Searching the Darkness (Erythleh Chronicles Book 2) Page 2

  But Elthrinn had no idea what life might lie beyond this existence in the paradise of Senthirr. perhaps she might only be around the corner from a marriage to a man as hateful as the slimy Bornsig. Elthrinn saw clearly that two roads lay before her. One was shrouded in dark fog, the path littered with sharp rocks and strange animals called from the darkness. The other ran straight and true, into sunlight, with flat green fields on either side.

  It did not take Elthrinn long to make her decision.

  "Yes. I think I should like the life of a priestess."

  Serwren nodded, but Elthrinn had the bleak feeling that Serwren was nodding more for herself than for Elthrinn. Elthrinn wondered if she wasn't living Serwren's safety for her, but that thought fled on the wings of the uncertainty that haunted her nightmares.

  Chapter Two

  Gorren fumbled at the door this room. He was sure that he'd turned the catch, but the stubborn thing would not open. It was heavy oak and hard to move. A hinge might have slipped, it might be caught on the stone flags. He tried again to turn the handle, which twisted readily, even in his slack grip, but the damn thing still wouldn't budge. He patted his clothes, looking for... looking for... for a moment he completely forgot what in the Grey Wolf's name has was searching for... Then he remembered, the key! Yes, the key! Gorren was sure he'd had the foresight to tuck the key to his room in a pocket before he'd left, although he couldn't quite remember why he would have locked his door in the first place; he never usually did.

  He found the sneaky key in one of the deep pockets of his frock coat. It snagged on some of the frayed decorative braiding as he pulled it from its hiding place. Some more stitching tore, the corner of the pocket came free from its moorings to the rest of the garment and the gold braid unravelled a little further.

  With a lopsided, but smug, smile, Gorren tried to get the key into the lock. It took several attempts before he was successful. Gorren could have sworn he hadn't drunk so much mead as to make things move, but each time he jabbed the key at the lock, the metal plate seemed to shift in the opposite direction. In the end, he resorted to putting one fingertip in the keyhole, and slid the recalcitrant key along his arm, catching more threads and pulling them loose as he did so. The key, a complicated design wrought from iron, slipped submissively into the lock. With a quiet chuckle which seemed to echo in the deserted corridor, Gorren twisted the key and tried to push the door open again. This time the damn thing shifted exactly as it was supposed to do.

  Cursing his poor memory, and perplexed as to why he'd locked the door at all, Gorren stumbled into the unlit room. Damn! usually he kept the drapes open, so that the moonlight could guide his way. His habit had been to leave a candle burning, until one too many tales from the tattling tongues of the maids had reached the ears of his parents. Having been thoroughly and painfully chastised for leaving a flame unattended in the wooden structure, Gorren had made a habit of simply not blocking any natural light from his room. Now though, the drapes were pulled firmly shut. He couldn't even make out the shape of his hand when he waved it in front of his face.

  Gorren took two faltering steps into the room, and promptly collided with a solid chest. Shit! He knew the scent that his nose belatedly relayed to his brain. His father had been waiting for him.

  The realisation cleared the alcoholic fog from his mind. Gorren hadn't locked his door, although he had been lucky to have the key on his person. His father was waiting to reprimand him, again. His father had locked the door, no doubt hoping that Gorren would make a spectacle of himself trying to get in, which he very nearly had. His father had closed the drapes, hoping that he would trip on his way into the room, which he very nearly had.

  A rush of anger seared Gorren's gut, but despite the bravado of the mead, he knew better than to give voice to his emotions.

  "Father."

  Gorren was glad that at least his tongue and lips seemed to be in cooperation with his brain. He hadn't had so much to drink that his tongue lay thick and sluggish in his mouth; he wasn't slurring his words.

  "Gorren."

  Of course, as always, his name. Never son, no family title. There would be no show of affection, not for him.

  "I wasn't expecting you." Obviously the mead was not quite out of his system, or he wouldn't have chanced so facetious a remark.

  "Evidently. I suppose you've been out with those reprobates you call friends?" His father's gruff voice seemed to fill the dark void.

  "Evidently, or you wouldn't be waiting for me."

  Gorren didn't quite manage to dodge the fist that came flying at him, out of the shadows. He'd been half-expecting it, but hadn't moved quickly enough, damn that mead. The blow caught him across the top of his ear, but glanced off his skull. Fuck, that was painful; but he would not cry out.

  "Twenty-six years and you're still acting like an ignorant pup," his father spat.

  Gorren remained silent. No responses were required during his father's diatribes.

  "You think it's enough that you've joined the army. You think that doing so gives you a measure of respectability. You think because you chose to flounder in a menial rank, eschewing family position and connections in the name of honour and hard work, that it excuses you somehow from behaving in a manner fit to your birthright. You're wrong. You disgrace this family with your antics and drunkenness."

