Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  ‘No. Firusha’s voice will have more persuasive power with this prince than any amount of tionium we could offer him. She could win him round with her singing.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘I tell you, we’ll emerge triumphant. And there won’t be any fighting involved.’ He stood tall and ostentatiously embraced Esmonäe.

  Sisaroth watched, almost able to feel the älf-woman’s lips on his own. He was unable to suppress the emotions of jealousy and greed he was going through. How I long to be in his place!

  Esmonäe observed Sisaroth closely all the time she was being kissed by his brother. He could read a definite invitation in her chestnut-coloured eyes.

  His heart skipped several beats and his whole body flushed. He had to avert his gaze to prevent her noting his desire.

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha had completed her combat practice session with Crotàgon and was doing a strip-wash in her own quarters. He is making me work harder each time.

  Her arms ached from the constant thrusts and parrying strokes and she had hurt her ankle in a misjudged leap, but she was not going to complain. She was getting stronger by the day.

  Most of the old bruises from her opponent’s blunted sword were fading but today new ones would appear. The only part of her anatomy he was careful to spare was her face.

  She studied her naked reflection in the polished silver mirror and could not help noticing the changes her body had undergone since starting weapons training with her outsized mentor-älf. The physique was still decidedly feminine but her muscles were more pronounced, longer and leaner.

  I’ll soon be as good at fencing as I am at singing. She was not going to risk challenging her brothers yet. But Tirîgon had suggested she could fight with one of the best of the palace guards.

  And we’d use unguarded rapiers, to make it more fun. Firûsha smiled to herself and applied a perfumed herbal lotion to her skin before dressing in a flowing bright blue robe. She held her black hair out of her eyes with an ivory and silver circlet studded with diamonds. It was one that Tossàlor had made for her.

  Refreshed, fragrant and ravenous, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  Here in Phondrasôn they had none of the slaves that would have served them back in Dsôn Sòmran. Tirîgon had insisted on this, to avoid introducing any unnecessary vulnerability to their community. There was already enough tension in a society composed of criminals, exiles and älfar who had simply got lost in this underworld. They all fixed their own meals, but Firûsha didn’t object. She enjoyed preparing food for herself and her two brothers. I’ll never be as good a cook as Marandëi, of course.

  The dimensions of Marandëi’s palace were generous, but sometimes she thought it could have been bigger. She got the impression that the thickness of the outer walls must have been miscalculated, taking up too much of the interior space.

  One evening as they sat together by candlelight the cîanai had told them about the original inhabitants of the castle. She described them as creatures of glass who had emerged in some mysterious way from the broiling sea. Roaming fields of magic were probably responsible for this transformation.

  Who knows what they intended when they planned these huge walls. Now we’ll never know. She went into the vaulted kitchen area. What shall I have today?

  She placed two logs and a bucket of coal in the stove and lifted the trapdoor to the cellar, climbing down the ladder to gather the ingredients for a stew. Food kept well in the subterranean space because – somehow, in spite of the molten glass sea – it always remained cool.

  Barrels, crates and open store boxes crammed the floor space. The whole room smelt of earth, roots and smoked meats.

  I’m going to cook something really filling and hearty today. She picked up a small basket and made her selection.

  Only herself, her brothers and their four colleagues were permitted to use the kitchen facilities. They acquired their provisions from various other caves in Phondrasôn, where everything was available: meat, cereals, spices. It was really easier to get what you wanted here than it had been in Dsôn.

  They never suffered from food shortages, though some of the fare took a little getting used to. The fruits and vegetables grown under the mysterious cavern light effect and watered by underground rivers tasted different to those exposed to rain and sunlight.

  With her basket full, Firûsha made her way back up.

  Next the wine. The bottles and barrels were in a room adjacent to the kitchen. Leaving her basket behind, she went through and checked along the shelves. I want a bottle of the red from Himayn . . . Let’s see where Sisaroth has hidden it.

