The Outcast

by Louise Cooper

  Very gently he closed the door in the alcove, shutting off all but a faint filtering glow of light from the Marble Hall that seeped under the old wood. With an effort he put all the unhappy thoughts out of his mind - it was a technique he knew well, and had used on many occasions. His face was a mask, as impassively unread-able as carved stone, but his green eyes were unquiet as he walked out of the library.

  Chapter 7

  ‘It’s the final proof!’ Drachea clasped Cyllan’s shoulders and spun her round the room excitedly. ‘It’s all the evidence we need, Cyllan! Gods - to think that the Marble Hall should yield such a find. The stone must be there - it must be!’

  Cyllan disentangled herself from his grasp, disquieted by his exuberance. ‘Surely it’s no cause for jubilation?’ she said.

  ‘It’s proof that we’re facing a power we can’t hope to combat!’

  Drachea dismissed her doubts with a careless wave.

  Tarod’s not invincible. Without that jewel, as the High Initiate’s testimony says, he can’t call the forces of Chaos to his aid. And if we can find the stone, and restore it to the Circle - ‘

  Cyllan laughed, a short, sharp bark with little humour in it. ‘And how are we to do that?’ she demanded. ‘How are we to call back Time?’

  Drachea smiled. ‘It’s not as impossible as you might think. I’ve been studying the books I brought from the library, and all the Circle’s rites and rituals are there, in incredible detail. I’m convinced that I’ll find the answer in one of those volumes.’ His eyes lit up with a fanatical zeal. ‘Just think, Cyllan - just think what might result if we can restore the Circle to the world, and deliver the perpetrator of this evil into their hands!’

  His use of the word we, Cyllan knew, meant nothing-in his imagination Drachea saw himself as the Circle’s sole saviour; and doubtless envisaged receiving all honour and glory as a result. He was a fool, she thought, if he believed that the path to such an achievement would be easy; yet he was brimming with confidence, already convinced that he’d succeed.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, sobering a little when she didn’t appear to share his excitement, ‘that I discovered in one of those tomes the rite that the Circle must have intended to use to destroy Tarod.’ Cyllan turned, and he went on, ‘The wooden altar you saw - it’s a very ancient artefact, rarely used. It’s an execution block.’

  Cyllan’s stomach contracted, and she understood why the black wood slab had carried such an ugly aura.

  Unbidden, an image flashed through her mind of how a man might look, stretched out on that pitted surface, awaiting the final fall of the knife or sword … or something worse … and she shuddered.

  ‘Yes - it’s not a pleasant ceremony,’ Drachea told her, with an edge of relish that she found repellent. ‘And it’s used only in the most extreme circumstances. Doubtless, when Tarod is in the Circle’s hands once more, they’ll conduct that rite where they failed before.’

  She couldn’t stop herself; the words were uttered before she realised it, and her voice was angry. ‘And you find such a prospect pleasing?’‘

  ‘Don’t you?’ Drachea frowned at her. ‘This isn’t a man we’re dealing with - it’s a denizen of Chaos! Damn it, would you rather see such a monster loose in the world?’

  I’d rather not see anyone die so barbarically, Cyllan thought, but held her tongue. She was discomforted by the fact that some inner compulsion had made her come to Tarod’s defence, but told herself it was nothing more than Drachea’s ghoulishness which had offended her.

  Nonetheless, the thought of Tarod’s fate if Drachea should succeed-no, if she and Drachea should succeed, for surely their cause was the same - chilled her to the marrow.

  If Drachea was aware of her misgivings he chose to ignore them, too caught up in his own plans to heed anything else.

  ‘We must return to the Marble Hall,’ he said decisively, ‘and find that jewel. And we’d be wise not to delay in what we have to do.’ He stood up again, hugging himself. ‘I still have the High Initiate’s papers in my possession. If Tarod were to discover them, I don’t care to speculate about how he might react. I think it might be prudent to return them as quickly as possible.’ He glanced towards the door. Though the Gods know I’d feel a good deal happier if I were armed before making any further sorties in this place.’

