The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  And yet, he knew the Red Monks had power. And yet ...

  He wanted to close his eyes and think, but his eyelids seemed frozen open. He couldn’t even blink. There were things moving in the darkness, things so strange that they didn’t seem to be quite real. And yet, they were realer than real. Part of him wanted to turn and flee, to run north to the family lands and prepare for a fight; the rest of him knew there was power here, power just waiting for him ... if he paid the price.

  They wanted to be recognised as a sanctioned religion, when they approached us, he thought, numbly. What will they want now?

  But what choice did he have? Prince Reginald wouldn’t let him live. It was unlikely he’d let Emetine live. Rufus was already dead ... and none of them had had children. Havant’s closest relative, apart from his sister, was a third cousin. His father had made sure of that, eliminating everyone who might pose a threat to his children. The Hereford line would end with him.

  He took a long breath. “What do you want me to do?”

  Hark made no sound, but he must have sent some kind of message. The door opened, revealing two Red Monks – their faces hidden behind their cowls – and a struggling girl, held between them. Someone had torn off her clothes, then drawn eerie tattoos on her skin with blood. The girl looked at him, then started to scream. One of the monks slapped her on the head, then dropped her on the floor. The girl kept struggling until the monk leaned down, as if he was going to kiss her. And then the girl froze in terror.

  Havant frowned. What had happened?

  “Here,” Hark said. He passed Havant a knife. “You will have to kill her, then open your heart to Our Lord.”

  Havant hesitated, despite himself. Sacrificing animals was frowned upon ... and sacrificing humans was completely beyond the pale. The intensity of the feeling surprised him. The girl was a commoner, his to use as he pleased ... and yet, he didn’t want to sacrifice her. It was all he could do to hold the knife.

  “Kill her,” Hark said. “Or be nothing.”

  The girl stared up at him, trembling in fear. He knew, all too well, what she’d assumed was going to happen to her when she was dragged into the house. Her father was probably already dead, her mother given to the troops ... she’d assumed, no doubt, that she was being spared for Havant’s personal pleasure. But being sacrificed was far worse. She couldn’t move, but her eyes were terrified ...

  What is she to you? A voice asked. He wasn’t sure if it was something inside his mind or something else. Kill her and claim the kingdom.

  Bitter resentment flourished inside him. His brother was dead. The family was doomed, unless he did something. And what did one commoner girl matter? She would be lucky to survive the next decade; even if he let her go, even if she survived the war. There were too many things that could take a young girl’s life. This way, at least, her death would serve a greater purpose.

  He stabbed down, hard. The knife sliced into the girl and ...

  ... Power flared around him, a surge of power so far beyond him that it swept him up and out of his body. Thoughts – great and terrible thoughts, each one utterly beyond his comprehension – echoed in the power, flashes of images that made no sense to him at all. He thought he saw Rufus, just for a second, followed by someone who could easily have been a younger Emetine. Hark was there, greater and more terrible than Havant had ever known, and then he was gone too. His father’s voice rumbled in his head ...

  “Open your heart,” a voice said. He looked for the speaker, but saw nothing. “Open your heart and let me in.”

  Havant could feel the presence now, something so vast that it terrified and comforted him in equal measure. So much was clear now, so much that had once been hidden ... he was floating above the world, staring down at a multitude of ... options. And the presence wanted in. It was waiting, outside his mind, for Havant to open the door.

  He reached for the presence and the presence came. Power flowed into him, following a presence so vast that ... that he could no longer control himself. He was dimly aware, as his awareness started to fade, that something was speaking through him, that something was moving his body, but it seemed unimportant. All that mattered was surrendering to the darkness ...

  His eyes snapped open. He was lying in a bed, a strange bed. He reached for his sword, instinctively, but he couldn’t find it. Had he been drunk? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He didn’t feel as though he’d been drunk. And yet ... he looked out the window and blinked in surprise. It had been late evening when he’d ...

