T. Church - Return to Canifis

“The Black Prince wishes to see you, Gar’rth. I will take you to him now, but first I think you should know more of your situation. You walk upon the edge of a knife here. We all do. A stray step is all it takes for our lives to be forfeit. The Black Prince is bad enough, but worse still is Vanescula Drakan.

“Have you heard of her?”

“I think so,” he replied. “Is she Lord Drakan’s daughter?”

Georgi shook his head.

“She is his sister. And there are none worse than her. Not Malak, not her brother Ranis, perhaps not even Lord Drakan himself, and certainly not the Black Prince. They play their games against one another, entertaining themselves with the lives of humans in the ghettoes, as well as those like your parents and me. We are all pawns to them, pawns in a game where death is no finality.

“Can you imagine what that means? There can be no escape for us.”

The old werewolf shook his head and looked at Gar’rth curiously.

“And you will be in very real danger here. These corridors may seem empty, but the darkness itself is a slave to their will, as much as you or I. She especially uses it to smother the life from her victims. or to tear the flesh from their bones, and she -Vanescula-will hate you Gar’rth. You must be careful.”

Gar’rth frowned.

“Why? Why would she hate me so much?”

“Because you are a favourite of the Black Prince. There is no other reason than that.” He ignored Gar’rth’s questioning stare. “Like I said, it is a game to them, and a favoured pawn of one is a particular enemy of another. Here, might is right, Gar’rth. There are no other laws.

“Now, come on,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “We cannot keep the Black Prince waiting.”

Georgi led Gar’rth from his chamber and down a wide spiral stair. On the floor below they emerged into an immense library, every wall lined with shelves twice as high as any man, filled with books. Two windows permitted the dimmest light, which fell upon the ashes of a large fire that had clearly not been lit in a long time.

Gar’rth had never read a book himself, aside from those that Arisha and the monks of the monastery had used to help him learn the common tongue, and the sight of the collection made him gasp.

“I suppose it is impressive, in its way,” Georgi said. “There are books here written in unknown languages from a race long extinct. I think only the Black Prince himself has ever read them.”

“But there are thousands of books,” Gar’rth intoned. “Tens of thousands. How long would it take?”

“The Black Prince is a vampire, Gar’rth. Time is his ally. A year passes for him as a minute to you or I. He might have read each book ten times or more.”

“Who is the Black Prince?”

Georgi smiled.

“Your mother and father both worked for him, and they… told me stories about their service to him.” Suddenly he stopped, and Gar’rth saw the conflict on his face.

“When I was young I was told that my father was killed here,” Gar’rth said, “in the service of a vampire nobleman. Was it him, Georgi? Was it the Black Prince who did it?”

“I didn’t witness your father’s death, Gar’rth,” the old man said. “but I saw what it did to your mother, poor creature.”

“Then why do you serve them so, if they are such terrible masters?”

“It is not a choice we are free to make, Gar’rth,” Georgi answered. “You cannot refuse them. Yet there are rewards, as well. They can make you dream such dreams that you would never wish to wake. Still, now is not the time to talk of such things, for we will spend many long hours together in the future, and I will explain all I am able to.”

Dreams so wonderful that you wouldn’t wish to wake?

Can they do the same with nightmares?

The valet resumed his pace and they left the library though the opposite end.

Castimir would love that room. He would never want to leave. And from what Georgi says, it may be that I will have time to spend time there, as well.

They passed through a large circular room with four double doors on opposite sides. Two of them were open. Everywhere the stone was black.

“Here. He waits for you by the pool.”

“The pool?”

“He watches it every day. Through it he can see the doings of many people, and spy on their most guarded secrets. That is how he knows about Varrock. That is how he perceived your coming. Go. I will wait here for you.”

Georgi pointed, and Gar’rth stepped through the open double doors. The room was large but it was darker than any of the others, and full of shadows. At its centre-at the very darkest point- stood a man, behind and above a circular pool of still water.

So this is the one behind it all. This is the vampire who sent Jerrod after me, the one who has wanted me for so long.

Why?

Try as he might, Gar’rth could not see much in this blackness. Yet he sensed the figure’s attention as it shifted from the water to him.

“Come forward,” a voice commanded.

It is the same voice as woke me from my sleep. I couldn’t resist it then.

Nor could he resist it now. He stepped forward to the pool’s edge, a stone lip that rose a short distance from the flagstones.

“Closer, Gar’rth. Come closer.”

He dared not speak, nor refuse. He wanted only to obey. Quickly, he walked around the pool’s edge. And as he neared the black figure in the midst of the shadows, he did not feel afraid. Instead he felt… happiness? Elation?

I am elated. This man knows so much about me.

“I have all the answers you seek, and more-infinitely more,” the voice said. “I can teach so very, very much. Far more than anything Kara-Meir or those human friends of yours.

“I can tell you, for example, that your embassy has wasted its time. The children you seek are not in Morytania. They never have been. And even now the Wyrd is dead. Her head sits on a spike upon the walls of Varrock’s palace.

“You see, even the embassy itself was only a feint to achieve my purpose. The purpose of bringing you to me.”

“What?” Gar’rth said, finding his voice. “I don’t understand. You sent the Wyrd to lure me back?”

The figure in the black robes turned. Gar’rth was close enough now to see his face. He looked to be a man in his late thirties, his black hair swept back, lined with grey and white at the edges. Behind the dark eyes Gar’rth saw a deeper shade, a bright red that could not be concealed, that told him the true nature of the thing before him.

Yet still he wasn’t afraid.

“No, the Wyrd had tasks of her own to complete. She came close, but your own intervention on the night of the dance and the betrayal of your uncle-at Vanescula’s command-led to her death before her work was done. Therefore I must send another.”

Jerrod betrayed him?

The figure turned back to the pool.

“Tell me, Gar’rth, what do you see here?”

He looked into the still waters.

“Nothing. Nothing but the barest ripple.”

“Then perhaps you have no empathy for magic.” The man sneered slightly, and exhaled. “Still, that can be rectified in time, and time is what we have in plenty. Let us try again. Grasp my hand, and think. Think of King Roald, perhaps.”

Gar’rth held his hand out slowly. Quickly the man took it. Coldness crept up his wrist and into his arm, and yet the grip was so strong that he couldn’t have broken it if he had tried.

“Look, Gar’rth. Think of King Roald, and look.”

The dark colour of the water faded and the ripples took form. Quickly, a half recognisable image of the King appeared. Gar’rth gasped, and the image vanished.