“You can’t send me away,” Gywna retorted, her smile slipping. “I’ll tell my father you’ve mistreated me!”
“Your father already knows about your behavior,” Eddelyn replied coldly. “I’ve kept him informed. He ordered me to send you back to Serranguard if your conduct worsened.”
Gywna glared at the older woman from under hooded lids. How dare her father undermine her in this way.
“Return to your chamber and pack your bags,” Eddelyn continued. Now that she had won the argument her usual unflappable calm had been restored. “You are leaving tomorrow morning.”
“What! I . . .”
“I have finished speaking with you Gywna.” Eddelyn turned her back on the young woman. “Leave me, now.”
Gywna’s infamous temper smoldered. She only just restrained herself from leaping on the sanctimonious High Guardian and scratching her eyes out. Instead, she flounced from the chamber and slammed the door behind her. Then, in the whitewashed cloisters outside, she kicked over a flowerpot and snarled at two young Guardians who were taking a walk around the garden. The girls shrank back in fear as Gywna stormed past. They were barely thirteen summers old and they had only been at the Temple a short while. She left the cloisters and stomped into the apple orchard behind the complex.
It was nearing dusk and there was no one about at this hour. The other Guardians were washing up before dinner. Muttering a string of curses, Gywna stormed up the hill behind the buildings and, reaching the top, where a high wall prevented her from going any further, she climbed a walnut tree and sat brooding.
How she hated the Temple and everyone in it. At the age of eighteen, she had spent the last four years as a prisoner within these high walls. Life as a Guardian of Isador required a spartan existence of prayer and watching over the Ancestral Flame that burned continually in the center of the temple. The flame had not gone out in four hundred years—until that afternoon. The only part of her life here that Gywna had not minded was working in the garden and orchard, and the instruction in physical combat and swordsmanship. These skills were not usual for women but a Guardian of Isador was not like other women. They remained forever virgins and had to be able to protect the Temple of Ancestral Wraiths if the need ever arose.
Every morning, for the past four years, Gywna learned how to fight like a man. It helped her release her aggression but it did not make her popular with the other Guardians. She had never bothered to conceal her preference for fighting to praying. The other Guardians knew the only reason she had been allowed to stay here was because her father was Serranguard’s City-Lord. However, as much as she detested this place it was preferable to Serranguard and her father’s indifference. Now she was more than old enough to marry, he would auction her off to the highest bidder as soon as she returned to Serranguard.
Gywna uttered a few more curses that would have made Sister Eddelyn blanch and plucked at the long blue gown she wore. If she had not been in such a foul mood she would have enjoyed sitting in the walnut tree, looking over the white angles of the Temple and cloisters below.
The Temple of Ancestral Wraiths nestled in the foothills of the Cradle Mountains. The mountains were a gently sloping, horseshoe shaped ridge carpeted in pine forest. To the north, over the Temple’s onion-shaped roof, Gywna could see the hazy outline of the rooftops of Brenna. The nearby market town huddled on the shores of Lake Farne. The only time Gywna had ridden through it, Brenna had appeared a rough place; noisy, dirty, crowded and colorful. She had been captivated by it and had wanted to return to have a proper look around. Sister Eddelyn had been mortified by such a proposal. Once they entered the Temple, Guardians never left. It appeared that Gywna was now the first to break with tradition.
Gywna sat in her tree for over two hours. After a while, the bell for dinner chimed below her. She caught sight of a flurry of blue robed Guardians, moving towards the dining hall. She made no move to join them – and hoped they all choked on their vegetable broth and pigeon pie. She was too angry to eat; too unhappy and too suffocated. All her life she had been ordered around and treated like a piece of extraneous furniture, moved from room to room because she did not fit in anywhere.
Gradually, as the light faded, Gywna Brin made up her mind. The decision was monumental and it both terrified and exhilarated her. However, after much rumination she concluded it was the only way she could escape the gilded cage her father had imprisoned her in.
She would run away.
