Siwan looked at him, a question gathering behind her eyes.Llewyn realised, then, how little he had told her of his life before Nyth Fran.How little she really knew of him.How much of the tension between them had grown from the root of his secrets and his shame?
‘My father told me,’ Ifan said, ‘as he lay dying, in the grip of an honesty that his physicians and the druids took for madness.First, an admission that the history kept by the scholars of Parwys is false, while the propaganda of our neighbours reaches closer to the truth.You think we are unaware of those Galcan books, Fola?We know of them.We simply cannot allow ourselves to believe them.’He shook his head, chuckled wryly, again scrubbed at his curls with nervous hands.‘But my father knew the truth.The haunting made it impossible for him to deny it any longer.He told me, too, of the whispers of the ghosts.Of their singular demand.The condition which might liberate this land from their wrath.An end—root and branch—to the House of Abal, the tyrant who built this kingdom upon a foundation of blood and bone and buried it all beneath a mountain of lies.The death of Prince Owyn, who was my friend, and all who share his father’s blood.A war to end the haunting before it devours us all.’
‘Treason,’ Damon breathed, caught up in the drama of it all.A decent writer, and a good actor as far as Llewyn knew to judge these things, but still a lad.Unable to tease apart thrill from horror when faced with danger.To Llewyn, the count had revealed nothing but a fresh and deeper cause for fear.He wanted to be away from the courtyard, back on the road, where motion at least cast a glamour of safety.
Fola reached for the count’s arm.He flinched away, then let her take him by the shoulder.A small gesture of comfort—nothing at all when weighed against the pain that racked him.
‘It is treason, yes,’ he said, turning to Damon.‘I admit it.But it would be a greater betrayal—of the people of this kingdom, and of justice, and of the truth itself—to let the haunting run its course.I will do this terrible thing because it must be done, though it devours me.’
‘What if there was another way?’Fola said.
Ifan scowled at her.‘Oh, as the Mortal Church promised to the Count of Afondir?I will sacrifice a great deal, sorceress, but I am no man’s running dog.’The scowl deepened as he shook his head.‘Or perhaps I am a fool, and he is right to prioritise the lives of our people over the independence of our realm.’
‘I admit to caring little for your realm, such as it is,’ Fola said, ‘or any realm, for that matter.Its people, though, I would preserve, if I can.But I would not see the Mortal Church strengthened by seizing Parwys as they have seized Tarebach, Salus and Alberon.’
‘Then what?’Ifan roared, backpedalling and shrugging off Fola’s hand, rekindling Llewyn’s fear.Here, then, was the end of the count’s patience.His hand returned to his sword, white-knuckled and ready to draw.‘What brought you to Parwys, if not to seize upon the opportunity presented by our weakness?What brought you here, if not to use me as a tool in whatever it is that you scheme?Tell me.Now.’
Frog squawked and flatted himself against Fola’s shoulder.Colm and Harwick tensed, though neither carried any weapon, and Spil disappeared behind Harwick’s back with a yelp.Fola waved them down as her gaze flitted to the count’s sword.That she could remain calm in the face of such a storm baffled Llewyn.Then again, she had kept her head during Siwan’s fit at the festival grounds, when the sky opened and the dead reached down.
‘As I told the court,’ Fola began, ‘I came to study the haunting.Already I have made important discoveries, and intend to return with them to my City.In truth, I might have done so without paying you this visit.’Her gaze flitted to Siwan, then to Llewyn.‘But I felt… I don’t know… compelled to do what I could, here.There’s this idea in the City that we all have a responsibility to do what we can, when and where we can, for the good of all.I can put an end to the nightmare here.And, in the process, foil the plans of the Mortal Church—who are not on the friendliest terms with my people.’
‘And who are “your people”?’Ifan snarled.‘This “city”?This “Starlit Tower” you claim, but which I have never heard of, even in rumour?’
Fola hesitated, perhaps uncertain of how to frame her answer.Llewyn still struggled to believe the fantastic tales she spun, even after Afanan had testified to their truth.How could she convince the count, who had even less reason to believe?At last, she gestured to the aleph.
‘You may have heard tales of the City of the Wise,’ she said.‘Called Thaumedony, by some.’
Ifan stared at her, the fire gone from his eyes and replaced with a baffled disbelief.‘A legend,’ he said.
‘No more a legend than the fae,’ Fola said.‘Or the World Clock there.Or the true history of this kingdom.Ask the churchmen.They know us well enough.Or the queen regent.’
‘My grandfather told me those stories.’Ifan pointed to the aleph.‘He sat me there, beside the World Clock, and told me of the City left to humanity by its makers.A place of wonders, without death or suffering.A pleasant lie to comfort a child.Nothing more.’
‘It isn’t as perfect as that,’ Fola said.‘But it is near enough.’
‘How could it be real?’Ifan went on as though he had not heard her.‘If it were, surely the good of it must have spread throughout the world in these last thousand years.We call a lord cruel for eating well while his people starve.How much worse to let all the world suffer, to let kingdoms wage war and people starve, all while living in bliss?’
Llewyn shot Siwan a look, hoping that hearing these thoughts from a voice other than his own might seed them more firmly in her mind.She only watched the count, wearing a slight frown, holding Damon’s hand for comfort.
Fola spread her arms wide.‘I cannot speak for the others of my City,’ she said.‘But I am here, now, offering you aid.All I ask in return is your help, and that I be allowed to depart when the work is done.’
Ifan shook his head slowly, his thoughts churning behind his eyes.‘There must be some lie to it,’ he murmured.
‘No lie,’ Fola insisted.‘I would see an end to the haunting without the death of a child who did nothing to cause it.’
‘You speak of Prince Owyn?’Ifan said.
Fola nodded, and here, it seemed, was the turning point for the count.The possibility that the haunting might be ended without layering brutality atop ancient violence.Wrath satisfied without pitiless revenge.
An idea as alluring to Llewyn as to the count, but fanciful.He had lived long enough in the world to know that anger was not so easily blunted, that cruelty left scars that would never heal.Pain begat pain.Afanan had tried to stand against that law of nature, and had died for it.
‘An end to the haunting… and Owyn gets to live…’ Ifan said, perplexed and far from convinced, but unable to resist the possibility of what Fola had offered—as Llewyn had been unable to resist Afanan in all her kindness, all her naivety.‘How would you do this, and what aid of mine would you need?’
‘I could attempt to explain the “how”,’ Fola said, ‘though I doubt you would understand it, and at this point it is largely hypothetical.’She gestured towards the aleph.‘As to the aid you might lend… a few hours in your courtyard, and access to your World Clock, should more than suffice.’
Her answer had done little to ease Ifan’s bafflement.If anything, it had deepened his confusion.‘To what end?’
‘To bargain with the dead, My Lord,’ Fola said, ‘and convince them to offer better terms.’
