The village of Darkness sat on the shore of the lake of the same name. It was a ramshackle, sprawling settlement, with no real centre; a village that did not speak of wealth or pride, but of subsistence, commerce and grim survival.
Belythna cast a wary eye over the low-slung wattle and daub hovels as she rode towards the docks; the village looked even more run down than on her last visit, around two years earlier. Many of the thatched roofs were in need of repair, refuse littered the dirt streets, and the faces that peered out of darkened doorways at the three black-cloaked riders, were thin and suspicious.
Four days ride south-west of Deep-Spire, Darkness was not a village that Belythna enjoyed visiting, or staying in – but necessity had called her back.
Not for the first time, she wished that there had been a Call Stone in the vicinity. They had needed to reach Darkness in haste, yet there were no portals nearby – the nearest was just outside Barrowthorne. Most folk had no idea that the large flat rocks dotted throughout Palâdnith were really magical portals that had allowed sorcerers to travel from one end of the continent to another with ease. With the use of one, they could have travelled from Deep-Spire to Darkness in a matter of hours, rather than days.
Belythna glanced at her two companions, Jedin and Floriana. They were also casting guarded glances about them. Jedin’s face was creased in ill-concealed distaste for the stench that had assaulted them ever since they had entered the village. Darkness was a plague-risk, with mounds of rotting food and animal waste piled up just yards from where folk lived. Floriana held a handkerchief to her nose and appeared as if she was having difficulty not retching. The odour also made Belythna’s bile rise. In an attempt to distract herself from it, she focused on their destination – the docks.
If Darkness had a heart, it was the wooden docks built out over the rippling lake. A long strip of dark-stained timber buildings overhung the water, towering over the rest of the village. A collection of water-craft: cargo barges, dinghies, fishing vessels, and even the odd sailboat, bobbed against the shore.
Dusk was falling; the sky to the west was aflame. The red-gold of the sunset cast the docks in a gilded light. It softened the hard faces of the men who heaved crates off barges, and of the painted faces of the whores who called to them from the top windows of the brothel overshadowing the dock.
The activity on the dock surprised Belythna, as it always did. It was easy to forget that Darkness was a hub; a crossroads for merchants, fishermen, and farmers – a place where cargo could be off-loaded and transported north-east to Cathernis and beyond. It was an isolated spot, sitting on the edge of the western foothills of the Sable Range in Central Omagen. Tarras sat five days journey to the north and Barrowthorne lay on the other side of the Sables – yet, the village received steady traffic throughout the year, often attracting those who preferred to do business away from the prying eyes of the realmlords.
Belythna and her companions approached the docks with relief, leaving the worst of the village’s stench behind. The breeze off the lake freshened the air somewhat, and the docks were cleaner and better kept than the rest of Darkness.
Dismounting from her horse, Belythna led it towards a sturdy timbered building that loomed over the crowds of men working in the fading light: The Lake Witch Tavern, named after the legend of a troublemaking woman who had once lived on the tiny island in the middle of Lake Darkness.
After four days in the saddle, Belythna longed to soak in a hot bath and enjoy a roast dinner with a tankard of ale; yet, those luxuries would have to wait. First, they had some questions for the inn-keeper.
The group had begun to attract attention already. Heads swivelled. The Sentorân stood out in their ebony robes and golden collars.
Belythna ignored the stares; she was used to attracting attention wherever she went. These days, the looks became evermore hostile, but she was getting used to that as well. Head high and back straight, she led her horse round the back of the tavern, to the stables. The stable-hand, an idle lad who they interrupted in the midst of fondling a girl in one of the stalls, sullenly made an appearance and relieved the three sorcerers of their horses. Belythna handed him over a bronze drac for his trouble and the three companions made their way inside.
The Lake Witch was the only tavern for leagues around, and as such it was often packed with men, especially at this hour when many of the dock-workers had just finished for the day. A wall of noise hit Belythna as she stepped inside – followed by the pungent smell of ale mixed with smoke and sweat.
An enormous common-area with a sawdust floor took up most of the ground floor of the building. Blackened beams criss-crossed the ceiling above the patrons and two huge fireplaces flickered at either end of the enormous space. The fires did not roar this evening for it was still late summer, and autumn’s chill had not yet made its presence felt. Gazes swivelled towards the three black cloaked figures that wove their way through the jostling crowd towards where a tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed black beard poured ales at the bar.
The inn-keeper saw them coming, and his expression grew grim.
“Good afternoon,” Jedin reached the bar first, towering over the two dock-workers who sat on stools to his left; young men with callow, sneering faces. “We’re here about the man who was killed ten days ago, just outside your tavern.”
The inn-keeper scowled, pushing a frothing tankard of ale towards a waiting customer, and taking the bronze drac the man offered him. “Aye – what of it? Ill news travels fast it seems.”
“Tidings such as these do,” Jedin replied, his face expressionless. “A merchant brought word to Deep-Spire.”
