0857664360

by Susan Murray

  The priestess sat with her hands clasped in her lap, grey eyes fixed on Alwenna. Alwenna knew those eyes, she’d seen those eyes, leached of any hint of colour, beneath Tresilian as he laboured and sweated in her dreams. And he presumed to judge his wife, after he’d cast her adrift in the first place? The girl met Alwenna’s gaze with quiet determination. Let the girl have him. Let her warm his bed and tend to his insecurities. Then her own unborn child wriggled with her. Could she deprive it of its birthright because of her own capricious fancy for a common soldier? And even if she could, would Tresilian be prepared to let her? She shivered. What a wonder they had wrought, indeed. She took up a wine jug and refilled her goblet.

  When Alwenna looked up again the priestess had gone. Her relief was short-lived, for a moment later Tresilian pushed back his chair, scraping it across the floorboards. With a word of apology to the freemerchant he withdrew from the table, striding out through the door that led to his private chambers.

  Marten moved over to sit at Alwenna’s left-hand side. “My lady, have you had sufficient? You will find this dish less rich than the rest.” He offered her some concoction made with what looked like chicken, at her best guess. Even the food in the land of her birth was unfamiliar.

  “I have eaten well, thank you.” She smiled just enough to take any sting out of her refusal, although she doubted he was much concerned either way. She knew a conversational gambit when she was offered one.

  The freemerchant set the dish back down. “You must be overjoyed to be reunited with your husband, my lady.”

  Was he fishing for a reaction? Probably. “Of course. The more so because it was so unexpected.” Alwenna swallowed another mouthful of the rough wine. Good luck to him gaining insight into her current state of mind. She’d be glad to know herself.

  “Unexpected, my lady? I had no doubt Weaver would tell you.”

  “Weaver knew?” The words escaped before she could stop them.

  “Why, yes, my lady. I must confess he did seem reluctant to take my word for it.”

  Alwenna glanced towards the lower table where Weaver sat. He’d been watching them, but lowered his eyes immediately. “Weaver is a famous sceptic. He once told me he believes nothing he’s not seen for himself.” At the back of her mind the voices began, the lovers immersing themselves in their communion. But this time behind it all was a note of doubt, of disharmony. Alwenna’s head ached. The great hall had become too full, too noisy.

  “Then I owe you my apologies, my lady. I ought to have anticipated that.”

  “It is of no consequence.” She pushed herself to her feet, taking up her walking stick. “Pray excuse me. I need some fresh air.”

  “Allow me to assist.” Marten stood and offered his arm.

  She wanted space to herself, not assistance, but it was easier to accept rather than make an issue of it before so many watchful eyes.

  Marten led her to a door at the other side of the dais which opened onto a courtyard garden enclosed by high walls. The garden was not as pristine as she recalled, but the air was clear and she had room to breathe. The night air was far cooler in the foothills than it had been on the plain, but welcome after the stuffiness of the hall. Lavender plants still flourished here, although weeds grew in profusion between paving stones. The fountain that had once played in the centre of the garden was silent, the green water in the basin giving off a dank smell. Everything changed, of course. She couldn’t expect it to be otherwise after all these years.

  The moon, almost full in a clear sky, had not long cleared the horizon. It cast long shadows across the flagstones. She sat down on the broad rim of the fountain, recalling how her mother had sat there on hot summer days, trailing one hand in the water. Marten wandered about the garden, frost-blown flakes of stone crunching occasionally beneath his feet.

  The air at this altitude was sharper, clearer, less laden with humanity’s grievances. Somehow she seemed to be less at the whim of her sight here. Despite that, she couldn’t push the two lovers entirely from her consciousness. It made more sense now that she should have been aware of them for so long, since one of them was Tresilian. She couldn’t rouse any righteous anger against them. She’d believed him dead for weeks and faced up to the fact their marriage had been more a matter of duty than choice, at least for her. She’d once believed it had been otherwise for Tresilian, but his absorption in the priestess suggested she had been mistaken. She was more troubled by his impossible claims to have died. Her only certainty right now was Tresilian had changed, and not for the better.

  “You are more comfortable now, my lady?” She’d almost forgotten Marten was there. It took a moment for her to realise the honorific still applied to her, despite recent events.

  “Why, yes, thank you.” Court small talk. She could remember how it went. “It is a beautiful, clear night.”

  “It is indeed – the Hunter watches over us all. An auspicious night for new beginnings.”

  Beginnings? She doubted this was any such thing. But she suspected Marten had accompanied her here for a specific purpose. And he would get to it in his own time, no doubt. “Tell me more about the Hunter. I understand he is your freemerchant god?”

  “We worship the Goddess as well, my lady.”

  “Indeed? I did not know that.” Alwenna had no need to feign surprise.

  “I understand everything you learned of freemerchant lore would have been taught by the brethren from your local precinct?”

  “That is true.” She remembered fidgeting throughout the tedious lessons on warm summer days, counting the hours until she and Tresilian could go riding or exploring the royal estates. “Very dull lessons they made of the subject, too.”

  “And doubtless called us heathen, my lady?” There was no reproach in his words.

