“Look at him, Steward. Until the traitors who did this are found, he is the source of your continued existence. He is the beginning and the end of your pursuit. Take your time to examine him.”
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Unpublished Books
Graemist
PROLOGUE
Through the diminishing rains a bell tolled, an alarm ringing out clear and urgent from its stone tower, its call no sooner struck than swept away and drowned in the fury of the storm. To the streets below, it came as no more than a dying whisper. The garrison town continued to sleep, oblivious to its desperate call.
Then, another of the Castle’s bells swang into life, metal on metal tearing the cobwebs at its heart. It was swiftly joined by another and another, their mournful peals drifting, lifting through the dark night air; each swelling the alarm, adding to its insistence; pressing, beating through the wind to be heard.
Now the hillside town stirred. Its own bells swung hastily into life, echoing the cries of the castle above – but louder, as if the castle was echoing them. Sudden flames were lit. Thin filigrees of light flared, outlining barred shutters. Many opened – shafts of candlelight fled into the night, dancing on surfaces rippling and catching with water. Silhouettes appeared in the windows, staring upward to catch the reason for the tolling bells, trying to glimpse Graemist Castle.
Above the town, Graemist’s outer battlements broke from the darkness, solid blocks of night silhouetted against the fire-lit keep. Across the inner walls, distorted and featureless giants stretched up against the stone then quickly shrank back again, like the fears of a lonely child.
Within the castle, the spectres merged with those who bore them: men-at-arms scurrying across torch-lit battlements. Many were dressing as they ran, panting as they stumbled to their posts and took up their stance: faces turned outward, weapons ready at their sides; wide, frightened eyes belying the calm of well drilled movement. In the towers above, more watch fires flared, their flames shimmering on wet rooves and cobblestones, lifting the black of the skies, clearing darkness from the courtyards and setting all alight with their reflections.
Within, rushing, fearful people filled the corridors of the keep: the last men-at-arms hurrying to the battlements, pulling on capes of grey or tightening belts about uncooperative girths; children running errands; servants not yet been to bed respectfully jostling past their bleary-eyed betters who had. And in each face you could see the panicked questions: “what is it, what is happening, why the alarm?”
Yet, in the midst of all this activity, there was one place of certainty, one place of stillness. Here, in the silence of Graemist’s Chapel, sealed away by the spears and plate-mail of the Duke’s Guard, stood a select few, mute and unmoving, their red robes of office gathered tight about them as they waited. To them the bells held no urgency. The reason for the alarm lay on the floor before them.
Here, also, was the Duke. He was still dressed for bed and from his bed he had obviously just come, for his eyes were bloodshot and his greying, black hair was unusually dishevelled. No emotion showed on his gaunt face and, although he seldom allowed his feelings to be immediately known, this troubled even his closest advisers. Surely there should be something? Surely this would move him?
But the Duke stood over the body apparently unconcerned by what he saw. Indeed, his eyes examined the whole scene with a detached fascination. The way his son’s blood coiled and mixed in the water taken from the Font; the broken shards of pottery – once a storage vessel – that now lay scattered about the body; the way the water had neatly parted the boy’s hair across the deep wounds to his head: it was all examined with a deft coldness.
He appreciated the chill beauty of the crime, its irony – that at least was clear, even if his emotions were not. The boy who was to succeed him now lay at his feet; his dead heir, killed in the supposed sanctity of the Chapel. The Font’s water and the boy’s blood, once symbols of peace and continuity, now mingled together to signify an end. Oh yes, there was irony: a carefully planned irony.
The Physician entered and moved immediately to examine the body. “Leave him,” the Duke snapped. “You are here to observe. Unless you can bring him back to life?”
The Physician gaped at him a moment, then hurriedly retreated with a deep bow.
The Duke’s wintry glare shifted to the other officials gathered about the doorway. One by one, he considered them, turning each cold with his gaze until finally he came to an old, white-bearded man.
“Chamberlain.”
The man shuffled forward from the group, the leanings of his hunched body only just held in check by a walking stick as crooked as he.
