Chapter Five

Voldemort ached, pebbles dug into his back, he groaned. He could vaguely remember reaching the shore, coughing up water and collapsing. His clothes were icy and dripping. There was a smooth voice speaking nearby.

'How did he manage that? He should have drowned,' the voice asked, intrigued. 'Did he drown? Thomas, Henry, check him. See if he is alive.'

Voldemort remained still, barely breathing as feet crunched over the pebbles towards him. A warm hand touched his throat to check his pulse. His eyes snapped open and he smiled. The man leaning over him was pale with a face covered in small, black pits as if it had been melted; he started in shock as Voldemort locked eyes with him. Then Voldemort rolled to the side, lashing out with his arm, knocking the man over.

Voldemort rolled into a crouch. His wand flashed out, 'Lacero.' A thin line of orange light whipped out slicing through the man's throat. Blood gushed out flowing over the white pebbles. Voldemort looked around, there were two men on the beach, the gloaming hung heavy around them, casting long shadows over the beach.

The closer of the two was bare-headed, with the build of a badger and glossy, black hair. He held a long, cruel sword in one hand and wore a dark brown coat, several sizes too large. He shuffled slowly closer, watching Voldemort warily. The other, slightly further away leant nonchalantly on a black and silver cane. He wore a black frock-coat and a stiff, high collared white shirt which almost shone in the early moonlight, only matched by the pallor of his cheeks.

Voldemort hesitated as the man waited smiling. He lowered his wand slowly and straightened up. 'Good evening.'

The gentleman in black laughed brightly. 'Good evening. You are a marvel. Do stop creeping around Henry, you'll upset the gentleman. I can see you are a gentleman, sir, such poise, such strength,' he smiled, dark eyes glinting.

'Certainly, sir,' the short man said, gruffly, walking back across the beach reluctantly.

'Wonderful. Now sir, who are you? Most men drown when in a trance, you simply swim through it; most men have the most deplorable hesitation when it comes to dispatching one of their kind, you do it with admirable alacrity. Please, I'm dying to become better acquainted,' the gentleman said.

Voldemort smiled thinly. Across the lake flames blossomed. They soared up into the sky, spreading out through the mist, lighting it with a hellish glow. 'I have many names ...'

'Well that won't do at all. I cannot call you I-Have-Many-Names; I do have many names, it would be confusing. However, out of the beneficence of my heart I shall grant you another name. Henry, do we have a Richard at the moment?' The gentleman asked, spinning round to peer at his servant.

'Yes sir.'

'Well we can't use that one then. How about a John?'

'You ordered him to be torn to pieces by horses tomorrow morning, sir. If you would just wait ...'

'Don't be ridiculous Henry. I cannot leave this poor man nameless. What about Thomas? Do we have a Tom at the moment?' The gentleman asked swiping at a pebble with his cane, sending it spiralling out over the lake where it skimmed across the water before sinking with a quiet 'plop'.

'The nameless gentleman just cut his throat sir,' Henry said patiently, casting a speculative glance at Voldemort.

'Did he indeed? Well that makes everything so much easier,' the gentleman said, without a trace of irony. 'Kill the man and take the name, those are the old rules after all.' He looked delighted at the thought. 'Therefore, Nameless I present you with the gift of a name, you shall be known as Thomas,' he said and strode across the beach towards Voldemort.

Voldemort gave a slight, forced smile. Despite himself he had to admit that the gentleman had a certain aura around himself; there was a sense of feral danger to him, lurking beneath the neat, suited exterior. Even his walk across the beach was the cool, controlled stride of a predator, utterly at ease in its environment. Closer to his appearance was almost surreal. His skin was perfect, without a single blemish, and had a pearl-like sheen; the pupils of his eyes were almost too large, and his eyebrows ended in a curious flourish. He looked as if an artist had been told the principles of human beauty but lacked any understanding of humanity.

