Scrivener's Tale Read online

  Let go, Gabe, she whispered. Let go of Paris … of the world.

  And he did, but as he did so his hand felt something familiar. The quill. It was all he had to anchor him and he wrapped his fingers around it, feeling its softness and its solidity. It helped him to focus on one final notion: that to let go fully would be dangerous. It was something in his subconscious, perhaps something from his training as a psychologist. Clutching the quill, in the midst of his confusion and dislocation, Gabe felt a part of him hold back as he began to fall into whatever new dreamscape Angelina was forming for him.

  It was the kernel of strength and self-possession and even self-awareness that had brought him through his darkest hours; it was the part of him that urged him to breathe, forced him to wake up and accept the day and to find a way through each new one until the pain of his failure and loss of his family began to diminish into the background of his life. He knew from his counselling work that many people didn’t have this special private place in the core of their being to draw upon, to rely upon. It couldn’t be taught. Couldn’t be bought. Couldn’t be acquired. It simply had to be discovered within. He believed everyone possessed this special ‘force’ and he had encouraged his patients to find it, hunt it down. Many had succeeded, with his help.

  He was sure his elders didn’t think he possessed any deep strength; they’d viewed him as a coward for running away from confronting the reality of his life, offering wisdom that, in his grief, he couldn’t stomach hearing.

  The accident was a random event. It’s not your fault. Except it was.

  You can’t be in control all the time. You can. He shouldn’t have looked away from the road.

  You aren’t the enemy. He felt like the enemy.

  You can’t save everyone. You’re a psychologist. Not a god.

  Or his personal favourite. You have to move on.

  He knew they meant well; knew these soothing words worked for some people, but to him they were sickening placations.

  And so now as he travelled toward his haven, wondering whether he was dead or alive, he held back the one last part of him that he exercised total control over and no-one else could touch … not even Angelina, with her erotic, irresistible manner. He closed himself around the kernel of his most private self — his soul, as he liked to think of it. He rolled it up tightly, every bit of himself that was truly him — character traits, personality, ideas, memories — and wrapped them in a separate sphere that was no longer connected to his body but hovering invisible within it, and he clung to this sphere … this new embodiment of himself. It was his only link with the reality he knew. The cathedral was a dream. He couldn’t be convinced otherwise but, oh, how he wanted it to be real … to live it, touch it, smell its scented candles, taste on the back of his palate the fragrance of herbs crushed underfoot.

  The scape before him was shaping into brilliant colour; he could hear muffled sounds beginning to sharpen, a faint aroma begin to reach him. This had not happened before. The cathedral began to soar before him in all its imposing, soft grey beauty, every aspect of it coming into sharper focus.

  He hadn’t been aware of himself as flesh since Angelina kissed him but now he was aware of her body more than his own. And she was pulling away from him in a slow, gentle slump. Her once beautiful dark, smoky greyish eyes gave him a listless gaze in return and he could see the life leaching from them. Her grip around his waist was loosening but all the while the wetness that he recalled feeling, was increasing. It was not his desire … it wasn’t even hers.

  It was blood.

  He could see its red brightness, gleaming and glistening. He’d been stabbed! Angelina’s blade. She’d stabbed him and his hands were covered in his life’s blood. As he thought this, he became acutely aware of Angelina’s naked body becoming entirely limp as it fell away from him. There was a soft smile playing about her generous lips that had been kissing him so deeply just moments earlier.

  And he realised with deeper shock that it was Angelina who was dead. And the knife was in her belly … it was her bright blood, her life taken.

  He had killed her, just as she’d asked.

  He looked around, desperate for help, the name of Reynard springing to his lips, but he was no longer in his apartment and he was no longer near his cathedral. He was nowhere at all that he recognised.

  Reynard burst through the door of Gabe’s apartment with an anxious-looking concierge following hot on his heels and making loud protests. The small man fell instantly silent when they saw what was lying on the bed.

