by Tim Stead
“We are imprisoned in our own home,” Fetherhill said. “Both my girls were manhandled and a knife was held to my throat, so no, not entirely.”
They seemed fine, if a little frightened. There was food on the table.
“They are feeding you well?”
Fetherhill gestured dismissively at the food. “As you see it is poor fare, but plentiful enough. But why are you here? Who sent you? How did you persuade them to let you up here?”
So many questions, but it was understandable. It must have been a shock to see her here.
“I was sent by Col Boran,” she said. “Eran Pascha wants to know what is going on here.”
“It’s rebellion, that’s what’s going on. Will she help?”
Enali shook her head. “I doubt that she will act. She is not concerned by the fact of rebellion, more in the manner in which it is being conducted,” she said. “Even if you had all been slaughtered, I do not think she would intervene.”
Fetherhill looked disgusted. “Then what is the point of you?”
None, she supposed, as far as Fetherhill was concerned. She would not free him, not work against Fane, but perhaps she could learn more.
“I was chosen for this task by Col Boran,” she said. “But I am not of Col Boran. Though you were never a friend to our house we are different sides of the same coin. We do have common ground.”
It took a while for Fetherhill to respond. He studied her, looked down at his half-eaten food and sipped at a drink. His wife whose name Enali could not recall, put a hand on his arm.
“Sit down, Lady Enali,” he said eventually. “We should talk.”
She walked to a seat and drew it back, but as she was about to sit, she saw one of Fetherhill’s daughters react to something behind her. The young girl pointed. She looked fearful. Enali turned.
At first she saw nothing. The hall behind her seemed empty. But then the air between her and the door seemed to bend, distorting what lay behind it. The bent air was tall and narrow. It suggested to her the shape of a person.
Then it was gone again.
Enali stepped towards it. It was half curiosity that made her do it and half the knowledge that if anyone in the room was protected it was her. She raised the hand that bore Pascha’s ring.
Something hit her from the side. It felt like she’d stepped in front of a galloping horse. She flew across the room and crashed into the wall with fatal force. But she was wearing Pascha’s ring. She felt it flare, heat and light inside her body, and when she fell to the ground, she was no more than winded. Protection indeed.
She turned the ring round, the stone facing in to her palm as Pascha had shown her. She held it close to her face.
“He is here,” she said.
The thing behind the bent air stopped. It had heard her and for a moment the veil thinned between them. She saw it.
What she saw was a man. He was tall and thin. His dark beard was long and his hair was bound in a queue that reached half way down his back. He wore a black coat of a style that Enali didn’t recognise, cinched at the waist.
He looked angry.
The veil reasserted itself and she felt the hidden man move in her direction.
Pascha appeared. One moment she wasn’t there and the next she was, standing between Enali and the man, a sword of pure flame in her hand. She took one step forwards, and Enali heard a sound like an animal’s snarl.
Pascha turned round.
“He’s gone,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Enali said. “As far as I can tell.” She stood up, flexed her limbs. She didn’t even seem to be bruised. She took a deep breath. There was no pain anywhere. Pascha was watching her with a concerned expression. “I’m fine, really.”
“Good. What happened?”
“That was going to be my question,” Lord Fetherhill said. “I didn’t see anything but Lady Enali flying across the room.”
“Be quiet, Fetherhill,” Pascha said. “Enali?”
“It was a man,” Enali said. “I saw him for a moment when I used the calling ring. He looked angry.”
“He attacked you?”
“I had the impression that he threw me out of the way, Eran.”
“So he was after Fetherhill? That makes sense.”
“Not to me,” Fetherhill said.
“He was using some kind of magic to hide himself,” Enali said, ignoring the lord.
“Yes, I saw. That was all?”
Enali shrugged. “It happened quickly.”
“But you saw through his disguise. What did he look like?”
Enali described the man she’d seen, his saturnine looks, long beard and hair, strange clothes. She could see that it meant nothing to Pascha. She didn’t know him.
“The tactic seems apparent,” Pascha said, almost to herself. “He seeks division, and where division already exists, he looks to exacerbate it. But I don’t understand why. It’s almost as though he’s trying to get noticed.”
Enali didn’t reply. She had nothing to add, and she didn’t really understand. Had this happened before?
Pascha walked to the door. She touched it and it flew open. Three startled soldiers tumbled into the room, swords drawn. They stopped and stared.
“He prevented the door being opened,” she said. “You men, there was an attack on Lord Fetherhill and his family, but it was prevented by Lady Enali’s prompt action. I will protect these chambers so that any magical attack will summon me. Do you have other prisoners?”
The soldiers looked at each other. The senior one bowed, perhaps recognising who it was that he addressed. “It’s not my
place to say, Eran,” he said. “With your permission I’ll send for Camp Master General Calpot.”
“Do so. Quickly.”
One of the soldiers ran down the stairs and they waited.
Fetherhill edged closer.
“Eran, someone tried to kill me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I saw nothing,” he said.
Pascha turned to face him.
