Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy) (9 page)

He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, then lowered his hood over his face. This robe was going to become his home for a while, and already it was warm under the folds of black cloth. Vaguely he wondered if he might dry up like a snail in its shell.

Standing apart from the shadows made it harder to replenish his power, and he knew that during daylight he was going to have to rely on his stores. It was dangerous here – not only was he still just paces from Fenvarrow, but on this side of the border Kainordans patrolled heavily. Any mage who came close enough would know he was a creature of shadow, and any magic he used would make him even easier to sense. He had ways of keeping his magic contained, but out here in the open, arid plains, he dared not take the risk. For a time at least, he would travel on foot, unaided, saving his power to flee if necessary.

He tried to remember maps, and his travels in shadowform, to decide on a direction. He’d fled so fast through Fenvarrow that he wasn’t quite sure where he’d reached the border – somewhere south-east of Holdwith, perhaps? He spat on the ground and immediately regretted the waste of precious moisture.

‘What other direction is there?’ he snarled aloud, and began to stride north.

Hot particles of dust collected between his toes, and the dry wind blew between his legs, rustling his robes.
Get used to this?
he wondered.
How can I?

Only one thing kept him going. Cast out from his homeland, unloved by his servants, forsaken by his gods, he had nothing left to lose. There was only one thing he wanted now, one thing that kept him moving onward, and he found he cared not how he got it. The word began to echo in his head, a mantra that accompanied every footfall.

Revenge.

Part Two Divided We Stand

Part Two

Divided We Stand

—

I have sometimes heard it said that a good way of finding oneself is to travel.

Apparently for one such as I, that could be taken quite literally.

Fangs and Feathers

Fangs and Feathers

Fangs and Feathers

It was not that Losara regretted reinstituting the Shadow Council. He felt it important that his people had a voice, one which Battu had long stifled by keeping the throne room bare and empty. One of the first things Losara had done as Shadowdreamer was invite the councillors to return to court. Strangely enough, Tyrellan had not been opposed to returning the throne room to the old ways; he had in fact encouraged it. He had also suggested that Losara show the court some great display of power, traditional for a new Shadowdreamer, but Losara had not considered it necessary. The purpose of displaying power was to dissuade anybody from challenging it, and toppling Battu should have been display enough. If it was not, and someone did indeed wish to move against him, well, that would be an easy way of weeding out the disloyal.

Now that the court had returned, however, Losara rather oddly found himself sympathising with Battu. It was difficult to concentrate in the midst of the constant chatter and bickering, and he found himself avoiding the throne room most of the time, effectively giving it over to the councillors as a place to settle their smaller scores and oversee the general running of the land. While perhaps he would have enjoyed involving himself in such concerns, he simply did not have the luxury. There was a bigger picture he needed to focus on, one that remained blurry. Thus he found himself wandering about Skygrip as he always had, thinking about what needed to be done.

Tyrellan walked with him now as he inspected the lower parts of the castle. Here, things were still quiet, for the purging had claimed hundreds of lives. Tyrellan and Turry, the gold-spectacled Black Goblin who was the castle administrator, had begun to see to repopulating Skygrip, but it would not happen overnight. Losara had been tempted to let it happen naturally – it seemed silly to fill up the castle again just for the sake of it. Then again, if they did not, the whole bottom section might fall into disrepair, becoming an enclosed wasteland of dusty rooms and empty corridors. That would hardly be fitting for the great Skygrip Castle.

‘. . . the front door?’

Losara realised they had arrived at the entrance chamber. The scent of death still hung faintly in the air, for many soldiers had lost their lives here. If only they’d remained outside until the battle with Battu was over, but how could they have known what Battu intended as his last petty and violent act?

‘What was that, Tyrellan?’ he said.

‘I was wondering, my lord, if you intend that Grimra go back to guarding the front door?’

‘I don’t think he’d like that,’ Losara said.

‘His
feelings
aside,’ said Tyrellan, and Losara knew it cost him to even acknowledge them as a factor, ‘the castle workers are skittish enough without knowing there might be an undead invisible floating down any corridor.’

‘Ah, so you take
their
feelings into account?’ asked Losara, raising an eyebrow.

Tyrellan scowled. ‘I mention it only as a practical matter. Grimra interferes with productivity when he is allowed to move freely throughout the castle.’

‘Of course,’ said Losara. ‘But it would be cruel to chain him again, now that he remembers what it is like to be free.’

‘My lord, he will always be chained to his amulet, from which he can only travel a certain distance. Does it therefore matter if the area he affects is centred around the front door?’

Losara thought of where the amulet currently lay.

‘I do not mind Lalenda having a friend when I am not with her,’ he concluded. ‘Or a guard.’

Tyrellan gave only the briefest of pauses. ‘As you wish.’

