To the loveliest loves in all the land:

Lily, Abigail, Sophie, Emily, Michael and Lucy

Dedication

The Archivist’s Oath

Prologue

1. Unsettled Souls

2. Wickham’s Tale

3. The Holdings

4. The Lunatic Prince

5. Starveling

6. Spectator

7. Teal and Gold

8. By Nightfall, Be Gone

9. The Beast He Would Slay

10. Curse Your Souls

11. Downfall

12. Chancey the Gold

13. Census

14. The Archivist’s Oath

15. Black Against the Rising Moon

16. The Honoured Son

17. Oilskins

18. The Other Guide

19. Ten Falls

20. Home

21. The Thousandth Soul

22. Grief

23. Abandoned

24. A Million Steps

25. Pinfrock

26. The Same Hand

27. Prophecy

28. The Bridge

29. Rumours and Fathoming

30. One Man Down

31. All That is Buried

32. Bones

33. Pincer

34. Acquisition

35. Marsh Light

36. Quintus

37. Truth and Loyalty

38. Collapse

39. A Truant Kingdom

40. Dying Breath

41. Black to the Core

42. Rotting

43. Beneath the Surface

44. Hope

45. Engulfed

46. The Legend of Praevisia

47. Frax

48. Stakes

49. Reckless

50. Banished

51. Heartbreak

52. The Evil That Shone

53. Six Scars

54. Hidden

55. Fall at the Last

56. Skyward

57. Descent

58. Sweetling

59. Slaughterhouse

60. Testament

61. Fallen

62. Undermined

63. Fire

64. The Boy Who Never Was

65. Separation

66. The Walled Garden

67. Beloved

68. Grave

69. Poison

70. Affliction

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Publisher

I am Archivist Tristan Ault.

I vow to tell the untold tales, and my master is the truth.

OURTEEN YEARS AGO…

Wind rushed in from the cold night and quenched all but three of the torches that lit the great hall of Castle Derrington. King Micah, weakened by illness, lay slumped on his throne, his breathing dry and shallow. A towering band of men on horseback surrounded him, flames dancing in their eyes, their cheeks streaked with blood.

Outside, against the beating rain, the king’s most loyal counsel, Villius Ren, rode his white horse across the burning drawbridge and charged through the deserted barbican, through the courtyard and into the great hall.

“Your Highness,” he said, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

King Micah looked up from the shadows, and saw that his trusted servant bore the same blood markings as the pale warriors before him. He bowed his head.

“It is not your betrayal that saddens me, Villius. It is the world and how it has turned to darkness to find its way. And how can we be guided without light?”

The wind whipped around the last of the torches and the room went black.

“You have succumbed, Villius, as the weak and the ignorant do,” said King Micah. “Since you were a child, happiness held no value for you. I was foolish to think that you could change. You have defeated a man on his deathbed. Your courage is commendable.”

The filthy white horse reared up on its hind legs. Villius Ren wrenched the reins, the hot breath from his laughter misting the cold air around him. He said just one word: “Release.”

“Farewell,” said King Micah, “but know that this is not the end.”

When all the arrows had arced from their bows, Villius Ren jumped down from his horse and went to where King Micah lay bleeding. One by one, Villius twisted the arrows in his master’s wounds, and tore them free. King Micah’s eyes shot open. He reached out and gripped Villius Ren’s arm. The two men locked eyes. Villius felt as if his flesh had been sucked towards the bone and released, as if he had been drained, then replenished. A feeling of sickness and loss swept over him. He staggered away from the king, whose eyes had closed, whose chest had ceased to rise.

Villius Ren and his warriors had laid claim to the Kingdom of Decresian, but only by defeating a dying man. Henceforth, to all but each other, they would be known as The Craven Lodge.

The Curse of Kings was cast.

Somewhere in the castle, a baby cried.

NVAR WAS A LAND OF TWELVE TERRITORIES AND ITS northeasterly was Decresian. In the time of King Micah and Queen Cossima, the people were looked after, employed and respected. Ever since The Craven Lodge took over, only a desperate few sought work at the castle, hired and fired at the whim of Villius Ren.

Mostly, the people of Decresian were poor, angry and sleep-deprived, for, in a walled garden in the grounds of Castle Derrington, nine hundred and ninety-nine corpses were buried and every night, when the clock struck twelve, their unsettled souls screamed for mercy until daybreak.

It was said they were the remains of the botched experiments of the Evolent brothers, Doctors Malcolm and Benjamin, one-time allies of Villius Ren. For decades, while the people of Decresian slept, the Evolents crossbred humans and animals and they failed – nine hundred and ninety-nine times. The bodies were thrown one on top of the other, often before they had the chance to draw their last breath. It was a final, grotesque indignity in a kingdom of honour and tradition, where the bodies of the dead were held sacred.

Some said it was fitting that the sound of a ruined kingdom was the sound of pain, and that, in their bleakest moments, the people of Decresian found comfort in it. If there were other souls out there screaming in the darkness, unable to rest at night, they knew that they were not alone.

Even The Craven Lodge couldn’t bear to stay at the castle during the kingdom’s darkest hours. Instead, they found courage in the bottles of wine and the tankards of beer they drank; a vicious, concocted courage that sent them rampaging on horseback through Decresian and beyond, lawless and wild. The only person to be found in the castle from midnight was their servant from birth – a young man of fourteen. His name was Oland Born.

It was close to dawn as Oland rushed around the great hall, behind in his nightly task of cleaning up after The Craven Lodge’s banquet. Bones and gristle and potato skins littered the flagstone floor. The air was rank with sweat and liquor and grease. The gaping carcass of a pig still lay on the vast gold-edged dining table. Rings of red wine marked its surface and candle wax had melted into the narrow cracks. As Oland bent to pick up a fallen goblet, he heard the gruff voices and heavy footsteps of his masters. He rolled under the table and lay on his back, arms by his side, rigid.

“What a shambles!” roared Villius as he strode into the room. “A shambles! Where is that runt, Oland Born—”

“Who wants to be bothered with him?”

Oland recognised Wickham’s voice. At twenty-nine, Wickham was the youngest of The Craven Lodge, a short, mercurial man, favoured by Villius Ren as a storyteller. Of all of The Craven Lodge, Oland found Wickham the most tolerable, perhaps because he had never quite reached the violent extremes of the others, perhaps because it was Wickham who had taught him to read. For the first time, Oland realised that anyone who had taught him anything in life was likely a thief, a brute, a killer and most definitely a coward.

“To the Peak with young Born!” said another of the men, this time Hazenby, whose quarters had been so filthy, its scrubbing and airing was the cause of Oland’s delay. Hazenby was seldom to be found when baths were being filled or garments washed. He was speaking of Curfew Peak, the island prison for young criminals, where they remained until their twenty-first year.

Curfew Peak was black and forbidding and, according to myth, crawling with beasts.

Not unlike Castle Derrington, thought Oland.

ICKHAM STRUCK HIS GOBLET WITH A KNIFE, AND called for silence. “While we await our morning revivals,” he said, “let us sit, light the candles, share one more glass. Allow me to entertain you with a dark tale of comings and goings.”

The Craven Lodge cheered. Oland, alarmed, glanced left and right as they began to pull back their chairs and sit down, their mud-caked soles inches from him.

As Wickham strode the length of the table, Oland could hear the scrape of the stone he had embedded in the sole of the storyteller’s boot. He had added something different to the boots or garments of all ten of The Craven Lodge, so he would always know which monster approached.

Wickham began: “In the depths of Castle Derrington on the night a king was to be overthrown, a boy was born as his father lay dying beside him…”

It was a story Oland had first heard when he was eight years old. It had pained him then, and would pain him always, but he was forced to listen once more.

Wickham continued: “This man, this father of the newborn, had committed many bad deeds, and for this he was bound to be punished. As his wife brought their child into the world, a man in robes of black entered the room and stabbed the child’s father through the heart. Then he turned, dagger in hand, to the young mother lying weeping on the floor, clutching the delivered infant to her breast.

“As she looked up at this insidious intruder, she was possessed by a fierce love for her child, a child brought into a world of instant cruelty. She reached back and grabbed a poker from beside the fire, striking it hard against the man’s face, opening up a bony, bloodied chasm—”

A tankard fell on to the floor, spilling white wine across the flagstones as it rolled towards Oland’s hand. He uncurled his little finger and sent it rolling back out. Wickham, candlestick in hand, bent down to retrieve it.

Oland’s heart started to pound. He was struck with a sensation that enveloped him like a shroud. A fleet of images flashed through his mind, and ended in a vivid scene of dripping blood that quickly fled as Wickham stood up and carried on with his tale:

“The terrified mother crawled past the felled man to the door, and through the deserted hallways of Castle Derrington she ran. Door after door was locked. On she ran. Eventually, she stumbled into the kitchen, and there she found a small recess in a brick wall and a teetering tower of crates. She pulled off the topmost, then the next, then the next and, in the crate beneath that, she laid her silent baby. She scrawled his name on a piece of paper, and pinned it to his chest. That boy’s name was—”

“Oland Born!” roared Villius, reaching under the table, grabbing Oland by the ankle and wrenching him out. He pulled him up to standing. Oland’s eyes were level with Villius’ chin, and he dared not raise them higher. Being so close to Villius’ face, and breath, and spite, repelled him. He was so close now, he could make out the tiny raised scars that marked his jaw like the slashes of a tiny blade.

“What are you doing, you eerie little runt?” roared Villius. “Is your bed not comfortable enough, that you prefer to lie on the floor? Or is spying what interests you? Look at me! Is there someone you have taken to spying for?”

A treacherous man will forever see treachery in the eyes of others, Oland had once read.

“N… n… no,” said Oland. “I… I…”

“I… I… what?” roared Villius. “If you are not here to spy, what is it? What have you been doing all night?”

Despite himself, Oland’s eyes flicked towards the stinking Hazenby, reminding him his earlier work had, ultimately, been in vain.

“Why are you looking at him?” said Villius, grabbing Oland’s face, and squeezing it.

“N… no… no reason,” said Oland.

“This room is in no fit state for our morning revivals!” said Villius. “The Villian Games take place today! The event of the decade! And you’re lying on the floor like a dog!”

