Dark Realm: Book 5 Circles of Light series Read online

  Dark Realm

  (Circles Of Light - Book Five)

  E.M. Sinclair

  Copyright 2006 by E.M. Sinclair

  Smashwords Edition

  In Memory Of

  F.K. 1880-1970

  M.H.I. 1920-2006

  For John and Ben, with love always

  Cover Painting - ‘Kija’ by Bethan Town-Jones

  Cover Design by David Dempsey

  Chapter One

  Gossamer Tewk stalked through the litter and vermin infested alleys towards the docks of Kelshan. She was in a foul mood. She knew she no longer slept – she’d been murdered eleven years previously and while the curse laid on her meant she had an odd sort of existence, she no longer required sleep. She rested at times, sort of thinned for a while, but sleep? No. So how could she dream? Twice now a woman had – infiltrated her mind. Aah, that was better than the idea that she could be dreaming. Gossamer didn’t recognise the woman personally but she knew who she was from Seola’s description. The woman was the First Daughter, and Gossamer was fairly sure Seola ranked high in the service of the First Daughter. As far as Gossamer was aware, Seola hadn’t been in Kelshan for a couple of years.

  Gossamer had been a highly skilled courtesan and collector of sensitive information. She emerged from an alley onto a paved wharf side and snorted. All right then, she’d been a clever whore and a good spy. She’d made an excellent living because she was smart enough to use the information she gathered to the very best effect. But that information concerned merchant guilds, trading contracts, and high business deals. The First Daughter ruled the Dark Realm far to the south. Gossamer Tewk was fairly certain business affairs in Kelshan would be of scant interest to anyone in the Dark Realm let alone First Daughter Lerran herself.

  She scowled out across the dark waters of the harbour, noting the faintest glimmer which presaged the sun rising behind her. She moved back towards the alleys and made her way through the tenements and shanties of the Oyster District until, as the sky brightened above her, she reached the slightly cleaner area of the Artisan Quarter. Perhaps the woman appeared in her mind to alert her of Seola’s imminent appearance in Kelshan? Gossamer quickened her pace until she reached her house.

  It was a modest building, set in grounds once well ordered but now an overgrown wilderness. After her murder an enterprising group of petty thieves had moved in, but they moved out equally swiftly and the rumour spread that the property was haunted. A narrow path wound between tangled bushes, kept clear as if with use, giving rise to much speculation among the neighbours. Did ghosts truly dwell within the house, or was it a regular camping stop for vagabonds and wastrels?

  The clink of metal on metal sounded as Gossamer entered the house and went through a narrow passage to the kitchen. She glanced around the empty room.

  ‘Drengle, stop playing the fool. Where are you?’

  The clinking noise came again. Gossamer moved out of the kitchen and peered up the stairs to a landing still gloomy with night shadows.

  ‘Drengle,’ she repeated in an ominously patient tone.

  A shaven head appeared, followed by a gangly body holding a length of chain between its hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The figure trotted down the stairs holding the chain out towards her.

  ‘I thought the chain rattling would give people a real fright.’

  Drengle beamed, revealing blue-stained teeth, filed to points. Gossamer rolled her eyes.

  ‘You only need to show yourself Drengle List – that scares people well enough.’

  She went back to the kitchen and Drengle clanked behind her.

  ‘Have you seen Seola around the city?’ she asked, perching on the table.

  Drengle frowned and Gossamer cautioned herself to patience as his thought processes ground into action.

  ‘That fierce woman from the Dark Realm?’ he eventually asked.

  Gossamer nodded.

  ‘She scared me she did,’ Drengle confided.

  ‘Drengle, Seola is alive, you are not. How can she, or anyone else, scare you?’

  There was another prolonged pause. ‘Don’t know but she certainly does. And no, I haven’t seen her. Would have told you if I had wouldn’t I?’ He gave her a reproachful look and Gossamer wondered yet again how this idiot had come to share her house.

  ‘How does she get here anyway?’ The chain jangled as he waved a hand. ‘I mean no one travels to the Dark Realm do they, and that Seola woman’s the only person who I’ve ever met who claims to come from there. They’ve no ambassadors here, nor traders.’

