Chapter Six

Summer turned to autumn outside Lament and Voldemort made no progress discovering any weakness of the fairy's. Voldemort soon found that he was rarely Hyrne's priority as the fairy was easily distracted. When not spending time with one of his many guests the fairy was often absent, though where no-one could say. As such when Voldemort's time was not occupied with the dances, feasts, processions, and most frequently the hunts which the Gentleman ordered at will, most of his time was his own. Gradually he tested the limits of his magic in this world.

Lament continually intrigued him. It was a vast, rambling warren of tunnels; grim rooms of grey and black stone with chilly floors, lit by only occasional candles, and endless spiralling stairways. There were a seemingly endless number of servants keeping the house in order at any one time. However, desire this the despite this the house appeared to be gradually slipping into disrepair. Although they lived far below the guests they were barely below the surface relatively speaking. There were deeper places in the hill, stairs and shafts stretched down far, far further. There were entire abandoned wings; doorways sealed with great, bronze bars, and empty, dusty halls. Voldemort found he could walk for hours with only the company of his own footsteps. He wandered through rooms where the dust lay so thickly it could have been snow; there sunlight lanced down from high windows despite the shadow which lay heavily over Lament.

The day was growing old as he strode along a hallway he had not explored before, wandering further and further from the centre of the burgh. He had spent weeks gradually exploring, testing the boundaries of the 'hospitality' the master of the house offered. The glamours were weaker at the edges of the mansion. The walls were in a state of disrepair and gaped with holes letting in watery sunlight and creeping plants. He turned left down a corridor paved in perfect circles without gaps between the lines of the slabs. His eyes watered if he looked at them for too long and so he kept them up, scanning the damp, mossy walls.

Doors ran along the walls of the next corridor he turned into, nestling next to one another, doorframes touching. He chose one at random and opened it, peering in. There was a large room beyond, red silks hung from the ceiling and covered lanterns burnt around a low dais. The air was rich with the scent of spices and smoke. There were no other doors inside the room. Voldemort paused for a moment, stepped back and opened the next door along.

As he opened the door a chilly gust blew over his face and he almost flinched. Snow lay across the ground in a forest of ice. Trees of blue and white crystals stretched into the distance. Icicles hung from branches like pine needles. A wind whispered through the wood setting the leaves of ice tinkling like a thousand tiny bells. Small swirls of snow rose from the ground dancing towards the open door. The shadows stretched outwards, moving over the ground. Voldemort shivered as he shut the door, he cast a locking spell upon it before moving on.

There were doors which led to vast deserts of pale sand; doors to endless turquoise seas, and doors to a city where hunched figures in orange robes stumbled along between buildings made from wax underneath a shimmering, silver sky. Voldemort hurried on, only glancing in. He had pondered the possibility of leaving the burgh, sneaking away, but the greater the number of doors he glanced into the more certain he became that it was not an option.

At last he left the corridor, and came upon a gap in the wall, wider than the others. It looked out onto the barren moorland Voldemort had become accustomed to on the hunts. He hesitated, even with the ability to see through glamours at will the burgh was rarely what it seemed, but the possibility that he could simply slip away was too tempting. The fairy had shown little in the way of exceptional magical prowess since the night he had quashed the fiendfyre, but the house appeared a reflection of its master with an age and strength Voldemort had no interest in testing.

He stepped out, over the rough cracked stones and onto the heather. The grey sky was empty of birds and the air was absolutely still. Heather crunched under his feet as he began to walk towards a patch of woodlands, just visible over the next rise. Black water seeped upwards from the earth where he trod. He hurried onwards, a black figure on a bleak hillside, leaving the burgh behind him before long.

The woods were damp and dark. Nets of brown brambles and interlocking branches were everywhere. He picked his way onwards, ducking under the thicker branches and pushing the nets of twigs out of the way with a broken branch. In the trees silent shapes slithered, always at the edge of sight. A thin mist rose as Voldemort walked onwards, determined to put as much space as possible between himself and the burgh. Tiny beads of water clung to him and hung in the air.

