“You’ll pay, will you?” the thing inside Ealian asked. “Are you sure you can afford my price?”
The fat man gulped. His eyes twitched nervously between the girl – his daughter, most likely – and his wife. The older woman was shaking her head. She, too, was crying. She whispered something to the fat man, and he nodded.
“No, I can’t afford your price, Bar’deth,” Uldrin said. His face paled. A look of dire reluctance came over him, as though he knew well and good what his answer would mean for his son.
Ealian-Bar’deth chuckled. “Shame, she might have been worth it.”
He pulled the sword away from the girl’s chin and walked slowly over to the younger man – who lay curled up on the floor, moaning. Ealian placed the point of his sword under the young man’s armpit and pushed forward. The young man let out a long scream.
Then the woman and the girls cried.
The fat man buried his head in his hands.
The world flickered…
A bell sounded in the distance; the echoing chimes surrounded Ealian until he could not tell from which direction the first sound had come. He spun around, looking, searching, but the view was the same as the last time he was here, the same as it had been every time he had returned to this place.
Where am I?
* * *
“How much longer is this going to take?” Grady asked.
He paced left to right about Ealian’s feet, watching the Cren administer their treatment – more kharoe ash added to his wound… more liet root burned on the black stone by Ealian’s head… then more kharoe… Two hours had gone by since the others had left for the Cren village. It seemed to Grady that the herbs and ash were of little or no use.
“We have to wait for his fever to break, or it will be pointless giving him the… White, as you call it,” the Cren administering the kharoe ash said. “By the way, I’m Pengar and this is Tanri.” He pointed to his friend who was sitting at Ealian’s right.
Grady nodded. “Sorry! Yes, I’m Grady Daleman.”
The two Cren bowed and continued with their task.
Grady went back to kicking dirt. He paced and harrumphed at nothing, then paced some more. Sometimes he would stare at the Salrians; occasionally, he had a few words with Aleban; but mostly, he just paced.
It was another two hours before Pengar called him over. “It’s time.”
Grady rushed to Ealian’s side.
Pengar picked up the vial of white liquid and held it to Ealian’s eye, as if showing him it. The contents slowly pulsed inside the small glass casing. Pengar bid his friend to hold the boy’s head to the side and then asked Grady to take hold of his feet.
“Try to keep him still,” he said.
He opened the vial and, putting one hand hard against the side of Ealian’s face, he poured the contents into the poor boy’s ear. The pearly, viscous liquid moved around the ear for a moment, then disappeared. The Cren moved his hand away from Ealian’s face. He was watching the boy expectantly. “Won’t be long now,” he said. The comment sounded like a warning.
Ealian stayed motionless for a minute. Then a jerk… then another… and then he shuddered violently. His back arched and his fists clenched. He began to shout “No” over and over.
“Come on, Ealian,” Grady said. “Don’t you die on us, boy.”
* * *
Ealian was running.
If the pain in his chest was anything to go by, he had been running for a long time.
There were three men in front of him. One stopped and turned back.
“Come on, Bar’deth, they’re catching up. Do you want to hang?” Olttan said.
Ealian knew the man’s name was Olttan, just like he knew the other two were Arconan and Maestom. But how he knew…
Suddenly, fear gripped his throat. Running again, he sped by Olttan and, a few moments later, was leading the small group of runaways.
But what were they running from?
Angry farmers, that’s who; two dozen angry farmers.
Ealian – or rather Bar’deth, as the other had called him – was a murderer. Whom he had murdered, Ealian could not remember. But he knew he – no, not him, the other one – had killed someone.
It was a woman. I killed somebody’s wife. Now the whole village is after us.
Again, Ealian stopped.
This time, Arconan ran into him. “What the bloody hell… Run! For Ash’mael’s sake, run!”
But Ealian stood still.
Someone was shouting his name. His name, not Bar’deth’s. The cry seemed to come from all around him. The voice was familiar, but he did not know who it was.
