Byron waited each day to reach The Rune. The General visited him from time to time, warning him of the horrors and the fate that awaited him. His visits had become comical, no harm was allowed to befall him and so if Byron spoke back to the General he could do nothing but shout and slam the door as he left. Byron did not know how long he had been aboard this ship, the journey to Terra had been a short one he was sure, the horses providing a quick method of transport, it could not have been more than three weeks. He had tried to keep track of the time spent at sea by marking the boards next to him but his nail had broken after thirty days.
Byron had also found that he had become used to the movement of the ship, the gentle bobbing when the weather had relented, or the violent rocking when the weather became harsh, which sent his stomach into spasms, so he instantly knew by the still of movement that they were stopping, and making port. They had been plagued by storms that had made him glad that he was confined to the small store room and not being soaked by the elements. Byron could tell from the conversations he caught from the men who talked outside his room that they were beginning to tire of sea travel. Now as he listened out for the men he heard them chattering excitedly of visiting the whorehouse and tavern. Where were they?
Before he had time to speculate his door was flung open and a man unshackled him, lifting him to his feet. He noticed that they were becoming less and less gentle with him now that his injury was healing. He was half dragged to the deck and saw they were making port on a small island. He guessed they were near to The Rune, stopping merely because they had run out of supplies. He followed the man down the plank and onto the harbour, his legs had gone to jelly and he looked around to find most of the men shaking and massaging their legs. He guessed it was because they had been at sea for so long that dry land seemed strange.
Ahead of him he saw a bustling town, women dressed provocatively sauntered around the men, in the broad daylight, leaning close to them and whispering in their ears. The smell of the crisp sea air was strange to Byron after so long breathing musty air and it made him feel quite ill. He inspected the town before him quickly knowing this may be his only chance of escape. It rose up in the distance, roads and houses winding off into the horizon. The whole town seemed to follow a circular layout, houses built round and around each other, taverns and inns placed in between. Far in the distance was the artisan’s region and it seemed to be the centre of the small island. Byron fancied he could smell the acidic tang of dyed leather and the sound of metal on metal from the blacksmiths. Along the pier were the homes of the captains and his seamen.
The sound of the soldiers rubbing their hands in glee and voicing their plans for the day dragged Byron back and he shivered in revulsion. The General signalled to the men to disperse and all separated wordlessly, this day was theirs and they could spend it how they pleased. Bryon was dragged to the nearest tavern – being put under the command of a less than pleased soldier – and plonked onto a seat next to him. Byron’s hands were tied together and after that the men began to drink. Byron was goaded and prodded for what seemed like hours, the men making him the butt of all their jokes. The beer never ran dry and as the morning wore on they became more and more intoxicated. Byron saw his chance and plotted quickly on how to take it.
The first obstacle was his bound hands, he could probably wiggle out of them eventually, but he did not have time, he would have to be cunning and trick one of the soldiers into untying him. From there it got increasingly more difficult. It would not have escaped the other patrons of the tavern that he had spent a good few hours stone cold sober and bound; he would have to get past the rowdy soldiers and the suspicious inhabitants. What he needed was a distraction. He did not get as far as planning one when a soldier, a dim-witted man who was the drunkest of them all cried:
“I feel a game of cross and pile is in order men!”
Byron knew this was his chance to get the soldiers to untie him. He sat up straighter and watched as the intoxicated soldier produced a coin and turned to the man opposite, “Heads or tails?” he asked.
“Heads,” the man said, confident behind his tankard.
The soldier threw the coin in the air, catching it and pressing it down onto the back of his hand. He revealed it to the rest of the men who cheered, it had landed on a head and the first soldier had lost. He grumbled as he produced more coins and paid his opponent. Byron watched as three more games were played and took his chance.
“My grandmother could play a better game of cross and pile,” he snorted loudly, keeping his eyes firmly on the table. He was not foolish, this plan could go either way and a beating was not how he wished this day to finish. The men all stared at him in shock, their eyes bleary and their mouths twisted in a sneer.
