(Warning: Contains character death, lots of character death, lots of brutal character death. Also, a cliffhanger that I’ve been planning for literal years. As I say, the cliffhanger will be resolved in a day or two)

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Transcribed from the eyewitness notes of Frederick von Coulthard.

Transcriber’s note: Frederick von Coulthard seems to have been writing what he witnessed in real-time as an attempt to make some kind of permanent record. As such, readers of this transcription should bear that in mind when it comes to considering Frederick’s frame of mind. I have transcribed it as close as I could to the original works but there may be words missing and the character of the writer may be obscured.

This is most notable in that the past and past tense of the writing is often confused so I am unable to accurately guess when von Coulthard is describing what he is seeing or what he has seen in the recent past. I am not used to this particular form of shorthand and I understand that von Coulthard had adjusted the language both as a code and as a tool for his use. As such, this is my best attempt at a translation given his past works.

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And after all of that, I was told that I would have to wait.

I am sitting at my makeshift desk, still looking at the piles of leather-bound documents. Sir Trystan has been called away by something, his hand all but on the entrance to the cell. The key is still in the lock. If I could move I would go over there and try and reach through the bars of the door to get the key and make some kind of escape. But not only am I tied to the chair, I only have one working limb.

Now I’m stuck.

I’m reminded that one of my earliest-ever articles was one on the subject of waiting. As a subject, it has come back over and over again in the intervening years and here I am again, waiting. A victim of other people’s efforts. Just waiting for something, or anything to happen.

No longer the master of my own destiny.

I hope, that by the time all of this is said and done, I get to be in control of my own life again, even if it is just for a moment.

So here I am, a crippled scholar with a pen in his hand and a piece of parchment ready to capture all my thoughts. I wish that I could be less bitter about it.

What I want to do, while I am waiting, is think of all of the things of the past. All of the happy memories and those times when Kerrass and I triumphed over impossible odds to seize victory. I want to relive those moments, the moment that I placed the ring on Ariadne’s finger, being wrapped in her arms on a cold winter’s day.

The moment when Kerrass first described himself as my friend. The time when he described me as a fighter capable of killing my enemies.

I remember the time that he went around, making sure that I looked my best when I went to meet Ariadne in the gardens of the palace of stone in Angraal. About how he lent me his best shirt and brushed the dust off it. About how he was the one that spotted what was happening between the two of us and the purse that he won from all of our friends and family as to what had transpired between us in the palace gardens of Toussaint.

I miss Kerrass.

But I can’t do that. I think that if I could just close my eyes, I could picture those scenes as ghosts of memory. I could make them real, putting all the effort into the feeling. The impact as Kerrass and I trained at one campsite or another, the feeling of the fabric of Ariadne’s dress beneath my fingertips.

I can no longer imagine the feel of her skin.

But if I close my eyes to try to go back to any of those memories. The hum of the pending ritual returns, interrupting the concentration that I need to be able to picture those moments and those sensations.

I think I am going to die here.

Of course, I have regrets. There are many. Primarily, I should have trusted the evidence of my own eyes and ears. I should have trusted the opinions of the women in my life that warned me. I should have seen what Sam was doing and I should have prevented it.

I should have seen his distress when we were younger. My brother died at some point early on then. Not when Edmund took him to that much-fabled clearing in the woods. I think it was later but I don’t know when. I want to say that he should have died during the war. That was when he was most… happy? I think that was the right word. That was the moment where he was truest to himself in the face of everything that was coming.

But I should have seen it. I should have been there for him and later, I should have stopped him. Maybe I could have helped him. Not in the treason or the murder or the horrible rituals, but maybe…

I don’t know.

One of the advantages of knowing scholar hand is that I can just let my pen think for me.

I regret that I did not see what was happening with Sam. If I could have corrected that then all of the rest of it could have fallen into place. Father might not have died, Francesca would not have been taken, and all of those people around Oxenfurt would still be alive. The cult in the North would have been destroyed without having to have had Kerrass’ arms broken.

I like to think that I would have still freed sleeping Beauty and lifted the curse of the Skeleton Ship. I like to think that I would have helped the reformation of Knighthood in Toussaint.

I hope that I would have still met Ariadne and fallen in love with her.

But the good I have done seems vastly outweighed by all the horror that has now come to pass and will still happen because I did not see the evil in my brother. The brother that I once said I felt the closest to.

But I do have another major regret.

I should have made love to Ariadne. I should have seen just how much pleasure I could give that woman. Society be damned. I should have shown her just how much I loved her.

Dammit.

Still waiting. I can hear the sounds of footsteps running around in the corridors outside. Whatever is going on, it would seem that the ritual is making people keen.

I am tired. I just want it to be over.

I should work, If I do something then maybe it will make time pass that much easier. There is still a pile of Leather-bound papers that I haven’t touched. There is a part of me that thinks that if I reach for them to get back to work then that will summon Sir Trystan back to me and that I will then be able to get on with… whatever is going to happen. But I am losing my ability to concentrate.

Fuck it.

I remember this volume. This was an extended argument about military dispositions and the planning of the campaign against Velen by the Rebellion. They were going to launch in the middle of winter when nobody expects it. Since that plot had worked by King Radovid then there is a strange obsession with the strategy in Redanian nobles. They don’t realise that because it has been done once, everyone expects it to happen now.

But because it worked for Redania before, everyone thinks it will work again.

It will not. I know the Baroness of Crow’s Perch. One of those young ladies that I was sent to court by my Father but she was in the habit of chasing suitors out at the point of a sword.

I liked her.

She did not like me.

These papers are the record of a discussion they all had about how they were going to control the non-humans in some mythical future Redania. I will say this for Sam’s rebellion, they understand that they will need the non-humans in the future. They understand that fact far more than Radovid did.

What they don’t realise is that the aggressive tariffs and proposed “non-human” taxes will drive the dwarven banks, smiths and merchants away. The Elves haven’t entirely come back yet anyway. The halflings and gnomes are so tied together with the Dwarves that it will make no matter…

Sam told them all to shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down. He told them that they needed to wait until the cake was baked before they started dividing it up.

He was not wrong.

I don’t understand how this pathetic excuse for a rebellion has been allowed to get so far and…

One way or another, I would imagine that Ciri and Lord Voorhis will have opinions on the state of Imperial Intelligence in the North. That thought has been encouraging over time.

Odd how the blacker, more vengeful thoughts and fantasies help me get to sleep more than the happy, nostalgic and erotic thoughts do.

