The interior of the castle was surprisingly warm. Samakarantha had not realised how cold he had been outside. The blush of heat put a tingling into his chill cheeks, lips and nose. After a time, Samakarantha even started to feel a touch suffocated in the warmth. Every room had its own well-stoked hearth.
The castle had an oddly eclectic and cosy air to its interior. Bright, chaotic rugs and tapestries lined the walls and floors. In many of the spaces, intricate wood panels had been used for walling instead of bare stone, and these were painted purples and yellows. In some rooms, a riot of paintings in ludicrous gilt frames blotted out every inch of space. Forgotten and ancient suits of armour stood in corners and more than a few taxidermy beasts that Samakarantha did not recognise stood idly about the place too, snarling and baring their claws, or staring glassily into the middle distance. Here was a creature that was fawn-coloured, dappled and goat-like, but sporting a single twisting horn. And here, a fox with tiny deer antlers. In the next room, a great serpent with two stubby fore-claws, a shaggy mane and a horse-like head. There were beasts that Samakarantha knew as well, though their coats and hue were often strange: bears, wolves, gullions… some had dark shaggy pelts, whilst others had fur as white and blinding as snow beneath a midnight sun. Once, he passed what seemed to be an otter three or four times the size of a large dog. All of these creatures were dusty with age. Samakarantha had the distinct feeling that it had perhaps been a great many years since such things had been at liberty in any wilderness near the city and its gritty-stoned castle.
At last they arrived at a waiting place decorated with cloth-of-gold and dark lilac velvet.
A set of massive arched doors stood open at one end, opening into a large space that could only be the throne room. Although Samakarantha could see little more than rows of pillars and the flicker of fire-cast shadows, the very air had the feel of residing power.
One of the guards said, “Wait here till called.”
Another entered through the archway and announced in a slightly croaky voice, “Your Grace. Lairds. Ladies. The foreign wizard has arrived and awaits the pleasure of the court.”
The voice that answered was much thinner and higher than Samakarantha had expected. “It is no one’s pleasure to wait alone in a hearthless room. Call for him, and make him welcome.”
“Well,” said the nearest guard, “You heard Our Grace. On you get then. And if you want advice–which I’m sure you don’t–watch your words. Our Grace is sensitive about a certain, um, aspect of himself. Though he will not stoop to anger over a careless remark, there are some of his thegns and lairds who might. A few of them are a little too willing to prove their loyalty, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do. Thank you.”
Samakarantha entered a room that was large and studded with as many columns as a forest has trees. People were gathered at the sides of the room, many in courtly clothing, a few in armour of a lordly style and decoration. At the far end of the space was a throne, but the throne and the king who sat on the throne were not what the magus had expected. The throne appeared to be a huge living plant with greyish leaves and purple flowers. It took him some moments to realise that it was a gigantic heather, grown into a tangle of branches and stems far beyond the thickness of a natural plant. Whether this was by some skill of a clever gardener or by charmed arts, he could not decide. However, that the plant appeared to be growing out of cracks in the stone and was in flower at a time when most heather was not, perhaps suggested the latter.
Seated in the throne was the king. Samakarantha had met many kings in his time. Fiery men with raging tempers. Proud warrior-kings and hunters. Poet-lords. Vast rotund monarchs who spent every moment devouring honey and fine suet puddings and date tarts.
But here was a thin, fragile creature who looked as if he might be a scarecrow dressed in finery. At first, it was not even clear that the king was alive and not a stuffed doll. He was half-reclined, half-slumped in the throne and his head was nodded forward so that the face was near invisible. There was not a trace of movement, not even a breath.
Samakarantha cleared his voice, softly, and said, “Your majesty, your grace, monarch of the hills and the glens, allow me to speak my name and the deeds by which I am known.
He thought he saw a slight nod from the wretchedly thin shape. An attendant, who presumably had the job of interpreting slight movements announced, “The king will hear you.”
“Very good and with much thanks. I am he that is called Samakarantha, born of Mtawu and the Gold Dales. Magus of the Twelve Jewels of the Sun and of the Order of the Dawn Theurgists. Initiate of the Western and Eastern Sun Temples. I am he that they call the Speaker of Golden Stories. I am Arch-Magus and Majerre Resplendent. I have crossed great seas, and stared hard into the glassy depths of visions and premonitions. In all this, and bearing with me such power as I have, so do I come. I am at your service in this dark hour.”
A thin, whistling voice came then. “Approach.”
