The Outcast

by Louise Cooper

  This was supposed to be a moment for celebration …

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine, love. A chill, perhaps.’

  ‘You should take better care of yourself.’ Sashka, who was warmly wrapped in a furtrimmed coat over her brocade gown, glanced up at the icily clear sky. ‘It isn’t Summer yet, but you haven’t so much as a cloak about you.’

  He laughed, grateful to her for dispelling the darkness at the back of his mind. ‘You’re not my wife yet!’

  ‘I am in all but name.’ Her answering smile was faintly lascivious. ‘And I know some very pleasurable ways to warm you … ‘

  Frayn Veyyil Saravin and his prim, rake-thin wife were crossing the courtyard to intercept them, and Keridil squeezed Sashka’s hand in an admonitory warning. ‘Hush! D’you want your parents to overhear us?’

  Sashka smiled enigmatically. ‘There are none so blind as those who don’t find it in their interests to see!’

  They walked on, as the small crowd began to disperse.

  The celebration to mark the High Initiate’s betrothal was to be an interim measure, a foretaste of the far greater festivities amid which the marriage itself would take place. Sashka wanted to wed as soon as practicality allowed, but for once Keridil had refused to indulge her, and at last, knowing when to exercise discretion, she had given way.

  Keridil hadn’t confided his reason for the postponement to her, but it was strong enough to override any other considerations. He wanted nothing more than to marry Sashka now - but if he did, he would be haunted by the spectre of Tarod, and that would be a hard ghost to banish. Although he had reconciled his conscience where his one-time friend was concerned, Keridil still had occasional nightmares, and the thought of going ahead with his marriage while Tarod still lived was something he couldn’t face. The death-rite had to be prepared - the same gruesome ritual which had been thwarted before - and, as High Initiate, he couldn’t escape the burden of carrying it out personally. It would be impossible to prepare for his own wedding with any pleasure while that prospect still hung over him …

  especially in view of Tarod’s own past involvement with Sashka. But once Tarod was finally dead, the ugly taste would fade and he’d be free to look to the future. It wasn’t guilt that motivated him, so Keridil told himself over and again - it was simply expedient common sense.

  And despite the shadow of the pending execution, he was determined to enjoy the betrothal celebrations. In two days there would be a banquet at the Castle, at which the announcement would be officially ratified by the Council of Adepts. Sashka had sent a fast rider to her home in Han to fetch appropriate clothes and jewellery for the occasion, and Keridil would present to her the gold ring set with three huge emeralds that for centuries had been worn by the High Initiate’s consort. Since his own mother had died giving him birth, the ring had been locked away in its carved wooden box among his father’s possessions, and the thought that, after so many years, there would again be a consort to wear it had delighted the Circle, and the Council in particular.

  There would, of course, be a good deal of disappointment mingling with the congratulations from certain quarters. Since he reached adolescence Keridil had been the focus of attention from every high-ranking clan with an eligible daughter in the land, and recently had come close - though unwillingly - to a match with the pretty but vacuous Inista Jair, from a wealthy and influential Chaun Province family. Jehrek Banamen Toln had approved of the liaison, Keridil had dreaded it; though had Sashka remained beyond his reach, he might well have wed Inista eventually for want of any happier option and because Jehrek had wished it.

  But his father, he knew, would have approved of Sashka. Suitable though Inista Jair might have been as a daughter-elect, Sashka had the breeding and strength of character to fit her perfectly for an exalted position. Her beauty, her sophistication, her intelligence all promised to win her many friends. No clan could take insult at the thought that one of their own had been passed over for a less favourable candidate.

  Sashka’s parents had joined them by now, and as they reached the main doors Keridil excused himself and left the others to continue on into the Castle while he turned along the pillared walkway towards the library and the Marble Hall. Reaching the door that led down from the courtyard, he stood back to allow three servants, each dragging a heavily laden sack, to emerge. The staircase beyond was filthy with dust in which the prints of a myriad feet could be seen, and Keridil eyed the bulging sacks before speaking to the first of the three men.

