Crossing right to the other side of the trade area, she removed the green fringed shawl and folded it neatly. Before long she came upon a stall selling rough textured cloaks with hoods. The stall holder was lighting a torch. She stood back for a while and watched a man barter a beautifully carved jug for a coat. When this transaction was concluded, Merlin stepped up confidently, imitating her forerunner by pointing aggressively at a long cloak with a cowled hood.
‘This for two of those.’
The man stared at her, his eyes noting her hair. He hawked and spat on the ground. Merlin was not disheartened by this blunt show of disinterest. He had done the same to the man with the carving. He reached out and fingered the shawl disparagingly, shaking his head.
‘What then?’
The man shrugged as if she were forcing him to deal with her. He eyed the shawl with dislike, but Merlin noticed he could not resist touching the silk. She smiled and he scowled, seeing that she had noticed.
‘Two cloaks is too much.’
‘For Fallon silk?’ Merlin asked archly.
The man grunted, shifted on his feet and shook his head minutely.
‘Well, if you are not interested . . .’ She took up the shawl. The man’s hand snaked out, grasping her wrist.
‘Wait a bit. What about a full cloak and a smaller one?’ he offered. Merlin was certain the shawl was worth more than that, but she was growing uneasy about staying in the trade area in case Bors came looking for her. Yet she did not want to seem too eager to sell in case the buyer became suspicious.
She pointed to a square scarf. ‘The big cloak, the small one and that.’
The man hesitated, then shrugged. ‘All right.’
The exchange made, Merlin hurried off. On her way through the stalls she exchanged the small cloak for a knife and a loaf of bread, and the scarf for a jug of cordial. Cloth was clearly valuable.
Pleased with her purchases, Merlin flung the cloak around her shoulders, hiding the silken tunic and trousers. Pulling up the cowl, her hair was also hidden and at last she felt as if she were invisible in the milling crowds.
It was growing dark, and rather than stay near the trade area, she tailed along behind a group of people making their way towards the temple she had seen from the path. She had a feeling the Mound of Wisdom Marthe had mentioned would be somewhere near the temple.
Two small girls were lighting torches marking the walkway in front of the temple, throwing its façade into sharp relief. The pool glinted darkly, offering a perfectly reversed image of the temple.
Most of the people walking along the path went to the temple, but the path continued. Merlin followed it, hoping it would bring her to the Mound. She had little expectation that she would learn anything about herself, but even the bath tent had shown her how much she had to learn about clan society.
The path ended at the edge of a square of raised ground planted with bushes and small trees. There were torches at the edges of the Mound and the light dimly revealed people walking or sitting on benches on the Mound.
Taking a deep breath, Merlin stepped up and walked towards an old woman seated alone in a shadowy arbour of trees. Uncertain how to open a conversation, she hesitated.
The woman had not noticed her standing in the shadows. She smiled at someone coming up behind her. Merlin turned to see an elderly man approaching, his long grey hair bound in a loose plait. Unconsciously, she stepped back into the trees so that she could not be seen.
‘Greetings, Helf,’ the old woman said.
‘Sheula, it is good to see you,’ the old man grunted painfully, sitting down next to the woman on the bench. ‘It is a weary journey to the Valley these days.’
‘Yet you come when you need not, Helf,’ Sheula responded.
Helf nodded. ‘I come to speak of my idea for the clans to exchange-foster the children of other clans. Ora believes you will rule against me.’
The old woman nodded decisively. ‘Warden Ora is correct. I do not favour the clans becoming too close. Yours is a dangerous idea and unpopular among the other wardens.’
Merlin’s heart jumped at the sudden realisation that the two old people were wardens. She stood very still.
’Dangerous?’ Helf snorted. ‘Sheula, you sound as if I propose some dark and potent blending of bloods.’
‘Isn’t that it?’ Sheula asked.
He looked taken aback. ‘I do not know what it is you fear, Sheula, you and the others. Once it was considered healthy for clanfolk to move from clan to clan and for mindbond to take place from one clan to another. I propose this plan to promote harmony and better understanding between the clans. This selfish isolationism must end.’
