The Power and the Glory

Book 1 Chapter III: Necromancy

There was always a haunted quality about the place, even before anything bad happened. -- Caroline Zancan, We Wish You Luck

Everyone in Saoridhlém knew some version of the story. The trouble was, all the widely-known versions varied wildly in the most crucial details. As for the people involved in the story, they refused to say what really happened. Everyone pieced together their own account, full of mistakes and outright fiction.

Not even Ilaran knew the full story. But he knew enough. One thousand and seven hundred years ago Prince Siarvin had been well-respected, increasingly powerful, and everything indicated he had a glittering career ahead of him. He could even have become the ruling prince of Tananerl. Then he visited Eldrin, capital of Saoridhlém. The next anyone heard of him, he had been embroiled in a scandal and accused of the most horrific crimes. Then the whole business was abruptly hushed up. Siarvin married a Saoridhin noblewoman and never returned to Tananerl.

You didn't have to be a genius to know there was a great deal missing from that story. Tananerl's people believed Siarvin had been the victim of a conspiracy, possibly by his older brother or other rivals. Saoridhlém's people believed he was a criminal who got off scot-free.

Ilaran's mother had believed her sworn-brother's[1] wife had many sins to answer for. She had died without ever learning the truth. Ilaran's princedom was finally secure enough for him to leave it unattended for an extended visit to Eldrin.

He owed it to his uncle and the spirit of his mother to finally learn the truth.

Passersby stopped and stared at him as he walked towards his uncle's manor. Ilaran ignored them all. He'd spent his entire life getting disapproving looks from some part of his family. At least today there was a real reason for them. He knew perfectly well what connotation green had for the Saoridhins. He'd chosen his clothes today with that in mind. Let them scowl and mutter all they liked. He was long past caring. Centuries of scorn, deserved and undeserved, had a way of creating indifference in even the most sensitive person.

Kastlán Manor was unusually large for the family home of a mere rúdaun[2]. What was stranger was that it had two separate buildings. Haliran-rúdaun lived in the main house. Her husband lived in the other one, and rarely left it even to visit his wife. Everyone took this as proof that their particular version of the story was true.

The gate-keeper stared very hard at Ilaran when he approached. She took in the colour and style of his clothes, the lack of jewels braided through his hair[3], and the high, pointed griordul[4] he wore. She bowed and greeted him before he even spoke.

"Your Highness," she said. "The lord is expecting you."

Ilaran raised an eyebrow.

I didn't send word ahead, he thought suspiciously as he walked through the gate. The obvious solution struck him as he made his way towards his uncle's house. Damn you, aunt. Stop meddling in my business!

The front door opened as he reached the steps leading to it. Prince Siarvin looked down at him with weary resignation. Ilaran stopped and bowed low.

"Greetings, uncle," he said in Siarvin's native language.

Siarvin shook his head. He looked awful, Ilaran realised when he straightened up. He was painfully thin, his eyes sunken and shadowed, and his hair lank and devoid of decoration. Even his clothes were a dull shade of brownish-red with no embroidery.

"I told you not to come," he said in the same language. "There is nothing you can do here."

"With respect, uncle, I disagree."