  The ghastly scene and the iron smell of freshly spilled blood combined to make the concierge gag and he rushed for Gabe’s kitchen sink, retching helplessly before raising his head, his complexion ashen and expression filled with horror.

  ‘This is monstrous,’ he wailed. ‘I’m an old man, I shouldn’t have to —’

  ‘Go downstairs and call the police now!’ Reynard ordered him.

  The man obeyed blindly, staggering out of the apartment.

  Reynard approached the body of Angelina, her belly ripped open like a macabre smile. Blue-grey ropy intestines spilled in a glistening, gelatinous mess from the gash of the fleshy grin. Her eyes were open, distant, as though looking a long way past the horizon, but they were seeing nothing. He knew that. This was simply the corpse that some poor bastard would have to clean up and he could imagine all the forensics and pathology tests that would now follow. Few questions would be answered. And he would be here for none of it.

  Next to her lay the blood-spattered weapon that had inflicted the damage. He nodded, turned away and walked to the French windows. As he moved, his attention was caught and held by the slender box with its navy satin that he’d given Gabe on his birthday. It was open and empty. The quill was removed; he cast a searing gaze around the apartment, but it was nowhere to be seen. Reynard sighed with a relief that felt more like deep sorrow and returned to what he’d set out to do. He pulled the two windows toward him, opening them, and stepped out onto the balcony.

  ‘It is done,’ he said to the now silent waiting raven.

  It watched him, head cocked to one side as Reynard clambered with difficulty up onto the balcony railings and teetered. Reynard gave a last look at the bird that had been his co-conspirator and nodded with a sad smile. ‘Our part is over. I have achieved what I must. I cannot be taken alive by the police. You know what to do.’

  The bird leapt at its companion and shoved at his head hard with its feet. It didn’t take any more than that to send Monsieur Reynard toppling from the penthouse floor of the apartment building, muttering a strange incantation as he fell to his death.

  The raven blinked at the lifeless shape crumpled below, sad for Reynard, who had been brave to the last, before it leapt into the air, flapping its strong wings and lifting itself high above Gabe’s apartment to fly with purpose toward Notre Dame Cathedral.

  It ascended higher still above the sweeping gothic architecture until it was a dark speck in an overcast sky. Only the keenest of sights would have seen the raven bank slightly and pause for a heartbeat before it began a fast descent, shaping itself into an arrow as though shot from a master bowman. Its target was clear, its aim was perfect. Moments later the bird impaled itself soundlessly on the sharp piece of wood it had previously marked out for this very task.

  The raven’s last thought, cast toward another world, in the hope that his king would hear him, was a plea to remember the being that was Ravan as a brave member of his flock. And as the bird closed its eyes, its immortal spirit transcended the broken, pierced body of the host and fled.

  EIGHT

  As Reynard was banging in an apartment door in Paris, Fynch and Cassien had already been travelling north in Morgravia for six hours at a steady clip. Fynch had been determined not to wear out the animals with hard riding, and as much as Cassien urged him to push the beasts to a gallop, Fynch refused.

  ‘If we cover eighteen miles today, it will be a good journey and our mounts will h
ave time to rest, to eat and be fresh for tomorrow.’

  ‘Where will we reach by this evening?’

  ‘By sundown we should crest Vincen’s Saddle.’ At Cassien’s frown Fynch gestured with his hands toward the rise ahead. ‘The path leads us up this hill and then another soon after, and from afar the landscape looks like a horse’s saddle.’

  ‘From a dragon’s back one could be fanciful about any landscape,’ Cassien suggested in a wry tone.

  Fynch smiled and it was full of affection. ‘Indeed.’ But that was all. Cassien decided he would not pry further.

  ‘And Vincen?’ he said instead.

  ‘No idea.’ They both grinned. ‘There’s an excuse for an inn in the village below. The village is called, rather fancifully I might add, Partridge Vale, and the inn is even more deluded, boasting the name of the Queen’s Rest, but the ale is honest and the food passable.’