After half an hour or so he came to a particularly dense thicket. Rather than let himself be turned around by the wood he pressed forwards, slashing with the stick he had taken, and his wand. Pushing the last branches aside with the stick he stepped forwards; his feet met cold white marble and he looked up, heart sinking. He was in a ballroom of black and marble, men and women in clothes of black or white danced around each other like chess pieces caught in an eternal game.

'Tom!' A voice called from across the room. 'How delightful to see you here. I had sent a servant to find you, but they are the idlest fellows in the world, it is a pleasure to see you could make it, though your entrance was most unusual.'

Voldemort gave a strained smile as the fairy approached. 'Your ballroom is most unusual in itself. I can assure you that were it not for that my entrance would have been the last thing on your mind.' He glanced behind him the wall was decorated with a façade of twisting, black branches on white, but there was no sign that it had been a real thicket a moment before.

'You are too kind. Allow me to introduce you to my dear neighbour, this is the Lady,' the fairy said gesturing elegantly to a tall woman with sharp blue eyes like pins and golden hair which drifted around her underneath a crown of feathers. 'Lady, this is my most esteemed guest, Thomas.'

She smiled, blood-red lips curved upwards and there was a flash of sharp white teeth. 'A pleasure to meet you, Thomas. My lord, will you allow me to spirit him away for a dance?'

'By all means, Lady. Be careful with him, he is of mortal stock.'

The Lady took Voldemort's hand and before he could protest or give an excuse she drew him away and into the dance. Her hand was clad in a white, kid-skin glove and was as hard and cold as stone. 'Tell me, Tom, how long have you been his lordship's guest?' The Lady asked.

'A little while, madam,' he replied, neatly stepping around her as the couples on the dancefloor circled.

'And do you like it here?' She asked. Her dress twisted in misstep, billowing out of another dancer's way and over the snowy fabric Voldemort saw a tiny black fissures form and dissolve as if the dress were made of a single piece of porcelain.

'I have rarely seen anywhere like it.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'Why bother not to lie, when you do not take care to conceal the truth?'

'If I were to lie that would be an insult in its own right, if I choose to take care with my words, who here would fault me for doing so? At least it gives me some small pleasure. Do you disapprove?'

'Not at all. I have never had his lordship's interest in pets in any case. Why should I care if one of his does not enjoy the gilded cage?'

Voldemort suppressed a twitch of irritation and smiled. 'I am sure your ladyship has misunderstood.'

'Of course,' she said, inclining her head towards him, 'I am sure that when the time comes for you to leave it will be … tragic.'

'Tragedy is so rarely far from any house. It could strike at any time. I am sure your ladyship would mourn were anything to occur,' Voldemort said, if she had decided to put out the bait it was at least worth a nibble.

'My feelings would be beyond compare. Imagine that he was inconsolable or struck by tragedy himself. I would be obliged to help maintain these lands. However, he is of course remarkably resilient, so I imagine he would survive any normal accident,' she murmured.

'Indeed, we must be thankful for his extra-ordinary good health. It is fortunate he has so few weaknesses,' Voldemort replied with as much sincerity as he could muster.

'Too true. He guards his life most carefully. I fear that I must warn him of a plot against him though, he may well need your support in the days ahead. I trust you will be there for him?'

'How could I fail to be?' Voldemort muttered as they spun between the dancers.

The hunts were the centre of life in the burgh. Hyrne's favoured guests and relatives gathered and the riders flowed forth from the hill. Hounds ran before them, baying. The fairy invariably took the lead urging his favourite mare onwards over rough tors and down winding valleys. The hunters were of two kinds: the first were tall and pale with fine, sharp cheekbones, skin as smooth as polished marble, and dark hair and eyes; the others were a more motley collection, men and women with all shades of hair and all heights, and though all were beautiful they rode in silence.

The Gentleman's closest consorts were all of the former and were clad in holly-green with silver buckles and harnesses, silver threads wound through their hair. On their saddles rested black bows chased in silver and they wore long blades of tempered bronze. They rode beside him, and as such were always foremost amongst the hunters.

