by Tom Lloyd
‘Yes, of course, Tila Introl, daughter of the Gatekeeper. I, of course, am Isak - just Isak. My family name is Fershin, but like Lord Bahl I was never considered worthy of it.’
Tila opened her mouth, no doubt to apologise, as most people instinctively did at hearing that, before closing it again - much to Isak’s relief. The last thing he wanted was her pity.
‘But if what Lord Bahl told me is really true, I suppose my name is Suzerain Anvee now - but let’s stick with Isak, shall we?’ He smiled at the notion and saw relief on her face as she curtsied and scurried away back to her bed.
As soon as the door shut behind her, whatever he could sense under his feet forced itself into his thoughts and drove all else away. His gaze drifted down to the circle he was standing on. The urge to let his eyelids drift shut grew overpowering as the winged symbol appeared in his mind. As he reached for it, Isak felt a presence beside him. Alarmed, he opened his eyes, but saw nothing until he looked up and realisation dawned at last. He closed his eyes and felt himself in the still tower with the wind rushing all about, but this time he was not alone: there was another with him, one who drew the wind to himself.
Don’t you think you’vegone far enough tonight? Bahl’s voice in his head felt strangely natural, and Isak smiled and nodded, as if the Lord could see him. Maybe he could. There was an edge to the voice which urged caution: down was obviously as large a step as Bahl had said it was. Whatever was calling him from down there wasn’t alone.
Isak’s curiosity was piqued, but he could tell there was no hurry. There was a taste of envy in the tower now - whatever was waiting for Isak would not accept Lord Bahl, and the man knew it.
Sleep now. Tomorrow will bring challenges enough without the need for you to chase more.
CHAPTER 5
Bahl gave a grunt of approval, satisfied that this time Isak would do as he was told. He withdrew his hand from the central chimney and turned back to Lesarl, who wore a questioning look.
‘He has some skills; the tower accepted his command immediately.’
‘That’s to be expected, no?’
‘I’m not sure. This boy is odd; he reacts to magic as if it is the first time he’s seeing it - much like I did when I first came here. But he worked the tower with a practised hand.’
‘Well, he is younger. You were a member of the Guard for how many years before you were Chosen, twelve? Perhaps your skills developed over that time because you were here, but the Krann’s remained latent because he grew up on a wagon-train?’
Bahl didn’t reply. From the mantelpiece he picked up a plain wooden pipe, black and scarred from years of use, lit it and settled into a solid armchair by the fire.
‘What do you make of him?’
Lesarl sighed. ‘By himself, a country boy who’d be a good guardsman and has enough brains to become an officer. He’s quiet, which is good; more often than not the loud ones turn out to be maniacs. With those gifts, I have to assume there is more, but I simply cannot read the boy.’
‘There is more to him, I’m certain. There’s a wildness in his eyes that I find rather worrying, and yet ...’ Bahl’s voice drifted away, to be replaced by the crackle of the fire. His stared into the flames, like a man looking for signs and portents, and said quietly, ‘I saw Aracnan tonight.’
Lesarl gave a start. He had not been expecting that.‘Aracnan? The walker-in-shadows? Was he after the boy?’
‘No. Aracnan does more than just kill. He had been sent to bring Isak here and present him, like the Tyrant of Mustet did for me.’
‘I thought such missions were only given to mortals, expendable ones too, considering what happened to the Tyrant afterwards.’ Lesarl frowned in frustration. Without any unnatural skills himself, the Chief Steward would never fully understand that side of the Land.
‘More commonly, but not always. Aracnan has frequently been asked to perform tasks by the Gods. It’s said that he can hear Death’s call wherever he is, that there’s some connection between them.’
‘And no one has ever tried to find out what? Or have none survived to tell the truth?’
‘That’s not for me to say. I doubt even a mage’s daemon companion would dare tell. A powerful mage might live as long as I do, but Aracnan is immortal, and thus of greater consequence. He is not a good enemy to make, and he likes his secrets.’
