Chapter 81

Slow Tides

The Beastie dines on the contents of the goblins head - the memories, at least, I don’t let it touch the meat. When it is finished, I place the dazed creature on the ground. He will wake remembering nothing. I could kill him, of course, but I am still hoping to find and destroy Janvier’s phylactery without his knowledge.

I tiptoe out of the treasure room, trailing fluttering birds and one slightly larger tentacle monster. The beastie’s head, or shell, or whatever the chitinous thing is, has grown to the size of a generously proportioned pumpkin. How big will it become? If it feeds on a city worth of people, will it inflate to the proportions of some eldritch god? This is a slightly alarming thought that I put away for later.

The secret door shuts seamlessly behind us, sealing us off from the treasure room. Sealing us into darkness. The service passage is long and narrow. I walk along it on soft feet, following the path as it winds past exposed metal piping, rusting gears, cogs and chains. All of the machinery currently lies still. Warm water drips from one pipe. Steam rises gently to mist the air and velvety moss clusters beneath it, making the ground slick.

I walk in silence. Other ways open off the passage to left and right. Some of them I follow a little way, ears straining, and alert for any movement or traps. There are none. As I suspected we are in the walls, looking in at the dungeon from behind the scenes. This theory is confirmed when we pass a little window with a view into the trophy room. I can see the lindwurm’s remains lying in two pieces, surrounded by the devastation of treasures. A while later another narrow window allows a view down into the tunnels by the entrance way. Here I can see the boulder tucked innocently into the wall, waiting for the next clumsy human to make its acquaintance.

On this side of the wall there are slots to load in fresh arrows, and mechanisms to reset the traps. This has all been done. By the goblin caretaker, I assume? Or by others? Cautiously I pad onwards but come across no other beings.

At one point the passage opens out into a rocky room, complete with a wide stone table and a large three dimensional map of the maze. Looking at it, I realise there are several parts of the labyrinth that I did not visit. This is fine. It is abundantly clear to me that the place is a diversion, a narcissistic exhibition for Janvier’s own amusement. I will not find his phylactery here.

Returning to the service passageway, I trace my way upwards, seeking the entrance to the castle proper. I pass more secret peep holes, including one that opens into a cave full of shambling abominations. At last, I am greeted by a simple, wooden door.

I push it open into an opulent hallway.

My spies spill out of the space behind me as I stand blinking at the sight. I have done it. This is Janvier’s home, his castle, his base, the heart of his operations. The place that spawned the monster that is now the lich king of Einheath. It is… I don’t really know what I was expecting but it seems like a fairly standard palace interior. Not that I am an expert, but I’ve been in at least four whole castles now.

It is dark and shadowy, without even a breath of air. The castle is locked up tight. Someone, however, is caring for the place. It is not as dusty as I would expect, probably even less dusty than my own abode. Not that housework has ever been a strong point of mine; I am too fond of artistic clutter. It is cold, yes, but not iced over. The lich corruption is visible everywhere here, the floors blackened onyx, no matter what their original material was.

A sweeping staircase lies before me. Looking up, I can see rows of balconies and landing stretching up into the gloom above. A slight figure stands near the top, looking down at me. A woman, transparent and pale in a white nightgown with long dripping hair. Before I can get a good look at her, she vanishes.

Ah, this place is haunted then. I should have known.

Rummaging in my bag, I find the ghost knife. Thus prepared, in case there are others, I continue my exploration. The great door to the outside is locked, barred, and iced over. Frost patterns the wall by the door. Emerald green banners swing from the beams. They are dripping wet although I can’t tell where the water is coming from. I know part of the castle is submerged but I thought it was just the basements.

Janvier’s family coat of arms seems to be a mountain and a golden crown, resplendent on that green background. A connection to the ruling family of Einheath? No wonder the smug beast was so pleased with himself.

Softy, I walk to the stairs. Flights lead up and down. The stairwell down ends abruptly in an ink-black pool of water. Bits of ice and flotsam float there — rotting timbers and the odd goblet.

I take the way up, towards the ghost.

Everything is cold and quiet and opulent. Paintings, carvings, tapestries — all of them the product of more wealth than taste. I cast a jaundiced eye over a nearby painting of the lake in summer. It is alright I suppose. I could sell the gilded frame alone for a six month supply of wool and knit sweaters for most of Greater Downing. But each to their own. It’s not like me to judge, even if it is disgusting.

I roam through a suite of bedrooms. All of them are neat, beds made, as if the occupants might return for a visit at any moment. While I ponder this, wet footprints appear on the floors behind me. A floorboard squeaks. When I turn the apparition is nowhere to be seen, and the footprints vanish.

A broad walkway is lined by an enormous tapestry. I stop to gaze, and look up at the stitching, one eyebrow quirked. Whoever created this was more than competent, and it must have been the work of a lifetime. An enormous oak tree rises from the centre. From each branch blossoms pale banners and leaves. The banners are precisely and skillfully embroidered with names. Janvier’s family tree.

The tree goes back generations. I quickly identify Janvier Sebastian and learn that this father was a Duke, and the youngest son of the king’s brother. Janvier himself is the one of four siblings, two older brothers and a little sister.

This explains much. I assume he was a spoiled younger son with no chance to inherit. His options would have been to join a clerical order, or to become a lawyer or some kind of socially acceptable merchant. Deeming none of these acceptable, I can see how his interest would turn to sorcery, and from there to necromancy. It is easy for those seeking power to fall prey to the Whisperer. But what happened to his family?

I do not have to wait long to discover their end. In the largest bedroom, a man’s decomposing body swings from a bedframe. A crown rests on his head, and emerald cufflinks gleam at his shirt sleeves. The crown is not fine and gold, like the ones in the treasure room. This crown is made of sticks and mud.

