‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Sarah asked straight out.
‘My betrothed,’ Pagan admitted, meeting her eyes again. ‘Yet I am unsure whether she yet lives. When I left, her situation was unsafe but the Sacred Pool had opened and my duty to the child of The Light was such that —’
‘You had to leave her behind.’ Oh dear. Beautiful tortured man, even harder to resist.
‘If she lives, I know she will wait for me,’ he said, but there was the catch. If she lived. Sarah wished she knew.
‘But you said you’d be here for years,’ she pointed out. ‘Would she wait that long?’
‘Time moves slowly on Ennae. For each five years I am here, she will only see one.’
‘So while you grow older,’ while I grow older, ‘she will always be young and beautiful.’
He smiled, a wistful smile that cut into Sarah’s heart like a fine scalpel. Well if that was the competition, Sarah was screwed. But maybe that’s what she needed to get some sense overriding her libido.
‘I’ll show you where the tools are kept,’ she said. ‘We might start with chopping wood today.’ Although the temperature was continuing to rise … very weird for winter. Still, it was sure to be an aberration … they’d need a good fire to keep them warm at nights.
‘I am accustomed to that task,’ Pagan said, ‘and would appreciate not being far from Glimmer.’
‘The woodpile is just out back.’ She hooked a finger over her shoulder, towards the back stairs. ‘Well within cooee.’
He looked at her blankly and this time she just smiled. Damned if she was going to explain every bit of local lingo. He could pick it up as he went along.
‘Let’s check on your little princess and then I’ll get you started with the wood.’ She led the way towards his room. ‘Then I think I’ll download some tips on baby care from the internet,’ and check for that death record while she was there. ‘Compared to the horror stories I’ve heard, this seems way too easy.’
Behind her, Pagan made a sound of disgust. ‘There is no ease in waking to a room choked with the smell of a soiled loin covering.’
Sarah had to work hard to stifle her smile. ‘Nappy,’ she corrected, turning at the door, ‘and did you take it to the outside bin I showed you?’ Little plastic packets of poo stinking up the house was not part of the program.
‘I would like to have buried it,’ Pagan replied. ‘But yes, I put it where you told me to.’
‘No problems then,’ she said, and swung the door wide, holding her breath for a moment before sniffing tentatively. Glimmer lay on the little camp bed, her blonde head poking out of a cocoon of bath towel — their temporary substitute for a baby blanket. ‘Probably only wet now,’ she said and Glimmer opened her eyes, focusing on them as they approached, her gaze moving from one to the other. ‘Is that normal?’ Sarah asked. ‘I didn’t think babies could see properly at first.’
‘The Catalyst is aware,’ Pagan said softly beside her, and Sarah felt goosebumps rise on her arms.
‘But there’s nothing to be scared about, right?’
Pagan looked to the window where the cold light of morning filtered in and Sarah followed his stare. Outside the casement window, sitting patiently on the sill, were a line of crows. Their beady eyes were all trained on Glimmer.
CHAPTER TEN
Breehan the Storyteller raised a hand and behind him the ragged band of Plainsman children halted and stood silent. A muffled cry was quickly muted and Breehan knew a young hand had been clamped over the restless babe’s mouth to silence it. The infant would suffocate if he did not hurry. Using his powers of hidden sight, Breehan raised his head and turned it first right and then left, searching the deep Plain’s mist with senses that were not sight or hearing, scanning the flat landscape for a shape, the source of the sound he had heard.
His free hand rose, restless, to finger the memory stone, and again he saw a flash of portent, an imagine of Noorinya lying still on the ground. Feelings of urgency came with the vision. At sundown the night before, the stone had gone cold and Breehan feared what that meant. He had safeguarded the children of the tribe as best he could, yet now it was time to return them to their parents at the meeting place Noorinya had designated. The fighting was over, he could sense that, yet what if the Plainsmen were no more? If The Dark’s pogrom had proved successful?
