Grimenna Read online

  “My father is not an Incarnate. I am not a Virtue. I am a simple girl from Birchloam.”

  “Yes he is. And he is the last of his kind left in the human world, for all the others have been banished.”

  “You are mad.”

  Ceitra shook her head, “Do you know the name of the Eater of Hate?”

  Feeling chilled to the bone, Paiva could force the name out in no more than a whisper. “The Strix.”

  “I am she. There was a time once when I was mad,” she began, “when I had nothing to eat. I was mad with hunger for it was I who was banished, driven deep into the woods with starvation. I was malformed, misshapen, grotesque. I was kept at bay and hidden there by beings like your father. The Good Spirits — Hope and Love, Courage, Mercy, Patience and all the others. They were fat with the prayers they ate, feasting on the happy hearts of man. They used my name to instill Fear, to keep man from straying into darkness. It was their mistake, for Fear is the very thing that set me free.”

  Paiva stared at the silhouette in the window, feeling small and minuscule. She hugged her father’s book closer. She felt then that she stood in the moonlit shadow of an old and ancient legend. Faces lifted from the memory of her father’s pages — inky swirling forms of the ghoulish owl woman. The mother of darkness.

  “That is the very thing the Good Spirits forgot,” Ceitra continued. “You cannot live in light without casting a shadow. You cannot have Courage without Fear. You cannot have Healing without Hurt.

  “When man began to believe he truly had dominion over Grimenna, he began to forget the Good Spirits and they were not remembered for their help. But I was remembered — how could something all men feared be forgotten? Fear grew deeply in their hearts, and from their fear grew the hate that drew me back into their world.”

  She looked to Paiva icily. “Your father took the form of a man as the others tried to do and walked amongst the people to remind them of the Old Stories so that they would not be lost. One by one they have been driven away as I was, and the children that were born of their earthly love ruined. As you are now.”

  “But why?” Paiva lamented.

  “Your Father was born with fangs and claws as I was, but only Hope he ate. Hope is bitter to me, it tastes like cinders in my mouth. It makes my bones brittle, makes me restless with aches. But Despair is something sweet, almost as sweet as the hateful hearts of the Pratermora’s…”

  “What sort of existence is this?” Paiva whispered. “How can you stand to be such a thing?”

  Ceitra’s black eyes reflected back at her with a peculiar look, and for a split second Paiva thought she saw a moment of weakness. Perhaps to be the eater of hate, you must hate yourself the most.

  “You cannot shine light without casting a shadow,” she repeated coldly. “I was that shadow. There will be long shadows you will cast, little Virtue, and darkness you will find when I take the last of your light. When Hope dies it becomes Despair, and from Despair the most terrible of nightmares will be born. The most terrible Folka will rise from the earth and the Forest will once again have dominion over man.”

  “No!” Paiva nearly shouted. “I will not hate you, I will not despair.”

  “But you already do. I can feel it beginning. I can already taste your hatred, flavored with a most potent anger I find exhilarating. Almost as sweet as Odrik’s, as Renn’s. Sweeter still then their father’s.”

  Paiva clutched her father’s book, remembering her home in Birchloam, remembering her sheep and the meadow flowers and her parent’s happy faces. She felt her heart calm and Ceitra gave her a stern look.

  “I see your father has done his work well. But, oh, there are ways I can compel you.” She reached her arm out into the night air and a white winged shape swooped down onto it. She drew it in, holding her arm high to reveal a strange creature.

  “Hello my love,” she cooed. The bird had a strange face, owlish, yet with a dwarfed human nose and peeled-back black lips like a cat’s. Paiva stared at it in horror.

  “I believe you two have already met,” Ceitra said.

  Paiva stumbled back. “Varloga,” she breathed.

  The bird blinked its wide black eyes, then opened its wings and swooped to the floor, its feathers lengthening into a billowing white cloak, its face changing into that of a man’s. He alighted nimbly on his feet, then stood tall and brushed himself off. He canted his face to her with a peculiar, curious look.

