The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Very good, my lady.” She nodded. “Should I direct Captain Rhenkin to you, as well? He's been asking after you with some urgency.”

  “You know, Claire, that might be just the thing.” She ushered the maid into the corridor.

  Rhenkin was waiting for her as she came into the parlour. He snapped to attention as she made her way to her usual chair by the window with its little side table.

  “Rhenkin,” she said. “I understand you've been scampering all over the grounds looking for me.”

  “Indeed, your grace,” he replied. “I have a scouting report from the Eastern Reaches.”

  She stood at that, all thoughts of Freyton forgotten. “And?”

  “It's not good, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “The Bjornmen have pushed some forty miles inland and driven off all of the peasants they came across. They have razed at least four villages to the ground, and we suspect many more.”

  “To what purpose?” Selena said. She was seething. Years of work developing these lands was going to waste at the hands of that barbarian rabble.

  “It appears they are building their own villages, heavily fortified, and also beginning their own farming efforts.

  “On my lands?” she cried. “Damn them! Damn them all!” Selena cried, clenching her hands into fists and digging her nails into her palms. “What are their numbers? Can we push them out?”

  “We were unable to obtain a clear picture of their numbers, my lady, but it would be perhaps, unwise.”

  “Don't dance around it, Rhenkin,” she growled. “Can we force them out or not?”

  “I don't think so my lady, no,” he admitted. “Without the King's forces to support us, I believe any campaign would be doomed to failure.”

  “Yes, well, King Pieter would appear to be a bit less than concerned about our situation.” She strode to the map filling the rear wall of the chamber. “Which ones?”

  “my lady?”

  “Which villages, Rhenkin?” she grated.

  “Frenton's Cross, Selene, Harton's Fields and Sonlan have been burnt to the ground. I don't have information on any others as of yet.” He paused as she fumed to herself under her breath. “They...um...also appear to have torched the fields in a number of locations.”

  “I won't have this, Rhenkin,” she said, in a low voice as she glared at him. “I have dragged this duchy back from the edge of the abyss with these villages and this expansion. I won't have it turned to ash by some hairy idiots from across the seas who want to play farmer!”

  “The refugees have largely settled at the edge of The Wash.” He gestured to the map.

  “Where?”

  “Widdengate, mostly, your grace.”

  “Where?”

  “Widdengate,” he repeated as he searched over the map. “It's a small village near to one of the beacon towers we had built. I believe it's in this area, but I don't think it's marked on this map.”

  She frowned at the spot he was pointing to. “That's it, then. I refuse to lose any more lands.” She turned to him. “Where did you have the garrisons muster?”

  “Carik's Fort,” he said, pointing again.

  “Fine. Move them all to Widdengate and fortify it. We will not lose another village.”

  “I'll see to it, my lady.”

  “One more thing, Rhenkin,” she said as the thought occurred to her. “This delay in communication is crippling us. I want you to go there and personally take charge.”

  “Me, your grace?”

  “Oh, don't bother to hide your joy, Rhenkin. Your hatred of paperwork is legendary.” She allowed a wry smile to flicker across the edges of her lips. “Who is your second?”

  “Coulson, my lady,” he said. “He's a good man.”

  “Sort out an introduction before you go.” She ran her hand lightly down his arm. “Protect my lands, Rhenkin, but come back safe to me. I'd miss having you around the place.”

  “I would miss being around the place,” he said with a tight smile.

  “See if you can have someone find Hanris, would you? I can't think what's keeping him.”

  She did not have to wait for long once Rhenkin had left until Hanris arrived. Hanris was dressed in his elegant black coat and white shirt, as usual, and his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He entered the room and bowed.

  “Hanris, I'm afraid we have a problem,” she said, dispensing with the pleasantries.

  “Your grace?”

  “Shut the door, Hanris.” She chewed on the inside of her lower lip, as she considered how to begin. He closed the door and turned to her, cocking his eyebrow.

