Tyrant’s Blood
Tyrant’s Blood
Fiona McIntosh
The second instalment of Fiona McIntosh’s gripping epic fantasy, set in a world torn by revenge, love and ancient magic.Ten years have passed since Loethar, the barbarian warlord from the Likurian steppes, devoured the Devona Set with his army of mercenaries, decimating their ruling families and settling in their primary kingdom of Penraven. Believing the Valisar heirs of Penraven to be dead, he has styled himself as emperor and continues his efforts to integrate his people into the native population.But abandoning his more violent methods of persuasion hasn't quelled the undercurrent of rebellion; for the Valisar heirs do live. Hidden from the barbarian's wrath by loyal allies who risk everything for the future of their kingdom, they are bound to return and seek a tyrant's blood for the havoc he has wreaked.
Curant’s Blood
FIONA MCINTOSH
VALISA: BOOK TWP
For Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Marianne D’Arrigo, Margo Burns, Michelle King, Willa Michelmore.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2eadb09f-6b85-5ff9-ad36-f429ea14034d)
Title Page (#u13523f7c-8792-5345-bb96-7dbfe9fbee05)
Dedication (#ua2ef0fde-8499-5ca8-afac-d7b6de67ff00)
Map (#u7ba82f8d-12c1-5252-8aa0-9673ca9ca1de)
Prologue (#u48a0e2bf-a5aa-5cf3-9d9c-7806d8c33497)
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BOOKS BY FIONA MCINTOSH (#litres_trial_promo)
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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_8e9da855-cfa4-5ed3-af9c-cfec12d04551)
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said as she approached. What an old-fashioned name Reginald was for someone his age; it didn’t suit him at all.
‘I thought you’d come,’ he said, not looking up.
She loved his voice and his economy with words. Reg had always been able to comfort her even when he was silent, which was most of the time. ‘Can I sit with you?’
She knew he smiled but he wouldn’t face her. Her question did not require an answer, nor would he waste the breath to give her one. ‘How are you?’ she said, sighing as she lowered herself next to him.
‘Same as yesterday.’
‘Grouchy, then.’
‘Not for you.’
‘I’ll take you in any mood, Reg, you know that.’
He looked around at her and after the unhappy morning she’d just had, which included watching a patient die, she felt instantly comforted and secure to see his sad, gentle face, buried beneath his straggly beard and the grime of his working day. She had long suspected that Reg liked to hide behind his longish, nutbrown hair, his hat, even that wretched beard, but try as he might, he could never hide his eyes. Intelligence—far more than he let on—lurked within those grey-green eyes that noticed everything and yet invited few people into his life, for he kept them mostly lowered when others were around. Now they looked at her; vaguely amused but above all knowledgeable. He had secrets, but then he was a secretive sort—everything about Reg was a mystery. The nurses cringed whenever she mentioned him, variously describing him as rude, deranged or creepy. He was none of those things. Not to her, anyway.
‘A death?’ he asked as she was staring at him.
How could he know her that well? It was infuriating sometimes. The tide of emotion she’d kept at bay rose but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If her training had taught her anything it had taught her to hold part of herself back from patients, or risk being swallowed by misery. But there was more to not showing her sorrow. In her quietest of moments she worried that she was a cold person; someone who let few past her guard. The truth was, she didn’t particularly want to share her life with anyone. Reg didn’t count, of course. He was a stranger she’d befriended so many years ago she couldn’t remember her time in the hospital when he was not roaming the botanical gardens, ever near, always available to give her a few minutes, always able to say the right things…even when he wasn’t actually speaking. Something was missing in her for sure—the lonely gene, perhaps…the one that triggered normal people to go in search of others and make friends. She obviously didn’t possess that gene. It was as if she were a misfit, walking around a world of people she didn’t feel she was a part of. She looked like everyone, talked like everyone, even to some degree acted like them. But there was a hole somewhere—a divide she couldn’t bridge between herself and everyone else. Reg was her curious lifeline, for he too was a misfit and seemed to understand even though they never discussed such intimacies.
And so she went through the motions of life—always had…even with her parents. For many years she’d thought this was simply because she was adopted. It bothered her to the point where she’d even taken some therapy for it but she knew in her heart that this was not a learned response—something she had reacted to on discovering her adoption. No, this was deep. It was in the blueprint that had made her who she was. And its particular presence in her DNA or whatever it was, meant she didn’t feel fully connected to anyone except Reg, the hospital groundsman.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finally able to accept that Jim Watkins was no longer of this life.
He said nothing.
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed but it came out as a soft groan, hugging herself as another pang of guilt reached through her body and twisted in her gut. She was answering a question he hadn’t asked and yet they both knew the question existed, hanging between them.
She began to explain, even though he hadn’t requested any further information. ‘I try not to choose, Reg. I have to be careful.’
‘Save all.’
‘I can’t. I’m different enough already; can you imagine what the media would do if it cottoned on to this?’
He shrugged.
She gave a mocking half-smile. ‘Proper journalists are just the tip of the iceberg. The gutter press and popular magazines, the hacks and mischief makers and those awful revelation shows that masquerade as current affairs,’ she said, mugging at him, ‘they would just slurp this up.’
He shook his head now, slightly amused, mostly baffled.
‘They’d never leave me alone, Reg.’
‘You’re looking thin.’
‘That’s a joke coming from you.’
‘I could eat a horse and it wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re lying. I know you so much better than you think. We’re thin, Reg, because we’re both hollow. Neither of us are filled with anything except a strange misery. I recognised it in you the moment I met you—the moment you walked into my life and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t trip you,’ he growled gently.
‘How else would you describe it?’
‘I tripped, and stumbled into you.’
‘And stopped me from going to see the clairvoyant at the Otherworlds festival.’
‘Rubbish. We were strangers. How could I have any hold over you?’
‘We weren’t strangers. Even if we’d never met I’ve always had the curious feeling that we’ve known each other all my life.’
He made a scoffing sound, offered her half of the orange he’d laboriously peeled while they’d been talking. She took it, inhaling the fresh scent of citrus surrounding them.
‘How old are you, Reg?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She laughed.
He looked at the segment of orange in his hand. ‘It’s true. I’ve lived too long,’ he said, looking down. ‘So I’ve never really known.’
‘Well, beneath all this fuzz,’ she said, tugging at his beard, ‘you look about mid thirties.’
‘And you’re just twenty and considered a genius, so you already know what it is to have that kind of attention levelled at you,’ he replied, returning to their previous topic.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘They didn’t leave me alone for almost a year when they discovered I’d qualified for Medicine so young. It’s all quietened down again. Now I’m just another intern at another big city hospital.’
‘And uncannily, often inexplicably, saving lives.’
‘Listen, I want everyone to just accept that I have talent and I developed really early. I can’t help that. The fact that I have a sixth sense for patients can’t be helped either but I don’t want to turn it into a sideshow and that’s what it would become if we continue down the pathway you suggest. The hospital will become suspicious, the community will start to request only me for all procedures and the media will start to hail me as some sort of messiah.’
‘Perhaps you are.’
‘Stop it!’ she said, flicking him with the back of her hand.
She ate the orange, enjoying the tart explosion in her mouth and they sat in an easy silence for a few minutes and watched the world of the gardens go by—mothers pushing prams, dogs walking their owners, couples canoodling in the early autumn warmth.
‘But how come we’re so comfortable together, Reg? Do you think it’s because we’re both orphans?’
‘Because we’re friends.’
‘Name another friend that you have.’
‘I don’t have any and don’t say you don’t either, because I’ve seen you with them.’
‘Spying on me, eh?’
He gave her a disdainful sideways glance.
She tossed some pith of the orange she’d peeled off into the nook of the tree where they sat side by side. ‘You’ve seen me with colleagues and acquaintances. You’ve not seen me with a friend. The only friend I have is you. Being with you is when I’m honest with myself and can be truly myself.’
‘Then I’m privileged.’
‘So explain why that is.’
‘Because I’m such excellent company.’
She gasped. ‘You’re no company at all. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You hold long, difficult silences,’ she nodded when he was about to say something, ‘not with me, I’ll grant you, but even during the most normal small talk you manage to make whoever is with you feel incredibly awkward. I’ve watched you. No eye contact, no smiles, mainly shrugs and grunts. You terrify women.’
He shrugged as if to prove her point. ‘It’s my special skill.’
‘I wish I understood you.’
He risked placing a hand on hers, then took it away quickly, as if burned. ‘You do. And in doing so, you understand yourself.’ Reg stood, helped her up. ‘We’re birds of a feather, us two. Just accept that we’re the loners of the world and we’re lucky to have each other.’
She nodded. Gave him a brief hug; knew it made him self-conscious but lingered anyway. ‘Thanks, Reg.’
‘People will talk,’ he said, pulling away.
‘Let them. I already feel like I’m being watched.’
Reg frowned; in his expression was a question.
‘Can’t explain it,’ she sighed. ‘But I have this frequent feeling that someone is watching me—you know—hiding and eavesdropping.’
He gave her a soft smile. ‘He’s probably in love with you but you’re so unapproachable he doesn’t know how to talk to you.’
‘Oh really? And you’d know how that feels, would you?’
Reg grinned sadly and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll bring more than an orange.’
‘It’s a date. Bring chocolate,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Bye,’ he replied softly and Corbel de Vis of Penraven lifted his hand in farewell to the gifted young intern who had no idea that she was royalty—a princess in exile—or that her healing skills were based on magic she brought with her from another plane, certainly another age…or perhaps most importantly of all, that she was the woman he loved.
1 (#ulink_c77fb675-9468-5068-a463-8a35d49aee01)
The man had been staring out of the window, watching the trees for movement but he turned at the knock. ‘Come,’ he called and waited while his private aide entered, balancing a tray. He frowned. ‘You didn’t have to—’
‘I know, my lord,’ the aide replied. ‘But have a cup anyway.’
He sighed. ‘There’s still no sign of my raven,’ he added in a grumpy tone.
‘He’ll return,’ the aide replied evenly. ‘He always does.’ He set the tray down. ‘He’s obviously very familiar with the region now, and feels comfortable to be away that long. It’s blossomtide, emperor. I imagine all birds are busy at their business.’
Loethar nodded gloomily. ‘How is it down there, Freath?’
‘Exactly as you’d imagine. Very lively—the leading families do enjoy this get-together and try hard to balance its political agenda with the equally important social binding. Even though this is the empire’s third “Gathering” there’s still that lingering tension. The Droste family is being snubbed as usual, but they’re only marginally less happy than Cremond.’
Loethar lifted a brow in a wry expression. ‘Well, at least they’re all equal now. There are no royals, other than myself. Ah, there’s that smile, Freath. What does it mean today?’
Freath bowed his head once in acknowledgement. ‘Apologies, my lord. But nothing has truly changed for the Denovian people. There may be no royal lines acknowledged as such but the new compasses, as you’ve denoted them, are still paying homage to Penraven.’
Loethar nodded. ‘They’ve forgiven me, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘No, Emperor Loethar, I don’t,’ Freath said gently. ‘Not even a decade can fully heal their perceptions of the wrongs. But I hasten to assure that you’ve certainly gone a long way towards leaving only scars, not open, festering wounds. You’ve been a generous benefactor to all the leading families, who still enjoy plenty of privilege and status—they can hardly complain.’
‘Indeed. I’ve not interfered too much either in the running of their compasses.’
‘And that’s another reason why they appear so tolerant and will increasingly trust you, my lord. A new dynasty is about to begin and enough of them dread a second war so much that they will support your child with loyalty.’
Loethar smiled grimly. ‘I can’t wait for my son to be born.’ Then he sighed. ‘And how is the empress?’
‘Grumbly, sir, for want of a better word.’
‘Gown not right, hair not right, belly too big, drinks too sour, food too bitter?’
‘Husband too distant,’ Freath added.
Loethar’s eyes flashed up to regard his aide’s. It even baffled him at times how he permitted this dour man such familiarity. Even now he didn’t fully trust the former aide to the previous royal family, but he believed Freath was the most intelligent of all the people that lurked around him on a daily basis. He appreciated the man’s insight, dry wit, directness and agile mind. When he compared that to his brute of a half-brother, who was his Second, there was little wonder—for him anyway—as to why he not only permitted but quietly protected Freath’s position. ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked, glibly, yet privately eager to hear the man’s opinion.
‘No, my lord. But if you want your household life to be less volatile it might pay to give the empress more attention. She is, after all, with child and feeling vulnerable.’
‘How do you know, Freath?’ Loethar sighed and took the goblet that his aide offered him.
‘I spent years around a pregnant queen, my lord. Iselda lost quite a few babies but I know during her confinements she was generally irritable. She was no doubt anxious—and for good reason, having lost so many—but also worried that Brennus would stop finding her attractive.’
Loethar made a brief noise of scorn. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Perhaps if you hadn’t killed her, I could have married her!’
‘I do hope the walls don’t have ears, sir,’ Freath said dryly and Loethar gave him a wry glance, knowing they were both well aware of Valya’s unpredictable tantrums. ‘Brennus was butter around her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘“Besotted” is probably the right word. Few couples achieve such devotion.’
Loethar grunted. Freath’s counsel was no comfort at all. In fact, it served only to alienate him further. Marriage to Valya was a trial. Since the lavish wedding that he’d had to force himself to get through, she had become insatiable for power and wealth, especially the outward trappings of both. He understood why: she was proclaiming to the former Set people that while they had once gossipped and tittered behind her back at the reneging of the Valisar betrothal, now she was empress they were required to pay her homage. And once she delivered Loethar his heir at last, her position was truly sealed.
‘Well, Valya’s had a lot of unhappiness in her life. And not falling pregnant for so long has been a heavy burden for her. But that is changed now. Perhaps our son will bring her enough joy to leave her darkness behind.’
Freath straightened. ‘You told me once that our empress had bravely defied man, beast and nature to find you on the plains but I cannot account for the significant gap of years between Brennus deserting their troth and my lady re-appearing in Penraven a decade ago.’
‘It is of no harm for you to know, I suppose. Valya’s father blamed her for Brennus’s rejection, even though she hadn’t seen her husband-to-be for more than a year. The king sent his only daughter and heir to a convent that nestled within Lo’s Teeth, all but imprisoning her with the nuns. She admitted to me a long time ago that she was sure she turned mad for a while—several years probably. And while time scarred over her wounds, it never quelled her fury.’ He stretched, reached for his glass on the weaven table nearby. ‘She escaped.’ He yawned. ‘And then came looking for the Steppes people. She made it through those mountains alone. Impressive.’
Freath paused, considering this. Loethar waited, sipping his wine. ‘So…’ the aide began, frowning. ‘Was the attack the empress’s idea, my lord? This is old history now—it can’t matter if you share it.’
‘It was no one’s idea in particular,’ Loethar lied. ‘I was a rebellious man, not satisfied with leading the Steppes people and wanting a whole lot more than the scrubby plains and the occasional visit from Set traders who felt they were superior to us. And then along came this striking woman out of nowhere, half-starved and with a rage to suit my own. She gave voice to what I was already thinking.’
‘And history was made, my lord,’ Freath said lightly.
Loethar sipped his wine again and turned away to regard the view out of the window. ‘Seems hard to believe it was a decade ago that we stormed Brighthelm. I feel as if I belong here.’
Freath blinked. ‘You do, my lord.’
‘We’ve integrated well, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘Yes, my lord, surprisingly well.’
‘So many mixed marriages,’ Loethar continued. ‘I’m very glad to see that the mingling of bloods has begun.’
‘General Stracker might not agree,’ Freath added, conversationally.
‘He’s short-sighted, Freath. Most of the Denovian people would be enriching the soil if it had been left to him. There’d be no one left to make an empire,’ Loethar replied, yet again wishing his half-brother had even a fraction of his aide’s insight. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he nodded at Freath’s enquiring look.
Freath opened the door and spoke briefly. Then closed it again, turning to Loethar. ‘It’s time to go, my lord.’
Loethar began buttoning his midcoat. Freath dutifully held out the jacket. ‘I hate all this formal wear, Freath.’
‘I know you do, my lord, but it’s necessary. Can’t have you looking like a barbarian.’ They both smiled at the quip. ‘What news from the north, sir?’
Loethar shrugged, allowing Freath to quickly do up his jacket while he struggled with his collar. ‘All quiet for now. We’ve had patrols moving through the forest. The notorious highwayman and his daring minions elude me but we’ve silenced them for a while. There’s been no activity in the region for several moons.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a bang at the door.
Freath frowned but Loethar inclined his head. The aide moved to the door and opened it.
‘I need to speak with him,’ a brusque voice demanded.
‘It’s General Stracker, my lord,’ Freath announced, as the other man pushed past him into the room.
‘Stracker. Speak of the devil!’ Loethar said amiably. ‘I was just telling Freath here that you were up north and all was quiet.’
Stracker grinned a sly smile. His green tatua slid in tandem, widening across his round, thickset face. ‘Not so quiet any longer.’
Loethar stopped grimacing at himself in the mirror and turned his attention to his general. ‘What’s occurred?’
‘We might have our elusive outlaw.’
Loethar’s mouth opened in surprise and then he too smiled. ‘Tell me.’
Freath quietly set about pouring the two men a cup of wine, unobtrusively serving it and then melting back into the room to stand silently. Though he wasn’t intruding Loethar was aware the aide could hear everything. It didn’t matter. He would discuss most of this with Freath anyway.
‘I can’t confirm what you want to hear—not yet anyway—but one of the men, and we are almost sure it’s one of the outlaws, took an arrow wound.’
‘Faris?’
‘We think it could be.’
‘So he’s wounded and got away,’ Loethar demanded.
‘That’s the sum of it,’ Stracker confirmed, seemingly unfazed by the emperor’s intensity.
‘What makes you say you almost have him, then? Simply because you’ve wounded a man who could just belong to his cohort!’ Loethar gave a sound of disgust and drained his cup.
‘Not so fast, brother. Hear me out,’ Stracker said, cunning lacing his tone. ‘My men tell me that the wounded man took the arrow in the thigh. Now I’m sure even you would agree that in this situation it would be every man for himself.’
There was an awkward pause until Loethar grudgingly nodded. ‘What of it?’
Stracker grinned. ‘Not in this instance. Our soldiers confirmed that the renegades rallied around the wounded man, almost setting up a human shield. They half-carried, half-ran him away from our men. They’re clever and fast, I’ll give them that, and they know the ways and means of the forest better than our men ever could. They disappeared faster into the shadows of the great trees than our soldiers could scramble up the hill.’
‘What’s your point?’ Loethar hated sounding so thick-headed and he knew it was disappointment making his comprehension sluggish.
Stracker clearly delighted in his slowness. ‘Ask Freath, I’m sure he understands.’ He casually took a long draught from his cup.
Loethar glanced at Freath, who obliged, tension in his voice. ‘I suspect, my lord, that General Stracker is implying that the man was important enough for the others to risk their own capture or death.’
‘Exactly,’ Stracker followed up, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.
Freath sounded awfully alarmed, Loethar thought, but he turned back to Stracker.
‘But you let them get away,’ he said, his voice quiet and suddenly threatening.
‘No, I didn’t, brother. I wasn’t there. Had I been, I would have given chase until my heart gave out, but the captain in charge decided it was prudent not to venture deeper into the forest with only five men. He knew we would want this information and so I now have it and have brought it to you. But in the meantime I had Vulpan taken to the spot.’
This time Loethar had no struggle in understanding his brother’s meaning. ‘Inspired.’
‘Thank you,’ the huge man said, deigning to incline his head in a small bow.
‘I’m impressed, Stracker. So what now?’
‘We wait for news. We will find him, brother. Trust me.’ Loethar did not resist his general’s friendly tap on his face, for it was meant affectionately, but he despised it. Carefully, however, he kept his expression even as the general excused himself.
‘Enjoy the nobles,’ Stracker said, smiling ironically as he left.
Loethar stared at the open doorway absently until Freath closed the door. ‘Freath, have I told you about Vulpan yet?’
‘No, my lord. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now,’ the aide said, returning to his previous task of brushing lint from the emperor’s shoulder.
‘He’s one of our Vested. It’s a strange talent but he only has to taste a person’s blood to know that person again.’
Freath stood back from Loethar, his forehead creased in amused puzzlement.
Loethar held up a hand with helpless resignation as he swung around. ‘I know, I know. But there’s no accounting for these Vested. Some possess enchantments that defy imagination.’
‘You mean his taste of blood works in the same way that a dog can trace a smell?’
Loethar grinned. ‘I suppose. He never gets it wrong, Freath. We’ve tested him time and again…even tried to trick him.’
Freath frowned. ‘So he has tasted the blood of the wounded outlaw.’
Loethar nodded. ‘Why would they rally around the man unless it was Faris? There is no one else of any importance in that cohort.’ He noticed Freath blink, but continued, ‘And some day the outlaw will slip up and Vulpan will deliver him to me. I am a patient man.’
‘Incredible,’ Freath remarked, shaking his head as he stacked the cups on the tray. ‘And this Vulpan is loyal, sir?’
Loethar shrugged. ‘The magic is not in doubt.’
‘Is Kilt Faris that important?’ Freath asked, reaching to do up the emperor’s top button.
Loethar raised his chin. ‘Yes. He challenges me.’
‘He did the same to Brennus before you, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me, Freath?’
The aide straightened his lord’s jacket, moving behind him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I meant only that Faris is a gnat—a vexing irritant—who thinks stealing the royal gold is somehow not the same crime as stealing from the good folk of Penraven.’
‘Precisely, which is why I wish to hunt him down.’
Loethar’s eyes narrowed as he heard the aide suck in a breath that sounded too much like exasperation.
‘If you’ll forgive me, my lord? May I offer a recommendation?’
‘You usually do, Freath. Make it quick.’
Freath cleared his throat as he returned to face his superior. ‘Let me escort you down, my lord, we can talk as we walk. We really must go.’
Loethar nodded and Freath moved to hold the door open. ‘After you, sir.’
They moved through Brighthelm side by side. Loethar was sure the man was far too sharp to have ignored that the emperor permitted him equal status—if not in title, then certainly in access—to any of his closest supporters. Even Dara Negev, who was showing no signs that her god was preparing to claim her, still maintained the old ways of walking a few steps behind the man of her household. But it must be two anni now that Loethar had given up talking over his shoulder to Freath and insisted the man walk next to him when discussing state business. Though Loethar’s mother, half-brother and even Valya had haughtily mentioned on many an occasion that Freath couldn’t appreciate the honour, Loethar was convinced that Freath not only appreciated the shift but quietly enjoyed the privilege.
They approached the grand staircase, walking down a corridor of magnificent tapestries depicting the former kings of Valisar.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Freath continued. ‘Returning to our discussion, I was simply going to suggest that you should consider raising people’s taxes in and around the northern area. Chasing through the Deloran Forest is time-consuming and a waste of your men’s resources. It also makes a fool of the emperor.’
Loethar’s head snapped to look at Freath. ‘He is mocking me?’
‘Tax those who protect and laugh at you, my lord. Tax the north. Any excuse will do. In fact, offer no excuse. Tell them the new tax is to cover the losses that Faris inflicts. Remind the north that it is their hard-earned, hard-paid taxes that are being stolen and if they won’t help you find him, they will certainly help repair his damage.’
Loethar smiled. ‘Very good, Freath. Very good indeed.’
He felt Freath shrug beside him. ‘I would call off your men immediately, my lord. You should make it appear as if you don’t care one way or the other, so long as you have the money due the empire. I would be happy to make that declaration for you, sire, should you need.’
‘Not frightened of being unpopular?’
Freath gave a snort of disdain. ‘They hated me a long time ago, Emperor Loethar. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I shall think on your idea.’
Freath bowed. ‘I shall let the empress know, my lord, that you and her guests await her.’
As Loethar moved into the grand salon to the heralding of trumpets, Freath strode up the stairs, feeling an old familiar tension twisting in his belly. Once out of sight from the ground level he took a moment alone on the landing to lean against the balustrade, taking two deep breaths to calm himself. He hadn’t felt like this in so many anni he’d nearly forgotten what it was to be poised on the precipice of death. Ten anni previous he’d been exposed to negotiating that very knife-edge daily. Though somehow he’d survived, his beautiful Genrie had not. The passing years had not made her loss any easier. He visited her unmarked grave frequently, and although it hurt his heart not to leave flowers—for he couldn’t be seen to be mourning her—he left behind his silent grief. Her death had bought his life, and what a strange, evil life it had become: forever lying, masquerading and patiently plotting.
The only surprise had been his helpless admiration—although he fought it daily—for the man he knew he should despise. He found it easy to hate General Stracker, to inwardly sneer at Dara Negev and to truly abhor the empress. But Loethar was not as simple. The man was actually every inch the born leader that Brennus had been. And if he had been born a Valisar rather than a Steppes barbarian, Freath knew they’d all be admiring him. Loethar was taking an approach with the Denovians that could only be congratulated. There was no doubting that the new emperor was very tough—but which sovereign wasn’t? None of the Valisars down the ages were known for being spineless. All were hard men, capable of making the most difficult of decisions. Any ruler who took a soft line with detractors would almost certainly perish. Freath often thought, hating himself as he did so, that if he had been in Loethar’s boots, there was little he would or could have done any other way.
He’d tried to explain this once to Kirin, his constant companion, but Kirin would have none of it. Besides, Kirin always had him over a barrel whenever he resorted to the final demand, always impossible to answer. Why, though, Freath? he would challenge. Why did he do it in the first place? It has to be in pursuit of power. And there is no honour in coveting what is not yours in the first place.
Kirin was right—in principle—especially if you believed in fairies or the Legend of Algin, and that everyone wanted to live in peace and no one ever got jealous of anyone else. Freath grimaced. The Valisar Dynasty might be revered but it had been founded on bloodshed, acquiring land that had never belonged to the Valisars, not so very differently from the way that Loethar had taken the Set. The only difference was that Cormoron had seen the benefits of giving realms to families he could dominate, giving the false impression that he was a magnanimous conqueror—a benefactor to the region even. It was naive of Kirin to suggest that the Valisars—or any of the royal families—were blameless. All land, power and wealth were initially acquired through the spillage of blood. Loethar and his horde were no different—if anything, where Loethar was blunt, he was at least honest.
Despite Loethar’s surprising explanation that his attack on the Denovian Set was purely a matter of opportunity, Freath still wasn’t convinced fortuity alone had triggered the seemingly sudden invasion. The emperor’s rationale was plausible, and probably true, but there was more to it, Freath was sure. The seven realms had peacefully lived alongside Droste to the northeast as well as further east over Lo’s Teeth into the Steppes where the plains people lived. It was true that there had not been a great deal of interaction between Denovians and the Steppes folk but trade during the reign of Brennus had increased. Perhaps beginning to see more of the Denovians, their way of life, their excesses, had attracted Loethar’s people?
Freath pulled out a kerchief and wiped his face, wishing that he could wipe away his fear. For ten anni patience had been all that shared his life. It was a companion that made him feel weak, disloyal, pathetic. He knew it was also his friend. Patience would win through for him, for them, for their cause. Them. He closed his eyes. He had bought them some more time in dissuading Loethar from hunting down Faris. Freath had presumed for many years now that the true king, Leo, had fled to Faris and his men. Now he must get word to Faris and learn at last whether the outlaw had raised a king in these intervening years. A decade of distance. A decade of hate. Would he even recognise Leo Valisar, King of Penraven? Would Leo ever forgive him?
He had to get to Kilt Faris before Loethar’s men did. He had to pray that Faris was not the wounded man.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Kirin approaching. ‘Are you feeling all right, Freath?’
Freath nodded. ‘Yes. A moment of reflection, that’s all.’
Kirin smiled softly and there was so much sympathy in the gesture Freath had to look away. ‘That’s always dangerous,’ his friend said.
‘Very true. Were you looking for me?’
Kirin looked around, checking they were alone, and Freath immediately felt his fear twist up another notch. ‘A pigeon has arrived,’ his friend murmured.
A combination of thrill and puzzlement skipped across Freath’s heart. ‘But it’s been years.’
‘It’s an old pigeon,’ Kirin said.
Freath erupted in an unexpected bellow of laughter at the comment. Few, if any, had ever heard such genuine laughter around the halls of Brighthelm, and Kirin’s expression was delighted.
Freath continued chuckling. ‘Lo, but that was a good feeling.’ ‘I wish I could do that more often,’ his younger friend admitted. ‘It gets better. The bird’s from Clovis.’
Freath closed his eyes, shooting a silent prayer of thanks. They had both long given up hope of hearing from their old friend who had escaped Loethar’s clutches in the madness of the original occupation. Freath had tried through every clandestine method he had available to find him, without success. ‘Where is he?’ he asked, breathless.
Kirin grinned. ‘With Reuth. Medhaven.’
Relief passed through him before another, still more exciting notion struck Freath. He reached for Kirin’s arm, squeezing it. ‘Piven?’ he whispered, daring against all his better judgement to hope.
Kirin’s mouth creased into a wide smile and he nodded just once before he faltered. ‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Someone comes.’
Freath let go of Kirin’s arm, stood back, and within moments one of Valya’s retinue of servants came scurrying up. She was a tribal woman. Freath liked her. She was quiet, diligent and good at her work—a lot like Genrie although she lacked spine against the empress. But that was understandable. Showing any sort of opposition to Valya, however minor it seemed, was met with punitive retaliation. Only Freath managed to rise above her dominion, and that was only because he had the protection of a higher authority.
‘Bridie?’ he enquired as the servant raced up.
‘Master Freath, she is…’ The girl stared at them both, lost for the right words.
‘I know, Bridie. I’m coming now,’ he assured.
The girl looked so relieved that Kirin shook his head. ‘Don’t let her bully you, Bridie,’ he said.
‘No,’ Freath countered. ‘Let her bully you. It will keep her claws out of you. Come on, we’ll go together and tame her, shall we?’ Bridie smiled tentatively and nodded. He looked over at Kirin. ‘Later? Supper, perhaps?’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’ll be in the library if you need me.’
How very normal that sounded, Freath thought. Kirin, a man of learning, was off to the library, while he, an experienced steward, was off to see to his superior’s needs. They had all settled down into a comfortable life, existing relatively easily with the barbarian horde—as though all the pain and despair never really mattered. And yet his heart was hammering and he knew Kirin was experiencing a similar rush of excitement that was a prelude to a new battle. This battle would not be fought in the fields with two armies. No. This one would be fought by subterfuge. Cunning alone had kept Freath and Kirin alive to fight this new day. And cunning would return the rightful king to the Valisar throne.
He strode alongside the scuttling Bridie, his heart suddenly full, his chest feeling broader than it had in the last ten anni, and his mind filled with wonder.
Piven was alive.
King and crown prince had possibly survived. He had never allowed himself to dream this much. But it seemed Lo had granted him his prayers.
If he achieved anything with his miserable double-life, he would see King Leonel crowned and the false ruler who called himself emperor humbled and brought before the Valisar sovereign.
Leo alone would decide Loethar’s fate.
2 (#ulink_c67d3c1e-844b-5226-a222-94ef0119fc42)
Two men were breaking their fast at an inn in Francham. The Amiable Dragon was a busy watering hole and resting spot almost at the base of the Dragonsback Mountains that separated Penraven from Barronel. It was in Francham that traders in particular, after a long trek through Hell’s Gate—as the pass through the mountains was known—would stop for a day or so. Weary travellers would replenish their stocks, and those who were crossing in the opposite direction would make their final preparations for the trip. The traffic made for a lively town with a varied, transient population, which meant someone who wanted to remain relatively invisible could roam Francham without being noticed. It was an unspoken rule, in fact, that people were entitled to privacy in this town.
The weather was mild. Blossomtide meant Hell’s Gate was well and truly open and thriving. The pair of diners was enjoying the morning sun, sitting at a corner table, facing the main street to the mountains beyond that loomed over Francham. One of the men, who had just finished eating and was washing down his early meal with a pot of steaming dinch, was explaining this to his companion. He leaned back with his mug and sighed his pleasure as he swallowed the mouthful of dinch. ‘…it used to be a great smuggling spot, you see, so the legacy of secrecy has been handed down through generations. I’m surprised I haven’t told you this before.’
His listener grinned. ‘You’ve only brought me here twice.’
The speaker gave a look of genuine surprise at this but the companion didn’t look as if he was fooled, going by his wry expression.
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you ever need to hide, this is the place to begin. The mountains are better but they don’t offer a bed at night or an ale to quench a thirst.’
‘Why are we here again?’
‘I have to see someone.’
A huge man approached the table. ‘It’s true,’ he confirmed.
The first man put down his mug and pointed to the pot. ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze narrowed in thought.
‘What does it mean, Kilt?’ the big man said, sitting down and taking his friend’s mug. ‘I’ll just have yours.’
‘Jewd! Ah—’ Faris said, with a sound of disgust. ‘I’d just got that to the perfect temperature!’
The younger man sitting next to him laughed.
‘I know,’ Jewd replied, nonchalantly. ‘Perfect for me, too.’
Kilt Faris signalled towards a table at the far end where a serving woman set down a plate in front of another guest. She saw his gesture and made her way to them, shifting her hips as she dodged around other people’s chairs. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking distracted but not unfriendly as she gathered up their plates.
‘Ah, pretty Ciara,’ Faris said. ‘Another pot of dinch, please, and we’ll need a fresh mug. Liam, some for you?’
The younger man shook his head but looked appreciatively into the big brown eyes of the woman. ‘Got anything sweet?’ he wondered.
Faris broke into a surreptitious grin and looked over at Jewd, who winked in reply over the mug he was sipping from.
Ciara’s lids lowered slightly as she regarded the youngster. ‘We might have some syrupcakes left from yesterday,’ she said. Then she blinked innocently. ‘If that’s what you mean?’
Leo cleared his throat. ‘I hear they’re always better the day after, anyway. Yes, I’ll have a couple of those. Thank you.’
‘I like good manners. Anything else?’ she offered.
Leo blushed, hesitated, then smiled politely. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll let you know once I’ve finished those, if that’s all right?’
She returned his smile, seemingly enjoying the innuendo.
After she’d left, Faris looked over at Leo but spoke to Jewd in a murmur that only they could hear. ‘It seems his majesty is in dire need of some female company.’
‘I’ll say!’ Leo exclaimed.
Jewd spat some of his dinch with amusement. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he complained.
‘Well, it’s all right for Kilt, he’s got Lily. And you, Jewd, I know you and the others can escape the forest whenever you want for some rumpy-pumpy.’ This made both men roar with laughter. ‘But you keep me on such a close leash. I’m twenty-two anni, I need some freedom and I desperately need a—’
‘Here we are, then,’ Ciara said, back with a pair of small, oval-shaped cakes dripping with syrup. ‘Careful, they’re moist. Don’t get yourself all sticky.’
The men laughed louder and even Ciara threw them a backward glance of amusement. ‘The dinch is on its way,’ she said.
Leo looked indignant. ‘Laugh it up, you sods. I really need—’
‘I know what you need,’ Kilt said, chuckling, ‘and we’ll fix that. I’ve been remiss.’
‘You’ve been a gaoler more like,’ Leo said.
Kilt grew serious. ‘So, do we trust this man?’ he asked Jewd.
His big friend nodded. ‘Yes. He’s genuine.’
‘What’s going on?’ Leo asked, chewing on a cake.
Kilt fixed him with a grave look. ‘The man you spoke of years ago. You know, the one who is now aide to the emperor?’
‘Freath?’ Leo said, looking between them. ‘Tell me Loethar’s slit his throat,’ he added, putting his cake down and swallowing. Then he glared. ‘But then he’ll have stolen more from me. I want to be the one to spill that traitor’s—’
Both men shook their heads. ‘He’s not dead,’ Kilt replied, cutting off Leo’s words. ‘He’s made contact.’
Leo leaned forward. ‘What?’ he whispered, shocked.
‘Well, not contact, exactly. But there’s word out. We’ve just received it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Faris left it to Jewd, who took up the thread of conversation. ‘A few days ago Tern picked up snippets of information that money was greasing palms all over the north’s “network”.’ Leo nodded with understanding. ‘Word was moving in certain circles that an influential man was seeking an audience with the infamous highwayman of Penraven.’
Leo’s expression darkened and he scratched softly at the close beard he was growing, his syrupcakes forgotten.
Jewd continued, ‘We paid attention, of course, but we’ve had this happen before.’ He shrugged. ‘Lots of influential men want to speak with Kilt.’
‘Usually to claim the bounty on my head,’ Kilt grumbled.
Leo looked at him. ‘You’re safe, though, aren’t you?’
‘Not safe enough it seems. The barbarians came too close recently. We got sloppy.’
‘You didn’t,’ Jewd admitted. ‘That was my fault.’
Leo shook his head. ‘Jewd, it was no one’s fault.’
Kilt sighed. ‘Attributing blame is pointless. The fact is, they nearly stumbled across you, Leo. We must never be off our guard. As for me, no one outside of our band even knows what I look like. Most people in this town, don’t know who we are. And this town might keep its secrets quiet but it also knows everyone and everything passing through it.’
‘Aren’t you two rather easily identifiable?’
‘Not when I wear women’s clothing,’ Kilt offered indignantly. Leo smiled.
‘He’s not jesting,’ Jewd said, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘He’s done it many times. I’ve walked alongside him when he’s been an old man, an old woman, a blind beggar, a noble.’
‘Ah, but my leper was the best, wasn’t it?’ Kilt said.
‘He was a triumph,’ Jewd agreed.
‘People gave me such a wide berth. It was wonderful. I shall have to find that old pair of clappers we’ve got somewhere and roll him out again.’
Leo frowned. ‘I’m sure Lily would appreciate the humour.’
‘No, well, that’s right,’ Kilt said, his theatrics dampened. ‘It’s why I haven’t used him for a while. And anyway, it’s not just me.’ He lightly slapped his big friend’s chest. ‘Jewd loves all the get-ups too. He came into this very town not so long ago as a drunken friar.’
Leo looked over at Jewd and broke into laughter. ‘And that definitely wasn’t drawing attention to yourself, was it?’
‘Aha,’ Kilt said, waggling a finger. ‘Sometimes you can deflect the scrutiny by giving people something else to focus on.’
‘Is that why you’re wearing that ridiculous twirled moustache, then?’
‘Well, I’m glad you finally mentioned my ingenious disguise,’ Kilt said, feigning offence.
‘And I’m glad you’re having fun,’ Leo grumbled. ‘My disguise is real.’
Both men glanced at the crutch balanced against the table. ‘The arrow-wound is healing well. Give it time,’ Jewd reassured. ‘It will be as good as new as long as you trust Lily’s herbals and the chirosurgeon’s advice.’
‘If only they knew,’ Kilt mused. Then he smiled encouragingly at his young king. ‘At least you’ll have a warrior’s wound to show for your time with us.’
‘How long before I’m ready?’ Leo griped.
‘Not yet,’ Jewd replied.
Leo glanced at Kilt, who shook his head. ‘You’re only just a man now, Leo. We have lots to plan before you can start plotting an overthrow. You can’t ignore the fact that Loethar has been very subtle.’
Leo grimaced. ‘He’s a better ruler than I would have ever given him credit for.’
‘I think the mere fact that you do credit him with this is a sign of your maturity. As few as three anni ago you wouldn’t have been able to see that.’
The king became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he is all that the Set ever needed.’
Both men gave sounds of disgust. ‘No, majesty,’ Kilt murmured firmly. ‘He stole your crown, he usurped your throne, he effectively murdered your parents and a lot of other good people. He wrote his imperial title in blood. And yet the true heir lives—he’s a man now. One day soon he’ll be ready to claim what is his. A Valisar has been on that throne for five centuries. It is your duty to return that regal line.’
Leo sighed. ‘I know all the rhetoric, Kilt. I just keep thinking that there’s peace now. It’s been a decade. Everyone has settled down to living harmoniously. I can’t forgive what he’s done but I am only one person…with a grudge. I keep wondering whether it’s better for the good of the Set, but especially for Penraven, that I suffer my family history and its sorrows in silence.’
Faris sat back, glad that they’d taken the precaution of seating themselves so well away from others. He could not have risked anyone hearing this conversation. He shrugged. ‘Well, before we start any discourse with Freath, you’d better seriously consider your position. I gave your father my word about several things, and one of them was to do everything in my power to return the Valisar throne to you. But there’s no point to that if you don’t want it.’
Leo glared at him. ‘Are you really going to meet with Freath? Is he mad, Jewd?’ he asked, turning to their companion.
‘I think so, is the answer to both those questions.’
‘Kilt,’ Leo spluttered. ‘Freath is a snake. No, he’s less. He’s vermin. And he’ll be up to something, mark my words. The man betrayed my parents. I watched him. I heard him. He laughed at both of their grisly deaths. He helped Loethar keep my brother on a leash, in a dirty shirt that carried the blood of my father. He would give you up to Loethar without a second’s hesitation.’
‘Which is why he won’t get the chance,’ Faris said jauntily.
‘Kilt, don’t. He’s not someone to allow into your life. He cannot be trusted, I tell you. I’ll kill him as soon as I see him.’
Faris looked pained by the younger man’s bravado. ‘Who said anything about trust? I want to know what his game is. If he’s up to something—or if Loethar is, and I know the emperor wants my head staring sightlessly from a spike at Brighthelm—then it’s in my interest to find out everything I can.’
‘It’s a trap, I tell you,’ Leo said vehemently.
Ciara returned. ‘Fresh dinch,’ she said, laying down the pot and mug. ‘You’ve got enough honey, I see,’ she said, opening the pot on the table but looking at Leo.
Kilt grinned. ‘Yes, I’m sweet enough, but this young man here needs something to wipe that scowl from his face. Can I offer you a silver piece to add some sugar in his life?’
Leo’s elbow slipped off the table in shock.
Ciara gave Kilt a puzzled smile. ‘Your young friend thinks you’re staining my honour.’
‘I apologise without reservation,’ Kilt replied, lifting his pot of strong but milky dinch.
Ciara turned to Leo. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Er, Liam,’ he replied, sitting up straighter.
‘Well, Liam, I shall see you this evening at the bordello.’
The king nodded.
‘And you, Henk?’ she said to Kilt.
‘Ah, Ciara. I have a woman in my life now, and she would cut off my bordellos and feed them to me if she thought I was taking my pleasures with you.’
