He had a thousand questions. And still he was mute. He decided not to test the verity of his Usher’s threat and had not spoken since they departed the gaoler’s tower. The three red priests delivered the corpse to the Temple of Lady Cinereal, where Elestran the Base was to be blasted to ash. Resting places were reserved for those who could afford a marker that proved they had ever existed at all. The poor are not remembered.
Sometime after leaving the House of Bones, the shorter Usher, who had not spoken yet, pulled off his crimson scarf.
It was not a him at all. She had dark skin and a pug nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. Her jaw preceded the rest of her, an unbreakable figurehead on the bow of her face. Her hair was shorn close to her head, colored with spots, the fur of an exotic leopard.
She removed her red robes and stashed them into a leather pack. Her clothes were clearly of the highest quality, yet subdued and practical. Yes, her nails were polished now, but she was missing one or two of them, and the faded scars and the oft-broken knuckles betrayed to Eles that this woman had known more than her share of clashes.
Eles suspected he knew who she was.
Nobody had spoken a word since they had discarded the corpse. But now, as their horses drew them to the base of the Royal Residence, approaching the eastern gates, the urge to protest gurgled up into his throat. Eles peered sidelong through his mask to his Usher, but the man didn’t return the favor. He simply stared forward. Stone.
Eles started to shake. Whether it was from fear or hunger, or some ill-mixed combination, he didn’t know. He hadn’t been here in decades and had never intended to return. From the outside, it hadn’t changed much. It was still an intimidating, chilling, magnificent castle of black stone decorated with equally dark wrought-iron accents. It loomed over the city, a dizzying labyrinth of gothic towers, with perches for dozens (hundreds?) of ancient gargoyles – malevolent sentinels of centuries past. It had no shortage of surnames, depending on whom you asked. The House of Cabals. The Palace of a Thousand Promises. The Web of Orders. The home of the Loderns.
A single cowled guard stepped out of the gate’s watchtower and immediately nodded to their muscular driver.
The guard looked behind at the two Ushers. “Who?”
“Open up. I’m chilled and tired,” replied their driver. The guard nodded and moved with more urgency. The woman was comfortable barking orders at royal guards. Eles knew that impersonating a Death’s Usher was a grievous crime and he could only imagine what would happen if he was caught doing it in the Royal Palace. Still, as the wagon rambled through the side gate, he mirrored the Usher beside him and simply stared forward. Rain-streaked, black, stone walls rose up on either side, creating a whipping wind that threatened to unhood him. He tucked his hood a little tighter as he glanced up. He knew that with the simple tilt of a cauldron one of the rooftop guards could pour fiery death down onto their wagon. In his youth he had heard the story of one particularly unhinged guard who had doused a visiting furrier simply because he had always wanted to witness the effects.
The wagon stopped in front of the eastern stable, and his two companions hopped off before the stable boy even reached them. Eles hurried after them, struggling to keep up. They moved with the efficiency that only an intimate knowledge of their surroundings allowed. He wanted to look around and get his bearings; but with the hood and mask limiting his vision, the darkness, and the speed with which they were moving, all he had time for was to watch the back of his captors’ heads, else he should lose them in the bowels of this smoke-choked labyrinth.
They passed a number of what Eles could only assume were servants and guards, and all stepped wide of them. Many said a silent prayer to the Queen of Bones, lest she get confused and tap their shoulders instead of the intended invitee. At one deserted intersection, the warrior woman grabbed his sleeve and whispered, “With me.” Eles’ Usher peeled off to the right and disappeared into the dark of the narrow hall but not before beginning to unhook his robe.
Eles tugged his sleeve free and took this chance to finally speak. “I warn you. I have no hatred of the Loderns and will not be persuaded to do them harm.” He meant what he said, but he was also wise enough to understand that if this woman was associated with the Loderns he might engender some favor with such a declaration.
The woman simply smiled the way you might smile at a toddler and put a finger to her lips.
Soon, they were circling down steep stairs and twice he stumbled on his robes. His hunger made him lightheaded and threatened to fell him.
“We’ll get some food soon. A little longer now,” the woman promised in a hushed tone as she grabbed Eles’ arm and helped support him on his descent.
Finally, they reached the bottom and stepped out of the stairwell. The woman moved slower now, more deliberate. She peered around corners before committing to moving on, allowing Eles a moment to look around.
