Eni drank so much that the rest of the night passed in a pleasure-filled blur. The next morning, he had awoken naked in bed with Lydia beside him. In his hung-over state, he had struggled to remember who she was and how she had got there. Still, he was not unhappy about it, and neither was she.
Lydia did not leave that day, or the next. Right from the first morning, she turned his dreary, cramped living quarters into a light, airy home. She cleaned it from top to bottom, threw out all the rubbish that had accumulated in the corners, and placed vases of flowers throughout. She baked him fresh bread every morning and prepared wonderful meals for him in the evenings. Eni spent the early days, bleary-eyed and yawning at his forge, after long, hot nights with Lydia. They still talked little, but that hardly seemed to matter.
After a few months, their happiness began to fade. A short while after that they started to fight. Lydia resented Eni’s dedication to his work. As payment for warming his bed, cleaning his house and cooking his meals, she wanted a man who would adore and entertain her. She wanted gifts, promises and laughter but Eni had only one love – his craft. The more she went on at him, the more taciturn he became. Their fighting initially consisted of cold silences and slamming doors, before it escalated to shouting and blistering insults. By the time she walked out of his life, the passion they had once shared was no more than a memory.
These days she worked in service for the realmlord himself, as a maid to his lady wife; and Eni worked hard to forget she had ever been part of his life.
Pushing aside bitter thoughts of Lydia, Eni went through to his workshop and warmed his hands by the forge. By mid-morning, this space would be red-hot and the sweat would be pouring off him. Now though, he savoured the warmth and a rare moment of inactivity before the day began.
Eni’s forge always welcomed him like an old friend. He had amassed a huge range of tools over the years: chisels, fullers, and hammers – many of which hung like trophies on the blackened walls. A great worn anvil, given to him by his former master, Talin, stood next to the glowing forge. His current project, a light sword for a Catedrâl nobleman, lay on the bench at the far end of the forge. Eni crossed the workshop and picked the weapon up, running an expert eye over the object he had crafted. He had made quite a few of these swords of late, and this one was almost ready. He needed just a couple more days, while he finished off the hilt and wove a charm into the blade, and the job would be done.
Eni itched to start work on the sword now, but his rumbling stomach and empty cupboards reminded him that a trip to Catedrâl’s market awaited him. He took a large hessian bag, slung a cloak about his shoulders for warmth and made his way into the mist-wreathed street. The other workshops lining his street were just opening for the day. As he stepped outside and locked his workshop behind him, Eni could hear the clunks of locks releasing, the slam of doors, and the clatter of iron shutters opening further down the street.
Eni lived in the heart of the twisted labyrinth of Castlewatch; the city’s artisans’ quarter. He made his way down the hill, and passed another forge that had just opened its doors for the day. Inside, he could see the glow of the fire.
A less welcoming sight was the heavily built, bearded man with close-set eyes and a scowling face, who appeared in the doorway. The man saw Eni, stepped out onto the street and spat on the cobbles as he walked by.
Unperturbed, Eni ignored the insult, and the muttered threat that followed it.
“I’ll get you Falkyn.”
Fain had lost a lot of work since Eni had opened a forge on the same street, and these days even the sight of his competitor galled the older weaponsmith. He blamed Eni for his lack of work – but Eni knew that Fain was lazy, sloppy and lacked charm-weaving skills. Charm-weaving was an integral part of the weapon-smith’s craft, yet Fain had never shown any aptitude for it, despite being apprenticed to one of Catedrâl’s finest craftsmen. Eni’s casual dismissal of his rival’s insults only seemed to incense Fain further. Eni was the first to admit that he enjoyed baiting Fain.
He left Fain and Castlewatch behind. At the bottom of the hill, the streets widened and there were more people about; carts rattled past and locals, bundled up against the cold, picked their way by, careful not to slip on the patches of frost that covered the cobblestones. Eni passed tailor and cobbler shops, before the street forked. Sometimes, when the weather was mild, Eni would take the left fork. It was a prettier, albeit longer, walk along the banks of the River Arden; whereas, the right fork, although considerably shorter, took Eni through one of the poorest areas of Catedrâl – a tangle of stinking alleyways and dilapidated homes.
