by S J Hartland
He cared. His lord cared. Enough to ride straight to him. Not wasting time to sleep nor seek the king. Beneath his anger, his lord feared for him.
Secretly pleased, Kaell managed: “My wounds will heal, my lord. I’m much recovered.”
“At what price? That witch serves demons. What did she offer them to save you?”
“Would you prefer I died?”
“How could you ask that?” His lord thrust his gloves into his belt. “But you don’t understand. Her magic comes from gods that aren’t yours.”
Could these Isles gods be so terrible? Yet—Kaell swallowed, deeply reluctant to tell his lord the truth. Not because he feared this man’s wrath. No, he feared his expression clouding in disappointment.
“The dreams—”
“What?”
“My visions, they’re gone. I dream, nightmares of that stupid door again, but not like before. It’s more a memory now, the door. I don’t see what’s coming.”
Silence. His lord filled it with his presence, imposing and terribly still, but for his fierce eyes flaring like newly lit onyx lanterns. His voice came out low, the words carefully placed as though he shackled inconvenient emotion. “The witch left you defenceless.”
“My lord, why would she do that? It may be the poison. My strength returns. Perhaps the visions will as well.”
“Where did you get that?”
Kaell glanced up. Vraymorg’s stare dwelt on the book.
“I—it was here.”
“Did you take it from my room?”
“No,” Kaell whispered, uneasy. “The physician thinks the healer left it.”
Vraymorg smoothed its leather with his palm. “It’s not the same.” He briefly closed his eyes. “I know you’d never take anything, Kaell. Did you read this?”
First Arn and now his lord asking about this book, an undercurrent in their tones.
“Only the stories about King Roaran. The rest looked dull.”
His lord brooded in that way of his; body held stiffly, his eyes dark, wide and distant.
With his raven hair, the close-cut stubble shadowing his jaw, this man resembled Aric. That made no sense. An Isles prince and a Mountains lord.
“Describe what the witch did.”
“She prepared a potion for me to drink. Said things.” Kaell shrugged.
“Words? Like a chant?”
“My lord, I blacked out. But she saved my life.”
Vraymorg looked past him into the murk along the walls.
“As soon as you can ride,” he said. “You’ll return to the Mountains. I’ll summon the priests of Khir. They’ll undo her mischief.”
“I can’t do that.” Kaell’s boldness shocked him. “I promised the king we’d destroy a nest of ghouls near the Waste Mountains.”
“You’re bound to the rulers of Vraymorg, boy, not of Dal-Kanu.” His lord’s tone did not yield so much as a handbreadth. “The king will return you until you are again ready to serve the gods.”
He stormed out, leaving Kaell crushing the sheet with iron fingers.
Val Arques
Men called it the Silent Keep. It wasn’t. It creaked with whispers.
Vraymorg heard them all, every unearthly voice echoing through the Castle of the Lake’s stone passages, every footstep that fell in emptiness.
Dead Telorian kings prowled, watchful. Their breath hunted like a wound along his backbone, their shadows unfolding in his wake.
Spirits paced his childhood home at Tide’s End, too, with sorrowful songs as familiar as waves shattering on rocks below moonlit Isles cliffs.
He grew up hearing clashing blades, a relentless hammering from the forge, the tide thundering over reefs and wind groaning with ghostly voices through arrow slits in towers.
Every sound strangely comforting. Unlike the velvet hush of his prison, that bleak, iron-gated Mountains keep called Vraymorg.
He remembered with a shiver nights he stood at his window staring across the great gorge into a blackness that might hold—anything. And his neck prickled as if fingers brushed his skin.
Slowly he lifted his eyes to Cathmor. Seated in a high-backed chair in the hall, shoulders hunched, torchlight licking at a blunt, grim countenance, the king looked upon nothing.
Perhaps he, too, sensed judging spirits roaming dark corridors, shadows that flitted and darted. Or perhaps Cathmor merely pondered how to get rid of him.
Beyond the windows, sodden thunderheads blotted dusk, a fugue of black and grey. The air as acrid as his frayed temper. He wanted nothing more than to sink down, back to the stone wall and drop his head into hands.
