It had been a horrible day when she’d woken up back in Skygrip, six years ago now. Her head pounding, her eye red-rimmed, she had stared about the bed chamber without memory of how she’d come there. To her dismay she could find no bottle to quell her cramps and shaking limbs. Curled into a wretched ball, soaking the sheets cold with sweat, she had lain in a disoriented haze for what seemed like hours. Eventually she’d managed to summon enough of her once formidable power to soothe the aching, and sat up woozily on the bed. She had stumbled to the door, only to find it locked.
Some time later the door had opened. Two female Grey Goblins had entered, carrying jugs of water which they emptied into a rusted bath in the corner. They had ‘helped’ Heron into the water, informing her that the First Slave wanted her clean before she was taken before Battu. Neither of them had answers to her questions. They’d left her feeling clean outside and rotten within, like an apple with a maggot in its heart. They didn’t lock the door behind them, but it had seemed best to stay put. Tyrellan arrived and told her what was expected of her. He made her drink soup, and she’d managed to keep it down. The whole ordeal had been so terrible and foggy that she’d barely noticed the butterfly flapping around the room, and following Tyrellan as he led her to Battu.
The dark lord had been irritated to find her so reduced. Her once formidable power had been disused for years and her mind was still half-pickled. Battu had given her a week to sharpen up, not specifying what would happen if she failed. She thought she could guess. Tyrellan had watched her closely during that week. She had no access to drink, but he forced her to eat and walk. Her power grew again, more quickly than she would have believed. When she next came before Battu, she was more like the tutor he remembered from his youth. He had taken her to see the child she was to watch over and, eventually, teach. She’d been given chambers adjoining the boy’s, and warned not to die from old age, else Battu would be forced to bring her back. If she was to escape him in death, her body would need to be destroyed beyond recognition, but she feared to fall, or burn in flames, and so she served.
As she retreated from the throne room, dead Shadowdreamers stared at her from their shadowy alcoves. She knew their faces well – not only had she passed them many times in her younger days, now her slow trudge gave her time to study them whenever she passed. There was Rassid, a strong-jawed Arabodedas, a great leader by history’s account. Nim’rahl, a Black Goblin, her stone hair spilling from the pedestal down to the floor, who had presided over the genocide of the Green Goblins. Wide-eyed Timma, the trickster, who had caused an internal war in Kainordas through an elaborate deception. Skench the Builder, one of the few Graka Shadowdreamers, who had earned a reputation for fairness to all races, funding developments in each major city without prejudice. Telnuwind, a beautiful Arabodedas who had loved her land and whose people had loved her. And on, and more. Despite what they had in common, each was different from the last.
Heron wondered why she’d bothered to be nervous about approaching Battu. She had requested to speak to him about the boy, who had been asking to be told the story of his parents. Battu had displayed the same lack of interest he always did. She remembered well the only other time she’d approached him uninvited to discuss the child.
She had entered the throne room to find Battu standing with his back to the long window, talking to Tyrellan. Their gazes had turned to her as she approached.
‘Yes?’ Battu said without preamble.
‘Lord Battu,’ she’d said, bowing. ‘I come concerning the boy.’
‘Yes, yes, Turry said. What is it?’
Heron raised her head. ‘I feel it is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to consider his name. Not knowing whether my lord had something in mind, I come seeking his wishes.’
Battu blinked. ‘A name?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose he should have one.’
Tyrellan had shifted his stance, clawed hands disappearing behind his back. ‘An important matter,’ he said. ‘It is a name the whole world will soon know.’
‘Yes,’ said Battu. ‘It must be something befitting.’ He’d seemed to brighten and, in a voice that was almost jolly, said, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Heron. It will give you a diversion as you while away the hours. Let me know what you come up with and we shall see if I approve. You may go.’
Heron had wondered why she was surprised. ‘As you say, my lord.’
She thought she saw Tyrellan glancing sideways at his master, though it was hard to tell with his black eyes. Still, it wasn’t unexpected when he caught up with her in the corridor. She’d noticed that the First Slave took a very personal interest in the raising of the child.
‘I take it my lord Tyrellan does not share his master’s indifference to the naming of the boy?’ she said, not turning to face him.
‘Bite your tongue or I will bite it for you,’ Tyrellan said. ‘The Shadowdreamer does not tolerate such bold words.’
‘And what if he did hear? He’s already made it known that death is not an escape for me. And any other punishment he might inflict on this old body would be as good as death.’
‘You are not as stupid as you sound,’ said Tyrellan. ‘There are many forms of punishment as you well know – why else do you linger here?’
Heron hoped she’d stopped shock from registering on her face.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tyrellan went on, reaching out a claw to scrape some lichen from the wall. ‘Don’t think I cannot see what is in your heart. You would escape that way, if you could. But to escape the Shadowdreamer in death, you must destroy your body beyond hope of being raised again. You would shatter it, then, from the parapets of Skygrip? Or maybe burn it? But you fear that, don’t you? Fear the fall. Fear the pain of fire. You have no courage beyond a deadly herb brewed in a cup, a peaceful descent into sleep. Such an end would leave your body intact though, would it not?’
Heron returned his flat stare. ‘It would. But there are other ways, Tyrellan. What makes you think I cannot fashion a spell for myself? Fire in the belly, as it were. An explosion from within, instant and painless, with nothing left behind but dust. Do you imagine that is beyond me?’
Tyrellan bared his fangs in a humourless smile. ‘Then perhaps you are wiser than I take you for and know that the Dark Gods do not take kindly to those who return to them without fulfilling their obligations in life. If this boy has been born to carry out their will, they will be watching closely. Such knowledge will bind you to your purpose more strongly than any threat of Battu’s. Otherwise you need the courage to face not only death, but what comes after, and you do not have either. You may return to the balconies freely, Heron, and continue to romanticise your own demise. I’m glad we had this talk. I will not fear for you any more.’
Beneath her anger, Heron felt sick.
They had arrived at the boy’s chamber. It was large and circular, cut through with shafts of dim light from holes in the roof high above. Its lumpy stone walls were clear of adornment, besides a large iceplace in which glowed a slowly melting block. In the centre of the room stood a wooden cot, to which Heron and Tyrellan walked.
‘His name,’ said Tyrellan, looking down on the boy, ‘is not something to be shrugged off lightly.’
Heron caught something in the goblin’s gaze. Was it …? No, impossible. Tyrellan was not fond of anything.