‘Then what does?’
‘Stoke up the fire,’ said Ilcretia grimly, pointing at the embers in the hearth.
Valraven frowned. ‘For what purpose?’
‘Remember the exact wording, my son. “As the heir bears the mark of Madragorec” You, of course, bear this mark upon your neck.’
‘I have a birth mark there, yes.’ Realisation coursed through him. ‘Wait a momentc’
‘Yes,’ Ilcretia interrupted. ‘It must be removed. That is the simple and obvious answer to playing the mages at their own game, which is literally playing with words and meaning.’
‘You will burn the mark from me? Are you sure such a trick would work?’
Ilcretia gestured expressively with both hands. ‘Of course. Nowhere in the curse does it say, “and even if the heir should remove his mark, the curse stays in place”. We have to regard these things as literal.’
Without saying more, Valraven got up and put some more faggots on the fire. He did not fear pain and saw the sense in Ilcretia’s idea. Niska was still fast asleep. He wondered if Ilcretia would vanish if he tried to wake her. He might even wake up himself.
When the fire was burning high, Valraven removed a smouldering brand from it, which he passed to Ilcretia.
‘Now, kneel,’ she said. ‘Remove your shirt and hold up your hair.’
Valraven complied and braced himself for the shock. Ilcretia thrust the burning wood against him and the pain was so sudden and intense, he cried out and jerked away. The air filled with the stink of burning flesh, but Niska still did not stir.
‘There,’ said Ilcretia, ‘it is done. Hold still. I have salve with me.’
Valraven’s head was reeling. His vision was blurred and for some moments, he was out in the open air, on a rain-drenched shore, with tall dark people all around him. He could smell his own burned flesh, and also the embers of the fire, which presently the sea would engulf and drag away. He turned and saw his mother standing with her daughters some distance away, her face as hard as the cliffs behind her. Then he blinked and that same face was revealed to him in firelight, indoors, in the old keep. ‘I was back there,’ he said hoarsely, ‘for just a moment. I was your son.’
Ilcretia nodded shortly. ‘Good. It proves we made the connection.’ She pushed aside his hair and dabbed soothing ointment onto the burn. At once the flesh went cold.
‘That salve is uncommonly effective,’ Valraven said. ‘I thank you.’
‘I am a witch,’ Ilcretia said. ‘You should expect nothing less.’
‘So is the curse inactive now?’ Valraven asked, gingerly touching the burn, which now was numb.
‘We must assume so.’
Valraven stared at her for a moment. ‘Why me, my lady? There have been others before me, who you could have visited and helped.’
Ilcretia smiled. ‘Must you ask that question? The Palindrakes were crippled by what happened to them, their heirs were melancholy, bitter men. Remember your father. I have watched them all, in their suffering and isolation. I have watched you too, knowing I must choose the right moment to come to you. That moment is now.’
‘I must return to Magrast,’ Valraven said. ‘I have been absent too long. If the curse no longer exists, then I must see how events have progressed there and plan my next move. I will need allies.’
‘You are running ahead,’ Ilcretia said. ‘There is more to come before you take action.’
‘What?’
‘You must accompany me on a journey into the soul of your own people,’ she said. ‘I can guide you to the portal, but once beyond it, you will be alone.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Knowledge, experience, wisdom. There are things to learn. The journey is not without danger, but would be worthless otherwise, in any case.’ She leaned forward and embraced him briefly. ‘Ah, Valraven, I would go with you if I could. But I have faith in you, as do many others. Find the answers, my son, and bring them back with you.’
‘How will we enter this place? Through meditation?’
‘No,’ Ilcretia said. ‘Simply take my hand and come with me. When we walk from this place, we walk into dreams. Before you take the final steps to power, we must spend time together alone, and this cannot be done here.’
Valraven put on his boots and coat. For a moment, he stared down at the sleeping Niska. ‘Will she know I’ve gone, or will we both wake in the morning for me to tell her a fabulous dream?’
‘Come,’ said Ilcretia, holding out her hand. ‘You must not think of her, or anyone else. You must leave your people for a while. I can’t tell you how long. Your friend will wake alone. She will search for you in this world and the subtle planes. She is an adept and will understand you were taken for a reason.’