He knew this place.
Greynorr the Wise stared down at him with that penetrating gaze. The ancient Star-seer had been dead centuries, but the legends of his precognitive abilities lived on. The painting of Greynorr hung at the far end of the Hall of Knowledge and memories of Qolor’s history lessons bubbled up from on deep. As they crept down the hall, Eles could see the ancient rug still lay in place. In bright light, the rug was a beautiful weave of great owls perched in leafless elms on a cloudy night. But darkness revealed the dull glow of the owl constellation within the elements of the great rug, spots of glowsilk interlaced in the weave in precisely the right spots.
They stopped in front of the door to the Royal Alchemy Lab. His heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t ready. He needed time. “No,” he whispered. “I could be recognized here.”
His guide withdrew a key and unlocked the reinforced door. When Eles toiled here, very few people had a key to the lab. It was too dangerous. All it took was someone altering the ingredients of a flask to transform the contents from a healing salve to a deadly poison. More than ever, he suspected the woman’s identity. “Move. Inside,” she demanded.
But he stood frozen. He assumed this was still Ke’van’s lab. It was true they never talked, but he assumed he would have heard something had Ke’van left his post. What would he do if they were caught? What would he say? He had played out dozens of such encounters in his imagination over the years. Most ended with Elestran the Base standing over his repentant brother in glorious vindication. None involved him stealing into his brother’s lab in the middle of the night smelling of urine, under hood and mask.
“Go!” the woman commanded as she grabbed Eles’ arm and pushed him into the lab. She stepped in, shut and locked the door behind her, and lit a taper.
Much of the room appeared as he remembered it. The entire wall to the right beckoned to him with floor-to-ceiling shelves covered with alchemical tomes. Most were ancient and rare manuscripts from the Masters like Zanzaharr and Greynorr, while some others contained accounts of more recent tests and theories. The back wall also supported shelves, but those were packed with thousands of vials, tins, bottles, and sacks. Almost any material component an alchemist could wish for: vinegar; ground poppy; blue lizard scales; ram’s blood; green, red, and purple ivy; water blessed by a Priest of the Stag Lord; hair of a Mastiff; Coran’s root; arsenic; quartz; nightshade; hawk’s talons; yellow moss from the cliffs of the Heights; human blood; preserved cat eyes; and on and on. Here sat thousands of ingredients that could be mixed in a billion different combinations with limitless variations.
A massive single stone table covered in scores of equipment in all different shapes and sizes dominated the center of the room: mortar and pestle; ceramic crucibles with a dizzying variation of bases, tops, handles and spouts. Cauldrons, spoons, braziers, and tongs also crowded the surface. Quill and parchment filled with carefully noted recipes and instructions littered the edges. At the far end of the table a pale orange glow emanated from an alembic.
The smell of burning oils. The soft hissing of a simmering liquid. The unending possibilities. Elestran the Base felt it all mercilessly tugging at him. “What are we doing here?” he whispered. “Nobody is allowed in the Alchemist’s Lab!”
“Fill it…? With what? For what? What am I supposed to be doing?”
The woman’s face contorted in affront. “Why do you ask me? I know not of these dark things. You’ll be doing… whatever you sorcerers do in these dank little rooms.”
Sorcerer. Eles bristled at the misuse of the word. A sorcerer is supposed to be able to generate, or at least manipulate, Magesty. With alchemy, the Magesty is contained solely in the components and released only in the perfect conditions. Do some people have a talent for it? Clearly. But anyone could do it, given exact instructions.
“Whatever you’re going to collect, do it quickly. I’ll be back shortly.”
“You can’t leave me here!” he insisted.
“I’ll return in good haste. Don’t leave this room.”
“What if I’m caught?” Eles restrained himself from clutching the woman’s shirt.
His chaperone opened the door and peeked out. “I’ll give the door two quick raps before I enter.” And with that she slipped out.
He wasted no time. Deep down he had suspicions about why he was here, and he let those instincts drive what he collected. Some instruments he was partial to, and he picked those out while trying not to disturb the abutting materials. Choosing manuscripts was trickier. Some of the books here were newer and foreign. In addition, he couldn’t remember where the ones he desired were located. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found Agmorriam’s Fire, Water, Earth, Air and quickly snatched Nax’s Theorems on Matter among other classics and placed them deftly into the sack.
