Windstide 1920
A dozen candles cast their dancing light over the walls of the shrine, yet their amber glow did not warm the chill of the place. The heat of the gathered bodies faired no different, nor did the small brazier that lit the far end of the room. Emelia felt as if she would never know the comfort of summer’s warmth again.
Lord Ebon-Farr had generously allowed the service to be held in the tiny shrine that served the garrison. It was a dank and musty place, tucked away at the rear of the building. Its solitary window opened out through the sheer back wall of the Keep. The wall fell precipitously away to the foot of the mountain, thousands of feet below.
What would it be like to leap through the window and fall almost without end? Emelia thought. It was a macabre notion, given the nature of her friend’s demise.
The priests of Torik had not matched Lord Ebon-Farr’s kindness. The acolyte who normally preached within the shrine had refused to give the service. He regarded it as sinful that the deceased was both with child and had undoubtedly taken her own life whilst wracked with shame. It was fair to say that this was the general consensus of opinion, as difficult as it was for the other housemaids to believe of their friend—a friend who had lit up their daily lives like a beacon.
Emelia’s eyes were dry as she gazed across the small shrine, crammed shoulder to shoulder with the other girls. Her tears had gone, dried in a near constant flow of grief. Now all that was left was anger and a fury that simmered and throbbed within her at the injustice of all of this.
The elderly attendant of Torik droned words of prayer at the far end of the shrine. His face was like an old boot, worn leathery skin stretched tight with a shock of grey hair. Emelia knew that he was normally responsible for cleaning the shrine and maintaining the candles and brazier for the acolyte. Mother Gresham had clearly offered him some recompense for his ‘sermon’, dismayed that a proper priest wasn’t amenable. He stumbled over his words like a nervous suitor but no-one really cared. All were relieved that someone was simply saying them.
In addition to the snuffling servants were Mother Gresham, two cooks and two of the soldiers, their stoical faces betraying occasional flickers of emotion. Captain Ris was also there and Emelia still struggled to meet his eyes. Torm stood in the corner, seeking solace in the shadows. By Emelia’s side was Abila, their prior frostiness having thawed in the heat of their grief.
It was grief like none she had ever known. Emelia considered she had had some experience of loss in her fifteen years of life. She had endured the ache of separation from her childhood home, albeit a ramshackle shack on the edge of a beach. She had a sense that her servitude had lost her what a childhood should have been: full of love and fun and the warmth of a father’s smile or a mother’s hug. She considered she had lost free will as now her only real freedom was that of her imagination and her dreams. Yet in retrospect she was deluded, for true loss, true sorrow, was an ache more terrible than she realised could happen. It was the ache of what would never be, the ache of all the “if only”, the ache of the “should have.”
The first night, when she’d finally forced the image of Sandila’s broken body from her mind she had fantasised, as was her want, about how she might have changed things. Perhaps if she had kept Sandila talking that hour longer, perhaps if she’d not run in panic that day in the lower city and gone with Sandy to the wise woman, then her friend would never have come up to the Great Hall to talk that morning. She replayed the scenario in her mind a dozen times and in all the day-dreaming Sandila was alive and laughing at the end.
Her eye caught Torm’s gaze. He smiled slightly and then looked towards the shrouded shape that was Sandila. Emelia stared at the amorphous form, a white sheet covering the broken body; the husk that her departing spirit had left. She had heard from Abila that Mother Gresham had bullied and begged enough coins to pay for Sandila to be interned in a mass grave in one of the lower city cemeteries, a great boon for a foreign girl in servitude. Coonorians buried their dead in deep holes hewn into the rock and only the rich had the luxury of privacy in their final resting place. Abila had been confused at Emelia’s lack of joy at this news, interpreting it as distorted grief rather than Emelia’s memory of her last trip to a cemetery.
Emelia’s ruminations about her imminent move to the Enclave and her ever-present fear of the dark sorcerer had been suppressed by the tide of grief. Sandila had loved life so very much and a fire was smouldering inside Emelia now: a passion to live, a burgeoning desire to experience something beyond the stifling chambers of Coonor.
The ceremony was drawing to a close now and as was the custom the attendant was lighting the spirit lamp. It consisted of a small candle held by a wire frame to a large paper lantern, in this instance decorated by Gelia and Annre. The attendant gestured to Emelia and she stepped forward and took the lamp. He then turned, walked to the window and flung it open, the breeze making the candles flicker.
