‘Locked!’ Drachea swung breathlessly round, leaning his back against the gates and pushing, but to no avail.
‘Damn them! I’ve not come through so much to be thwarted now!
‘Drachea, no!’ Cyllan protested, but it was too late.
He had turned to face the entrance once more, and hammered ferociously with clenched fists on the wood of the gates, shouting in near-hysterical fury.
‘Open! Open, damn you all! Let us in!
For a moment nothing happened. Then - as much to Drachea’s astonishment as Cyllan’s - the massive gates creaked. Something clicked with a hollow, echoing sound … and slowly, slowly, the huge wooden structures swung slowly inward, silently and smoothly, spilling out a gloomy blood-red radiance that stained the sward.
‘Gods!’ Drachea stepped back, staring with a mixture of awe and chagrin at the sight which the slowly swinging gates had revealed. Before them, framed by a dense black arch, lay the Castle courtyard, and they both took in the scene with disturbed amazement.
The great courtyard was empty, and as silent as the grave. In the centre, reflecting the desolation, stood a derelict and dry fountain, its carved statues leering frozenly at them. The nightmarish crimson light which had shone above the black walls was greatly magnified here, but seemed to have no source; it simply existed, with no visible origin, and when Cyllan glanced uneasily at Drachea she saw that his skin was tinged a bloody hue by the glow.
Softly, he whistled between his teeth, and Cyllan shivered. ‘It feels - dead. Empty. As if there was no living soul here …
‘Yes … ‘ Cautiously, Drachea stepped forward, moving under the silent black arch until he emerged into the courtyard with Cyllan at his heels. He breathed in deeply. ‘There can be no doubt? This is the Castle … ?
‘Oh, yes. There can be no doubt of it.
He nodded. ‘Then the Initiates must be here. And whatever their purpose in sealing themselves off from the rest of the world, they surely can’t deny us sanctuary now!’ Eagerly he started across the deserted courtyard, but not before Cyllan had seen the flash of almost feverish anticipation in his eyes. Drachea had forgotten the Warp, the sea, the grim shore at the foot of the Castle stack-all that mattered to him now was the fact that fate had brought him to the stronghold of the Circle. Why and how he had come meant nothing-the old, obsessive ambition to be a part of that revered and select few had eclipsed all other considerations.
He had already outpaced Cyllan, heading towards a flight of wide, shallow steps that led to an open set of double doors. She hastened after him, afraid of being left alone in this grim and disturbing place, and came up with him as he began to climb the flight.
‘Drachea, please wait!’ she pleaded. ‘We can’t simply walk in; there may be reasons -
He interrupted her, dismissing her doubts impatiently. ‘What would you prefer-that we should stay out here in the courtyard until someone finds us? Don’t be a fool - there’s nothing to be afraid of!
But there is, an inner voice protested. Still she couldn’t shake off the foreboding - it was growing by the minute and she had to fight down a desire to turn and run back towards the gates and the seeming safety of the cliff-top.
Quickly she looked over her shoulder - and with a sinking sensation realised that any attempt at flight would avail her nothing.
Whatever silent, secret force had opened the gates to admit them to the Castle had now closed them again.
They were trapped, like flies in a spider’s web . .
Cyllan felt sick. She didn’t want to venture through the doorway into the Castle, but Drachea wouldn’t listen to her. He meant to investigate further whether she willed it or no - she could follow him, or remain here with only the dead, grinning gargoyles of the stilled fountain for company …
Turning back, she saw that Drachea had already crossed the threshold of the doorway, and was standing in a corridor. The crimson light permeated even here, like a distant hellfire, and its glow made him look unhuman. He glanced back, and snapped, ‘Are you coming? Or must I seek out the Initiates alone?
Cyllan didn’t answer, but with a pounding heart hastened to join him, feeling as though she were choosing the lesser of two tangible evils. Slowly they advanced into the Castle, their footfalls echoing eerily in the profound silence. Still nothing moved, no one emerged to welcome or castigate them … and then Drachea stopped at another heavy door which stood partly open.
