"Come with us." Emyr’s voice was so soft that at first Tom assumed she hadn’t heard him.
But her hands slowed. "I could write notes, for the next cirgeon." Her words were tentative, as if she was testing the room.
Emyr drew a long breath and sighed it out. "Come with us."
She shook her head. "Care on the road is good idea," she said. "You should talk to my master about hiring his services."
"No. You."
Why was he so adamant? Had Ambrose told him something? Or was it an effect of the medicine? But he wouldn’t interrupt. Having a healer in their party could be useful. Especially if Katharine gave birth. Or fell ill.
And hadn’t he foreseen this? Months ago, he’d foreseen a dwarf talking to him about a cirgeon. He closed his eyes, tried to draw back the foresight. Was it Mennvinn? Yes, it was. It was her in the cold, dark place, her face serious, understanding, her posture defeated. Giving him bad news.
He opened his eyes and ignored the twisting in his stomach. "My king requests that you journey with us," he said, making it formal.
Her hands stilled and she wiped them on her bloodied apron as she turned to face them. She squinted at Tom, at Caledyr, before her gaze fell on Emyr. "You call this man a king. We heard snatches of your conversation down here," she told Tom. "Caledyr and Orlannu and Rimestenn." She met Tom’s eye. "Is this Taranau?"
The dwarfish name for Emyr. Tom nodded.
"Truly?" When Tom nodded again, she shook her head. "I don’t believe it." But she wanted to. Tom could see the yearning in her eyes. She crossed the room to Emyr’s side and raised her hands as if to place them on his skin. "He will return to Tir in its hour of need." Her words were those spoken from an old memory.
She seemed to hover on the brink of a decision. On the brink of faith. Should he say something, to nudge her into believing them? Or was it more important to remain silent, to let her come by herself to the faith she needed?
"It’s just a Faerie tale." Her words were almost a whisper. "Taranau died centuries ago."
Emyr’s dreamy words were almost as soft as Mennvinn’s whispers. "Not dead," he said. "Just waiting. Waiting to be what I needed to be."
She drew a deep breath, pulled her hands from where they hovered over his flesh, not out of dread, but out of reverence. He had touched on something. Her breath came shallow but slow. She was afraid to believe, but she was so close. She needed the smallest nudge.
"Each of us needs someone to see our potential," Emyr said. "The rest we can do ourselves. If they see us." And he turned his head, gazing at Mennvinn from beneath heavy lids.
The air was still. Tom realised he was holding his breath. Emyr gazed at Mennvinn. Mennvinn stared right back at Emyr. Trying to convince herself he was just another man under her master’s knife. Coming to her decision. Trying not to believe.
Emyr reached out. It cost him, and he made no attempt to hide that. Mennvinn shied away, but didn’t stop him from laying a hand on her arm. She twitched at the touch.
"I need the you that you hide inside." It was all he said. Then he closed his eyes, and let her place his arm back by his side.
Tom didn’t dare speak, breathe, even move. Emyr appeared to sleep. And Mennvinn reached her decision.
"Someone must watch him at all times." Mennvinn’s voice was so soft that it took Tom a moment to realise she was speaking to him. "I will return soon."
She left in silence, without her tools or tonics. Tom let out the breath he had been holding. She had decided to believe. And it hadn’t been in their journey or in the fay, or their purpose of stopping them that had convinced her. It had been Emyr. Somehow he had earned her loyalty in the space of moments. Tom wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t see it for himself.
"Everyone wants something," Emyr murmured, not quite as asleep as Tom had thought. "Recognition. Reward. Adventure." He sighed and his words thickened as true sleep wrapped him in its embrace. "Everyone wants something."
Tom woke as Katharine sat down beside him on a bench against the wall. He smiled at her, then remembered he’d been watching Emyr. He’d nodded off. Did Emyr still live? But she shushed him.
"It’s fine," she murmured as she settled beside him. "Ambrose is watching him."
True enough, Ambrose stood vigil at Emyr’s side, staring unblinking at his king’s face.
