‘What have you done?’ Kalashadria remembered asking him. She knew of only one thing that could cause such visions, and the guilty look on the human’s face confirmed her worst fears, his pitiable expression following her into the narrow pass.
I should never have trusted a human.
*
The fragments of memory continued as Kalashadria made her way through the mountain pass. They made little sense at first, random snatches of moments from the boy’s life. After the scene at the mountain abbey came a chance meeting in an inn, a young bronze-skinned woman racing across the inn and hurling herself into Tol’s arms. Behind her, Kalashadria glimpsed several armed men, red bands of cloth tied tight around their right arms. The same as the men we attacked, she realised. Not a distant memory, this one. She felt the heady mix of confusion and desire that flooded the boy as the woman leaned in close. ‘Pretend we are together,’ she whispered, ‘and they will leave us be.’
The image, overlaid on the inky darkness that filled the pass, shattered into a thousand jagged shards, and Kalashadria gasped quietly, the vertiginous feeling returning a moment later as another scene played out across her vision. More and more glimpses appeared in seemingly random order: a beating by young boys, Tol sneaking from the abbey into the night, a beating by older boys – and this time there were more of them, too – and a breathless view from the top of a mountain, spinning as the wind took Kraven from the ledge, whiteness rushing up to meet him. Another beating, though this time the young boy fought back, his thoughts punching through Kalashadria’s head like a metronome: take the strongest first, strike hard. Each word punctuated by flying fists and feet. Make the cost too high. Eventually, though, numbers wore him down. Kalashadria glimpsed a man in the garb of a monk watching the brawl with dispassionate eyes, finally calling it to a halt when the beating went on too long.
Again and again the scenes shifted, a dark shape flying overhead as Tol woke on the snow, the faint scratch of Klanvahdor’s wings clear to Kalashadria’s ears. Another fight, and another. Tol telling a nun to take her sisters and flee, a knot in his stomach as he looked out the window at the large group of men approaching. ‘I can hold the front long enough,’ the boy promised. The image shattered, replaced by another brawl, then the view returned to the forest, screams rolling down from the convent. He longed to go back, Kalashadria realised as Tol took one last look at the walls and turned his back on the cacophony.
The images began to slow as she emerged from the mountain pass, each less substantial than the last. Finally, as Kalashadria sank to her knees and fell back against a tree trunk, the last image withered. She dropped her head in her hands, her body juddering with shock and grief. She saw now why Tol Kraven had become all that he was, how the merciless brawls and beatings that found him – though plenty he started himself – had hardened him to the world around him. A shell of a man who knew nothing of peace, his every day another war. Only as the boy had fled from the mercenaries had he begun to realise his potential and, more importantly, to think of others. Did I cause his heart to melt? Kalashadria wondered. The boy who had first stared up at Icepeak might have aided others freely, but the youth of only a few days ago would not. He had feelings for her, Kalashadria realised as she saw herself through his eyes and felt everything Tol had felt. The boy who had been in some kind of fight or beating nearly every day of his life had somehow changed during his journey, showing some farmer and his son more kindness than most would offer – even though he would receive nothing in return. Kalashadria looked up and saw the pain etched in his features. But, more than that, she felt his pain, knowing that although he had done her harm, the young human had inflicted almost as much on himself for his foolish actions.
‘Blood is memory,’ she told him.
His face creased into a mask of confusion and Kalashadria explained, ‘When you were five, you and a friend stripped down to find the difference between girls and boys. The child gave yours a tug and pronounced the difference “small indeed.” Years later, your father took you to an abbey built from a mountain and threatened to throw you from it if you shed so much as a tear.’
‘What? How could you—’
‘Blood is memory,’ Kalashadria repeated, ‘and I have seen your past, known your thoughts and emotions. I know you, Tol Kraven.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t realise…’
‘Blood is memory,’ Kalashadria said again, ‘but for those of my kind, it is more than that: blood is a conduit to the soul. Do you understand?’