‘A hall, or some such …’ He touched the door and it swung back easily to admit them to a huge and lofty hall.
Long, scrubbed tables stretched the length of the great room, and at the far end a vast, empty hearth gaped, polished copper fire-irons gleaming bloodily in the strange light. Above the massive mantel was a balustraded gallery, all but invisible in shadow, with heavy curtains hanging motionless to either side. The place was as empty and lifeless as the courtyard had been.
This must be where the Adepts dine … ‘ Drachea said softly, and Cyllan echoed his following, unspoken thought.
‘But there’s no one here …
A sound, so faint it might have been imagination, flickered at the borders of awareness and was gone. A woman’s distant laughter … Drachea paled. ‘Did you hear -
‘Yes, I heard. But there’s no one here!
‘There must be - the Castle of the Star Peninsula, abandoned and empty? It isn’t possible!
Cyllan shook her head, trying to quell the nagging little inner voice which still assailed her, and which now asked, do you believe in ghosts … ? Drachea’s steps seemed obscenely loud as he approached the nearest of the tables and laid his hands on it. This is real enough,’ he said quietly. ‘Unless I’m dreaming, or dead, I-
And he stopped as they both heard the unmistakable sound of a footfall in the gallery.
For a moment they stared transfixed at the shadowed platform above the empty hearth. The curtains didn’t move, and as the small sound died there was no further sign of life. But Drachea’s face was suddenly triumphant.
‘You see!’ he hissed. ‘We’re not alone - and I’m not dreaming! The Initiates are here, and they’re aware of our presence!’ He drew himself up, placing one palm to the opposite shoulder in a formal gesture, and called out loudly, ‘Greetings to you! I am Drachea Rannak, Heir Margrave of Shu Province! Kindly show yourself!
Silence answered him. No further footfall, no movement. Cyllan’s skin began to crawl and she moved to Drachea’s side. The young man was frowning, nonplussed, and cleared his throat.
‘I said, kindly reveal yourself! We are wet and exhausted, and we demand the hospitality due to any tired traveller! Damn it, is this the Castle of the Star Peninsula, or -
‘Drachea!’ Cyllan cut in, clutching at him.
He saw it a moment after her quicker senses had discerned the first movement. A shadow, which detached itself from the deeper darkness in the gallery, moved swiftly to the head of the staircase that spiralled down into the dining-hall, and began to descend.
Drachea stepped back, bravado deserting him in the face of such a manifestation. The figure - for now it was discernible as human - reached the hall floor and stopped. Cyllan was horribly aware of its cold, impassive scrutiny, but it was still too deeply immersed in shadow for any feature to be visible. But whoever-whatever- it was, its appearance conjured an uneasy sense of recognition.
A hand, white and thin, flicked impatiently at the darkness surrounding the apparition, and something black shifted and rippled. Cyllan realised that the figure was wearing a dark, high-collared cloak which swept the ground at its feet. Then a voice, with an edge to it that made her shiver, snapped harshly, ‘How in the name of the Seven Hells did you break through the barrier?
Drachea backed away, shocked by the venom in the figure’s tone. But Cyllan stood rooted by a memory that crowded back into her mind, a memory which she had been striving to blot out. Her eyes widened as the tall, dark man moved and for the first time the crimson
glow fell on him, illuminating his features.
He had changed - gods, how he had changed! The flesh of his face was cadaverous, the bone-structure jagged and skeletal. But the unruly black hair that cascaded over his shoulders was the same, and the dark-lashed green eyes still held their haunted intensity - though now they glittered with a cruel understanding that was far beyond her comprehension. He seemed more of a demon incarnate than a living man … but she knew him. And the momentary spark of recognition that flared in his look confirmed her certainty.
Cyllan said unsteadily, ‘Tarod …
Chapter 3
Tarod stared at the two bedraggled creatures who stood before him, the first human beings he had seen in - he mentally checked himself, distantly amused by the fact that a part of his mind still insisted on thinking in terms of time. That girl - memory stirred at the sight of her pale hair and the odd amber eyes, and a name came to his mind. He had forgotten her - but against all possibility she was here in the Castle, where no foot save his own had walked since Keridil Toln’s attempt to destroy him.
