Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Layna!’ A boy, barely six years old, galloped down from the house, covered head to foot in mud.

  ‘Oh, Fin,’ Zastra sighed. ‘I only washed your clothes yesterday. What in the stars have you been doing?’

  ‘Making mud castles,’ the boy explained proudly. He tugged her sleeve. ‘Layna, come look.’

  Layna. Even though she had been called that for many seasons, Zastra still found it odd that her little brother didn’t know she had once had a different name. It was more than five years since they had escaped from Golmer Castle after their treacherous uncle and his mindweavers had killed their parents. Five hard years, toiling to farm the stony ground of the Border Mountains, hoping their goatswool fetched a good price and every year risking her life for the jula berry harvest. No one would look at Zastra, clad in Dalbric’s ill-fitting cast offs, and think she had royal blood. Fin had been too young to remember anything of his life before the mountains. Too young to remember his twin sister, Kastara, left as a baby in the care of Bodel, the mother of one of Zastra’s childhood friends, deep within Golmeira. It was safer that he did not know these things. Even in the mountains, you never knew when a mindweaver might come by and dig out the secrets held inside your head. She allowed Fin to drag her up the slope.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ wheezed Etta, still recovering from her coughing fit. ‘Did you catch anything for supper?’

  Zastra shook her head. ‘There wasn’t time for fishing.’

  ‘But time enough for fighting, I see. We’ll have to make do with halsa paste again, won’t we? You can think about your priorities as you clean the wool tonight, young lady.’

  Zastra sighed but did not protest. After a brief detour to admire five misshapen lumps of mud that Findar insisted were castles, she took him back to their tiny kitchen and began grinding up a few handfuls of misshapen halsa nuts, adding water and salt to make a pale green paste. She set it to heat on the stove, waiting until the mixture bubbled before serving it up. Dalbric pulled a face.

  ‘If I eat much more of this, I’ll turn into a halsa nut myself. Then you’ll be sorry.’

  Findar pushed his plate away in alarm. ‘Don’t want to turn into a nut. Can I please have cabbage instead?’

  Zastra jabbed her fork in Dalbric’s direction.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Patience, little man.’ Dalbric nudged Findar’s plate back towards him. ‘The ground has only been thawed a little while. Even though we planted our first seeds straight away, it’ll be next Moonscross before anything starts to grow.’

  ‘Beans?’ Findar asked hopefully.

  ‘They’ll come after the cabbages. It’s the yellow-root I can’t wait for. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste it. Salt roasted and covered in cheese. Yummy.’

  Fin clapped his hands in agreement.

  ‘Want yellow-root. Now!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Dalbric, sometimes you can be a real idiot,’ Etta scolded.

  ‘Only sometimes?’ Zastra queried. ‘Come on, Fin. Eat up. You won’t turn into a halsa nut, I promise. And tomorrow, I’ll take out my bow and find us something nicer.’

  Fin wavered, but when he saw there was no other food to be had, he ate up his green paste with no further protest and even licked out the bowl.

  After supper, Etta set up her spindle. Lengths of rope were slung across their cabin, upon which clumps of wool were draped. Dalbric took one down, checked it was dry and picked up the combs with a smug grin. Zastra sighed and headed through the kitchen to the cold storeroom that lay at the back of the house. A second batch of goats’ wool had been soaking in barrels for the past two days and was now ready for rinsing. Zastra rolled up her sleeves and stuck her hands into the foul-smelling liquid, a special concoction of Etta’s. All the muck and dead insects from a year’s worth of mountain living floated in a scum at the top. Zastra scooped off the rancid layer, pulled out a ball of wool, wrung it out and rinsed it thoroughly in a second barrel of clean, cold water. Her hands were soon chafed and stinging, but she continued until all the wool was clean. No use complaining. They desperately needed the money. It was a long way from Golmer Castle and the luxuries of her childhood, but it was worth it to keep her brother safely out of their uncle’s reach.

  Chapter Three

  A high ranking general in the Golmeiran army brushed a speck of fluff from the shoulder of his immaculate uniform and knocked firmly on the panelled blackwood door. He waited for an acknowledgement before entering.

