Chapter 6 – His Father's Son
Murtagh was running from a monster. He ran as fast as his six-year-old legs would carry him to get away from the monster he had once called father. Murtagh cringed as he heard the unmistakeable sound of glass shattering. The crash was followed by a string of violent cursing.
Morzan had been drinking again. It never ended well.
Murtagh turned around yet another corner. The corridors were too empty. 'Where is everyone? Anyone?' His steps echoed in the stone corridors and his heart pounded like thunder in his ears. Somewhere behind him, he heard the monster stumble. It called out to him; Murtagh didn't look back. He raced up the last flight of stairs, almost tripping over himself in his panic, past the study and his late mother's chambers. It was only when the door to his room slammed shut behind him that he paused to pant, sliding down to sit against the bolted door. Mother had had the lock installed just three years ago or so, back when the man had first started drinking.
Murtagh waited for Morzan to reach his room. The man would pound his fist bloody against the dense oak; sometimes he would even swing his sword against the wood yet the door would thankfully hold. After a while the cursing would abate to slurred pleading and words of affection and apologies that made Murtagh sick to his stomach. Murtagh silently contemplated on locking himself into the wardrobe; the clothes inside would do much to muffle the noise.
The sound of a baby's high-pitched giggles reached his ears. Murtagh's breath stilled. 'Eryana'. How could he have forgotten about his sister? His baby sister helpless in her crib, left to face the monster alone. Murtagh sprang to his feet, hurrying over to his bed. Digging his small hand under the goose feather mattress, he fumbled around until his fingers wrapped around a handle. The small blade, more of a butter knife than a dagger, had been a gift for his last birthday. Steeling himself, Murtagh hurried out the door.
His frantic sprint to the nursery seemed to take forever. Where was the wet nurse? The servants? The door was cracked open; the monster was already there. Murtagh heard his sister squeal once more, her voice like shiny pearls. He came to stop at the doorway.
The man loomed over the cradle, his large grit imposing. Yet it wasn't Morzan's tall form or the oppressing air about him that scared Murtagh. It was his eyes; eyes with that crazed look to them, not unlike the eyes of the monster who had swung his blade at the back of his three-year-old son. Yet at the same time, there was something different about those stormy grey orbs; like something deep within had been violently shattered beyond repair. Morzan stood there, his face an unreadable mask. Eryana's little hands flew up, intent on grasping onto the man's tunic; the bright red colour of the cloth drew her curiosity. Murtagh's heart jumped up to his throat and his grasp around the dagger tightened until his knuckles turned snow white. Yet the man didn't lash out. Instead Morzan seemed to be whispering something under his breath. Vary, Murtagh took a carefully measured step closer to just barely make out what was being said.
"In the end you did win, eh Selena?" Morzan's voice was dangerously quiet. Like cornered snake's his. "Three is the number. There must be three!" Morzan muttered like a fanatic caught in a fit of madness. "There must be three!"
A flash of steel made Murtagh's blood run cold. Suddenly, he found himself unwillingly rooted to the spot, reliving unwanted memories. A sharp bout of pain ran across his back making him shudder, robbing him of his previous courage that held his small frame tall and firm.
The dagger was long and wickedly sharp with a smooth, sanded down bone handle. Morzan spun the blade in his hand as if lost in thought, seeking his own reflection on the flat of the blade. "Why did you betray me, Selena? Did I not love you enough? Why did you seek to abolish our dream?" Murtagh flinched as Eryana started sniffling, Morzan's growingly loud voice making the toddler feel uneasy.
"Get away from her!" Murtagh demanded though his voice came out as no more than a hoarse whisper. Morzan didn't seem to even acknowledge him. Eryana's high pitched cry made both of them flinch. Surprisingly the man bent over to shush the girl, gently caressing the top of her head.