  ‘How’s the work progressing?’

  Sweating, the man straightened and touched a finger to his brow respectfully. ‘Well, sir. Perhaps another three or four days, and it’ll be complete.’

  Thanks be to Aeoris, Keridil thought. He nodded, smiled, and moved on down the stairs. A few more days, and the seven black statues which had stood in the Marble Hall throughout the Circle’s history would no longer exist … it chilled his blood to think that, for century upon century, the Initiates had believed those seven titanic figures to represent Aeoris and his six god-brethren, mutilated beyond recognition by the old race when they transferred their allegiance from Order to Chaos. That belief would have continued, had Yandros not revealed, with careless malice, that the revered images were those of Aeoris and his kin’s seven dark counterparts - the old, sinister gods of Chaos, carved by their corrupt servants before the forces of Order sent them to oblivion. Keridil had ordered the destruction of the statues, and for two days now an army of the Circle’s higher Adepts - who were the only people allowed, by ancient tradition, to set foot beyond the silver door-had been toiling to break up the huge figures, reducing them to rubble which servants then hauled from the Castle and threw over the edge of the stack into the sea. When the task was complete, a series of complicated rituals would be required to purify and rededicate the Marble Hall before the taint of Chaos could finally be eradicated.

  As he approached the library, Keridil reflected bitterly that the legacy Tarod had left the Circle would take far longer to die than its perpetrator. Recent events had taught the Adepts that the centuries hadn’t diminished the need for constant vigilance against the dark forces, and it had been a hard lesson. The peace that pervaded the Castle now was no more than a veneer; danger and turmoil still lurked beneath the surface, and would continue to haunt them until both Tarod and the stone were finally destroyed.

  He entered the library vault, lost in his uneasy thoughts. A few Initiates sat in isolated corners, studying books or manuscripts, and muffled sounds drifted from the distant Marble Hall as the Adepts went about their work. Keridil headed towards the low door in the alcove - then started as someone plucked at his sleeve.

  ‘High Initiate … ‘ Drachea was standing at his elbow, and Keridil tried to keep irritation from his expression as he stared down at the young man. Grateful though he was to Drachea for the service he had performed - and he couldn’t deny that without him, the Castle’s inhabitants would still be languishing in limbo -

  Keridil couldn’t help a growing dislike for him. Drachea had begun to presume on the position in which he found himself; he dogged Keridil’s footsteps, bombarded him with questions concerning his plans for Tarod and Cyllan, and was too ready at the least opportunity to offer his own opinion as to what should be done with them. Only two days ago Keridil had come close to losing his temper when the Heir Margrave had tried to insist that Cyllan, too, should face execution as soon as Tarod was despatched, arguing that a promise made to a demon had no validity and that the High Initiate would be right to break it for the sake of safety. Keridil, well aware that Drachea wanted personal revenge on the girl, had curtly reprimanded his temerity in questioning the High Initiate’s judgement, and the young man had retired to his room to sulk.

  Now though, the reprimand was apparently forgotten as Drachea said, ‘High Initiate, I wonder if I might crave a few minutes of your time?’

  Keridil sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Drachea; I’m very busy -’

&nbs
p; ‘I’ll take no more than a moment, sir, I assure you!

  I’ve been wanting to speak to you before my father arrives from Shu Province, on a matter which is crucial to my own future.’

  He was going to prove persistent … resignedly, Keridil waited for him to continue. Clasping his hands behind his back, Drachea said, ‘As you know, sir, I am my father’s eldest son, and therefore destined eventually to become Margrave of Shu. However, although I’m very sensible of my position and my duty, I have for some years felt that my aptitude lies in a different direction.’

  Keridil stroked his own chin. ‘Our duty doesn’t always correspond to what we might desire, Drachea. Some of the responsibilities of my own position are ones I’d prefer not to have to shoulder, but - ‘

  ‘Oh no; it’s not the responsibility,’ Drachea interrupted him. ‘As I said, it’s a question of aptitude. I’m sure that I could assume the Margravate without difficulty; but I feel that in doing so I’d be …‘He hesitated, then smiled hopefully. ‘Perhaps wasting a potential that could be put to better use.’