Sheula looked unmoved. ‘Surely Conclave meetings are enough to show you what can come of bringing the clans together. Each year, little more is done than squabble.’
‘That is my point. One Conclave a year is not enough. If there were more traffic between clans, there would be more ease of discussion, more harmony. Before the Citizen gods came, there was talk of more frequent meetings. Now we meet only to make the Offering.’
‘You are a dreamer and a fool, Helf, to believe there can ever be harmony between clans. No wonder Sadik does badly this year if this is a sample of your wisdom,’ Sheula said coldly.
Helf looked indignant. ‘You are clanbound. You oppose this idea only because it is new.’
Sheula snorted. ‘It is you who are clanbound, Helf. You speak of mindbonding, yet you know as well as I do that it is a barbaric throwback. Wordbond is enough.’
‘I do not share that view. Wordbonding permits lies. Mindbonding went from fashion only when the Citizen gods came out,’ Helf added.
‘Perhaps it is time you stepped down from wardenship. Better still, if you are so dissatisfied, become an exile. Join the scatterlings.’
‘At least they honour the mindbond,’ Helf snapped. ‘Or so I have heard.’
The old woman’s expression was sour. ‘Sometimes you come perilously close to heresy.’
‘I am too old to be afraid of breaking rules, Sheula, and too old to fight with anything but words.’
‘Your words almost saw you slain last Conclave.’
Helf inclined his head. ‘I only advocated that we request mindbond with the Citizen gods that we might better understand the process of separating the soul from the Blessed Walker.’
‘You did not want understanding! The Lord wardens saw that. You would have had us insult the Citizen gods by demanding proof of their word?’ Sheula hissed.
‘There was a time when the mindbond was considered an honour, not an insult,’ Helf sighed. ‘But that was voted down. It is past.’
‘Your attitude is dangerous, Helf. I am your friend, but do not walk too far out onto a thin branch. I would not speak of mindbonding or the scatterling exiles.’
‘So now wardens must guard their words. Would you report me?’ Helf asked gently.
Merlin wondered that the wardens did not guard their words more carefully. But perhaps they were so elevated in clan society, no one would dare denounce them but another warden.
Sheula shook her head. ‘No. But you must be more orthodox in your attitudes. Accept what must be. Sadik is an isolated clan holding, but you must keep up with the times. The clans tithe children to the Citizen gods, just as they tithe to Conclave. This is for the good of the many. You know that. Before this, our people were hunted down and herded like cattle. Many died. It is for the best.’
Helf shook his head, and Merlin saw despair in his eyes. ‘I thought this too, until my boy was Offered, and suddenly it seemed too high a price to pay for peace. Sometimes, it seems to me the visiondraught is payment for the Offering.’
‘The visiondraught is a gift from the Citizen gods, and increases the wisdom of the Lord wardens. You gave the boy up because it was the law, and because it was for the boy’s good as well. Before, he was your servant, no matter that you had come to love him. Once Chosen, he had the chance to become a Blessed Walker,
’ Sheula said.
Helf nodded sadly and stared down at his hands. Merlin was filled with pity for the sad old man. The conversation told her the Offering was indeed some sort of slavery. But why were the children given to the Citizen Gods called Blessed Walkers? It seemed no one knew what the Citizen gods did with those taken. Sear had been determined to get inside the Citizen gods’ domed city to find out what happened to the clanfolk. But he had also talked of immortality, and the old woman on the Mound spoke as if being taken to the forbidden city was something wonderful.
With a gasp, Merlin realised this might be the answer to her loss of memory. Perhaps she had been Offered!
‘Is someone there?’ the woman called. Merlin’s heart began to race as she realised she had given herself away – to two wardens! She had no choice but to try bluffing her way out of it. Reluctantly she approached the bench where the elderly couple were seated.
‘What clan?’ the woman demanded.
‘Nallar,’ Merlin said, hoping the old couple were not of or well acquainted with the Nallar clan. At least she was no longer wearing rags.
