by K J Taylor
“I dunno, we had a lot of people in then . . .”
Laela lifted the oblong between her finger and thumb, holding it up where he could see it. “Was he in here?” she repeated. “Did yeh see him?”
“I might’ve,” said the bartender, staring at the oblong. “Memory’s not what it used t’be.”
She sighed and tossed it to him. “Now is it what it used t’be?”
He frowned, scrunching up his eyes. “Two nights ago . . . he hadn’t been here in a while . . . sorta got used to him not being here. But I ain’t sure . . .”
Laela reached into her bag one last time. This time, the oblong she brought out was gold. “Was—he—in here?” she said, very slowly and deliberately.
The bartender reached over the counter and snatched it from her. He backed away before she could take it back. “Yeah, he was in here,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket. “Didn’t stay long. Had one drink, an’ then left. He was took funny—must’ve been to another tavern, ’cause he looked pretty out of it to me.”
“That was two nights ago?” said Laela.
“Yeah. Now push off an’ don’t come back.”
She left the tavern, her heart pounding. He was here. I was right. But then where . . . ?
It was a start.
She sat down with her back to the tavern wall, deep in thought. If the King was drunk, where would he go? A whorehouse, maybe? Or maybe back to the Eyrie to sleep it off?
The second possibility felt more likely to her. She couldn’t see him as the sort to visit whores. Not when he could choose any one of the women in the Eyrie.
She stood up and began to walk back along the street toward the Eyrie—maybe he’d decided to go home. She moved slowly, still thinking—this time, recalling the night he’d taken her to the Blue Moon.
She stopped abruptly. Of course! He wouldn’t use the street—he’d want t’stay hidden an’ all that. He’d have used the roofs like he did with me—must’ve done!
Excited now, she hurried back to the Blue Moon and walked around the outside, looking for the window they’d climbed out of. She found it—there was a broken brick just above it that had provided a handhold.
The tavern backed onto the canal that ran through the city, and she walked along it, hoping to find a clue. She couldn’t help but wonder whether the King would be capable of running along those blasted rooftops while he was drunk. Then again, if he’d been doing it for years, maybe he could. He must have done it before while he was drunk.
As she walked along, keeping her eyes on the rooftops, her boot caught on something and she pitched forward and fell flat on her face.
She got up, muttering, and walked on, watching the ground now. A few steps later, she saw something that made her pause.
It was a strange dark stain. What made her pause when she saw it was its shape; it was long—reaching all the way to the edge of the canal. It looked like it had been left by something that had been dragged there.
Her throat tightened.
She knelt and examined the stain more closely. It had soaked into the dirt, and when she ground some of it between her fingers, she saw the brownish-red colour of it.
By chance, she glanced at the edge of her skirt, hanging over her leg near her hand. It had been light blue, but it was dirty now—she had used it to clean her face after her nose bled, and now the cloth had an ugly brown-red stain on it.
It’s blood, she thought, almost calmly. The colour’s the same. And it’s been here long enough to dry out.
It was a clue, maybe, and she decided to investigate.
She stood up, looking back toward the buildings in the direction the thing must have come. There was an alley behind her, and she walked slowly toward it, examining the ground.
There were more bloodstains here. They led her to a spot just inside the alley, where more blood had been left on a wall. She found nothing else there.
Very frightened now, she almost ran back to the canal and looked down into it. The waters were murky brown and sluggish, with nothing to suggest that there was anything beneath them. But she knew there had to be.
She sat down and pulled her boots off. Making sure there was no-one watching, she stuffed her money-bag inside one of them and hid the sword under a heap of garbage.
Then she dived into the water.
It was cold, and much deeper than the stream near Sturrick where she had swum as a child. The current tugged at her clothes, trying to pull her away downstream, but she fought against it and struck out for the bottom.
Relying on instinct more than anything else, she thrust downward with all her strength. She risked opening her eyes, but couldn’t see much beyond the vague impression of light filtering through the water. She closed them again and swam on.
Her dress hampered her badly, and it didn’t take long for her to start running out of air. She kept on doggedly, despite her fear, determined not to give in until she absolutely had to.
Finally, just as she was on the point of turning back, her outstretched hand brushed against something. She jerked in fright and almost breathed in a lungful of water, but quickly thrust out her hand again, searching for whatever she’d touched. She found it, and after a few tries managed to catch hold of it.
Cloth. It was cloth. She tugged at it, but it was attached to something else and refused to move. But she grabbed at it again, and fear stabbed at her when she felt something soft underneath. At that, lungs bursting, she gave in and swam for the surface.
Once she had reached the open air, she checked to make sure no-one had stolen her belongings and dived again.
It took her a few more tries to find the cloth again, and several more to feel her way around it, but her heart thudded painfully when she realised that there was something underneath it. She tried several more times to pull it to the surface with her, but it was stuck fast, and she eventually realised that there was a rope tied around it that had to be anchoring it to the bottom.
She returned to the surface yet again, and climbed out of the canal. There she rested and considered her next move.
