by Paul Stewart
Twelve
Micah dreamed that he was back on the estate three months earlier …
The clamour of liquor-touched voices roused Micah in his hiding place behind the rainwater butts in the far corner of the courtyard. Night had fallen. Guests were departing and Seraphita’s balcony windows were bathed in golden lampglow.
He climbed stiffly to his feet and waited for the voices to subside, then crept across the courtyard till he was standing beneath her balcony. He looked up, raised his hands to his mouth and hooted like an owl. The windows stayed shut. He hooted again, and his heart quickened as the windows opened and Seraphita appeared.
‘Micah,’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’ She gripped the balustrade and looked down. Their eyes met. She frowned. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’
‘I’m truly sorry, Seraphita.’ He shuffled with embarrassment. ‘But I was waiting for the guests to leave. I have something for you – for your maidenfeast …’
‘Well?’ she said. ‘You gonna stay down there all night, scratching about like a lone rooster, or are you coming up to greet me proper?’
Micah climbed the trellis that lined the walls and clambered over the balustrade. Seraphita took his hands in hers and pulled him across the balcony, through the open doors and inside her bedchamber. A smile spread across Micah’s face.
‘You sure look pretty tonight,’ he said.
Seraphita released his hands and stepped back. She reached up, undid the silver clasp, and shook her hair down loose. She winked at him, then twirled around. The finely embroidered dress she was wearing sparkled as it billowed, and Micah longed to wrap his arms around her slender waist.
‘My father had it made special,’ she explained, ‘for my maidenfeast …’
Micah undid his jacket and took out the bundle cradled to his chest. He carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beechwood carving of a horse in mid gallop, its mane flowing and nostrils flared.
It was Seraphita’s stallion, Peshneg.
‘It … it’s for your maidenfeast,’ he stammered.
Seraphita took it and gave it a cursory glance. ‘Oh, Micah,’ she said, setting it down carelessly on the dressing table, ‘how sweet of you.’
Micah looked at the carving – the carving he’d spent long nights toiling over, his fingers blistered and blue with cold; the carving that Caleb had beaten him over, for wasting good flax oil; the carving that he hoped would show her how much he loved her, cared for her …
He stared at it miserably. It was useless. Crude and lifeless.
A brooch lay beside it. It was made of filigree gold, its circumference studded with jewels, while at its centre, picked out in a black precious stone, was the silhouette of a rearing horse. It was delicate and finely wrought …
‘You gonna stand there all day gawping, ploughboy?’ said Seraphita.
She pulled him towards her warm body, and dragged him to her bed …
Thirteen
Micah opened his eyes and struggled to make sense of the scene before him. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain made him gasp. He reached up and felt bandages at his chest, constricting it and making it hard to breathe.
A man in weatherbeaten clothes sat at a stone table in the middle of the stone hut, eyeing him levelly. Seeing that Micah was awake, he got up and approached. He stooped down over where Micah lay and held out a leather flask.
Micah sat up with a low grunt of pain. He took the flask, wiped the top of it, and drank.
Liquor. Strong, pungent, and igniting a fire in his throat and chest.
He handed the flask back.
‘You care for some more?’
Micah licked his lips. The liquor had tasted good. He glanced up at the man proffering it. His pale-blue eyes were surveying him coolly. The man shifted a piece of chewed root from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue.
‘Well?’
‘You sure?’
‘Wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t willing to part with some,’ he drawled. He jiggled the flask. ‘Take it or no. ’S all the same to me.’
Micah reached for the flask, wiped the top with the palm of his hand again and took a deep swig. He exhaled noisily, expressing his approval.
The quality of the liquor lay somewhere between the rough hooch from a farm still and the smooth aromatic liquor he had once tasted, taken from a vessel of green glass, its waxen seal broken. It burned his tongue some, but did not make his eyes water, and he took pleasure from the way it kept on burning as it slid down. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips.
‘Like it?’
‘I like it a lot,’ said Micah. He handed the flask back to the man, who put it to his lips and took a sip.
