The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘I’m not your boy.’

  The blade passed through an arachnid foreleg just above a knuckle. There was a sickening crack of chitin, and the deed was done before Lucien had decided how to follow up his initial strike. The king reared up on his four hind legs, a dismal shout escaping his purpled lips. The severed limb crashed to the floor wetly.

  Lucien dodged to his left as the other foreleg was thrust forward, spear-like. A member of the long-dead quartet was shattered into a jumble of bones, the chair beneath him smashed into driftwood. Lucien struck again, but the blade did no more than leave a deep groove in rancid chitin. A grunt, and the monster backed up, allowing Lucien to escape the alcove.

  Reduced to one foreleg, the king lunged forward, stabbing out a series of attacks. Lucien parried two, dodged the next, then ducked under another before retreating. It was impossible to determine how the next attack would come, or the angle the king would strike from. Lucien swiped at the stabbing leg, blade failing to bite into the armoured limb. Unrelenting, the king continued his assault, six limbs propelling him forward, the seventh continuing to thrust at the Orfano. The severed stump gouted clear blood, leaving a trail of blue gore across the chamber.

  Lucien laboured to keep the light up. Bearing a knife or shield in his right hand was one thing, but the unfamiliar weight of the lantern was slowing him, taking him off balance. He eyed the dripping stump, hoping the king would bleed out and crash to the flagstones in a confusion of limbs. Small chance of that.

  ‘I think it’s time I took a more visible role in the ruling of Demesne,’ said the king. ‘I’ll start by executing the current crop of Orfani. That should make my point quite neatly.’

  Lucien parried a blow. The sword shook in his hand. He wondered if Dino and Anea were safe. He wondered if anyone could be safe again.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to deadhead the roses.’

  Distracted by the king’s ravings, Lucien almost failed to see the swipe directed at his head. He dropped to his knees, rolling forward, finding himself underneath the king’s suspended body. His grip on both the lantern and the sword faltered but he clung to them fearfully. The light sputtered, flickering back to brightness a second later. Lucien thrust up, but his blade skidded from hard chitin plates beneath the human skin. He swore and rolled again, emerging behind his opponent. The king stamped at the floor furiously. One steely pointed leg crashed down between Lucien’s boots; another narrowly missed his hip. The Orfano floundered a moment, off balance, then lost his footing. The sword skittered away across the floor from nerveless fingers – he’d smashed his elbow.

  ‘And the Domo will have to go too. He’s outlived his usefulness, wouldn’t you say? Time for retirement.’

  A strange falsetto sound floated down to Lucien. He realised the king was giggling, the sound of a mind snapped. Somehow he managed to keep the lantern aloft. The spiders clambered over his supine form in seconds, threatening to engulf him. The king continued stamping down with his chitin legs, forcing Lucien away from Virmyre’s sword.

  ‘After all I’ve done for you,’ bellowed the king. ‘All the education, all the resources, the bloodlines, the research!’

  Lucien had just regained his feet when the king’s remaining foreleg slapped him across the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He fell to his knees.

  ‘After all the training, all the advantages at your disposal.’

  Another leg thrust down, missing Lucien’s thigh by scant inches.

  ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Lucien di Fontein,’ said the king, then burst into a gale of hysterical laughter.

  Lucien staggered to his feet and fell back several feet before opening the small door on the side of the lantern. He hefted the light, then threw it at the chandelier with a desperate grunt. The king followed the arc of the fluttering light as it sailed through the darkness, up over the lip of the great circle of glass. The lantern crashed into the gilded wooden frame, settling on the upper side of the gaudy construction. Oil spilled from it before catching fire. The king swore in the old tongue.

  Suddenly the chamber was flooded with light. Every shard and blade of glass reflected and diffused the flames. Lucien blinked into the fierce glare. The smell of scorched wood and rope filled the air. Lucien forced himself to keep his eyes open, struggling to take in the true horror of the king. The monstrosity of his madness was laid bare: every twisted limb, every cruel lesion and tear in his rotting flesh, each crude spine jutting from his forearms. The king was a rhapsody of abused meat. Muscles that had no business being tied together strained against their impossible biology. Skin had putrefied and fallen away. It was the work of a mind trapped in flesh and wanting to reinvent itself. To escape itself. It was the work of a mind that had manifested the true depths of its depravity.