“Then you don’t need to hear it from me.”
“Such tales are of interest to the Sentorân,” Jedin said. “Our role is to keep the peace.”
“Isn’t that what the realmlords are for?” the inn-keeper countered, holding Jedin’s gaze. Despite that the Sentorân towered over him, he did not appear remotely intimidated.
“Do you think the Realmlord of Omagen cares for what happens in this backwater?” Jedin replied, his tone hardening. “We’re here to investigate this death further. Tell us of it?”
“I’m busy,” the inn-keeper growled. “Come back later.”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Floriana cut in. “Answer the question.”
The inn-keeper’s expression darkened and Belythna saw anger flare in his eyes. Her companions were not going to get anywhere by bullying the man. She could see from his expression that he was on the verge of ordering them to leave.
“I can see you’re busy,” Belythna said, pushing in front of Floriana, and casting her friend a quelling look. “If you can speak to us later, once things quieten down, we would appreciate it. In the meantime, can we have three rooms for the night, and three meals?”
The inn-keeper stared back at Belythna a moment before his expression softened.
“Aye, that’ll be six bronze dracs.”
Belythna dug into the leather pouch at her waist and handed over the money. The inn-keeper handed over three keys. “Last three rooms at the end of the corridor on the first floor. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Thank you,” Belythna smiled back before handing him another bronze drac. “Can you have a bath filled for me as well?”
“I’ll have it seen to,” the inn-keeper promised curtly before turning to his next customer.
The three Sentorân moved away from the bar.
“We don’t have time for this,” Jedin grumbled.
“Another hour or two won’t matter,” Belythna replied. “Whatever he tells us, we can’t do anything about it tonight. The pair of you were about to cause a scene – not something we need. I’d also prefer to speak to him when there isn’t a crowd of flapping ears around us.”
Floriana nodded reluctantly, although Jedin merely held her gaze. She could see the flickering resentment in his eyes.
To think we were once lovers, she thought sadly. These days we are barely friends.
>
Upstairs, the three sorcerers each retired to their rooms for a while, before promising to meet for dinner later. Glad to have a moment alone, Belythna shrugged off her cloak and sat down on the bed. It was a small, sparsely furnished room but clean enough; it would do nicely.
A short time later, there came a rap at the door. Belythna got up from the bed to let in four servants, all boys of about twelve winters, struggling under the weight of pails of hot water. They poured the water into the cast-iron tub in the corner of the room before retreating, although not without curious stares at the sorceress who stood-by watching them.
Belythna locked the door behind them and let out a sigh of relief. Moments later, she had disrobed and was soaking in hot water. As the fatigue of the last few days slowly dissolved, she found her thoughts drifting to an issue that had plagued her with increasing constancy over the last year.
I don’t want to go back there.
Deep-Spire often felt like a prison these days. This simple room with its scrubbed wooden floor and white-washed walls was far more appealing than the stone chamber she slept in back at the fortress.
Five years had passed since Riadamor’s escape. Since then, the atmosphere within Deep-Spire had become ever more oppressive. Lady Serina kept a tight leash upon the order these days, and no longer tolerated the slightest challenge to her authority.
Riadamor, what has become of you?
Belythna soaked up to her neck in hot water and wondered, as she often did these days, about what had happened to the disgraced young Sentorân. They had spent weeks searching Central Omagen for Riadamor but she had disappeared without a trace.
Lady Serina had been furious – although she blamed herself more than anyone else. She had given Riadamor too much freedom and in return the girl had betrayed her. What lenience Serina might have shown towards the younger members of the order was now but a faint memory.
Belythna did not regret her decision to stay at Deep-Spire, rather than escape with Riadamor. That path would have only led to ruin. Still, of late, she had come to tire of the life she had chosen. She had taken part in ten patrols over the last five years, which had allowed her to travel far and wide across Palâdnith. However, the austerity of her life, and the isolation at Deep-Spire made her feel as if she was being slowly smothered.
Life had developed a monotonous routine – punctuated by twice-yearly patrols – until a few months earlier. It was early spring, and Belythna had been away from Deep-Spire, on a patrol with Floriana. They had been travelling up the Omagen coast, making their way from Dunethport up to Omari, when they heard of strange occurrences. Wherever they went, folk reported young men and women going missing from their beds, never to be seen again. People blamed sorcery – and many pointed the finger at the Sentorân. Belythna and Floriana had done their best to alleviate their fears before returning to Deep-Spire.
A few months later, a cloth merchant brought word to Deep-Spire of this murder in Darkness; a killing that appeared to be the work of dark magic.
Belythna sighed – these thoughts had succeeded in ruining her enjoyment of her bath.
She climbed out of the tub, dried herself off and dressed for dinner. The world seemed to be growing ever more complicated; it felt as if a storm was brewing, but its direction was unknown. Like the others, she was keen to find out the circumstances behind this man’s death. She wanted to know how sorcery was involved.
She had to know if it was Riadamor’s work.
