by Veras Alnar
“It's made of a local berry,” Lord Guain said, encouraging him, “it's quite lovely, try some.”
But a funny thought occurred to Amis, if Lord Guain was the poisoner, he could have filled the wine jug before anyone would know it and kill them stone dead with it. Even if it were true Amis had a mind to think that they were, for the moment, safe. If there was one thing nobles could be counted upon, it was not knowing how to run anything or do menial labor without help. Amis snatched up the cup and took a drink.
“It's nice,” Amis said, surprised by the strong kick, “very good.”
“It is, isn't it,” Lord Guain said, with such eagerness it again made Amis feel a twinge of suspicion, “have as much as you like, it's not terribly strong. And it's the one thing we have plenty of courtesy of Lady Anna.”
Especially if she's dead, thought Amis.
The fire was lit and Lord Guain pulled out a chair at the table. It was a most foreign and unwelcome thing to be invited to sit but Amis took the chair in his right hand and pulled it close with his left and sat down precisely in a practiced way he hadn't done in years.
“Ah ha!” Lord Guain said, “you become more interesting by the moment.”
Amis sat stiffly, realizing he had made a very bad mistake.
“That's the way nobility takes the chair offered to them by a guest of higher standing,” Lord Guain said, “and your practiced and precise ways make me believe it was something you've done many times before.”
“Is it?” Amis said, rigidly tense.
“You know it is,” Lord Guain said, “if your motions had been stumbled I would still have thought illness the cause, Fulk would never have done such a thing except in jest. The pulling of the chair and the way you swept into it was very practiced and your unease when I pulled such a chair out for you is yet more evidence, it would have been proper hierarchy that you pulled out a chair for me. You're not the son of a gong farmer at all, are you?”
“I am the son of a gong farmer,” Amis said, curtly, “and Your Lordship just pulled a chair out for him.”
A little bit frustrated Lord Guain gave in and pressed him no further but Amis could feel himself sweat under the scrutiny.
“The ash is still falling from the sky, ” Lord Guain said, “too bad about the state of the town, the pilgrims love it when it's so thick, they visit Fairfax church and then the crag and spit their bad fortunes at the devil himself.”
“Do you think the devil really lives in the crag,” Amis asked him.
“No of course not,” Lord Guain said, “for all my talk about Garstwren I truly believe the crag is merely nature asserting itself. A mechanization of god not the devil.”
“This would be a lovely scene of divine punishment in one of your books,” Amis said, then amended, “all the ash and so on, rumblings from the earth.”
“Why ever do you think the town deserves punishment?” Lord Guain said, “Perhaps it's only your heart that beats so heavily and anyway, the church has always maintained that unburdening the soul releases all guilt before Christef. Is there anything you'd like to confess?”
Amis kept his mouth firmly shut.
“Keep your secrets then,” Lord Guain said, “ashes can fall from the sky for many reasons and the one thing you learn as a traveler is that the whims of nature aren't always connected to God, sometimes they follow their own course without spiritual interference.”
In the wine glass Amis could see a reflection of his own thin face. He was shocked at the haggardness around his own eyes, a testament to his enduring troubles. There was nothing more to say, Amis remained a gloomy figure resigned to their desperate lot even after drinking more than his fair share of wine.
When the last of the corpses were cleared away by Fulk, it was up to Amis and Lord Guain to shut the doors behind them using the crank. The resounding thud left Amis' soul rather cold, it felt as if they were locking themselves in a trap though precisely why these thoughts kept appearing Amis wasn't quite sure. There was no hard proof yet, only his instincts warring with his better nature.
They were led upstairs by Lord Guain who offered them the rooms of his personal staff who were no more; they were very fine and Fulk cackled when he saw their rich interiors.
“Try to refrain yourselves from thieving everything,” Lord Guain said, “and don't touch the family tapestries they're worth more than your heads.”
Most of Lord Guain's warning was directed at Fulk who had acquired the habit of molesting things set down on tables or on shelves and pocketing them if they met his taste. Perhaps something should have been done about it but there was no judge or jailer to institute a punishment for petty crime and no theft could even be said to take place as all relatives who might own the wealthy reliquaries were dead. Only Lord Guain could attempt to institute a state of law but it really wasn't worth it. The whole tower was filled with treasures that might as well have glimmered with the same value as dusty skulls on the shelf of an ossuary with no town or market to buy from. It was a sorry state of affairs as far as Amis was concerned, who would have done anything before to have something of value to buy his way out of town.
“Feel free to relieve fresh clothes wherever you may find them, I fear there is no one to come back for them or make use of their fine cloth any longer,” Lord Guain said, then left them to their washing up.
After a rather chilly second dousing and rinsing of themselves with fresh linen they both turned their attentions to the alcoves. In two wooden chests there was an absolute lordly amount of fine clothes. It seemed Lord Guain's court had been well outfitted, even when the lesser staff were hired from the town.
“There it is,” Fulk said, excitedly, after some digging, “that's the real thing, silks and velvets.”
“We'd freeze to death in silks,” Amis said.