Sheula nodded. ‘A good safe clan in these troubled times, though there is a rumour Nallar falls on hard times.’
Merlin shrugged. The old woman looked at her expectantly, and Merlin had a flash of inspiration. ‘I come to the Mound to seek wisdom. My brother is to be Offered,’ she said, hoping she had phrased it correctly.
Helf looked up at her compassionately. ‘Accept the grief, child, for it is a sharp blade that will not blunt with time.’
Sheula gave him a quelling glance. ‘Your brotherblood will return as a Blessed Walker, therefore give praise to the Citizen gods that his soul has been Chosen to dwell forever in happiness inside the forbidden city.’
Helf reached out and drew Merlin closer. ‘Child, you have lost your brother firstblood, for he must be so for you to grieve. You must believe him dead for the one that returns will neither laugh nor weep nor speak to you.’
Sheula rose and stared down at the old man. ‘Helf, you put this matter badly. Girl, in the early days, when the Citizen gods came from the forbidden city, our people did not understand, and many died. Then the Citizen gods revealed to the wardens their wish to grant eternal life to some few chosen clanpeople. And so began the Offering. Do not grieve for your brother, since he is one of the fortunate. The Blessed Walkers grace us as shadows of our loved ones and reminders that their souls are now sacred.’
Merlin nodded slowly. It seemed those taken were returned. She had assumed they were kept or killed. She wondered why those who returned did not simply tell the rest what had happened to them. Or perhaps they were forbidden to speak.
‘What is your blood name?’ Sheula asked abruptly.
Merlin’s heart missed a beat. She coughed, casting about for a name.
‘Mou . . . Mount,’ she said at last.
Sheula frowned. ‘An uncommon name.’
Merlin stepped back. ‘I . . . I will have to go back. I am expected to wait on my Lady M . . . Meryl.’
‘Meryl?’ Sheula said. ‘I do not know that name . . .’
’Goodbye,’ Merlin stammered, hurrying into the darkness. She stumbled along the path, glad it was now all but deserted, fearing she would hear the sharp-voiced Sheula cry out after her.
Passing the temple, her heartbeat slowed to normal.
Glancing at the pool of water, Merlin noticed a boy walking through the crowd standing beside the water. People bowed their heads as he passed, but the boy neither acknowledged them nor showed any expression. Like the girl in the Region of Great Trees, his mouth was loose and his eyes blank.
A terrible realisation struck Merlin. The old man on the Mound had said those who came back from the forbidden city would neither laugh nor smile nor speak. And then she knew!
This boy was a Blessed Walker. Blessed!
With a flash of horror, Merlin remembered the mindless girl in the white shift who had appeared suddenly in the Region of Great Trees. But what could have been done to reduce these children to mindless automations? Sickened, Merlin, for the first time, sympathised with the scatterlings’ hatred of the Citizen gods. She could understand why the scatterlings had turned their backs on the clans and wardens who preached that the walking catatonics were Blessed Walkers.
She walked on more slowly, remembering the misery in the eyes of the old man called Helf.
It was worse than murder, Merlin thought, horrified at the idea of children delivered up by their families to such a dreadful fate. It was now clear that the Citizen gods hunted clanfolk before the Offering was established. Then it had been decided to give clanpeople to the Citizen gods in exchange for peace and something called visiondraught. The whole business about immortality was just a way for the clanpeople to quiet their consciences about those sacrificed.
But Helf’s doubts and regrets showed that not even all wardens accepted the myths fed to them by the Citizen gods. It seemed Marthe was right when she said some wardens did not welcome the Offering and the Citizen gods.
And why did the Citizen gods take the clanpeople, only to return them mindless?
Merlin shook her head wearily. It seemed she had travelled to the Conclave not to answer questions, but to gather them! She had no idea what to do next.
‘Girl!’
She stopped dead, recognising the voice of Bors. Turning slowly, she searched for words to explain her failure to appear at Fallon’s tents at dusk. But the grimly accusatory look on Bors’ face froze the excuses on her lips.
‘You are not of Nallar, Merlin, if that is your true name. Who are you, and what are you up to? I demand mindbond.’
