“Well,” said Barver, “if you happen to find yourselves in the Eastern Seas, just ask for me at any inn on the Islands. They’ll be able to point you in the right direction.” He raised his bucket of ale. “To the three of us! Outcasts all!” They each took a drink. Barver wiped the froth from his mouth. “There’s an old griffin tale called The Three Outcasts,” he said. “Have you heard it?”
“No,” said Patch; Wren shook her head.
Barver looked wistful for a moment, then drew in a breath and frowned. “Probably better you haven’t,” he said. “It doesn’t end well.”
The next morning, they saw the Abbey long before they reached it. The road took them up over a high ridge, and on the descent they could see a wide expanse of farmed land with cottages dotted throughout. At the centre was a vast, ornate grey-stone building. A large central rectangular section was impressively high, and topped with densely packed spires. Around it, smaller annexes had their own profusions of smaller towers and pinnacles. The overall impression was that the architect must have had a considerable fondness for hedgehogs.
“Marwheel Abbey,” said Patch. “Down there, Wren, lies the answer to your predicament.”
Wren peeked out from Patch’s pocket, where she was sheltering from the morning chill. She looked and nodded, returning to the pocket without a word. Patch could understand – she was nervous. There was a lot riding on this visit.
They reached the Abbey entrance – huge wooden doors, the frame intricately carved with flowers and animals. The doors were closed, and a bell-chain hung down next to the frame. When Patch pulled it a delicate tinkling came from the other side, followed by the echoing approach of footsteps.
A small inset hatch opened in the door directly in front of Patch, revealing the face of a young monk. “Yes?” said the monk.
“Would it be possible to see Brother Tobias?” said Patch.
“If you give me a moment I’ll find out,” said the monk. He caught sight of Barver and let out a curious noise, as if someone had trodden on a vole. He looked petrified. “Oh. I…um. Back in a minute.” The hatch shut. Hurried footsteps charted his rapid retreat.
After a while, the hatch opened again revealing a different monk. He was much older, with blue, penetrating eyes on a lean and weathered face, the left side of which had a deep scar running from jawbone to forehead. With the man’s gaze on him, Patch felt like a rabbit being sized up by a wolf. “I’m Brother Tobias,” said the man. “Who exactly are you, lad?”
Patch opened his mouth, and suddenly realized that giving his real name might not be the best idea. “Um…Henry,” he said. “Henry…Smith.” He felt a little wriggle in his pocket from Wren, and could almost see her exasperation; the way it had come out, calling himself “Archibald Fakename” would have sounded just as convincing. “And this is my friend Barver Knopferkerkle, a dracogriff.”
Tobias nodded briefly to Barver, apparently unconcerned, then turned back to Patch. “I understand you wish to see me about something?”
“I’m a friend of Erner Whitlock, an Apprentice Custodian. He wrote to you about a problem regarding the victim of a curse?”
The man’s eyes widened and he looked at Barver again. “Lord, really? That’s one heck of a curse.”
Patch glanced at Barver, who seemed bemused rather than offended. “No,” said Patch quickly, “Barver actually is a dracogriff.” He held open his coat; Wren poked her head out of the pocket and waved. “This is Wren. She’s the one who needs your help.”
“A rat, then!” said Tobias. “That’s more what I was expecting. You’d better come inside.”
Tobias opened the large main doors, and led them along a tall, arched corridor, which was spacious enough to give Barver no trouble moving around. Patch noticed a few fearful glances from the monks as they passed, but only a few ran off in terror.
“We’ve had some griffins here in our time,” said Tobias. “But never a dracogriff. You’re very welcome. Although, given recent events, you might find things a bit awkward for a while, being part dragon.”
“Recent events?” said Patch.
“Yes,” said Tobias. “Did you come to us from the south?” He nodded to Barver. “Did you fly?”
“A fall has left me too wounded to fly,” said Barver. “For a week or two, at least.”
“We came from the north,” said Patch. “By road.”
“Shame,” said Tobias. “I’d hoped you could add to the news we’ve been getting from travellers on the West Road about an attack on Tiviscan Castle!”
Patch forced out a vaguely convincing gasp. “Goodness no,” he said. “Was anybody hurt?”
