Dark Realm: Book 5 Circles of Light series Read online

  ‘But who are those people? I don’t recognise them at all.’ Grent paused. ‘There is a noise too, a screaming howl as of great anguish – rage or grief – or pain. I wake shivering every time.’

  Nenat finished her second helping of stew. ‘It isn’t a dream my dears, but neither is it a sending as we understand such things.’ She moved the fingers of her left hand in a rapid pattern and Grent recognised that she had effectively enclosed them in a magical soundproof bubble. ‘It is from one of the places Between. The few others I have spoken to believe this to be so. Only one of those dared suggest an exact location: the Splintered Kingdom.’

  Grent closed his mouth with a snap. This was the stuff of myth, of tales told and sung in taverns amidst drunken laughter. Waxin Pule bowed his head.

  ‘I was reaching toward that same conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Who spoke this aloud?’

  ‘Anfled.’ Nenat’s tone was flat.

  Pule’s pale face whitened further but Grent did not recognise the name.

  ‘Who is Anfled?’ he asked.

  Nenat’s face suddenly revealed her immense age. ‘Anfled of the Ravens dear. The Hag of Dark.’

  Grent propped an elbow on the table and leaned his head into his hand. These were the two people he loved and respected more than any others, yet they were suddenly talking nonsense. Nenat spoke as though this Anfled, Hag of Dark, was real, existed at this moment. Indeed spoke as though they had actually met. If that was so then who, or what, was Nenat herself? Before he could blurt any questions, both Nenat and Waxin raised their heads, listening. Nenat’s fingers flickered.

  ‘I will explain how you should use these different herbs Grent dear, and in which order to administer them. Your master’s lungs will certainly notice an improvement. I’ll bring a better supply when I visit tomorrow.’ Nenat smiled at both men and headed for the door. ‘I may be a little earlier but you are not to exert yourself in any way Master Pule, nor to leave your rooms.’

  She closed the door gently behind her. They heard her voice outside briefly then a knock rapped on the door panel. Grent scrambled to his feet and opened to an Imperium messenger who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘I came to summon Advisor Pule to attend the Imperatrix, but the herb woman says he is unfit.’ The messenger was peering over Grent’s shoulder as he spoke. Grent turned and saw Waxin Pule lying back in his chair, eyes half closed and seeming near death.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Well, you can see for yourself sir, my master is most unwell. I do not think I could even manage to rouse him just now. The herb woman administered strong medicines and she was firm about him resting at least until she returns tomorrow.’ Grent turned back to the messenger. ‘Please convey my master’s deepest apologies for not attending the Imperatrix.’ He spread his hands helplessly.

  The messenger nodded. ‘He looks bad indeed. I will tell the Lady myself.’ He moved away from the door, his short cape flaring in a brief cloud of green, then his boot heels tapped a retreat down the corridor.

  Grent shut the door, slid a bolt across and went back to the fireside.

  ‘Well done lad.’ Waxin’s blue eyes twinkled despite his pallor. ‘You sounded suitably concerned and even a little simple minded. I’ve told you often enough that simple mindedness is a very useful attitude in a great many situations.’

  ‘But why should she choose to send for you right now? You attended her this morning.’

  ‘We have long suspected that someone within the Citadel, and in her service, can sense the use of magic. When Nenat used the spell of concealment over our conversation just now, that someone picked it up immediately.’

  Waxin handed the tea pot to Grent in the hope of another brew. When Grent brought the fresh tea to his master he was worried.

  ‘Master, if Nenat’s spell was marked so quickly, doesn’t that mean - ?’

  Waxin sipped his tea. ‘Just so lad. It means a very powerful mage has decided to throw in his, or her, lot with our Veranta. And yet, over the past several years since we first began to suspect this, none of us has discovered the faintest hint as to his identity. Which is why I thought of Gossamer Tewk.’

  It was Grent’s turn to pale at that name. Waxin grinned wickedly.

  ‘Hmm, she rather bothered you, didn’t she lad? But you see she’s dead. She won’t be identifiable to our hidden mage, no body heat to track – so I think we should suggest a little amusement for her.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for the last two years or so. Perhaps she’s – gone.’