Three months passed until, while hunting, the hounds' handlers returned with the news that an unusual scent had been picked up. Voldemort saw the head-handler whisper something to Hyrne who raised a horn to his lips and blew a long melancholy cry. The handlers whispered to the hounds and they loped ahead noses to the scent. Their baying echoed off the grey hills sending a chill through Voldemort.

The wind whipped their faces till they began to descend into a valley. The trail wound down through woodland, too steep and overgrown in many places for the horses. Eventually they dismounted, leaving a handful of the hunters with the horses. Water dripped from the trees and the fallen leaves slid underfoot. Lichen hung in pale, green nets from branches and thick moss-covered entire trees around them. Voldemort floated slightly above the ground weaving easily through the undergrowth.

Once or twice he thought he caught a glimpse of something red dashing between the trees. The hounds circled outwards, closing the net around the prey which crossed and re-crossed the swift running stream which fell in white waterfalls down the valley. The hounds' paws tore up the earth so that Voldemort could not see the prints of their prey and could only follow the hounds.

Eventually at the heart of the wooded valley they came upon the ruins of a building. What it had once been was almost impossible to tell. Now only two walls and a single, slate pillar survived. Around the building though there ran a fence of slabs of slate, like jagged teeth. Joining this fence together were ancient, rusted pieces of iron. At the gateway lay a recently broken branch covered in scarlet berries, it glistened in the dripping rain.

The hounds padded around the fence, teeth bared in soundless snarls. Hyrne was peering towards the ruins. The tall, dark-haired companions were throwing anything they could lay their hands on at the iron which ran between the slates when Voldemort arrived. Several of them were almost frenzied. In place of their usual cool composure they wore silent snarls, a match for the hounds. Voldemort realised, after a moment looking around, that he was the first of the humans in the party to arrive. It struck him that the other humans had either remained with the horses or held back as they descended the valley.

'Ah, Tom, how marvellous to see you. We are having a spot of bother. The little rascal has hidden itself and its cub inside this,' the fairy shot a look of distaste at the fence, 'abomination. I wonder if you would go in and fetch it out for us?'

'Certainly,' Voldemort said. He strode forward and stepped over the branch which lay across the gateway. A faint tingle ran through him, but he ignored it. The world was suddenly silent. He could not hear the wind in the trees, or the patter of rain on the russet leaves. Hyrne and the hunters stood absolutely still, watching him, as if they had forgotten how to move. He shivered and walked towards the damp, mossy ruins.

As he came closer he heard a soft sobbing and his heart sank. He hated people crying. He walked around the corner of the building slowly. There, sure enough, was a young woman, barely more than a girl huddled against the wall, cradling something. She had a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders and there was an iron dagger in her hand, blood dripped from it, mixing with the mud and the growing pool of blood beneath her bare, torn feet.

A tall, pale figure dressed in black stepped out of the shadows and Voldemort froze. He swallowed nervously as Death stooped and gently scooped his bony hands through the bundle. A small, blue light rose from the bundle. Death caught it in one hand, opened a pouch and carefully slipped it inside. Then with a nod to Voldemort he patted the girl's shoulder and walked out of the ruin. If she had seen him the girl gave no sign of it.

Voldemort shivered and gave a small polite cough. The girl looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks and the eyes of a cornered animal. He reached out an arm and she raised the dagger. He acted without thinking. His wand whipped out and the dagger sprung from her hand imbedding itself in the pillar, twenty feet away. It was only then he realised that she had been turning the blade on herself. She shrunk back against the mossy wall. His eyes flicked down to the bundle she had been holding: it was a small fair-haired child with wide blue eyes and a bloody wound through its chest.

'Stay back,' she managed to gasp, 'stay back fairy!'

'I'm human, silly girl,' Voldemort snapped. Any trace of pity he might have felt vanished in annoyance. He felt a faint curiosity as to why exactly she had been desperate enough to kill the child, but he pushed it to the side.

'Help, please,' she begged. She looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Voldemort leapt into her mind, using the connection to sift through her thoughts. 'My dear Alyssa,' he said once he had dragged out her name, 'I have no reason on earth to help you.'