“Like the dog he is!” shouted Hazenby.

The Craven Lodge all kicked back their chairs, and staggered up, gathering around Oland, bearing down on him, drunk and roiling.

In the midst of these murky thugs, Oland Born was like a light in the dark. His hair was fair, his eyes pale green, his skin sallow and unravaged by careless living. He had pale, angular lips. As the cheekbones and jawbones of The Craven Lodge had been vanishing under layers of fat, Oland’s were emerging. And though there were slight flaws in the symmetry of his features, his was a face that drew the eye of many, twice over. His body was long and lean, but hidden by loose tunics and trousers. In contrast, The Craven Lodge wore garments that highlighted their spreading girth. Villius Ren was the fittest of his pack and, even as he aged, his shoulders appeared to broaden, and his chest and torso thickened. He had the build of a warrior, and the vanity to retain a private tailor to proclaim it.

Without warning, Villius’ hand shot out and he grabbed Oland by the back of the head, pushing him towards a candle at the centre of the table. Oland gripped the edge of the table to try to stop him.

“Worried your girl-hair might go up in flames?” said Villius, shoving his face closer to the heat.

Oland cried out. He could hear his hair crackle. The smell filled his nostrils. Panicked, he released his grip on the table and grabbed at his head.

The Craven Lodge laughed loudly.

Villius pulled Oland up again. “Shall we cut off his long blond locks, then? A head of short hair won’t ignite… quite so quickly.”

Croft, a dull-eyed sycophant, stepped forward and handed Villius a knife. Oland again kicked out, catching Villius hard on the wrist. The knife spun through the air towards them. Villius flinched, and released him. Oland fell, half twisting, striking his cheek hard on the table, but quickly finding his feet. The Craven Lodge swayed in front of him, then descended, their faces warped with anger.

Oland ran.

LAND TOOK GIANT STRIDES ACROSS THE HALL AND out into the courtyard. He knew how Wickham’s story ended: the mother fled the castle, never to be seen or heard from again. But she had vowed to the last person she had seen that night, a terrified young maid, that she would return one day to reclaim her son. To reclaim me, thought Oland.

The story would always end with Wickham’s dramatic, low-pitched judgement: “To deprive a son of his father is unpardonable.” And Oland agreed.

As Oland ran, he heard footsteps behind him and guessed, from the damp, rasping breath and the clank of his loosened belt buckle, that it was Viande, a true savage, the crudest of The Craven Lodge. He liked to hack and spit, scratch and belch. He grabbed and sneered at the women who visited the castle, calling them sweetlings, never caring for their names.

Oland glanced back and saw a doubled-over Viande try to point at him and speak. He kept running. At the end of the hallway, he took a sharp right into the games room, continuing on through the portrait room. Only one portrait had replaced the hundreds that The Craven Lodge had destroyed. Anyone passing could now admire the broad, leather-shouldered expanse of Villius Ren. His elaborate black chest plate was adorned with an entwined V and R in garnet-coloured leather that matched the flaming corners of his eyes. His stare was defiant, the squirrel-brown of his irises like the unvarnished gates to an elaborate hell.

Oland ran into the hallway. The last room he passed was the throne room. Oland had never been inside it, never even seen the door opened a crack. Its only keyholder was Villius Ren. All Oland knew of it were its two unremarkable doors. But instinct told him that, like the eyes in Villius’ head, what lay behind them was best left unexplored.

Oland ran into the outer ward and came to an eventual stop at the deserted northeast tower. He made his way up the winding staircase that led to the vast library. Here, always, he would be safe, for behind the tall mahogany bookshelves was a hidden room, filled with the rescued culture of the castle: books, plays, portraits and paintings, musical instruments and costumes from the king’s theatre. Oland did not know who had gathered the relics and kept them so wisely from The Craven Lodge.

He had found the room six years earlier, yet in all that time, had explored only a fraction of its treasures. He had added to it his own creations: drawings and ships, and tiny tin soldiers arranged in mock battles. But more valuable than the room’s contents was the sanctuary it offered. Instead of his damp and miserable bedroom, instead of the rattling cavern of the great hall, or the disarray of his masters’ quarters, Oland could hide away here, by the warmth of a log fire that burned, unseen.

He called his room The Holdings… where everything was held dear. Its only keyholder was Oland Born.

Oland closed the door of The Holdings gently behind him. He went to the small table by the fire and picked up one of his recent finds: a book called The Ancient Myths of Envar that had almost toppled off the shelf as he had been looking for another. He opened the chapter on ‘The Drogues of Curfew Peak’ and read:

One mythic beast was four engulfed: vulture, bull, bear and wolf.

Oland read on:

It was said that hundreds of years ago, as the last fracture opened up on the southernmost tip of Envar, the only creatures that remained were a vulture, a bull, a bear and a wolf. As the ground they stood upon began to crumble into the sea, these four beasts vaulted the huge chasm and landed on the black shores of Curfew Peak. And, alone for years on this island-mountain, miles from the mainland, they were transformed, by breeding, into the Drogues of Curfew Peak.

Drogues were seven feet tall, black as coal, their bull-like torsos tapering into thick hind legs that carried their weight like loaded springs. They had rapid-clenching jaws and sword-like fangs that tore quickly through their victims. Each knotted vertebra of a drogue’s spine was visible, even though the flesh that covered it was thick and unyielding, the surface coated with coarse black hair. As a victim lay dying at the hooves of a drogue, his final indignity was to be drenched in vile secretions vomited from the pit of the beast’s insides; secretions that would quickly dissolve its prey, bones and all, without trace.

Oland wondered whether, simply by living among The Craven Lodge, he too was slowly being dissolved.

OME MORNING, THE CRAVEN LODGE WERE STILL sleeping, most of them having made it no further than the dining chairs of the great hall. The inner ward of Castle Derrington was exclusively their domain, the ten men and their one servant, Oland Born. A guarded barbican connected the inner ward to the outer ward, where a staff of forty worked, led in and out strictly at the times they were required to carry out their duties.

One hundred of Villius Ren’s soldiers stood on watch in the outer ward every day, filing in from their garrisons by the ten towers he had commissioned when he took power. He had cobbled together a ragged army of one thousand from all across Envar and the precision of their numbers was because of Villius’ strict belief in the Fortune of Tens.

Good fortune was said to come in tens in Decresian. Ten hills bounded the village, forty silver birch trees bordered its square, ten houses lined each of its fifty cobbled streets. Twenty market stalls crowded Merchants’ Alley, all opening at ten o’clock in the morning and closing at ten o’clock at night. But more important than the superstitious grouping of objects was what someone achieved by their tenth birthday and by every decade thereafter. That was the true meaning of the Fortune of Tens.

King Micah had been born at the turn of a century in the tenth minute of the tenth hour of the tenth day of the tenth month – an unsurmountable Fortune of Tens. In contrast, Villius Ren grabbed wildly at tens, taking them in whatever form he could: his soldiers were all in the last year of their teens, twenties, thirties or forties, men fearful of reaching another decade without having achieved their Fortune of Tens. Villius Ren had been haunted by a similar fear until he overthrew King Micah in his twenty-ninth year.

The ranks that clung to the craven of Castle Derrington stank of ill will, desperation and bitter contest.

Oland walked down the spiral staircase from the library, and across the courtyard into the kitchen. As he reached out for the handle of the back door, he heard a rough choking sound behind him. He jumped. When he turned, he saw Viande curled in the corner, snoring and twitching. Someone had tucked him inside one of the dogs’ blankets. Oland quietly put on his boots then slung his bag over his head, securing the strap across his body. Viande stirred and opened one eye.

“Running from Villius Ren… roxworthy,” he said.

Oland flinched at the insult. Prince Roxleigh was King Micah’s lunatic uncle, sent for his ramblings to an asylum on the eve of his twenty-first birthday. Prince Roxleigh was a tall, skinny man with a long face, a slender neck and light brown hair that sat on his head like tumbleweed. In the sunlight, it shone like a halo. Roxleigh had been a popular prince, happiest in the company of the Derrington villagers, brightening their spirits with his jaunty walk and cheery smile, calling out to them with a sweeping wave of his skinny arm.

Roxleigh’s very best friend was a Derrington man called Rowe, who was as tall as Roxleigh, but moved, as he would himself admit, “with more ballast”. His canted walk was no match for Roxleigh’s loping stride, and he would bound behind him like a giant puppy. Rowe spoke from his warm heart and shining mind, his head swooping down, then up with a flourish at the end of each burst of inspiration. And he had many, as did Roxleigh. Both fiercely intelligent, they were part of a small group of great thinkers who met every month in The Derrington Inn to discuss matters of importance in the Kingdom of Decresian, always with the intention of enhancing the life of its people.

But in the year before he was carried, wailing and flailing, from the castle, something had changed in Prince Roxleigh. Rowe, from whom he had been inseparable, had vanished from Derrington quite suddenly. Roxleigh had begun to pace the dungeon hallways of the arena at night, talking of beasts and monsters, of dark creatures with secret chambers, scribbling his notions on reams of paper that he stacked to the ceiling in the musty cells.

From then until now, if you were called ‘roxley’ or ‘roxling’ or if your actions were deemed ‘roxworthy’, the message was clear: you were as mad as the mad prince that was locked away in the madhouse. Years later, when Roxleigh’s younger brother, Prince Stanislas – King Micah’s father – became King of Decresian, a messenger arrived at the castle to say that Prince Roxleigh did not mind one bit. But everyone agreed: Roxleigh had no mind with which to mind.

Oland left Viande and the sleeping beasts of The Craven Lodge behind. As he walked, he pondered the story of Prince Roxleigh. The year leading up to his descent into madness had been a bleak one for the kingdom, when a bermid-ant plague struck the northern coast. The small black ants moved south, ravaging the land, turning the rich vegetation from vibrant green to barren bronze. No one had ever seen such a beautiful trail of destruction. The bermids poisoned crops and the animals that fed on them. The people of Envar died from eating the produce of the land, the meat of diseased livestock, or they died from eating neither.

Prince Roxleigh’s father, King Seward, a kind, strong leader, vowed to the surrounding territories that he would do everything he could to contain the plague within Decresian’s borders. Yet, despite the best efforts of this honourable king, it was not to be, and the plague spread.