  Gorren had heard this all before, several times, but it never failed to sting. King Dorll of Dorvek was overly fond - in Gorren's opinion - of pointing out the failings of his youngest son and second heir to the throne of Dorvek. "To hear you speak, anyone would think I was rolling in the streets every night. I only went to the tavern with my friends."

  "Friends? Pah!" His father's tone was filled with disdain. "Liggers! Hangers on! Not an ounce of sense or honour between them."

  Gorren riled at his friends being talked of in so derogatory a manner, but he wasn't strong enough to take his father on. For all the old man's years, Gorren knew from painful experience that he would barely even be able to make his father flinch, so he remained silent and let shame flush through him; shame at letting his father speak to him as a child, shame at not defending his friends as he should, shame that he somehow hadn't managed to do something more worthwhile with his life, something his father would be proud of.

  "They wouldn't speak two words to you if you weren't my son."

  Gorren had had enough. Maybe the mead was boiling in his blood along with rage, or maybe there had been too many years of never being good enough for his father. Despite the drunkenness lingering at the edges of his vision, despite the way the alcohol seemed to muffle the ends of his fingertips, Gorren managed to make his way fairly steadily to a table in the room, the one where he knew he'd left a candle in a sconce. He found it, along with the flint he'd left next to it. He had arranged the items in preparation for his return. When he stumbled into bed and the room began to spin, before he found unconsciousness, it helped to have a point of light to focus on. He struck the flint until the spark kindled the wick. The wax stem was much shorter than he remembered it being. Ah, so his father had been waiting a while for his return.

  The flickering light, bravely given by the guttering candle, grew by the second. Gorren turned to face his father.

  "I've had enough." He meant to sound strong, to let his anger colour his tone, but now that he was saying the words, he sounded only dejected, resigned. "Nothing I do is good enough for you. It never will be. You'll never stop measuring me against Noridan. I won't stand here and listen to you denigrate my friends, and they are friends, true friends."

  His father laughed, a spiteful sound. "What are you going to do? Run crying to hide behind your mother's skirts?"

  Gorren shook his head, and regretted the action as his brain banged against the inside of his skull. "No. I'm leaving. I'll go and live in the barracks with the others."

  "You will do no such thing."

  "I will. I won't ever be good enough for you, and right now I'm not even good enoug
h for myself. I'm stuck betwixt and between two worlds, but you've made my choice for me, Father. Or rather, made it much easier. I choose the life of a soldier over the life of a prince. I will perform no royal duties. I will not take any more of your coin. I will not benefit from your name, or influence. I will live in the barracks with the other soldiers, just as they do."

  His father stared at him. King Dorll's mouth was set in a grim line, just as it always was. His eyes were narrowed, even in the gloom, as if squinting into bright sunlight. The silver in the king's greying beard caught the fickle light as he inhaled and exhaled; it was the only sign that the king hadn't turned to stone.

  "As you will." The words were ground out through clenched teeth. Then the king turned on his heel and left the room.

  Alone, in what should have been his sanctuary, Gorren sank down to sit on the edge of his bed. The covers were still rumpled and creased, he hadn't bothered to neaten them before he'd left to meet the others at the tavern. He looked around his room, it was hardly lavishly furnished, but there was no way he could take so many belongings with him.

  As his own words echoed in his ears, Gorren realised he didn't want to take his belongings with him. He straightened a blanket on his bed, the warmest one, and then went around the room collecting only the most essential items. He would take only what he could carry with him.

  Gorren opened drawers and pulled out the pieces of his military uniform and a few hard-wearing garments to be worn in more casual situations. He bundled the leather, fur, wool and linen into the blanket, along with a handful of useful knick-knacks and his smaller weapons. He gathered the corners of the blanket up and tied them together. He slung his sword belt around his hips, and hitched his long-handled axe into the leather band rather than carry it. He slung his long bow and its quiver full of white-fletched arrows across his back. He felt like a loaded pack pony, but he had everything he needed.

  As he turned to leave, Gorren caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that stood by the window. He could see now in the golden glow of the candle. His knee-length frock coat was torn and smudged with who knew what. The gold braid was fraying in more places than he had realised. His trousers were torn and dirty at the knees. He didn't remember having fallen down that night, but the rips, edged with mud and dried blood from the visible scrapes on his knees, suggested otherwise. His leather boots were scuffed. He was the very image of drunken debauchery.

  His other senses returned suddenly, as if seeing himself had brought them out of their inebriated stupor. He gasped at the sharp sting of the injuries on his shins. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt as furry as a mouse. He heard the creaks and thuds that were the natural night time noises of the hall, and the "too-wit, too-wit" call of a solitary owl outside his window. Gorren tried to take a deep breath, and caught an unfortunate whiff of his own body odour; sweat, tainted by the stink of stale ale.

  The stink made Gorren retch. He dropped his sagging bundle and only just made it to the water closet in time to empty the contents of his stomach into a earthenware bowl. There was a jug of water nearby, he drank some and then tipped the rest slowly over his head, tugging the damp tails of his shirt free to scrub his face clean. He stripped, breathing through his mouth to avoid catching another draught of his rotten self.