  The memories snapped back. There had been a girl, hadn’t there? He’d killed a girl. It was hardly the first time he’d killed, but ... some of the memories had faded, as if they’d been blotted out or overwritten by something else. Outside, he could hear the sound of chanting. Someone was saying a prayer. Whatever language it was, and he knew priests preferred to use tongues of their own, he didn’t recognise it. More and more voices were joining in, echoing together in ways that ... that should have chilled him. But the sound felt almost welcoming.

  He glanced up, sharply, as the door opened. A young manservant stepped into the room, looking nervous. Havant recognised him as one of Rufus’s pages ... one of his pages now, he supposed. Rufus was dead ... oddly, the thought hurt less than he’d expected. Rufus had gone to a better place. And yet, the page was staring at Havant as if he’d never seen him before.

  “Your Majesty,” the page said, holding out a mug. His eyes were twitching oddly, as if he couldn’t quite look at Havant. “The messengers from Allenstown have returned.”

  Havant blinked. “The messengers from Allenstown?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the page said, carefully. He sounded terrified. Havant didn’t really blame him. “You sent them out last night.”

  “Ah,” Havant said, as he took the mug. He didn’t remember sending any messengers, although he knew it was something he’d needed to do. Apparently, he had. “What ... what else did I do last night?”

  Hark walked into the room. “Our Lord spoke through you,” he said, as the page leaned away from him. “Our ultimate victory is assured.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Is there anything to this country,” Big Richard demanded, “apart from wind, rain, mist, mud, and abandoned farms?”

  Isabella concealed her amusement as the mist grew thicker. As much as she detested Big Richard, she had to admit that he had a point. The army had resumed the march the day after the battle, but the mists had slowed their advance. It was growing harder and harder to see what was in front of them. The remainder of the enemy army might be lurking in the mists and there was no way to tell.

  “I’m sure there’s something more to the country,” Lord Robin said, easily. They’d taken point, riding at the head of the army. “We did pass a couple of decent-looking farms.”

  Isabella shrugged. She hadn’t seen anything to suggest that the Summer Isle was particularly wealthy. Racal’s Bay had been small, for a city that served as the gateway to the mainland; the towns and villages they’d passed, on the march, had all been depressingly poor. Lord Robin could talk of potential, if he wished, but Isabella suspected it would take years to turn the island into a jewel in Prince Reginald’s crown. The handful of peasants they’d seen – the ones too old or too weak to run and hide from the army – had all looked too beaten down to take advantage of the conquest.

  Not that things will change much, for the people at the bottom, she thought, as her horse shivered in dismay. Their lives will be the same no matter who’s on top.

  She reached out with her senses as the mists, improbably, grew thicker. It was easy to believe that they were lost, even though they were following the road. There were supposed to be pickets and flankers out there, watching for signs of enemy activity, but she was starting to think that they wouldn’t have any warning until they literally stumbled into the enemy position. If, of course, the enemy army had regrouped. The only upside of the mists, as far as she could tell, wa
s that the enemy would be equally disadvantaged.

  Lord Robin glanced at her. “Can you sense anything out there?”

  Isabella shook her head. Her spells appeared to be working properly, but she knew she couldn’t take them for granted. She no longer disbelieved the stories about strange magics on the Summer Isle. The Red Monks had certainly shown powers she didn’t recognise, let alone understand. And besides, they wouldn’t need something new to block her senses. There was no shortage of concealment spells that would allow someone to hide from her.

  If they have magic, she thought. There’s no proof that the usurper had a trained magician working for him.

  She shook her head, again. The usurper hadn’t needed a trained magician. He had the Red Monks. And yet ... she shivered, remembering the power she’d sensed in the temple. The Red Monks were messing with ... something. They had to be stopped. What were they? And what were they doing?