  The spiders on the floor scattered to the darkness, leaving Lucien alone with the ruler of Demesne. The king held up his hands to his face, screeching. He staggered to the bed, sinking his fingers into fetid covers, pulling them up over his head like a cowl. The still-sitting musicians stared out from behind their spectacles in silent judgement. The king flailed and swore under the sheets, still holding one arm up to his eyes, a seethe of writhing limbs. In his agony he mounted the bed, trying to take some measure of comfort from it despite the blinding light raining from above. Lucien circled the thrashing king to retrieve Virmyre’s blade, unsure of how to press his advantage. If he didn’t strike now he might not survive a second engagement, and yet the king’s torso had proved all but impregnable. Lucien despaired, but hefted the sword and prepared to charge. It was then the chandelier ripped free of the roof and plummeted onto the bed below.

  There was a split second of wet chopping as glass sank into flesh before the chandelier exploded across the floor. A moment of silence followed, then a terrible wheezing emanated from the ruin on the bed. Shuddering breath dragged into punctured lungs. The smell of singeing flesh drifted on the air. Lucien advanced, stepping onto the bed, avoiding the small tongues of flame that licked and seared at the king. The bedding was afire; he wouldn’t have long.

  ‘The keys,’ he grated from clenched teeth.

  ‘Vai al diavolo!’ The king rocked violently, but the wooden frame of the chandelier held him fast. He struggled harder. A glass blade sank deep into an exposed joint. The king howled.

  ‘Give me the keys,’ said Lucien. The tongues of fire were congregating now, not licking but consuming the bed. It was a matter of seconds before the ruin of the king and the chandelier became a conflagration.

  ‘You were always the weakest,’ spat the king, eyes full of hate, ‘the most pitiful, the most guileless. We should have killed you at—’

  ‘Fuck you then.’

  The impact of the strike shuddered up the length of Lucien’s arm, causing new agony in the old wound. The king’s head spun off the thick stump of his neck, rolling away across the chamber floor, a look of anguish frozen on the pitted features. Lucien scooped the chain from the corpse, ignoring the blue gore jetting from the jugular. The remaining seven limbs twitched in dreadful spasms, then slumped and sprawled across the huge bed. Lucien vaulted over the rising fire, taking a few seconds to beat out an insistent flame on his sleeve. He wrapped the chain of precious keys around his right wrist and stumbled away. The flames rose, a bonfire of the grotesque, forcing him to retreat further. Heat intensified, filling the room with the terrible stench of charred flesh. Lucien took a moment to wonder if there would be anything left after the fire had done its work, or if anyone would believe him when he tried to explain what he had seen. His thoughts turned to Rafaela. He turned away from the cremation, seeing the flames dancing on the dark lenses of the violinists.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, flipping them a salute and disappearing into the gloom of the king’s library. He ran past the books and out into the curving corridor beyond with a single word on his lips.

  Rafaela.

  32

  The Unquiet Dead

&
nbsp; HOUSE CONTADINO COURTYARD

  – Augusto 313

  Lucien let the heat of the sun suffuse him. Sweat coursed from him freely; his arms ached with the effort of swinging the blade and bearing the shield. Blood pumped heavily in his veins, rich with vigour. The air smelled sweet, the faintest of breezes tugging at his hair. D’arzenta stood before him.

  Lucien was grinning. His instructor had decided to teach outside. They’d cleared a fighting circle in the Contadino courtyard and marked it with broken cobblestones borrowed from the stonemason’s workshop. A small crowd had gathered to watch the Orfano duel with the maestro. Dino stood nearby, clutching Achilles to his chest proudly. The drake stared over the younger Orfano’s shoulder, uninterested in the clang and scuffle of the duel.

  ‘Again!’ bellowed D’arzenta, and launched into a series of strikes. The blade ricocheted from Lucien’s shield, barely audible above the din of the crowd, who variously cheered or chanted the Orfano’s name. The student struck back with a series of deft jabs and thrusts, forcing the instructor to go on the defensive, losing ground until he was at the limits of the circle. D’arzenta waited until the conclusion seemed inevitable, then sidestepped, striking Lucien across the back of the head. Fortunately, he’d used the flat of the blade.

