For a brief moment, he remembered peace. He remembered the quiet joy he felt in anticipating fatherhood. Elaine was quiet in her confinement, saying little to him or the maids who attended her. Occasionally a woman of the barony, a squire’s wife or the wife of one of the more prominent merchants, would visit and she would brighten for a bit in the company of another woman while sipping tea or strolling through the gardens, but mostly she seemed sad in a way he didn’t understand.
Then came the night Elaine went into labour. A storm had sprung up out of the sea: hills and walls of purple-black cloud piled along the western horizon, flickering with lightning but touched gold by the sun as it set behind them. The surge came before the storm, mountain-high waves that set fishermen dragging their craft higher and lashing them to trees and boulders, and to praying as the thrust of air came shrieking about their thatch. When the rain followed it came nearly level, blown before the monster winds.
Whips of rain lashed the manor too, and lightning forked the sky while thunder rattled the windows. Bernarr had bribed the midwife to stay at the manse the last two weeks and given the dreadful weather was glad he’d done so.
The storm blew in a traveller and his servants who begged shelter, which Bernarr granted gladly – hospitality brought luck, and at this moment he wanted his full share. The house was so still these days he welcomed the company and was delighted to discover that his guest was a scholar who cared far more for the books in his coach than for either his horses, his servants or himself.
‘Lyman,’ the old man said in his sleep, his lips barely speaking the name.
Bernarr could not see the man’s face. He stood in shadows and no matter how hard Bernarr tried, the memory of the man’s face eluded him. In his fever-dream, the old man remembered, he had shared wine with this man, he had seen him in daylight, yet at this moment, reliving this terrible night, he could not see the man’s face in the shadow.
Then the scream came, and he could hear Lyman’s voice, as if coming to him from a great distance, carried by the storm, ‘You should go to her, my lord.’
Bernarr rushed from the room even as another cry rent the air, terror lending wings to his feet. Yet as he hurried, his feet refused to carry him. The hall was impossibly long and each step was a struggle. He felt as if his body was encased in armour, lead boots clasped around his feet, and terror rose up within as he fought to reach his chambers. Then he was at Elaine’s door in moments, throwing it open—
The midwife stood there, her face at once showing joy and fear. The baby was coming, but Elaine was in distress.
‘You have a son, my lady!’ the midwife said a moment later. She handed the babe to one of the maids and that one rushed the child over to another who tended a bath.
In his dream Bernarr stood unable to move, and then he watched himself approach the bed, stand at its foot and stare in horror at Elaine. Bernarr saw himself look down at his pale, lovely wife, her face drenched in perspiration, her dark hair plastered to her head. Her night clothing was hitched up over her stomach, and everywhere below he could see blood.
Elaine’s eyes sought his, and in them was a silent pleading, and suddenly there was a presence at his side.
‘My lord,’ said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Bernarr saw himself turn to stare at his guest. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Lyman.
‘There may be something I can do.’
Then came a rush of images. Lyman raised his hands and the room plunged into darkness.
The midwife tried to hand him his son, but one look at the child and Bernarr shouted, ‘Get rid of it! I never want to see it again.’
Suddenly a monk was in the room, a healing priest from the order of Dala, and then he was accompanied by the chirurgeon. Then he heard the monk’s voice. ‘I am sorry, my lord. She is moments from death, there is nothing I can do.’
Now he was outside her room, and Lyman was chanting. Bernarr again stared at the figure, but could see no face under the broad-brimmed hat.
At last he saw the face of his wife, lying in agony on her bed, her face white and her eyes filled with blood. ‘Let me go!’ she pleaded.
Bernarr woke with a gasp, his heart pounding and tears in his eyes, his head lifted painfully from his pillow. He fell back with a sigh and closed his burning eyes.
He’d had this dream before. Too often in fact. But the ending was new; he’d only dreamed that she spoke to him once before.
‘I won’t let you die,’ he whispered to no one.
He turned his head toward the doorway to her room. The candles had burned down. Even though time moved slowly in her room, it did pass. Seventeen years had come and gone since that dreadful night. Each day Lyman had renewed the spell and every day he tried to find a spell that would save Elaine.
At first they had tried only white magic: seeking healers from across the land, even once, at great expense, sending to Great Kesh for one they’d heard could work miracles. Then they’d tried healing spells, none of which seemed to affect her in even the slightest way.
Each time they lowered the spell that preserved her he feared she would slip away, but each time she’d lived long enough for them to fail and then renew the spell.
Of late, they had turned to darker magic, a spell found in an ancient tome Lyman had secured from a trader from Kesh. There was something evil about that book, but Bernarr had exhausted all other options. He must try this terrible and bloody thing, or he would finally go mad.
Lyman assured him that soon they would succeed. They must succeed; or Elaine would be lost forever.
• Chapter Eleven •
Discovery
LORRIE AWOKE WITH A START.
There were the usual morning sounds; cockerels crowing, birds singing, but the smell was wrong; dusty emptiness around her, and under that too much smoke and too much dung and nothing green. And the floor beneath her was hard board, not the straw-stuffed tick she slept on.
Where—? she thought.