Almost one hundred years had passed since Roxleigh and Rowe had last walked the plague-ravaged ground to the village market, ground that had eventually been restored, only to be ravaged again by neglect. It was as if, from the parapets of Castle Derrington, The Craven Lodge had thrown a grey veil over the whole of Decresian.

Oland had one stall to visit in Merchants’ Alley – that of the butcher, Malachy Graham. It was Oland’s fourth visit that week and it was not just for meat for The Craven Lodge.

“Your leg of lamb,” said Malachy, but, as he reached under the stall, he stopped when a voice rose over the bustle of the market.

“The Great Rains are nigh! The Great Rains are nigh!”

The crowd parted and allowed the shouting man through. He looked to be in his sixties, his hair grey and his face battered by the elements, lined by suffering, sunken by hunger. His pale, doleful eyes were sparking with panic. Between cries, his lips were pursed and trembling. He was dressed in a long, faded blue robe. The ties at the neck hung loose, exposing his bony chest and a scattering of wispy hair. Over his robe, he wore a beautiful, pristine sheepskin. Oland had seen the man before and heard his wild preachings about the impending return of The Great Rains.

“He’s roxley!” laughed the butcher’s young son, sticking his head up from behind the stall.

Malachy laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Daniel, I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” he said. “Great tragedy lies behind that man’s ramblings, and it is no surprise that his mind broke under the weight of it.”

“But Father! The Great Rains are over!” said Daniel. “Everyone knows that.”

“The Great Rains are nigh!” shouted the rambling man again as he disappeared into the crowd ahead.

Daniel laughed.

Malachy leaned down to him. “Son, some people’s minds travel back to the past and are forever trapped there. We need to care for them, not mock them.” He was wrapping slices of ham as he spoke. He handed the package to his son. “Go after the man, and give him this. His name is Magnus Miller. Call him by his name.”

Daniel was open-mouthed.

“He won’t bite,” said Malachy. He smiled as he turned back to Oland. Then his face darkened. “I wish I could threaten him with no trip to The Games tonight, but who am I to overrule the decrees of The Craven Lodge?”

Oland nodded. He had no desire to go to The Games either, but, as The Craven Lodge’s servant, he had no choice. “I should get back to the castle,” he said.

Malachy lowered his voice. “Before you go, you need to know that there are already whisperings around the village about the final round, Oland. One of the soldiers has been talking…”

Oland raised his eyebrows. “What has he said?”

“Well, what you told me: that instead of King Micah’s final round, Acuity, a test of sharpness of mind, Villius’ final round is to be called Agility and that it’s more about the sharpness of a blade.”

Oland took in a breath. “Has he said any more than that?”

Malachy shook his head. “No, but no one needs a fool soldier to tell them that the final round will be a bloody one. It’s Villius Ren – it will be designed not just to bring a contender the dishonour of defeat, but to bring him the dishonour of a savage and public demise.”

He reached under the stall. “The lamb,” he said. He slid another thick package underneath it as he handed it over. “And the rest…”

“Thank you,” said Oland. He turned to leave, then glanced back. “Do you know anyone competing?”

“Two of my nephews were taken by The Lodge from their homes last night,” said Malachy. “‘To make up numbers’ they were told. A neighbour’s son is competing willingly, believing the promises of land and glory that we both know will never come… no matter how many medals hang from his neck.”

“I wish them well,” said Oland.

Oland hurried back to Castle Derrington, first to the kitchen, then to the dungeons beneath the arena and the same dark hallways the troubled Prince Roxleigh had paced. As Oland passed the cramped cells, lions, tigers and leopards moved towards him, swiping at the bars that had imprisoned them for weeks. Oland’s task was to starve them ahead of the Agility round, when they were to be unleashed for a man-versus-beast battle to satisfy Villius’ bloodlust.

He unwrapped the second package Malachy Graham had given him, revealing the bloody steaks that would quiet the animals’ hunger and tame their angry spirits.

Oland sat in the corner as the animals ate. He was reading a play called The Banon Servant, about a servant boy who bravely faced his master’s taunts. Oland wished he had his courage and was eager to read what became of him. The light in the dungeon suddenly dimmed. Oland pushed the play back into his bag. In the entrance ahead, Villius Ren stood blocking out the sun.

“Get over here,” he roared. As Villius walked down the steps, the light again streamed in. Barely breaking his stride, he slapped Oland across the face.

“You will never run from me again,” said Villius.

Oland nodded.

“Speak!” said Villius. “Find your tongue! There’s nothing more pathetic than a cowering mute.” But he didn’t even wait to hear Oland. “Now, show me the starving monsters you have made me…”

Oland’s heart pounded. Barely half an hour had passed since the animals had eaten their largest meal of the week. They were curled up and resting in the back of their cells. Oland’s hands were still stained with the blood of the meat he had fed them.

Villius Ren walked past the cells, studying each animal. He rattled some of the bars, and got little response.

“They are weak with hunger,” said Oland.

“They should react,” spat Villius.

“There are bars between you,” said Oland. “They know that it’s pointless to attack.”

In a flash, Villius grabbed Oland by the wrists and held up his palms.

“Weak with hunger…” said Villius. As he spoke, each word was lengthened, its delivery darkly mocking. “Yes. That explains why a ravenous beast wouldn’t rush to feast on the blood-stained hands of a foolhardy boy.”

He flung Oland’s hands from his grip. “I’ll have Viande slaughter these worthless beasts… and you will help him.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I… I’m sorry,” said Oland.

“I… I… I…” spat Villius, pushing his face closer and closer to Oland’s. “Ha! Look at you – you’re paler than Wickham.” If Villius could insult more than one person at a time, it gave him great pleasure.

He spun around and walked away, leaving Oland staring after him, deeply ashamed of the single trickle of cold sweat that ran down his side.

ESPITE THE MISERY OF HELPING TO SLAUGHTER THE animals he had so carefully tended, Oland found relief in avoiding the cruel spectacle of Villius’ version of The Games. But, when the ninth round ended, he was summoned to the arena. The sky had darkened and the sun was beginning to set. Oland stood where he was ordered to, in the shadow of the royal box.

The voice of Villius Ren boomed from above.

“Guards, for our final round, remove the females from the arena.”

The crowd was silenced by his feigned chivalry: Villius Ren excusing women from watching violent scenes of his own making, and standing in front of the Decresian people whose lives he had destroyed, to offer them entertainment of the kind only a twisted few sought.

Oland always knew enough of The Craven Lodge’s plans to fulfil his role as servant, but never enough that he could not be surprised by new ones hatched in his absence. Without the slaughtered beasts, Oland no longer knew what Villius Ren would do for the final round.

Around the arena, The Craven Lodge began to light torches as lines of women and girls were guided roughly along their rows.

“Oland Born!” whispered Villius, leaning over the edge of the box, stretching a hooked, gloved finger towards him.

Oland turned and looked up at him. “Yes, master?”

“I thought perhaps you might clean up after our next event. I’ll be watching, of course, because it appears that working unsupervised is something of which you are incapable.”

Oland had no plans to reply, until Villius’ eyes continued to bore into him. “Yes, master,” he said.

“You don’t have much ambition, do you?” said Villius. “There is not much point to you. But you do have a moderate talent for cleaning up. At the very least, I can remind you of that.”

He stood up straight, and gripped the edge of the royal box.

“Gentlemen!” he roared. “It is time for a test of… Agility! Time for a champion to step forward! For a true leader, one who can be declared the champion of all champions, and forever be seen as the ultimate power in Envar, someone the Kingdom of Decresian can look to with pride!”

It was clear to everyone that Villius Ren was setting himself up to garner this impressive string of accolades, because he would never bestow such praise on another man. Whatever he had planned, he was confident that he would be victorious.

Oland looked around and realised how easy that would be – there appeared to be no remaining contenders. Not one man had made it through the earlier rounds.

“I promised you a spectacle,” roared Villius, “and a spectacle I will deliver!”

To Oland’s left, at the entrance to the dungeons, a chained panther slowly made his way into the arena, dragging two guards behind him. As he struggled wildly against them, a shaft of torchlight struck the protruding contours of his ribs. Without warning, a thickset man was thrown into the arena from the gates at the opposite side. He was clearly no athlete. He appeared to be a simple villager, a hairy, stocky man, with a huge belly and small wide feet that turned inward. He was holding a sword as if for the first time.

As he came closer, Oland was struck by a sickening recognition. It was the butcher, Malachy Graham.

“Tonight,” roared Villius, thrilled by the rippling fear before him, “our panther will confront his opponent, a gentleman you may recognise as one who is used to slaughtering animals. Shall we see the panther’s fine haunches on his market stall by morning?” He laughed, joined only by The Craven Lodge, then gestured for the animal’s release.

The guards struggled again with the panther’s chains, fighting to keep their balance. When he was finally set free, he stood, blinking in the fading light, casting a long shadow across the dusty earth. Then, snarling and grunting, his belly close to the ground, he moved, painfully slowly, towards his prey.

Malachy Graham trembled before him, smelling, as he always did, of blood.

LAND BORN LOST ALL SENSE OF HIS STATION. HE started to run along the barrier towards Malachy, who was now stumbling wildly around the arena. As Oland reached him, Malachy turned his way with the terror of a thousand men in his eyes. The panther drew back on his hind legs. Oland watched as the butcher went limp and dropped to the ground, his arms over his head, his body curled into a ball, his eyes shut.

Oland was possessed by something that he had no time to comprehend. Before he realised what he was doing, he had jumped up on to the barrier, and was roaring. The panther spun towards him, whipping up a cloud of dust. The crowd gasped. A man who was clutching his young son to his chest reached out with his other hand to pull Oland back. But Oland broke free and he jumped into the arena. The panther pounced, but, as he moved through the air, Oland rolled underneath him, and was quickly on his feet. He reached down for the butcher’s sword.

The panther pounced again, his jaws gaping. Oland vaulted into the air, wielding the sword above his head, swinging it swiftly downward, slicing through the animal’s flesh. The panther howled. Oland stared, horrified at the depth of the wound; he had almost halved him. The panther slumped to the ground where he writhed briefly, whimpered, then died.

