Return to Golmeira
Book Three: Tales of Golmeira
Marianne Ratcliffe
Marianne Ratcliffe
Macclesfield, UK
Return to Golmeira copyright © 2017 by Marianne Ratcliffe
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing, 2017
ISBN 9780993400155
Published by Marianne Ratcliffe
www.marianneratcliffe.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my nieces and nephew. To Phoebe, Sasha and Ashton, with love from Auntie Marianne
Contents
Dedication
Map of Golmeira
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon: Warrior of Golmeira
Chapter One
Sunlight speared through the cracks in the rotting shutters. Ten year-old Joril turned her face away from the window and tugged her threadbare blanket over her head. She’d been having such a lovely dream. A rich and attractive young marl had come to the village and noticed poor Joril being forced to work at the hot ovens. Indignant at such unfair treatment, he had adopted her and given her a chest full of silk dresses, a whole shelf of new shoes and, best of all, a pony of her very own. She had become an instant favourite at the marl’s court, charming everyone with her sharp wit and the grace of her dancing. A ball had been arranged in her honour and young men queued up to ask her to dance. The handsome young marl smiled and extended his hand to take hers…
A loud crash jerked her awake.
‘Oy. Shop! We haven’t all day.’
Another stone thudded against the shutters. Enraged, Joril threw off her blanket and ran to the window.
‘Go away, and leave me alone you stupid—’
Her protest was choked off as she saw two teenage boys, mirror images of each other, standing beneath her window. They wore purple shirts. That means they are trainee mindweavers. From the castle. Both had brown hair that curled fetchingly over their ears, and one wore a silver pin on his chest in the shape of a caralyx. It was the only difference between them.
‘We’ve been knocking for ages,’ cried the boy with the silver pin. ‘There’s someone banging around downstairs, but they’re refusing to let us in. My brother Florian is starving. Some fool of an undercook burned this morning’s bread.’
Joril pulled back from the window, tore off her nightshirt and rummaged in the dresser for her favourite smock. Dressing quickly, she dashed down the narrow wooden staircase, grabbing her apron from its peg as she passed. The familiar smells of yeast and fresh bread hit her nostrils. Dalka, her mother, was in the back room, lifting the hot bread from the stone oven with the large flat peel, her arms protected by stuffed woollen mittens. She flinched as Joril barrelled into the shop.
‘Sorry, Mother. Didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘There you are at last, duckie. Thank the stars. Someone’s here.’ Dalka glanced fearfully at the door. The bamboo slats shook as fists pounded on it from the outside. Dalka shrank back into the oven room.
‘It’s all right, Mother. I’ll let them in.’
Joril kicked out the wooden wedge that held the door in place and slid it aside. Cold air whistled in to mingle with the heat from the ovens. The boy with the silver pin strode to the counter and plucked the nearest loaf straight off Dalka’s peel.
‘Aiyee! That’s hot!’
He dropped the steaming loaf onto the floor and blew on his fingers.
‘You’ll have to pay for that.’ The words were out of Joril’s mouth before she before she could stop herself. It was unwise to cross mindweavers. She recalled an incident when one of the village children had trodden on a mindweaver’s black cape. The mindweaver had done something that had sent the girl running back to her mother’s arms, screaming. The child hadn’t dared leave her house since. Joril braced herself.
‘Relax, girl. We can afford it, can’t we, Fester?’ It was the other twin who had spoken. He tossed a tocrin up in the air and the coin began to twirl upwards in a spiral, like a leaf caught in an updraft. Joril gasped in amazement. Mindmoving. Here, in their bakery.Wait ’til I tell Lylian about this.
‘Florian, do stop showing off,’ his brother drawled. The tocrin came to halt in mid-air and then danced towards her. Joril opened her hand and the coin dropped into her palm. Florian plucked three brown rolls from the counter, tucked two into a large pocket inside his trousers and began to munch on the third.
‘Mm-mm. S’great. Really tasty.’
Fester took another two rolls and kicked the loaf of bread that had fallen on the floor towards Joril.
‘You can have that, Flour-head. No need to say thanks.’
Joril clapped her hands to her hair and squeaked with horror as a white cloud was dislodged. The twins’ laughter followed her as she raced back up to her bedroom and stared in the rust-mottled mirror. She was covered in white flour. It got everywhere, no matter how often she washed herself. Last night she had been so tired after kneading out the dough for today’s baking, she hadn’t washed her hair before going to bed. She was usually so fastidious. Why did mindweavers have to turn up on the one day she hadn’t bathed? They would think she was a slattern, no better than Lylian. Any chance she’d had to make a good impression was lost. Through her window, she saw the twins head back towards the castle. They were laughing. At me, no doubt. She took up her empty washbowl, stormed down the stairs and out into the small yard behind the shop. At the water butt, she filled the bowl, then plunged her head in, gasping at the icy coldness. She scrubbed so hard that the water became gloopy and grey with the dislodged flour. It took three bowls before she was satisfied that she was clean.