  Waxin chuckled. ‘Sorry lad, she is still here. I’ve asked a few people and old Molesiffer Brak told me she gave him some very useful information only last month. He made a tidy profit over that fish drying business. So off you go, she has a house in the Artisan Quarter, it shouldn’t be too hard to find her.’

  Grent looked deeply unhappy. ‘And if I find her? Shall I bring her back with me?’

  ‘Just tell her I need an urgent word. She’ll come.’

  Grent made his way from the tower down through the several floors of the Citadel, across the busy courtyards to one of the outer gates. He stared down into the City then to his right towards the harbour thronged with boats of all sizes and types. He sighed and joined the jostling crowds hurrying downhill. He sidestepped to avoid a baker’s laden cart and cannoned into a slender woman. He began to apologise but then just stopped and stared. The woman’s haughty frown changed to a look of recognition.

  ‘Grunt?’ she asked. ‘You work for Master Pule don’t you? How nice to bump into you like this.’

  ‘Grent,’ said Grent. ‘Not Grunt.’ He was remembering just why he’d found this woman so irritating, apart from the fact that she was dead.

  ‘Oh silly me, Grent, of course. Well, nice to see you, I must dash.’

  ‘No!’ Grent caught her arm and repressed a shudder at the coolness of her skin. ‘My master sent me. He wishes to see you as soon as possible.’

  Gossamer Tewk studied the gangling young man: older than he appeared actually, but quite a simple example of the species. ‘I can come with you now if you like.’ She tucked her hand under his arm. ‘I’m here to find Seola really. Have you seen her?’

  Ignoring her question and trying very hard to hide his repugnance at her touch, Grent escorted Gossamer Tewk to the rooms of his master, Waxin Pule.

  Chapter Two

  Gossamer made her way home that evening, deep in thought. She was much relieved to be assured by Master Pule that the “dreams” she’d had recently were in fact true sendings. He had been surprised though and told her he would have to consider more fully what they might mean.

  Grent and Nenat would be keeping watch for Seola’s appearance in the Citadel. Gossamer realised no one had openly mentioned that Seola claimed to be from the Dark Realm and she wondered if the others knew. Or had Seola been teasing when she’d told Gossamer where she was from?

  The smell of roast meat wafted around her when she left the Merchant District and moved in to the Artisan Quarter. Pule had told her he wanted her to travel with Seola for a time, but had not made clear where that travel might take her. He said the curse would hold, she would continue to exist no matter how far from Kelshan she went.

  Gossamer had sought Pule’s help soon after her murder – Snail the Embalmer had recommended him – said he was very good at such things. But he had been quite unable to trace the source of her curse and concluded whoever had laid it upon her had predeceased her. In other words, Gossamer had the last laugh. But Gossamer had not been amused. Pule regretted also that he did not have the ability to release her into full death, as she’d requested.

  Drengle List was a similar case, although Pule discovered it was Drengle’s cousin who had cursed him. The cousin died at the same time as Drengle: the assassins making an unfortunate mistake in the excitement in a dark alley. Lack of intelligence being an obvious failing in the List family, Gossamer observed.

  Pule had given her a sheet of paper to read while he chattered about
his health and the skills of the herb woman, Nenat. Gossamer had been about to ask if he’d been wise to write what he had when the words vanished from the paper. Grent had appeared from the kitchen offering her a bowl of tea and then blushing in embarrassment at her scathing glare.

  ‘I forgot,’ he stammered, while Master Pule tried unsuccessfully to hide his mirth.

  She’d patted Grent’s hand. ‘The dead do not eat, drink or breathe my dear Grunt. Do try to remember – it isn’t terribly difficult.’

  ‘The fact that my name is Grent, not Grunt, isn’t too difficult to remember either,’ Grent snapped back, causing his master a fit of breathless wheezing.

  Gossamer made her way through the wilderness of her garden and groaned as she heard the clank of chains accompanied by loud moans. ‘Drengle!’ she shouted as she entered the hall. ‘Do stop that ridiculous noise. There’s no one anywhere near enough to hear you.’

  ‘I’m practising.’ Drengle’s reply echoed down the staircase.

