Once inside, and with the door closed behind us, we appeared to be alone. The room was ornately vaulted, its ceiling made of stone that it should not burn in a siege. There was a thick mass of clean, dry straw upon the floor, and a full store of grain, and water pales, and upon the walls horse leathers and irons, all apparently for the use of sheltered beasts in a storm. Only there was no sign of a storm and there had been none here for many an age. This house was best prepared, but quite obviously, expected no threat.
There were wooden steps (permanently fixed) that took us up through the stone ceiling and into the Great Hall. Here, at last, Wint-the-Snoop stopped. He left me standing at the foot of The Graynelord’s long table; and without another word he withdrew, returning to his own business. Oddly enough, with his departure, I had the feeling I was being abandoned by a friend. Though, I was not left on my own, after all. Far from it; there were a dozen or more people in the Great Hall, only I was being ignored for the moment. On my shoulder, Lowly Crows ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she did not like the enclosed space, or the strangers. She turned her eye about, made a brief study of the Great Hall’s narrow wind-eyes, its chimney and fireplace, its balustrades and high ceilings. Seeking any route that might make an escape, or a safe perch, out of harm’s way – as needs must.
I allowed my eyes the same extravagance. I saw no hint of threat, exactly. Only, there was a strange smell at the table; and strong with it. Something…stank. It was not a gentle aroma, not simply the forgotten remains of old food discarded to the floor. Not bodily function even, but a body, maybe? Yes: this was more like rancid, unhealthy, rotting flesh – It was not unfamiliar to me. I might have expected it if I had come upon remnants on an old killing field, or the corpse of the murdered man at the side of a road. But not here, not in this place. In truth, I had noticed the stench the moment I entered the tower. It seemed to linger about the walls and the doorways. It insinuated itself from nooks and crannies, seeped from the very stonework. It had obviously been disguised – expensively disguised – judging by the ever-present bowls of rosewater, the hanging sprigs of herbs, and the open boxes of fresh spices. It had been disguised, but still not hidden.
I did not dare meet the gaze of The Graynelord who was seated at the top of his table. He appeared to be in a deep conversation with a pair of his advisers. I looked instead toward the other men and women who stood about the Hall. This was not a house under siege or threat. This was a home. The Graynelord did not need armed men at his own dining table. There were servants, young girls, old men. There was a single guard. And if any other man there carried a sword it was only out of custom; he was not expecting to use it. Servants apart then, this gathering was, mostly, members of The Graynelord’s Council. They were huddled together, somewhat awkwardly, in tight groups, their backs turned firmly against the walls – unnecessarily careful? They were, to a man, still dressed in their ridiculous fop and finery, their embroidered cloth and brightly coloured skirts, just as I had last seen them upon Pennen Fields, on the morning of the Elfwych Riding. I do not recall any of these gentle men having a name of their own. Excepting the common title they were forced to share between them. The Council always appeared to be a full set, rather than individuals. Only one stood apart. An aged man, who held himself so rigidly, and moved about as if he were sure to break apart at every step; I could not help but call him Stiff Brittle. Anyway, they gave me no clue to the source of the foul air. They were politically polite to the very last.
I caught only a brief mumbled apology from a servant as he passed me by – about problems in the kitchens – but if that was so, why was the smell stronger in The Graynelord’s Hall, and at its very worst at his table? And why did no one else remark upon it?
Mind, the foul stench was not the only curiosity here. This was obviously a soldiers’ Stronghold – the bare stone walls were decorated with arms and armour still notched and carrying the marks of combat – it was a fighting-man’s abode, and yet, somehow it had the feeling of being carefully dressed by a female hand (and an unusual one at that).
I tried to look about for Norda Elfwych, the purpose of our endeavour – I could not see her. There was no obvious visible sign. And yet, among all this, I seemed to sense her presence…in that other way. Inside my head, distant shadow-tongues were again whispering to me, if incomprehensibly.
