Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (16 page)

Bel shifted his weight, rustling the branch, and a few leaves shook loose. The man glanced up and Bel froze, not wishing to give away his secret vantage. The man seemed to smile a moment, then turned his attention back to his lesson. He called up another student, a stout young woman who walked with a roll to her shoulders and a proud air. She bowed to the man and a new bout began. She was a better fighter than her predecessor and the taskmaster laughed heartily as she forced him back under flashing whirls of dull metal. He announced he was going to try to disarm her and her expression grew more determined. It turned to surprise a moment later as, with a sudden lunge, the man jabbed his sword under the curved hilt of hers and flipped it from her hand. It spun up into the air and went sailing over the hedge, sticking into the ground at the base of Bel’s tree.

‘You have good technique, Gredda,’ the man rumbled, ‘but your grip requires attention.’ The rest of the class laughed and the girl flushed angrily. The man placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not worry. You fight well. Now let us retrieve your sword.’

He turned towards the tree and seemed to look right at Bel. ‘Ho, the tree!’ he called.

Bel grinned. ‘Ho, the ground!’ he called back.

‘Would you return Gredda’s sword to her, young lurker?’

Bel swung from the branch to hang in plain view. ‘With pleasure!’

‘Oho!’ said the man. ‘I might have known!’

As Bel dropped to the ground to grab the sword and go running around the long way, Losara simply drifted over the hedge.

The man turned to his students. ‘That is the end of lessons for today,’ he announced. ‘Gredda, wait for your sword. The rest may leave.’

The group broke up in different directions as Bel arrived, panting. ‘Your sword, m’lady,’ he said, going down on one knee and extending the sword towards Gredda. She snatched it back and strode off huffily. Then the gate soldier arrived behind Bel, red and breathing hard.

‘I’m sorry, Taskmaster Corlas,’ the soldier puffed. ‘He ran through the gate before I could stop him!’

‘Because you were asleep at your post!’ piped Bel.

The soldier went even redder, and not from exertion. ‘Why, you little cur! I ought to –’

‘Be calm, soldier,’ Corlas said. ‘The boy is here by my leave. Return to your nap . . . I mean post.’ He winked at Bel, who smirked.

‘Right, sir,’ said the soldier suspiciously, and turned with a frown to trudge back to the gate.

Corlas looked down at Bel. ‘Your grip on Gredda’s sword looked good,’ he said. ‘As if someone had taught you. But I know that
I
 have never put a sword into your hands, my very young son.’

Son,
thought Losara.
This man is Bel’s father. My father.

‘The Throne once showed me how a sword is carried,’ said Bel.

‘Did he now?’ Corlas’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Well, did you know that I once beat the Throne in a joust?’

Bel shook his head.

‘I’d be careful who you get your advice from,’ said Corlas, and ruffled Bel’s hair. ‘I am not supposed to teach one so young, but if the Throne himself deems you ready . . . Well, would you like to learn what to do with a sword once you can grip it?’

Bel’s eyes shone, and Corlas chuckled.

Together they went to the armoury where, with the aid of an amused armourer, they found a wooden sword small enough for Bel to practise with. Back on the training field, Corlas began to teach the basics of swordplay. The boy learned quickly and well, seeming to have an instant affinity with the weapon. For hours they practised, neither growing tired. As the sun crossed the sky above, Losara wondered if there had ever been a deadlier six-year-old.

Yet I have no love for the blade,
he thought.
Was I supposed to?

The dream took him suddenly elsewhere, to a reedy river where frogs chirped, then a deep wood full of skeletal trees, then a mountain range on the edge of the world where rays from the rising sun shone between peaks like a bridge . . . Scene after scene came, flashing one after the other, blending into each other. The rush became overpowering and he reeled in the dark, his mind beginning to shred under the onslaught of
everything
.

•

A force had seized and contained him, halting his wild spinning. For a moment he felt squashed, then realised it was because he was inside his own body again. It was falling to the ground. He felt arms catch him, lift him and carry him out of the Breath. Looking up he saw Battu, with eyes like wells. He wheezed as air replaced the darkness in his lungs.

‘You spread too thin,’ said Battu gruffly. ‘There is only so much one mind can take.’ He kneeled by the gasping boy. ‘This is why I was there with you, why you must never go into the Cloud by yourself. Rest a moment, boy.’