Jewd nodded. ‘That she would. But I’m free, Ciara. Is that lovely buxom Jenny still working?’
‘She is. I’ll tell her you may stop by.’ And with that she left them to it.
‘Henk?’ Leo repeated, reaching over and stealing the mug of dinch that his friend was about to pick up and savour.
‘Hey! Oh, that’s just not fair,’ Kilt grumbled. ‘Go and pay, Jewd. I’m heading off. I promised Lily some supplies.’
‘She’ll certainly have those “bordellos” off in a blink if you let her down,’ Leo said between gulps.
They all stood.
‘Get word through the right channels,’ Faris said to his longtime friend. ‘I’ll see Freath. Let’s find out exactly what he’s up to, shall we?’
Leo scowled as Jewd nodded. The big man handed Leo the single crutch. ‘Hope that wound won’t slow you up tonight.’
The grimace left the younger man’s face, replaced by a smile. ‘Not a chance,’ Leo said, limping to catch up with Faris. ‘It will take more than a barbarian arrow-wound to keep me from Ciara.’
Faris had left Jewd and Leo to their pleasures, and was watching Lily pack up the stores they’d bought. He had never been happier and Jewd assured him frequently that this was due entirely to Lily’s presence. Faris had dismissed the comment but now he wondered if there was something to it after all. Up until Lily, the only person he’d permitted intimacy with his thoughts was Jewd. No girl had ever come between them and Lily was secure enough emotionally to see that no girl should. She hadn’t once created any bad feeling between the two great companions and, above and beyond that, she had been a blessing in terms of playing a big sister role to the young king over the years since his arrival into the camp.
Faris watched as Lily worked, seemingly oblivious of his scrutiny. He liked watching her move; loved the way she’d flick back her hair when it fell forward, how in that second he’d catch a glimpse of her lovely long neck. He wanted to kiss it now. In fact, he would. Getting up from his seat by the window of the inn, he walked over, put his arms around her waist from behind and kissed the exact spot on her neck he’d been watching. He snuggled into its warmth; could feel her pulse against his lips.
She laughed and squirmed. ‘I’m busy, Kilt.’
‘Never too busy for me, I hope?’ he asked.
Lily turned in his arms. ‘No, never.’ She kissed him tenderly and it turned into a long, passionate embrace. When they parted, she looked breathless. ‘What was that about?’
‘Am I not allowed to show my love?’
‘Your love?’ She looked surprised by his use of the word, but quickly collected herself. She kissed him once again, softly and swiftly. ‘Don’t ever hesitate. It’s just not like you to be so demonstrative.’
He sighed and let her go. He sat himself down on the bed. ‘I’m very aware that you’re one woman among a group of men. I don’t want to rub it in that you’re all mine.’
It was her turn to sigh. ‘Well, I want you to rub it in. I’d quite enjoy the attention.’
‘Oh?’ It was Kilt’s turn to look surprised. ‘Do you feel ignored?’
She stared at him with a scornful expression. ‘Kilt, how could I? You spend so much time with me, and you share your innermost thoughts with me to the point where I want to cover my ears and yell, “no more!”.’
His gaze narrowed. ‘Less of the sarcasm, please. We were enjoying a nice moment.’
‘We could enjoy so many more if you’d only let me in.’ Lily turned away and continued carefully packing goods into sacks and saddlebags. She inhaled a bunch of fleshy leaves. ‘Ah, I love the smell of fresh borrega. We’ll have some deliciously flavoured stews through Leaf-fall as this dries.’
Kilt wasn’t ready to let their discussion go. ‘Let you in? Where?’
Now she looked at him with exasperation, before moving across to where he sat. Tapping his head, she said, ‘In here, you fool. That is the place I want to be permitted to glimpse.’
Ignoring her plea, he pulled her small, voluptuous body closer. ‘Well, I know where I want to be in,’ he said, his tone lascivious now.
She pushed away gently, slightly wearily. ‘I’m busy and you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘I am,’ he replied, his own exasperation matching hers. ‘Now come here, one of your bodice’s strings has loosened. I’ll tighten it,’ he offered, the tone in his voice and glint in his eye suggesting otherwise.
Lily deliberately moved further from him. ‘Besides, it’s not worth trying to be serious when you’re in this mood.’
‘What mood?’
‘The one that is hoping for a tumble in the bed without talking.’
‘Oh, Lily, isn’t that what every man is hoping for?’ he asked, frustration spilling over. ‘You’re ruining what could have been some precious time alone together.’
She didn’t answer him; she gave him an arch glance instead as she packed away some threads and new needles, ticking them off her list.
‘What do you want from me?’ he asked, feeling injured.
‘Is that a genuine question?’ she commented, looking up from her list.
‘Of course it is.’
‘Because I’m not sure you want the honest answer.’ Lily’s hands were on her hips now, the list momentarily forgotten.
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. Because honesty would require you to confront who you are, Kilt Faris. I’ve been with you for a decade now. I’ve healed your aches and stitched your wounds, I’ve washed your clothes and cooked for you. I’ve been your loyal companion and I’ve made love to you throughout that time and never tired of you. I’ve—’
‘You’re a perfect woman, Lily.’ He cut across her words with a triumphant grin.
She looked sadly back at him. ‘Everything’s a jest to you, Kilt.’ She turned away. ‘Even us.’
‘That’s not true,’ he said, scrambling forward across the bed. ‘Don’t be like this, Lily. I really don’t know how to make you happy. Frankly, I didn’t know you were unhappy.’
‘I’m not,’ she said, returning to her packing.
‘You sound it.’
‘No, I’m disappointed, that’s all. I feel as though I’m always on the outside, Kilt. You only let me get so close and then you seem to draw curtains around yourself.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You have secrets. They shut me out.’
‘Me?’ he asked, sounding astonished. ‘No! How can you accuse me of that after so long together?’
‘You’re lying. There’s something restless inside you that only you control, only you know about, only you glimpse. I can only get so far with you and it’s because of that invisible line you’ve drawn around yourself that I know you can never fully love me the way I want to be loved. You take me and my affections for granted, Kilt. And the saddest part is, I’m a little trapped by how much you all need me. I’m not being a martyr, I’m simply stating a fact.’
He stared at her, genuinely hurt. ‘How can you say that?’
She looked back at him, sad and resigned. ‘When did you last tell me you loved me?’
‘A moment ago, I think!’
‘Did you? Did you actually come in here with the full intention of looking into my eyes and telling me you love me? No. You came in here to enjoy some lovemaking. I don’t mean to complain, Kilt. But the fact is, you don’t show you love me, and never, not once have you ever uttered the words, I love you, Lily.’ She held up her hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say. The thing is you probably do love me in your own curious way. You are good to me and you keep me safe and you’ve been a strong figurehead for Leo. I’ve been a part of your life over these years, and that has been wonderful. But—’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what else to do for you. I share every ounce of myself physically and emotionally. You don’t or perhaps can’t reciprocate in the same manner.’
Kilt looked pained. He sighed. ‘But how do you know you love me? You’ve hardly lived, Lily. You could meet any handsome fellow tomorrow and fall head over heels.’
‘Don’t turn this on me. I’m not looking for anyone else and I’d love to know how you imagine someone handsome and available is going to stumble across me when I choose to spend my life in the forest with you. I only come into town twice an anni! Besides, we’re talking about you and how you treat me. And by the way, your suggestion is ridiculous.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘I’m so sorry, Lily. Truly, I am.’
She allowed him to draw her into his arms, relaxing into them, and he could tell she didn’t want to prolong this conversation. ‘I’m not angry.’ Her expression became more wistful. ‘I suppose I am as happy as you permit, Kilt.’ Her careful words were not lost on him.
‘How can I make this better between us?’
‘Let down your guard with me. I’m hardly a stranger and I would never do anything to hurt you or be disloyal to you.’ She stroked his hair, touching the first silvering at his temple. ‘Our relationship is a decade old, or do you forget?’
He shook his head and kissed her softly. ‘No, you’ve saved me a fortune in brothel fees.’
Lily’s eyes widened in horror and she mock-swiped at him. ‘That is really going to cost you, Master Faris!’
He laughed, inwardly sighing with relief that she was keen to lighten the moment. He hugged her more tightly, knowing something profound needed to be said now to secure her faith in him. ‘I’ll have to marry you soon, Lily.’
That caught her attention. She didn’t speak immediately, but stared at him silently, searching his eyes. ‘Do you mean that?’ she said, her eyes glistening, her voice soft, unsure.
‘I’ve never meant anything more deeply. We’re as good as husband and wife now. Let’s make it official as soon as we can.’
Lily embraced him tightly. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
He laughed, twirled her around. ‘This is going to make all the boys happy.’
‘Are you sure? Jewd won’t mind?’
He made a dismissive gesture.‘He told me only last moon that if I didn’t hurry up, he’d ask you and steal you from beneath my nose.’
She smiled. ‘Well, it’s tempting. I’m sure Jewd shares more with me than you ever could!’ She didn’t say it unkindly, though. Then she laughed. ‘And Leo? You think he’ll be happy?’
‘Don’t be vain. Leo got over you years ago.’
‘Says the great father figure!’
‘Well, in a way that’s been my role.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she said but her voice was light.
Kilt frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’
She smiled, and again it was gentle. ‘Kilt,’ she began, her voice affectionate, ‘you have left all the rearing to myself and Jewd. I’ve played the maternal role and Jewd has been at his side in everything. I’m sure I’m not being unkind when I say that if you do see yourself as a father figure, then you’ve been the most remote father I can imagine. Surely you can’t deny that you keep him at arm’s length?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t mean that unkindly either, my love. I understand that being a kingmaker is hard enough without playing father to him. In fact, I’ve told Leo time and again that it’s not that you don’t like him, but that you have to keep a distance in order to keep what we’re trying to achieve in perspective. He knows that you will likely have to make hard decisions and they can’t be clouded by your affection for him.’
‘He thinks I don’t like him?’
‘He used to. But he’s older now.’ She shrugged. ‘He accepts that this is how you are with him.’
‘And how am I with him?’
She regarded him quizzically now. ‘Distant is how I’d describe it. I’ve watched you. You never sit near him. You certainly never touch him. You always cast off duties that might involve Leo to Jewd. You disappear for long periods when all of us are together. And it’s got worse, rather than better. You spent more time with him as a youngster but you seem to have pulled back as he’s grown and matured. Leo is perceptive, Kilt. Surely you can see how he might interpret this as a lack of love?’
Kilt felt sick, and angry with himself. ‘I’ve just spent the last couple of hours with Leo,’ he bleated. ‘I can’t believe—’
‘Yes, I know you have. But this is how you behave. You go for weeks avoiding any sort of close contact and then, whoosh!’ she said, making a sweep of her hand. ‘You do something like this morning, as though you’ve come out of some stupor or you can bear to be near him for a short burst. Then you’re gone again.’
‘I wanted to see you,’ he explained, sounding injured, but his mind was racing across all of Lily’s observations. He hadn’t realised it was so obvious.
‘I know you did, and I’m glad you came to see me,’ she said, kissing him gently. ‘But once again you’ve left Leo with Jewd.’
‘Not exactly. As we stand here I suspect he is getting a taste of all that he’s been missing.’
She caught on immediately. ‘Oh, Kilt, not The Velvet Curtain?’
‘It’s part of his education. We’ve been raising a sovereign, my love. He has to experience all that we can give him and The Velvet Curtain is integral to growing up. It’s a rite of passage for all the young men in my band.’
‘Led loudly by yourself and Jewd, no doubt.’
‘Not anymore. I am a one-woman man. So let me prove it. I’ll buy a ring next time we’re in town, I promise, and I will talk to the preacher about a wedding in the next few moons.’
Lily gave a soft squeal of delight before adding: ‘I can’t believe the lengths I’ll go to in order to get a new dress!’
Faris grinned, taking pleasure in Lily’s obvious joy. Lily asked so little of him and yet had brought so much to the outlaws. It was true that he’d taken her support and constant presence for granted. ‘You may have whatever you want, my love. But there is a favour I need.’
‘Oh?’
He nodded. ‘A man called Freath will be making contact soon. He’s from the palace.’
‘Freath? Why do I know that name?’
‘He’s the one Leo has declared his favourite enemy alongside you-know-who.’
Comprehension spread across Lily’s face. ‘Of course, the treacherous manservant.’
Faris nodded. ‘The very one.’
‘And he’s contacted you?’ she asked, incredulous.
Faris hesitated. ‘Not directly. But in a roundabout way he has. It’s certainly me he’s after but he’s being deliberately coy, as if protecting me. It doesn’t add up. I want to know what he knows.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Not if I take the right precautions—and you know me.’
‘This isn’t just a chance for you to wear one of my skirts, is it?’
‘Lily, how unkind,’ he said, feigning indignation. ‘No,’ he began again, turning more serious. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye. Freath is coming to me and he’s coming with stealth and care, it seems. He’s found me in the same way that if I wanted to find me I would. Does that make sense?’
‘You mean, he’s not screaming your name from the rooftops.’
‘Yes. Word has got through he is bringing only a small party. He plans to slip his soldier escort.’
‘All right, so how does this involve me?’
‘He has a companion. Just keep an eye on him for me, that’s all.’
‘One of the men can’t?’
‘You’re far less obvious. I don’t want you to do anything dangerous; I just want Freath alone and feeling vulnerable. I have no intention of talking to him in front of his companion.’
‘How far do I take my spying duties?’
Faris shrugged. ‘Well, don’t sleep with him, my love,’ he laughed, avoiding her determined slap, ‘but stick close enough.’
‘Don’t let him out of my sight, you mean.’
‘Exactly. We are going to separate them somehow and I want someone inconspicuous watching the friend to know if there is anything sinister about Freath’s intentions.’
She sighed. ‘Fine. When?’
‘In the next couple of days. Now, forget that packing. Let me show you how much I care about you.’ He arched an eyebrow.
Lily fell back into his arms and they toppled together onto the bed. Faris tried desperately to lose himself in their affections but at the back of his mind his demon, his ever-present companion, began to gnaw more urgently. He was shocked by Lily’s observation; the fact that Leo had noticed as well meant that Jewd had long been aware of the deliberate distance Kilt had created between himself and the king. Jewd was too shrewd to make his queries as pointed as Lily; no, his friend would watch and make up his own mind. Kilt would have to be very, very careful from here on. He’d given his word to Brennus and would not break it, but in order to keep it he was going to have to exercise still more control while making a greater effort to close that gap between himself and Leo.
3 (#ulink_0a3b4f5e-8805-5436-aaca-b4791ea6b132)
On the other side of the realm, in a sparsely populated hamlet not far from Minton Woodlet, a dark-eyed youth with hair the colour of damp soil broke his fast with a bowl of creamed oats. He sat quietly at a plain scrubbed table and stared out of a small window into the overcast, drizzly day that the south was experiencing. From time to time he’d trickle a small amount of thick milk into his bowl to cool and liquefy the steaming, delicious glug.
There were only three small rooms to the tiny cottage and a man bustled in from one of the others now. ‘Nearly done?’ he asked brightly. ‘Did I get it right?’
The youngster turned and nodded. ‘Delicious,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Good. Hurry up and finish. I’d like us to get going early,’ the man continued conversationally, leaning to look out of a window as he poured himself some dinch from the pot simmering at the fire. ‘It’s not too cold but the wet weather means you should be able to find us some saramac. I have to go out for a short while. Just to Minton Woodlet.’
The youth kept ladling the oats into his mouth, eating precisely, swallowing carefully.
‘Oh, and excellent news, my boy. I don’t know what you did but the hens are laying again and Bonny’s leg is healed fully. She’s going to be just fine. I’d like to think it was my herbals,’ the man said, turning to stare affectionately as the boy scraped the last of the oats from his bowl, ‘but I know it was you.’
The youth put his spoon into the bowl with a soft clang and looked up. ‘Not all me.’ He shrugged, self-consciously. ‘I like to use it for good.’
‘I know. Just remember, we must keep those skills between us. Never show them off. Never.’
The boy nodded. ‘I know that. I’m finished,’ he said, standing. He lifted the bowl and jug to take them outside to rinse.
‘All right, then. You leave that. I can clear things up. Let’s get you on your way. You know what to look for. I need as many of the fungi as you can find.’
‘You won’t be long, will you?’
‘No, Piven.’
Piven nodded. ‘Be safe, Greven,’ he said, slinging a small sack around his body and reaching for his hat from the hook behind the door.
‘You too, my boy.’ Greven smoothed away the flopping dark waves of hair and kissed Piven’s forehead, as he always did when they said goodbye.
Piven regarded him gravely. ‘The sores have almost gone.’
Greven nodded. ‘I can hardly believe it. All that’s left to remind me I’ve had leprosy is this tremor,’ he said, holding out a hand.
‘I’m sure I can heal that too,’ Piven said. ‘If you’ll let me,’ he added.
Greven watched the orphaned adopted son of the Valisars leave the cottage quietly. He frowned. He’d never questioned that he’d done the right thing in stealing the boy away from the barbarian. That big black bird of omen had led him to Brighthelm and to the child in need—he was sure of it. He’d fought the inclination to follow the bird but he had especially fought getting so close to city folk, and particularly folk of the palace. But the raven had been persistent, staring at him for days, then when Greven finally agreed to follow, returning time and again, swooping and demanding that he continue on the pathway. And though Greven knew where the bird was leading him, he didn’t know why and he feared what he might discover.
He found a helpless, invalid child. And the bird had somehow called to that child, for Piven had looked up and looked straight at them, even though they had been hidden in the tree line on the edge of the forest. The boy had risen and without any hesitation had moved towards them. Greven had felt the irresistible pull towards the young boy, and in spite of every screaming reservation, he had held out a hand and welcomed the child.
Their life had been quiet and uneventful, each of them deriving security from the other. And while Greven offered Piven a life, the boy—fast becoming a young man—had offered Greven hope.
He’d been running from the threat of his pursuer all of his life, so why now, when he was more free, more isolated than he’d been in a long time, did he feel so anxious?
People knew him as Jon Lark, the herbalist who lived with his son, Petor. Once again he was raising a child alone. He’d known about this adopted son of the Valisars who had been mute, indeed lost in his mind—everyone in Penraven knew of the beloved Piven. But within days of their first clasping hands Piven had shocked him by talking. At first it had been halting and of course childish. He had, after all, only been five. Now he was a gangly youth of fifteen anni.
Greven had hoped the boy would forget his past but Piven had forgotten nothing; his recall in fact was daunting. He could describe Brighthelm in detail, walking Greven mentally through the various chambers. He spoke lovingly of his parents especially his mother, whose face he remembered so well that he had drawn her for Greven, and he could see that Piven caught her likeness with uncanny skill. Most of all he talked about his brother, Leo, and had talked a great deal about reuniting with his sibling. He never spoke of Leo as his half-brother, nor did he speak of the years he had been trapped in his silence, his own world.
Greven had tried to discover why Piven had been unable to communicate and, more to the point, how he could suddenly speak so well and so easily for a person who had not used his voice. When he asked Piven the boy would shrug and become introverted and Greven had long ago decided that he was fortunate to have the child at all—and animated besides. The whys and wherefores of his life before they shared it were of no relevance—or so Greven told himself. He himself never spoke of the life he’d had before Piven, and when word had filtered down through the folk who lived amongst and around the forest that Lily had looked for him, he had resisted the deep urge to answer those enquiries.
But what did puzzle, and to some extent unnerve Greven, was the youngster’s ability with magic. The extent of that skill remained untapped, and if Greven had his way, that was how it would remain. But Piven was still a very young man, with all the foibles of youth. There had been occasions on which Piven had shown off, hoping to impress Greven with what he could do. And there were other times, when he was angry, that Greven feared for what havoc the child might wreak. He mostly contented himself with healing magics but Greven was worried that Piven was simply biding his time with his skills. More recently he had begun to catch his adopted son deep in thought, a darkness haunting the youngster’s face, giving it shadows that shouldn’t be there at his age. But Piven refused to discuss those haunted moments.
To be fair, as he matured he also refused to take credit for all the brightness that his skills did bring. Curing the leprosy had been an astonishing feat that Greven still struggled to comprehend. How had Piven done that? He had simply passed his hands once over the afflicted areas and the eruptions that had once so plagued Greven’s life had instantly begun to recede until only the lightest of scarring could attest to the fact that he had ever suffered the disease. And the scars continued to lighten. The tremor alone told the truth of what he had been…what he still was.
In the last few moons, though, the moments of shadow had increased. Not so noticeably that it had become an issue but sometimes he would catch Piven standing alone outside, as if caught in a trance. And when Greven would call out to Piven, and the boy would turn and look at him…there was something odd about it. It wasn’t frightening so much as unnerving; he couldn’t fathom what the boy was thinking. He sometimes wondered if Piven knew the truth when he looked at him like that.
The most recent of these events had occurred six days previous, when he had risen to give Piven the news that Bonny, their donkey, had gone lame. Piven always rose first, curiously enough, and had set the oats on to cook, stirring dutifully to release all their gluey starch. After Greven had told him about the donkey Piven had gone outside, saying he would milk Belle, their cow. Greven had let him go, thinking the boy was upset about Bonny, but not long after he’d walked up to the hearth and found Piven in one of his dark trances, his face pinched in a frown. Greven had said his name loudly but Piven had not reacted, or even given the impression he’d heard. But moments after that the boy had returned, beaming a smile that looked full of the warmth of a thousand suns. ‘You don’t have to destroy Bonny. I believe she will recover,’ Piven had said.
Right enough, the swelling around the beast’s leg had begun to dissipate when Greven went out to check. He’d shaken his head. He had thought he would be slitting the animal’s throat. Instead, he was giving it a fresh nosebag of feed. Now the leg had healed.
Yes, life with Piven was good.
However, as if Lo himself had decided to intervene, word had arrived from Master Junes at Minton Woodlet that there was a nice couple looking to speak to him—an older couple from Medhaven who seem to know you from your youth, Junes had added and for some reason Greven’s internal alarms had begun to sound. He didn’t know why but he found it worrying that these people were interested in his child. In Piven. Did they know? He felt anxious and fearful.
‘But it must not show!’ he admonished himself. And it wouldn’t. His grey-peppered hair was tied neatly back into a pigtail. He had clipped his beard this morning and he had on his best shirt. He looked tidy, clean, respectable…not at all like the once-wandering leper who had crept through the forest with a five-anni-old boy and a strange black raven for company.
He left the cottage. It was time to face them. If worst came to worst, he and Piven could go on the run again, but he needed to know what they were up against. He needed to know if Emperor Loethar had discovered his secret.
Piven disappeared into the shadows of the forest but once he knew he was no longer visible he turned and watched the cottage. He may be young in summers, he thought, but no one realised, perhaps least of all Greven, how much older in his mind he truly was. In fact, Piven was keenly aware of his own curious maturity and he deliberately tried to keep it hidden as best he could. Initially he had been embarrassed by his own perceptive ability but now he realised it wasn’t a gift. No, to him, the new knowledge, the increasing sense of purpose that was still tinged with confusion but nevertheless gnawed at him relentlessly, had a far darker feeling to it…and was part of the magic he had discovered within himself. His maturity had become his curse and now he hated where his thoughts ran.
As his self-consciousness had increased, he had become cagey about his awareness, hiding it by acting far more naive than he was, hoping his contrived innocence might appear acceptable for a youth of his age. But while he and Greven did lead a closeted existence, well removed from others, naturally their paths crossed regularly with the villagers of Minton Woodlet. During these times he interacted with his peers, and in their company he felt like a stranger. Not because he didn’t know them—some he knew well—but because the trivia that occupied their conversation or their play seemed so juvenile.
The raven arrived, swooping to land on a branch just above his head to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Hello, Vyk,’ he said softly. ‘Your timing is perfect as always.’
The great black bird stared at him from above and Piven read query in the look even though his companion’s expression never changed. He explained about Greven’s urgency to get him out of the cottage. ‘He says he’s got an appointment but Greven doesn’t have appointments.’ He loaded the last word with irony. ‘He’s up to something. He was nervous this morning, very anxious to get me gone.’ He glanced at the bird and continued as though it had spoken to him. ‘No, I don’t know why but I can sense that it’s connected to me; something he’s frightened about. But he can’t have guessed.’
Piven sighed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that I spent the first five anni as a halfwit. Now I wish I wasn’t so aware of life around me. Why can’t I be like other boys my age and fret about whether a girl likes me, or why I can’t kick the pigskin around as skilfully as John Daw, or jump a horse over the nine-mile gate as fearlessly as Doon Fowler? Instead, I’m having thoughts about the politics of our land, or I’m considering the undercurrent in a conversation between Greven and the widow, Evelyn; or I’m constantly ten steps ahead in every discussion I share with Greven, trying to prepare the way so he doesn’t discover that I understand so much more than he thinks…and that I know so much more than he does.’
Piven broke a small twig from a branch in frustration. ‘Why is this happening, Vyk? I’m fifteen, not fifty. I want to be like the boys I know. Instead, I’m terrified by my own dreams. I’m dreaming regularly about a woman. I don’t recognise her but I know she’s special. She’s so real in my mind that I often try and reach out to touch her but she’s just a vision, nothing more. And yet,’ he glanced up at the bird, who appeared to be paying close attention, ‘there are moments when I think she’s aware of me.’ He shook his head. ‘I know that sounds ridiculous. She’s a dream. But she’s so different from my other dreams—the ones that scare me, the ones that are dark and filled with anger. They urge me to allow my true self to come through, but I’m too scared to find out who I am.’
Ravan flapped down and sat on the boy’s shoulder. Piven smiled. ‘You are a comfort to me, Vyk. You always have been. I know you go back to Loethar whenever you’re not here. I like that you listen—I couldn’t let anyone else hear these thoughts. Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There goes Greven. Why would he be so dressed up? His meetings are usually with farmers and he only wears that jacket and shirt if he’s attending a wedding or a funeral. And I know he’s going to neither.’
Piven watched in silence as Greven disappeared down the incline. Then he continued. ‘Whoever he’s meeting, I know it’s not good news for us. I know it’s going to affect me and this is not a good time.’ He banged the tree. ‘Not a good time at all! Something’s happening to me. Do you know I soured the milk yesterday? Greven made me cross because he didn’t like my mending a squirrel with a broken leg, and my bad humour curdled the entire pail I’d just milked from Belle. I’m sure he knew it too because he hasn’t said too much about Bonny’s lameness that is now miraculously cured.
‘I thought curing her would make me feel happy; I try to use my skills wisely but for all the good they can do, I’m paying a price. I’m sure of it. My heart is filling with hate, Vyk; I feel increasingly angry at my situation and yet just a few months ago I couldn’t have been happier. And nothing’s changed. I’m leading the same life, which I love, and yet I feel such rage. I can control it—my anger—but when I exercise that control, quelling the power inside, quietening my fury, something bad happens, like the soured milk. And it’s going to get worse. I sense it. I’m frightened by it. I just want everything to remain the same but I think Greven’s meeting today will change everything.’ He knew he was rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth furiously, crowding together and turning into a tirade.
The bird shifted on his shoulder, making a clacking sound near his ear. It sounded like a question.
‘I don’t know. That’s just it, I don’t know, but this darkness, this growing up so fast and this new awareness about myself is driving me towards something, or someone, and I’m not sure I can control my urge any longer. Besides, Greven thinks he’s got me fooled. I admire his cunning and I especially admire his courage because this life of his must require a will of iron, but he underestimates me. And soon I won’t be able to shield him from the truth any longer.’
He shrugged and the raven leapt to another branch. ‘It’s the magic, Vyk, it’s not me. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what. I sense you understand me, even if you can’t tell me as much. Don’t desert me, even if I disappoint you—or frighten you. The magic controls me now and I need to understand it more. Someone somewhere must know what it wants.’
Piven turned sadly and trudged deeper into the forest in search of the fungi he knew they would never use.
4 (#ulink_3eb898aa-039d-5fb9-b04b-084759fb7cf3)
Oblivious to Piven’s pain, Greven strode into Minton Woodlet, a village with one inn but with a second being built, testimony to the growing importance of the village’s hardy golasses vines. It seemed the barbarians enjoyed the dense, dark wines of the south that drew their flavours from the salty air of the sea nearby and the earthiness of the forest that they flanked. Greven was sure that even within a few anni, Minton Woodlet would be a flourishing southern town with a burgeoning population, swelled by the transient workers who streamed into the region at grape-picking time. His and Piven’s days were numbered here.
‘Hello, Jon,’ an attractive woman said, slowing her walk as she approached him.
He liked Evelyn but not as much or in the same way that she liked him. He could almost regret the tumble they had taken together in his bed when Piven had once again been out hunting down the precious saramac fungus. That had been when the outward signs of his leprosy had begun to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result of becoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.
‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’
Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.
‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.
‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’
‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.
But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’
Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’
‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’
Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.
‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’
‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’
She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthright but gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.
He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.
The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.
And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.
Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.
Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked at the inn.
‘Ho, Jon,’ someone said and Greven looked over to the counter where the innkeeper was drying and lining up cleaned mugs for the day’s service.
‘Hello, Derrin.’
‘They’re out the back, in the courtyard. Warming their bones, they said.’ Derrin smiled. ‘They said they haven’t seen you for donkey’s anni. Family?’
Greven shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible about these people he feared. ‘People I knew when I was very young.’
Innkeeper Derrin nodded. ‘Plenty to chew the cud over then,’ he said. ‘Shall I send you out a pot of dinch? They’re taking their time over a morning meal.’
Greven nodded. ‘A strong one.’ He moved to the back of the chamber and through a doorway into the back of the property where a picturesque walled courtyard opened up. A small, circular fountain in the middle was the focal point. Around it skipped two children, the boy older than the girl, who was presumably his sister. And sitting at the back wall, talking quietly, was a couple in their middle age. They both stood as Greven walked towards them, and Greven was taken aback to see that they appeared as nervous as he felt.
‘I’m Lark.’ He pasted an expression of puzzlement on his face. ‘You asked to see me?’
‘Clovis and Reuth Barrow,’ the man replied. ‘These are our children.’ He held out his hand.
Greven prided himself on being a good judge of character. The face of the man standing before him struck him as sensitive. Despite his broad chest and height, Clovis Barrow didn’t seem to be in any way threatening. In fact, it was the dark-eyed woman in whom Greven sensed real strength. He shook both of their hands.
‘Welcome to Minton Woodlet, though what interest it could possibly hold for you I don’t know.’ He forced a gentle smile. ‘This is a very sleepy hamlet.’
His amiable tone broke through the initial tension. ‘Will you join us?’ Reuth said. ‘We’ve just finished breaking a late fast but—’
‘Dinch is on the way,’ Greven said reassuringly. Curiously, they sounded more unsure about him than he felt about them. Why would they be so hesitant?
‘Please,’ Clovis said, gesturing to a third chair at the small table.
‘Forgive our mess,’ Reuth added, trying to clear away the debris of four meals.
Greven sat, watching his hosts fuss. They were both roughly the same age—the woman slightly older, perhaps—and now that he looked at them more closely he would put them at approaching fifty anni, older than he’d first thought. The woman was silvering at the hairline while the man’s hair and beard were streaked with grey throughout—and yet their children were young. Second marriage, Greven guessed. But what had this family to do with him? He waited, preferring to let them do the talking.
‘I know you must be wondering why we asked to see you,’ Clovis began.
‘I am,’ Greven replied.
‘Please don’t fear us, Mr Lark,’ Reuth assured, looking at her husband and nodding encouragingly.
‘I don’t,’ Greven lied.
‘We’re not here to cause trouble,’ Clovis continued.
‘Thank you,’ Greven said, determined to give little of himself away.
Reuth looked up as the door into the courtyard banged. ‘I think your dinch is here, Mr Lark.’
‘Call me Jon,’ Greven said, ‘since apparently we’re all old friends.’
The man and wife nodded, glancing nervously at each other. They were frightened, Greven realised. That made him feel more assured than he’d felt since the moment he’d first received word of being asked after. And Piven was safe in the woods, where no one would find him.
The pot of dinch was served. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl asked his hosts.
They both shook their heads and she smiled sweetly and left. Greven poured from the pot, more for something to do than from a desire to drink. When the couple remained silent, he spoke up boldly.
‘Master Clovis, Reuth, I don’t know either of you but I’ve had to pretend I do in order not to confuse the folk I live alongside each day. Now whether you’re from Medhaven or as far flung as Percheron I could not care, but I require an explanation for why you are here, masquerading as old friends.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t care for secrets,’ he lied.
Reuth nodded. ‘Tell him everything, Clovis.’
Clovis cleared his throat and Greven gave the man his full attention, surprised to see the couple give a surreptitious glance around.
‘We are alone,’ he assured. ‘Whatever you have to say will not be overheard.’
‘I was at Brighthelm soon after the invasion of Penraven—so was my wife. We had been rounded up and taken with other Vested to learn our fate. Some of us they wanted, others they killed. There was no way of knowing which we’d be. It was a terrible time,’ Clovis said and Reuth placed a hand on his arm. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘That’s all history. We were saved by a man called Freath—one of the close aides to the Valisars. We never fully appreciated his perilous position and how he endangered his life daily to keep us safe and to protect the Valisar sons.’
‘Forgive me. While tragic though it all was, I have to wonder at this point why I’m here…what your story has to do with me,’ Greven said, as politely but firmly as he could.
Reuth smiled. ‘Clovis is always one to tell a story.’
Clovis cleared his throat. ‘I shall finish it quickly then,’ he said but without any offence in his voice. ‘While Reuth was fortunate to be given an escape route by Freath, I was kept behind and became privy to some of Freath’s plans. I know not only did the heir, Leonel, escape the palace but I also know that the other adopted son who was simple of mind, also somehow got away. He was lost, in fact, for want of a better word. Freath was inconsolable and as I did not have the stomach for his intrigues and what they required, I agreed to leave the relative safety of the palace to find Piven. I found Reuth first but I have never stopped looking for the boy.’
‘This is all fascinating, I’ll admit,’ Greven said, eyeing the couple, masking his despair with an ingenuous smile and a soft shake of the head. It seemed his fears had finally come home to roost this bright Blossomtide day. ‘But I fail to see how—’
‘The boy you live with is the son of the Valisar royals, isn’t he?’ Reuth pressed, leaning forward.
Greven didn’t know how to answer. He froze, searching for the right response that did not incriminate him or Piven.
Clovis sighed. ‘Master Lark, you should know that as a Master Diviner, my inherent skills have assisted in finding you. But, more importantly, my wife has visions. It was her magic that, after years of me searching, led me to you.’
Greven regarded them both, his face deliberately devoid of expression but his insides churning with anxiety.
‘You have nothing to fear from us, Master Lark,’ Clovis repeated. ‘As I explained, it has been my mission for the last decade to find the boy.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you admit that the child you call Petor is Piven, the invalid adopted son of the Valisars?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Greven replied, his throat threatening to close on the lie. He filled his lungs with indignation and continued, ‘This is an outrageous claim and I’ll ask you not to levy such accusations publicly.’
Clovis shook his head. ‘I only want to protect him. I would do nothing that might bring him harm. I know you wish only the same, which is why you are covering Piven’s true identity.’
‘Master Barrow—’
‘May we meet him?’ Reuth asked, cutting across Greven’s outrage.
‘Pardon?’
‘May we meet the boy? Although I only know of the child, Clovis has seen him at close range. He will know him.’
‘I have no intention of permitting you to scrutinise my son,’ Greven snapped. ‘How dare you,’ he muttered. ‘How dare you walk into my life like this and make such claims.’
Clovis shook his head with sorrow. ‘Master Lark, I witnessed many people lose their lives brutally on the order of the barbarian tyrant. Reuth watched her beloved former husband led away to be slaughtered in a dingy courtyard; she could hear his death cries alongside those of the others who posed as Vested. My first wife and my precious infant daughter were hacked to death by the barbarian warrior who calls himself general. Our magnanimous emperor who now masquerades as a just and good ruler stole his crown in a sea of blood, Master Lark. I’m sure you know that.’
Greven nodded unhappily, shocked and helplessly touched by the tale of this pair.
‘We have reason to hold a grudge against the tyrant.’
‘But what does my son have to do with your mission?’ Greven asked carefully.
‘If he is your son, then he has nothing to do with us,’ Clovis said. ‘If he is Piven, as we believe he is, then he is integral to the struggle.’
‘The struggle? What are you talking about?’
Clovis lowered his voice still further. ‘To reinstate the true king onto his throne.’
Greven looked back at the intense expressions on the couple’s faces. They were earnest. ‘Piven?’
‘No, Leo,’ Clovis said. ‘We all believe he lives.’
‘We?’
‘The Vested,’ Reuth answered. ‘Those of us who survived took a marking.’ She turned, pulling back her ear and Greven saw a crescent moon marked in ink on her skin. ‘Master Lark, I should admit to you that my curious and contrary skill is to sense when something bad might occur. It is a strong power when it speaks to me but it speaks rarely. For instance, I knew they were coming for me, even though we had hidden my talent all my life. I also knew my husband would die, no matter what we did to protect him. I sensed that the royal family would suffer—I didn’t see the deaths but I sensed there would be only misery for the Valisars who might survive. And, Master Lark, when you first walked into this courtyard I sensed a terrible foreboding. I don’t know if it is for you, or your son, or whether it is the stars aligning to bring grief to your life but something very bad is going to happen. It is not far away. You should be warned.’
Greven stood. ‘Stay away from me,’ he demanded, pointing his finger at the two of them. ‘Stay away from Petor.’
Clovis looked past Greven. ‘You’re alarming our children, Master Lark, and risking drawing attention to yourself.’
‘You are strangers in this hamlet. I am not. My son and I have lived here for—’
‘Ten anni,’ Reuth finished for him, calmly. ‘Yes, we know. And that’s the exact amount of time that Clovis has been searching for the Valisar child. You forget that we were involved in the struggle for the Valisar survival at the outset. We have never given up our fight to return the rightful king to his throne.’
Greven leapt onto what he thought could be his final diversion. ‘Except you are ignoring one very important fact.’
‘And that is?’ Reuth asked.
‘You are very clear that the child known as Piven is an invalid.’
Clovis and Reuth nodded. ‘He never spoke a word, and was very much lost in his mind,’ Clovis said.
‘Well, for your information, Petor is extremely able. He talks as any normal child of fifteen might talk,’ Greven insisted, leaning forward on the table to impress his point. ‘He is lively and animated.’
Reuth frowned, glancing at her husband.
‘Check with the townsfolk if you don’t believe me,’ Greven baited. ‘The child you seek is not my Petor. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that both boys are the same age.’ He could almost see the disappointment emanating from them like a dark cloud.
Clovis sighed. ‘Still, I would like to see him.’
‘I forbid it. You will not frighten my child.’
‘Master Lark, how can two people like us with our young family be in any way intimidating?’ Reuth asked.
‘Well, you’ve done your utmost to intimidate me and I refuse you access to my son, do you hear? Go away and leave us in peace.’
‘I cannot,’ Clovis said. His voice sounded grave enough to chill Greven. ‘I gave my word to people who were risking their lives every hour of those terrible days of the overthrow to keep Piven alive. I promised I would find him. I think I have.’
‘Go away,’ Greven said helplessly. He turned his back on them, calling over his shoulder, ‘And stay away.’
He threw two trents onto the counter before Innkeeper Derrian Junes and didn’t pause to exchange pleasantries. He was gone in seconds, striding out of the Grape and Whistle and hurrying as fast as his long legs could carry him towards the forest, where the trees swallowed him up and, he hoped, could hide him.
5 (#ulink_7be14390-37a4-548b-939f-9d6ee9f6e787)
Piven waited for Greven. He had filled the small sack near to brimming with fungi that would need to dry out on the hut’s windowsill, and it was now duly laid out as Greven liked. Life with Greven had been tranquil, mostly serene. Each day was similar to the previous. And he liked it that way. He liked its order, its sameness…its predictability. He didn’t call Greven ‘Father’; couldn’t call him by that name, much as he knew Greven would like him to, because he remembered King Brennus too clearly. He belonged to the royal family of Valisars—that could and would never change for him. He never wondered about his blood parents, refused to accept that somewhere in the Set a woman who had birthed him might still live or a man who had sired him might roam.
The raven had lingered, staying close as he busied himself finding the elusive fungi. He wondered if the bird—who he felt sure knew things—had sensed his change occurring. He knew Vyk could hear him; imagined the bird was capable of replying somehow, but that it had chosen not to communicate with him since he’d begun to talk. One day it would—of this he was sure. And so he talked, over his shoulder, never tiring of hearing his own voice, which had been silent for so long.
‘…and should be back soon if you’re wondering,’ he said, laying out the fungi beneath the warmth of the sun. ‘You’ll be surprised when you see him. His face, body, arms are now all clear of the sores. The leprosy will have left him by the rise of the next full moon. It’s my greatest achievement yet,’ he murmured, not meaning to boast but needing to say it aloud, to affirm his new talent.
‘I told you about the dreams,’ he continued. ‘Strange ones. People are hunting me. I don’t know them but they want to use me and I don’t know how or why.’ Piven turned. ‘Are you faithful to Loethar, or faithful to me? Until I know, I can’t fully trust you with my secrets. One day you must choose, you know that, don’t you?’ He dragged back the flop of hair that had covered part of his face as he turned to look at the bird. ‘You will need to choose,’ he said softly.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Piven turned to see Greven approaching up the small incline that led to their hut. The man smiled. ‘Ah, Vyk. Long life to you. Good to see you back.’ Then he gave a feigned sound of disgust. ‘Piven, I’m as bad as you, talking to the bird. Well done, my boy, that’s a very good haul,’ he congratulated, spying the neat row of fungi lined up. ‘Excellent, excellent. Now, child, I want to talk to you about something.’
‘Oh?’
‘We need to move on,’ Greven continued conversationally. ‘I’m bored with this place, aren’t you? Perhaps we could look at Gormand, or Cremond, get lost in and around Lo’s Teeth or the Dragonsback Mountains. That would be quite an exciting trip. What do you say?’ Piven’s expression turned to one of puzzlement. ‘Why?’
Greven looked surprised. ‘Why not, I say? Don’t you want to see more of the world?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I want to stay here. It’s peaceful.’