‘But I will speak with him about scaring the workers.’

Tyrellan nodded. ‘Now, we will also need to replace the archers.’

‘Archers?’ queried Losara.

Tyrellan pointed to the ceiling where, above the heads of towering statues, thin openings were cut in the wall. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘Passages and quarters for archers, to pelt down arrows from their protected vantage should Skygrip’s entrance ever be breached.’

Perhaps he did not really want to be involved in the smaller details, Losara decided. ‘Don’t you think,’ he said, ‘that if the enemy ever made it this far, it would mean we had lost already?’

Tyrellan stared flatly at Losara. ‘No, my lord. Who knows what effort it may have cost them to penetrate this far? And even if they were strong, I for one would fight on.’

Losara heard admonition in the goblin’s tone, and wondered if he had disappointed the First Slave.
He is passionate for the cause
, he thought.
Am not I?
Certainly, the dream he’d had about his
other
destroying Fenvarrow, had given him a greater sense of purpose, but was that the same as Tyrellan’s deep, instinctual conviction?

In that dream he had actually become Bel, and experienced an attack on Skygrip through his eyes. Bel had torn through the corridors of Skygrip, easily dispatching all who stood against him, and yet here Losara was trying to convince Tyrellan not to increase castle security!
Stop drifting
, he told himself.
Be present!

He knew the power of the castle around him was intoxicatingly distracting. It had always been that way, for the shadow that ran up through the walls put him at the edge of dreaming, and now that he was Shadowdreamer it was stronger than ever. Constantly, he was aware of the castle, and of Fenvarrow itself, of its shape and texture and depth, making him even vaguer than usual. He made an effort to centre himself, to rein in those errant parts that eddied invisibly away.

‘Tyrellan, my friend,’ he said, ‘you are right, of course. I leave all security arrangements in your capable hands. Do what you think is best.’

He caught a waft of something under the sickly odour of death, something even more sour and rotten. It seemed to be emanating from one of the tunnels that led down from the entrance chamber into the caves beneath Skygrip.

‘Can you smell that?’ he asked, and the First Slave’s broad nostrils widened. ‘Perhaps a body yet undiscovered?’

The goblin grimaced. ‘No,’ he said, and turned to a group of Greys who were cleaning the chamber. ‘You lot, attend!’ Then, ‘Come with me, my lord. I know exactly what that is.’

He led them down a short passage where they found a circular oak door that fitted into the tunnel like a cork in a bottle. The Greys hauled it open, and a stink issued forth like rags mouldering in bad milk. Tyrellan directed the Greys to enter and set ice lanterns in place. They disappeared inside, and Losara heard stifled murmurs of disgust, accompanied by squelching and a faint whirring noise. A few minutes later the Greys hurried out.

‘All lit up now, masters,’ one said. ‘Though you may wish it wasn’t.’

‘Away with you,’ snapped Tyrellan, and they fled.

As Losara stepped into the low-roofed chamber, the smell grew almost overpowering. In the middle stood two stone vats, from which spilled slimy ropes of bubbled foam. Above the vats was a metal frame from which was hung a pendulous stone carving of an eye. At their feet lay what had caused the squelching – a scattering of bug-eyes, dead, their bodies yellowing and leaking viscous liquid. About the room some of the creatures still lived, whirring about on their insect-like wings.

‘This is where bug-eyes are bred,’ said Tyrellan, kicking carcasses out of the way. One eye hit the wall and burst, sagging as it slid slowly downwards. Losara couldn’t help but feel it looked reproachful.

They moved to the vats and Losara looked in. A mucous-like substance cobwebbed the insides, holding twitching white packages.

‘They are grown in this,’ said Tyrellan. ‘I’m guessing the ones that are alive did not emerge until after the purging. There was a specialised mage who used to work down here . . . ah, yes.’

Losara followed Tyrellan’s gaze and saw an old Arabodedas slumped against the wall, coated in slime, clearly dead. To Losara’s surprise his eyelids slid open and two white, healthy eyes stared back at him. They startled to jiggle, then stalk legs appeared, and the eyes hoisted themselves out of the sockets to stretch their wings.

‘Attempting to find a host,’ said Tyrellan, and swatted at one that tried to land on his face. ‘Don’t worry – they’re easy enough to avoid while you’re awake.’

‘And what is this?’ asked Losara, gesturing at the hanging stone eye.

‘Battu used it when they were hatching,’ said Tyrellan. ‘It was how he imprinted their sight into his own, so that he could see through them when he wished to. Beyond that I don’t understand how it works.’

Losara thought he’d be able to puzzle it out if he was so inclined – it would be something to do with connecting the eyes to Skygrip, and thus to the Shadowdreamer. If that was the case, Battu would no longer be able to see through any of the eyes that he’d sent out during his rule.