Elegantly draped on a chaise longue is the corpse of a feminie figure. Janvier’s mother, perhaps? The tattered remains of velvet cloth cling to bone and rotten flesh. A poison bottle lies next to the remains of hand, where it has fallen. Someone has put stones in her eye sockets.

The ghost appears in the doorway, watching me, and dripping on the carpet. It disappears if I look directly at it, but trails me as I walk through the next doorway and through a gallery of sculptures. Like everything else in the castle, the workmanship is very fine but with that same soulless efficiency of art crafted for those with more money than heart.

Up another flight of creaking stairs I find an old playroom. This space is more interesting, a higgedly piggedly mess of discarded toys. There is everything a child could wish for: lead-painted soldiers, a frayed stuffed bear, and wooden blocks, the bright paint peeling. My fingers twitch to examine the objects but I refrain. What a childhood he must have had, to breed such petulant discontent!

Sets of dice, porcelain dolls and tiny, exquisite knights keep watch from gloomy shelves. On a table stands a model castle, the twin to the ruin I stand in, battlements free of ice. This last, I examine with eager interest, folding down on hands and knees. It is the most beautiful dollhouse I have ever seen! I open the little door at the front of it, and ice-cold water spills out onto my lap, making me jump.

There is a faint chuckle behind me. The pale girl is laughing maniacally, ghostly tears falling down her cheeks in a torrent. Her traits remind me of his highness. She has the same nose, the same eyebrows, recast in younger, femine features. This would be the sister then.

I consider putting her spirit out of its misery. But Janvier would probably notice her absence on his return home. Her shade vanishes as I exit the room.

A dark spiral stairway carries me up to a tower. Once upon a time it must have had beautiful views over the surrounding mountains and the lake far below. Now the windows are dark with thick ice. I have a hunch this is Janvier’s study. It houses an enormous desk, a cold fireplace, and a library full of leather bound books and scrolls. All of the subjects are boring and academic. There is no poetry, no stories, and not even a single herbal. There is also no sign of his grimoire, but I assume he has taken it with him.

A telescope points toward a retractable, iceover dome. Various mechanical contraptions lie scattered on the shelves. I poke about but find nothing of particular interest. Opening a chest water spills out onto the floor. Swollen and bloated body parts bob on the floor and then vanish into nothing. Hmm.

What deal did Janvier make with the Whisperer?

I think I know. The bones were not silent; they were merely obtuse.

I descend through the castle.

Silent, ghostly figures gather in the gloomy doorways, watching me as I pass. Not just the sister this time. All of the ghosts are dripping. Light plays strangely across their faces in contrasting patterns of criss-crosses of shade and radiance. Servants? Guests? Butlers, maids, men and women, the deceased household and townspeople. Water trickles down the stairs after me. By the time I reach the entranceway, it is a torrent.

The dark well of water lies before me.

“You can wait for me here,” I murmur to my little spies. I know the birds dislike the wet, despite not needing to breathe. It must be awkward swimming with feathers, after all.

I step into the icy cold. Everyone says behind, except the beastie, who undulates into the liquid with predatory grace.

I swim through the depths. It is hard to see anything so thick is the sediment. The world here is silent, and so dark as to almost be black. The cellars of the castle are thick with corpses. They float in various stages of composition. The ghosts swim with me, mourning their bodies.

Down, down, down I go, finally coming to the holes in the foundation where the lake has seeped. Here I have to pause and smash the ice. Once more I plunge into the deep, slow waters. The moonlight is too dim to filter this low. There are more bodies here. The whole lake is an icy grave. Did Janvier take them all out on the ice, and then let them fall through it? It seems likely.

Slow fish wend their way in and out of decomposing corpses, pausing to nibble on what little flesh remains. Many of them have been picked clean — a cold coral garden of ivory rib cages and exposed femurs, barely visible in the subterranean darkness.

It takes me a while to find what I seek, the water is so murky. In a put, at the centre of the drifting rings of bodies, six marble statues stand watch at the very bottom of the lake.

Whoever the artist was, they were talented. Janvier bears a family resemblance to both his mother and father. The older brother’s statue has been decapitated, the sightless head covered in weeds. Another crown rests on the father’s head, a necklace is looped about his mother’s neck. The sister holds a heavy emerald, the brother next to her a rusting telescope. Janvier has another crown on his marble head. This one is, I assume, the hereditary crown of the family — the one he was never supposed to inherit. Iron, with a single emerald.

I reach up and take it in my hands.

Instantly I know I have found it. This is Janvier’s phylactery. The metal quivers against my fingers in the same way that the soul gems do. Finally, I hold his soul in my hands.

Now I just have to decide what to do with it.

The ghosts are watching me, drifting like vengeful silver fish as I hold the crown fast. What will his soul taste like? It is so tempting to find out. Avarice and pride, no doubt, and cold, cold fish flesh!

If I consume his soul here, if I consume his soul right now, the next time he dies he will go to the Whisperer, never to return. How satisfying! Finally retribution for the insults, for the harm he did to my village, for the lost souls, and destroyed lives of Fairhaven.

On the other hand… if I do not destroy it… Hmm.

If I do not destroy it, I know where he will respawn. He will be at my mercy, weak in his bones. Twenty-four hours the process takes. I could do something interesting with that time. Has Janvier suffered enough? Or would he make interesting furniture?

A little silver fish wiggles past my vision, and disappears into the gaping eye socket of a nearby corpse.

Furniture it is.

Thoughtfully, I tuck the crown into my bag, and head back to the lake’s surface.