‘True,’ Greven replied, thoughtfully. ‘But we can find other tranquil spots.’
‘Who are we running from?’
‘No one,’ Greven replied firmly and too quickly, Piven thought. Then his long-time companion seemed to reconsider his suggestion. ‘There’s no reason to move permanently. How about some travel? I think it’s high time I gave you an education about this fair land. It’s safe now to roam through the realms and we can do so easily enough—thanks to you that Bonny’s well. We can even use some savings to buy a mule…or even a horse and cart.’ He sounded excited but Piven heard panic driving Greven’s enthusiasm. ‘What do you say, eh? Are you ready for an adventure, boy?’
‘When?’
‘No time like the present. Come on, let’s pack up a few things. We won’t need very much. We can close up the hut and go.’
‘What about Belle?’
‘We can leave a message for Jenna. She can take Belle down to her parents’ place when she picks up the next crate of herbals for her father’s apothecary.’
‘Who will tend the fungi?’
Greven looked up to the sky momentarily as if to calm his patience, then back at Piven. ‘Come on, don’t put up barriers. Let’s just pack a few essentials and be gone this night.’ ‘You’ve always said never to travel at night unless you’re on the run.’
He watched Greven wrestle his exasperation back under control. This man he loved smiled gently. ‘I did, didn’t I? All right, why don’t we leave in the morning? How does that sound?’
Piven didn’t think it sounded good at all but he had little choice, for Greven seemed filled with a fierce drive to be gone. Already he was beginning to tidy the few items that had been left outside around the front patch of garden. Switching topics, even though he knew that lack of protest would be taken as his agreement to leave, Piven asked, ‘What happened in town today?’
‘Oh, nothing much at all,’ Greven said. He was packing planting pots into a crate.
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘I met Evelyn on the way, I spoke to Innkeeper Junes…no one in particular. All quite boring, really.’
Piven knew, without any doubt now, Greven was lying. And the lie prompted him to make his final decision.
That night Piven dreamed.
In his dream he saw a woman. He recognised her instantly; he had been dreaming about her for the last few moons. She was slim, dark-haired, and exceptionally pretty with fine features that were so angular and precise they looked as if they could have been drawn. In the dream he was hidden but he didn’t know where or why. As was usual, she seemed to sense that she was being observed; kept looking around to find the voyeur. She looked strange. No, that wasn’t right. Where she was looked strange. The setting was foreign to him and one he couldn’t comprehend. She was busy at something but he could make no sense of it. She was in a room that was predominantly white and she was tending to someone who was lying down. There were lots of other people crowded around her, all watching what she was doing. She appeared to be talking constantly.
He called to her, surprised that he knew her name, holding his breath in the hope that the other people wouldn’t hear him. The woman paused, as if a thought had struck her, and then she looked up, slightly startled, and stared straight at him.
Piven felt himself falling backwards, as if from a clifftop into a great void. He yelled his fear as winds began to buffet him, shake his bones as though he were a rag doll.
‘Piven!’
He opened his eyes, shocked and alarmed. Greven was shaking him by the shoulders.
‘What’s happening?’ Greven asked, looking suddenly old and dishevelled in his nightshirt. ‘A nightmare, I think,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Rest easy now, boy. No more yelling. You’ve probably already forgotten it.’
Piven swallowed, alarm still clanging like windchimes in his mind. He had not forgotten any of it…or her.
‘It’s nearing dawn. We might as well call it morning and make a start,’ Greven said, scratching his chest absently. ‘I’ll get some dinch on.’
He left Piven to surface fully, rub the sleep from his eyes and drag himself upright. Lethargy pulled at him like a heavy blanket and his mood felt bleak. Greven’s bright whistling at the hearth irritated him and an uncharacteristic scowl darkened his expression.
‘You yelled someone’s name. Who were you dreaming about?’ Greven called.
‘I don’t know,’ Piven replied. ‘What was the name?’
Greven returned. He was stirring something in a small pot. Eggs, Piven thought, he’s readying them for scrambling. He was not hungry. ‘Do you know, I heard you scream it but I can’t remember now. Can you?’
Piven shook his head. Not only could he not recall the woman’s name but her features were disappearing from his mind. Suddenly he could no longer see her pretty face.
Greven chuckled. ‘Ah well, fret not, my boy. Soon you won’t be having nightmares about women. You’ll be dreaming happily about them morning, noon and night!’
Piven’s sour mood deepened.
‘Oh, would you look at that!’ he heard Greven mutter in disgust. ‘I think the wretched eggs are off.’ Piven watched Greven lift the heavy earthen jug and sniff. ‘Bah! Gone! They’re yesterday’s, aren’t they?’
Piven nodded.
‘How can that happen?’ Greven asked, and although Piven decided his question did not require a response, he had a sickening feeling that he knew the answer.
Reuth sighed. ‘Perhaps we sent word too fast,’ she said, wiping their son’s face with a wet flannel.
Clovis grimaced. ‘Too fast? It’s been a decade!’
She gave him a look of soft rebuke. ‘You know what I mean.’
He finished tying the laces on their daughter’s dress. ‘There you go. Now you look pretty enough to eat.’ He pretended to chew her neck and his little girl squealed with frightened delight. He loved to hear her voice. And far from being embittered by it, he felt blessed by Lo that his second daughter reminded him so starkly of Corin, his first beautiful—now dead—child. Whether it was fact or his imagination, they seemed to share the same tone and pitch in voice; Corin used to squeal in an identical manner when he teased her. He could not risk his precious children—or Reuth, come to that. ‘We are not wrong. We can’t both feel so strongly about this child and be wrong.’
Reuth looked over at him sorrowfully. ‘I worry that we’ve been searching for so long that we just want this to be him so badly that we’ve convinced ourselves it is so. Eat your oats, you two, they should be cool enough now,’ she said, pointing to the faintly steaming bowls in which porridge had begun to set. ‘Your father will pour the milk in, the jug’s too heavy for you.’
They’d had food for the children sent up. They would eat downstairs in the dining room. Clovis trickled the creamy milk into two small bowls and the children greedily tucked into their first meal of the day.
‘Slowly,’ Reuth cautioned their son. ‘Or you’ll spill it.’ He’d obviously heard the same cautions so many times before that he neither looked up nor slowed down; the words had become a meaningless mantra, Clovis could see.
‘Listen to me, Reuth,’ he said, once the children were ignoring anything but their bellies. ‘I could feel his fear. The boy is Piven.’
‘Well, unless we’ve been dancing to a different tune all these anni, Clovis, I could swear that the child we seek is mute, lost in his mind, even mad, some say. You yourself have told me he couldn’t speak, communicate, showed no emotion…acted like a moving statue, you once told me.’
Clovis nodded, trying not to interrupt her but knowing his senses contradicted everything he knew to be true. ‘I did. And that is how he was.’
‘And now you accept that he talks, is able, is fully healthy and as normal as our own son?’ she demanded.
Clovis shooshed her silently with a gesture of his hands. ‘I know how it sounds. I know how incomprehensible it is. But do you deny me that you too felt something when you met Lark?’
She turned away. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Tell me again.’
Reuth turned back to him, and he watched her quell her exasperation. ‘I had a vision. Fast, gone in a blink. Doom surrounds him.’
‘Think, Reuth. Interpret that doom for me.’
She looked lost. ‘I can’t,’ she said helplessly. ‘It didn’t just spell doom for him, though. I got the impression that it was foreboding for all of us. Where Jon Lark treads, he will bring darkness to the world.’
Clovis shook his head, and walked over to the tiny window that overlooked the main street of Minton Woodlet. A young woman was leading a cow past the inn. Beyond her, vineyards stretched into the distance. She stopped to talk to an older woman, stroking the patient beast and pointing back up the hill. She had a pretty smile even though she herself was quite plain. At last she nodded, gave a small wave as the pair of them parted and then continued along at the ponderous pace of the black and white cow. He watched her disappear from the limited view the small window afforded him.
‘What are you thinking?’ Reuth prompted from behind him.
‘I want you and the children to return to Medhaven.’
‘We’re not splitting up, Clovis.’
‘You saw foreboding. I divined that we were closer yesterday to what we seek than we have been in the last ten anni. I sensed Jon Lark was lying. Now I don’t know who or what he is. Neither do I care. I believe that he loves his son. I think both of us could tell he was protecting the boy, not just being belligerent. But I do think the child he loves is the orphan Piven. I can’t explain Lark’s claim that the boy talks. I can’t comprehend why Innkeeper Junes should confirm the fact that the boy known as Petor is a run-of-the-mill youth. But, Reuth, you and I accept magic as easily as we breathe. We should be able to accept that some sorcery has occurred, something of an enchanted nature has affected this child.’
‘If he’s Piven,’ his wife reiterated.
‘If he’s Piven,’ Clovis repeated with resignation.
‘And we can’t be sure he is.’
‘Which is why I want you to return to our home with our children and wait for word.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find Kirin. He has a different sort of skill. Perhaps together…’ Clovis shrugged.
‘You’re walking back into the palace?’ Reuth exclaimed. ‘It’s your own death warrant you’re agreeing to.’
Clovis shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I shall dye my hair, shave off my beard. You agree I am only half the man I was when we met and I’m ten anni older. Different clothes, different look, different attitude. I can be someone different. And I doubt the emperor gives a fig about a man who disappeared so long ago.’
‘No, but his evil general might. Remember how he vowed to track down every Vested in the land?’
‘He will not know I’m Vested. No one will know. I will take a different name.’
‘What if they ask for papers?’
‘I’ll have some forged.’
Reuth looked pained, but remained silent.
Clovis guessed her concern. ‘Our savings will be put to good use, I promise. Besides, Freath can probably—’
‘I don’t care about money, Clovis. You are risking your life.’
‘Reuth,’ he began firmly. ‘I was a coward all those years ago. Kirin wasn’t. I have existed with the shame of my fleeing from Brighthelm to your arms. I gave my promise I would find Piven for Freath, and now that I believe I have, I intend to deliver on that promise. The least I can do is tell Freath—our only ally alongside Kirin at the palace.’
‘If that’s him!’ Reuth said, her voice almost in agony.
‘It’s him,’ Clovis said.
‘And then what will you do? Hunt him down yourself?’
‘If I must.’
She shook her head with a combination of vexation and anxiety and turned away. He put his long arms around her, and kissed her head, knowing she needed his tenderness. Finding Piven had been the only contentious part of their marriage. She had never fully understood his private crusade, although she had helped him constantly in his mission.
‘Please, my love,’ he said, turning her now to face him. ‘Please understand. I do this not for personal redemption but for all of us. Your vision frightens me. I have lost one child, one wife. I refuse to lose this family and if what you see should be allowed to occur all of us will be under threat—once again.’
Reuth’s forehead crinkled. ‘It’s a different sort of threat this time, Clovis.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t really know what I mean. I haven’t seen anything other than what I’ve told you but what I felt when I had that vision was cold. Loethar was ruthless and did take his crown with a bloodied hand, but he has not laid waste to our land. The initial slaughter aside, he has performed somewhat magnanimously as an emperor.’
‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ Clovis said, shocked.
Reuth shook her head. ‘Believe me, if what I sensed does come true, this new menace will make the memories of Loethar’s overthrow pale. I hope I’m wrong but I believe what’s coming at us lacks a soul. No ordinary man will be able to stop this.’
They stared at each other for several searching moments as both digested Reuth’s dire counsel. It was she who broke the spell between them. ‘I’ll pack up our things. The children and I will return immediately south to the ferry. We’ll wait for word from you from Medhaven.’
Clovis hugged her tight, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his wife’s hair…as his belly clenched with fear.
6 (#ulink_400bb047-2bbf-5b95-9745-6c46a1118d57)
Freath slowed the horse to a gentle walk. It had been a long time since he’d visited the north and even longer since he’d entered Francham. The last time had been prior to Leo’s birth, when he’d accompanied King Brennus and his new bride, Iselda, on an around-the-realm meet and greet. Brennus had been keen to show off his exotic wife from Galinsea and to silence the mumbling detractors who had begun to spread word that no woman from the Set had been good enough for Brennus. Freath knew the king had hoped that by introducing his lovely young bride to his people in person, they would fall in love with her as easily as he had. His strategy had worked.
Penraven hadn’t seen anything like it since the coronation of Brennus but, as eligible and handsome as the new young king had been at the time, his ‘crowning tour’ lacked the glamour that a beautiful young woman added. And Iselda understood immediately how to achieve her husband’s aim. She had never complained once about the gruelling schedule, Freath recalled. She had chosen her wardrobe with care to ensure that everywhere she visited the people were left in awe of her glittering presence—and, Freath remembered with a soft smile, Iselda had neverneeded jewels to glitter. Her smile was full and genuine and she had managed to draw all she met into its comforting warmth. She had possessed an unwavering ability to remain cheerful despite her fatigue, and dig deep to find energy that often surpassed that of her stronger, older entourage. It was Iselda who had first climbed down from her horse to pause a while and talk to people, to kiss the foreheads of babies and allow the women to clasp at her gloved hands. At first even Freath had been alarmed but alongside Brennus he’d watched how instantly and excitedly the folk had reacted to this show of generosity that had no precedent. And then word had spread so quickly that Brennus had had no choice but to take the unusual step of insisting the royal couple greet their people on foot everywhere from there on. It had won hearts right around the realm and Iselda’s foreign status had been instantly forgotten, as had Brennus’s unusual step of not taking a wife from within the Set.
Nowhere had Iselda made greater impact than Francham. Here, hardened men, used to traversing the most inhospitable of regions, had melted in her presence, grinning like loons. Freath was sure Iselda’s popularity in this region was due to the fact that she had grasped just how tough life was on the road through Hell’s Gate, and that winning the hearts of these men would spread word even faster as they were always on the move around the realm.
She’d agreed to sampling the local liquor known rather dauntingly as ‘Rough’. To the delight of all in Francham, the new queen had stepped into an inn known as The Lookout and there she had surprised everyone by tipping back her head and swallowing a man-sized shot of the deep amber liquid. If it had burned—as Freath knew it must have—she had not shown it, having had the audacity to suggest the innkeeper pour her another ‘for good measure’ .
The silence that had gripped the inn had erupted into cheers and whistles. And as Queen Iselda had clinked glasses with King Brennus prior to downing her second shot of Rough, a rousing chorus of the realm’s royal anthem had been belted out noisily by the crowd.
As Brennus had commented to Freath later that night, ‘The queen has won more than hearts this day. In a single swallow she has guaranteed a loyalty to the Crown that feels unparalleled.’
Prophetic words, Freath thought now as he entered the main street. From that day, patriotism and genuine pride in the Crown of Penraven had escalated noticeably and not waned throughout the reign of King Brennus the 8th.
Next to him, Kirin cleared his throat. ‘Master Freath, we’re staying at The Lookout.’
It was fortunate Kirin had noticed he had been daydreaming, Freath thought, jolted out of his memories, or he’d have strolled his horse right by the inn. ‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ He looked around and noticed that the three bodyguards that Loethar insisted be sent along with him were regarding him sullenly through their tatua. ‘Master Felt and I are sharing a room. I have made arrangements for two other rooms. Work it out.’
The Green nodded on behalf of his companions. ‘We’ll take the horses for stabling. Do you need us?’
Freath shook his head. ‘No, but your emperor seems to think I do.’ He smiled but it won no warmth in their faces. ‘The local liquor here is called Rough. Try some. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I hear the brothel here is lively too. I will be eating in the dining room at The Lookout tonight, so I require no supervision.’ As the Green began to protest, Freath held up a hand. ‘I insist. Take your men for some relaxation. I am going nowhere. Tomorrow morning I will meet with the mayor to discuss the emperor’s new tax levy. By noon I imagine I will be hugely unpopular and will require your presence more keenly. Until then, I can survive the odd gob of spittle or harsh word.’
He thought the two younger guards grinned but then again it could have been a grimace. He knew they considered him a traitor to his own. And therefore the lowest of the low, and they hated that he had the ear of their warlord, besides. He was also sure that Stracker did his utmost to poison his men’s attitude towards any person from the Set. Stracker was still living in the past, believing that every Denovian should perish, or at least be treated like vermin. Although most of the Set had come to realise that it needed Loethar, the emperor’s charismatic hold over his horde—and his blood-hungry half-brother—was all that stood in the way of ongoing death and destruction.
As the men walked the horses off in search of the inn’s stables, Freath muttered under his breath, ‘I have to seriously wonder whether they’d even care if a blade was slipped into my gut.’
‘You can be sure they wouldn’t,’ Kirin said.
Freath nodded. ‘I think you’re right. Come on.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s good to smell this fresh mountain air.’
‘Is it?’ Kirin grumbled. ‘I’ve been a city lover for a long time.’
‘Wait until you’ve tried some Rough,’ Freath quipped.
‘When is this meeting going to happen?’ Kirin asked, looking around to see that they weren’t being overheard.
‘Tonight, I hope. We have to slip our guard somehow although once they begin drinking I reckon that won’t be as daring as it sounds. By tomorrow I’ll be watching my back.’
Freath led the way into the front door and his belly responded immediately to the aroma of roasting meat. Ah, he remembered now—the local delicacy.
Kirin gave an appreciative sound. ‘What a delicious smell,’ he commented, pulling off his hat and travelling cloak.
‘I’d forgotten how unique the north can be, especially this town that feels the full effect of the various cultures brought in by the merchants and the folk who travel regularly. That smell just gets better, by the way. It’s called “Osh”.’
‘Osh?’ Kirin repeated. ‘Please don’t tell me it’s mountain bear or something.’
‘And if it was?’
‘I couldn’t resist it, I don’t think.’
Freath gave a half-smile. ‘Nothing so exotic. It’s goat, ox, sheep, chicken, pig, deer. Slabs of meat are pinned onto huge skewers and roasted upright over woodfires made of flaxwood, whose embers release a special spicy fragrance that permeates the meat. The meat, I might add, is rolled in spices that we hardly see in the city: toka, ferago, leem and peregum.’
‘I’ve heard of leem.’
‘I’ve even seen leem, but not the others. The rest are found only in the mountains. When the meat is cooked, it is sliced off onto trenchers of herbed honey bread, and drizzled with oil. It’s magnificent.’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’m already hungry for it from your description.’
Freath looked over Kirin’s shoulder. ‘Ah, you must be Innkeeper Woolton?’ he said to the ruddy-faced man crossing the large reception area towards them.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Are you the party from the…er…city?’
‘Indeed,’ Freath said, glad that the man had taken his early warning of discretion seriously.
‘Three rooms?’ Freath nodded. ‘They’re ready and waiting for you, sir. Tillie will show you up.’ He pointed to a rosy-cheeked girl, no more than thirteen anni, who, going by the dimple in her chin, was his daughter.
Her smile echoed her father’s. ‘It’s upstairs, sirs,’ she lisped.
Their room was very large, with a big window, two beds, and a fabric screen that surrounded a small basin for privacy.
‘Nice,’ Kirin said as Tillie left.
‘Glad you approve,’ Freath said, setting down his small leather bag. ‘So, down to business. A message will be delivered to us but I don’t know—’
A tap at the door interrupted Freath. ‘Yes?’ he called but Kirin moved to open it.
‘sorry to disturb you, sirs,’ Tillie said, the words accentuating her lisp as she curtsied. She was carrying a vase of mountain flowers.
Freath was irritated by her re-entry. ‘Pollen makes me sneeze,’ he said.
Kirin glared at him. ‘Over here, Tillie. I’ll keep it on my side.’
She smiled gratefully, closing the door behind her as she entered the room, which irritated Freath all the more.
‘Was there something else?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Yes,’ she said clearly, her lisp gone. ‘You are Master Freath, are you not? From Brighthelm?’
Kirin glanced at Freath, shocked. Freath had no choice. If worst came to worst, he decided in that moment of alarm, they could overwhelm the girl. ‘I am,’ he replied, masking his fear.
She nodded, her composure surprising him. ‘Thank you, sir. I was asked to give you a message.’
‘I see,’ he said, clearing his throat of the relief that was clogging it. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m to tell you to be ready for when the games begin.’
‘Games? Ready? For what?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve given you the message I was told to deliver, sir. There was nothing else.’
‘But what games?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
He nodded, resigned. ‘All right. Keep that information to yourself.’
‘I have and I will continue to do so.’
‘Do you know who we are?’ Freath asked.
‘No, sir. Nor do I wish to. I’m being paid to do this and the man who paid me frightened me. I do not want to be involved.’
Freath nodded and she quickly left the room. He looked at Kirin. ‘What do you make of it?’
Kirin gave him a look of disdain. ‘You know what I think. Freath, you’re a household servant of the palace and I am a man of the Academy who has also spent his last decade as a curious sort of servant to the ruler. But we’re acting like spies or assassins or something equally clandestine and, even worse, we’re pretending we know what we’re doing. What is in our heads?’
‘Loyalty’s in mine,’ Freath replied with equal disdain. ‘But I’m scared too, Kirin. There’s no shame in it. If anything, it will keep us sharp.’
‘For what? Our own deaths?’
Freath smiled humourlessly. ‘A long time ago Clovis told me you were the one who convinced him that the throne of Penraven and the honour of our Crown was worth rallying for…worth dying for, in fact. I’m sure he said that.’
Kirin grimaced. ‘I’m sure he did.’
‘Dying is easy, Kirin, my friend. Staying alive—especially in our situation—is much harder, and far more honourable.’
‘I’ll carry that thought with me as a blade enters my belly,’ Kirin said, scowling.
Freath sighed. ‘I suppose chasing here after hopes and shadows means we could be missing out on word of Piven.’
‘Clovis will get more word to us when he can.’
‘Piven will be almost fifteen anni. Imagine that,’ Freath commented, awed by the thought.
Kirin’s voice dropped to a low murmur. ‘And our king, if this idea of yours bears fruit, will be a man. I’m sure in your mind you see the boy.’ Freath nodded sadly. ‘Well, he’s going to be twenty-two anni, more than old enough to fight for his crown. Have you considered that?’
‘I have,’ Freath admitted wearily.
Kirin gripped his arm. ‘We’ve probably aged twice as fast in living our lie at the palace all these years. Leo is likely brimming with bitterness that is fuelling his anger and passion.’
Freath looked at his friend. ‘He’s kept it well under control or someone has helped him to. But,’ he sighed again, ‘the time is nigh. Valisar must rise again or be lost forever.’
‘Have you also considered that this peace we enjoy might be a better alternative?’
‘What?’ Freath said, pulling away.
Kirin raised his hands. ‘Hear me out.’
‘No. I can’t believe you’re thinking like this.’
‘I don’t care for bloodshed, you know that. What we went through a decade ago—all those deaths. Just think about those boys we personally had to witness being killed to save one life. What about the queen giving hers so cheaply to ensure your safety?’
‘Don’t you dare—’ Freath began but Kirin overrode his protest.
‘And Genrie? How about her agonising death to—’
‘stop!’
Kirin held his tongue and had the grace to look abashed. He sighed. ‘The point is, Freath, we have peace. You yourself admire Loethar…you’ve expressed that to me on many occasions.’
‘I do—I even like him in a strange sort of way. But that doesn’t mean I would ignore who rightfully owns the throne of Penraven. My loyalties have not changed.’
‘But does it matter anymore? Does it really matter what you or I, or any loyalist, wants? We feel it more because we were right there, wading through the blood. But look around you, Freath. Everyone’s getting on with life. Penraven continues to be as prosperous as ever, the Set thrives and the realms seem more in tune with each other than ever before—surely you would admit that?’
Freath felt his lips thin. He refused to reply, hating Kirin for not only stating the obvious but for reminding him just how well the new empire was functioning. He knew it. He did not need it rubbed in his face.
Kirin continued, his tone now peppered with bafflement. ‘The thing is, Freath, what we’re pursuing now is more bloodshed. Is this what we want? Loethar has achieved what felt like the impossible all those years ago: peace, cohesion, dare I say harmony between not only the realms, including Droste, but also the Steppes people. We are truly part of an empire and are considered as such by kingdoms as far away as Percheron and Galinsea. We’ve had an envoy from Pearlis in Morgravia on behalf of the Triumvirate to lavish good wishes on Emperor Loethar’s rule and I’m sure its ally Tallinor would gladly support that if it could ever make such a massive journey. Seriously, Freath, our people are strong and protected and peaceful—’
‘If not happy,’ Freath interrupted sourly.
‘Who says they aren’t?’ Kirin countered. ‘You are not happy perhaps. And I may not be happy, and a very small band of rebels that we think might include a Valisar king are likely not happy. But think of the greater folk of our lands. They are content. Do you really think after what they’ve survived they care anymore who is on the throne? The fact is they live in peaceful, prosperous times and Loethar seems to have defied us all and got it right. I know I’m risking your fury saying this, but he’s a good ruler. He’s been frightening in the past but he’s fair and his touch is light and if not for the hideous empress, life could almost be considered sweet in the palace. Yes, he took his crown from a sea of blood but he’s made it up to the people of the Set ever since.’
‘Damn you, Kirin! Don’t you think I know it?’ Freath’s anger bubbled over. ‘I work alongside him every day. And every day I have to temper my admiration with memories of how he drove Queen Iselda to demand her own death, how he forced our king to suicide and let’s not forget how he roasted and ate Brennus in front of the queen and Piven. You conveniently forget he butchered thousands of good people on his way to claiming this throne, and—’
‘I haven’t forgotten!’ Kirin growled back at him. ‘I just don’t want to live through it again and that’s what your plotting is consigning us to. War again, when this realm and this Set has finally settled into peace. We want peace, Freath. Not more bloodshed.’
Freath waved a hand angrily. ‘Then go, Kirin. You are no use to me.’
‘I’m not sure I ever have been.’
Freath’s head snapped up. ‘How long have you felt like this?’ he asked, shocked.
Kirin shook his head, clearly angry with himself. ‘Why can’t we just accept life as it is? Why are we pursuing something that we know will provoke war?’
‘Because there’s a king out there,’ Freath all but hissed, his finger pointing beyond the window. ‘A rightful king whose throne has been usurped by an intruder. I gave my word to King Brennus that I would do everything in my power to work against Loethar and that somehow, someday I would help his son wrestle back his crown. I will not break that oath. I made it in blood.’ He raised his palm to Kirin to show the scar.
Kirin looked back at his companion of a decade and his sorrow was evident. ‘Look at us, Freath. Truly, what can we achieve? I have a talent but you’ve already seen what it does to me. I am near enough blind in one eye and a finger now twitches incessantly.’
Freath turned, indignant. ‘I haven’t asked you to use your magic once in the last—’
‘You’re missing the point. My powers, though strong, are limited by the weakness of my being just a man. It will destroy me faster than I’ll be able to help you—that’s what I fear. I know you’ve been sparing. But once this new fight begins, you will call upon me again and again,’ Kirin said wearily. ‘I would wreck my body gladly if I thought it could last.’
Freath waved a finger at his friend, hating this schism when he most needed Kirin’s loyalty. ‘Listen to me. You can leave now if you don’t want to be a part of this. Don’t go back to the palace, just disappear and be free. I’ll think of something to tell anyone who asks. But don’t expect me to do the same. I cannot—will not—relinquish my loyalty to the Valisars.’
Kirin nodded sadly. ‘Where is the army to come from, Freath, that will go up against Loethar? Where is the aegis that you believe will protect Leo? No amount of our searching has proved fruitful. What is the future for your new king when you have set off a fight that will lay this realm and others to waste?’
‘I don’t have the answers you want. I don’t have any answers! But I fear I cannot do this without you. I have no allies in the palace without you.’
‘Freath, we are pathetic.’
‘I know. But we have to try, don’t we?’
Kirin spun away, looking angry but also torn. Freath looked at the grey silvering Kirin’s hair. It was only a few strands but they had not been there a year ago. He’d watched the lines in the younger man’s face deepen; he’d witnessed wisdom and maturity replacing youth and energy in this man who could no longer be considered young at thirty-three anni. He wondered who Kirin would be had he been allowed to grow into his role at the Academy in Cremond, instead of facing the fear and bloodshed he had. He could wonder that for all of them, though. They would all be very different if their lives had not been scarred by Loethar’s marauding horde.
He couldn’t lose Kirin. Even though he had just urged his friend to leave, he would be devastated if Kirin walked away now. He had to find the right words to make his friend remain. He knew what to do.
‘I think you need some time. Don’t disappear, my friend. Instead, go and find Clovis for me. Get away from all of this. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find Piven.’ As he said it, Freath realised this plan was wise, far more sound than what he’d originally had in mind. ‘Meet the boy on safe territory somewhere. Get a feeling for who he is now. Work out a line of communication between us so that we can talk without revealing ourselves. And while you’re doing this, think about your role, Kirin. Consider how much I need you, how much the Valisar boys need every loyal soul we can muster.’
Kirin nodded. ‘I will take this time you’re offering. Ever since word came through about Piven I’ve felt excited and I’ve needed that after years of feeling hollow. But I don’t want to use Piven to win back a throne. I’ve realised my excitement is for the fact that he’s alive, not that he offers potential.’ Freath bit back the retort that threatened to fly from his mouth. ‘You follow Leo,’ Kirin continued. ‘I’ll find Clovis and we’ll take it from there.’
Freath didn’t know what to feel. He was glad that Kirin wasn’t deserting him entirely, but the separation felt bitter nonetheless. ‘When will you leave?’
Kirin shrugged. ‘Immediately. The note said Clovis was heading to Minton Woodlet. I’ll start there.’
‘What if he should send more news?’
‘He has no more pigeons. He would have used the one you gave Reuth all those years ago; he never had one of his own. I reckon with a horse and some money I can find him faster than he can try and re-open the lines of communication.’
Freath nodded reluctantly. ‘Money’s no problem. We’ll buy you a horse, though, from here. I don’t think you should take a palace beast, just in case.’ There was suddenly nothing more to say. ‘So you’ll leave, just like that?’
‘Freath,’ Kirin began gently, then sighed. ‘Yes. I promise I will get word to you somehow.’
‘Won’t you at least share a plate of Osh with me?’
Kirin gave a soft grin. ‘Do you always have to win?’
7 (#ulink_8145778a-0770-5d8b-af46-1745ce1fbbdf)
Greven dug his staff into the ground and hauled himself up the incline.
‘Are you all right?’ Piven asked over his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry about me, lad. I’m as strong as an ox.’
‘Well an ox, as strong as it is, would be stupid to climb this hill. I still don’t understand why we must.’
Greven gave a brief bitter laugh. ‘Because only fools would.’
‘There’s a perfectly good road below us.’
‘Perfectly good, yes. Also perfectly open, perfectly positioned for ambush, perfectly—’
Piven stopped and turned. ‘Ambush?’ he interrupted, his voice leaden with sarcasm.
Greven waved a hand. ‘Just pause a while. Let me catch my breath.’ He looked up to see the sun low in the sky. It was nearly time to think about an evening meal. ‘You must be famished. Let’s stop properly and eat something light. We can build a fire later and cook the rabbits we’ve brought.’
Piven unslung the water skin and offered it to Greven, who took it gratefully and drank a few mouthfuls. ‘Ah,’ he sighed with relief. ‘I suspect I owe you an explanation.’
‘I would agree with that,’ Piven replied, sitting down beside Greven. ‘What are you frightened of? What happened yesterday?’
Greven knew the boy deserved to know. And he felt safer now that they had put some distance between themselves and the interfering couple. ‘A man called Clovis and his wife, Reuth, came to see me. They are looking for you.’ As he spoke he delved into a small sack of food, pulling out a tiny loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and some nuts.
‘Me?’
Despite the note of surprise in his tone, Greven sensed that Piven had already guessed as much. The boy’s perceptiveness was unnerving for one so young. ‘I suppose it was wishful thinking to imagine that anyone from the former royal family would be left entirely alone,’ Greven grumbled, more to himself. He placed a knife on the stump of a nearby tree that had obviously been felled a long time ago, its surface smooth enough now to act as a makeshift table.
‘They would do better to hunt Leo,’ Piven replied carefully.
Greven frowned. The boy was right. So why was he so frightened for Piven and, more to the point, of Piven and his powers? ‘They probably imagine that Leo is dead. And he could be, for all we know. But someone obviously suspects you’re alive and while you may not be blood, you are still valuable as a figure of hope to any pockets of loyalism.’
Piven shook his head. ‘It’s been ten anni!’
‘Some people have long memories, son.’
‘Do they know?’
Greven shook his head, understanding. ‘No one knows of your change but you and me. And no one should know, if we’re sensible.’
‘You want me to pretend to still be simple?’
‘I don’t know what I want. I just don’t want anyone to know about your true identity.’
‘But they still think I’m an imbecile.’
‘Imbecile? That’s a harsh word. From what I could tell, Piven, everyone thought of you simply as an invalid. But you’re right—they believe you to be older but exactly as you were when you were last at the palace. That’s our one advantage. I’m hoping we can lose ourselves among people, especially as we are now hard to pinpoint given your maturity and the fact that my leprosy has miraculously cleared.’
‘Don’t avoid the truth,’ Piven said, somewhat harshly. ‘It’s not a miracle. It’s magic.’
‘I know you’re one for honesty, Piven, but you’re never to speak of magic so openly again, do you hear?’
Piven scowled. ‘Why are you so scared of it?’
‘You could be killed for admitting you possess it, and let me assure you that being killed would be the easy let-off. I told you a long time ago that the barbarians were hunting down all Vested. I heard they rounded up quite a horde but I have no idea what happened to them. I suspect many were killed.’
‘And was Clovis one of those rounded up?’
Greven’s head snapped around. ‘You catch on quickly for someone who was an imbecile,’ he said, pointedly.
‘That’s because I never was one.’
Greven hadn’t expected an answer and he certainly hadn’t anticipated a response that would shock him. ‘Pardon?’ Piven smiled. Normally, Piven’s smiles were warm and bright but Greven glimpsed cunning in this one. It was gone quickly but he’d seen it and it felt unnerving. Once again he was reminded to strengthen his resolve against his urges. Were they being unwittingly whittled away by Piven’s power? Did the boy even understand it? ‘What do you mean, child?’
Piven shrugged. ‘I wasn’t mad. I was lost, just as you said. There’s a difference.’
Greven’s gaze narrowed. ‘We’ve never really talked about what happened, have we?’
‘We’ve never needed to,’ Piven said, pulling himself up by a tree branch. ‘We’ve always just been glad I turned out as I have.’
Greven didn’t move. He checked all the mental barriers he’d taught himself to erect. His mind was tight; no thoughts, no clues were leaking. ‘You’re right. It was as though Lo himself smiled upon you.’ Again he saw Piven’s lip curl slightly in a half smile, bordering on a smirk. ‘It was enough for me. Do you recall when I found you?’
‘Greven, why are we doing this?’
‘What?’
‘Talking about old times while perched on a hill that we are using to run away from the life we enjoyed.’
‘Do you know, you’ve said more in the last day than you’ve uttered in your lifetime?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I hate exaggeration.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten how silent you were.’
‘You’re deliberately trying to upset me, I think.’
‘I love you, Piven. I would never deliberately do anything to upset you.’
‘Then stop probing me.’
‘Why?’
Piven kicked at a small rock. ‘Because I don’t want to answer lots of questions.’
‘Although it seems you have answers.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Look at me, boy,’ Greven demanded.
Piven sulkily met Greven’s eyes. ‘What?’
Greven could remember Lily being much like this when she had been around the same age as Piven. Sullenness and taking the opposite view of adults seemed to be the disposition of all youth. But he was certain there was something else between himself and his boy. ‘What’s eating at you?’ Greven asked, his tone as reasonable and as friendly as he could make it.
‘I’m just angry.’
‘Why?’
‘I liked where we lived.’ Piven shrugged. ‘I liked our life. I don’t see why strangers should send us on the run and I don’t see why I don’t have any say in it.’
Greven nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t consult you.’
Piven said nothing but Greven could see the boy’s jaw working furiously. He was angry, and had disguised it well until now. ‘Shall we talk about it?’ he tried.
‘Will it make any difference? Will it make you turn back?’
‘No.’
‘Then there’s no point in talking about it.’
‘Nevertheless, I think we should talk about those olden times you refer to.’
Piven gave a long sigh as though bored. ‘And if I don’t want to?’
‘Then let me talk.’
Piven nodded, although Greven sensed that the boy felt he didn’t have much choice.
‘I want to talk about your magic.’ He saw Piven’s jaw clench.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t understand it. Apple?’ Greven held out the fruit he’d dug from his sack. ‘Help yourself.’
Piven picked up the small knife and cut off a chunk of the apple. He bit into the fruit as he replied, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You told me a while back that you could wield this magic. But you’ve never said how long you’ve known you’ve had the skill.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Forever.’
‘Forever being from when you were little…or from when you began talking?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Greven nodded, not entirely convinced he trusted that answer. ‘All right. When did you first use it?’
‘To heal a robin with a damaged wing.’ Piven tested the sharpness of the knife on his thumb.
‘When was that?’
‘In the woods, outside our hut.’
‘When, I said, not where.’
Piven gave a vexed sigh. ‘I can’t remember, probably three winters ago.’
‘And you’ve been using magic ever since?’
‘No. The next time was on you.’
‘Why?’
‘To give you back your face. I—’
‘No, Piven. I meant why did you wait? Between the robin and me?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I didn’t trust it. I didn’t really understand it.’ He hacked off another chunk of the apple and began chewing on it.
‘Didn’t trust it? Why?’
‘I’m Valisar.’
Greven frowned, reached for some bread. ‘In name only.’
Piven looked away, seemingly embarrassed.
‘Had you forgotten you were adopted?’
‘What I meant is, despite my seeming madness I’ve lived as Valisar and the royal family obviously made me nervous about magic. I didn’t trust it.’
Greven felt a nervous energy ripple through him. He threw the morsel of bread left in his hand to some inquisitive birds nearby. ‘So you could understand what they were saying around you?’
‘I suppose.’
Greven tried not to lose his patience. ‘Piven, help me. I’m trying to understand you.’
‘There’s nothing much to understand, Greven. I didn’t use my magic because I wasn’t sure about it. That’s all.’ Piven flicked the knife around in his hand, angrily.
‘If you didn’t use it, how did you know you possessed it?’
‘I knew, that’s all,’ Piven said, and Greven could tell that his young companion would not be drawn on this.
‘Do you know the extent of your powers?’
Piven shook his head, hacking at the grasses between his ankles ith the knife, his head lowered.
‘Forgive me all these questions, child, but you’re all I have. I love you. I want to understand so I can always help, always protect you.’
‘I know.’
‘How do you explain that you have this magic?’
Piven shrugged. ‘I’m Vested, I suppose.’
‘In which case you can understand why I’m worried, why I feel the need to protect you from those who would want to make use of that magic.’
‘If I have to use it, then I want to use it for the good of others.’
‘Exactly!’ Greven exclaimed. ‘Exactly,’ he repeated, relief flooding his body. ‘My fears, child, are that people might want to use it for reasons that do not help others.’
‘No one could make me do anything I don’t want to.’
‘You’d be surprised what people will do to avoid being hurt, or to prevent those they love from being hurt.’
Piven tossed away the apple core and wiped the knife blade clean on his trousers. ‘So you would agree that there are occasions when we must hurt others to protect ourselves…or those we love?’
Greven baulked at the question but he could see Piven wanted a direct answer. ‘I would do anything to protect you…or Lily. I would probably have killed or certainly harmed some soldiers once—if I’d been able—when your adopted brother, Leo, came into my life. That was a terrifying moment. Yes, I would have done anything to stop them hurting Lily—or him, come to that.’
Piven nodded as though an important admission had been made. ‘What do you think the man Clovis is after?’
It was a straight question; Greven could hardly answer it indirectly. ‘I believe he has been trying to hunt you down for many anni and was sure he had stumbled upon the right path at last. I think he wanted to see that it truly was you first and then I believe he would have tried to persuade you to join him.’
‘Why?’
‘That I can’t answer. He is Vested. Perhaps he is in touch with other Vested and can sense you, or perhaps—’
‘I think I can guess,’ Piven said, sounding as if he had wearied of the conversation.
‘Really?’
‘Rebellion,’ Piven stated, his tone bald and unimpressed.
Greven was shocked. He rocked back against the tree he was leaning against and regarded Piven. He’d underestimated his charge. For anni he’d just been delighted that something had unlocked the child from his prison of silence. But Greven was beginning to think he’d entirely misjudged Piven, accepting his quietness for lack of thought and his simple outlook for a lack of depth. ‘Rebellion?’ he repeated dimly.
‘Do you really think the entire population of Penraven—let alone the masses of the Set proper—were going to just lay down arms entirely and accept a barbarian ruler?’
Greven looked at his child, astonished. ‘But they have.’
Piven held a finger in the air. ‘Most. Not all.’
Greven shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How would you know?’
‘I can sense it. But my skills aside, any rational person would have to allow that there would always be potential for rebellion, as long as a Valisar remained alive.’
‘But you’re not Valisar, Piven!’
Piven gave him such a look of disdain that Greven actually flinched. ‘I was referring to Leo.’
‘We have no idea if he’s ali—’
‘He is. I feel it,’ Piven said casually, raising the water skin to his mouth. He swallowed. ‘And as long as he is, there will be people who will rally for the Valisars. And I’m extremely useful, I’m sure, as a symbol for the Valisar Crown until he reveals himself.’
Greven cleared his throat. ‘Piven, you sound so much older than you are.’
Piven turned and there was his beautiful uncomplicated smile again. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No. No, not at all,’ Greven said, gathering his wits. ‘Refreshing, in fact…but unnerving all the same.’
Piven’s smile widened. ‘Sorry. But forcing me to leave my home has brought this all out of me. We’ve lived in a very protected, remote manner, haven’t we, Greven? And now, suddenly, I’m being forced to confront the real world. Real dangers.’
‘Indeed. I would save you from it if I could.’
‘I know. You may have to yet.’
Again, there it was; knowledge of something…a cryptic comment in a response as though Greven had given some form of admission. He was baffled by it. The truth was, he realised, he was baffled by Piven this day. He could hardly recognise him as the same quietly spoken, generally remote youth he’d shared a home with only a day or so earlier. Now he felt as though he was talking with an equal—an outspoken, well-informed one at that. ‘One more question, if I may?’ he asked.
