0857664360

by Susan Murray

  And later another ceremony honouring Tresilian’s father, after he’d fallen in battle in The Marches. Tresilian had been overburdened with grief. He’d insisted she attend at his side. And she’d set her hand on his arm, trying to ease some of his pain and understood then, finally, why she had to agree to their marriage. The state was fragile, but between them they could strengthen it.

  Now the master seer was committed to the ground, leaving her his gift: a cacophony of half-seen, impossible-to-understand fragments. Even when she was awake unfamiliar voices tugged at the back of her mind, half-resolved images ghosted through her consciousness, crowding in if she let her attention wander. A thousand open graves gaped before her. Some contained rudimentary coffins, others corpses wrapped only in winding sheets. Some were pits into which fallen soldiers were flung without ceremony, without rites to ease their passing. So many fallen, taking countless secrets with them…

  Alwenna shook her head to dispel the flood of unwelcome images. Once more she was on the hillside above the precinct with Garrad intoning rites over Gwydion’s coffin. His words of regret were hollow. He was glad the seer was gone. Did he know of the seer’s gift to her? She thought not. According to Drew the two priests who had served Gwydion had taken a vow of silence to mark their respect. A convenient way to sidestep Garrad’s questioning, without doubt. And if they were not about to tell Garrad of Gwydion’s so-called gift to her, she assuredly would not.

  After the ceremony was complete she turned away from the graveside to find Weaver waiting nearby, dour as ever. He’d been careful to spend little time in her company since Garrad’s morning visit. She could understand it, but nevertheless it hurt. Weaver was the last thread connecting her to her old life. And her sight told her he was about to leave.

  Weaver walked over to join her. “I spoke to Father Garrad this morning. He agrees I should find out what’s happening at Highkell.”

  That much was no surprise. “When will you leave?” Again, that rush of unease. Funerals changed things. Ought she stop him?

  Weaver shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Today.”

  So soon. “Are you sure it is wise?”

  “Garrad has found a maidservant to assist you. There’s no need for me to stay any longer.” He glanced at her, then lowered his eyes.

  He didn’t mean to come back. “So, you will return to Highkell?”

  “That depends what I learn. I’ll send word as soon as I have news.”

  They were still within earshot of the other mourners. He was deliberately giving her this news with others about. Perhaps he didn’t trust himself. Or perhaps he didn’t trust her.

  “Will you walk with me for a minute or two?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  They set off along the path back towards the precinct. Weaver didn’t offer her his arm. He was doing his best to be correct, and had been ever since he’d sobered up.

  “Don’t worry, I shan’t attempt to talk you out of leaving.”

  “It is for the best, my lady.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She almost believed it. “You say you discussed it with Father Garrad. Have you some reason to be more kindly disposed towards him now?”

  “He hasn’t bought me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Weaver’s tone was clipped.

  She stopped in her tracks. Did that mean Garrad had tried to bribe the King’s Man? “I’d never believe that of you.”

  “You should trust no one. Every man has his price.”

  “I learned that long ago. And I think I know yours.” She ventured a smile.

  He stepped back half a pace. “I must catch the tide, my lady. I cannot play at riddles with you all day.”

  She shrugged: a courtly gesture of indifference, fake to the core. “Before you leave I would know your opinion. Ought I continue to be guarded in what I tell Father Garrad?”

  “Yes, my lady. Perhaps I should have said: trust no one, particularly the good father.”

  “Yet you still sought his advice on leaving?”

  “My road will be easier if he believes I trust him.”

  How foolish of her not to guess that. She began walking again. Weaver fell into step beside her as they climbed the slope leading towards the Holy Well, matching his pace to hers.

  “Will you try to learn more about Father Garrad as you are seeking news, Weaver? And send me word if you learn anything of import?”

  “I will, my lady. I swore to your husband I would protect you.”

  They had reached the Holy Well. There, a sudden impulse seized her. “Swear it to me, Weaver, now, over this water. Swear what you once swore to Tresilian.” She dipped her hand in the small pool, and, cupping the water in her palm, held it out towards Weaver. After a moment’s hesitation he closed his own hand over it, clasping hers. “I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm, my lady. All my allegiance is yours.” His hand tightened over hers for a moment, then he released it.

  If she begged him not to leave, would he stay? She could convince him. “Then nothing remains but for me to wish you a safe journey.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Weaver swept a courtly bow, then turned and strode away. Every sure stride took him further away from her.

  Alwenna didn’t need the sight to know he would never return to Vorrahan.

  “Well, Tresilian, is this what you planned when you sent me here?”

  There was no answer but the mournful keening of seagulls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Alwenna had no wish to remain in her lodgings while the silent maidservant went about her work. Instead she made her way to the precinct gates. At this time of the morning the cloister was bustling as the brethren went about their duties. Some had become friendly faces and smiled as she passed. Others averted their eyes. It was one of the latter who stepped forward as she was about to push open the wooden door.

  “I beg your pardon, but Father Garrad has instructed that you must not venture out without a suitable escort.”