  Gossamer went through the ground floor and sat on the steps leading down from the kitchen door. She watched the shadows gathering among the overgrown bushes. Three or four ghosts drifted forlornly beside an ancient apple tree. Drengle’s shuffling steps sounded behind her. At least, she thought, he’d left his damn chain upstairs.

  ‘Did you find that woman?’ he asked, sitting beside her.

  ‘No, but she is expected here sometime soon.’

  ‘You been to Snail’s,’ he remarked brightly. ‘You look good.’

  ‘Why thank you Drengle, I’m surprised you noticed.’

  Drengle nodded. ‘I do notice things. I’m good at that. Thought you were beginning to look a bit off.’

  Gossamer ignored that comment. ‘I might go travelling for a while when Seola turns up.’

  Drengle stared at her. ‘Ooh I wouldn’t. She scares me. I wouldn’t go anywhere with her.’ Another thought arrived in his head. ‘But what about me? What’ll I do on my own?’

  Gossamer waved in the direction of the ghosts. ‘Take them out for a treat. Between you, you could scare quite a few people.’

  ‘But how will I manage, here by myself?’

  ‘Drengle, you will manage as usual. We don’t have to shop, or cook.’ She paused. ‘You could clean up a bit I suppose.’

  But Drengle was back to his earlier point. ‘Where would you go with that woman?’ he asked. ‘You know where she says she comes from. Suppose she wants you to go there? Mad mages, dragons, monsters and a wicked queen.’

  Gossamer admired her hands in the twilight, smooth and plumply fleshed. Dear Snail was a marvellous embalmer.

  ‘Drengle, most people stop believing those stories by the time they start first school.’

  ‘I didn’t go to no school,’ he retorted triumphantly. ‘And anyway, there’s no smoke without feathers, and those stories could be true.’

  Gossamer decided for the millionth time that arguing with Drengle List was probably the most pointless thing in the world. She got to her feet.

  ‘I’m going to sort through my things, just in case I do go travelling with Seola.’

  Drengle muttered to himself for a while, then wandered down the garden for a chat with the ghosts. They thought he was wonderful.

  Seola was camped two leagues south east of Kelshan. She could have reached the Citadel by mid afternoon but decided to wait until tomorrow morning. Her head was splitting with pain, partly aggravated by travelling through a Dark gateway but mostly from the powerful sendings of the last days. Even those whose Dark blood was greatly diluted with human blood were suffering nightmares and headaches of varying degrees. Seola lay by her small camp fire, unable to sleep, going over and over the recent events.

  She was with First Daughter Lerran, giving the ancient one warmed wine, when the goblet crashed to the floor. Lerran clutched her head, her eyes shut tight. A second later Seola felt the agony too. A kindred soul screamed in agony. It came from a great distance and it was only later that Seola realised the far more lethal damage that cry could have caused had it been any closer. At the time, Seola struggled to reach Lerran, to enfold the frail form in her arms and just hold on while tears blinded her and pain split her skull.

  It took hours to force the pain into abeyance sufficient that Seola could hear cries from within the Karmazen Palace and beyond. In the following days, the immediate family struggled to reach the First Daughter from their estates and arrived at the Palace in differing states of prostration. But they were all determined to offer their support to Lerran and to the Dark.

  Lerran had previously instructed Seola to go to Kelshan to consult with the few trusted colleagues there and she saw no reason to change that plan. While Seola was away Lerran would discuss with the senior members of the family what action needed to be taken to protect them from further mental assault. They would also try to decide what might be done to salvage a situation spiralling out of control in lands on the other side of the world. Seola stared up at the faint prickle of stars and then closed her eyes. She must get some sleep and hope the headache would diminish before dawn.

  She was much relieved therefore to find that she had slept, and her head, while tender, had stopped sending flashes of pain to her eyes. The fire had long since died to grey ash. Seola dug out some flat bread from her pack and ate as she walked towards the City. She decided she should try to see Waxin Pule first, and wondered if Nenat would be within contact. Then she could visit Gossamer Tewk. Seola had no clear idea why the First Daughter had been so interested in Gossamer. Entering one of the gates to the lower City, Seola hoped that Peshan was taking proper care of the First Daughter. A brother far younger than Lerran, he had a loud and insistent disposition, not ideal for sickrooms, but he did love his sister dearly.

