The Iron Ship (54 page)

“How poetic.”

“One is a writer. My facility with acts of will began to manifest itself a few years later, when I was nine. Moving objects, minor discharges of lightning when I was angry, that kind of thing. I kept it secret as long as I could. I was as damaged by my twin’s loss as my mother was, in my way. You see, I inherited much from her, including her anxieties. I became afraid of the dark. I would not sleep. I was consumed by guilt for my brother’s death. That was when my affliction began.”

“An affliction?”

“Our ancestors would have thought me tormented by demons. But I was examined by magister and physic both and this was shown not to be the case. There was nothing uncanny pursuing me, at least not in the beginning. I have an imbalance of the nerves. I am plagued by intrusive images of violence and sex, often combined. A need to forestall my performing these actions—which I hasten to add I have no desire to perform and am indeed repulsed by—forces upon me endless and repetitive rituals. It is a only matter of anxieties let free. But...” he shrugged. Now he was talking openly about it, it did not seem so terrible a thing, and he felt mildly foolish. “Ordinarily, this is a curse upon he who bears it, but no more than that. But, in conjunction with my facility... Well. Magic is a matter of will, and my will is not my own. Left unfettered, the thoughts that plague me repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Now, magisters and wild wizards both must learn to harness this, to bend the world to the shape of their choosing, either with ritual assistance, or by sheer will alone. But to me it comes naturally.”

“How intriguing.” She leaned forward, fascinated.

“Far from it, because I cannot control my anxiety, my obsessions. And as these tend towards the calamitous...” He sat suddenly up. “The incident you refer to, when I nearly killed my brother Aarin. That was the result of this unfortunate confluence of gift and affliction. I stopped myself just in time. He bears the scar of my insanity, a blinded eye.”

He became thoughtful and stared into the fire. “It was then that I was forced to tell. I confessed all, mostly, in floods of tears to my father. What made it all the worse was that he was
pleased
that I had such power. Not troubled that I had maimed my brother. All he could see was the potential for the family’s advancement with a magister among its fold. Well, he was disappointed. The magisters judged me too dangerous for the college, and there are precious few masters of the old craft remaining in the world. My will is strong, but my volition not under my control. My mother would not have me sent off to prentice to some madman in a cave, although she endlessly raises the subject of the Magisterial University. My father was forced to pay for the binding of Tyn here to protect me and others from my madness. He disperses any ill effects from my anxieties before they can do real harm. You see, countess, I have the air of a sane man, but I am not. I am dangerous.”

Her next question surprised him. “What manner of thoughts do you suffer?”

He turned it over in his mind. Would he tell her of the endless parade of murders, rapes, mutilations, incest, and other vileness that tormented him when he was unsettled? No, he would not. “I will not tell you. I cannot. They are my shame alone.”

He was relieved when she let the matter drop.

“My father and I have not seen eye to eye for a long time. I am estranged from my family. And I am glad for it, for without me they are safe.”

“You do not wish them harm.”

“Of course not! But what I have created does.”

The atmosphere prickled, invested with an expectant will. Tyn shifted in his slumber.

Guis’s voice dropped. “I said that nothing pursued me to begin with, despite my fears. Alas, those fears bore fruit. All this worry has taken a form. I call it the Darkling. It comes when I am possessed by any of the less noble sentiments. I thought for a time that it was the ghost of my twin. Then I came to realise that my brother would not have begrudged me these years I have had and he has not. He was properly ghosted, in any case. Sadly, my dwelling upon this possibility gave my fears form. The thing is, I am sure, fashioned from guilt and fear that I will suffer his fate, from the happiness that I did not. It is every bad thing I have ever thought. I am, I think, a not entirely pleasant man. I suppose I should be thankful I have this problem, or I would have been a scourge on those around me. I came to realise that the dark thing in the night is not my dead brother, but the living me. This is my true burden.” He became grim. “I have worked hard to best it. I decided that if I conquered my anger, then I would conquer the world!” He smiled ironically.

“Is it working?”

“Somewhat. I have less to fear from my other half than I did. I see it now only at moments of extreme emotion.”

She fell silent, looked down. “Can I see it?”

“Are you serious?”

“The wine is within you. It will strengthen you. Bring it forth. Let me see.”

