“The Cirke-master is entitled to his opinion.”
He goggled at her. “Ye’re damned sassy for someone I could break in two with one hand.”
“Oh, please, sir!” wailed Gwynet. “Don’t be angry with me! I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I just was tryin’ to help Meredydd and poor Flann.”
The words provoked in the mercer a rage quite beyond his ability to control it, and Meredydd suspected Gwynet knew they would before she uttered them. The man roared like a wild beast and launched himself after them, dragging his cleft-heart belt from his waist as he came on.
Meredydd shrieked and ran back toward the wayhouse as fast as her legs could carry her. It took several seconds before she realized she was not being pursued. She stopped at the edge of the wayhouse “yard” and looked back the way she had come. She could see nothing, but she could still hear Ruhf’s bellowing and Gwynet’s pale screams. The girl had intentionally led him off in the opposite direction, just as she had intentionally goaded him into taking his anger out on her.
As Meredydd started back toward the deeper woods, wondering what she could do if she found them, a voice behind her stopped her in her tracks.
“There you are, girl! Come in. Flann’s awake and she’s in need of something for the sickness.”
Meredydd turned and saw Hadder standing upon the crumbling back porch of her inn, her face set imperiously, concern showing only in her dark eyes. With a last glance at the forest, she turned and carried her load of herbs into the wayhouse. Hadder-a-Blaecdel was not without civility. She thanked Meredydd for her troubles by feeding her a fine meal and allowing her a room to clean up in. She reiterated her offer of a position in her house.
“I could use a girl like you,” she said. “You’re a hard-worker and you’re honest. That’d be a great asset here. You could be a great help to the other girls at times and I’d not insist you have men to your room.”
“Thank you, Moireach, but I’m not planning on being here very long. I came here to find something and I think I’ve found it, so....” She shrugged and glanced away from the woman’s astute gaze.
“Found something have you? Well, that’s a damn piece better than most folks around here can say. Still, if you change your mind, there’s a place open for you.” She paused, studying
Meredydd momentarily then said, “I wish I had a son. I think I’d marry him off to you.”
Meredydd blushed. “Well, you have a fine daughter, Moireach. And I think the tea I made her will get her through the rest of her pregnancy. Just have her drink a bit first thing in the morning and whenever else she feels sickly. And rest. She should have rest.”
Hadder nodded absently. “I’d like to throttle that Ruhf Airdsgainne. It’s probably too late to charge him with what he did to Flann.”
“Flann needs protection from him,” said Meredydd bluntly. “He’s a dangerous, violent man.” She glanced for perhaps the fortieth time out the window of the wayhouse’s decrepit kitchen.
“You’re fretting about that urchin, aren’t you?” guessed Hadder.
Meredydd nodded.
“Well, I’ll not keep you. Go on after her. I suppose I should hope you find her in one piece.”
Meredydd rose from the table and thanked her hostess for the meal. The woman waved the gratitude away. “I’d say we’re even, but that’s not true. I’m beholden to you on several counts, Wicke Meredydd. Take care,” she added as Meredydd slipped out the back door. “Ruhf is not someone to be trifled with.”
Meredydd was as aware of that fact as any one could be, yet she recognized that finding Gwynet was her first priority. Or at least, it had become that. Guiltily, she pushed aside the knowledge that that was not the goal of her task. Finding the jewel was her goal, and she thought she’d done that. The problem now would be in getting it away from the person who currently held it.
She stood for several moments at the corner of the wayhouse, watching the street beyond and fingering her necklace. Where would Gwynet be...if she was still alive. No, Meredydd told herself, Ruhf had been abusing the girl for some time. He hadn’t killed her yet. She must be somewhere, licking her wounds, and wherever she was, Meredydd would find her.
First, the mint glade. She went there at a run, searching, calling, listening for sounds of despair and hurt. There was nothing. She went for a while in the direction she thought Ruhf had chased the girl, but apart from trampled grass and broken twigs, there was nothing to be seen or heard.