He shook his head.
‘Your arm still aches from where an arrow grazed it in the city you call Karnvost. You still feel bad for the girl whose life you saved – not because you saved her, but because you made her walk the longer journey to the gate so that you might use her to aid your escape. These are not memories, these are your surface thoughts and feelings right now.’
‘I—’
‘—Don’t understand, I know. But you are smarter than you think, and the answer is skirting the edge of your consciousness. No, not that… Yes,’ she breathed, ‘that’s right. I can see into you, Tol Kraven.’
He stared at her with a mixture of horror, revulsion, and wonder, his mouth parting to ask a question.
‘It is permanent,’ Kalashadria told him. ‘You are bound to me now, until the day you die. Wherever you go, I will know where you are; I will know if you are happy or sad, injured or ill. Until the end of your life, my mind will no longer be quite my own again. Always you will be there, like a faraway tune on the edge of hearing. Do you see now what you have done?’
He nodded sheepishly. ‘Yes.’
Tol stood there for several minutes, slowly processing her words. Finally, the scrunched up look disappeared and the boy hid one hand behind his back, a slow smile spreading across his face.
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
Kalashadria sighed. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite.’
‘We could have been unbeatable at cards,’ Tol said, the corners of his mouth twitching in a fragile grin.
She shook her head. ‘Get some wood and build one of your smokeless fires. We will camp here for the night.’
He nodded. ‘I am sorry, you know.’
‘I know.’ And that makes it worse.
47.
Lord Terrance Hafferkey was halfway across his study before he noticed two important things. The first was that, despite the hazy mid-morning sun, the curtains were drawn firmly closed. His desk was bathed in a pale half-light like fine mist, the corners of the room shrouded in shadows. Perkins, he thought instantly. The butler was usually as quiet and unobtrusive as an angel’s fart, but in recent weeks he had made a string of unimportant yet irritating errors. Terrance wondered whether it was due to some ill-perceived slight, although he had no idea what precisely might have caused the man’s tiny subversions, and in truth cared even less. The man should know his place by now. Perkins had been in his household for almost five years and had been mostly flawless in the execution of his duties. Right up until word of the First Father’s visit to Kron Vulder was announced. A woman was, to Terrance’s mind, the most likely cause of his manservant’s failings, and he had wondered more than once whether it was one of his own servants Perkins had impregnated. Now, though, after several weeks of consistently poor servitude, the burnt toast, windows left open overnight, and most especially the subtle rearranging of his desk, was getting beyond irksome. Perkins had proved himself to be a pragmatic man, and Terrance felt sure that if a woman had been the cause of his wandering mind, Perkins would have dealt with the matter by now; a tumble if the maid’s dubious allure proved too distracting, or a push down the stairs if that was what had caused the distraction. And that just left a petty vendetta, one which Perkins was doomed to lose. He moves my papers, I move his head from his neck. A tit-for-tat that Perkins could never match.
Ter
rance was already moving begrudgingly in the direction of the curtained windows when he noticed the other difference in the room from when he had last been in the study. This difference was a man-shaped shadow, pressed into the corner of the study. A shadow which, Terrance realised as he reached his desk and its hazy glow, was man-shaped precisely because within it was a man. Terrance halted, turning back towards the corner opposite the door and furthest from the curtained windows. The keys, he realised, were still in his hands. Terrance remembered the soft click only moments ago as he had unlocked the study. Which means he was already in here.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘The usual way,’ a silky voice said.
‘It was locked.’
The shadow stepped forward, a plain, unremarkable man of middling years, average height, and unpleasant eyes.
‘One shout and the guards will take you,’ Terrance warned, backing away straight into the edge of his writing desk.
The man raised his palms in a gesture of supplication. ‘That would be ill-advised.’