  “Freyton's dead,” she said, simply. “I think he choked during the night. It looks like he was drinking again.”

  He didn't bother with condolences, to do so would have been hypocritical. “I will send messages at once to inform the family,” he said simply.

  “You will do no such thing!” Selena snapped in a shocked gasp.

  “Your grace?” Hanris said in confusion.

  “Think, Hanris. What happens if Freyton dies?”

  “Well, of course you will be provided for, my lady, but the duchy would pass on to the next male in the line of inheritance. A cousin, I believe, since there is no direct heir.”

  “We are at war, Hanris!” She bit off the words as she glared at him “Do you really think we can afford for another bumbling idiot to take control now? Now, of all times?”

  “I really don't see that there is any other choice, my lady,” the stuffy little man persisted.

  “There is always a choice, Hanris, even when it isn't immediately apparent.” She walked over to the sideboard and filled a goblet with a pale, white wine. She was normally not much of a drinker but today, Lords and Ladies, today she needed it. She took a deep drink and turned back to the chamberlain.

  “Where is the will, Hanris?”

  “With the palace records, my lady. With the deeds and suchlike.”

  “And has anyone inspected it in recent years?”

  “No, your grace, why would they?”

  “So no one would know whether it had been updated or not, then?” She watched his face, as understanding finally dawned on him.

  “No, my lady, they would not,” he replied, picking nervously at some unseen piece of lint on one arm of his jacket. “Of course, any alterations would require your husband's signature.”

  “Oh, come now, Hanris, you do Freyton's signature better than he ever did himself,” she chided.

  Hanris flushed and coughed into his cupped palm. “Even if that were true, my lady, it would be highly irregular for the duchy to pass to yourself. It flies in the face of tradition recognised for scores of generations.”

  “I am quite aware of that. It would never pass to a mere woman,” she said, with a twist to her lips. “What if I were pregnant however?” she asked, her eyes flicking towards the barracks and Rhenkin's office, before darting back to Hanris's face.

  “A regency, you mean?” Hanris mused. “Yes, that might work. Of course, when the baby failed to appear...” He trailed off.

  “Women lose babies all the time, Hanris,” she said, gently. “For that matter, it wouldn't be that difficult for me to get pregnant, you know?” He looked genuinely shocked at that.

  “What you're suggesting, my lady, would be nothing short of the grossest form of fraudulence.”

  “Needs must, Hanris. Needs must,” she said. “The Bjornmen have moved forty miles inland. They are burning villages to the ground, and driving the peasants before them. Do you want to wait until they are ready to torch the palace itself? Or do you want to work with me to save the work we have put all our time and effort into for the past few years?”

  He stared at her in horror for a long moment, before shaking his head slowly.

  “Just do it, Hanris,” she grated. “I don't have time for moral objections right now. Do what needs to be done and then bring it to me once it is ready for signatures.”

  “I…my lady…I…”<
br />
  “Now, Hanris!”

  He gave her a hurt, worried look and then fled.

  She sat for a time, staring into space, and didn't really even notice she'd moved until her hand was pressed against the wall. She stared at the map grimly. “No more,” she whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hannah held the mug tightly between her hands and looked down at the table. It was sturdy and well made, polished by a thousand hours of having flour and pastry scrubbed off its plain surface. It showed scorch marks in more than one place where she'd had to put a pot down quickly and had nowhere else within reach.

  “I don't know where to start.” she confessed as she glanced up at Obair.

  He sipped his own tea and nodded. “Was it night-time?”

  “Late evening,” she replied, looking down again. “Maybe ten of the clock?”

  “Go on...”

  “Devin and Khorin had gone to the inn. It's something they do once every few weeks. I think they need the time to just be men without me tutting at them.” She smiled at the thought.

  “Anyway, the animals were making a fuss, so I went out to check on them. When I got back, there was a stranger in the kitchen, here.” She gestured across the room to the counter near the woodstove.

