Eva thought of the thunderous anger on Angstrun's face when he'd heard about the Night Cloak crime. She could well believe that no rational person would lightly betray him.
'I'm sure there was a good reason,' she said, firmly.
Tren removed his hands from his pockets, drew himself up, visibly pulled himself together. 'I need to pack,' he said, with a brief smile at Eva.
'Me too,' she said. 'See you at the east gate.'
***
Edwae's mother lived in Westrarc, a large town about thirty miles inside the Orstwych border. The distance was swiftly covered by the four nivvens put to Eva's carriage. The clustering irignol forests lasted almost to the easternmost border of Glour, giving way at last to expanses of smooth hills, gleaming pale under the moon. Eva shivered, feeling exposed without the customary shroud of the dense irignol, but the spread of light delighted her. It was like travelling through a sea of moonglow.
Fin did not deign to speak to anybody throughout the journey. He sat with his eyes closed and his face turned away. Tren, too, was largely silent, but in his case Eva understood it. He had probably known Ed's family before, and now here he travelled to meet them in the role of Edwae's pursuer, bound to return him to Glour for questioning and probable punishment. It was a hard task. She knew not how to help him, stranger as she was, so she was silent too. They made for a cheerless company of travellers as they arrived in Westrarc under the deep cover of Orstwych's Cloaked hours.
Westrarc was of a wholly different character to Glour. They'd passed villages and isolated dwellings on their way through the countryside, dotted through tumbling wolds sparsely littered with contorted irignol trees. Westrarc was on a much larger scale, its rounded, shapely houses built of pale stone and often adorned with towers and turrets. The roads were wide and smooth, walled on either side, and the moonlight shone silver off the graceful buildings and pathways of the town. Lanterns lit the roads, clear glass baubles shining with artificial starlight that wandered lazily through the air, adhered to nothing. Some of them kept pace with the carriage, lighting the road with a muted glow until an approaching set of globes took over their wardship. Eva watched as they drifted idly away again, disappearing into the soft shadows at their backs.
The hour was too late to call upon Edwae's mother immediately, so Eva directed her coachman towards her favourite inn, one of Westrarc's finest. It was expensive and luxurious, facts which earned her more of Finshay's copious scorn, but she ignored him. Where comfort was available, she was always inclined to take advantage of it. The next day, she took care to dress in the plain, simple clothes she'd brought, eliminating all overt signs of her station.
Mrs. Geslin lived in the south quarter of Westrarc, an area lacking the splendour of the rest of the town. Its streets were narrow, buildings crowding along them without much plan or reason. Some of the streets they passed through were barely wide enough for two to walk abreast; over these the houses leaned conspiratorially, the upper storeys of opposing houses almost touching one another.
It was in one such house that the remnants of the Geslin family lived, a dwelling that was poor and shabby but nonetheless neat and clean. The Mrs. Geslin who answered the door was made to match: a woman with the form and features of only middling years, but who possessed the weary air of a woman long careworn. She looked with frightened eyes at Finshay, who did nothing to conceal his grim purpose. She looked next at Tren, who tried to smile.
'Mrs. Geslin, how are you. It's been a long time.'
'He's not here.' The woman cut Tren off and tried to close the door on him, but Finshay had inserted himself between the door and the frame. Eva heard a swift, sad sigh from Tren.
'We aren't here to hurt him, Mrs. Geslin, but we need to know where he is. Please. He'll get his fair hearing.'
Mrs. Geslin looked on him with scorn. 'Oh, he will? Them great lords in Glour don't care for the troubles of folk like us, Pitren Warvel, and you know that. They'll destroy him. How you could lend yourself to this-' She looked on Tren with such withering contempt that Eva was shocked.
Tren's pain was clearly audible as he answered. 'It's all I can do to help him, Mrs. Geslin. I know of nothing else that wouldn't imperil us both the more in the end.' He paused, and the terrible anger in Edwae's mothers face softened slightly. 'I need to know why he did it,' continued Tren. 'Much may then be explained, and more can be done for Ed.'