Those eyes were very unpleasant, Terrance decided. He shuffled round his desk to the leather chair, one arm grasping it for support. Another step, he thought, and I’ll raise the alarm. The man made no move towards him, and Terrance considered his words. ‘How could that possibly be ill-advised?’
‘Why, then your wife will never receive the antidote.’
Terrance frowned. ‘What antidote? What are you talking about?’
‘The poison I have administered,’ the man replied. ‘I would imagine the effects should become noticeable around noon.’
Terrance didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember making his way back around the table. Only as the purple-faced cove choked out his wife’s name did Terrance realise his hands were locked around his throat, slowly throttling the life out of him. He blinked, saw the vicious little grin plastered across the dying man’s face, and forced himself to uncurl his fingers, slowly pulling his hands away even though every fibre of his being longed to kill the man in the most unpleasant way he could think of. It was times like this he wished he had a bigger imagination.
‘A wise choice,’ the odious little man said, his voice hoarse. ‘If anything happens to me, your dear wife will never receive the antidote.’ He massaged his throat with one hand, the purple colour sadly fading. ‘I could be bluffing,’ he croaked, saying exactly what had just occurred to Terrance, ‘but it’s a gamble, isn’t it? And if I’m not, then your sweet wife will have a very unpleasant end. Days, I’m told it takes. A very slow death.’
Terrance walked back round his desk, and collapsed onto the chair. The urge to strangle the life from the man was almost overwhelming, and he knew that if he stayed within reach of him, his hands would be unable to resist temptation.
He sighed. ‘What do you want?’
*
The cobbled streets of Kron Vulder were treacherous this time of year, their cracks and crevices hoarding ice long after the sun reached its apex. With night approaching, new layers were already forming, but Father Nolan Betayus didn’t pay his customary attention to the ground underfoot. He slipped twice, but didn’t slow his pace, today’s encounter a heavy burden on his mind.
It had begun innocently enough, a case of mistaken identity as Nolan left the cathedral, some fellow confusing him with someone else, and explaining some “thing” he needed Nolan to do, without so much as an introduction.
Nolan tried to explain he had him confused with someone else, but the man had blithely continued, saying, ‘It is a small thing, but it must be done.’
Nolan slipped on the cobbles again, and cursed under his breath. ‘You will do this thing,’ the man had insisted, and when Nolan had refused, the conversation had taken a terrifying turn.
‘You are about to pay your sister a visit,’ the man said. ‘You will find she has taken to her bed, a sudden sickness that struck around noon.’
It’s a trick, Nolan thought, it has to be. The man must be a trickster of some sort.
He hurried towards Katherine’s house, unable to entirely banish concerns for his sister. He sounded so certain, so sure Katherine had taken ill. She had been fine when Nolan had seen her yesterday, and today he was expected for supper with her idiot husband. It was better, he had decided after a couple of worry-filled hours, to arrive early, and prove the stranger wrong, escape from whatever prank or confidence trick he was attempting.
He sounded so certain though, Nolan thought as he entered his brother-in-law’s estate. ‘We will meet again,’ the man had told him, and the way he said it made the phrase sound like a threat.
The man ignored Nolan, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘We will meet again,’ he told Nolan, ‘and I will ask you a question – this thing which must be done – and upon your answer depends your sister’s life.’ She will be fine, he told himself as he knocked on the door. Katherine will be waiting for me.
The butler guided him to the sitting room, and there Nolan waited, charcoal-thin fingers stroking and twirling the small beard that covered his chin, an inch of greying hair ending in a point that was soon pinched so tight it might be mistaken for a single broad strand. A minute passed, but Katherine didn’t come to greet him. It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself. I’m early.
