Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘I hope that whatever killed you, it wasn’t poison grubs,’ she addressed the pile of rocks at the end of the passage. It didn’t seem odd to her that she was talking to a dead skeleton. Perhaps it was due to being alone for so many days. ‘Hope you don’t mind my using your needle,’ she added. ‘Since Kyrgs believe in making use of everything, I’d like to think you’d approve.’

  She tore a couple of threads from a scrap of cloth she had retrieved from the skeleton and used the needle to mend her damaged glove.

  ‘What did happen to you?’ she asked. ‘If it wasn’t poison, then what? Frostbite? Hunger? Or did something kill you?’

  Her companion gave no answer. Typical Kyrg. Limited conversational skills. Zastra wrapped herself in every scrap of fur she could find, lay down on a bed of green moss and closed her eyes.

  She was visited by strange dreams. She was standing in front of the ice cliff. There was a shadowy form buried beneath the surface, something dark and terrifying. A small boy, fair hair bouncing, ran across the dazzling snow. It was Findar, aged about six. He began to pound at the wall with his fists, trying to free the figure inside.

  ‘No!’ Zastra cried, pulling him away. ‘It must stay buried.’ Findar looked at her, his eyes filled with tears, and then walked away.

  ‘Fin, wait! Don’t go,’ she pleaded, but he had already vanished. The snow around her split and a figure burst upwards, his face grey and veined like marble. It was her father. His body twitched and his severed head fell off and rolled across the snow towards her. His headless form drew a sword from a scabbard. Ghostly figures emerged from the ice cliff, eyes clouded like congealed soup. She recognised Justyn, Orika, Waylin and, most terrible of all, Dobery, his birthmark black against his pale, dead face. Her beheaded father joined them, defending the figure buried in the ice. Someone rushed past her, charging at the ghosts with a loud cry. It was Kylen. She swung her sword, hacking at arms and limbs, but the ghosts could not be killed. Kylen turned into Kastara, surrounded by a bubble of light. She walked towards the wall. The ice began to buckle and crack.

  ‘Stop!’ Zastra cried, terrified. ‘You mustn’t!’ Kastara turned to look at her accusingly, then faded away. The ground split open and a vast figure of burning red cinders rose up, steam hissing from the parting snow. It was the Mother of the ko-venteela, but it had Anara’s face. She raked her hands down the cliff, and the ice began to slough off in sheets. The figure was revealed, naked and trembling. Through shaking fingers, Zastra looked and saw herself.

  She woke with a jerk. Her moss fire had long since gone out. She forced herself to move, stamping on the ground and swinging her arms to force her sluggish blood to circulate. The strange dream stayed with her. Somehow, she felt it was important – that it had some meaning that she needed to work out. At least she was alive. The grubs she had eaten had not been poisonous after all. Her happiness at this fact was dampened when she poked her head out of the crack. A blizzard was raging and all she could see was white. The snow merged with the white sky and it was impossible to tell up from down. The wind screamed as it flung snow and ice into her face. She retreated swiftly back into the cave. No point trying to battle through that. She would have to wait until the storm subsided.

  Her mossy bed had dried out enough to burn and she made herself a breakfast of warm water. Suddenly she became aware of a new smell in the cave. She turned slowly. A snow wolf stood before her, watching her with pale eyes. A dead scrittal sagged between its teeth. It was between her and her spear, which she had foolishly left in the tunnel. The wolf gave a low growl. A warning. But Zastra knew if she was turned out into the blizzard she would die. This was her cave now and she must fight for it. She spread her arms wide, making herself as big as possible and uttered a guttural roar. If she was scared, perhaps the wolf would be too. Its tail dropped and it took a step back. Zastra charged with a desperate cry and the wolf dropped its prize and fled. Zastra grabbed her spear and followed the wolf into the blizzard, but it had vanished into the whiteness. She didn’t try and follow. The wolf’s prize was soon skinned and roasting over her little fire. She held the spear across her body, but the wolf did not return. Her bluff had worked.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Myka tried to appear unconcerned as the black raven dug into his thoughts. Their wagon had been forced to halt in front of the archway of red stone that formed the main entrance to Lyria Castle. Beside him, Nerika tutted impatiently. He was protecting her mind as well as his own and she was proving a difficult woman to help. Her bitterness and hatred had a nasty habit of bursting through his protective block. The last marl they had visited had been a mindweaver, and after one look at Nerika she had turned them away. Myka supposed he should be grateful they hadn’t been executed on the spot. Everywhere they travelled in Golmeira, they had seen bodies hanging from trees, or lying next to open graves. Killing had become a popular pastime under Rastran’s rule.

