Conlan led Rand, negotiating the treacherous trail with care. Eleanor followed him, deep in thought. Amelia remained mute. Will’s distress was etched into his face and Eleanor had hugged him especially tight when they had said goodbye, but the words he had whispered in her ear had caught her by surprise. ‘Look after Conlan for me. He’s not nearly as invincible as he pretends to be.’ With everything he had to worry about, Eleanor wondered why it was Conlan he feared for. What did he know about where they were going? She had wanted to ask, but Conlan was already walking down the trail and Eleanor knew she would get lost if she did not keep up with him.
The further down the mountains they went, the more evidence they encountered of the storms power. Trees had been ripped from the ground and a rockslide blocked the way, forcing Conlan to backtrack around it; the devastation was extensive. Yet, amid this chaos, spring was already in full swing. Birds chirped and whistled to each other in cheery greeting, and a profusion of small blue flowers erupted in clumps where the snow had melted back to reveal the earth beneath. Eleanor was amazed that something so small and delicate had weathered the storm. The life around her made her smile, gave her hope. As they moved through the mountains’ foothills, Eleanor felt the brand on her wrist begin to itch and then burn. Conlan noticed.
“It hurts?”
“Yeah! I guess it’s telling me I’m moving away from the others. I was just wondering why it did it and how it worked out the distances,” Eleanor said. “I wonder if they feel it too.”
“Something to ask them when you get back,” Conlan suggested.
As they travelled further away, the pain reached a peak of agony but then dropped off into numbness – information Eleanor stored for later.
As they reached the dirt track road they began passing the occasional village. Eleanor was horrified at the results of the storm. Houses where window shutters, doors and in some cases the whole roof had been torn off were common. Malnourished animals lay dead in fields, half-buried in silt that had obviously poured down from the mountains. In one village the houses on one side of the main dirt track had been washed away completely, leaving only a few posts as evidence to the homes that once existed. People shambled about, looking for possessions, or bodies, shock and resignation stamped on their faces. Others simply sat where they seemed to have fallen and stared.
Conlan stopped to render aid wherever he could. He made no fuss, speaking softly and gently, and moved among the people as if he was one of them, helping to bury the dead, rescue the trapped, patch up the injured and feed the hungry as best he could. He gave words of encouragement to those who took the initiative and set up shelter and rustled up food for those with nothing. Eleanor watched as Conlan held the rough, gnarled hand of a farmer as he died, bloody and in pain, calling out for a wife already dead. In another village he helped a shell-shocked young man bury his baby girl as his wife rocked and wailed, refusing to rise from the mud. Eleanor wondered how the pain, death and chaos did not overwhelm him.
After several more days they passed out from under the mountains’ shadow and the destructive path of the storm. Here, life continued as normal, with people apparently unaware of the horrors suffered by their fellow citizens less than a day’s ride away. Eleanor thought of the damage and devastation she had seen – so many families without homes, so many dead, crops and animals gone. If their nearest neighbours did not seem to care, what would become of them?
“Who’ll help them?” Eleanor whispered.
“We’re going to help them, Eleanor,” Conlan replied, his voice tight, pained and utterly resolute.
Conlan had explained that his grandfather lived in a city called Baydon. It fell under the jurisdiction of the Northern Tower, home to the Lords of Mydren who controlled the area. They were going to skirt the edge of the mountains, heading east, because it was safer and with fewer people, and then drop down south to Baydon. The journey was going to take them just over three weeks. Conlan brooded, distant and silent, caught up in his own thoughts, and for once Eleanor was glad of the peace. She slowly went through the last week in her mind, trying to come to terms with what she had seen. She had asked Conlan why there had been no official help, no Protectors or Enforcers. Shaking his head, a face full of sorrow, Conlan had explained that life was cheap to the Lords of Mydren, as the fate of inconsequential people would have little impact on their lives. As long as their Enforcers were able to turn away the storms’ strength from the rich cities and divert the floods and destruction into areas populated by those too poor to hold influence that was all that mattered.
