‘Let me go,’ said Khaster.
Almorante released his wrist. ‘I apologise, but you would have bolted, wouldn’t you?’
‘Probably.’
‘Are you really so afraid?’
‘What is it to you, my prince?’
Almorante shrugged again, and took out his pipe. ‘Tayven would be good for you. He possesses rare qualities. He could heal you utterly. Just his light, his presence. He is a balm to me, but I am not a greedy man. He does not love me as a lover should, nor I him. Yet he deserves love. He has so much to give.’
And in thrall to Tayven, Khaster would be so much more malleable for Almorante. ‘I thought I explained myself to you before.’
‘You did, but there is more to love than physical gratification, isn’t there?’
On the platform, Tayven removed his mask of glittering disks and threw back the hood of his cloak, which he then removed. Beneath it, he was dressed in the soft tunic and trousers of a Cossic. The gathering cheered and clapped his performance, but it seemed to give him no joy. His face appeared strained. There was a furrow between his eyes. Yet how fair he was, how perfect. Khaster felt a pang, an uncomfortable stab of memory, of lying on a bed with that boy, holding him in his arms.
‘Look at him,’ Almorante said, shaking his head. ‘He is in torment. How can you be so cruel?’
Khaster laughed lightly. ‘He hardly knows me. How can he feel that way so quickly? It’s a boy’s infatuation. He’ll get over it. How do you think the next campaign will proceed in Cos?’
Almorante refused to drop the subject. ‘It may well be infatuation, but at such an age all feelings are intense and painful.’
Khaster affect a pained yet amused expression. ‘Your highness, how old is he?’
Almorante smiled, took a sip of wine. ‘Sixteen. A sweet age.’
Khaster rolled his eyes, but didn’t speak for fear his sentiments would offend the prince.
‘It is my wish for Tayven to join us,’ Almorante said. ‘Can I count on your courtesy?’
‘Yes,’ said Khaster, resigned. He reached for a decanter of wine. Almorante gave him a sharp glance, but made no comment.
Almorante gestured to Tayven, who hesitated a moment before approaching the table. Celetian and Roarke were quick to offer their appreciation for his performance, but Tayven seemed buffeted by their good humour. He would not look at Khaster. Almorante took his hand. ‘So pale of cheek, Tay,’ he said. ‘Have some wine. Sit down. Enjoy yourself.’
The depth of their relationship was indicated by the way Tayven pulled a sour face at him. They were like brothers. Still, he sat down next to the prince on a stool that a servant had hurriedly placed there.
‘Look, Khaster is here,’ Almorante said. ‘Be civilised. Greet one another.’
Khaster smiled thinly. He had resolved not to let Almorante humiliate him. ‘You sang well,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Tayven murmured. He looked around the room, as if seeking an excuse to escape.
Strangely, Khaster felt quite comfortable. It was Tayven who was clearly ill at ease. The princes were smirking at one another, enjoying the situation. Khaster felt sorry for Tayven. Perhaps Almorante had been right and the song had been enough. Perhaps this enforced proximity was excruciating to the boy.
‘Will you sing again later?’ Almorante suggested. ‘He should, shouldn’t he, Khaster?’
‘Well, yesc’
‘No,’ said Tayven and stood up. ‘I’m tired. I have to go.’ He began to walk away swiftly.
Almorante made a gesture to Khaster. ‘For Madragore’s sake, go after him.’
Khaster hesitated.
‘Go on. Make peace. I have to live with this.’
Khaster got to his feet. ‘I will do as you wish, your highness, although I’m not sure I can offer him peace. Surely a person can only find that for themselves?’
‘A polite gesture is all that’s required,’ Almorante said. ‘I appreciate your co-operation.’
Khaster found Tayven in the salon beyond the dining hall, dragging his feet. Had he expected pursuit? Khaster called his name. He stopped, but did not turn. ‘Almorante wants peace between us,’ Khaster said.
Tayven nodded. He turned then and blurted out, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What more can I say?’
‘Sorry for what?’
‘What I did to you. I made it worse. I made you hate yourself more. Ic’
‘Be quiet,’ Khaster said.
