Dark Realm: Book 5 Circles of Light series (2 page)

He allowed himself to
give a slight smile in return. ‘I merely repeat what I have read in
the few and ancient tales of those lands, my lady.’

Veranta’s smile
vanished. She got to her feet and walked to the window. ‘This Dark
Goddess. Is she Death do you think – as Simert was said to be God
of Death in these lands in our sad and ignorant past?’ She noted
Pule didn’t hesitate before shaking his head.

‘No my lady, I don’t
believe that to be the case. But as you’ve pointed out, all we know
of the southern region is but tall tales.’

‘Why should such tales
be told in the first place Pule?’

‘Perhaps the land
itself is dangerous.’ He shrugged. ‘Earthquakes, storms, deserts.
We know the weather systems change, can be treacherous, on this
side of the Barrier Range. Who knows what inhospitable climate may
pertain on the other?’

Veranta considered his
words as she sat at her desk again. ‘That’s as maybe Pule, but I
intend to find out.’ She handed him the paper she’d prepared. ‘An
expeditionary force will leave for the Dark Realm before the next
full moon. See that the Captain Overseer gets this at
once.’

Waxin Pule struggled to
his feet, taking the paper from the Imperatrix. He bowed and took
his leave. He limped breathlessly through the upper corridors of
the Citadel and by great good fortune met the Captain Overseer in
the visitors’ waiting chamber. He handed him the redeployment list,
unable to speak, simply pointing at the signature at the bottom of
the sheet. Without waiting for the Captain Overseer’s reaction,
Pule hurried as best he could to his quarters in the north
tower.

The door opened as he
reached it and he stumbled across the threshold. His apprentice was
already holding a bowl of steeping herbs, the steam filling the air
with a sharp medicinal tang.

‘Grent,’ Pule
gasped.

‘Hush master. Sit and
breathe.’ Grent helped Pule into a high-backed chair and knelt
beside him, the bowl held so Pule could inhale the
fumes.

A short time passed
during which Pule’s noisy rapid breathing gradually eased into a
slower calmer rhythm. His rigid shoulders relaxed back against the
chair and Grent fetched a bowl of tea laced with strong spirits.
Pule sipped and nodded.

‘Thank you Grent.’ He
closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I will need to see Nenat as soon as
possible.’

‘Shall I seek her out
master? I’ve not seen her for some while.’ Grent knew more of his
master’s work than anyone else in the Citadel or the City below,
but even he had not been told how certain of Pule’s more unusual
associates might be contacted. Pule smiled.

‘She will be here
shortly Grent.’ His smile strengthened. ‘Many saw me on my way back
here and understand I will have urgent need of a herb
woman.’

A fresh log blazed up
in the hearth beside Pule’s chair and Grent stepped back brushing
splinters from his hands. ‘Is there anything I should be getting on
with master? You should rest this morning.’

‘No my dear boy. You
carry on with your own studies. I must think. But perhaps you could
check there are the makings of a suitable meal for Nenat – she’ll
be here by midday.’

Grent replenished
Pule’s bowl and left the tea pot by the fire within his master’s
reach. He went quietly through to one of the back rooms, leaving
the door slightly ajar in case he was needed.

Bells rang throughout
the Citadel to mark midday and Grent heard the latch snick at the
outer door. He went through to the sitting room to find Nenat
already sitting across from Waxin Pule, sorting through packets of
herbs.

‘Hello Grent,’ she
smiled.

Grent smiled back, he
liked Nenat. ‘There’s a stew just about ready, and fresh bread and
cheese.’

Nenat’s smile became
radiant. ‘You are a good lad Grent. I’m ravenous. Travelling does
that to me.’

Grent pulled a table
closer to the fire and set out plates and dishes.

‘She’s sending what she
likes to call an expeditionary force south,’ Waxin said
quietly.

Nenat’s hands stilled
for a moment and she raised her face to stare at him. ‘How far
south?’

Waxin grimaced. ‘Into
the Dark Realm itself.’