Then, half a dozen feet away from Voldemort he stopped as a rolling wave of dark fire spread out across the lake. The gentleman turned like a cat, raising his cane and the waters of the lake boiled and flowed upwards. The flames twisted away from them, turning into jets of steam. Then with a wailing howl they shuddered and changed direction, rushing back upon their source. Voldemort stood his ground, but barely. He had tasted the scent of the fiendfyre.

The gentleman turned back to Voldemort, seemingly forgetting the incident. 'There is an air about you Tom, something I have not sensed for four thousand years. Tell me, do you come from this world?'

Voldemort took a long moment to look at the gentleman. The man was calm, self-assured and with an arrogant tilt to his head. Voldemort choose his words carefully, 'You are most perceptive; I have come from far away. I would discuss it further, but I fear my present state, wet and bedraggled as I am would inhibit our conversation.'

The gentleman clapped his hands delightedly, 'My, my, what excellent manners. Henry, go and fetch the horses. The puppets have been destroyed and I have a wonderful prize, particularly if it holds more ideas like those little playthings. Thomas, allow me to invite you to be a guest in my house.'

'I would of course be delighted. I fear it would only be proper for me to re-join my companions, they may miss my presence...' Voldemort began.

A shadow flickered over the gentleman's face and he turned to look out over the lake, 'I must say that sounds almost ungrateful. I can assure you that I can offer exquisite company. Perhaps I ought to remove the dilemma ...' he stretched out his hand and ripples began to run over the surface of the lake.

'Wait!' Voldemort said, 'I only thought to bid him farewell. You see I only feared that it would be improper to visit your house when I do not even know your name.' He paused for a moment as the gentleman lowered his hand. Voldemort slowly let out a tiny sigh of relief, trying to ignore the question of why he felt it.

The gentleman turned back to him, 'Of course, you are correct. It really is most unforgivable for me to invite you without introducing myself. I am the lord of the Whispering Towers, the Weeping Halls, Cold Comfort, Red Hill, and Joyous Guard, the master of Lament amongst my other lands and houses, men know me as Hyrne, The Grey Neighbour, Arbata, a captain of Nuada's host, Elcmar, Nyyrikki, the Lord of Doors, and many other names. I invite you to my house.'

Voldemort awoke gradually. He was in a large, four poster bed with clean, white sheets and a green counterpane. The dark pillars of the posts rose up around him like great trees. Around him the green curtains were covered in elaborate, tapestry-like patterns. They showed scenes of hunters and strange beasts galloping through wild woods; savage, ape like creatures in red ran before green huntsmen; fair maidens and knights lounged before sparkling fountains and before elaborate pavilions.

He sat up and pulled the curtains open. The room was softly lit, though he could not tell its source. Whenever he turned his head one way it seemed as if he must come from the other side.

He blinked slowly at the room, trying to remember how he had come to be there. Henry had returned with three, ash-grey horses which pranced and snorted till hands had been laid on their bridles. Their feet had been shod with silver and they had bright, green eyes like wild garlic leaves. Hyrne had mounted his steed with a springing leap and Voldemort had followed with greater trepidation.

Then the memories broke apart like the fragments of a dream. He remembered riding, though he had never ridden before. The horse had answered his every whim and they had galloped faster and faster on forest trails lit by moonlight, and over purple moors beneath star light. Hyrne had laughed as he spurred his horse to leap chasms and at last they had arrived at the house.

It was at the house that the memories split in two. He remembered arriving at the gates of a great mansion, half castle and half stately home. Turrets towered across steep, slate roofs. Candlelight and firelight glinted from the windows. There was laughter and music from inside the hall. The gates opened and they were greeted by footmen dressed in neat black uniforms. Hyrne leapt from his horse, handing it to a footman and bowed to Voldemort, 'Welcome to Lament, the oldest and finest of my houses.'

