The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  It wasn’t a good option, he conceded, as his subordinates hurried to obey. But it was the only one that made sense. He couldn’t stay where he was – he’d run out of supplies – and he couldn’t withdraw without risking the southern nobility changing sides. And besides, he needed the northern lands. They were the only way he could pay his mercenaries. It wouldn’t be long, he knew all too well, before the demands for payment grew too strong to resist.

  He buckled his sword to his belt, then headed for the door. The enemy would see his men forming up, of course, but they wouldn’t know precisely when he intended to attack. He’d use his cavalry to make feints at the enemy position, keeping them on alert constantly. They’d be worn to a nub before the real attack began.

  And if we smash their force, we win, he thought. It didn’t matter if the earls survived the battle or not. They wouldn’t have a hope of regaining their power if their armies were destroyed. Their clients would switch sides or risk being wiped out along with their former masters. We win.

  ***

  Isabella looked down at the workbench, feeling a deep sense of ... dissatisfaction. She knew – she knew all too well – that the ointment was alchemically inert, yet ... she’d watched the useless ingredients being turned into something useful. It bothered her more than she cared to admit. The sense of doing something forbidden – something fundamentally wrong – nagged at her mind as she slowly cleaned and chopped the ingredients. She hadn’t felt so ... so ... naughty since the day she’d crept into her father’s library and read his collection of restricted and banned tomes. The old man had been furious when he’d caught her ...

  She glanced up, suddenly convinced that her father was right behind her. It was impossible – her father was dead – and yet, the conviction was so strong that she found herself looking around the bare room. There was nothing, save for the crackling of the fire and a faint breeze blowing through the window. She could hear men shouting outside as they prepared for war, but ... she was alone.

  This is wrong, she told herself. She felt sick at heart, as if she knew she was about to do something wrong ... and she was about to do it anyway. This is ...

  The sense of being watched grew stronger. Her hand dropped to her sword, her eyes flicking from side to side. The door was locked, the window too small for anything larger than a toddler ... yet there was no way to escape the sense that she was not alone. Ice trickled down her spine as she put the ingredients into the mortar and started to crush them, one by one. Tiny droplets of juice formed on the china pestle, mocking her. It felt more like cooking than brewing. The thought wasn’t very reassuring. She’d never been a good cook.

  And Big Richard wanted me to cook for the band, she thought, feeling a flicker of droll amusement. What an idiot.

  She snorted at the thought. Aristocratic – and magical – girls were not taught to cook. A commoner girl would know how to cook, of course, but not a magician. She’d had far too many other things to learn. And besides, the servants had done all the cooking. And yet ... she looked down at the ground ingredients, waiting to be put in the pot. There was an odd sense of satisfaction from grinding the ingredients that she’d never felt when brewing potions.

  Shaking her head, she poured the ground ingredients into the pot and waited for the water to boil. Mother Lembu had put the ingredients into boiling water ... she wondered, absently, if that made any difference. Her old potions teacher would have exploded with rage if she’d dared to ask such a stupid question in class – of course it made a difference – but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps, just perhaps, intent was more important than anything else.

  It was unsettling, more than she cared to admit. She’d been raised to understand how spells were put together, how casting a spell – even when one didn’t know what the spell did – actually worked. Spells were built up, piece by piece; the ointment, it seemed, was something different. It made her wonder, despite herself, what would happen if she used different ingredients – or no ingredients at all. Logic told her the results would be different each time – if indeed there were results – but emotion suggested otherwise. It made no sense.

  I’ll have to ask Emetine, she thought. She had a feeling the former queen would be more than happy to answer her questions. And who knows what will happen then?

  The liquid boiled. She poured it into another basin and waited for it to cool. It smelt right, thankfully. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if it hadn’t. And yet ... she felt a breath on the back of her neck and spun around, drawing her sword instinctively. There was nothing there ...

  ... But she still felt as though she was being watched.

