It was still cloudy the following morning, a dense, grey overcast that filled the dismal wood with a kind of murky twilight. After they had finished breakfast, Kurik erected a sheet of canvas on poles over the sleeping minstrel.
"Just in case it rains," he said.
"Is he all right?" Bevier asked.
"Just exhausted," Sephrenia replied evasively. "Let him sleep." They mounted and rode back out to the rutted track.
Sparhawk led them at first at a trot to warm up the horses, and then, after about a half-hour he pushed Faran into a gallop. "Keep your eyes on the road," he shouted to the others. "Let's not cripple any of the horses."
They rode hard through the murky wood, slowing briefly from time to time to rest their mounts. As the day progressed, they began to hear rumbles of thunder off to the west, and the impending storm increased their desire to reach the questionable safety of the house at Ghasek.
As they drew closer to the count's castle, they passed deserted villages that had fallen into ruin. The storm clouds roiled overhead, and the distant thunder marched steadily towards them.
Late in the afternoon, they rounded a curve and saw the large castle perched atop a crag on the far side of a desolate field where ruined houses stood huddled together as if fearful of the bleak structure glowering down at them. Sparhawk reined Faran in. "Let's not just go charging up there," he said to the others. "We don't want the people in the castle to misunderstand our intentions." He led them at a trot across the field. They passed the village and approached the base of the craggy hill.
There was a narrow track leading up the side of the crag, and they rode up it in single file.
"Gloomy-looking place," Ulath said, craning his neck to look up at the brooding structure atop the crag.
"It doesn't really help to generate much enthusiasm for this visit," Kalten agreed.
The track they followed led ultimately to a barred gate.
Sparhawk reined in, leaned over in his saddle and pounded on the gate with one steel-clad fist.
They waited, but nothing happened.
Sparhawk pounded again.
After some time, a small panel in the centre of the gate slid open. "What is it?" a hollow voice demanded shortly.
"We are travellers," Sparhawk replied, "and we seek shelter from the storm which approaches."
The house is closed to strangers."
"Open the gate," Sparhawk said flatly. "We are Knights of the Church, and failure to comply with our reasonable request for shelter is an offence against God."
The unseen man on the other side of the gate hesitated.
"I must ask the count's permission," he said grudgingly in a deep, rumbling voice.
"Do so at once then."
"Not a very promising beginning, is it?" Kalten said.
"Gatekeepers sometimes take themselves too seriously," Tynian told him. "Keys and locks do strange things to some people's sense of proportion."
They waited while lightning streaked the purple sky to the west.
Then, after what seemed a very long time, they heard the rattling of a chain followed by the sound of a heavy iron bar sliding through massive rings. Grudgingly, the gate groaned open.
The man inside was huge. He wore bull-hide armour, and his eyes were deep-sunk beneath heavy brows. His lower jaw protruded, and his face was bleak.
Sparhawk knew him. He had seen him once before.
Chapter 14
The corridor into which the surly gate-guard led them was draped with cobwebs and dimly lit by flickering torches set in iron rings at widely spaced intervals. Sparhawk quite deliberately lagged behind to fall in beside Sephrenia. "You recognised him too?" he whispered to her.
She nodded. "There's more going on here than we realized," she whispered back. "Be very careful, Sparhawk, This is dangerous."
"Right," he grunted.
At the far end of the cobwebbed hallway stood a large, heavy door. When their silent escort pulled it open, the rusty hinges squealed in protest. They came out at the head of a curved stairway that led down into a very large room. The room was vaulted, its walls were painted white, and the polished stone floor was as black as night.
A fire burned fitfully in the arched fireplace, and the only other light came from a single candle on the table before the fire. Seated at the table was a pale-faced, grey-haired man dressed all in black. His face was melancholy and had the pallor of one who is seldom out in the sun. He looked somehow unhealthy, a victim of some obscure malaise. He was reading a large, leather-bound book by the light of his single candle.
The people I spoke of, Master," the lantern-jawed man in the bull-hide armour said deferentially in his deep, hollow voice.
"Very well, Occuda," the man at the table replied in a weary voice. "Prepare chambers for them. They will stay until the storm abates."