They had turned south three days previously, with still a day of travel to go when they moved out of the forest they had been travelling through. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief, as the forest had been a scary place to be followed by the small tornadoes that seemed to appear with such regularity now that Conlan no longer bothered to outrun them. Stretched out in front of them were flat plains as far as the eye could see, neatly divided into a patchwork of green and brown fields, crossed occasionally by a dirt track or a river or cluttered by a small village. It reminded her of the rolling countryside of home, until she saw the huge walled city in the distance; its massive battlements stretched for miles in both directions from a central entrance, guard towers at regular intervals along its structure. Even from many miles away it seemed huge; the walls so high that Eleanor could see only the rooftops of the buildings within. Conlan tensed as he gazed at the city.
“I take it that’s Baydon?” Eleanor asked. Conlan nodded.
The closer they got, the more Conlan retreated into even darker, brooding silence. At first Eleanor tried to pull him out of himself, but he just snapped caustic comments at her, so she gave up. For the last few hours of their journey Eleanor could have counted the words he uttered to her on one hand. While they had been able to see the looming walls of the city for the entire day, it was dark when they finally reached them. The massive wooden gates that marked the city’s entrance were pulled closed in a stone wall that dwarfed them. Conlan drew Rand to the side and moved down the city wall, towards a small knot of trees. He dismounted, waiting for Eleanor to do the same, and then led Rand forward into the sanctuary provided by the small wood. Eleanor knew the routine well now and started to collect twigs, branches and bark for a fire. The afternoon rain had soaked through the foliage and Eleanor crouched over it, struggling to get it to light. She was on her third attempt when Conlan snatched the flint out of her hand and lit the fire himself.
“I would have got it eventually,” Eleanor said, glaring at him.
Conlan’s gaze seemed to go right through her, and then he rose and stalked off into the darkness. She set the water to heat, took Rand’s saddle and bridal off and tied him up loosely with a guide rope so he could eat the grass. He rubbed his nose into her side. Conlan had been distant with the poor animal as well. She scratched behind his ears, trying to shake off the misery Conlan’s mood had forced on her. On instinct she pushed an energy string out towards Rand. His mind was simple; there were thoughts, sort of, but mostly needs. He was tired and hungry, but he was also unhappy because he could feel that the master he loved was unhappy. Digging a little deeper, Eleanor was surprised to discover just how worried Rand was about Conlan. She was pleased to find that the animal liked her, though. Rand lifted his head, staring at her with soft brown eyes; he rested his chin on her shoulder, his mind filling with a need to be scratched behind the ears. Eleanor smiled, acquiescing to his request.
It was hours before Conlan returned. Eleanor had begun to get worried; she raised an eyebrow in question at his absence. He ignored her, preparing the meal in silence. She watched, sensing the waves of hostility coming off him – so different from the sorrow and pain of the last few weeks, it did not seem to be directed specifically at her, just the world in general. Eventually he noticed her scrutiny and looked at her suspiciously.
“What?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I was just wondering what truly terrible thing existed behind these wal
ls; it must be dreadful to be able to get you this screwed up.”
Conlan stared at her, his hard face giving no clue as to his thoughts. “This place brings up some bad memories, that’s all.”
“They must be some really horrendous memories, because that’s more words than you’ve spoken to me all day!”
Conlan’s eyes softened and Eleanor caught a glimpse of the emotions churning beneath the surface.
“I just need to get through this and get out of here.”
“OK, but Rand and I would appreciate it if you could remember that we’re on your side,” Eleanor said gently.
Conlan nodded but said nothing more. Eleanor sighed and curled up in a ball to sleep, leaving him to stare distantly into the fire. If he wanted to fight his demons, fine.
He woke her early the next morning, his lack of sleep showing plainly on his tired face. Eleanor smiled reassuringly at him but he offered nothing in return, barely noticing her presence. Feeling a little hurt and very annoyed, she stood, stretching cold, stiff muscles and rubbed life back into her arms. She packed up their meagre belongings and went to saddle Rand.
