by Karen Miller
Tavin’s pinched lips softened into a smile. “Spoken like a king, that was.”
But I’m not a king. Vharne has a king.
He turned to Clovis. “Here’s a task for you. Survey every dwelling in the Vale. How many heads in each home. Who’s friendly and who’s feuding. I want to know how many rooms are under each roof and how many strong men there are in each family. Who can be spared for scouting or the barracks, and who can’t. Some of that I know, but not all. If you’re asked a reason, it’s the king’s business. Once I’ve got those answers, I’ll make that proclamation, I will.”
Clovis, taking notes again, nodded. “Highness.”
“Sensible, you’re being, son,” said Tavin. “But before you proclaim anything there’s a wrinkle to think on.”
Of course there is. “What?”
“Word’s out wide on your brother, it is. And while you were in the rough, scouts put down a fistful of brain-rotted souls in the Southern Vale. There’s no hiding this, Ewen. Too many wanderers are crossing the borders.”
The Southern Vale, now? Spirit, we’ll soon be over-run.
Ewen scowled at his swordmaster. “You couldn’t tell me this last night?”
Tav lifted an eyebrow. “Could you change it last night?”
I can’t change it now. “No.”
“And you can’t proclaim scouts and barracks men without you break silence and tell Vharne about the north. Clap tongue on that, son, and it’s a lie you won’t be forgiven.”
Break silence and break hearts. Turn day into night and feed Vharne’s people nightmares instead of porridge.
“I’ll tell you another lie Vharne won’t forgive me,” he said, meeting Tavin’s grim gaze. “Declaring Murdo dead when I don’t have a body.”
Tavin’s fingers tightened. “Ewen—”
“Tav, if word of Padrig’s spread, and him a younger son, word of a missing king will spread through Vharne like fire. And here’s me in the king’s seat, claiming his crown? Vharne will call me a usurper, and that won’t be a lie.”
Clovis jumped as Tavin slapped the table, hard. “Ewen, this got put to bed last night, it did. When will you listen, boy?”
“I listen, Tavin. If I hadn’t heard you I wouldn’t have killed two beasts. But that doesn’t make you right every time.”
“I’m right about this!”
“So I should listen to you tell me I can’t be a good son?”
Tavin grabbed his right forearm, unthinking. “It matters more you’re a good king.”
He clenched his jaw against the pain. “How can I be a good king when I abandon a good king?”
“When you keep his kingdom safe, boy,” said Tavin. “Besides, the dead can’t be abandoned, I say.”
“Tavin—” He couldn’t bear it. He pulled his arm free. “I don’t—”
“Highness, your swordmaster’s right, he is,” said Clovis, unexpected. “When Murdo left the Vale, he left Vharne in your keeping. It’s yours to keep safe whether he’s dead or alive. Best you don’t leave the people uncertain. Best you claim the crown, and have done.”
Shocked silent, Ewen stared at the secretary.
“And another thing,” said Clovis. “Though could be you’ve thought of it already. The spirit paths, Highness. Can’t they help keep Vharne’s people safe?”
The spirit paths? Ewen, you fool. “Yes,” he said, forgetting the woken pain in his arm, his frustration with Tavin. “Clovis—I could kiss you, I could.”
Blinking, Clovis sat back.
“We need copies of the spirit map,” he said. “Scores and scores of copies. And scouts to ride them into the rough. Bryn and Noyce, they can show the scouts how to find the paths, how to feel—”
Beyond the Hall’s closed doors, a woman screamed in terror. Screamed again. Then more screams. As Ewen leapt to his feet, the doors flew open.
“Best you come,” said Typher, one of Tavin’s barracks men. He was sickly faced, his voice hoarse with shock. “It’s—it’s a beast.”
A beast? Leaving Clovis to gape, Ewen bolted with Tavin close behind. And then Tavin shoved by him and he was racing to catch up.
The beast stood unafraid in the castle’s forecourt, ringed by barracks men with swords. It was tall and thin and leathery brown. Naked. Hairless. Sexless. Its eyes were green and horribly human. It had tusks instead of teeth, talons for fingers and toes. It had wings—of a kind.
Heart thudding, regretting Blood-drinker, Ewen stared at the filthy thing as Tavin dragged his barracks man back over the castle’s threshold.