Oland could not speak. The first sound he heard was that of the sword hitting the ground as it slid through his sweat-soaked palm. The second was the thanks that coughed out of the fallen butcher. The third sound – the loudest – came from the cheering crowd. But it was short-lived; they quickly fell silent as the dungeon gates were opened and two more panthers were released.

As if possessed, Oland picked up his sword in one hand and, with the other, grabbed Malachy Graham and dragged him to the barriers, where people rushed to haul him over to the other side.

Oland ran towards the centre of the arena, drawing the panthers away from the crowd. He turned and roared as he ran towards them, swiftly engaging them in a converging fight. The battle between them was a blur of sword and blood. First one fell, then the other. And, in minutes, it was over.

The three panthers lay dead in the arena and, beside them, stood Oland Born, rigid in the smoking torchlight. The crowd was as silent as six in the morning. Oland felt as if he were among them, a spectator watching a boy he did not know. Slowly, their cheers filled the night sky. Oland’s eyes were fixed on his own bare feet, mesmerised by the dark blood spattered across them. It led to a rich crimson pool that spread from beneath the animals. A violent image of a ferocious, towering beast flashed into Oland’s mind, and his chest started to heave.

Cries broke out across the arena and, when Oland looked up, a boy no older than him was being wrestled from the crowd by a guard. He had short, choppy black hair and fierce, dark eyes that were almost black. He fought hard, struggling against the guard’s bulging arm around his waist. Oland wondered what the boy had done. He watched as the guard carried him up to the last step. The boy struggled one last time. He raised his arm, tensed it, tightened his hand into a fist, then sent a sharp elbow backward into the stomach of the guard. The man’s face contorted and he dropped him. A smile broke out across the boy’s face and it was transformed. Oland’s eyes shot wide. He knew then why the boy was being kicked out. For he was not a boy at all. He was a girl. A very pretty girl, in fact. And then she was gone.

A loud bell tolled over the uproar, until the still-cheering crowd was quietened. Villius Ren gestured for Oland to approach the royal box. Oland didn’t move. Villius beckoned him again. Oland moved slowly towards him.

“People of Decresian,” roared Villius, “are we witnessing the historical first meeting of slavery and bravery?” He laughed loud.

The crowd was utterly silent as Oland walked up the steps to the royal box and stood beside Villius. Oland’s heart pounded. He looked out at the people of Decresian. He knew that they had been cheering not because he had taken lives, but because he had saved one.

A rumbling noise grew from the crowd.

Ignoring it, Villius laid his hands on Oland’s shoulders and turned him slowly towards him. He leaned down and whispered into his ear: “I will enjoy seeing if you can clean up the mess that will be the rest of your life.”

Oland thought about his mother and father, their goodness and badness, the terrible circumstances in which he was born: a night of violence and betrayal, of murder and flames and loss. Could any good come of a child born amid such devastation? Would misfortune forever shadow him?

A man’s voice echoed from across the arena: “Champion!”

Another voice joined it. “Oland Born! Champion!”

And another. “Champion! Champion!”

“Enough!” roared Villius, raising his head, his eyes wild. “Enough! Enough! Enough!”

He was still gripping Oland’s shoulders. His fingertips were white. As he pulled away, he locked eyes with his young servant.

In that moment, Oland could have sworn he saw, in the eyes of Villius Ren, a spark of fear.

HAT NIGHT, AT CASTLE DERRINGTON, THE BANQUET had the grim air of a celebration that had persisted in the face of tragedy. The Craven Lodge shifted in their seats as Oland served them, nudging against plates and tankards, making no secret of the fact that they were inviting a transgression. Oland had hoped his earlier strength would stay with him, but the truth was that, amid the hostility, he felt nothing but weakness. He had saved a life, drawn more attention to himself than he could bear, and the only place he wanted to be was alone in The Holdings.

Villius Ren was turned towards Wickham as Oland passed.

Wickham was speaking. “Yes, Villius,” he was saying, “for how long?”

“No more than a week,” said Villius. “I suppose you could call it a commission. I am anticipating the arrival of many dignitaries to Decresian. They will expect after-dinner tales that reflect a more… Envarly view. Settings that go beyond small tales of Decresian.”

Oland could see Wickham’s jaw clench and unclench rapidly.

“We must show these dignitaries that we understand their culture…” said Villius.

Wickham leaned to the side to allow Oland to fill his goblet. “Perhaps, Villius, as an alternative,” he said, “I could speak with the countless soldiers you have taken from all these dignitaries’ homelands… and have them enlighten the dark recesses of my tiny mind.”

Oland’s arm froze between Wickham’s shoulder and Viande’s on the other side. He had never heard Wickham so bold. He glanced at Villius Ren to see his reaction.

At first, Villius was silent. “You may leave immediately,” he said, after a moment. He stood up and walked away. This came as no surprise to Oland. Villius Ren delivered orders, never expecting them to be questioned, so he often left without registering a response. It was, in fact, Wickham’s reaction that surprised Oland: he was sitting motionless, with an expression of utter panic on his face.

As Oland moved on to Viande, Wickham jumped up and fled. Viande had pushed back his chair and positioned himself with one leg bent to the side, the other one straight out in front as if he were poised to trip someone up. He had been throwing Brussels sprouts into the air and catching them in his mouth, and he was now gnawing on a bone, drooling, snorting through his cavernous nostrils. He came to a piece of gristle and he growled, spitting it out with such force that it shot forward, striking Oland’s face, where it hung briefly from his jaw, then fell. Oland’s stomach turned. He rushed from the room, ignoring the familiar discord of The Craven Lodge’s laughter.

Oland scrubbed his face at the kitchen sink and, while he was there, took two plates of leftovers to eat in The Holdings – the second to keep for later that night. The Craven Lodge would not miss him for half an hour, and, certainly, he would not miss them. He took out his tinderbox and lit a small fire. He sat on a stool beside it with a plate on one knee and The Banon Servant open on the other. As he turned to the page where he had left off, something slipped from the play and fell to the floor. He glanced down. It was a teal-coloured envelope, sealed in gold wax stamped with the intricate royal D of Decresian. Teal and gold were the colours of King Micah’s reign. Oland set his plate and the play on the floor, wiped his hand on his napkin and picked up the envelope. He turned it over. He froze. There was a name written across it. And the name was Oland Born.

LAND LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM AS IF HE WOULD find something or someone to explain how his name could be written on anything, how anything at all could be meant for him. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope and began to read the first letter he had ever been sent.

You live in the ruins of a once-proud kingdom destroyed by greed and misguided ambition. But fear not – Decresian shall be restored. And it falls to you, Oland Born, to do so. On such young shoulders, it will prove astonishing how light this burden will be.

Your quest is to find the Crest of Sabian before The Great Rains fall, lest the mind’s toil of a rightful king be washed away.

In life, a father’s folly may be his son’s reward.

In case this letter were to fall into the wrong hands, to guide you, know this:

Depth and height

From blue to white

What’s left behind

Is yours to find.

Be wise in your choice of companion and, by nightfall, be gone.

In fondness and faith,

King Micah of Decresian

The letter was dated the night King Micah died. Oland reread his name on the envelope. He reread it in the letter. He was utterly bewildered. How could King Micah have ever known the name of a boy who was born after his death? Oland read the king’s words several times more and, each time, new questions arose. Where was Sabian? Why was its crest important to Decresian? Why was he chosen to find it? Oland thought of the homeless man in the village, how only a crazy man believed that The Great Rains would return. A crazy man and a dead king. Whose ‘mind’s toil’ was King Micah speaking of? Who was the rightful king? King Micah and Queen Cossima had had no children; Oland knew that to be the absolute truth. What father, what son was King Micah talking about? Why was he to leave before nightfall? How could King Micah have even known what night he would discover the letter? How could Oland possibly just leave everything to go on a quest?

But what was ‘everything’? thought Oland. For years, he had been praying for release from Castle Derrington, but had always thought it would be linked to his mother. Instead, a dead king had responded to his prayer.

Now, his choice was to trade a world he knew but hated for a world he did not know and feared.

But, thought Oland, is there any place on earth worse than Castle Derrington?

And from that simple question came the simple answer, No. There could be nothing in the wider world that could eclipse the fear he felt, festering, as he was, in the black walls of Castle Derrington. Outside, surely, there could only ever be more light.

Oland folded up the letter and put it back inside the play, sliding it between two other plays on the shelf. Villius would be looking for him in the great hall. Before he could go anywhere, he would have to show his face. But, as he made his way down the spiral staircase, his first surge of excitement was replaced with thoughts of his mother returning to find that no son had awaited her, even though, for fourteen years, he had.

Oland quickened his pace and darted across the courtyard. Most of The Craven Lodge had left the great hall, though it was still an hour to midnight. On the table, he saw the toppled candlesticks, and the rivulets of wax that had bled from them, now hardened. Oland patted his pocket for his knife then remembered he had left it in The Holdings when he had changed clothes after The Games. He grabbed a candlestick from the table, lit it and moved as quickly as he could along the hallway.

As he passed the throne room, he was startled to see a figure clothed in black emerging. He must have been six-and-a-half-feet tall. Only his eyes were exposed; the rest of his face and neck was swathed in layers of fine black gauze that did little to conceal the strange contours of his bones. Oland and he froze, inches from each other.

In a flash, the man reached out and pinched the wick of the candle to quench the flame. In the windowless hallway, the darkness was absolute.

“Oland Born…” whispered the man. When he spoke, the air was filled with the scent of cinderberry. Oland noticed that the gauze was glistening. It must have been soaked in cinderberry salve. This man, whoever he was, had been wounded.

“Who are you?” said Oland. “What do you want?”

“You,” said the man.

They heard footsteps behind them, and, shockingly close, the voice of Villius Ren calling for Wickham.

Before Oland could react, the man in black had dragged him into the throne room and closed the door. Oland thought his heart would explode from his chest. He was in the forbidden room, with an intruder, and Villius Ren was only seconds away.

The room stank of stale breath and rotting meat. Oland had often seen Villius Ren walking towards the throne room with a plate of food, and he wondered if what he was smelling now were his rotting leftovers. After all, even those who cleaned the castle were forbidden to enter the throne room.

“What do you want?” said Oland.

“Shh,” said the man. His left hand was clenching the back of Oland’s neck, pressing his cheek against the cold stone wall.