Katharine slipped her hand into his. "You were muttering in your sleep."
Tom nodded. He’d been dreaming. Of Jarnstenn at a fire. Of Emyr saying, "He was my friend," and Tom saying, "I don't think he's anyone's friend anymore."
He'd dreamt of f Katharine's hand growing weaker in his own.
"It wasn’t a good dream," he told her.
She nodded. She was afraid to ask. He was afraid that she would. So he filled the silence. "How are you?"
"Tired," she admitted. "Hungry."
"We should find a bed for you to rest in." He pushed the vestiges of sleep from his thoughts and stood. She didn’t relinquish her grip on his hand, but nor did she follow him to her feet. "Come," he told her.
"I’m fine here," she replied. "Sit with me."
"It’s cold down here."
"It’s fine."
He tugged her hand. "Come," he said again. "You need rest."
"I’m not sick, Tom." Her words had a keener edge to them. "I carry a child."
He gave in and sat back down. She held his hand in a firm grip, as if afraid he would let go. "Our child," he said. Katharine only nodded. The air seemed to grow thick and heavy with responsibility. And with all the things unsaid. There were more questions that she was too afraid to ask. Questions he could answer. "Before I was taken to Faerie, I wasn't a good husband to Elaine. And I wasn’t a good father to Degor," he admitted, and it stung to say the words aloud. "Over the years I’ve told myself that his life was better for my leaving. But it would have been better if I had stayed, and been the father he’d deserved." He took a deep breath. How much had Degor hated him? Had he grown past his absent father? Had he found someone to love, had children of his own? All the questions he’d been afraid to ask and now he was desperate to know the answers. "I abandoned him. I don’t want to do the same to our daughter."
She weighed her response carefully. "So it’s a girl?"
It wasn’t the response he’d been hoping for. But he nodded.
"I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined that," she said. She looked down at her belly and laid a hand across it. "Our daughter." Two words that carried such joy and fear and uncertainty.
"How long have you known?" he asked, spoiling the moment.
She didn’t meet his eye. "I was afraid to tell you."
Why? Because he’d been intent on his mission to topple Idris? Because he was infatuated with Maev? Because Caledyr had been pushing its thoughts into his own?
Because she didn’t want to keep it?
"You once told me that being a housewife wasn’t for you," he said. He chose his words carefully; they’d had a blazing row when she’d said that.
"It isn’t," she replied, fire burning in her eyes, daring him to question that. "I’m a Pathfinder. It’s what I am."
"Where does a child fit into that?"
His question echoed with the twin that lived in her own doubts; he could tell by the way she squared her shoulders, propped up her defiance. "She wouldn’t be the first child raised on the road."
"Is that any life for a little girl?"
"Do you think my life is unsuitable for a girl?"
This was dangerous territory. And hardly the most pressing of problems before them. First he had to keep the two of them alive. Then he could worry about raising their daughter. So he shook his head. "She’s going to have to get used to the road; it’s a long way to Cairnarim."
She relaxed and her grip on his hand relaxed too. "It is." She took a deep breath and rushed into her next words, getting them out before she could think twice. "I won’t be like Elaine, Tom, I won’t turn a blind eye while you lie with other," she
paused, "women. So you need to decide. And once you’ve decided, that’s it. If you’re not the man we deserve, we’ll go." She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eye. "So decide. Are we more important than her?"
The question stung. And it scared him. And the maelstrom of emotions made him ask himself the same question. If Maev came to him, told him all was forgiven, that the fay had given up their plan to return to Tir and she begged him to come back to her, what would he say?
Maev had manipulated him. Tested him to see how loyal a dog he was. How could he ever step into her embrace again?
But he had let her hold him on the hill outside Cairnakor. A dark, fearful place inside told him he would accept her offer.
Katharine was holding in her fear and anger and pain, but he could see glimpses of it behind her firm stare. Always tough, always strong. Stronger than he was. And, without thought, he smiled and lifted her hand to his lips. This was real. This was right. Unbidden, he recalled a night many moons ago, a night spent hand-in-hand when he’d pondered if he was making the wrong choice.