“Come on, Ealian. Don’t you die on us, boy!”
The voice was quiet, like a whisper. Only whoever had spoken those words was not whispering. They – he, it was a man’s voice – seemed desperate.
Who are you? Do you want me to run?
No answer.
Ealian felt sure running would be his best option and started after the other three.
A few minutes later, he heard the first shouts coming from behind.
“Murderer,” someone was shouting. “We’re going to kill you, Bar’deth; your days are done.”
Ealian laughed and then wondered why. Suddenly, as if realising he was dreaming, it occurred to him that he should not be inside someone else’s head. Again, he stopped.
“What is he doing?” Ealian heard Maestom asked.
“Gods know. Leave him,” Olttan answered.
And the three carried on, leaving Ealian standing on a small island of rock in the middle of the Ambieth Marsh.
The overwhelming urge to follow his friends had not gone. But now, Ealian could sense another longing. Staying put suddenly seemed every bit as important as running. The farmers were getting closer – less than a quarter mile – but still he stood, waiting.
Above, the clouds parted, and a single stream of impossibly bright sunlight bled through the mist and lit up the little rock island. Ealian bathed in its warmth. He could feel a smile stretch across his face – Bar’deth’s face – and he raised his gaze to the heavens.
A sharp pain hit Ealian in the gut. He fell to his knees.
“Olttan, Arconan, Maestom. Wait,” he shouted.
Trying to stand, Ealian felt tears filling his eyes. He wanted to stay, wanted to bask in the light, but something inside was forcing him to move.
Pathetic, he’s mine, the voice in his head said. The boy is mine! They’re all mine! You can’t have them!
Ealian realised he could not breathe. He fell to the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish.
“What’s happening? Where are you?” he asked the voice. “Help me!”
* * *
Grady watched as Ealian opened his eyes.
The boy began to shout. “Olttan…! Arconan…! Maestom…! Wait.”
Ealian began to fight, shouting what were obvious insults in an ancient tongue. He loosened his foot and kicked Grady in the chest. Grady came back at him and held on all the tighter. Ealian started to cry, pleading with the Cren for some mercy, Grady thought.
The boy’s expression changed. He began to laugh. “Pathetic, he is mine,” Ealian said, grabbing the Cren’s shirt.
The voice was not Ealian. It sounded like him, but there was someone else as if two people were saying the exact same thing at the exact same time. His once-pleading eyes now looked enraged. He pulled a hand free and grabbed Pengar’s tunic.
“The boy is mine. They are all mine! You can’t have them.”
‘They are all mine?’ What does that mean?
Grady sat on Ealian’s feet and helped Tanri pull the boy’s hand away. It took both of them to dislodge it. When it was free, Ealian spat at him.
“Ha! The guard comes to the rescue, Pathetic,” Ealian barked. “You should go home, Grady Daleman; you are a bigger fool than these two. The Shakes… how stupid can one man be?”
Ealian glared at him, and Grady almost los
t his hold when he saw a black wave roll over the boy’s eyes. It was there for a moment, then gone. Ealian’s face turned the colour of beet, and veins stuck out on his temples. Abruptly, Grady realised the boy was not breathing.
“What is it doing?” he shouted.
Tanri thumped the boy’s chest, then said, “It’s trying to kill him so it can escape into one of us.”
The big Cren thumped the boy’s chest again.
“Enough!” Grady cried. “You’ll break his ribs.”
“I must force his heart to work, or he will suffocate.”
Grady had no idea what the Cren meant by that but did not argue. The boy’s lips were turning blue, and his eyes were rolling back in his head. Anything was worth a try.
“Come on, Ealian; fight it.” Grady moaned.
* * *
Whack!
Ealian felt an intense pain flare up in his chest as if someone had kicked him, and hard. Whatever it was forced a breath into his lungs, and he managed to shout, “No!”