I felt the sudden stab of the bird’s claws digging into my shoulder, breaking my train of thought. It was as if she too sensed something of what was about here.
‘I think the man is a drunk!’ whispered Lowly Crows.
‘Eh?’
‘I think he is a drunk. The Graynelord, drunk. Can you not see it, Rogrig? He keeps slipping out of his seat and he cannot keep his eyes open. And look – his words are not even timed to the movement of his mouth.’
Perhaps I should have recognized the truth; only, if the crow could but make guesses and be well off the mark, it was no surprise that I did not yet have the understanding or the guile to comprehend what was before me. There was a kind of Glamour at work here, and it was a clever deception. Someone, somewhere, was cheating. Though I was blind to the detail of it and saw there only what I expected to see.
‘Never mind that he is a drunkard,’ I said, under my breath. ‘I think I would be the same, if I had to put up with this constant stench!’
‘What have they been doing, leaving their dead unburied?’ suggested Lowly Crows.
Behind us, on some unseen signal, the only visible guard suddenly rapped his wooden staff against the stone floor. Its resounding echo instantly silenced the Hall, and brought it to a semblance of order. The Council, with their backs already set firmly against the wall, stiffened further. Then, slowly, and in his own time, Old-man Wishard looked up from his table, and at last appeared to see me standing there.
This man was my Graynelord and my kin. The Old-man…nicknamed not, as you might expect, for his great age, but simply because he was largely bald. In fact he was almost a young man still. There were, perhaps, only a dozen seasons between us. I knew him then, though I was never a member of his household. I had seen him often enough – if at a distance – on many a Riding. And yet, as I looked at him now, close at hand, I hardly recognized him. Certainly, he did not know me. But then, why should he? I was part of a greater crowd and his kin in name and duty only, as were so many others. If it were not for our similar looks and common family traits we were virtual strangers.
‘Rogrig Wishard?’ he said, using my full name as if it was a question.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ I said.
‘And this other – this bird, you bring into my Hall, and with it play upon my generous hospitality. Not our kin, I would fear?’ There was a faint shadow of a real smile.
‘She is only my common pet, and well trained for an amusement.’ I said, lying without hesitation. Bird or not, upon Graynelore, to give any less of an answer would likely have been the cause of her instant removal, and probable death. There was, indeed, little trust among men.
‘Then, if the bird amuses you, she amuses me also,’ he said.
‘Er…Thank you, my Lord—’
‘I am told you have something of mine, Rogrig Wishard. Something, about your person, that rightly belongs to me. What is it that you want here?’ The statement and the question were both suddenly blunt; the pleasantries were obviously done with – and there was no hint of shade.
‘Want? I have brought you—’
There was a further interruption, only this time it came from one of the members of the Old-man’s Council, standing at his side. ‘Yes, yes, you have brought…Quickly now, quickly; what is it that you have brought? Show us and be done with it!’ This man was elderly, his face wiry, and his eyes narrow and cold. He appeared anxious, though not, I think, because he had spoken across his Graynelord. Oddly, the Old-man seemed not to have noticed the slight.
I quickly opened my jack, and displayed the talisman that hung from its leather thong about my neck. The light from the fi
replace in the Great Hall touched the slivers of gold within its face.
‘Ah!’ The reaction, an awkward mix of surprise and thinly disguised delight, came from more than one member of the Council. Yet still the Old-man appeared unmoved.
‘What is it, cousin?’ he asked, squinting as he spoke. He appeared to be having trouble seeing it clearly. His head bobbed involuntarily. He slipped slightly in his chair and was forced to correct himself.
‘I told you the man was a drunkard,’ Lowly Crows whispered under her breath.
‘It is a present for you,’ I said. ‘It is a gift – a true and honest piece of The Eye Stone, my Lord.’ A truth is often the best part of a lie.
‘A true and honest piece, you say?’ Again it was a member of the Council who spoke for The Graynelord. ‘Be very aware of your answer!’
