Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (14 page)

Twelve / A Name in the Ice

Twelve

A Name in the Ice

A Name in the Ice

Heron shuffled out of the throne room into the corridor, the hem of her tatty grey skirt dragging behind her. Papery pale and pockmarked skin stretched over her creaking bones, and her flesh sagged in wrinkled bags. Her long grey hair ran in a ponytail down to the small of her back, when she wasn’t clutching it to her chest and running her fingers through it. She was old now, very tired, and sometimes she went up to the higher balconies encircling the bulbous head of Skygrip to think about stepping off. She never had the courage, and there was always the possibility she’d be caught by a Graka patrol before she hit the bottom. Battu would not have been pleased.

All she’d wanted was to retire into a dark hole and drink herself to death. Instead the Shadowdreamer had forced her back to service. Now all she drank was what she could pilfer from the kitchens. The Golgoleth Ghost at the front entrance wouldn’t let her leave the castle, and all other exits were guarded too. In her younger days escape would have been easier. Now she couldn’t even escape sobriety.

It had been a horrible day when she’d woken up back in Skygrip, six years ago now. Her head pounding, her eye red-rimmed, she had stared about the bed chamber without memory of how she’d come there. To her dismay she could find no bottle to quell her cramps and shaking limbs. Curled into a wretched ball, soaking the sheets cold with sweat, she had lain in a disoriented haze for what seemed like hours. Eventually she’d managed to summon enough of her once formidable power to soothe the aching, and sat up woozily on the bed. She had stumbled to the door, only to find it locked.

Some time later the door had opened. Two female Grey Goblins had entered, carrying jugs of water which they emptied into a rusted bath in the corner. They had ‘helped’ Heron into the water, informing her that the First Slave wanted her clean before she was taken before Battu. Neither of them had answers to her questions. They’d left her feeling clean outside and rotten within, like an apple with a maggot in its heart. They didn’t lock the door behind them, but it had seemed best to stay put. Tyrellan arrived and told her what was expected of her. He made her drink soup, and she’d managed to keep it down. The whole ordeal had been so terrible and foggy that she’d barely noticed the butterfly flapping around the room, and following Tyrellan as he led her to Battu.

The dark lord had been irritated to find her so reduced. Her once formidable power had been disused for years and her mind was still half-pickled. Battu had given her a week to sharpen up, not specifying what would happen if she failed. She thought she could guess. Tyrellan had watched her closely during that week. She had no access to drink, but he forced her to eat and walk. Her power grew again, more quickly than she would have believed. When she next came before Battu, she was more like the tutor he remembered from his youth. He had taken her to see the child she was to watch over and, eventually, teach. She’d been given chambers adjoining the boy’s, and warned not to die from old age, else Battu would be forced to bring her back. If she was to escape him in death, her body would need to be destroyed beyond recognition, but she feared to fall, or burn in flames, and so she served.

As she retreated from the throne room, dead Shadowdreamers stared at her from their shadowy alcoves. She knew their faces well – not only had she passed them many times in her younger days, now her slow trudge gave her time to study them whenever she passed. There was Rassid, a strong-jawed Arabodedas, a great leader by history’s account. Nim’rahl, a Black Goblin, her stone hair spilling from the pedestal down to the floor, who had presided over the genocide of the Green Goblins. Wide-eyed Timma, the trickster, who had caused an internal war in Kainordas through an elaborate deception. Skench the Builder, one of the few Graka Shadowdreamers, who had earned a reputation for fairness to all races, funding developments in each major city without prejudice. Telnuwind, a beautiful Arabodedas who had loved her land and whose people had loved her. And on, and more. Despite what they had in common, each was different from the last.

Heron wondered why she’d bothered to be nervous about approaching Battu. She had requested to speak to him about the boy, who had been asking to be told the story of his parents. Battu had displayed the same lack of interest he always did. She remembered well the only other time she’d approached him uninvited to discuss the child.

•

She had entered the throne room to find Battu standing with his back to the long window, talking to Tyrellan. Their gazes had turned to her as she approached.

‘Yes?’ Battu said without preamble.

