May leant a little closer to Tabitha. “Truth be told, I would spend all my time there if it weren’t for my other obligations. There’s so much work these days, and so little time to study history.” She looked wistful. “Which reminds me –” she said, rising from her chair to address the table. “Guidelings, it’s way past the Set. Your parents await you, and we have a busy day in the morrow. Your dishes to the kitchen, then off with you!” She clapped her hands. “Thank you for a day well done.”
May supervised the rapid clearing of their table, and led them all out of the dining room. The common-room was hot, pulsing with the throb of voices, but an air of restraint touched the people as Maybelle Westerbrook glided past, her line of blue goslings in tow.
Maybelle took Tabitha’s arm as they stepped out into the street. “Take care not to hold the hurt forever inside. I shall make time if you’d like to finish your tale to me. I have so much to attend tonight, but would you care to join me for Noonday tomorrow? We can discuss the things of which you may not speak here.”
Tabitha appreciated May’s discretion. Three guidelings were still accompanying them. Tabitha nodded gratefully to May, honoured by the invitation.
“I’ll send Pia in the morning. You’ll be wanting to visit the Library, I don’t doubt. Pia can show you where to go.”
Tabitha voiced her thanks. She could spend a morning pretending to be an avid student of the histories. It would probably do her good to learn more of the legends of Eyri, however clouded their origins.
A remote bell sounded in the city, nine mellow chimes.
They parted at the Boarding. Tabitha was glad that May had been so friendly to her, but she was also relieved to be alone. The stairs creaked as she passed silent rooms. The hallways of the Boarding looked different beneath the sparse, flickering touch of lamplight; darker, bigger, full of shadows.
When she had readied herself for bed, Tabitha lit a candle and set it on the windowsill. She noticed that her leather bag lay on the floor, where she had left it. It would be wise to keep a closer guard on it. The coins would be the first to go. She caught her breath.
If I should lose mother’s scrolls now, I wouldn’t even know the songs.
She would read them immediately, she decided. Songs she’d never seen, the legacy of a mysterious knowledge, to be read in secret. Her pulse quickened as she reached out for the leather bag and drew it close. She found the tube within. She was about to pull it free of the bag, when someone appeared at the door to her ward. She froze.
“Already the first night and you want to break the rules. Did I not say lights out at nine bells?”
She had forgotten about the matron and her rules. Tabitha snatched her arm back from the bag. The beefy woman crossed the room, glared down at her, then snuffed the candle between finger and thumb.
“Lights out means lights out!” was all she said, before turning on her heel. The sharp scent of smoking candle-wick lingered in her wake.
“Sorry.”
“First offence, Miss Serannon. See that you don’t commit another in your stay, or you’ll have a premature departure.” The doorway was filled, then it lightened faintly, and footsteps boomed down the stairs.
Tabitha slipped beneath the blankets. The song-scroll would have to wait.
She stared through a chink in the curtains at the night sky. The song-scroll would have to wait for the next day. The stars appeared as pale smears on the imperfect glass. She watched them for a long time. There seemed to be far too much dark between the smudges of light.
18. RAVENSCROFT
“Does your own reflection look you in the eye?”—Zarost
Cabal of Ravenscroft, how Kirjath hated him.
With the hate, came respect. The aged Master was a twisted, tyrannical ruler, but he was no fool. His command of the Dark essence was as complete as could be imagined—he was the first Shadowcaster, and so his lore was always more practised and deadly than anyone’s. That knowledge kept Kirjath Arkell on his knees in the throne room, despite his rage at having to debase himself so.
One day, old man, I shall strike you down, and take your throne. I have another power, one you were too afraid to test.
Kirjath ran a darting tongue over his lips, and tasted his crusted wounds. They only served to remind him of his failure, which brought his anger to the fore.
Why not now? Rip his head off.
