Chapter Three
“Those hymns,” he muttered. “Those dreadful hymns they sing.”
Ciaran watched his wedding feast unfold from the bone table while the wretched guests crammed into the Black Tower’s gloomy, tallow-licked great hall carried on in full voice.
“Wince! Wince! For the Darkling Prince!”
Darklings had travelled across the realm on werewood carriages, from Rhinemark to the Westfold, garbed themselves in charcoal suits and bone gowns. They raised toasts to his health and to the beauty of his bride, the lady Katherine of Muir. But behind the brittle smiles and thin compliments he knew what they were thinking; better you than us, pally.
“The Chair! The Chair! For the Darkling Heir!”
As his slender fingers gripped the femur-bone armrest he couldn’t help but think this was wrong. He was a prince; heir to the realm. He should be master of a castle, an army of cut-throats at his command. The envy of every man. But no one envied him. They would rather be down on the benches where they could sing and gossip and shovel steamed trout down their gullets.
“Hark! Hark! For the Son of Dark!”
Willem strode up the dais. Timber creaked and groaned until his cousin stopped across the table, pressed palms as large as plates onto the pale surface and looked him up and down. Shoulder length black hair curtained his sharp jawline.
“Cheer up, gloomy gus,” said Willem. “Carry on frowning and your wife will think you’re not pleased by her. That won’t do, little coz, that won’t do at all.”
Ciaran glanced at Katherine. Wrapped up in mournfully black wedding silks, his bride perched uncomfortably on a bone chair that twinned his own. At least the artist was good to his word. But the downside was that it made them a mis-match as a couple; his slight build was far from the mark of strength, while her hourglass figure and sweetly ruby lips made her perfect for a heroic knight of old. One might say the veil gave her the dour look of a widow, but he supposed that was appropriate, given the circumstances.
“And you should be grateful.” Willem leered at Katherine. He was not a subtle man, his cousin. “She’s a real looker.”
“I agree,” he replied, pushing his chest out. “Fortune smiles on me.”
Katherine’s lips perked up into a smile, but it looked laboured, and vanished soon enough. Willem glanced back over his shoulder, down into the rowdy benches where his pals were sniggering behind their cups. Edwin was with them. Apparently the fat ball of spite didn’t think Willem needling him on his wedding day was going too far.
“Now that you’re a married man, coz,” Willem said, turning back to the couple. “I suppose it won’t be long before you take the throne?”
Ciaran tapped the pocked femur. “The necromancers’ accord my father robust health. So most like it won’t come to that for many a spring. Fear not, cousin, you won’t lose me yet.”
“Is that so?” Willem took Ciaran’s shoulder and proceeded to ever so slowly rock him back and forth like a child’s doll. His black pupils ballooned cold like the eyes of a shark. “Your father’s reigned for what, fifteen summers?”
“Sixteen,” Ciaran said.
“Not exactly a spring chicken. You never know with the elderly, coz. A winter cold and Old Greedy picks ‘em off like flies. So try not to get too comfortable in your bride’s warm bed.”
“I appreciate the concern.” Ciaran picked his teeth with a fish bone. “But it’s misplaced. You see, I won’t be taking the Chair.”
Willem raised a brow. “What?”
“I’ve decided all this kingship lark isn’t for me.” He flicked the bone back onto the copper plate with the remains of his buttered cod. “In fact I plan on sneaking out the castle this very night while you’re all stone drunk.”
Willem’s gaze darkened like a cloud of distant thunder. For a moment he feared the bastard would strike him. Then his cousin’s head fell back and he guffawed loudly, spit flying from his stupid mouth. Ciaran laughed too, but not nearly as hard.
Willem’s mirth died quick enough. “I’ll miss your little jokes, coz.” He straightened and clicked his fingers. On cue, his lackeys handed over a box draped in dyed wool that hid whatever lay inside. Willem presented the box to the newlyweds with a polite bow. “Your gift,” he announced. “Care to guess what it is? Go on, take a guess.”
“A knife to stab you with, cousin?”
“Ha! Good one. But no.” Willem snatched off the wool to reveal a dead rat in a cage. Katherine winced and held a handkerchief to her nose. Ciaran drew back in disgust. “I named him Ciaran. After you.”
