Corbenic

Chapter Four

And near to the gate the vegetation was taller than elsewhere.

Peredur

His head hurt. The dull ache came prodding down through layers and layers of sleep; it was an annoying throb, a knocking in his temples and throat. Cal groaned and rolled over, dragging the coarse blanket over his head. But the pain wouldn’t let him go. He lay there, awake, eyes tightly closed. For a moment he thought he was at home, tense in the bed, listening for the old noises downstairs, but then he remembered and let his body relax. Though the room seemed oddly cold.

He had come up to bed straight after the meal, had said a shame-faced good night to Bron and the dark-haired man had nodded bitterly. “Good-bye Cal. It will be a long journey, as I feared.”

He remembered the osprey’s yellow eyes, round and fierce. It was as if they had expected something great of him, as if he had failed them. But he’d drunk too much—he must have done. Because spears didn’t bleed and there was no light in the world like that which had scorched from the battered, golden cup. It had been some normal thing, people carrying dishes, and he’d seen it all wrong.

He shivered. He’d heard her going on about things like this. Maybe it was schizophrenia, psychosis, one of those terrible words he’d looked up in the reference library that hot endless weekend she’d been in the hospital. He knew it was in his blood, in him. Maybe this was the start of it.

Terrified, he sat up. Ignoring the headache he groped in the dimness for the marble bedside lamp with its ornate tassels, but he couldn’t find it, so he pulled the blankets aside and slid out of bed. The floor felt oddly rough under his bare feet. He padded across and drew the curtains. Then he turned, and stared in amazement. Where was the room? The beautiful, glossy magazine furnishings? What was happening to him?

He saw a small stark cell, the walls plain and gray, with vast black stars in places where whole lumps of plaster had cracked and fallen off. On the rough planks of the floor old straw was scattered, and there were bones in it, gnawed and yellow.

Cal sidestepped in disgust. “God,” he whispered.

His rucksack was propped against the door. The ceiling was high, green and dripping with damp. The curtains were rags and the bed a simple wooden frame with a gray mattress and the filthiest blanket he had ever seen lying crumpled on it. And it was bitterly cold.

He turned fast, as something spoke behind him, but the window was cracked and only the wind whispered in its corner, high-pitched in the green ivy. Cal put his hands up slowly to the vibrating pane. Outside, through the flapping leaves, was the garden. Wet, dripping, overgrown. A waste land.

Instantly he turned, grabbed his clothes, and struggled into them frantically. He had to get out! Either this was a madhouse, or it was him. He didn’t want to talk to Bron, or the big man, or any of them. He just had to get back into the real world.

And then he saw the sword. He froze, one arm in his shirt. In the silence his heart thudded. It was a narrow blade, and it looked wickedly sharp. Small crystals of ice glinted on its edge. It had been thrust through the pillow and into the wooden headboard, hard. Just above where his head must have been.

Suddenly weak, Cal sat on the bed. Finally, warily, he reached out and took hold of the corded handle of the weapon. It fitted his hand perfectly, and he felt the icy metal slowly warm against his fingers. He pulled, then again, hard, and the sword came out.

It was a beautiful thing. The pommel and guard were of steel, chased with intricate patterns and small red garnets, and down the blade a ripplework of beaten metal reflected his face with cold precision. He touched the cutting edge carefully, his breath clouding the steel.

There was a stiff piece of parchment on the pillow; the sword had pinned it there. He picked it up reluctantly and read: My parting gift to you. Take it. It will serve you as you have served me. Go with God. It was signed, in a jagged scrawl: Bron.

Cal sat silent. He had no idea what to do. “What the hell do I want with a sword?” he muttered aloud, and as if in response a drip of water fell from the ceiling and trickled down the blade. It broke the spell. He jammed the paper in his pocket, and the sword, roughly, in the mesh at the back of the rucksack. He’d leave it on the table downstairs. He had enough to worry about.

The corridor was deserted. It smelled of damp and neglect, and the carpet was gone. As he walked quickly along it his footsteps echoed, and when he came to the stairs his worst fears lay before him. The curved banister was the same, but it led down into desolation. There was no fire, no table, no chandeliers. The hall was a ruin, the roof long fallen, ivy growing inside all the walls. Cal came down and stood on the bottom step and looked at it, fear clenched in his stomach like an agony. He knew what he had seen last night. And it hadn’t been this.

Suddenly panic-stricken, he jumped down into the rubble of bricks and plaster and shoved the great doors wide to the banqueting room. The gilt ceiling lay in pieces on the floor; black mildew coated the walls. A great thicket of weeds grew out of the chimney. He pushed his way in. The tables were gone, the luxurious feast, the dishes, the guests, the shining cup. None of it was here. He must really be crazy. Except that the sword clinked reassuringly at his back.

And there was no door.

It was only a small thing among all the betrayal of his senses but it caught his curiosity through the fear and bewilderment. The spear and candles and the golden cup had been taken across this room and through a door. The room was the same—ruined and aged, but the same. But there was not, and never could have been, a door. He could see the brickwork through the buckled gilt panels. If he climbed over there he could even put his hands on it.

