0857664360

by Susan Murray

“I’d no idea we were so close.” She took a bite of dry oatcake. “It’ll be–” One hand pressed to her stomach, she jumped to her feet and hurried away between the trees.

  Weaver followed a couple of paces, then stopped. He could do nothing to help, and she’d only resent his interference. She returned a few minutes later, pale and dishevelled. He offered her some water and she took it with an unsteady hand, murmuring a word of thanks.

  “There’s a town a few miles out of our way; we should be able to find you a healer there. I doubt Vasic’s spies will have penetrated this far north.”

  “There’s no need.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “There’s every need. You’re eating next to nothing and losing most of that.”

  “I’m fine if I eat often enough.” She hesitated, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Wynne told me what to expect. It’s a good sign, she said.”

  “Wynne?” Realisation dawned, and with it disbelief that he had not guessed sooner. “You’re carrying.” Even to his ears the words sounded like an accusation.

  She kept her eyes averted.

  “Yet you didn’t see fit to tell me? Does Tresilian know?”

  “Of course.” She swung round to face him, drawing herself up to her full height. “He said we must keep it secret as long as possible.”

  “But what if something had gone wrong? It’s madness.”

  “Nothing has gone wrong.”

  “By some miracle. You should have been travelling by carriage in easy stages, resting in proper beds at night. I should have been told.”

  She turned her back on him and began rolling up her blanket.

  “I’ll get the horses ready.” His words elicited no response. “Take all the time you need.”

  She spun round, glaring at him. “I don’t need any more time than I did yesterday, or the day before, or any other day. I swear if we do reach Vorrahan tonight it won’t be a moment too soon.”

  For once they were in total agreement. Weaver saddled the horses in silence.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alwenna’s stomach churned at the sight of the waves fretting beneath a leaden sky. Through the rain squalls she could just make out grassy slopes and rocks jutting above the water across the sound. The boat waiting by the small jetty looked impossibly flimsy as the waves roiled behind it.

  “We’re going to cross in that tiny thing?”

  It was small wonder Weaver looked surprised when she addressed him directly. They’d barely spoken since the morning’s disastrous start. “There’s a larger ferry a couple of hours to the north, but this way’s faster.”

  So they’d be rid of one another the sooner. He had to be looking forward to that. She was. “What about the horses?”

  “We won’t need them on the island. The precinct has grazing nearby. They’ll be kept there for the time being.”

  A boy emerged from the ferryman’s hut on the shoreline and took the horses’ reins. Weaver handed him a couple of coins and he led the horses away through the trees. Alwenna fought a sudden urge to follow after them. She could tell Weaver this was a mistake and order him to take her back to Highkell before it was too late.

  “My lady? The boat’s ready.”

  Wind whipped Alwenna’s hair from under her hood as she clambered down from the rudimentary jetty into the rocking boat and seated herself in the very centre. She gripped the cold plank as the oarsman took his place and water slapped against the sides, splashing over and sullying her cloak with dark spots. The boat wallowed as Weaver climbed in and sat facing her, then the ferryman lowered his oars into the water and pulled back with practised ease. With a grinding of the oars against the locks they drew away from the sheltered jetty and out onto open water.

  A fresh onslaught of rain all but obscured her vision as they pulled out from the shelter of the trees on the mainland; it pelted against her cheeks, stinging her eyes, weighing down her cloak. She clung there, wretched, sliding on the wooden seat as the boat pitched on the growling water. Her world dwindled until she was trapped in a limbo devoid of all sound but the buffeting of the wind and the grind, lap, slap of the oars, devoid of all sensation but the stinging rain and dull tug of nausea at the pit of her stomach.

  Then, when she thought couldn’t resist the heaving of her stomach another moment, the ferryman pulled them into the lee of a wooded promontory and they cut through calmer water until the bottom of the boat crunched on a shingle beach.