This record is the record of a discussion on how to use vampires in battle. They are arguing that Sam, and therefore the control totem cannot be on all battlefields at once, therefore…

This was actually quite an intelligent debate…

Well, fuck me. Some of these asshats do have the sense that they were born with.

I must have been there. This is my scrawl after all. But I have no memory of this.

How much else have I forgotten?

This record is about the proper governance and the awarding of titles and estates to those who fought on behalf of the rebellion and who deserves the mo…

Well….

This is it.

.

.

One of my friends that served in a military of some kind…. It was almost certainly Rickard although it could have been Sam himself, who once told me that the life of a soldier is a life of being told to hurry up because you’re late, before being told to wait an indefinite amount of time in a very particular spot before someone else would turn up, loudly wonder what you were doing in so ridiculous a place and demanding that you get a fucking move on to follow them.

It turns out that Sam isn’t ready for me yet. Whatever that means.

So I have been propped up at the top of a landing on my writing chair. Apparently, the plan is that they are just going to pick up my writing chair and carry me into the room itself.

That could be fun, the stairs look quite narrow.

I didn’t come down here often when I lived in the castle, either as a child or later when I was taking a break from my journeys. I came down here to play games with one sister or the other and then after we were caught once, we were yelled at and told never to do it again.

I did it once again after that, to prove that my Father did not have that much authority over me, but then I was a good little boy and did as I was told.

I have no memory of this place.

I know the room that Sam described as the ritual site and I remember the huge, cavernous basement that was used to house all of the furniture, feasting tables and chairs, the stuffed animal trophies and things as well as the winter tapestries and the like. Anything that would not be too damaged by being placed into any kind of long-term storage was kept in that room. And I thought that this was the room that Sam meant when he said that it would be the site of the final ritual.

If I push myself, I even remember that there was a flight of stairs that led down into the room itself.

But I don’t remember this place.

That’s not saying a great deal. My memory is not what it was. I can feel my body trying to cannibalise itself. Too much shitty food, poor hygiene and abuse. It’s all catching up to me. I can’t think straight and keeping hold of my memories is difficult.

I do not want to talk about my dreams. I remember horrific things from those dreams. Horrific images and I must tell myself that I would never do what is there.

I have no memory of this place.

When I was down here before with Emma or Francesca, I remember cold stone with light from the torches that the servants lit so that they could get down here. The linen and laundry rooms were down here as well at one point. As well as…

I can’t remember.

But I remember walls of cold stone.

These walls aren’t cold. They are warm to the touch as well as slick with some kind of liquid that feels slimy when I rub my fingertips together. I cannot tell the difference between…

It is not water, it is something else. It seems… creamy almost.

I have no idea.

The walls are not cold stone. They are not shades of grey. They are red. I cannot focus on it too much because it makes me feel sicker than I would otherwise.

The hum is everywhere. It comes in waves and it makes my ears and chest throb. Let alone feeding into the headache that is now so present that I no longer remember a time when I didn’t have a headache.

Throb.

Throb.

I can see something in the stone opposite me.

No… No there is nothing there. I am going mad.

But…

It’s a face. It’s someone’s face.

Dear Flame preserve me and guide me into the warmth of your embrace.

It is Francesca’s face. It is screaming.

There are more faces in the stones around hers.

Flame… What is happening down here?

I can see her hair, I can see her eyes. I look away but it’s drawing me in like some whirlpool in the maelstrom. I…

Someone is coming.

Sir Trystan looks tired and a little wild-eyed. He looked at me with sympathy in his eyes and told me that it would all be over soon. I told him what I had seen in the stone. He did not laugh, wince or express any kind of sympathy. He nodded as though it was just another thing on some list of tasks that needed to be performed. Then he walked up to the stone that I gestured to and he slapped it. I blinked, and the stones were just stones again. Still covered in liquid of some kind. But they are just stone.

I want to believe him. I want to believe that it will all be over soon.

Trystan is staying with me. Standing next to me and talking to me. He has the look of a haunted man. Someone who doesn’t understand how he got to the position that he is now in.

He’s just asked me what I am writing and I’ve told him that I am talking about my general mood and what I am seeing. These are the records that historians will be reading one day, presuming that Sam and his new regime will allow them to be read of course, which is far from certain in my eyes. I have not exactly been positive about the situation.

Of course, Sam tells me that this will make it even more important that what I have to write will be read and taken in. But that is no consolation to me in the here and now of the situation.

In response to his question, which I have not really answered, I asked him if he is regretting the decisions that he has made to get to the position that he is in now.

He spouted a whole bunch of nonsense about how he has always believed in Redania, about how his parents had him wrapped in a swaddling cloth made from the Redanian flag and as a result, he has always dreamed of the red of the Redanians being carried throughout the four corners of the continent.

It was bullshit. He knew it, I knew it and as I looked up at him, into his hollow, tired, bloodshot eyes. I am left wondering if he is aware of just how much of it is bullshit. Men of his type are far too given to self-delusion when it comes to politics. Men like this read the stories about King Radovid the Cruel and insist that we call him Radovid the Stern. They dismiss the stories about how he burned a significant section of his own population, demanded that the women in his life be seen not heard and gave into casual cruelty to have his way and to warn his courtiers that he was not messing around.

They look at all of that and respond with the statement that “he kept the north safe.”

To be clear, he didn’t. Temeria was lost, Kaedwen was divided by the conquering Redanians and Nilfgaardians, Aedirn was a wasteland, Lyria and Rivia were mostly made up of roads for the armies of Nilfgaard to pass through and the following spring would see new Nilfgaardian offensives on two fronts.

I look at Trystan and wonder if he knows this.

I am grateful that he cannot read my shorthand. I wonder how many other good men are in Sam’s ranks, men who have believed what Sam is selling them and will take whatever they are offered.

The poison of patriotism.

Trystan is still going on about all of the things that they are going to do once Redania is retaken. It is a rose-tinted view. In truth, even if Sam wins, there will be blood, lots of blood. I have just tried to tell Trystan this and he winced.

He knows.

“Why do you do it then?” I wondered. “Why be part of this madness?”

He hung his head and told me that he should check on how things are proceeding. Thus giving me his answer.

He is in too deep now and he can't extract himself uninjured.

Unfortunately, this leaves me alone in the corridor outside the site of the ritual and without the grounding influence of Sir Trystam, the walls are beginning to scream again.

I do my best to ignore them and just hope that they are ready for me.

Turns out that they are.

I feel as though I am on my way towards my execution. I have no idea if this is true and although everyone involved is reassuring me that they intend for me to survive and even better than that, that I will be better than I have ever been. It still feels as though my life is going to end when I go through that door. There is going to be a before-the-moment and an after-moment. Freddie von Coulthard before going into that room and Freddie von Coulthard when I come out.