She was near the Cirke when she gave up her search of the wood and gazed at the rear of the building for some time. Yes, Gwynet might go there for solace, since she favored the place for daydreaming. Meredydd even pictured her for a moment, curled up on one of the benches, crying herself to sleep, or perhaps sitting in her puddle of colored light, trying to dream the hurt away.
Praying she would not run into the Cirke-master, Meredydd dared to approach the sanctuary. She slipped through the front doors in silence and stood, listening to the hushed sounds of candles guttering and torches hissing. Besides the two stained-glass windows, the only other breaks in the thick walls were mere slits set low—almost as if the place was expected to double as a fortress.
She found herself wondering if the little cleirach was in his quarters and if he carried the crystal amulet everywhere under his robes. It certainly seemed as if he did; he’d had it so ready to thrust upon her when he decided she was Wicke.
How was she to get it away from him? Perhaps, she thought as she wandered slowly and silently up the aisle, perhaps I can frighten him into taking it out again to ward me off. And while he’s holding it, I can grab it and run away.
It seemed an absurdly simple plan, and simply absurd to the bargain. She might have laughed if the situation was not so real...and so dangerous. She had no doubt that the fanatical Cirke-master really would bury her alive if he was given the chance.
She stopped in front of the altar and gazed around the sanctuary. Gwynet was nowhere to be seen or heard. She stepped up onto the altar slab and around behind the huge hunk of granite. There was no huddled figure taking refuge there, either.
Well, where then? she wondered. Where?
She was just at the door when the Cirke-master came into the sanctuary by his side entrance. He saw her immediately and raised a loud cry.
“You! You’ve come back, Wicke! Ah, now I’ve got you! You’ll do no more of your magic around here!”
Meredydd’s first impulse was to rush from the place and find somewhere to hide. But she could almost see the crystal there beneath his cleirach’s robes and made herself stay and turn and face him.
“I’ve done no magic, sir,” she argued. “Whatever can you mean?”
He advanced on her swiftly, one hand going to the close of his robes. Meredydd felt her heartbeat pick up speed.
“You were out picking weeds for your potions, I know that. Ruhf Airdsgainne saw you clear as day—you and that heathen little monster.”
At the mention of Gwynet, all thought of the crystal fled. “What do you know of Gwynet? What has he done with her?”
“Oh! Like likes like, eh? Well, he caught her out just as I’ve caught you out, Wicke. It’s time for you to join your dear Sisters under the Cirke.”
He was halfway up the aisle now, and Meredydd could see the light of zeal in his eyes. He was a crusader, sworn to slay the wicked and convert the heathen. He would be a hero in Blaec-del, where before he had been something less than that—a fool. He reached beneath his robes, surely to grab the star-crystal and thrust it upon her again.
Meredydd tensed. She was ready to snatch it from him—ready. But— “Where’s Gwynet?”
“Dead, if she’s lucky. And either way, she’s luckier than you are, Wicke.” He took another step.
Primed to flee, Meredydd turned the door latch, then remembered the crystal. All she had to do was reach out and take it. She made herself wait.
But when his hand came clear of his robes, it wasn’t the star talisma
n it held. It was a set of iron manacles. Meredydd bolted through the door and ran, his curses trailing after.
She slipped around behind the Cirke, certain that if he tried to follow her, he would never think of looking there. She was right. In a very few moments, she saw the little cleirach bustling agitatedly down the middle of the street, dodging horses and pedestrians and making a beeline for the wayhouse.
She hunkered down in the tall grass next to the Cirke and considered where to go next. She thought fleetingly of Ruhf Airdsgainne’s mercantile, where she knew Gwynet had a room, but her entire being rejected the idea of searching that place.
She recalled Gwynet saying that when she was at odds with her guardian, she took refuge in the stable. That raised a whole other set of fears and ficklenesses in Meredydd’s breast. She could not truthfully say that the last person she wanted to collide with in Blaec-del was Old Mors, but he sat far down on her list.
