The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  ‘Where are we?’ whispered Stephania. Achilles roused himself from his torpor and blinked in the weak light.

  ‘The Majordomo used to imprison those he wanted rid of in a place beneath the castle.’ Dino’s voice was hushed. ‘It was called the oubliette, but it wasn’t really a chamber or even a series of cells. Lucien told me it was more akin to catacombs where the prisoners preyed on each other.’

  ‘That’s hideous.’

  ‘It gets worse. Lucien said the oubliette was knee-deep in water. The king poisoned the water with some chemistry called Lethe, which dissolved their memories. In time the prisoners were unable to remember their own names.’

  ‘Why are there lights?’ Her hand squeezed his, her voice a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know. Lucien described it as black as pitch. Massimo always suspected the grey raiders came from beneath Demesne. Perhaps he was right.’

  They stepped down into the filthy water, glad when it reached their thighs and no further. Infrequent lanterns cast their light across ancient stonework. A face looked down from the keystone of every arch. Dino assumed it was the king’s. No one would recognised him, the many years he’d spent in seclusion had put paid to that. All carvings of the king had been chiselled into oblivion on the upper floors, but no mason had ventured here, and for good reason. Long shadows wavered and stretched on the water.

  Muted cries of distress and mourning echoed through the oubliette. Dino pulled Stephania to the shadow of one column, holding a finger to his lips. They peered around its edge as one, eyes wide with curiosity.

  A woman staggered through the waterlogged cavern, a trail of flotsam bobbing in her wake. She was hunched and gaunt except for the dome of her stomach, stretched with her unborn, the flesh pale. A head slumped between pockmarked shoulders, pallid and hairless scalp revealing veins of purple and blue. Her face was lost to shadow. A ragged skirt hung from her hips, trailing in the water, impeding her progress for the small dignity it afforded.

  ‘The poor woman,’ breathed Stephania. Achilles hissed, unnerved by the squalid figure. The sound caused the creature to turn. And it was a creature, no more than a parody of a woman. Stephania pressed a hand to her mouth, mute with revulsion. What had turned to face them bore no eyes nor any semblance of a human visage. The upper head was smooth, the nose a blunt snub, the mouth beneath resembling nothing so much as mandibles from an insect. The creature cast around blindly for the source of the noise, then turned back and headed deeper into the catacombs.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Stephania.

  ‘There were previous generations of Orfani. Many generations. They died through assassination –’ he curled his lip ‘– or vendetta.’

  ‘And that?’ Stephania gestured to the pregnant wretch that waddled and swayed through the rank tide.

  ‘Not every Orfano was fit for public view. Some were too strange, too twisted or too broken. They were exiled by the Majordomo or cast down here. That would certainly explain why there are so many Myrmidons, especially if they’ve been breeding.’

  ‘Which they obviously have,’ supplied Stephania, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice.

  The creature continued her lonely pilgrimage, heading toward an archway. It was darker there, and the pale shouldered not-woman disappeared from view.

  ‘Should we follow her?’ said Stephania, liberating a lantern from the column they hid behind.

  Dino nodded reluctantly and slowly. ‘Can you see another way out of here?’

  Stephania shook her head, pressing her body against his. ‘I’m glad you hung onto the sword.’

  ‘I’m glad you saved me from drowning,’ he replied with a sad smile.

  They waded to the archway and passed through into the gloom beyond. Stephania raised the lantern and they were astonished to find Duchess Fontein standing before them. Her dress floated on the water’s surface like a series of black blisters; her eyes were glassy, her movements languid. One hand held a caraffa of red wine, the other smoothed back her dust- and web-matted hair. The spark of recognition was absent as her eyes met Dino’s, as if she sleepwalked.

  ‘For my Lord Erebus,’ she explained, lifting the wine. ‘Won’t you join us?’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ asked Dino.

  ‘House Fontein is at an end. The world moves on. My husband is dead and I am cast down.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Stephania.

  ‘If I can’t rule above, perhaps I’ll rule from below.’