Not yet. Not until Cathmor agreed to return Kaell. Not until he took Kaell safely back to the Mountains, far from treacherous Isles princes with poisoned blades.
“I won’t leave without him, Your Grace.”
Cathmor lurched from his chair. Loosely leashed menace enlarged a man already a head taller than Vraymorg. Soft, brown hair and slumberous eyes belied a face as hard as iron and a sarcastic, belittling tongue.
“And again, I say: You can’t have him.”
“Your Grace, Kaell must return with me.”
“You argue with your king, Vraymorg? Is your loyalty suspect? Shall I throw you into a cell next to Aric? Let me say it one last time: I need Khir’s warrior here.”
Vraymorg forced repugnant words through gritted teeth. “I am loyal to Your Majesty.” The Mountains might be his prison but at least there he answered to no one. “Kaell is useless to you. An Isles sorceress cast incantations over him.”
“I permitted her to tend him.”
“You had no right. Better he should die.”
Cathmor knuckled a fist against his hipbone. “A time in irons might soften your arrogance, Vraymorg. You do not even bow to your king.”
Deliberately slowly, Vraymorg dropped to one knee. Cathmor might indeed arrest him. He could hardly help Kaell if he rotted in a cell.
The king rubbed his chin, pleased. “Well, well. So you can bend that stiff neck.”
Vraymorg said nothing. Vanity blinded even clever men. And Cathmor possessed wit enough to be at least formidable—if not for that vanity. If not for his belief in his kingly rights and his need to dominate and slap others down with steel or words.
The king drove a hand through air. “I don’t understand you, Vraymorg. I permitted the sorceress to tend to Kaell to save his life. You should be grateful.”
“Only blood magic can cure Night’s Kiss,” Vraymorg said. “That means a life for a life.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Was there—a death?”
“When the witch healed Kaell?” Cathmor shrugged. “A gardener’s apprentice.”
Vraymorg snatched a breath. “How?”
“Someone stabbed him.”
“A young man? Healthy?”
Cathmor scoffed. “Not a supernatural death, Vraymorg. I’m told the boy accused a guard of cheating at dice.”
Lightning scarred darkness beyond the window. Thunder pealed, a ripping ribbon of sound. An awakened wind carried the sharp scent of rain and stirred dust.
The witch had used blood magic. Vraymorg knew it. Sorcery demanded payment.
“I can’t leave Kaell here,” he said. “Injured. He’s vulnerable.”
“The boy is among friends.” The king’s look for once held neither menace nor impatience. Only an odd, unsought sympathy. “No one here wishes him harm.”
An intimacy awakened. Deeply uncomfortable. Vraymorg did not expect pity from this man. No, he did not want pity from him.
Cathmor crossed to a table spread with maps and parchments.
“Once Kaell can fight he’ll lead his men north. The villagers of Thom begged me for help. Two pitiful things made their way to Dal-Kanu to plead for warriors to save them.”
“So your messenger said. Gods help them.”
“Eleven villagers taken at night from some forsaken place here.” Cathmor poked a finger at a map. “Slaug
htered. The villagers set guards, but ghouls took them as well.”
Vraymorg frowned. “I’ve not heard of ghouls near Thom before. Why now?”
“Caelmarsh brought me a strange story of a ghoul killing two men at a tournament on the Downs. Who knows what these beasts intend.”
“But for their appetites, they’re hardly beasts. Intelligent. Dangerous. A curse upon this land. In the time of Queen Devarsi, they killed so many the streams ran red with blood.”
“Until the gods blessed us with the first bonded warrior. An old story.” Cathmor yawned.
“Do I bore Your Majesty?”
“You’re far too prickly to bore me. But you irritate me. Now, are we agreed?” A warning edge to his voice. “Kaell remains here until he rides north. I assure you, he has the best care.”
Vraymorg freed a held breath. “You may have Kaell. But he returns to the Mountains once he destroys this nest of vipers.”
“May have?” Cathmor swept the map from the table. “You don’t give. I take. My father complained about your father’s impudence. Arrogance, it seems, is in the blood.”