  When she had first encountered him in the woods his face had never become fully human, but now she suddenly recognized it, for it was nearly the same as the one stitched into the tapestry in the great hall. The only difference was that the color was drained from him: he appeared stark white, as a ghost would.

  “Odrik…” she breathed.

  “Only in shape,” Ceitra murmured. “Odrik is dead. But his face pleases me so much Varloga took it as his own.”

  Paiva did not need to wonder now how Lord Pratermora had succumbed to madness. She imagined the vile tricks Varloga could play on him, haunting him with his dead son’s face, appearing in his ghostly form and tormenting him. There were endless possibilities to his methods.

  “Paiva Ibbie,” Varloga greeted her. His voice sent waves of fear through her.

  “You have already met my White Magician,” Ceitra murmured contentedly. “Isn’t he fine? You do not yet know all his talents, for he is a great manipulator of shape and also of fear. He is a great conjurer, for he can take your memories and the love that you have known and twist it into something else.” She raised her head to the Folka creatures lining the walls.

  Paiva was held transfixed by the cold smile that slithered across the white face before her. Ceitra nodded to Varloga, who stepped forward and reached a clawed hand for Paiva. She let loose a blood-curdling scream as he started forwards and reeled away from him, but he caught her by the throat and slammed her back into the writing desk. The book went flying from her hands as she fought and writhed against him, unable to look away from his dark eyes that drew hers in. His face pressed close to hers and she stared transfixed into his gaze, lost in its immeasurable black depths. She felt a rush begin behind her skull, her blood pounding smoothly and bringing to the surface a myriad of memories. She knew she was not the only one watching them — Varloga’s presence overshadowed each one that flew by, tainting it with his poison, corrupting a happy memory into one laced with fear so that she would not ever want to look back on it.

  She cried out, tears erupting down her cheeks at the realization of what was beginning, and she tried vainly to wrestle herself free. It was too late. Varloga would at last accomplish what he had set out to do. She sobbed as she tried desperately to cling to her mother’s face, to the sound of her father’s laughter, but they were pulled away from her.

  A whiff of smoke wafted up to her. Varloga’s face flickered with a bright light and something hot licked against her back. Varloga’s smile faltered and his clutch slackened, his gaze breaking. She wrenched her head away from him and looked over her shoulder and saw that the candle had tipped over and spilled its hot wax over the pages of her father’s books. Smoldering flames erupted and the pages began to curl and burn. She cried out in alarm, not meaning to have caused such ruin. In seconds the fire spread, erupting over the rest of the desk. Sparks flew and caught in the shaggy beard of a mounted Folka head on the wall. Paiva backed away from the fire, feeling a rush of tears behind her eyes as her father’s life works dissolved into hot ash before her.

  Ceitra stepped back, pulling her skirts out of the way of the spreading fire. She looked about in anger as tendrils of flame began to creep up to the mounted heads and singe their furs.

  “No,” she wailed as she watched them catch. “Do something!”

  Varloga turned on Paiva again as sparks settled onto his robes and singed at his hair.

  Then the door burst open, bringing with it a draft that
fueled the fire and sent the flames higher. Guards rushed in brandishing swords and spears. Paiva saw Varloga and Ceitra freeze. Then the flames leapt higher up Varloga’s cloak.

  The guards paid no mind to Paiva trying to scramble away. They lunged at the white figure with their spears and swords, trampling into the flames in their haste.

  “It’s her!” she heard Ceitra yell as Paiva sprang for the open door. “It is her who commands and compels Varloga!”

  The guards didn’t react to her cries but fought to draw her out of the burning room while others faced the dark spirit that whirled through the black smoke, snarling and tearing through the flames. His cloak mottled back into wings, and with burning feathers, he dove out the window.

