By Demons Possessed

by P. C. Hodgell

  “There, there,” she heard herself say. “We’ll sort it out.”

  Trinity, will we?

  Rue met them at the door, wide-eyed.

  “Someone called,” she said. “It sounded like you. ‘Jamie, Jamie, come quick,’”

  “If anyone, ever, calls me ‘Jamie,’ think twice.”

  “Well, I did, and then it giggled. Heh, heh, heh.”

  “Dammit. I hoped that the birds would peck Bortis apart. Apparently not. Come on. Let’s get back to Tagmeth, and pray that it’s not too late.”

  The light briefly dimmed, then lightened again.

  Chapter XVI

  What Awaits

  Spring 60

  I

  “THE IDEA,” said Cook Rackny, “is to make a dish that looks like something else. You’ve already played with haslet—dried fruit and nuts that resemble a hunters’ feast of entrails. Here.” He handed Marc what appeared to be an apple, gold with swirls of green, as if barely ripe. “Taste that.”

  Tagmeth’s steward took a bite, and blinked.

  “Dates, raisins, spices, and, yes, veal.”

  “Eggs too, to make it hold its shape, saffron and parsley for coloring. Mott, over there, is making a goducken—that is, a boned goose stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken stuffed, for good measure, with a hard-boiled egg. Then, of course, there’s marchepane fruit, omelet owls feathered with flower petals, and a live frog pie, although I don’t recommend eating that last raw.”

  “What’s this?” Marc indicated an oddly shaped lump of rising dough.

  “My own effort,” said the little cook proudly. “Once it’s baked, I cover it with chicken liver paté and sliced almonds. A gilded onion for a head with its green spouts upright for a comb, a long tail made of lettuce, parsley, and heliotrope . . . well? Can you guess what it’s meant to be?”

  Marc considered. This one took some imagination. “Er . . . a white peacock?”

  Rackny clapped his hands, delighted. “But why am I lecturing you like this? Your own dish should be magnificent!”

  “I hope so,” said the big Kendar, with a glance toward the headless pig slowly turning on its spit over a bed of coals.

  When Cook had announced his idea for this feast, which he had proposed as a friendly competition, Marc had wracked his brains for something to create that wouldn’t make him look foolish. After all, he was still a novice in the kitchen, and well he knew it.

  The distraction at least had been welcome, as Cook Rackny may well have also thought. By then, everybody had wanted to think about something else, not only because of their lady’s mysterious disappearance, but because the nights had become hideous for anyone who tried to sleep. Despite precautions, sleepwalking episodes continued. Some Kendar had attacked others, most often their dearest friends; some had committed acts of mean mischief the memory of which bitterly shamed them when they woke; some would not speak of their nocturnal deeds at all.

  Marc had had a narrow escape of his own. He didn’t remember the dream that led up to it, only that he had awoken with a start in the moon-washed courtyard, his hands around the neck of a startled Jorin.

  Ha, a gloating voice had whispered in his mind. Ha-ha-ha. Next time.

  He hadn’t slept within the keep since.

  Clearly, a dream-stalker lurked in their midst.

  Few willingly entered the tower where, chained to a bed, Graykin frothed, much less the room above where that other guest sat, silent, grinning.

  Then, perhaps with a spark of prescience, the largest of the keep’s pigs had run away, and Marc had had his inspiration, given what else he had on hand. It had taken him days to hunt down the fugitive. The time away from Tagmeth had been welcome, even though he had fallen behind his would-be competitors. Tomorrow, though, all would come to fruition, or rather to a head. Summer’s Day was almost upon them.

  The spit turned. Grease dripped. Skin crackled. It smelled wonderful, even though roasting had barely begun. The pig’s head had already been boned and baked to serve the more complicated part of his project, now residing in the bath chamber under an icy spray of river water.

  “D’you think it will keep?” he asked Rackny, not for the first time.

  The cook scratched his chin. “Under normal circumstances, no. After all, we’ve had the thing since the autumnal equinox, but Lady Cyd’s little bag of preservatives has worked wonders with the rest of the larder. Even if there’s a problem, it will still make a grand spectacle. And there’s always the pig.”

