by E. Hibbs
Penro’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Simply that... I...”
His fingers touched hers, but almost immediately, he snatched back. His gentle gaze suddenly broke into shock. Merrin jumped, alarmed – and then realised he had sensed the last magic to have run through her head. It was like a stone sinking in her stomach. She watched him warily, and he gave her a violent shake of the head.
“Merrin,” he said, “no. You must not!”
“I know what I saw,” she replied quietly.
“But you cannot do what you are thinking of!” he cried. “I know what it is in your head. But, no... look at the sky! The sun will be upon us before you could do anything! And after all this time, you have survived... now your return is finally almost upon us! Merrin, please! You are our Queen! You must not risk yourself so! It must not all count for nothing!”
“He is in danger,” Merrin said, wringing her hands. “All of them are. I have brought agony to them for centuries, and now I finally find the strength to forgive, I cannot leave him to such a fate. Not after what he has done for me.”
Penro fixed her with a stern stare. “But you are a Queen.” The desperation in his voice was chilling. “You must not put him before yourself!”
“Listen to me,” Merrin whispered. She moved closer, but he made no move to advise her back again. “There is little time, so hear me. Father told me, as Grandfather told him, that a Monarch is no better or greater than any other living being that shares the world with them, whether they live for a night or millennia. And that includes humans, right down to that family.”
A flicker of something that seemed like pride passed across Penro’s face. In him, and in Dylana, Merrin could see the change in herself, reflected in their eyes. But behind it all, he also looked wounded, and tensed – as though expecting some kind of blow.
He is, she realised. Although not a physical one.
“Do you love him?” he asked, and Merrin could tell it had been haunting him ever since Raphael had come to Zandor.
Tell him the truth. Now.
She crawled fully out of the cave, and lifted his chin up with her fingers, so that he looked her in the eye. The amarants bloomed up around them.
“No,” she said. “I do not love him. I am merely grateful, for all he has taught me. But no, he is a human and I an Asræ. I learned from my last mistake. No human has been there for me for as long as the one to whom my heart belongs – for as long as you.”
As she spoke, Penro’s eyes lit up, and the age-sparkles in his eyes seemed brighter than the stars. A huge smile broke over his face. He hesitated, as though thinking of formality, but then reached out and rested his hands on her waist. Merrin smiled, feeling his forehead drop gently onto hers. She moved her fingers up to his cheek, and his fin flickered behind his back.
“I waited so long for the night you might find your heart again,” he whispered.
“As have I, although I have been blind to it. But no longer.” Merrin sighed. “But understand, Penro. For all that you have done for me in centuries; Raphael has worked different wonders in mere nights. Because of him, I can bear to say to you what I truly feel – what I have held back for so long. Please. I must help him.”
Penro pressed his lips together and looked at the ground. She watched him for a moment; then her eyes darted at the ever-lightening sky, before turning towards where she knew the Wall lay.
CHAPTER XXV
Fires in the Night
N ot long after Tomas’ instrumental, everybody had returned to their tents and settled down for the remainder of the night. Irima had gone to sleep with Ida, where she usually stayed if there was no-one in the sick tent. From the deathly silence that had descended upon the whole camp after the celebration, Silas could tell that everybody had fallen asleep almost immediately. He, however, remained more awake than ever, having grown accustomed to sleeping more in the day so that he would not be faced with his blindness. So he lay with his hands behind his head on his newly-positioned bed, staring at the canvas above, and catching the occasional faint scent of the fire lingering in the air.
Even though since Shadow Mask had declared him clean, Irima had sometimes returned to Ida and Tomas, Silas found the sick tent very quiet and almost eerie without her. In his mind, he listened to her voice as she told him of the wonders that lay outside the only world that had ever existed for him. He silently sounded out words he had never heard before, and tried to imagine what they meant. Castles... oceans...