Again, the pain hit his chest, and again he felt a breath enter his lungs. What was happening?
He could hear the farmers clearly now; they were no more than a hundred paces away. For some reason, Ealian wanted to shout back to them, tell the farmers to hurry up.
* * *
The boy began to grunt as though carrying a heavy load. He pulled sharp breaths through his gaping mouth – short breaths, one after another. He cursed after each draw, as though the air itself were poison. He began to snarl. Teeth grinding, he stared up at Tanri.
“Let me go, and I will spare the boy.”
Grady’s heart leapt. “Let it out,” he shouted at Tanri.
The Cren shook his head. “We can’t trust it. It will come after one of us.”
“But—”
“No, Grady. It dies here. We can’t allow it to live.”
“It could kill him!”
“Then he will die, too. The Raic’noit must not be allowed to survive. You have no idea what it is capable of.”
Grady suppressed his anger. He had to force himself not to push the Cren out of the way. The Raic’noit was giving him a way out, a way to save the boy.
Gods, if he dies now…
He tried not to think about it. Come on Ealian, fight!
“You are killing your friend,” the Raic shouted in the odd double-voice. He – Ealian – was staring at Grady. “You can stop this. Tell them to let me out.”
“Ignore it,” Pengar said. “It can sense weakness; it knows you are thinking about releasing it.”
The boy thrashed again and spat at the Cren. “It will be your fault, Grady. Listen to what I say; I promise I will leave the boy alive if you let me go.”
Grady shouted to the heavens. “You had better be bloody right, Pengar.”
“Have faith, Grady, it would not be talking that way if Ealian was not winning. It won’t be in—”
* * *
Ealian felt another hit. This time, he started breathing on his own. He could hear voices in his head; someone – two men – were arguing, but it was all distant mumblings.
He could hear the farmers well enough, though…
Still laying in the mud, Ealian listened to the thud of the farmer’s boot. Then, an explosion of pain ripped through the side of his head.
The farmers beat him all over with sticks – no, axe handles, by the weight of them. Ealian wanted to curl into a ball and cover his head, but he knew he had to move away from the rock. The marsh – the muddy waters – were only a pace away.
“Let me…”
A stick hit him across the face.
“Let you what?” a farmer asked. “Let you go? Not likely, murderer!”
Again, Ealian rolled onto his front and tried to crawl. One arm over the other, he pulled himself towards the water. His shirtsleeves slipped on the damp mud, but still he crawled.
Get to the water! It ends if you can get to the water.
He felt hands grabbing his ankles. Two farmers dragged him back into the centre of the little rock island.
“No!” Ealian groaned, as yet more blows rained down on him.
Darkness was edging over him; he would pass out soon, and all this would happen all over again, Ealian knew.
“Th… th… the… w-water… D-drown me!”
Through his swollen eyes, Ealian could see one of the farmers smiling.
“What an excellent idea.”
Again, he felt two farmers grab his ankles. Only this time, they dragged him towards the water. From inside, Ealian heard a shout. No! I can’t die here! the voice said.
Ealian felt a smile crease his lips.
“What’s he so happy about?” a farmer said.
Another hit Ealian over the head one last time, and then he felt a boot hit his ribs as the farmer kicked him into the water.
At first, the water was cold and dark, but the murkiness was no bar to the light which shone through the gap in the clouds. Ealian felt something rip inside of his mind. The light – the blessed light – surrounded him, its warmth comforted him and he was no longer afraid. He closed his eyes – closed Bar’deth’s eyes – and welcomed the end.
The voice in his head was still screaming.
* * *
“No! I can’t die here!” Ealian shouted.
Suddenly, he stopped thrashing. Motionless, the boy stared up into the branches of the old oak. Grady watched as black tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. Ealian closed his eyes.
“Is that it? Is it over?” Grady asked.
Tanri settled back on his heels. “That’s it, all done.” The Cren took a deep breath and smiled. “That was close.”
