Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (51 page)

Tyrfing repeated his nod. Farden took a breath and ended his gentle tirade. It felt good to unchain his words. He was surprised he had unleashed them without shouting. Perhaps his mind was already starting to drag itself from the mist. It certainly didn’t feel like it. Farden put a hand to his temple and jabbed hard. It was a stupid thing to do. His brain fought back with passion. It felt like a jellyfish had crept into his skull in the night and set up shop.

‘Don’t you miss it?’ His uncle’s words interrupted him. He meant the magick.

Farden shook his head, adamant. ‘Like a knife in my back. Literally.’

Tyrfing tutted. ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing,’ he said.

Farden groaned. ‘Uncle…’

Tyrfing held up a hand. He too spoke quietly, and gently. ‘Now you listen, nephew. I
am
angry. I
am
disappointed. And I
am
scared for many a reason and not just because of you. Yes, one of the reasons we wanted you back was to help us fight your daughter. Yes, we lied, but such times call for such lies. But right now I can see you’re no use to anyone but a bed. You’re sweating, exhausted, and I can smell you over the charcoal, Farden. It hurts to see you like it, all things and magick aside, it’s painful to see you like
this
, this pale, gaunt wreck that you are, burning with anger. I can feel it from here. So I’ll promise not to push so long as you promise me you’ll sort yourself out. We’ve got a vicious mess to clear up, and magick or no, we would rather you help us than hinder us, and right now, the sight of you is hindrance enough. The Arka have never been in a more desperate situation. I know that’s hard to believe, after Vice, but we are. We balance on a knife-edge, as the old saying goes. We’ve never known so many enemies. Never known so many dogs baying for our blood. All it takes is one thing to go wrong…’ Tyrfing trailed off. ‘It’s hard, Farden. It’s so very hard, wearing this robe. I can’t manage you making it any harder for me. Promise me that.’

Farden’s first response was grit his teeth and bare them, but he suppressed that, and hard too.
Deserved better
, said an inner voice, a fraction from drowning under the hammering of his head.
They deserve better
. ‘I make no promises,’ he grunted. ‘But I’ll try.’

‘I guess that’s as good as I can hope for,’ replied Tyrfing. As foreign as this new nephew was, he still understood. The others would want more, he knew that. They were lucky he was back at all. ‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ he said, motioning to the door.

Farden nodded. ‘Let’s.’

Tyrfing led the way with slow, swishing steps. Farden trudged behind him with his hands buried firmly in his pockets. The fresh clothes felt itchy, strange,
clean
. His hood had the green-grass smell of crisp washing. It made him want to sneeze, but it was a welcome change from the smells hiding just beneath them.

They walked for a while in silence. Tyrfing was bowed and nodded to by every council member they passed, and just from that movement Farden could sift the loyal from the disloyal. Even as fuzzy-minded as he was, Farden could taste a tension in the Arkathedral. He wondered what was causing it. He found himself with a sudden desire to see Durnus and his uncle in action upon the twin thrones.

His chance came sooner than he had hoped. Tyrfing led Farden along the rebuilt corridors of the Arkathedral. If he remembered correctly, they were heading towards the great hall, and right he was. The number of guards increased with every corner, as did the echoes of voices and eager chatter. When they finally came to the great golden doors, they found a veritable crowd standing in their way. It seemed a polite crowd, at first glance, but in their keen gossiping and whispered hisses, there was a finger-rubbing sense of tense urgency. It didn’t take long for the crowd to notice Tyrfing and his hooded companion. The rustle of conversation died away. Farden noticed his uncle’s jaw tense from the corner of his eye.

‘Eager this morning, aren’t we?’ Tyrfing said to the nearest clump of people. One of them stepped forward, a man with slicked-back hair and quick eyes. His smile dripped like poison from a knife.

‘We wouldn’t want to keep your Mage waiting, now would we?’ he replied. Farden found himself instantly disliking the man. Council members had never been his preferred company, and this one wasn’t about to shatter that rule. Tyrfing looked particularly perturbed by his smile.

Tyrfing went to speak but was interrupted by a cough. He held his hand to his face for a moment and then clenched it tightly by his side. Malvus’ eyes followed it down. ‘Malvus, you never fail to dampen the brightness of my day,’ he replied, keeping his tone formal. Farden was impressed. At least someone in his family had learnt some restraint.

