by Prue Batten
He lapsed into a deep silence. Liam waited but nothing was forthcoming. So he stood and went to Florien to lean against the horse’s neck. The animal swung its head around and nuzzled his hand. ‘You know my bane.’ Apparently unperturbed, he ran strong fingers through Florien’s mane.
Jasper looked at Liam and Liam squirmed under the scrutiny. He had to admit he like the old man, liked his manner. Trusted him. To know one’s bane - did he want to? Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, worms writhed for who would want to know how they were going to die or when? Then again, he mused as he looked across Florien’s back, this could be the greatest game of all time. To forestall Destiny, to change Fate.
‘So?’ he said.
Jasper’s mouth turned down and he took a deep breath. ‘I have known you from afar and close since you were a tiny chap,’ he remarked, eyes softening so that Liam could see kindness and care, something he had been privy to so little in his life. ‘I watched your father misuse you and I hated him for it. Then I watched you as an adolescent closing up on yourself like my precious blooms when the sun leaves the walled garden. I saw you leave, at first for short times, then longer. And now we have lost you. The minute you saw Ana you were no longer a part of Faeran and you were governed by emotions that had no brake, no control. Simply, my boy, your obsession made you blind to everything.’ Jasper’s expression hardened. ‘Liam, you willingly and cold-bloodedly facilitated a mortal death. We don’t do that. If a mortal dies because of a confrontation with us, it is not because we wantonly murder them or are accessories to murder. They die because of their own misdirected actions. What you did will have far-reaching ramifications. Of this I am absolutely positive.’
‘How so? Is that my bane?’
‘No.’ Jasper's voice had a tone that may have had anyone else shivering at what may be coming.
‘So? I don’t care. I will cope when it does.’ Cocksure, he shrugged the act and its guilt away.
‘Liam, you may not be able to. But all that aside, are you sure you want to know your bane?’
Liam nodded, his fingers still pulling Florien’s mane.
‘Ah my boy. It is... it is...’
‘Oh Jasper, for Aine’s sake…’
‘I believe it is Ana.’ The words flowed out quickly on the tail of Liam’s impatience.
‘Ana?’ Liam’s heart chimed a single beat. For a minute it felt like a death knell; so final, so loud was it, he thought Jasper would hear it. ‘How so? Will she kill me?’
‘Not directly,’ Jasper replied, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead as the sun climbed higher. ‘She is soft, kind, in love; it would not be likely. No, she will be the death of you in some way. That is all I know.’
‘What if she died before me?’
‘Before, together, after - it makes no difference. She is your bane.’ Jasper approached his black steed and vaulted up. He waited while Liam placed a foot in the stirrup and mounted Florien. They rolled in the saddles as the horses eased themselves one hoof in front of the other down the steep slope.
‘And you saw this in that confounded mirror?’ Liam found he couldn’t leave it alone. The idea that the woman he had settled on for a game should be his bane. What irony.
‘Yes. I saw you, and a slim, dark-haired woman stood over you with her back to me.’
‘Was I old, young? And anyway, it could have been any mortal. Why should it be Ana?’
‘Because Liam, one of the painful things about my skill is that I can hear what happens and I heard what you said with your last breath.’
‘Ana,’ Liam whispered as the game reconfigured beyond expectation.
‘I’m so sorry, my boy, so sorry. That is why I was angry. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Nothing?’
‘A destiny is set in stone, my boy.’
They rode on.
***
Books are being finished and concealed at a prodigious rate and the story begins to darken like the sky as a thunderstorm approaches and the air begins to crackle with lightning. I find as I write these journals that I feel ill as the knife begins to carve close to the bone. So you must move on quickly. There is a magnificent white lily, tall and gracious with yellow silk stamens of wrapped wire and fine strappy green leaves.
Can you see the beetle at its foot?