  “So much of this was like a dream, you understand? I couldn't really even tell you what he looked like, but I knew he wasn't Khorin. He walked over to me, pulled me close and kissed me, and I wanted him to...” She looked at the old man and blinked away the brimming tears. “Do you understand what that feels like?” Her voice was fierce as she forced the words out. “I wanted him to. I wanted it all. And in that moment, I didn't give a damn about Khorin or Devin, my family… any of it.”

  “What happened then?” Obair prompted, watching her intently.

  “Then, something happened. I remember him jerking back away from me, almost like he'd been burnt, and he wasn't a man anymore. He was some kind of beast.” She laughed a bitter little laugh and shook her head as she looked away from him. “Listen to me. This sounds crazy, even to me.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  She looked at him curiously for a moment before she spoke. His eyes were eager and he was leaning towards her, across the table.

  “It was short, not much taller than Devin,” she began. “I remember it had the face of a man, except for the horns. And its eyes. It was the eyes I remember most. They were the colour of sunset and solid, no whites at all.” She shook her head and her eyes followed the steam curling from her cup as she stared unseeing at the shapes it made. There was a long silence before she spoke again. “This is hard to say. I can't help but think that it all sounds like some nonsense from a child's tale. It's no wonder Khorin wouldn't believe me. You won't either.” She stood and moved to the window, it was too dark to see out. It didn't matter, she wasn't really looking. It was just a means not to see the scorn she knew was coming

  “The creature you saw,” Obair said, in a quiet voice. “It had the legs of a goat, as well as the body and face of a man.” He carried on as she spun to face him. “It was probably mostly naked, perhaps with a belt, and it almost certainly had a knife made of horn or bone.” She nodded in silence, as her mouth hung open in disbelief.

  “You've seen this thing?”

  “Thing? It's called a satyr. There are many more of them too, Hannah, and they're coming,” he replied.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “Me?” His laugh was every bit as bitter as her own had been. “I'm a man with a terrible secret. A truth about an enemy that would make the Bjornmen look like children. And now that it's finally come time to tell it, I doubt there is anyone outside this room who would believe it, or not laugh in my face.”

  She sat back in her chair. “But who are you, though? What were you even doing near that tower?”

  “I'm sure you've heard of the druids, Hannah,” he said, meeting her eyes with his own. “What was it Erinn called them? droos ?”

  She was across the kitchen before she realised she'd left the chair, hands scrabbling for a knife from the rack. “You just stay back. Stay away from me!” she cried, pressing her back against the counter.

  “Hannah,” he said, with a tired smile. “Look at me. Even if I wanted to do anything to harm you, I couldn't.”

  She looked at him then, really looked at him. A tired looking old man hunched over the table in clothing cobbled together from what the village could spare. His eyes were sunken under his shaggy grey eyebrows and he was thin, painfully thin. He was no threat to her, or to anyone.

  “Most of what you will have heard about the druids are tales they created themselves, anyway,” he explained as he watched her slowly uncoil.

  “Why would anyone do that?” she asked, easing away from where she'd pressed herself into the corner, but the knife was still held firmly in one hand.

  “To ensure they were left alone, Hannah. The druids had just barely survived the purges and so it was decided then to spread the stories you've heard.”

  “So, it's all nonsense then?”

  “I expect that most of what you will have heard of them is, yes. The tall tales of druids sacrificing virgins on stone altars and wielding terrible magics are tales they created themselves. Mostly they were simple men and women devoted to an impossible task. One they couldn't trust to anyone else.”

  “So, the stories about the droos are all false?”

  “Honestly, Hannah? I have no idea,” he admitted. “I haven't heard them all, or even half of them, I expect. I began my task as a young child. All I know is what my master told me and, in truth, that wasn't much.”

  “But you are one of these, druids?” She tested the word, rolling it around with her tongue. Her eyes were still a little wide but beyond the shock was a curiosity.