Belythna went downstairs and found Floriana and Jedin conversing over an ale in one of the booths that lined the common-area. They both looked considerably more relaxed than earlier. The ale had brought a flush to Floriana’s cheeks and Jedin was leaning back in his seat in an almost casual manner. Belythna slid into the booth next to Floriana.
“Did you enjoy your bath?” Floriana asked with a smile.
“Not really,” Belythna admitted. She waved to a serving wench and signalled that she would like a tankard of ale. “I found it difficult to relax.”
Their dinners arrived moments later – three plates of roast duck, potatoes and steamed greens. The Sentorân, famished after a day in the saddle, fell upon their meals and only attempted conversation when they had wiped the gravy off their plates with pieces of coarse bread.
“It’s starting to quieten,” Jedin observed, his gaze sweeping over the interior of the tavern. “We should speak to the inn-keep soon.”
Belythna nodded. “Not much longer now.”
“Do you really think it’s her?” Floriana pushed her empty plate aside. “After all this time.”
“Some believe it could be the Sisters of Sial causing trouble,” Jedin replied, “not Riadamor.”
Belythna shook her head. “The Sisters aren’t that different to us. They’re a peaceful order and they never come this far north. They are easy to blame but I don’t think this is their work.”
Jedin raised his eyebrows in response, appearing unconvinced. However, at that moment, Belythna spotted the inn-keeper. He was making his way across to their booth. He carried a tray with four tankards of ale – a generous offer – although his expression was shuttered.
“Good evening,” he slid into the booth, next to Jedin. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Belythna smiled at him and took one of the tankards the inn-keeper offered. “Thank you – we are grateful.”
The man nodded and helped himself to one of the tankards, before taking a large gulp of ale.
“Very well. What was it you wanted?”
“That man who was murdered ten days ago,” Jedin spoke up. “What do you know of it?”
“I didn’t witness it myself,” the inn-keeper began, his gaze flickering across to the two women opposite him. “He was a trader; a rough character, foul-mouthed and always getting into fights. It was a hot evening, late, and I’d sent him outside to cool off after he got into a brawl with some other lads. While he was outside, he met a girl who was making her way along the docks. Witnesses say that she was dressed in green robes, no older than sixteen winters. She had just disembarked from a passenger barge coming from the other side of the lake.”
“What happened?” Belythna pressed.
“There weren’t many folk around,” the inn-keeper replied, “just a couple of drunks – but they remembered what happened clear enough. He approached the girl… tried to give her a bronze drac so she’d lie with him. She refused. He grabbed her and tried to drag her off into the shadows.”
The inn-keeper paused here.
“What happened then?” Belythna asked.
“She burned a hole in his chest. Killed him instantly.”
“But how?” Jedin interrupted. “Tell us about how she burned a hole in this man’s chest.”
The inn-keeper gave Jedin a baleful look, clearly irritated by the Sentorân’s pushy manner, before replying. “The witnesses said they saw a strange kind of pale fire. The girl threw her hand at his chest and the fire erupted from it. When I saw him, it looked as if someone had plunged a hot brand through his ribs.”
“What happened to the girl?” Floriana asked.
The inn-keeper shrugged. “Ran off.”
Silence fell upon the table then. Belythna leant back against the leather upholstered seat, her gaze still fixed upon the inn-keeper. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she said, finally.
The inn-keeper nodded, absently stroking his short, dark beard. “There is. That girl wasn’t the first we have seen here, dressed in green robes. There have been a few of late, drifting through Darkness after nightfall like ghosts. They’re all young. They shun company, and come here only for supplies.”
“Where from?” Belythna asked. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
“Not sure exactly. Some folk say there’s a community of them, living in the western foothills of the Sables. Some kind of reclusive sect. There’s a woman among them, a few years older than the rest. I saw her once – and once is enough.”
?
??Can you describe her?” Jedin asked.
“She’s easy enough to describe,” the inn-keeper replied. “About your age. Tall and thin with pallid skin, lank blonde hair and dark eyes; wearing loose grey robes. She came here only once, about three weeks ago, to meet a group of her companions arriving on an early barge. I was on the dock, receiving a delivery when she walked by. She gave me one look – and that was enough to keep me away from her.”
The inn-keeper’s voice faded away then, and he took a deep draught of ale. His gaze swept over the faces of the three Sentorân, assessing their expressions.
“You have what you want?” he asked.
Belythna nodded. A lump of ice had taken up residence in her gut as she glanced over at Floriana.
“Yes,” she replied with a tight, forced smile. “You have been very helpful.”
The inn-keeper gave a nod and slid out of the booth. The three Sentorân watched him walk away. A heavy silence settled, before Floriana eventually broke it.
“It’s her. It has to be.”
Jedin nodded, his face set in grim lines. Out of all of them, he had been the most sceptical that Riadamor was to blame for the disappearances, and for this unusual killing. However, he could not refute the inn-keeper’s words.
None of them could.