‘Kirkholme.’ The reply was brusque as the soldier brushed away Brutila’s gloved hand. When she had been Thorlberd’s master at arms, Brutila would have made the woman pay for such insolence, but she needed to save her energy. The search was all that mattered. Kirkholme. That name was new, she was sure of it. There was a decent looking inn at the bottom of a street paved with uneven cobbles. Thorlberd’s soldiers were dotted about, heavily outnumbered by the farmers and mountain folk that lived in these parts. The locals were too gutless to make trouble, especially after Thorlberd had sent his Kyrginites to seize their young people and make them serve his army. She had always admired the Grand Marl’s tactical brain. Thorlberd was never afraid to be unpopular if it got him more power, which is why, in her opinion, he was a far better Grand Marl than his older brother, Leodra. Brutila’s lip curled. Whatever bad luck had befallen her these past few years, she would always have the satisfaction of knowing she had played a role in Leodra’s downfall. Careful. Even as she invoked her enemy’s name, the horrifying image of snow-capped mountains flooded her mind. The scene of Brutila’s childhood ordeal, a trauma for which she blamed Leodra. The image threatened to overwhelm her. She bit down on the bile that rose in her throat and called for a large spiced wine, drinking it down in one gulp before calling for another. The sense of intense, aching cold receded, along with her terror. She paid the barkeep, trying to keep her voice friendly and casual.
‘Are there any young folk still living round here, that didn’t get taken for the army?’
The barkeep tried hard not to look at her.
‘Ain’t none of your business, nor mine neither.’
‘I’m looking for my niece. She’d be a young woman by now. She has dark chestnut hair. I’ve good news. She’s come into some money and there’ll be some for any that help me find her.’
Brutila clinked her purse meaningfully and tried to smile, but that only brought forth a look of disgust, one Brutila was well used to. This is what you get for trying to be nice. The man scooped up her empty mug and began to polish the already spotless bar. She knew that she would not get anything out of him. At least not willingly. Border folk kept to themselves and she was an outsider. For a moment, she was tempted to probe his mind, but there was a risk he might faint and that would raise suspicions. She hadn’t the strength to control all the people in the inn. She decided to take a look around. There may be someone who was more willing to be bribed. She could always return when the inn was less busy to extract any information the unhelpful man might have.
It was bright outside after the gloom of the inn and Brutila was momentarily blinded, even with her hood partly shading her eyes. As she stepped forward she tripped over the uneven cobbles and stumbled. Her reactions were still sharp enough to catch herself before she fell, but her hood was shaken loose. As she tugged it back into position she noticed a lanky young man with large ears that stuck out from beneath untidy, straw-coloured hair. With him was a lad about ten years old. Both were dressed in leggings and undyed woollen tunics. Goat farmers. She was about to dismiss them when the lanky young man began to drag his companion away. Curious. Brutila shot a mind probe towards the receding figures.
Brutila! The youth’s thoughts practically screamed her name and her head snapped back in shock. She was certain she had never seen him before. How does he know my name? Maybe in her cintara-induced madness, she had done him harm. Or maybe, just maybe, he had met Zastra and the girl had told him about her. Brutila shot out another mental probe. The youth had no barriers to defend himself and she tore eagerly through his memories. Some plump girl dominated his thoughts. Not Zastra. Brutila thrust the image aside. Another figure rose up. An older woman, thin, red-faced with coughing, and then, shockingly, laid out dead as the young man sobbed. His mother. Brutila jerked her mind away from the grief as the young man’s pain threatened to overwhelm her. By the time she had recovered, her prey had disappeared behind some houses. They had moved surprisingly fast. Brutila’s body had been weakened by her years of addiction and she knew that she could not catch up with them. But she had got what she needed. Just before she had been cast out of the lad’s mind by his grief, she had wrenched out an old memory. A slim girl holding a crossbow. Older than when she had defeated Brutila, but Brutila would never mistake the face of the girl who had almost killed her. Zastra.
