Tenebrae Manor (23 page)

"Hear my plan," continued Crow. "Edweena and I propose a watch. With the able bodies of the manor, we take shifts circumnavigating the house and fighting back any interrogation - be it golem or those trees strangling the place to the ground."

"Do what you will."

"I plan to but know that you are not exempt. With the spells you boast, you should help us - many of us have only physical strength."

Libra moaned irritably, though she feigned enough acceptance of Crow's proposal that he seemed pleased.

"Edweena and I shall head two regiments. Rune is the only incapable resident. I would ask that you release Deadsol from imprisonment so he can assist us. I know not what has become of Bordeaux, though I've little doubt you have something to do with it. Relinquish him as well! Will you help me, Libra?"

"Is that all?" sighed Libra.

Crow held his tongue behind gritted teeth. "I hope to hear from you."

With a flutter of his cape, Crow left Libra to the dust and cobwebs of her musing.

Her temperament successfully flustered, Libra continued on towards her room. Such was the expanse of Tenebrae Manor that the densely packed rooms could be compared to the suburbs of a greater city.

Sidling through a gallery of paintings, she bemoaned her crippled status with the fierce portraits of former royalty.

They are no longer threatened by me.

The peril that surrounded the mansion had relegated her to the lesser menace, the smaller of two evils.

She passed by a somewhat ironic sunroom, whose comforts had never been adored. Even her banishment of Bordeaux and Deadsol had failed to strike fear in them.

When Libra had gone through the small study and its collection of idle bookshelves, she knew she was almost there. Libra did not want the responsibility. Hitherto she had hidden behind her prominent power, delegating to others; the idea of showing admirable sovereignty in this hour of need filled her with dissatisfaction - this was not the reign Libra had designed for herself.

The final stairs to her room loomed insurmountable before her. But with a flush of bitter frustration, paired by considering herself worthy of a momentary reprieve, she hurled herself upwards and closed her doors.

26: Adventures Afar

Adrift along the reeds that wove

Their tendrils on the silver cove,

A stranger stood aghast and mused

Upon the paths pursued.

A fright of fear and fraught with worry

Or be it optimistic flurry

Hurries on impatient wing

Bound for home or foreign fling?

The effect of sunlight on Bordeaux's physical being was one of crippling lethargy, a sapping of energy that meant he sat quite motionless on the dunes for several hours. As the midday sun burned down on his back, he lay in the maze of wind swept grey grass and observed the tricks of the light. It threw the shadows of grass stalks across the gold sand and gave the impression of tiger stripes; so accentuated were these shadows, that Bordeaux was engrossed by memories long past and, in his daze, the hours flew by in minutes.

             
He could not say how long it had been since he had last swum through the daylight. It was only once the sun had drifted past its pinnacle and begun to glide back down to the horizon that he felt sufficient enough strength to rise up and consider his situation.

             
The sea was magnificent; its great and heaving body sprawled across the expanse of the planet. And just when it seemed that the blue beast were about to rise up and swallow everything, its energy would wane and the waves would crash back down onto the shore with bubbled hiss. The lax nature of the ocean in some ways settled the heart of Bordeaux but the utter freedom now at his disposal presented a bigger problem. He now stood in the aftermath of chaos and though he was separated entirely from the dire predicament of Tenebrae Manor, there still remained the question of what he was now to do.

             
Knowing that the peril upon his old home persisted and that he was in possession of the likely solution, filled him with an urgent desire to race back to the mansion and rescue its residents from oblivion. Responsibility told him that such a rescue mission should be placed at the zenith of priorities. But how in the world could he do as such? On this foreign coastline, bereft of civilization, the horizon stretched in all directions. And to just assume that any random choice of direction would lead him back to Tenebrae was foolish. He would most certainly need a plan, yet the difficulties involved in locating himself and the manor invoked another idea.

             
The creeping relief of freedom teased at Bordeaux, it whispered to him that this was his chance. The world stood at his feet. He could forget Tenebrae Manor; forget the night, his friends and his post. A new life of change and endless possibility lay before him, though when he smiled at the idea of wayfaring, he swiftly turned to frowning. What point was there in him floating from place to place; like driftwood in these vast seas? Had Bordeaux not settled at Tenebrae to get away from such a life, to cast down an anchor in the night tide?