Gywna climbed down stiffly from the walnut tree and made her way back to the Temple. The cloisters were deserted, as everyone was still in the dining hall. Gywna navigated a network of narrow whitewashed corridors inside the complex. Her step was unhurried; her anger was seeping out of her now she had decided to run away. Inside her sleeping chamber, she packed a small bag with essentials. The task only took her a short time, and then she sat on her bed and waited.
Opposite the bed sat a small mirror. It had been a present from her mother not long before she fell ill and died. Gywna stared at her reflection—and a young woman with a pale, round face, a scattering of freckles over a turned up nose and heavy lidded hazel eyes looked back at her. Her thick curly brown hair, cut just above her shoulders, framed her face. She was thankful she took after her mother, rather than her father in looks; for only her heavy-lidded eyes and the pugnacious set of her jaw when angry gave her any resemblance to Theo Brin. Gywna tucked the mirror away in her bag. It was all she had of her mother—the only person who had ever bothered with her.
Gywna lay back on her bed and rested for a while. It was too early to make her move and she had to wait for the bell for midnight prayers to sound. As she had let the flame go out, all the Guardians, including Eddelyn, would be feverishly praying in an all-night vigil for forgiveness inside the temple.
Gywna was just starting to drift off to sleep when the bell rang, its mournful sound echoing through the complex. Gywna heard the rustle of slippered feet moving along the corridor outside her chamber. She waited until all was quiet once more before she got up and pulled her long, blue guardian robes over her head. She dressed in the plain and voluminous black shirt and wide trousers she wore for physical training, before picking up a belt with an ornate scabbard containing her Wraith Sword. Eddelyn would insist she left this behind but she did not intend to do so. This sword, carried by all those who protected the Temple of Ancestral Wraiths, was priceless. It had been expertly crafted; its hilt was studded with precious stones. The sword had a long, slender blade, forged by the best Ennadil smiths in Mithridel. Gywna buckled the Wraith Sword around her waist.
Before leaving her chamber, Gywna wrapped a long, dark-grey cloak around her and pulled up its hood. Then, shouldering her bag with her meagre possessions, she stepped into the corridor outside.
Silent in her soft slippers, Gywna moved quickly along the shadowed passages, until she reached the High Guardian’s chamber. She held her breath in anticipation and gently pushed the door open. Eddelyn’s chamber was empty, as Gywna had hoped. She let out the breath she had been holding and slipped into the chamber. Wasting no time, she crossed the wide floor to the High Guardian’s desk. She opened drawers and, after finding nothing but quills, ink and parchment at first, came across a small velvet bag filled with coins. Gywna pocketed the pouch with a grin of triumph. At least she would not starve.
Outside in the deserted corridors, she made sure to hug the shadows in case any of the other Guardians were about. She need not have worried. It seemed everyone was paying penance for her terrible act.
Gywna knew she should feel guiltier than she did about letting the Ancestral Flame go out. Despite her flippant attitude when confronted by the High Guardian, she had not meant for it to happen. She really had dozed in the temple’s alcove and had forgotten to close the skylight in the temple’s roof. While she was sleeping, a rain squall passed over-head and doused the tender blue flame in a hiss of acrid smoke. However, she did not see any use in worrying about the re
percussions of her actions. She was no longer welcome here—and she never had been.
Gywna slipped outside into the darkness. She had discarded the idea of leaving through the main gates. They were guarded by two Guardians at all times, and she did not relish the idea of fighting her way past the both of them. She would end up being caught and marched back to her father, in even greater disgrace. Instead, Gywna had decided to climb the high wall at the back of the orchard, with the help of one of the apple trees that grew a few feet from the wall.