  The sensation faded rapidly as the ointment cooled. Isabella poured a tiny amount onto a plate, then dipped her finger in the liquid and pressed it against her left eye. The room seemed to shimmer, just for a second. Blue lights danced through the walls, then faded into nothingness. She turned slowly, keeping her right eye closed. The room seemed familiar, yet strange. Her head hurt when she tried to make sense of it. But the sense that she was being watched was gone.

  There was a tap at the door. “Isabella,” Lord Robin said. “Are you in there?”

  “Yeah,” Isabella said.

  She rubbed the ointment out of her eye, then opened the door. Lord Robin stood outside, looking concerned. She felt an odd pang of guilt as she motioned him inside, even though she knew she was following the prince’s orders. Lord Robin had hired her, after all. She was technically his subordinate.

  “I think it worked,” she said, as she bottled the ointment. There wasn’t much, but she thought it would last for a day or two. She’d have to go source more of the ingredients at some point, then start looking into other folk cures. “What can I do for you?”

  Lord Robin glanced at the pot, then shrugged. “The guards spotted a Red Monk near the temples,” he said. “The Prince wants you to find the bastard and take him prisoner.”

  “Alive rather than dead,” Isabella noted. She didn’t fault the prince for sending her. She probably had the best chance of surviving an encounter with the Red Monks. And a Red Monk might actually be able to give them answers. “Are you coming with me?”

  “I’m needed with the scouts,” Lord Robin said. “Big Richard will go with you.”

  Isabella sighed. She didn’t like Big Richard. But then, he might be useful.

  “Very well,” she said. Who knew what the Red Monk was doing? “Do we know exactly where he is?”

  “No,” Lord Robin said. “The report said he was near the temples, nothing else.”

  “Understood,” Isabella said. She pocketed the ointment and checked her sword. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “This is a boring town,” Big Richard grumbled.

  Isabella couldn’t help agreeing with him. Neither Allenstown nor Racal’s Bay had been particularly lively – certainly when compared to Havelock or the Golden City – but Rupert was little more than a large collection of grey houses and warehouses. There was no manor, no castle ... there didn’t even seem to be any shops. She had no idea how the population had survived before being herded out of their town and into the surrounding forest. The drab grey town would have driven her mad years ago.

  You can get used to anything, provided you accept it as normal, she reminded herself. It had been a shock to discover how people lived outside the Golden City, people who had no magic or wealth or anything else going for them. She’d thought she’d known everything until she’d come face-to-face with a very different reality. The people here probably think Allenstown is a wild party town.

  She dismissed the thought as they made their way down the cobbled street. It was a surprisingly decent road, despite the damage caused by hundreds of horses and thousands of men marching through the town. The prince would have to find whoever built the road and put them to work, linking the different towns and cities together with a proper road network ... perhaps even iron dragons, if the craftsmen could build the
m for themselves. It would unite the Summer Isle and, hopefully, make it harder for the nobility to act as independent agents. Andalusia’s network of roads allowed the king to move troops anywhere he liked within a matter of days.

  And I can hear troops moving northwards now, she thought, as the sound of a moving army echoed over the town. Prince Reginald was preparing to attack ... and she was hunting for a Red Monk. I have to find the bastard and get back to the prince.

  They turned onto Temple Row and studied the piles of debris. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as though there had been three or four temples in the town before the Red Monks had smashed them into ruins. Isabella wasn’t sure what means they’d used to tear down the temples. It looked as if the buildings had just collapsed into rubble. The remains weren’t even scorched. Magic? Or something truly weird?

  Big Richard snorted, rudely. “Where is the bastard?”

  “Good question,” Isabella said, tartly. She looked from side to side, trying to spot the Red Monk. Nothing moved, not even a bird. The Red Monk might be hiding, protected by his powers, or ... he might be gone. He’d certainly had more than enough time to hide. Or maybe someone had sent them out on a wild goose chase. “Do they even have a temple here?”

