When the night-time visitations had first occurred, Gastern had imagined that an avatar of Madragore was attempting to communicate with him, to show him the way for the future. He had followed vague longings out into the city streets and sometimes it seemed to him that a network of light connected all the shrines and churches of Magrast, each emanating from a great node of radiance that was the high cathedral. As guardian of this light, Madragore’s representative on earth, Gastern checked the lines and where he perceived a dimming of the brightness, he stretched out his hands and sought to increase it, investing it with his own life force. But now there were too many weak areas for him to cover. Each night, the flaws grew more numerous. Perhaps he needed to confide in Alguin or Mordryn so that the fire mages could help him in his work. But a rational part of him was afraid that the clergy would not be able to see the spirit light and certainly could not heal it.
What had begun as a holy quest had slowly mutated into a torment. There were shadows ahead of him, evil shadows, who sought to undo his work as quickly as he could make repairs. He could see them now, beginning to manifest in the dense black corners of the room. They filled him with a terrible primal fear that reminded him of how he had felt in the dream of the three queens. This was the black queen made manifest.
He’d never been able to see anything with his physical eyes, but tonight the suggestions of shapes were more defined. They were slowly spiralling columns of darkness that in their lithe movements suggested the forms of sinuous women. Gastern wanted to look away, but could not. He swallowed and his throat was dry, the windpipe sticking together painfully. He coughed, swallowed twice more. He could see arms now, lissom limbs waving upon the air, darker than the blackness from which they derived.
‘Come now, mighty emperor,’ a voice hissed in his mind. ‘Come with us. Follow us.’
Gastern made a sacred sign and uttered the first few lines of a prayer. ‘Madragore, Lord of Flame, Destroyer of all Darkness, attend thy son and servant.’
The shapes in the shadows uttered tittering sighs, like a wind-chime of thin dry bones clattering together in the breeze. ‘To understand light, you must first understand the absence of light,’ they whispered. ‘The emperor is lord of all, is he not? He should be afraid of nothing. Come forth, mighty emperor. Follow us.’
He could see them now, the three of them, standing at the foot of his bed. They were black goddesses with blue fire for eyes, necklaced with the bones of serpents.
‘You are no creatures of Madragore!’ Gastern cried. ‘I exorcise you, in the name of the lord of flame.’
‘You are wrong,’ said one of the creatures. ‘We and Madragore are one, as are all beings of subtle essence. Know us, and you know him. But only the bravest may endure the lesson we teach. An emperor must be that brave, must he not?’
One of the creatures extended an arm that was so long, the fingers nearly touched Gastern’s cheek. ‘Come with us. Take the test of fire.’
‘There is only one god,’ Gastern said, ‘and his name is Madragore.’ But still his limbs moved involuntarily. His feet felt around on the floor for his jewelled slippers, his hands moved like spiders on the coverlet seeking his robe.
All the while, his eyes were fixed on the undulating shapes in front of him.
Beyond the imperial bedroom, the palace lay in silence, as if every servant and guard slept in the arms of a magical spell. Gastern followed the floating wisps of darkness along the labyrinthine corridors, down breathless flights of steps, beneath ceremonial arches where banners hung motionless, thick with the dust of ages. He crossed stark parade grounds, where the moonlight fell down like hard rain. Shadows were sharply defined, the world black and white.
Out through the many gatehouses Gastern went. No one saw him pass. Three women walked upon the broad road ahead of him, women who left misty footsteps, whose dark hair swung down their backs like dense incense smoke. He could see their tiny waists, their swaying hips, their little feet. Surely they were beautiful, but they could not be good, nor part of Madragore’s design. Gastern was aware of a yearning within him, which was the need for an answer, for union. He could not stop himself following the shadow women, because he dared to hope they could lead him to it.
They passed the slumbering churches and the great hunched bulk of the cathedral that squatted in the heart of the city like an obsidian demon with wings folded over its face. Gastern could see now that the sacred building was composed entirely of petrified gargoyles. Their grimacing faces peered out from every eave and spire. If the right words were spoken, perhaps they would come to life and fly away in all directions. People would wake in the morning and there would only be an immense crater where once the cathedral had stood.
