The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(132)

Kiiren did not heed him, but stepped out into the tower cell.

“You left me behind.” There was a boyish sulkiness in his tone.

“You are too young for this, beloved.”

“I am as old as Jathekkil. As old as him in body – and older in soul. Why should I not stand beside you?”

Erishen sighed. “And you always said I was the stubborn one.”

“I learnt it from you.”

Human though he was, in the dim evening light Kiiren looked a great deal like the skrayling boy Erishen had collected from his mother after his first reincarnation. Same dark hair as yet unmarked by the silver streaks of adulthood, same determined expression.

“Very well. Come and sit by me.” He explained their half of the plan. “Can you do that?”

Kiiren made a rude noise. “Easily.”

Erishen took him by the shoulders.

“Do not underestimate him, amayi. Jathekkil may be young and weak, but Ilianwe is at least as old as I am and far more cunning. Now, we have delayed long enough. Lie down here, next to me, and we will begin.”

Erishen lay back and closed his eyes, focusing all his will on the dreamlands.

“Stop fidgeting,” he murmured. “Forget your mortal body and leave it behind.”

He did likewise himself, blocking out all the sounds of the city and the smells of the dank tower room. The darkness behind his eyelids shimmered, and he stepped out onto the twilit moor. A moment later Kiiren materialised at his side. Erishen held out his hand. Here in the dreamlands they were equal in height, though Kiiren’s soul burned with a fainter, whiter light that marked his relative youth.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Kiiren replied.

Only a short distance away, a cluster of dreaming minds marked the position of the great keep. No sign of Jathekkil, but perhaps he was still awake.

“Extend your senses,” Erishen said. “Unless he wears a spirit-guard, there will be traces of his connection to the dreamlands.”

Kiiren nodded. Together they spread their awareness outwards, taking in the scatter of human dreamers in the keep, the rustle of grass that perhaps marked the approach of a devourer… So fine-tuned was his attention that when another dreamwalker materialised behind him, the power bludgeoned his mind and he could not help but flinch.

“Erishen. It has been too long.” A soft, seductive voice, with an accent he could not put his finger on.

He turned around, stepping between Kiiren and the new arrival. “Ilianwe.”

“And this must be Kiiren.” The figure inclined its head, peering around him. “You were reborn as a Venetian, I hear. How fortunate for you.”

“Fortunate?” Kiiren replied. “I had much rather been reborn in my true kind. Our true kind.”

Ilianwe laughed and changed shape, into a skrayling female, short of hair and solidly built.

“Like this?” she said. “A form you so aspired to in your last incarnation.”

“It is traditional–”

“Tradition. It is tradition that bars us all from our former homeland. How can you have any loyalty to them?”

“Enough,” Erishen said. “She is trying to stall us. Kiiren, go and help my brother. I will detain her.”

Before he had even finished speaking Ilianwe changed again, into a winged, clawed thing that flew over Erishen’s head straight towards the fleeing Kiiren. Erishen launched himself after her in a blaze of white-hot light that scorched her wings and sent her tumbling to the ground.

“Go, amayi, now!”

Erishen had no more time to give Kiiren his attention, for Ilianwe was on her feet again. This time her shape was more humanoid, armoured in scales against his fire. She thrust her hands forward and dozens of tiny barbs flew from her fingertips, piercing his dream-flesh. He bit down on the cry of agony that threatened to burst from his throat, lest he distract Kiiren from his vital mission. Illusion, only illusion, he told himself. He circled round so that he was between Ilianwe and the keep once more.

“You cannot defeat me,” Ilianwe said. “Not in your broken state. I am older than you, and stronger.”

“We defeated you once.”

“And yet I am here.”

She gestured to either side; the air rippled and turned to stone that spread out and round and up, forming a dome that enclosed him on all sides. Erishen beat on it with his fists, but it only trembled and sifted dust down to choke his lungs. Illusion. I have no body here to need breath.

Laughing, Ilianwe turned into the winged beast once more and flew after Kiiren. She did not attack, however, but flew straight over his head, light flaring out green and gold and violet as she began to open a portal. Erishen threw himself against the walls of his prison but they were solid as ever. He looked down at his knuckles, raw and bleeding, and realised he was awake and pounding his fists into the stone wall of the tower room. He whirled around, but Kiiren was gone.



The great keep had been designed as the finest and most secure bolthole for a king who had only recently taken his place on the throne of England. Not Jathekkil, of course, but William the Conqueror. Even so, the place served the usurper well. A massive gatehouse defended the main approach on the west side of the keep. The entrance doors were high up on the first floor and could only be reached by a long flight of steps protected by another stone gatehouse. Once inside, any attackers had to cross the great hall to the north side of the keep in order to reach the main staircase to the upper floors.