Valraven and Niska arrived at the old domain late in the afternoon, crossing the ancient bridge that spanned two bastions of rock, between which a canyon road snaked in darkness far below. Mellow sunlight kindled a host of gold and scarlet colours in the lichened castle walls, and the crumbled towers reared against a sky that was strangely dark, a peculiar purplish blue. It was as if a storm approached, yet there were no thunderheads massing on the horizon. The sun was a weird fierce disk in the eerie firmament.
Valraven felt as if a host of ghosts were appraising him from the battlements, where crows argued irascibly and lizards crawled among the swaying weeds. It was hard to imagine that this had once been a thriving citadel, almost a town in itself. It would be impossible for the horses and wagon to enter the castle yard, as the main entrance had been partially blocked long ago by a cascade of rubble. Niska hobbled the horses on the natural lawn outside, which overlooked the beach below. Sea birds circled and mourned above them, while the waves crashed against the massive jagged rocks on the shore, sending up great banners of achingly white foam. A faint mist hung above the tide line.
Valraven helped Niska carry some of their belongings over the rubble and into the yard. The massive walls, even after all this time, still stood intact against the elements. Once inside them, the sound of the sea receded. The Magravandians had breached only the main entrance. Valraven had hardly explored the place last time he’d visited; his mind had been preoccupied with thoughts of the task he’d been there to perform. Now, there would be time for investigation and acclimatisation. He would be able to meld with the fabric of the ancient domain, sense its moods, perhaps catch echoes of its memories.
Within the high walls, the air was perfectly still, as if the wind dared not venture there. This was indeed a haunted castle. Even a sceptic could not dispute that.
‘We should make camp within the main keep itself,’ Niska said. ‘The family home.’
Valraven eyed the great building dubiously. Its turrets rose above the wall that surrounded it and its gardens. Varencienne had told him in detail of her visit some years before, and he remembered vividly her tales of ghosts and strange atmospheres. The old Palindrake dwelling had been, in the story, a sentient being, ready to engulf and devour. This might be because of Varencienne’s ability to tell a good yarn, but Valraven would still have felt happier sleeping beyond the keep’s influence.
‘I can tell you are wary,’ Niska said, ‘but we must open ourselves up, fully and willingly, to whatever walks here.’
Valraven suppressed a shudder. ‘It will come at night, won’t it?’ he said, in a deliberately melodramatic voice. ‘I can see it now. I’ll wake up and there’ll be something there, the ghost of my ancestor, dripping with blood.’ He laughed. ‘The script for this drama is preordained.’
‘We have no way of knowing,’ said Niska, somewhat disapprovingly.
‘How strange it is,’ Valraven said. ‘I have led men into battle against impossible odds, with no fear, either of losing the fight or for my personal safety. I have faced assassins, who were prepared to sacrifice their own lives to end mine. Never have I flinched. But here, I have this unknown feeling stealing through me. There are no assailants, armed with knives or poison darts, to slay me. There is no physical threat. Why should I feel unnerved? It doesn’t make sense. What has no corporeal form surely cannot harm me.’
‘You have partially opened yourself up to the possibility that another side to life exists,’ Niska said. ‘You have experienced vivid visualisations of Foy and her underwater realm that have felt to you like physical events. But, in a way, it was safe, because it took place in the realm of the mind, the realm of dreams. Even when Misk took possession of you, it wasn’t a physical act of a strange dragon woman marching up to you and forcing herself into your body. It wasn’t something you could see with your eyes, or feel with your physical sense of touch. It was subjective. It could just as easily have been delusional madness as reality. If Foy, or any of her daughters, should manifest here and now, in the flesh before you, you would have no choice but to accept that dragons, ghosts and unseen entities – magic, in fact – exist. Your whole concept of reality must change to accommodate the new information. That is what scares you. Our view of what the world is keeps us sane. No one wants that fundamentally challenged. We don’t want our image of the world to leak.’