  Paiva raced down the stairwell, straight into a troop of guards clambering up from below her. They pushed and shoved her out of the way, hurrying upwards to reach Ceitra’s screams. Paiva saw Yulin pushing his way up from behind them. He caught sight of her instantly and made for her, blocking her from descending by stepping into her path. His eyes were hard and calculating, assessing her frightened face.

  “What has happened?” he asked, stopping to catch his breath as the guards disappeared.

  She trembled violently, her mind still unsettled with a swarm of shadows. She tried to gather her thoughts through the fog of it. Yulin noted her state and gripped her arm hard.

  “What has happened?” he repeated.

  “The tower’s on fire,” she said. Before he could recover from his shock she hurried on. “Master Yulin, Lady Ceitra summoned Varloga. I will be blamed.” Ceitra’s howls drew nearer and Paiva looked up nervously. “She’s evil. You can’t let her kill Renn. Save him somehow, however you can. Please.” She turned to hurry on but he gripped her hard by her arm.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Master Yulin please, you have to believe me.”

  His eyes searched hers, his face registering neither accusation nor belief.

  “The gates are closed at night, you’ll have to pay off the gatekeeper,” he said. With his other hand he reached to his belt and drew out his purse, handing it to her. “Take it, find yourself a fast horse if you can,” he said, “or run like there’s a demon on your back.”

  “And Renn?” she said. He released her and pushed her down the stairs.

  “Go,” he said.

  She did not look back but stumbled down into the darkness of the stairwell as fast as she could.

  — «» —

  She ran into the kitchens and gathered her belongings in a basket, slipping into her cloak and heading out the back door into the streets. She took one last look in through the windows with longing, knowing she was going to miss the comforts of it. She wondered whether she should bother leaving a note for Bessil, but no sooner had she hesitated than did guards come bursting in through the door and crash down the stairs. She jumped back in surprise, then looked about for a quick escape.

  Across the way from her huddled the urchins and she ran towards them, ducking down under her cloak and hiding her face beneath her hood. They said not a word, but clustered against her, concealing her. Above her in the black of the night sky, the top of the tower blazed like a torch, sending bright ribbons of sparks trailing into the air. Cinders and ashes fell to the ground and settled on her clothes.

  The back door of the kitchen was flung open and guards flooded into the streets. They looked about and called to each other, formed pairs and went in search of her in different directions. Two came up to the urchins, surveying them under the glow of a torch.

  “You lot seen anyone come out that door before us?”

  “No Masters,” they murmured and huddled together. The guard swooped the torch lower over their heads and peered at them with suspicion. The other guard grumbled and trudged away through the mud of the streets, calling his partner after him. Paiva let out her breath shakily as they moved on.

  “Thank you,” she said to the urchins.

  “I suppose we won’t get no more sweet breads now eh,” said the old blind lady.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her eyes on the guards.

  “What they want you for?”

  “Lady Ceitra branded my father,” Paiva muttered. The blind urchin cackled.

  “I smell a great smoke,” she said, her laugh breaking into a wet cough. Paiva looked up into the night air, at the blaze that was cascading ash onto their heads.

  “I need to get away from here,” she whispered.

  “Go down to the south gate Miss,” said the toothless widow. “They let women through in the night to go down to work camps by the river sometimes. You know, that sort of woman. The gatekeeper don’t mind taking a few coins.”

  “The south gate?”

  “In the working quarters. When you get out there’s a foot trail along the river. No one will notice you, not with the tower burning. By the gods’ own will, I hope it burns to the ground, and I hope the Lord’s in it.”

  Paiva felt for Yulin’s purse, which was full, and delved out a few coins. She placed them in the palms of the blind woman.

  “Share this among you,” she said, “for thanks.”

  As she rose and slunk away they muttered their own thanks and wished her well. She made her way into the working quarters, where the streets became uglier and the air was thick with smoke from kilns and smith fires. She felt as if she had crossed some invisible line, stepping into the same world the urchins lived in — the world of the outcasts and the wretched, wherein she would find no help from anyone but those like her. She felt tears burn down her cheeks as she mourned her losses. How was this going to end? How did all this even begin?