Impatient to return to work, Eni took the right fork this morning.
The chill had lessened the usual stench in this area. The streets were empty here; only a couple of starved cats scratched around in the piles of rubbish that folk had thrown from their windows.
As Eni walked, his thoughts returned to the sword he was completing. He had reached the final stage, and the one he enjoyed the most – that of weaving a charm into the blade. This was what made Eni’s weapons stand out from his rivals. Not only were his blades strong, beautifully balanced and expertly crafted, but he was also able to weave delicate charms into them; charms that only the weapon’s owner could exploit. The nobleman who had commissioned this sword had asked Eni for an ‘intuitive’ charm, which would give him the ability to sense and counteract his opponent’s movements. It was a difficult charm but Eni felt he would be able to manage it.
His master, Talin, had been a talented charm-weaver and had trained Eni well. Even as a novice, Eni had shown promise in the art – Talin never had to teach him a charm twice. He had felt the iron and steel sing to him as he traced his fingers across its surface and whispered each new charm. The beauty of charm-weaving had captivated Eni from the start. He was a pragmatist, unlike his older brother Val who had always been the dreamer of the family, but when he wove a charm into a blade he became a poet, an artist.
Years on, Eni wished Talin was alive to see how he had improved. However, not everyone was impressed by Eni’s charm-weaving skills; Fain, and others, had spread rumours that Eni wove foul curses, instead of charms, into the weapons he crafted. Eni paid little heed to Fain’s gossip-mongering. He cared little what the other weaponsmiths thought of him. What mattered was that he had plenty of customers – and at present, he had a waiting list of those eager for his skills.
The streets narrowed to filth-strewn alleyways; so narrow in places that they almost grazed Eni’s shoulders. He was but a short distance from the market now, and could hear the muffled shouts of those hawking their produce. The aroma of freshly baked bread reached him and Eni decided that he would stop to break his fast on a loaf, still hot from the ovens and smeared with salted butter and honey, before buying his food for the week.
Eni turned the corner, into the last backstreet before Market Square – and skidded to a halt.
This alley was cleaner than most but festooned with washing lines. Through the clutter of drying sheets, shirts and hose, Eni saw two figures, grappling together.
At first, he thought that he had come across lovers, and was about to retrace his steps and take another route to the market, when he realised they were fighting. Both figures were cloaked; one wore a wine-red mantle with a deep cowl, and the other a black hooded cape. Eni saw the flash of steel and froze.
They were grappling with a hunting knife. As Eni watched, the figure in black gained the advantage and plunged the knife into his opponent’s chest.
The red-robed figure fell back against the wall with a strangled cry, clutching the knife’s hilt. His attacker straightened up, turned and looked straight at Eni. It was impossible to make out the killer’s face, for he had pulled his cowl forward so that his features were in shadow. He then stepped back from his victim, turned and fled down the alleyway. A moment later, the assassin disappeared into the bustle of Market Square.
The wounded man whimpered and slid down the wall. H
is hood fell back, revealing a shock of wavy golden hair.
Eni gasped. It was Flynn Valense – the realmlord’s elder son.
He rushed forward and crouched next to the young man. Flynn’s face had gone slack and his eyes were glazing over. They had never met, although Eni had seen the realmlord’s sons often enough during street parades and festivals over the years.
“Lord Flynn – can you hear me?” Eni asked, pushing aside Flynn’s cloak to get a look at the wound. “Who did this?”
Flynn’s mouth worked, as if he were trying to answer, but he could not seem to speak. Instead, blood leaked from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Eni looked at the knife embedded to the hilt in Flynn’s chest and felt a chill go through him.
I crafted this knife.
Eni recognised the workmanship on the hilt. He had made a number of these knives over the years. They were one of his most common requests; yet they were all like children to Eni. It was definitely one of his.