‘Your words make sense,’ Valraven agreed. ‘The experience of Misk was very real, but I suppose that could have been a dark aspect of myself, conjured up by the right stimuli. I have yet to see a ghost or a dragon in reality, and I have yet to receive physical proof a magical spell can work.’
‘You use magic all the time!’ Niska said, smiling. ‘When you stare at a subordinate soldier with those terrible dragon eyes, and he quivers and soils himself in terror, you use magic. Your will has affected his. It’s all the same.’
‘A picturesque analogy,’ Valraven said. ‘Well, we shall see.’ He looked up at the solid walls around them. ‘Do your worst, Old Caradore. Show your ghosts to me. Challenge my sanity!’
Inside the keep, Niska and Valraven made a makeshift camp in the cavernous great hall, round the inglenook of an immense fireplace, where the black spectres of old fires had soaked into the cold walls. Valraven and Niska collected wood and kindling from the wild garden around the keep, then built a fire in the old hearth. The quick flames were dwarfed by their surroundings that looked as if they had been constructed to accommodate entire trees, but the fire was efficient enough for cooking. Valraven helped Niska prepare a meal. He was conscious of the shadowy vastness of the room around him, the half-ruined storeys of the building that towered overhead. He wondered whether ghosts were already prowling round the perimeter of their fire, like wild beasts waiting to make a kill.
Before they went to sleep, Niska insisted they conduct a short meditation in order to connect with the spirits of the place and to ask them if they wished to make themselves known. While their fire crackled reassuringly, there were no other sounds from the castle: no groans or strange knockings, not even the creak of ancient timber. Niska opened her eyes and reported she’d picked up nothing on a psychic level.
‘This place is crawling with etheric energy,’ she said, frowning. ‘I can’t understand why it’s not drawn to us.’
‘Perhaps it is waiting for a more appropriate moment,’ Valraven said dryly.
That night, his sleep was undisturbed by dreams and he did not wake till dawn.
After breakfast, Niska wanted Valraven to relive the vision he’d experienced four years before, that of the Ustredi sea people and Foy, the Dragon Queen, to help create the portal they needed for the otherworldly to flood through into their reality. Niska discussed such things without qualms, in an almost scientific manner. Valraven, who had experienced the devastating power of the dragon daughters firsthand – whether subjectively or not – could only view the creation of a portal with apprehension. They had no way of knowing what might choose to make use of it.
Despite these misgivings, he lay down on the floor and allowed Niska to put him into a light trance. Her soft voice whispered over him like a spirit of the wind. She conjured in his mind images of the city beneath the sea, Pelagra, where the Ustredi lived, the ancient ancestors of the Palindrakes. He could only visualise Pelagra as empty, an undersea reflection of Old Caradore, ruined and inhabited by fishes. Perhaps the Ustredi did not wish to communicate with him. Was it possible that this was proof he was doing the wrong thing, and that his actions would bring only doom to his home and his family?
If you can tell me anything, he said in his mind, at least let me know the answer to that.
But there were no answers, only vague images of cyclopean ruins and waving weed.
The meditation took only an hour or so. After they had discussed the results, or lack of them, Niska and Valraven set out to explore the keep.
During Varencienne’s visit a few years before, she had found Lady Ilcretia??
?s apartments, and had seen ghosts there, but Niska was more interested in discovering the entrances to the cellars, which might lead to the legendary underground lagoons, where once the Palindrakes had communed with the denizens of the sea. Valraven felt as if they were observed by hostile and affronted presences every inch of the way. They found the remains of the kitchens and the ancient blackened range where once splendid banquets had been prepared. Here, much as could be expected, was a door behind which was a flight of steps leading down to a cellar. Dank foetid air emerged from this lightless pit.
‘Foy knows what lives down there,’ Valraven said at the top of the stairs, ‘but I would imagine it has many tentacles and a general antipathy towards humankind. How many people have died down there? I am far from eager to join them.’