Clouds obscured the moon and darkness blanketed the orchard. Gywna moved by feel through the trees, following the gently sloping ground up to the high wall. She felt her way forward until she came to a section of the wall where a few of the apple trees had grown large, skimming the edge of the wall. Reaching around her like a blind woman, Gywna judged which tree stood the closest. Then, slinging her bag across her chest, she started to climb. The clouds were still covering the moon when she reached the top of the tree. She squinted through the darkness and tried to judge where the wall was, guessing it was no more than a few feet in front of her; just a little higher than where she was perched. In order to clear the wall, Gywna realized she would have to launch herself forward with a lot of force – and she hoped the apple tree’s thinner top branches would bear her weight.
Gywna raised herself up, braced her slippered feet against the branch, and jumped.
She slammed against the wall.
Gywna scrabbled madly against the rough stone before she fell, winded, onto her back. She had misjudged its height—the wall was much higher than she had estimated. She lay there for a few moments, regaining her breath, before she got to her feet and climbed the tree again. This time, Gywna felt a flutter of fear as she braced herself to jump. It had hurt, hitting the wall like that, and she did not fancy repeating the experience. She counted to three and then leaped as high as she could.
She hit the wall again but this time her fingers curled over the top edge. Her chin scraped painfully against the stone but she clung on and slowly pulled herself up onto the top. Gywna lay panting, her heart thundering in her chest, before she let herself down the other side. She hung for a moment, her fingertips and arm muscles burning, before she was forced to let go. She fell onto firm ground, toppling back onto her backside with the force of the fall.
Above her, the clouds obscuring the moon parted and the landscape around Gywna was illuminated in an eerie, silver luminance. She sat on the edge of a pine thicket. Below her, a shrubby hill sloped down to the unpaved road leading to Brenna.
Gywna got to her feet and rubbed her backside, before checking her sword was still fastened securely and that her bag had not lost any of its contents. Satisfied everything was still intact, she pulled up her hood and, without looking back at the white edifice behind her, she started walking towards Brenna.
***
It was late when Jennadil Silverstern left the home of Brenna’s richest merchant, Mirk Erdwood. A heavy bag of coins clinked in his cloak pocket as he walked. It was a cool, cloudy night and Brenna’s streets were quieter than usual. Brenna was the City States of Orin’s southern-most town, and news of the Orinian army’s crippling defeat had made the townspeople nervous and reclusive.
Despite that Jennadil’s eyes were gritty with fatigue, he was not ready to retire for the evening. Mirk Erdwood had paid him well to place an invisibility charm on his money vault—so that if the Morg arrived they would not be able to rob him—but he had not offered the wizard dinner. Jennadil’s money reserves had been almost exhausted. This job had bought him a few more weeks of hot meals and comfortable beds.
Jennadil’s stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten since the morning. His favorite tavern, the Stag and Ox—due to the pretty serving wench who warmed his bed after hours—was on the other side of town. The Erdwood town house lay on the southern outskirts, under the shadow of the Cradle Mountains, and not far from the Temple of the Ancestral Wraiths. It was a long walk, too long on his empty stomach, to the Stag and Ox, and Jennadil decided to look for a tavern on Brenna’s south side.
Jennadil walked through gradually narrowing streets. Stone and timber buildings towered overhead, made of granite slabs and larch framing. During the day, the town’s austerity was softened when Brenna was packed with street merchants, noise and color.
Jennadil’s stomach growled as he passed the door to a tavern. It looked inviting. Two torches burned either side of the door and the lingering aroma of roast mutton and rumble of voices and laughter wafted out into the street. Jennadil paused and looked up at the sign above the door: The White Hare. A comical depiction of a startled hare stared back at him from the painted sign. He had never visited this tavern before and decided it was time he did.
It was still crowded inside, despite the lateness of the hour. Jennadil felt curious eyes on him as he moved across to an empty table in the corner and sat down. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible these days, having changed the black, silver-lined cape that marked him as a wizard for a forest green one. However, his staff still drew curious stares—for he looked too young to need one. He knew his looks drew attention as well. The inhabitants of the City States of Orin tended to be short in stature with blond or light brown hair and eyes—much like his friend Will Stellan. Jennadil was tall and athletic with hazel-green eyes, a short ginger beard and curly auburn hair that he wore long. His skin was so fair it was almost translucent; a legacy of his Ennadil mother. He was not ashamed of his Ennadil heritage but his looks caused enough of a stir as it was; Ennadil were not popular in these parts.
