The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  He allowed Gars to lead him through the castle, looking from side to side with interest. It looked as though the former occupants hadn’t been sure if they wanted to make a fight of it or not. Some parts of the castle had been prepared for a bitter defence, while other parts had been left completely alone. Perhaps the defenders had expected the army to win, rather than break. Or maybe they’d assumed their magic – whatever it was – would be enough to stop Reginald in his tracks. He clenched his jaw with anger as he remembered, again, his mother’s ghost. Whoever was behind the magic in the mists was going to pay.

  The throne room was grander than he’d expected, although he supposed it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. King Edwin had been forbidden to raise more than a few regiments of troops, so he’d clearly plunged his resources into constructing the appearance of regal power instead of the reality. Gold lined the walls, leading one’s eye to the throne itself. It was gold, something that Reginald couldn’t help finding mildly striking. The Golden City’s throne was also gold ...

  Queen Emetine knelt in front of the throne, her head bowed. She looked up as he entered, then rose to her feet. Emetine was a striking woman, Reginald thought; her long black hair framed a pale face and fell down her back. She wore a black dress – a widow’s gown – that matched her hair, open at the front to expose the tops of her breasts. And she looked as though she was going to cry.

  She threw herself at Reginald’s feet. “My Lord,” she said. “Spare me!”

  Reginald looked down at her for a long moment. She was the usurper’s sister, but ... she was a woman. She wouldn’t have had any control over her own life, even after her father met an unpleasant end. Her guardianship would have reverted to her brother as soon as her husband died. And she was of noble blood. He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pity.

  “Rise,” he said. He bent down and helped her to her feet. “You are safe.”

  Emetine looked up at him, then down. “Really?”

  “I swear,” Reginald said. “I will assume your guardianship personally.”

  He nodded to one of his guards. “Take Queen Emetine to her chambers. I will speak with her later.”

  “She might be the last of her family,” Gars observed, artfully. “Whoever marries her will have a claim on her lands.”

  Reginald shrugged. In truth, he hadn’t even considered the possibilities. Gars was right, of course. Rufus Hereford was dead. If Havant was also dead, Emetine would have the sole claim to their lands. But she couldn’t hold them in her own right.

  Which means she’s a bargaining chip, he thought. He’d been raised to protect women, particularly those of noble blood. Emetine couldn’t do anything to hurt him. But she’s also worth protecting.

  He sat on the golden throne. “Prepare camps outside the city for the mercenaries,” he said. It was a shame there was no time to enjoy the throne. “And then send messengers ...”

  Caen entered. “Your Highness, Earl Oxley requests the pleasure of an audience,” he said. “Will you see him?”

  Reginald smiled. That was quick. That was very quick.

  “I will see him,” he said. Oxley had to have been near the city, watching events from a safe distance. “Give him safe conduct, then escort him here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Tell me,” Lord Robin said. “What do you make of it?”

  Isabella shrugged. The castle was big, but she’d seen bigger. Cleaner, too. The castle staff were slowly returning to work, but half of them had apparently fled or been drafted into the army that had marched to Alcidine. Most of the servants were constantly glancing around, as if they expected to be jumped at any moment. Lord Robin had already had to speak sharply to Big Richard for harassing a maid while she performed her duties.

  “There definitely aren’t any protective wards,” she said. Either the Court Wizard had been an imbecile – which was possible, this far from the Golden City – or someone had undone his work in his absence. And yet, she couldn’t even pick up any traces of magic. His quarters hadn’t even been protected. She’d expected to have to unpick a dozen protective wards, each one nastier than the last, but instead the door had opened at her touch. “I’ll have to build them myself, from scratch.”

  “You can do that later,” Lord Robin said. “I have something more important for you to do.”

  Isabella lifted her eyebrows. She couldn’t think of anything more important than protecting the castle. The gods alone knew how many secret passages were threaded through the stone walls. But Lord Robin was her boss ...

