by CF WELBURN
“I could help those in need.” he said, desperate now. “I’m a skilled farmer, remember. I could train the Taliskans to become better horsemen.”
Gulmorgon shook her head.
“I thought you had come to trust me!”
She laughed. “Never,” she said. “And I didn’t need to. Whatever you did would fulfil the role you had to play. By truth, or trickery, remember. If you interpreted my patience and understanding for forgiveness, you were wrong. I had to let you find your own way.”
“You used me.”
“Someone would have. Better me than Kai. And I was as much a part of the augury as you. Neither of us could have acted any differently. We were born to live out these events. Your part is over. Mine is just beginning.”
“What if I just escaped?” he suggested, looking up hopefully. “I could run, never return.”
“You have no place left in this world. You have no loyalty. I don’t blame you: you were a pawn; you had no choice. But now at the end of it, you have bitten all feeding hands.”
“I did what I had to.” he said, looking away.
If she regretted what she was doing, she hid it well. If he had meant anything to her, he would never know. Just as Grinchell had never known.
“One’s own survival is paramount.” she said, coldly, picking up the candelabra, examining it then setting it back down. “You acted as any living thing must. But you went too far. Take some comfort that your actions have not been in vain. They have paved the way for a better future.”
“Of which I’ll share no part.”
“Not directly, no.”
He frowned, not understanding.
“Everything is too fresh. The people’s lives, their very beliefs have been shaken. Time is needed to heal. To grow. Isn’t that what your sermons preach? But you will eventually be remembered as the man who brought the Persuasion down; who unified two people and rid the land of tyrants. It will take time. A hundred years, five hundred, a thousand, who can say—but the name of Oben Granger will not always be tainted.”
He shrugged. It did not make him feel any better about having his neck stretched.
“And there’s more,” she said, lifting her tunic. His eyes widened as they ran over her rounding belly. “Our son will be the first of the free people. He will rule when I am too old, and the blood of the Conduit shall live on.”
“You’re—”
“Yes. Why else did you think I shared my bed with you? Apart from the Edalian lessons, that is.”
“Why didn’t you say—”
“I’m telling you now. To bring you some resolution. Your deeds will one day be celebrated, and our bloodline will rule in a new age of peace. You the Conduit, I the conqueror.”
He looked away, glowering at the portrait of the Sower, finally understanding. Nothing until this point had been of his own doing. Everything he had done had brought him here, to die at the hands of his own fucking people! No use in struggling any more. It had all been written long ago by black feathers, and he was sick of trying to defy it.
“Except, that’s not quite all, is it?” Gulmorgon said.
Oben was so distracted it took him a moment to realise she was waiting for a response. He looked back, not liking the edge her voice had taken.
“What do you mean?”
“Even now, knowing that we have a son, you will keep this from me?”
“Keep what from you?”
“Kavark has informed me, there’s another who shares the blood of the two people. Another who might make a claim. A son of your disciple, Rak.”
Oben felt a chill run down his neck.
“Don’t deny it. Kavark knows you have met. Where is he?”
“I don’t know—”
“I hate loose ends.” she said. “So frustrating. So inconvenient.”
“I don’t know. Rak died, he never mentioned a son. Whatever Kavark saw, it must be a mistake.”
“We both know that’s not true. Tell me now. If not for me, then for the secured future of your unborn son.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
Gulmorgon’s face grew tense.
“That’s a shame. I wonder if Blin could help me. Or your own son that you left behind. Bayron, wasn’t it?”
“You leave them the fuck out of this. They know nothing! I know nothing.”
Gulmorgon let her eyes linger on the portrait of the Sower for a moment before looking back.
“If you say so. Then, I think we are done here.”
She turned to leave.
“Please Gulmorgon, give me once last chance. I don’t know anything about Rak’s son! I helped you get here. We did this together! Spare me, let me be a father to our son!”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
She smiled. “None of this would have been possible without you, Conduit. Look proud, not ashamed upon the gallows. That is what people will talk about. That is how you will be remembered.”
Oben was uncertain of how proud he would look once his bladder gave out.
Gulmorgon continued towards the door.
“Wait!” he called out. She hesitated, and turned, “Will you tell our son about me?” he asked.
She stroked her chin, examining him one last time, then let her hand drop to her side.
“Good-bye, Conduit,” she said, turned and left. Her footsteps padded away out into the temple, leaving him with just his black thoughts for company. He overturned the bookcase and hurled the candelabra at the Sower’s smug face. It didn’t make him feel any better.
30
WINTER’S RETURN
The next morning, Lief and another burly Ixna came for him. He was made to walk back down the crumbling steps. The bodies had been removed, but the bloodstains and scorch marks remained. Once down, he was held in a dank room, much more like the cells he had been used to. He did not have to wait long. When he heard the noon bell ringing out, Lief returned, put a sack over his head and led him out into the street. It was a cool autumn day, but he was sweating. He heard hushed voices, felt rough hands and tasted salt from his own dirty tears. There was scuffling, a grunt and then heated whispering. He was loaded into a cart, which he thought was odd since the gallows were set in the main square, at the foot of the broken steps. He heard a bolt, chains, but when he shouted, no one answered. The wheels crunched and bumped over cobbles, and then the softer sound of dirt. It took him a long time before his fear dared turn to hope. He didn’t know where he was going, but knew he had left Corwen behind.