Losara did as he was told, quietly pondering what he had seen. Away in Kainordas, his father taught his other self and did it purely out of love. Meanwhile, he had the Shadowdreamer as a teacher. Battu wasn’t his real father, yet he had taken Losara to raise as his own.

Why?
he had wondered that day, for the first time.

The answer came to him on his twelfth birthday, when Battu had held a dinner for him and Heron.

‘Try these, boy,’ Battu had said, grinning sharkishly and sliding a bowl of quivering lumps across the table. ‘Marinated anemones. Have to be served fresh. I sent a whelkling on a special trip to Afei Edres just for these!’

Losara was already full, but there seemed no end to Battu’s appetite or his enthusiasm for seafood. Losara spooned a blob onto his plate and, with Battu watching intently, bit into it. The jellied flesh sliced cleanly into smaller pieces that slipped around his mouth, filling it with a briny taste. Losara found the meat unappealing, but he ate the whole thing.

‘A delicacy, master,’ he said.

‘Have more,’ said Battu.

‘I am quite full, master.’

Battu scowled and shoved a whole anemone into his mouth. ‘These are hard to come by, boy. I suggest you enjoy them while you have the chance. Not every day is your birthday. You may indulge yourself, I will not think less of you.’

Losara thought it best to eat another anemone, though he was careful to take more time with this one.

‘Good,’ said Battu. ‘If you’d been brought up in that foxy little wood I rescued you from, there’d be no fine food like this on the table. You remember that.’

‘Yes, master.’

Battu grew annoyed at this. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Is this meal not enough for you?’

Losara was confused by the outburst. He’d agreed with Battu, hadn’t he? ‘The meal is very nice, my lord,’ he tried.

Battu visibly tried to relax his features, and pushed another bowl across the table. ‘Spiced beef,’ he said.

Losara dutifully took a handful of strips and tried to appear enthusiastic about forcing them down. The Shadowdreamer had something hungry in his gaze that had nothing to do with food. It struck Losara that while Battu didn’t actually love him, the dark lord still sought Losara’s love. Why would that be? Why would the Shadowdreamer seek such a thing from a young boy?

Loyalty was the answer. Battu was trying to raise Losara loyal, which meant making Losara love him. Everything became clear. Whenever Battu had been ‘nice’, Losara now realised it was for a purpose. Whenever Battu attempted to appear ‘fatherly’, he was motivated by his own concerns. Battu had grown angry now because Losara had given him an agreeable ‘Yes, master’ when he wanted adulation, not meek compliance.

‘Wonderful,’ Losara said, slurping noisily on the beef. ‘Thank you, Father – I mean master.’ He feigned concern over the slip, but Battu seemed extremely pleased.

With the mystery of the fatherly guise solved, Losara found the tyrant incarnation of Battu even more troubling. While most would be moved beyond terror at the slightest chance they’d displeased the dark lord, the trouble for Losara was that he did
not
fear him. Battu put Losara in mind of a snake that needed to be handled with utmost care lest it lash out in anger. Even through Battu’s loudest tirades and harshest punishments, Losara had never truly been stirred. He’d learned to feign fear, especially if Battu was in a punishing mood, for he took no pleasure in pain and did what he could to avoid it. He often wondered what he’d lost in his division from Bel. Perhaps his ability to feel fear had been affected?

After careful consideration, he decided that was not the case. He knew what it was to be afraid, it was just that the dark lord did not inspire it in him. The punishments, though unpleasant, were petty and irrational and Losara could not respect them.

It was all quite confusing.

•

‘Has Losara news?’ asked Grimra, bringing him back to the present. ‘Any enemies for Grimra to eat as they pass under his archway?’

‘No, Grimra. Though perhaps soon enough. Battu is presenting me at the next meeting of the Shadow Council as his Apprentice.’

‘What be “apprentice”?’

‘An official title to acknowledge what I am already, but more than that. To be named Apprentice in front of the council is to be given a silent title as well.’

‘What be the silent title?’

‘Successor.’ Losara stared into the distance. ‘The Apprentice is marked to follow his master into rule. And he must also journey across the Black Sea. Apprentice can be a dangerous title to hold.’