A suspicion hit Guis. “Did you bring me here for this? Has this been your intention all along?”

“I have shown you my work. Show me yours. Listen to your own words! You talk in this maudlin way, and yet here you are, a man on the brink of success won against the wishes of his father, a man who has bested tragedy. Why should you be afraid of a shadow?” She came to him, spread her skirts and knelt on the floor before him. “I speak in earnest, Guis.”

Guis was uneasy, but set his glass down nonetheless. “If you insist. Who am I to deny my hostess her pleasure?”

The countess poured wine into Guis’s glass and took it up herself.

“How do you begin?”

“I do not know. I have not attempted to do this before.”

“Truly?”

“I have thought to, but not dared. You provoke my courage.”

He held his hand out in front of him, and closed his eyes.

How had it come to him in past times? Encouraged by wrath, and envy, and lust, and shame. He put these things aside. He grasped the slippery surface of his will, that treacherous part of his mind that would not do his bidding. Tonight, he would make it obey. The regard of the countess encouraged him. He found her as repulsive as he did attractive. He would be roundly mocked if he bedded her, but he felt himself sliding toward that eventuality anyway. He realised he wanted it, he was letting it happen. He had positioned himself so that it would; a mere relinquishment of agency would see the mechanism of circumstance do its work. By doing so he could convince himself he was absolving himself of responsibility.

And so he let the Darkling happen.

He did not see it come, but the room grew hot and heavy and the countess drew in her breath. “A darkness, gathering in the corner. Does it arrive?”

“Yes,” he said. A tremor ran through the core of his being. It twisted, a thing alive, eager to be free. He would not relinquish his grasp. His hand out ahead of him was unneeded. The struggle was within, his heart was a door to places outwith. He groaned, and it was with elation. He was in control.

He dared open his eyes. The Darkling grew in the corner. Shadows rippled around it. The shape came quickly. What was visible of the walls through the murk of its birthing warped. The Darkling tossed its head and shrieked angrily.

Tyn awoke in a fury, and sharply yanked at Guis’s hair. “What are you doing? Send it away! It should not be called!”

Guis pulled his hair from the Tyn’s grasp. “You see he says I should send it away? He acknowledges I have some influence over it.” Triumph swelled his pride.

The Darkling throbbed, its shape distending. Long arms stretched, reaching for the countess and Guis. They curled back, foiled by an invisible barrier.

“Ha!” he shouted excitedly. “See Tyn, I have the measure of it. Look at it squirm!”

“Not enough, master! You call it with intent, and so I have little power over it. Send it away before it is too late!”

The Hag’s eyes sparkled. Her wine cup hovered just below her mouth, her lips were parted. Guis bathed in her fascination of him. He held the Darkling, ignoring the sweat pricking his skin.

“Is it oracular? Will it reveal things, the way the dead will to the Guiders. Or the demons of old did to the wild wizards in the days before Res Iapetus?”

“I don’t know, I have never tried.” He was becoming dizzy. The effort of holding the Darkling was growing.

“Do not talk to it! Do not! Do not!” squealed Tyn. It pawed at Guis’s face, scratching him.

“We should listen to him. We have to send it back.” He panted the words. This was harder than he had expected.

With an effort that threatened to burst his heart, he attempted to cast it back whence it came. “Begone!” he yelled. “Begone!”

The shadow being wavered. The countess stood.

“You are a magister indeed! Bravo!”

Guis’s face twisted. Something was going wrong. The Darkling pushed back. His breath came fast, he unconsciously clawed his outstretched hand. The corner of the room where the Darkling stood darkened, and it grew anew.

“Tyn,” he said. “Tyn!”

“
Yeee!
You cannot do it! And now I suffer for your foolishness. Curse the day I was ever made your slave.”

The Tyn’s eyes flashed bright. It ground its tiny teeth together. The iron collar at its neck spat sparks. Smoked wisped where it contacted Tyn’s skin.

“Out! Out! Out!” shrieked the Tyn. Guis redoubled his efforts. The countess remained watching, her interest untainted by fear.

A rending sounded, the grind of stone turning slowly on trapped flesh. The Darkling keened. The air changed density suddenly. Rapidly the Darkling shrank in upon itself, blinding light emanating from its centre. It folded into nothing with a deathly wail. Foul air blew over the countess and Guis, and it was gone.

