by Patrick, Den
Lucien followed the broad sweep of the circular building until he came to the spindly tower. The taller of the two constructions leaned heavily on the main building. He picked his way up the vertical ravine where the two met, fingers like pitons, searching out every depression and crease in the grey stone. It was almost too easy. The ground simply fell away from him, the wall moving smoothly under his hands, under his boots. Upwards he climbed, not daring to look through the barred windows for fear of what might be waiting in the darkness. Once or twice he thought he discerned a muffled moan or stifled whimpering, but the sounds were at the very limit of his hearing.
He reached the top, hauling himself over the cornice and rolling onto his side. Thick clinging moss cradled him. No cry of alarm had sought him out, and yet he waited long minutes until the darkness offered more of itself. Overhead the first stars revealed their beauty, joining him on his lonely vigil. More clouds materialised, the breeze gaining a bite that had been absent before. No matter; he’d dressed for the task ahead, knowing all too well how cold it was in the company of gargoyles. Finally he sat up, but slowly so as not to attract attention. His sculpted companions were at the roof’s edges, maintaining their eternal watch over the land, and he was not the only living creature on the gently sloping conical roof. At the apex perched a raven, inky black in contrast to the terracotta tiles. It stared at Lucien for long seconds, then turned its tail to him, fussing at its wing feathers.
‘You again.’ Lucien knew it could be any of the ravens which haunted Demesne, but his belief in coincidence was stronger. ‘You wanted me to see them that night, didn’t you?’ The raven gazed at him balefully, then blinked a few times and looked away. ‘You wanted me to unearth their secret.’ The raven gave a half-hearted squawk and resumed cleaning itself. Lucien huddled next to a gargoyle, finding the very spot he’d clung to the last time he’d lurked here. The raven did likewise, an adjacent gargoyle’s head providing a perch.
Time idled, and if the day had been slow to draw to an end then the dawn was equally tardy. More than once Lucien woke to find a length of spittle lining his sleeve, his buttocks numb, fingers cold. He contemplated returning to bed. Perhaps they weren’t bringing her tonight. Perhaps he slept through their passing. It was possible they’d delivered her the night previous. He picked at the possibilities like a scab, then fell asleep as the horizon became lucent with amber and gold.
The raven squawked and flapped its wings. Lucien jolted awake, nearly pitching over the edge. He clutched the gargoyle for support, swearing softly under his breath. The dark bird produced a torrent of guano, staining the gargoyle’s face white and black. Lucien wrinkled his nose.
‘I really need to improve the company I keep,’ he muttered, attempting to stand. His legs were stiff and refused his commands. He sat awkwardly, massaging feeling back into his feet, pulling his boots off when patience failed him. Sensation flooded back in waves of pain.
He almost didn’t see them.
They were a silent procession: the girl slumped over Giancarlo’s broad shoulder like a sack of grain, the Domo leading, his oak staff stabbing down into the withered grass of the meadow. Lucien stared, unable to breathe. Giancarlo was absorbed. The business of putting one booted foot in front of the other consumed him. The Domo picked his way across the field, seemingly blind, yet nimble in his long-limbed way. Dew had saturated the hem of his robe, which had darkened to charcoal-grey as far as the knee. They drew closer and Lucien slid onto his side, merging with the rooftop, daring himself to hang his head over the side.
Closer now, and Lucien was sure a dark mist of flies trailed the Domo, following lazy orbits around the cowled dignitary. The girl had a sack over her head, and her wrists were tied with heavy rope. The gaunt man battered at the door three times with his staff, and then they were gone, disappeared inside the sanatorio’s unknown depths.
Lucien fled.
The calm ordinariness of the girl’s delivery had unmanned him. He’d been expecting resistance, had hoped for a desperate escape. Instead the whole scene had played out in chilling silence.
The grass conspired to slow him. Lucien pressed on harder, anger and disgust hot at the back of his throat. As soon as he reached the grey walls of Demesne his flight continued vertically, at much the same pace. His mind was full of questions that burned, while his gut was full of disappointment. A tiny spark had existed that wanted to believe the Domo’s story of women driven to madness. Wanted to believe the fiction he’d been told. He’d not admitted such a spark could exist until it had been snuffed out.