And to what point did he do anything? In such a large expanse, Bordeaux had never felt so trapped. At that moment, his entire life seemed futile and meaningless, his years but a chasing of the winds. The world turned, the orbs rose and set as had always done, yet now this sunlight, so beautiful to him a few hours earlier, now shone down with a certain staleness that exposed all the coldness of his feelings of isolation. There it hung at the sky's zenith; the pinnacle light bleeding onto the earth and leaving shadow with little place to hide. It cared not for Bordeaux's presence and it had not missed him through the centuries spent in eternal night.

Perhaps he had outstayed his welcome on the earth. As a demon he could not die, though he could destroy himself. The curse of his immortality plagued at Bordeaux's mind; would he dare take his own life? Age would not annihilate him. Were he to embrace a different kind of darkness, it would have to be by his own or another's hand. With him as a spirit, though miles away in physicality, the manor would fall with him. Those others doomed to wander the earth immortal would be homeless and left open to exposure.

No! He would not abandon his friends! So long as his consciousness remained rooted to this tangible reality, he would endure. If only for those he had governed in the darkness, he would deliver - such must be his purpose. The words of Lady Libra echoed in his ears;
Eternity is a frightfully long time to spend alone…

Bordeaux stood up with renewed vigour and turned his back on the ocean. As he climbed through rugged sea cliffs and away from the beach, he planted in his mind the seed of an idea that he could only hope would blossom. If he were any hope of finding Tenebrae Manor again, he would need to first uncover a civilization of any kind. A town, a village - even one person who could speak and understand him would help.

The sun set on his first day in exile and with the rising moon came a gush of acclimatized energy. Soon he found himself atop the sea cliffs on a sort of plateau and moving quickly along its grassy top with increasing speed.

****

The open plain that draped itself in gentle slope settled the fretful Bordeaux and seemingly instilled a greater mobility upon him. It was as though the weight of his angst had eased and he was running for some time without fatigue as a result. Eventually, the terrain began to resist him, the grass grew thicker, the soil boggier and soon enough he found himself trudging through an oozy marshland. The moon was beginning to set and as the bruised sky lit up its corners, Bordeaux knew the dawn would arrive again in time. He cursed the slowing of his trek, for his apprehension increased with it and winced at the sight of his leather shoes becoming impossibly caked with mud. Pedant to a fault, he could not stand the sight of an unkempt personal appearance.

He sighed as he trudged, the shoulders of his burgundy coat crisp with salt, having earlier wrung the ocean from its fibers. Pungent morass surrounded him on all sides like a vast stretch of cloth thrown to the floor. The hillocks rose and fell unchanged in their treeless covering of swampy grass, given definition only by the shadows that sighed between them. The wind whispered by with ease and when the plain seemed to contract with dizzying inhale, the wind would change and the hills would bloat again with sickening distention.

Thus the day passed again. Twilight had dissipated into the blackness of evening when Bordeaux began to consider stopping for rest. His heart fluttered with hopelessness, surely this would be his end; trapped in impenetrable isolation. Yet a thread of hope would presently appear before him. It fashioned itself as a ribbon of road and fence running parallel and breaking the monotony of the endless and empty miles of marsh.

Bordeaux stared blankly; this road, though simple in its windings, readily became the first sign of advanced development he had seen in centuries; Tenebrae aside. It lay convex, an elevated portion of gravel and ran alongside a stone fence that came up to Bordeaux's waist.

Running a nail of his emaciated hand over the rough brick of wall he shuddered and ruminated another direction. The road stretched its arm either side of him and as far as his vision permitted. It separated the marshy hills like a natural border, leading the crimson demon to believe himself to be a pinhead stuck down onto an enormous map.

In a moment, the flush of panic enveloped him again, for he knew not which way down the road he should take. But soon as he readily reassured himself of the major purpose of any road - namely to connect two places, he realised that it did not matter which way he chose. As such, he set out in the direction that altered his trajectory more obtusely than the other.

****

To feel the solid ground underfoot proved welcome relief to the tiring Bordeaux. Ever onward he trudged, his pace soon becoming a weary drag and he took on the guise of one somnambulating. The sun rose again, however he took little notice of it. Rolling itself to the highest point in the oceanic sky and shining down onto his pale forehead, Bordeaux was able to discern that he must be headed in a southerly direction. He recalled the subtle things he had forgotten; the daylight calls of birds, the verdant reflection of light shimmering off tufts of grass greener than he could remember. But most prominently he recalled how quickly the time flew when he had both night and day dividing it.