"Ain't she a pretty little thing, Selena? So small and soft…" Suddenly he had his blade to little Eryana's temple. The girl let out a shriek that made the hair on the back of Murtagh's neck stand up. Fresh blood from the shallow cut rolled down the baby's crunched up face. Morzan's eyes had gained a crazed light to them. "A mistake, that's what she is! There must be three. Well, no matter… How about I split her up like the little coward they call my son? We shall see how two becomes three!"
It took another two cuts for Murtagh to rush forward, raising the blade above his head as he aimed as high as he could reach. The blade sliced into Morzan's lower forearm, making a cut deep enough to draw blood and make the man cry out more in surprise than in pain. The wide slash made Murtagh loose his footing and he was hauled up by the wrist by his father's heavy hand.
"Traitors the lot of you!" There was fire in his voice and eyes. "My own blood threatening me with a blade! You little bastard!" Murtagh screamed out in pain as the grip tightened. The dagger dropped from his hand, hitting the floor with a clang. "Ungrateful! I give you a roof over your head and food in your belly and this is how you repay me!" Murtagh grunted as Morzan slammed him against the wall. The world turned on its head for a moment and he saw stars. Eryana's high pitched screams echoes throughout the nursery making the pounding in his head grow louder and unbearable.
"…Murtagh? Wake up, Murtagh!"
The room was dark, dimmed by the heavy curtains drawn in front of the windows. Murtagh blinked, his eyes still heavy from sleep. The air was still and quiet; he could just make out the shallow noise of his own breathing along with a soft dripping sound he couldn't quite discern. There was the slight weight of a blanket on top of him; he was lying on a rather hard and lumpy bed. He suddenly found himself feeling both cold and wet. Then, he became aware of the rough hand on his arm; the strong hold was slowly turning the limb rather numb and tingly.
"You awake, Murtagh?"
His mentor's face was pale with eyes veiled with concern. Murtagh coughed. His throat felt rather dry and raw, as though from screaming. He nodded numbly, unable to find his voice. Raising his hand to his forehead, the boy found it covered in a sheet of cold sweat. A cup was pressed to his lips. Murtagh gulped down the water rather hurriedly, retching as he accidently inhaled some of it.
"Where is Eryana?"
Tornac gave him a small smile. "Sleeping, I hope. Stayed up nearly all night by your side helping master Gudwinn. Only got her to bed an hour ago; the lass was exhausted." Murtagh felt an invisible weight lifted off of his shoulders and let himself relax into the folds of the bed in relief. 'Calm down. It was just a dream. Nothing but a memory. Everything's okay. The Bastard is long dead and buried.'
"Are you okay?" Tornac asked, his tone heavy with worry. "You were mumbling and tossing. Would have hurt yourself if I hadn't held you down." The dim lighting only made the growing number of wrinkles and creases more prominent on his teacher's aging face. Murtagh averted his eyes. Tornac probably had more than an inkling of what his dream had been about; the man had been there to comfort the child back when Morzan regularly haunted his dreams. 'Confront 'em!', the man had said. 'Learn to slay your demons!' It had been one of the many reason why Murtagh had become so obsessed with learning the ways of the blade, practicing his forms until his young muscles ached and he collapsed flat upon the ground.
His attempt at a reassuring smile failed to fool anyone, turning into more of a scowl. "It's fine. Just a nightmare, nothing more." He tried to assure perhaps more so himself than the older man. Murtagh tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He grimaced at the sudden pain that lanced through his side.
Tornac was there to steady him, pushing him down back onto the mattress. "Don't move." His tone was sharp yet had a caring warmth to it. "The wound is still raw. You'll just open it back up again." His fingers pried up the hem of his tunic – only now did Murtagh realised someone had changed his attire – apparently inspecting his injury. Murtagh briefly caught sight of the linen bandages underneath, still thankfully unstained.
Murtagh grumbled unhappily and looked around properly for the first time. The familiar setting of the physician's quarters made him feel somewhat more at ease. The tightness around his shoulders lessened. "What happened? How long was I out?" He questioned. And suddenly, the previous events started to resurface: shattered images of a courtyard in flames, swords clashing, grey eyes filled with hate and, later, confusion. His head started to throb painfully.
