Wyntertide
Page 41
Bole had his back to her as he tendered the binding to the mixing-point, which sucked it in. He took the woman’s hand in his. ‘Nona,’ he said, ‘resurrexit.’
She stooped and gathered a dark cloak from the platform.
A naked male figure stepped from the mixing-point, slim and tall for his time, hair turning silver over a high forehead, the irises strikingly dark.
The man had no issue with nakedness, nothing hesitant in the step or the sibilant voice. ‘You have changed, my children, but in ways that do not matter.’ He accepted the cloak with languid ease. ‘And this woman?’
‘An obstructor,’ replied Nona.
Wynter said softly, ‘Nona, there are always obstructors.’
‘You have servants too: a Guild in waiting, true scientists. I set it up – a pretty business with a portrait. Scry is here, but she is envious – she killed Calx’s familiar. She does not know her proper station.’
Nona’s deference was tangible.
Wynter took another step, more hesitant now.
How, she wondered, does this Elizabethan view the cut of our clothes and hair? What will he make of Rotherweird Town? ‘True scientists’ means modern scientists – how will he be able to engage with them? Orelia caught a nuance, a flicker of anxiety in Wynter’s face.
‘Now, Calx: the service you were born for. Don’t flinch.’
Guess who’s next, Bole had said, and finally Orelia grasped the true reach and horror of Wynter’s design.
Everthorne moved to face Wynter and his arms rose.
‘No!’ Orelia screamed.
Even Nona averted her face. Orelia could not see, but heard the glottal whimper of a strangled man. Wynter stooped to inhale Everthorne’s last breath, and, as he did so, the living swapped with the dead. Everthorne’s lifeless body fell to the platform, leaving Wynter, blinking like an owl, as the knowledge gleaned by Bole in his many guises over the centuries flooded in.
Nona bowed briefly to him. ‘We must hurry, Master,’ she said, twirling her stiletto before flicking a finger at Orelia. ‘What about her?’
‘Let her lie with him . . . forever.’ He kicked Everthorne’s body as he passed, a husk of no consequence.
By the time Orelia was free of her bonds, Wynter and his acolyte had left the chamber. She did not follow, instead cradling Everthorne’s lifeless head to her chest.
The spectral colours faded and the rocks turned dark, leaving only the luminous moss. Far away, the rock wall ground back into place.
Laying his body against the tree trunk, her knee scraped a small object, the pegs and string with which Everthorne had measured the view on the morning of their one day together.
How all human constructs can be put to good or evil use, she reflected, an artist’s line or a garrotte? What will this new order do to my town, my valley and my friends?
*
On the Island Field, corralled by Apothecaries and pummelled by the storm, a knot of children broke away and indulged that childish fifth sense which marries omen with an instinct for what the future holds. They joined hands, chanting as they danced, an old rhyme set deep in their consciousness:
‘By the pricking of my thumbs . . .
The graves are open,
Wynter comes . . .’
Acknowledgements
Having taxed several friends with drafts of Rotherweird, I decided on a more solitary journey for this second, darker story. In consequence Wyntertide was written with only the literary assistance of my outstanding publishing editor, Jo Fletcher, whose contribution has been immense. But there would be no second volume without the first, so my debt to friends – and above all my agent, Ed Wilson – bears repetition at the outset.
I have at the Bar defended the rights of the citizen critic to speak his or her mind, and it has been instructive to be on the receiving end. I am grateful to all who took the trouble to read Rotherweird. To those who liked it and said so to others, I owe a particular debt. Unknowns need a following wind.
Critics and supporters often agreed that Rotherweird’s multiple points of view presented quite a challenge, early on particularly. I hope this eases in Wyntertide with the return of the main players and but a few new arrivals.
Sasha has again excelled herself as my chosen illustrator, even though she is expecting twins the month that Wyntertide appears. The book aspires to the mood which her images convey. If the text does them justice, I will be pleased indeed.
Never buy wine for the label – but an entrancing cover sure helps, so a warm thank you too to art director Patrick Carpenter and artist Leo Nickolls.
I had naïvely believed that books sell themselves. Not so; the energy and commitment of Olivia Mead, with the support of Quercus’ sales team, has been exceptional. She also has a gift for earthing authorial angst.
There has been one change of personnel since Rotherweird. Sam Bradbury’s talents moved her onwards and upwards, but Jo’s new assistant, Molly Powell, has been a fine successor and a pleasure to work with.
Wyntertide’s proofreader, Sharona Selby, excelled with her eye for subtle inconsistencies and spotting Oblong-esque errors in Oblong’s code, a face-saver.
Last, but foremost, my family, and especially my wife, could not have been more supportive. Time spent with your head in a notebook is time lost to them. They have borne the recurrent and infuriating writer’s ‘mind is elsewhere’ look with exemplary patience. Inflicting pain and loss on likable characters, as life alas can do, may be satisfying dramatically, but it is not conducive to high spirits. They have endured that too.