Outside, Villius Ren’s footsteps were drawing closer. By the jangle of chains, Oland knew that Viande was by his side. The relief was overwhelming; Villius would not be coming in unless he was alone. Oland could feel the intruder’s grip slacken a little, as if he too knew about the sanctity of the room. Oland took the chance to push back hard, breaking the man’s hold. He could feel the same overwhelming sensations he had felt in the arena, a surge of strength and focus. The man grunted, and stumbled backward.

“No!” he hissed. “No!” He reached out to grab Oland, but Oland used his forearm to block his advance. In one motion, he turned, raised his knee to his chest and slammed his boot down on the intruder’s knee, with enough force to drop him to the ground.

Oland pulled open the door, slipped into the dark hallway and ran. He heard the man come out after him; he heard him lock the throne room door. He wondered who he was, and how he could have stolen the key from Villius Ren.

The advice in King Micah’s letter came back to Oland: ‘by nightfall, be gone’.

N THE HOLDINGS, OLAND GRABBED HIS BAG, AND IN IT HE quickly threw his book, his play, his knife, a tinderbox and a change of clothes. He wrapped up the second plate of food and added that. He read the king’s letter one more time, then put it in his breast pocket. He had hoped it would fill him with belief, or courage, or inspiration, but all he felt was sorrow and uncertainty. He looked down at his tin soldiers. His latest addition, bought from a stall in the market, stood holding an arquebus to his shoulder. Oland had never seen a real arquebus before; he doubted that anyone in Decresian had. He admired this new, magical weapon that fired balls of lead, and meant a soldier could be more than a sword’s swipe away.

Oland took the soldier and put it in his pocket for good luck. He left his room, locked the door and put the key in his bag. He was ready. Villius would be about to leave and The Craven Lodge wouldn’t be far behind him. At that moment, the nine hundred and ninety-nine screaming souls began their wailing, as if reassuring Oland it was the right time to go. He thought of his mother coming back for him, but he shook the thought away.

Then, rising over the screaming souls, Oland heard a tormented, wolf-like howl. He ran to the tiny window and looked down. He could see nothing or no one to explain it. He ran down the spiral staircase and along the hallway to the great hall. A chill overcame him, and he went to button his tunic at the neck. The button was gone. It must have broken off the previous night when Villius had pushed him towards the flame of the candle in the great hall.

As he was about to turn the corner, he heard the voices of Wickham and Viande. He stopped to watch their distorted reflections in a shield that was mounted on the wall. He had placed and polished shields on almost every busy corner of the castle, so he could see – and perhaps avoid – what lay ahead.

“I am telling you, he has gone insane,” said Viande, tapping his chubby fingers against the side of his head. “Those were the howls of a man gone roxley! This place is possessed! And I am telling you he said to me not to let the boy live one more night.”

“What?” said Wickham.

“I’m telling you Villius insisted ‘not one more night’!” said Viande. “I’m not going near him. You saw what he did in that arena! How am I to—”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand this,” said Wickham. There was panic in his voice. “I thought Villius wanted Oland bound in slavery to this castle for life. Why else would he have me invent a ridiculous tale to keep him here: oh, his tragic birth, and how one day his mother would return to claim him…?”

A fierce pain swelled in Oland’s chest. Everything he had believed about his birth was the product of a storyteller’s imagination. All the ideas Oland had ever had about who his parents might be were now worthless: anyone could be his father; anyone could be his mother. They could be living or dead, they could be looking for him, or they could have abandoned him with no further intentions. For six years, he had built hopes on these words, he had built a future on them. And now he could feel something deep in the pit of his stomach replace them: a dull and powerful aching anger.

It was at this moment that Oland knew he would never again spend a night in Castle Derrington. But one day he would return. And on that day the beast he would slay would be a man named Villius Ren.

Wickham had trailed off. Oland could see why. Villius, looking more enraged than Oland thought possible, appeared in front of them, wild-eyed. His hair was flat and damp against his skull, his face greasy and ghostlike.

“Villius,” said Wickham, taking a step back. “Is everything—”

“What are you still doing here?” he roared. “I told you to go, didn’t I? I told you to leave! Is it that whatever I tell people to do, they do the opposite now?”

“Of course not, Villius,” said Wickham. “I was merely waiting to ask you if there were any territories in particular—”

“Everything is destroyed!” said Villius. “Everything is destroyed! Look!” He was holding up something small. “Look!”

Oland couldn’t make it out in the mottled reflection.

“A button?” said Viande.

“You don’t understand!” said Villius. “It’s Oland Born’s button! It was on the floor in my throne room! He was in my throne room! Everything has been destroyed!”

The intruder, thought Oland. He must have ripped it off when he grasped my neck!

“He left it unlocked!” said Villius. “He left it unlocked!” He was utterly crazed.

Oland was puzzled. The throne room door had been locked. He had heard the distinctive rattle behind him as he fled the intruder. But, as was often the case, paranoia had perhaps clouded Villius’ judgement.

Of course, he had not been completely wrong. Oland had been in his throne room. But what could possibly be inside that would cause an intruder so much interest, and Villius Ren so much rage at its disturbance?

Oland’s heart was pounding louder than the screaming souls, louder than the inhuman howls of Villius Ren, louder than his own footsteps as he ran down the hallway, ran through the stables, ran across the grounds and out into the world he did not know, but feared.

He knew that he was as dead as a boy with a still-beating heart could be.

N THE VILLAGE OF DERRINGTON, THE WET COBBLES OF Merchants’ Alley shone. Smoky clouds coursed overhead, masking and unmasking the moon as they passed. The alley was a bleak and empty place after ten o’clock, bereft of the clamour of trade. Over the cries of the unsettled souls, a cough echoed down the street. Oland stepped out from the shadows as a second cough followed. He moved towards the sound and came upon a man curled in a doorway behind a wall of empty fruit boxes. The damp air was filled with the scent of raspberries. Oland looked down as the man squirmed under a shabby blanket that was so small, it would never fully cover him. At the man’s neck, Oland noticed a sheepskin trim.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Oland. He waited. “Excuse me,” he said again. “Magnus?”

Magnus stirred.

“I… I came to find you,” said Oland. “I’ve heard you saying that The Great Rains were coming.”

“Please,” said Magnus, “leave me be.” He spoke quietly.

Oland began to crouch down. “I just wanted to know—”

“My body can’t take another beating,” said Magnus, shifting closer to the wall.

Oland stood up quickly. “I don’t want to hurt you. Who hurt you?”

Magnus snorted. “The list would be as long as a Decresian night,” he said, “except for the fact that no one can hurt me. Not any more.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “I know that The Great Rains are nigh; it’s a fact. I know they are, and whether people believe me or not is no concern of mine. They can laugh at me, they can beat me in the shadows when no one is looking, but I know.”

Oland lowered his voice. “Did King Micah tell you that?” he said.

Magnus went very still. “No…” He turned slightly and opened one eye to look at Oland. “Ha!” he said. “A spy from The Craven Lodge!”

“I’m not a spy,” said Oland. “And I’m not from The Craven Lodge.”

“I know you live up there with them.” He laughed. “What fool mans my mill now?”

“Pardon me?” said Oland.

“Pardon you?” Again, Magnus snorted. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “For twenty-eight years, I was the king’s miller. Along with my sons, long dead now. And my wife, long dead now. My beautiful Hester Rose.” He paused. “And I no different,” said Magnus. “Long dead now. Dead of heart.”

Oland had no words of reply.

“And my beloved was guardian of the king and queen’s one hundred beautiful acres. Every morning, safe from the winds and the biting rain, she would fill the throne room while all were sleeping. Flowers and plants and all manner of fruits and vegetables from our very own garden in the grounds.” He paused. “And then came the craven…”

“I’m sorry—” said Oland.

“At night I lie here and I watch the blades of my mill go round and round up on that screaming hill and I wonder what fool mans my mill,” said Magnus.

“It was a tragedy what happened to King Micah,” said Oland.

“Not for you it wasn’t,” said Magnus.

Oland knew that his association with The Craven Lodge would forever taint him. The fact that they had imprisoned him did not matter to a man who had lost his family, his livelihood, his home.

“Curse your souls,” spat Magnus. “A thousand times, curse your souls.” He closed his eyes again.

“Please,” said Oland.

He waited, but the miller said nothing more… until Oland walked away. Then he shouted after him, “She’s one of the souls! She’s one of the souls! My love lies with the seeds she sowed! And you! You all trample the ground!”

When Oland glanced back, Magnus had his hands over his ears and his face was twisted in grief. Oland was sickened, but he knew he had no words to soothe this broken man. Instead, he walked back and set down beside him the small parcel of food he had brought from the castle, and he left.

There was no end to the poisonous reach of The Craven Lodge and Villius Ren’s capacity for rage. Now that Oland was his master’s focus, more than he had ever been before, the idea that he could perform the miracle of restoring Decresian made him laugh out loud.

I am no one, thought Oland. I am fourteen years old, I achieved nothing by my tenth birthday and I will no doubt achieve nothing by my twentieth.

But Oland Born had already achieved more than he would ever know. For somewhere in the filthy, dark and rowdy hallways of Castle Derrington, he had raised himself – a boy with a kind heart, a gentle soul. And, as he had only begun to discover… a fighting soul.

Oland Born, Oland bred.

LAND MADE HIS WAY TO THE VILLAGE SQUARE AND found a bench under a silver birch tree. A shadow passed across a thin sliver of moonlight on the grass in front of him. Oland leaned forward. The shadow passed back and forth again. Something was swinging from branch to branch through the trees. Then it was gone. Before long, Oland could sense a presence behind him. He turned his head slowly, and was confronted with a monkey. It had golden grey fur and a hairless pink face. Before Oland could react, the monkey wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on Oland’s shoulder. Oland slid away from him, and noticed a small silver medal swinging from the monkey’s leather collar. A name was etched into it.

“Malben,” said Oland, holding the medal to the moonlight. “Hello.”

The monkey blinked and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he threw his arms around Oland one more time. Then he disappeared.

There was no more rustling in the trees. Oland looked around the square to see if the monkey would reappear. But he soon realised that he was alone. As for human company, Oland knew that everyone in Decresian was afraid of The Craven Lodge and that, from midnight, they locked their doors and hid away, terrified to draw attention to themselves.

