Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I don’t understand,” he protested. “If the kings believed that the dead are taken to the Sea of Souls, why bother?”

  Penhallow chuckled. “The crown forces a king to sacrifice his conscience many times over,” he replied. “Even the best king may fear such sacrifices doom him to wander the Unseen Realms. This city of the dead, and others like it, provided a bit of insurance, just in case the king did not merit the gods’ favor in the afterlife.”

  The chamber with the scale model of Quillarth Castle and Castle Reach opened into another equally large chamber. The room was easily as large as the castle’s huge dining hall, but instead of a table that could seat one hundred guests, row upon row of catafalques stretched from one end of the room to the other.

  “Behold: the final resting place of the kings of Donderath,” Penhallow said in a quiet voice.

  Carved, life-sized figures lay atop granite biers with heavy, engraved pediments. In the row closest to the doorway was a catafalque that did not appear to be shrouded by the cobwebs and dust of the centuries. Connor caught his breath as he recognized the figure atop the bier. King Merrill lay as if asleep, his hands on his chest intertwined above a carved sword, his eyes closed in rest.

  “Merrill commissioned his bier several years ago,” Lynge said sadly. “We implored him to have the sculptor carve an image of him as an old man, but Merrill insisted it look as he did at the time.” He sighed. “Who knows? Perhaps the king or his seer had a premonition. Geddy and I prepared the king for burial and brought him down here the day after the Great Fire.”

  “No funeral?” Connor asked, trying to hide his shock.

  Lynge shook his head, and from the expression on his face, Connor guessed that the seneschal was reliving the memory. “Our world had burned. Parts of the castle and much of the city were still afire. Most people had fled the castle. Those who didn’t were far too busy digging out the survivors and finding corpses amid the rubble to bother with a funeral or having the king lie in state. At least the king had a proper burial. We did our best by those who perished, but many were buried in a common grave.”

  Connor caught back a gasp thinking of Lord Garnoc. Lynge seemed to guess his thoughts. “Your master was one of the few we were able to bury with honor. His family had served Donderath’s kings for generations, and for that, Lord Garnoc could be buried in one of the sections of the crypt reserved for favored nobility,” Lynge said.

  “When Meroven’s mages struck the great houses, it meant there was little chance anyone would reclaim the bodies of the dead lords who were at court. The survivors had other priorities and no means to bring home the bodies, even if they wanted to,” Lynge added sadly. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, lifting his head. “It’s time to move on.”

  Three new tunnels opened off the catafalque chamber, requiring them to thread their way among the biers. Connor glanced at the figures as he passed them, awed by the presence of the kings and queens of long ago. Many of the faces he recognized from statues, paintings, or tapestries that had graced the castle’s walls. So many of these men and women had loomed larger than life, commemorated long after their deaths for their valor in battle, their wise rule, or their cunning defeat of adversaries. Just as many were remembered more for their dark deeds and oppression.

  He glanced toward Penhallow, whose expression was pensive. How many of these kings has Penhallow served in his long lifetime? Connor wondered. How many of the men in these chambers did Penhallow know, either as a mortal or as talishte? Does immortality remove the sting of loss? Given the look on Penhallow’s face, Connor doubted it.

  “What’s down those other tunnels?” Connor asked.

  Lynge answered without turning. “One of the corridors holds the bodies of the royal consorts and their families. The second corridor has crypts for the nobility. Warriors of great valor are buried in vaults down the third corridor.”

  Lynge led them on, holding his lantern aloft to light the way down the center corridor. More tunnels opened off of their corridor, and Connor hoped with all his might that Lynge would be able to remember the way out.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Connor caught a glimpse of movement. Quillarth Castle’s age meant that many ghosts haunted its corridors. Connor had encountered several of the spirits that frequented the castle. Disembodied voices, sudden cold spots, doors or cabinets that opened or closed on their own, even moving shadows were not unusual. Once, Connor had glimpsed someone standing behind him in a mirror, only to find the room empty when he turned.

  “It’s just the ghosts, lad,” Lowrey said. “Nothing to fear.”

  Connor looked at him askance. “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “When a building’s this old, it’s not surprising a number of souls don’t want to leave when it’s their time,” Lowrey replied. “And a place like this, a king’s castle, with all the important doings that have gone on here: the war councils, the executions, the betrayals and love affairs,” he said with a shrug. “Well, you can see why some spirits might not be in a hurry to go elsewhere.”

  Another movement caught Connor’s attention. It was as if he glimpsed the edge of someone’s long robe, or the last bit of a passing shadow. He shivered. “Have you ever had one try to get inside your skin?”

  Lowrey frowned. “What’s that? How do you mean?”

  Connor drew a long breath before speaking. He had never told anyone about his experience, not even his former master, Lord Garnoc. Will the others think me mad? He wondered. No madder, perhaps, than the tales I’ve told thus far, of ribbons of light descending from the sky to burn the world, or of vampires at war over whether to restore magic. I can hardly see where one more tale can hurt.

