by Susan Murray
Ahead of them Weaver twisted round to say something. His words were snatched away by the wind. In the direction he pointed Alwenna could see through the dust a shape too big and too regular to be yet another boulder. To the windward side of it was a clump of trees. Proper, tall trees with trunks, not the scrubby bushes that were scattered over the plain. The inn. It had to be.
The inn was a long, low-eaved building, built around three sides of a courtyard. The fourth side was enclosed by a ramshackle set of stables. At some point in the past the walls had been rendered with clay and painted with lime-wash, but it was now so weather-beaten the overall impression was one of sun-bleached terracotta. Shabby or not, the relief the courtyard offered from the scouring wind was sublime. Alwenna slid down from her saddle, careless of her injured ankle until she landed half her weight on it, and yelped.
“My lady, you should have waited.” Erin handed her the walking stick.
“I didn’t think.” She tested her weight on her ankle again, gingerly. “But I’m sure it’s getting better. I couldn’t have done that yesterday.”
Nearby, Weaver stood where he’d just dismounted from his own horse, watching Alwenna. When she caught his eye he turned away, unwinding the scarf from his head, and stopping to shake the dust out of it once he was clear of the horses at the edge of the yard.
“You likely won’t be able to put any weight on it at all tomorrow.” Erin began disentangling her long hair and dusty scarf. They made their way over to where Weaver waited, and Alwenna tugged her own scarf loose.
The inn had two main rooms – the tap room where a bar held barrels of ale, and a room lined with tables for serving food. This was currently empty, although the tables were well-worn. Alwenna assumed the recent spate of windy weather had deterred most travellers from venturing over the Blighted Sea. Certainly, the landlord hurried over to serve them eagerly enough.
Weaver ordered a plain stew and requested it be well salted. “I’m to meet the freemerchant, Marten. He told me you’d be able to give me directions to find him.”
“Well now.” The landlord straightened up, rubbing his ear thoughtfully. “There are plenty people would like to find Marten, but there’s nothing to say he wants to be found by all of them. You’re a stranger to me, and I’ve never seen you here with him, so you’ll have to give me your name first.”
“My name’s Weaver.” He drummed his fingertips on the smooth-scrubbed table. He didn’t appear at all easy about this business with the freemerchant. Unless the strange incident with Drew’s dagger had left him in such a foul mood. Perhaps with some good ale inside him, he might be a little sweeter – and more forthcoming besides. Alwenna couldn’t shake the conviction he was being less than frank with her.
“That’s a common enough name in these parts.”
“Ranald Weaver.” Weaver’s fingertips stilled. “Marten himself told me to ask for directions here. I doubt he’ll be pleased to learn you’re playing games with his people.”
His people? What did he mean by that? Alwenna turned her full attention to the exchange.
The landlord frowned. “I never play games, not where business is concerned. And not where my important customers are concerned, neither.”
Weaver stared back at him and they froze thus for a moment before the landlord nodded, glancing at Alwenna as he spoke. “He’s left a message for you – I’ll bring it.”
“Very well. I must trust Marten’s in no great hurry to see us.”
The landlord vanished through a door behind the bar. He reappeared almost immediately, bearing a sealed letter which he handed to Weaver without ceremony. “He’s paid up front for a room for the lady, and one for yourself. The rest can take space in the attics.”
Weaver nodded again, waiting for the landlord to leave before cracking open the wax seal. Alwenna, seated opposite, couldn’t see the text. Weaver read it then folded the paper, stowing it away without comment. He looked up to find her watching him.
“We’re to join the freemerchant at the summer palace – your old family home, my lady. He pulls longer strings than I once imagined.”
“My family home? I haven’t seen the place in over twelve years.” She’d had a sunny room with views over a tumbling mountain stream. There had been a huge dining table, polished to such a sheen she could see her own reflection in it. Her father had sat at one end, her mother at the other. Only rarely had she joined them. And then she had disgraced herself, pulling faces at her reflection while her father spoke. Had that been at the summer palace, or the city residence in Brigholm? None of it seemed terribly familiar now. She certainly had no recollection of crossing the Blighted Sea before.
