The palace was suddenly a hive of activity. Goth had to ask around to discover that the Queen and much of her household was relocating to her winter palace. His small chamber was quite some way from her majesty’s tower which meant that he was last to hear the news. The distance was very annoying. He needed to be closer to her if he was to ingratiate himself and influence her decisions.
Being saved by the Cipreans had been a stroke of great fortune. He had definitely thought his time was up and that the boiling sea would swallow him that terrifying day. He had waved to someone on one of the beaches as he was swept along in the current. It had been too dark to see who it was but after arriving at the palace and hearing the story of the other survivors from
The Wasp
, Goth had realised he had been waving to his enemy, Torkyn Gynt.
Goth had first seen Gynt on the deck of
The Wasp
, when the pirate Blackhand was about to chop off the young boy’s hand. He had spent the days since pondering how it could be that Gynt was alive when he himself had witnessed the man’s death by stoning at the hands of the city of Tal’s executioner.
He and hundreds of others had watched Gynt’s head split open by the heavy stones. The wound had bled a torrent and the man had died on the cross while his lover, Alyssandra Qyn, was forced to look on. Goth recalled how he had wanted to touch Gynt’s corpse, to be sure he was truly dead, and how Xantia had mocked him. How could anyone live through such an event? Xantia had gloated. It was surely impossible and yet there Gynt was, standing on the ship’s deck that morning.
Goth began to believe that Gynt could not die. The man had suffered execution by stoning and a deadly storm, but apparently neither had been able to take his life. But then he smiled. As a child, the fire had tried to take his life and yet he had lived through it, and the storm had done its damnedest to claim him too and yet here he was, alive and well and a guest of Ciprean royalty. It seemed he and Gynt were survivors. And life was taking some strange turns for them both.
When Xantia had fled Caradoon, Goth was still disabled by the effects of stracca inhalation. One of the many spies Xantia paid throughout the upper region of Tallinor had sent a message that the King’s Guard was heading further north than usual. It was
unclear whether the Guard had been tipped off as to Goth and Xantia’s whereabouts, but Xantia was not taking any chances. She was surprised they had managed to stay hidden amongst Caradoon’s population for as many years as they had; she knew it would be only a matter of time before the search was widened to even the remotest nooks and crannies of the Kingdom.
Goth, weakened by the painful desire for more stracca and the urgent need for security, had begged Xantia whether they might stay together. But the sneer on Xantia’s face had been answer enough. Goth knew he was no longer of any use to her; he wondered what use he may ever have been. His role as Chief Inquisitor had been dissolved and he had been marked for death; he no longer wielded any power. Xantia was a clever woman; she would have worked this out long before she helped him to escape, which meant she had another agenda, a better idea for his use. Not any more though, it appeared. Once she heard the Guards were coming, Xantia had warned him of their approach, told him she had arranged a berth for him on
The Wasp
, thrown a heavy purse at him and then simply disappeared.
Before he departed Caradoon, Goth had dragged himself to the apothecary. He knew he would not survive more than a day on the ship without something to counteract the effects of the stracca working itself out of his body. Armed with a supply of arraq, he had found his way onto the ship and then ordered that he be left totally alone. He knew the
next few days would be filled with the greatest of pain whilst the stracca withdrew from his body. He had to pretend he was ill but the ruse had seemed to work. The stupid cabin boy had not cottoned on to his problem and the captain had hardly wanted a priest at his table.
Goth laughed his high-pitched giggle as he watched the activity taking place in the main courtyard below. If only he had known Gynt was on board
The Wasp
, he would have taken the opportunity to poison him. He could have disposed of the body by dropping it overboard; Gynt would have vanished without a trace.
Yesterday afternoon at the execution, he had been excited to see the Queen’s guards escorting Gynt from the amphitheatre gallery to the Queen’s box. He had believed the time had come once again for Gynt to die, but it was not so. It seemed that Sylven was interested only in humiliating him; she had tied some kind of leather band around the physic’s head. It must have a special significance for the Cipreans; Goth resolved to ask around to discover more, if he could find time.
