Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy) (3 page)

Tyrellan’s steely gaze remained unreadable, but he took a few moments before speaking. ‘What must we do?’

‘What we have always done,’ said Battu. ‘We must crush any who stand against us.’

‘Of course, lord.’

‘Losara has become a liability,’ said Battu. ‘And even though I could squash him like a grape, I fear for the safety of those living in the castle should it come to a battle between us.’

‘My lord Shadowdreamer is kind indeed to take the lives of such insects into account,’ snarled Tyrellan.

Good, good
, thought Battu, elated by the goblin’s response. ‘That is why I have a quieter way of dealing with Losara in mind,’ he continued. ‘Something . . . non-magical. Something that my First Slave will be greatly rewarded for administering.’

‘The feast, lord?’

‘Yes,’ said Battu. ‘I want you to
oversee
the preparations of the feast.’

•

In Tyrellan’s experience, sometimes one had to wait for one’s moment. During his long career, he’d often observed that impatience was the precursor to downfall. He remembered once escorting an important prisoner from Trelter to Morde, an Arabodedas who knew that death awaited him. The man had been desperate, and had made an ill-considered break for it across the Ragga Plains. As he’d dashed madly away over land without cover, it had been a simple matter to see an arrow into his leg. A couple of hours later, in a rockier region, the escort party had been attacked by brown huggers. It would have been the perfect time for a prisoner to attempt a getaway, but the poor sod was already crippled.

Tyrellan knew there was no question of escaping, even briefly, to try to get word to Losara. Instead he would have to play a part in Battu’s ridiculous scheme, and play it well, until there came some chance to act. After a short stop at his room, he made his way to the kitchens, acutely aware that Battu, in his paranoia, could be watching from any shadow.

If he had wondered previously about the Shadowdreamer’s sanity and worth, all his questions were now answered. Clearly Battu had lost perspective, willing to risk (or rather, guarantee) punishment in the afterlife to secure his earthly throne. What madness, to attempt assassination of the blue-haired man, a being clearly blessed since he’d been the little babe Tyrellan had brought to Skygrip. Had Battu not seen his hands, or stared into his void-like eyes? While Tyrellan maintained a calm exterior, internally he seethed with fury. How dare Battu offer him ‘reward’ – did he not know Tyrellan even after all this time? Had he not learned that Tyrellan cared not for base pleasures, that all he cared about was defeating the light?

He reached the kitchens, where word had already arrived about the feast that evening. Grey Goblins bent over pots, chilling the contents on beds of ice. Others chopped and pounded ingredients, or rubbed herbs into meat, and the smell of seafood filled the air. Even the fireplace was lit for special preparations, tended to by the lowest in the kitchen hierarchy, a tiny Grey squirming uncomfortably at being so close to the heat.

As the cooks noticed Tyrellan’s arrival they stiffened, but kept working so as not to draw attention to themselves. They made sure not to stare at his butterfly, for none who gawked at it met any good end.
Gutless drones
, he thought – they would have been even more frightened had they known it was likely that Battu followed Tyrellan, slipping unnoticed from shadow to shadow, watching his will being done.

Tyrellan padded across to where a fat Grey, whose name he remembered was Saray, stood preparing sea anemones. Each one was rolled on a tray of ground bread and salt, then placed in an ornate serving bowl.

Tyrellan was surprised by his own pettiness: the least he could do was make sure Battu couldn’t enjoy his favourite dish.

‘Stand aside,’ he snapped. Saray turned, started when he saw who it was, and sidled backwards, bowing low.

‘Cease your hovering about my toenails,’ said Tyrellan. ‘Get up. Watch.’

Tyrellan picked up the bowl containing the finished anemones and tipped them back into the oily vat with the unseasoned ones. ‘You’re going to start again,’ he told Saray. From his pocket he produced a white cloth, which he unrolled carefully. Inside was a purplish ball, porous and powdery. It was made from the salivary glands of cavespitters, crushed and dried, the most potent poison in his arsenal. He took the ball lightly in his claws and crumbed it evenly over the tray, until a fine layer of purple dust lay atop the ground bread.

‘A special preparation for the Apprentice Losara,’ he said. ‘To be delivered to him, exclusively, on special orders from lord Battu. Make sure these are placed in front of him – and make no mention of the extra ingredient unless you fancy wearing your feet from your ears. Is there any way your wormy little apple of a brain is not comprehending me so far?’

‘I understand, First Slave,’ stammered Saray.

‘Good.’