‘There are only storage cellars down there,’ Niska said. ‘The Palindrakes would have kept wine and meat in them. Things with tentacles undoubtedly live in the dungeons proper, where people were tortured and killed. It’s unlikely they’d be found off the kitchens.’
‘Do you want to investigate this hole or not?’
‘I think we should. It’s more likely the passages to the caverns run from the storage cellars, in any case.’
They had brought torches with them, which now they lit. As they descended the steps, the leaping flames looked ghoulish in the darkness rather than cheering. The cellars themselves, a series of linked chambers, were completely empty. Whatever they’d contained had either been ransacked by the Magravandians or else conveyed to New Caradore by the Palindrakes. It was clear it would be easy to become lost in the warren of passages and chambers, so Valraven made marks upon the wall with a sharp stone he found. He was conscious of the great weight of the keep above him, its brooding memories, its twisted bitterness in defeat: Old Caradore was insane, driven mad by all it had witnessed. It was like a mother who’d been forced to watch her children murdered slowly, one by one. Now, a wild-haired, rolling-eyed hag, it was dangerous and unpredictable, unable perhaps even to recognise its surviving children.
The floor became wet underfoot, eventually leading to a flooded passage. ‘The lagoon lies beyond here,’ Niska said. ‘We should press on, or at least spend tonight down here.’
‘No,’ said Valraven emphatically. ‘That is beyond folly. This place is a reeking den, and we’d have to swim to reach the lagoon, if it exists at all.’
‘You have no sense of adventure,’ Niska said.
‘And you have rather too much,’ Valraven replied. ‘I am a strategist, and my instincts tell me this: we shouldn’t attempt to bludgeon the spiritual entities of this place into taking notice of us, we should blend into their environment slowly, become part of it.’
‘Aha, you are beginning to talk like a true magician,’ Niska said.
Valraven glanced at her askance.
That evening, they cooked their meal once again in the great hall, crouching in the inglenook, their own small, cosy room within the cavernous ruins.
‘I still feel I should be doing something to help Ren and Elly,’ Valraven said. He was conscious of feeling guilty. The simple food they had prepared tasted so good. So far, this excursion had been enjoyable. That didn’t seem right under the circumstances.
‘You are helping them,’ Niska said. ‘Please, trust me when I say you must not fear for them.’
Valraven glanced around the hall. ‘Well, the old place hasn’t revealed its secrets to us yet. Perhaps we’re in the wrong place. The ritual I did with Ren to commune with Foy took place on the beach below.’
‘We are not here to re-enact that rite,’ Niska said. ‘I am convinced we need to be here, in the castle itself. We should perhaps give it more time.’
But time was a precious commodity. While they waited to see whether Old Caradore had anything to show or give to them, Varencienne and Ellony’s fate remained unknown. Valraven knew it was pointless to keep mentioning this. Niska was unmoveable in her conviction that Ren and Elly were not in danger. Valraven wanted to share her certainty, but he was a man of action, and to him inactivity was wrong and discomforting.
Presently, both Niska and Valraven composed themselves to sleep beside the embers of their fire. Valraven lay on his back, his hands behind his head, gazing up into the darkness of the vault above, which appeared to be haunted only by owls. His mind was curiously empty of thoughts. He listened to the rhythm of Niska’s breathing as she descended into slumber, and smiled to himself when she began to snore softly. Now, he was truly alone. He considered whether he should get up and do some exploring by candlelight – surely the best way to invoke any wandering ghosts. But his blankets were warm around him and he felt comfortable in their swaddling. Also, his eyelids were beginning to droop. Perhaps tomorrowc
Valraven was jerked back to full consciousness by the unmistakeable sound of footsteps nearby. He opened his eyes, but at first did not move, wanting whoever, or whatever, approached to believe he was asleep. In the shadows, he perceived a figure walking towards him from the direction of the main door. It appeared to be a woman dressed in a dark travelling cape. Something about her suggested she had just finished, or was just about to begin, a great journey.