As Oland stood up to leave, he sensed a strange vibration underfoot. He could hear the faint sound of metal on stone, and the steady blows of a hammer. It was his only sign that there was life in Derrington. He followed the dull noise through a maze of streets that brought him to a short row of ten cottages. He went around to the back and walked along the ragged laneway.

A red-haired boy burst out of a gate at the end of the lane and ran towards Oland, struggling on his chubby, turned-in legs. It was only as he passed that Oland recognised Daniel Graham, the butcher’s son. The boy’s eyes were filled with panic.

Oland walked down to the swinging gate and looked into a small backyard filled with a sombre crowd. More people were emerging from inside the house. The noise of the hammers had stopped and the only sound was the urgent whispers of the men in the doorway. Oland couldn’t make out what they were saying, and the crowd was too thick to push through. Whatever was happening in this yard, Oland knew it was important enough that any fear of The Craven Lodge arriving had dissolved.

Intrigued, Oland left the yard and went into the neighbouring one. Like all the houses along the lane, it had a small room on each side of the back door. One was lit by the moon, the other by candle. Oland crouched down by the wall that divided the two yards. Through the candlelit window beside him, he noticed a huge shadow stretching up the wall inside. It was cast by a tall, blocky man with a bald, oval head. A row of shiny pins was gripped between his pursed lips. A line of heavy black garments hung on a rack in front of him. The floor was strewn with paper patterns. Oland’s heart pounded. It was the Tailor Rynish. Villius Ren’s private tailor.

“In a different world, it’s a job of which my brother would be proud,” came a voice behind him.

Oland jumped. He turned around and saw a man standing over him. He looked to be in his sixties, and was heavyset with a small round belly. He had thick sand-coloured hair that fell across his full face and bright hazel eyes. He grabbed Oland by the arm and pulled him into the shadow of the doorway.

“You’re the boy from the arena!” said the man. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I… followed the sounds…” said Oland. “The Tailor Rynish… is he your brother?”

The man pushed open the back door and held it for Oland to walk through. “Come,” he said. “You’re not safe outside.” He led Oland into a small darkened parlour and lit a candle.

“My name is Jerome Rynish,” said the man. “What are you doing, risking coming to Derrington at this time of night? Oland Born, isn’t that your name?”

Oland nodded. “Yes.”

“Have they thrown you out of the castle?” said Jerome.

“No,” said Oland. “I left of my own accord.”

Jerome studied Oland’s face.

“Why has a crowd gathered next door?” said Oland. “Is that Malachy Graham’s house?”

“Yes, but that’s not for you to worry about,” said Jerome. “What brings you to Derrington?”

Oland didn’t want to give too much away. “I am looking for someone to take me on a blind journey.”

Jerome raised his eyebrows. “You?” he said.

“I need to go somewhere,” said Oland, “and I need someone to take me there without question.”

“And what, at such a young age, do you know of blind journeys?” said Jerome.

“In the castle dungeons, there are special cells for blind journeymen and their passengers…”

“Yet you are not deterred…” said Jerome.

Oland shook his head. “Like those who have gone before me, captured or uncaptured, I have no choice.”

“Where do you want to go?” said Jerome.

“Does that mean you will take me?” said Oland.

“I saw what happened in the arena,” said Jerome. “You defied and humiliated Villius Ren in front of the whole of Decresian. How he viewed you before, I don’t know, but today you became his enemy.” He paused. “I too am an enemy of Villius Ren’s. And, if you want to get to safety, I will help you.”

Outside, a commotion erupted in the neighbouring yard. Someone knocked on the back door of the Rynishes’ house and pushed their way in. The draught caught the door opposite the parlour, and it swung open to reveal the Tailor Rynish scowling at the interruption. Oland noticed something he hadn’t seen through the window: a remnant of sheepskin hanging on a peg. The Tailor Rynish must have made the mad old miller’s sheepskin. Oland was now in a world where people helped the less fortunate. It felt shameful to have ever served men guided only by personal gain.

The back door closed, and the Tailor Rynish walked into the parlour, his eyes shining with tears.

“Our friend is dead, Jerome,” he said. “Malachy Graham is dead. His heart couldn’t sustain the shock.” His voice cracked.

Jerome bowed his head. “His family will be ours now. Seven fine sons.”

The tailor cleared his throat. “And I shall return to work,” he said, “making their father’s killer the finest, blackest clothing in the land…” He walked away and closed the door behind him.

“That was why a crowd had gathered next door,” said Jerome.

“I think I passed his son, Daniel, in the laneway,” said Oland. “He must have been running for a doctor…”

Jerome nodded. “Yes.”

“This is all my fault,” said Oland. “I… I was in charge of the animals at the arena. I knew that Villius Ren wanted them hungry, so I… I went to Malachy Graham’s stall. I asked him for extra cuts. I told him why, and he gave them to me, all this week—”

“And he was happy to give them to you,” said Jerome.

But Oland didn’t hear him, and continued. “Villius must have found out. Malachy Graham was called into the arena because of me. It’s my fault your friend is dead. I could see it in your brother’s eyes. I could see his disgust.”

“You saved Malachy Graham’s life,” said Jerome. “And whatever you saw in my brother’s eyes, it was not meant for you.”

“If I hadn’t asked Malachy for help,” said Oland, “Villius Ren would never have done what he did.”

“Exactly,” said Jerome. “Villius Ren did it. No one else. You are not to blame, Oland.”

Oland stared into the empty hearth. It had no fuel stacked beside it, and the room was ice-cold. He was struck by the humiliating thought that he would never succeed on this quest without help.

“I found a letter from King Micah,” he said, turning to Jerome.

“A letter? From King Micah?” said Jerome. “To whom?”

Oland hesitated. “To me.”

“What did it say?”

“It said that I am to restore the Kingdom of Decresian.”

Jerome’s eyes were wide.

“I know it sounds foolish,” said Oland. “It sounds foolish even to me.”

“Well, not to me,” said Jerome. “This is good news.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Oland. “I don’t know how, when King Micah never knew me, when he had never met me, when I was only born on the night he died, that a letter from him could come to me all these years later. And with such an extraordinary task. It must be a mistake.”

“I knew King Micah,” said Jerome, “and he was not a man to err.”

Oland shrugged. “So I have heard, but… I don’t know where to even start.”

“Well,” said Jerome, “at the very least, answer me this. To ensure that there was even a chance of restoring Decresian… what would you need to bring about?”

Without hesitation, Oland had the answer. “The downfall of Villius Ren.”

EROME AND OLAND SAT IN SILENCE FOR SOME TIME.

“Oland…” said Jerome eventually. “If you are to bring about the downfall of Villius Ren, I think I should tell you about a man called Chancey the Gold.”

“I’ve seen his name!” said Oland, his eyes bright. “In The Sporting Heroes of Envar.” He paused. “Well, in the index. It said ‘athlete, outstanding swimmer, named for all the gold medals he won in championships all over Envar…’”

“To watch Chancey the Gold swim was an extraordinary sight,” said Jerome. “He moved through the water like a spinning ball through the barrel of an arquebus.”

“I wanted to find out more about him,” said Oland, “but, when I turned to the page, the entry was missing.”

Jerome gave a wry smile. “Ripped out by Villius Ren, no doubt… it’s probably the only book he’s ever opened.”

“Why would he do that?” said Oland.

“Twenty years ago,” said Jerome, “Villius Ren visited the Scryer of Gort to have his fortune told, and she told him that his downfall would be at the hands of Chancey the Gold.”

Oland was dubious about the gifts of the scryer. All he knew was that she was imprisoned in a cave in Gort, and warriors and merchants from the surrounding lands would come to her to hear their future failings or fortune in battle or business. She asked each visitor to bring her water and, using a flame above the bowl, she saw visions reflected on its surface.

“Within a year of the scryer’s prophecy,” said Jerome, “Chancey the Gold put his name down for the Mican Games and Villius saw it as the beginning of the prophecy coming to fruition. Villius knew, because of Chancey the Gold’s reputation, that he would be a formidable opponent, and he became fixated on defeating him. It was an unsettling obsession that yielded nothing; when it came to The Games, Chancey made it through the first eight events with little effort. It came to the second-to-last round, Aquatics, and, of course, Chancey won, breaking every record that was ever set. Villius came a distant second, but it still meant that they came face to face in the final round: Acuity. And, of course, in Acuity, Chancey the Gold beat Villius, as any man would.

“Villius was incensed. He believed that an athlete like Chancey the Gold, three years his junior, was no match for the warrior he considered himself to be. I’m guessing that what you did at The Games today reminded him of that defeat. It is more likely that Malachy Graham was meant to die in that arena, but that Villius Ren himself was to slay the beasts, then on to solo glory he would go. Villius Ren does nothing to help anyone else, Oland. Nothing. By doing what you did, I imagine you delivered quite the blow to his plans.”

“What happened to Chancey the Gold?” said Oland.

“He left Decresian in the months before King Micah was overthrown,” said Jerome. “Because of his skill in Aquatics, he was offered a job by the ruler of Dallen.”

“But Decresian and Dallen are bitter enemies,” said Oland.

Jerome nodded. “That is true. But Dallen’s ruler made an exception for Chancey the Gold, because he is the only person who can guide travellers through Dallen Falls – travellers from Decresian who are of benefit to Dallen, or travellers from other parts who would have traditionally reached their destination by sea. They would pay to take a shorter route through Dallen Falls. It was a job that never before existed. As you know, the waterfall is thundering and The Straits below it are wild. The currents move at a terrifying pace. But Chancey the Gold can navigate them. And in Dallen he was safe from Villius Ren.”

“Has Chancey the Gold ever come back to Decresian?” said Oland.

Jerome shook his head. “No,” he said. “There would have to be a very special reason for him to return. The Craven Lodge would surely kill him because of the scryer’s prophecy.”

“Was Chancey the Gold an ally of King Micah?” said Oland.