Conlan shook his head. “We’ll leave him here; it’s safer.”
“Safer?” she asked.
“For once in your miserable existence would you stop asking questions!”
He turned and stalked back along the wall towards the gate. Eleanor followed, trying to swallow her indignation, but it made for an unpleasant meal that settled like a stone at the bottom of her stomach. What the hell happened to him here?
Other people were milling around outside the wall, waiting for the gates to open. Some had carts laden with goods, while others carried sacks and boxes – they looked like traders. Eleanor would have asked, but Conlan’s expression did not encourage conversation. There was a flurry of activity as the Protectors opened the gate. Hiding within the others entering the city, they walked unchallenged under the massive portcullis. Conlan moved with a purpose, obviously knowing exactly where he was going. Eleanor followed as best she could through unfamiliar streets that thronged with a multitude of dirty, smelly people, all of whom seemed intent on walking into her or blocking her path. After months of just four people for company it was overwhelming. On several occasions Eleanor felt her heart stop as she lost Conlan in the crowd, thankfully his height made it possible to find him again. She saw him disappear down an alley and moved across the busy, filth-strewn street to follow. As she got to the mouth of the alley, he stepped back into the street, grabbed her by the arms and shoved her, none too gently, into the wall in the alley’s shadow.
“Keep up,” he growled at her.
Eleanor bit back her irritated protest, Conlan’s irrational behaviour was scaring her and she had no wish to arouse his anger any further. Nodding mutely, she followed him deeper into the dark alley. Away from the main streets of the city the buildings changed from stone-built to wooden. They became more dilapidated, rotting boards and leaning doors giving the impression of wilful neglect.
“This is where the majority of the city’s nameless poor live. These are more of the people the Lords of Mydren have betrayed. They come here for protection from the elements and find only misery, sickness and poverty.”
Surprised to find him speaking, Eleanor looked at him – he was angry. She inspected her surroundings. The buildings were several stories high and so tightly packed that they appeared to lean together as they rose, blocking the natural light. Figures shambled through the shadows and children stared at her from dirty faces with large, hungry eyes. Every so often they would walk past a body leaning against a wall or lying in the gutter. Eleanor could not tell if they were alive or dead, but the smell was definitely not a good sign.
They were moving slowly towards the centre of the city, and as they did the properties became more refined and elegant; dirty cramped streets widened into clean, paved avenues with trees down the middle, interspersed with small fountains. The shops that lined these streets had large, clean glass windows displaying expensive-looking merchandise. The crowds also changed, thinning slightly, the people becoming better dressed and groomed. Eleanor spotted the grey uniforms of Protectors patrolling in pairs. Conlan also noticed them, carefully giving them a wide berth. In her worn, crumpled clothes, Eleanor got some slightly disgusted looks from some of the people they walked past, but no one looked at Conlan that way. He just seemed to fit and she understood his attachment to his green velvet jacket, as it gave him a veneer of respectability in this world. By walking as if he owned the place, he gave off an aura of superiority and power that Eleanor suspected few would mess with. They turned down another long avenue, away from the noisy shopping area. Tall, thin, elegant poplars stood at ridged attention down its length, giving privacy to the voluminous, handsome, white-stoned houses that lined either side, glowing a radiant pink in the late morning sun. The avenue was devoid of people as they walked down it towards the palatial residence that stood blocking the end of the street, turning it into a dead-end. As she walked closer, Eleanor noticed that the house at the end of the street seemed much older than those around it. The other houses were nothing more than poor man’s copies of the stunning behemoth she was walking towards.