Tayven shook his head. ‘No. I know what I am, and what you are. You are more than us.’
‘No, I’m not. Shut up. You’re being ridiculous. Have you forgotten the sentiments of your song already?’
Tayven shook his head again, furiously. ‘You were right, that’s all.’
Khaster put his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this. He didn’t want to deal with it. ‘Look, you know I have problems, but they’re nothing to do with you. I reacted badly that morning, and I’m sorry if you’ve suffered for it. You offered me only kindness. I’m not angry with you, Tayven, and I don’t blame you. I’m here now, in Almorante’s company, because of you, aren’t I?’
Tayven swallowed, nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. ‘Yes, but you’d made a good impression already. Your pedigree had.’
‘I know that.’ Khaster patted Tayven awkwardly on the arm. ‘Please, don’t be sad.’
‘I can’t help it. I’m sorry.’
‘Almorante wants us to be friends, so we’ll be friends. Let’s meet tomorrow. Would you like that?’
‘You mustn’t play with me,’ Tayven said. ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘I’m not playing,’ Khaster said, his patience fraying.
‘You’ve been drinking. You’ll change your mind tomorrow.’
‘I’m not drunk. I won’t change my mind.’ Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed Tayven’s cheek. ‘There, you see? We are not enemies.’
Tayven regarded him warily. ‘Being a friend to me might set you on a path you’ll regret.’
‘I can control myself,’ Khaster said.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Tayven said darkly.
‘Dire prophecy,’ Khaster said. He couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Perhaps it is,’ Tayven answered.
Khaster held out a hand. ‘Shall we return to the company?’
‘No. I’ve had enough of it. I want my sanctuary.’ Tayven stared at him, his expression almost fierce. ‘You could come with me, if you like.’
Khaster was aware of the challenge in Tayven’s tone. ‘All right. Where are you going?’
‘You’ll see.’
They ventured into the winding, silent corridors of the palace. Only a few yards away from Almorante’s gathering, the building seemed empty. ‘It’d be easy to lose yourself in this labyrinth,’ Khaster said quietly. It seemed inappropriate to speak at normal volume.
‘People have,’ Tayven replied. ‘Foreign guests, especially. They will insist on exploring. Almorante has a retinue of palace scouts employed solely to retrieve missing people.’
Khaster laughed. ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘It’s true,’ Tayven said. ‘Some have never been found.’ He was comfortable enough to smile now.
‘I expect you know this place,’ Khaster said.
‘When I first came here, I mapped it,’ Tayven replied. ‘Well, most of it. I found some secret spots.’ They had walked the length of a bare corridor that appeared to be used only by servants, if anyone. Cobwebs hung from the dim lamps on the walls. At the end, Tayven lifted aside a curtain to reveal a low door.
‘A turret room?’ Khaster said.
‘Not quite.’ Beyond the door was a narrow, spiralling staircase of cold stone. At the top, they emerged into another corridor, then climbed more stairs. Eventually, Tayven opened the door onto what appeared to be an attic. The walls sloped steeply, but on one side they were completely paned in stained glass.
‘Amazing,’ Khaster breathed. �
��But what a strange isolated spot for it. Why was it put here?’ He turned round in a circle. ‘This could never have been widely used, surely?’
‘I can’t find out how it got here,’ Tayven said, ‘but I like to think it was once commissioned in secret, by a princess or a queen. This was their secret place, where they came to escape.’
‘Where you do,’ Khaster said.
‘Yes. Come here.’ Tayven went to the windows and operated a series of levers to crank the panes open. ‘There is a terrace beyond.’ He climbed out through the gap and Khaster followed.
Below them, the city glowed in the darkness. They could see nearly all of it. Sulphurous steams rose into the sky from the alchemists’ quarter, while dull red fires burned along the canals of The Soak. The great cathedral was bathed in light, monstrous against the stars. ‘An incredible view,’ Khaster said.
Tayven went to the edge of the terrace and leaned on the blackened balustrade. ‘I’ve never brought anyone here before,’ he said.
Khaster stood beside him. ‘Thanks for showing it to me.’
Tayven was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Have you ever been to the puppet market?’
‘No,’ Khaster said. ‘What’s that?’