“What’s this, Typher?” the swordmaster demanded. “What are you men doing? Think a sword’s a prick, do you, needs a woman for—”
“It spoke, Swordmaster,” said Typher, shaking. “It said to fetch the king.”
Tavin thumped him. “It said—and you do its bidding? Man, are you brain-rotted?”
“Leave him be, Tav,” Ewen snapped. It spoke? A beast spoke? “And let me pass.”
“No.” Tavin’s face was taut with dismay. “Ewen, no, you can’t—”
Clap tongue, Tav. I have to. Pushing swordmaster and barracks man aside, he stepped through the main doorway and onto the forecourt.
“Ewen—”
He paused, his gaze intent on the beast. “I’ve never heard that they speak, Swordmaster. Have you?”
“Only with swords and clubs and talons,” said Tavin. “Not words. Ewen, you can’t—”
“Hold there, Swordmaster.”
Tavin groaned under his breath, but for a wonder didn’t argue.
The silent barracks men surrounding Morg’s beast were frightened, but holding their ground. Passing between them, Ewen took the sword from the man on his right, Fergil. Kept walking, his fingers sweaty on the hilt, until he was within spitting distance of the creature. Then he stopped.
The thing’s green, human eyes blinked. Bile-yellow spittle dripped from its tusks. “You are king of Vharne?”
I am today. Spirit save me.
“I am Ewen, the beast-slayer,” he said, freezing his voice. “Go back where you came from, beast. You’re not wanted here.”
The beast was indifferent. “I bring message from my master. The lord Morg will see king of Vharne. The lord Morg will see him kneel. The lord Morg will have Vharne.”
Morg. Curse Tavin for being right. If I show fear, it might kill me. “Morg’s not wanted here either, he’s not.”
The beast blinked again. “You are king, Ewen beast-slayer?”
Ewen tightened his hold on Fergil’s sword. How he wished it was Blood-drinker. I’m sorry, Father. “Beast, I am king.”
In a blur of brown motion the beast took to the air. Startled, Ewen raised the sword but there was nothing there to kill. He spun on his heel, looking for the thing—and instead saw another blur of brown motion.
And then a barracks man ripped to pieces in front of him.
Before he could defend the rest of his men another died, then another and another, so swift, so brutal, they didn’t even have time to scream. He felt blood spray across his chest, over his face, into his mouth.
Twelve men in the forecourt, slaughtered in heartbeats, and he never had a chance to strike.
Spirit. Spirit.
Morg’s beast dropped lightly to the blood-soaked ground. “Ewen beast-slayer kneel to my lord Morg in Dorana, give Vharne to him. Or—” It raised an arm, one talon pointing at the severed heads and scattered pieces of flesh and bone that had been men. “—this is Vharne. My lord Morg waits in beautiful city Elvado. My lord Morg does not wait forever.”
In a brown blur the creature took to the air again, and was gone in a cracking, flapping of wings.
Bending over, Ewen heaved up his egg-and-bacon breakfast.
“You can’t go,” said Tavin, reaching him, grabbing him by the arm. More cries of alarm and horror were sounding as the castle’s people looked out of windows or came onto the forecourt and saw the butchered barracks men. “Ewen, you can’t.”
Anguish in the swordmaster’s scarred face. “Ewen—”
“Tavin, I must.” He wanted to be sick again. In all his life he’d never felt such fear. “To save Vharne’s people—and give you time.”
“Time for what?” Tavin demanded. “Boy—”
He cupped his hand to Tavin’s cheek. Slapped it lightly. “To spread word of the spirit paths, for one thing. And to prepare Vharne for battle. Think, Tavin. When did the sorcerer ever send a messenger? Something’s different. Something’s wrong. And we can use it against him.”
Tavin shook his head. “No. No, this is a trick, it has to be, you can’t—”
“I can,” Ewen insisted. “And while I’m kneeling before my lord Morg I’ll study him for weakness. Because there is weakness, Tav. I can smell it. And when I’m done kneeling then it’s home to the Vale I’ll come, I will… and together we’ll work out how to beat him.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Are we lost?” said Charis. “We are, aren’t we? We’re lost.”
