Covered mostly in salt and birdlime, the coastal village of Rye was worse than repugnant. Christopher honestly couldn’t think of a word awful enough to describe it. An hour’s ride south and west of Castle Dulgath, its shacks sat on a beach and looked like wreckage washed up in a storm. Their front yards were tiny slivers of seaweed-strewn sand covered by upturned hulls of little battered boats. Buoys, ratty nets, and snapped branches were heaped in piles. Leather-skinned villagers squatted over smoking campfires, dressed in little more than loincloths. Christopher had asked Knox to find someone unassociated with Castle Dulgath to do the deed but hadn’t expected the necessity to visit another world in the process.
Christopher Fawkes couldn’t claim to be well traveled. While he’d been to the major cities of Maranon, that wouldn’t be considered worldly for a baron. Then again, Christopher Fawkes wasn’t a baron. His father held that title. Christopher was instead the worthless fourth son, but like any contemptible child of a middling noble, he used his father’s title to open doors. Most people never questioned him. This never pleased his father, but then nothing did — at least nothing Christopher ever did. His mother agreed with her husband, as a smart wife of a despot should. Christopher’s brothers and sisters — of which he had six — followed suit in their opinions of him. This didn’t surprise Christopher; siblings in a noble household were, by nature, mortal enemies.
The only surprising hostility Christopher faced had come from his previous horse. The mare had tried to bite him every chance she got. He’d named the horse Melanie de Burke after a woman at court; she was a gorgeous and expensive purebred Renallian. He’d once loved Melanie de Burke — the woman — but he was certain she still didn’t know he existed. Melanie de Burke — the horse and biter — had been dead three years. He’d killed her — the horse, that is — and that singular act had ruined his life. As he thought about it, had he killed Melanie de Burke — the woman — he might have fared better. Such was the insanity of life in Maranon, and the reason he so appreciated Immaculate.
How far have my standards fallen when my love and loyalty are won by an animal that simply doesn’t bite me?
“Are you certain you found someone suitable here?” Christopher asked, getting down from the wagon and scanning the desolate encampment.
This is how the natives in the dark recesses of Calis live. At least he imagined so. He hadn’t been there, either.
“You’ll see,” Knox said with a grin.
Christopher didn’t like the man’s smile, something sinister in it. It had that I-know-something-you-don’t-know look about it. Noting the nick still in the leather collar of Knox’s gambeson, Christopher had to wonder if the sheriff might be plotting a little payback.
Lord Fawkes helped Rissa Lyn down from the wagon and shook his head, pretending that she could understand the million-and-one things that the shake was meant to convey. She didn’t, of course.
How can she?
Her home was likely someplace quite like this, a backwater assortment of listing hovels whose inhabitants shared their beds with their goats and pigs to save their livestock from wolf packs and big cats. She did look adequately apprehensive of the strange world Knox had brought them to, but then she’d looked like that from the start. Handmaidens didn’t normally go off on adventures with lords and provincial sheriffs, and that expression of wide-eyed shock, held in check by a surprisingly resolute determination, was still on her face.
Christopher followed Knox to the beach, and his feet sank into the hot sand just inches from where the surf smoothed everything out with its constant pawing. A wave rushed in, reached out, then receded before him, leaving a residue of white bubbles and green tubular plants. He looked at the waves and at the gray line of the horizon.
This is the end of the world.
Well, not quite. The Isle of Neil could be seen as a line of darkness on the water, as well as the Point of Mann, the strait known to eat ships. Beyond them was the Westerlins, but no civilization. Not a single city, town, hamlet, or village lay to the west of where he stood. This was the end of the known world.
So what is out there?
He’d heard the same stories everyone had about the Westerlins, rumored to be populated by an odd assortment of deformed people. One race supposedly had one large foot — so big that if it rained they could lie on their backs and shelter in the shadow of it. There were also monstrous single-breasted women, and men with the heads of dogs, and others with no heads at all, their faces in their chests. These things, along with dragons, giants, trolls, and ogres, were said to roam that distant shore, where the sun went to sleep each night. In that darkness, no other light would be seen; there was no sound of music or lilt of laughter.
