The Erebus Sequence

by Den Patrick

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

An ornate yet dark fantasy, with echoes of Mervyn Peake, Robin Hobb and Jon Courtenay Grimwood. An original and beautifully imagined world, populated by unforgettable characters. In a castle that is, itself, reminiscent of Gormenghast in its size and brooding presence a collection of young, flawed but resilient outsiders find their way in a dangerous society teetering on the brink of dramatic change, even as it learns the fantastical secrets of its past. The Boy with the Porcelain Blade: Lucien de Fontein has grown up different. One of the mysterious and misshapen Orfano who appear around the Kingdom of Landfall, he is a talented fighter yet constantly lonely, tormented by his deformity, and well aware that he is a mere pawn in a political game. The Boy who Wept Blood: Sworn to protect the silent queen Anea as she struggles to bring a new democracy to Demesne, Dino finds himself drawn into a deadly game of political intrigue as the aristocratic families of Landfall conspire to protect their privilege. The Girl on the Liar's Throne: Anea is the Silent Queen and she is struggling to bring change to the ancient society of Landfall. Vested interests and dark magics alike are determined to hold onto power and in a society where the loyalties of many are fluid and the true nature of the players is hidden the game of politics can be a lethal one even for those close to the throne.

Release date: May 18, 2017

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 1095

Sample

The Great Houses of the Diaspora

ORFANI

Lucien ‘Sinistro’ di Fontein

lacks ears and confidence, lives with House Contadino

Golia di Fontein

a hulking brute, possesses tines that grow from his forearms, lives with House Fontein

Araneae ‘Anea’ Oscuro Contadino

a fearsomely intelligent veiled young woman, never speaks

Dino Adolfo Erudito

a young Orfano of some pluck, lives with House Erudito

Festo Erudito

the youngest of the current Orfano

HOUSE FONTEIN

Duke Fontein

an elderly and conservative member of the nobility

Duchess Fontein

his notoriously bad-tempered wife

Maestro Superiore di Spada Giancarlo di Fontein

senior sword master, originally a commoner from the Contadino estates

Maestro di Spada D’arzenta di Fontein

Lucien’s tutor and long-suffering member of
Giancarlo’s coterie

Maestro di Spada Ruggeri di Fontein

laconic, to say the least

Capo di Custodia Guido di Fontein

an ambitious fop and popinjay from a minor house

HOUSE CONTADINO

Lord Emilio Contadino

a viscount of middle age, yearning for prestige

Lady Medea Contadino

the viscountess, the soul of House Contadino,
diplomatic to a fault

Massimo Esposito

the viscount’s indispensable aide

Rafaela da Costa

housemaid to Lucien di Fontein, a wise head on
young shoulders

Camelia di Contadino

cook, no-nonsense giantess of the kitchens

Nardo Moretti

messenger and loyal servant

HOUSE ERUDITO

Maestro Gian Cherubini

head of House Erudito, a voice of reason

Professore Falcone Virmyre

stern lynchpin of the teaching faculty

Dottore Angelicola Erudito

possessed of permanently poor humour

Professore Russo di Fontein

an ambitious and talented teacher

Mistress Corvo Prospero

whip-thin dance teacher and scourge of the ill coordinated

HOUSE PROSPERO

Duke Stephano Prospero

a stentorian barrel of a man with poor hearing

Duchess Salvaza Prospero

his much younger and often dissatisfied wife

Stephania Prospero

the image of her mother, a sharp wit and kind heart

Raul da Costa

a craftsman of rare skill

OTHERS

The Majordomo

the voice of the king, Steward of Demesne

1

The Looking-Glass
HOUSE FONTEIN ANTECHAMBER
– Febbraio 315

Lucien di Fontein stood in the antechamber waiting, feeling his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. It was always the same before a testing. His breath steamed on the air. This part of the castle lacked heating, and he was grateful for his vest, dress shirt and frock coat. He clenched, stretched and clenched again his nearly numb fingers, chiding himself for not requesting gloves. He made a mental note to obtain calfskin fingerless ones. Assuming of course he lived out the rest of the day.