Piven looked up through his straggly dark hair. ‘Yes?’
‘When do you remember first making sense of what was being said around you?’
The boy nodded. ‘I’ve asked myself that same question many times. I always return to the same answer.’
‘Which is?’
‘When my father, the king, died.’
Greven didn’t have the heart to correct Piven. Besides, the boy would likely leap down his throat anyway. He didn’t need any further reminding of his lineage. ‘Can you describe that time? Not the horror of it but what was happening to you, I mean.’
‘I can’t, really. I just think I became more aware of everyone around me then. Real thoughts were impacting, people’s comments made a little more sense, I could focus a little bit. But only a bit. My main anchor, I suppose you could call him, was Vyk. When he was around I could concentrate and all the noises and confusion that usually filled my head would lessen a lot.’
‘Is the bird magical?’ Greven asked.
Piven shrugged. ‘He was to me.’
That was an evasive answer but Greven let it go. ‘Where has he gone?’
‘He’ll find us.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘I just am. He hasn’t finished with me.’
Greven knew he should leave it alone, but he couldn’t. ‘So you think it was the death of King Brennus that allowed you to…to…’
‘To enter the world properly, yes,’ Piven replied. ‘But not immediately. It took time. You know how I was in the beginning.’
‘I do. But now look at you. I feel as though you’ve changed since we sat down!’
Piven smiled, a true sunny smile. ‘I think being on the run like this has made me accept that I can’t keep hiding from who I am. Like you said, there will be people who would use my presence as a rally cry for those still loyal to the Valisars. And then there are those who would make use of my magics for their own gain. I’m not sure I would permit either.’
He sounded so grown up it was astonishing. Greven tried not to show his surprise. ‘But we are loyal to the Valisars, surely?’
‘Of course, but I won’t be a pawn for someone else’s rebellion, Greven. I think I must find Leo.’
‘No, Piven. I had no intention of embarking on a crusade. I want us to escape attention, not go looking for it.’
‘You were hoping we could blend into another invisible life—Jon Lark and his son Petor?’
Greven frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re being naive.’ Greven felt a spike of fresh anxiety as Piven continued. ‘If this man Clovis can find me now he can find me again. And if he can find me so can Loethar or anyone else who wants me dead, or alive, or as a symbol, or as a Vested, or as a—’
‘Stop. Piven, what’s happening to you?’
Greven watched the boy he loved take a long slow breath before he spoke. He watched as the dark eyes lifted to regard his. ‘What’s happening is that I’m being realistic. I am accepting that I cannot have the quiet life in the hut in the forest and that I can no longer be Piven in disguise as Petor Lark and I am discovering that my magic will not be still.’
Greven stared at him, awe and anxiety battling within.
‘This magic I have,’ Piven continued. ‘Wild or divine or whatever in Lo’s name this skill I possess is, it claws at me. It has for a long time. And I have resisted it for all that time. I’m beginning to think that those first five anni were protection granted by the heavens. Now I fear something dangerous is lurking.’
Greven didn’t know what to say. He watched the youngster weigh the blade in his hand, and then, as if having made a decision, he handed it back to Greven. ‘Put this back in your sack. We’d better clear up and be on our way again.’
Greven nodded dumbly, not understanding why he felt suddenly intensely frightened.
8 (#ulink_61a71d63-8dd8-5c7a-b092-949c0dd2fc63)
Freath looked expectantly at Kirin. ‘Well?’
Kirin dragged his kerchief from a pocket and wiped his mouth. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever eat anything again without comparing it to this evening’s fare.’
Freath smiled. ‘I knew you’d enjoy it.’ He sipped at an ale he wasn’t interested in. ‘You were gone long enough. Did you make sure your horse is docile? They can be unscrupulous up in the north with unsuspecting travellers.’
‘She’s gentle enough. I’ll be fine,’ Kirin assured. ‘In fact’—he bent to gaze out of the window—‘it’s past dusk. I should go.’
‘What a rotten time of the day to be setting out on a journey. You could be set upon by bandits.’
Kirin smiled. ‘I’ve taken precautions. I met up with some merchants at the stables. A group of them are leaving at twilight and I’ll accompany them. We’ll likely travel through most of the night back towards the city. There’s plenty of them and they have a couple of armed men besides. Don’t worry.’
‘But I do,’ Freath said, scowling.
‘Then the sooner I go, the easier on your troubled mind.’
‘Kirin, I—’
‘Don’t. There’s nothing more to say. We both know what we have to do and you know why I have to leave. I will make contact again and I won’t leave it too long, either—that’s a promise.’
‘Find him for me, Kirin.’
‘And you find his brother,’ Kirin replied.
Freath nodded. ‘An aegis would be helpful.’
Kirin grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’
‘How will you take care of yourself? You know…’ Freath didn’t want to be obvious but he could see Kirin understood all the same.
‘I’ve been lucky this past decade; you haven’t asked much of me. We both know it will get worse if I practise. But that’s my decision on when and how to use my skills and you’re not to worry over my health.’
Freath sighed. ‘Well, I’ll just sit here and comfort myself with that thought,’ he replied, unable to fully disguise his bitterness. ‘Be safe. I shall miss you.’
Kirin stood, then surprised Freath by leaning down and hugging his old friend. ‘I’ll see you soon enough, I promise.’
All Freath could do was nod. He wasn’t used to being touched in such an intimate way; in fact, the last person who had hugged him had been his lovely Genrie. And she was dead within hours. He felt the familiar bile rise but forced it back as he lifted a hand in farewell to Kirin, who had turned at the inn’s doorway for one last sad smile in his direction. Freath watched a huge man step across the inn’s threshold, pushing past Kirin, his size forcing one of the Vested’s shoulders to swing backwards. Freath saw his friend shake his head at the poor manners and then he was gone. The big man moved deeper into the inn and although Freath’s gaze absently followed him, he was more focused on how the inn had filled since he and Kirin had come downstairs. Suddenly he was aware of the noise of men drinking, the voices of serving girls laughing and teasing their patrons gently as they set down food. He heard the clatter and bustle from the kitchen and the clank of pitchers of ale and mugs of spiced dinch. He decided to free up his table, now that the debris of his meal was being cleared. He watched as the woman worked with quiet dexterity, piling up plates and mugs on a large tray.
‘Thank you,’ he said and she looked up at him with surprise. She must not be used to such politeness, Freath thought, removing himself from the dining area to a corner of the main part of the inn. A shelf was set at chest height right around the room’s main chamber, accompanied by high stools for anyone who wanted to perch with a drink, though most men just leaned their elbows against the shelf. It was still relatively early so no one was rowdy. The patrons looked to be mainly travellers on their way through the town so none of these people would be looking for trouble. Instead, they seemed keen on swapping tales of the pass, or conditions in the mountains or news from the other cities and provinces.
Compasses! That’s what Loethar called Barronel, Garamond, Cremond and all the other once proud realms of the Set. He scowled into his ale and as he settled back into the dark nook his eyes fell on the huge man who had entered as Kirin was leaving. What an enormous specimen he was. He had to be a bodyguard at that size and yet he seemed very relaxed, not at all unfamiliar with the surrounds. Freath watched how the man took in everyone with his loud remarks and equally loud jests. No one seemed to mind his brashness. Freath noticed how the man’s brightly burning personality seemed to attract other men like moths to a flame. Soon enough a large group of them were clanking mugs of ale and laughing uproariously together.
The man sitting next to Freath, also alone, ordered an ale and as the girl arrived with his mug, she glanced at Freath enquiringly. ‘Another, please,’ Freath agreed. He didn’t want more ale but he needed an excuse to remain a bit longer. He knew if he went upstairs he’d feel Kirin’s absence too keenly and besides, it had been a very long time since he’d shared life among ordinary people. He was enjoying the anonymity and the relief of not having to watch his every move, every word, as he did in and around the palace. But, he reminded himself, he needed to stay alert. His reason for being here remained clandestine and with a very real purpose—he must not slip into the mindset that he was on some sort of holiday.
The girl arrived with a pitcher of ale and a mug. ‘I thought yours looked a bit stale, sir.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Freath replied, accepting the fresh mug as the darkly golden liquid fizzed into its depths, releasing a musty smell.
‘There you go,’ she said, beaming, and moved on.
As Freath half-smiled back at her, he caught the gaze of the fellow next to him. ‘Your health!’ he said politely.
‘And yours,’ the man replied, grinning before he took a draught of his ale.
Freath noticed his barbarian escorts enter the inn. The Green looked around until they saw Freath. Freath nodded, subtly dismissing them, then returned his gaze to his new companion who had turned his back to the door. ‘Are you local?’ he asked. Without Kirin’s company he would look every inch the dour city dweller if he didn’t try and fit in. What’s more, he could use some company, even if it was small talk with a complete stranger.
The man shook his head. ‘But I like this town. I pass through it for work.’
‘Oh yes, and what line of work are you in?’
‘A merchant.’
‘Ah, it seems everyone here but myself is a merchant of sorts,’ Freath commented.
‘And you, sir?’
‘I am a scribe from the city,’ he lied. ‘On my way through the north offering my services to a number of the wealthy families.’
The man scratched at his beard. ‘You have very clean fingertips for a man of ink.’
Freath forced a smile. ‘Sand and vinegar, with a dash of almond oil, make a wonderful cleaner. I bleach my fingers in pure lemon juice each day. As you can see, it makes a difference.’ Where he found the capacity to lie so convincingly or compile such credible-sounding nonsense was beyond him. His mother would turn in her grave. She would turn, anyway, to know the danger he had been living through these past anni, he thought sourly.
‘Impressive,’ the man said, staring at his own grubby hands. ‘I mention it only because I work with a lot of linen dyes. These fingers were orange a few days ago. Now they’re just fading to brown.’
Freath tapped his nose. ‘Sand and vinegar.’
The man raised his cup again and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. Look out, it seems we have a contest on our hands,’ he said, nodding towards the main counter.
Freath looked over and right enough the huge man was taking bets; coins were exchanging hands rapidly. He glanced at his companion. ‘What’s funny?’
‘I’ve seen this big fellow before. He never wins but still he plays.’
‘Plays what?’
‘Arrows.’
‘Arrows?’
The man turned to stare at Freath as though he were simple. ‘You don’t know the game Arrows?’
He’d just made an error. Freath fumbled to correct himself. ‘Er, well, I’ve spent the past few years working for the Drosteans. It hasn’t reached that far east yet.’
His companion’s nod suggested his excuse was plausible. ‘It was begun here in the north. Watch. See over on the bar, that pot of arrowheads?’
‘They’re not full size.’
‘No, that’s right. Deliberately shortened with a sleeker point.’
Freath frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To throw them.’
‘At what?’ Freath asked, intrigued.
His new friend pointed again, this time at a man who was rolling out a wine barrel. He pushed it against the rough stone wall on its side so one end faced into the main room. ‘The target is the bottom of the wine barrel.’
‘He has to hit that circle painted on it, I see,’ Freath said, fascinated.
His companion grinned. ‘Except he never does. I’ve seen him now a couple of times. He loses badly. I hope he bets against himself.’
‘It can’t be that hard, surely?’ Freath wondered. ‘I’m sure even I could do it.’
‘Really? Blindfolded?’
‘What?’ Freath exclaimed, nearly choking on his ale.
The man laughed easily. ‘That’s the point. Best you stay here and well behind him, Master Scribe, as those shortened arrows can be flung anywhere from that fellow’s wild throw.’
‘Lo, save me. Is this his invention?’
The man snorted. ‘No. The proper game requires the throwers to get as close to the middle of that spot as possible. You bet against each other on three throws.’ He finished his mug of ale. ‘The game’s developed, though, over the last decade. Quite a few people in the north play it and some have worked out a system of marking. You throw the arrows at rings painted on the barrel. The middle point is the highest and the further out you go from the middle the lower the score. It’s more complicated than that but I myself have never played it so I don’t fully understand the scoring. It’s popular, though. Mark my words, Master Scribe, you lot will be playing this in the city and as far as Droste before you know it.’
‘I dare say,’ Freath said, watching with great interest as the huge man allowed himself to be blindfolded.
‘Now the bets will be taken,’ his bearded companion said.
As if on cue, pandemonium broke out among the patrons as the innkeeper gleefully watched money exchanging hands furiously.
‘The innkeeper gets a cut of all the money laid down,’ Freath’s new friend explained.
Freath nodded, eyes riveted on the big man, who was being turned on his heels several times.
‘Lo’s breath! He could throw it our way,’ he exclaimed.
‘As I warned.’
Freath watched as the arrow-thrower, now appropriately giddy, was baited by his audience to choose his position. The big man roared his intention and then turned slowly, lurching once, before planting his feet solidly. The crowd stifled its laughter, and silence reigned as the big man took aim at the wooden counter, the innkeeper rolling his eyes and ducking below it for safety. The real target sat forlornly forgotten and as the arrow hit timber with a dull thud, the room erupted into hilarity, hats flung in the air, mugs clanked against each other, voices yelling and just about everyone on his feet.
In the midst of the noise, Freath’s friend stood up and grabbed Freath’s jacket-front. ‘What the—?’ Freath spluttered.
‘Let’s go, Freath. Time is of the essence.’
‘But—?’ Freath found himself being dragged out of the inn, unnoticed amidst all the cheering as men surged to their feet to watch the contest. The giant took his second shot as they exited, and Freath was convinced the second arrow landed in the door as it closed behind them. And before he could digest that, he found himself being hauled up onto a horse by a stranger.
‘Hold on,’ the stranger growled and within moments Freath was being galloped out of the town. Another horse, presumably with his companion from the inn, gave chase, but he dared not risk a look because his seating was already unsteady behind the rider. A fall at his age and from this height—and at this speed—would mean broken bones and a lot of explanation. No, he would not take the chance, so he closed his eyes and clung on as the horse he was sharing began to slow and climb. Presumably these were Faris’s men. He would have to trust his instincts. The noise of all the hooves died away until he was sure there were just two beasts.
‘Didn’t mean to frighten you,’ a familiar voice said, drawing alongside.
Freath opened his eyes, expecting to see his acquaintance from the inn. Although the clothes were identical, he would not have recognised the man. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ his companion explained, seeing Freath’s shock at his transformation.
‘Your disguise is impressive,’ Freath said, watching as the man pulled padding from around his girth and shoulders to reveal a much leaner frame. The gingery sideburns and reddish grey beard had already disappeared, along with the bright mop of auburn hair. ‘You’ve forgotten your eyebrows,’ he added.
‘We’re here,’ the man said, glancing over Freath’s shoulder as he dealt with the last of his disguise.
‘Here?’ Freath repeated, looking around. He saw nothing but a thickly wooded area, which was dark and foreboding now that the moonlight had been obliterated by clouds scudding over it. ‘Where?’ he asked.
His companion grinned. ‘This is where we shall talk,’ came the reply. ‘You can get off your horse, for we go no further.’
Freath obediently slid off his mount, ignoring his fellow rider’s hand of help.
‘This is Tern,’ his host introduced.
‘Obliged I’m sure,’ Freath said somewhat ungraciously to the man who had abducted him. ‘And who are you? I had hoped to meet the outlaw Kilt F—’
‘I’m Faris.’
Freath felt something coalesce inside into an excitement he had not permitted himself so far. ‘How can I be sure of that?’ he asked.
‘Because I am a man of my word.’
Freath saw that the man called Tern was busying himself with some sort of shelter that was hidden in the trees.
Faris noted his gaze. ‘It is a hideout. You will forgive us our low light. We are always careful this close to a town.’
‘But we must be miles from Francham.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘You can never be too careful,’ Freath said at the same time as Faris.
The outlaw smiled. ‘Join us, Master Freath. I can offer you something to warm old bones.’
Freath ducked into the small space created by a cunning canopy of slim branches woven together, their leaves creating a dense wall. Small stools were placed inside and tiny candles had been lit to offer a small measure of comfort. ‘Must be tough in the cold months,’ he commented.
‘We are never this far down in the blow,’ Faris replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he offered dryly.
Freath perched on one of the low stools. ‘Was the inn not rough enough for you?’
Faris gave a low chuckle. ‘Speaking of Rough, let me invite you to try some.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Freath replied.
‘A small nip will not hurt you,’ Faris said, taking tiny shot cups that Tern had miraculously produced. A small flask appeared as well from a saddle-bag. ‘It is a custom in this part of the realm to take Rough together.’
‘This is no realm, Master Faris. We live in a compass,’ Freath said, his mouth twisting into a shape of disgust, ‘or hadn’t you realised?’
‘I answer to a king, Master Freath, not an emperor.’
Freath’s belly flipped. ‘How can I know you are not an impostor? That this whole thing has not been a clever charade?’
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble?’
Freath frowned.
Faris sighed. He removed a chain from around his neck. ‘Do you recognise this?’
The low light made no difference. Freath could clearly see that the man was holding Queen Iselda’s chain and locket. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.
‘From a king.’
‘Which one?’ Freath breathed.
‘The first time or the second time?’
‘Don’t toy with me, man!’
Faris regarded him. Freath maintained his glower. He was furious but also tingling with anticipation. Leo was within his midst somewhere—the long-held dream of returning the Valisar throne to its rightful sovereign was within grasp.
The tallow candles guttered in tandem with his anticipation and Freath took his eyes off Faris to glance at them.
‘Hog fat,’ Faris said. ‘We save our sheep-fat candles for polite guests.’
‘Listen to me, Faris,’ Freath threatened, ‘lives are in the balance. Many have already been lost to protect King Leo. Many more have been pledged to save him. Don’t make light of my suffering.’
‘Yours?’ Faris looked at him with disgust. ‘Why shouldn’t I just slit your throat here and now, Freath? Did you honestly imagine you’d leave this place alive? As it is, a word from me and your companion will be rotting in the earth somewhere between here and Brighthelm.’
‘My companion?’ Freath stuttered. ‘Kirin? What do you mean?’
‘Kirin? Is that his name? Well, my merchant friends will have no hesitation to end his life should that be necessary, let me assure you.’
Freath felt his skin turn clammy. The elation he’d experienced just moments earlier fled.
‘It amazes me that you have not considered this outcome,’ Faris baited.
Freath cleared his throat. ‘It amazes me that you think I would invest my time and energy and no small amount of personal funds if I was anything but earnest.’
‘So, despite all I’ve heard to the contrary, I’m to believe you are a loyalist?’
‘To King Brennus? Yes!’
‘But you work for the emperor. In fact, you’re a close aide and indeed confidant of Loethar.’
‘I am seen to play those roles.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ Faris replied. His tone was quietly mocking. ‘And so why are you looking for me?’
‘You know why.’
Faris knocked back his Rough in a single swallow. ‘I want to hear you tell me why.’
‘I am here,’ Freath began, placing his shot glass, its fiery liquid unsipped, on the ground beneath his stool, ‘to learn of King Leonel.’
‘You call him king,’ Faris replied.
‘And you speak of him in the present tense.’
Faris nodded and smiled. Freath did not return it. He was not in the mood for games.
‘What is your interest in the Valisars, Freath?’ Faris pressed.
‘The same as yours, I imagine.’
‘Which is?’
‘Revenge.’
‘I have many enemies,’ Faris said coolly. ‘Yet I know none of them.’
‘Then we are kindred spirits.’
‘Ah, not so,’ the outlaw replied, glancing over at Tern in what Freath sensed was some sort of silent signal. ‘I know of at least two enemies of yours, Master Freath. And so do you.’
Freath shrugged, watching Faris’s man leave the enclosure. ‘I agree with you that I have many. It would not surprise me if you knew of them.’
‘Is it true that you killed Queen Iselda?’
Freath hung his head. The old shame warmed his face and sent a fresh spike of self-loathing through his ageing body. ‘I did.’
Faris drew a small but fearsome looking blade from his hip. ‘I should gut you now for that admission alone and leave your entrails for the birds to peck at.’
Freath did not lift his head. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he sighed. ‘I have walked a treacherous path, Faris. I suspect you would be doing me a kindness.’
‘No,’ said a new voice. ‘He will not grant you such a swift end, Master Freath, not without my say so.’
Freath looked up in startlement. He could see only the bottom half of the man who had spoken. He frowned, crawling out of the enclosure, followed by Faris, to stand and face his accuser. It was dark and the weak illumination from the tallow candles threw up only a ghostly glow. Freath squinted through the shadows to see a young man: tall, lean, fair-haired and, although he bore little resemblance to either parent, his bearing was unmistakeably regal.
‘Give me light!’ Freath demanded. ‘Now!’
Faris must have nodded because Tern lit a lantern from one of the tallow candles. ‘It can only be lit for a few moments,’ the leader of the outlaws growled.
Freath grabbed for it, swinging it perilously close to the young man’s face. He knew precisely what he was looking for and there it was, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow that had been won when he fell from a pear tree, clipping his face on a branch. He sucked in a gasp of excitement. ‘How did you get this scar?’ he asked, pointing towards it.
He knew everyone was leaning in to scrutinise something they’d probably not even noticed before. It was tiny. Only just visible, a thin silvery blemish.
The younger man didn’t hesitate. ‘I fell out of a tree, hit my head on a knob of the branch. By the time the de Vis twins and I arrived at the infirmary, I looked as though I’d fought through a day’s battle.’
Freath’s lip began to tremble. ‘What sort of tree was it?’
The younger man sneered. ‘A pear tree. The fruit wasn’t even ripe and to add insult to injury I got bellyache for my trouble and then the trots. My mother was not pleased with me. She worried I would be scarred badly but I can recall you scoffing at the suggestion, Freath. Besides, I always hoped it would add a warrior’s mark to my soft appearance.’
‘How old were you?’ Freath persisted.
The man blinked. Freath held his breath.
‘I was six. Mother had recently lost another baby so her mood made her overreact to my wound. She banished the de Vis brothers from my life for what felt like an age.’
Freath sank to his knees. ‘It was four days, your majesty,’ he said, his voice choked with relief. ‘They were banished for four days.’
‘They were only about eleven anni themselves,’ Leo continued.
Freath nodded, his eyes glistening. ‘King Leon—’
‘No!’ Leo yelled. ‘You will not so much as speak my name, you treacherous, snivelling, arse-licking bastard!’ He drew a sword with a chilling ring from its scabbard at his hip; even in this low light Freath recognised the sword.
He bent his head, accepting the rebuke. ‘I am unworthy of being slain by Faeroe, your majesty.’
He sensed Leo’s hesitation but it was Faris who stepped between them. ‘Stop!’
‘I warned you,’ Leo bristled, his voice edged with emotion.
‘Just wait, your majesty!’ Faris demanded. ‘Extinguish the lantern,’ he growled at Tern. ‘On your feet, Freath.’
Freath felt himself hauled upright. He still couldn’t face his sovereign.
‘Where’s Jewd?’ Faris asked.
‘Just coming up the hill now with the others,’ Tern answered. ‘I can just see him. He’s moving quickly which means his money pouch is a lot lighter.’
‘Did anyone follow us?’ Faris demanded.
‘No,’ came the reply.
Freath dared a look. Leo had not taken his gaze from the former aide to his parents, his face glowering with such open hatred that Freath expected to feel Faeroe sliding into his belly at any moment. ‘Hear me out, majesty,’ he risked, for Leo’s hearing only. ‘I might surprise you.’
Leo said nothing, simply stared at him with a deepening sneer.
The man they called Jewd finally arrived, and Freath recognised him as none other than the arrow-throwing giant from the inn. Two other men accompanied him. ‘It was a ruse?’ Freath sputtered.
Faris nodded. ‘I needed to create a disturbance so that we could get you out of there with no one remembering you leave.’
‘For when we kill you and leave you for the wolves,’ Leo finished.
Freath inwardly sighed. He could not blame the young man. ‘Does he lose purposely, then?’ he asked, simply for something to say that would throw Leo off his back.
‘No, he does that without even trying,’ Faris answered. ‘He was born a shocking gambler,’ he added, loud enough for the giant to hear.
Jewd ignored him. ‘So this is our traitor, is it? Puny, isn’t he? Shall I snap him in half, your majesty?’
Leo’s lip curled. ‘Not yet, Jewd. I want him for myself.’ Freath watched the king’s grip on Faeroe tighten.
Once again Faris calmed the tension. ‘Right, you men, get yourselves something to eat. Thanks for tonight, you did well. No fire unfortunately this low in the woods, but tomorrow night I promise a meal of roasted meat.’ The rest of the outlaws grumbled but meandered off leaving the four of them.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Faris said, taking in the king and Freath with a roving gaze, ‘it’s time to talk. No swords needed, majesty.’ He raised a hand as the king opened his mouth, no doubt to hurl more abuse, Freath guessed. ‘Your highness, we are going to listen. If Master Freath is every inch the slippery snake you describe him as and as cunning as you suggest, then I have to query why he would willingly put himself into a den of Freath-haters unarmed, alone, and knowing full well that he carries a death wish by walking into our lives.’ He paused before adding, ‘We should consider the possibility that he’s innocent.’
‘Innocent?’ Leo repeated. ‘He threw the queen from the highest level of Brighthelm.’ But he reluctantly sheathed Faeroe.
Freath swallowed. How? Where had he been hiding in the palace to see so much!
Leo continued, despite Faris’s warning glare. ‘He picked her up by her royal garments at her neck,’ he said, pointing to his own, ‘and at her tail, and without so much as a farewell, flung her through the window so she could smash on the flagstones below. And then he turned and smiled at the hag from the Steppes.’ If winter had a voice, it would sound like Leo’s.
‘You saw,’ Freath choked.
‘Yes, I saw. I saw everything you did, Freath.’
‘But you did not hear,’ Freath defended.
Leo seemed unperturbed. ‘I did not hear what you and my mother discussed before you murdered her, perhaps, but everythi—’
Freath interrupted, no longer caring about protocol. ‘Because if you had been able to hear, you would have known that she instructed me to do that.’
Leo paused, astonished, and then leapt for Freath. Jewd hauled him back. ‘Forgive me, majesty,’ the big man growled into the young man’s ear. ‘We said we would listen.’
Freath rubbed self-consciously at his throat.
‘Let’s be seated, all of us,’ Faris said, glaring at his young monarch.
Jewd threw one of the stools in Freath’s direction. As Freath sat warily, Faris urged Leo to sit on the second stool. The outlaw adopted a crouch that he managed to make appear comfortable.
‘Why don’t you tell us everything you came here to share?’ Faris suggested. ‘Highness, during this time, why don’t you…er, respectfully, be quiet and still? Begin, Freath. If anything you say does not ring honestly to my ear, I will not wait for the king’s command. Jewd will happily snap your neck for me as easily as he might a twig.’
Freath nodded. He gave his attention to Leo. ‘It began with your father calling me into his salon on the day of your sister’s birth, your highness…’
9 (#ulink_34bfa349-9d46-5d90-bb22-13f1f49b47c4)
Kirin had fallen into conversation with a woman travelling with her brother. ‘And what prompted you to go looking for such a long lost friend?’ she asked, taking a sip from the water bladder that hung from her horse’s neck.
Very few women travelled with merchants and most of those, for whatever reason, chose to be carried in the carts. He was impressed she was riding, and flattered that she had chosen to speak to him. ‘It’s been a decade. Friends should not fall out of contact,’ he answered as vaguely as he could.
‘He could be married by now,’ she said.
‘He probably is,’ Kirin replied, shaking his head at her offer of a sip of water.
‘Where will you begin?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘I have no idea. Why?’
She smiled. ‘I think it’s exciting. You’re off on a journey of discovery. You could travel the entire realm…I mean compass…before you even get a clue as to his whereabouts.’
‘That’s true. And I may never get that clue.’
‘That would be a shame. Think positive, Kirin Felt.’
‘And so you’re both travelling to Brighthelm?’ Kirin asked. At her nod, he added, ‘What are you, guards or something?’
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, amused.
‘Well, you’re riding, for a start.’
‘Very observant!’ she replied archly. ‘No, I’m just using the caravan for security. My brother and I need to get into the city to see some relatives but we didn’t want to travel alone. So long as we pay our tithe and follow the rules, the merchants don’t mind. They’re good company as well.’
He nodded. He’d also paid a fee that allowed him the security of the merchant caravan and their mercenary guards. ‘Where do your relatives live?’
‘Er, in a village not far from Devden.’
He’d heard the hesitation in her voice. She was lying. Why? More to the point, what was her interest in him?
‘How long will you stay?’
She grinned. ‘All these questions, Master Felt!’
He shrugged. ‘Just passing the time, Lily.’
‘Somehow I feel your life is far more exotic and interesting than my boring existence in Francham.’
‘Nothing boring about Francham, surely?’
‘Well, I’ve been there all my life. How about you? Are you originally from the city?’
‘No, Port Killen on Medhaven,’ he lied, unsure why but driven by instinct now.
‘Far away,’ she sighed. ‘You’re lucky to see so much of our lands.’
‘You’d like to travel?’
‘Yes, of course. But it is unseemly for a woman to roam the compasses. I envy you. And I hope you find your friend.’
‘Your brother is very silent.’
‘He never says much. And he didn’t really want to make this journey but we feel obliged.’
‘And you live together?’
‘Er, yes, we do.’
The hesitation each time he asked a personal question was telling. He was now convinced her easy conversation with him was contrived. She was also very pretty, which only served to make him even more self-conscious.
‘How come you’re not married, Lily?’
She shrugged, seemingly embarrassed. ‘How come you aren’t?’
‘I didn’t say that I wasn’t.’
‘You didn’t say that you were either. I’m guessing not.’
‘Why?’
She smiled softly. ‘The way you look at me.’
Kirin bristled. ‘My apologies, I didn’t—’
‘You misunderstand, Master Felt,’ she reassured. ‘Married men tend to have a hungry look in their eyes.’
He stared at her, only just able to see the amused expression through the murky light of the few lanterns they hung from the carts. ‘And I don’t look hungry?’
‘Let’s just say you aren’t looking at all from what I can tell. Perhaps I should have said the way you don’t look at me.’
Kirin swallowed. She was absolutely right. ‘Should I start apologising again?’ ‘Not at all. I can’t be offended by your lack of interest. I’m seeing a good man,’ she said, her gaze as direct as her words.
‘Will you marry him?’
‘That’s overly curious of you,’ she admonished, looking for the first time as self-conscious as he was feeling.
It was Kirin’s turn to shrug. ‘Don’t feel obliged to answer—’ He stopped, looking ahead. ‘People are coming. Quite a few.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Trust me.’ As they both sat up straighter to peer ahead, the sound of hooves and the squeak and groan of approaching carts came out of the darkness.
The merchant caravan hauled to a stop.
‘Emperor’s soldiers,’ Kirin breathed, feeling immediately nervous. He couldn’t risk being recognised. He turned to Lily and noticed her pulling her shawl over her head, tying it under her chin. He frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just taking precautions,’ she murmured. ‘I’m a woman, Master Felt. It doesn’t hurt to be wary.’
Kirin’s puzzlement deepened. Lily was not travelling alone. Apart from the fourteen or so travellers alongside them both, she was with her brother, who was armed. Why would she feel so suddenly nervous? Kirin felt his earlier suspicions confirmed. Lily was not only hiding something, he could tell she wanted to hide herself along with it. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Let’s not talk.’
‘I’m sure you have nothing to fear from these men.’ The soldiers, he could see, were escorting two carts holding people, none of whom bore tatua or looked at all like tribal folk. The man at the front waved a hand, asking the merchants to move to one side of the road. Kirin watched the leader of his caravan gladly acquiesce, obediently waving the group to shift as best they could.
‘Who are these people?’ Lily spoke softly for his hearing only, although the question was clearly rhetorical.
Kirin shook his head in reply but as he did so felt an assault on his mind. Though this had never happened to him before, he instinctively shepherded the probing magic, deflecting it he knew not where. It was gone no sooner than it had arrived and, startled, he wondered if he’d imagined it. His curiosity pricked, he risked a very small trickle of prying magic. He had been practising this over the last seven anni, teaching himself how to control the flow with precision, never allowing it to rush from him. It had taken much of his courage to risk the headaches, the nausea, fainting, and loss of his rationality that accompanied the use of his talent and he had learned that to let it flow from him too fast—no matter how small the trickle—was to invite pain and sickness. Using it still meant repercussions but he knew now how to control it with exquisite care so that he knew exactly how much it took from him to wield it.
He cast as gently as he knew how, stealing over time and distance, through flesh and bone, creeping invisibly into the mind of the man bearing the tatua of the Green who seemed to be leading this strange group. And in this man’s jumbled, slightly angry, definitely alert thoughts, he thought he sensed what he sought. He pulled back with equal care and stealth and took a long slow breath to stem the inevitable rush of dizziness.
‘Whoops, Master Kirin,’ Lily warned, reaching for him. ‘What’s wrong?’
Kirin closed his eyes to steady the swaying sensation. ‘Forgive me, I feel a bit unwell.’
‘Nothing to forgive,’ she said, sounding worried. ‘Can I help?’
He pushed the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘No,’ he replied tightly. ‘This is probably the effects of the wine I drank in rather hefty quantity this afternoon.’
‘Then I no longer feel quite so sympathetic,’ she whispered, not unkindly.
He forced himself to focus. ‘Lily, have you heard of the Vested?’
She shot him a glance as the soldiers’ group began to advance again.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I think the people ahead in the carts are Vested.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
He tried to shrug. ‘I think I recognise one or two of the folk. I’ve—’
‘You!’ the lead soldier yelled, pointing.
Kirin looked over and noticed with a rush of fright that the man pointed at him. ‘Me?’
He watched the man consult with another, who was not a soldier but wore distinctive scars, painted violet, that marked him as Wikken, a so-called seer of the Steppes. The Wikken whispered something to the soldier.
‘Name?’ the soldier demanded.
Truth was best, Kirin decided. ‘I am Kirin Felt.’
‘From?’
‘Penraven.’
‘Travelling from Francham?’
‘Yes. I had business to conduct there.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘The emperor’s business,’ Kirin replied, hoping his cutting tone would dismiss further questions.
The man appeared unnerved but once again listened to his scarred companion. He nodded, then asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Heading back to Brighthelm.’
‘Your business is done?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who are you to the emperor—what service is it that you perform?’
‘Nothing of such importance,’ Kirin began, trying to deflect attention that he had any relationship with Loethar. ‘I am simply a man of letters,’ he added, starting to craft a lie but realising instantly it was an error as the Wikken leaned across from his horse and whispered again.
‘Good, we will ask you then to accompany us.’
‘What?’ Kirin exclaimed. ‘No, I cannot, I’m afraid. I am expected at Brighthelm.’
‘We will get you there.’
‘But why must I come with you?’
‘We could use your help as a man of letters.’ Sarcasm had crept through into the soldier’s tone.
Kirin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry but I am supposed to go—’
The man laughed. ‘These people we carry wield the magic of the Vested,’ he said, untroubled by sharing this information with the whole caravan of traders. ‘But my companion here is Wikken. He has “smelled you”, Kirin Felt. You too are Vested.’
So it was the scarred man who had assaulted his mind, Kirin realised.
‘Who is this woman you travel with?’ the soldier demanded.
Before Kirin could respond, Lily spoke up. ‘I am his wife.’
Kirin turned and stared at her, taking care not to betray his shock. What was she up to? Why would she take such a risk?
‘Are you Vested?’ the soldier asked her.
‘Yes.’
Kirin could not tolerate this. ‘This woman is—’
‘Both of you will join us then,’ the soldier said, waving a hand and urging his horse forward.
The merchant leader looked helplessly at Kirin and shrugged. He guided his horse to him. ‘You’d better go, Master Felt. I’m sorry but I suspect they mean no harm.’
‘Do you?’ Kirin glared and then softened. It wasn’t the trader’s fault. He nodded sheepishly. ‘My apologies, sir.’
‘None needed. Go safely with Lo.’
There was nothing for it but for Kirin and Lily to turn their horses and join the group of soldiers, who coalesced around them without crowding them.
‘What did you do that for?’ Kirin demanded of Lily in an urgent whisper, staring ahead.
‘I’m asking myself the same question,’ she replied and he could hear in her voice that she was not lying.
‘It was stupid, Lily. This feels dangerous. What about your brother?’
‘Don’t worry about him.’
Kirin stared at her. ‘I’m not, I’m worried about you!’
‘Well, don’t,’ she said, tartly. ‘So, you’re Vested?’
He nodded. ‘You heard I work for the emperor,’ and as he noticed her attractive face darken at his words, he added in the lowest of murmurs, ‘but not in the way that you think.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Not now,’ he said, shaking his head. He was surprised to realise that in the last few minutes of alarm, the dizziness had passed and he was at least feeling well again, if not safe. ‘I shall tell you more when we’re alone.’
She seemed to accept this. ‘Who’s that man with the scars?’
‘He’s Wikken. Did you understand what the soldier was saying?’
‘No.’
‘A Wikken is a seer of sorts, from the tribes. Apparently this one can “smell” magic. I have little experience with them—he’s only the second Wikken I’ve seen in my time. It was my impression they refuse to leave the Steppes.’
‘Well, he smelled you.’
‘Pointless, though, I have such little skill,’ Kirin lied.
‘Why’s his face like that?’
Kirin didn’t know the proper answer to that. He turned to the soldier riding nearby; now that the men knew Kirin wasn’t planning on being any trouble, they had given the newcomers a wide berth. Kirin had to beckon the man, whom he guessed was around his own age, to guide his horse closer. ‘Yes?’ the soldier asked, his expression quizzical.
Kirin drew make-believe lines against his cheek. ‘Can you tell us why he is scarred like that?’
The soldier smiled. ‘When anyone from the tribes shows genuine promise as a seer, he is cut each year from manhood. The wounds are packed with the ashes of our ancient dead, which we have kept for as long as our people have lived on the plains.’
‘Why?’ Kirin asked, intrigued in spite of his anxiety.
‘We believe that the Wikken will then carry the memories of our forefathers, so that he is enlightened by their knowledge and experiences.’
Kirin nodded, keeping his expression bland.
Lily was not so careful. ‘You mean those scars are filled with the remains of cremated people?’
The soldier grinned. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. The wounds heal and push the packing of the ashes outwards and that creates those magnificent scars,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘They’re purple anyway but he stains them that deep violet.’
Kirin glanced Lily’s way and she seemed to grasp his unspoken warning. ‘How fascinating,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’
‘How many Wikken are in the Set?’ Kirin asked, his voice casual.
‘Shorgan is the only one now. There are only two living Wikken at present. The other is much older, far more powerful and remains on the plains.’
‘So Shorgan likes it here, does he?’ Kirin added, smiling, encouraging the man to spill as much information as possible.
‘I believe he does. Our emperor sets little store by the Wikken today. He is keen that we do not dwell too much on the old ways of mystery and magic.’
‘And yet he hunts down the Set’s Vested,’ Kirin commented.
The man shrugged. ‘For different reasons. He wants control of the magic but he doesn’t make a lot of use of it from what I’ve heard. It’s too bad; I think I take an interest in sorcery.’
‘How come?’
‘Because my grandfather is the other Wikken.’
‘I see. And you have no…?’ Kirin wasn’t sure how to phrase his question but the youngster understood.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’ He smiled. ‘I am all warrior,’ he declared, banging a fist to his chest.
Kirin was pleased to hear Lily give a soft laugh on cue. He was relieved she had grasped that they needed to be as little problem as possible to these people.
‘Why do they need my wife and myself?’ Kirin asked, taking his chance and trying to make the words my wife sound natural even though they caught slightly in his throat.
The man shook his head, made a face to say he had no idea. ‘Just interested, I imagine. These Vested are being transferred. I am guessing that Shorgan sensed you, and that our captain is simply taking precautions. He’ll send a runner soon enough to enquire about you. It’s likely you’ll be escorted back to the city almost immediately.’
‘And where are these people headed?’
‘I haven’t been told. I just follow the leader.’
‘They’re safe, though?’
The man frowned, slightly bemused. ‘I wasn’t here for the overthrow—I was just three moons too young as Loethar only allowed men who were two decades and older to march—but I hear it was a bloody one. I accept that those memories do not easily fade.’ He gave a small bow that touched Kirin’s heart. ‘But our emperor does not want a massacre. We should not be feared as murderers.’
‘He did a pretty good job of it ten anni ago.’
The man nodded and sighed. ‘War is ugly. But now he wants everyone to be loyal to the empire and to get on.’
Kirin felt his own treachery quicken his pulse. This man riding next to him was either terribly naive or one of the most sincere people he was likely to meet. If only he knew that the companion he was talking so freely and openly with was part of a long-held plot to tear down the very empire he admired so much.
‘If he wants that he should not treat these innocents as prisoners.’
The warrior frowned. ‘Do they look like prisoners?’
Kirin looked over at the eight or so people he counted chatting amiably in the carts. One was telling a tall tale, it appeared, and even the soldiers riding alongside were joining in the laughter.
‘No, but they’re not free, are they?’
The man shrugged. ‘What is freedom? Are you free?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, do you answer to someone?’
‘We all answer to someone.’
‘Then none of us is free.’
Kirin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let me say it another way. I didn’t want to join this caravan but against my will I am being forced. To me that is not the choice of someone with freedom. These people would presumably not choose to be moved.’
‘On the contrary,’ his companion said, ‘they all volunteered to move into another compass.’
Kirin blinked, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I guess the emperor wants to put their skills to good use in another part of the Set.’
Kirin didn’t think Loethar would relinquish control of anyone possessing magic but he let it pass. Whether or not these Vested had volunteered did not solve the dilemma of him and Lily being absorbed into this group, or him being dragged further from Clovis’s trail.
‘We do keep a record of the Vested, of course,’ the soldier added.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a new method but very effective, transportable, and knowledgeable.’
‘Knowledgeable?’ Kirin queried. ‘How can a list be discerning?’ He watched the man’s brow crease in puzzlement at this word. ‘Er, how can a list think?’
‘Ah, I see. It doesn’t have to. It’s not a list.’