  She clambered from the boat, leaning on the hand Weaver offered for support as her body deceived her into believing the ground still pitched beneath her feet. When she was able to pay more attention to her surroundings she saw three figures, clad in drab monastic robes, approaching the beach. The robes and hoods looked oddly familiar. She stared, unable to recall when she had seen them before.

  “Is something wrong?” Weaver kept his voice low, so the boatman could not overhear.

  “No.” Her denial was reflexive.

  “Of course not.” Weaver swung their saddlebags onto his shoulders. “Forgive me if I disbelieve you, my lady.” He strode away up the incline towards the robed figures without so much as looking back to see if she followed.

  The centre of the three stepped forward to greet Weaver in a low voice, then bowed once Alwenna reached them. Of slight build, he moved with a suppleness that belied his age. “Lady Alwenna, we are honoured to welcome you to our house. I am Father Garrad. I regret we are not meeting in happier circumstances.”

  “Thank you, father. Tresilian spoke of you often. Did he send word of my arrival somehow?”

  “We discussed the matter some time ago, my lady. It was Brother Gwydion who informed us you were on the way; he is eager to meet you in person, I think. But first you must recover from your journey.”

  Brother Gwydion? She knew that name: the master seer. Tresilian had told her to consult him. Before she could enquire further, Weaver cleared his throat.

  “Father, forgive my interruption, but have you had word from Highkell in recent days?”

  “None as yet. You are the first to reach our shore. I very much doubt you will be the last.”

  “I see.” Weaver’s tone was non-committal, but his eyes lingered on the priest’s back as he led them towards the precinct.

  Alwenna halted. “Weaver, the path is uneven, would you lend me your arm?”

  “Of course, my lady.” His tone didn’t echo the flicker of irritation that crossed his face. He hitched the saddlebag up his shoulder out of the way and held out his arm in something approximating court style.

  Alwenna set her hand on his forearm, waiting until the monks had drawn some distance ahead of them. “You disliked Father Garrad’s answer, I think?”

  Weaver glanced at her. “It was no answer, my lady. We’ve travelled by an indirect route. A messenger could have made the journey in a fraction of the time. And all the trade for the outer isles passes through the port at Vorrahan.”

  No prevarication, at least. She had no doubt he answered her question frankly. “Is it not possible there may simply be no news yet?”

  Weaver hesitated this time. Not long, but long enough for her to suspect he was choosing his words with care. “I think it unlikely, my lady.”

  It was then she realised that Tresilian was the only one at Highkell likely to send an urgent message to this out-of-the-way place. No one else there knew where she was. If things went badly… She couldn’t afford to dwell on that possibility. “Tresilian trusts Father Garrad; he has known him for years.”

  “That is so, my lady. I trust no one until they’ve earned it. I never met the man before today and he smiles too readily.”

  Once she might have suspected him of joking at her expense. “Yours is a dour philosophy.”

  “It serves me well enough. If you doubt me, my lady, ask yourself how often Stanton smiled.”

  None at court had been readier with a smile. “I must concede you that point. By that reckoning you must be trustworthy indeed.�
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  “I swore to protect you and so I shall, whether you choose to trust me or not.”

  Ahead of them the monks waited a few yards from the modest gatehouse which guarded the entrance to the precinct. Alwenna speeded her steps, digesting Weaver’s words. He hadn’t voiced criticism of her husband’s decision to send her here, but he didn’t trust Father Garrad. And he hadn’t trusted Stanton. Half-remembered snatches of conversation came to mind. Tresilian had determinedly defended Stanton against his critics at court. What ought she make of that? There were surely lessons to be learned, but this wasn’t the time to ponder them. She suppressed her unease that such a time might already have passed.

  Sturdy walls of grey stone enclosed the heart of the precinct, although the buildings associated with it had long since spilled beyond those bounds and a settlement of sorts had formed outside the precinct gates. Alwenna was obliged to pick her way down the muddy street as best she could.