"Remember when we hid in that pit together?" When they’d fled Duke Regent, his men on their tail. Katharine just nodded, refusing to let even confusion show. "I should have run away with you."
He watched her mapping out how events would have unfolded. No Caledyr. No rat pits. No campaign of terror in the Kingdom, no fight in the valley of dragons.
"No." She shook her head. "We needed to free the dragons." But she smiled. "Better that we run away now. To Cairnarim, perhaps?"
Tom nodded and gave her a smile in return. "To Cairnarim." However far that may be. And then onwards, to find two more glarn. How long was their path between here and the last glarn? And would they fail before they had walked it? Ambrose didn’t know. Ambrose who had spent decades looking for the glarn and had failed. Would they still be looking for them when their daughter was born? When she started walking, talking? Would she be a woman grown and still looking for them? Tom felt a sudden urge to stand, to run, to dash to Cairnarim right now, anything to avoid the possibility that his daughter would know a moment of fear at the hands of the fay.
Katharine squeezed his hand. "We’ll be fine," she told him.
He looked down at her hand in his and tried not to think of how, one day, he would feel her grip grow weak. Unless he could break from his foresight, and change what was to come.
The obvious answer came to mind, and he knew that it would make him a liar and make him despised in her eyes. He met her eye and saw her fear, but also her confidence. She felt sure they could do this.
"Whatever happens from here," he said, "please remember that everything I do is for you and our daughter."
She nodded with a broad smile.
"Everything," he repeated. "Even the things you don’t like."
Her smile faltered but she nodded all the same. She wanted to ask a question, but it went unspoken. Too much unsaid. He wished he could unburden himself, share this terrible truth with her. But what kind of man would he be, to tell an expectant mother that she would die? No. He couldn’t be that cruel.
"I trust you," she said. He could tell it was hard for her to do so. Hard to forget all the wrongs and the arguments and the hurts. Which is why it cut so deep that she could say it to him, given what he planned to do.
Given that he planned to leave her behind.
Chapter 4
The next few hours were a whirl of activity for some, and a chance to rest for others. Gravinn came and went constantly, overseeing deliveries of clothing, supplies, and food; the last was gratefully received, and everyone had stopped to enjoy the slabs of dark bread, heavily buttered and filled with warm, greasy bacon.
Jarnstenn had taken over negotiations with his master, commandeering weapons as well as other bizarre contraptions that he swore might be useful. He enlisted Six as his assistant, but if the elf bristled at being ordered to carry one thing and fetch another, he didn’t show it.
Katharine and Kunnustenn had retreated to a corner, putting together her instincts and his clues and snippets over Gravinn’s purloined map. Tom would have sent Gravinn to sit with them, to ensure that someone other than Katharine knew where they were going. But only Draig and Dank were available, and he didn’t trust them. So he told them to find what rest they could, while he sat with Katharine and Kunnustenn and tried to absorb as much as possible.
It wasn’t easy. Gravinn insisted on reporting back to him on a regular basis, showing off what she had obtained and why. So he found himself nodding and praising her for a wise decision on which firestarters she had bought, or which tents she suggested she procure, or arbitrating in a debate between her and Jarnstenn about which daggers would be better. He had no knowledge of any of this, and it wearied him. He began to daydream that Emyr would stride up out of the cellar, magically healed, to take command of everything and let Tom rest.
But that wasn’t going to happen. And, somehow, he was going to have to command them all. He was going to have to make them travel onwards when he left Katharine behind.
Should he leave her here? She knew the city, and they already knew a cirgeon who could care for her when she went into labour. But it was a big city, and the fay were drawn to such places; so many people in one place provided plenty of opportunity for mischief.
So, not here. Somewhere else. He tried to focus on Katharine’s plan, tried to follow her path north. She’d already mentioned something about a railroad, which would take them to another city. She was plotting a path that took them past dozens of towns and villages. Perhaps one of them, smaller, out of the way, less likely to attract Faerie attention?