The blade had pierced a lung. Flynn Valense was dying.
Flynn clutched at Eni as the blood now ran freely down his chin and soaked his fine red mantle. Again, his mouth worked but he only managed a choked, gurgling sound.
Flynn clutched once more at Eni’s arm, his fingers digging into Eni’s flesh. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the wall. Eni felt the strength go out of the young man’s fingers and watched as life left Flynn Valense.
Eni rocked back on his heels and cursed softly.
Shouts reached him from the direction of the market.
“Murder!”
Eni climbed to his feet – someone had raised the alarm. A knot of soldiers, all wearing the black and gold of the realmlord’s guard, entered the alley. They thundered towards Eni, who remained rooted to the spot, awaiting their arrival. If he ran, they would think he had killed the realmlord’s son.
“Look – he’s got blood on his hands!” one of the guards shouted.
Eni looked down to see that, indeed, Flynn’s blood coated his fingers. The metallic stench of it was thick in the air.
***
Skeleton trees overshadowed the road. Bare branches splayed skyward like supplicating hands and through them Eni caught sight of Haladyn Castle rising into the mist. Its white walls, built of Omari sandstone, appeared to swirl and ripple as if alive. Towers, topped in delicate turrets, perched upon its walls.
Eni rode along a wide avenue, flanked either side by guards. They had bound his hands behind him, so tightly that he had lost all feeling in them. The cold air stung his face and the damp made his bones ache. The road wound its way through Haladyn Park. In the summer, the park was an idyllic spot with the Arden River curving through meadows of wildflowers. Today, Haladyn Park was a bleak place. Mist curled between the trees. Rotting leaves lay over the frozen ground and the entire park slumbered in hibernation.
Eni and the guards rode up to the castle before crossing the drawbridge and moat. They passed under the portcullis and rode into a stable-lined courtyard.
Guards dragged Eni off his horse and shoved him forward so violently that he tripped and sprawled over the cobbles. One of the guards kicked him in the ribs.
“Get up!”
Eni struggled to his feet and snarled at the guard.
“I told you before – you’ve got the wrong man!”
Another guard grabbed Eni by the hair and hauled him towards a set of stairs that led underground. They dragged him down into the dungeons – a damp, dark hole that reeked of urine and decay – and tossed him into a blackened cell.
Eni picked himself up off a pile of rotting straw as the door boomed shut, trapping him in the darkness. His arms were starting to cramp, his ribs ached from the kick, and his left knee throbbed from his fall in the stableyard. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep, steadying breaths to quell the panic that was rising within him.
It seemed a long while before the guards came for him. Time lost all meaning in the darkness but Eni saw that dusk was settling as they herded him out of the dungeon and up the steps into the castle itself. Mercifully, the guards removed the ropes that bound his wrists, although the pain was excruciating when the blood flooded back into his numbed hands.
The procession made its way through the cavernous corridors. Servants stopped and gawked at Eni. Their staring faces angered him. He had worked so hard to build his standing in Catedrâl. This mistake could cost him his livelihood.
Eni entered the realmlord’s reception hall, flanked by guards. Stone pillars lined the vast space and the ceiling, high and vaulted, appeared to stretch upwards to eternity.
The realmlord sat on a raised dais awaiting him. Eni looked upon Lord Valense’s face and felt his pulse quicken. Like his elder son, Lord Valense was a tall, slender man with quiet ways and quick blue eyes. His once golden hair was now grey and cut short against his scalp. Grief had turned his face gaunt, and his eyes glittered out of hollowed sockets.
Behind him, stretched out on a marble slab, lay Flynn Valense. The knife had been removed from his chest and laid beside him. The blood had been washed away and he had been dressed in a black and vermillion robe. Flynn’s hair draped over the edge of the slab in a golden curtain. His face, expressionless in death, was the colour of chalk.
Mattias Valense stood beside his brother’s body. The realmlord's only surviving son, dressed in velvet, stared down at the ground. A mop of blond hair obscured his face. Their mother, Lady Valense, sat rigidly next to her husband, as pale and cold as stone.