Yet he remembered riding to the foot of a great hill with craggy outcrops and bleak screes. There was a great boulder of stone which lay at the foot of the hill and Hyrne called out a word as he reached it. The boulder shook and split apart with the noise of thunder revealing a dark passage. Man-shaped creatures came to greet them; things with faces covered in spines, fur or feathers; tall, pale figures with hollow cheeks and shadowy eyes, and amongst them a handful of men and women dressed in rags who bowed and scraped before the master of the house. Hyrne leapt from his horse, handing it to a dark creature with a stooped back and narrow, glinting eyes. He turned to Voldemort, smiling broadly, 'Welcome to Lament, the oldest and finest of my houses.'

Voldemort rubbed his eyes, but he could not reconcile the two memories. He slipped out of the bed looking around for clothes, but there seemed none in sight. His wand was beside his bed, but everything else was gone. For a moment he panicked, searching frantically for the playing card before he found it in pocket of the antique nightgown he was wearing. He sat down, on the bed relieved, before remembering that he was still missing any clothes. Looking around for a moment he spied a fine red bell cord and pulled on it. As he waited he washed with the silver basin in the corner of the room and a few, quick charms.

A servant, a small man with tufts of white hair like cotton and a coat at least a size too large bustled into the room a few moments later. 'Good morning, sir,' he croaked, and then he started as he looked at Voldemort. Without another word and shut the door quietly behind him. 'Ah you are the new mortal gentleman, sir.'

Voldemort hesitated for a moment and nodded, 'Yes, that is correct. You are ...? Or are you about to tell me that giving me your name is dangerous?'

'Oh no sir, that's superstitious nonsense. I am Geoffrey, sir,' he sidled closer. 'You are in grave danger sir. We humans, amongst the servants and guests, stick together.' He pulled a small box out of his pocket and presented it to Voldemort. 'Things are not as they seem here. There is an ointment in this box which will let you see the truth. Some prefer not to see it, they say it helps, but we offer the choice to all of our kin who come to this place.'

'Indeed? How does it work?' Voldemort asked, eyeing the box gingerly.

'Place a little of it on each eyelid and you will always see the truth,' Geoffrey said, looking at Voldemort with watery eyes.

'And if just on one eyelid?'

Geoffrey hesitated, 'If you are strong enough one eye might give you a choice as to what world you see, but many go mad that way.'

Voldemort looked at it for a moment. 'Put some on yourself. I do not wish to discover this is a trick. I presume you have used it?'

'Yes sir,' said the little man who turned it towards himself, opened it and dabbed a little on each of his own eyelids. He blinked once, the ointment faded into nothing. He looked up at Voldemort again and held out the box again.

Voldemort took it slowly and teased the lid open. Inside the box was a pale, green cream which smelt faintly of thyme and rosemary. He picked up his wand from the bedside table and waved it gently over the ointment. 'There's nothing magical or poisonous in this. It is just a medley of herbs. If you are trying to fool me ...' Voldemort left the sentence hanging. The small servant bobbed nervously as Voldemort dipped a finger into the ointment and spread it on a single eyelid before cleaning his hand with a wave of his wand. The ointment was cool and tingled on his skin, then he blinked and it melted like a snowflake on the skin. He opened his eyes slowly and colours whipped across his vision in an incomprehensible swirl. Despite himself he grabbed the post of the bed, holding himself up as he closed his eyes again.

'Please sir, concentrate on my voice,' the servant said calmly, 'it takes some people this way. Just open your eyes slowly, one at a time, the one you put the ointment on first.'

Voldemort opened his eyes slowly. The grandeur of the room bled away around him. The servant was the same as ever, though now he wore only old, tattered versions of his uniform, stained with tallow and grease. The rest of the room was more markedly different: the tapestries were gone leaving dark, bare, rocky walls; the bell cord was a rotted, brown string; the bedclothes were old and moth-eaten, the room was only lit by a single, small fissure high rocky dome of the ceiling.

'Well, if the décor is anything to go by it's going to be a devil to get good boots around here,' Voldemort said after a moment's pause, releasing the bedpost.

'You, ah, you are quite well now sir?' The servant asked, eyeing Voldemort nervously.