Finally out of the mountains and onto their beloved Plains again, they should have grown happier, yet instead a melancholy had settled over their little tribe, a dreadful anticipation felt by even the youngest of their number. But Breehan struggled to push these thoughts from his mind as he scanned the Plains for solid objects. Golden mist thickened into an impenetrable barrier at ten strides and hid people from his eyes, but not his mind.
Ahead two hundred paces Breehan discerned several upright forms. Some moving. But friend or foe?
‘Noooooooriiiiiiiiiinyaaaaaaaaaaa,’ came a plaintive cry from the group ahead, and Breehan ran forward with all the speed his tired legs would provide. The two babes strapped to his chest pummelled against him and began to wail, yet he could think of nothing but the mourning cry for his beloved Noorinya who carried his child.
‘Breehan,’ he announced himself as he burst through the mist and skidded to a stop behind a woman of their tribe. He recognised her as Noola, Noorinya’s sister. Four other women flanked her but Breehan could not see past them. Did they bear Noorinya’s corpse? Or was she yet alive?
While these desperate thoughts raced through his mind another fear gathered in his breast, forming into a solid lump of grief as the children ran in behind him. Was this all that remained of their proud race? Five women, himself and sixteen children?
Noola, who had been mute from birth, turned slowly to face him. Her hands rose, My sister is dead, she signalled, the movements flat, her features as unrevealing as the stone face of a rocky promontory.
Breehan simply stood as the women unstrapped the children from his chest and moved a distance away, taking his small charges with them. Beyond Noola he could now see a bound body on the ground. He felt his strength waver. ‘I will see her,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He had no claim. Noorinya had not married him and Noola was her sister, her closest kin. Still, he said, ‘I am the father of her child.’ He must see her face.
You are the father of her child, Noola signed formally, the mantle of leadership like a stiff cloak upon her shoulders, the curls and thumps of her hands against each other crisp with authority, and here I give that child unto your care. She took a tiny wrapped bundle from the woman at her side and handed it to Breehan.
‘My child,’ he repeated tonelessly and with clumsy fingers took the bundle from her. It fit in one palm.
Look upon the face of your son, Noola commanded and Breehan opened the cloth. The blood had been carefully washed away to reveal a miniature child with gently closed eyelids. His skin was so fine Breehan could see the veins beneath it, and on the babe’s hand, no bigger than Breehan’s fingertip, were a tiny set of perfectly formed fingernails.
‘I see the face of my son,’ Breehan said faintly.
Noola tapped his shoulder to gain his attention then signed, Name him.
Breehan stared again at the tiny form, his mind full of the ache of war and the pointlessness of death. Of this death. ‘His name is Grief, for this is all he brings.’
She held out her hands and after another few seconds of gazing, Breehan handed the tiny bundle back. She wrapped it carefully and then, holding it before her, walked around the bound corpse before them and knelt on the other side, laying the small bundle on Noorinya’s belly. Grief, son of Breehan the Storyteller and of Noorinya, she signed, the dead leader of our people, I commend your soul to the High Plains.
‘And I with you,’ Breehan said solemnly.
See your dead woman, Noola signed, and with an open-palm gesture invited him to say his farewells to Noorinya.
Breehan forced his feet forward. His beloved’s body had been wound i
n strips of fine white cloth as was their custom, yet her head had not yet been bound and was only shrouded. Noola had anticipated his request and he felt gratitude that she would consider his needs, his love for her sister. ‘What were her wounds,’ he asked, kneeling opposite her and reaching to open the shroud.
Noola indicated cuts over the upper body. Days old, she signed, her expressionless face reflecting the extent of her own grief. A fresh wound to her chest. Footsteps around her filled with her blood — she was wounded and left to die alone.
‘Last night,’ Breehan said, ‘when I was falling asleep, the memory stone went cold. ‘’Twas then that she died.’ He raised a hand to grasp the stone again but there was no warmth to it. No life. He pulled open the shroud and looked upon the face of his beloved.
She was our strength, Noola signed.