The room was a simple affair. Behind him stood tall double doors. Ornate black iron hinges lent the aged wood a severe solemnity. A pair of matching doors loomed ahead, a portal to the training room beyond. Two pews, narrow and uncomfortable, ran down either side of the chamber. A faded flag in the scarlet and black of House Fontein had been left in the corner, the fabric providing a feast for the moths. Latticed windows let in pale autumnal light, throwing a diffuse net shadow over the interior.

A lone pot plant grown monstrous and a full-length looking glass were the only other decorations. Biology was not his forte, although he suspected the growth was poisonous in some way. The looking glass reflected a man-child of eighteen summers, a grave expression etched onto his face. He had polished his knee-length boots to an impressive shine, the deep brown leather worn and sturdy. The buckles had been buffed to a honey-coloured gleam. His trousers and frock coat were of a blue so deep as to be mistaken for black in poor light. He was particularly taken with the fine embroidery on the lapels, a repeating motif of vines and leaves. The buttons had been made from shark teeth on his insistence. Virmyre had told him the creatures regrew their teeth many times over the course of their lives. The idea of renewal had appealed to Lucien, the possibility of attaining something once lost. He’d imagined the buttoner cutting his fingers to shreds on the awful teeth. Filing down the triangular shards into ivory discs must have been an ordeal – still, there were worse things in Demesne. Hoops of copper run to verdigris decorated the epaulettes of the jacket, just as he’d requested. Being Orfano he was expected to present a certain profile and had taken a fancy to sketching unlikely outfits when his tutors bored him. All in all he rather liked his new wardrobe; too bad it would see ruin at the hands of his opponents.

Worst yet, it might be the outfit he died in.

He was aware enough by now to know his obsession with finery was simply compensation. He couldn’t change the way he looked. He hoped he might yet grow into a more aristocratic-looking young man. His brow was too heavy for his tastes, his eyes too deeply sunken, lips too thin. He felt rather stocky and squat, sulking for a month when he realised he would never be as tall as Golia. No matter. He’d be the better of Golia in other ways, ways that mattered. He raised his right hand to his hair. Thick, black, coarse hair that he’d let grow long against Superiore Giancarlo’s wishes. And Mistress Corvo and a number of other teachers. He hesitated from lifting the swathe of black, not wanting to see the disfigurement beneath. And his nails. The newer staff thought him effete, or affected, or both. His nails matched his hair but he’d never once painted them. Angelicola had been unable to tell Lucien why his nails should be such a dismal hue. Nor had the belligerent dottore managed to decipher why Lucien bled clear fluid that turned pale blue after a few seconds.

It was the same for all of the Orfani: they hid their disfigurements as best they could. The deformities were an open secret among the subjects of Demesne in spite of the Orfani’s attempts to appear normal. Lucien knew full well the common folk branded the Orfani witchlings – streghe in the old tongue. He felt the familiar sting of pique. His hand strayed toward the ceramic blade resting in its sheath on his right hip.

Lucien drew the weapon, holding it out in front of himself, the tip just inches from the floor, looking almost casual. Almost. He brought the blade up to his face in the fencer’s salute. None of the Orfani were allowed to carry a metal blade. It was tradition, so they said. Only proven men or women could be trusted to carry such an expensive weapon. Metal cost money and could not be squandered on the young. Lucien didn’t believe a word of it. Ceramic blades were just as difficult to produce, so he’d been told. Still, this blade was his, a constant yet silent companion. The weapon had a stylised crosspiece in the Maltese fashion. The hilt was bound in taut scarlet leather, worn soft by endless training. Three notches marked the leading edge, almost too small to see. The blade was the colour of bone and it pleased him, he’d chosen it especially.

‘Which style will you fight in?’