  All of a sudden she heard a clatter of cutlery from the kitchen. She peered back through the doorway and saw Marandëi standing at the stove shaking the contents of a round-bottomed glass flask. Sisaroth had asked the cîanai to create a concoction to promote wound-healing, and he wanted it as soon as possible.

  Marandëi was currently experimenting with a bubbling, thick, golden brew giving off green vapour. This she collected and condensed in a second vessel. Every so often she checked the sand level in the timer on top of the woven box she had brought into the kitchen with her.

  She’s going to stink out my whole kitchen. Why can’t she do that in her laboratory?

  ‘Oh! I wasn’t expecting to find you here,’ Esmonäe said as she strode in, wearing an impossibly tight dress. ‘I was looking for Firûsha.’

  ‘She’s not here but she should be back soon. She’s making her supper.’ Marandëi indicated the basket of provisions.

  Firûsha kept silent to watch the two of them. Esmonäe’s sudden appearance seemed to be awkward for the cîanai, who had the look of a hunted animal. Why would she be scared of anyone? She has her own magical powers as well as the oath’s death threat to protect her.

  ‘Fine! I hope she’s making enough for us.’ Esmonäe had a knife in her hand and was playing with it. ‘And how are you doing?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Have you got over your time imprisoned in the tower?’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me, but I really need to concentrate on this experiment.’

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘A remedy to help injuries heal faster. Our army numbers are low enough as it is. We can’t afford to lose people. I’m doing what small part I can.’

  ‘Is this Sisaroth’s idea?’

  The cîanai nodded.

  ‘Do you do everything he asks you to?’ Esmonäe tossed the knife into the air and caught it neatly, swirling it about like a trained swordswoman.

  Not even my brothers could do that kind of trick! This is starting to get interesting. Firûsha made sure she did not betray her presence.

  ‘What is it you’re really asking, Esmonäe? Are you trying to find out whether I am his partner?’ Marandëi sounded amused. ‘I doubt he would go for someone my age.’

  ‘Have you lived through very many divisions of unendingness?’ Esmonäe had come quite close and was examining the droplets condensing in the glass vessel. ‘I’m bad at working out people’s ages.’

  ‘A few.’ The cîanai was trying and failing to keep distance between the two of them.

  ‘You don’t remember? Or you don’t want to say?’

  Marandëi tapped the collecting vessel, pleased with her results. ‘I don’t see why I should tell anyone my age. Now, if you will be good enough to excuse me . . .’

  ‘You know – that cursed oath you got us to swear – it really took me by surprise,’ Esmonäe interrupted.

  ‘I could see that it did. All the more reason for me to think it was the right thing to do.’ Marandëi put the large round-bottomed flask down and disconnected the second vessel. She had collected only half a thimbleful of liquid but she was satisfied. ‘Given how different we all are, I think our little community’s definitely benefited from the extra safeguard.’

  Esmonäe perched on a corner of the table, with her dagger in one hand, tip downwards. ‘I would have been ready to swear,’ she said q
uietly, ‘that you knew exactly what I was really convicted of in Dsôn Faïmon. That would explain why you created the death penalty like that. But perhaps it was all just a coincidence.’

  What is she getting at? Tirîgon had told Firûsha that circumstances had forced his companion to kill an armed älf, and that the weapon had disappeared by the time the watch had arrived. This had made her guilty of murder in the eyes of the court. So was she lying to him, I wonder? Or has he been covering for her? Firûsha was eager to see how things developed.

  Marandëi closed the flask carefully. ‘The thing is, you know – every single one of us here: whether a criminal, in despair, or simply a failure in life – we all have our little secrets. If you sit in the middle of the rumours, you get the whole picture.’

  ‘You forgot to mention the young älfar who come to Phondrasôn to prove themselves as warriors.’

  ‘I include them with those in despair.’ Marandëi was still taking care to stay as far away from Esmonäe as possible.

  ‘I suppose you heard rumours about me?’

  ‘One of the criminals whose wound I was dressing told me he knew you and that he wouldn’t need to worry about being safe as long as you were nearby. In spite of your fourteen älfar murders, he said.’

