Isidor hasn’t returned, and Toralé is beginning to worry. It didn’t occur to him, when the two of them were left behind, how very vulnerable he would be if something happened to his companion. Only now is his mind beginning to race. What if he’s fallen and broken his leg? What if someone has captured or killed him? There will be no one to help him, and I will be stranded here. Even if I find my way back to the boat, I don’t stand a chance of rowing in the right direction.
“Isidor?” he says, but there’s no reply. He tries again, louder. “Isidor?”
He’s met with nothing but silence. Unnatural silence, he realises now. There are no birds. No rustling leaves. Not even the patter of the rain.
He’s still standing by the rough wooden fence that Isidor built to contain the horses, one hand on it to orient himself. He could follow it, as far as it goes. But that isn’t very far. He’d end up back where he started –
Sudden, shocking pain explodes through his right leg, sending him stumbling to his knees. His teeth close on his lip; he tastes iron. What – how –
He succeeded in maintaining his grip on a crossrail halfway up the fence, though his hand is sore and splintered from the effort. Gritting his teeth, he uses the prop to drag himself back to his feet. When he rests his weight on his injured leg it buckles, nearly sliding out from under him again. He presses his back against the solid wood and listens for the sound of an assailant. Nothing. Perhaps an arrow, then? But when he runs his fingers over his leg, he feels only the dampness of blood.
“Is someone there?” he asks the silence.
“I think you know the answer to that,” the silence responds, and Toralé’s guts twist in shameful sick fear. That cold, colourless voice … the injury undealt by any weapon …
“Tarrith,” he whispers.
“You are probably wondering what has happened to you,” the mordathe says. “Allow me to explain. There is a knife driven deep into my right thigh. And if I twist it, like this – ”
Agony forces a cry from Toralé’s lips. He slides back down the fence to sit on the ground, both hands clutching his leg as fresh blood spills over his fingers.
“Did you think I wouldn’t come after you?” Tarrith’s voice says above him. “We are linked, Toralé Silversword. I’m the one who decides when we’re finished.”
“I never became your link,” Toralé whispers.
“We might not have completed the process, but your blood and mine are connected. I can find you wherever you go, Toralé, and I can hurt you. Now, stand up.”
Setting his jaw in defiance, Toralé shakes his head.
“Perhaps a broken bone,” Tarrith says. “If I bend the smallest finger on my left hand back … and back …”
The tiny, precise snapping sound is echoed an instant later by another. Toralé doubles over, retching, cradling his own left hand to his chest. His broken finger seems to throb with every beat of his heart, making it impossible to think clearly.
“I trust I have made my point,” Tarrith says. “You can obey me with pain or without, but you will obey me.” Then he repeats, with exactly the same intonation and emphasis as before, “Now, stand up.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Toralé barely knows what he’s saying; he only knows obedience isn’t an option. “I would rather die than return to the Castle Retreat.”
“You still don’t understand, do you? After everything we have shared. Death would be a mercy compared to what I can do to you. You will give me what I want; the only choice you have is over how much I make it hurt. Bring him.”
The meaning of the last two words becomes clear straight away, as two pairs of hands grip Toralé’s arms and haul him to his feet, holding him upright despite his one useless leg. Tarrith isn’t alone. He has others with him: whether his links, other mages or ordinary soldiers, Toralé has no way to tell. Nor, dizzy and disoriented, can he tell which way they’re dragging him – until the air opens up around him, the sound of rain on water grows louder, and he realises they’re back at the shore.
“Now,” Tarrith says. “You are here, but your host is not. And the lake that holds his island home is protected by a barrier that’s impossible to break.” For once, Toralé detects colour in his voice: the red-purple irritation of a fresh bruise. “Tell us where he is.”
Isidor escaped, then. Toralé’s first emotion is relief. Yet hard on its heels come a whole array of doubts. He escaped back to Othitali and left me behind. But if he saw them coming, why not take me with him? Why leave me here to be captured by Tarrith?
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says anyway. Isidor’s actions might suddenly appear in a more dubious light, but that isn’t enough reason to give Tarrith what he wants. “I’m here alone.”
The mordathe sighs. “One of my colleagues is holding a burning torch. I am now going to put my hand in the fire.”