  “That's broadly true, I suppose, but I'm more of a caretaker than anything else.” She gave him a puzzled look and he returned a sad smile. “You need to understand, Hannah, that there is no secret store of knowledge. I'm not some all powerful wizard from a children's tale. My earliest memories are of working with my master…” He glanced at the doorway, as heavy footsteps crunched down the steps to the kitchen.

  Khorin stepped in quickly, closing the door fast against the draft behind him, then looked at Obair with surprise.

  “So you're up and about, then?” he said.

  “Yes,” the old man replied. “I seem to be on the mend.”

  “Just be careful of your ears, then,” Khorin said, with a perfectly straight face. “You'd not be the first to fall victim to her.”

  “Stop it, you!” Hannah swatted at him but he danced out of her reach, laughing.

  “And what are you two talking about, then? Look at the pair of you, thick as thieves.” Khorin chuckled as he walked to the stove.

  “Nothing much,” Hannah said, in a panic, as she shot pleading looks at Obair.

  “I was asking about your lad, Devin,” Obair said, not missing a beat.

  “He's a good lad,” Khorin said, as he filled the kettle from the pump. “We couldn't love him more if he was our own.”

  “He's not yours, then?”

  Khorin turned at that and shot Hannah a puzzled look. “He's a foundling. I found him in the woods. Must be almost seven years ago now.”

  “There's a tale worth telling in that,” Obair smiled.

  “You don't know the half of it,” Khorin said. He waved a cup at the two of them and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Please,” Obair said, as Hannah nodded.

  “Found him all wrapped up in ivy at the base of a tree. It was like something out of a fairy tale.” Khorin poured hot water through the strainer and then added honey to all three cups.

  “He was freezing to the touch too. I thought he was dead when I first saw him. Even when I got him back here, he took three days or so to wake up, didn't he?” he said, looking over at Hannah, as he carried the cups over.

  “How did he wind up there all alone?” Obair asked,
genuinely curious.

  “That's the thing, I've no idea really. He had some tale about his mother getting sick and some fanciful stuff about a creature in the woods helping them for a time, but it sounded like a fever dream to me.”

  “That's not all of what he said, Khorin,” Hannah said, sitting up straight. “Not even close. You've missed more than half of it.”

  “You tell it then. You've always told a better tale, anyway.”

  Obair turned in his seat and watched in silence, as she blew gently on her tea for a moment and collected her thoughts.

  “What he said was that his mother was sick. They were lost in the woods and had been wandering for days with little food or water. His mother had been hurt and she was becoming feverish. He said she was hot, so I think that's what he meant.” She looked at Khorin for confirmation and he nodded.

  “It's all so long ago, it's hard to remember, but I do remember this part clearly. He met a woman in the woods, someone strange who helped them both. There was some mention of a ring of stones in the woods, of finding his mother dancing around it in the night, caught in a fever dream or something. Then later the woman and his mother vanished into the stones. That's the last he remembered before Khorin found him.” She looked up from her tea and faltered as she saw Obair's ashen face.

  “What's the matter?” she asked in concern, reaching out to touch his forehead. “Are you feeling ill again?”

  “Did he mention the eyes?” Obair managed, in a strained voice.

  The blood drained from Hannah's face as she made the connection. “He did. They were the colour of sunsets. The same as…”

  “…as the satyr you had in here.” Obair finished for her.

  “Hold on. What's this?” Khorin said, as he looked from one to the other. “You told him about all that?” He stood, his face like thunder as she nodded, and he leaned over the table, stabbing one thick finger down towards Obair as he spoke. “Listen, old man. I'm not one to throw someone who's sick out of my home, but I'll not have you upsetting my wife or filling her head with nonsense.”

  “I understand, sir,” Obair said, flinching back from the finger. “You need to know, though, that what happened to Hannah was not a dream. There are things you need to hear. This woman that took Devin's mother was no fevered imagining, just as the creature that attacked your wife was no dream. They were both quite real and if the fae have a woman that danced around the stones...stars above, this explains everything!”