The Masque of Vyle by Andy Chambers Page A

of the guests had chosen to attire themselves in shades complementary to the hall’s monochromatic theme. Amber, russet, umber and taupe were in far too much evidence, with more daring individuals veering towards charcoal or gold. It gave an effect of making the room appear to be full of soft, shadowy phantoms wavering in uncertain light. Defiant of such fripperies Vyle had chosen to clad himself in a tight vest of blood-red hue over a midnight-black body suit. A storm was building outside as if in reflection of his dark mood, and occasional spears of white light shot in through high, narrow windows and threw the scene into sharp relief with an accompanying grumble of thunder.
    Although he would never admit it, Vyle had the ashen taste of fear in his mouth. He had gambled much to gain the favour of the Supreme Overlord and be appointed his seneschal in the Sable Marches. The Shrike Lord balked at no deed however heinous it might be, but he had been forced into measures that even he might admit were extreme to reach this point. The intractability of the natives, the grasping demands of Asdrubael Vect, the weakness of the Yegaras, all had conspired to push matters to a supremely dangerous pass.
    Kassais sat watching Vyle narrowly, shifting occasionally in discomfort as the wounds inflicted on his shoulder by the reszix knitted with preternatural speed. He was careful to keep a look of amused disdain on his features, but behind this mask his mind was also working swiftly. For all the bravado he demonstrated the Shrike Lord seemed to be in over his head in the Sable Marches. If the gates were working, Kassais decided, he would already be long gone by now. As it was, Kassais sat and pondered how he might best turn the situation to his own advantage.
    Olthanyr Yegara was fully engaged with just trying to keep his nerve. The crystal wafer he had found outside Qu’isal’s chambers in the black wing returned to the forefront of his mind again and again. Part of him wanted to tell the Shrike Lord about it, to confess his error in not mentioning it previously before he was found out. Another part warned him against such folly. The Shrike Lord was going to kill him if he found out. A third, insidious voice told him to do nothing and hope that the lightning would strike down his tormentor while he was left untouched. After all if it had been Olthanyr that invoked the curse, surely that meant he would be protected from it?
    A particularly bright stab of lightning lit the hall seconds before thunder boomed close by outside. Yegara gasped and blinked spots from his eyes in the aftermath. Just for an instant the room had been rendered into white light and harsh shadows, making the guests and furnishings look like two-dimensional cut-outs. In that moment Olthanyr had seen another shape that hadn’t been there before, something spindly and unnatural-looking crouched beside Vyle’s throne. It was all he could do not to cry out in horror, but as his vision cleared he saw that nothing was there. Vyle glared back at him angrily.
    ‘What are you staring at, fool?’ the Shrike Lord snarled. ‘You look like you’ve seen one of your slack-jawed, inbred uncles come back from the dead.’
    ‘It was nothing, forgive me I – by the gods!’ Yegara exclaimed suddenly, shrieking the last words at a hysterical pitch. Vyle and Kassais bounded up from their seats in an instant, ready for action though they knew not from where. The other guests fell silent in shock and then craned their necks to see what new fit of madness was gripping the last Yegara.
    ‘What now?’ Kassais laughed after a moment. ‘I thought the cat-beast had come back for a second round.’
    Olthanyr Yegara was gazing rigidly at the corner of the table where Vyle’s hand had rested only a moment ago. There, sitting innocently upon the rich, swirling grain of the wood, was a crystal wafer, the one from outside Qu’isal’s chambers or another just like it. The Shrike Lord