by Susan Murray
“We’re not most people. We’re royal.”
Alwenna gathered a handful of fallen blossom. “I never asked to be.” She set about shredding each petal, one by one.
A gust of wind lifted the fallen blossom from the ground and sent it spinning about her, faster and faster until she could see nothing beyond it.
“You were always such an angry girl.” Tresilian’s voice, the adult voice she was accustomed to hearing.
Alwenna spun round, trying to find him. She thought she saw a shape through the whirling petals, but the cloud grew thicker and spun faster until she became dizzy.
“I used to think it was my fault. But I’ve kept my promise. You’ll get to cross the sea soon enough.” Tresilian coughed, a guttural, all-consuming sound that made her shudder. “I didn’t think it would be… like this. But you’ll see.” He dragged in another pained breath, which rattled in his throat. “This parting won’t be for long.”
Alwenna tried to speak, to call him back, but no sound emerged from her mouth. When she tried to reach out her limbs were leaden, unresponsive.
“Lady Alwenna, can you hear me?” The voice sounded from somewhere in the darkness. Not Tresilian’s this time, but another man’s.
She opened her eyes and the blur before her resolved into a face. Weaver.
“Are you hurt, my lady?” He helped her sit up.
“No. I’m fine. But… Tresilian spoke to me.”
“You need to rest. I’ve been pushing you too hard.”
“I was dreaming, and then he spoke to me. Except it wasn’t a dream any more. He was in pain.” She shivered.
“You fainted, that’s all. You need a proper meal inside you and a good night’s sleep.” He began to straighten up.
Alwenna took hold of his arm. “Weaver, it wasn’t a dream. It’s not the first time something like this has happened.”
Weaver didn’t recoil immediately, but he might as well have. “You fainted, my lady. There are healers at Vorrahan–”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” She clambered to her feet, brushing away his attempts to help.
“Of course not. That was my very first thought as you keeled over.”
Alwenna staggered sideways as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. Weaver caught her by the arm and she had no option but to accept his support as they made their way back to the waiting horse in what she hoped was a dignified silence. They were perhaps three paces away from the horse when Weaver froze.
Some distance down the ridge a rider was approaching. He appeared in no great hurry, but Alwenna’s gut knotted with apprehension all the same: behind him he led a riderless horse. As Alwenna’s dizziness faded she could see the horse looked very much like the one Wynne had been riding when she’d set out alone from their camp.
The rider was a freemerchant youth. Alwenna recognised his face from the group they’d met in the forest. He spoke to Weaver now in an uneven voice that had only recently broken.
“My father guessed this might be your horse, with the bridle being fashioned in the northern way.”
“It is indeed. Where did you come by it?” Weaver ran his hands over the horse’s head and neck, checking for injuries.
“It came up to us in the forest, the day after we passed you. One stirrup was missing, and the reins were broken. We searched until daylight faded, but could find no trace of your companion.” The youth glanced at Alwenna. “Except…”
Alwenna crossed over to see for herself. There on the saddle were unmistakeable bloodstains. Dark and dry now, they had not been on the saddle when Wynne set off. Alwenna folded her arms over her stomach as if she might contain the dread that curdled there.
“Pray convey our gratitude to Nicholl for sending this news. And we thank you for bringing the horse to us.”
The youth nodded, his expression sombre.
“Will you break bread with us?” asked Weaver.
“I thank you, but no. I must waste no time returning to the others.”
“Very well. I am in your debt. May your road be clear.” Weaver stepped back and the youth took up his reins.
“Wait.” Alwenna found her voice at last. “What of the reivers? Did you see any sign of them?”
“We passed a camp where several horses had been kept overnight, all of them shod in Highkell style. They had been there perhaps on two separate nights. There were many tracks about the place, but the most recent led away east, and they were riding hard.”
“I see. Thank you.” There were proper forms of leave-taking, but her voice seemed to have lodged in her throat.
She watched as the youth rode away down the ridge. Weaver checked over the horse’s legs, then ran his hands once again over its head and neck, inspecting every inch of the animal.
“The horse is uninjured,” he announced eventually.
“Indeed? That’s all right, then.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but you mistake my meaning. If the horse had been injured, that might have left the marks on the saddle.”
She nodded and turned away, unable to trust her voice. He had a knack of making her feel unutterably foolish.
“She made her choice. And she wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“That doesn’t make it any less my fault. Don’t you see? I should have left her at Highkell.”
“What’s done is done, my lady. It does no good to dwell on it.”
Easy for him to say. “There must be something we can do.”
“We continue to Vorrahan, my lady.”
“And what about Wynne? Do we just abandon her?”
“If she’s able to follow us, then she will. That was the plan.”
“It was a poor plan.”
“You’re still safe, my lady.”
But at what cost? Guilt settled like a leaden weight in Alwenna’s stomach.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drew’s duties at Vorrahan precinct were hardly taxing. The novice took one last look round to be sure Father Garrad’s room was set in order. The flagstone floor was swept clean; the chamber was aired; a supply of ink and parchment waited at the writing desk. In the room beyond the bedding was straight, the chamber pot in place and all his master’s clean clothing stowed neatly in the oak chest.