Before he knew it, he was staring in through Anea’s window, aching fingers gripping the cold stone. She was asleep in the vast fabric of her bed. Panic crawled up his spine. His arms were tiring, and yet he was terrified that if he knocked too loudly others would hear him. He squeezed himself onto the window ledge, feeling too large for the narrow sliver of stone. He looked below, regretting the glance immediately. The fall would snap him, and yet the prospect of climbing back down was a daunting one. He stared at the squat form of the sanatario, which appeared no less imposing for the sun’s first rays. He shivered, wretched and despairing.
The window beside him opened. Anea waved him in, eyes, jade-green in the candlelight, full of concern. He climbed in, staggering as he jumped to the floor, turning to face her, shocked agony on his features. Anea stared back, hair falling about her face in a wave of pale yellow. Lucien smothered himself in it, clutching at her. She stiffened, her whole body going taut. Cautiously, she raised one hand to his head, smoothing down his wind-tousled hair. The embrace continued for many minutes, he silently shaking his grief out into the ropes and braids of her tresses, she remaining stiff-limbed, painfully self-conscious in his arms. Finally he released her and they sat down cross-legged on the floor as he dried his eyes on his jacket sleeves. Lucien couldn’t meet her eyes, addressing his boots instead.
‘They’re taking women. They’re taking them and I don’t know why.’
He detached his scabbard from his belt, placing it across his knees.
‘They’re taking women, and I don’t know if I can stop them.’
33
Among Gargoyles
HOUSE CONTADINO
– Febbraio 315
Lucien emerged into the corridor of King’s Keep hollow-eyed and gaunt with shock. He looked around at the carnage. The Majordomo’s severed limbs lay in congealing pools of blue blood. No sign of his inhuman strength remained in the hands. Pale and withered, they resembled diseased offcuts, as if specimens in the king’s laboratory. Lucien hoped the museum of horrors might be consumed by fire, just as the perpetrator of those experiments had been.
The stench of burned meat and singed hair lingered in the corridor like a curse. The Domo’s staff lay shattered on the floor, the amber headpiece glinting like a jaundiced eye, but he was nowhere to be seen. Lucien struggled to comprehend how the man had escaped, or even survived the sundering of three limbs. He had no wish to make death his constant companion, and yet the opportunity to end the Domo had fled. He doubted a second chance would present itself. His only priority now was Rafaela.
Keys jingled in the darkness, hanging from the king’s chain, now wrapped around his forearm. His left hand grasped Virmyre’s sword while he yanked a lantern from a sconce with his right. The darkness receded ahead of him, cowering, falling away to reveal locked portals and empty corridors. Once or twice he saw people at a distance, like phantoms. They drifted away, disappearing around corners beyond the range of the light and his curiosity. Doors closed and were locked. Tension clung to him like a cobweb until he reached the more familiar environs of House Contadino.
Nothing stirred here; even the cats had given up their nocturnal hunting. He pressed on, knees bruised, arms aching, ribs twingeing when he breathed too deeply. He was almost at the kitchens when he heard the commotion.
‘Get away. I don’t know anything about it.’ A young voice. Maybe a few years older than himself, he guessed
.
‘We just want to ask some questions.’ Older, grizzled, drunk. The last word distinctly threatening.
‘Reckon if anyone knows where he is, you do. What with being a messenger an’ all.’ Another voice, much softer.
‘Get away from me.’
Lucien traced the voices to the sitting room near the kitchens. Light flickered from underneath the door and down the side. Left ajar. Lucien would not refuse the invitation.
‘I’ve not seen him since he left. The Majordomo had him thrown in the oubliette. Isn’t that enough?’ It was Nardo, the House Contadino messenger. Navilia’s brother.
‘Perhaps you should go in too,’ said the older voice. ‘You Contadini have always been too close to that filthy strega. Reckon it’s time you paid for that.’
Lucien felt a new surge of anger, but it was a cold thing, not the heated fury that had consumed him when facing the Domo. He kicked open the door. It slammed against the wall, rattling on its hinges. Everyone turned to face him. Lucien’s sword was held out in first position, its tip lurking near the nearest guard’s exposed throat. Eyes widened in shock as they recognised him, changing to terror as they took in the sight. He was smeared with blue blood, clothes ragged and ripped from his encounters, face streaked with dirt, purple bruises flourishing beneath the grime.
