The Tales of Tarya, Books 1-3

Chapter 5 - Transformations-3

The building must have been beautiful once. It was carved from blocks of shimmering, cream-coloured stone, probably from the same quarry as the royal palace. But some sort of creeping mould, smears of dark green and black, crept up the walls, long fingers of corruption staining the stone almost to head height.

The windows were narrow slits unadorned by curtains or decorative lintels. Plain and functional, they gave the building an institutional appearance.

Like most of Aurea, the façade was intricately carved, two bands stretching upward from the dark wood double door to the roof of black tiles. On another building the patterns might have been beautiful, but the twists and turns were too complex for the eye to follow. Within the carvings black mould lurked, creating further pockets of corruption.

Jal turned back to his mother.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded and shrunk into the wagon’s seat, her mouth pinched. Squaring his shoulders, Jal turned and entered the building. He still thought this must be a mistake.

Inside, the place did not feel sinister so much as tired. Striped wallpaper must have once given this space an air of gentility, but now it was faded beyond colour. Near the ceiling the paper was cracked, small flecks peeling off. The carpet was faded, burnt orange. A long hallway stretched away to end in closed double doors with discoloured bronze handles. There were two more doors on either side of the hallway, and each door was closed.

A small table near the entrance held a small bronze bell with a handle shaped as a grotesque, grimacing animal. Jal rang it. Immediately the first door on his left opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out, a query on her face.

‘Jal Fiorillo.’ Jal offered his hand, giving a slight bow as she took it. Years of survival strategies on the road caused him to also offer a slightly flirtatious smile. A little charm always helped.

The woman, plainly dressed in a crisp linen skirt and bodice, the sleeves of her chemise pushed up to her elbows, flushed slightly. A woman who dressed carefully, Jal guessed, but was soon worn down by the day’s duties. She was a little on the plump side, greying at the temples, but there was kindness in her tired eyes.

‘Lisa Gerardi,’ she said, taking her hand back with the slightest crinkle of her lips. ‘I’m sorry your father is unwell. Do you understand his condition?’

‘I don’t understand what he’s doing here,’ Jal replied. ‘He was fine when I saw him during the Festival of Lights.’

Mistress Gerardi flushed again, glancing down the hallway to the double doors. ‘Perhaps you’d better come into my office.’

Jal hid his frustration with a charming smile and followed her. He didn’t want to sit and discuss formalities. He wanted to see his father.

The office was sparsely furnished with a heavy desk and three chairs. Jal quickly intercepted Mistress Gerardi before she could take the seat behind the desk, guiding her to one of the two others so he sat opposite her.

‘Why is my father is here?’ Jal asked once they were settled. ‘And may I call you Lisa?’

Blushing, she nodded assent.

Charm came easily to Jal, and he guessed Mistress Gerardi had not received much of this kind of attention in her life.

‘For the record, having spoken to your mother, I find it hard to believe your father practised Arcani,’ Lisa said apologetically, one hand unconsciously plumping her short, greying curls.

‘It’s a ridiculous suggestion,’ Jal agreed. ‘He was an artisan, but he would never have used his skills to create enchantments.’

‘I understand you’re an artisan yourself,’ Lisa prompted, leaning forward eagerly.

‘Actually, our troupe was named the royal troupe during the Festival of Lights,’ he said with deliberate modesty.

Lisa sighed. ‘How wonderful. I must come and see you perform. I love the players.’

‘Unfortunately we were unable to take up the position. Problems with the troupe. Illness and so forth.’

‘Oh, I’m so disappointed.’

‘Well,’ Jal leaned forward and touched her knee, ‘when I join a new troupe I will invite you to a performance. It must be difficult, working here.’

Lisa smiled at the offer. Jal held himself still, screaming inside from frustration. He wanted to get through the formalities and find out what was going on. Lisa lost her smile, perhaps sensing his frustration, and switched to business mode.

‘Mr Fiorillo,’ she said, her voice crisp.

‘Jal, please.’ He still beamed his full attention at her, knowing she would find it hard to resist.

‘Jal, then. It can be a bit of a shock to families to see their loved one here. The place has such a terrible reputation, and most people aren’t used to …’

‘It’s fine, Lisa. I’ve seen a lot of things in my travels. You don’t need to smooth the way for me. Can you take me to my father please?’

She nodded and they stood. Jal ushered her out of the office with another little bow, then followed her down the hallway to the double doors.

They were locked with not one, but two locks. Lisa used two thick bronze keys to open them. Each door was carved of heavy, dark wood and adorned with numerous stained bronze studs the size of a fist. Their ominous grandeur was at odds with the faded gentility of the front hallway.

Once Lisa had unlocked both locks she pulled a cord hanging on the wall next to the right door. A deep bell rang on the other side of the doors, muffled by the thick wood. Lisa drew Jal back as one of the doors creaked open, then stepped through the gap and beckoned him to follow.