“A dragon army assaulted the Castle, it seems,” said Tobias. “The only fatalities were a few of the prisoners in the dungeons, one of whom was particularly noteworthy. The Hamelyn Piper!”
Patch gasped again. “Gosh,” he said.
“The dragons finally got their wish,” said Tobias. “And the Hamelyn Piper’s secrets have now died with him. There’s understandable anger that the Castle was attacked, but frankly the Hamelyn Piper’s death is being widely celebrated. I suppose if he was ever going to reveal the truth about the children, he’d have done so by now…” They reached another set of double doors. “Ah! We’re here. Come through.”
The doors led outside to a walled garden. A solitary monk tended some of the plants, and looked anxiously at Barver.
“It’s okay, Brother Jessop,” said Tobias. “There’s no reason to be scared.”
“Morning,” said Barver. The monk nodded without a word and turned back to the plants, trembling visibly.
“The infirmary garden,” said Tobias, gesturing to their surroundings. “I’m a Healer, or at least I try to be. I’ve been running the Abbey infirmary for some years now, and we grow as many of the key herbs here as we can. Sit, sit.”
There were stone benches in the middle of the garden. Patch and Tobias sat on them, while Barver hunkered down on the ground. Wren emerged from Patch’s pocket and came out onto the bench. She stretched. Come on then, she signed. Get down to business.
Patch nodded. “So, Apprentice Whitlock wrote to you and explained?”
“That he had met someone who had been shape-shifted by a Sorcerer’s curse,” said Tobias. “That’s the essence of it, yes?”
“It is,” said Patch. “Rundel Stone himself suggested your name as Wren’s best chance of finding a cure.”
“Yes,” said Brother Tobias, sounding annoyed. “Whitlock mentioned he was Rundel’s Apprentice. I’m afraid, Wren, that you have come here with false expectations. I sent a reply to Apprentice Whitlock telling him as much, but not soon enough to save you a journey.”
Wren sagged, and Patch didn’t know what to say.
“What?” said Barver. “You can’t just snatch away the girl’s hope like that!”
Brother Tobias shook his head in sorrow. “I’m sorry. Rundel had someone else in mind, I suspect. Someone we both used to know.”
“It sounds like you and Rundel Stone are old friends,” said Barver.
“Old friends?” said Tobias. “Rundel doesn’t really do friends. We were colleagues. But it was this other person I spoke of that is the true expert in matters of sorcery. I think Rundel sent you to me in the belief that I could take you to them, but I cannot. I made a solemn vow, a long time ago.” Wren was staring ahead of herself, tears falling. Brother Tobias looked at her, a pained expression on his face. “I really am sorry, Wren.”
“Please,” said Patch. “Tell us where this expert is, we’ll go and ask directly.”
Brother Tobias looked at Wren and seemed torn for a moment, but he shook his head. “That’s not going to work,” he said. “Even if I broke my vow and told you, it would do you no good. The danger is too great. It’s complicated, but there you have it. For your own safety, I’m not going to say any more. There are others who I think can help, however. Let me gather what information I can, and give you a list of names.”
Patch put his hands out to Wren; she hopped onto them and went to his coat pocket to curl up.
Barver let out a deep sigh. “Well then, we must seek a cure elsewhere. Brother Tobias, we would appreciate those names as soon as possible.”
“I think they are all a considerable distance away, I’m afraid,” said Tobias.
“Not a problem,” said Barver. “If I’m flight-ready soon, I’ll take her wherever she needs to go.”
Wren peeked out of the pocket and wiped away a tear. She shook her head. You have your mother’s last wish to deal with, she signed. I’m not going to make you delay that.
“Nonsense,” said Barver. He looked at Tobias. “Any hot springs around here? That tends to sort me out quick-smart.”
“No hot springs,” said Tobias. “But I’m sure we can do better than that.” He called to the monk who was still tending the plants. “Brother Jessop? Could you find Brother Duffle and ask him to come out here?” Brother Jessop seemed only too happy to go. “Brother Duffle has experience with non-human healing. I insist you stay and let him help you, Barver. The Abbey can extend all of you hospitality for a few days.”