The tavern-owner’s wife ambled over to his table. She was a chubby middle-aged woman with a tired, sagging face and a vacant expression. “What can I get you?” The woman’s voice was as expressionless as her face.
“A hot meal and a bed for the night good lady.” Jennadil gave her his most winning smile.
“‘Tis a bit late for supper but we have some mutton and sweet potatoes left over in the kitchen.”
“Thank you madam and I’ll have a jug of your finest ale with that.”
Immune to Jennadil’s charm, the tavern-owner’s wife turned her back on him and went back into the kitchen to fetch his dinner. Jennadil settled back into his chair and surreptitiously observed the other clientele inside the tavern. They all had turned back to their business but Jennadil sensed they still had an eye on him. The tavern’s interior was decorated in red velvet with a low, wood-beam ceiling. Pipe-smoke hung in a haze in the air. The aroma of roast meat mingled with the tang of strong ale.
A few rough-looking men sat around a table in the center of the tavern. They were playing Death Dice; an old Tarzark game where the players made bets before throwing six dice. It was an ancient game and once a very dangerous one. In the past, if after throwing the dice a skull appeared on all six dice, the man who had thrown the dice was sworn to fight the man who had thrown before him—and the latter could choose the weapon. It was a fight to the death; a game traditionally played by enemies. These days however, instead of betting with their lives the players bet using gold coins, making it a safer but nonetheless, risky, game.
A roar went up at the table of gamblers, as someone threw six skulls. A heavyset fellow with deep-set eyes, who had been unfortunate enough to receive the six skulls, handed over a fist full of gold coins, cursing as he did so, to the grinning individual who had thrown before him. The winner snatched the coins and sneered at the loser while he made a show of adding the coins to his mounting pile of winnings. Watching them, Jennadil wondered how much longer the game would remain civil.
The tankard of ale arrived, followed by a plate of congealed mutton and over-cooked sweet potatoes. Jennadil was so hungry however, that he did not mind the average fare. He tucked into his meal, momentarily ignoring everyone else in the tavern.
However, he was half-way through his dinner when he realized someone was staring at him.
Jennadil looked
up from his plate and let his gaze travel casually across the room past the group of dice-players, who were now shouting at each other, to the corner of the room. A cloaked figure sat in the shadowed alcove. He had his hood pulled up but Jennadil could just make out his face. He had dark skin and sharp features—looks that marked him as a native of the Isles of Tarantel, an archipelago in the Gulf of Tarantel, off Isador’s south-east coast. The Isles of Tarantel were, and always had been, shrouded in mystery. Jennadil did not know anyone who had visited them.
This stranger was a long way from home and would stand out in a crowd here in Brenna, even more than Jennadil, but despite this, everyone except Jennadil seemed to be ignoring him. The man reclined in the alcove, a tankard of ale balanced on one knee. He exuded self-confidence and when his dark gaze met Jennadil’s unflinchingly, he raised his tankard in a mocking salute.
Jennadil tore his gaze away and stared down at his plate. His stomach had closed and his heart was pounding.
He knew a bounty hunter when he saw one. After a year in hiding, he had become careless. Theo Brin had finally caught up with him.
Jennadil’s first instinct was to pay for his meal and leave immediately but that would only draw attention to him. For the moment, he was safer here, surrounded by people. Jennadil took a gulp of ale and toyed with the remains of his dinner while he tried to hatch an escape plan.
A short while later, he was still wracking his brains and trying to ignore the stranger’s piercing stare, when the tavern’s front door opened and a young woman wrapped in a grey cloak entered. She had her hood pulled up but it was easy to see from her walk and the smooth skin of her shadowed face that she was a young woman. Jennadil forgot his own predicament as he, like everyone else in the tavern, stared at the girl.
The Children of Isador Page 6