No one had yet questioned why he was making the food run. Tandrek didn’t care why his superior insisted on lugging the trenchers through the dank, humid prison; he was pleased to be relieved of that unpleasant duty and often bragged to his fellow squaddies that he had the easiest post in the platoon.
As he stepped inside Churn’s former cell and dumped the trencher’s contents into the pile in the corner, Alen slipped and nearly fell to his knees.
‘Gods, but this is disgusting. I can’t believe they find anyone to make it, never mind feed it to other …’ His voice trailed off as he looked at the foetid pile and the flies that danced around it.
They get real food down there.
‘Down there,’ he murmured, ‘down where, Tandrek? What lower chambers?’ Alen picked up the old trencher and ran back to the scullery.
‘Tandrek!’ Alen cried. ‘Thanks the gods of the Northern Forest; I was beginning to think I’d rot down here!’
The soldier, a little shocked to find his superior hunting for him in the catacombs, assumed he had committed some grave military offence and snapped immediately to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘Where are we?’ Alen was out of breath, and completely lost in the maze of passageways beneath the old keep. ‘We must be three hundred paces beneath the mountain. This rutting sergeant must—’ He caught himself. ‘I’ve never been down here.’
‘Of course not, Sergeant,’ Tandrek said, surprise on his face. ‘This is Abbott’s job – your predecessor assigned him and you never rescinded or changed the order, sir: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you said, sir—’ He broke off, not sure if repeating his sergeant’s words back to him was the right thing to do.
‘Of course, Tandrek, you’re right.’ Alen hit his head lightly and laughed. ‘My rutting memory: can’t remember anything from one day to the next. And Abbott’s sick and you take on his duties when he’s down …’ He held his torch up to illuminate the young soldier’s face. ‘So where are we?’
Tandrek laughed, then immediately stifled it, ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘No offence, soldier ‘
‘If you don’t mind me asking, Sergeant, what are you doing down here ?’
Alen had to cover himself for one more day; that’s all he needed to finish his business here and see his friends safely down the river. ‘I’m trying to familiarise myself with the whole prison,’ he said. ‘I don’t send my men to do jobs I’m not prepared to do myself. I need a better idea of our overall responsibilities if I’m to be an effective leader.’ He knew from the sergeant’s memories he’d not long been assigned to Welstar, but he couldn’t make out how much the man was supposed to know about the various levels. He didn’t want to over-egg the pudding, but he needed Tandrek on his side, even unwittingly.
‘I’m ambitious, Tandrek, and I’m still young: I intend to be an officer, and when I get promoted, I will need effective men under me. Knowledge is the key to that,’ he said.
Tandrek grinned. ‘Well, Sergeant, since it’s just me and you here, I’ll stick my neck out and tell you we all would love to have you as our lieutenant – Willis is a horsecock! Sir!’
Alen chuckled, playing along. And as it’s just between me and you, I didn’t hear that, soldier! Going deaf in my old age!’ He clapped Tandrek on the back and looked around. ‘So where is this chamber?’
‘Right down here, Sergeant.’ Tandrek pointed, and started down the hall. Their torches cast surprisingly bright light in the narrow passage, which looked as if it had been tunnelled through the bedrock on which Welstar Palace was built. It felt like a mineshaft to Alen, the roughly hewn walls making him feel a little claustrophobic. He imagined a cool breeze blowing across his face and shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, but it came a second time and he realised it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him.
‘Tandrek, is that a draught?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. There are fissures in the rock down here, a system of caves in the hillside behind the palace. There’s plenty of air blowing in.’ He stopped, and Alen saw someone had carved a crooked M on the wall. ‘From here, I have to remember it in couplets, sir. Right-left, left-left, right-left,’ he chanted, turning into a new passageway with each instruction until the tunnel widened and ended in a pair of large double doors, not unlike the oak doors lining the halls in the prison wing.