  ‘Ah, Ixendred. Come.’ Grand Marl Thorlberd’s deep tones reverberated against the bare stone walls of his office. Ixendred presented a neat bow, exactly to protocol. Thorlberd was standing beside a desk of highly polished elmwood. Before him was the trembling figure of Higina, Master at Arms and Ixendred’s commanding officer. Word had it that she had just returned from Sendor. Her uniform was faded and dirty. She was carrying a little extra weight these days, Ixendred noted, and dark circles of sweat spread out beneath her armpits.

  ‘Continue, Higina.’ The woman stirred like a leaf buffeted by a wind-gust at the Grand Marl’s command.

  ‘I-I am sorry to report that Sendoran rebels have captured the supply of weapons meant for our garrison at Finistron,’ she stuttered.

  ‘How many rebels were there?’ Thorlberd glowered darkly.

  ‘A-at least three hundred, m-my Lord.’

  ‘You lie!’ Thorlberd crashed his fist down on the desk. A large crack opened up within the grain. ‘Don’t you know that I can see into the depths of your mind, even though you try to block me? Your thoughts scream your guilt.’

  Higina flinched backward as Thorlberd narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I see twenty rebels, against a hundred of what you laughably believed to be your best troops.’

  ‘I… we killed five of them—’

  Thorlberd cut through Higina’s protest. ‘But not the daughter of Mendoraz, who I see was among them. Killing the heir to Sendor might have rescued something from this abysmal failure. It is three years since we first invaded that miserable country. A year since you assured me it was subjugated, yet still they fight on. I will suffer this failure no longer.’

  He beckoned Ixendred, who stepped forward promptly and snapped to attention.

  ‘Have you any ideas on how this rebellion might be crushed, Ixendred?’

  Ixendred cleared his throat with confidence. His contacts had told him the news from Sendor and, being a practical man, he had anticipated that Thorlberd might be looking for someone to replace Higina.

  ‘Yes, my lord. First, we must cut off support for the rebels by dealing firmly with any peasants that feed and shelter them. Anyone suspected of helping them must be punished. Also, we must commit more troops. We hold the towns and cities, but the countryside remains vulnerable.’

  ‘What would you recommend, were you to be my new Master at Arms?’

  The two men paid no heed to the strangled squeak of protest from the increasingly perspiring Higina.

  ‘I propose we reassert control across Sendor, my Lord. And this time, it must be absolute. The Sendorans are seasoned warriors, willing to die for their cause. If we are to succeed, we need the help of experienced soldiers, equally ferocious and determined.’

  ‘Where do you propose we find such soldiers?’

  ‘The Kyrgs, my Lord. You used them before, and what a masterstroke it was. Why not call on them again?’

  Thorlberd scratched his beard. ‘The exchequer is still deep in debt from the bribes I had to pay the Kyrgs to help overthrow my brother. This Sendoran business is a constant drain. I’ve already increased taxes twice and squeezed the marls for all they have. There is no more money.’

  ‘Why not use a mindlock, my lord? I understand such things are possible for a skilled mindweaver. If you can control Jelgar, the Kyrg chieftain, the absolute obedience of the Kyrg army would do the rest. No need for money at all.’

  ‘How do you know of such things? Mindlocks have been outlawed for centuries.’ />
  ‘I like to keep informed. And you have not generally allowed tradition to get in your way.’

  ‘I had considered the idea when I seized control from my brother, but in order to ensure the lock remains in place, a mindweaver must stay close to Jelgar at all times. There was no one to whom I could entrust such a task without my brother finding out.’

  Ixendred nodded in understanding.

  ‘But now, my lord, secrecy is not required.’

  Thorlberd acceded the point.

  ‘What mindweaver in their right mind would volunteer to live with those animals in the Northern Wastes?’ spluttered Higina. Thorlberd straightened his back.

  ‘One who is anxious to make up for her recent failures, lest she meet the fate of my last two Masters at Arms.’

  Realisation and horror chased each other across Higina’s broad features. Her predecessor had been executed for failing to capture one of Sendor’s major cities quickly enough. The one before that had so earned Thorlberd’s displeasure that it was said that he had driven her mad before releasing her to wander Golmeira in perpetual mental torment.