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Fiona McIntosh
The second instalment of Fiona McIntosh’s gripping epic fantasy, set in a world torn by revenge, love and ancient magic.Ten years have passed since Loethar, the barbarian warlord from the Likurian steppes, devoured the Devona Set with his army of mercenaries, decimating their ruling families and settling in their primary kingdom of Penraven. Believing the Valisar heirs of Penraven to be dead, he has styled himself as emperor and continues his efforts to integrate his people into the native population.But abandoning his more violent methods of persuasion hasn't quelled the undercurrent of rebellion; for the Valisar heirs do live. Hidden from the barbarian's wrath by loyal allies who risk everything for the future of their kingdom, they are bound to return and seek a tyrant's blood for the havoc he has wreaked.
Curant’s Blood
FIONA MCINTOSH
VALISA: BOOK TWP
For Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Marianne D’Arrigo, Margo Burns, Michelle King, Willa Michelmore.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2eadb09f-6b85-5ff9-ad36-f429ea14034d)
Title Page (#u13523f7c-8792-5345-bb96-7dbfe9fbee05)
Dedication (#ua2ef0fde-8499-5ca8-afac-d7b6de67ff00)
Map (#u7ba82f8d-12c1-5252-8aa0-9673ca9ca1de)
Prologue (#u48a0e2bf-a5aa-5cf3-9d9c-7806d8c33497)
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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_8e9da855-cfa4-5ed3-af9c-cfec12d04551)
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said as she approached. What an old-fashioned name Reginald was for someone his age; it didn’t suit him at all.
‘I thought you’d come,’ he said, not looking up.
She loved his voice and his economy with words. Reg had always been able to comfort her even when he was silent, which was most of the time. ‘Can I sit with you?’
She knew he smiled but he wouldn’t face her. Her question did not require an answer, nor would he waste the breath to give her one. ‘How are you?’ she said, sighing as she lowered herself next to him.
‘Same as yesterday.’
‘Grouchy, then.’
‘Not for you.’
‘I’ll take you in any mood, Reg, you know that.’
He looked around at her and after the unhappy morning she’d just had, which included watching a patient die, she felt instantly comforted and secure to see his sad, gentle face, buried beneath his straggly beard and the grime of his working day. She had long suspected that Reg liked to hide behind his longish, nutbrown hair, his hat, even that wretched beard, but try as he might, he could never hide his eyes. Intelligence—far more than he let on—lurked within those grey-green eyes that noticed everything and yet invited few people into his life, for he kept them mostly lowered when others were around. Now they looked at her; vaguely amused but above all knowledgeable. He had secrets, but then he was a secretive sort—everything about Reg was a mystery. The nurses cringed whenever she mentioned him, variously describing him as rude, deranged or creepy. He was none of those things. Not to her, anyway.
‘A death?’ he asked as she was staring at him.
How could he know her that well? It was infuriating sometimes. The tide of emotion she’d kept at bay rose but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If her training had taught her anything it had taught her to hold part of herself back from patients, or risk being swallowed by misery. But there was more to not showing her sorrow. In her quietest of moments she worried that she was a cold person; someone who let few past her guard. The truth was, she didn’t particularly want to share her life with anyone. Reg didn’t count, of course. He was a stranger she’d befriended so many years ago she couldn’t remember her time in the hospital when he was not roaming the botanical gardens, ever near, always available to give her a few minutes, always able to say the right things…even when he wasn’t actually speaking. Something was missing in her for sure—the lonely gene, perhaps…the one that triggered normal people to go in search of others and make friends. She obviously didn’t possess that gene. It was as if she were a misfit, walking around a world of people she didn’t feel she was a part of. She looked like everyone, talked like everyone, even to some degree acted like them. But there was a hole somewhere—a divide she couldn’t bridge between herself and everyone else. Reg was her curious lifeline, for he too was a misfit and seemed to understand even though they never discussed such intimacies.
And so she went through the motions of life—always had…even with her parents. For many years she’d thought this was simply because she was adopted. It bothered her to the point where she’d even taken some therapy for it but she knew in her heart that this was not a learned response—something she had reacted to on discovering her adoption. No, this was deep. It was in the blueprint that had made her who she was. And its particular presence in her DNA or whatever it was, meant she didn’t feel fully connected to anyone except Reg, the hospital groundsman.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finally able to accept that Jim Watkins was no longer of this life.
He said nothing.
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed but it came out as a soft groan, hugging herself as another pang of guilt reached through her body and twisted in her gut. She was answering a question he hadn’t asked and yet they both knew the question existed, hanging between them.
She began to explain, even though he hadn’t requested any further information. ‘I try not to choose, Reg. I have to be careful.’
‘Save all.’
‘I can’t. I’m different enough already; can you imagine what the media would do if it cottoned on to this?’
He shrugged.
She gave a mocking half-smile. ‘Proper journalists are just the tip of the iceberg. The gutter press and popular magazines, the hacks and mischief makers and those awful revelation shows that masquerade as current affairs,’ she said, mugging at him, ‘they would just slurp this up.’
He shook his head now, slightly amused, mostly baffled.
‘They’d never leave me alone, Reg.’
‘You’re looking thin.’
‘That’s a joke coming from you.’
‘I could eat a horse and it wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re lying. I know you so much better than you think. We’re thin, Reg, because we’re both hollow. Neither of us are filled with anything except a strange misery. I recognised it in you the moment I met you—the moment you walked into my life and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t trip you,’ he growled gently.
‘How else would you describe it?’
‘I tripped, and stumbled into you.’
‘And stopped me from going to see the clairvoyant at the Otherworlds festival.’
‘Rubbish. We were strangers. How could I have any hold over you?’
‘We weren’t strangers. Even if we’d never met I’ve always had the curious feeling that we’ve known each other all my life.’
He made a scoffing sound, offered her half of the orange he’d laboriously peeled while they’d been talking. She took it, inhaling the fresh scent of citrus surrounding them.
‘How old are you, Reg?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She laughed.
He looked at the segment of orange in his hand. ‘It’s true. I’ve lived too long,’ he said, looking down. ‘So I’ve never really known.’
‘Well, beneath all this fuzz,’ she said, tugging at his beard, ‘you look about mid thirties.’
‘And you’re just twenty and considered a genius, so you already know what it is to have that kind of attention levelled at you,’ he replied, returning to their previous topic.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘They didn’t leave me alone for almost a year when they discovered I’d qualified for Medicine so young. It’s all quietened down again. Now I’m just another intern at another big city hospital.’
‘And uncannily, often inexplicably, saving lives.’
‘Listen, I want everyone to just accept that I have talent and I developed really early. I can’t help that. The fact that I have a sixth sense for patients can’t be helped either but I don’t want to turn it into a sideshow and that’s what it would become if we continue down the pathway you suggest. The hospital will become suspicious, the community will start to request only me for all procedures and the media will start to hail me as some sort of messiah.’
‘Perhaps you are.’
‘Stop it!’ she said, flicking him with the back of her hand.
She ate the orange, enjoying the tart explosion in her mouth and they sat in an easy silence for a few minutes and watched the world of the gardens go by—mothers pushing prams, dogs walking their owners, couples canoodling in the early autumn warmth.
‘But how come we’re so comfortable together, Reg? Do you think it’s because we’re both orphans?’
‘Because we’re friends.’
‘Name another friend that you have.’
‘I don’t have any and don’t say you don’t either, because I’ve seen you with them.’
‘Spying on me, eh?’
He gave her a disdainful sideways glance.
She tossed some pith of the orange she’d peeled off into the nook of the tree where they sat side by side. ‘You’ve seen me with colleagues and acquaintances. You’ve not seen me with a friend. The only friend I have is you. Being with you is when I’m honest with myself and can be truly myself.’
‘Then I’m privileged.’
‘So explain why that is.’
‘Because I’m such excellent company.’
She gasped. ‘You’re no company at all. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You hold long, difficult silences,’ she nodded when he was about to say something, ‘not with me, I’ll grant you, but even during the most normal small talk you manage to make whoever is with you feel incredibly awkward. I’ve watched you. No eye contact, no smiles, mainly shrugs and grunts. You terrify women.’
He shrugged as if to prove her point. ‘It’s my special skill.’
‘I wish I understood you.’
He risked placing a hand on hers, then took it away quickly, as if burned. ‘You do. And in doing so, you understand yourself.’ Reg stood, helped her up. ‘We’re birds of a feather, us two. Just accept that we’re the loners of the world and we’re lucky to have each other.’
She nodded. Gave him a brief hug; knew it made him self-conscious but lingered anyway. ‘Thanks, Reg.’
‘People will talk,’ he said, pulling away.
‘Let them. I already feel like I’m being watched.’
Reg frowned; in his expression was a question.
‘Can’t explain it,’ she sighed. ‘But I have this frequent feeling that someone is watching me—you know—hiding and eavesdropping.’
He gave her a soft smile. ‘He’s probably in love with you but you’re so unapproachable he doesn’t know how to talk to you.’
‘Oh really? And you’d know how that feels, would you?’
Reg grinned sadly and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll bring more than an orange.’
‘It’s a date. Bring chocolate,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Bye,’ he replied softly and Corbel de Vis of Penraven lifted his hand in farewell to the gifted young intern who had no idea that she was royalty—a princess in exile—or that her healing skills were based on magic she brought with her from another plane, certainly another age…or perhaps most importantly of all, that she was the woman he loved.
1 (#ulink_c77fb675-9468-5068-a463-8a35d49aee01)
The man had been staring out of the window, watching the trees for movement but he turned at the knock. ‘Come,’ he called and waited while his private aide entered, balancing a tray. He frowned. ‘You didn’t have to—’
‘I know, my lord,’ the aide replied. ‘But have a cup anyway.’
He sighed. ‘There’s still no sign of my raven,’ he added in a grumpy tone.
‘He’ll return,’ the aide replied evenly. ‘He always does.’ He set the tray down. ‘He’s obviously very familiar with the region now, and feels comfortable to be away that long. It’s blossomtide, emperor. I imagine all birds are busy at their business.’
Loethar nodded gloomily. ‘How is it down there, Freath?’
‘Exactly as you’d imagine. Very lively—the leading families do enjoy this get-together and try hard to balance its political agenda with the equally important social binding. Even though this is the empire’s third “Gathering” there’s still that lingering tension. The Droste family is being snubbed as usual, but they’re only marginally less happy than Cremond.’
Loethar lifted a brow in a wry expression. ‘Well, at least they’re all equal now. There are no royals, other than myself. Ah, there’s that smile, Freath. What does it mean today?’
Freath bowed his head once in acknowledgement. ‘Apologies, my lord. But nothing has truly changed for the Denovian people. There may be no royal lines acknowledged as such but the new compasses, as you’ve denoted them, are still paying homage to Penraven.’
Loethar nodded. ‘They’ve forgiven me, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘No, Emperor Loethar, I don’t,’ Freath said gently. ‘Not even a decade can fully heal their perceptions of the wrongs. But I hasten to assure that you’ve certainly gone a long way towards leaving only scars, not open, festering wounds. You’ve been a generous benefactor to all the leading families, who still enjoy plenty of privilege and status—they can hardly complain.’
‘Indeed. I’ve not interfered too much either in the running of their compasses.’
‘And that’s another reason why they appear so tolerant and will increasingly trust you, my lord. A new dynasty is about to begin and enough of them dread a second war so much that they will support your child with loyalty.’
Loethar smiled grimly. ‘I can’t wait for my son to be born.’ Then he sighed. ‘And how is the empress?’
‘Grumbly, sir, for want of a better word.’
‘Gown not right, hair not right, belly too big, drinks too sour, food too bitter?’
‘Husband too distant,’ Freath added.
Loethar’s eyes flashed up to regard his aide’s. It even baffled him at times how he permitted this dour man such familiarity. Even now he didn’t fully trust the former aide to the previous royal family, but he believed Freath was the most intelligent of all the people that lurked around him on a daily basis. He appreciated the man’s insight, dry wit, directness and agile mind. When he compared that to his brute of a half-brother, who was his Second, there was little wonder—for him anyway—as to why he not only permitted but quietly protected Freath’s position. ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked, glibly, yet privately eager to hear the man’s opinion.
‘No, my lord. But if you want your household life to be less volatile it might pay to give the empress more attention. She is, after all, with child and feeling vulnerable.’
‘How do you know, Freath?’ Loethar sighed and took the goblet that his aide offered him.
‘I spent years around a pregnant queen, my lord. Iselda lost quite a few babies but I know during her confinements she was generally irritable. She was no doubt anxious—and for good reason, having lost so many—but also worried that Brennus would stop finding her attractive.’
Loethar made a brief noise of scorn. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Perhaps if you hadn’t killed her, I could have married her!’
‘I do hope the walls don’t have ears, sir,’ Freath said dryly and Loethar gave him a wry glance, knowing they were both well aware of Valya’s unpredictable tantrums. ‘Brennus was butter around her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘“Besotted” is probably the right word. Few couples achieve such devotion.’
Loethar grunted. Freath’s counsel was no comfort at all. In fact, it served only to alienate him further. Marriage to Valya was a trial. Since the lavish wedding that he’d had to force himself to get through, she had become insatiable for power and wealth, especially the outward trappings of both. He understood why: she was proclaiming to the former Set people that while they had once gossipped and tittered behind her back at the reneging of the Valisar betrothal, now she was empress they were required to pay her homage. And once she delivered Loethar his heir at last, her position was truly sealed.
‘Well, Valya’s had a lot of unhappiness in her life. And not falling pregnant for so long has been a heavy burden for her. But that is changed now. Perhaps our son will bring her enough joy to leave her darkness behind.’
Freath straightened. ‘You told me once that our empress had bravely defied man, beast and nature to find you on the plains but I cannot account for the significant gap of years between Brennus deserting their troth and my lady re-appearing in Penraven a decade ago.’
‘It is of no harm for you to know, I suppose. Valya’s father blamed her for Brennus’s rejection, even though she hadn’t seen her husband-to-be for more than a year. The king sent his only daughter and heir to a convent that nestled within Lo’s Teeth, all but imprisoning her with the nuns. She admitted to me a long time ago that she was sure she turned mad for a while—several years probably. And while time scarred over her wounds, it never quelled her fury.’ He stretched, reached for his glass on the weaven table nearby. ‘She escaped.’ He yawned. ‘And then came looking for the Steppes people. She made it through those mountains alone. Impressive.’
Freath paused, considering this. Loethar waited, sipping his wine. ‘So…’ the aide began, frowning. ‘Was the attack the empress’s idea, my lord? This is old history now—it can’t matter if you share it.’
‘It was no one’s idea in particular,’ Loethar lied. ‘I was a rebellious man, not satisfied with leading the Steppes people and wanting a whole lot more than the scrubby plains and the occasional visit from Set traders who felt they were superior to us. And then along came this striking woman out of nowhere, half-starved and with a rage to suit my own. She gave voice to what I was already thinking.’
‘And history was made, my lord,’ Freath said lightly.
Loethar sipped his wine again and turned away to regard the view out of the window. ‘Seems hard to believe it was a decade ago that we stormed Brighthelm. I feel as if I belong here.’
Freath blinked. ‘You do, my lord.’
‘We’ve integrated well, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘Yes, my lord, surprisingly well.’
‘So many mixed marriages,’ Loethar continued. ‘I’m very glad to see that the mingling of bloods has begun.’
‘General Stracker might not agree,’ Freath added, conversationally.
‘He’s short-sighted, Freath. Most of the Denovian people would be enriching the soil if it had been left to him. There’d be no one left to make an empire,’ Loethar replied, yet again wishing his half-brother had even a fraction of his aide’s insight. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he nodded at Freath’s enquiring look.
Freath opened the door and spoke briefly. Then closed it again, turning to Loethar. ‘It’s time to go, my lord.’
Loethar began buttoning his midcoat. Freath dutifully held out the jacket. ‘I hate all this formal wear, Freath.’
‘I know you do, my lord, but it’s necessary. Can’t have you looking like a barbarian.’ They both smiled at the quip. ‘What news from the north, sir?’
Loethar shrugged, allowing Freath to quickly do up his jacket while he struggled with his collar. ‘All quiet for now. We’ve had patrols moving through the forest. The notorious highwayman and his daring minions elude me but we’ve silenced them for a while. There’s been no activity in the region for several moons.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a bang at the door.
Freath frowned but Loethar inclined his head. The aide moved to the door and opened it.
‘I need to speak with him,’ a brusque voice demanded.
‘It’s General Stracker, my lord,’ Freath announced, as the other man pushed past him into the room.
‘Stracker. Speak of the devil!’ Loethar said amiably. ‘I was just telling Freath here that you were up north and all was quiet.’
Stracker grinned a sly smile. His green tatua slid in tandem, widening across his round, thickset face. ‘Not so quiet any longer.’
Loethar stopped grimacing at himself in the mirror and turned his attention to his general. ‘What’s occurred?’
‘We might have our elusive outlaw.’
Loethar’s mouth opened in surprise and then he too smiled. ‘Tell me.’
Freath quietly set about pouring the two men a cup of wine, unobtrusively serving it and then melting back into the room to stand silently. Though he wasn’t intruding Loethar was aware the aide could hear everything. It didn’t matter. He would discuss most of this with Freath anyway.
‘I can’t confirm what you want to hear—not yet anyway—but one of the men, and we are almost sure it’s one of the outlaws, took an arrow wound.’
‘Faris?’
‘We think it could be.’
‘So he’s wounded and got away,’ Loethar demanded.
‘That’s the sum of it,’ Stracker confirmed, seemingly unfazed by the emperor’s intensity.
‘What makes you say you almost have him, then? Simply because you’ve wounded a man who could just belong to his cohort!’ Loethar gave a sound of disgust and drained his cup.
‘Not so fast, brother. Hear me out,’ Stracker said, cunning lacing his tone. ‘My men tell me that the wounded man took the arrow in the thigh. Now I’m sure even you would agree that in this situation it would be every man for himself.’
There was an awkward pause until Loethar grudgingly nodded. ‘What of it?’
Stracker grinned. ‘Not in this instance. Our soldiers confirmed that the renegades rallied around the wounded man, almost setting up a human shield. They half-carried, half-ran him away from our men. They’re clever and fast, I’ll give them that, and they know the ways and means of the forest better than our men ever could. They disappeared faster into the shadows of the great trees than our soldiers could scramble up the hill.’
‘What’s your point?’ Loethar hated sounding so thick-headed and he knew it was disappointment making his comprehension sluggish.
Stracker clearly delighted in his slowness. ‘Ask Freath, I’m sure he understands.’ He casually took a long draught from his cup.
Loethar glanced at Freath, who obliged, tension in his voice. ‘I suspect, my lord, that General Stracker is implying that the man was important enough for the others to risk their own capture or death.’
‘Exactly,’ Stracker followed up, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.
Freath sounded awfully alarmed, Loethar thought, but he turned back to Stracker.
‘But you let them get away,’ he said, his voice quiet and suddenly threatening.
‘No, I didn’t, brother. I wasn’t there. Had I been, I would have given chase until my heart gave out, but the captain in charge decided it was prudent not to venture deeper into the forest with only five men. He knew we would want this information and so I now have it and have brought it to you. But in the meantime I had Vulpan taken to the spot.’
This time Loethar had no struggle in understanding his brother’s meaning. ‘Inspired.’
‘Thank you,’ the huge man said, deigning to incline his head in a small bow.
‘I’m impressed, Stracker. So what now?’
‘We wait for news. We will find him, brother. Trust me.’ Loethar did not resist his general’s friendly tap on his face, for it was meant affectionately, but he despised it. Carefully, however, he kept his expression even as the general excused himself.
‘Enjoy the nobles,’ Stracker said, smiling ironically as he left.
Loethar stared at the open doorway absently until Freath closed the door. ‘Freath, have I told you about Vulpan yet?’
‘No, my lord. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now,’ the aide said, returning to his previous task of brushing lint from the emperor’s shoulder.
‘He’s one of our Vested. It’s a strange talent but he only has to taste a person’s blood to know that person again.’
Freath stood back from Loethar, his forehead creased in amused puzzlement.
Loethar held up a hand with helpless resignation as he swung around. ‘I know, I know. But there’s no accounting for these Vested. Some possess enchantments that defy imagination.’
‘You mean his taste of blood works in the same way that a dog can trace a smell?’
Loethar grinned. ‘I suppose. He never gets it wrong, Freath. We’ve tested him time and again…even tried to trick him.’
Freath frowned. ‘So he has tasted the blood of the wounded outlaw.’
Loethar nodded. ‘Why would they rally around the man unless it was Faris? There is no one else of any importance in that cohort.’ He noticed Freath blink, but continued, ‘And some day the outlaw will slip up and Vulpan will deliver him to me. I am a patient man.’
‘Incredible,’ Freath remarked, shaking his head as he stacked the cups on the tray. ‘And this Vulpan is loyal, sir?’
Loethar shrugged. ‘The magic is not in doubt.’
‘Is Kilt Faris that important?’ Freath asked, reaching to do up the emperor’s top button.
Loethar raised his chin. ‘Yes. He challenges me.’
‘He did the same to Brennus before you, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me, Freath?’
The aide straightened his lord’s jacket, moving behind him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I meant only that Faris is a gnat—a vexing irritant—who thinks stealing the royal gold is somehow not the same crime as stealing from the good folk of Penraven.’
‘Precisely, which is why I wish to hunt him down.’
Loethar’s eyes narrowed as he heard the aide suck in a breath that sounded too much like exasperation.
‘If you’ll forgive me, my lord? May I offer a recommendation?’
‘You usually do, Freath. Make it quick.’
Freath cleared his throat as he returned to face his superior. ‘Let me escort you down, my lord, we can talk as we walk. We really must go.’
Loethar nodded and Freath moved to hold the door open. ‘After you, sir.’
They moved through Brighthelm side by side. Loethar was sure the man was far too sharp to have ignored that the emperor permitted him equal status—if not in title, then certainly in access—to any of his closest supporters. Even Dara Negev, who was showing no signs that her god was preparing to claim her, still maintained the old ways of walking a few steps behind the man of her household. But it must be two anni now that Loethar had given up talking over his shoulder to Freath and insisted the man walk next to him when discussing state business. Though Loethar’s mother, half-brother and even Valya had haughtily mentioned on many an occasion that Freath couldn’t appreciate the honour, Loethar was convinced that Freath not only appreciated the shift but quietly enjoyed the privilege.
They approached the grand staircase, walking down a corridor of magnificent tapestries depicting the former kings of Valisar.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Freath continued. ‘Returning to our discussion, I was simply going to suggest that you should consider raising people’s taxes in and around the northern area. Chasing through the Deloran Forest is time-consuming and a waste of your men’s resources. It also makes a fool of the emperor.’
Loethar’s head snapped to look at Freath. ‘He is mocking me?’
‘Tax those who protect and laugh at you, my lord. Tax the north. Any excuse will do. In fact, offer no excuse. Tell them the new tax is to cover the losses that Faris inflicts. Remind the north that it is their hard-earned, hard-paid taxes that are being stolen and if they won’t help you find him, they will certainly help repair his damage.’
Loethar smiled. ‘Very good, Freath. Very good indeed.’
He felt Freath shrug beside him. ‘I would call off your men immediately, my lord. You should make it appear as if you don’t care one way or the other, so long as you have the money due the empire. I would be happy to make that declaration for you, sire, should you need.’
‘Not frightened of being unpopular?’
Freath gave a snort of disdain. ‘They hated me a long time ago, Emperor Loethar. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I shall think on your idea.’
Freath bowed. ‘I shall let the empress know, my lord, that you and her guests await her.’
As Loethar moved into the grand salon to the heralding of trumpets, Freath strode up the stairs, feeling an old familiar tension twisting in his belly. Once out of sight from the ground level he took a moment alone on the landing to lean against the balustrade, taking two deep breaths to calm himself. He hadn’t felt like this in so many anni he’d nearly forgotten what it was to be poised on the precipice of death. Ten anni previous he’d been exposed to negotiating that very knife-edge daily. Though somehow he’d survived, his beautiful Genrie had not. The passing years had not made her loss any easier. He visited her unmarked grave frequently, and although it hurt his heart not to leave flowers—for he couldn’t be seen to be mourning her—he left behind his silent grief. Her death had bought his life, and what a strange, evil life it had become: forever lying, masquerading and patiently plotting.
The only surprise had been his helpless admiration—although he fought it daily—for the man he knew he should despise. He found it easy to hate General Stracker, to inwardly sneer at Dara Negev and to truly abhor the empress. But Loethar was not as simple. The man was actually every inch the born leader that Brennus had been. And if he had been born a Valisar rather than a Steppes barbarian, Freath knew they’d all be admiring him. Loethar was taking an approach with the Denovians that could only be congratulated. There was no doubting that the new emperor was very tough—but which sovereign wasn’t? None of the Valisars down the ages were known for being spineless. All were hard men, capable of making the most difficult of decisions. Any ruler who took a soft line with detractors would almost certainly perish. Freath often thought, hating himself as he did so, that if he had been in Loethar’s boots, there was little he would or could have done any other way.
He’d tried to explain this once to Kirin, his constant companion, but Kirin would have none of it. Besides, Kirin always had him over a barrel whenever he resorted to the final demand, always impossible to answer. Why, though, Freath? he would challenge. Why did he do it in the first place? It has to be in pursuit of power. And there is no honour in coveting what is not yours in the first place.
Kirin was right—in principle—especially if you believed in fairies or the Legend of Algin, and that everyone wanted to live in peace and no one ever got jealous of anyone else. Freath grimaced. The Valisar Dynasty might be revered but it had been founded on bloodshed, acquiring land that had never belonged to the Valisars, not so very differently from the way that Loethar had taken the Set. The only difference was that Cormoron had seen the benefits of giving realms to families he could dominate, giving the false impression that he was a magnanimous conqueror—a benefactor to the region even. It was naive of Kirin to suggest that the Valisars—or any of the royal families—were blameless. All land, power and wealth were initially acquired through the spillage of blood. Loethar and his horde were no different—if anything, where Loethar was blunt, he was at least honest.
Despite Loethar’s surprising explanation that his attack on the Denovian Set was purely a matter of opportunity, Freath still wasn’t convinced fortuity alone had triggered the seemingly sudden invasion. The emperor’s rationale was plausible, and probably true, but there was more to it, Freath was sure. The seven realms had peacefully lived alongside Droste to the northeast as well as further east over Lo’s Teeth into the Steppes where the plains people lived. It was true that there had not been a great deal of interaction between Denovians and the Steppes folk but trade during the reign of Brennus had increased. Perhaps beginning to see more of the Denovians, their way of life, their excesses, had attracted Loethar’s people?
Freath pulled out a kerchief and wiped his face, wishing that he could wipe away his fear. For ten anni patience had been all that shared his life. It was a companion that made him feel weak, disloyal, pathetic. He knew it was also his friend. Patience would win through for him, for them, for their cause. Them. He closed his eyes. He had bought them some more time in dissuading Loethar from hunting down Faris. Freath had presumed for many years now that the true king, Leo, had fled to Faris and his men. Now he must get word to Faris and learn at last whether the outlaw had raised a king in these intervening years. A decade of distance. A decade of hate. Would he even recognise Leo Valisar, King of Penraven? Would Leo ever forgive him?
He had to get to Kilt Faris before Loethar’s men did. He had to pray that Faris was not the wounded man.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Kirin approaching. ‘Are you feeling all right, Freath?’
Freath nodded. ‘Yes. A moment of reflection, that’s all.’
Kirin smiled softly and there was so much sympathy in the gesture Freath had to look away. ‘That’s always dangerous,’ his friend said.
‘Very true. Were you looking for me?’
Kirin looked around, checking they were alone, and Freath immediately felt his fear twist up another notch. ‘A pigeon has arrived,’ his friend murmured.
A combination of thrill and puzzlement skipped across Freath’s heart. ‘But it’s been years.’
‘It’s an old pigeon,’ Kirin said.
Freath erupted in an unexpected bellow of laughter at the comment. Few, if any, had ever heard such genuine laughter around the halls of Brighthelm, and Kirin’s expression was delighted.
Freath continued chuckling. ‘Lo, but that was a good feeling.’ ‘I wish I could do that more often,’ his younger friend admitted. ‘It gets better. The bird’s from Clovis.’
Freath closed his eyes, shooting a silent prayer of thanks. They had both long given up hope of hearing from their old friend who had escaped Loethar’s clutches in the madness of the original occupation. Freath had tried through every clandestine method he had available to find him, without success. ‘Where is he?’ he asked, breathless.
Kirin grinned. ‘With Reuth. Medhaven.’
Relief passed through him before another, still more exciting notion struck Freath. He reached for Kirin’s arm, squeezing it. ‘Piven?’ he whispered, daring against all his better judgement to hope.
Kirin’s mouth creased into a wide smile and he nodded just once before he faltered. ‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Someone comes.’
Freath let go of Kirin’s arm, stood back, and within moments one of Valya’s retinue of servants came scurrying up. She was a tribal woman. Freath liked her. She was quiet, diligent and good at her work—a lot like Genrie although she lacked spine against the empress. But that was understandable. Showing any sort of opposition to Valya, however minor it seemed, was met with punitive retaliation. Only Freath managed to rise above her dominion, and that was only because he had the protection of a higher authority.
‘Bridie?’ he enquired as the servant raced up.
‘Master Freath, she is…’ The girl stared at them both, lost for the right words.
‘I know, Bridie. I’m coming now,’ he assured.
The girl looked so relieved that Kirin shook his head. ‘Don’t let her bully you, Bridie,’ he said.
‘No,’ Freath countered. ‘Let her bully you. It will keep her claws out of you. Come on, we’ll go together and tame her, shall we?’ Bridie smiled tentatively and nodded. He looked over at Kirin. ‘Later? Supper, perhaps?’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’ll be in the library if you need me.’
How very normal that sounded, Freath thought. Kirin, a man of learning, was off to the library, while he, an experienced steward, was off to see to his superior’s needs. They had all settled down into a comfortable life, existing relatively easily with the barbarian horde—as though all the pain and despair never really mattered. And yet his heart was hammering and he knew Kirin was experiencing a similar rush of excitement that was a prelude to a new battle. This battle would not be fought in the fields with two armies. No. This one would be fought by subterfuge. Cunning alone had kept Freath and Kirin alive to fight this new day. And cunning would return the rightful king to the Valisar throne.
He strode alongside the scuttling Bridie, his heart suddenly full, his chest feeling broader than it had in the last ten anni, and his mind filled with wonder.
Piven was alive.
King and crown prince had possibly survived. He had never allowed himself to dream this much. But it seemed Lo had granted him his prayers.
If he achieved anything with his miserable double-life, he would see King Leonel crowned and the false ruler who called himself emperor humbled and brought before the Valisar sovereign.
Leo alone would decide Loethar’s fate.
2 (#ulink_c67d3c1e-844b-5226-a222-94ef0119fc42)
Two men were breaking their fast at an inn in Francham. The Amiable Dragon was a busy watering hole and resting spot almost at the base of the Dragonsback Mountains that separated Penraven from Barronel. It was in Francham that traders in particular, after a long trek through Hell’s Gate—as the pass through the mountains was known—would stop for a day or so. Weary travellers would replenish their stocks, and those who were crossing in the opposite direction would make their final preparations for the trip. The traffic made for a lively town with a varied, transient population, which meant someone who wanted to remain relatively invisible could roam Francham without being noticed. It was an unspoken rule, in fact, that people were entitled to privacy in this town.
The weather was mild. Blossomtide meant Hell’s Gate was well and truly open and thriving. The pair of diners was enjoying the morning sun, sitting at a corner table, facing the main street to the mountains beyond that loomed over Francham. One of the men, who had just finished eating and was washing down his early meal with a pot of steaming dinch, was explaining this to his companion. He leaned back with his mug and sighed his pleasure as he swallowed the mouthful of dinch. ‘…it used to be a great smuggling spot, you see, so the legacy of secrecy has been handed down through generations. I’m surprised I haven’t told you this before.’
His listener grinned. ‘You’ve only brought me here twice.’
The speaker gave a look of genuine surprise at this but the companion didn’t look as if he was fooled, going by his wry expression.
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you ever need to hide, this is the place to begin. The mountains are better but they don’t offer a bed at night or an ale to quench a thirst.’
‘Why are we here again?’
‘I have to see someone.’
A huge man approached the table. ‘It’s true,’ he confirmed.
The first man put down his mug and pointed to the pot. ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze narrowed in thought.
‘What does it mean, Kilt?’ the big man said, sitting down and taking his friend’s mug. ‘I’ll just have yours.’
‘Jewd! Ah—’ Faris said, with a sound of disgust. ‘I’d just got that to the perfect temperature!’
The younger man sitting next to him laughed.
‘I know,’ Jewd replied, nonchalantly. ‘Perfect for me, too.’
Kilt Faris signalled towards a table at the far end where a serving woman set down a plate in front of another guest. She saw his gesture and made her way to them, shifting her hips as she dodged around other people’s chairs. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking distracted but not unfriendly as she gathered up their plates.
‘Ah, pretty Ciara,’ Faris said. ‘Another pot of dinch, please, and we’ll need a fresh mug. Liam, some for you?’
The younger man shook his head but looked appreciatively into the big brown eyes of the woman. ‘Got anything sweet?’ he wondered.
Faris broke into a surreptitious grin and looked over at Jewd, who winked in reply over the mug he was sipping from.
Ciara’s lids lowered slightly as she regarded the youngster. ‘We might have some syrupcakes left from yesterday,’ she said. Then she blinked innocently. ‘If that’s what you mean?’
Leo cleared his throat. ‘I hear they’re always better the day after, anyway. Yes, I’ll have a couple of those. Thank you.’
‘I like good manners. Anything else?’ she offered.
Leo blushed, hesitated, then smiled politely. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll let you know once I’ve finished those, if that’s all right?’
She returned his smile, seemingly enjoying the innuendo.
After she’d left, Faris looked over at Leo but spoke to Jewd in a murmur that only they could hear. ‘It seems his majesty is in dire need of some female company.’
‘I’ll say!’ Leo exclaimed.
Jewd spat some of his dinch with amusement. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he complained.
‘Well, it’s all right for Kilt, he’s got Lily. And you, Jewd, I know you and the others can escape the forest whenever you want for some rumpy-pumpy.’ This made both men roar with laughter. ‘But you keep me on such a close leash. I’m twenty-two anni, I need some freedom and I desperately need a—’
‘Here we are, then,’ Ciara said, back with a pair of small, oval-shaped cakes dripping with syrup. ‘Careful, they’re moist. Don’t get yourself all sticky.’
The men laughed louder and even Ciara threw them a backward glance of amusement. ‘The dinch is on its way,’ she said.
Leo looked indignant. ‘Laugh it up, you sods. I really need—’
‘I know what you need,’ Kilt said, chuckling, ‘and we’ll fix that. I’ve been remiss.’
‘You’ve been a gaoler more like,’ Leo said.
Kilt grew serious. ‘So, do we trust this man?’ he asked Jewd.
His big friend nodded. ‘Yes. He’s genuine.’
‘What’s going on?’ Leo asked, chewing on a cake.
Kilt fixed him with a grave look. ‘The man you spoke of years ago. You know, the one who is now aide to the emperor?’
‘Freath?’ Leo said, looking between them. ‘Tell me Loethar’s slit his throat,’ he added, putting his cake down and swallowing. Then he glared. ‘But then he’ll have stolen more from me. I want to be the one to spill that traitor’s—’
Both men shook their heads. ‘He’s not dead,’ Kilt replied, cutting off Leo’s words. ‘He’s made contact.’
Leo leaned forward. ‘What?’ he whispered, shocked.
‘Well, not contact, exactly. But there’s word out. We’ve just received it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Faris left it to Jewd, who took up the thread of conversation. ‘A few days ago Tern picked up snippets of information that money was greasing palms all over the north’s “network”.’ Leo nodded with understanding. ‘Word was moving in certain circles that an influential man was seeking an audience with the infamous highwayman of Penraven.’
Leo’s expression darkened and he scratched softly at the close beard he was growing, his syrupcakes forgotten.
Jewd continued, ‘We paid attention, of course, but we’ve had this happen before.’ He shrugged. ‘Lots of influential men want to speak with Kilt.’
‘Usually to claim the bounty on my head,’ Kilt grumbled.
Leo looked at him. ‘You’re safe, though, aren’t you?’
‘Not safe enough it seems. The barbarians came too close recently. We got sloppy.’
‘You didn’t,’ Jewd admitted. ‘That was my fault.’
Leo shook his head. ‘Jewd, it was no one’s fault.’
Kilt sighed. ‘Attributing blame is pointless. The fact is, they nearly stumbled across you, Leo. We must never be off our guard. As for me, no one outside of our band even knows what I look like. Most people in this town, don’t know who we are. And this town might keep its secrets quiet but it also knows everyone and everything passing through it.’
‘Aren’t you two rather easily identifiable?’
‘Not when I wear women’s clothing,’ Kilt offered indignantly. Leo smiled.
‘He’s not jesting,’ Jewd said, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘He’s done it many times. I’ve walked alongside him when he’s been an old man, an old woman, a blind beggar, a noble.’
‘Ah, but my leper was the best, wasn’t it?’ Kilt said.
‘He was a triumph,’ Jewd agreed.
‘People gave me such a wide berth. It was wonderful. I shall have to find that old pair of clappers we’ve got somewhere and roll him out again.’
Leo frowned. ‘I’m sure Lily would appreciate the humour.’
‘No, well, that’s right,’ Kilt said, his theatrics dampened. ‘It’s why I haven’t used him for a while. And anyway, it’s not just me.’ He lightly slapped his big friend’s chest. ‘Jewd loves all the get-ups too. He came into this very town not so long ago as a drunken friar.’
Leo looked over at Jewd and broke into laughter. ‘And that definitely wasn’t drawing attention to yourself, was it?’
‘Aha,’ Kilt said, waggling a finger. ‘Sometimes you can deflect the scrutiny by giving people something else to focus on.’
‘Is that why you’re wearing that ridiculous twirled moustache, then?’
‘Well, I’m glad you finally mentioned my ingenious disguise,’ Kilt said, feigning offence.
‘And I’m glad you’re having fun,’ Leo grumbled. ‘My disguise is real.’
Both men glanced at the crutch balanced against the table. ‘The arrow-wound is healing well. Give it time,’ Jewd reassured. ‘It will be as good as new as long as you trust Lily’s herbals and the chirosurgeon’s advice.’
‘If only they knew,’ Kilt mused. Then he smiled encouragingly at his young king. ‘At least you’ll have a warrior’s wound to show for your time with us.’
‘How long before I’m ready?’ Leo griped.
‘Not yet,’ Jewd replied.
Leo glanced at Kilt, who shook his head. ‘You’re only just a man now, Leo. We have lots to plan before you can start plotting an overthrow. You can’t ignore the fact that Loethar has been very subtle.’
Leo grimaced. ‘He’s a better ruler than I would have ever given him credit for.’
‘I think the mere fact that you do credit him with this is a sign of your maturity. As few as three anni ago you wouldn’t have been able to see that.’
The king became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he is all that the Set ever needed.’
Both men gave sounds of disgust. ‘No, majesty,’ Kilt murmured firmly. ‘He stole your crown, he usurped your throne, he effectively murdered your parents and a lot of other good people. He wrote his imperial title in blood. And yet the true heir lives—he’s a man now. One day soon he’ll be ready to claim what is his. A Valisar has been on that throne for five centuries. It is your duty to return that regal line.’
Leo sighed. ‘I know all the rhetoric, Kilt. I just keep thinking that there’s peace now. It’s been a decade. Everyone has settled down to living harmoniously. I can’t forgive what he’s done but I am only one person…with a grudge. I keep wondering whether it’s better for the good of the Set, but especially for Penraven, that I suffer my family history and its sorrows in silence.’
Faris sat back, glad that they’d taken the precaution of seating themselves so well away from others. He could not have risked anyone hearing this conversation. He shrugged. ‘Well, before we start any discourse with Freath, you’d better seriously consider your position. I gave your father my word about several things, and one of them was to do everything in my power to return the Valisar throne to you. But there’s no point to that if you don’t want it.’
Leo glared at him. ‘Are you really going to meet with Freath? Is he mad, Jewd?’ he asked, turning to their companion.
‘I think so, is the answer to both those questions.’
‘Kilt,’ Leo spluttered. ‘Freath is a snake. No, he’s less. He’s vermin. And he’ll be up to something, mark my words. The man betrayed my parents. I watched him. I heard him. He laughed at both of their grisly deaths. He helped Loethar keep my brother on a leash, in a dirty shirt that carried the blood of my father. He would give you up to Loethar without a second’s hesitation.’
‘Which is why he won’t get the chance,’ Faris said jauntily.
‘Kilt, don’t. He’s not someone to allow into your life. He cannot be trusted, I tell you. I’ll kill him as soon as I see him.’
Faris looked pained by the younger man’s bravado. ‘Who said anything about trust? I want to know what his game is. If he’s up to something—or if Loethar is, and I know the emperor wants my head staring sightlessly from a spike at Brighthelm—then it’s in my interest to find out everything I can.’
‘It’s a trap, I tell you,’ Leo said vehemently.
Ciara returned. ‘Fresh dinch,’ she said, laying down the pot and mug. ‘You’ve got enough honey, I see,’ she said, opening the pot on the table but looking at Leo.
Kilt grinned. ‘Yes, I’m sweet enough, but this young man here needs something to wipe that scowl from his face. Can I offer you a silver piece to add some sugar in his life?’
Leo’s elbow slipped off the table in shock.
Ciara gave Kilt a puzzled smile. ‘Your young friend thinks you’re staining my honour.’
‘I apologise without reservation,’ Kilt replied, lifting his pot of strong but milky dinch.
Ciara turned to Leo. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Er, Liam,’ he replied, sitting up straighter.
‘Well, Liam, I shall see you this evening at the bordello.’
The king nodded.
‘And you, Henk?’ she said to Kilt.
‘Ah, Ciara. I have a woman in my life now, and she would cut off my bordellos and feed them to me if she thought I was taking my pleasures with you.’
Jewd nodded. ‘That she would. But I’m free, Ciara. Is that lovely buxom Jenny still working?’
‘She is. I’ll tell her you may stop by.’ And with that she left them to it.
‘Henk?’ Leo repeated, reaching over and stealing the mug of dinch that his friend was about to pick up and savour.
‘Hey! Oh, that’s just not fair,’ Kilt grumbled. ‘Go and pay, Jewd. I’m heading off. I promised Lily some supplies.’