Quickly he turned, scrambled back across the hall, and found the entrance he had come in through the night before. The glass panels of knights and horsemen had long since fallen in; ivy choked the porch so thoroughly he had to grope for the bolts in a green, musty dimness and then shove and shudder the whole warped door to get it wide enough for him to slip through. Even then the ivy was too thick, a dusty smothering curtain, stinking of damp. After a moment he pulled the sword out and sliced through the woody stems; he found he could slash an opening, force his way out, and as he surfaced from the leaves the gray daylight was cool, and he breathed it deep. But the rotting garden made him think again of that old story, the prince, the sleeping castle. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. This was all the wrong way around.

It was hard to get out. Great umbels of hogweed had grown down the path and he had to snap through them, seed drifting in his face, and the statues of bears and foxes were fallen or lost in swaths of bramble, decades of growth that snagged him and barred his way. He had to cut a tunnel and edge through, crouching, furious at the torn scags of his clothes.

At the gate in the wall the latch was broken; the outer door banged in the wind. He pushed through it and looked up. There was a rusty bracket. But no hotel sign.

For a moment he stood there in the pattering rain with the sword dripping in his hand. The castle was a shadow behind its tangled wilderness, silent, without even birdsong. There was no one here.

He had meant to toss the sword back inside; instead he found himself pushing it into the rucksack. Then he turned. When he spoke his voice was bitter. “I’m sorry. It’s not me you need. I don’t even know what you want me to do.”

Rain dripped. And the wind whipped the door out of his numb fingers and slammed it in his face.

The tramp to the station seemed endless; after half an hour he was soaked and thirsty. The lanes were dripping and muddy with dead leaves, the ditches overflowing, all hedgerows bare. He had a sudden terror that too much time had passed; that the night in the castle had been weeks out here, and it almost made him run in panic, but the rucksack was too heavy and he had to stop, breathless. Stupid. Calm down. And the lane was different. He hadn’t remembered any turnings last night but they were here now, and around the next bend the lane divided into two, with no signposts, the fields silent but for a few cows that chewed and watched him. Far off, a flock of rooks rose noisily from some trees. Cal chose the left-hand lane, and walked on, soaked and hopeless.

Until he heard the car. It was a long way back but it was coming up fast behind him, and he turned quickly, waiting. A Range Rover. Smart. He flagged it down. A middle-aged man put his head out of the window dubiously.

“I’m looking for the station,” Cal said quickly, trying not to seem so wet.

“Station?”

“Railway station. Corbenic.”

“Never heard of it.” The man pulled his head in and spoke to his wife. A small Yorkshire terrier yipped in the back.

“There’s a station at Ludlow.” The man looked him up and down; Cal felt hot with humiliation. “We’re going near it. Would you like a lift?”

“Thanks!”

The car was gloriously warm, and smelled of leather and cigarettes. The dog sniffed him once and then jumped down, scrambling into the front on the woman’s lap. Her manicured fingers caressed its silky hair. “Terrible weather,” she said.

“Yes . . .” Cal watched the rain run from his soaked trousers and darken the seat; he moved his coat to cover it. “I think I must have gotten lost.”

“Come far?”

“From the Castle Hotel.” He said it deliberately, knowing only too well that the man would answer as he did.

“Don’t know it.” He changed gear. “What was that place again?”

“Corbenic.”

“We’ve lived here for three years and I don’t think I’ve even heard the name before.” The woman turned and smiled over her shoulder pleasantly. Then the smile froze to a sickly rigidity. She had seen the sword. Cal swore silently. It was jutting out from the rucksack, the blade bright in the watery daylight. She turned back to the front quickly, then flashed a terrified glance at him in the mirror. Cal stared grimly out of the window. Maybe he should say something. Explain. Lie. The woman nudged her husband. Now he kept looking up in the mirror. The car veered. It was going too fast.

Suddenly Cal couldn’t care less what sort of weirdo they thought he was. He leaned back and pulled the wet coat around him, brooding, glad he’d scared them. Why did he always have to be worried about what people thought of him? Why was he always so anxious?

They came to a crossing; the red light stopped them. The driver’s gloved fingers tapped feverishly on the padded wheel. “Got far to go then?” His voice was false with cheeriness.

“Chepstow.”

“Nice place.” They were terrified of him. He smiled coldly. The man put his foot down and drove, before the lights changed. Right, left, through some streets of small black and white houses. Then he pulled up jerkily. “This is it.”

Cal opened the door, got out, and heaved the rucksack after him. In the mirrors their scared eyes watched. He couldn’t stand it. It was stupid but it mattered to him. He put his hand on the sword hilt and grinned foolishly. “Historical stuff. Sort of a hobby, really.”

The Yorkie barked.

“Right,” the driver said. Relief was all over him like sweat. “Got you.” Then the door slammed, and the Range Rover roared away.

On the tarmac, despising himself, Cal looked down at the blade, then whipped his jacket off viciously and wrapped the thing in it, tight. The sharp edge took a tiny treacherous slice out of his finger; blood splashed in sudden drops on his shirt. Furious, he shoved the sword under one arm. It will serve you, the note had said, as you have served me.