Above the Snowline (50 page)
‘She—’
‘She’ll hound me again! She’ll mastermind more schemes of terror . . . I caught her right there! There, see, in the window seat! I should have thrown her through the pane! I caught her with the
torch in her hand
and now she’ll do the same again!’
torch in her hand
and now she’ll do the same again!’
His gaze wandered desolately around his ruined chamber. The venerable chandelier had crashed onto the table, and its weight had broken one of the table’s legs. It now lay half-on, half-off the sloping top. Its dusty chain dangled, still attached to a metal rose with screws embedded in a lump of charred wood. Its strings of jewels no longer hung free but tangled the bronze candleholders. Smoke had dulled the crystals and most were either cracked or shattered. A few, free of their wires, scattered the table and floor. Under its ornate arms Raven’s letters were no more than fragments of carbon strewn everywhere. Dellin had been thorough.
The table itself and the throne were singed. The carpet crisped underfoot. On the far wall the sumptuous tapestry was reduced to a miserable strip hanging from the hooks on the rails. Gold threads projected from its scorched fringe like tiny, twisted wires. The plaster behind it was blackened by smoke in a thick band up to and halfway across the ceiling. The New Year’s wreaths had shrivelled to practically nothing. Holly leaves were parched and curled, the laurel blistered brown. Dust from burnt silk and shards of broken baubles covered the floor.
Raven had stripped the charred wolf skins from his chair and thrown them in the fireplace. On the mantelpiece his five books had fused into one mass, crinkled and so brittle their edges were flaking, but the middle of the cover of my book had survived - I could just make out ‘gends of Ancient’ and half my name.
The cushions in the window seat were leprous with black-edged holes. Their down stuffing had puffed out and dropped on the steps like snow. Dellin must have only just set the torch to them when Raven caught her, because, judging by the rest of the room, she would have destroyed them completely if she had had chance.
Raven regarded all this dismally and without words, his expression so blank and vanquished it was terrible to behold. He was like a man who had escaped a deadly storm and arrived at a mountain refuge which, while he was thankfully recovering, had been blown down around his ears and left him outside once more in the gales and blizzards. He had been buffeted too much and his strength to withstand fortune’s blasts had declined with each blow, until this latest disappointment had cut him to the quick. He moved his head side to side, sapped of strength.
At length he became aware of us. He wiped his palms on his handkerchief and said quietly, ‘Well then, I must ride out and catch her again, and this time I will behead her.’
Jant walked around the table until he was opposite Raven and had his full attention. ‘No. However Dellin escaped, this marks an end to your struggle. Let her go and the Emperor will be pleased. You must not pursue her. You also must not invade Rachiswater to wrest the throne from your brother.’
‘
What
?!’
What
?!’
‘We know you plan to launch a coup. The real reason why you’ve summoned so many warriors. Francolin Wrought sent them.’
‘How . . . Oh god, how?’
Jant wound his fingers in one of the chandelier’s crystal strings, which clinked as he spoke. ‘Fortification is the prerogative of the Castle, you know that well. We have a use for your soldiers. We’ll command them to demolish this tower and the curtain walls, immediately . . . From the ashes you can build a new manor house where you can live in peace.’
‘A single-storeyed hall, as befits a governor,’ I added.
Raven looked at me. ‘Lightning, so you’re here to defend my brother? Did he ask you personally? And, Jant, as a Rhydanne, you take sides with Dellin.’
‘Don’t call me Rhydanne,’ Jant said sturdily. ‘I’m saying this as the Messenger.’
‘And as the Archer, I support him,’ I said. ‘Not on behalf of Tarmigan, but to maintain peace in the Empire.’
Raven let his hands fall to his lap. He looked aimlessly around his chamber and after a while he murmured, ‘Everything’s gone. My books, my chandelier. I can’t replace anything . . . He won’t let me. So must I stay here with no books, no money, and surrounded by killers?’
‘I said I would send you some books.’ I reminded him.