  With that, Marc had to be content.

  On some level, though, it bothered him that they were preparing an illusion feast to celebrate the graduation of their cadets at distant Gothregor on Summer’s Day. After all, what they had achieved here was real. Everyone had worked very hard to make this keep a success, a home. Now something was trying with malicious glee to tear it apart.

  “Look!” called a cadet by the window.

  As others flocked to her side, Marc gazed over their heads out into the noonday courtyard and his heart leaped.

  Jame and Rue stood by the well, scooping water out of the bucket to drink while Jorin rolled about the flagstones in delight at their feet. Jame looked thinner and more haggard then Marc had ever seen her—Trinity, when had she last slept? Or eaten?—but she also seemed deeply pleased to be back. Her thirst sated, she splashed cold water on her face and shuddered with pleasure.

  A small figure in a white tunic stood some few paces back from them, clutching an armful of bundled gray cloth. Rue offered him water cupped in her hands and he leaned forward eagerly to drink, shielding his burden from drops with a long-fingered hand. Marc had heard tales about the small folk in the oasis but never before had seen one. How childlike this one appeared, and yet how alien.

  A wail rose from the oasis gate. Girt wandered out of it like a somnambulist, carrying Benj. The infant thrashed in her arms, red-faced and screaming. He hit her face, again and again. She flinched at each blow but didn’t protest, as if this was her penance for not being able to appease him. Here were two more who had not slept anytime recently.

  The little Builder gave his burden to Jame, as tenderly as if it slept. Then he took Benj from Girt’s arms.

  “So, so, low, so . . .”

  At the croon of his song, the child gulped and stopped wailing. His flailing fists wavered, unclenched, and then subsided as he listened open-mouthed.

  “Low, low, go slow,

  Momma comes with laughter.

  Where is her baby-toes?

  Here, here, here he goes.

  Who will follow after?”

  They retreated to the gate and passed through it, the Kendar stumbling, bemused, after the Builder and her suddenly subdued charge. The lullaby faded to a murmur, then was gone.

  “Well,” said Marc, emerging from the kitchen. “That’s a relief.” He smiled down at Jame. “And to see you again too, of course.”

  Jame handed him the bundled cloak. “Give this to Cook Rackny. Ask him to put it somewhere safe and on no account to shake it out. I’m tell him what to do with it later.”

  Then, as the cadets tumbled out into the courtyard with a cheer, the two old friends moved as one into a tight embrace. Jame dug her head into Marc’s chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart, welcoming the scent of his honest sweat overlain with the savory aroma of the kitchen. This, truly, was the smell of home.

  “What are you cooking? It smells delicious.”

  “A surprise for tomorrow’s feast.”

  “I hope there’s something to eat before then. We’re famished.”

  “Oh, I think we can find you some stray morsel.” He patted her shoulder clumsily with his free hand. “Vanishing like that, though—sometimes, you scare me.”

  “I’m sorry. It had to do with Tai-tastigon and the Res aB’tyrr. Didn’t you get my note?”

  Rue produced the scrap of paper, by now very dirty and tattered. Her face flamed. “I . . . er . . . walked off with it. Sorry.”


  Marc frowned. He didn’t know how to read.

  “‘Away on personal business,’” Rue translated obligingly. “‘Don’t worry.’”

  “That,” said Marc, “is not particularly helpful. Still, here you are now.”

  Other Kendar emerged from the surrounding buildings, calling the good news back over their shoulders to those still inside. The outer ward emptied into the inner, then into the courtyard. More hurried in from the fields. It was a wonder that curious cows didn’t follow them. Jame greeted each beaming face by its owner’s name, reminded of the last time she had done this during the autumn’s eve feast. Names were so important. So was this blessed sense of belonging.

  “What day is it?” she asked Marc as soon as the growing throng gave her a chance.

  “Eh? You have gotten yourself lost, haven’t you? It’s the sixtieth of Spring. Just after noon. Tonight is Summer’s Eve. You’ve been gone for six days.”

  Jame sighed. “Oh, good. There’s still time.”

  “There is?”