The soft snick of the sitting room door closing made Nolan start in surprise. He turned, expecting his sister, but found only his brother-in-law had come to greet him. Terrance’s face was dour, but Nolan had never seen the stocky man smile, not even on his wedding day. Lord of Kron Vulder sounded such an important title, but with the city as the king’s seat of power, the truth was a different matter indeed. Most of the taxes went straight to the royal coffers, and even the surrounding farmland saw most of its tithes sent to the king. As for power, in the case of Terrance it was little more than illusion. His only true power was his nominal command of the city watch, a small peace-keeping militia with limited powers and an even more limited budget – a budget which came from Terrance’s own malnourished income.
‘Katherine won’t be joining us,’ Terrance told him. He waited a moment, perhaps hoping Nolan would take his leave and return home. ‘Might as well join me,’ he said, ‘seeing as you’re here.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘What? Speak up, man.’
Nolan realised the words were little more than a cracked whisper. He tried again.
‘Took to her bed after lunch,’ Lord Terrance explained, already heading for the dining room. ‘Pale as a goat, but the physician assures me it’s nothing to worry about.’
On any other occasion, Nolan would have corrected the fool’s mistake – pale as a ghost, how could he not know that? – but those words brought Nolan’s perfectly ordered world crashing down around his ears. The man spoke the truth. He knew who I was all along.
The rest of the meal passed in awkward conversation, though Nolan remembered little of what was said. He left for home soon after, and deep down he knew that whatever the man claimed, the “thing” he wanted doing would not be small. No father, no mother, and neither sons nor daughters; Katherine was his world, and Nolan knew that if the man but asked, he would kill the First Father himself. Anything for my sister.
The stranger found him in the shadow of the cathedral, its dark outline stark against the pale light of Ammerlac, the top spire reaching up so high that it almost looked as though it would pierce the moon.
‘What is your answer?’
‘What would you have me do?’
The man shrugged. ‘Leave a door unlocked at a certain time, light a candle at midnight, it matters not; a small thing, as I said. Your answer, or she will not see the dawn.’
Nolan nodded, his throat tight. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Undo whatever you have done.’
‘It is already done. This was but a demonstration, a tiny dose of the poison. Now you know she can be reached.’ Nolan flinched as the stranger leaned in close and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘The poison has no cure.
A full dose?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘An unpleasant way to go, friend Nolan.’
‘Just leave her out of it,’ Nolan said, sounding braver than he felt. ‘I’ll do what you want.’
‘I believe you,’ the stranger said. ‘I would have spared you this pain, my friend, but the choice was not mine.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I said it would not be necessary, but my master disagreed. He is a hard man to argue with, Nolan, and so he did this ill-advised thing to your sister as a warning, to make sure you do this small deed that must be done.’
Nolan’s voice was dry, cracked. ‘What would you have me do?’
48.
Kalashadria awoke to find the sun streaming through the trees, pale bands of light flickering as the wind whipped the upper branches. The fire had burned down to embers, a small pile of kindling next to it. Of Tol Kraven, there was no sign. Alone again. Kalashadria wondered whether she had finally pushed the young man too far. There had been harsh words spoken last night, and although she was sure the human had not understood all she had explained, her anger had been all too evident and unmistakable.
He has left me, she thought, and now I shall die alone. It seemed fitting, really. Kalashadria did not belong on this world, did not understand the strange customs of its people, and the way that sometimes a tree line or hill or the twist of a stream triggered her earliest memories of a home long since destroyed did nothing to ease her disquiet. The human was, she supposed, tolerable company, and Kalashadria was glad that he hadn’t fawned over her like the farmer they’d met; that would have been worse. The irregular anger, frequent – and mostly inane – questions, and occasional light-hearted moments were better than stoic silence and obsequious grovelling. But it was still poor company compared to any of her own kind. Most of all, she thought, I wish Galandor was here so I could ask him why in the First’s name he had founded an entire religion. Is his hatred for Demmegrahk so vast it has blinded him? Galandor had been there since the beginning at her father’s side, had seen more of her kin slaughtered than any other. And delivered nearly as many of our enemies to the ground. It was a shame, she thought, that she would never find out the answers, never know what had motivated the old warrior.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 33