He stopped to rifle through some notes by the alembic when he heard the key turn in the door. No knock! He snuffed the taper and dropped behind the stone table just as the door opened. He peeked around the alembic and spied a figure carrying a hooded lantern locking the door. A man Eles didn’t recognize turned, scanning the room. A trusted acolyte? The lantern bearer saw the burlap sack lying in the corner.
“Whazzis…?” he mumbled as he pointed his lantern in that direction.
In a panic, Eles reached up and released a valve on the alembic, letting off a whistle of escaping air.
The man spun around, gasped, and hurried across the room towards the alembic. Simultaneously, Eles pulled himself behind the big stone table toward the far end as quietly as he could.
The man put down his lantern so that it pointed at the alembic and tightened the valve. Eles, now at the far end of the table, peeked up over the edge and saw that the man’s focus was solely on his brew. He seized the opportunity and crawled to his burlap sack in the dark corner of the room and quietly and quickly pulled it behind the stone table.
Moments later, with the alembic adjusted and tended to, the lantern bearer headed back towards the front door. He pointed his lantern to the corner where the sack used to be. “Hm…? Tsk.” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his palm and went out the door.
Elestran collapsed with relief.
* * * *
Hyssop. Hyssop. Hyssop. How could he have forgotten hyssop?
It was that accursed intruder. If not for him, he surely would have remembered. He couldn’t do his tests without hyssop. It was maddening, working like this. How could he be expected to create like this? Plunged into the Forgotten Bowels. What did the ancient elders say about the Bowels? Forgotten but not forgiven. Nobody dares walk these ancient catacombs anymore, he thought. Located below even the castle’s dungeons, they were used for unthinkable tortures generations ago. Even those who scoff at the idea of a spirit world agree that if ghosts exist, they haunt the Bowels.
He had heard things. Two nights ago, he distinctly heard someone cry mercy. Another night it was a woman’s shriek. His nerves were frayed. And he needed that hyssop.
He looked at his reflection in a large silver spoon. It was good work. Not impenetrable, but damned good. Any alchemist worth his salt could fashion an impressive façade without the use of any Magesty. Some dyes and greases, a pliable protuberance of the face, maybe a stretch of borrowed hair, and he should be able to fool all but the most trained eye.
Eles was feeling heartier than he had in years. With a belly full of the highest quality foods and immersed in a pile of alchemical supplies, he had a buzzing energy he hadn’t felt for decades. There was something very alive about being dead. He felt reborn, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of his past failures and ancient transgressions. Perhaps someday The Base in him could be cast into the Skull Marshes, lost in the morass. Someday.
The only entrance into Eles’ secret lab was through a locked trapdoor in the ceiling and judging by past dragging sounds one had to pull back a heavy rug to get to it. He wasn’t visited often, but when he was, it was always by the woman who had brought him to the lab: Kelshar.
His captor had at least proffered a name and it confirmed Eles’ suspicion. Kelshar might not have even been born the last time he walked these halls. The way she had suggested to warsh up betrayed that Kelshar probably hailed from Rhoane. The Rhoanin had a way of making everything sound like a growl. Still, Eles didn’t need to have met her to know of her name and role: Lodern’s military captain, as well as confidante and sister-in-law to Dargon Lodern. Needless to say, she had better things to do than care for a disgraced alchemist.
Eles would never describe Kelshar as joyous. Still, during her visit earlier that day, the cloud that hung over her head was a darker shade than normal and it only intensified Eles’ growing sense of dread. He wondered when he would get the chance to speak again to the masked Usher who questioned him on the rooftop.
And now, Elestran was unrecognizable. The dark blue and black streaked hair. The hawk’s nose. The scar on his upper lip. It really was impressive. He knew he shouldn’t be leaving the room. He knew it was reckless. But… that damned hyssop.
He pulled up the blue crushed velvet hood of his robe and climbed the ladder to the trap door. Kelshar never bothered locking or unlocking the door. They didn’t actually lock him down here. He strained against the weight of the heavy rug until it relented and flopped aside. The room above appeared to be an abandoned shrine. The dusty prayer rug that he had disturbed was a frayed colorless thing. At one end of the room a raised dais supported a three-foot high stone statue that sent shivers up his spine. Its black paint had probably resembled ebony hundreds of years ago. Ebon, the Fallen King. The distinct spiked crown betrayed him. Clutching his legs were shapeless demons, their faces distorted in silent howls of misery.
