Darkness Rising 1 - Chained

Chapter 13 - The Crypt

Blossomstide 1924

“Master Aldred? Master Aldred? Begging your pardon, sir, it’s almost midday.”

Whilst he lay completely immobile Aldred’s headache was controllable, but the mere contemplation of lifting his head from his pillow sent lancinating pain through his brain. He was aware of a rank smell in his nostrils, which he rapidly realised was his breath, condensed into a little pool of dribble.

His awareness spread out from him, rolling out like the early morning mists he had seen on his return to the castle. He was face down, on his bed, fully clothed and his left arm was trapped under him, numb and useless. With his one functioning arm he strained and rolled over with a gasp and then a moan as the nausea struck. The room swam and he sank deeper into what must be the ocean of all hangovers.

Aldred scrabbled for some vessel to vomit in; his hands clasped around the wash bowl that his manservant, Jirdin, had just brought. He had just enough time to gesture Jirdin back before heaving into the water.

Jirdin waited for the retching to cease.

“Would the master want a fresh bowl for his ablutions this morn?”

Aldred nodded sheepishly, an acidic trail trickling down from his nose. He glanced with dismay at his bedchamber: mud streaked bed clothes, his knee length leather boots still on his feet, two shattered chamber pots, his best Feldorian cloak torn and tossed across his mirror and the remnants of some bread and cheese he’d scrounged from the kitchens on the way back in.

He cringed as he considered what Jirdin would be thinking. Jirdin had been Aldred’s manservant for so long that he couldn’t imagine him ever having being young. No, in all honesty, he speculated Jirdin had been born wrinkled, that he’d emerged into this world with skin looking like a dried apple.

The sun was streaming through the curtains. Flecks of dust danced as if at a ball. He had a similar recollection of spinning and weaving the night before, a blur of velvet ball gowns and towering wigs.

Jirdin re-entered and approached the table in the corner of the room. He placed a fresh porcelain bowl and towels atop it. The steaming water had been flavoured with rose, its odour as warm and fresh as a summer’s day.

“May I assume the Spring Ball a success, master?”

“From what I remember. The blisters in my boots attest to my exuberance on the dance floor and my head to the hospitality of Lord Ordon. Half of father’s barony was there and a good proportion of Baron Benrich and Latimer’s lords.”

“And the ladies I am sure,” Jirdin said, carrying a crisp white shirt, leather trousers and wool jacket to the table.

“Latimer’s niece was there, for certain, and her friend, Lady Gizele Harken. My word, what a pair. They can scent a plump purse from eighty paces.”

Aldred hobbled over to the table, slipping his dress shirt off.

“Did Livor return with me in the carriage?”

“I’m uncertain, Master Aldred,” Jirdin said, bending to help Aldred remove his mud-caked boots. “One could quite appreciate he might feel reluctant to return to the castle. I imagine the carriage took him back to the estate near Oldston.”

Aldred sighed and nodded. Livor’s father, Lord Korianson, had been dismissed from his residence at the castle whilst Livor and Aldred were studying in Thetoria city. The circumstances seemed mysterious but Aldred was under no doubt that Quigor was somehow involved.

The young lord finished his wash, scrubbing the dried sweat of the prior night from his skin. He dressed in a fresh outfit, choosing a favourite pair of brown leather boots to compliment his dark leather trousers.