Return to Canifis

They rode on as William gazed elsewhere.

“So you and Lady Caroline…” Theodore said.

William lowered his face, and Theodore saw how he had gone red.

So it’s true!

“Say no more, William,” he said with a smile. “I can guess the rest.”

Up ahead, Ruthven was urging them to quicken their pace. It was afternoon, and the land had changed. The verdant green of the woods had given way to harder ground, and before them- rising like two gateposts set for giants-stood the entrance to the Mountain Pass of Silvarea. It was a daunting place, devoid of colour and life.

“Hard to think anyone would fight a war over this, isn’t it?” William said at Theodore’s side as they entered the pass. The pinnacles of the mountain tops were so high that the valley floor was near-permanently in shadow, save at midday when the sun was directly overhead, and that had passed some hours since. So they rode in a grey twilight, the cool air and the echoes of their voices upon the rock faces made Theodore think they were in an otherworldly realm.

“This is the Pass of Silvarea,” Drezel explained, his voice heard by all in the stifling quiet. “Legend tells that a battle was fought here between Morytania and Misthalin in a war that lasted a hundred years. Nothing lives here now, save one old man who scavenges bones for a living. He has been doing that since before I ever came here, the poor mad fool.”

Suddenly Doric gave a shriek. Theodore turned in his saddle to see the dwarf lean precariously to one side as a black shape vanished into the shadows. Castimir was by him in an instant, steadying him before he fell.

“What was that?” Ruthven shouted angrily.

“It was a bat!” Doric replied defensively. “A huge one. Came right for me.”

“For the love of Saradomin,” Ruthven cursed. “If you shout like that in Morytania, then the embassy will be short-lived indeed.”

“Not all creatures are what they seem,” Gar’rth warned. “Especially here, so close to the river.”

Drezel nodded.

“You are correct. And bats perhaps more so than others. Is it not true, Gar’rth, that the more powerful of the vampire race can turn themselves into a bat or a wolf?”

Gar’rth shook his head.

“I do not know. But they are powerful.”

“If they are that powerful, then how come they haven’t crossed the Salve in such a guise?” Doric asked. “Why not fly over?”

“The holy barrier that separates our world from theirs is best viewed as a sphere,” Reldo said. “The river is just one side of it, so you could imagine it towering into the sky and maybe deep beneath the earth.” The young librarian smiled sourly, and looked at Gar’rth. “I have been reading up on all things to do with Morytania. That is my job-to read histories and accounts of your land and try and see if they are true. There is much in the library in Varrock that isn’t, however. Such as that accursed prophecy,” he finished bitterly.

“Papelford believes it,” Ruthven told him. “And the Wyrd seems to, as well.”

Reldo lowered his gaze sullenly and whispered under his breath so quietly that only Theodore, nearby, heard him.

“Papelford’s a selfish old fool.”

Then Kara spoke.

“Tell us of the vampires, Gar’rth. What are they really like?”

“Time is nothing to them,” he replied. “Their plans span human lifetimes, but they become bored…”

“They have no ambitions,” Despaard added when Gar’rth hesitated. “They do not age, so if any were to study magic, for example, and possessed the will to persevere for centuries, then they would, inevitably, become as great as any sorcerer who has ever dwelt on this world. But, in truth, it must be a miserable existence, and they would likely forget all of their education after a century or two.”

“Oh, no. No, I disagree,” Albertus Black said. “Think what I could do, or what Ebenezer could do, if we had centuries to practise and perfect our science, to experiment and theorise and experiment again? Every field of discovery would be laid bare for the good of all peoples.”

“You would lose your ambition my friend,” Ruthven warned bitterly. “It is our mortality that defines us-it gives our human lives meaning and impetus. Not so if centuries become mere weeks or hours. What joy would you take in a summer afternoon or the simple blossoming of a flower? To you, these would pass by without notice. It would be but a pale shadow of your current existence, albeit a far longer one.”

Albertus made to reply, but the look on Ruthven’s face, suddenly angry, seemed to persuade him otherwise. After a moment, Theodore turned to Reldo and Lord William, and when he spoke he did so in an undertone.

“Tell me about Lord Ruthven,” he said. “He mentioned last night that his wife died in agony at the hands of Lord Drakan’s servants. Is that true?”

William nodded quickly.

“It is. The Gaunt Herald, many believe,” he said grimly.

“The Gaunt Herald?” Theodore asked.

“There is a legend,” Reldo continued, “going back centuries, of how a herald of a King of Misthalin displeased his monarch. The man was executed in an offering to Morytania. He was sent across the river to appease Drakan and his ilk. It is said that he appears to offer you your heart’s deSire, in exchange for something monstrous. In many tales that is the child of the victim, or the murder of an innocent…” He looked over his shoulder furtively. “Did you see that painting in the great hall above the fireplace? The one with the woman and child?”

Theodore nodded.

“That was his wife, before her illness, and the baby was Lord Ruthven’s daughter,” Reldo continued. “I have heard some whisper that one winter, many years gone, when Lady Ruthven lay ill, something came to visit him. People say it was the Gaunt Herald, on his horse of bones. He is supposed to be a hairless man of immense height, dressed in a black robe, his skin stretched so tightly he wears a permanent horrible lear. Others say that to see him is death-”

“Hardly very practical for a herald,” William mocked gently.

Reldo ignored him.

“No one knows what he offered Lord Ruthven. Some say it was the crown of Misthalin, or wealth to restore his family’s respect and influence, while others say it was his wife’s life, and no one knows what was asked in exchange. But whatever the truth of it, his wife did die. She died horribly.”

William and Theodore exchanged a look.

“Well?” the nobleman prompted.

“I have read an account of her last day, given by her Ladyship’s maid before she died. She dictated it to Papelford some years ago. Of course, he believed it to be the ravings of a mind strained by age. But nonetheless… the wife’s illness worsened. The account says it was a terrible affliction, and that at the end of it black maggots burst from her body to consume her, as punishment for her husband’s refusal to deal with the Gaunt Herald.”

“And what happened to the child?” Theodore asked.

Reldo gave a mirthless grin.

“I don’t know. Lord Ruthven has no children now. It might be she was the price asked for by the Gaunt Herald, and that the lord refused. You have to understand, Sir Theodore, that every man in the Society of the Owl has lost someone they loved to the lord beyond the river, or that is what palace whispers say. I am not yet a member myself.”

“Do you hope to be, if you have to lose those you love?” the knight asked.

“In my position as librarian and archivist, Sir Theodore, I should be exempt from that entry requirement. I believe Papelford was, years ago, and though we don’t get along he can’t doubt my ability. I can remember every book I have ever read, chapter and verse. It is Saradomin’s blessing.”

“We all have the blessing of the gods upon us, one way or the other,” William said darkly.

“And who has Lord Despaard lost that has turned him into such a man?” Theodore asked. Reldo shook his head.

“He has been doing his job since before I was born, Sir Theodore. I do not know his story.”

A cry went up from the head of the column as they rounded a bend in the pass. It was Drezel’s voice, raised in a cheer.