‘I don’t envy her having to return to my sisters without me,’ Valraven said. ‘They will blame her.’
‘That is not your concern.’
Ilcretia hooked a hand through one of Valraven’s elbows and together they walked out of the keep into the grey twilight of the predawn. The smash of waves was a muffled roar beyond the castle walls. Ilcretia led him out to the cliff top and for some moments they stood in silence, gazing down upon the beach.
‘I have walked there so many times,’ Ilcretia said in a wistful voice. ‘The sea has always soothed me. Its voice and its beauty bring solutions to most of life’s problems.’
‘It must pain you to come here now and see what has happened to your home,’ Valraven said.
Ilcretia smiled up at him. ‘It endures,’ she said. ‘Look.’
He turned and saw the walls of the old domain beginning to glow in the first light of dawn. They reared tall intact against the sky. Flags fluttered from the highest turrets, their cables cracking in the wind. It was a sound that was achingly reminiscent of the newer castle, his home. ‘We are back in time,’ he said.
‘We are in no time,’ Ilcretia replied. She squeezed his hand. ‘Welcome home, my son.’
Chapter Twenty-Three: Theft of the Crown
Gastern, emperor of Magravandias, Lord Protector of Magrast and the fifteenth avatar in his line of the great god Madragore, stirred in uneasy sleep. He dreamed of a forest sward, with tall trees all around, whose trunks were hairy with ancient lichen of richest green. There was a castle in this forest, hidden at the edge of the glade by tangled shrubs with knobbly branches and glossy leaves. Here, a drama was taking place. There were three queens, each a different colour. Somewhere outside the glade, a green queen knew that trouble was afoot, but she could not reach the castle, and a weaker red queen trembled upon the velvet grass before the raised portcullis. A black queen lurked in the shadows of the trees, a sharp spiky presence to Gastern, who was an invisible observer of the event. He realised that castle and glade were surrounded on all sides by a moat, also filled with huge and ancient trees. At the bottom of the moat was a depthless ring of water and the slope down to it was treacherous with rock. Now the black queen edged forward, an amorphous shape that vaguely resembled some kind of dragon. The red queen was a mere girl with a swatch of red hair, who knew she was helpless before the might of the other. Gastern knew this because he could see into her mind. He could feel the presence of the green queen nearby, who was unable to breach the natural fortifications of branch and thorn, and who also knew she was not yet powerful enough to defeat the black queen in any case. The black queen advanced, slowly, greedily and the red queen rose from the grass in a fluid motion of flowing robes and hair. She cried out, ‘For queen and country!’ and ran to the edge of the glade, where she threw herself down upon the cruel rocks. Gastern heard her body tumble to the bottom, and then a distant splash.
For just a moment, before he was yanked sweating and panting from sleep, Gastern’s attention was riveted upon the black queen. He felt he was in the presence of ultimate evil, and before then he had never quite believed in such a thing. He believed in ignorance and stupidity and greed, all of which resided in abundance in the huma
n soul, but not in an external, calculating force. Its presence was anathema to him. He forced himself to wake.
At once, he sat up in his wide bed, where the damask coverings were barely wrinkled and the vast cumulus of pillows behind him bore only the single imprint of his royal head. A glimmer of light from lamps in the gardens outside offered a meagre illumination to the room. Gastern’s breath steamed on the air, for it was chill. He put his hands together in prayer and called upon Madragore to protect him.
Did this dream portend evil within his empire? He knew there was much ignorance to root out, areas of darkness where the clear light of Madragore must be made to shine, and he knew some of his brothers were greedy enough to be a threat to him. But he was well protected by powerful men, who had much to lose if he should fall. The significance of queens could mean only one thing to him: his mother. Also his wife, of course. Was she the trembling red queen? That was hard to imagine, but neither could he see her as the green or the black. He wondered whether Tatrini was capable of murder to get her way and whether she would countenance the assassination of her own sons. He did not want to think that, but he was aware that he did not have a nurturing loving relationship with his mother. Royal life had precluded that. As soon as it was possible, Tatrini’s sons had been taken from her side. There was no closeness between them. Conditions were changing in Magrast, but there were still many legacies of the past.