“You brought me a dead rat?”
“No, no, not a dead rat at all. An undead rat. Look…” His cousin rattled the cage and the dozing rodent twitched, then spasmed into life, doing laps around its home. “I had Thorne animate Little Ciaran just for you.”
Little Ciaran…
“He’s a lively scamp when he gets going, but like yourself we don’t expect too much from him. A minute or two of action and he sleeps like the dead. But at least you won’t have to feed him.”
Willem looked pleased as a pig in shit. Down in the benches Edwin and the rest were bent over in laughter, thumping knees and slapping backs over a prank well played.
He wanted to slap that ugly grin from Willem’s face. But a well-known proverb among those versed in the art of cloak-and-dagger was that rage was a privilege of the powerful. He could hardly count himself among such sagely folk, but he knew that a man of his limited martial gifts and small hearth could do little about the Willems of the world. His cousin was a bastard, but it was a trait he could cultivate as the son of the most powerful man in the realm.
“It certainly is a happy day… for some of us,” said Willem. “And the day you’re crowned king will be the happiest of all.”
Willem dropped the cage at their feet and strutted off. Only when he was out of sight did Ciaran nudge it away with the toe of his boot.
He glanced at his morose bride. They had barely exchanged two words all night. It might seem cruel to ignore her on their wedding day, but the truth was he pitied her. Fate had saddled her with a dead man. He considered himself the optimistic sort, but there were some problems that no amount of small talk could fix. She returned his gaze and batted silky eyelashes at him. The urge to speak to her bubbled up. But what to say? A compliment? A clever remark? How about anything, boyo? His lips parted, his tongue moved, but just as the words were about to leave his mouth Romney fumbled onto the dais. He was aided by the squire, Martigan.
“Ciaran, me lad!” Romney was flushed and reeking of gin. It might have been a little early in the night for most men, but not his uncle. “I’m so happy for you. Come here.” Romney lifted him up into a bear hug, crumpling his suit. Ciaran didn’t mind, and hugged his uncle as hard as he could. Romney’s ruddy, spider-veined cheeks were pulled into a content smile. “Look at you, a man of twenty-one, and married to boot. Saint Trinia bless and keep you.”
“My life wouldn’t be blessed without you, uncle.”
He was about to pull away when Romney yanked him back. “Listen, Ciaran. You know I’ve always been proud of you, don’t you?”
“I know, uncle.”
“And I’ve always tried my best for you.”
“I know.”
“It was hard growing up the way you did.”
Ciaran opened his mouth for another I know when the words died in his throat. Hard? With his mother abandoning him and his father on that damned chair, leaving him to the mercy of people who despised and used him. Try bloody awful, uncle. How about you drink from that cup?
“But you’ve grown into a fine young man,” Romney went on, rocking him by the shoulder to emphasise his drunken point. “Your father would be proud.”
Ciaran sighed. Romney was the last man in the world who deserved his ire.He hugged his uncle and said: “Thank you. For always being there.”
Romney uttered a few drunken compliments before stumbling off stage, completely forgetting the wedding gift. But if he could take care of himself Martigan would have nothing to do tonight.
“This is from him,” said the tall squire from the west. He palmed Ciaran with a pouch of silver. “Bonefather bless you, lord.” With that Martigan hopped off to save Romney from falling down the stairs.
From then on the calibre of well-wishers and gift-givers steadily waned; a parade of cousins from both sides of the family, bent-back necromancers, stuffy retainers and their shrivelled wives, copper lords from backwater fiefs he had never heard of, merchant princes who bought their way into a high society event, and general riffraff whose names were a mystery. Some had the good grace to look guilty, though most simply offered a few perfunctory pleasantries and cold smiles, handed over whatever tinpot gift they thought was appropriate for a man taking the fall for an entire realm, then moved aside for the next in line.
Somewhere in the midst of the phoney smiles, stiff handshakes, and worthless gifts his arse began to ache. Why must a man spend his wedding on this ugly table made from the bones of a long dead beast? Romney said it symbolised the vow he and his bride were making; till death do them part and all that. If that was true, it was a little on the nose for his taste.
