The Scrivener's Tale #1

TWELVE

Florentyna was ushered silently into the chapel by Burrage. She could see the pale body laid out on the marble plinth while four tall, creamy beeswax candles burned near it: one at his head, one at his feet, and a candle at each side. She was immediately relieved to see that it was definitely not Reynard.
The candle near his right hand guttered and Florentyna noted how the attending cleric reached quickly for his snips to trim the wick; there was so much superstition surrounding bodies and their spirits these days that even the men of Shar paid them heed. She was sure the less people believed in the old magics, the more fearful they became of old superstitions and the greater they intensified their devotions to Shar. These fears seemed to be harking back to the Zerque days, when even a reflection in a puddle of water bore sinister significance.
To Florentyna, however, who took a more pragmatic view, it was simply a flickering candle and nothing to do with spirits — evil or good. Burrage had flinched, however, and looked anxiously at the cleric until he’d achieved a steady burn of the flame again.
She was able to approach the dead man with far less emotion now that she knew it was not Reynard, and as she drew alongside him she experienced a wave of pity on Dean Flek’s behalf. He belonged to others: a grieving wife and perhaps some children might miss him; certainly friends — like Master Pel — mourned his passing. Such a waste and such a brutal way to die. She knew death occurred all around her for one reason or another, much of it early and thus cruel, but there was something sinister about this man’s demise. There were too many questions surrounding it. Why had an innocent dean been killed so savagely? It wasn’t theft, and according to Pel he had no known enemies. Why had the stranger — the presumed killer — been naked? There was even the suggestion that the naked man — Gabriel was the name Pel had tentatively suggested — was of another world.
Burrage may have given a scornful glance, but this last notion is what had unnerved her the most. It was particularly relevant given that Fynch had warned her of this type of threat arriving. But who could she tell? Who would listen to her? Reynard was not here to consult, and she had no idea of how to find Master Fynch.
‘Your majesty,’ the robed man murmured softly, bowing his head. ‘We laid him out, as requested.’ He nodded at the open eyes of the corpse.
‘Thank you, Morn. Is Father Cuthben about?’ she asked the young man, marvelling, as she often did, at his neatly shaved pate as he bent. It suited his small, round head.
‘No, majesty. He is at the leper colony for the next two days. I can swiftly organise anything you need.’
She smiled. ‘I appreciate it. That will be all, thank you, Morn. We can manage from here.’
He bowed and silently left.
Florentyna returned her gaze to the dead man. He was no longer in his prime but he had surely had a kindly look about him, despite’s Pel’s claims that he was a stickler for this or that. His once-warm brown eyes were staring sightlessly at the intricately painted chapel ceiling and she briefly looked up at the mural that Emperor Cailech had commissioned to be painted. She had always loved it. The artist, Fairlow, had taken most of his adult life to complete it. It was breathtakingly beautiful, a rendition of the Wild beyond the border where legend had it that dragons flew above the forests and streams, where exotic flowers and other strange fauna abounded. She admired Fairlow’s imaginative flair; the lifelike paintings that always made her feel as though the king of the beasts was staring just at her. Not with ferocity, though; more with affection and with joy.
A boy rode the back of the dragon. The legendary Fynch.
That name was haunting her.
‘I told the priest not to finalise anything with the body, your majesty, particularly that you had requested seeing it as it was found,’ Burrage said.
‘And I suppose Pel and other villagers would have been too superstitious to close his eyes anyway.’
‘Indeed, majesty. Until prayers were said for him and the name of his killer passed to someone somewhere, they would continue believing his spirit was watching the murderer.’
‘Piffle,’ she lamented, snapping her attention back to Flek. ‘Do you believe that Father Morn or Cuthben might now miraculously give us the name of Flek’s killer?’
‘No. But even I do feel more comfortable for our spiritual protocols to be followed.’
She sighed and Burrage continued.
‘Clearly Pel was so shocked, your majesty, I doubt anyone was prepared to interfere at all with the body.’
She nodded her understanding.
‘What are you hoping to see here, your majesty … er, if you don’t mind me enquiring?’ Burrage asked carefully.
