by Rj Barker
I did not know. It is far easier to ignore an itch when you cannot see it—in that case you forget about it entirely—but to be reminded of it every moment will have you scratching your flesh into a wound.
Around Neander was a multicoloured array of priests. I could not help noticing that, despite the masks and robes which hid their bodies, from their build they all appeared to be men—which was a break from tradition. Many of the gods and goddesses had specifically female priests, but it appeared Rufra was not the only one bringing in new ways. Neander stepped forward. He had a voice like a quill scratching on parchment.
“Welcome, Rufra ap Vthyr, king of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides, to Ceadoc, the Sepulchre of the Gods. Find good fortune here and be comfortable.”
A shiver ran through me. I could not imagine anyone being comfortable in this cold and echoing place. Before I could become too fixated on Neander he was, almost, pushed out of the way by another man stepping forward. Neander’s face dissolved into momentary fury at being upstaged and I had to fight to hide a smile while he fought to compose himself.
He was tall, this man, abnormally so, and thin as well. Dress him in rags and cornstalks and he would have made a good hedging at the yearsbirth fire dances—but he was not dressed in rags. He wore the finest clothes I had ever seen, which is saying something as I was part of a king’s household, sheer and shining golden fabric fell to pool around his feet. He was surrounded by a group of similarly dressed children and dwarves, all with shorn heads and faces painted to look like hedgings or dead gods: faces blocked out with triangles of black, eyebrows exaggerated, lips painted in strange colours. They whispered constantly, pointing at members of our party and talking about us behind small hands. The man acted as if they were not there and when he moved they flowed around him, clearly practised at staying as close as possible without being trodden on.
He wore make-up, strange patterns covered his face and they made me uneasy as they reminded me of the Landsman’s Leash which scarred my flesh. Thick black hair crowned his head, shaved at the sides with the top pulled back into a tight tail to hide the wrinkles age had gifted his skin. Green eyes stared out from under sparse brows and down a long thin nose that managed to make him look disapproving of our entire party. He smelled strongly of lake flower perfume, but it could not quite cover the smell of stale sweat.
“King Rufra ap Vthyr of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides.” He spoke through his nose and affected a lisp. “The king that walks in the shadow of death.”
“Is that what they say of me?”
“It is, though I hear you do not walk as closely with the shadow as you once did.” Rufra looked at the ground, as if embarrassed by me, and I stared at the man. Such rudeness was rare in the Tired Lands. He turned his eyes to me. “And that shadow is here, Death’s Jester, or should we be more truthful and call you what you are, assassin?” He looked me up and down, focusing on my clubbed foot. “Mage-bent,” he said. “I had heard it but did not think it true.” I found myself liking this man less and less. “The assassins were almost finished and now they rise again.” He took a rag from his pocket and wiped a false tear from his eyes. “You have made them fashionable, it is a poor king now who does not have an assassin to guard him.”
“Do you only wish to insult my friends, Gamelon?” growled Rufra. “Or me as well?”
The man looked surprised.
“My apologies, Blessed Rufra. I forget that the ways of the provincial are not the ways of Ceadoc. I will endeavour to blunt my tongue from now on. Please, let me start again.” Rufra gave him a nod and the man replied with an elaborate bow. “I am Gamelon, seneschal of the high kings, as was my father before me and his father before him. I welcome you to Ceadoc, seat of all power, crown and throne of the Tired Lands, scabbard and Trunk of the Landsmen and the soil that nurtures the protectorate of the white tree, Sepulchre of the Dead Gods, library of our histories and the envy of all men.” He looked at Rufra’s guard behind him and then added, “And women. Of course.”
“And where is the High Landsman?” said Rufra quietly. “As I am forerunner to become high king he should be here to greet me.”
“Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen, sends his regrets, Blessed Rufra, but matters of duty take him away. I am sure he means no insult and he has sent many of his men to guard your way in, as I am sure you have seen.” Gamelon’s eyes shone in the weak light. He knew exactly how insulting it was for Fureth not to show up in person but, in turn, Rufra had expected nothing less.
“Well,” said Rufra, “he is not especially missed. My contingent is one hundred and fifty strong, together with mounts, and we will need access to a blacksmith. I presume you have arranged quarters for us, Gamelon?”
“Of course, Blessed Rufra.”
“He is a king,” growled Boros.
“I know,” said the seneschal. He did not look at Boros. His eyes were fixed on me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “I am forbidden to call any man king unless they are high king. It is a matter of propriety, that is all.”
“Peace, Boros,” said Rufra.
“Is that Celot, behind you?” said Gamelon. “By the one they call the fat bear, Blessed Rufra?” I could not see Aydor, but could imagine his eyes narrowing at being so openly insulted.
“Aye, what of it?”
“Only I have heard much about him, the fool that fights. Darsese talked of him often, of his wish to see if such a man really could fight. Maybe we could arrange a duel of some sort, in the old high king’s honour?”
“We are not here for your amusement,” said Rufra.