I hope that I am the same. I hope that this is not the end of me in some way.

There has been a moment of comedy. Even in the darkest moments, there is room for the ridiculous and foolish. I am glad that I no longer need to look at what I am writing to make myself known.

Trystan had come back with two critics. There was a brief discussion when they agreed that they could carry me but it would not be done easily. So another two critics were fetched. There seems to be some issue as my standard mode of transport when moving from room to room is by being tied to a hammock-style arrangement and carried accordingly.

But it seems that the critics are resenting going through all of the foolishness of having to untie me, put me in the hammock, fasten that securely, carry the chair and me down into the place where the ritual is being done, before removing me from the hammock and retying me to the chair.

Trystan wanted to know if they can just pick me up in the chair and carry me.

I wondered if all of my problems will be solved if they just drop me down the stairs and I break my neck. For a moment, I allowed the fantasy to blossom in my head. I imagine Sam’s exasperated fury. All of that time that he spent trying to convert me to his way of thinking and get me to do what he wants to do. All of that effort was wasted.

I laughed as I imagine his face and everything the might do if or when that comes to pass.

I could no longer contain my hilarity as the critics start to figure out how to go about picking me up. Shuffling around until they find the balance points.

There is no way that this is going to end well. On the other hand, I can keep writ…

Alas, I survived the effort. My writing fell off the small desk part of the chair and hit the ground. The ink splashed a bit but did little more than splash one of the critics up the arm which caused much swearing. They have put me down so that they can catch their breath and I cannot stop giggling.

Trystan is worried about me. He is wondering about hysteria and wonders if he needs to slap me to get me to calm down and live in the moment. I am not so sure that it would be a terrible idea. And for another moment, I wonder, I pray, that all of this is some kind of hallucination as the result of a poisoning or some blow to the head.

But he doesn’t slap me. He looked a little afraid when I suggested that I do it and I wonder exactly about this man. I looked him as square in the eyes as I can manage and I tell him to run. To not do this. To flee, to find a way out of the castle and head South, North, East or West. Cross the great desert or sail through the maelstrom to get away. But this is only going to end in horror if he stays.

He knows I am right but then he does something odd. He doesn’t look in the direction of the room that he is about to take me into, instead, he looks up and away. He is looking at something but I don’t know what it is.

He is afraid.

“It is too late for that now.” He tells me. “Far too late.”

“You are a devotee of Radovid the Stern,” I said. “He hated magic and monsters. Leaving aside the religious overtones of all of that, why would you go through with something so based on magic and…”

“It is too late for all of that.” He hissed at me, quietly. His eyes glance at the critics nervously but they don’t seem to care. After all, Sam altered them to make perfect soldiers. So of course they don’t give a damn.

“There is no way but forwards,” Trystan told me. “For either of us. We just need to get through this and then…” He shook his head. “We just need to get through this.”

Interesting. Even a man that is often standing behind Sam in the position of a right-hand man, who is presented as the most loyal of Sam’s servants, is not seeing a point beyond what is happening in the ritual chamber.

Interesting.

I smirk as I think of Ariadne.

‘Fascinating’ as she would say.

Flame but I miss her. The real her, not this spectral smoke that drifts around the castle, followed by a group of soldiers. Or the skeleton clothed in sackcloth that hovers over Sam and assists Ella in whatever…

The doors are being opened. It turns out that they are being pulled by two more critics.

I nearly laugh again as I wonder if someone made the doors deliberately stiff and awkward so that they could make some kind of grand, groaning entrance with two, muscle-bound, mostly naked men pushing the doors open.

I am not laughing now.

I do not recognise this room. I have not been here before. I do not know where I am.

It turns out that there are some practicalities to the semi-naked appearance of the critics. When I am carried in and placed in my appointed spot, I can see strange red sparks leaping around in Trystan’s armour. He is greeting his teeth and looking nauseous. He is breathing hard as he leads my party and is gripping his sword tightly.

There are other guards in the room, all of them huge, altered soldiers and they stand impassively. Not many of them. There are other entrances to this room that I do not remember. But I do wonder if, last time I was here, I came into this room through one of those entrances.

It doesn’t matter.

But even those guards look a bit on edge. Far from the passive, statue-like men that normally stand on guard, these men are uncomfortable. They are dancing around, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

As well as the men that opened the door, there are six to eight more critic-style men. They are moving around in the shadows so I can’t really get an adequate count on them.

The skeleton that was once Ariadne is here, she is standing in a corner watching everything impassively. As I always do whenever I see her, I try to look for some shade, some reminder of the woman that I love. Maybe in the depths of her eyes or in her posture, but there is nothing there. She looks more like a sketch of a female, with emaciated musculature now. Drawn and stretched. Too little skin stretched across her frame making her look papery. Her skin is glistening with some liquid.

It is warm here but I do not have any kind of adequate memory of whether or not Ariadne sweats.

Ella is also here. She is standing next to a table that is stacked high with potions and salves and other things that I do not recognise. She is wearing a dress but she is also painfully thin. She is looking around herself with hollow eyes. I wonder if she is high on some of her own concoctions.

She does not seem to have any metal on her body.

That’s it. It’s the bits of metal that I can see that are reflecting the sparks.

The middle of the room, cornering on four pillars which must hold up part of the castle itself, is a large circle. It is white although a trick of the firelight suggests that it might be pinker. I would need to get close and check but I am sure it is pink in shade.

Didn’t Sam once tell me that part of the formula for the paint was his own blood?

I wonder if that would shift the tinting of the paint.

Surrounding the circle are the weapons that have been salvaged from the castle. The weapons of the captives and the dead.

My heart is beating harder. I look for some landmarks. Maybe I can find some clue that Carys, Padraig and Chireadean might have got away. Maybe I can find…

There is Father Gardan’s axe. Distinctive with its shining blades and black haft. The butterfly shape to the blades of the axe-head standing out. The sparks that dance along the surface of the metal… It might be imagination assigning significance to where there is none, but I am sure that I can see the sparks seeming to dance that little bit higher off the metal of the axe. As though there is some kind of dark shield around the weapon that is keeping the sparks away.

I can still see the sparks in the blades though.

Automatically, I am looking around the other piles of metal for any other landmarks that I can recognise. A lot of it is just pointless metal now that I look closely. There is a lot of dinner cutlery, candlesticks and the like. I can see many eating knives.