Chapter Eight
The old stove had lain rusting in the yard behind the bakery for as long as Joril could remember. She prised open the door and shoved the sack inside. She could feel the warmth of the fresh bread through the rough fabric. Stealing it had not been easy, especially as Bodel had insisted on helping in the bakery. Her aunt had roused Joril and opened the shop early, much to the delight of Grejor and the other customers who preferred their bread piping hot. Only when Bodel popped into the back room to help Dalka prepare the mixture for the sponge cakes was Joril able to take the bread. She wedged the sack into the far corner of the stove, dislodging a layer of soot in the process.
‘Whatcha doin’?’ Joril nearly jumped out of her skin. Lylian stood at the entrance to the yard watching her with a sly grin.
‘Nothing.’ Joril hurried over to the water barrel and scrubbed the soot from her palms. Lylian opened the stove.
‘It smells yummy! Can I have some?’
‘It’s not for you,’ Joril snapped. Lylian’s lower lip began to wobble, a sure sign she was going to cry. If Bodel heard Lylian crying she was bound to ask why. And Lylian was useless at standing up to grown-ups. Joril lowered her voice.
‘Look, it’s a secret. You must promise not to tell.’
Lylian’s lip stopped wobbling as Joril cupped her hands over Lylian’s ear and told her about the bargain she had struck with Fester and Florian.
‘The castle!’ exclaimed Lylian, eyes wide as dinner plates.
‘That’s it, yell it loud enough for everyone to hear,’ Joril said in annoyance.
Lylian clapped her hands across her mouth. Luckily, no one appeared to be close by.
‘I’ve got to get back before Auntie Bodel misses me.’
‘Wait!’ exclaimed Lylian. ‘I’ve got news. That’s why I came to see you. The testers are in the village today. I’ve just seen them, down by the well.’
Joril shrugged. ‘So what? I’ve already been tested.’
‘But I haven’t! What if I’m a blueblood? How exciting would that be?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Joril muttered. The very idea that Lylian might have blue blood sent shards of jealousy running through her. It would be unbearable. She clung to the fact that the chances were slim. Bluebloods were extremely rare. From all the children of the castle villages only one boy had ever seen his blood turn blue in the testing vial. Surely someone as stupid as Lylian could never be so gifted.
‘If I were a blueblood, I’d tell the guards to let you into the castle to visit me. You wouldn’t have to steal bread or anything. Won’t you come? You could take the test again. Maybe they got it wrong last time.’
‘They never get it wrong,’ Joril muttered, and yet she followed Lylian out into the street. Next to the well, two mindweavers were setting up a trestle table as soldiers rounded up the village children.
‘Joril! Come here, I want you.’ Bodel’s voice was sharp. Had she found out about the bread? Her aunt thrust a large leather bag into Joril’s chest. ‘Hurry along to Hurlbridge and get some salt from Pep’s store, will you? Here’s a tocrin. Make sure you get at least a quarter in change. Pep would fleece a mountain goat before winter and have no regrets about it.’
‘Hurlbridge?’ Joril protested. ‘It’s so far! Can’t you just go down the road to Irik, like Mother does?’
‘Just do as you are asked, for once. Lively now, we need it for tonight.’
Joril stomped back into the bakery and flung her apron to the floor. She would never make it to Hurlbridge and back before lunch. All the iced buns would be gone by then and so would the testers.
‘Hang that up, young lady.’ B
odel stood over her until she had picked up the apron from the floor and placed it on a peg. Bodel treated her like she was a servant. If only Joril was a mindweaver. Then she would make her aunt do things she didn’t want to do, not the other way around.
‘You’d better have a sweeter look on your face when you get back,’ said Bodel.
Joril ran from the bakery, the leather bag slapping against her legs. Driven by anger, she did not slow down until she was outside the village. The spring air was cool, but she was hot with resentment. It was so unfair. The only time something of interest was happening in the village and she wasn’t going to be there. Imagine if Lylian turned out to be a blueblood. Or one of the other village children. She would miss it all. Then there was Fester and Florian. They were expecting her. If she didn’t turn up today, she might never get another chance to see inside the castle.