Gastern pulled on his robe and then tugged on a tasselled rope by the bed canopy to summon, Horgan, his chamber valet, for he felt in need of some warm milk to calm his nerves. Perhaps, in the morning, he should speak to Grand Mage Alguin about the dream. Alguin supported Gastern’s vision of a new Church of Madragore, which would do much to correct mistakes of the past. In Gastern’s opinion, Archimage Mordryn, though loyal, was too interested in currying favour with the military, which was riddled with pagan superstitions that needed to be rooted out. Mordryn would not risk upsetting the generals, but Alguin had no such fear. He shared Gastern’s dream of a new, enlightened empire, where the tyrannies of war were a thing of the past. In Madragore’s cleansing light, all humankind would be united.
Gastern heard light footsteps approaching down the corridor outside his door. Horgan was brisk and efficient; he could wake fully in an instant. Reassured, the emperor lay back on his coverlet. It was then he became aware of scrutiny.
At once, his spine coursed with shudders and he sat up straight, peering into the shadowy corners of the room. Was someone there? He could perceive no movement, but thought there was a column of blackness by the wardrobe, darker than the shadows around it. For the briefest instant, Gastern felt once again the presence of evil. He suppressed a cry and at that moment, the door to his chamber opened and mellow light spilled into it, past the familiar figure of his valet. The light dispelled any shadows and there was nothing in the corner to worry about, nothing that could be seen with the naked eye.
Across the world, in the land of Mewt, early evening wafted across the temples and bazaars of the city of Akahana, carrying with it a threnody of music and the breath of a thousand perfumes. As usual, the plaintive voices of priestesses called out from the sanctuaries of a multitude of goddesses. The songs seeped into the governmental building like ghosts. Dining with his guests, Lord Maycarpe identified the devotions to the cat goddess Purryah, who was dear to Merlan Leckery. Merlan was still in Cos, looking for traces of his wayward brother and Varencienne Palindrake. Only that day, Maycarpe had received word from Merlan that King Ashalan’s agents had tracked down Princess Helayna, but that the Palindrakes were not being held by her. The princess had admitted that she’d seen Taropat and Shan, but that she’d not had word from them since they’d left for Caradore. Her men had returned to Cos without them, and had revealed that Taropat had taken his captives into High Hamagara. In this action, Maycarpe did not see the workings of a kidnapper or a killer. He was fairly sure Taropat had good reasons for what he was doing, whether he was consciously aware of them or not. From what he knew of Varencienne Palindrake – through stories Merlan had told him – he suspected she would not be a passive captive. She was the Sea Wife, after all, and would no doubt have some effect over what Taropat did in Hamagara.
Maycarpe and his guests had spent most of the meal discussing the Crown and its possible future. ‘Valraven Palindrake is aware of our aspirations for him,’ Sinaclara said. ‘That must be seen as a step forward.’
‘Aware and unimpressed,’ said Maycarpe, refilling glasses. ‘But that is hardly a surprise.’
‘Indeed not,’ agreed Sinaclara. ‘If he were straining at the leash, eager to become the True King then, paradoxically, he would not be the right candidate. We must woo him carefully.’
‘True,’ said Maycarpe, ‘but I wonder how much time we have. Gastern has been emperor for several months now. We can only presume Tatrini has set plans of her own in motion.’
‘We should guard against rashness,’ Sinaclara said. ‘That’s why I took my time coming here. I’m sure no one could follow our trail. It is far too convoluted.’
Nana smiled. ‘And she confounded the ground with potent cantrips at regular intervals.’
Maycarpe pulled a wry face. ‘You can be sure Tatrini will have sent no ordinary person to secure the crown for her. Cantrips, however deviously applied, may not be enough to deter them. Personally, in your place, I would have come to Mewt by a direct route. Here, at least, you are assured some safety.’
‘I had to follow my instincts,’ Sinaclara said.
