“My dear, that was a very nice throw, but I wouldn’t do it again. One outburst they’ll explain away as high spirits, but more than one would be taken as a sign of tension.”
“I hate jesters,” growled William.
“That wasn’t a jester.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Gabrielle smiled despite herself. William made a placating gesture with his hand.
“I know, dear, it was a stupid thing to do, but I’m going crazy just sitting here doing nothing. How much longer before I can diplomatically leave?”
“No more than an hour or so, my love. Now eat your dinner. It’s delicious.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat it anyway. There are too many rumors of poison going around the Court at the moment, and we can’t afford to look timid in front of our guests.”
William looked unenthusiastically at the platter of roast beef before him. “Where’s the mustard? Can’t eat beef without mustard.”
“Right in front of you, dear.”
A messenger hurried in through a side door, spotted the Regent at the high table, and hurried over to him. William smiled graciously at him, but his pulse quickened. He’d left instructions he wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was vitally important. The messenger bowed briefly to him, and then leaned forward to murmur in his ear.
“A Captain Doyle to see you, my lord. He says it’s urgent.”
“Doyle?”
“One of the steward’s men, my lord.”
“Bring him in. I’ll talk to him.”
The messenger hurried away, and William settled back in his chair, frowning in spite of himself. He knew he wasn’t supposed to look worried in front of his guests, but of late the steward seemed only to have bad news for him. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but more and more he had to fight down an urge to shout and rant at her for letting things get so out of hand … William rubbed tiredly at his aching eyes. Had the Unreal broken through again? And if so, what did Taggert expect him to do about it? He’d already given her carte blanche to do whatever she thought necessary to protect the castle. The messenger returned with the guard captain, and William looked him over dubiously. Doyle had to be the scruffiest guard he’d ever seen. The man was a disgrace to his uniform. Doyle came to a halt beside the Regent, and gestured with his head for the messenger to leave. The messenger looked at William, who nodded. Doyle waited till the messenger was out of earshot before speaking, and William felt his tension build.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, my lord,” said Doyle quietly, “but Count Penhalligan and his family are dead.”
“Dead?” William looked at the guard blankly. Richard Penhalligan had always been one of his closest friends and his staunchest supporter. “You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord.”
“And his family? Even the children?”
“Yes, my lord. The Unreal broke through in their chambers. It was very sudden. There was nothing anyone could have done. We used a sanctuary to put the room back to rights, but the Penhalligans were long dead by the time we got to them.”
“I see,” said William. “Thank you for keeping me informed. Perhaps you could start arrangements for their burial.”
“I’m afraid not, my lord.” Doyle’s voice was rough, as always, but there was an honest compassion there as well. “There isn’t enough left of them to bury. We did everything we could …”
“I’m sure you did.” William looked away from the guard. He suddenly felt very tired. His family were all dead and gone, and he’d lost most of his real friends in Malcolm’s bloody campaigns. Richard Penhalligan had been the last; a brave knight and a cunning politician. He played the dulcimer badly, and always knew the latest jokes. And now he was gone, like all the others. William looked back at the waiting guard.
“Where is the steward now?”
“Up on the roof, my lord, dealing with the gargoyles.”
“Tell her I’d like to see her, when she has a spare moment. It’s not important, but I would like to see her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Captain Doyle sketched him a quick bow, and scurried away. William watched him go. Not all that long ago, it had been the custom for rulers to execute those who brought them bad news. William could understand why. There was a sick, hollow anger churning within him, and he wanted to lash out at someone, anyone, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to appear calm and controlled at all times, even when he was falling apart inside. His followers expected it of him. Damn them. He leaned back in his chair, and wished that he could leave. He was tired; he was always tired, these days. He was so tense he couldn’t ever relax, and what little sleep he got didn’t refresh him. Gabrielle did her best to help and support him, but there wasn’t really anything she could do. He looked across at her, and saw she was looking at him concernedly. He managed a small smile for her.
“Don’t worry, my love. I’m all right. Just thinking.”
“About Richard? I am sorry, William.”