It crashed in on her, dazing, like a horse’s kick in the gut: I’m in Land’s End. I’m here looking for Rip. Mother and Father are dead.
It was late morning, by the look of the yellow light that filtered in through the shuttered window, a column full of dancing motes of dust. She was alone, alone enough to lie still for a moment with the tears leaking down her cheeks.
Mother! she thought. I need you, Mother!
But she would never see her mother again, and their last words had been a quarrel. Never again would she see her father coming in from the fields to smile and rumple her hair, or sit by the hearth on winter evenings and tell the old stories in his slow deep voice.
She felt like crying, but tears wouldn’t come. Instead there was a dull, aching void. She sat, scrubbing at her face. Rip is alive, she scolded herself. She had to concentrate on that. And I will find him!
But when she concentrated, she sensed something else: that Rip was no longer in Land’s End. She flung aside the cloth she’d been using for a blanket, jammed her shoes on her feet, then rose and went to the window.
She couldn’t see anyone below and though there were windows in the surrounding warehouses she couldn’t see anyone moving behind them. She’d just have to take the chance that they wouldn’t see her either. She gave one glance at the rumpled cloth she’d meant to rewind onto the bolt and shook her head regretfully. There wasn’t time to do that. Rip came first. She put one leg on the window-sill, turned and felt for the roof behind her with her free leg. The window was offset the shed roof below. She remembered Jimmy cautioning her to reach up with her left hand while using her right to steady herself on the wall, the swing to the left a little, and pull up. She determined to reverse the procedure and get to the shed roof. From there it was a short leap to the alley below.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’
The man’s shout seemed to come from directly behind her. Lorrie gasped and almost lost her grip. She slipped down and grabbed hard on the win
dow-sill. For a long moment, she held motionless, her chin barely above the still, clutching the window, for her life in fact, because there was nothing below her but hard cobbles, twenty feet down. Glancing fearfully over her shoulder she saw no one. No one was looking out of one of the windows opposite either.
‘What do ye mean?’
The voices came from the main street, just beyond where the alley below joined it. Right about where the main doors of the warehouse were.
‘I mean those crates are due on the dock in less than an hour if the Crab isn’t to lose the tide. Why aren’t they on the wagons? What have you been doing all morning, standing there with a thumb up your arse?’
‘I just got the order a few minutes ago! ‘S not my fault!’
Her relief that the shout hadn’t been directed at her caused Lorrie to drop a few inches. She was going to try to swing a few feet to her right and reach the tile roof. As she tried to swing a little to the left, she felt the pain; a sudden, violent burn that was colder than winter ice at the same time, and beneath it all the ugly slicing feeling of being cut.
She’d had accidents with tools and sharp branches before. Not like this. Something very sharp was digging deep into her leg. The hot trickle of her own blood down her leg made her shiver and she gasped at the increased pain even that small movement caused.
That made her want to scream and twist around to grab her leg at the same time; but either of those would mean that she would die.
And Rip will have nobody.
Her head swam a moment, but she fought down dizziness and panted through her mouth. Don’t let go! she commanded herself. She glanced down and saw a seemingly innocuous shard of glass wedged in between the stones. Some glazier had been sloppy in his work and the long piece had fallen from a broken window to wedge hard between stones. Like a crystal dagger it had cut up into Lorrie’s leg. She forced herself to take a deep breath and knew she would have to use every ounce of will and strength to regain the window.
Her hands firmed on the ledge, driving her fingers painfully into the splintery wood. But she couldn’t stay like this: the fall from this height would be a lot more painful than what she was feeling now. Lorrie took a deep breath and hoisted herself up on the window frame. The shrill of agony as her wound was savaged further almost made her lose her grip, rendering her too shocked to even cry out. Once the surprise was over she kept herself from crying out by gritting her teeth and remembering Rip.
If she was caught she might be gaoled, and if she was gaoled she couldn’t help him. I can’t let them catch me, she thought. I have to be strong.
The argument in the street below continued unabated, growing louder, if anything. It was to be hoped it was loud enough to cover the sound of her panting and of her movements as she struggled back into the hidden room. But she needed to move fast, before the yelling attracted people to the windows around her. Lorrie pulled her wounded leg back as far as it would go, but when she hoisted herself up again found it wasn’t quite far enough. She gave one sob of pain and frustration, then continued her progress, even as it tore her leg.
Now she was halfway into the room, hanging from the window at her waist. She breathed in and out through her teeth, fast and desperate, then gave one jerk that almost made her scream and she was free of the protruding glass. As quietly as she could Lorrie scrambled back into the room, sliding down onto the dusty floor, biting the base of her right thumb to keep the screams that forced their way up her throat muffled.
Once she got her breath back she sat up to check the damage.
The sight almost made her faint as the pain had not. A long, deep and jagged cut started just above her knee and ended at her upper thigh. Blood poured from the ripped flesh, already pooling on the floor; the only good thing about it was that it didn’t jet and spurt. The leg moved when she jerked it in horror, so the tendon wasn’t cut. The shard had dug straight into the centre of the muscle. But bleeding that bad could kill her in an hour. A country girl knew about cuts – and how much blood a pig had, which was about the same as a man’s.
