Chapter 004

  The scent of resin was so thick he could taste it with every breath. The narrow trail wound through the pine forest until it finally spilled him out onto a cart track. Beyond it stretched the tilled fields of stubborn Morren. The old man had been disputing the boundary line with his parents for years. To the left began the wildwood, a tract of their own land where his mother often took him to hunt with the bow. To the right, in the distance, loomed the silhouette of the family manor. Its red roof gleamed in the sun like a glowing coal, flanked by flame oaks spreading their scarlet crowns. Yet visitors looked not at the oaks, but at the black locusts—the sigil of House Blackwood.

  The dirt track gave way to a road paved with slabs from the quarries of Tyron. He reached the white wall encircling the estate. Many a time he had sat atop it, gazing out at the fields, or watching the stars with his father. He followed the stone barrier until he stood before the main gate. Just beyond stood two immense trees. His great-grandparents had planted them the very day the Artifact came into their hands. With it came the name and the estate. From that day on, they were Blackwoods, they and every child who would come after them.

  Dark green leaves rustled like the whispers of dark elves. Black locust flowers scattered a sweet, honeyed scent laced with jasmine, luring bees and those who knew how to appreciate such marvels. Father adored the honey from their blooms, and Mother loved the scent. She always paused for a moment by one of the trunks. The steward, Jareth, on the other hand, detested the trees. "Nothing but trouble," he would say whenever a single leaf fell. He often warned everyone to wash their hands immediately after touching the bark or leaves, for they were poisonous. Only the flowers were an exception. Belmond stopped and carefully plucked a few dark blossoms. He thought of Ness, who could brew an evening infusion for his mother from them.

  A loose slab wobbled under his foot as he crossed the spacious courtyard. Jareth had promised to fix it long ago. Mother would not be pleased. Flame oaks grew on both sides. He passed the old well on his left. He didn't even glance at the stables on his right. His thoughts were already with his father, with the stories he was to hear today. At the mere thought, his heart quickened, and his pace with it.

  Sunbeams slid across the great, arched windows, flooding the interior with a warm glow. The front doors, intricately carved from black locust wood, stood out starkly against the pale walls. The whole structure was crowned by a roof of deep red. Father said the tiles were moulded from clay and the powdered carapaces of ants from the Myrmid Mound. Stone walls and slender turrets gave the residence the air of a fortress, though its interior held spacious, light-filled, warm chambers.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He climbed the four marble steps. He stood at the threshold of the double doors of black locust. He felt their weight before he even touched the brass handles. Under his hand, the wood was polished like black marble. Most eye-catching was the bas-relief, carved by the chisel of some unknown master. Above his head shone a gilded sun-disc, sowing sheaves of rays, and beneath it spread the tangle of a dark forest. The crowns gleamed with gold, as if dusted with powdered amber. To a keen eye, silhouettes of races that preferred to remain unseen flickered among the branches. The hand that carved this must have known the world better than most men. To a stranger, these mighty gates must have seemed like a portal to another world. To him, they were a return to a safe childhood. To a place where every corner smelled of home.

  He pressed the cool brass, expecting the mechanism to yield with a quiet click, as it had done thousands of times before. But the handle did not budge. He put his shoulder to the black wood, but the solid leaves remained unmoved.

  "Locked?" he whispered in disbelief.

  He turned his head toward the stables he had previously ignored. Only now did he notice that the stall doors were wide open, and the spot where the carriage usually stood gaped empty. He frowned.

  Ness and Jareth gone to the city? At this hour? And Father? Had he gone with them?

  He lifted the heavy knocker and struck it several times against the solid plank, waking a loud echo.

  "Father?!" he called, pressing his ear to the frame.

  Only silence answered him, broken by the sigh of the wind. Mother surely had her key with her, wherever she was, and he had not brought his own. He sighed heavily and ran down the marble steps. He walked briskly along the wall, treading the paved path that led to the rear of the estate, to the kitchen entrance. Just by the threshold, on a stone ledge, stood a pot-bellied clay planter. He gripped its rough rim and lifted the blue vessel. He prayed silently that Ness had left the keys there, as was sometimes her habit. They lay in their place. He breathed a sigh of relief, snatched the bunch, and went inside. He turned right immediately, plunging into the shadows of the kitchen. He tossed the handful of flowers for the infusion onto the table and grabbed an apple from a bowl. He ate it in haste, almost on the run, then scooped up two more fruits. For Father. Assuming he was still in his study.

  He traversed the cool, stone corridor, heading for the passage that concealed the narrow stairs leading to the upper floor. That was where his father's study and workshop lay. He climbed the steps and stopped before the massive oak door.

  In scholarly circles, the name Blackwood evoked a past so ancient that memory of it had all but faded, and the parchments on which it was written turned to dust at the attempt to unroll them. Father was considered the undisputed authority on catacombs, necropolises, and artifacts torn from their dark depths. His erudition and relentless curiosity in probing the mysteries of the Great Conflagration had caught the attention of the Emperor himself, Valerian II Myrddin. The Ruler of the Empire, valuing Ethan's passion for uncovering the secrets of bygone eras, had many times invited him to the capital to seek counsel.

  Belmond rapped his knuckles confidently against the oak planks. Silence answered him. He frowned and tried again, louder this time, but no sound came from the study. Impatient, he pressed the handle. The mechanism yielded without resistance.