Tyrellan brushed the remaining powder from his claws. He noticed a shadow against the wall which did not seem to be cast by any object, but let his eyes wander on. Better if Battu did not realise that Tyrellan knew he was there.

‘Make sure all the anemones are coated well,’ he said. ‘When you’re finished, ensure this tray is never used again. I am going to stand here and watch you do all this.’

He waved for Saray to begin. As he watched the nervous Gray re-coating the squishy blobs, he reached under an ice lantern on the wall and let the cold water that dripped from it cleanse his hands of toxic residue.

‘Oh, Saray,’ he said.

‘Yes, First Slave?’

‘Try not to lick your fingers.’

Feast

Feast

Feast

A small procession of Greys made their way into
Losara’s quarters, bringing Lalenda’s meagre possessions. Apart from a small bundle of clothes, these mainly consisted of dog-eared books containing bookmarks made out of anything she’d happened to have lying around at the time. A sash, a leaf, a piece of paper from another book all lolled out from various depths within the pages.

‘Those aren’t really mine,’ said Lalenda, as if admitting some great crime. ‘They’re borrowed from the library.’

‘It looks like you haven’t finished reading . . . well, any of them,’ observed Losara.

The Greys finished piling the dusty volumes next to the bed, creating something like an unstable bedside table.

‘No,’ said Lalenda sheepishly. ‘Not quite yet. If I had, I’d take them back.’

‘There must be . . . twelve or fifteen books there,’ said Losara. ‘And you’re reading them all at once?’

She shrugged. ‘Books are in no hurry.’

‘No, but . . . would it not be easier to finish one and then start another?’

‘Do you think me silly?’ she asked, almost challengingly.

He admired the spark he sensed in her.
Oh gods
, he thought.
She shows more emotion when she thinks her reading habits are being ridiculed than I am capable of mustering in regard to conquering the world.
Then,
No, no
.
I have passion too. I don’t want Fenvarrow to fall, I know that through and through.

‘Merely curious,’ he said. ‘By all means, build your stack of half-finished tomes up to the ceiling if it pleases you.’

‘All the better for Grimra to knock them down!’ hooted the ghost.

Evening approached, and time for the feast. As they left the room to make their way upwards, worry hovered over Losara. Who knew what Battu had planned? He was not concerned for himself so much, but he had Lalenda and Grimra to think of. He reached out a shadowy hand to pat hers where it clung to his arm. She was nervous about being anywhere near Battu, yet for some reason she’d been determined to accompany him, as if she had something to prove. Of the three of them only Grimra was excited, and swirled past muttering something about quelling the roar of his hunger.

‘Listen, both of you,’ Losara said. ‘I want you to promise me something or else I’m sending you away right now.’

‘What be this?’ growled Grimra. ‘Grimra wants to crunch the squidgies and squidge the crunchies!’

‘Then promise me,’ said Losara, ‘if there is conflict between Battu and myself, you will leave immediately. You will watch out for each other, but you will not try to help me. Is that clear?’

‘Do you think there will be fighting, my lord?’ said Lalenda. ‘If you are to kill Battu, I would dearly love to see it.’

Losara was surprised by her words – but then again Battu had separated her from her mother, stolen her childhood and menaced her for years. Perhaps she was right to want revenge. Perhaps Losara would be too, but he did not desire it with the same hunger he could see in her. There was still hope of finding a peaceful resolution with Battu somehow.

‘If it came to that,’ he said, his voice grave, ‘it would not be like some fight in your storybooks, to be experienced from the safety of an armchair. Promise me now, or I will send you back.’

‘I promise,’ said Lalenda, pouting slightly.

‘Grimra promises,’ said the ghost. ‘And will watch out for precious flutterbug should the need be arising.’ He swirled around them, rustling their clothes and lifting Lalenda’s skirt.

‘Grimra!’ she chided. ‘You bad ghost.’

‘Me is!’ cackled Grimra. ‘Very bad. Me eats Battu’s head right off his head!’

‘Grimra!’ snapped Losara sternly.

‘Me gets out and takes Lalenda with me,’ sighed the ghost, and settled down to an eddy.

They entered the dining hall. On the long table, elaborate candelabra held spheres of softly glowing ice, and the last light of the day filtered in through large chunks missing from the west wall. Battu sat at the head of the table, Tyrellan to his right, and Grey Goblins stood waiting to attend.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Battu as he rose. ‘There you are, my boy! Excellent, we have a most excellent feast on the way!’ He rubbed his hands eagerly, unconsciously gnashing his teeth.