She was so busy being angry that before she knew it, she had reached Hurlbridge. Pep asked after Dalka and Tomik. Usually, Joril would have welcomed an excuse to sit around and chat. A good gossip was better than having to work, but today she had no time to waste. She answered Pep’s questions as quickly as politeness allowed, paid for the salt without even haggling and hefted the strap of the leather bag onto her shoulder. She left Pep staring at the tocrin in her palm in disbelief.
The journey back to Highcastle seemed to take forever. The salt was heavy and the strap of her bag bit into Joril’s shoulder. Her energy had dissipated and her left heel was starting to blister. When she examined her shoe, she found a hole in the sole. Stupid cheap shoes. She almost flung it away in rage, before realising how silly it would be to try and walk barefoot all the way home.
She started thinking. Every problem had a solution, Bodel always said. Fine. Joril would use Bodel’s teaching against her. Was there anything about her current situation that she could use to her advantage? Well, she hadn’t been made to serve customers in the bakery. That meant that if she could sneak in and get the bread, she could head off to the castle and not be missed. Auntie Bodel might question how long it had taken her to get to Hurlbridge and back, but Joril reckoned she could come up with some story. She shifted the bag to her other shoulder and quickened her pace, walking on the balls of her feet to save her blistered heel.
When she reached Highcastle, the mindweavers and soldiers had gone. The testing must have finished. She sidled along the main street, trying to look unobtrusive. The door of the bakery was open and she could see Bodel serving a farmer. Dalka was nowhere to be seen. No doubt hiding in the back, as usual. Joril ducked into the yard and opened the rusty old stove. Taking a deep breath, she swapped the bread for the bag of salt. No point carrying the heavy salt all the way up to the castle. She was some way towards the castle road when she remembered that she had yet to acquire any iced buns. She daren’t turn up without them. She turned back towards the bakery and peered round the open door. There was no sign of Bodel or her mother. She dashed in and reached behind the counter for the iced buns. To her dismay, only two remained. It would have to do. Her heart fluttered as she stuffed the buns in her backpack and she shot out of the door as if a wild caralyx was on her tail. She made it safely to the castle road, where she slowed to a walk, her heart pounding. It was time to see inside Golmer Castle.
Chapter Nine
A portcullis blocked the archway that cut through the outer ramparts. Joril stopped short. She hadn’t expected this. Usually, the portcullis was raised during the day, allowing free passage in and out of the castle grounds. She hadn’t reckoned on another barrier, in addition to the gates of the main castle itself. Through the ornate iron grid, she could see the vast walls of Golmer Castle at the crest of the gently rising ground. There was a small hut a few paces beyond the portcullis.
‘Hey!’ she called. A soldier in black uniform with a green gecko embroidered on the front stuck her head out of the window of the hut and glanced at Joril disdainfully.
‘Castle is closed.’
‘Closed?’ Joril protested. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s closed to the likes of you, is what I mean. Get away with you.’
‘But I’ve got a delivery. For Fester and Florian.’
‘Never heard of ’em.’
‘The twins. Trainee mindweavers. You must have seen them. Curly hair, not too tall.’
The woman shrugged. ‘Them schoolkids don’t give me my orders and my captain says no one’s to come up to the castle unless it’s Grand Marl Thorlberd ’imself, or one of ’is soldiers. As far as I know, we ain’t got any little girl soldiers. Now git.’
Joril turned away in despair. A familiar figure ran up the castle road towards her, waving like mad. Joril groaned. The last thing she needed was for Lylian to witness her being snubbed. It would be all around the village by supper time.
‘There you are!’ Lylian staggered to a halt. ‘You were supposed to wait for me.’
‘I had to change plans. Anyway, I thought you were at the testing.’
‘It finished ages ago. None of us are bluebloods.’ Lylian rubbed her palm ruefully. ‘It hurt where they stabbed me, and all for nothing.’
Joril felt a shiver of relief. The idea of Lylian being a mindweaver, lording it over them all, would have been too much to bear. Guilty at having such disloyal thoughts, she offered Lylian an iced bun.
‘Here, you might as well have this. They won’t even let me into the grounds.’
‘Ooh, thanks!’ Lylian stuffed the bun into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
‘What you got there?’ The guard poked her head out of the hut. Joril noted the loose bulge of flesh around the woman’s midriff and the greedy way she was eyeing Lylian’s bun.