They stood in front of the property’s black iron gates. High walls led off from the entrance, following the paved walkway they were stood on. Eleanor could see the elegant garden on the other side of the gates, through which a gravel driveway ran to the imposing front door, wide steps leading up to it. Conlan seemed reluctant to enter; he was staring at the house, his expression haunted. Remembering Will’s request, but not knowing what to say, Eleanor reached forward and wove her fingers through his. Conlan glanced at her hand, before looking back at the house, but he did not let go. Eleanor resumed her study of the property, trying to guess at what the inside might look like and wondering what had happened here to cause Conlan so much pain and distress.
“Are we going in?” Eleanor asked eventually.
Conlan shook his head. “No, not yet, we need to wait until dark; besides, I have something I want to show you first.”
Giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting it drop, he walked towards the right-hand side of the gates, following the walkway to the corner of the property. He led her down a narrow alley that ran towards the back of the house and the garden beyond, following the high parameter wall. At the far bottom corner of the property there was an ancient-looking tree, fat and squat, its massive gnarled branches leaning over the wall. Conlan pulled himself up into the tree; he leaned back and offered a hand to Eleanor. Grinning at him, she ignored his hand and jumped up to catch the branch, hauling herself up. Conlan made his way across the tree branches, dropping lightly to the ground on the other side of the wall. Eleanor followed, dangling from a branch for a moment before landing in a crouch next to him. As she stood, the strong, mixed scents of myriad flowers floating on a warm breeze hit her almost like a physical wall. After months of the sterile austerity of snow-covered mountains, it was overpowering. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply, enjoying the experience.
“Are you alright?”
She opened her eyes again. Conlan looked concerned.
“I’m great, the smell is just wonderful. Where are we?”
She looked around her; they were in the corner of a small, very private garden which was walled in on all four sides. It was overgrown. Flowers grew in random, colourful perfusion – it looked like someone had thrown cans of paint in every direction. It was just possible to see a path, meandering through the chaos, which led to a hexagonal wooden gazebo in the corner, and then to a sturdy-looking wooden door in the wall on the other side of the garden.
“This was my mother’s garden.” He sounded distant, his mind firmly in the past.
“Was?” Eleanor asked.
“She died when I was a child.” He was looking slowly round the garden, seeing something else, someone else. Not wanting to intrude on difficult memories, Eleanor swallowed her questi
ons and moved forward down the path, leaving him in peace. The sun warmed her as she walked among the flowers, occasionally reaching out to stroke the velvety softness of their petals or leaning closer to find their unique smell. She slowly made her way towards the gazebo. Considering that the garden had clearly been neglected, the gazebo was in a surprisingly good state of repair, and on looking inside she found a large, comfortable-looking brown sofa, a footrest in front of it. She pulled the sofa forward a fraction into the sunlight and sank into it. The cushions smelt a little of age but it was not an unpleasant smell, and when mixed with the smell of the flowers the aroma was strangely comforting. Wriggling to get herself settled, she pulled her legs up under her and leaned back, closing her eyes and trying not to think about anything. After a while, she heard Conlan walk onto the gazebo’s creaky wooden floor. She kept her eyes shut; she was not sure what to say to him. He sat down next to her, relaxing back into the sofa. She felt him move to lift his legs onto the footrest and then he was still.
“Eleanor, are you asleep?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“I’ve been rather difficult, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes still closed.
“Coming here has brought up memories I’ve tried very hard to bury, but I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I forget sometimes that you’re not a warrior, that you didn’t ask for any of this. If I’d had the time to tell you the whole truth at the beginning, I’m sure you would have rejected my offer. I will try harder to remember that in future.”
Eleanor considered his words – they sounded like an apology. Amelia had said apologising was not something he did, but Amelia was wrong. He did apologise, he just seemed to have an aversion to the word ‘sorry’. Thankfully he sounded more at peace with himself; maybe his demons had not bitten as hard as he had thought they would. If she had known the truth at the beginning, would she have rejected him? At the time… probably, but now? She actually liked the thought that she might be able to make a difference to the lives of the people of this world, to help them. Perhaps here she could find forgiveness, make up for her mistakes.
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