Maycarpe nodded. ‘I understand.’
In the silence that followed, a commotion could be heard coming from beyond the door. Maycarpe frowned. ‘What, by the gods, is that infernal racket?’
Sinaclara turned in her seat to face the door. ‘It sounds like some kind of argument.’ She exchanged a puzzled glance with Nana.
Maycarpe rose from his seat, but before he could reach the door, it was flung wide, and a group of Magravandian soldiers marched into the room.
‘What is this?’ Maycarpe demanded, involuntarily stepping aside.
The soldiers stood to attention on either side of the door and a tall dark man dressed in black leather came into the room.
‘Prince Almorante,’ Maycarpe said. ‘This is ac surprise.’
Almorante inclined his head. ‘Darris, forgive this intrusion. I am here on serious imperial business.’
‘So serious that you breach all protocols of etiquette and virtually break down my door? Why not have yourself announced by my chamberlain as usual? This is outrageous!’
Almorante’s glance slid past Maycarpe towards the dining table, where the two women sat tense in the candlelight. ‘I presume one of your guests to be the Lady Sinaclara of Bree?’
Maycarpe had more sense than to deny it. ‘You are correct. This is she.’ He gestured with a languid hand and Sinaclara inclined her head. ‘My lady, this is Prince Almorante of Magrast.’ He turned back to the prince. ‘What is it you want here, Mante? Is all well at home?’
‘Gastern is still on the throne, if that’s what you mean,’ Almorante replied laconically. ‘I am here, as I said, on imperial business. It has come to our attention that the Lady Sinaclara is in possession of an artefact that was found on Magravandian soil, and is therefore the property of the Crown. I am here to demand that she relinquish it.’
‘What property is this?’ Sinaclara asked in a sweetly feminine voice. She rose from her chair and came to stand beside Maycarpe. ‘I am sure I have nothing that was obtained illegally.’
Almorante regarded her with cold eyes. ‘My lady, do not seek to play games. You know very well to what I refer: the artefact in the semblance of a crown that was taken from Recolletine last year by a group of adventurers, who at the very least could be termed looters. I have lately come from your mansion in Breeland, which I and my men found locked and abandoned.’
‘You followed my trail?’ Sinaclara asked sharply.
Almoran
te smiled, an expression devoid of humour. ‘Actually, no. I was on my way here on other business, but the official on duty at the door knows me well and happened to mention Lord Maycarpe had female guests. He was most excited to inform me that they had travelled all the way from Breeland. It did not take genius to work out your identity.’ He glanced at Maycarpe. ‘Why did she come to you, Darris? I feel you should impart this information at once, because her presence here does not cast a good light upon you.’
Maycarpe shrugged insouciantly. ‘I can’t see why that should be. Sinaclara is an old friend of mine, that’s all. I invited her to Akahana for a holiday. Is that so heinous? Has Magrast become so paranoid it sees deceit and conspiracy in every corner?’
‘Of course not. However, your official did mention that the ladies had arrived somewhat unexpectedly.’
‘I do not inform every lackey of all my plans,’ Maycarpe replied stiffly.
‘Naturally not,’ Almorante said. ‘Still, seeing as good fortune has put the lady in my path, I must now interview her on the matter I mentioned earlier. Would you be so kind as to provide me with a private room?’ Threats dripped from every word.
Maycarpe felt Sinaclara’s body tense beside him. He wanted to say to her, ‘Give him the crown now, for he will have it eventually.’ In fact, he could go to the safe in his dressing-room himself and retrieve it. He could say, ‘A curio, your highness. I was intrigued by it, but of course I happily surrender it to you.’ But at that moment, he felt he and Sinaclara shared a single mind, determined that the Crown of Silence should not fall into Malagash hands.
‘I did have the crown,’ Sinaclara said, ‘but it remains in Breeland, locked in a safe in the cellars beneath my house.’
‘You are mistaken,’ Almorante said. ‘We searched the house – thoroughly. Your strong-room, though stocked with many curious items, lacked a crown. We did find an empty safe, however.’
Sinaclara put a hand against her throat. ‘Then I have been robbed!’