He ran his fingers over the kerchief that Shadow Mask had given him. He didn’t dare to pull it from around his neck to see it properly, for fear of having to re-tie the knot himself, but he felt the smoothness of the material; and the tiny bumps of the embroidery silk. He pictured one of the women painstakingly decorating it – it would have taken days of work to complete. It was one of the most obvious details of a Peregrin man: a necktie was something that they all shared. To have been given one as a gift, without having to trade anything, and for no true reason except as something to remember them by... it was unheard of to Silas, and touched him deeply.
That reminded him of Irima’s kiss, and even though he was alone in the dark, he felt himself blush. His fingers crept up to his lips. Nobody had ever kissed him before. It had only lasted for a moment, but remembering it made his heart flutter like a butterfly on the summer updrafts.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep now, he sat up, pulled on his boots and belt, and stepped out into the night. The mountainside opened up around him, and he took in a deep breath of clean Valley air. He felt heavy; when he had returned to his tent, the temperature had dropped drastically, so to keep himself warm – and also to prepare for his return to Fanchlow – he had changed into his old brown tunic and woollen hose. Then he had slipped Andreas’ clothes over the top. His plan had retained the heat well enough, but feeling the familiar farm-garments against his skin served only as a reminder that it wouldn’t be long before he left the Peregrin forever.
With that rather saddening notion, Silas walked slowly to the lip of the corrie and gazed down into the dark gash of the Elitland. High up and level with the pastures, he could see for leagues. He even made out the dark line of the Wall running down the Valley spine, and pressed his lips together tightly. He flexed his fingers inside the glove.
Another fire-smell reached his nose, and he glanced behind him at the remains of the pile of tinder. It had receded to a heap of grey ash – still managing to hold the original shapes of the wood in places – with deep scarlet embers underneath. He frowned. The smell was too strong to be coming from a fire so close to death. But then it came thickly again, and he turned back to the view.
He froze. In the darkness, he could see the glimmer of the Fanchlow village lantern, glowing in a sea of black. Except that tonight, it wasn’t the only thing burning. A whole building was ablaze, flames licking up the dry wattle and daub walls, and as the wind blew from the south west, it carried the unmistakable sound of angry shouting.
Silas suddenly realised what building it was. A house, larger than most, on the outskirts, with a cart shelter. Only one house had a shelter.
Dear God in Heaven, Nay!
Panic seized him like a physical hold and he stood rooted to the spot. His family’s faces flashed through his mind like lightning, and then adrenaline shot into his blood. His old rational head rose back to the fore, and he spun on his heel, racing back towards the camp.
But instead of returning to the tent or waking Shadow Mask, he rushed towards the group of horses, tethered to their posts. Most of them were asleep or lying down, or blocked by the carts. But the nearest one was on its feet. Silas faltered. It was the grey stallion.
The animal’s impenetrable eyes were turned on him and were watching intently, the whites just showing at the corners. It clearly didn’t want him there at all. Silas clenched his teeth furiously and glanced over his shoulder towards the Eastern Ridge. The sky was already beginning to tint; a shade ever so slig
htly lighter than the starry darkness stretched over all else. If he tried to make it on foot, he would be too late.
His mind made up, he wrenched his knife free, cut the stallion’s bindings, and quickly swung himself onto its back. Not knowing what he was doing, he accidentally kicked it in the rump as he struggled up, and it gave an alarmed snort, tossing its head and pawing the ground with its hoof. Silas grabbed fistfuls of mane and booted hard into the horse’s ribs. It reared, and he cried out, throwing himself forward to avoid being thrown off – but when it hit the ground, it sprang into a gallop.
Silas’ heart leapt, and he pulled on the stallion’s mane as it neared the lip, drawing closer to the exit of the corrie. It snorted again and sped up.
“Left! Go left, damn you!” Silas snarled, pulling again.