Alen tried the handle and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. ‘I’ve no idea who’s in here,’ Tandrek confided, wiping beads of sweat off his face. ‘I don’t think Abbott knows either; we just bring the food down and take back the empty dishes.’ He indicated the pushcart he’d been dragging, which was stacked with covered plates and bowls, some corked flagons and loaves of fresh bread.
‘I’ll take it from here, Tandrek. Good work, soldier. I won’t forget it.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant, but I don’t think you’re supposed to—’
‘Not to worry. I’ll be fine.’
‘Do you remember the way back out?’ Tandrek asked, wondering what the sergeant was up to.
‘In couplets backwards: left-right, left-left, left-right.’
Tandrek nodded. ‘Most people get it wrong, just going back with the same couplets that brought them down – stupid rutters. Abbott has to come down here every Moon or so to find some other blazing idiot who’s got himself lost, but you’ve got it, Sergeant.’
‘Thanks, Tandrek. You’re a good soldier, and I’ll remember that. Back to the prison wing with you, and keep things together until I get back. I won’t be long.’
Tandrek saluted and started back along the passageway, his torchlight fading as he rounded the first corner.
When he was certain he was alone, Alen sat down beside the cart and uncorked one of the flagons. He sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of hops and barley and helped himself to the beer as he counted to one hundred. Then he called out, ‘Tandrek? Are you there, soldier?’
His voice echoed back, but nothing else; he was alone. The beer reminded him how much he liked that first drink of the morning; he wanted more before going inside.
Alen put the empty flagon back and placed his palm against the centre of the doors; he whispered a spell and, with his eyes closed, imagined the locking device lifting, releasing an inside latch. It opened with a click, and he cursed under his breath. ‘Too loud, fool.’
He stepped back as the heavy doors swung open without a sound, bathing the passageway in light. Alen knew in a moment that he had found what he was looking for: the light was artificial, sorcerer’s light, and although the bundles resting in the sconces were similar to traditional torches, Alen didn’t have to examine them closely to see that these particular torches would never burn down, or extinguish in water.
A hallway stretched before him, the walls covered with tapestries and thick carpeting under foot. Alen ran through the lexicon of spells he had learned over a thousand Twinmoons, hoping his memory, addled by Twinmoons of alcoholism, did not fail him today. He regretted every slice of fennaroot, every beer, every flagon of wine … even in this young soldier’s body he felt every bit of his two thousand Twinmoons. To Hannah Sorenson, that was around two hundred and eighty years; somehow that sounded better. He scolded himself for procrastinating: Twinmoons or years, it was all the same; he was an old man.
Further down the hall was a room too wide to see across, but there was enough light for Alen to realise that Sandcliff Palace no longer housed Eldarn’s largest library. The floor-to-ceiling racks of books disappeared into the darkness at the far edges of the chamber, the spoils of war as Prince Marek and his army rolled through Praga and across the Eastlands, burning presses, closing universities and confiscating essentially every book in the land.
Alen reached for a book of music tablature: Liber Primus by Valentin Barkfark-Greff. ‘This one came from Sandcliff,’ he murmured, furious. ‘This might even have been mine.’ He pushed it back into place and looked around. ‘Hoyt would give his life to see this place.’ He fought the urge to immerse h
imself in this horde of stolen treasures and continued down the hall.
He passed several rooms, including an unused kitchen and a nicely decorated sitting room, possibly a reading room for the library; the furniture reminded him of a Larion visit to the land of Portugal.
In another, he found all manner of maps, on parchment, hide, wooden boards, even paper, maps of Praga, Rona and the Eastlands, of the Louisiana Territory, the Mason and Dixon survey, of Lima and St Petersburg; he even found the village they had called home during visits to Larion Isle. Alen was entranced: here was Durham, the city with the old stone castle and the curiously winding river, and Paris, Constantinople and Estrad, with the Forbidden Forest inked out in black crosses. There were charts of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers printed in Vienna, pictorial representations of the ancient cities of Madras and Delhi, from Cairo, and of the great mountains of Tibet. On the walls were maps of islands in the Pacific Ocean, Pellia, Port Denis, and Petrópolis in Brasil. On a table in the corner was a piece of buffalo hide with a berry-juice sketch of the Beaver River in Dakota; he stared at this one for a time, entranced.