‘She’ll certainly have those “bordellos” off in a blink if you let her down,’ Leo said between gulps.
They all stood.
‘Get word through the right channels,’ Faris said to his longtime friend. ‘I’ll see Freath. Let’s find out exactly what he’s up to, shall we?’
Leo scowled as Jewd nodded. The big man handed Leo the single crutch. ‘Hope that wound won’t slow you up tonight.’
The grimace left the younger man’s face, replaced by a smile. ‘Not a chance,’ Leo said, limping to catch up with Faris. ‘It will take more than a barbarian arrow-wound to keep me from Ciara.’
Faris had left Jewd and Leo to their pleasures, and was watching Lily pack up the stores they’d bought. He had never been happier and Jewd assured him frequently that this was due entirely to Lily’s presence. Faris had dismissed the comment but now he wondered if there was something to it after all. Up until Lily, the only person he’d permitted intimacy with his thoughts was Jewd. No girl had ever come between them and Lily was secure enough emotionally to see that no girl should. She hadn’t once created any bad feeling between the two great companions and, above and beyond that, she had been a blessing in terms of playing a big sister role to the young king over the years since his arrival into the camp.
Faris watched as Lily worked, seemingly oblivious of his scrutiny. He liked watching her move; loved the way she’d flick back her hair when it fell forward, how in that second he’d catch a glimpse of her lovely long neck. He wanted to kiss it now. In fact, he would. Getting up from his seat by the window of the inn, he walked over, put his arms around her waist from behind and kissed the exact spot on her neck he’d been watching. He snuggled into its warmth; could feel her pulse against his lips.
She laughed and squirmed. ‘I’m busy, Kilt.’
‘Never too busy for me, I hope?’ he asked.
Lily turned in his arms. ‘No, never.’ She kissed him tenderly and it turned into a long, passionate embrace. When they parted, she looked breathless. ‘What was that about?’
‘Am I not allowed to show my love?’
‘Your love?’ She looked surprised by his use of the word, but quickly collected herself. She kissed him once again, softly and swiftly. ‘Don’t ever hesitate. It’s just not like you to be so demonstrative.’
He sighed and let her go. He sat himself down on the bed. ‘I’m very aware that you’re one woman among a group of men. I don’t want to rub it in that you’re all mine.’
It was her turn to sigh. ‘Well, I want you to rub it in. I’d quite enjoy the attention.’
‘Oh?’ It was Kilt’s turn to look surprised. ‘Do you feel ignored?’
She stared at him with a scornful expression. ‘Kilt, how could I? You spend so much time with me, and you share your innermost thoughts with me to the point where I want to cover my ears and yell, “no more!”.’
His gaze narrowed. ‘Less of the sarcasm, please. We were enjoying a nice moment.’
‘We could enjoy so many more if you’d only let me in.’ Lily turned away and continued carefully packing goods into sacks and saddlebags. She inhaled a bunch of fleshy leaves. ‘Ah, I love the smell of fresh borrega. We’ll have some deliciously flavoured stews through Leaf-fall as this dries.’
Kilt wasn’t ready to let their discussion go. ‘Let you in? Where?’
Now she looked at him with exasperation, before moving across to where he sat. Tapping his head, she said, ‘In here, you fool. That is the place I want to be permitted to glimpse.’
Ignoring her plea, he pulled her small, voluptuous body closer. ‘Well, I know where I want to be in,’ he said, his tone lascivious now.
She pushed away gently, slightly wearily. ‘I’m busy and you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘I am,’ he replied, his own exasperation matching hers. ‘Now come here, one of your bodice’s strings has loosened. I’ll tighten it,’ he offered, the tone in his voice and glint in his eye suggesting otherwise.
Lily deliberately moved further from him. ‘Besides, it’s not worth trying to be serious when you’re in this mood.’
‘What mood?’
‘The one that is hoping for a tumble in the bed without talking.’
‘Oh, Lily, isn’t that what every man is hoping for?’ he asked, frustration spilling over. ‘You’re ruining what could have been some precious time alone together.’
She didn’t answer him; she gave him an arch glance instead as she packed away some threads and new needles, ticking them off her list.
‘What do you want from me?’ he asked, feeling injured.
‘Is that a genuine question?’ she commented, looking up from her list.
‘Of course it is.’
‘Because I’m not sure you want the honest answer.’ Lily’s hands were on her hips now, the list momentarily forgotten.
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. Because honesty would require you to confront who you are, Kilt Faris. I’ve been with you for a decade now. I’ve healed your aches and stitched your wounds, I’ve washed your clothes and cooked for you. I’ve been your loyal companion and I’ve made love to you throughout that time and never tired of you. I’ve—’
‘You’re a perfect woman, Lily.’ He cut across her words with a triumphant grin.
She looked sadly back at him. ‘Everything’s a jest to you, Kilt.’ She turned away. ‘Even us.’
‘That’s not true,’ he said, scrambling forward across the bed. ‘Don’t be like this, Lily. I really don’t know how to make you happy. Frankly, I didn’t know you were unhappy.’
‘I’m not,’ she said, returning to her packing.
‘You sound it.’
‘No, I’m disappointed, that’s all. I feel as though I’m always on the outside, Kilt. You only let me get so close and then you seem to draw curtains around yourself.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You have secrets. They shut me out.’
‘Me?’ he asked, sounding astonished. ‘No! How can you accuse me of that after so long together?’
‘You’re lying. There’s something restless inside you that only you control, only you know about, only you glimpse. I can only get so far with you and it’s because of that invisible line you’ve drawn around yourself that I know you can never fully love me the way I want to be loved. You take me and my affections for granted, Kilt. And the saddest part is, I’m a little trapped by how much you all need me. I’m not being a martyr, I’m simply stating a fact.’
He stared at her, genuinely hurt. ‘How can you say that?’
She looked back at him, sad and resigned. ‘When did you last tell me you loved me?’
‘A moment ago, I think!’
‘Did you? Did you actually come in here with the full intention of looking into my eyes and telling me you love me? No. You came in here to enjoy some lovemaking. I don’t mean to complain, Kilt. But the fact is, you don’t show you love me, and never, not once have you ever uttered the words, I love you, Lily.’ She held up her hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say. The thing is you probably do love me in your own curious way. You are good to me and you keep me safe and you’ve been a strong figurehead for Leo. I’ve been a part of your life over these years, and that has been wonderful. But—’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what else to do for you. I share every ounce of myself physically and emotionally. You don’t or perhaps can’t reciprocate in the same manner.’
Kilt looked pained. He sighed. ‘But how do you know you love me? You’ve hardly lived, Lily. You could meet any handsome fellow tomorrow and fall head over heels.’
‘Don’t turn this on me. I’m not looking for anyone else and I’d love to know how you imagine someone handsome and available is going to stumble across me when I choose to spend my life in the forest with you. I only come into town twice an anni! Besides, we’re talking about you and how you treat me. And by the way, your suggestion is ridiculous.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘I’m so sorry, Lily. Truly, I am.’
She allowed him to draw her into his arms, relaxing into them, and he could tell she didn’t want to prolong this conversation. ‘I’m not angry.’ Her expression became more wistful. ‘I suppose I am as happy as you permit, Kilt.’ Her careful words were not lost on him.
‘How can I make this better between us?’
‘Let down your guard with me. I’m hardly a stranger and I would never do anything to hurt you or be disloyal to you.’ She stroked his hair, touching the first silvering at his temple. ‘Our relationship is a decade old, or do you forget?’
He shook his head and kissed her softly. ‘No, you’ve saved me a fortune in brothel fees.’
Lily’s eyes widened in horror and she mock-swiped at him. ‘That is really going to cost you, Master Faris!’
He laughed, inwardly sighing with relief that she was keen to lighten the moment. He hugged her more tightly, knowing something profound needed to be said now to secure her faith in him. ‘I’ll have to marry you soon, Lily.’
That caught her attention. She didn’t speak immediately, but stared at him silently, searching his eyes. ‘Do you mean that?’ she said, her eyes glistening, her voice soft, unsure.
‘I’ve never meant anything more deeply. We’re as good as husband and wife now. Let’s make it official as soon as we can.’
Lily embraced him tightly. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
He laughed, twirled her around. ‘This is going to make all the boys happy.’
‘Are you sure? Jewd won’t mind?’
He made a dismissive gesture.‘He told me only last moon that if I didn’t hurry up, he’d ask you and steal you from beneath my nose.’
She smiled. ‘Well, it’s tempting. I’m sure Jewd shares more with me than you ever could!’ She didn’t say it unkindly, though. Then she laughed. ‘And Leo? You think he’ll be happy?’
‘Don’t be vain. Leo got over you years ago.’
‘Says the great father figure!’
‘Well, in a way that’s been my role.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she said but her voice was light.
Kilt frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’
She smiled, and again it was gentle. ‘Kilt,’ she began, her voice affectionate, ‘you have left all the rearing to myself and Jewd. I’ve played the maternal role and Jewd has been at his side in everything. I’m sure I’m not being unkind when I say that if you do see yourself as a father figure, then you’ve been the most remote father I can imagine. Surely you can’t deny that you keep him at arm’s length?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t mean that unkindly either, my love. I understand that being a kingmaker is hard enough without playing father to him. In fact, I’ve told Leo time and again that it’s not that you don’t like him, but that you have to keep a distance in order to keep what we’re trying to achieve in perspective. He knows that you will likely have to make hard decisions and they can’t be clouded by your affection for him.’
‘He thinks I don’t like him?’
‘He used to. But he’s older now.’ She shrugged. ‘He accepts that this is how you are with him.’
‘And how am I with him?’
She regarded him quizzically now. ‘Distant is how I’d describe it. I’ve watched you. You never sit near him. You certainly never touch him. You always cast off duties that might involve Leo to Jewd. You disappear for long periods when all of us are together. And it’s got worse, rather than better. You spent more time with him as a youngster but you seem to have pulled back as he’s grown and matured. Leo is perceptive, Kilt. Surely you can see how he might interpret this as a lack of love?’
Kilt felt sick, and angry with himself. ‘I’ve just spent the last couple of hours with Leo,’ he bleated. ‘I can’t believe—’
‘Yes, I know you have. But this is how you behave. You go for weeks avoiding any sort of close contact and then, whoosh!’ she said, making a sweep of her hand. ‘You do something like this morning, as though you’ve come out of some stupor or you can bear to be near him for a short burst. Then you’re gone again.’
‘I wanted to see you,’ he explained, sounding injured, but his mind was racing across all of Lily’s observations. He hadn’t realised it was so obvious.
‘I know you did, and I’m glad you came to see me,’ she said, kissing him gently. ‘But once again you’ve left Leo with Jewd.’
‘Not exactly. As we stand here I suspect he is getting a taste of all that he’s been missing.’
She caught on immediately. ‘Oh, Kilt, not The Velvet Curtain?’
‘It’s part of his education. We’ve been raising a sovereign, my love. He has to experience all that we can give him and The Velvet Curtain is integral to growing up. It’s a rite of passage for all the young men in my band.’
‘Led loudly by yourself and Jewd, no doubt.’
‘Not anymore. I am a one-woman man. So let me prove it. I’ll buy a ring next time we’re in town, I promise, and I will talk to the preacher about a wedding in the next few moons.’
Lily gave a soft squeal of delight before adding: ‘I can’t believe the lengths I’ll go to in order to get a new dress!’
Faris grinned, taking pleasure in Lily’s obvious joy. Lily asked so little of him and yet had brought so much to the outlaws. It was true that he’d taken her support and constant presence for granted. ‘You may have whatever you want, my love. But there is a favour I need.’
‘Oh?’
He nodded. ‘A man called Freath will be making contact soon. He’s from the palace.’
‘Freath? Why do I know that name?’
‘He’s the one Leo has declared his favourite enemy alongside you-know-who.’
Comprehension spread across Lily’s face. ‘Of course, the treacherous manservant.’
Faris nodded. ‘The very one.’
‘And he’s contacted you?’ she asked, incredulous.
Faris hesitated. ‘Not directly. But in a roundabout way he has. It’s certainly me he’s after but he’s being deliberately coy, as if protecting me. It doesn’t add up. I want to know what he knows.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Not if I take the right precautions—and you know me.’
‘This isn’t just a chance for you to wear one of my skirts, is it?’
‘Lily, how unkind,’ he said, feigning indignation. ‘No,’ he began again, turning more serious. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye. Freath is coming to me and he’s coming with stealth and care, it seems. He’s found me in the same way that if I wanted to find me I would. Does that make sense?’
‘You mean, he’s not screaming your name from the rooftops.’
‘Yes. Word has got through he is bringing only a small party. He plans to slip his soldier escort.’
‘All right, so how does this involve me?’
‘He has a companion. Just keep an eye on him for me, that’s all.’
‘One of the men can’t?’
‘You’re far less obvious. I don’t want you to do anything dangerous; I just want Freath alone and feeling vulnerable. I have no intention of talking to him in front of his companion.’
‘How far do I take my spying duties?’
Faris shrugged. ‘Well, don’t sleep with him, my love,’ he laughed, avoiding her determined slap, ‘but stick close enough.’
‘Don’t let him out of my sight, you mean.’
‘Exactly. We are going to separate them somehow and I want someone inconspicuous watching the friend to know if there is anything sinister about Freath’s intentions.’
She sighed. ‘Fine. When?’
‘In the next couple of days. Now, forget that packing. Let me show you how much I care about you.’ He arched an eyebrow.
Lily fell back into his arms and they toppled together onto the bed. Faris tried desperately to lose himself in their affections but at the back of his mind his demon, his ever-present companion, began to gnaw more urgently. He was shocked by Lily’s observation; the fact that Leo had noticed as well meant that Jewd had long been aware of the deliberate distance Kilt had created between himself and the king. Jewd was too shrewd to make his queries as pointed as Lily; no, his friend would watch and make up his own mind. Kilt would have to be very, very careful from here on. He’d given his word to Brennus and would not break it, but in order to keep it he was going to have to exercise still more control while making a greater effort to close that gap between himself and Leo.
3 (#ulink_0a3b4f5e-8805-5436-aaca-b4791ea6b132)
On the other side of the realm, in a sparsely populated hamlet not far from Minton Woodlet, a dark-eyed youth with hair the colour of damp soil broke his fast with a bowl of creamed oats. He sat quietly at a plain scrubbed table and stared out of a small window into the overcast, drizzly day that the south was experiencing. From time to time he’d trickle a small amount of thick milk into his bowl to cool and liquefy the steaming, delicious glug.
There were only three small rooms to the tiny cottage and a man bustled in from one of the others now. ‘Nearly done?’ he asked brightly. ‘Did I get it right?’
The youngster turned and nodded. ‘Delicious,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Good. Hurry up and finish. I’d like us to get going early,’ the man continued conversationally, leaning to look out of a window as he poured himself some dinch from the pot simmering at the fire. ‘It’s not too cold but the wet weather means you should be able to find us some saramac. I have to go out for a short while. Just to Minton Woodlet.’
The youth kept ladling the oats into his mouth, eating precisely, swallowing carefully.
‘Oh, and excellent news, my boy. I don’t know what you did but the hens are laying again and Bonny’s leg is healed fully. She’s going to be just fine. I’d like to think it was my herbals,’ the man said, turning to stare affectionately as the boy scraped the last of the oats from his bowl, ‘but I know it was you.’
The youth put his spoon into the bowl with a soft clang and looked up. ‘Not all me.’ He shrugged, self-consciously. ‘I like to use it for good.’
‘I know. Just remember, we must keep those skills between us. Never show them off. Never.’
The boy nodded. ‘I know that. I’m finished,’ he said, standing. He lifted the bowl and jug to take them outside to rinse.
‘All right, then. You leave that. I can clear things up. Let’s get you on your way. You know what to look for. I need as many of the fungi as you can find.’
‘You won’t be long, will you?’
‘No, Piven.’
Piven nodded. ‘Be safe, Greven,’ he said, slinging a small sack around his body and reaching for his hat from the hook behind the door.
‘You too, my boy.’ Greven smoothed away the flopping dark waves of hair and kissed Piven’s forehead, as he always did when they said goodbye.
Piven regarded him gravely. ‘The sores have almost gone.’
Greven nodded. ‘I can hardly believe it. All that’s left to remind me I’ve had leprosy is this tremor,’ he said, holding out a hand.
‘I’m sure I can heal that too,’ Piven said. ‘If you’ll let me,’ he added.
Greven watched the orphaned adopted son of the Valisars leave the cottage quietly. He frowned. He’d never questioned that he’d done the right thing in stealing the boy away from the barbarian. That big black bird of omen had led him to Brighthelm and to the child in need—he was sure of it. He’d fought the inclination to follow the bird but he had especially fought getting so close to city folk, and particularly folk of the palace. But the raven had been persistent, staring at him for days, then when Greven finally agreed to follow, returning time and again, swooping and demanding that he continue on the pathway. And though Greven knew where the bird was leading him, he didn’t know why and he feared what he might discover.
He found a helpless, invalid child. And the bird had somehow called to that child, for Piven had looked up and looked straight at them, even though they had been hidden in the tree line on the edge of the forest. The boy had risen and without any hesitation had moved towards them. Greven had felt the irresistible pull towards the young boy, and in spite of every screaming reservation, he had held out a hand and welcomed the child.
Their life had been quiet and uneventful, each of them deriving security from the other. And while Greven offered Piven a life, the boy—fast becoming a young man—had offered Greven hope.
He’d been running from the threat of his pursuer all of his life, so why now, when he was more free, more isolated than he’d been in a long time, did he feel so anxious?
People knew him as Jon Lark, the herbalist who lived with his son, Petor. Once again he was raising a child alone. He’d known about this adopted son of the Valisars who had been mute, indeed lost in his mind—everyone in Penraven knew of the beloved Piven. But within days of their first clasping hands Piven had shocked him by talking. At first it had been halting and of course childish. He had, after all, only been five. Now he was a gangly youth of fifteen anni.
Greven had hoped the boy would forget his past but Piven had forgotten nothing; his recall in fact was daunting. He could describe Brighthelm in detail, walking Greven mentally through the various chambers. He spoke lovingly of his parents especially his mother, whose face he remembered so well that he had drawn her for Greven, and he could see that Piven caught her likeness with uncanny skill. Most of all he talked about his brother, Leo, and had talked a great deal about reuniting with his sibling. He never spoke of Leo as his half-brother, nor did he speak of the years he had been trapped in his silence, his own world.
Greven had tried to discover why Piven had been unable to communicate and, more to the point, how he could suddenly speak so well and so easily for a person who had not used his voice. When he asked Piven the boy would shrug and become introverted and Greven had long ago decided that he was fortunate to have the child at all—and animated besides. The whys and wherefores of his life before they shared it were of no relevance—or so Greven told himself. He himself never spoke of the life he’d had before Piven, and when word had filtered down through the folk who lived amongst and around the forest that Lily had looked for him, he had resisted the deep urge to answer those enquiries.
But what did puzzle, and to some extent unnerve Greven, was the youngster’s ability with magic. The extent of that skill remained untapped, and if Greven had his way, that was how it would remain. But Piven was still a very young man, with all the foibles of youth. There had been occasions on which Piven had shown off, hoping to impress Greven with what he could do. And there were other times, when he was angry, that Greven feared for what havoc the child might wreak. He mostly contented himself with healing magics but Greven was worried that Piven was simply biding his time with his skills. More recently he had begun to catch his adopted son deep in thought, a darkness haunting the youngster’s face, giving it shadows that shouldn’t be there at his age. But Piven refused to discuss those haunted moments.
To be fair, as he matured he also refused to take credit for all the brightness that his skills did bring. Curing the leprosy had been an astonishing feat that Greven still struggled to comprehend. How had Piven done that? He had simply passed his hands once over the afflicted areas and the eruptions that had once so plagued Greven’s life had instantly begun to recede until only the lightest of scarring could attest to the fact that he had ever suffered the disease. And the scars continued to lighten. The tremor alone told the truth of what he had been…what he still was.
In the last few moons, though, the moments of shadow had increased. Not so noticeably that it had become an issue but sometimes he would catch Piven standing alone outside, as if caught in a trance. And when Greven would call out to Piven, and the boy would turn and look at him…there was something odd about it. It wasn’t frightening so much as unnerving; he couldn’t fathom what the boy was thinking. He sometimes wondered if Piven knew the truth when he looked at him like that.
The most recent of these events had occurred six days previous, when he had risen to give Piven the news that Bonny, their donkey, had gone lame. Piven always rose first, curiously enough, and had set the oats on to cook, stirring dutifully to release all their gluey starch. After Greven had told him about the donkey Piven had gone outside, saying he would milk Belle, their cow. Greven had let him go, thinking the boy was upset about Bonny, but not long after he’d walked up to the hearth and found Piven in one of his dark trances, his face pinched in a frown. Greven had said his name loudly but Piven had not reacted, or even given the impression he’d heard. But moments after that the boy had returned, beaming a smile that looked full of the warmth of a thousand suns. ‘You don’t have to destroy Bonny. I believe she will recover,’ Piven had said.
Right enough, the swelling around the beast’s leg had begun to dissipate when Greven went out to check. He’d shaken his head. He had thought he would be slitting the animal’s throat. Instead, he was giving it a fresh nosebag of feed. Now the leg had healed.
Yes, life with Piven was good.
However, as if Lo himself had decided to intervene, word had arrived from Master Junes at Minton Woodlet that there was a nice couple looking to speak to him—an older couple from Medhaven who seem to know you from your youth, Junes had added and for some reason Greven’s internal alarms had begun to sound. He didn’t know why but he found it worrying that these people were interested in his child. In Piven. Did they know? He felt anxious and fearful.
‘But it must not show!’ he admonished himself. And it wouldn’t. His grey-peppered hair was tied neatly back into a pigtail. He had clipped his beard this morning and he had on his best shirt. He looked tidy, clean, respectable…not at all like the once-wandering leper who had crept through the forest with a five-anni-old boy and a strange black raven for company.
He left the cottage. It was time to face them. If worst came to worst, he and Piven could go on the run again, but he needed to know what they were up against. He needed to know if Emperor Loethar had discovered his secret.
Piven disappeared into the shadows of the forest but once he knew he was no longer visible he turned and watched the cottage. He may be young in summers, he thought, but no one realised, perhaps least of all Greven, how much older in his mind he truly was. In fact, Piven was keenly aware of his own curious maturity and he deliberately tried to keep it hidden as best he could. Initially he had been embarrassed by his own perceptive ability but now he realised it wasn’t a gift. No, to him, the new knowledge, the increasing sense of purpose that was still tinged with confusion but nevertheless gnawed at him relentlessly, had a far darker feeling to it…and was part of the magic he had discovered within himself. His maturity had become his curse and now he hated where his thoughts ran.
As his self-consciousness had increased, he had become cagey about his awareness, hiding it by acting far more naive than he was, hoping his contrived innocence might appear acceptable for a youth of his age. But while he and Greven did lead a closeted existence, well removed from others, naturally their paths crossed regularly with the villagers of Minton Woodlet. During these times he interacted with his peers, and in their company he felt like a stranger. Not because he didn’t know them—some he knew well—but because the trivia that occupied their conversation or their play seemed so juvenile.
The raven arrived, swooping to land on a branch just above his head to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Hello, Vyk,’ he said softly. ‘Your timing is perfect as always.’
The great black bird stared at him from above and Piven read query in the look even though his companion’s expression never changed. He explained about Greven’s urgency to get him out of the cottage. ‘He says he’s got an appointment but Greven doesn’t have appointments.’ He loaded the last word with irony. ‘He’s up to something. He was nervous this morning, very anxious to get me gone.’ He glanced at the bird and continued as though it had spoken to him. ‘No, I don’t know why but I can sense that it’s connected to me; something he’s frightened about. But he can’t have guessed.’
Piven sighed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that I spent the first five anni as a halfwit. Now I wish I wasn’t so aware of life around me. Why can’t I be like other boys my age and fret about whether a girl likes me, or why I can’t kick the pigskin around as skilfully as John Daw, or jump a horse over the nine-mile gate as fearlessly as Doon Fowler? Instead, I’m having thoughts about the politics of our land, or I’m considering the undercurrent in a conversation between Greven and the widow, Evelyn; or I’m constantly ten steps ahead in every discussion I share with Greven, trying to prepare the way so he doesn’t discover that I understand so much more than he thinks…and that I know so much more than he does.’
Piven broke a small twig from a branch in frustration. ‘Why is this happening, Vyk? I’m fifteen, not fifty. I want to be like the boys I know. Instead, I’m terrified by my own dreams. I’m dreaming regularly about a woman. I don’t recognise her but I know she’s special. She’s so real in my mind that I often try and reach out to touch her but she’s just a vision, nothing more. And yet,’ he glanced up at the bird, who appeared to be paying close attention, ‘there are moments when I think she’s aware of me.’ He shook his head. ‘I know that sounds ridiculous. She’s a dream. But she’s so different from my other dreams—the ones that scare me, the ones that are dark and filled with anger. They urge me to allow my true self to come through, but I’m too scared to find out who I am.’
Ravan flapped down and sat on the boy’s shoulder. Piven smiled. ‘You are a comfort to me, Vyk. You always have been. I know you go back to Loethar whenever you’re not here. I like that you listen—I couldn’t let anyone else hear these thoughts. Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There goes Greven. Why would he be so dressed up? His meetings are usually with farmers and he only wears that jacket and shirt if he’s attending a wedding or a funeral. And I know he’s going to neither.’
Piven watched in silence as Greven disappeared down the incline. Then he continued. ‘Whoever he’s meeting, I know it’s not good news for us. I know it’s going to affect me and this is not a good time.’ He banged the tree. ‘Not a good time at all! Something’s happening to me. Do you know I soured the milk yesterday? Greven made me cross because he didn’t like my mending a squirrel with a broken leg, and my bad humour curdled the entire pail I’d just milked from Belle. I’m sure he knew it too because he hasn’t said too much about Bonny’s lameness that is now miraculously cured.
‘I thought curing her would make me feel happy; I try to use my skills wisely but for all the good they can do, I’m paying a price. I’m sure of it. My heart is filling with hate, Vyk; I feel increasingly angry at my situation and yet just a few months ago I couldn’t have been happier. And nothing’s changed. I’m leading the same life, which I love, and yet I feel such rage. I can control it—my anger—but when I exercise that control, quelling the power inside, quietening my fury, something bad happens, like the soured milk. And it’s going to get worse. I sense it. I’m frightened by it. I just want everything to remain the same but I think Greven’s meeting today will change everything.’ He knew he was rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth furiously, crowding together and turning into a tirade.
The bird shifted on his shoulder, making a clacking sound near his ear. It sounded like a question.
‘I don’t know. That’s just it, I don’t know, but this darkness, this growing up so fast and this new awareness about myself is driving me towards something, or someone, and I’m not sure I can control my urge any longer. Besides, Greven thinks he’s got me fooled. I admire his cunning and I especially admire his courage because this life of his must require a will of iron, but he underestimates me. And soon I won’t be able to shield him from the truth any longer.’
He shrugged and the raven leapt to another branch. ‘It’s the magic, Vyk, it’s not me. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what. I sense you understand me, even if you can’t tell me as much. Don’t desert me, even if I disappoint you—or frighten you. The magic controls me now and I need to understand it more. Someone somewhere must know what it wants.’
Piven turned sadly and trudged deeper into the forest in search of the fungi he knew they would never use.
4 (#ulink_3eb898aa-039d-5fb9-b04b-084759fb7cf3)
Oblivious to Piven’s pain, Greven strode into Minton Woodlet, a village with one inn but with a second being built, testimony to the growing importance of the village’s hardy golasses vines. It seemed the barbarians enjoyed the dense, dark wines of the south that drew their flavours from the salty air of the sea nearby and the earthiness of the forest that they flanked. Greven was sure that even within a few anni, Minton Woodlet would be a flourishing southern town with a burgeoning population, swelled by the transient workers who streamed into the region at grape-picking time. His and Piven’s days were numbered here.
‘Hello, Jon,’ an attractive woman said, slowing her walk as she approached him.
He liked Evelyn but not as much or in the same way that she liked him. He could almost regret the tumble they had taken together in his bed when Piven had once again been out hunting down the precious saramac fungus. That had been when the outward signs of his leprosy had begun to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result of becoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.
‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’
Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.
‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.
‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’
‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.
But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’
Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’
‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’
Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.
‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’
‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’
She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthright but gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.
He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.
The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.
And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.
Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.
Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked at the inn.
‘Ho, Jon,’ someone said and Greven looked over to the counter where the innkeeper was drying and lining up cleaned mugs for the day’s service.
‘Hello, Derrin.’
‘They’re out the back, in the courtyard. Warming their bones, they said.’ Derrin smiled. ‘They said they haven’t seen you for donkey’s anni. Family?’
Greven shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible about these people he feared. ‘People I knew when I was very young.’
Innkeeper Derrin nodded. ‘Plenty to chew the cud over then,’ he said. ‘Shall I send you out a pot of dinch? They’re taking their time over a morning meal.’
Greven nodded. ‘A strong one.’ He moved to the back of the chamber and through a doorway into the back of the property where a picturesque walled courtyard opened up. A small, circular fountain in the middle was the focal point. Around it skipped two children, the boy older than the girl, who was presumably his sister. And sitting at the back wall, talking quietly, was a couple in their middle age. They both stood as Greven walked towards them, and Greven was taken aback to see that they appeared as nervous as he felt.
‘I’m Lark.’ He pasted an expression of puzzlement on his face. ‘You asked to see me?’
‘Clovis and Reuth Barrow,’ the man replied. ‘These are our children.’ He held out his hand.
Greven prided himself on being a good judge of character. The face of the man standing before him struck him as sensitive. Despite his broad chest and height, Clovis Barrow didn’t seem to be in any way threatening. In fact, it was the dark-eyed woman in whom Greven sensed real strength. He shook both of their hands.
‘Welcome to Minton Woodlet, though what interest it could possibly hold for you I don’t know.’ He forced a gentle smile. ‘This is a very sleepy hamlet.’
His amiable tone broke through the initial tension. ‘Will you join us?’ Reuth said. ‘We’ve just finished breaking a late fast but—’
‘Dinch is on the way,’ Greven said reassuringly. Curiously, they sounded more unsure about him than he felt about them. Why would they be so hesitant?
‘Please,’ Clovis said, gesturing to a third chair at the small table.
‘Forgive our mess,’ Reuth added, trying to clear away the debris of four meals.
Greven sat, watching his hosts fuss. They were both roughly the same age—the woman slightly older, perhaps—and now that he looked at them more closely he would put them at approaching fifty anni, older than he’d first thought. The woman was silvering at the hairline while the man’s hair and beard were streaked with grey throughout—and yet their children were young. Second marriage, Greven guessed. But what had this family to do with him? He waited, preferring to let them do the talking.
‘I know you must be wondering why we asked to see you,’ Clovis began.
‘I am,’ Greven replied.
‘Please don’t fear us, Mr Lark,’ Reuth assured, looking at her husband and nodding encouragingly.
‘I don’t,’ Greven lied.
‘We’re not here to cause trouble,’ Clovis continued.
‘Thank you,’ Greven said, determined to give little of himself away.
Reuth looked up as the door into the courtyard banged. ‘I think your dinch is here, Mr Lark.’
‘Call me Jon,’ Greven said, ‘since apparently we’re all old friends.’
The man and wife nodded, glancing nervously at each other. They were frightened, Greven realised. That made him feel more assured than he’d felt since the moment he’d first received word of being asked after. And Piven was safe in the woods, where no one would find him.
The pot of dinch was served. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl asked his hosts.
They both shook their heads and she smiled sweetly and left. Greven poured from the pot, more for something to do than from a desire to drink. When the couple remained silent, he spoke up boldly.
‘Master Clovis, Reuth, I don’t know either of you but I’ve had to pretend I do in order not to confuse the folk I live alongside each day. Now whether you’re from Medhaven or as far flung as Percheron I could not care, but I require an explanation for why you are here, masquerading as old friends.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t care for secrets,’ he lied.
Reuth nodded. ‘Tell him everything, Clovis.’
Clovis cleared his throat and Greven gave the man his full attention, surprised to see the couple give a surreptitious glance around.
‘We are alone,’ he assured. ‘Whatever you have to say will not be overheard.’
‘I was at Brighthelm soon after the invasion of Penraven—so was my wife. We had been rounded up and taken with other Vested to learn our fate. Some of us they wanted, others they killed. There was no way of knowing which we’d be. It was a terrible time,’ Clovis said and Reuth placed a hand on his arm. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘That’s all history. We were saved by a man called Freath—one of the close aides to the Valisars. We never fully appreciated his perilous position and how he endangered his life daily to keep us safe and to protect the Valisar sons.’
‘Forgive me. While tragic though it all was, I have to wonder at this point why I’m here…what your story has to do with me,’ Greven said, as politely but firmly as he could.
Reuth smiled. ‘Clovis is always one to tell a story.’
Clovis cleared his throat. ‘I shall finish it quickly then,’ he said but without any offence in his voice. ‘While Reuth was fortunate to be given an escape route by Freath, I was kept behind and became privy to some of Freath’s plans. I know not only did the heir, Leonel, escape the palace but I also know that the other adopted son who was simple of mind, also somehow got away. He was lost, in fact, for want of a better word. Freath was inconsolable and as I did not have the stomach for his intrigues and what they required, I agreed to leave the relative safety of the palace to find Piven. I found Reuth first but I have never stopped looking for the boy.’
‘This is all fascinating, I’ll admit,’ Greven said, eyeing the couple, masking his despair with an ingenuous smile and a soft shake of the head. It seemed his fears had finally come home to roost this bright Blossomtide day. ‘But I fail to see how—’
‘The boy you live with is the son of the Valisar royals, isn’t he?’ Reuth pressed, leaning forward.
Greven didn’t know how to answer. He froze, searching for the right response that did not incriminate him or Piven.
Clovis sighed. ‘Master Lark, you should know that as a Master Diviner, my inherent skills have assisted in finding you. But, more importantly, my wife has visions. It was her magic that, after years of me searching, led me to you.’
Greven regarded them both, his face deliberately devoid of expression but his insides churning with anxiety.
‘You have nothing to fear from us, Master Lark,’ Clovis repeated. ‘As I explained, it has been my mission for the last decade to find the boy.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you admit that the child you call Petor is Piven, the invalid adopted son of the Valisars?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Greven replied, his throat threatening to close on the lie. He filled his lungs with indignation and continued, ‘This is an outrageous claim and I’ll ask you not to levy such accusations publicly.’
Clovis shook his head. ‘I only want to protect him. I would do nothing that might bring him harm. I know you wish only the same, which is why you are covering Piven’s true identity.’
‘Master Barrow—’
‘May we meet him?’ Reuth asked, cutting across Greven’s outrage.
‘Pardon?’
‘May we meet the boy? Although I only know of the child, Clovis has seen him at close range. He will know him.’
‘I have no intention of permitting you to scrutinise my son,’ Greven snapped. ‘How dare you,’ he muttered. ‘How dare you walk into my life like this and make such claims.’
Clovis shook his head with sorrow. ‘Master Lark, I witnessed many people lose their lives brutally on the order of the barbarian tyrant. Reuth watched her beloved former husband led away to be slaughtered in a dingy courtyard; she could hear his death cries alongside those of the others who posed as Vested. My first wife and my precious infant daughter were hacked to death by the barbarian warrior who calls himself general. Our magnanimous emperor who now masquerades as a just and good ruler stole his crown in a sea of blood, Master Lark. I’m sure you know that.’
Greven nodded unhappily, shocked and helplessly touched by the tale of this pair.
‘We have reason to hold a grudge against the tyrant.’
‘But what does my son have to do with your mission?’ Greven asked carefully.
‘If he is your son, then he has nothing to do with us,’ Clovis said. ‘If he is Piven, as we believe he is, then he is integral to the struggle.’
‘The struggle? What are you talking about?’
Clovis lowered his voice still further. ‘To reinstate the true king onto his throne.’
Greven looked back at the intense expressions on the couple’s faces. They were earnest. ‘Piven?’
‘No, Leo,’ Clovis said. ‘We all believe he lives.’
‘We?’
‘The Vested,’ Reuth answered. ‘Those of us who survived took a marking.’ She turned, pulling back her ear and Greven saw a crescent moon marked in ink on her skin. ‘Master Lark, I should admit to you that my curious and contrary skill is to sense when something bad might occur. It is a strong power when it speaks to me but it speaks rarely. For instance, I knew they were coming for me, even though we had hidden my talent all my life. I also knew my husband would die, no matter what we did to protect him. I sensed that the royal family would suffer—I didn’t see the deaths but I sensed there would be only misery for the Valisars who might survive. And, Master Lark, when you first walked into this courtyard I sensed a terrible foreboding. I don’t know if it is for you, or your son, or whether it is the stars aligning to bring grief to your life but something very bad is going to happen. It is not far away. You should be warned.’
Greven stood. ‘Stay away from me,’ he demanded, pointing his finger at the two of them. ‘Stay away from Petor.’
Clovis looked past Greven. ‘You’re alarming our children, Master Lark, and risking drawing attention to yourself.’
‘You are strangers in this hamlet. I am not. My son and I have lived here for—’
‘Ten anni,’ Reuth finished for him, calmly. ‘Yes, we know. And that’s the exact amount of time that Clovis has been searching for the Valisar child. You forget that we were involved in the struggle for the Valisar survival at the outset. We have never given up our fight to return the rightful king to his throne.’
Greven leapt onto what he thought could be his final diversion. ‘Except you are ignoring one very important fact.’
‘And that is?’ Reuth asked.
‘You are very clear that the child known as Piven is an invalid.’
Clovis and Reuth nodded. ‘He never spoke a word, and was very much lost in his mind,’ Clovis said.
‘Well, for your information, Petor is extremely able. He talks as any normal child of fifteen might talk,’ Greven insisted, leaning forward on the table to impress his point. ‘He is lively and animated.’
Reuth frowned, glancing at her husband.
‘Check with the townsfolk if you don’t believe me,’ Greven baited. ‘The child you seek is not my Petor. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that both boys are the same age.’ He could almost see the disappointment emanating from them like a dark cloud.
Clovis sighed. ‘Still, I would like to see him.’
‘I forbid it. You will not frighten my child.’
‘Master Lark, how can two people like us with our young family be in any way intimidating?’ Reuth asked.
‘Well, you’ve done your utmost to intimidate me and I refuse you access to my son, do you hear? Go away and leave us in peace.’
‘I cannot,’ Clovis said. His voice sounded grave enough to chill Greven. ‘I gave my word to people who were risking their lives every hour of those terrible days of the overthrow to keep Piven alive. I promised I would find him. I think I have.’
‘Go away,’ Greven said helplessly. He turned his back on them, calling over his shoulder, ‘And stay away.’
He threw two trents onto the counter before Innkeeper Derrian Junes and didn’t pause to exchange pleasantries. He was gone in seconds, striding out of the Grape and Whistle and hurrying as fast as his long legs could carry him towards the forest, where the trees swallowed him up and, he hoped, could hide him.
5 (#ulink_7be14390-37a4-548b-939f-9d6ee9f6e787)
Piven waited for Greven. He had filled the small sack near to brimming with fungi that would need to dry out on the hut’s windowsill, and it was now duly laid out as Greven liked. Life with Greven had been tranquil, mostly serene. Each day was similar to the previous. And he liked it that way. He liked its order, its sameness…its predictability. He didn’t call Greven ‘Father’; couldn’t call him by that name, much as he knew Greven would like him to, because he remembered King Brennus too clearly. He belonged to the royal family of Valisars—that could and would never change for him. He never wondered about his blood parents, refused to accept that somewhere in the Set a woman who had birthed him might still live or a man who had sired him might roam.
The raven had lingered, staying close as he busied himself finding the elusive fungi. He wondered if the bird—who he felt sure knew things—had sensed his change occurring. He knew Vyk could hear him; imagined the bird was capable of replying somehow, but that it had chosen not to communicate with him since he’d begun to talk. One day it would—of this he was sure. And so he talked, over his shoulder, never tiring of hearing his own voice, which had been silent for so long.
‘…and should be back soon if you’re wondering,’ he said, laying out the fungi beneath the warmth of the sun. ‘You’ll be surprised when you see him. His face, body, arms are now all clear of the sores. The leprosy will have left him by the rise of the next full moon. It’s my greatest achievement yet,’ he murmured, not meaning to boast but needing to say it aloud, to affirm his new talent.
‘I told you about the dreams,’ he continued. ‘Strange ones. People are hunting me. I don’t know them but they want to use me and I don’t know how or why.’ Piven turned. ‘Are you faithful to Loethar, or faithful to me? Until I know, I can’t fully trust you with my secrets. One day you must choose, you know that, don’t you?’ He dragged back the flop of hair that had covered part of his face as he turned to look at the bird. ‘You will need to choose,’ he said softly.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Piven turned to see Greven approaching up the small incline that led to their hut. The man smiled. ‘Ah, Vyk. Long life to you. Good to see you back.’ Then he gave a feigned sound of disgust. ‘Piven, I’m as bad as you, talking to the bird. Well done, my boy, that’s a very good haul,’ he congratulated, spying the neat row of fungi lined up. ‘Excellent, excellent. Now, child, I want to talk to you about something.’
‘Oh?’
‘We need to move on,’ Greven continued conversationally. ‘I’m bored with this place, aren’t you? Perhaps we could look at Gormand, or Cremond, get lost in and around Lo’s Teeth or the Dragonsback Mountains. That would be quite an exciting trip. What do you say?’ Piven’s expression turned to one of puzzlement. ‘Why?’
Greven looked surprised. ‘Why not, I say? Don’t you want to see more of the world?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I want to stay here. It’s peaceful.’
‘True,’ Greven replied, thoughtfully. ‘But we can find other tranquil spots.’
‘Who are we running from?’
‘No one,’ Greven replied firmly and too quickly, Piven thought. Then his long-time companion seemed to reconsider his suggestion. ‘There’s no reason to move permanently. How about some travel? I think it’s high time I gave you an education about this fair land. It’s safe now to roam through the realms and we can do so easily enough—thanks to you that Bonny’s well. We can even use some savings to buy a mule…or even a horse and cart.’ He sounded excited but Piven heard panic driving Greven’s enthusiasm. ‘What do you say, eh? Are you ready for an adventure, boy?’