‘Ah, daemon companions, what I could do with one of those-’ Bahl’s expression cut that sentence off, but the wistful look on Lesarl’s face remained as he continued, ‘Oh I know it would be heretical, but mages claim necessity and the priests turn a blind eye. Just think of what my spies could do with—’
‘Enough. You’ve already asked the Archmage about special training for some of his students. Yes, he came to me with that one, outraged at your lack of ethics.’
‘That treacherous old goat, I’ll—’
‘You’ll take the warning like the good servant that you are,’ Bahl snapped. ‘I don’t remember you suggesting it to me, so let the matter slide. I want the College of Magic close to me and back under our complete control. Now, didn’t you have some news for me?’
Lesarl’s face brightened as he remembered and he pulled a battered sheaf of parchment from inside his jacket. ‘The reason I actually went to see the Archmage was that he wanted to give me the deciphered copy of Malich’s journals at long last. He wasn’t happy about it at all. He still thinks that all magic-related research should remain in the restricted libraries until he and his colleagues see fit. He insisted I collect this in person.’
‘So they did contain Malich’s research? How did you convince him to release them?’ Bahl sounded a little impressed at his Chief Steward’s powers of persuasion.
‘Because they did indeed contain the research; and because it was principally necromancy, your religious status has legal primacy.’ Lesarl gave a satisfied grin. ‘I’m sure that with a little prodding I could also have extracted a message of thanks to you for letting them do the translation in the first place.’
‘Despite the fact it would have taken much longer to find anyone else capable?’
‘Well, yes, but he appreciated my point all the same. Anyway, in between bouts of paranoid ranting that greatly flattered the abilities of my spies, Malich focused mainly on one of Verliq’s conjectures to develop his rituals that followed a progression of-’
‘What was the conjecture?’ The burr of Eolis and Siulents down below was wearing Bahl’s patience thin.
Lesarl thumbed through the pages of parchment hurriedly. ‘Here we are: this is what the Archmage wrote as a quick explanation for me: “A Crystal Skull - being created specifically to counteract the magic of the gods in general, and Death in particular - cannot return a soul from the land of no time. Experiments have proved that souls do not retain sufficient integrity when removed from the physical world. However, in the state in-between the realms, ghosts and wraiths should preserve enough of their self to be returned to life if a suitable vessel is found.”
‘Malich did not record the actual ritual he claimed to have devised, but the College council believe they could recreate it from his various allusions; not that they would dare do so, of course. There were a number of additional factors: performing the ritual when the Gods stepped back from the Land, during twilight or on Silvernight, as well as the sacrifice of life according to some sort of covenant—’
‘The Law of Covenant,’ supplied Bahl absentmindedly, ‘the most fundamental principle in magic.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Anyway, this all requires the channelling of vast amounts of energies through the Skull.’
‘Strange that he would devote his life to something he could never expect to test.’
‘That is why I doubt much of what was written. Advancing the theory of necromancy is an odd obsession for a man wanting to achieve immortality. What use this would be to him I have no idea; neither he nor that Menin apprentice could have helped their cause by it. This concerns long-departed souls, not the recent
ly dead that he used as soldiers, and who of note could they return to life? Malich does claim that he returned a childhood friend once; that he managed to obtain a Skull for a brief while-’
‘Hah!’ said Bahl, with a snort of derision. ‘I think we might have noticed that when we took the castle. I doubt I would have survived a fight against a necromancer of his skill if he held a Crystal Skull. Did he enlighten us as to which Skull?’
‘Surprisingly, yes; he claimed it was the Skull known as Knowledge.’
Bahl laughed. ‘Not only was the man a liar, he was a bad one at that. Knowledge was destroyed almost seven thousand years ago. Malich’s mind must have been more rotted than we thought; the owner destroyed Knowledge in his madness after the Last Battle. If he hadn’t, it would have resurfaced constantly over the years since, as those that did survive have done.’