Mrs. Geslin bowed her head, and at last she stepped back and opened the door wider. Eva passed inside with the others. As she stepped into the tiny hallway, neatly dusted but rather bare, she felt Mrs. Geslin's scrutiny turned upon her. Her gaze was not a friendly one.
'Sorceress,' said Mrs. Geslin, low and harsh. 'Pale-haired witch! Are you the one who led my boy astray?' Eva was astonished to see tears in the woman's eyes, her hands trembling as they twisted in the folds of her shabby old dress.
'No, I - your son and I have never met,' she said calmly. 'And I'm not in the sorcery line.'
'Why then do you pursue my son, stranger to him and his ways?'
Eva gestured to the small hound at her feet, though she kept the gwaystrel hidden in the folds of her cloak.
'I am a summoner,' she said. 'My arts aid the search.'
Mrs. Geslin turned away her face. She led them into a small parlour, shooing away three young children as she went. A fourth, slightly older child sat stubbornly in the parlour, resisting dismissal. She was a little prettier than her brother, though she had the same thin brown hair and pale face.
'Mindra,' said Mrs. Geslin, warningly. The girl sighed and sloped away. Eva was motioned to the chair that she had occupied.
'I can't offer you anything,' said Mrs. Geslin, with a fierceness that seemed to dare complaint.
'That's all right,' said Tren quickly. 'We are quite well fed.' He cleared his throat uncomfortably. 'Mrs. Geslin, am I right in thinking that Ed was sending you money every moon? Had he been doing so for a long time?'
'All he could afford,' she said sadly. 'I never wanted to be taking his money, but we couldn't manage without it.' Her eyes blazed suddenly. 'I know what they're saying about my boy. You tell me. Does a man who'll give every penny he has to his family become a thief? A murderer?'
Tren made a placating gesture. 'I'm as certain as you are that he didn't do those things. But there's no doubt he is involved somehow. He is certainly the person who altered the agreed boundaries of the Night Cloak. It's my belief somebody put him up to that, and we need to find out who. And why.'
Mrs. Geslin nodded and sat down next to Tren. He picked up one of her hands and squeezed it encouragingly. She cast him a small, grateful smile.
'There isn't much to tell,' she began. 'But I knew something wasn't right. For two years Ed's been sending us everything he could spare, and probably more. But he knew it wasn't enough, not with me out of work and four to feed besides. He began sending more, much more. He wouldn't tell me where he got the extra money.'
She took a deep breath, her spare hand joining the one Tren held. She gripped him as if clutching a lifeline. 'He came home, a few days ago. He had money with him, more of it than ever before. He said it would be enough to keep us for several moons, while he went away. He was going travelling, he said, and for some time, though he wouldn't say where or why. I knew he must have done something that wasn't right. Then the papers came, with their pictures and their nasty tales.' She stopped, her grip tightening on Tren's fingers. She looked like she must be hurting him by now, her knuckles white with strain, but he didn't move.
'A few days ago?' said Tren, thoughtfully. 'Did he give you any idea at all where he went?'
'No,' she said. 'I tried to make him tell me. All he would say was that he had something to put right.'
Tren frowned. 'He wasn't running away from something?'
Mrs. Geslin shook her head. 'Eddie wouldn't run from a mess he'd made. He'd put it right somehow.'
'Mrs. Geslin,' said Eva. 'What did you mean by what you said to me? "Pale-haired wit
ch"?'
'Ed met someone. Before all this happened, it would've been. He joked about it once, asking me if I'd mind him bringing a witch into the family, one of them pale-haired ones. Folk say they're more powerful.' She paused, looking intently at Eva. 'Is that true?'
Eva spread her hands. 'I'm a powerful summoner but I can't say if the colour of my hair has anything to do with it. I think it's just a myth.'
Mrs. Geslin nodded. 'Ed didn't really believe it either, but he was serious about this woman. I thought maybe she had something to do with it.'
'Why?' asked Tren. 'Did he suggest that when you saw him last?'
She hesitated. 'It's just a feeling I got.'
Tren sighed. 'It's not much to go on. True white is an unusual hair colour, but not that rare. However, we'll look into it. Did he say anything else about her that might help?'