Grady looked to each of them in turn. “All done? Is that – is that it? He’s going to live?”
“I think so,” Pengar said. “The Raic is out of him at any rate, and he is still alive. We will have to see. He will be sick and frail for a while yet, but I’m sure he will recover – eventually.”
Grady’s broad smile thinned at the last. “What do you mean ‘eventually’?”
“He may be up and walking tomorrow, but you should not be surprised if it’s a week or more before his strength returns.”
“Oh well, never mind that. At least he will survive. That’s the main thing. Stone me, I was sure he was a goner. You two have worked a miracle… a bloody miracle!”
The two Cren exchanged knowing glances.
“What is it?” Grady asked. His eyes were wide as he looked back and forth between them. “Don’t tell me there is a catch. Is he going to get well or not?”
Pengar dropped his gaze and busied himself with clearing up. “The main thing is that he is alive.”
“No… what is wrong with him?” Grady folded his arms and raised his chin. Tightening his jaw, he stared at Pengar, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing’s wrong with him!” Pengar answered. “He is just… different. He has a Raic inside of him – a good Raic, yes, but he has changed, nevertheless. He will not be the same boy you knew; what you see may well be a shock, he is very young to have such a responsibility.”
Grady leant back and shook his head. “Come on! Do I have to drag it out of you? Stone me; speak plain, will you?”
“It was a Crenach Raic that we gave Ealian, not an Ambieth Raic. Those from the marshes are ancient. The one that dwells within Olam probably lived a millennium ago, maybe even before language. Olam may have an impression of what is going on in his mind. He might hear voices, and the Raic may well influence his movement, teach him how to track, give him an affinity with certain animals, or a great understanding of herb lore.
“The Crenach Raics are different, they’re not ancient. Ealian will be able to talk to him – or her. Indeed, until Ealian is older, the Raic may sometimes control him completely. It depends on who it is.”
Grady shook his head again. “What do you mean, ‘who it is’?”
“The Crenach Raic represents the essence of a single person.” Pengar turned to fa
ce Grady. “You have not met our leader, Kirin’thar. Well, ‘Kirin’ was the name he was born with, ‘Thar’ is the Raic. They both live inside, share the mind and body.”
“Oh no,” Grady said. “And I suppose you can’t take it out.”
“No! This is an honour! Most Cren study and train for a lifetime before taking a Raic. We consider joining our minds with a Raic as a blessing. All of our council are Cren’raics. We would not have given this one to the boy had the Cinné’arth not insisted on us healing him.”
Grady laughed. He supposed it was better than nothing, better than dying, but: “Well, I can think of somebody who’s not going to be too pleased to hear that. Maybe you should let me explain it to Elspeth.”
The Cren nodded his agreement.
Grady had thought he might.
CHAPTER 35
The Morrdin Line
The near-full moon laid in a blanket of vivid stars. It cast long shadows from the southeast, and its light turned the forest into a sea of emerald green. The last mist of eventide skulked slowly to the river, carpeting the Raithby with a layer of silver down. It would be a bad night’s hunting for the owls now hooting in the branches of Crenach’coi, and for the tree fox Gialyn could hear scurrying about. Their prey would not be venturing far from their dens and burrows tonight, not with so much light.
The travellers followed their Cren guide south along the forest’s edge, down the sloping grassland and along the riverbank. They marched in single file through the thin cluster of trees occupying the space between the woods and the riverbank. Some – a kind of willow, Gialyn thought – arched over the water’s edge, dangling reedy tendrils of what might have been roots into the Raithby River.
Their pace was quick, despite the night, as all could see the track Cal followed. The sharp rock and hard shale made the going firm and level underfoot. Yet Gialyn remained mindful; a wrong step to the right would see him down a steep slope and into the fast-running river. He knew well enough the Raithby did not give up its cargo easily, and had no desire to float all the way to Aralan – assuming he could stay afloat for the twelve leagues to the border.
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