The man frowned, his eyes creasing up at the corners, then leaned forward. ‘See, the thing is,’ he said slowly, ‘you didn’t want to be doing that.’
Micah was puzzled. ‘Doing what?’
The man rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of the open flask. ‘That,’ he said. ‘Some folks might take it as a sign of disrespect.’
‘Disrespect?’ Micah’s scalp began to tingle. His mouth dried up.
‘Disrespect in the sense that, before drinking from it, you should choose to wipe the flask clean.’ His unblinking gaze hardened. ‘Clean, you understand me? With the implication that it was dirty before. That I am dirty.’
Micah took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I … I didn’t mean …’ He swallowed. ‘I had no mind to offend or to disrespect you, sir.’
The man’s face relaxed, and the twinkle returned to his pale eyes. ‘I guess you didn’t, son, but it’s as well to be aware. It’s easy to make enemies in the wyrmeweald, and though I’m not generally one for company, I’ve got to concede that there have been times when I’ve needed all the goodwill I could muster.’
Micah nodded. And when the man held the flask out a third time, he took it and put it straight to his mouth. He swallowed quickly and returned it. The man reached out his hand.
‘Name’s Eli Halfwinter,’ he said.
Micah shook it firmly. ‘I’m Micah,’ he said eagerly. He smiled, his face suffused with a mixture of gratitude and relief. ‘And I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Eli,’ he said. ‘If I may call you Eli, sir?’
‘You may, son, since that is my name,’ he said. ‘And since we have shared a flask of green spirit liquor together.’ He frowned. ‘How’s that wound of yours?’
Micah looked down and put his fingers gingerly to his chest. ‘Feels a little better,’ he said.
‘Possibly on account of the liquor,’ said Eli drily.
‘I want to thank you for tending to me,’ said Micah. ‘I am indebted to you for your kindness.’
‘’S all right,’ Eli told him, climbing to his feet. ‘Don’t you fret none.’
Micah watched as Eli crossed to the centre of the craghut, fed the fire, stirred a pot and flipped over the sizzling contents of a pan. He returned with a battered metal plate of smoked lakefish and greens, which he handed to him. The food tasted good, but Micah had little appetite.
‘You’re the first person I’ve met in weeks,’ he told Eli. ‘First live person leastways,’ he added.
Eli nodded thoughtfully. ‘The wyrmeweald’s a harsh place, ain’t no doubt about it.’
Micah took a mouthful of smoked fish and swallowed. ‘First one died of thirst,’ he said. ‘And the other two … Can’t rightly say what happened to them, but they didn’t die a natural death judging by their wounds …’
He cleared his throat, stifling a rising cough, and set the plate aside. Eli frowned and looked at Micah closely, his eyes crinkling up.
‘Deep wounds?’ he said quietly. ‘Likely caused by a pike or a lance?’
Micah nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘Your wounds were the same.’
The cough rose again and this time wouldn’t be stifled, and with it came a sharp stabbing pain. Micah groaned and pressed a hand to the bindings at his chest. His eyes watered and his face reddened, and he grimaced as the hacking cough seemed to turn a blade in the wound. Eli passed him the flask of liquor, which Micah swilled round his mouth and gratefully swallowed.
‘Troubling you, ain’t it?’ said Eli, nodding towards Micah’s chest.
‘It … it’s all right,’ said Micah, short of breath, but when he pulled his hand away, he found his fingers sticky with blood. A patch of dark red was spreading out across the bandages. He coughed again, and there were blood flecks in the saliva.
Eli shook his head. ‘I’d hope to have stopped the bleeding, but the healing of a wound such as yours requires more skill than I possess. I’m wyrmekith. I make my living trading in wyrmepelts and scrimshaw. I ain’t no healer.’
He noticed the panic in Micah’s face.
‘But don’t vex yourself, lad. I know someone who might help.’
Micah clamped his lips together, struggling not to cough.
‘Though you’ll need all your courage to submit to her savage healing.’ Eli’s eyes widened. ‘There’s only one kind who can treat the wound that afflicts you – the same kind that caused it.’