  They were just a few feet from the duchess now. Of the pregnant wretch there was no sign, Dino grateful to be spared seeing her again. Duchess Fontein turned, gliding away from them through the water, her dress dragging behind her. It was then that Dino realised the walls were writhing in a slow sinuous motion, almost imperceptible. Grey twisted bodies were entangled and wrapped about one another. He stared and felt revulsion hollow him. Countless misshapen creatures squirmed. Here a crooked limb embraced a corpulent stomach, there a hunched back pressed against a ragged head.

  ‘What are they doing?’ whispered Stephania.

  ‘Keeping warm, I expect. They’re more like animals than people.’

  ‘Insects, you mean,’ said Stephania.

  ‘Yes, like a nest of ants.’

  A tortured ecstasy consumed them all, their grotesque faces strangely peaceful. It was a communion of flesh that transcended the sexual.

  ‘Dino.’ Stephania’s voice was a stricken whisper. ‘Look up.’

  A vast and hideous form hung above the tableau of knotted bodies, suspended on six jagged chitin legs. Its torso was encased in a mottled shell, and it had a bulbous segmented lower section. The head, curiously human in scale, was obscured by a Myrmidon’s helm which featured two shear-like blades, mandibles in steel.

  ‘Santa Maria have mercy,’ said Stephania beneath her breath. Dino found himself thinking the same.

  ‘The House of Fontein is at an end,’ said the duchess in a dull monotone. She drank from the caraffa, the wine spilling over her chin. The rest she discarded in the water before approaching the wall of bodies.

  ‘We have to stop her,’ said Stephania.

  ‘Her mind is gone,’ said Dino, unable to tear his eyes from the noblewoman in black. The duchess reached the mass of twisted flesh and was quickly subsumed. There came the sounds of tearing fabric, a whimper, a sigh. The limbs parted and pulled at her. Malformed hands inserted her into the writhing chaos. She gave herself without reservation, sparing Dino a look of despair and resignation. And then she was gone, lost from view behind the infernal sprawl of bodies, hands covering her eyes, her mouth. Dino choked, unable to credit what he’d seen. Stephania sobbed beside him.

  ‘Ah, women. Always so frail.’ This from the aberration hanging from the ceiling. ‘But their bodies, so malleable. So fertile. So laden with promise.’

  Dino and Stephania exchanged a glance; neither had thought for one moment it would speak.

  ‘Come now, Lord Dino. Sire a new generation of Orfani with your pretty companion. The Lady Stephania, yes?’ The voice was a flat drone, one not heard for decades but familiar all the same. ‘Sire a new generation and I will make you a king, the Myrmidon king.’

  ‘I know you,’ grunted Dino with certainty. ‘You’re the Majordomo.’

  He was answered by a hollow wheeze that took much too long to abate.

  ‘Yes, once I took that name.’ The head beneath the curving helm nodded slowly. ‘I took that name more closely to my heart than my own. I forgot myself in service to the king. Ironic that I should have to come to the oubliette to remember myself, is it not?’

  ‘Lucien killed you,’ Dino snarled. ‘He told me he killed you.’

  ‘Lucien began something he could not finish. I have been free of the king’s shadow for ten long years and I have remade myself. More than that, I have remembered myself. I am Erebus.’

  55

  Mourning

  – 11 Novembre 314

  Dino would always look bac
k on that winter day with a mixture of feelings, none of them good. None save the redeeming fact that Virmyre had sought him out.

  ‘I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to stay here,’ intoned Virmyre from his position near the mantelpiece. Dino sat on the windowsill of his sitting room, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes locked on the rivulets of water as they streaked across the glass. His breath steamed the panes until he broke his introspection to wipe the window with the sleeve of his nightshirt. Achilles nestled about Dino’s shoulders like a scarf, occasionally looking up at the professore with a studied disinterest.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said the Orfano. ‘I’m just not in the mood to be around people.’

  ‘That’s what concerns me,’ replied Virmyre.

