He had never travelled north of Leedon so in truth he was interested by the prospect of visiting Petrine. And by all accounts, his grandmother lived so remotely that he would have the opportunity for long, rambling walks and quiet time to prepare his mind for the Testings. Maybe it would not be so bad after all…well, as long as she doesn’t die whilst I’m there, he amended.
They had reached the open road and he kicked Empress into an easy trot, dreamily letting his eyes move with the countryside which streamed by him. Absently twisting and turning his stone, he gradually sensed an increasing warmth emanating from it. He gripped the stone and experienced a sense of alarm; the vague feeling that this was a trap. However, a moment later the sensation was broken. Immediately he gave Empress the rein and permission to enjoy some freedom at a gallop.
He let go of the stone and the notion of danger.
‘Oh, this is unthinkable!’ exclaimed the plump girl.
‘Come on, Lauryn, it’s marvellous…I’d give up pudding for a whole moon cycle for someone to take me away from these books,’ said Emyly, Lauryn’s only real friend.
The girls had struck up a friendship when they were five summers old, each recognising in the other a genuine need. Emyly was plain, buck-toothed and freckled. She was also hilarious and Lauryn loved her.
Lauryn took no pains to enhance her own obvious assets: large, deep green-grey eyes and thick golden hair. She pulled her hair back severely, refusing to display its glossy beauty, did everything she could to get out of any form of exercise and deliberately indulged in her food. She was a hearty lass, as Cook liked to call her; and that was the kindest description of herself Lauryn had heard.
At the moment, however, she was the talk of the convent, although it was nothing to do with her careless ways. Lauryn had fainted a few days ago in the scriptorium, spilling ink—thankfully only a small amount—on the illumination she had just begun working on. Emyly had become near hysterical when Lauryn, for no apparent reason, had suddenly gone rigid in her chair. Her eyes had rolled back and she had struggled for breath before falling in a dead faint against her friend, taking them both heavily to the ground. As a result, Lauryn had spent the next two days under close observation in the hospital. Sister Benyt had been strict about visits, allowing Emyly only a few minutes with her friend each day. Lauryn had appeared fully recovered from whatever had ailed her immediately upon regaining consciousness, but the much revered head of the Gyrton convent had still insisted on contacting Lauryn’s grandmother in Petrine.
Lauryn had no parents; her grandmother was her only known family. She had sent word by return with the messenger politely insisting that Lauryn be allowed to travel to Petrine as soon as she was strong enough in order to spend a few days in the clean, fresh air of the highlands. The request was not open to negotiation, as the Prioress later advised the granddaughter when she protested.
‘Lauryn, I have no power to argue this for you. Your grandmother has expressed her strong desire to see you and for you to enjoy a short break. She donates enormous sums of money to the convent to help feed and clothe our community and keep this Order in relative prosperity. And I believe I am right in saying you have not seen your grandmother for eleven years or so? It is about time you paid her a visit.’
Before Lauryn knew it, she was packed up and being driven by horse and cart to meet up with the northern-bound coach. She was furious, though in truth she did not know why. Leaving Emyly was the worst part, but escaping the scriptorium was a blessing. She hated the convent, even though she was good at her work and was one of its most talented scribes. Lauryn knew, deep down, that if she cared she could be good at just about anything she chose to do. It was just that she wasn’t really interested in the detailed, often mind-numbing work of copying out two hundred pages of script onto parchment.
No, in all truth, what really troubled her was the fact that she was a lonely girl. Lonely for the love of a mother; lonely for a connection to a family. Lauryn was the only member of the convent who did not have brothers or sisters. For her, the rare holidays highlighted her isolation all the more and if it were not for Emyly’s firm friendship, she felt she could disappear altogether and never be missed.
She hated the grandmother the Prioress spoke of so respectfully. What kind of a grandmother never visits her granddaughter or makes contact other than by an all too occasional letter? And those letters brought her no consolation; they gave no insight into this mysterious woman. No, she was a total stranger and Lauryn felt nothing but contempt for someone who could masquerade as a caring relative but gave no emotional support whatsoever to a girl racing into womanhood.