“We all were,” said Jerome. “And, like Chancey the Gold, I was once champion of The Games – ten years before him. I was given a ten-acre farm by King Micah – for my service, and for my success in The Games. When Villius Ren came to power, he took my land away. He gave all my family jobs, except for me. He knew I would do nothing to harm my family’s prospects; he knew that they could not afford to refuse his offer of employment. And he knew that if I had no job, and lived in a cottage he owned, in a village he terrorised, he had at least some control over me.”

“Why did he want to have control over you?” said Oland.

“He saw me as a threat,” said Jerome. “And you know Villius Ren; he could find a threat in the eyes of an infant.”

Oland smiled.

“So…” said Jerome. “If your aim is the downfall of Villius Ren… and it has always been said that Chancey the Gold was the man to bring it about, well… your next stop should be Dallen Falls.”

Oland suddenly could not imagine being anywhere other than Derrington.

Jerome smiled. He took Oland’s hands in his. “You were chosen, Oland. Do this. Do this for all of us. You have nothing to lose. Chancey the Gold is a good man, and to arrive to him an enemy of Villius Ren is to arrive to him a friend. As you are here.”

Oland stared again into the cold hearth.

Jerome took a breath. “Oland, never forget the reign you have been asked to end: that of Villius Ren, a man among nine hundred and ninety-nine screaming souls, yet with no soul of his own.”

They sat in silence for some time, Oland running King Micah’s words over and over in his head.

But fear not – Decresian shall be restored. And it falls to you, Oland Born, to do so. On such young shoulders, it will prove astonishing how light this burden will be.

To Oland, the burden felt anything but light.

Suddenly, they heard a soft tapping at the parlour window. Jerome went to the back door.

“It’s Villius Ren,” someone hissed. “Alone! Not one of The Lodge is with him.”

Oland stood up.

The Tailor Rynish burst through his workshop door.

“What’s going on?” he growled.

“Villius Ren is in Derrington,” said Jerome.

Oland felt a rough hand grab on to his arm. He turned to see the Tailor Rynish talking over his head to his brother. “I’ll take him,” he was saying.

“What?” said Oland, struggling against him. “Take me where?”

“Shut your mouth!” snarled the tailor. “Shut your mouth; they’ll hear you.” He looked at Jerome. “I’m going to collect The Craven Lodge’s new cloth. Villius knows this so he won’t stand in my way.”

Jerome nodded.

“No,” Oland managed to say. “No.”

“It’s your only hope,” said Jerome.

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Oland. He turned to the tailor. “You work for Villius Ren; I don’t know where you’re going. This could all be a trick—”

“Go, Oland,” said Jerome. “Just go. Unless you want to be in my parlour when Villius Ren bursts in.”

Before Oland had a chance to say another word, the Tailor Rynish was dragging him down the hallway out into the cold night. He pushed him to the back of the cart. As he forced Oland in, a small figure jumped in from the opposite side. Oland could scarcely believe it. It was the monkey, Malben. It gave Oland strange comfort as they were both thrown under a length of tarred canvas.

Oland could hear Jerome’s voice as he leaned down and spoke to him through a gap in the cover: “My brother has a keen eye,” he said. “But do not fear, Oland. For he knows how to turn a blind one.”

HE ROADS IN DECRESIAN WERE ROCKY AND UNEVEN, winding under trees that were once rich with leaves, but whose branches were now skeletal. Grubby fields, bordered by tangled hedges, stretched back from behind the trees, some with small houses at their far corners, others with just the stone imprint of what had once been. Oland imagined that, to the Tailor Rynish, every journey through Decresian was a solemn reminder of the glory of a different reign.

Oland could barely breathe. He was wedged between two thick bolts of wool, with another at his feet, and the layer of heavy canvas pressed down on him. He slid the cover from his face at intervals. It offered some relief, but was soon replaced by the chill of icy night air. There was some cloth beneath him, but it did little to cushion him.

Tired of hiding from empty roads, Oland eventually sat up in the corner behind the tailor, with his legs to his chest and Malben curled up, hidden, at his feet. Oland watched from the corner of his eye as the tailor’s shoulders moved up and down, up and down as he worked the reins. Every now and then, he wiped his sleeve under his nose. But still, he drove on. He had not spoken one word to Oland since they left Derrington.

They had been travelling for three hours before Oland felt the horse slow. He slipped back under the cover.

The tailor guided them down a lane with a narrow strip of grass at its centre. The fields on either side were scattered with sheep. The cart came to a stop outside a small white farmhouse. The tailor jumped down and tethered the horse. He pulled back the covers and gestured to Oland to stay quiet and follow him. When he turned away, Oland tucked Malben under the cloth and gave him a look he hoped would make him stay put.

Oland and the tailor made their way around the back of the house to a row of barns. The tailor slid the bolt back on the middle gate and, as they walked in, they were hit with the rich stench of manure. They crossed the filthy floor to the back wall of the barn. The tailor slid a panel of shelves to one side, and pushed open a small door that was hidden behind them. He took off his boots and laid them on a shelf, before he unlatched the door. Oland did the same, and followed the tailor into a cramped, windowless room, lit by a half-melted candle. The floor was strewn with straw, but it had been sprinkled with pine needles, so the air smelled fresher than the barn behind them.

There were two chairs in the room, one bed and a table with a bottle of milk and a sandwich on it. Oland and the tailor sat opposite each other at the table. The tailor took a knife from his pocket and cut the sandwich, handing half to Oland.

“I’m Arthur,” said the tailor. “And I want to say thank you for saving my friend’s life.”

“But I…” Oland paused.

“Malachy knew what he was doing when he agreed to help you,” said Arthur. “But you had no idea what the consequences of your actions would be when you jumped in to help.”

Oland nodded. “No. I didn’t.”

Arthur took a drink from the bottle. “What happened to Malachy tonight was a terrible tragedy,” he said, “but he wasn’t a very healthy man, we all knew that, and he had suffered a terrible shock. Despite what happened in the arena, I know Malachy was proud of the part he played in helping you. Giving you the meat to feed the animals was his quiet protest against The Craven Lodge’s savagery, and his humble way of honouring King Micah. He was very grateful to you for what you did today – he just didn’t get a chance to tell you himself. So I’m telling you now. It’s important for you to know that Malachy Graham’s heart was not your responsibility. It was his. Although, for the most part, he would say that it was his wife who protected it.” He tried to smile.

Oland realised now that Arthur had been crying on the journey.

“Oland,” said Arthur. “There is something different about you. What you did today was extraordinary. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Oland stared at the floor. “I… don’t know. I didn’t.”

“Where did you come from?” said Arthur.

“I don’t know,” said Oland. He could hear how his own voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “I thought perhaps that your parents were from outside Derrington and you were sent to work at the castle.”

“Wickham tells a story,” said Oland. He paused. “Do you know Wickham?”

“I have never met him,” said Arthur, “though I have been given his measurements, have made his clothes, have passed him several times in the castle hallways, yet never seen him in one of my garments.”

“Wickham used to tell a story of a woman who gave birth the night that King Micah was killed,” said Oland, “and that the father of the child was murdered, and that the woman left the baby in a crate with its name pinned to its blanket…”

“And you think that child might be you?” said Arthur.

“I had thought so,” said Oland, “but then I found out that Villius Ren told Wickham all those years ago to make that story up. It sounded like it could be me. It… felt like it could be me. But I don’t know – maybe some of it is true.”

It was the first time he had spoken to anyone about the part he thought he might have had in the story, and he struggled to keep the emotion from his voice. “The mother was to come back to reclaim the boy,” said Oland. “He wasn’t just going to be left there forever.”

“As you say, there may well be some truth in Wickham’s story,” said Arthur. “And, if your parents were at the castle the night King Micah was overthrown, there could be a record of their names. But only if they were there officially, if they were employed there or perhaps visiting. You see that night was also the night of the Decresian census. The king had dispatched his men to call at every house in the kingdom to take a record of the name, age and occupation of every person there at that time, along with details of the land that they owned, the crops that they sowed, and such. That was why there were scant men left to protect King Micah, and why a coward like Villius Ren saw that as his chance to strike.”

“Where is the census now?” said Oland.

Arthur let out a breath. “It could be with the son of Archivist Samuel Ault. There is a bloodline of archivists who originated in Dallen, but who came to Decresian after the ruler of Dallen was overthrown. Samuel Ault’s father was murdered the night of the Dallen uprising.”

“That was the night they stormed King Seward’s Hospital and set it on fire,” said Oland.

Arthur nodded. “The uprising started with the founding of the hospital. King Seward thought he was doing the whole of Envar a great service building a hospital where the plague-stricken could be looked after. The ruler of Dallen at the time welcomed it.”

“But his people didn’t,” said Oland.

“Neither their land nor their livestock had been poisoned, so they wanted nothing to do with the infected patients, even though the plague wasn’t spread from human to human,” said Arthur. “Anyway, the night of the uprising, Samuel Ault’s father had ensured his family’s safe departure to Decresian ahead of him. But, as he was leaving his home, an angry mob descended on him. He was unable to defend himself, and he was beaten and left there to die. His son, Samuel, vowed that his own son, Tristan, would never become an archivist, that he would be trained as a warrior, so that he would always have the skills to survive in what Samuel Ault now came to see as a vicious world. Tristan had no interest in being a warrior – he wanted to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, but his father insisted and, from the age of ten, the boy was trained in a special form of combat, Jandro. But, as if the family was condemned to repeat history, Samuel Ault was killed on the night King Micah was overthrown.

“The question is whether Tristan Ault chose to honour his dying father by becoming a warrior or, instead, if he thought that true honour was to be found only by following the Ault family’s ancestral vocation.”

LAND KNEW ABOUT ARCHIVISTS FROM THE BOOKS IN the king’s library, but he had found no mention of Archivist Samuel Ault having a son. His father must have wanted him undocumented, so that there would be no natural expectation that he would follow in his footsteps.

“This is what I know,” said Arthur. “For years, Villius Ren had been King Micah’s closest advisor in practical matters. In matters intellectual, it was Samuel Ault. He was King Micah’s confidant, his scribe, his archivist, the trusted guardian of all the secrets of Decresian. At the time King Micah was overthrown, Tristan Ault was not much older than you are now. I suspect that he was sent away by his father with the history of Decresian – the only thing that could be protected from the treachery of Villius Ren. The last document Samuel Ault would have been working on that night was the census.”

“So, Tristan Ault has the census,” said Oland.