Weaver was watching her as if he expected some kind of reaction.
“I remember very little about it.” Right now she was more concerned about that letter. It had been addressed to him, of course, she’d seen that much as he read the single sheet. So really it was none of her business, yet… She was sure Weaver was hiding something from her.
The rooms the landlord allocated to them were along the landing at the far end of the building from the stairs, above the dining room.
Erin checked the bedding suspiciously once the landlord had left them. “Well, I’ve seen worse.”
They’d not been there long before servants arrived with hot water and a tub which they filled before the fire, setting up a discreet folding screen.
Alwenna eased herself into the water with relief, glad of the first real opportunity to ease her aches and pains. The bruising was coming out on her ankle now, and it was a grotesque purple, but the swelling was reducing. She lay back, sinking as low as she could in the water. The tub wasn’t as luxurious as the one she’d been used to at Highkell, but it was adequate. And the water was the perfect temperature. She closed her eyes.
And she was there at Highkell again, pacing back and forth across one of the lesser guest chambers. Her arm was in a sling and it pained her if she moved too quickly. Everything had gone wrong. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did. She explored her feelings with a strange air of detachment: so much frustration, so much pent-up anger, and behind it all a deep-rooted fear. And it was all Alwenna’s fault. She coughed, and had to stop pacing back and forth as pain seared through her ribs. She pressed a hand to the spot where it hurt. And then she was in a dungeon, Vasic leaning close, smiling, wine-laced breath warming her face. “Would it be a kindness to you?”
“You haven’t the mettle.” Every word took a supreme effort, every inch of her body ached. For a moment the scene dissolved and the dull pain eased. Was this death? Had she been wrong to fear it all this time? Then Vasic’s face swam back into focus. His words were distorted, indistinct. But somehow they amused her. “Such irony.” She began to laugh, but a pain tore into her ribs. A pain so stark she cried out and then it stole the air from her lungs so she couldn’t even–
“My lady? What happened?” Erin bent over her, alarmed. “Are you hurt?”
Alwenna gaped at Erin. Dazzling spots swam before her eyes and her chest was tight with the need to draw in air. Somehow she opened her mouth and sucked in a harsh lungful, and another, and her sight began to clear. She sat up abruptly, shaking as her body clamoured for her to fight, to flee, to save herself.
“My lady, what is it?”
It was all Alwenna could do to breathe. She folded forward, wrapping her arms about her knees, and gradually the pressure on her lungs eased.
There was a clatter at the door and Weaver crashed into the room. “What’s going on? Is–”
He halted, staring at Alwenna. Bare-chested, one half of his face was clean-shaven, the other lathered, a spot of blood mingling with the lather on his jawline where the blade had slipped.
And she couldn’t help but laugh, shakily at first. Wide-eyed, Erin snatched up a towel and held it in front of Alwenna to spare her blushes.
Weaver’s face coloured with embarrassment. “I thought you were being murdered.”
Alwenna t
ried to get her breathing back under control, gulping for air between bursts of laughter. “No,” was all she managed.
“Then by the Goddess’s name what happened?”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she splashed her face with water. That helped her regain control. “I dozed off. It was a nightmare, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” His mouth twisted with distaste, the way it did every time she mentioned the sight. It was enough to sober her up.
“That’s all. Truly.” She could almost breathe normally again, and the sensation of pain in her ribs was nothing but a bad memory. She shivered. “It was an unpleasant one, but I do apologise, for I’ve made you cut yourself.”
He raised a hand to his jaw. “It’s nothing. You’re unhurt?”
“I’m unhurt.” In that shadowy place she didn’t know a woman was murmuring soothing words to a man who’d woken from a nightmare. Her nightmare. Yet how could that be? She shook her head to clear it of the whispers.