'You know my name. You ... you were in my mind,' she said, eyes wide. She glanced from side to side, but the stones trapped her.

'Yes, yes. Now, I am afraid that you are coming with me. Petrificus Totalus, locomotor corpus,' he added with a flick of his wand. She froze, limbs snapping together before her now paralysed body began to float through the air back towards the fence. Only her wide, panicked eyes moved, darting from side to side. He gestured a second time and the child's corpse floated after her.

Outside the fence Hyrne and the hunters waited silently. The tall figure of Death was standing beside them, whispering into Hyrne's ear, but as Voldemort approached he smiled and melted into wisps of shadow. The fairy gave a small appreciative clap at Voldemort's return. 'Is she dead?' He asked, tilting his head to examine the girl as she floated back towards him. His voice sounded as if it came from far away, muted and faint.

'Merely paralysed. I can release her, if you wish,' Voldemort said as he stepped back through the gateway and sound returned to the world.

'Excellent, please do so,' Hyrne said, nodding to two of the hunters who came closer with a thin rope of interwoven grass. As Voldemort released the spells and the girl collapsed onto the ground they threw the rope forwards and it took on a life of its own tightly wrapping around her wrists and ankles, tying her into a kneeling position, trussing her like a pig for slaughter. Tied, kneeling in the mud she looked smaller and younger than ever, with pale cheeks and dark, bedraggled hair.

The fairy looked towards the child, 'What happened to that?'

'She killed it,' Voldemort said with a small shrug.

Hyrne sighed and turned to the girl, 'Tell me: where is your mate?'

The girl shook her head and her eyes met Voldemort's, Please, don't tell him. He almost started, the girl might have been crying but she was no fool: she knew or had guessed he would still be watching her mind. On an impulse he gave a barely perceptible nod. Out loud she said, 'Not in a thousand years.'

'Child, child, I can make it last a thousand years. Tell me,' the Gentleman ordered, bending down to turn the girl's face upwards with his long, delicate fingers.

'Never,' the girl said, 'You'll get what's coming to you soon enough.' She turned head swiftly and bit the Gentleman's hand. He tugged it away from her. Fury flashed over his face as he looked at the tracery of blue blood running down his fingers.

'What a foul viper,' he said and turned away from her. 'Bind her in one of the trees, something long lasting, if it agrees. Tom walk with me.'

'Of course,' Voldemort said and turned away, refusing to meet her gaze. 'Bind her in a tree?'

'The tree will meld with her. She will live as long as the tree lives, feel all the tree feels. Every broken twig, every slow, rotting disease will feel as if it happened to her. Within it her unaging body will live, immobile. She will be released in a few hundred years. Once she has pulled the last of the roots from her skin and so on and so forth she will be free to wander the world again. Maybe she will have learnt some manners,' the fairy said with a careless wave. 'It is a pity about the child though. He would have made a pretty page-boy, would he not?'

'I am sure you are correct,' Voldemort said. Behind them he could hear the girl screaming, her voice was an animal cry of agony. 'Might we walk a little faster? I find this rain most invigorating.'

'By all means my dear fellow, by all means. I have been thinking, you have some obvious skills. You have a certain advantage, for instance, against iron and rowan. May I inquire, are you well versed in combat?' Hyrne asked, as they clambered up the rocks beside the waterfalls. Below them the screaming had stopped.

'I can certainly handle myself,' Voldemort said guardedly. 'Is there something I might help you with?'

'You know, I believe there may be. I have heard whispers, very recently, from an old acquaintance. There are traitors and enemies gathering. I need to discover their network. I have been given a tiny piece of puzzle. Together we can find the rest,' Hyrne said, eyes flashing.

'Well of course I would wish to be assistance in any way possible. Might I though request a small reward?' Voldemort asked. The fairy's changeable moods could just as easily swing against him as in his favour.

'Could I deny you my dearest friend? Name it: power, wealth, or the fairest companions of any land ...' Hyrne spread his hands wide as if to indicate the world.

'Once I have performed this task I would count it a kindness if I were able to continue my travels. I have business I would like to attend to, which I have neglected these many months I have spent in your house,' Voldemort said, mimicking the fairy's speech.

