‘What do they want of me at the castle?’ he asked, his voice muffled by the hood. He could hear his father moving around the room as he answered, no doubt gathering up the last of their meagre belongings. He clearly hoped that they wouldn’t be coming back here again.
‘The Chief Mancer has sent for you. He needs to test you for something, Crafty. It’s nothing to worry about. If you pass, you won’t need to stay here in the cellar any longer. You’ll be able to work with him and help him to perform his duties.’
‘What’s the test?’ Crafty asked. ‘Is it the same one that was given to my brothers?’
‘It is indeed, Crafty, but it really is nothing to be concerned about. You’ll pass – I’m sure of it.’
‘Couldn’t I be a courier like you, Father? Couldn’t you train me?’ Crafty begged. He’d be far happier working with his father than with the Chief Mancer in a castle full of other strangers.
‘No, Crafty. You’re far too young to train as a courier. Anyway, you don’t have a choice. You can’t stay here – I see that the porter spell on the cupboard has failed, so I won’t be able to get food to you any more. Now come on, no more talking. Let’s be on our way.’
Crafty felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the steps. Soon their boots were clanging on silver as they began their slow ascent.
Bye, cellar, Crafty thought with some sadness. Goodbye, my brothers …
They came to a halt on the top step. Crafty heard his father turn the handle and open the door. Once through, they were climbing again, Crafty carefully feeling his way in the pitch-black of the hood. This time there were only seven steps; they were made of wood, and their boots no longer made a clanging sound. Then there was another door – and now they were on level ground.
Crafty’s father guided him forward, but Crafty could have managed this part without help. He’d grown up in this house. He knew they were passing through the kitchen where, as a child, he’d watched his mother making jam butties and baking scones. He gave a half-smile at the memory. Then they went out through the back door.
The cold took his breath away. It was summer out in what was now known as the Daylight World, but here in the Shole it was said that the temperature never rose much above freezing. It certainly felt like it to Crafty, who immediately began to shiver.
They began walking and, as they did, their feet made squelching noises in the soft ground.
‘We’re following the curve of the bog until we can go directly north towards Lancaster,’ his father said, keeping his voice low.
The bog was where Bertha had been buried – it was her home. Crafty suddenly wondered if he’d ever see her again.
After about ten minutes Crafty’s father spoke again, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
‘We’re on a track leading north now. There’s a wood to our left, but it seems safe enough. I can see a cottage in the distance to our right, so we’d better be extra careful. Buildings can be dangerous, Crafty. All sorts of terrible aberrations make them their homes. But most only come out at night. At the moment it’s not long after noon, which is the safest time. We should be fine for a while, and we’ve only a few miles to go.’
They walked on in silence for another half-hour. Everything was deathly quiet. There was no birdsong. All Crafty could hear was the sound of his own breath, and their boots, now crunching across firmer ground. It became even colder, making him wonder if there was frost or snow underfoot.
Suddenly his father gripped his shoulder and brought him to an abrupt halt. He leaned down so that Crafty could feel his warm breath against his right ear.
‘Don’t speak or move. There’s something big through the trees to our left. If we’re lucky, it won’t notice us.’
Crafty could hear it. Something was moving ponderously through the undergrowth, brushing through the grass and crushing twigs underfoot. He could also hear heavy distant breathing.
His father’s hand kept a tight grip on his shoulder. Was Crafty imagining it, or was he trembling?
Eventually the breathing and the rustling and cracking grew quieter. Within minutes it had faded away altogether, and they began to move forward again without saying anything, though Crafty couldn’t help letting out a small sigh of relief.
Another half-hour passed. Then: ‘Nearly there, Crafty! Just a few more steps!’
And suddenly he could feel warmth on his face. Crafty gasped. It had to be the sun! He hadn’t seen it in over a year. Even through the thick black hood, he could see light.
They’d emerged from the Shole and survived! Crafty almost laughed with relief.
‘Stand still,’ his father instructed.
He obeyed, and the hood was gently eased off his head. Then he stood there, blinking up at white clouds drifting across a blue sky and feeling the sun on his face.
His father returned his long knife to the sheath on his broad leather belt, stuffed the hood into his pocket and let out a huge sigh of relief too.
Crafty looked around, and saw that, just north of them, there was a glittering canal, and behind that a hill with Lancaster Castle atop it, multi-coloured flags flying from the battlements. There were people in the narrow, cobbled streets leading up to it, but nowhere near the crowds he’d fought his way through on his last visit, well over a year ago. Even so, after the time he’d spent in that dark cellar the sight was almost overwhelming.
Then he turned to look south, gazing back at the threatening darkness of the Shole. It was like a huge black curtain, stretching from the ground right up into the heavens, enveloping and hiding everything within it. It looked like the edge of a storm – a wall of dark cloud that might sweep over them at any moment and obliterate what was left of the Daylight World.
Crafty knew that the few people who managed to survive within the Shole itself were usually changed by its dark magic. Some were extremely dangerous, according to his father. Most didn’t attempt to leave, but the few who did were slain on sight by the castle’s border patrols.