The shadow women did not pause here, but led Gastern onwards, out to the artisan quarter of the city and beyond. He passed through the shantytowns of itinerant workers who laboured at the fisheries around the canal docks, but he did not see his surroundings. His jewelled slippers trod through mud and sewage that lay reeking in the rough streets, but he did not see it. He passed a gallows where an angry mob had lynched a child-killer, but he did not see it.
He went out of the city to where huge black crags reared against the stars, their striated folds glowing in the moonlight. They looked as if they were streaked with white bird dung, but this was in fact a natural formation of the rock. At their feet, yellowish vapour coiled up from the earth and there were pools of milky liquid. This was the holy place of the Splendifers, the pits of the firedrakes, where initiates were required to spend a night alone.
Gastern clambered over the sharp rocks, ripping the fabric of his slippers and the palms of his hands. Pearls rolled from his feet and sank without a ripple into the pools. The shadow women lured him on, into the heart of the pits. They walked backwards, facing him, never once missing a step, but moving surely from rock to rock among the deadly pools. He could see them clearly now. Their faces were sharp-featured, the almond eyes slanting like a cat’s or a snake’s. They had vertical pupils that were windows into oblivion amid a smoking blue. Their hands were clawed and covered with strange patterns. Their arms moved continually upon the air, so that it looked as if they had multiple limbs.
They were motionless now, standing before him, fixing him with their radiant eyes. Gastern panted and gasped: the acrid smoke rising from the pools seared his lungs. He knew of this place, and considered it damned. He wanted to prohibit anyone coming here, because it was soaked in pagan heresy. Now, he must experience it for himself, for only by knowing it could he gain authority over it.
‘Who are you?’ he wheezed.
One of the women stepped towards him and extended four arms. Four hands gripped his shoulders. ‘We are the dragon daughters,’ she said, ‘I am Jia, daughter of Foy, the Lady of Water. Worship in the spirit the things of the spirit.’
Another of the women came to him and stroked his face with the tips of her claws. ‘I am Thrope,’ she said. ‘Worship in the mind the things of the mind.’
And the last came forward, grinning, revealing pointed teeth. ‘I am Misk. Worship in the body the things of the body.’
‘No,’ Gastern said weakly.
‘Yes,’ hissed the dragon daughters in unison.
Gastern tried to push them from him, crying, ‘I exorcise thee in the name of the true god, Madragore, Lord of the Fire of the Sun!’
The dragon daughters released him, but stood in a circle around him. ‘You are afraid, said Jia, ‘and an emperor cannot be afraid.’
You are weak,’ said Thrope, ‘and an emperor must not be weak.’
‘You are blind,’ said Misk, ‘and an emperor cannot be blind. We come to open your eyes, to give you strength and freedom from fear. You should thank us. The True King welcomes these things, and you believe yourself to be the True King, do you not? Dwell in the darkness of thought and drink of the poison of life.’
‘Get thee from me, unwelcome spirits!’ Gastern cried. H
e slipped on the rock and his right leg sank slowly into one of the pools. A puff of evil vapour rose up to fill his eyes and nose, burning down into his chest. He coughed until he thought his lungs would burst and could not open his eyes for the burning pain, but gradually the smoke dissipated and his vision cleared. He drew in a desperate lungful of air and blinked. There were no shadow women before him. He was alone. Awareness came back with speed and he realised the danger of his situation. He must leave here at once. Scrabbling, he sought to retrace his steps, all the while cursing himself for his folly. Demons had led him here, adversaries of his god. They sought to seduce and destroy him.
Clear ground was in sight. He had only a few more feet to go. Tomorrow, he must convene a meeting of the fire mages and tell them everything. They would have to believe him, trust his vision. Danger lurked at the heart of the empire, and it must be rooted out and destroyed. The Order of Splendifers must be broken up and reformed in the name of Madragore, with new healing rituals to cleanse them of the taint of evil. Valraven should be here. Perhaps this was happening because of his absence. Lorca was no substitute.