  The black raven’s scan was like a tap, dripping against his mental barrier. Not exactly dangerous, but intensely annoying. He was cold. It had been raining all day and his clothes were soaked through. Gildarn and Nerika had stayed warm and dry inside the covered wagon. They were posing as silk merchants, while he got landed with the role of servant, driver and general dogsbody. Typical of his luck. He’d asked to be sent to Southland, hoping for a chance to see his parents, but Polina worried that he was likely to be recognised in his homeland, so she’d packed him off with Nerika and Gildarn to try their luck in the Borders. Living with Nerika was about as much fun as bedding down with a scrittal. Even Gildarn seemed on edge. Not that Myka could blame him. Sharing the task of protecting Nerika’s mind was enough to make anyone nervous. He shivered as the black raven kept up her slow, steady probing. He wondered how Findar and Kastara were doing. However cold it was here, the Northern Wastes would be far worse.

  At last they were waved through, but only as far as a stout man with a broken nose and a middle-aged woman who sniffled constantly. They wore red tunics embroidered with a stylised jula tree, denoting them as Marl Orwin’s personal militia. The man prodded a couple of silk bales with a pudgy finger as the woman wiped her nose on her damp sleeve. The militia was recruited from those left after the best men and women had been forced to serve in the Golmeiran army. Hardly the cream of the crop. After a cursory examination, the militiaman let them through. As it happened, their silk bales were exactly what they were supposed to be. Marl Orwin’s wife was rumoured to enjoy fine things and it had seemed a good ploy to gain entrance. Once inside the castle, the plan was to see if Orwin was prepared to support the rebel cause but Myka was not optimistic. Aside from the marl who had thrown them out, another had agreed to help so readily that Myka suspected he had just told them what they wanted to hear. A third had demanded proof that the rebels could beat Rastran before making any commitment, and the last one they had visited had threatened to hang them from her castle gates. They had needed all Gildarn’s mindweaving skills to extricate themselves from that situation.

  A servant called Podrik led them to their quarters. His left eye was blind, covered in a milky film, and his left arm was shrivelled and hung uselessly by his side. Yet he lifted one of their largest silk bales under his good arm as easily as if it was filled with air. Once he had shown them their rooms, he invited Myka to visit the kitchens.

  ‘My… Ma is cook, so I can always… get something,’ he said, his speech slow and hesitant. Myka thanked him for his offer. They had barely settled in before they were summoned to Lady Lichinara’s chambers. The lady of the castle was elegantly dressed, her hair unnaturally dark for one of her advancing years. She did not rise. Gildarn bowed low and performed introductions.

  ‘I am always glad to see quality merchandise, but do not think I’m a fool,’ Lichinara said. ‘The silk trade is controlled by the grand marl and I’ll wager your goods haven’t been through any customs house. I expect a significant discount.’

  Gildarn flushed like a boy caught with his nose in
the larder. He barked orders at Myka, demanding he lay out the silks. Gildarn was a good actor, Myka had to admit. Everyone had a secret. If Lichinara thought she had figured out theirs, she wouldn’t go digging for the real truth. Gildarn presented her with a series of patterned and painted silks, talking knowledgeably about warp and weft, crepe and organzine. It was easy to see he’d been a silk merchant in his previous life.

  ‘Will Marl Orwin be joining us?’ Nerika asked abruptly. Gildarn gave her a warning look. Her impatience was poorly disguised. Fortunately, Lichinara was too engrossed in the silks to notice.

  ‘My husband has more important matters to attend to, so he tells me,’ she drawled. Nerika pulled Myka aside as Gildarn and Lichinara haggled over the price.

  ‘If Orwin isn’t here, we’re wasting our time,’ Nerika hissed. ‘Can’t you scan someone to see if he’s even in the castle?’

