Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  A chance. Grab it!

  ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, I realise,’ said Merkhud, adding a tremble to his voice. ‘I think I must be faint with hunger…all this anxiety is taking its toll on an old man.’ He allowed his hands to shake too.

  Tor felt like the young apprentice again, leaping to his master’s whim. He adored Merkhud and though he knew this was his time to seize now, his moment to define himself and choose his own path, he worried about the old man.

  ‘Can I go to the kitchens and fetch you something?’

  ‘Yes, my boy. I’m sorry but I will have to ask you to get me a small bowl of Cook’s soup, or whatever is going.’

  Tor left. As soon as the door closed Merkhud was on his feet and pacing, tossing over and over in his mind the plan which was beginning to take shape. He opened a link and shielded it expertly. The acknowledgement was immediate.

  Things are happening faster than we expected. The boy leaves today.

  What? Are you going mad, old man?

  Not yet, my love, he said softly in her head. How is she?

  She is a wonderful child. A woman these days, came the reply, full of warmth and fondness. What can I tell you? She studies hard. She’s capable, talented, very beautiful. Keeps to herself. She has one special friend, another student.

  Can we make this work do you think? Merkhud asked. For the first time she heard him uncertain.

  Of course. She forced herself to sound confident but she had always taken her lead from him. It was unnerving to hear him confused about this terrible journey they had been on for so long. We are in the hands of the gods now.

  He shivered as her words came into his mind. I suppose you’re right. What about the Kloek?

  Same as before. Devoted.

  Will that be a problem?

  I won’t let it be one, she said defiantly. We’ve come too far now.

  Merkhud could hear Tor’s tread on the stairs. I must go, my love. We’ll talk again later.

  He closed the link as Tor opened the door. He was carrying a tray with a bowl loosely covered by muslin. What Merkhud didn’t expect was Cook herself bursting in behind Tor.

  ‘Now what goes on here, old man?’ she boomed.

  Cook’s answer to everything from a runny nose to aching limbs was food. She had a dish, she said, to ease every ailment in the land and most people, including Merkhud, could not help but believe her. Her chicken soup was legendary in the Palace and he could smell its delicious aroma right now as Tor placed the tray on the table. The bowl steamed through the muslin and the tantalising smell of fresh bread combined with it to make a heavenly brew. Cook, the only person who could get away with such treatment, began to berate Merkhud.

  ‘Get this down you, you silly old fool, and if I catch you skipping my meals again I’ll beat your bony body myself.’ She thrust a napkin into his lap before gathering up her skirts and huffing back out of the doors.

  They could hear her laboured breathing going down the narrow stone stairs. Tor laughed. Merkhud had to stifle one as well.

  ‘Remind you of anyone, Tor?’

  ‘My mother!’

  ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’ Merkhud said as he heard the tower’s main door slam closed. He imagined Cook striding across the courtyard, slapping at young lads and scattering chickens. ‘What would we do without her?’ he added with reverence.

  ‘I’d suggest you hurry and eat up, or face her wrath.’

  ‘Will you stay with me, Tor, whilst I eat? I have something to tell you.’

  If Tor had looked at his three stones—those Merkhud had called the Stones of Ordolt—he would have seen them blazing into colour.

  This time it was the colours of warning.

  Merkhud was not hungry but he had to go through the masquerade of eating like a starving man. Besides, Cook’s chicken soup was not to be sniffed at. Tor joined him at the table and chewed on some dried fruit and nuts he’d grabbed from the kitchen.

  ‘Have you heard of a place called Ildagarth, Tor?’

  ‘Yes. The Queen has told me that her tapestries and bed canopy were embroidered by the craftsmen of Ildagarth. I know that it is famed for its artists and artisans.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Merkhud between mouthfuls. They had resumed teacher and apprentice status. ‘And have you heard of a place within Ildagarth called Caremboche?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t.’

  Merkhud swallowed another mouthful of soup and took a bite from the bread. It was delicious.