  “I fear they did, sometimes.” Tresilian himself had used the same word, that very day, and claimed it signified admiration in his mind. But… Not all was what it seemed with Tresilian. Not now. “What ought the brethren have taught us?”

  “It is simple enough. The Hunter watches over our campfires and ensures our trade prospers, while the goddess watches over mothers and children and ensures our health prospers. They are of equal importance: for what use is good trade if a man has no family to send forward into the world and no heirs to speak his name?”

  “So family is important to freemerchants?” She recalled the string they had encountered on the way to Vorrahan, mother and children riding quietly behind the freemerchant Nicholl.

  “Family is everything, my lady. And yet we have nothing to bequeath them but our names. That is all the law of the kingdom will permit us.”

  Here was the crux of the matter, then. “And you would have it otherwise?”

  “I would have a great many things otherwise, my lady. I would have the brethren teach the truth about our ways. I would have our children enjoy the same rights as other children in the kingdom. And I would have the law changed that I might leave mine something more substantial than a name to be carried where the wind would take it. I would call a place home. A place where I may plant and grow. A place where my family might flourish. Not some hole scraped from a barren cliff.”

  Weaver had told her Marten was not like other freemerchants. He was certainly the only freemerchant she’d seen carrying a sword. “Would you surrender your freedom to travel for this?”

  “You have spent much time on the road of late, my lady. Do you not feel the call of home all the more strongly because of it?”

  Home. Where was that? Not here – she had no ties to this dry place. Not Brigholm, where she had been born. Was it Highkell, the place she had lived longest, the place she had destroyed? She shivered. “Mostly, Marten, I feel the call of a place that is… elsewhere. Is that not the call of the road?”

  “It is the call of your blood, my sister. And the call of your ancestors’ blood, back to Alidreth and beyond.”

  Nicholl had welcomed her as sister… Before she could ask Marten more, t
he door from the great hall opened, releasing the buzz of conversation across the courtyard, along with a burst of warm light.

  Weaver. She knew it before he was closer than a dozen paces. The thrill in the pit of her stomach told her. Goddess, let her not make a fool of herself. Not before Marten: he saw too much.

  “My lady. Marten.” Weaver bowed, a sketchy movement.

  “Join us, Weaver. We have been stargazing, my new sister and I.”

  Weaver nodded. “It’s a fine night. And unpleasantly warm indoors.” He shuffled his feet, fidgeting with a loose button on his surcoat.

  “Sadly, that is where I must return. I have papers to prepare for tomorrow.” Marten bowed before Alwenna, then straightened up, nodding to Weaver. He’d taken a couple of steps towards the great hall before he turned back. “I would offer a friendly word of caution: we are watched here, wherever we go. You would do well not to add more fuel to the rumours.” He turned away and strode to the door. Again there was a burst of light and conversation then the door closed, leaving Alwenna and Weaver alone in the courtyard.

  Something must have prompted Weaver to join her outside, but he seemed reluctant to discuss it.

  Alwenna broke the silence. “Does Marten know? About us?”

  “He may have guessed. He’s an astute man.” Weaver drew a breath, then cleared his throat. “I ought not have followed you out here, my lady, but–”

  “What – have you forgotten my name so quickly? I wonder you bother to speak to me at all.”

  “No!” Weaver took a few paces across the yard, so there was a respectable distance between them. “I… wanted to tell you I didn’t believe Marten. If I’d known he told me the truth I’d never have…” He tailed off into wretched silence.

  “The truth about what?” She wanted to make him say it.

  “About the king.”

  “Oh. You mean my dead husband?”

  Weaver winced. “I thought we’d find some pretender here…”

  “It wasn’t the most pleasant surprise.” She picked at a clump of moss growing from a joint between two stone slabs forming the fountain rim. “You might have warned me.”

  “I did try, my lady.”

  “How many days and nights were we on the road from Highkell? You could have tried harder.” She would never be certain what her choice would have been had she known Tresilian was rumoured to be alive. “I wish you had.”

  “As do I, my lady.” Weaver rubbed the back of his neck. “We should go back indoors before we are missed.”

  Alwenna shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure Tresilian knows already. He doesn’t care – he’s too busy with his priestess to worry about what I’ve been up to.”

  “But… my lady, it was a mistake. It can’t happen again.”

  “So you sought me out to tell me this is our ending? You presume a great deal, Weaver. Do you imagine I’d return willingly to your bed knowing you lied to get me there in the first place?”

  Weaver’s face was hidden in shadow. “No, my lady. I only sought to–”

  The door clattered open and a strip of light darted across the courtyard. A moment later a gaggle of drunks spilled outside, laughing and joking. They were so preoccupied with their laughter they didn’t seem to notice Alwenna and Weaver standing in the shadows.

  “Let me return you to your seat, my lady.” Weaver offered his arm.

  “No. I need nothing from you. And I want nothing from you.” She left him standing by the fountain and stalked away, ignoring the pain that ground through her ankle at every step.

  The great hall was even noisier and warmer than when she’d stepped outside with Marten.

  Erin hurried over to her side. “Is all well, my lady?”

  “Well enough, but I think I shall withdraw for the night. I have a headache.” There was no sign of Tresilian – not that she’d expected to see him there.