  “I was checking the cells,” Lord Robin said. “Most of the people imprisoned were locked up for daring to suggest that the usurper should try to negotiate before the battle, rather than afterwards. But one of them was locked up for telling stories.”

  “Telling stories,” Isabella repeated, as she followed him down a flight of stairs. The air grew cooler as they reached the lower levels. “What sort of stories?”

  “The guards insisted that he’d been talking about odd events in the countryside,” Lord Robin said. “But they weren’t allowed to talk to him personally.”

  “Odd events,” Isabella mused. Robin was right. The storyteller should be investigated. And yet, she knew there were too many other problems. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Lord Robin grinned at her. “I never doubted it,” he said. He jabbed a finger at the castle. “Do you know what we found up there? A fishpond!”

  “A fishpond?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lord Robin said. “A fishpond, under the castle. It’s teeming with fish.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes. She’d known aristocrats in the Golden City who’d bred fish for their tables, but the Golden City was nearly two hundred miles from the nearest coastline. Fresh fish was expensive, even with preservation spells. But here, anyone who wanted fish could just walk down to the Racal and start fishing. She found it hard to believe that the castle’s staff didn’t know how to fish. Maybe the fish were a special breed.

  “We’d better try some,” she said. “Just out of curiosity, you understand.”

  “A couple of other weird things too,” Lord Robin said. “They were throwing out dozens of swords. I think they were going to melt them down.”

  Isabella frowned. “Why?”

  “Buggered if I know,” Lord Robin said. “There’s nothing actually wrong with the swords, I think. They’re just really old iron blades. None of the newfangled alloys.”

  “I see,” Isabella said. It made little sense. Iron blades might not be particularly elegant, but they were serviceable. It was true that iron neutralised some forms of magic, yet any sorcerer worth his salt could get around iron weapons and armour with ease. “Perhaps they wanted to keep them out of our hands.”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Robin said. They reached the dungeons and stopped. “You talk to him, Isabella. I’ll see to the outer defences.”

  Isabella nodded and stepped through the door. The stench – piss, shit, bitter despair – struck her nostrils as she looked around, forcing her to cast a hasty filtering charm. A handful of cells, illuminated only by torchlight ... she felt a flicker of sympathy for the former inhabitants. No one wanted to spend a night in the cells, let alone weeks. Thankfully, only one cell was occupied now. The others had been emptied.

  She stepped up to the bars and peered inside. The cell was bare, safe for a tiny patch of straw she supposed was meant to be a makeshift bed. There wasn’t even a slop bucket, although she understood the logic. Prisoners who had nothing to lose might turn a bucket of shit into a weapon. The prisoner himself was sitting on the floor, half-asleep. Isabella hoped he wasn’t mad. She’d seen too many prisoners go mad after a few weeks in the cells.

  Opening the door, she stepped inside. The prisoner looked up at her, his face hidden in shadow. Isabella cast a spell, summoning light. The prisoner bit out a curse as he covered his eyes, shrinking back from her. He might not have realised she was a woman, but he’d definitely realised she was a s
orceress. It might well be the first real magic he’d seen.

  She knelt down and removed the water gourd from her belt, then held it out to him. “Take a sip,” she said. It was possible the prisoner needed a good meal too, but that would take longer to arrange. “I need to talk to you.”

  The prisoner sipped the water, warily. “No one needs to talk to me,” he said. His accent was odd, as if the common tongue wasn’t his first language. “That was made clear when they threw me in here.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Isabella repeated.

  She wove a charm into the air, one that would induce the man to talk freely. He gave her a long look, as if he suspected what she was doing, then looked away. Isabella frowned, casting an analysis charm. The man had a latent talent for magic, she noted, one that had never passed the threshold for proper training. Perhaps he could do nothing more than sense magic.

  “I was supposed to report back here,” he said. He laughed. His sanity might well be more impaired than she thought. “And they threw me in the cells!”

  “I’m going to listen to you,” Isabella said. She sat back on her haunches. “What’s your name?”