  ‘Caremboche is a sort of convent, for want of a better word. Over centuries it has become a haven for women who show the slightest sign of possessing magical powers. It was set up to protect sentient women from the Inquisitors. Of course, most gifted women never make it to those secure, closeted halls. They are butchered by Goth and generations of torturers before him. Those that do, however, are protected from society.

  ‘They are treated with the highest of respect. It’s curious, Tor. They are no different from any sentient woman in a village but for the fact that Caremboche’s weighty and revered tradition through the ages has resulted in its inhabitants being honoured like priests. Our own King, who would see a sentient woman bridled, would allow a Caremboche woman to eat at his table.’

  ‘So why don’t they all run away to this place?’ asked Tor, his interest piqued. He had not known what to expect from Merkhud but this conversation was certainly a surprise.

  ‘Well, exactly.’ Merkhud nodded. ‘But it’s not that accessible located as it is in the far north-west and many prefer to hide their talent and try to live a normal life with a husband and family rather than live a cloistered existence. Also, over centuries of Inquisitors, such gifts have gradually been bred out of our people. Fewer and fewer show the talent. Now I would say that most sentients possess only the wild magic, not the sort from times past which was passed through generations.’

  ‘Is that what I have then?’

  ‘Most probably. Neither of your parents have the power, do they?’ Merkhud looked suddenly aghast; perhaps he had missed this crucial point. But the Gynts had given no evidence of being sentient.

  ‘No,’ Tor said quickly. As his father had advised, he had never mentioned to Merkhud the tale of how he came to be with Jhon and Ailsa Gynt. He maintained the charade that he was their true son.

  ‘Then you are simply blessed, Torkyn Gynt.’

  They exchanged glances acknowledging this was said with a certain amount of irony. Having magic at one’s disposal was not a blessing in these times.

  ‘Why are these women given such privilege if they are no different to other sentient women?’

  ‘Well, they embrace their time at Caremboche almost like a religion. They study, they teach, they practise very advanced herbcraft and pass on this knowledge to our communities and their physics with generosity. They become servants of the land; I can’t think of a better way to put it. They are not permitted to marry, not even permitted carnal knowledge. It’s a great pity, of course, because these are often very young women who flee there to escape persecution. Often they do not realise what they are giving up for their safety.’

  ‘What would happen if they were caught with a man?’

  ‘They would be crucified and stoned.’ Merkhud’s voice was harsh. Tor sensed there was a message there.

  ‘Fairly final then.’ He grinned.

  Merkhud did not return it. ‘They have made their choice and must abide by the rules. This is why I began by telling you it was run almost like a convent. In the same way that some women give up their lives to the gods, these women give their lives in service to the land.’

  Tor ate the last of the nuts. He nodded slowly. ‘All right, I understand. Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because you and I were meant to be going to Caremboche.’

  ‘What?’ Tor sat up.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Merkhud lied. ‘Every ten-year cycle there is a special Festival held at Caremboche. It is a marvellous eve
nt. Usually the royals attend but obviously that is out of the question now. I have been fortunate to be invited every year since I’ve served this family.’ Merkhud smiled as he recalled how long that had actually been.

  ‘When is the Festival?’ Tor asked.

  Merkhud puffed his cheeks and then blew the air out. He scratched his beard. ‘Oh…let’s see now. The next full moon the festivities will commence. It stretches over several days and people arrive at various times.’

  ‘What are they celebrating?’

  ‘Survival mostly, I’d think,’ Merkhud answered on reflex. ‘No, that’s not quite right. Its true meaning has long been forgotten but the Festival is so steeped in tradition that it is very important to the folk of the north.’

  ‘And we were supposed to attend?’

  ‘Well, yes. I thought it would be good for you to experience something as special as this. So few people would have the opportunity…’ He let his words trail off deliberately.

  Tor looked miserable.

  ‘But look here, Tor,’ Merkhud began brightly, as though a wonderful idea had struck him. He could hardly believe he was able to sound so jolly as he laid his trap. He hated doing this to the boy. If the truth be known, he felt as though he should bite off his own tongue to prevent this innocent being entangled any further in the horrible web of deceit which had been woven five years ago.