“Your Grace?” The Chamberlain’s head briefly tottered on the edge of a submissive nod, his faded eyes never leaving the Duke’s face.
“The traitor who did this will be found.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“The traitor will be found,” continued the Duke, louder, “and brought directly to me, unharmed. Nothing is to detract from the severity of my punishment, do you understand me?”
“Of course, Your Grace. The murderer will remain untouched until he is turned over to you.”
“He? You assume we seek a man, Chamberlain?”
“Would your Grace suggest a woman did this? The storage vessel alone…”
The Duke held up a hand and immediately the Chamberlain fell silent.
“The act was carried out by a man but he was only a retainer. It is the traitor this man hides I want. That might be anyone.”
An eyebrow lifted on the old man’s face. “Anyone, Your Grace?”
The Duke momentarily held the old man’s gaze, “Anyone.” He let this sink in a moment. “Any one of you,” – abruptly turning and facing the others. “Be warned: nobody will escape my suspicion until I am satisfied all the perpetrators have been caught and dealt with. The castle is sealed until my Inquisitor finds those who dared do this.”
“But, Your Grace,” the old Chamberlain, “much of the Court has not yet returned from the Progress, where are they to go?”
The Duke waved a dismissive hand.
“That is of no importance,” he said. “This insult will be answered. Until then the gates are sealed: nobody may enter or leave.”
“At least allow me to arrange alternative accommodation in the town.”
“No,” snapped, sharply. The Duke’s voice was rising. “No one will enter, or leave – is that understood?” He paused, and fiercely glared at those present. “No one. Ponder that, gentlemen.”
And with that, the Duke marched briskly to the doorway, the officials parting as he approached. The Chamberlain followed at a slight distance, his head bobbing as he walked. When the Duke reached the door the pair of them stopped in unison; the older man was accustomed to reading his lord’s movements.
The Duke turned back to his officials.
“Clear this room,” he said. “The Chapel is to be sealed to all but myself, the Chamberlain and my Inquisitor. No one will enter alone.” He paused, examining the faces with a fierce intensity, then turned as if to go.
“Chamberlain,” – over his shoulder – “the Steward should be here. When I am awake, all are awake. Send for him, I will see him in my rooms.”
CHAPTER ONE
I was not asleep when the bells began their alarm that night. I was Steward of Graemist then, prisoner only to its pettiness, so often kept up late, and with the Duke freshly returned from a Progress through the Duchy, there was suddenly a great deal more pettiness than usual. Thus, the bells caught me just after I had retired for the night but before I could as much as settle between the itchy blankets of my bed.
The tolling was no more than an annoyance at first, inconvenient. It could have nothing to do with me and so there was no need to respond. It might be a martial alarm, the concern of the Captain of the Guard, not mine. Let him get up. It might even be a false alarm, a waste of precious sleep time. If I was needed I would be called. Besides, with things as they were I needed all the rest I could get.
Sleep, however, as I should have known, proved impossible. The orders shouted in the courtyard below snapped at my ears like so many terriers, demanding attention even though they were not for me. Firelight printed itself about my walls from outside, setting distorted windows all about the walls of the room, making it too bright to sleep. And the bells droned on and on in irregular patterns, taunting and tempting an active mind to find order in the discord. I didn’t fall for the temptation but rolled over and waited for blessed silence – and waited an hour, possibly more, without any luck.
Certainly it would have been more had I not, finally, been summoned. A timid knock had introduced the presence of my only servant. My eyes remained shut, so, after a pause he discretely coughed, as a man suffering from severe fever might cough.
“What is it, Skebbins?” I asked disdainfully, still not bothering to open my eyes.
I could hear him nervously scratch at his whiskers. He was so easily unnerved.
He hesitated. “The Duke wants to speak with you, sir.”
Now I opened my eyes. “Where?”
“In his rooms.”
I did not move. A summons from the Duke was not a pleasant thing for me, especially when it was unexpected. The result of what might be called a history between us.
“Right now,” my servant prompted. “Sir.”
“Yes, I heard.” – snapped. “Bring me my clothes and boots.”
