Chapter Three
“Those songs,” he muttered. “Those terrible songs 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 weirwood 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 Ciaran 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 hour-glassed 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.”
The edges of Katherine’s delicate lips perked up into a small smile, but it looked laboured and vanished soon enough. Willem glanced back over his shoulder, down into the rowdy benches where his pals sniggered behind their cups. Edwin was with them. Apparently his cousin didn’t think Willem needling him on his wedding day was going too far. The fat ball of spite.
“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 cousin’s black pupils ballooned cold and dead like the eyes of a shark. “Your father’s reigned for what, fifteen summers?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen.” Willem nodded. “Not exactly a spring chicken, then? 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, coz.” Ciaran picked his teeth with a fish bone. “But it’s misplaced. You see, I won’t be taking the Chair.”
Willem raised a dark 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. His grip tightened around Ciaran’s shoulder. 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, though not nearly so hard.
Willem’s mirth died quick enough. “I’ll miss your little jokes, coz.” The bastard gave Katherine another lurid look, then leaned in to whisper in his ear. A fat tongue snaked through mouldy teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after the old girl when you’re gone.”
Ciaran’s lips pressed into a hard line. 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 Willem’s 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.
He squirmed free of Willem’s grip. His cousin straightened and clicked his fingers. On queue, 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 caged dead rat. Katherine winced and held a handkerchief to her nose. Ciaran drew back in disgust. Willem meanwhile held up the cage by its iron ring. “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 boys were bent over in laughter, thumping knees and slapping backs over a prank well played.
“Take heart, coz,” said Willem. “It certainly is a happy day, for some of us. And the day you are 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.
Alone once more, 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 inside. But what to say? A compliment? A clever remark? How about anything, boyo? His lips parted, his tongue moved, but as he was about to speak Romney fumbled onto the dais. His uncle 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 great 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 in a content smile. “Look at you, a man of twenty-one, and married to boot. Saint Trinia bless and keep you.”
“My life would’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 zombie I know when the words died in his throat. Hard? With his mother abandoning him and his father on that damned chair before he was six, leaving him to the mercy of people who despised and used him. Try bloody awful, uncle. How about you drink from that cup? But that was unfair. Romney was the last person who deserved his ire.
“But you’ve grown into a fine young man,” Romney went on, rocking Ciaran by the shoulder to emphasise his drunken point. “Your father would be proud.”
He hugged his uncle. “Thank you,” he said. “For being there.”
Romney uttered a few drunken compliments before stumbling off stage, completely forgetting the wedding gift. But if his uncle 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 steps.
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 too literal 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 about.
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 but 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 reluctantly stepped off their palanquins and walked hand-in-hand across the musty hall. The guests swarmed in behind. The throne room was, rather appropriately, shaped like a coffin. The path was lined with iron braziers spitting golden flames and dancing shadows. Stone eyes were carved into the walls, ever watchful.
Katherine’s hand was warm and soft. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, 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 black tree was the Blackstone Chair. Fashioned into a throne by the Old Gods in the distant mists of time, the Chair teemed with eldritch power that did one thing and one thing only: suck out 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.
Ciaran stopped several feet away, unable to draw any closer. His bride was caught bride off guard and nearly lost her footing.
Garren made for a morose king atop his throne. His father was a living cadaver, alive but dead to the world, stitched to the chair by thousands of vines spewing out and weaving through his decaying flesh. Cloyed in pulpy damp, his ashen form — his very bones — sank into the black stone, slowly becoming one with the Chair.
The crowd heaved and bellowed as guests pushed and shoved for a good look. That was until they were cowed into some semblance of civility when the shadowy form of Menshe Ryker appeared. Guests bowed and scraped before the Farseer as he strode tall and proud across the throne room towards the newlyweds. 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 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 the 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.”
Menshe smiled down with black eyes devoid of emotion. “Here, this belongs to you now.” The Farseer reached long fingered hands into his robes and drew out a tattered ribbon of embroidery. “The Darkling Seal.”
Ciaran accepted the offering in silence. A green serpent coiled around a white tree was stitched onto the seal; symboling their clan — and his doom. He was now heir apparent, destined to become King after his father. Behind them, the crowd broke into another round of song. They were led, naturally, by Willem.