‘We’ve come from Dalka’s bakery,’ she said airily. ‘Famous for the freshest, sweetest iced buns in all Golmeira. Lord Rastran himself often stops by to try some.’
‘No-he-don’t,’ Lylian mumbled, wide-eyed at Joril’s lie. Fortunately, her mouth was so full of cake that her words were hard to make out.
‘I am partial to an iced bun,’ remarked the guard. Not just iced buns, judging by that waistline, thought Joril.
‘Just how closed is the castle?’ she asked sweetly.
The guard went over to one side of the portcullis, lifted a lever and cranked a small iron wheel. With a groan, the portcullis began to rise.
‘A delivery, you say? Well, I s’pose you can leave it at the main gate. You’d better get back here straight away, mind. They’re testing at the castle and no one’s supposed to go in or out, in case they miss someone.’
As soon as the portcullis was high enough for her to duck under, Joril scrambled beneath it. Lylian followed.
‘Not so fast.’
The portly soldier held out her hand. Reluctantly, Joril dug in her bag and handed over her last iced bun. She grabbed Lylian’s hand and hurried up the paved track that led to the castle before the guard could change her mind. Lylian licked her lips.
‘Mmm, that was so yummy. Florian will love us forever for bringing them.’
‘He would if I had any left.’
Lylian stared at her, aghast.
‘We can’t go without the buns. They’ll throw us in the dungeons!’
‘Don’t be silly. I still have the bread. I’ll pretend we forgot the buns. Or perhaps I’ll tell them you ate them all.’
Unfortunately, Lylian didn’t realise she was joking and proceeded to burst into tears. By the time Joril had apologised twelve times and reassured Lylian that she wasn’t really going to blame her, they had reached the castle gates. Joril was relieved to see they were wide open. However, as they began to walk through, a rough hand on her chest stopped her short.
‘State your business.’ A stocky guard examined her with the same level of disapproval as the woman on the outer ramparts. Joril wondered if they recruited gate guards according to how grumpy they were. If so, she reckoned her Auntie Bodel might have missed her calling.
‘Urgent delivery for Florian,’
she said with an air of confidence.
‘Ticket?’
Her fake confidence evaporated.
‘What?’
‘Every delivery needs a ticket, so we know you are who you claim to be. Otherwise you could be a spy. Let’s see what’s in that bag.’
‘Do we look like spies?’ Joril protested.
The man held out his hand and, reluctantly, Joril handed her bag over to be examined. The guard sniffed deeply.
‘Mmm, fresh bread. You wouldn’t begrudge a poor soldier a slice or two, now, would you? Show you’re friendly-like and not spies. Then I could let you in.’
Before Joril could protest, he had taken the whole loaf and handed back her empty bag. She carried on into the castle, seething at the injustice. Lylian skipped in after her.
‘Now we haven’t even got the bread,’ she wailed. ‘Fester and Florian will never invite us again.’
Joril strode forward.
‘Then we’d better make the best of this chance to look around, hadn’t we? Stop gawking. We need to look like we belong.’
But as they entered the main courtyard, Joril couldn’t help but stare. The vast cobbled square was enclosed by three tiers of balconies. In front of them, a set of wide stone steps led up to an enormous pair of blackwood doors, ornately carved with battle scenes. Above it hung a golden shield engraved with Thorlberd’s gecko symbol above the hawk of Golmeira. Lylian headed towards the base of the steps, but Joril pulled her back. Nobody was using that entrance and it looked purely ceremonial. Smaller doors set in each corner of the courtyard were open, through which people entered and left. She made for one such door, hoping to blend with the crowd. A knot of soldiers paid them no heed as they hurried past. Good, thought Joril, because I’ve nothing left worth stealing. They entered a corridor that was so dark they couldn’t see at first. Joril reached for the wall and found only a gap. She stumbled through it into a roomy chamber, filled with rows of high-backed chairs. The chairs were not being used. A queue of children and teenagers snaked around the perimeter. There was a huddle at the front of the line. Joril stood on tiptoe to try and see what was going on, but there were too many people in front of her.
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