“The stable boy thinks he can do better!” One shouted mockingly.
The soldiers all laughed and slapped their thighs at the joke and Byron let them, he had to act completely aloof for his idea to work and getting upset or mad at their insults would not help him.
“Aye, I think I can, but if you are too scared to try me –”
“Oh no lad,” the man opposite him cried, “we ain’t afraid of you, do you need another beating to prove it?” He raised his fists in warning.
Byron merely smiled and watched as the man opposite him faltered, “Fine,” he said, lowering his fists, “untie him and let’s see if he is so confident.”Byron knew this was his chance, he had to act quickly; he watched the man undo the tight knot in the rope that bound him, his fingers tingling as the blood returned. The same man took a coin from his pocket and glanced at Byron.
“Heads or tails?” he slurred.
“Heads,” Byron said confidently, and stood up and punched the man in the face. He fell back from his chair, knocking into the man beside him who in turn caused the man next to him to fall, the soldiers all toppled over like skittles. It would have been comical, had Byron not jumped clean across them, dodging through the closely packed tables and heading out of the door. Chaos reigned behind him but he did not stop, he ran until his lungs burned and breathing was painful. He stopped beside an ally, walking into it and leaning against the wall to regain his breath. He was free for now, but he had to disguise himself or he would easily be found; there was more than enough witnesses in that tavern to send him straight back to the General.
He was not in the alley long before he was interrupted. “Oi, you! What you doing against ma pa’s shop!” A voice sounded from beside him. He spun worriedly and his hands rose in attack, but he found only a girl before him. She had her hand on her hip and was staring at him accusingly.
“Oh sorry, I – I was...” he began but had to stop. How was he to explain? He was a captive who had escaped from the army’s clutches and was on the run. The girl did not look dim-witted and so he went with the only line of thought he could think of, “I’m lost.”
“Aye,” the girl said sceptically, walking towards him, her lips pinched, “You better not think of stealing from my pa, he’ll break your legs like sticks.”
Byron nodded quickly and the girl began to walk away, “Wait!” he called.
The girl came back and eyed him, “What? I’m a busy girl.”
“Do you have a dagger?” Byron asked, his eyes pleading. The girl frowned and eyed him, looking for something in Byron’s personality or face that she evidently found for she handed him a dagger which had been hidden the folds of her dress. With a swift motion Byron cut his hair above the leather thong, the cut hair fell to the ground into a puddle of urine and water, lost forever. His long hair was now a messy uneven mop.
“What you do that for?” The girl said; her thick common accent was unusual to Byron’s ears and matched the ferocious expression on her face.
“I’m wanted by... some people.”
“What people? You a villain? We get them ships stopping here every so often; we’re told they contain murderers and to report any suspicious looking folk straight to the authorities.”
By
ron suppressed the urge to groan, how was he to answer without causing suspicion? He decided the truth was the only option, or as much as he thought safe to reveal, “A friend of mine, she was attacked, I defended her and now I am being hunted.”
The girl stared at him for a long while, and Byron began to get anxious, any moment now the army could turn the corner and capture him straight back, he would never get this opportunity again. After a while the girl seemed to relax, Byron’s answer satisfying her curiosity and she motioned for him to follow her. He felt guilty, she was too trusting, he could have lied and if he was not an honourable man this girl would have been in considerable danger. They entered the shop he had been leaning against. It was empty, her father was down in the basement gauging from the loud clashes and obscenities floating through the shop. She took him upstairs, into a room and sat him down on a chair. He looked quickly around noting the whitewashed walls, bed, drawers and mirror. It seemed she had taken him to her bedroom. He had no time to feel embarrassed as she bustled around him. He studied her; her short blonde hair was hidden under a white scarf. She wore a long grey cotton dress with a white apron tied to the front. He forgot to look slyly for she turned around and looked at him quizzically.