Grent placed a large
pot on the table and glanced at his master.

‘Shall I leave you . .’
he began.

‘No, no. I’ve delayed
telling you many things for far too long. Sit.’

Nenat’s silvery hair
shone in the sunlight fingering down from the room’s solitary high
window. She heaped a plate with stew and tore some bread from a
loaf.

‘Have you had sendings
Waxin?’ she asked round her first mouthful.

Waxin helped himself to
a small amount of food. ‘I have. Becoming more frequent and also -
. I’m unable to tell if it’s a dream or a true sending.’

Nenat gave him a sharp
look. ‘And you Grent, any odd dreams of late?’

Grent swallowed a
too-hot spoonful of stew and took a deep breath to quench the
scorching down his insides. ‘I have had the same dream recently,
several nights in succession now.’

‘And the dream?’ Nenat
encouraged.

‘Well, it starts with a
sort of blurry coldness, like a blizzard. Then a circular space
clears like a tunnel.’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Then suddenly
two people are lying on the floor in front of me. A girl or small
woman, and a man. An armsman by his clothes. The first time, I
thought they were dead, but I gradually came to feel they were
asleep. Oh and there was a cat lying between them.’ He blushed.
‘Just a strange dream surely?’

Nenat looked at Waxin.
He sighed, putting his virtually untouched plate back on the table.
‘That is my dream too.’

Nenat helped herself to
more food. ‘I confess to some surprise Grent, that you have seen
this “dream” so clearly.’

‘But who are those
people? I don’t recognise them at all.’ Grent paused. ‘There is a
noise too, a screaming howl as of great anguish – rage or grief –
or pain. I wake shivering every time.’

Nenat finished her
second helping of stew. ‘It isn’t a dream my dears, but neither is
it a sending as we understand such things.’ She moved the fingers
of her left hand in a rapid pattern and Grent recognised that she
had effectively enclosed them in a magical soundproof bubble. ‘It
is from one of the places Between. The few others I have spoken to
believe this to be so. Only one of those dared suggest an exact
location: the Splintered Kingdom.’

Grent closed his mouth
with a snap. This was the stuff of myth, of tales told and sung in
taverns amidst drunken laughter. Waxin Pule bowed his
head.

‘I was reaching toward
that same conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Who spoke this
aloud?’

‘Anfled.’ Nenat’s tone
was flat.

Pule’s pale face
whitened further but Grent did not recognise the name.

‘Who is Anfled?’ he
asked.

Nenat’s face suddenly
revealed her immense age. ‘Anfled of the Ravens dear. The Hag of
Dark.’

Grent propped an elbow
on the table and leaned his head into his hand. These were the two
people he loved and respected more than any others, yet they were
suddenly talking nonsense. Nenat spoke as though this Anfled, Hag
of Dark, was real, existed at this moment. Indeed spoke as though
they had actually met. If that was so then who, or what, was Nenat
herself? Before he could blurt any questions, both Nenat and Waxin
raised their heads, listening. Nenat’s fingers
flickered.

‘I will explain how you
should use these different herbs Grent dear, and in which order to
administer them. Your master’s lungs will certainly notice an
improvement. I’ll bring a better supply when I visit tomorrow.’
Nenat smiled at both men and headed for the door. ‘I may be a
little earlier but you are not to exert yourself in any way Master
Pule, nor to leave your rooms.’

She closed the door
gently behind her. They heard her voice outside briefly then a
knock rapped on the door panel. Grent scrambled to his feet and
opened to an Imperium messenger who looked distinctly
uncomfortable.

‘I came to summon
Advisor Pule to attend the Imperatrix, but the herb woman says he
is unfit.’ The messenger was peering over Grent’s shoulder as he
spoke. Grent turned and saw Waxin Pule lying back in his chair,
eyes half closed and seeming near death.

‘Oh. Yes. Well, you can
see for yourself sir, my master is most unwell. I do not think I
could even manage to rouse him just now. The herb woman
administered strong medicines and she was firm about him resting at
least until she returns tomorrow.’ Grent turned back to the
messenger. ‘Please convey my master’s deepest apologies for not
attending the Imperatrix.’ He spread his hands
helplessly.