His mind slid readily back to the grisly scene which had been carried out in the amphitheatre’s arena. He had thoroughly enjoyed watching Haryd meet his end, although he would have preferred the lad to die too, particularly as both Gynt and the crowd were on his side. A pity he had survived; a good bloodcurdling scream from a lad was always fun, but then again Haryd had issued something akin
to a woman’s scream, which had caused Goth a rush of excitement. He had watched in fascination as the blade fell through the locks as cleanly as if they did not exist and then split Haryd’s body in two, cutting off his death shriek. Goth had never seen such a sight; he wished he could have got closer to view the man’s innards spilling onto the dust. He had joined in the crowd’s cheering and wished that they were celebrating the death of Torkyn Gynt.
Goth desperately hoped that the Queen of Cipres could be persuaded that his expertise as former Chief Inquisitor was useful. If he could win her support, he would enjoy the benefits of her influence and be able to indulge himself with the lifestyle he craved. Most importantly, a position at the royal court of Cipres would provide him with the means to create havoc in Tallinor and perhaps even the power to kill Torkyn Gynt, should he remain out of favour with her majesty.
Then, after ending Gynt’s life, he would devise a plan to re-enter that of Alyssandra Qyn. It may take him years but he did not care; he would see her again and revel in that fear on her lovely face. Goth barely understood his fascination with the woman. She was such a delicate thing and yet she commanded his attention. Those large searching eyes and that fragile body. He hurt her all those years ago but he had not managed to break her. The time spent smoking the stracca had given him insight. He realised he had handled her wrongly. She was not the kind of woman to be seduced by power. She would never be ruled by
anyone and certainly not by fear. Alyssa would rather die fighting than submit herself to him. The vision of her struggling against him inspired Goth and he fed off it during his dark days and nights in Caradoon. But now he concluded that Alyssa too must die and by his hand, for it was she who had sentenced him to death in Tal’s Great Hall.
Goth remembered how he had tracked down Gynt and Alyssa to the centre of the Great Forest. He had arrived in time to see her newborn baby’s corpse in its shallow grave. He had kicked at the leaves covering it and laughed at her grief. Was that the moment she had hated him most? Yes, he decided. Not even the rape could compare to a mother’s wrath. He giggled again. He would relish the opportunity to end her sad and miserable life.
A familiar figure, tall and gracious, appeared in the courtyard and dragged Goth’s mind away from his dark thoughts. He was shocked to see Gynt smiling and chatting with the Queen’s servants, particularly the one Goth hated most, the wretched Hela. Surely Gynt had not been given his freedom? Yesterday’s investigations had revealed that the physic was cooling his heels in her majesty’s dungeons. What could have happened to make her change her mind?
He watched with loathing as Tor helped Queen Sylven into her carriage, kissing her hand before climbing onto a horse to ride alongside. The royal party comprised many carts and beasts, maids, supplies and even that stupid boy, Ryk, whom Goth
remembered from the ship. What was
he
doing at the palace?
There were too many questions to which Goth didn’t have answers. Why had Gynt been travelling to Cipres in the first place? He had to find out. He could not be left to stew like this. If his plans were to work, he had to be close to the Queen.
Goth put his fluid mind to work, running along a number of paths, rejecting some and turning back to others, testing each of them for potential. He needed to follow the royal party, but he could not risk being recognised by Gynt. And yet, if he was going to kill him, he had to get close enough to do it. How?
Goth watched the carriages move off. He was not worried that they were leaving without him; there would be supply carts still to follow the main party so he could travel with those. Right now his problem was the danger of being recognised.
‘I need a disguise,’ he muttered aloud. ‘But what?’ he asked the walls of his chamber.
He turned to watch the procession once more, his eyes following the last of the carriages out of the main courtyard. His attention was caught by a black veiled figure, holding her robes up slightly so she could move freely and quickly about the yard below.
And then it hit him.