  ‘And that’s how you get killed, Master Lucien.’ D’arzenta smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘Reckless. Impatient. Enough for today. You’ve fought hard and fought well. For the most part.’ Lucien clutched the back of his head but couldn’t help a rueful smile. He’d gone from over-cautious novice to hot-headed adept. Something flickered behind D’arzenta’s eyes. Lucien turned around on instinct.

  Golia stood proudly attired in his usual sleeveless voluminous tunic. The quills on his forearms looked thicker than Lucien remembered, his bulk more imposing. The sheer weight of his presence fell like a shadow across the courtyard. The kitchen staff and pages of House Contadino recoiled from the Orfano.

  ‘Perhaps if you’ve finished dancing with the fairy boy you can dance with me, D’arzenta.’ Golia spat on the ground, drawing his steel blade from his scabbard. He’d faced his final test some eighteen months ago. Lucien eyed the weapon jealously, aware he was vulnerable with only a ceramic sword to defend himself. The shield would not last long, not against Golia.

  ‘The only lesson you’ll get from me today is one on manners,’ replied D’arzenta. ‘Why don’t you run back to Giancarlo like the miserable cur you are. I’m sure his boots need polishing.’

  The crowd erupted in a rash of gasps and murmuring. No one including Lucien had ever heard D’arzenta deliver such a scathing dismissal. Golia grinned, the thick cords of his lips pulling back from broad teeth. There was nothing about him that was in any way small. It was at that moment that Lucien spotted the family entering the courtyard. Everyone followed his gaze. Even Golia turned his great head and observed the ragged band as they stumbled toward them. A man, a woman and a boy of around sixteen. A girl at the edge of puberty followed them. All were tear-stained and tired. Their clothes were distressed from the journey and they stood hollow-cheeked and unblinking.

  ‘Somebody get some water and a bench,’ yelled Lucien. The kitchen staff setting about their orders, he strode across the courtyard, past Golia, and presented himself with a short bow. He immediately felt ridiculous and gauche, too formal.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked. D’arzenta appeared at his elbow and waited for their answer.

  ‘Our daughter . . .’ replied the man. He was grey from fringe to nape and hadn’t seen a razor in days. His voice sounded rough and unvarnished. Lucien realised the man hadn’t stopped on purpose but was unable to continue, his mouth twisted in agony as if the words themselves tortured him.

  ‘They come and took my oldest sister, didn’t they?’ said the boy angrily. He squared up to Lucien. ‘You sent your filthy guards to snatch her in the night.’

  Lucien fell back a step, the vehemence of the boy’s accusation staggering. D’arzenta held out placating hands and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘We are beset by a revenant.’ Not D’arzenta’s words. The droning nasal tone of the Majordomo called out across the courtyard. Above them, standing on a vine-choked balcony, the imposing figure of the Domo seemed like a cemetery angel, ash-grey robes completing the illusion.

  ‘What’s that then?’ snarled the boy, anger dimmed by the Domo’s sudden appearance.

  ‘A revenant,’ said the Domo, ‘is an unquiet dead soul, come back to cause havoc among the living. He lives in the woods beyond the graveyard. We will hunt him down.’

  ‘Why does the revenant only steal eighteen-year-old girls?’ shouted the boy at the retreating form of the Domo. He was nearly shaking with fury, his eyes fixed on the now-empty balcony.

  Lucien stepped forward, placing himself in front of the woman, who had a look of far-away suffering in her eyes. She appeared to be only vaguely aware of the situation unfolding around her, unseeing, unhearing.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but—’ Lucien drew in a breath ‘—did your daughter have any problems?’ He touched two fingers to his temple, tapping twice. The woman didn’t answer but instead looked at her feet.

  Her husband scowled. Finally he replied, words thick with emotion, ‘No, never. Nothing like that. She was a good girl. She wanted to . . .’ He broke down, slumping onto his wife, resting his head on her shoulder as if it were a great weight. Lucien turned away from the family, hurrying inside, stomach knotted. He thought of Nardo and Navilia, knowing immediately what he must do.