He did, crossing the distance in his long strides, his black and white gown and robe trailing like phantom wings behind him. When he was within about a dozen paces, the king raised a hand, though it clearly took great effort and his hand trembled. the attendant spoke curtly. “Stop. You have come near enough.”
At that the king lifted his head. The whole of his face was hidden by a silver mask. It was a beautiful mask, showing a youthful boy, with curls of silver hair and joyful lips and clean, clear features. Behind the mask, eyes blinked and took in Samakarnatha.
The magus took in the eyes.
Those were not the eyes of an elder, close to death. Those were young eyes. Watery, certainly. Weak, yes. And full of pain, absolutely. But those were the eyes of a boy.
“How old are you?” asked the magician.
A stir went through the crowd, murmuring and muttering. The attendant sputtered.
However, the king did not stir. “It is not an impolite question. It is a cautious and careful question. After all, how would our visitor know anything of me? We are a small kingdom, far from civilised lands. And how would he unravel anything of me at a glance, as I sit here? I am swaddled like a babe under cloaks of velvet. My face is hidden.” He gave out a rotten sounding breath of rattling air. “I have seen fifteen summers. I am near upon my sixteenth. The doctors and herbmasters think I am unlikely to see seventeen.”
“What ails you, good monarch.”
“The Writhe.”
At that Samakarantha’s hope dwindled to nothing more than an ember. “Ah. That is an illness I have not met before. I have heard of it though. The affliction is not prone to cures that are sorcerous and artful, I gather.”
“It is not prone to any cures, I am told.”
“I see.” He paused a time in thought. “Nonetheless, perhaps in private quarters I might look upon you unmasked and try some cures and kind spoken incantations. I will likely not prevail, where others have failed… but, small hope is better than none.”
“My friend here, the Keeper of Keys does tell me that a small hope is worse than none. He has told me many times. Have you not, Renshaw?”
“I have often said that, your grace. Small hope is only hopelessness dressed up in a tattered gown.”
Samakarantha allowed himself a smile. “That is a dismal view to take, and in my experience not true.”
“Well,” replied the attendant with a sneering sort of half-smile, “We have had different experiences in life. That much is clear.”
Samakarantha surveyed the others who were gathered near the throne. These were lords and ladies, all richly dressed. Some wore armour. Shining long coats of silvery mail. Polished leathers and scale-armour in golds, reds and greens. More than a few of them did have something of an elfin cast to their features, with irises of unnatural bronze-red hue and skin that was pale beyond the whiteness of milk. Perhaps it was true that some of the noble houses from more far flung lands had some fane in their blood. They certainly looked that they might.
The moment stretched.
At last the king grew impatient and asked, “And what is it that you propose you might do for us, magician? I am told that night-terrors and beasts of ancient myth are stalking the lands. Vast armies march under banners woven not of cloth, but of shadow and darkness. What do you propose?”
“I have some power to bring, if it comes to clash and battle. But also, I have friends and allies. Some that you perhaps have not considered. Already I have sent messages, west and south and east. How many can come in aid, I do not know. I suspect it will depend on the outcome of battles elsewhere, and that I cannot predict.”
“So you might bring great aid or nothing at all?”
He smiled in as warm a way as he could. “That is the way of it.”
“And what do you require of me?”
“Free movement in your city. Permission to go beyond your walls and look upon the lands and speak with the refugees who are upon the road.”
The king was considering this when a noise and ruckus started up at the great archway that gave access to the throne room. Raised voices could be heard. There were some scuffling sounds and a cry of, “Hold! Not without the king’s invitation!”
“Damn the king’s invitation.” This voice boomed and echoed. The owner strode into view a moment later. He was tall, a good hand over six foot, red haired with a massive beard marked by black streaks. His eyes were wet and shining, almost feverish. The armour he wore was not the decorative stuff of the nobles near the throne. It was rough and ready, well-used, dirty with dust and blood, and cut here and there with sword strokes that had clearly not gone deep enough to kill the wearer.
“Redthorn,” said the king, quietly enough that Samakarantha had to strain to hear.
Samakarnatha himself moved just slightly to one side and watched this fiery haired man shove and stride his way forward. He was followed by a crowd of equally grim-dressed soldiers. Several carried heavy, bulging hessian sacks that were noticeably stained with dark, sticky patches. That seemed worrying.
One of the men passed close enough to give the magician a suspicious glare, but Samakarantha just smiled and nodded and said, “Good graces and joys be upon you.”
That got an even darker scowl in return.