***
Belythna made her way down the tower, her boots whispering on the worn stone. With Hath and his men gone, the tower was strangely still. The maids had swept out the top rooms that morning and were now helping the cook with the evening meal. As Belythna reached the bottom level, she caught the aroma of roasting duck with orange, and sweet potatoes frying in goose fat and thyme. The smell wafted up from the kitchens and filled the stairwell. Usually, such an aroma would have caused Belythna’s mouth to water, but this eve it made her feel queasy. Taking care to move quietly, lest one of the servants hear her, Belythna crossed the entrance hall and slipped out of the great oak door.
Outside, she padded down the wide stone staircase into the courtyard. Cyprus trees lined the wide expanse of pavers. The trees cast long shadows, like scarecrow fingers, across the courtyard and arid ground beyond. The wind caught at Belythna’s long shift dress, causing it to flatten against her legs.
Casting her gaze about her surroundings, Belythna felt sadness envelop her. She had been so happy here. On an evening like this, in other circumstances, she would have taken a walk with Hath in the hills and watched the sunset, before returning to the tower for supper. Yet, her husband was not here, and was not due to return from his hunting trip for another two days.
This eve, Belythna had no time to admire the sunset. Instead, she took the path that led back, away from the gardens, and into the hills behind Barrowthorne Tower. Gnarled olives lined the path and the air was heavy with the scent of wild thyme. She followed the path as it climbed for a while, before descending into a rocky valley. Here a river flowed; a wide turquoise swath cutting through dun-coloured earth, grey-flecked schist and purple clumps of thyme.
Belythna made her way down the hill, her thoughts focused on her destination: a great flat stone, at least twenty feet in diameter, which lay at the river’s edge.
These days, local children played on the stone, lovers met in secret and lizards sunned themselves on its smooth surface. None of the locals knew the stone for what it really was – a Call Stone – one of the many portals the Sentorân and their counterparts, the Esquill, used to travel from one end of Palâdnith to the other. Few Call Stones now remained open. Some were dormant, while others had been closed forever.
This Call Stone was still open, and Belythna could have used it to disappear to some remote corner of Palâdnith – but tonight she would not run.
Belythna began to hurry, her boots sliding on the loose stones. The sun had slid behind the blunt edge of the Sables and the sky was darkening. The last smudges of gold were fading from the sky and here, in the sheltered valley, the wind had died to a soft breeze. Belythna reached the bottom of the hill and swept her gaze to the river bank – to the Call Stone.
Her breath caught and she stopped.
She’s here already.
A woman stood on the far edge of the Call Stone, waiting.
Riadamor, Queen of the Esquill, was tall, plain and dressed in a long silver-grey gown with wide, bell-like sleeves and a high-collar. Her pale blonde hair fell long and lank around a forgettable face. So powerful was she, that the Queen could have given herself a fairer or fouler appearance than this one. Riadamor had tricked many with her unremarkable appearance; it was one of her subtler weapons.
“Welcome Belythna,” Riadamor’s voice, though low and feminine, held incredible power. “Come closer. Do not cower from me.”
“I’m not cowering,” Belythna approached the Queen of the Esquill. She stepped up on to the Call Stone and felt the portal’s energy vibrate through the soles of her feet.
She met her enemy’s gaze squarely. “Have I not come to meet you?”
Riadamor stared at Belythna. Her eyes gleamed and Belythna saw hunger and excitement there.
“Do not bother trying to escape through the stone. I locked it behind me.” Riadamor warned her.
Belythna did not bother replying. They both knew she would not run.
“So you finally came for me?”
“All this time I’ve been looking for you – and here you were, right under my nose. I caught the others in the first years after Deep-Spire fell, even Floriana. Some I killed and some I turned into my servants. But it took me a while to find you Belythna. You hid yourself under layers of cloaking spells and buried yourself on my doorstep.”
Belythna’s voice was flint-edged when she replied.
“So now you have found me – congratulations.”
Riadamor smiled.
“You were always the strongest, by far the best of your order. You were even stronger than Serina.” Riadamor cocked her head to one side and regarded Belythna. “Why don’t you join us? We are not so very different.”
“Join you?” Belythna stifled a laugh, “why would you want to join with those you shunned? We weren’t good enough for you – remember?”