He stiffened, and forced the bloodlust away. The Morgloth’s presence clung to him even though the demon itself was gone. With every channelling, the beast’s mind became harder to control. He could overpower the Morgloth, but he could not risk losing that command. Here in the throne room of the Darkmaster, he wasn’t sure what would be thrown at him. Better to endure the Darkmaster’s wrath, than to challenge him prematurely and risk losing control of his own beast.
He remained kneeling, and waited for Cabal’s touch.
The black curtains which adorned the throne room gave Kirjath the usual headache. He knew that the curtains were designed to make subjects nervous and unsettled. They rippled and swirled erratically, making the periphery of Kirjath’s vision a torture of warped angles, curling patterns and sudden human forms. The fabric was a delicate weave of Dark essence, refined to a complex pattern no one could equal—a reminder to all of Cabal’s mastery.
Kirjath kept his eyes lifted proudly from the floor. He would not bow his head as the Master expected. His gaze did not penetrate far. The single brand suspended overhead cast a pitiful pool of illumination on the glistening obsidian floor. A few paces of lit stone, then the shadows. Kirjath was an easy target, a penitent figure in a circle of guttering light. For the first time he wondered if the white robe he wore was irreverent, in this, the heart of the Shadowcasters’ domain.
At least the robe was stained with blood.
The arrival of the Darkmaster was a staged indulgence. Kirjath abhorred the theatrics. They were the same every time. When you entered, the throne was so thick with darkness that nothing could be seen of its occupant. One walked to the lit stage, at the base of the throne, then turned and knelt, so that you faced away, the way you had come in, the way you hoped to leave. It did no good to anticipate the Master, for he was entirely silent in his approach. Sometimes it took hours for the Master to deign an audience, sometimes longer, but once you had been summoned to the room, you never left before the Darkmaster granted leave.
The stone bit into Kirjath’s knees, but he ignored the pain. He had endured far, far worse in this place.
Cold, bony fingers touched Kirjath’s neck from behind. He jumped, despite himself.
There was something about that hand which always brought a chill sweat to Kirjath’s brow. The Darkmaster was not a pleasant man to have under your skin.
He dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Still so proud, Kirjath Arkell.” The Master’s voice was the sound of dry scales disturbed by a breeze.
Kirjath did not answer. Sometimes it was better to be silent, when you knew your voice would quaver and betray you. Kirjath smarted on his own weakness as he waited. The icy hand withdrew from his neck. The Master remained behind him. The curtains rippled.
“You did not come when first called, Arkell.”
Kirjath pronounced his words with a forced, steady command.
“You presumed my task done, Master, which it was not.”
Kirjath tensed in anticipation of discipline. It was only now, in the Master’s throne room, that he realised how insolent his actions had been. The Master’s presence altered behind him, but whether Cabal had stepped closer, or further away, he couldn’t tell. Cold crept through Kirjath’s legs.
“I see. And why did you linger with your task?”
“The Lightgifter would not release the Ring. She fought.”
“So you surely succeeded in your task then. The Lightgifter did not overpower you, did she?” A belittling tone underlined every word.
“No!” snapped Kirjath, resisting the urge to lash out with Dark
essence. He had to remember who he was talking to, he couldn’t afford anger here. “I overpowered her. She lies in her grave.”
“You killed the Lightgifter? Under what authority?” The Master’s voice crackled quietly, the way that ice wheezes when placed in water.
“The Lightgifter resisted. She chose to fight. She was too talented in the use of essence. I had to kill her. Her and her husband.”
“Are you a complete idiot? I should tear the lining from your brain and feed it to the crows.” The threat was not an empty one—Kirjath knew of at least two Shadowcasters who had ended their service in just that manner. The Master was suddenly close, his lips against Kirjath’s ear.
“Give me a reason to stay my hand.”
Surely the Master couldn’t be serious? The Light was the enemy. What did the death of one Gifter matter? I don’t have to take this humiliation. I am Kirjath Arkell. I kill with ease.
“I used the Morgloth to do it.” He smirked at the empty stone before him. Chew on that! Push me too far, and I’ll use it on you. The bloodlust surged through his veins, bringing strength and a wild abandon.