The messenger nodded.
‘He looks bad indeed. I will tell the Lady myself.’ He moved away
from the door, his short cape flaring in a brief cloud of green,
then his boot heels tapped a retreat down the corridor.

Grent shut the door,
slid a bolt across and went back to the fireside.

‘Well done lad.’
Waxin’s blue eyes twinkled despite his pallor. ‘You sounded
suitably concerned and even a little simple minded. I’ve told you
often enough that simple mindedness is a very useful attitude in a
great many situations.’

‘But why should she
choose to send for you right now? You attended her this
morning.’

‘We have long suspected
that someone within the Citadel, and in her service, can sense the
use of magic. When Nenat used the spell of concealment over our
conversation just now, that someone picked it up
immediately.’

Waxin handed the tea
pot to Grent in the hope of another brew. When Grent brought the
fresh tea to his master he was worried.

‘Master, if Nenat’s
spell was marked so quickly, doesn’t that mean - ?’

Waxin sipped his tea.
‘Just so lad. It means a very powerful mage has decided to throw in
his, or her, lot with our Veranta. And yet, over the past several
years since we first began to suspect this, none of us has
discovered the faintest hint as to his identity. Which is why I
thought of Gossamer Tewk.’

It was Grent’s turn to
pale at that name. Waxin grinned wickedly.

‘Hmm, she rather
bothered you, didn’t she lad? But you see she’s dead. She won’t be
identifiable to our hidden mage, no body heat to track – so I think
we should suggest a little amusement for her.’

‘I haven’t seen her for
the last two years or so. Perhaps she’s – gone.’

Waxin chuckled. ‘Sorry
lad, she is still here. I’ve asked a few people and old Molesiffer
Brak told me she gave him some very useful information only last
month. He made a tidy profit over that fish drying business. So off
you go, she has a house in the Artisan Quarter, it shouldn’t be too
hard to find her.’

Grent looked deeply
unhappy. ‘And if I find her? Shall I bring her back with
me?’

‘Just tell her I need
an urgent word. She’ll come.’

Grent made his way from
the tower down through the several floors of the Citadel, across
the busy courtyards to one of the outer gates. He stared down into
the City then to his right towards the harbour thronged with boats
of all sizes and types. He sighed and joined the jostling crowds
hurrying downhill. He sidestepped to avoid a baker’s laden cart and
cannoned into a slender woman. He began to apologise but then just
stopped and stared. The woman’s haughty frown changed to a look of
recognition.

‘Grunt?’ she asked.
‘You work for Master Pule don’t you? How nice to bump into you like
this.’

‘Grent,’ said Grent.
‘Not Grunt.’ He was remembering just why he’d found this woman so
irritating, apart from the fact that she was dead.

‘Oh silly me, Grent, of
course. Well, nice to see you, I must dash.’

‘No!’ Grent caught her
arm and repressed a shudder at the coolness of her skin. ‘My master
sent me. He wishes to see you as soon as possible.’

Gossamer Tewk studied
the gangling young man: older than he appeared actually, but quite
a simple example of the species. ‘I can come with you now if you
like.’ She tucked her hand under his arm. ‘I’m here to find Seola
really. Have you seen her?’

Ignoring her question
and trying very hard to hide his repugnance at her touch, Grent
escorted Gossamer Tewk to the rooms of his master, Waxin
Pule.

Chapter
Two

Gossamer made her way
home that evening, deep in thought. She was much relieved to be
assured by Master Pule that the “dreams” she’d had recently were in
fact true sendings. He had been surprised though and told her he
would have to consider more fully what they might mean.

Grent and Nenat would
be keeping watch for Seola’s appearance in the Citadel. Gossamer
realised no one had openly mentioned that Seola claimed to be from
the Dark Realm and she wondered if the others knew. Or had Seola
been teasing when she’d told Gossamer where she was
from?