  Keridil looked at him. ‘You know your abilities better than I do, of course - I don’t quite see how I can be of assistance to you.’

  ‘Ah, but you can, High Initiate! In fact, there is no one else who has the authority to grant or refuse my request.’

  The young man drew himself up into a formal stance. ‘I wish to ask, sir, that I might be considered as a candidate for the Circle.’

  Keridil stared at him, astonished, then realised that he must have been a fool not to have anticipated this.

  Suddenly all Drachea’s dogged persistence was explained - and, too, his anxiety to plead his case before the arrival of Gant Ambaril Rannak, his father. The Margrave, Keridil imagined, would not be pleased to hear of his son’s ambitions - and the idea of Drachea qualifying as a Circle Initiate seemed more than a little far-fetched. Though psychic analysis wasn’t his forte, Keridil was a shrewd enough judge of character to know that the young man stood little chance of passing even the lowest of the Circle’s many inaugural tests.

  Drachea’s motivation had far more to do with self-aggrandisement than with any desire to serve the gods; and Keridil also suspected that his mind wasn’t stable enough to cope with the rigorous application needed to become an Initiate. He seemed to think that his position alone would qualify him for admission - and it would be a hard task to explain to him why this was not so.

  Keridil couldn’t face that task in his present mood: he had more important matters on his mind than one arrogant youth’s presumption, and it would do Drachea no harm to remain in suspense for a while. Aloud, he said, That’s not something to which I can give you an answer now, Drachea. As you’ve already admitted, you have responsibilities - and of course, your father would have to be consulted.’ He smiled. ‘I’d be failing in my own duty if I were to interfere in his plans for you without so much as a by-your-leave. And for a young man in your place, it’s a change that can’t be undertaken without a good deal of forethought.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, sir! In fact, I’ve thought about little else since I was a child.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you must curb your impatience.’ Aware that he’d have to offer the young man some sop, however small, if his own life wasn’t to be made intolerable, Keridil added, ‘When your father arrives, I’ll discuss the matter with him. I’m sure he’ll be agreeable to your at least being interviewed by the Council of Adepts.’

  Drachea flushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you, High Initiate!’

  Keridil inclined his head. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me … ‘ He moved towards the alcove door, but Drachea followed.

  ‘Sir, I wonder if I might accompany you to the Marble Hall?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I’d enjoy the chance to witness the destruction of those monstrous idols!’

  The High Initiate’s face hardened. ‘I’m sorry; that’s not possible. The Marble Hall is closed to all but the higher Adepts.’

  ‘But … ‘ Drachea looked affronted. ‘I hardly think such a rule applies in my case, sir. After all, it was in the Marble Hall that I helped you to - ‘

  Keridil had had enough. Well aware that he was about to lose his self-control, he said sharply, ‘One of the first lessons that a Circle candidate learns, Drachea, is not to question an order of the High Initiate.’ He nodded curtly. ‘I’ll speak to your father, as I promised, but I can confer no further favours. Good day to you.’

  He walked away towards the door, leaving Drachea staring after him with a mixture of chagrin and indignation on his face.

  Chapter 14

  Sister Erminet unlocked the door of Tarod’s cell and paused on the threshold for a few moments to let her eyes adjust to the gloom before securing the door behind her.

  ‘Adept… ?’ Even as her vision improved there was no sign of him. Then she saw a tall, gaunt shadow leaning against the opposite wall.

  Tarod raised a hand and ran his fingers idly over the dank stone surface. ‘There was a window here once, by all accounts,’ he said. ‘You can feel the outlines of the mortar where a new stone was used to block it.’

  His voice sounded flat, remote. Erminet advanced into the room. ‘Doubtless it was filled in to protect the food stores against rats.’

  He smiled thinly at her and examined a smear of dirt on his fingers before wiping his hand carelessly on his shirt. ‘Doubtless.’