“Thus we guide your spirit to the eight winds of Gracious Torik,” the attendant said. “Lord of the air, Master of the great breeze and Father of the storm we pray to thee to lift the essence of this poor girl, taken too soon in our mind yet never too soon for your great realm. Torik, Air Father, hear our prayers.”
Emelia leaned from the window and the early morning air sent her dress billowing. The icy wind finally elicited tears. She released the spirit lamp and it flew from her grasp and soared into the sky, its light flickering as it took Sandila’s soul to the peace of the heavens.
The room was silent for a minute before Mother Gresham began rounding up all the girls and sending them back to work, clucking how even in death Sandila could instil laziness all around. Emelia did not miss the thickness in her voice as she gruffly bossed the maids about.
Emelia stared out of the small window, the panoramic view like a majestic tapestry before her. She would give anything just for a month to walk to that horizon and back rather than around in this rock pool of Coonor. That last conversation with Sandila still played in her head. Her time was running short before she left for the Enclave. It would be tomorrow morning and all this would be a bitter memory fading like the tapestries in the upper corridors.
Run away, Emelia, let us run away, Emebaka urged.
How will I live if I were to escape Coonor? And that’s even if I could evade the black sorcerer.
Are you a lamb to the cull like your poor friend or are you a mighty eagle, your wings beating against the winds of change? Are you to live in this half-life, scared by the shadows? the dry voice answered.
Her temper flared at this insult. It is not that simple, Emebaka. I am no warrior, no princess of fairy tales and no sorceress to have talent to battle against the fate the gods have decided for me. I am a maid, a servant, illiterate and worthless, a commodity to be bartered and sold, given for a favour and used until I am of age. And then what? Abila told me straight—there is no chance of me leaving this city to find my parents. And why would I? Do I really want to put myself and my family through the pain of reunion, even if they were alive? If I am truthful to myself, do I want to ask my father if things were really so dire that he had no choice but to sell his daughter into servitude in a land a thousand miles away?
How wrong you are, Emebaka replied, the truth sits on the edge of your mind like an itch that cannot be scratched. The birdman knew when he looked in your glittering eyes that you are meant for greater things than this. The gods put you by the door that day for you to listen, they guided you into the cemetery that night and they put you behind that tapestry to learn the truths of this place. Beneath the façade of nobility is a rotten core; behind the masque is a face that is vile.
A shudder of expectation juddered through her body and a sudden sense of inevitability pervaded her. It was as if all her self-consciousness, that sense of being a stranger in her own flesh, of being a girl in a woman’s body, fluttered away in the wind. It drifted upwards, carried with the spirit of her dead friend in that glowing lamp. Emebaka was correct; she knew what she needed to do.
She had to confront Uthor.
***
Torm was waiting for her as she left the shrine. He hugged himself as she approached. His face carried a fresh bruise, purple and angry.
“Good of you to come along, Torm,” Emelia said.
“Least I can do,” Torm said. “It saves me an hour of slaps from him upstairs. He had a dark mood on him, what with the move to the Citadel being so close.”
“Still, I’m sure Sandy would have appreciated it.”
“Right. I never got much chance to know her. Some of the other lads were very fond of her I heard.”
Emelia laughed, tears stinging her eyes.
“Sorry – I didn’t mean to…”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just – well, it’s a difficult thing…”
“It always is. You were the last to see her. What did she say? I mean, did she hint at what she was going to do?”
“No. No, it wasn’t like that. She said she had something to put to rest”
“To what? To ‘put to rest’? What in the four moons does that mean?”
Emelia rubbed her forehead in discomfort.
“I – I’m not certain, Torm. She went off and then, then he…”
“He? Who are you talking about? Was someone else there? What is it you know, Emelia?”
Pain was throbbing in the rear of Emelia’s head. She wanted so much to tell Torm, but his knowing would put him in danger.
Torm was blocking her way back to the kitchens, trying to meet her gaze. Realisation spread across his face. “Asha’s tears—she didn’t kill herself did she?”
The lie congealed on her lips; she couldn’t deceive him.
“No.”
“Oh.... sweet Asha,” Torm said, his face a ghastly hue. “She was... murdered.”
“Yes, I think so,” Emelia said, her arms shaking. “After she fell, I heard... him...”
”Him?”
“Uthor... I heard Uthor.”
For an awful second Emelia thought Torm was going to faint such was his pallor. He gripped the smooth stone of the wall; his knuckles were white.