Riadamor’s smile widened. “Oh I do remember. When I broke away from the old ways, I asked you then to join me. You refused and look what happened? Let history speak for itself: we met you in battle and we won. I struck Serina down with my own hand, that pious bitch who thought herself better than me. She begged for mercy in the end. You all lost Deep-Spire that day, and the few surviving Sentorân disappeared – but I knew I would find every last one of you.”
Belythna stared back at the woman who had once been a Sentorân. A few years older than Belythna, Riadamor had soon tired of the constraints of their order. She chafed under the leadership of Serina, the head of the Sentorân. She challenged Serina and failed. Days later, Riadamor had disappeared from Deep-Spire. A few years later, Riadamor had re-emerged, leading a new order of sorcerers – the Esquill. Belythna would never forget that terrible day, when the Esquill and the Sentorân fought before the gates of Deep-Spire. The power they unleashed gouged the earth into deep ravines and gullies, and shook Deep-Spire to its foundations. Many died in that battle – but a handful of Sentorân survived. Belythna lost her old life that day; she cast aside her former identity and went in search of a new one. Hath Falkyn had given her what she craved. Yet it had not been enough to keep the past at bay. Why was it never enough?
“You’d permit a Sentorân to live?” Belythna resisted the urge to spit at Riadamor’s feet.
Riadamor smiled again, although the expression was nothing more than a mere twist of the lips.
“The Sentorân are no longer a threat to me. I would prefer to make an ally of you. It would be a pity to waste such talent. I saw you fight that day at Deep-Spire. I could not even get near you. If the Esquill had not outnumbered the Sentorân so greatly, victory might not have been ours. Imagine it!” Riadamor swept her hand in an arc before her. “I now have a loyal following of Esquill – but none have your talent. From Deep-Spire we could rule this land. The realmlords would all bow before such power. With you as my ally and a host of Esquill at my command, Palâdnith would be within our grasp.”
Riadamor’s grimace widened.
“And of course, I would keep your sons as my wards – before deciding their fate once they came of age.”
Ice washed over Belythna.
“You won’t keep my sons as your wards. You will kill them before they become a threat.”
Belythna locked eyes with Riadamor. She had so much to stay in Barrowthorne for. She had never wanted to take this route but the Queen of the Esquill had thrust it upon her.
Belythna would not challenge Riadamor to a duel. Casting the protection spell over her sons had drained her. For eight years, she had been free, not just from Riadamor but from the rigours that life as one of the Sentorân demanded. For the first time she had been allowed to just be a woman, a wife and a mother.
I will never see Hath again.
“You will never have my sons.”
Belythna crouched low, as if preparing to strike, but instead of raising her right hand to cast a spell, she moved it earthwards, towards her feet. She wore light, lace-up boots and in the back of the right one, she had hidden an o
bject. She grabbed hold of a chain protruding from the back and pulled it out.
She held it out before her – a red diamond-shaped pendant with a black heart – hanging from a gold chain.
Riadamor’s gaze fastened on the pendant, and for a moment, the two witches froze. The Queen of the Esquill’s face went slack, her pale face draining of what little colour it possessed. Riadamor rushed forward, but the stone glowed in warning and she stopped short.
Unlike the stone on which they stood, which could transport them to any number of locations through Palâdnith, this stone had only one destination – a place there was no way back from.
“How did you get one of those?” Riadamor’s voice had now lost its arrogance and her grey eyes were huge on her white face.
“This one belonged to Serina. She gave it to me before the Battle of Deep-Spire. She could not risk you taking it from her.”
Riadamor’s gaze narrowed. “That stone will take you with it Belythna. You have not the courage to use it.”
“If it means ridding the world of you then I have courage enough!”
Belythna lunged forward and caught Riadamor by the arm.
“Marthragin!”
With that, Belythna threw the pendant to the ground at their feet.
Riadamor screamed; an agonised cry that echoed up and down the valley.
The world disappeared.
Belythna fell into howling darkness. Wind whipped about her and she plummeted into a black abyss towards nothing. Belythna’s limbs flailed, her hands clawing in the dark, but there was nothing to grab hold of. Then the horror of it consumed her, and she fainted.
Deep-Spire Page 25