by Susan Murray
They worked in silence, alert for any sudden movement of the loose stone surrounding them. Weaver and Blaine between them heaved a large block aside, revealing a cavity formed by the fallen lintel and door jamb. And beyond the trickling dust, something moved. There was the faintest of sounds, little more than an exhalation. Drew still insisted it was Alwenna. It could be anyone in there. They worked faster, clearing more rubble away until an accumulation of loose mortar rushed inside the cavity and there was a yelp of protest.
At last Weaver believed.
The rubble around the spot was becoming increasingly unstable. They’d cleared enough to allow light into the cavity, revealing dust-covered fabric – a silk gown. They worked swiftly to clear the rubble from about her. At one point, Drew stepped back, frowning, and looked around before returning to their work. A fallen timber had come to rest across her legs and it took some time to clear away enough stone to lift it. She moved, twisting around in an effort to get to her feet. Drew reached inside the cavity and helped her scramble out.
Weaver caught a glimpse of the girl’s fair hair, and his disappointment was crushing. It wasn’t Alwenna.
The girl held one hand over her eyes as she squinted in the daylight. “Thank the Goddess…” Her voice was dry and cracked even on those few syllables. She held her left arm awkwardly against her side and trembled with exhaustion.
Blaine helped her away from her precarious perch among the loose rubble. “Easy now, lass. Lean on me.”
“You’re not from these parts.” She squinted at them a second time through streaming eyes. “Those aren’t Vasic’s colours…”
Nearby, a quantity of masonry subsided with an ominous rumble and a couple of stones rolled loose and clattered away down the gorge.
“We’re here to find the Lady Alwenna.”
The girl caught her breath. “Then you’ll need… She saved me, pulled me from the edge…” The girl drew a ragged breath.
Weaver’s heart seemed to stop beating.
“She was right beside me, I know she was. I heard her, in the dark.”
After a few more minutes’ effort they uncovered more fabric. Green, this time. Ornate, such as an important bride might wear on her wedding day.
Drew, slightest among their party, peered through the gap they’d cleared. “Her feet are pinned. It’s–” He twisted round, then pulled his head and shoulders back out of the hole. “Bring me a length of timber, two if you can find them. We need to be sure it doesn’t cave in.”
A block of stone shifted beneath Weaver’s foot. He froze. Every shift of weight was now fraught. Drew peered inside the cavity once more, speaking calmly to the trapped woman. “Not long now. We’ll shore up this rubble to be sure it’s safe before we free your legs.” He withdrew again and pointed to the section of rubble against the window jamb. “Keep clearing away there, Weaver. That window’s wedged solid at the back, it’s going nowhere. I need room to get inside with the timber props.”
Weaver attacked the fallen stonework with renewed vigour. One of the others returned with a length of timber that had once formed a window lintel.
Drew hefted it. “Perfect. Another of these, two if you can find them. That should do it, Weaver – be ready to pass the prop to me when I’m inside.” Drew lowered himself feet first through the gap Weaver had created. He paused partway in, twisting round and feeling his way with his feet, pausing again as small stones cascaded inside, then ducked out of sight.
The moments stretched as Weaver waited. Drew appeared at the hole. “She’s doing well. Her leg hurts, but that’s a good sign. Hand me the prop.” Weaver passed it to him, supporting the end until Drew had moved out of sight and took it in after him. Weaver faced another anxious wait punctuated only by clunks and thuds as, presumably, Drew wedged the prop in position. Drew’s head popped out of the hole once more after what seemed an impossible wait. “Begin to clear this section here. When it comes to this stone you’ll need me to support it from this side.” He set his hand on a large block of stone at shoulder height.
The men worked swiftly, without wasting energy in conversation. Inside the rubble Alwenna remained quiet. Weaver redoubled his efforts. If they were too late… They couldn’t be too late. Drew would have said something, surely.
A moment later and the huge block Drew had pointed out began to shift. “Wait!” he yelled, straining to hold the block in place. “Take the stone from beneath it so we can roll it away.”
The three of them scrabbled frantically and a moment later Drew heaved the block out over the top and they dragged it down in a controlled slide. A few small stones to one side of it toppled into the cavity.
“Give me more daylight to free her legs.” Drew stooped, scrabbling in the debris they’d just uncovered, and picked up an ornate dagger. He tucked it away in his belt and continued clearing stone.
Finally Weaver could see inside the cavity where Alwenna lay trapped. And it was Alwenna. She lay with her eyes closed, trembling. Her breathing might have been unsteady, but she was breathing.
Drew worked by her legs. “We’re nearly there, my lady. We’ll have you out of here in a matter of minutes. Keep still now, it’ll just be a moment.”
There was no visible response from Alwenna. Were they too late after all?
Weaver clambered over the remaining rubble, leaving the other two to clear more space, and stooped at Drew’s side. A large cornerstone pinned Alwenna’s leg to the rubble beneath.
“Take that end, Weaver. We need to lift this clean away without causing any more damage. On the count of three.”
He counted.
They lifted.
Alwenna uttered a stifled cry as they lifted the block clear of her leg.
From somewhere on the tumbled hillside there came a shout of warning.
