by Sam Bowring
Tyrellan bared his fangs in a humourless smile. ‘Then perhaps you are wiser than I take you for and know that the Dark Gods do not take kindly to those who return to them without fulfilling their obligations in life. If this boy has been born to carry out their will, they will be watching closely. Such knowledge will bind you to your purpose more strongly than any threat of Battu’s. Otherwise you need the courage to face not only death, but what comes after, and you do not have either. You may return to the balconies freely, Heron, and continue to romanticise your own demise. I’m glad we had this talk. I will not fear for you any more.’
Beneath her anger, Heron felt sick.
They had arrived at the boy’s chamber. It was large and circular, cut through with shafts of dim light from holes in the roof high above. Its lumpy stone walls were clear of adornment, besides a large iceplace in which glowed a slowly melting block. In the centre of the room stood a wooden cot, to which Heron and Tyrellan walked.
‘His name,’ said Tyrellan, looking down on the boy, ‘is not something to be shrugged off lightly.’
Heron caught something in the goblin’s gaze. Was it . . . ? No, impossible. Tyrellan was not fond of anything.
‘What do you suggest?’ she said.
It surprised her that he actually had some ideas. He muttered them as if self-conscious, and after a while she began to offer her own suggestions. He listened, seeming to test the weight of each one in his mind. Soon they were throwing names back and forth across the crib like some parody of parents.
A resounding crack echoed through the chamber, making them both start. The glow from the iceplace became brighter, blue light dancing across the walls. They turned to stare as fine threads of dark blue energy coalesced within the block, concentrating within the hairline split that had appeared through its centre. The threads twisted to form letters, electric and alive, and brief. The crack grew and the ice fell apart, letters gone.
‘The gods,’ Tyrellan had murmured in wonderment, ‘take an interest.’
Suddenly Heron felt the cold touch of steel at her throat. ‘You will not tell Battu of this!’ Tyrellan hissed through pointed fangs, a strange gleam in his eyes. ‘You tell him the name, but not its origin. Do you understand? You will never speak of this to anyone!’
‘As you say, First Slave!’ she’d choked, confused. What did Tyrellan fear? Would not Battu be pleased?
Tyrellan had pushed her away, giving her a hard look as though making up his mind whether or not to end her right then.
‘I will not need the courage to jump from a high balcony if I have a dagger through my throat,’ she muttered.
He’d scowled and left the room.
Heron had gripped the side of the cot to steady herself and looked down upon the baby.
Losara.
•
Heron entered Losara’s chamber. It held an old cupboard full of knotholes, a low flat bed in the centre, a table at which Heron and Losara ate their meals in high-backed chairs, a board of slate against a wall where Heron drew with chalk when she taught him, and ice glowing in the iceplace. The few small oddments Losara had found for himself barely made an impression in the space.
It took her a moment to spot the boy. He was sitting half-submerged in the shadows that ringed the edges of the room. Naked and cross-legged with his back to her, he was sliding his hands along the stone floor. She raised a hand to her mouth when she realised that, as he withdrew his hands, the shadow came too, like melted toffee sticking to his fingers. Losara cocked his head to watch as it drained back through his fingers, though some flecks remained trapped under his fingernails. She had already guessed he had an affinity with shadows, but this, at such an early age?
The boy turned, regarding her with large, dark eyes.
‘Hello, Losara,’ she said.
Without speaking, he got up and padded over to the bed, spots of shadow shaking free of him to fly back to the edges of the room. He climbed up and sat, watching her, then patted the bed next to him. She smiled; despite his being the cause of her internment, she had grown fond of the boy. She sat, and he reached out to touch her hand.
A quiet child, he was strangely affectionate towards her – and, she had realised with some surprise, towards Tyrellan – whether it was a soft touch in greeting, or the gift of some small thing he’d found, or the look of acceptance in his beautiful ivory face. Although he rarely smiled, his face was full of expression: curiosity, compassion, sometimes something unrecognisable. His brown eyes had become almost as dark as the black of his pupils, and when he looked out from under his silky blue fringe, it was a gaze that seemed both full of depth and capable of seeing depth in what it looked upon. In a world of misery, he was the one thing that brought her comfort.
‘What were you doing there?’ she asked.
‘Playing,’ said Losara. He waggled his fingers at her.
‘How long have you been able to do that?’
Losara looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense. ‘Where are my mother and father?’ he asked instead, just as he had done that morning. Then he added, in a very un-childlike manner, ‘I’ll learn nothing else till I learn of this.’
She was taken aback by the command in his voice, and glad Battu had given her leave to tell him. She began to recount the story of his birth, on a stormy night six years past. She told it as best she could, not leaving out anything to do with the prophecy. When she finished, she expected questions, but the boy seemed to take the tale of his origins with calm acceptance. He stared into the distance with a thoughtful expression.
‘Losara?’ she said. ‘Do you understand what I’ve told you?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Everything,’ he said, then looked at her. ‘My father, maybe. Does he love me?’
Heron faltered. It wasn’t the first question she’d expected. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
‘But he hasn’t seen me since I was born,’ said Losara.
‘That doesn’t matter. There is a special bond amongst families.’