  “I don’t know,” Big Richard said. He sounded more angry than usual, as if she was distracting him from a greater thought. His piggish eyes flicked from side to side nervously. “Aren’t you meant to be finding him?”

  Isabella swallowed several nasty responses to that question and reached for the tiny bottle of ointment. If the Red Monk was hidden, the ointment should be able to help find him. Or her. Containing the monk afterwards would be harder, but she was sure they could do it. If nothing else, they could give the bastard a fright. She took a last look around, wondering if they should search the nearby houses, then dismissed the thought. There were only two of them and they had to stay together. They couldn’t seal off the area and search it methodically.

  And the prince can’t give us any more men, she thought. She’d known there was no point in asking. He needs everyone he has for the coming battle.

  She braced herself, then dabbed the ointment against her left eye. The world seemed to shift, shadows growing darker – and longer – as she looked around. Entire buildings seemed to shift out of place, moving in directions she couldn’t even begin to comprehend; things moved in the shadows, barely touching the human world. She felt herself cringing back as she saw a ghostly spider – except it wasn’t a spider – looking at her. Her skin began to itch, as if invisible creatures were crawling under her shirt. It was all she could do not to slap at herself.

  Big Richard grunted. “Careful,” he said, mockingly. “This is hardly the time or place.”

  Isabella flushed, angrily. She had been backing away, then; she’d backed away until she’d bumped into Big Richard. No doubt the bastard had enjoyed the brief contact, damn him. He’d been one of the loudest grumblers about the lack of wine and women in Rupert, she knew; he’d spent most of the night moaning and whining about Prince Reginald’s decision not to allow camp followers to accompany the army. She clenched her fist, then unclenched it slowly. Turning Big Richard into something small and slimy would be satisfying, but it would also be a distraction.

  She kept her right eye closed as she looked at the remains of the temples. Unlike the other buildings, the piles of debris looked almost normal ... a little too normal. She frowned as she tried to understand what she was seeing. The temples looked exactly the same, no matter which eye she looked through. It was almost as if they had no presence in the other world at all. They were just piles of dead stone. There was no ghostly light, no translucent glow ... no strange creatures hidden in the shadows. They were just ...

  The temples and prayers were laid down by the Golden City, she thought. The Inquisitors had never tolerated unauthorised prayers and rituals. What if they were designed to cut us off from the other world?

  She frowned. It was hard to believe that something so important could have been forgotten, but ... if the secret had been limited to the Grand Sorcerers and the Inquisitors alone, she could understand why it might have been lost. There had been too many secrets she’d been warned she would never know until she took the final oaths, oaths she’d never had the chance to take. Now, with the Inquisitors a spent force, there was no way to keep the kingdoms from devising religions of their own. Or, perhaps, from making contact with gods.

  The implications stunned her. She’d worshipped back home, of course; she’d left offerings in front of the family shrine and attended temple services every week ... had she been wasting her time? Did those gods even exist? Or ... were the temples designed to prevent them from making contact with the gods? Were their prayers falling on deaf ears? Or ...

  She turned slowly, peering through her left eye. The world was so much bigger than she’d thought. Lines of blue light hung in the air, moving so faintly that she wasn’t sure they were moving at all. She looked down at her hand and saw blue light, as if her hand was slowly turning translucent. No ... she could see her bones, glowing with light. It looked as if she was dissolving ... she blinked hard, looking away. The world was changing, slowly shifting back to normal. The ointment was wearing off.

  Big Richard grunted. “Anything?”

  “No,” Isabella lied. He didn’t need to know anything, save for the fact she hadn’t spotted the monk. “I ...”

  She looked at him – and past him. The Red Monk was right behind him. And ...

  Mother Lembu’s voice echoed in her mind. “You made one mistake,” Mother Lembu had said. “And your time to recover is short.”