Micah swallowed. ‘Who … who’s that?’
Eli took back the unwiped flask. ‘Wyrmekin,’ he replied.
Fourteen
Wyrmekin.
Micah had heard that word before. Back on the plains, three months ago, in the crowded market-day square …
‘I am wyrmekin,’ the woman proclaimed.
She lowered her hood to reveal a face caked in heavy make-up and framed by bleached white hair. Beneath black painted eyebrows, her deepset eyes, too close together, glinted with ferret-like cunning.
‘And I have travelled far, from the distant high country …’
The crowd oohed.
‘A harsh and desolate rocky wilderness known as the wyrmeweald …’
The crowd aahed.
‘And I bring with me a living breathing creature, for your delight and delectation, the like of which has seldom ever been seen here in the beautiful cultivated lands of the plains.’
The crowd exploded in whoops and gasps, happenstance neighbours muttering excitedly and nudging one another in the ribs. Everyone jostled for a better view.
‘Show us!’ someone shouted out.
‘Yeah, let’s see it!’
A drunken farmhand darted boldly forward, his eyes glittering. He ducked down by the side of the patchwork covering and reached for one of the ties that secured it. He turned and winked at the crowd, who egged him on with approving cries. The next moment, there was sharp movement from beneath the blanket, a choked roar, and the man was hurled roughly aside.
The woman smiled slyly. ‘The beast is mighty proud and quick of temper,’ she confided. ‘But as wyrmekin, I have the skill to control this extraordinary creature.’
A hush of anticipation fell over the crowd. The woman raised the tether high above her head and gestured towards the concealed beast.
‘For the right price, I shall exercise this skill and display the creature to you.’
There was a clinking of coins in pockets, and someone tossed a handful of coppers. The woman stared down at them disdainfully.
‘Seems I was woefully misinformed about you folks,’ she said. ‘Seems I must be on my way …’
‘Twenty-five ducats!’ a voice called out from the balcony of the tithe-house. ‘That is what I am prepared to offer you to show us the wyrme.’
The woman smirked. ‘You’re indeed in luck, sir,’ she said, as all eyes turned to the balcony, then back at her. ‘For twenty-five ducats is precisely what I am prepared to accept.’
The crowd erupted with a roar of gratitude for the generosity of the handsome young man on the balcony, who threw a purse down to the woman. She pocketed the money, then crouched down at the creature’s front. She unbuckled the ties that fixed the covering to the forepaws, then moved round to the back and did the same. The tension in the crowd grew as she stepped forward and seized a wad of blanket in her hand.
‘Behold!’ she cried out. She tugged hard, and the covering fell away.
For a split instant, there was absolute silence. The next, the square was filled with hollering and screaming, shrieks of amazement and yowls of fear.
Micah gasped. He had never seen such a creature before.
It had broad wings that, freed from the covering, now rose up and flapped, the mottled skin glinting in the lantern glow. Its claws appeared razor sharp and, when it opened its blistered mouth, rows of yellowing teeth were revealed that looked like they could tear apart a team of oxen in seconds flat. Around its neck, digging into the skin, was a vicious choke-collar, to which the tether was attached. Raising her hood, the woman made great show of jerking the tether hard, and bringing the wyrme coughing and choking to its knees.
Delighted by her mastery over the wyrme, the crowd yelled out for more. In answer, the woman shifted the lance in her grasp, stepped forward and jabbed it into the creature’s flank. The wyrme’s pus-crusted eyes rolled. It reared up on its hindlegs, supported by its tail. It craned its neck, opened its jaws and a plume of fire roared from the depths of its throat and shone bright against the darkening sky.
The crowd screeched with appalled delight. The woman jerked hard on the chain, and the wyrme fell back with a wheezing gurgle.
‘Do it again!’ someone cried out, and a chucked rock struck the side of the wyrme.