Too long with the sharks
, remembered Losara.
Hunting in packs that only abide one dominant male.
He wondered if Battu was even aware that the time he’d spent dreaming on his way to Assedrynn’s Isle had had a serious effect on his soul.

‘And Lalenda, my beautiful prophet,’ Battu went on. ‘Welcome also.’

‘Not yours,’ said Lalenda, almost under her breath.

Battu stared at her a moment, his grin frozen in place, but then he chuckled and pretended not to have heard. Losara raised an eyebrow at her slightly, and she ducked her head. She knew Losara intended to replace Battu as Shadowdreamer, who had already been stripped of the title by the gods – but she was bold to antagonise him so. Losara wondered for a moment if bringing her with him had jeopardised his chance of striking an accord with Battu. Such a small hope it was – did that make it more worth protecting, or easier to let go?

‘And is your ghostly companion with us?’ Battu said.

In answer, Grimra’s skull-like head became briefly visible. ‘Grimra attends the vittles and celebratoriness,’ said the ghost, then faded again.

‘Excellent,’ said Battu. Losara had never heard him use the word so frequently. Was he nervous? Why were they being treated to this display of hospitality? ‘Please, take your seats.’

Losara sat at the foot of the table, Lalenda by his side. The last remaining seat slid back.

‘Seats, seats,’ came the ghost’s muttering. ‘Grimra to sit in a seat? Who would have thought, for he has no buttocks. Still, Grimra tries to be
polite.
’ White claws appeared to worry at the seat, the ghost obviously confused by what to do with it. He growled in annoyance, and splinters went flying. The seat shook violently, and a moment later collapsed into a mound of woodchips.

‘Bah,’ said Grimra. ‘Now me be embarrassed.’

Lalenda giggled.

‘That’s all right, Grimra,’ said Losara. ‘Seats are not for everyone. I don’t imagine lord Battu will mind if you . . . waft.’

‘Not at all,’ said Battu. ‘Now,’ he turned to bark at an attendant, ‘bring us the food!’

•

Tyrellan watched, knowing that the time for finding his moment was dwindling. If worst came to worst, he could sacrifice himself by simply shouting a warning, but of course he’d prefer it didn’t come to that. The butterfly swooped down onto his glass and he waved it away irritably. He tried several times to catch Losara’s eye, but the trouble with having a pitch-black gaze was that no one could see precisely where you were looking, especially if you were trying to be subtle about it.

Dishes began to arrive. As with all of Battu’s feasts, seafood was the feature. There were thin slices of tuna laid out on a platter and drizzled in oil. Mounds of sea urchins roasted in their shells were one of the few dishes Battu preferred cooked. A salad of kelp, a tubeworm stew, and chilled prawns stuffed with butter and parsley all arrived in quick succession to be placed around the table. There was no sign of the anemones yet, but they would not be far away.

Battu’s appetite did not seem to suffer despite his obvious tension – if anything, he ate more when he was stressed. Meanwhile, food began to lift off plates, swirl up into the air and disappear to the accompaniment of satisfied slurps. Losara and Lalenda ate too, though far more moderately. In order not to rouse suspicion, Tyrellan reached for a serving, heaping food onto his plate as his mind ticked away.

He decided that his waiting must cease – no brown huggers were about to attack. He shoved a forkload of mashed something in his mouth, then dropped a hand under the table and let the fork fall. Working it to the right angle with his toes, he waited until the next Grey attendant appeared through the doorway opposite. Giving the fork a sharp, swift kick, he sent it skidding across the stone floor, where it slid neatly under the Grey’s footfall. Her eyes went wide as her foot shot out from under her, sending the fork clattering away. The tray of oysters she carried wobbled precariously.

Fall
, urged Tyrellan.

To the Grey’s credit, as she realised she was going down, she managed to get another hand under the tray. As she crashed to the floor, she kept the tray upright so that only a few of the oysters slid off on impact. In an instant Tyrellan was on his feet, faster than Battu could scowl.

‘Wretched oaf!’ he snarled, moving smoothly around the table. ‘You dare waste food from the Shadowdreamer’s pantry!’ He snatched the tray with one hand and seized the Grey by the scruff of her neck with the other, lifting her to her feet. ‘Be gone,’ he said, and backhanded her across the jaw. She quickly retreated, holding a hand to her face.

‘Tyrellan,’ said Battu, ‘it’s not like you to let someone off so lightly.’

‘I did not wish extra interruption to this special occasion, my lord. I will
speak
to her again later, I assure you.’