He promised himself just a few moments more and started picking through scrolls he found organised in cylindrical stacks. Here was his home, Middle Fork in Praga; leaning over the table, he tried to locate his street and nearly toppled the entire collection when he heard a small voice ask, ‘Are you Prince Nerak?’
A blazing attack spell ready at his fingertips, Alen wheeled on the unexpected visitor, preparing to strike a death blow. His curiosity had cost him the element of surprise, but he couldn’t help it now. As he mouthed the words, he readied himself – and then stopped, holding the crippling blast of Larion fire back as he surveyed the little girl in the doorway. She was clad in a filthy dress that might once have been pink, and clutched what appeared to be a stuffed toy dog to her chest.
She looked quizzically up at the man visiting her underground home and asked again, Are you Prince Nerak?’ Her voice was light, sweet; Alen’s eyes widened, for he could feel there was powerful magic in this child.
‘No, my dear.’
‘Are you one of his soldiers? Because soldiers aren’t supposed to come in here.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, shaking her mass of tangled red-blonde curls.
‘Yes, I am one of his soldiers, and I have special permission to be here today. Prince Nerak said it would be all right if I came for a visit.’ Alen moved slowly around the table and approached the little girl with caution.
‘Is he back?’ She walked into the room and climbed into a great armchair by the fireplace, settling the dog in her lap.
The question might be a test. Alen knelt down beside her and answered truthfully. ‘Not yet, my dear, but he’ll be back soon. Why do you ask?
She shrugged. Alen was enchanted. ‘The others are sick,’ she said. ‘Maybe when he gets back he can help them get better.’
‘How long have they been sick?’
‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘A Twinmoon? I don’t tell time as good as them, but it’s a lot of days.’
Alen smiled. ‘How old are you?’
Her face lit up. ‘I am thirty-one Twinmoons. Mama taught me how to count them myself. I’m big.’
‘Yes you are,’ Alen said. ‘Thirty-one whole Twinmoons!’
‘How old are you?’ she asked seriously.
‘I am as old as my nose and a little older than my teeth,’ he answered, remembering his father’s favourite response.
She giggled uncontrollably, wrinkling her nose at him. ‘You’re not that old.’
‘Ah, but I am,’ Alen said. He glanced towards the door. ‘What’s your name, Pepperweed?’
You can’t call me Pepperweed,’ she giggled. ‘That’s not my name. My name is—’
Please, please, please don’t let her say Reia. Please—
‘Milla.’
Alen sighed in relief. ‘Milla,’ he repeated, ‘that is quite the prettiest name I have heard in a long time. Did Mama give you that name ?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Milla, where are the others?’
‘Down the hall in the back. They’re sick.’
‘And where is Mama?’
Milla’s face fell and Alen felt his heart wrench. ‘She’s home.’
‘And where is home, Pepperweed?’
Grinning again, Milla said, ‘Falkan. Mama lives in Falkan still, but she said she would come and visit me when she can get across the Rasivian Sea.’
‘Ravenian Sea.’
‘Rasvenial Sea. That’s it.’
‘What does Mama call you?’ Alen glanced again at the hallway door, listening for the sound of anyone moving into position to strike at him.
‘Mama calls me Milly … ’cept if I’ve been bad. Then she calls me Milla in a cross voice. So I don’t be bad because I don’t like her cross voice.’
Alen reached a hand out to her. ‘Can you take me to where the others are, Milly?’
‘Uh huh. C’mon.’ She led him from the room, dragging the dog by its hind leg. As they crossed what looked like a common room, a chill wind blew through; Alen looked up and noticed the fissures Tandrek had mentioned in the rocky roof. Milla looked at the smokeless fires burning throughout the room, and the flames leapt higher. ‘It gets cold in here sometimes,’ she said. ‘That wind is always coming in.’