Katherine’s parents made a cameo. Archibald put on a brave face, but Isabelle, though kind and warm, had tear tracks burning her cheeks. They handed over their gifts, offered some polite excuse that Ciaran didn’t catch before making a swift and sullen exit, leaving their daughter bereft and their son-in-law with another embarrassing moment for the bastards down on the benches to laugh at.
More importantly, they were about to miss the night’s dreaded climax. A pair of rickety palanquins were shouldered in by carousing guests. And before he could yell ‘I changed my mind! I don’t want to get married!’ they were pressed into their traditional skull masks, bundled onto their litters and carried off. The wedding party followed, keen to witness the final hurrah. The palanquins bounced and jostled from the hall, through the castle’s damp and dark corridors, and up the stone stairs that spiralled around the King’s Tower.
When they reached the throne room, the unhappy couple stepped off the palanquins and walked hand-in-hand across the musty hall. The guests swarmed in behind. It was, rather appropriately, shaped like a coffin. The path was lined with iron braziers that crackled with ghostflame. Shadows danced on the walls. Stone eyes were carved to keep silent watch over the king. He crept along, holding Katherine’s soft hand in his own. He glanced at her once or twice, but her face was stone and she stared straight ahead, at what lay at the far end of the hall.
Twisting from the earth like a rotting tree was the Blackstone Chair. Fashioned into a throne by the Old Gods in the distant mists of time, it teemed with eldritch power that sucked the life of the king to produce darkroot. Only with darkroot was it possible to raise the dead; the bedrock of the realm’s economic labour and armies. His father made for a morose king. Garren was a living cadaver, alive but dead to the world, stitched to the Chair by vines that weaved through his flesh like threads. He was withered like dried fruit and sank into the stone as if slowly becoming one with the Chair.
Ciaran stopped several feet from the throne, unable to come any closer. Behind them the crowd heaved and bellowed, guests pushing and shoving for a good look, until a sudden hush took them and they came to a semblance of civility. Ciaran had no need to wonder what had cowed them. The sea of onlookers parted and the shadowy form of Menshe Ryker strode out of the breach. Guests bowed and scraped before the Farseer. As Eye of the King he was a mere steward, but unofficially — which is to say everyone knew — Menshe was the true power in the realm. Garbed in a full length satin robe that was ringed by a silver belt, he had Willem’s imposing height but greys streaked his neat black hair. When he reached the newlyweds, his hawkish eyes looked down on them both. “Dear nephew, might I congratulate you on this auspicious day.”
“You might, uncle.”
The Farseer wasn’t really his uncle. They were in fact distant relatives, but exaggerating terms of endearment was the least of the pretences his damnable clan routinely engaged in.
“Tonight you take another step in a long journey to meet your destiny. You make us proud with what you do today. And what you will do.”
“I must say uncle, I’ve always been impressed by your knack for dancing around unpleasant subjects. Like a cat circling a plagued mouse. Though I wish I wasn’t always the mouse.”
“Here, this belongs to you now.” Menshe slipped long fingers into his robes and drew out a tattered ribbon of embroidery. “The Darkling Seal.”
Ciaran accepted the offering in silence. He was now heir apparent, destined to be king after his father. The crowd broke into another round of chants. They were led, naturally, by Willem.
“Wince! Wince! For the Darkling Prince!”
He clutched the ribbon in both hands and stared at the simple embroidery. A green serpent coiled around a white tree; symbolizing their clan. His stomach roiled. Sounds were distant, the world blurred. He wanted to throw up.
“The Chair! The Chair! For the Darkling Heir!”
“Nephew.”
His gaze snapped back to the Farseer. “Uncle?”
“The ring.”
He blinked once, twice, then finally remembered where he was. “Ah, right… of course.” He slapped his right trouser, slid his fingers into the pocket and drew the ring. The circlet of whalebone was inlaid with silver and smooth to the touch. Taking Katherine’s left hand in his own, he slipped the ring onto a delicate finger. A symbol of protection, it was said.
“Hark! Hark! For the Son of Dark!”
“You are now man and wife,” Menshe announced without ceremony. “Let’s get to the particulars, shall we?”
With that the newlyweds were bundled back onto their palanquins and carried off for their first night of marital bliss. His cousins serenaded them with those damnable chants while the bone mask chafed his face and the palanquin bounced and swung about drunkenly. The bastards were hanging him out to dry and were having a good time at it. This was amusing for them. They were his family. His blood. And they’re laughing at me. No one would save him. Not even Romney or Martigan would never step in.