“Wince! Wince! For the Darkling Prince!”
As Ciaran stared down at what was effectively the end of his life, he was suddenly very nauseous. Sounds were distant, the world blurry, his limbs trembled.
“The Chair! The Chair! For the Darkling Heir!”
“Nephew.”
His gaze snapped 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 pocket, slid his fingers in 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 ugly 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, who may have pitied him and hated the others, but would never step in.
They were carried down the King’s Tower and up another spiralling set of stairs to their rooms in the Darkling Tower. When they finally reached their destination his palanquin came to a shaky halt before it fell onto 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 weirwood, he took a deep breath before making for the privy. Tim was waiting on the seat. Thankfully he wasn’t making use of it.
Springing to his feet, the scullion 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,” Ciaran said slowly. “Do you remember the rest of the plan?”
Tim 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 and I had no say. Look, I got my cousin 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 in the stone until he found the false plate, which he snapped off to reveal the mouth of an inky passage no more two feet wide. He bent down and peered into the dark. Somehow it felt like peering into the future.
“May the tears of Saint Frieda bless you, milord.”
Ciaran looked over his shoulder and tapped his temple. “You don’t need luck when you’ve got wits,” he said, ducked inside and let the darkness swallow him whole.
He crab-walked through the narrow cavity wall that wound down the tower into the castle’s gloomy depths. Hands pressed against pocked stone, he breathed damp air while musing over the weeks of hard work that were finally about to pay off. Contrary to its name, the Black Tower was actually five towers that sat above the white cliffs creeping along the realm’s northern shore. A crumbling pile of black 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, delighted in hearing the wails of those he condemned to wander the endless dark places until they died of starvation or thirst.
His first challenge had been the pitch-black darkness, but that was easily solved with a hand-lamp. The second was how not to get lost. He tied lengths of rope around his waist so he could always find his way back no matter how far and deep he explored. The final challenge was remembering the path. One tunnel looked much like another, so the only answer was to count every step. That was what worried him the most. A single miss-step and the castle’s greedy belly would swallow him whole.
The route from the low ceiling cavern at the base of the tower to the cliffs had a total of one thousand and thirty one steps. A journey he broke into several legs. With a deep breath and with the lantern in hand, he began his long walk through the dark.
Through stone tunnels and murky caverns he went, down staircases cut into the very rock, marching over sand and stone, sloshing through puddles, hands brushing limestone and moss, followed all the way by the scent of mould and 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 hooked the lantern onto his belt and climbed down thirty-one meaty staves. A small ledge jutted from the cliff wall on his right. Between him and the ledge was a gap of about three feet. He had only one practice leap to his name, but it would have to be enough. He wiped his clammy palms against his trousers. Rocking once, then twice, he closed his eyes and jumped. For a heartbeat his lungs froze and his limbs flailed until his feet hit hard rock. He wobbled a moment, opened his eyes and let out a single — almost disbelieving — sigh. But it was too soon to savour victory. He darted into a narrow aperture and down a crooked tunnel which led into a long, straight passage.
His heart was racing as he stared down the tunnel at the door of moulding oak on the far side. Cold winds knocked the timber slats against rusted hinges. He could hear waves crashing against the limestone cliffs. Salty sea air tickled his nose. For a moment he thought he heard voices in the wind, calling his name.
Ciaran 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 hardened into 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! Eventually the beating in his chest slowed and he turned to face the Farseer.
“Uncle… to what do I owe this unpleasant surprise?”
The Farseer had his hands 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 at the edge of 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.”
“You do have long ears, uncle.” Ciaran tried to hide his anger at that imbecile. “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 when my father dies you’ll stick me on that damned Chair in his place. 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. The Chair needs a Darkling or it cannot produce the darkroot. Without the darkroot the necromancers cannot summon. And the realm will be at the mercy of its enemies. 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?”
Squeezing his hands into fists, Ciaran turned from the Farseer and back to the door. “Apologies, Uncle, but you’ll need 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 willingly 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 below. 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 whole 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 a soft 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 onto me, I shall put to use as a wife and mother.”
She reached up and 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.”