  ‘I don’t fully understand it but I do appreciate the passion with which you’ve expressed yourself today. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on you; if that’s so, it’s because I love you, boy. I feel like a father to you.’ He smiled and then added, ‘Well, grandfather perhaps.’

  Tor shrugged. This was awkward for him.

  ‘I haven’t hidden anything from you, boy, but I have always wanted you to be the very best. Your talents are astounding; I don’t know either what this world has in store for you but I certainly had hoped I’d always be able to protect you from squandering that talent. Handing yourself over to the likes of Goth amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘But, Merkhud, Goth cannot see it. No one but you—and perhaps others like you or me—can. So what do you fear exactly?’

  Tor was right of course. Goth was completely unaware of the powerful magic which was being wielded in front of his ugly face. That gave Merkhud small satisfaction.

  ‘Child, Goth has sufficient authority to kill you first and have the questions asked later. He hates you. He does not need much of a push to cook up a reason to have you despatched.’

  Tor laughed. It was full-throated and filled with genuine mirth. Merkhud was shocked.

  ‘You think he’s a match for me?’ Tor was not being arrogant; there was too much honesty in him to bother with such folly. ‘How would he ever hold me long enough to kill me, Merkhud?’

  All true, Merkhud accepted silently.

  ‘You forget what I said earlier, Tor. He doesn’t necessarily need to hurt you personally. There are far more subtle ways to inflict damage on you by hurting the people you care for.’

  Tor nodded. Merkhud was right. Goth was unscrupulous and would not hesitate to contrive the death of someone like Cyrus if it meant he could hurt Tor by doing so.

  ‘Well, that’s another reason for me to leave here,’ Tor said.

  Merkhud jumped in. ‘But not like this. Not stomping out, never to be seen or heard from again by people who have shared your life and care deeply for you.’

  Tor was puzzled. ‘You have another suggestion?’

  ‘I do. Go to Caremboche for me. Represent Lorys, Nyria and myself.’

  Tor was astonished. ‘Go alone?’

  A flapping sound at the window alerted them that Cloot had reappeared.

  Merkhud made a sound of disgust. ‘Do you agree with me, boy, that that bird listens to everything we say? I’m sure the falcon will accompany you but essentially, yes, you will go alone.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything; you have my leave to go. We will provide you with a horse, food, money. You will be representing the royal family. I hope you will consider it an honour.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, Merkhud.’ Tor wanted to hug the old man. How could his world spin one way and then another in a matter of hours?

  Merkhud suddenly reached out and took both Tor’s hands in his. He squeezed hard. ‘I want you to promise me that you will mind my warning. Be aware, be very, very sure of this,’ whispered the old man in earnest. ‘These women at Caremboche are not called “Untouchables” for no reason.’

  Tor nodded but Merkhud squeezed harder. ‘Tor, this is serious. You have a reputation. I know how much you enjoy the company of women. Not a hair on the head of any woman at Caremboche must be touched by a man. It spells ruin for the girl and the perpetrator.’

  He paused. ‘They won’t hesitate to deal harshly with the couple in question.’ He stared hard at Tor, impressing his words on the young man.

  ‘I hear your warning, Merkhud. I promise you, I will conduct myself impeccably.’

  Merkhud relaxed and smiled warmly. The trap was set and the bait was luring its victim. He felt contempt for himself as he turned away from the boy whose death knell was already sounding.

  It would haunt Merkhud’s dreams from this day on.

  17

  The Heartwood

  It had been five days since they had departed Tal and the countryside had hardened from the lush vineyards of the southern counties into the rugged hills of the mid north.

  Tor was filled with a sense of optimism. He had no regrets about leaving the Palace, though he did feel hollow at not wishing his great friend Cyrus farewell. That thought haunted his happiness like a cloud but he managed to push it away most of the time, reassuring himself that Cyrus would get his note and understand.