  A breeze from the sea brought the tang of salt overlaid with fish and Seola wrinkled her nose. Increasing her pace, she began climbing towards the Citadel. She neared one of the inner gates and noted the guards seemed more alert than usual, stopping everyone trying to enter rather than the random few as always on her previous visits. A queue had formed, while papers were checked and reasons given for entry explained. Seola removed two papers from the inner pocket of her jerkin and silently offered them to a guard. An officer, she realised, not the usual ordinary soldier.

  The officer read the papers carefully. ‘From Advisor Pule’s estate?’ he commented.

  Seola nodded and tapped her pack. ‘Spring reports and accounts.’

  The officer returned the papers and waved her through. Seola continued across the wide courtyard which was usually busy with traders and supplicants. Today only a few people clustered in small groups talking quietly. She avoided the main corridors, using instead the passages and stairs used more commonly by servants and lesser ranked officials. Eventually she reached the north tower and Pule’s quarters. At her knock a voice called weakly for her to enter and she stepped into Pule’s sitting room.

  ‘My dear,’ Pule extended his hand to her. ‘I’m so glad to see you. Grent has gone out to purchase some herbs and spirits but I expect him, and Nenat, shortly.’

  He peered more closely as she sank into the chair opposite his. ‘Are you unwell my dear, you are very pale?’

  Seola smiled. ‘You’re looking far from well yourself Waxin. Have you had another attack?’

  He answered her questions until the outer door suddenly opened. A messenger stood there staring between the two seated figures. A quick glance showed Seola that Pule had instantly crumpled in on himself, the very picture of a desperately sick man. She raised a brow at the messenger, at the same time rising to her feet to show her respect for his office.

  ‘I did not hear your knock sir. I apologise for my manners.’ Seola bowed her head meekly.

  The messenger looked faintly embarrassed. ‘The Imperatrix demands the attendance of Advisor Pule,’ he said.

  ‘You can see for yourself sir, he will need to be carried if you insist he attend the lady. He is very ill sir.’
r />   Pule’s chest began to make a wheezing rattle and his hands twitched on the arms of his chair. The messenger backed through the doorway.

  ‘I will report his condition to the Imperatrix,’ he announced stiffly and stalked away.

  Seola closed the door behind him and resumed her seat. ‘Popular at the moment are you Waxin?’ she murmured.

  Pule maintained his pose as he murmured his reply. ‘Apparently so. I saw the lady yesterday morning, then she sent for me again. I’d been taken ill by then of course – as you can see.’ His voice lowered even further. ‘An expeditionary force is being planned to go far to the south.’ His eyes opened briefly then closed as the door latch clicked.

  But it was Grent who entered this time, his arms full of packages. He smiled at Seola. ‘Master said you might visit us soon,’ he began but then moved towards Pule’s slumped form in alarm.

  Pule opened his eyes to glare at Grent and the apprentice realised his master was not on the point of death.

  ‘Let me help you put your shopping away,’ Seola suggested.

  She and Grent went to the kitchen from where Pule could hear their very quiet conversation. Pule felt a faint tingling in the air around him and forced himself to remain still. He let his breathing rattle a little more until, after a few moments, the tingling evaporated. So, the unknown mage was getting desperate. Pule believed Veranta and her mage spy had no evidence to take him for questioning, but that was what they dearly wished to do.

  Advisor Pule was held in very high regard by courtiers, officials and commoners alike: an amiable, approachable man with a kind word for anyone. If he was taken for questioning too many people would step forward prepared to swear to his good reputation and long service to the Imperium. Veranta had asked him questions openly about the Dark Realm with growing frequency over the last year or two and Pule knew it was a matter of time before Veranta attempted an invasion of that Realm.

  What no one in Kelshan was aware of – no one – was that Waxin Pule had been born and educated in the Dark Realm. He had arrived in the City, looking to be in his mid twenties, when Veranta’s father acceded to the Imperium sixty-nine years ago. He had been sent here against the day when Kelshan should move against the Dark Realm. And that day was very near. But who was Veranta’s mage? He still had no clue to that one’s identity.