms and studies that the Ebon-Farrs occupied were spread over the third to fifth floors of the building. Emelia paused at the landing, catching her breath and steadying her heartbeat.

A figure further down the long corridor that ran perpendicular from the landing made her linger and then step back into the concealment offered by a tarnished suit of armour. Lord Ebon-Farr was thirty feet away and stood at a door with no apparent handle. He had extracted a golden key on a leather thong from his shirt but rather than use it on this unusual door he simply spoke his name. The door swung open with a faint glow, like the glint of moonlight on a pool. The door closed and sealed silently behind him once he had passed through. With a start she recalled the conversation with the Arch-mage she had overheard: that must be the room situated below his day chamber.

Emelia continued on her journey, thinking little more of Lord Ebon-Farr but rather of his son Uthor. A nag of doubt was in the back of her mind; how did she think this whole scenario would play out? What would make anyone actually care what she said? Servants were rarely permitted to say anything at all in the same rooms as the nobility.

It matters not, she thought. I do this for my friend and for the life that was stolen away from her.

Emelia was stood outside the door of the lord’s day chamber before she knew it, awaiting the arrival of the refreshments within the dumb waiter. Her heart was pounding now and she steadied herself on the firm wood of the sideboard. The platter arrived with a creak of rope and Emelia took a deep breath, then had a sudden strange sensation that someone was stood besides her watching her. She looked around in confusion, praying to Torik that this time her mind would not let her down and make her flee. She had this task to do, to lay Sandila’s soul to rest. She rubbed the smooth hard edges of her shell pendant nervously. She wished, not for the first time, that she were back on that golden beach with her parents and her sister. Emelia removed the tray from the cavity and then knocked before entering.

The day chamber was much the same as it had been six weeks ago in Harvestide. The rich smell of wood smoke filled the chamber. Even with the fire on full blaze Emelia suppressed a shudder at the chill demeanour of the chamber. Its décor included bleak tapestries and rows of shields and swords mounted on its walls.

In the centre sat Uthor, sprawled idly and lost in thought as he stared at the flickering fire. He was attired in a black and silver padded long shirt, the garb of the Knights of the Air. He sipped a beaker of red wine, its tannins staining his mouth with a vampyric smile. The silver of his hair gave him a cold and harsh look despite his handsome features.

Uthor barely spared a glance as she entered the chamber. Emelia’s yarkel wool pinafore felt stifling in the heat from the fire. Her scalp itched with the grease and ash.

He gestured nonchalantly at the table. “Put it there and be gone.”

Emelia walked to the set of tables by the high backed chairs and lowered the tray. The two bottles of red wine had made it a heavy load. Nine years of habitual deference glued her eyes to the floor and she began to shuffle back. Then she halted and stared at him, her eyes narrowed.

Uthor became aware of her presence after about half a minute; his lip was curled as he turned his head. His glare melted into one of curiosity as he recognised the unusual glitter of her eyes and saw her face contorted in disdain.

“What in Torik’s chill peaks is the meaning of this, girl?”