'Oh no. I could not possibly permit that,' the fairy said with a smile. 'I understand that you must feel some embarrassment at being a guest in another's house for so long. It is a sign of your fine senses that it strikes you so, but it would wound my heart to be parted from your company. I cannot even imagine how sore the blow would be for you were you to be absent from our revels. Do not speak of this matter again. I will find a suitable reward for a man of your calibre.'

Voldemort smiled and gave a small nod of acquiesce, for the moment.

Two Months Later

The grey-bearded Doorkeeper of the House of Altarnun rose from his chair as the bells chimed seven o'clock. He walked to the door taking out his keys, sorting through them until he found the long, iron key for the first lock. He locked the door the same order as ever; turning the locks, sliding the wooden bars into place, and slotting the iron bolts into their housings. Upstairs the Window Warden would be checking each of the shutters; the Firekeeper would be lighting blazes in each of the hearths.

The House of Altarnun was a fortress. It lay in the hills to the south of Mireless and the Screaming Marshes. Sheltered by the hills it was built for anything short of an organised siege. The walls were six-foot-thick and granite; there were no windows on the ground floor and only arrow slits on the second, every higher window was guarded by thick, iron bars; the roof was surrounded by a rampart, and guards patrolled the corridors in pairs. Even getting to the door after dark would be impossible once the drawbridge was raised: a wide river flowed through a deep culvert before the door.

Yet as the Doorkeeper turned away from the door there was a slow rat-tat-tat. He paused and shuffled back to the door. He slid back the iron covering the peephole in the door. The wooden planks of the drawbridge were inches from his nose. He backed away from the door as the knock came again. He pulled the great horn from his waist and blew it once to warn the guards that something was outside; twice would mean that something was trying to get in; three times would mean it was inside.

He had been warned about this sort of thing by his predecessor when he had started: 'There will be times when things come calling at night. Ignore them. Sound the warning, and never speak to them.' There had been a handful of such occasions through the years of his service when he had had to sound the alarm once; he had only blown the horn twice on one occasion.

He turned to walk back to his room when he heard the first of the bolts slide back. He watched transfixed as the bolts dragged themselves back across the door. He raised his hand to the bolts, but they refused to move no matter how much force he put upon them. The locks clicked, one at a time. He forced the great key in the last lock and held on, but the key snapped under the pressure as the lock clicked opened. He raised the horn to his lips for the second time and began to back down the corridor, fumbling for the sword at his belt. The bars on the door shuddered and began to rise.

The third blast of the horn thundered through the House of Altarnun. The guards, veterans to a man, unsheathed swords, drew axes and unslung bows as they took up positions at choke points throughout the building. At the centre of the house two guards hurried the master of the house into a room with only one, iron door. A hired sorcerer, an elderly man with a thick grey beard and a scarlet robe, nodded to the master of the house as the guards hurried him past.

The clamour of fighting filtered through the house. Thunder shook the walls. Screams and cries echoed up the stairwells and cut off. Horns blew, bells tolled. Weapons clanged on the stones. Doors shattered with echoing cracks. Metal shrieked somewhere in the house. Gradually the sound died away. Silence fell.

The Keeper, master of the house, sat shivering, waiting. He looked down at the roll of parchment he held in his left hand for a moment before glancing at the candle in his right. For a moment there was a flash of green light from beneath the door and a chill crept through the room. He waited, his fingers shaking, his eyes glued to the door. Nothing happened. Then the flame flickered and went out. He reached for the flint he kept in a pouch at his belt and, fingers shaking, he lit the candle. The candle flared up and a long, pale face with hawk-like features was illuminated for a second before the flame died to nothing.

'Good evening,' said a voice and then a soft, white radiance filled the room revealing a tall man, dressed in a neat black suit and carrying a thin stick. 'You may refer to me as, "my Lord". You are the Keeper?'

'Yes,' the Keeper said, swallowing. His hands were empty.