Gastern was just about to step over the last pool to safety when a jet of yellow steam erupted from the rock ahead of him. He dodged to the side, determined to leap the rest of the way and run back to the palace, but the steam did not dissipate. It hung on the air, expanding and changing colour to a deep luminous scarlet as he gazed at it. He saw eyes within it, burning terrible eyes and a long-snouted head from which a crimson tongue flicked forth.
Gastern cried out in horror and raised his hands before his face. A firedrake, the king of all firedrakes, hung before him, towering up to the sky, scarlet wings held wide. It exhaled a gout of fiery breath that enveloped Gastern entirely. He experienced its icy burn, which was nothing like the natural heat of flame. It was full of voices, of cries and screams, of prayers and laments. It was full of truth, too much to bear. Gastern saw himself for the small puny creature he was, and realised that all humans were small puny creatures. He became aware of the immensity of existence and the complex web of energy that connected every living thing. He saw all the ignorance, stupidity and cruelty of the world and how it was intricately connected with everything that was enlightened, aware and holy. There was no division. To be Madragore’s avatar, he had to be Madragore’s bane and that meant bearing every terrible thing in the world with full awareness. Dwell in the darkness of thought and drink of the poison of lifec
Gastern uttered a scream, his mind aching as if it was about to explode. He wanted to tear out his eyes, stop his ears. There was no point to anything. His rule was a sham, his empire a conceit. To believe otherwise was an illusion, the worst of all lies.
Then he was running, running, through the streets of Magrast. He passed the dangling corpse of the child-killer and the terrified screams of the murderer’s victim assailed his ears like burning needles. He was swamped by images of poverty, desperation and despair, and over all hung the petrifying stink of human ignorance. Onwards, to the cathedral, which reared as a testament to humanity’s blindness against the seeing sky. From every house in the city came the sound of cruel, passionless laughter and the whimper of utter desolation. Ahead, the palace was a rotten honeycomb sprawling over the central hill. Gastern could see now that at one time it had been a sacred place, where the first kings of Magravandias had made their pledges to the land. All that was buried now and forgotten. Forlorn ghosts of noble men and women thronged around it, singing a sad lament for all that was lost. Gastern pushed through them and it was like fighting wet sheets of cobwebs. There was no sanctuary now. Even dawn could not dispel the unseen darkness that shrouded the land. That shrouded life itself.
In the morning, Gastern’s valet summoned Lord Senefex and Archimage Mordryn to the imperial chambers. Horgan was in a state of severe distress and showed them directly into Gastern’s bedroom the moment they arrived. The sight that greeted them there would never leave them and both men had to pull handkerchiefs from their pockets to cover their noses, for the stink was terrible.
Gastern had torn down all the ornate hangings from his bed and the windows. He had scored the tapestried wallpaper with his own hands. He had broken every ornament and had defecated in each corner of the room. He had smeared himself with his own faeces and now sat naked, rocking, in the centre of this reeking devastation.
‘Gastern!’ Mordryn shouted, as if loudness could reach a sane part of the emperor’s mind. ‘What is this?’
Gastern looked up at the archimage with strangely milky eyes. ‘We live in the hell we have made,’ he said, thick spittle flying from his lips. His rocking motion became more agitated. ‘The truth lies in that which is most bestial, for that is our nature, the core of our brains, the only union is with lies, lies are really the truth. We arose from the slime but have never left it. Slime is everywhere. Everything else is illusion. At the end of creation lies destruction and, behold, I know the darkness that lies behind the sun.’
Mordryn turned to Horgan. ‘Call the physicians at once,’ he said.
‘At once, your holiness.’ The valet bowed shakily and ran from the room.
‘What, in Madragore’s name, has happened to him?’ Senefex said. ‘Is this poison?’
Mordryn flicked a glance towards his colleague. ‘If it is, I’ve seen nothing like it before.’ He began to pick his way fastidiously through the mess, holding up his robes of office to avoid soiling their hem. ‘Gastern,’ he said gently. ‘What has happened, my son? You can tell me.’