There are also some things that I cannot see. I cannot see any piles of armour or weapons that will have been salvaged from the castle guard. A dark thought hits me with that observation. How many of the castle guards were in on this entire plan? Therefore, how many of them are still carrying around and using their normal weapons and armour?

There is no way of telling.

Another thought.

I remember while Sam was annihilating Robart, there was a comment that many of those troops that Robart had brought with him had been lacking in even the most basic arms and armaments. So maybe some of that has been put to use for these underequipped soldiers.

There is no way of knowing of course but it makes me feel better.

I find my spear in the pile. It easily stands out because of the length of it, The piles have been thrown around fairly carelessly and the spear’s length means that some of the weapons are stacked on top of it making for a strange kind of hump in the piles.

For a moment, I entertain an elaborate fantasy. A fantasy where I can pull myself free of the bonds that are holding me in the chair. I can pull myself free and get to my spear where I can lay about me. I would be confident in my abilities to take some of these critics with me and then I would be able to cut my way to freedom. The guards would not be expecting me to fight back, they would all be unused to fighting someone with those kinds of spear skills and further to that, Sam has been telling them all for some time that I am beaten.

I tell myself that I freed myself from the clutches of Bishop Sansum and was strong enough to murder the man.

But the cold reality of the situation is quick to reassert itself. With Sansum I was strong, properly fed and rested and was supported by a good and skilled friend.

Now, I am exhausted and have a headache from the fatigue and dehydration as well as the results of my injuries that I have not registered and don’t want to think about. I haven’t eaten properly in God… Flame knows how long and not only that, my feet aren’t working and I only have one hand. I can’t wield a spear one-handed.

For a moment, despair gripped me. Just for a moment as the reality of my situation settled in my gut and I couldn’t do anything. Just when you think that you can’t possibly fall any lower, that’s when despair is at its most insidious and I found myself falling victim to it again.

I remember Kerrass though and looked for his swords.

Kerrass would not want me to despair. He would tell me to play for time.

If you are about to be hanged, then ask for water. Anything can happen when the water is being fetched.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Idly, I wonder aloud if anyone can bring me some water but it would seem that no one is listening to me.

But just the memory of his words fortified me a bit and I promise myself that I will wait for my opportunity and hope that it will arrive.

I found Kerrass’ Steel sword quickly. Longer than the majority of the swords that are surrounding the ritual circle. I know that Kerrass can… could wield it with one hand but I also know that he preferred not to. He would say something like “The right tools for the right job” and declare that the only proper way to wield such a sword and ‘make it sing’ was if you use two hands.

I cannot answer for that. But I can see it there, lying neglectfully and resting on its point.

The silver takes me a little bit longer to find. But there it is, mostly buried. I recognise it because of the pommel piece. Where the carving of the Wave-Serpent is embedded in the pommel.

For some reason, that makes me angrier.

The strange light dances in the metal of all the weapons that I can see. Including mine and Kerrass’ weapons. I hope that there is nothing in the silver blade but there is no way of telling given how buried it is.

I am stopping looking now. It is pointless.

I cannot see my own dagger, nor my boot knife.

I wonder if I will ever be able to have a boot knife again and if I did, would I be able to feel it in the same way that I used to?

I feel sick again.

Dammit. I was going to stop looking at the pile of weapons, but I can’t seem to drag my eyes from that sight.

I look around at the cavernous room for the one person that should be here, and yet, is not.

Sam is not here yet.

There are other people though. Ella, Ariadne… I’ve already written about them. There are the critics as well as a couple of guards. There are also a couple of the men that have been hanging around in Sam’s study since this entire thing started.

They look tense. Shifting their weight from one foot to another, many of them are looking towards the entrance to the rooms.

Heh

They are afraid.

So am I though, so I cannot judge them too harshly for that. I can judge them harshly for everything else though.

Sir Trystan is still near me.

“Tell me,” I begin. “If we are founding a nation of men for the sake of men. Where the Holy Flame will be ascendant and all monsters will flee from the centre of the faith. Where magic will be outlawed and only honest and decent men will be found a place within the walls of this place.”

He looks resigned as I speak.

“Then why are you founding it on an act based on a dark God from another realm, with the aid of a Vampire and an Elf? Where Vampires are your armies and you make monsters of your soldiers? How do you reconcile the two options?” I smiled as sweetly as I could while I spoke.

He shakes his head and goes to stand with his fellows. I wanted to laugh at him. To cast him away with my scorn, but it doesn’t seem to have worked. At best I can chuckle at his plight as well as the plight of the others.

Fuck them. They brought themselves here. No-one else.

Ariadne still looks the same as she ever does. Still, emotionless. She might as well be a Golem or one of those rock elementals.

Ella looks tired. I can sympathise.

Even the threat of pending doom and destruction. The thought of everything that you have worked towards for so long comes crashing down around your head. Even prolonged amounts of that can become boring after a while.

I remember that I used to talk about waiting a lot when I was out on my travels with Kerrass. I remember waiting in the woodland near the Nekker’s nest, waiting to attack the cultists and waiting for Jack to appear so that we could all just get on with things. I remember Kerrass telling me that if there ever came a moment where I was no longer afraid of the waiting or if I ever found myself at a point where I was not… bothered by it. Then that would be the point that I should turn to home.

Well… That point has finally been achieved. I am not afraid of this. I am bored.

It turns out that they brought me down to this place via the back entrance. The entrance that is being used more often is at the other end of the hallway. I have my back to one of the corners of the room, well outside the circle but in a place where I can see everything that is happening in the room. The entrance that I am facing seems to be the busiest of the entrances. As well as the other men that are here to witness whatever it was that we are all here to… you know… witness. There is a constant stream of guards and aides coming in and reporting to those men. If this were a political courtroom, I would assume that something important was going on.

But I’ve never been to a sinister ritual in a castle basement before. It turns out that the cliche of there being torches on the wall and people scurrying about with a low level of tension and fear is entirely grounded in reality. After all, there is a reason that cliches exist and why they were formed in the first place.

I suppose it’s logical. You don’t want to have your sinister ritual out in the open where anyone can walk into it and disrupt it, or have some idea that you are all cads and horrific people before you are ready for them to notice. Keeping it in a basement makes sense. You can keep it from prying eyes and if you are in a basement and it is dark, then you need light. Therefore lots of light so that you can see what you’re doing. Torches are cheap. And that added heat means that everyone is sweating and uncomfortable.

I must be kinder. I used to scoff at people when they would describe these sinister cult gatherings where they would gather in robes and hoods, presumably so that they can obscure their identities from the spies and other people that are in the room, before men perform arcane gestures, sweating profusely. I always used to mock people when they would talk about this ritual in the book that they were reading and actually, it turns out to be fairly accurate when all is said and done.