The nearest guard had his eyes fixed on the point of the sword just inches from his jugular. He was a downy-cheeked sort, barely eighteen summers, the corner of his mouth a riot of sores. His accomplice was an older man bearing a slash across his cheekbone that had been sewn up badly, making him squint in one eye.
‘I think it’s time you both retired from House Fontein and took up something more useful. Farming perhaps.’
‘Y-yes, Master Lucien,’ said the younger guard in a falsetto. His boots began to fill with piss.
‘Go. The Fuck. Away.’
The man left, his knife clattering to the floor. He struggled past Lucien, looking both apologetic and awkward as he went. The sound of his footsteps receded in the distance. Lucien’s eyes remained locked on the older guard, who hadn’t moved. His fist grew tight on the hilt of the knife as he squared up to Lucien, mouth a sour curve, arrogant and pugnacious.
‘I serve the king,’ growled the man, the scar twisting on his face. Lucien ignored him.
‘Stand up, Nardo.’ The messenger dragged himself to his feet, brushed himself down. ‘It was the Majordomo who had your sister abducted, on the orders of the king.’
Nardo stared back wordlessly. He swallowed, then nodded.
‘I’m sorry. But I thought you should know.’
The messenger knelt down and retrieved the discarded knife.
‘Squads of guards from House Fontein were sent out under cover of darkness. Sent to abduct girls around their eighteenth birthday. Guards like this one.’
‘I wasn’t no part of that business,’ blustered the scarred man. His face grew scarlet, uncertain eyes turning to Nardo, then back to the strega who held him at swordpoint. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
‘I swear I didn’t go with them. They asked me but I refused.’
‘You refused an order from Giancarlo?’ Lucien raised an eyebrow. ‘And the Majordomo?’
‘That’s right. I stood up to them.’
‘What a hero,’ sneered Lucien. He slapped the man’s knuckles with the flat of his blade leaving him nursing numbed fingers. The knife fell and embedded itself in the floorboards with a gentle thud.
‘He’s all yours, Nardo.’ Lucien backed out of the room and closed the door. The guard began to beg, his voice becoming high-pitched, then incoherent. Suddenly the sounds stopped. What Nardo had done wouldn’t bring Navilia back, but it would have to do.
The night sky was smeared with an amber light where it met the land. The mist had a luminous quality as the sun crept closer to the horizon. At first Lucien thought he was hallucinating or his eyes were playing tricks with the dawn. Figures drifted in the meadow between Demesne and the sanatorio, awful shades half seen, the very images of the things that haunted his stories, creatures from dark tales. The unquiet dead.
But they were not dead.
The doors to the sanatorio had been unlocked. And not just the doors but the cells too. The shaven-headed women had stumbled out into the breaking dawn, legs stick-thin and unsteady. Some simply gazed at the stars above as they were extinguished by the coming of the sun. Others lurched and staggered, hunched over and heedless of anyone around them. A few clutched at companions only they could see or batted away invisible persecutors. Grubby shifts like burial shrouds concealed their sparse frames. Lucien staggered on, exhaustion weighing on his heels. Rafaela was not among them. His pulse raced, mouth turning dry.
The doors of the sanatorio yawned open, the arched portal revealing nothing but darkness within. Lucien looked at the chain of keys wrapped around his forearm with disgust. He’d faced the king for nothing. The call of ravens reached him as he picked his way through the meadow of withered women, past unseeing gazes. A few noticed him and tried to mouth words but none came. The awful silence remained unbroken.
Inside the sanatorio, sprawled on the floor, was Dottore Angelicola, his right eye darkened by bruising, hair tousled and wild, trousers wet with dew. Keys lay discarded on the floor nearby. He was rocking back and forth keening to himself like a child. Cradled in his arms was a haggard woman close to death. If she was aware of Angelicola’s distress she didn’t show it: her eyes remained blank and rheum-grey. Her hands were lifeless claws in her lap.
