Return of the Starchild (The Divine Inheritance Series Book 1)

by Catriona Murphy

  ‘You mean mentally insane,’ corrected Seamus sourly.

  ‘Yes, that is what I meant.’ Morgan turned. ‘This was found on his body and leads us to believe he was a potential accomplice to the attacker. There are not many wardens that would carry a trinket of this kind.’

  It gleamed mockingly in the light. Made of pure gold and crafted in the shape of a demon’s ghoulish, grinning face, the pendant’s crinkled hollowed eyes were filled with scorn, laughing at the studious group assembled around it.

  He licked his lips apprehensively. ‘Our researchers looked into the talisman’s significance and it dates back to a very old era, thousands of years ago. The awful face you see here comes from an old belief after the Beginning happened.’

  ‘What is it, Morgan?’ asked Wolfe, her tone impatient.

  ‘It’s a face from carvings on the walls you may find in the Oolan caves, or perhaps the Lahore islands or some of the mountains to the north. It’s quite an ancient idea, you see. There were gods for praising and ones for fearing. The feared ones were appealed to in different ways, usually through a sacrifice that required something more than a twiddling bird.’

  ‘You mean a person,’ said Seamus, feeling his skin beginning to crawl.

  ‘Essentially. He was responsible for the coming of the End. People feared the End and so they gave certain offerings to appease him, to hold off their doom. They believed in an earthly saviour who would take the form of a Phoenix. Their leader, the ‘Prophet’, hasn’t been seen in years.’

  ‘Get to the point, Morgan.’

  Morgan rushed. ‘We think - suppose, that Mr. Timmings may have been part of an organisation that’s probably not new to his majesty’s ears.’

  ‘The Order of the Second Dawn,’ said Wolfe, scepticism dancing in her cool eyes.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Wolfe looked at Seamus. ‘What do you suppose, your majesty?’

  ‘We need to stay open to the possibility of anything and everything that may have caused the demolition of the prison. Look further into this order, Wolfe, and tell me what you find. I would like you to work alongside Jamel in this investigation also.’ He paused for thought. ‘If this Mr. Timmings is part of the order, and only if they are directly responsible, we will need to seek other members for further investigation and corrective punishment.’

  He glanced at a gigantic tank that was jam-packed with floating body parts that he thankfully could not identify. He walked over for closer inspection, the water was a stomach churning lime green imbued with titbits of fluttering skin, and the flesh inside was well past its expiry date.

  ‘Our briefing tonight remains confidential and does not leave this room without my direct permission. If any prisoners have escaped—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure some managed,’ interjected Wolfe pessimistically.

  ‘- then we will need to question them also when they’re brought in. Search parties are combing the northern mountains as we speak for any survivors.’

  A clawed talon materialised out of the cloudy ether, one finger missing. ‘On a side note, Wolfe, initiate an immediate audit of the Department of Analysts.’

  Morgan and his team stiffened.

  Wolfe grinned, showing a row of pearly white teeth. ‘That would be my pleasure, your highness.’

  Seamus returned to the palace feeling weary, the shadows he only saw when he was alone appeared on the walls, leaping in their manic tribal dance. That night he dreamt of faces with evil, twisted grins howling at him.

  The woman walks in black footsteps, her footprints behind her are tar that sticks to the withered ground, slick in the heat wave. She stumbles on, wearing an ugly sack that is filthy, sodden and tearing at the seams. Her arms and legs have several angry red scars, as though she had just recently been whipped; her open wounds fester in the dismal land of no colour. Groans and moans weed out on the dry wind, wails of anguish crawl through the dusty gloom, as if the sun would never return, as if life itself had been banished. Smoke arises in continuous thin wisps from holes in the scorched red landscape, and everywhere is barren in exile, as if the world had been tipped upside down, distilling a dripping wrongness into the place. The air is thick with ash and yet the woman feels no need to cough it out, it fills her lungs like a cancer, permeating everywhere like a poisonous gas.