  It had been four days since Duke Prospero’s funeral. The rain had continued to fall since that day, not torrentially, rather a lacklustre drizzle that showed no promise of ending. The clouds, so pale as to be near invisible, edged across the heavens in a stately procession. The Orfano looked over his shoulder at the older man, then ordered his scattered thoughts.

  ‘How is she?’ he said, so quietly the words were almost drowned by the patter of rain.

  ‘Distraught, of course.’

  Dino and Stephania had stumbled across the corpse of the duke, seemingly fallen to his death by way of a spiral stone staircase. It would not have been a quick death, Dino suspected. The stentorian duke was a barrel-shaped man, but even the padding of his vast appetite had not saved him from the fall. His neck had snapped, head resting at a cruel angle on the cold stone floor. Dino had never seen a corpse before, much less the corpse of someone he knew.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked the Orfano, knowing the answer before he finished the question.

  ‘She simply needs time.’ Virmyre, famously impassive, looked concerned. ‘The loss of a parent is always difficult, and under such circumstances more harrowing still.’

  The rain continued to fall and Achilles swished his tail. The professore banked up the fire for want of something to do.

  ‘I can’t say I ever really liked him,’ said Dino. ‘He was a buffoon really. Always yelling at the top of his voice—’

  ‘He was partially deaf, Dino.’

  ‘I know. What I was going to say, was that whether I liked him or not, it was no way for a duke to die.’

  ‘Dukes are just people, like anyone else.’ Virmyre sat down in an armchair and crossed his legs. ‘I’m not sure death cares much for titles or birthright.’

  ‘I disagree: they’re not like anyone else. How can they be? Dukes are symbols to their houses. Dukes are figureheads. Dukes, for all their sins, deserve a better death than a tumble down a staircase and a broken neck.’

  ‘I’m not sure I agree,’ rumbled Virmyre, his hand straying to his beard. ‘If you’re saying the deaths of dukes are meant to mean something, then you’ll be disappointed.’

  Dino stared into the crackling flames but felt no warmth, nor the desire to reply.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Virmyre, ‘there’s at least one duke I’d help to the top of a staircase.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be a good influence on me? I’m only eleven.’

  ‘Life is full of disappointments, Dino. I’m afraid it was only a matter of time before I joined that long and illustrious list.’

  ‘Stop trying to cheer me up.’ Dino grinned. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of some perfectly good brooding?’

  ‘You’re an amateur,’ replied the professore, eyes twinkling. ‘Now Lucien, there’s an Orfano who can brood for the kingdom. I dare say he can brood for the entire island.’

  The mention of the older boy’s name scoured the humour from Dino’s face.

  ‘Still angry with him then?’ asked Virmyre.

  Dino looked away. Achilles pushed his snout against the curve of his neck, tail set to a metronome swish.

  ‘And you won’t illuminate me as to the source of this rift?’

  ‘I … can’t. It wouldn’t be seemly.’

  ‘Seemly?’ Virmyre raised an eyebrow, but the Orfano refused to be drawn.

  ‘Surely this is just a cross word over a favourite sword?’

  ‘If only it were that mundane.’ Dino caught himself, frowning because he’d said anything at all. ‘I can’t speak of it. I won’t speak it.’

  ‘Then I shall leave you to your thoughts, Master Dino. I’ll be dining in the main hall tonight if you need to unburden yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ managed the boy on the windowsill, eyes locked on the glass and its panorama of rainswept countryside. The trees were like phantoms, indistinct in the rain, waiting to accost lonely travellers. Virmyre departed, the door closing quietly behind him.

  Memories of the event swirled like a column of autumn leaves whipped into motion by the wind. La Festa was supposed to be a happy time, and Stephania had wasted no time acquainting herself with the wine. Now all that remained of that night was a sour aftertaste, one that promised to linger all too long. Dino stood and placed the cataphract drake on the bookcase with care.

  ‘Try and stay out of trouble. One of us should, at least.’