  She could see it. A spider-web of corrupt light, draped over Big Richard. The Red Monks had got to him, somehow. Perhaps they’d got to him weeks ago. She could see the light burning into his soul, driving him mad. And she’d had a chance to spot the corruption when she’d been with Mother Lembu, a chance to do something about it before it was too late, a chance she’d missed ...

  Big Richard growled and drew his axe.

  “Think,” Isabella said, reaching for her magic. She doubted it would work – his collection of protective amulets would make enchanting him difficult, even without the Red Monk – but she had to try. “You’re not in your right mind ...”

  She jumped backwards as he came at her, swinging his axe wildly. Isabella drew her sword, glancing from side to side as the mundane world and the other world started to blur together into a single universe. Big Richard was normal ... no, he wasn’t normal. She knew she should close one of her eyes, but she didn’t dare. The Red Monk had been lurking in the other world, almost completely invisible. If she closed her eye, the monk might attack her from the shadows.

  Big Richard kept coming, growling with rage. His face was twisted into pure hatred ... she’d known he disliked her, but ... the Red Monk had clearly had ample time to work on Big Richard’s feelings, stroking his dislike into a murderous rage. She dismissed the thought as she ducked one of his swings, casting a spell that should have punched through his defences and left him flat on his back. Not entirely to her surprise, the magic splinted out of existence before the spell even left her fingertips. She could see the magic fade away as it fell into the other world.

  “You killed my brother,” Big Richard growled. “Die!”

  He swung at her again. Isabella jumped back, glancing from side to side. The Red Monk was still behind Big Richard, watching the fight from behind a red cowl. And yet, there was an undeniable sense of satisfaction surrounding the creature. Isabella didn’t dare look too closely, even through her left eye. There was something about the Red Monk that warned her that looking too closely would be dangerous.

  Damn it, she thought.

  She tried to think of an option as a second spell flickered and died. She could turn and run, but she knew Big Richard could bury the axe in her back before she got more than a few paces away. Getting close enough to stab him would be difficult ... even trying to parry wou
ld be dangerous. He could knock her sword out of her hand, if the blade didn’t shatter on impact. And then ... she forced herself to think. If she didn’t have magic, how could she beat him?

  The Red Monk, she thought. She could see the creature, keeping its distance from the two fighters. Faint traces of light darted between the monk and Big Richard. That’s the key.

  She dodged another swing, trying hard to think. There had to be a solution, but what? Big Richard was too consumed by hatred to listen to reason ... she couldn’t even call for help or attack the monk without leaving herself exposed. And there wasn’t any help within shouting distance ...

  Big Richard feinted, then kicked out. The movement caught her by surprise, the kick slamming into her chest and throwing her backwards. Her rump hit the cobbled streets, hard; her sword clattered down next to her, narrowly missing her arm. She reached for it, a second too late. Big Richard landed on top of her with enough force to knock the breath out of her body. It felt as though she’d cracked a rib or two.

  He drew back a fist, ready to smash her lights out. His face was completely shrouded now, the corruption clearly visible through her left eye. And he was driven by rage ... he wanted her dead. Nothing would distract him, not now. She fumbled for the knife in her sleeve, twisting her head as his fist slammed down, narrowly missing her nose. If he’d hit her ... she slipped the dagger out as he drew back for another punch, then drove it up and into his eye as hard as she could. Big Richard shuddered violently, then tumbled. The force of the impact nearly stunned her ...

  Get out, she told herself. Big Richard might do more harm to her in death than he ever had in life. It was hard, so hard, to crawl out from under his corpse. Move, you stupid idiot.

  The Red Monk was still there, standing within the other world. Isabella wondered, as she staggered to her feet, if the bastard knew she could see him. She’d certainly seen her fair share of peeping toms who’d assumed their invisibility cloaks or notice-me-not spells would allow them to slip into the girls changing rooms without being spotted and they had known the girls studied the same spells. The Red Monk might assume she was grasping in the dark ...