Toralé’s cry of protest turns into a cry of pain as he feels the flames gnawing at his own skin: a searing heat like a serrated blade scraping his raw nerve endings. He bites down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming. Through the sizzle and stench of his charred flesh, he hears Tarrith’s measured words roll on, as relentless as the fire itself.
“You can’t escape me. The best you can hope for is that one of your friends deals me a killing blow, and thus puts you out of your misery. But be assured, they won’t get close enough for that to happen. Now tell us where he is.”
Tarrith’s voice is close now. Summoning his remaining strength, Toralé spits bloody saliva in what he believes is the direction of the mordathe’s face. In response, Tarrith punches him. Toralé feels the impact of the fist, snapping his head back with enough force to make him dizzy, but he also feels the sting of the punch in his burnt right hand, awakening the dormant agony that lingers in his blistered skin.
“You are trying my patience, Toralé.” For the first time, Tarrith’s voice holds the red of pure anger. “Do I need to peel your skin from your flesh to make myself clear?”
Toralé shudders. He can’t see any way to escape. Every time he fights back, he’s the one who feels every blow he lands. And though he’d love to believe otherwise, he isn’t strong enough to face being skinned alive.
Remember that none of this is your fault, Isidor said before he left. Which suggests that he knew what was coming. That he kept Toralé on the mainland precisely so that Tarrith couldn’t track him to Othitali and thereby uncover its secrets. And if Isidor was willing to sacrifice him, why should Toralé continue to protect him?
All the same, guilt chokes him – because he is the one who led Tarrith here. He didn’t realise their blood was still linked, or that such a link could be enough to overcome Isidor’s protections on the forest, but he’s responsible all the same. None of this is your fault. But it is.
“Is the rowing boat pulled up on the shore?” he mumbles.
“Yes.”
“Then Isidor isn’t on the island. He’s here somewhere. After he left me for you to find, he must have hidden in the forest. That’s all I know.”
There’s a pause. Then he feels the familiar burn of Tarrith’s so-called healing, closing his wounds and sealing his skin to prevent any further wastage of his precious blood, without much care for mending anything that might have been broken.
“Tie him up and leave him here,” Tarrith orders. “We’ll search again for the old man.” His voice moves closer to Toralé’s ear, dropping to a whisper. “I’ll be back for you, Toralé Silversword. And I hope, for your own sake, that you’re telling the truth.”
“The forest,” I gasp to Oriana. “Tarrith is there, with soldiers. At the lake shore.”
I’m still fighting to understand what just happened. Ifor and Esolin must have agreed how this would end before I ever went to the Oaken Keep. Ifor offered to wipe out the infestation of mages on Emerald lands; in return, Esolin gave permission for northern troops to enter those lands. Ifor promised to end a war that they both knew was unnecessary, and Esolin gave him … what?
He made sure that Luthan came to the battle. Like many of my more intuitive thoughts recently, it feels as if it comes from my Ariamé side – as if it’s frustrated by the slowness of the rest of me. So that she’d be out of the way when the attack was launched on Othitali. That’s why Esolin made her attendance a condition of his bargain with me.
Turning on my heel, I confront the Highest Lord of the Emerald directly. “You betrayed us.”
“No.”
“You said you’d help all three of us leave safely, if we ended the war. And since my brother has admitted that you were never at fault, we’ve kept our end of the bargain.”
“As I have kept mine. If Oriana chooses to return to the Citadel to protect her people from the threat of the North, then perhaps she has finally learned some responsibility. But it is not my doing.”
“And Luthan?” I demand.
“She is free to go, as I promised.” He gives her a small shove, sending her stumbling in my direction. I catch her, glaring over her shoulder at Esolin.
“Take this collar off her.”
“That was not part of the agreement. I cannot in good conscience leave a mage to roam around my lands unfettered. This way, she can do no harm.”
I look from him to Ifor. Both of them look back at me. For all my care, I’ve messed this up. Because Esolin is right: he hasn’t broken our deal. He didn’t let on that he’d already spoken to Ifor, when he spoke to me – though maybe I should have realised it, when I wondered how he knew of Luthan’s existence. But other than that lie of omission, he’s keeping his word. I simply didn’t think carefully enough about what that word did and didn’t include. Even with Toralé and Isidor’s input, I didn’t catch his duplicity. But then, how was I to know that there was another agreement underlying ours: one where Ifor would readily agree to stop the war, in return for the chance to invade Luthan’s home? I thought he was after the Emerald. I didn’t understand that his hatred of us far outweighed his desire for power.