Sylven insisted that she and her personal serving staff never ventured beyond the palace walls without a veil. In addition, her women always wore full black robes outside the royal chambers.
It could work.
Goth knew he must choose with care so that the stolen robe fitted him sufficiently well that his presence would go unnoticed by the Queen, but even more so by that bitch chief maidservant of hers, Hela. He despised Hela because she was not intimidated by him; even worse was her insufferable arrogance born from her close friendship with Sylven. And Hela had sharp eyes. She would pick out an intruder in an instant, Goth mused as he sat in the courtyard, pretending to read.
In truth, he was busy watching the comings and goings of the palace staff as they prepared to leave for their winter retreat. He estimated that the last of the wagons would leave around this time tomorrow. It was now mid afternoon and he still had not seen an appropriate victim.
One of the Queen’s courtiers suddenly appeared next to him. ‘Good book?’
Goth stopped himself from jumping. He had been concentrating hard on a woman who had just stepped back into the palace. She was too tall…the robe would have dragged on the ground.
‘Er, yes. Most absorbing,’ he replied.
‘I don’t doubt this afternoon sun is cheerful on your back after the cold.’
The silver-haired man was obviously in no hurry, Goth thought sourly. He forced a polite smile. ‘Yes, indeed. You are not joining her majesty at Neame then?’
‘Not on this occasion,’ the courtier said cheerfully. ‘I sense this is one of those times when she prefers not to be disturbed by royal duties. I got the distinct impression she wishes to be alone.’ He winked.
Goth wanted to wipe the conspiratorial smile off the old man’s face. ‘Hardly alone,’ he replied. ‘I see that man Gynt is constantly at her side these days.’
‘Well, quite,’ said the man, choosing not to expand any further. The wink had been innuendo enough. ‘I actually thought you may be going along?’
‘I wasn’t asked.’ Goth decided now was as good a time as any to cover his intended tracks. ‘No, I think I shall remain happily at the palace, soak up this sun in her majesty’s absence and spend the time learning more about Cipres.’
‘Good, good,’ said the older man, finally deciding to move on. ‘I’ll see you at dinner then.’
Unlikely, you old fool, thought Goth. ‘That would be charming,’ he replied.
As he watched the man walk away he noticed a woman bending down to pick up a basket of recently delivered fruit. It was a large basket but she hoisted it onto her shoulder and stood to her full height. Goth’s breath caught. There! He watched her turn and carefully measured her height and width in his head and decided her robe would be ideal.
He pushed the book into his pocket and followed the woman. He caught up with her as she rounded a corner heading towards the palace’s vast cooling rooms.
‘Good day,’ he said casually and fell in with her stride.
‘Hello.’ She nodded from beneath her veil.
‘I wonder, may I steal one of those oranges? I am mighty thirsty.’ He desperately wished for once that he was attractive enough to immediately win a woman’s attention. People like Gynt and that former Prime, Kyt Cyrus, did not realise how valuable an asset their looks were. Or perhaps they just took it for granted. He felt his face twitch as she turned her dark eyes onto his. She said nothing.
‘Apologies,’ he offered, all politeness. He even effected a brief bow. ‘I am Almyd Goth, an adviser to the Queen. I am new to Cipres and to the palace and I hardly know a soul.’ He tried to smile, knowing it was likely to fail, as his burned, twisted skin tended to turn any attempt into a grimace. ‘Actually, it’s quite lonely,’ he added, hoping a pathetic tone might win the sympathy he needed.
Did she smile? He could not tell, but something
seemed to lighten in those smoky eyes which regarded him steadily.
Goth did his best to turn on the charm. ‘That basket looks awfully heavy for a girl to carry. May I help?’
He was heartened by her soft chuckle. ‘This is my daily job.’
‘Well, I come from Tallinor and around our palace, we don’t allow the women to carry such heavy loads.’
‘Perhaps they are not as strong as Ciprean women?’ She was teasing him but she put the load down onto the ground. ‘Help yourself.’