‘Exactly, my Lord. It makes Malich’s claims as ridiculous as his influence is dangerous. He’s caused us enough problems; the Azaer daemon-cult he championed has spread heresy throughout the tribe. Now that he’s dead, can we not just erase any possible legacy?’
‘Bring me everything the mages have first. I want to read these theories of his in greater detail.’
‘My Lord?’ The Chief Steward looked surprised. ‘I wrote the summary myself so no one else would read this material. The evil Malich wrought has been corrosive enough. Even the wizards themselves took no chances; that’s why they divided the work between twenty of them. Necromancy will bring damnation to anyone, even to you, my Lord. And Nartis has every reason to hate the Skulls after the death of his brother Veren-’
Bahl half-rose from his seat, sparks of anger flashing from his white eyes. ‘Do not presume to lecture me on theology! The prattling of priests and the chatter of old wives do not concern me.’
Lesarl froze for a moment, then dropped to one knee. Grim-faced, he bowed his head in apology. ‘Forgive me, my Lord, I forgot my place. Of course you know better than I do.’ After all these years he should be used to Bahl’s outbursts, but they were unpredictable and alarming and could still sometimes catch him off-guard.
Bahl felt a second surge of anger at Lesarl’s accusatory expression, but he made it subside. His Chief Steward was correct. Damn you, Lesarl; I do know how dangerous a course I’m taking. I don’t need you to remind me of that, but you aren’t the one tormented by dreams of the dead. Uncomfortable silence reigned for a dozen heartbeats before Bahl eased back into his seat.
Lesarl took that as his cue to rise again. He had served Bahl for most of his life and had long since learned to bear the old lord’s fluctuating mood. There was a longer pause until he spoke again.
‘There was, my Lord, one other point of interest. Malich’s s Menin apprentice added a footnote which stated that his master had mentioned a Skull being located in the palace on the White Isle. It had been during one of the many fits that the man must have been suffering by then. Malich would not have been capable of writing for long periods, according to the Archmage; the journals are frequently in his apprentice’s handwriting. He mentions preparations for a journey, but no destination, so we cannot be sure. My opinion would be that it is merely babble; a madman’s raving, but-’
‘But it’s hard to be sure,’ Bahl finished. ‘There are ways to find out such information if you’re willing to pay the price. He was in league with several daemon-princes, after all. The elves of the forest? Perhaps they hoped Malich could be made to get it for them. The White Isle is certainly somewhere no elf would dare venture, but a man might survive, and Malich’s ascendance did their position no damage at all.’
‘Lord, would it be presumptive to ask what you propose to use the Skull for?’ asked Lesarl, his voice wavering a little.
‘Yes, it would. Be content that it is my will. Do whatever you must.’ Bahl’s face softened a little. ‘Lesarl, I know you must ask those questions that no one else would dare, but do not press me any further on this.’
Bahl thought back to Cordein Malich’s beginning: he had been a student of astonishing promise when he arrived at the gates of the College of Magic; talented enough that the conceited mages in Tirah had not questioned why he had travelled all the way from Embere to enrol. After Malich’s second summer there, his behaviour had grown increasingly erratic. A number of bizarre accidents befell several people on his growing list of enemies. The Archmage of the day had been on the point of throwing Malich out - despite his remarkable talent - because of the unhealthy influence he held over the other students, when Malich suddenly disappeared, together with a number of forbidden works from the restricted library.
Some decades later, Bahl only just managed to prevent all-out civil war when, during a pre-emptive attack on Malich’s fortress deep in the forest, he had succeeded in killing the necromancer.
What they found there had sickened even the white-eyes of the Guard, and resulted in more than a hundred Farlan nobles and mages being condemned to death for treason and heresy. Before the castle was burnt to the ground, Bahl had removed Malich’s entire library. Some of the works were carefully and totally destroyed; some were spirited away to be studied secretly, and at length.
He’d waited a long time for these journals to be translated. He pressed Lesarl again. ‘And there’s no clue in Malich’s journal about where on the White Isle the Skull is kept? I hate to think how long it would take to walk every corridor of the palace there.’