  ‘Start packing your furs, Higina. I hear that winter in the Northern Wastes is cold enough to freeze your fingers off. Deliver me the Kyrginites and I will let you live. I may even allow you to return once Sendor is under control.’

  ‘But…but…’ protested Higina, desperately searching for a flaw in the plan. ‘What if Jelgar’s guthans refuse to obey him? They would kill me, quick as blinking.’

  ‘As long as Jelgar is alive, they will obey his orders. It is the Kyrg way. Only if someone kills him does the leadership pass on. You must not let that happen. I will supply you with a small troop, to protect Jelgar.’

  ‘Protect Jelgar? What about me?’

  Thorlberd furrowed his brow in annoyance.

  ‘I will give you another mindweaver, someone also eager to regain my good opinion. The two of you will have to keep each other alive.’

  ‘Kyrgs will not be enough. What about our fleet? It is desperately undermanned.’ Higina was clearly not going to give up without a fight. ‘We need to protect our shipping from pirates and Skurgs. I’ll bet General Ixendred hasn’t an answer to that problem.’

  Ixendred coughed politely.

  ‘I believe I do. Our folk in the Border Mountains are tough and contribute little in taxes. Decree that everyone living there between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five must serve in the Golmeiran army. It would not be popular, but would solve our manpower problem.’

  ‘Popularity is irrelevant.’ Thorlberd waved a large hand dismissively. ‘See to it. Let that be the Kyrgs first task. They are good at sniffing out their prey and they know how to deal with anyone who refuses to co-operate. You are hereby appointed my new Master at Arms.’

  Ixendred bowed.

  ‘You can count on me, my lord.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Come on, Fin,’ urged Dalbric. ‘At this rate we’ll have to start back before we even get to Fivepeaks.’

  Fin was trying to choose whether to take his wooden soldier or his pressed leaf collection. In his opinion, both were essential supplies for the trek down to Fivepeaks, but Etta had insisted that he could only take one. Dalbric picked up a large skein of yarn and made for the door. ‘If you can’t make up your mind, you’ll just have to stay here.’

  ‘I could stay behind with him,’ Zastra offered. Etta shook her head firmly.

  ‘We’ve been through this before. Folk’ll be suspicious if you don’t come down to the village.’

  ‘Nice try,’ Dalbric remarked. ‘I don’t get it, You’re happy to risk a broken neck for a few jula berries, yet you are scared of a few villagers.’

  Zastra glared at him.

  ‘I’m not scared. I just don’t trust them. Always asking questions.’

  ‘If you tried a bit harder to make friends, maybe they’d let it alone. I’d have thought someone brought up in a castle would be more polite.’

  ‘Careful, Fin might hear.’

  Luckily, her brother was still preoccupied in choosing what to take on the trip and was oblivious to their conversation. Dalbric mouthed a silent apology. At last Findar thrust aside the leaf collection and stuffed the soldier in his waistband and they set off. As they met the treeline, the little boy picked up a stick twice his height, which he proceeded to use as a staff. Within a few minutes he grew tired of carrying it and planted it upright in the centre of a patch of mud.

  ‘Will it grow into a tree?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘’Course not,’ Dalbric said, laughing. ‘Has your sister been teaching you such nonsense?’

  Fin looked upset.

  ‘Would it have hurt to pretend?’ Zastra whispered.

  ‘Lies won’t help him survive in the mountains.’

  Zastra plucked the stick from the ground and threw it for Dalbric to catch. She stepped off the path and snapped a slim branch from a sapling, stripping off the side shoots and she balanced it on her palm to feel its weight.

  ‘I remember my first spring in the mountains, you told me yellow roots grew at the top of silver ferns. I nearly killed myself on the thorns trying to climb up.’

  ‘Ain’t my fault you believed me,’ grinned Dalbric. ‘The clue was in the word “root”.’

  Zastra swung her stick sharply. Dalbric used his own to parry her blow. They began to circle each other. Zastra had taught Dalbric how to spar to fill the time when they were shut indoors during the long winters. He thrust towards her chest, but she sidestepped smartly, and rapped him across the hand.

