The gate was heavy, wooden, with some sort of mechanical device that closed it if left open. Tom felt the pull of it when he took hold of the gate from Brega. He held it open for Dank and then for Six moments later. The elf offered a gruff thanks before ushering him on. Katharine did not look up.
“Why not unbind yourself?” Dank echoed.
A difficult question, one with too many answers and too many truths he wasn’t ready to admit to the boy.
“The magic in these tattoos keeps the fay inside us.” Dank lifted the back of his hand, but it was too dark to see the ink under the skin. “They stop our body forcing her out. A mortal once called them our chains.” He gestured at Tom. “Yet sometimes we think we would find it easier to leave the fay than you would.”
“Why?”
Dank shrugged. “Isn’t it easier to break chains we can see?”
When he had left Cairnagan, he had thought, on more than one occasion, of staying with Katharine instead of returning to Faerie. But he hadn’t.
“You think me chained?”
“Each part of our lives is a link in a chain, family and friends and home. They try to tell us who we are, who we can’t be. Where we can go and where we can’t. What we can do and what we can never hope to achieve.”
He spoke, not with bitterness, but with the weary resignation of a much older man.
“How old are you, Dank?”
“I’m not sure.” Dank added a sardonic edge to his weariness. “The fay don’t have much use for calendars.”
It was odd, to see such a young man speak with the voice of one bent and wrinkled by time. But, Tom supposed, that was perhaps no different to how he was seen by others.
“Glastyn once told me time doesn’t decide how old we are.
Dank laughed, earning himself a hushing from Storrstenn. “We would not take much advice from Glastyn on anything.”
There was no response that wouldn’t offend, so Tom said, “So you feel the same? Older than your years?”
“Yes,” Dank said. “And no. Kingdoms have risen and fallen since we were born. Yet, as long as there is more in Tir to see, we think we will always feel young.”
The sentiment reminded Tom of Katharine, and he found it unnerving for some reason.
They walked the rest of the night and, by the time the moon had died and given birth to the sun once again, Tom was exhausted. His knees ached, his feet felt like he’d walked the flesh off them and his head pounded. No-one else had raised a voice of complaint and he didn’t like to be the first to do so. But Storrstenn walked with no sign of stopping. And he had to stop.
“A moment,” he called and waved a hand when the dwarf turned to hush him. “I beg you, Storrstenn. A moment.” He stopped walking but didn’t dare sink to the ground. He didn’t think he could muster the energy to stand again.
“We cannot stop.” The birthing day was grey and overcast. The wind had died down but it was still cold. “It will not take a keen eye to reveal us. Our destination is not far. You will find your rest there.”
“And what else will we find?” Six asked, but Storrstenn pretended not to hear him.
Their destination became clear enough when they passed into the next field. A farmhouse, the walls of painted wood and the roof of thatch, it was nonetheless very fine and grand, rising three stories over a little garden and a fence, a barn, and a chicken coop.
“We will be seen,” Neirin said.
But Storrstenn replied, “You will find only mice indigenous to this place. They will tell no tales.”
“How do you know?”
“A good revolutionary knows of many such places.”
As they grew closer, Tom could see that, while this place was by no means dilapidated, Storrstenn was right. No-one came out to greet them. No sounds came from the barn or the coop. Without the wind, the only sounds were their footsteps.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“Taken by war,” Storrstenn replied. “The brother and the son taken to soldier. The farmer by sickness. The wife and daughter to their patron to seek aid and shelter.”
“And he has left this place abandoned?” Six asked. He sounded incredulous. “A good patron would send elfs to tend to this place to keep it working.”
“Elfs are high in demand and short in supply.” Storrstenn had reached the fence and pushed at the gate. It opened with a squeak that seemed too loud in the quiet. “It was deemed more efficient to move their stock to another farm.”
“So the wife and daughter have nothing?” Six was gazing up and around at the farm, eyeing the barn in particular.
Storrstenn climbed two steps onto a wooden deck. He seemed unfazed by the chains over the door and the sign in elfish. “We need not concern ourselves with their circumstances nor the fate of this place beyond its usefulness to us now.” A single key undid the locks on the chain and on the door.
“Inside, gentles.” The dwarf stood aside to let them in. There was no fire, of course, but it was warmer than the outside world. The walls and floor were plain, unadorned wood, but Tom could see signs of the same decorative style he’d seen brought by the invaders of Cairnalyr: portraits on the wall, busts in corners. All smaller and poorer than the ones Procter Gerwyn had on display. All sad reminders of the lives that no longer filled this place. He stopped in front of a portrait no bigger than his hand, showing all four of the family together. How had that wife and mother felt, taking her last child away from home, not knowing if her husband or her son were alive, not knowing when or if they would be able to return? He felt like a monster, breaking into a family home on a bloodthirsty purpose when the place had seen enough loss already.
Then his eyes fell on a small shining blade left on a table in the hall.
“What’s this?” he asked, though he had seen similar in Cairnagan. He picked it up and it was heavy, blunt. Not silver all the way through, he wagered, but plated with it all the same. The handle was engraved with a small, swirling pattern around three elfish letters.
