by Tom Lloyd
‘Interesting logic,’ said an accented voice from the other side of the curtain, ‘but still flawed - not even the magnificent Ostia could sense Aenaris if it is not being used.’
Haipar jumped up, the scrape of her chair not quite masking the shiver of metal as she started to draw her rapier.
Zhia shook her heard at Haipar as a lithe figure flashed into the box. Almost before anyone had realised, Haipar’s hand was stayed, then pale hands rammed her weapon fully back into its sheath.
‘Let’s not be uncivilised,’ the man murmured, placing a hand on Haipar’s shoulder and guiding her back into her seat. The shapeshifter was white, unable to resist this strange man, though not because of brute force, but through some more subtle compulsion.
Zhia watched Doranei assessing the newcomer. He obviously didn’t recognise the style of clothing, but he had noted the man’s jet-black hair and his unusual dark blue eyes -few in this part of the world had eyes like those. Doranei glanced at her, then looked back to the man.
Dear Doranei, Zhia thought with a certain amount of satisfaction, I don’t think you’d have noticed his eyes in this light were it not for the fact that you resemble a butterfly watching the pin whenever I look at you.
‘I suggest you keep as still and quiet as a mouse,’ advised the newcomer.
Zhia was certain Doranei had recognised that however tough he might be, he stood no chance against this man. To survive in these dubious circles was to recognise when you were completely outclassed.
‘Well, isn’t this a rare honour?’ she commented coolly, careful to ignore Doranei’s meek acceptance of the order. Koezh, her elder brother, was not one for playing games, but there was no need for her to mark the boy out as anything more than an aide.
Koezh looked closely at Doranei and Haipar, then, deciding neither was a threat to him, relaxed and accepted the goblet Zhia was holding out to him. ‘You’re playing lady of the manor again?’ He lifted the goblet in a silent toast.
Zhia smiled. ‘It is the position I was born to, after all, so playing is not entirely the correct word.’
‘You didn’t think so when you were growing up -it was all we could do to drag you out of the stables, or stop you running around after the falconer like a love-sick puppy.’
‘Ah, but as you see, I am now all grown up,’ Zhia said, ‘and a few years have passed since then, and more than a few since you last walked these parts. What brings you to grace our presence, dearest brother?’
Haipar, sitting stiffly, felt her eyes drawn to the black-hilted broadsword at Koezh’s hip. This massive weapon was a far cry from the elegant rapiers most men considered the correct choice for a night at the theatre.
She was not alone in noting the sword. Zhia had no need to open her senses to feel how bloated with savage power Bariaeth was. The last king had poured all of his grief and rage into that weapon, and even now it exuded a cloud of choking sadness and hurt. Oh my dear brother, our God-imposed curses should be enough for any person to bear -but you never could refuse another burden, could you? She didn’t need to voice her fears; her brother knew well the risks he took.
‘Events are moving apace,’ Koezh told her. ‘Aracnan tells me a Saviour has arisen, so I thought it was time I stepped out onto this stage once more.’
Zhia ignored his attempt at a joke; Koezh had always been a serious man, and rather dour; humour did not suit him. ‘The Farlan boy?’ she asked. ‘How can Aracnan be so sure? It wasn’t that long ago that you were convinced Kastan Styrax was the Saviour.’
‘He believes so.’ Koezh raised the goblet to his lips, but hardly wet his lips. ‘I’m sure Aracnan is a Demi-God, so perhaps his instincts are to be trusted -certainly more than mine,’ he added with a bitter smile.
‘Is Aracnan here?’
‘Somewhere. We made camp outside the city and he disappeared in the night on some business of his own.’
‘You made camp?’ Zhia felt her foreboding grow. ‘Did you not come alone?’
Her brother frowned. ‘No; is that a problem?’
‘Scree is witnessing some sort of convergence,’ Zhia said. ‘Did you bring Joy?’
Koezh nodded abruptly.
Doranei, who had been watching the exchange whilst trying to appear indifferent, tried to cover his inadvertent gasp with a cough - Joy was the Crystal Skull Koezh had inherited from his father.