Whether it obeyed him or simply adjusted its speed to accommodate the new level of ground, he didn’t know. But nonetheless, it veered onto the terraced track, and before he knew it, they were flying through low copses of trees, blundering down the mountainside. The wind whipped his hair back and roared in his ears like the screaming demon. He hung on for dear life, gripping the stallion’s side with his knees and bouncing uncomfortably every time its hooves hit the earth.
You can be in pain later, he silently bellowed to himself. But get down there now! Get to them! Oh, please, God! Ma... Raph...
The ground finally flattened out and Silas turned the stallion to the blaze: now more vicious, with the flames towering to the sky. The acrid smell burned in his nose. Now that he was closer, the horror built higher in his chest. If there had been any doubt from the height of the corrie, he was now certain that it was his house.
He dug his heels harder into the horse’s sides, urging it to go faster. But it just gave him a furious grunt and kicked in mid-gallop, almost bucking him off. He barked and instinctively flung his arms around its neck, and at that, it went to turn around and bite him.
Silas snarled and sat up again. “Shut up and move!”
The shout seemed to work better, and the stallion began running again. Silas’ muscles tensed as they drew nearer and nearer, cutting across the fields surrounding Fanchlow. With every moment, he felt a numbness settling over him; the mellower side that the Peregrin had unearthed was falling behind, as their camp drew further and further away.
Eventually, he arrived at the rear of the house, and the stallion swerved to avoid the flames. Silas made no move to stop it; the heat was terrible, and the animal took him around to the other side. What he saw roused all of his fury to the surface.
A mob of villagers was standing outside, yelling and cursing, and some cowering in fear. At the head stood Father Fortésa and the four Fanchlow Elders, flanked by the men of the families. Silas couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but he followed the direction of their eyes, and suddenly saw a woman kneeling wretchedly on the floor, clutching a young boy and girl to her. The children both had red hair, and although the woman’s was covered by a black wimple, he knew that beneath it, she was blonde.
Enraged, he brought the stallion to a halt, and then the crowd noticed him. Their shouts dimmed to shocked mutterings.
“Stop this at once!” Silas bellowed, jumping off the horse’s back. The stallion whinnied and ran around to the back of the house to get away from the fire. Silas leapt in front of his mother and siblings, and looked Father Fortésa in the eye.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” he demanded, feeling the heat on his back. He was the shortest of everyone there, except Selena and Uriel, but the venom in his eyes more than made up for it.
Nobody replied; they all seemed too amazed to see him, and his name was being whispered back and forth like a multitude of snake-hisses.
Silas, meanwhile, didn’t stray a muscle. “Speak up!”
“You!” Father Fortésa stammered, raising a gnarled finger at him. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home, and I have returned!” Silas spat. “And it is not as I left it, by any means! Now, by God, somebody answer me!”
“You should never have come back, boy!” snarled one of the Elders. “Your cursed family – dost thou think us blind to what is truly happening? Every man dead by the water-illness; it only comes for yours’, for generations and generations, and then the two eldest sons disappear without trace! It is evil work! Witchcraft, I say!”
There was a unanimous “hear, hear!” from the mob.
Spurred on by their support, the Elder nodded smugly, and carried on. “We have had enough, you hear? Enough of it! Your family has no place here!”
“So what will you do?” Silas shouted. “Where else can we go? The Elitland is all that any family have, or have ever had! No matter if they be cursed by Evertodomus or not!”
Many of the women gasped fearfully as he spoke the name of the forbidden west.
“You are in league with them!” Father Fortésa shrieked.
Silas felt his face reddening with anger. “Nonsense! And how dare you accuse my family so! My mother is no witch, she is but a poor widow! How can such words come from the mouth of a man of God, Father?”
The gasps turned to ones of outrage.
“How dare you speak to our priest that way!” cried another of the Elders, stepping forward.
Silas heard Araena staggering to her feet with Selena and Uriel, edging them forward, away from the fire. A sweat broke out on his brow as the heat intensified, and his rage turned the world red.