They were carried down the King’s Tower and up another coiling set of stairs to the Darkling Tower. When they finally reached their destination his palanquin came to a shaky halt before it dropped and hit the stones with a clatter. He was dragged out and shoved into the cold solar.
The door closed behind him with a heavy thump. There were only a few precious moments before Katherine arrived. Back pressed against the werewood, he took a deep breath before making for the privy.
Tim was waiting on the seat. Thankfully he wasn’t making use of it. The scullion sprang up and peered at him through a bruised eye. “Milord Ciaran? That you?”
“You were expecting Eoric Silvermane?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Ciaran pulled off the mask. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“No, milord,” said Tim, standing to attention like a soldier. “I did exactly what you said. Didn’t tell no one.”
“Great work. Now Tim, do you remember the rest of the plan?”
The boy blinked through his thoughts. “I wait here while you go out through the secret way. When the lady comes I don’t say nothing and don’t do nothing. Except when your uncles and cousins come, then I tell ‘em you made me do it. Look, I got Len to give me a crack so it looks real.” He pointed at the welt blackening his left eye.
“You’re a star, Tim. Just remember, don’t take off the mask until my family comes and only if they make you. It gives us more time.”
“Right-o.”
He handed the boy his mask. “I have a feeling this is the beginning of a long and prosperous partnership. The silver will be where we agreed.”
Ciaran hopped to the wall beside the privy, slid his fingers along the grooves between stones until he found the false plate, which he snapped off to reveal the mouth of an inky passage no more than three feet wide. He bent down and peered into the dark. Somehow it felt like looking into the future.
“May the Morgaine bless you, milord.”
Ciaran tapped his temple. “You don’t need luck when you’ve got wits,” he said, then ducked inside and let the darkness swallow him.
He crab-walked through the cavity wall that wound down into the gloomy depths. Contrary to its name, the Black Tower was actually a castle of five towers that sat on the cliffs creeping along the realm’s northern shore. A crumbling pile of stone full of twisting corridors, hollow caverns, tunnels that ran in circles, and stairs that climbed to sheer falls. People were known to get lost and never seen again. Or climb the wrong stairs only to fall to their doom. It was said the Mad King, Alaric, took twisted pleasure in the wails of those he condemned to wander the endless dark until they died.
He left the cavity wall for a cavern hidden under the base of the tower. He groped in the dark until he found the lamp. He cracked two flint rocks, tearing off sparks until the flame whooshed into life and golden light spilled into the damp cave. Now all that remained was to remember the path. He had counted every step from here to the outside. But that was where the greatest danger lay; one tunnel and cavern looks much like another, so even a single misstep and the castle’s greedy belly would swallow him whole.
He hooked the lamp to his belt, took a deep breath and began his long walk. Through stone tunnels and murky caverns, down stairs cut into rock walls, marching over sand and stone, sloshing through puddles, brushing limestone and moss, followed all the way by that cloying damp. At the end of the path a ladder fell down a cliff so deep he could not see bottom. For all he knew it reached into the depths of the world.
He climbed down exactly thirty-one meaty staves. A small ledge punched from the wall on his right. Between him and the ledge was a gap of about five feet. He had only one practice leap to his name, but it would have to do. After wiping his palms dry on his trousers, he rocked once, twice, and jumped. For a heartbeat he was flying. His breast filled with air. But the gap was too far. He landed on the precipice, wobbled, arms flailing like a madman until he heaved himself forward and scampered onto the ledge. For several delirious heartbeats he stood, breathing hard and barely able to believe he survived. He sighed in relief before wiping his forehead clean and darting into a crack in the wall. The path led downwards until it flattened to a long, narrow tunnel.
At the end of the tunnel was an oak door. Its rotting timber slats rattled against their hinges. Beyond it he could hear the wind shriek and the waves crash against the limestone cliffs. Salty sea air tickled his nose. For a moment he thought he heard voices calling his name. He took his first steps towards a new life.
“I suppose this is the part you make your heroic escape?”