  “Kingsley,” the man said. “I’m ... I’m a bard. And a quaestor. I don’t know if I am any longer.”

  “A bard and a quaestor?” Isabella asked. A spy, in other words. Probably one who’d worked directly for the usurper. “What happened, precisely?”

  Kingsley sat up. “I want a wash, clean clothes and something to eat that doesn’t look like it’s passed through the digestive system of a cow,” he said. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”

  Isabella eyed him for a long moment. “I’ll make the arrangements,” she said. She walked to the door, shouted for the gaoler and issued instructions, then walked back to Kingsley. “But start talking now.”

  There was a pause. “The king – the former king – had me going from village to village, keeping an eye on his clients,” he said. “I spent the last seven years singing for my supper, listening to stories and ... generally trying to keep my finger on what was going on.”

  “You worked for King Edwin?” Isabella asked. “Or ... or King Rufus?”

  “Edwin,” Kingsley said.

  He shook his head, slowly. “There were odd reports, you see,” he said. “Sightings of strange creatures. Weird encounters. Lights in the sky, strange sounds in the ground, roads that went places no human should ever go. And people ... even entire villages ... that just vanished.”

  Isabella remembered what she’d seen in Andalusia and shivered. “So ... what happened?”

  “King Edwin sent me out to compile a complete list,” Kingsley said. “He wanted to do something, but ... Earl Hereford was marching on Allenstown to dispose the king. He’d put aside the earl’s daughter, you see. I went from place to place, collecting stories and reports and putting them together ...”

  He reached out and grabbed her hand, too quickly for her to jump back. “It’s all changed out there,” he hissed. “Everyone knows. There were always places where no one dares go, but now ... they’re spreading. You walk near the woods or through empty fields and you feel watched, even when there’s no one in sight. Anyone who goes out after dark is not going to come home. And ... and ...

  “I saw things.” His voice lowered until he was almost whispering. “I saw ...”

  He let go of her hand and sat back, shivering. Isabella quietly checked her spell. It was working, she thought. But he could lie to her ... perhaps. In his state, a truth-spell might break his mind completely.

  “I heard a child whispering words that would tear the skin from your bones,” Kingsley said, “and another who spoke prophecy. I saw men become animals, women become ... things. I saw witches dancing in the night and shadows moving in the day and things that were things and ...”

  He stopped himself, just for a moment. “I saw ...”

  “It’s alright,” Isabella said. “Tell me in your own time.”

  “I don’t remember,” Kingsley said. “There was something in the woods and ...”

  He threw back his head and keened. Isabella covered her ears, wishing she knew what Kingsley had seen. Whatever it was, it had left him in a terrible state. She considered possible options, but came up with nothing. His mind was too fragile to be pushed.

  “I got out, somehow,” Kingsley said. He giggled. “Earl Hereford was dead ... long live Earl Hereford! And he was the king. I travelled to the city and ... and no one listened to me. I told them everything and ... and ... and they threw me in the dungeons for telling stories. I was thrown in the dungeons! Didn’t they stop to think I might be telling the truth?”

  Isabella considered it for a long moment. If Kingsley had confronted the usurper with such a story, it was quite possible that he’d simply be beheaded. Madmen weren’t usually tolerated unless they were from powerful families, whereupon the truth might be simply covered up with a combination of threats and bribes. But if half of Kingsley’s story was true ...

  If I hadn’t seen that thing in the village, she thought, I wouldn’t have believed him either.

  She leaned back, thoughtfully. Alden had reported stories too. She wondered, suddenly, if Kingsley was one of the Golden City’s spies. He was certainly in a strong position to serve the Golden City, without being prominent enough to attract unwelcome attention from the local rulers. But without the right codewords, she knew she’d never get any answers out of him. The truth would be hidden away in his mind and sealed with powerful spells.

  And yet, there were some odd problems with Kingsley’s story. The timing was odd, to say the least. When had King Edwin sent him out? Before or after the king had been forced to take refuge in Andalusia and build up his forces to retake the throne? And when had Kingsley returned?