Do something! she shouted at herself.
With trembling hands she loosed her water bottle from her belt and poured some onto her leg. It burned like fire and she greyed out for a moment, dropping the bottle. She caught it up quickly, listening to see if someone had noticed the sound. Nothing happened and she looked down at her leg again.
When the blood had been washed away Lorrie was able to see that it needed stitching. She’d once watched her mother sew up Emmet, their man of all work, when his axe had slipped and had listened carefully to her instructions. But this looked a lot worse and she had nothing to use for a needle. And she didn’t have her mother. Lorrie pressed her hand against her mouth, hard. She didn’t have time to cry, she was bleeding, and badly.
Dragging herself over to the bolt of cloth she cut a clean length of it; then she pulled down her trousers and bandaged the leg as tightly as she could, strips around the leg holding a thick pad on the wound. If she couldn’t stitch it up, then she could at least press it together. Maybe that would be enough. Then she pulled up the trousers and lay back down on her makeshift bed.
What am I going to do? she thought. She could feel Rip getting further and further away. But she couldn’t even climb down from this place with the wound in her leg, even if no one was down there, let alone follow two men on horseback. I shouldn’t have sold Horace.
But she’d been so certain that Land’s End was their final destination. Why else would they steal her brother but to sell him to slavers? Yet he was being moved inland; the feeling was like an inner weathervane, shifting slowly and pointing the way. Why? she repeated to herself, over and over again.
She’d begun the internal shout in despair and ended it in anger. Why Rip, why her parents, why her, why now? Who were these people, what were they doing? And beyond all and above everything, and forever, why?
Lorrie closed her eyes. Blackness fell like a crashing wave.
It was just past dawn when Flora slipped into Jimmy’s room; a quiet dawn, by Krondor standards.
‘Where were you last night?’ she demanded in a very loud whisper.
Jimmy, caught by surprise, yanked his pants up so hard he hurt himself. He glared at her over his shoulder, fighting an urge to clutch the painful parts.
‘You …’ His voice came out so high he coughed and started again. ‘You’re supposed to knock first, remember?’
‘Tsk! You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before,’ she said scornfully.
Jimmy arched his brows. ‘Does your aunt know that?’ he said sweetly.
Flora’s lips twitched down at the corners as she looked away and brushed her hair back, blushing. ‘No. And maybe you were right. Maybe I should just keep it to myself.’
‘I honestly think that would be for the best,’ he said, not without sympathy. ‘Best all round, I mean.’
She gave an unladylike snort. ‘Yeah, I mustn’t forget you’re in there, too.’ Then she looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘So, where were you last night?’
‘I went out for a walk,’ he said, frowning. ‘Just taking in the town and I felt I needed the exercise.’
Flora pressed her lips together anxiously and moved over to him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t do anything wrong while you’re staying here,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Jimmy. It’s important.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he protested.
‘Well,’ she waved her hands in exasperation. ‘Don’t!’
‘What, as in, never again? I can’t promise that, Flora. I’m a Mocker, not a priest.’
‘At least not while you’re here,’ she said, her eyes pleading. ‘If you do something wrong it will reflect on me and on them, and the disgrace would be dreadful.’
‘By “anything wrong” I suspect you mean more than simply, “don’t steal”,’ he said. ‘I bet you mean don’t go to taverns, or get drunk, or get into brawls, or gamble …’ She shook her he
ad, her eyes wide.
‘Or …’ He stroked a finger gently down her cheek.
Flora reared back as if she’d never taunted a sailor in her life. ‘Especially not that!’ she said.
Jimmy stared at her. It wasn’t that long ago we were doing that. Now look at her! It hadn’t taken any time at all for Flora to become officiously respectable. He put his hands on his hips and laughed at her.
She shushed him, glancing at the closed door of his room.
‘Flora,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I can’t imagine how you’re going to survive this degree of self-restraint.’ Though of course ample meals, comfort, and no worries about the future would help mightily. ‘But if it’s what you want, then that’s what you should have; I was worried about you when all this started, you’ll remember.’
She still looked anxious, so he took pity on her. Placing a hand on his heart he said: ‘I have no intention of disgracing you, or your relatives.’
With quiet determination she asked, ‘Then, please, tell me what you did last night.’
Jimmy gave a deep sigh and hung his head. ‘All right. If you must know I saved a girl.’
Flora made a strangled sound and when he looked at her saw an almost comical expression of surprise on her face. ‘Who? And from what?’
‘Really!’ he said. ‘She was a country girl disguised as a boy and she’d fallen in with some very corrupt thief-takers. Y’remember Gerem Benton?’
She nodded. ‘Gerem the Snake? Confidence grifter used to work the dodge on farmers looking to get rich quick with the Pigeon Drop and the Fake Diamond cons? Yeah, what about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘He’s alive and running a gang of thief-takers here. Looks like he’s set himself up with the local constables; at least that’s what it looks to me. He almost had this girl but I got her away. He didn’t know she was a girl, else he might have tried harder to hang on to her.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Y’know, this town would be a lot better off if they had an Upright Man of their own,’ he added wisely.
The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy Page 86