The stick swept through the air. 'Crucio.' Pain wracked the Keeper's body. It felt as if white hot knives were being plunged into every inch of his skin; needles slid into his eyes, as if his throat and lungs were on fire. 'You will refer to me as "my Lord",' reminded the man coldly.

'Yes, my Lord,' The Keeper gasped. He slumped, panting, in his chair. There was the iron taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue.

'Now, Keeper ...' the man lifted the Keeper's chin with one hand and looked into his eyes, 'this isn't going to hurt a bit. Well it isn't going to hurt me a bit.' There was a pause. 'My, my, someone has been training. You have exquisite defences. I have no wish to break your mind, so we will start with the old methods. What do you think? Will you talk?'

The Keeper shook his head. The man sighed and made a short motion with his hand. The chair on which the Keeper sat came to life. The wood twisted and bent binding him to it before floating into the air.

'You cannot resist me,' the man whispered. 'Would you like to guess how many came with me to storm this stronghold? There were no others. I came alone. Your men died for nothing. You will die for nothing, unless you tell me this: what do you know that the Master of Lament fears? Do not think to lie, Lord Voldemort always knows.'

'You want to know that?' The Keeper asked, surprised. 'You aren't one of his thralls?'

'He sent me,' the man admitted, 'but I serve no-one. If it comforts you though, know that I will use what you tell me to kill him. I will destroy him, but you hold the key.' He watched the Keeper's face intently.

'If I tell you, will you let me live?'

'If you tell me I swear upon my Mother's grave that I will treat you as I would my own Father,' the man promised.

The Keeper hesitated for a moment before his mind flicked back to the pain the man could inflict. 'He keeps his life protected in a silver egg, sealed in a box made from dead men's fingernails. If you break that egg he will be as mortal as one of his race can be,' he whispered, eyes darting into the corners.

'Who else knows this?' The man asked.

'I can't tell you. I don't know ... my lord' the Keeper said, he could feel cold sweat soaking his shirt. The man's eyes were cold and emotionless as he waited for the Keeper to answer. 'We don't ask for names. They paid the price we asked.'

'Your business is knowledge. Who was he?'

'She, all I know is that it was a she. She wants to kill him,' the Keeper gabbled. He could feel the chair pressing into his wrists and ankles, slowly cutting off his blood supply.

'How much have you told her?'

'Everything we knew. We were to meet again soon.'

'When?' The man said, grasping the Keeper by the throat in his eagerness.

'I don't know, she was to arrange it.'

The man surveyed him for a second and stood back, looking at him. 'You are a coward. I despise cowards. Open your mind to me, I need to know you are telling me everything. You can choose, pain or surrender.'

The Keeper hesitated and then nodded, ashamed. He let his defences slip and opened his mind. Lord Voldemort held his face still and locked gazes with him. The Keeper felt him sift through his thoughts, picking through them, examining them for anything useful. It was five minutes until Voldemort had finished. He stepped back and raised his wand.

'Please, you promised ...' the Keeper begged. He recognised the expression on his captor's face, he had seen it too many times before.

'I swore on my Mother's grave; she was a pauper and if she was buried it was in an unmarked grave which is long, long gone. I swore to treat you as I treated my Father: I killed him. Be thankful that I gave him a merciful death. Avada Kedavra.'

The Keeper's body slumped in the chair. A pale figure, robed in black, arose from the shadows. It walked over to the corpse and ran a hand over his face catching a tiny spark of life as it rose from the Keeper's mouth. 'Good evening, Tom,' said Death.

'Good evening,' Voldemort said. He inched backwards from the tall, sombre figure. 'I did not expect to see you again.'

'You brought me with you.'

'I suppose I did. Are you finished with the body?' Voldemort asked.

'I have no need for it. Such things are not my business.'

'No? I suppose not. We do so associate them with you. Well in that case, diffindo, defribulus.' The twin spells cut the Keeper's throat and forced the heart to pump the blood out as Voldemort twirled his wand, turning the chair and corpse upside down.

'I must be going, but is there any reason for these antics?'

'There are certain abilities I would prefer to keep quiet,' Voldemort said.

Death nodded in understanding. 'I shall see you again.'