Tyn pinched Guis’s cheek and pulled hard. “Foolish man! Playing with the dark. You could have died, and then what would poor Tyn do?”

Guis shook. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Always sorry! Fool!” Tyn tugged at its collar. The thin chain rattled. “Were it not for this I would be gone, and then what would happen? One hundred and one years and a day. I await the day that time is done, so you will suffer as I do!”

Guis flinched. The burn around Tyn’s neck was raw and pink.

“I will not do it again.”

“Oh, it will happen again,” said Tyn, his voice becoming a feline growl. “You master your will, master, and that is a good thing. Maybe you cure your sickness of the mind. But you cannot, will not ever master that,” it said, pointing to the corner. “That is a sickness of your soul, and has no healing. Be fearful lest your arrogance bring you low. You have strengthened it. Fool!”

Tyn leaped from his shoulder and scampered along the sofa to where his box lay. He crawled inside, yanked his chain into its slot, and slammed the door.

The countess laid a hand on Guis’s. He felt his trembling as she lightly clasped his fingers. Her eyes were alight.

“That was a fine experience! I am going to ask you all about it, you realise. I want to know everything.”

“There’s not much I can tell,” he said. “I am not a magister nor a wild wizard or a practitioner of any sort. I do not know the theory, nor do I know the practice. It is a dangerous parlour trick.”

“You would be surprised how much I can glean from limited information.” She moved closer. Guis saw an animal hunger in her that quite surpassed her plainness. “But I will leave that for the morning.”

Her other hand slipped into his lap. His back stiffened as she worked at his trouser fastenings.

She looked up at him, her eyes asking if she should continue. Her eyes, he decided, were quite beautiful. They regarded each other with the utmost seriousness.

Mansanio shrank deeper into the shadows of the gallery above the fireplace. Unable to tear his eyes away from their kisses, he bit his lip until it bled, his fists shaking.

G
UIS HELD THE
countess close. Standing with her back to him, it was easy to put what others said about her out of his mind, and he was glad of the warmth of her proximity. But minute by minute, the aftermath of their lust drained away, and he became increasingly awkward about what he had done. She was unaware, and pressed into him languorously. They were in the observatory, looking out from the open shutters over the endless mud. The moons painted their long roads upon it, one pink, one silver. The stars were chips of ice. The Twin stood exactly over the turrets of Mogawn, distant that night.

“You should come back at a time of the Great Tide,” she sighed. “The castle rises up, up, like a kneeling giant standing. For a moment, the whole of Mogawn hangs on the face of a cliff of water, and then it is away under us, rolling toward the shore. A sheet of spray shoots skywards, white surf boils up through the cavities in the rock, over the lowest hills...” She made a happy noise. “I love it so. The power of the ocean is incomprehensible. When my father raged at me, I used to go to the gatehouse, to watch the sea burst over the jaws of Mogawn, and I would be glad. The sight made me understand that no matter what a tyrant a man might be, before the fury of the sea he is nothing. Your brother is a brave man.”

“Which one?” said Guis.

She slapped his arm playfully. “You know well which! I wish him godspeed over the ocean, but I fear for his chances.”

Guis had avoided thinking on Trassan, or Rel. Both of them were in peril. Dwelling overly long on it would conjure forth all manner of horrible fates for them and send him into a frenzy of endless preventative ritual, half-convinced his mere thinking of it would make it happen. He would curse himself for his repetitive touchings and steps, but still perform them, caught between anger and fear.

“I wish I had had siblings. Growing up here was a long and lonely process. You are not the only person with a harsh father. Mine was outraged at the aristocracy’s diminished status and his own dwindling fortune. It made him cruel.” She craned her neck to look him in the eye. “Everything goes around in cycles, Guis. My mother married outside Karsa to try to preserve her bloodline and keep Mogawn alive. But I shall never become a mother. The Mogawn line will die with me.” She said this with such steel that Guis released her. She turned to face him. Her father looked at Guis through her, still angry beyond death. She was so ugly. What was he thinking? She had used him, that was true, but she had opened her heart to him in return. All Guis could think of was what would happen if this dalliance became public.