'If you had seen the sights I have seen I think that this would not shock you,' Voldemort said. 'Now is there anything in this place suitable for me to wear? In black.'

The servant blinked apologetically. 'Certainly sir,' he said, scurrying over to the dusty wood-worm ridden armoire which stood in the corner. He rooted through it extracting various pieces of clothing whilst Voldemort experimented with his vision, practicing varying between truth and illusion.

'What is this place Geoffrey?' Voldemort asked as the servant took his measurements.

'This is the house of Lament, sir,' the servant said, carefully removing Voldemort's nightgown as he began to dress him.

'Yes, but what precisely does that mean? What did you mean by 'human' servants and guests? What differentiates us? Is the master of the house not a human?'

'It is the brugh, the seat of the Master. I meant, sir, that the first are those who the Master brought here for our usefulness; the second are those the Master has brought here for his amusement and their company. The Master and his cousins are ... they are blue blooded. Some of the servants are lesser Sidhe, hirelings, bondsmen to the Master. You understand sir,' the servant explained as he slipped a crisp, cream shirt over his shoulders

'Of course,' Voldemort said, nodding. 'Blue blooded though ... they are nobles?'

'They are the Gentry, sir,' Geoffrey murmured as he selected an embroidered waistcoat and a pair of fine, black trousers.

'You seem to be rather freer with information than I would expect a servant to be, why is that? Why did my host bring you here?' Voldemort asked curiously.

'I have been assigned to your service as your valet sir. I do not expect that service to end until my death. As such, after my loyalty to the Master my loyalty is to you. I was brought here when I was young for my skills as a tailor,' he smiled faintly.

Voldemort nodded as the servant fixed mother of pearl cufflinks to the shirt and pulled out a silken cravat. It was neither black nor grey but a curious mixture of the two, it was in point of fact the colour of despair. As Geoffrey tied it with careful, precise movements around Voldemort's throat Voldemort glanced towards the wardrobe, it looked far too small for the selection of clothes the servant had removed from it.

'Have you ever thought to leave?' Voldemort asked as servant selected a pair of sleek, black shoes.

'Oh no sir. One does not leave the Master's society or service. You seem a man of character, sir, but I would not favour your chances against them.'

'I think I killed one of them last night, a fellow named Thomas ...'

'I fear Thomas Goodfellow was one of us, sir. The Gentleman's cousins are ... more,' the servant said apologetically.

'A pity. You say that one does not leave your master's society ...'

'Oh no sir. I expect to be in his service to his death. Many of his guests remain until they are no more, some remain until their skeletons are no more than dust,' the servant said calmly.

'Till one dies? I hardly think I shall remain that long,' Voldemort said with an attempt at a light chuckle. 'Tell me, this house seems, well rather fallen into disrepair, how come you have a suitable array of clothes. Your own are ... not of the finest cut.'

'The master insists upon the guests being well dressed. Servants make do with whatever glamours he sees fit to provide. I would not mention the, ah, state of disrepair, sir. He does not take it well,' Geoffrey warned quietly as he presented Voldemort with a black, frock coat. 'Now sir, may I convey the Master's wish that you attend upon him in the library as soon as possible?'

Voldemort stood looking out of the window as he waited for the Gentleman in the library. The room itself held hardly any books, despite its name, those that it did were written in strange marks which he could make neither head nor tail of. In the corners there were piled old, decaying scrolls of papyrus, many of which virtually disintegrated at even the lightest touch. The gold tinted view of the house which the glamours clamoured to impose upon on his sight, nor the bleak vision which underlay it with its single candle and shifting shadows were alike for once in that neither changed the disorder of the library.

The view from the window lay only upon an expanse of moorland and in the far distance a line of dark pines. Rain fell in sheets outside and an icy breeze whistled past. Puddles lay upon the ground reflecting the chill grey sky so that the two blended together. Voldemort shivered and turned away. He barely restrained himself from flinching as he found himself face to face with Hyrne. His host seemed more relaxed, he was dressed in a dove-grey morning-suit and his eyes spark with life.