‘Grimra sees. Your shadow grows long.’ A single claw the length of a sword materialised in front of Losara. ‘Remember,’ said the Golgoleth, ‘enemies for Losara can be treats for Grimra.’

‘Most gracious, greedy ghost.’

The claw faded. ‘Do you be worried?’

‘No. I am . . .’

Losara fell silent. How
did
he feel about the impending events? He knew there were many emotions another might experience – anxiety, fear, confidence – but for him, going before the council stirred up no more excitement than the prospect of a morning bath.

A high-pitched wail interrupted his thoughts. Behind him in the cavern, four Black Goblins were dragging a caterwauling Vortharg in manacles. Spittle oozed from her rubbery lips, spraying her tusks as she cried out in misery. She railed against the guards, trying to spring away on bandy legs. The leader lost patience and cracked her across the skull with his sword hilt.

‘Me thinks it be dinnertime,’ said Grimra.

The guards arrived at the doors, coming to an abrupt stop when they saw Losara sitting in the arch.

‘Master Losara,’ said the leader, bowing his head as the others watched with wary black eyes. Losara knew they were uneasy to stumble across him. It was a common theme. ‘Er . . .’ said the leader, unsure of how to proceed. Though Losara had no official title yet, most treated him with deference. ‘Permission to feed the Golgoleth, sir?’

Losara rose smoothly to his feet. ‘What is the Vortharg’s crime?’ he asked.

‘Thievery, sir,’ replied the leader. Losara waited long enough for him to realise something further was required. ‘Er . . . she was a worker in the nursery, sir. Taking creeper saplings she was, to sell them on down in Mankow.’

Losara raised a blue eyebrow. ‘A dangerous game, stealing from the Shadowdreamer.’

‘Yessir.’

‘You may continue. I would not stand between the Golgoleth and a meal.’

The leader nodded, and the guards dumped the groaning Vortharg in the middle of the archway. They all bowed to Losara.

‘Permission to carry on, sir?’

‘On your way.’

The goblins left gratefully.

Grimra drifted close to Losara’s ear. ‘Passed out she is,’ the ghost whispered. ‘Hungry as me be, me prefer meals awake!’

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Losara.

There was no response as he walked away and he knew the ghost was concentrating on its food. Glancing back, he saw blade-like claws hanging above the stirring Vortharg, working the air impatiently as if they already shredded flesh. A glimmer of a long-fanged grin appeared, insubstantial as smoke.

Losara kept walking. He had no desire to see Grimra toy with his food; he took no pleasure in the suffering of others. It wasn’t that alone that turned his heels, however. There was something about the keeping and feeding of such an ancient spirit like a captive beast that didn’t sit right with him either.

•

Losara arrived in the library corridor. Deep in the heart of the old mountain, he could sense the density of the rock around him. The statues along the corridor were amorphous and strange, like fonts of frozen lava. At the end of the passage was an intricately carved door covered with spidery runes. He opened it and made his way carefully down a steep set of steps, into the library. At the bottom, the stone floor was partially covered by a large rug that was frayed, faded and dirty. Rugs were a rarity in Fenvarrow, there being little liking for warm feet. He wondered how old it was. It felt prickly on his bare toes. Off to the side was a heavy oak desk. The librarian, Emepso, wasn’t there at the moment, but scrolls and books strewn about were evidence of his continuing presence. All around, bookshelves stretched into the distance. The library had a low roof so it was hard to see how far back the shelves actually went. Hanging from the roof were steel lamps holding chunks of melting ice.

He moved between the shelves, pausing now and then to look over a book that caught his eye. Many were old, but had been imbued with preserving enchantments. Some of the truly ancient were kept sealed in glass cases, lest they collapse to dust in clumsy hands. Only the librarian had the key to those – not that keys were really a problem for Losara.

He heard a shuffling and Emepso appeared, clutching a couple of books to his brown robe. The little Arabodedas squinted suspiciously from under thick eyebrows. ‘Master Losara,’ he whined.

Losara moved past him and Emepso followed nervously at his heels.

‘I thought perhaps you were one of those horrid goblin magelings,’ chattered the librarian, wiping a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. ‘No respect for the books, master. And there’s nothing worse than goblin magic.’

‘Is someone causing you trouble, Emepso?’

‘No, master, no,’ said Emepso quickly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle myself. Is there something I can help you with?’