“Lord Fetherhill, it was your men, under the command of Colonel Pomeroy, a man you chose to lead them, who attacked Golt and tried to kill Narak. Putting aside the futility of the attempt, you cannot expect me to do more than tolerate your existence. The preservation of your life is no more than a happy, for you, coincidence. I could not care if you burst into flames as long as the blame for it did not fall on General Fane and his men. Now sit down and shut up.”
“You’re on their side, then,” Fetherhill said.
“You can be certain I’m not on yours.”
Enali understood. For all that she was a god-mage Pascha was a woman, and Narak was the man she loved. She could not forgive Fetherhill for what his regiment had attempted even if they had no chance of success.
It made her think about herself. Who did she love? Her mother and father, perhaps, but that was not the same. She had no man, nobody who lived for her in the same way that Pascha and Narak shared their lives, or even as her mother and father had done. But that hardly mattered. She was seventeen. Those things would come, she supposed, but thinking about it made her feel very young.
The soldier returned with Bram Calpot. The old man wasn’t out of breath despite the steep stairs he had just climbed. He paused in the doorway, took a couple of steps forwards, and bowed deeply.
“Eran, it is an honour,” he said.
Pascha didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Do you have other prisoners?” she asked.
“Of course,” Calpot said. “We didn’t kill everybody.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Calpot. Other lords held elsewhere.”
Calpot didn’t seem to take offence. He nodded. “Of course,” he said. “At Great Howe. Lady Enali was going to go there. We were providing an escort.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Pascha said. She looked at Enali.
“I’m ready,” Enali said. She knew what was going to happen next, but she still found herself cle
nching her fists.
Pascha closed her eyes.
The world blinked and Enali was standing at Pascha’s side in the bailey of a different castle. She heard shouts as men saw them, heard running feet. The soldiers stopped a few paces short of them, but swords had been drawn.
Pascha looked at them. Again, Enali felt that sense of the absurd. Pascha was tiny. Most of the men were a head taller and twice her weight, but she radiated power.
“Who’s in command here?”
There was a shuffling of feet among the soldiers.
“Captain Wakelin,” one of them said.
“Then fetch him,” Pascha said. “Now.”
The man who’d spoken looked at the two women, perhaps thought for a moment about their impossible arrival, then turned to an underling. “Run and fetch the captain,” he said. The man ran into the keep. The spokesman sheathed his sword and the others hesitantly followed his example.
“You’re the god-mage, I’m guessing,” he said.
“Yes,” Pascha said.
“Then I apologise for the welcome. You startled us,” he said.
“That happens a lot,” Pascha said. “You have prisoners here? Calpot said you did.”
He hesitated, and Enali wondered how so many farmers and townsmen had acquired such discipline and loyalty in such a short time. They were prepared to deny the god-mage and defer to their officers. If they were so well trained in this, then perhaps they would also be competent in battle. “We have,” the soldier said. “But that is the Captain’s charge, Eran.”
Fortunately, they did not have to wait. The captain hurried out from the keep while they were speaking. He was a young man, quite fair faced, and dressed only in breeches, boots and a tattered gambeson, loosely laced, that barely reached below his waist. He bowed.
“Eran, it is an honour,” he said. Enali noted that he did not use the customary greeting, which would have offered service.
“You hold the Lord of Great Howe prisoner,” Pascha said. “I want to see him.”
The captain didn’t have to think about it much. “Of course, Eran. Follow me.”
He led the way and two of the soldiers from the bailey followed them. They had done the same thing here as at Fetherhill. The noble family had been confined to the upper floor of the keep while their gaolers occupied the rest of the building. It was a sensible arrangement, making it almost impossible for them to escape.
Outside the last door Captain Wakelin stopped.
“Eran, I would ask you to promise that you will neither harm our prisoners nor take them from our custody,” he said. That was bold, Enali thought. What was he going to do if Pascha refused? He could hardly prevent her from doing anything she liked.
“I intend neither,” Pascha said.
The captain opened the door and they all walked in. There was only one man in the hallway. He was simply dressed.
“Captain Malaki,” Wakelin said. “Will you ask Lord Everard to join us?”
Malaki nodded and went into one of the adjoining rooms. He came back a moment later with a thin man of late middle years. Everard was rather better dressed than his captain. He wore a blue silk surcoat, pressed black trousers and high boots shined to perfection. He examined the two women.
“Who is this, Wakelin?” he asked.
“This is Eran Pascha, god-mage of Col Boran,” Wakelin said.
The words seemed to take a moment to sink in, Enali thought. Everard stared at them, his face blank. He recovered himself after a moment and bowed deeply.
“It is an honour, Eran,” he said. “If the circumstances were different, I would offer you the hospitality of my house, but alas it is no longer mine.”
“I am not here to visit you, Everard,” Pascha said. “But to ensure your safety. There has been an attack on Lord Fetherhill and his family. They are unharmed, but the same thing may occur here. Fane’s men were not responsible,” she added. “It was a magical assault.”
“Duranders?” Everard asked.
“No. I do not believe it was, but I will protect this place. If the same thing is tried here, I will come at once.”
“But we are to remain here? As prisoners?”
“Yes.”