“Uthor,” he said, like saying the name slowly would exorcise the evil of his master from the Keep. “Curse him.”
“Torm, calm down.”
“How can I? Is it not enough that he treats me like the filth on his boot? He murdered Sandila.”
“Keep your voice low, for Torik’s sake. Look, we can’t do anything about this. No-one will believe us.”
“His face carries the evidence. The scratches, I saw them. I wondered how he’d got them.”
“We need to slow down. Think some more before we say anything, before we consider confronting him.”
“Think? Well, you ponder it, Emelia. Have one of your little daydreams about it. In the meantime I’ll sort things out with a little justice.”
Torm held out his hand and in his palm sat a small sharp knife. A trickle of fear ran through Emelia’s chest. Her head was thumping now.
“Torik save me! You’ll be thrown in prison for even carrying that near the Ebon-Farrs,” Emelia said. “Your life will be finished.”
“And what life is this that we have now? What life for a child of the sea? We simply exist, entombed in this ancient fortress. We count down the days to the end of our service knowing almost all of us will end up trapped in another menial role in another noble house of arrogance. You feel the same as I do – I saw it within you on that day you ran off.”
“I didn’t run off. It’s complicated.”
“Well this is simple. It’s the only message he’ll understand. And when I stick this in his belly I’ll be sure to whisper Sandila’s name in his ear.”
Torm pushed past Emelia and stormed down the corridor. Emelia sprinted after him, grabbing at his shoulder.
“Just wait, Torm. This is madness.”
“Well you’re the authority on that or so they say.”
Emelia stumbled to a halt as Torm pushed through a door into the kitchens. Torm’s words were like a slap across the face. She had thought he was one who understood her; the one who had given her the benefit of the doubt when all others shunned her. A void of despair was expanding within her breast. Her head was agony.
“Damn it. Wait,” she said.
A wave of dizziness came over her and she clung onto the doorframe. A clatter of pots hitting the floor rang out from the kitchens and she heard Torm cry out. She entered the kitchen, battling through nausea.
Several angry cooks were pulling Torm loose from under a half dozen pots. His ankle was swelling rapidly over the edge of his boot. Emelia saw the knife on the floor and swiftly kicked it away under a table.
Torm’s eyes met hers as the cooks hoisted him free. His eyes displayed only confusion.
You did tell him to wait, Emebaka commented, to which Emelia had no reply
***
The funeral procession wound like a black snake through the Thetorian town of Eviksburg. It paused periodically to increase its size as mourners wandered from their crooked houses.
From the vantage point of the hills that lay to the north of the town, Aldred Enfarson could make out that the procession numbered at least four dozen. It wasn’t a bad turn-out for the town’s eldest baker, Aldred thought. He would have been happy if he managed half that number.
Daily life still bustled away down in Eviksburg, albeit with due respect for the loss of one its great grandfathers. The bells of the two churches sang their lament. The birds atop the statue of Mortis, the Father of All, matched the peals with their incessant twitter.
Aldred sighed as he turned to his riding companion, Livor Korianson. Livor was an enthusiastic fifteen year old like Aldred and eldest son to one of Aldred’s father’s principal lords.
“Still struggling with the funerals, Aldred?” Livor asked. He was chewing on a handful of dried fruit whilst his horse lapped at the water in a small pool.
“That’s fair to say, Livor. If I’d known it was old Eli’s send-off then I’d have suggested we ride south to chase the maidens in Oldston.”
Livor patted Aldred’s shoulder and then nodded towards the north where clouds the shade of tempered steel were gathering.
“We could retrace our trail back over Evik’s Moor and with luck we could be back to Blackstone by early afternoon.”
“What says that of our initiative?” Aldred asked. “I feel like a bit of excitement to lift my spirits from the pall of Eli’s funeral. What say we hop the brook and ride over the crest of the hills and then down past the old fort?”
Livor laughed nervously. “Come on, Aldred, that’s a fair leap on these horses. I don’t want to be explaining to the baron about a lame drowned gelding, especially with his moods at the moment. Besides that, my father would flay me senseless for upsetting your old man.”
Aldred frowned and then grinned. He dug in his stirrups, turned his horse and galloped at the foaming brook. The horse began to shy so he jabbed the metal into its sides and reined it tight, guiding it towards the water.