  ‘Ow!’ he yelped, dropping his stick and sucking on his knuckles. ‘No need to hit so hard.’

  ‘Never attack unless you have your defence prepared. You wouldn’t last a minute against a trained fighter.’

  ‘Stop playing at soldiers, will you?’ snapped Etta. ‘Layna, if that wool gets spoiled—’ She was brought up short by another coughing fit that lasted so long her face turned an angry shade of red. Zastra threw aside her stick and fumbled to release the flask of water from her waistband. She offered it to Etta.

  ‘Ma, you should talk to Lindarn about that cough. It’s been getting worse even though winter is behind us.’

  ‘I’m not going to bother the healer over a little cold. I’ll be right in a few days.’

  ‘Fin!’ Zastra cried, horrified by the sight of her brother on the brink of investigating his way into a fast-flowing stream.

  ‘Look – a fishy.’ Findar leaned out and dipped his pale fist into the water. Zastra only just managed to grab the back of his shirt before he toppled in.

  ‘Fish for lunch?’ he suggested hopefully. Zastra looked along the stream. Further down the mountainside it dropped into a shallow pool. She wedged her precious bag of wool next to a large rock and clambered along towards it. Settling onto her stomach she sank her left arm beneath the water so that it lay on the bed of the stream. The water was ice cold and ate into her flesh, needles of pain slowly replaced by numbness. She resisted the urge to flex her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver as a fat river trout shot down the stream and into the pool.

  ‘Is there a fish? Where is it? Where?’ Fin had followed behind and leaned over Zastra’s shoulder to peer into the water.

  ‘Hush, you’ll scare it.’

  With a flick of its tail, the trout glided towards a patch of sunlight and paused above Zastra’s submerged arm. In a single fluid movement, she flicked it out onto the bank, reached for her knife and chopped off its head.

  ‘Ugh!’ cried Fin. ‘Poor fishy.’ He ran back to Etta and buried his head in her skirts as Zastra grabbed her pack and followed, holding up her trophy in triumph. Etta, who seemed to have recovered from her fit, led Fin away down the mountain with his head still buried in her skirts.

  ‘No need to show off,’ remarked Dalbric. ‘I taught you well, is all.’

  Zastra pulled him back, until Etta and Fin were out of earshot.

  ‘I’m conce
rned about Etta. That’s more than just a cold, whatever she says.’

  ‘You heard her. She refuses to see Lindarn.’

  ‘What if I bring him to Frecha’s? She can hardly refuse to see him then.’

  Dalbric looked astonished at such a bold suggestion.

  ‘She’ll be real mad at you.’

  ‘Well, we’re both used to that,’ Zastra said ruefully. ‘As soon as Etta and Frecha get gossiping, I’ll sneak out and find him.’

  They reached the outskirts of Fivepeaks village just before noon. At the first farm they passed, a tall, muscular man was ploughing furrows with great intensity.

  ‘Kikan!’ Findar waved vigorously at the man. However, Kikan paid them no heed, but continued on, forcing his hand-held plough into the earth as if it were an enemy to be defeated.

  ‘Why didn’t he say hello?’ Fin asked, downcast.

  ‘He’s busy,’ explained Etta. ‘Kikan knows the importance of getting the oats planted early. And it doesn’t look as if Raurak is helping him. That’s what he gets for marrying a soft valley man. More trouble than they’re worth.’

  Zastra sensed the remark was aimed at her. After all, like Kikan’s husband, she had not been born in the mountains. In the eyes of Etta and the other villagers, she was one of the soft valley folk and always would be, no matter how hard she worked to prove herself.

  They passed a few more scattered farmhouses before the narrow path widened into a track that marked the entrance to the village itself. Houses were packed more densely together there, one of the largest even had an upper floor, whose elaborately carved shutters were flung open to let in the spring air. A youth with short hair leaned out of an upstairs window and waved at them. Three moles ran in a line down his left cheek.

  ‘Ho, Layna!’ he called a sing-song voice.

  Zastra increased her pace, refusing to look up.

  ‘You look so fine, please be mine, oh Lay—naaa.’

  Dalbric nudged her.