What else don’t I understand about my brother?
“Come on, Alyssia,” Oriana says. “We should leave as soon as possible.”
She gives a signal to the ten Emerald Blades who came here with us. Immediately, weapons drawn, they move forward to form a defensive ring around the three of us.
“Then you’re not going back to the Citadel?” I ask, bewildered.
She shakes her head. Her expression holds the same calm determination that I saw in her when I first told her what had happened to her father. “I said I would do my duty. And my duty to my people, now, is to remain free of Ifor so that I can fight him.”
Belatedly, the Sapphire lords are starting to realise what’s happening. One or two of them draw their own swords, while others order some of the blue-coated soldiers forward to retrieve their Highest Lady. Esolin’s ten guards won’t be enough. Either they’ll succumb to the greater numbers, or some of their fellows from the Emerald will join them and we’ll have failed to prevent the war after all …
But then I see that the first Sapphire Blades to reach us haven’t come to fight their Emerald counterparts. They’re joining them, reinforcing the wall around us, standing against the noblemen. Mainly female soldiers, but some men as well. They might not have heard more than the bare bones of my story, but for them it was enough. They’ve come to protect Oriana.
Through the gaps between them, I see Ifor step forward. Oriana might have chosen her words as carefully as Esolin, to appear to promise something she had no intention of doing, but he won’t see it that way. I don’t know if he’ll be willing to kill her protectors to get what he wants, but I know he’s capable of it. And so I wriggle between them, out of the circle of swords, to stand between them and my brother.
“You go on,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll catch up.”
The Blades begin to move, down off the bridge and away in the direction of the forest, Oriana and Luthan in their midst. Ifor grabs my wrist, yanking me towards him. And as if his touch has reinforced our family connection, I’m thrown somewhere else entirely.
When the darkness in his cell begins to shade to grey, Dakion dismisses it as a hallucination: the product of a brain starved of all visual stimulus. He has done his best to keep his mind from diffusing completely by solving equations, reciting verb tables and fragments of poetry, visualising faces until he can almost believe them present. Yet sometimes he speaks aloud and then jumps at the sound of his own voice, although afterwards he is never sure that he actually spoke. Sometimes he is no longer entirely convinced of his own existence. Easy to believe that he is also beginning to see things that are not there – the first step on the road to madness. Most likely that is what Ifor has intended all along. Driving him to lose his mind would not break the terms of the geis, but it would remove him as a threat nonetheless. And perhaps that would be easier. Perhaps he would be happier if he simply submitted to the inevitable.
He leans back against the wall and waits to see what form the hallucination will take. To begin with it is a mere lightening of the air, almost imperceptible. Then it brightens and focuses, and becomes a lantern hovering near the ceiling; with it comes a whisper.
“My lord!”
Blinking in the unaccustomed glare, Dakion peers up at the lantern. It is being lowered through a trapdoor above him. Only the barest features of the man behind it are visible.
“My lord Dakion!” the voice comes again.
Perhaps not a hallucination. Only one way to find out. Dakion reaches for the lantern, and finds it solid and real in his hand. It was also readily relinquished, which settles his next question. No would-be tormentor or enemy would provide a Darklight with anything he might use as a weapon.
“Who are you?” he asks, and is annoyed to hear his voice break from disuse. He holds the lantern to one side, the better to be able to see the other: a man of maybe sixty, with a face as crumpled as a used silk scarf and very little hair. His eyes shine with righteous fervour.
“My name is Lorisat Sunsknife, and I was once servant to your father, One keep his soul. In the last days of his life he sent me word that I was to remain loyal to you, no matter what. And so I’ve come to release you, my lord Roden.”
Dakion acknowledges the title with an ironic nod. Even at the end, his father had more foresight than he himself possesses. He is thankful, even if he would have preferred a little more than one old man.
“You have my gratitude, Lorisat,” he says aloud. “I take it you know, then, that I did not kill him.”