‘What will happen to the bug-eyes Battu already has in place?’ Losara wondered aloud.

‘I have received scattered reports, lord, of eyes dropping from people’s heads.’

‘Dying with Battu’s severance from Skygrip?’ said Losara.

Tyrellan’s butterfly landed on the edge of a vat, and eyes sidled over to inspect it.

‘If my lord wishes,’ said Tyrellan, ‘I can have this place cleaned and made functional again?’

Losara thought about it briefly. The bug-eyes might be useful, but he had always felt a little sickened by them. True, their hosts usually did not realise they had been affected, and could still see perfectly well after the bug replaced their real eye, but still . . .

‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not be requiring this place. In fact, I would like to you make it . . .
discontinued
.’

‘Yes, lord,’ said Tyrellan, and Losara thought him pleased.

‘You do not like these creatures either?’

Tyrellan paused. ‘They have caused me some trouble over the years,’ he said. ‘Battu was overly obsessed with their proliferation, and their dispersal into Kainordas was the cause of an unnecessary mission or two.’

‘I see. Well, feel free to dispose of them all.’

‘My lord is sure? They are magical creatures and do not, as far as I know, occur in nature. With the destruction of these ones, the art of creating them may be lost.’

‘Good,’ said Losara.

•

Later that day, Losara sat on the throne, for despite his reluctance, it seemed a thing he should sometimes do. Some of the councillors were now even accompanied by hangers-on. His tolerance had made them bold, and they were now comfortable enough to ignore him entirely when he did not require their attention. A Grey Goblin attendant walked amongst the various groups, enquiring after their needs and removing empty plates and goblets. It was a far cry from the desolation of Battu’s rule.

Tyrellan’s butterfly flew past, the bright flash of colour catching Losara’s eye. Tyrellan himself was over by the long window, speaking to a creaky old Graka. Losara watched as the butterfly landed unnoticed on an Arabodedas’s goblet. It uncurled its proboscis into the liquid, some kind of juice, as if to drink.

The legacy spell mimics the behaviour of the creature it looks like
, thought Losara.
The butterfly isn’t really drinking.

The Arabodedas tried to brush the butterfly away, and instead scratched his hand on its immovable antennae. He turned with a scowl to find Tyrellan’s gaze upon him, then smoothed his features and set the cup down as if it were something dangerous.

‘A word, lord Shadowdreamer?’ came a familiar croak.

Heron, his tutor, shuffled out of the crowd. She had been old when she’d been returned to Skygrip to raise and teach Losara – now, she was ancient. Losara had not thought about her since toppling Battu – there had been much to attend to, after all – but now that she stood in front of him, he felt bad for neglecting her, and fairly certain of what she wanted.

‘Heron,’ he acknowledged. She tried to bow, but her back gave a little pop and she winced. In a smooth movement, Losara fell to shadow and spilled from the throne, re-forming beside her.

‘Here,’ he said, helping her sit on the dais steps, ‘let us rest your weary bones.’

She sighed with relief as her rump flattened on the stone. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you,’ he said, sitting next to her.

‘I understand, dear boy. I’m sure there’s been a lot on your mind.’ A moment of companionable silence passed as she caught her breath. ‘It is good,’ she said eventually, ‘to see this place alive again.’

‘I have my issues with it,’ said Losara with a small chuckle. ‘Earlier today, I was cornered by two councillors wanting me to settle their dispute over whose township gets to host an annual pig race.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Heron, ‘an important decision indeed. Still, I never thought I’d see the throne room like this again, long as I lived.’

Losara nodded. ‘And a long time it has been.’

She shot him a sideways glance. ‘My lord has guessed why I come?’

‘You seek to be released. From service and . . . from life?’

She hesitated for only a moment, then sighed. ‘We both know I have nothing left to teach you. That was the purpose for which Battu kept me alive, though I think it also amused him to do so. Losara, I have been old as long as you’ve known me.’

Losara placed a hand on her shoulder. Nothing on it but skin. ‘So what do you need? My permission?’

‘More than that. Battu used the power of the castle to tie me to life. I thought perhaps the spell would fade with his departure, but it seems Skygrip has a better memory than that. Now that you’re connected to it, you may be able to see – look upon me with your finer senses.’

Losara did so, searching for what was hidden. There they were, so thin that he almost missed them – from Heron’s arms, head and legs, threads of shadow ran up to the roof, like the strings of a puppet.

‘I see them.’

‘They hoist me up,’ she said. ‘Keep me on my feet, as it were, feeding me just enough energy to continue living, teetering along the edge of a void. Possibly I could escape them if the limbs they adhere to were scattered widely enough, or burned to nothing. But I think I deserve a more peaceful end.’