The curtains ceased their movement. The throne room became as still as a mausoleum. The Darkmaster was somewhere behind him, waiting. Kirjath turned, a gesture forbidden in the throne room.
The Master was at the limit of the illumined circle, his cowl thrown back. His pale, lined face displayed no trace of the shock or awe Kirjath had expected. Dark eyes bored into Kirjath. His confidence began to crumble, a pitiful castle of sand before the winter gale.
“You have need to study your history better, Kirjath Arkell. Such beasts are dangerous beyond your comprehension.”
“I command them! And I had to! Without the Morgloth—I would have been executed in that cell in First Light. Anything is justified to avoid such a fate.”
Why does the Master shake his head?
“It is worse than I imagined, then. You faced down the Sword with your Morgloth?”
“None other than the Swordmaster,” Kirjath said, pride swelling briefly in his heart. “My beast left three of them dead.”
“Then it has begun,” said Cabal, his stare cold and unreadable. His hands curled into fists, then he hid them within the sleeves of his robes. “The Swordmaster will not leave that particular trail. And your trail leads here, to Ravenscroft. Idiot! You’d best be gone through Fendwarrow before the day is out. Intercept him there, and lead him away. We can’t afford to have Ravenscroft discovered, not now.” The Master paced into the gloom.
Footsteps followed a loop in the darkness, then suddenly the Master was there again, in the pool of light. Kirjath noted the essence which had collected in an outstretched hand.
He tensed, bracing himself for the inevitable punishment.
But what formed in the Master’s hand was not a spell of torture. With a brief command, the Master created a raven from the motes.
“Bring me news of the Swordmaster of Eyri. Where he is, and who accompanies him. Go!” He released the Morrigán, and it swooped to the door, leaving the throne room with a mocking cry.
“I give it a task, it is done. Why does that not happen with you?”
A cloud of motes swept towards him.
Kirjath felt a desperate shame. Inadequacy flooded him. It was a spell, he knew, but the knowledge made the compulsion no less compelling. He abased himself on the stone.
“Forgive me, Master. My task was more complex than the Morrigán’s.”
“You do have the Ring, though?”
Straight to the heart of matters.
The tone of the Master’s voice warned Kirjath of worse to come, but there was no way to deny him the knowledge. Kirjath cursed.
“No, Master, but I know where it is. I am sure it is borne by the girl, the daughter of the Lightgifter. If I could be free from the need for this audience, I would complete my task.”
Kirjath’s sentence ended at a far higher pitch than he had intended. He heard a sound from the direction of the Darkmaster he would rather not have heard. Knuckles cracked as fury gripped Cabal by his bones.
When he spoke, the wheezing voice was so close to Kirjath he could feel the tremor of the Master’s rage against his cheek. He didn’t dare move.
“Think how the Swords will search for you now. Your actions have destroyed your chance at succeeding in the task. Your mission was not one of murder. Your mission was to retrieve the Ring! I must have the Ring!”
I must distract him, mollify him, or I won’t survive this.
“Why, Master?” Kirjath asked, in his most grovelling tone. “Help me to understand, that I might serve you better. You are so powerful already, why do you need a trinket like the Ring?”
“My plan is almost complete, the triumph is counted in days, not in years. But the Ring is too dangerous to be at large! I must have it before I strike! You have failed me in the most critical task.” He pointed a crooked finger at Kirjath, and a fine thread of motes speared Kirjath through his stomach. Kirjath couldn’t resist the scream which broke from his mouth—there was a needle pressed into his spine, in a place so sensitive and fundamental he was driven near to madness.
The Master’s voice came through a haze of pain. “I am poised to strike. But what if the Ring is used against me? What if someone learns of its power before it is reclaimed?” The question was no more than a whisper. A second needle lanced into his groin, making the first seem benign by comparison.
Kirjath’s throat worked hard to keep the bile from rising into his mouth. He was not afraid, he told himself.