“My lord …” The old man spreads his hands. “To be sure, I’m glad to hear it. But he said no matter what, and I took him at his word.”
So he would have released me, guilty or not. Dakion is not sure whether to be impressed or unsettled by the man’s unquestioning obedience, but he has more pressing concerns. “And where is my brother? Since I have not yet been convicted of patricide, I presume he is still absent.”
“No, my lord. That is, he’s come and gone. He was crowned several days ago. He gave a lovely speech.” Belatedly, it seems to dawn on Lorisat that this compliment might not be entirely to his hearer’s taste. With a cough, he adds hurriedly, “Part of it was that he refused to have the start of his reign overshadowed with your death, much as you might deserve it – begging your pardon – so he commuted your sentence to lifetime imprisonment.”
Naturally. That way he avoids the wrath of the geis, whilst at the same time so impressing everyone with his mercy that they fail to notice the lack of anything like a fair trial. Once again, Dakion considers submitting to the inevitable. Ifor is Roden now, with all the power that entails. And what does Dakion have to set against it? One old man, and a truth that no one will believe. He sees no clear path to regaining his position. Better, perhaps, to find some out-of-the-way place to live out the rest of his days. So long as he posed no threat to Ifor, his brother might well leave him in peace …
Yet even as he thinks it, he finds himself laughing at the very idea of sitting tamely back and letting someone take what is his. He would rather kill Ifor and accept his own destruction as a consequence. And if he has to spend the rest of his life working out how to achieve that, so be it.
“My lord?” Lorisat is watching him uncertainly. Small wonder, when he is standing here laughing at nothing instead of seizing his chance to flee. He pulls himself together.
“I assume you have a means in mind for my escape?”
“The watertunnels have an entrance near here. I thought …”
“Yes. That would be my swiftest way out, I suppose.” Well, then – no purpose in further delays. “Take the lantern and stand aside.”
The old man does so. Dakion catches the edge of the open trapdoor and pulls himself up into the passage above. There is a fur coat on the floor, and a belt with a sword, not his own but serviceable enough; as he dons them, he scans his surroundings. It is not a place he recognises. In the past he rarely visited the warren of cells and torture chambers beneath his home, and he doubts he will be able to navigate it with any degree of success.
“Lead on,” he tells Lorisat, who hands him a waxed bag of supplies before hastening to obey. Dakion attaches the bag to his belt and follows. It is good to have his hand on the hilt of a sword again, even if this one is strange to his grip.
Soon they reach a junction, and the old guard gestures to the left-hand passage. “Down there, my lord. There are no other turnings. You’ll walk straight to the entrance.”
“Thank you, Lorisat Sunsknife,” Dakion says, knowing what is expected of him. “When I am restored to my rightful place, you will be rewarded as you deserve.” If you are not dead by then, he does not add. He cannot imagine that the task ahead of him is going to be completed any time soon.
It is as Lorisat bows low and Dakion turns to leave that there is a shout, and a group of men come running from the other branch of the passage. They have obviously been out on duty, or perhaps a training exercise, for they are armed, and one of them is carrying a bow.
“Run, my lord!” Lorisat cries. Dakion hears the whine of an arrow leaving the string, and turns back around in time to see the old guard leap in front of him. It is impossible to miss at such close range. Dakion feels the thud of the arrow’s impact as though it really has reached him, feels the pain of Lorisat’s fall as if death is clouding his own eyes. It is the only moment he wastes on empathy. Before the archer can fit another arrow to his bow, Dakion hurls himself in the direction of freedom.
Lorisat was right; it is not very far. The passage becomes increasingly narrow until it reaches a roughly hewn gap in the floor, an opening that leads straight into the watertunnels. The stench of rotting waste rises from it in an almost visible cloud. Dakion does not relish the prospect before him, but he has no time to hesitate. As another arrow ricochets in the confined space behind him, he takes a deep breath and jumps through the hole.
His first thought as he hits what could loosely be called water is that taking the sword Lorisat gave him was not necessarily a good idea; it is dragging him down, when the last thing he wants is for his head to go beneath the surface. He directs all his energies at staying afloat, determined to keep the weapon if at all possible, allowing the effluent to carry him where it will. Once he and the river have reached a compromise, his thoughts are able to wander more freely. He considers Lorisat’s death, and concludes that there was nothing he could have done. The man died to protect his rightful ruler, and that is as it should be; Dakion would have done the same himself if their positions had been reversed. Nor does he regret not defending himself, however ill it accords with his pride. A heroic stand is all very well, but any chance of being recaptured is a chance not worth taking.