But Lauryn would admit to none of this. She went through life as an observer, taking little interest in anything or anyone, save her good friend Emyly. She felt entirely removed from the life she led; she did not belong in the world around her. And now she was being forced to travel into that world to confront the grandmother she despised. She hoped the woman died before she arrived. Perhaps she could escape out onto the moors where this old girl was supposed to live. Lauryn would not mind that so much. The thought of rambling walks alone through the highland countryside almost made the drudgery of getting there worthwhile. Almost. At least that way she could continue to be alone, which was what she did best.
Lauryn smirked as she recalled a regular comment on her school reports: ‘Would make a good leader if only she would participate emotionally in convent life.’ What a jest. Who would she lead? Who would want to follow fat Lauryn? No one liked her, except Emyly, and she had no relationship with anyone else. She had been wondering about men lately, about life outside the convent. She knew such thoughts were not permitted, but she had no intention of taking full vows. That would be a shock to all. Instead she planned to wander the Kingdom of Shorell…as a visiting scribe perhaps. Such a life would suit her. Would any man ever take an interest in her? Did men ever fall in love with the fat girl? Lauryn grimaced. Well, she would catch herself a fine man one day. He would be strong and witty and a leader amongst men. They would fall madly in love and he would never want any other woman but her. And she would not be plump. She would be gorgeous, as her mother had been.
Lauryn’s favourite daydream was to conjure a vision of how her mother and father looked. He was dashing and handsome, her mother incredibly beautiful and slender. They too were madly in love but fate had forced them apart and that was why they had to give up their only daughter. Or perhaps they had died tragically, in one another’s arms. Her mother’s last words to her own mother, this mysterious grandmother, were always the same: look after Lauryn. And that’s when the dream invariably turned into the nightmare. Look after Lauryn! Send her as far away as possible to live life alone and unloved amongst a community of stiff-backed, unforgiving women.
As the cart rumbled along, Lauryn took her stone from her top pocket and felt the comfort it always brought her. Strange; it was very warm. She twirled it in her palm and watched its iridescent colours. No one but her had ever seen the colours within it, but that was all right—it was worthless to anyone but Lauryn. It was just a stone, after all. And yet for Lauryn it was her connection to her past. It was all she had carried with her when she arrived at the convent, other than a tiny sack of clothes. The Prioress had told her that the stone had been carefully sewn into one of her mittens when she had arrived at Gyrton on that frozen late winter’s afternoon more than a decade ago.
Shivering and confused, the tiny four year old had cried for hours and been inconsolable for weeks. Her only comfort was the stone, which she clutched tight. It had never been far from her in all the years since and Lauryn liked to think that it represented the soul of her mother, wherever she was and whoever she was.
She came out of her dark thoughts into the bleak and misty afternoon of the town and allowed herself to be helped down from the cart and escorted to the waiting coach. There were other people clambering aboard: a chatty mother with two daughters and a single male traveller. He was very old an
d entirely uninterested in all of them. That was fine with Lauryn; she intended to ignore them all for the three days it would take to reach Petrine.
She pulled a small book of poetry from her gown and hid behind it, pretending to lose herself in the words, only putting it down to share a small polite meal with her companions or to sleep. The girls tried to engage her in conversation but her fearsome comments on the probability of plague sweeping through neighbouring nations, even those divided by sea, put paid to any plans they might have entertained of making a pleasant new friend. Lauryn saw the old man twitch a smile at her tirade; he was obviously an old hand at warding off unwelcome and trivial chatter and perhaps recognised in her the same rude trait developing.
It was three long and tedious days before Lauryn sensed they had arrived on the outskirts of Petrine. No one else was left in the coach now; the ladies had alighted at Verban and the old man even sooner at Divyn. It mattered not to her that she was alone. When finally they reached the centre of Petrine and Lauryn stepped down from the coach, a man hailed her. This must be Master Galbryth whom the Prioress had said would meet her.