'Good morning, Tom, good morning. I must say you have chosen the most superb of the views in the library to look out from. I knew you were a man of taste of course, but this only confirms it,' Hyrne said delightedly.

'Indeed? I fear I may not have quite the eyes to see this view properly. I see moor and woodlands, and little else,' Voldemort said. He had decided that quietly removing the fairy's interest in him was the best course, then at least there would be little reason for any to attempt to prevent him leaving.

'Ah, but your noble spirit evidently guided you here. The moor lies beyond, as you so astutely observe,' the fairy replied with a secretive smile. 'It was on that moor, oh some two hundred years ago, that we slaughtered the armies of the City of the Burning Sea. They came in the summer, you see, and we led them a merry dance over wood and dale as we turned summer into winter around them. Every night we sang in their ears and slew their sentries until the entire army was sleepless. Some froze in their beds at night, some killed themselves to escape our songs. When they reached the moor they were almost ready to surrender. The heather and the earth as our faithful allies bound them fast once they set foot on the moor and then we fell upon them. It was glorious. We left their bodies to feed the heather and the earth as recompense for their aid.'

'Were there no survivors?' Voldemort asked despite himself.

'Oh, there were. Some we threw from the cliffs and their screams still echo in the rocks there; some we gave to the birds and the beasts, tying them to the stones on the moor till they were taken. Two we allowed to return and spread the tale of their defeat. The rest we amused ourselves with.'

'Ah,' Voldemort said, giving a small, forced smile. 'It does sound a most complete victory.'

Hyrne smiled with pride and nodded graciously. 'Now dear Tom I trust you are enjoying your stay in my mansion. Is it not the finest house you have seen? I discern from your expression that it must be. Nevertheless, life should not be constrained to a single house, no matter how delightful it is. My cousin, the late lord of Lost Hope understood that all too well before his untimely demise. A noble fellow, if a little too fixated with dancing,' he said leading Voldemort out of the library and into the warren of dimly lit passages which seemed to fill the house. 'You should not fear though, I am no bore, oft of an evening this house is filled with dancing, music and gaiety. Indeed, the new master of Lost Hope is so fixed upon putting his house in order, even three and a half centuries after he took it for his own, that I would wager this is now one of the most lively houses in all the realms that ever were.'

'All the realms?' Voldemort asked sharply.

'Indeed, you are a traveller upon the roads yourself, are you not? I seem to recall you telling me so. Mortals are often so attached to their own home; do you not find it so? It is part the cause for my admiration of your spirit, dear Tom. You are of such quality that you have transcended the bounds your species puts upon itself in coming to this realm to seek me,' the fairy said confidently as he strode down a corridor. Servants melted into the shadows at his approach, ladies curtsied, gentlemen bowed.

'I ...' Voldemort hesitated, unsure if it would be wise to tell the fairy that his arrival had had nothing to do with any desire to meet him. 'It has been a pleasure like no other to meet you,' he said eventually.

The fairy nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world that Voldemort should have supposedly sought him out from one dimension to another. He clicked his fingers and a door opened in the wall before them, they passed through the shadows of its arch. In the blink of an eye whilst they were under the arch Hyrne's clothing changed into riding clothes. 'Now Tom, allow me to invite you to join the hunt,' he said turning to him with a smile, before them waited a score of grey horses, and riders. Black coated, yellow eyed hounds padded around their keepers. Towards the back of the party, in the shadows beyond Voldemort's sight a pale, gaunt figure in black sat upon a white horse.

Voldemort smiled and nodded as genuinely as he could. If the servant, Geoffrey, had been correct he would need the fairy's trust and friendship if he were to make a strike sudden and devastating enough to destroy him, 'I would be delighted.'

'Then let us ride!' Hyrne said, swinging himself into the saddle.

The doors to the stables opened before them. The hounds were loosed.