  Gossamer had often wondered exactly the same thing herself but wasn’t about to admit that to Drengle List. She chose not to answer that point.

  ‘Well, if you see her anywhere, tell me,’ she instructed him.

  Drengle looked alarmed. ‘I’m not going out for a few days. Maybe more. Want to work on my chain.’

  He left the kitchen and Gossamer heard him thumping and clanking back up the stairs, muttering to himself. She left her perch on the table and wandered to the window. Perhaps there’d be some gossip at the Citadel. She’d seen Seola there several times before. Gossamer looked down at herself: her shirt was definitely grubby. She held out her hands and studied them. Perhaps a visit to Snail the Embalmer might be a good idea before she tried sneaking around inside the Citadel.

  She went to her room and sorted through clothes she rarely wore these days. After dithering between a skirt or trousers she settled on dark trousers and a lighter shirt. She stuffed them into a pack, adding two daggers as an afterthought. Her favourite knife was already at her belt but she liked the idea of a couple more discreetly hidden about her person. There were no mirrors in Gossamer’s house. She’d found it too depressing to watch her body’s deterioration over the months. Without her regular visits to dear Snail, she shuddered to think what an eleven-year-dead face might look like staring back at her.

  The Citadel rose high above the town and harbour of Kelshan. It had been a stronghold since the area was first settled millennia past. The Imperial State of Kelshan also ruled over a confederacy of smaller regions – city states and minor clan holdings and princedoms. The present ruler of the Imperium was Veranta, a woman held in awe by most of her subjects, and in increasing fear by her advisors and councillors.

  Her father, the Imperitor Jarvos, had ruled benevolently for many years before taking to wife a woman from one of the poorest clan holdings. Corela’s sudden rise to such a lofty status had gone to her head and she had quickly become heartily loathed by courtiers and subjects alike. Within a year of the marriage a daughter was born: Veranta. But the years passed with no more children and eventually Corela fled back to her clan holding amid much bitterness. She had spread rumours of the Imperitor’s impotence as the cause of her barrenness when in truth she had refused him her bed for the ten years since Veranta’s birth.

  Jarvos took a second wife: Tia, the daughter of one of the wealthiest courtiers in Kelshan. Tia miscarried soon after the marriage and then gave birth to a healthy son, the very image of Jarvos. When Tia died soon after the boy’s first name day, Jarvos declined further pressure to remarry.

  Despite her decade superiority and undisputed position as heir to the Imperium, Veranta was viciously jealous of this new half brother Jemin. Before she learned to hide her loathing her father, the nursery staff and tutors realised separation was the only solution. So whilst Veranta strutted and bullied her way in the Citadel in Kelshan, Jemin was moved with his own household a few leagues inland to the Eagle Mountains.

  When Veranta was twenty-nine years old her father died and she assumed the mantle of Impe
ratrix of Kelshan and its Confederacies. That same year she gave birth to her first child, a daughter named Mellia who was now a timid, mousy fourteen-year old. Veranta at Mellia’s age was already working her way through all the men within her reach and no name had ever been put forward as Mellia’s father.

  The half brother, Jemin, had apparently vanished at the time of Veranta’s accession. When he failed to appear at the ceremonies, whispers and gossip said he had died in a hunting accident, a rock fall, of a mountain ague. Very softly it was murmured that Veranta had sent assassins after the hated Jemin. But a few more astute observers noted that Jemin’s maternal grandparents did not go into mourning, and they drew their conclusions accordingly. Veranta’s behaviour towards her father’s second wife had been appalling, both in private and in public although she was clever enough never to let Jarvos witness such scenes. The few brave souls who spoke up in Tia’s defence and caused Jarvos to send his son away after Tia’s death, were not forgotten all those years later when Veranta came to power: all met untimely ends.