When she finally returned, there was a long queue of people waiting to be served. She tried to ignore the frowns and mutterings of complaint as she stopped to pin back her hair before starting to serve. She was quick and efficient, but that wasn’t enough to appease everyone, particularl
y those at the front of the queue. She wondered, not for the first time, why everyone was so impatient. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere exciting to be.
‘I’m here for breakfast, not lunch.’ Grejor, the blacksmith’s apprentice slapped a quarter tocrin on the counter. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll take my business to old Irik. No queues in his shop.’
‘That’s because his bread smells of old socks,’ returned Joril sharply. ‘Come to think of it, I’m surprised you don’t already shop there. You’d feel right at home.’
‘You should treat your customers with more respect.’ Grejor fingered his collar, which was black with the same soot that coated his hands and his neck. Joril handed him his loaf.
‘And you should take a bath.’
‘I don’t pay good money to be insulted.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Joril saw Dalka cower into a ball. Her mother hated any kind of confrontation. On a good day, she could be persuaded to serve the customers, but Joril could tell that today was not going to be one of those days.
‘I would never insult you, Grejor. I was just offering some friendly advice. No extra charge,’ she said pleasantly. Grejor hovered uncertainly, trying to come up with a response. Joril peered round him to the next person in line.
‘Next!’
As fast as she served, people kept coming and the queue never seemed to get any shorter. Her fingers were soon stinging from handling the hot crusts. She thought wistfully of Florian and his mindmoving powers. How easy running the bakery would be if she could lift bread with the power of her mind. She imagined rolls and loaves dancing effortlessly through the air, a large bap inserting itself into the complaining mouth of Grejor. That particular image cheered her up immensely.
By noon, they had almost sold out and the shop was at last empty of customers. As a weary Joril lifted her apron over her head, a stocky man with ginger colouring strode jauntily through the doorway. His beard was noticeably darker and a good deal thicker than the hair on top of his head. He looked at the empty counter and whistled.
‘Done well today, I see, duckie.’
‘Father! You’ll never guess who we had in, first thing? Trainees from the castle.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He reached behind the counter and took a roll that had caught on one side and so had not been sold. He bit into it appreciatively. Joril couldn’t believe his lack of interest at her news.
‘You must have seen them, up at the castle? Twins. One of them can mindmove metal. Look!’ She reached into her apron pocket and fished out the tocrin Florian had given her. It sat flatly in her hand, the magic gone. Her father shrugged.
‘Them younguns don’t come down to the stables much. I’m paid to take care of Thorlberd’s ’orses. Rest ain’t none of my concern.’
‘I want to tell Lylian. I can go, can’t I? Please.’ Joril lowered her voice. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet all morning.’
There was no need to admit that she’d overslept and been late opening the shop. Even though her request had been spoken in an undertone, Dalka shot out of the back room like a bolt from a crossbow. Joril’s mother might be a little loose in her mind now and then, but she had the hearing of a field mouse.
‘You can’t leave, Joril. I’ve just put in a batch of rye cakes. What if someone comes?’ She noticed her husband and her hands went to her mouth. ‘Tomik, what are you doing here? Is something wrong? You’ve lost your job, haven’t you? Oh, whatever are we to do?’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ Tomik said calmly, taking her hands in his own. ‘No bread up at the castle today, so I stopped by for some of yours, duckie. That’s all. Why d’you always take on so?’
‘We could close the shop,’ suggested Joril. ‘Just until I get back. Father, please?’
‘Why d’you keep calling him that, like one of them castle folks?’ Dalka frowned. ‘He’s your Da, ain’t he? We don’t want folks to think we’re putting on airs.’
Tomik winked at his daughter and jerked his head toward the door.
‘Off you go, duckie.’
Ignoring Dalka’s wail of protest, Joril kissed her father’s cheek and dashed from the shop. She popped briefly into the yard to run some more water through her hair, in case any flour had attached itself during her morning’s work. Then she headed for the outskirts of the village, where her friend lived. Lylian’s parents were millers and their house was even more flour-infested than the bakery. Joril had no intention of getting dirty again so she stopped short of the house and halloo-ed loudly. A few moments later, a short, dumpy girl poked a powdery head round the door and waved vigorously. Lylian was covered in so much flour that she looked like a batch roll. Joril often wished she had a better class of friend, but there weren’t many children of her age in the village and Lylian at least was a willing listener. She gawped as Joril told her about her visitors.