Breehan was mute. The love and the grief he had borne for their son was as nothing compared to the pain of looking upon Noorinya. In death her face was clean, calm, at peace. Yet Breehan remembered little peace in their time together. More often he had seen her face grimed with the blood of battle, fierce with the desire to kill, or to join with him, and angry — this above all he remembered of Noorinya, her fury at The Dark who had taken so much from their people.
‘Her murderer?’ Breehan asked.
We were following Noorinya’s trail. She’d gone into a camp of Guardsmen looking for you, then moved on. Near the place of the dead by the river we saw a party of ten Northmen and Noorinya in their midst. The Dark was with them. She stopped and Breehan did not have the energy to lift his gaze from her hands to her face. He could not begin to imagine the anguish Noola must have felt, he was too overwhelmed with his own. We could not attack and live. Her hands slapped against each other stiffly. I chose instead to follow, hoping to retrieve my sister’s body. She pointed a trembling finger at his beloved.
‘The Dark.’ Breehan’s voice wavered. ‘He took my son from her belly?’
Noola shook her head. Noorinya’s belly was small. They would not have known. More likely she waited and cut the child from herself, so she might look upon its face before they both died. We found it still warm in her hands with a bloodied knife.
Breehan felt the wetness of grief on his cheeks. All that he loved … He closed his eyes and rocked back onto his knees, his throat so tight he was unable to make the keening cry of mourning that would tell Noorinya’s spirit that he grieved for her loss.
Noola waited until he raised his head again. She met his eyes. I have taken her place within the tribe, yet her place in our hearts will always be empty.
He nodded at this and Noola closed her eyes, yet what Breehan saw in her tightly held face was not grief but anxiety, covered by the cloak of solemnity her new position demanded.
He touched her arm. ‘You have not asked after your children,’ he said. ‘Your unnamed son, the newborn, yet lives.’
Noola opened her eyes and the expression within them stabbed into Breehan’s wounded heart — joy at this news and yet fear of what further disclosures may bring. Our tribe has lost much. she signed, the gestures awkward and lacking in her usual grace, I rejoice in this news. Yet she did not ask after Hanjeel. Could not ask, Breehan suspected.
‘Your elder son, Hanjeel, was my right arm,’ he told her. ‘A fierce protector, and yet gentle of word and touch.’
Thus did I teach him. Noola lowered her hands to her lap, still unable to ask the question which must be foremost in her mind.
Noorinya’s charisma had overwhelmed the tribe, overwhelmed Breehan, yet her sister’s quiet strength had always drawn his respect. Never more so than in this moment. ‘Your elder son is missing,’ he said gazing at her steadily. ‘We did not see him dead.’
Her hands rose. Yet you believe him so?
Breehan shook his head. ‘There were no Raiders thereabouts, nor Be’uccdha guard. The lands were strangely deserted. As was the sanctum we sheltered in.’ The sanctum whose walls were adorned with pictures of people locked with plants in love’s embrace. Why would Breehan remember that now? ‘Hanjeel is a sensitive boy,’ he went on, ignoring the feeling that he had missed some detail, ‘and sadness weighed heavily on his heart. His separation from you. He may have simply wandered away. I have hope that he will return to us.’
Noola continued to gaze into his eyes. After much time she signed, Then I shall have hope also.
Breehan took her two hands in his and vowed, ‘If he lives I will find him. Now that the children are safe I am free to search —’
Noola pulled her hands free. You will not leave us. The tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders signified resistance, which matched her words, yet there were subtle nuances to her posture that Breehan could not decipher.
‘I cannot rest until the murderer of our people is dead.’ He pointed at Noorinya. ‘The murderer of my beloved must be near. In my travels I will find Hanjeel.’
Would you die as Noorinya did?
‘If it buys us revenge on our enemy.’
You will not leave us, Noola signed again, and Breehan saw the stone certainty in her face. You will stay with us and repopulate the tribe, she signed. It is the way of our people. Magaru is too old, Breehan had seen the wise woman and had been relieved that one with the lore yet lived, but there are four of us who can bear children. It is your duty to stay. If you die, all is lost.