‘After this do you think I can bear to receive gifts from
you
?’ He swayed to his feet ponderously, yet still with regal dignity. He turned his back on us and ascended to his window seat, rested himself on the burnt cushions, which puffed out more feathers. He drew his coat around him against the wind blowing in, and stared out of the broken glass, down to the tracks in the snow and the edge of the timeless forest.
you
?’ He swayed to his feet ponderously, yet still with regal dignity. He turned his back on us and ascended to his window seat, rested himself on the burnt cushions, which puffed out more feathers. He drew his coat around him against the wind blowing in, and stared out of the broken glass, down to the tracks in the snow and the edge of the timeless forest.
RAVEN
Some of the mist has stolen in from outside, where a thick bank of cloud covers Carniss. It lies low and hides the houses; only the ridges of the roofs and the chimneys poke through, as if the smoke from last night had fallen once more. For the last two hours lights came and went within it, now all is dark with only an occasional cluster of lanterns travelling through as the patrol makes its rounds.
I have been watching all this time. First in my mirador, then I crossed to the smaller windows on the other side of the hall to watch Lightning and the Messenger drawing up the troops in the bailey. The soldiers have begun to raze my house. My greatest achievement is being dismantled, torn down around my ears.
A sergeant led a group of men into my chamber and climbed the steps to the roof. I heard them raking out cement and hammering the great stones of the parapet. They replaced the pulley, slotting its timbers into the holes I had designed, but this time they began to lower the same blocks that I had raised a year ago. They started to re-erect scaffolding around the outside wall, and I watched it climb towards my window as if time was running backwards and this was my scaffolding I was seeing rise again, stage by stage. You see, the Archer and the Messenger, being of the Castle, act without wasting time. Being of the Castle, they are not interested in the finer things in life, the achievements of mortals in architecture or husbandry, but are only interested in destruction. And, being of the Castle, immortal and stagnant, they detest progress, our latest additions and improvements to the world. They know in their hearts that determined mortals like myself could do without them, so they refuse to give us free rein. Or free reign. They know we don’t really need the Castle: we can protect ourselves. We don’t need them to interfere in our lives. They know that and will not let us be independent, for then they would be redundant, so they clip our wings with severe rules . . . and demolish Carniss Keep.
Let them. They have already breached the wall alongside my tower; cloud drifts through it into the village. My people are afraid and angry. They know the Rhydanne will run in and prey on them. Snipe told me that they oppose the destruction, but the soldiers obey Jant and the settlers have no choice.
Since the fire I have not eaten, washed nor shaved. I scratch my stubble and my fingertips slip into the scar. I clutch my fingers in its rift as if I could hook them deep and tear my cheek. I will
never
beat my brother now! He’s won - again! I will never have another chance to repay this welter of pain and humiliation. Instead, I am shamed again; losing my keep is the worst mortification of all. All my exertions have brought me nothing. I am condemned to live in exile in this wasteland, reduced to the same penury as when I arrived.
never
beat my brother now! He’s won - again! I will never have another chance to repay this welter of pain and humiliation. Instead, I am shamed again; losing my keep is the worst mortification of all. All my exertions have brought me nothing. I am condemned to live in exile in this wasteland, reduced to the same penury as when I arrived.
I could salvage something. I could build myself a manor house, as beautiful as possible, drink my life away and recite poetry to the peaks. But I’d face raids every day and I’d have to live surrounded by the settlers. My god, I thought, clenching my teeth, I hate them. I despise their ignorance. What kind of life would I lead, protecting and served by people who have never read a word, who know neither Conure’s poetry nor the choreography of the
Pennate Ballet
? The women are sottish and raucous, the men’s conversation turns only on goats and cuts of wood. Snipe is just as boorish. I cringe at the thought of seeing his ugliness before me every mealtime, as if the fool were one of my family.
Pennate Ballet
? The women are sottish and raucous, the men’s conversation turns only on goats and cuts of wood. Snipe is just as boorish. I cringe at the thought of seeing his ugliness before me every mealtime, as if the fool were one of my family.