  Feigning disinterest in the incident was the hardest part. Lucien stayed in his rooms and told Rafaela to spread the rumour his was violently ill. Food poisoning. Camelia wouldn’t thank him for such a slanderous deception, but he was hard pressed to think of anything else. Every dining hall in each of the four houses was buzzing with speculation that night. Rafaela absented herself, looking tired and drawn. She’d barely said a word since she’d heard the news, performing her chores in a fugue. Navilia’s disappearance was a reopened wound, and Lucien would have given anything to console her. Instead he waited for darkness.

  The night refused its summons. The sun set reluctantly, the horizon remaining afire despite Lucien’s wishes to the contrary. He locked his door and made a slumbering mannequin of himself with spare pillows under his sheets. He scattered a handful of crickets into the glass tank to keep the drakes fed as it was possible he wouldn’t return before the following day. The prospect of failing to return was a frightening one, but not unrealistic. Dino would undoubtedly come to the drakes’ rescue. Lucien dragged a finger down the glass; the drakes looked back with unblinking black eyes.

  And then he was out of the window, not letting fear dull his desire, nor caution contain his curiosity. The tenacious vines that grew on Demesne’s walls served his needs more perfectly than any rope. But before he could climb down, he had to climb up.

  Anea’s startled face appeared at her window after a few tense seconds. He guessed she was attaching her veil and was quietly grateful. She opened the window, brow creased in silent question. Lucien sat himself on the sill, glad to take his weight off his arms. The sword hanging from his hip wasn’t making the ordeal any easier.

  ‘I’m off to the sanatorio,’ he said simply, ‘There’s something amiss.’

  He recounted seeing Giancarlo and the Majordomo spiriting a woman into the sanatorio the night he’d been roused by the raven. Anea sat still, listening, her head bowed, green eyes unreadable. Lucien told her of the Domo’s explanation – the endemic madness that supposedly afflicted Demesne.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said bitterly. ‘Not a word. There’s a pattern here. Every few years the same thing: an eighteen-year-old woman disappears and no one sees her again.’

  Anea retreated into her bedroom, returning with her battered book. She scribbled a message: I’ll wait for you to return. Tell me what you see. Go now and be careful.

  Lucien descended the stony face of the castle
feeling unnaturally calm. He noted the fall would most likely kill him, but this was a minor consideration compared to the compulsion of his curiosity. His hands and feet picked their way through the masonry as if he made this journey every day of his life. Divesting himself of the Domo’s secret had lifted a weight he’d been struggling to carry all these years. Now there was a surge of hope, a lightening of the spirit. In Anea he had a confidante, an ally. He continued downward, grasping the ancient vines. Ivy leaves stroked him, blood-red and apple-green. The sky overhead was now bruise-purple, dark blue creeping along the eastern horizon. The few clouds looked ethereal and unreal in the twilight. Lucien imagined them as shades arrived early, awkward and waiting for the haunting hours.

  He reached the ground, shoulders and arms alive with exertion, heart beating a steady tempo in his chest. He noted the stillness. The landscape stretched out from him in a patchwork of fields and neatly ordered hedgerows. Clusters of trees watched over the graveyard in the distance, supposed home of the Domo’s revenant.

  He ran, eyes fixed to the ground, holding his breath in anticipation, waiting for the piercing shout that would lead to his discovery. No one called out. Onward, across the yellowing grasses of the untamed meadow between House Contadino and the sanatorio. Onward, under the watchful gaze of Anea, far up at her window. He wondered how many women had been dragged across this expanse. How many loyal citizens of Demesne discarded here under the pretence of madness?

  He reached the sanatorio, heart a muffled drum, the sound thick in his ears, heightening the sense of danger. His mind drifted to the many times Virmyre had made him run the circumference of Demesne. He’d need to thank him for that. The doors of the miniature citadel stood in front of him, stained vermilion, sickly and visceral in the dying light. The iron banding and studs lent further brooding weight to the imposing portal. And beneath his feet the cracked flagstone where a roof tile had fallen all those years before. A physical scar, one that assured him the events had not been a figment of a young boy’s imagination.