The Way of Light

by Storm Constantine

  The Way of Light: Book Three of the Magravandias Chronicles

  By Storm Constantine

  © 2001

  Chapter One: The Prisoner of Cawmonel

  Rain whipped down like furious tears upon a landscape of bleak curving moors, where spines of rock humped out of the earth, resembling through the deluge enormous petrified reptiles. Winter. Darkness. Arthritic trees bent away from the wind. Along the wide flat road a horse came: galloping, galloping. The rider’s coat flew out sodden behind him. His hair was a drenched rag. The horse’s nostrils flared wide, as if it struggled to gasp the last of its breath. Its neck worked madly, the legs a blur, throwing up a glutinous spray of mud. And ahead, the great cyclopean edifice reared like a giant’s curse against the darkness: too dense a black, too severe.

  There were lights in the fortress, dim pale gleams barely seen through the rain. The windows were narrow, high up and there were few of them. The only entrance was via a moat, and a looming drawbridge, held up on gargantuan chains, from which hoary beards of lichen hung down. The rider brought his exhausted mount to a halt before it. The animal pranced and reared, slipped. Its limbs shuddered.

  ‘Aye!’ called the rider. ‘Guardsmen, open the gates!’

  He was not sure his voice could be heard through the tumult, but he felt eyes upon him. They would not recognise him, not yet. A face appeared at a window, which was pushed out against the elements.

  ‘Who hails?’

  ‘General Palindrake, Dragon Lord of the Splendifers. Give me entrance. I have the emperor’s seal.’

  There was a pause, as if a host of watchers clustered at the narrow pane, looking down. What would Lord Valraven Palindrake want here in this wilderness?

  There was no spoken response, but presently, the chains began to scream and slowly the drawbridge descended. Below it, spears of rain stabbed the black water of the moat. A stench of bogs arose from it, perhaps tainted by waste from the fortress.

  Valraven rode over the soaked boards of the bridge. His horse’s head hung low now, for his hands were slack upon the reins. He passed beneath the entrance arch and was then enfolded by the rectangle of the fortress. Rain came down into the yard beyond, but somehow less fiercely. Men rushed about, wearing waterproof capes and enveloping hats. Some ran forward. Valraven dismounted and handed his mount into their care.

  A captain hurried down the steps on the inside of the wall, from the guardhouse above the gate. His coat was dry, indicating he had only recently put it on. He looked flustered and his formal bow was jerky. ‘Lord Palindrake, you were not expected.’

  ‘No,’ said Valraven. ‘Take me inside.’

  ‘At once,’ said the captain. ‘Welcome to Cawmonel, my lord.’

  They crossed the yard and entered the main building opposite. Cawmonel Castle had once been the seat of a now extinct Magravandian ducal family. It had become something else. Not a prison, exactly, because there were no dank cells, no dungeons that were used. It was termed a secure house. Luxurious perhaps, in comparison to The Skiterings, the imperial gaol in Magrast, but a prison nonetheless. Troublesome people were put there. People who had done nothing wrong, particularly, but who might do. People who, for various reasons, (among them royal connections), could not be thrown into The Skiterings or otherwise disposed of. Cawmonel was not that far from civilisation: Magrast was only a few hours’ ride away. Yet standing in that courtyard, Valraven felt as if he’d left the world he knew behind and had come to a barbaric corner of the country. Perhaps this was because there were no towns nearby, and the only other inhabitants of the landscape were tough little sheep and the small, dark people who tended them.

  Inside the black walls, a semblance of noble life remained. There were tapestries upon the walls, dark red rugs underfoot. A fire burned in the hallway, in a hearth that stretched fifteen feet up the wall. Heat blasted out of it. Valraven took off his coat, and handed it to the servant who had materialised at his side. His long black hair stuck to his face, his shoulders.

  The captain bowed again. ‘I’m Sanchis, my lord, overseer of this establishment. How may I help you?’

  What he really wanted to ask was: what in Madragore’s name are you doing here? But that would have been impolite.

  ‘I am here to interview one of your guests,’ said Valraven.

  The captain looked puzzled, but nodded. ‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Might I ask who?’