  Curtis, however, stood up and came over to join them. “My lady, I will escort you to your lodgings.” He gestured to two guards who waited at the side of the room and they fell in step behind him.

  “That is kind, but there is no need to trouble yourself.” Was she not to be granted a moment’s peace?

  Curtis straightened up, puffing out his chest. “It is the king’s orders, my lady.” The tabard strained over his ample belly. Doubtless there hadn’t been time to make livery to fit the new King’s Man.

  “Indeed? So thoughtful of him.” Alwenna led the tiny procession back to her lodgings as slowly as possible, leaning heavily on her walking stick all the way. She took a petty delight in the knowledge her armed guard must have looked ridiculous trailing behind her like so many ducklings. It was only a very little delight, and short-lived. When Curtis withdrew, promising she need have no fear for her safety, he left the two guards outside her door. She had little doubt she’d become a prisoner in her own rooms.

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  The great chamber was thronged with people. Alwenna tried not to fidget too obviously in her seat as she eased her back, stiffened from sitting too long in the unyielding chair on the dais next to Tresilian. Her husband seemed to have developed a taste for kingly spectacle since being overthrown by Vasic. Much of the daily business he’d once been happy to carry on behind closed doors now took place in public chambers. Today he was hearing petitions from his subjects. Many sought redress for the depredations of Vasic’s troops along the borders; others sought remuneration for providing lodgings for the army that currently protected his new eastern court at the summer palace. Perhaps it made sense to be seen to be dealing with such matters. At Highkell he’d happily delegated such minor business to his steward. But if he hoped to inspire his people with his greatness, he might be doomed to disappointment. The whole business was deadly dull for onlookers. As she stifled a yawn Alwenna noticed movement at the doorway, then spotted the freemerchant pushing his way through the crowd. A head taller than most of the men there, he made a distinctive figure.

  The steward called for order. “As noon approaches, if there are any more petitioners, let them speak up now.”

  Marten’s voice rose above the crowd. “Yes, here! I bring documents relating to matters discussed previously with his highness. I would beg his signature this day.” Alwenna straightened in her seat, her discomfort forgotten. This was what he’d mentioned the night before, in the garden. His face was drawn and his eyes heavy; he appeared to have been working all night on the papers. From the corner of her eye she could see Weaver. Stationed on guard duty at one side of the dais, he stood to rigid attention as he had throughout the morning. On the bench against the wall at the opposite side of the dais the priestess sat, once again in that meek pose, her grey eyes focused on nothing at all. Alwenna was aware of the slight lifting of the girl’s head as the freemerchant approached.

  Marten bowed as if he’d spent all his days gracing royal courts. The steward took the documents he held out and carried them up to Tresilian, bowing as he presented them. Alwenna longed to push the fat fool off the dais. He reminded her too much of Hames. The thought set the same dull echo running through her mind. Was the sight warning her this man was another such? She couldn’t afford to yield to the assumption the sight was doing her any kind of service. It hindered her more often than it helped, disturbing her senses and clouding her judgement when she needed to be sharp and alert. As now, for she’d missed Marten’s words.

  Tresilian made a show of perusing the documents, although he could only have given them the most cursory glance.

  “You will find it all as we discussed, your highness,” Marten prompted.

  Tresilian handed the papers back to the steward. “I shall study these at length later.” He frowned towards Marten. “I need not study them to find one glaring difficulty: Vasic remains on my throne at Highkell and controls the bulk of my treasury. Until the cuckoo is removed, I fear you have not upheld your side of the bargain.”

  Marten’s eyes narrowed but he maintained his composure. The crowd
behind must have seen nothing.

  “Highness, granting these rights now will cost your administration nothing. We do not expect you to buy our land for us: we will do that ourselves. We seek only for you to repeal a damaging law – one which serves no purpose in these modern times.”

  Tresilian glanced sideways to the priestess before he replied. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. Alwenna would not have noticed had she not followed her husband’s eyes to the girl at that precise moment.

  Tresilian raised his voice as he addressed Marten. “Do not presume to tell me my business, freemerchant. The terms of our agreement were clear: you have not yet fulfilled your part. I am not prepared to discuss this further until you have done so.”

  The freemerchant straightened up, his jaw clenched. “As you wish, your highness.” He turned and strode from the chamber, head held high and back stiff. He had no need this time to push through the crowd of onlookers for they parted to let him pass, a buzz of excited conversation rising in his wake.

  “And the business of this court is completed for today.” Tresilian rose and walked away to his private chambers, gesturing towards the priestess, who stood and followed after him, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

  Years of training from the succession of tutors her uncle had provided enabled Alwenna to maintain a mask of indifference. The irony was not lost on her, but she might have found it more amusing had her husband attempted even a modicum of discretion. With the aid of her walking stick, Alwenna made her way to the steps leading down from the dais. There, as she began to descend them, Weaver stepped forward and supported her.

  “Allow me, my lady.” He released her arm as she reached the stone floor of the great hall.

  “Thank you, Weaver.” She smiled, but he averted his eyes. The murmur of conversation rose up as the room emptied.