Frowning, Weaver studied her face, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure, my lady?”
“Why ever would I say I was unhurt if I wasn’t? If you don’t mind, I would very much like to get out of this bath, but there’s a terrible draught from that doorway.” She gathered her knees, ready to stand.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Weaver turned away and she caught a glimpse of a raw wound on his ribs before he shut the door abruptly behind himself.
“The towel, Erin, if you please.” Alwenna stood and the girl hastily offered up the towel, attempting to assume the mask-like composure she’d worn throughout her time at Highkell.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
The high seer from Lynesreach precinct was a portly man whose substantial belly and air of self-consequence invariably preceded him into the room. His flesh brimmed up around the ostentatious signet ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand, suggesting he hadn’t always been that way. Vasic had no real wish to speak to the man, but he was clutching at straws. And the High Seer Yurgen of Lynesreach was a very substantial straw indeed. If Vasic should make it through this mysterious illness, he intended to inspect the precinct at Lynesreach. If the rest of the brethren had grown even half as hefty as Yurgen, he would raise their taxes.
Yurgen was surprisingly supple for his build and he bowed in creditable style, his nose almost scraping the floor. The haughty note from his letter to Vasic before the wedding was absent today – instead his manner was all appeasement. The week he’d spent kicking his heels in the guest lodgings since the wedding might have sweetened him somewhat.
“Highness, I am your most loyal servant, humble and eager to do your bidding.” He straightened up, folding his hands in pious manner, keeping his eyes lowered in a gratifying display of humility.
Could Vasic even rely on the man to tell him the truth, should he know it? The seer had all the appearance of one who was determined to please, whatever the cost. Vasic stroked his chin. His beard was growing apace. He loathed the feel of it, but it served to hide the worst ravages of his mysterious illness.
As ever Vasic was tempted to say nothing. The sight would tell the seer what he wanted from him, would it not? Yurgen waited in silence, an ingratiating smile plastered on his face while he kept his eyes deferentially lowered. Really, the man was an intolerable sycophant once he was within range of immediate consequences for his actions.
Vasic sighed. “You must be frank with me, high seer. I know you are well able to cast aside concerns of precedence and status where matters of the sight are concerned – I have your reply concerning the Lady Alwenna as proof of that.”
The man paled visibly and lowered his head further. “Your highness, the sight is impartial. It grieved me greatly to write such–”
Vasic raised one hand in the air and the man fell silent. With his face directed at the floor his peripheral vision had to be remarkable indeed. Vasic lowered his hand again, resting it on the arm on his chair before the tremors could be seen.
“I make no recrimination for that letter. It is over and done.” He drew in a breath, looking for the words to phrase his query in as roundabout a way as possible. “Today I would have you tell me what visions the sight has brought you since then.”
“Your highness, the sight is a fickle thing, it ebbs and flows like the tide. It is ever secretive and the glimpses it grants us are often obscure.”
“Yes, yes. I know that. Just tell me what you have seen.”
The man licked his lips nervously. “Highness, I hardly know where to begin…”
He was indeed pale. Paler than Vasic could ever recall seeing him before. Something about his manner reminded Vasic of… himself. His own haunted sleep and feverish night-fears. “Tell me, Yurgen, do you have visions that recur, night after night?”
Yurgen’s eyes widened and for a moment, in his surprise, he looked straight at Vasic. “Highness, I do.” He seemed at a loss as to what to say next.
“Then perhaps you might begin with those, before we both die of old age.”
Yurgen shuffled his feet. “You must understand, highness, that the sight is often imprecise, and can defy rational explanation.” He hesitated, looking up at Vasic with apprehension.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Was the old fraud about to reveal something he needed to hear for once? Vasic snapped his fingers. The guards at the door stood to attention. “Leave us. You will remain outside and ensure we are not disturbed until I give you further orders.” He waited until the door had closed behind them before turning his attention back to the high seer.
