After careful consideration, he decided that was not the case. He knew what it was to be afraid, it was just that the dark lord did not inspire it in him. The punishments, though unpleasant, were petty and irrational and Losara could not respect them.
It was all quite confusing.
‘Has Losara news?’ asked Grimra, bringing him back to the present. ‘Any enemies for Grimra to eat as they pass under his archway?’
‘No, Grimra. Though perhaps soon enough. Battu is presenting me at the next meeting of the Shadow Council as his Apprentice.’
‘What be “apprentice”?’
‘An official title to acknowledge what I am already, but more than that. To be named Apprentice in front of the council is to be given a silent title as well.’
‘What be the silent title?’
‘Successor.’ Losara stared into the distance. ‘The Apprentice is marked to follow his master into rule. And he must also journey across the Black Sea. Apprentice can be a dangerous title to hold.’
‘Grimra sees. Your shadow grows long.’ A single claw the length of a sword materialised in front of Losara. ‘Remember,’ said the Golgoleth, ‘enemies for Losara can be treats for Grimra.’
‘Most gracious, greedy ghost.’
The claw faded. ‘Do you be worried?’
‘No. I am …’
Losara fell silent. How did he feel about the impending events? He knew there were many emotions another might experience – anxiety, fear, confidence – but for him, going before the council stirred up no more excitement than the prospect of a morning bath.
A high-pitched wail interrupted his thoughts. Behind him in the cavern, four Black Goblins were dragging a caterwauling Vortharg in manacles. Spittle oozed from her rubbery lips, spraying her tusks as she cried out in misery. She railed against the guards, trying to spring away on bandy legs. The leader lost patience and cracked her across the skull with his sword hilt.
‘Me thinks it be dinnertime,’ said Grimra.
The guards arrived at the doors, coming to an abrupt stop when they saw Losara sitting in the arch.
‘Master Losara,’ said the leader, bowing his head as the others watched with wary black eyes. Losara knew they were uneasy to stumble across him. It was a common theme. ‘Er …’ said the leader, unsure of how to proceed. Though Losara had no official title yet, most treated him with deference. ‘Permission to feed the Golgoleth, sir?’
Losara rose smoothly to his feet. ‘What is the Vortharg’s crime?’ he asked.
‘Thievery, sir,’ replied the leader. Losara waited long enough for him to realise something further was required. ‘Er …she was a worker in the nursery, sir. Taking creeper saplings she was, to sell them on down in Mankow.’
Losara raised a blue eyebrow. ‘A dangerous game, stealing from the Shadowdreamer.’
‘Yessir.’
‘You may continue. I would not stand between the Golgoleth and a meal.’
The leader nodded, and the guards dumped the groaning Vortharg in the middle of the archway. They all bowed to Losara.
‘Permission to carry on, sir?’
‘On your way.’
The goblins left gratefully.
Grimra drifted close to Losara’s ear. ‘Passed out she is,’ the ghost whispered. ‘Hungry as me be, me prefer meals awake!’
‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Losara.
There was no response as he walked away and he knew the ghost was concentrating on its food. Glancing back, he saw blade-like claws hanging above the stirring Vortharg, working the air impatiently as if they already shredded flesh. A glimmer of a long-fanged grin appeared, insubstantial as smoke.
Losara kept walking. He had no desire to see Grimra toy with his food; he took no pleasure in the suffering of others. It wasn’t that alone that turned his heels, however. There was something about the keeping and feeding of such an ancient spirit like a captive beast that didn’t sit right with him either.
Losara arrived in the library corridor. Deep in the heart of the old mountain, he could sense the density of the rock around him. The statues along the corridor were amorphous and strange, like fonts of frozen lava. At the end of the passage was an intricately carved door covered with spidery runes. He opened it and made his way carefully down a steep set of steps, into the library. At the bottom, the stone floor was partially covered by a large rug that was frayed, faded and dirty. Rugs were a rarity in Fenvarrow, there being little liking for warm feet. He wondered how old it was. It felt prickly on his bare toes. Off to the side was a heavy oak desk. The librarian, Emepso, wasn’t there at the moment, but scrolls and books strewn about were evidence of his continuing presence. All around, bookshelves stretched into the distance. The library had a low roof so it was hard to see how far back the shelves actually went. Hanging from the roof were steel lamps holding chunks of melting ice.
He moved between the shelves, pausing now and then to look over a book that caught his eye. Many were old, but had been imbued with preserving enchantments. Some of the truly ancient were kept sealed in glass cases, lest they collapse to dust in clumsy hands. Only the librarian had the key to those – not that keys were really a problem for Losara.
He heard a shuffling and Emepso appeared, clutching a couple of books to his brown robe. The little Arabodedas squinted suspiciously from under thick eyebrows. ‘Master Losara,’ he whined.
Losara moved past him and Emepso followed nervously at his heels.
‘I thought perhaps you were one of those horrid goblin magelings,’ chattered the librarian, wiping a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. ‘No respect for the books, master. And there’s nothing worse than goblin magic.’
‘Is someone causing you trouble, Emepso?’
‘No, master, no,’ said Emepso quickly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle myself. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I’m meeting Heron here. Have you seen her?’
‘No, master, no. But I’ll tell her you’re here if I do, master.’
Losara nodded, continuing on. During his infrequent visits to the library (Heron normally selected the texts for his study), he was always struck by how empty the place was. Only occasionally did he see another person here besides the librarian, and it made him wonder: with so many books and so few readers, how much forgotten knowledge was stowed away on these shelves? Perhaps the key to the destruction of Kainordas was in here somewhere, unread upon a faded scroll.
He came upon a clearing amongst the shelves. Another tattered rug covered the floor, with some tables and chairs standing atop it. He was surprised to see someone sitting at one of the tables. Her hair fell forward over her face to enclose her book in a prison of black tangled strands. From her mud skin he could tell she was a Mire Pixie, and he guessed her to be just over a pace tall. She wore a ragged green dress, low enough at the back for her crystalline wings to poke out and fold behind her. He remembered seeing her somewhere before. Years ago? In a dream?
He moved forward, deliberately making some sound as he went so as not to startle her if she looked up suddenly, but his effort had the opposite effect. Her head snapped up and he found himself staring into fearful blue eyes. She breathed in sharply as she realised who he was.
‘Hello,’ he said.
She flinched and he halted abruptly. She rose awkwardly to her feet, banging the chair as her legs pushed it backwards, and stumbled into a curtsy.
‘Master,’ she whispered. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know you would need this space.’