  “I didn’t think I would get back soon enough to leave with Brier. There’s another way, though. The folds in the land. Not everyone can travel by them. I only do by the grace of the Merikit and various equines, including Death’s-head. If he will take me, maybe I can make it in time.” She paused, concentrating. “He’s hunting in the wood far above the cataract. It will take him awhile to get here, if he comes at all. He’s a cussed beast, and usually annoyed with me. Even so, will this work? I don’t know. Then there’s you,” she added, turning to Rue. “Tomorrow is your graduation day as well as mine.”

  The cadet gulped and smiled, trying to be brave. “I don’t matter. What does is that you get there in time to speak for the future of this keep.”

  True, thought Marc. Tagmeth’s survival depended on its lady. Her brother might be willing to support her—he hoped, based on Rowan’s reports, that Torisen did—but he could only do so if she was there.

  Jame snorted. “The issue of your worth doesn’t arise—or shouldn’t. You’ve proved yourself. Anyone can see that.”

  “Yes, but we have enemies.”

  “Who are petty enough to make it an issue. Agreed. Then we must both receive the randon collar or neither.”

  “But . . .”

  Jame overrode her, thinking out-loud. “Let’s see. Death’s-head probably won’t consent to carry both of us, and I once nearly killed Bel on a ride through the folds only half as long. Marc, do we have a suitable mount in the stable?”

  “You would have to ask Cheva about that. I think, though, that we do have a spare post pony.”

  By post, on these tough little brutes, one could travel the twenty-five-odd miles between keeps in close to two hours. No decent rider would push beyond that without a remount. True, the folds were shortcuts, but they were also different each time taken, of varying lengths, through wilderness that no map recorded. Except for the River and New Roads, on the east and west banks of the Silver respectively, the Riverland was largely uncharted territory despite some two thousand years of Kencyr occupation. One might think that the Highborn would have learned something from that. Jame, at least, had.

  She smiled at Rue. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.” And the cadet, with a quaver, smiled back.

  Something had changed between them, Marc thought. Before, Rue had idolized her lady without question, without understanding. It had been the blind attraction of a young, naive Kendar to a strong Highborn, and Jame was strong. But she didn’t compel. What had she shown Rue to win her over that gulf? What had she shown him that made them so much more than Highborn and Kendar, mistress and servant? Respect. Trust. Love. He was very glad for both of them.

  But there was still duty.

  “Before you leave again,” he said, “I had better tell you what’s been going on here. You won’t like it.”

  II

  THEY TRIED TO STOP HER. Some argued, quite forcefully, that the tower wasn’t safe and, having lost their lady once, they did not propose to do so again, thank you very much. Marc looked worried. Emotions grew heated. Faces screwed up with determination and hands flexed as if to detain by force, if necessary. In the end she spoke to them with words of command, barely tempered with patience. They must let her deal with this. Anyone who came with her would not only be at risk but in the way. Please.

  Perhaps, though, in the end it was her cold-edged smile that made them back up.

  Now, standing within the outer door that she had closed but not locked, Jame could almost hear the strained silence behind her, could almost feel the weight of all those anxious eyes.

  The tower waited, silent. Here was the inner door to Graykin’s first-story quarters. She opened it.

  He lay on the bed, bound by the wrists and ankles to its four corners lest he hurt himself, they said, gagged so as not to chew off his own tongue. His face was pale and damp as if with sweat, his eyes closed although they twitched under their lids. He seemed to be asleep, dreaming. Should she rouse him?

  When he woke, they said, he screamed.

  Waking by itself, then, gave no relief.

  What appeared to be a lumpy robe covered him from neck to groin, but black heads rose at her approach, sleepily hissing.

  “So,” she said to the Serpent-Skin Cloak, “it is you.”

  From the Kendars’ description, there had been little doubt, as startling as she found the cloak’s sudden reappearance.

  “Did the Master let you go?” she asked it. “If so, why, and who brought you here?”

  Its many heads hissed again, then snuggled back down on top of the sleeper’s chest while its joined tails twined and twitched over his legs. Trinity, to be buried alive in snakes . . .