Staring across those waves, Christopher felt a terrible unease, a sense of impending doom, a desire to retreat from the edge of a cliff or the rim of a fire.
What kind of people could live here so close to oblivion?
“That’s him; that’s Shervin Gerami,” Knox said, pointing at a man on the far side of the boats. The man sat cross-legged, fussing with the strands of a net before a particularly strange hut fashioned out of pale twigs. He was bald, and the afternoon sun glinted off his head with a brilliant shine.
Knox lumbered over, leaving Rissa Lyn and Christopher to follow. Sand got into the ankles of Christopher’s shoes, making him grimace. He could feel it grind painfully against his feet.
My shoes will be ruined before this is done . . . and it’s not like I have another pair. Being not-a-baron pays not-a-lot.
Passing through the cluster of shanties, Christopher was greeted by the powerful smell of fish and wood smoke. A pair of women with bare shoulders, wearing what looked to be just a wrapping of homespun cloth chopped stalks of grass with cleavers against a split log. Their faces held hopeless eyes born from a life of endless drudgery. Another man, dried up and dark as a raisin, sat listlessly against a shack, his bare feet outstretched. He smoked a clay pipe and watched them. There were others, but Christopher chose not to look. He felt uncomfortable here in this place of sunbaked people who slept in skeleton homes built on the edge of eternity. Knox showed no sign of concern, no hesitancy as he trudged through the sand toward the man with the shining head.
“Shervin!” Knox called over the roar of the surf.
The bald man looked up. He had keen eyes, clear and focused, and he fixed them on each member of the Dulgath party. He appeared to make a judgment, and then resumed work on the net.
“How do you know this man?” Christopher asked quietly as they approached.
“I’m sheriff,” Knox replied. “I make rounds. Shervin was accused of murder. I judged him innocent.”
“You don’t have that authority.”
Knox laughed.
For a man such as Knox to laugh at him was more than disrespectful. According to Payne, who got his information from Bishop Parnell, Knox had spent years in the military. He’d served Duke Ethelred of Warric and had seen combat in many conflicts, including the famed Battle of Vilan Hills. Payne had expressed a suspicion that Knox was wanted for murder, which was the real reason he was in Maranon. Once more, Christopher thought about the nick he’d made in the sheriff’s collar and wondered if that had been such a good idea after all.
“Out here, I act with the authority of the earl — excuse me — countess. The Dulgaths can’t be everywhere, and most of these people can’t afford to make a pilgrimage to the castle to plead petty grievances or ask for restitution. That’s my job. I act in their stead. I do the real work, the unpleasant tasks.”
Knox stopped before the bald man, looking down at him.
“Who-low Meestah Knock-Knock,” Shervin greeted him. “You still want me ta keel sum’tin fur you? I tell you a’fore, da Blade of ant-trickery do not slay any but da Old Ones.”
“I remember,” Knox said. “That’s why I brought this woman . . . to convince you.”
Shervin lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun and examined Rissa Lyn. No fingernails were on that hand. Christopher searched out the man’s other fist, still clutching a wad of net, and found it also lacked nails. In their place were smooth divots.
Rissa Lyn shrank from Gerami’s studious glare but didn’t retreat. Her breaths were short and shallow, and she looked as if she might be sick. Still, the woman was proving to be quite brave.
“Con-fence da Blade? How you gonna do dat?”
“Is that our language he’s speaking?” Christopher asked Knox.
Knox frowned as the fingernail-less man tilted his head to look at Christopher. “Who dis fancy man?”
“This is —”
“Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, jumping in. “A famous thief.”
Shervin chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Christopher asked hotly.
“Meestah Fancy Shoes couldn’t steal nothin’. And any good thief can’t be famous.”
Knox snapped, “Well he is, and if I were you I’d watch my tongue.”
“Can’t see me own tongue.” Shervin laughed — a deep, wicked sound — then demonstrated by sticking it out and looking down. “Not as long as some people’s, I s’pose.”
“This can’t be the best you can find,” Christopher said.
“Trust me on this,” Knox replied.
