Dark Realm: Book 5 Circles of Light series (7 page)

‘It holds such pain,
such despair. And Master Pule has had the same dream. He and Nenat
both had it and they think it is a sending rather than a
dream.’

A door opened and
closed and footsteps approached, along with the aroma of tea and
hot bread. Gossamer went along to the sitting room to be greeted by
two of the maids who’d served them yesterday. They were young
girls, with round, open faces and short dark curls. They smiled at
Gossamer and Grent and wished them good day.

‘Master Corman will be
with you very soon,’ one girl said. ‘But please to ring if you need
anything before he gets here.’

‘Can we go outside in a
minute?’ Shea stood in the doorway still in her nightgown, her hair
a snarled nest.

‘Of course you
can.’

Both maids looked
rather puzzled by the question but then pounced on Shea.

‘We’ll get your hair
tidy first though young lady.’

Shea’s protest,
although quite loud, availed her nothing, and eventually only
giggles came from the direction of one of the bathrooms. Grent
raised an eyebrow at Gossamer who ignored him. She was not going to
be held responsible for the child just because she was a
female.

The sun had only just
fully cleared the horizon when Corman joined them. He sat between
two of the three windows in the sitting room, Gossamer noted, out
of the sunlight.

‘You slept well I
trust?’ he asked.

Gossamer didn’t bother
to reply but Grent and Shea spoke at once, saying they had dreamt.
Corman inclined his head as though he’d anticipated the comment. He
questioned Shea first and she related the same dream as Grent had
described earlier. When Shea paused, Grent spoke.

‘I had the same dream
Master Corman. My own master and Nenat have dreamed thus
repeatedly.’

Corman smiled faintly.
‘Was the dream as – vivid shall we say – as previously?’

‘No.’ Shea and Grent
spoke simultaneously and Grent frowned. He hadn’t thought to ask
the girl if she’d had the dream before.

Corman nodded. ‘We have
had to ward this Realm since it began. Many of our people were
severely afflicted, mostly by the sound I believe.’

‘Do you have this dream
Corman?’ Gossamer asked. She was positive Corman was not alive, as
Grent and Shea were alive. She did not sleep and so she did not
dream. How could Corman dream if he too were dead?

Corman stared directly
into Gossamer’s eyes. She realised his eyes were not brown as she’d
thought but the dull gold of old worn coins.

‘No Gossamer Tewk. I do
not dream. But I am aware of the sensations conveyed by so many of
my people here.’

Forestalling further
questions, he rose. ‘A guard has been placed at your disposal,
should you wish to look round the Palace, the grounds, or the town
this morning.’

‘I’d much prefer to
visit my master.’

‘Of course. You
remember the way to the infirmary? A light lunch will be served
here at midday and then the First Daughter has requested your
presence.’

Shea grinned at
Gossamer, running her hand through her cropped hair. ‘My hair’s
shorter than yours now Gossamer.’

Gossamer gave a
grudging smile in return. ‘The maids did a good job, I agree, but
you no longer look much like a Lady of the Imperium.’

‘Good!’

They followed Corman
down the spiral stairs where Grent turned right and hurried along a
broad corridor, presumably to the infirmary. Corman led the other
two on, down more stairs, until they reached a shadowed oval hall.
Gossamer gazed round it, then back up the stairs.

‘We didn’t come this
way yesterday, yet I’m sure the stairs were the same
ones.’

‘There are many stairs
within the Palace,’ was Corman’s only explanation.

Footsteps rang from one
of the many passageways leading from the hall. A young man emerged
from one and strode toward them. He was similarly dressed as the
Shield Master’s men yesterday. He stopped in front of them and
smiled.

‘The Lady Gossamer Tewk
and the Lady Shea.’ Corman performed the introductions. ‘And this
ladies, is Jemin. He is under the Sword Master’s command and will
be your guide this morning. Please excuse me.’