The servant girl screamed. “Get down!”
A volley of arrows rained down nearby, clattering among the stones several yards short of where they worked.
There was a muffled curse from Curtis as he dived for cover. “The whoreson bastards are firing on us.”
Weaver wrestled the block into a safe place where it couldn’t cause further damage. “We’re all known here. You turned coat, after all.”
Curtis crouched among the rubble. “They’ve bloody good eyesight if they can recognise me from there, that’s all I’ll say.”
Drew was already dragging Alwenna out from beneath the lintel that had prevented her from being crushed.
Another volley of arrows followed the first. From the rubble below them, Blaine cursed. “Half a dozen archers on the curtain wall. They’ll have our range next time. We need to move.”
As if they’d heard, the next volley of arrows skittered against the stones around them. None of them were hit, but it left no doubt they were being targeted.
Drew helped Weaver lift Alwenna from beneath the stone lintel and out into full daylight. The servant girl was already on her feet, scrambling down towards the road with Curtis. Alwenna couldn’t carry any weight on her injured foot so Drew and Weaver supported her between them. A further volley followed them, falling short, and they scrambled faster, but the exertion of the past two days was finally catching up with Drew. He staggered and almost fell, stepping back so Blaine could take his place when the next volley clattered around them. Drew gasped and stumbled against Alwenna.
“Drew, no!” The first words she’d spoken were a near-inarticulate scream of anger. She tried to pull him to his feet, but Blaine slung the youth over his shoulder as if he were no weight at all and dashed for the cover of the trees. Weaver set off behind them but Alwenna twisted round, pulling free from his grip as if she would return to Highkell.
“My lady, this way.” Weaver caught hold of Alwenna’s shoulder to turn her back to safety but she resisted, her muscles rigid beneath his fingertips.
She raised her face towards the curtain wall where the archers were nocking their arrows, almost ready to fire again. The wall shuddered and gradually pee
led out from the citadel, hanging in mid-air for several heartbeats before it dropped into the gorge. Voices cried out in terror as flailing figures arced through the air. Weaver tugged at her shoulder again, but still she resisted. Then the tension in her muscles eased and she turned, a hard expression on her face such as he’d never seen before. She focused on Weaver, yet didn’t seem to recognise him at all.
And in that moment Weaver hardly recognised her. “My lady? We must go.”
Alwenna pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Yes, of course.” She took a step forward and stumbled as her damaged ankle failed. Weaver pulled her arm about his shoulders, supporting her weight as they followed after the others who were already scrambling up the bank in the shelter of the trees.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The others were already mounted up by the time Weaver and Alwenna reached them. He boosted her into his saddle and vaulted on behind. They had no time to linger, with every likelihood of pursuit from Highkell. He led them on a circuitous route through the forest, and they rode hard for several miles once they’d reached the road east. The servant girl was mounted behind Drew, doggedly supporting him as he gradually slumped lower and lower in the saddle. She seemed tough as old boots, but she called a halt as they approached a shallow ford.
“I can’t keep him in the saddle any longer. Not with only one good arm.”
Blaine dismounted and half-lifted Drew down, half-supported him as he fell. The girl stayed seated, flexing the arm she’d been holding Drew in place with. She looked every bit as haggard as the Lady Alwenna. There was blood soaked into the front of her dress. She stared at it blankly, as if it took her a moment to work out how it had got there, then looked at Drew who hung limply in Blaine’s grip.
“Take him in among the trees, out of sight. It’s time we dealt with that wound.” Weaver rode his horse into the cover of the trees, finding a suitable clearing where he dismounted. If Drew’s wound wasn’t tended to now there was every chance they’d lose him on the road. There was, to be fair, every chance they’d lose him anyway, judging by his pallor.
“My lady? We’ll rest here awhile.”
Alwenna looked at him dully. “Rest? Have we time?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Drew’s injured. We need to tend to it before we ride further.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course.” She’d been silent the whole journey. Now she looked about her, apparently at a loss as to what to do next.
“Let me help you dismount, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She winced as she swung her right leg over the back of the saddle.
Weaver supported her weight as she slid down. It wasn’t elegant, by any means, and she couldn’t put weight on her injured ankle, but she seemed a little more aware of her surroundings. He turned his attention to Drew’s injury. They’d summarily snapped the arrow shaft so they could ride without causing him further injury, leaving enough protruding so they might remove it later. The wound had almost stopped bleeding, which was good news after seeing the amount of blood on the servant girl’s gown.
Weaver studied the injury, gauging the tip of the arrow had travelled most of the way through Drew’s shoulder. A careful examination with his fingertips as Blaine and Curtis held the lad still confirmed this. Removing the arrowhead by the way it had entered would cause more damage than it had on the way in. They found a stick for Drew to bite on and pinned him between them as Weaver made ready to thrust the arrow the rest of the way through. Drew sagged between them, drifting in and out of consciousness. Alwenna watched, wide-eyed, forgetting to tear the shirt she’d been given into strips. The servant girl moved to the edge of the clump of trees, ensuring there was no one close by. She nodded to Weaver, who took a careful hold of the arrow, gauged the angle, then thrust it forward. Drew screeched, but the barb burst through the front of his shoulder. Another moment and Weaver had removed it. The servant girl set about washing the wound.