  Esmonäe gave a sly smile. ‘Aha, so the old witch has her ear to the ground.’

  ‘Knowledge helps keep one alive. The ones who aren’t prepared tend to be the first to die.’ Marandëi took her staff in her left hand. ‘I make a point of being prepared.’

  ‘I suppose he told you who it was I killed?’

  She nodded. ‘You killed venerated members of society, he said – a real loss for Dsôn Faïmon. But he had no idea why you picked on the old ones. He also said you were mad. Opinions differed about why you lost your mind.’ While she held her staff low, her thumb and forefinger touched two runes. ‘Tell me why you hunted the oldest ones.’

  That’s news indeed! Firûsha assumed the cîanai was holding herself in readiness to cast a spell. Whether in self-defence or to force Esmonäe to speak the truth was not clear.

  Esmonäe watched Marandëi carefully and laid her knife down on the table, relaxing visibly. ‘You have to understand: I’m an artist, same as Tossàlor. I think the death of any immortal creature is something uniquely wonderful. Way more satisfying than the death of a normal being. The older the älf that I kill, the more I get out of it. It was always my secret wish to slit the throat of one of the Inextinguishables!’ Madness shone in her eyes. ‘Children and young people are quite safe.’

  Firûsha, in the pantry, clapped a hand to her mouth. She is demented. As crazy as Tossàlor! I must warn Tirîgon about her!

  ‘To what creative use do you put such a death?’

  ‘The death of an elderly älf inspires my art.’ Esmonäe was going through the items in Firûsha’s supper basket. She selected a piece of fruit, rubbed the skin clean and sniffed at it. ‘My paintings and drawings hung on every free bit of wall in my house in Dsôn.’ She raised the forefinger of her right hand and pointed at her eye. ‘That’s what I capture: the expression at the point of death. When the soul departs. When the living creature becomes nothing but a husk. I’m not interested in the bones like Tossàlor is. My art is more abstract.’ Esmonäe stretched out a hand, almost tenderly, towards Marandëi’s features. ‘What I do, witch, is to capture the vanishing of immortality. If you could only experience that feeling! An old soul is radiant in death! It warms the whole environment! I find it intoxicating – even more so than vintage wine or love-making or the glorious bloodshed of battle. Nothing can touch it.’

  Her pupils glittered more and more as she went on, so obsessed was she.

  ‘And I think,’ she whispered to Marandëi, who was staring at her in horror, ‘you are quite old enough to serve, witch. I would enjoy killing you. I shall enjoy it.’ Esmonäe put the fruit back down. ‘You put a curse on me and so I put this vow on you: I shall be your death. Your soul passing will provide the best high I can imagine. It will inspire the most beautiful painting.’ She leaned forward gently.

  Marandëi could not move a muscle and had to accept the light kiss on her cheek with closed eyes.

  ‘What do you think of that?’

  Staring out agog through the gap in the door, Firûsha saw the cîanai’s hand shaking as if she were forcibly restraining herself from using the staff. How can I tell Tirîgon?

  ‘I think the soldier was right. He told me you were driven mad by being forced to watch your long-term partner die,’ Marandëi said. ‘Your mind was damaged irrevocably by that.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ retorted Esmonäe. ‘No, I wasn’t driven mad. I . . . It was an accident. He fell on his own sword and I held him in my arms while he died. I watched as his soul departed . . . through his eyes . . . and entered endingness,’ she sobbed, collapsing onto a nearby stool. ‘I am not mad, I am an artist,’ she murmured. ‘An artist. An artist.’

  Marandëi had managed to turn things around. ‘Do you think Tirîgon will still want you when he hears you have been so deceitful?’

  ‘You won’t tell him!’ Esmonäe hissed back.

  ‘Or have you already mentally discarded him and now you want Sisaroth? I’ve seen you looking at him. And at the palace guards. You flirt with all the platoon sytràps, with every älf who glances your way. What is your plan? I don’t believe your heart is altered so quickly. I think you’re following a definite strategy. You are trying to drive a wedge between the brothers by making them jealous. And while they’re at each other’s throats because of you, you’ll step in and seize power. Is that it? And the army would be on your side because you’ve been fluttering your eyelashes at all the commanders. But that’s unthinkable, really, isn’t it?’