'Nothing. He said I'd find out for myself soon. But that was before.'
'Before?'
'Before he was in trouble. A few days ago he wouldn't talk of it at all.'
'Ah, well. It all helps.' He looked seriously at Mrs. Geslin. 'I'll be doing everything I can for Ed, please believe me.'
Their leave-taking from Mrs. Geslin was painful on Tren's part and impatient on Finshay's. Eva felt subdued as she left the shabby house and its weary mistress. The children clustered forlornly around their mother as she bid farewell to her son's pursuers. Eva's last glimpse of Mrs. Geslin was her face, drawn and sad, as she closed the door behind them.
Tren's obvious pain was distressing. Eva knew there was nothing she could do, but she couldn't ignore it. She touched his arm lightly, trying to get his attention as he walked in an apparent daze. He looked up quizzically.
'We'll find him,' she said. 'Everything will be well.'
'Maybe,' he said. He looked away. 'I'm trying to imagine what he might be doing. I think his mother is right: whatever he's up to, it isn't running away. Whether that's better or worse, I don't know.'
'You think he might place himself in danger?'
'Say he moved the Night Cloak. I can imagine his horror at everything that happened afterwards. It wouldn't have taken him long to realise that they were all connected. If he thought he knew something about who was behind it, would he have taken it to Vale? Could he have? He must've realised he would be blamed: that it would be hard for anyone to believe him. I fear he's gone after the perpetrator by himself.' He smiled without humour. 'I wish he had told me about it, but he wouldn't; not if it might put me in danger, too.'
The shortig at Eva's feet stopped abruptly. It cast about in the street for some minutes, watched intently by its audience of three. Then it lifted its head and yipped, taking off down a side street at speed. Eva followed the shortig at a trot, opening her cloak and shaking Rikbeek loose. He snapped at her hands grumpily, trying to fold his wings again, but she tossed him into the sky. He flew upwards and out of sight.
'Well, here we go.' Eva split her thoughts, sending part of her awareness ahead with the shortig and part upwards to follow the gwaystrel. The trail brought the company rapidly to the east gate of Westrarc, and out into the hills beyond.
Chapter Thirteen
Llandry lifted her cordial to her lips. A tremor wracked her and the bottle slipped, spilling the oily herbal concoction over her chin. She set the vessel down quickly, wiping at her face with a handkerchief. She was up to twice the usual dose, but still the attacks came. Most of her night had been spent wide awake, staring into the darkness feeling panic on the edge of her awareness, waiting for the medicine to wear off.
She didn't even know what she was afraid of. Normally the attacks came when she found herself surrounded, buried in a crowd of people. Sometimes, on her worst days, she couldn't address so much as a syllable to a stranger without succumbing to a bout of trembling and hyperventilation. It had been a lamentably common occurrence since her early teenage years.
The experience shouldn't be remarkable, then, even if the attacks did seem to be happening more frequently. But something was different. Added to the embarrassing loss of control over her own limbs, to the humiliating inability to speak or breathe, was a sensation of struggle, as if her mind was trying to claw its way out of her body. Or as if her body wished to invert itself. It was growing increasingly difficult to hide it from her mother, or even from Devary, who had a habit of appearing noiselessly and unexpectedly at times when she might definitely prefer to be alone.
At the moment he was downstairs, working on his new song. The familiar melody drifted up to her bedchamber, calming her a little. At least while he was playing, he wouldn't walk in on her. She was free to restore her appearance to order, remove all signs of her torturous night before she ventured down. At length she stepped out of her room, hair brushed and clothing neat, hoping she might make it to the kitchen without being stopped.
Apparently he was on the watch, for as soon as she reached the bottom of the winding stairs he set down his lyre and approached, wearing the usual smile.
'Is everything well with you? It is unusually late.'
Since when was he paying attention to her daily routine? 'I'm fine,' she said curtly, belatedly noticing that he wore a bandage wrapped around one arm. 'What happened to you?'
'There was another intruder in the night,' he replied.
'You killed it, didn't you?'
'You were not around.'