“But what does the Ring do, Master?” he squeaked.
“The fundamentals of essence, I learned from that Ring. When I wore it, I could see beyond the Lightgifters, to the possibility of the Dark, and beyond. I learned the most powerful spells; the Turning, the Devotion, the Web, before I reached the Ring’s limit, before it fell from my finger in Levin.”
“But did you not lose your ring in Fendwarrow, Master?” Kirjath asked, desperately hoping that the Darkmaster hadn’t noticed how his torturing had eased when he pondered the mysteries of the Ring.
“I could not wear it, you fool! It fell from my hand over a decade ago, and would not be replaced. I kept it bound on a chain, lest it be lost, and found. That chain broke in Fendwarrow. I cannot risk another adept finding it, and growing to power. I will command this realm, in its entirety!”
Kirjath felt at once relieved and excited. The Ring had just become an immensely appealing treasure. He knew where it was. The bearer was hardly an adept, she was just running scared.
“A girl carries it.” He snorted his disdain.
The pain of the twin probes returned with merciless pressure.
“You careless idiot! She has already evaded you. Do you think it pure luck that she escapes? She is learning from the Ring! The longer you take, the less likely your success.”
A sobering thought, even without the persuasion of torture. Yet Kirjath wasn’t entirely sure it was the Ring’s fault the girl had escaped, from both First Light and Southwind.
“She had a companion, a man who claimed to be the Riddler, though I know it is impossible. He was guiding her.”
The Master’s spells broke, the motes scattered to the shadows.
“My absent advisor works against me? The Riddler?” The Master’s rustling voice hardened to a crunching, gravelly sound.
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Kirjath reassured hastily. “This was a little man, a beggarly-looking fellow, with no skill in the Dark and a ridiculous hat. He couldn’t have been the true Riddler, the great oracle of Ravenscroft.”
“Did you ever see the true Riddler, Arkell? See his face?”
“Ah—no. His cowl was always—but he was bigger. Not a Shadowcaster?” he ended lamely. He had always taken the Riddler for a powerful Caster, second only to the Darkmaster. He had never dared cross the Master’s advisor.
“Few have ever seen his face, here in Ravenscroft. It was one of the privileges he
asked for, and I granted it for the wisdom he imparted. He wore the robe of the Shadowcasters, but no orb. He was an advisor. His power was a masterful illusion.”
“You say he was an advisor, not is?”
“I have not seen him since he departed on a wagon run, before my Ring was lost in Fendwarrow. Damn him! He has tracked the Ring like a bloodhound on the scent.”
“You’re saying that the little hatter could have been the real Riddler?”
“When the Riddler does the wagon run, he wears a striped hat and outlandish clothes. And he is very, very good at evading the Morrigán when he wants to. You miserable slack-wit! He has defected!”
The Master was quick to summon the essence, and weave a fresh messenger raven.
“Speak your description to the bird, Arkell. Tell it what the Riddler looks like in the light of day.”
Kirjath recalled what he could—the brown skin, the bushy beard, the racoon-striped top hat.
“Find that man!” Cabal ordered. The Morrigán departed with double the haste of the first. “You, as well, Shadowcaster, that is your task. The Riddler must be found, and brought back to me, he knows too much of my purpose. Damn him! How did I not see his danger?”
“He was too close to you, perhaps?” Kirjath commented, then bit his tongue. The Master did not welcome criticism. Cabal seemed to ignore the slight.
“And the Ring, Master?”
“Of course the Ring, you sluggard! They’ll likely be close together, the Ring and the Riddler. That may be what he was after, all along. Go now, you whining whelp, go!”
Kirjath rose on unsteady feet. His legs ached cruelly. The part the Master had tortured was excruciating. But Cabal had commanded, and he had to obey. The compulsion originated within his Darkstone. There was nothing he could do to resist the Darkmaster’s hold on his Stone.
“Master, may I employ the aid of the Morgloth in my task?”
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