‘Lord Battu,’ she’d said, bowing. ‘I come concerning the boy.’

‘Yes, yes, Turry said. What is it?’

Heron raised her head. ‘I feel it is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to consider his name. Not knowing whether my lord had something in mind, I come seeking his wishes.’

Battu blinked. ‘A name?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose he should have one.’

Tyrellan had shifted his stance, clawed hands disappearing behind his back. ‘An important matter,’ he said. ‘It is a name the whole world will soon know.’

‘Yes,’ said Battu. ‘It must be something befitting.’ He’d seemed to brighten and, in a voice that was almost jolly, said, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Heron. It will give you a diversion as you while away the hours. Let me know what you come up with and we shall see if I approve. You may go.’

Heron had wondered why she was surprised. ‘As you say, my lord.’

She thought she saw Tyrellan glancing sideways at his master, though it was hard to tell with his black eyes. Still, it wasn’t unexpected when he caught up with her in the corridor. She’d noticed that the First Slave took a very personal interest in the raising of the child.

‘I take it my lord Tyrellan does not share his master’s indifference to the naming of the boy?’ she said, not turning to face him.

‘Bite your tongue or I will bite it for you,’ Tyrellan said. ‘The Shadowdreamer does not tolerate such bold words.’

‘And what if he did hear? He’s already made it known that death is not an escape for me. And any other punishment he might inflict on this old body would be as good as death.’

‘You are not as stupid as you sound,’ said Tyrellan. ‘There are many forms of punishment as you well know – why else do you linger here?’

Heron hoped she’d stopped shock from registering on her face.

‘Oh, yes,’ Tyrellan went on, reaching out a claw to scrape some lichen from the wall. ‘Don’t think I cannot see what is in your heart. You
would
escape that way, if you could. But to escape the Shadowdreamer in death, you must destroy your body beyond hope of being raised again. You would shatter it, then, from the parapets of Skygrip? Or maybe burn it? But you fear that, don’t you? Fear the fall. Fear the pain of fire. You have no courage beyond a deadly herb brewed in a cup, a peaceful descent into sleep. Such an end would leave your body intact though, would it not?’

Heron returned his flat stare. ‘It would. But there are other ways, Tyrellan. What makes you think I cannot fashion a spell for myself? Fire in the belly, as it were. An explosion from within, instant and painless, with nothing left behind but dust. Do you imagine that is beyond me?’

Tyrellan bared his fangs in a humourless smile. ‘Then perhaps you are wiser than I take you for and know that the Dark Gods do not take kindly to those who return to them without fulfilling their obligations in life. If this boy has been born to carry out their will, they will be watching closely. Such knowledge will bind you to your purpose more strongly than any threat of Battu’s. Otherwise you need the courage to face not only death, but what comes after, and you do not have either. You may return to the balconies freely, Heron, and continue to romanticise your own demise. I’m glad we had this talk. I will not fear for you any more.’

Beneath her anger, Heron felt sick.

They had arrived at the boy’s chamber. It was large and circular, cut through with shafts of dim light from holes in the roof high above. Its lumpy stone walls were clear of adornment, besides a large iceplace in which glowed a slowly melting block. In the centre of the room stood a wooden cot, to which Heron and Tyrellan walked.

‘His name,’ said Tyrellan, looking down on the boy, ‘is not something to be shrugged off lightly.’

Heron caught something in the goblin’s gaze. Was it . . . ? No, impossible. Tyrellan was not
fond
of anything.

‘What do you suggest?’ she said.

It surprised her that he actually had some ideas. He muttered them as if self-conscious, and after a while she began to offer her own suggestions. He listened, seeming to test the weight of each one in his mind. Soon they were throwing names back and forth across the crib like some parody of parents.

A resounding crack echoed through the chamber, making them both start. The glow from the iceplace became brighter, blue light dancing across the walls. They turned to stare as fine threads of dark blue energy coalesced within the block, concentrating within the hairline split that had appeared through its centre. The threads twisted to form letters, electric and alive, and brief. The crack grew and the ice fell apart, letters gone.