  ‘Tayven Hirantel,’ said Valraven. ‘He is here, isn’t he?’

  Sanchis appeared embarrassed now. No one was supposed to know Hirantel was there, not even the Dragon Lord. Eventually, he said, ‘Yes. Would you care for a hot meal, or a bath, before you interview him?’

  ‘Take me to him at once. You can have your people bring food to me there.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. This way.’

  Sanchis led Valraven up the wide stone stairway, and along a maze of corridors. The walls were raw black stone and looked as if they should have been studded with reeking torches, but instead, oil lamps flickered mildly against the stone. There were many closed doors, once family bedrooms perhaps, but now ornate cells. Valraven had no idea who else might be secreted behind them. People often disappeared from court.

  Sanchis jogged up another flight of stairs and turned into a passage at the top. Here, a pair of guards was stationed before a heavy wooden door. They spotted Sanchis and stood hurriedly to attention, staring straight ahead. ‘Unlock the door,’ Sanchis said to them. The guards glanced at Valraven curiously, then one of them took a key from a jangling bunch at his belt and applied it to the lock. The door creaked open, just a small way. The guard held his arm across it, as if some maddened beast inside might try to make a run for it.

  ‘You may leave me now,’ said Valraven. ‘I would like a dinner of roasted fowl, with vegetables. A flagon of wine, and... some cake.’ He smiled.

  Sanchis looked uncertain, perhaps thinking Valraven was mocking him. He ducked his head. ‘It will be attended to, my lord.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Valraven said politely to the guards, who stood to the side. He walked between them and pushed the door wide.

  There was a flurry of movement as a gang of pages fled from the threshold. Valraven stepped over it. The room beyond was large, sumptuous, if rather archaic in its décor. It was lit by the glow of a fire and two mellow oil lamps. A man in his late twenties stood stooped beside a table, as if frozen in the act of rising from his seat. He was dressed in loose-fitting tunic and trousers of soft grey wool – plain but not homely. His long pale hair was confined at his neck, tendrils of it falling free to frame his face. That face had beguiled princes and kings. It was older now and had lost the soft prettiness of youth, but Tayven Hirantel was still beautiful, his eyes almond-shaped and dark, his cheekbones high. He had the look of a cornered animal. ‘Good evening, Tayven,’ Valraven said. ‘I trust you are well.’

  Tayven said nothing, perhaps silenced by shock.

  Valraven closed the door behind him. He glanced at the wide-eyed young servants, crouched like kittens, half terrified, half fascinated, against the furniture. ‘Shoo!’ he said to them and they ran.

  Tayven straightened up. ‘Are you here to kill me?’ he asked.

  Valraven sauntered forward. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Does someone have to send me here?’

  Tayven frowned. ‘No, butc’

  ‘No one sent me,’ Valraven said. ‘I’m here of my own volition. The empress has taken great pains to conceal you, but my intelligence network is second to none. I’m here to learn why you are here.’

  Tayven sat down. ‘I’m a prisoner, that’s all there is to it. I presume my family has paid dearly
to keep me alive.’

  ‘I don’t think so. No one is supposed to know you are here. How did you get here?’

  ‘Under armed guard.’

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific. Who took you into custody? Where did it happen?’

  Tayven did not answer. Valraven could tell he was wondering how much he should say and how truthful he should be.

  Valraven sat down at the table opposite him. ‘Very well. I will make an offering first. Merlan Leckery sent word to me from Mewt that you had failed to keep an appointment with him and Lord Maycarpe. When, after a few days, they realised you had really gone missing, Maycarpe started asking questions backed by coin.’

  Tayven uttered a caustic laugh. ‘Is that so? I’d believed Maycarpe was involved in it.’