He didn’t need any prodding to move quickly for the exit in the opposite wall of the musty shrine. Perhaps if he moved quickly and showed reverence to the vengeful spirits, they would recognize him for a kindred captive and give him leave. He moved as quickly as he could through the cobweb-filled corridors while still carefully taking note of any markers that would allow him to find his way back. He knew if he could find his way up to the lowest levels of the castle, he could find his way to the storage room for the royal lab.
He could see that hyssop. He could smell it.
Eles took the first flight up he could find. He reached a landing and passed a doorway that he guessed led to the castle dungeons. He kept climbing. The stairwell emptied into a long, well-decorated hall that he recognized: the long corridor on the first floor of the royal residence tower that led to the main kitchen. It was exactly what he had hoped, leaving the entrance to the dungeons unnoticed. He knew he would have to pass guards to leave the royal residence and get to the rest of the castle, but if he approached from the direction of the royal tower, he was much better off. Servants skittered back and forth to the kitchen, their whispers rushing as quickly as their feet. Some gossip-worthy event had them in a frenzy.
As expected, when Eles reached the great hall that led to all other parts of the castle, a guard stood sentinel. He turned at Eles’ approach.
“Hold sir. How is it you come unaccompanied from the royal tower?” Clearly, this didn’t happen very often.
The hyssop. The hyssop.
“I am Karhoor, Emissary of Rhoane and guest of Kelshar,” Eles growled, trying to conceal the fear that threatened to paralyze him. “The damned oils and spices of you Ghaultic popinjays is enough to make a man swear off foods altogether.” He stared the man down. Don’t blink, don’t blink, don’t blink, he told himself. “My castle for a damned piece of plain bread.”
“I see.” The guard’s knuckles whitened, his grip on his spear tightening, while he begrudgingly stepped aside.
Eles put his head down and marched into the central hall when he heard a roar rise from beyond a rune-carved archway across the room.
The Council chamber. The Council was in session. Of course.
And it was so close. He would only peek inside. And the back to the hyssop. The guards at this Royal Entrance to the chamber didn’t question or search him, probably because they witnessed his encounter with the guard across the hall. A few gallery watchers turned when he pushed his way in, but quickly returned their focus to the council proceedings.
The chamber of the Council of Seven was a marvel of architecture. Domed in glass, the structure allowed Council meetings to be bathed in the cool luminance of the heavens. A raised platform of stone, housing seven rigid seats carved right out of the rock, made up the far end. Each of the seven seats paired with its own desk and its own arched exit. Above each arch was that Favored House’s standard. The entire raised platform was cut off from the gallery by a rectangular pool of still dark waters reflecting the light of the moons and the stars above. The spectator gallery encompassed the wide arc of the remainder of the chamber. The front of the gallery was equipped with seven rows of stained oak benches with finely carved backs reserved for the privileged guests of the Favored Houses. Behind that was an open floor with a slight incline to the back wall packed with onlookers forced to stand.
Kelshar occupied the chair. She looked miserable. Eles wondered what odd set of circumstances would lead to this warrior sitting in Dargon’s seat.
“…Another merchant ship!” bellowed the Iron Falls consul. “Tales swirl of the return of the great serpent of the Skull Marsh.” The gallery squirmed and chattered in hushed whispers. “This must be addressed. The fear of unsafe waters will hamper merchant passage up the Lo’dara.”
“Great serpent,” scoffed Kelshar. “Venaisin pirates, I assure you.”
“That may be. Nevertheless, Greyarch must take action, whatever the cause,” the Iron Falls man demanded. “Greyarch is sick with Venaisin spies, they know where and when our most needed supplies pass through the bay, I tell you.”
Kelshar waved him down. “Lord Lodern agrees. He is already acting to increase our presence in the bay to ensure safe passage for incoming trade.”
“And how does he expect to pay for that?” asked the consul from The Heights.
“He will find a way,” was all that Kelshar was able to offer.
The Counsel reacted with visible doubt and exasperation, even playing out to the crowd. The whole affair had a markedly different feel than what Eles remembered. In his time, the council was reverent to the chair, careful not to slight. This felt more like theater than a council session.
“Shall we adjourn?” Kelshar fidgeted, beginning to rise.