  Achilles grasped the edge of the shelf with his foreclaws, pushing his wedge-shaped head forward to regard his master, a gargoyle in miniature.

  ‘At least I can trust you not fall down any stairs.’ The cataphract drake blinked and hissed.

  Dino dressed in warmer clothes, muttering to himself as he bound up his tines in linen. Virmyre was right: he would succumb to madness if he remained in his apartment. Better to go out into the world beyond his door than be a prisoner of his apartment. The Orfano belted on a sword, then slipped a dagger into the top of each boot. Duke Prospero may well have slipped due to his own clumsiness but Demesne was rife with rumours concerning assassins. One simple push was all it would take. Dino would not be caught unawares if the assassin sought him out, nor would he be unarmed. Finally, he slipped on a jacket with slashed sleeves and vertical piping. He’d had it made on a whim, the black silk all too appropriate, prescient even.

  Demesne had been trapped in a collective malaise since the duke’s death. There was a feeling of melancholy in the air which haunted every doorway and staircase, each dusty corridor and dimly lit hall. The cloisters were gloomy and rain slicked places promising chilly air and little else. Only Duchess Prospero served as any counterweight to the pervasive sadness. She had not troubled herself by playing the grieving widow; few if any would believe the performance no matter how well she played it.

  Dino wandered for an hour or more before finding himself at the lonely spot where Duke Prospero had met his end. A more unremarkable place one could not hope to find, a rarely used stairwell with only cobwebs and shadows for decoration. Flowers had been laid: posies bound in twine from common folk, larger offerings from the nobles. All the blooms had surrendered to the first touches of decay. A solitary lantern cast a gentle light over the floral tableau.

  Dino recalled the shock and disbelief that had overtaken Stephania as she recognised her father. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to touch the supine body. Dino had done so in her place. The chill of waxy skin could not be banished by hearth or bathtub, no matter how hot the fire or scalding the water. He recalled his own revulsion, the knife edge of panic. Afterward he had blamed himself. If only he’d taken the time to speak to the duke at La Festa, perhaps even offered to escort him home. Ridiculous of course – the blame unwarranted, a child’s guilt.

  Dino shivered in the corridor amid the dying flowers. Something moved at the limit of the lantern’s light. The Orfano staggered back a step before his training asserted itself. He dropped into a fencing stance, blade halfway out of its sheath.

  ‘Figlio di puttana,’ he snarled.

  The Majordomo emerged from the gloom, dappled with light from the lantern, eyes concealed by his hooded robe, weathered face betraying nothing.

  ‘I did not mean to startle you, Master Dino.’

/>   ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the boy, failing to hide the accusatory tone in his voice. He withdrew another step, letting the ceramic blade slide back into its scabbard.

  ‘I have been looking for you for much of today.’

  The Domo passed under a stone arch, stooping as he came closer. A head taller than anyone in Demesne, he moved with a stately grace, wrapped in robes that had long forgotten their colour. He was a figure painted from a palette of rain clouds and ashes. A wiry long-fingered hand extended from one voluminous sleeve to clasp an oak staff. Tawny amber the size of a child’s fist served as its headpiece. A dark shadow indicated something trapped amid the resin, but Dino had never drawn close enough to discern it. Tatty rope held the fabric of his attire together at the waist. There was a faint smell of libraries about him, as if he folded himself up and slept between leather-bound tomes, although none knew where he rested or even if he slept at all, just as none had seen the king they all served. A solitary fly buzzed mournfully about the cowl of the king’s steward but failed to elicit any irritation from the gaunt man.

  ‘So strange to find you alone, today of all days.’ The Domo’s voice was a drone, deep and resonant.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you. Did I miss some ceremony or observance?’

  The Domo wheezed a few times before holding his free hand up to his mouth to wipe some spittle away. There was a hacking sound that made Dino wince, then came the disquieting realisation the Domo was laughing.

  ‘An observance indeed,’ said the Domo finally. The fly ceased orbiting the hooded head, settling into a crease of the ragged vestments. ‘It is your birthday, Dino.’