  The croakof a raven rings out in the dreary air, and the black feathered creature is perched on a desolated rocky outcrop. It tilts its head knowingly at Iliana, aware she is watching. It’s black eyes regard her expectantly, patiently waiting on her.

  Then the sickly clouds rush and fuse with unnatural speed as if on fast forward, harbouring the arrival of something apocalyptic.

  The rush of the vapours collides in the reflection of her fresh watered blue eyes, and a single tear drop falls from her lid.

  A high-pitched screech sent Iliana tumbling. Images of the woman rattled behind her eyes. She rolled around clumsily on a floor, with blankets twisted around her sweaty legs. Breathing hard, she rubbed her clammy hands into the sheets that were wrought around her restless body. It was the wrong reaction; she thought dimly, she was always cold after seeing the woman.

  Another shriek made her look quickly towards a window, where a long-necked animal of deep violet blinked at her with cat-like eyes. It’s giraffe neck elongated into the room, it’s yellow eyes looked down at her bird-like. It cocked its head curiously, giving her an unerring stare of fascination.

  Iliana returned it in bewilderment. A part of her felt silly from panicking at a nosy animal that kind of resembled an ostrich, and from being on the floor.

  That was of course, until confusion hit her.

  Where was she?

  She sat up. The room was painted in bright, cheery colours with animals depicted out in the wild with long grass and open plains like the Serengeti. Animals she didn’t recognise.

  A thick rug with runes sowed in different colours cushioned the floor under her, and the whole room had a feel of living in the tropics. Panelled walls, an empty bird cage and a mosquito net draped over the bed conveyed a sense of living in a jungle tree house. There was a white dresser with an oval mirror, and a couch with a pink velvet throw over. In one corner sat a richly decorated sitting cushion.

  In the distance, she could hear queer animal cries.

  Unwrapping herself from the sheets, she slowly stood, takingin her surroundings with nearly as much the same baffled interest, as when she had passed through the arch. She bundled up the bedclothes and set it down on the bed.

  She looked down and cringed. She was wearing a white laced nightgown, traditionally modest at the chest and knees. It looked like an Amish wedding frock. Her eyes then fell on the bronzed doorknob.

  The animal let out a low throaty sound. It wound its head around and began prodding and inspecting the items on the dresser, knocking them over.

  For a few minutes, Iliana did nothing. She simply sat down on the stool, thinking. She watched the creature peck at a hairbrush and nudge at a jewellery box, then she searched the room for her belongings only to find nothing.

  Rising from the stool, she walked slowly to the door and opened it. Her head poked out into a draughty corridor that was decorated with the same pleasant theme as her room, further murals of strange looking animals in the wild canvassed on the walls for a naturalistic background. The floor was carpeted cream and Iliana’s toes curled into it. There was a small round table at one end with a plant pot, in which stemmed out an unfurled pink and white flower speckled with black spots.

  Tentatively, she stepped out and followed along the scenic walls to the plant. Curious, she touched one of the petals only for it to snap back into a bulb, it puffed out a shot of black soot and she jumped back. She rounded it widely and walked on to the top of a spiralling iron staircase. Holding onto the rail, she descended the stairs and found herself in the main hall area. To her right were two large double doors of deep oak and a helix stairway opposite the
one she took leading back upstairs. The air was pleasantly perfumed with floral scents, taking her back to summer days of heated haze, and when the blossoming flowers were at their strongest. An array of weapons lay nestled inside a net that hung down from the ceiling.

  In the centre of the hall was an impressive dull green shoot that was growing directly up from the floor. Accommodations had been made for its growth as the carpeted floor circled around it. It was taller than Iliana and the stem had leafed out in several layers towards the top, where a single sky-blue bulb protruded. It was the size of Iliana’s head. A large skylight in the centre of the ceiling filtered light down onto it. She felt it dormant, and it moved like a person might breathe in their sleep.

  Giving the flower a wide berth, she tried quietly opening the doors but they were locked. An exit behind the enormous plant lead further into the house.

  Inscribed in a wooden slate above it read, ‘We were once lost, we were once hunted, we were once hurt. But time showed us the meaning of endurance, nurturance and strength. May the earth restore us.’