“A letter opener.” Storrstenn gave it barely a glance.
“A letter opener,” Tom repeated. There were no portraits on farmers’ walls in the duchies, no idle fancies; just old equipment and rough clothes. And here, in the Kingdom, the elfs could afford to open their letters with a silver-plated knife, and leave it behind when they left. What wealth had they taken with them that this could not compare?
“Are you well, Master Rymour?” Neirin was stood in the front room, watching him closely. He stood on a thick rug, surrounded by sofas and chairs. The furniture was of good quality if not the finest materials. And there were more rooms, more floors. All this owned by mere farmers. And yet the West had decided they needed more, and were going to take it from those who had far less. It wasn’t right. It needed stopping.
“Tom?” Dank was beside him, curiosity on his face, eyes following Tom’s hand up to the pommel of Caledyr. Tom hadn’t realised he was touching it. He took his hand away and the anger faded.
“I’m tired,” he said, and he was. When had he last had decent rest? Not since the dragon attack, he realised. Not since they had fled the city in the night had he had a good night’s sleep.
“As are we all.” But Neirin looked more than tired. The morning light showed his olive skin to be pale, dark rings under his eyes, those eyes brittle. He looked like he might fall and shatter with the merest push, yet his jaw was set as if he was furious with the world.
“Rest,” Storrstenn told them, though he moved from room to room, rummaging here and there. “We will move again at night.”
“You have a plan, master dwarf,” Neirin said. “I would hear it.”
“I beg you sleep first, Lord Neirin.” Storrstenn stopped for a moment, bowing his head. But he seemed to tremble, as if possessed by some mania. “We must make the best use of the time we have. Answers may come with the sunset.”
It was good enough for Tom and the thought of imminent sleep washed all other emotions and thoughts from him.
He climbed the stairs like the living dead, and the sight of beds and soft, if dusty, blankets was like a balm. He picked one, lay down, cradled Caledyr to his chest, and slept.
“We need to get her to a cirgeon.” The dwarf’s voice told him there was little chance of that happening. Wherever this place was, it was a long way from help.
“Tom.” Katharine was both laid on and covered by blankets and furs, attempting to protect her from the cold, dark floor. “It’s too late for that. Just hold my hand.”
He took it, held it. Neither of them mentioned the blood on his palms.
“This isn’t what I hoped for when I asked you to come travelling with me.” She smiled past her pain and Tom had to smile too.
“No,” he said. He put her hand to his cheek. It was cold.
“I wish I could take solace in finding this place,” she said. “But I’m going to miss out on so much.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And again, “I’m sorry.”
And before Katharine could say any more, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the air.
Tom woke in a sweat, his blanket tangled and wrapped around him, holding Caledyr in a vice-like grip. His body ached. His head was pounding. His mouth was fuzzy. He fought the blanket, untangled himself, sat up.
This room must have belonged to the children. There was little decoration save the two cots and an old chest. It had been closed when Tom had gone to sleep but now stood open. Storrstenn, Tom guessed. A small wooden bird lay discarded beside it, chipped and worn bare of paint. The window gave him a view of dark, grey clouds and rain pattered against the glass.
Katharine stood in the doorway, watching him.
“Morning,” he said. His mouth tasted terrible. He needed water.
“Evening,” she corrected him. She didn’t step inside. “Bad dreams?”
He thought of her cold hand and the blood on his own. “I’m not sure,” he replied.
She nodded. “You called out my name.” Her voice was guarded, cool. There was an invisible barrier between them. Yet it didn’t seem that long ago they’d been holding hands in a hole in the ground.
He could still feel her cold hand on his cheek.
Tom didn’t know what existed between them now, be it hate or distrust or something else. But the thought of her dying with it was unbearable. “I would put this right,” he said. “Whatever it is, however it needs, I would have us be friends again.”
Her face didn’t move. “Friends?” Her tone told him he was close to saying the wrong thing.
So instead of speaking he looked at her. Dressed in her travelling leathers, now stiffened and covered in pale lines by the salt sea. Her hair was tied back into a severe tail, a single whisp dangling free. Her jewellery, her rings and earrings and necklaces, were gone. Tom could see she was holding herself carefully, like she was a stack of porcelain ornaments ready to topple.
“I have wronged you,” he said.
“You have.” Her reply was quick and sharp.
His first thought was to anger at being interrupted. But he thought of his dream. Foresight. Dream. “I have,” he agreed. “I have treated you in a manner you did not deserve.”
Something wavered in her. “It’s easy enough to speak the truth,” she said, her voice quiet. “It’s another to act upon it.”
“I would,” he said. “I would act upon it.”
She regarded him for another long moment and stepped into the room. Picked up the wooden bird. “What would you do?”
He watched her, trying to puzzle out the right answer. But she didn’t meet his gaze. She just turned the duck over in her hands, running fingertips over its surface. He looked at Caledyr, lying across his lap, and ran his own fingertips across the scabbard, tracing the strips of leather. He touched the pommel with his other hand and felt the sword beneath it, both the metal and the magic.
“I would do the right thing,” he said, and it felt almost like the sword spoke for him.