‘Should I love him, then?’ said Losara. ‘I don’t know him. He went to the Open Halls to look for the other part of me. Why doesn’t he like this part?’
‘My dear, I’m not sure he knows you even exist,’ said Heron.
‘Oh. But you said you supposed that he loved me. How could he if he doesn’t know about me?’
‘I . . . guess I meant he would if he did,’ said Heron lamely.
‘Sons are meant to be with their fathers,’ said Losara. ‘But if he doesn’t know about me, maybe he’s all right. I suppose I don’t have to worry about him.’
Heron faltered again. Losara didn’t have to worry about his father? He was asking these questions out of concern for the man, not for himself?
‘I would like to meet him though,’ Losara went on. ‘One day.’
‘Yes,’ said Heron meekly. ‘That would be nice.’
‘Nice,’ repeated Losara, as if testing out the word. There was a knock at the door. ‘Tyrellan,’ he said. He always seemed to know who was at the door. As Tyrellan entered, Losara slid off the bed. ‘Hello, Tyrellan.’
‘Hello, young master,’ said Tyrellan stiffly.
‘Hello, Tyrellan’s butterfly,’ said Losara.
Tyrellan gritted his teeth. ‘Did Heron tell you about your birth?’
‘Yes,’ said Losara.
‘And you are . . .’ Tyrellan shifted his stance. ‘Do you feel . . . confused?’
‘Oh, no. Heron told it very well.’
‘But . . . about what you must do. What you will be. It is a large task. An important task.’
‘I guess that’s why Heron is teaching me as much as she can,’ said Losara. ‘Everything makes more sense now.’
&nbs
p; ‘I see,’ said Tyrellan, his eyes shining strangely.
He glanced at Heron, and Heron couldn’t help it – she shrugged. Losara reached out to tug Tyrellan on his trousers, not letting go when Tyrellan glanced down at his little hand.
‘Yes?’ said the goblin.
‘Do you have a father?’
‘I did.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I killed him,’ said Tyrellan, then blinked.
Heron didn’t think he would have admitted that had he thought about it, but the boy seemed to bring out an honesty in the First Slave not normally seen. Maybe it was his innocent directness.
‘Why?’ asked Losara.
‘He didn’t want me to join the military,’ said Tyrellan. ‘He was a farmer.’ The word twisted his lips. ‘He wished me to stay on the farm, sought to stop me leaving and serving the shadow.’
‘So you left your father to be what you needed to be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I guess we’re the same,’ said Losara, giving him a rare smile.
Tyrellan’s snarl dropped instantly from his face; Heron had never seen him look so openly surprised. He covered it quickly, glaring at her with a hard look that dared her to remember.
‘I have matters to attend to,’ he said. ‘Losara . . . Heron.’ With that he turned and marched from the room.
‘Well,’ said Losara, ‘it seems there are all kinds of fathers and sons.’
Part Two / The Growing Powers
Part Two
The Growing Powers
—
I am told that the time during which I grew up was uncharacteristically peaceful. Kainordas and Fenvarrow each knew that the other had a blue-haired boy, and each waited for theirs to turn into whatever it was he was destined to. In the meantime, strength was to be conserved.
The main difference was that Fahren decided to keep my presence a secret, giving the folk of Kainordas much less to hope for. They knew that Fenvarrow possessed a child of power, and believed it was the only child, which made them afraid the war was already lost. I’ll always consider it a mistake that Fahren allowed such a dour mood to permeate, whatever his reasoning might have been. Although I shouldn’t complain – it meant that when I was finally revealed, the people were all the happier to see me, all the more loyal to my cause. But I get ahead of myself.
As I grew, I began to feel some of the confusion that comes, you’ll find, when your immortal soul has been torn in two. It wasn’t pronounced yet, just beginning, gnawing away at my edges like a rat at a frozen corpse.
As if one does not have sufficient concerns merely from being eighteen years old.
Thirteen / Castle Captives
Thirteen
Castle Captives
Castle Captives
The blue hair that fell freely to his shoulders contrasted sharply with his porcelain skin, as did his eyebrows and eyelashes. He was slim of build, medium height, with a face that retained a soft boyishness. He wore a simple black robe, and under the fingernails of his smooth hands were trapped specks of shadow, which occasionally slipped free to zip back into whatever darkness was closest. He moved with a quiet grace, his bare footfalls making no noise on the stone, seeming to glide, and favouring areas where the shadows were deepest.
It was a long journey from the top of Skygrip to the bottom. The castle was almost immense enough to be considered a city in its own right. Here and there magical portal doors shortened the distance between points, but Losara avoided them to enjoy the walk instead. There were corridors so narrow that only one man could walk them at a time, which turned into wide pathways lined with carvings before constricting again. Passages could be straight, bent, or twisted like the insides of a writhing snake. In some places light was non-existent, in others nuggets of ice glowed softly in recesses along the walls, and in others windows or skylights let in the cold grey day. Sometimes the air blew sharp and fresh, sometimes old and stagnant. Walls were bumpy or smooth, crumbly or hard. There was no uniformity to any of it.