“Very well, Yurgen. Tell me what the sight has revealed to you.”
Yurgen bowed again, nose almost to the ground once more. He shook as he straightened up again, clasping and reclasping his hands in the time-honoured pose of the overly pious. “This week, night after night, your highness, I have seen… death. And with it darkness, such a darkness as I have never seen before. It corrupts all it touches. It is tainted, it runs against all natural order, an abomination.” He shivered, the knuckles of his clasped hands whitening. “This much I can sense, but where the darkness is situated I cannot tell, or what form it takes. Its origin is… hidden from me. Unknowable.”
Once Vasic would have scorned the man’s words, sneered at his lack of solid information. Once. But the high seer’s palpable fear convinced him. The man had always been holier-than-thou and arrogant with it. But now his composure had quite deserted him as he spoke of this mysterious darkness. Vasic fingered his beard. Darkness. The seer’s words resonated with his own sense of foreboding.
“What else, Yurgen, besides this darkness?”
“Your highness, the darkness runs through everything, it reaches out across the kingdom. It… I think… it would engulf you if it had its way.”
This was not the complacent litany he was used to hearing from seers. This was something raw, elemental. The man’s fear was so heavy he could almost taste it on the air. This time, the seer believed. For once he would hear the truth, insofar as the man understood it. “If it had its way? It has a will, then?”
“Nothing is certain, your highness. I… I cannot examine it, every instinct forces me to turn away.”
“And do you believe this is some elemental thing the Lady Alwenna’s curse has conjured into being?” This was the question that most concerned Vasic. He expected the old man to crow over him, and upbraid him for not heeding his oft-repeated warnings by keeping Alwenna at Highkell.
The seer shifted uncomfortably. “No, your highness. It is an ancient thing, as old as death itself. And it reaches out for her, too. It hungers…”
“She fell to her death. None could have survived.” He spoke the words almost without realising.
“Highness, it still hungers for her. For all who are of Gabrennir’s royal line.”
A cloud moved across the sun at that moment and Vasic shivered despite himself. A darkness that hungered for royal blood? Even beyond death? The whole thing was preposterous, yet… it had
a ring of truth he could not easily dismiss, without knowing why it was so. “Pour us both drinks, Yurgen.” He indicated a decanter of wine on the side table. “I must know everything you can tell me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
It was only when Alwenna walked into the dining room and saw Weaver, freshly shaven and cleaned of the grime of several days’ travel, sitting there with the others that it finally hit her: she’d survived. Whatever had happened to Vasic, he wasn’t sending soldiers after her or they’d have overtaken them long before now. And those archers had fired on them, so they had to know someone had been retrieved from the rubble. Then again, all the archers had fallen with the section of curtain wall that collapsed. The Goddess had been watching over her, it seemed. Her next religious observance would be very different from the ritual she had always performed out of duty. She still had no reason to believe the Goddess had truly spoken, and it was probably just coincidence. But… belief… As a child her prayers hadn’t been answered. It was fair to say her non-belief had been shaken.
She realised Weaver was holding a chair ready for her to sit. She sat. “Thank you. There’s no need to do that – I’m just another traveller on this road.” In a plain kirtle she was once more anonymous, but not if Weaver insisted on treating her as a grand lady.
Weaver raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t argue. “We’ve been hearing more about Vasic. Rumour has it he’s not just ill, but gravely ill.”
Was that to be laid at her door too? “What would they know in an out-of-the-way place like this?”
“The freemerchants say rumours travel fastest along good roads. Roads meet here from all four corners of The Marches – it’s hardly out of the way. “
“Well, if the freemerchants say it is so…” That reminded her of the letter from the freemerchant, Marten. What was it that other freemerchant had said on the road to Vorrahan? He’d claimed her as sister. There they were, scurrying about the kingdom, passing on their nuggets of news. It was a strange kind of freedom to be always on the move like that.