  Myka shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not really very good at that sort of thing.’

  A deal was struck for two bales of intricately patterned organzine. Lichinara insisted they stay the night, assuring them they would be paid on the morrow.

  ‘My husband keeps the key to the safe,’ she said, pursing her lips in annoyance. At that moment a hairless man in a rich velvet doublet burst into the room, a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘He’s coming!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Orwin, how dare you burst in like a ruffian. Can’t you see I have visitors?’

  ‘But Grand Marl Rastran – he’s on his way here!’

  The bale Myka was carrying slipped out of his hands.

  ‘Have a care, boy.’ Gildarn cuffed him round the head. Myka reckoned he enjoyed the role of master a little too much.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered as he retrieved the parcel. Orwin thrust the letter under his wife’s nose.

  ‘He’s visiting all the marls, getting them to prove their loyalty. Where’s Podrik?’

  He pulled the bell cord so forcefully it came free of its lever. Podrik arrived almost at once, leading Myka to suspect he’d been listening at the door. Orwin thrust the broken bell cord at him distractedly.

  ‘Fetch your mother, Podrik. We must have the best feast she’s ever prepared. Rastran had Marl Cruskin executed for keeping back his best wine. Hung his two daughters up beside him.’

  ‘Fortunate then that we have no daughters,’ Lichinara remarked. ‘Calm yourself, Orwin. We have nothing to fear. We have always been loyal to the throne.’

  Orwin seemed to notice his visitors for the first time.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Nobody to concern you, Orwin,’ Lichinara said. ‘Our business is concluded.’

  ‘Not quite, my lady,’ said Gildarn with a polite cough. ‘There’s still the matter of payment.’ Myka shuffled impatiently. Why was Gildarn stalling? Didn’t he realise they needed to leave before Rastran arrived?

  ‘Orwin, pay the fellow.’ Lichinara wafted her hand in the air as if dispersing a bad smell.

  ‘Dearest, you had your allowance but a few days ago. Surely it isn’t spent already?’

  ‘That pitiful stipend wouldn’t keep a shopkeeper in aprons. We need to make a good impression on our new grand marl.’

  ‘There’s no time to make up new robes, woman. They are already on their way.’

  ‘They? Who else is coming?’

  ‘Highmaster Strinverl and a whole flock of mindweavers.’

  Myka winced as Nerika’s emotions battered against his protective barrier. Strinverl was responsible for Justyn’s death. He tried to attract Gildarn’s attention, hoping for some help, but Gildarn seemed preoccupied. Myka bit his lip as he fought to suppress Nerika’s sudden burst of emotion. Fortunately, no one was paying him any attention. It was one of the few perks of playing a servant.

  ‘If the rumours about our highmaster are true, we have another reason to be thankful we have no daughters,’ Lichinara remarked. Her husband snorted in disgust

  ‘Don’t pretend you wouldn’t offer up our own child if it would save your skin. Anything to appease those in power.’

  ‘Careful, Orwin. Such resentment is dangerous for someone with no resistance to mindweavers.’

  Podrik returned with a short woman with greying hair. Her eyebrows, or rather eyebrow, for there was no discernible gap between the two, was jet black.

  ‘Morn, there you are,’ Orwin greeted her with relief. ‘Grand Marl Rastran is on his way. We must have a banquet. Spare nothing. Scour the cellars, raid the village. Nothing but the best.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Lichinara clicked her fingers.

  ‘That new kitchen maid of yours, Morn. The pretty little girl with the pig-tails?’

  ‘You mean Ursolina, my lady?’ Morn’s face was unreadable as she turned to her mistress.

  ‘I suppose I do. Get her cleaned up and into her best dress, if she has such a thing. Highmaster Strinverl will appreciate her company.’

  ‘She’s barely fourteen, my lady.’

  ‘And I do not intend to repeat myself.’

  Morn bobbed in a tight-lipped curtsey and she and Podrik were dismissed. Lichinara directed a sly smile towards Gildarn.

  ‘I expect you’ll be on your way? I need not mention your generous present to our illustrious guests. As I understand it, taxes do not apply to gifts.’

  The threat was clear. Leave without your money or be denounced.