  But this particular morning, as Gossamer Tewk made her way to the Embalmer Snail, Veranta was already in her study in the Citadel. She stood staring at a great map, framed and hanging on the wall opposite the door. It had been there since her father’s time – long before that for all she knew. It was a map of the whole continent of which Kelshan ruled the entire central area from coast to coast. To the north lived the bands of the wild clans, vast empty reaches of grasslands right up to the narrow isthmus which linked the southern continent to the northern lands of Drogoya. A line of red ink bordered the northernmost region, a warning that beyond lay the lands of magic wielders, liars, slavers, evil itself.

  To the south of the Kelshan Confederacies a wider line of black ink stretched through the middle of a range of mountains. The mountains may have provided barrier enough but the black line represented the edge of the Dark Realm. Even less was known of that Realm than was known of Drogoya. Myths, fireside tales of monsters and of people twisted in mind and body ruled over by a strange queen, was all that was recorded of the Dark Realm. But there were histories of invasion by Drogoyans, the last being led by Sedka two millennia past, and thoroughly rebuffed by the wild clans. Veranta had studied the old documents and concluded it would be prudent to ignore Drogoya for now. But the Dark Realm – that was another matter.

  Veranta turned her back on the map and sat behind her desk. Flipping through stacks of papers she eventually found the pages she sought: deployment of troops. She began to scribble notes on a blank sheet. By the time footsteps outside her door heralded the arrival of Waxin Pule, chief (and eldest) advisor to the Imperium Council, she had rearranged those deployments to her satisfaction. Pule wheezed to a halt just within the door and bowed. Veranta nodded acknowledgement, waving him to a chair.

  ‘What do you know of the Dark Realm?’ she asked abruptly.

  Waxin Pule stared at the Imperatrix. ‘Only that it has always been a place to avoid, my lady.’

  Veranta grunted. ‘Because of the monsters and a mysterious queen?’

  ‘The queen is always referred to as First Daughter, my lady.’

  ‘First Daughter to whom?’

  Pule combed his fingers through his sparse beard. ‘It was claimed in all the tales I have ever heard of that place, that this queen is the First Daughter of the Dark Goddess herself.’

  ‘Surely you’re not going to admit to a belief in gods and goddesses my dear Pule? Or the idea that they produce offspring?’ Veranta leaned back in her chair, thin lips curved into a smile but her eyes hard as shiny brown nuts.

  From the day of her accession Veranta had done her utmost to root out the unhealthy beliefs held by the majority of the citizens of Kelshan. The abolition of magic and religion, except as controlled by her, would leave the world a far better place in her opinion. She’d left the minor temples to cater for the simplest of her people – farmers, fishermen, peasants and labourers – temples with small specific areas of influence. But the worship of Sky, Earth, or Light, Wind, Fire, or Dark was now a capital crime against the Imperium. She was amused to watch old Waxin Pule, outwardly calm but his racing thoughts almost visible beneath his forehead.

  He allowed himself to give a slight smile in return. ‘I merely repeat what I have read in the few and ancient tales of those lands, my lady.’

  Veranta’s smile vanished. She got to her feet and walked to the window. ‘This Dark Goddess. Is she Death do you think – as Simert was said to be God of Death in these lands in our sad and ignorant past?’ She noted Pule didn’t hesitate before shaking his head.

  ‘No my lady, I don’t believe that to be the case. But as you’ve pointed out, all we know of the southern region is but tall tales.’

  ‘Why should such tales be told in the first place Pule?’

  ‘Perhaps the land itself is dangerous.’ He shrugged. ‘Earthquakes, storms, deserts. We know the weather systems change, can be treacherous, on this side of the Barrier Range. Who knows what inhospitable climate may pertain on the other?’

  Veranta considered his words as she sat at her desk again. ‘That’s as maybe Pule, but I intend to find out.’ She handed him the paper she’d prepared. ‘An expeditionary force will leave for the Dark Realm before the next full moon. See that the Captain Overseer gets this at once.’