They were only a small distance away, between the bed and a borer-ridden wardrobe set into the wall but I had decided that if you only have one servant at your disposal, you should make the most of that one.
I sat up gingerly as Skebbins turned to retrieve my clothes, then watched impatiently as he tried to straighten them with swift brushes of his hand.
“Fetch me fresh ones and you can go,” I said.
Startled, he looked up, still hunched over my things like an overfed vulture. He saw my scowl and his face dropped. His mouth opened and I could see a ‘but’ forming, then it was suppressed. Poor Skebbins, sometimes I expected too much of him. It wasn’t his fault he had the subtlety of a dead fish.
“Yes, sir,” dropping my things back onto the floor. “You want fresh clothes,” and he moved to the wardrobe to get my things.
“And not those boots, they need drying. Bring the others.”
He shot me a look at once mortified and exasperated, then irritably tossed the robes he had fetched onto the bed beside me and turned away. I watched him skulk over to the fireplace with the rejected boots, hoping he would turn back and see my glare, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was capable of learning something after all.
Skebbins must have been ten or twelve years younger than me, around twenty. There was what I’d call the look of the incorruptible in his face: dark eyes that could look straight at you as though without guilt, a mouth that always seemed to be on the verge of a denouncement and a way of talking that suggested total obedience. It must have been his youth.
“Stoke the fire while you are there,” I ordered – a punishment for possible deceit.
Two logs were thrown on the dying fire, sending sparks all about the hearth – my punishment – and Skebbins left me to dress. He would be in the outer room if I needed him, as he insisted on telling me.
****
In a short time, I stepped from my rooms ready to make my way to the Duke’s apartments. Yet as I moved to close the door behind me, I hesitated. There was something wrong.
Outside, the bells had stopped their incessant ringing and, thankfully, the rain had also ceased leaving the corridor silent, like an empty cell at night. The narrow and vaulted hallway was waveringly lit by torches, their smoky flames printing ripples of light upon the walls as if they were made of moving water instead of stolid, harsh stone. The torches were fresher than was normal at that time of night. Clearly, the Duke had been about recently, and untypically: he slept when he wished. But these things only came to me once I had stopped.
It was the emotionless faces of three men that made me pause; three of the Duke’s Guard, motionless, pikes at their sides, cold chests of iron reflecting the smouldering liveliness of the torches about them. The first stood by the Chamberlain’s door, the other two were stationed on either side of the Chapel entrance not much further down the corridor. They had not been there when I went to bed but then the bells had not yet rung. Still, it was disturbing that they should be here, nowhere of great importance.
Rousing myself, I closed the door to my rooms and made my way down the corridor. The first of the guards – a perfect picture of alert indifference – snapped to attention as I approached. Or rather, he stood to at the sight of my red robes. He did not look to see who was approaching. Authority is authority, I suppose; no time to stop and think about it, only to react as trained. Undoubtedly, he was an excellent soldier.
“Why have you been stationed here?” I asked him. “You weren’t here an hour ago.”
“I was only just sent here, sir,” the guard replied, his eyes remaining fixed on the wall opposite him.
“Clearly. Well then, why? Something has obviously happened. Has old Zaragen upset someone?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
“No, of course not. Do you know what you are here for, then?”
A faint smile crept across the otherwise blank face. “The Chamberlain’s rooms are to be watched.”
“And the Chapel, too?”
“Yes, sir. Nobody is to enter but the Duke, the Chamberlain and yourself.”
“And me?”
“Yes, sir, but not alone.”
“Indeed?”
I looked down the corridor, to the men stationed outside the Chapel. They stood staring at the wall opposite them, yet gave no indication that they actually saw it. It was as if they were no more than statues, dressed in metal breastplates and with their long pikes frozen at ease. More excellent soldiers, obviously, and of no interest to me, and yet the sight of them gave me pause.
That was when something else caught my eye. There, at their feet, in the dust of the floor was a trail of droplets: small, deep and rustic red. They started from beneath the Chapel door, crossed the hallway toward me, and stopped just past the door where I stood. Some of the droplets were smudged, but still clear. By its colour the blood was nearly dry. I turned to the guard and, in doing so, noticed there were more stains on the door frame beside him, as if a bloodied hand had leant there, then moved on.