The guards brought Eni ten feet from the realmlord before stepping back, leaving him exposed to the stares of everyone present.
“Milord,” Eni broke the terrible silence. “I am so sorry for your loss, but I did not kill your son. I swear it upon Palâd and Nith.”
Silence followed Eni’s declaration. He could feel the stares of the realmlord’s court upon him. He could feel their hate. Flynn, whose gentle nature and warm smile had charmed many, was loved throughout Catedrâl.
“My guards found you standing over his body with blood on your hands,” the realmlord replied, his voice brittle. “There was no one else nearby. Do you deny that you murdered him?”
“Why would I hurt your son?” Eni replied. “He has never done me any harm.”
“Tell me then,” the realmlord answered. “I wish to hear your version of the events.”
Eni inhaled deeply, grateful that Valense was prepared to listen to him.
“I was taking a shortcut to Market Square when I saw Flynn struggling with a cloaked figure,” he began hesitantly. “I did not see the face of his attacker, for he shrouded it with a hood. He had just stabbed Flynn when he saw me and ran. I tried to help your son but the knife had pierced his lung. He died trying to tell me the name of his killer.”
There was a deathly silence before the realmlord replied.
“These sound like the words of a liar to me.”
Panic beat in Eni’s chest like a trapped bird. His mouth suddenly went dry. He could see why Valense did not believe him; the truth sounded somehow hollow and feeble.
“No Milord. I swear I did not murder your son!”
An expectant hush fell in the hall – only to be shattered moments later.
“Lies!”
The crowd parted and a young woman, slender and olive skinned, with dark hair tied back in a long braid, rushed forward. She wore a long grey shift over a white linen underdress; a servant’s uniform. Tears stained the woman’s pretty face.
Eni gaped at the sight of Lydia, his ex-lover, standing before him.
It was the first time he had seen her in many months and she was as comely as he remembered, even in those drab clothes, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Still, the sight of her made Eni’s stomach clench.
“This man lies!” she sobbed. “He murdered Flynn Valense in cold blood!”
The entire assembly went still and all gazes settled upon Lydia, handmaid to Lady Valense. Lydia turned to the real
mlord and struggled to stem her sobs.
“Milord,” she gasped. “Your son and I were lovers.”
In the deep silence of the reception hall, everyone heard Lydia’s declaration. The hiss of sharply drawn breaths followed her words. Lady Valense had suddenly come to life. She coiled her thin body inwards as outrage took her.
“How dare you!”
Valense reached across and covered his wife’s trembling hand with his. The realmlord’s lean face was gaunt with the effort required to contain himself.
Eni stared at Lydia, aghast, before he turned to Valense.
“It is she who lies. Do not listen to her!”
“Silence!” the realmlord commanded. He then turned to Lydia, his face hewn from stone. “Speak on.”
Lydia took another deep breath and wiped away the tears that blinded her. Then, her gaze lifted and she looked at Lady Valense.
“I apologise Milady, I never meant to betray your trust.” Her gaze then shifted to the realmlord, her face resolute. “The man before you was once my lover. He was violent and jealous and eventually, tiring of his cruelty, I left him.”
Her words made Eni feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. The air suddenly seemed leaden, and he struggled to draw breath. He could not believe what he was hearing – but before he could speak up to defend himself, Lydia continued.
“Here at Haladyn Castle, I have only known kindness. In service to Lady Valense, I often saw Flynn. Soon he sought out my company and we became friends. After a while, our friendship deepened and we became lovers. Knowing that our love would never be accepted, we kept it secret – and it would have remained so if it had not been for this man.”
Lydia pointed at Eni.
“A week ago I was in Market Square when Eni Falkyn approached me. He bullied me and I lost my temper. I told him that I had finally found a man who would love and cherish me; I told him that Flynn and I were lovers.”
Journey of Shadows (The Palâdnith Chronicles Book 1) Page 4