At one point he stopped to listen to two female Grey Goblins, who didn’t notice his wafting presence. They intrigued him with their chatter, these simple creatures whose greatest concern was keeping abreast of washroom gossip.
Eventually he reached Skygrip’s main entrance cavern. Skirting the edges of the circular chamber beneath the gaze of towering statues, he stopped inside the open double doors. Outside in the morning mist, figures moved about the castle fortifications. None came near the entrance unless they had to. Even the guards posted there tended to keep well forward of the doors. Losara could see them down the path: four Black Goblins who carried horns in case they needed to sound the alarm. Their breath steamed in the cold air, exaggerated by brittleleaf smoke.
Losara sank down into the archway. From somewhere came the smell of baking bread, which made him realise he was hungry. He produced a strip of meat from his robe, unwrapping the cloth that bound it. He chewed slowly, sucking the juices through his teeth. Heron had told him that in Kainordas it was common practice to cook meat. He’d enjoyed cooked meat on occasion, mostly for its ability to soak up other flavours, but he wondered why anyone would ritually burn all the blood and nutrients away. Those were the things that connected you most with what you ate, that made you realise it was flesh, that struck a primal chord.
‘Me wonders who dares sit there eating such treats in front of Grimra.’
Losara tore a piece from the meat and tossed it up into the archway. The air around it thickened, there was an indistinct flash of white, and the meat disappeared. Losara continued to munch on the remaining piece.
‘Not even a full bite for Grimra,’ came the voice. It floated, sometimes high in the arch, sometimes next to Losara’s ear, dry and hollow. ‘Not big enough to get stuck in his teeth.’
‘Haven’t they fed you yet?’ asked Losara.
‘Theys be late,’ said the voice. ‘Or else Grimra is forgotten. If this be so, perhaps he takes a guard from up the path. Theys thinking Grimra cannot reach them way on up the path.’ The air swirled and there was another flash of white. ‘Theys be wrong.’
‘I wouldn’t take any more guards, hungry ghost,’ said Losara. ‘Tyrellan won’t approve.’
At Tyrellan’s name Grimra hissed, and for a moment Losara saw monstrous claws shining in the light. ‘Perhaps Grimra eats Tyrellan then, next time he comes this way.’
‘Only if you wish your amulet smashed,’ said Losara.
This sent Grimra into a fury, churning the air so it rustled Losara’s hair. Losara waited patiently as the Golgoleth Ghost worked off his anger. The entrance guards glanced back at the commotion, but quickly looked away again. Losara wondered if it was the angry ghost who made them uneasy, or him.
The air calmed, and some moments passed in silence. ‘Grimra be glad Losara visits today,’ said the ghost eventually.
Losara smiled. ‘Why is that?’
The ghost didn’t respond right away. It seemed to Losara that he was thinking. ‘Grimra be glad whenever Losara visits,’ Grimra concluded.
It had been three years before that Losara had first met this strange companion. Probably the ghost was his only real friend. As Battu’s protégé, he was feared by all and consequently friends were hard to come by. The fact that the first thing Grimra had offered to do upon meeting him was slice his head off and drink the blood from his neck like wine from a glass made him stand out from the crowd. The only other people who spoke to Losara were Heron, who was miserable, Tyrellan, who was busy, and of course Battu himself, with whom his relationship was confusing. One moment Battu would be patiently guiding him through some basic magic; the next Losara would be lying dazed on the other side of the room with Battu shouting about some instruction he’d failed to follow. Often Battu would appear kindly toward
s him, with a voice calm and deep, a steady hand upon his shoulder. Yet for all the apparent goodwill, Losara had never felt any real love from the man.
The question was why? Why did a man as powerful as Battu care what Losara thought? The question had first occurred to him when he was six, the same day Heron had told him of the events surrounding his birth. Shortly after that, Battu had summoned him to the throne room.
•
Battu had turned from the long window. ‘Ah, my boy,’ he’d said, his voice soft and carrying as if it wafted on the breeze. ‘Come stand by me.’
Losara went.
‘Heron has told you about your birth?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Good, good. As your understanding increases, so must your education. Now, you know that I am called the Shadowdreamer, but do you know what that really means?’
‘Heron told me,’ said Losara.
Battu did not seem to hear. ‘I rule the land, that much is simple, but a Shadowdreamer is more than just a ruler. I am the shadow’s servant in this world, its conduit of influence. Even now I can feel the shape of the land where the shadow falls. I’m connected to the Cloud, which comes from deep beneath us in the earth and makes its way up through the castle walls. It’s all around us, above and below. The power of Skygrip is mine to draw on, the Shadowdreamer’s right and privilege. Are you understanding me?’
‘Yes.’
Battu smiled. ‘Yes what?’
‘Master.’
‘Good boy. Now come. I will show you the Cloud.’
Battu had led Losara to Skygrip’s roof, from which the stream of black and grey vapour curled slowly upwards. ‘The Breath of the Cloud,’ he announced. ‘A gateway, for those gifted enough to survive it.’
‘Where to, master?’ asked Losara.
‘A place where you can see the shadows of past, present and future. Like all shadows, these can be shifting or uncertain. Hence what we see are nothing more than dreams, yet the dreams of the whole world.’