Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

As he left, the kitchen staff turned their eyes from Rol as though he were the bearer of a contagious disease. Only Gibble spoke.

“Don’t provoke him. Be meek and mild, and hold your tongue, for pity’s sake.”

“Has Rowen-”

“No, lad. Not a word.” The portly cook set a hand on Rol’s shoulder. “It’s not in her nature. You must look out for yourself alone.”

Quare was waiting for him at the foot of the main stairwell. He was smiling. “My young beauty. The Master awaits you. I will take you up to him.” But he made no move. Instead he leaned forward and said: “Rowen is to fulfill the remainder of her contract with the King of Thieves within the week. How do you think his minions will receive her? Are they the type to bear grudges?” And he vented a curiously girlish giggle. Rol said nothing. The manservant shrugged slightly and led the way up the austere circular staircase, which led to the upper levels.

“Leave us, Quare,” Psellos said, and Rol heard the door easing shut behind him. He was in a chamber he had never seen before, though his errands routinely carried him through almost every cranny of Psellos’s Tower. One straight wall, the other a vast semicircle which had set along it the grandest series of glass windows Rol had ever seen. They were big enough for a man to step through and faced not downhill, toward Ascari, but away from the sea, so that Rol’s vision was filled by the sun-dappled bulk of the Ellidon Hills. A slim silhouette stood before them.

And other things. Set between each pair of windows was a small table of disturbing workmanship. The legs of these seemed twisted as though by some wasting disease, and set atop them were glass demi-johns. In each a murky shape shimmered and floated.

“Rowen told me all,” Psellos said. He strode over to yet another table and poured himself some wine from a crystal decanter whose neck had been chiseled into the mouth of a leering fox. “I am surprised at you, young Cortishane, surprised and I must admit somewhat impressed. I knew you had murder in you, else I would not have wasted my time-but three of the Thief-King’s Feathermen in one fell swoop, as it were? Now, that speaks to me of a certain style.”

Back at the semicircular wall of windows, he sipped wine with one hand and the other he set upon one of the mysterious glass jars. At once a greenish light began to glow within its depths, revealing the contents. The head of a bearded man. The eyes within the head blinked and the mouth moved.

“Freidius of Auxierre, my old friend, look upon my latest apprentice and tell me what you see.”

The voice that issued from the jar set Rol’s hair on end. It was a tortured gargle. “Psellos, set me free, end this monstrous half-life, I beg of you-”

“Now, now, do as I say or I shall bring back our friend the rat.”

The disembodied face twisted. “He is a child of the Blood, I can see it in his eyes.”

“So can every other fool on the street. Use that brain of yours or I shall bruise it some more. This was your field when you were a man.”

The thing in the jar shut its glazed eyes, and all at once Rol felt a peculiar sensation in his head, as though a cockroach were crawling beneath his scalp. He backed a step, but at a glare from Psellos stood fast.

“He is-he is more pure-blooded than I thought. Where did you get him, Psellos? What has Grayven said? Have you sent him a sample?”

“Yes. But I wanted a second opinion. His powders and tubes are not always as accurate as I would like.”

“He is of Orr, no doubt about it, but if I did not know better I would say he has the makeup of an Ancient.”

“Impossible.”

“I know, but-is there any taint in him?”

“I examined him myself. There is none.”

“To have so much of the Blood, and yet be perfect, whole. I have not felt his like before save once-and so young! Where on earth did you find him?”

“He found me,” Psellos said, and he grinned, exposing the silver canines.

“If there is no flaw in him-I do not know how a bloodline could have stayed so pure-do you realize that-”

“Enough,” Psellos said, and the green light in the jar went out. The face slumped into the immobility of dead flesh. There was a silence in the splendidly lit room.

“What manner of man are you?” Rol asked, staring in disgust at the thing in the jar.

“Eh? Oh, strictly speaking I am not much of a man at all-but I am more of a human than you, my impertinent young friend.” Psellos’s manner was jaunty, but his eyes were humorless as a hangman’s.

“You are a sorcerer.”

“No, I am much more than that.” Psellos raised his glass again, and finding it empty he repaired to the decanter. The neck of the crystal clinked twice against his goblet, and with a shock Rol realized that the Master’s hands were shaking.

“Take a seat, youngster. It is time we had a talk. Man to man, or as close as you and I can come to that.”

They sat thirty feet apart, the bright mountain view behind Psellos rendering his face inscrutable with shadow.

“You are not human; I told you that once before. The blood that runs within your veins, that which your heart pumps about your carcass, belongs to a race older than humanity.” Psellos steepled his fingers together, resting his elbows on the stuffed arms of his chair. “What do you know of the history of the world?” And before Rol could answer, he laughed. “Forgive me. I should perhaps be a little more specific. Did Ardisan ever speak to you of the Weren?”

“My grandfather told me of the Elder Race, which existed in the time of the Old World, before the New was made. He said they were Man before his Fall-some thought of them as angels.”

“Your grandfather was repeating only the superstitions of ignorant men. I suppose he had his reasons. In any case, he misled you. The Old World and the New coexist. They occupy the same space upon this earth, the Umer that we know. But they belong to different eras, and they rarely touch upon each other.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is a world beyond that which we see and touch in everyday discourse. It is not given to every creature to access it, but some can exist in both at once. You, Rol, are a creature of the Older World, as am I-and Rowen.” Psellos paused, and seemed about to elaborate, but then changed tack altogether. “How did you kill those three Feathermen?”

“I don’t know-it was very fast. I had them before they could move.”

“The minions of the King of Thieves are chosen for their swiftness, for their instincts, their reflexes. Admittedly, they were busy at the time, but you bested three of them in one single combat. If it were luck, then it was like none I have ever seen before. Tell me, can you see in the dark?”

Rol started. “Sometimes.”

“Have you always been able to see in the dark?”

“No. Listen, why do you make Rowen do these things-why do you torture her?”

“She is making payment.”

“For what?”

“Knowledge.”

“Where did you get all this knowledge that you withhold? What gives you the right to withhold it?”

Psellos waved a hand. “A man goes out into the fields, he harvests his crops, he takes them to market. Would you have him give them away for nothing? The laborer, we are told, is worthy of his hire.”

“Your prices destroy people’s lives.”

“I do not force people to bargain with me. I name a price. Either they pay it or they do not.”

Rol pushed the palm of one hand into his eye. It was the scarred palm, and it seemed to cool the hot tumult of his brain.

“What are we?” he whispered.

“Ah, the matter in hand again. I believe I told you.”

“No. I am just a man, like you. I don’t believe in-” Rol stopped, realizing that his words were absurd, after the things he had seen and done even in the short span of his life hitherto. He no longer felt sure even of the ground beneath his feet.