by Ross Kitson
***
It took Emelia another hour to finish cleaning the Great Hall, and by the end of it her back was screaming with pain. She wiped the sweat with the hem of her dress, streaking grime on her forehead. The bucket she had used was filthy, with rotting food particles bobbing on its scummy surface like gulls on the sea. She placed the brushes and cloths in a small bag and went to leave the room. The rain still battered the stained-glass windows and dust danced like drunken revellers in the amber pools of the torches .
Emelia emerged into the long corridor that interjected between the Great Hall and Lord Talis’s chambers. She paused at her favourite tapestry, the one adjacent to Talis’s day room and with a pang of guilt she recalled her eavesdropping that day when the Arch-mage had visited. It seemed an age ago, as if it happened in a dream long faded.
But it did happen and you are leaving, Emelia, Emebaka reminded her.
It might be for the best, though my soul is wracked with trepidation at the idea. I mean Inkas-Tarr will protect me and in six years time maybe things will have changed.
This man of darkness will never forget, Emelia. Tell me, what did you see that day? Emebaka asked.
I... I am not sure. He was doing something in the grave. Oh Emebaka, how has this happened to me? What’s going on?
Something is coming, Emelia, I can feel it. Something dreadful. Something dark. A storm is looming that will shake your world apart and you will need strength to make those choices.
Help me. Help me make them.
I cannot—they are yours to endure.
Emelia clutched the wall, a surge of consternation coming upon her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and with effort she reined it in.
Could she truly have run off that night in Cheapside? Was that her god-given chance to avoid the trip to the macabre world of the Air-mages? It felt at times as if her life was the dream and the imaginings of the night her true existence.
How had she escaped on that night? She’d pushed the thoughts to the rear of her mind, afraid to question the surreal events in Cheapside. But the apprehension of moving to the Enclave was dragging it kicking and screaming back to her consciousness.
It just doesn’t make any sense, Emebaka. I am certain that I was destined to die that night.
You can clearly change your destiny then, Emebaka replied.
But how did it happen? It seems all hazy and vague, like my recall is shrouded in mist. Perhaps it was some sadistic trick by the sorcerer, chasing me down only to let me live a little longer. So he could feed off my terror.
That doesn’t make sense.
What does though? I could fantasise that I am so interesting to the Arch-mage that he put some glamour on me, to protect me. But who am I but some curio for his collection? Am I just looking for some fantastical explanation? Maybe there was a crack in the wall that I fell through?
But it didn’t feel like that did it?
It’s all so... distant now. Did I dream it? Is it my imagination impinging into reality like in my dream the other night?
There was no reply from Emebaka and Emelia rubbed her eyes. Her head ached with all this introspection. She longed for a quieter time when all was simple and the biggest challenge of the day was lighting the fires in the morning before your fingers went numb.
She shuffled down the corridor, the heavy bucket straining her arm. At the corridor’s far end were the stairs that would take her back into the Keep’s depths and back to the frostiness that now pervaded her days in the kitchens.
Something was odd about the archway to the stairs. Something was missing, she thought, as she neared it. It came to her: there was no guard on the stairs today. Presumably when Lord Ebon-Farr was not in residence they didn’t have to post one at the entrance to the corridor.
A sound of clattering boots echoed down the stairs as she approached them. The pace was fast, as if someone was running full tilt down the spiral staircase from above. She hesitated and then a strange feeling came into her, like a waking dream. In her mind’s eye she could see a barking wild dog, all matted fur and sinew, its teeth bared. A sense of unease twisted in her belly. She turned and went back into the corridor, looking around urgently for a place to conceal herself. The noise of the footsteps was coming towards her quickly.
She pulled back the nearest tapestry. There was a recess behind the tapestry made for storage and she squeezed in amongst the upright, stacked benches. The heavy wood still had the odour of dried wine and bodies on it and she pressed her face in fear against the wood, hoping that the strength of the timber would stay her shaking.
The sound of boot steps indicated someone had emerged into the corridor. An almost animalistic panting and sobbing could be heard. She could smell fumes of drink seeping around the edge of the dusty tapestry. Her heart thudded in her ears, sounding as loud as a war drum in the eerie silence.
The boots clicked on the wooden floor of the corridor as their owner passed the tapestry, then they stopped. With a wrench of horror Emelia realised she had left her bucket in the corridor.
Emelia held her breath and stood like a statue. The silence seemed to stretch endlessly, like the vastness of lower Eeria running to the horizon. She had no idea who was beyond the thick cloth of the tapestry, save that every instinct told her they were dangerous. It struck her that perhaps it was the Dark-mage come to kill her, his black sorcery eating her face like the chill winds that had gnawed over the ages at the stones of Coonor.
Emelia’s breath was about to explode from her chest when the person in the corridor laughed bitterly and kicked the bucket over. Foul brown liquid sloshed under the tapestry and onto Emelia’s worn leather shoes, soaking the chapped material with debris and dirt. She held down the nausea as the stench struck her and the owner of the boots cursed again.
“Blasted servants! Buckets lying around, damn them. Is this some sick joke? Oh Torik, what have I done?”
Emelia stifled a gasp; the voice was Uthor’s sneering patter.
Uthor stomped off down the corridor and Emelia chanced a quick look as his footsteps faded. He was dressed in a green velvet doublet and dark orange tights, the former hanging open as if it had been ripped. His normally flushed face was pale and wan, his hair a dishevelled mess. The young lord turned and entered his rooms at the far end of the corridor and slammed the door.
Emelia stooped to pick up the tipped bucket and looked in dismay at the large pool of grime soaking into the wooden floor. She would need more water to clean it all up, which meant a descent to the kitchens and a trip back up with aching arms. What was wrong with Uthor and why had her dream appeared to her so vividly?
She left the corridor and descended the staircase towards the garrison level. For the second time that day she heard the sound of boots on the stairs but in this instance it was perhaps a dozen of them running from the first floor to the ground level accompanied by yells and shouts. Curiosity came upon her and she came down the staircase on the tail end of eight soldiers. They ran along the lower corridor to the inner courtyard and the gates of the Keep.
Emelia followed them through with a sense of foreboding, her slender form unnoticed in the panic. She passed through the inner courtyard and through the gates of the Keep and into the square that lay in front of the tall building. The rain pattered around the gathering crowd and in the distance the peal of thunder echoed along the bleak avenues. Two-dozen people were in a circle around something on the cobbles and she could hear screaming. With a jolt she realised it was her friend Abila that was screaming, one of the soldiers holding her back as she yelled. She was red in the face with mucous and tears running like a torrent down onto her dress.
Sarik was in the crowd as Emelia pushed her way through, feet sliding on the wet cobbles, desperately needing to see what was there. Her mind raced as images of her dream came back: the rooftop, the wild dog, a jackal, the lamb, her friend.
“Don’t look, Emelia, don’t look,” Sarik said, his face contorted in horror.
Crumpled on the cobblestones of the square, her body oddly angled, was Sandila. A dark pool of blood spread slowly and inexorably away from her dead body, mixing in with the puddles.
The lamb, she thought. Sandila was the lamb.