“Velvet coat then,” Fulk said, amusing himself by caressing a cloak in crimson, “try the second chest Amis, it's for children. Might fit you better.”
“Shut up!” Amis said.
The chest was for the younger court, not exactly children but the insult rang in his ears since he was forced to select from it due to his slight shoulders. Digging through the embroidery and wild colors Amis finally found a more modest verdant shirt, some leggings and a coat. But as his hands lingered in their soft fabrics and flattering half cut sleeves he couldn't stop a wave of wistful longing that came over him, it was a feeling he had tried to forget for a very long time. His mother's wide, pragmatic face flickered in candle light as she spoke her cold dismissal. His stomach flipped inside of him and his vision blurred, he didn't want to go back to that place. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want the bright colors of his former life, he wanted something that suited him alone.
At the bottom of the chest was a black velvet shirt with cut out sleeves and silver edging that clearly had been purchased abroad. It was the right shape and length, probably made for some tall adolescent in the court. It was absolutely perfect and from its decoration one of the most expensive things in the tower. It was very much like what Amis had worn when he was seven and his mother's foreign married sister had doted on him, bringing him sweets. The flavor of the fried nuggets and honey were still on his tongue but as an adult, they had turned sour. The sweets had made him sick and his mother had shut him away in the tower out of fear. It was the beginning of a long and dogged illness that had never left him and had meant no more parties or other children to talk to, no matter how much he begged.
Daring to put on the coat forced Amis to turn around for help. With great shock, he saw what Fulk was wearing.
“What do you think?” Fulk said, pilfered pipe tucked between his crooked teeth, “How do I look?”
Amis gaped. He looked like a parody of a Lord from a church play all dressed in crimson. The clothes were an excellent fit, Fulk's lankiness almost appeared natural instead of its usual extreme. None the less, it couldn't hide the grave master's uncouth slouch from hauling bodies or his crooked, evil smirk.
“Like a bucket of spoiled pig's blood,” Amis said, as he slammed shut the chest.
Fulk dared to laugh at him, his nasal voice a grating rising cacophony. But he did deign to help Amis do up his jacket.
“There's a black cape and a hat to go with that,” Fulk said, nodding at the chest.
The leggings and everything else were also black, Amis felt it suited his mood more than anything else had.
“I'd look ridiculous in a cape,” Amis said, “and even stupider in one of those ridiculous feather topped things.”
When the sides were tightened sufficiently, Amis helped Fulk do up his own to a better fit.
“Gorgeous aren't they?” Fulk said, admiring his crimson cloak, “Wonder who died and gave me this?”
“They weren't given,” Amis said, “they were lent. And that's my pipe you're smoking, give it back!”
Fulk let out a mean laugh, “lend me your pipe and your pretty ways, little lordling.”
“Shut up!” Amis screamed, reaching for something to hurl at him.
“Well?” Fulk said, “Teach me how to look the part of a little lord, that's what you were weren't you? How to bow and curtsy to the upper crust. Before they found out who you really belonged to-”
A glass cup shattered by Fulk's head.
“I bet that was expensive,” Fulk said, “what a shame.”
“If you dare breathe a word I'll tell all,” Amis threatened, “your role and mine.”
The thin body of the grave master clamped around Amis like a crab around a fish and Amis could feel the chill of cold steel at his neck. Whatever clothes Fulk wore, his breath still stank and his wiry body was still the same one that dug and buried the dead and some would say, put a few of them into the ground himself with proper reimbursement.
“You'll what? My filleting knife,” Fulk said, “is still just as fine as your sword. Want a repeat of that scar under your rib?”
“The whole town guard isn't here to stop me,” Amis said, “and your aim was off for the son of a bandit prince.”
“And she's not here,” Fulk said, “is she? To shout and save your life because you're a weak coward.”
“I may be a coward,” Amis hissed, “but at least I stayed.”
Fulk made a disgusted sound and wrenched himself away. Amis could hear the storm of his feet thundering down the deathly silent halls towards the great hall. The solar they were in had a tiny window and Amis took small delight in seeing Fulk knocking over the little sculptures of saints in the alcoves he passed in a fury. He closed the small window while still feeling slightly queasy, they were supposed to have left Garstwrot together and as irrational as it was, it irked him he had been left behind though he never would have made it anywhere in his condition.
But he hadn't died that night, thank Christef. He must have only fallen into a sleep so deep it had seemed like dying. It had been a terrible thing to have seen Fulk's face as he was nearly delirious with fever, to feel the filleting knife begin slicing away his hair before he slipped into a blackness so deep it had felt like death.
“Damn him,” Amis whispered, “damn him to hell!”
There was a mirror on the top of the chest and Amis used it to examine the mismatched length of his hair. It looked annoyingly odd, there would be no way to hide it. While flipping his longer strands this way and that to see if it could cover the shorter over, Amis began to notice something moving behind him. A strange tremulous shadow that lurked in and out of his vision. Glancing behind him Amis realized there was no one else in the solar besides him. The quiet was uncomfortable, the fire hadn't been lit. There was only a red darkness hovering from the windows open to the sky and his own face reflecting back at him, thin and red tinged in the looking glass.