  The heavy double doors were barred, but a small door set into them stood open. It was just wide enough to admit one person at a time.

  Garrad stepped back, ushering Alwenna through. “I must apologise for the lodgings we have to offer you, my lady. They are not ideal for one of your station, but in the circumstances we deemed it more important to house you within the safety of our walls. I fear we cannot offer you a servant, but Brother Drew will see to all practical matters.”

  A gangling, red-haired novice Alwenna guessed to be sixteen or seventeen stepped forward, bowing awkwardly as Garrad took his leave. The youth led them across the cloistered courtyard and out through a door at the corner to a long, low building. He opened the first door, then hurried off to arrange hot water and food for the travellers.

  Alwenna entered a modest-sized room boasting a simple table with bench seats, with the added luxury of an upholstered settle against the wall to one side of the hearth. A door to the other side of the hearth led to a smaller chamber which contained a bed frame and straw mattress. The walls were built of the same oppressive grey stone as the rest of the precinct, unrelieved by plaster or hangings. Alwenna peered out through the bedchamber’s small window to see the blank wall of another building, separated from the lodging house by an alleyway. They had reached journey’s end, and it could not have been more dispiriting.

  She returned to the front room where Weaver was sorting through the bags. After a moment’s hesitation she sat on the bench opposite him, leaning her arms on the table.

  He glanced at her. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  For all she’d looked forward to reaching their destination, she’d not given it much thought. She had no idea what she’d imagined awaited her in this desolate place. “It’s… monastic. As I should have expected.”

  “It’s a roof, my lady.”

  She told herself she imagined the reproving note in his voice. “What happens next?”

  “We await word from Highkell.” His expression was closed.

  He’d already made it plain what he believed would happen there, and how swiftly events might move. Alwenna pushed the thought away. Her mouth was dry, and her head ached. There was a bed in the next room; she should go through and lie down, but even that seemed like too much effort. She would, in a moment. She lowered her head onto her forearms and closed her eyes. If she’d been granted the luxury of solitude she would have wept.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Torchlight flickered against stone walls, soot blackening the vaulted ceiling. The air was clammy. Alwenna shivered. A man stood with his back to her, his attention fixed on a prisoner stretched on the rack before him. All she could see of the victim were his arms, bound together above his head, the muscles spasming at intervals.

  “What are you grinning at, fool?”

  She knew Vasic’s voice straight away. It was deeper than Tresilian’s now. That must have pleased Vasic. He’d always resented that his younger cousin’s voice had broken first. And with a shock of horror she knew the figure on the rack was Tresilian.

  “A greater… fool… than I.” Pain distorted every syllable as he forced out the words but there was no mistaking her husband’s voice.

  Alwenna tried to draw breath, to shout out, but somehow she couldn’t move.

  Vasic leaned over Tresilian, his movements measured, almost lover-like. Now Alwenna could see her husband’s face, bruised and bloodied, eyes closed. She shouted out a warning, but neither man reacted.

  “You begin to bore me, cousin. I cannot abide boredom.” Vasic drew an ornate dagger from his belt and set the blade against Tresilian’s ribs, pressing just hard enough for the motion of his breathing to draw blood. “This is your last chance. Tell me where to find her.”

  Tresilian’s eyes flicked open. “Just finish it.”

  Vasic leaned closer still, as if to whisper a confidence. “Would you like that? Would it be a kindness to you?”

  “You haven’t the mettle.”

  “You always underestimated me.”

  “If you only knew…” Tresilian was seized by a paroxysm of laughter.

  Vasic thrust the knife between his cousin’s ribs. Blood spilled over the gemstones set into the handle as he withdrew the blade, pooling on the rough timber of the rack before dripping to the stone floor beneath. So much blood. Too much.

  Tresilian coughed, more blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

  “No one laughs at me now, cousin.” Vasic straightened up slowly. His eyes followed every heave of his cousin’s ribcage and measured every choking gasp, each gagging breath harsher and more desperate than the last. Then silence fell. Vasic turned to the guards at the door, pausing to examine the congealing blood on his hands, absently rubbing his thumb against soiled fingertips. “Throw him in the pit with the rest.”