“Perhaps,” said Arthur.

“And where is he now?” said Oland. “Did anyone see him leave the castle?”

“Well,” said Arthur, “there is a story that travelled the length and breadth of Decresian, but no one can trace it to one witness. A boy of his age was seen fleeing the castle the night the king was overthrown. The Craven Lodge had been searing the initials of Villius Ren on to the nape of his neck, as they did to most of us, but this boy struggled, disturbing a lantern and sending oil spilling on to his shoulders. The oil went up in flames against the branding iron and, as The Craven Lodge jumped back from them, this burning boy took the chance to escape. The last he was seen, the flames had died and he was riding off in a carriage filled with chests.”

“Did Tristan Ault abandon King Micah?” said Oland.

“Oh, no,” said Arthur. “There exists an archivist’s oath, a simple two-line oath. It supersedes all other oaths, including that which binds them to their master. Archivists believe that they cannot participate in any event that is to be recorded in the history of the kingdom. They believe that to become a participant would be to curse the future. Their only task is to truthfully chronicle events, and to guard these chronicles fiercely. That is why, if young Tristan Ault decided to take the oath that night and become an official archivist, he would have been compelled to leave the castle.”

“And has Villius Ren ever tried to find him?” said Oland. “I’ve heard no mention of his name in Castle Derrington. And Villius constantly mentions the names of his enemies.”

Arthur shook his head. “To cover the theft of the archives and the census, Villius Ren put the story about many years ago that he slaughtered the entire Ault family.”

“But why, now, would this archivist not come forward?” said Oland.

“As you know,” said Arthur, “archivists lead solitary lives. Samuel Ault would have dealt only with King Micah and Queen Cossima; his father would have dealt only with the ruler of Dallen. Archivists are known for having pride in their work and passion for it, but they seek no public recognition. Their only desire is to faithfully honour the king, the kingdom and its history.”

“But who does Villius Ren say that the burning boy is?” said Oland.

“Oh, you know Villius,” said Arthur. “‘It was a burning rat, a burning weasel…’”

Oland nodded.

“It’s a string of interwoven lies,” said Arthur. “If Villius Ren admits that someone took away the history of Decresian, it would be admitting that King Micah had foreseen Villius’ treachery; otherwise, the documents – of which there were thousands – would never have been packed away in a carriage, ready to be carried away. That would have taken a long time.”

“So, if I could find Tristan Ault, maybe I could find out who my parents are and where I come from,” said Oland.

“I’m afraid that is an onerous ambition,” said Arthur. “Time and again, archivists have witnessed the devastating consequences of misplaced trust, so they trust few.”

“Is there anything else you know about him?” said Oland.

“I have told you everything I know,” said Arthur. He paused. “The only other thing I can think of is that the boy you are looking for, is a man now, close to thirty. And he will bear the scars of a liquid burn on his neck and back.”

As Oland drifted off to sleep, he was occupied by the thought that, along with restoring a kingdom, perhaps he could restore himself, and the cloak of his dark past could be shed. Yet it wasn’t all dark: now that he knew the story of his past was fiction, his father did not have to be a bad man; he was free to imagine an alternative.

He did not have to change his vision of his mother; he had always seen her as brave and strong and loyal. He conjured up a beautiful woman with a kind face, perhaps with his green eyes, perhaps his long fair hair. The comfort of her imagined warmth finally brought him to sleep, and on a makeshift bed in a strange room behind a stinking barn, he had the longest uninterrupted sleep he could remember.

When Oland awoke, he was alone. In the dim candlelight, he saw food on the table. He left it untouched. He went to the small door, and tried to open it. It rattled. It had been latched from the outside. Oland shouted for Arthur. He didn’t care who heard; he didn’t even know who might be there to hear him.

As the hours passed, hunger was turning Oland’s attention to food, but, as the scent of pine needles faded, and the odour of the barn began to seep under the door, he was happy to remain hungry. He lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He realised he had left his bag in the cart. He patted his pockets. The king’s letter was still there. But he had no book to read, nothing to distract him. At the castle, Oland’s days were filled with dozens of tasks that he had to carry out for The Craven Lodge, after no more than four hours’ sleep. Because he had slept long and peacefully the previous night, he was wide awake. And he was still alone hours later when the candle finally burned out.

A shaft of light eventually appeared at the bottom of the door, and the latch rattled again. Arthur Rynish, with a lantern in his hand, walked in.

“I’m sorry, Oland,” he said. “It took longer than I thought.”

“Where did you go?” said Oland. “Why did you leave me here?”

“There was something not quite right on our journey here,” said Arthur. “It unsettled me. And I needed to make sure that we were safe.”

“You could have left me a note.”

“What you are doing is dangerous, Oland. Were I to have left you a note, and you were discovered, a link would have been made between us. And that cannot happen. For you to carry out this quest, it must be alone.”

“King Micah’s letter said that I was to have a companion,” said Oland.

“I don’t think you should,” said Arthur. “But that’s just my opinion. What I will tell you is that you cannot be connected to my brother or me. You don’t know the Rynishes, you’ve never heard of them – do you understand?”

Oland nodded. “Why?”

“Stop,” said Arthur. “Stop asking questions. I’m telling you things for your own good, for the good of everyone. Say as little as possible, and you will remain in as little danger as possible.”

“Danger?” said Oland. “Why? Do you think anyone else knows where I am going?”

“Just my brother and I,” said Arthur. “And… had you considered… whoever left the letter for you?”

Oland shook his head. “I hadn’t, no.”

“Regardless,” said Arthur, “you are in danger, at the very least for leaving Castle Derrington – for running out on Villius Ren and The Craven Lodge.”

Oland did not say that it had been very clear that Villius Ren wanted him dead.

The following morning, when Oland awoke, Arthur Rynish was sitting in the chair opposite him.

“Your bag,” he said, pointing to the floor. “You left your bag in the cart.”

Oland sat up and pulled the bag towards him. He wondered where the little monkey was. Was he still nearby?

“Eat and let’s go,” said Arthur. “We have many miles to travel before we reach the Dallen border.”

S THE NIGHTS PASSED, OLAND’S HOPE WANED. ARTHUR Rynish’s often sullen mood brought no comfort. Oland welcomed the brief stops in the deserted houses and outbuildings, and wondered who were the strangers that had left food for the tailor – always for one, never for two. Oland knew that, despite emerging from the shadow of The Craven Lodge, for now, he was still invisible. And when, over a week into their journey, they reached the official crossing between Decresian and Dallen, his invisibility was all he thought of as he buried himself under the canvas.

There was just one route from Decresian into Dallen, and it was carved through the vast forest that separated them. A group of border guards was stationed in a small wooden building at the official border, but every traveller knew that there were guards hidden everywhere in the trees.

As the horse slowed, Arthur whispered to Oland. “It’s Terrence Dyer from Garnish,” he said. “A merchant of misery, the greyest of men. Hard to believe he’s the son of Gaudy Dyer.”

Arthur brought the horse and cart to a stop.

“The Tailor Rynish,” said Terrence grimly. “Welcome, again, welcome.”

“Thank you, Terrence,” said Arthur. “How are you?”

“In the throes of life,” said Terrence.

“How’s your father?” said Arthur. “It must be thirteen years since he left Garnish.”

“Was forced to leave,” said Terrence. “And not one day has passed without lament. The mines in Galenore are no place for an old man. Word has come in recent days that the smelting fires on the hills won’t take, so there is much concern about the supplies of galena. Without lead, many territories will suffer.”

“Let’s hope for a change in the winds,” said Arthur.

Terrence looked up at the sky. “The clouds are moving in strange ways. They have darkened and thickened. Look where they have blurred in places.”

“There’s a madman in Derrington who says The Great Rains are upon us,” said Arthur. There was a smile in his voice.

“Great Rains, indeed,” said Terrence. “Though my father himself would have me believe it.” He slapped the side of Arthur Rynish’s cart. “You must be keen to carry on your journey, but, as I am bound by law, I must inspect your papers, and your load.”

“Of course,” said Arthur. Oland could hear the rustle of papers as they were passed between them.

“All is in order,” said Terrence. “And now…”

Oland heard more footsteps, fast-moving, crunching across the ground towards them. He guessed that there were at least four men, and they quickly surrounded the cart.

“Your load,” said one of the guards.

Oland could sense the cold air as Arthur reached around and pulled back the canvas that covered the cloths, and then him.

“Wools and linens,” announced the guard.

“Look,” said another guard. “In the corner of the cart. Something is moving.”

Oland’s heart started to pound.

“A rat!” said another guard.

“It’s bigger than a rat!” said the first guard. Oland could feel someone rummaging above his head. “There’s a sack here,” said the guard. He cried out. “It’s… it’s a monkey!”

Oland felt a surge of panic.

“A monkey?” shouted Arthur. “In the folds of my fabric?”

Malben let out a pained cry. Oland could sense movement again, and the smell of warm fur. “My linens!” shouted Arthur. “My linens will be destroyed! Out! Out! Get out!”

“It’s illegal to bring monkeys across the border,” said another guard.

Arthur erupted. “The notion! Is it not clear I had no idea he was there? Take him! Kill him for all I care, just get him away from my work.”

“He’s running for the hut!” said one of the guards.

The guards’ footsteps moved away in pursuit of the shrieking Malben. Oland felt a sharp tug at his leg.

“Go,” said Arthur, yanking Oland towards him, grabbing him roughly under the arm as he staggered down from the back of the cart. He handed him a small roll of tarred canvas. “For shelter, now run. Run, Oland.”

Oland quickly gained his footing, then locked eyes briefly with Arthur. In that one moment, he felt the full force of his encouragement. He whispered his thanks to him, then sprinted for the bushes. He knew he should keep moving, but instead, he waited, unable to leave without knowing that Arthur and Malben were safe. He crouched behind a tree and watched as one of the guards broke away from the others to return to Arthur.

“What is your business in Dallen?” he said.

“What was my business, you mean,” said Arthur. “My business, now, is to return to Decresian; my fabric has been spoiled by a pest, and I have important work to take care of at Castle Derrington.”

“Ah, yes,” said the guard. “Of course. After all, you are the personal tailor to Villius Ren. His loyal and faithful servant…”

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