‘As I speak…’ I said, inclining my head toward the Old-man in a gesture I hoped was something close to subjugation. It was so rarely practised.
‘And where in all the world did a…’ the Old-man seemed to falter briefly, only to regain himself, ‘where did a man – such as yourself – come into possession of such a rare device? I do not see them growing on the apple trees!’
Suddenly everyone in the hall was laughing; if too loudly for the jest.
‘I took it from a Beggar Bard!’ I said, honestly enough.
‘Ha!’ There was more laughter. ‘You stole it, then? The man is nothing but a common thief! Is he to be trusted then?’
I shrugged off the retort with a smile of my own. ‘Upon Graynelore, we are all of us more likely thieves than not. And the man was already dead.’
‘Ah.’
‘The Beggar Bards believe the true Eye Stone knows itself and cannot be fooled. I would put my trust and my faith in it, and its true guardian, my Lord. Even if my very life were to depend upon it—’
‘Indeed, and well it might yet,’ he said, ‘if this tale of yours is discovered to be twisted.’
I was beginning to wonder if I was not getting a little too carried away with my own performance.
‘What say you, my Council? Do we put him and his pretty treasure to the test?’
‘Yes, my Lord. We would put him to the test.’ Yet again, though it was The Graynelord who had spoken and a member of his Council who had replied, it was not altogether clear to me who it was had given the command.
‘First though, a little…repast, I think. The man would share in our board?’ asked Stiff Brittle, and though he spoke with the beginnings of a thin smile he was eyeing me coldly. He signalled to a servant to bring forward a tray of vitals already prepared. ‘Take a drink with us, at least. You must be long travelled and thirsty for it.’ This was not the man being a polite host, nor was it an offer to be refused. Rather, my test was already begun. For a friend who will not drink freely from your cup is not your friend.
The Old-man looked on dispassionately, I thought. Though if I were to recall that face now, I fear, I would see not only vacancy, but also regret.
In truth, I had no choice – and though Lowly Crows cried out in warning – I took the drink I was offered and, with a smile, quickly swallowed it.
Suddenly the armed guard was at my side. The members of the Council were waving politely at me, wanting me to follow after them; Stiff Brittle at their head as they walked towards the back of the Great Hall. I understood their duplicitous gesture was not a request. I felt myself nudged forwards. Instinctively my hand moved towards the hilt of my sword. Only, I let it be, and allowed the indignity. This was not yet the moment for a hero. I was more than the guard’s match, but I was uncertain of the full strength of the house; and there were games here not fully played out.
It was Lowly Crows who stirred from my shoulder. She took to flight. She lifted herself toward the high ceiling and found a makeshift perch there; well out of the reach of men, and safe for now. Still…This was not the welcome I had expected from the house of my own kin.
I was led back down the wooden steps and came again into the lower chamber. On the floor, the straw had been brushed aside revealing a wooden trapdoor. I had seen its like before. It would lead, at best, to a cellar or an underground store; at worst, to a dungeon or a murder hole. The trapdoor was open, a wooden ladder already set in place. Though, I was not to be thrown into the hole nor, it seemed, abandoned there. It was Stiff Brittle who led the way. He took a hold of the first wrung of the ladder and climbed down. I was expected to follow his lead.
Chapter Twenty-One
An Unexpected Murder
The underground space was a small vaulted chamber with a solid, uneven floor of natural rock. I could barely stand my full height within it. Its walls were cut stone but, for the most, if they were well laid they were poorly dressed and blackened with the neglect of an age. This was the very bottom of the tower of Carraw Peel. These were its foundations. A broken man, or a forgotten Pledge, might be left in the darkness to die here (there was old evidence shifting under my feet). Oddly enough, for the first time since entering the house, I could not smell the lingering stench. Instead there was the natural foul dankness that comes with stale air, long absence, and abandonment. This space was never meant for the eyes of visiting dignitaries or house guests. There was no need for the Old-man to show off his wealth here.