* * *
Oben dozed in fits and woke disorientated every time the cart lurched or bounced. It seemed they moved quite rapidly at first and then slowed to a purposeful trundle. When he slept his dreams were disturbed, while awake his mind was muddled.
In one nightmare he thought he had actually been hanged. That might explain this limbo, this bone-rattling purgatory. But although he did not know how a soul was transported to the Garden or to the Plague, he fancied it by wing or by sail, not by bumpy road, in a rickety vehicle that smelt distinctly of turnips.
* * *
When the cart ground to a halt and he heard loud footsteps on gravel and rattling chains, Oben sought for something he could use as a weapon. The pitch blackness and ropes, which cut into his wrists, did not give him many options. Instead, he just shuffled up against the wall and waited.
He had to blink several times before the silhouette against the noon sky took form.
“Blin?”
“Who else was gonna save your sorry arse?”
“Where are we? What is happening?”
“Shh. Time for questions later. Eat this.” She threw him a piece of bread that bounced off his knee like a rock.
“My hands are bound.”
She scowled as if it were his fault, clambered in, snipped the rope with a knife and then jumped back out.
“Just keep quiet.”
She slammed the door and replaced the chains.
* * *
Several days passed in this fashion. Blin would slow to give him food and water but would not converse or tell him where they were going and why.
Finally, he heard fast running water, the cart stopped, and Blin yanked open the door.
“Get out,” she said. “We're here.” She sounded impatient, but his cramped limbs would not immediately obey him. Once he had staggered out and clung to the cart for support, he took in the familiar view, the cold, rushing river he had already crossed twice, the distant mountains that made him feel like a speck. He looked back to Blin.
“You rescued me?” he asked.
“I’ll assume it’s just the surprise making you slow and that you didn’t bump your head in there. We couldn’t exactly take the main roads.”
“But why? I mean, how? What about the execution? Gulmorgon would never have allowed—”
“Don’t you go worrying about Gulmorgon. It’s taken care of.”
“She agreed to this?”
“Ha! You know her better than that. Or perhaps you spent too much time adoring her?”
Of course, she hadn’t agreed to this.
“You realise what you’ve done?” he said, taking an unsteady step forward. “You’ll be hunted down. This was supposed to send a sign. To start her reign on the right foot.”
“I ain’t done nothing. They already had their execution six days ago.”
“How? It was supposed to be me. I saw it on the Swan Road. You can’t have changed that.”
She shrugged.
“You saw yourself hang? Interesting. Well, for all intents and purposes Oben Granger did die on the gallows. Your old life is over. This—” she said, sweeping her hand across the cold north “—is your life now.”
“But the prophecy—”
“Prophecy is overrated. Anyway, no use worrying now. You’re away aren’t you? Unless you’d rather I take you back?”
He shook his head, even though she was probably joking. Probably.
“Is that… my horse?” he asked, as though Justice were a grey ghost.
“I know how attached you are to that thing. Thought it’d be an apt parting gift.”
“You don’t mean to come with me?” he asked, glancing across the Weaver to the only place he had left to go.
“Nah. Had it with the cold. And say what you want about you southerners, you make good beer.”
Oben chewed his lip. Something didn’t add up. He’d seen his death on the scaffold. Seen his own white, swinging face. Blin could not have altered that. Not when everything else Ethra had prophesised had come to pass. He looked over his shoulder half expecting they had been followed and he would be dragged back.
“Who did they hang?”
Blin shrugged.
“A man.”
“What man?”
“Looked like you, leaving Corwen in a hurry.”
“Don’t tell me… ” but the thought died on his tongue. The prophecy hadn’t lied, it had just been distorted. The face he had seen had not been his own, but very similar.
“You… hanged my brother?”
“Not personally, but I’ll take the credit. Looked just like you once we’d roughed him up a bit.”
“You bitch!”
“Again, you’re welcome.”
“He was my brother! And what do you mean, he looked like me? I’ve got a burn on my back, a tattoo. I’m missing a fucking toe!”
“Like I said, we roughed him up a bit.”
Oben steadied himself against the side of the cart. The scene of the execution and his brother’s unheeded denials flashed through his mind.
“He must have protested! Did nobody suspect?”
“Oh, he tried, but the sack on his head didn’t help him much, and the beating…. Well, let’s just say he wasn’t really making much sense last time I saw him. I don’t know shit about Edalian, but didn’t sound like any real words to me.”
“Where did you keep him? Why didn’t I know?”
“We caught him just before you showed up again. Gulmorgon had him imprisoned. For collateral, or something. What, you mean she didn’t tell you?” she arched her eyebrows in mock surprise. “They must truly have been sweet nothings she whispered on the pillow.”