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll stay,’ said Nerika. ‘It sounds like an opportunity. And we aren’t in the business of giving gifts.’

  Lichinara flashed her a look that could have turned a lesser woman to ashes. Myka shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. Why were Nerika and Gildarn so keen to risk a meeting with Rastran and Strinverl? Did neither of them understand the terrible danger they were in?

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Zastra had reached the final ascent. A steep pyramid of rock and ice stood between her and the top of the Warrior Mountain. It seemed to stare down at her like a living being, arrogant and untouchable, taunting her for her insignificance. Once the blizzard subsided, she had left the safety of her little cave, saying a reluctant goodbye to her dead Kyrginite companion. Her heartbeat had settled during her enforced rest in the cave, but she resisted the temptation to go faster than a steady walk. By travelling in such a way, she avoided sending her heart into a gallop and no longer had to stop every few strides to rest. In the thin air even such a plodding pace took its toll but she kept moving as long as any light remained, spending bitter nights sheltered behind walls of rock, packing snow around herself to form a rudimentary shelter. The toiling days and freezing nights had drained her of strength. All she wanted to do was lie down. Who could blame her if she rested for a moment? A part of her knew that if she lay down, she would not get back up again. So what if she didn’t? Plenty of people had died because of her. Her death would balance the accounting. It was a tempting thought. But then she pictured Ithgol, under sentence of death unless she returned. Kylen, whose friendship with Zastra had almost lost her the support of her people, left at the mercy of a vastly superior Golmeiran army. She thought of her brother and sister, waiting for her. Findar, who always knew what to say to make her feel better, and Kastara, who was growing so strong, so fierce. A sister to be proud of. Finally, there was Anara. Zastra had wasted their precious time together, numbed by guilt and weighed down with responsibility. There was so much she wanted to say to her mother. She could not give in.

  She began the final climb, using her spear as a walking staff or ice pick according to need. The wind whistled around the peak as if the Warrior was fighting against her, trying to pluck her off, and it took conscious effort to place one foot in front of the other. She took it ten paces at a time. Just ten steps, she told herself, counting them out. And then ten more. Every muscle in her body pleaded with her to stop, but her determination fought back and won. She kept climbing. Her mind kept offering her the chance to stop and rest but she refused to listen to its pleadi
ngs, and continued her steady march upwards. She reached the summit as the sun was halfway down to the horizon. The wind at the top was so strong it tore the air from her lungs, and she had to bend her head away from it to breathe. Even so, Zastra took a moment to look around. The view was spectacular. The Warrior was surrounded by the other mountains of the Northern Wastes, their snowy peaks rising above a layer of pure white cloud. To the south, a sliver of green lined the horizon. Sendor, where Kylen was waiting. As she clung to a narrow chimney of rock, her mittened hands dislodged a flat stone, revealing a small compartment that housed a leather pouch. She tucked it inside her mitten, proof she had made it to the top, and replaced it with her fragment of firering. With one last glance at the beauty and desolation of the Northern Wastes, Zastra began the long descent.

  Chapter Sixty

  To Myka’s relief a second letter arrived from Rastran, informing Marl Orwin he had been delayed. It would be two further days before he and his retinue arrived. But still Nerika and Gildarn refused to listen to his pleas.

  ‘I will not leave without completing our mission,’ Nerika said. ‘We have not yet spoken with Orwin.’

  Orwin proved hard to pin down as he spent each day outside the castle, hunting or drilling his militia. In the evenings, he was rumoured to frequent one of the more upmarket brothels in Lyria village. Anything to avoid spending time with his wife. The evening before Rastran was due to arrive, Orwin at last wandered home, stinking of hakash. Gildarn and Myka dealt quickly with the two guards outside his chambers. The militiamen were already dozing and it was a simple matter to tip them into a mindweaver-induced sleep.

  ‘What the…? How did you…?’ Orwin was struggling to don his nightgown. Nerika outlined their purpose. Myka reckoned he’d never seen anyone sober up as quickly as Orwin did once he realised what Nerika was saying.

  ‘You thoughtless imbeciles,’ he hissed. ‘Rastran and Strinverl are bound to read my mind. They’ll see everything and kill us all. You have to leave!’