At every turn Ceadoc continued to shock me with its enormity. Maniyadoc was a shepherd’s hovel compared to Ceadoc but, unlike Maniyadoc, Ceadoc was—and this is strange—unimpressive in its enormity. There was a coldness to Ceadoc that its cavernous spaces only served to accentuate.
The main hall rose so far above me I could not see the roof, only fluted and carved stone ribs that curved up and up before vanishing into the confined smoke. Huge fires threw orange light across our party and made their faces unfamiliar, alien, as if the personalities below the skin were changing. For a moment I thought myself surrounded by the shiftlings, the creatures of Fitchgrass of the Fields that spirited away children. A shudder ran through me. Despite the fires and the heat of yearslife, in Ceadoc’s great hall the air was chill.
I stood to Rufra’s left and on his right stood Dinay. I still remembered her as the young girl who had ridden from Gwyre to bring Rufra galloping down on the Nonmen in our most desperate moment. Now she headed his cavalry. Behind us walked Aydor and Boros, between them Celot. Behind them came a phalanx of Rufra’s personal guard, in black and red emblazoned with his flying lizard, and before us Gusteffa the jester capered, cartwheeling and spinning. The huge hall echoed with slow cymbal crashes and the low moansong of priests. We walked a path between men. First Landsmen, green armour shining and the flames of the fires burnishing them in flickering bronze. Then the Landsmen gave way to the high king’s guard, fierce-looking men and women in armour of pure silver. I knew little about them except they were believed to be the most fearsome of all the Tired Land’s warriors, and their severe faces stared forward as if we were not even there. At a shouted command of “Hut!” swords came out. My fingers twitched with the desire to go for my blade. Then with a shout of “Ayt!” the swords were raised so we walked down a tunnel of razored steel. At my side I heard Rufra give a small grunt. He walked unaided despite that it caused him terrible pain.
At the end of the corridor of swords a group of men waited for us. They were flanked by standard bearers who held long sticks with large canvasses, each one showing what I presumed to be High King Darsese in the position of repose, legs together, arms crossed over his chest. The figures were simplistic and so stylised they could have been anyone but for the long red hair which Darsese and the family of the high king had been famous for. My stomach cramped and blood hissed as I picked out Neander, high priest of the Tired Lands, in the group waiting for us. He wore a coat of multicoloured rags to signal he stood for no god and all of them: the only colour missing was the black of Xus the unseen, as that god still lived. His craggy face stared at me like a hunting lizard sizing up prey. He had made his peace with Rufra and I knew that Rufra needed him, but the last time we had spoken I had dreamed of putting a knife at the priest’s throat and letting his blood spill upon the ground. My feelings had not changed. And here, if I were to see him every day? Could I keep my promise not to act on this hatred? Even after so many years had passed since he caused the death of my first love, Drusl?
I did not know. It is far easier to ignore an itch when you cannot see it—in that case you forget about it entirely—but to be reminded of it every moment will have you scratching your flesh into a wound.
Around Neander was a multicoloured array of priests. I could not help noticing that, despite the masks and robes which hid their bodies, from their build they all appeared to be men—which was a break from tradition. Many of the gods and goddesses had specifically female priests, but it appeared Rufra was not the only one bringing in new ways. Neander stepped forward. He had a voice like a quill scratching on parchment.
“Welcome, Rufra ap Vthyr, king of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides, to Ceadoc, the Sepulchre of the Gods. Find good fortune here and be comfortable.”
A shiver ran through me. I could not imagine anyone being comfortable in this cold and echoing place. Before I could become too fixated on Neander he was, almost, pushed out of the way by another man stepping forward. Neander’s face dissolved into momentary fury at being upstaged and I had to fight to hide a smile while he fought to compose himself.
He was tall, this man, abnormally so, and thin as well. Dress him in rags and cornstalks and he would have made a good hedging at the yearsbirth fire dances—but he was not dressed in rags. He wore the finest clothes I had ever seen, which is saying something as I was part of a king’s household, sheer and shining golden fabric fell to pool around his feet. He was surrounded by a group of similarly dressed children and dwarves, all with shorn heads and faces painted to look like hedgings or dead gods: faces blocked out with triangles of black, eyebrows exaggerated, lips painted in strange colours. They whispered constantly, pointing at members of our party and talking about us behind small hands. The man acted as if they were not there and when he moved they flowed around him, clearly practised at staying as close as possible without being trodden on.
He wore make-up, strange patterns covered his face and they made me uneasy as they reminded me of the Landsman’s Leash which scarred my flesh. Thick black hair crowned his head, shaved at the sides with the top pulled back into a tight tail to hide the wrinkles age had gifted his skin. Green eyes stared out from under sparse brows and down a long thin nose that managed to make him look disapproving of our entire party. He smelled strongly of lake flower perfume, but it could not quite cover the smell of stale sweat.