She nodded to herself, got up, and checked yet again to make sure no-one else was around. All was quiet. Satisfied, she moved close to the nearest wall and stripped off her wet dress. Naked, she spread it out in the sun to dry and fished her sword out from its hiding place. She took it out of its scabbard and tucked it under her arm before slipping back into the water. Its weight dragged her down, but not too badly, and she stuck it between her teeth and dived.
The sword’s added weight was an advantage now, and she reached the cloth bundle, swam underneath it and, anchoring herself by holding onto the rope, took the sword and started to cut through it. The blade wasn’t that sharp, but it was not as blunt as a long sword or something else meant for warfare, and as she sawed at the rope with it, she could feel it working.
She had to return to the surface again, but when she returned for another go at it, she felt the rope fray, then snap. Above her, the bundle, set free, started to drift away. She hastily transferred the sword to her teeth again and grabbed the thing before it could escape. Then she set out for the surface once more.
It was easier said than done. The bundle was far heavier than she had expected; it felt as if it were actively trying to pull her back to the bottom. Desperate for air, panicking a little now, she struggled with all her might, trying to pull it toward the canal’s brickwork bank so she could use it to drag herself upward. The bundle barely moved, but she didn’t dare let go of it—she knew that if she did, she’d never find it again. Not in this water.
Red lights were flashing in her brain by the time she found the side and dug her fingers into a gap between the bricks.
They helped her, and she groped her way upward as well as she could, the rough surface bruising her fingers. But her thin fingers
were just thin enough to fit in the gaps between the bricks, and her confused mind was full of sudden gratitude. Thank gods I got Northern fingers . . .
By the time she reached the surface, her head was pounding with pain. She opened her mouth to gasp in air, and the sword instantly fell into the water. She made a grab for it, but started sinking again the instant she let go of the wall.
The sword vanished into the murky depths. Gone.
She stared dully after it, chest heaving.
Once she’d caught her breath, she began to climb out of the canal. She needed both hands for that, but she solved the problem by taking hold of the loose bit of rope still attached to the bundle while she climbed. It was just long enough to keep hold of once she was on land, and she used it to drag the bundle out after her and dump it on the ground.
Once it was high and dry, she fetched her dress and put it back on before returning to examine her find.
It was smaller than it had seemed underwater, but still big—nearly as long as she was tall. Whatever it was was entirely wrapped in cloth . . . no, a sack, she realised.
Feeling sick with apprehension, she turned it over until she found the opening, and fumbled with the trailing rope that held it shut. It came away after a few tries, and she opened the sack and began to pull it away.
A boot-clad human foot appeared, and she screamed and backed away.
The bundle didn’t move. She inched back toward it, able now to see the shape of a body inside it. Oh gods, I was right.
She almost ran away to find a guard but stopped herself. She’d found it, and now she would have to finish it, for better or worse.
Grim-faced, she knelt and pulled the rest of the sack away, and the body flopped onto the ground.
It was Arenadd.
Laela stared at him for a long, long time, not quite able to take in what she was seeing.
The King had been bound hand and foot. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his chest, and his head was thrown back, the once-neat hair and beard soaking wet. His eyes were closed, and his skin was a sickening blue.
Very slowly, she leant over and placed two fingers against the side of his neck.
There was no pulse. As she’d expected.
A sudden, terrible rage and horror came over her. Furiously, she turned him on his side and undid his bonds. They had been tied so tightly they had cut into his skin. She threw the cords aside and laid him out as gently as she could with his arms by his sides.
Then she grasped the dagger, and pulled it out. It was long . . . horribly long . . . it came out coated in gore, and she could feel it scraping against bone as it came. She retched, but kept pulling until the blade was in her hand, and then threw it aside.
The wound it left behind was ghastly.
She moved the King’s head, tilting it forward so it looked more comfortable, and hesitated.
Something had been stuffed into his mouth; she could see it poking out. She pulled it out.
It was a piece of cloth. As she moved to throw it away, she noticed something, and gingerly spread it out on the ground. It looked like an ordinary piece of linen, probably cut from a bedsheet or something similar. But someone had drawn on it with charcoal.
She shivered involuntarily when she saw that, even though it was a picture she knew well. A circle, with three curling lines that met in the middle spreading out from it. A sunwheel. Gryphus’ symbol.
She looked at the King’s face again, and a terrible sadness spread through her chest.
“Oh, gods, what did they do to yeh?” she whispered. “Why? Yeh poor bastard . . .”
Memories flooded back into her mind. The King, coming into that alleyway on the night they met . . . She’d stumbled into him after the would-be rapist had pushed her . . . He’d felt so thin, but so strong, too, as if nothing could ever knock him down. She remembered the way he’d looked at her, when she had finally realised who he really was—that look she had been too panic-stricken to notice then, but remembered and recognised now—that sad, yearning look. The same look he had given her that night by Skade’s tomb. You remind me of myself . . . Why would you want to be like me?
She put her hands on his chest, over his silent heart. “Sire . . . Arenadd . . . oh, gods, I’m such an idiot! Yeh did so much for me, an’ all I ever did was treat yeh like rubbish. I was scared . . . didn’t know what was goin’ on, what yeh were interested in me for . . . but I know it now. Yeh just wanted me t’be a friend to yeh, didn’t yeh? That’s all yeh were askin’ for . . . Gods, if I’d only . . . if I knew who’d done this . . .”