Gastern began to titter madly and scrabbled backwards, crablike, on the floor. ‘Oh, you can’t touch me. I know what you are. I’ve seen you in the smoke. You are the deceiver, who has built an unholy edifice in the name of God. If you touch me, I will burn you.’
‘I am your holy father,’ Mordryn said. ‘Be at peace, my son. Speak to me. I am here to help and comfort you.’
Gastern bared his teeth. ‘I know what you are. The dragon daughters showed it all to me. You want me dead. They all want me dead.’ He began to laugh hysterically. ‘But I am already dead, so what can you do about it now, eh? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!’
Mordryn sighed and backed away. ‘He has gone,’ he said.
Senefex drew in his breath through his nose. ‘We need Palindrake here,’ he said. ‘We need him back in the world.’
‘We do indeed,’ said Mordryn. ‘Our work in this noisome room is done. Let Alguin come here and work his art, though I doubt even he can reach Gastern now.’
‘He mentioned dragon daughters,’ Senefex said. ‘That is interesting. Who is at work here?’
‘Perhaps there is a component we don’t yet know,’ Mordryn said thoughtfully.
‘Palindrake?’
‘I don’t think so. It could be his sisters, perhaps, or even his wife. We should not under-estimate the women.’
‘A meeting will be convened.’
‘Of course. And we must attend to matters of state.’
‘I will make the necessary preparations,’ Senefex said. ‘Would you care to share breakfast at my residence?’
‘That would be delightful,’ Mordryn said.
Together, they left the room, while Gastern sat rocking, muttering at the walls, lost in the terror of reality.
Prince Bayard awoke from unsettling dreams, but he felt clear in mind and healthy in body. Although he’d been virtually unconscious when Tayven had put him to bed, now he was totally reinvigorated. It was strange the way things turned out. Bayard would never have imagined that Tayven Hirantel would assist him in any way. In Tayven’s place he would not have done so. He could not be so forgiving and tolerant. But perhaps Tayven recognised that Bayard should be emperor. Everyone had always said Hirantel had the clear sight. As Bayard truly believed in his right to be king, he did not question why others might disagree. Anyone who did was a traitor and would be dealt with accordingly. He rose from his bed, smug with satisfaction.
The night h
ad been long, and Bayard’s dreams had been detailed and exhausting. He had travelled the world, aware of every seed of iniquity within it. He had gazed upon brutality and chaos from the highest peaks, but it had not shocked him. Unlike his elder brother, Gastern, Bayard was already aware of what humanity’s dark side comprised and accepted it. He worked with it and recognised it within himself without judgement. He also believed he had the capacity to be light as well as darkness. His mother had ingrained into him since birth that he was a potential sun king. Looking at himself naked in the long cheval glass of his bedroom, Bayard saw nothing to contradict that. He was magnificent. He had won everything he had set out to gain. The ritual at Caradore all those years ago, when he, Valraven and Pharinet had attempted to conjure up Foy, had been a pathetic travesty in comparison to what he and Tayven had achieved last night. Foy was in him now, as were the other elemental rulers. He also had Tayven at his side, despite all that Almorante and Khaster Leckery had once done to try and prevent that. Almorante, once a bitter rival who had sought to assassinate his brother, had served Bayard by securing the Crown of Silence. Whatever ambitions might remain in Almorante’s heart, no one could stand in the way of the true king. The whole world would soon be his.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Man From the Sea
Pharinet brushed out her hair before her dressing table, which stood between two tall windows in her bedroom. She yawned as she yanked the brush through the tangles. Outside, the morning was foggy, even though summer graced the land. The fog must have rolled in off the sea in the night. Sound was muted, but Pharinet could still make out the vague outlines of the beach far below the castle, where the great black rocks looked like sleeping dragons. She could see a white wrinkle where low waves broke against the sand. And there was something else: a dark figure walking through the mist, head bent as if in introspection. Was that Everna out there?