"Just a few hours." Tornac assured him. The man dropped the tunic back in place before reaching a hand to feel Murtagh's cheek and forehead. "A bit clammy, but not too warm. Hopefully Gudwinn managed to fight off any infection." He sighted in relief.
"The elf got you good, he did. Just a nick, but he knew where to strike; only barely missed an artery. You would have been up and fresh had it not been for that idiot boy and his horrible aim. Missed the elf and got you good in the side with his crossbow. One of those barbed tips, nasty business digging it out of you. Master Gudwinn though he'd have to cut you open just to get it out." Murtagh couldn't help but feel a little queasy.
Murtagh let out a bitter laugh, letting himself fall limp on the mattress. "The great Murtagh Morzansson, done in by an injured elfling! Crippled by a stray arrow!" He joked half-heatedly. "Won't that make for a good song."
"Should I get something for you to help you sleep? Some valerian or cup of stewed lemon balm should do the trick."
"You know those things won't work. They never have."
There was a short moment of uneasy silence.
"It was him, wasn't it?" Murtagh didn't answer. Tornac seemed content enough with his silence. Something in the old man's face seemed to break then and his stern features turned softer in the dimly lit room. "You're angry. Angry that he still haunts you. Angry at you mother for leaving." The man hit the nail on the head. Murtagh turned to avoid Tornac's gaze.
"I will be the first to admit I knew naught of the man, not really. But I did know your mother, and she was one of the kindest people I have ever met." Murtagh wanted laugh at the man then, he truly did. His mother, the cold, unfeeling woman who doubled as Morzan's Black Hand. The woman that had left her children to the mercy of a madman. The one person whose smiles were so rare that he cherished and held them closest to his heart. "I know she was ruthless. Had to be in her position. And loyal… loyal to a fault if you ask me. But she was your mother, and her love for you was enough to overcome all her faults."
At that moment he was back at the garden, by the pond, feeding the ducklings bread crumbs out of his hand. His mother sat there beside him, with her brown eyes so sad. Yet she brightened up when he turned to her, giving him a soft warm smile whilst she ruffled his locks. "People say she changed after I was born… not that many knew the reason back then."
Tornac hummed in silent agreement. "So it could be." The man said. "I personally think she might have regained a part of the old Selena; the Selena your father once fell in love with." Murtagh shot the man a half-hearted glare which Tornac ignored.
Sighing heavily, the man took a seat at the end of the bed. The wooden frame gave a gentle creak but held firm. "I worked for Lord Morzan's household long before I took up service under the King. This you know." Murtagh gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Tornac had been hired by Morzan to teach his child swordplay as well as to look after the boy; neither Selena nor Morzan had played a notable part in raising either of their children. Murtagh had been made well aware, at a relatively early age, that his father saw him as no more than a tool, a means to an end. "Servants are the ears in the walls that no-one sees. Selena often spoke of your father in confidence; I believe she loved him until the very end. But whenever she did talk, it was as if your mother was speaking of a ghost of man rather than the man himself."
"Your mother wasn't the only one to change over time."
This time, Murtagh did laugh. The sound of it was scratchy and filled with bitter and long-stewed hatred. "My father was a cruel man; I have got more than enough scars to prove it. No loving father uses his son's back as a whetstone. Even the grave seems to grant the man no peace."
Tornac gazed at his charge. Murtagh could have sworn he saw pity in the man's gaze. It annoyed him. "Your father was a rider, one of the last of the old order." 'And one of the fourteen traitors who burned it to the ground.' "Some say the bond between a dragon and their rider runs deeper than a man's love for his wife or children. Others say that to lose one is to lose a half; one can never again be whole."
Murtagh distantly remembered seeing Morzan astride a ruby red, mighty, winged beast. Surprisingly, it wasn't fear or dread that he first associated with the image. Rather, a childish feeling of utter awe. Then he remembered the storm that had followed; Murtagh had been barely three when Morzan's dragon was slain in battle. That had been when the drinking had started. 'No. The man was rotten from the very start…. he had to be.'