Menshe Ryker’s voice rattled through the tunnel. Ciaran’s limbs stiffened like branches, his heart nearly kicked through his chest. A voice in his mind was telling him to run. Run for your life, fool! But another warned that he should not take another step. Move and you’re done for!
He turned to face the Farseer. “Uncle… to what do I owe this unpleasant surprise?”
The Farseer’s hands were pressed neatly behind his back. “Is that really how you’re playing this?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have thought I could get the better of you.”
“You didn’t really believe you were the only one who knows about this door? It wasn’t a terrible plan. Have someone take your place in the bedchamber when you’re both away from prying eyes. Well, I suppose your bride was bound to notice, but I assume the idea was that you would be long gone by then. Or did you instruct your man to keep the mask on while he did the deed in your place?”
“Not exactly. But that’s the gist of it.”
“Of course,” Menshe said. A smile played along his thin lips. “Regardless, you made one fatal mistake.”
“And that is?”
“Your choice of catspaw. Come now, Tim-nice-but-dim? The fool took loans from half the castle claiming an abundance of forthcoming riches. It was only a matter of time before word reached my ears.”
Ciaran swallowed his anger at that imbecile. “You do have long ears, uncle. Is that why you’re here, to instruct me in the art of cloak-and-dagger?”
“I am here to remind you of your duty.”
“My duty? I don’t recall wanting to get married.”
“No, that was my doing. But I went to a lot of trouble arranging the match with Westfold, and all you can do is piss in my wine.”
“And I should do what? Thank you? For arranging a marriage I never wanted? And sticking me in that damned Chair after my father dies? Should I thank you for that too?”
“No. But you are right, when the time comes you will take the Chair.” Menshe spoke so calmly and with such certainty it caught him cold. “But only because someone must. How long before the southern kingdoms have another go? And that’s if we don’t all starve. The sacrifice of kings is a terrible one, but it is not made in vain.”
“Easy sentiments for a man who sacrifices nothing.”
“Does that change anything?”
Ciaran squeezed his hands into fists, turned from the Farseer and back to the door. “Apologies, Uncle, but you’ll have to find another patsy. I think I’ll make my own destiny.”
“You’ll do as befits a son of the Serpent Tree.”
“And if I don’t?” He spun back around. “You’ll make me?”
“I’m here to offer you a choice, boy. Either come with me, or walk out that door. But believe me, you won’t find freedom on the other side, but Willem along with a good number of your cousins who’d be quite happy to send you to your wife black and bloody.”
His gaze switched between Menshe and the door, between the misery of his life and the promise of a new future. Only a few more steps and he would be out. He wanted to, he really did, but his legs were rooted to the ground. Whatever the truth — whether his uncle was lying or not — in his heart he knew he could not open that door.
Menshe strolled across the tunnel and cupped his shoulder. “Come along now, before Archibald finds his daughter get with dimwit the second.”
Later, in the warmth of their bedchamber, Ciaran stared out from a narrow crenel, watching the waves crash into the rocks prickling the shore. There was an old story about how one of his ancestors — whose name escaped him — chose to throw himself into those jagged rocks rather than be another victim of the Blackstone Chair. That man must have been a lot braver than him.
“Come to bed,” Katherine said. “There will be ears.”
From a pile of woolly pelts spread over the battered four poster, her virtue wrapped in a lace bodice, his bride watched him with grey eyes as enigmatic and alluring as the sea. Autumn hair weaved down her back. He wandered over and sat beside her on the pelts, but his gaze returned to that narrow slip of the outside world. To the sound of the waves.
“I know it’s been a trying day.” She drummed his palm with delicate fingers. “But we’re man and wife now, and my mother says marriage is about finding the neat little silvers in the greyness of life.”
“Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”
“Whatever little of that wisdom she passed on to me, I shall put to use as a wife and mother.”
She gently turned his face towards hers. The flames danced in her eyes. Even in the uneasy light of the fireplace she was beautiful. So when she loosened her bodice, the waves hushed and his troubles ebbed away. There was only his lovely wife and the throbbing desire in his loins.
“It’s been a terrible day, but at least it’s behind us now. For what it’s worth, I had my blood this morning. They say that’s when a woman is least likely to conceive. It may be of little comfort, but please accept it as my gift to you.”