  ‘That’s doubtful,’ Valraven said. ‘Maycarpe and Merlan managed to discover you’d been taken against your will by unidentified men. More than that was impossible to learn. All avenues of enquiry dried up, but somewhere along the way, the name of the Empress Tatrini was whispered. Merlan wasn’t sure about this connection, but asked me to help look for you. It has taken me valuable time to do so, and has cost me dear. Mouths were tightly shut, almost beyond price. Eventually, my enquiries become enough of an irritant for Tatrini to tell me personally of your whereabouts. She gave me a feasible reason for your arrest. Unfortunately, because of the clandestine nature of your work in Cos some years ago for Prince Almorante, you are still under suspicion of the attempted assassination of Prince Bayard. Tatrini could give me no good reason for the secrecy, though, or why she hasn’t sent you to trial. I guessed she believed she could benefit from having you in her clutches and she virtually confirmed as much, without actually saying so. You must know something of use to her. Emperor Leonid is dying, and this is a sensitive time in Magrast. No one knows what will happen when he goes.’

  ‘His sons will fight for the crown,’ Tayven said. ‘That is what will happen and everyone knows it.’

  ‘Where do your allegiances lie nowadays?’

  Tayven pulled a sour face. ‘With none of them. When I was younger, I was naïve enough to go along with Almorante’s schemes. After I was left for dead in Cos, I abandoned my Magravandian heritage. Leonid is not my emperor, nor will any of his sons ever be.’

  ‘Then what does Tatrini want with you?’ Valraven put his head to one side. ‘You are here for a reason, Tayven. Never think otherwise.’

  Tayven gestured with one hand. ‘Perhaps they think I’m still part of the game. But I’m not.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  Tayven glanced at Valraven furtively, an expression he quickly smothered.

  Yes, Valraven thought, wonder now just how much Merlan has told me.

  ‘You obviously think I’m still a player,’ Tayven said, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I don’t believe you looked for me simply to oblige Merlan Leckery.’

  ‘Why not? Lord Maycarpe, as Magravandian governor in Mewt, is a man of great status. Merlan is his esteemed assistant. Perhaps they have good reason to fear you being a captive of the empress. You have powerful friends, Tayven, like it or not. I know you’ve been an agent of Maycarpe’s for some years now. He found you in Cos when Almorante’s people failed. I think he must have offered you the chance of revenge against those of the royal family for whom you bear grudges. Am I right?’

  ‘Maycarpe is always careful with words. He would never promise such a thing. How could he, anyway? He will ally with whichever prince wins the crown. As will you.’

  Valraven laughed. ‘Tayven, you do me an injustice. I am sworn to Prince Gastern, the rightful inheritor.’

  ‘Then you are a fool, Lord Palindrake.’ Tayven got up, shoving his chair aside. He went to the fire, held out his hands to it. ‘There will be no winners, only survivors. I opted out of the game, but they’ve dragged me back. Why? I’m not that important. I was Almorante’s spy, sent to warm the beds of those who might let interesting words drop from lust-slack lips. That was many years ago.’

  ‘And since, you have been close to the exiled Cossic king and his sister, Princess Helayna. The Malagashes would dearly like to get their paws on Helayna.’

  ‘Why would they bother? She barely has any troops since her brother accepted Tatrinia’s bait and went as her lap dog to reclaim his throne in Tarnax. Reclaim! What a joke. He is Tatrini’s creature now. Cos is hers.’

  Valraven stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘If this in-fighting you predicted occurs, Helayna might have more room for manoeuvre. Her support would still be valued by any of the young Malagash wolves. Should King Ashalan get a reasonable chance to fight for Cos’ independence, I’m sure he’d still be prepared to try for it. He’s not that tamed, Tayven. He’s merely waiting, as are many.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘But you are in Maycarpe’s employ. That’s hardly not being involved.’

  Valraven could tell Tayven felt as if he was being backed into a corner. How much would it take to get him to talk? ‘What was the nature of your employment? What intelligence did you supply to Darris Maycarpe?’

  ‘I was in Cos, part of the resistance, close to Ashalan and Helayna. Maycarpe wanted to keep abreast of what was going on.’

  ‘He hardly needed you for that. Ashalan was desperate for allies. He knew Maycarpe was a slippery fish, but he’d have still welcomed the alliance. I think you were rather more than a go-between. You did other work, didn’t you? I think it involved talents other than those of a courtesan. Almorante knew of those talents, didn’t he?’