"The man your mother fell in love with and whose mirage she held onto until her death was a kind, courteous and loyal man. He was both roguish as a thug and handsome as a little lordling - her words, not mine. A man with a kind heart, thinking he was doing the right thing."
"You are your father's son, Murtagh. Just of the better parts of the man he used to be."
She stood in a forest lush and green with pale slivers of light dripping through the cracks in the canopy. The air was moist and still and heavy with the scent of damp moss and freshly turned soil. It was only when she felt the gentle tickle of grass blades on her feet and the cool earth in between her toes that she realized that she was barefoot.
The woods around her were quiet, too silent. The leaves of the birch trees were still; no breeze ruffled the grand oaks or creaked the branches of the elm trees. There was no bird song or sudden rustles in the surrounding bushes, nor the gentle shimmer of a nearby stream. For a moment Eryana feared she had gone deaf.
The she heard it. The soft flutter of a bird's wings magnified tenfold by the stifling, surreal silence of the woods. Startled, she looked up, peering into the thick green canopy. A loud croak revealed a raven perched upon one of the lower branches, its feathers white as snow. Black ravens were plentiful, but Eryana had never seen one of such colour. The raven turned its head, and Eryana found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes, like chips of bright, cold ice. There was another croak and a flutter as the bird suddenly took flight. Eryana wandered after it, stumbling on the roots and little ricks that littered the path. Occasionally the raven would stop upon a tree or a stump as if to wait for her to catch up. As she walked, she watched the woods become more twisted and bent as if burdened by a great weight. The trunks bent over themselves like old men, their paper-thin bark pealing back like dead skin. The leaves became fewer, seeming more like dry strips of parchment hanging limply from the still branches. The earth became bare and blackened as if scorched by fire.
It wasn't long before the trees gave way to a clearing. The grass was sparse and flattened in places, as if it had been forcefully stamped upon repeatedly. The soil underneath was a grim red, seeming like it had been soaked by blood. Eryana stepped on it warily, kicking up a cloud of red dust. Yet it was the centre piece of the clearing that stole her gaze.
A tree as thick as half a hundred men could reach rose up high in the very middle. Its bark was a brittle, cracked sheet of greys and its massive, long branches spanned overhead, blocking out the heavens from sight and blanketing the world in bright emerald green. The leaves hummed softly like a pulsing heart surrounded by bleakness and death.
There was an audible creak as the raven settled on one of the tree's branches. A leaf or two was shrugged loose turning yellow and withering away as they fell. An unexpected gush of wind raced through the clearing sending a shiver down Eryana's spine. The bird croaked loudly. Its voice sharp and scratchy. "Wyrda!" The rave ruffled its feathers. One was shaken loose: a large, white tail feather. It floated down slowly, too heavy to be caught by the breeze, landing upon Eryana's open palm.
"Wyrda, wyrda!" The raven croaked again.
And the dream changed.
It started as it always did: in darkness. Yet the darkness wasn't stifling or oppressing, but somewhat comforting and safe. She felt strange. Like awakening from a deep slumber to a darkened room with the window shutters tightly shut to block out any daylight. There was an ache in her body and a kink in her limbs. Agitated she tried stretching out but was met with unexpected resistance on all sides. There were walls around her, undiscernible in the darkness.
The world suddenly felt cramped. She wanted out, yet there was no exit. Invisible walls around her, closing in on her, crushing. She tried pushing and the world shook for a moment yet nothing changed. Frustrated she slammed herself forward and the world shook again. There was a sharp ring; like the sound of smith's hammer striking an anvil. Curious, she slammed herself against the walls again, then a third time. On the fourth there was a sharp crack that made her jump in surprise.
A sudden, blinding crack of light pierced through the darkness.