Yet I had been brought here for a purpose…
I remembered again the Beggar Bard of my distant childhood, explaining how the first Headman of the Wishards had, unwittingly, built his tower-house upon The Eye Stone. Was it only a babbie’s story, a whimsy meant for gullible ears, or a real part of the truth? We had heard the tale retold often enough. It had become so. I had offered the Old-man my talisman because of it. How strange it was that only now I should consider my own belief; to chance all upon a fancy. And if this Eye Stone was such a powerful device, why was it so neglected, kept a secret, hidden away in the darkness? This place was more an abandoned tomb than an honoured shrine. I could see no sense in it, nor any advantage to the grayne.
The only light in the chamber came through the open trapdoor. There were three figures vaguely outlined against its weak display. The light ringed their heads, caught in their hair. They were all Councillors; the Old-man was not among them, nor was the guard.
‘You will give it up now, your…gift.’ Stiff Brittle, seemed to have to search for his last word. It was not a question.
‘For the test?’ I tried to sound as if I believed I was still there to make an offering to my Graynelord. Not walking into a trap I did not understand.
‘Ah yes, the test,’ said Stiff Brittle. Then he repeated his statement. ‘You will give it up.’ He held out his hand in the gloom.
I took the talisman from around my neck and gave it to him. (As yet, I had no good reason not to.) How easily something so very important was given away then. There was a sharp intake of breath.
‘Is it real?’ asked one of the Council.
‘We shall see,’ answered Stiff Brittle.
He grasped the fragment of The Eye Stone, his hands shaking violently, though whether through excitement or simple old age I could not tell. He appeared to dither, in a way that suggested he might not know exactly what it was he was supposed to do with it. Was this a ceremony so little performed? He turned to face the grimy wall, towards the spot where, I assumed, he would find the keystone of the house – The Eye Stone.
It was then murder was committed.
Mine.
I was poisoned after all. My vitals the culprit, I had no doubt. If I am uncertain, even yet, who it was delivered the fatal dose to my cup. I felt its lethal strength begin to course through my blood. My head screamed with the pain of it and I fell down, at once, dead (the intention, if not – thankfully – the final outcome). It might have been a physical blow. It was certainly enough to kill any ordinary man. That it did not kill me, I cannot fully explain, give only my belief. Do you remember my words at our first meeting, my friend?
I am not an ordinary man.
Tho
ugh I must add, at once, I am not an immortal. All creatures die eventually, each to their own circumstance. Only now it seemed some men were less easily dispatched than others.
When Rogrig, the man, was killed, did that small part of him which is fey survive? Was a faerie trait enough to make a difference? For upon Graynelore, surely every man was a mixed breed. An empty lamp, though its wick is still damp with oil, will not hold a light. Still, I could not guess any better, nor did I need to – only thank the fortunes for it and accept the gift of life gladly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Eye Stone
I was dead, then – dead to the world, at any rate – and lying in that dark hole. The three members of the Council were standing over me. They were speaking privately among themselves. If I could not easily see them or set them apart, I could hear them. I guessed the first voice belonged to Stiff Brittle. It was a heated debate.
‘Why do you think it is that we dwelt so long and hard upon ancient maps, and the words of long dead men?’ he asked.
‘You do not believe it, then?’ returned a second voice, harshly.
‘Belief? Is that it? Ha! You are asking the wrong question of the wrong man.’ Stiff Brittle was suddenly scornful. ‘The Eye Stone – so-called – is the very foundation stone of this tower. I know that perfectly well. It is solid enough. I neither need to believe in a relic or disbelieve. Possession is everything. And the wall is a wall just the same.’
‘Then, The Eye Stone is not real?’
‘Real? What, exactly, is real?’ asked Stiff Brittle. ‘Take away The Eye Stone from where it now resides and tell me, what would happen?’
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