Others became marooned on what were known as the Daylight Islands – patches of land surrounded by the Shole. These people depended upon couriers such as Crafty’s father to carry messages back and forth and keep them in touch with the outer world, and sometimes even bring them medicine or magical artefacts. Some islands didn’t have enough land to grow food, and so it had to be delivered to them by means of a porter spell, just like Crafty’s cupboard in the cellar. But it was a complicated process and often failed – as it had with Crafty.
And so all those who were trapped – good or bad – had to stay within the Shole and survive as best they could.
Crafty heard a noise behind him, and saw four guards from the border patrol rushing down the hill towards him and his father, swords drawn, chain mail gleaming in the sunlight. But as they drew nearer and recognized Crafty’s father as Courier Benson, they slowed to a walk, sheathing their swords.
As a castle courier, he was permitted to both enter and leave the Shole. Anyone or anything he brought out was considered to be under his protection and, subject to a subsequent examination by the castle authorities and ratification by the Duke, they were usually permitted to live. The judgement of couriers was generally trusted – after all, they knew the Shole better than most.
Crafty’s father hailed the guards, who nodded at him without smiling and, at a leisurely pace, continued their patrol of the boundary between the Shole and the Daylight World.
As they continued on their way, Crafty looked at the houses and saw broken windows and doors hanging from their hinges. They’d been abandoned, and he thought they’d probably been looted of any possessions their owners had left behind. People with any sense were moving on before the Shole got any closer.
Because it’s always moving, always advancing, thought Crafty.
Mainly it moved north, but he’d heard that there was also expansion to east and west, making the Shole wider. But it no longer expanded southwards. Nobody knew why.
And sometimes no
amount of foresight could save you. Although the Shole usually crept forwards by no more than a few inches each week, sometimes it could surge by as much as several miles. Those sudden movements were unpredictable.
Crafty’s mother had been at the local market when the Shole suddenly engulfed the whole area – and killed her. Or changed her, Crafty thought, though he didn’t like to dwell on that. Although Crafty’s father had searched for weeks, he had never found her body. They’d had to assume the worst.
Afterwards his father had tried to make the cellar safe for Crafty and his brothers, using all the skills and knowledge he’d acquired as a courier. But that had only bought them time. He’d known that eventually the creatures of the Shole – the aberrations – would overwhelm them.
So Crafty’s father had offered his sons’ services to the Chief Mancer, who was a powerful man. Working for him would allow them to escape from the Shole. But escape to what – death? In order to work for the Chief Mancer you had to pass that dangerous test – whatever it was. Crafty’s brothers had not survived it. Crafty’s stomach turned over in nervous anticipation.
They crossed the nearest bridge over the canal and walked up Market Street towards the castle. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, displaying merchandise that few people were around to buy. All sorts of food were on sale: hot pies, steaming joints of meat waiting to be carved, parched peas and chips. But the strongest smell was that of sea creatures. Lobsters slowly writhed in big bowls of water, and there were shrimps and mussels from Morecambe Bay. Crafty’s stomach rumbled, and he wondered what he’d be given to eat at the castle.
As he looked around, it seemed that people were simply carrying on with their lives and ignoring the threat. But a closer study of their faces suggested otherwise. They were anxious and fearful, their minds never at rest.
If you looked north, ignoring those haunted faces, everything did indeed look normal – but to the south there were only the abandoned buildings beyond the canal and the dark wall of the Shole.
They walked up to the main gate of the castle and, at a nod from his father, the guards allowed them to pass under the portcullis and through the gate into the flagged courtyard beyond.
‘This is my son,’ Crafty’s father called to another guard, who had come over to intercept them. ‘The Chief Mancer is expecting him. He’s to be interviewed tomorrow.’
The guard glanced at Crafty – was that pity he could see in his face?
‘Go with him, Crafty,’ his father said, turning to face him. ‘Get an early night so that you’re at your best tomorrow. And good luck. I’ll be back soon to see how you’re getting on.’
Crafty hesitated, hoping that his father might give him a hug. But then he remembered that, since the death of Crafty’s mother, his father had become more distant, a little colder. All he got was a nod as his father turned and walked away. It brought a lump to his throat, but he knew he had to be strong.
Until his father said that he was to be interviewed the next day, Crafty had expected to be taken straight to the Chief Mancer. Instead he was led up a series of spiral stairs to a small room in one of the towers, with a bed, a chair and a small table, and a narrow window that offered a good view south over the city. On the table, he saw immediately, there was a plate of cheese, bread and ham. His mouth began to water.
When the guard left, he locked the door behind him – though Crafty was too hungry to let that bother him much. He raced over to the table and quickly cleared his plate. The minute he’d finished he suddenly felt exhausted. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, and it had been a very tiring day, so he undressed and crawled into bed, expecting to fall asleep immediately. But he was still wound up by the events of the day. He tossed and turned, and then started thinking about his mother. An early memory came to him from when he was no more than five or six, the Shole still far to the south of their home.
It had begun in darkness with the sound of weeping.