‘Here we go,’ she muttered and grimaced back at him.
13
Yargo’s Message
Gidyon stretched in his saddle as Empress entered the town gates of Petrine. He gingerly climbed off the mare, expecting to be sore after riding through the previous night and all of this day. He stared out towards the darkening of early evening over the Petrine moors. Shaking his head distractedly he again asked himself what he was doing here. Empress grunted and shook her head. She was eager for the comforts of a stable.
‘Gidyon Gynt?’ a man asked, taking off his cloth hat and smiling broadly.
Gidyon returned the smile and answered that he was. He swapped the bag he’d taken off the horse to his other shoulder so he could shake hands.
‘I am Iyain Galbryth, a farmer from around these parts. I live near your grandmother and she asked me if I’d pick you both up as I was in town today. Is that your only bag?’ He smiled again. ‘You should have some coin left to stable the mare—is that right?’
Gidyon was puzzled. ‘Yes, Master Galbryth, just this one bag. The saddlebags are empty now. Um…there’s only me actually. I’m not sure who else you were expect—’
‘Is this the horse?’ interrupted a stablehand.
‘Evening, Angys,’ said Galbryth while Gidyon started searching for the coins Father Piers had instructed him to keep available for the care of Empress until he was ready to ride back to the school. As he turned over in his deep pocket everything he had accumulated on the journey, he was startled to feel how warm his stone was.
‘C’mon, Gynt, where’s your money, boy?’ said Galbryth good-naturedly. ‘How is your good woman then, Angys?’ he added, turning to the man who held the horse’s reins.
Gidyon felt his mind blur and the conversation between Galbryth and Angys faded as the heat of the stone increased in his hand. He was caught by the strange conviction that the stone was klaxoning a warning. The words ‘To Tallinor’ whispered through his mind. Just then his other hand closed around the coins and then the world refocused. He saw both men staring at him.
‘You okay, boy?’ Galbryth shook him gently.
‘Uh…oh…er, sorry, yes, sorry. I must be tired. It’s been a long journey.’ Gidyon laughed stiffly as he obliged Angys with the money, then followed behind Galbryth who was waving a farewell.
As he climbed into an old cart attached to two equally old horses, his hand gripped the stone again; the heat had lessened to a mild warmth.
Iyain Galbryth began to chat amiably as drizzle sifted delicately from the blackening sky. ‘Can’t get rid of this lovely pair…they’re my first team you see…’
Gidyon allowed Galbryth to ramble on about his horses, the words washing over him as ineffectually as the rain, whilst he tried to make some sense of what had happened with the stone. He was not scared, though he thought he should perhaps feel threatened by it. Instead, he had to admit that he felt comforted by its presence…and its warmth. Something about it felt safe, felt right. It always had.
What was that name he had heard?
He strained after the memory of it, leaning on his thoughts, probing and grasping at threads, whilst in the background Galbryth droned on about how ploughing with this pair was as easy as a knife cutting through butter. ‘Tallinor,’ Gidyon whispered into the darkness.
‘Mmm…what was that?’ Galbryth asked, gently flicking the whip over his lead horse.
‘Oh, nothing. It’s…um…a word I’ve been trying to recall for one of the questions in the Testings.’
The man was not listening anyway. They travelled the next mile or so without speaking, although Galbryth sang a hearty ballad into the rain, getting plenty of the words wrong. Gidyon was grateful for the lack of conversation.
The rain had steadied to a light shower by the time they pulled up outside an inn. The Shepherd and Dog was a country tavern built of whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, low ceilings, dark wood surrounds and a pretty woman behind its ale counter. Her lovely Petrine brogue and figure-hugging blouse, which was tied rather loosely at the neckline, made Gidyon instantly forget the incident with his stone and its strange and alarming heat. He grinned and she flashed a radiant smile back.
‘This is the gorgeous Glorya,’ said Galbryth. ‘We won’t be stopping, Glor. I’m just going to pick up the missus and the young lassie and we’ll be on our way.’ Galbryth pushed through the crowded tavern.
