Part Two
The Growing Powers
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I am told that the time during which I grew up was uncharacteristically peaceful. Kainordas and Fenvarrow each knew that the other had a blue-haired boy, and each waited for theirs to turn into whatever it was he was destined to. In the meantime, strength was to be conserved.
The main difference was that Fahren decided to keep my presence a secret, giving the folk of Kainordas much less to hope for. They knew that Fenvarrow possessed a child of power, and believed it was the only child, which made them afraid the war was already lost. I’ll always consider it a mistake that Fahren allowed such a dour mood to permeate, whatever his reasoning might have been. Although I shouldn’t complain – it meant that when I was finally revealed, the people were all the happier to see me, all the more loyal to my cause. But I get ahead of myself.
As I grew, I began to feel some of the confusion that comes, you’ll find, when your immortal soul has been torn in two. It wasn’t pronounced yet, just beginning, gnawing away at my edges like a rat at a frozen corpse.
As if one does not have sufficient concerns merely from being eighteen years old.
Thirteen
Castle Captives
The blue hair that fell freely to his shoulders contrasted sharply with his porcelain skin, as did his eyebrows and eyelashes. He was slim of build, medium height, with a face that retained a soft boyishness. He wore a simple black robe, and under the fingernails of his smooth hands were trapped specks of shadow, which occasionally slipped free to zip back into whatever darkness was closest. He moved with a quiet grace, his bare footfalls making no noise on the stone, seeming to glide, and favouring areas where the shadows were deepest.
It was a long journey from the top of Skygrip to the bottom. The castle was almost immense enough to be considered a city in its own right. Here and there magical portal doors shortened the distance between points, but Losara avoided them to enjoy the walk instead. There were corridors so narrow that only one man could walk them at a time, which turned into wide pathways lined with carvings before constricting again. Passages could be straight, bent, or twisted like the insides of a writhing snake. In some places light was non-existent, in others nuggets of ice glowed softly in recesses along the walls, and in others windows or skylights let in the cold grey day. Sometimes the air blew sharp and fresh, sometimes old and stagnant. Walls were bumpy or smooth, crumbly or hard. There was no uniformity to any of it.
At one point he stopped to listen to two female Grey Goblins, who didn’t notice his wafting presence. They intrigued him with their chatter, these simple creatures whose greatest concern was keeping abreast of washroom gossip.
Eventually he reached Skygrip’s main entrance cavern. Skirting the edges of the circular chamber beneath the gaze of towering statues, he stopped inside the open double doors. Outside in the morning mist, figures moved about the castle fortifications. None came near the entrance unless they had to. Even the guards posted there tended to keep well forward of the doors. Losara could see them down the path: four Black Goblins who carried horns in case they needed to sound the alarm. Their breath steamed in the cold air, exaggerated by brittleleaf smoke.
Losara sank down into the archway. From somewhere came the smell of baking bread, which made him realise he was hungry. He produced a strip of meat from his robe, unwrapping the cloth that bound it. He chewed slowly, sucking the juices through his teeth. Heron had told him that in Kainordas it was common practice to cook meat. He’d enjoyed cooked meat on occasion, mostly for its ability to soak up other flavours, but he wondered why anyone would ritually burn all the blood and nutrients away. Those were the things that connected you most with what you ate, that made you realise it was flesh, that struck a primal chord.
‘Me wonders who dares sit there eating such treats in front of Grimra.’
Losara tore a piece from the meat and tossed it up into the archway. The air around it thickened, there was an indistinct flash of white, and the meat disappeared. Losara continued to munch on the remaining piece.
‘Not even a full bite for Grimra,’ came the voice. It floated, sometimes high in the arch, sometimes next to Losara’s ear, dry and hollow. ‘Not big enough to get stuck in his teeth.’
‘Haven’t they fed you yet?’ asked Losara.
‘Theys be late,’ said the voice. ‘Or else Grimra is forgotten. If this be so, perhaps he takes a guard from up the path. Theys thinking Grimra cannot reach them way on up the path.’ The air swirled and there was another flash of white. ‘Theys be wrong.’
‘I wouldn’t take any more guards, hungry ghost,’ said Losara. ‘Tyrellan won’t approve.’
At Tyrellan’s name Grimra hissed, and for a moment Losara saw monstrous claws shining in the light. ‘Perhaps Grimra eats Tyrellan then, next time he comes this way.’
‘Only if you wish your amulet smashed,’ said Losara.
This sent Grimra into a fury, churning the air so it rustled Losara’s hair. Losara waited patiently as the Golgoleth Ghost worked off his anger. The entrance guards glanced back at the commotion, but quickly looked away again. Losara wondered if it was the angry ghost who made them uneasy, or him.
The air calmed, and some moments passed in silence. ‘Grimra be glad Losara visits today,’ said the ghost eventually.
Losara smiled. ‘Why is that?’
The ghost didn’t respond right away. It seemed to Losara that he was thinking. ‘Grimra be glad whenever Losara visits,’ Grimra concluded.
It had been three years before that Losara had first met this strange companion. Probably the ghost was his only real friend. As Battu’s protégé, he was feared by all and consequently friends were hard to come by. The fact that the first thing Grimra had offered to do upon meeting him was slice his head off and drink the blood from his neck like wine from a glass made him stand out from the crowd. The only other people who spoke to Losara were Heron, who was miserable, Tyrellan, who was busy, and of course Battu himself, with whom his relationship was confusing. One moment Battu would be patiently guiding him through some basic magic; the next Losara would be lying dazed on the other side of the room with Battu shouting about some instruction he’d failed to follow. Often Battu would appear kindly towards him, with a voice calm and deep, a steady hand upon his shoulder. Yet for all the apparent goodwill, Losara had never felt any real love from the man.
The question was why ? Why did a man as powerful as Battu care what Losara thought? The question had first occurred to him when he was six, the same day Heron had told him of the events surrounding his birth. Shortly after that, Battu had summoned him to the throne room.
Battu had turned from the long window. ‘Ah, my boy,’ he’d said, his voice soft and carrying as if it wafted on the breeze. ‘Come stand by me.’
Losara went.
‘Heron has told you about your birth?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Good, good. As your understanding increases, so must your education. Now, you know that I am called the Shadowdreamer, but do you know what that really means?’
‘Heron told me,’ said Losara.
Battu did not seem to hear. ‘I rule the land, that much is simple, but a Shadowdreamer is more than just a ruler. I am the shadow’s servant in this world, its conduit of influence. Even now I can feel the shape of the land where the shadow falls. I’m connected to the Cloud, which comes from deep beneath us in the earth and makes its way up through the castle walls. It’s all around us, above and below. The power of Skygrip is mine to draw on, the Shadowdreamer’s right and privilege. Are you understanding me?’