I hesitated, thinking quickly, considering the horrible implications of the droplets; what they could represent, what they revealed.
“What exactly has happened here?” I demanded.
“The Duke’s son, sir,” the Guard replied. “He was found in the Chapel.”
“Found?” I said, staring at the man. “What do you mean, found?”
The Guard looked back at me with a dispassionate face. “Found dead, sir.”
Even as I asked I knew what the answer would be, yet, even so, it was a shock to hear the words spoken. They had a physical impact. The flagstones shifted beneath me. Nausea and dizziness threatened to overwhelm me. Quickly, I turned from the Guard and my eyes immediately sought out the trail leading away from my feet, tracing and retracing the droplets’ path, unable to look away.
“You are certain?” I asked after a moment.
“Yes, sir,” the Guard replied.
I forced myself to look away from the bloodstains.
“Thank you,” and I willed myself to move on, stepping uneasily across the trail. I wanted to show no weakness. Not to the Duke’s Guard.
****
I was allowed into the Duke’s apartments unchallenged by the Guards stationed outside. From there I stepped into an antechamber: a large reception area to the rooms into which it eventually led; a social sieve, holding the people the Duke did not want to see, while releasing those he did. That night it was poorly lit and, except for the Guards on the opposite door, deserted.
It felt unusual walking amongst the dozens of waiting, empty chairs. Normally, this room was filled with pacing, restive people but now all the room’s secrets were laid bare: the wear on the scattered carpets; the battered chair legs bumped and grazed by hundreds of impatient, tapping heels; and the dark residue on the faded wall hangings where heads often rested back in resignation. It was as if a veil had been lifted, unmasking the tardiness and decay of the room. Perhaps, of more than the room.
The door to the Duke’s audience chamber was opened for me, and I walked directly inside. Once it closed, I was alone with the Duke and his Chamberlain.
The Duke sat in a large, high backed chair, the entrance to his private chambers behind him. A blue robe covered his night clothes, otherwise he appeared as he would during any ordinary day: his hair immaculate, his face cold, his hands clutched tightly together in his lap. It was as if nothing could move him, not even what had happened. It seemed to me that such a man didn’t deserve power.
Zaragen, the Chamberlain, sat to one side of the Duke. A small, moveable desk squatted in front of him, and upon it I could see a list written on yellowed paper; a neat column of words – or perhaps names. He was quietly taking control, ordering everything in his usual, thorough manner.
Both watched me carefully as I entered the room, making me feel even more uncomfortable.
“Leave us,” the Duke said to Zaragen as I approached.
An eyebrow lifted on the old man’s face, a gesture of mild surprise. Then, with a subtle nod, he stood and tottered out of the room with the aid of his walking stick. Age might not have affected his brain but it had seeped into his body in a most effective manner.
Only when the door was closed behind the Chamberlain did the Duke speak to me.
“I have been attacked,” he said, evenly.
“You, Your Grace? But I was led to understand…”
He made a peremptory wave to silence me. “A cowardly attack made through my heir. He is dead.”
“But how is this an attack upon yourself, Your Grace? With respect…”
Another impatient wave brought my silence.
“It is obvious,” stated the Duke. “I know the boy was not popular. Indeed, in some ways his death pleases even me. It allows a certain forgetting. But no-one would bother to kill him, not for his own sake. No, the killer had another motive: to make a statement, to challenge me.”
I watched him closely as he spoke, trying to see through the arrogance to what he really felt. And from somewhere deep inside him something had, for that instant when he spoke of forgetting – and only for that instant – threatened to shatter his cold exterior. Anger, loss, fear: I could not tell which, but it was there, briefly. It was difficult not to react.
“You are not shocked?” the Duke continued. “I like that. People should never show what they are feeling.”
As he spoke he watched, examining me as closely as I did him. Then he looked away.
“No, the boy’s death was designed to threaten my authority. You will see when you enter the Chapel: it was all calculated to insult and to challenge me.”