It is a Ruby Longhorn Beetle. Brick red Venichese silk and tiny black antique bugle beads from Bressay in the Pymm Archipelago. They mark its antennae beautifully. Lift the elytra just as you have done before and there is the next journal.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Fair took place in the ancient roofed market place. Never sure of the vagaries of mountain weather, the forefathers built an area filled with arcades and spanned by huge wooden transoms, carved and wrought with flowers and leaves. The sculptural wonder alone made the place remarkable. High up, as in the mews, skylights allowed light to enter and sunbeams slanted down and pooled in brilliance on the floor: golden discs that could be mistaken for puddles of glamour, the kind that someone could fall into and be trapped by the Nicker.
Faeran entrepreneurs occupied one arcade of the massive bazaar in a veil of mystique whilst Raji traders had set up in the other, radiating brash and colourful exotica. Whilst sitar and tabla evoked souk, stone and sand; Faeran harp and gittern created promise and the answers to expectation... a strange cadence which shivered down backbones. But it was enticing music as well, music filled with contradictions as it soothed as well as seduced. Brilliance radiated as light played off silks and satins, soft, bejewelled skin and fantastic raiment. Patrons touched things tentatively, overawed, wondering if they were destined to buy silk purses that were actually sows’ ears.
Kholi and Adelina wandered, the embroiderer’s nervousness on hold, her anxiety at the entry of Severine into her life blotted out by the sellers who smiled and charmed. The mortal crowd edged by, warily fascinated, observing the rules of care when dealing with the Others - wearing charms and amulets, palming surreptitious signs of horns, avoiding name-giving. Irrespective, the goods for sale glistened and sparkled like a treasure trove, the like of which few mortals might ever see again. Adelina found threads she must have: a skein of the finest silver thread for the stitching of a cobweb, silk gauze ribbons of gold shot with mauve, raspberry with green, white with silver; the perfect degree of flimsiness for insect wings. But she craved fabric and wandered until she smelt the silk stall.
Silk has its own fragrance - delicate, redolent of mulberry and sunshine and the perfume of flowers and leaves from which the dyes are taken, and it drew her with its subtle tang. On her advance, the seller behind the trestle sent cascades of a pure silk flowing to the end of the table with a flick of her wrist. It floated like a waft of mist or cirrus cloud, entrapping the white brilliance from the skylight, whispering as it fluttered to lie in front of Adelina.
‘Oh,’ she said as she gazed at the fabric, reminded of the unblemished cream of just poured milk. But then the light changed and she glimpsed a delicate flesh tint, recalling a Venichese cameo lying in her van. She had visited a cameo-maker's stall in Veniche and watched him carve into a palely pink shell with a tool called a bulino. A typical Venichese gent, he had sat Adelina on a chair and carved her likeness in profile so that she found she simply had to buy the piece. It called to her then just as this oddly tinted fabric did now. The silk’s lustre flowed from milk to shell and back to milk, a constant play of light akin to an aurora in the sky. So utterly unique was it, so completely Other, that Adelina stilled with awe.
The Faeran woman beckoned holding a fold of the fabric out to the Traveller in graceful fingers. Needing no second bidding, Adelina slid the cool folds through her palm, feeling the faint texture as here and there was a slub or knot. She could hear the seductive whisper as it rolled beneath her fingers, 'Buy me, use me.’
‘Oh Kholi, I can see a robe of such magnificence. So unique. A work of art.’ She turned a glowing countenance to the merchant. ‘Can you envisage it?
’
‘Indeed, my princess, I can. A work the Faeran will want to own.’ He grinned at the silk seller and she smiled a secret smile.
‘Seven lengths then, if you please?’ Adelina deferred politely to the seller who questioned the mortal in amusement.
‘Don’t you want to know the price?’
‘Faeran, whatever you ask I shall double the amount. And pay you double again to make that robe for me, Adelina.’ A sharp voice cut through the quiet negotiations at the stall. It reminded Adelina of fingernails on a panel of glass or the Symmer wind in the Raj which could drive a man mad with its shrieking. She swung around to stare into the basilisk eyes of Severine di Accia.
In her mind, she stamped her foot, glorying in the image of Severine’s own being under her heel as she repeatedly ground that heel in and in. Aware she could never afford the price the Other would ask. But, she thought with a flash of pure venom, neither would she ever make her robe, her design, for Severine. Never ever. She turned a grim expression back to the seller.