Drew found the work a little dull if truth be told, but easy enough for one raised to the rigours of the stonemason’s yard. Maybe he was better off here, away from the yard and his father’s judging gaze. He’d had to work twice as hard there to overcome the limitations of his slighter build. His younger brother had been taken on as apprentice in his favour, but he was burly, like their father. Drew took after their mother, russet-haired and slight. Small wonder they called him changeling.
No, it was well enough here. Many of the brethren were misfits of one sort or another. And since the librarian had begun teaching him his letters at Brother Gwydion’s behest, a new world had opened up before him.
The clunk of the door latch alerted him to Father Garrad’s arrival. Drew bowed his head in greeting, waiting apprehensively as the priest looked around the room. But he seemed pleased enough with what he saw.
“I’ll have no further need of you this evening. Brother Irwyn might be glad of your help in the kitchens for an hour or two.”
“Aye, father.” Drew bowed his head and left, arms folded in the pious stance the brethren at Vorrahan favoured. It made it easy to blend in. As for Brother Irwyn, he might be glad of many things, but Drew was not about to gratify him.
Instead he made his way to the main gateway and stepped out through the small door that permitted easy access for the brethren as they went about their daily business. He would seek out Brother Gwydion, the master seer. Father Garrad had been at pains to keep them apart of late. Perhaps that had been a condition of his father’s providing another generous donation to the precinct. Drew couldn’t help being wary of Father Garrad. He sensed the eyes often said one thing, yet the man’s thoughts were at variance. Brother Gwydion said s
uch confusion was only to be expected at first: of the few who possessed the sight, fewer still could master it.
Gwydion said control would come with practice, that daily meditation was key to understanding the deeper mysteries. The seer claimed that was the reason he spent so much time in the darkness of the cavern at the source of the Holy Well. He said the peace improved the quality of his meditation. Drew suspected the old man simply found the hustle and bustle of the outside world to be too stressful. If Drew one day became Gwydion’s heir, as the old man had promised, he wouldn’t spend as much time sitting in the dark.
The main access to the master seer’s cave followed a natural fault line in the rock. Drew knew where the floor rose sharply enough to trip the unwary, and just where to duck his head as the tunnel narrowed overhead. Brother Francis stood on guard at the end, blocking the entrance to the cavern.
“Don’t disturb him. He’s deep in meditation,” the older monk hissed. Francis had been serving Gwydion for most of his forty years and his face had the same pallor from so many hours spent in the dark.
Torchlight glinted off still water in the cavern beyond Brother Francis. On a small island in the centre of the pool the master seer sat motionless on a robust chair, his hands resting on the wooden arms. His robes hung slack over angular knees while his eyes focused ahead on some point in the middle distance. At these moments he looked impossibly old and frail. A tremor ran through his body and he drew a sharp breath, like a man stepping into icy water, then he turned his head towards Drew.
“Ah, Drew. Brother Francis, you may leave us. It is high time you broke your fast.”
“As you order, master.” Francis bowed, and shuffled away down the rock passage, casting a surly glance at Drew as he left.
Gwydion waited until Francis’ footsteps had retreated out of hearing range before speaking again. “You heard my call, Drew. That is excellent.” He raised his hands in a gesture of benediction, executed with surprising grace for one of his advanced years. No one at Vorrahan knew for sure how old Gwydion was, but all agreed he must have been eighty if he was a day.
It was tempting to bask in the unaccustomed praise, but in truth Drew had sensed nothing: no call, not even a whisper. “I– I don’t think so, Brother Gwydion. Father Garrad dismissed me for the night, so I decided to come here.”
“I’m sure he did not order you to come here.” The old man smiled, as if explaining something to a child who was slow of understanding.
“No, that is true. He suggested I help in the kitchen.”
“But you had a sudden inclination to come here instead?”
“Well, no…” Then he thought. He had planned to go to the library to see if the brother there could help him further with his letters. Could the old man be right? Did he have the mystical power?
“Of course, lad. That’s how it works. At first you won’t even notice its promptings, but as you become attuned, you’ll see ever more readily. The sight will visit you more often once it has found the way.” He settled his hands on the chair arms once more, and rested his head back against the wooden panel. “You have much to learn if you are to take your place as a seer. I was taught much in my time and I would pass on that knowledge. Those who possess the gift are fewer and fewer with every year. And here in the west…”
The old man lapsed into silence, his expression taking on that far-off look that Drew had come to recognise as a visitation by the sight. Gwydion’s breathing slowed, and Drew watched with closer attention than usual. The notion that he too possessed the sight was an enticing one. Might he one day ascend to the rank of seer, perhaps really be heir to Gwydion’s learning? Oh, yes, he watched closely as never before. Gwydion’s breathing deepened, as if he took every ounce of strength from each inward breath then held that strength as he exhaled. The man’s body stilled, as the breaths came further and further apart and his eyelids closed. Yet this was not some idle doze, but a state somehow attuned to the silence surrounding them. Drew settled down with his back against the cavern wall to watch and wait.