For a second he thought he had misjudged it and that the slick rocks would dash his head open. A buzz of excitement tingled in his chest as he vaulted the stream and his horse’s hoofs clattered on the far bank.
He turned and yelled to Livor. “Nekra take my father’s moods. It’s time he realised life is for living. Come on, vault the brook, Engin is with us this day.”
His companion’s eyes darted from the brook to Aldred and back. Aldred smiled—Livor dressed like a noble Thetorian in his crisp white shirt and stylish leather trousers, yet he did not act like one. True Thetorians were men of passion and impulse, men who would hang the consequences and act.
“I’m afraid that my riding is not on a par with yours, Aldred,” Livor said. “It would appear that I should retrace my steps and catch you up near Unger’s Common.”
Aldred shrugged, waved and then cantered away along the rocky crest of the hills. In truth, he was glad for some time alone. Livor’s common sense and wisdom far exceeded his years; Aldred begrudgingly admitted to himself that his friend was correct about his discomfort with funerals.
It had been fourteen months ago that his mother had died. A wasting sickness had taken her slowly over a five-month period. That summer he had rushed through every lesson, every sword practice and every scroll he had to scribe, just to attend her chambers for another precious minute. With every sunny day that passed she seemed to diminish. The colour of her warm cheeks became more and more like the rocks of the hills that surrounded the barony. Whilst he sat there holding her frail hand, his pride damming his tears, he willed the summer to last forever; he knew that as the golden days shortened so his mother’s life would too.
But Harvestide had arrived and she had departed, her soul rising like the dust from the reaped corn in the fields. She had left him to rest with Mortis, the Father, God of Light. The funeral procession had journeyed the fifteen miles from Eviksburg to Blackstone Castle to pay their respects. They had descended into the gloomy crypts and Aldred had watched as a part of his father, the baron, left with his mother.
Livor had also not been mistaken about Aldred’s father’s moods and temper. The baron had always been a harsh man, cast from the same iron that his subjects mined from the northern hills of his land.
Yet since his wife’s death he had become a feared master, prone to outbursts, and the servants scampered like dogs before his rage. Lord Korianson had sought to occupy Baron Enfarson with forages into the hills at the west of the barony. They would travel from there into the South Khullian Mountains, Korianson evidently hoping that the exertion of killing goblins would distract him from his excess of black bile. Even that had proven futile, though they returned with armour stained with green blood and saddlebags brimming with treasures.
Aldred guided his horse Greymane down a pebbled track. It descended towards the fields that ran to the western edge of the hills. About a quarter of a mile ahead were the ruins of an old fort, its aged stones jutting like the ribs of some ancient dragon skeleton. He slipped off his mount and tied the reins to a crooked tree that leant against the wall of the fort.
The fort would once have been sizeable, agreeably not on the scale of Blackstone Castle, yet imposing enough. Long grass and brambles had worked their way through every gap. Aldred clambered across the mossy stones, pausing to consider the fort’s layout. If he remembered his history lessons correctly then this would have been the outer wall: a strong two-layered barrier, built with the precise geometry of the Imperial engineers.
He smiled with satisfaction as he entered the fort; his memory had been correct. He had learnt something in the history lessons about Thetoria in the time of the Second Empire after all. This fort had been the residence of the Imperial custodian for the region, which would have equated to Aldred’s ancestors’ lands. It had been sacked during the civil war that ended the Artorian Empire, its mighty stones shattered by explosions of magic and boulders hurled by catapults.
Aldred entered the bailey and walked across the sloped ground, pushing through the grasses and nettles. The central keep rose before him, its flat roof now caved in. Streams of dusty light shone through like long prying fingers. Most of the upper floor’s boards had long ago rotted, but Aldred still felt an admiration at the compact might of this structure. The Artorian Empire had ruled Thetoria for nearly three hundred years. Its influence had permeated every aspect of life in the country, having spread like the wasting rot that had consumed his mother. Its legacy was everywhere: in the buildings, the language and the culture, even in the organisation of the king’s army. How ironic that the First Empire, the Eerian Empire, which had occupied Thetoria four centuries prior to the Artorians, had only left a language, a calendar and some damn fine roads.
The ruined hall of the keep was in front of him. Even in age it had grace, nobility, and conveyed a sense of the golden era in his country’s history. The remnants of statues flanked Aldred as he entered the hall. Weeds had worked through the flags, splitting them like skulls on a battlefield. The statues were famed warriors of the Empire, emulated for all eternity in stone. Their faces had worn smooth with the rains and the winds that came often from the mountains, but Aldred could still sense their grandeur. Would any man make statues of him in days ahead or would his only likeness be in the crypts of Blackstone Castle?