‘The gods,’ Tyrellan had murmured in wonderment, ‘take an interest.’

Suddenly Heron felt the cold touch of steel at her throat. ‘You will not tell Battu of this!’ Tyrellan hissed through pointed fangs, a strange gleam in his eyes. ‘You tell him the name, but not its origin. Do you understand? You will never speak of this to anyone!’

‘As you say, First Slave!’ she’d choked, confused. What did Tyrellan fear? Would not Battu be pleased?

Tyrellan had pushed her away, giving her a hard look as though making up his mind whether or not to end her right then.

‘I will not need the courage to jump from a high balcony if I have a dagger through my throat,’ she muttered.

He’d scowled and left the room.

Heron had gripped the side of the cot to steady herself and looked down upon the baby.

Losara.

•

Heron entered Losara’s chamber. It held an old cupboard full of knotholes, a low flat bed in the centre, a table at which Heron and Losara ate their meals in high-backed chairs, a board of slate against a wall where Heron drew with chalk when she taught him, and ice glowing in the iceplace. The few small oddments Losara had found for himself barely made an impression in the space.

It took her a moment to spot the boy. He was sitting half-submerged in the shadows that ringed the edges of the room. Naked and cross-legged with his back to her, he was sliding his hands along the stone floor. She raised a hand to her mouth when she realised that, as he withdrew his hands, the shadow came too, like melted toffee sticking to his fingers. Losara cocked his head to watch as it drained back through his fingers, though some flecks remained trapped under his fingernails. She had already guessed he had an affinity with shadows, but this, at such an early age?

The boy turned, regarding her with large, dark eyes.

‘Hello, Losara,’ she said.

Without speaking, he got up and padded over to the bed, spots of shadow shaking free of him to fly back to the edges of the room. He climbed up and sat, watching her, then patted the bed next to him. She smiled; despite his being the cause of her internment, she had grown fond of the boy. She sat, and he reached out to touch her hand.

A quiet child, he was strangely affectionate towards her – and, she had realised with some surprise, towards Tyrellan – whether it was a soft touch in greeting, or the gift of some small thing he’d found, or the look of acceptance in his beautiful ivory face. Although he rarely smiled, his face was full of expression: curiosity, compassion, sometimes something unrecognisable. His brown eyes had become almost as dark as the black of his pupils, and when he looked out from under his silky blue fringe, it was a gaze that seemed both full of depth and capable of seeing depth in what it looked upon. In a world of misery, he was the one thing that brought her comfort.

‘What were you doing there?’ she asked.

‘Playing,’ said Losara. He waggled his fingers at her.

‘How long have you been able to do that?’

Losara looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense. ‘Where are my mother and father?’ he asked instead, just as he had done that morning. Then he added, in a very un-childlike manner, ‘I’ll learn nothing else till I learn of this.’

She was taken aback by the command in his voice, and glad Battu had given her leave to tell him. She began to recount the story of his birth, on a stormy night six years past. She told it as best she could, not leaving out anything to do with the prophecy. When she finished, she expected questions, but the boy seemed to take the tale of his origins with calm acceptance. He stared into the distance with a thoughtful expression.

‘Losara?’ she said. ‘Do you understand what I’ve told you?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Everything,’ he said, then looked at her. ‘My father, maybe. Does he love me?’

Heron faltered. It wasn’t the first question she’d expected. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘But he hasn’t seen me since I was born,’ said Losara.

‘That doesn’t matter. There is a special bond amongst families.’

‘Should I love him, then?’ said Losara. ‘I don’t know him. He went to the Open Halls to look for the other part of me. Why doesn’t he like this part?’

‘My dear, I’m not sure he knows you even exist,’ said Heron.

‘Oh. But you said you supposed that he loved me. How could he if he doesn’t know about me?’

‘I . . . guess I meant he would if he did,’ said Heron lamely.

‘Sons are meant to be with their fathers,’ said Losara. ‘But if he doesn’t know about me, maybe he’s all right. I suppose I don’t have to worry about him.’

Heron faltered again. Losara didn’t have to worry
about
his father? He was asking these questions out of concern for the man, not for himself?