It swung its head round and roared a second time. The flame was less impressive, and soon petered out. The wyrme wheezed and coughed, and a forked tongue flickered limply out from between its jaws.
‘Again! Again!’
More rocks, along with sticks and the occasional drinking mug slammed against the side of the wyrme. It roared, but feebly, then dropped back down onto all fours and lowered its wings. Micah watched closely as it raised a back leg and scratched listlessly at a red-raw sore on its flank, dislodging a couple of cracked scales, which fell to the ground.
A disappointed murmuring began to ripple through the crowd.
The woman strode forward and jabbed the point of the lance sharply into one of its smoking nostrils, and the wyrme reared up once more, furious, roaring and flapping, and the crowd bellowed louder than ever. Once more, she brought the enraged creature under control with the vicious collar and chain. It cowered miserably, its fight spent. It looked sick and half-starved, its ribs pressed against sagging hide.
Micah’s elation at the sight of the creature had turned to horror. The great wyrme from the vast freedom of the high country had been reduced to a servile tortured beast here on the hot dusty plains. As he gazed into the wyrme’s bloodshot eyes, he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of pity.
Looking away, Micah scanned the cluster of rapt faces on the tithe-house balcony, and his gaze fell on one that was familiar to him. He tensed.
It was Seraphita.
Her hair was up, and her eyes were bright with excitement. She was wearing a white dress, low-cut and sparkling, with a white fur stole wrapped around her slender neck. Micah didn’t think he’d ever seen her looking so beautiful. Then he noticed the brooch with the circle of gems and rearing black horse pinned to the front of her dress.
As he watched, Seraphita’s full lips parted and her white teeth gleamed as she cheered and shouted, and she tossed her head and broke into peals of stipplejay laughter. Like everyone else, she was enchanted by the captivating antics of the tormented wyrme.
A hand alighted on her shoulder, and she turned. Micah’s stomach cramped up as he realized that she had a companion. He swallowed hard. It was the handsome young man who had paid for the sordid spectacle down in the square.
Seraphita reached u
p and pulled him towards her. Then, as Micah watched helplessly from the jostling crowd below, up on the tithe-house balcony the two of them melted into a passionate kiss.
Fifteen
‘Wyrmekin,’ the woman whispered. ‘Wyrmekin did this.’
Her voice was soft and fragile, but her hook-nailed fingers caused Micah to flinch as they probed the inflamed wound in his chest. She pulled away, the nails gleaming like talons as she held her hands out before her, fingers spread wide as if calming a nervous colt. Her eyes narrowed as they scrutinized his face.
She was beautiful, her pale skin translucent and seeming to glow from within. Despite the frown lines that scored her brow and creased the corners of her mouth, there was something youthful and intense about her large dark-green eyes. She flicked back her long straight silver hair and pressed her face close to his. Her breath smelled of wet mud.
‘You are a wyve collector?’ she rasped accusingly.
***
Micah and Eli had set off from the craghut shortly after daybreak …
Micah was weary and in constant pain. He stumbled across the rising rocky terrain, a crown of jagged mountain peaks glowering at him from all sides. The sun slammed down out of a sullen sky; rockscree slipped beneath his boots, and more than once, as he leaned on Eli’s shoulder, the cragclimber had to catch him and pull him back upright.
‘How much farther?’ he asked, his hand pressed to the throbbing wound.
‘Less far than before.’
Eli’s response was always the same, but Micah’s need to enquire persisted.
The sun had travelled halfway across the sky when Micah saw the dark line across the windswept plateau. As they drew closer, the line widened, revealing itself as a crack in the flat rock that seemed to grow broader and deeper the closer they came, until Micah found himself standing at the very edge of a chasm.
Ferns and grasses, shrubs and trees clung to the near-vertical rockface all the way down to the mistswirl in its shadowy depths. Towards the narrowing end of the chasm, a waterfall emerged from a subterranean spring and tumbled down in a glistening cascade. Fisherwyrmes, pitchwyrmes, screechwyrmes and snatterjabs wheeled in the air above it, diving for prey, and sometimes at each other …