Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1)

by Alan Ratcliffe

  As he left his chambers, headed for the barracks to commence the preparations required for their departure, Prince Adelmar’s heart was light.

  * * *

  If the nobles of Ehrenburg, the fine lords and ladies that graced the imperial court, believed in one thing, it was hierarchy. They were secure in the knowledge that some were simply born better than others. That on society’s ladder they were, if not at the very top, the position occupied by the emperor and his sons, they were, at most, just one rung below.

  Within that stratum, there was a near-infinite spectrum of subtleties of position, never still, ever-changing. A successful reception could catapult a minor lordling to within a hair’s breadth of the soles of the emperor’s feet, standing on the rung above. Similarly, an indiscretion or careless faux pas could prove catastrophic, knocking a heralded dignitary from their lofty perch to within grasping distance of the rabble below. It was a game that took a lifetime to master, and where even the best players were never immune to the caprices of fate. All of the key players were at all times acutely aware of the relative positions of their rivals; objects of either envy or scorn.

  Such was their sense of superiority, that many of these nobles would be surprised to learn that the same ruthless attitude towards status existed in each of the rungs below them. Indeed, most would be shocked that the chaotic masses below them could be distinguished from one another at all. They were dimly aware, perhaps, that people were involved somewhere in producing and laundering their clothes, cleaning their estates and providing them with sustenance. But if those involved in those processes entered their thoughts at all, it was as a faceless grey entity, its constituent parts identical and interchangeable.

  But it is human nature to seek out hierarchy, and jealousy and ambition are not exclusive to the upper classes. Nowhere in the capital was this more apparent than in the imperial palace itself. The servants who lived and worked above ground knew they were superior because it was they who tended in person to the lords and ladies, the emperor and the princes. Scores of valets, footmen, chambermaids and grooms kept their masters clean and dressed and cared for their horses; often treating them better than they did their own spouses or offspring.

  Below ground, the kitchens were a hive of activity at all hours, day and night. The vaulted cellars were always full of smoke, steam and clamour. Great stoves and ovens forever burned, iron kettles large enough to bathe a full-grown man always boiled over red-hot coals. The air was full of the aromas of roasted meats, fragrant spices and fresh-baked breads. The battalion of cooks, porters and pot-boys that tended the kitchens knew that they were superior, for if not for they, who would keep the masters fed?

  Where both sets of servants found common ground, however, was in their disdain for those whose existences were played out in the under-cellars. Immediately beneath the bustling kitchens and larders were a number of disused and dusty storerooms, full of oddments of furniture and long-forgotten possessions accrued by centuries of imperial rule. This level also contained a large and fully stocked wine cellar, where racks of cobwebbed bottles lined the walls between tuns of ale and mead the size of cottages. Set deep within the rocky mount that the palace was built upon, the temperature remained cool and constant all year round.

  Beneath these were the dungeons, the domain of burly and uncouth gaolers. They did not believe themselves superior to anyone, aside from the hollow-eyed, malnourished forms that populated the dark, dank cells. It was a source of both entertainment and scientific enquiry for the cell-keepers, to find the fine line that existed between survival and fatal neglect; discovering the bare minimum of food, water and warmth needed to sustain life.

  The surly and unwashed wardens of the dungeon were aware there was a level even below their own. A shudder went through them on the rare occasions somebody mentioned The Pit. The wretched souls unfortunate enough to end up in that ceaseless darkness were not offered even their callous ministrations. The denizens of that place were mourned by their families the day they were taken, though their deaths, down in the black depths of the imperial mount, may not occur until years later. None who entered The Pit ever returned.

  The gaolers’ knowledge of the subterranean passages beneath the Palace ended there. Even Chamberlain Wyverley, who prided himself on his knowledge of the every brick and tile of the imperial palace, knew nothing of the secret places far below.

  But Jarrod knew them. The abyssal darkness that existed below even The Pit melted away as the young prince’s torch descended a rough-cut stairway. As he set foot on the rocky, uneven floor of the hidden passage, he peered hopefully ahead into the gloom. It was no use, however; the flickering orange glow did little more than accentuate the darkness beyond. He sighed, and began to pick his way through foul-smelling puddles that besmirched his coal-black moleskin boots. Whether the murky water was merely stagnant or was in fact some ghastly leakage from the palace garderobes far above he was unsure, but the noxious vapours arising from the puddles he disturbed soon filled the tunnels. Jarrod’s narrow face wrinkled in disgust, and he clamped his free hand firmly against his nose. Why did the blasted man insist on meeting in this place? Jarrod was a firm believer in secrecy, many of his habits demanded it, but nevertheless such measures seemed excessive even to him.

  Familiarity guided his feet through a labyrinthine network of passages, though even so he took care not to rush. Green slime of uncertain origin dripped down the walls and collected on the ground. A wrong step would send him slipping headlong into the darkness. Losing either his torch or his bearings would likely mean his death in such a place, for who would find him? Conceited as he was, Jarrod was under no illusion that the person he was to meet would lose a wink of sleep if he did not arrive, and was never seen nor heard from again.