‘But I see you know how to make it warmer.’
‘Uh huh, and nobody taught me that one,’ she said, proudly. ‘I just could do it when I got here.’
The old Larion sorcerer felt the warm air and wished that time would stop, so he wouldn’t be forced to do what he was about to do. He had visions of making love with Pikan beneath a heavy blanket at Sandcliff Palace, the heady aroma of her body mixing with the dank odour of the coverlet. They had conceived Reia on one of those cold autumn nights, and the following spring they had left her in Durham, the village with the old castle and the curiously winding river. He had walked with her that morning, in the meadow with the wildflowers; the scent had been intoxicating and Alen was certain he would never again see anything so beautiful.
He tried not to look down at the little girl by his side: she was a hunter, in service to the dark prince, and he had come to kill them all, sick or not. Sweating, he dropped Milla’s hand.
‘Is it too hot?’ she asked, turning down the fires with a glance.
He was impressed; this wild-haired little girl would have made a powerful Larion Senator. ‘No, Pepperweed, I’m fine. Tell me, how long have you been here?’
‘Four Twinmoons, I think. Rabeth tells me when another Twinmoon comes, but I keep count myself too.’
‘Four,’ Alen said, almost to himself, ‘that’s not very long.’
‘It is a long time!’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Through there,’ she said, and pointed to a door at the other end of the common room. ‘That’s Rabeth’s room. He’s got the most rooms. They’re in there together.’
Alen squatted down on the edge of what looked like a Persian carpet. ‘Milly, I need you to wait for me out here,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘You’re mad at them, huh?’
‘No, no, I’m just going in to see if I can help them, because they’re sick.’ He didn’t think she would believe him.
No,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘you’re mad at them; I can tell.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh huh. I can tell things sometimes. Rabeth can’t, but I can.’
‘Will you wait here, Pepperweed?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Good girl.’ He walked across the room and used the same spell that had let him into the underground residence to unlatch door.
The smell of disease washed over him in a rank embrace and the beer he had swallowed a little while earlier churned about in his stomach. It took a moment of fierce concentration to keep from vomiting across the threshold. Then Alen stepped inside and brightened th
e mystical torches.
He could see a large sitting room with two doors on the back wall. Though the room was cluttered with furniture – over-stuffed sofas, soft armchairs, and beds that looked out of place, as if they had been dragged in from other rooms – it was luxurious. Book shelves lined three walls, and a fire burned in the fireplace on the fourth. On the mantelpiece were crystal sculptures and a ship’s clock. More Persian rugs covered the floor. Alen guessed the people lying about the room were what remained of six slave-magicians. He tried to keep his temper as he looked around: they had lived in complete luxury, enjoying the treasures generations of Larion Senators had brought back through the far portals, while they served the dark prince, visiting uncounted atrocities on Eldarn’s people. They had probably worked their evil magic from these very rooms, standing barefoot on a priceless carpet from ancient Persia, drinking wine from Falkan and eating cheese from Switzerland.
The Larion Senators had brought these things through, hoping the Eldarni people would learn from them, but Nerak had stolen them and used them to create a wonderful environment for his slaves.
Warm mixing with cold; dank mixing with fresh. Sex and love mixing with passion and murder.
They were slaves, though: for all the displayed wealth, they were trapped here, and now they were dying. In another time, they would have come to Sandcliff, learned to travel across the Fold in service to Eldarn, but Nerak’s lust for power had forced them into a different world. They may have lived in a world filled with riches and beauty, but they had lived there as slaves – and killers.
Now he wondered what had happened; did their power fade when Nerak disappeared? As he looked closer, he saw four of them were unconscious. One woman was awake, but she sat facing a corner, rocking back and forth and running a finger up and down a crack in the wall. She had worn her fingertip away – literally. Alen could see the bone, and blood ran down the crack.
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