“This is not a joke! He was—”
“Yes, yes. Your brother. I know. Brothers can be bastards. Mine was. Until I killed him. And besides, I’m your disciple am I not? What was I supposed to do? Just let you die?”
“You’re not my disciple anymore. This is over. We’re done.”
“You’re right. My perks would have dried up pretty quickly once you were out of the way. I decided to go out on my own terms.”
Oben glared at her. If there had been a weapon close at hand, he might even have used it. But after a long moment, his shoulders slumped. This was Blin. What had he expected? And he was alive. There was that.
Oben sat on the footstep of the cart and put his head between his knees. He felt angry and remorseful, but ultimately, relieved. And Kyrion had intended to have him hanged in Blanbury. He had tried pretty hard to kill him in Corwen, too. It was not much to ease the guilt, but it was enough for now. He looked up and said,
“She’ll kill you when she finds out.”
“She will try.”
“You’ve seen it already, haven’t you? On the Swan Road.”
Blin smiled.
“Then why go back? Come with me.”
She looked at the northern mountains, then spat.
“Nah. I prefer my odds here.”
“Everything’s just a game to you isn't it, Blin?”
“As long as there’s trouble, I'll not be bored.”
“Then you’re in luck. Wherever you go there’ll be trouble.”
Blin laughed, a short, sharp sound like a startled crow.
“You might at least have let me out earlier,” he said, shifting his aching legs.
“Thought a bit of time to reflect might do you good. Bring back some happy memories of Lanoc.”
He scowled at her, but she just grinned, then looked around restlessly. She clearly wasn’t intending to drag this out and had already detached both horses from the cart.
“Well, if you’re not coming, I need you to do something for me.”
“No thanks.”
“Rak is alive. He has a son. They’re in Nettlegate.”
Blin slapped her thigh. “That sneaky bastard!”
“Gulmorgon will hunt him down and kill him. You must warn them.”
“I just might kill him myself for leaving me up there.” She shook her head, a smile creeping across her face. “A son? That letch! Knew he was up to more than practising his Edalian down here.”
“Then you’ll go?”
“Might.”
“He’s changed, Blin.”
“So’ve you.”
“No, I mean, the Swan… Ethra, it did something to him. Go, see for yourself.”
Blin shrugged, lit her pipe and blew a waft of mela smoke away on the wind. She held it out, and Oben accepted. After he had exhaled, he continued.
“There’s more. My own son, Bayron, is in Blanbury. He could use someone like you to look out for him.”
“Someone surrounded by trouble?”
“Trouble is never going to be far away. Besides, you murdered his stepfather. You might repay him with your protection.”
“Yeah, I imagine Gulmorgon won’t take too kindly to having another of the Conduit’s sprogs running around. Not with her own on the way.”
“You knew?”
“Getting hard to miss. I didn’t think she was after you for your manhood, rabbit.”
Oben ran a hand over his eyes.
“Warn them, please.”
Blin sucked her lip.
“Hm. Blanbury, Nettlegate… which has the best taverns?”
She stooped, tapped the pipe empty on a rock and moved to the horses. Whatever she decided to do would be on a whim. He doubted she even knew herse
lf.
She dropped the pipe in Justice’s saddlebag.
“Something to remember me by.” she said, before leaping into her own saddle. “Oh, and you might be needing that.” She nodded, and he saw Mascal’s axe leaning against the cart. “There’s bears and wolves and worse out there, you know. Probably a few Tanda still skulking around. Never trust a Tanda.” she said, with a wink. “Well, this is it. Farewell, Conduit. It’s been entertaining.” And with that she turned, and rode away east, whistling as though she had not a worry in the world.
Oben watched her go and then examined Justice. She appeared well fed. He smoothed her mane and she snorted. Then, just as they had long ago, they crossed the Weaver into Skaligar and out of Edale forever.
* * *
He rode for a day, then camped. He made a fire, no longer fearing the Skalgs. They’d all but abandoned this hostile land, and as good as banished him from his own. Not a fair exchange, but he’d take it.
He decided to head to Threlwich. He had helped rebuild it, after all. It would be quiet, but there would be some food left. Gulmorgon’s lodge would make a nice home.
* * *
The following day the bloody snow returned. He hated the stuff.
At sunset he made a fire, stroked Justice and unbuckled her bridle and saddle.
“Thank-you, girl.” he said. “For everything. You’ve done enough.” He turned her south and slapped her on her rump. She whinnied and galloped off into the dusk.
He spent a lonely night watching the stars, and when he awoke, Justice stood nearby chewing on a root. He smiled and stood.
“Didn’t get enough first time round, eh?” he said, stroking her muzzle. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
That afternoon he ascended Tormen Ridge and rode across the bleak plateau. He could not help but consider the prophecy. It had been almost on this very spot that Ishral had marked him. But she had never returned to guide him again, not in his direst need nor finest deed.
“Ishral!” he shouted. Nothing. “It’s me! We did it!” His voice was swallowed by the vast horizon. Even with Justice’s company, he suddenly felt very alone.