Corman’s tall thin
figure merged into shadows and seemed to vanish. Gossamer noticed,
but Shea didn’t. She was too busy staring at the handsome young
guard. He turned to lead them to a door which gave onto a small
garden, Gossamer bringing up the rear. Shea went from shrub to
shrub, exclaiming over multi coloured blooms each too large for her
to encircle with her arms at full stretch.

‘Jemin is an uncommon
name,’ Gossamer remarked to the back of the guard’s
head.

He turned. ‘So it is,’
he replied easily.

‘Where might such a
name come from?’ she pressed.

Jemin’s smile widened.
‘Why from the Eagle Mountains, Lady Gossamer, as you have so
swiftly surmised.’

Gossamer glanced to
where Shea was perched on the edge of a fountain, peering intently
into the water. Jemin grinned.

‘I gather my niece was
not much doted on by her dear mother.’

Gossamer looked back at
Jemin. There were countless pictures everywhere in Kelshan,
portraying the Imperator Jarvos and the Imperatrix Veranta. The man
standing before her had the same ruddy colouring of Jarvos although
his features were finer, his eyes a greenish hazel rather than
blue. There was not a scrap of similarity with Veranta. Gossamer
was rarely lost for a caustic comment but at this moment she could
think of precisely nothing whatsoever to say. Jemin laughed aloud
and slipped his arm through Gossamer’s, drawing her to the
fountain.

‘I think we will need
most of this morning to explain quite a few things to my niece. And
you can help me.’

Gossamer opened her
mouth to object, then closed it. Words seemed to have utterly
forsaken her.

‘And perhaps you should
explain yourself to her while we’re at it,’ Jemin added, depositing
Gossamer on the gleaming edge of the black stone bowl into which
the fountain cascaded.

Grent found Waxin Pule
on a couch on a balcony at the far end of the infirmary dormitory.
Nenat lay on another couch and they appeared to be arguing. But
both smiled when Grent wished them good day. They looked much
healthier, Grent observed, and his master’s breathing was better
than it had been for years. Pule read his apprentice’s
mind.

‘The healers here have
discovered a very great deal in the field of medicine since my
youth,’ he said. ‘Nenat can’t wait to be let loose in the research
rooms.’

Nenat scowled, out of
habit Grent was fairly sure.

‘Some of the plants
they’ve used in your treatment Waxin Pule would not grow in our
cooler clime.’

Pule snorted. ‘I’ve
seen rare plants cared for, and thrive, in heated glass rooms in
Kelshan,’ he retorted.

‘And how many
travellers cross between Kelshan and the Dark Realm to bring plants
back in the first place you old fool?’

Before his master could
goad Nenat to fury, Grent put in a question.

‘Master Corman told us
that the Realm has been warded to lessen the effects of the
dreaming. How can an entire Realm be protected? The idea implies
such immense power.’ He trailed into silence in the face of Pule’s
apologetic expression. Grent drew a deep breath. ‘So there really
is that much power here?’

‘Indeed there is my
lad.’

‘Then why has this
Realm kept itself so isolated? The healers alone could be of such
benefit to Kelshan’s people.’

Nenat sighed. ‘Dear
Grent. Most people do not think as you do. Always they look for
advantage over each other.’ She leaned her head into the pillows
stacked behind her. ‘Imagine Grent, one healer who could walk right
to Simert’s Gate and lead back a soul, heal the body and restore
that soul. Imagine, a warlord, high merchant, the Imperatrix,
holding that healer to do only their bidding. What would you give
up to such a one if they agreed to allow their healer to cure your
wife, your child? To save them from certain death? No, no, Grent.
Kelshan must not know the secrets of this Realm – assuredly not
with an Imperatrix like Veranta.’

Grent had folded his
gangly height onto a low stool and clasped his arms round his knees
while Nenat spoke.

‘You have trained me in
the Lesser Path, have you not master? But what else have you done
to me?’

Pule looked stricken,
stretched his hand towards Grent, then let it fall back in his lap.
Grent’s expression was determined.