Lucien spun and almost lunged. Dino gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, disapproval etched on his lips. He was dressed in sober grey.

‘Trying to get yourself killed?’

The boy shrugged and pushed out his bottom lip. His hand rested casually on his own blade, but there was no suggestion of drawing. The Orfano bore a certain fearlessness in his grey eyes despite being six years Lucien’s junior.

‘You’ll make a fine assassin one day if you keep sneaking around like that.’

‘So they tell me.’ Another shrug.

Lucien sheathed his blade. ‘Is there something you need?’

‘Thought I should wish you luck,’ replied Dino. ‘We’ve not spoken for a while.’ His eyes showed nothing; he folded his arms and slouched against the wall.

‘Virmyre sent you, didn’t he?’

The boy nodded. Lucien felt no need to fill the silence that followed. Dino let it spool out between them until his curiosity snagged a question from his lips.

‘Any idea who you’ll face? What style?’

Now it was Lucien’s turn to shrug. Rumours of his intended opponent had been scarce, unusually so considering gossip was currency in Demesne. He still didn’t know what awaited him beyond the doors of the training chamber, whether it was to be a fight to first blood or to the death. The one thing he could depend on was Maestro Superiore di Spada Giancarlo. The superiore administered every testing. A sour tang flooded Lucien’s throat. His palms began to sweat.

Maestro di Spada D’arzenta had been Lucien’s primary teacher, an even-handed but reserved man in his mid-thirties. He taught in the stile vecchio, a single blade in the leading hand, the empty hand for balance.

Superiore Giancarlo taught spada e pugnale, attacking with the sword and parrying with a dagger in the off hand, although his opinions were sharper than both. Lucien had endured a dozen lessons by the superiore. Eleven lessons too many.

Maestro Ruggeri didn’t waste time on opinions, if indeed he had any. Ruggeri simply taught. There was the correct way or the incorrect way, no praise, no chastisement. Ruggeri favoured the cloak and sword.

‘Well, the pleasure was all yours,’ mumbled Dino, interrupting Lucien’s thoughts, but there was no real bite to his sarcasm. The younger boy edged toward the door, made to let himself out.

‘Dino.’

The boy turned, mouth set, a flat line holding something back.

‘I’m sorry. For that night.’ Lucien cleared his throat, ‘After La Festa when you were with Stephania…’

‘Well, it’s done now.’ Dino shrugged again, a slow blink of those grey eyes. A touch of sadness about them perhaps. ‘What happens if you fail today?’

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Lucien, ‘Shame and embarrassment certainly. Perhaps success leads to some position in Demesne. I don’t know what failure will bring.’

‘They say Golia may join the Maestri di Spada.’

‘All I ever wanted was to be part of House Fontein.’ Lucien chewed his lip, regarded the hilt of the sword. ‘And now I’m here at my final testing, and I don’t know what I want.’ A weary breath escaped him.

‘Don’t fail,’ said Dino. ‘And don’t die.’

The younger Orfano flicked a lazy salute and was gone. Lucien stood in the chamber remembering the bitter morning after La Festa. How he’d felt responsible for Stephania coming to his chamber somehow. Ridiculous of course. Regret coiled around him like mist. The doors behind opened again and he resisted the urge to draw his blade in response. The history books of Landfall were littered with feuds between the houses. The Orfano were not immune to such internecine violence, despite being under the nominal protection of the king. Assassination had been a currency paid out all too keenly in earlier decades.

Anea slipped into the room unescorted. Lucien realised he was holding his breath. As ever she wore her veil: midnight-blue fabric covering the bottom half of her face. Tiny bronze discs and tassels decorated her forehead, suspended from a headscarf of white. Her dress, a matching midnight-blue, was tightly fitted. The sleeves were elegantly slashed to show the white blouse beneath. Her skirts were of an impressive volume, almost floor length. She reached into her sleeve and Lucien’s hand drifted to his blade, he dropped back a step. Anea caught the motion, holding out her hand, placating. She drew a palm-sized leather-bound book from her dress and searched for a particular page.

