Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The Deep Dark, Chapter 4 - Horus

Horus couldn't sleep. The weight of Oran's death sat on his chest, pushing down on his lungs so that his breaths were shallow. He tossed on his creaky cot, unable to find a comfortable position. His movements awakened Talla from her sleep beside him.

"What's wrong?" the girl whispered.

Horus said nothing and turned away. Too much was wrong to put into words. The world was wrong, a backwards place that rewarded incompetence. Anything beautiful withered and choked on the stagnant stench of hideous mediocrity. He presumed the intolerable Eloise Glass remained alive; not that any man would report of her demise or continued existence. She was too inconsequential. Oran's care for her was probably what got him killed. He hoped wherever Eloise was, she was miserable, imprisoned, and enduring torture, if possible.

His fatigue shrouded him in haze as he performed tasks in the early morning. Renard ordered him to get to work on the listening charms. He wanted to place them in the favorite meeting places of the house: the cellar, the courtyard, and the back passage beneath the stairs. He wished to be seen as the greatest threat within the house. He wanted challengers to confront him and to be ready to strike them down.

"I believe Lord Velus will be my next target provided he doesn't fall in line," said Renard. He dictated his thoughts, pacing with his hands behind his back with the confidence of a master strategist. "Then, of course, we'll have to figure out some way to eliminate Daia Carvelous. It's a shame we can't use your dead lover's Tonic of Poison Riposte again. Everyone knows how it worked, however spectacular."

Horus said nothing. He stood with his back to the boy, rhythmically grinding ingredients to a fine dust with his mortar and pestle. Renard's rattled-off plans sounded muddled. As Horus stared into the courtyard window, he imagined the silhouettes of Fernon and Oran seated on the bed. The ghosts watched him with curiosity and shared the casual rapport of old friends.

"I'm surprised he allows that little brat to order him around," said Fernon. "The Horus I knew would have never lowered himself to such subservience."

"And the Horus I knew hated crafting charms." Oran folded his arms and smirked. "You can tell he never put any effort into the study. It will take him twice as long to make something half as potent. It's all in the wrist, Hor!"

Fernon laughed heartily.

"You know he's heard that before!"

Horus scowled, first at the ghosts and then at himself as he remembered they were figments of his imagination. It was then that he noticed Renard blocking his view

"I asked you a question," said the boy. "Are you listening?"

"I'm- no. This requires some concentration."

Renard inspected the mortar. Some of the yellow powder had spilled over the edge. He narrowed his eyes at Horus.

"We have enough ingredients," he reasoned. "You can make another if you mess this one up. I asked if you could take the girls to Arvix for more clothing."

Horus cocked his head. Renard's motive for expanding the girls' wardrobe was certainly not kindness.

"I can," he said cautiously, "But I have not the coin to afford luxaries."

"We have an abundance now," said Renard. "Jerard, Prince or Duke of I forgot has decided to follow the true Red Falcon."

"Which one is that?"

Renard's face soured again.

"Me," he said between his teeth. "Jerard has bequeathed unto us a seemingly bottomless bag of gold. If you were listening, you'd know I'm hosting a special banquet. I would like me and the girls to look nice."