The big servant turned.
"It shall be as you say, master." and went back up the stairs.
"Very few people travel into this part of the kingdom."
The man in black informed them. "The region is desolate and unpopulated. I am count Ghasek, and I offer you the meager shelter of my house until the weather clears.
In time, you may wish that you had not found my gate."
"My name is Sparhawk, " the big Pandion told him, and then he introduced the others.
Ghasek nodded politely to each. "Seat yourselves," he invited his guests. "Occuda will return shortly and prepare refreshments for you."
"You are very kind, My Lord of Ghasek," Sparhawk said, removing his helmet and gauntlets.
"You may not think so for long, Sir Sparhawk," Ghasek said ominously.
"That's the second time you've hinted at some kind of trouble within your walls, My Lord," Tynian said.
"And it may not be the last, Sir Tynian. The word "trouble", however, is far too mild, I'm afraid. To be quite honest with you, had you not been Knights of the Church, my gates would have remained closed to you.
This is an unhappy house, and I do not willingly inflict its sorrows on strangers."
"We passed through Venne a few days ago, My Lord, " Sparhawk said carefully. "All manner of rumours are going about concerning your castle."
"I'm not in the least surprised," the count replied, passing a trembling hand across his face.
"Are you unwell, My Lord?" Sephrenia asked him.
"Advancing age perhaps, Madame, and there's only one cure for that."
"We saw no other servants in your house, My Lord," Bevier said, obviously choosing his words carefully.
"Occuda and I are the only ones here now, Sir Bevier.
"We encountered a minstrel in the forest, Count Ghasek," Bevier told him, almost accusingly. "He mentioned the fact that you had a sister."
"You must mean the fool called Arbele," the count replied. "Yes, I do in fact have a sister."
"Will the lady be joining us?" Bevier's tone was sharp.
"No," the count replied shortly. "My sister is indisposed."
"Lady Sephrenia here is highly skilled in the healing arts," Bevier pressed.
"My sisters malady is not susceptible to cure." The count said it with a note of finality.
That's enough, Bevier," Sparhawk told the young Cyrinic in a tone of command.
Bevier flushed and rose from his chair to walk to the far end of the room.
The young man seems distraught," the count observed.
The minstrel Arbele told him some things about your house," Tynian said candidly. "Bevier's an Arcian and they're an emotional people."
"I see," the melancholy nobleman replied. "I can imagine the kind of wild tales Arbele is telling. Fortunately, few will believe him."
"I'm afraid you're in error, My Lord," Sephrenia disagreed. "The tales Arbele tells are a symptom of a disorder that clouds his reason, and the disorder is infectious. For a time at least, everyone he encounters will accept what he says as absolute truth."
"My sister's arm grows longer, I see."
From somewhere far back in the house there came a hideous shriek, followed by peal upon peal of mindless laughter.
"Your sister?" Sephrenia asked gently.
Ghasek nodded, and Sparhawk could see the tears brimming in his eyes.
"And her malady is not physical?"
"No."
"Let us not pursue this further, gentlemen," Sephrenia said to the knights. "The subject is painful to the count."
"You're very kind, Madame," Ghasek said gratefully.
He sighed, then said, "Tell me, Sir Knights, what brings you into this melancholy forest?"
"We came expressly to see you, My Lord," Sparhawk told him.
"Me?" The count looked surprised.
"We are on a quest, Count Ghasek. We seek the final resting place of King Sarak of Thalesia, who fell during the Zemoch invasion."
"The name is vaguely familiar to me."
"I thought it might be. A tanner in the town of Paler - a man named Berd - "
"Yes. I know him."
"Anyway, he told us of the chronicle you're compiling."
The count's eyes brightened, bringing life to his face for the first time since they had entered the room. "The labour of a lifetime, Sir Sparhawk."
"So I understand, My Lord. Berd told us that your research has been more or less exhaustive."
"Berd may be a bit overgenerous in that regard." The count smiled modestly. "I have, however, gathered most of the folk-lore in northern Pelosia and even in some parts of Deira. Otha's invasion was far more extensive than is generally known."