Deenie let her clammy forehead thud against the rough bark of the tree that was the only thing keeping her upright. “Charis, we’ve been lost since we left Dragonteeth Reef behind.”
“Yes, I s’pose, only, what I mean is—”
It was no good. She had to sit before she fell. Letting her legs fold, she slid down the tree trunk until she bumped onto the damp grass.
“Yes, Charis. I know what you mean.”
You mean I’ve led us far, far astray. You mean there’s a good chance we’re only wandering in circles. You mean you think it was a mistake ever to trust me.
Prob’ly it had been. Prob’ly blind faith in her odd mage-sense had blinded her to the harsh truth of the matter: that it always was madness to think she could find Rafel over such a distance.
She’d stopped feeling so much as a hint of him days ago. Now she could scarcely recall what that humming link between them had felt like. There were even moments she doubted she’d ever felt it at all.
Poor bedraggled Charis was looking down at her, face smeared with dirt and trickled with sweat from all their steady tramping. Where had bright and flirty Charis gone? Where was the girl who’d danced down Dorana’s streets?
“Deenie, you look awful,” she said, so subdued. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, even though she felt as awful as Charis’s expression told her she looked. “I just need to rest for a few moments.”
Charis pushed a straggle of damp hair back from her face. “That’s a good idea. You rest. I’ll have a little look around and see if I can find anything worth eating.”
Oh, and didn’t that make the guilt stab? “No, you should rest too. I know there’s not a terrible lot of daylight left but there’s time enough for a sit down, before we push on.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Charis, rallying. “I’ve got plenty of bounce. There’s no need to fratch about me, Deenie.”
Except there was. She didn’t look bouncy. She looked pale and thin and worn ragged by their adventures. She was trying so hard not to show how frighted she felt.
She hasn’t even fussed about how I could understand those poor rotting people. But I know that it frights her. It must. It frights me.
“Charis…”
Charis dropped to a crouch. “Hush. Close your eyes and don’t think about anything. Not even Rafel. I won’t go far, I promise. I won’t lose you.”
If she lost Charis she would truly be lost. “You’d better not.”
Charis wriggled her fingers. “See you soon.”
Eyes obediently closed, Deenie listened to Charis’s feet sliding on the grass, breaking twigs, as she faded into the distance. It was nice, this little patch of sunshine filtering through the heavy woodland canopy. Though there wasn’t much heat, still it felt like a friendly whisper against her skin.
Somewhere close by a bird called, three quick high cheeps, then a longer, lower whistle. So pretty. She’d never heard a birdcall like it before. Dragging her heavy eyelids open she looked for it. A rustle of feathers, and there it was. A small bird, perhaps the size of her fist. Dusky brown and bright yellow plumage, with a startling white cap on its sleek, narrow head. A needle-sharp beak. Bright, curious eyes. Calling again, the bird fluttered its wings. They were banded with black. Such a pretty thing.
Without warning her eyes flooded with tears.
Oh, Mama. I’m so tired. And I’m frighted. I don’t know where we are… and I think we’re going to die.
She’d lost all notion of time. Couldn’t make sense of how many days and nights had passed since the skiff sank on the river. Since she and Charis had woken on the cold ground to see—to see—
Stop it. Stop thinking about it. You had no choice. They were going to kill you and Charis, or worse.
And that was true. She’d saved their lives. But knowing that didn’t help. Killing rabbits was horrible enough. But killing people? Even people like that, mad and rotting and falling to bits?
Now I know how you felt, Da. When you did what you did to stop Morg, and King Gar died. You had to do it, you didn’t have a choice either, but now I know exactly how you felt.
And because she’d grown up with him, watching him, feeling him, she understood that no matter how many years went by she’d never feel any better about the terrible thing she’d had to do.
Those waiting tears trickled down her face, and the sun wasn’t warm enough to dry them. She was too tired to dry them. Her arms were so heavy it was like someone had turned them to stone.
Oh, Da.