Valraven sat up and the woman did not falter in her swift approach. Her face, now revealed in the dying firelight, was pale and set into a determined expression. She was a handsome creature in early middle age.
‘Madam, are you a ghost?’ Valraven said. ‘Are you about to walk right through me? If not, I suggest you slow your pace to avoid collision.’
The woman was silent until she stood over him. Then she folded her arms and said, ‘I have come some distance to find you.’
‘You know me?’ Valraven said. ‘I regret I cannot return the sentiment.’
‘I know you, Valraven Palindrake,’ she replied.
‘And you are?’
‘A relative of yours.’
Valraven frowned. ‘I do not think so. The Palindrakes are a notoriously small tribe.’
‘I am Ilcretia. You will know me as your great great grandmother.’
Her announcement seemed so absurd, Valraven laughed. ‘Then you are a ghost, and my perception of the world has just been doomed to change, or I am dreaming, or you are lying.’
The woman smiled. ‘Yes, you are in a strange circumstance, but the explanation lies in none of your suggestions. I expect you know that I own the reputation of a sorceress, which I have earned through hard work. I know the real nature of time, and that sometimes you can influence the past by working upon the future.’
‘I am dreaming,’ said Valraven. He lay down again and pressed his hands against his eyes.
Ilcretia leaned down and shook him roughly. There was no doubt she was a creature of flesh and blood. ‘Heed me! We have work to do. We don’t have much time.’
Valraven lowered his hands. He thought Ilcretia looked nothing like her statue in the castle further south, although she did have an undeniable resemblance to Pharinet. ‘If you really can manipulate time,’ he said, ‘then surely we have as much of it as we need.’ He laughed in incredulity and sat up once more. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this. You can’t possibly be who you claim to be.’
Ilcretia squatted down beside him, her cape a pool of darkness around her. ‘You affect levity because you cannot countenance I might speak the truth. Let us make this easier for you. If you want to, then believe that you are dreaming, but that you will remember it and know you learned something important. I have worked long and hard to discover how the curse upon our family might end. I know that one day a boy will be born who will be the one to lift it. You. The fifth Valraven. I also know that events are reaching a climax in your time, which is why both you and I are here.’ She looked up briefly and gazed around the ruins of her home. ‘It is much as I expected.’
Valraven exhaled slowly through his nose. ‘Very well, for now I will accept you exist and that I’m talking to you. So tell me what to do.’
Ilcretia composed herself more comfortably upon the floor. ‘Good. This is the problem: the curse still exists, as it was when it was first enforced. I know you have begun the process of reacquainting yourself with Foy, which so far has not attracted any dire consequences, but to go further you risk bringing the full force of the fire mages’ curse into effect. There will be no conflagration, no wall of flame, but you will lose yourself. You will die.’
‘This is not encouraging news. Why and how will I die?’
‘It is in the very bones of your family’s being to believe in this curse. To put it simply, you would kill yourself. I do not mean literally, although that is not unlikely, but that a madness would seize you. Your home and your family would be under threat, because in your insanity, you would seek to destroy them.’
Valraven frowned. ‘I cannot feel this threat. I am in control of myself, and have worked hard to achieve that.’
‘The trigger has not been activated,’ Ilcretia said. ‘It would be unwise to believe it would have no effect.’
‘Then what must be done?’
‘The important thing to remember is the exact words of the curse, for then you will know how not to trigger it. I took the precaution of memorising it and writing it down exactly as soon as I could. The fire mages said, “As the heir bears the mark of Madragore, we say unto you, should he not serve God’s avatar in life, should he forsake the banner of Magravandias, the fire now within him will consume his body and all in his domain.”’
Valraven considered these words for a moment. ‘Cassilin was Madragore’s avatar, but was that state necessarily passed onto his heirs? Is Gastern the god’s avatar?’
‘Yes,’ said Ilcretia, her face screwed into an expression of irritation.
‘I do not seek to forsake the banner of Magravandias. Some say it should become my banner.’
‘I have seen this too, but even so, it does not get around the first clause.’