‘Don’t worry about my son, barkeep,’ he said, making Bel start. ‘He’s had a dark day is all. We’ll get a table out of the way.’ He laid some coins on the counter, then put a firm hand on Bel’s arm. ‘Send over a jug, and the rest for your busted crockery.’
The bartender nodded in relief, and Corlas led a reluctant Bel to a table in a darker corner of the bar. Curious drinkers who had turned at the sound of trouble turned away again.
‘Sorry,’ said Bel distantly, not sounding as if he meant it.
‘The Throne is not in his best mood tonight,’ said Corlas. ‘But he is going to allow your return to the keepers.’
‘Ah,’ said Bel. ‘Well. Good.’
‘He was right about some things though,’ continued Corlas. ‘You cannot take responsibility for what happened.’
‘If I hadn’t entered that …that state …’
‘You probably would have died too.’ Corlas shrugged. ‘And then where would we be?’
Ale arrived, and Corlas poured it out. ‘It is the nature of battle, Bel. People die. Others survive. There is no good reason for it.’
‘I’m not pure,’ muttered Bel.
‘What?’
Bel met his father’s eyes. ‘All my life I believed what Fahren told me. About the dark thing which left me at birth. That I was better than normal people because I’d been cleansed .’ He spat the word. ‘That was why I was destined to lead the light to victory, I thought. But I am not pure, Father.’
‘No,’ agreed Corlas sombrely. ‘None of us is that. The truth, son, is that I don’t think anyone really knows what happened to you. But I do know this: I know you now. And I know something about what you’re going through.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think perhaps I should tell you about my time at the Shining Mines.’
Bel frowned, letting an unspoken question hang in the air.
‘Not the fanciful way I told it to you many times when you were a child, overexciting you before your bedtime,’ answered Corlas. ‘Skimming the surface and sticking to the parts that make the eyes of young boys glow. I speak now of the full account – a man’s account.’
Finally Bel seemed to leave his own thoughts and take an interest. Corlas noted with amusement that the glow he had spoken of was back just as he remembered it. He laid his hands palms flat on the table.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This is what happened when the shadow grew long at the Shining Mines.’
Twenty-five
The Tale of the Shining Mines
‘In the year I turned thirty,’ Corlas began, ‘I was promoted from cerepan to commander and sent south to the fort at the Shining Mines. It was a posting desired by many young fools seeking the promise of battle. The fort, you see, has always been a tempting target for the Shadowdreamers. Not only is it the closest settlement to the border, but the mine itself is rich with the magical ore called shine. I, however, did not go there for glory. I simply went where I was sent.
‘The fort lies in the barren lands of southern Centrus. Dust and rock piles and eroded trenches and little else. Flat too, the fort visible on the horizon from a day’s ride away, atop the only hill for leagues around. When my troop and I arrived, we went up to the southern entrance, the only entrance – a portcullis cast of pure shine, my boy, is something to behold!
‘We were greeted there by Gerent Ateppa, a ropy man as hard as nails, with a shock of white hair. He bade us welcome to our magnificent new home. Very soon I knew the fort inside and out, for in truth there wasn’t much to know. Inside the towering grey walls the town was simple, nothing too fancy for us soldiers and miners, as dusty as the plains surrounding. In the centre of town, at the peak of the hill the fort was built around, was the entrance to the mine.
‘I led many patrols, and within a month I oversaw my first shipment of shine. It was packed into a crate only a few handspans wide – maybe so big.’ Corlas held out his hands. ‘I was surprised to learn that the mine produced only three or four such crates a year, but that each could have financed the building of a castle.
‘I quickly noted that many of the soldiers were uninspired by their long grey days of watching and waiting. I set about organising regular days of games and contests – must have been something of the taskmaster in me then too. I’m proud to say that for many they became the highlight of each month. The fact they gave soldiers extra reason to drill and train was merely a pleasant benefit.’ He winked at Bel.
‘My relationship with the gerent grew into friendship. Ateppa himself was a charismatic leader, tenacious …and perhaps occasionally overly excitable. Privately I wondered if serving at the fort for ten years had left him a little unbalanced. For the most part, however, he was well liked by his soldiers.’
Corlas leaned back and sighed, his eyes turning glassy as he stared into the past. ‘I have always been sorry I had to turn them against him.’
Corlas stood on the parapets of the southern wall with the cool wind off Fenvarrow blowing on his face and the first rays of the rising sun warm on his back. The juxtaposition reminded him that he was wedged between two worlds, in a no-man’s-land where even the weather was at odds. In the distance hung the Cloud, seething with menace. It too served as a constant reminder of their closeness to the enemy; although the fort walls were hundreds of paces high, it was the creeping darkness on the horizon that was truly daunting.
From his vantage he surveyed the morning activity within the fort. Everything seemed normaclass="underline" soldiers marched along the walls, lookouts watched from the turrets, and below the miners trailed up the hill like a line of ants. Turning back to the land outside, he glimpsed a rare speck of colour far below. He squinted, trying to make it out. It was a tattered piece of red cloth, snagged in rocks, flapping in the wind and …
His blood ran cold.
A shout echoed from inside the fort below. Alarm rang clear in the cry, and Corlas turned from the grisly view, knowing in his guts that something was very wrong. He went to the nearest stairway and down the inside wall, taking the steps three at a time. When he got halfway he leaned over the stone railing.
‘What goes, soldier?’
The soldier, who had been running towards the town, spun at his bellow, black braids swinging about her face. Even from this distance he recognised her as Adra, one of the younger penulms of the fort.
‘Commander Corlas!’ she called, relieved to see him. ‘You must come quickly!’
Corlas continued down the stairs, and by the time he’d reached the bottom, Adra had rounded up a couple of blades. ‘You,’ she was saying, jabbing a finger at one, ‘go and tell the gerent there’s been an attack on the mages’ quarters!’
‘And you, blade,’ said Corlas to the other, ‘go to the cerepan on duty at the gate. There’s been a death outside the walls. I want to know who, then I want an organised sweep of the fort and mine. Anything out of the ordinary is to be reported.’
Adra was waiting edgily for him to follow. She led him to the mages’ quarters, which was a building separate from the main settlement and home to the fort’s combat mages, the lightfists, whom Corlas had little to do with. They kept mostly to themselves when not on duty, and existed somewhat outside normal military hierarchy.
Adra led Corlas into the main chamber. Walls of pink-white marble were lined with elaborately carved bookcases choking with colourful spines. A spidery lantern hung above a majestic table long enough to seat two dozen. From skylights the sun’s rays shone down on congealed pools of blood. Smashed glass covered the length of the table, and amongst the ceramic shards lay glistening lumps of flesh. At the far end a mage was sprawled back in his seat, his middle section gutted. On the floor, slumped against a bookcase, was the torso of a small boy, his eyes still staring in terror at whatever had killed him.