Just three years younger, nearly matching him in height, he guessed she was wearing her heeled boots, buttons running to the ankle in neat precision. Her blonde hair had enchanted the houses when she had first arrived on the steps of House Contadino. She looked up, caught him with her piercing green eyes, proffered the book to him. Her exquisite script curled and ran across the page:

I know things have been difficult between us lately but I wanted to wish you luck. Keep your wits and your feet. Don’t let him talk down to you.

Everyone knew Anea, the silent Orfano. Araneae Oscuro Contadino by birth, Anea on account of hating her full name. It was tradition for Orfani to petition a house for adoption at sixteen. They took the name of whoever they lodged with in the interim. Anea was, if rumour were to be believed, the most fiercely intelligent Orfano in a hundred and fifty years.

‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I should have spoken with you since La Festa, but I’ve been busy training.’

Anea took a moment to scribble another message in the book, a pencil appearing from nowhere in her clever fingers.

And with the wedding plans? It seems you are destined for great things, provided you survive the day.

Lucien read the note, then glanced at her, unsure if he was being mocked.

‘The wedding isn’t set. No formal offer of marriage has been made.’ He struggled to maintain a polite tone of voice. ‘I’m still undecided.’ This last an escaped stray thought. Demesne had been aflame with talk from the ruling nobles to the farmers in the fields. There could be few in Landfall who didn’t know of the potential pairing.

Anea’s eyes narrowed above the veil, her pencil resumed its scratching in the book, the strokes more hurried. Lucien waited, flinching as she thrust the book at him.

You’d be a fool not to marry Stephania. What else is there? Marrying into one of the great houses is your most prudent option. A political marriage could give you a degree of safety.

‘Safety? What do we know about safety?’ Lucien curled his lip. ‘We’re protected by the king’s own edict, yet we live our lives in fear of poison and fire, blade and maul. Some safety. Do you really suppose a political marriage will change anything? For you? For me?’

Anea stared, green eyes hard like jade. Tears formed but refused to brim over. Lucien immediately regretted mentioning the fire. Clearly the memory of that particular night burned all too brightly in her mind. She scribed another message, agitation obvious, her handwriting now jagged.

You’re pathetic. You don’t even have the sense to save yourself. Even after everything that’s happened.

She snatched the book back from his fingers before he could respond and swept out of the room, not bothering to close the doors behind her. Lucien sighed. He made to close the doors, pausing a second to watch her march down the hall, passing from darkness through pools of lantern light and back again. Her heels rang out on the stone floor, fading into the distance as she passed deeper into the castle, back to her studies in House Erudito.

The antechamber was silent again. Now he could press on with the business of clearing his mind, letting the noise and confusion of the day quieten. Dino’s visit had provided some measure of closure, Anea had only reminded him of a situation that was all but inevitable. Thoughts came to him, roiling waves breaking on the shore. The anxiety in his stomach rose and fell, his breathing continued slow and steady. Superiore Giancarlo was on the other side of the doors, waiting for him in the training chamber. Giancarlo and all of his towering disdain. Lucien pushed the thought away and kept breathing. Maestri di Spada D’arzenta and Ruggeri would also be there. This was a more welcome thought but he turned it to one side all the same. Quite why Anea had suddenly appeared was a mystery. Images of her leather-bound book and angry green eyes filled his mind. He reined his concentration back, setting aside the curious visitation. The anxiety within dwindled. He breathed, immersed in the sound of the wind howling around ancient towers and weathervanes.

His thoughts strayed to Rafaela. She’d been conspicuous only by her absence these last few days. Their paths crossed less and less, it seemed.

Back to concentration, back to a clear mind. The tension moved out of his gut now, lurking in his shoulders and at the backs of his knees. That was to be expected. He remained standing, kept breathing. The doors to the training chamber opened, yawning wide, creaking on ancient hinges.