Jal was not sure what he’d been expecting, but it was not this. The room before him was huge, and semi-circular, light streaming in through long, narrow windows that began just above head height, taking up most of the upper part of the wall. Furniture was scattered about as though an entire village had placed the contents of their houses here for storage. Chairs in different styles clustered haphazardly while rugs in various stages of deterioration covered most of the floor.

A hulking man in a dark brown tunic stepped in to close the studded doors they had entered through. Lisa leaned toward him and muttered something. Jal caught his father’s name. The man hurried to the other end of the room while Lisa locked the two locks.

Lisa whispered to Jal, ‘It might be best not to meet anyone’s eyes.’

She led him across the room, to another smaller set of double doors set into the left curve of the wall.

Like the furniture, the people who filled the vast chamber were a motley collection, all ages and sizes. Some paced in circles with erratic movements, some sat staring at nothing, some even huddled on the floor, rocking. Voices filled the air as they argued with invisible strangers or muttered to themselves. An occasional shriek pierced the hubbub.

All bore the same vacant expression on their faces.

Most were unkempt, their hair ratted. Yet Jal noticed one woman seated, back rigidly straight, immaculately dressed in fashionable garb, accepting a cup of tea with impeccable manners from someone who was not there.

‘We do bathe them and brush their hair and so on,’ Lisa said apologetically, ‘but they don’t stay clean for long.’

Someone lumbered toward them just as they reached the smaller double doors. Jal flinched, preparing for trouble, until he realised it was the giant man in the brown tunic. His voice was surprisingly soft.

‘They’re taking him to the courtyard.’

Lisa nodded thanks and began unlocking the doors. Jal continued to face the room, unwilling to turn his back on its inhabitants quite yet. He noticed a number of men in brown tunics scattered amongst the inmates, talking to them or standing back and scanning for trouble.

A young woman rushed toward him, tearing her chemise away from her breasts. Jal had encountered similar behaviour after performances, but usually in a private space, and those women never had such a wild look in their eyes. At least, not this kind of wild. Lisa took his elbow and drew him through the open door as another huge man in a brown tunic blocked the woman’s charge, pulling her clothes together as he did. Lisa shut and locked the door with practiced speed.

Jal found himself in a large garden, beautifully kept, with benches dotted around. The peaceful effect was somewhat spoiled by the high bluestone wall surrounding it, which gave a claustrophobic feel. A stone staircase led up the side of the building they had just exited, to a second storey. Unlike the stained walls, the stairs were scrubbed clean and worn from frequent use. They were enclosed by a metal cage with a locked gate at the bottom. High above, the windows were barred.

‘They’ve brought your father out here so you can see him in private,’ Lisa said, leading Jal to where an archway broke the wall. She nodded toward a cobbled courtyard beyond.

Jal realised he was nervous as he walked through the arch. Here, the bluestone walls were equally tall, looming close in the smaller space. At first the courtyard appeared empty. Barren, inscrutable stone made the place feel stark and bare after the lush gardens he had just passed through.

Yet it wasn’t barren. On the high wall a tree grew, immense and teeming with birds. Strangely, the great trunk and reaching, laden branches sat on top of the wall. The root system trailed down the stone, its twisted stems thicker than a man’s thigh, coloured the parchment yellow of old bones. These roots wound around and through each other, like ancient corpses climbing the wall over the soundless screams of their brethren.

It took a long, silent moment for Jal to realise his father stood in a niche caused by two roots drawing apart to reveal blue stone. He had seen him such a short while ago, during the Festival of Lights, that the change was truly shocking.

This skeletal figure, arms outstretched to trace the roots, long fingers stroking tree flesh lovingly—this could not be the slightly plump, ever-cheerful man who had taught him to love beauty and art above all. This emaciated figure clutching at the tree had thin, broken hands, not the sure, strong touch of a gifted sculptor.

‘Father …’ Jal said. It came out more a question than a greeting. The man turned, and Jal drew a sharp breath. He recognised his father’s deep brown eyes at once, though the face belonged to a stranger, all cavernous hollowed cheeks and sharp angles, and the eyes held no merry sparkle, only confusion.

‘I know you …’ this stranger began, nodding his head. He reached a hand toward Jal, and stopped as it caught his attention. He began to examine his fingers closely.

‘Father,’ Jal said again, hurrying to him. Peter Fiorillo pushed away the boy’s attempt to embrace him but reached for Jal’s face, running a hand over it.

‘What a fine face. A fine face. Reminds me of … a work of art. So handsome. Perfect planes.’

‘Father, what are you doing here?’ Jal asked.

‘They won’t give me any clay,’ the old man responded. He broke away, heading toward the archway back to the main garden. ‘But it doesn’t matter,’ he said over his shoulder. He had reached the garden and knelt down, bony fingers scrabbling at the dirt. It was dark and moist and he easily pulled together a small mound, which he started shaping with rapid movements.

Jal knelt near his father. ‘Do you know who I am?’

The old man ignored him, fingers working the earth beneath his hands. Jal tried for another minute, but his father seemed unaware of him. Behind them the building’s door opened and Lisa came into the garden, carefully closing it behind her.