Chapter 14 Tintagel Castle #2
She discovered the story of an Order whose name came from an ancient word for blood, whose maxim was Death devours all, and who worshipped Nidhogg, the corpse eater. The Dreor were the diametric opposites of the Wardens—instead of strategic defenders, they were aggressive berserkers.
An illustration in one of the more fanciful accounts depicted a Dreor as a ghastly sort of death-knight, equipped in black plate and horned helm and bearing a massive scythe—all, of course, dripping dramatically with gore.
Aurienne couldn’t comment on the accuracy; all she had seen of the Dreor in the Faerwundor were the tips of their scythes.
The Dreor tācn—a black death’s head—was lethal both upon contact and at range.
On contact, the tācn mummified victims instantly.
From a distance, Dreor were capable of haemokinesis, which allowed the manipulation of blood and thus of bodies.
One particularly gory account described a single Dreor decimating a military encampment by having two hundred soldiers impale themselves upon the spiked palisade.
And yet, for all of these strengths, their numbers had decreased over the years, and today they were all but extinct.
There were challenges involved in getting the Dreor tācn to take.
The victims of the failed tācn lost their minds and became a sort of foot soldier with the barest of cognitive functions, called a wightling, controlled by haemokinesis by a Dreor.
One source posited that there might be fewer than a hundred true Dreor left.
Aurienne was morbidly fascinated by it all. She jumped when Xanthe’s deofol tickled at her tācn: they had received Dinadan’s permission to visit the Warden headquarters at Tintagel Castle.
The next morning, Aurienne and Xanthe were escorted to Tintagel Castle by Haven.
Haven was Aurienne’s least favourite of the Wardens who rotated through Swanstone; she was brash and cared little for the Haelan hierarchy.
However, she was being decidedly friendlier to Aurienne now that she had witnessed what Aurienne had done to Tristane in Ward 13.
From the Publish or Perish, they took the waystone to Merlin’s Last Drop, the pub in the village just outside of Tintagel’s walls.
Tintagel Castle stood, sheer and majestic, upon a seaside cliff in Dumnonia.
It was protected not only by turret, tower, and wall, but by rock and rough surf.
Erosion had divided the stronghold in two; upon the mainland sprawled its great hall, training grounds, and the Wardens’ quarters, while its prison tower stood upon a needlepoint of rock.
Apprentice Wardens were encouraged to practise their wards upon the castle; at night, the entire edifice—gates, ramparts, and portcullis—positively glowed.
The place was impossible to penetrate for nefarious purposes.
Unless, of course, one happened to be Aurienne Fairhrim, in which case one was welcomed into Tintagel with open arms and respectful bows.
She stepped through gigantic gateways amid the flying banners of the Warden Order, flanked on either side by statues of the god Woden.
Dinadan, the Head of the Warden Order, met Aurienne and Xanthe at the bridge that connected the castle to the prison tower.
Here in her home territory, Dinadan did not wear her full Warden plate armour.
She was in studded leathers and without her helmet.
Wind whipped her short grey hair. Aurienne, who preferred bowing as a greeting, was dismayed to find herself clasped by her in a combination of backslap and crushing handshake.
Xanthe, subjected to the same treatment, with audible crackling, asked, “How is the prisoner?”
“Tristane hasn’t been stupid enough to make an escape attempt,” said Dinadan.
“I’m surprised. I thought there would’ve been at least one or two, given who she is,” said Aurienne.
“We’ve got her in arterial wards,” said Dinadan. “And besides—thanks to you, Haelan Fairhrim—she hasn’t any seith. She’s not going anywhere until her execution.”
“Arterial wards?” asked Aurienne.
“One of my specialties,” said Dinadan. “Anchored to stone wall on one end and arterial wall on the other. Prisoners typically only try to escape once.”
Xanthe raised her eyebrows. “Compliance by haemorrhage.”
“Exactly. Expensive, seith-wise, but worth it for someone like Tristane.” Dinadan showed Aurienne and Xanthe her arm, where dozens of venous ulcers swelled up and glistened with discharge. “I’ve been triggering my Cost every day casting them. Quite looking forward to having her gone.”
Dinadan gestured to the tower. “Shall we? I’m curious to observe your seith-blocking technique in action, Haelan Fairhrim. It made quite an impression on my Wardens.”
“You’ve accepted to hold one of the most dangerous people in the Tīendoms for us,” said Aurienne. “The least we can do is keep you safe from her.”
Dinadan led the way to the narrow metal bridge. It was guarded by a Warden at either end, and—as most of the surfaces around them—shimmered with blue wards. Mordaunt and his fellow Fyren would never have been able to pull Tristane out of this prison.