  “I only want to walk up to the Holy Well.” She doubted he’d be swayed by learning of her need to seek out the tranquillity of the place. “I won’t even be out of sight of the gate.”

  “I am sorry, my lady, Father Garrad’s instructions were precise. Please be so kind as to remain within the precinct walls.” The priest stepped in front of the doorway, even as she smiled and tried to sidestep him.

  “Surely he cannot have meant–” Of course Garrad had meant this. But for him to play his hand so swiftly following Weaver’s departure was troubling. “There must be someone who could walk the short distance with me? We could gather a few herbs along the way, to make it worthwhile.”

  The priest returned her smile with a steely gaze. “The brethren cannot neglect their duties on a whim. I shall enquire of Father Garrad when it might be convenient, if you wish?”

  “You need not trouble him, brother.” She turned away from the gate, burning with embarrassment at once again being treated like some errant child. Father Garrad was approaching, smiling as ever.

  “Good day to you, Lady Alwenna. I hope you are well.”

  “Yes, I thank you, father. I hoped to walk up to the Holy Well, but your gatekeeper tells me you have left orders not to allow me outside.”

  “My apologies. I meant to discuss this with you earlier but it slipped my mind.” He smiled, too smooth this time.

  “Indeed?” She made no attempt to hide her displeasure.

  Garrad’s smile did not falter. “Weaver and I agreed it would be best while he is away. None of our brethren here are as well qualified as he to protect you. It will be safer for you to remain within our walls until he has returned.”

  Garrad’s face faded before her, as if seen through a veil of mist. The mist strengthened, altering colour as the sky darkened and took on an amber glow. Her view of the main precinct building was occluded by flames and smoke billowing from the roof. The cuprous taste of blood filled her mouth which was dry, so dry and parched…
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  “My lady? Are you unwell?” Garrad’s voice broke through the roar of flames and her surroundings twisted back into focus. The sky was light and clear, the air free of any hint of smoke.

  Alwenna blinked. “I believe the sun is perhaps too hot to venture out onto the hillside in any event. I have a slight headache. I shall seek shade in the library instead.”

  “A wise choice, Lady Alwenna.” Did she imagine a note of relief that he’d prevailed upon her stay within the walls?

  She returned his smile, mirroring his for emptiness. He didn’t appear to notice.

  In the cool of the library the librarian bent over his table, scrolls and ancient tomes spread before him. He raised his head at Alwenna’s approach and smiled. This was a true smile. As well, since instinct told her the question she was about to ask was important.

  “I wonder, brother, if I might find such a thing as a history of the seers and their lore somewhere on your shelves?”

  He straightened up from the manuscript he had been copying, painstakingly setting down his quill. “Indeed you may, my lady. The seers have made their home here at Vorrahan some four centuries and more. We have works concerning their lore dating back to their earliest days here, but they are kept in a storeroom. I will send my assistant to retrieve them for you, if you can wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, there is a simple history you might find interesting.”

  She lifted down the tome he indicated and knew in that instant it did not contain whatever it was she sought, but she sat for an hour in the library leafing through the descriptions of the building of the precinct at Vorrahan. She lingered for some time over a diagram showing the layout of the precinct. It indicated the position of a shore gate she’d not noticed while walking through the precinct. She replaced the book and thanked the librarian, promising to return the next day. He nodded and smiled, the greater part of his attention on the work he was copying so meticulously. She left him in the silence of his domain, determined to see if the gate was still there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Weaver let his horse pick its way through the forest. The tree canopy shaded out much of the moon’s light, but there was still enough to continue his journey. It was good to be on the move again: easier to take action than sit at Vorrahan waiting. And watching. The further he travelled from the Lady Alwenna the better it would be for both of them. But before he was too far from the island he had discreet enquiries to make about Father Garrad. The priest was playing some kind of double game. Tresilian’s faith in Garrad had been unshakable, but Tresilian now lay in a mass grave of his cousin’s, providing that Alwenna’s sight could be trusted.

  But Weaver would be wise not to trust anything about Alwenna, tainted as she was by her father’s blood. She claimed to know nothing of her dark legacy, but it made her anathema nonetheless. Soft-skinned, warm-curved anathema. She might already have worked her wiles on him. Since Tresilian had first led his bride-to-be to the top table at Highkell her ill-starred beauty had drawn Weaver like a moth to her flame. Tresilian had finally introduced Weaver to her when they’d just finished a training bout. She’d looked over him with that cool green gaze and he’d known she saw a smelly commoner with no wit or charm to offer her – a misfit among the courtiers. And in case he’d been left in any doubt, Stanton had leaned to whisper some joke in her ear, drawing a smile from her. No, the further Weaver travelled from his king’s wife, the better. Her allure remained as potent as–

  Something smashed against the side of his skull. His horse spun around, pitching him towards the ground. Head ringing, Weaver dropped his shoulder as he fell, rolling as he hit the ground and reaching for his knife as he regained his feet. A veil of sparks clouded his vision as he faced his still-mounted assailant. Hoofbeats thudded on the forest floor behind him.