Eryana opened her eyes to the white-washed ceiling of her chambers, her breathing laboured and heavy. Her skin felt cold and clammy and her bedclothes felt dank. She had discarded her thick blankets onto the floor somewhere during the night. She sat up in her bed to ease the ache that was quickly developing in her back; apparently she had been tossing and turning again in her dreams. She brought her knees to her chest. Rocking herself back and forth she let her head sink into her knees. The damp spots on her night gown told her she had been crying. She brushed at the apparent tear tracks on her cheeks, rubbing the skin raw and red.
A soft knock on the door startled Eryana. "Come in." Her voice came out soft and hoarse. 'Is it that late already?' Her unvoiced question was answered as Arla – the servant who usually attended to both her and her brother – entered the room, her lithe form buried under the weight of fresh linens and a breakfast tray laden with fruit, cheese and bread. Once upon a time the rather precarious balancing act would have shocked Eryana, but this she was too perturbed to notice.
"Good morrow, m'lady." Ever so polite, the servant set the tray down on a nearby table before bending down to pick up the fallen blanket. Arla never talked too much herself, yet the gentle woman was more than happy to listen as the younger girl chattered away. If she was confused by the sudden silent demeanour this morning, she didn't let it show. Eryana's eyes stung as Arla drew back the heavy curtains, letting daylight spill freely into the room. As the servant busied herself with redressing the bed, Eryana stumbled sluggishly towards the meal that had been laid out for her, slumping rather ungracefully into the adjacent seat.
"I have yet to collect the laundry for the day. You'll have to wear a dress." Arla stated ruffling the pillow after changing the casing. Eryana only nodded numbly, there was no use in arguing; either Lady Margaret or Lady Katherine would skin her alive if she went tramping about in her brother's clothes again. "You seem awfully quiet today. Did you sleep well?"
Eryana shrugged her shoulders. She was still attempting to wrap her head around the night's dream. "Just a bit chilly, that's all."
"I'll have a spare blanket brought up for you in that case. These stone walls do get so cold during the night." The woman's tone was warm, almost motherly.
Eryana eyed the tray distastefully as Arla bustled around with her morning chores. Her stomach felt wobbly and the sight and smell of the plate's offerings made the feeling even more nauseous; she doubted she could hold any of it down. Despite herself she reached for an apple, its skin more brownish than a vibrant red. She watched from the corner of her eye as Arla turned to fill the washbasin that stood in the corner of the room, all the while nibbling on the fruit's rather dry flesh.
There was a splash and a shocked shriek as hot water spilled all over the floor. The two halves of the formerly intact washbasin rolled across the floor. Eryana sprang up from her seat in a flash, the half-eaten apple tumbling from her hand.
"Are you all right? Did you burn yourself?" The water had been steaming hot. The court ladies insisted it was good for the skin; Eryana didn't believe a word of it.
Arla shook her head slightly "I'm fine, dear child. Simply an accident, that's all." The woman smiled thinly, wringing the soiled hem of her skirt in her fists. "These things happen. That basin was old anyway." There was something off about her tone; her voice sounded somewhat strained.
Eryana stared at the cracked wooden basin with growing anxiety. She had only used the very same basing the previous evening to scrub her face and hands clean before bed. 'Washbasins don't just crack on their own accord.' Suddenly a fresh memory of a shattered inkwell flashed clear before her eyes. It had been barely a week previous when she had lost her temper while practicing her letters under Lady Katherine's watchful eye; Eryana would have rather been outside seeing her brother spar. The inkwell, fashioned out of thick glass, had shattered apparently on its own accord, spilling and running all over her work and clothes.
"I'll clean this mess up and have a bath drawn for you. It's about time someone tackled that abomination you call hair."
The water was almost scalding hot as she dipped in and smelled strongly of lavender oil. The warmth quickly reached her bones and Eryana leaned into the side of the tub. The water lapped playfully at her breast as Arla scrubbed her scalp and tresses with water and soap. Bending her head to avoid getting soap in her eyes, she gazed into the murky depths. For a moment, she thought she saw a pair of sapphire eyes reflected upon the surface instead of her own hazel brown. She blinked in confusion. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.