But Christopher didn’t trust him. He’d learned not to trust anyone, least of all men like Knox.
“Meestah Melborn think da Blade cannot keel? Me show Meestah Fancy Shoes.” Shervin stood up and threw open the curtain that served as a door to his hut. “You look.”
Christopher didn’t want to. He didn’t want to take one step toward, much less enter, that hut with walls woven from branches of bleached driftwood like a bony nest of some giant bird. An easy impression to reach, as several large gulls circled and many actual bones surrounded the shack. The skull of a great horned beast hung from a nearby post along with smaller skulls of squirrels or perhaps rats.
“Here,” Shervin said, entering and waving for Christopher to follow. “Come see.”
Knox shooed him forward, and Christopher felt compelled to follow or be seen as weak or frightened. He was scared — a little. Christopher didn’t think anyone could be at ease in the presence of such a strange fellow as Shervin, who when standing was bigger than expected. Tall and lean, the man had muscles that stood out too much and looked the way Christopher imagined a shaved cat might. Only then did he realize . . . the man has no hair.
Shervin wasn’t just bald, but hairless. No beard, no mustache, not a strand on his arms or legs. Not even his armpit showed a single thread of hair. There were, however, tattoos. Shervin had plenty of them. They weren’t depictions of anything recognizable, just designs and symbols wrapping his arms and thighs.
Christopher gave in, and, with a hand on his sword, followed Shervin inside. He’d skewer the shaved cat if he tried anything.
The place didn’t smell, which surprised Christopher; he expected it to reek with the stench of dead things. Instead, the interior was clean. Oddly, it smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. An extinct fire pit in its center was bordered by a neat bed of rocks. The rest of the space was filled with baskets of varying heights and widths, but none of this was what Shervin wanted him to see. The bald, hairless man with the tattoos directed Christopher’s attention to the walls, where a variety of tools hung: an ax, a massive scythe, two primitive spears, and a wooden club with a big knob on the end.
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“Dees are what I do me keeling wit.”
“What killing?”
“I hunt and slay da Old Ones.” He pushed out the curtain again, stepped outside, grabbed one of the rat or chipmunk skulls, and held it up. “Dees what’s left after I chopping ’em.” He made a cutting motion across his neck. Then he turned and glared again at Rissa Lyn. “But da Blade only keel da Old Ones — not men, not weemeen.”
“What’s an Old One?” Christopher asked, escaping the hut and feeling better for it.
“Day be da leftovers of da ancient world, driven to da corners and da edges where to hide in shadows from da light of men.”
Christopher gave up trying to gain sense from Shervin and turned to Knox. “What are we talking about here?”
The sheriff shrugged absently. “Ghosts and ghouls.”
Shervin was nodding. “And leshies, goulgans, and manes.” He pointed to the surf. “And selkies. Lots of bulbane selkies. But not weemeen. Da Blade is not a murderer.”
“She’s not a woman.” Rissa Lyn spoke up then. Her voice shook a bit but was loud and forceful.
“What den?”
“Lady Dulgath is a demon.”
Shervin put the little skull back on the post, then puckered up his lips and began to shift them from side to side as he focused on Rissa Lyn. The only thing Christopher could think was that da Blade was contemplating how she might taste slow-roasted with a pinch of salt.
Rissa Lyn appeared to be thinking along the same lines as she wrapped her arms around herself, sending worrisome glances at Knox and Christopher.
Still sucking on his lips, Shervin began to nod. “Yes,” he muttered.
“Yes, what?” Rissa Lyn asked, both defiant and concerned.
“Dis man here” — Shervin pointed at Christopher — “Meestah Fancy Shoes is a dry well. Meestah Knock-Knock.” He pointed at the sheriff. “He a bucket ah blood. But you . . .” He shook his head again. “You are clear water from da mountain stream.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rissa Lyn asked, her face perplexed as she struggled to determine if she should be flattered or insulted.
“Means I will come and see dis demon. If an Old One, I will keel it.”
“How can you tell?” Christopher asked. He looked pointedly at Knox. “He’s not going to try to speak to Lady Dulgath, is he?”