  “I was coming back late one night from doing an errand for Lord Garnoc,” Connor began, casting caution aside. “I was alone in one of the lower corridors. I saw a man farther down the corridor, holding up a hand and signaling for me to stop.” Connor paused and stole a glance at Lowrey, to see if the mage-scholar was laughing at him. To his surprise, Lowrey was listening intently.

  “Go on,” Lowrey urged.

  Connor cleared his throat, surprised to have his story taken seriously. “I called out to the man. He started to move toward me, and all of a sudden, I felt him overtake me, as if he were trying to get beneath my skin.” He shuddered. “Memories that weren’t my own flooded over me. I felt as if, for a moment, I had become someone different.” He paused. “I was terrified, and – odd as it sounds – I flung the ghost away from me, and I ran.”

  Connor took a deep breath. Even now, the memory was unsettling. “He just… vanished. There was nowhere for him to have gone that I couldn’t have seen him. But I swear, he looked as solid as you or me when he was coming toward me.”

  Lowrey peered over his spectacles at Connor. “You’re a medium.”

  Connor’s eyes widened. “A what?”

  “There’s something about you that attracts ghosts and allows them to take you over.”

  “You mean, possess me?” Connor asked, horrified.

  Lowrey nodded. “Aye, in a manner of speaking. It’s not common, for all that the tavern charlatans seem to be able to talk to anyone’s dead husband or brother or son for the price of an ale.” He paused. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Connor yelped. “Damn terrifying if you ask me. Do you mean to tell me that ghost might not have let go of me?”

  Lowrey shrugged. “No. You may not know how you did it, but you obviously had some natural protection that let you break free. Interesting thing about mediums: Unlike necromancers, you didn’t lose your abilities when the magic died.”

  “What’s the difference? I don’t have magic,” Connor asked, interested despite himself.

  “Mediums aren’t thought to have true magic, not in the way a necromancer does,” Penhallow mused. “I’ve heard it said that a medium’s ability to interact with the dead is similar to the power of our kruvgaldur – something intrinsic to our being, not externa
l magic. Mediums usually don’t initiate the contact with a ghost.”

  Penhallow eyed Connor as if seeing him for the first time. “Necromancers can actually raise the dead, bind spirits to their will. Lowrey here can probably explain it better, but I suspect they’re two very different abilities.”

  Lowrey sighed. “Unfortunately, mediums often bear the risk without the power. It’s rare for a necromancer to be possessed against his will, but mediums are always at risk. You’ll have to be on your guard, m’boy. There are more ghosts than usual since the Great Fire.”

  Connor drew a deep breath. “I thought I was just nervous, but I keep seeing things down here just out of the corner of my eye.”

  Lowrey’s expression became serious. “You’re nervous, all right,” he replied. “But that’s not why you’re seeing things. Kings and queens, as well as powerful warriors and ambitious members of the court, are buried here. Most had secrets they took to the grave with them – and beyond. Secrets, lies, treachery, and forbidden love produce strong emotions. They don’t fade with death. I have no doubt you’ve glimpsed some spirits. Stay sharp.”

  The corridor widened and opened into a large circular room. Like spokes from a wheel, five corridors led away from the central chamber. In the center of the chamber floor was a large mosaic made of inlaid stone, gems, and bits of gold and silver. It glittered even by the lantern’s glow, and Connor imagined that the mosaic would have been breathtaking if the torches on the walls had been lit.

  The mosaic was a depiction of Esthrane and her eldest child, the minor god Veo the Trickster. Esthrane stood with arms upraised and stretched far apart, her feet planted wide and solid on the ground. Veo sat at Esthrane’s feet, represented as a toddler with a preternaturally wise and knowing expression. A nimbus glowed around Esthrane’s hands and feet, and a light encircled Veo’s head, suggesting the constellation that bore the goddess’s name. It was no accident, Connor was sure, that each of the corridors aligned with one of the points in the mosaic.

  The chamber’s walls also had floor-to-ceiling mosaics between the corridor openings. Each mosaic showed a scene from stories about the goddess. As with the floor mosaic, the panels were crafted from precious and semiprecious stones and joined with seams of gold and silver. One scene showed the handfasting between Esthrane and Charrot, with a cord of lightning bolts encircling their joined hands to form a permanent union. In the background, Torven watched the marriage with a jealous expression. A second panel showed Torven enticing Charrot from Esthrane’s bower with gifts of gems and gold, as an angry Esthrane looked on.

  The third and fourth panels depicted two of the many wars between the gods. In the third panel, those lesser gods loyal to Torven led an assault on Esthrane’s palace amid the clouds of the gods. Many died, both among the demigods and on the world below, as the devoted followers of Torven and Esthrane battled in the names of their patrons. Torven’s expression was triumphant as Esthrane’s forces fled in retreat.

  In the fourth panel, the situation was reversed. Esthrane, leading a large army of lesser gods and mortal warriors, laid siege to Torven’s fortified castle on the shore of the Sea of Souls. Rivers of blood flowed from the castle to the sea. Esthrane’s army slew its opponents, and the goddess was shown sending the souls of her enemies into the obsidian depths of the Unseen Realm.