“Silas, oh, thank God...” his mother was whimpering, but he kept his eyes on the attackers and quickly raised his arms to keep his family behind him.
“Who do you think you are?” demanded the first Elder. He spat on the ground at Silas’ feet. “Demon-child! We know where you have been! How can you deny the truth, when you visit them in the night! You and your damned brother, sneaking off like serpents, and slithering with those creatures of darkness!”
Silas ground his teeth so hard that they hurt, and he didn’t realise that his hands were in fists until he felt the nails of his right hand digging into his palm.
“Aye!” someone else shouted. “Look at the garments he wears! They are not of the Valley!”
“They were given to me by the Peregrin!” Silas snapped.
Uproar welled at the unfamiliar word.
“Peregrin! You see, he confirms it! He has been with the demons!”
“Nay, the... the Patrians! The Travellers!” Silas threw back. “I’m not the only one here who travelled to the Fayre this year, and traded with them! I see many a Fanchlow face that was also there! You all know well that these are their clothes!”
“Lies and trickery!” Father Fortésa barked, slashing his hand through the air like a blade before Silas’ point could be realised. “Listen to him not! He lies, I tell you! Look! Look at the glove on his hand! A single glove! What does he have to hide if he is innocent? Take it off, boy! Take it off, and let us see what you conceal underneath!”
He doubled over in a fit of coughing, but he had been heard, and the villagers raised their hands in agreement.
“Yes, off with it!”
“What have you to hide?”
“Demon-family, witches, folks of darkness! You are not welcome here!”
Fear clogged Silas’ mind and a trio of men suddenly bounded towards him. Before he could do anything, they grabbed hold of him, clutching his arms and pulling at his hair viciously. He snarled in anger and tried to throw them away, but it was no use.
“Let go of him!” Selena cried, her words broken up with terrified sobs.
One of the men got his fingers underneath the glove and wrenched it off. A horrified gasp spread like a wave, and all of the onlookers fell back, their eyes alight with a flat shine of fear and strange triumph. The moment hung suspended for Silas as he stood there, the firelight glinting off his naked palm, skin shimmering and calloused.
“Dear God...” a woman breathed.
Father Fortésa stepped forward. “You see?
You see?” he yelled, spraying spit in his excitement. “I told you! The touch of demons! I always knew he was too strange to not be under their influence!”
Cries of “aye!” began to echo all around, and Silas felt dread settling over him like an icy frost. There was no way he was going to be able to hold his ground against such a horde now. He glared ferociously at the priest, and then whirled around to his family.
“Flee!” he barked.
Araena nodded, grasped Selena’s hand, and began to run as fast as she could. Silas whisked Uriel from the ground and tossed his brother across his shoulders before following. Outraged, the mob began to follow, but were hindered by their own numbers, and it was enough for Silas to lead the way around the back of the house and away from the worst of the fire.
“Where’s Mekina?” he shouted as he drew level with his mother.
“She’s in the... pasture house, on the hill,” Araena replied, her breath ragged with fear.
Silas immediately presumed that Raphael would be with her, as two usually worked up there. He looked back at the mountainside that he had stormed down. He found the small black shape of his family’s pasture house; then his eyes flitted to the Ridge overhead. The sky was lighter, and alarm grasped at him. He was running out of time.
Suddenly, he noticed the stallion, bucking and hitting the ground agitatedly, but amazingly still nearby.
Oh, thank you, Lord, he thought, and hurried towards it.
“Get on that horse,” he snapped, ushering Araena closer and letting Uriel down.
The stallion rolled its eyes warningly, but Silas grasped its mane and held it still whilst she clambered on. Then he placed Uriel in front of her, and Selena behind. There was no more room for him, so he slapped the horse’s rump before holding on again and directing it up the incline of the Valley-side – alternating between running and being dragged along, as the shaken family left their neighbours and livelihood behind them.
CHAPTER XXVI