They’d seen no signs of life since that terrible night. But there’d been people living in this land, once. After wandering through the village near the river and finding it empty, she and Charis had come across more tumbledown cottages. Their stone walls were broken apart, the scattered pieces wrapped up in ivy and pretty, pink-flowered climbers. Nothing left of their roofs, either timber or thatch. The second time they’d found fruit trees, gone wild and late blooming. Funny little red fruits on them, almost like apples. She’d taken a tiny nibble first, ’cause Charis had been afraid to try eating one. Perhaps it hadn’t been very clever, but her peculiar mage-sense didn’t warn her not to and she was so sinking tired of rabbit. The fruit had tasted dry, almost dusty. Not much juice in it, but the flavour was good. They ate a few handfuls each and then stuffed as many as they could carry into their haversack.
After dinner, though—more rabbit—they’d both been taken with a terrible gripe. They only ate one fruit a day after that, until they were all gone. It was a lesson well learned.
The weather was holding, Barl be praised. No rain. But it was cold once the sun went down. Without so much dead wood to burn they might have perished of it by now, or come down with a fearful ague. Even so they wore all the clothes they could to help them stay warm. Oh, how she missed her leathers. That ducking in the river, after days of salt at sea, had done them no good at all. They were too stiff to put on any more. They might even be ruined.
Another thing to fret about. It was so easy to fret these days—or weep. The smallest things fratched her. A bramble caught in her hair, a scrape on her finger. The drag of the haversack over her shoulder, and the way Charis flutter-snored through half the night.
It’s because I’ve lost Rafel. It’s because I don’t know where he is, or where we are, or where we’re going, or how we’re s’posed to save him when we get there. If we get there. It’s because of the dreams.
The dreams she had now weren’t about her brother. They were about the creatures who’d attacked them and awful beasts with horns and tusks. Trapped in sleep she heard screaming, she smelled burning. She knew she stood on the brink of something dreadful and nothing she could do would stop it.
Just one pleasant dream she’d had. Well, a
sort of dream. A snatching glimpse of a man’s face. Dark red hair. Green-gold eyes. She’d dreamed him once before, long ago, the night Da called the warbeasts, but why she’d dreamed him she still couldn’t say. At least this time he wasn’t weeping tears of blood.
A soft breeze soughed through the branches above her, rattling leaves. This was a strange place, whatever country it was they’d found. She could still sense the memory of blight here, but underneath that, she could feel something else. Something warm. Something sleeping. But she couldn’t wake it or hear its whisper in her dreams.
Very strange.
A rustling in the woodland undergrowth snapped her head around. Charis? No, Charis would’ve called out. Was it more of those maddened people? She didn’t think so. Her mage-sense barely stirred. Heart hammering, sweat prickling beneath her disreputable clothes, she held her breath.
A plump, rust-brown chicken stepped into the clearing, amber eyes curious, head tipped to one side, clucking and crooning deep in its feathered throat. Close behind it stepped two more plump chickens, both hens, one brown-and-white and one black.
Chickens?
Astonished, Deenie stared at them. The chickens stared back.
Those are chickens.
Without thinking, without hesitation, using her magic, she killed them.
Some little time later she heard more rustling in the undergrowth. Footsteps, this time. A familiar presence. Charis.
“Deenie! Deenie? You’ll never guess what I—”
Weeping over the dead chickens, cradling them in her arms, Deenie looked up. “Never guess what you what?”
Her own arms full of glossy brown pears, Charis gaped. “Chickens?”
She shrugged. “At least they’ll make a nice change from rabbit.”
“Chickens!” Charis said again, delighted. “Where did they come from? I didn’t see them in the village.”
“Village?” Deenie’s fingertip kept stroking the plumpest hen’s glossy black feathers. “What village?”
“Out beyond this stretch of woodland,” said Charis, carefully kneeling to put down her pears. “Deserted, like the others. I don’t think anyone’s been there in years. But there’s a proper orchard, Deenie. Gone wild, but still. And not just pears, we’ve got apples too. And cherries, only this is the wrong time of year. And there’s a well, with water in it! I dropped a stone in and there was a splash. The bucket’s tin and it’s on a chain, but the handle’s rusted.” She pulled a face. “I tried to magic it unstuck but that didn’t work. You’ll be able to, though. Best of all?” Now she was beaming, echoes of the Charis who’d danced through life without a care. “Some of the cottages aren’t tumbledown. They’re a bit manky inside, but we can magic them clean. Oh, Deenie.” She laughed. “How long since we’ve slept under a proper roof?”