The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure - By Storm Constantine Page 0,169

very oppressive. It was furnished tastefully, and was very comfortable in a physical sense, but there were undercurrents. Flick had to pace around, sure that if he stood still or lay down, something would fold out of the air before him that would send him mad.

The Uigenna had once confined him, and they were supposedly the worst of Wraeththukind, but now the supposed best had done the same thing. Flick did not want to be important to others like this. He just wanted a small comfortable life. The thought of not seeing his companions again was too painful to contemplate. He could only hope, if he was forced to go to Immanion, that he could appeal to the new Pellaz for help. Unfortunately, the only image of Pellaz he could conjure in his mind was of a stern autocratic bully. The har who’d raced with him beside the soda lakes, laughing and horsing around, just wouldn’t come back. That particular har could never have become a king.

Gradually, the sounds in the house faded away as the last of the guests left the premises. Lights were extinguished in the trees outside and Flick could hear the savage wind tearing at the eaves outside his window. He couldn’t sleep, although he felt exhausted. He wondered whether Seel would come to him, but as the night wore on, it was clear that wouldn’t happen. But in the dead hours between night and dawn, he heard the sound of the lock being turned and the door to the room opened.

Flick froze. Was he to be taken away now? A young har came into the room, and he saw that it was Tyson, Cal’s son. Tyson put a finger to his lips and gestured for Flick to follow him. Quickly, sensing this was nothing to do with Seel, Flick complied. He went out into the corridor, his flesh tense against his bones, but there was nohar else there. Following Tyson, he crept towards the stairs. The hall below looked enormous, and a few of the staff were still passing back and forth through it, clearing up after the party. Tyson paused, peering over the banisters. ‘Another way,’ he murmured. ‘Come.’

Flick followed him deep into the heart of the house, a heart so dynamic and present, he was sure he could hear it beating. He sensed that many important things had taken place within these walls. Cal had lived here. How he wished he could hear the story of that time.

Tyson led them to narrow, dimlit corridors, probably the territory of servants, for there was no carpet underfoot. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Flick asked, presuming it was now safe to talk.

‘To your friends,’ Tyson said. ‘Cobweb has arranged it.’

Flick didn’t ask why. He was grateful enough not to question Cobweb’s motives.

Eventually, they descended some perilous twisting stairs, and emerged into a small yard at the side of the house. This was not the main stable yard, but an area where, in good weather, laundry was hung out to dry. A mandala of lines, which vibrated in the wind, crossed it overhead. There were seats and tables near the wall of the house and Flick imagined that in summertime the househara would sit out here to eat their lunch.

The yard was empty, but for the spirits that rode the wind.

Flick shivered. He hadn’t got his coat. ‘Thanks,’ he said to Tyson.

Tyson just nodded gravely. He clearly didn’t think thanks were necessary. After a moment, he said, ‘You knew my hostling.’

‘Yes,’ Flick said. ‘A long time ago.’

‘I can’t remember him,’ said Tyson. ‘The Gelaming took him from us.’

‘I know,’ Flick said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The circumstance of offering sympathy to a harling of Cal’s under these conditions was absolutely surreal. He couldn’t imagine Cal as a parent.

‘My father is dead,’ said Tyson. ‘The Gelaming killed him.’

‘I know.’

‘I wish I could come with you,’ Tyson said. ‘I hate this place. I want to travel, like my hostling did. I want to be free.’

‘Well,’ said Flick awkwardly, ‘when you’re older you can do what you like.’

Tyson sneered. ‘Don’t be stupid. You need powerful friends. If you didn’t have them, you’d still be locked up in that room.’

Flick considered for a moment. ‘Your hostling, Cal, he leads a troubled life, Tyson. There are many different ways to live. His is not the best.’

‘You hate him, like everyhar else does,’ Tyson said with contempt. ‘Hara hate him because he doesn’t come to heel. Swift told me that.’

‘I don’t hate him,’ Flick said.