“With respect, Your Grace, killing your son merely to insult you does not make sense.”
“I told you, you will see.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” A sharp look, then away again. “You are to be my Inquisitor,” the Duke continued. “I want you to find the person who killed the boy, and I want you to find the person – or persons – who ordered the killing.”
“Me?”
“Are you not honoured, my lord Steward, to serve your Duke?” – said with cold eyes watching me. “You should be grateful that I have chosen you.”
“Do not misunderstand me, sire,” I said quickly. “Of course, I am honoured, deeply honoured, but… I am not certain that I am qualified.”
I had finished speaking but the Duke still waved me into silence. It was a habit of his. I had often wondered what lay behind it: a presumption of superiority, a dismissal of things he wanted to forget, a symbol that, for the Duke, had become the power it had once only embodied. Perhaps, all these things.
“I want you to look for these traitors. Therefore, you are qualified,” he said, flatly. “You are the only one I can trust. All of the others will take advantage of the situation.” The Duke paused, rising from his seat to approach me. “You alone will not become overzealous. You will not be fooled by your emotions or loyalties – or by ambition.”
He stopped just before me, his eyes boring directly into mine.
“You are the only one who cannot gain from denying me my retribution,” he said, and I could not miss the condescension. “Come. You must see the Chapel tonight, while all is fresh.”
****
The two guards on the Chapel door stood to attention as we approached. Ignoring them, the Duke unlocked and opened the door, but did not immediately go in. Instead, he pointed to the floor.
“Note the blood,” he said dispassionately, his finger slowly tracing out the trail before him, “and where it leads.” His finger now pointed to the Chamberlain’s door.
“I saw it on my way to Your Grace,” I said. “What do you make of it?”
“Me?” His hand dropped. “It is not for me to make anything of it, my lord Steward. That is for you.” He turned to one of the guards. “Has anyone tried to enter the Chapel?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Has anyone passed?”
“Only the Chamberlain, Your Grace, and the Lord Tameron.”
“And me, also,” I added.
“You are not important,” said the Duke. “It is the likes of the Chamberlain we must watch.”
He stepped through the doorway and motioned for me to follow. The door was closed behind us and we stood alone in the Chapel with the body.
The Chapel was a room of bleak stone walls carved with images of the past – the grim faces of dukes, heroes, the figures of myth – all watching us with blank, stone eyes from their hollow alcoves. Heavy, stained beams of timber criss-crossed beneath the quiet slope of the slate roof, their wavering half shadows criss-crossing again upon the ceiling above. There was only one window, to the side of the altar, which looked out over the Keep’s inner courtyard. During the day, and especially in the morning when the sun streamed directly into the room, only the altar was ever properly lit, drawing the eyes. Something to do with enlightenment, I suppose.
The only light that night came from large candles set to either side of the altar, and spaced sparingly along the walls. They gave out only small, shuddering hallows of light in the dimness of the room, and the corresponding shadows gave the illusion of movement in stone faces and body alike, as if each were struggling back into life.
The body lay in the middle of the floor, perhaps closer to the altar. “You seem surprised I include the Chamberlain,” the Duke said once the door was shut. “Don’t be. You must trust nobody. If my suspicions are correct, the source of this treachery is hidden deep within the castle, somewhere you will not wish to look – but must.”
“Then, that includes not only the Chamberlain, but the Captain of the Guard, your own priest, the Lord Tameron…”
He stopped me with an impatient wave. “Not Tameron. He gains nothing from this. He may be my son but he cannot be my heir. He is safe no matter what happens.”
“With respect, Your Grace, sibling rivalry…”
“Tameron is not a fool,” snapped the Duke. “He would not do this. He knows his position: he knows he cannot succeed me. He is safe.”
“As you wish, sire.”
I was not convinced, in actuality, but there was that hidden emotion again, much stronger than before. I was not about to challenge that.
“Good. Now, look at the boy.”
I hesitated. Until this moment I had concentrated on the Duke, keeping him between the body and me. I was not comfortable in my new role. Examining death was not something I had been created for. That was for physicians, soldiers and gravediggers.