Llandry shook her head in disgust, stalking into the kitchen. To her dismay he followed, seating himself at the table while she prepared tea. She knew she ought to eat but her stomach rebelled at the notion. She filled a teapot, with very poor grace, and gave him a cup.
'Thanks,' he smiled. 'Llandry, why are you not employed as a summoner? Your ability was quite apparent yesterday.'
She scowled into her tea, refusing to look at him. 'That is private.'
'Is it? I am sorry. It is not my intention to pry.'
Llandry sighed inwardly. If he'd only pushed, it would have been much easier to continue being ungracious and rude. His habitual courtesy was disarming.
'I'm sorry. I'm just... in a poor mood. I wanted to train as a summoner, but my father forbade it.'
'Forbade?'
'Well.' She reconsidered. 'That is not the right word. He... talked me out of it.'
'That, I do not understand. The profession is highly respected in all the Seven Realms, along with sorcery. You would be guaranteed a well-paid position. Why would he discourage you?'
'Pa's never trusted the Off-Worlds. He thinks they're too dangerous. If I'd insisted, he would have been terrified every time I was sent to the Uppers, and that's an important part of training.'
Devary swirled his tea in his cup, gazing thoughtfully at Llandry. 'Your father seems to be too pragmatic a man to entertain such fears.'
'Not much scares Papa, that's true.' For a moment Llandry was silent, debating how much to tell him. It was odd that her mother hadn't already shared this piece of her husband's history: perhaps she didn't wish for Devary to know.
'Why then should he distrust the Upper Realm in this way?'
'You should ask Mamma about that.'
He smiled. 'But I am asking you.'
She sighed. 'It's because of my grandfather. He was a summoner, a strong one. Pa said he became obsessed with the Uppers, kept going back, spending more time there than he should. One day he didn't come back. Pa said he wouldn't sit by and watch while his daughter got herself killed up there too.'
'Ah.' Devary said nothing more, apparently drifting off into thought.
'If you're allowed to pressure me for information, I get to ask a question too,' said Llandry.
'That is a fair trade,' said Devary gravely. 'One question.'
'You're the most civilised person I've met, next to Mamma. You have perfect manners. You're a wonderful musician and the picture of a gentleman. Why would you be carrying daggers?'
He smiled briefly. 'I suppose it is inevitable that you would ask. That, unfortunately, is a question I cannot answ
er.'
'Unfair.'
'It is, is it not? Perhaps I should say, I do not wish to answer it. I think you are beginning to like me, just a little, and I would not wish to destroy that.'
Llandry eyed him. 'I have come to believe you are mostly harmless, yes. It is not the same thing as liking.'
His eyes laughed at her. 'I see. It is my mistake.'
'So you have a secret that I wouldn't like?'
'More than one, I fear. Ask me another question. I remain in debt to you by one query.'
Llandry thought back to the previous day. 'I've seen sorcs work before. They can open gates in seconds. Why did it take you so long?'
'An unflattering question, but a deal is a deal. I am not a very good sorcerer. Also, I am from Nimdre. It is true that I can open gates to either of the Off-Worlds, but that comes at the price of foregoing the closer bond enjoyed by those from the Daylands or Darklands. To a Darklands sorcerer, it is as simple as reaching out, and the paths through to the Lowers are at your fingertips. Or so I believe. I, however, must search before I can find the way.' He set down his cup and stood up. 'If that concludes our arrangement, I must investigate the problem of these visitors we have been receiving. You will observe that I have enclosed the house; please do not open any windows or doors while I am gone. I won't be long.' He left, opening the exterior door only a few inches and slipping carefully through. Llandry heard the key turn in the lock, and she was alone.
Trying not to feel nervous, she climbed the stairs back to her room. The winged creature she had rescued the day before seemed better today; its breathing was calmer and it lay quietly in the nest Llandry had prepared. She mixed up a solution of sugar in water and laid it nearby, hoping it would eat. Doubtless it needed sustenance. She nudged it with her thoughts, reminding it about the concept of food, and to her pleasure it stirred and dipped its snout into the dish.
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