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Shoved by the spoon, Joach s legs stumbled back a step.
 Leave  im be, Brunt, the cook said from a neighboring hearth. He was a
wide-bellied man, like most cooks, wearing a stained apron that covered him
from neck to toe, sashed at the waist. His cheeks glowed ruddy from the heat
of the kitchen s many hearths.  You know he ain t right in the head, so quit
pestering  im.
 I heard he was left in the woods by his parents for the wolves to finish
off. Brunt made a snapping motion toward Joach.
 M-m-master wants m-meal, Joach heard himself stutter with a slurred tongue.
That was the extent of his conversation. Just enough words to let others in
the Edifice know his ordered duty. The kitchen help ignored his garbled words.
He might as well have been another spoon or pot.
 Naw, naw, the cook said.  He was kicked in the head by a horse and everyone
thought  im dead.
Were all set to bury  im, they were! Then that old crippled brother, he came
along and plucked  im up.
Took  im here. Rescued the drooling dolt. Now that s kindness! The cook spat
into a skillet to test its heat before continuing.  Speaking of kindness and
dolts, if you want to keep working in my kitchens, you d better get back to
stirring that stew, or it ll burn!
Brunt lowered his spoon to the fish stew with a grumble and continued to stir.
 Still, that kid gives me the woollies. He just stares at you with his nose
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dripping. It s downright sickening.
Even if he had been able to control his lips, Joach would not have argued with
the boy. Ever since he had been stolen from the cobbled streets of Winterfell
by the darkmage named Greshym, Joach had been under the demon s spell, a
thrall to the ancient one s commands. While he still lived in his head, aware
and feeling all, he was unable to stop his body from obeying the murderer of
his parents.
Unable to speak freely, he could not even warn anyone who lived within the
walls of the Edifice of the snake that lived among them. Greshym posed as a
white-robed brother of the Order, but in truth was a creature of the Dark
Lord.
A platter of meats, cheeses, and a bowl of steaming fish stew was shoved
toward his chest. Joach s arms caught the handles of the wood platter. He had
been ordered to fetch supper, and as always, his body obeyed. In his head, he
dreamed of poisoning the meal but knew it impossible.
 Be off with you, you slack-jawed oaf! Brunt said with a sneer.  Get outta my
kitchen!
Joach turned to go, his body ever obedient. Behind him, he heard the cook
scold his boy.  Your kitchen, Brunt? Since when is this your kitchen?
Behind him, he heard a slap and a yelp from Brunt, but Joach s legs were
already carrying him out of the kitchen and down the hall.
As he shambled through the twisting corridors and stairways of the Edifice,
winding his way back to his master s chamber, he stared at the laden platter
and put aside all thoughts of poisoning the meal. The fish broth smelled of
garlic and butter, and the meats and cheeses were cut thick and generous. Even
the loaf of cold bread seemed a miracle of flavor.
Pangs of hunger wailed in his belly, but unless his body was given the order
to eat by the darkmage, Joach could do nothing to fill his empty stomach. Over
the many moons since he was stolen from his sister s side, his body had wasted
into a scarecrow. Often whole days would pass before the darkmage would
remember to tell his servant to eat and lately, those days of hunger were
becoming even more frequent.
Joach was now mostly forgotten by his master and, like a neglected dog, he
wasted away, awaiting his master s next word.
As he shambled past a mirror in a hall, he caught a glimpse of his reflection.
His face, formerly sunburned from his work in the orchards, had paled to a
slug s complexion, and his flesh had shrunken on bone. His cheekbones poked
from under bruised eyes. His red hair, overgrown past his shoulders now, hung
tangled and matted. And his green eyes stared back at him, dull and glazed. He
was the walking dead.
No wonder the kitchen urchin had wanted him out of his sight. Joach himself
was relieved when his body moved past the mirror and the image was gone.
For the past moon, Joach had given up the fight against his spell-cast
enslavement, resigned to his fate.
Occasionally he would still scream in his bone prison, but no one ever heard.
Now death seemed the only real possibility of escape. He pulled back deeper
into his skull and curled up on himself. Starvation would eventually claim his
body; then he would be free.
Despondent, he ignored his body as it struggled the platter into his master s
cell. The room was barren of any significant trappings or decorations. Only
two thin beds, an ancient wardrobe, and a worm-worn desk occupied the room. A
threadbare rug covered the floor, but it did a poor job of keeping the cold of
the stones from one s feet. Though a small hearth continually glowed with
embers, its feeble heat did little to dispel the chill that always hung in the
air. It was as if the room itself knew the evil it contained and kept warmth
and cheer from its occupants.
In addition to the ever-present chill, the room was also always dim. Besides
the single oil lamp on the desk, the only other illumination came from a
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small-slitted window that overlooked one of the many tiny courtyards that
pocked the great structure. Somewhere beyond the walls of the Edifice sprawled
the half-sunken city of A loa Glen and beyond that only the sea. Since
arriving, Joach had seen neither sea nor city, nothing but the halls and
chambers of the sprawling Edifice huddled in the center of the once-mighty
city. Like a second prison, it held his body as surely as his skull held his
spirit. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]