‘I will not leave this death unavenged,’ he said, and looked again upon the resting face of his beloved. ‘How can I think of lying with another when —?’
Noola’s open handed blow struck his cheek with enough force to rock his head. When he had regained his balance and raised his head Noola was glaring at him, her hands trembling. He had never seen her angry and it shocked him.
How can you? she signed savagely. How can I? stabbing a finger at her chest and then curling it into a fist. A small fist, the size of his dead son. Noola had lost two sons, yet she did not cry. Would not let herself. After some time she continued. I am our leader and I speak for the tribe. Her lips were pressed hard together, her dark eyes narrowed to slits. You do not leave until you have done your duty. For the tribe.
Breehan nodded. ‘I will try.’
Noola’s gaze remained as stone. Noorinya will always be in your heart, but tonight Eef will be in your bed.
‘I will do as you ask for the good of the tribe.’
Noola nodded. I go now to lie in grief for Noorinya. Later we will prepare for the ceremony of the pyre. It was only then that she rose and went to the children, taking her own baby and cradling it against her chest. She signalled for a sentry to keep watch then walked off into the mists with her son to be alone. Though he could no longer see her, Breehan knew she would be crying.
He turned back to Noorinya and laid a palm on her chest, his other hand closing instinctively over the memory stone at his throat. ‘I will have revenge on the murderer of our people,’ he vowed, and though he was no warrior he believed it could be done, ‘and I will find Hanjeel for Noola.’ The memory stone warmed in his palm and he pulled it out on its thong to look at it, surprised as he always was by how unremarkable it appeared. A finger-length oval of impure brown crystal with a hole in the top for the thread. Yet this talisman had guided their leaders for all the days of their histories. Noola showed him great respect by letting him continue to wear it until his grief had passed.
‘Hanjeel is alive,’ he said and from within the depths of the stone he thought to see a faint glow.
He looked again to Noorinya and felt his chest constrict. He had always known she could die. Warriors died often and their partners moved on. It was the way of their people, yet Breehan was different. While others worried, he agonised. Where they rejoiced, Breehan felt delirium. Noorinya had called it weakness, yet the depth of his feeling had made him a good storyteller.
Without storytellers to keep the past alive, his people would have no history, no depth to their souls. In times of war a storyteller inspired courage with tales of Plainsman he
roism in their ancestors. Breehan had often entertained the tribe with comedies of misadventure during the long days of the cold-times when his people were forced to shelter in the caves below the Echo Mountains. It was also Breehan’s responsibility to notice the actions of those around him and seek out tribesmen who required direction: a special tale from his store of memories to remind them of the values their people lived by.
These skills of sensitivity and memory Breehan owned were vital to the tribe, but they would not make him a good partner in the joinings Noola had ordered, and looking into the still face of his beloved, Breehan could not imagine how they were to be performed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was dusk on the second day when Kert led them from the Volcastle woods to stand before the outer battlements of the king’s castle, buffeted by a strong wind. Lae stumbled to a halt behind Kert as he lowered Ghett to the ground.
Lae had travelled to the Royal Volcastle from her own Castle Be’uccdha many times in her life, and when reaching the grassy plains below Volcastle Mountain she would crane her neck for a view of the majestic circular battlements which sat atop its flattened peak. Within those imposing walls lay the castle itself, sitting directly over the volcano mouth. As a child Lae had eagerly scanned the sky for the wisps of smoke it expelled.
This day she’d had no strength to raise her head, not on the grassy plains below nor for the whole three hours of their trudge up the mountain trail where the wind had alternately blown against and afore them. So close to the end of their journey, Lae could think of nothing but sleep.
Kert cupped both hands to his mouth. ‘Ho, Volcastle gatekeeper,’ he bellowed. ‘Kert, Lord of the House of Sh’hale demands entry.’
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