‘Grimra eats her if First Slave pleases,’ offered the ghost agreeably, which actually made Battu chuckle.

‘No, Grimra,’ said Losara. ‘You have enough to eat right here.’

Tyrellan inspected the oyster tray. ‘The dish appears unsullied,’ he announced, and brought it around to Losara’s end of the table. ‘I can assure my lords that the food remaining did not touch the floor.’ He bent over to set the tray next to Losara, glancing sideways to make sure Battu wasn’t paying attention. ‘The anemones are poisoned,’ he breathed in Losara’s ear. Then he swiftly returned to his seat, confident the exchange had gone unnoticed.

•

Losara knew he shouldn’t be surprised, although he had not expected poison – it seemed low even for Battu. No matter what else Losara thought of him, he’d never considered him a coward.

He watched with interest as the anemones arrived, served by a fat Grey whose gaze remained firmly downcast as he came around the table to place the delicacy before him.
What to do?
he wondered. He did not want to reveal his hand just yet – he was curious to see Battu’s reaction.

He reached for the plate with his fork and skewered a squishy blob.

‘Yuck,’ said Lalenda, wrinkling her nose, for which Losara was grateful.

‘This brings back memories,’ he mused, turning languidly to Battu, who had been staring at him intently. ‘On my twelfth birthday you introduced me to this dish.’ He dangled the blob in front of his mouth. ‘Remember? I was reticent to try them, but you encouraged me.’
And I realised for the first time that there was no real love in your heart.

‘Ah,’ said Battu, wetting his lips. ‘Yes, I remember. I hope you do not find them as unpalatable as you once did.’

Beside Battu, Tyrellan was staring fixedly into the middle distance. Ready to move, thought Losara, at whatever was coming shortly, bless him. The goblin tensed as he put the anemone into his mouth.

‘I did always find them a little bland, admittedly,’ said Losara, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Although whatever these are coated with is delicious. What is it? I can’t quite place it. Let’s see if another taste can solve the mystery.’

He stabbed another anemone and put it in his mouth. Across the table, Battu’s forced grin dropped from his face, and paradoxically he now actually looked gleeful.

Look at him
, thought Losara.
He’s so happy. If my imminent demise brings him such joy, how can I ever hope to make him see reason?

‘I’m so glad you like them,’ Battu said.

Losara swallowed. ‘Ah, but I am being rude. Would you like them passed to you?’

‘Oh, no,’ waved Battu, sitting back in his chair and patting his stomach. ‘I am . . . quite full. Please, if you are enjoying them, have more.’

‘I will,’ said Losara, and reached for another. ‘Though I have never known my lord to be full before. Are you feeling well?’

‘Well indeed.’

Losara nodded, and reached for another. Lalenda squirmed as he took a bite.

‘No kisses for you tonight,’ she whispered.

Why this charade?
he asked himself.
What do I hope to gain?
Blankness came upon him, the feeling that he was missing a reaction that his
other
might experience. Would Bel sit here chewing on poison? He warded the feeling off by concentrating on what was going on inside his mouth. As food passed through the fine mesh of shadow he’d created at the top of his throat, it caught hold of tiny purple particles.

‘Never me seen Losara so greedy,’ said the ghost, and one of the anemones floated from the plate. ‘Must be tasty taste indeed!’

Losara didn’t know what effect poison would have on an undead spirit – probably none – but since he had no idea what the poison was, he thought better than to risk it. He reached out with his power and snatched the food away from the ghost, redirecting it into his open mouth.

‘Sorry, Grimra,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘These are too subtle for your palate, I think.’

The ghost growled but Losara paid him no mind. In his mouth he rolled the purple dust into a ball, while the rest of the pale meat slid down into his stomach.

Why keep eating? At least make use of the time this foolishness affords by sending away Lalenda.

He turned to her. ‘I believe the moment we spoke of has arrived.’

She held his gaze wilfully.

‘Lalenda,’ he said warningly.

‘As you wish, my lord,’ she said, and rose. ‘Grimra, will you join me? I believe we’re departing.’

‘Grar,’ came the reply, as an assortment of foodstuffs rose from the table. ‘Grimra will bring some after-dinner snacks.’

‘Thank you for the feast, lord Battu,’ said Lalenda as she backed away from the table. Then her claws flicked out, and she spat on the floor. ‘Enjoy the last time I call you that,’ she hissed, and disappeared through the door amidst a collection of swirling morsels.

Battu dimly registered the insult but dared not take his eyes off Losara. Something was going on, that was plain, and he did not yet know if he was triumphant or not.