  ‘I don’t eat much,’ Cassien admitted. ‘I can go without if necessary.’

  ‘Nothing doing. Just don’t eat the pigeon pie if it’s on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Fynch said archly. He slid off his horse and walked it to the stream they’d been following for several miles. Cassien followed suit. It was a lonely road and they’d met few other travellers, certainly none in the last few hours.

  He leaned against his horse as it quenched its thirst, and became aware of the new weaponry perched around his body. It was hard to credit how comfortable it felt — as though it had always been there or had been moulded to him. He blinked, realising another aspect about the weapons as he watched Fynch dig out an apple and feed it to his mount.

  ‘Have you noticed that Wevyr’s weapons make no noise?’

  ‘I wondered how long that would take,’ Fynch replied absently.

  ‘How can metal at my side make no noise?’

  ‘Ask Wevyr.’

  ‘Doesn’t it intrigue you?’

  Fynch changed subjects. ‘You’ll need to push yourself to mix with people. Stoneheart is like a small city within the larger one of Pearlis. The palace is going to challenge you in ways you can’t imagine and one of the most simple and yet perhaps most daunting hurdles will be feeling comfortable around the endless movement. Stoneheart never sleeps. There are always people working.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  ‘You have to do more than manage, son. I am asking you to infiltrate the life of a queen. It is a tricky task and the politics surrounding her will make you dizzy.’

  Cassien nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter about me. What matters is her life. I’m being sent in to keep her safe.’

  ‘Well said.’

  ‘Tell me, what does the queen think of this notion of a complete stranger walking into her life and shadowing her every move?’

  ‘I don’t think she minds the notion yet.’

  ‘Yet?’

  Fynch shrugged. ‘I don’t think she minds just yet because she doesn’t know you’re coming,’ he explained.

  ‘Shar’s wrath!’

  The older man scratched genially at the close beard that made him look as though he’d been dusted with flour. ‘Florentyna will see reason, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Reason,’ Cassien murmured, shaking his head. ‘What reason should I go with? A demon is coming to kill you, your majesty, and this man you see before you who, by the way, has just walked out of the woods, is here to keep you safe?’

  ‘Sarcasm is a cheap form of attack, Cassien, or didn’t Brother Josse teach you that?’ Fynch chided. ‘You must trust me. I think Florentyna does. I just don’t think most of the people around her do.’

  ‘Who else trusts you? Knows about this?’

  ‘Two others.’

  ‘And you trust them?’

  He nodded and his expression became as sombre as Cassien could remember. ‘We should keep riding.’ He led his horse back to the road and Cassien followed, easily catching the apple that Fynch tossed over his shoulder for Cassien’s horse.

  ‘I have entrusted only one man with the information you now know. He is from the court, one of the most senior noblemen and a close advisor to the queen. He was, to some extent, like a father to her after she lost her own.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I’ll likely need some allies in the palace.’

  ‘He’s not in the palace, I’m afraid … not any longer.’

  ‘So how does he help us?’

  ‘He helps by observing someone.’

  ‘Master Fynch,’ Cassien said, pausing, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to be clearer. You were specific when you wanted me to leave the forest with you and yet you fall back on being vague now.’

  Fynch stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. But what I have to say you will find hard to believe.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said, a tone of scepticism creeping into his voice. He heard it and tempered it, schooling his tone to be respectful. ‘Given what I’ve already had to accept perhaps you will allow me to be the best judge of what I find credible.’

  Fynch nodded and began slowly. ‘Someone I think of as my friend and who was a close counsel to the queen, though astonished by my story, agreed to humour me and introduce me to the sovereign so I could bring her my warnings directly. The queen, though attentive, was dissuaded by her sister, Darcelle, who wields considerable influence.’

  Cassien’s gaze narrowed. ‘Hmm, that does change the complexion of this situation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did Florentyna go along with her sister’s decision if she trusts you?’