And what if they found her? How would she defend herself?
They were talking about something else now. A pass, some canyon that was referenced in one of Kunnustenn’s books. Iron nails, he couldn’t follow their conversation and nod at Gravinn’s latest purchase and figure out where and how to leave Katharine. Not all at once.
The sun set and Gravinn continued to bustle to and fro, bringing back more food for everyone and blankets, which were quickly laid out for sleep. Tom found a space in the cellar for himself and Katharine, who nodded off in moments. But Tom found himself lying beside her, staring at the strange and disturbing shadows cast onto the rough stone ceiling by the candlelight.
No-one would let him leave her behind. They wouldn’t understand.
But he couldn’t tell them. How could he tell them what he wouldn’t tell her?
Six wouldn’t stand for it. He’d go back for her.
And Katharine would only follow them. Even if she didn’t know the path they would take, she could still find them.
If he left her, he would be abandoning her. He might never see her again, or his daughter.
If he left her, she would live. They both would.
They would hate him.
They would be alive.
It seemed there were no good choices. So he lay there, and worried, and tried not to wonder how many nights he had left of listening to Katharine breathe.
He was woken by sounds from above, and stole up the stairs to see the dwarfs awake already, carting crates and bags and great stoppered clay jugs out to a wagon waiting outside.
"We’ll be ready once it’s loaded," Gravinn told him. "We’re leaving plenty of room."
Tom offered to help but she waved him away. "We have a system," she told him, and both Jarnstenn and Kunnustenn made sounds of agreement. With nothing else to do, Tom went back downstairs and let himself doze off.
It felt like moments later that footsteps woke him, and he looked up to see Mennvinn on the stairs. "It’s done," she said, voice pitched high by fear and nerves. "I’m coming with you."
"Good," Tom replied. He blinked away sleep, his mind fuzzy. "I’m very grateful."
Mennvinn just nodded, her uncertainty plain. He wasn’t as good at this as Emyr. He rose from his blankets and Katharine stirred. What would Emyr say? "I fear we will have need of your ski
lls on this journey."
Mennvinn gestured to Katharine. "With two Pathfinders? They can treat scrapes and scratches."
"I see the things to come. We’ll suffer more than scrapes and scratches."
Her eyes widened. He was scaring her. So he nodded at Emyr. "And he needs you." That settled her a little. "He chose you."
That was better. She ducked her head and smiled. "They say the wagon is ready for him."
He smiled back at her. "Good." He spied Draig yawning in a corner. "Help me?" he asked.
The Easterner said nothing, just stood and lifted his end when Tom asked him to, carried the old king in silence, and still didn’t say a word as they manoeuvred him out of the smith's front door and into the street, which was now dominated by Gravinn's wagon. It was a strange thing, the wooden frame hard and treated against the elements, the cloth stretched over it tough and unyielding. The whole thing felt at once huge and yet also compact, and it was so full of supplies Tom wondered if Gravinn thought they’d be travelling for a year.
He hoped they wouldn’t be.
"Thank you," he said to Draig.
Draig just nodded, arms folded, face closed. What was he so angry about? But, he realised, the last time the two of them had spoken, it had been at the top of Cairnagwyn, and they’d been bearing swords. Tom had left Draig in the merrow city. Draig had tried to stop Tom breaking the monoliths. It felt like months ago, but it had been just a day or two.
But so much was different now.
"Am I coming with you."
Tom nodded. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Draig at their backs anyway. "Why?"
"To help prevent the doom you unleashed."
The elf was expecting him to argue. But there was nothing to argue with. In weakening the monoliths, Tom had helped open the door for the fay. So Tom nodded. "Good." And left Draig standing by the wagon, uncertainty warring with his scowl.
There was little to prepare. The dwarfs had loaded everything they thought was needed, either into the wagon or onto the horses Gravinn had also procured, small, wiry things that looked like they needed a good meal. So they rose, mounted their steeds, and all looked to Tom.
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