‘Just for a while, they said. Oh yes.’
Lucien wasn’t sure the dottore had seen him. He stood at the doorway and listened.
‘You and your pretty wife can live for ever, they said, Oh yes. Such a pretty wife.’
The dottore sobbed and sobbed, only stopping to cough and shudder.
‘And all you have to do is deliver the babies in the sanatorio. Such pretty babies. And such unfortunate women. Oh yes. So pretty.’
Lucien gripped the hilt of his sword. He was certain Angelicola’s confession would be more than he could bear to hear.
‘But those pretty babies weren’t pretty at all. They lied. I pulled those creatures from the wombs of women, cutting them out when I had to. Filthy Orfani, foul streghe every one.’ The dottore had settled into a conspiratorial whisper, the woman in his arms a captive audience.
‘But we won’t let those dreadful vermin take over, will we? Not even that thug Golia. No, we’re much too clever. Aren’t we? Oh yes.’
The dottore pressed his forehead against the woman’s own.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you these things. Your mind snapped twenty years ago.’ He laughed hysterically, almost screeching. Lucien wondered if he’d sampled his own morphine.
‘Dottore.’
Angelicola looked up as if he’d just woken from a dream. He drew in a shuddering breath.
‘L-lucien?’
‘Care to tell me what in the nine hells is going on?’
‘I-I set them free.’
‘You had keys to this place the whole time?’
The wild-haired dottore nodded.
‘Porcia misèria! I could have stolen them from you and been spared meeting the king.’
‘The king?’ Horror seeped in behind Angelicola’s eyes. ‘H-how is he?’
‘Dead. Which is what you’re going to be if you don’t give me an answer.’
The dottore squealed and scrambled away from him. The corpse-like woman fell to the flagstones, her head hitting the floor with a dull smack.
‘Where is Rafaela?’
‘I’ve not seen her. I swear. Golia brought me here. He made me give him the keys. He said he was . . . looking for someone.’ The dottore’s eyes filled with understanding. Lucien felt his stomach clench. ‘Lucien. I’m—’
‘Where?’ Barely restrained violence.
‘I don’t know.’ Angelicola choked back a sob. ‘Lucien, finish this. Finish me, I beg you.’ His e
yes were brimming.
Lucien ignored him, pressing on into the sanatorio. His mind was blank, feet seeking out the stone steps that would take him higher, legs protesting underneath him. It was cold in the heart of the sanatorio, and he felt the chill all too keenly. Running from cell to cell, he searched each and every one, scoured the corridors, ignoring the smell of bodies and piss. His every exhalation was transformed. A single-word prayer, a chant.
Rafaela, Rafaela, Rafaela.
Only emptiness greeted him. Here a sodden pile of rags, there a mouldering mattress or a pail of excrement. The sanatorio was deserted. Lucien despaired. He screamed in fury, throwing his lantern against the wall in pure rage. It hit the floor and leaked oil for a few seconds before the liquid spluttered into life. Fire bloomed.
He was still shaking with anger when he spotted it – a ladder lit by the bright glow of the broken lantern. He followed the wooden steps up, then realised they were attached to the wall with metal pitons. Above him was a trapdoor that could only lead to the rooftop and the ring of gargoyles that looked out across the countryside.
Lucien sheathed his sword and scrambled onto the bottom rungs, nearly losing his footing in his haste. He scaled the ladder quickly, pushing against the trapdoor, flinging it back. Morning light flooded in, making him squint. He climbed up, drawing his sword on instinct as soon as he gained his feet. The women still drifted in the meadow below: they stumbled on, arms outstretched, moaning faintly to themselves. Lucien glanced at them only briefly before turning his attention to the presence at the edge of his vision. His mouth went dry.
Golia stood with a rope in his hand, a rope terminating at a hangman’s noose, looped over Rafaela’s neck. She was tight-lipped with fear, her eyes pressed shut. More rope bound her wrists together in front of her. Mercifully she looked unhurt.
The largest of the Orfano was dressed for La Festa. His suit was immaculate, his shirt brilliant white. Only the sword in his hand and the dagger hilt protruding from each boot disclosed his agenda. And the crude leash about Rafaela’s neck.