  A clock chimed on the hour and a cuckoo emerged clucking.

  Iliana was beginning to wonder if she was in some kind of fun house. She skirted around the plant while throwing fearful glances at it, and hurried into a kitchen under the supervision of a parrot. It was perched on a tiny swing above her, it’s beak nudging under its wing with practised smoothness.

  The back wall of the kitchen was commanded by a large brick hearth, and a bubbling cauldron simmered within; glimpses of roots, shoots and herbs surfaced and disappeared. There were small plants lining the window sills on both sides, and two long wooden tables that were covered in bowls of seeds, fresh herbs, fruit, nuts, grains and jugs of water. The ceiling had several braids of herbs hanging down, strings of strange looking vegetables.

  A door to the outside opened and a woman walked in cradling potatoes in her white apron. She wore a bonnet and plain dress, and her face was ruddy red. Her dark brown eyes widened when she saw Iliana. She must have looked strange; a girl with white blonde hair in a long virginal gown standing next to a cauldron. The potatoes bounced and rolled onto the floor, and the woman fled back outside.

  Well that wasn’t a good sign. Self-consciousness flooded her, and she had to exercise the strictest form of self-discipline to not flee herself. She waited another agonising minute, and the door opened again.

  In walked a wizened woman of sixty. Short, like the previous woman, but commanding an air of intelligence and timeless wisdom that plunged into Iliana’s growing sixth sense, overwhelming her. Iliana stared at her; she had never met anyone who struck her so. The woman seemed to radiate warmth, and glowed with an inner light of goodness that shone as strongly as the sun. The colour of the air around her was wheat field gold, pure and compassionate and healthy. The woman herself seemed open and earnest, like she would be comfortable being naked in a room with fully clothed people.

  Iliana took a step back, trying to regain herself.

  ‘I am sorry about that, dear’, the woman said, ‘I know how sensitive you are, it must be quite difficult, considering you’ve no control over such a gifted ability.’ The woman chuckled heartily. ‘It’s why you gave old Blava here a fright, but not to matter. What is to matter is how you are, my dear.’ Iliana was at a loss for words, all she could do was stare in awe. She took in her wrinkled face that mapped her long life, and the cane she leaned on, which looked like a twisted root pulled out from under a tree. Her grey hair was pulled back into a loose bun and strands sprayed out around her welcoming face. She wore a loose, humble shirt and pants with sandals.

  The cauldron spat and she jumped.

  ‘I think,’ the woman began, shuffling further into the kitchen, ‘a good brew would do you good. That,’ she looked Iliana up and down, ‘and perhaps some more rest. It would seem you’ve been through the wars girl.’ She gestured to a chair at one of the long tables. ‘Sit.’

  Iliana complied without thinking.

  ‘When Benson found you in the woods, I thought you lost when you stumbled on our wards.’

  ‘Your...wards?’

  ‘Said you were in a most dreadful state. Didn’t think you were a poacher, which would be a first for us, if I might so boldly add. But you had some injuries - some bruises and cuts on your face and hands. Your wrists looked as though they had been tied.’

  Iliana looked down and saw red loops crisscross her wrists. It triggered something important, something that she should remember.

  The woman began to hum to herself while she mashed leaves with a mortar bowl and pestle. ‘We thought you were a runaway, we do get those from time to time but normally they don’t look as though they were held captive, or even running from someone,’ the woman continued.

  Iliana’s hands began to tremble.

  ‘Thought then that you were from Cherbourne or some smaller town nearby, but I read you. You’re not from around here I don’t think, no, not at all.’

  Rage flushed through Iliana with the same violent velocity as the clouds from her dream, threatening total annihilation.

  The table began to vibrate.

  The woman stopped. ‘That won’t do child, that won’t do.’

  Iliana couldn’t hear her. The shaking table blurred in her vision as the last image of Zelda’s white face going under the ice repeated itself on sick replay. The black water enveloped her, suffocating her. The memory crashed through her haze of confusion like a bucket of ice.