Zhia gave a small, private smile; few people would expect her brother to come bearing joy; sometimes she felt the name given to that particular Skull had been something of a joke on Aryn Bwr’s part. ‘So the Legion of the Damned is camped outside the city? I suppose I should have expected as much.’ Her brain was racing.
‘What is the Legion of the Damned?’ Doranei couldn’t help but ask.
Zhia looked at him crossly, trying to warn him to stay out of this, then softened a little, drawn almost against her will to his innocence about such things. For some reason, she found it endearing. There were not many men able to make her forget the centuries between them.
‘The Legion of the Damned is well-named,’ she told him. ‘It’s an army of mercenaries. My younger brother, Vorizh, made the mistake of turning a necromancer to vampirism several hundred years ago. The combination has proved, ah, troublesome. ’ She grimaced delicately. ‘In this case, the necromancer had hired mercenaries to protect him and his lands, and in one of his most successful experiments he used a spell to take their life-force and replace it with magic. They did not take kindly to this -although they are now extremely powerful, and of course, they’re untouched by the effects of time. Think of the Damned as an army of minor Raylin and I am sure you will understand the danger.’
She turned back to her brother. ‘Something is drawing power of all kinds to the city -more than a score of Raylin, the remaining White Circle mages, the King of Narkang, and a necromancer I do not believe is allied to any faction. Now we have added Aracnan, who makes all of the fifteen or more Raylin I’ve employed pale into insignificance, two of the Vukotic family and at least two Skulls. There is also the immediate prospect of Scree being attacked, either by the Farlan, or by the Knights of the Temples -or maybe even both.
‘What other forces remain hidden, that I do not know. The Farlan Lord holds two Skulls, and the minstrel who commands this troop of players wears an Augury Chain around his neck.’
Beside her Doranei gave a splutter of alarm and cried, ‘What? No!’ before lowering his voice and whispering, ‘Oh Gods, are you sure?’
‘Certain,’ she said. ‘I saw it myself.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Rojak.’
Doranei cursed under his breath, his fingers clenched into fists. ‘So it’s true then.’
‘What is true?’ Zhia said, surprised. Now here was another piece of the puzzle, perhaps. ‘You know this minstrel?’
Doranei’s eyes drifted past her towards the stage, where a flutist was coaxing slow, mournful notes from his instrument. Zhia reached out and snapped her fingers in front of his face to gain his attention again.
‘Doranei, listen to me! Do you know this minstrel? Is this why the king is here?’
Doranei shook his head. ‘Not exactly; but we had hoped to . . .’ His voice tailed off as he found himself turning back to the stage, then he wrenched himself back to his companions. ‘I must inform the king immediately.’
‘Not yet,’ Zhia said firmly. She pointed to a tall man dressed in robes of green and gold emblazoned with a pair of bees flying upside-down who had launched into the narrator’s opening speech. The costume was finished off by a jester’s cap. ‘The performance is starting, and if you leave now, you will draw attention to yourself. One of the players was on the roof with a crossbow earlier. Would this Rojak’s associates recognise you?’ Doranei nodded, glancing towards the curtained entrance with suspicion. Koezh saw the concern and shook his head.
‘There is no one out there, not even a servant.’
He slumped a little in acquiescence. �
�I can find the king at the interval, then. They will not kill him here.’
‘Are you sure? It might be too tempting to ignore.’
‘As sure as I can be,’ Doranei said. He looked uncertain, trying to balance his own knowledge with what help Zhia might be able to provide. ‘Their feud is a long-standing one,’ he started, ‘and just assassinating the king lacks . . .’
He floundered for a moment before Zhia interjected, ‘The personal touch? The need a man has to drive in the knife himself? ’ She sighed. ‘The centuries go by and folk do not change. I hope that if the time comes, your king will prove himself the better man and not hesitate. After all, I cannot have an opponent in Heartland who is prone to grandstanding -he will be a sore disappointment to me.’
Doranei nodded, but his attention was on the stage again, his face thunderous.