She sighed an angry sigh. “This isn’t about right or wrong, Tom.” She spoke to the duck. Not him. “This isn’t a quest to free dwarfs or a romance of knights. This is real people. This is us.” She finally turned her face to him and he was surprised to see her so worried. “There’s no duty or honour here. No obligation. You just have to decide what it is you want.”
He traced the apple pommel, running his hands down the grip to the dragon-heads hilt. He wanted to end this journey. He wanted to break the monoliths. He wanted to see the Western King fall.
And then he wanted to go back to Faerie.
“Say it.” Her words were quiet. Still.
He felt the truth waiting to pass his tongue and enter the air. She’d called him a liar and a coward. “I want to go back to Faerie.”
It hung in the air. He didn’t want to look at her. But he did. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, her jaw set, her eyes wet.
“To that thing.”
“To Maev.” Admitting it to her was harder than he thought. “Yes.”
She stared at him and he tried to look as open as he could. He wasn’t lying to her. He wasn’t hiding from the truth. He wanted Maev, yes, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be friends with Katharine.
“Do you know what the worst of it is?” Her voice trembled and at first Tom thought she would cry.
“I made you think I loved you.”
She shook her head but said, “Yes. That’s it exactly.” Her teeth were gritted. “Though you swore no love to me. You made me no promises yet I, of course, imagined them.” She looked up, spoke to the ceiling. “You lay with me, thinking me some dew-eyed girl picturing marriage and children. You thought me so weak, that I equated your favour to love.”
“No.”
“And, on top of that insult,” she said. “Thinking me so besotted with you, you didn’t tell me you were giving yourself to that thing instead. That you planned it the whole time. I don’t know which is worse,” she spat. “Your delusion of me or the way you treated that delusion.”
Tom felt his pride pricked. Was it such an awful thought, to think her in love with him? Was he so repellant? Part of him wanted to smooth this all over. But he felt himself saying, “So you felt nothing for me? Was I was just something to warm your bed at night? And now you claim you are the wronged party because you didn’t get to discard me first?”
“Don’t try to turn this around.”
“Why not?” He stood, strapping the sword to his waist. “Sounds like my only crime was leaving the bed first.”
“You expected me to fall at your feet and mourn when you abandoned me for that thing.”
“I thought I might hurt you. Is that such a bad thing?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re supposed to understand!” Her shout echoed in the empty room and silenced everything. Even the rain seemed to retreat for a moment.
“You know why I ran away from my family.” Her voice was little more than a murmur. “You know what people think of a woman being a Pathfinder. Everyone thinks I should be a good little housewife, sewing and cooking and keeping the hearth for my husband.”
Tom sighed and dropped his hands, one by his side, one onto the pommel of the sword. Always with this. Always with how difficult it was to be Katharine Delham.
“I thought you, of all people, understood that wasn’t for me.”
“What has that got to do with this?” he asked.
“Everything,” she hissed. “Because everyone thinks me a weak little woman playing at being a Pathfinder, dreaming of being a wife. You’re supposed to know better.”
Tom shook his head. So all of this was because she was imagining how other people thought.
“Don’t shake your head. Don’t deny it.”
“I will,” he said. “I didn’t think you weak. I thought you had feelings.”
“So I’m unfeeling?”
“No. You’re just pretending you are.”
She flinched from that, tu
rning away, looking at the toy duck in her hands again.
But Tom couldn’t stop there. The bronze was warm under his hand and he felt that warmth spread like a brandy glow, travelling up his arm and into his chest. The memory of that dream told him to reconcile. But the anger told him to push. “Why do you always come back to this? Your father wanted you to marry. Not the worst hope for a daughter, but you let it haunt your life. You worry at it like a starving dog with a bone.” He stepped closer, right behind her. His hand clenched around the pommel. “You came to my chambers in Cairnagan and told me I could stare at the fire or I could explore the world. But you run from the fire. You invent a world that wants to shackle you to that hearth. They don’t. No-one does. They have better things to worry about.” The sword told him he was right. The poverty in the Heel. The dispossessed of Erhenned. The slavery of the dwarfs. The bondage of the dragons. Where the food was coming from and where the money was going. This was what people worried about. “The only person who worries about this is you.”
She said nothing and he felt a moment of victory. But then he heard her take a shuddering breath and the triumph fled like a shade in the night. This wasn’t what he wanted. He placed his hands on her shoulders but she shrugged him away. She didn’t turn to face him.
“So that’s what you think of me.”
It wasn’t a question but it needed an answer. Silence wasn’t an ally here. But what could he say? He couldn’t take it back, but, “I think a lot more of you.”
But she said nothing. He felt clumsy, cruel, useless, so he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to hurt you. I was angry.”
She shook her head. She still didn’t face him. “You keep saying those words as if they mean anything.”
“I can’t say them if they’re not true.”
She whirled on him, cheeks wet and eyes blazing, lips set in a snarl. “But you dance around the truth, don’t you?” She pointed a finger at him, jabbing at him like a swordsman. “Do you think you’re clever, lying to people with the truth?”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 39