The Other’s perfectly drawn face was framed by mahogany hair in cascades of curls interlaced with gem and pearl. Loose twists fell over the alabaster forehead, sliding around her neck as she glanced almost mischievously from one to the other of the competing women. ‘Your inspired robe sounds almost good enough to be Faeran, Adelina. As your handsome consort knows.’
‘Thank you.’ Adelina tried to smile with grace, knowing an Other’s desire to toy with mortals, knowing the seller would see the naked lust for the fabric in her eyes, positive she would enjoy watching the disappointment and sadness as Severine departed with her prize.
‘Come then, seller, hurry and name your price. I don’t wish to dally.’ Severine’s shrill voice pushed between them
Her disrespect acted on the Other like a fierce weather change. The Faeran’s eyes darkened and Adelina shivered. ‘Well now, Contessa di Accia.’ The seller’s voice shriveled the air and Severine’s hands slid into a sable muff. ‘It seems today I have no liking for straight black hair, grey as slate eyes and mouths painted redder than a drop of mortal lifeblood. Today I like copper hair. And eyes like dark topaz. And freckles. Yes, today I like freckles. And because I like freckles, I am going to give Adelina her seven lengths. And for you some advice. There is a seller of dyes further down the aisle. She does a good line in copper hair tint. Avail yourself of her services.’
Adelina’s eyes opened wide in surprise, turning to observe Severine’s reaction. Hell and damnation burned back as if all the malfeasant of the world had been sucked into the very soul of the woman before her. Severine remained speechless but Adelina felt such a stream of hatred rushing toward her, she knew the woman’s thoughts could have ganched and flayed her to death. She flipped around quickly toward the stall and buried her shaking fingers in the cool of the silk. Severine departed in haste. Mercifully, thought Adelina.
‘Here you are.’ The seller held out a thick parcel wrapped in cobweb fine paper. ‘But I lied, Adelina. I do require payment. As you know, nothing is for free from the Faeran. There is always a price.’ She leaned forward and wrapped soft fingers in a hank of Adelina’s curls. ‘I want your hair. Not much, a dozen or so strands. Then we shall consider payment made.’
Moments later, with her parcel under her arm and a long lock of copper hair curled into the Other’s palm, Adelina walked toward the Raji stalls. ‘Aine I feel ill. Severine and I were mere playthings just then. That Other had a game at our expense. She was so livid at Severine; not caring a scrap that the woman now hates me even more. Heavens above Kholi, trust me when I say this is a terrible game that is only just begun. Severine will make me pay in the end and all the while that Faeran will laugh at the outcome, that’s for sure.’
The day sank behind the clouds of night and the couple returned laden with purchases to their temporary home. As they spoke, their words escaped in puffs tinged white and vapid with the freezing air. ‘But it has been a good day, my love,' said Kholi. ‘Excluding that last moment. The marketplace, the goods, the Raji stall holders?’
‘Oh indeed.’ Adelina hugged the parcel of silk to her chest, the urge to cut and stitch bursting. But in the back of her mind she saw an image that cast a dark stain over the folds of her fabric. ‘Except for Severine.’
‘Adelina I insist you must tell me why she agitates you so. Your frown desperately when you speak of her.’
‘If you say I must then I will. But later, yes?’ She shuddered and hugged the silk even closer, lapsing into a puffing silence as the steady incline took hold. They had reached the door of the inn and as Kholi pushed, Buckerfield pulled it back to greet them, his cheeks flushed and pouched, the welcoming smile widening at the sight of them.
‘Well, my lovelies, I can certainly see you have had a good time. You’ve been gone long and spent gelt too, it seems.’ He eyed the arms loaded with parcels. ‘Now, go to my little nook and I’ll bring you some refreshment. You have visitors.’
He moved his bulk aside and as Adelina and Kholi squeezed past they smelled the fragrance of grape and hop, a pleasant enough perfume. They stopped dead when they caught sight of the visitors. Dropping her parcels where she stood, Adelina ran across the room and threw herself into waiting arms.