How can I live with the image of my brother in the mirror, reminding me of my failure and taunting me? I have not looked in a mirror since Dellin escaped, but now the cracked glass itself has become a mirror backed by darkness and I see his face there once again. Ah, Tarmigan, now you have a real reason to jeer. The Eszai will tell you my plans and laugh with you at my expense. I will know you are laughing long and loud while you feast on the fruits of the kingdom, but I will never have the proof of seeing it with my own eyes. Did you have a good New Year? Will the tale of an aborted coup make it even more memorable? And every December the thirty-first you’ll repeat it to your sycophants. Or perhaps you will forget me, as you’re swirled from day to day in the tattling eddies of court gossip. You will enjoy filling your time with idly shooting the cloud-hidden crane and the mottled hind, with never a thought for your twin, when I must truly hunt to survive. And in return Dellin hunts me.
Dellin. In all my drifting thoughts today, as I sat alone and the brandy decreased in the bottle, I could not understand how she escaped. The key was in my pocket - in fact I have it now. After Jant left to assemble the troops I inspected the cage myself. Jant is hot-headed and volatile: he would have hacked it open with an axe to free his love. Lightning is obstructive, unjust and calculating: he would have called my blacksmith to prise a bar loose and weld it again after she’d slipped away, but I saw no signs of tampering and the smith seemed too hungover to wield a hammer . . . Unless the fellow was putting on an act.
Ouzel. It must have been Ouzel: she’s friend to the savages and she accuses me of disrupting her rough and ready haggling with them. No wonder she returned so quickly to her hideaway this morning. I have little inclination to chase her there, and anyway she’s in cahoots with the Eszai and loved by my settlers too. I cannot trust any frontiersman - none are decent people. Even the guard I sent to watch Dellin is nowhere to be found.
I wondered for an instant if I myself was mad. Did I let Dellin out without knowing? Am I chasing round in circles, subconsciously undoing the deeds I’ve worked so hard to achieve? No, I have no evidence for madness. I am as sane as the cold crag. Others, not myself, cause my downfall time and again. The savage was not able to free herself from the cage, therefore somebody let her out. The immortals must have freed her. They are rats gnawing the edifice I made, and between them they have had over one thousand years to practise deception.
Now the niveous bitch is lurking in the forest or hiding inside Carniss itself. Maybe she’s concealed in the kitchens now, with Jant feeding her my best meat. She will lie in wait for me. She will stalk into my bedroom when I’m asleep and unaware, and plunge her knife into my throat.
She’s outside somewhere. Where? I imagined myself plunging through the snow, blinded by the blizzard, struggling to catch her while she skulks in the drifts and cackles at me. The wilderness is her playground: free in the too-vast forest she’ll howl to summon more beasts to join her. She will lead her pack, skeeting swift and light over the snow like blown ice crystals. And my people will curse me for leaving them prey to her glistening fangs. I do not want to live this way.
I do not want to live here for the rest of my life. I can call no pictures to mind to imagine how I would spend it. Time would pass slowly and I would watch myself age, knowing that my brother in the palace was not gathering such deep lines of care and weather-tanned skin. He would look ten years my junior and, no longer identical, it would seem as if I should be crowned as the older. The years would pass quickly for him, slowly for me. I would spend them watching the glaciers shrink back every summer over their expanses of smooth rock, and every winter I would see more splinters slough from the cliffs and the glaciers would extend their fingers over the bare mountainside again, until I grow old and lethargic and seven-eighths iced-over, when I will waste and die from boredom and be buried in the screes.
While I have stood thinking, the cloud has peeled away under the influence of the night wind blowing down from Capercaillie. The night is quite clear. I see my village cloaked in snow. A thick covering sits on the roofs and the lids over each chimney pot. The paths cleared and snow heaped beside them now have a sparkling topping of ice. Most of the houses are dark, with yellow light shining through chinks in their shutters and around the doors; a few have lamps lit on their sills. The natural rock crags out between them, black voids shining with ice. This is the village I have built, and when the walls fall it will be open to the Rhydanne pack. This is Carniss, where the thought of living circumscribed and caged fills me with disgust. This is Carniss, of which I am heartily sick.
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