So what now? Somewhere he must find an army, that much is clear. Not from his own land: his brother controls the Castle of the Black Sun now. From somewhere else. But since Ifor married that silly girl from the Sapphire, there is no sense attempting to gain his own foothold in Castellany unless he wants to end up fighting a war on two fronts. And although mercenaries can be found everywhere, he has no way to pay them. Which leaves only …
Iridene.
Northfell’s western neighbour has been embroiled in a low-level civil war for some time now, the common folk rebelling against the ruling class. Perhaps they would appreciate proper leadership in that endeavour. Helping those who are currently in charge would yield him nothing, but overthrowing them will create a vacancy that he will be perfectly positioned to fill. And then, with the full power of Iridene behind him, he will take back what is his.
Light is brightening steadily ahead, and Dakion returns his focus to the task at hand. He does not want to be swept too far down the river, which passes through several settlements before it reaches the ocean. At the first chance granted to him, he must get out of the river and turn west. West, to Iridene.
I straighten up, head swimming, to find everything much the same as it was before. The small army surrounding Oriana and Luthan is moving towards the forest. Minor skirmishes have broken out everywhere as some of the Sapphire Blades attempt to stop their Highest Lady and others intervene on her behalf, but there’s no sense of a coherent battle. And Ifor is right here in front of me, gripping my wrist, watching my floundering with detached amusement. When I meet his gaze, his eyebrows lift.
“You are still determined to keep my wife from me?”
Having just been inside Dakion’s head, I recognise the language. During the so-called peace talk we spoke Castellian, but now he’s addressing me in our own tongue.
“If I get my way, she’ll never have to go near you again,” I respond in kind, aware of a few lingering noblemen watching us in wary incomprehension. “Filthy liar.”
“You could hardly expect me to admit to everything I did to her. Not when I have to act as a leader to her people.”
As usual when I’m talking to my brother, I have the unsettling sense that I’ve slipped into a different world: almost identical to the one I know, but where logic doesn’t work the same way. Gritting my teeth, I wrench my wrist out of his grasp.
“The rich folk might be on your side,” I say. “But Luthan and I made sure everyone else heard my story, too. Not only did Esolin’s guards keep their word, but some of the Sapphire army joined them. You’ve a rebellion on your hands.”
“Then you win that skirmish. But I do not need her back. Not yet. It would only have been a bonus.”
“To whatever it is you’re planning for Luthan?”
“Exactly.” He smiles at me. “So on balance, I believe I have outplayed you this time round, little sister.”
And now I can no longer restrain my emotions.
“This isn’t a game!” I yell. “These are real people’s lives you’re messing with, and I – I – ” I can’t find the words. My nails dig into my palms. Though I know it will sound childish, I scream, “I hate you!”
“Yet I continue to protect you, all the same.” For the first time he sounds angry, too, as if being told I hate him has actually made an impact. “You throw the Darklight name around with abandon, to make people listen to you, but you have no real authority. Do you think anyone here would stop me if I slit your throat?”
“You wouldn’t. Because the family curse prevents it.” Watching the slight widening of his eyes with some satisfaction, I say, “Yes, I know about that. I learned of it from Dakion, when you framed him for our father’s murder.”
“Dakion and I have always been rivals. I had to remove him from my path, for the good of Northfell.”
“Well, you didn’t do a very good job of it.” I’m not sure if it’s wise to reveal this knowledge, but I don’t care. Not when I finally have him on the back foot. “He’s escaping as we speak. And I don’t suppose he’ll be content to sit back and let you steal his rightful position.”
This time, Ifor’s eyes narrow. I get the impression he’s thinking hard. But then he shrugs. “He can do nothing. He is as constrained by the geis as I am.”
“Right. All three of us are stuck with each other. That’s the only reason you haven’t killed me yet. So don’t pretend you care about me.”