He paused at the fragmented mural on the east wall; its tiny ceramic pieces flaked onto the flagstones. Artorians had not been lovers of paintings and tapestries in the way the Eerians had been. Instead they had depicted scenes of valour and war in vast intricate murals. This one was of a great battle, perhaps the subjugation of his country. He could see the faded kings bowing to the might of the Artorian war machine, a metal onslaught cast in the forges of mighty Erturia.
Yet the Empire was long gone: fragmented, shattered and now but a dusty memory for the history tomes. It had been destroyed by the greed of its rulers, finished by a civil war that had ended with cataclysmic magic in its very core.
Aldred stroked the tiles of the mural, feeling the rough edges under his fingers. As ever the Thetorians had survived, their royal lineage returned to power after centuries of living as minor nobility to the Emperor’s governors and custodians. The lineage stretched into the mists of time, back to King Thetoria the First. Their nation had been founded in the ashes of the Trimenal lands, a vast country split by the two Wars of Brothers into becoming Goldoria, Feldor and Thetoria.
Aldred smiled as he considered that many centuries of marriage and inter-marriage had linked almost every noble house of Thetoria with the other such that Aldred was probably eight hundredth in line to the throne.
Bored now, Aldred turned to exit the keep and return through the bailey to his horse. Like one huge family, he mused, and like one huge family it squabbled incessantly. Barons fought barons over lands whilst dukes played their games at court and the king did as he fancied, leaving the scraps for the nobility like an elder brother would leave hand-me-down clothes. His vainglorious children Dulkar, Altred, Meara and Gwyn played with courtiers’ lives as if in a game of Kirit’s eye and then fought one another at any opportunity. Aye, Thetorians liked to fight, whether against Goldoria over mines or with each other in pointless battles and duels. They were never far from a good scrap.
Aldred emerged into the bailey and then froze, his hand slipping to his longsword. Atop the crumbling wall was a large bird, its ebony eyes staring at him. A trickle of fear ran down his spine: it was a black-hawk. The size of a bird of prey, its feathers were the colour of charcoal and its beak a wicked hook of black pain. The old tales he recalled from his wet nurse spoke that the birds were born from the souls of murderers, so foul that the Dukes of the Pale would not give them succor in their halls.
Aldred stared at the large bird and noticed it had a tiny scroll tied around its leg. Curiosity got the better of his wisdom and Aldred stooped and grabbed a stone then slung it at the bird. The bird took flight as if anticipating the missile and the rock clattered along the wall.
Aldred vaulted across the boulders and out to his horse, cursing his poor aim. The black-hawk was flying towards the distant River Eviks that traversed the barony. The river ran from the Khullian Hills past the castle, past Eviksburg and then east to the neighbouring baronies and ultimately south to Birin.
He rode his horse down the slope, but the bird had gone. At the base of the hill he found a track that wound between fields occupied only by corn stubble and occasional grasslands. The serfs knelt as he passed but Aldred did not acknowledge them, occupied as he was by his own thoughts.
After an hour he saw Livor waiting patiently at Ungor’s Common, situated on the north bank of the river. His friend waved and greeted him as he approached.
“Ho, Aldred! It would seem that even my meek steed manages a better time than your royal bred stallion. Did you doze in the old fort?”
Aldred gestured at the gathering clouds that were darkening the lands around them.
“I thought it prudential to return before we were obliged to swim home. I didn’t want you to ruin your best riding clothes. After all I’d hate for you to show me up when we go to Thetoria City in the New Year.”
“My lord father may not have the wealth of the baron, but he shall provide me with enough finery to charm the city girls. Besides you shall have three years to try to outdo me with the ladies there!”
Aldred’s moody face broke into a grin. The prospect of going to Thetoria City for three years to complete his education was the beacon at the end of his gloomy life at the castle. The pair rode from the common, following the track that ran west to the castle along the riverside.
“Maybe we could find a temptress to put a smile on the face of Quigor?” Livor said. “Draw him from his catacombs to the warm thighs of a woman!”
Aldred laughed at the jest and tried to imagine the pasty flesh of his father’s advisor entwined with that of a buxom city girl.
“I fear he would find more pleasure in the crumbling limbs of the cemetery’s residents,” Aldred said.