She looked down at his white face. Gods, to spend all those years alone, with no-one there who loved him, no-one to talk to except his griffin . . . an’ knowin’ the woman he loved was dead. No wonder he took to drink.
When she was younger, she’d seen her foster father drink, too. He’d stay sober for a few days, but in the end the wine or the beer would come out, and he’d drink until he was asleep. Sometimes he’d get angry, but he’d never hit her . . . Most of the time he was silent, and sometimes he even cried. One day she’d asked him why he did it, and she’d never forgotten the answer.
It’s yeh mother, girl. I miss her, an’ I can’t stand it.
She wanted to laugh. “It’s just the same, ain’t it?” she said aloud. “Just the same.”
Then she did laugh—but it was a broken, ugly kind of laugh, and when she laughed again, it broke again, and before she knew it, she was crying.
The tears were for her father, but they were for Arenadd, too. Poor, drunken Arenadd, who frightened her so much but only wanted her friendship, and who had come to such a pitiful end in this dank place, all alone.
He wasn’t no Dark Lord, she thought as she sobbed. He was just a man.
14
Destiny
Laela was too exhausted to cry for long.
Common sense told her she should leave, and soon—if someone found her with the King’s dead body, she would be in unimaginable trouble. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him there, so cold and vulnerable. She lifted him into her arms and held him, cradling him against her chest.
“Night God, help him,” she prayed. “Please, help him. Yeh helped me. Now help him. Please . . .”
She sighed and bowed her head.
As if that were a signal, an instant later Arenadd’s body twitched. Laela gasped and nearly dropped it, searching urgently for any sign of movement. For a moment it looked like she’d imagined it, but then he twitched again, then gave a violent jerk. His mouth gaped wide open, and horrible wheezing sounds came from his throat. Then he jerked again and started to cough.
Laela let go of him and pulled on his shoulders, moving him into a sitting position. He gagged suddenly, making an awful gurgling sound, and then vomited blood and water.
Once the last of it had escaped, he slumped back onto Laela’s lap and was still.
Laela patted his face. “Sire! Sire—Arenadd! Arenadd, are yeh . . . all right? Breathe! For gods’ sakes, breathe in!” She thumped on his chest. “Breathe, damn it!”
His mouth opened, and he gasped in a breath and coughed. More water came up, and he coughed again, but then he breathed, deeply and shakily, and again and again until it had steadied and the colour began to come back into his face.
Laela sobbed. “Oh, thank gods. Thank gods. Thank . . . thank the Night God.” She looked skyward, and cringed when the sun hit her eyes. “Thank the Night God,” she said again, more loudly, looking back at Arenadd’s face.
He was breathing much more strongly now, and the blue had left his face. Laela could scarcely believe it.
She touched his face. “Arenadd. Arenadd, can yeh hear me?”
He stirred and moaned, and his eyes flickered open. They had a glazed look, and didn’t focus on her face.
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Laela waved a hand in front of them. “Arenadd,” she said again. “Arenadd, please, wake up. Say somethin’.”
He coughed weakly. “Skade . . .”
“I ain’t Skade,” said Laela. “Arenadd, yer hurt. I dunno how bad . . . Can yeh hear me?”
His eyes slid shut. “Skade, he’s killed me. I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. He had the . . . the sword . . . Gryphus gave it to him . . . I can still feel it in me . . . Skade . . . please, don’t cry. I was . . . I was already . . . already dead.”
Laela hugged him to her. “I ain’t Skade. I’m Laela. Arenadd, listen—I gotta get yeh back to the Eyrie, so they can help yeh.”
He stirred. “Skade, I can’t feel my legs.”
“I can carry yeh, then,” Laela said sternly. “Just wait a moment.” She laid him down and went to fetch her boots—he reached weakly after her and made a sound that might have been a sob.
Laela put her boots back on as quickly as she could, and tied her money-bag to her belt. She paused briefly over the now-empty scabbard, and then sighed and threw it into the canal. No point in keeping it.
Then she returned to Arenadd’s side and touched his forehead to reassure him. “It’s all right, I’m here. I’ve got yeh.”
He grabbed at her hand. “Take me out of here, Skade. I don’t want to die in Gryphus’ temple.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll take yeh back,” Laela soothed. She slid her hands underneath him, and awkwardly lifted him. He was heavier than she’d thought, but she slung one of his arms over her shoulders and straightened up. His legs dragged uselessly, and his head lolled forward.
Laela gritted her teeth and set out back toward the Eyrie, following the canal.
They made slow progress. Eventually, Arenadd revived somewhat and tried to help her by using his free arm to support himself on the walls of the buildings they passed. But he showed no sign of trying to walk under his own power.
The path beside the canal was completely deserted, and they got almost all the way back to the Eyrie before a heap of garbage forced Laela to turn away into an alley and back onto the main street. There were plenty of people there, of course, but none of them paid too much attention to the girl and her soaking-wet and apparently crippled companion.