“Ariamé …” He holds out a hand to me. “There is no pretence in it. Dakion is one thing, but you and I … we loved each other, once. And for my part, that has not changed.”
“I never loved you.”
“Oh, you did. You once loved me so much that you told me all about the people in your head and where I could find them. Eagerly. Wanting to help me. We took their lives apart together, alith sia. So do not pretend innocence now.”
It’s like a punch to the stomach, bruising me all over again with guilt at the part I played in the destruction of my friends. Faintly, I say, “You could be lying. How would I know? I don’t remember.”
“For ten years, you followed me around like a shadow,” he says. “You adored me. And why not? Our parents had no real involvement in your upbringing. Dakion considered himself too grown-up and important to be concerned with a much younger sibling. I was all you had. So when your visions started, of course you told me everything. And when I told you what they meant, of course you wanted to help.”
It makes a horrible amount of sense. It also fits with the memories I’ve gleaned from Dakion, since I started seeing through his eyes. Still, determined to fight back for as long as possible, I say, “If I loved you so much – if I was so useful to you – then why did you send me away?”
“Because your safety was more important to me than your usefulness. Because I love you.”
“I don’t want your love,” I snap, and am relieved to find that it’s true. All my life, I’ve wanted to know who I am. To have family. To be loved. Since I found out who I am, I’ve been battling with how to balance that longing against what I owe to my friends. It’s only now that I’ve properly understood the truth: I don’t have to let my family define me. I already know who I am. And although I might have done terrible things when I was younger, that doesn’t mean I’m stuck doing them forever.
“Let me make this very clear,” I tell Ifor. “I am not on your side. I will never be on your side. You’re the worst person I know, and I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done. So stop telling me you love me. Stop trying to claim your place as my brother. I am your enemy. And if I have to die to prevent you from getting what you want, I will do it.”
He doesn’t react outwardly, but anguish flares down our bond before he regains control of himself. “I am not giving up on you, Ariamé. Because make no mistake, if you do not listen to me, that is exactly what will happen. You will give your life, and for what? The chance to do it all again the next time you are reborn.”
I don’t want to talk to him any more. I’m afraid the onslaught of his enduring love for me will weaken my resolve to reject all ties between us. But this is my chance to ask him the questions I failed to ask the last time we spoke, and I can’t let it slip away.
“Then tell me the truth,” I demand. “Everything you’ve only hinted at before. What are we to each other? What links us together so tightly that we have to keep playing out the same battle? And why is it us following in the footsteps of the gods every time, instead of – ”
“Gods?” Ifor laughs bitterly. “You mean the Five? My dear girl, you are the Five. The very same souls, reborn. The only footsteps you are following are your own. A circle in the dust.”
I can see that the path is a circle, Luthan echoes in my memory. No matter where we start, we end up back there again. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. “What are you saying?”
“It is very simple, alith sia. There are no gods. No epic struggle of good against evil. Just us, and what we do to each other. Over and over and over again.”
“But – ”
“Everything the people of Castellany believe is a lie,” Ifor says. “Everything.”
“Then what is the truth?”
His lips tighten. “If I could tell you that, I would have done so several lifetimes ago and we would not be having this conversation now. Ask Luthan, little sister. Ask her what really happened, the first time we met in battle.”
“She doesn’t remember,” I whisper. “You know that. None of us remember except you.”
“She is a mage. She will find out the truth sooner or later, as she always does. And when that happens, it will make no difference – as it always does. She will destroy me and you and your so-called friends for the sake of her own survival. And the world will call it heroism.”
“What if we stop?” I offer, remembering Toralé’s words. We only want to beat him because he came after us. If he’d simply left us alone … “What if you give Oriana back the Citadel and return to Northfell to rule, and we all agree to leave each other be?”
“Oriana is mine,” he hisses, eyes darkening. I freeze, a shiver rippling down my spine. Then the intensity fades from his face and he says, “Nevertheless, I would do it, if you agreed to let me kill Luthan. Her life, in exchange for everyone else’s safety and peace. Surely that is a small price to pay.”
“Of course I’m not going to agree to that!”
“No,” he says in a soft, weary voice. “Of course not. And so it must be war between us. Again.”
I don’t reply. I turn and run, following the small army that surrounds Oriana and Luthan, and he doesn’t try to stop me.