Barver nodded. “I’d be very grateful,” he said. He reached for his money purse and pulled out a coin. “I’ll make a donation, naturally. Also, if there’s any stitching or darning to be done I’ll be only too happy to help.”
Tobias gave him an odd look. “Uh…okay. The money is very much appreciated. The infirmary has been dealing with an outbreak of firefoot recently, various supplies are depleted. This will help considerably.”
At that, a plump monk bearing an overwhelmingly excited expression entered the garden, heading straight for Barver.
“It’s true!” cried the monk. He took Barver’s hand and shook it repeatedly. “A dracogriff! Welcome! Welcome!”
“Brother Duffle,” said Tobias. “This is Barver, our visiting dracogriff, and his friends, Henry and Wren – she is human, the victim of a Sorcerer’s curse. A recent fall has left Barver unable to fly, and I thought you might take a look?”
“Absolutely!” said the monk. “Tell me, Barver, can you spread your wings a moment?” Barver did as asked, and Brother Duffle spent a few minutes looking over his new patient. As he did, he mumbled to himself. “I see, I see,” he said at last.
“And your prognosis?” said Barver.
Duffle shook his head and tutted. “You’ve not been taking very good care of yourself! Your shoulder is in terrible shape, your wing skin is peppered with wounds that have never healed fully, and I suspect you’ve torn every muscle in your body at least once in your life.”
Barver nodded, impressed. “You seem to know your stuff, Brother,” he said. “But can you get me flying again soon?”
“Indeed!” said Duffle. “A poultice of my own creation will make short work of the old wounds, and a combination of hot rocks and massage will do wonders for your shoulder.” He cleared his throat. “Um, could you just lie down for a moment, first?” Barver did, bemused. Brother Duffle stood beside Barver’s head and took hold of his wing above the shoulder. “Just hold still,” said Duffle. “This might…tickle.” With unexpected force, he wrenched the wing back then pushed it forward.
There was a deeply unpleasant crunching sound, and Barver howled. He stood at once and backed away, glaring angrily at the monk. Brother Duffle toppled over, but the smile on his face was as broad as ever, and it soon widened even further – Barver started to move his shoulder, and suddenly grinned. “Good gods,” said Barver. “What on earth did you just do?”
Duffle looked immensely chuffed. “Your secundum humeri had a dislocated alae vallo,” he said. “Could have been like that for ages. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” said Barver, stretching out his wings. “But you, Brother Duffle, are a genius!”
At the request of Brother Tobias, Brother Duffle led them out of the gardens and round to the side of the Abbey, which was dotted with a ramshackle collection of smaller stone buildings. He walked up to one and opened the door, revealing a large interior with a crudely built fireplace in one wall. Half the room was taken up by assorted piles of wooden boxes.
“The pigsties!” said Brother Duffle, smiling. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ve not kept pigs at the Abbey for at least forty years. A fireplace was added so it could be habitable when necessary, although now it’s mainly used for storage. Hence the boxes.”
Barver peered into the nearest box and pulled out a piece of cloth, on which was embroidered “Grettings frum Marwel Abey”. He looked in another box and pulled out a small misshapen lump of wood that, eventually, he identified as a model of the Abbey itself. A very bad model. “What is all this?” he asked.
“Souvenirs,” said Duffle. “Handkerchiefs, little Abbey models, and other stuff. Some of our Brothers spend their days making them, and we sell them to visitors as a way to increase the Abbey’s funds. Anything that’s not quite up to scratch, we put in here. We might try and fix them, or, well…find another use.” He gestured to the fireplace. “The Abbot often says that a wasteful heart is the first step to evil! Although please don’t burn anything saleable.”
“Understood,” said Patch.
“I’ll arrange a sleeping mat and bedding for later, and some candles,” said Duffle. “For now, settle in and rest your weary feet. Barver, I’ll return with my poultice shortly, and we can begin the rest of your treatment. The muscles in your shoulder will need a few days to settle before you can risk flight, but you’ll soon be on the road to recovery.” He bade farewell and left.
Barver chuckled to himself, moving his shoulder in circles and muttering, “Amazing!” every now and again.
Patch tapped gently on his coat, just where his chest pocket was. “Come on out of there,” he said, gently. “Have an explore. I’m sure there’ll be a nice beetle or two you can find.”