“What the hell are you looking at?” She snapped. Byron looked at the ground, embarrassed that she had seen him studying her. She produced a razor from a drawer and began to expertly cut his hair, making it look neater. When she had finished she stepped away to admire her handiwork, nodding to herself. She then handed him the razor, “You might want to shave,” she said briskly motioning to the mirror. Below the sound of the shop door opened and she hurried downstairs to serve the customer. Byron walked up to the mirror and began to shave, it irritated his skin as he had no soap but he continued on, a few moments of irritation were far more welcome than a trip to The Rune.
The girl entered the room again after a while, holding a bundle of clothes and looked at him, “Aye, you look much different now, put these on,” she handed the clothes to him and left the room before Byron could thank her. He sighed and gratefully changed. The clothes were strange but comfortable, material of greys and browns. The girl entered again and nodded.
“What’s your name?” Byron asked the girl before she could flutter away once again.
“Kestyn,” she said reluctantly, “You?”
“Byron.” They stared at each other for some time, she was unlike any other girl he had ever met before, she was confident and satirical, with a foul mouth and temper. Her hair was short and fell over her face and as she stood in front of him Bryon knew she could defend herself if the situation arose.
“Why are you helping me?” Bryon questioned. Kestyn looked at him, her eyes narrowing as she searched his tanned skin and shocking blue eyes.
“Your eyes... something about them. Something about you, I trust you. You could kill me or worse but you ain’t, I want to help you.”
Byron smiled then.
“So you coming?”
“Where?” He asked.
“The tavern?”
He nodded perplexedly, but did not dare to argue, Kestyn seemed to know what she was doing, so he followed her. As they walked his mind wandered to Wynn. Was she alive somewhere, running from the Master? He wondered at the connection he felt with her, it was an unquestionable bond that went beyond understanding. Swallowing his fear that she might be dead he followed Kestyn through the busy streets. He saw the men of the army littered around, whispering but not one glanced at him and he relaxed, walking beside Kestyn.
Events had moved so quickly and smoothly that Byron half expected the General to jump from the shadows of an alley and stab him for escaping. Someone, somewhere, liked him and for the first time he began to believe in destiny. He unconsciously ducked every time a soldier looked his way but their eyes continued over him, past him, through him and he straightened his back and walked with confidence. Kestyn led him through dark allies and winding side roads until they stopped outside a quiet tavern. A noise sounded through the open windows. It was a pleasant well ordered noise of men who knew each other and were enjoying each other’s company.
Kestyn walked in the pub and few of the men shouted greetings to her, she nodded respectfully back and walked to the bar. The barman finished serving his customer and walked over to her.
“How can I help you darlin’?” He said, smiling pleasantly. Bryon guessed he knew Kestyn for her not to have belted him around the face for calling her such a derogatory name.
She smiled sweetly and leant towards him, “You heard of any ships leaving port today or tomorrow?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. He laughed and thought, his brow crinkling in the process.
“I recall hearing that there was a cargo ship setting sail for Terra... it was in a few weeks though.” He now leant forward to Kestyn and smiled audaciously, “Why Princess, you thinking of leaving me?”
Kestyn laughed hoarsely and slapped him amicably on the arm, “You’re too good looking for me Alick,” and turned on her heel and walked out of the tavern, Bryon following at her feet sheepishly. He marvelled at Kestyn, it seemed she had any man she spoke to was wrapped around her finger. She was confident and independent, so different from the controlled, oppressed, fearful women of Inlo.
She turned to him once they had walked a distance away from the tavern, “I’ll ask my father to take you on as an apprentice, that way he will let you sleep in the basement until you leave,” she said, as though such things were easy to arrange. He almost wanted to laugh, but thought he would earn an ear bashing. He silently walked alongside her, his heart lifted.
11
“Wake up!”