I wonder what ritual it was that people witnessed to write about these things.

Flame, but I do have a tendency to waffle on don’t I. Have I always been like this? I wonder…

.

If that is actually the case, I wonder how people have put up with me for so long.

Nothing is happening.

Heh

Kerrass used to interrogate people like this. He would put them in a situation so that it was impossible for people to not think about whatever it was that Kerrass wanted them to talk about. Then he would just produce an enhanced amount of quiet. He would stare at them, often vibrating gently until the discomfort in the room would mean that the interrogatee would just start speaking to fill the quiet.

I am doing the same thing now. I am bored, a bit nervous, wanting it all to be over and I can’t stop writing. Often the first thing that pops into my skull.

I wonder what the reader is going to think about all of this. I wonder who they will be and whether they will think of me with sympathy or condemnation.

Both could be true if either side wins.

I have an almost uncontrollable urge to start singing. Some loud and bawdy song about the mating habits of nekkers. There’s this filthy song that Ciri once told me about two dirty nekkers who went on a variety of ribald adventures. I wonder what expression the serious lords would wear if I did that. I wonder if any of the critics know the words. I wonder if I could make Ella laugh.

I hope that Ciri, at least, does not think that I rebelled. I hope for that at least. I miss her.

I miss Kerrass too.

Flame but I wish he was out there somewhere. Out there with a sword in his hands and eyes glittering in the firelight.

There are so many things that I miss and so many things that I feel guilty about.

I would give anything right now. Anything to be on the deck of the Wave-Serpent with Helfdan and the crew, Kerrass complaining, Ciri laughing.

I would even want to be watching Sansum’s compound with Kerrass, the two of us watching it all and giggling at each other and the foolish…

Oh, here we go. Sam has just walked into the room.

He’s the first person I’ve seen that seems relaxed, even happy.

He looks strong and self-contained. Happy even. His eyes seem alive, blue and clear. I had almost feared what would have happened if he had turned up in his guise of withdrawn madness but that doesn’t seem to be the case here. He has walked in and started shaking people by the hand and clapping them on the shoulder.

He is fairly bouncing on his feet with excitement and I wonder if Ella put something in any of the potions that she made him. He looks like a man that has come to the tavern with the sure knowledge that he is getting laid that night.

The mood of the room has lifted. It is as though the sun has come out. Sam is definitely the leader here. The other men here have looked at him and seen that he is confident, relaxed and happy. So therefore they can be the same. Even the critics seem to be standing that little bit easier where they are.

Sam comes over and laughs a bit at something that the others have said.

“Well Freddie,” he says, looking down at me… his eyes dancing. “Today’s the day.”

“The day for what,” I respond, unable to keep the sour note from my voice.

“Today’s the day that I take on the power of The God and begin the process of freeing Redania from the tyrant. Aren’t you happy for me?”

“Ecstatic,” I told him. “I don’t remember your eyes being blue.”

“No,” he agrees. “Ella tells me that it’s one of the side effects of some of the herbs that have been used. Nothing to worry about though.”

“Or so she says,” I mutter.

“Still trying to sow seeds of distrust and paranoia amongst us Freddie?” He shook his head and tutted. “It hasn’t worked yet and it won’t work again today.” He laughs again and reaches forward to clap me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I am going to make you whole again. Both arms, both legs. I’ll even give you a bigger dick for your troubles. That will make Queen Adda love you.”

“First of all.” I tried. “I have it on good record, from a succubus that too big a dick can hurt a person and that as a result, I am pleasingly average…”

“Yes yes, I remember the story,” Sam said, waving his hand in front of his face as if to dismiss a bad smell. “She was lying. Women always lie in this regard. That regard and every regard.”

“What was it that gave you such a poor…” I began but Sam waved me down.

“Freddie, much though I would love to be drawn into another extended debate where I cannot convince you to come to my way of thinking and you can’t convince me to do the same, I have things to do.” He grinned. “Today, everything changes.”

I considered and threw my best barb.

“Why today?” I wondered. “You once told me that the balancing act is to leave it long enough to get as much power as possible but not too long that you would be overwhelmed.”

He nodded as he listened.

“Further, there was the suggestion that you would go early if things came to a point.” I continued. “Have things come to a point Sam? You want me to record things, context is key and I must get the context of the situation.”

He laughed. It felt forced to me.

I joke about my interviewer's instincts occasionally, but they really do exist.

“Don’t worry so much Freddie.” He said. “It is all coming together nicely.”

He’s lying, the answer is just a little bit too glib. I would have leant forwards but that wasn’t quite possible given my current state.

“To answer the question,” he went on. “The balancing act is getting to the tipping point. We are a little early but as you have pointed out, in this case, it is far better to be safe than sorry.”

I nodded. “Is that all?” I wonder.

“Of course, it’s all.” He’s hiding behind some outrage as if he is angry at the probing question. “What else can there be?”

He turns and moves off and I feel myself smile. Something has happened.

Not that it will affect me of course. This is happening now.

Sam is speaking to a couple of the other soldiers including Trystan. Sam is taking his sword belt and tunic off and handing them off to Trystan who is leaning them up against the wall leaving Sam in his shirtsleeves. To be fair, Sam looks to be in the bloom of health. His muscles are well-defined and stand out against his shirt. He looks like the flower of the fighting man that all of the serving maids of the castle used to swoon over when we were younger.

I hated him then and I hate him now. There was a moment there in the middle where I thought we had cared for each other as brothers should, but he has proven that that sentiment was entirely one-sided.

I hope that The God eats him.

A couple of the other Knights have left now. They left the hall with a bit of speed and a spring in their step. They look as though they are hurrying somewhere.

Sam is doing some warm-up exercises. He is stretching, twisting at the waist and pulling his arms around his body.

He gestures and Sir Trystan hands him a long knife that he tucks into the belt that is holding his trousers up. I look for a long moment and am relieved that it is not my old dagger or my boot knife. Neither of my knives have metal that is that black. He is performing some more movements to loosen up.

Then he stops and bounces on his feet a couple of times before falling still.

He is standing completely still, just outside the twin circles of metal and paint. It is hard to see with the shadows that are flickering around the room with the torchlight but he almost looks as though he is praying.

I can feel the hair standing up on my right arm and the back of my neck. I would expect to feel things on the other parts of my body too but they are too numb or in too much pain to…

He has stopped.