7
‘Why bring her here?’ Aran asked.
He had been astounded to walk into the tent and find Bors alone with Merlin. She had the distinct impression Bors had been just as startled at Aran’s appearance, though he claimed to have been searching for him.
A look of decision came over Bors’ roughly hewn features. ‘I spoke with someone from Nallar in trade. He had never heard of a girl whose hair was burned. But when I accused her of lying, she did not deny it. She claims to have lost her memory. She said she has never mindbonded.’
‘You are a fool, Bors. All children learn how to mindbond. She is probably part of one of Delpha’s complicated plots to discredit me and you have helped by bringing her here,’ Aran said.
‘There is more. She claims to have been with the scatterlings.’
Aran and his lady paled visibly in the flickering lantern light. Aran turned to face Merlin. ‘Who are you?’ he asked grimly.
Merlin said wearily. ‘I told him: I don’t remember. I stumbled on to the scatterlings in the Region of Great Trees. They would have known me if I were one of them. They thought me a runaway from the Sea Region.’
Aran shook his head. ‘This is impossible, Bors. You have put us in an intolerable position by bringing her here.’
’You . . . you think she lies then?’ the Lady Meer said wistfully.
Aran looked at her sharply. ‘Of course she lies. It is an incredible story. If she had been an exile, the gate-guardians would have known it. They mindprint all of those Chosen, so they have mindprints of all runaways. What else could she be but a runaway if she was in the Region of Great Trees? If the gate-guardians let her through, she was no runaway. What else can she be but a spy?’
‘Perhaps there is some other explanation. It is possible she has lost her memory. She spoke of Ford and Era,’ Bors said softly.
‘Anyone might know the name of rebels,’ Aran murmured.
Merlin said: ‘The one called Ford had light-coloured hair and a scar – here.’ She pointed to her own face. Aran’s lady moaned.
‘Meer, please!’ Aran said warningly to her. ‘Ford is an exile and dead to the clans. I will call the gate-guardians.’
The Lady Meer put her fingers on Aran’s rigid arm. ‘Aran, I must know. You would give your life for Bors and he for you, though you are called
servant and master. Why shouldn’t we speak freely before him? I thought Ford dead when the Rememberer said I would not see him again in this life. I must be sure this girl does not speak true.’
Aran gave a defeated sigh. Meer turned eagerly to Merlin. ‘Tell me something about him that no spy would be told.’
Merlin thought of Ford. ‘He . . . he told me he asks a lot of questions. All the time. He says that has got him into trouble, but that he can’t help himself.’
‘Not good enough,’ Aran snapped. ‘Delpha, more than anyone, would know that of Ford.’
Meer looked at Merlin beseechingly.
She remembered something else. ‘There . . . there is one other thing I remember him telling me. But I just don’t remember when . . .’
‘Please,’ Meer whispered.
Merlin bit her lip. ‘He told me, when he was small, a warden stuck a stick into a stingers’ nest and gave him honey. He . . . he said he was happy at that moment,’ Merlin added lamely.
Meer turned triumphantly to Aran. ‘I was there that day. And so were you. There was no one else but that old warden, and he is dead. Ford shouted out his happiness.’ She smiled tearfully. ‘Do you remember?’
Aran nodded and his face was sad. ‘I remember.’
Meer swung back to face Merlin. ‘Ford lives, then? He is well? And Era?’
‘They survive,’ Merlin said in a hard voice, knowing these people must have condoned the Offering of Ford and many others.
Meer flinched from the coldness in her voice. ‘You blame me, us. It is no more than I deserve. Era supported him, and when that failed, she fled with him.’ She began to weep softly.
Aran gave her an agonised look. ‘Meer, my love, don’t. What could we have done? Opposed the clan wardens and be exiled?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ Meer sobbed wildly. ‘Why not? Isn’t brotherblood worth more than fine silks and comfort?’
‘Meer, we believed in the wordbond made between the Conclave of Lord wardens and the Citizen gods. We thought of him as a traitor,’ Aran said, falling on his knees beside her.
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