‘I’ve always known
you’ve taught me much more master. All those times I’ve fallen
asleep. When I woke I felt I’d been dreaming – dreaming again. But
what did I learn whilst I slept master?’

‘If we had been able to
remain in Kelshan you would have recalled a few of those lessons
lad. Now, if you choose to stay here, in the Dark Realm, and swear
the oath of service to the Dark, you will remember all I have put
into your mind.’ Pule’s steady gaze told Grent he had but to swear
to the Dark and power hitherto unlooked for, would be
his.

‘I know nothing of the
Dark,’ he said softly. ‘How can I swear to something I know nothing
of?’

‘Speak to Corman my
dear lad. Ask him anything at all and he will answer you
truly.’

‘Gossamer says he’s
dead.’

Pule gave a faint sad
smile. ‘He is.’

Grent nodded and
unwound himself from the stool. ‘Where will I find Corman? I’d like
to speak to him at once, before we see the First
Daughter.’

‘He will probably be in
the library at this hour, the archive annex. Ask anyone you see,
they will direct you to the place.’

Grent regarded his
master gravely. ‘I’ll come back and tell you my
decision.’

Pule returned his
straight look. ‘May the Dark bless you, lad.’

Leaving the infirmary
Grent found an elderly man sweeping the corridor just outside. He
asked for directions to the library. The man nodded and led him
through what felt like leagues of corridors, halls and public
galleries. Turning one corner Grent nearly crashed into the
Palace-Keeper Jenniah. She smiled when he explained his intent, his
erstwhile guide retreating back the way they’d come.

‘Here.’ She took him
only a few more paces to a plain door, opened it and indicated he
should enter.

Grent found himself in
an enormous room, filled with books, scroll cases and what looked
like piles of as yet unsorted books. Several tables were scattered
across the middle of the floor, one of which was occupied by three
women, their heads bent over books and a low murmur of discussion
arising from them. A man appeared beside him and Grent blinked. He
hadn’t heard or seen his approach. It was difficult to guess the
man’s age but Grent would have said he was older rather than
younger than he seemed. He wore a grey shirt of a silky soft
fabric, bordered with black at collar and cuffs. Grey trousers of
the same material were tucked into grey boots.

‘I am the Librarian,
Chindar. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I’m Grent, apprentice
to Master Pule. I er was looking for Corman, the Palace Master.
That is, I was told he would be here.’

Chindar inclined his
head. ‘Indeed he is. This way if you please.’

Chindar’s boots made no
sound on the red stone of the floor but Grent flushed with
embarrassment as he clattered in the Librarian’s wake. A short
passage between towering book stacks brought them to another door.
Chindar opened it and stepped through.

‘A visitor for you
Corman,’ he said, closing the door.

Corman sat in a wing
backed chair beside a large table. Books were piled on every inch
of it except for a tall candle stand to Corman’s left. Grent
glanced quickly round, realising there were no windows, only two
skylights high above which seemed made of opaque rather than
transparent glass. A small fire burned in a hearth behind Corman.
Chindar strolled past Grent to lean against the mantel shelf, his
arms folded loosely across his chest. Corman closed the book he’d
been studying and waved a hand at a chair.

‘Do sit down Grent. I
thought Waxin Pule would lose no time sending you to
me.’

Grent seated himself,
started to speak, then stopped. Corman had sat back in his own
chair and held a fine crystal goblet in his hand, gently swirling
the contents which looked to Grent like the darkest of red wine. He
tried to order his thoughts: one thing at a time. But Gossamer and
Pule had both said this man was dead. Then why, how, could he
drink? Chindar gave a soft chuckle.

‘He wishes to know of
the Dark my friend.’

Corman nodded. ‘I will
tell you of the Dark Grent, but first, humour me if you will. What
do you know, or think you know, of the Dark?’

‘Well, in Kelshan it
meant the God of Death – Simert. It was held to be bad, unclean.
Evil things came of the Dark.’ Grent waved his hands, furious that
he couldn’t explain what he meant more succinctly.