  ‘There must be weapons in the Castle,’ Cyllan said, though she privately doubted that a blade would have any value against the dangers that lurked here. ‘At the Inauguration festival there were tournaments - sword-fighting. I saw none of them, but I heard the tales. And Tarod used to carry a knife … ‘

  Drachea gave her an odd look, faintly tinged with suspicion, but only said, ‘Very well. Then you must find those weapons. Try the Castle stables - in Shu-Nhadek, the militia keep their arms close by their horses, and it’s a sound enough principle. Bring me a sword, light but well balanced.’ He paused. ‘That is, if you know how to judge a good blade.’

  Cyllan’s eyes narrowed. Drachea had probably carried a sword only two or three times in his life, and then for ceremonial purposes. She had had a knife of her own, once; a wicked weapon with a curved blade and bone hilt. She had used it to slit open the face of one of her uncle’s hirelings who’d thought he could take advantage of his master’s drunken stupor to rape his niece and make his escape with three prize horses, and the man’s yells had roused the entire camp. Kand Brialen had sent the would-be thief on his way with a broken arm and three cracked ribs - ‘one for each good piece of horse-flesh’ as he’d grimly put it - and had rewarded Cyllan’s vigilance by giving her a quarter-gravine and selling her knife at the next town they reached.

  She said, ‘I can judge well enough, Drachea. And I’ll take a dagger for myself if there’s anything suitable to be found.’

  He was slightly taken aback by her tone, but collected himself quickly with a shrug. Then let’s not delay. I’ll return the papers to their rightful place, and we’ll meet again here when our errands are done.’

  Drachea was unwilling to admit to feeling frightened as he headed down the long corridor that led to the High Initiate’s rooms, but the sick pounding of his heart gave the lie to it. With Keridil Toln’s and now Cyllan’s revelations fresh in his mind, the thought of meeting Tarod with these incriminating documents in his possession was almost enough to send him bolting back to the sanctuary of his room. He wished he’d given his task to Cyllan and gone himself in search of weapons; but it was too late for regret. And surely, he told himself, trying to bolster his failing nerve, in all the vastness of the Castle the odds against encountering the Adept weighed strongly in his favour.

  Part of the reasoning behind Drachea’s decision to carry out this errand himself lay in the fact that he was growing more mistrustful of Cyllan. To begin with, he’d dismissed the obvious friction between them as nothing more than the natural outcome of the differences in their station - she was, after all, so far beneath him that in happier circumstances he wouldn’t have associated with her at all - but now he wasn’t so sure. She had met the Castle’s dark master before; she seemed unwilling to condemn him for what he was - once or twice Drachea had deliberately tested her, and she’d leaped to Tarod’s defence like a watchdog. When conflict finally came, as it must, he wondered whether she’d be so blinded to the truth that she wouldn’t have the sense to fight on the side of justice.

  Still, Cyllan was a minor consideration. In the final extreme she was expendable, and he for one wouldn’t particularly mourn her loss. Any debt he owed her Drachea now considered repaid in full - had he not helped her, guided her and instructed her in everything since their unwarranted arrival here? If his plans, which were admittedly embryonic as yet, worked, then she’d do well to realise that his wisdom was superior to hers!

  He had almost reached the end of the corridor, and unease gave way to relief as the High Initiate’s door came in view. With the documents safely restored, Tarod could never discover that they had been disturbed and read; and any advantage
, however trivial, was valuable.

  He lifted the door-latch -

  ‘Well, my friend. Your excursions grow bolder.’

  Drachea spun round, jaw dropping in horror as he saw Tarod standing behind him.

  The tall Adept stepped forward, smiling, though the smile didn’t deceive Drachea. Tarod’s green eyes were alight with an unholy fire, and Drachea knew that he was in a very dangerous mood.

  ‘Such ambition doesn’t become you, Drachea,’ Tarod continued softly. ‘It hints of a willingness to step into a dead man’s shoes before the funeral has taken place.’

  ‘I was - I merely intended - ‘ Drachea struggled to find an answer that might sound plausible, and Tarod watched his efforts with chilly detachment. He didn’t know what had motivated him to seek out the young man for the sole purpose of tormenting him - it was a hollow and pointless pursuit and even his dislike of Drachea wasn’t enough to justify it. But he had been brooding; the brooding had led to anger, and the anger desired an outlet. It was Drachea’s ill fortune that he was to hand and that Tarod had no compunction about using him as a scapegoat.