“I know. I’ll miss him, more than I can say. But no, I wasn’t just thinking about him. More and more I keep wondering if I’m doing the right thing. The Rite of Transference is a hell of a gamble, and it could all so easily go wrong. We could end up with a real villain for a king. And the alternatives may not be as bad as we thought. My little talk with Viktor went a lot better than I had anticipated. Exile’s changed him a lot, and all for the better. Maybe I was wrong to meddle in the succession after all.”
“Now, stop that,” said Gabrielle quickly. “You and I spent months weighing up the pros and cons of what we might have to do when father died. This is the only way to save Redhart, and you know it. They’re my family, William, and I know them far better than you ever could. None of my brothers are fit to be king, least of all Viktor. Ah, he’s mellowed a lot, I’ll grant you that, but if anything he’s weaker and more indecisive now than he ever was. They’re my father’s sons, all three of them—worthless to the bone.”
“Now, Gabrielle, that’s not true. Your father and I had our disagreements, but there was still much in the man that I admired.”
“He was a fool,” said Gabrielle flatly. “He wasted his life on endless battles for a few extra miles of land. All he ever really cared for was bloodshed and slaughter. Never had any time for his family. My mother worshiped him, and she was lucky if she saw him one day in ten. And his children hardly saw him at all. If he’d spent more time with his sons, they might not have turned out the way they did.”
“He can’t have been all bad,” said William, smiling. “He managed to produce you, didn’t he?”
“Don’t change the subject. Redhart needs a strong king, a king it can rely on, and the simple truth is that none of Malcolm’s sons are fit to rule. Were any of them to become king, Redhart would face utter devastation. You can change that. History will remember you as the man who put an end to the nightmare. I know it’s been hard for you, my love, but it’s nearly over now. Just hang on a little longer. I know how close you and Richard were, how much he meant to you, but you’re not alone. You still have me.”
“Yes,” said William, smiling gently. “I still have you.”
Grey Davey glared down the wide corridor that led into the West Wing. Oil lamps and flaring torches burned at regular intervals along the walls, but halfway down the corridor the light faded away into an impenetrable darkness. The tense air was hot and moist, like a midsummer night before a thunderstorm. It smelt vaguely of urine and burning cloth. There was something unsettling about the darkness that filled the corridor. The longer Davey looked at it, the more he began to feel dizzy and light-headed. It felt almost like vertigo, as though he was looking down from the top of a tall tower. He deliberately looked away for a moment, and the feeling began to fade. Davey glanced at the guard captain beside him, who nodded understandingly.
Captain Timothy Blood was an average height man in his early forties, with short dark hair and unremarkable features. Put him in a crowd, and you could walk right past him without noticing. Which was why he’d spent most of his early career as a spy. He’d been very good at it. He worked mostly in Hillsdown and the Forest Kingdom, and they never even knew he’d been there, until they discovered something secret had gone missing. And by then he was always long gone. But eventually the life began to pall on him, as his need for thrills and excitement gave way to a deeper need to be able to trust someone. Anyone. His years in service had earned him a captain’s rank in the guards, and he took it with never a single regretful thought. It wasn’t a bad life in the guards, all told. Or at least it hadn’t been, until King Malcolm’s death. Now he was kept busy from dawn to dusk trying to keep the princes’ troops from each other’s throats, and the Unreal seemed to be breaking through everywhere at once.
Blood stirred uneasily. None of the hard lessons he’d learned playing the ancient game of danger and deceit were any use when it came to facing the Unreal. He tapped the flat of his sword against his leg, and wished he’d brought along something heavier as well, like a mace or a morning star. He smiled slightly. Why not wish for a suit of armor while he was at it? The Unreal might be somewhat disturbing, but it was just a part of his job, and he’d deal with it in the same way he dealt with all the other problems his job produced—by hard work, perseverance, and if need be, cheating. He flexed his shoulders, trying to keep the muscles relaxed and easy. Having Grey Davey nearby helped. The sanctuary’s presence was both calming and invigorating. Problems seemed simpler and easier to deal with, and fears and insecurities faded away into the background. Unfortunately, sanctuaries were immune to their own power.
Grey Davey glared down the corridor, his glare deepening into an angry scowl. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he said finally. “I mean, this is the West Wing, damn it. Nothing ever goes wrong in the West Wing.”