An old complaint. Vraymorg shrugged it off. Cathmor resented him. Perhaps because the king recognised he couldn’t easily bend or break him. To break or bend, a man must have something to lose. His position? His life? He didn’t care about either.
But about Kaell …
“As for Aric Caelan—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I will not give you my cousin, Vraymorg. Nor will I let you roam in the deepest, darkest places of this castle so you can play with him.”
“This man.” Vraymorg’s clenched jaw ached. “Struck down Kaell coldly, deliberately. Night’s Kiss is a vicious death.”
“I assure you Aric Caelan is in torment, with no thought beyond how to stop his agony. My interrogator knows many bloody joys.”
“Your prisons are neither dark nor damp enough. There are holes in the Mountains where no one will ever hear from him again.”
“That would never do.” Cathmor mocked with a roll of his eyes. “When Aric dies—I think his execution will be quite an event, don’t you?—everyone must hear him scream.”
“I want him. He wronged me more than you.”
“Really? You wish to play that tiresome game? Then let me remind you of this, Vraymorg. Aric’s incompetence denied me my queen. If his father thinks he can send some sorceress to heal Kaell and all is forgiven, he’s wrong. I will execute Aric.”
To provoke Hatton into declaring war? Or to pretend to fear he might and attack first?
“As for Kaell,” Cathmor said. “Aric attacked a warrior under my protection. So it seems, I win.”
“Then I’ll ride with Kaell to Thom. It’s too close to the Waste Mountains. It could be dangerous. He’ll need my help.”
Cathmor snorted. “Your king needs your help. I must be ready to march on the Isles by the first week of spring. I need arrows. Rope. It will be a long, busy winter for you. You’ll return at once to the Mountains.”
“Your Grace, at least let me speak again with Kaell.”
“Enough. Now you do bore me.”
“Your Grace—”
“Enough, I said. You test me, Vraymorg. Another word and you’ll get your wish and spend time with Aric. In my cells.”
Kaell
Kaell climbed up to the balcony above his room. Stone cut his palms, bloodied his shins. He hardly felt it. A nervous edginess kept pain and exhaustion at bay. For now.
As he slipped into Cathmor’s empty bedchamber, a key jangled.
The king walked inside. With a weary sigh, he shut the door at his back.
“Your Grace.”
Cathmor whipped a knife from his belt as he spun. “By Cyrah. How did you get here?”
“Your Grace, I must talk to you.”
“So you crept into my rooms? Are you witless? I should call the guards to arrest you.”
“Forgive me.” Kaell fell to one knee.
A silence plunged. Slowly it filled with Cathmor’s breaths, with the tread of guards outside, a whisper of lambent flames in sconces.
“Well, well.” Cathmor waved him up, a satisfied gleam darkening his eyes. “What is so important you break into your king’s rooms in the middle of the night?”
“I must talk to you, Your Grace,” Kaell said. “But the guards won’t let me leave my room.”
“You’re guarded for your protection. Saying that.” Cathmor frowned. “How did you slip by my men?”
“The window. I climbed up.”
“You embarrassed my guards. I’ll discipline them. What if you were an assassin?”
“Your Grace, please.” Kaell threw up his hands. “Don’t punish anyone because of me.”
Cathmor unbuckled his sword belt.
“This night proves illuminating, but it is becoming very long. Tell me what you came to say. I already put up with a tirade of nonsense from your lord, so why not you as well?”
Kaell swayed, fist clenched to focus on staying upright. “I came to beg you to spare Aric.”
“You want mercy?” The king barked a startled laugh. “For the man who tried to kill you?”
“Yes,” Kaell said.
Another laugh, bitter as limes. “A soft heart is a flaw for a killer, boy. Is that why my cousin bested you?”
Kaell stilled. Did Aric beat him because he was weak? Flawed? “Your Grace.” His mouth tasted like ash. “Please be merciful and spare him.”
“I think not.” Cathmor’s voice sharpened with contempt. “Aric is a ghouls’ assassin.”
“He is no assassin, Your Majesty. Aric did not strike secretly. He fought me openly before my men. And he failed. He didn’t kill me.”
“That doesn’t excuse him.”