Lesarl scratched his chin, clearly unwilling to encourage Bahl in any way, but he knew better than to lie. ‘It does say that the Skull is watched over by the first among men. It’s a reasonable assumption that this means Kasi Farlan, but there is no guarantee. How much help that is, I don’t know. The palace covers much of the entire island, doesn’t it?’
Bahl nodded. He drew on his pipe, frowning when he realised it had gone out, then discarded it on a table. In that moment he looked suddenly old. With his shoulders hunched and his gaze distant, Lesarl thought his lord resembled his own father who, in his later years, had been haunted by all he’d seen in Bahl’s service.
The Chief Steward shivered at the image and cleared his throat noisily to dispel it. ‘I do have one last piece of news, something I had not intended to bother you with until, well-’ He coughed nervously. ‘It seems that Duke Nemarse, the ruler of Raland, has been doing a little plundering on the quiet. He discovered some tombs near his southern border. My agent discovered a soldier who had been involved in the excavation; apparently he believed he was not sufficiently compensated for committing sacrilege, and declared as much to the whole tavern. One of the things he mentioned was a Skull as clear as glass - not much to look at, he said, but the duke made a point of personally collecting it from the man who’d brought it out.’
‘And where is this man now?’
‘He seems to have disappeared, my Lord. My agent is looking for him now. But, there remains the possibility that Duke Nemarse actually possesses a Crystal Skull. Raland would be easier to search than the White Isle, and certainly safer.’
Bahl nodded. The Palace of the White Isle was vast and otherworldly; Raland was indeed a far easier target. Duke Nemarse was a fool and a coward; every mercenary captain he’d employed had either left within the year or attempted a coup. The only thing that kept the duke in power was a series of expensive commissions to the city’s assassins.
‘Send one of your more direct agents to track this soldier down and do whatever is necessary. I want to know every detail of the duke’s activities, and stop this rumour going any further.’
‘The agent in question should be eminently suitable: she has the mouth and manners of a cavalryman, according to the temple-mistress, but her “special talents” are described as “proficient”. Her standing orders mean she should already be on her way home with the deed done.’
‘Ah, one of those.’ Bahl smiled.
In the city of Helrect, halfway between Tirah and Raland, Chief Steward Lesarl’s agent squinted down at the cup before her. It was a public h
oliday there; anyone not inebriated at this hour was either well on the way towards it or, quite possibly, dead because of it. Legana had seen examples of all of those when she had travelled through the city streets a few hours earlier, hurrying through the twilight to reach the inn before the day faded completely. Even for a woman of her skills, Helrect’s streets under cover of darkness were a dangerous place to be and the general drunkenness only exacerbated the problem.
She looked past her drinking companions to the bonfires that set the boundaries of what was visible. She didn’t have to worry about her safety, not now she was sat in the midst of a company of Chetse mercenaries whose commander was extremely fond of her, but the instinct to constantly check her surroundings was too ingrained to change. She soon regretted the move; focusing was proving rather difficult and even when she did manage to see clearly, she still saw nothing more than the dilapidated sight of Helrect.
‘Oh Gods, I hate this city,’ Legana muttered, raising her cup once more. The man beside her snorted with amusement and reached out to give her a pat on the shoulder. His palm felt like a large ham thumping down.
‘Hah, you’re drunk, woman! You always get depressed when you’re drunk.’ Destech, the commander’s lieutenant, considered Legana his friend for a reason only a Chetse soldier would ever consider. He cocked his head to one side and took a good look at her. ‘You’re not so pretty when you’re drunk either, which is odd, because I’m drunk too, and most women’ll do once I’ve got a few jars inside me.’
‘Get your bastard hand off me or I’ll break your nose back the way it was,’ Legana growled. ‘Even drunk, you still look like the arse end of a pig.’ She tossed back her copper-tinted hair to look Destech in the eye. He withdrew his hand, chuckling.