‘Everyone knows ours is the best bread around,’ Joril finished triumphantly. ‘They’re sure to come again. Maybe they’ll invite me back to the castle.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Lylian asked.
‘Maybe they’ll want me to show the castle cook a thing or two. Perhaps they’ll take me on. Like an advisor, or something.’
‘But you never actually bake the bread,’ pointed out Lylian. ‘You don’t like getting burned.’
That was true. Dalka’s hands and forearms were covered in criss-crossing pink lines from catching her skin on the edges of hot tins, or against the lip of the oven. All bakers carried such scars and Joril hated the idea of being marked as such. That was the reason she volunteered to serve the customers, even though it meant dealing with people like Grejor. She pulled a face.
‘You sound like my Auntie Bodel.’
Lylian skipped around in a circle.
‘Oh, I like your Auntie. Is she back from her travels?’
‘No, thank the stars. I don’t know where she goes every winter, but at least it keeps her out of my business.’
‘I think she’s got a secret lover,’ Lylian said with a giggle. ‘Why else would she spend so much time away from you and Dalka?’
Joril stirred restlessly.
‘I’d feel sorry for anyone who was in love with her. She’s always so cranky.’ Joril waggled her finger.
‘You must help your mother, Joril. Be more polite. Stop daydreaming and do the dishes!’
Lylian began to snort with laughter as Joril continued to mimic her aunt’s favourite reprimands.
‘Ooh, that’s so like her! Joril, you really shouldn’t.’
Joril stopped. Not because she felt guilty, but because Lylian’s snorting was so loud she sounded like a tortured vizzal. It was so embarrassing. She shifted uncomfortably until Lylian recovered herself.
‘At least Bodel teaches you to read and write,’ her friend offered, once she had calmed down.
‘Only because she wants someone to copy out all her healing recipes.’
‘I wish I could learn stuff like that.’
‘You? I don’t think you’d be any good at it.’
As soon as the words left her mouth, Joril clamped her jaw shut. Another of Auntie Bodel’s favourite phrases leapt into her mind. Joril, you must stop speaking without thinking. Lylian’s lower lip began to wobble.
‘I only meant… Why should you even take the trouble to learn? Millers don’t need to read, do they?’ Joril said quickly. But Lylian began to wail and snot bubbled out of her nostrils.
‘Y-you always think you’re better than the rest of us. Y-You’re not the only one with dreams.’
Feeling a stab of guilt, Joril took out a hanky and gave it to Lylian. She couldn’t wait to leave this village and everyone in it. I may not be the only one with dreams, but I’m going to make sure mine come true.
Chapter Two
Zastra glared at the sky, heedless of the driving rain as she stood on the exposed wooden jetty. Through the gloom, she could just make out the outline of her ship, the Wind of Golmeira, bereft of masts and secured with double anchors fore and aft.
Taking down the rigging had proved a wise move. They had been trapped in Port Krysfera all winter as storm after storm crashed into the bay of this, the largest of the string of islands named Uden’s Teeth. It wasn’t until the most recent Moonscrescent that a break in the weather had allowed Drazan to slip out in his little two masted Daydream. It was for his return that Zastra watched so impatiently. He was overdue and already whispers were spreading that he had been captured. She hoped it was not so. The Wind of Golmeira desperately needed the new sailcloth that Drazan had gone to fetch. If the Daydream failed to return, she was stuck here. Zastra sensed movement behind her and sighed. Could she never be left alone?
‘Lady Zastra, I—you really must—inside. Begging pardon for such a humble servant to suggest to your esteemed personage—you’ll catch your death. If anything should befall you—all these refugees fighting amongst themselves, with only you to stop them—The Sendorans always arguing—you must think of yourself, but you are so—I would all be most happy to assist—delighted, even—any time you wish to go out—I beg you will allow me.’
A rotund man carried a pole with a square of waxed cloth mounted on top. He lifted it above her head to shield her from the rain and attempted an extravagant bow. Unfortunately, in performing his bow, he sent water cascading down Zastra’s back. With a stifled squawk of horror at his blunder, he lifted the pole again and fell into a ridiculous half-curtsey to try and keep the canvas square above her head. Water dribbled over the side of the canvas and flattened his curly hair.
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