He is looking at the floor and I think I can see his eyes moving around. He looks as though he is thinking things. I don’t know, maybe he is making the decision. Maybe it’s just that he’s… thinking it through. Maybe this is the last moment before…

He has just stepped inside the painted circle.

The hum. That ever-present hum. The one that echoes in the depths of my chest and makes my teeth and fingernails itch. It has just vanished.

It is not reassuring. Sam is in the circle now and if I didn’t know better, I would think he is dancing.

He is moving around in circles, examining the paint but every so often he will stop and give this little jig of a dancing step. It is no quickstep that I recognise but it’s as though he is hugging himself in delight.

He is laughing. It started when he got into the circle I think. But that laughter is getting louder and louder until he bends down in the middle of the circle so that his hands are on his knees as he is doubled over laughing. The laughter echoes around the room, real rolling guffaws of laughter that echo off the ceiling and the floor. It reverberates to the same point that the hum did and now it’s as though I can’t get away from it. It’s the laugh of a madman.

It took me a moment to realise that he had stopped and straightened up.

That’s not my brother. My brother died a long time ago. My brother could not have laughed like that. No brother of mine could have laughed like that.

He has just signalled to one of the critics who has left the room through yet another side door. I don’t remember so many side doors in this room when we came here as children. They must have been obscured by all of the furniture.

Sam is making a proper inspection of the paint now. The chore that he must have wanted to start early as he goes around, inspecting the paint carefully.

Flame Sam, how did it come to this? What could have…

I know how he got here. He told me.

I have a feeling that I know what’s going to happen next but I’m not letting myself see it. A lot like the way people ]would always tell me that I knew the solution to the riddle about what had happened to Francesca but I was keeping it from myself. There is a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach and dread that is palpable. But I am not afraid. I know what is coming.

The critic has returned and he has a woman in his hands. She is bound by rope by but the thought of her struggling is useless. She is thin and bedraggled, her hair is filthy and matted and her dress is scuffed and caked in dirt and stains that I do not want to recognise.

It is not until she starts to speak that I recognise her.

Her name is Helene. One of my Mother’s old friends and part of that circle of women that sit around and gossip, most often about each other or the ones of the circle that are not currently present. She was among the youngest of the lot and as a result, was the one that was most often called upon to pour the tea and call the servant over. Then the other women would comment on her technique.

I remember having a crush on her for a brief glorious summer after she had smiled at me and I didn’t know what that meant. The crush had shattered when I had become clumsy under her gaze and she had laughed at my misfortune. I remember her as being beautiful and blonde when I was nine but a little chained to her bitterness.

She is pleading with Sam as the critic pushes her into the circle where Sam catches her.

She is blubbering and whimpering in fear. I cannot hate her for that. I understand where she is coming from. I would be insensible from terror as well. There is no thought behind her eyes and I wonder at the things that she has been through that have got her to that state.

With dread, I watch as Sam catches her before she falls. The critic that deposited her has already turned and headed for the door. Sam lets go of Aunt Helene and she sinks to the floor, her legs unable to support her.

“This is my Aunty Helene.” Sam declares. He draws the long knife that was sheathed at his back. “I once had a crush on her when I was younger.”

I had not known that.

Aunt Helene’s eyes widen as she sees the blade. Some parts of her brain must still have been functioning as she tried to climb to her feet. Sam moves without hurrying, grabs her by the hair and tilts her head back.

“You shouldn’t have laughed when I told you that I loved you,” he told her. Then he plunged the dagger into her neck before ripping it out.

He didn’t cut her throat which would have sent the blood spilling everywhere. It was more efficient than that. From somewhere, I can hear Kerrass or is it, Jerome, telling me that it takes a lot of work to cut someone’s throat.

But Sam has been a soldier, and that knife of his must be razor sharp.

For a moment, Helene cannot believe what is happening. She blinks, and her hand comes to cover the wound as the blood spills out. She opens her mouth, presumably to scream but only blood comes out of the mouth. Then she fell and tries to drag herself to the edge of the circle before her strength gives out and she just collapses.

It does not take her long to die.

To my shame, I do not know the next person. He is thinner and frailer than Aunt Helene although he is younger. He tries to be brave as the critic shoves him into the circle.

Sam is too busy examining the edge of his knife before he nods and decides that it’s still fit for purpose.

The man tries to be brave but he can’t take his eyes off the corpse of the woman at the edge of the circle. The blood has mostly stopped pooling now.

“I don’t know this man,” Sam says. “He looks to be a servant to me.”

The servant opens his mouth to say something but too late. Sam rams the dagger up into the throat. The man’s eyes roll back in his head and he is dead before he hits the ground.

The shock of the entire thing means that my hand is moving of its own accord. I could not stop it even if I want to. Someone needs to record it all so that there is a witness but my mind isn’t working.

Another woman that I don’t know is brought in. I want to say that I know her. For some reason, the name Anya comes to mind. Sam didn’t know her either and she dies similarly to the servant man.

“This is not a ritual,” I mutter before I gain the strength to shout it. “THIS IS NOT A RITUAL.” I bellow as hard as I can towards where Trystan is watching, sweating profusely. “THIS IS A MASS SACRIFICE.” I try and break free of my bonds then. Cripple I might be but maybe…

It is useless. There is not enough strength in me, nor do I have enough working limbs to be able to break free.

“How…” I began, my mouth wordlessly working as I watch another man that I don’t know by the name of Nordaz, having his throat ripped out.

“How can you want Redania to be reborn on the back of so awful… so unholy an act?”

I demanded. I was trying to reach Trystan who did not react to my words. Instead, Sam replied.

“I keep telling you, Freddie.” He told me. “There is no coin I will not spend. There is no blood that I will not spill and there is no life I will not sacrifice if it means that Redania will be reborn.”

The next victim is a soldier, I can still see the musculature standing out on his arms and legs. He is all but naked. He is also, barely alive. He looks as though he has been badly beaten with his face caved in. He is forced to wait for a long moment while Sam cleans and then re-sharpens his blade with a whetstone that he takes from a pouch before killing the soldier.

The soldier’s name was Addy.

Flame but I can’t keep watching this. I try, I really do. But I am losing track.

The next was a maid in the castle that I vaguely remember as being close to Emma. I even think Kerrass might have slept with her at one point. Her name was Magnie. She came in hissing and spitting like a cat. She fought, and even when she was slapped into a state of insensibility by one of the critics, she came back out hitting, clawing, scratching and biting. She even tried to fight when she was bleeding from the horrific wounds on her neck.

After that came another guard named Tantus and an old woman named Olive.