“Great,” said Blood. “That means the darkness ahead is nothing more than a mass hallucination, and we can all go back to our beds. Only it isn’t a hallucination. Is it? Tell me what to do, Davey. You’re the expert.”
Davey sniffed sourly. “When it comes to the Unreal, there aren’t any experts. Just people who’ve stayed alive longer than others. Fill me in on what’s been happening here, Tim. Maybe we can still nip this in the bud before it has a chance to establish itself.”
“Things started to feel wrong about an hour ago,” said Blood, glancing briefly at the darkness down the corridor, to make sure it wasn’t getting any closer. “One of our regular patrols in this area hadn’t reported back. I sent in another patrol to see what was keeping them. They didn’t report back either. And then I started to hear some disturbing rumors. On a normal day, people pass in and out of this wing all the time, just going about their daily business. Only now people were still going in, but they didn’t seem to be coming back out again. And people who went to look for them just vanished without a trace. So I sent for a sanctuary. Just before you got here, this darkness appeared in all the corridors that led into the West Wing. Whatever’s in there knows you’re here.”
“That’s what I like about you, Tim,” said Davey. “You’re always such an optimist.”
“Would you rather I lied to you about our chances?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
They stood together awhile, looking down the corridor. The darkness seemed to shift and stir, as though it was watching them. Behind them, Blood’s company of guards murmured uncertainly among themselves, and waited for orders. Blood glanced back at them, and knew he’d better get them moving soon. Once they were doing something, they’d be too busy to be scared. He wished for a moment that he’d brought more than just the one squad. A dozen guards weren’t much to set against the Unreal. On the other hand, when it came to the Unreal he could have a hundred guards at his back and he still wouldn’t feel secure. He looked at Grey Davey, and decided he’d better start the ball rolling. Left to himself, Davey tended to forget the urgency of the situation, and just stand around thinking. But Blood couldn’t give the order to go in himself: that had to come from Davey. The sanctuary outranked him.
“Any advice for my men, before we go in?” said Blood, tactfully.
“Yeah. Try not to get killed.” Grey Davey scowled suddenly, and glanced sideways at Blood. “Sorry, Tim. This business has got me all upset. The West Wing has always been the most stable part of the castle: the one area you could depend on. If that’s been breached by the Unreal, then nowhere’s safe anymore. Get your men ready, Tim. We’re going in.”
Timothy Blood nodded to his men, and there was a brief whisper of steel on leather as they drew their swords. Blood moved unhurriedly among them, checking their weapons and equipment, and murmuring the odd word of encouragement where needed. He forced himself not to be overanxious. The Unreal was always dangerous, but these were good men. Professionals. He could trust them to do their job. Blood detailed three of them to carry torches. He wasn’t sure how much use they’d be in the Unreal darkness, but he wanted the option. He racked his brain for anything he might have forgotten, but quickly realized he was just putting off the moment when he’d have to lead the way into the darkness. It was at times like this that he really missed being a spy. He nodded brusquely to Grey Davey, and the two of them set off down the corridor toward the darkness, the company of guards close behind them.
The darkness seemed to swirl hypnotically as they drew nearer. The temperature dropped sharply, and Blood clenched his teeth to stop them chattering. He shivered once, and hoped no one would mistake it for nerves. The Unreal night loomed up before them, and Blood and Davey hesitated only a moment before stepping into it. It was horribly silent inside the darkness, as though they’d suddenly been transported miles underground. The light from the guards’ torches produced a pool of light just big enough to move in. Beyond the pale golden glow there was nothing but the night. The small sounds the party made as they moved along seemed strangely distinct and magnified, but there were no echoes. Blood had no way of telling where he was, or what if anything might lie outside the pool of light. He hefted his sword nervously, and then lifted his hand suddenly to call a halt. Something was moving out there in the darkness. The guards stirred nervously as they heard it too: soft scuffing sounds, not far away, and something that might have been the stealthy pattering of clawed feet. The sounds circled the group slowly, never once entering the pool of light. And then, from out of the darkness, there came the sound of something giggling. Blood’s hackles rose. There was nothing human about the shrill laughter.