by Martin Ash
We stepped into a dark chamber. Lady Sheerquine quickly lit tapers from her candle. Their light showed a chamber of moderate size, long but of no great width. Dusty racks and shelves lined its walls, reaching as high as the ceiling. Upon these rested ancient tomes, scrolls, manuscripts. A small workdesk occupied one corner.
As Sheerquine looked for the manuscript I’d requested I cast my eyes over some of the covers. There were ledgers and registers, records and charters from Ravenscrag dating back over many generations. There were also works of learning, ancient and modern, many from far abroad. Texts on history, myth, science; religious and philosophical treatises; mystical, magical and astrological tracts; works on art and literature; sagas, poems, and more. Ravenscrag was not as detached from the outside world as I had supposed.
Sheerquine extracted a hardened leather cylinder from a shelf. ‘Here is the prophecy. It may not be the original manuscript, but it is old. At least two hundred years old. I know of no other surviving version that predates it.’
‘Has it been in your family’s possession all this time?’
‘It has. Before that the prophecy was handed down by oral tradition. It is a timeless work, integral to Ravenscrag’s heritage. None can say from where it originated, or when.’
‘But you have chosen to keep it private.’
She made no comment. I drew from the cylinder an ancient scrolled parchment. It crackled as I unfurled it, and gave off a faint odour of times long past. I took it to the desk and laid it upon its surface. Seating myself, I scanned by candlelight the faded words inscribed there in ornamental script. As Irnbold had said, there was more than he had recited, but from what I could make out the initial verses were preamble, merely setting scene and historical and social context. I found nothing in them to arouse my interest.
But the last section, which Irnbold had quoted verbatim, grabbed my attention:
‘O you have witnessed Ravenscrag’s sorrowful decline,
see ye now assembled ‘neath the concealed moon,
before the solstice nigh.
On the second eve, make merry!
For four must perish since the blood of the moon was spilled,
but that done, one at last will come.
A boy! You will know him by his head of flame.
He shall step from the fiery hand.
He shall render Ravenscrag anew.
Look! The skies!
Darkness and decay have ended.
Regard the light that falls on Ravenscrag!
Rejoice, then! Lift up your hearts and sing!
You will know him, Ravenscrag’s salvation.
Your days of ashes are done.’
I studied it for some moments, deep in thought. ‘It appears to be incomplete.’
Lady Sheerquine leaned forward stiffly and peered down at the parchment. In the hovering light her face looked gaunt and strained. I caught her perfume of winter geranium. With my finger, I showed her. ‘See, there is an intricate border design here, at top and sides. It’s missing from the bottom. And look, the bottom edge is uneven, as though it has been inexpertly cut away. Was there more written here?’
Sheerquine straightened. ‘It was done two generations ago. The parchment was found to have deteriorated quite badly over time. There was no one at Ravenscrag with the expertise to restore it. Flarefist’s grandfather ordered that the lower border be cut away to prevent further deterioration. There was no more script.’
‘May I take this with me?’
‘It is not to be removed from this vault. You may commit it to memory.’ She began snuffing out candles. ‘Now, I have duties elsewhere. If you’ve done, Master Dinbig…’
~
I made my way back to my chambers, thinking to take a repast there while mulling over what I had so far learned. It was almost midday and I’d not eaten since breakfast.
As I mounted the foot of the stairs leading up to my apartment I heard a chuckle at my back, and turned, to see Hectal squatting upon a window-ledge, knees to chin, arms hugging his shins.
He grinned. He leered. He scratched the top of his head and pushed his tongue out of one corner of his mouth. ‘I have a something.’
‘I would like to hear it.’
‘It is nothing!’ He cackled delightedly. ‘That is the something: nothing there!’
‘I see.’
‘I’m a fooooool!’ giggled Hectal. He screwed up his face with mock seriousness. ‘Vacant.’
‘So it’s said.’
‘Nothing there. That is the something.’ He lifted his hand and pointed at his temple. ‘Empty! Vacant! See!’ He balled his fist and knuckled himself quite hard on the forehead. ‘Thonk! Ouch! Nothing there. Nothing behind. Oh me, oh my!’
He chuckled. He winked. His features formed again into a living caricature of his twin sister.
‘Thank you, Hectal,’ I said.
‘Thonk!’
I turned away again.
‘You will see! Or you won’t!’
As I ascended, he called out a final time, ‘Make fine use of the something!’
His laughter accompanied me to the top of the stairs.
Chapter Thirteen
The servant, Radyerd, brought me a luncheon of cold meats, potatoes, fresh salad greens, fruit and good red wine. Excellent red wine, I should say, for it lingered with pleasing familiarity on my palate. It was from my own estate in Khimmur, the wine I had given to Lord Flarefist two days earlier.
As I ate I tried to sift through the information I’d gleaned during the past few hours, but something hovered distractingly at the edge of my consciousness. I found my thoughts kept returning to the feeble-minded Hectal.
Thonk!
Empty-headed? Or was there more to Hectal than met the eye? His ‘somethings’, ostensibly babble, were turning out to be quite relevant to my investigation.
The baby is going to smell good when it’s cooked. Hectal had known that Flarefist intended to burn the child.