Lord Everard sighed. “Then nothing has changed,” he said.
Since she had entered this room Enali had felt a growing sense of unease. It was like an ache deep within her chest, but she could feel that it was coming from one of the rooms to the right. It was a most peculiar sensation. It was even stranger when she realised what it was.
“Someone here is dying,” she said.
The others stopped talking and stared at her.
“What do you mean?” asked Pascha.
“Just what I say.” She pointed at the door. “In there.”
“My son was injured in the attack,” Everard said. “But he is not dying.”
“He is. I can feel it.” She walked towards the door, but Everard moved to bar her way. “I mean him no harm,” Enali said, “I… I can help.”
“Enali, we are not here to interfere,” Pascha said, but her voice was soft, not commanding.
Enali hesitated. It was the oddest thing. She could feel that ache, and know that whatever it was wanted to escape, to go to the dying boy next door. How could she not help? She looked at Pascha. “I have to,” she said.
Pascha nodded. “Who would have thought it,” she said, almost to herself. “The girl has the witch gift. She’s a healer.”
Everard backed away and Enali went to the door, opened it. The smell hit her at once, a sweet, rotten odour that made her hold her breath.
The boy was lying on a bed, an older woman, his mother she guessed, holding a cloth to his brow. He looked feverish, barely conscious. His arm was bandaged.
The mother looked up. “Leave him alone,” she said. “Can’t you see he’s sick.”
“I can help,” Enali said. The ache was stronger now, coiling in her chest like a spring of pain. She stepped forward, almost dragged towards the boy by the urgency of the thing inside her.
The mother didn’t seem to understand. She stood up and tried to block Enali’s way, keeping her from the boy. She found herself wrestling with the older woman.
Everard seemed to have caught on. He shouted from the doorway. “Damn it, woman, let her past. She can help him.”
She fell back, and Enali moved forwards, taking the mother’s place beside the bed. She studied the boy’s arm. He wasn’t a boy really. He was about the same age as Enali. She touched his forehead. It was hot. He opened his eyes and looked at her, but to Enali it didn’t seem as though he really saw her. There was no comprehension there.
She looked at the bandage. It was clean and new and had been wrapped around the wound by a skilled hand, but what lay beneath was a horror. She unpicked the edge and peeled it away.
The wound was discoloured, the flesh around it yellow and blue with bruising and the injury itself had acquired a greyish hue, fringed with angry red. The arrow head was still in there somewhere.
She had been right. He was dying. When she touched his skin, she could feel the corruption. It had spread through his body like the roots of a tree. She took a deep breath and forced her fingers into the wound. Her patient jerked, pulling against the pain, but she held firm and worked her fingers down past veins and bone until she touched metal. She worked her fingers around the arrow head. The boy whimpered with the pain, but she ignored him. This had to be done.
It came free and she slipped her hand out, making sure that her own soft flesh shielded his against the metal’s sharp edges. Her hand came out stained with blood and pus. She threw the point aside and laid her hand on the arm. The rest was easy. She just allowed the ache in her chest to uncoil, to flow down her arm into the boy’s arm. She could feel the corrupt tree withering, drawing back to the wound, melting away.
She could feel her strength withering, too. The ache was part of her and it was leaving. She wanted to pull her hand away and stop it, but she kn
ew that if she did it would all be pointless. The boy would die. She would have done nothing. She would survive. She knew that. She didn’t know how, but it made sense. The boy was not dead. There should be enough strength for both of them.
Her arm cramped, the muscles tightening to painful, hard lumps beneath the skin. Just a moment longer, she thought. The pain spread to her neck, the muscles there cramping, too.
A hand touched her shoulder. Pascha. She knew it was Pascha at once because the pain eased. She felt like a thirsty woman with an ocean suddenly at her back. The pain went away. She lifted her hand from the boy’s arm. He was healed. The wound would knit cleanly now and he would sleep, released from his fever.
She sat back.
“It’s a curse,” Pascha said. “Not a gift.”
“Is he healed?” Everard asked.
“Yes,” Enali said. “I took out the arrow. The corruption is gone.”
“And damned near half of you with it,” Pascha said. “The witch’s gift kills. It will kill you if you let it. If you do not it will kill others.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You felt renewed when I touched you.”
“Yes, I felt it.”
“That’s the price. To give life you must steal it from another or it will deplete you. In time you could recover on your own, but I believe it takes weeks, and the gift will urge you on, to take, to give.” She shook her head. “It is a curse.”
“But he is healed. He will live,” Enali said. “How can that be a bad thing?”
“It is not, as far as it goes. But what will he become, this boy you have saved? You do not know. I do not know. The consequences will only be revealed by time.”
“That argument would stop every healer from healing, have every soldier lay down his sword. That cannot be right, Eran.”
Pascha smiled, a weary smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “But our work is done here. We must return to Col Boran.”
“But there is more here,” Enali said.
“Not for you. I did not mean to put you in harm’s way quite so much. That thing we chased away from Fetherhill was powerful. It fled, I think, because the battle would have been too equal. It was a god-mage, Enali.”