Curtis was all for stitching it, but the girl was stern. “No, stitching a deep wound can trap dirt inside – as long as he doesn’t bleed too much, let it stay open.”
“You sound mighty sure of that, lass,” Blaine observed.
“My da kept racehorses. A bit of salt in the water would be best. Makes it heal faster.”
Drew sat up, muttering under his breath as the servant girl set about bandaging his shoulder. Twice she had to remind the Lady Alwenna to hand her the strips of fabric. It was as if Alwenna’s attention was fixed in some other place. It made Weaver uneasy. Whatever ailed her would take more than salt water to heal.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
He was lying half-asleep among the tangled sheets when he recognised the fair-haired priestess’ footsteps. His body hardened in anticipation. He sat up, reaching for her with a smile of welcome, but she shook her head, lowering her eyes modestly.
“My lord, you must not overtax your strength. Nine days you lay alone as one dead; nine days we will lie together before I must retreat into seclusion and pray the Goddess blesses our union.” Her voice was even, with no hint of the husky tone he had learned to expect from her.
“Nine days?” How much time had passed already? He had no idea. It had never occurred to him to keep count. “But you need not leave me yet. What is your name?”
“We who serve the Goddess have no name until she blesses us. We are but empty vessels until that day, awaiting our time to serve her as only a woman made in her form can.” The priestess had bound up her hair and was wearing the shapeless robe.
He swung his legs round to set his feet down on the floor. The stone flags were cool, sending a shiver running through him. “If you have no name, how am I to address you?”
She smiled. “As you do now, my lord.” A gaggle of servants arrived, bringing with them a bathtub which they set down close to the bed, and steaming pitchers of water. “Today you will rise and bathe. It is time to rebuild your strength so we may – if the Goddess blesses our union – rejoin the world together.”
The servants came and went with more pitchers of water until the tub was two-thirds full. The nameless priestess loosened her long hair and moved around the tub chanting an incantation in a language he did not recognise, sprinkling herbs and flower petals over the water and, finally, dashing a handful of salt into it. With elegance she knelt and stirred the water, three times one way, then three times the other way, then three times more as she had begun. All this he watched from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
She took him by the hand, encouraging him to stand. After a brief hesitation he did so, startled to discover how weak his limbs were. It had not always been this way, he knew, yet how he knew he could not be sure. And how it had once been he could not remember. The priestess led him by the hand to the tub and unlaced the neck of the voluminous chemise he had been sleeping in. She gathered up the garment from the hem and pulled it off over his head. The air against his naked flesh was cold and clammy with vapour from the tub. He shivered and his teeth began to chatter.
“The water will warm you, my lord. And the herbs will heal you.”
She supported him as he cautiously raised one foot and stepped over the rim of the bathtub, wobbling precariously as he struggled to balance with one foot off the ground.
He lowered himself into the water, setting a hand on either side of the bath to support himself. This was something familiar, something he recognised. He lowered himself until the water had risen to his waist and his buttocks came to rest on the base of the tub. His arms trembled from the unaccustomed effort. He let them sink into the warm water, resting his head back and closing his eyes. In his mind’s eye he could see another room, larger than this chamber, with a floor made from stone of redder hues. The walls, of the same red stone, were hung with lavish tapestries, the workmanship of the best quality, the detail fine. He knew it to be true. He opened his eyes. The priestess watched him, her hands clasped together, head bowed.
“Do I have a name?”
“Yes, my lord, but
I do not know it. You will remember when the Goddess wills it. When you are healed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
That stranger was there in her mind again, waking in the darkness to a sensual touch. Alwenna pulled away from the contact, sitting bolt upright in a different darkness, her pulse thundering. She was in the forest. Around her, her companions slept. Someone on the far side of the fire snored gently. She shivered. Was she simply hearing someone else’s dreams? Was she hearing Weaver’s thoughts? No, she’d swear this stranger was not him. And yet… Could it be Vasic? He was familiar in some elusive way. Stanton’s ghost haunting her? She shivered again and got to her feet, pulling her blanket round her shoulders. Maybe she ought to be grateful he’d driven away the memories of being trapped in the dark, but, whoever he was, she didn’t need to know what he was getting up to right now.
The trees crowded in around Alwenna, shutting out such moonlight as there was. Too restless to sleep now, she decided to walk to the water’s edge. She took up her walking stick and, leaning heavily on it, hobbled away from the fire. Doing her best not to wake anyone – especially Curtis who was ostensibly on watch – she picked her way round the edge of their campsite.
From the lake shore she could see the sky, the stars bright, moving in their unending cycle. the Hunter, tall and proud, kept watch over their fire. A bright star hung just above the tree-line on the far shore, reflected on the surface of the lake. She knelt at the water’s edge and set her palms in the water, watching the ripples spread outwards, distorting the reflection. Already she could breathe more easily and she felt her tension slipping away.
A twig snapped behind her and she turned to see Weaver approaching, his shirt ghostly in the moonlight. He hadn’t paused to don his surcoat.