  Looking at him as he moved to slump down on the heap of old sacks and rugs that was all this cell provided by way of a couch, Erminet judged that his will - or what remained of it - was rapidly fading. Despite their previous conversation, he seemed to have shrugged off all hope in the same careless way that he shrugged off the thought of his impending death. He was grimy, unshaven, and his mind seemed to match his physical state, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that, though for the first time she had something concrete to offer him, it might have come too late.

  Tarod watched her as, too discomforted to say more, she busied herself with her now familiar bag of nostrums. Erminet was wrong in believing that he had lost hope; but since her visit of the previous day he had been savagely trying to crush the spark out of existence, telling himself that to believe in miracles was a thankless and fruitless exercise. The Sister might well have seen Cyllan, and might well have brought a response to his cryptic and very personal message; but beyond that there could be nothing. Even to convey the message had been a kind of cruelty; better if he’d given Cyllan the chance to forget him now, rather than prolong her suffering. And he, with the spark of hope firmly under control, would drink the narcotic potion Erminet gave him, and sleep away the hours, and move another day closer to dying … it didn’t really seem to matter.

  But the prospect of the death that awaited him triggered off another chain of thought. Instinct told him that something was afoot in the Castle, and though he had neither the will nor, in his present condition, the ability to discover its nature, imagination had led him to an all too obvious conclusion. And even without a soul, he was still human enough to dread it.

  He said, hoping that his voice carried a convincing degree of bored disinterest, ‘There seems to be a good deal of activity in the Castle.’

  Erminet’s bird-bright gaze fastened on his face. ‘What would you know about that?’

  He shrugged, perversely pleased by her surprise. ‘My senses aren’t dead yet.’

  Her mouth pursed as though in disapproval. ‘Well, they certainly don’t lead you astray. There’s all manner of upheaval - masonry being hurled around as though the whole place were being rebuilt, experiments with messenger birds … and of course preparations for the banquet following the High Initiate’s announcement - ‘

  she stopped.

  ‘Announcement?’

  Erminet scowled. She hadn’t intended to let that slip … ‘ Of his betrothal,’ she said with some reluctance.

  ‘Betrothal.’ Tarod’s dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

  ‘Ah. And need I ask who - ‘

  ‘You need not.
Sashka seems to think that the name of Veyyil Toln will suit her very well.’ She watched him intently to see how he would react, but his face was impassive. Slowly, carelessly, he raised his hands and studied them, then touched the ruined silver base of the ring on his left index finger. ‘A pity,’ he said at last. ‘Had circumstances been slightly different, it might have been amusing to kill her.’

  Erminet was shocked by the unhuman detachment in his voice, and admonished uneasily, ‘You shouldn’t harbour such vengeful thoughts. They’re unhealthy - and the little bitch isn’t worth it.’

  Tarod’s green eyes met hers, coolly candid. ‘I’ve no interest in revenge, Sister. It would simply be amusing; nothing more.’ He smiled. ‘As it is, I wish them joy of each other.’

  ‘I wish I knew whether or not I could believe you.’

  The smile widened slightly, but there was little humour in it. ‘Does it matter? I’d have thought the consideration was academic.’

  ‘It may not be,’

  Even in the gloom the sudden awakening of a new light in Tarod’s eyes was unmistakable. He leaned forward, and the hope which he thought he’d succeeded in stifling came surging up again. ‘You’ve seen Cyllan -’

  His voice was a harsh whisper.

  Now or never … Erminet’s conscience was horribly split between duty and instinct, but she’d known even before she came here that instinct would win.

  ‘Yes, I saw the girl,’ she said, dropping her own voice as if afraid of being overheard. ‘I gave her your message.

  It made her cry, but I gave it to her nonetheless. And I made her a promise.’

  Tarod waited silently for her to continue, and she cursed his ability to keep his feelings so firmly under control. He was making her task no easier …

  ‘She wants the stone,’ she went on at last. ‘The stone from your ring … I wouldn’t tell her where it’s kept, because I don’t trust her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Erminet looked at him candidly. ‘I mean that I don’t trust her not to use any means at her disposal to free you.