‘Ana, thank Aine.’
Chapter Twent Four
Ana had woken whilst Liam and Jasper were galloping up the Barrow Hills. She had stretched languorous hands above her head and felt a slight chafing in unfamiliar places. Her hands flew to her belly as the early morning’s delight flooded into her mind. Turning to the window, lying on her side and gazing out between the slightly pulled drapes, she felt a surge of coyness as she remembered what she and Liam had done; coyness coupled with rampant desire. She wondered what Pa would think. Disappointed at her looseness? Probably. But Pa, you are gone now. I trusted you to stay with me for so much longer than you did and now I must make my own way. And I choose to make my way with a man called Liam who I believe loves me as much as you did, as much as I trusted Mother to love me. She sighed and in the midst of a resolution that it would be the last time she ever dwelt on trust and the lack of it, missed the gentle opening of the door.
‘Ana?’ A soft voice redolent of honey and spice eased her from her poignant reverie and she rolled over.
‘Are you feeling well, muirnin?’ A slim woman of indeterminate age moved to the window and pulled back the drapes. A man appeared with a tray of steaming breakfast food and an armful of trailing clothes. Having placed the tray beside the bed, a smile lightening the crooked and austere face, he laid out his bundle on the bed as the woman spoke. ‘Jasper said you needed clothes so there are some jodhpurs for you and a shirt and warm jacket. The ewer is filled with water.’ The woman waved a hand in the direction of the jug and bowl and Ana heard the trickle of water, saw steam. ‘Liam and Jasper are riding. If you are ready before they return, you are welcome to walk in the garden. You will be quite safe.’ The woman hustled the ostler in front of her and the two walked to the door. ‘If you need anything, just call. We can hear you wherever we are.’
Ana slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, caution erased by the woman’s matter-of-fact, easy manner. Picking up a triangle of steaming toast, she licked preserve off her fingers and chewed as she walked to the window to gaze at the humming, blossoming garden. Peace cosseted her almost to the depths of her soul. For the first time for months there was no suffocating grief, no confusion. For all that time her energies had been directed to the sublimation of emotion, to the mere act of survival because if she let sorrow in with more than a foot at her door, she had thought it would completely overtake her. But of course, her efforts had been in vain because the misery had its own agenda, controlling her rather than the other way round.
Now she felt different, lighter. She could think of her father without the black dog of loss sitting behind her staring dolefully. She could see Pa’s face with its slightly balding head and kind, brown eyes and she knew she could draw up his image
without pain. Her mother had said in one of her rare moments that it took time. In Ana’s mind, time equated with distance and the miles she had travelled serve to lessen the load.
She was reminded oddly of the oubliette, so recently in her thoughts - the dark, dank hole where people were imprisoned and forgotten so that they rotted into eternity. What a perfect place to jettison awful memories. Of the way her father had died starving for air; the rasping, the panic as he clawed at the bedding fighting for just one last breath. Of Bellingham and his outrageous brutality, of the Others who had wantonly tried to kill her. She watched them in her mind as they slid into the hellhole, and then she turned away to fill the emotional space so recently vacated by her father with Liam.
The two men picked their way steadily across the rolls of the Barrow Hills. For some time Liam had been quiet, brooding on Jasper’s revelations. He flicked a section of mane from one side of Florien’s neck to the other and broke the silence. So he was to die at Ana’s behest somehow. As his heart once again found a rhythm, he wondered why she affected him so? ‘Did you discover anything about Ana’s future?’
Jasper had relaxed, allowing his horse to meander along, and took a moment to answer. ‘No. Mortals are hard to divine. Their heads run at a million miles an hour with things they hold on to. And to be honest I was concentrating so hard on trying to get Ana to break free from the constraints of her emotional withdrawal, I did not give it the time it needed.’ His horse jogged a few paces and Jasper sat easily in the saddle, his posture hardly changing, hands relaxed on the reins. ‘But there was a repeating symbol,’ he added.