‘Are you ready to be received?’ said a deep voice. Lucien raised his face, eyes hard.

‘I am ready to be received.’

Lucien stepped into the chamber beyond, chin pulled in tightly, staring out from under his brow. His fingertips rested on the hilt of his blade. Two final diversions raced across his mind before the testing began. The first was of gloves for his icy fingers, the second was of Rafaela.

2

Ancient Tales
HOUSE CONTADINO
– Settembre 306

It was a day of many firsts, but Lucien always looked back on it with a feeling of disquiet. The soft innocence of childhood had been snatched from him that day; things would never be the same again.

He’d started his physical training just after his eighth birthday. The Majordomo had taken to visiting his rooms once a week. The small talk was strained, sparse from the boy, dry from Demesne’s warden. The seasons were on the change, ushering in winter with the shrieks of night-time storms. The days were an endless susurrus of leaves caught in autumnal winds. Lucien wondered if the castle would ever be warm again. He’d have happily stayed in bed until spring, nestled among sheepskins with the fire banked up. He’d not thought it strange to have his own apartment back then. It was all he had ever known.

The Majordomo entered the sitting room without knocking, as he always did. Lucien glowered at him, setting aside the oversized book of fairy tales. He’d been roused from his bed early that day, taken from sleep by nightmares. The book had been a comfort in the early hours of the new day. The armchair was a small fortress about him. He slunk from it like a reluctant hound, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The Domo was tall in a way that was uncanny in Demesne, perhaps seven feet of ashen robes. His deeply lined face remained hidden under a heavy cowl, only his great chin jutted out, like some work of masonry. A purple rope served as a belt, holding together the many folds of fabric that comprised his attire. Skeletal hands extended from voluminous sleeves, the skin on them stained parchment, busying themselves attending to the fire. Lucien stood rooted to the spot, unsure of etiquette, dread seeping into him for no discernible reason.

The Majordomo was the voice of the king, that shadowy recluse lurking at the centre of Demesne like a spider in its web. The four houses, and all of the houses minor, paled into insignificance when placed alongside the power and influence of the Domo. And here he was, banking the fire with desiccated hands, nails dirty and cracked. He spoke in a tired drone, like the buzzing of insects, enquiring about Lucien’s studies. He looked ridiculous, hunched down at the hearth – the quality of his robes marked him out as beggar, certainly not anyone of substance. Lucien answered in single stunted syllables, chewed his lip, folded his arms.

‘And Professore Virmyre is teaching you well, I trust?’

‘Yes, and Maestro Cherubini too.’ Who was far easier to talk to than the stern and unreadable Virmyre.

‘And Maestro di Spada D’arzenta speaks very highly of you.’ Just for a second there was the shadow of inflection. Lucien wondered if this was some slight or sarcasm.

‘That’s good,’ he breathed, willing the gaunt collection of rags out of his apartment.

The hooded official finally left, staff beating out a slow percussion on the corridors. Lucien wasted no time finding himself a blanket to nestle under, snug again in the high-backed armchair. The life of an Orfano was a lonely one; he’d nearly finished the book of fairy stories when the next visitor arrived.

She leaned on the doorway, arms folded across her chest. Her hair was untied, thick corkscrews of rich dark brown falling about a heart-shaped face. Her hazel eyes were filled with what Lucien thought at the time was amusement, but would come to realise was tenderness. It was Rafaela’s day off, but she looked much as she always did. She wore a cream blouse, rucked and ruffled where it met her black bodice, tightly laced. Her skirt was a rare shade of scarlet, the colour of cheap wine, and her lips. Buttoned boots peeked out from the demarcation of her hemline, heels adding inches to her height. At that time Rafaela was fifteen or thereabouts; the first blush of womanhood had taken to her well. She had neglected to wear her apron, sending out a clear signal she was not present at Demesne to perform duty.