Well, there was naught for it. She had to find Gwynet and she had to get her safely out of Blaec-del Cirke. Resolved to that, Meredydd slipped inconspicuously across the open space between the Cirke and the jumble of buildings on the stable-side of the village and scurried around behind. She worked her way back down the row of stores, then, ending her slinking promenade behind the stable.
There was a feeder access door there that ran behind the stalls. It was made of wood so dry the holes had shrunk away from nails that barely held it together. It was crooked on leather hinges that seemed about to either crack or rot through.
At least, Meredydd told herself, they would not creak.
She was wrong about that; they did creak. But it was an aged whisper of sound, not the shredding squeal she feared. She stood within the structure for a few moments, orienting herself and listening to the sounds of the place. She separated the stompings and mutterings of the equine tenants from the slow drip of water and the flutters of birds in the loft.
The loft! Her eyes rose to it, but she could see nothing but bright stripes of dust cycling endlessly in the watery light that fell through the gaps in wall and roof along with anything else that happened to float by. She strained her ears further and heard snoring. Heavy, sodden snoring as of someone who has drunk too much or slept too little or perhaps done both.
Scraping together her courage, she moved forward into the dark barn, padding to where she found, at last, a ladder leading up. Carefully, and with no attempt to breathe, she put one hand after another on the rungs, then one foot, then the other. Then, she began to climb.
The ladder was not silent. She’d prayed for it to be silent, but realized that prayers are not always answered in the way the supplicant wishes them to be. But the snoring continued unabated and that was as good as silent rungs. The climb seemed to last forever, but she was rewarded at last with a view of the loft’s straw-strewn heights.
It was not a completely open area, but was rather divided into a number of smaller compartments. Gritting her teeth, Meredydd crawled carefully off the ladder and into the bed of straw. Pigeons fluttered nearby and some small rodents skittered away at her approach. But the snoring continued and that was enough.
She began a circuit of the place, moving away from the snorer, poking her nose into each of the four compartments. She found hay bales, grain sacks, rat droppings, bird feathers, a nest of cat fur, but no Gwynet. The snoring continued, loudly, breezily, comfortingly.
At last she was staring into the cubicle next to the snorer. That it had been used by a human being was obvious. There was a small covered lamp set on a slanting crate, a patched and repatched blanket and a little tin cup. But there was no Gwynet.
Meredydd stared at the place in despair and frustration. The longer her search took, the longer Gwynet would be in pain and discomfort. She sighed deeply and steeled herself for the return trip back around the loft to the ladder. It was as she began backing around the outer wall of Gwynet’s compartment that she felt the oppressive silence of the place. The snoring had stopped.
Terrified, she glanced up toward that last cubicle. She heard a hacking cough, the sound of someone spitting and a series of snorts and popping sounds. She glanced over her shoulder to where the ladder taunted her with its distance. Did she try to sneak out or did she simply bolt for it?
In the end, it was Old Mors who decided that for her. He stood up, his frowzy head popping up above the slats of the divider that had screened him from her, and turned around. Their eyes met in a long, startled look, then Old Mors smiled.
“Come to visit me, pretty?” he asked and wheezed loudly, making dust motes and straw chaff dance and swirl before his face. He moved toward her.
Meredydd scrambled backwards just far enough to allow herself room to stand. Then she shot to her feet and ran—or rather, tried to run—back to the ladder of salvation. Her feet betrayed her at every step, tripping her over clumps of hay, dropping her through small holes in the floor. Her only comfort was that Mors, from the sound of it, was having as much trouble navigating as she was.
She was halfway around the loft when the old man proved himself to be more intelligent than she’d given him credit for. Seeing where she was bound, he switched direction and doubled back on the shorter route across the front of the loft.
Meredydd’s first response was to move faster, but she very nearly plunged through the loft’s rotten flooring into the stall of a placid looking beast with a white blaze. The effort to regain her feet cost her precious time and Mors, grinning triumphantly, made the top of the ladder before she did.