‘I don’t know. I hoped something would give a reason why Reynard’s quill was found with him. Did he steal it? Was he given it?’ She didn’t wait for Burrage to answer. ‘I doubt it was the former. Flek was well liked and known according to Pel. I can’t imagine him for a thief.’
‘No, majesty,’ Burrage said softly in the background over her thoughts.
‘So that leaves us with Dean Flek being left with Reynard’s quill? Why? Reynard treasured that swan quill. He would never have given it away and even if he did, why to the naked stranger?’
‘Perhaps stolen by this Gabriel fellow?’ Burrage tried.
She shook her head, irritated that this puzzle eluded her yet feeling conscious of a hidden ‘awareness’, which some people claimed everyone possessed but rarely tapped into, that this man or at least his death was connected with Fynch’s warning.
‘Majesty, my head is spinning with all the potential conclusions we could draw. The fact is, unless this corpse can talk, we’ll never know.’
She didn’t care about Burrage’s dizzy head. She knew she was right — the quill was surely meant to be found. The dead man’s modesty was protected with linen. Her gaze took in his thick legs before turning to the hands, which were large and sunbrowned. Flek clearly didn’t mind working outdoors. She moved to his left and turned that hand over, not at all squeamish about touching the corpse.
It was cool and surprisingly dry, although it had lost its springiness. Florentyna could see the depression of her fingers, which in living flesh would have rebounded immediately.
‘If he was left with Reynard’s quill perhaps he is a scrivener of sorts?’ Burrage offered, clearly feeling redundant. ‘We could ask Pel if —’
‘No ink,’ she remarked briskly. ‘Every scrivener I’ve met had stained hands,’ she said, in a vaguely dismissive tone. Then her voice softened. ‘No, this man did not write or copy with ink, not even for a hobby, Burrage.’
‘You’re most observant, your majesty,’ he commented.
She gave a mournful smile. ‘His death will remain a mystery. The riddle of Reynard’s disappearance is now further clouded by the quill’s appearance. I’m embarrassed to think that that man Fynch could know more.’
Burrage stared at her stonily. ‘He was mild enough, your majesty, but he was stirring trouble. I’ll never understand why Chancellor Reynard brought a doomsayer into your life.’ He cleared his throat and waited, but when she didn’t say anything in response, he asked, ‘Why are you thinking of Master Fynch?’
She blew out her cheeks, frustrated. Florentyna shrugged a shoulder. ‘He haunts me.’
Burrage frowned. He was standing by the head of the dead man. ‘In what way?’
‘Something about his manner, some intensity, that demanded I take notice of him.’ She could tell from his expression that Burrage thought she was reading too much into Fynch’s presence. He began to smile and she interrupted whatever was about to be said. ‘Reynard trusted him implicitly. He had shared things with the former chancellor. When I was dismissive, Reynard —’
‘Pardon me, your majesty, but claims of magical beings descending on the Crown of Morgravia was really too much for even —’
‘That’s the point though,’ she cut in. ‘Our sensible, clear-thinking Reynard handed over his trust and all but demanded I listen to Master Fynch. I don’t know what hold he had over the chancellor. What if that hold led Reynard to leave the palace, desert his position and go in search of this threat?’
There! She’d finally aired what had been nagging at her but she could see she wasn’t making much sense to Burrage.
‘Well, we’ve found his quill,’ Burrage said in a tone of comfort, just pulling up short of patting her hand soothingly. ‘Presumably more will turn up if we remain patient.’
The same candle began to gutter again and Burrage frowned. He walked around the corpse to check the wick himself this time. ‘Must be one of those woollen wicks. The royal chapel is supposed to have only silk wicks — linen at worst,’ he tutted, but she could see he was unnerved at the demented flickering. She knew he was fighting the superstitious notion that it was the soul of the dead man trying to reach out to the living.
He began to fiddle with the wick. ‘May I blow this one out, majesty? It shouldn’t offend our dead friend here,’ he offered.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. Burrage blew on the flame, coughing quietly as the light winked out, when two extraordinary events occurred.