“Your Grace, banish him. He only hurt me because he loves his sister.”
“His sister—my betrothed—who Aric failed to protect,” Cathmor said. “He deserves no mercy.” He hurled up a hand to stop Kaell’s protest. “No, I’ve spoken. And since you’re well enough to climb through windows, you’ll come with me.”
The king beckoned with a curled finger. Kaell could only follow.
Cathmor strode into the passage. A flat-nosed, hard-eyed swordsman with flaked dandruff on his collar peeled away from the wall and trod after him. The king’s new sword, Janak, by repute was everything his disgraced predecessor wasn’t. Single-minded. Humourless. Mean.
In the empty inner ward, biting pine overshadowed the death scent from the head house. Shadows huddled beside buttressed stone. Sentries shuffled on the wall walk.
The storm gone, the night fell softly as those mid-autumn nights often did, its nip through Kaell’s tunic pleasurable as he followed the king up stairs and across a bridge to a tower.
As they passed inside, guards stiffened to attention then turned keys at each of three iron gates on the spiralling, rough-hewn staircase until they descended to a dimly lit passage.
Janak snatched up a torch and strode past cell after cell. The silence hollowed as though nothing lived beyond. Damp coldness needled Kaell’s skin. Shivering, he drew his thin cloak tight across his breast. A desperate, hopeless place, apart from the world above.
The king clasped a hand over his mouth and nose. “Worse than a cesspool,” he muttered.
A blank-faced guard fumbled at a lock to a metal door. A long, narrow tunnel led into gloom reeking of mould and decay. A man moaned. The torch-licked darkness swallowed the grim sound.
“Few leave here,” Cathmor said. “A fortunate few, forgiven or bought free. But not Aric. He will be neither forgiven nor ransomed.”
A jailer staggered up from behind a table, his dirty, sallow face creasing with surprise. “Your Grace.” The man fell clumsily to his knees. His grubby clothes stank of ale.
“I wish to see my cousin. Take me.”
The man stumbled to his feet. “This way Your Grace.” He grasped another burning torch to lead them along a stale-aire
d passage, then through a grilled door into a dank, close room.
Despite an ember-red fire, its smoke disappearing into a hole in the roof, stone slabs chilled Kaell’s bare feet. Water dribbled down cracked, stained walls, green and slippery with moss. Rusty iron chains dangled from roof beams. A rat squealed.
On dirty straw, his wrists and ankles fettered, Aric curled, naked. A red-soaked bandage wrapped around his torso. Face grimy, thick hair matted and filthy, he looked nothing like the arrogant, handsome man who’d struck Kaell down.
Kaell shivered again, surprised by another niggle of compassion. Interrogators had held, tortured, Aric for five days.
Cathmor wheeled on the gaoler. “Why is he bleeding? I ordered his wounds treated. I don’t wish him to die too soon, you fool.”
“Your interrogator used the hook today, Your Grace.” The jailer grinned nastily. “They always bleed and they always scream when she uses the hook.” He shrugged. “For all the stories about this man, he screamed no less than any other.”
The king swept aside clanking chains to reach for a book on a wobbly, stained table.
“Question.” He read aloud. “You and your father plot against His Majesty. You wanted Khir’s warrior out of the way so you could kill Cathmor.”
“Answer: No, how many times must I deny it? No, no, no. Please, no. Prisoner faints.”
Cathmor flicked pages. Kaell knew enough of what happened in the dark cells below the Mountains fortress to guess the book detailed not only Aric’s denials but what instruments the interrogator used and the prisoner’s reaction to each.
“Who—” Kaell licked lips tasting of the prison’s foul odours. “Who is your—”
Cathmor did not look up. “A Cahirean called Bellicent Blackstone, sister to Queen Rozenn’s captain. She learned her bloody trade in the dungeons of Quisnaf.”
An iron grate swung with a vicious creak. A woman with smooth, black hair and round eyes squinted from the doorway. Kaell at once thought of a kitchen cat. Fat, sleek, sly.
She offered the king a slick bow. “Your Grace. Is there some difficulty?” A predatory gaze settled on Kaell. “You wish me to—examine this young man?”