  ‘Believing she trusts me is probably stretching the truth,’ Fynch admitted. When Cassien’s mouth tightened, he hurried on. ‘But she listened without scorn. However, without the close counsel of my ally in her presence — his name was Chancellor Reynard by the way — she was persuaded by the others. Her sister believes I am some sort of mad old fellow who has been chewing the dreamleaf or is in his cups.’ Fynch stopped his horse and whispered something to it before he climbed into the saddle.

  Quietly, Cassien followed suit.

  ‘You see, Cassien, Queen Florentyna has no idea who I am. She likes me, humours me, perhaps because I’m old, more likely as someone who once knew her father.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told her the truth?’

  ‘You admit the only reason you believe me, trust me, is because of a wolf and because I know about your magical roaming. Do you really think a modern young queen — an empress, in fact — such as Florentyna is going to believe in magic?’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  ‘I didn’t dare.’

  ‘Well, surely —’

  ‘And Chancellor Reynard assured me it would be dangerous to permit such talk around the palace. Too many ears. It plays right into the hands of Cyricus. We don’t know who our enemies are.’

  ‘Why did Reynard trust you, then?’

  Fynch shrugged. ‘He comes from a line of courtiers — advisors to the Crown. His great-grandfather — a Briavellian, I think — was an old, old friend of King Valor, Valentyna’s father. So Empress Valentyna brought him to her court and enjoyed his counsel. The Reynards have enjoyed royal favour ever since … I suppose I was able to tell him things about his grandfather, for I remember his grandfather as a very young lad and I was not much older than him. I had followed Wyl Thirsk to the Briavellian palace … I won’t go into it.

  ‘Anyway, we met briefly and talked as lads do. I needed help at the time and all I had as currency was a small token my mother had given me. She had carved her and my initials into a disc of wood that she’d polished and varnished.’ He shrugged at Cassien. ‘We were very poor, you understand. I showed Reynard’s great-grandfather that disc and he liked it. So I snapped it in half and gave him one of the halves, which contained my initial.’

  ‘What did you exchange?’ Cassien asked.

  Fynch smiled. ‘Food for my companion — a dog called Knave. Anyway, I was relating this story to Reynard in the hope that
it would convince him that I knew his family. But he did better than I’d hoped. Reynard produced the half-disc. It was a valueless trinket that had been passed down but he had always loved it.’ Again Fynch shrugged. ‘I could have wept to see it again after so many decades. I was able to show him my half, which joined with his perfectly, and told him the initial he held was mine. He was astonished, shaken, of course. He didn’t really want to believe it but could not discredit it. He began to listen and the more I told him, the more he wanted to assist but was almost embarrassed that he believed me. You can understand how far-fetched it all sounds?’

  Cassien nodded. If not for Romaine …

  Fynch continued. ‘Despite logic, he followed his instincts and agreed to throw in his lot with me. He said he’d help but we could not press her majesty again. He offered to attempt the journey of shifting worlds that I spoke of.’ Fynch lifted a sad shoulder. ‘I don’t think he ever believed it would work.’

  ‘How do you know it has worked?’

  Fynch’s expression clouded. ‘I don’t but I have faith that the imminent sign — the confirmation — will come.’

  ‘How are you so sure that this demon exists? That he’s coming?’

  ‘Because of Aphra. She can’t hide herself as well as Cyricus. She leaves a trace.’

  ‘Magical, you mean?’

  ‘Curiously visceral, actually, except it comes to me through ethereal means. Does that make sense to you?

  Cassien gave an uncertain shrug. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She became suddenly active recently.’

  ‘Here?’

  Fynch looked pained. ‘No, she’s still in another world.’

  Cassien took a slow breath but kept his expression even. ‘And you know this because …?’

  ‘I could smell violets on the wind. There are no violets in the Wild to yield such perfume.’

  Cassien’s lips thinned with growing consternation. ‘And that’s her trace?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fynch said softly. ‘Breath of violets.’