  A shiver ran down her spine as the wind blew colder. The mists were rolling towards them, twisting and turning like living things. Water droplets brushed against her, soaking her leathers. She shifted, uncomfortably, as water dripped down her front. Anything could be hidden in the gloom. The thought nagged at her mind as she quietly cast spell after spell, probing the darkness. But the spells revealed nothing ...

  “We may have to stop,” Lord Robin said. He glanced behind them. “At this rate, we’re going to find the city by crashing into the walls.”

  Isabella followed his gaze. The entire army was supposed to be behind them, but ... there was no sign of the lead elements in the gloom. She couldn’t even hear the men marching westwards, not any longer. The sergeants had started a cadence, but even the most enthusiastic soldiers had dropped the chant as the mists grew stronger. It was easy to believe that they were all alone in the fog.

  “At least we’d find the city,” Big Richard said.

  Isabella looked at Lord Robin. He wasn’t there.

  She stared in astonishment. He’d been there, a moment ago. Hadn’t he? It was suddenly very hard to swear to anything. She was sure he’d been there. And yet ... she looked at Big Richard, riding in front of her. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss ...

  “Richard,” she said. “Can you ...”

  The mists rolled forward. Big Richard vanished in the gloom.

  Isabella felt a twinge of panic as she reached out, desperately, with her senses. She was the only formally-trained magician in the army, but she should have been able to sense the hedge-witches ... surely. But there was nothing. She was all alone. The horse started, neighing loudly. And yet, the sound seemed to fade to nothingness within the mists.

  She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Cold logic told her that her comrades were nearby, but somehow it wasn’t reassuring. Perhaps it shouldn’t be reassuring. There were spells that could meddle with someone’s perceptions, after all. If the Red Monks could mess with her memories – to the point where she’d had problems remembering what had happened inside the temple – why couldn’t they fiddle with her perceptions too ...

  “Isabella!”

  Her father was standing in front of her. She stared at him. They were ... somewhere. The horse was gone, yet ... she bit her lip, again. This was an illusion. A spell of some kind. And yet, it felt real.

  “You’re a disgrace,” her father said. “What were you thinking?”

  Isabella looked down at herself. She was wearing her training outfit – grey trousers, grey shirt, grey gloves – but the rank insignia were missing, the bare patches all too visible to prying eyes. They’d been torn away after she’d been kicked out of the Watchtower, after she’d been caught in bed with another trainee. She’d been lucky not to be stripped completely and forced to walk out naked.

  “What were you thinking?” Her father leaned forward. “Tell me, what were you thinking?”

  This is an illusion, Isabella thought. And yet, it felt terrifyingly real. Time itself seemed to have rolled back, right to the moment her father had disowned her. She could smell the cigar smoke on his breath as he glared at her. They were the same height, yet he’d always made her feel small. This is not real.

  Her father’s face seemed to flicker, just for a second. She thought she saw something else there, a hint of something else buried below the facade. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on reminding herself that the illusion wasn’t real. She couldn’t sense any magic interfering with her perceptions, but that was utterly meaningless. Her perceptions could no longer be trusted. She was a prisoner inside her own mind.

  “I can no longer tolerate your reckless behaviour,” her father said. His words crashed into her head with a sudden, terrible finality. “You put your petty pleasures ahead of the good of the family.”

  Shame washed over her, shame ... she hadn’t been so ashamed last time, had she? She’d allowed herself to be caught deliberately, rather than finding a place where they could make love without any risk of discovery. She’d wanted to be kicked out. Now ... she wanted to sink into despair and die. She was the lowest of the low. And yet ...

  “Shameful rutting like an animal in heat,” her father snapped. “You’re a disgrace!”

  Isabella looked up sharply, despite the bleak despondency that was threatening to overwhelm her. He hadn’t said that, had he? He’d told her off, sharply, yet ... he’d never said that. But he had, in her nightmares. She hadn’t slept comfortably for weeks after she’d been ordered to leave the Golden City.

  “You are no longer my daughter,” her father said. He clicked his fingers. “You will never see this place again.”