  She wanted to kill those men so badly, but stronger than that was the grief that seized her up in its tight grip.

  Iliana couldn’t breathe.

  The table shook harder.

  ‘Talk to me child.’

  Piles of seeds began to lazily float upwards, defying gravity and overturning slowly in the air. They changed colour to darkened black and burned, as though they were roasting.

  A storm brewed hotter in Iliana than the cauldron in the large fireplace. She sucked in a loud sob, an angry sigh, and lay her head down on the table, ignoring the painful vibrations it was sending through her head. She ignored the sun woman standing next to her.

  The images spun faster in her mind until she was blinded by them, until there was nothing else but the memories. The rip, the tear away of Zelda had left a wound so open that it would surely fester and kill her. It dawned on her that she would never see Zelda again, she was gone. Zelda was actually gone.

  Zelda pleaded, ‘Iliana, please-’

  Iliana threw her head back and let out the most tormented scream, so alienated and inhuman that it didn’t sound like her.

  There was a loud crash, and then everything went black.

  Iliana didn’t fight the oncoming darkness this time, she welcomed it. She hoped it would take her away forever in its deadly embrace.

  The trees reeked of death with their bare, gnarled branches, extending down to a stagnant dark river. It behaved as if it were a pool, no current to connect it with other arteries or have anywhere to go in its isolated spot.

  A woman stood in the river in a scarlet dress. Her deathly face was twisted with cruelty and fixed with a permanent sneer; it was clear enough even though she had no nose. A network of blue veins ran all over her skeletal body, and cracks extended out from them, as if her flesh was made of ceramic and she was crumbling. The deprived flesh clung to her bones and she looked beyond anorexic; her body was like a shrivelled prune that couldn’t collapse anymore into itself. Her face was shrunken with large circles pitting beneath her eyes.

  She pointed at Iliana. ‘You’re next.’

  Behind her was a group of people, all as pale as the woman, looking miserable. Her collection of souls, like the woman was trying to pay off a bill with death.

  Zelda sat on the riverbank hugging herself, staring out at the trees, her face haunted. Iliana called to her but she didn’t move.

  ‘She is mine,’ the woman hissed.

  ‘No! Zelda!’ Il
iana tried to run to her but she was being dragged away.

  The scene changed in one dizzying swirl and then there was golden light.

  Iliana was bathed in it.

  ‘Iliana? Come back now, child. Come back.’

  Iliana wanted to say no but she was already blinking, eyelids fluttering with glimpses of the room she had woken up in previously.

  The woman sat next to her bed, clasping her hands. She smiled sadly. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t see her.’

  Disorientated, Iliana sat up. ‘See who?’

  The woman sighed and patted her hand. ‘Ah child, child.’

  ‘I’m not a child, who was she?’

  Her bright face became solemn. ‘The Lady of the Lake. I am surprised you managed to pierce the veil that surrounds the world below the lake.’

  ‘It was real, wasn’t it? She has my friend. How?’

  The woman hesitated. ‘She keeps them prisoner. That is the way of her nature, she holds them to her, because she is alone.’

  ‘There’s another reason,’ Iliana prompted, reading the woman’s hesitant expression.

  ‘She is collecting them,’ she went on, ‘all her victims. She believes if she gathers enough souls she will be free, but she will never be free.’

  ‘I need to save Zelda from her, I need her back.’

  The woman’s gaze was full of pity. ‘Child, your friend is dead. Her afterlife resides in the world beneath the lake now, where none can go. You cannot save her.’

  ‘I won’t leave her to be with that bitch. There must be some way.’ Iliana threw the covers back and hopped out of bed.

  ‘You need to rest,’ the woman said, turning.

  ‘I’ve rested long enough. What have you done with my clothes? Where’s my stuff?’

  ‘They’re in the storeroom.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘If you go back to the lake, you will die and go to the underworld. Do you think Zelda wants that for you?’

  ‘I can’t leave her there!’

  The woman folded her hands in her lap. ‘You must, there is nothing you can do for her.’