Florentyna gasped as she saw the shadow on the man’s palm. She reached over his body to lift his hand to look more closely and then cried out, spinning through a full circle of fear as she heard the word ‘Help’ being called, as though carried on the breath of Burrage as he blew out the flame.
Burrage stared, transfixed. ‘Are you all right, your majesty?’
‘Burrage, did you hear that?’
He looked stunned. ‘Hear what? I … I thought I heard a door in the distance creaking,’ he offered.
‘No, no, not a door. Did you hear someone speak?’
He shook his head and looked around, clearly spooked. ‘Morn!’ he yelled uncharacteristically loudly.
The man rushed in through the door he’d left closed. ‘Yes, your majesty … is something wrong?’ he enquired, looking between them.
‘Is anyone else in the chapel?’ the queen asked.
He shook his head. ‘I was told to ensure no-one else would be visiting at this time.’
Burrage glanced at her and took up the questioning. ‘Have you seen anyone around?’
‘We are alone, I swear. The guard passed just a few moments before you called for me. All is calm and quiet.’
Florentyna shook her head distractedly. She moved to the other side of the body to get a better look at what she thought she’d seen in the shadow. Florentyna leaned closer to stare at the man’s chest, which was woolly with grey hair.
‘There!’ she said, astonished.
Burrage peered closer. ‘Shar’s breath! What is it?’
She recognised it immediately with her sharp eyesight. ‘It’s the imprint of the royal sigil. And what’s more I am sure it’s the version of the one burned onto Reynard’s swan quill.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The miniature size … and see the break, there, on the leg of the dragon?’ she pointed, excited. ‘It’s the same on the quill!’
He did not share her glee. Stared at her with frightened eyes. ‘How can that be?’
She shook her head, eyes sparkling with intrigue. ‘I don’t know, Master Burrage. But we can both see it so we know we aren’t imagining this. And what’s more I heard a voice.’
Burrage now looked petrified. ‘Whose?’ he asked, sounding reluctant to hear the answer.
‘His!’ she replied, ruthlessly throwing more kindling onto the fire of his fear.
Burrage gave a squeak, stepping back from the chapel’s dead guest.
She looked between the two men, slightly frightened herself, definitely embarrassed that she was nodding her head in such an obstinate way. ‘I heard him.’
Morn gave a light sneer, stopped himself before he gave offence to the highest office in the land, and steepled his fingers in a show of quiet superiority. ‘Forgive me, your majesty. May I ask did you touch the body?’
‘Yes,’ she said, just short of snapping. ‘I lifted his arm.’
‘Ah,’ he said, with smug understanding. A look of sympathy flickered into his expression as he adopted the tone of explaining something to a child. ‘Quite often when a body is shifted, or indeed even as it lies, air will escape. It’s not uncommon to believe the dead are speaking when, in truth, it’s simply the body settling. You were mistaken, majesty. Be assured, this corpse did not speak.’
Her lips thinned slightly. Morn had tried but had lost the battle not to sound condescending. She straightened her bearing to show her full height. ‘I did not imagine what I heard.’
‘Oh, dear me, no, your majesty, I’m not for a moment suggesting you did. It’s just that the physics have explained the stages of the decomposing body to me. And I have been around enough to know that odd “sighs” do occur. It can be most disconcerting.’
‘It was not a sigh, Morn; it was a man calling out. He pleaded for help.’
Morn looked at her aghast.
‘Surely, your majesty is not —’ Burrage began.
‘I know what I heard, Burrage. It was not a door creaking, it was not a dead body settling, it was quite clearly the word “Help”.’ She glared at each of them, with her mouth set in a firm line, then she moved, speaking as she did so. ‘Morn, no-one is to shift or touch this man’s body,’ she said, reaching the chapel’s door. ‘Burrage, I want you to find Master Fynch.’
He blinked. ‘How?’
She pushed open the chapel door. ‘I don’t know how and I’m not sure I care. Find him. Have messages sent to every corner of the realm. He was on foot as far as I know so he may still be close. Nail up summons in all the town squares, spread the word among inns. Word travels faster than pigeon or horse but feel free to use every form of communication at your disposal. Get it moving. I want Master Fynch found and brought to me urgently.’