“One more item,” the Iron Falls consul interrupted. “The southern mines of Iron Falls continue to be raided by the Ghurr. As much as your Rhoanin brethren would like us to fall…”
“Careful,” Kelshar warned.
“…We need those mines to continue to generate wealth for Ghault and our fearless leader,” the consul continued, taking “fearless” out to the audience.
“I had heard the men of Iron Falls had the mettle to take care of themselves,” Kelshar countered. “Do I need to ride out to Iron Falls and take control until you’re ready to defend yourselves?” Titters flamed through the gallery.
The consul’s tone quickly sobered. “We are merely proposing a reduction in taxes on those mines so we can use the coin to bolster defenses. We’re quite capable of ruling ourselves. Your generous offer notwithstanding.”
“I will take this to Lord Lodern,” Kelshar replied with a look that gave the Iron Falls man little hope.
Suddenly, a murmur at the back of the gallery grew into a small roar as the crowd parted. Eles peeked over the heads of the crowd to discern the cause of the disruption and immediately understood. Malus Volans, Count of Darkbridge, was marching through the room, parting the waters of the crowd like an unrelenting bow, several of his standard bearers in his wake. It had been decades since Eles last saw Malus Volans, and predictably, Malus looked exactly the same. His smooth forehead was split at the top by his pronounced widow’s peak. His hair resembled a horse’s tail, pulled back in a ponytail that reached all the way down to his waist. His mouth was almost always frozen in a smile meant to assure you he hadn’t a worry in the world. ‘The gods favor me,’ he projected, ‘make no mistake.’ The crossed sword and axe crest was emblazoned on his tunic, draped over a polished decorative breastplate that gave his lithe torso needed girth.
Directly behind Malus, a mountain of a man led his entourage. Bald on top, but with a thick, black beard, the behemoth looked as if he could claim lineage from an elephant. He hefted a maul over his shoulder that, were it simply rested on Eles’ head, would surely crush it. And endless list of objects that would crumble if struck with the mighty weight of the man paraded through Eles’ head.
Several consuls stood in surprise at the approach of Malus. The Darkbridge consul simply smiled in anticipation and looked up at Kelshar, who clutched the arms of her stone chair.
As Malus reached the edge of the dark pool, the Darkbridge consul announced, “Consulates of the Counts of the six Favored Houses, and of the… seat of the Lord of the Arch, may I present the Count of Darkbridge: Malus Volans.”
Malus nodded to Kelshar before speaking. “I humbly request allowance to address the Council on a matter of some import.”
“Your visit is unannounced,” Kelshar said without accusation, “still, proceed.”
“It is customary for the seat of the Arch to be occupied by the Lord himself,” Malus announced to all present.
“And has been for some time, it’s been said,” Malus confirmed.
“Troubling…” added the Darkbridge consul.
Kelshar was not a patient woman. “Your matter of import?”
“I’ve come at the bequest of several Council members to invoke a demand wisely added to the Council bylaws during the reign of Leopold Lodern the Third. Leopold ruled that each Ghaultic Council must be attended by the head of the Favored Family at least once each change of seasons if requested by one of the other families. This is my formal request.” More of the gallery applauded than hissed. A troubling sign, Eles thought.
After a pause, all eyes were on Kelshar. “I will inform Lord Lodern of your request. And what reason do I pass along?”
Malus smiled and held open his arms as if to embrace. “It’s simply wise council from his loyal Count of Darkbridge. Our great Lord of the Arch needs make his presence felt. There are too many who wonder why he hasn’t been seen for so many moons. Not the Volans, of course. But others. Others who might wonder whether the gods have turned on Dargon Lodern.”
Kelshar stood. “Who would dare?!” She scanned the room. “Who amongst you would challenge the rights of Dargon Lodern, Lord of the Arch?”
The room fell silent.
Malus’ mountain man shifted his maul from shoulder to shoulder, itching to speak up, yet held his tongue.
Finally, Malus replied. “All loyal subjects here, as you can see. Loyal subjects who yearn to be led. By a favored Lord. I look forward to the Lord of the Arch’s attendance in thirty days.” He turned his back on Kelshar, so he was facing the gallery. “I will count the days.”
If it weren’t so ludicrous to consider, Elestran would have sworn that Malus’ gaze, ever so briefly, met his.