I try to fight as well but I am too weak. It is an excuse in my own ears and I can hear it, but it is true. I strained and strained until I came close to blacking out from the pain and the effort. All that it earned me was a bucket of water to the face to shock me back into a state of wakefulness. The water smelt faintly of urine. It would be more shocking to me if this hadn’t happened to me before.

I have stopped struggling now. I owe these people. I cannot fight, so the least I can do is remember them.

I owe these people a duty to witness their passing.

I missed a couple while blacking out and struggling though and I count the number of bodies that are in the circle, just in time to see Sam push one of them aside with his boot. The circle is quite large though and I wonder how long it will be before the bodies start spilling over the edge.

There are twelve bodies now and Sam is having to pause to hone his knife. He is having to work at it now. I want to make a joke, my mind is retreating from what I am seeing. I don’t want to stay here and watch what is happening. I don’t want to watch it. I want to make jokes in the face of it but I can’t.

I have to watch it.

I will not cheapen this. I won’t. I will bear witness.

But I am too weak. Every time, Sam’s blade flashes and I realise that I have flinched away from what is happening.

The next man was a noble at the feast. Another one of the local nobles, or the local merchants that Emma was buttoning up. He tries to meet his death with dignity. He was halfway through telling Sam that he always thought that Sam was the weakest of the Coulthard children.

Sam retorted with a comment about Edmund before tearing the man’s throat out.

His name was Sir Mortimer. He was a big man once although his skin hung loosely off his frame after the time spent in captivity. He faced his death bravely. I will remember that.

A woman named Rose dies. I didn’t know her.

Another woman, a girl really, dies. Her name was Daisy. She worked in the kitchen. I remember Cook realising that she had just gone the wrong side of the line while teasing her and making the girl cry.

Oh no.

It had to happen sooner or later. Someone I know more intimately.

Captain Froggart, formerly the Captain of the Castle guard has just been led into the room. Like the other prisoners, he looks tired and thin and he has aged in the last few months.

He is wearing his drill master’s mask. Coldly looking around him. I see a couple of the critics flinch back from him and although Captain Froggart…

I will still give him his rank.

Although Captain Froggart and I were never close, I am proud of the old man. He throws the hands of the guards from his shoulders and demands to be untied. He is staring at Sam as he demands it.

“Do you think I will die easy boy?” He says. “Untie my hands and I will meet my fate standing up.”

Sam chuckles and bows to his former weapons master before gesturing to one of the guards who cut Captain Froggart’s bonds. The old man is weak. I know him well enough to know that he is weak and is hiding behind his military bravado. He is staggering a little, trembling more and he sways gently.

That old man is extraordinary. He closed his eyes for a moment and the swaying stopped. When his eyes opened, they were the eyes of the old military campaigner that he was. He marched precisely into the circle and looked around.

He sees me.

It took him a moment to recognise me and…

Oh, Flame.

“I should have been kinder to you Lord Frederick.” He tells me. “I should have seen you for the man you had inside you and I should have helped you find him the sooner.”

I could have withstood hate I think but sympathy…?

Flame curse me… A historian needs objectivity and distance but the tears won’t…

He has taken some deep breaths before turning to Sam.

“You, I should have been harder on. I should have seen you for the worst of your family rather than thinking of you as my own son.” He told him before spitting at my brother’s feet. Then he closed his eyes and turned his back on the thing that used to be my brother.

“Do as you will.” He said.

Sam kicked him in the back of his knees so that he fell before dragging his kife across the old knight's throat. I could see that Froggart is outraged at the indignity and that he wanted to die on his feet.

He gets one leg under him before a strange look of confusion crosses his face. It happens to all people that have their throat slit. Shani would know why. Something about blood getting into the brain.

He is still kicking now, some part of him still trying to climb to his feet. His legs still moving.

Sam is watching me. His face is hard. It takes me a lot to look up at his face. It takes me nearly everything that I have.

Then he nods.

“Fuck you.” I snarl as best as I can.

“There is worse to come,” Sam says quietly.

“You show me this.” I swallow. “You show me this and expect me to come over to your side?” I try and make it a defiant snarl but there is too much pain.

“Fuck you,” I say again. I suspect that it’s more whimper than anything else.

Sam shakes his head. He looks disappointed.

I am glad to disappoint him.

Sir Trystan is still here. He is mopping his brow.

“Is this what you are following Trystan?” I demand. “What kind of knight are you?”

Ella is also still here. Her eyes are hollow.

Ariadne has not moved.

The next person to die is one of the bards that had come to play at my wedding. Someone smashed his hands, the same as they had smashed my hands. He looks resigned and tells Sam to get on with it. His name was Niewen.

Captain Froggart’s woman was next. Her name was Margaret. She came in with the same level of defiance as her husband did, but when she Captain Froggart’s body she screamed and hurled herself forward. Sam had to trip her and hold her down so that he could cut her throat. She died trying to crawl towards her man.

At least they are together now, wherever they are.

This is killing me. Not the infection in my limbs. Not the sickness that comes from dirty water and bad food. This is killing me.

A guard named Mikael dies. A servant named Fomlin.

I missed one as I have to turn my head to puke.

I have to remind myself to write. I have to remind myself to record this. I want to turn away but many of these people have no one else at the moment of their deaths. They deserve to be witnessed.

I dread the next person that comes through the door.

I am not sure I can make any more jokes.

Other people are coming through. Some messengers are talking to Sam between the murders. He doesn’t seem to have any problems stepping in and out of the circles. Others are people that are carrying messages to Sir Trystan who reads the pieces of paper that he is being offered before nodding and saying something to the messenger who promptly leaves. Occasionally, he will write something on…

Fuck

An Elf has entered. He looked at Sam and called him a “Fucking D’Hoine filth.”

I called out to him. I tried to tell him that I was sorry. That I should have never invited them and that it was all my fault.

He looked at me for a long moment.

“We believed you.” He told me. We didn’t have time to exchange any more as Sam cut his throat after that. He died staring his hatred into me.

Damn, you Sam. You made a liar out of me. I told them that they would be safe.

Flame curse me for a fool.

Fucking hell.

They’ve just brought the Duchess of Angraal in. She was at the castle for the feast and…

She’s trying to talk to Ariadne. Ariadne can’t move.

.

Another good woman dead.

I tried to tell her. I tried to tell her that this was the same control that Dorme had tried to exert over Ariadne. That Ariadne was a slave and had no control over anything. The Duchess heard me I think. She was trying to be kind to Ariadne and tell her that it wasn’t her fault. That she had loved her and they had been good friends.

She didn’t even acknowledge me as she died. She just reached towards her friend.