She left both men staring at the empty space where she had stood.
Cassien looked around the small, empty outbuilding that he’d been brought to. In a corner a small brazier burned. It struck him as odd but he didn’t think further on it as he was held between two of Murdo’s friends. He could smell the liquor coming off their breath.
‘I’m going to enjoy fighting you,’ Murdo said, dark eyes glittering as he paced before him like a bull pawing at the ground before it charged.
‘It won’t be a fight, Murdo,’ Cassien said. ‘I won’t strike you back.’
‘It’s your choice, stranger. I’ll just beat you into a pulpy heap, then.’
‘I suppose you will and that’s easy, given that you have me held between your obedient dogs. It’s hardly a fair challenge and far from the courage I’d expect from Razor braves.’
The men holding him showed their offence by pulling his arms harder and further behind his back until his tendons felt as though they might snap, his joints might pop.
‘Who are you calling a dog?’ one said.
Cassien simply stared at Murdo, his expression unchanged by the stresses on his body.
‘Let him go,’ Murdo ordered, frowning.
They shoved him forward, no doubt expecting him to fall over but Cassien was far too nimble on his feet and he took a step and twisted back, just in time to miss the blow that Murdo thought he’d land.
Cassien smiled at Murdo.
‘Put your fists up, pretty boy, so I can “fairly” smash up that freshly shaved jaw of yours.’
‘I don’t need my fists,’ Cassien replied, already seeing the blow before Murdo could land it.
Murdo punched … and felt only air against his knuckles. He turned to look for Cassien and found him standing behind him. He looked baffled. ‘Can’t you stand still and fight like a man?’
‘Like a man who doesn’t know how to fight, you mean? Like you, Murdo?’
Murdo roared and struck with both fists in a round swing meant to box his ears or break his jaw. It was a favourite move of the tough men of the Razors, or so Cassien had learned from Loup. In less than a blink, Cassien had cut both his arms in a sideways movement to block the man’s fists. He could hear Murdo’s teeth gnash with his rage. The mountain man kicked, again feeling only air against his shin as Cassien neatly leapt over the angry foot and landed lightly with bent knees. He stood up and waited patiently. His breathing rate hadn’t changed. But Murdo was snorting like an enraged bull.
Murdo stared with fury, then rushed at him, yelling that fury. Cassien spun one way, Murdo lumbered in his direction, and then Cassien spun in reverse and avoided Murdo’s pummelling by rolling over Murdo’s back. The mountain man straightened quickly, confused, and roared as his men began to laugh. Cassien waited in an irritatingly patient pose with his hands by his sides, his body relaxed. It wasn’t appropriate right now, but he wanted to congratulate the big man. Murdo was sure-footed and not nearly as cumbersome as he appeared.
‘Shar curse you!’ Murdo roared. ‘Fight me!’
Cassien shook his head. ‘To what end?’
‘Prove which of us is the stronger.’
‘You are, Murdo,’ he answered. ‘Nevertheless, I thought you were going to pulp me.’
‘Stay still then.’
Cassien grinned but knew what that reaction would mean. Sure enough, Murdo glanced at his companions.
‘Hold him,’ he ordered.
Cassien felt his shoulders and arms clamped by Murdo’s companions. ‘Ah, well done, Murdo, you’ve entirely outwitted me,’ he said dryly. ‘Now, with your men bravely holding me down, you can beat me senseless.’
Murdo’s grin faltered and his heavy-browed dark eyes became even more hooded as he frowned. ‘You’re very cocky, given that you’re outnumbered.’
Cassien’s expression lost its amusement. ‘I don’t like bullies, Murdo. They need the comfort and bravado of others around them to applaud, to laugh at their jokes, to make them feel like the chieftain they are son to but can’t live up to.’ The silence that greeted this remark was so thick it felt like a dead weight leaning on Cassien. Nevertheless, he continued to push this needle into Murdo’s rapidly deflating ego. ‘I’m sure Metheven would be proud to see how far his son has fallen.’