“Have you been to our prison tower before?” asked Dinadan.
“No,” said Xanthe. “Our visits to Tintagel keep us confined to your infirmary.”
“Our little Tartarus,” said Dinadan, looking at the prison tower with affection. “You may cross the bridge freely. Tenet had your seith signatures; we’ve integrated them for today’s visit.”
Aurienne and Xanthe followed Dinadan across the bridge and up a worn stone staircase into the tower. Haven followed. There were no windows, only bars across holes in the wall, which let in a fierce wind.
“Here we are,” said Dinadan.
There was no lock upon the door; rather, Dinadan pressed her tācn to it, and the wards gleaming upon it vanished.
Tristane was within. She was held against the wall by Dinadan’s arterial wards, which glimmered red, and connected the back of her neck, her arms, and her thighs to stone. Dinadan had chosen her arteries judiciously.
The Fyren leader was in much the same state she had been in when Aurienne had seen her at Swanstone: naked, bloody, dishevelled. Her injured eye had swelled shut. The remaining one, vivid green, with a pinprick of a pupil, opened to observe them with disdain, then closed again.
Aurienne suppressed a shiver. Mordaunt was a mercenary; this woman was simply a killer.
“Proceed,” said Dinadan, gesturing Aurienne inward as Haven took up a post at the door.
Aurienne caught Xanthe’s eye. Dinadan’s and Haven’s presence was a bit of a wrench in the works. It was impossible to speak with Tristane with them hanging about.
“I’ve got to use the loo,” declared Xanthe.
Dinadan glanced at her with surprise, then said, “Haven will show you the way. The facilities are on the rustic side here. I’m warning you now.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Xanthe. “Nowhere has toilet seats as cold as Swanstone.”
“I’m flattered you assume there’s a seat,” said Dinadan.
Haven duly led Xanthe away to whatever wretched hole awaited.
That left Aurienne with Dinadan herself to get rid of.
Aurienne made a show of searching her satchel. “Do you know,” she said, “I’ve forgotten my hlutoform. Have you got any here?”
“Who cares if she gets an infection?” asked Dinadan. “She’s going to die anyway.”
“It’s for my safety, not hers,” said Aurienne. “I don’t know what’s crawling on her skin. Have you got a bottle on the premises? A first aid kit somewhere?”
“Is it really necessary?”
“For my safety, I must follow our protocols.”
Dinadan pushed out a frustrated sigh.
“I can go, if you’d prefer—just tell me where,” said Aurienne. “I bet Xanthe’s got a bottle on her. I’ll find her. Where’s the loo?”
Dinadan, with distinct irritation, said, “Wait here. Keep your distance from the prisoner.”
She stomped away.
Tristane’s eye opened again. Now that they were alone, it swept from Aurienne’s face to her cloak. “You’re the Haelan who blocked my seith.”
“Yes,” said Aurienne. “I’m also the one who can unblock it.
You’ll forgive me for skipping over the preliminary exchanges of threats and insults—we haven’t the time.
Dinadan could return at any moment. I’m going to tell you what I want from you and what I’m offering in return, and you’re going to tell me if you accept. It’s a yes or no question.”
Tristane glanced at the cell door as though she suspected some trick. She nevertheless said, in a hoarse, accented voice, “Proceed.”
“You’re going to tell me who gave you the Swanstone job, and what the job was. In exchange, I’m going to unblock your seith.”
“I don’t disclose information about my clients,” said Tristane.
“You haven’t a choice, at this juncture.”
“Oh? Are you going to torture some answers out of me, ma petite?”
“Actually, torture is—” Aurienne cut herself off; there wasn’t time. “Your execution is scheduled for Lammas. Don’t wait for rescue from your Fyren brethren: this place is crawling with wards. I’m offering you a chance to free yourself.”
Tristane’s lurid eye pivoted to the circumference of her cell. Aurienne had seen that look before; it was the one in Mordaunt’s eye when he was calculating movements in the shadow-walk.
“You won’t be able to escape from here, seith or no seith,” said Aurienne. “Dinadan’s arterial wards are nasty work. But at some point they will transfer you to the Stánrocc for your execution. These wards will be removed. They’ll think you still don’t have seith. There may be an opening.”
“You’ll be blamed for my escape,” said Tristane.
“The procedure is experimental.” Aurienne shrugged. “Experiments fail. Do we have a deal?”
Tristane bent her head in thought. Her hair, matted with blood, swung over her forehead. “One of Frīa’s little Haelan, coming to my aid. Of all the lovely ironies.”
“I want to know who hired you more than I want you dead.”
Tristane’s good eye fixed Aurienne. Again there was a calculation.
Distantly, the sound of boots on stone steps echoed. Dinadan was returning.