  In the fifth panel, Charrot – the High God himself – descended from the sun to broker a truce between his warring consorts. Yet even as Charrot stood hand in hand with Torven and Esthrane, it took only one look at the faces of his consorts to know that this battle would not be their last. Around the feet of the gods and goddesses, the lesser gods and mortals continued to struggle, and standing behind Esthrane, just barely visible in the shadows, stood a cluster of figures with alabaster faces, the talishte, and with them, clad in blue and gold, the Knights of Esthrane, with both mortal and talishte mage-warriors.

  The entrance to each corridor was carved with figures and symbols, so that their archways were both works of art and icons depicting the legends of the gods. “This was hallowed ground for the Knights of Esthrane,” Penhallow said quietly. “Strangers did not venture here, on penalty of death.”

  “It seems odd they had to come through the crypts,” Connor replied.

  “Remember what was said about secret entrances?” Lowrey said, turning away from the mosaic he had been eyeing. “That applied to more than just their library. The Knights always had secret escape routes, and it was rumored that they had multiple secret passages, some of which even the king did not know about. When King Merrill’s grandfather betrayed the Knights, those few from the castle who survived were the ones who could reach their hidden passageways in time.”

  Lynge made a circuit of the room, illuminating the mosaics. Finally, Lynge led them down one of the corridors. Along the walls were several doors made of heavy, dark wood with ornate carvings, bound with iron, secured with huge iron locks.

  Lynge stopped in front of Penhallow and withdrew the key. “Your key should fit one of the locks in this corridor,” Lynge said.

  Penhallow took the key from Lynge and held it up in the lantern’s light. Its top had been molded with a scene of figures and images. Penhallow studied the iron key, then slowly walked along the corridor, trying to determine where the scene on the key best matched the door and its adjacent murals.

  Finally, he stopped in front of one of the doors and inserted the key into the lock. The old lock stuck for a moment, and its heavy mechanism groaned as Penhallow turned the key. Finally, the tumblers thudded open. Penhallow took hold of the door’s ring and pulled. Connor could see that, even with Penhallow’s talishte strength, the door was difficult to budge. It yielded, creaking open on iron hinges, revealing darkness. Cold air heavy with a dank, musty scent filled the chamber.

  “I’m guessing we have to go in there,” Connor muttered.

  “That door hasn’t opened in a very long time,” Lowrey replied. “I don’t think anything is waiting to jump out at you.”

  “Nothing living, anyhow,” Connor murmured.

  Lynge held up the lantern and was the first to step into the room. “It’s a crypt,” he called over his shoulder. “There’s a catafalque in here.”

  They followed Lynge into the room. The catafalque sat in the center of the room. Against one side was a large stone table that looked as if it might have functioned as an altar. The room was round, and on its walls was a mural. Unlike the elaborate mosaic in the prior chamber, this mural had been done as a fresco, and in places, time and decay had blurred some of the images or cracked through the stucco base. Still, as Lynge and Geddy held their lanterns aloft, enough of the mural survived to make out the story.

  “It’s the history of the Knights of Esthrane,” Lowrey said, excitement coloring his words. “It picks up from where the mosaic ended, with Esthrane choosing the Knights to keep Torven’s forces in line.”

  The images unfolded from the left of the doorway through which they had entered. In the first scene, Esthrane conveyed her charge to a broad-shouldered warrior with long, brown hair and a dark beard. Beside Esthrane stood a burly man wearing a crown who bestowed both a charter and a sword on the warrior. Various battles made up the bulk of the other images, depicting triumphs over Torven’s forces or slaughters at the hands of the Knights’ foes.

  Connor paused as he stared at the last panel to the right of the door where they had entered. Though space remained for another mural, the stucco was blank.

  “They never finished the mural,” Connor murmured.

  “Or the king’s loyalists had the images plastered over,” Penhallow replied, a note of bitterness in his voice.

  There was a clatter behind them, and they looked up to see Geddy emptying his pack onto the stone table. From it, he withdrew several lanterns, which he lit. After the long trek through darkened tunnels, Connor had to squint as his eyes adjusted to the light. He noticed a movement outside the door, but when he looked again, there was nothing.r />
  Connor grabbed a lantern and leaned out of the doorway.

  “What’s wrong?” Lynge asked.

  Connor’s lantern illuminated the corridor. It was empty. With a sigh, he moved back into the room. “Nothing. Thought I saw something. I was wrong.”

  Lowrey gave him a suspicious glance, but Connor refused to meet the mage’s gaze. Connor moved back toward the middle of the room, where everyone’s attention was focused on the bier.

  The catafalque in the center of the chamber was less ornate than those they had seen in the Crypt of the Ancient Kings. The pediments and bier were simple, with a few inscriptions but no decorative carving. Atop the bier lay a figure of a warrior, forever clad in his battle armor, helmetless but surrounded, even in death, by depictions of the weapons he favored in life.

  “This is the tomb of Torsten Almstedt,” Lynge said quietly. “He was the founder of the Knights of Esthrane. The Knights who fell in battle are also buried here.”