Goth did not want an orange. He had disliked them ever since that episode in Ildagarth when, inexplicably, instead of killing Gynt he had murdered a child who had offered him an orange. Now, bending down to select one of the fruit, he recalled how the child’s blood had mingled with the juice of the oranges on the ground.
The woman chose one and handed it to him with a smooth, olive-skinned hand. He took the orange and bowed his head in thanks, noting that her height did indeed match his. Her robe would be perfect.
Her deep, almost raspy voice responded quickly to his courtesy. ‘I am Elma.’
‘Thank you, Elma, for this,’ he said, bouncing the fruit gently in his palm. ‘Are you sure I cannot help?’
She laughed gently. ‘I will manage.’ She hoisted the basket back onto her shoulder. ‘Perhaps I will see you again at the evening meal.’
Goth had not expected this. ‘Perhaps you will,’ he said, surprising himself at how flirtatious he sounded.
That evening, rather than taking a tray of food into his chamber, Goth deliberately went looking for Elma in the communal staff dining room. He picked at a plate of food and found an excuse to linger by talking to the boring courtier again, but all the while his sharp eyes swept across the hall. She was not to be seen.
Making his excuses he finally extricated himself from the tedious old man and asked a dozen different women if they knew where Elma was. Most did not know her. Those who did had not seen her. Frustrated, his anger rising, Goth decided to search the servants quarters. He would probably face someone’s wrath for the trespass but he was beyond being polite. He had only hours now. He needed Elma’s robe and was prepared to enter her quarters and steal it if necessary. However, he preferred not to take that risk. His first plan was neater, if a little bloody.
Striding from the hall he was annoyed to feel a tug on his shirt. He swung around to see a young woman.
‘You are Almyd Goth?’ she asked tentatively, obviously fascinated, or perhaps horrified, by his ugliness.
‘What of it?’ he replied impatiently.
She mustered a sweet smile from a plain face. ‘I am Elma’s friend. She asked me to tell you, if I met you, that she hoped the orange was sweet.’
‘Where is she?’ he asked, perhaps a little too urgently.
The girl stepped back. He had frightened her. ‘She is not well, sir.’
‘Ah.’ He was too fierce, he decided. He must hold his temper. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Please convey to her my regret that we could not break bread together this evening, and I hope she will be well in the morn.’
She nodded and smiled. ‘I shall tell her. She will be pleased.’ The girl made to leave.
Goth caught her arm; felt her recoil. Her politeness did not extend to enjoying the touch of this hideously maimed man. ‘Sir?’ The fright was back in her voice.
‘I was just wondering…would you take something to Elma from me?’ He added a plaintive note to his voice.
‘Of course.’ She held out her hand.
‘I have to get it ready. Come with me…er, please.’
He was surprised that she followed, but she did so obediently, first into the gardens where he picked a rosebud of soft yellow and then into another room where he quickly scratched out a note. He handed it to her.
‘Elma will be moved, sir, by your attentions.’
‘Can she read?’ he suddenly had the forethought to ask.
‘No, sir. I can’t either,’ she replied politely.
Goth only just refrained from knocking her to the ground. All that effort wasted. But he held the anger in check and fixed another leer on his face, hoping it might pass for a smile. He ignored the way she shrank back.
‘Well, could you perhaps give her a message to go with this rose?’
‘I will do that,’ she said.
‘Thank you. Please tell Elma that I would be honoured if she would join me for a cup of sweet wine.’
Her eyes widened. She giggled and then stopped herself.
‘Why do you laugh?’ Goth asked.
‘Elma always attracts the strange ones,’ she said and then realised the insult.
Goth was careful not to show any had been taken. ‘Well, I am lonely and Elma was kind to me this afternoon. I would like to say thank you properly and perhaps I will have a new friend at the palace,’ he said to the younger woman, almost choking on the syrupy words.
She lapped them up, pleased for Elma, he presumed. ‘When?’
‘How about very early tomorrow? We can share a sunrise together.’