‘When?’
‘No time like the present. Come on, let’s pack up a few things. We won’t need very much. We can close up the hut and go.’
‘What about Belle?’
‘We can leave a message for Jenna. She can take Belle down to her parents’ place when she picks up the next crate of herbals for her father’s apothecary.’
‘Who will tend the fungi?’
Greven looked up to the sky momentarily as if to calm his patience, then back at Piven. ‘Come on, don’t put up barriers. Let’s just pack a few essentials and be gone this night.’ ‘You’ve always said never to travel at night unless you’re on the run.’
He watched Greven wrestle his exasperation back under control. This man he loved smiled gently. ‘I did, didn’t I? All right, why don’t we leave in the morning? How does that sound?’
Piven didn’t think it sounded good at all but he had little choice, for Greven seemed filled with a fierce drive to be gone. Already he was beginning to tidy the few items that had been left outside around the front patch of garden. Switching topics, even though he knew that lack of protest would be taken as his agreement to leave, Piven asked, ‘What happened in town today?’
‘Oh, nothing much at all,’ Greven said. He was packing planting pots into a crate.
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘I met Evelyn on the way, I spoke to Innkeeper Junes…no one in particular. All quite boring, really.’
Piven knew, without any doubt now, Greven was lying. And the lie prompted him to make his final decision.
That night Piven dreamed.
In his dream he saw a woman. He recognised her instantly; he had been dreaming about her for the last few moons. She was slim, dark-haired, and exceptionally pretty with fine features that were so angular and precise they looked as if they could have been drawn. In the dream he was hidden but he didn’t know where or why. As was usual, she seemed to sense that she was being observed; kept looking around to find the voyeur. She looked strange. No, that wasn’t right. Where she was looked strange. The setting was foreign to him and one he couldn’t comprehend. She was busy at something but he could make no sense of it. She was in a room that was predominantly white and she was tending to someone who was lying down. There were lots of other people crowded around her, all watching what she was doing. She appeared to be talking constantly.
He called to her, surprised that he knew her name, holding his breath in the hope that the other people wouldn’t hear him. The woman paused, as if a thought had struck her, and then she looked up, slightly startled, and stared straight at him.
Piven felt himself falling backwards, as if from a clifftop into a great void. He yelled his fear as winds began to buffet him, shake his bones as though he were a rag doll.
‘Piven!’
He opened his eyes, shocked and alarmed. Greven was shaking him by the shoulders.
‘What’s happening?’ Greven asked, looking suddenly old and dishevelled in his nightshirt. ‘A nightmare, I think,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Rest easy now, boy. No more yelling. You’ve probably already forgotten it.’
Piven swallowed, alarm still clanging like windchimes in his mind. He had not forgotten any of it…or her.
‘It’s nearing dawn. We might as well call it morning and make a start,’ Greven said, scratching his chest absently. ‘I’ll get some dinch on.’
He left Piven to surface fully, rub the sleep from his eyes and drag himself upright. Lethargy pulled at him like a heavy blanket and his mood felt bleak. Greven’s bright whistling at the hearth irritated him and an uncharacteristic scowl darkened his expression.
‘You yelled someone’s name. Who were you dreaming about?’ Greven called.
‘I don’t know,’ Piven replied. ‘What was the name?’
Greven returned. He was stirring something in a small pot. Eggs, Piven thought, he’s readying them for scrambling. He was not hungry. ‘Do you know, I heard you scream it but I can’t remember now. Can you?’
Piven shook his head. Not only could he not recall the woman’s name but her features were disappearing from his mind. Suddenly he could no longer see her pretty face.
Greven chuckled. ‘Ah well, fret not, my boy. Soon you won’t be having nightmares about women. You’ll be dreaming happily about them morning, noon and night!’
Piven’s sour mood deepened.
‘Oh, would you look at that!’ he heard Greven mutter in disgust. ‘I think the wretched eggs are off.’ Piven watched Greven lift the heavy earthen jug and sniff. ‘Bah! Gone! They’re yesterday’s, aren’t they?’
Piven nodded.
‘How can that happen?’ Greven asked, and although Piven decided his question did not require a response, he had a sickening feeling that he knew the answer.
Reuth sighed. ‘Perhaps we sent word too fast,’ she said, wiping their son’s face with a wet flannel.
Clovis grimaced. ‘Too fast? It’s been a decade!’
She gave him a look of soft rebuke. ‘You know what I mean.’
He finished tying the laces on their daughter’s dress. ‘There you go. Now you look pretty enough to eat.’ He pretended to chew her neck and his little girl squealed with frightened delight. He loved to hear her voice. And far from being embittered by it, he felt blessed by Lo that his second daughter reminded him so starkly of Corin, his first beautiful—now dead—child. Whether it was fact or his imagination, they seemed to share the same tone and pitch in voice; Corin used to squeal in an identical manner when he teased her. He could not risk his precious children—or Reuth, come to that. ‘We are not wrong. We can’t both feel so strongly about this child and be wrong.’
Reuth looked over at him sorrowfully. ‘I worry that we’ve been searching for so long that we just want this to be him so badly that we’ve convinced ourselves it is so. Eat your oats, you two, they should be cool enough now,’ she said, pointing to the faintly steaming bowls in which porridge had begun to set. ‘Your father will pour the milk in, the jug’s too heavy for you.’
They’d had food for the children sent up. They would eat downstairs in the dining room. Clovis trickled the creamy milk into two small bowls and the children greedily tucked into their first meal of the day.
‘Slowly,’ Reuth cautioned their son. ‘Or you’ll spill it.’ He’d obviously heard the same cautions so many times before that he neither looked up nor slowed down; the words had become a meaningless mantra, Clovis could see.
‘Listen to me, Reuth,’ he said, once the children were ignoring anything but their bellies. ‘I could feel his fear. The boy is Piven.’
‘Well, unless we’ve been dancing to a different tune all these anni, Clovis, I could swear that the child we seek is mute, lost in his mind, even mad, some say. You yourself have told me he couldn’t speak, communicate, showed no emotion…acted like a moving statue, you once told me.’
Clovis nodded, trying not to interrupt her but knowing his senses contradicted everything he knew to be true. ‘I did. And that is how he was.’
‘And now you accept that he talks, is able, is fully healthy and as normal as our own son?’ she demanded.
Clovis shooshed her silently with a gesture of his hands. ‘I know how it sounds. I know how incomprehensible it is. But do you deny me that you too felt something when you met Lark?’
She turned away. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Tell me again.’
Reuth turned back to him, and he watched her quell her exasperation. ‘I had a vision. Fast, gone in a blink. Doom surrounds him.’
‘Think, Reuth. Interpret that doom for me.’
She looked lost. ‘I can’t,’ she said helplessly. ‘It didn’t just spell doom for him, though. I got the impression that it was foreboding for all of us. Where Jon Lark treads, he will bring darkness to the world.’
Clovis shook his head, and walked over to the tiny window that overlooked the main street of Minton Woodlet. A young woman was leading a cow past the inn. Beyond her, vineyards stretched into the distance. She stopped to talk to an older woman, stroking the patient beast and pointing back up the hill. She had a pretty smile even though she herself was quite plain. At last she nodded, gave a small wave as the pair of them parted and then continued along at the ponderous pace of the black and white cow. He watched her disappear from the limited view the small window afforded him.
‘What are you thinking?’ Reuth prompted from behind him.
‘I want you and the children to return to Medhaven.’
‘We’re not splitting up, Clovis.’
‘You saw foreboding. I divined that we were closer yesterday to what we seek than we have been in the last ten anni. I sensed Jon Lark was lying. Now I don’t know who or what he is. Neither do I care. I believe that he loves his son. I think both of us could tell he was protecting the boy, not just being belligerent. But I do think the child he loves is the orphan Piven. I can’t explain Lark’s claim that the boy talks. I can’t comprehend why Innkeeper Junes should confirm the fact that the boy known as Petor is a run-of-the-mill youth. But, Reuth, you and I accept magic as easily as we breathe. We should be able to accept that some sorcery has occurred, something of an enchanted nature has affected this child.’
‘If he’s Piven,’ his wife reiterated.
‘If he’s Piven,’ Clovis repeated with resignation.
‘And we can’t be sure he is.’
‘Which is why I want you to return to our home with our children and wait for word.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find Kirin. He has a different sort of skill. Perhaps together…’ Clovis shrugged.
‘You’re walking back into the palace?’ Reuth exclaimed. ‘It’s your own death warrant you’re agreeing to.’
Clovis shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I shall dye my hair, shave off my beard. You agree I am only half the man I was when we met and I’m ten anni older. Different clothes, different look, different attitude. I can be someone different. And I doubt the emperor gives a fig about a man who disappeared so long ago.’
‘No, but his evil general might. Remember how he vowed to track down every Vested in the land?’
‘He will not know I’m Vested. No one will know. I will take a different name.’
‘What if they ask for papers?’
‘I’ll have some forged.’
Reuth looked pained, but remained silent.
Clovis guessed her concern. ‘Our savings will be put to good use, I promise. Besides, Freath can probably—’
‘I don’t care about money, Clovis. You are risking your life.’
‘Reuth,’ he began firmly. ‘I was a coward all those years ago. Kirin wasn’t. I have existed with the shame of my fleeing from Brighthelm to your arms. I gave my promise I would find Piven for Freath, and now that I believe I have, I intend to deliver on that promise. The least I can do is tell Freath—our only ally alongside Kirin at the palace.’
‘If that’s him!’ Reuth said, her voice almost in agony.
‘It’s him,’ Clovis said.
‘And then what will you do? Hunt him down yourself?’
‘If I must.’
She shook her head with a combination of vexation and anxiety and turned away. He put his long arms around her, and kissed her head, knowing she needed his tenderness. Finding Piven had been the only contentious part of their marriage. She had never fully understood his private crusade, although she had helped him constantly in his mission.
‘Please, my love,’ he said, turning her now to face him. ‘Please understand. I do this not for personal redemption but for all of us. Your vision frightens me. I have lost one child, one wife. I refuse to lose this family and if what you see should be allowed to occur all of us will be under threat—once again.’
Reuth’s forehead crinkled. ‘It’s a different sort of threat this time, Clovis.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t really know what I mean. I haven’t seen anything other than what I’ve told you but what I felt when I had that vision was cold. Loethar was ruthless and did take his crown with a bloodied hand, but he has not laid waste to our land. The initial slaughter aside, he has performed somewhat magnanimously as an emperor.’
‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ Clovis said, shocked.
Reuth shook her head. ‘Believe me, if what I sensed does come true, this new menace will make the memories of Loethar’s overthrow pale. I hope I’m wrong but I believe what’s coming at us lacks a soul. No ordinary man will be able to stop this.’
They stared at each other for several searching moments as both digested Reuth’s dire counsel. It was she who broke the spell between them. ‘I’ll pack up our things. The children and I will return immediately south to the ferry. We’ll wait for word from you from Medhaven.’
Clovis hugged her tight, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his wife’s hair…as his belly clenched with fear.
6 (#ulink_400bb047-2bbf-5b95-9745-6c46a1118d57)
Freath slowed the horse to a gentle walk. It had been a long time since he’d visited the north and even longer since he’d entered Francham. The last time had been prior to Leo’s birth, when he’d accompanied King Brennus and his new bride, Iselda, on an around-the-realm meet and greet. Brennus had been keen to show off his exotic wife from Galinsea and to silence the mumbling detractors who had begun to spread word that no woman from the Set had been good enough for Brennus. Freath knew the king had hoped that by introducing his lovely young bride to his people in person, they would fall in love with her as easily as he had. His strategy had worked.
Penraven hadn’t seen anything like it since the coronation of Brennus but, as eligible and handsome as the new young king had been at the time, his ‘crowning tour’ lacked the glamour that a beautiful young woman added. And Iselda understood immediately how to achieve her husband’s aim. She had never complained once about the gruelling schedule, Freath recalled. She had chosen her wardrobe with care to ensure that everywhere she visited the people were left in awe of her glittering presence—and, Freath remembered with a soft smile, Iselda had neverneeded jewels to glitter. Her smile was full and genuine and she had managed to draw all she met into its comforting warmth. She had possessed an unwavering ability to remain cheerful despite her fatigue, and dig deep to find energy that often surpassed that of her stronger, older entourage. It was Iselda who had first climbed down from her horse to pause a while and talk to people, to kiss the foreheads of babies and allow the women to clasp at her gloved hands. At first even Freath had been alarmed but alongside Brennus he’d watched how instantly and excitedly the folk had reacted to this show of generosity that had no precedent. And then word had spread so quickly that Brennus had had no choice but to take the unusual step of insisting the royal couple greet their people on foot everywhere from there on. It had won hearts right around the realm and Iselda’s foreign status had been instantly forgotten, as had Brennus’s unusual step of not taking a wife from within the Set.
Nowhere had Iselda made greater impact than Francham. Here, hardened men, used to traversing the most inhospitable of regions, had melted in her presence, grinning like loons. Freath was sure Iselda’s popularity in this region was due to the fact that she had grasped just how tough life was on the road through Hell’s Gate, and that winning the hearts of these men would spread word even faster as they were always on the move around the realm.
She’d agreed to sampling the local liquor known rather dauntingly as ‘Rough’. To the delight of all in Francham, the new queen had stepped into an inn known as The Lookout and there she had surprised everyone by tipping back her head and swallowing a man-sized shot of the deep amber liquid. If it had burned—as Freath knew it must have—she had not shown it, having had the audacity to suggest the innkeeper pour her another ‘for good measure’ .
The silence that had gripped the inn had erupted into cheers and whistles. And as Queen Iselda had clinked glasses with King Brennus prior to downing her second shot of Rough, a rousing chorus of the realm’s royal anthem had been belted out noisily by the crowd.
As Brennus had commented to Freath later that night, ‘The queen has won more than hearts this day. In a single swallow she has guaranteed a loyalty to the Crown that feels unparalleled.’
Prophetic words, Freath thought now as he entered the main street. From that day, patriotism and genuine pride in the Crown of Penraven had escalated noticeably and not waned throughout the reign of King Brennus the 8th.
Next to him, Kirin cleared his throat. ‘Master Freath, we’re staying at The Lookout.’
It was fortunate Kirin had noticed he had been daydreaming, Freath thought, jolted out of his memories, or he’d have strolled his horse right by the inn. ‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ He looked around and noticed that the three bodyguards that Loethar insisted be sent along with him were regarding him sullenly through their tatua. ‘Master Felt and I are sharing a room. I have made arrangements for two other rooms. Work it out.’
The Green nodded on behalf of his companions. ‘We’ll take the horses for stabling. Do you need us?’
Freath shook his head. ‘No, but your emperor seems to think I do.’ He smiled but it won no warmth in their faces. ‘The local liquor here is called Rough. Try some. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I hear the brothel here is lively too. I will be eating in the dining room at The Lookout tonight, so I require no supervision.’ As the Green began to protest, Freath held up a hand. ‘I insist. Take your men for some relaxation. I am going nowhere. Tomorrow morning I will meet with the mayor to discuss the emperor’s new tax levy. By noon I imagine I will be hugely unpopular and will require your presence more keenly. Until then, I can survive the odd gob of spittle or harsh word.’
He thought the two younger guards grinned but then again it could have been a grimace. He knew they considered him a traitor to his own. And therefore the lowest of the low, and they hated that he had the ear of their warlord, besides. He was also sure that Stracker did his utmost to poison his men’s attitude towards any person from the Set. Stracker was still living in the past, believing that every Denovian should perish, or at least be treated like vermin. Although most of the Set had come to realise that it needed Loethar, the emperor’s charismatic hold over his horde—and his blood-hungry half-brother—was all that stood in the way of ongoing death and destruction.
As the men walked the horses off in search of the inn’s stables, Freath muttered under his breath, ‘I have to seriously wonder whether they’d even care if a blade was slipped into my gut.’
‘You can be sure they wouldn’t,’ Kirin said.
Freath nodded. ‘I think you’re right. Come on.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s good to smell this fresh mountain air.’
‘Is it?’ Kirin grumbled. ‘I’ve been a city lover for a long time.’
‘Wait until you’ve tried some Rough,’ Freath quipped.
‘When is this meeting going to happen?’ Kirin asked, looking around to see that they weren’t being overheard.
‘Tonight, I hope. We have to slip our guard somehow although once they begin drinking I reckon that won’t be as daring as it sounds. By tomorrow I’ll be watching my back.’
Freath led the way into the front door and his belly responded immediately to the aroma of roasting meat. Ah, he remembered now—the local delicacy.
Kirin gave an appreciative sound. ‘What a delicious smell,’ he commented, pulling off his hat and travelling cloak.
‘I’d forgotten how unique the north can be, especially this town that feels the full effect of the various cultures brought in by the merchants and the folk who travel regularly. That smell just gets better, by the way. It’s called “Osh”.’
‘Osh?’ Kirin repeated. ‘Please don’t tell me it’s mountain bear or something.’
‘And if it was?’
‘I couldn’t resist it, I don’t think.’
Freath gave a half-smile. ‘Nothing so exotic. It’s goat, ox, sheep, chicken, pig, deer. Slabs of meat are pinned onto huge skewers and roasted upright over woodfires made of flaxwood, whose embers release a special spicy fragrance that permeates the meat. The meat, I might add, is rolled in spices that we hardly see in the city: toka, ferago, leem and peregum.’
‘I’ve heard of leem.’
‘I’ve even seen leem, but not the others. The rest are found only in the mountains. When the meat is cooked, it is sliced off onto trenchers of herbed honey bread, and drizzled with oil. It’s magnificent.’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’m already hungry for it from your description.’
Freath looked over Kirin’s shoulder. ‘Ah, you must be Innkeeper Woolton?’ he said to the ruddy-faced man crossing the large reception area towards them.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Are you the party from the…er…city?’
‘Indeed,’ Freath said, glad that the man had taken his early warning of discretion seriously.
‘Three rooms?’ Freath nodded. ‘They’re ready and waiting for you, sir. Tillie will show you up.’ He pointed to a rosy-cheeked girl, no more than thirteen anni, who, going by the dimple in her chin, was his daughter.
Her smile echoed her father’s. ‘It’s upstairs, sirs,’ she lisped.
Their room was very large, with a big window, two beds, and a fabric screen that surrounded a small basin for privacy.
‘Nice,’ Kirin said as Tillie left.
‘Glad you approve,’ Freath said, setting down his small leather bag. ‘So, down to business. A message will be delivered to us but I don’t know—’
A tap at the door interrupted Freath. ‘Yes?’ he called but Kirin moved to open it.
‘sorry to disturb you, sirs,’ Tillie said, the words accentuating her lisp as she curtsied. She was carrying a vase of mountain flowers.
Freath was irritated by her re-entry. ‘Pollen makes me sneeze,’ he said.
Kirin glared at him. ‘Over here, Tillie. I’ll keep it on my side.’
She smiled gratefully, closing the door behind her as she entered the room, which irritated Freath all the more.
‘Was there something else?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Yes,’ she said clearly, her lisp gone. ‘You are Master Freath, are you not? From Brighthelm?’
Kirin glanced at Freath, shocked. Freath had no choice. If worst came to worst, he decided in that moment of alarm, they could overwhelm the girl. ‘I am,’ he replied, masking his fear.
She nodded, her composure surprising him. ‘Thank you, sir. I was asked to give you a message.’
‘I see,’ he said, clearing his throat of the relief that was clogging it. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m to tell you to be ready for when the games begin.’
‘Games? Ready? For what?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve given you the message I was told to deliver, sir. There was nothing else.’
‘But what games?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
He nodded, resigned. ‘All right. Keep that information to yourself.’
‘I have and I will continue to do so.’
‘Do you know who we are?’ Freath asked.
‘No, sir. Nor do I wish to. I’m being paid to do this and the man who paid me frightened me. I do not want to be involved.’
Freath nodded and she quickly left the room. He looked at Kirin. ‘What do you make of it?’
Kirin gave him a look of disdain. ‘You know what I think. Freath, you’re a household servant of the palace and I am a man of the Academy who has also spent his last decade as a curious sort of servant to the ruler. But we’re acting like spies or assassins or something equally clandestine and, even worse, we’re pretending we know what we’re doing. What is in our heads?’
‘Loyalty’s in mine,’ Freath replied with equal disdain. ‘But I’m scared too, Kirin. There’s no shame in it. If anything, it will keep us sharp.’
‘For what? Our own deaths?’
Freath smiled humourlessly. ‘A long time ago Clovis told me you were the one who convinced him that the throne of Penraven and the honour of our Crown was worth rallying for…worth dying for, in fact. I’m sure he said that.’
Kirin grimaced. ‘I’m sure he did.’
‘Dying is easy, Kirin, my friend. Staying alive—especially in our situation—is much harder, and far more honourable.’
‘I’ll carry that thought with me as a blade enters my belly,’ Kirin said, scowling.
Freath sighed. ‘I suppose chasing here after hopes and shadows means we could be missing out on word of Piven.’
‘Clovis will get more word to us when he can.’
‘Piven will be almost fifteen anni. Imagine that,’ Freath commented, awed by the thought.
Kirin’s voice dropped to a low murmur. ‘And our king, if this idea of yours bears fruit, will be a man. I’m sure in your mind you see the boy.’ Freath nodded sadly. ‘Well, he’s going to be twenty-two anni, more than old enough to fight for his crown. Have you considered that?’
‘I have,’ Freath admitted wearily.
Kirin gripped his arm. ‘We’ve probably aged twice as fast in living our lie at the palace all these years. Leo is likely brimming with bitterness that is fuelling his anger and passion.’
Freath looked at his friend. ‘He’s kept it well under control or someone has helped him to. But,’ he sighed again, ‘the time is nigh. Valisar must rise again or be lost forever.’
‘Have you also considered that this peace we enjoy might be a better alternative?’
‘What?’ Freath said, pulling away.
Kirin raised his hands. ‘Hear me out.’
‘No. I can’t believe you’re thinking like this.’
‘I don’t care for bloodshed, you know that. What we went through a decade ago—all those deaths. Just think about those boys we personally had to witness being killed to save one life. What about the queen giving hers so cheaply to ensure your safety?’
‘Don’t you dare—’ Freath began but Kirin overrode his protest.
‘And Genrie? How about her agonising death to—’
‘stop!’
Kirin held his tongue and had the grace to look abashed. He sighed. ‘The point is, Freath, we have peace. You yourself admire Loethar…you’ve expressed that to me on many occasions.’
‘I do—I even like him in a strange sort of way. But that doesn’t mean I would ignore who rightfully owns the throne of Penraven. My loyalties have not changed.’
‘But does it matter anymore? Does it really matter what you or I, or any loyalist, wants? We feel it more because we were right there, wading through the blood. But look around you, Freath. Everyone’s getting on with life. Penraven continues to be as prosperous as ever, the Set thrives and the realms seem more in tune with each other than ever before—surely you would admit that?’
Freath felt his lips thin. He refused to reply, hating Kirin for not only stating the obvious but for reminding him just how well the new empire was functioning. He knew it. He did not need it rubbed in his face.
Kirin continued, his tone now peppered with bafflement. ‘The thing is, Freath, what we’re pursuing now is more bloodshed. Is this what we want? Loethar has achieved what felt like the impossible all those years ago: peace, cohesion, dare I say harmony between not only the realms, including Droste, but also the Steppes people. We are truly part of an empire and are considered as such by kingdoms as far away as Percheron and Galinsea. We’ve had an envoy from Pearlis in Morgravia on behalf of the Triumvirate to lavish good wishes on Emperor Loethar’s rule and I’m sure its ally Tallinor would gladly support that if it could ever make such a massive journey. Seriously, Freath, our people are strong and protected and peaceful—’
‘If not happy,’ Freath interrupted sourly.
‘Who says they aren’t?’ Kirin countered. ‘You are not happy perhaps. And I may not be happy, and a very small band of rebels that we think might include a Valisar king are likely not happy. But think of the greater folk of our lands. They are content. Do you really think after what they’ve survived they care anymore who is on the throne? The fact is they live in peaceful, prosperous times and Loethar seems to have defied us all and got it right. I know I’m risking your fury saying this, but he’s a good ruler. He’s been frightening in the past but he’s fair and his touch is light and if not for the hideous empress, life could almost be considered sweet in the palace. Yes, he took his crown from a sea of blood but he’s made it up to the people of the Set ever since.’
‘Damn you, Kirin! Don’t you think I know it?’ Freath’s anger bubbled over. ‘I work alongside him every day. And every day I have to temper my admiration with memories of how he drove Queen Iselda to demand her own death, how he forced our king to suicide and let’s not forget how he roasted and ate Brennus in front of the queen and Piven. You conveniently forget he butchered thousands of good people on his way to claiming this throne, and—’
‘I haven’t forgotten!’ Kirin growled back at him. ‘I just don’t want to live through it again and that’s what your plotting is consigning us to. War again, when this realm and this Set has finally settled into peace. We want peace, Freath. Not more bloodshed.’
Freath waved a hand angrily. ‘Then go, Kirin. You are no use to me.’
‘I’m not sure I ever have been.’
Freath’s head snapped up. ‘How long have you felt like this?’ he asked, shocked.
Kirin shook his head, clearly angry with himself. ‘Why can’t we just accept life as it is? Why are we pursuing something that we know will provoke war?’
‘Because there’s a king out there,’ Freath all but hissed, his finger pointing beyond the window. ‘A rightful king whose throne has been usurped by an intruder. I gave my word to King Brennus that I would do everything in my power to work against Loethar and that somehow, someday I would help his son wrestle back his crown. I will not break that oath. I made it in blood.’ He raised his palm to Kirin to show the scar.
Kirin looked back at his companion of a decade and his sorrow was evident. ‘Look at us, Freath. Truly, what can we achieve? I have a talent but you’ve already seen what it does to me. I am near enough blind in one eye and a finger now twitches incessantly.’
Freath turned, indignant. ‘I haven’t asked you to use your magic once in the last—’
‘You’re missing the point. My powers, though strong, are limited by the weakness of my being just a man. It will destroy me faster than I’ll be able to help you—that’s what I fear. I know you’ve been sparing. But once this new fight begins, you will call upon me again and again,’ Kirin said wearily. ‘I would wreck my body gladly if I thought it could last.’
Freath waved a finger at his friend, hating this schism when he most needed Kirin’s loyalty. ‘Listen to me. You can leave now if you don’t want to be a part of this. Don’t go back to the palace, just disappear and be free. I’ll think of something to tell anyone who asks. But don’t expect me to do the same. I cannot—will not—relinquish my loyalty to the Valisars.’
Kirin nodded sadly. ‘Where is the army to come from, Freath, that will go up against Loethar? Where is the aegis that you believe will protect Leo? No amount of our searching has proved fruitful. What is the future for your new king when you have set off a fight that will lay this realm and others to waste?’
‘I don’t have the answers you want. I don’t have any answers! But I fear I cannot do this without you. I have no allies in the palace without you.’
‘Freath, we are pathetic.’
‘I know. But we have to try, don’t we?’
Kirin spun away, looking angry but also torn. Freath looked at the grey silvering Kirin’s hair. It was only a few strands but they had not been there a year ago. He’d watched the lines in the younger man’s face deepen; he’d witnessed wisdom and maturity replacing youth and energy in this man who could no longer be considered young at thirty-three anni. He wondered who Kirin would be had he been allowed to grow into his role at the Academy in Cremond, instead of facing the fear and bloodshed he had. He could wonder that for all of them, though. They would all be very different if their lives had not been scarred by Loethar’s marauding horde.
He couldn’t lose Kirin. Even though he had just urged his friend to leave, he would be devastated if Kirin walked away now. He had to find the right words to make his friend remain. He knew what to do.
‘I think you need some time. Don’t disappear, my friend. Instead, go and find Clovis for me. Get away from all of this. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find Piven.’ As he said it, Freath realised this plan was wise, far more sound than what he’d originally had in mind. ‘Meet the boy on safe territory somewhere. Get a feeling for who he is now. Work out a line of communication between us so that we can talk without revealing ourselves. And while you’re doing this, think about your role, Kirin. Consider how much I need you, how much the Valisar boys need every loyal soul we can muster.’
Kirin nodded. ‘I will take this time you’re offering. Ever since word came through about Piven I’ve felt excited and I’ve needed that after years of feeling hollow. But I don’t want to use Piven to win back a throne. I’ve realised my excitement is for the fact that he’s alive, not that he offers potential.’ Freath bit back the retort that threatened to fly from his mouth. ‘You follow Leo,’ Kirin continued. ‘I’ll find Clovis and we’ll take it from there.’
Freath didn’t know what to feel. He was glad that Kirin wasn’t deserting him entirely, but the separation felt bitter nonetheless. ‘When will you leave?’
Kirin shrugged. ‘Immediately. The note said Clovis was heading to Minton Woodlet. I’ll start there.’
‘What if he should send more news?’
‘He has no more pigeons. He would have used the one you gave Reuth all those years ago; he never had one of his own. I reckon with a horse and some money I can find him faster than he can try and re-open the lines of communication.’
Freath nodded reluctantly. ‘Money’s no problem. We’ll buy you a horse, though, from here. I don’t think you should take a palace beast, just in case.’ There was suddenly nothing more to say. ‘So you’ll leave, just like that?’
‘Freath,’ Kirin began gently, then sighed. ‘Yes. I promise I will get word to you somehow.’
‘Won’t you at least share a plate of Osh with me?’
Kirin gave a soft grin. ‘Do you always have to win?’
7 (#ulink_8145778a-0770-5d8b-af46-1745ce1fbbdf)
Greven dug his staff into the ground and hauled himself up the incline.
‘Are you all right?’ Piven asked over his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry about me, lad. I’m as strong as an ox.’
‘Well an ox, as strong as it is, would be stupid to climb this hill. I still don’t understand why we must.’
Greven gave a brief bitter laugh. ‘Because only fools would.’
‘There’s a perfectly good road below us.’
‘Perfectly good, yes. Also perfectly open, perfectly positioned for ambush, perfectly—’
Piven stopped and turned. ‘Ambush?’ he interrupted, his voice leaden with sarcasm.
Greven waved a hand. ‘Just pause a while. Let me catch my breath.’ He looked up to see the sun low in the sky. It was nearly time to think about an evening meal. ‘You must be famished. Let’s stop properly and eat something light. We can build a fire later and cook the rabbits we’ve brought.’
Piven unslung the water skin and offered it to Greven, who took it gratefully and drank a few mouthfuls. ‘Ah,’ he sighed with relief. ‘I suspect I owe you an explanation.’
‘I would agree with that,’ Piven replied, sitting down beside Greven. ‘What are you frightened of? What happened yesterday?’
Greven knew the boy deserved to know. And he felt safer now that they had put some distance between themselves and the interfering couple. ‘A man called Clovis and his wife, Reuth, came to see me. They are looking for you.’ As he spoke he delved into a small sack of food, pulling out a tiny loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and some nuts.
‘Me?’
Despite the note of surprise in his tone, Greven sensed that Piven had already guessed as much. The boy’s perceptiveness was unnerving for one so young. ‘I suppose it was wishful thinking to imagine that anyone from the former royal family would be left entirely alone,’ Greven grumbled, more to himself. He placed a knife on the stump of a nearby tree that had obviously been felled a long time ago, its surface smooth enough now to act as a makeshift table.
‘They would do better to hunt Leo,’ Piven replied carefully.
Greven frowned. The boy was right. So why was he so frightened for Piven and, more to the point, of Piven and his powers? ‘They probably imagine that Leo is dead. And he could be, for all we know. But someone obviously suspects you’re alive and while you may not be blood, you are still valuable as a figure of hope to any pockets of loyalism.’
Piven shook his head. ‘It’s been ten anni!’
‘Some people have long memories, son.’
‘Do they know?’
Greven shook his head, understanding. ‘No one knows of your change but you and me. And no one should know, if we’re sensible.’
‘You want me to pretend to still be simple?’
‘I don’t know what I want. I just don’t want anyone to know about your true identity.’
‘But they still think I’m an imbecile.’
‘Imbecile? That’s a harsh word. From what I could tell, Piven, everyone thought of you simply as an invalid. But you’re right—they believe you to be older but exactly as you were when you were last at the palace. That’s our one advantage. I’m hoping we can lose ourselves among people, especially as we are now hard to pinpoint given your maturity and the fact that my leprosy has miraculously cleared.’
‘Don’t avoid the truth,’ Piven said, somewhat harshly. ‘It’s not a miracle. It’s magic.’
‘I know you’re one for honesty, Piven, but you’re never to speak of magic so openly again, do you hear?’
Piven scowled. ‘Why are you so scared of it?’
‘You could be killed for admitting you possess it, and let me assure you that being killed would be the easy let-off. I told you a long time ago that the barbarians were hunting down all Vested. I heard they rounded up quite a horde but I have no idea what happened to them. I suspect many were killed.’
‘And was Clovis one of those rounded up?’
Greven’s head snapped around. ‘You catch on quickly for someone who was an imbecile,’ he said, pointedly.
‘That’s because I never was one.’
Greven hadn’t expected an answer and he certainly hadn’t anticipated a response that would shock him. ‘Pardon?’ Piven smiled. Normally, Piven’s smiles were warm and bright but Greven glimpsed cunning in this one. It was gone quickly but he’d seen it and it felt unnerving. Once again he was reminded to strengthen his resolve against his urges. Were they being unwittingly whittled away by Piven’s power? Did the boy even understand it? ‘What do you mean, child?’
Piven shrugged. ‘I wasn’t mad. I was lost, just as you said. There’s a difference.’
Greven’s gaze narrowed. ‘We’ve never really talked about what happened, have we?’
‘We’ve never needed to,’ Piven said, pulling himself up by a tree branch. ‘We’ve always just been glad I turned out as I have.’
Greven didn’t move. He checked all the mental barriers he’d taught himself to erect. His mind was tight; no thoughts, no clues were leaking. ‘You’re right. It was as though Lo himself smiled upon you.’ Again he saw Piven’s lip curl slightly in a half smile, bordering on a smirk. ‘It was enough for me. Do you recall when I found you?’
‘Greven, why are we doing this?’
‘What?’
‘Talking about old times while perched on a hill that we are using to run away from the life we enjoyed.’
‘Do you know, you’ve said more in the last day than you’ve uttered in your lifetime?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I hate exaggeration.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten how silent you were.’
‘You’re deliberately trying to upset me, I think.’
‘I love you, Piven. I would never deliberately do anything to upset you.’
‘Then stop probing me.’
‘Why?’
Piven kicked at a small rock. ‘Because I don’t want to answer lots of questions.’
‘Although it seems you have answers.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Look at me, boy,’ Greven demanded.
Piven sulkily met Greven’s eyes. ‘What?’
Greven could remember Lily being much like this when she had been around the same age as Piven. Sullenness and taking the opposite view of adults seemed to be the disposition of all youth. But he was certain there was something else between himself and his boy. ‘What’s eating at you?’ Greven asked, his tone as reasonable and as friendly as he could make it.
‘I’m just angry.’
‘Why?’
‘I liked where we lived.’ Piven shrugged. ‘I liked our life. I don’t see why strangers should send us on the run and I don’t see why I don’t have any say in it.’
Greven nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t consult you.’
Piven said nothing but Greven could see the boy’s jaw working furiously. He was angry, and had disguised it well until now. ‘Shall we talk about it?’ he tried.
‘Will it make any difference? Will it make you turn back?’
‘No.’
‘Then there’s no point in talking about it.’
‘Nevertheless, I think we should talk about those olden times you refer to.’
Piven gave a long sigh as though bored. ‘And if I don’t want to?’
‘Then let me talk.’
Piven nodded, although Greven sensed that the boy felt he didn’t have much choice.
‘I want to talk about your magic.’ He saw Piven’s jaw clench.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t understand it. Apple?’ Greven held out the fruit he’d dug from his sack. ‘Help yourself.’
Piven picked up the small knife and cut off a chunk of the apple. He bit into the fruit as he replied, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You told me a while back that you could wield this magic. But you’ve never said how long you’ve known you’ve had the skill.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Forever.’
‘Forever being from when you were little…or from when you began talking?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Greven nodded, not entirely convinced he trusted that answer. ‘All right. When did you first use it?’
‘To heal a robin with a damaged wing.’ Piven tested the sharpness of the knife on his thumb.
‘When was that?’
‘In the woods, outside our hut.’
‘When, I said, not where.’
Piven gave a vexed sigh. ‘I can’t remember, probably three winters ago.’
‘And you’ve been using magic ever since?’
‘No. The next time was on you.’
‘Why?’
‘To give you back your face. I—’
‘No, Piven. I meant why did you wait? Between the robin and me?’
Piven shook his head. ‘I didn’t trust it. I didn’t really understand it.’ He hacked off another chunk of the apple and began chewing on it.
‘Didn’t trust it? Why?’
‘I’m Valisar.’
Greven frowned, reached for some bread. ‘In name only.’
Piven looked away, seemingly embarrassed.
‘Had you forgotten you were adopted?’
‘What I meant is, despite my seeming madness I’ve lived as Valisar and the royal family obviously made me nervous about magic. I didn’t trust it.’
Greven felt a nervous energy ripple through him. He threw the morsel of bread left in his hand to some inquisitive birds nearby. ‘So you could understand what they were saying around you?’
‘I suppose.’
Greven tried not to lose his patience. ‘Piven, help me. I’m trying to understand you.’
‘There’s nothing much to understand, Greven. I didn’t use my magic because I wasn’t sure about it. That’s all.’ Piven flicked the knife around in his hand, angrily.
‘If you didn’t use it, how did you know you possessed it?’
‘I knew, that’s all,’ Piven said, and Greven could tell that his young companion would not be drawn on this.
‘Do you know the extent of your powers?’
Piven shook his head, hacking at the grasses between his ankles ith the knife, his head lowered.
‘Forgive me all these questions, child, but you’re all I have. I love you. I want to understand so I can always help, always protect you.’
‘I know.’
‘How do you explain that you have this magic?’
Piven shrugged. ‘I’m Vested, I suppose.’
‘In which case you can understand why I’m worried, why I feel the need to protect you from those who would want to make use of that magic.’
‘If I have to use it, then I want to use it for the good of others.’
‘Exactly!’ Greven exclaimed. ‘Exactly,’ he repeated, relief flooding his body. ‘My fears, child, are that people might want to use it for reasons that do not help others.’
‘No one could make me do anything I don’t want to.’
‘You’d be surprised what people will do to avoid being hurt, or to prevent those they love from being hurt.’
Piven tossed away the apple core and wiped the knife blade clean on his trousers. ‘So you would agree that there are occasions when we must hurt others to protect ourselves…or those we love?’
Greven baulked at the question but he could see Piven wanted a direct answer. ‘I would do anything to protect you…or Lily. I would probably have killed or certainly harmed some soldiers once—if I’d been able—when your adopted brother, Leo, came into my life. That was a terrifying moment. Yes, I would have done anything to stop them hurting Lily—or him, come to that.’
Piven nodded as though an important admission had been made. ‘What do you think the man Clovis is after?’
It was a straight question; Greven could hardly answer it indirectly. ‘I believe he has been trying to hunt you down for many anni and was sure he had stumbled upon the right path at last. I think he wanted to see that it truly was you first and then I believe he would have tried to persuade you to join him.’
‘Why?’
‘That I can’t answer. He is Vested. Perhaps he is in touch with other Vested and can sense you, or perhaps—’
‘I think I can guess,’ Piven said, sounding as if he had wearied of the conversation.
‘Really?’
‘Rebellion,’ Piven stated, his tone bald and unimpressed.
Greven was shocked. He rocked back against the tree he was leaning against and regarded Piven. He’d underestimated his charge. For anni he’d just been delighted that something had unlocked the child from his prison of silence. But Greven was beginning to think he’d entirely misjudged Piven, accepting his quietness for lack of thought and his simple outlook for a lack of depth. ‘Rebellion?’ he repeated dimly.
‘Do you really think the entire population of Penraven—let alone the masses of the Set proper—were going to just lay down arms entirely and accept a barbarian ruler?’
Greven looked at his child, astonished. ‘But they have.’
Piven held a finger in the air. ‘Most. Not all.’
Greven shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How would you know?’
‘I can sense it. But my skills aside, any rational person would have to allow that there would always be potential for rebellion, as long as a Valisar remained alive.’
‘But you’re not Valisar, Piven!’
Piven gave him such a look of disdain that Greven actually flinched. ‘I was referring to Leo.’
‘We have no idea if he’s ali—’
‘He is. I feel it,’ Piven said casually, raising the water skin to his mouth. He swallowed. ‘And as long as he is, there will be people who will rally for the Valisars. And I’m extremely useful, I’m sure, as a symbol for the Valisar Crown until he reveals himself.’
Greven cleared his throat. ‘Piven, you sound so much older than you are.’
Piven turned and there was his beautiful uncomplicated smile again. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No. No, not at all,’ Greven said, gathering his wits. ‘Refreshing, in fact…but unnerving all the same.’
Piven’s smile widened. ‘Sorry. But forcing me to leave my home has brought this all out of me. We’ve lived in a very protected, remote manner, haven’t we, Greven? And now, suddenly, I’m being forced to confront the real world. Real dangers.’
‘Indeed. I would save you from it if I could.’
‘I know. You may have to yet.’
Again, there it was; knowledge of something…a cryptic comment in a response as though Greven had given some form of admission. He was baffled by it. The truth was, he realised, he was baffled by Piven this day. He could hardly recognise him as the same quietly spoken, generally remote youth he’d shared a home with only a day or so earlier. Now he felt as though he was talking with an equal—an outspoken, well-informed one at that. ‘One more question, if I may?’ he asked.
Piven looked up through his straggly dark hair. ‘Yes?’
‘When do you remember first making sense of what was being said around you?’
The boy nodded. ‘I’ve asked myself that same question many times. I always return to the same answer.’
‘Which is?’
‘When my father, the king, died.’
Greven didn’t have the heart to correct Piven. Besides, the boy would likely leap down his throat anyway. He didn’t need any further reminding of his lineage. ‘Can you describe that time? Not the horror of it but what was happening to you, I mean.’
