She stopped, suddenly aware that she might be talking about the very man who stood before her. He was too real to be the figure of this future legend.
‘And the vision showed nothing of the split,’ Losara said, almost to himself.
‘No, master.’
Losara nodded, and Lalenda realised she had given him something to think about. She felt exhausted, however, and found herself wanting to be alone so she could sort through all the chaotic thoughts this encounter had bred.
‘I’m becoming tired, master,’ she said as politely as possible. ‘I should get to bed. If you will excuse me?’
‘Of course, Lalenda. Thank you for talking with me.’
Lalenda curtsied, deeply relieved. She walked away, careful not to rush. As she went, she was surprised by the realisation that perhaps she had actually wanted to stay. No one had really spoken to her in a long time.
Losara remained a while longer, troubled by the scene Lalenda had described. He pictured it again – the great commander holding a sword aloft in triumph – and looked down upon his own soft hands.
Eighteen
New Horizons
Battu sat on Refectu with his jaw on his fist, Heron and Tyrellan on either side of the throne. Before him stood the boy, dressed in green cloth with a satchel at his side, ready for his journey. He had a look of calm on his face that made Battu want to shake him. Instead: ‘There’s little guidance I can give you,’ the Shadowdreamer said, as though he regretted it. ‘Heron, please explain the old laws.’
‘Master Apprentice,’ Heron said, ‘today you begin your journey to Assedrynn’s Isle. At the village of Frake, the priests of Assedrynn will provide you with a boat. Though you have a starting point, the end remains uncertain. If the Dark Gods wish to receive you, they will. If they do not recognise your legitimacy, you may drift and find nothing. Be wary of the Boundary, for the Isle lies perilously close to it. If you travel across, you will be lost to this world.’
‘I cannot share anything of my own journey, boy,’ said Battu. He rose and stepped down from the dais. ‘I can, however, wish you luck.’ Awkwardly he clasped Losara’s shoulder. ‘I shall pray for your journey to be safe.’
‘Thank you, master,’ said Losara.
There wasn’t much else to say. Battu watched Losara leave, escorted by Tyrellan to the aviary. Heron hobbled after them, taking an eternity to leave his sight. Finally only his goblin guards remained, silent and constant in their alcoves like statues. He was alone with his thoughts.
Memories of his own journey to the Isle had been stirred up, and an old anger came with them. How he hated the gods for what they’d commanded! How it frustrated him that he wouldn’t know what they said to Losara! Would they tell the boy that Battu had disobeyed them? Thinking about it made him even more anxious – would he be punished when his soul reached the Well? Had he redeemed himself from that first rebellious act? There had been no further war since the Shining Mines, and his hunting squads roamed Fenvarrow exterminating the undead. Not to mention that he’d secured the gods their champion.
In his mind’s eye Battu saw Losara again in the duelling cavern, a monstrous shadow encased in hurricane. Roma had been powerful, and at another time he could well have become Apprentice. It was unsettling that Losara had beaten him so easily. Battu had expected Losara to win, but he’d also expected some sweat and hard breathing. The real question that made him clench his fists: Was Losara more powerful than he? The boy is a device , he reminded himself. If Losara is to lead our armies to victory, of course he must be powerful . The trouble was, when Battu imagined that pale face and calm eyes, he could see nothing of what went on behind them.
Uncertainty grew.
Tyrellan had long ago perfected the art of staring at something while appearing not to, one of the advantages of having a pitch-black gaze. He now considered Losara from the corner of his eye as they walked down the passage.
All his life Tyrellan had felt little for those around him. Most were stupid or incompetent, and even the most powerful agents of the shadow usually put their own interests first. Battu especially was guilty of this indulgence. Tyrellan, on the other hand, was a true servant of darkness. He’d been born that way, bawling at his expulsion from the dark of his mother’s womb. As a child he had skulked in the barn or the shade of trees, watching his brothers play in the open. His family had been nothing but dimwitted peasants, and he had never been bothered by the fact that he’d murdered them all.
Losara, however, was different. Tyrellan was sure he embodied the shadow’s very will. Unfortunately, that fact was no protection against Battu, and for years Tyrellan had been a subtle protector, steering the dark lord away from dangerously fretful thoughts. He was thankful he’d managed to avoid having a bug-eye implanted in his skull, for sometimes small insubordinate risks were necessary, and it was bad enough knowing Battu could be lurking in any shadow. Of course it was the other problems with bug-eyes that had formed Tyrellan’s basis for argument: sometimes a bug-eye became infected, or grew abnormally, and its host lost their sight or died. ‘If it is my lord’s wish that none of my daggers find the backs of his assassins,’ Tyrellan had once said, ‘then of course I invite him to ruin my depth perception right away.’ The final reason Tyrellan didn’t want a bug-eye was that if the Shadowdreamer died, all the bug-eyes connected to him also died. Tyrellan didn’t see why he should be crippled in the event of Battu’s passing. The end of Battu did not mean the end of Tyrellan.
Still, he would have traded the butterfly for a bug-eye in a flash. If Tyrellan had once been indifferent to his birthdays, now he hated them. Every day when he woke up and saw the butterfly, his hatred grew. It was a test, he told himself, a burden he must bear in service of the shadow. Sometimes, however, an interior voice whispered that even if every light went out in the north, and the sun sank into the sea and drowned, even then he wouldn’t be rid of it. He was forced to do something he had never done before. He was going to ask a favour.
‘My lord Apprentice,’ he said.
‘Tyrellan?’
‘My lord. For two decades I have borne this insect that dogs my every move. I have asked the Shadowdreamer about it, but he has much to attend to. Perhaps this prevents him from seeing what an insult it is to have such a creature living freely in the castle, such a joke upon us by the light.’
‘Upon you especially, Tyrellan,’ said Losara.
Tyrellan’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, lord.’
Ahead, their way widened into the grey light of a chamber. From within came the sounds of birds squawking and a deep-throated call like that of a cow.
‘Heron has told me of legacy spells,’ said Losara. ‘She says they are impossible to undo.’
‘So the Shadowdreamer has told me.’
‘Would you have me ask the gods about it?’
Tyrellan dropped to a knee, effectively halting their progress. ‘If anyone knows how to break such a spell,’ he said, ‘it must be them.’
‘If indeed it can be broken,’ said Losara. ‘Not even the gods are all-powerful, I think.’
‘If it can be broken, lord,’ Tyrellan echoed.
Losara nodded. ‘I will ask them,’ he said, ‘if I can. Now come. I’m eager to be on my way.’
The head of the castle aviary, a Graka, introduced Losara to the creature he would ride to Frake. It was called a whelkling, and looked like a hybrid of dragon and mammal. It was roughly the size of a cow, with stumpy legs and wide circular hooves. These were close enough to the body so they didn’t drag in the wind, but made the animal very low on the ground. Of the dragon there was a serpentine tail and great leathery wings splayed out from its shoulders. Its face was long with a wide snout, a milky eye positioned on each side of its head.