“What a pity. Ceadoc does love its amusements. But let us not worry about that now, I am sure the time will come for such things.”
“We would also like to pay our respects at the Sepulchre of the Gods,” said Rufra. Neander stepped forward, speaking in the priests’ carefully held monotone.
“It is regretful that, on this occasion, when all the best of the Tired Lands will be gathered, it will not be possible.”
“You insult my king?” My angry words were like pressure being bled out of me. Rufra put a hand on my arm.
“It is no insult,” said Neander. “The sepulchre was built to remind us of our loss in a time when men were far wiser than we are now. Regretfully, the age-of-balance machines that allow access to the sepulchre have failed, and we have yet to fix them. It is the Landsmen’s duty, and I believe that is why Fureth is not here—he works to allow access. The beauty of the sepulchre will not be denied us for too long, hopefully, and then all may pay their respects once more.”
Gamelon stepped forward again, all smiles.
“Your wound must pain you, Blessed Rufra. Let me show you to where you may lie down and regain your strength.” Rufra ignored the insult, but among the crowd of children and dwarves that surrounded Gamelon there was much giggling hidden behind small hands. Laughter hissed and flowed around us like waves over pebbles and the seneschal did not nothing to curb their disrespect. “I have this man,” he pointed at a soldier in elaborate armour, “he is Captain Hurdyn ap Gorrith of the high king’s guard. He will take you to the Low Tower, where you are to stay. Maybe when you are settled you will allow me to give you a tour of Ceadoc?”
“I have seen it before,” said Rufra through gritted teeth, “and once was enough.” Gamelon smiled and bowed while his entourage giggled again.
“Of course,” he said, and despite Rufra’s rudeness his fixed smile did not waver. “Captain Hurdyn, take Blessed Rufra and his people to their tower.”
I could not help thinking that sounded ominous.
We passed through the belly of Ceadoc Castle, a place that felt designed for no better reason than to confuse the visitor. Our route twisted and turned on itself, steps went up and down, we passed through great halls and squeezed down passages that would barely allow us to walk two abreast. Usually this would have been of no concern—to follow a path and retread my steps are of second nature to me—but we repeatedly crossed the edges
of the souring beneath the castle and it made my stomach loop and leap. It was as if I were balancing along the edge of a cliff with only air between myself and the rocks far below. By the time we arrived at the Low Tower I did not know which direction the sun would rise in, never mind how to find my way back through Ceadoc and I wondered if this was deliberate—if we had been brought to this place in the most tortuous manner possible to confuse us. It seemed impossible that there would not be shorter ways to travel through the building.
The Low Tower was a castle in itself, and though called “low” it was nothing of the sort. Not as high as Maniyadoc, true enough, it ran to only four storeys, but it was still an impressive building—so wide that despite its height it gave the impression of being squat. It had its own courtyard and a young slave was lighting a fire for the smiths to work from. At the other side a stablehand was bringing over bales of hay to put down as bedding for our mounts and the enclosure had its own portcullis gate which lead directly into Ceadoc town. A gaggle of children, faces stained and dirty, eyes wide and hungry, stared at us through the bars as Captain Hurdyn brought us to a halt in the courtyard.
“This is yours for the duration of your stay,” he said. He was younger than I had thought, a short beard lent him an age his smooth skin gave lie to. “I will leave twenty highguard here for you.”
“I have my own guard,” said Rufra.
“I do not doubt it but the guard will stay. They are as much to make sure you engage in no mischief as to keep you safe.” I heard gasps from around me at the man’s tone.
“Was that a deliberate insult or are you simply ignorant?” said Rufra, and any that knew him would have known his tone for a dangerous one. I saw a momentary widening of Captain Hurdyn’s eyes and his youth shone through.
“Forgive me, Blessed Rufra.” He bowed his head. “I have been at Ceadoc seven years and forget how abrupt its ways seem to those from outside.” Rufra continued to stare at the man but he did not seem quite as affronted as he had. “All those who visit Ceadoc are left a contingent of highguard. It is simply the way things are done. You will also be expected to tell the highguard where you go when you move through Ceadoc, not because you are not trusted but because diplomacy at Ceadoc is too often carried out with the blade rather than the word. Gamelon does not wish for a new high king to be brought into being in blood, and if we know where you are and where you go an alarm can be raised if you do not arrive swiftly.”
“I suspect Gamelon will be disappointed, no matter how hard he tries to prevent bloodshed,” a flash of humour in Rufra’s eye, “but I understand you simply do your duty. Is there anything else you should tell us?”
The captain nodded.
“Aye, the Low Tower has been empty for a long time and I am afraid it is not fit to receive a king. If you tell my troops what you want they will get it and though they wear fancy armour they are not afraid of hard work. Set them to whatever task needs done and they will do it.” He gave a small bow of his head. “I will join them if required.”
“So you are to stay with us?”
“Yes, King Rufra.”
“Very well, then let us look around our new home.”