Wren stuck out her head. Her eyes were still wet with tears, and her little nose was running. Patch went to the boxes and found one of the souvenir handkerchiefs. He tore a small square from one corner and gave it to her. “Here,” he said. “More your size.”
Wren took it and blew her nose. I think I just want to sleep, she signed.
“Don’t be like that,” said Patch. “It’s not so bad. Once Barver can fly and Tobias gives us his list, it won’t take long to get you cured.”
She shook her head, despairing. But what if none of those people can help me either?
“Nonsense,” said Patch. He was trying to sound as positive as possible, even though he was thinking the same thing. What if she was beyond help?
A distraction was needed, so he took off his bag and rummaged for the Fox and Owls board. “You and Barver should play.” Beside the board were the boxwood pieces he’d stripped ready for his new Pipe. A thought struck him, and he looked over to the models of the Abbey. Bad as they were, surely it meant the Abbey had some woodcarving knives? “Actually, I think I might pop out for a bit and see if I can borrow some tools. I can spend the time getting my Pipe made.”
Will your Pipe take long? signed Wren. I imagine it needs weeks of work.
“Goodness no!” said Patch. “Carving it only takes a few hours. Then I can cure it and decide on a glaze.” The thought of his new Pipe was giving him some much-needed optimism.
Wren blew her nose again, and set the mini-handkerchief down beside her. Suddenly, her stomach gave a little rumble. She looked up at Patch with a fragile smile on her face.
You’re probably right about those beetles, she signed, and scampered off to hunt.
Patch returned to the pigsties a few hours later. He’d managed to borrow tools from the small group of woodcarvers in the Abbey, on condition that he stayed in the workshop as he used them. His Pipe was a joy to carve, the boxwood having a particularly good texture that made it almost soap-like to work with. The central airways didn’t take long to finish with the tools at hand, and the headpiece likewise was completed very quickly.
This gave him plenty of time to cut the fingerholes – first the primary set, then the more intricate ones. Without feeling rushed, he took great care in their placement, although he was careful to keep his work out of sight to avoid awkward questions. As soon as he saw any of the other woodcarvers coming near, he swapped his Pipe for another piece of boxwood which he whittled into a crude bird.
Before returning to Barver and Wren he gathered a few more things he needed, including some hawthorn sticks and flat stones from the Abbey grounds. When he entered the old pigsties, an overwhelming smell assaulted his nose – a mixture of flowers, garlic, vinegar and sulphur. Barver was sprawled on the floor with his eyes closed, as Brother Duffle worked the muscles of his weakened shoulder. Some of the boxes of junk had been moved to give Barver space to spread out his wings, which were smeared in places with a greenish gloop that, presumably, was the source of the stench.
Wren, meanwhile, was dozing in front of a fire built up mainly from rejected souvenir Abbeys. They burned rather well.
Duffle nodded a greeting and stopped his massage. “That’ll do for today,” he said. “I’m going to make a start on an ointment for tomorrow, Barver. I have a few ideas I want to try.” Barver opened his eyes, rose onto all fours and folded up his wings. He stretched, and an alarming crack came from his spine. “No, no!” said Duffle. “You should stay flat for a while longer. Your back is much more delicate than you think!” He lifted his near-empty poultice jar and went to the door. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and left.
“See you, Brother Duffle,” Barver called as the door closed. “Successful day, Patch? Or should I say, Henry Smith?” He winked.
“It went extremely well,” said Patch. He set down his bag and produced his newly-carved Pipe, then played a simple scale and nodded, very happy with the sound. “I’m going to start the curing process now. How’s your treatment coming along?”
Barver brought one wing up to his face and licked at the green gloop. “It’s certainly delicious,” he said, then grinned. “Brother Duffle gets so cross when I eat his poultice. It’s doing my wings the world of good, I must say. Duffle told me it’s laundry day tomorrow, so I’m going to sit in the laundry house and soak up some steam. It’s the nearest thing to hot springs he can manage. A few more days, and he says I can try a small flight.” He stretched his wings out as wide as the room allowed. “My shoulders and wings feel better than they have in years.” He took another lick of the green poultice. “I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t resist. It’s too tasty.”
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