Perhaps this is death, he thought. Perhaps I shall haunt this place for a thousand years.
He looked up again. As his senses became sharper, as his mind put itself back together again, his thoughts became less fanciful.
For fifty feet or so below the ruined ledge he’d fallen from, the rock ran straight down, a cliff of granite without break or handhold. Then, as it curved inwards towards the gorge’s floor, it began to choke up with a tangled mess of briars, scrub and hunched trees. Down in the primordial gloom, a mournful swathe of vegetation had taken hold, clinging on grimly in the perpetual twilight. It was dense and damp, overlapping and strangling itself in a blind attempt to claw upwards to the light.
For all its gnarly ugliness, that creeping canopy was what had saved him. As Sevekai gazed upward he could see the path he had taken down – crashing through the branches of a wizened, black-barked shrub before rolling down across a clump of thornweed and into the moss-covered jumble of rocks where he now found himself.
It was still unlikely. He should still have died.
He let his head fall back again. He could feel the heavy burden of unconsciousness creeping up on those parts of him that still gave him any sensation at all. Night would come again soon, and with it the piercing cold. He was alone, forgotten by those he had trekked up into the mountains with. He knew enough of the wilds to know that strange creatures would be quick to sniff out wounded prey in their midst. He was broken, he was frail, he was isolated.
A crooked smile broke out again, marring the severe lines of his thin face. He felt no fear. Part of him wondered whether the plummet had purged fear from him; if so, that would be some liberation.
I will not die in this place, he mouthed silently. He did not say the words to encourage himself; it was just a statement of belief. He knew it, as clearly as he knew that his body would recover and his strength would return. The scions of Naggaroth were made of hard stuff: forged in the ice, sleet and terror of the dark realm. It took a lot to kill one – you had to twist the dagger in deep, turning it tight until the blood ran black.
He had killed so many times, had ended so many lives, and yet Morai-Heg still failed to summon him to her underworld throne for reckoning.
Even as the light overhead died, sending Sevekai back into a dim-lit world of frost and pain, the smile did not leave his face.
I will not die in this place.
Chapter Six
Yethanial looked up from her work, irritated. She had slipped with her last stroke, jabbing the tip of the quill across the vellum. The servant was well aware of his crime, and waited nervously.
‘I told you I was not to be disturbed,’ said Yethanial.
‘Yes, my lady, but he would not accept my word. He is highborn, and refuses to leave.’
Yethanial looked down at her work again. At times she wondered why she cared so much. No one other than her would ever read it.
‘Tell him to wait in the great hall,’ she said. ‘I will see him there.’
The servant bowed, and made to leave Yethanial’s chamber.
‘Wait,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Caradryel, of the House of Reveniol.’
‘I have never heard of it.’
‘From Yvresse, I believe.’
Yethanial shook her head. ‘There are more noble houses in Ulthuan than there are trees in Avelorn. What does that tell us?’
The servant looked uncertain. ‘I do not know, my lady.’
Yethanial shot him a scornful glance. ‘Deliver the message. I will come down when I am ready.’
He was waiting for her in Tor Vael’s great hall. ‘Great’ was somewhat optimistic; the space was modest, capable of holding no more than several dozen guests, bare-walled and with only a few drab hangings to lighten the stonework. The fireplace was empty and had not been used for years. Yethanial did not often entertain guests; as she had often complained to Imladrik, she found their conversation tiresome and their manners swinish.
The present occupant lounged casually in one of the two great chairs set before the granite mantelpiece. His long blond hair was artfully arranged, swept back from a sleek face in what Yethanial supposed was the latest fashion in the cities. He wore a long robe of damask silk, a burgundy red with gold detail. It looked fabulously expensive.
Yethanial walked up to him. He did not rise to greet her.
‘My servants tell me you will not leave,’ she said.
Caradryel raised a thin eyebrow. ‘That is not much of a greeting.’
‘I have important work. State your business.’
He settled into the chair more comfortably. ‘Ah, yes. The scholar-lady. You are spoken well of in Hoeth.’
Yethanial paused. ‘Hoeth? You bring word from the loremasters?’
Caradryel laughed; an easy, untroubled sound. ‘Loremasters? Not my profession, I’m afraid. I only use parchment to light fires.’
Yethanial folded her arms. She knew that she must look impossibly drab next to him in her grey shift and barely-combed hair, and cared nothing for it. ‘Then you are running out of time here.’
‘Something I am sure you must be short of, so I will come to the meat of it.’ He pushed himself up higher in his seat. ‘I was serving in the fleets, sent there by a father who despairs of my ever performing gainful service to the Crown. He is wrong about that, as it turns out, but that is not something you or he need worry about. My time aboard ship turned out to be instructive, though not in the way he hoped for.’
‘I am just burning to know how.’
Caradryel flashed her another smile – the effortless, artful smile of one who has spent his life flitting through the privileged circles of courtly