  The man before him stepped down from his saddle, drawing a short sword. Weaver took up a defensive stance, blinking in an attempt to clear his head as another horse barrelled into his left shoulder and a second cudgel blow, harder than the first, hit the back of his head and he toppled into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Alwenna stirred in her bed at Vorrahan, close to waking. There was something she’d forgotten, something important. Her horse trotted on briskly, unheeding as she commanded it to halt, to turn around. Hooves beat out a muffled rhythm over the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. The gibbous moon rode high in the sky, strong enough to cast shadows between the trees. Then the shadows shifted and she spun away. Far below her Weaver fell from the saddle, rolled and reached for his dagger. Moonlight flashed on a blade. She tried to shout a warning but her words were drowned out by the crackle and hiss of flames. All around her buildings were burning: roof timbers were aflame, cracking with the intense heat, collapsing in bursts of embers which drove everyone back. Water turned to steam as bucketful after bucketful was hurled in an attempt to douse the inferno. The librarian staggered through the cloister, arms laden with precious manuscripts, smoke rising from the smouldering sleeve of his robe. She would have helped him, but behind her someone laughed, stopping her as she reached out. And there Vasic stood at the window of Highkell solar, exultant. In his hand was a sheet of parchment, and on that sheet a signature, firm and clear: Garrad.

  This time her shout of protest was real. The sound still echoed in her ears as she sat up in the darkness of her bedchamber. Her limbs shook and her mouth was dry, foul with the tang she’d learned to associate with the sight. She stumbled over to the window, but there was no sign of fire, no sound as the precinct slumbered. She returned to her bed, wrapping the covers about her shoulders and waited for the pounding of her heart to ease. She sought to recall the vision, to divine what had happened to Weaver, to find some trace of him, some hint he’d survived the attack. There was nothing. Everything had been engulfed by flame, by Vasic’s glee.

  Nothing.

  Sitting there in the dark, the only waking creature in the room, she had no doubt her vision was true. She was utterly alone, and Father Garrad had sold her to Vasic. She was defeated. The flight from Highkell had all been in vain. All it had done was bring about the deaths of those closest to her. Now Weaver’s loyalty had been repaid with base treachery. What recourse had she now, but to sit back and wait for Vasic to lead her back to Highkell in shackles? If not literally, she’d be shackled by wedlock soon enough, to secure his kingship over the territory Tresilian had ruled. She had no one to turn to, no place to hide. Tresilian’s plan had failed.

  She sank back on her pillows. Then it happened: that same fluttering sensation deep within her abdomen she had felt once before, so tiny she’d wondered if she’d imagined it. There it was again, a second time, stronger, determined, as the child within her kicked.

  She couldn’t give up. Not now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Alwenna eased the door shut behind her and crept along the cloister, keeping to the shadows. No one stirred. She found the shore gate where the plan had shown it and, as she’d hoped, it was unmanned. The bolts were stiff, but yielded after a struggle. She eased the gate open but it gave out a raucous screech of rusty hinges. She slid through hastily and drew the gate shut, the grinding of the old hinges too loud in the silence of night. She thought she heard a faint scuffling from the precinct behind her. She listened intently, but all she could hear was deafening silence, a rushing sound that she realised was the blood running through her veins. Once again she felt that fluttering sensation deep within her womb. This time she was the one protecting an innocent life.

  She hurried down to the place where the precinct boats were beached. Here was her first real difficulty: the tide was out, so she would need to drag the boat some distance to the water’s edge. The smallest boat proved heavier than she’d anticipated. She managed to heave it over the short stretch of grass and onto the shingle where it grated against the stones, shattering the night’s calm.

  Alwenna froze, listening, but nothing else stirred. No shouts of alarm sounded fr
om the precinct. She summoned her strength and heaved at the boat again. It jammed against a cobble and she tugged harder. She couldn’t fail now, not at the first obstacle. The boat gave way in a rush and she overbalanced, toppling backwards and landing with the boat jammed against her knee, pinning her leg to the ground. A look over her shoulder told her she’d only dragged the boat a fraction closer to the water. The muscles in her forearms were already taut with effort.

  Then she heard the footsteps. Several people crunched steadily over the shingle towards where she was sprawled among the pebbles. She pressed in behind the bulk of the rowing boat, hoping against hope that she might not be spotted. A single set of footsteps stopped a few yards away, on the other side of the boat. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She held her breath lest it betray her whereabouts.

  The footsteps crunched closer.

  “Lady Alwenna. You appear to be in need of assistance.”

  Alwenna recognised Father Garrad’s voice. She raised her head and sat up slowly. He gestured to the two priests who had waited some distance away and they hurried forward and lifted the boat from her leg.

  Brother Drew bent to help her to her feet. “Are you hurt, my lady?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, thank you.” She straightened her knee cautiously.

  Garrad cleared his throat. “That will do, Brother Drew.”

  The priest dropped her arm as if he’d been burned and stumbled back two hasty paces. “I meant no disrespect, father.”

  “No one ever does, Brother Drew, that is the insidious nature of sin. When we first set our steps along the path to ruin we never mean any harm.”

  Drew bowed his head.

  Alwenna looked from one to the other. “Father Garrad–”