  But it seemed that Tarod’s black mood had proved fortuitous - for he suddenly saw the sheaf of papers which Drachea was clumsily trying to hide. The topmost document bore the High Initiate’s own seal …

  The fire smouldering in Tarod’s mind began to flicker into a blaze, and he stretched out his left hand. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you’d do well to show me what you have there.’

  Desperate, Drachea shook his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied carelessly, battling to keep himself from stammering.

  ‘Then you’ll indulge my whim to see it.’ Tarod’s voice was merciless.

  Drachea tried to resist as the icy green eyes held his gaze locked, but he couldn’t look away. Jerkily, and against his will, his hand came up, stretched out; and Tarod took the documents from him.

  One glance at the sheaf confirmed his suspicions. So Drachea knew … and doubtless Cyllan, too, had seen these pages. Little wonder she had been so afraid when he encountered her in the vault, with Keridil’s testimony fresh in her mind …

  He looked at Drachea again. The Heir Margrave was shaking as though he had the ague, and the guilty terror in his eyes, the contempt his attitude aroused, disgusted Tarod.

  ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘you consider yourself entitled to steal more than you can find in the library.’

  White-faced, Drachea swallowed and dissembled weakly. ‘Cyllan discovered them, not I … I - I didn’t trouble to read them; I told her they were none of my concern … ‘ His voice trailed off as he saw Tarod’s expression.

  ‘You’re a liar.’ And, incensed by Drachea’s shameless perfidy, Tarod felt something within him snap. His eyes fired with loathing; he flung the papers aside, raised his left hand, gestured once.

  Something with the power of a horse’s kick hurled Drachea off his feet, and he crashed against the High Initiate’s door, which burst open. Sprawling across the threshold, Drachea tried in panic to struggle upright and run - but in doing so he caught Tarod’s eye. Every muscle in his body locked rigid. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe; his mind fought against the inexorable will that held it, but he was helpless.

  Tarod smiled, and the smile made Drachea want to scream. The gaunt face was changing, eyes narrowing, burning with an inhuman light, the black hair like a shadow of utter darkness. In an instant of terrified revelation Drachea saw what Cyllan had seen in the graven face of the statue - the malevolence, the knowledge, the sheer power that lay behind the mask. He made a sound deep in his throat; inarticulate, pleading. Tarod’s smile widened, and the fingers of his hand curled as though outlining an invisible symbol.

  The thrall that held Drachea broke, and he shrieked like a wounded animal, eyes starting out of their sockets and hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Tarod, seeing what he saw, acknowledged the nightmare with a laugh. The last time Drachea had crossed him, he had shown him but a brief glimpse of the horrors he could conjure if he chose. Now, the punishment was merciless.

  ‘No … n-no … ‘ It was the only word Drachea could form from a babbling, pleading stream of incoherence. He was crawling on hands and knees, as a mortally injured mouse might try to crawl away from a preying cat, and Tarod moved slowly, casually after him, holding the delusions and manipulating them so that Drachea’s terrors deepened, pushing him towards the brink of insanity. He felt no true malice towards Drachea - contempt was too ingrained for that - and what he did now gave him no satisfaction. But something had moved him; a fury he couldn’t contain. An emotion that demanded its due.

  Drachea was sobbing, curling into a foetal huddle in the passage and seemingly trying to dig his nails into the wall, as though refuge lay that way. Tarod’s hatred had reached its peak and, as abruptly as it had come, the rage was passing. He stared down at the hunched wreck at his feet. It would be so easy to kill him. A single movement, and it would be done … but there seemed no point.

  Better that Drachea lived on, and remembered …

  He stepped back. The last time he had lost all self-control, a man had died, and hideously; but that, like so much else that plagued him, was in the past. He had no such motivations now.

  Or did he?

  The thought wasn’t one he liked to live with, and when he looked at Drachea again he felt something close to remorse. Tarod turned on his heel and stalked away along the corridor towards the main doors. Behind him as he went he could hear the demented sobbing pleas diminishing in the distance, and the sound left a bitter taste.