She faced him for a moment down the half-length of the barn, glancing feverishly around for salvation.
If he fell through the flooring, she thought, then caught herself. He could break his neck, she finished. She was mortally afraid of him, but she did not want him to break his neck.
She glanced down between her feet, between the failing slats beneath them. She was standing just over a pile of straw which was obviously intended for the stable inmate’s stalls. It was, despite that, not the cleanest straw she had ever seen and she thought it seemed to be full of star thistle, but beggars in her position could not be choosers. She was the one that needed to fall just then. She thought that very strongly—felt it all the way to the marrow of her bones—and stamped her foot.
The floor gave way with a resounding crack of dry timbers and dropped her smack into the straw. It was full of star thistles and she felt every one of them, gratefully, as she scrambled to her feet and bolted out the open front door of the stable.
Just outside, she paused, meaning only to reorient and continue her retreat. But what she saw directly across the darkening street from where she stood made her next move clear. Ruhf Airdsgainne was just entering Hadder’s wayhouse.
Praising the Gwenwyvar, the Meri and the Deity, Meredydd scampered across the street, around the wayhouse and into the wild back regions. From there she made her way up the row of buildings to Ruhf’s mercantile. There was a back door, but it was kept locked. She would have to enter through the front.
Fingering the amulet, she prayed briefly for courage she was sure she didn’t have, then rounded the building and let herself up onto the wooden walkway. Pausing at the door, she pushed it a little open and peeked within. The store was empty except for the wizened little person who huddled, still, by the cold stove, apparently asleep.
Meredydd slipped into the room, moving carefully down the cluttered corridor of goods to the small open area before the counter. There was a blanket-covered doorway just at the far end of that, and she fastened her eyes on it as if she feared it would disappear.
“What’re you doin’ in here, girl?”
She spun, facing the old stove-huddler, who glared balefully at her from one rheumy, open eye. The pipestem was still clutched in the toothless gums, though the smokeweed had long ago ceased to perfume the air.
Meredydd straightened and looked down on the old one with all the dignity she could muster. She swept a lock of hair from her face, encountered a star t
histle and did not cry out as she plucked it free and tossed it to the floor. “I’m looking for Gwynet. Could you tell me where she is, please?”
“Gwynet? Gwynet?” The old crone seemed to be searching its memory. “Ah! The little girl-brat my son keeps, ye mean? Well, she’s about. Although she’s not like to be in a very sociable mood, I’m thinkin’.”
Meredydd swallowed the lump of fear that rose to clog her throat. “Where?”
“And are ye Cwen, then, girlie? Ye can’t order me about in my son’s store. I’m Cwen, here. Cwen of Blaec-del, too, t’spite that damn-ed Hadder. Her ’n’ her down-country ways.”
Meredydd ignored the old woman’s ramblings now, and pushed her way through to the back of the store. She’d heard something that might be only a kitten mewling, but might just as easily be something else.
There was a dark, cramped little corridor behind the store proper. To the right, a rickety flight of steps went up to what Meredydd expected would be the mercer’s private quarters. To the left was an open doorway and a pool of uninviting shadow. The mewling sounded again and Meredydd plunged into the pool.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did they were rewarded. Gwynet lay in the farthest corner of the little closet—for that was surely all it was—trying, it seemed, to make herself as small as possible against the wall.
“Gwynet!” Meredydd came to her knees beside the little girl and tried to pry her fingers from the blankets she had hauled in around her.
“Meredydd.” Her name came out in a misshapen whisper. The lump of clothing moved, moaned and brought its face into the dim light.
Meredydd gasped and tears leapt, unasked, into her eyes. Her features were so distorted, poor Gwynet was barely recognizable. Her lips were striped with scabs barely dried and one eye was swollen completely shut.
“Is anything broken, do you think?” Meredydd asked her.
“I don’ know. Oh, I hurt so awful!”
Meredydd pushed aside the folds and folds of dirty cloth and at last got her hands down to the little girl’s feverish skin.
Meri Page 17