But something else had been there behind his own reflection, he had been sure of it, even if only for a moment.
Then he saw it. Or rather, her. It was such a peculiar sight that at first he sat stock still and could only look. Standing by the doorway was a beautiful older woman dressed all in white, her face the picture of mourning. She stepped forward and reached out to him, her arms extended. Amis could do nothing, could say nothing. She moved towards him and opened her mouth and then let out a most mournful howling.
It was...it couldn't be!
Was it Lady Anna of Garstwrot keep?
Amis let out a shout. As soon as he did, her image faded away. The wind buffeted against the shutters, wailing from the outside and making an awful clattering racket. It could have been nothing, just his imagination. Or it could have been something else. The earth rumbled and the old windows rattled slightly in their frames.
It wasn't long before his own feet thundered down the stone hallway, the smashed alcoves of the saints leered at him, the reddish color of the sky burning from behind the glass windows like flames.
“Lord Guain!” Amis said, running into him, nearly breathless, “there's someone else here!”
“I was just coming to look for you,” Guain said, “I heard Fulk storming through. He's certainly in a much fouler mood than before, whatever did you say to him?”
“Damn him, he's not important! There was a woman!” Amis shouted, “Upstairs!”
“There's no woman here,” Lord Guain said, perplexed.
“There was! I saw her! She was like gossamer all dressed in white,” Amis said, “I could see through her!”
Realizing what he was describing Amis grew very pale. He couldn't describe her features in full because he knew exactly who she looked like, now that his senses had returned to him. Amis had a good idea the man standing in front of him may have had something to do with her demise.
“Like a ghost? The white woman of Garstwrot, perhaps?” Lord Guain said, failing to hide the hint of mirth in his voice.
Amis sucked in a breath, “it was, perhaps.”
“There are no such things,” Lord Guain said, “it says so right in the great book. And unless the devil walks with earthly hooves just to torment three despairing souls-”
“I don't know,” Amis said, knowing he had to hide it, “I just-the wind was howling. I-maybe, I made it up.”
It sounded lame to his own ears and Lord Guain was looking at him rather intensely as if he could see right through him, all the way into his own frantic pounding heart.
“Perhaps it's something my fevered brain thought up,” Amis said, desperately.
The light from sunset burst through the windows and painted the gaudy walls an even more luminous, crimson red. It lit up each hallways and cut across rooms in a strange and unnerving way and made Amis' head spin until he reached up to his eyes in pain. Sharp agony ripped through his skull and he let out a cry, the wind howled ever louder until the cacophony shushed itself and Amis swore he could hear the cry of a baby from very far away.
“Amis,” Lord Guain said, alarmed.
It was quick work that Lord Guain caught Amis before he fell. It was a most embarrassing few moments but Amis managed to keep his head about him and managed to right himself. It had hurt but the pain was past now and he felt a little clearer in the head than he had before. The stories that abounded in Garstwrot were just legends, there weren't any devils on the wind but only evil men. And that Amis could hold close to himself and count on from experience alone.
“My god,” Lord Guain said, “are you still ill? You should have said something.”
Lord Guain had pulled a white linen cloth from inside his jacket and pressed it against Amis' face. When he looked down to his dismay, he could see it stained a bright red.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Lord Guain said, “I'll help you to the hall.”
“I don't need help,” Amis said.
The reflection of the light through the windows made Lord Guain's green eyes take on a crimson hue. Lord Guain lit the candles next to them by heating a willow in the hot coals of the dying fire. He sat next to Amis on a great chair and carefully dabbed his nose. There were gaping lion maws and twisted vines in beautiful
carved wood but Amis couldn't help but feel that the faces took on a sinister cast as the keep was plunged into the darkness of night.
“You're better now,” Guain said, “the blood stopped. Drink some of this to restore you. A loss of blood is nothing to take lightly.”
A cup of wine was set in front of him and Amis greedily drank it. It really made a difference, Amis almost felt perfectly well again.
“God,” Amis said, pressing his hand to his head, “what was that?”
“Could be anything,” Guain said, “remains of the fever, nervous trembles, a burst vessel.”
“Remains of a fever don't usually arrive in the form of a pale woman,” Amis said.
“They can,” Lord Guain said, “men in pain or dying will see anything before their last breath.”
“Visions before death,” Amis said, “not after coming back to life.”
It was a ludicrous series of words that made him sound like Christef, which Amis would be the first to say was anything but accurate.
“Unfortunately, as soon as you feel able there's work to be done. By all of us. There's certainly no impetus to relight the fire in the great hall,” Lord Guain said, “but we can heat the upper solars and gather what supplies we can into the kitchen. After that I suggest we all retire, we'll be needing all of our strength for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Amis said.
“We must enter the township no matter what we find,” Guian said, “it's an imperative, to see who among them is still living.”
Terror flooded Amis like an unblocked river.
“Still feeling faint?” Guain asked him.
The wail of a child haunted him, the shouts of all the men. It all came back to him like the mysteries on the howling wind and the stories of devils that roamed the fens.
“No,” Amis said, “I can work.”