‘No time for a quick ale, Master Galbryth?’ Gidyon offered hopefully.
Glorya noticed his Ferenyan Order cassock and laughed, tipping her head towards him. ‘More like a fruit punch for you.’
Some men nearby caught the quip and laughed too, but not unkindly. Gidyon was enjoying the smoky, merry atmosphere and it seemed all too soon when Galbryth shouldered his way through again, this time accompanied by a short, stick-thin woman whose dark hair was pulled into a severe bun, and a plumpish novice wearing a Gyrton convent gown. She did not look at all happy.
‘Hello,’ Gidyon said.
She growled something unintelligible at him, which happily was drowned out by raucous laughter from a group singing a lewd song.
‘Bye, Glorya,’ was all Gidyon managed before shuffling out behind the odd troupe he found himself attached to. Glorya did not hear him but she caught his wave and winked back. I bet she wouldn’t do that if I was wearing a shirt and breeches, he thought, wondering for perhaps the first time whether life outside the Order and its vows might be fun. The thought of nuzzling close to the likes of Glorya suddenly made him feel weak at the knees.
Outside, the air was chilling rapidly and the early evening sky was inky black; heavy clouds hid the beautiful starscape he knew so well. The shower was just turning into a downpour and there was no time for introductions or conversation.
‘Let’s run for it!’ was Galbryth’s battle cry and Gidyon instinctively took the girl’s arm as they scuttled across the yard and piled into the cart. Galbryth pulled a canvas over their heads.
‘I’m Gidyon,’ he said. ‘I’m not too sure what I’m doing here. All I know is I’m off to see a sick grandmother somewhere around these parts.’ He wiped the rain away from his face.
‘Oh!’ was the young woman’s surprised reply.
Galbryth noisily called to his horses and then picked up his singing again, drowning out further conversation. ‘I’m Lauryn,’ was all she managed to squeeze in.
Swiftly they found themselves out in open countryside.
‘I gather you two know each other, being cousins and all that, so no need for formal introductions,’ Galbryth yelled over the steady rain. ‘Gidyon, this is my wife, Jeen. Your grandmother’s not far away now but the laneway is tricky to find so I’ll concentrate if you don’t mind.’
Is he speaking to both of us? Gidyon wondered. He and Lauryn exchanged blank expressions and Gidyon shrugged and surreptitiously made a gest
ure to suggest that Galbryth was a bit simple. He could just make out that the girl grinned back.
Jeen Galbryth continued her steely silence whilst her husband cursed and muttered to himself. They hit several potholes, one deep enough to make Gidyon’s teeth crunch.
Finally Galbryth relaxed. ‘Ah, I knew I hadn’t missed it,’ he pronounced triumphantly as the cart twisted sharply onto a small track. In the distance they could dimly make out the lighted windows of a cottage. The chimney was smoking cheerfully.
They halted on the soggy grass outside the cottage and the horses whinnied, eager to be on their way to a warm, dry stable. Gidyon was surprised to see Galbryth help the girl down from the cart. Why was she coming too? The rain intensified; it was hardly the time for questions and both children stumbled around to grab their belongings and thanked the silent Jeen, who nodded stoically beneath the canvas. They each shook hands with Galbryth, who was, like his prized horses, in a hurry to get going.
‘Oh, no trouble. No trouble at all, wee lassie.’ He tapped Lauryn on the shoulder. ‘Can you manage that now or shall I help you to the door?’
Lauryn was about to say she could manage when the door of the cottage opened. Silhouetted in the entranceway was a small, round woman.
‘You’d best get going. My apologies to your grandmother for rushing off. I’ll no doubt see her in the next few days so pass on my best in the meantime.’ Galbryth climbed back onto the bench seat next to his wife.
Gidyon decided he was the victim of a trick, which everyone else was in on; yet he could not imagine dry old Father Piers going along with it. The rain was really hammering down now and he had no choice but to run towards the gate. By the time he and Lauryn had negotiated their way through it with their bags, the Galbryths had departed.
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