The noise had woken him up, and brought him stumbling downstairs. He had stepped into the kitchen to see his mother kneeling on the flagstones, gazing into the glowing embers of the fire. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and dripping from her chin.
‘Mama! Mama!’ he cried, his own tears falling as he ran towards her.
She gathered him to her and he pressed his face into her long hair as she consoled him.
‘What’s wrong, Mama? What’s wrong?’
She lifted him up, carried him over to a chair and sat him on her knee, her arms still wrapped around him. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Crafty. It’s just that I miss your father, and he’s been away so long this time. I wish he’d hurry back.’
They stayed like that, not saying anything. He was happy to be in her arms and glad that she was no longer crying. At last he looked up at her and spoke. ‘When I grow up, I want to be like my father. I want to be big like him and wear a uniform and be a courier and visit the castle.’
‘Maybe you’ll get your wish,’ his mother had said, smiling down at him. ‘You’re Fey – you’re different from other people. It’s a job you might well be able to do.’
‘How am I different, Mama?’
‘You just are, that’s all. We won’t know how different until you’re grown. You and your brothers and your father are Fey; when you’re older he’ll tell you all about it, no doubt.’
‘The boy next door said that I’d grow up to be a warlock and they’d lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key and give me maggots to eat and stick hot needles into me. His big brother laughed.’
His mother had frowned and held him a little tighter. ‘Take no notice, my love. People always make fun of those who are different. Children are the worst of all. Don’t bother your little head about it.’
Crafty pushed the memory away. Only now that he was older did he realize how scared his mother must have been after each departure, fearing that her husband would fail to return – that he’d be killed down south in the Shole and she’d never see him again.
It must have been hard for her as the only member of the family who wasn’t Fey. It wasn’t just children who were cruel – adults were wary of Fey folk. They kept their distance and talked behind your back. Neighbours shunned them – if his mother went out to hang up her washing, those in the next-door garden would immediately go inside. Their children were happy to talk though – happy to torment Crafty and his brothers.
Crafty realized that his mother must have been very lonely at times. It was unusual for a normal human to marry a Fey. People looked down on it. She must have been very brave to do so.
Now she was dead, slain by the Shole, and he would never see her again.
The next morning Crafty awoke to see the dawn light pink against the pointy window of his little room. He didn’t rush to get out of bed – he was still thinking about his childhood. Tears came into his eyes as, once again, he pictured his mother kneeling on the cold flags and weeping.
But it was no good crying, he told himself. He tried to recall happier memories. His had once been a happy family. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table, his feet not yet long enough to reach the floor, listening to his father’s story of why he was now called Crafty instead of his proper name, Colin.
‘You never learned to crawl, son,’ he had said, beaming down at him. ‘You didn’t need to. You were hardly more than a baby when you found your own method of moving. You’d spy something with your beady little eyes, get your body into the right position, and roll over and over until it was within reach. You rolled rather than crawled! You’ve always had your own crafty way of doing things.’
Crafty wondered if that would help him now.
A guard brought him some breakfast – bacon and eggs that had grown cold – and left without a word, again locking the door.
Crafty was still starving, so he wolfed down the food, then tried to be patient as he waited to be summoned. No doubt the Chief Mancer was a busy man; administering the test would be only a small part of his duties for the
day.
Then, late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door. Crafty was escorted from his room by a different guard: a big man with an even bigger frown and a wooden club at his belt. They walked down many steps, and then along windowless corridors, and then down more steps, and soon Crafty could tell that they were below ground level. The guard didn’t speak, even though Crafty tried to initiate a conversation – he just pointed, prodding him hard in the back with his fat forefinger if he hesitated. Crafty had to walk in front and it wasn’t always clear which direction the guard wanted him to take, so he got prodded a lot.
At last they arrived at a stout oaken door with a silver knocker in the shape of a narrow skull. It wasn’t a human skull: it had horns, too many teeth and a long jaw – Crafty had never seen anything like it in his life. He wondered what it was.
Above the knocker there was a big brass plaque:
CHIEF MANCER
Crafty took a deep breath. Here it was – the place where his test would take place.
The guard rapped three times and took a step back. The door opened, but Crafty could see only darkness beyond. Fear began to prickle the back of his neck. He didn’t like the idea of entering that room at all. But the big guard prodded him hard in the back again and, when Crafty hesitated, simply pushed him through.
Crafty heard the door close behind him and kept perfectly still, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the darkness. He could make out a vague shape directly in front of him – was it moving? Was it coming towards him? His heart began to thump.
Crafty gave a cry of surprise at the sudden glare of a light from where he’d seen the movement – and then he saw the outline of a tall thin man with a taper in his hand and a fat black candle now flickering on the edge of the desk. The man blew out the smoking taper.
He must have been sitting in the dark. Why on earth had he been doing that? Crafty wondered. It was a strange way to start the test.
In the dim candlelight Crafty could see that the room was extremely cluttered. The desk was piled so high with books and manuscripts that there was hardly room for the candle. The wall was lined with shelves of leather-bound books – and everything was coated with a thick layer of dust.