  Cloot thought otherwise.

  Well, what would you have had me do? Wait around ’til Sixthday when he may have ridden back into the city? No one knew when that camp of theirs would finish.

  He deserves better, the falcon persisted.

  They had endured several similar tetchy exchanges during the journey so far and Cloot usually ended their conversation by snapping shut the link and flying off for a while. Tor quietly agreed with the falcon’s sentiments but had no idea what he could have done differently. Having had it out with Merkhud there was no choice but to leave and, anyway, the old man had insisted that he make haste if he was to reach Ildagarth by next Fourthday.

  Tor heard a squeal and pulled his thoughts back to the present, noticing that Cloot was circling high above him. He watched with awe as the bird hovered effortlessly then suddenly dipped its head and went into a dive. Cloot seemed to fall out of the sky, gathering speed with his wings shaped like an arrow.

  Must have seen another rabbit, Tor thought, his stomach lurching at the notion of his friend gorging on entrails.

  He allowed his horse to follow her nose along the narrow path they were treading and he returned to his musings.

  Queen Nyria had known, of course. Tor recalled how she had looked at him when saying goodbye. They both knew she was more than well enough to be standing in the Palace courtyard but she played along, allowing her maids to wrap a heavy shawl around her shoulders. He remembered how she had held onto the King’s arm and tottered, as though weary after the effort of getting up from her sick bed. Her expression had communicated something entirely different to him, though, as she wished him an uneventful journey and speedy return home.

  ‘Don’t be away too long, Torkyn Gynt.’

  He had bent to kiss her outstretched hand and could not resist sending a gentle spike of love through his lips as they touched the back of her hand. He saw it register in her eyes; they blazed with recognition of his magic.

  ‘Madam.’ He had bowed low then, not daring to look at her again and she had not uttered another word to him.

  The King, however, was unable to look him in the eye at all. Tor sensed that his sovereign was suffering. Lorys knew nothing but magic could
have saved the Queen from death. Light knew, she had been barely clinging to life. Lorys, because of his devotion to Nyria, had ignored what had occurred; even though it went against everything he stood for and believed in, he allowed it because it meant saving that which he loved more than any other. It made Tor’s stomach turn as he thought of all the poor wretches who had been punished, tortured and banished in the name of sentient cleansing.

  The hardest part for Tor was knowing that Lorys was indeed a good man. An excellent King. Lorys had proved it over and over again in just the short time Tor had been at the Palace. Such compassion for his subjects; such a love for his Kingdom. If only, Tor thought once again, the King could find the courage to deal with Goth and the whole misfounded fear of sentient people. This was another reason why he had to leave. He had to get away from Lorys and the hypocrisy he now ruled under.

  Countless other well-wishers had gathered to bid him a safe journey. Deep down Tor wondered whether he would ever see them again. He was not so sure he would be back, though he played along with the supposition.

  They had all been such good friends to him. Even the young pages were there. The older soldiers, who were not on the camp with Cyrus, saluted him. He realised then, with just a little pride, that every face in the Palace bailey was a familiar one. He had treated and healed each of them at some stage during his time in Tal. Their presence today, he was reminded by Cook, was a rare sight usually reserved for the King or Queen. The gathering of so many acknowledged what a popular figure he had become.

  Tor forced himself to search out Goth. It was not hard. There he was, standing not far from the King and wearing his usual smirk. Here was one person who would be thoroughly glad to see the back of him and Goth was probably amongst the throng just to make sure he really did leave. He wondered how Goth was dealing with the restored health of the Queen. He surely must have known she was on her deathbed and that it should have been simply a matter of time. However, it was one thing to accuse a peasant of wielding forbidden powers; it was quite another to accuse the most well-loved person in the royal circle, bar the sovereigns themselves, of the same crime. Goth would be required to justify such a claim and proof would be difficult to provide. His sneer was directed at Tor and both knew they had a score yet to settle. It could wait. It would have to.