He refused to stop in his wanderings. Though hunger and fatigue gnawed at his body, he persisted until nightfall came around again and with it, another revelation. When the hills had taken on their violet cloak given them by the darkness and the stars had lit their lanterns and hung as silent observers, Bordeaux noticed a light glowing in the distance. A dull glow of orange that, given the vast range of vision around him, must have still been several miles off if it were indeed what he thought it to be - a campfire. He had at first dismissed the light as a trick of his fraying consciousness, though the further he walked, the larger the glowing grew until there was no denying it to be a small fire. A fire which, as he crept closer in the darkness, presented itself as the centerpiece of a camp site of two travelers.

Around the flames they sat, casting lengthy shadows that exaggerated the minimal bulk of the pair. Bordeaux crouched so that the lengthy grass concealed him, paying no heed to the repugnant smell given off by the proximity of mud.

Two men, one much older than the other, huddled quietly about their little fire, which gave shape to the cart and horses that stood reined by the roadside. Bordeaux lay still for some time, the men none the wiser to the stranger in their presence. Both were dowdy, forgettable in appearance and no doubt peasants or simple workmen. The older man, with shoulders weighted heavily with age, plucked at the knots in his unkempt beard with a blade; his friend, an equally disheveled youth, stoked the flames with a stick. The scent of soup permeated the air and overran the odours of the marsh, channeling from a kettle that hung over the fire. The smell taunted Bordeaux and he readily mused over a course of action.

Surely these two strangers would assist a fellow vagabond lost in the marshes. The play unfolded in his mind; he would approach them and pledge peace and they would permit him to travel with them. Perhaps they could then inform him of his whereabouts and with such a basis, Bordeaux might be able to discover the way back to Tenebrae Manor.

Just as he was about to rise from the reeds and approach, he stole back in a flash on an impulse of realisation. Having heard the sound, the youth turned his head from the fire and scanned the vicinity but the shadows concealed the demon efficiently.

Bordeaux reached for his temple and probed at the arisen issue - his horns. He was not dissimilar to the men in any other way, however the two curled protuberances, small though they were, would instantly give himself away as a character of suspicion. Bordeaux had dealt with simple-minded villagers in ages past, many times evading the accusations of his demoniac notions through varying measures. He wondered whether times had changed since he had been at Tenebrae. The year was unknown to him, the culture of the outside world completely alien. Perhaps it would not be an issue?

No, he could not risk it and with no means to cover his small horns, he was at a loss to determine the right action. He would not need to decide, for another problem arose when the old man suddenly opened his mouth and muttered to his companion - they did not speak in a language Bordeaux understood.

They spoke in short bursts, with Bordeaux unable to denote the pauses between certain words so that their voices slurred into an unintelligible drone. The crimson demon focused intently; it was not in French that they spoke, nor any of the Latin based tongues. No, this was something different.

Although he could not be sure, Bordeaux assumed the language to be that of a Slavic decent. The assumption proved to be of little help; not only did he remain unaware of his location, he could in no way inquire of the two gentlemen before him. Deadsol had been of Russian decent; Bordeaux had often heard him speak the harsh tongue and pen the Cyrillic letters but even though there were similarities in the strangers' accents, he was not sure.

Bordeaux realised that his best bet would be to hide himself amongst their cargo and travel in secrecy. He circumnavigated the campsite, keeping at a distance that left him in the darkness. Cursing the sound of his legs swaying through the grass, he scooped up a pile of mud and hurled it away from him, so that the thud caught the attention of the wayfarers. They turned towards the noise and spoke to each other. The horses brayed uncomfortably and in the minor commotion of it all, Bordeaux threw his body onto the cart and hid amongst the load of barrels and sacks that sat there.

****

He had fallen into a fitful slumber. Aptly covered by a tarpaulin, Bordeaux awoke to the rocking of the cart as it rumbled down the road. The sun pierced through the fabric of his covering and stung his lethargy into play yet again. His stomach nagged with hunger and he could see a sack in front of him with a small tear in it, where a handful of grain that Bordeaux assumed to be rice poured through. He lifted his head quietly; the wayfarers had their backs turned to the cargo and were chatting to each other as the horses carried on. The scenery had not changed; the swampy hills carried on for miles around with the wind whistling so loudly that he could scarcely hear anything else.

But when Bordeaux had eagerly shoved the rice into his mouth, he noticed something peculiar that made him gag. Perhaps it was that he had not eaten in so long, or that the grain he ate was hardly nourishing, or more likely; that the carriage was traveling back the way he had come the day before. He felt at a loss; for how long would he be trapped in these marshes? The miles he had covered on foot yesterday were for naught, now that the cart drove in the opposite direction. Defeated, he let his head fall back down and again fell into a restless sleep.