Thonk!
Nothing there? He had also predicted that Ulen Condark’s troops would come to Ravenscrag.
Thonk!
Neither of these facts was indicative of special knowledge. He had simply imparted them to me in cryptic form before I had a chance to become aware of them myself. Nevertheless, they revealed that he had an understanding of what was going on, which was more than most persons would have given him credit for.
Empty, then? Vacant? No, I could not dismiss Hectal in such simplistic terms.
Thonk!
What else had he said? Tonight is the last of darkmoon, but there will be another before you know it. The Shadownight approaches.
Was this pertinent? Did it even make sense? Or should I dismiss it as the ravings of an imbecile? What did he mean by ‘the Shadownight’? I wondered whether Hectal played a game with me, the rules of which were known only to himself.
I could not get him out of my mind.
Thonk! Empty.
This latest encounter – was there a message there?
Thonk! Nothing there. Nothing behind.
I sipped my wine. I was becoming irritable. My encounter with Hectal was preventing me from concentrating on the truly important aspects of the case. For instance, the prophecy: an extraordinary thing, passed down over centuries and filled with symbolic meaning. I considered Lady Sheerquine’s explanation that the lower border of the manuscript had been cut away to prevent further deterioration. It might be true; perhaps it was, as far as she knew. But it was possibly rather convenient, too. I wanted something more substantial – positive proof that the prophecy in its written form had not been tampered with. It was surely of extreme relevance. Indeed, the prophecy was pivotal to Redlock’s birth and misfortune, and consequently the future fortunes of Ravenscrag.
But had I viewed it in its entirety? Was there more to be known?
Nothing there. That is the something.
I damned Hectal. His deranged jabberings intruded on my mind and disrupted my train of
thought. Angrily, I thrust aside my plate, which collided with a heavy bronze figurine standing close to the edge of the tabletop. The figurine toppled and fell from the table, landing with a hollow thud on the lid of an empty wooden chest which rested alongside.
‘Thonk! Nothing there. Nothing behind.’
I stared. I blinked. I reached across and picked up the figurine. It was a small sculpture of a female figure holding a child. I lifted it and let it fall again onto the lid of the empty chest.
Thonk!
Empty! Nothing there!
Moban!
I sprang to my feet and ran for the door, colliding with Radyerd who was bring in a tray of cheeses, fruit and sweetmeats. To the crash of scattering dishes I ran down the spiral stairs.
Hectal was gone from his perch. There was no sign of him in the corridor. I strode on as fast as I could, restricted by bandages and painful stiffness of burned limbs, along passages and galleries to the main wing. I ascended to the first level, passed the family apartments, entered the corridor which led to Redlock’s nursery. I strode past the old sentry, who was half asleep. I thrust open the nursery door and entered. The sentry jerked into a semblance of alertness and followed me in, dazed and wobbling.
Without hesitation I went to the armoire and yanked open its heavy doors. I stepped inside, pushing aside the costumes. Lifting the polearm that I’d earlier dislodged, I let it fall against the rear panel of the armoire.
‘Thonk!’
A hollow thud. Not the dense, solid sound of something heavy falling against wood backed by ungiving stone.
Nothing there! Nothing behind!
‘An axe!’ I yelled at the sentry. ‘Get me an axe!’
Then: ‘No! Wait!’
I stared at the panel. There had to be a mechanism!
Inside the armoire I could see little. I climbed out, bringing the ceremonial costumes with me. ‘Bring me a candle.’
The sentry took the candlestick from the table and went to the corridor to light it from a sconce. In his absence I examined the exterior of the armoire.
It was sunk into a recess in the stone wall. I had assumed it to be free-standing, yet its side-panels were flush to the stone. It rose eight-feet high, almost to the ceiling. By clambering onto the table I was able to see across the top. There was a foot or so of stone wall above it. But what was beyond that?
The sentry returned with the lighted candle. I jumped down, took the candle, and stepped into the armoire. With the light I was able to see that the rear panel was actually three vertical pieces. I knocked each with my knuckle. Only one, the leftmost, which had been obscured by the hanging garments, proved to be hollow.
I pushed on this panel; it did not give. I passed the candlelight over it and found nothing. But on the side-panel adjoining it, a little way above my head, I came across an unevenness in the wood. The light showed a knot in the stained timber, and when I passed my fingertips over it I discovered that the centre of the knot was very slightly loose.
I pressed, and was rewarded with a satisfying muted metallic click beside my ear. The left rear panel had shifted infinitesimally inwards, and when I pushed it swung silently in.
I stared into absolute dark.
A light, warm draught bent my candleflame towards the nursery behind me, carrying with it a musty odour. Tentatively I leaned forward into the opening, extending my hand with the candle. The light showed a narrow area, a passage between the stones of the wall. I could not see how far it extended, but I was in no doubt as to what it meant.
Our intruder had not after all entered the nursery when Blonna was downstairs with Redlock prior to the banquet. He, she or it had not waited patiently in the armoire all that time, had chosen the moment when Blonna slept to steal the pitcher of water, and when Blonna went to fetch more, had crept out and done the foul deed.