‘What it sounds like,’ Tayven replied. ‘I could take you there tomorrow. It’s a strange and colourful place. Some of the puppets are terrifying.’
‘I finish my training sessions at four,’ Khaster said. ‘Meet me at the yard.’
Tayven nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’
Khaster could sense Tayven’s tension, as if he thought Khaster might bolt at any moment. This was such a peculiar situation. Khaster wasn’t sure how he felt about it, or whether he knew what was really happening. A friend such as Rufus Lorca would never suggest a visit to a market, however weird its merchandise.
‘I should go back to the dining hall,’ he said. ‘My brother’s there. I don’t want to leave him alone for too long.’
‘I’ll show you the way back,’ Tayven said.
He sounded resigned, if not disappointed. Perhaps he hoped his secret hideaway would kindle some romantic response in his companion. But that was too obvious.
‘I think there’s something you’re not telling me,’ Khaster said.
Tayven stared at him, silent for a while. Then he said, ‘I can be your ally, Khaster. You should look beneath the surface.’
Khaster laughed uneasily. ‘That’s a perilous course in Magrast. Sometimes, you find more than you bargained for.’
Tayven began to walk towards the open window, the darkness beyond. ‘And that’s not always a bad thing.’
For you, maybe not, Khaster thought. He would not call Tayven back.
Chapter Seven: The Seven Lakes
Khaster did not want his brother Merlan to learn of his friendship with Tayven, but there was little to keep secret anyway. Despite whatever Tayven might want from the relationship, Khaster was unable to develop it physically. Under the influence of alcohol, inhibitions went to the winds, but Khaster was afraid of that and kept sober. He met Tayven’s family, a moneyed family of minor nobles, who lived in the most esteemed area of Magrast. The Hirantels were pleased Tayven had found what they presumed was a new patron. Obviously, they had feared that Almorante’s interest might have been brief.
Khaster took Tayven with him to the opera and gatherings at the palace. They were seen together everywhere, and more than once Bayard’s hard gaze could be seen across a room. He was not pleased. Khaster once even bumped into Valraven at a function. They faced one another as strangers, uttering stilted greetings. Valraven was like an automaton, distant and aloof. Once, he and Khaster had been like brothers.
The days were ticking away towards the time when Khaster would journey once more to Cos. The emperor had gathered more funds for a further offensive into the mountain territory held by the guerrillas who remained faithful to Ashalan, the exiled Cossic king. Khaster admired the Cossics. They had held onto the most impenetrable areas of their land with grim determination. They had done better than the Caradoreans had several centuries before, but no doubt their defeat was nigh. Magravandias was an inexorable force. The great red, purple and black banners of Madragore surged across the world, bringing war and devastation in the names of peace and God.
Two weeks before Khaster was due to leave, he attended a soiree in the apartments of the empress, Tatrini, as Almorante’s guest. He had dreaded bumping into Bayard, but it appeared Tatrini knew that certain of her sons and their friends should be kept apart, because the prince was absent. Almorante, courteous and attentive towards his mother, made a point of introducing Khaster to her. She absorbed him in a glacial stare, a tall and imposing woman, dressed in dark gold. ‘You are related to Valraven Palindrake, I believe,’ she said.
‘Through marriage, your majesty,’ Khaster answered. He was sure Tatrini knew this already, as well as recent events.
She confirmed this quickly. ‘I have heard of the death of Valraven’s wife – your sister, of course. I remember now.’ She turned to Almorante. ‘When a person has suffered bereavement, they need a special place in which to heal. I know this because of my own suffering when your little brother, Clavelly, died.’ Once again, she turned to Khaster, a fluid motion like that of a dancer. ‘My husband sent me to the family retreat at Recolletine. I have always loved the place. It has special restorative properties, I feel.’ She smiled, somewhat tightly. ‘Leonid signed the place over to Almorante as part of his twenty-first birthday present.’
Almorante cleared his throat, obviously discomforted. ‘Are you suggesting, Mother, that I send Khaster to Recolletine?’
The empress laughed dryly. ‘I am transparent, I know. Have you seen the Seven Lakes, Khaster?’