  ‘You have a fertile imagination,’ Tayven said, his back still turned. ‘I had my skills, which I learned from Almorante in Magrast and had to turn to good use to keep myself alive. Maycarpe paid well.’

  ‘You didn’t need his money. You were sheltered by the Cossics, clearly held dear by Ashalan and Helayna. You can’t fool me.’

  A knock came at the door and servants entered, bearing a meal on trays for the Dragon Lord. Valraven was silent as the servants puffed a sail of ice-white cloth over the table and laid out the cutlery, arranging it carefully to please him. He was impressed the meal had arrived so quickly. The best restaurants in Magrast were not as prompt. Covered dishes were opened with reverence to reveal their treasures. Valraven’s mouth watered as the savoury scent of succulent roast fowl slathered in clove and ginger sauce wafted to his nose. Once the servants had bowed and departed, Valraven applied himself to his meal. ‘They keep you fed well,’ he said, in between mouthfuls. ‘I must dine here more often.’

  Tayven was watching him from beside the fire. ‘I would rather eat frugally, in possession of my freedom. What do you want from me?’

  Valraven took a sip of deep red wine, holding it in his mouth, enjoying the bouquet. Sanchis had a good kitchen, no doubt of that. How fortunate to arrive in time for dinner. He swallowed. ‘I want the truth from you.’

  ‘There are many truths.’

  Valraven put down his goblet, turned it slowly upon the tablecloth. ‘Indeed, indeed. The one I’m interested in is what you really did for Darris Maycarpe, because I am convinced the reason why Tatrini brought you here lies in that truth. I tried to help you once before, Tayven. Merlan told you of that, didn’t he? But I was too late. Circumstances differ now, and I am a different man, thanks partly to Merlan Leckery. I know he’ll have made you aware of what happened to me in Caradore some years ago. See sense. You have only to gain from trusting me a little. We spoke briefly in Cos, remember? I have never doubted your importance.’

  Tayven said nothing for some time. Valraven ignored him and continued to eat. He let the silence drag on, sensed the gradual change in its mood. As he was wiping his mouth with a napkin, his plate wiped clean of sauce, Tayven came to sit opposite him again.

  ‘The only currency I have is information,’ he said. ‘What exactly will I gain from speaking to you? Can I leave here with you?’

  Valraven put down his napkin. ‘Unwise,’ he said. �
��You must be patient.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Valraven pulled a plate bearing a thick slab of yellow cake towards him. Its vanilla scent reached towards him provocatively. How much Tayven had been like good food: a delight to the senses. People had wanted to gorge on him and they had. But the flavours, eventually, had become bitter. ‘Tatrini won’t kill you. She’d have already done so if that was her plan. Has she spoken to you, or sent anyone else to do so?’

  ‘No,’ Tayven replied. ‘I’ve seen no one, and have been given no reason for my imprisonment. I don’t think the people here know anything.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I suspect that is the case with most of the guests in this place.’

  ‘Have you any suspicions as to the empress’s true reason for bringing you here?’

  The crackling of the fire was the only sound. Tayven stared at the table, his arms folded, pressed tightly against his chest. ‘I have been here for four weeks, three days. I believe that Tatrini will play me, in whatever manner she deems fit, once Leonid dies. She could use me to discredit Almorante, bring up the alleged assassination attempt on Prince Bayard again. She might even use me against Bayard, or Maycarpe. I don’t know. I think I’m hanging on a fine thread, and my security is precarious at best. I don’t want to be part of this. It doesn’t concern me anymore.’

  Valraven reached out and took Tayven’s chin in his hand, lifted his face. ‘Is it possible Tatrini knows what you did for Maycarpe?’

  Tayven jerked away. ‘I have no idea. He may have told her himself for all I know.’

  ‘It would help you considerably if you’d confide in me.’

  ‘I have no proof of that. Tatrini might have sent you here. I’m not that stupid.’

  Valraven raised an eyebrow.

  Tayven rested his chin on a bunched fist. ‘Very well. You might not like the answer, but Maycarpe employed me to find Khaster Leckery, Merlan’s brother. He did not die in Cos as everyone believes.’