‘Ella. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. What are you doing here?’ He set the book aside and kicked off the blanket, becoming tangled in it a moment before finding his feet.

‘Come to find my charming prince, of course. What are you reading?’

‘Oh, just some nonsense for children.’ He shrugged.

Rafaela laughed and shook her head.

‘You are funny. The things you say. Come on, I’ll take you on an adventure and you can hear a much better story. How about that?’

‘Won’t we get into trouble?’ he said, glad to be released from being alone.

‘Not much.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’ll be fine.’

They left Demesne and Lucien was wide-eyed with excitement and more than a touch of fear. He’d not set foot outside the brooding collection of stones before. The towers reached into the sky, pointing at pale blue heavens. The last of the stars were fading and the moon remained only as a chalk smudge. The squat bulk of the sanatorio stood apart from the castle proper, with gargoyles flocking the roof, staring after them as they retreated into the countryside. Rafaela had dressed him in peasant’s attire when they’d reached the kitchens of House Contadino.

‘It’s a disguise,’ she explained. ‘Today you are not Orfano; today you can be a normal little boy. We’ll call you Luc.’

‘I’m not a little boy, I’m eight,’ he replied affronted and wishing he were already nine or even ten. He couldn’t even imagine what it must like to be ten. Incredible, most likely. He’d probably have to start shaving when he reached ten.

Cook Camelia had given them apples, watered-down wine, a good cheese and some bread past its best. She spoke quietly to Rafaela in that voice the teachers used, seemingly below the range of children’s hearing. Perhaps he’d learn how to talk like that too when he grew up.

The wind whipped about them and Rafaela concentrated on driving the cart, the mule plodding, perhaps less than walking speed. The countryside stretched away ahead of them, orderly hedgerows and drystone walls marking boundaries and paths. In the distance a copse of cedar trees clustered together, swaying at the dictates of the weather. Birds broke from cover in a commotion of wings and sleek bodies, flying in formation, wheeling about high above. They swooped and climbed, turning back to retake perches among the whispering trees. Lucien pulled the knitted skullcap down, clutching at the simple jacket he wore.

‘Make sure you keep your hat on all day: it’s cold,’ said Rafaela. Lucien nodded, thinking this an obvious thing to say.

‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to the Contadino Estate. It’s where I grew up, where my family live.’

‘Is your father a farmer?’

‘No. Not everyone who lives on the Contadino Estate works the land or fishes the sea, just as not everyone who lives on the Fontein Estate is a soldier.’

‘That’s what I want to be. I want to be adopted by House Fontein when I’m sixteen.’

Rafaela laughed, her hazel eyes twinkling, ‘And I’m sure you will be, if you practise with your blade and don’t spend windy days reading fairy stories.’

Lucien blinked a few times, not sure if he was being chided or not.

They continued onwards, the cart creaking and rocking on the road, which was in good repair. They passed a small huddle of buildings, shuttered against the wind, smoke dissipated in a pale grey plume above the chimneys. Lucien spotted some boys playing outside, ragged-looking things, pinched and dirty. Their clothes were a uniform blend of dark grey and smudged brown. They wore no shoes, their feet pale underneath the mud that clung to them. Lucien said nothing and looked down at his boots, grateful for the thick socks he wore.

‘Why aren’t those boys at school?’ he asked.

‘Because their parents can’t afford it, most likely.’

‘What do you mean, afford?’

‘It costs money to send children to school, and not everyone has enough. Some people struggle to feed themselves.’

‘Who pays for me to go to school?’

‘Well.’ She paused. ‘The king, I suppose.’

‘And where does he get his money from?’

‘The king takes money from the people. Taxes.’

‘Even from people who don’t have enough to eat?’

Rafaela nodded.

‘Even from people that don’t have shoes?’

Another nod.

‘I don’t think I understand taxes,’ mumbled Lucien against the wind.

