The feeling in his gut leaped upwards. He lurched from his seat, knocking the wine to the floor. The wrongness inside drove him close to panic. A part of him wondered why he could still breathe when his senses were telling him something too big was forcing its way up his throat. He fell to his knees and threw up.
What had that bitch done to him?
The thing was almost in his mouth. He felt stalk legs reach out of his throat and grasp his tongue, pulling up the body behind. He shoved his hand into his mouth to tear the thing free, but there was nothing to grasp. He gagged as his claw hit the back of his throat. He clenched his jaw shut despite his disgust. Could he trap the spell there? If so, Battu might still be able to do something about it. Whatever was inside him seemed to lose form again and the wrongness streamed up his nasal cavity, out his nostrils. It was so quick he didn’t have time to pinch his nose.
A glowing light spilled onto the floor before him and collected together. It formed and reformed into the same shape – that of a butterfly. The lines grew more distinct, the shape more stable. The butterfly raised a wing and, as it moved, the glow was replaced by solid colour. The effect spread over its whole body as it hardened into reality. The butterfly waved its antennae and tested its wings, which were as large as hands.
What was the nature of this spell? There had to be more to it than the creation of an insect; that was hardly fitting revenge for a dying mage. He suppressed his inclination to stomp on the creature, suspecting a trap. Instead, he took a step back and examined it. Its wings were pure white, their edges sky blue. Two large false eyes, one on each wing, had centres of the same blue and were ringed by concentric circles, yellow then scarlet. From the outer scarlet circle crooked lines ran down the wing, as though the colour had been painted on and then drizzled. Its body was as white as the wings; the legs and antennae, a chrome blue. It typified everything Kainordas folk found beautiful – all colour and garish excess without subtlety, like a whore displaying her wares. The sight of it filled Tyrellan with loathing.
The butterfly beat its wings and launched into the air. As it began a lazy circle of the room, Tyrellan reached warily for his sword. The butterfly flapped towards him and Tyrellan backed away, uncertain of what threatened him or how he should react. He snarled and swung the blade, hoping to scare the thing away. The butterfly kept coming and he swiped at it viciously. The blow landed across the insect’s abdomen, but instead of slicing through, the blade bounced as though hitting stone. The butterfly didn’t appear to notice, staying on course as if nothing had happened. It was almost upon him! He backed away, swinging again, each blow meeting with the same resistance. Finding himself backed against the table, he dropped the sword to seize a chair, swung it with all his strength. The chair splintered to shards in the air and the butterfly continued unhindered.
Despairing of weapons, Tyrellan tried to snatch the creature, but his hands could not even stop its wings from beating. It powered through his grip and landed on his shoulder. Horrified, he tried to push it off. The weight was no more than any butterfly, but the creature was as immovable as if frozen in time.
Tyrellan leaped wildly, trying to shake it off, and landed hissing in front of the mirror. He drew a dagger and tried to pry it away, but only succeeded in cutting his own skin. He flung the dagger away, then turned and sprinted towards a wall, shoulder charging with all his strength. He bounced backwards with fangs gritted in pain. The butterfly pulled its legs free from where they’d been driven into his shoulder by the impact, less yielding than the flesh beneath them. It began to clean black blood from itself.
Tyrellan fought to regain self-control. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; it was having this thing on him.
‘Maybe you won’t like the cold,’ he muttered, ‘if indeed you’re a creature of light.’
He retrieved his dagger, went to the iceplace and stabbed out a chunk of ice. Dark ice was so cold that it burned, but even when he set the chunk to the butterfly’s back, it took no notice. Tyrellan cursed and flicked the ice away.
Without warning the butterfly fluttered from his shoulder and back across the room. For a moment Tyrellan stood still, watching it. Then, warily, he edged to the door. As his claw touched the handle the creature circled back towards him, but he was through in a flash and slammed the door shut. He went swiftly down the shadowy stone corridor.
Behind him sounded a crash, and he spun to see the door hanging off its hinges. The butterfly flapped lazily towards him down the passage.
He turned and sprinted with grim determination. At the least he should be able to outrun the revolting thing! He felt the beating of wings on his neck and the creature alighted once more on his shoulder. Tyrellan hissed in frustration, slowing to a walk. He bared his fangs at the butterfly.
‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he said.
The ancient throne Refectu seemed to spill out of the wall behind it, as if the shape of a throne had been pushed through molten rock then set. It was a part of the castle itself, made when Skygrip had been hewn from the mountain. Across its surface ran complex carvings, an entanglement of living things from all over Fenvarrow: the wing of a Graka, claw of a Mireform, petals of a demonflower, tusk of a Vortharg, branch of a weal tree, and hundreds of others all entwined. They spilled from the throne onto the wall behind, running out like ripples across water. To the eye they seemed frozen, but over time they moved, slowly as light travelling around a sundial. Faces turned and sank back into the stone; leaves twisted in an unseen breeze; mouths opened and closed with unheard words. They were not solid carvings, but reflections of the land the Cloud covered. It was said that during the rule of Assidax, as she expanded the Cloud across Kainordas, all kinds of light creatures had appeared there too.
Battu drummed his fingers on a row of fangs that had been erupting out of the armrest for some hours. He understood what it was like to get caught up in a blood frenzy – his time with the sharks had made sure of that – yet still it was infuriating. Corlas had been a Varenkai hero, had even fought Battu himself! Yet here he was killing dumb farmers, running the risk of execution. Such an end would not serve Battu’s plan at all. If Corlas was going to get himself safely inside the Open Halls, Iassia was going to have to prove his worth twice over. Battu drummed his fingers even harder, jabbing the sharp ends of the armrest fangs in under his nails.
Tyrellan strode into the throne room – almost angrily, it seemed to Battu. Did Tyrellan dare to openly display anger towards him? A moment later the thought was forgotten as a colourful butterfly sailed in after the goblin. It followed Tyrellan across the room, landing on his shoulder as he came to a stop and bowed.
‘By the Dark Gods!’ exclaimed Battu in genuine surprise. ‘What is this creature, Tyrellan?’
Tyrellan remained bowed, his voice sounding as if his fangs were bared. ‘I don’t know, lord. It appeared just now in my chambers – birthed, I suspect, from the magic implanted within me at Whisperwood. I cannot kill it, and it will not leave my side.’ Tyrellan raised his head. ‘Help me, Shadowdreamer.’
Battu reached out with his finer senses, just as he’d done when Tyrellan had first announced the ‘enchantment’ he’d felt in his belly. As before, he sensed nothing. He moved down the dais steps to consider the butterfly more closely. ‘What a grotesque creature,’ he mused, reaching to touch it. Instead it launched from Tyrellan’s shoulder and flitted around Battu, coming to rest on Refectu.
‘In Kainordas they would call it beautiful,’ said Tyrellan, scowling. ‘Yet everything it has to offer is available at first glance. It is vulgar.’