The shock had caught him off guard, but now he was rallying his composure - although it took considerable effort in the face of what had happened. No human being should be capable of breaking through the barrier which held this Castle frozen in a Timeless limbo. His own power, great as it was, couldn’t penetrate the formless, dimensionless yet appallingly real warp of time and space that had trapped him here in his last, desperate effort to save his life and his soul; and whatever her psychic talents, Cyllan was no true sorceress. Yet she was here, as real as he was …
He stepped forward, the movement implying a threat that made Drachea back away, and his cold stare flicked from one to the other. ‘How did you break the barrier?
he demanded again. ‘How did you reach the Castle?
Drachea, his confidence sapped, swallowed and made an attempt at a formal bow. ‘Sir, I am Drachea Rannak, Heir Margrave of Shu Province,’ he said, trying to wield the rank as a defensive weapon. ‘We have been the victims of a bizarre accident which -
‘I’m not interested in your name, your title or your circumstances!’ Tarod snapped. ‘Answer my question - how did you get here?
Stunned by the fact that any man, whatever his rank, should dare to treat a Margrave’s son with such open contempt, Drachea opened his mouth to make a furious retort. But before he could speak, Cyllan said quickly, ‘We came from the sea.
Tarod turned to stare at her and she looked back, not flinching. She was afraid of him, bewildered by the shocking changes which he seemed to have undergone, and aware that to anger him could be dangerous; but she wouldn’t give ground. And abruptly some of the peculiar light faded from Tarod’s eyes.
‘From the sea?’ he repeated with a gentler curiosity.
Cyllan nodded. ‘It was the Warp - we were in Shu-Nhadek … ‘ She faltered, realising how impossible the story must sound even to an Initiate, and before she could stumble on Tarod forestalled her by reaching out and taking a strand of her hair. He squeezed it between his fingers; it felt stiff and sticky with salt, and the strands refused to separate.
‘You’re barely dried.’ A small spark of charity was fighting its way through the mixture of shock, suspicion and the glimmerings of an uneasy understanding in his mind. A Warp … his own horrific experience as a child, which had brought him into the Castle’s embrace in the first place, came sharply to memory. He, too, had survived a Warp, only to find that it had transported him halfway across the world. It was possible, surely it was possible, that if the Warps could transcend space they could also transcend time?
Suddenly, he demanded, ‘What season is it?
‘Season … ?’ Cyllan was nonplussed. ‘Why-almost Spring. The Quarter-Day is in fifteen days from now.
Winter had yet to take full hold when the changes had taken place here … had years passed beyond the time-barrier, or merely weeks? Tarod had no chance to speculate, for Drachea abruptly spoke up.
‘Sir, I must protest! We’ve arrived here through no fault of our own; we are exhausted; damn it, we’re lucky to be alive! We ask the simple courtesies due to anyone in distress, and you seem to consider it more important to establish the season! Surely the weather beyond these walls is quite sufficient to -
He stopped as Tarod looked at him with contemptuous hostility. Whatever he might be - Initiate or no - the man was insane; there could be no other explanation. And the thought of what an insane Adept might be capable of was daunting. Drachea swallowed and went on, trying to sound calm but uncomfortably aware of the tremor in his voice. ‘I mean no offence - but if I might be granted an interview with the High Initiate -
Tarod’s answering smile was faintly ironic. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. The High Initiate isn’t here.
Then whoever is in charge in his stead - ‘ Drachea persisted.
Tarod had taken an immediate dislike to the self-important youth, and the prospect of trying to explain the truth to him was one he didn’t relish. Even Cyllan, with her broader perceptions, would find the facts hard to accept.
‘There is no one “in charge”, as you put it,’ he told Drachea. ‘And this isn’t the moment for explanations.