“King Rufra ap Vthyr of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides.” He spoke through his nose and affected a lisp. “The king that walks in the shadow of death.”
“Is that what they say of me?”
“It is, though I hear you do not walk as closely with the shadow as you once did.” Rufra looked at the ground, as if embarrassed by me, and I stared at the man. Such rudeness was rare in the Tired Lands. He turned his eyes to me. “And that shadow is here, Death’s Jester, or should we be more truthful and call you what you are, assassin?” He looked me up and down, focusing on my clubbed foot. “Mage-bent,” he said. “I had heard it but did not think it true.” I found myself liking this man less and less. “The assassins were almost finished and now they rise again.” He took a rag from his pocket and wiped a false tear from his eyes. “You have made them fashionable, it is a poor king now who does not have an assassin to guard him.”
“Do you only wish to insult my friends, Gamelon?” growled Rufra. “Or me as well?”
The man looked surprised.
“My apologies, Blessed Rufra. I forget that the ways of the provincial are not the ways of Ceadoc. I will endeavour to blunt my tongue from now on. Please, let me start again.” Rufra gave him a nod and the man replied with an elaborate bow. “I am Gamelon, seneschal of the high kings, as was my father before me and his father before him. I welcome you to Ceadoc, seat of all power, crown and throne of the Tired Lands, scabbard and Trunk of the Landsmen and the soil that nurtures the protectorate of the white tree, Sepulchre of the Dead Gods, library of our histories and the envy of all men.” He looked at Rufra’s guard behind him and then added, “And women. Of course.”
“And where is the High Landsman?” said Rufra quietly. “As I am forerunner to become high king he should be here to greet me.”
“Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen, sends his regrets, Blessed Rufra, but matters of duty take him away. I am sure he means no insult and he has sent many of his men to guard your way in, as I am sure you have seen.” Gamelon’s eyes shone in the weak light. He knew exactly how insulting it was for Fureth not to show up in person but, in turn, Rufra had expected nothing less.
“Well,” said Rufra, “he is not especially missed. My contingent is one hundred and fifty strong, together with mounts, and we will need access to a blacksmith. I presume you have arranged quarters for us, Gamelon?”
“Of course, Blessed Rufra.”
“He is a king,” growled Boros.
“I know,” said the seneschal. He did not look at Boros. His eyes were fixed on me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “I am forbidden to call any man king unless they are high king. It is a matter of propriety, that is all.”
“Peace, Boros,” said Rufra.
“Is that Celot, behind you?” said Gamelon. “By the one they call the fat bear, Blessed Rufra?” I could not see Aydor, but could imagine his eyes narrowing at being so openly insulted.
“Aye, what of it?”
“Only I have heard much about him, the fool that fights. Darsese talked of him often, of his wish to see if such a man really could fight. Maybe we could arrange a duel of some sort, in the old high king’s honour?”
“We are not here for your amusement,” said Rufra.
“What a pity. Ceadoc does love its amusements. But let us not worry about that now, I am sure the time will come for such things.”
“We would also like to pay our respects at the Sepulchre of the Gods,” said Rufra. Neander stepped forward, speaking in the priests’ carefully held monotone.
“It is regretful that, on this occasion, when all the best of the Tired Lands will be gathered, it will not be possible.”
“You insult my king?” My angry words were like pressure being bled out of me. Rufra put a hand on my arm.
“It is no insult,” said Neander. “The sepulchre was built to remind us of our loss in a time when men were far wiser than we are now. Regretfully, the age-of-balance machines that allow access to the sepulchre have failed, and we have yet to fix them. It is the Landsmen’s duty, and I believe that is why Fureth is not here—he works to allow access. The beauty of the sepulchre will not be denied us for too long, hopefully, and then all may pay their respects once more.”
Gamelon stepped forward again, all smiles.
“Your wound must pain you, Blessed Rufra. Let me show you to where you may lie down and regain your strength.” Rufra ignored the insult, but among the crowd of children and dwarves that surrounded Gamelon there was much giggling hidden behind small hands. Laughter hissed and flowed around us like waves over pebbles and the seneschal did not nothing to curb their disrespect. “I have this man,” he pointed at a soldier in elaborate armour, “he is Captain Hurdyn ap Gorrith of the high king’s guard. He will take you to the Low Tower, where you are to stay. Maybe when you are settled you will allow me to give you a tour of Ceadoc?”
“I have seen it before,” said Rufra through gritted teeth, “and once was enough.” Gamelon smiled and bowed while his entourage giggled again.
“Of course,” he said, and despite Rufra’s rudeness his fixed smile did not waver. “Captain Hurdyn, take Blessed Rufra and his people to their tower.”
I could not help thinking that sounded ominous.