‘I can’t, really. I just think I became more aware of everyone around me then. Real thoughts were impacting, people’s comments made a little more sense, I could focus a little bit. But only a bit. My main anchor, I suppose you could call him, was Vyk. When he was around I could concentrate and all the noises and confusion that usually filled my head would lessen a lot.’
‘Is the bird magical?’ Greven asked.
Piven shrugged. ‘He was to me.’
That was an evasive answer but Greven let it go. ‘Where has he gone?’
‘He’ll find us.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘I just am. He hasn’t finished with me.’
Greven knew he should leave it alone, but he couldn’t. ‘So you think it was the death of King Brennus that allowed you to…to…’
‘To enter the world properly, yes,’ Piven replied. ‘But not immediately. It took time. You know how I was in the beginning.’
‘I do. But now look at you. I feel as though you’ve changed since we sat down!’
Piven smiled, a true sunny smile. ‘I think being on the run like this has made me accept that I can’t keep hiding from who I am. Like you said, there will be people who would use my presence as a rally cry for those still loyal to the Valisars. And then there are those who would make use of my magics for their own gain. I’m not sure I would permit either.’
He sounded so grown up it was astonishing. Greven tried not to show his surprise. ‘But we are loyal to the Valisars, surely?’
‘Of course, but I won’t be a pawn for someone else’s rebellion, Greven. I think I must find Leo.’
‘No, Piven. I had no intention of embarking on a crusade. I want us to escape attention, not go looking for it.’
‘You were hoping we could blend into another invisible life—Jon Lark and his son Petor?’
Greven frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re being naive.’ Greven felt a spike of fresh anxiety as Piven continued. ‘If this man Clovis can find me now he can find me again. And if he can find me so can Loethar or anyone else who wants me dead, or alive, or as a symbol, or as a Vested, or as a—’
‘Stop. Piven, what’s happening to you?’
Greven watched the boy he loved take a long slow breath before he spoke. He watched as the dark eyes lifted to regard his. ‘What’s happening is that I’m being realistic. I am accepting that I cannot have the quiet life in the hut in the forest and that I can no longer be Piven in disguise as Petor Lark and I am discovering that my magic will not be still.’
Greven stared at him, awe and anxiety battling within.
‘This magic I have,’ Piven continued. ‘Wild or divine or whatever in Lo’s name this skill I possess is, it claws at me. It has for a long time. And I have resisted it for all that time. I’m beginning to think that those first five anni were protection granted by the heavens. Now I fear something dangerous is lurking.’
Greven didn’t know what to say. He watched the youngster weigh the blade in his hand, and then, as if having made a decision, he handed it back to Greven. ‘Put this back in your sack. We’d better clear up and be on our way again.’
Greven nodded dumbly, not understanding why he felt suddenly intensely frightened.
8 (#ulink_61a71d63-8dd8-5c7a-b092-949c0dd2fc63)
Freath looked expectantly at Kirin. ‘Well?’
Kirin dragged his kerchief from a pocket and wiped his mouth. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever eat anything again without comparing it to this evening’s fare.’
Freath smiled. ‘I knew you’d enjoy it.’ He sipped at an ale he wasn’t interested in. ‘You were gone long enough. Did you make sure your horse is docile? They can be unscrupulous up in the north with unsuspecting travellers.’
‘She’s gentle enough. I’ll be fine,’ Kirin assured. ‘In fact’—he bent to gaze out of the window—‘it’s past dusk. I should go.’
‘What a rotten time of the day to be setting out on a journey. You could be set upon by bandits.’
Kirin smiled. ‘I’ve taken precautions. I met up with some merchants at the stables. A group of them are leaving at twilight and I’ll accompany them. We’ll likely travel through most of the night back towards the city. There’s plenty of them and they have a couple of armed men besides. Don’t worry.’
‘But I do,’ Freath said, scowling.
‘Then the sooner I go, the easier on your troubled mind.’
‘Kirin, I—’
‘Don’t. There’s nothing more to say. We both know what we have to do and you know why I have to leave. I will make contact again and I won’t leave it too long, either—that’s a promise.’
‘Find him for me, Kirin.’
‘And you find his brother,’ Kirin replied.
Freath nodded. ‘An aegis would be helpful.’
Kirin grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’
‘How will you take care of yourself? You know…’ Freath didn’t want to be obvious but he could see Kirin understood all the same.
‘I’ve been lucky this past decade; you haven’t asked much of me. We both know it will get worse if I practise. But that’s my decision on when and how to use my skills and you’re not to worry over my health.’
Freath sighed. ‘Well, I’ll just sit here and comfort myself with that thought,’ he replied, unable to fully disguise his bitterness. ‘Be safe. I shall miss you.’
Kirin stood, then surprised Freath by leaning down and hugging his old friend. ‘I’ll see you soon enough, I promise.’
All Freath could do was nod. He wasn’t used to being touched in such an intimate way; in fact, the last person who had hugged him had been his lovely Genrie. And she was dead within hours. He felt the familiar bile rise but forced it back as he lifted a hand in farewell to Kirin, who had turned at the inn’s doorway for one last sad smile in his direction. Freath watched a huge man step across the inn’s threshold, pushing past Kirin, his size forcing one of the Vested’s shoulders to swing backwards. Freath saw his friend shake his head at the poor manners and then he was gone. The big man moved deeper into the inn and although Freath’s gaze absently followed him, he was more focused on how the inn had filled since he and Kirin had come downstairs. Suddenly he was aware of the noise of men drinking, the voices of serving girls laughing and teasing their patrons gently as they set down food. He heard the clatter and bustle from the kitchen and the clank of pitchers of ale and mugs of spiced dinch. He decided to free up his table, now that the debris of his meal was being cleared. He watched as the woman worked with quiet dexterity, piling up plates and mugs on a large tray.
‘Thank you,’ he said and she looked up at him with surprise. She must not be used to such politeness, Freath thought, removing himself from the dining area to a corner of the main part of the inn. A shelf was set at chest height right around the room’s main chamber, accompanied by high stools for anyone who wanted to perch with a drink, though most men just leaned their elbows against the shelf. It was still relatively early so no one was rowdy. The patrons looked to be mainly travellers on their way through the town so none of these people would be looking for trouble. Instead, they seemed keen on swapping tales of the pass, or conditions in the mountains or news from the other cities and provinces.
Compasses! That’s what Loethar called Barronel, Garamond, Cremond and all the other once proud realms of the Set. He scowled into his ale and as he settled back into the dark nook his eyes fell on the huge man who had entered as Kirin was leaving. What an enormous specimen he was. He had to be a bodyguard at that size and yet he seemed very relaxed, not at all unfamiliar with the surrounds. Freath watched how the man took in everyone with his loud remarks and equally loud jests. No one seemed to mind his brashness. Freath noticed how the man’s brightly burning personality seemed to attract other men like moths to a flame. Soon enough a large group of them were clanking mugs of ale and laughing uproariously together.
The man sitting next to Freath, also alone, ordered an ale and as the girl arrived with his mug, she glanced at Freath enquiringly. ‘Another, please,’ Freath agreed. He didn’t want more ale but he needed an excuse to remain a bit longer. He knew if he went upstairs he’d feel Kirin’s absence too keenly and besides, it had been a very long time since he’d shared life among ordinary people. He was enjoying the anonymity and the relief of not having to watch his every move, every word, as he did in and around the palace. But, he reminded himself, he needed to stay alert. His reason for being here remained clandestine and with a very real purpose—he must not slip into the mindset that he was on some sort of holiday.
The girl arrived with a pitcher of ale and a mug. ‘I thought yours looked a bit stale, sir.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Freath replied, accepting the fresh mug as the darkly golden liquid fizzed into its depths, releasing a musty smell.
‘There you go,’ she said, beaming, and moved on.
As Freath half-smiled back at her, he caught the gaze of the fellow next to him. ‘Your health!’ he said politely.
‘And yours,’ the man replied, grinning before he took a draught of his ale.
Freath noticed his barbarian escorts enter the inn. The Green looked around until they saw Freath. Freath nodded, subtly dismissing them, then returned his gaze to his new companion who had turned his back to the door. ‘Are you local?’ he asked. Without Kirin’s company he would look every inch the dour city dweller if he didn’t try and fit in. What’s more, he could use some company, even if it was small talk with a complete stranger.
The man shook his head. ‘But I like this town. I pass through it for work.’
‘Oh yes, and what line of work are you in?’
‘A merchant.’
‘Ah, it seems everyone here but myself is a merchant of sorts,’ Freath commented.
‘And you, sir?’
‘I am a scribe from the city,’ he lied. ‘On my way through the north offering my services to a number of the wealthy families.’
The man scratched at his beard. ‘You have very clean fingertips for a man of ink.’
Freath forced a smile. ‘Sand and vinegar, with a dash of almond oil, make a wonderful cleaner. I bleach my fingers in pure lemon juice each day. As you can see, it makes a difference.’ Where he found the capacity to lie so convincingly or compile such credible-sounding nonsense was beyond him. His mother would turn in her grave. She would turn, anyway, to know the danger he had been living through these past anni, he thought sourly.
‘Impressive,’ the man said, staring at his own grubby hands. ‘I mention it only because I work with a lot of linen dyes. These fingers were orange a few days ago. Now they’re just fading to brown.’
Freath tapped his nose. ‘Sand and vinegar.’
The man raised his cup again and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. Look out, it seems we have a contest on our hands,’ he said, nodding towards the main counter.
Freath looked over and right enough the huge man was taking bets; coins were exchanging hands rapidly. He glanced at his companion. ‘What’s funny?’
‘I’ve seen this big fellow before. He never wins but still he plays.’
‘Plays what?’
‘Arrows.’
‘Arrows?’
The man turned to stare at Freath as though he were simple. ‘You don’t know the game Arrows?’
He’d just made an error. Freath fumbled to correct himself. ‘Er, well, I’ve spent the past few years working for the Drosteans. It hasn’t reached that far east yet.’
His companion’s nod suggested his excuse was plausible. ‘It was begun here in the north. Watch. See over on the bar, that pot of arrowheads?’
‘They’re not full size.’
‘No, that’s right. Deliberately shortened with a sleeker point.’
Freath frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To throw them.’
‘At what?’ Freath asked, intrigued.
His new friend pointed again, this time at a man who was rolling out a wine barrel. He pushed it against the rough stone wall on its side so one end faced into the main room. ‘The target is the bottom of the wine barrel.’
‘He has to hit that circle painted on it, I see,’ Freath said, fascinated.
His companion grinned. ‘Except he never does. I’ve seen him now a couple of times. He loses badly. I hope he bets against himself.’
‘It can’t be that hard, surely?’ Freath wondered. ‘I’m sure even I could do it.’
‘Really? Blindfolded?’
‘What?’ Freath exclaimed, nearly choking on his ale.
The man laughed easily. ‘That’s the point. Best you stay here and well behind him, Master Scribe, as those shortened arrows can be flung anywhere from that fellow’s wild throw.’
‘Lo, save me. Is this his invention?’
The man snorted. ‘No. The proper game requires the throwers to get as close to the middle of that spot as possible. You bet against each other on three throws.’ He finished his mug of ale. ‘The game’s developed, though, over the last decade. Quite a few people in the north play it and some have worked out a system of marking. You throw the arrows at rings painted on the barrel. The middle point is the highest and the further out you go from the middle the lower the score. It’s more complicated than that but I myself have never played it so I don’t fully understand the scoring. It’s popular, though. Mark my words, Master Scribe, you lot will be playing this in the city and as far as Droste before you know it.’
‘I dare say,’ Freath said, watching with great interest as the huge man allowed himself to be blindfolded.
‘Now the bets will be taken,’ his bearded companion said.
As if on cue, pandemonium broke out among the patrons as the innkeeper gleefully watched money exchanging hands furiously.
‘The innkeeper gets a cut of all the money laid down,’ Freath’s new friend explained.
Freath nodded, eyes riveted on the big man, who was being turned on his heels several times.
‘Lo’s breath! He could throw it our way,’ he exclaimed.
‘As I warned.’
Freath watched as the arrow-thrower, now appropriately giddy, was baited by his audience to choose his position. The big man roared his intention and then turned slowly, lurching once, before planting his feet solidly. The crowd stifled its laughter, and silence reigned as the big man took aim at the wooden counter, the innkeeper rolling his eyes and ducking below it for safety. The real target sat forlornly forgotten and as the arrow hit timber with a dull thud, the room erupted into hilarity, hats flung in the air, mugs clanked against each other, voices yelling and just about everyone on his feet.
In the midst of the noise, Freath’s friend stood up and grabbed Freath’s jacket-front. ‘What the—?’ Freath spluttered.
‘Let’s go, Freath. Time is of the essence.’
‘But—?’ Freath found himself being dragged out of the inn, unnoticed amidst all the cheering as men surged to their feet to watch the contest. The giant took his second shot as they exited, and Freath was convinced the second arrow landed in the door as it closed behind them. And before he could digest that, he found himself being hauled up onto a horse by a stranger.
‘Hold on,’ the stranger growled and within moments Freath was being galloped out of the town. Another horse, presumably with his companion from the inn, gave chase, but he dared not risk a look because his seating was already unsteady behind the rider. A fall at his age and from this height—and at this speed—would mean broken bones and a lot of explanation. No, he would not take the chance, so he closed his eyes and clung on as the horse he was sharing began to slow and climb. Presumably these were Faris’s men. He would have to trust his instincts. The noise of all the hooves died away until he was sure there were just two beasts.
‘Didn’t mean to frighten you,’ a familiar voice said, drawing alongside.
Freath opened his eyes, expecting to see his acquaintance from the inn. Although the clothes were identical, he would not have recognised the man. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ his companion explained, seeing Freath’s shock at his transformation.
‘Your disguise is impressive,’ Freath said, watching as the man pulled padding from around his girth and shoulders to reveal a much leaner frame. The gingery sideburns and reddish grey beard had already disappeared, along with the bright mop of auburn hair. ‘You’ve forgotten your eyebrows,’ he added.
‘We’re here,’ the man said, glancing over Freath’s shoulder as he dealt with the last of his disguise.
‘Here?’ Freath repeated, looking around. He saw nothing but a thickly wooded area, which was dark and foreboding now that the moonlight had been obliterated by clouds scudding over it. ‘Where?’ he asked.
His companion grinned. ‘This is where we shall talk,’ came the reply. ‘You can get off your horse, for we go no further.’
Freath obediently slid off his mount, ignoring his fellow rider’s hand of help.
‘This is Tern,’ his host introduced.
‘Obliged I’m sure,’ Freath said somewhat ungraciously to the man who had abducted him. ‘And who are you? I had hoped to meet the outlaw Kilt F—’
‘I’m Faris.’
Freath felt something coalesce inside into an excitement he had not permitted himself so far. ‘How can I be sure of that?’ he asked.
‘Because I am a man of my word.’
Freath saw that the man called Tern was busying himself with some sort of shelter that was hidden in the trees.
Faris noted his gaze. ‘It is a hideout. You will forgive us our low light. We are always careful this close to a town.’
‘But we must be miles from Francham.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘You can never be too careful,’ Freath said at the same time as Faris.
The outlaw smiled. ‘Join us, Master Freath. I can offer you something to warm old bones.’
Freath ducked into the small space created by a cunning canopy of slim branches woven together, their leaves creating a dense wall. Small stools were placed inside and tiny candles had been lit to offer a small measure of comfort. ‘Must be tough in the cold months,’ he commented.
‘We are never this far down in the blow,’ Faris replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he offered dryly.
Freath perched on one of the low stools. ‘Was the inn not rough enough for you?’
Faris gave a low chuckle. ‘Speaking of Rough, let me invite you to try some.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Freath replied.
‘A small nip will not hurt you,’ Faris said, taking tiny shot cups that Tern had miraculously produced. A small flask appeared as well from a saddle-bag. ‘It is a custom in this part of the realm to take Rough together.’
‘This is no realm, Master Faris. We live in a compass,’ Freath said, his mouth twisting into a shape of disgust, ‘or hadn’t you realised?’
‘I answer to a king, Master Freath, not an emperor.’
Freath’s belly flipped. ‘How can I know you are not an impostor? That this whole thing has not been a clever charade?’
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble?’
Freath frowned.
Faris sighed. He removed a chain from around his neck. ‘Do you recognise this?’
The low light made no difference. Freath could clearly see that the man was holding Queen Iselda’s chain and locket. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.
‘From a king.’
‘Which one?’ Freath breathed.
‘The first time or the second time?’
‘Don’t toy with me, man!’
Faris regarded him. Freath maintained his glower. He was furious but also tingling with anticipation. Leo was within his midst somewhere—the long-held dream of returning the Valisar throne to its rightful sovereign was within grasp.
The tallow candles guttered in tandem with his anticipation and Freath took his eyes off Faris to glance at them.
‘Hog fat,’ Faris said. ‘We save our sheep-fat candles for polite guests.’
‘Listen to me, Faris,’ Freath threatened, ‘lives are in the balance. Many have already been lost to protect King Leo. Many more have been pledged to save him. Don’t make light of my suffering.’
‘Yours?’ Faris looked at him with disgust. ‘Why shouldn’t I just slit your throat here and now, Freath? Did you honestly imagine you’d leave this place alive? As it is, a word from me and your companion will be rotting in the earth somewhere between here and Brighthelm.’
‘My companion?’ Freath stuttered. ‘Kirin? What do you mean?’
‘Kirin? Is that his name? Well, my merchant friends will have no hesitation to end his life should that be necessary, let me assure you.’
Freath felt his skin turn clammy. The elation he’d experienced just moments earlier fled.
‘It amazes me that you have not considered this outcome,’ Faris baited.
Freath cleared his throat. ‘It amazes me that you think I would invest my time and energy and no small amount of personal funds if I was anything but earnest.’
‘So, despite all I’ve heard to the contrary, I’m to believe you are a loyalist?’
‘To King Brennus? Yes!’
‘But you work for the emperor. In fact, you’re a close aide and indeed confidant of Loethar.’
‘I am seen to play those roles.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ Faris replied. His tone was quietly mocking. ‘And so why are you looking for me?’
‘You know why.’
Faris knocked back his Rough in a single swallow. ‘I want to hear you tell me why.’
‘I am here,’ Freath began, placing his shot glass, its fiery liquid unsipped, on the ground beneath his stool, ‘to learn of King Leonel.’
‘You call him king,’ Faris replied.
‘And you speak of him in the present tense.’
Faris nodded and smiled. Freath did not return it. He was not in the mood for games.
‘What is your interest in the Valisars, Freath?’ Faris pressed.
‘The same as yours, I imagine.’
‘Which is?’
‘Revenge.’
‘I have many enemies,’ Faris said coolly. ‘Yet I know none of them.’
‘Then we are kindred spirits.’
‘Ah, not so,’ the outlaw replied, glancing over at Tern in what Freath sensed was some sort of silent signal. ‘I know of at least two enemies of yours, Master Freath. And so do you.’
Freath shrugged, watching Faris’s man leave the enclosure. ‘I agree with you that I have many. It would not surprise me if you knew of them.’
‘Is it true that you killed Queen Iselda?’
Freath hung his head. The old shame warmed his face and sent a fresh spike of self-loathing through his ageing body. ‘I did.’
Faris drew a small but fearsome looking blade from his hip. ‘I should gut you now for that admission alone and leave your entrails for the birds to peck at.’
Freath did not lift his head. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he sighed. ‘I have walked a treacherous path, Faris. I suspect you would be doing me a kindness.’
‘No,’ said a new voice. ‘He will not grant you such a swift end, Master Freath, not without my say so.’
Freath looked up in startlement. He could see only the bottom half of the man who had spoken. He frowned, crawling out of the enclosure, followed by Faris, to stand and face his accuser. It was dark and the weak illumination from the tallow candles threw up only a ghostly glow. Freath squinted through the shadows to see a young man: tall, lean, fair-haired and, although he bore little resemblance to either parent, his bearing was unmistakeably regal.
‘Give me light!’ Freath demanded. ‘Now!’
Faris must have nodded because Tern lit a lantern from one of the tallow candles. ‘It can only be lit for a few moments,’ the leader of the outlaws growled.
Freath grabbed for it, swinging it perilously close to the young man’s face. He knew precisely what he was looking for and there it was, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow that had been won when he fell from a pear tree, clipping his face on a branch. He sucked in a gasp of excitement. ‘How did you get this scar?’ he asked, pointing towards it.
He knew everyone was leaning in to scrutinise something they’d probably not even noticed before. It was tiny. Only just visible, a thin silvery blemish.
The younger man didn’t hesitate. ‘I fell out of a tree, hit my head on a knob of the branch. By the time the de Vis twins and I arrived at the infirmary, I looked as though I’d fought through a day’s battle.’
Freath’s lip began to tremble. ‘What sort of tree was it?’
The younger man sneered. ‘A pear tree. The fruit wasn’t even ripe and to add insult to injury I got bellyache for my trouble and then the trots. My mother was not pleased with me. She worried I would be scarred badly but I can recall you scoffing at the suggestion, Freath. Besides, I always hoped it would add a warrior’s mark to my soft appearance.’
‘How old were you?’ Freath persisted.
The man blinked. Freath held his breath.
‘I was six. Mother had recently lost another baby so her mood made her overreact to my wound. She banished the de Vis brothers from my life for what felt like an age.’
Freath sank to his knees. ‘It was four days, your majesty,’ he said, his voice choked with relief. ‘They were banished for four days.’
‘They were only about eleven anni themselves,’ Leo continued.
Freath nodded, his eyes glistening. ‘King Leon—’
‘No!’ Leo yelled. ‘You will not so much as speak my name, you treacherous, snivelling, arse-licking bastard!’ He drew a sword with a chilling ring from its scabbard at his hip; even in this low light Freath recognised the sword.
He bent his head, accepting the rebuke. ‘I am unworthy of being slain by Faeroe, your majesty.’
He sensed Leo’s hesitation but it was Faris who stepped between them. ‘Stop!’
‘I warned you,’ Leo bristled, his voice edged with emotion.
‘Just wait, your majesty!’ Faris demanded. ‘Extinguish the lantern,’ he growled at Tern. ‘On your feet, Freath.’
Freath felt himself hauled upright. He still couldn’t face his sovereign.
‘Where’s Jewd?’ Faris asked.
‘Just coming up the hill now with the others,’ Tern answered. ‘I can just see him. He’s moving quickly which means his money pouch is a lot lighter.’
‘Did anyone follow us?’ Faris demanded.
‘No,’ came the reply.
Freath dared a look. Leo had not taken his gaze from the former aide to his parents, his face glowering with such open hatred that Freath expected to feel Faeroe sliding into his belly at any moment. ‘Hear me out, majesty,’ he risked, for Leo’s hearing only. ‘I might surprise you.’
Leo said nothing, simply stared at him with a deepening sneer.
The man they called Jewd finally arrived, and Freath recognised him as none other than the arrow-throwing giant from the inn. Two other men accompanied him. ‘It was a ruse?’ Freath sputtered.
Faris nodded. ‘I needed to create a disturbance so that we could get you out of there with no one remembering you leave.’
‘For when we kill you and leave you for the wolves,’ Leo finished.
Freath inwardly sighed. He could not blame the young man. ‘Does he lose purposely, then?’ he asked, simply for something to say that would throw Leo off his back.
‘No, he does that without even trying,’ Faris answered. ‘He was born a shocking gambler,’ he added, loud enough for the giant to hear.
Jewd ignored him. ‘So this is our traitor, is it? Puny, isn’t he? Shall I snap him in half, your majesty?’
Leo’s lip curled. ‘Not yet, Jewd. I want him for myself.’ Freath watched the king’s grip on Faeroe tighten.
Once again Faris calmed the tension. ‘Right, you men, get yourselves something to eat. Thanks for tonight, you did well. No fire unfortunately this low in the woods, but tomorrow night I promise a meal of roasted meat.’ The rest of the outlaws grumbled but meandered off leaving the four of them.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Faris said, taking in the king and Freath with a roving gaze, ‘it’s time to talk. No swords needed, majesty.’ He raised a hand as the king opened his mouth, no doubt to hurl more abuse, Freath guessed. ‘Your highness, we are going to listen. If Master Freath is every inch the slippery snake you describe him as and as cunning as you suggest, then I have to query why he would willingly put himself into a den of Freath-haters unarmed, alone, and knowing full well that he carries a death wish by walking into our lives.’ He paused before adding, ‘We should consider the possibility that he’s innocent.’
‘Innocent?’ Leo repeated. ‘He threw the queen from the highest level of Brighthelm.’ But he reluctantly sheathed Faeroe.
Freath swallowed. How? Where had he been hiding in the palace to see so much!
Leo continued, despite Faris’s warning glare. ‘He picked her up by her royal garments at her neck,’ he said, pointing to his own, ‘and at her tail, and without so much as a farewell, flung her through the window so she could smash on the flagstones below. And then he turned and smiled at the hag from the Steppes.’ If winter had a voice, it would sound like Leo’s.
‘You saw,’ Freath choked.
‘Yes, I saw. I saw everything you did, Freath.’
‘But you did not hear,’ Freath defended.
Leo seemed unperturbed. ‘I did not hear what you and my mother discussed before you murdered her, perhaps, but everythi—’
Freath interrupted, no longer caring about protocol. ‘Because if you had been able to hear, you would have known that she instructed me to do that.’
Leo paused, astonished, and then leapt for Freath. Jewd hauled him back. ‘Forgive me, majesty,’ the big man growled into the young man’s ear. ‘We said we would listen.’
Freath rubbed self-consciously at his throat.
‘Let’s be seated, all of us,’ Faris said, glaring at his young monarch.
Jewd threw one of the stools in Freath’s direction. As Freath sat warily, Faris urged Leo to sit on the second stool. The outlaw adopted a crouch that he managed to make appear comfortable.
‘Why don’t you tell us everything you came here to share?’ Faris suggested. ‘Highness, during this time, why don’t you…er, respectfully, be quiet and still? Begin, Freath. If anything you say does not ring honestly to my ear, I will not wait for the king’s command. Jewd will happily snap your neck for me as easily as he might a twig.’
Freath nodded. He gave his attention to Leo. ‘It began with your father calling me into his salon on the day of your sister’s birth, your highness…’
9 (#ulink_34bfa349-9d46-5d90-bb22-13f1f49b47c4)
Kirin had fallen into conversation with a woman travelling with her brother. ‘And what prompted you to go looking for such a long lost friend?’ she asked, taking a sip from the water bladder that hung from her horse’s neck.
Very few women travelled with merchants and most of those, for whatever reason, chose to be carried in the carts. He was impressed she was riding, and flattered that she had chosen to speak to him. ‘It’s been a decade. Friends should not fall out of contact,’ he answered as vaguely as he could.
‘He could be married by now,’ she said.
‘He probably is,’ Kirin replied, shaking his head at her offer of a sip of water.
‘Where will you begin?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘I have no idea. Why?’
She smiled. ‘I think it’s exciting. You’re off on a journey of discovery. You could travel the entire realm…I mean compass…before you even get a clue as to his whereabouts.’
‘That’s true. And I may never get that clue.’
‘That would be a shame. Think positive, Kirin Felt.’
‘And so you’re both travelling to Brighthelm?’ Kirin asked. At her nod, he added, ‘What are you, guards or something?’
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, amused.
‘Well, you’re riding, for a start.’
‘Very observant!’ she replied archly. ‘No, I’m just using the caravan for security. My brother and I need to get into the city to see some relatives but we didn’t want to travel alone. So long as we pay our tithe and follow the rules, the merchants don’t mind. They’re good company as well.’
He nodded. He’d also paid a fee that allowed him the security of the merchant caravan and their mercenary guards. ‘Where do your relatives live?’
‘Er, in a village not far from Devden.’
He’d heard the hesitation in her voice. She was lying. Why? More to the point, what was her interest in him?
‘How long will you stay?’
She grinned. ‘All these questions, Master Felt!’
He shrugged. ‘Just passing the time, Lily.’
‘Somehow I feel your life is far more exotic and interesting than my boring existence in Francham.’
‘Nothing boring about Francham, surely?’
‘Well, I’ve been there all my life. How about you? Are you originally from the city?’
‘No, Port Killen on Medhaven,’ he lied, unsure why but driven by instinct now.
‘Far away,’ she sighed. ‘You’re lucky to see so much of our lands.’
‘You’d like to travel?’
‘Yes, of course. But it is unseemly for a woman to roam the compasses. I envy you. And I hope you find your friend.’
‘Your brother is very silent.’
‘He never says much. And he didn’t really want to make this journey but we feel obliged.’
‘And you live together?’
‘Er, yes, we do.’
The hesitation each time he asked a personal question was telling. He was now convinced her easy conversation with him was contrived. She was also very pretty, which only served to make him even more self-conscious.
‘How come you’re not married, Lily?’
She shrugged, seemingly embarrassed. ‘How come you aren’t?’
‘I didn’t say that I wasn’t.’
‘You didn’t say that you were either. I’m guessing not.’
‘Why?’
She smiled softly. ‘The way you look at me.’
Kirin bristled. ‘My apologies, I didn’t—’
‘You misunderstand, Master Felt,’ she reassured. ‘Married men tend to have a hungry look in their eyes.’
He stared at her, only just able to see the amused expression through the murky light of the few lanterns they hung from the carts. ‘And I don’t look hungry?’
‘Let’s just say you aren’t looking at all from what I can tell. Perhaps I should have said the way you don’t look at me.’
Kirin swallowed. She was absolutely right. ‘Should I start apologising again?’ ‘Not at all. I can’t be offended by your lack of interest. I’m seeing a good man,’ she said, her gaze as direct as her words.
‘Will you marry him?’
‘That’s overly curious of you,’ she admonished, looking for the first time as self-conscious as he was feeling.
It was Kirin’s turn to shrug. ‘Don’t feel obliged to answer—’ He stopped, looking ahead. ‘People are coming. Quite a few.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Trust me.’ As they both sat up straighter to peer ahead, the sound of hooves and the squeak and groan of approaching carts came out of the darkness.
The merchant caravan hauled to a stop.
‘Emperor’s soldiers,’ Kirin breathed, feeling immediately nervous. He couldn’t risk being recognised. He turned to Lily and noticed her pulling her shawl over her head, tying it under her chin. He frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just taking precautions,’ she murmured. ‘I’m a woman, Master Felt. It doesn’t hurt to be wary.’
Kirin’s puzzlement deepened. Lily was not travelling alone. Apart from the fourteen or so travellers alongside them both, she was with her brother, who was armed. Why would she feel so suddenly nervous? Kirin felt his earlier suspicions confirmed. Lily was not only hiding something, he could tell she wanted to hide herself along with it. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Let’s not talk.’
‘I’m sure you have nothing to fear from these men.’ The soldiers, he could see, were escorting two carts holding people, none of whom bore tatua or looked at all like tribal folk. The man at the front waved a hand, asking the merchants to move to one side of the road. Kirin watched the leader of his caravan gladly acquiesce, obediently waving the group to shift as best they could.
‘Who are these people?’ Lily spoke softly for his hearing only, although the question was clearly rhetorical.
Kirin shook his head in reply but as he did so felt an assault on his mind. Though this had never happened to him before, he instinctively shepherded the probing magic, deflecting it he knew not where. It was gone no sooner than it had arrived and, startled, he wondered if he’d imagined it. His curiosity pricked, he risked a very small trickle of prying magic. He had been practising this over the last seven anni, teaching himself how to control the flow with precision, never allowing it to rush from him. It had taken much of his courage to risk the headaches, the nausea, fainting, and loss of his rationality that accompanied the use of his talent and he had learned that to let it flow from him too fast—no matter how small the trickle—was to invite pain and sickness. Using it still meant repercussions but he knew now how to control it with exquisite care so that he knew exactly how much it took from him to wield it.
He cast as gently as he knew how, stealing over time and distance, through flesh and bone, creeping invisibly into the mind of the man bearing the tatua of the Green who seemed to be leading this strange group. And in this man’s jumbled, slightly angry, definitely alert thoughts, he thought he sensed what he sought. He pulled back with equal care and stealth and took a long slow breath to stem the inevitable rush of dizziness.
‘Whoops, Master Kirin,’ Lily warned, reaching for him. ‘What’s wrong?’
Kirin closed his eyes to steady the swaying sensation. ‘Forgive me, I feel a bit unwell.’
‘Nothing to forgive,’ she said, sounding worried. ‘Can I help?’
He pushed the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘No,’ he replied tightly. ‘This is probably the effects of the wine I drank in rather hefty quantity this afternoon.’
‘Then I no longer feel quite so sympathetic,’ she whispered, not unkindly.
He forced himself to focus. ‘Lily, have you heard of the Vested?’
She shot him a glance as the soldiers’ group began to advance again.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I think the people ahead in the carts are Vested.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
He tried to shrug. ‘I think I recognise one or two of the folk. I’ve—’
‘You!’ the lead soldier yelled, pointing.
Kirin looked over and noticed with a rush of fright that the man pointed at him. ‘Me?’
He watched the man consult with another, who was not a soldier but wore distinctive scars, painted violet, that marked him as Wikken, a so-called seer of the Steppes. The Wikken whispered something to the soldier.
‘Name?’ the soldier demanded.
Truth was best, Kirin decided. ‘I am Kirin Felt.’
‘From?’
‘Penraven.’
‘Travelling from Francham?’
‘Yes. I had business to conduct there.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘The emperor’s business,’ Kirin replied, hoping his cutting tone would dismiss further questions.
The man appeared unnerved but once again listened to his scarred companion. He nodded, then asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Heading back to Brighthelm.’
‘Your business is done?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who are you to the emperor—what service is it that you perform?’
‘Nothing of such importance,’ Kirin began, trying to deflect attention that he had any relationship with Loethar. ‘I am simply a man of letters,’ he added, starting to craft a lie but realising instantly it was an error as the Wikken leaned across from his horse and whispered again.
‘Good, we will ask you then to accompany us.’
‘What?’ Kirin exclaimed. ‘No, I cannot, I’m afraid. I am expected at Brighthelm.’
‘We will get you there.’
‘But why must I come with you?’
‘We could use your help as a man of letters.’ Sarcasm had crept through into the soldier’s tone.
Kirin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry but I am supposed to go—’
The man laughed. ‘These people we carry wield the magic of the Vested,’ he said, untroubled by sharing this information with the whole caravan of traders. ‘But my companion here is Wikken. He has “smelled you”, Kirin Felt. You too are Vested.’
So it was the scarred man who had assaulted his mind, Kirin realised.
‘Who is this woman you travel with?’ the soldier demanded.
Before Kirin could respond, Lily spoke up. ‘I am his wife.’
Kirin turned and stared at her, taking care not to betray his shock. What was she up to? Why would she take such a risk?
‘Are you Vested?’ the soldier asked her.
‘Yes.’
Kirin could not tolerate this. ‘This woman is—’
‘Both of you will join us then,’ the soldier said, waving a hand and urging his horse forward.
The merchant leader looked helplessly at Kirin and shrugged. He guided his horse to him. ‘You’d better go, Master Felt. I’m sorry but I suspect they mean no harm.’
‘Do you?’ Kirin glared and then softened. It wasn’t the trader’s fault. He nodded sheepishly. ‘My apologies, sir.’
‘None needed. Go safely with Lo.’
There was nothing for it but for Kirin and Lily to turn their horses and join the group of soldiers, who coalesced around them without crowding them.
‘What did you do that for?’ Kirin demanded of Lily in an urgent whisper, staring ahead.
‘I’m asking myself the same question,’ she replied and he could hear in her voice that she was not lying.
‘It was stupid, Lily. This feels dangerous. What about your brother?’
‘Don’t worry about him.’
Kirin stared at her. ‘I’m not, I’m worried about you!’
‘Well, don’t,’ she said, tartly. ‘So, you’re Vested?’
He nodded. ‘You heard I work for the emperor,’ and as he noticed her attractive face darken at his words, he added in the lowest of murmurs, ‘but not in the way that you think.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Not now,’ he said, shaking his head. He was surprised to realise that in the last few minutes of alarm, the dizziness had passed and he was at least feeling well again, if not safe. ‘I shall tell you more when we’re alone.’
She seemed to accept this. ‘Who’s that man with the scars?’
‘He’s Wikken. Did you understand what the soldier was saying?’
‘No.’
‘A Wikken is a seer of sorts, from the tribes. Apparently this one can “smell” magic. I have little experience with them—he’s only the second Wikken I’ve seen in my time. It was my impression they refuse to leave the Steppes.’
‘Well, he smelled you.’
‘Pointless, though, I have such little skill,’ Kirin lied.
‘Why’s his face like that?’
Kirin didn’t know the proper answer to that. He turned to the soldier riding nearby; now that the men knew Kirin wasn’t planning on being any trouble, they had given the newcomers a wide berth. Kirin had to beckon the man, whom he guessed was around his own age, to guide his horse closer. ‘Yes?’ the soldier asked, his expression quizzical.
Kirin drew make-believe lines against his cheek. ‘Can you tell us why he is scarred like that?’
The soldier smiled. ‘When anyone from the tribes shows genuine promise as a seer, he is cut each year from manhood. The wounds are packed with the ashes of our ancient dead, which we have kept for as long as our people have lived on the plains.’
‘Why?’ Kirin asked, intrigued in spite of his anxiety.
‘We believe that the Wikken will then carry the memories of our forefathers, so that he is enlightened by their knowledge and experiences.’
Kirin nodded, keeping his expression bland.
Lily was not so careful. ‘You mean those scars are filled with the remains of cremated people?’
The soldier grinned. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. The wounds heal and push the packing of the ashes outwards and that creates those magnificent scars,’ he said, awe in his voice. ‘They’re purple anyway but he stains them that deep violet.’
Kirin glanced Lily’s way and she seemed to grasp his unspoken warning. ‘How fascinating,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’
‘How many Wikken are in the Set?’ Kirin asked, his voice casual.
‘Shorgan is the only one now. There are only two living Wikken at present. The other is much older, far more powerful and remains on the plains.’
‘So Shorgan likes it here, does he?’ Kirin added, smiling, encouraging the man to spill as much information as possible.
‘I believe he does. Our emperor sets little store by the Wikken today. He is keen that we do not dwell too much on the old ways of mystery and magic.’
‘And yet he hunts down the Set’s Vested,’ Kirin commented.
The man shrugged. ‘For different reasons. He wants control of the magic but he doesn’t make a lot of use of it from what I’ve heard. It’s too bad; I think I take an interest in sorcery.’
‘How come?’
‘Because my grandfather is the other Wikken.’
‘I see. And you have no…?’ Kirin wasn’t sure how to phrase his question but the youngster understood.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’ He smiled. ‘I am all warrior,’ he declared, banging a fist to his chest.
Kirin was pleased to hear Lily give a soft laugh on cue. He was relieved she had grasped that they needed to be as little problem as possible to these people.
‘Why do they need my wife and myself?’ Kirin asked, taking his chance and trying to make the words my wife sound natural even though they caught slightly in his throat.
The man shook his head, made a face to say he had no idea. ‘Just interested, I imagine. These Vested are being transferred. I am guessing that Shorgan sensed you, and that our captain is simply taking precautions. He’ll send a runner soon enough to enquire about you. It’s likely you’ll be escorted back to the city almost immediately.’
‘And where are these people headed?’
‘I haven’t been told. I just follow the leader.’
‘They’re safe, though?’
The man frowned, slightly bemused. ‘I wasn’t here for the overthrow—I was just three moons too young as Loethar only allowed men who were two decades and older to march—but I hear it was a bloody one. I accept that those memories do not easily fade.’ He gave a small bow that touched Kirin’s heart. ‘But our emperor does not want a massacre. We should not be feared as murderers.’
‘He did a pretty good job of it ten anni ago.’
The man nodded and sighed. ‘War is ugly. But now he wants everyone to be loyal to the empire and to get on.’
Kirin felt his own treachery quicken his pulse. This man riding next to him was either terribly naive or one of the most sincere people he was likely to meet. If only he knew that the companion he was talking so freely and openly with was part of a long-held plot to tear down the very empire he admired so much.
‘If he wants that he should not treat these innocents as prisoners.’
The warrior frowned. ‘Do they look like prisoners?’
Kirin looked over at the eight or so people he counted chatting amiably in the carts. One was telling a tall tale, it appeared, and even the soldiers riding alongside were joining in the laughter.
‘No, but they’re not free, are they?’
The man shrugged. ‘What is freedom? Are you free?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, do you answer to someone?’
‘We all answer to someone.’
‘Then none of us is free.’
Kirin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let me say it another way. I didn’t want to join this caravan but against my will I am being forced. To me that is not the choice of someone with freedom. These people would presumably not choose to be moved.’
‘On the contrary,’ his companion said, ‘they all volunteered to move into another compass.’
Kirin blinked, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I guess the emperor wants to put their skills to good use in another part of the Set.’
Kirin didn’t think Loethar would relinquish control of anyone possessing magic but he let it pass. Whether or not these Vested had volunteered did not solve the dilemma of him and Lily being absorbed into this group, or him being dragged further from Clovis’s trail.
‘We do keep a record of the Vested, of course,’ the soldier added.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a new method but very effective, transportable, and knowledgeable.’
‘Knowledgeable?’ Kirin queried. ‘How can a list be discerning?’ He watched the man’s brow crease in puzzlement at this word. ‘Er, how can a list think?’
‘Ah, I see. It doesn’t have to. It’s not a list.’
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Fiona McIntosh
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: The second instalment of Fiona McIntosh’s gripping epic fantasy, set in a world torn by revenge, love and ancient magic.Ten years have passed since Loethar, the barbarian warlord from the Likurian steppes, devoured the Devona Set with his army of mercenaries, decimating their ruling families and settling in their primary kingdom of Penraven. Believing the Valisar heirs of Penraven to be dead, he has styled himself as emperor and continues his efforts to integrate his people into the native population.But abandoning his more violent methods of persuasion hasn′t quelled the undercurrent of rebellion; for the Valisar heirs do live. Hidden from the barbarian′s wrath by loyal allies who risk everything for the future of their kingdom, they are bound to return and seek a tyrant′s blood for the havoc he has wreaked.