Finally Gwydion stirred. Gnarled fingers twitched in an effort to raise his hands from the arms of the chair where he had remained immobile for the past hour or more. Drew pushed himself to his feet, ready to lend assistance, but Gwydion raised one shaking hand to stop him.
“These old bones grow loath to do my bidding. Bring Brother Francis to help me, lad. I must speak with Father Garrad.”
Drew did not have far to go to find Brother Francis: he was hurrying up the slope to the cave entrance, ungainly in his haste, a lantern bobbing wildly in his hand.
Drew waited by the entrance. “Brother Gwydion wishes to speak to Father Garrad. He–”
Francis gestured him out of the way. “I know what my master requires. Your gift is not as rare as you would like to think, boy. Nor as powerful.” Francis pushed past Drew and ducked into the tunnel. His sandals slapped on stone as he hurried across the cavern to Gwydion’s side.
“Master, you must save your strength.” Francis bent low beside Gwydion, taking the frail hand in his own.
“I have a vain fancy to feel daylight on my face one last time.”
“Master, you must not speak so. And besides, it is night now.”
“Is it so? That is a shame. I would have preferred sunlight.” Gwydion pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “Help me now, Francis. You, too, Drew. I need you both.”
“But master, can this not wait until morning, when you are rested?” Francis supported the old man by the arm, not sparing a glance for Drew as he hurried to take his other arm.
“No, Francis, it cannot wait. I have seen the end and it is not far distant. But I have seen other things, too. Garrad must heed my words this time. He thinks me an old fool lost in the shadows, beyond reach of reason. He cannot understand the darkness as I do.” With their support he shuffled towards the entrance. “And if our good father does not pay heed this time, I fear the darkness will engulf him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alwenna woke at a hand shaking her shoulder. She sat up with a start, shivering, trying to recall where they’d halted the night before. The days had merged in an exhausting round of too many hours spent in the saddle interspersed with too few hours of sleep.
“I’ve brewed some kopamid.” Weaver held an earthenware beaker out towards her.
Of course, they’d stopped in the forest some time after dark. Weaver had been short with her since the incident on the ridge. This had to be his way of apologising.
“You lit a fire?” She rubbed her eyes, then surveyed the surrounding forest for a discreet place for her morning ablutions. Fires and hot drinks were all very well, but what she missed most on this journey was the privacy of a garderobe.
“We’ll be gone soon enough. I thought you might be glad of it.” Unsmiling, he pressed the hot beaker into her hands.
“Thank you.” She inhaled the rich aroma, stronger than she remembered it. “I haven’t tasted kopamid for a long time.”
“I brought this back from The Marches. It’s good for a chill morning.”
She sipped at the drink, relishing the sensation of the hot fluid coursing down her throat. “I’ve missed this.” She needn’t tell Weaver her thoughts concerning garderobes. “You’ve been in The Marches recently? Was that–”
A rush of nausea knotted her stomach, insistent, unrelenting. She clambered to her feet and managed to dash to the cover of the trees before she was overtaken by violent retching. The sickness persisted until long after her stomach was empty, leaving her doubled over, trembling and sweating.
“Can I bring you anything?” Weaver must have followed her. And, no doubt, witnessed the whole sorry episode.
Alwenna straightened up, still shaking. “Some water?” Her voice cracked.
He handed her his costrel. She turned away as she swilled her mouth then spat away the foulness, willing him to go back to the fire and wait there.
He remained at her side. “Was it the kopamid? It di
dn’t taste bad.”
“No. It was fine.” The effort of speaking abraded her throat.
“Do you have a fever?”
“No, I’m well.” She rinsed and spat again. If only he’d leave her in peace. “It’s never been so strong before.”
He frowned. “The kopamid?”
“No…” Don’t tell anyone, Tresilian had said.
“You can’t afford to be taken ill now. Do you need a healer?”
“It’s passed. I’ll manage.”
Weaver studied her, his expression sceptical. “Very well, my lady. I’ll saddle the horses.”
When Alwenna returned to their camp site Weaver handed her a dry oatcake. She picked at it, aware of his covert scrutiny as he made ready to leave. The half-empty beaker, now cold, perched on the mossy ground where she’d abandoned it. She didn’t dare drink it, even though her stomach had settled. Nor did she wish to offend Weaver by discarding the remains. It was the first friendly gesture he’d made in the days they’d been travelling.
As if he’d read her mind Weaver stooped and picked up the beaker, slinging the contents into the bushes before he stowed it in a saddlebag. When he’d finished, Alwenna climbed to her feet and made her way over to her horse. Without speaking, Weaver legged her up into the saddle.
“Thank you.” Her voice grated in her throat. Weaver nodded curt acknowledgment, his mouth set in a grim line. This promised to be a long day.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Weaver glanced across at Alwenna, who sat at the foot of a smooth-trunked beech. She’d slept badly. Of course, she’d not admit it. The shadows beneath her eyes left him in no doubt, if the telling silences between her nightmares hadn’t been evidence enough. She didn’t speak of the horrors that stalked her sleep, but each morning she was a little paler. And she’d been too pale to start with. The sooner he could hand her over to the care of the brethren at Vorrahan, the better.
“With luck we might reach the ferry in time to cross tonight.”