We passed through the belly of Ceadoc Castle, a place that felt designed for no better reason than to confuse the visitor. Our route twisted and turned on itself, steps went up and down, we passed through great halls and squeezed down passages that would barely allow us to walk two abreast. Usually this would have been of no concern—to follow a path and retread my steps are of second nature to me—but we repeatedly crossed the edges of the souring beneath the castle and it made my stomach loop and leap. It was as if I were balancing along the edge of a cliff with only air between myself and the rocks far below. By the time we arrived at the Low Tower I did not know which direction the sun would rise in, never mind how to find my way back through Ceadoc and I wondered if this was deliberate—if we had been brought to this place in the most tortuous manner possible to confuse us. It seemed impossible that there would not be shorter ways to travel through the building.
The Low Tower was a castle in itself, and though called “low” it was nothing of the sort. Not as high as Maniyadoc, true enough, it ran to only four storeys, but it was still an impressive building—so wide that despite its height it gave the impression of being squat. It had its own courtyard and a young slave was lighting a fire for the smiths to work from. At the other side a stablehand was bringing over bales of hay to put down as bedding for our mounts and the enclosure had its own portcullis gate which lead directly into Ceadoc town. A gaggle of children, faces stained and dirty, eyes wide and hungry, stared at us through the bars as Captain Hurdyn brought us to a halt in the courtyard.
“This is yours for the duration of your stay,” he said. He was younger than I had thought, a short beard lent him an age his smooth skin gave lie to. “I will leave twenty highguard here for you.”
“I have my own guard,” said Rufra.
“I do not doubt it but the guard will stay. They are as much to make sure you engage in no mischief as to keep you safe.” I heard gasps from around me at the man’s tone.
“Was that a deliberate insult or are you simply ignorant?” said Rufra, and any that knew him would have known his tone for a dangerous one. I saw a momentary widening of Captain Hurdyn’s eyes and his youth shone through.
“Forgive me, Blessed Rufra.” He bowed his head. “I have been at Ceadoc seven years and forget how abrupt its ways seem to those from outside.” Rufra continued to stare at the man but he did not seem quite as affronted as he had. “All those who visit Ceadoc are left a contingent of highguard. It is simply the way things are done. You will also be expected to tell the highguard where you go when you move through Ceadoc, not because you are not trusted but because diplomacy at Ceadoc is too often carried out with the blade rather than the word. Gamelon does not wish for a new high king to be brought into being in blood, and if we know where you are and where you go an alarm can be raised if you do not arrive swiftly.”
“I suspect Gamelon will be disappointed, no matter how hard he tries to prevent bloodshed,” a flash of humour in Rufra’s eye, “but I understand you simply do your duty. Is there anything else you should tell us?”
The captain nodded.
“Aye, the Low Tower has been empty for a long time and I am afraid it is not fit to receive a king. If you tell my troops what you want they will get it and though they wear fancy armour they are not afraid of hard work. Set them to whatever task needs done and they will do it.” He gave a small bow of his head. “I will join them if required.”
“So you are to stay with us?”
“Yes, King Rufra.”
“Very well, then let us look around our new home.”
There is a smell to dereliction. The concerted action of time brings with it a stink I have always associated with poverty: moist plaster dust, creeping damp and whitewash slowly returning to liquid. On top of this gathered the smell of the filthy tapestries hanging from the walls, spoiled straw mattresses, rotting food, animal dung and the overpowering stink that told me there was a nest of vermin somewhere, scavenging whatever they could find to eat. It was difficult not to see having been put here as a calculated insult, but Rufra said nothing.
“I have torches,” said Hurdyn, gesturing to one of his men to bring them.
“We’ll need more than torches,” said Boros. “We’ll need to fumigate the place.”
“Careful on the stairs,” said Hurdyn, lighting a torch with a sparkbox and then using it to light more guttering torches which he passed out among us. “They are damp.”
He was right, a line of green slime ran down the spiral staircase, pooling on some stairs, flowing to the left and right where water had run down grooves worn in the stone by hundreds of years of feet. The further up the tower we went the more derelict it became—and the angrier I felt Rufra becoming. It was one thing to be insulted by poor quarters, it was another to be expected to live in a ruin.
“Does Gamelon want me here as a candidate for high king or as a mason?” growled Rufra, staring up from the third floor. The ceiling was gone and the sun could be seen through holes in the roof. “We will need canvasses to patch the roof.”
“At least it is not cold or raining, we should be glad we come in summer,” said Boros. “Dead gods grant only small mercies, as they say.”
“We cannot stay here,” said Rufra. Captain Hurdyn bowed his head.
“I am afraid there is nowhere else, Blessed,” he said.
“We could stay with Festival,” I said. “They would happily quarter you.”
“No,” Rufra sighed. “It would be seen as an insult, even though what we are offered is so poor.” He shook his head. “It seems we have no choice but to get to work.”
And that is how one of the greatest warriors of his age and his famed band of loyal companions spent their first day and night at Ceadoc, tidying and making watertight a ruin.
They do not tell you that in the stories.