Wynn heard the voice urging her to rise as though through a mist. She could feel someone shaking her urgently and she felt somehow that she should try to wake up, but she found her mind still too engrossed in her nightmare to follow coherent thought. Instead, trapped by the nightmare she watched as the dream regaining a new sense of clarity now that she was half awake. Aerona’s bony hand was reaching for her, her mother’s body was dead beside her... Wynn finally jolted awake and screamed, falling to the floor in a heap, the covers still on the bed. Her bleary eyes took a moment to focus and she pushed her hair from her face clumsily. Slowly the image of Taien standing over her, a bemused expression on his face, came into focus. Wynn smiled foolishly back at him, before realising she was in her undergarments. She quickly grabbed the covers and pulled them over her, her face scarlet with embarrassment.
“You were screaming,” Taien explained awkwardly as Wynn sat back on the bed, the covers wrapped tightly around her. Wynn nodded hurriedly, knowing her face was still crimson. Taien allowed himself a small smile before indicating to the tray he had left on the table, and then ducking out of the room. Wynn groaned, slapping her forehead. How humiliating, she thought, he must think I am mentally unsound. With another groan she wiped her eyes and found her clothes.
Once she was dressed she sat on the bed, unsure what to do, she glanced at the tray of food but decided she wasn’t hungry and so allowed her eyes to move to her pack. She decided to look at the book she had taken from Oprend Manor; she got up, took it from the pack and set it on the bed. She had carried it across plains, through vast forests, through mountains and still she could not read it. It sat before her almost mocking her. The black leather was still as fine and the gold lettering just as elegant despite Wynn’s long travels.
Frustrated she opened it at random and looked at the page it had fallen open on. It showed a diagram. Slowly Wynn copied it, palm out facing away from her, thumb pressed to her palm. It looked odd and of course nothing happened.
Wynn growled in anger and hit the book in frustration. As her skin touched the fuzzy surface of the page she felt her conscious being flung into the book. It was infinitely different from when she had been thrown into the Dagger of Night’s world. What had been transported was not her physical body, because she found in this state she had no need to breathe or blink, she was awa
y from her body but unmistakably ‘Wynn’. Her body was still sitting on the bed, hand on the book. If Wynn had ever wondered about her body or religion she might have thought that what was flung into the book was her spirit, but Wynn had never wondered and probably never would and so as she stood in this strange world she cautiously, so as not to ruin the connection, looked around.
Golden words were floating past her, against the strange blackness. They were shaped as though written by hand and Wynn could almost sense the person that had painstakingly inscribed them, patiently and placidly. It was almost like when she could sense if someone was near, their life and emotions cried out to her. Here it was like an echo of life, of the life that had been. She watched the words writhe and twist in the darkness, constantly changing. She had never learnt to read, but her years in Oprend Manor had meant she was constantly in contact with writing, whether it was Cook’s scrawls of what was needed from the town, or the books in the library when she was cleaning.
With a certainty she knew the words that floated past her were not the language spoken in Inlo. There were strange letters, some with lines through them, and flicks where she was sure there should not be, at least in her language. She watched the words float by for longer than she cared to think. There was something mesmerising about them, they seemed to contain a deep and secret knowledge. It was as though she was sensing a gift, but of course this was not like the Dagger of Night’s world. No dark creatures padded through the blackness. Here the darkness was broken with the golden words, the words that writhed as though they were made of magic. Magic. Wynn smiled with recognition. The words themselves were pure magic.
“If they are magic maybe I can control them and change them into my language,” Wynn wondered aloud. Slowly she went deep into herself and withdrew a trickle of magic and sent it out into the blackness, all the while thinking of her spoken language. It enveloped the strange words completely and they slowly began to morph. Satisfied she pushed her spirit or conscious back into her body and flexed her fingers to check everything was back in place. The words of the book were disappearing and being replaced with a language she could possibly eventually understand. She set the book aside, exhilarated at her discovery, and slightly fatigued as the language of the book continued to morph beside her, draining her of her magic slowly.
Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) Page 38