  Rather than undo his bundle, Gorren went through his drawers one last time. He found a pair of simple woollen trews, a clean shirt, a plain waistcoat and a fresh overcoat, one made from black leather. The overcoat was in much the same style as his other, but it bore no decoration. Gorren tugged his boots back on, re-slung his weapons into place, and grabbed his belongings.

  This time, when he looked in the mirror, he saw quite a different sight. No longer was he a caricature of a depraved aristocrat. His beard and hair were wild, just a touch too long, and were all over the place from the multitude of times that he'd run his fingers through them during the course of the night, but he looked far more presentable than he had before.

  With barely a backward glance, Gorren hefted the makeshift pack onto his shoulder and blew out the candle. He left the room, but didn't bother to lock the door. He turned only as much as was necessary to toss his key onto the unmade bed. Gorren felt a moment's guilt for leaving the apocalyptic mess for the maids to tidy up, but he comforted himself with the notion that it would be the last time they had to rectify his chaotic untidiness.

  Gorren strode through the corridors of Cranak Hall, the place he had hitherto called home. The wooden planks of the floor creaked under his passing feet, but he made no effort to be quiet until he came to the great doors at the entrance to the hall. These, he opened as stealthily as he had when he'd been sneaking back to his room. The doors, twice the height of a man and heavier than two horses, squealed on their hinges and boomed if allowed to slam shut. It would wake every sleeping resident if he didn't pay due care and attention. When he had attempted to gain entry into the hall earlier that night, Gorren had found the smaller, more convenient, kitchen door locked. His father's doing no doubt.

  Having opened the doors just wide enough to slip through, Gorren stole into the emergent day. Dawn was beginning to band the sky with bleak shades of grey. The barracks were a fair walk away and there was a nip in the air. It was the time of year when the leaves on the trees began to turn fantastical colours in a final show of beauty before the winter snows blanketed everything in a thick carpet of white. The crisp edge of the breeze was refreshing. The aromas of a new day seemed portentous, as if they welcomed the new beginning Gorren had decided upon.

  His friends would be asleep, and would likely not appreciate being wakened in so abrupt a manner as they were about to experience, but Gorren knew they would welcome him with open arms. There was a spare bunk in the room that the three men shared. Ostensibly it should have been his to begin with, but Gorren had preferred the more comfortable mattress at the Hall and had not yet taken up his residency with his friends. They pestered him at least once a day, and poked fun at his love of soft-living.

  That would change tonight, today. From now on, he would live with them, as one of them. He would make his way as an independent man in the world, dependent on no one, as if he had no family. He had meant every word that he had said to his father. He knew, he was not a fool, that life was about to become harsh, but he could not call himself a man if he could not endure it. If he turned tail and ran back to the palace, he might as well chop his own balls off.

  This day was a rebirth. No longer would Gorren be known as a prince of Dorvek.

  Chapter Three

  Elthrinn was glad that Serwren had travelled with her to the convent. It should have been more than two day's ride, but Serwren set a punishing pace. That Serwren would hurry so; made Elthrinn afraid that she had some intelligence, perhaps some news on a proposal, or a demand. Since Elthrinn could think of no reason that Serwren might not delay their journey, that was not to her own benefit, she was content to match the pace of her foster mother.

  By the time they arrived, they were both sore, exhausted and hungry. They had only stopped for the briefest of meals and the shortest of sleeps, and had not paused as often as they should have done for refreshing drinks of water. Even though the season of Thyar was in full sway, and the temperatures were cooling, to travel such a distance without rest was a tribulation.

  The priestesses at Dreec were clad in robes of silk, woven in shades of green and blue that perfectly matched the fluidity of water as they moved, and yet perfectly concealed any definition of their personal forms. They were covered completely by their vestments; only their hands, feet and faces showed. Elthrinn noted that detail, and felt a pang of loss for something that she could not yet define.

  The priestesses, there were only women in the temple as far as Elthrinn could discern, were welcoming and benevolent. They dispatched junior novices to care for the exhausted horses. They brought water and food for their visitors. The water was simply water, served in earthenware cups that tainted the liquid with the
musky taste of clay. The food was equally simple: self-baked bread, spread with self-made butter, served with self-churned cheese. Elthrinn looked despondently at the meagre repast before she gratefully consumed it, and knew that she was seeing her future written in those morsels.

  Serwren held a brief discussion with the head priestess that Elthrinn was not privy to, but she could guess the subject matter. Serwren had sent a boy from the village to ride to the convent with a sealed scroll for the sole attention of the head priestess. She had trusted no other method of communication, save riding out herself, to make the arrangements for Elthrinn's internment. Under some gentle, and relentless, persuasion, Serwren had revealed to Elthrinn that she feared that Dimacius would interrupt their plans if he received notice of them. Serwren was, even now as Elthrinn sat in the temple building, requesting assurances that the utmost secrecy would be maintained.