“I said look,” the Duke growled.
Reluctantly, I obeyed.
The first thing that struck me was the absolute stillness. There was no labouring to draw breath after breath. The eyes were fixed and dull. The limbs were without even the involuntary jerks with which we are plagued in sleep. And the flesh was so white – even the skin of a prisoner, locked away for many, many years, is not so pale, so grey. It seemed an empty copy of the boy I knew, unable to capture the exact likeness of the original. It was terrible to think that, before that night, this thing had lived.
And it had been so young, only thirteen. He had been arrogant, unnecessarily condescending and presumptuous when alive, but he still should not have been lying there. The Duke was so self-absorbed that he could not see that. The body was just a statement to him.
I turned away, feeling nauseous.
“Look at him, Steward. Until the traitors who did this are found, he is the source of your continued existence. He is the beginning and the end of your pursuit. Take your time to examine him.”
I could sense the Duke’s gaze on the side of my face. In my mind I pictured his cold, calculating stare. How could he be so uncaring? Surely there had been some hidden fondness for this boy, some part of him that needed to grieve?
But this was not the time for such considerations, not with the Duke watching me so closely. Taking a breath, I turned back to the corpse.
“Remember all you see, my lord Steward,” the Duke said. “In perfect detail. Tomorrow, this room will be purged of this insult.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
I struggled for some time, wanting to turn away, wishing I was somewhere else, fighting to concentrate. The body was a terrifying thing for me to look upon. I had to teach myself to weave objectivity about my thoughts, to control the natural responses that kept rising in my gorge. It was a form of ignorance, really; of ignoring what it really was I looked at by dressing it in cold fact. Perhaps that was how the Duke remained so detached, through ignorance.
The body lay sprawled face down on the floor. The arms and legs were bent into a frozen crawl, one hand reached toward the door. I had seen a body fall from a castle’s battlements once and he had landed like this. Such a death, of course, was out of the question here. It was just a memory.
The head lay on its side. The face was turned toward the door, surprise and pain locked into its features. The back of the head was badly damaged, as was much of the neck; covered in deep gashes and abrasions. The wounds were mostly clean of blood, and the hair wet. All around the head and shoulders the flagstones were touched with gentle whispers of blood. The floor was damp from the water that had run from the body.
The remains of a large pottery jar lay in shards all about. One large section from its neck was still intact, the jagged edges touched with red. The jar was one of two that had once held the Font’s precious water.
“You see the full significance,” said the Duke. “My heir and the water joined together in ruin; the future and the past inseparably combined to signify extinction.” The Duke paused. “My family’s, Steward, the Dynasty’s.”
“I’m not entirely sure that I understand, Your Grace.”
“Only a fool does not understand!” – snapped. “The boy was my heir, the water was from the Font. Here is an image, here is a declaration of intent, here is the physical representation of a wish. But a wish is all it will ever be: the Font always provides.”
Ah yes, the Font. It stood, a heavy presence, by the altar’s side: a large, square block of grey-white stone. At its crown, a deep, imperfect bowl was hollowed, water-pitted and green-tinged from century old rituals. Two channels carried water from the basin to collecting vessels at the Font’s base. When full, these vessels were emptied into storage jars to protect against drought. As they say, have faith in God but tie up your horse.
I have often thought the Font a remarkably simple device, considering the power it held within Graemist. It was, in fact, central to the whole Duchy’s way of life…
David Allen is a writer, actor and playwright based in Christchurch, New Zealand. He has a Diploma in Performance Art from the National Academy of Singing and Dramatic Arts, and a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English Literature from the University of Canterbury (New Zealand). Several of his plays have been produced and range from gothic mystery to period comedy and romance. A fan of Marina and Sergey Dyachenko, Ursula Le Guin, J. R. R. Tolkien and Tad Williams, he writes mostly speculative fiction. The real world is far too unbelievable! He experiments with the Gothic, sometimes downplaying the overt fantasy elements of his world to create an alternate history, magical realism construct. To date, he has written a full-length novel (Graemist), a novella, and is in the process of editing his second novel.