Shervin grinned, showing clean white teeth. “Are you an Old One?”
“What?” Christopher scowled at him.
“Are you an Old One?”
“No.”
“How you know you not?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Same way — see?”
“See what? No, I don’t see anything.”
“Dis is because you a dry well. Empty buckets cannot see nothing outside demselves.” Shervin went into his stick house and returned with an oversized scythe.
“Won’t need that,” Knox said. “I have a better weapon.”
“Is no better weapon,” Shervin declared.
“Let me show you.”
Together the four tramped back through the village, past the two women and the pipe-smoking man. The women didn’t look up this time, but the pipe man watched with interest. They returned to the wagon, where Knox threw off the tarp and revealed the arbalest. With the bright coastal sun shining off the steel fixtures, the big crossbow appeared to be from another world.
Shervin’s eyes widened at the sight. “A bow!”
“You’ve seen one before?” Knox asked.
Shervin shook his head. “But you are right, dis is a better weapon. Bows are sacred tings.”
“This one is downright divine,” Knox said. “Let’s get a target up and you’ll see.”
Along with the arbalest, they had loaded a stuffed dummy and a pine post on a stand to hang it from. A long length of thin rope was cut to the required distance. Knox asked Christopher to carry the post while he grabbed the dummy and rope — giving one end to Rissa Lyn, who stayed by the wagon. Together they walked one hundred yards.
“You brought us all this way for a lunatic?” Christopher asked as they marched across rock and through tufts of grass, the seaside wind slapping their backs.
“Absolutely,” Knox replied. “He’s perfect.”
“I don’t see how. The man is ignorant and insane.”
“Exactly. Who else do you think we can get to murder the countess? Any sensible person would know it’s suicide. Besides, what do you think will happen after she’s dead? If Shervin Gerami tries pointing at us, who will believe a man who says he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon?”
“And a man who calls me Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, nodding. “All right, I can see the logic, but he’s so odd. Do you think he can do it?”
“A woodchuck can use one of these. It’s accurate to three hundred yards. He’s shooting less than half that.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Wells dug it out of the castle’s attic.”
“Castle Dulgath has an attic?”
“Just what Wells called it. He knows every inch of that place. Once upon a time, Dulgath was a real castle and the walls were lined with arbalests. He picked out the best one for us. Although we’re thin on quarrels, so I hope Shervin doesn’t miss, or you and I will be searching these rocks for hours. It shoots a long way.”
They reached the end of the rope and set up the dummy, a servant’s tunic stuffed with fistfuls of straw. They tied a rope under the arms and hung the mannequin from the pine post, then started back.
When they returned to the wagon, Knox took down the arbalest and set it up. The weapon could be held in a man’s arms but was too unwieldy to use that way. Instead, it came equipped with front legs that held the nose up. The rear had a block that supported the butt as well. Using wooden shims, the archer could adjust the vertical angle in advance, aim it, and then let go. So long as the target wasn’t moving — and Lady Dulgath ought to be sitting — all Shervin had to do was squeeze the trigger lever. The arbalest also had a built-in hand crank lying across its top that drew the string back. Given that the bow’s prod was made of steel and had a wingspan of five feet, no one was going to pull it back with bare fingers and a foot in a nose stirrup.
Peering across at the target, Christopher felt a stab of worry. The dummy that was nearly the height of a man looked to be the size of a wineglass.
After a quick demonstration and a few dry launches, during which Shervin didn’t say a word, Knox loaded a quarrel. The things couldn’t be called arrows. They were heavy missiles thicker than a man’s thumb, with massive iron tips. Shervin crouched, then lay flat on his stomach, looking down the length of the stock. He lifted the butt and moved it.
“No!” Knox shouted over the wind. “I’ve already aimed it.”
“Aimed wrong.” Shervin held his hand up, pointing at the sky. “Wind.”
Knox looked angry, then hesitated as he considered the word. “If you miss, you’ll have to go fetch.”
Shervin didn’t miss. The quarrel traveled faster than the eye could see, and it seemed the moment Christopher heard the snap of the string a magnificent burst of straw flew up. A loud crack cut against the blow of the wind. A moment later he couldn’t see anything — not the dummy, not even the post it hung on.