‘Few people do,’ said Rafaela, concentrating on the road ahead.

Finally they came to a building. Based on its size, Lucien guessed it was a barn. Moss had grown up one side of the structure, creeping across the stacked stones and feeble mortar of the bottom half. The top was constructed entirely of wood, caulked with flaking white plaster.

‘This is a strange building,’ whispered Lucien, not knowing why. Rafaela smiled at him and jumped down from the cart, unhitching it from the mule.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, half of it is made from wood.’

‘Not everyone can afford a castle made out of stone, little prince.’

‘So it’s about money? Again?’

Rafaela smiled and nodded.

‘Everything is about money.’

‘Then why have I never seen any before?’ he asked.

‘The rules don’t apply to you; you’re Orfano.’

She tied the mule up and made sure it had access to water, then held out her hands to him.

‘Come now, jump down. I want you to hear this.’

They entered the building and Lucien struggled to breathe. Inside were close to thirty children, ranging from six to twelve years old. He’d not seen so many before, certainly not children who were anything but scullions or pages. Even in the training rooms of House Fontein the number rarely rose above fifteen of Demesne’s privileged noble young. The children in the barn sat at small tables, chatting to each other and reading aloud from books. Some noted down single words on scraps of parchment and took them to a wooden board where they pinned them up. Most of the children had shoes, but their clothes were well worn and often threadbare.

Rafaela rested a hand on Lucien’s shoulder, holding him against her. She was taller than him back then. He looked up at her, forcing a nervous smile.

A woman attired all in black clapped her hands twice. The children became hushed, folding hands neatly in front of them. Some couldn’t quite direct their attention to the teacher, instead staring at the girl and the shivering boy who had just arrived.

‘Today we have a special treat. Mistress Rafaela has come to speak to you. As many of you know, Mistress Rafaela works at Demesne, but once she attended this very school. She learned her words just as you now are learning yours.’

The schoolteacher nodded politely to Rafaela, a small smile stealing over her thin lips. She was a severe-looking woman, her black hair scraped back into an unflattering bun. She had an abundance of forehead and rather beady eyes. Lucien was glad she wasn’t one of his tutors.

Rafaela ushered the children to one end of the schoolhouse, where they variously wriggled and bumbled about, managing to cram onto a broad, slightly mangy rug. Lucien perched on a corner near the front, not straying far from Ella. The children sat beside him and said nothing. They stared with owlish expressions or ignored him altogether, some more interested in the contents of their noses.

‘Hello. My name is Rafaela, and this is my little friend Luc.’ She indicated Lucien and he swallowed, felt himself blush.

‘I’ve come to tell you a folk story today, and perhaps some history too. The problem is this all took place so long ago no one quite knows what happened for sure.’ When she spoke loudly Lucien became aware of a pleasant timbre to her voice he’d not noticed before. Usually, when she was about her work at Demesne, she spoke in a respectful hush.

‘All we have is the story, and I will recount it as well as I can. Are you all comfortable?’ Ella smiled as thirty heads nodded; excited squeals escaping in anticipation of what was to come. Outside it began to rain, the drops drumming lightly on the wooden shingles above, the dull pattering providing a backdrop of sound.

‘A long time ago, perhaps three hundred years ago now, there were three great ships. They set out from a land a long way from here. Many, many miles. The ships carried people, dozens of people, even hundreds, and these people came looking for a new home. However, the ships were undone with bad luck. The captains, who were very old when the voyage began, died one by one. The first died in his sleep, the second captain collapsed while checking the maps. The last captain despaired. The ships had stumbled into a great storm, and it were as if many days had passed since anyone had seen the sun. In fact, many crew members on the ships were beginning to believe they were shrouded in constant night. When the storm reached its worst, the winds howling and shrieking like hungry ghosts, the last captain passed away. The crews of the three great ships were distraught, but the captain had seen a glimmer in the darkness before he died. Wit