"Yes, so we discovered. With your permission, we'd like to examine your chronicle for clues that might lead us to the place where King Sarak is buried."
"Certainly, Sir Sparhawk, and I'll help you myself, but the hour grows late, and my chronicle is weighty." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "Once I begin, we could be up for most of the night. I lose all track of time once I immerse myself in those pages. Suppose we wait until morning before we begin."
"As you wish, My Lord."
Then Occuda entered, bringing a large pot of thick stew and a stack of plates. "I fed her, Master," he said quietly.
"Is there any change?" the count asked.
"No, Master. I'm afraid not."
The count sighed, and his face became melancholy again.
Occuda's skills in the kitchen appeared to be Limited.
The stew he provided was mediocre at best, but the count was so immersed in his studies that he appeared to be indifferent to what was set before him.
After they had eaten, the count bade them good night, and Occuda led them up the stairs and down a long corridor towards the rooms he had prepared. As they approached the chambers, they heard the shrieks of the madwoman once again. Bevier suppressed a sob. "She's suffering," he said in an anguished voice.
"No, Sir Knight," Occuda disagreed. "She's completely insane, and people in her condition cannot comprehend their circumstances."
"I'd be interested to know how a servant came to be such an expert in diseases of the mind."
"That's enough, Bevier," Sparhawk said again.
"No, Sir Knight," Occuda said. "your friend's question is pertinent." He turned towards Bevier. "In my youth, I was a monk," he said. "My order devoted itself to caring for the infirm. One of our abbeys had been converted into a hospice for the deranged, and that's where I served. I have had much experience with the insane. Believe me when I tell you that Lady Bellina is hopelessly mad."
Bevier looked a little less certain of himself, but then his eyes hardened again. "I don't believe you," he snapped.
"That's entirely up to you, Sir Knight," Occuda said.
"This will be your chamber." He opened a door. "Sleep well."
Bevier went into the room and slammed the door behind him.
"You know that as soon as the house grows quiet, he'll go in search of the count's sister, don't you?" Sephrenia murmured.
"You're probably right," Sparhawk agreed. "Occuda, is there some way you can lock that door?"
The huge Pelosian nodded. "I can chain it shut, My Lord," he said.
"You'd better do it then. We don't want Bevier wandering around the halls in the middle of the night."
Sparhawk thought a moment. "We'd better post a guard outside his door as well," he told the others. "He's got his lochaber axe with him, and if he gets desperate enough, he might try to chop the door down."
"That could get a little tricky, Sparhawk," Kalten said dubiously. "We don't want to hurt him, but we don't want him coming at us with that gruesome axe of his either."
"If he tries to get out, we'll just have to overpower him," Sparhawk said.
Occuda showed the others to their rooms, and Sparhawk's was the last. "Will that be all, Sir Knight?" the servant asked politely as they entered.
"Stay a moment, Occuda," Sparhawk said.
"Yes, My Lord."
"I've seen you before, you know."
"Me, My Lord?"
"I was in Chyrellos some time ago, and Sephrenia and I were watching a house belonging to some Styrics. We saw you accompany a woman into that house. Was that Lady Bellina?"
Occuda sighed and nodded.
"It was what happened in that house that drove her mad, you know."
"I'd guessed as much."
"Can you tell me the whole story? I don't want to bother the count with painful questions, but we've got to rid Sir Bevier of his obsession."
"I understand, My Lord. My first loyalty is to the count, but perhaps you should know the details. At least that way you may be able to protect yourselves from that madwoman." Occuda sat down, his rugged face mournful.
"The count is a scholarly man, Sir Knight, and he's frequently away from home for long periods pursuing the stories he's been collecting for decades. His sister, Lady Bellina, is - or was - a plain, rather dumpy woman of middle years with very little prospects of ever catching a husband. This is a remote and isolated house, and Bellina suffered from loneliness and boredom. Last winter, she begged the count to permit her to visit friends in Chyrellos, and he gave her his consent, provided that I accompany her."
"I'd wondered how she got there," Sparhawk said, sitting on the edge of the bed.