  Waxin Pule struggled to his feet, taking the paper from the Imperatrix. He bowed and took his leave. He limped breathlessly through the upper corridors of the Citadel and by great good fortune met the Captain Overseer in the visitors’ waiting chamber. He handed him the redeployment list, unable to speak, simply pointing at the signature at the bottom of the sheet. Without waiting for the Captain Overseer’s reaction, Pule hurried as best he could to his quarters in the north tower.

  The door opened as he reached it and he stumbled across the threshold. His apprentice was already holding a bowl of steeping herbs, the steam filling the air with a sharp medicinal tang.

  ‘Grent,’ Pule gasped.

  ‘Hush master. Sit and breathe.’ Grent helped Pule into a high-backed chair and knelt beside him, the bowl held so Pule could inhale the fumes.

  A short time passed during which Pule’s noisy rapid breathing gradually eased into a slower calmer rhythm. His rigid shoulders relaxed back against the chair and Grent fetched a bowl of tea laced with strong spirits. Pule sipped and nodded.

  ‘Thank you Grent.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I will need to see Nenat as soon as possible.’

  ‘Shall I seek her out master? I’ve not seen her for some while.’ Grent knew more of his master’s work than anyone else in the Citadel or the City below, but even he had not been told how certain of Pule’s more unusual associates might be contacted. Pule smiled.

  ‘She will be here shortly Grent.’ His smile strengthened. ‘Many saw me on my way back here and understand I will have urgent need of a herb woman.’

  A fresh log blazed up in the hearth beside Pule’s chair and Grent stepped back brushing splinters from his hands. ‘Is there anything I should be getting on with master? You should rest this morning.’

  ‘No my dear boy. You carry on with your own studies. I must think. But perhaps you could check there are the makings of a suitable meal for Nenat – she’ll be here by midday.’

  Grent replenished Pule’s bowl and left the tea pot by the fire within his master’s reach. He went quietly through to one of the back rooms, leaving the door slightly ajar in case he was needed.

  Bells rang throughout the Citadel to mark midday and Grent heard the latch snick at the outer door. He went through to the sitting room to find Nenat already sitting across from Waxin Pule, sorting through packets of herbs.

  ‘Hello Grent,’ she smiled.

  Grent smiled back, he liked Nenat. ‘There’s a stew just about ready, and fresh bread and cheese.’

  Nenat’s smile became radiant. ‘You are a good lad Grent. I’m ravenous. Travelling does that to me.’

  Grent pulled a
table closer to the fire and set out plates and dishes.

  ‘She’s sending what she likes to call an expeditionary force south,’ Waxin said quietly.

  Nenat’s hands stilled for a moment and she raised her face to stare at him. ‘How far south?’

  Waxin grimaced. ‘Into the Dark Realm itself.’

  Grent placed a large pot on the table and glanced at his master.

  ‘Shall I leave you . .’ he began.

  ‘No, no. I’ve delayed telling you many things for far too long. Sit.’

  Nenat’s silvery hair shone in the sunlight fingering down from the room’s solitary high window. She heaped a plate with stew and tore some bread from a loaf.

  ‘Have you had sendings Waxin?’ she asked round her first mouthful.

  Waxin helped himself to a small amount of food. ‘I have. Becoming more frequent and also - . I’m unable to tell if it’s a dream or a true sending.’

  Nenat gave him a sharp look. ‘And you Grent, any odd dreams of late?’

  Grent swallowed a too-hot spoonful of stew and took a deep breath to quench the scorching down his insides. ‘I have had the same dream recently, several nights in succession now.’

  ‘And the dream?’ Nenat encouraged.

  ‘Well, it starts with a sort of blurry coldness, like a blizzard. Then a circular space clears like a tunnel.’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Then suddenly two people are lying on the floor in front of me. A girl or small woman, and a man. An armsman by his clothes. The first time, I thought they were dead, but I gradually came to feel they were asleep. Oh and there was a cat lying between them.’ He blushed. ‘Just a strange dream surely?’

  Nenat looked at Waxin. He sighed, putting his virtually untouched plate back on the table. ‘That is my dream too.’

  Nenat helped herself to more food. ‘I confess to some surprise Grent, that you have seen this “dream” so clearly.’