  Esmonäe struggled to regain composure. She slid off her stool and stood over the cîanai menacingly. ‘It’s best you keep your mouth shut, witch. Keep quiet about my past and keep quiet about what you’ve seen.’

  Marandëi leaned on the staff. ‘I could. But what’s in it for me? The old lag who told me your story will be demanding payment, too.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t try to find out who it was, either. I know him. That’s enough.’

  Firûsha admired the way the cîanai now seemed to have all the strings in her hand. Maybe she is the more dangerous of the two after all.

  Esmonäe had run out of steam. Instead of offering Marandëi some kind of a deal in exchange for her silence, she whirled round and stormed out of the kitchen back up the stairs.

  It’s disturbing, what’s happening all around us. Firûsha shivered. There was a cold draught in the drinks pantry where she was hiding, but she did not dare come out yet. It was vital Marandëi did not realise she had been eavesdropping.

  The cîanai exhaled loudly and slumped down. ‘That wasn’t easy,’ she muttered to herself. She put the experiment equipment and the time-glass back in her wicker basket. Time was very much up. ‘Oh, that took too long. He’s going to be angry.’

  Looking frightened, Marandëi picked up the basket and hurried upstairs.

  Angry? Why would he be angry? Firûsha crept out of the tiny pantry. She could not imagine that Sisaroth had been so demanding about timing. Surely a sand-grain here or there would make no difference to him? Could she have meant someone else?

  Her curiosity piqued, she scooted after Marandëi, who was slow on the stairs, hampered by her heavy basket. Firûsha stayed back, out of sight.

  Marandëi disappeared into the laboratory next to the library.

  That’s a shame. I can’t go in there without a good reason. And I really wanted to know who . . .

  The door swung open again and the cîanai emerged.

  Great! I still get to follow her.

  Firûsha learned much about the palace’s secrets as she and Marandëi scurried through its corridors and rooms. She was amazed to see the cîanai go through hidden doorways whose existence she had kept from the älfar triplets. Activated by pressing a certain carving, pulling at a certain stone,
the doors opened up into new corridors that wove their way through the building.

  That is why the rooms seemed too small. There’s another palace inside the palace. Firûsha kept close to Marandëi and used her powers of shadow-making to conceal herself.

  The hidden passages were extremely narrow and there were steep stairways to negotiate, leading to tiny rooms the cîanai had adapted for her own use. It had been such a generous gift to Firûsha and her brothers, ostensibly, when she gave them this palace. But these false walls also provided her with the perfect listening posts.

  That’s why she said we could have it. Firûsha was furious. She just wanted to be able to spy on us. She had counted on having Marandëi as a reliable ally because of the oath of service she had given to Sisaroth. She is nothing but a rat in the castle walls.

  The excursion continued. Firûsha’s dress was too flimsy by far for such an adventure. The delicate fabric kept catching on sharp bits of stone.

  Ahead, the cîanai suddenly vanished through an opening in the floor. Firûsha could see the glow of candlelight and hear a sing-song recitation and a lot of clattering.

  What’s she up to?

  Firûsha waited a little while and then crawled close to the aperture, bending her head to see what was happening. Marandëi was kneeling before an altar and on the altar was an ancient, weathered skull.

  The skull was not the right size for an älf. It must have belonged to a smaller race. And it had probably been very ugly when it was alive. The bones seemed deformed, with an elongated head shape and a forehead as flat as if it had been slammed into a plank. It was adorned with carvings, painted symbols and ornaments.

  The sounds the cîanai was making seemed to follow a tonal pattern rather than belong to any particular language. She was making obeisance to the skull. Suddenly she stopped intoning and savagely bit open the veins at her wrists, letting the blood drip onto the skull itself.

  The blood was mysteriously absorbed by the skull; not a drop remained on the surface.