The two lads chuckled as their horses galloped into the grounds of Blackstone Castle, its walls looming high above the river that lay at its feet. They slowed to cross the Blackstone Bridge, which arched over the wide River Eviks and trotted onto the stones of the main road that ran from the castle to Eviksburg.
Blackstone Castle lay on the south bank of the wide river like a slumbering mountain giant. Its dark walls had stood for a millennium, erected in the time of the First Empire to guard the north-west corner of Thetoria against the goblins and ogres that teamed in the mountains. Its outer curtain wall was wide, encircling a vast grassy bailey in the centre of which stood the main castle. This sat atop a small hill and comprised of a collection of towers and turrets that reached high into the air above the lower keep and halls. Having been added onto over the centuries its structure was confusing at times. It reflected the fancies of the many barons who had ruled from here during the changing times of Thetoria.
Its black stone made for many shady corners. They had never seemed sinister to Aldred as a boy, but in the wake of his mother’s death the shadows had grown deeper. Something had happened during the baron’s forage into the hills and his mood had never lifted since.
Two months later Quigor had arrived to take on the role of advisor after Helgint, the baron’s old counsel, had abruptly retired to the town of Eviksburg. Quigor had some connection with Baron Enfarson’s second cousin, a merchant in South Artoria whom Aldred had only heard referred to as ‘the runt.’ With Quigor there seemed to arrive a gloom at the castle, as if the stones were sapping the delight and life from its inhabitants. In fact when his father had suggested he finish his education in Thetoria City he positively leapt at the chance to leave his home.
The pair came through the gatehouse in the outer wall and trotted across the green. They passed the small collection of houses in the bailey, ascended the slope of Garan’s Motte, and continued through the inner gatehouse of the keep. They dismounted in the courtyard and handed the bridles and reins to the two stable boys who waited shyly.
“M’lord, the baron asked for you to attend him when you returned,” one said, staring at the cobbles of the yard.
“That’s fine, err… Hinkir,” Aldred said. “Make sure Greymane is brushed down, the long grass irritates him.”
“M’lord,” the boy said and lead the horse off to the stable. Aldred clapped Livor on the shoulder and strode in through the entrance hall, slipping off his cloak and tossing it on a vacant chair. He was sweaty from riding so he undid the top few buttons on his shirt and took the stairs two at a time. He ascended rapidly to the second floor and then froze as he passed a slit-like window.
Perched on the tip of the south tower was the black-hawk. It was resting beneath the flag that bore the banner of the House of Enfarson: a black castle on a gold field. It preened its feathers, oblivious to or uncaring of his attention. Aldred cursed once more, turned to ascend to his father, and ran straight into the slight figure of Quigor.
Aldred let out a yell in surprise and then jumped back at the furious glance that Quigor shot him. In an instant the expression was replaced by a sly smile, so rapidly that Aldred began to doubt he had even seen the glower.
“Always in such a rush, my lord. The impetuousness of youth, how I long for its thrill,” he said.
“Master Quigor. You move like a shadow around my father’s castle.”
“There are many shadows in the dark stone. I seek only to diminish their toll on your father’s heart.”
Quigor was shorter than Aldred, with lank ginger hair that trailed from his shiny bald crown. His eyes were a light brown—not the warm brown of the earth but rather the mottled brown of rust. He was an Azaguntan and this fact did nothing to endear him to the baron’s friends and troops.
He glanced out of the window. “I see you have spotted a black-hawk, my lord. What a magnificent bird it is. I am sure you concur?”
“They are said to be ill omens in Thetoria, master Quigor, not that this house needs any more of those.”
“In Azagunta we believe they are dispatched by Engin to symbolise a time of change. Perhaps it comes to wish you well on your journey.”
“My journey? I am not sure I understand you, Quigor?”
“Oh how careless of me. I do beg your pardon. Your father is to send you to Thetoria City earlier than planned. This weekend it would seem. But I’ll allow you to hear it from his lips. By your leave…”
Quigor bowed and then slipped away down the steps.
Aldred’s mind whirled as he took in the news. Part of him was glad to be rid of this mausoleum that passed for a home, yet another part ached at the ease with which his father sought to send him away. Did he feel pain inside when he saw Aldred’s face, a face so like that of his mother? Or had his love been replaced with something darker and more consuming?
Aldred ascended the stairs contemplating Quigor’s words. Like it or not the Azaguntan was correct: it was all going to change.