Interesting, Zhia thought, this Rojak has really got under the king’s skin. I wonder what exactly did the minstrel do, and why? As that thought crossed her mind, she turned to follow Doranei’s gaze. Now she acknowledged both the colours and the cut of the narrator’s clothes. So this play is merely to goad King Emin? That means they know he’s here already. But what purpose does this all have?
Zhia forced her own eyes away from the stage and back to the conversation at hand. ‘I shall have to tighten security in the city. We have so many strangers wandering the streets that it’s only a matter of time before people start to die.’ She looked at the two men facing her. Koezh wore a look of brotherly affection, a welcome change from the drawn, world-weary face he generally sported. Doranei appeared to be gripped with some sort of ghastly fascination as he looked from one sibling to the other.
‘Please don’t take offence,’ Doranei began hesitantly. Zhia immediately pouted, causing him to stammer as he continued, ‘but, since you are only masquerading as a member of the, ah, the White Circle—’
‘Why do I care?’ Zhia finished for him.
Doranei nodded and bowed his head.
‘We are cursed to care, my brother and I. The Gods saw to that in their final judgment. Do you know nothing of our history?’
‘Little,’ Doranei admitted. He looked around to check no one was paying them any attention, and lowered his voice even further. ‘I know that you were turned into vampires, the undead. To stay alive you are forced to drain the life from others, and the touch of sunlight will set your skin aflame.’
‘The youth of today, they live only for the moment.’ Zhia gave a schoolmistressy click of the tongue. ‘That was not the only curse bestowed that night -foresight I could not have expected from a God, yet one of them did realise that to be such a monster would drive a person mad, so to ensure every drop of horror was wrung from this punishment, the Gods decreed that we would not decline into madness, but that our sense would remain, and our wits would be untouched by either the passing of years or guilt over our deeds.’ She could feel her fingers tighten as she thought of that gnawing guilt; it had been her constant companion down through the uncountable years.
She looked away from Doranei, not wanting to see the horror in his eyes as she continued, ‘They wanted to make sure we would always understand the fear in a man’s eyes as we drain his life, and that we would always be sickened with compassion for others. We will never become inured to this. Our people were punished for following us out of blind loyalty. In turn, we now feel the suffering of innocents, more strongly than you could ever imagine.’
‘And my presence may only worsen the situation,’ Koezh surmised.
‘Exactly,’ Zhia said wearily. ‘Which is why I want you to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘You and your Legion can do nothing to prevent this city descending into chaos. Anything you do will only fuel the fire.’
‘So you would have me hang back and do nothing? Let the White Circle and the Knights of the Temples determine the course of the next Age?’
‘Our time will come, but not yet.’ Zhia rubbed her arm, where the tight-fitting silk clung uncomfortably in the heat. ‘The best thing you could do is march south.’
Koezh cocked his head at her. ‘You think Lord Styrax is that much of a threat, even with such a great distance between him and the Menin homelands?’
‘I do,’ Zhia said with certainty. ‘In the thousands of years since the Great War, has there ever been a warrior to match you? I doubt it myself, yet Kastan Styrax cut you down and took your armour as his prize. If there is any man in the entire Land who can conquer the Chetse and win the hearts of their warrior orders, I think it is Kastan Styrax.’
‘And then he will not need fresh troops from the Ring of Fire,’ Doranei finished. ‘If he wins the loyalty of the Chetse, who knows how far his empire might stretch?’
‘There might be no limits. If the city-states of the West descend into chaos, as they are threatening to do, they will be unprepared for the Chosen of the War God.’
‘Narkang is ready, and the Farlan are even more powerful than the Chetse,’ Doranei objected.
Koezh turned to the young man with an amused expression. ‘Narkang is ready? Narkang was saved only by a stroke of fortune, so I hear. If the White Circle had taken the king and his city, your precious Three Cities would have quickly followed. As for the Farlan, years of unrest have weakened them, and now their greatest leader in a thousand years is dead. In Lord Bahl’s place they have a young man said to have the fury of a storm running through his veins, bearing gifts so laden with power and the weight of history that even his own generals must be nervous.’ Koezh leaned over Doranei and gave the younger man a cold smile. ‘I would say your readiness could be improved a shade. At the very least, your king should conclude affairs in these parts and see to his own borders. Complacency is a foolish thing to die for.’