  The cloak was a potent healer, though. It had once saved Jame from poison administered by her Senethari Tirandys, but it had fled back into Perimal Darkling after she had recovered. They had a perplexing history. That it should adopt Graykin, though, was encouraging.

  Pink showed beneath the black coils. Incongruously, her master spy wore a shabby cerise court coat with coral trim, now much stained despite, no doubt, the Kendars’ best efforts to keep him clean. Yes, she could see him donning that to assert his importance even though he knew it would make others laugh. The bastard son of an enemy lord, how he longed for recognition.

  “You are mine,” she told him, keeping her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “I will give you what I can.”

  Water dripped from the ceiling. By the stains on the floor, Jame saw that the bed had been moved several times, but always that dismal drizzle had followed it. Now, again, it fell on Graykin’s forehead. With each drop his eyelids fluttered and he flinched.

  Obscene.

  Jame tugged the bedstead sideways, only a few inches—it was quite heavy—but enough for the moment. Then she withdrew.

  Here was the second-story apartment, where the garrison had put their second guest. He sat with his back to the door, facing the cold fireplace. She noted the straggly white hair that clung to the sharp lines of his skull, the hands little more than a clutch of bird’s-bone that gripped the arms of his chair. His dark robe clung to his skeletal frame. Water ran down its folds to drip into a puddle on the floor and through its cracks into the room below.

  She edged around him, peering at what she could see of his face. This hung down, his chin on the sharp bones of his chest, but something about it was very familiar.

  “Bender? Is that you?”

  “Ah . . .” So a corpse might have drawn breath, painfully expanding lungs in their stiff, scrawny cage, dragging in air. “Ahhh . . .”

  “Did you escape, Senethari? Uncle? Have you come to me for shelter?”

  “Ahhhhh . . .”

  “Trinity, you must know that I will give it to you. Your brother Tirandys taught me honor by his fall. In your resistance, you taught me the master runes. On my bridal night, you gave me the Ivory Knife to fight off the Master. I owe you so much . . .”

  The head ro
se, and grinned. “Ah-ha-ha-ha . . .”

  “Bender!”

  She touched his shoulder to rouse him, and fell, and fell, and fell.

  III

  THE FLOOR WAS COLD AND WET beneath her cheek. Her bones ached at its touch.

  What . . . why . . . where . . .

  That smell, half alive, half dead, so familiar. A hall, lined with faces. A hearth, cold but not vacant.

  Rain dripped through the ruined ceiling—yes, she had left that in flames, collapsing—oh, so long ago, it seemed. Water stains ran down the walls into puddles on the verdigris-veined floor. A silent pulse of lightning briefly illuminated the overhanging gallery of death banners.

  Most of them had been reduced to bare warp-threads.

  Slap, they went, hitting the wall like wet laundry. Rustle, fumble, slap.

  Only on a few did vestiges of the weft remain, woven of fibers taken from the clothes in which each had died. A pair of sad eyes here, there the ghostly outline of a face, its hollow cheek half-turned . . .

  Shhhh, these went, breathing against stone as if in frightened warning. Shhhhhh . . .

  Don’t panic, Jame told herself to slow her pounding heart. Think.

  This was the Master’s monstrous House in Perimal Darkling, that spanned the Chain of Creation down all of its fallen links. It was both specific in its location and ubiquitous, here and yet there, inescapable on so many levels. In how many forms had she known it? In how many places? Where was she now?

  Keral the changer had brought her to this place as a child, when her father had driven her out of the Haunted Lands’ keep. She had grown up within these halls although, blessedly, she recalled little of that.

  Child, you were gone so long, those ravaged faces seemed to whisper. Remember those whom you left behind.

  Tirandys, she thought, now dead. Bender. Some debts had indeed been paid but, sweet Trinity, others . . .

  On one level, then, the House was and had always been a real place.

  She had also just seen it as an emanation of the Haunted Lands, if not of Perimal Darkling itself, looming over Tai-tastigon, about to spill its corruption into this world. How real had that been? Enough to do great harm, she guessed, if its master had been present and aware. Ishtier’s offer of demons should at least have tempted Gerridon. Perhaps he had been preoccupied. Perhaps he had been here, wherever “here” was, all of that time, waiting for her.