  His lips curled in a familiar smile as he strode past Alwenna’s hiding place.

  “No!” Alwenna shouted out. But no one heard. She had to do something… She leaped forward, and her knee crashed against some obstacle.

  “My lady?”

  Alwenna flailed against the hand that had taken hold of her arm and the grip tightened.

  “Lady Alwenna?”

  She knew that voice. He would help. He never smiled, but he would help.

  But when she tried to speak, no sound emerged, and when she tried to open her eyes a great weight seemed to hold them pressed shut. And the same weight pressed down on her chest, her heart thundering in her ears. Trapped in the dark, she had to cry out. But to cry out she had to draw breath. And she couldn’t…

  “Speak to me.”

  Hands were pulling her free from the wreckage… And she could draw in a lungful of air, thank the Goddess.

  And with the sweet air came even sweeter reason. She wasn’t trapped in the dark. It was still daylight. And she was slumped over the table in that grim little room.

  Weaver crouched at her side, supporting her by the shoulders, more alarmed than she had ever seen him.

  “By all that’s– What happened?”

  “I… must have fallen asleep.” She straightened up and discovered she was trembling from head to foot. “It was just a bad dream. How stupid of me.”

  Weaver shook his head. “But what happened? You–” He seemed to gather himself together and released her shoulders, checking her pulse at the wrist. His hand was unsteady. “You stopped breathing. I thought you were dying.”

  What had happened? The darkness, the pressure… “I dreamed I was back in the carriage, after the landslide. That must be what it was.”

  Weaver sat back on the bench next to her, their few belongings forgotten on the table at his elbow. “You were only asleep a minute or so – two minutes at most. There was hardly time.” He took her wrist again and checked her pulse a second time, as if convincing himself she was indeed alive. “Your pulse is steadier, at least.” He straightened up. “You must see a healer. The journey’s been too much for you.”

  “I’ll be fine.
It’s the sort of thing Wynne told me to expect.”

  Weaver sat back, folding his arms across his chest, his expression combative. “Because you’re carrying? It doesn’t do that. I know what I saw, and it’s not normal.”

  “Are you saying I’m not normal?” Alwenna rubbed her arms, trying to restore some warmth to her limbs.

  Weaver jumped to his feet and picked up the cloak she’d discarded on arrival, dropping it over her shoulders without ceremony. But he didn’t answer her.

  “That’s what you think, isn’t it? I’m an abomination?”

  Weaver crossed to the window, leaning there with his back to the light and arms folded. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  Weaver straightened up, unfolding his arms. “My lady–”

  She raised a hand to silence him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I can almost believe it myself.” She spoke quickly, her need to unburden herself of the scene she’d just witnessed too pressing. “Just now, when I first fell asleep, I saw – I dreamed – I was in a dungeon. Vasic was there. He had Tresilian on a rack…”

  “It’s only natural your fears–”

  “No, let me finish. He was torturing him to find out where I was. Tresilian mocked him and Vasic… He stabbed him. I think he killed him. There was so much blood.”

  “My lady, in times like these when you sleep the mind brings fears to the surface. The night before a battle, I’ve known–” He fell silent for a moment. “It’s my fault for asking about news from Highkell in your hearing.”

  “This was no dream. I saw everything as it happened. It was so clear.”

  “You’re exhausted. You should consult a healer here. Maybe get a sleeping draught.”

  “A healer would recognise I’m… carrying.” She used Weaver’s phrase. “And how long then before the news reached Father Garrad? Tresilian said tell no one as long as it could be hidden.”

  Weaver rubbed the back of his neck. “My lady, I can clean and bind a flesh wound, splint a broken limb. But this – whatever just happened – if your health’s at risk… I can’t deal with this.”