  The two swords and the light, slim-bladed dagger were all Cyllan had been able to find, but nonetheless she was pleased with her spoils. Drachea’s theory that an armoury might lie next to the Castle stables had proved wrong, and after an unfruitful search she had taken to looking through individual rooms in the great building, where she had found what she needed. The experience of searching those chambers had been eerie; she felt like a desecrator as she rummaged among the personal belongings of men and women whose lives had been abruptly suspended and who now languished in a world beyond imagination, if they still existed at all; and it had taken all the self-will she could muster to begin the search. So many of the artefacts told their own poignant stories; a torn coat with a sewing needle and thread laid on it; two empty wine cups beside a rumpled bed; a sheaf of papers covered with simple drawings in a child’s hand.

  It had been a sharp reminder that this Castle had once lived and breathed and rung to the sounds of its human inhabitants.

  She had ignored, though with difficulty, the clothes that she found in some of the rooms. Gowns and cloaks in rich fabrics, graceful and decorative shoes that she knew would have fitted her, jewellery … the choice was almost endless, had she been able to ignore her conscience and steal them. But instead she had reluctantly set them aside, and her fantasies with them, and concentrated on the task at hand.

  Her search had, thankfully, allowed her to stay on the upper floor of the Castle wing, where she knew there was less chance of encountering Tarod. She had taken two wrong turns on her way back towards her room, but the maze of passages was growing more familiar and there was little danger of becoming lost. She was crossing the broad landing where the main staircase ended when a faint sound caught her sharp ears, and she froze.

  Someone was moving; someone on the stairs …

  Holding her breath, Cyllan inched forward, keeping close against the wall. The sounds seemed to have stopped, and no shadows moved to betray an approaching figure. Gaining confidence she crossed to peer over the balcony rail …

  The swords and dagger fell from her grasp, making an echoing racket as they clattered across the floor. Cyllan ran, flying down the stairs until she reached the figure sprawled prone halfway down the flight.

  Drachea wasn’t quite unconscious, but the last dregs of strength which had enabled him to crawl, inch by painful inch, from the High Initiate’s door had finally run out. His hands were grasp
ing feebly at the tread of the next stair, the nails split and bloodied as though he had been trying to claw his way through stone, and palsied shudders racked his body.

  ‘Drachea!’ Cyllan tried to help him sit up, but he couldn’t rally. Appalled, she turned him over. His eyes were tightly shut, face dead-white, and he seemed, incredibly, to be trying to laugh, though no sound came from between his bloodless lips.

  Sweet Aeoris, what had happened to him? He couldn’t lie here - she had to get him to a bed! Crouching, Cyllan hooked her hands under Drachea’s arms and pulled with all her strength. He moaned, but was too weak to struggle, and with a great effort Cyllan managed to drag his limp weight to the top of the stairs. Bent double and gasping for breath, she looked along the corridor. His room was nearer … Taking a deep breath she lifted Drachea again and struggled towards the distant door, praying meanwhile that he wasn’t physically damaged and this unceremonious progress only making matters even worse.

  By the time she reached the chamber Drachea had lost consciousness, which was a mercy. Her muscles protested as she forced them into one last effort to lift him on to the bed. She made him as comfortable as she could, then studied him closely to see if she could find any clue to what had happened.

  Thankfully, there were no obvious signs of injury - though Cyllan was no healer, and knew how easily she might overlook some serious hurt. Nor could she even begin to guess how this had come about … but a terrible suspicion was eating at her mind.

  She straightened, trying to quell the dread that filled her. Whatever the truth, something had to be done for Drachea, or he could die. And the only one she could turn to might be the very one who was responsible for bringing him to this condition.

  She looked at him again, and knew she had no choice but to ask Tarod’s help. The worst he would do, surely the worst he would do, was refuse …

  Quickly, before courage could desert her, she ran out of the room and back along the passage to the stairs. The swords and dagger still lay where they’d fallen; she hesitated, then snatched up the knife and thrust it into her belt. She couldn’t conceal it, but it gave her a little confidence. Then she was running down the long staircase towards the Castle’s main door.