You’ve both suffered an ordeal, and your needs have been neglected - as you took pains to point out. Before anything else is considered, you should bath and rest.
‘Well…’ Drachea was mollified. ‘I’d be grateful for that! If there are servants to spare -
Tarod shook his head. ‘There are no servants, not now. I’m afraid you must make do with what I can offer.
And, seeing that the young man still didn’t comprehend, he added, ‘There is no one else in the Castle.
Drachea was stunned. ‘But -
‘You’ll have the answers you want soon enough,
Tarod said in a voice that brooked no argument. He waited until Drachea subsided, then gestured towards the far end of the hall. ‘The Castle’s facilities are this way. Follow me.
Cyllan tried to catch his eye as he led them across the room, but failed. She fell into step beside Drachea, her thoughts whirling. From two brief meetings she could hardly say that she knew the black-haired Adept well, but an unerring intuition told her that he had changed in far more ways than mere physical appearance indicated - and that was to say nothing of the changes which had apparently taken place at the Castle itself.
Where were the Circle Initiates? What had happened to this community? Questions crowded her brain, and even her wildest flights of imagination provided no answers that made any sense. She glanced at Drachea, saw his tense, troubled expression, and surreptitiously tucked her hand into his. It was something she would never have had the temerity to do under normal circumstances, but these circumstances were very far from normal. Drachea, rather than being offended, seemed to take comfort from the small contact, and squeezed her fingers in an attempt at reassurance.
Tarod led them through silent corridors that echoed hollowly to the sound of their feet. The Castle’s North wing was largely devoted to both private and communal living accommodation, but there wasn’t the smallest sign of life in any of the passages or rooms. No voices carried on the still air, no one emerged from a doorway to hurry by on some errand. The entire Castle was eerily, frighteningly dead.
At last their route took them down a flight of steep stairs that descended into the Castle’s foundations. A pale glimmer showed from below, and they emerged suddenly on to a broad shelf overlooking a network of artificial pools. Cubicles had been constructed to provide privacy, and the entire chamber was faintly lit by softly shimmering reflections from the water.
Tarod turned to them and smiled slightly. ‘Not as sophisticated as the baths of Shu Province, I’ll grant, but you’ll find the water warm and refreshing. When you’ve done, I will be in the dining-hall.
Drachea glanced swiftly at Cyllan, then gave Tarod a curt nod and hastened away along the shelf towards one of the furth
er cubicles, as though anxious to put as great a distance between himself and his host as possible.
Cyllan gazed at the glass-smooth surface of the water, only now fully aware of how exhausted she was in the wake of her ordeal. The thought of being clean, of being able to sleep on something other than shingle or granite, made her want to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. She made to strip off her wet and dirty clothes, then stopped as she realised that Tarod hadn’t moved, but was still standing behind her.
Slowly she turned to face him. Drachea was by now out of earshot, and there were a hundred questions she wanted to ask. But her nerve failed her, for although the tall Adept was watching her she had the discomfiting feeling that his thoughts were an unimaginable distance away. She shivered, and the movement caught his attention, seeming to bring him back to reality. He said:
‘I’m sorry, Cyllan - I delay you.
‘You remember my name … ‘ She was surprised, and irrationally gratified; it was the first time he had addressed her personally.
He smiled. ‘My memory hasn’t failed me yet. And you - you recognised me. I was flattered.
She flushed, sensing irony and not wanting to guess at the reason for it. ‘I’m sorry.
‘Sorry? For what?
‘For intervening in something that isn’t our concern. I realise we’re not welcome here; that our arrival has been … inopportune. We won’t impose on you longer than necessary.
‘Your friend Drachea might not be so obliging.
She looked up quickly, almost angrily. ‘He’s not my friend.
‘A Margrave’s son doesn’t associate with a drover-girl from choice, is that it?’ He saw her face cloud, and realised with faint surprise that she was stung by his words. The slight had been intended against Drachea, and to take the edge from the remark he added, ‘Then he must be even more of a fool than he seems.
The Outcast Page 5