***
The opportunity came to Emelia more easily than she had been expecting. Her mind had been racing all morning, entertaining a dozen fabrications and schemes to try to get to the upper floors whilst the steel within her soul remained sharp. Mother Gresham had kept the girls so busy that none had time to brood, and in the bustle of allocating tasks she had received an order for refreshments to be taken to the upper Keep.
Emelia had stepped forward, rather too keenly, but Mother Gresham looked too weary to argue. A flicker of guilt came to Emelia as she ascended the stairs. It was possible that the rotund matron may well catch some of the brunt of the inevitable furor that she was about to unleash.
Her athletic legs took two steps at a time, hastening to the third floor in which the lord’s chambers began. The numerous halls, rooms and studies that the Ebon-Farrs occupied were spread over the third to fifth floors of the building. Emelia paused at the landing, catching her breath and steadying her heartbeat.
A figure further down the long corridor that ran perpendicular from the landing made her linger and then step back into the concealment offered by a tarnished suit of armour. Lord Ebon-Farr was thirty feet away and stood at a door with no apparent handle. He had extracted a golden key on a leather thong from his shirt, but rather than use it on this unusual door he simply spoke his name. The door swung open with a faint glow, like the glint of moonlight on a pool. The door closed and sealed silently behind him once he had passed through. With a start she recalled the conversation with the Arch-mage she had overheard: that must be the room situated below his day chamber.
Emelia continued on her journey, thinking little more of Lord Ebon-Farr, but rather of his son Uthor. A nag of doubt was in the back of her mind; how did she think this whole scenario would play out? What would make anyone actually care what she said? Servants were rarely permitted to say anything at all in the same rooms as the nobility.
It matters not, she thought. I do this for my friend and for the life that was stolen away from her.
Emelia was stood outside the door of the lord’s day chamber before she knew it, awaiting the arrival of the refreshments within the dumb waiter. Her heart was pounding now and she steadied herself on the firm wood of the sideboard. The platter arrived with a creak of rope and Emelia took a deep breath, then had a sudden strange sensation that someone was stood beside her, watching her. She looked around in confusion, praying to Torik that this time her mind would not let her down and make her flee. She had this task to do, to lay Sandila’s soul to rest. She rubbed the smooth hard edges of her shell pendant nervously. She wished, not for the first time, that she were back on that golden beach with her parents and her sister. Emelia removed the tray from the cavity and then knocked before entering.
The day chamber was much the same as it had been six weeks ago in Harvestide. The rich smell of wood smoke filled the chamber. Even with the fire on full blaze Emelia suppressed a shudder at the chill demeanour of the chamber. Its décor included bleak tapestries and rows of shields and swords mounted on its walls.
In the centre sat Uthor, sprawled idly and lost in thought as he stared at the flickering fire. He was attired in a black and silver padded long shirt, the garb of the Knights of the Air. He sipped a beaker of red wine, its tannins staining his mouth with a vampyric smile. The silver of his hair gave him a cold and harsh look despite his handsome features.
Uthor barely spared a glance as she entered the chamber. Emelia’s yarkel-wool pinafore felt stifling in the heat from the fire. Her scalp itched with the grease and ash.
He gestured nonchalantly at the table. “Put it there and be gone.”
Emelia walked to the set of tables by the high backed chairs and lowered the tray. The two bottles of red wine had made it a heavy load. Nine years of habitual deference glued her eyes to the floor and she began to shuffle back. Then she halted and stared at him, her eyes narrowed.
Uthor became aware of her presence after about half a minute; his lip was curled as he turned his head. His glare melted into one of curiosity as he recognised the unusual glitter of her eyes and saw her face contorted in disdain.
“What in Torik’s chill peaks is the meaning of this, girl?”
“What did you do?” Emelia asked.
“What? How dare you address me thus! Etiquette demands you say only ‘m’lord,’” Uthor said with a splutter, wine and spit flecking his chin.
“You said to yourself when you came down the corridor, ‘What have I done?’ The day she died. The day my friend died. Well, m’lord, what did you do?”
Uthor looked astonished, partly at the impudence of a housemaid addressing him thus and partly at the inference of her question. He surged from his seat, his goblet falling to the wooden floor. Emelia stepped back to maintain some distance between them. The wine spread in a pool on the floor and an image of Sandila crumpled and broken on the cobbles sprang unbidden into her mind.