  This is an illusion, Isabella told herself, again. The memories were wrong. And yet, it was so hard to escape. This is not real ...

  It was growing harder and harder to believe it. She’d been on a horse ... hadn’t she? She certainly hadn’t regressed six years ... she looked down at herself again and frowned. Her body was tiny, so small she could easily have passed for a toddler. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. And the memories didn’t match. It was her nightmare, not bitter reality.

  She forced herself to close her eyes and concentrated, feeling for her power. It had always been with her – she couldn’t remember the first time her magic had manifested – but now it was gone. No, it couldn’t be gone. She worked her way through a spell, choosing to believe that the power was there. It should work ... it had to work ... something cut loose inside her, something powerful. The world turned white ...

  ***

  “Your father killed me.”

  Reginald shook his head. His mother stood in front of him, wearing the long white robe she’d worn the last time he’d laid eyes on her. Queen Carline had been on the verge of going into confinement, where she would remain until she gave birth. But she’d died giving birth to his youngest sister. In his darker moments, he thought that Silverdale was a poor replacement for his mother.

  “You died in childbirth,” he said, though dry lips. His mother looked heavily pregnant. “I ...”

  “Your father wanted a second son,” his mother told him. “He insisted that I carry another child to term, despite everything that happened after Ruby was born. He wanted another son, you see. And yet ... I died after giving birth. You never saw me again, did you?”

  “... No,” Reginald said. “Mother ...”

  He stumbled forward, desperately. King Romulus had mourned ... they’d all mourned. Ruby had been too young to comprehend that her mother wouldn’t be coming back, but Reginald and Sofia had understood all too well. Queen Carline was gone. There had been hints that their father would remarry, over the years, but none of them had ever resulted in a betrothal, let alone a wedding. King Romulus would go to his grave mourning his long-lost wife.

  “Your father knew the dangers,” Queen Carline said. Her voice was cold and hard. “And yet, he insisted that I became pregnant again. He even had my ladies take away the herbs I used to ensure I wouldn’t conceive. He killed me so he could get a replacement for you.
”

  She laughed. “And he didn’t even get another son, did he?”

  “You’re not real,” Reginald said. His mother had been a strong woman. She might not have had any formal authority, but she’d had power and influence. Her husband had trusted her judgement, to the point of leaving her in charge when he had to leave the capital. There was no higher praise that could be offered to a queen. This ... this spectre was not her. “You’re not real.”

  Queen Carline leaned forward. “Oh, my son,” she said. “What has he done to you?”

  Reginald glared at her. “What are you?”

  “I’m your mother,” Queen Carline said. Her voice dripped honey and poison. “Your father killed me. Did you not think that, when you were awake in the darkness? Your father sentenced me to death.”

  “You died in childbirth,” Reginald said. It was hard to escape the feeling that he was talking to his mother. And yet, this cruel woman was a stranger. “You were not executed ...”

  “I was sentenced to death because your father was desperate for another heir,” Queen Carline told him. “What will happen to the kingdom, Reggie, if you die here?”

  Reginald felt as though he’d been stabbed through the heart. No one, absolutely no one, called him Reggie. No one ... save his mother. He wanted her to hold him, once again; he wanted her to kiss his forehead and tell him that everything was going to be fine. But ... he looked down at himself and froze. He was a young man ... no, a boy on the verge of becoming a man. He hadn’t worn that outfit since he’d been twelve ...

  “I was so proud of you, the day you first wore those clothes,” his mother said. “It was proof that you’d live into adulthood, despite everything. I watched as you won your spurs, days before I went into confinement. I never came out ...”

  Reginald glared. His mother would never have talked to him like that, not even when she was angry. She’d always been kind and gentle and loving and ... it tore at his heart to turn away, but he knew she was not his mother. Whatever she was, she was not his mother. It felt as though he was wading through water as he turned, but he turned. The world seemed to go white ...