There is a smell to dereliction. The concerted action of time brings with it a stink I have always associated with poverty: moist plaster dust, creeping damp and whitewash slowly returning to liquid. On top of this gathered the smell of the filthy tapestries hanging from the walls, spoiled straw mattresses, rotting food, animal dung and the overpowering stink that told me there was a nest of vermin somewhere, scavenging whatever they could find to eat. It was difficult not to see having been put here as a calculated insult, but Rufra said nothing.
“I have torches,” said Hurdyn, gesturing to one of his men to bring them.
“We’ll need more than torches,” said Boros. “We’ll need to fumigate the place.”
“Careful on the stairs,” said Hurdyn, lighting a torch with a sparkbox and then using it to light more guttering torches which he passed out among us. “They are damp.”
He was right, a line of green slime ran down the spiral staircase, pooling on some stairs, flowing to the left and right where water had run down grooves worn in the stone by hundreds of years of feet. The further up the tower we went the more derelict it became—and the angrier I felt Rufra becoming. It was one thing to be insulted by poor quarters, it was another to be expected to live in a ruin.
“Does Gamelon want me here as a candidate for high king or as a mason?” growled Rufra, staring up from the third floor. The ceiling was gone and the sun could be seen through holes in the roof. “We will need canvasses to patch the roof.”
“At least it is not cold or raining, we should be glad we come in summer,” said Boros. “Dead gods grant only small mercies, as they say.”
“We cannot stay here,” said Rufra. Captain Hurdyn bowed his head.
“I am afraid there is nowhere else, Blessed,” he said.
“We could stay with Festival,” I said. “They would happily quarter you.”
“No,” Rufra sighed. “It would be seen as an insult, even though what we are offered is so poor.” He shook his head. “It seems we have no choice but to get to work.”
And that is how one of the greatest warriors of his age and his famed band of loyal companions spent their first day and night at Ceadoc, tidying and making watertight a ruin.
They do not tell you that in the stories.
Interlude
This is a red dream
This is where it begins.
This is a dream without shape or form or borders.
This is pain.
It is red and it is wet.
First there is no physical pain, no mental pain. Only shock.
That moment, it twists and turns like cold steel. Goes back to the start: every footfall, every second, every word and movement crystal clear and perfect—as if watched in a mirror. And then that final, cold, paralysing moment when Vesin, beautiful, brave, strong—stupid stupid stupid—Vesin, chose to protect her rather than walk away. If she’d just said nothing. Kept her mouth shut, let him go. But it is too late. He is dead.
She cannot think about him.
Think about Vesin alive. Think about being together. Think about anything but the knife going into flesh and … Oh dead gods, she’s going to die. How can this have happened, how can this be?
There is a voice.
A small voice, an old voice, one she knows, one that spoke to her long ago and then faded away when she stopped answering.
Get up.
This is a red dream.
This is a dream without shape or form of borders.
This is pain.
It is red and it is wet.
She is no stranger to blood—what woman is? But she has never seen so much, not coming out of her. She felt the blade go in. Felt it as ice. Felt it as unconnected to the horror of Vesin’s death. Almost welcomed it—and would have, had she not also felt it as the inevitable death of the tiny life within.
A boy. She’d known from the moment he was conceived, from the moment they joined together and a shock went through her. Not shock like the one she felt now: as different as was possible, as pleasurable as this was painful, as right as this was wrong. She’d felt him come into being in that moment of joy as surely as she’d felt the tiny light of his life flicker in this moment of horror.
Crying, he’s crying. No, she is crying.
Get up.
This is a red dream.
This is a dream without shape or form or borders.
This is pain.
It is red and it is wet.
Now it hurts. The physical pain comes in waves: unbearable, unbelievable. She curls around it as if protecting the ragged line of flesh across her stomach. She had eaten tamish for lunch, spicy and strong, and she can smell it—smell the contents of her guts—and it makes her vomit. It is another level of agony, blood fountaining from her mouth, nose full of the smell of food and the stink of th
e butchers. She is talking, telling herself it will be all right, saying the words as she breathes, barely breathing, barely speaking. Is she even saying the words or are they only in her head?
Tamish for her last ever lunch. Thankful food.
Get up.
Who is that?
This is a red dream.
This is a dream without shape or form of borders.
This is pain.
It is red and it is wet.
Father. Father, I should have told you. You would have understood and now your little girl is dying in the wood far, far from home and everything she loves.
The sun is high, bright and strong and it heats her skin but she is cold. Cradling her stomach; blood leaking through her hands; blood everywhere. Pain, this is pain. Women are born into pain. Birth is pain. Oh, my boy, my little boy, lost in the wood, lost for love. My boys, my boys all gone. Darkness. She longs for darkness.
Get up.
That voice.
Get up.
From so very deep within her. Something is stirring, something desperate to continue. She hopes it is the child but it is not. It is something old and dark and it wants her to live, but she is not strong enough. She is dying in the wood. She is dying in the wood. All she has left is gone. All her life is flowing away.
Get up.
That dark voice.
“Get up.”
Who?
“Merela!”
Who is there? No, no, leave me to die. My boys, my boys …