Zhia smiled as her brother gave Doranei a condescending pat on the shoulder and gestured towards the stage beyond. ‘Now be quiet and watch the play. A little culture will do you good.’
With the briefest of touches on her gloved fingertips, Koezh left soundlessly. That was their way. Experience had taught them that their encounters should be brief and tender, else arguments break out, with dramatic consequences. Zhia was actually ahead in those stakes, having murdered her brother three times now, but they had long ago agreed that the novelty of killing each other had worn off and it was too much of an irritation to do so merely out of pique.
He would do as she asked; Scree was her affair now and he wouldn’t interfere. As the Land edged closer to the brink of ruin and change flickered across the skies, they both knew this might be their best chance.
Zhia smiled.
CHAPTER 18
A wall of cloud surrounded the city, obscuring the moons and stars. Jackdaw could sense it enveloping the city, drawn by one man’s call. The streets simmered in an unnatural humidity, as if the city were festering in its own sour humours. Wherever there was a flat roof he could see bedding laid out, and restless bodies shifting and squirming in the oppressive heat. The citizens of Scree were desperate to escape the stinking closeness of their houses but, in truth, outside was little better.
How long since I felt the breeze? he wondered. It must be just a few days, yet the memory feels more like a dream. From their high station, looking down on the dark bulk of the theatre, he could feel the heaviness in the air, a building storm that had refused to break, but instead lingered with sullen obstinacy, prickling the hairs on his neck. The sudden downpours of early summer had stopped, leaving the population panting like dogs and staring up at the sky with pleading eyes.
The taste of blood persisted in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue in surprise when that bully from Narkang had crept up on him earlier. Ilumene’s mocking grin had shone out from the shadows when he had least expected it. He probed the cut, wincing at the sting, but persisting, because in some strange way it reminded him he was still alive. Was it pain to drive away the numb aching in his heart, or just a reminder that he was human, with a human’s foibles? But every time h
e felt the cut, he saw the blood, the man’s life spilled out onto the stage, the final bitter act of their latest play.
‘Now,’ Rojak announced from his right. Jackdaw flinched, constantly taut with dread whenever he was in the minstrel’s presence. It was some three hours till dawn, and the city was almost silent in its miserable discomfort. Jackdaw had to stifle a yawn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, not properly. He wouldn’t tonight either, not with the sight of blood filling his mind.
‘We are entertaining Scree with a fine barbed comedy, do you not think?’
Jackdaw said nothing. The play was mildly amusing, in a gross, simplistic way, but the initial humour was soured by the murder at the very end. Though Jackdaw -like the whole city, it appeared -had known it was coming, the sight of so much blood had sickened him. He’d turned his head away as the criminal plucked from the city gaol had howled and flopped around on the stage, interrupting the play by his refusal to die quickly. Ilumene, eyes glinting with fierce delight, had pointed out the anonymous figure of King Emin as the audience shuffled out in a cowed silence. The king’s face had been as dark as thunder. The man from Narkang had not said why he hated his king so deeply, and Jackdaw was afraid to ask. Ilumene constantly hovered on the brink of savagery; the man’s handsome features invariably twisted into a cruel scowl at the very mention of this king.
Thinking about Ilumene’s hatred brought Jackdaw full circle back to the hateful play. Already the stallholders surrounding the theatre were lost to the spell carved into the timbers of the theatre’s wall as it was being constructed. A few continued to work, scarcely even aware of their motions but driven by long-ingrained habit, but the rest had taken to roaming the streets muttering about ghosts, already lost to the madness. They were feeling the bitterness and gloom that echoed from the play’s every line and washed out over the city by the minstrel’s magic. Just the previous morning he’d listened to a fruit-seller, muttering to himself, hands clasped together, head twitching nervously, staring down at the feet of those passing by. He was terribly afraid that the man had been quoting a line of prophecy, from ‘The Twilight Reign’: Six temples, empty and crumbling -darkness heralded by song and flame.