This Malvus character bowed low. ‘I aim to please, Arkmage,’ he said, and then he turned to regard Farden, wearing the same dripping smile. His eyes weren’t the only ones that turned on the mage. Farden could feel the stares of the others standing in the hall. ‘And I believe this is your fabled nephew, Farden, the self-professed exile. Why, just what we need; another loose cannon in the Written ranks. We haven’t had the pleasure.’ He even had the audacity to thrust out a hand.

Farden tried to keep his face impassive, but these days it had a mind of its own. Politeness had died of loneliness some time ago. With a sneer, Farden gripped the man’s hand and tried to squeeze it as hard as he could, hoping he might bruise a bone or two. Maybe even break one, if he was lucky. To his dismay, he was weaker than he thought. Malvus was stronger. The man smiled and slowly squeezed back, and Farden found himself irritatingly outmatched. ‘Pleasure’s all yours,’ he muttered.

‘I’m sure,’ replied Malvus, keeping his tone cheery.

Tyrfing quickly interrupted them. He looked to the golden doors. ‘I believe Arkmage Durnus is already in the hall,’ he said. Before Malvus could say anything, Tyrfing took a step forward and he quickly moved aside. Farden followed, making sure to nudge the man with the sharp point of his shoulder as he passed. He heard the almost imperceptible sound of Malvus wincing and had to keep himself from smiling.

‘That’s a snake in the grass if I’ve ever seen one,’ he whispered. The crowd slowly parted before them, like reluctant reeds before the keel of a narrowboat.

Tyrfing nodded and hummed, wary of their surroundings.
And the grass welcomes it.

Farden voiced another question. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘Know what?’

‘Durnus was in the hall?’

Tyrfing looked back at his nephew as the guards set their hands to the great golden doors. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

‘Feel what?’

Tyrfing marched forward into the hall, towards his throne. Durnus sat waiting for them, alone save for a thin woman standing by the kaleidoscope windows. ‘Oh Farden, you’re missing so much,’ he sighed.

Farden simply grunted.

The great hall was bathed in soft light, pouring through the rainbow-stained glass of the huge windows around its edges. The marble floor, usually pale and milky, had been turned into pools and lakes of colour. The patterns washed lazily over the carved benches and marble tree roots, like a lazy artist clumsily spilling paint. As Farden followed his uncle’s steps, he could almost imagine the colours rippling and splashing around their feet. Farden looked around again for scars of a long-lost battle. He looked around for a scorched tile, or a cracked window, anything that might hint that a dragon and a tyrant had fought and died here. There was nothing, save a gold dragon-scale plaque on a marble pillar, saying only two words:
For Farfallen.
Even the statue of Evernia had been repaired and reassembled. Some scars did heal then. At least on the surface.

The men and women of the council followed behind them, still rustling with conversation. Something was afoot. Farden could feel it. He just had no idea what.

Tyrfing went directly to his throne. Farden went to stand by the windows, where Jeasin was standing alone. She was trying to make sense of the marble under her fingers as she stroked one of the pillars. She heard his footsteps and turned.

‘Told you I’d send Ilios back,’ he said. Jeasin was shrouded in a green woollen blanket. Despite her dishevelled and wind-tangled hair, the furrowed and impatient look on her brow and lips, she looked beautiful dyed by the colourful light. Farden couldn’t help but smile at her. He was glad she couldn’t see him. Her tongue would have whipped the smile right from his mouth.

‘This place must be bloody huge,’ she said, rubbing the marble.

‘That it is,’ replied Farden. He watched Jeasin looking about, trying to count how many feet were striding into the hall. She looked thoroughly bewildered.

‘I suppose I should thank you for keepin’ your promise,’ she said.

‘I suppose you should.’

And that’s where politeness ended. She crossed her arms. ‘Well, that thing took its time in coming back to the beach. Had to wait in that grotty shack of yours. Then I almost damn near froze on the winged beast’s back, headin’ gods know where. Then we were welcomed by some frail-feelin’ old man. Said he was blind too. And an Arkmage. Never heard such ridiculous piss. Where are we, Farden? Where have you taken me?’

‘A little place called Krauslung. Heard of it?’

Jeasin pouted, still unsure. ‘Of course I ‘ave. And I still don’t believe a word of it. Pillow stories, like I told you! Where are we?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Farden muttered.