  Some time later, he found the meeting place. Dim light seeped out from a doorway hacked unevenly into the passage. He ducked his head beneath a low stone lintel to enter, and found himself standing in a sparsely furnished room. In one corner was a table filled with odd-shaped bottles, jars and other alchemical apparatus. Several shelves had been erected nearby, containing a variety of thick, musty tomes... the very sight of which bored him immediately. On the wall above the table a map of the Empire had been pinned. In the middle of the room were two chairs and a tall candelabra standing between them. A solitary candle was burning, casting a feeble glow around the room. The light from this did not extend to the far corner of the room, where another chair had been placed. Unlike the others, this one was occupied. A pair of feet and the bottom of a brown-coloured cassock were all that emerged from the shadows.

  “You came.” A man’s voice, deep and laced with bemusement. “I was beginning to worry that you were lost.”

  “I’m deeply touched by your concern,” Jarrod replied, lowering himself into one of the vacant chairs. It did not escape his notice that he was now the most brightly lit object in the room, while the other speaker remained shrouded in shadow. “Could I recommend the Wainwright’s Tavern for your next furtive encounter? Far easier to find and the ale is to die for.” He considered a moment. “Or from, possibly. So why did you choose such a place for us to meet?” he added, with a glance at their surroundings. “Would your chambers not have been more fitting?”

  “The walls of the palace have ears, my prince,” the man replied. “These walls, on the other hand, are so old and forgotten they have grown deaf.”

  Such confidence! No guards, no weapon that he could see. He felt the bulge of the stiletto at his hip. It would be so easy to plunge it into his host’s chest and put an end to his infuriating smugness once and for all. Alas, I have need of him, he thought regretfully. For now. There was also something in the shrouded man’s manner that almost seemed to invite such a move. There was a latent power there, at rest but no less threatening, like a sleeping crag cat.

  There was a low chuckle from the corner of the room. “Did you see Prince Adelmar?”

  “I did.” Jarrod’s face twisted wi
th distaste. “He didn’t go for it, just as I predicted. He practically tossed the chain I gave him on to the midden-heap before I even left his chambers. You can take the tired, old, lame warhorse to water, but unfortunately you can’t drown him in it.”

  “Not when he’s a prince of the realm and heir to the imperial throne.” The voice was calm. Jarrod was relieved; he’d been braced for anger. “No matter. Converting Prince Adelmar to our cause would have been a convenient solution, but it is far from the only one available to us.”

  “I could steal into his bedchamber tonight, and place the stone around his neck myself,” Jarrod offered.

  The hood shook from side to side in the shadows. “Alas, ours is a gift that must be accepted willingly. There is nothing to be gained from forcing it upon another. Your brother also spoke to the emperor this morning.”

  Jarrod flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his lace cuff. “Yes, I saw them leave together, thick as thieves. No doubt by now father has given him his favourite speech about chains and fucking... and believe me it isn’t as interesting as it sounds.” He smiled. “Dear old Addled came out looking like the cat that got the cream, so doubtless that means he’s off to join the fighting any time now. I suppose it’s too much to ask that a Tenebrian lens-tower does for him like Jug-Ears Galvarey.”

  “Ah, the great white hope.” There was genuine sorrow in the speaker’s voice. “The emperor was loath to call on the Bloody Prince until the invasion was well underway, but he’s been left with little choice in the matter. It suits our purpose, so I have done little to dissuade him.”

  “You want him to lead the campaign, winning himself more fame and glory no doubt. Not that he needs it.” Jarrod was appalled. “Whatever for?”

  The shadowy figure sighed. “The prince could have been a useful tool, but it seems as though that avenue is no longer open to us. He remains an obstacle.”

  A slow grin crept across Jarrod’s face. “Yes, and war can be such a dangerous place,” he mused. “A burned ship, a stray arrow. I’ve heard even the beasts of that land are savage and untamed. So many dangers. Why, it would almost be a shock if he came back at all.”

  “It presents us with a unique opportunity to advance our plans,” the deep voice agreed. “But it is too important a matter to be left to fate. Sometimes, a helping hand is required.”

  Jarrod leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Intrigue, is it? How delicious! I’ve always said that the only game worth betting on is the one that’s been rigged. But how would it be done? The Bloody Fool will be surrounded by his loyal guards day and night.”

  “If we have the right man in place, then the opportunity will eventually come. All we will require is patience.”

  “But who can be trusted with such a task? Even if we have a man’s loyalty, it must be done right. No suspicion can be allowed to fall back on to ourselves.”

  “I have an idea or two. Your father once again provided us the means. It was unwise to draw attention to yourself this morning at court.”

  Jarrod’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “When I saw him after your brother had left, the emperor was quite insistent that both of his sons should join the campaign. I tried to change his mind, of course.” The shadowed figure spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “But, alas, in this my counsel was not heeded. It seems His Excellency believes the experience will be beneficial for all concerned.”

  Jarrod paled. “You mean...”

  The figure leaned forward into the candlelight. From the recesses of the hood he wore, a pair of emerald-green eyes glittered. “Yes, my prince,” the Archon said. “Pack your belongings. You’re going to war.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The forest burned. Bright orange flames licked up blackening trunks and spread across every branch, consuming everything they touched. The heat was immense. Cole held his hands up in front of his face, attempting to ward it away. All around him, the air shimmered. Wood crackled as it burned and above the sound he could hear the petrified cries of the forest creatures as the fires engulfed them.