And the intruder had not exited the nursery via the door, as I had earlier assumed. He, she, it, had gone back into the secret passage.
Where did it lead?
I turned back to the sentry. ‘Give me a weapon.’
He clamped shut his open jowl. ‘Can’t do that.’
‘I must explore.’
‘I’ll fetch his lordship.’
He went. I was anxious to explore this secret way before Lord Flarefist or anyone else arrived, for I suspected I might be forbidden from entering, at least until Flarefist had inspected it to his own satisfaction. I mentally prepared a couple of raptures, though I was not confident they would be effective. If I were taken by surprise in the darkness of the passage I would have no time to cast them. And what might I meet? Would it be susceptible to my weak magic?
I reached for my belt, and the garrotting wire, only to recall that I had left it in my chamber when I’d changed my garments after the fire. I swore. The polearm that was in the armoire was far too long and cumbersome. So, without a weapon, my heart pounding, I stepped into the dark.
The passage extended to the left. With the candle I could see no more than two or three feet in front of me. It was narrow so I had to advance with my shoulders held slightly obliquely. The floor beneath my feet was a mix of solid stone and rubbly earth. The dank musty odour was stronger, and there was much dust and cobwebs. But only a couple of times did I find webs actually stretched across my way, and they were newly spun.
After a few feet the passage turned sharply to the left. I judged that I was passing now within the outside wall. Three stone steps took me down, beneath the sill of the nursery window, then up again. Something scraped the stone beside me. I moved the candle, heart in my mouth, to reveal the gleaming eyes of a large black rat in a niche in the stone. Another rat ran across my foot.
I moved on, edging forward for another minute or so. I stumbled once or twice, almost dropping the candle. The darkness seemed to close in around me so that I lost my sense of bearing. The air was stale; the bright candlelight in front of my eyes dazzled me, became a hindrance rather than a help. A sense of panic closed in. I could hear my loud breathing and nothing else.
Then at last, quite suddenly, the passage ended. My hands pressed against solid stone.
I moved the candle around, and found what I sought. The wall to my left was wood, not stone. A further brief search revealed a heavy iron catch which, when lifted, enabled me to draw back the wooden panel. As I pulled carefully, a door slid back into a housing inside the stone of the wall.
Before me was a heavy blue drape. I waited, listening, and heard nothing. With caution I drew the edge of the material aside.
I found myself looking into a spacious, well-appointed bedchamber. A half-canopied bed occupied one corner, with a small table beside it. Elsewhere there was a dressing-table with mirror, a cabinet, chairs. There was nobody in the chamber. I stepped inside.
I knew immediately where I was, though I’d never been there before. There were books on shelves and on a small work-desk. There were brooches on top of the dressing-table, a pair of fine silver chains and other small pieces of jewellery. There were items of needlework and embroidery, a lap-harp, and various dresses and robes strewn carelessly about. The bed was rumpled. Several dolls sat on it in disorderly array; others were arranged in a semicircle on the floor. Among them was Misha, the doll I had brought from Twalinieh in Kemahamek. This was Moonblood’s room.
And on the floor, next to the bedside table, stood a solitary earthenware pitcher. It matched the bowl that rested on the table in the nursery.
~
As I stood pondering my next move the door opened and a woman walked in. She stopped dead at the sight of me. Her hands flew to her mouth and she uttered a sudden gasp of shock.
I recognized her as Marshilane, Moonblood’s maidservant. Behind her came Lord Flarefist. He too came to a halt and fixed me with a damning glare, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Proceeding with my investigation, my lord.’
‘In my daughter’s bedchamber?’
‘I’m as sur
prised at finding myself here as you are at finding me.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
Flarefist addressed Marshilane. ‘Have you told anybody?’
‘No my lord, I came straight to you.’
‘You didn’t say anything to this man?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Has something happened?’ I said.
Lord Flarefist eyed me with a scowl, his lips moving in apparent indecision. Then he mumbled, ‘My daughter’s vanished.’
‘Moonblood? When?’
He seemed to have entered a trance, his eyes suddenly vacant, and made no reply. I looked at Marshilane. She was tearful and in a state of nerves. ‘I don’t think the Mistress has been seen since last night.’
Lord Flarefist spoke again, his voice loud and tremulous. ‘Show me, Marshilane.’
Marshilane moved fearfully to the bed and drew back the rumpled covers. There was a garment lying there, a pale linen night-robe. It was torn at the shoulder and stained further down with blood. Marshilane reached out and picked it up. I saw that beneath it there was blood on the bedsheet.
‘This is your daughter’s night-robe, I take it?’ I said quietly, after a silence.
Flarefist’s jaw moved in agitation, making a wet sound as he stared at the bed. Gone was the aggressive demeanour of moments ago. His tall, lean frame had sagged, his face was bereft, the old eyes filled again with anguish. One hand had begun to shake convulsively and he leaned heavily upon his stick.
I was again filled with an overwhelming sympathy. I was facing the same shocked, broken old man I had sat with early in the morning, who had beseeched me to help restore meaning to his shattered life. The proud old warrior had been pummelled into submission by mysteries he could not comprehend. He could not even bring himself to speak.