‘Fine. If you won’t tell me where we are, you can at least tell me what’s goin’ on!’ she hissed, listening to the hubbub. Her fingers found a bench, and she sat down. Farden sat down next to her, feeling his bones creak and a shiver of dizziness run through his chest. He hoped he could get back up without passing out. He looked to the two thrones and to the two men perched on top of them. As he looked, a man in bright armour emerged from the growing council crowd and took his seat on a smaller throne at their feet. He didn’t look happy. He tried whispering to the Arkmages but they waved him away.

‘There are two thrones, and two Arkmages. Arka tradition. The one on the right is Durnus, an old friend and a very, very old man, and the one on the left is my uncle, Tyrfing. And the man sitting below them is Modren, a mage like I used to be. He’s the Undermage, and he sits on the Underthrone.’

‘Your uncle?’ She made a fist against the smooth, polished arms of the bench. ‘Stop lyin’ to me Farden, tell me where the f…’

‘Magick Council! Be gathered!’ a shout thundered across the hall, and it was then the truth dawned on Jeasin. She turned, open-mouthed to face him. Krauslung. The Arkathedral. She had heard the rumours of this place, from her travelling customers. They had told her the stories of the marble forest and the city below it. She couldn’t help but gawp.

Farden had spied Malvus moving to the front of the council members, that satisfied smile still firmly plastered to his face, like mud onto the wall of a Paraian hut.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Jeasin whispered again. Farden took her cold hand in his gauntlet, making her flinch. A loud bang echoed around them as the golden doors of the great hall slammed, sealing them in. He could see council members staring at them, wondering by what means such peasants had sneaked into their hall. Farden ignored their looks.

‘Try to keep quiet,’ he said. ‘It looks like we might be here for a while.’

‘Why?!’

But Farden didn’t answer. He went to stand near the front of the hall so he could see Malvus and his patch of fawners at the front of the council. There was something about that man that stirred up crimson violence in Farden. He desperately wanted to know what it was.

‘Silence!’ boomed Modren. When his echoes faded away, the magick council stood in complete silence. Farden looked down their jumbled ranks. Some of their faces tugged at his memory, others were foreign as grass was to a fish. They were a silk-cloth crowd, bristling at the edges with jewels and trinkets and exuding sweet perfumes. Farden could see a few fat coinpurses dangling from a few nearby belts. Old habits made him weigh them in his mind.

Tyrfing tapped his throne with the ring on his finger, his old rainring, and began the day’s proceedings. ‘Esteemed council members,’ he began, reciting the old oath of the council. Its formality was like lead on his tongue. ‘We are gathered to weigh the choices of our city, and indeed our world. In one hand we balance magick, and in the other our people. Let our balance be true and our scales just, and may Evernia judge us if they are not.’

Even in the times when Farden had stood in the great hall as a soldier, that oath had already been ancient. He wondered if there were any men and women in this council that still truly believed in its words. By the rolls of their eyes, he could tell there were few, if any.

Durnus looked distracted, so Tyrfing continued for him. He looked down at a little list somebody had left on the arm of his throne. ‘Firstly, we need to discuss the expansion of the port for the ships that have been designated for the navy s…’

‘I believe we have more pressing issues than that, Arkmages?’

‘Pipe down, Malvus,’ somebody shouted from the back of the council. The man was quickly shushed.

‘You will wait your turn to speak, Council Barkhart,’ warned Durnus.

Malvus stepped forward, bold as summer snow. He folded his hands calmly in front of him. ‘Actually, Arkmage, I will not,’ he said.

Modren immediately got to his feet. To his credit, Malvus didn’t falter. He barely even spared a glance for the Undermage. Farden edged closer to watch, as did half the council.

‘What is the meaning of this, Malvus?’ demanded Tyrfing, too tired for formality. Durnus looked about with his misty eyes. A look of dread had come over his face.
No, not now
, his face seemed to say.

Malvus raised his hands to the audience at his back, the audience he had bought, paid, and bargained for. They gave a little cheer. ‘I will not be stifled any longer,’ he began, ‘and neither shall the rest of this council.’

‘Speak for yourself, Barkhart!’ shouted the same voice as before. It sounded old, wizened. Strangely loyal. There was a gasp and a cry from somewhere in the crowd. The guards at the doors moved forward, but the council held its ranks, suffocating any more complaint. This was Malvus’ crowd now, whether they liked it or not.