Now the atmosphere of pure taunting turned in an instant to one of a storm gathering. Murdo’s stare reflected nothing short of hate.
‘Do not dare to mention my father.’ His voice sounded like stones grating against each other.
‘But I just did,’ Cassien said, sounding deliberately breezy and glancing at his two minders.
Murdo walked away, momentarily perplexing Cassien until he saw in which direction the big man was headed. So, fists aren’t enough, Cassien thought, and braced himself for what was coming. During Loup’s painful ministrations, Cassien had learned how to shrink within himself — how to become so small and distant from the skin he lived in that he believed he became his spirit.
And that was when he’d first heard Romaine talking to him. Follow me, she’d said in his mind. He had let his mind wander and it had felt as though he had company within his own body. You are wolf, her voice said. Come to where a wolf in your form pays homage to his kin.
And within a blink he’d found himself standing in the great nave of the cathedral of Pearlis. He had visited the cathedral only once, as a lad with Brother Josse to discover his beast. Slowly he had walked down the nave,
waiting for one of the massive, beautiful sculpted creatures to call to him.
‘How will I know?’ he’d asked Josse, wide-eyed with wonder.
‘You will know. Your heart will respond instantly.’
‘Which is yours, Brother Josse?’
‘I am Anguis.’
‘The lizard.’
‘Well done.’
‘What is his peculiarity?’
‘Anguis is known for his clarity of thought. The more sight I lose as I age, the more I become like the lizard who looks for the sun, and by that I mean, the more enlightenment I search for.’
‘You are always very wise, Brother Josse,’ Cassien remembered himself replying and his elder had chuckled.
‘Find your beast, know yourself and your strengths,’ he’d said. Josse had remained standing before Anguis while Cassien moved on.
Cassien had needed to walk almost the length of the nave before he’d felt his heart begin to race. At one moment it was beating at its normal rhythm and the next it had begun to pound. It had pounded so hard he thought it might tear right through the cage of bones that held it within his chest. And with this racing heart had come dizziness. He thought it was for Lupus. The wolf. Strong, quiet, cunning, proud, fast, loyal. But he was confused.
He’d been looking down when the strange sensations had all assaulted him at once but he’d looked up at the enormous stone head of another: ‘Dragon?’ he’d whispered, confused, while warmth had suffused his body.
When Josse had arrived at his side and asked the inevitable, he had immediately replied ‘Lupus’ because in truth he did feel a kinship toward the wolf. He had never returned to the cathedral again, other than in his mind — the first time with Romaine. We are family now, she had said, as she’d led him away from Loup’s pain and he had found solace in the nave of the cathedral he could conjure in his mind’s eye.
She never mentioned his creature. Never asked.
In this spiritual place he could endure Loup’s punishments while sitting at the feet of Lupus. Never the Dragon, although he felt its pull. So it was to the huge form of Lupus that he fled in his mind now as Murdo walked back toward him holding a glowing iron.
‘I wish this had my family’s sigil on its tip so I could burn it into your flesh for taking our name in vain,’ he growled. ‘Now you will scream your penance to my father … to me.’
Cassien stared at him, the notion that Romaine walked alongside providing comfort. ‘You’ll hear no sound of capitulation, or anything else, from me. You clearly feel that you are a disappointment to your father or you wouldn’t be so touchy about me mentioning Metheven. I certainly took no-one’s name in vain but if that’s how you see it …’ He shrugged.
Murdo’s face darkened still further. ‘You really are a cocky bastard.’
‘I am a bastard, yes, but I simply say the truth.’
‘Stop talking or I’ll close your mouth properly,’ Murdo said, bringing the glowing white-hot tip close to Cassien’s lips.
Cassien sensibly remained still but he refused to shrink back as the hot iron came closer. He met Murdo’s angry gaze steadily, daring him to use the weapon.
Murdo did just that, lowering the iron before it cooled and touching it against the bared flesh of Cassien’s upper chest, where it crackled and hissed, blackening and blistering the skin, laying it open raw. He smiled as he pressed on the iron, but faltered in surprise as Cassien’s expression did not change. It was Murdo who flinched as if burned when he realised that Cassien was pushing back against the iron, defying Murdo further.