It would seem that the rumour of what is happening here is getting back to the cages now. There is a shift in the people that are coming.

The next man is a soldier. He fights every step of the way but he looks Sam dead in the face and tells him that he would rather die than serve a man like him anyway.

Sam just shrugged and tore a brave man’s throat out.

His name was Telwyn.

The next is also a soldier.

I have started to shout to the victims now. I tell them that it’s alright. I tell them that I am here and that I am recording their names. That whatever happens, they will be remembered. I tell them that the Flame will guide them home and that they do not need to be afraid.

Some are hearing me, some are not.

The next man’s name is Fealas. I suspect something Elven in his blood. He tried to thank me for my words.

The next man was an old man. A retiree of some kind. I don’t know why he was at the castle as I do not recognise him. He was old and he tottered into the room. He cackled at Sam and the people around them, telling them that their souls were damned and that their punishments would be swift.

He looked Sam in the eye and told him to cut deep and that he had better kill him with the first strike.

His name was Petrus.

The former Duke of Angraal is brought to join his wife. He must have been kept separate from her because he howled in grief when he saw her body. He hurled himself against the guards with the maddened strength of the grieving. I tried to call him but all that did was call his wrath down upon me. He told me a lot. He told me that he wished that he had never seen me. He told me that he would rather that I had died of the poison. That I should have left that trollop of a Vampire locked up in the tower that they had banished her to. He told me that he would rather I had died there and that she was still in prison or, alternatively, that she was being tormented by men with knives.

I doubt he knew that Ariadne was even in the room.

Sam is having to hold him to kill him. He is not finding it easy and instead of the normal slit throat, Sam is having to kill him by repeatedly driving the blade into the Duke’s back.

I am trying not to take his words to heart. I am trying to accept those words as the words of a man who knows that he’s about to die. They are words of pain, fear and anger but despite knowing all of that. The words are cutting deep. I tell him I am sorry but he dies, cursing the day that he met me and started to associate with me and my family.

I do not blame him. All I can hope is that his children, who should still be in Angraal, will remain safe moving forward.

I cannot stop the tears. They say that people are at their best at the extreme ending of things. Jack once tried to tell me that the purest of fears is the moment when you realise that you are dying. That moment, where you don’t know whether to fight to live or fight to die all the quickest.

I think he was wrong. These people are incredible.

Oh Mother no.

.

My mother died.

My mother is dead.

Flame curse us all to hell.

I mean…

My mother died.

There is no…

My mother died.

She was just brought in and now she’s dead.

There have been times when I have not liked my Mother. Even times when I actively hated my Mother. There is an argument to be said that she deserves some of the blame for the horror that has beset our family. But…

My mother died.

She was brought in and she actually apologised. She told Sam that she was sorry. She told him that he deserved a better mother than him and if only she had seen what had been happening then she would have stopped it. She tried to embrace him.

She actually tried to embrace him. She told him that she forgives him for her death. How can she do that? How can she forgive the man that is doing all of this? You can’t avoid the blood or the bodies that are on the floor. You can’t not see that. But she is forgiving him.

Then she turned to me. She didn’t say much. She just looked at me.

“I’m so so sorry Freddie.” She said. “You deserved better than this.”

She knelt and put her hands together in an attitude of prayer and then Sam killed her.

My mother died.

My mother died and my brother killed her.

I swear Mother, that if I have any say in this matter, I will find someone to give you holy orders in death. I swear it. I swear it by…

Flame dammit. My mother is dead.

It…

It took me a while to come back to myself. The imprinted image of my mother kneeling, her tattered dress around her and her hands clasped together. Her blood had exploded out and run down the front of her dress ruining it. She fought to stay on her knees, her mouth still praying to the Eternal Flame as she died. And when she died, her body just toppled over, one of her legs folding underneath her.

Sam was looking down at me, the blood of our mother still dripping from his knife.

“Are you ready to continue?” He asks.

I didn’t answer him. I don’t know what I could have said, but he found an answer there anyway.

He nodded and turned away and gestured for the guard to bring in the next victim.

My mother died.

Sam is turning back towards me.

“You are writing a record of what you see and hear yes?” He demands of me. He is frowning at something, he looks annoyed.

It takes me a moment or two to swallow the huge lump in my throat. It is honestly surprising to me that the lump isn’t visible to him.

In the end, I just nod.

“DON’T NOD.” He yells. There is an odd echo to his voice.

I answer immediately as though something has crawled down my throat… No, some great hand has reached down my throat and pulled the answer from my gut.

“Yes, I am,” I tell him.

He nods and nearly turns away from me. His next victim, I have no idea who it is, is waiting in the background now. I am determined to keep Sam talking as long as possible. Playing for time, then maybe something will happen to save that girl’s life.

Or maybe that is the real cruelty.

Sam turns back to me.

“I don’t understand your displeasure.” There are strange harmonics in his voice. I am certain I am not imagining them.

“Our Mother is responsible for all of this.” He gestures around himself, the blood dripping from his blade. “If she had just owned up to what was happening in Kalayn lands the moment that she was given a confessor, then none of this would have happened. She is at fault here… Surely you can see that?”

I found that I wanted to agree with him. I fought it for a while but then I couldn’t any more.

“It is true,” the words spill out of my mouth without me thinking about it. Like water, overflowing from a cup. I clear my throat. “It is true that if she had explained all of this to a confessor then this would have been averted.” I felt control reenter me and I was able to control what I was saying again.

“It is true that she bears responsibility while it is also true that if she had told her confessor, then there is a good chance that neither you nor I would have been born,” I told him. “But she is not the culprit here. You did this Sam. You. You are trying to deflect blame away from yourself when it is you that is wielding the blade. It is you that started all of this foolishness. At any point, you could have stopped by just deciding to set the blade aside. By just deciding not to do these things.”

“Be silent.” He hisses. Those strange melodics tickle at the back of my mind again.

This time I find that I can fight it.

“The blame lies with you, Sam. All of it.”

Sam glares at me and pain rips through my head. I cannot contain a groan for long.

“Our Mother was weak,” Sam tells me. “She could have done something but she chose not to out of fear and weakness. The same weakness runs through your blood as well I see.” He considered me for a moment. “Maybe I have misjudged…” He shook his head, looking a little surprised at his own words. “No, you are the best hope for the future of my plans. You will carry the North forwards into glory.”

He looked down at his hands and nodded.

“I can feel it, Freddie. I am already stronger. I am already faster and fitter. I can feel my mind starting to work in ways that it hasn’t for years, if ever. I can feel that energy coursing through me.”