  He’s on the brink of madness, she told herself. I should expect some gaps in the story.

  The gaoler returned. “My Lady,” he said. “I have prepared a comfortable and secure suite for our guest.”

  “My Lady?” Kingsley looked Isabella up and down. “You are no lady!”

  “My father would agree with you,” Isabella said. She helped Kingsley to her feet. “Come.”

  The gaoler led them down the corridor, up a flight of stairs and into what was clearly a guest suite for noble hostages. A comfortable bed, a washroom with a large tub of cold water, a chamberpot ... compared to Kingsley’s former cell, it was paradise. A small tray of bread and cheese – and a jug of wine – rested on the dresser, waiting for him. The gaoler had done good work, Isabella decided, after she’d checked to make sure there was only one way in or out of the suite. Gaolers were normally a sadistic breed, but this one ... was probably trying to curry favour. There was rarely any shortage of eager young sadists willing to man the goal and supervise prisoners. In the right hands, the post could be quite rewarding.

  She walked into the washroom and cast a spell over the tub. The water warmed, just enough to allow Kingsley to take a comfortable bath. There was soap on the sideboard, along with a handful of expensive perfumes. Isabella was surprised they hadn’t gone walking in all the excitement. It wasn’t as if the castle’s new owners knew to look for them. They’d fetch quite a bit of money on the black market.

  “Have a wash, then get some rest,” she ordered, firmly. “I’ll visit tomorrow and we’ll ... we’ll discuss what you saw.”

  Kingsley looked at her. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Isabella said. She didn’t know how many of the specifics she believed, but she knew that something was deeply wrong on the Summer Isle. The nightmare mist alone had unsettled the army. She was surprised the enemy hadn’t attacked while the soldiers were recovering from the shock. “I believe you.”

  She nodded to him, then walked through the door, closing it behind her. The suite was very secure. The door was made of wood-plated iron, with no less than two locks and five bars. It struck her as overkill, but she supposed anyone who was put in the suite absolutely had
to stay in the suite. There were no magical protections, as far as she could determine, yet unlocking spells would have problems with so many bolts and locks.

  I could just blast the door down, she thought, as she headed off to find Lord Robin. And so could every other magician with a year of formal training.

  A passing maid directed her to Lord Robin’s quarters, on the same floor as Prince Reginald’s new rooms. Someone had hastily removed all traces of the former occupant, probably someone very close to the usurper or his family. Queen Emetine was presumably still occupying her chambers, Isabella thought. She couldn’t help feeling a little out of sorts at how the prince had shown her mercy. It spoke well of Reginald, Isabella thought, yet ... there was something about Emetine – a hint of cold calculation – that bothered her. Throwing herself to the ground in complete surrender might have been calculated to make her appear both helpless and desperate.

  “Isabella,” Lord Robin said. He was seated at a wooden table, munching his way through a plate of chicken and potatoes. “Care to join me?”

  Isabella nodded and pulled out a seat. A maid appeared from nowhere, took the order for more food and vanished again. Isabella scowled, reminding herself – again – that servants saw everything. Hopefully, they’d keep their mouths shut too.

  “Kingsley – the storyteller – had quite a tale to tell,” Isabella said. “There are ... things ... in the countryside.”

  Lord Robin shot her a sharp look. “Could you be any less specific if you tried?”

  “Things like the ... creature ... we encountered in Andalusia,” Isabella said. “I’ll be talking about it with him tomorrow, jotting down everything he says. But ... it’s clear that something has been changing here.”

  “There have always been places humans dare not venture,” Lord Robin said.

  Isabella nodded as the maid returned, carrying a steaming plate of food. There were places the Empire had deemed forbidden, for one reason or another, and places that had bad reputations that echoed down the ages. She’d heard whispers about some of the forbidden zones, but talking about them openly was not encouraged. The Inquisitors had always moved rapidly to suppress such talk and no one, absolutely no one, wanted their attention.