Together with Knox, Christopher ran out to the target. The pine post had been split in half and fallen over. The dummy didn’t exist. They found the tunic a few feet away with a rip through the front and back. Straw was everywhere.
“What do you think?” Knox asked.
Christopher nodded. “Good choice.”
----------------------------------------
They left Shervin in his village. The man had rituals to perform — he pronounced it writ-tools — that would take all night. Knox balked about having to come back for him in the morning, but Christopher sided with da Blade of ant-trickery, which he finally realized was supposed to be antiquity. Christopher had his own ritual to perform, and he guessed it would be easier without Shervin Gerami along.
Christopher had dreams of the future but usually restrained himself from indulging too much in anticipation. Such things could jinx his plans. He’d seen it before: Schedule an early trip and the next morning it would rain. Novron didn’t abide prediction. The moment anyone made plans, the world changed, apparently out of spite.
Christopher also believed that it wasn’t wise to spend too much time in his head. Thinking too much was a mistake. Plotting was the antithesis of doing. The man who sits and schemes continues to sit while others achieve. Christopher fancied himself a man of action, but as his defining day approached, he found thinking ahead hard to resist. Such was the case with the village of Rye. He found he hated that pile of twigs on the sand. When he became earl, one of his first orders would be to raze it. Not the first order, not even the second. Christopher — who didn’t believe in making plans in advance for Novron to thwart — had at least a small list.
First he’d get rid of Knox and Wells. They were both too intelligent and too ambitious to keep around. Payne he’d have to live with, as an earl had no power over members of the church, and he wouldn’t dare provoke Bishop Parnell. After that would come the rebuilding of Castle Dulgath. The place was nearly a ruin. He’d have to raise taxes. From what he understood, they were nearly nonexistent, and the farmers could well afford to pay more. Once he had his house in order — and in the process of being restored — he would turn his thoughts inland.
Dulgath was the smallest of the Maranon provinces and largely ignored as a result. He intended to change that. Christopher saw no reason for there to be four provinces. Swanwick and Kruger were both vast holdings, while Manzar and Dulgath were insignificant in comparison. If Dulgath swallowed up Manzar, there would be three equal-sized neighbors. Having control over a prison where any detractors could disappear was an added benefit, but the real attraction came from the expectation of tax revenue the salt mine would produce.
He’d need an army to bring Manzar into line. At present, Dulgath lacked even enough full-time guards to properly staff the front gate. He’d change that, too. Every family would be required to contribute one son to his military, along with their increased taxes. With a land as lush as Dulgath, he’d easily subdue the rocky highland of Manzar, which lacked any real towns. Then he wouldn’t be just an earl — two full rungs above his father on the peerage ladder — but an important player in Maranon affairs. He’d have the ear of the king, even if he had to cut it off to get it.
As the wagon rolled and bounced along the twisting coastal road, climbing higher and higher toward the plateau of the Dulgath Plain, Christopher surveyed his new realm and nodded silently.
This will do for a start, he thought.
When they reached the top of the ridge, Knox rested the horses, and the three got down to stretch their legs. This was the southwestern desolation of Dulgath, nothing but lichen rock, wind-tortured grass, and a grand view. At that height, they could clearly see the Point of Mann, the Isle of Neil, and Manzant Bay.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Christopher said with deep-breathed pride.
Of course it is: it’s mine. A mother always sees her children as beautiful.
He walked alongside Rissa Lyn. As they strolled aimlessly through the tall grass, he took hold of her hand. She stopped, stiffening at his touch, then stared at him as if he’d pulled a knife.
“Relax.” He smiled, and, bringing her hand up slowly, kissed the back. “I just wanted to thank you.”
The fear in her eyes was replaced by confusion.
“You did very well,” he told her, and meant it.
Shervin Gerami had scared him, so he would’ve expected Rissa Lyn to be reduced to a sobbing mess. “You were very brave — courageous even.”