“How dare you talk to me. I have no idea what you think you heard but I should think very, very carefully about the things you say.”
He began to move towards Emelia, his normally blotchy face red and livid.
Emelia smoothly stepped back, not through fear but from a desire to speak her mind.
“Oh, I’ve thought carefully, m’lord. Every night I think as I lay in bed. I think of my friend, with a child in her belly, laying on the uncaring cobbles. I think of what it must have been like as she fell towards her death. I wonder what she felt as her body smashed on the stones like an unbalanced pot. I think how in Torik’s name she could accidentally fall over the battlements when she had the best balance of any of us girls. Then, master Uthor, I think how unjust it was that you had only yourself to confess to.”
Uthor’s face darkened. “I know you. Yes, I know you. You were that little whore’s friend. You’re the one I saw in Cheapside, all over that drunken sot. Is that how you servants earn an extra crust? Is it? On your back, in some alley, down in the slums?”
Emelia stepped forward and slapped Uthor with all her strength, the sharp crack echoing. He staggered, clutching his face, a look of horror written across it. Then he lunged, grabbing her wrists and shoving her back into the table that abutted the inner long wall. Emelia gasped in pain as the table edge struck her hip and she was pressed off-balance with Uthor’s weight.
His leering face dominated her vision, his dilated pupils glaring into her own eyes. The wine on his breath smelt sickly sweet as he panted, excited by the struggle with Emelia, who was two stone lighter though nearly as tall. Emelia felt a sudden surge of fear at what this evil man may do to her in this lonely room and her feet desperately tried to gain traction on the floorboards. His hand jumped to her throat and as she struggled she felt her pendant snap and clatter back onto the table.
Uthor pushed towards her face, mouth opening to kiss her. “I recall when she wriggled under me like this. Give up and shut up. If you breathe a word I’ll kill you.”
“Like you did Sandila? I don’t fear you and I don’t fear death. I’ll be gone from here soon enough and we’ll see what the mages have to say when I tell them.”
“And what would they care,” he said, spittle flecking Emelia’s face. “They’d not believe a little harlot like you. And don’t think you’re safe there—I know enough people in the Enclave to arrange a little fall of your own.”
A roar exploded through Emelia, surging from deep inside like a tsunami. Nine years of frustration and anger; nine years of fearing to tread the wrong way; of not knowing whether she was valued more or less than the hounds that bayed in the garrison in the evening, burst the dam of her control. She shoved forward with all her might, yet this in itself may not have been enough save for the pent up rage flowing from her hands.
The air rippled, as if a heat haze had leapt from the fire and interjected between Emelia and Uthor. He was lifted from his feet and flew across the chamber, like a leaf in the autumn winds. His black and silver clad body crashed into the table, sending the two wine bottles smashing around him and drenching him in red liquid. For an instant Emelia thought she had killed him, but then he moaned and began to try sit up.
Panic came upon her as she moved sideways towards the door. What in Torik’s name had happened then? How had she managed to send him sprawling fifteen feet across the floor? A mixture of elation and fear pulsed in her arteries and she realised with a jolt that she could have slain this man. Indeed she still could whilst he lay on the floor.
He’d deserve it too, Emelia, Emebaka snarled.
The door burst open and three figures entered the chamber: Lord Talis, Lady Heler and Sarik. They looked in astonishment at Uthor trying to regain his feet and Heler strode forward to help him.
“What in Coonor’s mighty spires has happened to you, my darling?” Heler asked.
“My lady, I can explain,” Emelia said.
Lady Heler flushed and whirled, glaring at Emelia.
“Silence! I care not to have our noble ears muddied by your common utterances. I spoke to my son and your lord. You will wait there until I ask you.”
Emelia blushed and began to curtsey, then stopped herself.
“I’d suggest that it’s your filthy son that muddies this room, my lady.”
Talis, Heler and Sarik all gasped simultaneously as Uthor began to regain his feet.
Lord Talis, his features stern, stepped forward.
“That is enough, young lady, you will remember your place. Sarik escort her to the kitchens at once and be thankful it is not straight to the yard for the sting of the birch.”
Sarik took Emelia’s arm firmly and pulled her from the room.
“Thank Torik you’re on your way tomorrow,” he said in a whisper. “Few cross the Jackal and live a happy life thereafter.”
Emelia was shaking with the adrenaline as they left the room and her eyes were moist with tears. There was no choice now: she would have to leave tonight.