  People had begun to mill onto the street to look up at the blazing tower. There was commotion as people began to gather pails of water and douse their roofs and scurry about with brooms to beat out red embers that fell from the sky. Paiva was able to slip through the cluster of people without notice, hiding between the stacked houses when guards trotted by.

  She made it to the south gate without a hitch and found the iron bars slid shut and locked. Standing in the stone arch by a small fire was the gatekeeper, a stout man with a bent nose and a grisly chin. She approached him, and when she was all but a few yards from him he looked up with bleary eyes.

  “What do you want?” he called. She came closer and could smell the drink on his breath.

  “I’d like to be let out.”

  “Would you now? On what business?”

  “I’m going down to the work camp.”

  “Are you?” His eyes roved over from her head to her feet as he appraised her. “A little fresh-looking thing like yourself? You sure?” He smiled toothily and procured from his chest pocket a silver flask. He bent his head back to take a drink, eyeing the burning tower without a care.

  He nearly spewed his drink on her when she procured a handful of glittering coins.

  “By my soul,” he coughed, his eyes fixed on her money.

  “I want to be let out,” she said again. He nodded vigorously and went to open the side door for her. She was about to step through when he stopped her, his better judgement suddenly awakening.

  “Wait a minute there,” he said. “I ought to know who it is coming and going through my own gate.”

  She smelled his sour breath and wanted nothing more than to bolt out into the open. Instead she opened her hand and let the coins fall to the ground. He eagerly fell to his knees and gathered them, and only when they were all clasped firmly in his grubby hands did he look up and find she was gone.

  — «» —

  Paiva kept clear of the work camp with its smoky fires and searched for the foot trail by the riverbank. Drunk voices wafted up to her and bounced off the water and the stone walls. She stumbled through thickets and nearly lost her footing on the steep crags in her hurry, but her years of wandering
the pastures and keeping watch over her sheep had made her quick of foot. Her eyes were sharp and her mind alert, helping her to deter through the shadows until she fell upon the foot trail.

  The moon was risen over the river, sparkling its light over the wide expanse of choppy water. There were boats anchored offshore, lights from the decks twinkling and swaying. Beyond them was the dark shape of the Forest, the Wilderlands of Grimenna, that rose into shadowy hills. Great plumes of sparks eddied out in currents above the Keep, though she could not see the tower from her position so low on the crags.

  She hurried along, her heart beating wildly in her chest, fueling her with speed and necessity. The foot trail gave way to farmlands and she spread her gait into a run over the flat lands. She hopped fences, startled sleeping cows and scattered a flock of nervous sheep. She reached the safety of the trees on the far side of the farmlands, her lungs and her legs burning with exertion. There she collapsed in the shadowed nook of a tree and caught her breath, tilting her head back against the trunk. She stared out over the farmlands, out to the Keep where the tower was lit up like a beacon. She reconciled her mixture of emotions, trying to find calmness in the maelstrom of her whirling thoughts.

  She would go to Quarrytown and find her mother. Together they could find somewhere safe, somewhere far away from this hellish place. Her heart lurched as she thought of her father somewhere out across the river, lost in the Wilderlands. She was beyond bewildered and confused, so she heaved herself up and began to follow the riverbank north to Quarrytown, towards her mother.

  Chapter 9

  She found herself on an old woodcutter’s road along the river the next day. She had stumbled onwards into the woods by the cover of night, trespassing along the bank of the gleaming moonlit river that lit her way. She stopped to rest when clouds moved in and swallowed the moon, taking with it any light she might have had to guide her way. She became lost in the dark, and the fear of what she could not see sent her scrambling into the crook of a tree. There she huddled into herself and shut her eyes against the black woods to wait out the rest of the night. She swallowed her fear and murmured a prayer to the trees.