He saw a smile fighting onto her face. “I want to thank you, Your Lordship. I’ve been so afraid of that thing, and being the only one who knew . . . well, it was difficult.”
“Call me Christopher.”
Her eyes went large. “Oh no, sir — I couldn’t!”
Okay, so perhaps that was asking too much.
Rissa Lyn wasn’t a child; she’d spent years as a servant. Christopher might as well have asked her to fly. Letting go of her hand, he held up his own and spread his palms. “That’s fine. I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you’ve done.”
“It’s you that’s doing it, sir.” She shook her head as a look of dismay descended. “You are the only one to believe me. The only one — and I didn’t even think you did, not at first. To be honest, I was frightened of you.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Christopher resumed walking, causing her to follow. “I was just so disturbed by that painting.”
“Oh, I can understand that — shoot and sugar I can. That painting scared me, too. Seeing what awful thing was truly behind that pretty face was horrible. So no, sir, I won’t be holding that against you at all, sir.”
“Thank you, Rissa Lyn.” He took hold of her hand again. This time she didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. She blushed. “Who were these others who didn’t believe you?”
“Julia, the head maid. I went to her right after the lady recovered. I was so terribly frightened, hysterical and not making much sense. She said I was just imagining things. That seeing Lady Dulgath all mangled and bloody was making me imagine all kinds of old wives’ tales about ghost, ghouls, and demons. For a long time, I believed her. But as the years passed, I knew it was me who had been right all along. I could tell because Lady Dulgath changed. Folk said she became sober from nearly dying, but I knew the truth. Nysa Dulgath had died, and something else had taken over her body, walking and talking through it.”
She squeezed his hand.
“I don’t like to look into her eyes, but when I do, I can see it looking back. It scares me near to fainting sometimes, honest it does.”
“Who else have you told?”
“Just Mister Sherwood. After seeing his painting, I thought he would understand. He was such a good man, and I was afraid she’d do something awful to him. And of course she did, didn’t she? I feel so guilty about cursing him just before he went to — and then he disappeared. But he didn’t believe me, either. No one believed me.”
“I believed you,” Christopher said, looking in her eyes and offering a sympathetic smile.
She smiled back, no fighting it this time. Her lips trembled, and tears spilled down, the wind streaking them at angles. “Oh, sir!” she whimpered. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted someone to tell me that, to let me know I’m not crazy.”
He reached out and wrapped his arms around the woman, pulling her to his chest, letting her cry. Knox was back at the wagon, checking the front hooves of the offside horse. The sheriff glanced over once then resumed hunting for stones.
When Rissa Lyn slowed her sobs, Christopher said, “Look out there, Rissa Lyn.”
She pulled back and wiped her eyes clear, then she followed his line of sight and faced the cliff and the sea below.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes everything else seem small and insignificant, because looking out there you can see eternity, can’t you, Rissa Lyn?”
“Yes, I suppose I —”
Christopher gave her a good solid shove. Rissa Lyn was light and not possessed of any great sense of balance. She went right off the edge of the cliff with no trouble at all. The entire moment was over so quickly. She just disappeared, although her wails did trail behind her for a few seconds, fading in pitch and volume. One minute she was there, and the next Rissa Lyn was gone, as if she’d never existed. All it took was a little shove.
If only all my troubles could be dealt with so easily.
Christopher inched up and peered over the edge. He spotted her body. She must have missed the rocks and hit the shallow surf. A wave came in and threw her corpse against the rocks then sucked it out again. Christopher watched as this happened three more times. Then any trace of Rissa Lyn disappeared just as Sherwood had.
I do so love the sea.
Christopher strongly suspected Rissa Lyn had been in love with Sherwood Stow.
Now at least they can be together. Of course, he’s up the coast a bit. He imagined that Sherwood’s ghost and Rissa Lyn’s might wander those craggy shores for eternity and never meet. “How tragic would that be?” he asked the wind, and then walked back to the wagon.
“Horse all right?” he inquired of Knox.
“Thought she was favoring the left, but it looks fine.”
Knox climbed back on the wagon, and Christopher joined him. Throwing the brake off and jiggling the reins, they continued on their way.