Khaster shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘It is the most beautiful area of Magravandias,’ she said. ‘That sadness in your eyes will drain away there. I guarantee it. The lakes will absorb your unspent tears. What do you think, ‘Mante?’
Almorante shrugged. ‘Would you like a holiday, Khaster? You will be leaving for Cos soon.’
‘Very like Caradore,’ said the empress. ‘Lakes, mountains, wild clean air. It would do you good.’
Khaster couldn’t help feeling a conspiracy was afoot. He had never met the empress before, yet she seemed unaccountably concerned for his well being, intent on shipping him off to this place called Recolletine. ‘I will do whatever you think best,’ he said to Almorante.
Almorante slapped Khaster’s shoulder. ‘Then a holiday it is. You can take Tayven with you.’
‘Yes, take Tayven with you,’ said the empress. ‘He knows the place well, because Almorante used to take him there often.’
Khaster detected a barb in this comment, but couldn’t interpret its meaning. He doubted very much whether Tatrini, empress of Magravandias, would disapprove of her son’s morals or conduct. It was something else.
The Seven Lakes of Recolletine were named for gods, who by the time Madragore’s name had first been spoken in the land, had already been no more than dim memories in the minds of its people. As they made the final approach, in a carriage lent to them by Almorante, Tayven recited the sacred names. Anterity, god of war; Oolarn, god of knowledge; Ninatala, the sun king; Uspelter, goddess of love; Malarena, jealous goddess of the night; Rubezal, the hag of madness and inspiration and finally, Pancanara, the celestial lady, goddess of the cycle of the universe.
‘The lakes are mystical,’ Tayven said. ‘Each has its own properties.’
The retreat, a sprawling three story wooden building of high pointed eaves and shuttered windows, clung precariously to a steep, partly forested hillside overlooking the first of the lakes, Anterity. Khaster and Tayven arrived late in the afternoon, as the sun set fitfully in a sky of bulging clouds. Long ruddy rays touched the surface of the lake, where black swans haunted the shores, shrouded among rigid spears of reeds. The swans sang to the approaching night, and to Khaster it sounded like a lament for the end of
the world.
Two servants, a husband and wife who lived in a small cottage further down the hill, cared for the retreat. Their names were Porvo and Marien, and they greeted Tayven like an old friend. He let himself be enfolded by the capacious bosom of Marien and returned the less encompassing embrace of Porvo with equal warmth. Khaster stood a short distance away while this was occurring, his head thrown back to examine the building. The eaves of the house were stippled with wind-sparrow nests. As dusk crept on, the birds filled the air with warbling shrieks.
Inside, immense fireplaces dominated every room, because in winter the place was cold, although Tayven said that Almorante didn’t visit it that often then. While Tayven went to the kitchen with Marien and Porvo, Khaster explored the silent rooms with their slowly-ticking clocks. The building was fascinating, full of intriguing nooks and crannies, its rooms filled with curios from a hundred lands. It was an ideal place in which to relax. All the chairs and sofas were huge and enveloping, the library was stocked with interesting literature, and the views from the many windows were inspiring. But Khaster couldn’t help thinking that these same rooms must have witnessed terrible things; namely the antics of Almorante and his cronies freed from the albeit limited restrictions of the palace in Magrast. He imagined them, drunk, lewd and greedy, indulging their hedonistic desires to capacity. He couldn’t help seeing Tayven there, wearing the mask of a smile, while all the time feeling the way he had done at ‘The Drake’ in The Soak, when Bayard had pawed him. As he thought this, Khaster heard Tayven’s laughter ringing through the house, as if he’d come home to a family he’d sorely missed. It made him shudder. He didn’t want to dwell on what must have transpired between Tayven and the prince while they were there.
That night, as Khaster lay awake in a wide canopied bed, he listened to the sounds outside. The window was open, and the long curtains swayed as if someone hid among them. This place was not like Caradore; the feeling was entirely different. Caradore was raw, as if the mountains were still young. Recolletine seemed older, more serene. It could be a place of healing, yes, but Khaster did not feel his spirit stir to the insistent throb of energy in the earth. There were no stark, pure winds here, no high dreaming sky.
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