The girl looked doubtful. ‘She may not wish to come alone at that hour, sir.’
Goth had not counted on this. He thought quickly, reassessing the plan. ‘Then you shall come with her. We can all be friends and watch the sun come up over Cipres.’
He should have been a poet, he thought sourly.
‘That would be fine,’ she said. ‘We shall see you at second toll.’
‘Excellent,’ Goth said. ‘May I suggest the old well…the one on the eastern side of the palace?’
He had already checked that this would be an ideal area. The well was no longer used so was only lightly guarded during the day. At dawn, it was likely to be deserted.
‘Come as invisibly as you can,’ he suggested. ‘Let us not be seen. This will be a secret rendezvous,’ he added, theatrically.
She smiled again. ‘We shall be veiled to go outside, sir. No one will know who we are.’
It was exactly what Goth wanted to hear. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said and took his leave.
The two women arrived promptly, emerging from the eerie half-darkness of the pre-dawn hours. Arms linked, they walked carefully and quietly, giggling softly now and then—probably about him, he thought. He watched them approach. Killing both at the same time would be impossible.
He hid in a clump of small fruit trees, waiting for them to pass him. As they did, he took a deep breath then stepped out and smashed the blacksmith’s tool he had brought with him into the back of the shorter woman’s head. She dropped without a sound.
Elma swung around, her face filled with horror, but Goth gave her no time to cry out. He was on her in a flash, one hand clamped to her mouth and the other pushing her towards the well. He pressed her against the wall with the weight of his body and ripped off her veil, triumphant to have at last what he needed.
‘If you scream, or make any sound, I shall kill you. Do you understand?’
She nodded dumbly from behind the hand pushed against her face. Goth removed a large kerchief from his pocket and tied it very firmly across her mouth. Elma made no sound as he did so. He was impressed by her composure. He finally turned her to face him and saw that Elma was more than just plain; she was downright ugly. No wonder, he thought absently, that her friend had laughed. Never mind, it was certainly not Elma’s looks he cared about right now.
‘I must ask you to undress.’
A query formed in her eyes.
‘Quickly, please,’ he added and was relieved to see her reach behind to unbutton her robe.
She stepped out of it, naked. Goth hardly gave her shapely body a second glance. ‘Give it to me.’
Elma obeyed. He noticed goose bumps on the arm which obediently held out the robe and it occurred to him that the fresh morning air would be chill on bare skin. Oh well, he thought carelessly, you won’t feel much shortly.
Goth took the robe and tossed it onto the ground, on top of the veil. He had his disguise. Now he must cover his tracks.
Without warning, he grabbed Elma, twisted her round and bent her over the well. He knew its stone wall would chafe badly against her bare flesh but it would not be for long. He grabbed her hair, neatly tied in a convenient ponytail, and wrapped it around
his fingers to hold her in position whilst he removed the blade he had concealed.
Elma began to whimper. He felt nothing but contempt for her.
He put his mouth close to her ear and her whimpering lifted a notch. He must despatch her fast.
‘I know I inferred I wouldn’t kill you if you obeyed me, but I’m sorry, Elma, I’m the most wicked liar.’
And with that, Goth viciously pulled her head back by her hair and passed the blade swiftly and deeply across her throat.
Blood spewed from the wound. The force with which a body emptied itself of its vital fluid never failed to fascinate, or satisfy, him. He stood as far away as possible so none of the blood splashed on his clothes or boots and watched Elma’s life cascade in a violent gush down the well shaft. Her corpse followed it within moments.
Goth wasted no time, moving swiftly to Elma’s prone friend, who had come to and was also whimpering. Goth believed her skull was already crushed sufficiently to cause death but he liked to be thorough. He turned the woman over and stabbed her once, a powerful blow directly into her heart, which stopped its beat instantly. Her body joined her friend’s at the bottom of the well. The smell of decaying flesh would bring the busybodies soon enough, but by then, Goth thought, he would be far away.
He picked up the robe and veil and disappeared into the smudgy light of early morning as the second bell tolled.