  Cole looked desperately about him, but there seemed no way out. Every path was blocked by hungry, dancing flames. They seemed alive, sending out red hot tongues to caress him. Taunting him.

  Above the din he began to make out other noises. The ring of metal on metal, a man’s shouts. The sound of battle. He was running out of time.

  I can’t do it!

  Cole, you must! This fever... it burns too hot. He won’t wake.

  I... I will try.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to calm his mind. Panic was a greater enemy in this place than the fires. When he felt his heart begin to slow, he opened his eyes again and looked around him once more. It was hot, that he could not deny. He could feel the sweat rolling down his face and back. But the danger did not seem immediate. He stood in a small clearing; hardly big enough to make a camp but, without anything to feed the flames, he would be safe for the time being.

  He knelt on the ground, the heat blasting his face, trying to ignore the clash of swords somewhere up ahead. For now, none of that mattered. He cupped his hands in front of him and concentrated. For a minute that seemed like an eternity he stayed there, staring into his empty palms. Nothing happened.

  What can I do?

  I don’t know, Cole. Something. Anything! Speak to him. Tell him to come back.

  But I can’t do anything there. The fires are too strong.

  You have to. He’s...

  Raven?

  Just... just do whatever you can, Cole.

  She hadn’t needed to say out loud what they both already knew. Harri was dying. With a moan of frustration, Cole flung his hands down. One of them still stung, from the last time he was here, when one of the malevolent flames had licked too close and burned his flesh. Even when he went back, to the room lined with odd-smelling jars, he still felt the pain.

  “I can do this.” He was trying to convince himself, he knew. But perhaps, in this place, that was enough. He cleared his mind, and then cupped his hands again. He concentrated on the space in between them, focusing all his energies on a single point. With every ounce of effort he could muster, he pushed with his mind.

  This time, the air just above his palms flickered. It lasted less than a second, but it had been undeniably there. Cole grinned, triumphant. Perhaps this could work after all. There was a chance, one he needed to take.

  When Raven suggested it, he had been dubious. He had never attempted anything like it before, was not sure at all that it could even be done. But seeing her so distraught, half-collapsed over the prone form on the bed, he had been determined to try. If the village healer heard them, he didn’t respond. He merely busied himself at his workbench, preparing a variety of potions and tinctures. But not for Harri. By then he had done all he could for the young hunter.

  An hour earlier they had burst unannounced into his house, carrying an unconscious Harri between them. Sensing the urgency of their situation, without stopping to ask who they were or what they wanted, he directed them to a cramped back room that appeared to serve as an infirmary. He glanced at the wound as they lowered Harri onto the straw-filled mattress. “What attacked him?” the healer asked, his voice grave.

  “A soulcreep.”

  “I feared as much.” He glanced up at the doorway, where their guide hovered uncertainly, still holding the lamp he had used to light their way from the road. “You may go, Emmett, you can do no more for this man.” With a nod, he vanished, leaving them alone with the healer. There were similarities between the two, but the one who now began to search among the jars and bottles on his shelves was greyer, balder. His closely cropped hair formed a crown around the smooth dome of his scalp. Heavy bags sagged under his eyes and he seemed weary, but not unduly annoyed despite being woken at daybreak by their arrival.

  He located the bottle he was looking for and decanted some of the dark liquid inside into a small bowl. This he lifted to
Harri’s lips and held there until the liquid had all been swallowed. “That will halt the spread of the poison around his body,” he explained. “But the venom of a soulcreep is pernicious. I hope that it is already not too late.” As they watched, he cleaned the wound with water, but Harri gave no outward sign that he felt the pain such an operation must surely have caused. With that done, the healer smeared a pale green salve over the area, and carefully wrapped a bandage around the hunter’s midriff. “I have done all I can,” he told them. “All we can do now is wait.”

  For a long time, Raven had simply sat silently beside Harri on the mattress as he slept. When his temperature started to climb she wetted a cloth with cold water and held it against his brow, but it was not enough. As his skin began to burn, the young hunter thrashed on the bed, striking out at them both and himself, until they had little choice but to restrain his limbs. The healer had tried other potions in an attempt to lessen the fever, but to no avail. Harri had grown so hot that Cole began to worry he would burst into flames where he lay.

  That was when Raven suggested that he use his power, that he enter Harri’s fever-dreams and attempt to calm him there. “What help will that be?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what else to do, Cole,” she cried desperately. “We’re losing him. I won’t let that happen!”

  Cole took hold of the crystal around his neck. He glanced across to the leather pouch, still on the nightstand where he had placed it earlier. Grume sat watching him interestedly with twinkling eyes. Cole turned away, concentrated and went to the place of grey sand and dreams. It was becoming easier for him, each time. Where before it had taken all his focus to make that journey, now it was just like walking from one room into another. He entered Harri’s sleeping mind easily enough, but was soon beaten back by the flames, his hand burning where they had come too close. He retreated hastily, back to the healer’s room.