The Razor warrior ripped the iron back, tearing flesh and even then the newcomer to Orkyld showed no emotion, not even a spark in his eye of the pain he was surely experiencing. Murdo flung the iron and grabbed at Cassien’s shirt.
‘What in hell’s flames are you?’ he growled into his face.
‘Your conscience.’
‘Take back what you said and I’ll let you go.’
‘Words can’t be removed.’
‘Then apologise,’ Murdo yelled.
He shook his head. ‘Not for speaking the truth.’
‘Murdo!’ came a new voice, breathy and angry. They all looked up to see Vivienne pushing into the barn with Ham at her side.
‘You stupid, stupid oaf. What have you done?’ she shrieked, eyeing the seeping wound in Cassien’s chest. ‘Aren’t your big bludgeoning fists enough for you?’
Vivienne rushed towards them, but Murdo was now caught in his shame and he struck out as any cornered animal might. His backhanded blow connected horribly with Vivienne, who was sent tumbling backwards, her head knocking against a low beam. She crumpled like a half-empty sack of corn. Hamelyn was equally enraged and leapt onto Murdo’s back, pulling at his hair and face, raining down ineffectual blows.
‘You’re just a big, useless, drunken bully, Murdo,’ he railed.
Murdo flicked him away and Hamelyn soon joined Vivienne on the floor. He wasn’t stunned as she had been but he was nursing a bruised rib.
Murdo turned back to Cassien but was confronted by a new expression. Gone were the calmness and the almost mocking look. Now his features appeared shrouded in anger; his eyes seemed to lighten from dark green to yellow and in a heartbeat he’d shrugged off his surprised minders, twisting out of their loosened hold and bounding into space.
‘Oh, so now you want to fight, do you?’ Murdo taunted.
‘Anyone who beats up women and children needs to be taught a lesson. And it won’t be a fight.’
Murdo howled with contrived glee. ‘It won’t be fair, I’ll give you that.’
‘No, it won’t. But you won’t land a blow.’
Murdo grimaced. ‘Take your best shot, pretty boy.’
Cassien jumped into the air. No-one saw the terrible blow coming — least of all Murdo — as Cassien’s foot shot out in a powerful, sweeping horizontal kick from head height that connected with Murdo’s imposing chin. Murdo’s head snapped helplessly to one side, exactly as Cassien had anticipated. He knew the force of the blow, the shock it imposed on the neck and the head, the air that was cut off within that terrible moment of impact, would all conspire to drop Murdo cold. As Cassien was leaping neatly back onto two feet, Murdo was already falling with his eyes rolling back into his head.
Murdo landed heavily as his body crashed, unconscious. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth and was bleeding where he had bitten it during the impact. His companions looked on, shocked, at their leader’s prone, lifeless-looking body.
‘You’ve killed him,’ one said.
Cassien glared at the man. ‘He’s not dead, although he will die if he drinks any more tonight. And that tongue is going to be mightily sore when he comes around. Respect his headache — it is not without its dangers. He needs to be laid quietly in a darkened room for a few hours to recover.’ He dusted himself off and walked toward Vivienne, who had regained her wits and was being tended to by Ham.
‘Vivienne?’
Hamelyn nodded for her. ‘She’s all right, I think.’
‘What’s my name?’ he said, snapping his fingers in front of her face.
She batted his hand away weakly. ‘Cassien the stupid,’ she bleated and then groaned.
‘What about you, Ham?’
‘I’ve had worse,’ he said, grimacing as he stood.
In a fluid motion he lifted Vivienne easily into his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ she protested.
‘Taking you both away from here.’ He turned back to Murdo, who was not yet moving. Cassien could see the rise of his chest and having been knocked out like this himself previously, he knew how it felt.
‘Take proper care of your prince,’ he ordered the men, ‘or I’ll pay you a visit and mete out some of the same treatment.’
Cassien walked out into the night with the whore in his arms and a lad trotting alongside him who wore a wide grin.
‘I think I must learn how to kick like that,’ Ham remarked, his tone reverent.