The Pilgrims

28

In his chamber, the Aligned world’s Friend and Lord sat with face and body poised in the exact same way Case had seen when he’d walked invisible into this lonely chamber nearly a week ago.

Again unblinking, Vous’s eyes were so unnaturally bright they almost glowed. On some days, they were bright enough to light dim rooms. This was due in part to the powerful charms about his neck, on his wrists and fingers, many of which would have been quite at home in the sky cavern troves of the dragon-youth. (And some of which may in fact have come from that very place, where no man had set foot. Invia were occasionally careless, now and then stealing away with a treasure, only to be spotted by a quick-witted thief in position to strike, and willing to wear a Mark.)

The magic force in sway, constantly ebbing and pulsing around and through Vous, was another part of what lent his eyes their unnatural gleam, as well as his body its youth, and his mind its insanity. Yet another part was this: whatever beliefs were held by peasantry, by soldiery, and by the castle’s shrinking supply of enemies, the Project was, slowly, achieving its aims. The Arch Mage said changes in Vous would remain slow until they reached a critical point from which things would move fast and unpredictably. Perhaps he would increase in size, becoming huge as Mountain. Or not; Valour, it was said, was only just bigger than a large man. Perhaps he would become ethereal, invisible to all but mage eyes. Or he might assume a form none could guess. But his immortality at least was assured; even Inferno, as close to death as a Great Spirit could be, still writhed beneath the seas of ash above him, and still clutched a link to the world, however tenuous it was.

Vous the man had been but a seed planted by his own hands in historical soil. Now and then he looked back on co-conspirators who never knew they were but tools in his kit, albeit for important ends. He saw the young Arch Mage, not so called back then, just a rogue wizard banished from the schools and shunned for his penchant for forbidden things, lucky not to have been slain in disgrace. But mostly, Vous remembered that young man whose name he still shared, who’d started all this by reading texts in his wealthy father’s collection of the rare and forbidden. For that young man he felt intensely sad nostalgia and love, earnest and tender as any mother’s. He saw the young man going mad with ambition and power too great for any person. And still he embraced the same historic prize that the young man had opened his arms to, whatever the cost to himself or others. Only now, the prize was no longer the ethereal stuff of dreams: it was this throne, this room in the castle, these servants and soldiers, these charms about his neck, fingers and wrists. Just vehicles taking him towards it, perhaps, but all very real …

Things moved apace. He had more people swearing to him, praying to him. His extended life was blending into history’s pages, the lies and the truth of it. The Arch Mage’s preparations — though Vous’s understanding of them was limited — had passed the point of being possible to undo. What could stop him now? The dragon-youth were imprisoned; the Great Spirits would not come near the castle; and the Dragon Itself slept, hidden, unconcerned with the deeds of men.

That unknown critical point may be a day away or it may be another century in coming. Or longer. Vous was impatient for it, afraid of it, and already barely human any more in mind or spirit. He felt now like an unstable force being bottled in his body’s shape. He felt like volatile liquid, stirred or gently shaken by any who came near him. They had better be brave, to shake him hard. He waited, and they all waited, for the great Change, the turning point.

And yet …

Vous’s eyes rested on his wine glass, which was full. His lips were drawn slightly up so the teeth showed. There was a plate of food next to it, just as untouched. Whoever had prepared it knew he would not eat it; he never did, fearing poison, yet he demanded to be served anyway. They theorised that the sight comforted him and brought pleasant memories of good meals, long ago.

Poison would not be likely, with his protective charms, to hurt him much anyway; but to his mind, there was just no knowing. Every so often, a grey-robe was summoned to eat his meals before his furious, unblinking gaze.

If bothered enough by hunger — something becoming rarer with time, though he seldom ate — he would steal down to lower levels of the castle, in disguise, passing the mess halls of lesser staff. He would furiously devour half-eaten plates, swatting at whoever’s food it had been with furious curses, ripping them from their place at the table by the hair, animal screams tearing high-pitched from his throat, thrown mugs shattering on the floor and walls, tables overturned, food smeared across his finely featured cheeks and chin, slumped back against the wall, inconsolably weeping while the mess hall cleared of people quickly and quietly.

Insanity was one price of it all. He knew he was paranoid, and foolish, and yet it struck at his heart no less: that special fear. For while he knew he was foolish, he also knew he was not, for he’d found an insane mind can believe two things or more with complete conviction, even as one disproved the others. The fear was at its worst at night, when all that was still human inside him begged the rest for sleep. It made him jump at movements in the corners of his vision, and cower pitifully.

The theft of his wine, days ago, had had a lasting effect. It had helped to convince the part of his mind which argued against Shadow’s existence that the frightened part feared something real. The viewpoints coalesced on the spectrum of his sanity like a distorted shape gaining focus. Even when that same part began to seek other explanations — that he himself had drunk the wine and forgotten doing it, that his cup had been empty all the while — he knew better, and knew that something, or someone, had really been there, and had really drunk it, as if to mock him.

To Vous’s left, against the wall, on the surface of the tall mirror, some faces slept, while other faces watched him. Their eyes were adoring and concerned. The faces gently bobbed and floated like dead fish on water, five in all; some still vaguely resembled the people they had been in life, though others had, with time, changed to look like little more than skulls. Of the rest of their bodies, only the occasional hand-print on the glass was ever seen, like fingers pressing on the window pane through which the faces gazed.

In their lives, Vous had known them and plotted with them for the throne on which he now sat. Their original plan — his too, for a brief time — had been to share it. Then other ideas had seemed appealing, for thrones aren’t easy to share. One by one he’d killed them, three of the five with his own hands.

In the high upper halls, where the air was thick with power, and in the presence of powerful magic charms, acts like murder sometimes set off strange energies and effects, as did the subsequent thoughts of the murderer reflecting on the deed. Thus had emerged Ghost, his advisor, confidant, his dearest friend, and in some ways his very own unwitting creation, peering back through the mirror at him one day, and assuring him that it — they — felt no ill will, and bore no grudge, and wished only to see him prosper and thrive, he and the Project.

How Vous had screamed and recoiled, at first. How he’d screamed when they — it — followed him through other rooms on window panes, wine glasses and mirrors, for days on end, apologising and pleading, until he got used to their presence enough to listen to them and be convinced they meant him well.

The woman’s face smiled placidly, the hair swaying as though it were immersed in water. Hers had been the first murder; he had strangled her as she took her bath. She’d been his lover at the time, had presumed herself his ‘queen’, had even suggested they plot against the others. He’d been disgusted at how ugly she was during the death. Here, her face was the most whole, the least dead-looking of the group. Another of the faces had begun to resemble a beast, with its two long rows of sharp white teeth and its hard round snout. He forgot what the man had even looked like, whose head he’d gone on smashing into the ground well after the deed was done. The others seemed starved, skull-like, with gloomy round sockets instead of eyes, and sadly set features. They seldom ventured away from this mirror, and longed only to help their Friend and Lord.

Their Friend and Lord had turned his eyes to them. An hour prior, they had told him they had important news, but he had angrily bade them be silent while he explored the thoughts floating through his mind like fast-moving clouds, sometimes assuming shape, sometimes all murk and vagueness, often stormy black. He would not make it clear whether he wished them to speak or not, but Ghost seemed determined to take a risk. If Vous angered, they would probably flee. ‘We have heard strange news,’ they said.

Vous stood, his hand reaching for the wine glass. It was all still there, every drop. He lifted it to his lips, wanting, suddenly, to shock Ghost.

‘Friend and Lord!’ cried four of the five faces in distress, the fifth gaping in mute shock. ‘Friend and Lord!